Saturday Morning Cereal: Third Bowl

Here we go with the Top 40 hits of the nation this week on American Top 40, the best-selling and most-played songs from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from Canada to Mexico. This is Casey Kasem in Hollywood, and in the next 3 hours, we'll count down the 40 most popular hits in the United States this week, hot off the record charts of Billboard magazine for the week ending...

That voice. Just hearing it me back and I am instantly a tweenager again, tuning in on my little clock radio for a three hour block on Saturday to listen to that voice take me through a countdown of the musical hits of the day. Probably flipping through my latest issue of Seventeen magazine and attempting to style my hair like Suzanne Somers on “Three’s Company." (Hey! Those double side ponytails were hot, man...) Trying to anticipate where my favorites would land; maybe hearing a song for the first time; singing along with everything.

American Top 40. Our link to music in the pre-MTV, pre-YouTube, pre-iTunes world. My Saturday afternoon entertainment.

Sure it was corny (anyone want to make a Long Distance Dedication? Bueller? Anyone?) and a little over the top (Casey was so darn earnest and dramatic) -- but c’mon... weren’t most things of that ilk during that time the same way?

The hits from coast to coast...

I didn’t tune in just for the music -- it was the stories, the trivia, the background facts that made the show for me. Even then, I had a thirst for pop culture knowledge and Casey Kasem always delivered.

I discovered just this week that a local station features a flashback program called “American Top 40: The 1970s” on the weekend. Dontcha know I’ll be tuning in -- a blast from the past that’s still in its pure, albeit probably edited form. Although I will probably be reading “People” or “Sports Illustrated” instead of “Seventeen” while I listen. But I bet I still try to figure out which song will be number one. Just like riding a bicycle -- some things you never forget.

Here are a couple of blast from the past treats, courtesy of YouTube:

Top Hits of the ‘70s, No. 10-9

Top Hits of the ‘70s, No. 8-7


Top Hits of the ‘70s, No. 6

Top Hits of the ‘70s, No. 5-4


Top Hits of the ‘70s, No. 3-2


Top Hits of the ‘70s, No. 1
(Note: Hair brush microphone is a necessity for this one)


And y’all -- don't forget... keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.

Sweet dreams are made of this? Really?

My pal Miss Attitude has a blog piece today which includes her admission that she has indeed had lewd thoughts about Steven Tyler. Now, while he’s not my cup of tea, the concept of lewd thoughts about unconventional figures is something that I’m very familiar with. Especially in my subconscious.

My conscious has its share of unconventional crushes: John Malkovich. James Carville (although after his continued asshatted comments during the DNC, I’m afraid our “break” might go on a little longer). Henry Kissinger.

However, it’s my subconscious that really has some interesting objects of affection...

Imagine if you will a lovely black marble bathroom. Spacious. Sleek and moneyed. The centerpiece: a deep step-down tub. Overflowing with foam and pheromones. I’m in the tub, glass of champagne by my side, candles making my skin look amazing. (Can I stage a sex dream or what...)

As if by a director’s command, the scene pulls back to follow my companion into the room -- he’s wearing a robe and all I can “see” in my dream at the moment is his back. He sheds the robe and climbs into the tub with me. Ahhhh...

Who, you must be asking, is this mysterious gent.

Why it’s Howard Hesseman, aka Dr. Johnny Fever.

Yikes.

I also had a dream back in the early ‘90s involving me, Al Gore, the Oval Office and the sturdiness of the presidential furniture there within. This was back in his uptight stiff dude (no pun intended... promise) phase, long before he evolved into the eco-rock star of today.

And then there was the dream where John Cleese and I were partners on a road rally through New Orleans. I’ve never quite sorted that one out.

Please tell me that I’m not the only one who has dreams like this.

I’m sure there are other tales of sleeptime fantasies that I’ve forgotten, but I think these few are enough to establish that my subconscious is one wacky piece of psychology. I keep waiting for Clooney to appear -- no such luck. Sadly. My subconscious just doesn’t know what it’s missing with that one...

Sweet dreams, y’all!

Thursday Thirteen. Hey, at least I tried...

For your amusement (hopefully): thirteen things I did instead of coming up with a decent and clever Thursday Thirteen list this week.

* Had a conversation with the bag boy in the grocery store about baseball, specifically the RAYS!

* Spent a morning at the salon to have a big purple highlighted chunk put in my hair.

*Tried to break my #*&)(*#% cell phone.

HATE that thing. Seriously. P.O.S. It’s never really worked right since I received it as a birthday present (which is a whole other story in itself.) I finally thought it was going to give up the ghost last weekend when the touchpad part stopped working. However, as I was literally pulling into the cell phone store, I checked it one more time. The S.O.B. was working just fine. All of a sudden. And I couldn’t justify getting a new one. Grrrrrr. So now I’m working on “accidentally” dropping it in the toilet. Or running it over with the car. I’ll keep you posted.

*Chatted with an aging hippy in the post office parking lot about the Convention this week. He saw my Obama sticker on the back of my car and immediately wanted to conversate about the election and Hillary and Michelle and wasn’t she great and Teddy and his swan song and how it’s been the greatest convention he's seen in a long time and thank goodness we have a great candidate and... Wouldn’t be surprised if the dude rubbed elbows with Dan Rather in Chicago in ‘68 -- that’s how fired up he was.

*Plurked. And plurked. Then plurked some more. If you are there, you know what I mean. * Addictive. And so much fun. It’s got to be a gateway drug to something -- I’m just not sure what.

* Discussed politics, football, baseball and family gossip with my dad on the phone. For an hour. He calls me on either his morning/afternoon commute. It’s a riot, as I am now to the point in my life, and he in his, where we just sort of let things like profanity fly and it’s OK. Apparently my grandma (Daddy’s mother) had a mouth like a sailor, so I come by it honestly.

* Did three loads of laundry. Whoopee. Don’t have to go out and buy new underwear. Hooray.

* Worked on getting stuff ready for my kiddo choir (4 & 5 year olds), which starts up again next week. And guess whose registration form was on the top of the pile that I picked on at church on Sunday... Conrad’s! Conrad (not his real name) is the darling (and I use that term with tongue implanted in cheek) child who has been known to wield rhythm sticks as weapons and goose Miss Jane during game time.

* Finished my contest essay on the topic of “What was the most important day in your life?” Whew. It’s not bad. And I wish I could share it here with y’all -- but there are rules about publication and I don’t want to tempt fate. But as soon as I can, I’ll throw it up here.

* Read the current issue of “Rolling Stone” -- actually, just the article on the 10th anniversary of “The Big Lebowski.” The Dude. Still abiding. And now I want a White Russian...

* Hung out with Will. We played on the keyboard; played cars; watched the Game Show Network; had a splash fight during bath time. Awesome.

* Downloaded torrents of the three most recent episodes of “Weeds.” Damn, does that show make me laugh. Kevin Nealon (“El Doug”) and Justin Kirk (“El Andy”) kill me.

* Laid out plans for my new sports blog project. I’m really excited about this... if I can figure out a way to implement everything I’m kicking around -- or at least half of my ideas -- it’s going to be something I can be proud of. And have fun with.

So there you are. See, I haven’t been slacking off. Really. Kinda. Maybe.

Serendipity

Forty-five years ago today, our world was changed.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered his passionate hallmark speech, commonly referred to as the "I have a dream speech."

Hope. Vision. Courage. Fortitude. Equality. Harmony. Peace.



The fact that the anniversary of this event falls on the very day that an African-American will deliver his acceptance speech to be the Presidential candidate of a major political party is giving me goosebumps and making me a bit teary eyed.

Poetical and beautiful.

And full of hope.

God bless America.

Talkin' 'bout my generation

I stand here today at the crosscurrents of that history -- knowing that my piece of the American Dream is a blessing hard won by those who came before me... All of us driven by a simple belief that the world as it is just won't do -- that we have an obligation to fight for the world as it should be.

And that is the thread that connects our hearts. That is the thread that runs through my journey and Barack's journey and so many other improbable journeys that have brought us here tonight, where the current of history meets this new tide of hope.

That is why I love this country.
~ Michelle Obama

My favorite cerebral sporting event started last night. The Democratic National Convention. Nice of it to follow so closely the end of the Olympics so that I wouldn’t have to go through Big Televised Event withdrawal.

I love watching the convention activity. The conceptual come to life in the form of exuberant delegates (dressed with an eye towards making a statement -- and not necessarily a fashion one, either) and passionate speeches. The spectacle. The pomp. The circumstance.

It’s one bigass ideological pep rally. Go Team! Let’s be the champions!

I watch these things with a biased eye. My mind is already made up regarding the candidate I’m supporting. Has been for a very long time, actually.

Horn Toot Alert: I got on board the Obama train right about the time he formed his exploratory committee in January 2007... check me out!

Given that predisposition, I tune in and observe the convention shenanigans only partially from an intellectual standpoint. I do like to soak up the rhetoric and the vibe. But, as I discovered last night, I watch primarily, at least this go-round, with my heart. My emotions.

At my core, deep inside where my basic essence resides, I am an idealist. A glass-half-full kinda chick. And intellectually, I know that many things that are bandied about are pure rhetoric and abstracts designed to set tone and hit people just where it’s all hitting me -- in the heart.

I know that this part of me is naive -- politics is never as noble as it is made out to be during such subjective showcases as party conventions. I’ve worked on enough political campaigns to understand how this shit really functions.

But just for a moment, I like to believe that it is. A noble beast. When someone like Teddy Kennedy speaks about this being “... a season of hope -- new hope for a justice and fair prosperity for the many, and not just for the few -- new hope.” my heart soars and my eyes fill with tears. Yes. This -- this is what I believe. What I cling to. What makes me tick.

Right now, I’m coupling that with the ah-ha realization that the next POTUS could be someone with whom I went to college. This is not my daddy's candidate. He's mine. Through and through.

This is my generation
This is my generation, baby

Barack and Michelle are my age -- Michelle is literally only a few months older than I.

They are my peers. I could have danced with Barack at a college frat party. Been project partners with Michelle in a class.

Our kids are close in age. Our pop cultural references are the same. Our historical context in terms of world events are the same.

My generation. Moving to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. (Yup -- there’s that optimism again.)

Wow.

This is my generation
This is my generation, baby

So pardon me if I hold onto that cloak of idealism just a little while longer. The time for practical action will come soon enough. Right now, it’s just nice to simply be inspired.

And this November the torch will be passed again to a new generation of Americans, so with Barack Obama and for you and for me, our country will be committed to his cause. The work begins anew. The hope rises again. And the dream lives on.
~ Senator Edward Kennedy

Summertime and the living was easy

Time for Tuesday Tunes, y'all!

Here's today's directive:
Google or use a photo from your collection of something that involves your summer. Then tell us what music figured in the most on your summer playlist this year.

Cannot believe that Labor Day is almost here -- the official end to the summer season. And even though here in Florida our temps will stay very tropical for a while longer, that laid-back, lazy, languid mood that permeates our souls during the summer is fading into fall where crispness and snappiness and a bit of sass hold court.

In honor of the passing of the seasonal torch, here are two of my favorite photos from this past summer:

Cousins and pals Will and my niece Miss P.


Will at a Rays game. GO RAYS! WHOOOO!
Notice the empty seats around him -- that's because we like to sit in what I call the CBA section = Can't Bother Anyone. Way up on the third level there is usually an abundance of seats and parents with kiddos like us take up residence there -- the kids have room to move and well, be kids and we grownups can watch the game from a pretty good vantage point. Plus there are potties and the concession stand right outside our area. It's perfect.

And here, courtesy of Imeem, is my playlist of the summer. These tunes were on heavy rotation 'round here. And in the car. And at the beach. I won't be able to hear any of them from now on without feeling a little virtual sand between my toes. So listen, enjoy and go ahead and move a little if you like -- no one's watching and I won't tell. Promise.

Cocktails at 7, Dinner at 8

"If you could have a dinner party for 10 guests...dead or alive who would you invite, what would you serve, how would you entertain the guests and what kind of discussions would take place?"

Hmmmm. Alrighty then.

After tinkering with this for most of today, in lieu of doing other ultimately more important tasks (such as laundry. Damn those clothes for not washing themselves.) here’s what I finally settled upon:

Guest List: The Ladies
Sprezzatura ~ my BFF and sister from another mother. Would never dream of having such a shindig without her.

Elizabeth I ~ Wouldn’t you love to know what made her tick...

Katherine Graham ~ A female newspaper publisher who oversaw the groundbreaking coverage of the Watergate incident. Don’t you know she would have some stories to tell...

Carole Lombard ~ She has always seemed like someone with whom I would want to be friends. Irreverent and blisteringly witty. Died way too soon, sadly.

Me. Duh.

Guest List: The Gents
My maternal grandfather, known to me as Daddy Pete. He died when Mama was five, so I never knew him -- and I suspect he and I are a lot alike, from what I’ve read in letters and such.

The Apostle Peter ~ My Biblical kindred spirit.

George Clooney ~ A man who seems at ease in any situation and would be an asset to any dinner conversation. Plus, well, it’s Clooney, for heaven’s sake. Mmmmmm.

Red Auerbach ~ The architect and mythical guiding presence of my favorite professional sports team of all time -- the Boston Celtics. *makes note to have ashtray at Red’s place setting for his ever-present cigar*

F. Scott Fitzgerald ~ The Jazz Age. The Lost Generation. “There are no second acts in American lives.” J’adore.

Antonio Carlos Jobim ~ The father of bossa nova. Enough said.

Menu
I’d go with something evocative of my personal style -- not too formal, not too casual. A little sassy. Just right. With a Cuban theme, since I’m Cuban by desire. ;-) And because my Daddy Pete spent a lot of time in Havana in the ‘20s. This one’s really for him.

Tapas appetizers
Gazpacho (using Sprezz’s recipe!)
Big green salad
Arroz con Pollo
Fried plantains
Cuban bread -- homemade, dontcha know
Flan
Sangria. Lots and lots of sangria.

Entertainment
I think with this crowd, the conversation will be entertaining all on its own. No shrinking violets in the bunch. Although I might just sit back and soak it all in... and encourage Jobim to play us a song or two if the moment allows. I'd even be happy to sing the Astrud Gilberto part on "Garota de Ipanema..."

Whew. This is one of those cliché-tinged questions that everyone has some sort of an answer to kicking around in their head. So. What does your guest list look like... do tell.

And PS: I’ll be happy to cater your shindig -- as long as I can listen into the conversation from the kitchen. Never let it be said that I’m not enterprising....

Saturday Morning Cereal: Second Bowl

“Well, it’s got a good beat and it’s easy to dance to...”

That phrase can only mean one thing -- it’s time put on your dancing shoes because

We're goin' hoppin'
We're goin' hoppin' today
Where things are poppin'
The Philadelphia way
We're gonna drop in
On all the music they play
On the Bandstand (Bandstand)

American Bandstand. The original national dance party. And the closer to the Saturday morning TV viewing experience.

How I lived for that noon hour, when my TV screen would feature

The eternally youthful and charmingly earnest Dick Clark...

Stylish and effortlessly cool dancers, all slightly older than me and therefore totally crush-worthy...

Lip-synching musical guests...

Rate A Record, where a random boy-girl pair would give pithy opinions on hot new music tracks...

And the dancing. Lots and lots of dancing. Plus camera mugging. Followed by more dancing.

It was a sneak-peak into the teenage world for us yearning-to-be-precocious tweens. And I loved it. Used to have to fight for telly control with my brother, as it aired at approximately the same time as Fat Albert. Guess who usually won. The prerogative of older sisters everywhere, dontcha know.

We're goin' swingin'
We're gonna swing in the crowd
And we'll be clingin'
And floatin' high as a cloud
The phones are ringin'
My mom and dad are so proud
I'm on Bandstand (Bandstand)


Here are some clips to send you shaking your own groove thing down memory lane:

The 1987 opening -- I was long past my watching days when this came out, but it’s a fun piece of epherma anyway:


The Spinners, circa sometime in the ‘70s, with “Rubberband Man.”
Dig those bell bottoms, y’all.


Ice cool Debbie Harry and Blondie perform “Heart of Glass.”


“Rate a Record” with a most unlikely song...



Dancing on Bandstand



Just for kicks, check out this list of acts who appeared on the show. It will blow your mind -- a veritable who’s who of music. Totally shows the impact this program had on popular culture... amazing.

By the way, Prince and I totally had the same haircut back in the day. Not sure if that's something to be proud or embarrassed about...



I rather miss this show -- even now. Now where are my dancing shoes...

And I'll jump, and hey,
I may even show 'em my handstand
Because I'm on, because I'm on
The American Bandstand
When we dance real slow
I'll show all the guys in the grandstand
What a swinger I am, I am
On American Bandstand

Object of My Affection

Picture it: a fourth grade class. West central Florida. 1974.

The assignment: to write a letter to someone you admire.

Easy enough, right.

There were lots of options for a 10 year old to choose from in those days...

Lee Majors, aka The Six Million Dollar Man

Dusty Rhodes -- The American Dream (the kid in class who we called Helmet Head because of his terrible haircut loved this guy)

Hank Aaron

Chris Evert

Tatum O’Neal, fresh off her Oscar win for “Paper Moon”

Young Jane, however, had other ideas. She took this assignment quite seriously and penned an earnest letter, expressing her admiration for a very unique individual, ending her epistle with a request for a signed photograph.

The recipient of said letter...

Dr. Henry Kissinger.

Nobel Peace Prize recipient.

Secretary of State.

That’s right. I asked one of the most powerful men in the world for an 8X10 glossy. Autographed even.

At age 10.

In return, I received a very nice letter from some State Department underling thanking me for my interest and kindly explaining that Dr. Kissinger was not in the habit of issuing pin-up posters of himself. I still have that letter around here someplace and if I ever come across it, I’ll scan and share. It’s a riot. I’m sure my letter evoked bales of laughter all around that office for a while.

Yeah, I’ll say what I’m sure you are thinking. I was a weird kid. I had a crush on the Secretary of State. Betcha Madeline Albright and Alexander Haig never had a fan like me. Or one for whom a restraining order or CIA file wasn't necessary.

Want more proof that I was totally marching to the beat of my own drummer? During the summer of ‘74, I became enthralled with an amazing, groundbreaking show on the telly.

The Watergate Hearings.

Remember that in those days, cable TV was not around, at least in our household. So we took what we got. And what we got was daily coverage of Sam Ervin and the gang doing their level best to unfold and uncover the details of the hijinks at the Democratic National Committee HQ at the Watergate Hotel. Intersting stuff, even to a young lass like myself.

Loved it. Watched every day I could, even forgoing my usual fare of Petticoat Junction reruns, The Galloping Gourmet and Mike Douglas.

My favorite person in this whole polit-circus: Maureen Dean, wife of White House Counsel John Dean. For some reason, I thought she was SO cool, sitting so calmly behind her husband as he spoke, giving the “cancer on the Presidency” testimony. I spent hours trying to achieve Maureen’s hairstyle -- that severe, slick bun at the nape of her neck. I’m certain my parents were totally befuddled by me -- but bless their hearts, they never let on.

Yep. My own drummer. I’m still fascinated with that period of history. I’m thinking it’s time for a re-read of All The President’s Men. My whistle’s been whet.

So in honor of my fondness for Dr. Kissinger (and I’m only sorry I was never old enough to go shake my groove thing with him at Studio 54), I leave you with this classic Judy Garland moment, as she expresses her affection for another much older, albeit more conventional, heartthrob.

Dear. Dr. Kissinger...

The Name is Thursday. Thursday Thirteen.

Thanks to Slender Octopus for the great theme idea this week.

Let's play the Name Game, y'all!

1. Rock Star Name
(first pet; current car)
Cat Pilot

2. Gangster Name
(favorite ice cream flavor; favorite style of shoe)
Pistachio Stiletto

3. Native American Name
(favorite color; favorite animal)
Purple Otter

4. Soap Opera Name
(middle name; place of birth)
Elizabeth St. Anthony

5. Star Wars Name
(first 3 letters of second name; first two of first name)
Johja

6. Superhero Name
(2nd favorite color; favorite drink)
Cobalt Vodka

7. NASCAR Name
(first names of grandfathers)
Clarence Atley

8. Exotic Dancer Name
(favorite perfume/scent; favorite "candy")
Musk Caramel

9. Newscaster name
(Fifth grade teacher’s last name; major city beginning with same letter)
Duffy Dubuque

10. Spy name
(favorite flower; favorite season/holiday)
Tulip Autumn

11. Cartoon name
(favorite fruit; article of clothing you are wearing now)
Grape Flip Flop

12. Hippie Name
(what you ate for breakfast; favorite tree)
Muffin Cypress

13. Movie Star Name
(first pet’s name; first street where you lived)
Hamlet Locust

And it wouldn't be a CJ post without a musical offering...

A Moment of Silence, please. It's Wordless Wednesday

Farklempt

Croon a Tuesday Tune for me...

Presenting... Tuesday Tune!

It's a new weekly for me, hosted by Music Memoirs that I could not resist. You know how I am about my music...

Here goes -- enjoy!

Share the first band/artist/song/album that comes to mind when you see these 10 words:

Ending: "The End of the Innocence" ~ Don Henley


Long: "Long Long Time" ~ Linda Ronstadt


School: "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard" ~ Paul Simon


Teen: "Smells Like Teen Spirit" ~ Nirvana


Crazy: "Crazy Train" ~ Ozzy Osbourne


Search: "Search and Destroy" -- Iggy and the Stooges


Baby: "Steppin’ Out with My Baby" ~ Tony Bennett


Shoes: "New Shoes" ~ Paolo Nutini


Mellow: "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat" ~ Charles Mingus


Window: "Open a New Window" ~ Mame original cast recording
(Note: this was the ONLY clip I could find. It’s from the movie. Not great, but it will do.)

Riding the Storm Out

Looks like we might be getting a visitor here shortly.

Won’t know total specifics until the wee small hours of the morning -- and let me go on record as saying that this guest... totally not invited.

But I have prepared for this arrival because I am not only the consummate hostess, I am also interested in trying to preserve my sanity -- amongst other things -- during this visit.

Yep. It’s hurricane season, y’all.

And those damn storms -- SO rude -- will just come by, sans invite, to wreck tropical havoc for who knows how long. At least we have an idea about them coming -- even though they don’t actually call first, which would be the mannerly thing to do. Forewarned is forearmed dontcha know.

I’ve had a little experience with these sorts of things before -- can’t have lived in Florida all your life without having an encounter or two with a hurricane.

When I was a kid, there was a certain naive excitement about the storm. The perceived invincibility of the young coupled with the belief that Mama and Daddy would make sure all was ok. Now, the advent of the season is tinged with the scent of adult responsibility, caution and a bit of fear masquerading often times as stress.

I give you this picture from my youth -- the calm before the storm, as it were. I think this was taken right as Hurricane Agnes was sending feeder bands our way.

(By the way, I have NO idea what is up with those shorts I'm wearing. And do you think I could have combed my hair before the shot... good grief. A hot mess, even at age 9.)

And then there was the joy and delight of Hurricane Elena. Fall 1985. Big ass storm. Supposed to come onshore somewhere on the west central coast of Florida and then cut across the state -- through Gainesville.

My parents wanted me to come home -- but I opted to stay in town. I had homework and assignments that were due shortly and I figured I’d take advantage of being housebound to get some work done. So on Storm Day, I helped make sure the sorority house was secure and could weather whatever craziness Mother Nature threw our way before my two galpals (both PR majors with me) and I went to the art supply store to pick up materials for our respective projects. Very responsible students we three.

So... we then decided we were hungry. Figured we might as well get something to eat while we were out and the weather was still tolerable. I had a hankering for a chicken salad sandwich -- my favorite. There are few things in this world that make me happier than a really good chicken salad sandwich. And the place in town that made the best chicken salad, as far as I was concerned, was my favorite watering hole -- the Red Lion Inn. Off we went for a sandwich and a beer. And maybe a couple of games of video trivia. No big whoop.

The sandwich stayed a single sandwich.

The beer, however, turned into several pitchers.

A couple of video trivia games turned into a tournament. (In case you were wondering, I won. Boo-yah!)

And our well-intentioned plans of working on our projects morphed into a hare-brained scheme to sit in the bar and drink until the storm came.

The skies, however, were less than ominous. There was some rain -- those weird tropical showers that beat down like hell for a few minutes then pull back to a light sprinkle only to become torrential again. But nothing to get all excited about.

Unless you were us -- three drunk co-eds determined to be thrill-seekers, even if it was just from the parking lot of a bar. We drug tables and chairs outside and sat in the lot, just waiting for the storm to come on down.

We waited.

And waited.

Drank.

Ate some chips.

And waited some more.

Nothing. No big onslaught. No funky looking funnel clouds. Nada.

Turns out the storm made a pinball machine move and literally bounced off the west coast and ended up coming on shore in the Panhandle. The only thing we got in Gator Town were some feeder band shower. All our prep work -- and liquid lubrication -- was for naught.

And so, as our dreams of being hurricane rebels cane to an end, it came time to pay our tab. As luck would have it, the only cash I has was coin. My laundry quarters, to be exact. Nothing like drunkenly trying count change to pay your bar bill. I have a hard enough time when I’m sober figuring out bills -- I’m so right-brained that looking at a complicated restaurant tab gives me a headache. Don’t ever ask me to be treasurer of anything. Tales of my financial shenanigans have caused more than one of my accountant-type friends to break out into hives. I kid you not. More on that later. Promise.

Anyhoo...

Leave it to me to turn an act-of-nature non-event into something that required Tylenol, Gatorade and a big greasy breakfast to soak up all the beer in my system. Ridiculous idea. Dumb idea. Stupid idea. But at the time, it made perfect, beautiful sense. Don’t plans like that always?

PS: Had to include this video from one of my fave new groups, Black Kids. Damn good name for a song -- don’t you think?

Saturday Morning Cereal: First Bowl

You know, Saturday mornings just aren’t the same when you’re a grownup. Too many responsibilities. Too many chores. Boring stuff on the telly (save for the cooking show block on FoodTV... but that’s something else entirely.)

I’m missing the pace and entertainment of the Saturdays of my youth. Pajamas and cereal and cartoons. No homework. No endless youth sporting events. No pressure, save maybe to help Daddy in the yard. (Man, I HATED that. Even as a kid, I knew outdoor manual labor was not for me. Damn weeds in the sidewalk cracks. Ugh.)

So in what may turn out to be a regular thing for me, I’m going to take a ride in the Wayback Machine with Mr. Peabody and Sherman to the time...
when all cereal that was worth anything had sugar in its five top ingredients list...

when your pajamas had feet in them...

when you had to actually get up off your bean bag chair to change the channel, unless you had a younger sibling to do it for you...

when cartoons and kid shows ruled the morning airwaves.

Today, let’s take a look at the World of Sid and Marty Krofft...

Y’all. This shit was wild. Seriously. Skippy. Trippy. Hippy.

Live action shows with crazy premises and over-the-top characters (C’mon. Martha Raye and Charles Nelson Reilly both had parts on Krofft Saturday morning programs. Those two totally define over-the-top... just go look in the dictionary and you’ll see their mugging mugs. Promise.)

I’m just gonna let the show opening to a few Krofft classics speak for themselves... the storytelling theme songs; the costumes; the hysterical special effects -- it’s all there, just like you remember it.

Enjoy. And pass the Super Sugar Crisp. I’ve still got milk in my bowl. (But I call dibs on the Archies record on the back of the box. That’s all mine, baby.)


HR Pufnstuf
Fun fact: my elementary school nickname was Janey-poo, after the illustrious Witchy-poo. And yes, that was a term of endearment -- I was a charming young lass. So there.


Bugaloos
Martha Raye as Benita Bizarre. More awesome than I have words to describe. Benita Bizarre is SO my new drag name, replacing Clams Casino.


Land of the Lost
I never watched this one myself -- never got into the whole dinosaur thing -- but I had friends who loved it. Still do. And who can do a pretty fair sleestack imitation.


Sigmund and the Sea Monsters
Johnny Whitaker (Jody from Family Affair!) Mary Wickes (classic character actress!) Burp and Slurp and Sweet Mama Ooze (best character names ever!)


And here’s the oh-so-familiar credit that ran after every episode...


PS: Couldn’t resist including this quote from Marty Krofft, from an interview in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. He was asked, point blank, about the relationship between drug use and his shows:

We've heard that for 35 years. We did not intentionally do anything related to drugs in the story. People thought we were on drugs. You can't do good television while on drugs. People never believe you when you say that, but you can't. The shows were very bright and spacey looking. They may have lent themselves to that culture at the time, but we didn't ascribe that meaning to them, and I can't speak to what adults were doing when they were watching the shows. We just set out to make a quality children's program.

Hey there! Is that a medal in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Yawn.

Streeeetch.

Yawn.

Pardon my rudeness (my Nana would be appalled and would SO give me a little talking to about being impolite in public) but I’m slightly sleep deprived.

Damn Olympics. Keeping me up until all hours with their sexy athletic allure.

And I’m not just talking about the well-sculpted torsos of all those boy swimmers.... OK, I’m mostly talking about that, but not totally.

It’s like I’m the Games' oh-so-accommodating booty call. Just when I think I’m able to walk away, to turn off the telly, resigned to discovering what the results are online in the morning, Bob Costas and His Horrible Hair tempt me with a “coming up next” and I’m a goner. They’ve got me right where they want me.

In bed. And willing.

So, so tempting.

Side bar: Seriously --- what is up with Costas’ hair?

Is it a piece?

Is there a low-flow shower head in his hotel? And if that’s the culprit, you know he’s not staying at the Beijing Westin because their Heavenly Shower would never make anyone’s hair look that bad.

Plus, as my BFF Sprezzatura says, there is just something wrong with a man of that age not having even a pinch of salt and pepper in his locks.

So, in no particular order, here are the Olympic items whose siren's call I cannot resist, no matter how hard I try:


Swimming.

Phelps.

Peirsol.

Lochte (my GATOR boy!)

Did I mention Phelps? OK -- how about Phelps’ obliques -- better known as shhhh... the phuck muscles. C'mon. Isn't that appropriate. Just look at them for goodness sake...

The unbelievable physical prowess of these athletes. This is perhaps the only sport where I have a frame of reference, as I love to swim and was a lifeguard/swimming instructor for a couple of summers. So I have a bit of an idea about the basic mechanics of this sport. And what these modern day Tethyses and Poseidons are accomplishing is nothing short of jaw droppingly amazing.

Gymnastics.

Bela Karolyi and his charming passionate incoherentness.

The questionable ages of those Chinese women gymnasts. C’mon. One of them was MISSING A TOOTH... time to count the baby teeth, people. Like the rings on a tree, teeth don’t lie.

The power and majesty of the male gymnasts, who couple remarkable strength with poise and artistry.

The loveliness of the female gymnasts, both in the gym and otherwise. I’m struck by how wonderfully uniquely American our two champion ladies are -- a graceful gold medalist born in Moscow to an Olympic champion daddy and a midwest powerhouse coached by a native born Chinese. So cool. So beautiful.

Beach Volleyball.

The hysterically stereotypical music played between points on the Beijing beach. Lots of Beach Boys and Bob Seger, y’all. God Bless American culture. At least as perceived by the rest of the world.

The teamwork and genuineness of the players. They really seem to like one another. Refreshing.

Misty May. Gorgeous woman. Fantastic athlete. But I’m sorry -- that name just screams money shot.

And that’s not even covering all the other events that wink and smile at me during the day -- Rowing. Fencing. Cycling. Water polo (mmmm...) And of course, basketball. It’s tough cheering for Kobe, but damn it, it’s my patriotic duty to root for him -- even if it is through clenched teeth. (PS: No Celtics on Team USA? Sigh. Break my heart, why dontcha...)

So yeah. I’m an Olympic hoochie. And proud of it. Because I’m an American. Not an American’t. And I owe it to these athletes (and the evil geniuses at NBC Sports) to come when they call. To be available for whatever. To leave quietly and go to sleep when it’s all over -- with no emotional discussions about a long term commitment, since this is going to be a brief yet meaningless relationship. They know it. I know it.

Hot.

And in the center ring... it's Thursday Thirteen

Step right up, y'all and take a look at today's featured attraction. Little known facts will be shared... some interesting, some shocking, some downright embarrassing.

So grab some cotton candy, put down your sparklers and be prepared to be dazzled with the brilliance that is... ME!

(Stop laughing and enjoy, 'kay...)

1. I’m a second generation native Floridian on both the maternal and paternal sides. Yes, we do exist. I’m proud of my state, weird as it may be, and as much as I bitch and moan about the heat and lack of seasons, I cannot imagine living anywhere else. (I’m also a third generation graduate of the University of Florida...GO GATORS!!!)

2. I hate snakes. Snakes are the debil -- just read Genesis and the story of Adam and Eve in case you had any doubts. Can’t even stand to see them on TV, much less in person. Needless to say, I don’t watch a lot of Animal Planet. Will sings a little song about picking up baby bumblebees/puppy dogs/kitty cats/etc. His favorite verse is about the baby rattlesnake, which he sings over and over, complete with the Ssssssss sound effects. Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor...

3. I’m not a big fan of chocolate. I don’t dislike it, but I also don’t go out of my way to find it -- no chocoholic tendencies here. Now, caramel and/or pralines are a complete other story... a praline from Aunt Sally’s in New Orleans is a little bit of heaven as far as I’m concerned.

4. I can’t drive a stick shift. I have a recurring nightmare in which there’s some sort of emergency and I’m the only one who can drive to safety and the only vehicle available is a stick. I also have a recurring nightmare about trying to drop a class in college before the drop period ends and not being able to find the administration building. Thank goodness the two scenarios have never collided into one Super Nightmare. Yet.

5. I have never seen one single episode of Beverly Hills 90210, Melrose Place or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m the only person I know who can make this claim, by the way.

6. I didn’t see snow in earnest until I was 35 years old. (See fun fact #1 for a logical explanation of this.) I’d seen the fake stuff on some ski excursions to NC in my youth and there are photos of me as a toddler, posing with my parents next to a patch of snow in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. But see drifts and drifts of the powdery stuff -- not until just a few years ago. I did it right, though -- in Park City, Utah. That was totally some serious snow. And I loved it. Although I quickly discovered that I’m better at apres ski then actual skiing. One day of lessons. It wasn’t pretty.

7. I would rather speak in front of a group of 100+ people than go to a cocktail party where I know only one or two people. Public speaking = love and thrive. Small talk = terrifying and paralyzing. I have been known to decline invitations to great parties because of this. Help...

8. My happy place is my kitchen. I love to cook and read about cooking and think about cooking. My home library has well over 100 cookbooks. I would never want to be a professional chef or caterer, though. I’m content being a fairly proficient home cook, thank you very much. Although I do wish my knife skills were better...

9. I’ve never broken a bone, never had the chicken pox or other such afflictions and still have my tonsils. Quite the medical marvel, aren’t I?

10. I’ve not seem my natural hair color in 15 years. Underneath the colorworks on my lovely locks, I’m probably 60-75 percent grey. Yep. Premature greying runs in the family -- just not ready to go there yet.

11. I almost failed kindergarten because I couldn’t tie my shoes. Seriously.

12. I took piano lessons for 10 years. You’d never know it now, because I didn’t keep up with it, but for a while there, I was pretty darn mediocre. My double-jointed pinky was a real issue, as it kinked up after playing for longer than 20 minutes. However, I can still read music pretty well and can plunk out a tune one-handed, which comes in handy with the Choir Urchins (sidebar fun fact: I direct the 4 & 5 year old choir at my church. Most challenging -- and rewarding -- 45 minutes of my week. Just you wait for the stories...)

13. I won money betting on sporting events -- when I was in middle school. Used to throw my lunch coin into the ring with the boys for the World Series and Super Bowl pools. Did OK with the baseball -- GO REDS! -- but got creamed when it came to football. Stupid Vikings. Damn Raiders. Haven’t bet on sports since.

But I am thinking about doing the Fantasy Football thing, if I can find some cohorts in crime who are interested... hint!

Be very quiet... it's Wordless Wednesday

Amusement

A Word from the English Major

The weekly meme TMI Tuesday had a group of questions posed a couple of weeks ago that I could not resist answering. I'm a sucker for (a) sharing my opinion and (b) anything to do with words and (c) sharing my opinion on anything to do with words. Go figure.

What is your language pet peeve?
The apostricfication of language. ( In case you were wondering, I made that word up. So there.)

Plural words DO NOT need an apostrophe before the “s." Yes, Virginia, there is a difference between a plural and a possessive. Trust me. I see this done everywhere. Drives me nuts -- especially when it’s in a printed ad or something else that should have been proofed before publication. Ugh. Hello -- need a proofreader? Call me. I'm good and I'm cheap.

What is your favorite word -- both dirty and clean?
Clean: Grace. To garner unmerited favor. A beautiful word for a beautiful sentiment.

Oh, and based on my constant usage of it -- seriously. I know I overwork it, but it just fits so well sometimes.

Dirty: Shit. My go-to expletive. Said way too often (just ask Will’s teacher about that -- My Little Parrot has shared that on more than one occasion. Color me mortified.)

What is the one word you cannot spell?
ONE word? Are you joking? How much time do you have...

My inability to spell is a well-known fact. I like to think of it as being part of my charm.

What is the one word you always pronounce wrong?
N-U-C-L-E-A-R. I pronounce it like Jimmy Carter. Nucular. That’s right -- Jimmy Carter. I refuse to acknowledge that other president who also says this word this way. When I was growing up, Daddy was the spokesperson for the local power company and the term “nuclear” got a lot of play in our house. I still say it incorrectly, no matter how conscious of my mispronunciation I am. Again, it’s that charm thing.

If you could erase one popular catchphrase from the english language, what would it be?
That damn “get ‘er done.” Or anything else said by that Larry the Cable Guy. Not a fan.

Bonus: The late, and very hot Michael Hutchence once sang, "Words are weapons, sharper than knives" . What is the most hurtful thing you have ever said to anyone? Was it deliberate or accidental? What was the most hurtful thing ever said to you? Do you think it was deliberate or accidental?

The most hurtful thing I ever said to anyone was accidental. At least on the surface. It was in the midst of a bad (and I mean baaaaaad) breakup and I told my soon-to-be-ex that our relationship was a colossal mistake. The look on his face and the tone in his voice immediately let me know that I had wounded him deeply, albeit unintentionally. Still haunts me.

The most hurtful thing anyone ever said to me came from the mouth of a close relative who told me, as an impressionable young teenager, that I had the personality of a gnat. Try shaking that one when you are still working on developing yourself as a person -- including trying to build your confidence. Still haunts me. Paralyzingly so -- more often than I’d like.

Blech. Enough.

Here’s a bit of hippy trippy thematic fun from the Monkees. Look! They let Davy get close to a real instrument (and I don’t mean the wind chimes, either... he’s got drum sticks and he’s not afraid to wield them.)

The Hirsute Diva Cometh

So I’m seriously toying with the idea of moving ye olde blog (along with my new sports blog project) over to the highly recommended WordPress. Easier said than done. I’ve become rather fond of the look of my blog here and my attempts to replicate it on WP have been frankly disastrous.

As a diversion, I’ve been looking at the current blog stats from my tracking software. Anything to avoid the matter at hand.

What’s really fascinating me are the words that people plug into search engines that lead them to my little corner of the internet. Fascinating and a little unusual. To say the least.

I made a tally sheet of search terms that triggered my blog popping up on Google and the like... check these out:

*middle age beavers

*hairy miss

*hirsute middle

*mamas aged

*middle aged diva

*hirsute divas

*taped college confessions

*developmentally delayed

*diva hairy

*weather on the nines

*aged hirsute beaver

*movie quotes confession of love

*"every day is a holiday and every meal is a banquet and some bastards are starving to death"

You know, I’m a little speechless. Who knew my ramblings would evoke such titillating images.

Hairy diva? Really?

Psssst. You can stop giggling anytime now.

Although frankly I myself am not quite over “aged hirsute beaver.” C’mon -- seriously?

It also seems that one of my earlier blog posts in particular pops up a lot on the Google image search... and as a treat, I thought I’d just give y’all a post rewind on it, since it’s apparently so infamous. Or something.

Enjoy seeing what all the fuss is about... then maybe you can 'splain to me what the deal-io is.

~~~~~~
Ode to Hirsute Pursuits

We all had them.

C'mon. Get happy and admit it.

Childhood crushes. Hearts and flowers and names written in girlish hand intertwined on notebook covers. Innocent yet oh-so-serious.

Slightly older boys who we saw on TV or heard on the radio. Boys who we stared at dreamily on an album cover or on the pages of a magazine. Boys who we "kissed" in the hidden safety of our bedrooms, smushing our untarnished lips into our pillows which served as surrogates for the objects of our affection.

David Cassidy.

Shawn Cassidy.

Bobby Sherman (whose 45 single I procured from the back of a box of cereal).

Donny Osmond. Oh, how I loved Donny. You do know he sang "Puppy Love" just for me, don't you?

Those boys were safe. Non-threatening. Cuddly, even.

And then, one fine day, our tastes changed. We grew up. My, did we grow up.

Personally speaking, I went from this...


...to this
...in the blink of an eye.

Oh. Yeah.

What was the changing point that sent me from youthful affection to adolescent yearning?

I discovered chest hair.

Loved it. Still love it today -- even more now than I did then, if that's possible.

It all started with Andy Gibb. I was so entranced by the chest hair that it took me a while to even acknowledge anything going on below the torso (and there obviously was a lot going on there...)

Moved on to Harrison Ford.
Who, in addition to the requisite chest stuff, wore some mighty tight pants in his Han Solo days (never ever gave Mark Hamill a second look after Harrison swaggered onto the screen in the first Star Wars/Number IV/whatever the hell number was released in 1977.)

After Harrison, I discovered my two most enduring objects of lust -- the ones that would carry me through high school and into college.

I give you Baltimore Orioles Hall of Fame pitcher and Jockey Underwear model Jim Palmer:


Didn't get enough? Here's another view:

The large poster is an exact duplicate of one that hung over my desk in my high school yearbook office. For all four years I was on staff. Still not sure how I got away with that -- the fact that the yearbook advisors were both women might have had something to do with it.

Jim Palmer was my total idea of The Sex as a teenager. Because of that hairy chest. So masculine. Alpha male. Sexy.

Lest you think though that I was a one-lust-object kinda girl, let me allay your fears... I also had hormonal yearnings well into my college years for this...

Please excuse me -- I'm overwhelmed and entranced by His Hirsute Self, Mr. Tom Selleck and need to take just a moment.

OK -- I'm back. Is that a chest or what? Seriously.


Damn. Damn. Hot damn.


Now I had friends who were more appreciative of this look. And I can totally understand that.

That's one hell of an inverted triangle. And six pack. Dude's totally ready for action.





And old Mitch over there on the left isn't so bad himself. It was all I could do, though, not to drop this photo into my editing software to draw in some chest hair on his torso -- just to see what it might look like. But I showed some restraint. For the moment, anyway.




However, as I've so happily illustrated, it was all about the chest hair for me. My one real physical weakness when it comes to men -- that and a nice tight tuchus. Usually I'm more cerebral when it comes to my attraction to the opposite sex -- but I have made allowances for a hairy chest before... albeit only brief ones -- monosyllabic pillow talk can only hold my attention for so long.

So there you are. My hot button, so to speak. Feel free to share yours, if you're so inclined. There's lots of room down here in the shallow end of the pool. BYOB, though. Unless you want to drink Grey Goose with me.

By the way, I'd be remiss in not giving credit where credit is due: the creative spark behind this most illustrative of posts was a very male-centric piece my buddy Steve Spears posted on his Stuck in the '80s blog about the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition cover girls of the '80s. Consider this my Point/Counterpoint moment.

Feel free to insert your own "jane, you ignorant slut" comment here.

It's Career Day! Dress Appropriately...

suggested by Blogletting.com

"My neighbor has a bumper sticker that reads: "Remember Who You Wanted To Be". Did you grow up to be who you always wanted to be as a child?"

Hmmmm. Interesting question.

Let's all jump in the Wayback Machine with Sherman and Mr. Peabody and take a look at CJ's previous career ambitions, shall we? A light snack will be provided, along with a complimentary soft drink. Beer and wine will be $3, mixed drinks $4. (Hey! If it's good enough for Southwest, it's good enough for the Wayback Machine...)

Weather Girl
Yep. You read that right. Not a meteorologist. A weather girl. How feminist-forward of me. However, the “D” I got in Meteorology the spring semester of my freshman year kinda put the kibosh on that one.

Romance Novel Author
Back when I was that goofy hormonal creature known as a middle-school girl, I would spend my allowance and babysitting money on books -- mostly the John Jakes Bicentennial Series and Harlequin Romances. And in an attempt to corner the market on “grown-up” sappy romances written by adolescent girls, I started to write my own Harlequin epic. Featuring a leading man named Van Doren (shut. up.) and a heroine whose name escapes me but who fancied herself the Esther Williams of West Central Florida. It was awful and glorious and horrible, all at the same time. Mostly awful, truth be told.

Talk Show Host
OK -- this one, I still think about, as it’s still kind of in the realm of possibilities for me. Hello, Cable Access! (shut. up. again. I know. Ridiculous, isn’t it...) I even had a great concept cooked up, once upon a time. I would host the show from a giant bed -- the set would be a posh, plush fab bedroom. And the guests and I would all wear tasteful, comfy pajamas. My ex (gay) boyfriend was going to be the witty cabana boy sidekick (and yes, that should have been my first clue to his sexual persuasion) and my late kitty-witty Roxanne would have had full run of the set. Brilliant, don’t you think? I still fancy myself having the Merv Griffin/Mike Douglas gene in me. So maybe someday -- even if it’s from the rec room at the ACLF...

Serious Stage Actress
Notice I didn’t say Movie Star. I wanted to be Helen Hayes or Sarah Bernhardt or Patti LuPone or any of the other greats who graced the Broadway stage. I was the Drama Mama of my high school -- initiated into the Thespian society as a freshman and involved in everything dramatic for all four years of high school. I love the theatre -- everything about it. Back stage, on stage, you name it. Passion. Really wanted to pursue something in this area when I went off to college, but my father, who was footing the tuition bill, put a kibosh on that. If I have a regret in life, it’s that I didn’t pursue this dream in some fashion. It’s still a total passion of mine. So there you are.

Diplomat/Political Wonk
This stems directly from that period in the mid-’70s when I was obsessed with the Watergate hearings, which were on the telly every single day in the summer. At the tender age of 10 or so, I was trying to wear my hair like Maureen Dean. And writing fan letters to Dr. Henry Kissinger. Yes, you read that correctly. I would elaborate, but this episode in my life is worth exploring in more detail in its own blog piece. Can you tell I was a riot and a half as a child?

Newspaper Publisher
My love of the written word -- written by me! -- started very early. At the age of seven, I decided that what my family of four (plus nana who lived down the street made five) needed was a family newspaper. So on my dad’s old manual typewriter, I created the Smith Family Times (name changed to protect the unsuspecting), documenting my brother’s Hot Wheel races, my mom’s volunteer work, my perception of Daddy’s job and other things a kiddo would deem important. Riddled with typos and sprinkled with earnestness, I made copies using carbon paper, folded them neatly and delivered them to everyone’s bedroom. I was a full-service publisher. Not sure why I stopped with this little project -- something else shiny and sparkly must have come along to garner my attention. But I like to think that little publication was my first real effort at blogging and writing. Who knew I would have been so techno-forward.

I’m sure there were other vocational things that crossed my mind at one point or another. These are the highlights, such as they are. (Hey! You can stop giggling anytime now...)

So now it’s your turn: Did you grow up to be what you thought you’d be? Do tell, y’all. I might even book you on my talk show if you’re lucky...

Hall Passes and Priorities

I have a new role model.

He’s brave. Practical. Adorable. Self-assured. Polite. Poised.

Amazing.

His name is Lin Hao. And he’s nine years old.

You might have seen him, walking along side the uber-statuesque Yao Ming as the Chinese Olympic delegation entered the stadium during the Opening Ceremonies.

Lin (or is it Hao -- I can never remember which is the proper way to shorten a Chinese name) isn’t an athlete. He’s much more than that, in my opinion.

He’s a survivor of the horrific Sichuan earthquake that devastated the country and the world, measuring 7.9 on the Richter scale and killing over 70,000 folks. When the ground began to shake, Lin was sitting in his second grade classroom, being a typical kid. The quake caused the school building to collapse around him and his classmates. Lin was one of the lucky ones, able to survive and free himself from the rubble -- but that wasn’t enough. He went back into the perilous site and was able to bring two of his peers to safety, encouraging them to sing to help keep up their spirits until rescue teams could reach them.

Amazing.

When he was asked why he did what he did -- risk his life to help his pals -- he said, very matter-of-factly, “I was the hall monitor. It was my job to look after my classmates...”

There’s a lesson here, y’all.

This Olympic experience is not without its issues -- China has a horrific human rights and environmental record, tainting their role as a gracious host; an American tourist has been killed (although that seems to have been determined to be an isolated incident); the passionate American Winter Olympian Joey Cheek was denied a visa at the last minute because of his outspoken position on the atrocities of Darfur (see China’s horrific human rights positions).

I’m an Olympics junkie. I will watch just about any event - love the spectacle, the sport and yes, the sportsmanship. Even with all those outside factors clouding the pure enjoyment for me this go-'round.

But Lin Hao has helped assuage the guilt pangs of my cynical, liberal soul. Kid’s got his priorities in order. Thinking of others in so many ways. Keeping a cool head in the midst of crisis. Being nonplussed about the entire thing.

We all need to be each other’s hall monitor -- making it our job and our joy to look out for one another. And giving each other a hall pass when necessary.

I can think of no greater honor or responsibility.

Can y’all?