Reading List

If you happened to peruse my Bloglines list -- the list of all the blogs I follow on a regular basis (on good days), whenever I can get around to them (on busy days), and, despite my best intentions, so so often (on ordinary run, run as fast as you can days) -- you'd have a hard time pinning down my online whims.

Take, for instance, my love of the ugly. My two favorite ugly blogs are Go Fug Yourself, which mocks with great mockitude that well-known oxymoron, celebrity fashion. The second blog, You Knit What? may be a bit more subject specific, but remember: just as you don't have to own a paintbrush to appreciate Van Gogh, you don't have to be a knitter to love the ug. And believe me, there is a lot of ug to love.

Now, lest you think my heart is full of unwashed socks and gunk, I subscribe to several websites that provide a Yin to my Yang; a Fung to my Shui; a Wang to my Chung. Cute Overload is one such place: a site so overwhelmingly and utterly cute that even the most hardened webbie would have an instantaneous and irreversible seizure after suffering from acute cute. Be still my evil Diva Soprano heart. It's awesome!!

A whole bunch of my blogs had to have their URLs updated following a huge kerfluffle with AOL a month ago. If you aren't familiar with the AOL debacle, DO NOT bring this up with any present or former AOL journalists, because they'll curl up in the fetal position and start wailing loudly. The problems started when AOL in a rather SURPRISE! fashion pasted gaudy, blinky ads at the headers of individual journals. Yep, the ads were ugly. Yep, it seemed the journalists had no say what the ad content would be, and yep, they paid GOOD MONEY for AOL's fantabulous service and jaunty e-mail alerts, and now...NOW look what AOL did to them??? It was an enormous mess and many people up and left in protest.

As a sidebar, I have to wonder how much fun they had canceling AOL's service? It's not like the cancel information is anywhere on the page, and the one time I had to cancel AOL, I had to make up several lies -- including a genius claim about becoming Amish and having no more electricity -- to shut up the pathetically nosy AOL PLEASE DON'T LEAVE OUR COMPANY phone guy.

In response to AOL's decision to do whatever the hell they want with their own site and if you don't like it, you can lump it, many AOLers joined Blogger and other free online blogging services. I'm hoping they will come to learn to love the banner ads. Heck, I put mine back in after Blogger made banner ads voluntary. I love trying to manipulate the ad content by writing about specific topics in my blog. My current ads include two pirate sites (because didn't I tell you? Pirates bring the funny), a Lemony Snicket site and an audio book site. Even better? On Blogger, nothing blinks.

I follow daily cartoon blogs, and blogs written by cartoons. Last week I stumbled across RSS feeds for all NPR programs, thus ensuring I'll never get anything done ever again. I read blogs written by pundits and essayists that discuss the current political and social landscape, and yet I feel a real kinship with those writers who dissect the everyday drama that is life. Although I've never met most of them, I cannot help but feel a little privaledged to be allowed to share in the story of their life.

So, Wide, Wide, Wonderful World of Blogs, I thank you. If the pen is indeed mightier than the sword, we are one well-armed, if not well-versed army.

Reading List

If you happened to peruse my Bloglines list -- the list of all the blogs I follow on a regular basis (on good days), whenever I can get around to them (on busy days), and, despite my best intentions, so so often (on ordinary run, run as fast as you can days) -- you'd have a hard time pinning down my online whims.

Take, for instance, my love of the ugly. My two favorite ugly blogs are Go Fug Yourself, which mocks with great mockitude that well-known oxymoron, celebrity fashion. The second blog, You Knit What? may be a bit more subject specific, but remember: just as you don't have to own a paintbrush to appreciate Van Gogh, you don't have to be a knitter to love the ug. And believe me, there is a lot of ug to love.

Now, lest you think my heart is full of unwashed socks and gunk, I subscribe to several websites that provide a Yin to my Yang; a Fung to my Shui; a Wang to my Chung. Cute Overload is one such place: a site so overwhelmingly and utterly cute that even the most hardened webbie would have an instantaneous and irreversible seizure after suffering from acute cute. Be still my evil Diva Soprano heart. It's awesome!!

A whole bunch of my blogs had to have their URLs updated following a huge kerfluffle with AOL a month ago. If you aren't familiar with the AOL debacle, DO NOT bring this up with any present or former AOL journalists, because they'll curl up in the fetal position and start wailing loudly. The problems started when AOL in a rather SURPRISE! fashion pasted gaudy, blinky ads at the headers of individual journals. Yep, the ads were ugly. Yep, it seemed the journalists had no say what the ad content would be, and yep, they paid GOOD MONEY for AOL's fantabulous service and jaunty e-mail alerts, and now...NOW look what AOL did to them??? It was an enormous mess and many people up and left in protest.

As a sidebar, I have to wonder how much fun they had canceling AOL's service? It's not like the cancel information is anywhere on the page, and the one time I had to cancel AOL, I had to make up several lies -- including a genius claim about becoming Amish and having no more electricity -- to shut up the pathetically nosy AOL PLEASE DON'T LEAVE OUR COMPANY phone guy.

In response to AOL's decision to do whatever the hell they want with their own site and if you don't like it, you can lump it, many AOLers joined Blogger and other free online blogging services. I'm hoping they will come to learn to love the banner ads. Heck, I put mine back in after Blogger made banner ads voluntary. I love trying to manipulate the ad content by writing about specific topics in my blog. My current ads include two pirate sites (because didn't I tell you? Pirates bring the funny), a Lemony Snicket site and an audio book site. Even better? On Blogger, nothing blinks.

I follow daily cartoon blogs, and blogs written by cartoons. Last week I stumbled across RSS feeds for all NPR programs, thus ensuring I'll never get anything done ever again. I read blogs written by pundits and essayists that discuss the current political and social landscape, and yet I feel a real kinship with those writers who dissect the everyday drama that is life. Although I've never met most of them, I cannot help but feel a little privaledged to be allowed to share in the story of their life.

So, Wide, Wide, Wonderful World of Blogs, I thank you. If the pen is indeed mightier than the sword, we are one well-armed, if not well-versed army.

March of the Penguins

This fall the Tuna clan went to see the popular documentary March of the Penguins. Despite the rarity of seeing the word "popular" next to "documentary," we, like the rest of the free world, loved watching the little tuxedo clad wonders waddle about and swim like a torpedo through the icy waters. The baby penguins were seizure-worthy cute, and the adults possessed such humanistic qualities, I would have sworn that in reality they were marching off to rehearse the big dance number from Mary Poppins.

Tonight, as I trudged around the local book emporium, looking for anything that might be present-worthy, I realized, I'm was nothing more than a penguin. Mile after mile after mile I trudged through the store, looking for that one true match of giftage to family member. I browsed through table after table of books, stopping every once to perform the ritual: pick it up, turn it over, turn it over again, open the front cover, look it over, flip some pages, close it, turn it over again and check the back cover for the price; but more often than not, it just wasn't right. Somehow the book and I were not meant for each other, and this development left me no other choice but to continue the march. Like my arctic friends, the journey was not without peril, as another unfortunate penguin discovered. I'm not sure if she just wasn't looking and ran into me, or I wasn't in full control of my hand basket and bashed into her as I turned a corner. Whatever it was, we mutually mumbled our "sorrys" and "excuse mes" and went on our way.

Free from the monotonous trudging, TinyTuna alternated between reading on the wooden bench in the children's section and the overstuffed easy chairs near the faux fireplace. If someone threw her a fish -- albeit a bubblegum flavored fish -- she would have been in heaven. As it was, she was just as tired as we were, and as she continued to ask "how's it going?" -- codespeak for "when do we get to go?" -- all I could manage in passing was a lot of yawning. A humanistic trait, I might add, that was left OUT of the movie.

After what seemed like forever in the bookstore (and after I couldn't manage to convince cash register guy that "today is free stuff day") we trudged en masse to the car. By this time, the sharks had left the frozen tundra of the parking lot, and thankfully it was time to return to the nest.

March of the Penguins

This fall the Tuna clan went to see the popular documentary March of the Penguins. Despite the rarity of seeing the word "popular" next to "documentary," we, like the rest of the free world, loved watching the little tuxedo clad wonders waddle about and swim like a torpedo through the icy waters. The baby penguins were seizure-worthy cute, and the adults possessed such humanistic qualities, I would have sworn that in reality they were marching off to rehearse the big dance number from Mary Poppins.

Tonight, as I trudged around the local book emporium, looking for anything that might be present-worthy, I realized, I'm was nothing more than a penguin. Mile after mile after mile I trudged through the store, looking for that one true match of giftage to family member. I browsed through table after table of books, stopping every once to perform the ritual: pick it up, turn it over, turn it over again, open the front cover, look it over, flip some pages, close it, turn it over again and check the back cover for the price; but more often than not, it just wasn't right. Somehow the book and I were not meant for each other, and this development left me no other choice but to continue the march. Like my arctic friends, the journey was not without peril, as another unfortunate penguin discovered. I'm not sure if she just wasn't looking and ran into me, or I wasn't in full control of my hand basket and bashed into her as I turned a corner. Whatever it was, we mutually mumbled our "sorrys" and "excuse mes" and went on our way.

Free from the monotonous trudging, TinyTuna alternated between reading on the wooden bench in the children's section and the overstuffed easy chairs near the faux fireplace. If someone threw her a fish -- albeit a bubblegum flavored fish -- she would have been in heaven. As it was, she was just as tired as we were, and as she continued to ask "how's it going?" -- codespeak for "when do we get to go?" -- all I could manage in passing was a lot of yawning. A humanistic trait, I might add, that was left OUT of the movie.

After what seemed like forever in the bookstore (and after I couldn't manage to convince cash register guy that "today is free stuff day") we trudged en masse to the car. By this time, the sharks had left the frozen tundra of the parking lot, and thankfully it was time to return to the nest.

Do Tunas Have Thumbs?

As the year draws to an end, everybody starts preparing lists. List of things done. Things undone. Wonderful things. Horrible things. Fat things. Skinny things. Things who climb on rocks....

One of the first lists I've run across thus far is Roger Ebert's list of the 10 Best Movies of 2005. Because the Oscar Derby is right around the corner (give or take several months), it's never too early to start figuring out the cinematic winners and losers. Ebert's picks?

• Crash
• Syriana
• Munich
• Junebug
• Brokeback Mountain
• Me and You and Everyone We Know
• Nine Lives
• King Kong
• Yes
• Millions

Now, when you're talking movies, you always need a counterpoint. You cannot take one man's word for it -- you have to hear from the other side of the aisle. Which is where I come in. GreenTuna's thoughts on Ebert's picks:

• Never heard of it.
• Just came out. I think.
• Not even here yet.
• Never heard of it.
• Heard lots about it, but keep channeling South Park.
• Never heard of it.
• Never heard of it.
• A big monkey makes a lot of noise and wrecks things (tm BSTuna)
• Never heard of it.
• Never heard of it.

Ebert also compiles a list of "Jury Prize" films -- things that should have won but did not. Of these 11 films, I've seen none. In another list he calls his "Special Jury Awards," of the 29 films listed alphabetically, I've seen none. Documentaries? here I fare slightly better, because I did manage to see the penguin movie. In Ebert's list of five films that he feels were overlooked, I managed to overlook every single one of them.

BUT

In his list of Best Animated Films I'm three-for-three! Wallace and Gromit, Corpse Bride AND Robots. Check. Check. And Check. If it's a kids movie, then I have a snowball's chance of having seen it. Sad to say, I'm fairly certain these three won't be Oscar feature film nominees. It's time to stock up on Milk Duds and popcorn. I have a bit of catching up to do.

Do Tunas Have Thumbs?

As the year draws to an end, everybody starts preparing lists. List of things done. Things undone. Wonderful things. Horrible things. Fat things. Skinny things. Things who climb on rocks....

One of the first lists I've run across thus far is Roger Ebert's list of the 10 Best Movies of 2005. Because the Oscar Derby is right around the corner (give or take several months), it's never too early to start figuring out the cinematic winners and losers. Ebert's picks?

• Crash
• Syriana
• Munich
• Junebug
• Brokeback Mountain
• Me and You and Everyone We Know
• Nine Lives
• King Kong
• Yes
• Millions

Now, when you're talking movies, you always need a counterpoint. You cannot take one man's word for it -- you have to hear from the other side of the aisle. Which is where I come in. GreenTuna's thoughts on Ebert's picks:

• Never heard of it.
• Just came out. I think.
• Not even here yet.
• Never heard of it.
• Heard lots about it, but keep channeling South Park.
• Never heard of it.
• Never heard of it.
• A big monkey makes a lot of noise and wrecks things (tm BSTuna)
• Never heard of it.
• Never heard of it.

Ebert also compiles a list of "Jury Prize" films -- things that should have won but did not. Of these 11 films, I've seen none. In another list he calls his "Special Jury Awards," of the 29 films listed alphabetically, I've seen none. Documentaries? here I fare slightly better, because I did manage to see the penguin movie. In Ebert's list of five films that he feels were overlooked, I managed to overlook every single one of them.

BUT

In his list of Best Animated Films I'm three-for-three! Wallace and Gromit, Corpse Bride AND Robots. Check. Check. And Check. If it's a kids movie, then I have a snowball's chance of having seen it. Sad to say, I'm fairly certain these three won't be Oscar feature film nominees. It's time to stock up on Milk Duds and popcorn. I have a bit of catching up to do.

Geometric Equations

As I continue to struggle through sixth grade geometry -- my hands-down worst subject in high school -- TinyTuna and I have been learning about angles and polygons, and how increasing the number of sides can make something like a building much stronger.

At least I hope that's right, because after my Lewis Carroll / C.S. Lewis / Alice in Wonder - Lookinglass - Land analogy from yesterday, I'm a little skittish. But not too skittish to actually stop writing and check with my boyfriend to see if I know what I'm talking about or not. Deadlines are a bitch.

But this bit of geometry was something that actually made sense to me. Not in a prove this theorem kind of way (because who thinks in theorems?), but more in a practical application let's have a contest to build a house of cards to see if The Brady Bunch will buy the rowboat or the sewing machine with all the extra green stamps kind of way. As you may remember, to successfully build a house of cards, you must lean two or more cards against each other. In this way they will be stronger than if you just stood them up by themselves and tried to balance more cards on top.

/\ /\ /\ /\ /\
It's an unwritten law that mothers are caregivers. Moms heal scraped knees with a kiss. Moms heal hurt feelings with a hug. Moms stay up late helping with homework and get up early to make lunches. Moms bake cookies for parties, buy wrapping paper, popcorn and chocolate covered peanuts for fundraisers, and provide 24-7 taxi service to lessons, soccer games, basketball games, rehearsals, plays, parties and any other activity imaginable -- or schedulable.

Although I may have been slightly hazy (ok, crazily drugged because after 36 hours of labor I EARNED it, thank you very much), I don't recall signing any contract agreeing to provide ANY of the above mentioned services. I'm not certain if it is a matter of having an extra nurturing gene or an extra gullible gene (complete with car keys and a cup holder), but even when faced with troubles that I'd rather not have to deal with, I have been an overwhelmingly willing participant in the life and times of TinyTuna.

What she probably doesn't know is how much I depend her. She adds an indescribable complexity to life. Sometimes funny, sometimes poignant and often insightful far beyond her eleven young years, I find that even in her most maddening moments -- and believe me, there are many -- I wouldn't give up an instant of her presence.

/\ /\ /\ /\ /\
Today the theorem was put into practice. Today we were not able to stand alone. Today mothers depended on daughters as much as daughters depended on mothers. When one was weak and hurting, the other would lean in and provide that extra degree of support. Maybe it simply a matter of geometry, polygons and sides. I like to think that instead of angles it was angels. Whatever it was, it worked. And we were all a lot stronger for it.

Geometric Equations

As I continue to struggle through sixth grade geometry -- my hands-down worst subject in high school -- TinyTuna and I have been learning about angles and polygons, and how increasing the number of sides can make something like a building much stronger.

At least I hope that's right, because after my Lewis Carroll / C.S. Lewis / Alice in Wonder - Lookinglass - Land analogy from yesterday, I'm a little skittish. But not too skittish to actually stop writing and check with my boyfriend to see if I know what I'm talking about or not. Deadlines are a bitch.

But this bit of geometry was something that actually made sense to me. Not in a prove this theorem kind of way (because who thinks in theorems?), but more in a practical application let's have a contest to build a house of cards to see if The Brady Bunch will buy the rowboat or the sewing machine with all the extra green stamps kind of way. As you may remember, to successfully build a house of cards, you must lean two or more cards against each other. In this way they will be stronger than if you just stood them up by themselves and tried to balance more cards on top.

/\ /\ /\ /\ /\
It's an unwritten law that mothers are caregivers. Moms heal scraped knees with a kiss. Moms heal hurt feelings with a hug. Moms stay up late helping with homework and get up early to make lunches. Moms bake cookies for parties, buy wrapping paper, popcorn and chocolate covered peanuts for fundraisers, and provide 24-7 taxi service to lessons, soccer games, basketball games, rehearsals, plays, parties and any other activity imaginable -- or schedulable.

Although I may have been slightly hazy (ok, crazily drugged because after 36 hours of labor I EARNED it, thank you very much), I don't recall signing any contract agreeing to provide ANY of the above mentioned services. I'm not certain if it is a matter of having an extra nurturing gene or an extra gullible gene (complete with car keys and a cup holder), but even when faced with troubles that I'd rather not have to deal with, I have been an overwhelmingly willing participant in the life and times of TinyTuna.

What she probably doesn't know is how much I depend her. She adds an indescribable complexity to life. Sometimes funny, sometimes poignant and often insightful far beyond her eleven young years, I find that even in her most maddening moments -- and believe me, there are many -- I wouldn't give up an instant of her presence.

/\ /\ /\ /\ /\
Today the theorem was put into practice. Today we were not able to stand alone. Today mothers depended on daughters as much as daughters depended on mothers. When one was weak and hurting, the other would lean in and provide that extra degree of support. Maybe it simply a matter of geometry, polygons and sides. I like to think that instead of angles it was angels. Whatever it was, it worked. And we were all a lot stronger for it.

Random Acts of Blogness

The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things
Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax,
of cabbages and kings,
and why the sea is boiling hot,
and whether pigs have wings.
--Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll

If a list of disparate thoughts is good enough for Lewis Carroll, then by Jove, it's good enough for me. Fasten your seatbelts, and keep your arms inside the blog at all time:

1. Internet Truism: Pirates are Funny
It doesn't matter who you are; if you dress like a pirate, you are funny and beloved. Even the Bloglines Plumber, who represents a website when it is BROKEN, is now being dressed as a pirate. And you know what? I love it. Who can get mad when there is a pirate? It's impossible. And if you can throw in a little pirate-speak? HilARRRRRRRRRious, Matey!



2. Sometimes it's better not to know
BSTuna sent me this picture which was odd enough on its own


The idea of spinning a chunky custom fun yarn with Baby Jesus beads that look like a mummy with a teeny tiny CD on top of his head is a little weird. I can't imagine knitting any sort of garment where the Baby Jesus could get stuck in your nose or or armpit. The real puzzlement comes from the title of the picture file I was sent: JesusButton. Now, since BSTuna is currently nowhere to be seen and I can't ask what the heck "JesusButton" means, I decided to consult my boyfriend. The answers were inconclusive, but the pictures were just BIZZARE.

3. Number of Minutes it took the Toddlers to Climb the Fox TV Holiday Hating ChriSolsticemaKwanzaHanukah Scotch Pine
Five.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled browsing.

Random Acts of Blogness

The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things
Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax,
of cabbages and kings,
and why the sea is boiling hot,
and whether pigs have wings.
--Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll

If a list of disparate thoughts is good enough for Lewis Carroll, then by Jove, it's good enough for me. Fasten your seatbelts, and keep your arms inside the blog at all time:

1. Internet Truism: Pirates are Funny
It doesn't matter who you are; if you dress like a pirate, you are funny and beloved. Even the Bloglines Plumber, who represents a website when it is BROKEN, is now being dressed as a pirate. And you know what? I love it. Who can get mad when there is a pirate? It's impossible. And if you can throw in a little pirate-speak? HilARRRRRRRRRious, Matey!



2. Sometimes it's better not to know
BSTuna sent me this picture which was odd enough on its own


The idea of spinning a chunky custom fun yarn with Baby Jesus beads that look like a mummy with a teeny tiny CD on top of his head is a little weird. I can't imagine knitting any sort of garment where the Baby Jesus could get stuck in your nose or or armpit. The real puzzlement comes from the title of the picture file I was sent: JesusButton. Now, since BSTuna is currently nowhere to be seen and I can't ask what the heck "JesusButton" means, I decided to consult my boyfriend. The answers were inconclusive, but the pictures were just BIZZARE.

3. Number of Minutes it took the Toddlers to Climb the Fox TV Holiday Hating ChriSolsticemaKwanzaHanukah Scotch Pine
Five.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled browsing.

Tug of War

My house, much like my life, is forever reminding me of all the choices I have to make. In the corner of my living room sits my spinning wheel and a basket full of fluff. It begs me to stop and relax. I know that working with fibers calms my life, but it will have to wait for another day.

In my bedroom sits piles and piles of books. They wonder if today might be the day I slow down, grab one off the shelf, and curl up in my chair with a glass of warm mulled cider. I know that taking time to read ignites my brain and sparks my imagination, but once again, the books will continue to sit undisturbed on the shelf.

In my basement sits a mountain of laundry.
I have no love of laundry, so it can just sit there for all I care.

Everywhere I turn I am faced with choices: things I should do, things I could do, things I must do, things I can do later, things I desperately wish I could do right now. These options are like tiny pieces of rope waiting to be pulled. The problem is, I cannot see the other end, so I don't know if the result of my tugging will be a victory...or a great big nasty knot. Some days I am brave (or foolhardy) and pull with reckless abandon. Other days I am paralyzed by my choices, and I spend all my time staring at my options and doing nothing.

Tonight I'm going to sleep in the midst of what seems like a thousand ropes. Tomorrow I hope to be rested enough that I might be strong enough to pick up a rope. I don't need to win the war, but I do need to start the battle. Hopefully, if I tug at these ropes a little at a time, eventually the knots will work themselves out.

And then maybe, hopefully, there won't be so many loose ends.

Tug of War

My house, much like my life, is forever reminding me of all the choices I have to make. In the corner of my living room sits my spinning wheel and a basket full of fluff. It begs me to stop and relax. I know that working with fibers calms my life, but it will have to wait for another day.

In my bedroom sits piles and piles of books. They wonder if today might be the day I slow down, grab one off the shelf, and curl up in my chair with a glass of warm mulled cider. I know that taking time to read ignites my brain and sparks my imagination, but once again, the books will continue to sit undisturbed on the shelf.

In my basement sits a mountain of laundry.
I have no love of laundry, so it can just sit there for all I care.

Everywhere I turn I am faced with choices: things I should do, things I could do, things I must do, things I can do later, things I desperately wish I could do right now. These options are like tiny pieces of rope waiting to be pulled. The problem is, I cannot see the other end, so I don't know if the result of my tugging will be a victory...or a great big nasty knot. Some days I am brave (or foolhardy) and pull with reckless abandon. Other days I am paralyzed by my choices, and I spend all my time staring at my options and doing nothing.

Tonight I'm going to sleep in the midst of what seems like a thousand ropes. Tomorrow I hope to be rested enough that I might be strong enough to pick up a rope. I don't need to win the war, but I do need to start the battle. Hopefully, if I tug at these ropes a little at a time, eventually the knots will work themselves out.

And then maybe, hopefully, there won't be so many loose ends.

Unconscious Mutterings

It's been awhile. I say ... And you think:

1. Replenish :: Renew

2. People :: People Who Need People

3. Trend :: Fad

4. Girlfriends :: Friends

5. Spirit :: Essence

6. Banshee :: Scream

7. Oasis :: Water in the desert

8. Thrills :: And Chills

9. Fountain :: Of Youth

10. Boxes :: And Bags

Hmmm. A favorite Streisand song, and the best part of the the Grinch (#10). It works.

It came without ribbons!
It came without tags!
It came without packages, boxes and bags!
He puzzled and puzzed, till his puzzler was sore,
then The Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.
"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store.
Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more."



Mutter along HERE.

Unconscious Mutterings

It's been awhile. I say ... And you think:

1. Replenish :: Renew

2. People :: People Who Need People

3. Trend :: Fad

4. Girlfriends :: Friends

5. Spirit :: Essence

6. Banshee :: Scream

7. Oasis :: Water in the desert

8. Thrills :: And Chills

9. Fountain :: Of Youth

10. Boxes :: And Bags

Hmmm. A favorite Streisand song, and the best part of the the Grinch (#10). It works.

It came without ribbons!
It came without tags!
It came without packages, boxes and bags!
He puzzled and puzzed, till his puzzler was sore,
then The Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.
"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store.
Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more."



Mutter along HERE.

Movie of the Week

After just now waking up to see the last bits of The Sound of Music on television, I noticed a couple of things:

1. The woman who takes third place in the singing competition -- the one that keeps bowing and bowing like an idiot -- was actually way ahead of her time. She wore her hair in the classic Princess Leia Cinnabon style. Help me Rodgers and Hammerstein..you're my only hope.

2. A bit earlier in the same scene after Max announces that the family Von Trapp will not be singing together for a long time because The Captain is going to "join" the Nazi Navy, there is some general crowd noise signifying surprise and dismay. The microphone appeared to be very near Mr. Scenery Chewer, who, I swore, says, "The NAZIS??? Watermelon watermelon watermelon watermelon watermelon." Corky St. Clair? Table for one.

3. To this day I don't understand how or why they chose to have Maria walk down the aisle to the song, "How do you solve a problem like Maria?" If I were her, I would have yelled, "Solve this, suckas! I'm getting Christopher Plummer!"

Oops. Almost time for the nuns to become automotive heroes. So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye!

Movie of the Week

After just now waking up to see the last bits of The Sound of Music on television, I noticed a couple of things:

1. The woman who takes third place in the singing competition -- the one that keeps bowing and bowing like an idiot -- was actually way ahead of her time. She wore her hair in the classic Princess Leia Cinnabon style. Help me Rodgers and Hammerstein..you're my only hope.

2. A bit earlier in the same scene after Max announces that the family Von Trapp will not be singing together for a long time because The Captain is going to "join" the Nazi Navy, there is some general crowd noise signifying surprise and dismay. The microphone appeared to be very near Mr. Scenery Chewer, who, I swore, says, "The NAZIS??? Watermelon watermelon watermelon watermelon watermelon." Corky St. Clair? Table for one.

3. To this day I don't understand how or why they chose to have Maria walk down the aisle to the song, "How do you solve a problem like Maria?" If I were her, I would have yelled, "Solve this, suckas! I'm getting Christopher Plummer!"

Oops. Almost time for the nuns to become automotive heroes. So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye!

Whales in the Night Sky

It seems only appropriate that the last story I heard was about whale farts.

Whale farts, it seems, was the explanation given to a very gullible young woman who saw the Northern Lights up in the sky and had no idea what they were or how they were formed.

It was a great story with a classic explanation. Best of all, she believed it.

Over the years I heard lots of his stories: Classic embarrassing family tales, Navy stories, work stories, and stories about the outdoors that seemed to overflow with a lifetime -- his lifetime -- of love and knowledge. The stories were so fabulous you would want to take notes so you wouldn't forget. Even if they were about whale farts.

Sometimes I teased him about his stories. He proudly spoke of his mother, a missionary I believe, and how she could say the Lord's Prayer in Chinese. I gave him a sideways glance and in my usual smartassy way said I didn't think that was so hard; most undergraduates can do that on a Saturday night if given enough beer.

For a while the stories became scarce. There were other things to think about and other battles to fight. But over the past few months, they started to flow again: stories about his father, stories about singers and jazz musicians, stories about photography and nature and the outdoors. I heard many of them over and over, but I didn't mind. When he told his stories, he was full of life. I sensed it was important that he tell his stories -- as many as he could -- because if his stories lived on, he would too.

Because his profession was photography, there are thousands upon thousands of lasting visual representations of all those things he experienced in his life. Because his passion was teaching people to love the complexity and simplicity in nature, there are hundreds of articles filled with his wisdom. Most precious to me, though, are his stories, and his willingness to share them. I plan on telling the whale fart story, and often. And then I'll be sure to tell the story of the storyteller to make it complete.

Soon, he will have new stories to tell, and I can only imagine that they will be wondrously amazing. Sadly, they won'’t be shared amongst friends during Sunday brunch over a big steaming bowl of oatmeal. It will be up to me to slow down, look into the crisp night sky and listen quietly. I think he'd like that.

I just hope the whales come and join me, farts and all. I know I'd like that.

Whales in the Night Sky

It seems only appropriate that the last story I heard was about whale farts.

Whale farts, it seems, was the explanation given to a very gullible young woman who saw the Northern Lights up in the sky and had no idea what they were or how they were formed.

It was a great story with a classic explanation. Best of all, she believed it.

Over the years I heard lots of his stories: Classic embarrassing family tales, Navy stories, work stories, and stories about the outdoors that seemed to overflow with a lifetime -- his lifetime -- of love and knowledge. The stories were so fabulous you would want to take notes so you wouldn't forget. Even if they were about whale farts.

Sometimes I teased him about his stories. He proudly spoke of his mother, a missionary I believe, and how she could say the Lord's Prayer in Chinese. I gave him a sideways glance and in my usual smartassy way said I didn't think that was so hard; most undergraduates can do that on a Saturday night if given enough beer.

For a while the stories became scarce. There were other things to think about and other battles to fight. But over the past few months, they started to flow again: stories about his father, stories about singers and jazz musicians, stories about photography and nature and the outdoors. I heard many of them over and over, but I didn't mind. When he told his stories, he was full of life. I sensed it was important that he tell his stories -- as many as he could -- because if his stories lived on, he would too.

Because his profession was photography, there are thousands upon thousands of lasting visual representations of all those things he experienced in his life. Because his passion was teaching people to love the complexity and simplicity in nature, there are hundreds of articles filled with his wisdom. Most precious to me, though, are his stories, and his willingness to share them. I plan on telling the whale fart story, and often. And then I'll be sure to tell the story of the storyteller to make it complete.

Soon, he will have new stories to tell, and I can only imagine that they will be wondrously amazing. Sadly, they won'’t be shared amongst friends during Sunday brunch over a big steaming bowl of oatmeal. It will be up to me to slow down, look into the crisp night sky and listen quietly. I think he'd like that.

I just hope the whales come and join me, farts and all. I know I'd like that.

Free at Last

A couple of weeks ago a library-wide email was sent on our non-work list. It had all the magic words: Free and Television. It was an offer for a free 32-inch television. Like all freebies, this was a first-come, first served affair, with the only caveat being the winner had to pick it up. Pick it up as in pick it up and carry it out themselves, because the doctor of the owner's back wouldn't allow him to offer any assistance.

I tossed off a quick "I'll take it!" email, figuring I had no chance at this one because the original email was now a solid five minutes old. As luck would have it, I was the first responder, and now, the proud owner of a free 32-inch television.

My first problem was I owned no vehicle capable of transporting a free 32-inch television. No army of bungee cords would be able to hold this behemoth in the trunk of a Geo Prism. I managed to sweet-talk BSTuna and her van of great hugeness to help me retrieve the free 32-inch television. When we arrived at the house, the owner looked at us GIRLS and just shook his head. "No way you're gonna be able to lift that," he said. Within five minutes, he was asking if it would be ok if he got his video camera, because he couldn't believe it.

Please. We're tough. We're strong. We roar in numbers too big to ignore. We have hymns sung to us by Helen Reddy, and she's Canadian, meaning we roar in numbers too big to ignore multiplied by 1.1577. That alone should give one pause.

But I digress. Alot. Multiplied by 1.1577.

We grabbed the TV, walked it out the back door, across the deck, through the back yard and put it into the van. Off to Casa de Tuna we went, where we lugged it out of the van, across the yard (no way it was going through the back door), through the front door and onto the living room floor.

Where it still sits today.

Sadly, the downside to me owning a free 32-inch television is that in actuality, I have no place to put a free 32-inch television. This in turn might beg the question, then why the hell did you want it? The answer is simple: FREE.

It. was. free.

I seem to be genetically unable to resist the free, as is evidenced by a house full of stuff. So, while I figure out what to do with the older, lesser, not-free television of inferior size, my new free 32-inch television sits darkened, on the living room floor. I also have a largish entertainment center meaning I ahve a largish entertainment center problem, because said furniture has an opening that is just big enough for the older, lesser, not-free television of inferior size.

In the meantime, my freebie is currently serving double duty as a Toshiba jungle gym for the toddlers. And I can assure you, they love it. So I suppose free isn't so bad after all.

Free at Last

A couple of weeks ago a library-wide email was sent on our non-work list. It had all the magic words: Free and Television. It was an offer for a free 32-inch television. Like all freebies, this was a first-come, first served affair, with the only caveat being the winner had to pick it up. Pick it up as in pick it up and carry it out themselves, because the doctor of the owner's back wouldn't allow him to offer any assistance.

I tossed off a quick "I'll take it!" email, figuring I had no chance at this one because the original email was now a solid five minutes old. As luck would have it, I was the first responder, and now, the proud owner of a free 32-inch television.

My first problem was I owned no vehicle capable of transporting a free 32-inch television. No army of bungee cords would be able to hold this behemoth in the trunk of a Geo Prism. I managed to sweet-talk BSTuna and her van of great hugeness to help me retrieve the free 32-inch television. When we arrived at the house, the owner looked at us GIRLS and just shook his head. "No way you're gonna be able to lift that," he said. Within five minutes, he was asking if it would be ok if he got his video camera, because he couldn't believe it.

Please. We're tough. We're strong. We roar in numbers too big to ignore. We have hymns sung to us by Helen Reddy, and she's Canadian, meaning we roar in numbers too big to ignore multiplied by 1.1577. That alone should give one pause.

But I digress. Alot. Multiplied by 1.1577.

We grabbed the TV, walked it out the back door, across the deck, through the back yard and put it into the van. Off to Casa de Tuna we went, where we lugged it out of the van, across the yard (no way it was going through the back door), through the front door and onto the living room floor.

Where it still sits today.

Sadly, the downside to me owning a free 32-inch television is that in actuality, I have no place to put a free 32-inch television. This in turn might beg the question, then why the hell did you want it? The answer is simple: FREE.

It. was. free.

I seem to be genetically unable to resist the free, as is evidenced by a house full of stuff. So, while I figure out what to do with the older, lesser, not-free television of inferior size, my new free 32-inch television sits darkened, on the living room floor. I also have a largish entertainment center meaning I ahve a largish entertainment center problem, because said furniture has an opening that is just big enough for the older, lesser, not-free television of inferior size.

In the meantime, my freebie is currently serving double duty as a Toshiba jungle gym for the toddlers. And I can assure you, they love it. So I suppose free isn't so bad after all.

Kicking Butt and Taking Names

On the surface it would seem that librarians are a predictable lot.Just the word “librarian” conjures up images of bad hair, glasses, drab clothing and orthopedic shoes. Like Charon guarding the river Styx, librarians must be charmed so that one might be ferried across the waters of ignorance to the shores of bliss. Generally speaking, this can be accomplished via chocolate chip cookies, the demonstration that you have done something (anything) to do your own research, and lots of asking and manner words, also known as “please” and “thank you”.

Money also works well.

Just when I had started to think that library work was intellectual masochism combined with passive aggressive parenting (Stop….Don’t….Don’t worry, let’s walk together and see if we can find it), I discovered the librarian has gotten an image upgrade. According to an October 2003 email, the FBI complained bitterly about being kicked around by “Radical Militant Librarians.”

In one word, this is AWESOME.

Now that we have the FBI shaking in their covert boots, maybe Joe Public will stop messing with the librarian. Superheroes have nothing on the librarian's super shushing abilities or inner GPS system. I’d like to see Batman find “that one blue book” among millions of volumes on miles of shelves. We don’t need no stinking codpieces, masks or capes.

Librarians have buns of steel.

Kicking Butt and Taking Names

On the surface it would seem that librarians are a predictable lot.Just the word “librarian” conjures up images of bad hair, glasses, drab clothing and orthopedic shoes. Like Charon guarding the river Styx, librarians must be charmed so that one might be ferried across the waters of ignorance to the shores of bliss. Generally speaking, this can be accomplished via chocolate chip cookies, the demonstration that you have done something (anything) to do your own research, and lots of asking and manner words, also known as “please” and “thank you”.

Money also works well.

Just when I had started to think that library work was intellectual masochism combined with passive aggressive parenting (Stop….Don’t….Don’t worry, let’s walk together and see if we can find it), I discovered the librarian has gotten an image upgrade. According to an October 2003 email, the FBI complained bitterly about being kicked around by “Radical Militant Librarians.”

In one word, this is AWESOME.

Now that we have the FBI shaking in their covert boots, maybe Joe Public will stop messing with the librarian. Superheroes have nothing on the librarian's super shushing abilities or inner GPS system. I’d like to see Batman find “that one blue book” among millions of volumes on miles of shelves. We don’t need no stinking codpieces, masks or capes.

Librarians have buns of steel.

A Date with Destiny

Because I cannot stand to spend another day whining about my sixth grade homework (except to say dammit, I didn't understand Geometry during the Nixon administration, why am I still being tortured by polygons today?) and today is now nearly tomorrow, I am turning to a "this day in history" post to highlight even more things I do not know.

This day in History
1621: Under the care of Robert Cushman, the first American furs to be exported from the continent leave for England.
Furs. I know nothing about furs except they are furry. And just say no. Run Rabbit, Run!

1642: Dutch navigator Abel Tasman discovers New Zealand.
New Zealand has a lot of sheep.

1769: Dartmouth College is chartered.
I'm sure this is important to somebody.

1862: Outnumbered Confederate forces defeat Union troops at the Battle of Fredericksburg, Virginia.
I am mindful of the saying of battles and wars. Thankfully we won the one that matters.

1979: The first Susan B. Anthony dollar coin is minted.
Tomorrow in history: The first person got stuck with the first Susan B. Anthony dollar and couldn't figure out a way to get rid of it because NOBODY wanted a Susan B. Anthony dollar.

2003: U.S. troops capture ousted Iraqi president Saddam Hussein, who is found hiding in a small underground chamber dubbed a "spider hole."
Do I have an opinion on this subject? You bet your Susan B. Anthony I do. Am I going to talk about it here? Not so much, except to say that to replace one political mess with another political mess makes no sense to me whatsoever.

Mary Todd Lincoln, 1818-1882
Today is the birth anniversary of first lady Mary Todd Lincoln. The White House offers an overview of her life, along with biographies of every first lady since Martha Washington.
Aside from being Mrs. Abraham, Mary Todd Lincoln was pretty much cuckoo for Cocoa-Puffs.


I give up. I guess I should be eternally grateful that irregular polygons weren't discovered today. I'm going to go to bed and hope I'm smarter than the pillow. But honestly, I'm not betting my Susan B. Anthony on it.

A Date with Destiny

Because I cannot stand to spend another day whining about my sixth grade homework (except to say dammit, I didn't understand Geometry during the Nixon administration, why am I still being tortured by polygons today?) and today is now nearly tomorrow, I am turning to a "this day in history" post to highlight even more things I do not know.

This day in History
1621: Under the care of Robert Cushman, the first American furs to be exported from the continent leave for England.
Furs. I know nothing about furs except they are furry. And just say no. Run Rabbit, Run!

1642: Dutch navigator Abel Tasman discovers New Zealand.
New Zealand has a lot of sheep.

1769: Dartmouth College is chartered.
I'm sure this is important to somebody.

1862: Outnumbered Confederate forces defeat Union troops at the Battle of Fredericksburg, Virginia.
I am mindful of the saying of battles and wars. Thankfully we won the one that matters.

1979: The first Susan B. Anthony dollar coin is minted.
Tomorrow in history: The first person got stuck with the first Susan B. Anthony dollar and couldn't figure out a way to get rid of it because NOBODY wanted a Susan B. Anthony dollar.

2003: U.S. troops capture ousted Iraqi president Saddam Hussein, who is found hiding in a small underground chamber dubbed a "spider hole."
Do I have an opinion on this subject? You bet your Susan B. Anthony I do. Am I going to talk about it here? Not so much, except to say that to replace one political mess with another political mess makes no sense to me whatsoever.

Mary Todd Lincoln, 1818-1882
Today is the birth anniversary of first lady Mary Todd Lincoln. The White House offers an overview of her life, along with biographies of every first lady since Martha Washington.
Aside from being Mrs. Abraham, Mary Todd Lincoln was pretty much cuckoo for Cocoa-Puffs.


I give up. I guess I should be eternally grateful that irregular polygons weren't discovered today. I'm going to go to bed and hope I'm smarter than the pillow. But honestly, I'm not betting my Susan B. Anthony on it.

Dear Diary

I often think of diaries in a very romanticized, rose petals and herbal tea on the verandah kind of way. I imagine them to be a sort of sacred literary tome, where the truths of life and society were recorded in beautiful and gentile handwriting and kept under lock and key.

Maybe that explains why as I sit here in an oversized sweatshirt, pajama pants and heavy socks (it's cold here) and contemplate the events of my day, which included spending $13 on an Owl Puke Christmas Present, transposing a seventeenth century Italian Kanzonette, and spending an hour in remedial sixth grade social studies learning the five themes of geography (I didn't even know they HAD themes), it's clear that I'm not a rose petal and herbal tea kind of gal. Maybe my verandah is covered with snow, but I'm thankful I have the Internets to keep me warm.

Dear Diary

I often think of diaries in a very romanticized, rose petals and herbal tea on the verandah kind of way. I imagine them to be a sort of sacred literary tome, where the truths of life and society were recorded in beautiful and gentile handwriting and kept under lock and key.

Maybe that explains why as I sit here in an oversized sweatshirt, pajama pants and heavy socks (it's cold here) and contemplate the events of my day, which included spending $13 on an Owl Puke Christmas Present, transposing a seventeenth century Italian Kanzonette, and spending an hour in remedial sixth grade social studies learning the five themes of geography (I didn't even know they HAD themes), it's clear that I'm not a rose petal and herbal tea kind of gal. Maybe my verandah is covered with snow, but I'm thankful I have the Internets to keep me warm.

Of Lions and Lambs

Last weekend I orchestrated a summit with the Axis of Evil. For those of you who may not know, the Axis of Evil consists of:


Gabby, The diabolically cute



Her sibling formerly thought to be her brother Milo,
now known as her evil sister and partner in crime, Mila.


and

Fabio the Fluffy


not to be confused with

Fabio the Flat (which is another story entirely)

I brought Fabio upstairs because I wanted him to get to know the kittens. Some people believe cats and rabbits should never interact because cats will chew off the bunny faces and then grind their bones to make their bread. And since I really didn't want any stray bunny faces laying around my house, I decided they should start getting together on occasion, just to say howdy.

(Plus, I thought the whole thing would be funny. Which it was)

I chose last weekend because Fabio was at his fluffiest and looked more like an enormous hopping hairy ottoman than a bunny. I figured with Fabio at his biggest and the kittens still rather small and kittenish, he'd have an easier chance to save face, so to speak.

When I brought him upstairs, he had one thing on his mind. Hopping. So he went here and there, hopping and hopping and hopping, and then he'd turn around and start hopping and hopping and hopping in the other direction. And if the kittens were in the way? Too bad. He was in no mood to yield.


Mila was scared to death.


Gabby, the only slightly braver, stared at the enormous
kitten-eating monster from a safe distance


and wondered who on earth allowed this THING to occupy HER space.

As for Fabio, he couldn't have cared less about either of them. He spent his time hopping and sniffing and sniffing and hopping. Maybe the lion didn't exactly lie down with the lamb, but at least he kept his face. And that was good enough for me.

Of Lions and Lambs

Last weekend I orchestrated a summit with the Axis of Evil. For those of you who may not know, the Axis of Evil consists of:


Gabby, The diabolically cute



Her sibling formerly thought to be her brother Milo,
now known as her evil sister and partner in crime, Mila.


and

Fabio the Fluffy


not to be confused with

Fabio the Flat (which is another story entirely)

I brought Fabio upstairs because I wanted him to get to know the kittens. Some people believe cats and rabbits should never interact because cats will chew off the bunny faces and then grind their bones to make their bread. And since I really didn't want any stray bunny faces laying around my house, I decided they should start getting together on occasion, just to say howdy.

(Plus, I thought the whole thing would be funny. Which it was)

I chose last weekend because Fabio was at his fluffiest and looked more like an enormous hopping hairy ottoman than a bunny. I figured with Fabio at his biggest and the kittens still rather small and kittenish, he'd have an easier chance to save face, so to speak.

When I brought him upstairs, he had one thing on his mind. Hopping. So he went here and there, hopping and hopping and hopping, and then he'd turn around and start hopping and hopping and hopping in the other direction. And if the kittens were in the way? Too bad. He was in no mood to yield.


Mila was scared to death.


Gabby, the only slightly braver, stared at the enormous
kitten-eating monster from a safe distance


and wondered who on earth allowed this THING to occupy HER space.

As for Fabio, he couldn't have cared less about either of them. He spent his time hopping and sniffing and sniffing and hopping. Maybe the lion didn't exactly lie down with the lamb, but at least he kept his face. And that was good enough for me.

Shut Up, Josh Groban

Grocery shopping?
Bad.

Grocery shopping in December?
Painful.

Grocery shopping in December on a Saturday?
Unwise.

Grocery shopping in December on a Saturday afternoon two weeks before Christmas?
Bad, Painful, Unwise and Stupid. Not to mention Dopey and Grumpy.

Anything worse than Grocery shopping in December on a Saturday afternoon two weeks before Christmas?
Yes.

What?
Grocery shopping in December on a Saturday afternoon two weeks before Christmas while the million moron march swarms the aisles in zombie formation making it impossible to navigate past the palates of Honey Nut Cheerios, sidewalk salt, Polar Express DVDs, inflatable Santas, natural fiber rugs, quesadilla makers and buy-one get-one-free bags of shrimp while having to listen to Josh Groban warbling in dulcet tones loud enough to cut the din of fussy children, Amiga electric shopping carts, and an employee on the loudspeaker announcing "The Chickens are gone. I repeat, the chickens are gone. Have a great day and thank you for shopping at Mega Mart."

During the holiday season I fully expect weekly reports in song on Mommy's affair with Santa or threats about pouting and crying. But Josh? No Santas. Not even a Dreidl. His contribution to my shopping experience was to tell me You're still you. For those of you lucky enough not to know it, this is an astounding ditty consisting of one-sentences cliches strung together and hung up to rhyme in D-flat major. "Time Changes Everything??" BINGO!

My shopping list (such that it was) was reduced to a magazine, cheese cubes and purple burritos, and I considered myself lucky to get that much, only because zombies are an illiterate, lactose intolerant, burrito hating bunch. But no worries. After all was said and done, I was still me.

Whatever the hell that means.

Shut up, Josh Groban.

Through the darkness, I can see your light
And you will always shine
And I can feel your heart in mine
Your face I've memorized
I idolize just you
I look up to everything you are
In my eyes you do no wrong
I've loved you for so long
And after all is said and done
You're still you
After all, you're still you

You walk past me I can feel your pain
Time changes everything
One truth always stays the same
You're still you
After all, you're still you

I look up to Everything you are
In my eyes you do no wrong
And I believe in you
Although you never asked me to
I will remember you
And what life put you through
And in this cruel and lonely world I found one love
You're still you
After all, you're still you

Shut Up, Josh Groban

Grocery shopping?
Bad.

Grocery shopping in December?
Painful.

Grocery shopping in December on a Saturday?
Unwise.

Grocery shopping in December on a Saturday afternoon two weeks before Christmas?
Bad, Painful, Unwise and Stupid. Not to mention Dopey and Grumpy.

Anything worse than Grocery shopping in December on a Saturday afternoon two weeks before Christmas?
Yes.

What?
Grocery shopping in December on a Saturday afternoon two weeks before Christmas while the million moron march swarms the aisles in zombie formation making it impossible to navigate past the palates of Honey Nut Cheerios, sidewalk salt, Polar Express DVDs, inflatable Santas, natural fiber rugs, quesadilla makers and buy-one get-one-free bags of shrimp while having to listen to Josh Groban warbling in dulcet tones loud enough to cut the din of fussy children, Amiga electric shopping carts, and an employee on the loudspeaker announcing "The Chickens are gone. I repeat, the chickens are gone. Have a great day and thank you for shopping at Mega Mart."

During the holiday season I fully expect weekly reports in song on Mommy's affair with Santa or threats about pouting and crying. But Josh? No Santas. Not even a Dreidl. His contribution to my shopping experience was to tell me You're still you. For those of you lucky enough not to know it, this is an astounding ditty consisting of one-sentences cliches strung together and hung up to rhyme in D-flat major. "Time Changes Everything??" BINGO!

My shopping list (such that it was) was reduced to a magazine, cheese cubes and purple burritos, and I considered myself lucky to get that much, only because zombies are an illiterate, lactose intolerant, burrito hating bunch. But no worries. After all was said and done, I was still me.

Whatever the hell that means.

Shut up, Josh Groban.

Through the darkness, I can see your light
And you will always shine
And I can feel your heart in mine
Your face I've memorized
I idolize just you
I look up to everything you are
In my eyes you do no wrong
I've loved you for so long
And after all is said and done
You're still you
After all, you're still you

You walk past me I can feel your pain
Time changes everything
One truth always stays the same
You're still you
After all, you're still you

I look up to Everything you are
In my eyes you do no wrong
And I believe in you
Although you never asked me to
I will remember you
And what life put you through
And in this cruel and lonely world I found one love
You're still you
After all, you're still you

Power to the People

Last night I drove home after my final teaching day for the semester. Thirteen weeks have come and gone, and despite my exhaustion, I was doing the Week 13 Happy Dance, which, by the way, is distinctly different than the Week 13 Dance of Regret, perfected and performed by Undergraduates world-wide.

A little after 8pm I dashed off to Satan's Speedway Gas-n-Go, located on a tiny triangle spit of land. It has the unfortunate distinction of being sandwiched, monkey-in-the middle style, between two major one-way highways. To the north is a bowling alley and, OH YEAH, the entrance to the expressway. To the south is a fast food emporium and a strip mall that includes a Michaels Craft Store, a Jo-Ann Fabrics and Crafts, a Sears Automotive Center and a Linens 'n Things, a combination guaranteeing NOBODY knows how to drive.

The problem is, whenever you enter the TunaVille Bermuda Triangle, no matter where you are, you suddenly need to be driving in the opposite direction NOW, six lanes over NOW, with a Big Mac and a large Diet Coke, NOW. The only way this can be accomplished NOW is by cutting through the Crash and Go. For that very reason, I avoid Satan's Speedway like the plague. Getting gas is hassle enough. I don't need to be dodging traffic while I squeegee my windows.

But here I was, in the Bermuda Triangle, at the Speedway, on a snowy winters night, willingly and happily getting gas. I glanced over at another brave soul, and we smiled at each other as if we possessed the secrets of the Sphinx. Paying the $2.26 bill, I drove off into the night.

When I got home, I shed my many layers and settled in. While countless CAPS-LOCK EMERGENCY EMAILS filled my inbox, I ate my supper. When the weatherman flashed maps with graphics of doom, I put on my pajamas. Even the television weather alert crawler brought to you by State Farm Insurance couldn't dampen my spirit as I watched The Donald fire last weeks Apprentice candidate again.

This morning I checked for school closings (check!) and then took a leisurely shower. I got dressed, donned my many layers and ventured out into the eight-plus inches of snow. Grabbing my $2.26 container of liquid gold, I smiled and waved at my neighbor. With a couple quick yanks and a loud ROAR I was ready for the maiden voyage of the USS Snowblower. Stepping into the arena knowing victory over the elements was all but assured, I watched with glee as the snow blew with maximum force right out of the driveway.

And right into my face.

Power to the People

Last night I drove home after my final teaching day for the semester. Thirteen weeks have come and gone, and despite my exhaustion, I was doing the Week 13 Happy Dance, which, by the way, is distinctly different than the Week 13 Dance of Regret, perfected and performed by Undergraduates world-wide.

A little after 8pm I dashed off to Satan's Speedway Gas-n-Go, located on a tiny triangle spit of land. It has the unfortunate distinction of being sandwiched, monkey-in-the middle style, between two major one-way highways. To the north is a bowling alley and, OH YEAH, the entrance to the expressway. To the south is a fast food emporium and a strip mall that includes a Michaels Craft Store, a Jo-Ann Fabrics and Crafts, a Sears Automotive Center and a Linens 'n Things, a combination guaranteeing NOBODY knows how to drive.

The problem is, whenever you enter the TunaVille Bermuda Triangle, no matter where you are, you suddenly need to be driving in the opposite direction NOW, six lanes over NOW, with a Big Mac and a large Diet Coke, NOW. The only way this can be accomplished NOW is by cutting through the Crash and Go. For that very reason, I avoid Satan's Speedway like the plague. Getting gas is hassle enough. I don't need to be dodging traffic while I squeegee my windows.

But here I was, in the Bermuda Triangle, at the Speedway, on a snowy winters night, willingly and happily getting gas. I glanced over at another brave soul, and we smiled at each other as if we possessed the secrets of the Sphinx. Paying the $2.26 bill, I drove off into the night.

When I got home, I shed my many layers and settled in. While countless CAPS-LOCK EMERGENCY EMAILS filled my inbox, I ate my supper. When the weatherman flashed maps with graphics of doom, I put on my pajamas. Even the television weather alert crawler brought to you by State Farm Insurance couldn't dampen my spirit as I watched The Donald fire last weeks Apprentice candidate again.

This morning I checked for school closings (check!) and then took a leisurely shower. I got dressed, donned my many layers and ventured out into the eight-plus inches of snow. Grabbing my $2.26 container of liquid gold, I smiled and waved at my neighbor. With a couple quick yanks and a loud ROAR I was ready for the maiden voyage of the USS Snowblower. Stepping into the arena knowing victory over the elements was all but assured, I watched with glee as the snow blew with maximum force right out of the driveway.

And right into my face.