The Tudors of the perfect teeth
Are you watching the Showtime series The Tudors? The second series is about to end (next week) and if you haven't started I suppose it might be a bit late to jump in.

However, if you ignore the questionable history and just watch it as a very well-dressed soap opera, it's rather fun. Truly, it's grown on me. I was dubious last season, the historian in me yelling impotently at the screen as they played fast-and-loose with the historial record. But this time around I've given up all hope of truth and have just wallowed. Yet there's one thing about the series that still has me amused:

Apparently everybody at the court of Henry VIII was beautiful. And everyone had perfect teeth.

If you haven't seen the show, you might want to check out the cast photos to see what I'm talking about. Henry himself, the corpulent and less than gorgeous much-married king is played by the far-too-attractive Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Granted that Henry was a bit of a rock star in his own day. And yes, he didn't start his reign as an overweight barrel of a man. But I sincerely doubt he was 21st century glam.

Compare the two above photos of Mr. Rhys Meyers and the Holbein portrait of the king. Rather different, aren't they?

And it's like that in the whole series. Every woman is stunning. Every man is a stud. Even the clergy are sexy. Hell, Peter O'Toole plays the pope! In spite of his advanced age, there are still glimpses of the dashing young Lawrence of Arabia in the man that make his popeness delicious. (OK, he was one of those carnal popes with sons and grandsons wandering around St. Peter's, but still!)

I can understand wanting eye candy for the leads. After all, people don't really turn in every week to see plain, overweight people getting it on. But do all of the extras have to be so damned attractive? Can't we have a serving man with a wart? An ambassador with a bit of a paunch? A lady-in-waiting who'll probably be waiting a very long time? There's not been a single person on the screen who didn't look like he or she came from the food court at the Malibu mall, rather than the royal court at Westminster. It's the most decorative cast in history. It's like London 90210.

And oh yes, apparently the Tudor court was the high water mark for British dental perfection. Straight, white, glorious teeth abound ... from the music masters to the executioners. I guess flossing was written into the English reformation.

Taunting the gods
I jinxed myself. I was congratulating myself on making it through two whole months (!) without a visit to the ER. Sure enough, Saturday at about midnight I started zarfing and yesterday morning found me and Husband back in ER for the 4th time this year. Woo hoo!

I'm OK. I got my usual two IVs of juice to counteract the dehydration, a shot of the anti-nausea stuff that does the trick and two (count 'em 2!) doses of delaudin (however it's spelled) to stem the back pain. Then back home to sleep all day and most of the night.

Today it's back to chicken broth and getting my strength back. I'm doing fine, just pissed that I had to drag poor Husband back to ER yet again. And even more pissed that our lousy health insurance means it's another grand down the drain to the emergency room folks. I have GOT to stop getting sick. If nothing else, we can't afford it.

Have Sharpie, will correct
I am totally with these guys who are making it their mission to fix misused apostrophes and typos.

I completely understand their pain. Sure, we all make mistakes, and I've been guilty of typing too fast or not thinking fast enough while driving through Apostropheland. But I have to admire their dedication to duty.

Typos I find to be especially annoying and, quite often, hilarious. I will always remember the poster I saw for a local production of "The Dairy of Anne Frank." (So hard to hide from the Nazis when you keep cows in your attic.) I once bought Husband a souvenir magnet from Philadelphia because it said that the City of Brotherly Love is in "Pennsylvannia." A few months ago on one of those annoying news crawls I saw a mention of Barack O'Bama. Ah yes, of the Dublin O'Bamas, a good Irish family. Last holiday season one local store had "Merry X'mas" written on their window. OK, Xmas is already a hideous abbreviation...the unnecessary apostrophe is just mystery-making.

And speaking of holidays, February 14th seems to stump everyone. Is it Valentine's Day or Valentines Day? I say it's the former, because it is the feast day of St. Valentine. Therefore, his day. But Valentine has become an entity of its own, (As in "will you be my Valentine?"), so it could be Valentines Day as in the day of many Valentines. (But I think it's kind of a stupid holiday anyway, so who cares?)

In other news, we have given up on our quest to train Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) from clawing our new chair. We tried, we really did. But the more we tried to discourage her from sharpening her claws on the Ikea throne, the more she became fascinated in pulling all the Fi-Hi (FItzgerald to Hillerman) fiction off our bookshelves. She seems to be especially fond of Forrester's Hornblower books...having pulled most of them onto the floor at one time or another. In fact, I'm rather surprised that she prefers Husband's taste in books to mine. I somehow had her pegged as a fan of mysteries, yet Tony Hillerman received only a cursory tug or two and Martha Grimes, not even a pull. But Hornblower has her fascinated, even if she is pulling them out of order.

There now, comfy?
They manage to be both green and morbid. And yet, oddly, I kinda like it.

Vote for the guy my brother likes
Husband and I received several pieces of mail today urging us to vote for one candidate or another in the upcoming Assembly race. One guy had on his mailing an endorsement from a firefighter and carrying a dramatic photo of firefighters silhouetted against a raging orange wildfire.

Is this guy running for fireman?

I fail to see how the endorsement of firemen should interest me. Now don't get me wrong, I have the highest respect for firefighters. In fact my brother happens to be a fire chief. But voting for someone my brother likes seems like a silly reason to vote for anyone.

I just find it interesting how different positions, such as school teachers, nurses, and police and firemen become wildly important at election time. Many of those people are sadly underpaid for doing such vital work and yet when the polls open they become the endorsers that every candidate wants. It's so odd, because for the other 364 days a year, the "important" occupations are professional athletes, supermodels, movie and TV stars, musicians, and whatever bozo won American Idle. Oh, excuse me, it's American Idol.

So why aren't they on campaign literature. "Bob Snarkly is the only candidate endorsed by Brett Farve." "Hortense Pupnhound has been endorsed by the guy who won the last round of Survivor. "Vote for Hugo Stuffright, the official candidate of the NBA."

But no. Instead we're supposed to respect the opinion of the people we see as everyday heroes but don't, of course, pay like heroes.

"Vote for the guy who has the backing of some really important and wickedly underpaid people doing thankless jobs because we value their opinion, but not their work." Yeah, probably too long to put on a bumper sticker.

The consequences of cheating
I did two sessions at the kitten nursery yesterday. And last night, Husband joined me. I think he enjoyed his first (and, no doubt last) session working with the kitties. They were a total tornado, as usual, and the back-to-back sessions were quite exhausting.

So we got home about 8 last night, quickly changed out of our kitten-food-scented clothes, and hoped Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) would forgive us.

She didn't.

She didn't really act as if she noticed the feline equivalent of lipstick on the collar, but once bedtime set in, so did her revenge.

Not since the night we brought her home has she been so blastedly awake all night. Meowing. Walking on both of us. Muffled thumps from the living room as she pulled books off of shelves, chased balls into furniture, and generally wreaked havoc on the house. I had indulged in a sleeping pill last night and so was extra asleep -- and extra sleepy -- so poor Husband was the one who got up in the middle of the night. (Usually it's my job because usually I'm awake at that time.) I got up at 5 after she successfully pulled everything off of my nightstand (clock, books, water bottle); what a delightfully un-jarring way to wake up.

She is a nocturnal creature, and is often playful at 3 am. But not usually this unstopably destructive. We can only surmise that she was punishing us for cheating on her. Well, we've certainly paid for our sins now. We're sorry, Cipher, please forgive us. Flowers and chocolate will be forthcoming. Please don't make us go on Dr. Phil. We'll be good.

Home from the nursery
Well, today was kitten day. And I gotta confess, I'm pooped. Who knew taking care of little kittens would be so tiring? But there are 17 now and that's quite a few kittens to feed and love. (Yes, socializing with the kittens is part of the job.)

Someone asked me what's involved in kitten duty, so here's the scoop.

First you mix up some food. A blend of canned kitten food and KMR (kitten milk replacement) which you stir up into a stinky brownish goo. Then you lay down lots of towels, for kitten feeding is a messy job. Then you grab some syringes and go to the first nursery. Each kitten is weighed before feeding, and the weight noted on its personal sheet. You also note how much he/she eats in a feeding, if they resisted feeding or ate eagerly, if they're eating on their own, if they go to the bathroom on their own or if you have to stimulate them into pooping.

The feeding is basically grabbing the little one by the scruff of the neck, putting the syringe in their mouths and letting them have it. Some kittens are easier to feed than others and you will always get food on you, the towels, the table, the kitten, your hair, the floor, and anything else within reach. After the feeding (or sometimes in between bouts of feeding) comes the cuddling. That's the best part. These little guys (average weight about 11 ounces) love to be loved. They'll curl up in your lap or on your shoulder and purr, try to eat your hair, nibble on your finger, and generally get used to having people around them. Even at a few weeks old they definitely have personalities. Some are more shy, others more curious. Each is a total delight in their own way.

Once each kitten in the litter is fed and loved, they go back into their nursery and then we clean up. We change towels, syringes, disinfect the scale, the table and ourselves. (You can either wear gloves or wash hands in between litters. I prefer to wash hands so I can pet them without latex.) This is to protect the litters from getting each other's germs. The poor things have been trading a cold around so we're being extra careful with them now. Oh yeah, you also have to clean their litter box, make sure they have water and clean bedding, and are generally comfy until the next crew comes in.

And then you repeat the process with each litter. There are currently 5 litters in the nursery: one with 5 kittens, one with 4, two with 3, and one with 2. My favorite kitten, the one I christened "Tioga" still is a sweetie -- but I have to confess that the two newest litters (the really tiny ones) are almost unbelievably cute.

It's a surprisingly amount of work really and today took about 3 1/2 hours, and three people, to get through the whole nursery. We usually only had 2 people on shift but today we got a new Monday afternoon volunteer. Which, considering the population boom, is a good thing....if it had just been the two of us I'd probably still be there.

I'm doing a fill-in shift on Wednesday, so I'll get to see them all again. Now I really must go and wash my one and only volunteer t-shirt -- it looks like I've rolled in kitten chow.

A victory for love
As my dear friend the Lurker says, "it's a good day to live in California." The California Supreme Court ruling in favor of same-sex marriages brings much joy to many and, unfortunately, much anger to some. The "some" being people who, in the name of God, seem to understand little about what love really means.

It's a bittersweet victory that comes 10 years too late for my best friend to marry his partner. It also comes too late for too many men and women who have died, of AIDS and other causes, without ever being able to have a true, equal, legal marriage with the one they love.

In a world filled with hate it stuns me that so many can be against love, in whatever form it takes. And that ridiculous "gay marriages threaten straight marriages" argument just leaves me shaking my head. I fail to see how my gay friends getting married in any way threatens my marriage. Equally stupid is the "sanctity of marriage" argument of one man and one women when pseudo-celebrities get married for a week in Vegas quickies that are over before the next issue of People comes out. Just how sacred is it when heterosexual marriages can last a sneeze-length?

I am sad and angry that I never got to be "Best Woman" at my dear friend's wedding. But I dance with joy at the thought that so many couples will be able to share in the joy that I felt when I legally married Husband.

...

And speaking of Husband, today marked the 9th anniversary of his first show on KZSU. (And, being a sleepy slacker, I missed the entire thing.) If you get a chance, I urge you to tune in next week. Friday mornings from 6-9 am (Pacific), for a fabulous 3-hours of jazz, world music, blues, maybe even a little bluegrass. It's an unpredictable and delicious mix and an incredible way to start your day.

Anybody got a light?
You gotta love this study that links pot smoking to heart attacks and strokes. The great part is this: it's linked to people who smoke between 78 to 350 joints a week!

Who smokes 350 joints a week? Who are these people? How can they afford it? How do they have the time and energy to take part in a study if all they do is chain smoke pot?

I'm a supporter of medical marijuana (it was crucial to increasing the appetite and stopping the nausea of my dear friend, Steve, when he was fighting AIDS), so ridiculous studies like this just piss me off. Should we be surprised that smoking 50 joints a day has an adverse effect on your health? 50 anything in a day would have an effect. Why don't they do a study of people who smoke 1 joint a day?

Well color me incredibly, incredibly dull!
Range Rover ads are an abomination unto the Lord. But I just saw one that completely crosses the line into absolute ridiculous. Two face-lifted spoiled yuppy types (mother and daughter). And daughter says "I expressed my individuality by ordering a white-on-white Range Rover."

That's individuality? White? Isn't white the absence of individuality? It's a fucking white fucking Range Rover -- a car that nobody who doesn't live in Kenya needs. And here are these wacky "individuals" driving around Atherton in their white-on-white yuppy tank. You want individuality bitch? Go purple. Or polka dots. Or, even better, buy a hybrid. But don't smirk at your gazillion dollar white-on-white car and claim to be an individual.

Sheep.

I want this kitten!
Today was my day at the Peninsula Humane Society and I brought my camera along again. This kitten came in last week and I fell in love with her then. Today just cemented the relationship. Her litter hadn't been named yet, so the other volunteer and I named them. Her two Marmalade brothers are named Jack (short for Jack-o-Lantern) and Milo. This one I named Tioga. For some reason her beautiful coat reminds me of the beautiful rocks around Yosemite. Hence the name.

She is SO sweet. She purrs. She curls up on my shoulder. She's just a total flirt and has completely captured my heart. If I didn't think Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm)) wouldn't freak out I would adopt her. She's just a total sweetheart.

In search of...
Wanted: cashmere cardigan. WIth buttons. Preferably V-neck. Wine colored. (either Merlot or Burgundy. Vintage is negotiable.) Will settle for rich scarlet, but would prefer to stay away from just plain red.

OK, so it's spring. With summer around the corner. Hardly time to be buying sweaters. And yet, for some reason, it just occurred to me to look for one. Cashmere sweaters are the one wardrobe luxury in which I indulge. I love them. And I've been searching for the above described sweater for about 3 years now. It seems to be impossible to find.

Now quite often (don't shoot me) I buy men's cashmere sweaters. Why? Because I like the colors better. Men seem to get all the cool, rich colors. Women's sweaters all look like baby blankets. I look horrible in pastels and I don't like them anyway. I don't want a sweater with a color like "eggshell" or "soft robin." I want actual colors. Deep green. Sapphire blue. And, of course, the long-desired wine color. For colors like that I often have to wander over to the men's department and hope they have it in small. (I refuse to believe that sweaters have genders.)

But my dream cardigan is nowhere to be found. I did a lazy web search and found lots of cashmere sweaters, but none in the desired color. And none in my price range. (I just cannot bring myself to pay $250 for a sweater.) I'll go up to, maybe, $150...but that's pushing it. Typically I pay about $99 (on sale, usually at Macy's during the Christmas rush), and I did find some nice sweaters in that range. But while the styles were right, they were disappointingly displayed with non-colors such as "blush" (is that actually a color?) and "sea foam." (Has anyone actually seen green sea foam?)

It's kind of funny how we get desires in our mind, isn't it? You go through life happily satisfied with your lot and then suddenly you think to yourself "you know, I've always wanted a purple thrumdoodle." So you wander down to the mall, or perhaps onto the web, looking for a thrumdoodle in the perfect shade of purple. (Not too grape-y, not too eggplant-y.) But alas, you can only find thrumdoodles in yellow. And the fact that you can't find one makes you want it all the more. So you go from completely satisfied to "I must find a purple thrumdoodle or die!" Well, perhaps that's an exaggeration, but you get the point.

So what's the point? Well, there isn't one except that it's 4:49 am on a Sunday morning, I can't sleep, and I can't find a purple thrumdoodle. Or even a wine-colored cashmere cardigan.

Amo, amas, amat
Finally all those Latin classic (oh the glory of being a Classics major) have paid off. The Vatican has now put part of their website into Latin. And prowling through (the only way I can bring myself to look at the Vatican website is to test my language skills) I am dismayed to realize just how much Latin I've forgotten.

I guess I should brush up before our Grand Tour in the fall.

Attack of the Swedes. Part two.
I have already written about my horror of, and loathing for, Ikea.(You'll have to scroll to the bottom if you actually want to read the original post.)

Well, despite my vow to never, ever, ever go into another Ikea. I went. I was only able to stand it because Husband promised to hold my hand the entire time. And he did. Like I was a hyperactive 4-year old he had to reign in. And after a gap of a few years since my last visit, I can honestly report...

Ikea still scares the crap out of me.

The cavernous and freaky concrete bunker of a garage is still as vast and forbidding as a murder scene. The entrance is still always about half a mile from where you think it should be. And the crushingly overwhelming layout of the store continues to haunt my dreams with visions of Swedish rooms in a box and aimless families wandering glassy-eyed through carefully arranged tableau vivants of domestic tranquility. It's freaking terrifying.

We went because Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm)) basically ate our living room chair and we've been desperate to replace it for about 9 months now. We must have gone to a dozen furniture store looking for a chair that wasn't hideous, hideously uncomfortable, or hideously expensive. As a last resort, Husband suggested Ikea. I wept.

So we went. And I hyperventilated my way through the entire store, dodging wild kids, ambling grandmothers, and unimaginative couples who think buying prepackaged houses en masse is the height of creativity. I tried to develop a mantra to get me through the ordeal, but I was too overcome by consumeristic claustrophobia. Husband, meanwhile, found my terror amusing -- but he very kindly held my hand like a lifeline to sanity and calmly found the chair area so we could accomplish our mission.

Yes, we found a chair (I'm embarrassed to admit.) Since Cipher will probably eat this one too, we didn't want to spend a fortune, and I think we're both OK with it. Husband actually had to go back into the store on his own to arrange delivery. I, meanwhile, need a cold compress and a Valium.

Our neighbors are aliens
Very nice aliens, but aliens nonetheless. I mean they must be. How do I know? They never have any garbage.

Granted they might be the most eco-conscious people on the planet. And they are very "green." He likes to ride his bike to work. They like to camp, hike, sail...all those outdoorsy things that give me hives. But they also have two kids....so why don't they ever have any garbage?

Between the two of us (and, of course, Cipher, the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm)) Husband and I can pretty much fill our can each week....plus the recycle bin. But our neighbors? Rarely do you see them put their cans out on trash night. They often put out the yard clipping can. And every so often the recycle bin. But the actual trash can hasn't moved from the side of their house in over a month. Now I tell you, that's just not natural.

Maybe they compost. But that doesn't explain not having any actual garbage. Perhaps they have a secret goat in their backyard. But four people living in one house and never having any garbage is just plain weird. I tell you, it's un-American! The only way I can explain it is that they are aliens. They eat styrofoam. They have chicken bones for a midnight snack. When they watch TV, they sit down with a big bowl of empty toothpaste tubes, wet paper towels, and worn-out socks.

Really, they're very nice. For aliens.

Concerned about alien abductions?
Who isn't? But thankfully, help is on the way with this Stop Alien Abductions kit. Order yours today. Makes a great Christmas gift.

War and peace
So far the war in Iraq has cost $3 trillion. Check out 3 Trillion.org where you can see what you could buy for the cost of the war.

For the past week, KZSU has been having a Peace Week special. Tonight is my contribution to the theme. I was somewhat hampered by the fact that most world music tracks aren't in English, so it's a bit difficult to know what the song is about. Of course, tracks called "No More War" and "Let There be Peace," are lovely, but I've had to do a bit more work to find material. However, I think I have a full show prepared. Due to baseball, I have a shorter than usual show. I'll go on air at approximately 6:15 and go until 8. I invite you to tune in.

Thank you, Mrs. Loving
Mildred Loving has died at the age of 68. Don't know her? Well, in 1967 she (a black woman) challenged Virgina's ban on interracial marriage (her husband was white). This lead to the Supreme Court ending the laws against such marriages.

As a happily married woman (in an interracial marriage) I have so much to thank her for. Bravo for having the courage, strength, and wisdom to challenge these laws and make love legal.

Now if we can just get gay and lesbian marriages made legal, we'll all be able to live happily ever after.

Please tell me this is a joke
This has got to be a joke. Doesn't it? It's not real, is it? Please tell me it isn't real.

That's what you call news?
So I went to CNN.com to check out today's news and under the "Top Stories" section was this earth shattering headline: Did Mariah Carey get married? This is a question to which I can only reply "who the fuck cares?"

In a world full of war, famine, genocide, and, well, actual news, this is something deserving of a headline?

Does anybody remember when news actually was news? I know that the quest for celebrity gossip is, for some unknown reason, huge in contemporary media, but this is the best they can come up with? What's the matter, didn't Britney do something space-worthy today? Is Mariah Carey even famous anymore? Are there people who actually care what she does? What is with this cannibalistic need to know every boring detail in the boring life of every boring person who has even the tiniest bit of fame attached to them? I really don't care who gets liposuction, has anexoria, files for divorce, is picked up for a DUI, adopts a Korean orphan, buys a loaf of bread, or sleeps through their wake-up call. This is not news. It's not even mildly interesting. It is however, sadly hilarious.

Now I admit that when I am bombarded with actual headlines (about the aforementioned war, famine, and genocide) I find myself longing for a good "lost puppy reunited with family" stories to restore my faith in the world. But finding out that Tom Cruise got a haircut doesn't work. It has the opposite effect. Instead of restoring my faith in the world, it confirms my faith in the fact that "the world" has totally lost its sense of perspective.

Stop calling yourself that!
And now in the "what took you so long?" department, a few citizens of the Greek island of Lesbos is suing a gay group over the use of the word "lesbian." Um....sorry Lesbos, but I think you're a bit late out of the gate on this one. This is just too funny.

Today's digression:
I object (as if that would have any effect) on the hijacking of certain pieces of art and music to sell things. The two that bother me most are the one that uses the likeness of a Van Gogh self-portrait to sell eye drops and the reworking of "Ode to Joy" into "Ode to the Manwich." Yes, I'm sure Beethoven had meat sandwiches in mind when he wrote that. How proud he'd be to know that his genius is now being used to sell crap.

Every so often you'll hear a favorite song being used to sell, say, a car, and you'll think to yourself "no, not that one!" And you feel angry at the company that has conscripted something for which you have good associations because now instead of happily singing along you're now going to think "Lexus" whenever you hear it. But I think it's worse to take something that most people think of a great art and use it to hawk products we don't need to people who don't need them. Especially poor Van Gogh, who was not a commercial success in his lifetime -- now he's a posthumous commercial spokesman. Poor Vincent!

Those darn kittens
I took some photos of the kittens in the nursery today. In case you're interested. They are SO cute. Some of them are easier to feed than others. One didn't want to eat at all. Another grabbed onto the syringe with both paws and sucked down 19 ccs of kitten food. Then cuddling ensued. I want to adopt most of them.

No, I'm not kidding
Got a spare $300,000? Why not buy a watch that doesn't tell time? (It does, however, tell you if it's night or day.)

In praise of praise
I subbed for Husband this morning on the radio. 6-9am is not my best time of day, but I had a great time. In honor of his style of show I moved out of my usual music and really mixed it up. Blues, jazz, bluegrass, Latin, world; a little bit of everything from French pop to Native American rock to avant jazz. (If you're interested, you can check out my playlist.)

I had a great time and, even better, my listeners did too. Husband said it was a wonderful show and forwarded on to me an e-mail from a friend of his who said some very nice things. All this praise has put me in a very good mood.

What is it about praise that makes you feel so good? It's amazing how just a few kind words or a pat on the back and lift your spirit and make a so-so day into something special. It's so easy to give to other people (and yet so rarely given) and when you are the recipient it's a total high.

Growing up I wasn't much on the receiving end of praise. Which makes it all the more special now when it comes my way. It's such a great feeling to know your work (or whatever) has been noticed and appreciated. So in honor of making people's day, I urge you to praise someone today. You'll make their day, I promise.

In other news, how to make the glacially slow-moving sport of Cricket more exciting? Cheerleaders! Yes, scantily clad, well-endowed women shaking their booties in between innings. Life is weird.

CD Pick of the Week: Ba Cissoko
Electric Griot Land by Ba Cissoko, a Guinean singer/kora player backed by some cousins (equally talented) on percussion, balafon, bass, guitars, programming. Plus some sterling non-family guest stars. Wonderful music. Every track is worth at least one star. A fabulous blend of the Griot tradition and modern musical influences with lots of unexpected twists.

Oh the pain, the pain!
Today was a migraine day. I woke up with one this morning (and also with a cat on my head...the two items may or may not be connected) and it lasted until about...well, I still have a headache. Four Imitrexes later I'm at least functional and can be in a lighted room, with noise, and upright.

Migraines are interesting things, when they aren't crippling your life. Part of my brain was registering all the pretty waves of color when I closed my eyes. The other part was praying for oblivion. Or at least sleep so I wouldn't know I was in pain. I spent the day in bed (with a break on a sofa to see if sitting up would help. Sometimes it does. Today it didn't.) wondering what evil I did to deserve the headache and making mental lists of all the things that I planned on doing today (getting an X-ray of my back, reviewing some CDs, grocery shopping, going to Husband's mailbox, laundry). Wow...upon reading over that list I think I'm glad I had a headache, what an incredibly dull day!

So yesterday I went to my favorite independent bookstore, Kepler's in Menlo Park. Heaven! Bless me father for I have sinned. I have absolutely no will power when it comes to Kepler's. None. Zip. Nada. I went in with the firm intention of buying nothing but the latest book group selection. I came out with three books. One in hardcover! (The latest Jacqueline Winspear "Maisie Dobbs" novel.)

In my defense, I will say that I could easily have walked out with about seven books. OK, seventeen. Wandering through the store all my acquisitiveness comes out. I want that one. Oooh...and that one. Oh cool, Arturo Perez Reverte has a new one! And Martha Grimes. Oh god, get me out of here before my Visa card explodes.

On the kitten patrol
Today was my first shift at the kitten nursery at the Peninsula Humane Society. So far only one litter, but oh my goodness are they cute! And tiny. The "big bruiser" tops out at a whopping 15.5 ounces. His two sisters are about 13.5 each. They're approximately 4 weeks old and have to be fed through a syringe. I can't believe how small and helpless they are.

I got to the shelter early and walked around looking at the available animals. If we weren't already owned by Cipher, the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Disagree (tm), I would have brought home 2 or 3. There are so many of them who need loving homes. The three who stick in my mind are a tiny black thing with two white paws. A big, beautiful blond cat with the sweetest little meow. And a beautiful calico youngster who tried to eat the string on my sweatshirt hood. OK, there are about a dozen more I noticed.

Please, if you have any room in your heart and home for an animal I urge you to "adopt, not shop" for a pet. The PHS has dozens of adorable, sweet, deserving cats and dog (plus bunnies, guinea pigs, mices and more) that can totally change your life (for the better, of course.) Adding Cipher to our family really completed it. She's brought so much love, joy, and life into our home. If I could have more I would, but I don't think it would be fair to Cipher. But if you don't have a pet, please consider adopting a stray.

Turning the pages
I am proud to be a bibliophile. Take me to a bookstore, let me loose, and I'm happy. Over the years I've acquired a lot of books, most of which I've kept. None of which have a suitable home. We have bookcases in the living room, hall, office, and spare room and we still have books all over the floor. There are many books that I know I will never read again and yet I cannot bring myself to sell or give them away. And then there are those old friends that I can read over and over and still enjoy myself -- whether I read the book from cover to cover to just a few pages.

In my mythical dream house I have a full English library. I don't mean a library full of English books, but a library such as you see in old movies set in English manor houses. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining all four walls. A fireplace. Two comfy chairs and some good lighting. And, of course, one of the bookcases slides open to reveal the secret passage to my bedroom. Hey, I said it was mythical.

But how wonderful it would be to have such a room. We're currently working on turning the spare room into a music office for Husband to store his thousands of jazz CDs and give him a place to do his freelance writing. And we'll probably add another bookcase because the piles on the floor are really getting ridiculous. But it's not quite the same as, say, Henry Higgans's wonderful library in My Fair Lady.

The sad thing is that I cannot stop wanting more books. I'm being good now because we're living on one income and we need to watch expenses, but it seems that every week I read about a new book that I must have. Yes, we have a good local library, but there's something about owning your own copy that makes you feel indulgent. At least it makes me feel that way.

I don't know what I'd do without books. I spend time reading every day and it's a huge pleasure for me. Luckily Husband feels the same. He's even more hardcore than I, in some ways. The last time we were in Hawaii I read a cheesy (but very enjoyable) Nora Roberts romance and he read Don Quixote. The time before that he read Moby Dick. He loved them both. I no longer read the classics as I should (though in my defense I may say that I've read most of the classic canon of literature). But he can happily lose himself in a 400-page novel and not even realize that 5-hours has passed. That's actually one of the things I love about him.

It's been a long time since I was able to indulge in a good bookstore romp. When I start working again I think I'll take my first paycheck and treat myself. But until then I'm wading through my to-be-read pile (thankfully tall enough to get me through my unemployment), make lists of books that I want, and pick up old favorites now and then to remind myself that I am lucky enough to be surrounded by the luxury of books.

The return of At the Cafe Bohemian
It feels like months since I've been on the air. Tonight marks the return of my world music show, At the Cafe Bohemian, on KZSU, Stanford. I'm really looking forward to being back on. I've missed it. I'm torn between doing an all new music show or pulling old favorites. Either way, I invite you turn in, either on the radio, the internet, on through iTunes. It'll be a grand night for music, I guarantee it.

So I'm currently slogging through this month's book group selection, The Night Gardener, by George Pelecanos. With apologies to the Lurker (who chose it), I really could not care less. It's one of those books I have to force myself to pick up. What makes it worse is that I'm also reading a book that I'm enjoying greatly (The Unburied by Charles Palliser). It's very difficult to put that down to pick up something that I find, quite frankly, dull. The book got rave reviews, and I usually enjoy mysteries, but this one just took so damned long to get to the actual crime that I just lost interest. Plus there are a lot of characters that I don't like but whom I know extremely well (perhaps better than I'd like). This is one book big on character development and small on anything actually happening.

I feel sorry for my beloved friend, The Foreigner, who will be joining our book group for the first time. Trust me, it'll get better! Honest! However I still look forward to next Monday when our book group meets -- it truly is one of the highlights of my month. Great friends, interesting conversation (often more interesting than the actual book), it's a total joy.

Behold the kitten cuddler
Starting next week I am finally going to put my free time to use volunteering at the Peninsula Humane Society. I'll be working in the kitten nursery helping to care for the dozens of abandoned and unwanted kittens that the PHS takes in every breeding season. I can't wait. I'm just afraid I'm going to want to adopt all of them.

The PHS is where we got Cipher, the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if you Don't Agree (tm), so I have a strong reason to feel grateful to them. Plus it'll make me so happy to be doing something worthwhile. Horray for kittens!

The face that launched a thousand books
Check out the Everywhere Girl. From the gloriously urbane Idee blog, it's a fascinating look at how one woman, and one photo, can appear everywhere when you're not looking...

Save the pika!
The pika is quite possibly the cutest thing ever. So cute that it looks like Japanese animation. But there's bad news on the pika front.

A state panel has rejected a petiton to list the pika as a species threatened by global climate change.

Not sure what we, as pika lovers, can do. But I did want to give them some love. And share this really cute picture.

How's your classic movie scorecard?
I adore old movies. Give me Bogart and Bacall or Katharine Hepburn, a bowl of popcorn, and no commercials, and I'm in heaven. TCM is my friend. I would much rather watch anything from the 30s or 40s than most movies made in the last ten years. I'm not sure how your own classic movie viewing history is, or even if you care, but being in a sharing mood I thought I'd share with you my all-time favorite top ten must-see classic movies. They aren't really in order, since narrowing it down to ten was hard enough -- ranking them (and, oh my God!, choosing an absolute favorite) is just too hard. But I hope if there are some on this list that you haven't seen, that you check them out. Each and every one is a part of history that you must put into your life.

1. The Philadelphia Story. Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, James Stewart. Need I say more? One of the funniest movies ever. (Ever!) Sparkling script, top-notch performances from everyone. (Virgina Weidler as Kate's little sister steals every scene she's in.) The chemistry between the three stars is magical and keeps you rivited to the screen.
Favorite moment: James Stewart in a drunken staring contest with a mounted fox head.

2. Casablanca. The ultimate classic. Can anything beat the romance of Rick and Ilsa at the airport? Or the patriotism of Victor Laszlo leading the crowd in a rousing version of La Marseillaise? It sums up in one film the nobility that people who fought WWII felt about their cause. Nasty Nazis, comic refugees, and a cast of extras that are each unforgettable. We'll always have Paris.
Favorite moment: "Round up the usual suspects."

3. Singing in the Rain. Could this be the best movie musical ever? Several classic numbers, including Donald O'Connor breaking the laws of physics in "Make 'em Laugh," Donald and Gene Kelly twisting their tongues over "Moses Supposes," and of course, the iconic title song -- all conspire to make even the most dour of souls smile. Debbie Reynolds is extra cute, Jean Hagan hilarious as Lina Lamont, and Cyd Charisse has the most breathtaking legs ever. You'll be humming the score for days.
Favorite moment: Lina Lamont making more money than Calvin Coolidge, put together!

4. To Have and Have Not. Based (loosely) on a Hemingway novel, this is the movie that launched Lauren Bacall into stardom. And from her first line it's clear why. Her sultry, sexy, "anybody got a match" line with the patented "head down, eyes up" look is a moment from film history. It's where Bogart met Bacall (and fell in love) and he's so darned tough as a cynical boat owner who finds he has a conscience after all.
Favorite moment: Hoagy Charmichael singing "Hong Kong Blues."

5. Gone with the Wind. I am not one of those "I love Scarlet O'Hara" types. Nor do I think this is the greatest movie ever. It's never made me cry, long for the old south, or want to be a belle. But for sheer spectacle, it's right up there with Ben Hur. The performances are wonderful (and I don't usually like Clark Gable) and the scope of the film is so ambitious you wonder how they ever had the nerve to start. It's not for everyone, this movie, but if you haven't seen it at least once you really need to cross it off your list.
Favorite moment: Scarlet in the shocking red ball gown.

6. The Big Sleep. I've seen this movie probably a dozen times and I still don't understand it. Never mind, just go with it. It's Bogart and Bacall again, this time in a Raymond Chandler novel (with screenplay by William Faulkner) and a mystery so convoluted that you'll barely keep the characters straight, let alone follow all the plot twists. So why watch it if it's so confusing? Because it's a great film. The crackling dialogue, the sparks flying between the leads, the wonderful character actors, and the total immersion into film noir combine to make for a truly rewarding classic movie experience.
Favorite moment: Bogart flirting with the lady bookstore clerk.

7. The Thin Man. The first "Nick and Nora" film is still the best. Watch it just for the two leads. I want a marriage like these two. Rich, sophisticated, smart and sassy. And, of course, Asta -- the cutest movie dog ever. (Screw you, Benji!) The mystery is the exact opposite of The Big Sleep, you'll probably figure it out fairly soon. But it's just a tremendous amount of fun getting there.
Favorite moment: Nora ordering seven martinis.

8. The Women. An all-female cast (there aren't even any photos of men in this movie), with a tagline of "It's all about men!" The glowing Norma Shearer leads a cast that includes Paulette Goddard, Joan Crawford, Rosalind Russell, and Joan Fontaine in a comedy/drama about gossip, infidelity, friendship, and more gossip. In many ways, the original "chick flick."
Favorite moment: The opening credits.

9. On the Town. Another gorgeous Gene Kelly musical, this time with Frank Sinatra, Jules Munshin, Ann Miller, Vera-Ellen, and Betty Garrett. A fun romp through New York city, complete with "cooch dancers," Miss Turnstiles, and the worst museum ever. A delicious Betty Comden/Adolph Green screenplay that captures the frantic excitement of sailors on a 24-hour pass. The "romances" are true old movie innocence with a sweet boy and girl next door kind of air. This one never fails to put me in a good mood.
Favorite moment: "The Hippodrome?!?"

10. Every other movie I don't have room for, including (but not limited to): The Maltese Falcon, Rebecca, Vertigo, Rear Window, (hell, anything by Hitchcock) Top Hat, African Queen, Key Largo, Sunset Boulevard....oh God, there's just too many to mention!

And I thought my family gave bad gifts
OK, they do. But I'm not alone in my misery. Check out the hilarious Bad Gift Emporium for a dose of "I can't believe they make that crap! Some of it is even for sale. (I SO want the guinea pig paperweight!

I can't even watch
Coverage of the embarrassing and sad "torch relay" (it can't really be called a relay now, can it), currently on local TV. It's just too upsetting.

I think the London Times said it admirably with their headline US Olympic torch relay descends into farce.

My favorite quote from the story "We just want to let the world know that we're an occupied country," said Lobsang Tsering, a 35-year-old Tibetan who works at the company in Salt Lake City that makes the Olympic medals. "We keep asking people to remember the Dalai Lama's peaceful message. We don't want violence and we don't hate the Chinese. They're just human beings like the rest of us. All we ask is for them to free our country."

Yeah, you get that folks? "The Dalai Lama's peaceful message." I'm sure His Holiness who, after all, has a lot more at stake than some US college student, would not advocate attacking a group of people who just wanted the chance to be part of the Olympic spirit.

What I find sad is that the local torch bearers won an essay contest for the privilege. No doubt they were thrilled to have won, now this is probably going down as one of the worst days of their lives. Except perhaps for this guy. Looks like he's had his share of bad days. He's a 75-year old Holocaust survivor. Yeah, he needs a lesson in intolerance. Way to go, folks, let's try to snatch the torch out of the hands of an elderly man who no doubt lost most of his family to Nazi hatred. That'll show China!

Watch your metres
Check out this wonderful collection of British Public Information films. Great stuff!

The rise and fall of the perfect X
The perfect....robe, slippers, sweater, you name it.

Every so often, if you are very lucky, it comes along. The perfect X. The pair of jeans that fits like a glove. (If you wore gloves on your thighs.) The perfectly soft, perfectly comfy pair of jammies. The most comfortable boots ever. And you rejoice.

"At last!" you cry in exultation (after all, your life isn't really that thrilling, is it?). "I have found it. The most wonderful X ever!" And you wear it with joy, comfort, and pride. It's the article of clothing you reach for when you need to feel good. Or the one you wear more often than other, less perfect examples of the ilk. And you love it.

And then, alas, the time comes when the perfect X wears out. The sleeves start to fray. The leather gets too scuffed to be repaired. You discover a hole in a spot where there shouldn't be one.

When that time comes, it's the end of an era. You can never duplicate that perfect X. You may search but you really never do find anything nearly as good. Good enough, but not perfect. It can be a traumatic event. You mourn the loss of the perfect X. Sometimes you might not even be able to bring yourself to throw it away. It will be put out to pasture in the bottom of your closet because it deserves a more dignified ending than being turned into a car wash rag.

So today I urge you to take a moment to treasure your own perfect X. Long may it wave. And let me say, just for the record, that it looks fabulous on you.

Do what we want or we'll whine!
So today, Pro-Tibet protesters climbed the Golden Gate Bridge and hung banners from the cables. Sigh....

I'm all in favor of changing the world and working to right wrongs, but acts like this just kind of amuse and bemuse me. In most cases all that happens is the protesters manage to alienate people who might have supported their cause but were so inconvenienced that they are now more likely to turn against freedom because they were 45-minutes late for work.

I recall in college (and I'm dating myself here) there was a big anti-apartheid protest. The organizers wanted a university-wide class boycott. I failed to see how my missing Latin class was going to achieve racial equality in South Africa. After years of lobbying and protests from Presidents and pundits, the South African government was going to say "what's this? San Francisco State students are skipping classes because they disagree with our policies of inequality? Then it must be wrong!"

That's kind of like today's actions. I sincerely doubt that the Chinese government is going to alter their policies because traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge was disrupted.

In related news, Olympic torch relays are being disrupted for the same reasons. And I completely disagree with this. The Olympics are the only global event with even a touch of unity. It tries its hardest to keep politics out of things. It doesn't always success, but it tries. And here are people mucking it up again.

I'm not saying that crimes are being committed against Tibet. But there are better ways to bring about change than ruining people's days and tarnishing something that is actually one of the few good things the world has going for it. Fight, by all means, but pick your battles and make them work. And don't fight bad decisions with yet more bad decisions.

As Husband would say, "end of soapbox."

Gee honey, you smell swell!
I've already admitted that I don't do fashion. Well I don't do cosmetics, either. And I definitely do not do perfume. Have you noticed how everything now has a fragrance? Why? Why would I want my laundry to smell like lavender? Worse, so many of these products mix scents. Why have just lavender when you can have lavender and vanilla? That's it, I want to smell like a flower and a kitchen. The mix of scents crack me up, in many ways it's just another symptom of the over-consumptive disease that has gripped America. Why have one thing when you can have two? If lemon scented cleanser is good than surely lemon and ginger is better.

Or what about those fragrances where you have no idea what they smell like? What, for god's sake, does "mountain mist" smell like? Or "mountain fresh?" Personally I never thought mountains were all that smell-worthy, but apparently contemporary marketing executives feel that the word "mountain" conveys a certain natural freshness that all good hausfraus want associated with their McMansions. Oh, how I long for the day when my friends walk into my house and say "gee, your house smells like a mountain!" But alas, no such comment is forthcoming. Perhaps it's because we have a cat.

This over-abundance of fragrances can also been seen in flavors as well. At the grocery store today I saw some chocolates that were "French Vanilla Velvet Cremes." OK, so maybe that's just one flavor, but it's far more name than it needs. "French Vanilla" is fine. "Velvet Creme"...pretentious, but OK. But "French Vanilla Velvet Cremes" is just silly. And why would I want to eat velvet? Wouldn't that just make my tongue fuzzy?

What's wrong with good old-fashioned moderation? One flavor. One scent. Stop giving me New and Improved Tangerine Kiwi Mint Shampoo. I don't want to smell like a Kiwi. Or a Tangerine. Or like mint. I just want clean. And I don't need laundry detergent that makes my cat sneeze or my eyes water. Unscented is my favorite scent.

A longing for the old country
Occasionally Husband feels these pangs for the old country. And by that I mean the East Coast. Typically these bouts manifest themselves as food cravings. A trip to his favorite cheesesteak haunt pays homage to his native Philadelphia. But when he misses New York, only matzoh ball soup will do. Apparently the streets of New York are paved with matzoh balls.

I attribute this recent trend to The Lurker, who very kindly brought me some very yummy MBS (I'm tired of typing "matzoh ball soup") when I was sick. Of course I shared this with Husband, who practically wept with sense memory. The next time we went grocery shopping we conveniently passed the huge "Kosher for Passover" display by the dairy case and he picked up a box of matzoh mix. MBS ensued. (By the way, I was amused that on the box of matzoh mix it says "Not for Passover!" in big letters -- complete with exclamation point. It is kosher, though.)

I must admit, it was damned fine soup. The MBs were of a delicious consistency and the soup scrumpy in a way that would appall my mother (whose cooking is lacking only two things: flavor and taste). Even though we had MBS on Sunday night, last night as we were serving up dinner Husband said what he really wanted for dinner was....yup, MBS. So tonight, that's on the menu.

For me as a native of the Bay Area, I think the only taste food that screams "home" to me is San Francisco sourdough, for which I would commit crimes if I were ever forceably transported away from here. Good soourdough bread is one of my favorite foods (carbs be damned, bring on the crust!) and one that played a huge role in my childhood. Unfortunately all attempts to make my own have resulted in tragedies involving pale lumps, flour on the ceiling, something fermenting in my fridge, and the smoke alarm. And I have to admit that truly good, truly crusty French bread is getting harder to find, but I persevere. (Damn, now I really want some.)

So tonight it's MBS for Husband. And when I go to the store for ingredients, perhaps a loaf of bread for me. And for Cipher, the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm), it's chicken and rice. (She has no old country.)

Hey, your logo looks like a...
Yes, it's the Phallic Logo Awards. Makes you wonder if some people have absolutely no imagination. I mean I look at these and, even without being on the phallic logo page, I see a penis. Do I just have a dirty mind? Some of them are subtle. Some I actually don't really see. But most are pretty danged obvious. And the winner is hilarious.

In other news, today I had my second appointment with the physical therapist my acupuncturist recommended. I am cautiously optimistic. I really like this guy and so much of what he says sounds like such a common sense approach to my pains. His hands-on treatment is definitely finding all the tight spots and working them tell they soften a bit. Plus today he taught me how to sit. I'm pretty sore, but do feel like I'm not in as much pain as usual. I really hope this works. No appointment next week because he's on vacation, but I'll do the at-home exercises he taught me and try to be diligent about my regular walks. I just long for a time in my life when I'm not in constant pain.

Husband is all atwitter about the season debut of Battlestar Gallactica. I just never got into it. He's been watching DVDs of previous seasons to catch up and I've tried, but I'm just not much of a Sci-Fi person. For some reason I got into Doctor Who and Torchwood, but I'm not a fan of spaceships blowing up other spaceships. And every time I look up at the screen when he's watching Battlestar it's dark and (one of my least favorite words that gets applied to so much of popular culture) "gritty." I don't do gritty. I do cozy. But I thought "OK, maybe I'm missing something here" and found an article on Salon.com which is a primer of the show. It's five (5!) pages long and I read all of it. And I can now state, quite honestly, I have no fucking clue what this show is about.

Talk about complicated! This show makes the Ring Cycle look like an Archie comic. Religious overtones. Bad guys who are good guys and good guys who are bad guys. Characters who are both good and bad and then good again and then kinda bad and then oh look, I have a new name. "People" who are humanoid robots, but don't know it. "People" who are humanoid robots, but do know it. Good lord, people, TV is supposed to be entertaining, not require Cliffs Notes.

I'm sure it's very enjoyable. And anything that makes Husband happy gets a thumb's up from me. And bravo for any show with an intelligent script and good acting. But I just can't get into something that complicated. Perhaps if I'd watched it from the start it would make sense. But from the vantage point of my already-too-full Sci-Fi agnostic brain, it's just too much plot for something that doesn't involve a Greek chorus. Oh wait, it does have a character named Apollo...

Wanna live forever?
Just live in a really ugly house.

Caruso on the night shift
Sometimes when I'm awake in the middle of the night, I do odd things. No, I don't dance naked in my living room or order exercise equipment from late-night infomercials. But I do pass the time in unexpected ways. Usually I'll watch a cosy mystery on DVD. Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Ngaio Marsh, Margery Allingham, I'm a sucker for them all. I'll curl up in my nest, frequently with a cat as my hot water bottle, and relax in the arms of retired Majors, arsenic in the tea, and blunt objects.

But sometimes I do something different. Like listening to Caruso.

Now right from the start I must admit that I don't particularly like opera. I don't hate it, I just don't love it. I do have a few CDs of arias by those few singers whose voices appeal to me for some reason. Jose Cura is my favorite. But after an NPR special, Husband acquired a CD of that most iconic of male opera singers, Enrico Caruso.

I must say it was rather like listening to a ghost. A very talented ghost with nice pitch, but a ghost nonetheless. The ancient recording was probably to blame for the spirt voice, but the emotion behind it was entirely Caruso's. And it was perfect at 3:14 am.

The cat was spending the night curled around the feet of Husband so I had the nest to myself. I also had Jane Austen at hand. (Watching the wonderful new PBS adaptations has me returning to old friends, like the sisters Dashwood.) The wind was rising and making its presence known in our chimney and I had a fire dying in the fireplace. There were some lovely soft blankets, and then there was Caruso. I couldn't for the life of me tell you what he was singing. Puccini? Mozart? Who knows? But I can tell you that it fit with being the only person in the Bay Area awake at that hour.

Not being a music critic (I leave that to Husband) I am at a loss as to put into words what there was in his voice that struck me. Perhaps it was that distant, ghostly sadness that came through the decades. But it was, in many ways, the audio definition of "evocative." There were men in evening dress and women in long white gloves peering through lorngettes at the man standing in the yellow glow of gaslights. A hushed silence. Red velvet curtains and golden cherubs floating overhead. And that voice appearing out of the darkness, out of time, and into my night. I lay there with my imagination in overtime, watching the firelight paint shadowy frescos on the ceiling, listening to that Italian ghost and loving every melodramatic note. He wasn't subtle, Mr. Caruso, but he was definitely memorably. Which is why, I suppose, sleepy women are still turning to him one hundred years later.

And what have you forgotten?
Sometimes I can't believe what I've forgotten. Not phone numbers or birthdays, but the things I spent years studying in college. With our Grand Tour planned I'm going back in my mind and reviewing dates, stories, the history of what we will be seeing, and I'm dismayed at how little I remember.

Granted, what we learned in college isn't often in daily use. I mean how often do I need to pull the dates when the Parthenon was constructed out of my brain? But I will need/like to know these things when we're actually standing in front of the Parthenon. So it looks like I'm going to have to spend some time refreshing my education.

On the one hand, I'm looking forward to it. It'll be a goal of mine to be up to speed as a Classicist/Art Historian when we're on our trip. But getting there is a bit intimidating, I must admit. I have plenty of time and I certainly have all the reference books I need. It just seems like such a job. And so sad, when I knew this stuff cold so many years ago. I can't believe that I once read The Iliad the the original Greek. The other day I picked up my old "baby Greek" textbook and it looked, well, Greek to me. Did I once really know how to read this language?

It's odd, because there are a few random facts that I still retain. God knows why. I can, off the top of my head, tell you the names of the architects of the Parthenon (Iktinos & Kallicritis) (misspelled) (badly). Why do I remember that? And if I can remember that, why can't I recall the dates when Brunelleschi was working? The mind is a very odd thing.

And I know it's not just me. I'm sure all of you have facts, skills, knowledge that you could once quote with ease and that now live in the dark recesses of your brain, behind your high school locker combination and the name of that third-grade teacher who always smelled of Dentine. But don't you wish you still had that knowledge at your fingertips?

Book autopsies
Holy cats! Check out Brian Dettmer: Book Autopsies for the coolest visuals I've seen in ages. I love it and completely want to learn how to do this! Amazing!

How to play the fool
With April Fool's Day upon us, I draw inspiration from the nation that leads the world in eccentrics, Britain. Check out this article from the London Times. It lists the top 10 historical jokers of English history, and it's quite an eye-opener and includes such "famous" frauds as Princess Caraboo and Grey Owl.

Yummy at Yoshi's
Today was Husband's birthday. We had a relaxing, lazy day and then went to the beautiful new Yoshi's in San Francisco for dinner and a concert by the amazing Dr. Lonnie Smith.

The food was, to coin a phrase, to die for. Yes, a bit pricey but oh my god! First off, adorable waiter (where's Russell when you need him?) then wildly tasty treats. To start, Husband had a fire roasted salad...sounds odd, tasted great. I had shrimp tempura that was soooo good. Then we split a plate of shashimi. The poor things were swimming off the coast of Japan just 24 hours ago. They fly it in and let me say that these fish died for a good cause. The literal definition of "melt in your mouth." Exceptional. For the main course I had rosemary chicken, Husband had Japanese beef that he called "meat candy." I tried a bite and had to agree; it was glorious. We washed it all down with a crisp and fresh Pinot Grigio. Husband even had room for dessert. It was cocoanut mango soup with home-made poprocks. No, I'm not kidding. And trust me, it was great.

The music was equally so. Dr. Lonnie Smith is the hippest, coolest guy. He plays the organ like nobody's business. OK, it's actually his business and he seems to be doing what he's meant to do. His band was young and wonderful. A disappointingly small crowd for a Sunday night, but the music was hot and fun.

All in all, a wonderful date with my wonderful Husband.

Muscles like rocks
If I were a bodybuilder, that comment would be a compliment. But I'm just a wuss with a bad back and that comment is a diagnosis.

Today I had my first session with the physical therapist my acupuncturist recommended. I am hopeful. He's a very nice guy who knows a lot about the ills and pains of an over-stressed body. Everything he said sounded like me. Long-term pain. Muscles so tight you could use them to bang in a nail. Stress that never goes away -- even when there's no reason to be stressed.

I had a 90-minute session where we went over my history and he poked around and found all my sore bits. By the time I left I felt more even (frequently one side feels much tighter than the other) and optimistic about his ability to help. I have another long session scheduled next week.

He has a very common-sense approach to treating this kind of pain. Some hands-on therapy from him, then lessons on how to treat myself at home. Some basic exercises and "homework" on the right way to move, sit, stand, etc., so that I don't keep making the same mistakes over and over again. I feel really good about this and hope I'm not doomed to disappointment again.

In other news one of my favorite people whose blog I read daily has decided to take a blogging break. Completely understandable with a busy life, two gorgeous children, and a sweet and handsome husband. Not to mention her own interests and responsibilities. I will miss her posts. It's amazing how much we rely on technology to stay up to date with our friends and family. I myself, through this blog, keep my loved ones apprised of what's going on in my world. It's faster than sending out a dozen e-mails every time I end up in the hospital, and it gives me an outlet to just rant when I want. Luckily I will still see her on a regular basis, thanks to our book club, but the daily visits into her life were small gifts in my day that I shall miss.

Oh, and now that we've made reservations for our Grand Tour, I find myself lusting after new luggage. It's the funniest thing. I'm looking online and drooling over super-cool suitcases. Well, I do need 14-days worth of clothes. Wash-and-wear will be my friend since I insist on traveling light.

Have a lovely weekend, dearies. Sunday is Husband's birthday. We're having dinner and going to a concert at the new San Francisco Yoshi's but the day is free. If it's not raining, we may walk across the Golden Gate Bridge, which he's never done and has always wanted to. In case of rain, who knows? The Asian Art Museum, perhaps?

Poor little rich man
Larry Elllison must be so proud. According to this story in the San Francisco Chronicle, Ellison "has bagged a $3 million tax break after arguing that his flamboyant Japanese-style estate in Woodside is functionally obsolete."

The man is worth $25 billion and he's worried about $3 million? And who really "pays"? The money would "otherwise would have gone to schools, the county general fund and cities, among other things, Deputy Controller Kanchan Charan said. The hit to schools alone will be nearly $1.4 million." Yeah, it's not like our schools could use $1.4 million, is it? As long as Larry's got his $3 million we should all be happy.

The thing that cracks me up (as opposed to pissing me off) is that this estate of his cost $200 million to build because he wanted a 16th century Japanese warlord's country palace. And now he's arguing that his property was over-valued because there is" a finite market for high-end luxury homes, limited appeal for 16th-century Japanese architecture and the "over improvements" and "excessive" landscaping are costly to maintain." A limited appeal for 16th century Japanese architecture? No, I don't believe it.

I absolutely hate these "rich get richer" stories. The many should be giving away at least that on a regular basis to charity but instead he's tying up the courts, haggling over what would be the equivalent of $300 for the rest of us, and smugly going off to buy another ridiculous boat.

Turning the same old pages
What makes a book re-readable? Why are there some books that you can't even get through once and others that you can pick up every few years or so and enjoy every time?

Last night in one of my middle-of-the-night rambles I picked up Dorothy L. Sayers's classic "Have His Carcase," which I've probably read 6 or 7 times -- and started right in. And I'm enjoying it just as much as I always have. Even though it's a mystery and I am completely aware of whodunnit, I'm loving the characters (I'm a sucker for Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane), the setting (a 1930's seaside resort), the crime (body found on a beach) and the wonderful prose. It's incredible how the old familiar favorites can still deliver.

Most of the time I read a book and once is more than enough. But then there are those rare gifts that you can enjoy time and again. Jane Austin. Ms. Sayers. Agatha Christie. Ngaio Marsh. (I know, I'm heavy on the mysteries.) Authors who can get you through even the longest nights (or longest flights) with comfort and joy. Thank heavens for old favorites!

Rome, if you want to
Well, it's official. Husband and I have booked our long-planned cruise. Florence,Rome, Mykonos, Rhodes, Santorini, Istanbul (not Constantinople), Ephesus, Athens, Athens, back to Rome. We can't wait. Thanks to our fairy godfather for the magic. Now we just countdown to October....which gives me plenty of time to feel guilty about leaving Cipher, the World's Most Amazing Cat Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm) for two weeks. Wahhhh! Whattawegonnado about our kitty?

It's all about hate
Husband and I are long-time supporters of The Southern Poverty Law Center, one of the most under-rated and yet most important organizations in the US. Their cause? Ending hate. Hate in all its forms: racism, Nazism, anti-gay movements -- in short, if it's based in hate due to someone's skin color, religion, politics, ethnicity, country of origin, sexual orientation, or gender -- they're there to fight it.

I urge everyone to read their magazine, The Intelligence Report for a bone-chilling, frequently terrifying reality check. The current issue is entitled "The Year in Hate" and it's a eye-opener for those of us who feel safely cushioned from such things here in the beautifully multi-cultural Bay Area of San Francisco. You'll be stunned at how many klan groups there are (155!) (and yes, even in California. There are 7 in the state.) There are 207 neo-Nazi groups in the country (13 in California). And in the "general hate" category, California has 24 -- including groups that are anti-gay, anti-immigrant, Holocaust deniers, radical traditional Catholic, and others.

Many have seemingly innocent sounding names. One of the Holocaust denier groups is called "the Institute for Historical Review." Sounds harmless enough, doesn't it? One of the anti-immigrant groups goes by the name of "Rescue without Borders," which pisses me off as it steals from the wonderful organization "Doctors Without Borders" and sounds like a relief organization.

Other groups don't even bother to deny their affiliations. In the list of active websites we find such distasteful URLs as "adolphthegreat.com" "allwhitedating.com" and "godhatesfags.com" Just typing those leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

So why am I telling you all this? Because I think it's important to remember that hate exists. And that organizations like the SPLC also exist, dedicated to making sure that groups like the klan don't win. As part of an interracial couple, I take this kind of hatred personally and refuse to accept it. If you're looking for a great cause to send a check to, you might want to consider the SPLC. In the meantime, teach love.

On strike
Husband has informed me that I'm not allowed to go to ER for the next week or so. The reason is that the nurses at our "local" are on strike.

Great, for most people their "local" is a nice place to get a drink after work. For me, my "local" is a nice place to get an ER after zarfing for 12 hours.

OK, Husband. I promise to do my best to avoid ER until the nurses come marching home.

In other news I think I've been fired by my acupuncturist. After 2 or 3 really good sessions, a lot more sessions that didn't seem to do anything/much, he's decided that he really can't do anything for me. Boo. He tried something new yesterday and I'm to call him on Monday to report how it worked. Considering that I woke up at 2 am in severe pain and it took 2 vicodin to get me through the next 9 hours, I'd have to say that it didn't. But all is not lost, he shares office space with a massage therapist who is apparently amazing and will refer me to him. Keep your fingers crossed.

Thanks to Mama D for her advice on the Eddie Bauer catalog. I'll check it out. I broke down and dashed into Mervyn's the other day for a new pair of jeans, since I got fed up with having to cinch my old jeans so tight. I bought a size 8 which is still a bit large, but I think they might shrink. Good lord, an 8! I haven't been in single digit clothing since I was in high school -- if then. I looked in the mirror this morning and realize that I've misplaced my butt. If anyone finds it, please put it in the mail. Thanks.

An island of one
Apparently I am the only person in the United States who doesn't need/want to lose weight.

I always knew in the back of my dim mind that the majority of Americans are overweight, but it never really sunk in until I lost weight thanks to the mystery syndrome. Today's doctor's appointment found me tipping the scales at a whopping 119 lbs (and that's wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers!) My doctor gave me the wonderful advice of "eat" and I would love to comply, but I have no appetite and when I do eat, a few bites fills me up. But I'll nibble when I can because I really, really don't want to lose any more weight.

Which puts me firmly in the minority. Turn on the TV and you're bombarded with ads for Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, and some scary thing called "hoodia." Not to mention Low or no fat diet foods. Non-fat yogurt -- indulgence without the guilt. 100 calorie cookie packets -- indulgence without the guilt. (What a unique slogan!)

How ironic to basically have free reign to have cookies if I want -- and yet not want them. Oh the humanity! Many's the day I'd have given anything to know I could have a hot fudge sundae without feeing guilty but now that I can -- well, I just can't.

R.I.P. Paul Scofield
Just a few weeks after watching his Oscar-winning performance in A Man for All Seasons, British actor Paul Scofield has died of leukemia at the age of 86.

I am sad. He's always been one of my favorites. Unfortunately he didn't make many movies, but whenever he appeared on screen he was magic. In his role of the French King in Branagh's Henry V he was a model of subtle power and sadness. There was something so clean about his acting. No frills and yet always believable. I will always regret that I never had the chance to see him on stage.

I drop first, so I don't shop
Thanks to the mystery syndrome, I no longer fit into any of my clothing. Nothing. My jammies fall off me. My jeans have so much extra room I could smuggle something in them. Even my sweats are too big.

I know many people in America would love to have that problem, but the one thing it signifies to me is this: I must go shopping. And oh, how I hate to shop. Bookstores and music stores notwithstanding, the world of retail bores and annoys me. I hate the trying on of clothing. I especially hate how women's clothing is so ridiculously sized compared to men's. Men's clothing, with great logicality, goes by actual measurements. If you know your neck/arm measurement, you can buy a shirt. If you know your waist and inseam, you can buy pants. You might not even have to try things on.

With women's clothing it's a huge crap shoot. Am I a small or medium? A regular or a short? A 10 or a 12? And if I'm a 10 in this line, am I also a 10 in that line? Oh, no, wait, according to this other manufacturer I'm an 8. Everything must be tried on.

I've put off shopping for quite a while now. Firstly because I hate it and secondly because lately I've been too sick to do much of anything except hang around the house all day and envy the cat. But it's gotten to the point where my jeans are riding so low I look like a wanna-be gangsta rapper.

There are a lot of things I'm looking forward to doing when (if?) I get better, but shopping is not high on the list. But, alas, it's probably also the first thing I have to take care of.

The ghost in our kitchen
Our kitchen appears to be haunted. Cipher, the world's most amazing cat, screw you if you don't agree (TM) is suddenly afraid of the corner of the room where her food is.

The first appearance of the ghost came three weeks ago. She was fine at breakfast. Come dinner, however, she wouldn't get anywhere near her food. She backed away like we were trying to feed her live cobra for a snack. If I picked her up and tried to put her down near the food she squirmed like an eel. Her food is right near the fridge, and we traced the source to some highly spiced leftover Chinese food that she apparently didn't like the scent of. (Memo to self: cat does not like Mongolian beef.) We cleaned out the fridge, opened the window, and she was fine.

Until Wednesday, that is.

Wednesday night, same problem. A dubious look towards the food area. A refusal to go near it. If we moved her food out a few feet, she dove in with her usual lack of table manners. But the ghost of the food corner had returned and nothing would induce her to confront it. And it's been like that ever since. I've cleaned out the fridge, but there wasn't anything there particularly fragrant. I've cleaned the area around the food space. And still she's skittish. I'm thinking next time I'll clean with Holy Water, maybe that'll do the trick.

So we're moving her food dish out when we feed her, but it's hardly convenient to have it in the middle of the room. We've debated moving to another area of the kitchen entirely but it's currently in the only spot that doesn't get a lot of foot traffic. Any other spot and we're likely to be spending a lot of time mopping up spilled water. But we can't have the poor thing afraid to eat. Although I suppose she'll confront the ghost when she's hungry enough, it's just kinda sad to see her looking at that area like Jacob Marley is standing there.

Why do they always wear pearls?
Enough with the trotting out the loyal political wife for these "I have sinned" press conferences! Of course I'm talking about Gov. Spitzer, the latest in a long line of "can't keep his pants zipped" politicos who got caught with his penis in the cookie jar.

But what I can't understand is why they always make the wife stand there like a shell-shocked zombie through the whole thing. Why can't she just say "listen fuckhead, you screwed up, you take the heat. I'm going to the Bahamas." I suppose they're trying to show he's not a total sleeze; that if the wife will stand by him, why can't the voters, that kind of thing. But it still seems surreal, pointless, and just plain mean. The poor lady has just found out that after all her sacrifices on his behalf he turns around and spends thousands on hookers. That's bad enough, but then she's got to be on the front page of cnn.com too?

I think the women of America should take a stand in the whole "sisterhood" myth by saying "OK, screw the politics. Give the wife some privacy and dignity. No more stoicism in the face of sex scandals."

I am not every woman...
This kind of goes along with the "I am not fashionable" post, but I am so sick of phrases that begin "every woman."

"Every woman dreams of her wedding day." (Overheard on a news program about the cost of weddings.)
Nope, not once. I didn't play "dress up bride" as a child. I didn't spend hours in high school designing my perfect dress. I never poured over Brides magazine and daydreamed about flowers and limos. Never. And I'm sure I'm not alone in this. Blanket statements like this piss me off, because it makes it seems like there's something wrong with women who don't go along with the pre-conceived flow. But there's nothing wrong with not dreaming about your wedding. I mean look at me. I never have, never did, and I'm still happily married -- even if I didn't start planning the day when I was 7.

"Every woman has her own beauty secrets." (Overheard in a commercial about some beauty product whose name and purpose eludes me.)
Again, no. I have no beauty secrets. I have no beauty routine. I brush my teeth. I wash my hair. I bathe. I use prescription lotion on my face because I have some minor skin problems. That's it. No eye liner tips. No super-special lipstick. No hints for the best way to pluck your brows. I think the only beauty secret I have (and it's not much of a secret) is "don't care what other people think."

"Every woman wants a Prince Charming." (Overheard in a cheesy movie.)
Oh God, spare me! Are we still, in the 21st century, perpetuating the myth that women are fairy princesses who need big, strong men to rescue them? Come on, ladies, grow some balls! I can't think of anything worse that perceiving of myself as a helpless flower waiting for the knight on the white horse. I don't need a man to rescue me. And I'm not sure what I'd be rescued from. There aren't a lot of dragons in the SF Bay Area. All I ever wanted was a nice guy who'd treat me well and whom I could love and respect in return. I wanted a best friend, not a romance hero. And I got exactly what I wanted in Husband.

"Every woman needs the perfect little black dress." (Read in a magazine while waiting at the doctor's office.)
Why? Why do I need a black dress? Why does it have to be little? Will a little red dress do? Will a big black dress suffice? What if it's not perfect? What if it's only marginally acceptable? Oh the pressure! I can't stand it! My head will explode! You know, not once in my 40+ years of life have I ever gone anywhere where a "perfect little black dress" was required. And guess what? I survived. I'm happy. I have a great marriage and good friends. But do I deserve all that happiness if I don't have the dress? Is my happiness just a sham?

No, I must believe I'm happy....even without the dress, the prince, the beauty tips, and the dream wedding. Pity me.

And how was your Saturday?
So what did you do with your day? Me? Well...any guesses where I spent Saturday night? Anybody?

Yes, that's right, ER!

I'm OK. Just spent 8 hours zarfing and was really dehydrated and generally miserable. So, two IVs of fluids later, plus two shots of painkillers and anti-nausea medicine, and I was home. Today I feel fine. Really weak; kinda shaky, sort of just this side of absolutely no energy at all, but not sick. Going into the kitchen for water (trying to load up on fluids if I can) pretty much wipes me out for about 30-minutes afterwards. But so far, no zarfing. No nausea. No incapacitating back pain.

Once again, Husband was my hero. Driving me to ER at midnight. Holding my hand. Giving me lots of TLC and even managing to make me laugh. How in the world did I get so lucky?

Anyway, I'm trusting you all had a better Saturday than I. Today's plan is lots of rest, some juice, bland food, and trying to get my feet back under me.

Oh, on another topic. The other night Husband and I watched the most recent "Die Hard" flick: Live Free or Die Hard and our review is surprisingly positive. Completely unbelievable on so many levels, but pure escapist fun. Bruce Willis can still carry of balls of steel action hero, and Justin Long was charming and really funny as a young hacker in over his head. Great fun.

CD Pick of the Week: Johnny Whitehorse
Totemic Flute Chants was the 2008 Grammy Award-winner for Best Native American Music Album. Whitehorse is the alter-ego of Robert Mirabal, an extremely talented singer/songwriter/guitarist/flutist and one of my top two favorite Native American performers. This blend of flute, keyboard, tribal drums and vocals celebrates our animal spirit guides. Beautiful music, ranging from meditative to quietly powerful.
(For the record, I'm an owl. Husband is definitely coyote.)

...and still nothing on
Yeah, 80+ channels on TV and still nothing on. Why is that? Why is American TV so, well, crappy? Reality TV (why would I want to spend time with people that I wouldn't invite into my home?). Entirely un-funny sitcoms. Crime dramas so lacking in mystery that my cat could solve the crime before the TV detective can. One-hit wonder has-beens. Bad movies. Newsmagazines. Remember when TV was good? No, I'm not sure I can either.

Like most people, Husband and I have cable TV and yet with all those channels to chose from, we still can't find anything worth watching. Even PBS...I mean if I have to skip one more "Golden Age of Do-Wop" show I may cry. Yes, there are the good old PBS standbys. Masterpiece Theatre, Mystery, Nova, American Experience. But there is so much out there that I have absolutely no interest in seeing.

I have a few don't-miss favorites. I'm completely hooked on the Discovery Channel, especially Dirty Jobs andMythbusters. I love Torchwood and Doctor Who. And I'll watch pretty much anything about history....it doesn't even matter what the subject is. World War I. The Renaissance. Civil War medicine. Women's rights. The development of the atom bomb. I don't care. But one can only watch so much history before it begins to slide out of the brain.

I miss pure escapism. The simple joy of watching a comedy that is actually funny. (Reruns of I Love Lucy will always make me laugh more than any comedy currently on the air.) Or enjoying a drama with an intelligent script and solid acting (not just pretty people who know how to recite.) But today's audiences seem content with so little. And really, why should a network pay for writers and actors when it's so much cheaper to invite a bunch of second-rate celebrities to tango?

But I just wish America had higher standards? Where are today's classics? Will any show currently on the air rank up there with The Mary Tyler Moore Show in terms of being remembered? The only network show our TV ever turns to is Lost which Husband completely loves. I don't watch anything on network. I'm strictly a cable girl. And it seems that HBO is the answer to most people's hunger for good TV. But even there nothing appeals to me. I never could get into The Sopranos or The Wire.

When I was a kid (and I'm dating myself here), before there were 80 channels of cable, I remember my family turning the TV on after dinner and enjoying it all evening. OK, so not everything was great, but even something like The Waltons or The Wonderful World of Disney was better than How I Met Your Mother and Survivor: Pacoima.

Thank heavens for good books.

Puttin' on my cranky boots
- It's amazing that people will pay $30,ooo for a brand-new SUV that apparently doesn't have working turn signals. Why is that? Why do SUVs not come with working turn signals?
- Why is "popular" American music so bland and soulless? And when did lyrics stop making sense? Have you heard any song in the past year that you think will be remembered 30 years from now?
- Why is it that female newscasters all have to be thin and beautiful, but male newscasters can look have faces like the north end of a south-facing cow and still have a successful career?
- Why is it that conservative bumper-stickers are short and to the point but liberal bumper-stickers are 27-work epics that you can't read while driving behind them on the freeway? No, really. Why? For every "Support our troops" sticker there's some poor Prius driver with a sticker that reads "I really don't think war is a very good idea and I think we should all wage peace. Oh yeah, and don't eat meat."
- What is the appeal of American Idol? Why is it that a million people can tell you who won last season but can't tell you who is the Prime Minister of Great Britain?
- Is there a reason why so many has-beens have there own reality show? Is there a line? A waiting room? Does one show get cancelled and some secretary comes out into the waiting room and says "Erik Estrada, you're next?"
- How come the smaller the purse the more expensive it is? And are they small because you spent so much money on the damned purse that you can't afford stuff to put in it?
- Not knocking Christmas cheer and all that, but why doesn't it occur to people that the underprivileged kids who need presents at Christmas need new shoes in the summer, and school supplies in the fall, and a warm coat in the winter, and...?
- Why can't I seem to ever finish reading National Geographic before the next issue arrives?
- The man who invented informercials should burn in a fiery hell. Worst thing to ever happen to insomniacs.

That's it. Talk among yourselves.

A productive use of jail time
Convicted of fraud, Jonathan Lee Riches is spending his 8-year sentence in an obviously productive way. by suing pretty much everyone on the planet. He claims Tiger Woods stole his luggage, Barry Bonds benched-pressed him against his will, and Mike Tyson pulled the plug on his jukebox. He's apparently also suing Daniel Day-Lewis, George Orwell, and the Unabomber.

CD Pick of the Week: Kat Parra
Stylish, sexy Latin jazz from a local vocalist with an all-star band that includes percussionist John Santos, Ray Vega on trumpet, and Wayne Wallace on trombone. Her new release Azucar de Amor showcases her warm, delicious voice, effortless style, and engaging way of phrasing things. Several tracks are non-Latin tunes given a fresh (and colorful) coat of paint. Great stuff, one star each track. Lyrics in Spanish and English.

And the winner is...
During the recent Academy Awards they showed a montage of all the Best Picture winners over the years. It made Husband and I realize that there were many we'd never seen and we decided to remedy that. Within reason, of course. I'd rather have a bikini wax than ever have to sit through Terms of Endearment or Titanic ever again.

This past weekend we crossed one off the list. The wonderful 1966 costume drama A Man for All Seasons featuring Paul Scofield as Sir Thomas More. Since it deals with More's martyrdom for refusing to reject the Catholic Church and support Henry VIII's quest for wife number two, it lead to a discussion of moral courage. Husband said he'd probably wimp out and sign whatever they wanted. I said I wasn't sure. I don't think I'd ever be a religious martyr, but I'd like to think there are some things that I have the strength to die for. But I'm sure I'm idealizing my own courage. It's easy to paint yourself brave when safe at home with a mug of tea and a cat purring contentedly by your side.

We have two more Best Pictures saved in TiVo: the Charles Laughton/Clark Gable version of Mutiny on the Bounty and Kevin Costner's epic western Dances with Wolves. Husband has seen neither. (I love the man, but his film career is sadly lacking.)

It'll be interesting to see how far we get in this quest before we lose interest or forget our goal. Between the two of us I think we've seen most of them...though I'm a bit thin in the recent winners category. We're both very strong on the 30's and 40s films, but we do have a few gaps. Oh yes, and we've both seen Wings, which is good because that doesn't show up on TV very often.

We're hoping to get through all of them in 2008. I'll let you know how it goes.