I Have A Little List...

David Letterman has them, Guinness has had a yearly compilation of them since 1955, Joseph McCarthy ruined a lot of people with his, I have a fascinating book from the 70's aptly titled "The Book of Lists" which is chock-full of them...in fact, the list of people who have at least one of them...grows exponentially each day. I even have a couple contests on my comedy website devoted entirely to them. And if you haven't figured out by now what I'm talking about, I'll tell you...

Lists.

What IS this fascination we hold with "the list" and more importantly, who compiles these lists that we literally stop what we are doing and go read them?

Now, I'm not talking about statistics...those are a whole other ball game...which, by the way, lists a lot of statistics, I'm not even talking about the ones Fortune and People and that Mr. Blackwell guy come up with...I'm talking about random dissociative generic lists.

Even as I sat and wrote this in my doctor's office the other day, I kid you not - there was a laminated print-out of "The Top Ten Most Dangerous Dose Designations" list on the wall. So, as you can plainly see...this obsessive compulsive passion we have with "the list"...is not in my imagination. Many things may be - but this isn't one of them.

Each and every time one of these "lists of note" come out - I think to myself..."Self...who made this list up...and how did they possibly get everyone else out there to take notice OF their piddly little dumbas...um...dumb as a stump list? And can I possibly garner some notoriety doing the same?" Just what DOES it take to compile a list that the likes of AOL news, Katie Couric's replacement, and Ada Calhoun, who, by the way has a blog on AOL's main page (I don't - because apparently I am not on the A-list) talking about "What's the #1 Funeral Song?" just today. What a coinky-dink, huh? (I tell ya - I couldn't write this stuff any better if I tried.)

The way I see it, this is how most of them are generated: Two underage guys get into their parents' liquour cabinet and down a few 'Gin and Vodka and Old Grand-Dad and Rum Tonics', have a website and an account on Digg.com and come up with some unsubstantiated list about whatnot and before they know it, it gets on someone's YouTube and, as anyone knows all too well nowadays...if you can upload anything to YouTube, especially a cute kitten, you WILL get noticed. Oh, don't believe me, huh? Go to YouTube.com and type in "cute kitten". I'll wait.

Tap tap tap tap...

See?

Ah...the measure of one's true worth? Internet hits.

But, just because you and your barely legal friend sucked down a bunch of your dad's alcohol doesn't make you an authoritative figure. Or at least it shouldn't. And you should NOT gain national attention from it. You shouldn't get Google, perky morning show co-hosts or, heaven forbid, David Letterman himself, using your list for fodder. Because...ummm...they should be using MY list for fodder instead.

No, seriously. I have a website - I know young people...and trust me, I can legally drink and come up with a list, too! Where is my slice of the 15 minute pie?

So, over the next few blogs - I'm going to call, email and IM anyone I can think of...young and old, male and female, funny and stoic, drunk and sober...and compile a few lists of my own. Hey, I even know a guy who frequents Digg.com...and I'm not afraid to use him (you know - for this purpose only).

I'll even go as far as to solicit the Internet public...aka all three of you who read my blog...to help me with this endeavour. Got a list you'd like to see but never have? Let me know...I'll take great pains formulating one that is both well-thought out and has some logical basis in fact.

Yep, I'll admit - I'm not proud...but I AM determined...to get my list noticed.

No Brainer?

I was watching the NBC national news Tuesday night and they had this story about a guy who buys our trash from recycling places and then turns right around and sells it back to China for a WHOLE lot more than he paid for it. Our trash, it turns out, is their treasure. Apparently China hasn't had enough manufacturing going on to generate enough garbage to make it worthwhile for them to go into the "recycling biz" themselves - so they rely on us...literally the U.S. - to hand them ours. Why? Well, it costs a lot less to turn our aluminum, paper and plastic back into products such as cans, boxes and plastic bags than it does to mine the materials, such as fossil fuels, and start from scratch. Then the real irony begins...ready? Wait for it...

China turns around and sells us the by-product of our waste right back to us!

And this enterprising fellow is capitalizing on this...in fact he had a banner year selling our trash to them...making more money than you can shake a recycled plastic stick at. All I could do while watching this news tidbit is think to myself, "WHY didn't I think of this first?" Sure, he needs to go out to recycling places and buy the stuff, load it all up and ship it to them (super cheaply as the cargo containers that just unloaded our "reformulated goods" need to return to China anyway)...but still, it's pretty darned ingenious if you ask me.

Hearing this got the gears in my head turning faster than my little fingers flipping through the pages of my handy-dandy blog notebook looking for the first unwritten page so I could write this all down on before I forgot all about it. What other people could I possibly think of who have gotten rich on things we ordinarily take for granted...and then, more importantly, what HASN'T anyone thought of I could parlay into fast cash without much input involved?

Like the "Unclaimed Baggage" people in Scottsboro, Alabama. Who would have thought airlines and airports would sell all the stuff people forgot, lost or otherwise never saw again...to you - if you were the first to ask. And, undoubtedly, some guy in Alabama thought of asking. I can envision it going something like this: "Hey, y'all wanna jus' git ridda all that there junk takin' up space in Hangar #4? (Spit tobacco juice here.) I could maybe see my way fit to buyin' it all from y'all fer a coupla bucks." (And all the airline "tie-men" laughed at the supposed 'country bumpkin hick from Alabammy' as he loaded it all on his truck with his two kids.) Then he sold it for a few bucks more at his store until Oprah told everyone about it on her show and then the prices skyrocketed...so now it's not really worth the trek to Scottsboro anymore...so I don't go anymore. But that doesn't stop countless others from continuing to make this guy rich beyond his wildest dreams...and just like the movie says, "If you build it they will come"...he did and they did...and they still do. And what became of those "tie-men" from the airlines? Oh, I suppose they're still kicking themselves because they didn't think of it first.

Now, how easy was that?

My reply to the above query, "almost as easy as eBay"...which, of course, was a BRILLIANT idea. And I was even around when it first started...and well into my adulthood. WHY didn't I think of this??

But what's even easier than that?

Sitting on your butt back when the "Internet" was younger...thinking of domain names - you know, those "www.BlahBlahBlah.com" things? Back in the day, every single one was NOT taken - and people who were willing to sit on their butts all day and register all the OBVIOUS ones turned around and sold them at a profit later on. And what a profit! Do you have any idea what Drugs.com sold for? Well, a LOT. But not as much as Business.com. That one went for a whopping $8 million. Drugs.com sold for a "paltry" $800,000+ (see the list here) - almost not worth the time to send that domain registering place that $20 a year check to register it...NOT! Certainly there is ONE name out there that isn't taken yet which I can gobble up and then promptly sell to some "daddy-bought me as a present for my 20th birthday" lunatic fringe company for the equivalent of what Bill Gates pulls in for one minute...which I could then subsequently retire off of and live out the rest of what's left of my pathetic little life. But EVERY single time I look for anything...ANYTHING...it's always taken. Hmmmm...in fact, THE only one that ISN'T taken is www.HumorMeOnline.com. Well, actually - it IS taken, but it's taken by ME.

So if someone out there has a bunch of money they'd like to be separated from...I've got some primo Internet property for ya...and I'd be willing to sell it "cheap". Hey, China! I've got a website you might be interested in...even comes complete with some recycled comedy ideas and everything. ;)

"Security" Issues

Here's another office story...brace yourselves.

I knew I had to do this eventually. Whoever it was who came up with the saying "there's only two things in life that are certain: death and taxes" forgot to factor in "sitting in a Social Security Administration office at least once in your lifetime."

Well, I've been in there a few times...mostly taking my mother there (she swore she'd never drive as long as my father were alive...she kept that promise...so I had to drive her) - so I knew all too well what awaited me behind those doors.

The "take a number...we'll be with you sometime before you die" mentality. The chairs all sitting in a big lobby as if we all came to watch some movie on a screen...only there never was a screen, not even a television. The same inevitable talk that you'd either be privy to overhearing or initiate yourself...which kinda goes like this: "...if I would have known it was going to take this long, I would have gotten something to eat first. How long? I've been here since 11:00..." The requisite squirming and subsequent straightening out in their "more uncomfortable than sitting on a cinderblock" chair, like a school kid seeing the teacher oogling them as they just walk in. "Well, I guess I'm in here for a while." Long pause...long sigh...long wait.

Then the "deli-style" barking of the numbers..."Number 31". You know your number isn't next and it conjures up images of that scene in "Beetle Juice" where Michael Keaton is sitting there with an 8-digit number and the headhunter guy next to him has '3'. You know '31' isn't your number...you know your number isn't even next, but everyone still looks down at theirs just the same...hoping their number will somehow magically turn into the next one to be called. It never happens.

The three numbers in a row they will call to which no one responds. The first...you look around and scan the room, as if you have some vested interest in this somehow. You do in a way, I guess. They call the number after...again, no one shuffles off in their direction to be claimed like the waiting baggage we are all meant to be felt like...and by this time you start getting this wickedly ingenious plan in your head. "I COULD say I had that ticket but lost it somewhere on my way to my 'hard as a brick' seat...and by the time I realized it was gone, I had to take another." But you don't...as you have visions of being pummeled by four 75-year-old women sporting muscles as buff as Schwarzenegger's in "Conan the Destroyer" from carting their eco-friendly car-sized purses for years. Years, like it seems you've been waiting for your number to be called. So, you sit...steadfast, hoping this calling of absent ticket-holders will continue but you know it can't - there were 47 people here before you - and more coming in who have to lean against a counter or wall because the people who brought their kids aren't courteous enough to tell them to "double up" in a seat or sit on their laps so the frail 82-year-old guy with the oxygen tank could sit down. "They" were, after all, there first...why should they relinquish their precious chair?

So, now the next form of "entertainment" commences. You look around the room and make a mental note of everyone who has been there before you and everyone who came after...but most of all, you make that all-important "pen on ink" permanent mental note of the people who came in just two steps before you did. You HATE these people...if only you would have leaped out of your car faster, walked a little quicker, parked instead of circling around three times, or didn't hold the door open for them thinking they would gallantly let you pick your number before them when you both got inside. But they didn't. They never do. All's NOT fair in love and war and waiting in any type of line.

One by one people get up and new ones take their still warm vacant seats...but you have them all memorized. You know there is some order in this chaos...you could retell this order by rote to anyone who asked...you know it so well by now. You might not remember your kids' birthdays or where you put your car keys...but by gosh, you know every single person's ranking in this theatre-sized room. And with each passing call and disappearing voice which mumbles "finally", you know it's only a matter of time. Too much time...but time, nonetheless.

Cut to present-day....

My dealings with this antiquated system of yore was pleasantly replaced with a computer that sported "choices"...unbelievable as it may seem. Yes, the Social Security Administration was actually allowing ME an option. Were they serious?

I quickly eyeballed the candidates as it were - laid out before me on this germy computer touch screen...and as I only needed a replacement Social Security card, I pushed that button. Out came a ticket with not only a number, but also an assigned mysterious sub-category letter. This surely was going to put some serious strain on my mental tracking ability now. I was no card counter in Vegas...this was impossible...I was way beyond my element. But I had one more trick up my sleeves: I brought my notebook and pen to write all about my ungodly wait, my "certainality" of catching something along the lines of Ebola by the ubiquitous unruly children who were NEVER taught to cover their mouths or turn their heads when they spewed out a volcano of toxicity rivaling anything any baking soda and vinegar experiment - each and EVERY time they sneezed. Their equally disaffected parents who did the same, smearing nasal drippings of their own on the same exact seats they wouldn't give up just minutes before...and minutes after. They surely weren't going to care if you caught some nasty contagiant-type crud from them, let alone their kids - that even the CDC would feel reluctant to swab wearing a hazmat suit. My daughter and I moved seats twice.

So, pen in hand, I started writing, confident this was still going to take the better part of the afternoon...even thought I had already printed and filled out their handy online forms the night before.

And, just as always, people's number were called who never responded...people walked in and leaned against the counter and walls for lack of a given up chair from the seven kids who had laid stake to them but never occupied them...as any and all public places are undoubtedly a playground to them...complete with "dining facilities" on the floor. Go ahead...pick up your cracker or pacifier...it only fell on the dirtiest, nastiest germ-ridden floor since, well, since that gob of stuff you sneezed out all over Mrs. Simms and her kid when she was sitting near you just a minute ago. Never mind the sign which clearly states "No Food or Drink Allowed Inside". A person who can't decipher a Bingo-style number such as "A23" spat out by the computer when they first arrived - can't be expected to read signs that must be made for OTHER people than themselves anyway. Sigh...that's a whole other blog there.

But...imagine my delight, when in a roomful...and yes, I mean FULL of people - I only made it to the second paragraph of this lengthy story before I was called.

I proceeded to turn in my ready-at-hand paperwork and was literally "out the door" before the bottled water in my car cup holder turned that undrinkable lukewarm temperature...not unlike the reception I received from the office worker; but then again, in all fairness, I was probably the 309th person he waited on that day...and it was only 1:00 p.m.

Tim Russert

I had finished writing a blog at the doctor's office which I started a week or so ago...and was intending to post that up tonite. Usually my blogs are tongue-in-cheek, hopefully somewhat amusing and/or funny, often times cynical, and more or less of the "lighter" variety. This isn't one of those blogs. I HAD to write this...I have been crying now for the last hour or so after coming home from another trip to the doctor and about the 7,019th trip to Fresh Market. While in line, I remember the two older ladies in front of me having a conversation...one said something to the other which went something like this: "Today's Friday the 13th...I don't believe in that 'something bad is going to happen today' thing they say...nothing bad ever happens on Friday the 13th." So, after I came home and put away the groceries I signed online...and she just couldn't be more wrong.

Tim Russert has died.

I, like many others, was completely shocked upon reading this news. My heart just sank...tears welled up in my eyes, my daughter asked what was wrong...I told her. She, having seen him a few times on television...well, I could see her hold back her own tears. Whether they were sympathetic tears because I was crying or because she understood what a hole this man leaves behind - I don't know.

This man was so down-to-earth, so witty, so patient, so incredibly humble. I remember each time he would relate a story of his father, his face just glowed...he loved him so...he was never more proud as when he spoke of the book he wrote for and about his father, Big Russ & Me. This affection wasn't an act...he loved his family - he was beaming each time that subject came up...you could tell these people meant the world to him, it was conveyed in his words and his whole body language also told it.

I could go on and on with adjectives to describe this man - intelligent, caring, sympathetic, empathetic, compassionate, passionate...the list literally does not stop...and there are no bad adjectives that come to mind. Seriously, how many times can you think of someone and not think of ONE unfavourable word to describe them? I would say, from my own personal viewpoint, it's very rare indeed...but this is one of those times and he was one of those people.

He was, without a doubt, a class act.

I always remember, in cases such as these, a quote from Al Stewart's song, "Post World War II Blues" in which he sings, "I can still remember the last time I cried...The day that Buddy Holly died...I never met him, so it may seem strange...Don't some people just affect you that way" - and that about sums it up for me. I never met the man, I would have loved to have known him...the world is a much better place to have had him in it. What a legacy he leaves behind. He will be missed by so many.

My thoughts and prayers go out to his family and friends. God bless you, Tim.

Blogs Transferring Over

I am going to start moving the blogs I do over at the Montgomery Advertiser's new website over to here as, over there, you have to log in and register in order to read and comment on my blogs. While I would appreciate it very much IF you did that, it's the only way they see if (and how many people read these things) - I feel that I have lost readership because people cannot search and find my blogs as they are in a whole different blogging system.

So, I am going to try (I stress TRY) to remember to post one new (old) blog up here from there each nite.

Please feel free to comment, nice or negative things, as I really would appreciate the feedback. Yes, I live on feedback.

Thank you...

Mariann

My Mother's Day Card...to My "Mumzie"

I don't care how bad it makes me look...I'll never buy my Mumzie another Mother's Day Card...as long as I live...ever. Yes, we had a falling out of sorts...she left me. I didn't do anything wrong, and still she left. I begged, I pleaded, I prayed so hard...and still she left. You see, it was "her time", but no one bothered checking with me to see if it was MY time to let her go. If there is one thing I've learned from my stay on Earth, it is that I am indeed a selfish being. She had the choice to "go" and "be with God" or "stay with me"...and I wanted so much for her to spend more time with me. A year, a season, a month, even a single precious day. I needed her...I still need her. I miss her with all my being...luckily I know where the letters on the keyboard are located...they've been veiled in tears since about the middle of the first sentence.

I am sentimental - I have a house full of her things...things she would buy me from the antique shops because she knew I liked them. Our conversations would go a little like this: Me: "Ooooh, that desk is so beautiful." Her: "I knew you'd like it...it's yours...I only bought it for you." You see, my mother never wanted to "will me things" so she'd never see my reactions, she chose instead to give me items which would cause me satisfaction (while she was alive) so she could see the joy and happiness it brought me. She always said "I want to see your happiness...the look on your face when I give it to you...so take it, take it now...what good is it to wait when it can give you pleasure already, which also pleases me." I miss my little presents. I miss seeing just what glorious thing ('worthy' or worthless) would be bestowed upon me at my slightest "ooooh". But most of all, I miss my mother, or "Mumzie" as I had called her since I was a child...and we both knew the thing which made her happiest was making ME happy...and, my, she certainly delighted in giving me things. She will always be my Mumzie, and God-willing I will always have "her things" around to remind me of her...to remind me of the conversations we had about this and that, the talks reminiscing back to her own childhood which she loved to share with me; when I think about it, she probably loved to share those memories more than any tangible thing. Those I have stored up in a sort of box...that I keep in my head...and anytime I want I can unlock that box and unfurl a memory as if it was a precious historical document or banner. And in a way, each one is...as priceless as "The Constitution", the "Magna Carta", or "The Declaration of Independence"...to me.

And I know sometimes there's a bit of "yellowing" at the edges...the facts aren't firsthand and I might get some details wrong now and then...but within me they reside and are alive...alive as any of those memorized books in Ray Bradbury's classic, "Fahrenheit 451". In Bradbury's famous literary work, a dystopian society which burns all their books - the great masterpieces are literally forced to come alive through people in order to live on. My mother's are but a history emblazoned in my memory that I really should put down to paper...stories that are burning to get out. There is no other way to "keep them alive" in Bradbury's "world"...and, in a way, there is no other way for my mother's memories to live on either. I am, literally, the keeper of her flame.

So, it will be a sad and bittersweet Mother's Day for me, and for many others of you who have lost your own Mothers...but I know mine is still with me...and God granted her the good fortune to have her health, her wits, and definitely more energy than I've ever mustered up in a day - until the end. I can feel her presence with me each and every day - it's very hard to put into words - but I know she is here looking over me, and in a way, a part of her is in me, through DNA or some type of biological/mental transfer - I honestly think we are all connected in more ways than of just the flesh. There's a permanence which continues beyond - and perhaps the only bonds of that permanence is love. And that love doesn't stop once the being ceases to walk as mere mortals do...it merely walks with us even if we, with our foolish Earthly follies, continue to rush in where angels fear to tread.

So, from my heart to you, my dear, dear Mumzie...I wish you a very wonderful Mumzie's Day. Always.

With Love,

Your Bestest-Most Daughter Who Loves You So Much...Me

(Yes, this is the silly way I would sign my Mother's Day cards...why change now?)

New Blogger Links

Well, the people at the Montgomery Advertiser are refurbishing their website and, unfortunately, these blogs do not automatically carry over. The new link for the blogs to come is here...

...or here - if you want to just read my own blog: Blogged Down at the Moment

I believe they are in the "beta" mode - so hopefully they will look more "eye-catchy" later on.

Anyway, that's where my new posts will be going if you want to continue reading them.

Thank you -

Mariann

No news...

...is not necessarily good news. Been waiting for some word on this, but no one has said anything, and I'm not the only one who is baffled as to why.

Now that I've hopefully raised your curiosity factor...my blogumn will follow tomorrow.

Oh...and it will be about good and bad news. Stay tuned.

Reading isn't always fundamental...

"Read the book!" "But did you read the book?" "I've read the book and..."

These are just a few of the comments I'll find when perusing the comments on the Internet Movie Database's (IMDb) forum whenever I go there...which happens a lot. My routine is pretty straightforward and simple: 1) Start to play movie; 2) Open up the IMDb to read who is playing which role; 3) Rejoice because I knew who the guy who says three words of dialogue was indeed in that episode of "Frasier" (or any other minute bit part) - gotta love IMDb; 4) As credits roll...look up trivia, goofs and comments for the film. I don't deviate from the routine...that's what a routine is there for...and in this case, deviating would be...well, devastating.

There is a thing out there in filmland known as "the spoiler"...and if you are no stranger to film-talk, you know exactly what I'm talking about...if you don't have a clue, read on...and if you do, read on as well. Sure, you will see many variations: "Spoiler alert" "Here be spoilers" "Warning: Spoilers"...but they essentially all mean the same: "Don't read any further if you haven't seen the film because we are about to give away an integral part of the film. Don't say we didn't warn you."

Most people are cautionary when you delve into the forays of filmdom...some aren't, for whatever reason they prattle off some little detail, oh, say...like the ending of the film and before you know it...you know the end of the film. I don't know about you, but I like to have my ending at the end where it belongs and not told to me by some guy who doesn't realize the courtesy of the spoiler...or who just wants to ruin it for everyone on purpose. Consequently, that's why I don't read any of the comments made by people until AFTER the film has ended...which brings me to my initial thought...

WHY do so many people insist on telling people that they should have "read the book"? "Oh, you'd understand why he did that if you woulda read the book"..."They made it clear why he did that IN THE BOOK"..."Well, did you read the book...because I read the book and they did it differently in the movie...I think it was better in the book because..."

If I wanted to read the book...I wouldn't have WATCHED THE DARN FILM! (This blog is for the Montgomery Advertiser's newspaper, so I am keeping content "clean"...otherwise I would have said "damn".)

And it seems to me that the people who even read the book aren't even 'on the same page', so to speak.

Let me elucidate a little...

I recently watched "No Country For Old Men"...and true to my own "rules"...I didn't read anything on the forum/trivia/goofs part of the IMDb...because of my reasons mentioned above. But after the film, (which, I won't give anything away here if you haven't seen it) I wanted to see if anyone had similar thoughts...like mine...so I went over to the comments portion.

Now, granted, there are intelligent, middle-of-the-road, and stupid people out there on the film forum as there are anywhere in society. Being in any one of these groups doesn't necessarily curtail anyone from speaking their mind...even when they fall into the third category and there is very little of it doing the talking. Be that here nor there...I welcome reading opinions across the board...I am not certain where I fit in - in my "tri-angle" of types I mentioned...I'd like to think I would fit in the upper-middle part, but I'm not very sure when I start reading comments. Sometimes I think I'm in the fourth realm I didn't mention..."total genius". Other times I am in the fifth: "total bumpkin".

For this film I felt kinda like a moth who had been spat back out of a cat's mouth, lost its wing dust, and was just spiralling blindly toward any light...but smacking into everything else in its path instead. I think I wasn't so much "going toward THE light" on this movie, because I clearly was NOT being illuminated by anything anyone said there.

People analyzed and sub-analyzed and even tho they all professed to reading the same exact book and hearing the same comments out of the Coen brothers' mouths...they all saw things differently. I couldn't help but think of that story of the blind men and the elephant...one feels the tail and thinks it is a rope, another feels the trunk and thinks it's a tree branch, etc. Each one "sees' the movie and interprets it differently...but no one is more right that the other. Only here...no one wants to admit they possibly could be wrong...or didn't see the "whole part".

What I did get was a whole lot of conjecture about a film that no one could see eye-to-eye on, altho the majority of the ones disagreeing with the others all claimed to have read the book. No one was on that "same page". "The nuances were lost"..."no they were there"..."no, they weren't there"..."they were in the book!" "I read the book"..."I read the book, too"..."I read the book better than you"..."I saw the film more clearly." "I talked to a guy who knew Joel Coen's barber's sister's friend...whose brother's cousin dated in him in high school...so I know better than you!" "Well, yeah...and uh...I read the book...TWICE...so there!"

It was pointless.

All I could deduce from the whole thing is that I didn't think Javier Bardem's character was creepy...but then again I never thought Anthony Hopkins in "Silence of the Lambs" was "all that" either. For all out demented creepazoid I still think Dennis Hopper in "Blue Velvet" had them all beat...but then again, come to think of it, I never did read any comments about THAT film. Nor did I read the book...was there even a book? But...I have heard the song from Bobby Vinton...so let me tell you what I think David Lynch REALLY meant by that whole "ear" thing...

Hmmm....

Blogumn to Come

I plan to get another blogumn up tomorrow...I have an idea and it's getting too late to think correctly enough under Ambien influence to arrange the words in the correct order...let alone put the letters in the right order so they will indeed resemble words.

Hopefully those words which are floating around in my head tonite will manifest themselves in an entertaining order tomorrow...and I can once again feel the sense of a very slight accomplishment, as it were, in comparison to the much greater deeds many people perform in much more timely fashions than I.

Monopo...leeze!

Just shoot me now - they came out with "Electronic Banking Monopoly".

Yes...I guess the antiquated method of actually having your kids COUNT out money by 1s, 5s, 10s, etc., has gone the way of the dinosaur and home-cooked meals. Okay, okay, I know people DO cook dinner - but I did read a statistic, by the people who do statistics, which said the "average" family gets food elsewhere (rather than making it at home) three days a week. I also know that some people actually use real money once in a while...because I do.

So, I'm sitting here watching Alton Brown's "Good Eats" show on the Food Network (yes, notice the deliberate tie-in above)...and they show this commercial with this irritating little girl who rattles off some incomprehensible dialogue before I can understand her boasting that she does "everything totally fast" - even playing, and winning (the arrogant little twit)...Monopoly. Um...take my word for it sweetie, I've played Monopoly in my youth...'fast' is not an adjective I'd use to describe it. Anyway...thanks to the miracle that is TiVo (yes, I'm being overtly hypocritical in a way here) - I call my son out to witness this heinous "don't fix it if it ain't broken" abomination for himself, who then proceeds to proclaim, "Uh...wasn't that the POINT of Monopoly...counting up your money?"

Apparently the powers that used to be 'Milton Bradley' (MB)...decided to kowtow to the text messaging crowd and make an electronic banker board version of Monopoly complete with a credit/debit card swiper. I have some news for them: If your child is texting away on their cellphone chances are they AREN'T going to play a board game...no matter how many whistles and bells you throw on it. You'd figure they would have hired someone for some outrageous amount of electronic cash to do a study on this before they plunked down some more plastic-transacted money to churn out these games.

I can hear the kids at Christmas now..."Wow...an electronic Monopoly game! Who wants to be the banker?" "Whaddya mean there IS no banker?" Granted, maybe there IS a banker...but what's the point? And just how are you supposed to steal your friend's money when they go off to the bathroom or slip yourself $500 when you ARE the banker...now? What's the point of playing when you are a kid with real fake money if there IS no money?

So much for my unborn grandchildren's dream of finding a game of Monopoly in the attic of the house they just moved into with actual real money in it so I can live off of them until I die. Well, here's to 'MB' making the "pull the plug on Grandma" version of 'Life' to put me out of my misery.

"Pavlov's" Cats

Here's a totally hypothetical situation: You have a cat...everything is well and fine until you make the mistake one day of buying him a nifty little packaged container, which holds about as much as a half bottle of Coke...only what's inside is virtually "kitty cocaine"...the dubiously infamous "cat treat". Now, cat treats are in a league all their own...they come in little magically shaped containers, usually with a little lid on them of some sort and with strict instructions on the package to not feed your kitty more than five to seven of these a day. Honestly, they look like glorified cat food to me...but I'm just a lay person...what do I know of cat treats and cat treat production. Some tout on their packaging they take care of dental decay...others mention tartar control, some are organic, some are eco-friendly, some stimulate the finicky eater, and yes, some seem to nearly stop short of saying they make kitty's breath "kissible fresh". But - they all have one thing in common. A package of these things, which is typically 3-4 oz, will set you back about $2-4 on average. Well, that's a fair bunch of change to chunk down when you realize a bag of cat food on that scale would end up costing (on the average) $48 for a 3 lb bag. When you put it into those terms...it starts all making astronomical sense. Treats are big business.

I have mentioned it before that I have lots of cats...yes, we do...lots. And our cats, not unlike anyone else's cat, love those treats. Just shake that container and they come from the east, west, north and south...they literally crawl out of the woodwork to jockey for cat treat position.

They also each have their own ways of eating these things. One of our cats, Todd, will use the self-serve approach...he will stick his paw into the container and literally help himself. The others are much more demure...they wait until you shake them out to get them. A couple will take them from your hand...most would rather you put them down first so they can retrieve them themselves. One in particular, Barbie, picks them up and swallows them whole. I wonder how much dental cleaning consuming them that way can be taken care of...probably not much.

So, that got me wondering...hmmmm...what would happen if I just kept the nifty plastic treat container replete with lid after it was empty and just toss in common everyday "ho hum...THAT again" cat food in it instead. Yes, ladies and gentlemen...I have, in essence, replaced my kitties' "Folgers Crystals" with plain old ordinary "coffee"...let's see if they notice the difference. Absolutely...let me clear my throat here....a resounding absolutely NOT. My cats scamper around for plain old ordinary "turn my nose up at it otherwise" dry bits of same old, same old, boring cat food as if they have all somehow mutated and were now French pigs rooting for truffles. The only scientific conclusion to all of this: Packaging, packaging, packaging!

It doesn't matter what you put INTO the empty cat container once your cat has been acclimated to having cat treats pouring out from that "canister of happiness"...just seeing the cat canister has them salivating like Pavlov's dogs - and had Pavlov the sense to use cats instead of dogs the booming cat treat industry might never got its paws off the ground. But it has and in a big way. It's not just the isolated treat dotted around here and there, there are large sections of shelves devoted to stocking these yummies...and yes, we still go in once in a great while, when they are on sale...and plunk down a smaller fortune to buy a really good one. A really good container that is...because we will be reusing it for quite some time. Not that cats aren't smart...they know full well the same food from the cat bowl is inside of it...but they also know that you've never made such a fuss and hand-fed them bowl food before...and they are going to surely take advantage of this situation. They are probably laughing hysterically at you when you leave the room..."Can you believe she ACTUALLY pulled them out, one by one, and handed them to us??? What a moron our owner is...look, she's coming back...let's see if we can make her do it again, this is hilarious..."

Luckily the cats and I have this symbiotic relationship with the cat treat container...I would hate for any of us to look the fool...but I am absolutely sure, since I'm the one chucking out money for their food...regardless what container(s) I transfer them into...the cats do rather have the upper paw. Oh well...c'est la vie des chats!

A Would-be Writer Rejoices and then Laments...Yet Again

Call me "Lucifera Hikock". Why? I'm getting to that part...just be patient.

Shakespeare once posed the question "What's in a name?" Well, old-time Hollywood apparently thought "a lot"...and so did countless writers, from Mark Twain to George Eliot to Diablo Cody...which brings us right back to Hollywood and the Academy Awards this past Sunday night.

You might not recognize her by her given name, but Brooke Busey did something I, and countless other people, would love to do one day: She won the Oscar for "Best Original Screenplay". The name she uses is "Diablo Cody" and that film was "Juno".

Now, before I start being perceived for being all "catty" like apparently all women are...according to all women and 90% of men...I'm not being catty...I'm being tongue-in-cheek. It's not my fault this woman was once a stripper, sports more ink on her than Cher and Tommy Lee combined, probably sold her soul to the devil to get her script published and now even bears his name, and makes it perfectly clear to all that "this devil" won't wear Prada...well, Stuart Weitzman to be exact...but she CAN wear Dior. See? Sounds catty, but it's not.

I salute her.

If she can do what she did...perhaps she can open doors for others who want to, but don't want to do what she did before she did it...in order to do it. Confused yet? Actually, it's not my job to confuse you...in fact I don't even have a job...but here I sit anyway, banging away on my laptop, writing a blog only a handful of people will ever read - hoping one day to get that elusive proverbial break.

I'll admit I have no studio contacts in Los Angeles, I don't have an agent and no one in Hollywood would ever give me an opportunity to write no matter how many of my clothes I remove...actually, they might give me one just to STOP me from taking any off...but that's not the point here. The point is there are female writers out there who CAN write...for heaven's sake; three of the five nominees in the "Best Original Screenplay" category were women! That's basically my point. Hollywood, across the board, really needs to give more women opportunities...but, especially so as writers.

And Diablo Cody didn't get this award because she once was a stripper or uses a nom de plume that conjures up a wild west demon...she got it because she DESERVED it.

But...just in case I'm wrong and someone from Hollywood is indeed reading this blog...I have this nifty pen name I came up with...

A Trick of the Eye

I'm sure this has happened to everyone at some time...you catch a partial glimpse of a word with another following it, underneath it, etc., and you have to do a double-take as you think it says something completely different from what it is, most often enough, pretty risque...or totally nonsensical. This story centers around one such happenstance specifically.

I first did this a year or so ago travelling down Route 231 driving from Montgomery back to my house when out of the corner of my eye I see a little strip mall with about four or five stores in it...and one named, or what I spied it as, "PRECISION CRAP". I did that little "whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis" head thing and, of course, the word was not "CRAP", but "CPAP"...which, I know even less about than the other...but, naturally, I made a mental note to look up what "CPAP" was when I arrived home, which, even more naturally, I forgot to do on several dozen such subsequent trips.

But that didn't stop me from remarking to myself, and then, on later excursions, to my children, that had I ever really wanted a brilliant marketing ploy...naming a store "Precision Crap" would be sure to bring in a buttload of people...yes, pun intended. I'm not one to buy whoopee cushions or gag items from mall stores to give to my friends when they get married...but you can bet your as...(oh, that's just too easy)...let's just say you can bet more than a few dollars I would have sauntered into that store by now had the name actually been that. And who could blame me...and who wouldn't do the same?

Face it...the curiosity factor alone would (not to mention the overflowing parking lot from others with the same inclination as I) have gotten me to double back to take a looksie inside to see just what crap they are selling and why it is so precise. Would it actually BE bathroom items? Could it be a stool gauge? (Yes, someone out there is selling these...or at least I think they are.) Or is it more of the "difference between a 5/16 inch wrench and a metric one nearly identical in size" preciseness? How about those little metal slidey gap devises they put between that bent doodle of your spark plug and the plug itself kinda things? I mean, SOMEONE has to sell them...whatever they are called...and they ARE pretty precise. But a whole store devoted to those? Nah...I bet they'd have shelves and shelves of stuff LIKE that, or nothing like that...but precise nonetheless.

And who wouldn't want to buy at least something from the store so they could show their friends the bag with the words "Precision Crap" meticulously centered eight centimeters from each side, in exactly direct proportional pitched font to always, always maintain those measurements? They are, after all, THE precision crap specialists. They wouldn't get the big bucks for just approximate crap...anyone can do that...it takes nerves of 18/10 stainless steel to churn this stuff out consistently correct.

And speaking of being correct, I mentioned this whole incident to a friend, who knew exactly what a CPAP was...and I looked it up, and sure enough, he was right. They are masks to wear when you have sleep apnea...and when you suffer from that, you certainly don't want to take your chances at the "IMPRECISE CPAP" store...because, rest assured, their stuff IS crap.

A Play, With Words, In Three Parts

For your 'entertainment' I present...a "blogumn" in three parts (all basically read in the present tense):

Past:

Here I go to sit in yet another doctor's office - frantically showering, dressing and guzzling a glass of water before I proceed in my attempt to break the sound barrier in order to make it from my house to my destination in less time than is humanly possible without the intervention, or invention, of a time machine...unless I hit absolutely no lights, which I am sure the likes of Stephen Hawking NEVER add into their equations when formulating new theories.

Calculations aside, only being assisted by a wormhole, alien abducted or...perhaps...could it just be that nothing says "drive and determination" like driving WITH determination?

Past Present:

Suffice it to say - I made it there on time...and even managed to jump out of the elevator before my riding occupant, i.e., another lady, did. Yes, I am, in such cases, psychic...I just knew she'd go into the same office as me...and she did.

So, I filled out my form, same form as always - info never changes. Why they make you fill it out each time is anyone's guess; they just must like having something to shred at the end of the day. The shear bulk of my pre-shredded slips of paper over the years alone would undoubtedly have amounted to one "less than full-sun-given" scrub pine by now.

Enter my former elevator companion. "I'm sorry, but we ARE running late today...so it may be a while" the receptionist, outwardly begrudgingly...yet inwardly relishing, alerts her. Now those are fourteen words no patient wants to hear. Why...oh why can't they CALL you to let you know that you can indeed use the brake pedal en-route to your appointment? You know, they can put a man on the moon (or at least fake it well) but they can't call you on your cell phone to tell you they know full well it's going to be a LONG wait??? It's not like we are still in the days of Gilligan's Island...no Professor and a coconut phone. Wake up and smell the Venti Latte Decaf Two-Percent Sans Sugar...technology HAS progressed a bit, correct? Would a call kill these people? They could even write it down and shred it at the end of the day just to add to the pile of stuff from my life which gets tossed without so much as a sideways glance. Aren't I worth it? I mean, they still do take my checks and not just the number...so my paper heap must be worth at least a [parking] token...which, by the way, they don't dole out anymore so I have to park in Lower Slobovia when I park, thank you, Baptist South - Morrow Tower people.

Now, with notebook (I am presently writing in) in hand, I sauntered back up to the receptionist station..."Can I 'borrow' a pen?" I ask (all innocently). She looks up ever so slightly from her "look who is going to be inconvenienced today by sitting unnecessarily long at the doctor's office" appointment book, and proceeds to tell me that I can use either the purple or blue one. I go for the purple. (My daughter likes purple.) Ordinarily this would be a massive clue for the more astute "Agatha-Christie-types"...only someone with prior intent to abscond with a nifty "drug company freebie pen" would give a flying fig about the exterior colour it was...but no red flags were raised and I am now writing with my "newfound" pen. The tiny things in life keep me going...and this was by far one of the tiniest. Lo and behold, I am called in to see my doctor...MY doctor was on time...THIS time. Time to put away my notebook which is supposed to scream "Johnny Depp playing J.M. Barrie in 'Finding Neverland'"...yes, take note everyone sitting in this waiting room, for *I* have a notebook...I fancy myself on the writer's playing field of the guy who penned "Peter Pan". Sigh...I am such a dreamer. Wait...isn't that what that film was about??? Hmmm...ironic?

Present:

I gave my daughter a pen today. It was purple. I wouldn't say it was the cheapest present I've ever given her as it cost me $165.66 with back payments duly tendered. And, speaking of irony...I even had the audacity to write my check out with their...uh...strike that...MY daughter's pen!

Some High School Musings...Not That There's Anything Right With That

I was just thinking, reminiscing if you will, about my high school days. The impetus of this thought happened to be a blurb that was in my daughter's school's newsletter which stated something to the effect of "these are the students who haven't had any Class I infractions since the start of the school year"...and, she was, because she is so incredibly good, one of them. Which brought me, apparently, to this thought...why, I have absolutely no clue (that's just the way my mind works I guess)...

...when I was in high school, we had smoking breaks.

Okay, they weren't exactly "sanctioned" smoking breaks...but, nonetheless, we were allowed to smoke between classes.

Which called to mind some sayings which I found hilariously funny at the time (none of which I ever heard uttered...then OR now):

"There will be a five minute smoking break at the flagpole...guidance counsellors will be passing out matches in their offices beforehand for anyone who needs them."

"We 'frown upon' bumming smokes off the construction workers. The construction workers are the ones in the white hats and not wearing designated uniforms."

There was also one about "in back of the pod" and "Marlboro's" that I have since forgotten. Everything is funnier when you are saying it at three in the morning or in front of your kids at rapid fire pace...especially when you haven't eaten all day and had a Martini.

This, again, was not sanctioned at my school...but we did it anyway (we were so brazen back then): Who else my age remembers getting cigarettes from their teachers who were on duty to watch us kids during our lunch breaks outside? And why was it that shop teachers never had any problems with doling out smokes?

Ah...the good old days. No wonder I am the way the way I am. Endless thanks, Mr. Hollowell!

Oh, the things you will learn...

Things I've learned since posting my last blogumn:

When you use a 1980s "one hit wonder" group's name as the title of your last hat blog and then proceed to show your online friend their video on YouTube which you used to sing en route to nightclubs with your wacky friend when you were much, much, much younger...that song will stay with you the entire weekend. Don't believe me? I triple dog dare you to go here and defy the power of a jump-happy tune: "The Safety Dance". Don't blame me if you also do the ballerina/picture frame move with your arms whilst you pseudo-dance around singing it. Some things I refuse to be held responsible for creating.

When you make Chicken Vindaloo...you will walk around and be mesmerized by just how fun saying one word over and over can be. That one word which kept pouring out of my mouth with the resonant conviction of Citizen Kane's "rosebud", Marlon Brando's "Stella", Rocky's "Adrian", and Al Pacino's "Attica"...was my "vindaloo". Vindaloo, it seems, is pleasing to both the tongue and the ear at the same time, thereby racing to the top of my cerebral cortex to get its justly position in my brain's "word bank". I feel confident that Vindaloo, with all it's pleasantries, pushed a few of the other words out of my brain's "file folder". Vindaloo there and then became the current cuckoo bird of my wordbank memory and proceeded to toss a few less used verbiage right smack into the firing line of prions...my neurons never had a chance...there was nothing I could do. Then the coups de grâce...my friend on the phone who jestily asks "Oh, Vindaloo, huh?...like Little Cindy Vindaloo Who, who was no more than two?

It was then that I realized I could not readily smack or otherwise hurt or maim him...or at the very least stomp up and down on both their home and cellphone as they live in Texas...and I'm all the way over here. But that thought, in between "You can dance" stanzas, kept looking more and more like a good idea with each passing chorus.

Enter vindication: This same Texas friend who was responsible for me saying "Little Vindaloo Who/Little Cindy Vindaloo Who" and all permutations thereof, about 82,120 of them, proceeded to then bring to my attention that my previous blog comment "everything is on YouTube except my birth and that Joe Namath/Farrah Fawcett Noxzema commercial" was in effect, incorrect. "But, ha! What of the date?" I say in complete defiance of his accusation (because I like to be right). YouTube Date Input: 4 months ago...my blog's date: "I Just Don't Get It" - it is official, I am vindicated. Not only am I vindicated, the YouTube people undoubtedly read my blog, were incensed that clip wasn't there and that someone found out...and then promptly added it to TRY to cover their ineptitudinal tracks.

Ah...life is good once more...in fact...if we really so desired, we could, well..."We can dance if we want to..."

Men Without Hats

So, while I will remain obsessed with my new purpose in life: pinpointing the precise moment that hats fell out of favour with the motion picture industry, I have a theory which I think holds more water than a ten gallon hat.

The incidence of melanoma has increased exponentially in direct proportion with the decline of hat wearing. What?? It's true. This thought has been floating around in my head for years and to me it makes perfect sense. Without a brim blocking out ultraviolet light...the incidence of skin cancer has gone up. Oh, sure...you can argue that the ozone layer has been depleted thereby letting more harmful rays reach our collective heads to begin with. But I can then counter-argue that advances in medical science and higher self-awareness should cancel each other out and the line on the graph should remain relatively constant. But they don't.

Take in consideration these studies from the National Cancer Institute's website...I broke it down into five year increments from 1950-1994 (1950 was the earliest year I could retrieve figures) because the trend clearly is more dramatic when viewed in such short time frames...the figures literally jump right out at you. There is no denying the rate of skin cancer has risen sharply...and in such a relatively short period.

Melanoma of skin (white males - all ages) (Click the preferences to get other figures.)

I'm thinking there's more to it than just going out in the sun...it's the combination of going out in the sun without a hat. We aren't working outside as much as we used to, sunblock usage has gone up and so has our overall knowledge of the subject in general...common knowledge would dictate these figures should be declining instead of escalating. While one could argue that years ago people died of melanoma but the cause of death was attributed to something else, I would surmise that only a small portion of doctors back then would not have recognized advanced melanoma.

So, I will stick to my hat theory and hope someone in the medical community uncovers these facts...and then perhaps we'll finally get a national cover-up we can all look forward to for a change.

Hats In Film

It's no secret that I like watching old films...I've liked them since I was a little girl, I will, in all probability, continue to like them until I die.

The dialogue was usually wittier back then even though they do throw in a 'Bourne' film once in a while to show everyone they can still WRITE dialogue. Films now seem to rely on unbelievable special effects to get their point across at the obvious abandonment of any type of plotline. Sometimes there is no plot...just a series of one fight/car chase/pyrotechnics/obligatory boob shot after another. Yes...we know you have a nice CGI team...your action sequences are great, but let's not sacrifice art for the sake of a sale. Let's stop relying on this high tech compensation for your obvious lack of script prowess. You, Hollywood, are suffering from projectile dysfunction.

Now, I'm not saying that every single movie falls into this category...but a good many of them seem to try to dazzle you with cinematographic brilliance and nothing more. I just watched "Ghost Rider" the other nite...did this film even HAVE a plot? Did "Mission Impossible 3"? What they did have was a whole bunch of CGI fluff disguised as plotline if you ask me.

Don't get me wrong, I loved the 'Bourne' films...the first one more than the other two...but I loved them. What I loved about them was the fact that they weaved a plausible plotline into believable action sequences without the sacrifice whatsoever of dialogue. AND the dialogue wasn't so highbrow to make you feel like you were a complete moronic idiot...i.e., I could follow along without bringing a "Covert Subversive-English" dictionary with me to watch the movie.

Now, back to the original point I had (and I stress the word "had" as I've gotten off my original point entirely)...movies like "His Girl Friday" and "It Happened One Night" had brilliant dialogue...they also had something else movies lack today: Hats.

Hats, both men's and ladies' have gone the way of the dinosaur in a very short period of time. I have been wondering this for ages...just what happened in our history to totally wipe hats off the face of the Earth? I did some research on the matter and some blame John F. Kennedy because he didn't wear one, then other men followed suit (no pun intended)...and just like in "It Happened One Night" when men saw Clark Gable not wearing an undershirt...sales of these items plummeted. Jackie's pillbox hat, on the other hand, became an instant national necessity. So you could argue that while her husband's style evoked one mannerism, hers did quite the opposite...so I'm not too sure how that all works out in the end...and for the sake of this blogumn, I'm going to stick with movies and things of that ilk.

Watch any "I Love Lucy" episode and you will see a various cornicopia of hats if you will. There might not have been any money to get an apartment with more than three rooms, but, by golly, she must have had a closet in that place the size of Grand Central Station to house all those hats. A few episodes even centered on hats...or at least the buying, wearing, salivating over, and generally obsessing about them.

Hats in old films can also sometimes be incorporated into the script as a whole comedy piece. Take "The Awful Truth" with Cary Grant and Irene Dunn...well, you couldn't work a good 15 minutes of sight gags, dog tricks, and man-hiding-in-the-bedroom antics without them. Try that nowadays and it just wouldn't work. Drama sometimes also relies on clever "hat-in-hand" movie magic to engage their audience. Alfred Hitchcock's "Rope" begs the question...what DOES one do with a wayward monogrammed hat when you've already conveniently hid the body? I'll tell you what...you get found out by an astute hat-wielding James Stewart.

The hat, be it men's or women's...was a wardrobe accessory worn by both the rich and the poor...it was ubiquitous. You didn't have to wear a three piece suit in order to don one...Art Carney proved that in "The Honeymooners"...so it was clearly an established necessity in blue and white collar workers alike.

And just think of a whole portion of Hollywood without hats...just what would the massive movie musical have been without Fred Astaire crooning about "puttin' on his top hat", without Carmen Miranda's extravagant fruit-laden ones, without Minnie Pearl's price tag-adorned one, without Buster Keaton's porkpie one, and the derby so synonymous of Charles Chaplin?

But when exactly did people stop wearing hats in film, in real life and what, in my opinion, are the long-term ramifications? Well, I will attempt to enlighten you in my next hat blogumn next time.

Tippin' My Hat...

...in my next blogumn. I'll try to get around to it tonite sometime. It's still in my head and shouldn't come out this early. But stick around.