Ah, life has a way of running in circles.

You know how I posted that thing about mother-in-law's driving neuroses yesterday?

In the oddest sort of coincidence, last night Husband told me that his mother wants to go to California to see her grandchildren in May. I told him it would take her a month to drive there if she didn't get on an expressway at some point or other. He said she wants him to go with her as passenger while she drives there. I didn't ask, but strongly suspect I wasn't invited for this little foray.

One really odd thing is that she is deathly afraid of non-white people and indeed will make great loops around sections of town where the population isn't predominantly white. I can't imagine how she's getting to California, unless she drives up to Canada and then down along the Pacific Coast. On back roads, I'm figuring that'll be more like 3 months. Anyhoo.
Not my problem.
Not going to be my problem.

But I reserve the right to giggle at it.

Wow. Watch out for distracted, lunatic drivers. I was exiting an expressway Tuesday when a woman on the side road rolled through a stop sign at about 25 mph and nearly hit me. She then took the trouble to overtake me and flip me off. I could see she was in another world as I took the exit ramp - she never even looked around. Naturally, I honked my balls off.

It's incredible to think that some dipshit who isn't paying attention could just take your life in an instant. As I was driving down upper Greenville yesterday morning on the one-way south-bound just above Mockingbird, some goober came driving along in the opposite direction whilst reading. Yes, reading. He was holding up some sort of paper with one hand, and I assume the other hand was on the wheel, but I couldn't swear to it.

Stuff like this gets my attention, but I try to stay in a state of relaxed readiness behind the wheel rather than being bone-stiff and freaked out constantly - it's too physically and mentally exhausting to do otherwise. If husband rides in a car while I'm driving, he's Mr. Whiteknuckle and wears out the imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side. If someone taps the brakes 200 yards ahead, he's crossing himself and bracing for impact.

He gets that from his mother, who is so incredibly neurotic that she can't ride in a vehicle with someone else driving. She also can't drive on an expressway. If she needs to take his father to the airport, they have to drive the 20 miles through on town roads, taking hours longer than the 20 or 25 minutes it would take a mere mortal.

I think I told this story once before, but it's such a good one it bears re-telling. Way back in the 60s when they were at university in Lubbock, my father-in-law was driving and ran a stop light and ploughed right into some random yahoo. That random yahoo turned out to be Tex Ritter and of course it was splashed all over the local Lubbock papers, to my inlaws' eternal chagrin. Mortified is a word.

Funny thing is, I think most people would say something like "wow, I really screwed up, and isn't it funny that my victim turned out to be Tex Ritter?!" Then again, my mother-in-law talked for years of a former sister-in-law who humiliated the whole family by having a belt set off a metal detector at an airport in Corpus Christi about 15 years ago-- she was a bad person.

Christmas Tree Teaser

Here are some ornaments from my tree. I just love this little hedgehog, and I had to share with you the nekkid Santa with the strategically placed beard. I suspect he delivers his goodies on a hog. Love the rosy cheeks.

I was living in a loft about 18 years ago and a neighbor had the wackiest thing - it was an old Wrigley's rack from a WalMart or a dollar store or some such, and it became my official Christmas tree. Remember when those stores would have these racks with hanging 10-packs of Wrigley's chewing gum like Big Red and Doublemint and Juicy Fruit? Well, maybe it's a Southern thing, I dunno. Red and green spray paint sorta give the rack the spirit of the season. Now it's a little more unwieldy and cumbersome when it comes to storage, but I've usually had some good place to tuck it away and have it out of sight in off-season.

By the way, I loved the crap out of the flavor of Juicy Fruit gum. As soon as the sweetness ran out on one stick, I'd unpeel the wrapper from another, like chain smoking only with chewing gum. Now I hate chewing gum - it makes my jaws ache. Ew. Still like the memory of the flavor of juicy fruit, though - haven't had it in years, maybe decades? Wow. Time is flying. Anyway, do they even make Juicy Fruit anymore? If not, pity.

I have listened to this over and over and it's yet another reason I absolutely adore opera. Every once in a while, there's a trainwreck. It happens on the last note.

This is La donna è mobile from Rigoletto performed by Nicolai Gedda. Rough translation is that women are changeable or fickle. Ha!

The link is on parterre.com which is a queer opera zine simply dripping with opera gossip, which probably doesn't interest you if you're not an opera queen or a diva. Ah, but I have had many a wicked giggle at the expense of well-paid popular opera singers, and that in some small way salves my aching ego that I'm not having a career. Bitches!

The sweetie-lambs came over last weekend and decorated the tree for Aunt Phlegmmy. They did a fantastic job and it's always a great time when they are around. I'll post a pic of the tree soon - it's a little kooky, which is perhaps what you'd expect from me. My tree is rather unconventional, as you will see.

I'm in my last big push of making jewelry for selling before Christmas, and I'll have some new stuff up before the end of the week over at Ranchorita. I'm kinda sicky now, but I made a bunch of beads today anyway, resting in between torch sessions in front of a roaring fire. I bought some fine silver mesh (.999 instead of the .925 of sterling) which I'm melting in little strips on the glass in the flame. What's cool is when the silver draws up into little balls where the grid lines intersect so it's just a field of tiny dots instead of the cross-hatching of mesh. Also, if I'm using ivory Moretti glass, then the silver reacts with the oxides in the ivory glass and makes the glass blacken around the edges, almost making the glass appear veined with dark lines. Fun stuff.

This is going to be a hectic week, so don't be surprised if I seem like a galloping looney. Cheers!

Speaking of Spanish, which has come up in a couple posts this week, I LOVE the Castilian pronunciation one hears in the films of Pedro Almodovar. My favorite of his films is "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown" which is very silly and sublimely funny. Highly recommended. Of course, I'm predisposed to love any film wherein peseta is pronounced "petheta." I love that little lispy thingie on the "s" sounds. Cute. Here, too, Carmen Maura has an intriguing method for serving gazpacho, the yummy Spanish tomato soup, served cold.

One 1967 film set in Spain is (though I think it's in Seville rather than in Barthelona) is The Bobo, starring Peter Sellers.

Peter's wife, Britt Ekland, stars as the ingenue and she has the most fabulous, groovy sixties wardrobe along with Maseratis to match. The film has a rather unexpected ending which leaves you thinking either Sellers' character is brilliant or a simpleton - either way, what he wants out of life is not something he will compromise on, regardless what extraordinary opportunities come his way. I think the surprise ending makes this film much more memorable than most, and while it wasn't side-splittingly funny as some of Sellers' films are, there is still plenty to chuckle over, and as usual, he brings an elegance and grace to what could easily have been a ridiculous character and nothing more. I suppose that is something I love about his acting - he always donned a persona with conviction, never morally judging the characters he played.

I must mention one riveting scene in this film features a flamenco dance performed by a sweaty, intense woman. In a strange way, she's ugly as she strains through a grueling zapateado (that's that rapid-heel slamming dance so common in flamenco) but it is a magnificent vision. I think that scene alone is worth seeing the entire film.

And speaking of Peter Sellers, I saw the 1967 original Casino Royale a few weeks ago, and it was corny as shit (corn being one of the Elfin Foods™ which the intestinal elves magically re-assemble). What has derailed my fragile psyche time and again in the past few weeks has frequently been the cornball motif Burt Bacharach composed and which that dastardly Herb Alpert and his Tijuana Brass performed - I just can't get it out of my head and in a not-good way. Yeuch! Anyway, I must say that despite oozing a complex gravy of camp/groovy/spoof, this wasn't enough for me to enjoy it very much - I thought it was particularly bad, and I have pretty low standards, so that is just sad. I will say that Ursula Andress was a vision of loveliness as ever, so the film's not a complete, er, bust, but nor do I recommend it. Proceed at your own risk with this puppy, 'cause that dog won't hunt.

Haranguing up

You know, I've complained about cell phones before, but I think I'm due to unburden about cell phones yet again.

First let me say that I have an abiding appreciation for the ways cell phones enrich our lives and make things so much easier. I have a close relationship with my parents, and I know it was stressful for us all when I would go on a road trip to visit grandparents in Arkansas by myself as a young woman--I would be out of touch with mom & pop, and they'd wonder how I was getting along on the road. Now there is no being out of touch - dad can call me on the road, or I can call him if I need to chatter someone to sleep. *** See footnote Of course, in the event of emergencies, that emergency services may be instantly summoned is of immeasurable value. There are probably too many good features of cell phones to name.

However, some of these same qualities render cell phones an extraordinary annoyance. Was it Plato who said something like one's very best qualities, unchecked, would act to destroy one? One of the good things about leaving the house used to be that you got away from the telephone. One could do their thing and not have someone hectoring them to give a blow-by-blow of their daily routine. Apparently, when people dial someone else up, the first thing they say is "what are you doing?" and then the person responds. I have overheard countless people in restaurants answer the phone and say "Hello. Nothing." Well, no, you're not doing nothing--you're eating in a restaurant (in some cases with a date) and you're disrupting other diners, jerk! Once in a Record store, a guy next to me answered his phone "Hello. Making a baby. What are you doing?" When in every case, the appropriate response would be "I'm talking to you."

On Tuesday I went into the restroom at school. This is a big modern facility with a row of about 10 stalls, and I proceeded to the handicapped stall, or, as I like to think of it, the executive stall. I had a bag of crap for my class, my purse and a coat, so I folded down the diaper station and stacked all my stuff on it. Then a chick came into the room spewing a rapidly babbling brook of spanish. At first, I thought she was two people, and then I realized as she entered the stall next to mine that she was on a cell phone. Blah blah blah, shut the hell up, lady. She could have taken any of the other 8 stalls not right next to me, but nooooo. So I'm putting on my coat and gathering up my things and I hear her peeing like everybody's business as she's chattering along. So I flushed the toilet about 4 times in a row, just to put my 2 cents' worth in. It never seemed to break the flow of her conversation. I guess when it came to talking to this friend, she simply couldn't wait.

As i griped once about the annoyance of cell phones, my English friend Rosie laughingly agreed what rude devices they are. Her nephew, Murray, was on a train from London to York and as soon as the train got rolling, an American man's phone rang and he proceeded to carry on a protracted business discussion with the person at the other end. Murray got up and approached the man and said "Excuse me, am I going to have to ride the entire way to York in your office?" and the American said "Yes." Murray, steamed, grabbed his coat and stormed off to another rail car. In York he realized he'd left his briefcase on the overhead rack of the first car, and of course it was gone when he went back to retrieve it.

Cell phones: meh.

[I have chattered dad do sleep, more than once. Like me, dad is a night owl and has trouble turning his brain off, so I consider it a mark of achievement that the dulcet qualities of my voice have enabled a tired man to get some much-needed rest. tee hee. I'd be talking along about whatever silly thing was interesting to me at the moment, and I'd hear his breathing, slightly raspy and very even. Awww, what a lamb! He's so sweet when he's sleeping! I'd just leave my phone off the hook so he could hang it up when he woke up, that way he wouldn't be jarred awake by that awful "your phone's off the hook" tone. Mom is always mad at him for running the juice out of the cordless phones. I suppose she should be mad at me, even though I haven't talked dad to sleep in a while.]

Well, crap.

I messed around and didn't get tickets to see Thomas Dolby at the Granada Theater tonight. I went online and looked, sorta thinking they wouldn't sell out, and I'd finally decided that yeah, I DO want to see this show.

It was the 6th, not the 8th. I don't know if I mis-read and thought today would be the 6th, or if I thought the show was on the 8th. All I know is that I had my chops all set for going to this show on Friday night.

Oh well. He's playing Houston tonight and I'm SO not driving down there.

Mind the gap.

Remember the North Ridge earthquake in San Francisco on the day of the world series? There was footage they played over and over on the news of someone driving along the top deck of the Bay Bridge (at least I think that's the one) which is a double-decker and an entire section of the roadway had falled into the bay, yet the driver seemed to accelerate as they approached the gap, with dire results. Mind you, the gap was not enormous, but you'd need a seriously souped-up machine to span a gap that was at least two car lengths with no ramping up before the dropoff. And you'd need to be an ace behind the wheel, besides.

I've always wondered about that person, though.
Did they see the gap and think, "oh, I can make it if I drive really fast" or were they so freaked out and distracted by the earthquake that they didn't see the gap ahead? Perhaps they were fumbling with their cell phone. Or maybe they were distracted and looking up at the news helicopter that was filming a section of the bridge with no one on it. Hmm. Empty bridge in a town where it typically takes 1 hour fighting traffic to go five miles. This might be a sign...

This is a cautionary tale for us all, perhaps: if you see a news helicopter filming something in the road ahead, you may want to proceed with extreme caution. I'm just sayin'...

Wow, this is so cool I had to post it.

Yesterday in typical sunspot flare-up fashion, our universe's gooey warm center burped out a big ropey loop of molten product bigger than a cluster of planets our size. You can click on this link to get to a page where you can find a link with moving images of the flare, or listen to audio of the radiation storm interfering with radio waves. That's hot!

Wow. I'm amazed. I read the first 400 pages of Lonesome Dove from October 5 through last Sunday, and then I read the last 540-ish pages in the last 3 days. Incredible. NOW I'm ready to see the cinematic version of it, at last.

I'm not uptight about spoilers, but I know some other folks might be. So I'm going to put the names in white and you can highlight them to see the names if you so choose.

I can't believe Larry McMurtry killed Gus.

I'm in total shock that we don't find out what was in the letter from Gus to Lorena.

Then again, I know there's at least one sequel.

I cried when they buried Deets, and I cried for about the last 3 pages. I never cry. It takes a lot to make me cry. Crying when reading a book? Well, that's the second time this year, and I've read a lot of books until I hit upon this one.

I can't believe July Johnson is such a dim-witted dullard. I disliked his wife and I'm not sorry that she got massacred.

At first I thought Gus was a diarrhea-of-the-mouth, no-account layabout, and eventually I found him to be so incredibly competent, capable and just plain old ALL MAN that he grew heroic in my eyes.

That was perhaps the greatest surprise to me in this novel, finding out the strong, silent guy was just piling grief on his own misery and unwittingly avoiding the most noble thing he could have done while the jabbering (seeming) dimwit was the very portrait heroism and rugged individuality.

Blue Duck was a mean mo-fo - I suppose there were people around that were that cunning, ruthless and evil. After all, they're around today, too, aren't they?

I was sick of the word poke used to refer to sexual intercourse by about page 7 of 944.

Incredibly good book.

Well, THAT was fun!

I just wanted the chance to slap around a bony, addle-witted broad. Actually, I always wanted to live in England, if only for a little while. It's so great when you can go into a structure and see where it was built in sections from the Norman period forward. You have so much more a sense of being part of a continuum when everything around you wasn't just built in your own lifetime.

I always thought I'd get a chance to live in England, but I suppose that ship has left the station.

As for living in Texas, I hate the heat and there's waaaay too much sun for my taste, but I really like the people here.

I was waxing so gushmatic after the Imogen Heap episode that I didn't talk about how Austin has changed in the several years since I've been there.

To bring you up to speed - didja see that movie "Slacker" about 14 or 15 years ago? Yeah, that one. Well, that very much conveyed the typical neo-hippie hang-arounder one would always see in Austin at that time. They're still there, somewhere, no doubt. However, that place has slicked-up proper, and frankly is looking more Dallasesque all the time, in my opinion, to their detriment. Texas already has a Dallas, you poser copycats!

Funny thing was there was a bumper-sticker trend in Austin for quite some time that said "Keep Austin Weird." In response, a group of Dallas' own eccentrics formed a group called "Keep Dallas Plastic" and they are a little kooky. I've never spent any time reading their site or anything, but I appreciate the off-the-chart nutty factor. Actually, what's funny is that they seem sorta activist and whole-grain-ish and probably more than a few of their women sport armpit hair you could braid and bead. Probably no deodorant, no hair products. Probably not much plastic.



What is this hippy business doing in the land of Aquanet? How can one live in Texas yet eschew the ladies' prime directive of big hair? Remember what Danny from Withnail and I said:

DANNY: All hairdressers are in the employment of the government. hair are your aerials. They pick up signals from the cosmos and transmit them directly into the brain. This is the reason bald-headed men are uptight.

WITHNAIL: What absolute twaddle!

Everyday is a good day for a Withnail quote.

Anyway, above is a picture of some big-haired gals of yore.

The other picture, well, it's a picture from a medical scrubs uniform company, but I just had to share it with you. Came across this on the web today, and I thought "why is she tweaking his nipple - that doesn't seem very professional? I guess everyone is nasty these days." Turns out, she's holding a stethoscope that has gone into stealth mode in that technicolor yawn pattern on his shirt. Sheesh. Enjoy!

...and from the backpedaling department of the home office, Gwyneth Paltrow took pains Monday to release a statement saying how proud she is to be an Amercian and that her comments had been misconboobulated when printed in a Portuguese paper. She said she needed to take a refresher course on 7th grade Spanish. I suppose that would help, except that they speak Portuguese in Portugal. Yeah, I know it's remotely related, but it ain't the same thing. Maybe that's how they misquoted her - she was speaking another language. She should stick to English, and scripted English, at that.

She should have pulled a Michael Richards and blamed our government's unpreparedness for Katrina. I'm just sayin'...

I read hundreds of pages of Lonesome Dove today. Love that book, love the characters, I'm even kinda diggin' on cowboys now. Kinda. Good reading. Larry McMurty: cool guy.

I know a guy in his late 70s who went into a book store in the 50s or someways along in there and there was a youngish author sitting at a table peddling his books with free autograph. He said he felt sorry for the guy because people walked by and didn't bat an eyelash, effectually staying away in droves. He bought several copies.

Turns out this new author was Larry McMurtry and these were the first prints, first editions of his first book. They're worth oodles of money now. Good for him, and good for Larry. I wonder if he sat there that day and thought people would just never get his writing...

And now, for something dead-serious:

This post over at Tam's View from the Porch should be required reading. It'll just take a minute, but it points out something so fundamental that I wonder how anyone can be conflicted over the issue.