jesus is just all right

this is Chewy. He is the office dog. He owns the guy who signs my paychecks. When Chewy first started coming to work every day, my co-worker, Frank, insisted that Chewy's real, true and rightful name is actually Jesus. He tried to argue that somehow, in proper Spanish linguistics, this is true. Whatever. So Frank and I call Chewy "Jesus," mostly to annoy the dude of greatness who signs our paychecks. Chewy likes to nap and get treats and for Chrismahannuahkwanzakha, I got him a nice new cozy bed to sleep in under one of the work tables. He sent me an e-mail that said simply: "woof!" and this photo. What a guy.

I noticed today that the guy in the drive-thru speaker box at McDonald's sounds exactly like Barry White. But he looks like a lithe and delicate baby-faced ballet dancer and his name is Jarrod. His co-worker looks just like Tonya Harding only less trashy. And without the sparkly spandex, of course.

I did a ride-along with the cops today as part of my job. I have covered these jokers for a while now and so they all got a huge yuck-yuck over getting my ass down to the station house and having me sign a waiver that says I realize I may be killed in an unfortunate law enforcement experience gone awry during my ride-along. And they offered me a bullet-proof vest to wear. One of the jerkos offered to help me put it on, "to make sure it's nice and snug." When I smiled sweetly and pointed my finger at him cowgirl-style and asked if I got a gun of my own for the day they suddenly lost their senses of humor and said: "Now, come on, that's not funny." Our first call was a report of an unresponsive woman in a car outside an office building. Turns out she was on her lunch hour and taking a quick nap. How embarrassing for her. Especially to wake up and find all these strapping young EMS dudes and cops looking through the windshield at her and of course her mouth was wide open. She opened her eyes right when one of the paramedics said: "yeah, she looks dead, you know, mouth wide open and all..." I like to think she was dreaming of chocolate or well-hung men or maybe both. My cop buddy for the day was so young that when we were introduced I asked him if his scoutmaster knew the Explorers were packing real guns and driving squad cars. He said he was 28 but he looked like a 16 year-old Boy Scout. Only without the acne. But he was fun once he loosened up and believed me when I promised I wasn't out to make him look bad. Silly boy. Kidding, I am just kidding. I do have some fucking ethics. But I did get him to do the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru for coffee. No shit. I still got it, baby.

My buddy, Randy is having trouble learning to tango, so we have a date tomorrow night to go over it AGAIN. Yes, he's gay. The things I do for my mens. And btw, I am not a fag-hag. I am, as David says with an elegant sweep of his hand: "A Flame Dame, honey." The fag-hags are depressive beasts with no hope of ever getting laid who nurse delusions of converting their gay men friends or some such crap, according to the boys. I say the FHs are sad girls who cannot get laid, have no fashion sense, hence they need mentoring and they cling to the only males on the planet who see their inner beauty because they are usually not so hot: gay boys. And the gay boys need someone to go to the $6.99 Chinese buffet with once in a while, honey. Randy says he is terminally single because gay men are too mean and bitchy. He would know.

All this said, I am thinking that I'm spending way too much time mentally masturbating and I need to take a break to do my real job and pay attention to the other people who live in my house. I know they were here a few minutes ago. So I am taking a blogospheric sabbatical of undetermined length. But in blog-time, it will seem like I ran out for a pack of smokes. So I'll be right back.

My friend, Dan, was telling me the other day about hell. Hell for him, to be specific.

"I am sitting alone in a dark theater and there is no popcorn, of course. And then a movie starts to play and the title of the movie is: All the Women Dan Could Have Had Were he not a Cowardly, Clueless Putz.” And it would be an excrutiatingly loooooooooooong movie.

Dan said that many opportunities in the form of amazing women have presented themselves to him over the years. In hindsight he realizes he completely missed many of them or was just way too chicken to go for it in other situations. Sigh.

Dan’s version of hell brought to mind my second-most favorite William Saroyan quote. It goes like this:

There's a pretty woman for every lucky man in the world. Every man in the world is a lucky man if he only knew it, so why waste time?
~William Saroyan, Jim Dandy: Fat Man in a Famine, 1947

evil, thy name is excess

yeah, I did go overboard this year.

The GITB thinks I must be feeling guilty about something, hence the unusually good mood and the overspending. I have nothing to say about that. A girl should always have a few secrets. It keeps us interesting.

Murry Crimmus, ya'll. We're off to the beach for some kite flying, then to grandma's to stuff ourselves and open more presents. 'Cause, you know, we really need more stuff.

nothing says "happy holidays!" like pimps and ho-ho-hos

The GITB has some pretty questionable and colorful friends, one of whom is a buddy from high school who invented some innovative twist to fire extinguishing equipment and now has more money than he will ever need. I like the guy but he is a little twisted and leering sometimes. Though he is very good to his mom. But that does not mean he is not a jackass. Because he is. And he spends way too much time speaking to my boobs and not my face.

Anyway, so what is Rob doing for the holidays? Purchasing toys for underprivileged children? Helping out the homeless? Easing the burden of those who travail and are heavy-laden?

Why, no. Rob is renting a ballroom at an area beach resort for New Year's and he is throwing a "Pimps and Hos Ball." That's right. All the guys are supposed to dress like, well, pimps. Shiny suits, lots of bling, gold teeth, big hats. And the women are requested to attend said ball dressed as "hos." Which does not look correct but I guess it is the plural of "ho." Because it is "ho" without an "e."

Yep, the Pimp & Ho Ball, 2006. Rob assures me that if I attend, I will love it because he is serving Cuban food and there will be a cigar bar, and he knows how much I love Cubans. But still, do I even need to ask that age-old, hey-let's-make-it-into-a-rubber-bracelet-question? Yeah, I guess I do: WTFWJD?

so I bought the dog a stocking

when we got Daisy last year, my friend, Paul, a dedicated dog dude (his SUV sports a bumper sticker that reads "Dog is Co-Pilot") heckled me and insisted that my cool chickness would melt and I would soon treat Daisy like my second child.

Oh no, no, no, I am so not one of those loser weirdo dog people, I told him. Well, turns out, yeah, I am.

She has crawled into my heart and I do refer to her and Schmoopie (my human child) as "the girls" and yeah, I let her sleep in the bed, especially when the Guy in the Boxers leaves for work--she hops into his spot and even lays her head on his pillow and stares at me with her huge chocolate eyes.

I am besotted with my Daisy-doodle and I don't care that there are dog bombs all over the yard and huge black furry tumbleweeds blowing through the house and someone wakes me up at 2:00 a.m. to go pee. I love her to pieces. And yes, I broke down and bought her a stocking. And I embroidered her name on it. Yeah, I know. I'm a loser, weirdo dog person.

dinner (one of the only good things about living in Florida)

we'll go to Disney World, and that will make it all better

I am happy to report that I indeed survived three fun-filled days and nights at Rodent World/ Rat Land, AKA: Walt Disney World with my entire extended family. This is my parents' idea of ultimate family bonding and Christmas fun. They do this every year--spring for everyone they are related to to join them at WDW to celebrate Christmas. Even my Jew Guy in the Boxers gets into it, skipping down Main Street USA and fa-la-la-la-la-ing and all that stuff. Because we live less than two hours from Orlando ("O-Town" to the hipsters) we often go to Rat World. I think Schmoopie has been there at least 30 times because the grandparents are annual pass holders and they go at least once a month, sometimes just to hang out and people-watch. Anyway. Here is what I noticed about folks at Disney World:

• Jesus Christ, are we Americans fat! Fat, fat, fat. Yes, have some more cotton candy and hot chocloate and feed some more to your three kids who have bigger beer guts than the guys who change the oil in my car down at Jiffy Lube.
• And spoiled. And mindless consuming freaks. Do you really need another Tinkerbell pin to add to your camera strap? Really? REALLY???
• And miserable. I noticed so many miserable men, especially, who looked like they would rather open an artery than spend one more second with the stringy-haired, ball-busting harpie who is snapping at him every five steps while pushing a stroller with a screaming kid or two or three in it. What is it about marriage that makes women wear nothing but sweat pants and develop tummies that slide halfway down their thighs and turn into colossal bitches? I mean, it was weird. I witnessed more incidences of couples going postal on one another (mostly the women going off on their men) than I ever would have imagined. In my book, it is the ultimate unforgivable sin to ball-bust in public. Ladies, never, I mean NEVER, dis your man in front of witnesses and then wonder why he doesn't want to have sex with you for six months at a pop.
• Why do idiots bring infants to theme parks? Why, why, why?
• Why do some women dress as if they are on their way to a cocktail party rather than a theme park filled with screaming, tired children and their stressed-out parents? Spiked heels and mini skirts=dumb-ass in a theme park.
• Why do some women willingly wrap themsleves from head to foot in swaths of scarves and burkas while their men happily amble along in comfortable shorts and polo shirts? Hello? WTF?? And the women push the strollers and the men go on all the rides while the women sit like valet attendants and wait with the strollers. Again, I ask: WTF??? This is enlightenment? If this bullshit set of theme park rules is in the Koran, I would LOVE to have someone point it out to me.

The GITB is a mental health professional and he says that people go to places like WDW seeking artficial happiness and nursing unrealistic expectations. Maybe he's right. And I realize that I sound like a bit of a shrew myself here, because it was an all-expense paid trip on Mom and Dad and yes, it was great to be at the Happiest Place on Earth surrounded by all the people who love me and suspending all sense of reality and responsibilty for a few days while looking at the most beautiful Christmas decorations everywhere I turned.

But still. The Ugly American is alive and unwell and overspending and overfeeding him/her-self in Orlando seven days a week (when not screaming at each other or their kids). And it is a mighty sad sight to behold.

PS: The "Live" Christmas parade on NBC from Walt Disney World is a big fat lie. It is not "LIVE" on Christmas morning. They were taping it last week. We watched.

nipple cookies!

here is my annual Chrismakwanzachuh speciality cookie: regular or unleaded.

My house. Hot cocoa and marshmallows. Come on down.

F*#K Jacquie Lawson

Oh, for chrissake, if one more of my efffing friends e-mails me that goddamned animated snow dog Christmas card or anything else created by "Jacquie (like that is even a real name. please. let's all be a little more pretentious, shall we?) Lawson" I will barf and run screaming out into the street. But not in that order. Sheeeit.

I rest my case

Don't even try to tell me that the bearded man is Joseph. Because he is so NOT. This is YUKON (thanks to eb) Cornelius.

And I don't know what "Mary" is about to do to the sweet little vinyl baby Jesus here, but it looks to me like a felony.

Happy Holidays!!!!

“Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” Browning

Grace is in town from New York for a few days and she and I are bigtime strolling buddies. We love to walk and talk and since the weather is so glorious lately, what better reason to play hooky? We loaded up the backpack and went downtown yesterday and walked the streets most of the day yammering, gossiping and looking at the dozens of sleek new high-rises going up. The sounds of construction are everywhere (and a plus: cute construction workers too!).

We wound up trolling the brick-paved streets of the historic district where we both lived in the 1980s. We passed by a few places where she used to live and places I used to live, my first garage apartment, my first studio, her old boyfriend's apartment, my old boyfriend's apartment. Grace is thinking about investing in a condo downtown but our feet took us to the old neighborhood as we ambled and she grew wistful talking about the guy who broke her heart 15 years ago because he was constitutionally incapable of monogamy. I listened. I had nothing to say about that. The guy in question had a catastrophic stroke a year ago and so the man who was once her untamable lover is now pretty much a drooling turnip. He exists no more, really. Woulda-shoulda-coulda becomes excruciating for me sometimes, even when they are not my woulda-shoulda-couldas. They hit way too close to home, that's all I'm saying. There is no worse ache than an old ache.

We stopped to meet friends for lunch at a Thai place and later rendezvoused with more friends at a pub on the waterfront for drinks (no martini for me, thank you, I learned my lesson--back to the Janis Joplin cocktail--Southern Comfort and Diet Coke, two cherries).

We passed a young man who was writing poetry in colored chalk on the sidewalk. He told us he is in love. I gave him a few dollars and wished him luck. He handed me a xeroxed copy of his latest poetry. The title: "Between My Lips and The City Lights." He said "Here's one that looks like you," and pointed to a poem titled "Euphoria." I asked him if I could put it up on my blog and he said "Yeah, 'cause you know what? It looks like you." So here is Jacob's poem:

I am coming back to you soon
If you will have me
So let us leave it to Fate
To arrange the coincidence
Of our togetherness

I saw you today
How beautiful you looked
Lost in the distance
Of so long a silence
I wondered what you were thinking
And if in those thoughts
You still contemplate the possibility
If you still recall
Those tangerine nights
When the very air we breathed
Hummed with a vibrant sweetness
So delectable, so instantaneously surreal
Everything Alive
As we walked through
The humble night
We knew it then, didn't we?

Sure, I screwed your boyfriend and so he made me a snowman

The is Mr. Frosty-Jim. He was created for me by my friend, Jim, a few years ago.

Jim (not the frosty one) is an artist and his favorite material with which to work is Styrofoam. Jim creates all kinds of cool stuff with Styrofoam, then seals it with this super hard special paint that makes it like fiberglass and really-really-could-survive-Armageddon sturdy. You know those big-ass Christmas presents and ornaments you see in display windows at Macy's and theme parks? Jim makes those. And he builds sets for several theatre companies around town and has done some museum exhibits, like when we had the King Tut exhibit a while back, his company designed and built a series of sets that made you feel like you really were in a tomb in ancient Egypt. He is a mucho-talented dude.

So, how did Mr. Frosty-Jim come to live with us? Well, several Christmases ago I was seriously ill and in the hospital for a while and Jim called up the Guy in the Boxers to see how I was. GITB mentioned that he needed to get out the Christmas decorations and make the house all festive for me so that when I got home I would be all cheered up by it. He of course forgot that I am in charge of all holiday decorating and he would not do it correctly, but silly sentimental boy, he had good intentions. Anyway, GITB let slip that I collect snowmen. Jim said maybe he would carve me a cute little snowman if he had some scrap pieces left over from the project he was working on. GITB mentioned this to me in passing and I said" "Great! I'll add it to my collection." And I forgot about it.

A week or so later, I was home from the hospital and decided to pop over to my office to pick up my mail and check in when GITB called me on my cellphone. "Uh...honey, Jim is here with your snowman, he wants to know where you want it." I said: "Oh, just leave it on the dining room table and I'll find a place for it when I get home." Silence. A little more silence. Then GITB says: "Yeah, okay. You sure about that?" Well, yeah, I was sure. So imagine my surprise when I opened the front door an hour later to find Mr. Frosty-Jim smack in the middle of the dining room table, all five feet of him, his cute little top hat touching the ceiling.

I love Mr. Frosty-Jim and even though my friend Jim isn't around much anymore because his psycho Greek girlfriend is convinced that we have a thing (We so DO NOT have a thing, never have, never will, she is just a straight-up nut and a Mean Girl), it reminds me of how truly delightful it is when someone goes out of their way to do something special for you. When I called Jim to thank him, he said, "Hey, no problem. But never, ever tell Maria about it. She would fucking kill me."

boston creme pie-eyed

Another life lesson in alcohol abuse: just because it sounds like a sissy drink and there is chocolate involved does not mean you will not end up a drooling idiot who realizes waaaaay too late that you cannot detect your arms or legs anymore, and, oh yeah, your teeth are so numb you would not utter a peep if they were maliciously knocked out by a mallet-wielding chimp. And when you say to Cecil, the adorable latin waiter: "No thanks, I'm good," really, really say it like you mean it, because your kamikazee wild-woman companion will insist you really do need one more and you will give in and end up in the condition described above.

Did ya'll know that they serve these fancy schmancy thingies in Boston called Boston creme martinis? Well, at least at the fancy schmancy hotels, they do. They are $9 each and well worth it. The rims of the martini glasses are actually dipped in smooshed up Boston creme pie and the drink itself amounts to about 5 different shots of likker which I really did not consider until the following afternoon when a few of my surviving synapses finally began firing again. Did I say I had five? I had five. Idiot.

So my friend Christine (who currently lives in Colorado) and I hook up each year at a professional conference held at (gasp) Harvard because we really hit it off a few years ago when we met by chance attending said conference. Actually, it was not chance. It was unavoidable. We were like two magnets flying at each other in a bowl of clotted macaroni. Because that is how fucking boring the people are at this conference. We are both naughty girls who like drinking, cussing and smoking and looking at boys and saying "What the fuck?!?" a lot which is not the standard with this particular crowd and I guess we could tell all of this by looking at each other through a crowd of 500 people. The two cool ones ended up together. Go figure. Anyway.

After all the daylong head-nodding and note-taking and harrumphing at the conference each day, we take off and PAR-TAY like there is no tomorrow because we only see each other once a year and she is a pithy riot and I feel the need to unwind and be no one but me--no one's wife/mommy/sister/daughter/aunt/co-worker, etc. Just me, the great and powerful ell, amok in America for one glorious weekend a year. And god, was I ever amok. Oy.

re: the weekend away fom home & hearth

hedonism abounded, there was much debauchery and yes, some tawdry behavior. I had my digital camera on me all weekend. I took no photos. It's probably best.

outta here

hi kids--

I am out of here for a few days--off to Boston for my annual commune with some of my hard-drinking, man-eating compadres. The she-devils await, I have a plane to catch and there is an appletini with my name on it in adddition to some real Italian lasagna at an awesome little restaurant in the North End.

(Unlike Miss elizabeth, I am able to tear myself away for real). But I will be back next week with tales to tell and a hell of a hangover and maybe even some remorse for tawdry behavior. I'll tell you all about it.

Be good and stay away from Wal-Mart just because you know it's the right thing to do and you really do want to be a doer of right, even though they keep rolling back those prices in their never-ending evil plot to lure you back in. bastards.

public enemies R us! And damn proud of it.

Bill O'Reilly's Web site now features a hate list. I am pleased as punch to say that I work for one of the media outlets listed on this Nixon-esque enemies list and to me and my colleagues, this distinction is better than winning the Pulitzer, baby! We must be doing something right :)

A Message from Bill: Media Operations that Traffic in Defamation
The following media operations have regularly helped distribute defamation and false information supplied by far left websites:

- New York Daily News
- The St. Petersburg Times
- MSNBC

These are the worst offenders. In the months to come, we expect to add more names to this list. We recommend that you do not patronize these operations and that advertisers do the same. They are dishonest and not worth your time and money.

So, in other words, Bill has proclaimed himself chancellor. Be afraid.

have a holly, jolly, oh, just bite me.

The holidays are already annoying the crap out of me.

The church around the corner from my house erected a manger over the weekend. It really bothers me because:

A--it is inflatable and collapses into a primary-colored puddle every morning when they unplug it and

B--the whole inflatable thing just seems wrong to me for this particular representation of what is supposed to be the most momentous event in the Christian faith. Nothing says savior like vinyl, I guess.

C--the mustard-yellow baby jesus looks like the baby from the Homer Simpson brood,

D--Joseph bears a startling resemblance to Yukon Cornelius from the Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer claymation classic. So for all of you who believed that happy horseshit that Burl Ives fed us as children that Yukon and the Abominable were happily traveling the arctic circus circuit together and returning to the North Pole to plop the star on top of Santa's tree every year can just deal with the sad reality that Yukon is in a vinyl heap under a palm tree at the end of my street in humid Florida. And there is no Abominable in sight. (I will snap a photo this week if I can for further proof of my claim).

Okay--moving on--is it me or is the Lexus, big-frigging-red bow-on-top-of-the-SUV-Christmas commercial not just totally out of line and obnoxious, not to mention disgusting?

I mean, first of all, it's not even December 1st yet and I'm already sick of it. And this is significant because I'm not a TV watcher. But everytime the GITB is watching football or ESPN and I happen to be within earshot, bingo. And what is the message here--this is a normal gift that women should expect from their men??? Or is this just an appropriate gift for the beautiful thin white women from their uptight, rich type-A husbands who buy such items for their wives to assuage their guilt over banging the girl at work with their tiny little toolage? (thanks, e)

Ditto for the bullshit Kay and Gordon's diamond commercials. He must not love you if you don't get a diamond something or other from him for Christmas. So dump him on December 26th and go find some schmo who will buy you all kinds of baubles you won't wear most of the time anyway, because that means he really loves you.

And back to the mangers--Miss Daisy and I went for our nightly one-miler around the 'hood tonight and I noticed that my neighbor has a manger scene up in his front yard now and right next to it, the neighbor has positioned a jolly neon Santa and a neon train full of toys. Kind of a mixed message. But what I especially love about it is that although I know that Santa is waving, I could also be easily convinced that he is shaking his fist menacingly at sweet little baby jesus. He does appear to be advancing in a menacing way toward the manger...it's all perception I guess.

Thanksgiving: underclothes are optional

My favorite moment from yesterday: sitting on the deck after dinner enjoying the balmy breeze and smoking a fabulous sweet Nicaraguan cigar, a yearly tradition. My brother, uncle, and mom and dad and I do this every year in memory of my great uncle Bobby, my grandfather's brother. He was a Golden Gloves champion boxer and a huge cigar fan and a larger-than-life character. We miss him terribly.

Anyway, there we all were, basking in the post-turkey afterglow, sipping coffee jacked with Southern Comfort and blowing smoke rings, when my sweet little three-year old niece came out and climbed up on my lap. She threw her arms around my neck and we exchanged kisses and I told her how much I love her and what a big girl she is now (I suppose I am partial to her, but it has nothing to do with the fact that she is named after me and looks more like me than she does either of her parents).

She told me that she had gotten dressed all by herself for Thanksgiving dinner, and I told her what a great job she had done, that she looked gorgeous and she should tell her mommy she can get dressed all by herself every day.

She hopped down and posed for all of us and then she bent over to pick her blanky up off the floor. It was then that we all got the big full moon shot--that's right, no panties. After a beat of silence, the grandparents burst into laughter and my brother said "Yep, we did the right thing naming her after you, sissy. "

My name-sake scampered off for pumkin pie and none of us bothered to call to her mom that she was on her way into the kitchen, pantiless. Sometimes you just have to let things go. I mean, hell, it was Thanksgiving.

family fun

The Thanksgiving morning Turkey Trot has been a tradition in my family for 25 years. My dad is a hardcore runner and so when I was a kid we would go and watch as he ran the 10K or the 5K. Then we all started participating in the one-mile "fun run" each year, known as The Gobbler. After Dad wraps up his real run, he loops back and joins the whole damn family and 3,000 other folks and we all do the annual walk.

The Guy in the Boxers realized early-on when we hooked up that this was a mandatory annual requirement. If he wants to continue to sleep with me, he must participate. He hangs his head every Thanksgiving morning and reluctantly gets dressed and comes along. We always have to stop for coffee on the way, and he meanders along in The Gobbler, which he calls "The One-mile Mosey" with coffee in hand, admiring the landscape of people's yards (the course snakes through a residential neighborhood) chatting up fellow meanderers and stopping to pat dogs. Every once in a while he will loudly and sarcastically proclaim: "Wow, I really feel the burn now! Gosh, I hope I beat my time from last year!" But I know he would never miss a Turkey Trot. He secretly loves it.

This year, we brought Miss Daisy along for the walk and she was overwhelmed by the smells and sounds and sights. Oh my, what a hoot the morning was. Along the way we saw a group of kids playing bag pipes and a steel drum band and a pot-bellied pig on a leash in someone's yard and dogs dressed as pilgrims and Indians. I mean Native Americans. Or is it Indigenous Peoples?

Anyway, now we are all sitting around thinking about dinner for 22 at my brother's this afternoon. I made four of my famous Key lime pies with real Key limes from my tree.

The political arguments will break out at precisely 4:00 PM and at least one of my nieces will have a tantrum or wet her pants at the table and my size 4 Aunt Sue will comment on the size of my ass at some point during the day.

Dad will have too much wine and become weepy about all of his friends who died in Vietnam and never made it home for any more Thanksgivings and he will say that they were better men than he and they deserved to live more than he did and why did he make it home and they didn't?

One of my sisters-in-law will toss down a few drinks rapid-fire then announce that her husband is screwing around on her and she knows he is up IMing his girlfriend half the night after she has gone to bed. He will take her out in the backyard to calm her down and Uncle Paul will casually bump up the volume on the stereo which is a great idea, since my brother just went crazy with a home remodel job that included wiring every room including bathrooms and garage but we will still hear her scream "You're such a fucking asshole!"

My brother will go postal toward dinner time because he will discover that his wife has gotten rid of one of his favorite serving platters without asking him, since he is a major packrat and she is a neat freak and regularly gets rid of his shit without asking him. "That was Aunt Mabel's vintage Fiestaware!" He will sputter and bark incredulously.

My cousin Gail and I will exchange bitchy raised-eyebrow looks that communicate our satisfaction at the confirmation of our mutual long-held suspicions about the often-asked but deftly evaded question "Who got Aunt Mabel's Fiestaware?" Sometimes my sister-in-law gets away with ditching some of my brother's treasures and he never misses the stuff, but woe to her when he does. It always makes for fun times.

As we all start to finally drift into the dining room, one of the kids will run in and announce that someone stopped up the potty and there is poop water on the floor.

On the way home the GITB will comment about how fucked up my family is at least once. I will remind him that he has not spoken to his father since the huge falling-out after his grandmother's funeral nine years ago and to shut up about my family already. God, I love the holidays.

him again

Last night I dreamed I was with my old boyfriend and he was as he was then, young and still very boyish, before the curse that is age made him mature and cynically acerbic. He was shaggy-haired and goofy and completely unaware of his sexiness, just like I remember.

You know how you can talk to yourself while you are dreaming--like this other level of consciousness? Like the director's comments feature on a DVD? I love that. In my dream, I was the age I am right now, and I looked at him with wonder, thinking, "god, were we ever that young?" I could not take my eyes off of him. Anyway, he was wearing jeans and a loose old hippie shirt that laced up the front. We were in a van and he said he had to make a stop at work.

I was surprised to see that he worked in a big office and as I followed him inside I noticed that everyone was so happy to see him. He was casual and greeted everyone warmly and as he chatted with a woman at a reception desk, I wandered off and looked at framed art work hung on the walls that all looked like it had been drawn by children. Then as I turned back I realized that it was his office, I mean, his enterprise, he was the boss. But when I looked at him again, he was suddenly my age, middle aged, but it didn’t seem to surprise or alarm me.

He grabbed my hand and we walked from the building into another that was a like a huge glassed-in display floor like at a car dealership, only it was packed with motorcycles. He told the woman there that he was picking up a motorcycle, but that we didn’t want helmets.

I stood there listening and when he said “no helmets,” I noticed I was clutching a small suitcase to my chest and I said to myself: “Is he frigging crazy? I’m not getting on a motorcycle with him without a helmet.” He turned around and grinned impishly at me and he was a young man again and at that moment (and not because he was a kid again) I said “Okay, maybe it will be fun. Yeah, I guess I will after all. But what am I gonna do with my suitcase?”

Then I woke up.

meowch!

HEY DIDDLE, DIDDLE
the cat took a piddle,
All over the bedside clock.
The little dog laughed to see such fun.
Then died of electric shock.

heat up them freedom fries!

So my girlfriend, the one whose job in the Big Apple I covet, is transferring to Paris for a two-year assignment in the spring.

I told the Guy in the Boxers that I must get the passport renewed ASAP, as she needs me desperately to help her with the move. This is one of those times when I break my rule that I am too old and at that point in life where I should not have to help my friends move, because, hey you need to not be rigid and make exceptions now and then and this is one of those times.

I am so going to France with Grace. Hey, you try to fly with two neurotic cats by yourself. She needs me. And I need some french soap. And perfume and sassy new jeans. From France. Oh, and shoes, yes, shoes...

GITB laughed his ass off and said something to the effect that this is per usual for me, wait until there is civil unrest and discord and looting and decide, "yeah, I need to go there! Now!"

speaking of *bux

Is it not completly f**king insane to pay $4.00 for a cup of coffee? Or is it just me?

wrong again + pms = not a good day.

I had a most disappointing experience this morning. And I am still not sure what to think of it. But I guess the upshot is that my delusion that men and women (heterosexual men and women, members of the opposite sex, no, should I just say people who could ever possibly be sexually attracted to one another?) can be "just" friends has been shot all to hell again.

My friend Ray and I have known one another for over 15 years. I love Ray in the way I love my dear, close friends. It is affection born of a lot of shared history and experiences. I do not find Ray attractive because it just has never occurred to me. I have never thought of him as anything other than my friend.

Ray and I have been meeting for coffee once a month for 7 years. We work on projects together (he is a theatrical director, I have done some design work for him) and we chat about all things theatre, plans for his next show, who he is casting, etc. We also talk about movies and books and travel and cooking and history and gossip about all of our friends in common. He is witty and snarky and dear and I have so enjoyed this friendship.

Today at *bux, over a cup of hot pumpkin coffee, Ray asked me if I would consider sleeping with him.

I was stunned. I laughed it off and told him that if I ever slept with someone outside of my current and longtime situation, I never would sleep with a friend. He asked me some questions about the womanly perspective on monogamy and fidelity and I answered him, but inside I was totally checked out. I took my leave shortly after.

When I got home the phone was ringing and my girlfriend Deborah, who is a hetero-single-attorney-feminist-man-eating man-hater was on the phone. I told her what happened with Ray and she let out a long low whistle and then said "Ew." Which was a surprise coming from her but I guess she figured I was already upset and she did not necessarily need to unleash with one of her "All Men Are Wired to Be Promiscuous Pigs and Whores" speeches. She said quietly "Wow, I'm really sorry that happened."

Me too. I am now wondering what signals I must have sent Ray for him to think I would ever in a million years want to sleep with him. I have been his friend through two marriages and divorces, job changes, cheered him on in dating new ladies, been his buddy and helped him with projects that would not have gotten off the ground otherwise and he has done the same for me. We have been friends. Whatever that means. Now I feel like an idiot. And I'm uncomfortable because if I do meet him for coffee next month (will I? I don't know) it will never be the same and I don't want to have coffee with him again, really. And that sucks. Funny how quickly some things can change.

And I have no intention of telling the Guy in the Boxers about today's coffee klatch. He has always said: "Honey, Ray just wants to get in your pants, you know that, right?" I hate it when he's right about stuff like this.

retirees

retirees should be required to have locks on the outside of their dwellings that prevent them from leaving their homes (except in the event of fire, of course) during rush hour. Once the clock hits 9:00 a.m., their condos would spring open just like at the penitentiary. But they must go back inside between the hours of 4:00 and 6:00 p.m. Bingo and water aerobics should only begin after 9:00 a.m. and early bird specials should start at 6:00 p.m., the main culprit in the end-of-the-workday traffic jams, I am certain of it. Gotta get the two-for-one brisket before 4:30 p.m.

Here is my idea: when you retire, you should sign a paper that legally binds you to stay off major roadways during the height of rush hour. Oh, and out of the grocery stores too. But that is another rant. In return, you get your Social Security check and Medicare. Not before. I mean, what is the deal? If I were retired, or, rather, when I retire, you will NOT find my happy ass on the busiest throughway at the height of rush hour. Going 25 mph in the fast lane. Oblivious.

And don't get me started on the tourists. One of my neighbors recently erected a sign in his yard that reads: "Welcome to the beach. Now go home." A bit harsh, yes, but I do not get why folks think nothing of using our driveways or blocking access to our homes or peeing in our yards so that they can go to the beach. When they are old tourists, it's worse. The farther north the license plate, the worse the driving skills, I am sorry to say, and yes that means the Canadians.

But anyway, old people, please, I am begging you. Do you really need to be on the interstate at 7:45 a.m.? Make your tee-time after 9:00. Could you? Please? Yes, Papaw, you too.

settling ourselves for a long winter's...read

"The test of literature is, I suppose, whether we ourselves live more intensely for the reading of it."
----Elizabeth Drew

This is the season for reading, at least for me. Though I live in a tropical clime, I still feel the need to slow down, get out my favorite quilt and do a little cocooning at this time of year. Maybe it is my psyche's way of helping to prepare for the mental torture that can sometimes occur with the holdiays and the too much time spent with people I am related to.

Anyway, here is a list of the "100 best novels of all-time," as prepared by someone who thinks they know a thing or two about novels (that would not be me). Please note, no Harry Potter here. No whining. I did not come up with the list. But I do intend to pick one title I know nothing about and make it my new best friend this holiday season.

How about you? Anything on the list you heartily reccomend or are dying to read?
(And thanks to Mel for getting me thinking about this one).

Don Quixote -- Miguel De Cervantes
Pilgrim's Progress -- John Bunyan
Robinson Crusoe -- Daniel Defoe
Gulliver's Travels -- Jonathan Swift
Tom Jones -- Henry Fielding
Clarissa -- Samuel Richardson
Tristram Shandy -- Laurence Sterne
Dangerous Liaisons -- Pierre Choderlos De Laclos
Emma -- Jane Austen
Frankenstein -- Mary Shelley
Nightmare Abbey -- Thomas Love Peacock
The Black Sheep -- Honore De Balzac
The Charterhouse of Parma -- Stendhal
The Count of Monte Cristo -- Alexandre Dumas
Sybil -- Benjamin Disraeli
David Copperfield -- Charles Dickens
Wuthering Heights -- Emily Bronte
Jane Eyre -- Charlotte Bronte
Vanity Fair -- William Makepeace Thackeray
The Scarlet Letter -- Nathaniel Hawthorne
Moby Dick -- Herman Melville
Madame Bovary -- Gustave Flaubert
The Woman in White -- Wilkie Collins
Alice's Adventures In Wonderland -- Lewis Carroll
Little Women -- Louisa M. Alcott
The Way We Live Now -- Anthony Trollope
Anna Karenina -- Leo Tolstoy
Daniel Deronda -- George Eliot
The Brothers Karamazov -- Fyodor Dostoevsky
The Portrait of a Lady -- Henry James
Huckleberry Finn -- Mark Twain
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde -- Robert Louis Stevenson
Three Men in a Boat -- Jerome K. Jerome
The Picture of Dorian Gray -- Oscar Wilde
The Diary of a Nobody -- George Grossmith
Jude the Obscure -- Thomas Hardy
The Riddle of the Sands -- Erskine Childers
The Call of the Wild -- Jack London
Nostromo -- Joseph Conrad
The Wind in the Willows -- Kenneth Grahame
In Search of Lost Time -- Marcel Proust
The Rainbow -- D. H. Lawrence
The Good Soldier Ford -- Madox Ford
The Thirty-Nine Steps -- John Buchan
Ulysses -- James Joyce
Mrs Dalloway -- Virginia Woolf
A Passage to India -- E. M. Forster
The Great Gatsby -- F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Trial -- Franz Kafka
Men Without Women -- Ernest Hemingway
Journey to the End of the Night -- Louis-Ferdinand Celine
As I Lay Dying -- William Faulkner
Brave New World -- Aldous Huxley
Scoop -- Evelyn Waugh
USA -- John Dos Passos
The Big Sleep -- Raymond Chandler
The Pursuit Of Love -- Nancy Mitford
The Plague -- Albert Camus
Nineteen Eighty-Four -- George Orwell
Malone Dies -- Samuel Beckett
Catcher in the Rye -- J.D. Salinger
Wise Blood -- Flannery O'Connor
Charlotte's Web -- E. B. White
The Lord Of The Rings -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Lucky Jim -- Kingsley Amis
Lord of the Flies -- William Golding
The Quiet -- American Graham Greene
On the Road -- Jack Kerouac
Lolita -- Vladimir Nabokov
The Tin Drum -- Gunter Grass
Things Fall Apart -- Chinua Achebe
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie -- Muriel Spark
To Kill A Mockingbird -- Harper Lee
Catch-22 -- Joseph Heller
Herzog -- Saul Bellow
One Hundred Years of Solitude -- Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont -- Elizabeth Taylor
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy -- John Le Carre
Song of Solomon -- Toni Morrison
The Bottle Factory Outing -- Beryl Bainbridge
The Executioner's Song -- Norman Mailer
If on a Winter's Night a Traveller -- Italo Calvino
A Bend in the River -- V. S. Naipaul
Waiting for the Barbarians -- J.M. Coetzee
Housekeeping -- Marilynne Robinson
Lanark -- Alasdair Gray
The New York Trilogy -- Paul Auster
The BFG -- Roald Dahl
The Periodic Table -- Primo Levi
Money -- Martin Amis
An Artist of the Floating World -- Kazuo Ishiguro
Oscar And Lucinda -- Peter Carey
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting -- Milan Kundera
Haroun and the Sea af Stories -- Salman Rushdie
La Confidential -- James Ellroy
Wise Children -- Angela Carter
Atonement -- Ian McEwan
Northern Lights -- Philip Pullman
American Pastoral -- Philip Roth
Austerlitz -- W. G. Sebald

"What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it's curved like a road through mountains..." Tennessee Williams

Last night I went out on a date with my very best moody homo boyfriend, David. His husband, also named David, hates theatre (go figure) and the Guy in the Boxers subscribes to the "why should I pay to go to the theatre when I can nap at home for free?" club, so David and I are regular mutual beards.

So last night we ventured out for a night of Tennessee Williams. I am chronically tardy and David is always annoyingly early. So as usual, I was in the bathroom wrestling with my contact lenses when the Guy in the Boxers bellowed: "Your date's here!" and when I finally appeared in the living room, he asked if I had stock-piled enough prescription drugs and alcohol to effect a good post-show overdose since that is how he feels every time he sees anything by Tennessee Williams. I could tell that both of my boys were relieved by my emergence from the powder room since they always run out of things to talk about when it's just the two of them.

The Guy in the Boxers warned David not to keep me out all night, per usual. David laughed nervously then chirped "Don't worry, I brought condoms!" over his shoulder as he and I departed. The Guy in the Boxers laughed so hard I could hear him all the way down the driveway.

The play was okay, but the woman playing the lead has recently lost a shitload of weight and so unfortunately she now has substantial wings under her ams. David was fascinated by the wings to the point that he could not concentrate on anything else, despite my elbowing him. I know this because he kept whispering: "I am so awful for saying this, but, oh my lord, my god, her arms look like pitiful deflated hot air balloons." And unfortunately, she did a lot of dramatic arm gesturing throughout. David moaned every time she gestured.

After the show we stopped at the neighborhood pub for "a nightcap" as David likes to call them and three Diet-Coke & Southern Comforts later, I was wobbling back in the front door jonesing for rice pudding or a pop-tart, as e and maxine can attest.

But the best part of the whole evening was story-time. David spent the last hour of "nightcaps" regaling me with stories of his career as a cheerleader at a huge southern college during the 1950s. Football players were naughty in the '50s too and they did not always like just the girls. Oh my, the stories that boy tells!

I love rice pudding. And strawberry pop-tarts.
And in case you wonder if I ever think of you, yes.
I do.

flu-you

The past five winters I have allowed myself to be chided and prodded into submitting to a flu shot. In the end I shrug and offer up my arm because I figure I must be an idiot to refuse--I mean, it's a good idea, right? And every year I have come down with an ass-kicking case of the flat-on-my-back-flu from hell.

So this year I am going shot-free.

Damn thee, oh fickle flu shot, I say. I laugh in the face of germs and various bio hazards, ha!

Screw it. I am going commando this year. I will drink more water and wash my hands a lot and steer the shopping cart with my feet and kick doors open and refuse to shake hands with anyone. I'll let you know how I did come Easter-or so.

butt, butt, butt...

The Guy in the Boxers came home unexpectedly for lunch today and caught me smoking a cigarette in the backyard. Oy and argh.

"Butt, I only smoke half of one once a month or so..." I whined. He must have found my stash in the garage, a few pathetic fags in a ziploc baggie hidden behind the bag of charcoal and the foam pool noodles. He did not seem at all surprised. I am so lame.

He is a mental health professional, so he refrains fom the guilt infliction. But he looks at me sideways and sadly wags his head back and forth. What to do with the badly behaved girl?

The butt, butt, butt excuse is the same thing I tell my groin-a-chiatrist every year when I go in for my annual pelvic exam (such fun) and actually answer the questions on the questionaire honestly. To which she always replies: "Well, why bother? What's the point? Just stop it already."

I'm stressed, it helps me think. I know it's bad for me, so wrong and icky. That's me today. Wrong. And icky.

I know about pop-you-lar

First thing tomorrow morning, this is where my toes will be.

We held auditions at the theatre the past two nights for a musical that opens in early 2006. My friend's husband is directing and she is stage managing and I am producing. Which means I devise a rehearsal schedule that works around 45 people's personal schedule conflicts, hire the musicians, beg people to work on crew, order t-shirts, break up fights backstage and make sure the teenagers wear underwear when they go out on stage for the big tap numbers. A few of them decided during the last production that as a dare, it would be fun to be onstage sans panties. But our core audience is mostly elderly and had one of the dancers taken an accidental header onstage, we would have had cardiac arrest-city in the audience. Oy. So now I will be on panty-patrol as well. Great.

So anyway, the folks who show up to audition for your average community theatre production run the gamut from truly talented to really painfully, sometimes tragically, not (see Waiting for Guffman) and that is just the worst for everyone concerned. We sit there with smiles plastered on our faces trying to be kind, humane and supportive without giving reason for false hope without seeming to be big fat liars. And the kicker with this particular show is that the direcor is a former professional actor who worked on Broadway for nearly 20 years. So every person with acting aspirations from 20 miles around shows up to audition for my friend's husband whenever he directs, which is once a year. Which is about all I can handle anymore.

Let's just say it's been two of the longest nights of my life and if I never hear another song from Wicked sung badly by a writhing 14-year-old going on 45 in too-tight jeans with a belly-button ring hanging out of her too short top it will be too soon.

happy, birthday, eric

One of my favorite peeps turns 40 today. Yep, welcome to the middle-ages, buddy. But worry not, you're still a cool-rockin' daddy.

where in the world is Matt Lauer?

who gives a shit?

I mean, really, WHO CARES? Morning network "news" shows suck.

Give me Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Greenjeans and Dancing Bear any day of the week.

PS: Dear Katie, you are so NOT a "journalist." Not, not, not.

not a-Mused

Most days sweet Daisy is my muse. She sleeps under my desk and whenever I peek down and we have eye contact, her tails starts slapping the floor. We play the peeking game a lot and she always catches me. She is happy just to be gazed upon by someone who loves her.

Lately, though she is sweet in nature, she is decidedly NOT in odor. Daisy has a delicate problem that, shall we say, makes her tough to share close quarters with. She's a gassy girl. It must have something to do with the sulfa-based medication she is on, because the odor of rotten eggs permeates the house once or twice a day and even she seems irritated and mortified by it.

The only fun part about it is when Schmoopie comes skipping in from swinging in the back yard, stops dead in her tracks, wrinkles her nose and shrieks" "Ewwwwwwwww, Daddy!"

The Guy in the Boxers of course denies responsibility for the malodorous state of our home, but she looks at him in disgust anyway. And I see no point in defending him. His track record speaks for itself.

Chin up, only two more days until the meds are done, sweet Daisy girl.

Karen's memorial service is on Saturday.

She had been ill for four years and as I told a friend on the phone yesterday, you know it's coming, you know it's going to happen, but still you're just not ready for it.

Okay, me. I am never ready for it. I thought I was.

And I know how cheesy this is, but you know when Debra Winger's character passes away in the movie Terms of Endearment and her mom, (Shirley McClaine), sobs to her son-in-law something like:

"It's so stupid. You think when she finally goes it will be a relief. But it isn't. It's just so hard."

And that's it for me where Karen is concerned. We knew it had spread to her bones and her lungs and not long ago her doctor told her that she could do one more round of chemo to try and buy six more months but she said no thanks. She spent the summer with a full head of hair, lounging by the pool with us girls, drinking beer, and yes, smoking cigarettes ("what the hell, why not now?") and listening to music from the '70s.

They were sad, fun afternoons. She was relaxed and soaked up the sun and it was what she wanted. But there is no sense of relief like I had expected, hoped for. It's really, really hard.

in memoriam

in memory of my friend Karen, who succumbed last night after a four-year battle with breast cancer.

There are no words.

my-yi-yi-yi-yi-whoo! my my my my sharona!

this is an homage to elizabeth (mel,please note the lowercase) and actually being able to remember anything about the '70s.

So I took the e-challenge: here are the top 100 songs from 1979. elizabeth covered her senior year of hell/high school (1978) and commented on what she is still able to recall. You can see her list at http://nfluxus.net/flux/

What I liked best about graduating in '79 is that we were the last class of the decade and things just seemed to be a lot more happy and gay at the end of the '70s than they did at the beginning. We just didn't seem to take ourselves as seriously musically after the deaths of:


Jimi Hendrix (1970)
Janis Joplin (1970)
Jim Morrison (1971)
Don McPherson (1971)
Duane Allman (1971)
Junior Parker (1971)
Brian Cole (1972)
Berry Oakley (1972)
Danny Whitten (1972)
Ron "Pigpen" McKernan (1973)
Clarence White (1973)
Jim Croce (1973)
Robbie Mcintosh (1974)
Freddie King (1976)
etc., etc., etc.

Disco was not yet a joke, Van Halen, Cheap Trick and Supertramp were on the scene (yummy). Also, we had the Knack AND The Village Peeps. I mean, come on, people, who could ask for anything more?

Okay, so my format is a bit different than e's. I did bold and underline my favorites.

My comments, good, bad and/or otherwise are bolded and ital'ed.

My embarrassing guilty pleasures are ital'ed.

The ones I despise and think should never be exposed to human ears EVER again are obvious.

Read on, oh brave ones, and follow me to the land of Dorothy Hamill hairdos and mood rings and wedgie shoes and toe socks.

1. My Sharona, The Knack

2. Bad Girls, Donna Summer

3. Le Freak, Chic

4. Da Ya Think I'm Sexy, Rod Stewart Um, no.

5. Reunited, Peaches and Herb Yes, sometimes make-up sex is good, but we had no clue about this in high school. At least I didn't.

6. I Will Survive, Gloria Gaynor

7. Hot Stuff, Donna Summer

8. Y.M.C.A., Village People

9. Ring My Bell, Anita Ward

10. Sad Eyes, Robert John BARF I wanted to scratch my own eyes out every time I heard this

11. Too Much Heaven, Bee Gees

12. MacArthur Park, Donna Summer

13. When You're In Love With A Beautiful Woman, Dr. Hook

14. Makin' It, David Naughton

15. Fire, Pointer Sisters

16. Tragedy, Bee Gees

17. A Little More Love, Olivia Newton-John
all my thoughts re: anything recorded by O N-J involve blunt trauma. Need I say more?

18. Heart Of Glass, Blondie

19. What A Fool Believes, Doobie Brothers

20. Good Times, Chic

21. You Don't Bring Me Flowers, Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond SWEET JESUS I HATE THIS EFFING SONG!!!

22. Knock On Wood, Amii Stewart

23. Stumblin' In, Suzi Quatro and Chris Norman

24. Lead Me On, Maxine Nightingale

25. Shake Your Body, Jacksons

26. Don't Cry Out Loud, Melissa Manchester More blunt trauma. To the head.

27. The Logical Song, Supertramp

28. My Life, Billy Joel

29. Just When I Needed You Most, Randy Vanwarmer
My best friend in high school had a torrid affair with the activities director on the ship that she and her parents did an Alaskan cruise on during winter break. After the cruise he was supposed to rendevous with her at a motel but stood her up and while she waited for him in vain she kept hearing this song playing in the bar downstairs. But he sent her a copy of "Frog and Toad Are Friends." Like that made it all okay. Oh yeah, and she was 17 and he was like, 35. Loser.

30. You Can't Change That, Raydio

31. Shake Your Groove Thing, Peaches and Herb

32. I'll Never Love This Way Again, Dionne Warwick I hope this means you'll never sing this way again too. Never mind, after this drek you did That's What Friends Are For. BARF

33. Love You Inside Out, Bee Gees

34. I Want You To Want Me, Cheap Trick

35. The Main Event (Fight), Barbra Streisand TOTAL waste of vinyl.

36. Mama Can't Buy You Love, Elton John

37. I Was Made For Dancin', Leif Garrett And rehab and oblivion and male-pattern baldness and embarrassing profiles on lame E! shows about has-beens, apparently.

38. After The Love Has Gone, Earth, Wind and Fire

39. Heaven Knows, Donna Summer and Brooklyn Dreams

40. The Gambler, Kenny Rogers BARF

41. Lotta Love, Nicolette Larson

42. Lady, Little River Band

43. Heaven Must Have Sent You, Bonnie Pointer

44. Hold The Line, Toto

45. He's The Greatest Dancer, Sister Sledge

46. Sharing The Night Together, Dr. Hook

47. She Believes In Me, Kenny Rogers BARF, BARF AND MORE BARF

48. In The Navy, Village People

49. Music Box Dancer, Frank Mills

50. The Devil Went Down To Georgia, Charlie Daniels Band BARF x 100

51. Gold, John Stewart

52. Goodnight Tonight, Wings

53. We Are Family, Sister Sledge

54. Rock 'N' Roll Fantasy, Bad Company

55. Every 1's A Winner, Hot Chocolate

56. Take Me Home, Cher

57. Boogie Wonderland, Earth, Wind and Fire

58. (Our Love) Don't Throw It All Away, Andy Gibb

59. What You Won't Do For Love, Bobby Caldwell

60. New York Groove, Ace Frehley

61. Sultans Of Swing, Dire Straits

62. I Want Your Love, Chic

63. Chuck E's In Love, Rickie Lee Jones

64. I Love The Night Life, Alicia Bridges

65. Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now, McFadden and Whitehead

66. Lonesome Loser, Little River Band Yes, as a matter of fact, I have heard about the Lonesome Loser and he is you for recording this piece of ca-ca

67. Renegade, Styx

68. Love Is The Answer, England Dan and John Ford Coley No, actually, it really isn't. Not for this one.

69. Got To Be Real, Cheryl Lynn

70. Born To Be Alive, Patrick Hernandez

71. Shine A Little Love, Electric Light Orchestra

72. I Just Fall In Love Again, Anne Murray Sorry, Sisters of Sappho, but, oh, BARF

73. Shake It, Ian Matthews

74. I Was Made For Lovin' You, Kiss

75. I Just Wanna Stop, Gino Vannelli

76. Disco Nights, G.Q.

77. Ooh Baby Baby, Linda Ronstadt

78. September, Earth, Wind and Fire

79. Time Passages, Al Stewart

80. Rise, Herb Alpert

81. Don't Bring Me Down, Electric Light Orchestra

82. Promises, Eric Clapton

83. Get Used To It, Roger Voudouris

84. How Much I Feel, Ambrosia

85. Suspicions, Eddie Rabbitt

86. You Take My Breath Away, Rex Smith He should be suffocated for this one

87. How You Gonna See Me Now, Alice Cooper

88. Double Vision, Foreigner

89. Every Time I Think Of You, Babys

90. I Got My Mind Made Up, Instant Funk

91. Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough, Michael Jackson I want to go on record: I never thought this whack-job was cool. Ever. Even before he had his face melted. I always was bored out of my mind by him. Hmm. Maybe I am a genius after all.

92. Bad Case Of Lovin' You, Robert Palmer

93. Somewhere In The Night, Barry Manilow

94. We've Got Tonite, Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band

95. Dance The Night Away, Van Halen

96. Dancing Shoes, Nigel Olsson

97. The Boss, Diana Ross

98. Sail On, Commodores

99. I Do Love You, G.Q.

100. Strange Way, Firefall

PS: Happy Halloween, ya'll. Boo.