Dear Delusional and Demented Dumbass Democratic and Republican Presidential Wannabes --
Let me save you narcissistic nimrods some time and money. I am talking about you -- Messrs Biden, Giuliani, Kucinich, Huckabee, Richardson, Brownback, Edwards, Duncan Hunter and the rest -- you aren't presidential material. You never were, you never will be. So disband your committees, fire your campaign staff, and return the buck two eighty in donations rolling around the bottom of your empty war chests.
Do I have to spell it out? All right, let's start with Senator Biden. Okay, Joe, I can still see the perfect half circle where you had plugs of hair re-introduced to your balding pate. The years have not made it any easier to look at. Don't tell me it's real hair -- your real hair was gone. This is replacement hair. It doesn't count. I can't hear any of the words you've plagiarized because all I can see is that half-moon of pathetically placed follicles.
And what's with a guy named Huckabee thinking he's got a snowball's chance? Not saddled with a name that sounds like a character on the Simpsons. That alone is grounds for disqualification. Just think of the F-bombs his moniker could set off. There once was a loser named Huckabee. . .not to mention that he's a Baptist minister who doesn't believe in abortion or gay marriage. Like that constituency is going to get near the White House this time around.
I'm just getting this rant started and suddenly it's bedtime. Night night. More in the morning.
*YAWN*
How'd you like to wake up to Dennis Kucinich? Me neither. He's also height challenged. Not looking the part can queer the deal pretty fast. Sorry, Dennis, being a good, decent human being isn't enough to be president.
George Washington was our first president for a reason. He was heroic in word, deed, and those most elusive of leadership qualities, charisma and presence. By contrast, one-term prez Jimmy Carter thought leadership meant lecturing on right and wrong. His way or the highway. Plus he had the look of someone who had spent too much time under water.
Tiny Ross Perot had a chance to be our first really short and monumentally unattractive president, a testament more to the power of $60,000,000 he spent to make him seem almost lifelike on TV. Until his real personna caused him to behave like the nutsoid he really is -- on the eve of the election. Which reminds me. What the f**k was Ralph Nader thinking?
Hillary will never be presidential. If she didn't have handlers she'd wear old sweats and pink slippers on the Senate floor. She should be locked in a think tank somewhere. And it isn't a gender thing because I think Condi Rice is presidential in a sterile, personality free way. Elizabeth Dole is probably the most presidential of all the women and men who could be seeking the office. And she's not seeking office.
But enough about the girls, I was sniping at the array of fellas who woke up one morning and thought last night's acid reflux was a message from God that they should run for president.
John Edwards? Almost became vice president based on looks alone. An empty suit.
Bill Richardson, the Hispanic candidate with the Anglo name? A career bureaucrat. He knows how to make nice. That's not enough.
Forget Hunter and Brownback. These uber conservative right to lifers are talking to themselves. Overturning Roe v. Wade is the only tune they sing. Time to be more inclusive guys.
Who's left? Giuliani? Obama? McCain?
I wouldn't trust Giuliani for a New York minute. Has he ever been west of the Hudson? Married three times. Bad temper. Impatient. Needs large scale disasters to function well. Drama queens need not apply.
Obama is a great orator. And four years too early at least. His charisma is a liability at this point. McCain is the only one who seems to have the courage of his convictions. He takes some unpopular, often contrary stances on the issues. Many times alone. Okay, he's also short, but he wears a hero's mantle and enjoys the respect of both sides of the aisle. And he has a sense of humor. So does Joe Biden, but he's no John McCain.
Maybe between now and the nominating conventions, someone will get it together long enough to seem plausible as the leader of the Free World or whatever we're calling ourselves lately.
So I won't have to waste my vote casting it AGAINST someone, instead of FOR.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Linklater
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The 2007 Bloggie Nominations
So you think you
write a good blog here on AOL. Haaaaaa. Maybe you're like
me and even have a VIVI icon posted near your picture. Haaaaa
again. Want to eat some humble pie?
Cut and paste this link:. http://2007.bloggies.com/
Read some of THEIR nominations. And weep.
Cut and paste this link:. http://2007.bloggies.com/
Read some of THEIR nominations. And weep.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
My Idea of a Good Time
It wasn't too long
ago, okay almost twenty years, when my idea of a good time might also include
flying to LA for some art thing on Rodeo Drive, dancing till the wee
hours with Willi Ninja, the irrespressible, recently
deceased vogue star of the documentary Paris is Burning, while the
short guy from Bonnie and
Clyde entertained notions of hooking up with me later. Haaaaa.
Not so much anymore. Not at all anymore. Maybe because I remember those days, being sober and all. Maybe because I can no longer pass the physical.
Now my idea of a good time doesn't require plane rides, new outfits, extra makeup, or waxing.
Instead, I will be cat-sitting during the next three weeks for a member of my family who is going on a cruise. Last night we had dinner at a local Asian spot to discuss my responsibilities. Over egg foo young and chicken with black mushrooms and peas, she gave me the lowdown on what to expect.
There are two kitties. I know them well from years of visiting them on weekends and holidays. Mrs. Farley is a beautiful, classic Maine Coon cat, very long of leg and body, tall, regal, and stand-offish. With a gorgeous, boa-length tail. Douglas, her companion, is supposed to be a Maine Coon cat too, but his tail is woefully short for the breed, and unlike Mrs. Farley who is slim and trim, Dougie's shape could only be described as round. He's also funny in a cat sort of way and, unlike most Maine Coon felines, he's actually very friendly. He even loves to have his belly scratched. Not Mrs. Farley. She can't be bothered. Or, more accurately, won't allow it.
Anyway, in lieu of a social life, despite being asked on a date for the end of February [at my age I need the extra time to get ready], I will be spending the next few weeks hanging with the fur balls, feeding them Fancy Feast twice a day and cleaning their kitty litter.
They in turn will let me share the queen size bed they sleep on and let me have part of their couch for watching TV. Did I mention the freezer will be well stocked? And there's cable.
My dance card is full.
Not so much anymore. Not at all anymore. Maybe because I remember those days, being sober and all. Maybe because I can no longer pass the physical.
Now my idea of a good time doesn't require plane rides, new outfits, extra makeup, or waxing.
Instead, I will be cat-sitting during the next three weeks for a member of my family who is going on a cruise. Last night we had dinner at a local Asian spot to discuss my responsibilities. Over egg foo young and chicken with black mushrooms and peas, she gave me the lowdown on what to expect.
There are two kitties. I know them well from years of visiting them on weekends and holidays. Mrs. Farley is a beautiful, classic Maine Coon cat, very long of leg and body, tall, regal, and stand-offish. With a gorgeous, boa-length tail. Douglas, her companion, is supposed to be a Maine Coon cat too, but his tail is woefully short for the breed, and unlike Mrs. Farley who is slim and trim, Dougie's shape could only be described as round. He's also funny in a cat sort of way and, unlike most Maine Coon felines, he's actually very friendly. He even loves to have his belly scratched. Not Mrs. Farley. She can't be bothered. Or, more accurately, won't allow it.
Anyway, in lieu of a social life, despite being asked on a date for the end of February [at my age I need the extra time to get ready], I will be spending the next few weeks hanging with the fur balls, feeding them Fancy Feast twice a day and cleaning their kitty litter.
They in turn will let me share the queen size bed they sleep on and let me have part of their couch for watching TV. Did I mention the freezer will be well stocked? And there's cable.
My dance card is full.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
A Lovely Lady Is In The Hospital
Back when AOL
journals was a kinder, gentler, more friendly place, punctuated with
laughter and camaraderie, a real community of disparate people
who hung together with humor and a common interest, I discovered an
inspirational journal, called A Pennie's Worth. For some reason I
have never posted a link, but her journal was on my alerts. She
has been hospitalized and will have brain surgery tomorrow.
I hope she survives this setback, which wouldn't be the first she has overcome. She is a wonderful teller of true tales. And travails. About Her life. Her loves. Her children and grandchildren.
Here's the URL for her journal: http://journals.aol.com/blondepennierae/APenniesWorth/
I would create a link, but I don't have access to Firefox so I will have to do that later. Next year.
I hope she survives this setback, which wouldn't be the first she has overcome. She is a wonderful teller of true tales. And travails. About Her life. Her loves. Her children and grandchildren.
Here's the URL for her journal: http://journals.aol.com/blondepennierae/APenniesWorth/
I would create a link, but I don't have access to Firefox so I will have to do that later. Next year.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Why the Saints Lost
You could say the
Saints lost because of turnovers, or you could say it was because dome
teams have been 0 and 9 since 1970 in outdoor championship games.
You could also point out that no team behind more than eight points at
halftime has ever won, blah blah blah, but here are the real reasons
the Saints lost:
The Sports Illustrated jinx. As soon as I saw that New Orleans was on the cover this week, I knew they were going to lose. San Diego was featured the week before in case you're wondering.
However, the real reason I think they lost was the color of their jerseys -- wussy white. The Bears wore very dark blue. No way New Orleans could beat them.
As for the game on right now between the Colts and the Patriots. The Colts should win because they're wearing the darker jerseys. But I don't think they're dark enough, so I have some concern for the outcome. Jerseys have to be dark enough to pass for black and theirs aren't, I'm afraid. So, it could be anyone's game.
I'm getting good at this prognostication b.s.
The Sports Illustrated jinx. As soon as I saw that New Orleans was on the cover this week, I knew they were going to lose. San Diego was featured the week before in case you're wondering.
However, the real reason I think they lost was the color of their jerseys -- wussy white. The Bears wore very dark blue. No way New Orleans could beat them.
As for the game on right now between the Colts and the Patriots. The Colts should win because they're wearing the darker jerseys. But I don't think they're dark enough, so I have some concern for the outcome. Jerseys have to be dark enough to pass for black and theirs aren't, I'm afraid. So, it could be anyone's game.
I'm getting good at this prognostication b.s.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Obviously I Have No Life
For the first time in a long
time I have succumbed to the siren call of John Scalzi's weekend
assignment. I found the philosophical cunundrum
he posited this week kind of amusing.
Weekend Assignment #148: Cats. Cheese. There's only enough room on the planet for one of them -- and you have to decide which stays and which goes. Which do you choose and why? Now, you ask, why cats and cheese? Well, why not? People like cats; people like cheese. They're generally considered to be unrelated. Having to choose one over the other sort of gives you insight into your soul, about what's really important to you. Or, alternately, it's just fun to consider. Really, let's not pretend we're doing anything too deep here.
For clarity's sake, when we say "cats" we mean domestic cats; lions and tiger and cheetahs and such will still be about, so you don't have to worry about taking out a whole bunch of endangered species. When we say "cheese" we mean all cheese, even the stuff that comes out of aerosol cans and/or is spelled "cheez." It all goes.
Extra Credit: what's your favorite breed of cat and/or type of cheese?
Mrs. Linklater replies:
Cats or cheese? Hair balls or green mold? Which one gets tossed off the planet? This question, while only for argument's sake, still manages to evoke memories of noxious feline aromas. Kitty peep and poop being the most obvious. But spoiled milk smells are also curdled in my memory. Cheeses too, despite their elevation to gourmet status, can smell just as awful as anything a cat can deposit on your good rug.
I'm reminded of the eyewatering fumes which occur immediately after food poisoning has caused you to expurgate an offensive meal into the porcelain bowl. When the sour odeur of partial digestion begins to waft up into your nostrils. That cheese smell.
But, why linger on the icky stuffwhen we can turn a blind eye to the shortcomings of each and reflect on the best of both.
Cats are soft and furry. Is there anything more appealing? Cheese, on the other hand, does not taste very good when it's soft and furry. Unfortunately, cats can also bite. Not a good recommendation. A bite of cheese, however, can be as wonderful as a sip of fine wine. Cats have always had an endearing way of waking me up in the morning by licking me on the nose. Unfortunately, waking up to cheese on my nose doesn't have the same appeal. But slices of cheese and fruit with flavored crackers sound delicious for breakfast or a light lunch. When a cat cuts the cheese, by comparison, I generally lose my appetite for all food.
When all is said and done, I'll stick with cats. Preferably half Siamese kitties. You can have the all the cheese. Even those one of a kind artisan wheels from Wisconsin.
Cats have so much more to offer than cheese. Personality, for instance. And don't forget purring. Can you snuggle with a slice of cheese? Talk to it when you come home from work? Listen to it hum next to you in complete contentment?
If you can, well, let's not go there.
Cheese is just a delivery system for chunks of concentrated cholesterol. Camembert, Stilton and cheddar aren't looking out for our best interests. And just when was the last time a block of cheese could tell you there was a mouse in the house? Or get rid of it for you?
Cats make themselves useful creating warm spots for us where we sit and lie down. Cheese has never been that thoughtful. Cats are considered members of our families for life, except in certain countries, which shall remain nameless, but one of them rhymes with Dinah. I don't know any cheese that I'd like to have loitering in my refrigerator more than a month or two. And even that's pushing it.
Of course, as much as I prefer cats, when the cheese is gone, I will miss snacking on smoked gouda and apples during the Bears' games. And there's nothing quite like a slice of brie on a cracker with a bit of chutney.
Yep, I have no llife.
Weekend Assignment #148: Cats. Cheese. There's only enough room on the planet for one of them -- and you have to decide which stays and which goes. Which do you choose and why? Now, you ask, why cats and cheese? Well, why not? People like cats; people like cheese. They're generally considered to be unrelated. Having to choose one over the other sort of gives you insight into your soul, about what's really important to you. Or, alternately, it's just fun to consider. Really, let's not pretend we're doing anything too deep here.
For clarity's sake, when we say "cats" we mean domestic cats; lions and tiger and cheetahs and such will still be about, so you don't have to worry about taking out a whole bunch of endangered species. When we say "cheese" we mean all cheese, even the stuff that comes out of aerosol cans and/or is spelled "cheez." It all goes.
Extra Credit: what's your favorite breed of cat and/or type of cheese?
Mrs. Linklater replies:
Cats or cheese? Hair balls or green mold? Which one gets tossed off the planet? This question, while only for argument's sake, still manages to evoke memories of noxious feline aromas. Kitty peep and poop being the most obvious. But spoiled milk smells are also curdled in my memory. Cheeses too, despite their elevation to gourmet status, can smell just as awful as anything a cat can deposit on your good rug.
I'm reminded of the eyewatering fumes which occur immediately after food poisoning has caused you to expurgate an offensive meal into the porcelain bowl. When the sour odeur of partial digestion begins to waft up into your nostrils. That cheese smell.
But, why linger on the icky stuffwhen we can turn a blind eye to the shortcomings of each and reflect on the best of both.
Cats are soft and furry. Is there anything more appealing? Cheese, on the other hand, does not taste very good when it's soft and furry. Unfortunately, cats can also bite. Not a good recommendation. A bite of cheese, however, can be as wonderful as a sip of fine wine. Cats have always had an endearing way of waking me up in the morning by licking me on the nose. Unfortunately, waking up to cheese on my nose doesn't have the same appeal. But slices of cheese and fruit with flavored crackers sound delicious for breakfast or a light lunch. When a cat cuts the cheese, by comparison, I generally lose my appetite for all food.
When all is said and done, I'll stick with cats. Preferably half Siamese kitties. You can have the all the cheese. Even those one of a kind artisan wheels from Wisconsin.
Cats have so much more to offer than cheese. Personality, for instance. And don't forget purring. Can you snuggle with a slice of cheese? Talk to it when you come home from work? Listen to it hum next to you in complete contentment?
If you can, well, let's not go there.
Cheese is just a delivery system for chunks of concentrated cholesterol. Camembert, Stilton and cheddar aren't looking out for our best interests. And just when was the last time a block of cheese could tell you there was a mouse in the house? Or get rid of it for you?
Cats make themselves useful creating warm spots for us where we sit and lie down. Cheese has never been that thoughtful. Cats are considered members of our families for life, except in certain countries, which shall remain nameless, but one of them rhymes with Dinah. I don't know any cheese that I'd like to have loitering in my refrigerator more than a month or two. And even that's pushing it.
Of course, as much as I prefer cats, when the cheese is gone, I will miss snacking on smoked gouda and apples during the Bears' games. And there's nothing quite like a slice of brie on a cracker with a bit of chutney.
Yep, I have no llife.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Dear Abby Is So Tacky
Mrs.
Linklater hasn't ridiculed any advice ladies over at her warm and cozy
second home on Blogspot since September or so. Is she sick? Dead?
Out of town? No, I'm still here.
So, in an attempt to shake her out of her doldrums, a concerned relative sent this Dear Abby advice travesty to Mrs. L., hoping to get her back into the fray. Or at least the mud wrestling.
I'll let you read this abomination first for yourselves before the outspoken Mrs. Linklater gets to take a crack at her tomorrow. Feel free to leave your opinions of Abby's shocking suggestion for retaliation.
September 13, 2006
Dear Abby: There's a man in our community I'll call "Uncle Harry." Uncle Harry is in his mid-70s and considers himself one of the finest Christians in the area. Many of us, however, know this to be an exaggeration.
The main problem with Uncle Harry is his insistence on hugging almost all the women he comes in contact with. These "hugs" are not chaste, loose hugs about the shoulders. Uncle Harry insists on bear hugs, where he puts both arms around the woman and presses her breasts against his chest. Occasionally, his hands will also drift to the area of the buttocks.
Several women have complained, and family members have cautioned Uncle Harry about his behavior. He will stop temporarily, and then start up again in a few days. He has convinced himself that all these women want to hug him, but I have seen the expressions on the faces of some of his hug victims, and most are not at all happy. The women are hesitant to complain because Uncle Harry's wife IS one of the finest Christians in the area.
What can be done about Uncle Harry? I see him as a sexual predator, but he insists his hugs are just an example of his fine Christian fellowship. — No Hugs, Please, in Alabama
Dear No Hugs, Please: Because the complaints have been ignored, a dose of aversion therapy might dampen the ardor of lecherous Uncle Harry. I recommend that the ladies who are offended by his behavior form a "united front." By this I mean, agree to put thumb tacks in your brassieres (facing outward, of course) when you know you'll be seeing him. I predict that if you do, he will hug you less enthusiastically from then on.
Seriously, any woman who objects to Uncle Harry's "hugs" needs to open her mouth and tell him so in no uncertain terms. Enough is enough.
Mrs. Linklater loads her cannon:
Dear Abby, you total nimrod -- titular tacks? Oh, you were just kidding? Tsk tsk, Ab, you shouldn't make jokes about that kind of retaliation, because there are women out there who will take your suggestion and try it at home. By the way, tacks aren't nearly as effective as nine inch nails.
The real problem is that women have been letting men do things to them that they don't like for centuries. Especially when these men are in positions of power. Monica Lewinsky and a certain president's cigar, anyone?
Needless to say, the most offensive of all are the slimy bastards who PRAISE THE LORD on Sunday and grab your ass on Monday.
Uncle Harry may call it a hug, but anyone who touches your body without your permission is out of line. [Now you know how little kids feel at family reunions.]
Abby's says to "tell him. . .in no uncertain terms."
Tell him what, Abby? "No, thanks, I don't want a hug"? Harry's the kind of guy who'll just grab you anyway. Clearly he's not responding to the subtle hints of pure disgust and utter revulsion these women are sending out.
So when, not if, he insists on hugging next time, leave your arms by your side or cross your chest, right palm over your left breast, left palm over the right. He'll look stupid hugging someone who doesn't hug back. Or, worse, someone who looks like she's trying to protect herself.
If he doesn't get the hint, you can whisper into his ear. Make it something religious that he'll understand like, "Listen to me, you sorry excuse for a Christian, don't ever hug me again."
Finally, if he still hasn't let you go, feel free to bite his earlobe. Hard.
OR, if you're too short to reach his ear, you can skip all the niceties and just give him a firm pinch on the high, inside part of his thigh. And suddenly you'll be free. Works every time.
Mrs. Linklater doesn't usually advocate physical violence, but some guys need more encouragement than others.
Her personal choice for keeping unwanted men away, one she recommends if you have the courage to raise your voice loud enough for everyone to hear is, "GET THE F**K AWAY FROM ME!!" That one can empty a stadium if not modulated properly.
On the other hand, if your voice lacks volume, you can squint your eyes at the offender, lower your voice and hiss, "TOUCH ME AND YOU DIE!"
Mrs. Linklater just loves it when she can make the world a better place.
So, in an attempt to shake her out of her doldrums, a concerned relative sent this Dear Abby advice travesty to Mrs. L., hoping to get her back into the fray. Or at least the mud wrestling.
I'll let you read this abomination first for yourselves before the outspoken Mrs. Linklater gets to take a crack at her tomorrow. Feel free to leave your opinions of Abby's shocking suggestion for retaliation.
September 13, 2006
Dear Abby: There's a man in our community I'll call "Uncle Harry." Uncle Harry is in his mid-70s and considers himself one of the finest Christians in the area. Many of us, however, know this to be an exaggeration.
The main problem with Uncle Harry is his insistence on hugging almost all the women he comes in contact with. These "hugs" are not chaste, loose hugs about the shoulders. Uncle Harry insists on bear hugs, where he puts both arms around the woman and presses her breasts against his chest. Occasionally, his hands will also drift to the area of the buttocks.
Several women have complained, and family members have cautioned Uncle Harry about his behavior. He will stop temporarily, and then start up again in a few days. He has convinced himself that all these women want to hug him, but I have seen the expressions on the faces of some of his hug victims, and most are not at all happy. The women are hesitant to complain because Uncle Harry's wife IS one of the finest Christians in the area.
What can be done about Uncle Harry? I see him as a sexual predator, but he insists his hugs are just an example of his fine Christian fellowship. — No Hugs, Please, in Alabama
Dear No Hugs, Please: Because the complaints have been ignored, a dose of aversion therapy might dampen the ardor of lecherous Uncle Harry. I recommend that the ladies who are offended by his behavior form a "united front." By this I mean, agree to put thumb tacks in your brassieres (facing outward, of course) when you know you'll be seeing him. I predict that if you do, he will hug you less enthusiastically from then on.
Seriously, any woman who objects to Uncle Harry's "hugs" needs to open her mouth and tell him so in no uncertain terms. Enough is enough.
Mrs. Linklater loads her cannon:
Dear Abby, you total nimrod -- titular tacks? Oh, you were just kidding? Tsk tsk, Ab, you shouldn't make jokes about that kind of retaliation, because there are women out there who will take your suggestion and try it at home. By the way, tacks aren't nearly as effective as nine inch nails.
The real problem is that women have been letting men do things to them that they don't like for centuries. Especially when these men are in positions of power. Monica Lewinsky and a certain president's cigar, anyone?
Needless to say, the most offensive of all are the slimy bastards who PRAISE THE LORD on Sunday and grab your ass on Monday.
Uncle Harry may call it a hug, but anyone who touches your body without your permission is out of line. [Now you know how little kids feel at family reunions.]
Abby's says to "tell him. . .in no uncertain terms."
Tell him what, Abby? "No, thanks, I don't want a hug"? Harry's the kind of guy who'll just grab you anyway. Clearly he's not responding to the subtle hints of pure disgust and utter revulsion these women are sending out.
So when, not if, he insists on hugging next time, leave your arms by your side or cross your chest, right palm over your left breast, left palm over the right. He'll look stupid hugging someone who doesn't hug back. Or, worse, someone who looks like she's trying to protect herself.
If he doesn't get the hint, you can whisper into his ear. Make it something religious that he'll understand like, "Listen to me, you sorry excuse for a Christian, don't ever hug me again."
Finally, if he still hasn't let you go, feel free to bite his earlobe. Hard.
OR, if you're too short to reach his ear, you can skip all the niceties and just give him a firm pinch on the high, inside part of his thigh. And suddenly you'll be free. Works every time.
Mrs. Linklater doesn't usually advocate physical violence, but some guys need more encouragement than others.
Her personal choice for keeping unwanted men away, one she recommends if you have the courage to raise your voice loud enough for everyone to hear is, "GET THE F**K AWAY FROM ME!!" That one can empty a stadium if not modulated properly.
On the other hand, if your voice lacks volume, you can squint your eyes at the offender, lower your voice and hiss, "TOUCH ME AND YOU DIE!"
Mrs. Linklater just loves it when she can make the world a better place.
More Signs of the Apocalypse
A woman dies from
drinking too much water. And she did it on purpose!!! Hey kids,
I'm going to be in a radio promotion contest to see who can drink the
most bottles of Evian before having to take a pee -- your dinner's in
the oven. The good news is that she won a video game. The better news
is how much her kids are going to get when the suit is settled.
Another sign -- The Wiggles. Sorry, but those four nerdy men singing and dancing for little kids creep me out.
A third sign -- America mourns the loss of more than 3000 soldiers during our four and a half years in Iraq and Afghanistan. But no one talks about the 34,000 Iraqi men, women, and children who died in the fighting last year alone.
Sign No.4: People saying PENIS and VAGINA on daytime TV. EEEEWWWWWW. TMI. I guess I've become one of those "more sensitive viewers" they try not to offend. The first time I felt the EEEWWW -- TMI factor was while watching an episode of The Sopranos. Tony was at the strip club in an office "doing" a naked young woman from behind. [What was that audition like?] The camera was positioned in front of the woman, just to the side and slightly beneath her right shoulder, so we got an action shot of her contorted face along with a voluptuous close up of her large breasts hanging and flanging back and forth. PLUS we also got to watch Tony's expression with his hands pulling back on her hips as he jackhammered his body into her. Talk about gratuitous.
I've seen porn that was less pornographic. Okay, it was on HBO where that shit happens. But I remember thinking, "I'm PAYING for this? The good news is that the whole thing was so absurd, I finally laughed at something on that show, which has never been a comedy as far as I'm concerned.
Sorry for the digression. Where was I?
Sign No.5: They finally find a kid alive, four years after his abduction and the only question the media asks is, "How come he didn't try to escape?"
Here's another: The Bears are 14 and 3, but no one thinks they're winners.
There will be more.
Another sign -- The Wiggles. Sorry, but those four nerdy men singing and dancing for little kids creep me out.
A third sign -- America mourns the loss of more than 3000 soldiers during our four and a half years in Iraq and Afghanistan. But no one talks about the 34,000 Iraqi men, women, and children who died in the fighting last year alone.
Sign No.4: People saying PENIS and VAGINA on daytime TV. EEEEWWWWWW. TMI. I guess I've become one of those "more sensitive viewers" they try not to offend. The first time I felt the EEEWWW -- TMI factor was while watching an episode of The Sopranos. Tony was at the strip club in an office "doing" a naked young woman from behind. [What was that audition like?] The camera was positioned in front of the woman, just to the side and slightly beneath her right shoulder, so we got an action shot of her contorted face along with a voluptuous close up of her large breasts hanging and flanging back and forth. PLUS we also got to watch Tony's expression with his hands pulling back on her hips as he jackhammered his body into her. Talk about gratuitous.
I've seen porn that was less pornographic. Okay, it was on HBO where that shit happens. But I remember thinking, "I'm PAYING for this? The good news is that the whole thing was so absurd, I finally laughed at something on that show, which has never been a comedy as far as I'm concerned.
Sorry for the digression. Where was I?
Sign No.5: They finally find a kid alive, four years after his abduction and the only question the media asks is, "How come he didn't try to escape?"
Here's another: The Bears are 14 and 3, but no one thinks they're winners.
There will be more.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Picking Winners is a Science
Experienced sports analyst that I am, my skills at picking winners were nevertheless seriously challenged this past weekend.
I picked New Orleans over the Eagles because the Saints were wearing all black uniforms. And they got style points for the gold helmets. One for me.
I took the Bears over the Seahawks because Chicago's uniforms looked black. And Seattle was wearing white and blue which is so WEAK. My choice of the Bears had nothing to do with living in Chicago either. Another one for me.
How the Patriots beat the Chargers is a mystery to me. The Chargers had everything going for them, from speed and size to dark, nasty uniforms. There's just no accounting for talent. Subtract one.
Which brings me to the Colts. Based on dark or red uniforms winning more often [a statistic I cannot prove] then Baltimore shoulda done the deed. Didn't happen. Subtract another one.
Next weekend, we've got two teams in the AFC championship that usually wear white and blue playing against each other. I'll pick the one that shows up with something darker. Patriots have a darker blue than Indy in any case, so for now, I'll go with them.
As for the Bears and Saints. Very dark blue versus black. Hmmm. Bet Chicago shows up with orange jerseys next week. Orange is almost red. Red beats black. [I wonder when ESPN is gonna call?]
I picked New Orleans over the Eagles because the Saints were wearing all black uniforms. And they got style points for the gold helmets. One for me.
I took the Bears over the Seahawks because Chicago's uniforms looked black. And Seattle was wearing white and blue which is so WEAK. My choice of the Bears had nothing to do with living in Chicago either. Another one for me.
How the Patriots beat the Chargers is a mystery to me. The Chargers had everything going for them, from speed and size to dark, nasty uniforms. There's just no accounting for talent. Subtract one.
Which brings me to the Colts. Based on dark or red uniforms winning more often [a statistic I cannot prove] then Baltimore shoulda done the deed. Didn't happen. Subtract another one.
Next weekend, we've got two teams in the AFC championship that usually wear white and blue playing against each other. I'll pick the one that shows up with something darker. Patriots have a darker blue than Indy in any case, so for now, I'll go with them.
As for the Bears and Saints. Very dark blue versus black. Hmmm. Bet Chicago shows up with orange jerseys next week. Orange is almost red. Red beats black. [I wonder when ESPN is gonna call?]
Sign of the Apocalypse
I can't imagine why
Megan Mulally's talk show has been cancelled. Just today she was
having women play NAME THAT BUTT. Since I keep the TV on even
when I'm not watching, I only caught the tail end [pardon the pun] of
the segment, but she's showing photographs of male derrieres to members
of the audience. If they don't recognize the sweet cheeks of some
famous lad from below the waist, Ms. Mulally gives them hints.
And we're worried about sending more troops to Iraq.
And we're worried about sending more troops to Iraq.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Wedding Reception Photo
Sorry this photo is so
HUGE. Well, not THAT sorry. This is my younger daughter at her
wedding reception last September in the English countryside. She just gave me
two DVD's full of pictures from the four day festivity. You lucky people.
I didn't have to do anything for the wedding except show up.
I didn't have to do anything for the wedding except show up.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
Snausages
Chances are, if you
have a dog, you're familiar with Snausages. An art director named
Dennis Yeider came up with the name in a eureka moment years ago, when our group was working
on this new sausage style snack. I think his exact words were,
"Snack sausage? How about Snausages?"
In advertisng, my being in the same room with Dennis is almost as good as coming up with the name itself. But modesty forbids taking all the credit. Anyway, you may remember the commercials, the silly dog and the funny voiceover -- "Snausages. Dogs in search of the perfect snack."
The guy who did the voiceover for all those commercials -- remembered by Snausages fans almost verbatim to this day, twenty years later, was a good friend of mine. Where he came up with that voice, I'll never know. He was usually hired to be the voice of beer or insurance companies, not for something goofy like a cartoon dog. Dennis and his partner obviously saw a side to him I missed in the four decades I knew him.
His voiceover work was quite lucrative for him. He also had small character parts in a few movies, especially if they were looking for a coach or a cop. His most high profile role was playing The Rangemaster in The Untouchables. He only had a couple of lines, but he ended up with plenty of stories about what it was like working with Sean Connery and Kevin Kostner. None of which can be told here.
He wasn't that old, sixty-one or sixty-two. But his last seven years had been pretty hard. Especially for a guy who'd been MVP of his high school football team and won the local 4th of July race for men 18 and over well into his forties.
That's because seven years ago he underwent a heart liver transplant after his heart was destroyed by the hereditary version of a disease called amyloidosis.
His dad had died of the same illness. He had the same doctor as his father, so you might think the doc would have been alerted to the possibility. Like father, like son. However, not only was his doctor clueless, but a cardiologist who looked at an echocardiogram of his enlarged heart said it was bigger because he had been an athlete all his life. Even with evidence to the contrary, like a telltale halo on the scan, caused by the disease, nobody caught the problem until two years later.
Anyway, he underwent the heart-liver transplant they hoped would alleviate the symptoms of the disease. Except that the amyloidosis, which is pumped out by the liver, had invaded too much of his body, in particular his intestines. So he spent all these years after the transplant with chronic diarhea and nerve damage in his lower legs that finally left him emaciated and unable to walk.
He was also always complaining that he was cold, so he would lie in front of the fireplace to warm up at night. Unfortunately, he couldn't feel the heat from the fire on his legs, so two or three times he fell asleep and woke up with second and third degree burns that once required skin grafts. I asked him why he didn't just get an electric blanket. He wondered why his wife didn't get him one.
What about his wife? She became a monster. Without her he wouldn't qualify for the transplant list because family is so important afterward. Because of her I'm convinced he died sooner than he had to.
Once a week she would prepare boxes of pills for him to take each day. I guess the effort was exhausting. You'd think she was Mother Teresa the way she talked about the sacrifices she was making for him. She didn't let hiim forget it either.
She added a dose of venom to every meal she served him that left those of us who listened to her heartless ridicule just shaking our heads.
During the year he was waiting for his transplant, I drove him out to a house they owned in Michigan to open it up for the summer. His wife made some snide remark about how she wasn't worried about us being alone together because he couldn't get it up anymore anyway.
Yeah, he'd been a bad boy forty years ago. I busted him myself on more than one occasion. But I knew her secrets too. In fact, I may be the only person who knew both sides. As time and his health began sliding down hill, she just got worse and worse.
The last time I was with them together last summer, she was making faces at him behind his back. He saw her reflection in the window and told her to stop.
When he died last week, I'm glad one of the kids, not the witch, called to tell me. "Is this a call I don't want to get?" Yes. Two days later I called her to ask if there was anything she needed me to do. I was referring, I thought, to bringing food, helping to make arrangements, writing an obituary.
"No, My friends from work have all been great. I'm going to Millennium Park today and tonight we're all going out."
Huh?
She never mentioned her dead husband during our conversation. Not once. It was all about her.
So I called his daughter. She told me about the arrangements. I was reminded of a conversation he and I had that weekend we went to open up the summer house. We talked about two things -- first, should he have the transplant? I said yes, because he had grandchildren who loved him and deserved to have him around as long as possible, another seven to ten years, versus just one or two. The other subject was his funeral. We talked about music he'd like, stuff like that. Apparently he never shared his thoughts with anyone else.
This September as the two of us sat silently on the patio of their summer house overlooking the lake, he suddently turned to me said he wanted me to speak at his funeral. I didn't say anything. He didn't press me. I was honored that he asked. But I also knew I couldn't do it without sobbing.
Wednesday there will be a memorial service at a local funeral home. His daughter said that they were asking people to speak. I didn't volunteer. She didn't ask.
He died on one of my brothers' birthdays, which just means it will be easy to remember the day. Next year on the first anniversary, I'll call a couple of his other friends to go to dinner and we can have our own memorial to him.
This thing on Wednesday will probably just piss me off.
In advertisng, my being in the same room with Dennis is almost as good as coming up with the name itself. But modesty forbids taking all the credit. Anyway, you may remember the commercials, the silly dog and the funny voiceover -- "Snausages. Dogs in search of the perfect snack."
The guy who did the voiceover for all those commercials -- remembered by Snausages fans almost verbatim to this day, twenty years later, was a good friend of mine. Where he came up with that voice, I'll never know. He was usually hired to be the voice of beer or insurance companies, not for something goofy like a cartoon dog. Dennis and his partner obviously saw a side to him I missed in the four decades I knew him.
His voiceover work was quite lucrative for him. He also had small character parts in a few movies, especially if they were looking for a coach or a cop. His most high profile role was playing The Rangemaster in The Untouchables. He only had a couple of lines, but he ended up with plenty of stories about what it was like working with Sean Connery and Kevin Kostner. None of which can be told here.
He wasn't that old, sixty-one or sixty-two. But his last seven years had been pretty hard. Especially for a guy who'd been MVP of his high school football team and won the local 4th of July race for men 18 and over well into his forties.
That's because seven years ago he underwent a heart liver transplant after his heart was destroyed by the hereditary version of a disease called amyloidosis.
His dad had died of the same illness. He had the same doctor as his father, so you might think the doc would have been alerted to the possibility. Like father, like son. However, not only was his doctor clueless, but a cardiologist who looked at an echocardiogram of his enlarged heart said it was bigger because he had been an athlete all his life. Even with evidence to the contrary, like a telltale halo on the scan, caused by the disease, nobody caught the problem until two years later.
Anyway, he underwent the heart-liver transplant they hoped would alleviate the symptoms of the disease. Except that the amyloidosis, which is pumped out by the liver, had invaded too much of his body, in particular his intestines. So he spent all these years after the transplant with chronic diarhea and nerve damage in his lower legs that finally left him emaciated and unable to walk.
He was also always complaining that he was cold, so he would lie in front of the fireplace to warm up at night. Unfortunately, he couldn't feel the heat from the fire on his legs, so two or three times he fell asleep and woke up with second and third degree burns that once required skin grafts. I asked him why he didn't just get an electric blanket. He wondered why his wife didn't get him one.
What about his wife? She became a monster. Without her he wouldn't qualify for the transplant list because family is so important afterward. Because of her I'm convinced he died sooner than he had to.
Once a week she would prepare boxes of pills for him to take each day. I guess the effort was exhausting. You'd think she was Mother Teresa the way she talked about the sacrifices she was making for him. She didn't let hiim forget it either.
She added a dose of venom to every meal she served him that left those of us who listened to her heartless ridicule just shaking our heads.
During the year he was waiting for his transplant, I drove him out to a house they owned in Michigan to open it up for the summer. His wife made some snide remark about how she wasn't worried about us being alone together because he couldn't get it up anymore anyway.
Yeah, he'd been a bad boy forty years ago. I busted him myself on more than one occasion. But I knew her secrets too. In fact, I may be the only person who knew both sides. As time and his health began sliding down hill, she just got worse and worse.
The last time I was with them together last summer, she was making faces at him behind his back. He saw her reflection in the window and told her to stop.
When he died last week, I'm glad one of the kids, not the witch, called to tell me. "Is this a call I don't want to get?" Yes. Two days later I called her to ask if there was anything she needed me to do. I was referring, I thought, to bringing food, helping to make arrangements, writing an obituary.
"No, My friends from work have all been great. I'm going to Millennium Park today and tonight we're all going out."
Huh?
She never mentioned her dead husband during our conversation. Not once. It was all about her.
So I called his daughter. She told me about the arrangements. I was reminded of a conversation he and I had that weekend we went to open up the summer house. We talked about two things -- first, should he have the transplant? I said yes, because he had grandchildren who loved him and deserved to have him around as long as possible, another seven to ten years, versus just one or two. The other subject was his funeral. We talked about music he'd like, stuff like that. Apparently he never shared his thoughts with anyone else.
This September as the two of us sat silently on the patio of their summer house overlooking the lake, he suddently turned to me said he wanted me to speak at his funeral. I didn't say anything. He didn't press me. I was honored that he asked. But I also knew I couldn't do it without sobbing.
Wednesday there will be a memorial service at a local funeral home. His daughter said that they were asking people to speak. I didn't volunteer. She didn't ask.
He died on one of my brothers' birthdays, which just means it will be easy to remember the day. Next year on the first anniversary, I'll call a couple of his other friends to go to dinner and we can have our own memorial to him.
This thing on Wednesday will probably just piss me off.
Friday, January 5, 2007
Multi-Tasking
I know people,
usually women, who feel guilty if they aren't multi-tasking.
Especially when they're on the phone. I cut them some slack, even
though their end of the conversation tends to sound distracted and
disjointed, with long pauses to answer questions that only require a
simple YES or NO,
Usually they're taking care of kids at the same time, so I just chalk it up, except when I hear a toilet flush. TMI thank you very much. Could you maybe wait until we're finished our chat? Not that I haven't tried to multi-task while sitting on the throne. Just last week I tried brushing my teeth at the same time, thinking I might be ready to go to work sooner. I don't know about you, but brushing a long time makes me gag, so I found myself trying to spit toothpaste into the sink from my perch on the porcelain. I missed, which meant my attempts at multi-tasking took more time than the actual tasks themselves.
Last week, I was on the phone with someone who was getting dressed, someone else who was wiping the mud off her dog's feet, a third person who was pumping gas, a fourth who was at the drive up for McDonald's.
Why do one thing, when you can do two? Remember the woman who robbed a bank while talking on her cellphone?
My personal multi-tasking favorite is driving, talking on the phone and putting on make up. I am the poster child for every annoying female driver on the road, One knee on the steering wheel so I can do my eye shadow, eye liner, mascara and lipgloss at every stoplight and in between, while talking to what seems like no one in particular via my earpiece. Sometimes, just for the thrill, I also eat a sandwich and fumble for the chips at the bottom of the bag.
Multi-tasking on the phone isn't a new phenomenon, of course. Nor is the range of tasks people choose to do. I remember one languid Sunday afternoon spent under an old boyfriend on his bed. He was, uh, taking me to task when the phone rang. It was his mother calling for her weekend chat. He couldn't just let it ring. He picked up the phone and actually held a conversation with her, while finishing what he had started with me, even putting his hand over my mouth when I started laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Now that I think about it, to this day I don't trust what men are doing on the other end of the phone. Which may explain why the folks who invented Phone-O-Vision could never get their idea off the ground.
Usually they're taking care of kids at the same time, so I just chalk it up, except when I hear a toilet flush. TMI thank you very much. Could you maybe wait until we're finished our chat? Not that I haven't tried to multi-task while sitting on the throne. Just last week I tried brushing my teeth at the same time, thinking I might be ready to go to work sooner. I don't know about you, but brushing a long time makes me gag, so I found myself trying to spit toothpaste into the sink from my perch on the porcelain. I missed, which meant my attempts at multi-tasking took more time than the actual tasks themselves.
Last week, I was on the phone with someone who was getting dressed, someone else who was wiping the mud off her dog's feet, a third person who was pumping gas, a fourth who was at the drive up for McDonald's.
Why do one thing, when you can do two? Remember the woman who robbed a bank while talking on her cellphone?
My personal multi-tasking favorite is driving, talking on the phone and putting on make up. I am the poster child for every annoying female driver on the road, One knee on the steering wheel so I can do my eye shadow, eye liner, mascara and lipgloss at every stoplight and in between, while talking to what seems like no one in particular via my earpiece. Sometimes, just for the thrill, I also eat a sandwich and fumble for the chips at the bottom of the bag.
Multi-tasking on the phone isn't a new phenomenon, of course. Nor is the range of tasks people choose to do. I remember one languid Sunday afternoon spent under an old boyfriend on his bed. He was, uh, taking me to task when the phone rang. It was his mother calling for her weekend chat. He couldn't just let it ring. He picked up the phone and actually held a conversation with her, while finishing what he had started with me, even putting his hand over my mouth when I started laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Now that I think about it, to this day I don't trust what men are doing on the other end of the phone. Which may explain why the folks who invented Phone-O-Vision could never get their idea off the ground.
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