The best legs in the business
The beautiful, glorious, glamorous Cyd Charisse has died at the age of 86. I always thought she was stunning and, oh my god, those legs! In both Singing in the Rain and The Band Wagon she has moments of sheer jaw-dropping sexiness. (Husband will back me up on this.) But beyond that was her grace as a dancer and her underrated acting abilities. She was definitely of the old school of Hollywood and I am truly saddened by this news.

Love triumphs!
I cannot say anything more than I AM SO HAPPY!!!

Oh if only my beloved friends The Steves were around to see this. They would have been first in line. Oh frabjous day!

In praise of free speech
According to this BBC news story arrests of bloggers who dared criticize their governments or who exposed human rights abuses are at an all-time high. Which makes one (or at least it should make one) take the time to celebrate free speech.

Those of us who had the good fortune to have been born in America don't think about free speech much. We don't have to think twice before writing "George Bush is a poopy head" on our blogs. Just think for a moment of how amazing that is. We have the freedom to make statements that openly criticize the President, his entire administration, and government in general and don't have to be afraid of a knock on the door in the dead of night. However, with the so-called "Patriot Act" there are probably some things it's best not to say.

I'm not a real political person (to my shame.) Yeah, I hate the Bush administration. I think Gitmo is a crime. I think the war in Iraq is wrong. I think the past 8 years have done serious damage to the US, both internally and to our international reputation. But I hate that in the name of national security, some people have seen fit to tamper with our essential rights to free speech. I guess all I can do at the moment it continue to be a member of the ACLU and keep celebrating freedom by writing "our President is an idiot" with a big ol' smile on my face.

Great minds...
Today Husband and I celebrated 5 years of marriage. The only thing missing, according to Husband, was the plastic deer. (We got married at Ye Olde Wedding Chapel in Tahoe and they had plastic deer and bunnies in the garden. Very romantic.)

We didn't really do much, since poor Husband hasn't had a real day off since the Hoover administration. But we did go to our favorite used record store and our favorite book store. We exchanged cards, but not gifts, this morning and decided that while at the record store we would each pick up a present for the other.

You know how as some couples age they begin to look alike? Husband and I are just morphing into one taste in music.

While wandering through the World bins I picked up a classic CD by the delightfully named Sol Hoopi. He was a Hawaiian performer (singer and ukulele) in the 30s-50s. But I put it down because -- well, actually, I'm not sure why I put it down.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Husband picked up, and put down, some classic Ray Charles. So what did I buy for Husband's gift? Classic Ray Charles. And what was his gift to me? Sol Hoopi. Talk about weird coincidence. We each bought for the other something we had considered getting for ourself. I guess it's meant to be.

Then it was off to the bookstore where, for the first time in my life, I didn't buy anything! Really, I think someone should check my pulse. It wasn't that I didn't see anything I wanted it was just that everything I wanted was in hardcover. Really big, very heavy hardcover. I find that the older I get, the less likely I am to purchase hardcover books for the simmple reason that you can't read a hardcover comfortably in the bathtub. (My favorite place to read.) But there are a few exceptions. I just bout Jacqueline Winspear's latest "Maisie Dobbs" novel in hardcover because I just can't wait for it to come out in paperback. I'll also buy anything by Elizabeth Peters/Barbara Michaels in hardcover. And, of course, Danielle Steele. (Yes, I'm lying about that last one. Ewww.)

CD Pick of the Week: Tango Negro Trio
Cool and feisty Latin jazz and tangos from noted Argentinian singer/pianist/composer Juan Carlos Caceres. It’s sharp and sophisticated, extremely well played and with some delicious vocals as well with a husky, lived-in male voice.

Gay people buy dryers
When I moved into this house (good lord, 14 years ago!?!?) there was an ancient dryer in the garage. Ancient, but functioning. Two weeks ago Old Man Dryer started making a noise like there was a rabid guinea pig stuck in the works (there wasn't -- don't call PETA). So it was time to replace him/it.

Off Husband and I go to OSH. There was a sale. They were white and boring. We bought one. But as he and I compared capacity and tried to figure out what various knobs did, it hit me: this is what marriage really is.

Forget moonlight and roses and happily ever after. Marriage is spending Sunday afternoon shopping for appliances. I mean really, does anything make you feel more married than buying something as dull and as necessary as a dryer?

Lately the California papers have been full of news about same-sex marriages. (About bloody time!) And, of course, those brain-dead zealots who use religion as an excuse to try and force their beliefs on an exhausted from fighting about it world, have been yammering on non-stop about: one man, one woman -- that's marriage. To which I say: that's bullshit.

Marriage has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with purchasing large appliances. It's not about sex; about who puts what where. It's about paying your bills, taking out the trash, negotiating rights for the remote control, and dealing with the fact that dryers (and ovens, sofas, coffee tables, etc.) wear out and need to be replaced.

Gays and lesbians are not fighting for the right to legalize the joining of their naughty bits. They are fighting for the right to go to Home Depot and order a sink. They want to have the same options as heterosexuals when it comes to buying a home, dealing with paperwork for their kids, and having visiting rights in the emergency room. They do want to get married, they want to be married. They want to say "I'd much rather go see the new Indiana Jones movie, but we really need to buy a new fridge this afternoon."

So, brain-dead zealot, get your mind out of the bedroom. Gay people are going to have gay sex whether you like it or not -- whether we make it legal or not. All they want is to be able to stay home on a Friday and wait for the delivery guys.

Spitting in church
For art historians (you can't see me but I'm raising my hand) there are various places of pilgrimage that are just this side of church for us. The Prado. The Met. The Hermitage. The Uffizi. And, our version of St. Peter's, The Louvre.

The headline of this BBC story tells it all: Duran Duran make Louvre history.

Oh good. The one thing lacking from the glorious architecture and atmosphere of the Louvre has been 80s pop has-beens singing in the background. I'm sure contemplating the wonder of Caravaggio's Death of the Virgin is made infinitely more meaningful when one can hear Hungry Like a Wolf.

In addition to this musical sacrilege, they go on record as wishing harm to one of the world's most famous work of art: "Singer Simon Le Bon said he hoped the show had "put a smile on the Mona Lisa's face". Good lord, I hope not.

When life disappoints
Two of my favorite bloggers have recently written great posts about being disappointed. Husband writes of his dissatisfaction with the Discovery channel's documentary about the space race, When We Left Earth: The NASA Missions.

Meanwhile, the ever-hilarious Finny details her long-anticipated visit to Sunset Magazine's open house.

For me, my most recent disappointment was PBS's Mystery, usually one of my favorite TV shows. But this past season they redid some of Agatha Christie's wonderful Miss Marple stories to star the delightful Geraldine McEwan. She was, as usual, great. The adaptations, however, were dreadful.

Mind you, they had a lot to live up to. The definitive Miss Marple stories have already been done, in my opinion, in the series starring Joan Hickson, pitch-perfect as the spinster sleuth. Those productions were stylish, fabulously acted and directed, and faithful to the novels. The latest round of stories, however, featured plot devices that would have made Christie blush.

One cannot help but wonder why they would take a character as beloved and well known as Miss Jane Marple and then screw big time with the books. Not only is this guaranteed to piss off diehard Christie fans (such as I) but it's hardly likely to draw new fans. If this was one's first introduction to Agatha Christie, you'd get the impression that she couldn't write a decent plot to save her life. They were awful. Plus they stupidly redid some of the ones that were done previously with Hickson. I have all the Joan Hickson Marples on DVD and can happily watch them repeatedly. The new ones I could barely sit through once.

There were characters that never appeared in the original novels. In fact one threw in two additional Christie characters, the charming Tommy and Tuppence. The problem was that T&T weren't in that particular novel and instead of the stylish and playful couple of the 20s and 30s, they were old, tired, 50-ish, and Tuppance was an alcoholic. What a way to ruin the unwritten future of some beloved characters!

Some of the changes were just baffling. Why change the name of one character from "Charles" to "James?" Is there an embargo against the name Charles? Why take a very-much-in-love newlywed couple (in the book and the Hickson verson) and change it to an engaged woman, her never-to-appear-on-screen fiance, and a guy who's just a pal but ends up getting the girl in the end? What exactly does that add to the story?

I think part of the charm of Christie is the coziness of the stories. Sure each one is about a murder....but it's a tidy murder. In a tidy society. But the latest versions decided that the one thing lacking from Christie is a sense of grittiness. (And Christie is SO the anti-gritty!) So they added suicidal main characters, closeted homosexuals, and even a horrid back story which gave Miss Marple a married lover in WWI.

OK, so Husband's dissatisfaction has the benediction of scientific superiority. And Finny at least got out in the world. Me? I'm just bitchy because my mystery wasn't cozy enough.

Sigh...even my rants are lame.

I'm a goner
Yesterday I returned to kitten duty after two weeks off due to ill health. And I have a new favorite kitten. Behold the adorable "Butch." (So named in honor of Husband's uncle.)

Truly an amazingly cute kitty. And SO tremendously sweet. It was all I could do to put him back into his nursery after I fed and played with him. The returning of said kitten was made even more difficult by the fact that he callously and with malice aforethought fell asleep in my arm.




I mean how do you resist that? I completely want to adopt this cutie. Speaking of which, the first litters of kittens that were put up for adoption were all adopted on the first day! Wonderful news! Having loved and fed these little ones it makes me so happy to know they're going to good homes. But oh, I do SO want to adopt little Butch.

Shut up and drink the Kool-aid
Today Saint Steve of Jobs gave his Sermon on the Mount at the Apple Developer's Conference. Gee, and I missed it. How will I endure the shame? (For the record, I refuse to link to any news item about this.)

As a proud ex-Apple employee (for the record, I quit -- I was not fired) I cannot tell you how frickin' happy I am to not have had to listen to his drivel again. Every keynote speech he gives is simulcast to the Apple "campus" where hoards of badge-wearing, Kool-aid drinking, brain-washed zealots cheer every lame joke, every new announcement. It's completely terrifying, really. From an anthropological viewpoint it's actually a fascinating example in the herd mentality. For me, it was a great excuse for people watching as I'd stare, bored out of my non-brainwashed-brain, at the rapt expression on the faces of the masses.

I was completely not an Apple person. I didn't think the iPhone was equivalent to the Second Coming. I did, however, think it was an awful place to work. Bad environment. Complete lack of creative freedom. And a ridiculous waste of talent. They'd hire wonderfully inventive, totally creative minds and then refuse to let them have any individual thought whatsoever. Only a few people there were allowed to have ideas. The rest of the drones were simply there to do the work that other people came up with. It didn't matter if your idea was better -- if you weren't on the hip kids bench, you were basically equivalent to doggy poopy.

But the keynotes were especially painful because they were sad. Tragically so. You see, people at Apple actually think this stuff matters. They lose sleep over it. Hell, they lose marriages over it. Completely removed from reality, they believe getting the next iGizmo out the door is the most important item on the universe's agenda. Forget global warming. AIDS. Starvation. War. All of that pales in comparison to making sure we don't make the world wait one more minute for the next product.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a dedicated Apple user. I'm typing this on my PowerBook G4. Husband has his own Apple laptop, and we have an Apple desktop at home. We also have several iPods between us. But people, it's just technology! It's not a religion! And I am so, so, so glad to be out of there. And free to not have to watch another self-servingly smug keynote e very again.

Pass the popcorn
Husband and I are both lovers of old movies. The TCM channel might just be our favorite channel, and we're never happier than when we're watching Bogart or Stewart, Garbo or Stanwick. This past evening we watched a minor bit of fluff called Love Crazy starring William Powell and the beautiful Myrna Loy.

At one point in the lunacy, Husband turned to me and said "I love the studio system." Yeah, me too. The classic days of contract players at MGM or RKO resulted in some of the most amazing films of all time. And allowed them to pair together male and female leads who actually had (gasp!) that illusive quality of chemistry. Of course most people know Powell and Loy from the Thin Man series of films the did together. But as Love Crazy illustrates, those weren't the only paring from these two.

Of course Myrna Loy (who I've always thought was stunning) was such an incredible talent she'd be able to act as if she had chemistry with a brick, but when matched with the wise-cracking, whip-crack comedic timing of William Powell, it was magic. Love Crazy makes very little sense, but it's great fun. And, as with all movies made during the era of the studio system, everyone from the elevator boy (Elisha Cook, Jr.) to the overbearing mother-in-law (the stern prow of Florence Bates) was shining. I think that's what I miss most about the studio system. Back then the bit players were as funny or as memorable as the stars. OK, maybe you need to be an old movie nut like I (or Husband) to know them by name, but any movie that has Thelma Ritter or Eric Blore in it is worth seeing. And I love watching those films and saying "hey, that cop is the hotel bellboy from that Cary Grant movie we saw last week."

Modern movies just don't have that quality of having been made in the small town of Hollywood. With global film studios, location shots, the demise of the studio system and the rise of the superstar, it's no doubt gone for good. Thankfully, though, there are DVDs and the Turner Channel to remind us of just how glorious the glory days were. And I'm proud to say that I will always rather watch a James Stewart film than anything with George Clooney.

And the rich get richer....
I think the headline on this story says it all: Indicted Saudi Gets $80 Million US Contract - The Financier has been indicted for his alleged role in a scandal costing US taxpayers $1.7.

In praise of history
So every year I subscribe to a new and different magazine. With the exception of National Geographic, which is eternal, most only last a year. This year my new subscription is to the British-based BBC History Magazine.

My first issue (for May) arrived yesterday and I'm loving it. It's total popularist history candy. It's the Peanut M&Ms of history. Both scholarly and accessible, it seems to cover both serious history (a look at the early years of Israel) and campy-consumerist history (a cover story on Jack the Ripper). All with that deliciously dry sense of British humor.

My favorite discovery from this issue is one I can see sucking up many random hours. The Old Bailey Online contains the proceedings from England's most famous court. They date back to 1674 and go up to 1913. Totally fascinating!

So, what random magazines do you subscribe to? I'm always looking to expand my interests. (Except, of course, for anything Martha Stewart-related. Yes, I'm talking to you, Dear Foreigner.)

Hey, where'd everybody go?
When the Rapture comes (and don't we all know that it will?) there's a start-up that will send e-mails to your less saved loved ones (OK, sinners) letting them know what happened to you. For just $40 a year the bluntly-namedYou'veBeenLeftBehind.com(Note: This link goes to the Wired.com story about the site since I absolutely refuse to link to someplace called You've Been Left Behind.) will send up to 62 (Why 62? Why not 666?) notices of your early departure into eternity.

5 Principles for guarding maiden chastity
From Weird Asian News comes this Chinese guide to maintaining one's virginity. My favorite line is: "One must not wander around late night looking for exposed males."

Excellent advice.

Random, illness-addled thoughts
The hub of cultural diversity must be Corvallis, Oregon.

And in the "whose bright idea was this?" category comes this story of how the Fort Benning, GA, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder Clinic is just down the road from the firing range. Seems it upsets the patients. Um....duh.

Meanwhile, in Indonesia. A woman on trial for bribing a prosecutor tried to get on the good side of the court by bringing doughnuts to the courtroom. Remember Dan White's "Twinkee defense?"

The crime of passion is older than we think. According to this report ancient man may have killed rivals for the women in the tribe.

From the London Times, the ten weirdest exam questions. I like the one where students had to analyze Bee Gee lyrics.

Back in my world, when we took Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) to the vet last week he had to shave a bit of her fur just under her chin to draw some blood. It's the saddest thing. I swear I see that little bald patch and just want to give her a hug. Mind you, she doesn't seem to mind. But I do. (She's still not herself, though. She was zarfing yesterday -- as was I. Poor Husband was overwhelmed with sick females.)

Now with improved readability
When the history of the English language is perused, our lifetime will be known for crap. Words that mean nothing. Phrases that mean nothing.

The other day I saw a beer commercial that claimed the product had "superb drinkability." What the fuck is that? A beer that can be consumed, now that's an innovative concept. As opposed to what? All those other beers that turn to concrete in the mouth, cutting off the airways and necessitating a visit from the EMTs? Drinkability? What does that actually mean?

Adding "ability" to words is one of the fake word constructs that just busts my bloomers. Imagine if this catches on. "Gosh, Mrs. Jones, your pot roast sure has eatability!" "I love this new soap, it has such an abundance of cleanability." "I can't wait to crawl into bed, I'm just full of sleepability." These words mean absolutely nothing! If you want to say your beer tastes good, say "our beer taste good." But drinkability?

Almost as bad is the way "marketing speak" has taken over American society. It's gotten to the point that nonsense phrases that mean absolutely nothing have become so common we don't even notice them anymore. Here's a tip....when you see any sentence that begins with the word "enabling" you don't need to read that sentence because it will make no sense. "Enabling enterprise-class business solutions." Does anyone really know what that means? I saw one catch phrase (I forget the product) that boasted grandly "enabling tomorrow." Oh, really? Tomorrow will happen because of you? The sun will rise because of your geeky software/car with back-lit cup holders/investment package?

What happened to clarity? To words that mean something and phrases that make sense? I tell you, I weep for us.

The zarf patrol lives again!
What a surprise! I'm sick again. Not ER bad (thank goodness) but bad enough that last night was pretty miserable. Poor Husband is overwhelmed with zarfing females. Cipher (the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) started throwing up again this morning. She was OK Saturday and Sunday, but this morning wasn't good. Thankfully we've both stopped with the zarfing, but neither of us is really fine. We've spent the day in bed like two miserable sick critters. Occasionally taking turns to show affection to the other. A pet here. A lick on the hand there. But for the most part, two separate lumps of unhappy.

Amid this pathetic display of human/feline digestion poor Husband had to get up and head out to the bad place. Leaving his girls to murmur thinly, "have a good day. We love you." My only non-bed act of the day (aside from typing this) has been to watch the season finale of The Tudors. Let me ruin the ending for you, Anne Boleyn gets her head cut off. I'm not sure why anyone wanted to marry him in the first place.

Back to bed...

Between the covers
Being a book slut, I naturally approve of anyone who has more books than blood cells. This Wall Street Journal article by Luc Sante admirably captures how easy it is to become overwhelmed by the books in your life. My favorite bit: "Books entered my house under cover of night, from the four winds, smuggled in by woodland creatures, and then they never left. Books collected on every surface; I believe that somehow they managed to breed."

For me books are are drug. They are my heroin. I physically cannot go into a bookstore and come out again empty-handed. Like a retriever on the scent I sniff the air and head eagerly towards the new releases section. I wander aimlessly through History, deciding that my knowledge of the Medici popes is sadly thin and I must rectify that weakness. I become unduly fascinated by biographies of people I've never heard of. "Wow," I'll say as I consume the summary on the back cover. "This woman invented the envelope and had an affair with the King of Bohemia. I must have this!" And I slip it under my arm while I look for more treasures, even though in a more rational moment I will wonder what the hell I was thinking buying a biography of some unknown women whose only claim to fame is as the mistress of a minor royal.

You see, that's my other problem. I'll buy a book, full of lust and optimism, and then get home and put it in my towering to-be-read pile. Then, a month later, when I'm looking for something to read, I'll pick it up and have no interest whatsoever in reading it. That's why I agree with Mr. Sante. I swear these books breed other books. Or they sneak it at night like tiny literary elves. Because I often pick up a book that I know I purchased and have absolutely no desire to read it. Why is that?

Perhaps books are like my shoes. I know the stereotype of women having 150 pairs of shoes. Surely they must occasionally fall madly in love with a pair of purple suede pumps that they determine they must have. Then, a few weeks later, they go into their closet and break forth with a "what was I thinking?"

So what am I thinking? Going back to the heroin analogy, I suppose I don't think. I crave. I need. It's a sad addiction for which I suppose I should seek a cure. What's the bookstore equivalent of methadone? A library, perhaps? In my case I think the only cure is to avoid bookstores. But that's hard to do. Here's my sad, sordid confession. Sometimes, late at night. When Husband is asleep. I .... now try not to judge me too harshly ... I visit Amazon. Or Barnes and Noble. Being able to shop for books at 4 am should be illegal.

Coming to a website near you
Husband and I saw the new Indiana Jones movie today. (It was OK.) But before the movie we had to sit through the obligatory 25 minutes of movie trailers. Which leads me to ask: when did it become necessary for all movies to have their own website?

I've noticed it for years, of course. Every movie ad on TV has a web address listed, but it just seems so silly. I've never gone to a movie website. Have you? Why? Going to a website is just doing their advertising for them. They can market to people with very little effort. In my case (and I admit I'm probably not their target audience) if there's a movie I want to see, I will -- without the website convincing me to do so. If there's a film I'm iffy about, I'm just not going to put in the effort - or waste my time - by voluntarily going to a page that's basically a big commercial.

The other thing that cracks me up are the addresses. When every film needs a website sooner or later they're gonna have to do some scrambling to come up with a URL that makes sense. If they'd had an Internet back in 1939, would we have all spent the months leading up to the premiere of Gone With the Wind visiting dontknownothinboutbirthinnobabies.com?

It's really amazing how movie marketing has changed over the years. Oh yeah, and credits. Movie credit are now about 7 minutes long to ensure the set nurse and the caterer gets a mention. I watched some old movie the other night and it had one screen of cast, one screen for producer, director, screenplay and then one screen for the basic crew. That was about it. You could sit through all of the credits in about 1 minute flat. Now it seems that everyone even remotely connected with a film gets their name mentioned. I suppose it's nice for them. And I guess the union insists. But why does the audience have to sit through a credit for the star's personal assistant or all 47 people who worked on animation? I used to sit through credits all the way through at the end of a movie. No more. My the time the credits are done I'm out in my car and pulling out of the parking space.

How do parents do it?
Cipher, the World's Most Amazing Cat Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm) is sick. She's been throwing up most of the day and is very stand-offish, which is unusual for her. So we took her to the vet. He thinks she's fighting off an upper respiratory infection and that it's nothing too serious. But until the diagnosis came back, both Husband and I were worried sick. We had to wait 45-minutes while they took X-rays to make sure she hadn't swallowed anything and that was highly stressful.

How do parents do it when their kids are sick? I mean Cipher is as close as Husband and I will ever get to offspring. And to those who don't have pets believe me, they are definitely part of the family. I mean I honestly love Cipher more than I love some of my siblings. So wondering and worrying about her is natural when she's ill. But not having kids I can't imagine how stressful it is when one of them is sick or needs a doctor. (Mama D, you must have nerves of steel!)

Luckily Cipher home now. Still not herself, but they gave her some antibiotics (she has a fever of 104) and she does appear to be more alert that she was earlier today. And we have her X-rays and some additional info in case we have to take her to the emergency vet hospital tomorrow. But I'm exhausted just having spent an afternoon on pins and needles about our little girl.

Parents, you are all amazing.

Doodle for Google
Sometimes you just gotta love Google. Check out the finalists in the Doodle for Google contest. Kids from grades K-12 were asked to come up with a design for a Google logo around the theme of "What if...?" The winners are pretty danged cool.

Me and Peter Pan
In today's SF Chronicle, Carol Lloyd writes in her Surreal Estate column about young people who are basically choosing homelessness as a part-time option because they can't afford to buy real estate. (I'm not summarizing it well, but hey, it's 5 am -- I'm surprised I'm coherent enough to type.)

Anyway, in this article she makes the point: "In America, where society expects young adults to grow up, move out and make a life (or risk being ridiculed as "failing to launch,") our entire mythology of adulthood rests on access to affordable housing."

I think I love that line "entire mythology of adulthood." I have previously mentioned my severe case of house envy. While other women might crave motherhood and quick-step to the ticking of their biological clock, I crave walls that I can paint any color I want, kitchen cabinets I can resurface, and all the freedom that comes from actually owning where you live.

I know that home ownership brings with it more than its share of headaches. But as a life-long migraine sufferer, I'd love the chance to have a headache that actually gets me something I want. In all honesty my longing for a home borders on a depressing obsession. Depressing, because in the Bay Area buying a house is pretty much impossible unless: you get help from a rich relative; your Google options vest; you have a 2-income household where you both earn six figures and neither one of you has spent a penny in the past 10 years; you win the lottery; or, you buy a 500-square foot tool shed that you share with 9 other people.

None of the options, alas, apply to Husband and me. And so, houseless in wonderland, I haven't made that step to adulthood that Ms. Lloyd points out.

Perhaps that's while I can't believe I'm in my late 40s. I don't have any adult milestones. I have no kids. I have no house. I have no brilliant career. And when I think of people in their 40s, I see them in my mind in their SUVs, driving Trevor and Blythe to soccer practice and then home to their McMansion. When I think of me, I see someone who still doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up.

In many ways this "I can't be an adult, I don't have a house" mentality is real. That sort of nagging feeling that you have nothing to show for your years on earth. No visible sign of achievement. I suppose I could start walking around with my Master's thesis under my arm to prove that I have, at least, gotten out of my jammies on occasion. But I mourn the fact that I'll never have the one thing I really, truly want.

The house down the street from us is for sale at $1.6 million. $1.6 million!?!? It's a 1950s suburb special! There is no possible way that house is work that much money. In Topeka, or someplace sane (real estatingly speaking) it's a $300,000 house. Here it's an astronomical wonder. Hubble-worthy.

You know what phrase I absolutely hate? "Starter home." What the hell is that? Is it like sourdough starter? Do you put a little home in your fridge and wait for it to ferment? In my parent's day (I can't believe I just wrote that phrase), you did not buy a house with the firm intention of selling it in 5 years to buy a bigger house. You bought a house because you needed a place to live. What a concept! A house as a house -- not as an investment, a stucco college fund, or a retirement plan. And that shift -- from home to bank account -- is where everything began to fall apart.

If Husband and I could afford a house right now I'd wither want to buy the place where I've rented for 14 years (good lord) or someplace similar. I neither want nor need 18 foot ceilings, 4 bathrooms for 2 people, granite countertops, or a sauna. I just want a cozy little place where Husband, Cat, and I can relax. And I could easily see us never moving.

But I'm still a kid. The biggest symbol of adulthood continues to elude me and probably always will (unless we move, which I really don't want to do as all my stuff is here, as well as most of the people I love). My friends are all grown-ups. Most have kids, all have houses. Luckily they put up with my immaturity. And I keep tossing the real estate section of the Sunday paper into the recycle bin before it makes it into the house because why window shop when it'll just depress you? So until I win the lottery, get adopted by Google, or move to Peoria, it looks like I -- like Peter Pan -- will never grow up.

Happy Father's Day to a father I don't particularly like
That's what this gift says to me. The perfect present for someone with no taste from someone with even less. (I think I love the "Sculptural cannon announces each hour with the sound of cannon fire" part best. I mean who the hell would want this thing?

And speaking of gifts. A few years ago Husband, with typical generosity, went to some trouble to find me a purple leather wallet. You see I happen to love the color purple (though not so much the book of that name) and am especially fond of purple leather. But since I happen to look like a giant grape when I actually wear the color, I limit my fondness to accessories such as the aforementioned wallet. I've had several over the years, and each was pretty hard to track down. The one I have now, Husband found for me in Philadelphia. But, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, the search for the next one will be easier.

Yes folks, all you need to do is visit The Purple Store for all your royalty-colored needs. Wow, there really is a website for everything, isn't there? I SO want this light:


No, really, I do. I really do.

Must be the drugs...
OK, I must have taken too many painkillers because I just saw this story about, well, Canada, and Burma, and um...oh hell, just read the story.

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.