Saturday, September 22, 2007

Worked For Me

Various, sometimes cheerfully tawdry brushes with the aerospace and aviation industries have led me to osmosis the NATO phonetic alphabet, not to be confused with the Western Union phonetic alphabet, which is recommended when the user finds the NATO version "too militaristic." It's good to have options, because nothing says BOMBBIGTANKKILL like foxtrotting, echoes, golf, and Juliet. Oh, and Quebec. And Oscar, that fascist bastard.

Who decides on this? What kind of qualifications do you need to get appointed to a Phonetics Alphabet Formation Committee?

Many shooters, apparently, and an big ol' empty white Internet box.

Buy This Book
Competent Professor
Day Job
Flaming Potholders
Gary Stevens, You Totally Missed Your Chance
I Can't Believe People Actually Pay This Woman To Write
Jammin' on the One
Not Without My Cheese

O and 4
Quit While You're Ahead, Dude
Really Will Never Be Over the 0 and 4 Thing
Susan Sucks
Trojan Appetizers
Utah (hearts) Me
Vermont And All That Snow
X (Oh, like you're ever going to use an X-word in casual conversation. Whatever.)
Zach Morris And His Cell Phone

linkapolooza at:

Thursday, September 20, 2007

A Nice, Round Number

After four years, this marks the one thousandth post on BlondeChampagne. What began in angst now continues in... further angst, and a handful of readers on BlogIt has become hundreds--thousands on some occasions-- all holding my hand as I fret over this John Mayer fellow.

My dear The Readers, I thank you. My two nephews who have arrived since then thank you, my new husband who has also arrived since then thanks you, and the seven year old who has now been picked to play kickball on your team--she thanks you, too.

grand at:

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Your Song Is So Totally Not a Wonderland

Okay, I need the kids today to help me out on this one, because I am weary of furrowing over John Mayer and in general wasting brain cell activity on his scraggly self.

I like the melody of "Waiting on the World to Change," but the lyrics leave me in a state so pissed I barely know what to do with the adrenaline still coursing through me once I'm done jamming a fist into the car radio to change the station whenever I hear it.

Me and all my friends
We're all misunderstood
They say we stand for nothing and
There's no way we ever could
Now we see everything that's going wrong
With the world and those who lead it
We just feel like we don't have the means
To rise above and beat it

You don't like what's pouring out of the television set? And so you're just sitting on your bony backside just hoping things will get better? Really? THEN PUT DOWN YOUR GUITAR PICK AND MOVE OUT OF YOUR MOTHER'S BASEMENT AND DO SOMETHING. PRINT A T-SHIRT OR ORGANIZE A BAKE SALE BUT FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY STOP WHINING.

Then I thought, well, maybe the song is ironic, making fun of the people who whine but do nothing, and therefore, in essence, is quite clever and at least does something, even if that something involves attempting to rhyme "war" with "door". But then 20/20 hosted a charity special using the song as its highly non-ironic theme, and then there's this:

It's not that we don't care,
We just know that the fight ain't fair
So we keep on waiting
Waiting on the world to change

What th-- You little puss. Is he seriously saying that he wants to do something, he really really does, but geez, those warlords and corrupt politicians are mean, so screw it? Our grandparents won WWII; our parents landed on the moon; and we? Continue to strive for a five-star YouTube rating.

The last time I heard this song, just before I smashed the "scan" button again, the DJ sighed, "Oh, I just love the lyrics to this song. What great writing." And then I doubted the fact that I had somehow found insight within this song, as I remembered that mass-market DJ's tend to find liberal application of rooster noises amusing. So.

Am I reading this wrong? Is it me? Really, I hope it's not me.

first LP was Thriller at:

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

The World's Most Overrated Beach

People are often shocked! to hear that while I miss the weather, there's not a great deal of mourning on my part for the fair city of Daytona Beach. They have this picture of a total party town with pristine beaches and glorious clubs, and... just... no.

Daytona Beach is a used condom of a town; it's quite obvious that fun went on here at some point, but it's well over and not likely to be employed in the same way ever again. The surrounding area is an aged biker chick, all leathery swangin' and smoker's cough.

While Daytona is home to the finest salt water taffy in the history of the universe, the most popular bar in town holds the title merely because the proprietors managed to hang onto the on-the-beach liquor license, a proud history attested to by its outdoor PVC piping fence. Its signature dance club? Is called Razzles.

I have fond memories of Pac Man for a quarter on the boardwalk and evening sashays on packed-down sand with my beloved, but for the most part I was spoiled by the cheerful Apollo stodginess of Cocoa Beach; any recommendations for Daytona are drowned out by a decided lack of sleep during the Rolex 24 hour race and cherished moments of schlepping laundry through the large-to-medium river that often coursed through my apartment complex's parking lot. O Daytona Beach, Land Of a High School Senior On Spring Break Pushing A Carriage Containing A Three Month Old-- let me know when you're done sleeping it off.

just one more t-shirt shop at:

Monday, September 17, 2007


I mentioned to Josh The Pilot that we needed to find a nightlight for our townhome's bathroom, and he looked way, way too thrilled over an announcement like this, then ran out of the room for a moment, only to return with the following:

Oh, but wait, you have to see it in the dark. Then it's really classy:

I sincerely doubt that Jeff Gordon himself has one of these in his master bathroom.

At least it matches the world-ending drapes the previous owners left behind.

All I ask is that people think before going to the trouble to pay foreign workers seven cents an hour to produce something like this. Look at it. Plaid, and buttons. Have either of these things ever been attractive, even separately, in any capacity?

When I look around what I've managed to throw on the walls, I'm struck by the preponderance of evidence from brief periods in my life, as if I need to remind myself these sojourns actually took place. The living room is a four-wall NASA homage and our bedroom is all palm trees, despite only five years in Florida; a two-month job as a wine educator has resulted in an entire kitchen overflowing with grapes; wistful remnants from a single college career at Saint Mary's are scattered corner to corner; and if I add up all the time I spent in Colorado across the entirety of thirty years, it comes to maybe three months, but that hasn't stopped me from mountain-pimping out my office like the showroom of the Tractor Supply Company. (Rope, people. I glued rope to the walls.)

The remaining 80% of my life took place in Ohio. For Ohio's pains, it gets a decade-old photo of downtown Cincinnati in the hallway next to the bathroom and my first license plate push-pinned to the wall of The Pilot's man cave in the basement.

Maybe it's because what shapes us the most is socked so deeply within us anyway (in the lining of the coat, Tom Wolfe would say) that there's no need to draw straight lines and ratchet it to a wall. This, perhaps, would explain why I've only been aunting for three years, and yet The Shrine Of The Two Nephews has entirely appropriated the dining alcove. It's the bright shifting element of the lava lamp gel we want to put on display, because the container--it's always going to be there, holding it all together.

inhaaaaaaaaale at:

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