A Small Victory

Allah is rounding up blogosphere reactions to the debate. Thanks to everyone who stopped by the TCP chat.

Posted by me at 10:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Michael Moore's Minutemen killed 35 children today. If the reason for their "insurgence" is that they hate American being there, why are they killing their Iraqi children? Answer: They don't just hate America being there. They hate freedom. And they hate Iraqis who want freedom. We must win this thing. We have to win it and win it right and that won't happen overnight. But we must stay there until our job is done. Remember Michael Moore's words? bq. The Iraqis who have risen up against the occupation are not "insurgents" or "terrorists" or "The Enemy." They are the REVOLUTION, the Minutemen, and their numbers will grow -- and they will win. They are too the enemy, you dumb fuck. They're my enemy. They are the enemy of freedom and democracy. They are the enemy of every Iraqi who wants those things. And they will surely win if you and people who think like you have their way and we pull out of Iraq too soon. I'm looking around at message boards today and seeing people saying things like "we have to get the hell out of there, now." I thought you people were all about the children. If you cared at all about the Iraqi children, you would be pleading with us to stay, not pull out. Don't even bother with comments like "It's the fault of the U.S. for being there." Deal with reality, people. We are there. What's done is done. Whether or not you think it was right to go into Iraq is really a moot point now. What you should not be arguing is whether or not stay and finish what we set out do. Now we have to finish it in a way that provides a good ending to the right people. And here's a clue for you: the right people are not the ones purposely killing kids waiting in line for candy. Here, if you don't want to listen to me, listen to the words of an Iraqi woman:

"Yes, there have been difficulties. Yes, there have been mistakes perhaps many mistakes. No, you did not find weapons of mass destruction. “But for the great majority of Iraqis WMD was never the issue. We don’t understand the criticism of your Prime Minister. All we wanted was to be free.” She added: “I appeal to you all ... to help us build a new democratic federal Iraq that would respect the lives of human beings.” Asked later if she considered Labour members naive about the situation for Iraqis, she said: “Yes I do think so. They don’t know the reality of their lives. “They haven’t lived through Saddam. They don’t know what we’ve been through. “It is not fair of them to ask the British Government to withdraw their forces before completing their mission. “They are going to harm the Iraqi people more. They are going to cause more deaths. “If they are concerned about the Iraqi children they should not be asking the British Government to leave them alone at the mercy of others.”

But when did your like ever care what the Iraqi people think? In your eyes, the real Iraqis are the ones with the guns, the ones who hide out in holy places and throw grenades at soldiers. The Minutemen. It really sickens me to think that there are people out there who believe that the killing of 34 children by TERRORISTS is a sign to cut and run. We are America. We are not cowards. Maybe you are. Maybe your priorities are screwed up, I don't know. Maybe you'd rather see Bush botch this up so bad that Iraq turns into a land of nothing but terror and death. Maybe that would make you really fucking happy because then you could say I told you so. Maybe the death of 34 kids is just another notch in your anti-Bush belt. Get with the program, people. Start recognizing that the enemy is not us. Start learning who our real enemy is. It's the same enemy that ordinary Iraqis face every day. Would you want to face them alone? I doubt it. Why would you want Iraqi kids to do the same? This is not the time to run out on them. This is the time to have more resolve then ever, to say to the people of Iraq, we are not going anywhere. We are staying until you are safe. Unless, of course, you don't feel that way. Go tell that to Omar. Let him know you think he isn't worth it. Idiots.

Posted by me at 03:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (29) | TrackBacks (4)

You may recall that I was to take part in a debate this week. And you may recall this post from yesterday, which chronicled the trouble I had while trying to engage in said debate. Obviously, the debate did not go well. I was sort of distracted by the water running across my office floor and the office windows rattling and bending inward every time the ghost of Hurricane Jeanne drew a breath. The moderator of the debate decided to post what little took place. Which is fine, as I told her if that's what she wanted to do, to go ahead. Even though I felt that the ten minutes or so of conversation that transpired between Mr. Pollack makes me come off as flighty and not quite ready for prime time. But I felt as if I had entered into an agreement with the moderator and, as such, I owed her at least that much. Well, thanks (I think) to an Instpundit link, a lot of people actually went and read this "debate" and some of them even took the time to email me to call me some choice words, including liar, idiot, phony, chickenshit and some other things that I won't even bother printing. People believe what they want to believe. I refuse to go take pictures of water damage to my office floor just to prove to some jackass sitting at his computer that I really did have a flood in that room. Did you pay to read this debate? No. So, I owe you nothing. Not an explanation. Not photographic proof. NOTHING. It's a website, people. A little back and forth between two bloggers. If you feel cheated or ripped off, then you need more help than I can give you. You need a life. And if you think for one minute that I am going to apologize to you, well, you should hear me laughing over here. Cackling, even. At you. For the record, I have never backed down from anyone who challenged my opinion in the three plus years I've been blogging. In fact, all my opinions are right here in the archives. All my reasons for voting for Bush are here, too. If you are that desperate to know what goes on inside my chicken little head, do the research yourself. Let me repeat: Get. A. Life. Preferably one that doesn't include harassing bloggers who you perceive to be con artists because they didn't cough up your FREE content when and where you wanted it. And to all those who have called me a liar:

Posted by me at 02:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

Someone remind me when Valentine's Day comes around to send Puce a dozen roses, some chocolate and a stalker-ish poem written on scented stationery and sealed with a kiss. I don't care if his English sucks, I love him.

Posted by me at 01:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

I'm trying to remember the title of a short story I read a long time ago. The facts are vague, but the underlying theme of it all still remains, hopefully enough to figure out what the storty was. It was about a child who is trying to sleep, but the wallpaper in his room had animals on it, I think. Or maybe he just imagines the animals. Anyway, the animals either come alive or he goes through the wallpaper into the jungle. It's possible there are tigers involved. I know, this isn't a lot to go on but it's bugging the crap out of me. (And no, it's not Where the Wild Things Are) Update: The story was, indeed, The Veldt, by Ray Bradbury. Thank you to reader "htom" for both the answer and the link to where I could read the story online.

Posted by me at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (15)

[The following is a rant. A venting. There's probably no point to it, but sometimes I have to remember that my blog is a personal space in which I let off steam and I don't always have to make a point or answer a question, even my own questions. Sometimes I just want to yell.] The young girl was about 14. She was leaning against her mother, reading from her notebook as she waited for the doctor to call her in. She had a pen poised in the air, ready to write down an answer. But the look on her face gave away the fact that she was unsure of the answer. So she asked her mother. "What's the difference between the left and the right?" The mother shrugged. "What left and right? What do you mean?" "Politics, mom. This is for global studies, duh." "Oh. Hmm. Then, one is voting for Bush and one is voting for Kerry, I guess." The daughter rolled her eyes. "It's not as simple as that, mom." No, it's not. In fact, the answer is so complicated, deep and profound that I'm surprised it was given to a high school kid for homework. Unless the teacher said something like "Essay question, 15,000 words or more," it is unlikely any of the students will come up with a good enough answer. Maybe in a different year, in a different election, the answer could have readily been given. But not today. Not this time. The political spectrum has been stretched so thin in the past few years that it's hard to see where one group begins and another ends. And that's more so on the left than on the right. The right still has solid lines between certain groups; the left is becoming one big blur. So, what's the difference? Let's start with the big one. For the most part, those on the right believe in their candidate. They trust him, they respect him, they truly believe that he is the man for the job and that he is sincere in his campaign promises and dreams for the next four years. On the left, for the most part, we have people who don't even like their candidate. He's the lesser of two evils, the fill-in for the next four years until something better comes along, the best they could come up with, the guy who isn't Bush. I see very few die-hard Kerry supporters. I see a lot of anti-Bush believers. That's a pretty big difference when you think about it. One set of people will go to the polls and vote with confidence. The other group will go to the polls and vote with trepidation. One uses their heart to guide them, one uses their hate. It's the hate that separates them, too. I don't think many people on the right actually hate Kerry. They don't think he will make a good president. They don't like his nuance, they don't trust him with the keys to the country, but they don't hate him. At least nobody is writing plays about killing him. Hate and fear. That's what I'm seeing from the left. And it's funny in a way, because it wasn't too long ago that the left was accusing the right of running a campaign of fear. But look who's fear mongering now. 33 days before the election and just a few days before the first of the presidential debates, Kerry’s Massachusetts mouthpiece Ted Kennedy says:

Number Five, and most ominously: The Bush Administration's focus on Iraq has left us needlessly more vulnerable to an Al Qaeda attack with a nuclear weapon. The greatest threat of all to our homeland is a nuclear attack. A mushroom cloud over any American city is the ultimate nightmare, and the risk is all too real. Osama bin Laden calls the acquisition of a nuclear device a "religious duty." Documents captured from a key Al Qaeda aide three years ago revealed plans even then to smuggle high-grade radioactive materials into the United States in shipping containers. If Al Qaeda can obtain or assemble a nuclear weapon, they will certainly use it - on New York, or Washington, or any other major American city. The greatest danger we face in the days and weeks and months ahead is a nuclear 9/11, and we hope and pray that it is not already too late to prevent. The war in Iraq has made the mushroom cloud more likely, not less likely, and it never should have happened.

It's not just Ted that's running off the litany of fear tactics. It's the whole campaign. Kerry and staff are feeding the hate and fear frenzy that has erupted on the left. The anti-Bush crowd are meandering zombies and the Kerry campaign are throwing them brains in the form of vitriol. I can't tell the difference between the left, the liberals and Democrats anymore. There used to be subtle - and sometimes profound - difference between them, but they've blended into a swirl of colors, each one muting the other, the dark colors infesting the bright, until they became just one shade of ugly, crap brown. They frolic with Michael Moore, align themselves with Ramsey Clark, feed off of George Soros and spew out a steady stream of books, plays, movies, websites and clowns on stilts that are nothing more than a call to arms for a movement of hatred and fear. They don't believe in their candidate. That's evident from OpEd pieces in major newspapers right down to the folks at Democratic Underground, who can often be found bickering over Kerry's stance on Israel, among other things. There is very little praise for him, the most praise coming in the form of "He's not Bush." I see more bumper stickers that call for voters to get Bush out of the White House than those that call to put Kerry in the White House. So what will happen if Kerry wins? Will the anti-Bush voters become actually Kerry supporters? Or will they turn their anger towards the new president when he doesn't enact every single they want, when he makes no move toward pulling the troops out of Iraq or setting up a Marxist type government? Is Kerry wrath on hold, just waiting until the "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead" celebrations are over? How soon after the inauguration will the first signs proclaiming Kerry to be fascist spring up? What will I do if Kerry wins? I'll do the same thing I've done every time one of my candidates has lost. Sigh and hope for the best. Regardless of whether I vote for him or not, if Kerry wins, he'll be the President of the United States. As a citizen of that country, I feel it will be my duty to give Kerry the benefit of the doubt and support him as our government goes through its transition. And if he proves to be a terrible president, I'll start working with my fellow Republicans to bring forth a formidable candidate to oppose Kerry the next election. But I won't be standing in the thick of a hate-filled protests, holding an effigy of our president. But that's just me. And what if Bush wins? It's what I want the most, yet I also feel a sense of dread when I think about it. The left is so hyped up on their anger and hate right now that I can't imagine what this country will be like if Bush takes the White House again. The brains that Kerry and crew have been feeding these zombies will be gone; what will they feed off of now? I believe their anger and hatred will rise to levels we have not yet experienced. There will be claims of voter fraud; denial of Bush's victory will be the prevalent mindset. They're already talking about taking up arms, moving out of the country, ceding from the U.S. They believe that Bush will round them up and put them in camps. Where the hell did this line of thinking come from? bq. I am frightened by what I am learning about America during this election. I think that a majority have an irrational fear of liberals, and that if Bush wins, and decides to send liberals to camps for their "protection," most would support the move and say "About time too." There would be some dissent, but the majority of Americans see liberals as a threat, and nothing would be done. The press would hold debates, but people wouldn't care. I think that all Bush has to do is say the word, and we'll be rounded up. Who would stop him. You know what's crazier than that thought? That people believe it and agree with it. Their inane hatred has clouded their thinking. Once upon a time, you would only find rantings like that coming from a fringe group of extremists. Not so anymore. You have otherwise normal, sane people falling for the police state propaganda hook, line and sinker. Why? Because they hate. And why do they hate? Because Kerry, Gore, Kennedy, Soros, Moore, Clark and others tell them to, in so many words. The campaign that was supposed to be smooth and nuanced is now playing the fear and loathing card. I've been through many an election in my time. My first was in 1980. I've voted for Democrats and I've voted for third party candidates. I've never once pulled the lever with my teeth clenched and hatred in tow. I don't vote with hate, I vote with hope. I talk to a lot of people during the course of day about politics and this election. I liken the left-leaning people I converse with to dragons; constant flames shooting of their mouths, smoke pouring from the nostrils. I don't see that with those on the right. Maybe the left feels they have something to be angry and hateful about, but as soon as I think that, I chastise myself for giving them the benefit of the doubt. They're making shit up. I have no other way to put it. Sometimes I look at the rantings of Al Gore or Barbara Streisand or some regular Joe from Lodi, New Jersey posting on a message board and I think, my god they have gone crazy. They have collectively lost their minds. Fascism? Police state? Hitler? Crushing of dissent? No free press? I picture Al Gore, face contorted, eyes bulging, and I think, that's the face of the left. The collective head of the left is already bloated to the breaking point with a volatile mix of hatred, anger and fear. And lest you think all that hatred is directed at Bush and his policies, take a long, hard look. You'll find people who laugh in derision when a car bomb goes off in Iraq. You'll find people who shrug at hostages being killed. You'll find people who hope that things goes horribly wrong so they can have more ammunition for their side. You'll find people who blame America for 9/11, who think that it is our duty to find out what drives the terrorists to their evil plans rather than hunting them down and killing them, people who think it's wrong to counter-act an attack on your country with an attack at those who put that attack into motion. Don't tell me that these people do not represent the left. They are there, right in the midst, at the Democratic convention in the president's box. They are there, throwing money at people who consider themselves mainstream Democrats. The left is one big party now, bringing together the conspiracy theorists, the Democrats, the liberals, the moonbats, the BusHitler crowd, all cozied up together on one little love seat with their arms around each other, bringing on the demoralization of the Democratic party and the hatred of America. They are a vocal bunch and their choruses of America the Wretched are being heard the world over. I would have loved to explain this all to the young girl with the Global Studies notebook. I worry that she'll be just another future voter who will be blind sided into thinking that America is a fascist regime and Bush is the Hitler force behind it. I was once that young girl. I was once ambushed with propaganda, false statistics, conspiracy theories and outright lies that suckered me into a groupthink mentality. It took several years and an attack on our nation to allow me to see the true faces of the people I had been associating with. I look around today and I see the claws of the left snatching up young, impressionable people, showering them with a steady rain of fear and hatred, teaching them to harness their negativity and breath it out in the form of fire. Dragons. Dragons with the face of Al Gore. Think about that one for a while.

Posted by me at 08:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (34) | TrackBacks (10)

Next time someone says that bloggers can't be real reporters or journalists, I'm going to send Bill out to kick their ass. Bill does a three part interview with CBS execs. Tell the truth, Bill. Did Karl Rove make you do that?

Posted by me at 05:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (1)

Scott Muni taught me everything I know about rock and roll. It's hard to tell you what he meant to me without sounding ovewrought about it. After all, I didn't know the man personally. Or did I? He kept me company many days and nights throughout my youth. He was the voice of my childhood, when my mother used to listen to WABC, back when AM radio played rock and roll. He continued to voice the soundtrack to my life when he moved over to WNEW. I got into rock and roll early in life, thanks to some older cousins. I was able to appreciate at a young age how Scott Muni forever changed the way New York listened to radio. I can still hear his slow, lumbering voice talking to Jimmy Page or John Lennon. I can hear him introducing a Pink Floyd cut or telling a story about Jim Morrison. He created alternative radio when the word alternative still had its original meaning. By the time Muni left WNEW in 1998, the station had become a disaster area. Muni was a stalwart, staying with a sinking ship. Scott Muni took me from the Beatles to the Grateful Dead to punk rock to new wave and beyond. When I say he taught me everything, that's not hyperoble. There's a reason they called him The Professor. It's hard to explain to anyone who didn't grow up with Scott and WNEW what a profound influence he had on me. Like millions of other New York kids, I wanted to be a DJ when I grew up, thanks to Muni. I wanted to spend all day talking to rock stars and spinning records. I wanted to be him. I settled for just admiring the hell out of him. His voice will forever be a part of my life. Thanks for all the memories, Scott, and thanks for being my rock and roll professor all those years. Read some tributes to Scott in the comments at Ed's place.

Posted by me at 08:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (15)

CBS is shameless. You would think that after the Rather debacle they would be more careful about showing their biases or producing pieces that use shoddy reporting techniques. Perhaps they think they are above reproach. Whatever their reasons, their actions are nothing less than contemptable. See here, here and here for reference and details. Want more media idiocy? How about this? Report: New York Times Reporter Tipped Off Islamic "Charity" Just Before FBI Raid. Now, go check out the Farenhype 911. Other must reads: Marc Danziger on the presidency. Dr. Frank on banned books. Steven Moore on the truth about Iraq. Victor David Hanson on Bush hating. On a lighter note, Ho, Ho, fucking Ho. Christmas is coming and that means Santa and the Hohoholyshit crew are back, this time run by the crew's token Jew, Laurence.. I may or may not once again play the part of Santa. We'll see how much I hate the world by the time I'm done writing tomorrow morning's post, one that's been stirring in my mind for a week now.

Posted by me at 06:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (10)

I know there's a lot of important stuff going on in the world, but the news that radio legend Scott Muni died today has really put a crimp in my day. Muni was the voice of my youth. I'll write more about it later. Just wanted to spread the news, for those who remember him as fondly as I. (Thanks to the penguin for the heads up)

Posted by me at 03:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (2)

I told you. You thought I was kidding or exaggerating. I was just standing in the kitchen, minding my own business when a swarm - and I do mean a swarm - of these black birds (are they crows? not sure) came zooming past the window. We're talking 100 birds, easily. They landed on my lawn and then scooted over to my neighbor's house, where they perched in the trees, on the car, on the roof and then waddled through the grass before taking off again. I know it's some kind of omen. Have I mentioned that I hate birds? They are evil creatures who carry the soul of the devil in their wings. Seriously. I once created a picturesque tale about evil birds. You can view it here. Now, does anyone know a ritual that will ward off whatever horrors these birds brought with them?

Posted by me at 12:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (35)

I was ready for that debate last night. Well prepared. And by prepared, I mean that I had cigarettes to my left and coffee to the right. Let's rumble. About twenty minutes in, I noticed the first trickling of water on the office floor. It had been raining all day; hard, heavy rain that drowned out the television at some points. It was windy, too. Rattling windows, tree branches scurrying down the street, Halloween decorations flying by. I saw a plastic pumpkin hurl past my house, doing about 50 mph. Didn't stop at the stop sign, either. So, the water. A little puddle had gathered against the wall to the left of me. Now, I lived in a basement apartment for years, so I'm well versed in the ways of floods and wet vacs. But I wasn't in a basement apartment anymore. This house - the one we bought in May with a gleam in our eye and naive visions of perfection dancing in our heads - doesn't even have a basement. I thought I was done with water on the floor. I grabbed a towel and wiped up the puddle as I simultaneously tried to figure out where the leak was and answer a question about WMDs. As a gust of wind rattled the ancient windows in the room, I had my own personal weapon of mass destruction to deal with. I threw up a hurried answer to the debate question in the chat room and went back to wiping. Maybe that was it. Just one little puddle. I could deal with that. I went back to reading a question about terrorism. Ten minutes, maybe less, later, I eyed another puddle, this time at the corner of the room. I moved the towel over, cursed the rain, cursed the people who inspected this house before we bought it and keyed in a response to the question. I've complained before about the previous homeowner. The guy was literally and certifiably insane and that fact is quite evident in the mess of DIY repair work he left behind. Take this office, for example. When we bought the house, this was a sun room. Or, as we New Yorkers call it, a Florida room. Basically, the owner poured some cement on the ground next to the house, piled some brick around the cement, haphazardly piled windows and a roof on top of those bricks, cut out a door to the living room and called it an attachment. We decided to cozy it up and call it our home office. We put down slate tile, painted over the cement walls and made plans to put in new windows that actually have screens and stay in place when a slight breeze comes through. We just haven't gotten around to the windows yet, as the bathroom needed gutting and that took precedent. So there I was, sitting in our Florida room/office/wind tunnel, gathering my thoughts about the war on terror and wiping up a small puddle when I notice the spots on the wall below the windows. Wet spots. Running down the wall from the bottom of the window to the floor. There was a horror movie - I think it was Amityville Horror - where blood appeared on the walls whenever an evil entity was present. Being that our walls are painted a sort of rusty red that reminds one of dried blood, this was the first thing I thought of. You don't believe in ghosts? We'll show you! Eventually the blood would flow onto the floor and I would be caught in a river of evil as I screamed for my husband and tried desperately to rebut my opponent's point about the root causes of terrorism. I would be carried away to some holographic hole in the atmosphere where I would be sucked into an alternate universe where people had horns in their head and fed on the souls of live humans. Eventually they would make a movie about me. George Lucas would direct and make it appear as if I attacked the evil river of blood before it attacked me. It would flop, but become a cult movie years later, a slice of life anecdote reflecting the days of Bush v. Kerry. The blood, of course, representing oil. It was just water. Water, water, everywhere but not a towel with which to clean it. All the towels were in the washing machine. By this time, the husband is in the office, inspecting the walls and floors while I try to explain to my debate opponent that I'm experiencing technical difficulties. I don't think he believed me, said something about me fearing his wrath. You don't know wrath, buddy. Wrath is me screaming into the night, words and curses about seeking revenge on the previous homeowner, the inspector, the real estate agent, Mother Nature and Al Gore. I threw Al in just for the hell of it. I mean, while I'm raging against the world, I may as well sneak in what I can. I decide to debate the storm instead of my opponent. I question its timing. I ask it pointed questions about the necessity of sudden downpours, lightning, tornadoes and uprooted trees. It doesn't answer in the alloted time given and I win. Or do I? Its answer finally comes, in the form of another gust of wind that knocks down the cast iron Halloween tree in my garden. Booya!, the wind says. I closed the chat room and exited less than gracefully from the debate. But it's hard to muster up righteous indignation and astute, intelligent answers when you're trying desperately to get all your accumulated crap to higher ground. We piled everything on top of the desk, unplugged anything electric and started searching for the source of the leak. Turns out it wasn't coming from the ground at all. Seems like Mr. Evil Homeowner didn't know jack shit about putting in windows. They leak like a no-frills diaper. The rain was coming in the bottom and sides of the windows, trickling down to the brick ledge beneath them and then forming rivulets that flowed down the grooves between the brick, down the wall and onto the floor, where the spaces between the slate tiles acted as conduits for the forming rivers. It all would have been pretty if it weren't so tragic. Ok, not tragic. Tragic is this, and that puts my little flood problem into perspective. But let me tell you, when you are in the middle of a 2am siege (we had stayed up pretty much all night to keep an eye on the water situation), it's hard to find perspective. The wind, the driving rain, the filled to capacity gutters overflowing and making a small ocean on the soon to be repaved walkway, an 11 year old with a nasty stomach ache that had him running for the bathroom every twenty minutes, the barking of the neighbor's dog all freaking night, the flying pumpkins landing against your house, well. You can see where I lost my sense of perspective. So I sit here this morning, unable to gather up the energy to go to work, tending to my sick son and performing a balancing act with the bank account and bills so that we may be able to put new windows in the office before the next storm strikes. Some day I'll finish that debate with Mr. Pollack, but right now I'm more concerned with waging my war on the evil rivers of blood water that need to be cleaned up. It seems to be mostly dried up, but I can't help thinking about that scene in The Believers, where Martin Sheen's wife steps in a puddle of spilled milk as she turns on her coffee pot and ends up doing the electric slide to death. I've made sure to wear sneakers with rubber soles just in case. This is my life, one horror movie at a time.

Posted by me at 07:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (1)

That long post I promised will have to wait as I put you on hold in order to deal with life, which has once again gotten in the way of me pursuing my hobbies, such as railing against Democrats and connecting movie themes to disaffected voters. ...hold music begins.... MacArthur Park is melting in the dark, all the sweet, green icing flowing down. Someone left the cake out in the rain, I don't think that I can take it, cause it took so long to bake it, and I'll never have that recipe again

Posted by me at 11:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (31)

My novella-length morning post concerning Napoleon Dynamite, duck-and-cover techniques and fear and loathing in the Democratic party won't be ready for a while. But I shall use the usual morning traffic to remind you of something: boobies. Yes, I said boobies. It's my understanding - after years of observing humans - that everyone likes boobies, even heterosexual women like myself. Not only are boobies beautiful and enticing, but the word itself is fun to say. Say it with me. Boobies. Now, what do bloggers love besides themselves and the boobies of other bloggers? Charity, of course. Bloggers and their readers are a generous bunch, always running campaigns for one cause or another. So let's put this all together: Bloggers, the boobies of bloggers and charity. Add them up and you have Boobiethon 2004 [you can read the history of the boobiethon here]. This is the third year that we're raising money for the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. This year, you'll be able to make an honory donation to the foundatio on behalf of bloggers Sandee or Dori, both of whom are fighting the good fight against breast cancer. (Last year's efforts were highlighted in Self Magazine) Basically, you get to see a lot of artfully photographed boobies in exchange for your donation to the Susan G. Komen foundation (all donations [tax deductible!] go directly to the foundation, there is no middle-man this year). And we get to show off our racks to support an important cause. What more could you want. The Boobiethon '04 starts on October 1st and runs through October 10th. Get your pics/donations in early and be ready for the onslaught of beautiful, bountiful, tastefully rendered boobies. No, I did not say tasty. Will my boobies make an appearance this year? Perhaps. My incentive to flash is your donations. Keep that in mind. Go, boobies!

Posted by me at 06:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (4)

All you people going on about being part of Karl Rove's Vast Right Wing Conspiracy are just blowing smoke. I, for one, am a real member of the VRWC. After all, do you have one of these? Didn't think so. These people do, and we're the ones getting checks from the Rovinator (and only we're allowed to call him that). [So, I'm thinking about making an update, VRWC Blogger edition of the cards. If you want one, speak up. And maybe I'll update mine to look like, you know, me. As opposed to an alien photoshopped vixen who only slightly resembles me]

Posted by me at 08:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (1)

Well, it's never too early for Halloween, I say. It is by far my favorite holiday and my favorite time of year. I'll probably be doing a lot of Halloween themed blogging for the next month or so and I figure Lenore was just the right figure to help usher in the season. Enjoy her while she lasts. [Please visit Romand Dirge (Lenore's creator) and all of his masterful creations here] Now that I have your attention, please go visit the second Storyblogging Carnival. Link it, too!

Posted by me at 02:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (13)

In a move that can only be described as insane, I'll be debating author Neal Pollack tomorrow night on the election, the war in Iraq and other important issues of the day. The online debate will be moderated by Dawn Olsen for Blogcritics and will be available for your perusal online soon after its conclusion at the Blogcritics site. I've never debated anyone before, except in blog comments, and a little prep work isn't out of the question. Neal is a formidable opponent. If anyone has advice for me, I'll take it.

Posted by me at 11:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (17)

I got my morning missive from Karl. In case you didn't get yours, I'll post it here. I don't know if he'll get mad about my showcasing his stationery, but I think it's really important for everyone to know that he has a really soft, playful side. Don't forget to synchronize your watches. [Great minds, etc.]

Posted by me at 11:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (15)

In regards to last night's burning questions, my short answer is who the hell knows? Whether or not spirits roam the earth is not something that can be decisively answered, at least not in the way Sister Margaret would have wanted me to answer it; prove your answer and show your work.

Sister Margaret was a squat 90 year old, one of the last nuns in my high school to still wear a habit. She looked like a Jawa under that thing and moved like one, too. Her face was a sea of wrinkles and lumps and we used to kid that she would hide the bodies of students in those skin folds. Bodies? Yes. She often told us that she would kill the person who didn't show their work. The little nun with the sharp eyes and shuffling walk would kill us. One day when the good Sister again announced her murderous intentions, the class wise-ass Breck said, "What would Jesus think, Sister Margaret?" To which Sister Margaret replied, "Jesus would kick your butt, Breck. Kick it all over creation." And we quietly went back to our proofs and theorems and work showing.

Anyhow, Sister Margaret may have had a point. It wasn't enough that I knew x=32. How did I know that? For all she knew, I could have been guessing. Or cheating. Or had some kind of mathematical psychic ability. So I had to show my work, even though sometimes it was hard to say just how I knew the answer was 32. It's a gut feeling, Sister just doesn't cut it.

So it is with ghosts and spirits. No one can prove their work. They can all come up with the same answer - I do believe in ghosts! - but unless they trap one in some kind of ghost-trapping contraption, their work will be scoffed at, debunked and, somewhere in the outer limits, Sister Margaret will be wagging her jagged little finger at them.

I've got stories. I've got tons of stories. Most of them can be attributed to drugs, Boones Farm wine, an overactive imagination or a combination of all three.

I've come to terms with the fact that Jim Morrison really didn't speak to me from the poster on my wall. You can see how I was easily swayed into believing so, though. There he was, in glorious black and white, shirtless, arms outstretched like a scarecrow martyr. His eyes followed me around the room [Yes! That's the one!] He used to tell me things, whisper to me in the dead of night when the only light in the room was from the red-tinted bulb that pointed towards my Morrison shrine. When Jim whispered, he said things like You cannot petition the lord with prayer!

Some of my friends believed that Jim was still alive, holed up in a smelly hotel in France, drinking gin from the bottle and making music with the ghosts of dead Confederate soldiers. Which means they didn't believe that I had conversations with the ghost of Morrison every night.

I couldn't prove anything to my friends because, well, it wasn't true (not that I would admit to it then) and there was no way to show my work. That my little red light started blinking on and off on Morrison's birthday was only proof that I needed to smoke less pot. Or more.

I lived in my grandparent's house for fourteen years. We moved in right after Nat was born. At the time, both my grandparents were alive. There were two distinct sounds I associated with each of my grandparents. With Grandma, it was the clickety-clack sound of the Wheel of Fortune spinning around every night at 7:30, followed by Grandma's racially charged cursing aimed at the contestants. With Grandpa, it was the chair. He had a Lazy-Boy electric recliner that vibrated the walls and cast a buzzing sound throughout the house every time he adjusted his position. We lived below them, so the sounds of both the Wheel of Fortune and the buzzing chair drifted through floorboards or down the stairs. In a way, they were both comforting sounds. My then husband was often out of the house, and the noise coming from upstairs reminded me that I was not so much alone as I felt.

Grandpa died in June of 1991. In August of that year I thought Grandpa came calling. I was laying in bed, contemplating the horror that was my life. It was about 3am and I was alone, playing mistress to the blackjack table at some Atlantic City casino. And by alone, I mean wallowing in a vast darkness that was threatening to swallow me up whole and consume my very existence. It was at the very moment that I was being eaten by darkness that the buzzing sound started. At first there were just two short spurts of buzz, and I attributed the sounds to my being tired and upset and maybe just a little bit crazy. Then again, but louder and more persistent, like when Grandpa wasn't content enough to recline and relax, but needed to turn on the massage function as well. Drone. Buzz. I know what I heard. It was the chair.

I got out of bed and crept up the stairs, making my way towards the tv room where the chair was kept, expecting to see Grandma, in a fit of insomnia, reclining the Lazy-Boy. But the room was dark and empty and Grandma was snoring away in her bed. I stepped into the tv room, expecting a blast of cold air, because that's what always happens in horror movies when a person meets up with a spirit. No cold air, though. Just the smell of Grandpa's medicines and old age. I went back to sleep, slightly comforted by the thought that Grandpa was trying to tell me I wasn't alone and slighlty creeped out by it all.

That got me thinking. What if ghosts really do come out at night? What if the spirits of our loved ones - or hated ones - follow us around? Do they watch us pee? Masturbate? Or are there rules and regulations a spirit must follow in order to be able to hang out on Earth? Like, no watching your widow have sex with her new husband.

I'm a skeptic by nature. I think John Edward is a fraud. So how come, in the dark of night, the creeping possibility that my Grandpa was sending me a message from beyond can seem so plausible, so real? If Sister Margaret was watching me right now - which she very well may be - she'd be asking me to show my work and validate my proof.

Grandpa's chair was moving.
Grandpa is dead.
Therefore, Grandpa has come back as a ghost.

I don't think that would fly. Big red D on my paper.

So, Grandma died in 1998. Now, Grandma haunted me even when she was alive. And I know without a doubt that if there ever was an entity that could break through the barrier between life and death in order to come back and haunt someone, it would be Grandma. Which is why it didn't really suprise me when one night about six months after Grandma died (and the rooms above us empty as night) I heard the familiar sounds of the spinning Wheel of Fortune coming from above. I put my ear to the door that led upstairs and listened. Click-click-click-click. Smattering of applause. Grandma's unmistakeable voice cursing in Italian. I glanced at the clock. 7:43. Right in the middle of the Wheel of Fortune time slot. I backed away from the door, more frightened than comforted.

Someone mentioned grief-based hallucinations in the comments last night, and I lean toward that as an explanation.

If ghosts and spirits did exist, we would have a lot less unsolved murders on our hand. I mean, if a ghost can come back to earth to scratch on someone's window or bang a few pots in the attic, why wouldn't a murder victim head straight towards the police station to finger his killer? Why wouldn't JFK come back to tell us who really had it in for him? Imagine the possibilities. History classes taught by the spirit of Thomas Jefferson. Shakespeare giving lectures on Shakespeare. Why not?

Well, I could give a lot of reasons why not, most of them having to do with my sense of reality. Which may not coincide with yours.

Yet, there's a part of my brain that overides the skeptic in me. Once in a while, I'll glance at the meatballs in my freezer (Grandma made them right before she died and I've kept them ever since) and think about getting rid of them. Then a shudder of fear runs through my body as I imagine what Grandma would do if I threw into the garbage my main physical connection to her.

Ok, so I'm torn. It's like not believing in God. Even though I say I'm atheist, I keep an open mind as to whether there's life after death, a place called heaven. I don't want to die and get rejected at the Pearly Gates for being a non believer. So I contradict myself often. And then I wonder who will be there if there is a place where we all gather after death. Wouldn't it be funny if I was greeted by Jim Morrison, who admits that he was conversing with me? Or Grandpa, telling me that he was buzzing the chair, or Grandma, still screaming at Pat Sajak?

No, I know what's going to happen. I'm going to die, ascend to the clouds and be greeted by Sister Margaret of the Jawas, who will gleefully cast me out of the heavens for not showing my work.

Posted by me at 06:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (12)

I watched the trailer for White Noise today and it creeped me out. So, a simple (or not) question for you. I'll be writing more about this tomorrow but I'm interested in your take: Do you believe that ghosts or spirits exist in our world and that they have the ability to contact us? Has anything weird like that ever happened to you?

Posted by me at 09:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (43) | TrackBacks (3)

Here's something I haven't said since 1987: I like U2's new song. It's not so much the lyrics or the music specifically that moves me. It's the feel. Listening to Vertigo, I'm transported to Eishenhower Park, circa 1978; a warm summer evening, maybe a bottle of Boones Farm wine or a six of Bud nearby, twenty or so people playing Frisbee, and a small pre-boombox era radio playing some early 70's psychedelic, let's-be-groovy music. And that's a really good place to visit. So I'm digging the song. Man.

Posted by me at 01:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

A ten page New York Times Magazine* article about bloggers blogging the conventions bring us this startling revelation: Wonkette is a sex-obsessed, trash-talking publicity whore who likes to drink. I know. Ground breaking stuff. Oh, by the way, I just saw a bear shit in the woods. Other riveting news flashes include the fact that Josh Marshall is vitriolic and Kos is in love with himself. So, a ten page article about bloggers, touching on the subjects of convention blogging, site traffic, the election and its campaigns and nary a mention (save Instapundit) of a right leaning blog. Oh, wait. We have this: bq. Earlier this month, a platoon of right-wing bloggers launched a coordinated assault against CBS News and its memos claiming that President Bush got special treatment in the National Guard; within 24 hours, the bloggers' obsessive study of typefaces in the 1970's migrated onto Drudge, then onto Fox News and then onto the networks and the front pages of the country's leading newspapers. Coordinated would suggest that they all got together and planned out this "assault" in advance. I think the word that Matthew Klam is looking for here is cooperative, which would imply the truth: That right-wing bloggers worked separately but together, sharing information and sources in an effort to get to the truth behind the memos. How that translates into assault in Kam's mind is beyond me. Well, not really. When you write an article with the mindset that the voices from the left are disproportionately more important than the voices on the right, I suppose a word like assault will just come naturally. Mr. Klam made the effort to bring a right-leaning voice to the piece, interviewing Charles Johnson for 43 minutes. Alas, all of Charles's words ended up on the cutting room floor. Because spending a paragraph writing about Wonkette's peachy cream skin and strawberry blonde hair is far more important than bringing a bit of the old "fair and balanced" to Klam's article. That Republican conventions bloggers - notably Command Post, Roger Simon, Hugh Hewitt, Red State, et al, are completely absent from the article is not really suprising, given the slant Klam carries with him. The smear job on the Rather bloggers, on the other hand, reads like an afterthought, as if Klam realized he should include something about the opposing voices and, like a petulant child, chose to stick his tongue out at the right wing blogs rather than say something of value. I've pretty much come to terms with Wonkette being the face of female bloggers, at least in terms of how the media sees us. All I can do is keep on plugging away here, in the hopes that somewhere out there is a Nick Denton type person willing to throw money at a blogger who doesn't rely on dick jokes and the affected swagger of a few margaritas to make her commentary readable. However, [a rather big however] I do think that Wonkette will be around long after this election is over, long after the last Supreme Court ruling is made and the inauguration workers are sweeping up the confetti. People like her, obviously, and there will always be something in D.C. to snark about. There will always be sex jokes to tell and innuendos to be made. And more power to her for that, really. She found her niche and she gets paid for reveling in it. As far as the rest of the article, Klam only served to tell us what most of already know: The site stats of Kos, Marshall and Black may be huge, but their heads are larger, looming like three enormous, helium balloons above the blogosphere. It will be interesting to see how the results of the coming election will effect those balloons. A pin positioned in just the right place will cause a collective pop loud enough to cause an aftershock in the blog world, leaving Matthew Klam with 5,000 words to write and only Wonkette's baby blue eyes and expletives deleted with which to fill the pages. ---- More: Allah, Ace, Commissar, Wizbang. *Corrected from earlier version which left off the "magazine" part. Update: Yes, this was obviously meant to be a piece on lefty bloggers. So why be upset over the fact that no right bloggers are mentioned? Simple: If Klam was strictly going for a ten page article on the lefty powerhouses, there was no need to include the "coordinated assault" slam on right bloggers. And what was the point of interviewing Charles for 43 minutes if Klam's slant was already set in place? Maybe Klam had intended for this to be a piece on blogging the campaigns in general, but he became so enamored with Kos and crew and their bohemian lifestyle while hanging in New York City that he decided to just make it an ode to them. Either that, or he was so smitten with the batting eyelashes of Cox that he temporarily lost control of his ability to think like a journalist. Honestly, if that paragraph about the right wing "assault" wasn't there, I probably would have filed the article under "things not worth blogging about." But, by including that paragraph, Klam opened himself up for scrutiny. He should have stuck to fawning over high profile lefties and looking into Wonkette's smoldering eyes rather than try to unecessarily stick it to the right.

Posted by me at 08:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (40) | TrackBacks (15)

Busy day today; more grouting in the bathroom, and the laying of tile (I think this might be the day the bathroom is finally finished), taking the kids to see Shaun of the Dead in the afternoon and then the cutest kid in the world is coming over to spend the night. Obviously, there won't be a lot of fresh material here today. Go over to Kathy Kinsley's place, where she's hurricane blogging and has a whole slew of links to other storm-weary bloggers. Good luck to all my friends and readers in the path of Jeanne (especially those in the Plywood State). It looks like she's headed our way as well, though I'm sure by then she'll be running out of steam. I hope. Truth is, we're more prepared to handle zombies than a hurricane. Maybe we better get our prepare-for-disaster priorities in order. [I also have some hurricane related things over at Command Post]

Posted by me at 09:11 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (1)

"What can I say -- just tip my hat and call the Yankees my daddy."

--Pedro Martinez, after last night's loss to the Yankees put his Red Sox 5 1/2 games out of first.

Posted by me at 07:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (1)

It's a bumpy, 39 day road to second-best and the Kerry campaign is riding it with no shocks. Next to go, the brakes.

Let's imagine the Kerry camp and all their important issues stuffed inside a Ford Pinto, driving down a New York City street after a harsh winter. Work with me here. Think potholes. Lots of them. With each subsequent pothole traversed, the Pinto jumps and shimmies. And with each jump and each shimmy, the Camp Kerry car loses another body. Look, another undecided voter has been thrown from the vehicle!

You with me? Good.

Let's take a look at some of those potholes. You have your mini-potholes, the ones that make the car bump around a bit. You may not lose any bodies with this one, but you have potential passengers backing off a bit [via Kerry Spot].

12 News Reporter: Most of the polls are tracking that Sen John Kerry as doing a better job on the economy. My question is, why hasn’t that transferred overall in the poll numbers?

Teresa: It has, of course. Of course it has.

Reporter: He’s still down.

Teresa: He’s not. Did you see the polls today? You saw Zogby and ARG —

Reporter: Yes, but he’s still down in Arizona.

Teresa: Oh, who cares? You know, one state is not a whole state. In the whole United States, he is even, even, and in some of them one point ahead, and in some one point behind.

Was that the collective body of Arizona I just saw fall out of the car? Before you ask, the answer to your question is yes. Yes, it does matter what the potential First Lady says in a campaign. Just the other day I heard a clip of Teresa using the word scumbag. It's not like she was referring to terrorists, which might have made it acceptable. No, she was referring to her critics. [the clip is from April, you can see the context of it here]

"I believe there is a nobility in public service. I believe every citizen can be a public servant. And should be," Heinz Kerry told News 4. When Wiggin asked, "Do you think some of the nobility has gone out of public service?" the would-be first lady shot back, "Oh, there is [sic] a lot of scumbags everywhere. Not just in politics. In everything. There are a lot of immoral people everywhere."

So, people who don't engage in public service are immoral scumbags? Eh, that's not even the point. The point is, this is not a woman I want representing my country. She's got a foul mouth and is quick to throw insults at those who dare to not be like her. She's a pothole in the campaign.

Thump. Oh my, I think the fender just fell off the Pinto. It tried to maneuver around this pothole but, this being a hypothetical New York street, the thing was the size of Michael Moore. And it looks to be growing, too. What was once a small crack in the road, peripheral to the Kerry campaign, is now threatening to swallow the Camp Kerry car up whole. As Joe Lockhart hangs desperately onto the steering wheel, Bill Burkett is chasing the Pinto down and it looks like he just about caught the door handle. Having Burkett on board this thing - even if he is an unwanted stowaway - is going to weigh this baby down so hard, every pothole is going to look like the black hole.

Gosh, I love metaphors.

Yesterday, the gang that couldn't campaign straight hit a pothole of major proportions. Thing is, they didn't see it for what it was. The view from their car is, shall we say, skewed. The deep pit looming ahead appeared to be a pit stop; a place where they could get out of the car, stretch their legs and get a little repair work done. They would then use this pit stop to pick up more of those undecided passengers, as well as rally the crowd already in the car.

This pothole has a name: Iraqi Prime Minister Iyad Allawi.

Allawi spoke to Congress yesterday, thanking America for its role in moving Iraq towards democracy. It was a moving speech, made by a man "almost axed to death by Saddam's henchmen in the U.K. and under constant threat of assassination today."

Not only was the Camp Kerry Pinto traveling far off course when Allawi came to town (it was on Ohio), but Kerry comes out and all but calls Allawi a liar. Ponder this: the man who wants to be President of the United States could not be bothered to meet up with the man who will play a vital role in a vital part of foreign affairs for the next few years. And then, he disses him. Allawi is thanking the country Kerry wants to be in charge of and all he can do is spit at him.

Well, that's par for the Kerry course, anyhow. After all, this is the guy who called our allies fraudulent.

Back to the car metaphor, it seems as if the Little Pinto That Couldn't is purposely steering into these potholes. Rather than drive around them or find another route, they keep chugging along like extreme drivers looking for a challenge. Daredevil campaigning, in a way.

Most of the people hanging on to this deathtrap of a car are there only because they don't like any other available cars. They ignore the bumps and look away when the driver - like a character out of Crazy Taxi - plays chicken with oncoming traffic.

Eventually this car, like thousands of Pintos before it - is going to meet a nasty end when the big Bush Bus rams it from behind. As the Kerry campaign goes down in flames, with it will the hopes and dreams of a million desperate people holding "Bush is Hitler" signs. But they knew what they were getting into. I say, let them crash.

You people who are running alongside the Kerry car right now, debating whether to grab that handle or not: There's still time. You can still back away from the car before it's too late. Do you really want to be riding these crater-filled streets with no shocks?

-----

Speaking of metaphors.

Posted by me at 10:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (65) | TrackBacks (6)

I'm working on something rather longish about the Kerry campaign and it won't be ready until much later. In the meantime, I would like to use this time to implore you (and by you, I mean American readers) to go see Shaun of the Dead, which was finally released in the U.S. today. I happened to see an advance screening of this movie last month. Now, you know how I love my zombie movies, so I don't take reviewing such films lightly. The zombie genre is one rich in history and it takes a person with honor and reverence for that genre to pull off a good zombie flick. So do not take the following sentences as some fluffly hyperbole meant to substitute for a real, five paragraph review. It comes from the heart, mind and soul. It comes from a long-standing love of the living dead. It comes with passion. Do not walk (nor lumber along lik a zombie) to your local multiplex. Run. No, get in your car and drive real fast. I am offering a money-back refund to those who claim to like zombie movies and do not like Shaun of the Dead. Well, in my heart I am. It's that good. And that's my review. Also, take heart, those who don't like the undead but will be forced to go see Shaun with friend of significant other. It's not just a zombie movie. It's also a romantic comedy. Even a slapstick comedy. And it's also got wry social commentary and some killer Brit accents. I know, this hasn't been the most articulate of movie reviews, but I'm in a rush and I just wanted to make sure I did my part to get all the lovers of undead comedy/drama/romantic capers out of their houses and into the theaters.

Posted by me at 07:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

The cable guy actually showed up. Not until 7:45, but at least he made it and he fixed everything within ten minutes. Good thing, because a few hours without internet access can make your life go to hell, especially when you're trying to figure out 9th grade math that looks suspiciously like graduate school math. Unfortunately, it's too late for me to offer any kind of substantial blogging today, so I'll make it up to you by providing you with two potentially embarassing facts about me that I feel the need to confess: 1. I love the movie Mean Girls. I actually bought the DVD today. 2. I watch Trading Spouses. Regularly. I do this because I love you and love means being honest. You could always reciprocate the honesty, you know. Think of it as a trust-fall thing.

Posted by me at 08:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (23) | TrackBacks (1)

I had finally finished up what I was doing at work when my husband called to warn that the cable modem at home is out. Damn that evil, blinking light. They're going to try to get someone over to look at it before 6pm, but I find that scenario rather unlikely. So, if emails go unanswered and my daily blogging instructions from Karl Rove go unheeded, that's why. It's always good to share this information with the readers, because the more you know, the more you know. Apropos of nothing, The ABC After School Specials are being released on DVD.

Posted by me at 03:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (2)

Blogging is off to a slow start today. Just one of those days. Meanwhile, thanks to Solonor, you can hear my five minute BBC thing from last night, should my Long Island accent and incoherent sentences interest you. I think the interviewer expected me to be insane and was sorely disappointed when I wasn't. Much. BBC - mp3

Posted by me at 09:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (39) | TrackBacks (4)

For those of you on the other side of the pond, I'll be on BBC's Up All Night at 9:50 [EST] talking about security moms. I think you can listen to the program online. Err, programme. Until then, you get nothing, as fall baseball (Little League) season has started and Wednesday evenings will be bereft of posts here. You can always go back and read the post below and follow my directions. Stare into the boobies. They will hypnotize you into obeying. Update: Oh my goodness, that was horrible. In my defense, I am completely exhausted. How exhausted? I hallucinated the the garbage cans in front of the house were little people wearing beanie caps. I apologize to anyone listening who was rightfully mortified.

Posted by me at 04:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (1)

Important message below concerning boobies. I swear, there's a suprise for you if you look. It's that time of year again. Click my cleavage to get all the details. It's amazing how much I've gotten out of that one photo, eh? Spread the word. Please. I really don't ask you for much, do I? Just tell your readers/friends that there will be boobies and those boobies will be raising money for a good cause. And they will be plentiful. And bountiful. Go.

Posted by me at 11:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (8)