Tag, I'm it

From the marvelous Mr. Summers, a Merry Christmas meme:

1. Egg nog or hot chocolate?

Hot chocolate, made the real way with Hershey's Cocoa, milk, vanilla extract and a large Kraft Jet-Puffed marshmallow. If there's a way to get a shot of bourbon into that, even better.

2. Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?

Santa wraps them, but does so in paper that doesn't prompt your five-year-old to say, "Hey, Mom. Santa uses the same paper you do."

3. Colored lights on tree/house or white?

White lights on the tree, and large retro colored C9 lights on the house. On the treehouse, I prefer blue. For Hanukkah.

4. Do you hang mistletoe?

On Miles' belt buckle.

5. When do you put your decorations up?

Since I'm always off work the day after Thanksgiving and I can't wait any longer, I do most of it then. I have an awesome, single-girl, pre-lit plug-n-play tree. I could leave it up all year if I wanted, but I've been told that's a little much.

6. What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)?

I'm a fan of the glazed, spiral-sliced ham accompanied by a chilled vodka martini with bleu-cheese-stuffed olives.

7. Favorite holiday memory as a child:

It's more of a feeling than anything. I remember how those Christmas Eve nights felt, where I'd try and try and try to stay awake, even though I knew Santa wouldn't come as long as I wasn't sleeping, but I was always straining my ears for reindeer sounds and jingle bells. I always wanted PROOF of Santa. And then I'd fall asleep anyway, and wake up to presents.

8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?

My "best friend," who was a year older, told me. Bitch.

9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?

The kids do. Once I was past 12, the "night before" present stopped. But I let the boy open one on Christmas Eve, same as I did.

10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree?

Since I have a cheater tree, the lights are already on it. But once it's plugged in, we hang the normal ball ornaments first, then the special ones, and the angel topping goes on last.

11. Snow! Love it or dread it?

What is this snow of which you speak? I live in Las Vegas. Always have. It's snowed here three times in my whole life, and none of those have been on Christmas.

12. Can you ice skate?

What is this ice of which you speak?

Kidding. It's weird, because I can ice skate. I can skate really well, forward and backward. Stopping, though, is a problem. That's what walls and rails are for.

13. Do you remember your favorite gift?

When I was eight, I got a bike. It was the most rockin' bike ever made, too. It was pink, with a white banana seat, tassels on the handlebars and a white faux-wicker basket with plastic flowers on it. That bike was freedom to me. I tried to take it out front and ride it even before I'd unwrapped my other gifts. When I finally could take it for a spin, it wasn't long before I was jumping it off the curb.

Yeah. I was a tomboy.

14. What's the most important thing about the holidays for you?

Love. Just the celebration of love, whether it's with my family or my friends. It's a time, for me, to realize the gifts we have. To me, the love of those closest to me is the best gift of all. And I love to give more than I receive.

15. What is your favorite holiday dessert?

My mother's candy cane cookies. They're cookies shaped like candy canes, made out of stripes of red and white dough and topped with crushed peppermint candy. My second favorite holiday dessert is Hickory Farms Beef Stick, hung from Miles' belt buckle.

16. What is your favorite holiday tradition?

Isn't it funny -- there are things we do every Christmas, but I don't really consider any of them to be traditions. Maybe I should start one. I wonder what I should do with Miles' belt buckle?

17. What tops your tree?

A golden-robed Victorian angel. Unlike Ken, I have no trouble stuffing shrubbery up an angel's ass.

18. Which do you prefer, giving or receiving?

Definitely giving.

19. What is your favorite Christmas song?

Tonight, I was already talking about this! The Bing Crosby/David Bowie version of "Little Drummer Boy."

Peace on earth. Ba-rum-bumbum-bum.

20. Candy canes:

Totally lovely, especially when placed on Miles' belt buckle.

21. Favorite Christmas movie?

"A Charlie Brown Christmas." I love Linus' voice telling the Nativity story. It breaks my heart every time.

22. What do you leave for Santa?

Milk and candy cane cookies. It's the only time all year I'll actually drink a glass of milk.

Happy Birthday

To Miles.

My friend. My blessing. My Love.

Thank you for your laughter, your wit, your courage and your heart.

Thank you for the road trips and the Sunday barbecues and bottles of wine and quiet after-work nights on the couch. For pool and golf and Boulder City and Sinatra. For debate. For five-star dinners and chicken wings. For encouraging me to sing, to write, to be myself. For listening. For talking. For everything.

Thank you for you.

Snort

I am a virulent ball of goo.

Not three weeks after I had a flu shot, I have come down with what appears to be the fucking flu.

Flu. Goo.

Ew.

Salute

December 7. The day will forever live in infamy.

Today, my paper had a story that makes me both proud and amazed.

TIME TO REMEMBER

USS Nevada's Pearl Harbor ordeal recalled

Sixty-five years ago today, Woody Derby was sitting on his bunk aboard the USS Nevada finishing breakfast and reading a newspaper when a call blared from loudspeakers to man the battle stations.

"I said, 'What the hell do they want to do that on Sunday for?'" the 88-year-old former sailor recalled Wednesday about the historic Dec. 7, 1941, Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the Nevada.

In minutes, "the hell" would happen when the first torpedo and bombs slammed the ship, the first of many more that the 27,500-ton battleship would endure. The ship later survived a pair of nuclear tests in 1946.

Derby, one of about 20 remaining survivors from the attack on the Nevada at Pearl Harbor, spent seven years and two months aboard the ship.

In a telephone interview from Honolulu, he said he will place a wreathe [oh, for heaven's sake, can't you people spellcheck? - s.] today to commemorate the day. He is proud to note that the Nevada is the only ship in the Navy that was present for both the Pearl Harbor attack and D-Day, June 6, 1944, off Utah Beach, for the Normandy invasion.

But it was Pearl Harbor, the ship's home port, that became Derby's yardstick for measuring death and destruction.

"There was tremendous damage," he said about a torpedo that struck near his turret. "We had water up to our waists, and it was still rising."

His battle station was below deck of a magazine that shot 5-inch shells, not ones designed for knocking out Japanese warplanes. Nevertheless, "they said send up ammunition. They wanted live ammunition, and we started gunning it up."

"We were hit by seven bombs and many near-misses from all the planes coming in," he said. "It was a desperate time."

In a heroic effort to avoid sinking in the harbor and becoming an obstacle, the Nevada steamed to beach itself in shallow water.

Derby, who at the time was a 23-year-old from Wapello, Iowa, spent much of the day on the third deck helping fight fires. That was not what he had expected he'd be doing when he joined the Navy on Dec. 7, 1938.

"Three years later was a bad day," he said.

"We moved right past the Arizona, which had blown up," he said. "The fire was so hot that when we went by, guys had to put their bodies on the ammunition and the shells that we were getting ready to fire to keep them from exploding." [emphasis mine]

Derby, who has stayed in shape over the years by running marathons -- 21 after age 58 -- said during much of the attack he was below deck and couldn't see what was happening.

Despite all the explosions, he said, "I wasn't scared because I didn't have time to be. The fire in the forward part of the ship was a very bad thing."

The Nevada, with the help of tugs, managed to make it to shallow water off Waipio Point.

"We beached it right next to the USS Shaw, which was hit by two bombs. .... (The Nevada) settled to the bottom," Derby said.

"That afternoon, about 4:30, they removed 57 bodies -- 50 sailors and seven Marines -- and 100 seriously wounded," he said.

Derby stayed with the ship while it endured salvage work and temporary repairs and steamed to the West Coast in April 1942. After a year in dry dock, the vintage-1916 Nevada, equipped with a new anti-aircraft gun battery, was off to combat again during the Attu landings in May 1943, according to the Naval Historical Center.

Derby said the ship's crew size grew from 1,350 sailors to 2,500. After the Attu landings the Nevada sailed to the mid-Atlantic where her guns pounded Normandy during the invasion in June 1944 and southern France two months later.

The ship returned to the Pacific to help with the Iwo Jima and Okinawa invasions in 1945. It endured a kamikaze attack on March 27, 1945 and an artillery shell on April 5, 1945.

After World War II, the Nevada was painted red, Derby said, and put at center stage among other dilapidated ships used in a pair of nuclear bomb tests at Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands. Though damaged and heavily tainted with fallout, it survived both the airdrop Able detonation on June 30, 1946 and the underwater Baker blast on July 24, 1946. A month later it was decommissioned.

"It sat radioactive hot for two years at Kwajalein," he said.

The USS Nevada was later towed to the deep waters southwest of Oahu and purposely sunk by gunfire and torpedoes on July 31, 1948.

All those boys. All that chaos. No matter how many accounts of the day I read, no matter how many times I read them, my amazement and respect are never diminished. What on earth compels a human being to throw his own fragile body over live ammunition to keep it from exploding in the heat? How would you even know to do such a thing?

Every day of that war saw acts of heroism. Some days inspired more than others. To salute every last one would take the rest of my life.

So today, I simply thank Woody Derby. And I thank all those who served with the Nevada. You helped make this world, imperfect as it may be, one that I am grateful for.

If it bleeds, and all that.

I may have mentioned this before, but I believe my local daily newspaper is absolute crap. Miles has a fabulous saying (it was actually something he said at his first agency job to his Creative Director, just before he was fired): "I wouldn't wipe my ass with that."

Maybe that's not something you say about a TV ad script that your boss wrote, but it's something I feel totally comfortable saying about my paper. Because I rarely get any news or insight. The "Nevada" section usually reads like a police blotter.

Except for today. Yesterday must have been pretty slow, death-wise. Going down the list on today's local page, the focus is on a nurse walkout, homeless issues, public health and updates on existing court cases. The editors must have been upset. Twitchy. Desperate, almost. They must have began to collectively sweat without the promise of a good police shooting or grisly murder-suicide. They were grasping - begging for something, anything to keep their readership up. Because really, they're the only daily paper in town - but given the choice between reading them and not reading at all, people seem to be opting for the second choice.

Then something caught the editors' beady eyes. It was Nevada-related. There was a tidy amount of death (either by vehicle or shooting) - 32 in just the last year. So they went with it:

Bears' death rate on rise around lake

Whew. Crisis averted. And hopefully, today will bring a fiery, multi-car, alcohol-related fatal crash that shuts down a major highway AND a bumfight that ends in a scuffle with police and a taser-related heart attack. If the news gods are good.

Boy, Britney's getting around.

Billboard Awards a spectacle of music, livestock

I'd encourage you to read the article, but my hometown newspaper is such a blazing piece of crap that they succeeded in making the night sound boring.

Fun with tutus

It's been tough to post lately, just because I've been at turns too busy and then uninspired. But this, THIS, is worth taking the time:

“Paris took Britney upstairs where she fitted her in a blue tutu, and then Paris put on a matching tutu,” a source told the London Star. “They then went downstairs and danced at Paris’ in-house stripper pole. Britney loves her new moves and can’t wait to get a fella and test them out.”

It's like one of those "Find Eight Things Wrong With This Picture" games. Only this time, you get to count the things wrong with the sentence. It's almost family-friendly . . . much more so than the old, passé "Find the Cooter In This Picture" game.

I'm so glad we can move on and do something new.

Gobble gobble

My family's Thanksgiving was Saturday. So I cooked for two days straight and at 5:30 on Saturday evening, finally sat down in front of my plate.

And went "ick." Since I'd spent so much time working the turkey and whipping the potatoes and buttering everything that didn't move, I was suddenly so OVER it.

I'm thankful for many things: my loving family, my friends, my Miles and my home. But more than anything, I'm DAMN thankful I don't have to do that again for another year.

Happy Thanksgiving

Now go get stuffed.

Just to let you know, I was planning some posts but in case I don't get to them, I'll leave with you with my wishes for a great holiday weekend.

Good.

O.J. Simpson’s Book and TV Special Are Canceled

If only we could 'cancel' O.J. himself.

Pig.

TomKat Kaption Kontest

Those krazy kids got married! And this is my favorite picture from the wedding album.



Go for it.

The littlest update

Everything's fine, except for one thing: I just watched the carafe from my coffeemaker shatter all over my kitchen floor.

Until now, I never realized how much I love my coffee.

The Night I Mocked God

One evening last spring, Miles and I wanted to play tennis. It’s not like we’re spectacular at tennis (Miles is and I’m not, which drops our collective spectacular level to below-average). We wanted to run around a bit and whack something, though, because it was a weeknight and working all day makes most people want to whack something.

So Miles picked me up at 6:30 and we took a short drive to the tennis courts by my son’s school. There’s a set of two, and one is usually free. Like normal, one court was open – the other had a load of people on it, though. Miles and I walked through the gate, set our stuff on the bench, got the rackets out of the covers, opened the balls and were in position when one of the people from the other court came over.

“You can’t play here tonight.”

I blinked at him. The other court was still full of people, but none of them had seemed interested in the free court.

“Why not, the court’s open.” Miles spoke up because I was still processing.

“No it isn’t. The City has these courts tonight to teach a class.”

I may have blinked again. Miles, sensing my uselessness, tried to reason with this guy on his own. “But you’re only using one.”

The guy acted as if we should have understood why this didn’t matter. “Sorry.”

“But . . .” I was catching up now, “but you’re not USING this one.” The guy swiveled his blond head to squint at me.

“I know,” he said, speaking slowly, “but the CITY has RESERVED them BOTH for a CLASS.”

“So you’re not using this one, but since the CITY has RESERVED it, we can’t play here?”

“Right.”

“Then WHY,” Miles replied, “didn’t you TELL us that BEFORE we UNPACKED our STUFF?”

Blondie stepped back a pace. Miles was much bigger than him and had lifted his racket to emphasize his point. In fact, I wondered for a moment if Miles wasn’t considering bipping Blondie’s golden head with a nice, snappy flick of the wrist. I wouldn’t have minded. The guy had a smarmy, officious sort of attitude. Because at that moment, Blondie had the weight of the whole City of Las Vegas behind him.

“Sorry, but that’s the RULES.”

The rules made no sense, but it would have made even less sense to point that out. So we grumbled and left.

It was still early, so we drove to the next closest set of tennis courts. They were empty. We pulled into a parking spot, got all our stuff together and went to the gates. They were chained shut and padlocked with a setup that would have restrained an elephant. Miles and I looked at each other.

“I know where we can go,” I said.

Two miles later, we checked out the new tennis complex. It was packed. Not an open square of green surface in sight. Miles and I looked at each other.

“Let’s go home,” he said.

I was too stubborn to give up. “No. There’s another one.”

By now, it didn’t matter that I sucked at tennis. I wanted to play and we were driving to frickin’ Reno as long as we found an open court. We got back in the car.

Five miles later, we pulled up to another park . . . and didn’t even bother parking. People were playing doubles on these courts. All ten of them. Miles and I looked at each other.

He shrugged. “Maybe God doesn’t want us to play tennis.”

I raised an eyebrow at him and scowled. Must have looked really pretty. “Like God doesn’t have bigger things to worry about than whether or not we get to play tennis tonight.”

Miles looked a little uncomfortable. “It’s getting late, besides.”

“God doesn’t care if we play tennis. We’ll check out the courts by the house on the way home. Maybe the CLASS is gone.”

The whole way there, I was inwardly scoffing. God doesn’t want us to play tennis. Ha ha ha. God’s taking time off from listening to the prayers of the poor and the sick. Right before God pulls Africa out of the shitter He’d better make sure we don’t play tennis tonight. God’s gonna do a little Divine Intervention in the Middle East but first, he’s gonna keep me off the tennis courts. Ha ha HA.

The class was gone. Two guys were on one court, but the other was free. Really, truly free. I grinned at Miles.

“See? God seems to be perfectly okay with us playing tennis.”

So we parked again. We unpacked again. We were in position – again – and ready to go. It may have taken an hour and a half, but we were ready to go.

Miles served. I hit it back. He hit it to me. I hit it back. Miles’ next shot went off to my right and I ran after it.

And then my feet suddenly stopped working. I tripped, stumbled and went down like a wet sack of raw chicken. I felt my racket bounce and slam into my ribcage, knocking me breathless as I hit the ground, knees first, where I skidded on both forearms and came to a stop easily fifteen feet from where I first lost my balance.

I lay there, nose-down on the green paint, my racket crushed beneath me, and gulped air. When I exhaled, I was very close to sobbing. I still don’t know if it was because I really hurt, I was scared, or if I was plainly humiliated. Probably a bit of all three.

As I rolled onto my back, Miles jogged over. When I saw the concern on his face, I sat up and let a sob go. Just one.

Okay. Two.

“Are you okay, Hon? What happened?” He crouched beside me.

“I fell on my racket,” I whined, holding out the offending sporting good. Somehow, my hand was still clutching the grip. He took it from me and put it aside.

“You’re bleeding,” he noted.

So I was, from a few places. Both knees had silver-dollar-sized scrapes, my right elbow had a five-inch-long wound and my left forearm had one that was shorter, but deeper. And somehow, I’d also scuffed the palm of my left hand. My arms and knees, in effect, had road rash. Once I assimilated all this, my knees began to seize up. I stretched out my legs.

“It’s not bad,” I said. “I can still play if you want.”

Miles looked, for a moment, as if he’d gladly bip ME upside the head. Then he stood and offered his hand. “Let’s go home.”

Finally, I agreed.

When we were in the car, I sagged. “I mocked God and look what happened.”

“What?”

“I mocked God. I said He couldn’t possibly care whether or not we played tennis.”

Miles paused. “Do you really think that’s why you fell?”

“Yeah.”

He sighed.

Road rash doesn’t REALLY hurt until the shower hits it. My knees and arms cramped again as the water ran over them. I had to buy very large band-aids and Neosporin. When my co-workers asked about the bandages, I told them what happened. And everyone I told had the same reaction: they laughed.

“That’s what you get” was a close second.

You don’t have to believe that my mocking had anything to do with falling on my face, embarrassing myself and scraping skin off every limb. But I do. Somehow, in some way, I asked for it.

I have faith that I was touched by the finger of God. Really hard, and right in the center of my back.

Don't stop 'til you get to Idaho

Gibbons 'hits the ground running'

Nice shot

Go here. Check out the test videos.

And don't do it at work. Everyone else will wonder why you're giggling.

Sunday. Funny Sunday.

On Sunday, I did my puppeteering/voiceover thingy for my friend's movie. His impressions are here.

Things I learned from the experience:
1) Puppets are REALLY creepy.
2) It's hard to act when you're stuffed under a desk.
3) When you're stuffed under said desk and you're holding your puppet above the edge of the desk, your hand falls asleep. A lot.
4) The insides of puppets smell really weird.
5) It's hard to get that smell off your hand.

After we wrapped, Francis (a local French photographer and the owner of the studio we shot at) said to me, "I know many of ze puppeteers. You are goot."

Then, he asked a question that struck me as very funny:

"You do ze puppet long?"

Maybe I think it's funny because my mind is always hovering around the gutter.

I approve this message

The timing may be a bit off, but I agree with the sentiment.

The Winding Way of the Meme

The Great Freakin' Music Meme, via Shannon via Cullen


IF YOUR LIFE WAS A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE?
So, here's how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool... and alot of the songs fit with the setting.

Opening Credits:
Waking Up: El Amor De Mi Vida • Warren Zevon
First Day At School: Red Light Fever • Liz Phair (giggle)
Falling In Love: Across The Universe • Rufus Wainright
Fight Song: She's Too Good for Me • Sting
Breaking Up: Anna's Sweater • Two Gallants
Prom: Don't Walk Away • ELO
Life: Love and Peace or Else • U2
Mental Breakdown: The Whole World Lost Its Head • The Go-Go's (I can't make this shit up)
Driving: Some Other Spring • Billie Holiday
Flashback: When the Music Stops • Eminem
Getting back together: Black Is the Color Of My True Love's Hair • Nina Simone
Wedding: Two Little Feet • Karen Savoca
Birth of Child: Rest Of The Day Off • Neil Finn
Final Battle: Entering Deadwood • Michael Brook
Death Scene: Murder, Tonight, In The Trailer Park • Cowboy Junkies (Wow. Now that's weird.)
Funeral Song: Bamboleo • Gipsy Kings
End Credits: High Highs • Viva Voce

I absolutely have to have "Bamboleo" played at my funeral. That would be funny.

"BAM-BO-LAAAAAAAAY-O!"

Mr. Dumbass Goes To Washington

No, I'm not making any predictions in the final run-up to next Tuesday's midterm elections. No matter who wins, dumbasses will be going to Washington.

Rather, I'm talking about our favorite local hotel mogul dumbass:

Bush to appoint Wynn to Kennedy Center board

This, mere days after he punches his elbow through a painting worth $140 million.

I suppose a "blind leading the blind" joke would be far too obvious.

A Very Scary Halloween

How could I be so stupid? How could I not have checked this before?

Today, I found out there is a registered sex offender in my neighborhood. He was convicted of four counts of lewdness with a child under 14.

My neighborhood is lovely, middle-class, with mature landscaping, a small park, a sherriff named Andy Taylor and blah blah BLAH. It's also full of KIDS. And it's about 200 yards from an ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.

There should be a fucking law about that. Much to my dismay (and anger, and a whole lot of other rage-based emotions), there isn't one in Nevada. In fact, as far as I can tell, there isn't a law addressing sex offender/school proximity in 43 states.

Oh. In case you want to know who this guy is, here's his court case.

update: link doesn't work. of course not. fuckers.

I'll go a little further. His name is Gerald J. Mason.

Some people may think I'm wrong to be this angry. That "he's served his time" and "paid his debt to society."

Bull-fucking-shit.

No group of criminals has a higher recidivism rate than these fuckers. And to let one anywhere near a school is absolutely insane. It's common sense, isn't it? Isn't it just common sense to keep the Cookie Monster away from the fucking bakery?

At least the house was all closed up with the lights off when the trick-or-treaters started coming around. Oh, hell yes, I checked that.

There's no other point to this, other than to point out that I'm pissed. Later, I'll have time to worry. I'll have every day to imagine someone looking out the window of that house, paying special attention to the children that walk to school and home again. I'll have random moments to wonder if he's ever heard my boy's laughter, had it catch his attention. There will be plenty of days when my boy asks me if he can go out and play with his friends, and I'll reconsider. And I'll have plenty of time to protest to the District Attorney, the governor's office . . . whoever.

Common sense. How can a state have so many laws that lack it?

Happy Halloween

Hey! I'm a bonehead!

Have a good one, guys.

Boy will be Boy

He did a face plant at school yesterday. He was running up a ramp that leads to the playground equipment and he lost it.

I found out when I picked him up from Granny after work. My mom met me at the door and said, "he fell at school today." And even though I know such things will happen, and if it were bad, the nurse (or the hospital) would have called me, my heart still stuttered. I wanted to push my mother out of the way and scoop him up, but I maintained with that eerie Mom Calm that rises when you need to be strong for your child.

"How bad is it?"

"He scraped up both knees and his face, but he's fine."

"Did he go to the nurse?"

"No, he tried to clean it up himself and we put peroxide and band-aids on his knees when I picked him up."

He tried to clean it up himself. I had the saddest little image pop into my head - of my little boy, pained and trying to be brave, wiping at his scrapes with those lousy washroom paper towels. You know those towels. Those towels were good for one thing: soaking, wadding and tossing to get them stuck on the ceiling.

That's when he peeked down the hallway, saw me, and ran into my arms. I crooned sympathy into his hair and inspected the large bandages on both bony knees. I fussed over the scratches on his upper lip and cringed at the scuff on the tip of his nose. The wounds weren't that bad, but I still think he was brave.

There was much to-do over Boy when I got him home: spaghetti for dinner, seven chapters of Captain Underpants and the Preposterous Plight of the Purple Potty People, three games of Yahtzee! (Pokemon Edition), and careful re-bandaging of his knees after he took his shower. I think he really enjoyed all the extra attention. I know he did. Because he couldn't stop hugging me.

He wasn't badly wounded. This stuff happens all the time. Which is probably why I won't be suing.

Dumbass, thy name is Wynn

Wynn accidentally damages Picasso

Pablo Picasso's "dream" painting has turned into a $139 million nightmare for Steve Wynn.

In an accident witnessed by a group that included Barbara Walters and screenwriters Nora Ephron and Nicholas Pileggi, Wynn accidentally poked a hole in Picasso's 74-year-old painting, "Le Reve," French for "The Dream."

A day earlier, Wynn had finalized a record $139 million deal for the painting of Picasso's mistress, Wynn told The New Yorker magazine

The accident occurred as a gesturing Wynn, who suffers from retinitis pigmentosa, an eye disease that affects peripheral vision, struck the painting with his right elbow, leaving a hole the size of a silver dollar in the left forearm of Marie-Theresa Walter, Picasso's 21-year-old mistress.

"Oh shit, look what I've done," Wynn said, according to Ephron, who gave her account in a blog published on Monday.

Wynn paid $48.4 million for the Picasso in 1997 and had agreed to sell it to art collector Steven Cohen. The $139 million would have been $4 million higher than the previous high for a work of art, according to The New Yorker.

Cosmetics magnate Ronald Lauder paid $135 million in July for Gustav Klimt's 1907 portrait "Adele Bloch-Bauer I."

Wynn plans to restore "Le Reve" and keep it.

Reminds me of a sign I once saw at a Christmas specialty shop:

You break it, you bought it
Ho Ho Ho

Voiceover work

This is going to be so cool. I can't wait.

Production should be starting in the next month.

Heroes, Ep. 4

This is how we all know a fanboy is writing the show.

"SAVE THE CHEERLEADER"

From the previews of upcoming happenings, this is the crux of saving the whole world. Or so they'd have you believe.

Indulging high school fantasies much?

Other than that, things are really starting to come together. We know without a doubt that Scylar (sp? whatever.) is in league with the government flack. We know that mirror girl functions like a split personality, both halves taking turns inhabiting the same body. We know that you can be killed at a beer bash 30 miles from home, end up splayed on an autopsy table, and your mom and dad will never find out. We know that Hiro eventually becomes a self-styled ninja badass with excellent English. And this show is trying to disprove the tagline, "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."

(here's a little hijack of my own post: I know who thought that up. I know how hard it was to get that concept to leave the agency and get to the client. It's just amazing how that line has seeped into the national vernacular. Every time I hear politicos and celebrities use it, I giggle.)

In "Heroes," what happens in Vegas affects the future of the planet. Cool.

It was a good show, overall. Let's hope they keep it moving at a nice pace.

Oh, and guys: can you tell me the appeal of the mirror/stripper chick? Because she looks a little hard to me. If I were a guy, she'd scare the crap out of me.

Creeps. Big fat creeps.

Poached Pumpkins

Few gourds left after thieves raid orchard

With Halloween just around the corner, thieves raided the landmark Gilcrease Orchard in northwest Las Vegas on Monday and stole hundreds of would-be jack-o'-lanterns from the pumpkin patch. The thieves left only a sprinkling of smallish, mostly green gourds for parents and children hoping to pick their own perfect pumpkins.

Big FAT creeps.

Orchard workers were making a daily batch of fresh apple cider when they noticed a strange truck parked near the property's fence. The workers headed for the truck, but it sped away before they could reach it.

Big fat nasty asshole creeps.

An orchard worker tried to remain upbeat. The orchard planned to raffle off a collection of large pumpkins -- 40 pounds and up -- that weren't in the pumpkin patch at the time of the theft.

And other fresh fruit was still available.

"We've got lots of apples," she said.

Nice. Those are really fun to carve. And when you toast the seeds? YUMMY!

Big fat nasty asshole dickface CREEPS.

This is getting ridiculous

Heroin chic is so 1994. We have a new standard of beauty to acheive:



The dress is Guy Laroche. If you can call it a dress. It looks more like a napkin. In fact, it looks like a white version of that bib on a chain you wear at the dentist.

As for the skeleton?

Come ON. I know runway models are supposed to be walking clothes hangers, but . . . well . . . check the post title.

This girl looks SICK. Physically sick. Malnourished, third-world sick. And the people that are paying her to look like that are sick, too.

Listen, girlie: have a protein shake or twelve. Have a pot roast. And keep away from the cocaine, for GOD'S sake. Get some self esteem and a taco salad. Because whoever told you that was pretty was dead frickin' wrong. You look like you're going to die. That is not an exaggeration.

And while I'm giving advice, here's a little something for Guy Laroche. Guy, you know how you can make me happy? Take a wheel of camembert and shove it up your ass.

This sounds like a job for . . .

. . . Ted Nugent!

Emergency deer hunt approved in fire-ravaged north

Okay. So the shirt's a little much.

But this guy actually has a point.

He's a candidate. A third-party candidate for Nevada governor. His name is Christopher Hansen, and boy is he pissed.

The Independent American wasn't invited to participate in the second gubernatorial debate, so he rushed the stage just as the festivities were beginning.

Hansen had one chance to get his message out. He had about five seconds before security grabbed him. So he grabbed the mic and screamed,

"I'm running for governor too, and I deserve the right to speak too!"

That was all he was able to say.

Yeah, buddy. You're right. You do deserve the right to speak. You may be just a little nutty, but we voters should be able to decide that for ourselves.

Don't sweat it, though. It wasn't a real debate. It was just a forum for speechifying, since the Dem and Repub candidates had received the questions in advance and had plenty of time to figure out their answers.

I heard this morning on NPR (and darn it, I can't find the backup -- forgive me) that fundraising for this election season hit an incredible one BILLION dollars. A midterm election season. And almost all of it is backing candidates from the two major parties. More than ever, our representatives aren't REALLY representative of us. They're part of a numbers game, with their only function to tip the legislative balance to one side or the other.

It seems as if I've been voting for the "lesser of two evils" ever since I came of age. For almost 20 years I've made decisions based on who was electable. Am I just now realizing what everyone else has known for decades: that we're so mired in the two-party system that the lesser evil is the best choice any of us have? Or am I just now tired of it?

Have these people, with their insane money and their attack ads and their studied "positions" become more craven and greedy, or am I just now noticing?

If I've been that blind all this time, then shame on me.

Thing is, now what do I do? What do any of us do? How do we get the candidates we want . . . instead of the ones we deserve?

Heroes

Just a thought after watching the third episode last night:

My, that was gruesome.

A Very Fuggy Monday

Go Fug Yourself is brilliant. Better than brilliant. You must read it often.

Things like this are why.

I'm finally ready . . .

. . . to talk about the horror that was last week's UNLV/UNR game.

It took almost a week to come to terms with what a big barrel of suck it was. And I'm not really talking about the 31-3 thrashing UNLV experienced on our home field. I expected to lose to UNR. I'd been in Reno the week before to watch them dominate Northwestern. Seeing that game live and in person was all the convincing I needed that UNR had the superior team.

But, being the masochist and mildly guilty alum I am, I decided to buy tickets and go. They were 30 bucks apiece, with no discount for kids under 12. Or kids at all, for that matter. My 8-year-old's ticket cost the same as mine.

Fine. What-frickin'-ever. So I got on the freeway and headed out to the stadium at about 5 last Saturday. The game was at 7. Two miles from the exit, the freeway came to a standstill. Some car, which had once been on fire, was sitting on the shoulder. That smoldering wreck was enough to get the looky-loos to slam on their brakes. Cripes.

From there, it took 20 minutes to get from the freeway to within sight of the stadium. That's easily three times what it would normally be. From that point, it was another hour. Another hour to go one mile. My son was in the back, and God love him, he knew better than to ask when we were going to get there.

At kickoff, I wasn't even parked yet. As I, fed up, pulled out of line and drove by one of TWO stadium entrances, I noticed that one guy in an orange vest was directing traffic: six lines of cars trying to jam into one entrance. Good Lord. I couldn't get into the other entrance because NOBODY was directing traffic there. And of course, nobody was going to let me in. "Nice" had officially taken a powder out on the streets outside the Silver Bowl.

Fifteen minutes later, I found a parking spot on a patch of dirt about a half-mile away. Two-plus hours after I left my house, Conor and I began walking to the stadium.

That's when the fun really started.

I wasn't surprised to see thousands of people milling around. The UNLV/UNR game is the big state rivalry. There is real, boiling HATE there. You would not believe how much Reno hates Las Vegas -- they hate everything about us. We're bigger, brasher, we get much more attention, we're seen as the upstart, barely literate bastard child who somehow (because of dumb luck) enjoys a success he doesn't deserve. And Vegas, for our part, can't stand Reno's unfounded arrogance: they're smug, backward, their economy is a joke, and they're pretentious fucks who crow over the one sushi bar in town and hold power meetings at the new Starbucks.

Hm. Can you tell which side I'm more familiar with?

The crowd was ugly that night, my friends. It was a sea of rough-looking, weaving people, all drunk and ready to break into a riot. I found Miles, who (thank Christ) was sitting with us, clutched Conor's hand, put up my forearm and pushed our way through the crowd. Miles' and my main goal was to get the boy to our seats without having beer spilled on him.

At the end of the first quarter, we sat down. And then we were forced to listen to an extremely loud, very inebriated, foul-mouthed moron who let everyone in the entire section know what he thought about his buddy's whore girlfriend, how he really needed another beer, how to find Osama bin Laden and sometimes he even talked about the game. This guy never let up.

Then Conor wanted a glass of water. God, why didn't I bring one? But Miles wanted (needed) a drink, too. So I offered to let the boys watch football while I got in line.

There I stood, in another crush of people, buffeted on all sides by the drunk and sweaty, some calling out for Reno and more for Vegas. There were TV screens in the tiny space above the liquor line, and I watched UNR go up on UNLV 17-0. Perfect. I don't know exactly how long it took to get to the front and place my order, but I did have to fend off at least two people who thought it would be okay to cut in front of me.

Just a couple of minutes into halftime, I had refreshment in hand and I made my way back to our seats. When I got there, Loud Moron was still going. I raised an eyebrow at Miles as I sat down and he rolled his eyes back at me. I pulled Conor close and gave him an icewater. He, blessedly, seemed mostly oblivious to how bad everything was. He had been having a conversation with Miles (which means he was talking at Miles without Miles saying much back) about every little thing that popped into his head. I love my child's ability to chatter on; I love hearing how he thinks. That night, I was thankful he was so busy talking that he didn't have to pay too much attention to Loud Moron.

The last straw for me was when, just before second-half kickoff, the field temperture was flashed on the big screen.

I spelled it that way on purpose: temperture. Because that's how THEY spelled it.

Field Temperture 89.

I may have gone a little mad at that moment. "This is a COLLEGE game," I squeaked. "This is for a COLLEGE and they can't spell TEMPERATURE correctly? AAAAAAAAA!"

That little slip on the part of the guy in the booth seemed to perfectly sum up that abomination of sporting event experience. I've felt safer at tractor pulls. I've had an easier time getting in and out of Dodger Stadium at the final Giants series of a playoff year. And how the HELL does the guy that runs the board, who has very little to type in the first place because everything else is some strange canned graphic, misspell tem-per-A-ture?

The game went nothing but downhill from there. Both on the field, and off. As Reno scored more and UNLV got more frustrated, little fights began breaking out around the stands. So we left.

And on the way home, Conor and I hit a standstill on one of the two major freeways through town.

On a Saturday night in Las Vegas, Nevada DOT thought it was the perfect time to push four travel lanes into one at the I-95/I-15 interchange. It took us over an HOUR to get to our freeway exit. And we proceeded to hit every traffic light -- every last one was unsynchronized.

Nevada DOT is on my shit list, big time.

And never, ever, was I so glad to get home.

I think I'm terrifically brave to relive all that.

Icky Sicky

So I got the Annual Report mostly done, except for a couple of sections. I thought that the dizziness and fatigue were caused by four days of staring at one year's worth of press releases and patient interviews, then staring at my computer screen.

Wrong, apparently. I've been home for two days, lying on the couch and trying to keep my eyes open. Last night, the backache hit. The inescapable conclusion is this: I'm sick.

Ick.

I'm not feeling particularly guilty about how much I stayed home. But tomorrow night is Friday night. And it's not just any Friday. It's First Friday -- the local downtown arts festival, and a friend of mine is showing some paintings in a small gallery. There's going to be an opening of Ed Ruscha works at another. And Mr. Swank himself, Shag, is supposed to be hanging out.

So this is when the things you learned as a kid come back to haunt you. Like, for instance, if you stay home from school you can't go out with your friends that night. It's simple logic. And I'm trapped by it at 37.

I still feel like crap on a cracker, but darn it -- I don't want to miss First Friday. So I guess I'm hauling my butt out of bed tomorrow and into the office.

Ick.

Most Boring Assignment Ever

The one I'm working on now. I'm writing an annual report for the county hospital.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

The Hewlitt-Packard Diet Plan

Thanks to ad-land, I now know about this:

Slimming photos with HP digital cameras

You got it -- you can take a picture of anyone, add an in-camera effect, and - PRESTO! - ten pounds go bye-bye. Go from "before" to "after" without doing a single sit-up or skipping a single Big Mac. Perfect for those emergencies when you don't have time to Photoshop away the extra chin or the muffin top (that little roll that pooches over low-waist jeans).

And best of all, it's just more proof that NOBODY'S fine, just the way they are.

Signs

You've had these days, haven't you? Days where nothing seems to go right. Nothing seems to go exactly wrong, either. It's a day like bumper bowling -- a slow, wobbly progress, grazing left and veering right, never heading down the middle, and never really hurting yourself but feeling a little jolt nonetheless. You try to talk to people, but it seems as if you're speaking Swahili. You get blinked at. A lot. You try to work through the simplest tasks, like laundry and dusting, and they take forever. You just feel dull.

Like today. Travel does that to me. This morning I had coffee on Lake Tahoe. Now, I'm at my home in the middle of the desert. Sunday nights will do that, especially since I'm not exactly looking forward to going into the office. Worry will do that, too. The problems aren't huge, but they're many. And each one sends me tottering off in a different direction.

At times like this, I do two wildly opposite things: I pray and I consult my horoscope. Most good Christians would call that second thing "divination." I'm not a good Christian. I'm practicing to be better, though.

My prayer mostly consists of, "Lord My God, what is going on here?" Once, I heard that prayer should be really specific. I'm not good at specific. Besides, if I keep the question wide, then any answer will do.

Then, I go to the stars. Miles will send me good, scary horoscopes (or horror-scopes) that are far too descriptive to completely ignore. If he's not watching for me, I'll grab one on my own. Like today's little gem:

Today, like many days, you should focus on the journey -- not just the destination. You need to slow down, or you could miss some important landmarks. Juggle your schedule to create more free time in the evening, because you need a chunk of time that's flexible and relaxed. If a talkative friend wants to bend your ear on the phone, politely tell them you have other things to deal with. Pull out your patience and save the foot race for another day.

O-kay. Kinda accurate, but not really helpful.

After I pray and do the bad divination thing, I start to look for SIGNS. It doesn't have to be anything big or flashy. I don't need wonderful surprise phone calls or fat checks in the mail. I don't need a sudden burst of understanding or empathy or affection from my loved ones. Just, Lord, something small.

I was folding laundry earlier. Slowly. And of course, it seemed as if I wasn't making progress at all. Then suddenly, I was finished and miracle of all miracles . . . all the socks matched up.

I'll take it. After today's odd, plodding progress (and a long, weaving blog post), I'm happy with perfectly matched socks.

That's enough Sign for me.

Portnoy's Book-Meme

I've been tagged:

1. One book that changed your life
Oh, I'm going to bore you already: Hey Whipple, Squeeze This by Luke Sullivan. It's the copywriter's bible, and it addresses the advertising industry with humor and a nice, large dose of realism. Every time I feel myself becoming a wounded artiste, Luke reminds me why I do what I do . . . and exactly what it means to the world. And yet it also makes me feel lucky to have stumbled across such a weird, wonderful profession.

2. One book that you've read more than once
The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy. I read this years ago, when I was in college, and it was purely beautiful and tragic to me. At that time of my life, I needed beauty and I embraced tragedy, so it was perfect. I read it over and over and over again for about five years. I'll still open it from time to time . . . and, as with an old boyfriend, wonder why on earth I loved it so much (but also enjoy the little twinge of nostalgia).

3. One book that you'd want on a desert island
The Worst Case Scenario Handbook. Because I have no natural survival skills.

4. One book that made you laugh
Richard Russo's Straight Man. There are parts in this thing, especially the scenes with the goose, that make me laugh out loud. Not too long ago, I was waiting in an airport and did just that. Then I had to ignore the crazy looks from the other travelers.

5. One book that made you cry
Of Mice and Men. Steinbeck. I had to read it in high school for my American Lit class, got to the end and - whoop! - waterworks. I tromped downstairs and wailed at my mother, "why would they make us READ this!?!" Darned teenage hormones.

6. One book that you wish you had written
The Well of Lost Plots by Jasper Fforde. Unbelievably creative and funny, it's just something I wish I'd come up with.

7. One book you wish had never been written
This is a half-wish thing: An American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. I liked it, really I did, but . . . I could have gone the rest of my life without reading a couple of the murder descriptions.

8. One book that you are reading at the moment
The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer. As memoirs go, this is a beauty. Everyone will find something to relate to. It's so richly and lovingly written, and so accessible. Moehringer is an incredible writer that never attempts to be writerly.

9. One book that you've been meaning to read
I never got around to reading Austen. Ever. So I suppose I could just pick one.

The Whirlwind

I was in Reno/Tahoe over the weekend -- the UNR/Northwestern game Friday night and a gorgeous vacation home in Tahoe City with friends on Saturday. After I unpack and become reacquainted with my boy and dog, I'll hop on Portnoy's meme train.

Psylocke got me to thinking . . .

Marvel geeks can open a whole weird can of worms when you start tracing who/what/when Psylocke really is. In fact, the lifelines of the more popular characters get broken and reassembled all the time. Which brought up the question:

Can you think of a Marvel character that died and STAYED dead. And alternate universes don't count. So that leaves Blink out.

I can only think of one: Illyana Rasputin. But then again, I'm not terrifically well-versed in the Marvelverse.

That's my Alma Mater!

No gay couples at school dance

Bishop Gorman counselors say students can't bring same-sex dates

Sure, it's a parochial school. Sure, they abide by the doctrine of the Catholic Church.

So I guess two underage boys can't dance together, but an adult man can do whatever he wants with a nine-year-old boy.

Glad I got that straight.

(Christ told us to forgive one another. I'm still having trouble with that, apparently.)

Gorman is well within their rights to have this policy. Doesn't mean I have to agree. And it doesn't mean that I have to give up the opinion that the staff has been and always will be a bunch of self-satisfied hypocrites.

I bet a lot of parents are pleased that, while their straight kids are indulging in underage drinking, snorting coke and getting hotel rooms so they can bang each other silly after the dance, they won't be exposed to those homer-sexuals. That's why they pay almost $10,000 per year for their kids to go there. Those good Catholic values.

That's what keeps the cash rolling in. And to my (admittedly jaded) mind, that's the only Catholic value that matters.

I comment on Garth Brooks . . .

. . . and the entire fucking thing disappears.

It's a conspiracy.

UPDATE: I'm back after being down all day. What weirdness.

I still think it had something to do with Garth Brooks. He's one powerful man.

A little note to Garth Brooks

Your children's charity is absolutely wonderful. You do incredible work, and as a member of society, I thank you for it.

That being said, I think you may have a wee bit o'tunnel vision.

Really. Who on EARTH, in this day and age, would name a part of their organization (one that helps kids) the "Touch 'Em All Teammates?"

Just sayin'.

Today's food coma brought to you by Bellagio

Considering who I work for (an ad agency that has four major Strip properties), you'd think I was getting free food and shows all the time.

Nope. Not at all. We get nothing and like it.

So imagine my surprise when I (and a small group of co-workers) was tapped to go on a culinary tour of Bellagio. Bellagio, for heaven's sake. The flagship property of the MGM MIRAGE stable. The restaurants are legendary, because they were the first to bring real foodie food to Las Vegas. With all the other hotels upping the restaurant ante, Bellagio has kept up -- and then some.

Yesterday morning, I got the itinerary:

5:00 Prime
5:30 Olives
6:00 Picasso
6:30 Shintaro
7:00 Circo

Zowie. None of these places are lightweights. But none of them would be serving us a full meal, either. I expected that we'd go to each restaurant, the general manager would give us a tour, and we'd get a couple of nibbles before moving on.

Nope. Not at all. The night was an orgy of butter, wine and various things that would make a vegetarian faint. At each restaurant we were served a little sample of their signature dishes. More than nibbles, it was like eating mini-meals every time we sat down.

At Prime, we had beef that would have been perfect on its own, salted and peppered and melting off the fork -- but they added special sauces and condiments. I've never seen peppercorns used like this. I've never had a Bearnaise so light. And the Merlot was gorgeous.

At Olives, I had a tapenade on airy ciabatta while I chatted with the sommelier. She poured a creamy chardonnay from a small vineyard called Marimar. Then an Italian red that brought tears to my eyes. We each got a plate with three pasta dishes on it: a mint and English pea ravioli, a ricotta-tomato thingy, and OH MY GOLLY GOD -- the most incredible butternut squash tortelli. Light, fluffy, with so many distinct flavors in the most perfect balance I could imagine. Sage in the sauce, almond at the finish, and spicy squashy happiness in between. I'm going back, just for that.

Of course at this point we were all full and loopy, but there were three more stops.

Picasso is a joy. Classic French cuisine concocted by a classically-trained Spanish chef that talked our ears off. And well, there's also the artwork -- real Picassos on every wall. We were ushered outside to a patio table that overlooked the dancing fountains. There, we were plied with Spanish bubbly and a bright Sangiovese/Sauvignon Blanc/Something Amazing blend that went down easy. Too easy. Then, thank heaven, something small -- the most un-fishy, totally yummy scallop I've ever had, topped with fried leeks and perched on blanched asparagus with hollandaise. A classic, perfectly prepared. Which meant it only looked small. The taste and richness was huge. I cursed the French as I tried to stand.

By now, we were walking really slow. I entered Shintaro with something approaching dread. Dear Lord, I prayed, please let this one be small. Really small. Nope. Not at all. It was a bowl of crispy lobster in black bean sauce. At this point, you'd wonder why I didn't just have a taste and stop. Hel-LO! It was LOBSTER. Prepared by the ex-head chef of Nobu. Oh, hell, no. In for a penny, in for about five pounds on my hips.

We staggered to Circo and got wind of what they had in store: a three-course meal. As a group, we sagged, imagining the hell to come. The food in Circo is Tuscan, which means only one thing: holy shit, more pasta. We plopped into our chairs not just well fed, but well and truly fed up. And that was a shame, because Circo's food is a wonder. The appetizer, duck prosciutto and foie gras, was tiny but absolutely busting with flavor and texture. The pasta course (oh crap) was a sage-ricotta ravioli paired with a meaty, bold duck gnocchi. The wine, while marvelous, was something I (unfortuantely) could barely pay attention to. I took bites of everything, grudgingly so, and by then, I was cursing Bellagio. The look on my face must have been of pure horror when they put the peccorino cheese-crusted lamb chop in front of me.

I love lamb chops. This was a huge, tender Colorado lamb chop, exquisitely prepared and plated on a bed of peppery potatoes. And at that moment, lamb was my enemy. It mocked me. I looked around at the hopeful faces of our wait staff and realized that I had to take at least one bite.

For those of you familiar with Monty Python, it was like the "wafer-thin" piece of meat forced into Mr. Creosote's gullet in "The Meaning of Life." I could swear it didn't make it all the way down.

If they'd have fed us dessert, I would have exploded.

Driving was miserable -- I was so full of butter and salt and meat and all kinds of other high-calorie components that the wine was long gone. I was left, instead, feeling as if my little car couldn't support the extra weight. When I got home I showered, had a glass of water and fell into a leaden sleep.

And today, I'm in a food coma.

But I'm not regretting anything (except that I wish I'd paced myself a little better). It was all SO GOOD. Tonight, I'll play soccer and by tomorrow, I may just have an appetite again.

Maybe.

Sauerkraut

Emily hates it.

So do I. And this is why.

To give a little background, Miles and I are in a dinner club with seven other couples. We meet every other month, and its hosted by a different person each time. The hosts pick the theme, assign the recipes and make the main dish. This is a wonderful thing. Usually.

Last Saturday, the hosts were holding Oktoberfest (since the schedule skips October, this was a good idea). Miles was going to be in Reno for his mom's birthday, so I was flying solo. My assigned recipe was cabbage rolls, German-style.

And this is my opinion of the cabbage rolls, as taken directly from an e-mail I sent Miles just before midnight Saturday.

Anyway: as predicted, my house SMELLS. When "smells" appears in all caps, this is not a good connotation. This is, rather, the type of SMELLS that would punctuate any good tale of immigrant woe. Doesn't matter what immigrant group at this point. I've discovered that every poor subsection of society has some awful cabbage-based recipe. Today, we think that's quaint ethnic food. In some parts of the world, this is all they've got. And I'm sorry to report that it makes any kitchen and, by extension, the entire home, smell like a fucking Shanghai laundry.

You think I'm kidding about that whole "everyone uses cabbage" part? I'm not. Cabbage rolls featured hugely in my family. They were meat mixed with filler, rolled in cabbage leaves, put in a pot and covered in some tomato-saucy concoction. This was a Lebanese staple. Later, I found a Greek version. And a British. And a Polish. And today, German. I suspect every ethnicity has a variation on the cabbage roll. And every last one stinks to high heaven.

For instance, the German version adds another level of hell by covering the cabbage rolls in sauerkraut. Fu-cking sauerkraut! Because the dish doesn't have enough cabbage to begin with.

Why the torture? I can't imagine what compelled people to think that, when they could be eating just the meat mixture fried or baked, all by itself, that rolling the stuff up in cabbage would make it better somehow. Nutritionally, it's a wash. You don't need the cabbage. I'm going to go out on a limb, here, and say that cabbage is the most useless excuse for a vegetable. Ever.

I mean, Christ Almighty! Even iceburg lettuce gets more play than this.

The only thing I can find that redeems cabbage is cole slaw. And even THAT is a tough sell, worthiness-wise. At that point, cabbage is a condiment -- its utility based solely upon what you can slather it in.

Why is this consuming so much of this e-mail?

Because MY HOUSE SMELLS TERRIBLE.

I just moved, folks. I love my new home. To have it smell that bad was really bothering me. It still has a little cabbage miasma hanging around.

To be fair, I may have been a little hard on the cabbage. It does have a lot of vitamin C. So I'm not getting scurvy. There's that.

Anyway, when I read Emily's hatred of sauerkraut and the subsequent love-hate discussion that followed, this post seemed appropriate.

Sauerkraut? Hate. Definitely hate.

The 2,996 Project • Thomas W. Kelly, FDNY

At 9:03 a.m., September 11, 2001, the South Tower of the World Trade Center took a fatal hit from hijacked Flight 175. The North Tower had been hit fifteen minutes earlier. As the frightened and injured tried to get out, Ladder 15 -- and Tommy Kelly -- were trying to get in.

From The New York Times

Thomas W. Kelly: Sentimental and Dependable
Published: August 25, 2002

Firefighter Thomas W. Kelly, 50, wasn't one for telephone chit-chat — "Hihowareyo, here's Kitty" was his standard greeting as he turned a call over to his wife — but his actions shouted. He quietly stuck by his friends, worked a second job to help his widowed mother, and at Ladder Company 15 in Manhattan was known as Mr. Dependable, a mentor to the probies. But, his sister, Maureen Paglia said, "Tommy never wanted praise for anything."

Something else his actions shouted: this Sinatra fan and father of two sons had a big, squishy, sentimental streak. Raised in Brooklyn, he bled Dodger blue so truly that he paid $1,420 for an original seat from Ebbets Field. Firefighter Kelly, who lived in Staten Island, collected bats, cards, statistics and baseball caps from special events. He was so proud of his little brother Dennis that he saved his sports trophies, newspaper clippings and diplomas, from grammar school on, and presented them after the birth of Dennis's second child.

His wife saw that sentimental streak on their first date, in September 1971. Mr. Kelly, then a steamfitter, took her to his construction site, his grandest project: the 40th floor of 2 World Trade Center.

September 11. 9:21 a.m. A radio repeater transcript places Tommy Kelly in an elevator at WTC 2. At 9:27, he lets Battalion know that he has an engine company on 40.

On 40. His adult life began here. And, dear Lord, it ended here.

From The Staten Island Advance
10/01/01

Thomas Kelly, 51, a firefighter, had history with Trade Center

Livingston man took his future wife to landmark on their first 'big date' 30 years ago
Date of Death 9/11/2001

As a 20-year-old apprentice in the steamfitters' union, one of Thomas W. Kelly's first assignments took him to the World Trade Center. It was 1970, and what would become New York City's most prominent landmark was climbing upwards.

He was responsible for spraying asbestos to provide heat and insulation on the 40th floor of Tower 1 [this account differs from the Times']. He wrote his initials and 638, his United Association union local, in the stairwell. Next to it, he wrote "UA forever." In September 1971, he showed this marking to his future bride when he took Kitty Murphy out on their "first big date."

Mr. Kelly completed the circle on Sept. 11, returning to the place where his career began — only this time he was on a rescue mission as a firefighter with Manhattan's Ladder Co. 15.

His younger brother, Dennis, 43, exited a Wall Street subway station moments after the first plane struck Tower 1. Already, a steady stream of debris was falling from the sky. After the second strike, he immediately made his way to his brother's firehouse. He was told by Firefighters Arthur Barry and Eric Olsen that Mr. Kelly was already on his way to the scene.

After wishing his brother's comrades "Godspeed," Dennis Kelly boarded the Staten Island Ferry, knowing his brother was in the inferno that was blazing behind him. From St. George, he ran the 1½ miles to his brother's Livingston house, where the family was already keeping a vigil.

Mr. Kelly is listed among the missing victims of the World Trade Center disaster. He was in the middle of a 24-hour tour when he responded to the devastation. Olsen and Barry, both Staten Islanders, are also missing.

"He took me to the Trade Center on our first big date," Mrs. Kelly said. "We went to the Copacabana and after the Copacabana, we took a taxi to the Trade Center."

A $20 bill convinced the security guard to let the young couple upstairs. The security guard told Mr. Kelly "to put a hard hat on your young lady." After placing a hard hat on her head, the two rode the elevator to the 40th floor and to 30 years of happiness together. They married March 2, 1974 in Holy Cross R.C. Church, Brooklyn.

Mr. Kelly joined the Fire Department in 1984.

"He had a love of saving people," Mrs. Kelly said. "He was just looking for that."

He was a member of the department's Emerald Society. "He was sarcastic, funny, he was really a very interesting person and such a caring, loving man," Mrs. Kelly said.

Mr. Kelly left a wide circle of friends, who still can not comprehend that they will never see him again.

"You grab a stool, order a beer and wonder why Tommy is not here. Then the thoughts of that dreadful day bring on feelings of sadness and dismay," wrote close friend Charlie (Buddy) Hostetter in a tribute to Mr. Kelly. "You stare blankly into space knowing you'll never forget Tommy's face."

Barbara Freda said Mr. Kelly always rooted for the underdog.

"I met him 30 years ago," she said. "He's been a very close friend to me and we'll miss him dearly."

A player on Liedy's Shore Inn softball team, Mr. Kelly was an avid collector of Brooklyn Dodgers memorabilia. He was also an expert in the kitchen and loved taking care of his four cats.

Born in Brooklyn, he moved to Livingston in 1983. He was a parishioner of St. Paul's R.C. Church, New Brighton.

In addition to his wife of 27 years, Kitty, Mr. Kelly is survived by two sons, Frank and Thomas; four brothers, William, Robert, Frank and Dennis, and a sister, Maureen Paglia.

Mr. Kelly would have celebrated his 51st birthday on Sept. 18, one week after the attack. On Sept. 25, two weeks after the attack, he would have celebrated the 30th anniversary of the day he met his wife. And tomorrow, three weeks after the attack, Mr. Kelly will be remembered by his family and friends in a memorial mass.

"To give closure to this, I wanted to do it on a Tuesday," Mrs. Kelly said. The mass will be held at 10:30 a.m. in St. Peter's R.C. Church, New Brighton. The Rev. Vincent Bartley, pastor of St. Paul's Church, will officiate.

At 9:36 a.m., September 11, Tommy Kelly was in position on the 40th floor when his Lieutenant called (Tommy is 15OV):

Ladder 15 Lieutenant: "Tommy, listen carefully. I'm sending all the injured down to you on 40. You're going to have to get'em down to the elevator. There's about 10 to 15 people coming down to you."

Ladder 15 Firefighter: "Okay."

Ladder 15 Lieutenant: "Ten civilians coming down. Fifteen to OV."

Ladder 15 Firefighter: "Got that, I'm on 40 right now, Lieu."

9:39 a.m.

Ladder 15 Lieutenant: "Alright Tommy, when you take people down to the lobby, try to get an EMS crew back."

Ladder 15 Firefighter: "Definitely."

At 9:49, Tommy hadn't been able to move his charges, because the elevator wasn't working.

Ladder 15: "Fifteen to 15 OV. Fifteen to 15 OV.

"Fifteen OV."

Ladder 15: "Tommy, have you made it back down to the lobby yet?"

Ladder 15 OV: "The elevator's screwed up."

Ladder 15: "You can't move it?"

Ladder 15 OV: "I don't want to get stuck in the shaft."

9:50 a.m.

Ladder 15: "Alright Tommy. It's imperative that you go down to the lobby command post and get some people up to 40. We got injured people up here on 70. If you make it to the lobby command post see if they can somehow get elevators past the 40th floor. We got people injured all the way up here."

Then, at 9:57:

Ladder 15 OV: "Fifteen OV to Fifteen."

Ladder 15: "Go ahead Fifteen OV, Battalion Seven Operations Tower One."

Ladder 15 OV: "Stuck in the elevator, in the elevator shaft, you're going to have to get a difference elevator. We're chopping through the wall to get out."

At 9:59, the South Tower collapsed.

Tommy Kelly's last recorded words show how tense the situation was. And how hard he was working to save those people that were with him. As his wife, Kitty, said, "he had a love of saving people." The words you come across over and over again in connection with Tommy are "love," "pride," "care." You can tell he had a huge heart.

What else can possibly be said? What would help us understand this level of loss? Five years ago, 2,996 Americans lost their lives in the space of about two hours. Two hours on one beautiful September morning. And we still feel the shock and horror. There are still no words for what was done to us. And nothing could possibly describe the anguish felt by the family and friends of those 2,996.

I am honored to have had the opportunity to become acquainted with Thomas Kelly. He lived with love, pride and strength. He died a hero.

Godspeed, Thomas.

• Visit the Ladder 15 Memorial site
• Visit Thomas Kelly's Guestbook at legacy.org

It's not like we can be surprised . . .

‘Crocodile Hunter’ Steve Irwin killed by stingray

What I find most odd is that, after all the crazy shit he's done, he was killed by a "freak accident." How on earth do you define "freak accident" for someone who spent most of his life grappling with crocodiles, grabbing poisonous snakes and generally getting close to something wild and deadly and then spouting (with real wonder) "Crikey! Wouldja look at that!"

I used to watch his show all the time, and he was never anything less than joyful about his work. He'd been bitten by anything with teeth. He'd been kicked by kangaroos and scratched up by koalas. And he never lost his enthusiasm.

We've lost a fascinating, truly exuberant character who, for his part, absolutely loved the animals he spent his whole life chasing.

R.I.P., Steve. My thoughts go to your family.

Dumbasses in the drive-thru

Note to, well, EVERYONE:

Never, EVER, go through the Starbucks drive-thru at 8:15 am with a LIST. If you're buying snooty-ass coffee drinks for more than two people, GO INSIDE.

The little pep talk and the long week

It's been a long, crappy week at work already. So this morning I did deep breathing, ate a good breakfast, made the bed, put on a pretty blouse instead of a snide t-shirt, polished my nostril ring and otherwise girded my girl loins for the upcoming hell.

And before I left, I stopped in front of the mirror and stared into my own eyes. I gave myself the pep talk. I said, "It's Just Advertising."

Everyone will have their own special complaints about their chosen fields. This is mine: Advertising is a shitty business, with understandably high rates of alcholism, drug abuse and suicide. It's populated by asshats, dickweeds and douchebags. And, God help me, I'm one of them. I think I'm more of a douchebag than a dickweed or an asshat, though. Depends on the day.

This morning, I got to work and looked at the pile. This is the pile that haunted me all night long. Because yesterday, I slogged at the pile and because of various interruptions and sundry stupidity, I got absolutely nothing accomplished. Nothing. Nada. The TV casting I'd sent to client was received with outrage at our choices. The lines I'd written for a major hotel ad with major placement were received with silence. The New Year's Eve invitation I'd written suddenly had all-new information. The homebuilder direct mail that I thought I'd rid myself of last week came flying back, requiring a whole new direction by end of today. TV spot music I was having recorded came back for for my approval and wasn't even in the time zone of what I was hoping for. There was easily ten pounds of proofreading bowing my inbox. And by the way, where was I on those witty lines for those restaurant ads that I just found out about that morning even though the job had been open for three weeks?

It's Just Advertising, though.

Appropriately enough, I started the day with another change to something that was okay the first seven times everyone involved saw it. So I devised an addendum to the little pep talk. This, I put on a sticky note and hung on my computer: Not Every Change Is Stupid. Because that's my knee-jerk reaction. And it's not fair, because there could be a really good reason for the change. That wasn't the case this time, but it could be the case on another job.

Ten minutes and another change (to the same frickin' thing) later I amended the addendum: Not Every Change Is Stupid. Just Yours. Then an hour later, on an unrelated job, I was told by my Creative Director to just "push that witty headline button."

The "witty headline button." That must be the button that resides somewhere around my ass, right next to the "compelling copy button."

It's Just Advertising. It's Just Advertising. It's just the place I spend most of my waking time.

I've rarely written a full-bore complaint about my job. It seems ridiculous to complain when there are other jobs out there, and especially ridiculous when I consider that I can dress like a slob, have visible piercings and MAKE SHIT UP for a living.

Thing is, Advertising has simply ceased to feel like a creative job and more like data entry. I can't remember the last time I did something creative -- something that I was proud of. I don't have a portfolio of my work anymore, because I've been unable to update it. I just don't have anything new and good to add.

It's Just Not What It's Supposed To Be.

My friends are at other agencies all over town. They all have the same basic complaints: Clients are stupid, Account Executives are stupid, bosses are stupid.

Hah. Maybe we're stupid for banging our heads against this particular wall. They that give us pain don't change. Probably because being paid tons of money seems to be a sort of affirmation. Their formula is working for them. The formula doesn't apply to douchebags like me.

I have a plan, a little plan, to bust out of the formula.

When I can make it happen, I'll let you know.

In the meantime, I have three versions of a slot tournament invitation to write.

It's Just What I Do.

Because Ken asked

A sweet meme from the wonderful Mr. Summers. One of music's greatest pleasures is that it can reveal who you are at any given time. Right now, these are my answers. But, like all people that love music, I understand that I may not have answered the same way yesterday. I may not answer the same way tomorrow.

Either way, it's a good thing I'm doing this on the same Mac that contains my music library.

Four songs that you could listen to over and over:
Neil Finn, "Turn And Run"
Bright Eyes, "Lover I Don't Have To Love"
Ani Di Franco, "The Poet Game"
Maria McKee, "Panic Beach"

Four songs that drive you up the friggin' wall:
No Doubt, "Don't Speak" (more like, "Don't Sing")
Berlin, "Take My Breath Away" (yours first)
Def Leppard, "Pour Some Sugar On Me" (pour sugar on you and plant you in a fire ant hill)
Madonna, "Live To Tell" (because of this)

Four songs that you're embarrassed (or should be) to admit you like:
Olivia Newton-John, "Magic"
Firefall, "Strange Way"
Eponine in Les Miserables, "On My Own"
Asia, "The Smile Has Left Your Eyes"

Four best driving songs:
U2, "Where The Streets Have No Name"
Chingon, "Malaguena Salerosa"
Brian Setzer, "Drive Like Lightning, Crash Like Thunder"
John Hiatt, "Tennessee Plates"

Four songs that make you cry:
Dan Fogelberg and Tim Weisberg, "Paris Nocturne/Since You Asked"
The Beatles, "Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight"
Crowded House, "Four Seasons In One Day"
Ithzak Perlman, "Remembrances"

Four best risqué songs:
Lovage, "Sex (I'm A)" (a deadly-hot cover of the classic)
Madeleine Peyroux, "Dance Me To The End Of Love"
Squeeze, "Tempted"
Ella Fitzgerald, "Bewitched"

Four best kid songs:
Trout Fishing In America, "The Window"
Justin Roberts, "My Brother Did It"
Veggie Tales, "Where Is My Hairbrush?"
Animaniacs, "The Presidents"

Four songs I love to sing on karaoke nights:
Carmen McRae, "Whatever Lola Wants"
Garbage, "Stupid Girl"
Linda Ronstadt, "Blue Bayou"
Carpenters, "Superstar"

And a tag to any visitors. Leave 'em in the comments.

Pleading ignorance

After one year, one thing that I keep hearing in all these Katrina retrospectives is that nobody knew she would be responsible for so much devastation.

So I'm going to repeat, in its entirety, my post from EXACTLY one year ago:

As I write this, Katrina hasn't made landfall. By the time I get up tomorrow, she will have done most of her damage to NOLA and the shores of Mississippi and Alabama.

This doesn't feel like it's going to turn out well. Especially since I've never EVER read a government weather report where the writer has so thoroughly lost his nut. They pulled it off the NOAA website, but Drudge still had the text:

Urgent Weather Message from NWS New Orleans

DEVASTATING DAMAGE EXPECTED

HURRICANE KATRINA MOST POWERFUL HURRICANE WITH UNPRECEDENTED STRENGTH...RIVALING THE INTENSITY OF HURRICANE CAMILLE OF 1969. MOST OF THE AREA WILL BE UNINHABITABLE FOR WEEKS...PERHAPS LONGER. AT LEAST ONE HALF OF WELL CONSTRUCTED HOMES WILL HAVE ROOF AND WALL FAILURE. ALL GABLED ROOFS WILL FAIL...LEAVING THOSE HOMES SEVERELY DAMAGED OR DESTROYED.THE MAJORITY OF INDUSTRIAL BUILDINGS WILL BECOME NON FUNCTIONAL. PARTIAL TO COMPLETE WALL AND ROOF FAILURE IS EXPECTED. ALL WOOD FRAMED LOW RISING APARTMENT BUILDINGS WILL BE DESTROYED.

CONCRETE BLOCK LOW RISE APARTMENTS WILL SUSTAIN MAJOR DAMAGE...INCLUDING SOME WALL AND ROOF FAILURE. HIGH RISE OFFICE AND APARTMENT BUILDINGS WILL SWAY DANGEROUSLY...A FEW TO THE POINT OF TOTAL COLLAPSE. ALL WINDOWS WILL BLOW OUT. AIRBORNE DEBRIS WILL BE WIDESPREAD...AND MAY INCLUDE HEAVY ITEMS SUCH AS HOUSEHOLD APPLIANCES AND EVEN LIGHT VEHICLES. SPORT UTILITY VEHICLES AND LIGHT TRUCKS WILL BE MOVED. THE BLOWN DEBRIS WILL CREATE ADDITIONAL DESTRUCTION.

PERSONS...PETS...AND LIVESTOCK EXPOSED TO THE WINDS WILL FACE CERTAIN DEATH IF STRUCK. POWER OUTAGES WILL LAST FOR WEEKS...AS MOST POWER POLES WILL BE DOWN AND TRANSFORMERS DESTROYED. WATER SHORTAGES WILL MAKE HUMAN SUFFERING INCREDIBLE BY MODERN STANDARDS.

THE VAST MAJORITY OF NATIVE TREES WILL BE SNAPPED OR UPROOTED. ONLY THE HEARTIEST WILL REMAIN STANDING...BUT BE TOTALLY DEFOLIATED. FEW CROPS WILL REMAIN. LIVESTOCK LEFT EXPOSED TO THE WINDS WILL BE KILLED.

AN INLAND HURRICANE WIND WARNING IS ISSUED WHEN SUSTAINED WINDS NEAR HURRICANE FORCE...OR FREQUENT GUSTS AT OR ABOVE HURRICANE FORCE...ARE CERTAIN WITHIN THE NEXT 12 TO 24 HOURS. ONCE TROPICAL STORM AND HURRICANE FORCE WINDS ONSET...DO NOT VENTURE OUTSIDE!

Oh, my God.

Uninhabitable areas? Check.
Roof failure? Check.
Weeks of power outages? Widespread destruction? Human suffering incredible by modern standards?
Check, check and check.

In fact, you could argue that this guy was being conservative.

The only reason I dredge this up is because I'm TIRED of the blame game. Face it: the local governments failed. The state governments failed. The federal government failed. And, the damn people who were supposed to be responsible for themselves and their families FAILED.

Katrina was a bitch and nearly everyone, even though they had warning days before this little gem of a forecast, was taken by surprise. Here's the deal: if you are the head of a household, your first responsibility is to take care of you and all those depending on you. Not easy for some. Impossible for others. But if you're healthy, able, and have a couple of brain cells to spare for those around you, then be a frickin' grownup. You may need a plan. You may not get some "agency" to save you.

In the end, you may just have to do it yourself.

Revolutionary concept, I know.

And one I keep in mind every day -- if something happens, if my son needs me, will I buckle down and do what I need to do? I sure as hell hope so. Because, and this takes some perspective too, I know I'm the only one who really cares about us.

Agencies and governments can only "care" in the most abstract of terms. They don't know you personally. They don't know what you had for breakfast, where you like to hang out, or what kind of crap you keep in your junk drawer. So don't think for a second that when all hell breaks loose, they're going to come straight to your house in a helicopter and spirit you away to a soft, warm bed and some cocoa.

Am I being harsh? Maybe. Am I tired of the constant whining and sense of entitlement that seems to permeate our society? Definitely.

Mostly, though, I'm being real.

Katrina was a real threat. She did real, lasting damage. And a lot of people, no matter what title they held, no matter who they worked for, really screwed up. So either we learn or we don't. Either we go forward or we keep wallowing in what's past. Either we stand up or we keep falling down.

And the first step to doing the right thing is to stop pleading ignorance. Stop pointing fingers.

Start being accountable.

Oh My God.

No, Zod.

Finally, a candidate we can all stand -- or grovel -- behind.

My friend Andrea here at work is sporting his campaign buttons.

I have respect!

I got the last answer on Ken's trivia contest!

Why I sometimes hate Pampered Chef products

They stay sharp. Really sharp.

For example, if you own the wonderful and mostly handy multi-slicer . . .



. . . please pay attention to how you remove it from the dishwasher. Hidden beneath the smooth cutting surface lie compartments to store the other blades. Like the grater.

The grater that sliced the pad off my left ring finger. Not completely off. Enough "off" to bleed through four cotton balls. Does anyone know, by the way, how much blood that is, in terms of volume? Just wondering.

Typing is fun today.

More on the shillelagh

Pronounced "shil-lay-lah."

My grandpa had one. We found it after he died. It was a stick of wonderfully weighted wood -- perfect for cracking the heads or kneecaps of ne'er-do-wells. The grip was smooth and slender, and when you whipped it forward, it had the most satisfying SNAP. This thing would have done a ton of damage, even in weak hands. I don't have weak hands at all. And I remember holding it and imagining an enemy in front of me. I imagined flicking my wrist and -- WHAP-PO! -- broken nose, cries of pain, and lots of begging for mercy.

At this point, I think I should disclose this: my greatest enemy at the time was my ex-husband.

Anyway, thinking about the shillelagh, I went to Wikipedia. The entry had my new favorite term: mêlée weapons.

What a gorgeous way to say "small portable things that, in close combat and with a minimum of brute force, can really mess a person up." A gun is not a mêlée weapon. The fabulous shillelagh and its club-by relations are.

So, scanning the Wiki article, I eventually came across this.

Suddenly, being enamored of Grandpa's shillelagh seemed quite disturbing. Look at the picture again. Go ahead, I'll wait.

It's terrifying in so many ways: the girl's rapt expression, Grandpa's grin, the way they're BOTH holding the thing. And, dear LORD, it looks like the cover of a frickin' children's book.

Yes, yes, yes -- in this case, the shillelagh in question is a walking stick, but still. Still. EW.

So. What's the point of all this? What's the moral of this story?

Don't touch Grandpa's shillelagh, even if he's not using it anymore. It's just too weird.

The shillelagh in question went to my uncle, eventually. Part of me wishes I had it, creepy connotations aside. I've had to settle for an entirely different home security system: a 36-ounce aluminum softball bat. I suspect that would make a dandy mêlée weapon, too.

They call me Shillelagh

Why? Because my headlines are blunt instruments, meant to bludgeon the reader with the message.

And that, my friends, is how the job is going.

Move over, you stupid motherf***in' snakes!

My Name Is Bruce is in post-production.

Why do I care? Why, a good friend of mine was toiling in the dark, leafy poison oak of an Oregon forest to SHOOT the thing. Support my buddy Kurt. Go see it.

Or rent it. I really have no idea if this thing is going straight to video or not.

Since I'm not into lengthy explanations . . .

. . . I'll just say I'm back. Where was I?

Oh, various places.

For most of July, I was out of my ever-loving mind. That is not an exaggeration. I was detoxing from a hideous antidepressant called Effexor XR. They call it "discontinuation syndrome," but I prefer to call it "the worst mindfuck I've ever endured." While I was "discontinuing" or "mindfucking," I was constantly dizzy and nauseous. Concentration was impossible. My dreams were vivid and hideous, so I was afraid to sleep. Everything -- and I mean everything -- made we want to cry. When I didn't want to cry, I wanted to scream. Without triggers and without warning, my entire consciousness would go sideways, as if everything between my ears had been given a good shake. And then the hallucinations started. I saw bugs. Everywhere. I'd feel them drop onto my shoulders.

All this while trying to outwardly act like nothing was wrong. I went to work and tried to write. I went home and tried to parent. I went out and tried to smile.

The worst has passed. The physical side effects are gone. The only remaining problem is the unpredictable mood swings. Those, too, are becoming less frequent, though. Today, I'm on a nice, easy dose of Wellbutrin. I've mostly quit smoking already, I've been drinking a lot less, and I'm shaking the cobwebs off those dusty little corners of my life that had been forgotten.

Like this one.

I also went on vacation last week, which was more hectic than my day-to-day life. I will say that there were beautiful moments: times at Disneyland when Conor's face would radiate joy; digging in the sand at Newport Beach to create a fort for little plastic army men; looking up across the water and seeing a pod of dolphins making their way north -- just out of reach of the surfers.

Then on Thursday, my little boy (who's becoming less little all the time) turned 8. He'll start third grade next week. His school supplies are ready to go, and we have a meet-and-greet with his new teacher on Friday.

Oh. And I moved into my new house.

So, without going into the gorier details, that's it. Here I am.

Did I miss anything while I was gone?

Oh, Glory Day!

Maddux is a Dodger.

Crotch Kennel?!?

WARNING: CLICKING ON THE ABOVE LINK CAN CAUSE BURNING OF THE CORNEAS.

Hello, again.

The days of overnight shoots and overloaded work madness seem to be over for a while.

Now, on to the new madness: a new home. Yep, for those of you who know me, I'm moving again. Hopefully, though, this will be the last time for a while. It's a lovely place, and very close to Conor's school. I'm downsizing our lives . . . smaller, more-efficient car, single-story home, low-maintenance yard, and a lot less CRAP in the house.

How we accumulated two stories' worth of that much shit, I'll never know.

The world seems to have passed by in the meantime. Not just passed, I guess, but rocketed. And the more wild things are "out there," the more I want to hunker down with a supply of red wine and beef jerky. Every morning, I wake to the news. In those half-sleep, snooze-button excerpts I'll catch blurbs that, inevitably, I wish I hadn't heard.

This morning, for instance, the radio came on and the news of Hizbollah's kidnapping of Israeli soldiers was top story. I cracked an eye open and saw a stripe of livid orange sunlight on my bedroom wall. This wasn't a normal sunrise, because our valley has been blanketed with a smoky, burnt haze from the San Bernardino forest fires. So daylight here is extra-bright, extra-lurid, and terrifically unkind. This is the kind of sun you'd imagine over battlefields. I imagined that would be the same sun that's too familiar in other parts of the world -- sun that pounds through the smoke caused by gunfire and RPGs and roadside bombs and grenades.

It took three hours before I could shake that apocalyptic feeling.

There is something else going on with me, something physical, but I'm not sure I want to write about it. Maybe I will . . . but maybe that's just putting far too much of myself out there.

In the meantime, I look forward to our new home. There's something so exciting about making a fresh start. We'll be moved in just before the boy's 8th birthday. Just before he starts third grade. And I'll be that much further down the road, away from the things that are haunting me.

The better days are ahead, I know.

And thank you, those who visit here and encourage me. I'm trying to re-engage. Thank you for still being around.

Joining the Tribute

I'm meerkat-ing: popping my head up to let y'all know I'm alive. Work's been absolutely heinous.

Enough of that. I've put in my name at 2,996. I love this idea, and I can't wait to get started on the person they choose for me, God rest his or her soul.

Five years. I can't believe it'll be five years.

Fabulous insight at the World Cup

I actually heard this during this morning's game between France and Switzerland:

"The Swiss are very organized."

Now I'm really going

I've been slammed at work, getting ready for another TV shoot. I leave tonight for Portland.

So, even though I haven't been around, I'm not going to be around for about a week.

The Invisibles

Most online quizzes suck.

These do not.

Have fun!

Season's End

Tonight was my boy's last rookie baseball game. They took fourth place in the league.

It was an exciting, heartbreakingly adorable stretch in which the Sidewinders finished their regular season with only three losses, then won three playoff games to make it to this evening's semifinal.

In the last inning, the score was 8 - 7. We were losing. The first boy hit the ball harder than any of us thought possible - and it stuck right in the pitcher's glove. One out. Next, Conor came up, fought off two pitches, and got a hit. The next guy hit a double and there he was: Conor on third base with one out.

And then we all watched his hopeful little face as he silently begged his teammates to hit him home and tie the game. I stood by the dugout, fixed on his nervous, puppy-ish frame . . . and sent every loving thought I had to him. I hoped he'd get to touch home safely.

The next boy struck out.

And the boy after that hit a ball right to first base. Three outs. Game over. Sidewinders lose.

Conor stood on third base for a moment longer, as if he couldn't believe he'd never get to score. Then, he took off his batting helmet and shuffled over, right through the middle of the other team's celebration. He ran to me, and I pulled him close to speak so only he'd hear.

"I'm proud of you, my Pumpkin. I love you so very much."

You see, you can't call a growing boy in a baseball uniform "Pumpkin" out loud. Such things aren't done. There are no Pumpkins in baseball.

But there is crying. Some little ones were that upset. Others wanted to assign blame before their parents could hush them. Mine kept his feelings to himself.

On the way home, I told him stories about my times playing softball in high school. He was very interested to hear that we never went to the playoffs. He sat up straighter in his booster seat when I told him his team was much better than the teams I played for. He begged to hear about times I personally did well, or times I messed up.

So I told him everything: about the tendonitis that would send me home in tears; about my 16th birthday, when I lost a ball in the sun and got smashed in the mouth - giving me a bloody lip and a swollen face; about the time my ex-boyfriend showed up to a game to rattle me, and I played like a friggin' pro; about the constant open wound on my left shin from sliding into second base; and I told him about the times we played games in the cold and wind against teams so much better than we were, making us wonder why we even tried.

But I told him we always tried our best, no matter what. And I told him that I was proud of him for doing his best, even though they didn't win the game.

At bedtime, he was clean and lying down and he looked up at me.

"I love you, Mommy."

My God, he breaks my heart.

"I love you too, my Pumpkin."

Minutes later, he was asleep. Sweet and small but more grown up than he was before tonight's game. Tonight, he learned that even though you try, you can still lose. But even knowing you can lose, you never stop trying.

Not only is that baseball, it's life.