They're Baaaaaaaaack

I've been remiss in posting this story, mostly because I keep forgetting it until it shows up in my nightmares. So there's that.

Several, several months ago The Husband (and Melissa's husband as well, I later found out) was excited to watch one of his favorite programs on PBS (or MPT as it's know here), Maryland Outdoors, or Outdoors Maryland. Whatever. Something not inside. So anyway, he was all sorts of thrilled to get to watch it again, and judging by our TV schedule, it should have been on when he tuned to that channel. And yet, it wasn't on. What was you might ask?

The one, the only, Celtic Man. YES, that intrepidly stupid group of singing and assumedly drunken Irishmen who couldn't emote their way out of a paper bag. What are the odds that not only was The Husband's show not on as promised, but it was superseded by this, the most unintentionally entertaining musical group of all time?

Oh, but wait, it gets better! Not only was Celtic Man performing at that time, but at the very moment we tuned in, Creepy, Leering, Future Public Sex Offender Guy was singing. No, not his signature "Ride On" piece, but...wait for it...the man who looks every moment as if he's going to crack your skull open and eat his Coco Crispies out of it was singing "Every Breath You Take." NO, I CERTAINLY AM NOT KIDDING. The creepiest stalker singer on earth was singing the creepiest stalker song ever written. It's like he reads this blog and does it out of spite or something.

Don't believe me? It's right on their fricking youtube channel.

And for our added amusement, some totally random dancer dances on stage while he awkwardly haunts her from his perch. Why doesn't he just sing with a hockey mask on while he's at it? Now THAT I'd pay to see.

Owing Taxes on Your Three Wishes

Well folks, it's tax day! And you all know what that means, don't you? Long-forgotten St. Patrick's Day Memories! Now settle down, settle down. I know I promised this weeks ago, but if there's one thing I'm not too particular about, it's your happiness. So here we are.

When you think of St. Patrick's Day, what do you think about? Leprechauns? Pots of gold? Random green crap? Drunken Irishmen? Drunken non-Irishmen? Correct responses, all. But the Husband and I decided that the best way of celebrating this holiest of holy inebriation holidays would be to pay to see hopefully mostly-sober Irish folks singing on stage. Celtic Thunder/Man you hope? I'm afraid not, although the Husband did at one time suggest that we might see them in concert, to which I laughed and laughed and laughed. And then I laughed some more. "Wait, I assumed you would like them?" he asked. And then I snorted and laughed again. No, gentle readers, we went to see the better of the two groups, Celtic Woman, who was performing on the 17th in Baltimore (aren't we special here in Maryland?). I was surprised that the Husband had suggested we go several months ago, but he lamented that he'd been too tight with money lately and we never get to go out and do fun stuff like that anymore (darn our little ball-and-chain children) and he knew I really liked them. And later I got it out of him that he thinks they're all hot. Fair enough. So my mother flew in extra early to babysit so we could go and we headed off for Baltimore. After parking, we knew we were walking in the right direction given the flow of white-haired PBS-viewing old fogeys headed for the same location.

After finding our seats inside we were awed by the realization that we were, in fact, the youngest people in the entire audience. Being considerably younger than the Husband, I was the youngest in the crowd BY FAR. I think only a few of the performers themselves approached my age range. I sat there thinking how strange it would be to be a young person, have an amazing talent, go on the road with your talent, and find that the only people it attracted were escapees from the old folk's home. Nice.

I won't bore you with all the details from the show, but suffice it to say it was highly entertaining. As always, Chloë Agnew was amazing, although it took me half the show to realize that she was not wearing a short-sleeved shrug over her sleeveless gown, but rather just had a very noticable farmer tan. Despite this revelation, she still managed to wow me/us all. That chick really can sing something fierce.

I was also pleased that they not only decided to sing the very appropriate "Danny Boy" for us that evening, but that they chose not to torture us by having Méav Ní Mhaolchatha attempt to sing it a cappella. You know, seeing as how she sucks at it. As it turns out, she's no longer with the group anymore anyway, saving us all a great deal of nausea that evening. Instead, the four singers sung it in four-part harmony, also a cappella, and a more beautiful rendition I have never heard. The audience didn't even make a sound after it finished they were so stunned (which then turned to a standing ovation). So good call on dumping the crappy chick! It completely made up for the fact that they failed to do justice to one of my favorite songs, "Shenandoah." But they're Irish so I'll give them a break. YOU GET ONE, CELTIC WOMAN.

But the most unexpectedly entertaining part of the evening was dealt to us by the group's fiddler, Máiréad Nesbitt. She is talented, no doubt. And also quite insane. Now, in an interview she claims that what she does she does not consider "dancing," but rather just really getting into her music. Personally, I'd consider it "flinging her body across the stage in a most awkward and delightful fashion that under any other circumstances would conclude with a fractured pelvis and a trip to the emergency room." The fact that she never once landed on any body part other than her feet was jaw-droppingly awing, and it was exciting to see what she would do next and if she would kill herself trying it or not. Her fiddling and flinging was accompanied by near-constant commentary coming from almost directly behind us by a group of likely not-too sober old people who had no clue they were in a live audience and not at home yelling at their television sets. Every single time that crazy woman leapt onto the stage one of the old women, without fail, would say, "Oh, there she is! There's your girl!" To which the other woman whose girl Nesbitt apparently was, would reply, "Oh my goodness I just LOVE her!" Every time. The Husband and I were polite throughout this annoying habit of theirs (swearing at old people is not a hobby of mine, although I'll do it if necessary), only turning to look at each other every time they did this to simply roll our eyes. The second half of the show they tired of commenting on "her girl" and began critiquing the stage decor. "I just love those curtains! Don't you just love those curtains? What great curtains!" For your enlightenment, their favorite curtains consisted of a cloth loosely draped over a metal rod.

Now, I understand that you old people are senile and don't get out much and blah blah blah, but I do not get dressed up and leave my home to listen to you scream about curtains. I didn't pay wads of cash to listen to you people squak about whose girl you're successfully seeing in front of you, I paid money to watch a crazy woman in Princess Leia garb orgasmicly flail about the stage while I hope she trips and lands on her fiddle! Got it??

With the unpleasantness out of the way, a hearty congratulations to Celtic Woman for a performance well executed. The songs about turn-of-the-century Irish immigrants coming to America, their land of hope, were also very moving and it's always nice to hear at least one group say that they love America (to be fair, things probably would have ended poorly if they'd said otherwise). So good on ya, Irish chicks! Come back again if you can, but not before medicating that poor fiddling woman before she breaks something important.

Gettin' Jiggy Wit It

No, I haven't decided to post more. My life is just that much more exciting this week. Quit inviting me to stuff.

So our church had a dance last Saturday night with a it's-not-a-valentine's-dance-despite-all-the-hearts-and-crap-you-see-everywhere theme. Greta and I decorated for the event and were quite pleased to receive so many positive comments. And by "so many" I mean two grade school kids said it looked awesome. Hey, we're here to please.

You all know my thoughts on dancing, as I've expressed them in the past here. Bonny and I were comparing our various thoughts on the subject later in the evening and I told her what I'm going to tell you now: watching me dance is a terribly unsettling experience. I recall enjoying dancing at one point in my life. I danced at a wedding once as a young teenager, later saw the video, decided it was the most disturbing thing I'd ever seen in my life, and vowed to never subject another to such a sight ever again, including myself. I am not a good dancer. If I honestly can't resist the beat of a great song, I'll bob my head. Otherwise...no. So I sat at a table and instead enjoyed myself immensely watching other people who are far more talented than I dance for my personal pleasure. I was especially impressed with Jody and her husband getting their groove on, because they are wonderful dancers. I was also fascinated to learn that neither Stephanie nor Kristen have any shame at all whatsoever. Good for them, I say! Let it all hang out!

Towards the end, our DJ, Ryan (who happens to be Bonny's husband), played one of the songs I'd requested earlier: The Hustle by Van McCoy. You can't go wrong with The Hustle. The Husband was at one time quite the bar-hopping dancer in his day and when I mentioned the song earlier he treated me to a move or two. As always, I was delighted. As I sat next to a friend at the table at the dance, she leaned over and said, "Hey, wasn't there a dance that went with this song?" I said, "Yeah, the Husband said it went something like this..." and I proceeded to do a jerking arm motion or two to prove to her I wasn't lying. Two seconds later, Ryan stopped the music mid-song and inquired, "OK, does anyone actually know how to do the Hustle? I mean, besides Abby who's doing it at the table there at the back?" I was horrified that the entire dance floor of people then turned to stare at me, and even more so when he suggested I get up and teach them how to do the Hustle, which as I've explained, I only know like, two moves from. Personally, I was impressed that Ryan guessed what I was attempting to do at the time, let alone that he noticed I was doing it at all, given the quick and amateurish performance I had displayed to my table partner. I waved him and the whole fricking group off (really, for their own good) and they proceeded to dance however they wanted to, which is how it should have been anyway. I still like the song. Gets my head a-bobbin'.

Finally, DJ Ryan came to the end of the evening with his final as-yet unannounced song, and commanded everyone that this would be a full participation song. And I shivered to myself as I realized that there was only one song that had not been played yet, would be reserved to the end of a dance full up with white people, and that requires "full participation." Ryan said, "And that includes you, too, Abby." I responded, "IT BETTER NOT BE YMCA." And he said, "It IS YMCA." And the dance ended on a low note. I was curious to note that Kristen, who I mentioned was completely devoid of any self-consciousness as far as I could detect, also refused to dance to YMCA because she hates that song. So she has my approval, both for that and the fact that she clearly doesn't care what people think of her.

And in case you all were curious:

Let the Whining Commence!

So yesterday I had a migraine. Hosed up my entire schedule for the day and thus the entire week because instead of doing chores I had to spend the day wandering in a pained haze, telling my kids to sit in the corner and stop looking at me like that or get the crap out and get a job. I'm better now, thank you for asking, but I still have that migraine hangover that comes the day after you've survived an attack. Even now I am telling Peawhistle every five minutes to QUIT RACING AROUND THE ROOM OR I WILL CHOP YOUR LEGS OFF. *sigh*

I've had migraines since I was about seven, so I'm used to them; or rather, I'm accustomed to the idea of getting them. The worst migraines I've ever had have either lasted a week or landed me in the ER, which is frustrating in and of itself because they don't do anything for you anyway except give you Tylenol. Of course! Tylenol! Why didn't I think of that before?? Should I also not slit my wrists, because I'm considering that right now, doctor! I've learned to avoid the ER.

I do recall one episode that I'll share here. It was my first week at BYU and I was living in the dorms. My roommate, whom I'd never met, had just joined me two days prior. Normally, I would have had access to a freezer with which to freeze things to place on my forehead to help calm the pain a mite should a migraine present itself. However, no such freezer existed in the dorms. So when a bad migraine hit me one afternoon, it went quickly downhill. The roommate was concerned of course, but not nearly as much as when I began scraping my head against the cinder-block wall next to my bed. She began pleading with me to stop when I graduated to rhythmically banging my head against the brick wall (have I mentioned that migraines strip you of your ability to think clearly? They essentially drive you temporarily insane, and I'm not exaggerating this point). And then she nearly cried when I stopped moving altogether, too exhausted to even close my eyes all the way, and she thought I was dead. I still recall through my blurred vision her creeping up on what she assumed was the fresh corpse of her new roommate, checking for any sign of breathing, quietly calling out my name, which I did not have the energy to respond to. I eventually got better, we laughed about it weeks down the road, and she never totally forgave me for that heart attack I gave her. Who said college days aren't good times?

I don't suppose you recall my adventures with Dr. @#$%&*$%, the doctor who found her medical license in the bottom of a trash bin, do you? One more reason I hate her is because she knows nothing about headaches. Now, by the time I was forced to see her I had been diagnosed by several doctors, many of them trained neurologists who specialized in migraines, as a chronic migraine sufferer. I believe Dr. @#$%&*$% was the first doctor--and only doctor come to think of it--to ever question this diagnosis made by physicians far more learned in this field than she. She announced that I suffer from tension headaches, not migraines. And the reason? Because "people with migraines get nausea, but they don't actually throw up." But people with tension headaches do? What? So by her reasoning, everyone gets nausea with headaches, but the only people who would never conceivably vomit as a result of that nausea are the folks with migraines. Makes perfect sense to me, you fricking whackjob! Nevermind that every medical journal on earth describes vomiting as a major symptom of migraines, but whatever. You see what I mean about my knowing more about medicine than she. It's scary.

So what do I do in case of migraine? I know you're on the edge of your seats so I won't tease you any longer. Drugs are only effective at the beginning, unfortunately. After that they have no effect and you're just blowing your stash. So I lie in bed, in as dark a room as possible, as toasty warm as possible, with as freezing an icepack as my ridiculously under-performing freezer will produce attached to my forehead. Now, if I'm not too insane at that point, a little light and relaxing music can help the process. Only two CDs are acceptable migraine fare. The first is the soundtrack to "Chariots of Fire." It's kinda weird technocrap music if you recall, but I grew up listening to it, I love it, and it relaxes me. That is, until I get to the "Jerusalem" number by the Westminster Cathedral Choir, complete with full pipe organ. Then I get excited and hallucinate that I can actually play the organ that well too, instead of the comedic performance I usually treat the congregation to on Sundays. So I try not to listen to that specific number with a migraine (drives my blood pressure up).

The other CD I listen to is even preferable to the first and it is "Christopher Cross," by none other than Christopher Cross. I don't think I've ever made it through the entire album at one sitting/lying down. It is so peaceful and relaxing that faster than you can say "self-induced coma" you're out for 12 hours and you wake up wondering where you are and why your CD player's batteries are dead again. "Oh man, I love this soZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ." That pretty much sums up the result of that CD, which is why I resort to it sparingly lest I become immune to its wonderful morphine-like effects. It's also the main reason I don't ever listen to it while driving, lest I wake up in the front grill of an oncoming 18-wheeler.

God bless you and your strangely puffy features, Christopher Cross! May your soothingly smooth voice be recorded in medical journals everywhere under safe and effective anesthetics, suitable for knocking out migraine sufferers to organ transplant patients.



ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

I Should Have Had a Model in a Sequined Dress

The results from the Post-it Note NieNie Free Book Prize Drawing are in and there are TWO winners! Yes, two winners! Why? Because I'm saintly. Also, because I decided that Heidi deserved a book no matter what, because within two hours of my quiz posting she had coughed up all of the answers, every whit correct on each and every one. She made me happy. It was also proved to me that the Fates wanted her to have one because I put her name in the drawing for laughs anyway and hers was the first name I drew out. So congratulations to Heidi! As soon as I get the books in the mail yours will be out the door to you.

And the second winner in the drawing was....Stephanie! Congratulations, Stephanie! She answered everything more or less correctly and got it in within the deadline I gave to her since my original deadline was before she even came home from vacation. So she got another day to get them in. Good job to her and to everyone who took the time to take the quiz and trip down memory lane with me in hopes of free prizes.

And now, for your edification, here are the answers:

1) Who or what do I consider my arch nemesis? Annapolis. Or more accurately, "the blasted city of Annapolis" as Stephanie, one of our winners you recall, answered.

2) Why is my kitchen linolium famous? There's a photo of it up on Cake Wrecks with my poopy Rudolph cake on top of it.

3) Who did Mark Austin tour with when I saw him in concert? Janis Ian. Remember, that's just one of the time when I got lost in Annapolis. You see how it all links together with me?

4) Say you chuck your model of the USS Constitution down two flights of stairs. Who could you get to fix that for you? Jerome Morris. Yes, that Mainer artist extraordinaire who indeed read my blog post about him and never spoke another word to me. I don't think he was nearly as amused as I was. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the theme of my blog is "It's funny when it's not you." On a related note, if you or your wealthy parents would like to pester Mr. Morris during a lovely and relaxing vacation to the coast of Maine, we rent our beautiful family cottage (it sleeps 6! Or 7 1/2 if you like couches!) out for the summer. Email me. We'll talk prices.

5) What is Michael Phelps's real name? Bob Carol. Oh, like he wouldn't be just as good at swimming with a name like that? Please.

6) What do I absolutely NOT OWN A COLLECTION OF? Barbie dolls. A non-collection that has grown since I last wrote about it, by the way.

7) Name one professional organization that is stalking me. DNC, NSA, FBI, Smithsonian . I'd tell them to give it up, but I fear I'm just too addictive.

8) Why is my dad so good at hiding Easter eggs? He is a former USAF intelligence officer trained in the art of being masterly sneaky. Or as Heidi, our first winner, put it, "Because he was a career USAF officer with Jason Bourne-like skills at hiding documents from the KGB-impersonating counterintelligence guys." Right on, Heidi.

9) They're foreign and ridiculously, unintentionally funny. Who are they? Celtic Thunder/Celtic Man. To quote Gwennifer, "I didn't realize it was possible to feel physically assaulted by a singing group, but I now know the feeling." So do the rest of us. So do the rest of us.

10) Who has mastered the art of the Evil Eye to the point of making me poop my pants? The ever-endearing, overly self-confident, and always entertaining Dr. Combat. Did I mention healthgrades.com tells you where your doctors work? And that it told me Dr. Combat is alive and still in the Army torturing others at yet another Army hospital? It's nice to know he hasn't been stripped of his natural environment.

Many thanks again to everyone who participated. I wish I was rich enough to give books to everyone who submitted answers because you all deserve it. For everyone but Heidi and Stephanie, go buy the book! If you buy the digital copy all proceeds go to the NieNie Fund; the hardcopy version gives all proceeds minus $8 printing costs. Hurry! Buy it! Be famous by association! And do something nice for a nice couple with four nice kids who suffered unmeasurable tragedy. Go. Buy. Help. And feel good about yourselves afterward.

Music Confuses Some Folks

I was at the base thrift store this afternoon. I pop in about once every six months just to make sure I'm not missing anything (I'm not). I did, however, come away with a $15 leather jacket that should fit Peanut in about 15 years, given his incredibly slow growth rate. I'll let you know if it looks cute on him.

While browsing the shelves I noted two music boxes. They're the kind of music box that has a resin figurine on top and on the bottom a prominent rotating circular plastic disk for a base that you wind for the music that also makes the figurine turn when it's set down again. You've all seen those, right? I'm not the only one, am I? Both of them were labeled "statue." Really. Statue. The people working here were likely born during the Coolidge administration and yet they've never seen this style of music box before? It's not a new-fangled technological wonder or something, it's a fricking music box. It even plays a little on its own when you pick it up. What is wrong with these people? And yet, you'll be happy to hear, they got the Dale Earnhart #8 mug description right on the money. I guess white trash, new or old, can't be bothered with contraptions like musical statues.

My other favorite label came in the toy section. Tangent: is it just me or is the toy section of the thrift store the scariest section in the whole building? Gives me the willies just looking at that stuff, riddled with disease and various bodily fluids from strange children. Blech.
Anyway, I noted a child's accordian on the shelf. It was in very good condition, and for $5 I briefly considered rescuing it, until I realized I would hate that sound after about two seconds. So I put it down. But not before noting its label description: "Noise Maker." I love it. What I would love more would be to walk into a music store and see a piano labeled the same thing. I think we should declare all musical instruments "noise makers," just for kicks and giggles. Who's with me?

The Christmas Spirit

Here's my favorite rendition of "O Holy Night," introduced to me by Leslie. It puts me in the Christmas spirit every year, especially the second half of the song. Enjoy.

The Very Bowels of Hell: Take Two

I was stuck behind an old people shuttle bus today. On the back it said "Dept. of Aging." We have a Department of Aging? Since when? And why does my Coke taste like eggnog? It's disturbing.

Anyway. Have I ever mentioned that I hate Annapolis? I have? Have I ever told you exactly how much I hate Annapolis? I have? Have I told you lately? No? Then allow me to update you: I FRICKING HATE ANNAPOLIS AND THE WHOLE CITY CAN GO TO HELL. OH WAIT, IT ALREADY IS HELL. NEVERMIND. Consider yourselves appropriately caught up.

Several months ago a friend mentioned some Christmasy show for kids that some kid-based theatrical company puts on every year and it's so cute, yada yada yada. I figured Peawhistle would get a kick out of it, plus it included breakfast, so I signed us up. I noted well at the time that it was in Annapolis--and mind you, not the good part of Annapolis, the part you can actually escape from, but the really bad part that won't let you out. The heart of the evil if you will. I assumed that over the course of three months I could come up with some scheme that would allow me to avoid getting myself stuck in there alone. I tried everything, which is to say I emailed another woman who was going and tried to con her into carpooling, but she would have none of it. Foiled! So I printed off as many directions and maps as I possibly could before trekking into our virtual perpetual graves. I bid a loving final farewell to the Husband and Peanut; PW and I made our way out the door to our demise.

As soon as I approached The Evil's epicenter, I could sense something was wrong. My map showed two roundabouts (a traffic device with which the state of Maryland has a special love affair if you recall) near and around the capitol building--one of which would lead me to my destination, and the other to my doom. It's like I was living a storybook maze. I missed the turnoff to the roundabout that I actually wanted (why? Because Annapolis doesn't believe in properly marking its streets, remember?) and headed for the Hateful Roundabout instead. I began to swear profusely and did not cease doing so for the better part of an hour. We circled the capitol hoping to come upon the exit we needed, never once seeing it. We went up streets and down streets, not having any clue which led where. We got back on the roundabout (SAME DANG ROUNDABOUT MIND YOU) only to discover that some of the streets had changed, while others had not. I came to realize that there were not two roundabouts as promised by Mapquest, but only one mystical and possessed roundabout that constantly shifted depending upon the city's cursed whims.

The street I wanted, which I could see clearly from Lucifer's Roundabout, I could not access as it only led into the roundabout but not from it. I kept trying to drive onto various streets near to it, hoping to find a sidestreet (all of them one way streets) that would allow me to head in its direction, only to find that upon finally finding one that led the correct way it led me no where near it. I finally drove around long enough that I found my sidestreet, parked nearly right next to the Roundabout From Hell, and ran as fast as I could while dragging a four-year-old the entire length of this road to get to this breakfast fiasco. And we made it 15 minutes before they stopped serving breakfast (it having started 45 minutes before) and before they started their idiotic program, what with the kicking and the dancing and the gyrating and the Christmas Bear (?) and Christmas elves and Christmas Rat (?) and whatever.

Tangent Time. I fell asleep watching TV the other night only to waken at 4am to a standup comic talking about how much white people suck at dancing. I started gaining consciousness right around the time he said it's not so much that white people can't dance, it's just that they confuse various dancing moves and put them all together. He then proceeded with an imitation of White People Dancing (I'm assuming anyway; my eyes were still closed). Then he said, "There is one song that no white person can resist dancing to. They hear it and they immediately get up and begin dancing to it; they just can't help it." In my half-awake state I said, "YMCA." And then he said, "YMCA." (Speaking of the Village People, when the Husband was in the Navy lo these many years ago, he had a ship's captain who insisted on departing for every six-month deployment to the tune of the Village People's "In the Navy." That is, until someone told him what it was actually about. He stopped requesting it after that.) Indeed, we do love our "YMCA." Probably because you have to be a total moron to screw it up. [Fun fact: the Village People never spelled YMCA with their arms in their video. Musta been some white kid who couldn't dance who did it.] For the record, I can resist dancing to any song you care to play. Any song at all. Try it and watch me sit with my arms folded as I stare at you.

Back to our story. They had open dance time halfway through the show in which the kids could come down to the performace floor and get down and boogie with it. They played several Christmas songs. Finally they ran out of those and pulled out the non-Christmas songs. Guess which song they played first? And guess which song every fricking person in the place went wild over? And guess which song PW and I both managed to resist dancing to? And guess which song the only black guy in the entire room walked out on?

So the Christmas Show nightmare finally ended and they unchained the doors, unbarred the windows, and allowed us to finally leave. Freedom never tasted so sweet. Until I remembered we still had to get out of the city. We got in the car and headed very quietly (I think PW could instictually sense the need for silence. Especially after I threatened her if she made a sound) towards the Roundabout of Death, so as to sneak up on it and not alarm it as to our approach. We proceeded cautiously, but purposefully, through and out the other side where it told us we should go (remember, following the signs it gives you to follow are its first trick against you). But then we pulled a fast one on it and took a left shortly thereafter leading us straight to the highway! Mind you, the fact that you must turn down this street to escape is never once advertised anywhere in the city. If you were to believe its signs, you would have proceeded down the first street and immediately found yourself in The Parking Lot of Despair. You remember The Parking Lot of Despair, don't you? Of course you do.

As we were leaving with the city of horror well in our rearview mirror, a fire engine roared past us and into the heart of the city. Poor sucker, I thought. Someone finally got desperate and crashed their car just to escape. May he find himself without the confines of the Ninth Circle of Hell very soon.

Just try and resist it.

A Dose of Humility

I know it'll shock you, but I've been known to make fun of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on occasion, mostly for their classical renditions of popular, decidedly non-classical music. But there's no denying it when they get a song absolutely perfect.

How About a Cheer for the Navy?

I love Veteran's Day. It's the day half the channels on TV show classic war movies. I ran across one of my favorites last night, "This Is the Army," a musical with songs by the famous Irving Berlin, and despite already owning the movie myself, I sat down and watched the entire thing. Not only is the music great, but the entire cast of the film and the musical show it was based upon was made up of active duty Army personnel with all proceeds of the broadway show and the film going to the Army Emergency Relief Fund. The film came out in 1943, the original stage production having come out the year before, and the original Army stage production that was based upon having come out during WWI (also written by Berlin), making the film basically based upon actual events. The film stars people like a then-Lt. Ronald Reagan, and as a special treat, the film is famous for actually featuring Irving Berlin himself on stage, singing one of the songs he wrote for the show. This song, "Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning" happens to be one of my favorites; the clever lyrics make the song particularly funny, although the idea of murdering the base camp's bugler simply for tending to his military duties as ordered is amusing enough.

As Robert Osborn of TCM recounted last night, one of the behind-the-scenes stories from the film had a stage hand, one who neither knew who wrote the music for the production or who Irving Berlin even was, upon hearing Berlin's less-than-melodious voice belting out his own song, said, "If the guy who wrote that song could hear this guy singing it, he'd roll over in his grave." Indeed, Berlin was not known for his singing ability by any stretch, but considering his extraordinary talent in the music composition field, most people forgave him for it just the same. It was still spectacular to see him in the show.

Admittedly, if you're not into song and dance numbers, you won't enjoy this film. The Husband felt patriotic enough to watch for the first 10 minutes before conveniently wandering off to attend to more pressing matters like staring at the kitchen sink. I did, however, make him come back for the Navy number, which frankly is the best song in the entire movie. In typical Navy fashion, approximately 1 billion sailors crash the Army musical number in progress, rush the stage, scatter the Army guys, and begin singing their own number instead.

The Army this, the Army that
Is all we heard from where we sat,
Now how about a cheer for the Navy?

The Army's great, the Army's tough,
But don't you think we've heard enough?
So how about a cheer for the Navy?

Incredibly enough, these sailors had the foresight to also include a scale mockup of a battleship onstage for their musical performance. Amazing. And I hate to say it, but their coordinated marching far exceeded that of the Army's (although I'm fairly certain it was Army enlisted merely dressed in Navy attire anyway) and made for a spectacular display onstage.

A few years ago the Husband and I went to the 1812 Overture performance on the lawn of the Washington Monument (that's in D.C., my geographically challenged friends). The performance is free and features the U.S. Army band and chorus putting on various numbers, not all military related. (The conclusion, as you may have guessed, is the band's performance of the 1812 Overture, complete with synchronized mortar fire provided by the 3d United States Infantry Regiment--it's incredible.) To my point, some of the numbers the chorus sang were from "This Is the Army." It was my fondest wish that they would get around to "How About a Cheer for the Navy" with the Navy chorus rushing the stage and taking over for one number. That would have been awesome. Why aren't I in charge of making these decisions again?

My point is, if you have never seen actual WWII-era Army enlisted men dancing in a chorus line in heels, boy howdy have you been missing out.

And lookie what I found! Not the best quality, but you still get the effect.

Ah, Society's Norms: I Hardly Knew Ye

Holy crap, people! I neglect my Google Reader for two days and I come back to 36 unread posts! What in the name of Bill Clinton is going on here? I just spent the last hour catching up, each time expecting to run across that one nutjob-jerk who decided to put out 18 posts in 24 hours. Turns out everyone I know just wrote one-to-two posts per day. That's not nearly as exciting as I'd anticipated, and here I got my panties in a bunch over nothing. Who am I going to yell at now? Quit posting so much, people! I have a life you know! Obviously!

Here's a tidbit I was greeted with on Comcast's news feed today; I'll let you pick out the one glaring word that makes this statement unfathomable: "Former 'Idol' Clay Aiken tells People magazine that he could no longer hide his homosexuality." Let me just get the obvious over with here and ask, was he even trying?

Speaking of Clay Aiken, a few women, including Stephanie and Kristen, and I were playing Catchphrase, a game where you get a word or phrase, describe it, and the others guess. My phrase was "Clay Aiken."

Me: "That idiot from American Idol."
My team: "Ryan Seacrest! Simon Cowell!"
Me: "No, a singer."
Stephanie: "Clay Aiken!"
Ta-da.

I was going to post something about a website I've had an idea for for a while now--an idea that left me completely in stitches over my brilliant sense of humor. However, the more I thought about posting about it, the more I decided I would look incredibly insane doing it. And that while I might be laughing, everyone else would likely be staring at their computer screens in horror, wondering which authorities they should notify first. I considered asking someone like Stephanie if my attempt at humor would translate to anyone else outside of my own brain, but her brother's in town so she's busy thinking about someone besides me for once. It's a shame though--it cracks me up even thinking about it. It was going to have photoshopped pictures, music, a FAQ section, and everything. Oh well. Some crazy things are best left unexplored. NOW DON'T YOU FEEL BAD FOR SUPPRESSING MY CREATIVE GENIUS?!

Got a Little Irish In You?

While I promised that I would make fun of my friend "Lisa B." in my next post, I decided that can wait at least until tomorrow. This is bugging me now and must be spoken of immediately before I get over it.

So I like Celtic Woman. I especially like Chloe Agnew, even if she does dress like your crazy, 68-year-old Aunt Toosey. She's, what, 8 or something? She's young. And very talented indeed. And I'm assuming Irish. Anyway. Good singer. The whole Celtic Woman crew is good and I enjoy their performances on TV and CDs in my CD players.

So was it any wonder that I would curiously marvel at the male version of Celtic Woman: Celtic Tiger, or Celtic Canine, or whatever the crap they're called. Celtic Thunder, that's it. Personally, I'm of the strong conviction that if you're going to rip off a group like Celtic Woman you might as well rip off the name correctly, too. I wish to assist them in this endeavor, so from now on I will only refer to them as Celtic Man. Being a somewhat regular viewer of PBS (what with me being in their target demographic of 87-to-89-year-olds) I was surprised when I first learned of the existence of Celtic Man and decided I must have a looksee. Their first number left me quite amused, until I realized that it wasn't supposed to. Then it left me exceedingly amused.

Five guys make up this group. First, there is Chloe Agnew, Jr., who I'm assuming is five or something. More shocking than his youthful appearance is his man-like singing voice. It's almost terrifying coming out of such a small boy. I told Husband that he had to come witness this aberration for himself, to which he exclaimed, "Holy crap!!" I'll let you "Holy crap" for yourselves:


Next on our list of oddballs is Depressing Old Guy, seen here:


Depressing Old Guy gets all of the weepy, depressing songs about kids and parents dying. He frequently conveys his depression over his lyrics by getting down on one knee and staring at the floor of the stage. He then rises, squints at the stage lights, moves to the other side of the stage, gets down on the other knee, and stares down. This goes on for some time.

Then there is Opera Guy, who is clearly a classically trained singer. That's fine, except when you're trying to take said singer seriously as he sings "Nights in White Satin." It's like listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing "Under Pressure."

Then there is some other Blond Guy who's actually quite good, so he has no place here.

And finally, my favorite guy in the group: Creepy, Leering, Future Public Sex Offender Guy. Not only is his musical delivery unsettling at best, but the songs he's chosen or been assigned are the worst songs in the entire group. My favorite of his horrific crafts is "Ride On," a mindnumbingly repetetive song that only has five words. Even with my idiocy still in tact I had the song memorized by the end and was gleefully singing it along with Creepy, Leering, Future Public Sex Offender Guy. I'll allow you the same joy here, mostly because I'm such a giver:



If you need to get that taste out of your mouth, here's Blond Guy singing a traditional Irish tune, "The Mountains of Mourne." Note how he can be Irish and not laughable at the same time. Creepy Guy, take heed.


Post Script: Celtic Man doesn't take kindly to Youtube posting their lousy crap so occasionally the videos posted here stop working. So as to prevent you from missing out on the intended fun, search Youtube for "Celtic Thunder Puppy Love," "Celtic Thunder The Old Man," "Celtic Thunder Ride On," and "Celtic Thunder Mountains of Mourne" in that order to see what I'm talking about above. Because you really, really don't want to miss any of that, particularly "Ride On."

Strangely enough, "Ride On" and the Creepy Guy who sings it has quite a fan following. I can only surmise that the following is largely made up of women who would otherwise fall in love with death row inmates awaiting execution but who have been temporarily distracted by this man's disturbing musical output. Speaking of which, I was reminded on a recent viewing of "Ride On" of one of my favorite parts where Creepy Guy is staring down the guitarist during a guitar solo as if he's wondering how best to decorate with his empty skull after he decapitates him. It's great.

You're Fricking Welcome

OnePlusYou Quizzes and Widgets, stolen from a blog I stalk

You could be reading one of those swearing blogs right now, but you're not. Thank your little lucky stars I have a relatively clean mouth. Relatively.

Peanut survived his proceedure last Friday, coming through it with flying colors and screams that would wake the dead. He continues his weight gain, making it up to over 13 lbs a week ago at his pre-op appt. Go Chunky! However, he's not chubby enough yet to hide both boobs after my front-clasp bra has suddenly come unlatched in the middle of shopping for cards at Hallmark. Did I leave immediately? Of course not. It was 100-flippin'-degrees outside and I refused to make an extra trip later on, especially with these gas prices. So I tried to cover half of my ampleness with Peanut and the other with the arm I was using to look at cards. I came away with three cards and no one making any loud remarks about the chick with no bra who obviously needs one. Dignity in tact! Ta-da!

As I was sitting in my car putting myself back together, a kid in a brand-new car smacked right into the side of a minivan parked in the lot, scraping up the side. As he backed away, the owner of the van got out and glared at him. Only then did he stop. I laughed heartily. Of all the cars this kid hits, it's the only one with someone sitting inside it (well, besides mine of course). He started to apologize as if that would suddenly heal her car, but she appeared to inform him most strenuously that only his insurance information could do that. I laughed again.

Peanut seems to like Coldplay, despite my telling him that Viva la Vida sounds exactly like Speed of Sound, which was a tweaked version of Clocks. "But the words are different!" he proclaims. "Chris has suddenly gotten deeper instead of rambling nonsensical lyrics and pretending they mean something!" To which I reply, "Meh." It's funny how he wasn't this talkative when I wanted to discuss the Bush Administration. I just hope his silence and thousand-yard stare at that time meant his little mind just can't handle the lunacy, lies, and shooting people in the face.

Sometime last week Peawhistle got "Hungry Jack" in her head and it has yet to exorcise itself. If you ask her a question--any question at all--she will slyly reply, "HUNGRY, JACK?!?" No, she hasn't tired of it. It also doesn't take interrogation to get it out of her. She will run around to various people in her life, quizzing them about whether or not they are, in fact, a Hungry Jack. Regardless of the response, she laughs uncontrollably. I'm glad she's such a happy and easily entertained child, even if it means living a very brief life if she doesn't knock it the hell off (1.1%!).

Did I tell you what they figured out Peanut is allergic to so far? Peas (duh), milk, peanuts, cashews, pistachios, and sesame seeds. That's just so far. Not everything has popped up yet and he is very likely allergic to a host of foods we don't know about. First off, this is going to suck come his first birthday. How do I make him a cake when I don't know if his little frosting-covered face will wind up in the hospital again or not? Secondly, the only way we can tell what he's allergic to between now and then is to experiment. I asked if we could just do that in the ER to save time. They said no (no sense of humor, these people). And thirdly (because I know I'm going to get comments if I don't include a "thirdly"...nerds), this is karma for my making fun of all those neurotic Peanut Kid parents all these years. The amusing irony of Peanut's nickname has not escaped me, either. "Hi, my name is Abby, and I'm a Peanut Kid Parent. Thank you."

Blue

Why do I love this so much?


I love The Fruit Guys, particularly the most recent incarnation of them. Their seriousness is classic. And while we're on the subject, just what the heck is the fourth guy supposed to be? I don't know any fruit that looks like that, or at least not fresh anyway.

Motherhood's Finest Hour

I shared the following story with Stephanie yesterday evening. She asked if I was going to blog about it and I told her that no, I didn't dare, because I think I've given Child Protective Services enough public evidence as it is. However, upon further mental review, I've decided that I cannot let this incident go undocumented. So for those of you mistakenly thinking I'm some brilliant piece of work, the following true tale is for you.

In my defense, yesterday was a bit harried. After several errands and a quick potty break, I threw the kids in the car to head for the commissary before it got too late to get back and make dinner. Peanut was still sleeping in his carrier and I had a blanket covering the front so he'd be warm enough as it was a chilly day. Peawhistle was strapped in, playing with some toy.

I trucked on down the road to the base, but not before the guard at the gate looked through the back window of the van questioningly before letting me proceed. I parked in the parking lot of the commissary and hit both buttons that open PW's and Peanut's sliding doors. PW's door (on my side) opened, and Peanut's door closed. Yes, closed. I had driven five miles to the commissary with the van door open the whole way. No, I most certainly did NOT notice. I asked PW, "Peawhistle, has that door been open the entire time?" "Yes." "Why didn't you say something?!" I drove the whole way with the wind blowing through the van and me not even noticing it. And it's no wonder the guard gave my van a second look, probably wondering what the crap I was thinking. I'm relieved she didn't give it more thought at the time, because being stopped for that infraction would have been life-altering, I can tell you that.

I can't even begin to imagine how that looked to other drivers on the road. They were probably more surprised that there are still people out there who are not completely over John Mayer by now; I can't really blame them for that one as I can't believe I was listening to him again either, but there I was, van door open, blaring the self-absorbed likes of "Bigger Than My Body."

I'm very greatful Peanut's diaper bag, on the floor by the door, hadn't flown out along with the Baby Bjorn, both of which stayed safely inside the car. At least Peanut was strapped in pretty good and didn't notice a thing as he was still sleeping soundly when I got him out of the car.

So the next time you're tempted to think something you did was stupid, recall that I accomplished this minor feat in poor parenting. You're welcome.

Are You Sitting Down?

It's funny. When I posted my list of favorite movies I thought I would be accused of being simplistic and taking the easy way out. Most of the films on my list are Academy Award-winning films, many of them winning for Best Picture. I assumed my readers would say, "Yes, but those are everybody's favorites. How about some that aren't, you tool?" Well, that will learn me. After pondering these things, I'm going to go into an unnecessarily long bit about a few of my film choices. If you have some place to be, I recommend you going and doing that first, 'cause we're going to be here a while.

It occurred to me last night that perhaps not everyone is familiar with the term "black comedy." Believe me, it has nothing to do with Tyler Perry, if for no other reason than what he does cannot be construed as comedy in any form. Black comedy is what it's called when something normally of a very serious, grave nature is turned into something funny. "Dr. Strangelove" is possibly the most famous example of a black comedy. It mocks the most horrific of scenarios: worldwide nuclear holocaust. The lesser known "Kind Hearts and Coronets" is also a black comedy. It makes light of the murder an entire family. If you removed the humorous dialogue, it would be considered a horror film. But the fact that the main character, played by Dennis Price, narrates his story with such a dry, subtle, and clever wit it becomes hilarious. It also doesn't hurt that he dispatches each of his extended family (all eight played by Alec Guinness, including an aging suffragette) in unique and humorous ways. The end result is a brilliant comedy that doesn't mind how many horrific deaths it takes to make you laugh.

I love musicals. I particularly love funny musicals, and it simply doesn't get any funnier than "My Fair Lady" ("Singin' In the Rain" runs a close second). Based upon the classic story Pygmalion, a wealthy language researcher bets that he can take a "gutter-snipe" flower girl and "pass her off as a duchess at the Embassy Ball." Hilarity ensues. But what is more entertaining in this production is the collection of brilliant songs. Listening to Rex Harrison sing (well, he was more famous for just speaking his singing lines--the father of rap, some called him) about his male chauvinistic views on women will put you into laughable tears. His contention that women's heads are full of nothing but "cotton, hay, and rags" is wonderful. Not only are these smart lyrics key in showing just what makes the professor tick, but helps show his progression through the relationship with the flower girl, Eliza. While he never totally turns over a new leaf with regard to the feminine sex, it turns out he's willing to make a small exception in the case of an equally strong-willed woman like Eliza, whom he finally admits he can't live without.

There are two versions out there of "The In-Laws." There is the newer version with Michael Douglas, and then there is the funny version. I'm still unclear about why someone felt the need to remake the original comedy, let alone put Douglas--a decidedly non-funny actor--in its lead role. If you're tempted to watch that version, let me save you a lot of heartache and tell you to go straight to the original source for your comedy needs. The original was a entertaining, humorous bit of great comedy. The remake was a terrible bastardization in every way. If something was funny in the original, the writers of the remake concluded that exaggerating that humor until it was unrecognizable and shoving it down the audience's throat would be the best way to go. I say again, don't bother. From here on out I will pretend that the remake never happened; you would do well to do the same. The In-Laws is a story about a crazy CIA operative (Peter Falk) who is so secretive, not even his family knows what he does; they believe every ridiculous outlandish lie about his whereabouts overseas that he tells. His son is due to marry a very ordinary dentist's daughter soon and it is that dentist (Alan Arkin) who finally learns what Falk does for a living, after unknowingly being sucked into one of the biggest heists in US history. The fact that Falk can play crazy very seriously and genuinely only makes the humor fatter. He is not a parody of himself. He simply is. Arkin makes the perfect straight man to Falk's insanity. It is genius.

I've been in love with "Stalag 17" since I was a child. I have this thing about studying POWs: probably something I should be discussing with a qualified therapist. At any rate, "Stalag 17" was and still is the best of them. It is a fictional drama/comedy about life in the nonfictional Stalag (Luftwaffe POW camp) 17-B during WWII. It centers around William Holden who plays Sefton, a dispicable character who takes every opportunity to take advantage of the rest of the prisoners to make his own situation a little more comfortable. He is later accused of being a "stoolie" (stool pigeon) and ratting out his fellow prisoners--some of them being murdered by the Germans as a result--to the German guards in exchange for favors. He takes it upon himself to find the real stoolie before more prisoners get killed in the process. A great war-time whodunnit. I haven't seen its equal since.

"Mister Roberts" is a favorite of mine and my father's. We watch it together every chance we get. Based on the Broadway play, which was based upon experiences had by the writer in the US Navy during WWII, it stars Henry Fonda as Mr. Roberts, who played the same role in the stage production--he even wore his own Navy uniform from his wartime service for the role. Mister Roberts is the XO and but one of few officers onboard a US Navy cargo vessel during the war. His best friend onboard is Ensign Pulver (played by Jack Lemmon, who won his first Oscar for his performance), a shiftless, lazy officer who, after more than a year onboard has never even met the cruel, tyrannical captain of the ship (James Cagney) because he's scared of him and because he spends most of the day lying in his rack, sleeping or plotting various ways to exact revenge upon the captain--if he can ever get up the nerve. Roberts's confidante, the ship's surgeon (played by William Powell), keeps Roberts sane and ontrack with a good sense of humor and fatherly compassion for Roberts's desire to see real action in the war instead of seeing toothpaste and toilet paper safely delivered to fighting ships. The film is a comedy, but its overall tone speaks more to the silent killer of war: the boredom and stress that eventually take their toll on the otherwise strong fighting men and women and their ability to continue, despite frayed minds and wills. In the end, Mister Roberts pays special tribute to those who are constantly forced "to sail from tedium to apathy and back again." While funny, it is more a moving tribute to those who sacrifice just as much during a war, but who never see the recognition for those sacrifices.

"The Power of One" I've come to realize is an all-but-unheard of film, let alone book that it was based upon. The film centers around "Peekay" (P.K.) from the time he is a small boy to approaching manhood. Starting in the 1930s, it follows Peekay througout his young life in South Africa during the height of racial tensions between the native South Africans and the German South Africans and the English South Africans. Peekay is called the Rainmaker for his ability to unite the factioning tribes of South Africa in an effort to combat the cruelty of the German South Africans who have since taken control since the outbreak of WWII. Known for his ability to lose everyone he loves or who has ever loved him, he nonetheless presses on toward the bigger goal of bringing peace, largely through education, to the South African tribes. Stephen Dorff, who plays Peekay as an older teenager, is suberb. I was especially impressed that he can actually resemble something other than a heroine addict. Not surprisingly, that seems to coincide with his ability to choose good films to star in, as every other film he's chosen has sucked since that time. This one is actually worth his, and our, while. Simply, it was a life-altering experience for me.

You know a film is good when you can't stop talking about it, even days after you've seen it. "Thirteen Days," based upon RFK's memoirs, holds the distinction of being the only film that left me speechless after seeing it. In school we learned about the Cuban Missile Crisis and our teachers told us that we will never know just how closely our country came to nuclear holocaust during that time. I always figured they were exaggerating the circumstances and that sure, things were tense, but no one was honestly foolish enough back then to intentionally start a nuclear war. Not so. As paranoid as the public was back then--and rightfully so it would seem--they had no comprehension of how close to death they actually came. It was only due to the cool-headed diplomacy of Jack and Robert Kennedy, and apparently Kevin Costner with a "Boston" accent that will make you cry, that saved the situation from complete disaster; and all that despite Kennedy's staff and the Joint Chiefs telling them that war was the last and only remaining option available to them. I don't believe JFK was the greatest president we ever had--far from it--but he was the best for that situation. I believe God puts people in our path at specific times to change history for the better, and I honestly believe now that we needed someone like JFK at exactly that moment, who was one of the few at the top who was willing to ignore and defy his advisors in order to save the situation from catastrophe and avoid a conflict at all costs. We are living today because despite being mocked for lacking a spine and a few other manly things, Kennedy refused to accept that war was the next logical step. That is nothing to be sniffed at. And the film's portrayal of those events spanning 13 long days is phenomenal. Bruce Greenwood (JFK) and Steven Culp (RFK) are amazingly convincing as the Kennedy brothers, particularly Culp. Costner did his best as JFK's friend and advisor, Kenny O'Donnell. At least he kept up the terrible accent through the whole film, as opposed to abandoning it halfway through like he did in "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves." But good on him for at least starring in something worthwhile.

As I told Ms. Holly, I am obsessed with dystopian, or more accurately, anti-utopian portrayals of society. George Orwell's novel 1984 ("Big Brother is watching") is probably the most famous example of the anti-utopia, a society that is horrifically twisted, corrupt, and evil, but which tries to give the outer appearance and assurace that it is a utopia, bright with hope and promise for its citizenry. Animal Farm satirized the anti-utopia, which at the time was characterized by the real-life communist countries of the Soviet Union and China. While I find it fascinating to make parallels between the fictionalized anti-utopians and communism in reality, I've discovered that I'm actually looking more for signs that our own country has moved in the same direction, despite touting its anti-communism ideals. I've seen similarities for years, but it wasn't until recently that I realized we are not approaching the anti-dystopia; we are already in it. I'm still processing this crushing revelation so I don't have much more to add to it. But of the few anti-utopian/dystopian films I've seen, I honestly enjoyed Christian Bale's "Equlibrium" the most. A surprisingly clean film considering what one would expect from the working material and what filmmakers could have gotten away with, it is not a true anit-utopian tale in that it ends with a glimmer of hope. And Christian Bale shoots lots and lots of people.

I saw "The Umbrellas of Cherbourg" entirely by chance one night. I was about to turn off the TV and head for bed when Robert Osborne, the host of TCM, began to introduce a French musical they were about to show. The concept sounded interesting--a film in which every word that would be spoken was instead sung to music. Kind of like an opera, but not as irritating. I decided to check it out for 15 minutes before heading to bed; plus Robert insisted that I personally (I'm assuming I was the only one watching TCM at 2am) would not be disappointed with the film. After 15 minutes I couldn't bear to turn it off, so I decided to watch for just 15 minutes longer. This went on until the film ended at 4am without my ever having been able to look away. Despite the simplistic "lyrics," or because of them to some degree, I was spellbound by the hauntingly beautiful music that accompanied this heartbreaking love story. I also discovered one particular song, "I Will Wait For You," ("Dans le Magasin" on the soundtrack) within the score was very familiar; as it turns out, it is quite well-known, originating with this film. I've seen the film several times since then, particularly since renting it, and then owning it, despite not understanding a word sung therein. I dare say you don't have to with this one.

"Safety Last!" is likely Harold Lloyd's most famous film. Harold Lloyd was the Will Ferrell/Bill Murray of the 1920s. "Safety Last!" while not as funny as his "The Freshman," is still an incredible piece of filmmaking. The iconic photo of Lloyd hanging from the hands on a large clock on the side of a building are from this film. A film in which he scales and generally trips about on the outside of a tall building. It's interesting to note he was willing to do the film, with minimal assistance from a stuntman, despite being terrified of heights. It will make you squeal with empathetic terror. The things people do for the sake of comedy....

"White Christmas" isn't just great because of its holiday message and great music from Bing Crosby and fabulous choreography from Danny Kaye. It also speaks to the story of a retired Army wartime general who has been pushed aside by the military and all but forgotten by everyone else. Crosby's rendition of "What Can You Do With a General (When He Stops Being a General)?" always gets me. And I'm embarrassed to admit that I cry every time the general walks in at the end and discovers a host of people waiting for him: people who he assumed had long forgotten him after he was no longer the war hero from ages ago. I admit, it doesn't feel like Christmas to me without seeing this film.

"Airplane!" "UHF" and "Napoleon Dynamite" are just stupid, stupid humor. And I love it.

The Very Bowels of Hell (pictured below)

My dad loves trivia. Each time you see him he'll have a new trivia question for you. His favorite as of late is "What is the only state capital without an airport?" The answer is Annapolis of course. Why they don't have one is even more apparent: Annapolis is in the Bermuda Triangle. Some will argue that that's not true, given the established coordinates of the Triangle. To those people I say, "Shut up. I'll explain." If you are within 10 miles of the MD capital region, you will inevitably find yourself at its core, staring at the capitol building. As they say, all roads lead to Annapolis. Unfortunately, those roads are all veritable one-way streets because once within the capital's grasp you cannot go back. If you are foolish enough to follow the scarce signage that indicate the direction of one or more highways nearby, you will instead end your journey in a parking lot. After noting your folly and choosing to return and take the opposite direction, only to again end up in the same parking lot, you finally begin to realize just how sinister this city is. You, like I, come to the conclusion that the only reason Annapolis has a population at all is because these are the people who have never been able to find a way out of the city, gave up, and bought property there instead.

Mark Austin (you remember Mark) was touring with Janis Ian a few years back. He and his lovely wife Whitney (seen together with Janis in the photo on the right) kindly invited me to a gig in Annapolis since I'm a fan (of his, not Annapolis) and I live within a reasonable distance of the locale. A quick learner, I refused to drive home alone after the show and instead waited for the Austins to finish and pack up. If the city was to capture me in its Death Star-like tractor beam, I wasn't going down alone. After circling that cursed capitol (it's a lovely building by the way--the oldest in the country and likely the source of all this evil) and ending up in the Parking Lot of Despair, Mark parked, walked back to my car and said, "OK, you saw those signs for the highway too, didn't you?" I gave him a knowing look--one that assured him that this was only the beginning and that he shouldn't plan on seeing his family again anytime soon. After much prayer and fasting on all our parts, we managed to get out, much to the chagrin of the city. I have not been back.

For those of you wishing to visit historic Annapolis, but also wish to leave it at some point, I give you this advice: pay no attention to signs promising a highway exit in the near future. These signs are a trap, designed to get you to the Parking Lot, which is really the entrance to the city's digestive tract. I suggest you instead pull into traffic, close your eyes, and let the car wander as it may. Within at least two hours you will be free, either by backroad exit or by virtue of an ambulance. Either way, you've won.

Cool Water

For those of you who are interested in discovering new musical talent, our good friend, Mark Austin, is a tried-and-true singer/composer. The Husband and I were invited to a live premiere of his first (all original) album, "Cool Water," where he not only played all of the songs from the album, but the backstories behind a few of them, which were nearly as entertaining as the songs themselves. The man is amazing. Absolutely amazing. I got to see him perform again in Annapolis when he went on tour with Janis Ian (of "At Seventeen" and "Society's Child" fame you recall) and he was an even bigger hit then. He specializes in acoustic guitar and his style is described as "contemporary folk." Honestly, I never realized I even liked contemporary folk until I heard his stuff (apparently my definition of folk varies greatly from how they use it now)--if that's what folk sounds like, then I love it. What I thought while listening to the various songs he's written was there's something for everyone here. He has such a wide range of styles and themes, which is certainly a nice break considering all the groups out there where every song of theirs sounds exactly the same (Maroon 5, I'm looking at you).


My favorite songs on his album (I like them all, but I listen to these the most) are:

1. "Dandelions & Clover." Mark's wife Whitney (my walking buddy and a lovely woman in every way) says everyone loves this song. I believe it. It's about finding love in the midst of a little league ballgame. My favorite line is about "the outfielders picking dandelions and staring at the sky." That's about right.


2. "Cool Water." When Mark and Whitney were in the process of courting, they went on a long road trip. On the way they decided to haul out all the skeletons in their closets, each trying to out-do the other (in shocking severity I'm assuming). This song, about one person accepting the other with all his faults and deficits, is a beautiful testament to the very definition of love.


3. "Wish You Were Here." Mark said he wrote this after leaving Whitney to go overseas on one of his MANY work trips. The song itself, which isn't necessarily what you think, says it all.


4. "Texas Summertime." I hear this song and I actually feel hot and humid, no joke. No. Freaking. Joke. But it's like what you'd expect a song about the Texas heat--and its subsequent relief--to sound like; it nearly drips with sweat. I love that it can do that.


5. "Jacques Mathurin." I would never expect this kind of song on an album like this, but as I said, ther's something for everyone here. It's a song about a vengeful sailor who, centuries ago, was sold into slavery and longs to be free and to see his wife again. Haunting, compelling, and imaginative.


6. "Yesterday's Wind." An upbeat song about the necessity of a wealthy youth coming into his own and not borrowing on his parents' success and wealth.

Give 'em a listen here: http://cdbaby.com/cd/markaustin. They're just clips of the songs, but enough to give you an idea. And if you like them, buy the album! I demand it! If you know me, you also know I wouldn't plug his stuff if I didn't love it.

Dance, Donny, dance

This was on a friend's blog and I enjoyed it so much (apparently I've been living under a rock so I hadn't seen it before yesterday) that I'm putting it on mine, too. Yes, I'd jump off a bridge if all my friends did it, too. Shut up.

Oh, and here's the All-Donny Dance version: