This is not pizza. This is decor.
NINE -- a top Windy City steakhouse -- has arrived in Sin City. Impeccable service. Best steaks ever. Black, silver, and changing colors [see the pictures].
Owned by two Chicago guys, natch. Named for the age they were when they first met at camp.
To capture these artsy fartsy photos for you, Mrs. Linklater managed to terrify several patrons who thought she was trying to take pictures of THEM.
The dazzling ceiling above the reception area in the Bellagio was about the only place where there weren't people.
Fortunately, it was worth looking up to see.
No Las Vegas experience would be complete without a stay at one of their understated, tasteful hotels like, say, The Palms.
By now you've heard the phrase, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
But the Palms has a charming variation on that theme.
"What happens at The Palms never happened."
So, despite much evidence to the contrary, I have nothing to report.
Mrs. Linklater is still packing for her trip tomorrow, oops, today. She is so slow. Maybe because she hasn't actually done much packing. Instead, she's been, uh, procrastinating. Now it's way after midnight and the cab will arrive at 7:00 AM. Leaving on an early airplane is against her religion, but that's the plan. Meanwhile here's a nice pimp for three journals [hers is one] by Dalene of AHH [you can link to her journal from Mrs. Linklater's Other Journals].
Hi, I have included your journal in my first ThURLsday Tour and am hoping you do not mind what I have written, but if you do, let me know. Wishing Happy Holidays! for you and your daughters, Dalene
It's The ThURLsday Tour
Before I begin my first ever ThURLsday tour of notable blogs and journals for the week, I give credit where credit is due and introduce you to one of my favorite bloggers. I first read about the ThURLsday tradition over at Worldwide Pablo, where the cranky, independent, skeptical Paul offers up news and commentary ground fresh daily, Monday through Friday. I rarely miss a day of checking in to see what Paul has to say about the daily eyebrow raising power struggling shenanigans being played out on the local and national stage of politics, religion and popular culture. Although it is his skeptically cranky independence that gives him the span of edgy and insightful perspective, I can see straight through his tagline to the most tenderhearted compassionate humans on the planet that is Paul.
I maintain an AOL Journal, therefore, the first AHH ThURLsday Tour will feature AOL journals of this week's delightful and exceptional discovery.
First is Sue's, WildSeed WildFlower, who has created the Virtual Holiday Celebration, a feast for her journal friends. It is magnificent! Sue is an excellent nature writer, who is wellspoken and writes passionately about her forest, and I am inspired by her commitment and concerns for protecting this earth and the animals that have no voice, other than the voice of Sue and all who work to stand betweem them and destruction.
At Mrs. Linklater's Guide to the Universe, Mrs. Linklater, with the refreshing hilarity of razor sharp wit and original intelligence, is an intrepid advisor to the advice columnists. In addition, Mrs. Linklater can take a quite ordinary day and transform it into an adventure to rival any gonzo photojournalist. A must daily read for anyone who knows the value of retaining a perspective on perspective, which can only be accomplished with a sense of humor. [Is that cool or what? Mrs. L]
One link led to another link and I found myself at Judith Heartsong's journal, her paintings and her Artsy Essay Contest. Judith is a professional artist and muralist, and her work hangs in many public and private collections. This does not surprise me, as I grew up with a father who was a musician and a mother who was an artist, and surrounded as I was by music and art, Iknow the soul of an artist when I see it. I was so awestruck by the quality of Judith's paintings, which she features online in her journal, that I was prompted to enter her essay contest in appreciation of all that she freely shares in her journal.
I hope you find these three women as captivatingly exceptional and as delightful in discovery as I did, and include them in your daily reads. One will touch your heart, one will engage your mind, one will move your soul. All three will change your day for the better.
With my first ThURLsday Tour done, I wish you, your family and friends, all the very best the holiday has to offer. Peace.
Thanks, Dalene. Your thoughtful, well-written journal has me laughing and crying, thinking and reflecting, usually in the same visit. And I found it thanks to Judithheartsong's Artsy Essay contest. We've come full circle. Mrs. L
Never one to leave well enough alone, Mrs. Linklater can’t resist one more chance to butt into someone else’s life before Christmas. As usual, she first defers to the experts who get paid to do this for a living. Whereas our dear Mrs. Linklater does her spewing solely as a public service.
Ask Amy
GIVE CHILDREN WHAT YOU WANT THEM TO HAVE
Published December 21, 2004 Chicago Tribune
Dear Amy: I'm perplexed by the mutation of the whole gift concept. I decided to give some young relatives a certain type of gift for the holidays, and I wrote to their parents telling them of my intention and asking for specific suggestions within this gift category.
The parents' reply was to merely suggest a different gift the kids could use instead.
I had been very clear that we had decided to give them this other type of gift and made no mention of needing any other suggestions.
These are nice people, Amy, and I know they meant no offense, but what would you say in my place? When did the holidays become a time for parents to place orders with relatives?
-- Not a Mail Order Catalog
Dear Catalog: I know it's frustrating lately -- it seems as if kids have so much already and yet they can be so specific, with recommendations of brand names and gigabytes, not to mention the whole Red vs. Blue Power Ranger question. No doubt these parents thought they were being helpful and that you'd appreciate some direction on what the kids would like to receive. (I live in fear of giving my nieces and nephews the equivalent of the bunny suit from my favorite Christmas movie, "A Christmas Story.")
Give these children whatever you would most like for them to have. But please don't hold it against the parents for offering you some direction -- after all, you did ask.
Sheesh. Where should Mrs. Linklater butt in first? Oh heck, let’s start with the “mutation of the whole gift concept.” I haven’t read Darwin’s Origin of Gifts, but it sounds like Catalog thinks that giving gifts to children should have nothing to do with what they want. They’re going to get what she wants to give them or else. Frankly, she’s the one that sounds like a mutant.
But – more important -- did it ever occur to Catalog that the children’s parents were trying to say THAT HERS WAS THE STUPIDEST, MOST INAPPROPRIATE GIFT IDEA EVER – only in a nice way? Apparently, that option NEVER made a blip on her radar [or Amy's for that matter -- tsk, tsk].
Even with a gentle hint from Mom and Dad, Catalog is going to stand on principle, dammit. Those kids are going to get the gifts she wants them to have and no one can stop this bulldozer when she gets it in gear.
So, in a way Amy is right [boy Mrs. Linklater hates when that happens]. There's nothing anybody can do -- legally -- just get out of the way.
And have fun with the Malibu Barbies, Billy and Tommy. Maybe you’ll get matching Ken dolls next year.
Click here to enter the contest.
My Best Christmas Present Ever
If Chicago is the city of big shoulders, then Las Vegas is the city of big fat guys chomping on cigars.
Looking down from the sky at night, the Windy City looks like a bright orange grid of hardworking streets and neighborhoods. Solid and strong.
Sin City, on the other hand, elicits thoughts of a human buffet table, decorated with millions of psychedelic lights that somebody keeps forgetting to put away after the holidays. A place where everyone is slightly drunk and always disorderly.
Chicago is stuffed pizza and beer. Las Vegas is a rum-soaked maraschino topped fruitcake covered in flames.
For more years than I can count, I have avoided Las Vegas like dog droppings in the grass. I have re-arranged meetings to avoid going there. I have skipped tournaments to avoid playing there.
Given the choice, my non-drinking, non-smoking, non-gambling sensibilities always preferred the less gaudy environs of any place else, but mostly, sweet home Chicago. Especially during the holidays.
Chicago is Marshall Field’s, with its tradition of tasteful storybook windows, wide streets covered in snow, hot chocolate at Ghirardelli’s and iceskating at Navy Pier.
Las Vegas has always seemed like a party girl whose makeup got a little smeared. She’s as hokey as a lava lamp and as stupefying as Anna Nicole Smith at an awards presentation. She's as sexy as the first time in the back seat of a pink Cadillac and as dangerous as a shark in a feeding frenzy. But, to her credit, she’s never embarrassed or ashamed, and she’s always more than happy to strut her stuff.
Has any town ever had a more lusty, lip-smacking come on -- What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas? Where else would lions, tigers and bare-naked ladies loom so large in a city’s legend?
I imagine prostitutes trolling the streets, taking languorous sucks on their cigarettes. Wrinkled old women in strawberry blond wigs, with white muslin gloves to keep their hands clean, plunking down their quarters into the slots at seven in the morning. Drive up chapels with ministers dressed in one-piece jumpsuits like fat Elvis, making a mockery of marriage around the clock. And fine cities like New York, Paris and Venice pimped out like drag queens in a stage show. Stand back, squint your eyes and you can hardly tell the difference between the real ones and the fakes.
To me, Las Vegas is to Christmas what Eminem is to the babe in the manger. If I had my choice, the holidays would be celebrated anywhere but in this sequined trailer park.
We would be in a cabin in the snowy woods with a fire in the fireplace. The Christmas tree would be real and the smell of spiced cider would be wafting from the kitchen. We’d be in jeans and turtlenecks, flannel shirts and fleece jackets.
Despite my misgivings, this tawdry, tacky, gold lame town that sleeps until noon is where I will be going to receive my best Christmas present ever. And I will go willingly in just a couple of days.
Because it isn’t where you are on Christmas. It’s who you are with on Christmas. And I will be with both my daughters at the same time and in the same place on Christmas Day for the first time in so long I can’t even count the years. Even better, their significant others will be there, too.
So bring it on, Vegas. I embrace your trashy flash. Let me hug your rhinestone cowboys and feast my eyes on the feathered fantasies floating above the lobbies of your hotels. Let me pose with Wayne Newton and play blackjack with my new, pinky ringed pals in their patent leather shoes.
As Christmas goes, there has never been a better present or a nicer place to be.
Went on the rounds of AOL journals and found this link at Amused, written by musenla. [See Other Journals for her link].
Take the blogger test. Click here.
Or here: http://www.blogthings.com/bloggerquiz.html
Here are the results for Mrs. Linklater:
You Are a Snarky Blogger! 
You've got a razor sharp wit that bloggers are secretly scared of.
And that's why they read your posts as often as they can!
Why does Mrs. Linklater wish there were an option that said: YOU ARE A LAZY ASS BLOGGER, GET OFF YOUR BUTT AND POST SOMETHING INTERESTING FOR A CHANGE?
Now, on to this week's questions. To play you can either answer the questions in a comment at Patrick's Place [see Other Journals], or put the answers in an entry on your journal. But either way, leave a link to your journal so that everyone else can visit! Enjoy!
1. What is your all-time least favorite Christmas Carol or holiday song?
Anything by those stupid Chipmunks, with their inane falsetto-voiced renditions that have pretty much destroyed every Christmas song ever written.
2. Who is the most difficult person on your shopping list to buy a gift for, and have you already purchased his or her gift, yet?
There is nobody who is difficult to buy a gift for. Because Blockbuster, Starbucks, and Border's have a gift card for everyone. And I've still got five days to shop. Well, four, I'm on an airplane one of those days.
3. What picture are you least proud of:
A) Your most recent professional portrait
B) Your driver's license photo
C) Your passport photo
D) Your work ID photo
E) Your senior class portrait
For three years my driver's license photo was my absolute worst picture. Several people ahead of me in line asked to have theirs taken again, but they were rebuffed. But when my photo came back the photographer took one look at it and volunteered to shoot it again. I said, no, a driver's license photo should look terrible. That's its job. Now I have a new, more normal looking photo.
Lately my passport photo is the one that looks the worst. And yes, just like the DMV, a Customs Agent in London suggested that I get a new picture taken. "This barely resembles you, Miss." Hey, he called me "Miss." [Wait a minute, I wonder if he thought the photolooked better than I do in person. Hmm-m-m.] Luckily my passport expires next year and I can get a new bad picture.
4. How many Christmas/holiday parties have you been invited to this month and how many have you (or will you) attend?
If you count the guy at the filling station who asked if I wanted to par-TAY after he got off work as I was paying for my gas -- then eight. And I've been to four so far.
5. A previously-unknown rich relative appears and offers to buy you the car of your choice. What would you like?
As long as I can keep my Jeep for the winter weather, I'll take anything made by BMW -- with a stick shift.
6. What is your favorite thing to wear around the house when you know no one else is at home? Is that what you're wearing as you answer these questions?
My absolute favorite clothes, bar none -- my big and baggy black sweats with the hoody that has a pocket for your hands in front. However, right now it's so cold I am layered with a silk shirt underneath a turtleneck underneath a fleece jacket with lined workout pants and two pairs of socks -- a pair of thin silk liners and a pair of huge woolies. Plus something for my ears -- there seems to be a breeze in here. And a pair of shades because it's really bright today. Just wait till I go outside.
Computer's eye view of Mrs. Linklater wearing some of her indoor winter clothing.
Mrs. Linklater was driving home from the city yesterday when she looked over and noticed the license plate on the car in the next lane.
My goodness she thought to herself. Actually, Mrs. Linklater said, HOLY S**T! because, despite her best efforts, she still swears.
There was a license plate with RAGNAR on it. For most of the world, this is of no consequence. But you don't live on Mrs. Linklater's planet, which is inhabited by people with names right out of Star Trek. Her own last name is a notable example.
So it should come as no surprise that she reacted with some enthusiasm at seeing this unusual name on a license plate. Wow, does this mean there is someone else in the world with the same name as her east coast friend, the aforementioned, Ragnar? Of course, it might be an acronym for Really, Are Girls Now Also Refinancing? Or Randy Alligators Grip Nude Asses Readily.
Although, probably not.
She also couldn't help but wonder -- was the appearance of this car, at this place and time, on this day and year, a cosmic intersection of a larger plan, overlapped with coincidence? Or just dumb freaking luck? [You must know by now that Mrs. Linklater didn't say "freaking."]
Ever the philosopher, she posited the notion that perhaps this was the day for Mrs. Linklater's karma to be yinged and yanged. Not to mention infused with some kind of circular Zen philosophy. Like she had a clue.
As for her friend, Ragnar -- he lives in New Jersey. So it's not like she was looking at HIS car with the Illinois plates. Besides he drives a Z-3. Yes, he's superficial enough to want girls to think he's hot stuff. [Mrs. Linklater was going to write Hot S**T, but she thought better of it].
Regardless of his youthful lack of substance, Mrs. Linklater continues to think he has other redeeming qualities, not the least of which is his unusual name. Ragnar was also the name of a Viking Hootchie Mon back in Days of Yore, which, if she's not mistaken, took place in the middle ages. She also wonders if they called Ragnar the Viking "Rags," like his 21st century namesake.
Anyway, Mrs. Linklater decided she had to get a picture of the license plate for concrete proof of her sighting. People are so cynical these days. They never take you at your word. You have to PROVE it. Sheesh.
Serendipitously, she almost always carries a digital camera in her car. So she started reaching around one handed and backwards into the rear seat to find it -- always keeping her eyes on the road, of course. Even though she was leaning pretty far back. Luckily the camera wasn't too far away, since she was driving around 55 mph.
With one hand on the steering wheel and her other on the camera, she moved into position to take the picture. The first shot was too far away. The second could have been good, but the truck behind her started honking which caused her to weave a bit, so the picture was blurred.
You can see by her final effort that Mrs. Linklater was able to sidle up to the other car in true NASCAR fashion, just off the left bumper, while she snapped away and got a great shot.
What you can't see is the near miss that took place, when she took her eyes off the road to check the result on the back of the camera.
Like any good photographer, she was just trying to make sure she could read the name RAGNAR on the license plate, when she noticed that she was no longer in her lane, but drifting into the other car's BUMPER.
Somehow, as if sensing danger, based on the look of terror Mrs. Linklater glimpsed, the other car pulled away. So this time there were no problems, unlike that other time she was putting on mascara at 65 mph.
But that's another story.
As usual, Mrs. Linklater just can't get enough of minding other people's business. So, once again, she lets an advice columnist try to set someone on the right path. And then she butts in and saves the day.
Tales from the Front -- Cheryl Lavin
Published December 13, 2004 Chicago Tribune
Dear Cheryl: I'm a divorced mom in my 30s. I'm open to dating and potentially marrying again but am having some difficulty meeting men who aren't intimidated by my intelligence. I've discussed this with male friends and most of them agree: Many men want to be smarter than the women they date and marry. I work full time and am getting a graduate degree part time at a really top school. (Most of my classmates are married.) When I meet people and tell them where I go to school, they often seem impressed and sometimes intimidated.
Yet, I'm not the typical hard-charging, career-driven overachiever that often comes out of my grad school. Still, I'm probably smarter than your average woman. As a single parent, I don't have much free time to socialize or join clubs to meet people. I've attended church, but there wasn't anyone there to meet. Short of joining Mensa, do you have any suggestions for meeting a guy who's OK with being with someone at least as smart as he is or potentially smarter? Sometimes I wonder if I should dumb myself down initially or not mention my grad school in the hopes that after getting to know me, a guy won't be as intimidated, but I don't really think this is the best way to go. So far, though, the being-smart thing seems to make men run away.
-- Smarty Pants
Dear "Smarty Pants": I'll give you the same advice I'd give to anyone -- male or female, young or old, rich or poor, smart or not-so -- who wants to meet people: Go to the places you enjoy, do the things you like to do. That way, whether you meet someone or not, you'll have a good time. In your case, try book signings of authors you enjoy, discussions of current events, etc., etc. There are probably dozens of lectures every month just at your school. You'll meet people with your interests.
By the way, you think the reason you're not meeting men is because you're too smart. Other women think it's because they're too tall or too short or too old or too fat or have too many kids. Men think it's because they're too bald or too fat or too old or too poor or drive a too-beaten-up car. The bottom line is it's just hard to meet someone to spend the rest of your life with. Hang in there
Blah, blah blah. Mrs. Linklater butts in and slaps Ms. Smarty Pants upside the head. Yo -- grad school girl, get over yourself!! Enough of this pretending you’re not an intimidating, hard-charging career-driven overachiever. Sounds like the first thing out of your mouth after you tell someone your name is where you go to grad school. Hi, My name is Smarty Pants and I go to the top school in the country. And you don’t.
That’s always an icebreaker.
So let’s take stock here. First of all, there are plenty of guys who like smart women. As for finding them, you may have to go outside the box a bit. Take flying lessons. Go on a river-rafting trip. Join an adventurer’s club. Hang out in the cafeteria of a hospital [worked for one friend].
The real question is – do you have anything else going for you? A personality, for instance? A sense of humor? A hobby? A nice wardrobe? An attractive, well-toned body? Anything? You may be smart, but nothing else. Time to get real about what you have to offer besides your SAT scores.
You may also be under the mistaken impression that anyone who didn’t go to a grad school as good as yours couldn’t possibly be as smart as you are. So you aren’t even giving those guys a chance. That’s kinda dumb, Smarty Pants.
The next time you meet someone, remember, it’s not a job interview. Your resume doesn’t count. Your social skills do. Engage a guy in conversation, show genuine interest in who he is and what he does and, trust Mrs. Linklater, he’ll think you’re a genius. Isn't that what you wanted in the first place?
Have you lived such an exemplary life that you could run for governor of your state? How about state senator? Village trustee? Dogcatcher? Or would the investigative ferrets find something embarrassing that you never thought in a million years anyone would discover? So you would have to withdraw humiliated, taking your whole family and your remaining reputation down with you like a house of cards?
After this recent Kerik appointment debacle, I got to thinking about my own life and realized that the longer I live, the less chance I probably have to be "vetted" for any kind of office. [I wonder how soon "vetted" will appear in dictionaries?]
In fact, I should be careful running for the mailbox, let alone any sort of political campaign.
Luckily I don't have a need for power lunches with power brokers wearing my power suit. Raising children taught me about real power. I also don't have that unquenchable, burning desire for a life of public service that Bill Clinton talks about. I already gave at the office -- schmoozing people I couldn't stand and saying things I didn't mean. Although I haven't had sex with any interns. A medical student, yes, an intern, no.
So, now you're wondering, just what kind of dirt in your background do you have, Mrs. Linklater, which would preclude you from running for a seat in, say, Congress?
Okay, here --
I've been arrested. But not for anything feloniously glamorous like a sit-in or an anti-war protest demonstration, which have become badges of honor over the years. No, I got arrested for not having my AirTeam Pollution sticker.
When they first required cars to pass pollution tests in my state, I just ignored the notices. I didn't even open them, thinking I would get to the facility eventually. For whatever reason, I had no sense of urgency. But inside those notices were more and more warnings that read -- YOUR LICENSE WILL BE SUSPENDED IF YOU DON'T GET YOUR AIRTEAM STICKER NOW!!! TODAY!! DO NOT WAIT ANY LONGER!!!!!!! By the way, those warnings are posted on the outside of the envelope these days.
One evening, on the way home from work, I got stopped by a friendly police officer in my town who just wanted to tell me that one of my front lights was out. But he couldn't pull up my driver's license on his computer. So he gave me a warning and sent me on my way. Two blocks from my house I was swooped upon by two screaming squad cars who blocked the road. And I was arrested for driving on a suspended license. They took a shot of my mug. And printed my fingers. The works. Luckily I had $100 with me to post bond. Or this mom might have had to explain why she spent the night in jail. I think it's worth noting that the president of the park board came and drove me home.
You might think the arrest is what preys on my mind, but you would be wrong. It's my mug shot I don't want getting out. It's the pictures that'll get you every time. My hair was a mess and my makeup looked awful and I was so ticked off that this was happening, I wasn't in the mood to have my picture taken -- and it showed. Think Nick Nolte.
And there are other pictures. About fifteen years ago when I was still working in the city for a big ad agency I got a letter at the office with no return addess. Inside was a picture of two women standing on either side of a fireplace wearing only towels. They also had towels wrapped around their heads like turbans. Luckily, no private parts had been revealed in the taking of this photo. Frankly, I had absolutely no memory of posing for a picture in a towel -- ever. Certainly not in front of that fireplace, which I didn't recognize.
I did recognize one of the women as a former roommate from my life prior to my marriage. But the tall woman next to her wasn't me. Her face was similar. But, aha, those were definitely not my legs. However, whoever sent the picture thought they had sent a picture of me.
So chalk up a second inflammatory photo that somebody would send to the tabloids for a bundle of dough, claiming it was me. No doubt I would get my knickers all twisted in a knot trying to prove that my legs were much better looking than the ones in the snapshot so she couldn't be me. You can see where that might lead, with FBI agents comparing my calves and her calves. My ankles with her ankles. My thighs with her thighs. And the whole point would be missed. Whatever it was.
Which brings me to the remaining, and hopefully last, tabloid pictures that I am aware of. I had a boyfriend who was a photographer. He wanted me to pose nude for him. But I refused. Time after time after time. One evening we were at my apartment. I had just finished my shower when he knocked on the bathroom door. Braless, I opened the door. And he began snapping away. I covered up as much as I could as fast as I could. But he got almost a whole roll before I could shut the door and lock it. Damn motor drive cameras.
Easily, those were the most incriminating photos of all of them. But photos are just the tip of the iceberg in Mrs. Linklater's past. And since she doesn't feel like sinking like the Titanic just yet, she'll keep that other stuff to herself.
On the other hand, I'd kind of like to see how those candids in the bathroom turned out. That old boyfriend never shared them with me. Since it was thirty years ago, how bad could they look? I'd be more concerned if they were shot last month. Hmmm. Wonder if he put them in a vault somewhere just waiting for a moment like this.
Maybe there's an upside here. Perhaps I should declare my candidacy for the next election. Something small, like county commissioner.
That's one way to get copies of all those pictures. Finally I could put them in a nice album.
______________________________________________________________
P.S. Below is a picture of former Illinois Republican candidate for senator, the very rich and handsome Jack Ryan. He had to withdraw from the race after winning the 2004 primary, because it turns out his divorce decree revealed that he liked sex clubs. Unfortunately, his former wife, the perfectly molded Jeri Ryan of Boston Public, didn't have the same proclivities.
14 degrees outside
Plus the wind chill factor
Equals
ZERO!!!!!!!!!!!!
Welcome to winter in Chicago
John Scalzi invited us to share our methods of procrastination. What do we do that's more fun while we put off doing what we have to do?
Can I get back to you on that? I'm watching the ballgame.
www.tricountyjog.homestead.com
There is a moment in personal growth seminars when hirsute attendees are encouraged to shave their beards and mustaches all off. And the ones that do seem to lighten up considerably. I remember one intimidating guy in dark glasses and a full beard who finally shaved on the fifth day. And he even smiled afterward.
So what is it about men with hair on their faces? Especially now that the 70's have passed. Over time Mrs. Linklater has decided that facial hair may be an indication of some kind of secret. It may be a very private and painful emotional secret. Or it may be a terrible and murderous secret. But there's something hiding beneath the hair.
A few years ago, Time Magazine ran a cover with pictures of eight notorious pedophiles. And their horrific stories were examined inside. Every single one of them had a mustache. And they weren't thick and bushy. They were kind of wispy and thin. Like a bad disguise.
Oprah once did a makeover on a man who was covered in hair -- from his long, long beard to his massive head of hair. He came out with a clean shaven and very handsome face topped off with a short haircut that featured his beautiful, thick, gray hair. He looked terrific.
But the experience created a great deal of turmoil for him. He cried and said he was extremely emotional about the experience. In fact, had he known how emotional he would feel about getting rid of his hair, he said he wouldn't have gone through with the makeover. Interesting. Mrs. Linklater took note of his comment.
Having his real, albeit handsome, self revealed was almost too much for him. Mrs. Linklater realized that all that hair had helped him to hide his feelings. About what, she couldn't say. But it enabled him to keep people at a distance. For whatever reason.
Now we have former Homeland Security nominee Bernard Kerik [pictured above].Wearing a mustache. He says he dropped out of consideration for this high profile job because of questions about his nanny's immigration statusand his failure to pay her social security taxes. He's also shaving his head now, which is another way to conceal his identity. Does he have hair or his head or not? If he does, what color is it?
Meanwhile, there's the two women this married former police officer was having secret affairs with. Secret from each other until one of them found a love note the other left behind and gave her a call. And there are other questions about million dollar tobacco kickbacks to a foundation he headed up while running one of the NY jails. No need to belabor this. The guy has a mustache. Mrs. Linklater knew he had some kind of secret.
Perhaps the most intriguing facial hair moment this past year was following the murder of the young woman in Utah. It has been surmised that she discovered her husband had woven a tapestry of fabrications surrounding his acceptance to medical school. And she called him on it. So he killed her.
During the first TV interview Mrs. Linklater noticed that the allegedly bereaved husband was shaved bald and had a Van Dyck. [That's a goatee with a mustache added.] Mrs. Linklater said to herself -- no way that guy is in medical school. A medical school student doesn't fit that visual profile. Something's wrong here.
The shaved head and a goatee or Van Dyck is straight out of a prison. It's a threatening, intimidating look worn by people who are trying to keep others at a distance. For a personal, protective reason or a prosecutable, predatory reason.
In earlier pictures during their marriage you could see the husband had a full head of hair and kind of a nudgy, geek look. He looked completely different. So why the total change? Something to disguise himself? Something keep people from guessing his secret?
It's easy to backtrack. And say, see, in retrospect, I was right. Every time Mrs. Linklater sees someone with a beard or a mustache she first finds out if he has a wife or girlfriend who won't let him shave it. Usually because he looks so much better with hair. But, if the beard or mustache is all his idea, she likes to wonder what kind of a secret he's hiding. Or who he's hiding from.
Any famous bearded and mustachioed people you know that we ought to be keeping tabs on?
Besides Dr. Phil?
If I could choose any profession, I would be a singer. I wouldn’t even care what kind of music I sang, as long as I could really sing well and get paid for it. Country, cabaret, jazz, rock ‘n’ roll, opera, Broadway musicals, barbershop, whatever. I’d really be in heaven if I could also accompany myself on guitar or piano.
There was a time when I thought my voice was going to be good enough to do something with it besides singing lullabies to my children and doing backup for Stevie Wonder in the car. Or as it has turned out, writing jingles on my baritone ukelele.
I had an auspicious start, I thought. In high school and later in college I was good enough to be in singing groups and performed in school shows all the time.
High school was probably the pinnacle. I made it into the top groups – the Senior Women’s Ensemble and the Opera Group, so I could be in the yearly musical. I also made it into the school talent show, Lagniappe, because I was funny, too. For one skit, three of us became a female version of the Everly Brothers -- the Averly Sisters. Our rendition of Tutti Frutti still makes people roll their eyes. In a good way, of course. I was also in a girls’ quintet called the High Five, because we were all over 5’7.” This was long before “high five” meant anything but five things that were way above ground.
We had an excellent choral faculty at my high school. One of the most popular teachers was Mr. Milnes. Tall and handsome, he had a wonderful baritone voice and as a special treat he would sing for us at music club recitals. We were awestruck when he later went on to a huge opera career at the Met as one of the world’s leading baritones. That’s when I learned that good old Mr. Milnes had a first name – Sherrill.
In college I added writer and producer to my repertoire, winning two homecoming skit competitions at Duke and two May Sing competitions at Northwestern. So you might think there was hope. I did. But I didn’t get a lead in Once Upon a Mattress or Bye Bye Birdie at Duke and had to settle for being a writer for WaaMu, NU’s talent show.
Several of my friends and classmates from those days went on to film, opera, Broadway, and cabaret careers. But, for whatever reason, my voice had a case of arrested development. It stayed the same, pleasant enough for harmonizing, but not for solos.
Meanwhile my friends would come back from summer vacations with bigger boobs and increasingly more volume and range in their voices. One girlfriend got so loud she sounded like there was a microphone installed in her vocal cords. With hooters to match.
Ironically there was one time when my gentle, harmonizing sound and tall skinny self were perfect. I was part of a small group of eight chosen from the ensemble to compete at a big high school choral competition. The soloists stayed home because their voices didn’t blend as well. Hey, that’s why they’re soloists.
We sang Jesu, Priceless Treasure again and again for a bunch of different judges, going head to head with other groups. None of us had competed as singers before so we were all pleasantly surprised when we won our division. You can bet public school choral competitions aren’t singing anything with Jesu in the lyrics these days.
My first exposure to really huge voices was on my sixteenth birthday. My aunt took me to the Lyric Opera in Chicago for the first time to see Madame Butterfly. I remember being mesmerized by their vocal power. How do they do that without mikes? That was my first lesson in gaining real perspective on the limitations of my own voice.
Our seats were in the first row of the balcony. So both the acoustics and the view were wonderful. I was familiar with the music because my parents used to listen to Madame Butterfly at home. Basically it’s the story of an American sailor who knocks up his Asian girlfriend and leaves town. But it was sung in French so who knew? For me that opera was a wonderful introduction to the over the top experience of the music, the singers, the costumes, the sets, and even the intermission. I loved it all: But tickets weren’t cheap, so that was it for a while.
After college my interest in opera picked up again. [Aside from singing in a jazz ensemble that performed at the Ravinia Festival, my voice, such as it was, had been packed in mothballs for good.] Meanwhile, I was now employed so I could split the cost of four season’s tickets with two other friends. That way we could each take turns bringing a guest to a performance.
My memory of those operas is in snapshots. William Marshall’s huge stage presence and majestic speaking voice in the narration of Otello. Jon Vickers singing Wagner with his bare back to the audience. The tenor duets in the second act of The Pearlfishers. Leontyne Price’s beautiful voice and terrible acting. A flawless Carmen. A boring Cinderella.
I also saw two different productions of Cavalleria Rusticana, which taught me not to expect consistency. The first version I saw of this one act opera, usually combined with Pagliacci, was a delight. The curtain came up revealing a charming Sicilian village at dawn. As the sun began to rise we watched the village come to life while a beautiful aria was being sung offstage.
Created by a famous Hollywood set designer, the attention to detail on the set, even down to live chickens coming on stage, was a feast for the eye. After enjoying that production so much, I couldn’t wait to see the Met’s version when it came to Chicago a couple of years later. What a difference.
The curtain rose to reveal a stone road with a stone wall. Period. As the offstage aria was sung, we could count the number of grey cobblestones on the road and when we were done with that we could count the number of grey stones in the wall. Except for the road and the wall, the stage was bare. There was nothing going on. And we had to look at that set for the entire production. Did the Met think that people in Chicago wouldn’t notice how stupid it was?
When I got married my season’s tickets to the opera became season’s tickets to football games. I did get to see Placido Domingo in a nameless Russian opera during a bye week once. The performance was most notable for how long it took the heroine to die at the end. I was sure she was gone about five times. And Placido’s character didn’t seem to care too much.
And then, TA-DA -- last weekend I got a ticket to Aida.
Finally, I would get to see one of the grandest of the grand operas. A veritable Verdi spectacular. Row J. On the aisle. $170. * Cough * Sheesh. That was the price for a whole season’s worth of tickets in the old days.
Aida is the story of a love triangle in ancient Egypt between an Ethiopian slave, Aida, her mistress, Amneris, and an Egyptian warrior, Radames. [Not necessarily in that order.] Amneris loves Radames who loves Aida. Because it’s opera, two out of three of them must die.
There is a huge men’s chorus, lots of trumpets, several enormous columns, fire and smoke, gold statues, a big parade, and more arias than a Time-Life collection. Live elephants have appeared in some of the very lavish productions.
From their headshots, the singers looked very attractive, which helps so much when you’re performing a love story. However, when they appeared on stage, both women could have easily crushed the tenor in a smackdown. The mezzo looked like Rikki Lake in Hairspray. The soprano looked pregnant. The tenor was barely their height. And couldn’t make weight.
This may have explained the unusual staging, which often had the tenor downstage and the two women strategically placed way behind him. Forced perspective as it were. Which doesn’t mean their voices weren’t lovely. But their size, coupled with the enormous girth of the guy sitting in front of me who pretty much blocked out one side of the stage or the other, made me realize what can happen when you eat an entire restaurant for lunch.
I went with a friend of a friend whom I had met once years ago. He had the extra ticket. He is one of a number of out of town people who get subscription tickets to the Lyric, the only opera that offers the “fly in for a weekend and see two operas” option.
He’s also one of those people who make the rest of us look like we’ve wasted our lives. A research biologist/photographer who went to architectural school, then became a counselor to troubled teens, he is also an Egyptologist of sorts. So during the intermission he carefully explained to me how the painted backdrop of the temple filled with sand was from an entirely different period than when the story took place.
I personally had a problem with the giant gold leaf statues, which represented some of the booty taken from the captured Ethiopians. They looked like projects executed by a high school remedial art class, rather than museum quality statuary. The female statue in particular caused a couple of sniggers. Her perky gold lame breasts looked like she’d had an Extreme Makeover augmentation. And her hair was very 1950 AD instead of 1950 BC.
For some puzzling reason, the Ethiopian prisoners were all in blueface. With strange rags in their hair. In fact one reviewer has nicknamed this production the Smurfs because of the odd makeup.
The unusual Greek headdresses on the men’s chorus also caught my eye. They looked like the braincases for some creature on Star Trek. Once again the music and the singing overcame these awkward style moments.
The woman who played Aida was making her debut in the role. She sang her best when the orchestra was subdued and you could enjoy the nuances of her voice, which seemed overpowered when everybody was on stage going full tilt – orchestra, chorus and principals. Regardless she and the rest of the cast got great revues.
It turns out that her management company representative is almost a relative. He is my younger daughter’s boyfriend’s brother. Three degrees of Kevin Bacon. Come on, that’s almost family. He wasn’t in town for the production or, as it turns out, I could have seen Aida for FREE. Darn.
Meanwhile, I’m back to harmonizing with my Toni Braxton CD’s in the car. And imagining what my life might have been like, if only I could sing.
Weekend Assignment #38: It's the Holidays! Create your own festive Holiday Character and give him, her or it at least one seasonally appropriate magical ability (or use its native traits and skills to save the holiday season).
Extra Credit: Provide at least one stanza of your Holiday Character's theme song (to help you out, you may borrow the music of any familiar song).
Pepe the Pot Pourri Scent Skunk
A few years ago, in an attempt to beat Elizabeth Taylor at her own game, Pepe the Ordinary Skunk went after his own piece of the holiday perfume pie. His tagline -- BAD Can be GOOD. But no one was buying it. Literally. After the numbers were in and it was clear that Pepe's concept of bottling his signature skunk scent during the holidays was a total bust --he decided it was time to turn his BAD boy image around. So last Christmas he hired a PR firm to clean up his act. They hooked him up with Ralph Lauren for the upcoming holidays and the rest, as they say, was marketing history.
[SUNG TO RUDOLPH THE RED-NOSED REINDEER]
Pepe the Pot Pourri Scent Skunk
Started smelling like a rose
And if you ever sniffed him
You would stop and say WHAT GOES?
All of the other perfumes
Said he couldn't pull it off
Skunks can't spray cloves 'n' cider
Don't make us laugh and scoff
Then one awful Christmas Eve
Santa came to say
Things don't smell too good tonight
Pepe can you make it right?
So he sprayed smells of eggnog
Pumpkin pie and cookies, too,
Pepe the Pot Pourri Scent Skunk
You'll go down in history!
[I can't believe I am admitting I actually wrote this]
To play you can either answer the questions in a comment at Patrick's Place [see Other Journals], or put the answers in an entry on your journal. But either way, leave a link to your journal so that everyone else can visit! (And if you're playing for the first time, please be sure to say so in the comment!) Enjoy!
1. What is your all-time favorite Christmas Carol or holiday song?
O HOLY NIGHT -- no matter what arrangement or who sings it, even Jim Nabors. I think it sounds best during a candlelight service in a cathedral on Christmas Eve sung by a children's choir.
2. What percentage of your Christmas shopping have you completed?
ZERO. No snow. Not in the mood. I'm still celebrating Thanksgiving.
3. Other than yourself, which of the following would you most like your child to have as a role model and why:
A) Doctor
B) Politician
C) Professional Athlete
D) Businessman
It doesn't say which ONE of the following, so I would choose all WOMEN in any of these professions who have combined their careers with successful marriages and happy children. I think this requires such heroic effort that the number is in the single digits.
4. What current television show would you most like to see disappear permanently?
I'd like to see Fox News disappear completely. Especially Bill O'Reilly and that bow-tied, tongue-tied babyfaced pundit whose mother dresses him funny. But I never watch, ya know.
5. Have you used any themed photo wall calendar in 2004? Do you already have one ready for 2005, and if so, what is next year's theme of choice?
I use a calendar on my computer. But I often give themed calendars that match the interests of various friends and family members as gifts. From Harley Davidsons to wolves to old barns to botanicals to paper airplanes to scantily clad firefighters. And a couple that feature ME.
6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #35 from Armand: Read this quotation from Ralph Waldo Emerson recently posted in Armand's journal, "Uncommon Sense." Given the context of the quote, how have you been most successful in your life?
I forgot about this lovely poem. So I have reproduced it here. Thanks, Armand. Like many other people, I'm sure, the first line sums up how I've been most successful. When it comes to laughing often and loving much I've left it all on the field. I can walk away without looking back, knowing I always give it my best shot.
Perhaps the area where success has meant the most to me personally is winning the affection of children. Although I think their trust is even more important.
Winning the respect of intelligent people is worth nothing to me. Some of the biggest assheads I've ever known were very intelligent. People of integrity are worth far more than anybody who only has smarts.
Years ago, out of the blue, a friend sent this poem to me and said that she felt I had lived it. I was stunned by this compliment from someone who knew me so well. Reading it again, a piece of me still thinks she was hallucinating.
SUCCESS
To laugh often and love much;
to win the respect of intelligent persons
and the affection of children;
to earn the approbation of honest citizens
and endure the betrayal of false friends;
to appreciate beauty;
to find the best in others;
to give of one's self;
to leave the world a bit better,
whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch
or a redeemed social condition;
to have played and laughed with enthusiasm
and sung with exultation;
to know even one life has breathed easier
because you have lived
this is to have succeeded.
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson
As usual, as a public service, Mrs. Linklater butts in when she deems it necessary to save people from themselves. Or vice versa. With all due respect to their honorable profession, Mrs. Linklater gives the advice columnists first crack. Age before beauty.
Dear Abby
Published December 10, 2004 Chicago Tribune
Dear Abby: I star in adult films. I am not ashamed of what I do, but sometimes other people's reaction to my profession can be severe.
I am trying to get my 4-year-old daughter, "Ashley," accepted into an exclusive religious day care. The problem is that on the application I am to state my profession, as well as her father's. My husband, "Rex," is also in the adult film industry.
Rex thinks we should just lie. I want my daughter to be accepted, but I know Ashley will be turned down if they find out we lied on the application. What do you think?
-- Tempest In L.A.
Dear Tempest: You don't have to lie. State that you are in the movie business. Just don't mention that the movies you're in are "blue," and cross your fingers that you don't run into any fans.
Mrs. Linklater butts in, if you'll pardon an expression. This reminds her of an article she read about how to choose your stripper stage name -- something young women can fall back on when they find they have to work their way through Harvard Law School.
Your first name should be a pet you once had. And your last name should be a street you lived on. So if you ever see NUDES NUDES NUDES "Featuring Twinkle Drexel" on a downtown marquee, you'll know Mrs. Linklater has a new gig. But she digresses.
My dear Tempest -- even though you're not just a run of the mill stripper who takes off her clothes, but a real star in adult movies, who not only takes off her clothes but performs acts of an explicitly sexual nature -- what we have here is a failure to communicate.
Mrs. Linklater is certain that what Dear Abby really meant to say was -- HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FREAKING MIND?
You are a PORN star. People who send their children to religious daycare do not want to be in the same room with you. But you just have this need to buy some respectability by sneaking your kid in. Did Mrs. Linklater get that right? Of course she did.
Why does this make her think of Jimmy Swaggert starting a brothel to raise money for his church?
Your daughter is an innocent bystander in all this. Don't make her a victim of your self-absorbed stupidity.
Have a nice day.
Finally heading home. But taking my time. If I continue straight through to Chicago I'll be in rush hour traffic for the last fifty miles. No thank you.
Got some great photos of a Jimmy John's sandwich I ate in Lafayette, IN. [See the previous entry.] Here's one of the neon signs in the window. One of the others says, "Serious Delivery."
Life in out of town focus groups is a little like being a mole rat. I haven't seen the daylight since Monday. Yes, today is Thursday. I am not kidding. We get to the facility before dawn. And leave around midnight. There are no windows in any of the rooms. We subsist on M & M's and bottled water, in between every known bread carbo on the planet. My hotel room had a wonderful balcony overlooking a charming view of a duck pond. A lot of good it did me in the dark.
Driving from Chicago I found a great country and western station -- 105.3. In fact, there are quite a few C&W spots on the dial. Four others were only playing pop versions of holiday tunes. I swear I heard Queen Latifah singing Rudolph. There was one rap and one classical station. I finally switched to my CD's.
The gas is sixty to seventy cents less down here. 25% less than Chicago. And everyone is wearing Pacer and Colts logos. Except for I-465 which circles the city and won't let you off unless you promise to relinquish an unborn child, Indianapolis seems like an okay place.
Later.
Go visit DO I AMUSE YOU? Her question mark, not mine. Or else. You can click on it over there in my Other Journals List. It's near the top. I'm too lazy to do the link, plus I'm in Lafayette, Indiana at a Kinko's and they only have AOL 7.0, so who knows what could go wrong.
And you know it will.
BTW -- there is every, and I mean every fast food chain on this road to Purdue University. Exit 172 on I-65. Did I mention I am driving to Indianapolis? Slowly?
Every restaurant, every super store, every kinda gas, hotel, tanning salon, and pizza place ever franchised is here. It's a vision of everything that's wrong with America. And, at the same time, everything that's right.
There are places I didn't know existed, like Logan's Roadhouse, Don Pablo's, Spageddies, and Jimmy John's. I ordered a sandwich from Jimmy John's and each slice of wheat bread was an inch thick. Sheesh.
I'll take a another cruise and if the cops don't get me for loitering, I'll even take some pictures.
Toodles.
It's the holidays. And what more perfect time for Mrs. Linklater to butt into people's lives and save them from themselves, after the advice columnists go first, of course.
Amy Dickinson
Published December 6, 2004, Chicago Tribune
Dear Amy: I have a middle-age sibling who is pretentious, self-centered and must always be the center of attention.
Every year my siblings and I get together at Mom's house for the holidays, and I've stopped enjoying these visits.
My brother has to be in the limelight throughout these visits. He never gets tired of talking about himself, barely listens to anyone else, and he can get very cross when he thinks someone is trying to outdo him.
His Christmas gifts come with long explanations about where they come from and how unique they are, etc. When he brings food and drinks, he has to show everything around and talk about what exclusive shops they came from, blah blah blah.
I can't face another holiday season of the nonsense. Mom never discourages his insatiable desire for attention and accolades, and I've had enough.
I want to spend the holidays quietly at home with my husband. How can I stay away from these gatherings without offending my family?
-- Sick of the Show
Dear Sick: I think the answer here might be to split the difference -- and develop a good exit strategy.
Your siblings and mother might not mind your brother as much as you do, or perhaps they travel to that special holiday headspace where many things are tolerable -- as long as the eggnog doesn't run out. While others might tell you to confront this bore, I don't think Christmas is the day to do it.
If you choose to stay home this year, you don't have to offer all sorts of explanations. However, if the distance between your homes permits, perhaps you could join your family only for dessert this year, with a set time to leave and a definite plan to do so.
Mrs. Linklater knocks over the punch bowl and butts in:
Sounds like this allegedly self-centered, attention grabbing brother might be giving his siblings some very nice, very expensive gifts and all anybody has to do to get them is listen to his stories about where they came from. While eating his expensive food. Sign me up.
Oh, sorry, we have put up with his whiny, footstomping sister because she is sick and tired of his pretentious fur coats and Tiffany jewelry and thinks it’s time to take a stand!!! Drama Queen alert!
So, Miss Hissy Fit, you’re saying if he doesn’t stop with the generosity -- okay he's a little full of himself, too -- you’re going to what? Stay Home. Sounds like a plan to me!!! Mrs. Linklater smells envy. Mom always like him better huh? And your ten dollar Starbuck’s gift cards aren’t getting the applause you hoped for? Neener neener neener.
Let me know your sizes.
Christmas is tight this year.
How to make bedroom slippers out of maxi pads:
You need four maxis to make a pair. Two of them get laid out flat, for the foot part. The other two wrap around the toe area to form the top. Tape or glue each side of the top pieces to the bottom of the foot part. Decorate the tops with whatever you desire, silk flowers, etc.
>> These slippers are soft and hygienic
>> Non-slip grip strips on the soles
>> Built in deodorant feature keeps feet smelling fresh
>> No more bending over to mop up spills
>> Disposable and biodegradable
>> Environmentally safe
>> 3 convenient sizes: Regular, Light Day & Get out the sand bags
See the nifty slippers for yourself....
