As a pubic service. . .

I've been working on an entry entitled, "Dear Sandy." Yes, I actually thought I should warn Sandra Bullock that she would be making a mistake to marry Jesse James. After the fact, of course, when you can always be right. 
     I even made up a list she could tape to her wrist and refer to, like an NFL quarterback. You know, for those times when she might be all naked and forgetful like people get, when they're blinded by body art and surprisingly huge naughty bits they've never seen before.
     Originally I wanted to give her the list when I first heard she was dating the guy, but she never calls, she never writes. So it languished in my Jeep's console under the hot cocoa lids, until it showed up unexpectedly, stuck to the back of the 2005 NCAA bracket I was filling out. Speaking of which, you ought to see my Sweet 16 picks. 
     Since "Better late than never" has always been a mantra of mine, the others being "Touch me and you die," and "WTF!!" you will find my helpful list at the end of this post, even though Sandy will no doubt move on with her life and just ignore it. 
     My real concern is that after having a taste of tattooed biker, some women never like plain vanilla or chocolate again. Which means we might have to watch her strolling down the red carpet with the likes of this guy when she's nominated for her next Oscar:

Meanwhile, let's not keep you in suspense any longer.  

     The Five Reasons Not To Marry Jesse James, by Mrs. Linklater: 
1. Never marry someone who's a better actor than you are. I know, you're surprised by this one, the very first no-no. But did you catch the quivering lip and the alligator tear-filled eyes of that lying sack of shinola? Sandra's onstage making the Oscar speech of her life, thanking him for having her back, when he's already been riding bareback for a couple of years with other women. Playing Bronco Billy on his office casting couch when she's not around. 
2. Never marry a guy who's had children with more than one woman. Two words: Carpool nightmares. 
3. Never marry a guy whose second wife is a porn star. First wife is usually just for practice anyway. Second wife, he's obviously not content with the blow up doll and the internet, he thinks it's okay to have his porn walking around the house live, and in person. Not good with kiddies on the couch watching the Disney Channel. 
4. Never marry anyone whose private parts are reputed to exceed the Guinness Book of Records. Unless isolated on a deserted island, these guys have a tendency to allow any and all women a chance to shine the shrine. As long as they're tall enough for the ride. The real problem is that ordinary schmoes admire guys like Jesse for the hugeness of their manhoods. Like they have anything to do with making it that way. Hey, look how big! I must be entitled!! 
5. Never marry a tattooed biker. Seriously. This one is so obvious, it makes anybody's don't list. Anybody who hasn't done five to fifteen for felony possession. Not that there's anything wrong with tattoos or bikers. Just not together. That's the conjugal combo from hell. Oh, sure go have your fun. But be home by dark. And do not ever confuse a guy who looks like this with a loving family man and husband. 

Really?

OBJECTS IN PHOTO MAY BE DINO POO

RIPPED FROM AOL NEWS HEADLINES: 
ANCIENT BONE COULD BE NEW SPECIES OF HUMAN
     Thanks to a bone fragment discovered in Siberia's Altai Mountains, scientists may be on the cusp of adding a new species to our hominin family. . .

     [The goofy, freaking scientists] who describe their findings in the current issue of Nature, used new sequencing technology and methodologies to analyze the DNA in [a] bone fragment -- believed to be a chip off the pinky of a 5- to 7-year-old child -- which was uncovered in material dated to 30,000 to 48,000 years ago. 

     "Hey, Walter, does this look like a chip off the pinky of a 5- to 7-year-old child to you?" 

     "What? That piece of petrified monkey poo? Are you insane?"

      Once they had sequenced the DNA, they compared it to that of modern humans and Neanderthals, both of which were living in the Altai Mountains in that time period, and found a surprising number of differences. "It really looked like something that I'd never seen before," [one of the scientists] says. "It was a sequence which was similar in some way to humans but is still quite distinctive." 

     "What you've got there is a piece of shit, Sherlock."

Based on these comparisons, the researchers estimate that modern humans, Neanderthals and this unknown hominin shared an ancestor about 1 million years ago. 

     Give or take a couple of years.

It's Never Too Late To Make Something Right

I'm one of those people who got fucked by the health insurance industry. At the time, I was in my forties. I had a decent income. But it turns out I had a pre-existing condition, as defined by the healthcare peeps. It wasn't cancer. It wasn't diabetes. It wasn't MS, Parkinson's, or Lupus. It was my job. 

      When I was still working for a big ad agency, I went to see a counselor because the stress of my job was making me crazy. [Okay, crazier.] 

      Coincidentally, a rep for a production house came in to screen a new director and we got to talking about health insurance. She said whatever you do, don't ever put in a claim for therapy sessions, because if you lose your job or go out on your own, you will be denied health insurance. 
      So I began to see a counselor about my crazy-making job, but paid for everything out of pocket.  After leaving the agency, I applied for sole proprietor insurance. I was eligible for a good package with Prudential, $200 a month, only four times as much as I was paying when I was covered by group insurance, but manageable. 
      Around the same time I had a physical. During a conversation with the doc, as he's taking my blood pressure, hammering my knees, and thumping my back, I mention that I had been going to therapy sessions because my job had been causing me so many problems, but when I left, the problems went away, so, ta-da! I didn't need a therapist any more. 
      A few weeks later I get a call from the insurance company. "Are you still seeing a therapist?"  Holy crap, how do they know that I even went to one? Because my doctor wrote down our conversation in my records. Which were sent to the insurance company when I applied for the new insurance. "Am I seeing a therapist? Not any more. But I paid for that out of my own pocket." "Well, we're still required to pay."  "But you don't have to."  
      It didn't matter. I was denied insurance through Prudential because I had done what a lot of people are told to do -- I sought help for a stressful situation. Not schizophrenia. Not drug, alcohol or sex addiction. Or re-hab. Something temporary, that went away when the source of the stress was gone. Something I paid for by myself, hoping not to draw the attention of the healthcare companies, based on the warning I got. Something they didn't even have to cover, since I never filed for reimbursement.  
      Except my doc ratted me out -- inadvertently, he claimed -- and when I told him the disaster his allegedly innocuous notation on my record had caused, he was stunned. 
      Now the only sole proprietor insurance I could get that had reasonable coverage would cost me over $600 a month. Those dollars are from 20 years ago. I didn't have that kind of money.  So I settled for such a high deductible that my insurance coverage didn't kick in until I had forked out enough for a new car. Not just the down payment for a new car; the whole car. 
      As a result I had to wait almost a decade before I could afford to get new hips through Medicare, our government run medical insurance plan. If the reform bill had been in place, I wouldn't have wasted ten years of my life wondering if I would ever walk right or feel normal again. 
      So thanks, Mr. President. Even though the reform bill is not perfect. It's a damn good start. 

Get the Facts, Jack!

With the medical insurance reform bill vote only hours away, it's hard to tell fact from fiction, but Fact Check.org HERE does just that.  Here's a sample of the crap they debunk: 

It’s government-run health care.

Despite the fact that the federal health insurance plan (a.k.a. the “public option”) is now gone from the bill, Republicans and conservative groups have continued to claim that the bill institutes a system like the one in the United Kingdom, or Canada, or otherwise amounts to a government takeover. It doesn’t. A pure government-run system was never among the leading Democratic proposals, much to the chagrin of single-payer advocates. Instead, the bill builds on our current system of private insurance, and in fact, drums up more business for private companies by mandating that individuals buy coverage and giving many subsidies to do so. There would be increased government regulation of the insurance industry, however, to require companies to cover preexisting conditions, for example. These “government-run” claims have also included heavy criticism of health care in the U.K., such as the outrageous assertion by former U.S. Surgeon General C. Everett Koop that seniors would be “too old” to qualify for artificial joints and pacemakers in the U.K. The majority of those getting joint replacements and pacemakers in the U.K. are, not surprisingly, seniors.

Ironically, if it weren't for Medicare, which IS government run, I still wouldn't have my new hips. 

Mr. Sandman, Take Back Your Dream, The Biggest Hose Nose That I've Ever Seen, Crackers in Bed, He Eats Like A Rabbit and Mr. Sandman That's A Crummy Habit. . .

There's a large [over 100] women's barbershop harmony group based in my town. They're really good, too. Apparently they're the current international champions. They've also been worldwide champs four other times. Here's a picture I grabbed from a different group, the Sweet Adenoids or something from Nashville. It doesn't matter, the groups all look alike: high gloss lips, sixties hair, sequined outfits, toothy smiles, forty-ish faces, flabby arms. Nothing says women's barbershop harmony like sassy, middle-aged women. See how the picture demonstrates to prospective members that you can be short, tall, fat or thin, and there will still be a dress that fits!!!

I thought about joining my town's hot-shit group over twenty years ago, but funny how kids, work, and exhaustion get in the way. However, I'm definitely ready now. Footloose and flabby fancy free. I actually have time to do something besides watch Law and Order re-runs. But I decided that joining that superstar championship group isn't what I had in mind. They're already winners. There's no place else for them to go but down. I wanted a group where I could feel like my half-baked harmonies could make a real contribution. 
      Enough with the laughter, people. I may be no American Idol, but I know about winning singing contests. Do, too. Thanks to me my sorority won Northwestern's small group May Sing competition back in the day, singing the Chordettes' O Baby Mine. I not only sang, but I arranged and directed. Everybody wore bowler derbies, white shirts, bow ties and mustaches. Except me. I came out wearing a barrel. And started it all off -- "O Baby Mine. . ." I also managed to weave the alma mater into the middle of the song, which was an especially excellent suck-up-to-the-judges touch. We won the next year too, singing the Hawaiian war chant. Yep, me again. Directing, Arranging. Singing. I found out that May SIng is now a lip sync competition. That just sucks. 
      Anyway, as luck would have it, I was at an assisted living fair courtesy of the senior center, trolling for candy, cookies, fancy hors d'oeuvres, veggies, chips, dip and a Coke as I pretended to be interested in all the different booths. For some reason, there was a representative from a ladies barbershop group hustling new members. She practically tackled me as I walked by. "You're alive and breathing, why don't you join us!" So I took her card and went to a rehearsal. Based on the amount of white hair, I was one of the youngest there. A couple of people were in wheelchairs. I saw four canes. A few noticeable limps. How could I not join? 
      So, I've made the commitment. I'll find out in a couple of more weeks if I'm invited into the group. Apparently you may be halt or lame, but you have to be able to sing. I wonder who does their choreography?
      Cross your fingers. 

Cat Sitting

See that kitty? He belongs to my stepma who just had knee replacement surgery. His name is Douglas. Dougie for short. I'm cat-sitting for him and his housemate, a Maine coon cat named Mrs. Farley. That's her nickname. Her real name is much longer. Most people think cats are aloof and standoffish. Not Dougie. He's way too friendly. 

      Right now, he's lying with his head on my laptop keyboard, purring, and trying to lick my fingers as I'm writing this. Unfortunately you can't tell how annoying that is from this picture. I tried taking a picture of him lolling all over the keys, but the flash was too bright. He looked like a white blob. I had to ask him to move back a little. You can see that he obliged without a complaint. I can't believe he's even tucking his paws under him in a normal, catlike pose. What a faker. He's a bathrug with whiskers. Oh, now Mrs. Farley wants her picture taken.  

 Sheesh. She looks tiny. But she's really a very tall, exceedingly long cat. With little ear tufts like a lynx. Her tail is even longer than she is. Too bad it didn't fit in the photo. 

     You can see the two remotes required to operate the non plasma TV in the background of Dougie's picture. Attractive living room accessories, no? You probably noticed that one couch has its back to the television. Don't ask why. 

     There's a bottle of Poland Spring fizzy water on the table. It was my beverage of choice this evening. Several bottles are usually kept around for my brother Dave's out of town visits -- sorry Dave, I got into your stash. 

     You can also see a black purse on the coffee table. I have been using that purse a lot because my other ones are still packed away at my house. Authentic Prada. Not a knockoff. It was a gift from a girlfriend for my birthday a couple of years ago. I was in Saks for their free pink plastic beach bag with $5000 purchase deal last week and thought I would get another purse, since I have been using it so much. I found one just like it in the price-tag-free Prada department. I asked the salesperson how much it cost, thinking that a small, microfiber purse couldn't cost that much. As purses go, it's just not very big. Okay, it's got a designer name, so maybe $100. She told me. I handed it back to her like it was on fire. Feel free to speculate. You won't come close. 

     See that can of spray? That's spot remover for the cat barf because, left untreated, cat barf will leave a stain. The can never gets put away. Uh-oh, Mrs. Farley just lay down on the edge of the keyboard. Luckily I don't have to worry about the cats barfing on my computer because it takes at least five to ten hacks to get a good barf going, so I can get it moved out of harm's way in plenty of time. 

     Tomorrow morning there's gourmet kitty salmon breakfast to serve and kitty litter poop and peep to cleanup. I can photograph those, too. No? Amazing how much the food going in resembles what comes out. And when there are two cats, plenty comes out. 

     Hasn't this been fun?

Cat's In The Cradle

This morning I made the bed in my stepmother's bedroom with a cat in it. [I'm at her house cat-sitting while she learns how to use her new knee.] First let me say I hate making big beds, because after you get one side all matchy matchy and pretty, you have to go around to the other side and do the same, then come back to the first side because you wrinkled something up while making the other side nice. I must have walked about a quarter of a mile. At least this bed doesn't have one side up against the wall, like my bed, which, even though it's just a double bed, has to be pulled out from the wall every time so I can smooth the duvet on that side. Oh crap, what a pain.
     Anyway, one of the cats, Dougie, is a comedian. He sleeps on your head, licks your nose while you're sleeping, and climbs in the sink just when you want to brush your teeth. Yesterday I caught him watching TV. Today he got under the top sheet as I was putting it on the bed. And he wouldn't leave. I couldn't get him off because he'd just move to another part of the bed. He stayed underneath the sheet the whole time, chasing his tail. So I just tucked in three sides, put a comforter on top and told him to have a nice day. The bed looks very Four Seasons, except for a huge lump in the middle. 

Kind of like this cat, only an orange one with long hair 

who looks annoyingly smug and not bug-eyed.

Gotta Change the Channel

I couldn't look at Mo-Nique's hairy legs any longer. I had to do another entry.
     Did you know that the name Poodle comes from a French word for Puddle? Because Poodles are water dogs. Sounds like puddle dogs to me. For a dog that's considered so smart that it's ranked second only to the border collie for brains, they sure can look stupid.

Did you know that 8500 extra condoms were airlifted to the Olympic villages in Vancouver, after they almost ran out of the original supply of 100,000?  I always wondered what those five rings stood for.

Did you know that Corey Haim died? Have you been under a rock? Did you believe that his life as a child star caused the conflicts that led to his drug abuse and subsequent death? Not unless he was left in the Green Room with a pedophile. The kid was molested. I remember thinking, geez he's sure got a lot of tattoos and piercings. So I had to wonder. And then he fessed up to sexual abuse as a kid.  

Corey Haim was the cute one.

Hey, Al, I think we hit toilet paper

Yesterday a bunch of guys with a back hoe, hardhats, and shovels dug up my front lawn so they could put in a new rammaframitz for the shiizzwhiz. This picture looks almost exactly like the mess they made, except my front yard hole in the ground was eight feet deep and not quite as wide. Yeah, they dug down to water. I took some pictures with real film, so you'll have to wait for the actual evidence. And did I mention that the $2000 I had planned to spend on my buttlift is gone?

     

These are my current favorite candies. Despite the unfortunate name.

A Different Kind of Carpet

Picking Oscars Is Like Picking Noses

Today I found myself surrounded by adoring fans, clamoring at me like a kindergarten class, "Oh please, Mrs. Linklater, tell us who you think will win the Oscars!" 
     Actually, I finally got tired of reading one article after another about who SHOULD win an Oscar, versus who WILL win, so I just decided to offer Mrs. L's "How Come They Never Ask Me" selections for BEST ACTOR/SUPPORTING ACTOR, BEST DIRECTOR, and BEST MOVIE based on my years of experience with Raisinets and buttered popcorn. I think you will find my criteria rather novel for picking the Oscars:
1. Best ACTUAL Performance by a lead or supporting actor in a movie this year -- not best body of work over time or consolation prize for losing last time, not best costume, prosthetic nose, accent, funny walk or unusual mannerisms  
2. Best Directorial SKILLS -- getting the actors to act is job one, not green screens, weird effects, or bizarro scripts
3. Best MOVIE goes to the film that offers the most compelling combination of casting, acting, story, music, shot selection, script, sound, editing, credits, you know, everything.   
    Before we start, I'd like to thank the folks at MoviesMSN for letting me steal borrow their graphics. You can watch trailers, get a synopsis, a review, a ticket, a date, pretty much anything over there. And the nominees are:

Might as well start with tonight's finale first -- Best Movie. I'm going out on a limb here -- it will not be A Serious Man, I mean seriously, a Coen Brothers comedy, are you insane? Why should I pay a dime to see a movie with Richard Kind in it? Even if he is a friend of George Clooney's. Kind is primarily a comic TV actor and doesn't belong on my Big Screen. In the interest of full disclosure I hated the Coen boys' No Country for Old Men. It didn't end, it simply stopped. And Javier Bardem was just a guy with a bad hairdo and a 100 yard stare. What about Fargo, you say? I've seen better stuff on Carol Burnett re-runs. 

     Well, we're off to a good start, aren't we?

     An Education? How about statutory rape disguised as a coming of age story wrapped up as a 60's period piece? The EWWWW factor is off the charts for me. Especially since the director is a woman who said she experienced a similar coming of age deflowering. What is it about this inappropriate seduction that you are so determined to romanticize? This movie is saved only by its ironically witty script, which has been nominated for best adapted screenplay, not one of Mrs. L's categories. 

     Avatar, blech. I'm the only person in the entire world who is not on the bandwagon for this one. Have you seen the videos that spoof the film as the same story as Pocahontas, only in Blue-face? This flick has more bells and whistles than an Edsel, all the better to capture the hearts and minds of 18-24 year old boys. But, sorry, I want better acting, a better story, and less gismos. 

     The Blind Side -- how did this Hallmark Hall of Fame movie get into theaters? Oh, Sandra Bullock. Love her, hated the nomination. Frankly, I usually want to have my heartwarming, feel-good sobs while I'm at home, curled up on the sofa with a pint of ice cream. No way this one wins. It's a paint by numbers portrait.  

     The Hurt Locker. This one would have made a better documentary. It starts out with the intensity of DefCon 1 and has no where to go, so it stays on the edge with its lights and sirens going for the entire movie. I was emotionally exhausted from the tension, but not much more when this one was over. 

      Inglourious Basterds. Spelling right out of Tarantino's arse, and a story from the same location. Quentin Tarrantino re-writes one of the most terrible times in world history. To what end? Because he can? What's next? How we won the Vietnam war? Or Woulda•Coulda•Shoulda - the Al Gore presidency? After the refreshing, irreverent, okay, brilliant Pulp Fiction was nominated for several Oscars and won for best screenplay, it's been downhill for Q in my book. 

     Up and Up In the Air. The first one's an animated kids' movie. There should be a separate category for those. After I saw Up in the Air, my reaction to all the hype for it was, "You're kidding, right?" Too many false notes in this Clooney paycheck movie, from the contrived dueling computers scene, to the one dimensional acting. Vanilla yogurt. 

     Which brings me to District 9 and Precious. Take your pick. They both get my Oscar for best movie of the year. District 9 has more layers than an architectural dig. Peel one off and there's another underneath. There are subtle undercurrents of class distinctions between the South Africans. Nevermind how badly they both treat the aliens. Even the name of Sharlto Copley's character, Wikus van der Merwe, is intentionally rude. It's like naming a working class stiff Al Grabowski. Or a wealthy snob Fauntleroy Chadbourne III. All you have to do is see an interview with Sharlto Copley to appreciate, by comparison, how well he captured the accent and angst of the hapless van der Merwe.    

     Precious has the benefit of casting against type, with performances imaginatively fine-tuned by Lee Daniels' superb directorial skills. The natural light of the film contributes to the desolation of the movie's main character.  The story is relentlessly discomfitting, never letting you escape, which is part of its power. I could go on, but you'll never see Precious no matter what I say.  

     Time for best actor. 

George Clooney is good, but he could have phoned this one in. Colin Firth was my second pick for Best Actor.  His gay character was restrained and graceful. Morgan Freeman is doing a really good impersonation of Mandela. Is that acting? Jeremy Renner is a very good actor whose talents weren't needed for his movie. Jeff Bridges gets my Oscar. He left it all on the field. He WAS that broke-down singer. Even in the trailer he says more with one look than Clooney spoke during his entire movie. 

 

Sandra Bullock dyed her hair and spoke Southern. Not good enough. Helen Mirren looked like she was playing dress up with her grandmother's clothes. Carey Mulligan played herself, no stretch there. Meryl Streep created a Julia Child worthy of Saturday Night Live. The absolute best female performance of the year was by Gabourey Sidibe. She had to go on tour just to convince people she WASN'T that character. 

     Time for best supporters:

Best Body goes to Matt Damon, but not the Oscar. He did good with his South African accent however. Christopher Plummer played the same ol' same ol' with a beard this time. Stanley Tucci, who is never bad, gets credit for disappearing into his character with hair, mustache, dweeb glasses and some devilish looks this time. But this is best supporting actor, not lifetime achievement. Christopher Waltz and Woody Harrelson make it hard to decide. I'll go with Woody.   

     Penelope Cruz shouldn't have been nominated for Nine. Vera Farmiga didn't have a very demanding part. She felt slightly miscast to me. Not enough edge. Maggie Gyllenhaal was flat. Anna Kendrick was interesting until she had her implausible crying scene, which came straight out of the "Acting for Dummies" book. Mo'nique left me shaking my head in astonishment. She brang it. 

     Best Director:

The best director favorite is Kathryn Bigelow, because the idea of a woman doing a war flick is such a novelty. The movie is good, but not that good. James Cameron is the master of big budget pix, but he's trying to dazzle us with lots of style and too little substance. Tarrantino missed the boat on this one. Jason Reitman made a nice movie. Not nice enough for an Oscar. Lee Daniels gets my best director Oscar. He told a difficult story, using a disparate group of actors, singers, and comedians, all led by a rank novice, and molded their performances into something nearly perfect. After Monster's Ball, Daniels has been working under the radar for years. Maybe not so much anymore. 

     Okay, I can't wait to find out how wrong I am. 

The View From The Other Side of the Lawn

My three regular readers may have noticed a change in the picture that tops this blog. Instead of the view from my girlfriend's house in Bozeman, Montana, looking out over the Bridger Mountains, we now have a view from the long porch at Cowley Manor in the English countryside -- more specifically, the Cotswolds, which is British for "quaint as shit."  Here's the other side of the top picture -- taken from the lawn, after turning around and facing the house.

Lovely refurbished 19th century manor -- 30BRs, 30BA, pool, pond, 

and that rarest of amenities, a 12th century chapel, on 55 acres

My daughter and son-in-law got married on a Thursday at Chelsea Town Hall. Only members of the immediate family attended that ceremony. Then about sixty of their friends arrived from the states for a three day reception. Friday was a pub party. Saturday was an afternoon at a football [soccer] game. Saturday night was a barbecue at the groom's parents' house. [London barbecue is an oxymoron in case you're wondering.] Sunday a bus arrived in the morning to transport every one to Cowley Manor for a day of swimming and relaxing before the formal reception that night. Nothing like barreling down a highway, thinking it's just like any highway in the United States, only to look out the window and suddenly see a huge castle, her nibs' digs at Windsor. We were not in Kansas anymore. The bride and groom had reserved all the rooms at Cowley Manor for the whole night, so the champagne, music, and dancing went on until the morning. Since then, they've returned every year on the weekend of their anniversary.  

One Woman's Whining

Is anybody in charge of the cable tv company? Anybody? Or do they just have carte blanche to change the line up of cable stations as soon as you cross the boundary from your town to the town next door? Isn't there some regulatory agency that can just say no to this shit? 

    I notice that the major networks remain the same -- CBS, NBC, ABC, FOX, even WGN. So obviously it is possible to maintain some order. Okay, then, why do Animal Planet, Comedy Central, USA, TNT, CNBC, Oxygen, Lifetime, ESPN, Spike, et al -- all have to be different? Is there a logical reason for this?  Is national security involved? Is this yet another plan of the former Bush administration to discredit Obama? Or have the kids in Special Ed finally found a way to extract a measure of revenge?

     I live three miles from my stepmother. And yet her line up of cable channels is different than mine. At my house the Food Channel is on 25. At her house, it's in the sixties. At least I think that's the Food Channel. At her house the History Channel is on 73. At mine, 53. A & E is 55 in my town; 50 in hers. And I still haven't found ESPN. Why do they do that? Isn't there a button someone can push to line them all up and make them the same -- at least within 25 miles of each other? It all feels so ADD. Can you imagine what it would be like if radio stations did the same thing? 

    There are 15 towns within a ten mile radius of my house. And the cable line up for each one of them is different. Did I mention that we all have the SAME CABLE COMPANY? Who let Comcast buy up all the other cable companies anyway? Isn't that an anti-trust violation? Or did they get the same exemption Wal*Mart did? 

     The good news is that every town has the same remote. The bad news is, looks can be deceiving. I can't use my stepmother's remote to turn on the TV or make the sound louder -- even though it looks exactly like mine. I have to use the remote that came with her TV for on/off, loud/soft. But then I have to switch and do everything else with the cable remote. At her house, there are penalties for making mistakes. Choose the wrong remote and the long arm of Comcast will reach out and slap you upside the head. If you accidentally, God forbid, use her TV remote, instead of the cable remote to change a channel, you'll get this:

And you may never see another program again. Unless you're a NASA scientist. Or at least know a NASA scientist.

     If I were in charge, the cable lineup would not only be the same, but you could customize your package so that you wouldn't have to take channels you didn't want just to get the channels you did. And after paying a nominal monthly fee which covers the number of channels you pick, you would only be charged for what you actually watch. You should also be able to opt in for a special broadcast on a channel you don't have for a small fee, anytime you want.

     Obviously I've been thinking about this too much. 

     More and more I've been watching Hulu and Fancast on my computer. And Netflix downloads definitely have their appeal. Maybe the end of Comcast, et al, is closer than we think. 

How To Date A Single Parent

Surely you noticed the dating advice and tips on the AOL, sorry, Aol Personals page today. The one about the eight tips for dating a single parent. You missed it? Well here's a quick summary:
1. Be understanding. [Yeah, suck up to the little bastards.]
2. Make an effort. [You know, get off the couch once in a while.]
3. Get lost occasionally. [Let someone else hog the remote.] 
4. Spend time with the kids. [Bring money. Go to the mall.] 
5. Don't get too parental. [Timeouts are for umpires.]
6. Avoid good cop/bad cop. [Russian Roulette is so Deerhunter.] 
7. Be mature. [But don't get fuddy duddy on everybody.] 
8. Get comfortable with the ex. [Just not too comfortable.] 
     Naturally Mrs. Linklater has more rules she'd like to add to this list. She feels entitled since she raised her daughters from when they were in single digits. And they made it out the other side. 
1. If I got a babysitter, we're going out. 
2. If the kids are with their dad, we're going out.
3. If the kids are at camp, we're going out. 
4. If one of the kids comes knocking in the middle of the night, don't be surprised to find yourself under the bed, in the closet, or behind a door.
5. You are not their uncle.
6. You are not their life coach.
7. Sunday breakfast is your responsibility.
8. So's your laundry. 
Thus endeth the lesson for today.