OK. I'm finally doing it. Monday night I took the plunge and listed something on Craig's List, which (judging by their rabid following) is as addictive as the Devil's dandruff* and even more easily accessible. You may never hear from me again. My soul will lose its way forever like that boy who disappeared in the Helen Reddy classic Angie Baby and my days will spool out in a Craigslist-induced haze, a feed-bag of oats around my head, diapered and permanently glazed over. Then again, I won't know, so I won't care then, will I?

I have a Celeste which has been haunting the garage for ever-so-long, and I've decided to cut it loose. Here's the text of my ad, which I thought was a tasty little nugget. Oh, and email me if you want to buy this Celeste.

Well, I knew it was a long shot.

You know the adorable bell-theme at the beginning of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood? Well, I always fantasized I'd one day be playing that theme on this Celeste. Then I expected I'd go on to be the Viktor Borges of the lounge chime-piano set, haunting darkened dens of the downtrodden, each new daily layer
of nicotined barroom haze further darkening the peeling gold walpaper with the red-flocked florals that had beamed in straight from Miss Kitty's saloon. I'd do world-weary versions of selected works by Chet Baker, Nina Simone and the
Bugaloos. All the while, I'd trot out my pithy banter as a cigarette dangled precariously - spittle-glued, really - from my bottom lip with an impressively long ash. Bar-goers would take bets on when that impossibly long ash would fall off. Bookmakers would sell odds. Alas, I have come to embrace the notion that I'll never play the theme of a chidren's show on the stage of Carnegie Hall, nor any smoky flophouse on Harry Hines, so guess what? My dreams crashing on the
pitiless rocks = the portal to a vista of your own musical magnificence: for a limited time (i.e.or until I sell it) I'm offering this dusty little gem which could fuel your own fantasies of theme-song (and otherwise) musical greatness. Go on. Buy this Celeste. You know you want to.

This Celeste is in need of a lot of work to make functional, including a thorough cleaning. The actions on some of the keys/hammers are completely disengaged. I would guess this instrument is mid-20th century and may be restorable, or it may simply be useful for parts. AS-IS. The keys I struck when taking the photo sounded pure and clear. My non-expert opinion is
that this could be made to work. The keyboard has a sliding cover. Keys are plastic, and the frame of the instrument is covered in a wood veneer which looks rather cheap to me.

From the internet: "The celeste looks slightly similar to the upright piano but produces a very different bell-like sound. Inside the celeste is a row of slender steel bars and the outer case is wood similar to the upright piano. When the keys are pressed, a tiny felt covered hammer strikes the metal bars. A small hollow box is underneath each of the metal bars. This makes the sound louder. The celeste also has a foot pedal, called the sustaining pedal, which makes the notes longer when pressed."

*cocaine

Somewhere, there's a 1970s bridesmaid that JLo beat the shit out of so that she might abscond with this coral chiffon fantasie.

Either that or she mugged Norma Zimmer (The Lawrence Welk Show's Champagne Lady).

And the hair? That's shoplifter wig hair. Several kinds of wrong.

In any case, it kinda makes me puke in my mouth, a bit.

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Oh, and speaking of singers - didn't that whole Milli-Vanilli thing pan out sorta like the backstory in Singin' In The Rain where they have the normal but somewhat ordinary gifted singer's voice dubbed over the squawking of the silent film star? Sorta? Kinda? Maybe just a little?

This will change your life:


OK. Not really.

Remember that Louis Vuitton monogram car Madeleine Kahn drove in High Anxiety? She was also wearing an LV suit - it was meant to look ridiculous. Anyway, this car is a definite fake. One of the hallmarks of LV products is that on the real-deals, they have a proscribed layout of their monogram so that the initials are never cut off or embedded in a seam. Clearly, the initials are compromised by their proxmity to the wheel well. Totally fake. Also suspect this would not be a LV preferred canvas of a car. But that's just me.

For fellow label-whores out there, here's a VV article on sales of fake designer bags in NYC.

I'm pretty much ok with wearing fakes. The truth is I wouldn't wear or carry anything I didn't genuinely like, just because it has a certain label. My method is of the bait-and-switch variety. My theory on this has always been that if generally you are known to own authentic designer pieces, people will assume everything you own is authentic.

This article cracked me up, because the author had a Eureka! moment over something I've always known:

The next arrival is by far the more fascinating. She's in search of sunglasses—Dior, or maybe Chanel—and she's sporting a diamond monogram pendant that I am almost positive is by Harry Winston and costs in the vicinity of $12,000. (If it's fake, I've never seen anything like it.) Her very presence throws into chaos my entire belief system: I have always determined whether a bag is real or fake not by the quality of the bag itself (almost impossible), but by sizing up—and costing out—whatever else the person carrying it is wearing. But if Ms. Moneybags is mixing fake shades with Harry Winston, maybe everyone I see—on the subway, in the ladies' room at Bergdorf Goodman, in the audience at Xanadu—is carrying a fake. Everyone but me.

I didn't expect to have that in common with fabulous NYC bitches. Now, I don't have a $12,000 Harry Winston initial pendant, but I'd be proud to sport a fake. Nice work if you can get it, eh?

From the sick sense of humor department:

In England, thugs shot a young dog twice in the head with a cross-bow. Fortunately for the dog, the arrows did not result in life-threatening wounds.

The dog's name? Beau.

(Actually, she was named Beau by the ladies in the vet clinic where she was treated. Twisted--Beau is a boy name.)

If you get a chance, you owe it to yourself to read a collaborative series of posts a few fine bloggers have written. Titled "Perspectives," these three folks follow a deadly situation through three phases of our emergency response/care systems.

The first responder is Matt, who gives a police officer's perspective on a tragic car wreck.

Dovetailing with Matt's post comes the perspective of Ambulance Driver.

Finally, Babs RN contributes the viewpoint of the nurse in charge of a small town hospital emergency room as they receive the injured.

This depiction is a composite of many tragic scenarios they've been presented with as emergency service personnel. We rely on them being there we need them, but we don't give a lot of thought to the real peril and the painful human toll that must come with the burden of seeing people at their most desperate moments in life. I thank them for their service to our communities, and also for these splendidly written posts.

Funny thing happened this week.

I went to Mama's Daughters' Diner on Irving Boulevard for lunch. As they do, they seated me at a table with 3 other people.

Everyone smiled, nodded, said hello when I sat down. It's always friendly like that there. I love it. I've been seated with Judges, police officers, lawyers, prattling office drones and more than one homeless person, I suspect.

Noticing her University of Arkansas t-shirt, I asked the young woman across from me if she went to UofA. She said no, but that she was from Arkansas. I said "so'm I. What part are you from?"

She was from Searcy. The two men next to her said "we're from Arkansas too!" Naturally, I assumed they all came together.

My favorite waitress came and took my order for fried chicken livers (don't laugh -they are sheer perfection at M's Ds'). A few minutes later, I had to laugh when two plates of livers came to the table for the Arkansas boys next to me. About that time, the woman across the table left, and a man was soon seated in her place. I asked if he was from Arkansas and informed him that he was required by law to order the chicken livers if he sat at our table.

He laughed.

We chatted, talked about property development in Dallas, how quiet Arkansas can be, and about emergency preparedness.

A short while after my livers arrived, a plate of livers arrived at the table for the new guy. Wow. I must be more persuasive than I realized.

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Friday ended the week on a very good note. Things were relatively quiet, and two of my favorite residents came to see me. It's not so bad, my job, sometimes.

Have a great weekend.

"He's an American: he's a donut!"



I loves me some Eddie Izzard.

From a surprising source - the LA Times - comes this news article: people who smoke marijuana daily or weekly double their risk of developing a psychotic illness over their lifetime, according to a study published Thursday.

Marijuana can cause psychiatric problems because it throws off the balance of neurotransmitters in the brain.

I believe it.

I've discussed this with people for years, and what I keep hearing is that there is no long-term damage, that the THC merely locks onto receptors in the brain harmlessly, but it's always been difficult to me to dismiss the possibility that neural pathways are altered by longterm exposure to THC. I strongly believe that pot use wreaks havoc on the limbic system and seriously limits a person's ability to problem-solve and change behaviors at their basest emotional level.

If you have to have pot or booze to make it through every single day, you need to change something in your life. These things don't fix what's wrong. Why squander life by anaesthetizing oneself to experience? Only you can change the way you live.

Then there's this bit in the news about astronauts flying shortly after having pulled a big sloppy drunk. Can you imagine being in space and drunk/hung over? Sounds like hell on earth. Well, hell, but not on earth. Maybe hell relatively near earth, considering the vastness of space.

Anyway, in honor of the drunktard astronauts, I give you another golden chestnut from Flight of the Conchords. This one's about David Bowie in Space. It's pretty freaky, man!

You know that big welding gas supplier that 'sploded in Dallas on Tuesday? Well, I've got ash all over my property from that. It's not Mt. St Helens or anything, but it's ashy. Kinda strange. And we're at least a couple miles away.

The property is on the market (anyone have spare millions in the double-digits?) [whining text deleted}


If only it will sell and soon.
I'm not superstitious, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed, just in case.

[more whining text deleted]

The truth is everyone has moments where they hate what they are doing, right? And if it were just a barrel of laughs, then they wouldn't have to pay people to do it, right? I'm actually very lucky, so sorry about the whining, to anyone unfortunate enough to have seen it.
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What better way to wash away the bitter tang of careericide than a couple hedgehogs and a very minky-looking cat?

OMG! Text message obsessed man is dumb as a t8er.

Hey! Your banana and your chocolate are in my peanut butter!
Hey! Your peanut butter and your banana are on my chocolate!
Hey! Your peanut butter and your chocolate are on my banana!

Elvis died 30 years ago on August 17, 1977. This date also happened to be the birthday of Sean Penn and the day after Madonna's birthday. My theory is that as Sean and Madonna reached the full flower (?) of adulthood, the mighty Elvisness could no longer abide existence on the same plane with such a vortex of evil, and he did the gentlemanly thing and bowed out, albeit from the perch of his throne.*

Anyhoo, Reese's and whoever-owns-Elvis'-image (thank you, Lisa Marie) thought a commemorative Limited Edition Banana Creme Reese's Peanut Butter Cup would be a fitting tribute.

I'm just waiting for the state fair where someone will batter and deep fry one of these little deadlies. Now THAT will be a greasy confection fit for the King.

Uh-uh huh!
Thank you very much.

*elvis died on the potty

Sorry, but I had to include this photo of the Mad One getting high on her own armpit vapors.
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Guess what? I'm gonna roll 50,000 today. WOOHOO!
I started this blog in 2002, but only fired up a counter sometime last year. So, anyway, thanks for encouraging my bad behavior this past year, all you sexy, sexy people! And thanks to the not-sexy people, too.

It's special. So special it has to have some of your attention.



Dad never told me I had a twin sister. WOOHOO!

Never underestimate an old lady.