Too Much Lost

I've been watching Season 3 of Lost on DVD. If you haven't started watching Lost, don't start. It is evil. If you watch Lost, you know what I'm talking about.

In the past week, I've watched over half of Season 3. I average about 3 episodes/day. I should say that I limit myself to 3 episodes/day. Increasing the daily intake sounds like a good idea, but like alcohol or chocolate, too much Lost comes back to bite you in the ass. Best if you don't ask how I know this.

I fear that my daily quota may be too high. Today, I cut through a residential neighborhood on my way to the gym. Not once but twice, I slowed down so I wouldn't hit a squirrel that darted into my path. "That's kind of strange," I thought, "Wonder why the squirrels are so squirelly today."

On my way home from the gym, I approached a guy pushing a jog stroller. As he got closer, I realized that he was pushing 2 dogs in the stroller. At first, it didn't even register. It took a full 30 seconds before I put all the pieces together and realized that he was taking his chihuahuas out for a ride in what looked like an expensive stroller, and seemed completely unphased by the ridiculousness of his circumstances. I bet if I'd stopped and asked him what he was doing, he'd say, "I'm taking my dogs for a walk. Why do you ask?"

Then, as I rounded the last curve in the neighborhood, I passed a squished squirrel in the middle of the road. After all the other strange anomolies, I decided that the big shadow monster must have killed the squirrel. Right after it slammed Mr. Eko into a tree and before it went after Kate and the eerily calm blond woman. I'm half expecting to see a polar bear on my next trip to the gym. Yep, too much Lost.

Fox News Flash

Today, I went to the gym. Again, I had my headphones in, but was forced to watch the bank of TVs in front of the phalanx of treadmills. I had a choice: I could watch barely-clad women shaking everything they had within an inch of their lives in what passes for music videos these days (oh, how I yearn for the days of yesteryear when people actually wore clothes in music videos) or I could watch Fox News. It wasn't really a choice at all.

My headphones spared me the audio assault from these two sources. However, with the Fox TV on "mute," I had to see the close-captioning. I couldn't read it because I don't wear my glasses at the gym, but I still had to see it. So, I could follow along, despite my overwhelming desire not to.

Here's what passed for news this afternoon:

Former Senator Bob Kerry did not insult Barack Obama. Seems he made some comments that "someone" (Fox News) might have taken the wrong way (and reported as fact), so Kerry wrote a letter to Obama, apologizing for the non-insult. This non-news warranted a panel discussion on Fox News. Again, no glasses and no audio meant I couldn't follow what in the world these people found to debate, but it seemed to get pretty heated. I imagined that they were debating whether Kerry intended the insult, whether Hilary Clinton was somehow behind all of this (because we all know that she's the source of all evil, according to Fox News), and whether Obama should accept Kerry's apology. I would imagine that not once did any of these people consider that maybe, just maybe, they were wasting everyone's time.

Next news flash: Mike Huckabee will not condemn Britney's Spears's 16 year-old pregnant sister. I'm not kidding, this "news" warranted a "This Just In" flag on Fox News. Seems someone (Fox News) thought we'd all give a rat's ass about Mike Huckabee's opinion on this subject. I have to say that I'm terribly disappointed to learn that Mike Huckabee even knew who Jamie-Lynn Spears is. Hell, I'm disappointed that I know who she is. Seems Huckabee thinks Spears the Younger made the right decision to keep her unborn baby and he won't condemn her. Very big of you, Mike. I'm sure she'll sleep better knowing that.

Let's all just take a step back for a minute and remember that despite what Big Sis does or does not wear when she's in public, Jamie-Lynn Spears is 16 years old. She is one of too many teenage girls who get pregnant every year in this country. Her condemnation is not a campaign issue. The campaign issue is: What does Mike Huckabee propose to do to help pregnant teenage girls who don't have famous big sisters with truckloads of cash? What does he plan to do to help families whose implosions aren't captured by the paparazzi? What realistic plan does he propose to prevent teenage pregnancy? If candidates can't address the real issues, and if the media can't ask the real questions, clearly we just need to stop all political campaigning because clearly it's an enormous waste of time and money.

And finally, in yet another "not" news story: MLB baseball pitcher, Roger Clemens says he did not, and has never, used steroids. Ever the diligent media machine, Fox News didn't take him at his word. No, no, no. Instead, they posted 2 pictures of Clemens, one where his face looked slightly puffier than in the other. I guess I was supposed to conclude that Mr. Clemens is a big fat-faced liar. Here's the thing - Whether he did or didn't, how's he supposed to prove that he didn't take steroids years ago?

So, to Fox, I say, "News? Not!"

A change is gonna come

Today, I found myself in the pre-holiday funk. No holiday parties in my future, no special someone to spend New Years with...OK, I'll stop before I bring you down, too.

I decided that since the temperatures finally dropped below balmy, I'd make some comfort food. Chicken and dumplings and cornbread. Nothing better on a cold day - and by "cold," I mean 40s. So, I braved the hordes at the grocery store on a Sunday to get all the necessary ingredients and brought home my bounty.

Off and on through the afternoon, I had a recurring thought that my favorite yoga instructor was teaching a class at the gym this evening. As the time approached to either start the chicken or go to yoga, I surprised myself by thinking, "I really think yoga will make me feel better." And, I believe I was right. I even managed to sustain a crow pose for longer than 10 seconds.

Strange how changes sneak up on you. But, I'm still making chicken and dumplings tomorrow - so I can have it when I come home from yoga.

The Holiday

Last night, I watched "The Holiday." I expected that the movie would irritate me, but I was in the mood for a holiday-themed movie. The movie didn't disappoint. Two women trade houses for the Christmas holidays and perfect men show up at their doors within 24 hours of the switch. As if that premise isn't preposterous enough, the movie layers on the ridiculousness.

First, Cameron Diaz opens the door of Kate Winslet's isolated English cottage and there's Jude Law. Not your average man. Not even your average good looking man. No, it's Jude Law. And he's drunk. An endearing drunk. Not a boorish, burping, farting, smelly drunk. A beautiful, slightly tippy, slurring drunk who's happy to sleep on the couch until Cameron Diaz suggests that they have sex. And...when she announces that her ex-boyfriend gave a "thumbs down" to her technique, Jude Law still wants to have sex with her. In the morning, he doesn't say, "So, I'll call you" as he blazes a trail out the door. No, he says she's really interesting and invites her to dinner. Puuuhleeeze.

On the other side of the world, Kate Winslet finds Jack Black attractive. I really don't need to say any more about that.

Yes, I'm cynical. Yes, I'm jaded. Yes, I'm overly critical of movies. But, seriously, drunk Jude Law on your doorstep? I've rented vacation homes and Jude Law never came a-knockin', drunk or not. Maybe I'm just renting in the wrong places, or renting the wrong movies.

More Gift Ideas

In today's paper, I learned that you can surprise someone on your Christmas list with rhino poop. That's right, actual feces from an actual rhinocerous. The International Rhino Foundation (IRF) has high hopes for this fundraiser, auctioning the droppings on eBay. According to the report, "Each piece is dried, mounted in a clear trophy case, and marked with the type of rhino that produced it."

Well, I think we can all take comfort in knowing that each piece is dried. Wonder if the little plaque says, "Rhino that dealt it..." Unfortunatley, if you were hoping for a speciman from the rare Javan rhino, you're you-know-what out of luck. The rhino is so rare that speciman collectors can't find any specimans. I like to think that the Javan-the-Hut rhino is just too proud to have its crap on display.

Now, let's think about who actually works in this industry. There are the speciman collectors - and seriously, who wouldn't want that job? Tromping through the jungle, hoping to land your foot in something really nasty. I suppose there's some skill involved, wouldn't want to bring hippo poo home by mistake. Which brings us to the training for these folks - I'm thinking pictures and smells figure prominently. And then there are the poor souls who sit around and literally watch rhino dung dry. Imagine a cocktail party. You cross the room to meet an intriguing looking young man. You ask, "So, what do you do?" "I mount rhino dung," he replies. And so ends your holiday party season.

What's that, you don't know who you'd send rhino poo to? Well, might I suggest Bill Head, County Commissioner in Carroll County, GA? In a recent work session, Head shared his views on the county's jail situation, saying "the county needed more jail space because of criminals from nearby Atlanta and 'the wetbacks from down south.'"

As you'd imagine, folks are calling on Head to apologize. But, Head is proving Headstrong, bull-Headed even. He refuses to apologize, instead offering an explanation for his comments. Seems he believes that people just misunderstood him. Well, these comments ought to clear things up. Head recently told reporters, "Wetbacks can come from anywhere. They can come from Cuba; they can come from any of the islands; they can come from Mexico. Anyone is a wetback if they are illegal."

Ah, well, that does clear things up. He's not only insulting Hispanics, he's also insulting our intelligence. So, congratulations Bill Head of Carroll County, GA, you've just won a sizeable gift of rhino poo for Christmas, decidedly undried rhino poo.

Mr. Potato Nose

According to today's blotter, "Pitched potato knocks out husband." Here's the story: In the wee hours on Thanksgiving morning, sheriff's deputies in a nearby town responded to a call from a 43 year-old woman. We're not sure what she told them, but when they arrived, they found her husband unconscious with a knot on his nose, a potato laying nearby.

As the husband came to, he and his wife recounted their evening, to the best of their combined ability. According to the couple, they got into a tussle around 1AM, after "they had been drinking," smashed, as it were. We don't know what they were arguing about, but perhaps they engaged in the age-old pre-Thanksgiving "Irish potato" or "sweet potato" debate. The argument boiled over when the husband "used an expletive" to describe his wife. At that point, she grabbed a trusty potato and hurled it at him, "hitting him in the nose and causing him to pass out." Say what you want about this woman, she's got an arm and great aim, even when smashed. She immediately called 911, sure she'd just committed homicide by spud.

When the deputies arrived, the wife told them "that she didn't mean to hit her husband." She just meant to scare him, really. The husband didn't press charges and the woman was not arrested or booked on assault with a deadly spud charges. If you ask me, the whole story sounds twice-baked. Just remember, potatoes don't knock people unconscious, people knock people unconscious. I hear the couple has agreed to let the wife make any potato-related decisions from now on.

If you can't beat 'em

Mark my words - my next car will be a giant SUV. I realize that I'll never be able to scrape ice from the windshield because my stubby legs aren't long enough to allow my stubby arms to reach the windshield. I also realize that I'll irreparably harm the environment every time I crank up the engine. And, yes, I fully realize that I'll have to spend approximately the gross national product of Sweden to fill up the tank. I don't care.

Why am I willing to do all of these things? Well, because I can't back out of a parking space or make a right turn without endangering my life any more. You see, I drive a 2-door Honda. It's cute, it's just my size, it has a tiny turning radius, and it gets great gas mileage. The only thing it doesn't do is allow me to see around, over, or under the hulking behemoths that clog up the Target and Kroger parking lots and left-turn lanes.

Mini-vans, SUVs, and pick-up trucks have become the scourge of my existence. No matter what I do, I end up next to one in a parking lot, forcing me to put my car in reverse, say a silent prayer, and back out slowly, hoping that the hulking behemoth that's coming down the row will see the speck that I am and hit the brakes in time to stop the forward momentum of a thousand tons of steel before crushing me like a bug. Or, I have to sit and wait for all of humanity to come to a stop so the freak of automotive nature can make a left turn, because short of pulling into oncoming traffic, there's no way for me to know that I can make my right turn.

Yesterday, I came out of a store and there was my little car, by itself, no behemoths in sight. Gleefully, I trotted over, anxious to back out with a clear view of everything around me. As I got in and shut the door, I looked in the rearview mirror and there it was - the world's largest red pick-up backing up to squeeze into the space next to my driver's door. So close, I thought, so close to backing up without taking my life into my own hands. And, to add insult to injury, I had to wait for the jackass to completely block out the sun before I could even start moving.

At least he parked straight. I firmly believe that if you're going to insist on driving an enormous vehicle, you should have to pass a parking test before you're allowed to take it home. Just because your car is the size of your house doesn't mean that you get to take up 2, 3, or 4 other parking spaces. And here's a hint - if the sign says, "compact car," that ain't you!

So, I'm throwing in the towel. If I ever get a job, I'm buying the world's biggest SUV and I'm going to park it diagonally wherever I damn well please.

Holiday music

Well, December is almost here and everything is turning red and green, unless you live in the NEPIW where everything is turning a dull gray so that when the blanket of snow finally arrives, you're thankful rather than annoyed.

In preparation for the holidays, I took a break from work earlier this week and loaded all of my holiday CDs into iTunes. Since that didn't take nearly enough time, I spent some time shopping in the iTunes store. I found some of my favorite, as yet unowned holiday music. Say what you want about Elton John's "Step Into Christmas," I love that song. Just makes me happy. And sometimes, there's nothing better than Bono's heartbreaking, "Baaaaby, please come home!"

In my searching, I came across many familiar titles and artists. I also came across some disturbing titles. Mixed in with "Silver Bells" and "White Christmas," the following songs sat quietly, as if they actually belonged in the list:

First, puzzling pairings of artists and titles:

• Please, Daddy (Don't Get Drunk) - John Denver: I don't care what you say, that's one festive-sounding song.
• Santa Claus (Got Stuck in My Chimney) - Ella Fitzgerald: Well, that's going to be tough to explain to the kids.

Next, pairings that seem to make sense:

• Yellin' at the Xmas Tree - Billy Idol: In the midnight hour, he yells, "Noel! Noel! Noel!"
• One Parent Christmas - Saffire and the Uppity Blues Women: Next line: "Half as many presents"
• I'll Be Stoned for Christmas - Bob Rivers: Hide the mistletoe, Bob's here!
• Codependent Christmas - The Therapy Sisters: The companion piece to John Denver's holiday classic. Please, Daddy, get drunk, because if you don't, none of us will know how to behave.
• Christmas is a Pain in the Arse - The Accelerators: Well, it certainly is for Ella Fitzgerald.
• Xmas in Jail - Asleep at the Wheel: Nobody knows the Christmas I've seen...

And, of course, the kings and queens of dysfunction and misery, the country singers:

• Leroy the Redneck Reindeer - Joe Diffie: Ah, the redneck jokes just never get old. Ha ha ha, a redneck reindeer. What do you suppose he hunts?
• Santa's Got a Semi - Keith Harling: Nothing says Merry Christmas like pumping your arm up and down, hoping Santa will blow his horn.
• Cold Beer - Tracy Lawrence: Let it pour, let it pour, let it pour.
• Let's Make a Baby King - Wynonna: Wonder where you're supposed to put the emphasis in this one. "Let's make a baby, King" means one thing, while "Let's make a baby king" means something totally different. Both are equally gross, though.

And, finally, my personal favorite:

• Santa's Messin' with the Kid - Lynryd Skynyrd: I don't even want to know that this song is about.

I'm sticking to Elton and Bono.

Project Dissertation

I love Project Runway. Sure, the over-the-top contestants get on my nerves (last seaon's Vincent and Angela, and this season's Christian and Elisa) for example), but the combination of ridiculous challenges and snarky judges wins me over every time. I have the same response to Top Chef. At least the Project Runway judges don't have to eat the failed designs.

As I watched last night, I realized that writing a dissertation is a lot like Project Runway. I'm at a point where time is running out and I'm just hoping that my committee (the judges) don't see unfinished hems and puckered seams. Most of all, I'm hoping they don't see that the whole thing is held together with safety pins, ready to collapse into a scrap heap in the slightest breeze. I don't think I'll use this season's Elisa's "spit marking" technique on my dissertation.

Unfortunately, I don't have a stick figure model to "work" my dissertation when it's finished. And I don't have an accessory wall where I can choose scarves, shoes, and purses to dress up my creation and hide all the flaws. Nor do I have Tim Gunn looking over his glasses at all the mounds of paper and books, giving me the stare and saying, "It looks like you have a lot of work to do. I'm concerned." OK, maybe I can do without that, but I would like to hear, "Make it work." Who knows, maybe he'd come by and say, "This is great! Really. Carry on." Let's just hope none of my committee members say, "Your dissertation is boring and uninspired. It left us sad. You're out. Auf Wiedersehen."

Perhaps I've been writing too much lately. I plan to stop in April.

Wait, wait, it's a toilet

I've discovered the joy of free "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" podcasts from iTunes. Now, even though my local NPR station doesn't broadcast WWDTM, I can listen to it any time I want to. Which is exactly what I did on my way home from the family Thanksgiving.

I listened to a broadcast from earlier this month, prior to the local university's homecoming game. In one of the show's games, Peter Sagal asked one of the panelists about a news bit from my own college town. I was very excited and sat up a little taller in the car. He referred to the drought and asked the panelist what the university was doing to curb excessive flushing at the football stadium.

I sank back down. I figured he must be making it up, since I've been following the local plumbing coverage so closely. But, no, it's true. This story passed right under my well-trained nose. The university considered posting official flushers in the stadium bathrooms to determine when and if a toilet needed to be flushed. Peter didn't say anything about specific training for this job, though I'm sure there must have been some training. After all, I had to pass a test on handling hazardous materials for my adjunct teaching job in the history department of a local college. Maybe the toilet monitors had to pass a history exam.

All of the WWDTM panelists were aghast and disgusted - which are normal responses. I, on the other hand, thought, "It's finally come to this. We finally make it on Wait, Wait and they're talking about our toilets."

Lotion commotion

Today's blotter carries the most creative response to the drought: Door-to-door lotion sales. I'll let you absorb that before I go on.

As the pioneering lotioneer was negotiating a sale, some other fellow "beat him up and stole his lotion." The salesman flagged down a police officer, who went to find additional witnesses to the great lotion commotion. When the officer returned, the victim had slipped away.

The lotion thief, "Hamp," is homeless and has a scraped knee and cheek. The blotter writer wants us all to know, "The lotion was valued at $5 and 'smells good,' according to police." As opposed to the "hot" lotion that's more expensive and stinks. Police have issued an all-points bulletin for "Homeless man with really soft fragrant skin trying to move a large supply of lotion."

Word has it that the lotion salesman is really chapped about the whole thing, though his friends are telling him that he needs to have a thick skin.

Toilet gift idea

You know how you don't really notice something for a while, then after you do notice it, you see it everywhere? Well, apparently, it's happened with me and toilets. Ever since my original post referring to "if it's yellow, let it mellow...," I see toilet references everywhere. This would be fitting, even ironic, for my friend who enjoys the potty humor. As for me, I find it terribly troubling.

Putting those concerns aside, here's the latest installment in "Heg's Toilet Fact of the Day:"

For the last week or so, the local paper has been running a series of articles recommending gift ideas centered around a particular theme. Today's theme: Mind & Body Gifts. There's the Affirmagy Wrap - a blanket with the same annoying (oh, I mean, affirming) sayings that you see on posters. The paper decided to feature the "Motherhood" blanket, where you can wrap yourself in affirmations like, "I am blessed to be a mother. Motherhood uplifts my world with light. I am grateful for my creative feminine energy." Wonder what the single, childless woman's wrap says. "Thank God I have this blanket since I don't have anything else to keep me warm, except this bottle of Jack Daniels and some wool socks. Woohoo, go me!" Surprisingly, no one at Affirmagy has contacted me to write for them.

Next, Sharper Image has come out with Noise Cancellation Headphones. Put the headphones on and with the push of a button, you can create "a quiet place" - because our world has become so damn loud that you have to wear headphones to experience any peace and quiet.

So, moving on, the article suggests a hula hoop for exercise while on the road. It folds up for easy storage during travel. Apparently, the designers haven't been in a hotel room lately. Not sure where I'd find space to unfold my hula hoop and swivel without damaging something (on me or in the room). How embarrassing to admit that no, you're not a rock star who trashed the room while gyrating with a lovesick fan. Instead, you're a middle-aged business traveler, gyrating to get rid of your love handles.

OK, on to the toilet suggestion. The Kohler C3 toilet seat. Retails for $750-$1300. That's right. You can either pay your mortgage, or buy one of these toilet seats for the "luxury minded person who desires cleanliness, comfort and convenience." Luckily, I don't have anyone like that on my Christmas list this year.

The description starts: "Promising better performance for the big job..." I'm tempted to just stop there, but it gets better. Among the features of the C3-100 and C3-200 (weren't they in Star Wars?), there's a "seat ring that warms, hydro-cleansing wand, and warm air fan for 'partial' drying." I'm going to stop there. Why "partial" drying? Does it only dry part of you? Which part? And, let's consider the hydro-cleansing wand for a moment. I don't know about you, but I can't get "bippity-boppity-boo" out of my head.

OK, moving on. In addition to these fabulous, totally unneccesary features, the seats also come with a blue light so you can find the toilet in the dark, a lid that softly closes by touch, and a deodorizer. And, finally, it has a memory chip, allowing it to remember specialized settings for two users. Not a memory chip that remembers you, specifically. Can you imagine - you walk into the bathroom and the toilet moans, "Oh God, not you again." Or, "Hope you didn't have chili last night." Or simply snaps the lid shut and refuses to open.

So, hope these gift ideas have been helpful. Happy shopping!

Dangers of Working From Home

These days, I'm working from home full time. This means that I live in pajamas for the first half of the day, spend a lot of time in front of my computer, and have limited contact with other people. I don't realize how squirrely I've become until I'm out and about in the general population.

Case in point: Last week, I ventured from the safety of my apartment to attend a meeting. For three days, I had limited time to myself, spending most of my day traveling or in a big conference room with approximately 100 other people. Big difference from my typical day. My brain struggled to keep up with the constant visual and auditory stimulation, finally surrendering and leaving me helpless to engage in appropriate conversation.

When one woman asked how I was doing after I moved, I said that the South was great, but I couldn't flush my toilet as much as I wanted to because we're in a drought. She looked aghast, which was my cue that perhaps planting the mental image of me on the toilet was not entirely appropriate.

But, I wasn't finished. Later, when a male colleague commented about our dinner, I told him that I'd joined a gym, go 4 times a week, and I've gained 15 pounds. Again, aghast response. After all, it's not everyday that a near stranger confides such personal information.

But, nope, still not done. Completely unprovoked, I told yet another male colleague this same story, and added that my mother says it's "middle age." The colleague said, "You're not middle aged," to which I replied, "Well, unless I'm going to live to be 100..."

So, I'm fat, old, and disgusting. Oh yeah, these folks will definitely want to keep me around. Well, they'll probably want to keep me around to see what I'll say next, not because of my professional qualifications. Just what every working woman aspires to. I'm going to crawl back into my apartment now.

Flotation devices

Last week, I traveled to Charm City for work. As the plane prepared for take-off, the safety video informed us that some of the seat cushions on the plane could be used as flotation devices. I wondered which ones. Would mine keep me afloat in case of a water landing, or would mine drag me to the bottom of the sea? Then I wondered if I couldn't use my seat cushion as a flotation device, what could I use it for? A hat? Lap desk? Very low step stool? Big heavy frisbee? Abstract art?

I remembered a comedian's comment that airplane passengers would be better served by seat cushions that turn into something that bounces, rather than something that floats. I thought about that, and decided that a seat cushion that turns into an inflatable pod would be great. Of course, you'd have to inflate the pod outside the plane, because if everyone inflated their pods inside the plane, you'd suffocate, which wouldn't be helpful. Something to think about.

Toilet News

The other night, I settled in front of the TV with my big plate of homemade spaghetti and meatballs. I caught the tail-end of a report about the Atlanta mayor's press conference, where she called on all citizens to conserve more water. I didn't see the entire report, but apparently her remarks focused on the evils of flushing. More specifically, she encouraged everyone to rush home, rip out their water-guzzling high flow toilets and replace them with the low flow variety. She ended her remarks with an enthusiastic, "So we're all going to save water, right?" There was a slight murmuring from the gathered, not the rousing "Damn straight!' that she was hoping for.

I'm guessing she went back to her office, held her head in her hands, and moaned, "Why me? Andy Young and Maynard Jackson never had to talk about toilets. Young got a major thoroughfare named after him, and Jackson got the airport. My name is going in the crapper." As far as I could tell, she avoided saying, "If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down," thus preserving some of her dignity.

As if that wasn't absurd enough, the reporter covering the press conference wrapped up her report while standing in a bathroom in front of a toilet. I guess she wanted to make sure that we all understood what the mayor was referring to, in case any of us were confused by the mayor's references to toilets. I thought, "So, it's finally come to this."

But, that's not all. Apparently toilets were big news on this day and the crack team of reporters provided full coverage (puns absolutely intended). The next reporter went forth and found a contractor to talk about the ins and outs of removing high flow toilets, the new scourge of our existence. The contractor described a two-flow toilet - where you could decide to use an entire flush or only half of a flush. As he started to explain when and why you might need a full flush, I decided that I'd heard enough. I'd worked too hard on my dinner to have it ruined by this fellow's feeble attempts to delicately talk about an indelicate subject.

Water...Need Water...

Still dry as a powderkeg here. No rain in the forecast, now that Tropical Storm Noel took one look toward north Georgia and said, "Hell no, I won't go." Autumn is dismal, as all the leaves go straight from green to shriveled brown. From recent news reports, we're becoming a bit nutty.

In the latest "drought-mania" stories:

• A local dentist installed port-a-pots in his office parking lot and is encouraging his staff (most of whom are related to the dentist) to use the port-a-pots instead of the indoor facilities. The article in the paper assured the general public that the dentist's patients could still use the indoor facilities. Let's hope this dentist's extreme conservation doesn't extend to hand-washing. I'm happy to report that this is not my dentist.
• Meanwhile, at the Georgia Aquarium, they're installing no-water urinals, hoping to save 1 million gallons of water each year. Wonder if they figured in how much water it will take to clean the no-water urinals. I'm guessing they didn't discuss their plans with the custodial staff. That's not all the Aquarium is doing for the cause. They've also drained a few exhibits. Lest we think the aquarium staff have lost their minds, they assured everyone that no fish were harmed in the draining of the tanks. So, no fish fry at the aquarium.
• In a recent letter to the editor, some fellow who is clearly vying for the "Lou Dobbs Award" argued that illegal immigrants were making the drought worse. In a masterful, albeit racist and outlandish, adaptation of anti-immigrant logic, he makes the following argument: Because these folks are here "illegally," they're sucking up valuable resources (in this case, water) and leaving none for the rest of us. And, because they don't pay taxes, they enjoy all of these services for free. Because apparently, they've located the only "all utilities free" housing in town. Wish I was smart enough to have running water in my house without having to pay for it. Seems we could all learn a lot from illegal immigrants. In his final point, the fellow really stretches the argument, and finally goes completely off the rails. According to this genius, illegal immigrants send all of our valuable resources back to their country of origin, so we can't have them. I wondered where all those tanker trucks were headed.
• And, finally, some good folks in a neighboring county organized a prayer service to ask the Almighty for rain. During the service, one of the ministers assured the faithful that the drought was a natural process, not God's punishment. I have to admit that I found this reassuring. I was glad to know that God wasn't spending his time figuring out ways to screw over north Georgia, that perhaps He had better things to do with his time.

So, the drought continues. We have officially reached Step F of the county's drought management plan. I think we can all guess what the "F" stands for.

Waxing Philosophical

As I approach the end of my dissertation, I'm forced to confront the reality of the academic job search. I know there are plenty of people out there who believe that I have made a career of purposely avoiding permanent employment. They probably believe this because I've said as much. But, as I approach the midpoint of my life and still live in an apartment, the thought of gainful stable employment does not seem so nauseating.

So, I'm jumping through hoops. I'm writing cover letters where I humbly brag about my accomplishments and magically turn shortcomings into "areas for improvement." I'm also preparing a teaching philosophy, where I explain what I believe about teaching and why. A friend of mine and I have decided that this is an exercise in proving you can sound like a complete tool. So far, I'm failing miserably (something I am particularly proud of.) As I stare at the blank computer screen, all I can think is: "I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside, give them a sense of pride to make it easier. Let the children's laughter remind us how it used to be." I just don't think this is helpful.

Luckily, I'm not left to my own devices. Like in any profession, there are plenty of people who stick their noses firmly in the conceptual treebark of teaching and learning and then offer advice to the rest of us who actually teach and learn. Because I've hit a brick wall, I turned to some of these experts for guidance.

Many experts pose "helpful questions." These include:

• What are your objectives?
• What methods do you use?
• How do you assess and evaluate your effectiveness?
• Why is teaching important to you?

All fine questions. All questions that I should be able to answer. Should be able to answer. So far, all I hear is Whitney Houston, which really only answers the last question.

So, I dug a little further. I am a researcher, after all. If I just keep digging, I'll eventually find the answer. I printed some advice from a university website. They cite AF Grasha, who suggests using metaphors to describe your teaching philosophy. For example, you could compare teaching to being a:

• Coach
• Gardener
• Director of a play
• General leading troops into battle
• Midwife
• Swiss army knife
• Evangelist
• Rabbi
• Entertainer
• Choreographer
• Tour bus driver with passengers who keep their window curtain closed

I'm sorely tempted to compare my teaching style to midwifery. Something like: "I put the class at ease, reminding them that this a natural process that students have gone through for centuries. As they begin to experience the pains of learning, I offer gentle and soothing encouragement until finally, a beautiful new paper is delivered. After cleaning the muck off the paper, I then evaluate it, offering advice on how to do better the next time."

I won't even attempt the swiss army knife or tour bus driver. I just don't think that would be a good use of my time. After all, I have a Whitney Houston song that I need to exercise from my memory.

Superbaby

Over lunch, I read the baby announcements in the local paper. Seems Mr. & Mrs. Wong named their newborn son Kalel Jorel. The paper noted that the baby was born in a local hospital, but who knows, maybe his little rocket ship crashed on the Wong's farm, then the baby lifted Mr. Wong's truck with one hand.

It's just Wong, Wong on so many levels. If nothing else, this is the most convincing evidence that soul mates exist. Think about it: I can see one person thinking that name is a good idea, but 2 people agreeing that it's a good idea? What are the odds?

Maybe the namer won some sort of bet - the kind of bet that leaves a little baby scarred for life. I'm thinking of getting some kryptonite and taking it by their house as a baby gift. Hope the baby likes REM and 3 Doors Down, because he's never going to get through an entire day without some smartass singing "Superman" or "Kryptonite."

Little Jackass at the Gym

Today, I went to the gym. As I expected, it was quiet. It's a beautiful fall Saturday and as if that's not enough to keep everyone out of the gym, it's also Georgia-Florida game day. All around town, the fans who didn't make the pilgrimage to Jacksonville crowded into grocery stores to buy chips, dip, beer and other game day accoutrements. So, the gym was quiet.

I walked around the enormous bulldog and made my way to the back of the gym. Words can't express how happy I was to see only 2 other women on the elliptical machines, and neither were anywhere near my favorite machine in the back row. I climbed aboard, revved up the iPod, turned on the Kentucky-Mississippi State game and started pedaling.

As I reached the 10 minute mark, I noticed a short young man getting on to a machine down the row. By this time, the other women had finished their work-outs and moved on. He and I were the only ones on the machines. At about the 17 minute mark, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. The little boy was hooking his headphones to the machine right next to mine. I didn't even try to hide the "you've got to be shitting me" look on my face. Twenty-nine empty machines and he chooses the one right next to me. I entertained the thought of moving, but then firmed up my resolve to stay right where I was. This little jackass was not going to chase me away.

I managed to tune him out until he got out his cell phone. I watched with some amusement as he contorted himself to brace the phone between his ear and shoulder while still hanging on to the arm bars. Oh yeah, he was getting a really good workout. When his whiny little voice interfered with my music, I made no effort to hide the clear annoyance etched on my face. I reached for my iPod and very obviously adjusted the volume. I silently wished that I could control the gym's PA system, so I could force the little jackass to listen to my music - I believe I was listening to 70s Elvis at the time. Then, I spent some time trying to figure out if there was some way that I could stink and sweat in his general direction. I momentarily considered flinging my sopping hair, but decorum got the better of me.

I finished my hour on the machine and dismounted on his side. By this time, he'd put down the phone and moved on to another surefire way to annoy everyone. He laughed out loud, amused by the misfortunes of two ne'er do wells on "Cops." With quiet dignity, I wiped off my machine and turned to leave. With quiet dignity, I released some compressed air in his general direction. With quiet dignity, I smiled and kept walking.

Fleeing Celebrities!

I hate CNN. I think the entire network is made up of mongers: fear, gossip, anything but the truth. Anderson Cooper, "The Silver Surfer of Cable News," is their only saving grace. When I go to the gym in the middle of the afternoon, I inevitably turn the TV to the Crap News Network just to have something to look at. I listen to my iPod while pictures flash in front of my eyes. Today, the California fires monopolized coverage. Finally, CNN could turn their glaring, prying spotlight away from Britney Spears and report on something that actually is real news. Wildfires raging across acres and acres of beautiful mountains, racing to the sea like the 49ers of old. "California Burning" CNN uncreatively dubbed their coverage.

As in any disaster, there are many angles to the story. There's the government angle, so today we saw Arnold and GW, both patting each other on the back and stating the obvious. According to the CNN headline, Bush said, "It's a sad situation." Now that's leadership, folks. I don't care what you say.

Then, there's the human interest angle, so reporters and their trusty sidekick camera operators follow the hapless as they return to the burned shells that used to be their mountain homes. On ABC News, Charlie Gibson even helped a woman pack up her valuables so she could take them with her, while the cameraman filmed the entire time. Way to pitch in, Charlie. Way to be a cold-hearted bastard, cameraman.

CNN took it one step further and had a reporter cover his own evacuation. No, I'm not speaking "bathroom-wise." This fellow had to leave his home. According to the headline, he didn't lose his home, but some of his friends did. I suppose he'll be interviewing them next. "So, how does it feel to lose your home? You know I didn't lose mine, right?" I have to say that if I was this jackass's wife, I'd have some pointed comments about his bid for a Pulitzer by plastering the airwaves with our family trauma.

But - today, CNN found the angle we've all been waiting for: the celebrity angle. According to the crawl, "Celebrities are among the many fleeing the California fires." But, wait, that's not the end of the story. No, "for more details, go to cnn.com/entertainment." When the end of the crawl crawled across the screen, I laughed out loud. Apparently, watching "average" folks flee a fire is heartbreaking, but when it's a celebrity, it's entertainment. I immediately got a mental image of a bunch of celebrities racing down a hillside while Ryan Seacrest chases after them, demanding to know who designed their "fire fleeing" attire.

Mark my words: If the fire gets anywhere near Britney Spears's house, these reporters will have the perfect storm.

Newspaper Ads

Let me start by saying that I am not in the market for a dog. That said, I read through the ads for pets in today's paper. It's a very slow day.

I came across these gems:

Beagle puppies, AKC registered, 6 wks old, male and female, parents onsite, good for hunting or pets!
[So, if you want to hunt some beagles, these people can set you right up.]

Cocker spaniel AKC, beautiful puppies, home raised with children.
[Too bad, I prefer my puppies cave-raised with wolves.]

Great Dane, AKC, female puppy, 5 mths old, Last of Liter.
[I really don't have anything more to add.]

Great Pyrenees puppies, 4 months old, male and female purebred, excellent as pet or guardian, gentle with children, raised with goat herd.
[Sound of Music, anyone? Ladee-o'deladee-o'delow]

Miniature schnauzer puppies, AKC, black and silver, this breed does not shed fur.
[What does it shed? Pounds? Chocolate?]

[Then, in the tradition of blending names to designate a new breed, as in Bennifer and Brangelina, we have the following:]

Shitzupoos, CKC registered, all shots and wormed.

[I 've decided that I can't own one of these dogs, because I'm not nearly mature enough to say the breed name out loud without chuckling like Beevis and/or Butthead.]

Again, it's a very slow, gray day.

AT&T: The Furry Caterpillar

In my blog entries, I make a conscious effort to avoid specific identifiers. I do this for two reasons: to protect the innocent and to protect myself from the inevitable lawsuits. In a litigious society, one can never be too careful.

Today, I'm breaking my own rule. Why? Because the offending party earned it. They worked hard for it. They deserve it. Who are they? Stand up and take a bow - AT&T Mobility, formerly Cingular, formerly AT&T Wireless, formerly BellSouth Mobility. I know, because I've been with these jokers through each metamorphosis. Even when I tried to escape by switching from Cingular to AT&T, Cingular bought AT&T and I was assimilated back into the collective. With each metamorphosis, I hope that a butterfly will replace the furry caterpillar. Each time, I get another furry caterpillar.

When I moved, I made every effort to erase all traces of my existence in the northeastern postindustrial wasteland, including changing my cell phone number. Somehow, this triggered a "new customer" alert at AT&T. Before I could learn my new number, I started getting all kinds of crap marketing offers, trying to sell me another phone line, another phone, more minutes, and a big chocolate cheesecake. (OK, I made up that last one.)

In the midst of marketpalooza, I learned that AT&T decided that I needed roadside assistance coverage, to the tune of $2.99/month. The slick brochure announcing this service informed me that I had to call the marketing firm in charge of the promotion to avoid being charged for a service that I never asked for in the first place. Well, after weeks of dealing with cable companies, phone companies, banks, tag offices, and leasing offices, I'd had it. I called aforementioned marketing firm. After being on hold for 10 minutes, I told the unfortunate jackass who answered the phone precisely where he could put his unsolicited roadside assistance. In fact, I think I offered my AAA service, if he needed assistance finding the exact location that I specified. I explained that this marketing strategy forced me to waste my valuable time on something I didn't want or need. I'm not sure he enjoyed the irony of his impatience quite as much as I did.

Fast forward to today: I got out the checkbook and the accumulated bills and performed the monthly ritual that we all know so well. Yes, I'm a dinosaur and I still write checks, lick envelopes, and affix stamps. As I detached the payment stub from my AT&T Mobility bill, I noticed a charge for roadside assistance. $2.99. Big as day. On my bill.

Calmly, I reached for my cell phone and called the furry caterpillar. Calmly, I waded through the automated options, never hearing, "If we are erroneously charging you for a service that you specifically declined three months ago, please press *" When a real person finally answered the phone, I explained the situation. I believe I said, "I seem to recall speaking with your marketing firm about this service and telling them that I wasn't interested, since I already pay for AAA. Apparently, you didn't get the message, even though you are a communications company." Without explanation, the woman on the other end of the phone offered to remove the charge from my bill and to credit my account for the previous months.

Word to the wise - if you use AT&T Mobility, always check your bill carefully. Always open and read junk mail to make sure they won't automatically charge you for something that you didn't ask for. Like I said, it's just another furry caterpillar.

The tracks of her tires

It's taken a very long time, but Britney Spears has finally gained my respect. Seems Ms. Spears was leaving a doctor's office last week when the ever-present paparazzi sprang from hell and surrounded her car. Somehow, the car lurched forward. Maybe she meant to press the brake pedal, maybe not. Maybe she made a conscious decision to introduce her car to the photographers, or maybe her subconscious simply decided that enough was enough. We'll probably never know. But, what we do know is that Brit's tire rolled over a photographer's foot, leaving a track across his pristine white sock. That's right, the fellow was wearing white socks with sandals. From all accounts, he walked away without apparent injury, except to his pride.

I don't think he's pressing charges, since his crime of fashion clearly outweighs Britney's minor infraction. Score one for Britney, though I bet that sock is already fetching some hefty bids on eBay.

Feminine Again

This week, I received an unsolicited publication in my mailbox. It came addressed to a previous occupant and rather than forward the publication, I brought it to my apartment. It's called Jezebel, a magazine about "Atlanta luxury living." I had no idea there was luxury living in Atlanta, much less an entire magazine devoted to it. So, with some interest, I flipped through the pages.

According to the magazine's tag line, it covers "homes, cars, fashion, celebs, travel, and culture." All the things that you'd expect in luxurious living. I glanced at pictures of the 20 most eligible men and women in Atlanta (lots of white teeth and big boobs), I learned about the newly renovated Rays on the River, and I read through all the upcoming events that I wasn't planning to attend. None of these features came as a surprise.

What did come as a bit of a surprise was an ad for "Vaginal Rejuvenation and Cosmetic Surgery." I wondered where this fit in "luxury living." The ad offered to help me "feel feminine again" and to "enhance the appearance of [my] female genital area to its more youthful state." I could accomplish this through the miracle of some really unpleasant-sounding surgical procedures. Now, not only do I have to worry about the rapidly aging parts of me that are regularly visible to the general public, I also have to think about the cosmetic appearance of my nether-regions? Fan-damn-tastic.

The ad raised questions that I can honestly say that I've never considered. For example, "Do you have feelings of embarrassment about the appearance of your genitalia?" Well, no, but now I wonder if I should. Who would I ask, other than these doctors? I mean, seriously, that's a tough question to ask someone. I'm not even sure how you'd lead into it. "So, speaking of the drought, do you think my genitalia are funny looking?" See what I mean.

But, the good Doctors Miklos and Moore (more what? ha ha ha) will solve all my "south of the border" troubles. They offer such things as vaginal rejuvenation. I didn't even know it was burned out. And, in what has to be the worst euphemism of all time, they'll fix vaginal relaxation, a condition usually caused by childbirth. Admittedly, I haven't given birth to any children, but from what I understand, it's anything but relaxing. And, honestly, I think after something like that, my vagina would have every reason to take it easy for a while. Wonder what they would do to tense it back up. Give it a really hard test? Make it go on a blind date? Force it to navigate through Friday afternoon rush hour traffic?

Among many other procedures, the good doctors can enhance my g-spot. Finally, something that sounds interesting. The most puzzling procedure is something called uterine suspension. Suspended where? How? And why? Did it throw spitballs in the cafeteria? Did it pull someone's hair? Oh, and they also offer uterine preservation - so all your future generations can marvel at your uterus, I suppose. As your children's children's children walk down memory lane, looking at old photographs, school awards, and sports trophies, they can also gaze upon your uterus, perfectly preserved in its "youthful state."

If you want more information about all of this, check out http://www.anewvagina.com/. No, I'm not making that up. If this is what it takes to live in the lap of luxury, I'll stay right where I am.

Chili and Popsicles

Yesterday, I made my weekly pilgrimage to the local grocery store. After a week of barely cooking, I decided to make a big pot of chili and some cornbread for dinner. In the process, I learned that my favorite chili recipe did not make the trip from the northeastern post-industrial wasteland. Somehow, the cookbook with the chili recipe disappeared with the cookbook containing the favorite spaghetti sauce recipe. I'm not sure how this happened, but I hope they are very happy together.

Finding a good chili recipe is particularly challenging for someone who doesn't like beans or peppers. A lot of recipes call for a lot of beans and lots of green pepper. Vegetarian chili is right out, because those recipes usually call for multiple bean variations - black beans, kidney beans, chili beans, Jack's jumping beans. All little balls of rot, in my humble opinion. I prefer a few beans, no peppers and lots of meat and tomatoes in my chili. I've tried omitting the beans all together, but the chili doesn't thicken up like it's supposed to. So, I put half of the required beans in, then pick them out as I eat the chili. Yes, it's insane, but I don't care. We all have our "things" that make us unique individuals. This is mine. Well, one of mine.

As I collected the necessary ingredients at the grocery store, I turned down the canned vegetable aisle. There, in front of the beans, was a scruffy looking fellow with a backpack. He had long, unkempt hair and a mustache and beard, and seemed particularly interested in the beans. He didn't have a shopping cart, and wasn't carrying any groceries, unless he put them in his backpack. And, here's where it gets weird: he was eating a popsicle. By the time I came upon him, he was halfway through his snack. He stayed in front of the beans long enough to finish the popsicle, then he threw away the stick and moved on.

See, we all have our "things." Apparently, his is eating popsicles while looking at canned beans. My "bean avoidance" seems less crazy in comparison.

Democrat Losers

Let's hear it for the Democrat losers! Al Gore now joins Jimmy Carter as the second southern Democrat who failed in his attempt to move into (or stay in, in Carter's case) 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue only to win the Nobel Peace Prize. Top that, Republican losers! Bet Florida doesn't sting quite as bad for ole Al today.

Personally, I hope Al stays out of the race for the White House. I think he'd make one hell of a Secretary of Energy in the HR Clinton White House. If anyone disagrees with him, he can just hold up his Nobel Prize and say, "When you have one of these, we'll talk." I think he's entitled to be snide.

So, good for you, Al. Way to come back from way, way down and show all of us that good guys can finish first.

Now, I can turn my energies to convincing HR Clinton that the unmarried are people, too and as tax-paying, voting people, we deserve tax breaks and health insurance just like all them married people and their kids.

Boycott Charmin

Last night, I'd settled in to watch "Two and a Half Men." Yes, I know it's mindless, and yes, I know that most of the jokes are crass and rude. I still think it's funny. One word: Ducky. Anyone who has seen Pretty in Pink knows what I'm talking about.

I made it to the first commercial break and prepared to channel surf when I heard the Hallelujah Chorus. I decided to see which multinational, money-grubbing, capitalist corporation decided to defame Handel's masterpiece. I expected a ridicuously early Christmas commercial. What I got were 2 animated bears, one red and one blue, running down a beach. Apparently, the bears needed to find a stairmaster, because their flabby backsides bounced up and down with each step. I think it was supposed to be cute. It wasn't, not while I was listening to the Hallelujah Chorus.

The bears broke into smiles of relief as they spied their destination - 2 port-a-pots, one red and one blue. They ran over, threw open the doors, and reached a state of ecstasy as they discovered entire packages of Charmin inside. Rather than actually use the port-a-pots, they danced on the beach, caressing the Charmin. The Hallelujah Chorus continued.

I sat with mouth agape. Then, I started saying, "Oh my God!" and found that I couldn't stop. For a full minute, I continued to express my utter disbelief. This had to be the most egregious misuse of sacred music in the history of egregious misuses of sacred music. Yes, the Hallelujah Chorus is a song of celebration, but it's not about Mary and Joseph finding a port-a-pot at the end of their long journey to Bethlehem. And, yes, Mary did ride on an ass to Bethlehem. So I suppose in a roundabout way, the Hallelujah Chorus is about an ass, but it's not about Mary's fat ass. There are actual other words in the Hallelujah Chorus, none of which relate to port-a-pots, toilet paper, or animated bears. For example, Handel wrote, "For the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth." Not, "For the Lord God Omnipotent gave us a port-a-pot." Not to mention, "And He shall reign forever and ever." Again, not, "And we shall wipe with the softest, most absorbant tissue forever and ever." Wrong on so many levels.

I called a friend to tell her of the travesty I'd just witnessed. She confirmed that the Charmin bears, the "shit bears" as she called them, were neither cute nor effective sales mascots. She was already one step ahead of me, having boycotted Charmin after the commercial where little bits of animated toilet paper get stuck to an animated bear's animated ass. (I have not seen that one, by the way. Not watching TV has its advantages.)

This is a perfect example of the devious nature of animation. When things are animated, we're supposed to automatically think they're cute, even if they're defaming sacred music by associating it with a necessary, yet disgusting, everyday activity. I don't care if there are fat red and blue bears running down a beach, I don't want to think about wiping my ass when I hear the Hallelujah Chorus. Is nothing sacred anymore?

Don't even get me started on the feminine product commercial where 2 women prepare for a surprise party by crouching behind a couch. When the birthday girl walks in, they jump up and yell, "Surprise!" while the voice-over announcer says something like, "Don't you wish you could count on your feminine protection all the time?" Eww.

Or the commercial for some bladder control medication, where some unsuspecting , weak bladdered woman walks into a surprise party at work and apparently doesn't lose control of her bodily functions. This remarkable achievement prompts one of her co-workers to remark, "You look fantastic!"

Lesson here: Don't have surprise parties because they may result in unintended and disgusting outcomes. And don't use animation and sacred music to thinly veil a disgusting topic. I'll admit that Charmin's advertising company has a tough task. They're not selling candy or coffee, after all. But, c'mon, they are selling a product that is absolutely necessary and I believe would sell itself, with or without advertising.

One last thing: Whatever happened to Mr. Whipple? OK, he was a little creepy because he hung out in supermarkets squeezing toilet paper, but no more creepy than 2 fat animated bears running toward port-a-pots on the beach.

Wrong Wood

Last week, I went to the 90-minute yoga class. I was tired and hadn't eaten a snack so it was a very long class. And, some masochist in the front of the room suggested that we work on arms and upper body strength. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I have the upper body strength of a kangaroo and my arms dangle like limp spaghetti; however, I don't go to yoga so I can torture myself. I was not having much fun.

At the end, we did relaxation exercises. I know that I'm supposed to try to achieve some sort of meditative (or vegetative) state; but, being a good Type A personality, I use this time to plan the next day. So, while the instructor said, "Inhale deeply, then extend your exhalations to twice as long as the inhale," I thought, "So, tomorrow, I'll write the next section in chapter 4. Maybe I'll start with Ed Wood heading to the Highlander Folk School." I stopped and thought, "No, wait, Ed Wood isn't right. It was Jim Wood." I almost laughed out loud at the thought of Johnny Depp as cross-dressing Ed Wood, showing up at Highlander to talk about citizenship schools. Johnny/Ed would sit across from Myles Horton, enthusiastically waving his arms while saying, "So, we'll start schools everywhere. And there will be monsters and all the teachers will be cross-dressers. It'll be great!"

Then, I decided that I'd get Tim Burton to direct the film version of my dissertation.

Plane trips

I'm happy to report that I made it to the Windy City and back again. Had you checked in with me on Friday morning, I'm not sure I would have predicted success. I had just pulled out of my apartment complex when the cell phone rang. It was my good friends at American Airlines, letting me know that my flight had been cancelled. I turned the car around and went back into my apartment.

Although they originally rebooked me on an evening flight, the helpful customer service agent (you read right, a helpful customer service agent at an airline) rebooked me on a flight that left 2 hours after my original flight. So, I sat around, ate some lunch, and headed out.

Got to the airport without any problems, checked in, and made it through security without anyone pushing me from behind. I hate that! It takes time to go through security. Deal with it. I think that I manage to get all of the required items out of suitcases and backpacks and into plastic bins with minimal upheaval. I wear shoes that slip on and off. I'm even patient with the infrequent flyers who don't have the routine down, as long as those people are in front of me. I'm not patient with the jackass behind me who decides I'm not going fast enough, or that I only need one plastic bin, and puts his or her plastic bin right up against mine and starts disrobing. I especially hate when they force my bin onto the moving conveyor before I'm done filling it. I can't stand those people - even if it's a little old lady who's never flown before and is completely freaked out in security. Back up, take a breath, and wait until I'm done.

But I digress. I get to the gate and as expected, there's a gate change. I don't mind gate changes because it usually means that my plane approacheth and they need somewhere to put it. We all marched to the next gate and boarded without any glitches.

I sat on the aisle. I prefer the window, but at least I wasn't in the middle. A big guy sat in the middle and complained that he had a first class ticket, but the desk agent uncermoniously bumped him into coach. He explained that he had "over 200,000 miles with the airline and this is how they treat him." I felt like saying, "Buddy, welcome to the real world." But I didn't. Instead, I prayed for the high sign when we could turn on our portable electronic devices so I could drown out the inane conversation between this fellow and the young woman next to him. Something about sales, shipping, outsourcing, Chicago suburbs, commuting, blah, blah, blah. His voice blended in with the airplane hum, but hers could cut through lead. iPod, take me away!

As we approached O'Hare, the pilot came on to let us know that emergency vehicles were assembling to meet our plane. No, we hadn't won some contest and no, we weren't entered in a parade, seems we had "mechanical difficulties." He shared that the difficulties forced us to fly "lower and slower" than usual, which explained why our hour and a half flight was approaching two hours. According to the pilot, he decided not to tell us anything in transit because it was not "an emergency." But, as we approached, something happened that made it an emergency. He assured us that the flight attendants would have more information.

Well, if they had more information, they didn't share it. We all anxiously awaited touchdown, sure that the landing gear would fail and we'd skitter off the runway like a stone skipping across water. Without any information, everyone became an expert. The fellow next to me started explaining the ins and outs of removing the exit doors while the woman in the window seat, who flies all the time, got all excited and said, "Wouldn't it be cool if they had to use the foam?" Yeah, that would be cool, but not as cool as punching her in the face. Then, as you'd expect in these situations, strangers began sharing stories of wind shear, forced landings, smoke smells, and any number of other scary events on flights past. I didn't find it particularly comforting to learn that everyone around me had a story, as if they attracted problems.

In an attempt to drown out the chorus of "I almost died when...", I started thinking, "I wonder how I'll get my suitcase off the plane if we have to slide down the inflatable rafts to get out. I'm sure they won't let me take my suitcase with me. Will they get the luggage and bring it to the terminal? How long will that take?" It's funny where your brain goes when you don't have enough information to make informed judgements.

We landed and all went as it should have. As the pilot predicted, emergency vehicles lined the runway. On this day, we were happy they weren't needed. From there, I got a cab to my friends' house. He was either a new cabbie or a directionally-challenged cabbie, or both, because he had no clue where he was going. He kept calling his friends to guide him to the address.

Luckily, I'd been there before, so I knew we weren't way off course. As we got close, I told him to let me out at the corner, rather than circle the block again. I tried to pay with a credit card and he said he couldn't take the card, even though he assured me I could pay with credit before we left the airport. I said I was $5 short, and he said, "It's close enough. It's your lucky day." And upon reflection, I suppose it was.

Rain

It rained today. Why would I bother to share this news? Well, it hasn't rained in approximately one month. It's dry here. Unwet. How dry is it? It's so dry that I saw camels going through downtown. OK, not really. It's so dry that restaurants aren't giving glasses of water to just anyone. Now that's the truth. You have to ask for water.

It's so dry that the city council announced a complete ban on outside watering because there's only 6 weeks of water left in the reservoir. Six weeks! So, get out the buckets, pails, jugs, and anything else you can collect water in and start collecting because the end is near!!

The water crisis has been a boon for the local paper. They finally have something to write about. We've learned that the good folks at the university aren't going to water the athletic fields, including the hallowed shrine between the hedges, until we get significant rainfall. We'll all just have to sit and watch as the field goes from brilliant green to blue, then becomes a big sandpit fraught with unseen divots big enough to snap a running back's ankle in two. Football just got more interesting. There was no mention of whether the beloved mascot would have to forego his beloved bag of ice at each home game.

As expected, some folks aren't happy about the watering restrictions. According to the newspaper editor, some "selfish" people have taken to calling to give him an earful about how their rose bushes are going to die. Pulling out all the stops, he chastised them soundly, writing what can only be described as the modern day equivalent of public flogging. I bet those folks are very sorry. Or not.

And, of course, we've all had to endure the endless stream of letters about flushing - the scourge of our community. "If it's yellow, let it mellow. When it's brown, flush it down." Grown-ups have included this phrase in their letters. Grown-ups. I can understand the sentiment, but c'mon people, even in this crisis, let's keep our heads! There's no need to resort to silly, contrived, disgusting sayings. Seriously. I'm afraid to go to anyone's house and use the bathroom for fear that I will see evidence of things passed. And, whenever I take care of my own personal needs, I have that stupid saying going through my head. I hope they're happy.

Finally, it rained today. As I walked around downtown, I overheard a couple of conversations that went something like this:

Person 1: The last time it rained, Sally and I got caught in it and we were drenched.
Person 2: I remember that rain storm! I got drenched, too. My friend and I went to my house and threw our jeans in the dryer. We had a cup of tea and waited for our clothes to dry.

And, Person 1: Oh my God, me and Jennifer were coming home one day - back when I lived downtown - and there was this downpour. By the time we got to my apartment, we were soooo wet. I was, like, I've never been so wet.

I knew it hadn't rained in a while, but the nostalgia in these strangers' recollections really made me appreciate how long it had been. Usually, I don't like to be out and about in the rain, but today, I didn't mind. The smell of the damp soil, the sound of the rain hitting the brick sidewalks, the sound of cars splashing through puddles, the feeling of the raindrops hitting the backs of my legs as they rolled off the umbrella, the sight of two people extending their lunch break while standing under the magnolia tree - all welcome sights, sounds, and smells after a long, hot summer.

Maybe now, we can all start flushing again. Probably not. The rain didn't last long enough to make mud.

Yin Yoga

Last night, I got as close to torture as I ever want to get. Following my new routine, I went to the 90-minute yoga class. I've decided that I like the class because it seems to attract a core group of the same people every week. The instructor is more relaxed and there's sense of comaraderie. We needed it last night.

The instructor put her mat at what has been the back of the room, announcing that she didn't want us to look at the clock during class. I should have recognized this as an omen. The second sign that things were not going to follow a "normal" path was when she handed out blocks and straps. Then, when we'd all assembled, she announced that we were going to do yin yoga, "just for fun." I've learned that "just for fun" is this instructor's way of saying, "Only totally insane people would try this." For example, she encourages us to wind ourselves up into knots, then balance on our forearms, "just for fun." As she's balancing there, she'll say, "See, isn't this fun? It's hilarious." I usually stop whatever she's doing when she says, "Try this, just for fun."

Heading into an entire class that would be "just for fun" was a bit daunting. She introduced yin yoga by saying that we'd go into poses without warming up our muscles first, then we'd hold the poses longer than usual. I thought, "This sounds like a recipe for a torn muscle, but she's the instructor." We spent the next 75 minutes in some of the most uncomfortable positions I've ever been in. It wasn't excrutiating, just uncomfortable. Poses that I've come to enjoy were not pleasant. Let me tell you, once you've sustained a penguin pose without warming up first, it hurts to move back into child's pose.

I felt like I was 80 years old, but I knew I wasn't alone. There were groans all over the room as we slowly put our legs back together (and back in socket). At one point, the instructor admitted that the lunge pose was "killing her," but she didn't want to "gyp" us out of the experience. A woman in the center of the room said, "No, no, please gyp us." Next, we worked ourselves into a pose where we were on our backs with one leg bent so that foot touched the corresponding hip, bottom of the foot turned toward the ceiling. The lone fellow in the room (not last week's flasher) said, "If my quad should come loose from my body, what will you do?" Someone else assured him that we'd call 911.

At one point, the instructor sniffed the air and asked, "Does it smell like cleaning fluid?" No one responded, so she looked at the fellow and asked, "Do you smell, like, cleaning fluid?" Still holding his pose, he said without missing a beat, "Do I smell like cleaning fluid?" I thought I was going to topple over. It still cracks me up.

At one point, in some twisted pose, the fellow said, "I had planned to go running tomorrow. Now, I don't know if I'll be able to." One woman responded, "I drive a stick shift car. I just hope I can get home." I said, "I just hope I can walk out of this room." But, yet, none of us left. Laughing through the discomfort was somehow comforting.

For the big finale, we sat in a butterfly position, soles of the feet together, knees out to the side. We wrapped the strap around our hips, passed it under our feet, then buckled and tightened the strap. Then, as instructed, the lot of us positioned the blocks behind us and reclined so our backs rested on one block and our heads on the other. As I laid there, trussed up and totally exposed, I thought, "This is as close to torture as I want to get." I also thought, "Please God, let me sit back up."

I feel that I can speak for the entire class when I say that none of us are in a hurry to do yin yoga again. We were all good sports and there was more laughing and cutting up than in the other classes I've gone to. The instructor rewarded us with a longer relaxation period at the end. We did alternate nostril breathing, where you close one nostril, breathe in with the other, exhale, switch sides, repeat. Divine intervention was the only thing that kept me from laughing out loud.

I thought I'd be sore today, but I'm not. Just tired. Probably should have skipped the 45 minutes on the elliptical today.

Bananas

"We should all aspire to live like bananas. They are on permanent vacation, living in lush, tropical rainforests. From high above, a canopy of trees provides the perfect balance of sun and shade."

This bit of wisdom is printed on the back of my Post Selects Banana Nut Crunch cereal box. I read it this morning after I'd consumed half of my required daily intake of coffee. I've decided that I want to get a job at Post, because apparently, they have a very lax drug use policy.

If anyone asks what I'm doing today, I'm going to respond, "I'm aspiring to live like a banana on permanent vacation." It sounds so much better than, "Working on my dissertation."

Me and Jack

As I've mentioned before, I spent approximately two months preparing to move from the NEPIW. In that time, I lived at a friend's apartment, so I wouldn't have to live in the chaos at my own apartment. Despite my efforts to stay sane and organized, the disruption seeped into my daily activities in unexpected ways.

For example, one day, I cleaned out 4 years of coursework and teaching assistant notes. Amazing how the stuff that seemed so critically important magically transformed into absolute garbage. I shredded until the shredder cried "uncle."

With that task done, I headed to the grocery store, but not before grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniels. The bottle had the cap on it, but there was a noticeable amount missing - clearly this was not a new bottle of Jack. When I got to the car, I put the bottle in the drink holder, figuring it wouldn't tip over there.

I got to the grocery store with 80s pop music blaring and pulled into a parking space next to a Cadillac. Apparently, I got really close to the Cadillac because as I got out of my car, the woman who had been sitting in the Cadillac was examining the side of her car. I really didn't think I'd hit the car. I don't think I even nudged the car. I knew I wasn't paying close attention, but I desparately wanted to believe that I would know if I hit her car.

Anyway, she didn't see any damage. I apologized profusely and she laughed and said it was OK, she was just startled when I pulled in. It wasn't until I got into the grocery store that I remembered the bottle of Jack Daniels in my drink holder. The open bottle of Jack Daniels.

I'm still not really sure that anyone would believe that I was transporting the open bottle from my apartment to another apartment where I was actually living because my loud neighbors drove me out of my apartment and the fact that I couldn't park my tiny Honda Civic without hitting really expensive cars in the process had absolutely nothing to do with the open bottle of Jack Daniels conveniently placed in my drink holder. No, seriously.

Men and yoga

This week, I started going to the 90-minute yoga class on Monday evenings. I'm happy to report that I made it through the class and felt better when I came out than when I went in. I think I might be getting the hang of this gym thing.

On Wednesday, I went to the gym for what has become my regular yoga class. As I entered the room, I got my mat and scanned the room for a space to claim as my own. My eyes fell on the person closest to the door. He was in reclining butterfly - where you sit down, put the soles of your feet together, knees out to the sides, and lay back. He was wearing shorts. I don't think I emitted an audible "eek" but I might have. In most other circumstances, I'd be the first to say that audible exclamations of disgust are bad form. In this case, I think I should be forgiven. I quickly averted my eyes, claimed the spot behind him, and tried to erase the image from my memory banks. Ever wonder why memories of loved ones fade, but you can indefinitely retain a vivid mental image of a stranger's not-meant-for-public-viewing parts. Our God has a strange sense of humor.

Since Mr. Shorts was in the front of the room, I decided that he wasn't in class to ogle at the female class members. About 10 minutes into the class, I decided he was there to sweat profusely and breathe heavily like Darth Vader. He was clearly connected to a force all his own. Despite the instructor's constant reminder to "go slow," he zipped in and out of warrior 1, warrior 2, and reverse warrior. He was a whirling, sweaty dervish. I intentionally kept my head down while we were in bent-over poses. I didn't want to see what might not be "downward facing" while we were in downward facing dog.

Mr. Shorts left after 45 minutes. The instructor continued to guide us in and out of poses while scrubbing his mat with what I hoped was industrial strength cleanser. I didn't ask, but I believe she was thinking, "Thank God he left before I put the class in 'the reclining pose of their choice.'"

He's not the first guy who's been in my yoga class. There was a nice gentleman in the Monday class. He actually apologized and moved his mat when we stretched out and he accidentally tickled my foot. He also wore longer shorts that covered all of his parts. He was even entertaining at times, like when we were in eagle pose (where you basically twist your arms and legs into knots and try to balance on one foot.) This fellow had some balance issues and but never untwisted his arms as he wobbled from one side to the other. He didn't completely topple over, to his credit. He just wobbled like a very drunk eagle whose friends dared him to twist his arms into knots and then left before helping him unwind.

There's another fellow that comes to class. He's not skinny and not very flexible, but that guy can hold a T-balance longer than anyone I've ever seen. And he wears shorts that cover all his parts.

As intimidating as yoga class can be for women, I imagine it must be worse for men. I'd like to be encouraging, but if you're going to sweat profusely and flash your private parts, please stay home.

Moon over Arkansas

Last fall, I traveled from the northeastern post-industrial wasteland to Little Rock to do the dance that all budding academics must do - I presented a paper at a conference. The trip to Arkansas went relatively smoothly. The flight left the NEPIW on time, and my flight from Atlanta left on time.

On the flight from Atlanta, I sat behind a couple - a decidedly rotund couple. As we began our descent into Little Rock, the fellow started fretting. He got out his wallet and said, "I've lost my social security card and the card to get the car out of the parking deck." He continued to fret, working himself up to "I don't deserve to walk around. I'm so disorganized. All I'm fit to do is work 24 hours a day."

Finally - we arrived at the terminal and everyone got up. The fellow leaned forward and stood up. I stood up, looked over the seat and saw something that should never see the light of day. Let's just say that this fellow needed a belt. A very large belt. I won't provide the gory details, but I've sworn off men. Forever.

I arrived at the hotel after 10PM and immediately turned in, hoping my dreams would be free of moons, fuzzy animals, and anything else that would remind me of the horror I'd seen on the plane. In the morning, I ordered coffee and yogurt from room service. Why did I order room service when no one was reimbursing my expenses? Well, because this fine hotel with ducks that waddled through the lobby twice a day couldn't put coffee pots in the hotel rooms. I felt a bit like Jack Sparrow - "but why is the coffee gone?"

When I called room service, they informed me that there was a coffee shop in the lobby. I almost yelled, "But I need coffee before I can find the coffee shop! I am not allowed to interact with people before I've had my coffee! I had to look at a fat man's ass last night! Now, bring me my damn coffee!" Somehow, I managed to remain civil.

The day before I was to leave Arkansas, a big wind blew. I know, because I finally made it out of the hotel and nearly found myself in Oz. I walked about 2 blocks and gave up. That evening, I considered the possibility of getting home the next day, and after watching the Weather Channel, I became convinced that I should have let the wind blow me back home.

The next day was beautiful and sunny in Little Rock. I arrived at the airport in plenty of time for my flight. After leisurely unwinding from the conference, I walked to my gate, where I learned that my flight to Motor City had been cancelled due to high winds. No more flights that evening. I could pay to spend another night in Little Rock or try to get to a hub city where I had friends. I went down the list: Atlanta? Only if I wanted to fly to Dallas first. Washington DC? Nope, can't get there from Little Rock. Chicago? Ding, ding! We had a winner. Two hours later, I was strapped in, enjoying the irony of heading to the Windy City because high winds closed every other airport.

I spent approximately 10 glorious hours with my Chicago friends and headed back to O'Hare. I managed to get on the early direct flight to Syracuse. I was on the plane, strapped in, when the desk agent came on board and asked if I'd please give up my seat for a distraught woman who just had to get to Syracuse. I said, "No." The desk agent explained that because I was the last one to buy a seat on the plane, I was the first one to give up my seat in an emergency. I said, "I'm not supposed to be here at all. I was supposed to be in upstate New York last night. I bought my ticket 3 months ago. No, she can't have my seat." The desk agent repeated her plea. I said, "What will happen to me?" She said, "We'll get you on the flight to Philadelphia, then on to Syracuse." I relented, after she promised me a $250 travel voucher.

As I passed the distraught woman, she didn't even turn to thank me. No acknowledgement, no "kiss my ass," no nothing. She headed off to Syracuse, with my suitcase under the plane, and I headed off to yet another flight to yet another airport, where I would give yet another airline yet another chance to get me home. It wasn't until I sat down in a middle seat on the plane to Philly that I realized that I'd forgotten my book on the Syracuse flight. I hope that distraught woman found some comfort in Fellowship of the Ring, while I flew to Philly without Frodo, Sam, and Legolas to keep me company.

I finally landed in Syracuse, 28 hours after I'd arrived at the Little Rock airport. Grand total for the round trip: 6 airports, 3 airlines. Upon arrival in Syracuse, I went straight to the Delta ticket counter, relayed my story, and inquired about the frequent flyer miles that I should have earned on the return trip, had I been able to take a Delta flight. When the manager said, "Hmm, I don't know," I demanded frequent flyer miles. Without any argument, the manager gave me a very generous boost to my total miles.

And, with American's travel voucher, I'm returning to the Windy City next weekend for a proper visit with my friends. It's been a year and I've almost recovered from this travel adventure.

Inside the Actors Studio

The other day, in one of my more bored moments, I thought about what I would say if James Lipton ever asked me the questions he poses to his guests at the end of "Inside the Actor's Studio." Here's what I'd say:

What is your favorite word? Peace, in all its incarnations.

What is your least favorite word? Lynching.

What turns you on? A really clever inside joke

What turns you off? Insecurity, in all its incarnations.

What sound do you love? Laughter - the kind that's slightly out of control and about something that you couldn't possibly explain to anyone who wasn't there in the moment.

What sound do you hate? The sound of my neighbors having sex. Fortunately, it's not a problem in my current apartment. That's either a testament to good soundproofing, or I have very lonely neighbors.

What profession other than yours would you like to attempt? Kept woman.

What profession would you not like to participate in? I wouldn't want to clean animal cages at the zoo. Or anywhere for that matter. I don't even want a cat unless he or she goes to the bathroom outside.

What is your favorite curse word? God***n, mother f***ing, sh*t! When said properly, it has a fantastically rhythmic cadence with a satisfying punctuation at the end.

If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates? "Orlando Bloom isn't here yet, but he's dying to meet you." And then God would chuckle at his own joke.

Yes, that's what I'd say to James Lipton. His loss that I'm not an actor.

Church stories

On this Sunday, while I'm not going to church, I thought I'd share a couple of stories from my brief stint at a large metro church deep in the heart of the city that's too busy to hate. First, let me say that I chose this church because it was big enough to have a decent choir and still kept to the traditional service. While I don't have blue hair (yet), I don't enjoy contemporary church services. Too flashy, too showy, too much like watching televangelists on TV. Just give me an old fashioned "prayer, hymn, and sermon" service and I'm happy.

One Sunday, I sat amongst the multitude and listened as a young assistant minister read the announcements. She called on all of us to celebrate a new birth, mourn a loss, and attend the weekly Bible study of our choice. Then, she told us about a couple in the church who decided to devote a year of their lives to missionary work. She asked the couple to stand up, and two fresh-faced people rose, brimming with wholesome optimism. In what was to be her final hoorah for the morning, the young minister looked at all of us and with a sweep of her arms, said, "So, let's all pray for this couple as they assume the missionary position in..." To this day, I have no idea where these people went because the minister lost me at "missionary position." No one in the congregation laughed. Not even a snicker. To my credit, I held it together, convincing myself that God would surely strike me down if I uttered a sound. I like to believe that he was up there having a good chuckle, though.

Every Sunday, before the final hymn, the head minister invited members of the congregation to come forward if they wanted to join the church. His invitation sounded sincere and didn't mention any strings. For example, he didn't say, "Before you come forward, you should contact our church office and arrange to visit with a minister. Then, we'll assign a sponsor for you and give you a date when you'll come forward to join the church." He didn't say any of that. So, I took him at his word, that if I wanted to join the church, I should just march forward and tell him so.

I spent a month working up my courage. On the self-appointed day, I went to the early service, figuring there might be fewer people (1500 instead of 2000). I chose my best suit, selected a seat near the side aisle, and waited. On cue, the minister offered his invitation and the congregation stood to sing the last hymn. I slipped out of the pew and walked up the side aisle, because walking up the middle aisle was way too intimidating. As I rounded the corner at the front of the church, the phalanx of ministers turned and saw me for the first time. All of their faces registered absolute surprise. I thought, "uh-oh," but there was no turning back.

I walked up to the head minister, who quickly regained his composure. He asked my name and leaned his ear to my mouth, because the poor man was hard of hearing and the congregation was still singing. I told him my name. He asked what church I belonged to and I told him. When he asked my occupation, and I said, "social worker."

The congregation stopped singing and sat down. I decided to focus my eyes on a spot somewhere in the middle of the back door, trying to avoid all of the 3000 eyes staring at me. I didn't feel the spirit of the Lord moving through me, unless the spirit of the Lord feels like sheer terror. The minister looked out at the congregation and accurately pronounced my name and the name of the church that I belonged to. I thought, "Whew! We're home free from here." Then, he said, "...and she's a postal worker." In that instant, I got a mental picture of myself in a postal worker's uniform and thought, "No! I'll never ensnare an attractive man now!" So I turned to him and hissed, "Social worker. I'm a social worker!" He looked back out at the congregation and said, "Sorry, she's a social worker." No one was more sorry than I was.

When I relayed this story to a friend who'd followed the rules and joined the church properly, he laughed and said, "I can't believe you actually thought people just walked up there." I told him, and I still believe, that if you're going to invite people to come forward, you should expect them to come forward. In the end, I decided it was better to be a postal worker than to single out two members of the congregation and announce that they would assume the missionary position in some far-off land.

Britney and Neil, together at last

I've moved my gym operations into the big gym, out of the women's only room. I was driven into the big gym earlier this week when a bunch of ponytailed, young, fatless girls took up all the elliptical machines in the women's room (not that I'm bitter.) Thanks to them, I've discovered that the big gym is much more pleasant. The machines are farther apart and there's more going on thus doubling the people watching opportunities. It's only taken 10 weeks, but I've finally made it to the big gym - and I'm up to 45 minutes on the elliptical machine. I'll be climbing up that dog's ass in no time.

The elliptical machines are the fancy ones with individual TV screens mounted at the top of the display panel. In other words, if you're short, you might as well just look at the ceiling. Usually, I set the TV on something mindless and then listen to my iPod. I'm figuring out my preferred work-out music and let me just say, "Thank God for headphones." I can serenely pedal away while Dee Snyder insists that he's not goin' take it anymore, or Joan Jett vehemently denies that she gives a damn about her bad reputation. These are bad enough, but the other day, I found myself thinking, "Damn right, Britney, I am stronger than yesterday." Again, thank the good lord for headphones. And, yes, that's the only Britney Spears song on my iPod.

Today, I'd set my TV on the gym's music video channel, set my iPod and started pedaling. At about the 25 minute mark, I tuned in to both the music in my ears and the video on the screen. I heard Britney warbling away about being stonger than yesterday while watching a very sweaty, flannel-clad Neil Young lumber across the stage, strum his guitar and grimace while standing at the microphone. I almost burst out laughing. For a brief moment, it seemed like ole Neil had sucked down some helium and decided to sing Britney's top 10. There was Neil, grimacing away, singing, "Here I go, on my own! I don't need nobody, better off alone!" The crowd shots almost sent me over the edge. Die-hard Neil Young fans waving their arms, yelling, "Yeah, Neil! It's nothin but your way! Woohoo!"

If you'd like to experience this unique musical collaboration, here's the link to Neil's video on youtube. Turn down the volume and crank up Britney. Enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fBS3B2cZcFM&mode=related&search=

Thomas Jefferson

In a recent opinion piece, Georgetown Public Policy Institute fellow Lawrence J. Haas argued that Americans must be the eyes and ears of homeland security. Stealing a line from Two and a Half Men, I wondered who was going to be the liver and the colon of homeland security. But I digress. Haas used a quote from Thomas Jefferson to reinforce his point, employing the age-old argument: "One of the founding fathers said something that seems to relate to our current situation so stop picking on this administration and its policies." Very effective. Ranks right up there with: "This Bible verse, taken completely out of context, seems to solve our problem."

The quote Haas chose was: "The price of freedom is eternal vigilance." I was overjoyed to see that one of my fellow citizens decided to argue with Haas. In his letter to the editor, the fellow puts Jefferson's quote in historical context. I was so excited. Score one for the historians. According to this fellow, Jefferson "referred not to military attacks against a fledgling system of representative government, but instead against the tyranny of autocratic leaders who sought to impose their will over the will of the people." I believe Haas replied, "D'oh."

After making this fine point, the letter writer continues, unfortunately. He goes on to say Jefferson struggled to secure individual freedoms. Well, yes, but only for himself and his male, white friends who owned property and wore silly powdered wigs. According to the letter, "Jefferson learned during his ill-fated career as a slaveowner that oppressing people's rights bears no fruit." I expected him to present evidence of Jefferson's financial excesses and insurmountable debt. Instead, he says, "The locksmith slave in charge of Monticello's storeroom keys saw that the rest of the slaves had easy access to the estate's cider barrels and other commodities slaves produced."

It took me a minute or two (or three) to try to figure out what he's saying. The best I can figure, he's saying that Thomas Jefferson decided to free his slaves because they kept drinking all the cider. Jefferson wasn't motivated by moral imperative - which really would have been something given none of his friends and neighbors saw anything wrong with slavery. No, Jefferson decided that oppression was wrong because no matter what he did, the slaves just kept drinking all the cider.

I'm sure we all remember that famous passage from the Declaration of Independence: "all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Cider."

Exploding food

The other day, I read the paper while having lunch. It's my daily routine. I read the local and national news thoroughly, paying particular attention to the Blotter, skip the sports section where columnists alternately celebrate football triumphs or disect recent losses, and finally turn my attention to the living section, where I find out about all the events I'm not attending, all the books I'm not reading and all the movies I'm not watching. After checking in with my horoscope to make sure I can safely leave the house, I close the paper.

I followed this protocol the other day, sure that there was nothing blog-worthy in the paper. I turned the last page of the living section and there it was: a full-page advertisement for organic, non-medicinal, herbal remedies. The reason I paid any attention at all was the headline, "Foods That EXPLODE in Your Bowel!" Needless to say, I was intrigued.

Despite the full-page ad, Frank K. Wood refused to tell me which foods might blow a hole in the side of my bowels. Instead, he offered a page-long list of other things that I'd never considered but am now really concerned about. If I want answers, I have to buy Wood's book, The Complete Guide to Digestive Health, for $9.99.

According to Frank, I'll be amazed by how many inexpensive, easy, natural cures I'll find all around me - in my pantry, garden, garage, and grocery store. He lost me at "garage." Garages are for cars, car-related products, and cover bands. Forget it, Frank, I'll take my chances. (I bet it's beans and peppers that cause bowel explosions. Those are evil foods that should not be consumed under any circumstances.)

Here are some of the things that Frank would like to enthusiastically tell you about:

• Two-cent colon cleanser! [That's really adding your 2 cents. Let's hope it's not 2 actual cents because that just sounds painful.]
• Belching and bloating - they could be warning signs of up to 7 hidden health problems. [Yes, but they also make you really popular at frat houses, or so I've heard.]
• Irritable bowel syndrome? Check here for another common disorder that could be your real problem. [Let's hope the "real problem" has a better name. I've had to deal with irritable people, but an irritable bowel sounds worse. Me: "Please digest my food." Irritable bowel: "No, go away, leave me alone. I'll do it when I feel like it."]
• How to prevent the embarassment of a leaky bladder! [I don't understand Frank's enthusiasm about this, but more power to him.]
• Eyes bigger than your stomach? Find relief with this herb after overeating. [But, by all means, keep overeating.]
• When eating bananas could be deadly! [I don't know, when you're hanging upside down in a burning building? When someone is holding a gun to your head and says, "If you eat that banana, I'll blow your head off?"]
• Bowels too sluggish...or too speedy? Either way, this super fruit may help. [OK, the obvious joke would be something to do with Richard Simmons. Instead, I'll just ask how a single fruit can help with both problems at the same time? Isn't the solution to one problem the cause of the next?]
• Sleep on this side to reduce acid reflux. [Well, it seems like you could figure this out on your own, without Frank's intervention. Sleep on one side, then the other. Evaluate results.]
• Cigarettes are bad for lungs...but harm stomachs, too. [So stop eating your cigarettes!]

There are some days when I'm not as enthusiastic about my chosen profession. Thanks to Frank, I love my work. At least I don't spend my days testing garage remedies for constipation, irritable bowels, leaky bladders, and belching. I feel certain that Frank is bringing joy and comfort to many people the world over. I also feel certain that I don't want to sit next to him at a dinner party.