Time to Bleach the Little White Ones

Tonight I sat across the table from my sons at a chain steakhouse where you throw peanuts on the floor and the waiters break out into line dancing every half-hour. As I was looking at my first grader's toothless smile, I suddenly remembered a flood of bull I had been fed when I was his age. Mind you, I still feed the bull myself. I've got a stash of Easter basket goodies waiting in the closet, and I slip crisp dollar bills under pillows when teeth fall out (although having a 13-year-old roll over at 1 a.m., catch me in the act and saying “Thanks, Mom” kind of takes the wind out of your sails). I may go along with some of the same lines I was fed as a kid. But tonight I feel the need to break some rules and set some records straight. Don't worry, I'm not going to throw the Bunny, the Fairy and the bulemic man in red under the bus. But a few “truths” I was told as a child definitely should be flattened and treadmarked. Such as:

Eat your crust, it will make your hair nice and curly.
You know, I fell for this for years. Until it dawned on me that the grandmother spewing it got her hair permed every few months. Those curls were chemical, not crustical. Despite years of crusts, my hair is still brookstick straight. Only now it's also thinning and I'm bread intolerant. Thanks, Grandma. Thanks a lot.

Never EVER talk to strangers.
Unless, of course, you go into journalism, marketing or PR. Then go after them with a vengeance. Seek out strangers. Grab them on the street. Ask for their emails, Twitter names, Facebook accounts, Linked In connections... The more strangers you talk to the better.

It's what's on the inside that counts.
Yes, that's true...IF everyone you know is deep and thoughtful. But line up any company's top sales reps and I guarantee the hotties made more this year. And forget about dating in any major city if you're not a size 2 and either blond or 26. So put down the fork and hit the gym, and crawl into bed at night trying to NOT think about how old you are. (Where's my corkscrew?)

Women are just as good as men.
COMPLETELY true. In fact, it's most often an understatement! We just happen to get paid less and are expected to do twice as much for the privilege.

Clear your plate, it'll help the starving children in China.
Now, what one thing had to do with the other still perplexes me. Why would my eating overboiled French-cut green beans and well-done lamb help the impoverished youth of Asia? And would they even want this stuff? I mean, those beans literally pushed the definition of a “solid” to its limits. So you can blame my weight problem on my misguided youthful attempt at making the world a better place.

Be patient! Good things come to those who wait.
BULLSHIT. Good things come to those who pursue them vigorously.

You'll go blind doing that!
Nonsense. It's perfect natural. Now, where are my reading glasses?

Les Culs Stupide de la Semaine

Dumb Ass Moves

No matter how smart we may be, how many degrees we may hold, or how many years of experience we have under our belts, we've all made a few dumbass moves. I, for one, have made more than my fair share. As a girl, covering my father's eyes and playing hide and seek while he was driving would qualify as a dumbass move. Trying to “double process” dye myself into a platinum blond in the mid-80s, only to end up with green hair, a mortifying public bus ride to the nearby mall, a $100 repair due, and being a brassy blonde for a year would qualify as a dumbass move. Leaving a Venice (Italy, not Cali) nightclub at 1 AM with three other 20-somethings and accidentally ending up in an alley where a guy was waiting to cut off our purses...dumbass move. Doing almost the same exact same thing two years later? Priceless dumbass move. But these pale in comparison to some dumbass moves I've seen this week. Let me elucidate.

Meet Twitter Dumbass(es) of the Week: @THHEEE_JAY and @Solly_Forell

These Mensa members were all over Twitter during the health care reform debate, literally calling for the execution of the president of the United States. Graphically. And repeatedly. Of course those on Twitter who had advanced beyond the stem cell stage started calling them on it. At first they steadfastly demanded bullets to the brain. Then their little tiny 4 watt lightbulbs above their heads went off and they started to backpedal. TLTL guys. Secret Service came acallin'. Hope you ain't purdy boys. Don't drop the soap. Dumbasses.

Meet Congressional Dumbass of the Week: Republican Rep. Randy Neugebauer

Neugebauer apparently is a graduate of the Joe Wilson Charm Schnool. You remember former Congressional Dumbass of the Week Republican Rep. Joe Wilson. Mr.“You Lie!” from Obama's September congressional address? Well, Neugebauer decided to kick it up a notch. Screaming out “Baby Killer!” at anti-abortion Democrat Rep. Bart Stupak during Stupak's speech on Sunday night supporting the newly passed health care bill. Once busted (sure, he “confessed” the next day, but he'd have been busted soon enough), Neugebauer, like his tweeting compatriots, backpedaled a bit by saying that for some bizarre reason, no one in America heard the “It's a...” before the “baby killer!” The poor mook wasn't screaming out a personal attack on a fellow member of congress, he was merely venting at the actual bill. Bullshit! Oh, I'm sorry. You mean you didn't hear the “I can't believe you think we're falling for your load of....” that preceded “Bullshit”? Dumbass.

Meet Personal Dumbass of the Week: Oh, let's just call him “Opie”

Opie is a young lad, but not that young. Old enough to dive. Old enough to vote or enlist. Maybe even old enough to drink. And definitely old enough to know better. Opie signed on as an intern at a company I know, to earn credits toward graduation. Opie started off decently enough. Put in a really good hour's work. Showed up at an event, stayed a while, then hit his internship sponsors up for some dough. Then poof...like the fluff on an October dandelion...Opie was gone. Oh, they called Opie. But Opie didn't call back. They emailed Opie, but he must have been at the fishin' hole with Pa. And no one thought of Opie ever again. Until Opie got in touch this week asking his sponsor to fill out a form saying he'd logged one hundred interning hours. Opie, as it turns out has some major cojones. Beyond balls of steel. We're talking titanium testicles. But, so does Opie's sponsor. Our Opie will be retaking his internship course. Elsewhere. Dumbass.

And maybe this whacked out song selection was a dumbass move. But until Latch Key Kid learns how to whistle the theme to Andy Griffith, you take what you can get.

Who in the Blazes...?

I've been going blind typing day after day on my minuscule netbook, working on press releases, freelance projects and pitch deadlines, and trying to come up with a blog entry. Just when I was about to give up and maybe chuck the entire blog concept, I find this news item online:

According to Deadline.com, Columbia Pictures which released Julie & Julia to a $94 million domestic box office (on a $40 million budget) has optioned the rights the Ree Drummond's life Who in blazes is Ree Drummond? A blogger. Just a city gal who met and married a cowboy, raised and home schooled a gaggle of gigglers and decided to create a blog and then wrote a cookbook. Reese Witherspoon is signed on to play the blogger.

So today I'll blog about blogging. And microblogging.

What's "microblogging"? Basically, a twenty-five cent word for Twitter. "Surely nothing good can come from Twitter," you say. Well I'm sure Justin Halpern would beg to differ. Who in blazes is Justin Halpern (are you detecting a theme yet?)? Just an under-30 who moved back in with his folks and started tweeting little ditties his septuagenarian father would spout. Little nuggets of wisdom like: "A parent's only as good as their dumbest kid. If one wins a Nobel Prize but the other gets robbed by a hooker, you failed" or "The dog is an outside dog. You want an inside dog, you go get your own inside." A few hundred F-bombs and over a million followers later, our young Mr. Halpern has a book deal and a CBS comedy in the works based on his 140-character-limit Dadisms. Of course, CBS will have to come up with a title to replace Halpern's Twitter name @ShitMyDadSays.

Now granted, Ree Drummond and Justin Halpern may be exceptions to the mostly mediocre bloggers and microbloggers out there. Most microblogs are muddled with mundane nonsense about what people are wearing, eating, drinking, watching or just did to other people in bed. And there's more about Justin Bieber than should be legally allowed. Who is blazes is Justin Bieber? (No, really, I'm asking). But there are treasures to be found...little snippets of comedic/political/satirical genius waiting to be read. Maybe you can add to them. If done right, microblogging is a great exercise in creativity and self-editing. There may not be millions of dollars in your future from it, but there may actually be job opportunities or new friends. I've found both. And a couple of lunatics, but I digress...

Same can be said for blogs. If you've got something to say about something you think people will want to read, then go for it and try your had at blogging. Even if it's just pictures. Whatever you need to get out, there's someone out there who will read it. Or if you just want to get glimpses into other people's minds, try reading other people's blogs for a while. Whatever you may be into, I guarantee there's a like-minded person blogging about it right now and you're missing something good by not looking for it. A caveat: Yes, we bloggers can also write a bunch of crap. Sometimes things seem interesting or funny in our heads but just don't translate in print. That's why I chose to not blog about this huge wart on my ring finger that's starting to look like an undeveloped twin. It just isn't that funny in print.

"Plan Suzanne"

The photo itinerary of my week. Set to the theme song of my week, "Streets of Gold" by Latch Key Kid...except for the lyrics about ending up a hooker. Only "everything" I'll be selling is scripts. (Unless I run out of cash by Wednesday, in which case I can be found at the Hollywood Motel 6 on Whitley Ave. between 9-midnight. Just slip the desk clerk a ten and ask for "Brandee.")

Yes, I'm aware the "Puppetry of the Penis" picture is exceptionally large. "Wishful blogging." And no, they don't allow flash photography. It makes them recoil like frightened turtles.

To Blog, or Not to Blog. That is the Question

I sat down at the computer tonight ready to unleash a comical tirade full of R-rated expletives (I save the X ones for conversation), wrote a couple of paragraphs, then backspaced them all gone. There are rules to this blogging business, and I was about to violate them. Which leads to the question: When to blog or not blog?

When to NOT Blog Rules:

1. Never blog when you’re in a foul mood.
2. Never blog when you’ve got your period (which may just be an extension of rule #1).
3. Never blog when you’re pissed off at one person in particular (yeah, I’m talking about you, buddy)
4. Never blog after three too many (one too many and you can still be funny, two too many can be funny but with really bad spelling, three too many just ain’t worth it)
5. Never blog about people who may read your blog (just bitch about them the old fashioned way…behind their back).

When TO Blog Rules:

1. Blog when you’ve got a great story/joke/lesson to share.
2. Blog when you’re in a really good mood.
3. Blog when you need to be creative and have time to proofrreed
4. Blog when you're sure your kids won't be fighting or screaming they've clogged the toilet...again.
5. Blog when you’ve got a full cup of coffee by your side.

Well my kids are home and in bed, so they won’t clog the toilet. But my husband had a lot of carbs at the Scout banquet so there’s still the possibility of plunging. I don’t have a cup of coffee, but I do have a beer. I’m in a good mood, but I’m a wee bit pissed off at a particular person. I’ve got a great story and joke to share, but it’s about someone who may read my blog. I’m feeling all creative, but a little bloated and PMSy.

What to do? What to do?

Screw the blog, I’m going downstairs to shoot for two too many. Go read a book folks.

Kids Say the Damndest Things....(I'm not the PG type)

As some of you may (or may not) know, one of my personalities works at a preschool with sixteen 4- to 5-year-old pre-K students. There's a lot of the typical preschool chit chat and banter mixed in with lessons, stories and music time. But once in a while, someone comes up with something that makes you wish you had a pen tucked behind your ear. These are some of my pen moments from this year so far. Enjoy.

Secondary Colors
Girl: "Teacher, we're out of green paint."
Me: "Well, do you know what you'll get if you mix yellow paint with blue paint?"
Girl: "Punished?"

Snacktime Banter
Me: "Can anyone tell me a word that starts with C?"
Various kids: "Cat! Cookie! Crayon! Car!...Crap!"
Me: "Well, let's not say THAT word, okay?"
Boy: "Why? Does it start with a K?"

Boy 1: "That girl's my girlfriend."
Boy 2: "Girls are gross."
Boy 1: "I know, but she brings good snacks to lunch bunch!"

Boy 1: Teacher, X is eating one of Y's pretzel sticks.
Me: "Everyone eat their own snacks, not someone else's."
Boy 2 (chewing): "But he gave it to me."
Boy 3: "Teacher, he can have it. I was up my nose."

ABCs
Teacher: "Today's letter is Q. And when you write Q, it's always next to another letter. Who knows what letter that is?"
Boy 1: "R!"
Teacher: "No, I'm talking about what letter you always see written down next to Q."
Boy 2: "P!"
Teacher: "Well, in words, it's the letter U."
Boy 1 to Boy 2: "She really doesn't know the alphabet? It's right on the wall! PQR!"

Texas Holdem
Me to boy holding himself: "Honey, do you have to go potty?"
Boy: "No, sometimes my wiener just sticks to my pants."

Circle Time
After telling a boy to be still several times, boy says to teacher:
"You really have a tough job, don't you?"

Ouch! Moments
Woman 1: He's such a nice boy. Do you watch your grandson every day?
Woman 2: I'm his mother.

Mom 1: I don't know how you manage with a kindergartner, a 3-year-old AND being pregnant!
Mom 2: I'm NOT pregnant.

4-yr-old Girl: "I like hugging you hello, Miss Suzanne."
Me: "Well that's sweet. I like hugging you hello too."
Girl: "You're just so squishy!"

If Only I Could Smack Parents Moment
Mom: "Say goodbye to Miss Suzanne."
3-yr-old: "Goodbye butthole face."
Mom: "Oh...you know how kids are!"
Me (in my head): "I know how YOUR kids are."

Prize Winner
Me: "You just picked that out of your nose. Do NOT eat it!"
Boy: "Why, do you want it?"

So Many Titles I Could Write...Let's Just Call This One...OMFG

I get a lot of forwarded emails. I mean A LOT. Most of them are utter crap and I delete them without even opening. Some come from friends or family, so I'll read it thinking it's a pleasantry before realizing it's a forwarded fable attempting to sell me on their politician/religion/insurance....THEN I delete (if I've had my morning coffee) or send a "knock it the fuck off" reply (if I haven't). And many forwarded emails have me heading straight to Snopes.com so I can provide to the other 68 people who received the "personal" message that:

• Tampax doesn't put asbestos in their tampons so you'll bleed more.
• deodorant doesn't cause breast cancer.
• asparagus won't cure the deodorant-caused cancer.
• people aren't hiding under your car at the mall to slice your achilles tendon.
• Jamie Lee Curtis isn't a hermaphrodite (that one's still a little shaky).
• Ashley Flores is NOT missing.
• Mikey did not die of a tragic Pepsi/PopRocks combo.
• Applebees/Microsoft/IBM/Target will not pay you if you forward this email.
• Marilyn Manson is not: Paul Pfeiffer from Wonder Years; slaughtering puppies on stage; able to self-fellate thanks to having a rib removed.

But once in a while I get a forward that I LOVE. More often than not it's from my friend Kathy, who shares my wicked sense of humor and left-leaning politics. But even Kathy once in a while sends me something that makes me question its validity. Tonight was one of those times. She sent me some old ads she had been sent. One of them made me search the web to see if it could possibly be fake. But nope, it was real. It's so...bizarre/obsolete/mysogynistic/offensive...It's an OMFG forward. And research proved it was just the tip of the iceberg.

So Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to some 1920s-1940s advertisements for Lysol. NOT for what it could do for your horrifically offensive garbage can or diaper pail. For your vagina. Yeah, you heard me. THAT's why husbands were acting like such an assholes from 1927-1948. Your nether-regions didn't have that same "AH! Now THAT's clean!" aroma that your disinfected trash bins did. Read 'em and weep/laugh, ladies. And smack yourselves upside the head in atonement for your grandfathers, men. I hate to paraphrase an old cigarette ad, but vagina's have come a long way baby. Now if you'll pardon me, I've got a bottle of Massengill's "Mango Mist" somewhere in the hall closet that's about to expire. Flowers and tropical fruit...now THAT's the way God intended it to smell down there.

Note: If you got this blog entry sent to you automatically via email, just click on the link at the bottom of the email so you can see it real blog, with the pictures and the "appropriate" song choice. Oh...and everyone...feel free to forward this email. ;-)

If You Can't Say Something Nice...

...then just blog a picture.

"Day of Rest" My Ass!

Sunday mornings have evolved greatly over the course of my forty-slur years.

When I was a little girl living with my grandmother, Sunday mornings started off by watching "Davy and Goliath" and putting on whatever red velvet dress of the week was laid out for me. There'd be a full breakfast, and I had damned-well better eat all of it because "there are children starving in China" and somehow my finishing my waffles would help ease their suffering. Then I'd just wait for the grown ups to finish their tiny porcelain cups of coffee before we'd head out to church, which ended promptly one hour after it started. We'd then come home, put on our non-church, yet still company approved clothes ("in case someone important popped by," we still had to look Sunday worthy...this was a very formal household), and sit down to the weekly meal of leg of lamb and over-boiled French-cut green beans. (Which I've refused to touch since 1974 and believe to be the side dish most frequently served in Hell's cafeteria.)

When I was a tween and teen, Dad was back on the scene and "church" meant something entirely different. Therefore Sunday mornings did too. Sunday mornings would be spent looking for an unwrinkled skirt, because in the 80s God apparently hated women who wore pants. Church would often last three hours and involved tambourines, tongues and dancing in the aisles. No snakes though. Bummer, I like snakes. By now a well-seasoned eye-roller at these "services," I had learned to pack a granola bar in my pocket to get me through the morning. Of course you'd have to unwrap it at home, lest God and the woman in the head-covering sitting next to you hear cellophane crinkle. Crinkling was a sin. I'd spend Sunday mornings avoiding having someone lay their hands on me and prophecy my future. My baby brother couldn't avoid it however, since he was in the womb when he had his future foretold by some guy dancing in an aisle. He said he had a vision of my unborn brother becoming "a Great prophet for God." My brother is now a creative director in advertising. Steve, how's that "Got God?" ad campaign coming along?

When I was in my 20s and "shacking up" with my husband, Sunday mornings were AWESOME. They were spent sleeping in late to recover from whatever we'd done the Saturday night before. They involved diners, newspapers, long car rides to no where, music and more often than not...well, you know. If you're in this stage of life, savor THESE Sundays. Because next comes:

Sundays as a parent. These Sundays start EARLY. The same kids who you can't wake up for school because they're "just so tired" somehow manage to wake up by 7 a.m. on Sunday to demand cartoons and breakfast. And don't think you'll get away with putting on the Disney Channel, handing them a bowl of cereal, and then go back to bed for a couple of hours. Maybe that might work if you only have one. But if you've got two or more, you'll only have about 10 minutes of peace before they're fighting over the remote.

I'm sure that a few years down the road, if I were to rewrite this blog entry, I'd tell you to savor THOSE Sundays. The Sundays when you still had kids in the house to fight over Cheerios and channels. Instead we'll be spending our Sundays wondering if either of them is going to call to say "Hello" from college or from their own home. Maybe I'd better take my own advance advice...and do the same. Boys! Who wants French toast?

I Phelta Thi...Tappa Kegga Bru...It's All Greek to Me

Yesterday I spent several hours researching sororities for a PR project. This lead to several discoveries:

Discovery #1: On each college campus there is a "hottie" sorority; a "brains" sorority; a "lets change the world" sorority; a ton of "the same as every other" sorority; and a "but we've got great personalities" sorority.

Discovery #2: When men, who up until now have had very little interest in your PR ideas, hear you are working on a sorority project, they suddenly pay attention.

Discover #3: You men are horny pigs.

Discovery #4: Sororities all market themselves in the same way in their group pictures: "Everybody put on shorts and tank tops. Three hottest girls: you get in front, sit down with legs extended and knees bent. Blondes, you stand behind them. Tall brunettes with dimples, you go to the back. Fat girls...go stand by that tree. We only pledged you because you're good at typing and your father owns the local Subway.

Discovery #5: We women are jealous, vicious shrews.

Discovery #6: I am fucking OLD!

This project idea actually may be brilliant, IMNSHO. Its research and groundwork were painstaking and lengthy. I was seeing results less than five hours after I finished Stage 1. You would think I'd have a grand sense of accomplishment...Eh...I did good...But my sense of worker pride is way overshadowed as I sit here with my 11th cup of coffee. I'm feeling incredibly...early-40s. Feeling incredibly...un-blond. Feeling incredibly...un-pledged. Feeling incredibly...diner dinner roll. (That analogy makes sense in my head somehow...white, doughy, a little old..get it?)

I know I'm smart. Damn smart! I know I'm skilled at what I'm doing. Damn skilled! I know I'm nice/giving/loving/funny. Damn nice/giving/loving/funny! But after looking at page after page of toothy tank-topped perfection playing volleyball (these are SoCal sororities BTW), hanging at the quad, holding charity car washes in bikini tops ("Oops, we're all wet and sudsy!") or "studying" (I swear to God, one of them had their book upside down in the photo), I'm feeling rather frumpy. If I were to stand next to these "they're just babies" (as a male friend called them), no one would say "Wow, she sure looks smart, skilled, nice, giving, loving and funny!" Well, they actually might say "She looks funny." But most likely, I would just be completely invisible.

But I've decided to do something about this, and I'm using my project research to do it. I'm starting my own sorority. Aye Eta Pi. We will be very discriminating. Not everyone will be accepted. For instance: No one under 30. No one who pronounces nuclear "nucular" (anyone named Bush need not pledge). No one who doesn't have at least three stretchmarks somewhere on her body. No one who thinks tying a cherry stem into knot using only their tongue is a resume-worthy skill. Other than that, pretty much anyone can get in. And you will rise directly to officer status if you've had a c-section, an episiotomy,a cheating husband, or are starting to grow a John Waters-esque mustache. If someone applies who has had all of the preceding, then they become president-for-life. We too will hold charity car washes. We will wash your car without asking, whilst wearing bikini tops, and not stop until you make a donation to charity. And we will hold killer Sorority House parties, which will end promptly at 10 p.m. because most of us can't stay awake much past that. So rush with me, fellow non-20/non-blondes! Let's show these "sisters" there's still fire in our furnaces and our souls (and in our stomachs if we eat after 7 p.m.). Let's show them we too know how to have a good time ("Golden Girls" marathons are fun, right?). And most importantly, let's show these men of ours that they can drool all they want over these "babies" but in the long run, THEY WOULDN'T TOUCH YOU GUYS WITH A 10 FOOT POLE. That's right, I checked out their fraternity counterparts. And let me tell you....WOOF!

Shake It Up!

I've been incredibly busy all week and developed a terrible case of blogger backup. But I just had an entire pot of Starbucks coffee and I have the iTunes playlist blaring, so I’m ready to unload. Clear your calendar, this one will take a few minutes to read. I've blogged about this journey of self-discovery and second-half re-creation I've been on before, and I'm not going to bore you with it again. Instead, I'm going to bore you with something completely different! And I will try to be funny whenever I can. But I’m trying to make you think on this wintery Friday, not just laugh this time around.

I'm completely clueless as to the identity of the vast majority of the people who read my blog. But I can tell from the live feed who some of you are. If you're from Canada, chances are I went to high school with you in San Francisco. If you're from the Philly area, our kids go to school together or you work with one of us. If you're from London, I probably met you through Twitter and my toast owes you a debt of gratitude every morning. If you're from Texas, I'm sorry. And if you're from LosAngeles/Beverly Hills/Glendale/Encinitas, well then you're one of the coolest people I know. This blog isn't about you. It's about the rest of us. You SoCal people can go about your business: eating superior sushi; retracing the footsteps of the cast of 90210 until old coots yell "get the hell off my lawn!"; trying to write songs, record songs, sell songs; cracking white-collar crime; being fabulously Cali. Bastards.

This blog is about the other 95% of us that are stuck in a rut. Doing the same-old same-old; eating the same-old same-old; wearing the same-old same-old; listening to/watching the same-old same-old. I for one don't want to be the same-old. And neither should you. It's time we shook things up a bit. With this blog entry, consider me your vibrator. I want to rattle your insides. (That one is going to get me at least one phone call this morning).

FOOD: PUT DOWN THE FORK. PICK UP SOME CHOPSTICKS!

Stop thinking everything you've never tried before is still not worth trying. Do you seriously want to turn 40 or 50...or 60 (!) having never tried something new? Sushi. It's raw fish. Get the hell over it. It's the greatest food ever created and if you turn your nose up at it without trying it you're an idiot and I won't buy your daughter's Girl Scout cookies. There is more to “Asian food” than sweet-and-sour pork (which has about as much of a Chinese pedigree as Tiger Woods). Thai, Vietnamese, Korean, Cambodian... For God's sake step away from menu you found tucked into your screen door and try something different! Just once ~ that's all I'm asking. You don't have to dive straight into the Monk Fish Liver or Spicy Raw Crab. Work your way up to it. (And once you do, be discreet if you spit it into your napkin when no one's looking). Indian food: Greatest stuff on earth. One billion Indians can’t be wrong. Stop thinking it all tastes the same. People have a false preconception when they hear the word "curry." But Indian food can be as delicate or as kick-ass as you want it to be. Ordering Indian is like picking out a date online during a convention in Vegas. You can request something pleasant and mild that you'll forget about an hour after you're done; or you can go a little crazy and order something incredibly spicy that you'll still be feeling the effects of the next morning. It's your call. Just make the call. Even if you still just can't bring yourself to go push your palate to its limits, consider bumping up what you do like a notch ~ or five. There's more to Italian than pasta. More to German than brats. More to French than fries. We're getting old people! It's time to start shaking things up a bit at meal time, before the only choices we're allowed to make are between tapioca or gelatin for dessert in the nursing home.

FRIENDS: MAKE SOME MORE!

This is a special subject for me. I grew up being bounced around all over the country. It s.u.c.k.e.d. I would make friends, then say goodbye and never see them again. I was always the NKOTB. The only advantage in life that it gave me was that it forced me to become outgoing. Forced me to try and connect with people quickly. I have a lot of friends, very good friends, but absolutely NONE from childhood. I'm completely envious of those of you who do. But aside from those childhood playmates, most of the people we call "friends" as adults are people we met through certain circumstances. People we met through work. Through our spouse. Through our kids. Sometimes the friendships become life-long and deep. But sometimes...if you take away the common factor...the spouse, the job, the child...you're left sitting across the table from a person you realize you have absolutely nothing else in common with. And sometimes that's OK. But sometimes you crave more: friendships that are based on things you care deeply about. Things that have absolutely nothing to do with your husband, your kids, your job...just things that define "you." It's time to start making some of those friends folks. Because if you're married with kids and working...eventually you're going to be an empty nester. And those kid-centric friends will fall by the wayside. Eventually you'll get laid off or retire, and those job-centric friends will slough off. And face it. Eventually you'll become divorced or widowed and spouse-centric friends will be too uncomfortable around you (or you'll lose them in the settlement). What you have left is the friends you've made based on YOU. Your own personal interests and fascinations. Start making them now, if you haven't already. I love my kid-based friends. My couple-based friends. My work friends. But I am truly reveling in the new friendships I have made over the past year that are based on absolutely none of the above. These are people I can confide in without worry. People who may not actually be able to stand each other if they ever met, but each is deeply connected with at least one thing that defines me: writing...humor...music… They're men, women, gay, straight, white, black, 26, 46...they're just tied into some part of "me." So get OUT there. PUT yourselves out there. I don't care if you're 14 or 44. It's hard to make yourself vulnerable and seek out friendship. But if you do, and you find it, it's so damned worth it in the end.

MUSIC: TUNE IN!

I can hear the sighs. "Here she goes." Yes, here I go. Like I said, aside from the few high school and one middle school ( hey Gene ;-) ) friends I’ve reconnected with this past year, none of you know what I was like as a teenager. Well let me fill you in. I was a music fiend. Permanent ear-phone dents in my Farrah wings. It was my obsession and I dove deep into it and anyone who had anything to do with it. I babysat for a Doobie Brother. I exchanged letters with another for more than a decade. Just an innocent and frequent correspondence about our shared love. He and his wife introduced me to Carlos Santana ~ not the album, the man. When I lived in London, I “discovered” musicians that became worldwide sensations more than a year after I got back. But I heard ‘em first. Then came college. Work. Marriage. Kids. And Barney’s “Clean Up, Clean Up” song replaced Depeche Mode in my internal MP3 player. But I’ve come out of my coma at last. Thanks to friends and friends-of-friends and brothers-of-friends I’ve “discovered” some really great music over the past year and have become involved in the business side of it. I want you to take a listen to some of it.

Glasvegas: A friend’s brother got him hooked on it, and he passed it on to me as quick as a case of mono. They’re a Scottish alt rock group with a killer female drummer. They’re the Glasgow version of Ireland’s U2, before they became shills for iPod. Their sound is amazing, their lyrics profound. You may have a hard time making some of them out through the thick Scottish brogue of lead singer James Allen, but once you do you’ll be blown away. Check out this video (turn off playlist to the left) for their song “Flowers and Football Tops.” Then check out the horrific story it was written about. ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murder_of_Kriss_Donald ) I defy you not to be moved.



Trenchtown : A Detroit punk band transplanted to the shores of Hermosa Beach, near LA. Hard rockers carving their niche in the SoCal music scene. Discovered them through a friend of a friend and got instantly hooked and haven’t been able to stop listening (this is why I never tried coke whenever it was offered…I know my weaknesses). Their song “Unpaid Holiday” just played on the playlist. Play it again. Then check out more of their stuff at www.trenchtownmusic.com or in person if you’re one my SoCal friends. They play at Hermosa Beach’s Lighthouse Café Friday evenings.

TRENCHTOWN

Latch Key Kid : Gavin Heaney. Unless this if your first time on this blog, you’ve heard him, and of him. He’s been a real catalyst to this musical epiphany. I wouldn’t have heard of Trenchtown if they hadn’t “followed” our friend Chelsea on Twitter. I would never have learned about Glasvegas if Gavin hadn’t introduced me to my friend Evan. Gavin has no clue how many changes in my life that he’s had a hand in. How many different paths he’s unknowingly lead me down. Love the guy like a brother; a brother who really needs a haircut and owes me many a Beam. If you are here for the first time, you can hear him somewhere on that playlist of mine. Or at www.latchkeykid.org. Or at The Mint in LA tomorrow night.


OK, my job is done. No more preaching to the people about masala, mates and music. Take from it what you may. Just open yourselves up your mouths, your hearts and your ears to SOMETHING new. Don’t discount ANYTHING. We don’t let our kids push away new things without at least making them TRY them, yet we do it ourselves all the time. It’s time for the grown ups to grow up…just a little more.

I Want a Girl, Just Like the Girl, that Lapdanced Dear Old Dad

A 1st Grade teacher gave her students a simple homework assignment. Draw what you want to be when you grow up. One girl handed in her paper.


After it was graded and the child brought it home, she returned to school the next day with the following note:

Dear Ms. Davis,

I want to be very clear on my child's illustration. It is NOT of me on a dance pole on a stage in a strip joint. I work at Home Depot and had commented to my daughter how much money we made in the recent snowstorm. This drawing is of me selling a shovel.

Mrs. Harrington

Sometimes You Don't Need Words To Show How You Feel

Here's The Situation

Through the miracle of social networking, I have discovered that I can actually NOT watch top television shows and STILL manage to know what the hell is going on in the world of pop culture.

Case Study #1 MTV's "Jersey Shore" and Facebook

I have never seen a single episode of MTV's "Jersey Shore." When I first read my brother's Facebook update about it, I was mostly surprised to read that MTV was even still on the air. As someone who loves going to Ocean Grove (one town south of Springsteen's Asbury Park) during the summer, the thought of a program about the shore sounded intriguing. But after reading myriad FB updates about the show, I quickly realized that even though they share a state and a coastline, the charming, dry town of Ocean Grove is not the SAME Jersey Shore as the one on MTV. My one-square-mile gay-friendly haven of Victorian houses and wandering geriatric Methodists would probably make The Situation turn on his heel and run. But the point of this blog is that I actually even know the name "The Situation," (who I am assuming is an enormously pompous ass). Despite never seeing the show, I know all about the Prince Albert (Google it people), big hair, Snookie, ab posing and hook ups. I'm sure once their 45 minutes of fame are over (I'm tripling Warhol's estimate), years from now J-Woww will one day proudly show her grandchildren Nana Gram-Woww's reel.

Case Study #2 The "Golden Globes" and Twitter

At this very moment, the Golden Globes award show is being telecast. I'm not watching it. I'm upstairs sitting at my computer writing. But I have "Tweetdeck" open. Every time someone I follow on Twitter writes (tweets) something, there is literally a "ping" noise and their tweet appears in a box in the corner of my laptop's screen. Apparently EVERYONE I follow is watching the Golden Globes. Let me tell you what I know, despite not seeing a single moment for myself. Ricky Gervais had one of his penises removed, Sandra Bullock is covering a very expensive gown with what appears to be a felt Christmas tree skirt. CGI movies about blue aliens are apparently more important than those about war atrocities. Jennifer Aniston and Halle Berry make 40+ look kick-ass. Pixar is an award hog. Sophia Loren looks like Sarah Palin's grandmother. Diablo Cody may or may not be there, either smelling bad and eating bread or at home eating nachos (depending on who you believe). Jeff Bridges makes women from Texas hot. Quentin Tarantino needs to lay off the carbs. James Cameron and Mel Gibson share the same mailman. Women from Texas like to retweet men from Los Angeles too much. Scorsese is...short. And I apparently really need to start watching "Glee."

So there you have it. Turn off your televisions America (except for the 3/4 of Fox animation produced by my friend K-Poww). All you need to know about what's on TV can be found on Facebook or Twitter, the modern-day, live-time water coolers of American pop culture. I'm sorry, I've got to run. My fellow Guidette E-Pop is IMing me on FB asking if I'd like to come over for a Jersey Shore drinking game party. Fo Shizzle! S-Train is signing out!