Do Not Buy Another Carly Simon CD Until She Tells Us ONCE AND FOR ALL Who She's Singing About On You're So Vain.

Seriously, do not purchase anything of hers ever again. Or I'll come to your house and take it away from you. Unless she agrees to tell who she wrote that song about. Haven't you noticed how she's playing these stupid little games right when she's releasing her new version of You're So Vain. It's bad enough she's doing a cover of her own song. Smells of PR poop. Get the Glade. Sure, go ahead, Carly, use us. Play games with your fans. Again. You are SO-O-O vain. 
     Because she's done this before you know -- dropped hints. Remember when she wanted us to think she wrote You're So Vain about Warren Beatty? Supposedly, she was "dating" him and he dumped her. Actually Warren didn't date; he was a world class sport-farker. Well, get over it, Carly, he farked and dumped about half of Hollywood. At least you got a song out of it. Honestly, I can't believe so many people give a shit who that song is about. 
     Today I was listening to some lame talk radio host taking calls from listeners about who the guy could be. Ever the coy bitch, Carly now says his name is David and claims she has mentioned him in other songs. They're even playing her old tunes and trying to hear her say DAVID. "Did you hear it? I heard something that sounded like David."
     The big money is on David Geffen which I think makes absolutely no sense. Especially because one look at him and you can see he has absolutely no reason to be vain. David Geffen makes about as much sense as David Hartman. Remember David Hartman from Good Morning America? Neither does anyone else. See what I mean?

Some guy called the station and said he thought she wrote You're So Vain about James Taylor. James Taylor? But here's the best part. The talk show host said, "Wasn't she dating James Taylor for awhile?"  No, stupid, she was married to the guy back when he still had hair and THEY HAVE TWO CHILDREN. The song is not about him because he was probably so doped up he couldn't see himself in the mirror. 
     There is somebody who is supposed to know -- Dick Ebersole, the network producer. Apparently he bid $50,000 at some fancy schmancy auction for the privilege of having Carly perform You're So Vain and tell him who it was about. I bet he'd tell us if we said please. 
     Wait a minute. I'm not doing that. Because I don't care who the song is about. Nope. Don't. I do think it's a great song, however. In fact I've always thought she was a brilliant songwriter. If you have a chance, listen to the vamp before the opening lyric. So original, so unique. 
     In fact, I'd rather know what the heck Let the River Run is about. I mean, really, the new Jerusalem? Huh? Is that some secret password for New York? The first time I heard it was over the opening to Working Girl when the Staten Island ferry is making its way across the Hudson. She re-recorded that one again in 2009 and it pretty much sucks compared to the original. Not like when Jose Feliciano did his amazing cover of The Doors' Light My Fire. And turned it into a brand new song. 
     So, let's review. You promise, word of honor, that you will not buy anything by Carly Simon until she rats out the bastard who made her write that song.
     Just so we're clear. 
     You can go now.      

Tripping Down Short Term Memory Lane

My younger daughter got married three and a half years ago. Today, while sorting through photos, I found two DVDs that had pictures from the wedding I don't remember seeing before. These two are candids shot by the groom's brother. Even though the focus in both of them is soft, there's a real sense of the moment, not to mention the strange profile of the bride's mother in the top one. Floating around, disembodied. So, like ME. I really like these pictures because they are natural and unscripted. So, not having anything else to write about, I figured I'd post them and see if you agree.  

Blog Alert

There's a funny post over at a New Zealand blog: Today Is My Birthday! About fruits being vegetables and vegetables being fruits. She gets pretty upset about it. But in a good way.

A Diet Drink Diatribe for Tuesday

I hate the taste of Diet Coke. In fact I hate all diet drinks because I hate the taste of whatever it is they use as a substitute for sugar. Starting with cyclamates. Remember cyclamates? They were the new miracle sugar substitute until somebody started a rumor that they caused bladder cancer in ants or cockroaches and they had to flee to Canada. 
     Now they're making diet drinks with Equal, Splenda, Stevia and whatever that crap in the pink packet is. And, hello, cyclamates are back again. I guess the statute of limitations has expired. Regardless, I have hated them all. Starting with TAB, the first Totally Artificial Beverage. But I have a special spot near my bile duct for Diet Coke.
     Unfortunately, I may be the only woman in the world who hasn't made Diet Coke her non-alcoholic beverage of choice.   
     Seriously, it's the one drink that every woman I know will order with anything they eat. Big Mac and fries. Osso bucco. Imported artisan cheese with fresh pears. Le Boeuf Bourguignon. Pork rinds. Sushi. 
     I know this because I'm usually there when they say, "And I'll have a Diet Coke with that." It's as if the obscene caloric intake about to be consumed will be negated by drinking this magic potion. On reflection, it occurs to me that those same women may also find the taste of Diet Coke vile, but, in true female fashion, they order it to balance out whatever excesses they are about to embark on. If I drink this swill, then I'm free to eat whatever I want. I think I just had an aha moment. Somebody call Oprah. 
     Recently, at a party, the hostess offered to get me something to drink. I asked for a tonic and lime. No tonic. I asked for a ginger ale. Only Mountain Dew. [P.S. Never drink anything iridescent]. So I said, how about a Coke? Nothing like the thrill of full contact sugar with a rousing blast of caffeine to kick in my beta blockers. 
     Right after the first sip, like an unsuspecting spy in a John Le Carre novel, I said in my own inimitable way, "Ewww, this is DIET Coke, not REAL Coke." If I hadn't been worried about unhinging my new hips, I would have fallen to the floor and feigned death. [Yet another reason why being sixty-six sucks.] 
     Did I receive an apology for this unfortunate assault on my palate. Nooooo. Just a tepid, "Oh I just assumed Diet Coke would be okay." Bringing me a Diet Coke is like serving Two Buck Chuck at a state dinner. 
     How bad is my obsession with The Real Thing? By "real" I mean sugar. Apparently it has international implications. Recently I was at Chicago's Trump Tower for a movie junket. My job was to eat from the buffet of fruit and pastries while the interview was going on. 
     I noticed they were offering six-ounce Cokes in glass bottles. What cute little Cokes, I thought. So I had one. It was delicious. "Boy this tastes good," I said, telling the people I was with to try one. "It must be the glass bottles." 
     That's when I learned it wasn't the glass bottles. Not at all. These Cokes could be Mexican Cokes. Cue David Caruso. Wait, Miami is Cuban. Apparently, in Mexico they make Cokes with cane sugar, not corn syrup. I guess the word is out that cane sugar tastes better. I can tell you it's true. Now Mexican stores can't keep up with the demand. You can read about it HERE.
     Tracking down a good source of Mexican Coca Cola [notice I didn't say Coke because I don't want the Feds reading this blog. Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't say Feds.] reminds me of the days when you couldn't get Coors beer east of Nebraska. So my husband and I filled up the trunk with cases of the stuff on our way back from Wyoming one year. Only nobody told us that Coors had to be kept refrigerated or it would go bad. Until one day I opened up the pantry to get some out for a party and at least 100 cans looked like they were about to explode. 
     But I digress in my rant about Diet Coke. The bad news about hating Diet Coke with so much passion is that many times, okay twice, I've had to return to McDonald's drive-thru, after taking a sip of my drink at a stoplight a mile down the road and discovering to my horror that the "Coke" I ordered is actually [ptui] Diet. And they thought I wouldn't notice. 
     The good news is that I have discovered Mexican Coke, er, Coca Cola -- the answer to my never-ending quest for the best sugar rush money for soda pop can buy. Of course, in the future, whenever I request a Coca Cola, I intend to ask whether they're serving the quality Mexican beverage or the inferior American formula.
     And don't get me started on butter. 

February 21st

If I had stayed married, February 21st would be my 40th anniversary. 
     I wonder what I should do to celebrate not being married all these years? I'm open to suggestions. 

Separated At Birth?

Mrs. Linklater just loves it when she finds two people who were clearly separated at birth. Here's Coco's comedy sidekick, Andy Richter, and his great big bro, opera baritone, Bryn Terfel. Pity the poor woman who had to push these two out. 

Am I right? Of course I am!!!

The Burden of Greatness

It's awards season. The Golden Globes. SAGs. Grammys. CMAs. BAFTAs. Funky Monkeys. And I have just been anointed with One Lovely Blog Award by Tiny Elvis. Thank you, Ms. Elvis.  As part of my punishment I am to reveal ten things about myself you might not know. After which I will pretend to present this award to some other unsuspecting bloggers who are required by law to do the same.

So here goes:

1. I sound a lot younger on the phone. This can cause problems. Really.  

2. I would rather eat sushi than chocolate cake. But not chocolate sushi.  
3. The opening in my ears is so tiny that earbuds always fall out. Round peg. Square hole. 
4. The Breakfast Club and Groundhog Day may be my two favorite movies.
5. My honeymoon was a horse round up. [This may be news to a couple of people].
6. Because I can often do things with either hand, i.e., bat right, throw left, golf right, play tennis left, iron both ways, same with a mouse -- sometimes I can't tell if I'm doing something right or left-handed. For instance, crocheting. I naturally do it right-handed. I didn't know that until I saw someone do it left-handed. [Yep, that's me sitting in my rocker making doilies].
7. I don't care which way the toilet paper hangs. [There's a joke in there trying to get out].
8. I was the tetherball champion [girls AND boys] at my junior high. 
9. I cannot watch horror movies. 
10. I've been told that I'm cool under pressure, but I can't watch anything tense on television. I'll change the channel or walk out of the room. 
     Now it's time to slap the fickle finger of fame on some other people. Here, in no particular order are some blogs I'd like to pimp: oh wait, the Olympics are still on -- sorry, you'll have to wait until tomorrow morning.
     All right, here's what I'm going to do. Since I HATE doing lots of links, here's ONE that takes you to my profile and the entire list of blogs I follow. Each and every one of you should consider yourselves PUNK'D, I mean PIMPED. 
     Or -- leave a link to your blog in the comments. 

What Would Martha Do?

I'm in a Catch - 22 here.  Somebody I know has died a sudden, tragic, unexpected death. He had a heart attack, which so many people survive nowadays, but it turns out they couldn't save him even with stents or an artificial heart.  
     Here's the truly terrible news -- he was only 38, and left a wife and two little children.  
     It gets worse!!!
     Apparently he just found out the company he owned was about to go under, because his business partner had been robbing him blind. So, along with dying, there isn't a dime for his children. 
     I'm just getting started. Here comes the really hard part for me -- since this is all about ME you know. 
     His mother and stepfather live two doors down. His real father was a bi-polar drunk who once shot his .357 magnum through the living room ceiling into his son's bedroom. Luckily the kid was away at camp or dad might have killed him. 
     His mother used to bring him and his brother over to my house at midnight to escape dear old dad's latest rampage. I encouraged her to divorce the jerk and she did. I told her she'd be remarried in two years because she had sons. She told me later she remembered that when she divorced him. Because I was right. 
     However, somewhere along the way she has become the neighborhood know it all. Anyone who has followed this blog knows that I can't stand her. How bad is it? I was on my parkway one day last fall when she drove by. As soon as she looked at me, I gave her the finger. 
     For some reason she has dedicated the last couple of years to calling the cops to do wellness checks on me. She doesn't even try to reach me on the phone first. The cops don't call me either. Cops being cops, they think the Patriot Act gives them carte blanche with anyone over sixty. They don't need no f**king warrant, because they are performing a public service. [Don't get me started].
     She called in the last one when I wasn't even living in my home. I had temporarily moved to my stepmom's following a burst pipe and two hip surgeries. 
    Knowing that this bitch lurks around, I left notes telling the cops to stay out of my house unless I gave them permission to enter. I put one on my front door and one on my back door, sure that she'd sneak up and read them. 
     At the bottom of the note, as a Lucky Strike extra, I wrote, "If Mrs. Asshead [not her real name] is such a busybody that she gets close enough to read this, she can go f**k herself." 
     Based on the weird looks I've been getting, I'm sure she read it. 
     So now her dorky, un-athletic, unattractive, personality-free older son has died. Way too young. He hadn't been feeling well for a couple of weeks, apparently. He had ignored the symptoms. Heck, he was only 38, anybody would. 
     But I think his heart attack got started a long time before that. Most people who have been through what he went through as a boy would have been acting out with anger, drugs, drinking, or something, anything, as a teenager. His father was not only drunk, but mentally ill.  
     Instead, as a boy, he always kept his pain inside, barely speaking unless spoken to. Following a straight and narrow path through high school and college. Getting married. Having kids. Now after learning that his business was going under, with a family to support, I can see how keeping things bottled up for so many years was a little like shaking a can of pop. Once it opened up a crack it was going to explode. 
     Which brings me to my dilemma -- I could easily send flowers to his parents' house here, but NOOOOOOO. His wife in North Carolina has done one of those "In lieu of flowers" things. They want money donated to a college fund for the kids. Oh, crap. Flowers to his parents two doors down are so much easier. Then they don't know how much I spent either. If I donate I have to give more than the flowers would cost because THEY'LL KNOW.
     Ack. What would Martha do?  

     P.S. Anybody notice the resemblance between Martha and me? Squint your eyes. Now do you see it?  Okay, close your eyes. Now?

An Afternoon Well Spent

While the rest of you are trying to catch up with the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue and keep track of how many gold medals the US has won, I have discovered far more interesting news you can use. The first has video proof:
     Five things that animals can do with their penises
The second is up on YouTube:
     Butt sniffer
You're welcome. 

Assignment for NBC Video Editors at the Vancouver Olympics

I was watching the pairs skating when I got an idea. I turned off the TV and turned on a completely different piece of music. Kind of like listening to the radio play-by-play while watching a ballgame. 
     What piece of music you ask? I'll get to it. 
     The skating of each pair matched the new music perfectly. From start to finish. Their movements choreographed to this alternate music seamlessly.  No matter what the original music might have been.  
     That's why I think somebody at NBC should edit a video with clips of all the Olympic skaters performing their programs to the new arrangement of -- wait for it -- We Are The World. It's goosebumpy. 

Ice dancers Torvill and Dean      

Throwdown

Those of us with no Valentine's Day plans may be posting a lot of entries today. Why look, here's another one:

If the time ever comes when they do a bio-pic of Weird Al Yankovic, I think Ryan Gosling would be perfect to play Al.  I'm serious. Curl his hair, add a pair of glasses, a little dye, and you couldn't tell those two apart.

BEFORE

                                                                        AFTER

While You're Gorging on Chocolates

For Valentine's Day the folks at Movietone created a video from famous I LOVE YOU moments in romantic pictures, starring everyone from Cary Grant to Ryan Gosling. Apparently they're so thrilled with their efforts they have suggested you could send this love thang to your own loved ones. Mrs. Linklater watched it and thought it was lame. 
     However, as a consolation, Movietone also offered a two minute video of Mel Gibson movie rants, which Mrs. Linklater can recommend without reservation. See what Mel can do when he embraces his inner demons and captures them for posterity on film. You'll find that video HERE. [Unless everybody had the same idea I did, in which case you may have to wait a minute.] 

Candy Flowers and Perfume -- Not Really A Love Story. . .Well, Maybe a Little

Mrs. Linklater may not seem like a romantic, but beneath these layers of polar fleece there beats a heart of a fresh baked chocolate chip cookie. And so on this Valentine's Eve, being by myself, I find that I have been reflecting on Valentines past. On one Valentine's Day in particular. For some reason, that seems to be the only Valentine's Day I can remember. [Except for one other one, long ago, that requires too much explanation. And another I wrote about HERE.] 
     Perhaps the memory comes to mind because my boyfriend at that time was always willing to give me anything and everything I wanted. He was 30 and single; I was 36, divorced, with two kids. He probably would have done this for me the rest of my life, since he really and truly loved me, but the timing was off and I eventually sent him on his way. One of those, "It isn't you; it's me" break ups. The road not taken. Interesting that I have discovered we're both still single.  
     Before he gets too much credit for giving me exactly what I asked for on V-Day, I should point out it wasn't because of any prescient skills on his part. It was entirely because he was smart enough to ask me, "What do you want?"  
     I think when Freud wondered, "What do women want?" it set him and everyone who followed him on an unnecessary journey, one which ended up with the questionable discovery of the "G" spot. I think the reply to his query was right in front of him the whole time. What women want is simple. We want you to ask us,"What do you want?" He could have saved himself and a couple of generations a lot of time and wasted effort. 
     So, when my boyfriend asked me, "What do you want for Valentine's Day?" I was shocked. No one had ever thought to ask what I wanted for Valentine's Day. My generation of women was trained to drop hints, to say one thing and mean another, none of which I have ever subscribed to. So asking was a brilliant move on his part. It took me all of one second to answer, "Flowers, candy and perfume." 
     I know I probably could have, should have, asked for jewelry. He may have even been prepared to give me an engagement ring, but at the time, any sort of jewelry would have felt too permanent. I needed something more ephemeral. 
     Meanwhile, back to my flowers, candy and perfume. One thing I've learned is that those of us with a penchant for comfortable shoes and waterproof clothing often find ourselves on the receiving end of vacuums, blenders, and car parts. To which I can only say, "Do you want to get laid or not?"
     Which brings us to the day when most women-expect-way-too-much-and-usually-get-disappointed. I was expecting a pound of candy, probably Fanny May vanilla creams, but I  would have enjoyed a half dozen Snickers in a bag. I also wanted flowers, roses preferably, but any kind, in any color, was fine. Same with a bottle of perfume. It could be eau de cologne or toilet water, as long as it was something that smelled good. After all, he had asked and I had told him. Even if I only got one out of the three, I was going to be happy. I'm not proud of being low maintenance, but it does make a modicum of happiness easier to achieve. Certainly where men are concerned.  
     I know what you're thinking -- how did he screw it up? He's a man.That's what they do. Ah, but don't forget, I said he really and truly loved me. On Valentine's Day when a man is in love, he doesn't screw up. So, he made my wish come true above and beyond my expectations 
     On the day of days, he first handed me a beautifully wrapped box. It was very heavy and way too large for perfume. And way too compact for flowers. I knew it couldn't be candy. Could it? I opened it up. Inside I saw the familiar gold box that defines Godiva chocolates. Only this wasn't any box of Godiva chocolates I'd ever seen. It was big enough for a pair of Air Jordans. I knew from experience that a two-pound box of Fanny May Chocolates was huge. [You know, for parties and special occasions, not just to keep in the freezer and eat on Saturday nights]. But this was three pounds of not just any chocolate, but Godivas -- and it was the motherlode. Inside I found three layers of the most dazzling array of handmade chocolate pieces, ever. 
     For show and tell I did a screen grab of this box of Godivas. I tried to find a 3-pound box, but they no longer seem to offer one that large. So I had to use this one. It holds 36 pieces. It weighs just under a pound. Now triple it. Then be prepared to empty your bank account to pay for it.

Next, he presented me with flowers. Two dozen roses. Not one dozen tulips or carnations like I half expected. Not just red or white or yellow or pink, but all different variations of each. At first I thought a single color would have been prettier, but then he told me why he chose so many different shades. Instead of just putting in his order and letting the florist do the work, he had gone into the cooler, freezing his ass off in the process, taking the time to select each rose for its size, the perfection of its bloom, and its beauty. Each one for its own self. Until that moment, I had never believed that "it's the thought that counts" meant very much. 

 

And then there was the perfume. The icing on the cake. Not cologne. The real thing. To this day I enjoy the smell of Chanel's signature scent. I don't wear it as often, but every time I dab some on, I experience a flood of Valentine's Day memories.

Those three gifts left a lasting impression. Enough so that remembering each one is almost as good as getting them again. 

     Of course, while I may not have anyone waiting to make my wishes come true this Valentine's Day, I did get some funny cards from a girlfriend to help cushion the reality. My favorite is one with a little girl on the front whose face is covered in chocolate. Inside, the card says, "see the chocolate. taste the chocolate. be the chocolate." 

     Excellent idea. Luckily, there's a 24-hour Walgreen's not far from here.     

We Are The. . .Confused

I was watching the new 25th anniversary version of We Are The World and I realized there sure were a lot of people I didn't recognize. So I figured I'd just ask, even though it will soon become apparent that, despite my daily efforts to keep abreast of all things 18 to 24, I'm totally out of the hip-hop-pop loop. So here goes:

I know that's Randy Jackson on the left, but I confess I have no clue about the woman next to him. I thought for a second that one of the Kardashians got in by mistake. But then I was distracted by the Indian guy there in front. Who the heck is he? 

     And I am totally at a loss about who the blond babe in this next picture is -- I thought maybe Joss Stone at first, but what's she done to her hair? And she didn't sound all that Joss Stone-y to me. 

And what about the prepubescent kid who started it all off? Not a Jonas brother. A Jonas little brother? Or is that redundant?

Here's a whole bunch of other peeps I'm hardpressed to identify. Except for Josh Groban, who seems like he's been trying very hard lately to appear not gay. Who are these people?

Who's the extremely white bald guy in this next picture? I still didn't know who he was even after they identified him in one of the behind-the-scenes videos. Izaac something? Or was that his last name? Seriously, if I had to guess I would have said, Moby. 

It just gets worse. He was only on screen for a second, but even after I did a screen grab, the identity of this next singer still eludes me:

I saw the last two original Beach Boys in the choir, looking like prunes. Brian Wilson also looked like a good reason to get bariatric surgery. And Mike Love looked every minute of his 60+ years. 
     In a wide shot, I got a glimpse of Mr. Barbra Streisand hanging out on the sidelines, just in range. Nearby, on a riser, some guy who resembled Elvis Costello, but wasn't, held his toddler daughter while he sang. Did the nanny have the day off? Jennifer Hudson was in good voice. I thought Fergie held her own quite nicely with Celine Deon. 
     Pink was powerful. She can do no wrong after her VMA performance, when she was hanging from the ceiling like a Cirque de Soleil acrobat, while simultaneously singing and taking a shower.    
     Hanna Montana's got a nice set o' pipes. Janet Jackson, singing with her dead brother, provided an unexpectedly poignant moment for me, since I'm very cynical about all things Jackson, except for the kids. Meanwhile, Tony Bennett seemed way out of place. Like a singing maitre d' at an old school Italian ristorante. Check out the wallpaper in the background. Who dressed that set?
     I loved LLCoolJ, Snoop Dogg and Jamie Foxx rapping. No, I didn't know who the other rappers were. I looked for Vince Vaughan, anywhere. Never saw him. 
     Did you notice how the singers in the choir got moved around every time we cut back to them? Jeff Bridges started out in the middle and ended up in the back row. "Okay, people, let's break for lunch -- try to remember where you were standing." 
     I figured out who Wyclef Jean was. What's the deal with that guy? Not his voice, for sure. 
     I love this 25th anniversary version much more than the other one. Despite the unfortunate, weird, off key vibrato ending. I even shed a tear or two thinking about all those kids in Haiti. Then I donated a million dollars. Anonymously. 


WATCH AND LISTEN TO THE VERSION OF THE VIDEO AT HULU.com HERE:

Somebody Make Me Laugh, Please

Ever have one of those days? When you know a little well-placed duct tape could go a long way to holding up your car's exhaust system, but the mechanic is all about fixing it right? So he can take $500 out of your pocket? 

Or your entire address list gets hi-jacked by a spammer and you keep hearing from people you totally forgot about, who start out their emails with, "Hey, Mrs. Linklater, how's it going, great to hear from you. I have my own business now and I'd love to do some work with you." What? Huh? And you know they're going to be just as pissed off as you are, since they don't know it yet, but they have accidentally hit the wrong button and sent all their email addresses to that asshead spammer, too. 

Ever have one of those days? When your town is featured on the TV weather report for having the most snow in the entire metro area [with more coming] and the only thing that's good about that news is knowing that D.C. is getting it worse than you?  [Just kidding l'il bro].  

Or you've run out of Zantac, but you still went ahead and ate some Boar's Head ham for dinner with that expensive matching sauce that burns holes in your gut, so now you have to find your keys, then bundle up like you're going out to recess in nursery school, brush the snow off the car for the third time, turn the defrost on high, even though it only blows cold air for the first two miles, all so you can get to Walgreen's for another box of pills, or else you will  have to sleep standing up. . .

You know, that kind of day? 

Well, here's how bad it got. I don't drink. Okay, maybe a sip of wine when I'm out with friends for dinner. And just a sip, because after the first one, it tastes like vinegar to me. I actually left my home in this terrible weather, yes, I went out AGAIN, and bought alcohol, some Bailey's.

And I drank a shot of it. Out of a French jelly glass. Maybe it was two shots. And I'm looking forward to MORE.

That's the kind of day it was. 

Hitler Is Really Upset About The iPad

"Es ist ein tamponenhoffer!"  See the video HERE.

From the Minister of Funny Walks

A Message from John Cleese [maybe] sent via email. 

[At first, Mrs. Linklater could not confirm or deny the authenticity of this alleged letter from Cleese, but even though she can now -- see below -- it's still funny].

To:  The citizens of the United States of America:

In light of your failure to nominate competent candidates for President of the USA, and thus, to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately. 

Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories (except Utah, which she does not fancy).

Your new prime minister, Gordon Brown, will appoint a governor for America without the need for further elections.


The Congress will be disbanded.


A questionnaire may be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed.


To aid in the transition to a British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:


1. You should look up 'revocation' in the Oxford English Dictionary. Then look up aluminium, and check the pronunciation guide.  You will be amazed at just how wrongly you have been pronouncing it.

2. The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'favour' and neighbour.'  Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters, and the suffix-ize will be replaced by the suffix-ise.

Generally, you will be expected to raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels.  (look up 'vocabulary').

 ------------------------

3. Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as 'like' and 'you know' is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication.

There is no such thing as US English.  We will let Microsoft know on your behalf.  The Microsoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take account of the reinstated letter 'u' and the elimination of -ize.  You will relearn your original national anthem, God Save The Queen.

 -------------------

4. July 4th will no longer be celebrated as a holiday.

 -----------------

5. You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers, or therapists.  The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not adult enough to be independent.

Guns should only be handled by adults.  If you're not adult enough to sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist then you're not grown up enough to handle a gun.

 ----------------------

6. Therefore, you will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous than a vegetable peeler.  A permit will be required if you wish to carry a vegetable peeler in public.

 ----------------------

7. All American cars are hereby banned.  They are crap and this is for your own good.  When we show you German cars, you will understand what we mean.

Holden Monaros are also approved.

 ---------------------

8. All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left with immediate effect.  At the same time, you will go metric without the benefit of conversion tables.

Both roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.

 --------------------

9. The Former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been calling gasoline) - roughly $6/US gallon.  Get used to it.

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10. You will learn to make real chips.  Those things you call French fries are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called crisps.  Real chips are thick cut, fried in animal fat, and dressed not with catsup, but with vinegar.

 -------------------

11. The cold, tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all.  Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as Lager.

South African beer is also acceptable as they are pound for pound the greatest sporting Nation on earth and it can only be due to the beer.  They are also part of British Commonwealth - see what it did for them.

American brands will be referred to as Near-Frozen Gnat's Urine, so that all can be sold without risk of further confusion.

 ---------------------

12. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as good guys.  Hollywood will also be required to cast English actors to play English characters.

Watching Andie Macdowell attempt English dialogue in Four Weddings and a Funeral was an experience akin to having one's ears removed with a cheese grater.

 ---------------------

13. You will cease playing American football.  There is only one kind of proper football; you call it soccer.  Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full Kevlar body armour like a bunch of nancies).  Don't try Rugby - the South Africans and Kiwis will thrash you, like they regularly thrash us.

 ---------------------

14. Further, you will stop playing baseball.  It is not reasonable to host an event called the World Series for a game which is not played outside of America.  Since only 2.1% of you are aware that there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable.  You will learn cricket, and we will let you face the South Africans first to take the sting out of their deliveries.

 --------------------

15. You must tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us mad.

 -----------------

16. An internal revenue agent ( i.e. tax collector) from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all monies due (backdated to 1776).

 ---------------

17. Daily Tea Time begins promptly at 4 pm with proper cups, never mugs, with high quality biscuits (cookies) and cakes; strawberries in season.


God save the Queen.  Only He can.

[not] John Cleese


[Apparently this letter has been circulating in various forms since the 2000 election. Read about the history of its origins HERE.]

Stupid Blogger Tricks

Remember when there used to be a Blogger type size that was in between THIS and. . . 


THIS?


When "normal" was slightly larger than this, and "large" wasn't so 


REDICKALUS? 


What's with all the freaking double spacing that suddenly becomes quadruple spacing when you post it? What's with that? Huh huh?


Like any of YOU know.

Stay At Home In Bed Under The Covers

On the West Coast, where it's been raining since Christmas, here's what happened this morning in Malibu:

On the East Coast, where the average snowfall for the whole winter in D.C. is fifteen inches, here's what's been happening this morning outside my niece's house:

They're expecting 15 to 30 inches today.

Gentleman and Lady, Start Your Engines!

Every four years, like clockwork, it happens. The muffler on my Jeep expires. Its freshness date ran out with a very loud noise last night when I started the engine. BROOOM BROOM BROOM BROOM BROOM BROOM BROOM. I suppose I should be embarrassed. But, as those who know me might expect, I'm not. 
     People in my town, most of whom walk around with sticks up their butts, might think I sound like an elephant farting as I travel down the road. But there are others -- me, for instance -- as well as the ghosts of every greaser that spent his days polishing all seventeen coats of his candy apple red '61 Buick LeSabre, who live for the sound of the unmuffled muffler. That unfettered noise is one you no longer hear on the road, certainly not as often as we enjoyed it during those halcyon days of yesteryear. Before we knew that James Dean, Rock Hudson, and Montgomery Clift were gay.  
     It is a car sound that turns heads and drowns out conversation. A sound that only teenage hoodlums looking for trouble used to make. A sound that doesn't exist anymore because there are no more leather-jacketed, engineer-booted, duck-tailed bad boys cruising the main drag in souped up Chevys. Those "hoods" are all 65 years old, driving Lexus hybrids with their seatbelts on. Replaced by plaid-shirted, pot-smoking slackers who sit in their basements playing Grand Theft Auto and watching Pimp my Ride.
     Except every fourth year when my muffler goes.
     For me, the memorable thumba thumba thumba of unfettered pistons, glass pipes, dual carbs, or is it quads, and those other thingys that combust and go boom inside the engine, take me back to when I used hang out in the pits at Road America. Before I became a soccer mom and started investing in Girl Scout cookies. 

This is how my Jeep looks.

This is how my Jeep sounds.

Now I'm in a Catch 22. I love the noise my car is making. But in this day and age, I could get a ticket for noise pollution, not to mention a ticket for the noxious fumes emanating from the hole in the exhaust system. But I also don't have time to take the car in to get it fixed until Monday, because I have places to go and people to see this weekend. 
     Maybe I should just channel my inner Pinky Tuscadero -- put on some black capris with a pink angora sweater, tease my hair, and get a big wad of gum working. 
     I can hear it now -- uh, Mrs. Linklater, aren't you a little old to be revving your engine in front of the high school? 
     You talkin' to me?  

Support Your Local Author

Apparently there is a major dust up between Amazon and a book publisher, Macmillan. So Amazon has de-listed all of Macmillan's books. Obviously this affects Macmillan's bottomline.
     But, while this asinine behavior is technically between Amazon and the publisher, their battle really screws Macmillan's authors, big-time, in a number of different ways. 
     Read about the collateral damage to the authors at John Scalzi's blog HERE.
     He suggests we start buying we books someplace else online. YES!  AMAZON HAS COMPETITION!!!! Who knew? 
     There are many places you can link to for your books: you can go directly to the publisher's site, for instance: Macmillan is HERE. 
     Other booksellers online include Barnes and Noble -- they take PayPal. 
     There’s Powell’s. IndieBound.  
     Also Books-a-million. 
     Be sure to read the comments in Scalzi's blog for even more ideas of how your checkbook can be heard. [What's with the #($*#$&#( doublespacing?]