First and foremost, big, wet, thank you kisses (the platonic kind!) to Mike Hendrix for sending me Don't Panic and Interstate 60. You made this sick day a good one. Much good karma to you. Read two books today instead of spending the day wrapped in a blanket at the computer. This was a great book until the last twenty pages or so, when it got a bit carried away. This was quite good all the way through. In other news, I've made it to 400 on my 500 songs list. I'm really trying to round out the last 100 without resorting to "Well, that Poison song really wasn't that bad." In the last half hour, I've been spending my time Farking and composing my own lyrics (to amuse myself in that overly medicated, feverish sort of way) for the musical version of Karate Kid. Wax on Wax off Wax off Wax on Mr. Miyagi? Yes Daniel Son? I don't wish to stand like a seagull anymore I'm tired of painting the fence It's all such a bore Oh please just once can't I use my mad karate skills to show the guys at All Valley how to get some kills? Wax on Wax off Wax off Wax on Oh my confused Daniel Son you must find your happy place You cannot win by smashing face Etc., etc. I think I've had enough NyQuil/Robitussin cocktails for now. Update: Don't miss Allah's lyrics in the comments.

Posted by me at 06:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Today is the 25th anniversary of the release of Pink Floyd's The Wall. Discuss. ^{*Thank you, NyQuil}

Posted by me at 02:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (49) | TrackBacks (1)

As noted yesterday, I've got a cold. Except, it's more than just a cold. Hasn't quite reached flu stage yet, but I know that the commander of the germ squad inside my body is right now finalizing his plans for the next phase of the attack and he's bucking for a promotion or a new stripe on his uniform. He's the Patton of germs. Yesterday's attack was a surprise one. Usually I feel something coming on, but this time it was just there, as if my immune system inadvertently stepped on a landmine. How clever those germs are. So now I just wait. I tried to fend off the coming attack, shoring up my base with Tylenol Flu, but I think this army is too strong for me. I can feel myself weakening already and even as I swallow the Echinacea I found in the back of the cabinet, I can hear the commander germ laughing. Echinacea is a pre-battle weapon, you idiot! It's too late for your silly homeopathic counter attacks! So I think I'll just lay back and take it like a (wo)man. Let them get their attack over with, let them spread throughout my body in their battle formations, attacking my chest, my back, my ears and throat, raising my body temperature, and just when they are ready to settle in for the long haul, I'll drown them with a deadly combination of NyQuil and orange juice. Then I'll just sleep it off as the germ commander slowly realizes he's been not quite foiled, but defeated post-battle. He had a good run. I lost half a day's work yesterday and I'll lose a full day today. But I'll recover nicely, just in time for the busy half of the week, and everyone knows that living well is the best revenge. Steak for lunch tomorrow! Even though I'll be home sick today, I'll try to make the best of it. No laying around on the couch watching cartoons all day for me (everyone knows the best cartoons are on at night, anyhow). No, I'll wrap myself up in a blanket, stack my reinforcements (Excedrin Migraine, herbal tea, tissues) next to the desk in the home office and work the germs away. I've got stories to write. A list to finish. Email to catch up on. Christmas stories to tell. After an hour of this, I'll feel like I'm wasting my day off, even though it's not really a day off, as the germ army has forced my hand here, but I'm not at work and therefore should be doing something that's on par with the importance of work, so as not to feel lazy and unaccomplished. So I will, later on, attempt to mop the floor or prepare some elaborate dinner my family will never eat or do seven loads of laundry, just so I can feel like my day was not empty sea of blogging and playing games. It's a mental battle I fight with myself not only when I'm sick, but every Saturday and Sunday. No rest for the wicked, or something like that. I thank the late Grandma Millie for instilling in me the idea that things like reading, watching television and resting are signs of weakness and worthlessness and I should always be walking around the house with a dustrag, looking for stray specks of dirt, or serving my man. Serving him what? I don't know. Food, drink, whatever. Just as long as I remember that my life's purpose is to have a clean house, a busy stove and a content husband. Grandma, who will have been dead for six years this week, would be none too pleased with me at the moment as my house is not clean, my stove is not busy and my husband, well, let's just say he's content in ways that grandma wasn't referring to. If you give a man that kind of contentment, he won't care if you aren't donning an apron and serving him dinner. Unless, of course, you're not wearing anything under the apron and "serving him dinner" is a clever euphemism. Well, that was off track. And the germ commander has just made it known that he's all about attacking the stomach today. Which calls for a very abrupt end to this post.

Posted by me at 05:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (11)

Nothing like having writer's block, a cold and a bad case of the blahs on the same day. Which happens to be a Monday, anyhow. Useless and contagious, I am. Anyhow, as per Lileks, who asks for your favorite/least favorite Christmas songs, the Worst. Christmas Song. Ever. Sir, I want to buy these shoes for my Mama, please It's Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size Could you hurry, sir, Daddy says there's not much time You see she's been sick for quite a while And I know these shoes would make her smile And I want her to look beautiful if Mama meets Jesus tonight I would rather gag myself with mama's shoes than have to listen to that ever again. Favorite Christmas song? There’s no presents, not this christmas There’s no presents Tom and jerry, drinking sherry They don’t give a damn King Diamond - No Presents For Christmas. No, not really. But damn close. Maybe Run DMC's Christmas in Hollis. For classics, nothing beats Holly Jolly Christmas. You know what this means, don't you? Time for Alternative Christmas Mix, Volume IV. [Here's 3 and 2. I can't find 1.] I'm once again looking for alternate versions of Christmas classics, metal/punk bands doing holiday music, as well as offbeat, or just deranged, seasonal songs. Repeats from the pasts lists are fine, as I didn't include them all when I made my CDs. As with the last few years, I'll cull the best from the list and make a CD out of it, which I will give away in one of my Christmas contests, and then I'll proceed to procrastinate sending the CD to the winner and he/she will end up getting it some time around Easter, after threats of a lawsuit and/or beating. Anyhow, let's have your best alternative Christmas songs. Please, no Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer.

Posted by me at 01:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (67) | TrackBacks (1)

Blame Lileks. I was going to leave the whole white lights/colored lights issue alone until he brought it up today.

I am a Christmas purist and as such, my decorating sensibilities demand colored lights. If you have nothing but white lights on your house, I will suspect that you also have your tree decorated in some weird Victorian rose scheme, with nary a Christmas color to be found.

I wrote this last year and it still stands:

Yes, yes, yes. The big, primary colored lights. The ones that made your neighborhood like a box of Crayola crayons. The ones that lit up the snow with their colors. REAL CHRISTMAS LIGHTS! Not these sissified, oh so tasteful, prim and proper lights. What the hell is that? It looks like you've just left some lights on so your kids could find their way home. From the woods. The dark, evil woods. Where you left them as a sacrifice to the Christmas Light Spirit. But the Christmas Light Spirit didn't want them. You know why? BECAUSE YOU HAVE WHITE LIGHTS ON YOUR HOUSE!

In a (my) perfect Christmas world, everyone would have oversized, electricity-sucking colored bulbs on their houses. Red, blue, green and yellow. It would be snowing all the time; fluffy, soft snow that piles on the lawn and fences, creating a picturesque scene that is worthy of a Norman Rockwell painting. The glow of the colored bulbs would reflect off the snow, giving the entire street the effect of being bathed in wide swatches of color. We would all don our rubber boots and hooded parkas and trudge through the streets, our feet making crunching sounds as they packed down the foot or more of snow with each step. And that would be the only sound you hear for a while - no trucks or cars or snowblowers, just the crunch, crunch, crunching of snow underfoot and the occasional giggle of a small child who captures a snowflake on his tongue. Later, you would be able to hear the soft, off key voices of those children as they went door to door, serenading the neighbors with Christmas carols in exchange for mugs of hot chocolate, held in hands covered with snow crusted woolen mittens.

And then all the kids would go home to their respective houses and put on their feetie pajamas and sit around the fireplace while their parents read Christmas stories to them.

It's Pleasantville, with colored lights, and it's all based on my childhood. Well, loosely based. Very loosely based.

We always intended our forays into Christmas caroling to be idyllic, in an innocent, 1950's kind of way. We had good intentions. We had the parkas and the rubber boots and the off key voices. We just didn't have the right amount of Wally and the Beaver in us to pull it off correctly.

Our trudging through the neighborhood was not quiet at all. We were like a pack of rabid dogs who turned on each other. Lori wanted to stand in front all the time because she thought - mistakenly - that she had a beautiful singing voice. She was the only one who couldn't hear that her whispery vocal stylings sounded more like helium escaping from a balloon than Roberta Flack (Lori's rendition of Killing Me Softly was to die for. Literally). So Lori would run up ahead of us, trying to gain the coveted spot of bell-ringer and first soprano. The boys would pelt her with snowballs as she ran ahead and more often than not, Lori would end up face down in a foot of snow, crying that we were just jealous of her.

Our intentions were to hit at least five houses a night. We knew our neighbors weren't that keen on carolers and instead of making us hot chocolate, they would just hand each of us a quarter - usually mid song - and give us a faint smile as they closed the door on our efforts. Which was all we wanted. A few quarters a night, pooled together, meant a trip to Murray's and candy for everyone.

Murray was an old man who ran a small candy/cigarette/expired milk store on the corner. We would have much preferred to go to 7-11, but none of us were allowed to cross the big, bad street to get there. So we settled for Murray's, where the Bazooka gum often had teeth marks courtesy of Murray's snarling, vicious, child hating dog.

We once hit upon the idea of singing Christmas carols to Murray. We thought it would soften his heart, as if life were nothing but a sappy tv movie and we were writing the script. When we burst into his store singing Silent Night, Murray shrank back in horror. I had a vision of Murray as the wicked witch, melting under Dorothy's thrown water.

"I'm a Jew, you idiots! A Jew!" Gloria stepped forward, staring down Murray. "Yea, well, Ricki and Larry and Jews and they're singing!" She pointed to the siblings who were now staring at the floor. "Well, they should be ashamed of themselves. Get out of my store, now!" Gloria stared at Murray defiantly. She was the oldest of all of us and moved to the suburbs straight from some crime-ridden pocket in Queens. Leader of the Pack, complete with black leather jacket. She sneered at Murray. "Face it, Murray. You just don't like us singing because we're happy and you're not." The old man stared silently at us. I immediately began forming this scenario in mind in which Murray would say that Gloria was right, he was lonely and unhappy and maybe the beautiful children of the neighborhood who had voices like golden angels and hearts filled with love and charity would look kindly upon this old man and forgive him all his transgressions, including rancid milk and dog-chewed gum. Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah, everyone! And we'd all hug and do a rousing rendition of Dreidel, Dreidel for Murray while the neighbors poured out of their houses to join us.

Murray spat at Gloria. Spat! The wad missed her by a few inches and landed on the counter. The dog came over and licked it up. We marched out of the store in single file and everyone laughed at Murray's lame attempt at spitting except for me. I was dejected. I wanted Murray's heart to grow three times its size! I think that was a subtle beginning to my career as a cynic.

So we trudged on, making our way through the gray, slush snow which no longer crunched under our feet, thanks to a light drizzle and heavy local traffic. Our rubber boots went squish on the way down and sounded something like a plunger being removed from a toilet bowl on the way up. Squish. Pop. Squish. Pop. Almost in unison, a marching band of wet, freezing kids who just wanted to spread some holiday cheer and maybe make a buck or two in the process.

Lori was the one who insisted on going to Scott's house. Scott was the grade school equivalent of the high school quarterback. King of the playground, center of the lunchroom, best looking kid in any K-6 school for miles around. Lori, who fancied herself the female version of Scott, had been trying to convince Scott that they would make a lovely couple. Scott, all of eleven years old at the time, still hadn't made the transition from swapping baseball cards to swapping spit. Lori, meanwhile, had been queen of Spin the Bottle since third grade. It was her contention that she would make Scott her boyfriend and teach him a thing or two about what it means to be a man. Lori was a girl ahead of her time, mature in ways that were dangerous. She had grown tits before any of the girls in school. Even the sixth grade girls were jealous of Lori's bulging shirt. Lori had a habit of wearing her coat open wide even when it was freezing out. She wore shirts that accentuated her womanhood and whispers around the fourth grade were that Lori had even gotten her period already. She was a woman. A woman! And it was only right that a woman had a man and Scott, who had the faintest hint of facial hair and whose voice was already changing, was the prime candidate.

So we headed over toward's Scott's house. On the way there, Lori lectured us about the caroling protocol. She would ring the bell. She would stand in front. She would sing all the key verses to Rudolph, while we did the background vocals. We were about to fight her on all issues, but Gloria silenced us with a glare. Whatever. We'd just let Lori have her way, collect a few quarters and make the mad dash across the forbidden street to 7-11, now that we were no longer welcome at Murray's.

What happened next was really Lori's fault. She would not shut up. She kept going on about how she deserves to be Scott's girlfriend, that she was the prettiest and most mature girl in the school, that her voice was so much better than all of ours and we were just kids, after all (Lori had been left back in first grade, so she was a whole. year. older. than all of us, except Gloria).

We had tired of Lori. We had tired of trudging in slush that had now formed into some sort of icy glue that wouldn't let go of our boots. We were cold and hungry and I could swear I heard my mother calling me. But I walked on.

We got to Scott's house and, according to plan, Lori - her coat unbuttoned to reveal a tight, pale green, fake cashmere sweater - rang the bell. Scott's mother answered the door and we immediately burst into the first chorus of Rudolph. Lori whirled around and threw a look of burning rage our way. She whispered through clenched teeth, "I told you not to sing except for the background. And we are supposed to be singing for Scott. Not his stupid mother." We backed off and Lori turned on her sweet voice and asked Scott's mom to fetch her son. I heard the boys behind me giggling and whispering and when I turned to see what they were up to, Steve just held a finger to his lips. Something was up. Judging from the laughter coming from the back of our group, it was going to be good.

Finally, Scott came to the door. Lori's eyes met his and she gave him a sultry (at least a twelve year old version of sultry) smile. She launched right into her solo effort.

Rudolph the red nosed reindeer...

Each word, each syllable was sung in a throaty whisper and I just know that Lori was imagining herself in a slinky white dress, singing birthday wishes to the president. It was Christmas carol porn.

We were meant to sing the backing vocals; words that had been made up and inserted over the ages to give the song a funny (to a kid, anyhow) edge.

Lori: Had a very shiny nose
Us: Like a lightbulb!
Lori: And if you ever saw it, you would even say it glows
Us: Like Pepsodent!

I had no idea what that meant. Does Pepsodent glow? No matter, the lore of the added verses had been passed down from grade to grade and we had to do our part to carry on the tradition, even if it made no sense to us.

And on the song went, Lori doing her best Marilyn Monroe, the rest of us shouting the added lyrics in unison in a terrible cacophony of missed notes and Lori turning to glare at us every time. Finally, the last verse. Lori puffed her chest out a bit more, making sure that Scott noticed the fine, shapely lumps emerging from her sweater. She had her right hand on her hip and she used her left hand to keep flipping her hair. Her hips swayed as she sang. The combination of the tits, the hair, the hips and the swaying were, I suppose, supposed to be sexy in a twelve year old way, but made her look like more like a spazz who had to pee really bad.

Rudolph the red nose reindeer, you'll. Go. Down. In. Hist-or-y. All breathy and teasing. That's where we were supposed to chime in with LIKE COLUMBUS! and get a nice round of applause. But during the "reindeer games" verse, the instructions came from the back to the front. No one was supposed to say the Columbus line. Everyone just stay silent. I shrugged and went along with the game.

Lori: Rudolph the red nose reindeer, you'll. Go. Down. In. Hist-or-y.....
Boys: LORI STUFFS!

Silence, save for a few stifled giggles from the rear of the chorus. Lori pulled the flaps of her jacket tight, turned on her heels and went running down the steps. Scott looked rather amused, while his mother looked a bit horrified. The rest of us just stood there, feeling rather awkward. As Lori maneuvered her way around us trying to high tail it out of Scott's yard, she tripped over a cord that was haphazardly strung around a hedge at the end of Scott's walk. She fell to the ground, pulling some of the lights from the bush down with her. And there she lay until Gloria helped her to feet, face down in the snow and silhouetted by a dozen or so big, colored lights.

I knew right then that this was the end of many things - our caroling for candy scheme; our otherwise tight knit group of misfits; Lori's plans for to be queen to Scott's playground king. It also meant the end of the lumps under Lori's sweater, as everyone within five miles of our school would find out in no less than 24 hours that Lori's tits were no more than artistically folded socks.

We didn't see Lori for many days after that, as she chose to sequester herself in her bedroom, with only visits from a revenge-plotting Gloria to cheer her up. I heard from Lori's brother - who was part of the "Lori stuffs" chorus, that his sister burst into tears when their grandmother gave her socks for Christmas.

Perhaps now you can see why I hold dear the tradition of oversized, colored lights. Nostalgia for the good old days, when we brought a queen-sized ego down to jester size. Every time I see a house all lit up with the colors of 60's suburbia Christmas, I can't help but think of Lori, laying on the ground like a forlorn toy from Misfit Island.

Good times, good times.

Posted by me at 06:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (5)

For more info on why/how I'm writing fiction in exchange for donations to Spirit of America, see here. This one is for Gabe, whose picture I edited a bit so as not to splash his family across this site. Also, see notes at the end of the story. My first Fiction for Charity story is here (other fiction here).

Hypnagogic

The dream and aftermath are always the same; a field of sorts, a path and the sensation that he’s walking down the path at a great speed. Not running, just walking very fast. He never sees himself, only what’s on the path. Leaves, rocks, strewn bottles and cigarette butts. Sometimes he will stop to examine something, never with his hands, just his eyes. He’ll look closely at a leaf and marvel at its veins, he’ll look towards a pile of dirt and wonder what’s buried underneath.

Nick does not determine the direction he takes or when he stops; something - or someone - else does that for him. He’s guided, or led.

Eventually he wakes up, or tries to. He recognizes that he’s in his bed, no longer walking the path. He tries to fully awaken, to sit up, but he’s frozen, corpse like. His arms are heavy weights, his legs immobile. He tries to scream, even though he knows he will not be able to. He’s in some purgatory between dreaming and waking, unable to go to either place. There’s a great pressure on his chest, as if someone is sitting on him, knees pressed into his abdomen. He’s cold. He’s terrified. He imagines he will die momentarily, even though a speckle of clarity somewhere in his mind tells him that he will awaken, he will be ok, it’s just like the other times.

No, not this one. This one has something else going on. Instead of just feeling the presence of someone or something bad in the room, a bad thing that is kneeling on his chest, he sees it. His eyes open briefly, breaking from the paralysis and he sees the boy. Although the room is dark, there’s a bright glow around the child that allows him to see clearly the person who is causing him such distress. He’s smiling, the boy. No, grinning. He’s dark skinned, maybe seven years old, wearing a yellow sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head. He can see the boy’s eyes, squinted in a way that gives him the appearance of laughing at a good joke. He wants to reach up to touch the boy, but he still can’t move his arms. Yet Nick knows that if he were able to reach out, he would grab onto nothing more than air. Despite the weight pressing down on his chest, Nick is aware that this boy is a product of his nightmares. He’s seen him before, on the path.

For years, the path was merely an hallucination. Nick would start the journey as soon as he closed his eyes, when he was still awake and aware of the night; Letterman talking on the tv that was always on; the hum of the radiator; the passing cars. Yet he dreamed anyway, as long as his eyes were closed, and he always followed the path gladly. Nick enjoyed the mystery of what his mind was offering him.

It wasn’t until recently that he began to see people instead of just leaves and garbage. They are always gathered in small bunches off the side of the path and turn their heads slightly when Nick passes. He thinks they anticipate his arrival they were talking about him as he went by. After a few weeks the figures become familiar; a few old women, wearing housecoats and kerchiefs; a young girl, maybe a teenager, who stares at him intently each time. Sometimes whispers to him and it’s weeks before Nick makes out the words. Help. Each night her voice raise an octave, becomes clearer and stronger, until she is screaming at him in a voice that shakes the trees. The hag. The hag wants you. And each night, next to the girl, stands the little boy in the yellow sweatshirt, always grinning, always with that soft glow around him.

Nick is always intrigued by the people; he wants to talk to them, to find out who they areand why they haunt him. But his impetus is not his own, he is forced to move silently past them. He thinks about them during the day, when the sunlight and business of life keep him from being frightened. There are days he can’t wait to get into bed, to see the people again, to find a way to talk to them and find out who this hag is and why she wants him. But always, when he gets into bed in the dark of night, Nick becomes frightened at what may lie ahead and he thinks - no, he knows - the night fear is what is keeping him from being able to confront the people on the path.

Now, the little boy had somehow walked out of Nick’s dream with him and, perhaps, closed the door to the waking world before Nick could get out. He realizes there is no way to go back and no way forward. He’s stuck in a constant battle to breath, to move, while this little boy grins down at him.

Finally, Nick is able to slightly move his left hand. He clenches and unclenches his fist, as if trying to get blood to circulate in a hand that had fallen asleep. The boy vanishes. Nick swallows huge gulps of air, hungry for breath, for waking life. He checks for signs of reality - in front of him, the tv is still on and a hyperactive chef selling knives moves across the screen. To the left, his alarm clock glows. He bends to the right to reach for the water glass on his night stand and lets out a muted whine of terror.

The yellow sweatshirt boy is standing there, holding Nick’s water. The boy is an overexposed photo; the glow, the never changing smile, the small spikes of hair sticking out from his hood. He holds out the water for Nick. Nick shakes his head, not in response to the boy’s offer, but to try to rattle his brain into a state of clarity. The shaking wakes his brain so he can grab seconds of reality to keep his composure, a trick he learned when he was much younger and had to much to smoke; it made the hallucinations disappear, if briefly. But his head shaking does nothing here; the boy remains, holding out the glass, grinning.

Panic rises in Nick’s throat and he chokes on it. The boy pushes his arm out, as if to say, here, dummy, drink the water. Nick doesn’t know what else to do. It seems absurd to be taking a glass from an leftover dream apparition, but he thinks perhaps it would be just as absurd not to take it, so he reaches his hand out toward the glass. In an instant, the boy’s hand is empty, the glass of water vanished and he is holding Nick by the wrist. He’s strong for a child; Nick can feel himself being pulled off the bed. The boy whispers now, in the same scratchy voice as the girl. The hag wants you. He struggles with the boy, fighting to stay on the bed and briefly he remembers the game of sharks he played with his brothers years ago. Don’t let your feet off the bed, he tells himself. The sharks will get you. The boy suddenly gives up and lets go of Nick’s wrist. He’s gone. Nick heaves himself back to the middle of the bed and lays motionless, afraid any movement will conjure the boy up again.

He wakes when the sun reaches into his room. He doesn’t remember falling back asleep after the fight with the boy; in fact, Nick determines it was all part of a dream, despite his sore wrist. He gets out of bed, struggling to gain some composure and begin the day as if it were any other.

He goes into the kitchen, thinking only of coffee. He senses their presence before he sees them and he turns slowly, convincing himself that he’s just spooked, there really isn’t two people sitting at his kitchen table as if they had every right to be there. Yet, there they are. The grinning boy in the sweatshirt and the girl.

Nick doesn’t know what to say. What does one say to two figures from dreams?

She’ll come for you tonight. Herself. Not us. The girls nervously plays with her hair as she talks.

You should have come with us, says the boy. It’s always so much easier that way.

Nick turns to the coffee pot. He will never go to sleep again, he tells himself. He will stay awake forever.

The girl laughs, as if Nick’s thoughts were painted above his head in a thought balloon for her to read.

That’s what they all say, she says. See you in two or three days, Nick.

And then they were gone.

----------- I wasn't too happy with the ending here, but these are supposed to be short-short stories and I struggled with how to make the story end in a timely fashion. I may write another story for Gabe, as I'm not too thrilled with this one . I had an idea to turn this into a bigger story, with sort of a comedic touch, as Nick is forced by the hag to care for the two dream beings, as he caused them to be stuck in the waking world. The title of the story, Hypnagogic, refers to the hypnagogic state, "the state between being awake and falling asleep. For some people, this is a time of visual and auditory hallucination." I'm quite familiar with this phenomenon, as well as sleep paralysis, which Nick experiences in the story. Sleep paralysis is also referred to as Old Hag Syndrome.

Posted by me at 09:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (1)

I'm almost there. I had hoped to finish up this weekend, but I was distracted by both a book and a messy house. I'd like to address this comment (here):

Nothing before 1969? The first known organized attempt at songmaking is recorded as having happened several centuries ago. Yeah, I know. This is a personal taste list and I don't much care for Gregorian chants either, but there are some great songs from the forties and fifties not to mention some of Schubert's lieder.

If you are going to diss my list, make sure to read it carefully before you post your comments. A cursory glance through the list tells me that there are at least eight songs that are pre-1969. Another thing I will do when I annotate the list is put the years of the song. Eventually, this will all go into a sortable Excel file so you can check the list by artist, year and possibly genre. Also, as I've mentioned previousl, a simple CTRL F will keep you from suggesting songs or artists that are already on the list. I'm at 357 now and all of you pure metal fans will he happy to see that Motorhead's Ace of Spades finally makes a grand entrance. The last 100 will be the hardest. I don't want to end up filling the list with crap just to get to the end. These are all honestly songs that I love for one reason or another. It's at this point in the endeavor that I'm really going to need you to rattle my brain. The best thing to do before making a suggestion is really read the list to figure out what I like and not offer up suggestions based strictly on what you like. The conspicous absence of any Beatles or Stones songs has been noted many times already, by the way. Update: Damn. Pril made it 531!

Posted by me at 07:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (23)

So, you ask, do you think TDC is good book? Depends on what your idea of good is. If by good, you mean that the writing is deep and mature and takes you far into the world of the book, where you feel as if you know the characters and have lived in the settings, and the phrasing of the words is sometimes so beautiful it takes your breath away, then no. If by good you mean the author manages to keep you turning the pages even though his writing is stilted and the characters are like stick figures, then yes, it was good.

Dan Brown is not an amazing writer. His books do not sell because he can perform miracles of life with a pen. I keep thinking that Brown must have one hell of a publicist for this book to garner the type of attention it did.

TDC is not the first book to take on the tenets of the Catholic church or Christianity. In fact, I think Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy is far more damaging to the Christian belief system than TDC (and far, far, better written).

Where Brown succeeds is in brevity, I suppose. TDC is not a very long book and he sort of rushes through every aspect of the story, never stopping too long on one subject enough to make it a treatise which, I suppose, would turn off readers looking for a page turner.

Brown's characters elicit no sympathy from this reader. They were hollow, wooden puppets, held up - barely - by the strings of Brown's flimsy plot devices. In fact, the only character I liked - the grandfather - spends 99% of the book dead. Most of the characters were absolute cliches and Brown often resorted to phrasing that appeared to come off of bumper stickers.

Yet, I read the book in a few scattered hours. It was intriguing, but not for the storyline. Instead, it was Brown's injected conspiracy theories that kept me interested. I wonder what his motives were for writing the book; it appears to me that he wanted less to write a good thriller than he wanted to use the novel as a venue to tell people that he thinks the history of Christianity is a farce.

I see TDC as nothing more than a piece of fiction interspersed with Brown's view of reality, vis a vis the Catholic church and the history of Christ. He presents his material in such a way that people who take affront to any attack on the church will view Brown's material as heresy, rather than the rantings of a man with an agenda. I'm almost amused by those who have taken the book so seriously that they rushed to debunk it. How do you debunk fiction? How do you debunk a man's opinion? Granted, he used real agencies - The Vatican, Opus Dei - in a disparaging way, but how many books out there use other real life organizations in fiction? It's only because Brown used TDC to put a puncture wound in the faith of some that the book was taken so literally by many.

The best thing I can say about the book is that it piqued my interest in many subjects, among them Da Vinci himself, the classic artwork referenced in the novel and the mystery of the Grail. If TDC acts as a stepping stone for people, myself included, to educate themselves in areas that were previously unknown to them, then that's a good thing. However, I don't think that was Brown's intention, nor do I think that the masses who have staged a war against the book are doing; they are fighting against one man's fictional concept of their belief system, which seems like a vast waste of energy. If anyone comes out of reading TDC having their faith shaken, then I would suggest that their faith was not too strong to begin with.

As a novel, TDC is pedestrian. The plot is thin, the codes are easily seen by the reader before the characters break them, the plot twists are either telegraphed or inconceivable to the point of absurdity and the ending is contrived. It's a page turner only because Brown is a master manipulator; he drags you in with theories and near blasphemies that make you think, but he never puts these things to great use. Instead, you end up turning the page just to see how the damn thing ends. As one who grew up with a love for cryptograms, Encyclopedia Brown, logic puzzles and adventure games, I felt let down by the book; it could have offered me so much more than it did.

I didn't turn the last page with the satisfaction that I normally get when I finish a book. Instead, I was left wondering what Dan Brown's real motivation is. Which made me feel a bit used, as a reader.

Kudos to Brown for forcing me to educate myself on Da Vinci, the arts and the history of the mysterious grail. But thumbs down to him for writing such tripe and passing it off as history.

Posted by me at 05:47 AM | Permalink | Comments (33) | TrackBacks (2)

Thanksgiving is now long gone, which means it is time to get started in earnest on the third annual Christmas Decoration Hell thing. As I predicted, my neighbors tore down their inflatable turkey not long after the Thanksgiving dishes were cleared. In fact, I think they dismantled the whole Thanksgiving display on their lawn in between the meal and dessert, then spent all day yesterday putting together their Christmas display. Sure enough, as soon as the first hint of darkness showed last night, the switch was hit and the house lit up like, well, Christmas. My neighbors to the left joined in with a white light display and several houses down, an lighted parade of inflatable characters graced the lawn. This is our first year as homeowners. We are very excited to decorate for the holidays and I'm anxiously looking at the clock wondering if it's too late to wake up my husband and brother-in-law so they can get started with the lights (it is). I have a feeling that my excitement at being able to decorate my own home will cause me to break some of my own rules and regulations. So be it. I'll deal with the consequences, which will be to put a photo of my own house in the Christmas Hell archives. It's time to get the cameras out, kids. Read the rules in the link above and start turning your neighbors in to the tacky decoration police (that would be me). I'll be sharing my photos with fellow Long Islander and Tacky Christmas guru Matt over at Uglychristmaslights.com. To get you started in the spirit of the cause, here's the first two stories I found for the 2004 season that will serve to warn everyone what engaging in tacky decorating will bring about. Here we have our first entry in this year's contest: Naughty Santa. Latham, NY:

The decoration turned a lot of heads Friday morning. Several drivers cruising by Sebastian's on Troy-Schenectady Road couldn't stop staring. A female doll, wearing a T-shirt that says 'I've been naughty,' stands right in front of an inflatable Santa Clause.

Apparently the good folks of Latham don't like to mix sexual innuendos and Christmas. I can't say I blame them. I'm calling bad form here. And from California:

For six years, Alan and Bonnie Aerts transformed their Silicon Valley home into a Christmas wonderland, complete with surfing Santa, jumbo candy canes and a carol-singing chorus of mannequins.

$150,000 worth of lights, which led to a breaking of this rule: 6. A line of cars rolls down the block from December 1st until New Years, turning your neighborhood into a tourist attraction.

This year, though, the merry menagerie stayed indoors. Instead, on the manicured lawn outside the couple's Tudor mansion stands a single tiding: a 10-foot-tall Grinch with green fuzz, rotting teeth, and beet-red eyeballs. The Aertses erected the smirking giant to protest the couple across the street — 16-year residents Le and Susan Nguyen, who initiated complaints to city officials that the display was turning the quiet neighborhood into a Disneyesque nightmare.

While I rail against overdone Christmas displays, I think the fun lies in actually looking at and documenting the stuff. I would never go so far as to complain to authorities about a neighbor's display. I say kudos to the Aertses for the clever Grinch decoration. Send all tips (whether they be photos of your own or articles found on the net) to karlrovesbrainATgmailDOTcom.

Posted by me at 06:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (2)

The reason I asked about Da Vinci Code is this - I know many people who have read the book. Some view the story as facts wrapped around a neat little fictional tale. Some have read the book and were astounded at the things they didn't know. I know a few people who have questioned everything they knew about their faith after reading The Da Vinci Code. So far - and I'm about halfway through - I have to say that as far as facts go, there are definitely things I'm learning. I've had to run to the computer a few times run Google checks on a few items. For instance, I had no idea that Opus Dei really exists. I know very little about the lives and times of some very famous artists (and, as always, I will obsess about the little things I learn within books; reading biographies of every single person mentioned). As far as the religion aspect, I guess I'm not shocked by anything I've read so far. Mostly because it's hard to tell where Brown's fiction ends and his knowledge of facts begin, but also because I have an inherent distrust of organized religion. Treacher points out in the comments below that the book reads like an Infocom game, which is true to an extent. About fifteen chapters in, I was struck at how much it reminded me of a series of books I read when I was younger, though for the life of me I cannot remember the titles. They were books about three siblings who often stayed at their grandparent's farm over summer vacations, where they always ended up solving one mystery or another. The cool thing about the books (cool to a little kid, I suppose) was how the author wrote out the clues on the pages just the way the kids saw them so you could try to figure it out as well. One story had something to do with an attic. One took place out in the woods. Anyone have any idea what I'm talking about? Keep in mind this was in the mid to late 60's that I would have read the books. Anyhow, that's what The Da Vinci Code reminds me of thus far; half computer adventure game and half grade school mystery book. That's not to say I'm not enjoying it; sometimes an easy read is welcome. And I think I will take in enough of Brown's fact-based lessons in the book to gather reading material to last me through the winter. I suppose it's the religion issue throughout the story so far that I find most compelling. More on that later, but I'm still interested in any thoughts you have. ^{*ok, there were no grues here, but I can't mention adventure games without referring to grues.} Update: I found the children's books! They were by Peggy Parish. The one I was specifically thinking of was Clues in the Woods. Now I'm going to have to buy them all. For nostalgia, of course.

Posted by me at 05:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (27) | TrackBacks (2)

I've been reading The DaVinci Code. If you read it, I'd like to hear your thoughts on the book and all it contains. I'll give my thoughts when I finish it, but I'm really interested in knowing what you all think.

Posted by me at 08:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (33) | TrackBacks (3)

It is my goal that I will remove the "work in progress" line from that image before this weekend is over. I'm up to 329 and still taking suggestions. Thanks for the hundreds of suggestions thus far. I've used many of them, even if your songs just reminded me of something else I thought she be on the list. Please, for the love of jeebus, stop suggesting Creed. It's just not gonna happen. And stop dissing the Bay City Rollers.

Posted by me at 10:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (25)

As you probably know, today is Buy Nothing Day. As you probably also know, I am a consumer whore who believes that it is for the greater good of society and our economy that we engage in mass consumption of overpriced toys, games, clothing, etc. So I hereby declare my anti-holiday to Buy Nothing Day: Buy Me A Golden Goose Day (BMAGGD), dedicated to the idol of consumer whores everywhere, Veruca Salt. Veruca wanted the world and she wanted it now. Of course, she had her daddy to buy all the goods for her and most of us aren't that fortunate to be spoiled like that. But, no matter. We can still take part in BMAGGD. Even if we buy just one thing each, we will be doing our part to make sure that the cash registers keep ringing and the factories, marketing agencies, and department stores stay in business. Let's face it, we all want the world. We all want to lock it all up in our pocket. Me, I want mindless junk. Maybe you want a pony. Pass your holiday wish list around today. Let your loved ones know that you fully expect them to participate in this holiday in the name of the much loved Veruca Salt. And if they dismiss you as some kind of lunatic, cross them off your holiday list and go spend the money you would have spent on their gift on yourself. Do it for Veruca. Happy Buy Me A Golden Goose Day. Update: It should be noted that I physically hate shopping at any time of year and it will be a cold day in hell before you catch me in any kind of store on Black Friday. However, I will be spending my day internet shopping. Of course, some people think that Christmas is Full of Crap, anyhow.

Posted by me at 07:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (4)

^{The piece below is nothing but a long introspection of the past year and the self realization that came with looking back at the things I've written in the past twelve months. It is basically a confessional to myself about several things and was written and published as part of a penance I put upon myself in my effort to make steps towards change. It might be of interest to you, as it has everything to do with blogging and what's taken place here in recent months. It's long, it's self indulgent. That's why the entire post is below the fold. You've been warned}. Thanksgiving has always been, to me, a marker of sorts. While the calendar says winter doesn't start until December, in my mind the season is ushered in on Thanksgiving evening, as soon as the leftovers are wrapped up and the last piece of silverware is washed. As if on cue, the weather cooperated yesterday. The morning still had hints of fall; after a downpour the sun came out and the kids on the block swarmed around the basketball hoop, all coatless and carefree. By the time we got home from my parents' last night, we had grudgingly turned on the heat and commenced with cursing the cold. Thanksgiving has become, in the past six years, my year-end measurement. I met my husband on Thanksgiving evening of 1998, so it's only natural that I would spend some time each year after the turkey and stuffing to reflect. Some people reflect in December; me, I like to get a jump start on the introspection. It's easy to look back on the year past when you keep a weblog. I don't have to wrack my brain wondering if I made any mistakes or hurt anyone or behaved badly because it's all right here in black and white, sealed forever on the hard drives of thousands. I guess that's the price one pays for running an emotion-based blog, which I do. Some bloggers write from a fact-based or opinion-based view; most of what I write is emotional reaction to the world around me. It's just the way I am, the way I've always been. I react to everything with feeling. Most of my decisions, my choices, my actions are based on my emotions. No, not a great way to live, but it's who I am. So last night, after waking from the food coma and noticing that many of my neighbors had turned on their Christmas lights, I went into automatic reflection mode. And I read a good portion of what I've written here over the past year. Talk about self discovery. When I was done reading, I was left the feeling like I looked in the mirror and saw that I was covered in thousands of blemishes. It was an ugly year, to put it mildly. I suddenly found myself faced with the weird feeling of losing all respect for myself. I see a year's worth of words that were filled with such hatred and anger that I barely recognized the person that exists in this particular space. It's not that may anger wasn't real. It certainly was. But the way in which I expressed some of that anger and the manufactured hate that flows through my words made me question why I wrote half of what I did. Why did I actively seek out those things which I knew would anger me? Why did I engage in such vitriol and mouth-foaming reactions when most of it was not only completely unnecessary, but only served to fuel whatever negative emotions I was dredging up by reading things I knew would make me mad? I'm not saying I should have tuned out from the world, but did I really need to make matters worse for myself by digging deeper than necessary, or saying more words than situations warranted? A long, restless night of thinking gave me the answers to those questions and, trust me, they are not answers I am happy with. But if I spent the better part of a year becoming a hateful, antagonistic creep, then I would do best - for myself, anyhow, to come clean about what led me to become that way. People are driven by different things in life. Some of us are driven by our need for acceptance. I've been that way since I was young and I suppose it's what will always be the driving force behind the things I do. Old dog, new tricks, etc. I know that some of the less stellar things I did in my youth can be attributed to my need to be accepted by people, even if those people were not exactly the kind of company one wants to keep. A pat on the back for a questionable act was far better than no pats on the back at all. I've carried that need for acceptance on into adulthood, to a lesser extent. I managed to run a pretty successful weblog for nearly three years without the histrionics or hate, so why did I choose to go that route now? Well, it starts with one little instance and it sort of builds up. A few accolades for a well written, yet vitriolic post, a few extra hits, a few more readers. So you do it again to see if you can repeat that success. Sure enough, you can. That shit sells, man. My hits were going through the roof. I had a nice, long adstrip. I was quoted in newspapers. CNN was calling my house. I was finally being accepted. But accepted as what? I never did stop to think about that. Well, I did briefly, a few times. See, that's the problem. I knew that it was my raw anger and seething hatred that was getting all the blog press. I knew that people showed up in droves for the posts that were written in the depths of rage. Again, my anger was definitely real. My opinions on these subjects were completely honest. But it's the fact that I reached for these subjects, that I actively sought out those things that would make my blood boil and my hands shake that makes it now seem so manipulative. Why else would I swim through the sewers of Indymedia or Democrtatic Underground? Why else would I care what Ted Rall, a festering sore on the face of humanity but an insignificant microbe in the large scheme of things, have to say? I cared because ten thousand people or more a day did. I cared because people liked this stuff, they turned out in droves for it. And even though it made me sick to read what I was reading, even though the emotional energy it took to write some of these posts left me tired and cranky for the rest of the day, I did it anyhow. I was totally guilty of doing what I accused many of my adversaries of doing. I was writing about what I was against, not what I was for. I was writing with long, broad strokes. I was engaging in the worst of unsocial discourse. And I was fueling ten thousand people a day while I was doing it. I look back at some of this and I laugh when I see that I accused some of those people of being shrill and unhinged when clearly, half of what I wrote could lead the same thing to be said about me. There are definitely a lot of posts within the last year I'm proud of. But they are far outweighed by the damage I did to my own sense of self-respect. I know I also lost some friends over this. Not the people who came right out and said they hated my politics so they hated me; that's another issue. But there are some people I was pretty good friends with who just drifted. Or, more like slowly backed away from the emerging car wreck that I was becoming. We just lost touch and I know damn well why. And I never made the attempt to initiate contact with these people because subconsciously I knew that I was being a complete asshole. I alluded to it several times, I spent a few days writing about how I was tired of the hate and tired of the anger, yet I kept right on keeping on because writing about anything else wouldn't bring nearly the response. Let's face it, about 90% of bloggers crave attention. While I'm being completely honest here, I may as well admit that I'm just as much an attention whore as the 16 year old pouting seductively on her webcam. It's not an easy thing for me to sit here and admit to all of you that half of what I wrote over the past year was born out of manufactured hate. There was no need to go to DU every day looking for the most absurd thing on there. There was no need to say a thousand times in different ways how much I hate Ted Rall. I beat the dead horses because dead horses make for good ratings. And all those hits and ads and reporters and comments meant that I was accepted somewhere as something. But what? The greatest sewer of venom in the blogosphere? The woman who could alienate a whole circle of people with just one paragraph? Talk about superpowers. I could write ten words and send ten people scurrying to their keyboards to say how insane I was and ten people scurrying in the other direction to say how right I was. Well, there's something to put on my life resume. I can make people scurry to weblogs! I have the power! I did as much to contribute to the air of animosity that existed around these parts as Oliver Wilis or Kos or anyone else I accused of being divisive. Instead of engaging in civil discourse like I implored everyone else to do, I coarsened the conversation and made it nearly impossible to have an intelligent discussion about anything because I so loaded down my posts with negativity, hate and anger that anyone responding from the other side would automatically start out on the defensive. Sure, there were times when I tried to discuss things rationally, but they were far and few between and certainly didn't garner as much attention as the profane posts. All these things are what I'm leaving behind by not dealing with the politics anymore. I'm over the whole acceptance thing because, just like when I was fourteen and drank fifteen shots of Sambuca to gain acceptance, it has left me feeling sick to my stomach. And in much the same way that to this day I can't look at a bottle of Sambuca without heaving, I will not be able to look back at a year's worth of my writing without feeling sick. I really have no one to apologize to but myself. Self-awareness isn't exactly an apology, but it's a start. Admitting that I am not proud nor particularly pleased with the way I behaved, especially in recent months, is my first step towards making peace with myself. And letting go of that need for acceptance is another step which I think I took already. I stopped caring about the hits or the comments. I stopped caring about figuring out ways to draw people in. It wasn't all it was cracked up to be, I'll tell you that. What I gained in readership or ad revenue was not worth the respect I lost for myself.

Posted by me at 05:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (29)

^{Nothing says Thanksgiving like Charlie Brown missing the ball again. Damn Lucy. Damn her to hell!} To all my U.S. readers, have a safe and happy holiday. Eat, drink, enjoy some football and try to keep the family dysfunctions to a minimum. Special thanks to all of these people, past and present. Thanks once again to you, my readers, for being a daily part of my life, for better or worse. Thanks to my family for everything. Thanks to my friends for listening, talking and making me laugh. Thank you, America. I am most fortunate to live in a country that allows me to indulge in pursuit in happiness freely; a country that allows me the freedoms to live, love, learn and laugh without fear. I'd like to get an early start on my annual holiday tradition of resolving differences with people I love, or reconciling with those I have strayed from. You know who you are. I'm making the first move. I'd also like to thank those who, over the past year, have played Lucy to my Charlie Brown. I've learned a bit about humility and perserverence. Just keep in mind that some day, I will kick that ball. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. ^{[I added a timely song to the list today]}

Posted by me at 07:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (10)

I've made it to 310. I'm anxious to start annotating this monster. Diving into this project has allowed me to put out of my mind other things that I just don't feel like dealing with at the moment. On that note, I'd like to thank (apropos of the holiday) those who have hit the tip jar recently. You have no idea how much every single donation is needed right now. It's just been that kind of month. Months, even. I also want to take the time to thank you, my dear readers who are like my extended dysfunctional family. I usually make a fun list of the things I'm thankful for - not the usual friends and family things, but the under appreciated things in life like beer and oddly enjoyable websites. I'll get to that later, as well as the rest of the Thanskgiving advice questions. Right now I'm leaving work early so I can go home and swallow half a bottle of Excedrin Migraine. I thank the miserable weather for this brain-smashing headache.

Posted by me at 12:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (1)

[see here for explanation and legal disclaimer]

Shawn asks: Should Drew Henson or Vinny Testaverde start against the Bears on Thanksgiving Day?

Well, the answer lady is too late on this one, as it has already been determined that Drew will start. You know, when your team has to choose between a rookie whose only TD pass was a one yarder and a 41 year old near has-been with a sore shoulder, it's time to start questioning your team loyalty.

Meep asks: Is it okay to host a turkey-less Thanksgiving? One of these years, I'd like to host Thanksgiving, and I hate cooking turkey. Besides, my husband is a vegetarian. An all-vegetarian thanksgiving? If we've got enough alcohol, do you think that would be okay? We brew our own beer.

A vegetarian Thanksgiving is like Christmas without Santa Claus. Not that I'm implying that turkey is a fictional image which embodies the secular takeover of a religious holiday. Not at all. However, turkey does play a vital, important role in all Thanksgiving feasts. Making a turkey out of wheatmeat or tofu would be sacreligous, if eating meat were a religion, which it is to some of us. I also have a question. The tofu turkey linked above is shaped like, well, a turkey. Not a carcass that comes out of a normal, meat-eating household oven on Thanksgiving day. No, it's shaped like a live, breathing turkey, with a beak and eyes and that long thing that hangs down its neck. Wouldn't a vegetarian feel bad about digging his fork into that bird? The plaintive eyes and sad turkey smile might not be real, but surely the vegan conscience would not let one stab even a tofu turkey in the heart. Sort of makes my longing to devour the Turkey Named Adam not such a bad thing, eh? I think if I ever was in a home where they were serving a tofu turkey that was molded to look like the real thing, I would hide a little microchip in there somewhere so when anyone went to take a stab at the tofu bird, it would let out a cry. Nooooo, please don't eat me! You bastard! Anyhow, I think our meat eating ancestors would be ashamed to know that a thing like tofu turkey exists. But you go ahead and make it. Just don't say I didn't warn you when the ghosts of a thousand indians and pilgrims make their way into your bedroom on Thanksgiving night and pelt you with haunted animal carcasses. That's gotta smell really bad. Happy Thanksgiving. And enjoy that tofurky jurky.

Posted by me at 09:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (8)

A few things before I get down to the business of answering the Thanksgiving questions before the holiday actually gets here. First, thanks to everyone who has donated to the Friends of Iraq Blogger Challenge through ASV. I'm not starting with the heavy fundraising push until December 1st, but there's already over $300 in the Spirit of America till under this name, so thank you. If you'd like to collect the piece of fiction I promised in return for your donation, please follow the instructions here. Second: I think I started something with the 500 songs list. Tom at Media Drop, Pril and Fredo are also compiling their own. But remember, kids. Mine is going to be annotated! And illustrated! Yea, that's the ticket! Keep the suggestions coming, but one thing: if you're going to make a whole list of suggested songs, it probably would serve you well to actually read the list first so you save yourself the time of writing down ten tunes that are already there. And, while I have being thankful on the brain, I'd like to thank those of you who have chosen to stick around even though I've stopped the political/news blogging. You make up about half of my former readership, but you're twice the fun and I'm really enjoying blogging for the first time in a while. So thanks for being here.

Posted by me at 07:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (3)

I'm up to 256 songs in the top 500. Halfway there and I haven't even broken a sweat yet. And, when I'm finished making the list, I'm going to annotate it with a little blurb about each song and include lots of delicious links. It will be a tour de force, I tell you. And it will mean nothing to nobody but me. I've been getting a lot of email on this (finally, email I enjoy reading!) and I need to lay down a few basic facts here: * Stairway to Heaven will not be making an appearance. * Ditto anything by Creed or Nickelback. * I hate In The Ghetto. What are you people thinking? * I'm trying to limit myself to no more than three songs by any artist. * Poison? Not on your life. * I already told you, I don't like the Beatles. * Ditto for The Eagles. * Yes, there's a lot of recent stuff on the list. Music wasn't only made pre 1990, people. More if I think of it, but that's about it. Still taking suggestions, though you can put them here rather than on the earlier post. I've added many of your suggestion throughout the list. Sometimes the brain needs to be rattled. Halfway there. And then the real work of annotating the list begins. Girl's gotta have a hobby, I guess. Update: I was never a big Stones fan, either.

Posted by me at 07:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (49) | TrackBacks (2)

Report: Yankees to offer Pedro $50 million. I feel like I need to wash my hands repeatedly after seeing that headline. (I should note to the unaware that I'm a Yankee fan) Update: not related, but bound to make me feel better in some way.

Posted by me at 04:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (2)

This one goes out by request to an anonymous-remaining person who donated to Spirit of America in the name of ASV (see here for details on that) and, for her kindness, gets a crappy piece of short fiction (500 words or less) to go with the picture she picked out (see details for that here). So, someone gets the losing end of the bargain here.

Anyhow, the picture is once again by my husband. The fiction is by me. Enjoy, or not.

The Shakes

Your room is always dark. Even when I turn the switch on, the shade is so heavy and the bulb so dim that the lamp only makes shadows of everything.

I run my finger along the dust on your desk. I hold back the urge to scrawl my name in your dirt. The dust clings to my pinky and I wipe it on your shirt, the one you were wearing the last time I saw you. It hangs on the bedpost like a reminder, a ghost of you with loose arms and wrinkles and a fading marker stain on the right sleeve.

Your bed is cold and it sinks down in the middle. I sit on it like the captain of a boat, looking straight ahead for signs of land but I see only myself staring back through your streaky mirror. I rock back and forth, arms folded inside themselves, legs crossed, a piece of hair caught on my dry lip. I touch your pillow, examine its drool stains.

I imagine that you’re here and we’re talking about diamond rings and forever. You tuck my hair behind my ear, annoyed that it ends up in my mouth all the time. I promise to get a hair cut. You promise to introduce me to your friends. I stop imagining because it makes me feel like someone kicked me in my side.

I touch the snowglobe on your desk, the one with the taxicabs and skyscrapers and synthetic snow falling down on plastic people. I shake it and shake it and shake it and the snow falls and falls and no matter how hard I shake, the little people always smile and the little taxi never goes anywhere.

I crawl back into your bed and remember the way it felt to have your arm draped across me all night. I remember how the bottom of your feet were all cracked and hard and how you sometimes laughed in your sleep. I try to feel it, try to will myself to feel the weight of your arm on my stomach, to hear the dry whisper of your last good night.

It’s starting to snow now, light puffs of white slapping against the window. I imagine I’m in a snowglobe and I’m always smiling and the clock never moves and the headlights never appear outside the window, making me tumble from the bed and towards the back door like someone just shook my world.

All the text herein is copyright © 2004 Michele Catalano. All rights reserved. All art herein is copyright © 2004 Justin Brejwo. All rights reserved.

Previous fiction here.

Posted by me at 02:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

[see here for explanation and legal disclaimer] Blowing off the family Thanksgiving feast in favor of Christmas shopping at K-Mart. Mortal or venial sin? ---perletwo I would have to say it's a venial sin, in that it could be forgiven and you could always make it up to your family later on, especially if when you were at K-Mart, you spent a shitload of money on them. However, if you were gunning for mortal sin (holidays are the perfect time to commit yourself to going to hell), you could do your shopping online and purchase some of these for your favorite family members (so very NSFW). Not only will you probably give a few relatives deathly heart attacks, but you'll also make the baby Jesus cry and, as we all know, that's a mortal sin. Happy Thanksgiving and stick the venial variety. ------ Let's say that you murdered a turkey in cold blood. It was sleeping with your wife or it stole your wallet, or maybe you had a business partnership with it and they tried to skip to Rio with your money. Can you rightfully murder that turkey and serve it as a Thanksgiving centerpiece without facing jail time? After all, it's a turkey, right? ---Laurence Simon Well, does the turkey look like this (pops up)? Because then it would be totally justified. You wouldn't even have to worry about the whole venial/mortal sin thing. I know, you're Jewish, but you've got to keep track of these things just in case. Oh, and if your wife is sleeping with a turkey, maybe you shouldn't be so quick to delete all the penis enhancing spam mail. Just saying. By the way, I'm up to 221 songs and I've prettied up the page a bit.

Posted by me at 11:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (9)

The doctor is in. Not this Dr. Nor this one. It is just I, Dr. Turkey, here to solve all of your Thanksgiving dilemmas, or at least dismiss them with a sarcastic phrase or two. ^{Legal notice: I am not a real doctor. I am not an expert on Thanksgiving. I don't even know how to cook a turkey and taking relationship advice from me is like taking grooming advice from Jack Black. By reading the below responses and by acting upon the advice given therein, you release me of any harm or fowl (get it? fowl?) done to you or your loved ones on the basis of anything written here. Not responsible for broken marriages or soiled couches. May cause heartburn, projectile vomiting or bouts of severe loneliness. Parental guidance suggested.} The letters asking for advice can all be found here. I have to go to my girlfriend's sister's in-laws' house for some huge get-together. It's in Boca Raton, half of the people are successful real estate agents and I harbor secret resentment for rich people. Her parents don't like me and I don't like them. Come to think of it, I'm not sure how much I like my girlfriend right now. What should I wear? --Hubris So, you name yourself a word meaning overbearing pride or presumption; arrogance and then you come to me for advice on what to wear? If you had the cajones your name implies, you would go to that get-together, making your entrance buck naked, riding a wolverine. If these people don't like you already, what do you have to lose? Hopefully, your girlfriend will find your bareback wolverine riding erotic and you will overcome your differences, right there on the floor of some adobe and stucco Boca Raton home. Think about letting the wolverine join in. Many a relationship has been saved through the sexual use of animals. And, hey, maybe you'll give a few real estate agents a heart attack in the process. Happy Thanksgiving and let me know how it all works out. ------------- [I]s it wrong to dump someone because they've let themselves go and the thought of physical intimacy with them is not arousing, exciting...or all that intimate now that I think about it. --Shank As I already mentioned to you, Shank, these were supposed to be Thanksgiving related questions. However, you seem to be a bit of a turkey yourself, so I'll answer this one. First of all, do you mean she let herself go in the Kirstie Alley sense or in the Britney sense? Because there's a difference between turning into a beached whale and putting on a few needed pounds. And are we talking just weight here or has she stopped showering, grown some facial hair or taken to wearing mu mus? Here's what you do: Invite her over for Thanksgiving. Then launch into a long, passionate rant about how the holiday season has become just a bloated, ugly vision of its former self. Tell her that you used to love the intimate feel of the holidays and the beauty that existed within. And now, well, you feel like you have no connection with Thanksgiving or Christmas because they've lost their beauty and glamour. You don't want to slide your presents under the tree, so to speak. Or, umm, you don't want to stuff the turkey. If she doesn't get the analogy then just be blunt. Tell her she's fat, ugly and you're no longer attracted to her even though she's the same person on the inside that she always was. Then run real fast as she chases you through the house with a carving knife. Happy Thanksgiving, and think about lowering your expectations. Two down, many more to go.

Posted by me at 06:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (9)

I made it to 200 songs!. Only 300 to go. I am going to do this. Taking suggestions here. Also: So far $172 has been raised for the Friends of Iraq blogger challenge in the name of this here blog. I thank everyone who donated so far and I would like to remind those people that you do get something in return - details on your "reward" are here. Details on the challenge are here.

Posted by me at 06:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (1)

I just realized that Thanksgiving is three days away. I made a mental note to myself last week to repeat the quite successful Thanksgiving advice column from last year. Note to self: notes to self often go unremembered. I was only reminded of said idea when I did a Google search on my site for Thanksgiving. As I was looking for turkey posts to repeat. So, anyhow, once again I open up the blog lines for your pressing Thanskgiving questions. Last year we covered such topics as football, Godzilla, commies, valium and setting grandmas on fire. [commence with the exact repeat of last year's post]

Because I am a selfless and giving human being, and because I am wise beyond my years and becaus I really have nothing else to do the rest of the day or night except avoid cleaning the house, I have decided to devote my time to you, in order that your Thanksgiving may be the best Thanksgiving possible.

I am opening up the phone lines (ok, comment lines) for your Thanksgiving questions. Ok, so I don't know how to baste a turkey and I'm not sure what side of the dish your salad fork goes on, but I am chock full of insight and knowledge when it comes to all things family.

If you have any questions about spending time with relatives - for instance, Is it polite to use grandpa's wheelchair to carry the dirty dishes into the kitchen, or Is it ok to have sex in the coat room - just ask away. I can deal with any issues concerning keeping the family peace and, conversely, adding some spice to your Thanksgiving meal (i.e, with inappropriate prayers of thanks). I also advise on how to get through a meal that tastes like crap and how to avoid taking part in the clean up activities.

The doctor is in.

Update: Forgot to mention that all questions will be answered tomorrow morning. Update again: The first answers are up!

Posted by me at 01:55 PM | Permalink | Comment