The Log of the Great Corrupter

Okay, so, I know we've all "heard the rumor". And rumor or not, I love it here. I do.

But, well...just in case the rumors are true...

I have another blog. Well, really, the same blog. But with different stuff. New stuff. I swear. (Well, yes, we all know this, but I meant like 'on the Bible' not 'like a longshoreman' this time.)

http://thegreatcorrupter.blogspot.com/

Check it out. Please.

See you here (still, I hope). See you there (again, I hope).

See you everywhere, the way things are going.

Current Location: The Overblogged Cage
Current Mood: anxious
Current Music: The Force Unleashed Soundtrack (not by choice)

There's a great scene (among many) in the movie "Zoolander". David Duchovny's playing a hand model, a 'different breed' from regular male models. He says male models are being trained as assassins and is exposing this to Zoolander and the investigative reporter on the case.

Zoolander (played by the great Ben Stiller), asks, "But why male models?" Duchovny's character explains and exposes a centuries-old conspiracy that all assassinations were done by male models, programmed to kill by the fashion industry.

The explanation is long, detailed and funny. At the end of it, Zoolander asks, totally straight, "But WHY male models?

Duchovny looks at him and goes, "What, are you serious? I just told you!"

We all know people like this, don't we? We work with them, interact with them, and in some cases, live with them.

These are the people who seem to live to ask the same question over and over again. And not the 'big questions' like "Why are we here?" or "You want fries with that?" But the idiot questions, those questions that indicate that, no matter how many times or different ways you explain some simple concept, the questioner is never, ever going to 'get' the answer.

I used to think these people were random. Attracted to me like flies to a cow patty, but still, random. But now? Now I've run into so many that I think they're organized. It's likely a secret society, like the 'League of Extraordinary Gentlemen' or the Skulls or those who believe O.J. about anything. But clearly, they're organized. And I'm certain they're following in the footsteps of their god, Derek Zoolander.

I wonder what the requirements for membership are:

--Do you have to be dim and demand people repeat things over and over and over again every single time?
--If you occasionally sound like you're not a complete moron, does that negate your membership fee?
--Do you earn so many points every time you drive a normal, intelligent person to distraction?
--Is there a special deal if you can convince more than five people of your Zoolander qualities in one fell swoop?
--Are there merit badges given out for idiocy levels? And, if so, are they posted on the 'net? How about listed in the newspaper?
--And, really, what are the requirements for student, associate, and full membership? Is there a special membership card they carry and, if so, does it have Zoolander's picture on it or just a huge question mark superimposed over the symbol for infinity?

Not that I want to join. But since I run across the Zoolander Faithful all the time, I'd like to be kind and pass along the information in case some of them aren't already initiates.

I'd also like to find out how it is that I'm on the League of Zoolander hit list...and how to get off.

Current Location: The Zoolander League Avoidance Cage
Current Music: Don Henley

I'm a little late (shocker) since I should have posted this, oh, say, Sunday, but, as you all know, my motto is "Better late than never, and if you're lucky, at that."

So, happy Hanukkah, have a wonderful Kwanzaa, Merry Christmas, happy Wednesday, have a good week, enjoy the minute, look is that a bird on the table? Well, get it off before it ruins the feast!

Here's hoping your holidays are bright (unless you like them dark), you're surrounded by loved ones (unless you prefer strangers), and that you both give and receive joy (unless your name is Ebenezer or Scrooge, in which case, enjoy the dreams tonight).

And here's to a prosperous and happy 2009 for all (other than people you don't like or that relative who's just doing too darned good for himself and doesn't see fit to share the lucky fairy dust).

Current Location: The Holiday Cage
Current Mood: bouncy
Current Music: Bob Seger (yeah, yeah, NOT holiday music, okay?)

I grew up and went to college in Southern California. The Los Angeles Times is THE newspaper for all of So Cal (regardless of what those other papers might try to tell you), and for many years their slogan was, "One Hundred Years of Service to Southern California".

I also went to an all-girl's Catholic liberal arts college. I was not then and am not now a Catholic, but I was and still am a girl, so I had part of the requirement down. And I was willing to go into the same debt as a small nation's GNP in order to do my time there, so the school let me in.
I had a lot of fun in college, but along in my upperclassmen years, I, like so many young people, wondered how the other half lived. By the other half, of course, I mean those who go to porno flicks in the movie theater. (Being tagged as The Great Corrupter isn't so much a nickname as truth in advertising, folks.)

Of course, most girls then would not (and probably would not now) go to a porno theater by themselves. Like going to the bathroom, some things are just better done in packs.

So, some of my acolytes minions trainees nearest and dearest and I went to see the show, so to speak. We chose an afternoon matinee since we all had dates later on that evening. We also chose a Pussycat Theater, because, well, they were the top of the line porno theaters and it was only the best for us!

We were old enough to get in legally, so that wasn't an issue. The issue the ticket taker had with us was that we wouldn't stop cracking up. "You'll need to be quiet inside," she scolded. The girls with me were giggling so hard they were at risk of heart failure.

"Yeah, um right," I replied. "Wouldn't want to disturb the other patrons and cause them to, you know, have to start all over again." Shrieks of laughter from my posse greeted this one.

"Can I see your ids again?" the ticket taker asked.

We obtained our stubs and sauntered in. The first feature had already started, at least so far as we could tell. It was a compilation of 'money shots' from a variety of films -- truly an immediate gratifier if there ever was one. But since it was already dark inside, choosing seats was something of an issue.

We wanted seats together but we also wanted to ensure they'd be at least sort of clean. Easier hoped for than spotted, especially in the dark. We also felt that not sitting right next to a man alone was probably a wise choice.

We had to split into two teams, because the theater was that full. At noon on a Saturday. During intermission we scanned the crowd to make sure none of our dates were there, but apparently we were all going out with nicer people than we ourselves were. There were two women in there aside from ourselves -- and they were clearly on dates. We congratulated ourselves on the fact that we weren't going on a date to the Pussycat Theater, and settled in for the next showing.

Before the next movie started, the Pussycat ran ads, just like real movie theaters did. One of their ads was for the Pussycat Theater chains. I guess in case the throes of personalized passion had caused the patrons to forget where they were or something.

The audience had been amazingly silent during the first feature -- either that or the moaning on-screen had drowned out the moaning in the audience. But they were equally rapt for the ads.

There are some things I can't resist. Silence like this is one of them. As the Pussycat ad came on-screen for the SECOND time, I couldn't help myself. In a stage whisper, I said, "A hundred years of service to Southern California."

The audience went into hysterics. They'd heard me and my friends giggling for the first feature and I suppose they just gave in. Their mistake.

Because once my loud mouth had gotten a good laugh, the rest of my posse felt it was open season. And what a season it was.

A male lead said in a 'sexy' manner to an extremely flat-chested female lead, "Grab your breast."

"What breast?" one friend shouted out.

"I'm almost there!" one of the other male leads cried.

"Same with the guy next to me!" the friends behind me said in unison. This was proved to be quite true.

"Stop me if I go too fast." The male leads, of which this film had a plethora, had all the good lines, to use the term loosely.

"Do me baby, hurry up and DO ME!" This was from me and all the rest. College Mass had made us really good at speaking as one.

And on it went. The film ended, the lights came up, and we got a round of applause. Which was nice, because the theater manager merely requested we never again enter his establishment, as opposed to calling the police.

Nowadays, of course, you can get your porn on the internet. But it's just not the same, in the privacy of your own home. Because there's nothing like a group of people, all laughing at the same 'money shot' to really bring a sense of brotherhood and belonging, even to the most deviant group.

Not that I could go to a Pussycat now, even if there was one close by. Apparently, I'm still banned from entering their establishments, particularly if I'm with a group of giggling women. The sacrifices one makes for one's art.

Current Location: The Pussycat Cage
Current Music: Lit

The hubs and I had a rare opportunity a few weeks ago -- we got to go out... to an adults-only party...in the middle of the week.

I know! Like we were still vibrant, interesting and fun! So, clearly the people who invited us to the event don't know us all that well.

I had to spend days convincing the hubs this was something we both wanted to do and needed to do. However, it was for a friend's production company in support of their new independent film, and we were GOING, dammit.

The chicklet, in a rare display of cluelessness, indicated that she felt my wearing a dress would be inappropriate. I guess she felt that being far under the 'over 21' limit somehow gave her insights into how adults dress for a premiere and cocktail party. Happily, I discarded her suggestions and went in a dress. (For those keeping score at home, I looked perfectly appropriate and even got a compliment for my ensemble.)

The hubs was in the standard 'guy nice casual' for the over 22-year-old male -- Dockers and a business-casual-short-sleeved-shirt. I was soon glad he hadn't gone all out, though.

We'd arrived early, so we were able to get seats at the bar. Normally this would mean I'd lord it over everyone and really feel like we'd scored. And I did...for about ten minutes.

Then, the first reality of this evening set in. The bartenders weren't all that...good. The drinks were okay, but nothing great. And the bartenders were sloppy. As in, within an hour, the hubs looked and smelled like he'd been swimming in a vat of Long Island Iced Tea, because he'd been splattered with so much stray drink.

In addition to their lack of cool bartending skills -- believe me, the set of "Cocktail" this wasn't -- I noted something else about the bartenders. All the bartenders. To a man, they had their hair 'spiked' up, in that pseudo, just-rolled-out-of-bed style that only a limited number of guys can pull off.

For the record, of the seven bartenders, only ONE could pull this look off. On HIM it looked great, sexy, appealing -- almost like he wasn't using hair care products. The look flattered him.

On the others? Uhhh...not so much. The looks varied between 'REALLY just got out of bed' to 'I spend all my salary on gel and hairspray'. But none of them looked GOOD. Most of them looked cruddy to ugly, with one guy who'd tried for the spiked faux-hawk from front to back. He looked like he'd lost a bet and had to wear an angry badger on his head.

The coup de grace was the bartender who had tight, thick, curly hair. The kind that you either let go 'fro or you keep neatly trimmed because there is NOTHING you can do with hair like this other than let it curl or keep it short. But he was trying. Very, very hard. To spike this kind of hair.

It looked like he was in desperate need of that finishing once-over from the salon or barber, just to catch those stray hairs. But he'd clearly spent time attempting 'the look'. And it dawned on me -- this hair look was a requirement of employment at this place.

As opposed to requiring their bartenders to be able to mix good drinks, or be able to mix any kind of drink without splattering all the patrons sitting at the bar, this place requires them to spike their hair, regardless of how it actually looks.

I dunno. If it were ME, I'd pay more attention to what makes a bar good -- like the drinks and the atmosphere -- and less on showing off that your guys all know from mousse and weaves.

Then again, the place WAS called "Sheer". Maybe they can't spell any more than they can mix drinks.

Current Location: The Hair Care Cage
Current Mood: amused
Current Music: Garbage

For the past 18 years, I've had a weapon, and I've never been afraid to use her. Meet Weapon X, otherwise knows as the chicklet, my daughter.

I realized the power I wielded when the chicklet was young, about 3 or 4, if memory serves. We had made reservations for Easter Brunch at a nice, pricey place. We were early. The line was long.

It didn't take long to realize that the line was TOO long. Something was amiss. After waiting 30 minutes past our reservation time, I brazenly shoved past the hostesses blocking everyone from the dining area and made an amazing discovery -- there were a LOT of empty seats in the dining hall.

What there were not was empty tables.

Seems this fancy, expensive resort, in its wisdom, decided to set up most of its tables as rounds for 10. Shocker alert -- most families of 10 are eating Easter brunch at home.

So, what was happening was that groups of 2 and 4 were seated at these tables, meaning there were enough chairs, but the restaurant refused to 'inconvenience' its diners by 'forcing' them to sit together.

Several of us who were past starving said we'd gladly join together and BE a table of 6, 8 or 10, just let us get to the damned food already. The restaurant REFUSED. No, we'd made reservations for 2 or 3 or 4, and by golly, they were not going to ALTER their plans NOW, despite the fact that their plans were working as well as O.J.'s plan to find the real killer.

I looked at my small child, who was being remarkably well behaved, and the proverbial light bulb went off. I looked at the hostesses and managers and said, "You either seat us and the people willing to sit with us now, or I will unleash a terrible power."

They refused.

I looked at my child, and said, "Chicklet, you have Mamma's permission to throw a fit."

WELL.

Weapon X gaped in shock for a moment, but she was always a bright child, and knew even at a young age that opportunities such as these didn't happen every day. As she drew in a HUGE breath and just started the beginnings of a howl, the manager THREW herself at me and said, "No! We'll seat you now!"

I told Weapon X to quiet down, she did, and we, and two other grateful families of 3 filed in to get fed. Shortly after, the rest of the herd were allowed in. I'd mentioned on the way to our table that I wasn't above taking Weapon X out and letting her stand in the lobby until everyone had a chair.

The restaurant manager now lived in fear, and I had new-found power.

A few years after unleashing Weapon X at Easter Brunch, she and her BFF #1 managed to break our Sega video game player. They both claimed innocence and still to this day admit they have no idea of HOW they broke it, just that they did. The hubs has never quite recovered -- he still mourns some of the games we can never play again. The kids loved the games, too, so I have to believe it was done without malice. But still, the tide was turning. And many more things were breaking. Small things, usually. Usually costly. Weapon X has her standards, after all.

It turned fully a couple of years ago. BFF #1's neighborhood does an annual Memorial Day Weekend bash. It's huge, well attended, and we've come as guests for years now. In addition to a pool, volleyball, shuffleboard and a rec room, this place also has a sauna.

Or it did.

Seems BFF #1 and BFF #2 and possibly BFF #3 were in there with Weapon X to keep her company while she was piddling. They're girls. Yes, we ALL go in packs. Yes, it's to talk about the males. No, you really don't want to know what we say, trust me. Not even what the young ones say.

Anyway, while Weapon X was doing her duty, so to speak, BFFs #1 & #2 were playing around with a switch on the wall.

"What's this do?"

"I don't know."

"Let's flip it some more!"

"Okay!"

They were a little old for this, but, you know, they were bored.

While the BFFs were so occupied, Weapon X smelled something. After getting out and washing her hands, she wandered over to where the BFF Brigade was still flicking something on and off.

A quick look told Weapon X there was no way they were turning on and off a light. She's my child, so she's smelled things burning before. At least once a week at dinnertime for her entire life. So, she recognized what was happening.

"Oh. My. GOD! The sauna's on FIRE!" So shrieked Weapon X, as she led the escape, the BFFs racing out behind her.

Naturally, they didn't TELL anyone. Until the flames showed. Then, I think one of them nudged an adult and said, "Um, do you see that? Is that, wow, could that be a FIRE?"

Oh, it was an exciting Memorial Day THAT year.

Of course, I knew without asking that Weapon X and her BFFs had to have had a hand in it, so when I asked a couple of probing questions, she admitted it. To me. However, not to any of the other adults.

But, you know, it was several years ago. Besides, it needed a big renovation and the new rec room, sauna and bathrooms are MUCH better. (Um, what IS the statute of limitations on unintentional arson, anyway?)

Weapon X and BFF #1 went to college this fall. I can't wait to hear what it is they destroy there, because, by now, it's a given. Good luck, college administration -- you're gonna need it.

Current Location: The Weapon X Cage
Current Mood: complacent
Current Music: Sheryl Crow

Normally we do a big feast at our house for Thanksgiving. Pull out all the stops. Invite everyone we know over (and, shockingly, many of them actually come).

But this year, the chicklet is in college and has exams and stuff and we're totally burnt out from work, and I'm already sick of Christmas because the holiday 'buy now' push started the day after Halloween...in some cases, before Halloween...so we're going out of town.

Happy about the trip. Happy to go see Mom and Dad and the family (and my new nephew!). But sorry we won't see all the folks we normally see at this time.

Of course, I think 99% of them are going out of town, too, this year. It's the Get Outta Phoenix NOW Thanksgiving, I guess.

So, for all our friends who I may have forgotten to advise that WE will be out of town -- we'll be out of town, Happy Thanksgiving!

For all our friends going out of town who know we're going out of town -- safe journeys and Happy Thanksgiving!

For all our friends not going anywhere -- enjoy the time at home and Happy Thanksgiving!

And to all a good night! Talk to you when the Christmas shopping push REALLY starts...you know, the day AFTER Happy Thanksgiving.

Current Location: The Pre-Turkey Day Cage
Current Mood: tired
Current Music: The Sounds of Packing

So, the hubs and I went to the movies Friday night. (I'll wait while you all faint and then recover yourselves.) And we saw a movie on opening night. (Repeat the faint and recovery stuff.) We saw "Quantum of Solace".

Daniel Craig is like real man hotness personified. There is nothing this guy can do to NOT be hot and sexy and manly. To which I say 'hurray!' Oh. And he's a good actor, too.

However...

What were the producers and directors thinking? He wasn't naked in this film!

I mean, the film was fine -- too much handheld camera work during the fight scenes (when WILL that craze leave Hollywood? Ever?) and it certainly wasn't all jokes and crumpets, but, dammit, I go to a Daniel Craig film to see Daniel Craig! To see ALL of Daniel Craig!

It's bad enough that he had to de-buff to play Bond...as in, if you've only seen him in "Casino Royale", you need to check out "Tomb Raider" and that quickly (naked and in the shower) or "Layer Cake" (naked and in the bed). But to give us a 2 hour movie and all we see is a little of Daniel Craig's most awesome chest? That's plain unfair. Where were his awesome abs? His amazing butt? His muscular thighs? I'll tell you...they were covered up with CLOTHES.

The horror...the horror...

Oh, and for those who somehow go to Bond movies for the chicks and the guns and car chases -- it was good, not as good as "Casino Royale" but better than most of the later Roger Moore ones and without the horrific girl names all the Bond movies were saddled with, and easily as good as the Pierce (sigh) Brosnan ones. (For the record, Pierce never got naked enough in the Bond movies either.) I'll buy it when it comes out on DVD, quantum of hotness or not. But I'll watch the 'Daniel Craig comes out of the ocean in tight, tiny trunks' and 'Daniel Craig is totally naked for this torture' scenes from "Casino Royale" a lot more.

Now, I feel I must go watch "Tomb Raider"...at least, that 'Daniel Craig takes a shower' scene...perhaps repeatedly...

Current Location: The Daniel Craig is HOT Cage
Current Mood: horny
Current Music: The Bond Theme

I work from home and I own three big dogs, which gives new terror to the idea of door-to-door anything.

Here in Phoenix, tree trimming is clearly a growth industry. Hardly a day can go by without someone idling their decrepit truck in front of my house while they come to see if I want my neatly trimmed trees...trimmed.

But they aren't so bad. Most of them are Mexicans and they aren't stupid. I share we already have a great tree trimmer and that I am loyal to Jose (this is, btw, very true) while the dogs share that they're hungry, and this business is concluded quickly. The few white guys who trim trees in between prison stints aren't quite as smart as the Mexican guys, but our smallest dog is a pit bull, and they've got enough self-preservation in them to leave the moment I mention her breed, and that quickly.

Less swiftly dealt with are the door-to-door salespeople. They're selling anything from meat and ice cream delivered right to your door -- for only three times what you'd pay for it at that newfangled market that's a whole mile down the street -- to aluminum siding. Yes, aluminum siding. In Phoenix, Arizona, otherwise knows as Hell's Orientation Area.

These folks are harder to get rid of. They know I won't loose the dogs on them, because they have the backing of a company that probably knows a lawyer somewhere. For them, I have to say that I already have dual pane windows, couldn't care less about saving money, hate convenience, and own over a dozen guns (this is true -- I mean it when I say don't piss me off or I'll make you sorry, and I have the firepower to back it up). I just laugh maniacally at the aluminum siding people because, really, what else can you do?

Middle of the pack are the sales folks who actually represent a brand in my household, like my phone service. I'm rather loathe to turn them instantly away, since, once, one of them actually saved me over $100 a month and I'm willing to give optimism a try every now and again.

These folks, however, are not interested in getting bitten, since they aren't on commission, so while I'm shouting, "What? What are you saying? Shut up! I can't hear you. Shut up, dogs, shut UP! What?" and trying to hear their offer, for some reason, they usually give me a bad look and leave.

Next up on the scale of difficulty are the kids who wantyoutobuytheircraptohelpkeepthemoffthestreetsandoffdrugs. They always say that sentence as if it were one word, like some urban version of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, only with no Julie Andrews or Dick Van Dyke, let alone lyric and tune. They really don't care about the dogs -- they have dogs like mine at home, only theirs are wearing spiked collars and 'guarding' their families' 'business interests'.

I like to point out that I can't be a party to this charade. Of course, they try to insist that they're really kids (some of them have looked at least 25 to my eyes), that they're really from the bad parts of town (this is imminently clear), and that this is really the only way to keep them off the streets and not doing drugs. I have to mention then that, clearly, they are ON the streets, peddling whatever crap it is they're trying to sell me, and how do I KNOW they aren't going to take my five dollars for one Twix bar and race right off to the park and buy drugs? They insist they wouldn't. I insist that my dogs are drug-sniffing dogs and that they go into a frenzy when they smell even the slightest whiff of ganja, let alone anything harder. Since the dogs are in a guaranteed frenzy by this time, I can usually make my point. For the tougher ones I just mention that my brother's with the ATF and he's due any minute and this seems to do the trick.

But the Jehovah's Witnesses are in a class all by themselves.

We're just down the street from a huge Kingdom Hall, meaning that our neighborhood is always a target. And, this side of a televangelist, there is no one more intent upon saving your soul than a JW.

We get them all, usually utilizing an adorable moppet as a selling tool. The hubs is a sucker for this, but I'm not. I usually suggest that junior looks thirsty and would he/she prefer a shot of ice cold vodka or room temperature scotch, and they tend to meander off. But, sadly, they keep on coming BACK. Maybe junior really wants that drink. I would, if I were hanging with these people 24/7.

My favorite JW experience was when we only had one dog, the big fella. It's also the reason we installed a heavy-duty metal screen door -- not to keep anyone out, but to keep him IN. He's 110 pounds of muscle and a runt for his breed, so, you know, he's always overcompensating. He's also a guard dog and he takes his job VERY seriously.

It was a weekend, so prime JW time. A man and what I took to be his wife came by, in their Missionary Best, which looked exactly as that sounds. They rang the bell. The big fella started his standard cacophony. And the woman started backing up. But not her husband. He was going to save my soul! So, I opened the door a crack. The big fella started instantly clawing at the door to get through, while making sounds reminiscent of both original and mecha-Godzilla.

By now, the woman was at the sidewalk. But the man held fast. I managed to ask what he wanted. The JWs usually come with a prepared spiel, and he was no exception.

"We all have security for our homes," he started. I could guess that the next line was supposed to be, but do you have security for your soul? But he couldn't get it out.

Instead, he looked down at my precious puppy, Love Spawn of Alien and Predator, and said, "...and there's yours..." and lost it. We looked at each other and suddenly he was in danger of dying because I was laughing so hard I was at risk of not being able to hold the dog back and he was laughing too hard to run.

In between howls of laughter I managed to share the usual 'we have our own religion' line while he nodded and waved merrily while he backed away.

Meanwhile, his loving spouse was already out of view, running down the street. I assume she decided she only had to outrun him and that it wasn't all that far back to the Kingdom Hall and salvation from the big fella.

However, one funny anecdote is not enough to make me want to keep on having the JWs and their less religiously-minded but still all-too-annoying brethren beating down my doors. So I have a solution.

I'm getting a sign made. A big one. It'll say:

"No Soliciting! This means you, yes, you. Yes, you, if you are a tree trimmer, salesperson of any kind or stripe, kid selling anything for any reason, and especially if you're peddling a religion of any kind. Stay away, keep off the weeds, and take your moppets with you. And if all else fails and you continue to annoy me, I shall release the Hounds. They just want to have you help them stay off the streets and off kibble."

Then, when they ring the bell anyway, I'll greet them with something sure to make them run. I think a naked, middle-of-forty woman with a .357 Magnum makes a clear statement, don't you?

Current Location: The Door-to-Door Cage
Current Mood: annoyed
Current Music: The Foo Fighters

Despite being born in the 1960's and growing up in the 1970's and '80's, I never did drugs. Well, at least not recreationally. This doesn't apply to alcohol, which is a subject in and of itself. I don't mind drinking my drugs -- caffeine and hooch -- but I draw the line at anything and everything else.

I know this sets me apart from most, well, everybody, other than the hubs, who was also a non-experimenter. His reasoning was that if he tried drugs he'd probably like them far too much, likely become an addict, and end up dead or worse by age 25.

I never tried them because, frankly, I have a freaky enough imagination all on my own. I don't NEED drugs to come up with bizarre ideas -- I just go to sleep, and bam, there they are, playing out in my Technicolor dreams. And I'm also pretty damned uninhibited -- I've given most anything a go at least once, particularly all the sins.

I'm HUGE on the sins. 'Cause they're fun. And I was always smart enough to know that if someone was going to be so kind as to lay out each and every fun thing in the world to try, why, by golly, it was my duty to try them. I read the Bible cover-to-cover. There is some REAL kinky stuff in there, trust me. No, really...TRUST me.

But, for some reason -- wanting to stay in control of my bad self and the desire to retain brain cells for all the alcohol I was drinking to absorb and burn in its own time -- I never tried recreational drugs or, as P.J. O'Rourke puts it, I never became my own pharmacist.

But a couple of years ago, I found something that's better than drugs. Or, at least, from what every stoner I've ever talked to or read (P.J. and Hunter S. Thompson and all those guys included), something that simulates a drug trip so perfectly, so completely, you need never waste your money on the real things again.

I'm speaking of the cinematic classic, 'Zu Warriors'.

The hubs and I first caught part of this masterpiece in opium, acid, angel dust and living color while at the Vegas 'House of Blues', waiting for Motorhead to hit the stage. HOB was playing this movie on a continuous loop. At least, it seemed like it was a movie, and it might have been continuous. It was hard to tell.

The gist seemed to be there was this handsome Asian guy with a sword and some other handsome Asian guy with wings that were a lot like Archangel's when he was all Age of Apocalypse and a couple of hot Asian chicks who were able to fly and kick butt and a whole lot of psychedelic colors that I hadn't seen since I was very small.

The handsome guy loves a girl or girls, the same girl, really, but at the same time, not the same girl. The guy with wings loves some other girl who's a tiny, evil fairy. There is badness. There is goodness. There is weirdness more than anything else. Freaky, drug-induced weirdness. We watched this thing over and over and literally got a contact high. We were both mellow and fired up and seeing infinity.

We HAD to own this baby. So the hubs hunted it down and we bought the DVD. We assumed we'd understand what was going on when we were able to see the entire movie and hear/read the dialog.

Boy, were we stupid.

Because, as near as we've been able to tell from repeated viewings, my bizarre understanding from the concert WAS the movie. The only thing we were missing was the names. Oh, the names.

King Sky is the handsome hero. Dawn who is also Enigma is the lovely love interest with King Sky in some sort of horrifying cosmic loop where he's the teacher/she's the student, then she's the teacher/he's the student, over and over again. I don't think they ever get to do the nasty in all these centuries they die and get reborn. Or maybe this was all sex. It's hard to be sure.

Red is the guy with wings. That's his whole name, Red. Thunder is a good guy. The female ingenue is Joy, the male one who may be Thunder, Red or King Sky in his next life, or may not be, is Hollow or Ying, depending. The two wise oldsters are Master Transcendental and White Eyebrows. I swear to God I'm not making these names up.

And who, you may ask, is the Big Bad? Who are all these people fighting? Well, they're fighting an evil so powerful, so overwhelming, so dastardly, so insidious, that he/she/it could only be called one thing -- Insomnia.

So, next time you need a fix, don't call the local pusher. Go buy 'Zu Warriors' -- tune in, drop out, get high, and become highly confused. And to show you're also fighting the good fight, get some sleep.

Current Location: The Trippy Cage
Current Mood: ditzy
Current Music: The Wallflowers

In light of the massive success of 'Iron Man' and 'The Dark Knight', I think it's time to deconstruct a TRULY ground-breaking superhero movie.

I'm talking about a movie so ahead of its time, so forward-thinking, that critics and audiences alike just didn't 'get it'.

I'm speaking, of course, about 'The Phantom'.

'The Phantom' -- starring Billy 'Bald, But Still Hotter Than You' Zane, Kristy 'Buffy the Movie Vampire Slayer' Swanson, Treat 'I Used to BE Somebody' Williams, and Catherine 'Before I Married Ancient' Zeta Jones -- had the misfortune to come out in 1996, well after Tim Burton had revived the superhero movie, but also after Joel Schumacher had killed it again.

First off, let me say that I think Billy Zane is a total hottie. I like him bald, I like him with a wig on, I like him best naked, but I'll take a skin-tight suit. There will be no dissin' of the Zane on THIS blog, thankyouverymuch.

The Phantom is a noble, happy hero, living in the jungle with his loyal Wolf, Devil, and his loyal horse, Hero. (I don't make these names up, folks, I am merely reporting.) The movie's tagline was "Slam Evil!" but I'm here to tell you that the slamming was more groin-related than anything else. Ah, but whose groins?

Well, the Phantom's suit is purple. And that, people, should have been seen, not as an homage to the original, but as a CLUE.

What everyone saw was that the Phantom hangs out in a jungle that's amazingly green, as so many jungles tend to be. Purple, amazingly enough, doesn't really 'blend', especially the bright almost fuchsia the costumers used for the Phantom's skintight number. True, in the original comic, the Phantom's costume was indeed purple. But when you're doing a pen and ink drawing, you can make dark purple seem to blend in with dapples of shade and such. In a live action movie, fading into the shadows in an all-purple ensemble just doesn't work.

But what everyone missed is that the Phantom wasn't trying to 'blend' or hide. He wasn't going for subtle. He was going for 'out'.

This was the gayest movie I've seen that wasn't billed as such, and not just because the Phantom seems remarkably happy to live in his luxury cave condo with only his young, attractive houseboy for company. A houseboy who cares for him in, seemingly, all ways, including by tending to his wounds. (Billy was amazingly buffed out for this role and it shows, in the suit and also when he's stripped to the waist, which did NOT happen often enough in this flick.)

But it's not the male homoeroticism that sets this movie apart. It's the clear lesbian love story subplot that really sends it over the edge into perhaps the most overtly pro-GLBT movie ever.

Kristy's character, Diana, is supposedly in love with both the Phantom and his alter ego, Kit Walker (and, yeah, his name is Kit...maybe that was a man's name in the 1930's, but now, all I think of is Kit-Kat or Kitty, and, well...you know where I'm going with this train of thought). Catherine's character, Salla, is supposedly in sorta-love with Treat Williams' baddie, Xander Drax (what a name!) and sorta in love with the Phantom.

However, you can't prove it. Not by me, the script, or the actors' take on their characters.

The gals 'fight' and 'make up'. A lot. There's a lot of meaningful glancing and some meaningful pawing, too, though it's subdued and subtle, since, somehow, the movie studio and the director seemed to think they were making a kid's movie.

How do I KNOW that the two gals aren't really all that into the men? At the end of the movie, our handsome hero is discussing how the only person who can know who he is would be the woman he marries. Diana shares that, yeah and duh, knew you were the Phantom all along Kit. Kit and Diana have a kiss. Then, against all logic, Diana leaves to fly home with Salla, who looks extremely smug about it. Can't blame her. Diana chose which kitty cat she wanted, and it wasn't the one with the houseboy.

In addition to all the homoeroticism on both sides of the fence, you have Treat Williams chewing scenery like his and everyone else's lives depended upon it. He DOES have some of the best lines in movie history, among them, "This is a great day and we all have a share in it. Oh, not an EQUAL share, to be sure, but a share, nonetheless." How can you not love a bad guy like that? He's also clearly straight, and the ONLY clearly straight character in the entire movie (other than, possibly, the wolf and the horse), so you have to support him, just 'cause he's so alone.

In truth, I love this movie. I own it, and watch it all the time. In fact, instead of shelling out $20 to buy 'Iron Man' or 'The Dark Knight' on DVD, I think, instead, I'll pop in a TRUE groundbreaking classic, curl up with the hubs, and see how the other half hooks up.

Bi-curious? Check out 'The Phantom', film fun for all consenting adults!

Current Location: The Bi-Curious Cage
Current Mood: curious
Current Music: The Rolling Stones

Stephen King does a column for 'Entertainment Weekly'. He does his column sort of like I do this blog -- roughly once a month, and, as a reader, you're fairly sure he didn't look at what he wrote and go, "Wow, The New Yorker would be sure to take this. I'm really giving them my BEST." No, you're pretty sure he looked at it and went, "Well, it's sort of funny and kind of interesting and I don't have any more time, so..."

So, since Uncle Stevie has a career I envy and strive for, I'm gonna imitate him. Hey, it's the sincerest form of flattery!

A few weeks ago, he did a column about what he REALLY listens to on his iPod -- not what he says is the best music ever, but what has the most plays. He also listed the play count numbers. None of his top 20 songs had over 60 plays.

Well.

I know I have Uncle Stevie beat here, and by a LONG shot.

So, without further ado, here's MY top 25 songs. The songs that drive my writing forward and my husband crazy. 'Cause Uncle Stevie's an amateur. When I play a song, I PLAY it, baby!

25. LIVE FOREVER, by Oasis, Definitely Maybe album, 124 plays
24. STAB MY BACK, by All-American Rejects, Move Along album, 134 plays
23. MUST GET OUT, by Maroon 5, Songs About Jane album, 141 plays
22. WATERLOO, by Abba, Greatest Hits album ('cause that's the only Abba I own), 147 plays
21. KOKOMO, by The Beach Boys, Sounds of Summer album, 149 plays
20. FRIENDS AND FAMILY, by Trik Turner, Mr. Deeds Soundtrack album, 155 plays
19. GOOD TIMIN', by The Beach Boys, Sounds of Summer album, 156 plays
18. FEEL FLOWS, by The Beach Boys, Warmth of the Sun album, 158 plays
17. YOU CAN HAVE IT ALL, by The Kaiser Chiefs, Employment album, 162 plays
16. PERFECT SKIN, by The 69 Eyes, Angels album, 168 plays
15. RADIATION VIBE, by Fountains of Wayne, Fountains of Wayne album, 171 plays
14&5. YOU ARE MY NUMBER ONE, by Smashmouth, Get the Picture album -- somehow, I have two versions of this song, one has 205 plays, one has 227 -- if you asked me, I would never pick this song as a favorite
13. NEW PLANET, by Smashmouth, Get the Picture album, 205 plays
12. FUN, by Smashmouth, Get the Picuture album, 205 plays
11. SEVENTH GRADE DANCE, by Smashmouth, Get the Picture album, 206 plays
10. HOT, by Smashmouth, Get the Picture album, 209 plays
9. SPACE MAN, by Smashmouth, Get the Picture album, 210 plays
8. ALWAYS GETS HER WAY, by Smashmouth, Get the Picture album, 210 plays
7. HANG ON, by Smashmouth, Get the Picture album, 213 plays
6. CIGARETTES AND ALCOHOL, by Oasis, Definitely Maybe album, 226 plays
4. LITTLE LIES, by Fleetwood Mac, Greatest Hits album, 242 plays
3. WHOLE LOTTA LOVE, by Smashmouth, Get the Picture album, 250 plays
2. LOOKING FOR A WALL, by Smashmouth, Get the Picture album, 270 plays

And the number one song in the Nation of Me?

1. 105, by...wait for it...Smashmouth, from the...wait for it...Get the Picture album...and, really, wait for it...504 plays.

Uncle Stevie? When you can get into the high triple digits with your song repetition, dude, then maybe we can talk. Until that time? Maybe you should check out Smashmouth and Oasis and all...they're pretty okay...

Meanwhile, I feel the need to listen to Smashmouth for some reason...

Current Location: The Countin' Cage!
Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: Uhhh...;-D

Shocking as this will be to many of you, I have yet ANOTHER outlet for all the wonder that is me and my writing.

I know, I know. At first it was easy. I was here, only. And I didn't post that much and so the world was reasonably safe.

Then I started writing regularly for Scrivel (http://www.scrivel.com/) and suddenly there was a lot more of my warped worldview out there. Pretty much weekly. (Hey, there's an EDITOR over there, slave-driving me into actually creating output. Note that, apparently, I work better with someone making demands.)

And now, against all logical thought and understanding, a very wholesome, loving, healing place has asked me to be a contributor. And, wondering when the Gods of Hypocrisy would arrive and smite me mightily, I said "um, sure, okay".

Raphael's Village (http://www.raphaelsvillage.com/) is a lovely new place to go for great ideas about healing, community issues, family issues and the like. They also have a "Healing with Humor" section that has and will have submissions from yours truly. I know, I know...what were they thinking? But, I said yes and they put my stuff up, so there you go.

No, really...there you go. Go over, take a look. Lots of stuff and more going up daily. Good creative writing, good info, humor from moi...I mean, really, what more could you want?

So, off you go. Take a look. Visit often. I'll see you there, and here, and well, apparently, everywhere.

Current Location: The Healing Cage
Current Mood: creative
Current Music: Iron Maiden

It came upon a midnight dreary, that I was born, all tired and weary (yes, yes, it's redundant. Meter, people, METER).

The doctors were instantly amazed with my precociousness. "A prodigy," said one. "A phenomenon," said another. "No, a person would be a phenom," said a third. "Whatever," said my mother. "Just get me some drugs!"

I walked at six months and talked at nine. My mother lamented my presence, but since I could mix a perfect dry martini at one year, she put up with me. I spoke seven languages fluently by the time I was eight, so I could mix a drink for anyone, at any time, properly.

Shockingly, my mother died of a combination drug, alcohol and 'Fantasy Island' rerun overdose. Left alone on the shores of the Pacific, with no one and a trust fund with a special clause, I was in trouble. In order to collect my ducats, I had to be gainfully employed. But I was a phenom. Or a nomenon. Or, as my mother so eloquently put it, whatever.

I was tending bar at the Sunset Grill by the time I was ten. I soon became the talk of the town. Well, of Venice Beach. Or at least the Gold's Gym workout area.

It was there, surrounded by my alcoholic fans, that it happened. The Writer, who was a close friend, brought The Director and The Producer in to 'take a meeting'. Sure, I was only twelve, but The Director was willing to overlook it. So was The Producer.

The Writer pulled me aside and offered some advice. "The Producer's been around a long time and has boatloads of cash. The Director's considered to be a genius and has deals with all the major studios. I'm funky, creative, and, unlike the other two, only about ten to fifteen years older than you."

I shared that The Writer would always be dear in my heart, and while creative genius has its place, chose to go with The Producer. After all, a phenomenonenonwhatever has to cover all her bases.

The Producer was a wonderful adoptive sugar daddy. I was showered with all the usual toys and some unusual ones (I mean, really, who's ever heard of giving a thirteen-year-old a Lamborghini?). I enjoyed most of the toys, especially the battery-operated ones.

I turned eighteen and my life changed forever. I received the contents of the trust. Then The Producer died, leaving me his sole heir. The Director swept me up and we were happy for a while, but he passed on, too, leaving me, again, his sole heir. The Writer tried to fill the gap, but passed, too, just after making me his heir. I'm back at the Sunset Grill, making new friends every day, like The New Producer.

Mom, wherever you are, thanks. "Mark Hofmann's Guide to Writing Like Others" and "Velma Barfield Explains How To Do It Perfectly" have been, as you said in your misspelled note, all I could have ever wanted.

Current Location: The Phenomenonenonwhatever Cage
Current Mood: pensive
Current Music: Better Than Ezra

I've done it. I've taken the plunge.

I've joined a humor blogging site as a contributing author -- www.scrivel.com -- where a group of not-always-like-minded-but-always-funny humorists share their warped views for all the world to see.

I like to think of this as 'National Lampoon' about 40 years later and all high-tech and stuff. The hubs likes to look at it as something else keeping me occupied from spending money. To each their own, right?

The content from me there will not be the same content as the content from me here, however, the humor level will be, uh, the same. Unless you don't think I'm funny enough here, and then it'll be WAY funnier at Scrivel. Or, if you think I'm too funny here, I'll be less funny there, I swear. Basically, whatever I need to say to get you to read my stuff there and still read my stuff here, I'll say. Hey, it's an election year...some of the spin rubs off.

So, go check it out. Bookmark the site. Send your family. Send your friends. Hell, send your enemies. And look for wit and wisdom from yours truly, aka The Great Corrupter.

Current Location: The Funny Cage
Current Mood: giddy
Current Music: The Beach Boys

I was born during interesting, turbulent times. Of course I, like everyone else born in the same and surrounding years, was too young to pay much attention to them. But I hear they were fascinating, vital times for our country.

It's election time, and as always, the pols are focused on the Baby Boomers, which make up a huge amount of the population, the AARP Warriors, making up another huge chunkola, and Generations X, Y and Z, all of whom can, apparently, vote. (Whether they WILL or not is another question for another column probably written by another writer.)

However, MY generation is never considered.

"What do you mean?" you ask. Here's, exactly, what I mean.

Those of us born between the years of 1961 and 1969 are a people without a generational tag.

"Baby Boomers!" you say, quick as you can. And, yes, in some studies and some places, those of us born in the earlier 1960's "count" as Boomers. Only...we're not.

I know we're not, clearly, because the Boomers all did things like desperately dodge the draft. Hey, when I was five, we were WINNING in Viet Nam, okay? At least, in my childish view of things. By the time my compadres and I were old enough to worry, we were out of 'Nam, out of Nixon, and out of forced armed servitude.

"Gen X, then!" you say, just as quickly.

Hardly. We didn't wear pants so low that we couldn't walk. Sure, we wore bell bottoms almost so wide we couldn't walk, but only 'cause our older siblings and/or parents did it. We didn't whine about not having pensions or social security or jobs or whatever it is that Generation X is so fond of whining about. We didn't major in Angst and minor in Slack.

The real Boomers diss us. We're too young for them. Well, not in terms of dating or marriage or employment. But in terms of association with The Generation. We're not really in the Baby Boomer Club.

Gen X sees us as painful reminders that there but for the grace of birth order could go they. We're no more allowed to be in Gen X than we're allowed to joyride in Air Force One.

But, never fear, my generation of lost souls. I have figured out what, in truth, we really are.

We're the Pepsi Generation. (And, as someone who vastly prefers Coca-Cola products, that's a hard one to get out willingly.)

"Why so?" you ask, with a whole lot less enthusiasm than you did earlier. Because those ads -- ridiculous excess combined with Michael Jackson flaming on camera -- represent much of what mattered to us. Brands. Atrocious dressing that's still better than what Gen X puts on and still less dorky than what the Boomers think was hip. Grooming -- again something that neither the Boomers or Gen Xers got right on their first million tries. Massive excess. Girls wearing ties. Boys wearing things that look, these days, like they're part of a female impersonator's revue but were, in our heyday, considered both sexy AND manly.

We're the generation that came of age in the late 1970's and early 1980's. Our musician IS Michael Jackson, through ALL his periods. (It's not Michael's fault. He THOUGHT he was a Boomer.) The movie that actually captures best what the late '70's were like is "Saturday Night Fever"; the movie doing the same thing for the '80s is "Buckaroo Banzai: Across the Fourth Dimension". (Don't agree? Watch the night club scene and look, really LOOK at how everyone's dressed, then go look at your HS and college pictures. I'll wait. Yep...ol' Buckaroo had STYLE, man. OUR style.)

When the "You know you're a Boomer" email comes by, we can only relate to about half of the "remember this" questions. When the Gen X one comes by we can go, "hey, but that was sort of accepted for me, too", but only half-heartedly. Only a few of us WANT to join Gen X (other than for drinks, later, particularly if Gen X is buying).

So, I say we embrace being The Pepsi Generation (especially if they'll give us huge endorsement deals for pimping their product in our name). We need to organize, though. Our generation should be courted for votes an opinions. We may be the lost nametag generation, but none of US are close to retirement age. We have years of improved buying power ahead of us -- and, let's face it, the Pepsi Generation likes to shop. We need buttons, flyers, lobbyists, and our own "face". Sadly, since Michael Jackson seems to be lacking a nose these days, he's probably not the best choice to represent us.

But someone else is. Someone who boldly went baggy while maintaining modesty. Someone who came from nothing, got it all, lost it all, and is building back again. Someone who is one of us, born between 1961-1969.

I give you M.C. "Can't Touch This" Hammer, spokesdude for our lost generation. Oh, and trust me -- genie and parachute pants are coming back. And, lucky us, we have VINTAGE in OUR closets.

Pepsi Generation -- it's Hammer Time!

Current Location: The PepsiGen Cage
Current Mood: thirsty
Current Music: Alice Cooper

Or, Time is on your side when you're rude.

Went to the Daughtry/Bon Jovi concert the other night. Great concert, great time. Except for one thing. The lines.

Oh, I don't actually mind waiting in line for something. I don't love it, but I accept it as part of what we like to call modern life.

What I mind are the people in line. Specific people. Specifically, the cutters.

You know who you are.

And, let me say, and I say this for ALL the rest of us...

You folks suck.

Oh, I'm sorry. Was that harsh? Well, I guess it's just that I don't understand, right? YOUR time is so MUCH more valuable than MY time. Or, it could be that I'm patient and polite and you're rude pond scum. Or, maybe...maybe it's just that I can comprehend time management and you simply cannot.

Keeping in mind that I ensured that I started work early so I could leave home early so I could get to the venue in time to eat dinner and get in line for the concert swag with enough time to buy and get to my seat, my question is this -- if you were unable to plan ahead or unable to time things out just right, why does that, somehow, give you the right to cut in front of others who were waiting politely and patiently ahead of you?

I'm speaking in particular to the mother with two preteen sons, who, somehow, decided that the best thing she could teach them was that rules are for OTHER people. Huh. Guess that'll be a good answer when they cheat on a test and get caught. Or shoplift. Hey, we were told and taught not to, but, that was for everyone else, not US.

I'm also speaking to the young twenty-something girls who felt that they had every right to shove in front of everyone else and then take three times as long to pick swag out because, well, it's all about THEM. I noted that they'd taken the time to get their alcohol before slamming into the swag line. Priorities in place? Check.

I'm also speaking to the woman and her date who gave it the old college try to snake the ENTIRE line. Nice one. Pity three of us with our husbands caught you and sent you packing. Here's to the woman who asked you, "Dear, are you through looking yet?" She was officially my hero of the night.

But, this one woman wasn't enough to stop the tide of people whose time was just so much more important than everyone else's. I mean, THEY'D paid to be there! Um...wait. So had everyone else. THEY were FANS. Um...ditto, in some cases, clearly to the max. They wanted to SIT DOWN. The rest of us were hoping to stand for the next 4 hours, what was I thinking? THEY are special friends with the BAND! Um, no. Special friends don't pay for swag. Special friends get swag as gifts.

THEY were rude, obnoxious examples of why I want to install the Sister Mary Margaret Rule. Yes, that's it, that's truly it.

What's the Sister Mary Margaret Rule, you ask? I get to do to you what Sister Mary Margaret would do to you if you did what I saw you do in front of Sister Mary Margaret.

You'll get down on your knees on these five pencils, and then I'll show you why wooden rulers are something to fear.

You know the beauty of the Sister Mary Margaret Rule? Pencils and wooden rulers make it through all security checkpoints with ease.

So, really, all you line-cutters? And I KNOW you know who you are. Be careful. I'm passing legislation through and I expect the Sister Mary Margaret Rule to be put in place in the very near future. You'll get thirty seconds to prove to me that your time is more valuable than mine, and then it'll be down on the pencils and saying, "Thank you, ma'am, may I have another?"

But don't worry. I know your time is valuable. I'll be sure to punish you very, very slowly.

Current Location: The Rockin' Cage
Current Mood: angry
Current Music: Godsmack

Today started like any other day. Little did I know that it was to bode like only a few other days had boded in the past. Because today was the day something dear to me would die.

I got up for work this morning and went into my office. My office is a long way away from my bedroom. At LEAST fifty feet. Some mornings (every Monday, as I think of it), that seems like a long walk.

I come in, roll into work, and realize that while my trusty Thinkpad (aka, the work computer) is doing just fine, my PC is off. And I didn't turn it off at 1:30am when I went to bed. I figure, well, iTunes or Microsoft did some update and did a shut down.

So, I turned my PC on. The heat in the house came on at the same time. And both the hubs and I smelled...burning.

Nothing gets the two of us moving quite like the fear our home is going to burn down around us. He went into the attic, I sniffed every room in the house. Nothing in the attic, and I could say for sure that the smell was centered around our office area.

Meanwhile, I've gotten all my stuff started on the PC...and it shuts itself down again.

Got on my hands and knees...sure enough, the tower wasn't feeling or smelling like it should be. Tried to burn (ha) stuff to a CD, but the computer shut itself down before I could. (Thank God for Carbonite.)

Fortunately, the folks I work with were understanding about my lack of focus on a couple of calls this morning, and Best Buy is close by. So, my darling, my beloved, my COMPUTER is in the shop. More fortunately, I've merely burned out the 10th (at least) power supply of my computer career. Doesn't matter what I do, the power supply will ALWAYS die on me. Always. Spectacularly.

This one went impressively. Not every day you see one of the Geek Squad turn on your computer and shout, "OH! It's on FIRE!" right before he rips the power cord out of the wall. So, you know, if it was gonna go, it went with style.

Meanwhile, all there is for me now is...work.

Yes, it's true. This incident DEFINES the term "Monday morning".

Current Location: The PC-less, Smokey Cage
Current Mood: depressed
Current Music: Adult Alternative Radio, 'cause I have NO CHOICE!

Against all the odds, and my wildest expectations, I won a contest. A really cool contest.

I am the 2008 winner of Celebrate with Style's "Share Your Most Romantic Story" Valentine's contest. (http://www.celebratewithstyle.com/site/valentines-day-content-share-your-most-romantic-story-winner)

It's a cool site with really neat tips for great parties and such. Needless to say, I'm probably not their target market. They have all these classy suggestions for throwing a fab bash, and my best offer is "BYOB is still a great choice!"

So, needless to say, I had no expectations of showing or placing, let alone taking the prize. But somehow, against some amazingly great stories, I won. And got to have a great couple of conversations with JoAnne Alter, the publisher and editorial director. Great gal, great sense of humor and, needless to say, I think she has exquisite taste.

Check it out, and browse the rest of the site, too. It's a beautifully done ezine with all the trimmings.

Me, I have to go deal with the hubs. Who, because he is the subject of my winning entry, is now walking around channeling Howard Stern and James Cameron, saying he's the King of All Romance and the Most Romantic Man in the World.

I'm thrilled with winning and all, but if this goes on much longer, I may have to kill him.

Current Location: The Romantically Winning Cage
Current Mood: excited
Current Music: Cyndi Lauper

Like so many others, we throw a Super Bowl party every year. Food, fun, and friends all watching the Super Bowl commercials -- what could be better?

Oh, yeah, we watch the game, too.

In the olden days, I used to call the Super Bowl winners with ease. The year the Raiders were supposed to be humiliated? I called their win. The years the 49ers weren't supposed to pull it out? Right every damned time. (God, but I miss Joe Montana in a 49ers uniform. And Jerry Rice. Roger Craig. Ronnie Lott. And everyone else from my dream football team of those years.) Over the course of the last *somethingsomething* years, I've been darned accurate.

Until just recently.

Last year, the hubs bought me a Bears shirt. The Bears promptly lost to the Colts.

This year, he bought me a Patriots shirt. As the world now knows, the perfect season Patriots lost to the come from behind all season Giants.

Next year, should he buy me a shirt and that team lose, it'll be official. I'm the albatross around the necks of whichever team's logo appears on my chest.

And the year after? I'd like to state for the record that I'm open to wearing either team's shirt -- based on whichever opposing team makes the best offer.

Until then, Go Coyotes! Go Suns! Go Diamondbacks! (Hey, football's over, but hockey's live, basketball's active, and baseball's right around the corner. Gotta see if this shirt thing works on all of the majors, after all...)

Current Location: The Gridiron Cage
Current Mood: tired
Current Music: Chris Isaak