Thursday, November 10, 2005

Welcome... MORE Readers

It's all about the Darcy.

most obliged, sir, at

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Welcome Readers

"What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

This, apparently. Many thanks to Flipper for her factchecking services. Perhaps I should buy her a Jager Bomber, NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT.

Super Sized Smirky-Smirk at:

How YOU and your hair doin'?

I attended my first academic conference this week. I got a nametag and everything, and I don’t know about you, but nothing says “I’m A Intellectual” like your own name suspended from your neck with a plastic bungee cord.

I settled in with a happy sigh. No students to get in the way of teaching! No TV! No politicking! No Geraldo! Just scholarship! Sentence syntax, ho!

VERY FIRST PRESENTER, VERY FIRST SESSION: As we all know, George W. Bush is a horrid monkey-faced Nazi who eats newborn manatees.

OTHER ATTENDEES: Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

THE DOOR: (clicks softly shut behind MB)

So I went to another room, where academic activity of some sort indeed seemed to be taking place, and I will let you know what it was as soon as I finish the four PhD’s required to understand just what-all was said in there. Something about “the…and…therefore.” Whatever it was caused much pique to a gentleman sitting behind me, who shot a hand in the air. A thesaurus fell out of his mouth as he began shrieking about Doestoevsky, and what must he think of all this, and the word “paradoxically” was used, the only thing that stopped him was the blessed ringing of his cell phone, and let me just say that any academic point you might wish to make will be severely undercut when “Axel F” begins to issue from your pants.

I also presented. The seven people in the room, only three of whom were also not presenting, seemed appreciative, particularly when I shut up.

Now this was a collection of English divas, which meant that not one single thing started on time, except for the cocktail party, which began at six AM. They gave us drink tickets—I mean, literal drink tickets, like those tear-off things clearly left over from the Split the Pot at the church festival St. Simon’s parking lot, and we each got two, and you have not lived until you have seen a roomful of people with advanced degrees trying to form a line with alcohol at the end of it.

This all took place in a convention ballroom roughly the size of Connecticut, and I cannot fathom how there was square footage enough for all the egos.

Also, I was hit on by a woman. This was heartily offensive, not because I have a problem with gay people–the lass was simply showing good taste, after all—but because she hit on me while I was attempting to read. I was sitting near the hotel bar, immersed in high literature, and we had the following conversation:

WOMAN: Nervous about something?

ME: Uh… please?

WOMAN: I’ve been standing here watching you tap your foot while you’re reading. Are you nervous?

ME: Um.

WOMAN: Are you with the teachers?

(It’s the new pickup line! “I’m with the band” is out! “I’m with the teachers” is in! Chicks dig red pens!)

ME: Yes.

WOMAN: OHHHHHHHHH! That is so cool!

ME: ...Yeah.

WOMAN: Well, I’ll just let you get back to your book.

ME: Okay.

(fourteen blessedly uninterrupted seconds of lightsaber battles, which are slightly more compelling on film than in the printed word)

WOMAN: I bet you almost never wear your hair like that. I can tell.

ME: …?

WOMAN: Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?

ME: No, thank you.

WOMAN: Come on! We'll get Jager Bombs!

ME: That’s... very nice of you, but no thanks.

WOMAN: You’ve been working hard all day! Let’s get you out of those pantyhose!

ME: Oh look, here comes a total and complete stranger! I need to go walk next to him now. Bye!

Yes indeedy, there was a whole lotta academicing goin’ on.

buy me a shot at:

Monday, November 07, 2005

Best! Dinosaur! Ever!

Jim the Baby Nephew's second Halloween went surprisingly well, considering he becomes horribly frightened by smaller babies and the vacuum cleaner and various family members. But utter darkness and strange people dressed as various forms of death shrieking past? That's okay.

His performance is especially admirable when one takes into account the fact that he was encased entirely in felt.

Later, he helped pass out candy. By hurling it down the sidewalk.

We're also training him in Beer Retrieval.

I have taught him well.

roar! at:

Sunday, November 06, 2005

Shut Up, Faith Hill

I know I'm the only person in the known universe voicing this, but... please, can we stop Faith Hill? As of 1997?

Faith is a spit of musical froth; listening to her is like having not eaten in five weeks and having someone shoot an entire can of whipped cream down your throat. Her country songs sound like pop, which means they are not country in the first place. Note to Faith: Most actual cowboys did not roam the range with their horses and their guitars and their electronic voice synthesizers. When you're singing about pickup trucks and your voice comes out like Cher in "Believe"? It's time to stop.

I would yank Hank Williams out of the grave to listen to this if he hadn't whirred himself to the surface already the first second Shania "Man! I Feel Like a Hooker!" Twain stepped up to a microphone with her push-up bra and her amazing note-and-a-half vocal range. But Shania, at least, has no pretensions to usefulness. The latest agonization from her--the song is called "Shoes," people, as in the footwear-- consists of the following lyric: "Men are like shoes/Made to confuse." Yes, I open the closet in the morning and I cry... what are these things, and how do they go on my feet? They... they were just made to confuse!!

Thank you, Shania. Thank you for shaming my ovaries once again.

Now we have Faith, who's a Mississippi Girl! Who just don't change! No, Mississippi girls are humble and modest and down-home! So much so that they release major industry label-backed singles about just how awesomely humble they are!

Song: Mississippi Girl




Well, it's a long way from Star, Mississippi

Not far enough.

To the big stage I'm singing on tonight
And sometimes the butterflies still get me

Attack butterflies? With frickin' laser beams attached to their heads? Sweet.

When I'm in the spotlight


And some people seem to think that I've changed
That I'm different than I was back then
But in my soul, I know that I'm the same way
That I've really always been

Except for the mansion, the nanny, the superstar stubbly husband, the posh RV, the publicist, the makup artist, the photo shoots, the hairdresser, the chef, and the bazillion dollar per-concert-ticket take. Other than that? Biloxi Saturday night.

'Cause a Mississippi girl don't change her ways
Just 'cause everybody knows her name
Ain't big headed from a little bit of fame

Noooooooo! Not at allllllllllll!

Her hair, however, continues to expand with each new issue.

I still like wearing my old ball cap

You hear that, squirrels and bunnies? She wears an old ball cap! And she likes it! One of us! One of us!

Ridin' my kids around piggy back


They may know me all around the world
But, y'all, I'm still a Mississippi girl

As denoted by the "y'all."



Well, I spent a few weeks in California
They put my face on the big movie screen
But that don't mean I've forgotten where I came from
That's just me chasing dreams

And this is just me snorting my cherry 7-UP all over the keyboard. Seriously. Why bring it up at all? Is the next lyric about having Bobby Redford and Oprah over for martinis and a greased pig catch? Y'all!

Mississippi girl!
Mississippi girl!
yeah, yeah, oh
oh oh oh oh oh
Mississippi girl!

I... can't top this. I stand before you verbally vanquished. You've convinced me, Faith, yeah, yeah, oh!

Cincinnati girls don't change their ways, except of course when the cops show up at:

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