Unusually good beer commercial.

I knew we weren't on the same page when I first saw the monkey on her shoulder and I said "Nice fur piece" and she didn't laugh.

You know you're a total sales whore when the client's pet monkey mounts your arm (thankfully not humping) then climbs up and rearranges your coiffure (much as one might toss a salad) and still you never miss a beat. The funny thing is that I'm so easily distracted that normally I have to work very hard to stay focused all the way through to completion of a sentence, but I felt very centered and on my game with 3 lbs of primate perched on my uppermost area, its diaper area making nice to the crown of my head. At least there was a diaper. No, overall, Bonzo seemed to function as a centering device, some kind of meditative tool. (emphasis on tool, there.)

If you've never seen a small monkey up close, they are little marvels. The anthropomorphism element is eerie. The small black hands with their fine articulation and long, elegant fingers are creepy, to say the least. I kept thinking what a taxidermy challenge it would be to stuff one up proper. The tiny, human-looking teeth were unsettling, too, but were incredibly white and clean, and could have been interesting set in gold...

Thursday night's concert was so great that nothing was going to spoil the next day for me, but that monkey thing Friday almost unseated me. Almost.

I was astonished, really, and it was crawling around and messing-with- and chewing-on- things in a way that I would have demanded a stop to had the perp been a small, snotty child. However, the monkey thing distracted me so that I had to sort of ignore the surrealism of the moment to remain collected and get through my spiel, let alone navigate the choppy waters of asking someone to prevent their pet primate from checking me for nits without offending their tender sensibilities. Later on, however, I sat back enjoyed the crashing waves of something like post-traumatic stress. My hair will never feel clean enough again, I'm convinced.

[once in some European airport, Salvador Dali was letting his pet ocelot run around and make free with the terminal. On the overhead speaker, a refined woman's voice announced "Mr. Dali, please control your ocelot." (I don't know where I read that story - but it must be true - it's too strange to be otherwise.)]

I had to draw the line, however, when it started to slurp the condensation off the outside of my plastic cup of iced tea. I scooped up my cup and carried it away from the arena of terror, beyond leash-reach. This is still Texas, dammit, and a person's iced tea is part of our state constitution. Or it should be. I consider inviolable my right to have my daily glass of iced tea that hasn't been monkeyed with.

Don't make me go ape-shit on your little ass, is all I'm saying.
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More about the Knitters' show:

*I met someone who was at the Sex Pistols show at the Longhorn Ballroom in 1978. WOOHOO!
*The bass player was smokin' hot.
*Dave Alvin really turned it out.
*Exene looked really cute with her dark waitress dress with the lace collar and cuffs and the vintage apron, red stockings and brown biker boots. Nice touch. I love that she carried her handbag to the stage. It also was a Paul Frank Scurvy bag, and I have a companion of that bag - KEWT! At one point she started talking between two songs, and a woman at the back of the audience yelled something, and she looked to the back of the venue and said "well, alright. Impatient... Dallas... lady." Everybody laughed. At one point I realized my cheeks were tired from grinning like a 'possum. But it was that kind of show. It was like Santa Claus had come to town for a bunch of old punks, only it was a Santa that said "fuck" a lot.

There were several people I've seen at indie/punk concerts for 20+ years, almost all male. Them bitches gettin' old! Not me, though. *don't try and disabuse me of my denial-- it's all I've got* I came up with one more eternal truth - tie-dye does not camouflage an enormous gut, particularly when the locus of the core of the rainbow spiral centers on your belly-button, or more of a belly-hubcap, really. I'm not being mean, I'm trying to help here, people. Let me help you. Help me help you. Iffn you are as broad as you are tall, then ixnay the iedyetay.

My friend Tracey called me up and told me about this show last week. Tracey and I have gone to see the Cramps a couple times together, and some other shows. She's one of the most kick-ass women I know, and she likes to be right at the front of the stage, so if I stick near her, I never miss anything. At 5'2", being near the stage is about the only way to fly, if you want to see what's happening there. Tracey looks a lot like Patricia Neal, is sorta tall and although she is a handsome woman, she has a look in her eye that tells you she could go bear-hunting with a switch. Once at a Cramps show, a couple youngsters decided to push in front of me and get next to the stage, but she came in heavy on them and they left a little trail of pee on the floor as they hot-footed it to points elsewhere. The funny thing is she's actually an incredibly soft-touch. She's from El Paso and makes the most amazing chile rellenos, which makes her a total goddess, in my book. But the coolest thing about Tracey is that, like me, she really loves music and loves to get out and go to a live show.

So, yeah, great show, good time hanging out with friends. It's nice to get out, but, in truth, I'm glad there aren't shows I want to see every week - I can hang and can have a productive day at work the next day, but I sure couldn't make a habit of it. Mama be needing her sleep.

See what happens when I don't get enough rest? I end up with a monkey sitting on my head. That ain't right.

It's 1 am and I just got home from seeing the Knitters at the Sons of Hermann Hall in Dallas. This band is comprised of members of the LA punk band X, the Blasters, and guitar phenom Dave Alvin.

I'm exhuasted, and maybe I'll write more on this tomorrow, but for now I'll say rockabilly bassist Johnny Ray Bartel was superb, DJ Bonebrake was skiffle-tastic and just what one would hope for on drums, Exene Cervenka and John Doe were sheer delight on vocals, and Dave Alvin wrought something from the guitar that sounded like a thousand miles of clear blue sky.

Great show. So glad I dragged my tired ass out to see them, and I can't wait to see them again. *must resist urge to drive to Houston/Austin over the next few days, but I'll think wistfully of traveling to see them again*

Here's the Knitters playing Burning House of Love on the Letterman show a couple years ago.

You're right, James, and thanks for the comment with this link to Dave Alvin's superb Dry River which they performed last night, only John sang it instead of Dave. Great link James - thanks again!

Um, if the bones of this sea-monster they've found may be 150 million years old, why do they keep calling it a "new" species?

Hunh?

*crickets*

Wednesday night I took myself and Witches Abroad to dinner at a sushi place. I ordered a couple rolls, and that was ok, but I was blissing out on the reading and I asked for green tea ice cream, but they said they only had GTIC in the form of a dessert, so I tried it. Out came a little dumpling-looking thing, a little wheel of GTIC encased in a 1/8" wrapper of a sticky rice paste flavored with jasmine, and coated in the lightest dusting of powdered sugar, and then a Kate Bush song came on, and it was a very girly moment. It was amazing. I normally don't like jasmine flavor or scent, but it was glorious, in this form, like eating flowers. Yes, I've had my mid-week estrogen fest.
__________
And now it's time to walk it off.
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Anyhoo. The more I read Terry Pratchett's work, the more I want to stop blogging and just copy his writing in here - he's side-splitting. Despite the whole quiz I took recently, I'm still on the fence about whether I'm more Granny Weatherwax or Nanny Ogg. In this exchange, I definitely fall on the Ogg side of the fence:

Granny Weatherwax's eyes focused immediately somewhere around Magrat's knees.
"And what do you think you're wearing?" she said.
"Ah. Um. I thought...I mean it gets cold up there..what with the wind and everything," Magrat began. She had been dreading this, and hating herself for being so weak. After all, they were practical. The idea had come to her one night. Apart from anything else, it was almost impossible to do Mr. Lobsang Dibbler's cosmic harmony death kicks when your legs kept getting tangled in a skirt.
"Trousers?"
"They're not exactly the same as ordinary--"
"And there's men 'ere lookin', " said Granny. "I think it's
shameful!"
"What is?" said Nanny Ogg, coming up behind her.
"Magrat Garlick, standin' there bifurcated," said Granny, sticking her nose in the air.
"Just so long as she got the young man's name and address," said Nanny Ogg amiably.

Or how about this one--
Nanny raised the hem of her skirt. She was wearing new boots. As boots, Granny Weatherwax could find nothing to complain of in them. They were of proper witch construction, which is to say that a loaded cart could have run over them without causing a dent in the dense leather. As boots, the only thing wrong with them was the color.

"Red?" said Granny. "That's no color for a witch's boots!"

"I likes 'em," said Nanny.

Remind you of anyone?

What? You mean Lance Armstrong and Ashley Olsen broke up mere moments after they were denying they were ever together? I thought that meant it was true love, the denial thing.

Anyway, it's prolly good for Ashley that they ashcanned the whole thing, because, you know, Cheryl Crow caught cancer from him.

Is it just me or is it a wee bit ironic that a one-balled guy named Lance has turned out to be rather the harpoon artiste of late?

I turn my back for one minute (ok, maybe it was a year or so) and thinkgeek.com comes up with the most wonderful new toys. Witness the Electronic Bubble Wrap Keychain. and the Doomsday Device Keychain.





Personally, I'm soon to be the proud mama of a pet cactus. Sweet!

sotto voce: Be vewwy vewwy quiet. I'm hunting gawaxies!

About a week ago when I was in the Ozarks, I looked up current news on my cell foam and saw this story and made careful note to address the issue when I got back to town. Well, I've been too busy all week to yammer on about this (with shoes and box cutters and such), so today's the day.

I dunno if this is a joke or not, but apparently a couple American physicists are speculating that astronomers may have hastened the end of the galaxy by observing or attempting to observe dark matter. Obviously I'm no scientist, but this sounds like yet another steaming pile of crap. Apparently, dark matter is the conceptual equivalent of a clan of raccoons digging through the galactic trash - a hostile, destructive force wot prefers no audience and having been thus defied sets afoot a world-ending fit of pique to end all doo-doo hissies.

I'm picturing dark matter-- caught out in its dirty underwear-- is pissed off at someone having the poor taste to notice and acknowledge it, and so dark matter in a vengeful snit will open a can of whoop-ass the likes of which haven't been observed in a while, thereby sucking all the fun, energy and light out of the galaxy before it reaches its sell-by date.

This, of course, brings to mind the ferocious, Ravenous Bug-Blatter Beast of Traal. The most deadly and dangerous creature in existence, it is also the stupidest, and thinks if it can't see you, then you can't see it. Thus, the savvy inter-galactic traveler will carry a towel to throw over the BBBoT's head to keep it blind and docile.

Solution: Astronomers need to invent an intergalactic version of the t-shirt air-cannon thingie they use at football games and shoot towels over the dark matter, so it can be modest and know it's not being looked at, and then everything will be groovy and Kool and the Gang. That's just my opinion. Thought I'd put it out there.

And hey, no charge!

So please-- nobody upset the dark matter-- leave the dark matter alone-- it's a human. It's having a really hard time. It got divorced and its spouse-like love-unit was cheating on it, and it's really messed up right now. So, if you wanna deal with the universe, you come to me!

MSNBC editor calls Iran's approach to AIDS "progressive."

From the article:

In a region where other Muslim governments ignore the AIDS epidemic, quarantine HIV-infected people or preach abstinence as the only solution, Iran's approach is fairly progressive. Iran's AIDS program melds up-to-date programs and research with deep-rooted religious values.

Oooh, treatment with "religious values" is okay, s'long as the treatment doesn't involve anything associated with Catholic or Christian tradition. Ok, I'm learning here. Oddly, I'd call treatment that involved Islam-oriented brow-beating rather primitive treatment.

In such a staggering case of spin, the author may develop inner-ear problems. I'm getting dizzy just watching it.

Soon we'll hear "dude! Iran's a gay-friendly vacation mecca!" They're so much more cultured and evolved than the west. We totally suck.

Nice.

OK, maybe I'm just being paranoid, and I really don't know what to make of this, but something stuck in my craw recently and I'd like to know your opinion.

I was at a discount department store strolling around waiting for someone who was in the fitting room. Something on a shelf caught my eye-- I saw a bag of dog chew toys that had a stranger-than-usual item represented therein. Now, I've seen all sorts of non-sequitir subjects represented in chew toys, but I'm baffled that someone thought to make a box-cutter dog chew-toy.

I bought it so I could snap a photo and return the damned thing - chew toys don't even merit a sniff with my dog. I just wonder if someone thought they were being cute by making and marketing a toy in the form of something that has enormous recently-historical cultural significance here. I'm not saying I think people who produce box cutters have anything to feel bad about, or anything, just that I think a toy rendered of same is more insensitive than, oh, say, naming a teddy bear Mahatma or somesuch. I mean, it's not as though one would let their dog chew on an actual cutting tool of any sort, right?

Intent is irrelevant. I'm baffled, but I'm not generally an easily-offended person. I really don't know what to think-- what do you think?

I don't care what anyone says-- the 70s had it all over the 80s when it came down to the Velveeta Quotient. Witness this garish spectacle of the octogenarian Mae West being romanced by Timothy Dalton in the 1978 comedy/musical/barfical Sextette. Delicious!

How did he ever land the role of James Bond? J/K - I thought he was awesome in The Beautician and the Beast.

I was tipped-off to this bit of coolness by the lovely breda. Thanks, hon!

Double, double, toil and trouble
Fire burn and phlegmfatale bubble.

Which work of Shakespeare was the original quote from?

Get your own quotes:

O! I am fortune's phlegmfatale!

Which work of Shakespeare was the original quote from?

Get your own quotes:

He that sleeps feels not the phlegmfatale

Which work of Shakespeare was the original quote from?

Get your own quotes:

Fun!

What a laff!

Headline reads "Clinton calm in hostage crisis" and I thought, Wow - I didn't know SHE was the hostage! Then I read the article and it turns out it never was her neck on the line. Characteristically, she was completely unruffled by others going down in her stead.

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Midland "You have a Midland accent" is just another way of saying "you don't have an accent." You probably are from the Midland (Pennsylvania, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, southern Illinois, and Missouri) but then for all we know you could be from Florida or Charleston or one of those big southern cities like Atlanta or Dallas. You have a good voice for TV and radio.
The South
The West
Philadelphia
Boston
The Northeast
The Inland North
North Central
What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Roberta X had this fun test on her blog recently.

I love where it speculates that I may be from Dallas (I'm not, though I live there now) and that I have "a good voice for tv and radio." Accent-wise, yeah, but everytime I hear recordings of my own voice, I keep envisioning Drew Barrymore with an I.V. heavy-flow drip (deluge) of espresso, for some reason. *Spaz mode* I sound really dorky.

[odd, unrelated: my prof in German class was a Wiesbaden native, and she said I spoke German with the cutest French accent. Go figure.]

Anyway, they could have narrowed the respondents down to Texas alone if they'd had a "fixin'ta" question. Here, one who is about to go to the store might say "Do you need me to pick up something fer ya, 'cause I'm fixin'ta (fixing to) go to the store."

I think I'm right, right? That is a Texas-ism, innit? Do any of y'all from forn parts say "fixing to?"

_________________

If that guy's name is FavRe, they why oh why do people pronounce it "faRve?" Gack!

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Where's that drive-by comment-lobbing rabbit been lately? And I want him to write me about his West Memphis exploits - I lived there for 7 years...