Anyone besides me notice lately that Courtney Love and Madonna seem on some trajectory to morph into the same person? Egads, heaven help us. Sorry, I haven't posted celebrity snark lately, so I was a bit overdue. Donatella Versace was added by popular demand to complete the trifecta. You could wet Courtney's lips and stick her to the wall.

On a more important note, I've learned that Zappos.com has a couture section, and they carry one of my favorite makers, Robert Clergerie - exquisite hand-made shoes of the very finest quality. I'm loving the crap out of this pair, and these are making me think lovingly of the days when I worked for Neiman-Marcus and got that yummy discount on all shoes, but learned in particular to worship Robert Clergerie. At least Zappos has them half price so they are only $285! Ah, bliss! Too bad I've blown my shoe budget for the time being. Just call me Imelda Marcos. I can dream, can't I?

The sun has riz, the sun has set, and we ain't out of Texas yet.

Driving out west from Dallas always enchants me. It was a slow-dawning occurence--my love for the rugged desolation of the west--but these landscapes are cemented in my affection among my favorites on earth. West beyond Fort Worth the terrain goes from relatively flat to gently rolling hills and distant mesas. Before you hit Wichita Falls, the first oil pumpjacks appear doing their perpetual grasshopper routines while hoovering up the water of life from deep underground. This landscape gives way to more hilly farmland (I noticed cotton growing) and lots of grazing for cows and horses. Beyond Wichita Falls is a farm with a herd of camels who looked quite happy, actually. I wondered if someone is manufacturing camel sausage or something...

On toward the Texas panhandle, the landscape becomes decidedly more sere, the vegetation consisting of more heat-hardy oily types such as sages and lots more cacti. This area is full of low-growing mesquite trees which have gnarled little trunks with fernlike foliage that sway in the wind like a forest of seaweed in the rush of tide. The earth here is bright red. There are occasional long bridges over flat dry areas that seem to make no sense. However, these bridges are over washes and forks from rivers (such as the Prairie Dog fork of the Red River) which are completely dry year-round except after a rain, at which time flash-floods barrel through the area.


By the time you reach the Amarillo area of the panhandle, you are baffled by the vastness of the flat plains stretching out in all directions. The wind there seems ever determined to sand-blast everything in its path, and storms there always seem spectacular to me.


We went to a family gathering (of dear friends of my mother's, not relations of our own) in Hereford which is about 40 miles southwest of Amarillo, and self-proclaimed cattle capitol of the world. If smelling is believing, then they've earned the title: the entire town smells like cow doodie. There I saw an enormous humpty-dumpty shaped woman riding a sparkly purple tricycle motorcycle. She was wearing tight polyester shorts with the waistband pulled up right under her tits. As long as I live, I'll wish I had a photograph to show you. It was very special. Maybe I'll make a trip to Hereford one day and stake out the corner where I saw her drive by, camera at the ready. If YOU were telling ME about her, I'd think you were exaggerating. Little stick legs, body round as a tomato, large and in charge.


Driving back east again on Sunday, we were astonished by spectacular cloud formations ahead, and a huge rainbow that was unbroken from horizon to horizon. The green of the new vegetation and the terracotta red earth looked especially vivid against the federal blue of the darkening skies. Suddenly, there was a sound like a gunshot hitting my car, and dozens more close on its heels. Hail. Hell. New car, and wouldn't you know it? We pulled off the road, as did most people: these quarter-sized chunks of ice were hitting cars hard enough without rushing to meet them head-on. The hail storm lasted about 25 minutes, which is the most protracted hail I've ever experienced. It was extraordinary and bracing, in a way, but I was concerned about having to drive the rest of the way home with no glass in the windshield. Remarkably, the vehicle came through with nary a scratch.


The whole trip was great, and I'll have photos later in the week. The junk shop I raided in Quanah yielded much in the way of goodies, but I opted not to buy the chicken, as I swore in the previous post. Instead I got a lot of other great crap. I got my crap-buying jollies enough to last me for a while, though I have vowed to take the pickup truck next time and fetch me a chicken. For sure!

Hey from the road, kids! It started off windier than a bag of buttholes and we drove through a wild storm last night in the panhandle just south of Amarillo. Pulled off the road 4 times in protracted bouts of hail, some of them as big as quarters. Incredibly, my chariot Lulu sustained nary a pock or dimple in the barrage. Spent the night in Childress, and back home to Dallas late today. Not before I stop at a supreme collection of a junk store in Quanah on the way. They had a big chicken made of Mexian oil barrels I'm lusting after. They may have to strap it to the roof of Lulu, but dammit - it's coming home with me if it harelips the world!

Have a great day, and I'll post at length tonight or tomorrow morning.

Early Saturday morning mum and I are off to Amarillo/Hereford where we'll be attending a memorial service and gathering of friends from mom's high school days. I'll be driving my chariot Lulu, and I've got the road music all queued up. We'll mosey around Route 66 a bit in Amarillo and go see Stanley Marsh 3's Cadillac Ranch, or Caddyhenge™, as I like to think of it. The classic cars are arrayed at exactly the same angle as the great pyramid at Cheops, whatever that means. No use poking about here for plunder - the locals corrupted the sacred site long ago. Funny to think these cadillacs all began as an all-white monument. I think it dates from 1973, though the caddys are from 1949-1962, or somesuch.


What I'm most excited about are the wacky signs dotted about Amarillo, of which I plan to take tons of pictures to bore you with here on the blog next week. Fun. On the road again. Feels like I just got back.


Maybe we'll end up at the Big Texan Steak House (home of the 72 oz steak - if you can eat it, it's free). I'll have to tell you soon about the last time I was there and one of the kids in the group tried to eat the 72 oz steak. Let's just say I have barf action photos. But we'll save that for later. Ah, dessert!


I'm hopeful I'll come back with at least one big extraordinary rusty curiosity to stick in my garden back home. There are some fabulous junk shops along the road out west. Ah, the open road - me and my mum are gonna pull a Thelma & Louise, minus the rape, murder, boozing, Brad Pitt and suicide. WOOOHOOOO!.

Coolest thing I saw in Arkansas last weekend: a biker-chick's t-shirt that said on the back does this bike make my butt look fast? She looked like a major ass-kicking momma, and her butt DID look fast!

Left my dog in a doggie camp when we were out of town last weekend and she's been acting like a dog ever since she got home. She made some buddies and I think they must have informed her that she's not a person. I'm not sure if I'm ok with it, though - she's not as cuddly as I'm used to-- but she seems very happy and like she had a good time... Bitches - who understands 'em?

Finally, whoever recommended the book (I'm thinking it was Tam???) Redcoat by Bernard Cornwell - THANK YOU so much. Excellent book - one of my all-time favorites. Brilliantly written with no schlock that made me cringe -- just believable character development and exciting battle scenes. Great stuff. A fast and very entertaining read. I highly recommend this one.

Tickersoid tagged me, so here goes:

Six things about me

1. I had a kitten when I was 3 and it disappeared one day. At the corner of the street was a mailbox, and I asked the mailman every day if he would look in there for my kitty. I already know what you're going to say about this one.

2. Despite any typos you see here, I have excellent manual dexterity, and love doing things with my hands like needlework, beadwork and sewing.

3. I once made an alien autopsy kit out of papier-maiche for a friend's birthday. To get the goodies out, he had to make the Y autopsy incision in the 4' long green alien. I know - sick. But funny.

4. I have a collection of airline barf bags. Crown jewels of the collection are Sabena and Pan Am (sadly defunct) and Aeroflot. I also have a mad passion for collecting floaty pens.

5. I trained as a classical vocalist in college and dreamed of becoming an opera singer. I still would like to, but I believe the professional realm kills the joy of any art. I practically have to sit on my hands when watching operas live - I always want to run up on stage and help out

(right : the immaculate Edita Gruberova as Queen of the Night in Mozart's Magic Flute, a role I would have sung)

6. Since I was a tiny girl I've always been able to strike up a conversation with just about anyone I see. I'm friendly, but can turn on a dime. If provoked, I can be incredibly intimidating. Cowardice is something I don't understand, and my blood boils when I see someone bullying other people

Back from the hinterlands of the Ozarks after having a lovely time at the family reunion. I heard lots of family stories and a bit of family gossip, which is sometimes amusing, sometimes tragic, and nearly always entertaining. This was my maternal family, and the reunion I mentioned in the previous post was paternal family, so this is a whole other kettle of fish.


My maternal Grandpa died in 1987, but he had a younger cousin who is now in his early 80s who comes to these shin-digs who looks remarkably like Grandpa. Only problem is Grandpa never had his teeth in my lifetime, and it freaks me out to see his lookalike with a set of chompers in. Someone marveled to me at the efficiency with which Grandpa ate corn off the cob without teeth. Yes, I come from a long line of very accomplished folk! Also, the lookalike has been to the Donald Trump Institute of Hair Arrangement™ and must have about 10 hairs that are a mile long each and looped endlessly like a big bun of cotton candy on top of his head. What's amazing is that somewhere along the way he started dyeing his hair and so the rat's nest is a bit variegated with sections of silver, salt&pepper, and strawberry blond. Still, he's a cute old man and a sweetheart, so I can forgive the peculiar vanity.


I got to see my other Grandpa, who of course is missing my Grandma. He's almost completely deaf now, which means that he believes that if he can't hear his own farts, then no one else can. He lets it rip like nobody's business and never even acknowleges the ill wind he has set afoot on the planet. Then again, he's about 90, and at that age, maybe you just don't give a rat's ass. Let the man fart, I say. Still, the carefree pealing of rolls of thunderous flatulence have a singular ability to discompose all the other folks in the room. Oh well.


We went up a day early to drive through the mountains, and we spent the night at a little mom and pop motel called Red Bird Inn in Greer's Ferry. The little inn was cute and furnished with an assortment of mid-century modern and home-spun wood furniture, which made for a quaint experience. There's a lake called Greer's Ferry Lake, but they haven't had an actual ferry for more than 20 years, apparently. There was also a fantastic old steel bridge spanning the lake, but a tornado took it out a while back. I think one of my hippy cousins got married on that ferry barefoot in the 70s. The marriage ended in tears, by the way. I complained to the people at the state park that it was sort of false advertising to keep "ferry" in the name, and we all had a good laugh about that.


It's great to be home. I'm probably heading out next weekend to Hereford and Amarillo Texas with my mom, so long road trips two weekends in a row. Should be a hoot. Nice to see you all again!

Sunday/Monday - since I went out of town to go to a family reunion this weekend, I'm reposting this golden chestnut from March 4, 2004. Enjoy.


Reunions in my family are always worth attending simply for the novelty of being around apocalyptic white trash (thank you Sandra Bernhard). Once the family rented a pavilion at a state park in Arkansas for the annual gathering. As it happened, Arkansas didn't shut down the entire park to the public, and many unfortunate souls came by along the path wending between the gigantic springs of the park and the pavilion. I wonder if the woman in the wheelchair thought she would be communing with nature that day, breathing the fresh air and escaping the cruelties of life, if only momentarily? She made her way slowly, laboring to scale the gradual incline of the path. Her legs were both removed above the knee. In a just world, she could have made her way unhindered through the glories of nature, but then again--in a just world, my family and all its tangled strands of DNA might never have existed. It would have been a mercy, too, if the woman could have glided by unmolested by Colton and Austin, my cousin's two young sons. Colton and Austin have the developmental level of a three-year old baboon, with equal communication skills. Austin ran up to the woman shouting "Hay Colton! Come look! This lady ain't got no laigs! Hay lady! What happened to yer laigs, lady?" Uncle Billy (the proud grandfather) said "them kids are gonna end up dead or in prison." Quite.

I originally posted this on November 26, 2002, about the pending divorce of Nicolas Cage and Lisa Marie Presley.

Oh the humanity! Oh cruel fate that has torn them asunder! Nicolas Cage seemed poised for a major connection with the King ever since his dweeb-cum-Elvis-wannabe turn in Peggy Sue Got Married. Then Patricia Arquette did the ding-dong honeypot Elvis fanatic in True Romance. WHY oh WHY would any guy divorce Patricia Arquette??? But I digress. Didn't we ALL already know Lisa Marie was a bit tetched? Marrying someone else from a famous family who grew up in the spotlight was bound to be fraught with nightmare problems, not to mention her prior marriage to the über-peculiar Michael Jackson. Early buzz on the Lisa Marie/Nicolas union was that Nicolas wanted to close Graceland to the public and live there. In Memphis. Imagine living with the sham-luxe 70's decor of the Jungle Room. I'm guessing Lisa Marie didn't find that such a quaint ideer, considering her wealth is expanded exponentially per annum by virtue of the white trash cavalcade that trots through the disused home of the King.


Incidentally, one of my favorite Elvis stories involves his longtime maid at Graceland, who arduously collected hairs when she cleaned around his "throne" for years and years. When the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame was collecting artifacts with which to festoon its new showplace in Cleveland Ohio several years back, this maid offered for sale the baggie of toilet hairs. There were no bidders. Michael Jackson is known for odd predilections, including ownership of the skeleton of David Merrick, the elephant man. My little Gordian Knot theory on Elvis would have been complete if Michael Jackson had tracked down the Elvis maid and bought that bag of pubes. Someday, in the Enquirer you'll read the post-mortem inventory of the gloved one's creepatorium, and listed will be an odd ziploc bag of short-and-curlies, and you'll remember I told ya so.

Do you know the muffin man?

On Wednesday, a Dallas high school made the news when 18 teachers went to the hospital after ingesting tainted muffins which had been delivered to the high school by a young man and placed in the teacher's lounge. They described the symptoms of the stricken teachers on the news. I laughed and turned to husband and said "It's pot, only they've left out the primary symptom: undeniable urge to munch on crisp salty snack foods."


Then in the Thursday news, guess what? Turns out the muffins were tainted with marijuana. I'm betting they may make progress locating the perp if they test the muffins for a wee bit of DNA, too. Sure, it would be overkill, but he was already committing a felony - what's a little bodily fluid amongst strangers?


Police continue to look for the delivery man, as other area teachers secretly hope for a delivery.


Friday morning I'm going out of town for a few days. I possibly will check in at some point. If not, see you late Monday night. Have a great weekend! I'll re-post some of my old favorites for the days I'll be gone. Cheers!

Putting on the ditz

Putting on the ditz.


My much beloved favorite comic - Eddie Izzard - said something brilliant about what the public goes for. Forgive the butchery of this story - I won't presume to quote. He said with the public it's 10% what you say, 20% how you say it, and 70% how you look when you're saying it. He cited the example of JFK in Berlin saying "Ich bin ein Berliner" to a crowd of Germans, who just went nuts with glee. In German, to say I'm a Berliner, he should have said "Ich bin Berliner." Instead, he objectified himself and in effect called himself a donut, the local municipal pastry. Eddie said someone in the crowd said "what did he say?" and the guy next to him said "He said he's a donut. He's an American. He's a fuckin' donut!" as they applauded madly with the rest of the crowd who were caught up in the heady euphoria of being in the presence of the attractive young American president.


Flash forward to American Idol, Tuesday night. Katharine McPhee sang the classic Ella Fitzgerald number "I ain't got nothing but the blues." If you watched her sing with the sound down, you'd think she was doing "Walking on Sunshine," or somesuch. Larking about the stage, fleet of foot and a giddy gleam in the eye, the smile rarely leaving her lips is not a convincing way to convey the blues, frankly, and that is part and parcel of why she is such a dead mackerel on stage - she doesn't connect with what she's singing about, ever! She is locked in stasis looking pretty and saying "look what I can do! *blink*blink*" She's like the baton twirler from the old Funky Winkerbean cartoon. She's pretty much just a beautifully put-together dipshit and boring, boring, boring. Yeah, she's a fucking donut. Tragically, the far superior performer--Elliot Yamin-- went home tonight.


Next week should be interesting, but I'm looking forward to the end of the first and last season of this idiotic show I'll ever watch. ESPECIALLY if the Stepford Singer™ wins it. Sheesh. I expect it all to be utterly resistable in future.

On why I love living in truck country™.


A colleague of husband's drives a Dodge Ram pickup with a hemi, and he is so impassioned about his truck that he meets regularly with a group of enthusiasts who all drive the same damned vehicle. Last weekend, they convened at a Golden Corral (low-budget buffet fare - don't allow yourself to be dragged there) for a meal after which they repaired to the wide-open spaces of a disused parking lot to practice peeling out, burning rubber and no doubt plenty of farting. A security guard came along and told them they had to leave the parking lot or he was going to call the police. Mind you, here are 19 middle aged men (little boys) in their identical Dodge Ram pickups being told to clear out by a security guard on a golf cart. Reprobates!


One guy mentions that for a $25 charity donation they can go to a local race track and do three laps around. This suggestion is met with great enthusiasm, so they all pile into their trucks and start following the guy who made the suggestion, but he clearly doesn't know where they are going and drives too slowly for everyone's taste. Along the highway comes a guy with an identical pickup to one of the group leaders, who happened to be driving near the back of the convoy. He flies by the group, and they all start following him, thinking he'd taken up the reins to lead the way. Suddenly, they are driving in a Fort Worth residential neighborhood and although it's curious, they stay with their leader. At last, the head truck comes to a cul-de-sac, and someone they've never seen before parks on the street, jumps out of his truck and runs into his house. Then, of course, there is the glut of 19 more pickups crammed into the narrow turnaround of this dead end street. Imagine you're driving home and a group of 19 vehicles identical to yours starts following you - how weird is that? No doubt he was whipping out the shotguns as soon as he was through the door.


Now, rams are the animals that slam their heads together over and over for entertainment, right?

I finally saw Lady Sings the Blues recently, the 1970s flick starring Diana Ross as the tragic singer Billie Holiday. Billy Dee Williams swans in as the brilliantined dandy who sweeps her off her feet and sets up house with her. (What is it about Billy Dee Williams that always makes me think *ting* when he flashes that megawatt smile? ) This is a film I'm pleased to have seen once, but I don't know if I'll ever re-visit. The tragic circumstances and horrors of racism seem too pat and obvious a trope to explain her slide into addiction to smack. Things must have been more complicated than that. Sad story.



Woot! Diana Ross. There's an onion wants peeling, eh? First there was all the crap with Nancy and Flo, when Diana was pulled to the fore of the Supremes and overshadowed her creative partners. Jilted! I'm sure the spittle of bitterness will never dry between those three. Then there was her bizarre personal interest in the pre-pubescent Michael Jackson. Ease on down the road, would you, but by all means, avoid The Wiz like the plague. Diana was obviously going down the stony end when she was blitzed at some award show at the podium and made free to give Lil Kim's pastied mam a little bounce. Well, shit, she was just doing something half the people in the audience were thinking of doing. BFD, right? Phlegmmy's First Rule of Bad Behavior™: by all means, do not allow people to document your meltdowns - it makes them harder to deny later on. Then there came Diana's arrest for driving under the influence a year or so ago (in Phoenix?). They never actually gave her a field sobriety test, and I think charges were dropped. That's normal, right? The cops wouldn't give her a free ride just because she's a celebrity, would they? Oh, but if they film her arrest story, it could be called "Lady Plays the Blues." Diana may get caught on film copping a feel of nubile pop stars, and she may have enough sadness in her life to justify getting potted and driving recklessly, but at least she's getting away with it. In showbiz, by all means, be a mess - just don't get fat.

We had a great Mother's Day Sunday. I went to church with family and brought my mom, sister, niece and nephew home with me and we gamboled about the back yard, most particularly in the pool. This weekend I had a total brainwave and bought a sandbox for the 3 year old nephew, never knowing the niece would be crazy about it too. Here's a tip for aunts/uncles - sandboxes keep them busy for hours. I also picked up a bag of creepy-crawly plastic reptiles and sandcastle implements. They had a blast, and I think mom enjoyed time in the pool with the grandkids. It was a lovely day.


Someone my mom works with goes to a church that doesn't celebrate any holidays, even birthdays. Eschewing all holidays seems very strange. In addition to missing out on the important ritual of remembrance that a holiday affords, it also seems quite dull. In two weeks the USA will celebrate Memorial Day, in which we'll honor the men and women who have served in our military, particularly in armed conflicts and especially those who died serving our country. I wonder what kind of religion tells people it is sinful to take a day every year to say thanks to the people who have given their lives for our country? I'll pass on that one, thank you very much. Besides, I like birthday cake too much not to celebrate...