Betland

Betland

( 11:21 PM ) EK B
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Hey, Stennie

My friend Stennie:

* Gave up a comfier life to get her degree at CalArts and try for a life in the film business

* Shares her home with two kitties, Rimsey & Buster

* Has made me laugh so hard I've had to ask her to stop being so funny, because of the physical pain of that much laughter

* Is my webpage maven, with the patience of a saint

* Partied the New Millennium in with me in Reeeeeeeeeeeeno!

* Has encouraged me to see so many great movies, especially old ones

* As a result, made me fall in love with James Cagney

* Had a car once possessed by Satan - or was that Stan

* Is my confidant in the extreme, and lets me vent, scream, tell it all, cry, and fire wicked emails whenever I need to

* Encouraged me to participate in Blogathon 2003, and nursed me through till the bitter end

* Once exclaimed, "Travis Comes Alive!"

* Loves her Broadway musicals

* Is the daughter of the one and only web-famous Richard Sackerson

* Shares my brain

* Wrote a blog about buying a lamp that was Pultizer Prize-worthy

* Loves penguins

* Bears a striking wiseacre resemblance to Bugs Bunny

* Is the best buddy a girl could have

* Was born September 30, 1968

Happy Birthday, Stennie!
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( 11:18 PM ) EK B
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Acrowinners Delayed

Due to a little mix-up, we won't have Acrowinners announced till tomorrow. Sorry for the inconvenience, but we promise nothing here at Betland.

Anyway, I told you we were working on all the rides. I didn't say they were fool-proof. Right? Right??

To appease you, here's a brand-new photo of S. and his brand-new clarinet.

( 10:37 PM ) EK B
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Lynched

I did a lovely blog (I know it was lovely because I just went back and checked it, and it starts by mentioning National Masturbation Month) on May 2d about the director David Lynch. And how he keeps disappointing me.

To quickly recap, I really like David Lynch. I like him a lot. And I don't know why, because every time I watch one of his movies I end up hating it. And I sit and hate it, actively, all the while liking David Lynch. It's an odd relationship we have, David and I.

In this particular blog (though I ended up mentioning all the Lynch movies I'd seen), I was railing against "Mulholland Drive," the personality-swap-mind-fuck movie I'd just seen, not understood, and not cared about. Somewhere in the comments, I got a suggestion from Mike, Man of Mystery, Man of Movies.

"Watch 'The Straight Story,' Bet," Mike said.

And so tonight, I did.

"The Straight Story" tells a very small story, and tells it very simply. Alvin Straight, who lives in Laurens, Iowa, hears his estranged brother Lyle has had a stroke. And travels to Mt Zion, Wisconsin to visit him and make amends. Alvin isn't well. His eyesight is failing and he has to walk with canes. Alvin doesn't have a drivers license either, because he isn't well enough to drive.

So he heads out to Wisconsin on his lawnmower.

And in his trip, we see everything that is good about America. And about humankind.

God, it must have been hard to make this movie. Alvin has to leave his mower by the side of the road when it breaks down and he goes for help. Of course! We'll have his mower and belongings stolen when he gets back! Alvin meets a wayward teen and shares a meal with her. Yeah! We'll have her rob him blind while he's asleep! The mower breaks down again. OK! We'll have sleazy mechanics take Alvin for everything he's got!

But guess what. None of that happens. In this movie people are nice to each other. People like each other. They wave and say hello and extend their hands, and homes and hearts to other people.

There are no villians. Only friends.

I think this movie touched me so deeply because it shows the America I wish existed. That I think we all wish existed, and somewhere deep in our hearts - at least about 90% of our hearts - does exist. The America we want to see, not the one the media seems all too happy to show us, the one where people will slit your throat for your tennis shoes.

There was a small scene in this movie that brought tears. Alvin (played by Richard Farnsworth) is puttering along a long stretch of road and a series of bicycle racers pass by him. He's fascinated with the sight, the numbers, the speed, the colors - and he stops and leans on his John Deere to watch them go by. A few wave, some say "hi," and he lifts his hat. It's such a simple thing, and was so pretty and sweet.

Alvin tells stories - sometimes snippets of stories - to people along the way, and they tell stories to him, and from this we learn about them all. And that's basically the movie.

Sure, Alvin does reach the end of his journey, but we get no huge epiphany, no swelling of music, no false sentimentality. We just get a story brought to its end.

"The Straight Story" is a true story. Alvin really did make this journey. And maybe that's why its simplicity and sweetness works.

Anyway, if you haven't seen it, please please do.
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( 1:32 PM ) EK B
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Acrochallenge!

First of all, let's set the record straight:

1) Mr M does indeed have a fractured arm/upper arm/shoulder.
2) I did not do it. He did a full Dick Van Dyke over a railroad tie in the parking lot of Mt Lake.

OK, that out of the way, it's time for another scintillating round of Acrochallenge. We have another first-time guest judge this week! Yes, it is she who makes me laugh with her blog, and with her comments to my blog, it is she who not only gave us all the term sabeltodo (know-it-all), but whose favorite Ben & Jerry flavor must be Phish Food, the one and only Flipsycab!

As you all know, you get three entries to make the best acronym you can out of the below letters, randomly drawn tiles from the acrobasket. The winner gets the envy of acroers everywhere. The judging will end at 9pm est on Tuesday. And the letters are:

B O A U O C

I don't know...looks hard to me. Better start now! #

( 10:36 PM ) EK B
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Who'll Be Next?

You read about my experiences with Sauerkraut Band last week.

Last night Mr M ended up with a fractured arm.

Come see us now! We may not last a month! #

( 12:54 PM ) EK B
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Flashback One Week

This afternoon I'll be heading up to Mountain Lake to partake in the second Octoberfest of the season. I've no idea what will happen.

I can tell you what happened on the first day of Octoberfest, though. That was one week ago today.

The precursor to Mountain Lake was a performance by the Sauerkraut Band at the new offices of WVTF, the local public radio station. We were to play in their new studio and be on the air. Or so we thought. I did, anyway, and invited you all to come online and listen to us.

I headed to Roanoke, with a stop in B'burg to pick up Mr M. About 30 minutes into my trip, I realized I'd left my pocketbook at home. I was zipping down the road with no drivers license, no credit cards, and no money to get me back home on. I was beginning to get a little foul.

I pulled into Mr M's driveway and got a little fouler (long story). We got all our stuff together and piled into the betmobile and headed to Roanoke, with Mr M as my new designated driver for the day. We made it to Roanoke with no troubles, and went inside the new offices.

As we started setting up in the studio, they started moving out all the chairs. Oooh. I was going to have to stand up the whole time! I'm not a good player standing up, but at least we hang on the back row, so I could lean against the wall. A crowd of open-house visitors and employees of the station gathered round, and we started to play.

About 3/4 of the way through the first song, I started feeling sick.

Now, I have to say something here, tell me I'm an idiot or don't, I am how I am. My first thought at that point was, "Oh, shit, I feel sick." My second was, "Oh, shit, I feel sick playing in front of all these people." It absolutely pains me to have to draw any attention to myself, and I felt that stepping outside was not only going to do that, but it'd be disrespectful to the band as well.

By halfway through the second song there was no question, though. I could either draw attention to myself by leaving mid-performance, or by ralphing all over the station's new studio. I edged my way out of the back row, stepping over the trumpets, "Excuse me, pardon me, I'm so sorry, excuse me," and out the door through the crowd, "Excuse me, pardon me, I'm so sorry."

I made it to the restroom, heaved mightily, and since I'd not eaten anything, nothing much really made a great appearance. I put some cold water on my face, grabbed a couple of paper towels, thought about things, and decided to go back into the studio and give it another whirl.

Excuse me and I'm sorrying my way back through the crowd and the band, I retook my place. Bad idea. I was in a major sweat, and hot, though I could clearly feel the cold air conditioning blowing right on me. I half-played one song. The next song up was "The Clarinet Polka." I played that one, and by God, played it well. Then I totally lost it. Not five measures into the next song, I found myself I'm sorrying my way out of the band and through the crowd one more time.

This time the heaving was a little more violent. There was a chair right outside the restrooms, and I sat down in it to try and get my bearings back. I must have had that dazed look on my face, because two very very nice women immediately came up to me and asked me what was wrong. One ran out to get me a cold Coke, and one sat with me, I think afraid I was going to fall over. Then a man who worked at the station came over and offered to get me something, and, well, basically, there were some really nice people manning that station Saturday.

After a Coke, and a little back patting and wiping of my brow, I decided I had to try one more time to go back and finish the concert. And I did. There was only one song left, but I held on long enough to play it, feeling like a total fool by drawing the attention to myself, but wanting to complete something. Mr M took his place as designated driver and got us back to his house, where we rested and I got something on my stomach.

(Which, btw, was probably what was wrong. I've been having some sinus drainage with the weather change, and all that drainage on an empty stomach was, I'd say, my undoing.)

After a little rest, it was time for Mountain Lake. I was carrying my brand-new beer mug, but knowing there'd be no alcohol for me that night. I mean, I love to drink, but I'm no fool. We got there and went through the buffet line, and I tried to pick some things I thought were kind of "mild." The very lovely Kellie and her family were there, her hubby, and Ervin the Cute.

It was a fairly small crowd, but a drunken and enthusiastic one. It's odd, because a drunken crowd can be fun and a drunken crowd can be a nightmare (especially when you're sober). This one was good. They were just enjoying themselves, and I've never seen a bunch of people more in love with the Chicken Dance. Even when we were playing polkas, they were all doing the Chicken Dance! The evening ended, and we started packing up things to go.

I made a couple of trips out to the car with my armloads of stuff (my horn carry-bag, another bag, my mug, camera, chair cushion, and a rather cumbersome box), only to find that Mr M was elsewhere with the key. So I was walking back and forth and we finally met up and got everything tucked away and headed down the mountain.

On the way home, Mr M offered to make me a hamburger, and I accepted. I asked him if he had that at home, and he said no. There was a moment of silence before I started cracking up, and he informed that yes, he did indeed plan to go into Kroger for hamburger in his lederhosen. As he was heading in, I begged him if I could take he picture perusing grocery store items in his lederhosen and he brusquely refused. For some reason I still can't fathom, while he was inside, I just started thinking about my camera, and looking around the car for it. It wasn't there.

We got home and unloaded, and I went back out and checked everything I had. No camera.

Now, you must understand. My little digital camera means a lot to me. Not only do I love it, not only did it have a bunch of pictures on it I really wanted, but I'm also convinced this camera was a gift from Santa. (It's a long story, but basically Santa, who plays with the Sauerkraut Band in the off-season, promised me last year he'd remember me well at Christmas and I completely unexpectedly received this camera. From parents who don't even know what a digital camera is, much less how to pick out a good one. Much less the fact I'd not mentioned to them or anyone else I even wanted one.)

So I walked inside, yelled for Mr M to email the Sauerkrauts and see if anyone had by chance rescued my camera. And I sat down. And it all hit me, and I started to boo-hoo.

Upon seeing the tears, Mr M walked over to me and proceeded to.....completely lambaste me and lay me out on the floor for crying over losing my camera. I didn't know it was lost, I had no business being attached to something that it would upset me that much, I was a baby, etc etc etc. He then went on to give me a lecture about how I "castatrophize" everything that happens to me (a very interesting lecture indeed, considering what was to come), and how I needed to basically get with the program, ie, be like him.

All I could think was, here I spent my first SK Band day totally sober and alcohol-less, and I've puked up and lost something.

Turns out Ed did rescue my camera from ending up in enemy hands, and I'm to get it back tonight. But you know what? I was upset my camera was gone. And I don't want to get with the program.
#

( 5:43 PM ) EK B
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The Week That Was

And was it ever.

Tuesday came as something of a blessing and a curse. I had to attend a meeting for TheCompanyIWorkFor. Sure, I had to get up at the crack of dawn to drive the 90 minutes to get there, and listen to approximately 3 1/2 hours of boring TheCompanyIWorkFor talk, and I was given a cold tasteless roast beef sandwich for my trouble. A sandwich which I immediately proceeded to lose from my body, because the emotional upheaval has also resulted in a gastronomical upheaval as well, and nothing's stayed with me for more than twenty minutes.

However, I ended up getting the coveted 2 hour "rules and regs" credits for my Continuing Ed that morning. And I got to spend the whole day out of the office. And I also won a prize, albeit a cheap one, but at least it was very appropriate - a TheCompanyIWorkFor stress squeezie.

I know in yesterday's blog I mentioned several plagues and pestilences I've had to endure this week. Little did you know that most of them happened in a single day.

Wednesday was back to work for the first time this week. It wasn't too maddening busy-wise, and that was a good thing. Because I got a phone call at about 10:30. I should have known something was up, because San at the front desk said, "Elizabeth, it's for you." The only time she calls me Elizabeth is when a) I'm in trouble or b) it's something serious. So I picked up the phone and found the voice at the other end to be a lawyer. "OK, someone's being sued in an accident" was my immediate reaction. Boy, was I wrong.

I was informed by the lawyer that they were calling me because an unpaid bill of mine had been turned over to their office for collection. Well, in my current emotional state, you can just imagine. My head went woozy and I almost dropped the phone.

They asked me if I was a patient in the emergency room of St Luke's hospital on 12/22/02. When I told them I was indeed, they informed me that I had an outstanding bill from St Luke's for services not covered under my insurance (the never-pay policy). And since I was delinquent in this bill, it was now in - *ominous chord* - a lawyer's hands.

I was flabbergasted, and on top of that, livid. I'd received not one single bill from St Luke's hospital. And in all honesty, in my health policy, surgery is a covered expense, and so many things are considered "surgery," I had happily assumed that intravenous fluids had been. Anyway, I was fumbling around, trying to tell Ms Lawyer that I had no idea I owed a hospital bill, because I certainly hadn't received one.

"Well, you were sent one," Ms Lawyer replied. "It says right here, they mailed it to Number Number Number Street Name."

The number and street name she read were not mine. In fact, they didn't even combine to make a valid address in this town.

How was I to know they didn't have my correct address, I asked Ms Lawyer? I was basically unconscious when they took me to the hospital. Any information they got was from my family, who brought me in. If they didn't get any money from their mis-mailed bill, why the hell didn't they look up where I worked? It was on my form, I'm sure, it's one of the first questions a hospital asks! The more I explained this fact to Ms Lawyer, the less she wanted to hear it. All she wanted was to set up a schedule for making these payments. All I wanted was to discuss whether this little boo-boo on the hospital's part was going to soil my otherwise excellent credit report. Ms Lawyer didn't know. Ms Lawyer didn't care. Ms Lawyer wanted to schedule her some payments, and what I wanted was right out.

I didn't want to schedule any payments. I wanted the whole thing the hell out of my life. So I picked up my treasured VISA, my paid-off VISA, the one I save for the most special purchases of my life. And I charged this fucking hospital bill on it. $894.79. Fuckity fuck.

I hung up the phone and began to weep. Profusely. My life was getting to be just a little too much to handle of late. The girls in the office cut a wide swath around me, trying to be nice I'm sure, but a pat on the back and a "there there" would have certainly helped.

Once all the tears were cried out I got on the phone to the hospital. "If I have to suffer through this, goddammit, someone else is going to too," I said, furiously punching phone buttons. I talked to one lady. I talked to two. I explained, I reasoned, I vented. I was actually told, "Well, when we send out a bill, we don't have time to follow up and see if you got it."

I kept asking about the bill and my credit rating and got nowhere. It all ended with them promising to call me back Wednesday afternoon. They didn't. Nor Thursday. I've called twice today and still can't get anyone to talk to me. I'd take a trip up there to discuss it, but I'm afraid they'd bill me for another 900 bucks.

Wednesday night I left for band practice. I made a brief stop by Mr M's afterwards and played a couple of duets, and started home. As I was backing out of my car I saw him running towards me, waving. "My God, he's come to his senses," I thought for a brief moment. Turns out he was coming out to tell me I had a headlight out. I didn't think a lot about it, since I was having my car serviced Thursday. Just one more expense to put on the pile.

Round about N'town (tiny town about the half-way point on my trip), I was looking for a certain CD. Rather than drive and look and weave all over the road, I pulled into a parking lot and looked for my CD. Not finding it, I pulled back onto the road. And instantly passed a policeman parked in the next lot. He pulled out behind me and on came the lights. I knew I wasn't speeding, so I figured it was the headlight. And I was right.

He asked to see my license, and I handed it over. And explained I'd just found out about the headlight and it was being fixed tomorrow, which I knew sounded like the lamest excuse in the world, but this time it happened to be true. After making me promise I was telling the truth about having it fixed, he let me go with no ticket. I thanked him kindly and crept back out onto the road.

He followed me for about a block then turned to head off. And I breathed a sigh of relief. See, I had two empty airport-sized bottles of Goldschlager in the console between my seats.

The week of living dangerously, to be sure.

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( 4:55 PM ) EK B
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The Line Forms Here

So. I'm alive. And normal service is slowly resuming at Betland. The rides may be scarier and the calliope music creepier, but we'll get the ambiance OK in time.

I'm not sure where to start, really. Since we closed our gates I could tell you about my run-in with the police, my run in with a lawyer, my run-in with a hospital, my soberly drunken first day of Sauerkraut Band season, or how I had my entire heart ripped to shreds for the second time this year.

But I guess we could start at the top. I'm changing the name of my blog. I don't want podview anymore. Betland is my own little world, and that's what my blog's going to be. Hey, I figure if Jellybean can change her whole nickname and everyone's OK with it (and good for her, too!), I can change my blog name.

Sunday I basically broke into a million pieces. It's one of those odd things. I knew the stomping, heel-booted foot of fate was above my head ready to strike, but it sure didn't make it any easier when he smashed me with full force. I can't go into details. I'm not allowed to.

It must have been bad, though, because Sunday night I actually found myself calling in to tell the boss I wouldn't be at work on Monday. And so I took whatever drugs I had lying around I knew would make me sleep, and I slept.

Monday was moping/crying/thinking day. I spent a lot of it throwing things away. I find throwing things away to be very therapeutic. I was quite arbitrary; I looked at it, and if it didn't immediately please me, into the bin. I got a lot thrown away like that, but still ended up with a pile of stuff on my sofa that I have no place to put. Maybe I'll just buy a nice presentation storage box and start stuffing.

I went to the music store Monday to get a pitchpipe to try and tune my autoharp. I figured, hey, if it doesn't frustrate me to the point of suicide it might actually be a pretty good laugh. I encountered a rarity at the store - an honest person. When I explained to him what I was looking for and why, he assured me that the chromatic tuner I use for my horns would do the same trick without my purchasing something new. Nice man.

In the evening I watched a movie. "Real Women Have Curves." I needed that movie. I'm generally not one for hoohah "women empowerment" movies, but this one was told with such a great story and characters it was irresistible. And there's a scene of women in their underwear in this movie that could be one of the great movie scenes I've ever witnessed. It will forever live in my mind.

Oh. And laundry. Lots of laundry on Monday. Wash wash wash.

And it was on to Tuesday, and yesterday, and today. And thinking. I've been doing a lot of thinking. About making major changes. About what it would be like to suddenly not have my best friend. About if I could live that way. About if I can live this way. About a lot of things.

So, Betland is open, and the rides are starting to creak up to their running speeds again. But Bet herself may not be appearing around the park to shake hands and have her picture made. She's still a little reclusive.

I've only collected about � of my million pieces for reassembly. I'm still very sad. But I'm trying, guys. I've got some good stories to tell ahead. Bear with me.
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( 12:00 AM ) EK B
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Acrowinners

Well, we have winners, we have winners. The wonderful, musical, and lovely Kellie has done the judging, and the judging is final. FINAL!

The letters were O N E Z. The entries:

*Ordinarilly, Nixon eats zabaglione
*Oh No! enemy zealots!
*Obliterate Naziesque evangelical zealots!
*Oh, Nancy! Every zebra?
*Old Naked Executives� Zoo
*One needs Elizabeth's zingers.
*Oboeists never envy zitherists.
*Onanism nurses enormous zits.
*Our nipples excrete Zima.
*Our nightly entertainment: Zamfir.
*Ozzie Nelson: early Zulu.
*Orville's nose? Erogenous zooooooooone.
*One needs egotistical zoologists.
*Oompah now, Elizabeth. Zippily!
*Ovo-vegans neatly eat zucchini.
*Only nine escaped Zagreb.
*Obvious noses exemplify Zappas.
*Oblivious Ned eyes Zora.
*Odoriforous nabobs enjoy Zima.
*Overkill! Needed exactly zero.

And now, over to Kellie...........

It is exciting to be judging this week instead of playing. There were many great ones to choose from, even with the O and Z.

My first honorable mention goes to Michelle with "Ordinarilly, Nixon eats
zabaglione" which just begs us to ask - so what is he eating these days?
Maybe zuccotto?? Next, deepfat friar for finding musical instruments
with O and Z with "Oboeists never envy zitherists." And lastly, "Our
nipples excrete Zima" from Mike - what else can I say?

But - my favorite, from Flipsycab. "Oh, Nancy! Every zebra?" This just makes me laugh, makes me cry, I read it early today, and Flipsycab, you had me at "Oh."

Thank you Kellie, for appearing at Betland. Where machinists are on duty and no one gets their money back.

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( 10:52 AM ) EK B
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Acrochallenge

As promised, here is this week's acro.

A guest judge, a first timer: the very lovely Kellie. Most of you only know Kellie from her acros here, because...she's one of my real life friends! (yes, I have a few) Kellie's a terrific oboe player, has an adorable little boy with his own blog (!), likes the "right kind" of TV, and is an all-around hoot. She knows none of you personally, so I'm sure she will treat your flattery and bribes completely equally.

Yall know the drill, and Betland is still closed, so I'm not going over the spiel again. Here are the letters:

O N E Z

I'll post the winners at 11pm est tomorrow night. See you then.
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( 10:13 PM ) EK B
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Closed

All the rides are currently broken down at Betland. Even the little crummy A-ticket ones. Bet is upset and sad.

We need to check and see if the rides can be fixed or are broken beyond repair. Until then, podview will be closed.

Acroers need not fear. There will still be an Acro tomorrow, on the grounds in the "Fooly" parking lot (it's right beside "Goofy"). There will be a guest judge, the lovely and wonderful Kellie.

If the Betland rides start running again, podview will reopen. Don't forget to visit the gift shop on your way out. #

( 10:37 PM ) EK B
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Chance of a Lifetime

Hello, my loves.

It's Friday, which means, of course, I should be lolling around, resting, napping, watching movies, and generally celebrating the beginning of Weekend.

Ha!

I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow, and I've had some preparing to do to get ready for it.

Tomorrow starts Sauerkraut Band season in earnest!

The Polterabend was a warm-up. Tomorrow night is the first night of Octoberfest at Mountain Lake. Am I ready? Well, I don't know. I feel like I should be a little more "endurance trained" so I won't be dragging ass at the end of the evening, and of course, the jitters are starting to hit me, as happened every single weekend of last year. But I think I'll be fine once things get started.

However, there's a performance tomorrow afternoon that's going to be extra special. Why? Because you can listen to it if you want!

We're going to be playing at the birthday bash for the local Public Radio station, which is in Roanoke. And at some point in our playing, we're going to be broadcast on the air. Which, if you wanted to, of course, we'd never force ourselves on you, you could listen to on their live broadcast!

Here's how to get there: http://www.wvtf.org/broadcastschedule.htm

Up in the top left-hand corner, there's a "listen live" link. The only downside: it's Real Player which all of us hate, I know, but some of us choose not to have.

Anyway, if you find yourself online on Saturday between about 1 and 2 eastern time, grab a beer, pop over to the site, and have a schunkel with us.

By the way, my babes. Slight problem I hadn't thought about with Sauerkraut Season upon us. My movie-watching is going to hell in a bucket. I'm still within 25 of my 200-movies-for-the-year goal, but I've only seen one movie in two weeks. Of course, it doesn't help that there's not a damn thing out there to see. But that will change next week when "A Mighty Wind" is released for home view. Maybe that'll help jump-start me.

See you Sunday! #

( 11:03 PM ) EK B
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No Fries, Thanks...Nor Anything Else
(a watered-down blog)

Certain lines from the American business world have become by-lines in our vernacular. "Where's the beef?" "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up!" "Thanks, I needed that."

Then there's the ever-popular "Do you want fries with that?"

It's not so much that "Do you want fries with that" is an old, hackneyed, and not even funny anymore phrase, really. It's that that one tiny little line represents the most insidious of business tactics. One thing more, one dollar more, more, more, more.

It seems everywhere you go that has a halfway decent employee, you're nudged to do something just a little bit more with your spending dollar. You buy a men's shirt.

"Could I interest you in a tie with that?"
"Did I bring a fucking tie to the counter?"
"Cuff links?"

At the convenience store:

"One six pack. Could I interest you in a bag of pork rinds with that today?"
"Go away, please."

At the mall:

"This shoe is lovely. Could I interest you in the left one that matches it?"
"Bite me."

TheCompanyIWorkFor actually had a little program at one time, the Something Plus One. We Care Plus One or some such shit. You know, "Thank you for your (insert insurance line here) payment. Would you be needing some (insert insurance line here) as well?" I did not participate. Because it's tacky. I know it, and the customer knew it, and I feel they appreciated me for not badgering them.

I think I blogged about one of my distant visits to the good old Sonic, the drive-thru I often frequent on the way home from getting a pedicure. On this particular eve, I'd decided to forgo dinner in lieu of an ice cream. I drove to the window and ordered my delicious ice cream product. The cheery voice at the other end of the squawky box chimed, "Yes, ma'am, that's one delicious ice cream product. May I interest you in a nice dessert to go with that?"

He broke rule #1 of the More More More Selling technique. Don't push the item the person has just bought.

A little while back I was ordering a shirt from a catalog. Easy enough, right? Dial, dial, dial, here's what I want, here's who I am, here's where I live, here's my card number.

Yeah, right.

As soon as I gave my information, the lady at the other end of the phone cheerily told me that now that I had ordered from them I was among the luckiest people on the face of the earth, because I was now automatically signed up to pick as many magazine subscriptions as I wanted at up to 50% off the regular price, what did I want. After explaining I wanted none, I got the whole spiel again - didn't I realize what a fucking lucky bastard I was, and why didn't I sign up for some damn magazines right now?

In a stunning move of bravery on my part, I politely explained I wanted a shirt, a shirt only, and if they didn't stop trying to sell me magazines, I'd be forced to cancel my order and tell them to go to hell.

What is it with publishing houses? Are they that hard up for magazine sales that they have to incorporate with other companies to do the selling for them, and get poor dumb boys who come to my door and profess their love for me? Of course they're that hard up. And you know why? Because there are now a million billion zillion different magazines out there!

Remember when we were kids? There was Look, Life, Time, you know, the biggies. Now every fraction of a faction of the human sector has a magazine specifically devoted to its needs. Plitchk! - the magazine for the gay bald black Jewish transgendered amputee with asthma!

Anyway, Chevron. I generally go to Chevron because I have a credit card from there and that's convenient. I like convenient. Convenient makes me happy. As I was coming home from a meeting at TheCompanyIWorkFor today I had to make a Chevron stop. I got out, scanned my card, and waited for the "lift nozzle" to flash up. And waited. And waited, till I finally started investigating a bit and realized that I couldn't lift my damn nozzle till I manually told them I did not want a car wash, thank you very much. It was built right there into the computer! "We have some gas for you, but first, wanna car wash? Please? Aww, come on, get a car wash! I said get a damn car wash, ya asshole!"

That experience today made me realize that I needed to blog on this subject. Because, see, this is the second time this week I've had an experience with the More More More Selling technique.

Now, in every blogger's life there comes a time. A time when one will find oneself on the horns of a dilemma. Most of you readers out there are bloggers yourselves, so be aware of this fact, for it will happen. It's happening to me as we speak.

And my dilemma is this. If a blogger has a story to tell that's absolutely sidesplittingly funny and almost as good as having a magazine salesman profess his love for one, but the story, well, in all honesty shouldn't be told, what does one do? Hide the story at a disservice to one's readers, or tell the story at a disservice to oneself?

That's the horn I'm on. And frankly, my behind hurts.

So I think I'm going to try to give you a watered down and therefore not nearly as funny version of the story.

Earlier this week I was on the phone. I was on the phone placing an order with a company. I was ordering an item of a, well, rather delicate nature. A very delicate nature, in fact. So delicate in fact, that you'll just have to decide what it was on your own.

So, I called the Delicate Item store, and the very nice lady on the phone asked me who I was, where I was, what catalog I had, my card number, and what I wanted.

"AG4722Z14"
[punch punch punch] "OK, the very delicate item indeed."
"Yes."
"OK, and your next item?"
"That's all."
"OK, well, can I interest you in this related delicate item to go with that today?"
"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

You really had to be there. And it's a shame you weren't, believe me.

When I got home from my meeting, and the rest of work, all I wanted to do was rest and watch the Hokies on TV. So I decided to, for better or worse, order a pizza in. When the phone was answered and I heard the voice I immediately smiled. It's a boy we have insured, and he's a total sweetie. So much personality it's hard to come away talking to him without a smile.

I ordered my pizza. He said, "Could I also interest you in some chicken strips?"

"Chicken strips??" I thought, but said nothing.

After the short pause, he said, sheepishly, "They make me say that."

I hear ya, buddy.

#

( 2:59 PM ) EK B
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Stormy Weather

So. (Sorry, had to do it.)

Isabelle's winging her way towards the coast. TheCompanyIWorkFor has been sending missives out to us every three or so minutes telling us what we can and can't do. We can't bind this coverage, we can't change that one, oh no, we can change that one, oops, sorry, no we can't, stay tuned, we'll change our mind as soon as the wind blows. My request? If dear Isabelle's going to be that bad, why don't we just all go home and wait for her? I have all kinds of things I could be doing in preparation: securing my flowerpots, watching TV, eating bon bons, lying on the couch.

I know hurricanes are not good. Hurricanes baaad! But there's something exciting about them. Yes, I know. I live inland, there's not that great a chance I'll lose everything I own in one, so they can be exciting to me. But I was around when Hugo came through in '89. It was exciting. I got out that morning to go to work and there was rain, and wind, and there were trash cans and lounge chairs flying down the street! I got in my car and started it up, and the radio came on to my normal NPR station. They were playing - oh, shit, I can't remember now, it was either "William Tell Overture" or "Poet and Peasant" - but they were playing a piece that was blaring horns and strings and crashing cymbals. Whoever was the music picker for that day had a tremendous sense of humor. And so I drove off with the perfect soundtrack to accompany my dodging of flying objets d'lawn.

It was a little less fun after Hugo had marched across us, when we had no electricity, couldn't cook, and couldn't go out and eat or even have a pizza delivered because no businesses had power either. Nothing's a bigger letdown than having survived a hurricane, then having to eat a cold sandwich as your reward.

The Hokies are scheduled to play football on Thursday night in B'burg. On ESPN. All the die-hard Hokie fans (three of which are in my immediate family) are up in arms. Will the storm ruin their game? Cancel it? Will the wind blow people off the top row of Lane Stadium? And more importantly, will the rain water down their pre-game cocktails?

My answer is an unabashed "who cares?" While I hope the game isn't cancelled out altogether - I generally hate regular Thursday night TV - I'm just not as interested in it all as I used to be. I blame this on two things: 1) Mr M, and 2) My sister and her family.

Mr M is not a football fan, nay, is not a sports fan of any kind. He thinks it's dumb. And it is dumb, I know that, I'm not an imbecile. It's also lots of fun, at least I find college football to be. And Hokie football is very fun indeed, especially if you're there in person. Which brings me to number 2.

For some reason I seem to have fallen out of favor with the sister and her brood as far as tickets are concerned. Hell, who am I kidding? As far as life is concerned. Their buddies, their upper crust buddies, who didn't give a shit about Hokie football until the team started being ranked in the top ten, now all seem to want to go to the games. So the decidely non-uppercrust sister was pushed to the side. But I'm not bitter. Not at all. Not the slightest bit bitter in the least. I just watch now on TV from the comfort of the Comfy Chair, or Mr M's Leathery-But-Still-Comfy-Couch, when he'll let me watch a football game for more than 2 minutes.

Anyway, I laugh at the thought of Isabelle ruining their game. I laugh because I was at the be-all and end-all of football game storms. The storm that took place when the Hokies met Georgia Tech in a season opener a few years ago. It was hot that day - hotter than hell - and the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. By the time the game rolled around, the wind was picking up, and there we all were, 55,000 or so of us packed in the stadium like sardines. As the players were coming onto the field we started seeing lightning in the distance. As kickoff approached, the heavens opened. Rain like a thousand faucets being turned on. (no umbrellas allowed in Lane Stadium, btw) We all sat huddled together, soaked like rats, prepared to wait it out.

Then the lightning arrived.

We're talking lightning with a face. A snarling face, and big lightning hands that grabbed out at you with every strike. We saw one bolt of lightning hit and take out a car in the parking lot. It didn't take long for people to start realizing, "I'm soaking wet, I'm in a crowd of 55,000 people all touching each other, and lightning's in my fucking face." Mass exodus to from the stands to the indoor part of the stadium.

Once we were all tucked neatly away in the covered area (it took probably 45 minutes to get everyone outside in there), it became a bizzare waiting game. Coke vendors were doing big business. People were standing in the concrete bunker that is the guts of Lane Stadium, wringing water out of clothing, shaking like dogs, and, well, generally trying to get a grasp of what was going on.

We could see through the openings to the stands, the rain still pouring torentially, the lightning popping down all over us, and the thunder echoing over and over through the concrete shelter we were standing in. It went on for over an hour. Rumors were floating back and forth, people with radios were passing along news, "They've cancelled it." "They're going to wait it out." "No, they've cancelled it." "No, it's still on."

Finally, the news was all uniform and passed along to us all there. The game was cancelled. Well, fine. Now what? Who was going to walk the mile or so to their possibly burnt-to-a-crisp car in this storm? So people milled around making new friends and waiting out the storm.

While all this was going on, it was pretty damn miserable. It was hot, it was wet, it was, for a time at least, quite scary, and the waiting was boring. But now that it's over? I'm so glad I was one of the people there for the Storm Bowl, the game that never was. And the best part? The car that lightning took out? Turns out it was ESPN's Lee Corso's rental car! God is good.

Thursday night's opponent is Texas A & M. The Aggies happen to have Reveille, one of my favorite team mascots in the world (along with Uga the bulldog). I was reading up on her on the 'net the other day. Have a look, it's a sweet story. #

( 11:04 PM ) EK B
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Hello, my babes.

I've been going non-stop today. From busy at work to shopping after to laundry, cleaning, and all the household crap. I was so tired that at one point I flopped down on my bed to utter a disgusted sigh of "fuck," only I didn't have the energy and it came out "fick." Now that's tired.

But tonight it's time to pick an Acrowinner! And I've been totally buoyed by all your entries. I can't believe I missed your creativity this much. I've giggled with every new read.

However, as you know, I don't get to pick the winners this week. That honor goes to the babelicious Michelle.

The letters this week were B M J L I K. The entries were:

*Bet Makes Jimmy Look Insane. Kracky!
*Been Mostly Jumping Like Irrate Kangaroos.
*Ben Marry J Lo? It Kaput.
*Bruce most joyfully licks immobile Kate.
*Bowel movements juicy, liquid, insubstantial, ketchupy.
*But Mom, Jenny likes it kinky!
*Barry Manilow's Jumpsuit: Live in Krakow!
*Bad Michael Jackson likes itty-bitty kids.
*Bad music: Just like INXS's "Kick."
*Boris masturbates, just like inside Kremlin.
*Be mine, Jennifer Lopez. I'm kinky.
*Borgs made Jean Luc immoral, kittenish.
*Black, musty jellybeans -- licorice, icky krap.
*Being me, Jeez, life is kooky.
*Bring me John's lifeless, inanimate kopf!
*Before Martin, Jerry Lewis invisioned Karloff
*Break me just like I'm kindling.
*Between moans Julie looks into kitchen

Wow. There are some great acros in there. I'm overcome. But now it's time for me to turn it over to *rrrrrroooowwwwwwr!* Michelle. Take it away, Mitchie:

First of all, I would like to say how good it is to see Lily still posting
from her remote location in Kansas. Great to know they have the Internet
there!

This weeks challenge was tough, but six of you were brave enough to take it
on. Have great pride, you strong, few, and proud acroers. You are a rare
breed.

As convention and custom dictate, here is a list of "Honorable Mentions"

- Lily's "Bring me John's lifeless, inanimate kopf!", gets a mention for
creative and correct use of German.

- Kellie's "Ben Marry J Lo? It Kaput." gets a mention for it's attempt at
correct use of German (kaputt has 2 t's) and because I LOVE it that Benifer
is out. Somewhere, a beautiful Canadian movie critic is filled with glee
over this.

- Feff's "Before Martin, Jerry Lewis invisioned Karloff" very nearly won
tonight's acro, because let's face it, this is a very funny thought. Boris
and Jerry? HAHAHAHAHHA.

Sorry darling, but there was one entry that made me laff, then cry, then
laff again. That entry was the Stennierific:

Bad Michael Jackson likes itty-bitty kids.

Congratulations Stenns!

And thanks to all who played. We'll be back next week with a new game.

#

( 10:35 PM ) EK B
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Vanity Vain

I find myself reading less and less these days. And yes, I'm all broken up about it.

I used to have a book going pretty much all the time, and subscribed to a few magazines. Then when I was getting ready to go on a trip, I'd buy a couple more magazines, you know, with some good articles I could sink myself into whilst lolling in the hotel room.

Is it that I never get to go anywhere anymore to loll? Is it I'm just too damn busy to do anything extracurricular? Or is it that my brain has indeed turned into a large Pyrex bowl of mushy peas, and unless it's fed to me intravenously via television, said brain processes no information at all. I'd prefer not to answer at this juncture.

Anyway, when I do get my hands on a periodical for a little "here and there" reading, I sometimes enjoy Vanity Fair. Now, don't get me wrong, I have no illusions whatsoever that it's on my social level. Maybe that's what I like about it. There's something rather comforting in reading all about the dinner party that the Contessa Von Bismarck threw for Gerald McVoidance and his lovely bride-to-be Portia-Hortense Llewellyn-Fortnam-Upson-von Kronenberg. Dinner parties need to be thrown for people, and since it's not me, I'd like to know who's getting the veal.

A few weeks ago my sister gave me a Vanity Fair of hers. She likes the magazine for reasons totally different from mine. She reads it while waiting for a haircut, or a manicure, or for her Volvo to be serviced, and yes, she dreams of the day she'll be sitting there sharing a veal chop with Portia-Hortense and a private giggle with the Contessa.

She gave me the magazine because she thought I'd like it. It had Prince William on the cover. Now, bless her, her heart was in the right place because she does know that I'm something of an anglophile (or anglopod, as Mr M says), even though William, Charles, Camilla, Mum, Dad, Andrew, gay Edward and his gay wife Sofie hold no interest for me whatsoever. Now that the Old Lady's passed on, the only Royal even bordering on fun was Harry, and I'll be damned if they didn't make him stop drinking and smoking pot. So they can all go blow.

And even amongst all that - and the entire magazine was about The Royals; not only Britain's, but every European country's that has them - there was an article I thought I was going to get interested in. It was about Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson. It had a picture of them and Hitler, and I thought, "Ooooh, this is going to be about Edward's Nazi tendencies instead of the same old romantic drivel!" Well, guess what. There was about one line referring to the Nazism and the rest was strictly bedroom chatter. And what could be more damn boring than bedroom chatter about Edward VIII? Well, actually, I'm now qualified to answer that question for you, and the answer is: not fuckin' much.

Now, here's the thing about Vanity Fair, though. It operates on the Vogue theory of publishing. Which seems to be, "Boy, them rich people sure do like their advertisements." Ever buy a Vogue? Oh, bullshit, yes you have. How hard was it for you to find the articles? Ever find the table of contents? If you did, it was by accident, I can assure you.

From the front inside cover to the back outside cover, it's Ad City, Arizona. And not your regular ads. You don't see ads for Huggies Diapers. You don't see ads for Alpo. You don't see ads for Senekot, the natural laxative. Which is a shame, really, because you know the people out there buying those Kate Spade $4500 dresses in size 2 have got to be downing some serious amounts of Senekot, the natural laxative.

No way. You see ads for Ralph Lauren and Prada and Gucci and Cartier. Makes sense, I guess. What does Vogue go for nowadays, five bucks? That's a rich people's magazine. I mean, with all those ads inside, doesn't the magazine already turn a profit whether they sell one issue? Sure! But they jack up the price, because if Vogue was two bucks people might buy it who shop at Wal-Mart. Then what would Portia-Hortense and the Contessa do? They've been invaded by the lower class!

Which brings me back round to Vanity Fair (thanks, P-H & the C). I don't know if the two magazines are put out by the same publisher, but if they're not they oughta be. Because if Vogue is for when Portia-Hortense wants to get all dressed up, Vanity Fair reports all about when she has someplace to go.

And that's not really even what's gnawing at me. What's gnawing at me are those ads.

It's no secret to anyone that I'm no fan of fashion. I mean, if you've set an eye on me and you don't know that, you've got problems I can't help. I think fashion designers get together at their annual dinner-dance and just laugh and laugh and laugh at the stunning fuckover they've perpetuated on the clothes-buying public.

"Remember Candies and halter tops? I did that for Spring and they ate it up!!!!" Bwaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahhahaha! "Waiter, another cigar, and a match so I can light it with this $500 bill."

I got to Sauerkraut Band practice yesterday a bit early, so I decided to have me an experiment. I took my Prince William issue of Vanity Fair, and went through it page by page. I counted the ads. I was lenient; I counted fold outs as one ad, one page. All told, in a magazine that says it has 476 pages, ads took up 276 pages, plus the inside front cover, inside back cover, and back cover. Pardon me for suggesting that's just a little excessive.

But the ads themselves are more annoying than their number, if that's possible. Ads today are really ugly. And not just by the look. It's the intention. They're ugly by design.

Mr M was telling me about a favorite Bob & Ray skit of his. It's about the zoo with a difference. It's the zoo where the animals look back. You know, they're not content with going about their business while you're gawking at them. That's what ads have come to.

Back in the good old days, when everyone wanted that brown corduroy jumper from Sears as the Presentation Piece in their wardrobe, fashion photography consisted of "action shots." Shots of people going about the daily business of being groovy gals who had the brown corduroy jumper from Sears as the Presentation Piece in their wardrobe. You know, carrying books in the brown jumper. Walking your bike in the brown jumper. Passing around a bowl of popcorn in the brown jumper.

In today's ads, the models look back.

And they don't look back like the girl in the brown jumper would. Models today don't say, "Hey, wouldn't you like to have my brown jumper? You can, too! Just call Sears. They may even give you my address and we can walk our bikes together!"

No, today the models look back and sneer. They say to you, "Look at me. Look what I'm wearing. Know what? You can't afford it. What, your mom drives a Lexus? Ha! Give me a fuckin' break, I don't care if she founded Lexus. Listen, just between you and me, babe, turn the page. You don't have the money for this. You don't have the style, and you sure as hell don't have the attitude. Just turn the page now and leave me alone."

Here is a Tommy Hilfinger ad. Look at these snots. I'm no fan of rednecks, but I really wish a few tank top-wearin' tobacco-spittin' good old boys would get ahold of this crowd (which by the way, there are about 10 more around these, out of my scanner range).

What about this lovely ad? What exactly is the point of this ad? I've tried, I've put some real thought into it, and can't for the life of me decide what they're trying to get across by sticking a naked baby in the arms of the scariest looking woman this side of "Night of the Living Dead." And the baby looks so happy, I'm sure because it knows that as soon as the shutter clicks, its being handed back to a real flesh-and-blood mom, who still should have to pay a fine for child endangerment for sticking her baby in the arms of this monsteress. And the woman's wearing winter clothes! Suede and fur and leather and thigh-high stiletto boots (which I had to crop out of the shot)! She's freezing! And her baby's naked! Is this what appeals to the Gucci set? They get all dressed up for a day out in the blazing Autumn wind and drag their naked babies along with them?

Here's a girl who's trying to sell us something by being friendly. I think. She's trying to be friendly. However, the terminal disease she obviously has is making it very difficult for her to smile for us. However, it was nice of her to get up and wrap herself in her hospital sheets to say "hello" before her blood count bottoms out for good. The least we can do is buy whatever it is she's flogging before they lower her into the cold, cold ground.

And when they do, Vanity Fair will surely cover the after-funeral dinner, given by the Contessa and attended by Gerald McVoidance and Portia-Hortense Llewellyn-Fortnam-Upson-von Kronenberg. #

( 1:56 PM ) EK B
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Do you possibly think it could be? Nah, no way. Yes, way, I think it is! At least I...wait, lemme look closer...yes...yep!

Oh my God, it is! Acrochallenge is back!!!

After the Long Fiasco Of No Comments, we are indeed back up and in business for Acromania. When we left off, the dishy and very yummy Michelle was going to be our judge du week. If you'll remember - yes, I know it's been long enough to forget - everyone has 3 entries to try and come up with the best acronym to the letters below, which have been randomly drawn on tiles from the acrobasket.

We didn't set a date of stoppage, but I'm sure 11pm est Tuesday night will be fine. Now, let's draw those letters!

(ooooh, my fingers are sweaty with anticipation. oh, wait, no, that's rain.)

B M J L I K

There you have it, you little acroers. Now start playing! #

( 11:08 PM ) EK B
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Sunday Thoughts

Hi guys.

I had a pretty eventful weekend. Started Friday night with the local high school football game. My only opportunity this season to see my nephew DJ TaytieMac doing his "Amazing Drumero" thing with the high school marching band. It was fun. He's such a babe. The drummers, as drummers are, are kind of an entity unto themselves. During football games they don't wear their uniforms. They wear - bear in mind that the school's team name is the G-Men - black pants, white cotton shirts and ties, then over that black trenchcoats, and black fedoras. Yes, they're G-Men. Pretty neat, I thought.

Anyway, I watched a little of the game, watched the cheerleaders like the car wreck they are that you can't help but sneak a grotesque peek of, and then watched the band in the stands. The drummers stand during the whole game up in the bleachers, doing beats and cadences, dancing around and getting people into the game.

My little guy the cool high-schooler.

Headed out to Mr M's for Saturday and hung out, watched a movie, and played clarinets. Then today it was the last Sauerkraut Band rehearsal before the season starts in earnest. Somehow I missed the missive about wearing our outfits for more pictures, so I showed up in jeans and a t-shirt. WooHoo, how German. Felt pretty much like an idiot - that's not supposed to happen till the performances begin!

I knew we had a show next week in Roanoke, but little did I know - I must be more out of the loop than I thought - that actual Octoberfest starts next weekend! Holy shit, the next six or so weekends of my life are now taken up, and I'm already tired just thinking about it. That will all go away, though, when things start. If it's anywhere near as fun as it was last year, I'll be just fine.

On the autoharp front, I sat at Mr M's this morning and pretty much set the repetoire for my first solo tour. This is, of course, after the release of my CD, which is going to be titled "Harpburn." There at his kitchen table, and with the help of the autoharp book the very lovely Kellie has loaned me for learning, I played, along with the inevitable "Jimmy Crack Corn," "Greensleeves," "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," "Scarborough Fair," "On Top Of Old Smokey," and the number that will have them puffing on their joints and holding their lighters in the air triumphantly, "Little Brown Jug."

I'm almost ready for the big time, just as soon as I learn to strum both backwards and forwards, and memorize where more than three keys are on the keyboard. But I'm gettin' there baby. Save me a place on the "American Idol" after next.

(In all seriousness, though, I've yet to find chords to "Bile 'Em Cabbage Down" on the web, but I did find chords to the one Pogues song I might be able to play, "Dirty Old Town.")

Sadly, Stennie's not been around this weekend, due to travelling home after the death of her Grandma Neff. She's been in my thoughts.

In the comments of her blog I told a little story about my two grandmothers, how they were as different as night and day (one was a city grandma and one was a country grandma), and yet they loved each other like sisters, which I thought was so cool. I also told how, at the time, I just loved them as a girl would love her grandmother, but looking back as an adult, I realize just how strong and special they both were.

I of course will have no grandchildren. So I guess I transfer all that to my nephew, and wonder if that'll be the case with him. Does he just think of me now as his aunt, the one who wools him in the swimming pool and on the couch, and the one he can instantly bowl over using "the puppy dog eyes?" And then maybe after I'm gone he'll think of me in a different light?

Who knows. Crappy morbid thoughts. It's just that Stennie's recent loss has made me realize I miss my grandmothers, my dad's father who I didn't get near enough time with, my mom's father who I never got to meet, and my favorite aunt in the whole world, Jacob's mom, Nadine. God, how cool was she.

Oh well. Onward to Monday. #

( 5:41 PM ) EK B
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Jimmy Revisited

I've been doing some dogged research, intellectual elite that I am, on the origins of the song "Jimmy Crack Corn." I'm still convinced something is up with Jimmy, the corn, and The Man Who Doesn't Care It's Crack. And by the way, why isn't it "cracked?" That's bugged me since I was in the second grade and we had to sing that in music class for Miss Bea Richardson, certainly renowned and influential in my life, because she was a mighty fine autoharpist. So I guess it's a natural that "Jimmy Crack Corn" would be a song I'd try and strum on the instrument for myself.

Upon first look at the lyrics, I thought, "Pwwoooackkk! What a load of racist crap." Then I realized that the song was written by and first performed by Virginians, my people, it's true, but my people who also have the audacity to make "Carry Me Back To Ol' Virginny" our state song. So I shouldn't have been that surprised.

Then I got to looking past the old "massa" and "I brings him de plate" references and realized that this could be taken as kind of a cool song. I mean, by the lyrics of the song, we see that when ol' Massa goes out riding, the song's singer goes out too, with a broom, to shoo away the blue tail flies. Now, apparently, or should I say allegedly, one fateful day a fly goes unshooed, bites Massa's pony, and Massa finds himself upturned in a ditch, and decidedly of the dead persuasion. And looky here at this verse:

Well the pony jumped, he start, he pitch
He threw my massa in the ditch
He died and the jury wondered why
The verdict was the blue-tail fly

There's something a little wickedly funny about this verse. Is it insinuating that the verdict was the blue tail fly, when possibly The Man Who Doesn't Care That Jimmy Crack Corn poked Massa's pony up the ass with his broom - or poked Massa up the ass with his broom - causing the old guy to upend and breathe his last? And The Man Who Doesn't Care That Jimmy Crack Corn got away with it? Which could very well be why he doesn't care that Jimmy crack corn. Cause he just got away with murder!

There are also theories (according to thestraightdope.com) about the song being a metaphor for slavery and therefore an abolitionist anthem (the "blue tail fly" being the Union Army), or that "cracking corn" could be slang for cracking open the old jug of corn liquor, which would certainly not make one care that Jimmy was cracking it or anything else, I suppose.

Then there are those in the know who say that "crack corn" is an old-timey Virginia slang term for gossip. Now, I grew up and live in Virginia, and though I've "gotten the hump" at someone and subsequently "given them down the road," I can honestly say that I've never heard of people "cracking corn." But what do I know, I just live here, I'm not a historian.

Which begs the final question. Who the hell is Jimmy? Well, if "crack corn" means gossip, maybe Jimmy knows some news on The Man Who Doesn't Care That Jimmy Crack Corn. Maybe he was a shitty slave, or Jimmy caught him eating off "de plate" he was supposed to be bringing Massa, or he was diddling Massa's wife. Or, if The Man Who Doesn't Care That Jimmy Crack Corn actually killed old Massa by poking a broom up his pony's ass, maybe Jimmy is a witness to the crime.

I thought for a brief moment that maybe Jimmy could be The Man Who Doesn't Care That Jimmy Crack Corn himself, that he liked to refer to himself in the third person. That would make sense, you know, "I crack corn and I don't care, my massa's gone away." Then I realized if he was going the third person route, the song would go something like:

Jimmy crack corn and Jimmy don't care
Jimmy crack corn and Jimmy don't care
Jimmy crack corn and Jimmy don't care
Jimmy's massa gone away

And at that point my head started to hurt, and I ditched that theory altogether.

Anyway, telling ideas, indeed. All I know is that if I ever get myself back in school, I know what my big research project's gonna be.
#

( 12:48 PM ) EK B
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I have something in common with Cher from "Clueless." No, it's not that I'm cute, or young, or rich, or ditsy, or that I have loads of friends, a loqued-out Jeep Daddy bought me, an original Alaia dress I was forced to soil in a mugging, a maid from El Salvador, or that I once fell in love with a disco dancin', Oscar Wilde readin', Streisand ticket-holdin' friend of Dorothy.

We apparently both like to start sentences, debates, stories and blogs with "So."

I often find myself at a keyboard struggling to come up with some semblance of an idea for a blog. When a germ of thought appears I think I might be able to run with, I begin to type. And I always want to start the same way. Is the idea the lack of something to watch on television? "So. I was sitting in the Comfy Chair last night flipping through channels, and...." Is it the American Civil War? "So. There were these people in the south, and they decided to break off...."

I don't know how often I actually do start blogs with "So." but the temptation sure is great, dudes. I do know I start a lot of paragraphs that way. Therefore, in the grand tradition that "Clueless," one of my top 20 movies of all time, has given us, I start this blog.

So. It seems the recent "Death Comes In Threes" cycle has passed. Sunday we had dear Warren Zevon. Now we've had Leni Riefenstahl and Larry Hovis. Warren went out with a brilliant filmmaker who chose to use her talents to make the ultimate propaganda film for Hitler (then miraculously seemed to not understand why she became so despised for it), and the actor from "Hogan's Heroes." And while I really hate we lost Warren, I have to smile, thinking about him, out there where people go when they die, writing a song from beyond. A song about going out with a loathed naziess and a likeable, forgotten actor from the 60s. And I'm sure there'd be a mention in the song somewhere about Larry Hovis's frequent appearances as a panelist on "The Liar's Club."

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I'd like to report that I nearly peed my pants at 1:38 this morning when I managed to almost-halfway-but-not-quite play the 8 chords needed to give a rousing rendition of "Jimmy Crack Corn (And I Don't Care)" on the autoharp. (Well, 8 chord changes. I think there were only 3 different chords.) I did realize very quickly that Oscar (yes, the autoharp has been duly named) is way out of tune, and, though I have no idea how to tune a stringed instrument, I'm going to have to try and give it a whirl tonight.

Maybe some of you gee-tar players out there can clue me in, though. How do you get that rhythmic strumming sound going? I refuse to play my autoharp with just one outward strum per chord, like a lute. I want to play like someone real. But when I try that it sounds, well, let's see. How do I put this? It sounds rather, um, shitty.

I don't know, I always said I could never learn to play strings. I hope it doesn't come to pass.

And by the way, I'm not so sure that this guy doesn't care that Jimmy crack corn. He keeps on telling us over and over, for two damn centuries already, how he doesn't care that Jimmy crack corn. Well, I think he and Jimmy have issues from way back, and personally, it bugs the shit outta him every time Jimmy fuckin' touches the corn, much less cracks it. I can just see him, over by the barn, "Here he comes. Don't do it, don't do it, FUCK! Crackin' the damn corn again!" Then dancing around singing at the top of his voice, "Jimmy crack corn, and I don't caaaaaare~!"

He's an angry, angry man.
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( 1:31 PM ) EK B
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My Autoharp Came In, My Autoharp Came In!!

Nope, I haven't learned to play "Bile 'Em Cabbage Down" yet. I did get it out of its box, and after a long period of autoharp appreciation, I strummed it a few times. Then wouldn't you know, people started calling me and expecting me to actually do work for them.

Bastards. #

( 9:57 AM ) EK B
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Tell Me Something!!

Your hopes, dreams, a weather report, why you want to be governor of California, anything, just please use my newly restored comments!
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( 11:23 PM ) EK B
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Baths, Bigotry, & Bittersweet Bye-byes

Well, once again, we have no acros to play, because I have no comments to offer you for entries.

Tonight was the night my (and Mr Peabody's) boy Sherman got his very first bath. He was getting quite smudged, and his shirt was downright grimy. You know, boys who do a lot of travelling get dirty.

I did some research on the web to see about cleaning him up, and there was precious little in the way of information. I finally found a site that gave me three options. No, four. One was to buy their cleaner at $7 a pop. The others were commercial spot remover, Woolite, or shaving cream. I figured shaving cream would not only be a nice, light type of cleaner, but what little boy doesn't want to get all lathered up with shaving cream? I went to the grocery at lunch and bought a can.

In short, it didn't work. It was nice and light, it just seemed to have no cleaning power whatsoever. In fact, it left his lil' nose even dirtier than when we started. So I grabbed some Woolite.

Woolite worked much better. I cleaned up his nose, his forehead, and both hands.

Sunday night I washed his shirt, which I managed to get off by breaking the small thread tacking it together in the back. It washed up fairly well, though I'm sure it won't take any repeated washings before going totally threadbare. So he'd better be careful from here on out.

Anyway, I took pictures of the whole ordeal, from a shirtless dirty Sherman through a dressed and clean one. And even though some of them - the best ones, where he was lathered up with Barbasol - didn't come out well at all, I'm hoping to post some of them in the Galerie de Chien et Garcon.

I forgot to mention an amazing moment of my weekend. No, not as amazing as the Polterabend and seeing Mr M in lederhosen, but still amazing. In the stupor of the noonish hour of Saturday at Mr M's, otherwise known as Poderosa East, the both of us found ourselves strangely engrossed in what turned out to be a marathon of "Lone Ranger" episodes on some cable channel. Holy bejeesus, what a show. I know, it's a throwback to a simpler time, but poor Tonto. I cannot believe he was given the lines he was. "You raise hands!" "You drop gun!" And the topper of all, when L.R. and Tonto found a poor gunshot victim, "Him plenty dead." Jay Silverheels, bless your heart, what you must have gone through. You know, the Lyle Lovett song "If I Had A Boat" contains this jewel of a verse:

The mystery masked man was smart
He got himself a Tonto
'Cause Tonto did the dirty work for free
But Tonto he was smarter
And one day said kemo sabe
Kiss my ass I bought a boat
I'm going out to sea

Boy, oh boy, I sure hope Jay Silverheels got to tell the bastards who wrote his scripts to kiss his ass.

Today is indeed a very sad day for all of us who love good, smart, cleverly funny rock music and the good, smart, cleverly funny people who make it. Warren Zevon lost his battle with cancer last night. I liked Warren very much, I didn't have all his records, but I liked his music, and I felt happier knowing there was a Warren in the world making music safe for the wry, cranky wiseass. "Excitable Boy" still cracks me up every time I hear it, and I'll always love that his "Poor Poor Pitiful Me" was used in a great scene in "Freaks and Geeks," where geeky Bill gets to play spin the bottle and kiss a cheerleader. I loved him hanging out on Dave Letterman's show, playing with the band, and laughing with Dave when Dave would forever suggest they get in the car and drive to the shore after the show was over.

He was cool till the end, saying he didn't regret that his hard living contributed to an early death, rather he was kind of proud that he had a life of debauchery for a while, then many good sober years with his kids.

Here's to you, Warren.

Finally, for no other reason than it makes me happy, here's a picture of a pre-bath Sherman headed to the Polterabend.

( 4:25 PM ) EK B
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Poltera-bent

So. I got home from Friday's little jaunt eastward yesterday afternoon. I've yet to blog. I think this whole lack of comments debacle has given me a serious case of blog apathy. Yes, folks, I guess I am in it just for the comments.

I went on an outing with the Sauerkraut Band over the weekend. It was a Polterabend! What is a Polterabend, you ask? Well, hell if I know, I answer.

Well, I know a little bit about what one is. It's kind of maybe something quite but not exactly like a wedding rehearsal dinner. No, let's describe it this way. It's a combination of a wedding rehearsal dinner and a kids' party. There's food, there's drink, there are games, and there are prizes.

You know, if you're a person with half a brain in your head, and aren't we all, when you're getting ready to embark upon a new situation, even if you have no idea of what's ahead of you, you still have some sort of imagined picture as to what it's going to be like. Sometimes you're close, sometimes you're not. I was not about the whole Polterabend situation. (by the way, I soon found out it's not "pol-TEHR-a-bend," as I'd been pronouncing it, but "pol-ter-AH-bn.")

It was held at what was called a "conference center." The map we were given of the "conference center" said at the top "Campus Map." So I was expecting some sort of combo community college/business park-looking thing, a bunch of strategically-placed square buildings, one of which we'd be filing into for the festivities.

After getting totally, well, not lost, just not being at any corresponding numbers on our maps, a very nice lady we stopped and asked directions from told us she'd drive to the center and let us follow her. We drove on very slim rural roads past huge farms and large fenced expanses of land. When we turned into the main gate of the conference center, all three of us in my car, me, Mr M and, yes, Jude the Corruptor, who thankfully was not shoving mugs of beer into my hands while I was trying to drive, said the same thing.

"They don't let people like me into places like this."

This wasn't so much a "conference center" as it was a "swank-ass country club sans golf course." Huge houses dotted massive fields, gardens, ponds, lakes. Swans were in the pond and deer were frollicking on the grounds. This place was beautiful, without a doubt. This place spoke to me. And mainly what it said was "money."

I don't think I've ever mentioned here my general dislike for rich people, have I? In any case, I was feeling very much the outsider, even for me, and well, that says a lot, right?

We drove along the winding road till we found the particular building that was "ours." It was a small house. I mean, certainly no bigger than the Poderosa (but much nicer, of course). I then looked over and realized this shindig was outside. Why that shocked me, I don't know, but in that little picture I'd been imagining, we were indoors. I remembered that Friday was supposed to be the first cool night of the year, and hoped for the best.

When we made our way over, things were basically already set up. Huge tent, tables, chairs, linens, placecards, each place setting had its own glass beer mug engraved with the details of the Polterabend. (I really coveted those mugs, for some reason.) The tent was by a pond, and the band was set up at the head of the tent, and it was very nice, save for the fact that every time I sat on my chair the legs of it went about a half-inch deeper into much-rained-upon ground. Had we done much more sitting and standing it might have gotten really interesting.

After getting changed into our outfits in the little "house," we went over to get things started. (Another aside here: Friday night marked a new chapter in my life. The "Bet's Life After Having Seen Mr M In Lederhosen" chapter. Yep, he's now sporting them as his band costume. I'll be getting pictures, which I'll be selling here for a few bucks apiece, email me privately about details.)

Playing for an event like this is completely different from playing Octoberfest. At Octoberfest, people are there mainly to see us. For this, we were basically background music. We played toasts and fanfares, then played music while people ate, socialized, danced, and sat around being rich.

This normally would have been quite a boring scenario, and while I can't say I was on the cusp of ecstacy, the stuff that made it a Poterabend and not a wedding party was cute. There was a "plate breaking" ceremony, where the family broke plates and the bride and groom-to-be had to clean them up, and a thing where they had to use a two-person saw and had saw a log in half (the general consensus between those in the know being this would be the only menial work tasks these folks would ever know), there was a plaster of paris cake served that contained a prize inside, I don't know, like I said it was very kids' party-ish, but there was something sort of endearing about it all.

There was also something greatly endearing about the smell of the food these folks were eating at their linened tables. It smelled like greatly catered fine food and goddammit, I wanted some. It got to be quite late into the evening before we got to take a break and were ushered back into the house for our grub, which was, oddly enough, grubs! No, actually it wasn't, but it sure as hell wasn't what they were eating at the fancy tables. Well, first of all, they told us there was no food, and maybe the looks on our faces alone coerced them to go looking again, and we came up with weenies and sauerkraut. And as my dad (and everyone else's) has said many times, we were damn glad to get it.

And then, having fed the dogs, the dogs were sent back out to perform again. And we did.

After it was all over with, and the final Polterabenders were still mingling, and the cleaning up process had begun, I walked back over to the podmobile to take my horn and some of Mr M's stuff. I thought, "If I could just get out of these pantyhose," and looked around and everyone was doing their own thing, so I just kind of hiked up my dress a little bit and pulled them and my shoes off. Then I got out a pair of jeans and put them on, then took my dress off, and little by little I changed clothes in the parking lot of the little house. I've no idea what made me lose my inhibitions, I certainly wasn't drunk, but I've never removed my clothes in public before.

I'm sure it wasn't the first time a woman graced those grounds in her bra. I'm sure hers was just a much more expensive bra.
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( 12:40 AM ) EK B
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Hey Mom

My Mom:

* Smokes almost as much as my dad

* Is a kickass cook, and loves to give people food

* Would give you anything she had, and I mean that

* Is a total fruitcake

* Loves Bingo and soap operas

* Wears white footies and gold penny-loafers

* Ceased to be "Peg" and became "Granny" (or "Gwanny") when my nephew Taytie was born

* Can do some pretty mean flatfootin'

* Once told me, "there's nothing that my two kids feel that I don't feel too. Whether they're sick, or upset, or sad. I hurt as much just knowing it."

* Is a coal miner's daughter, and grew up damn poor

* Switched from Bourbon & Ginger Ale to Vodka and Tonic in her 50s.

* Takes incredibly good care of my dad.

* Was born September 5, 1933.

Happy 70th birthday, Mom! Love you! #

( 3:57 PM ) EK B
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Unsatisfied

Did you ever have one of those days? No, not "one of those days" days, but one of these days. One of these days like I'm having today.

From the minute I woke up this morning, I've not been satisfied. With anything.

Due to a very enjoyable post-band practice cup of soup with Mr M and Ed last night, I didn't get back home till very late. Or very early, depending on how picky you are about those things. It was after 1:30 when I finally pulled in the Poderosa drive. Then of course, after the obligatory email checking, and deciding that there were a couple of pieces of things on DVD that I must view at that exact moment, my getting into bed time stretched to well after 2am.

So the alarm went off and, well, needless to say, I was way unsatisfied in the sleep department. I was seriously dragging.

I trudged into the shower where, for the third morning in a row, I just couldn't get the water hot enough for me. It wasn't that there was no hot water coming out, I just wanted it hotter. And it wouldn't seem to go any hotter. I never got totally happy in my morning shower.

Then I got out, wrapped in a towel, got my clothes ready, and went to sit on the bed to put in my lenses. The heat pump was down a little lower than usual (owing to the fact that I was unsatisfactorily warm when going to bed last night), so it was, well, frankly, too damn cold in my house this morning.

And so I sat. On the bed, naked, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping wet, sleepy, freezing, shivering. I was like a pound puppy.

It reminded me of that scene in "Dead Poets Society." The one where Robin Williams has Ethan Hawke in front of the whole class, covering his eyes, and Ethan belts out that whole spiel about "Truth, truth like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold. You push it, stretch it, it will never be enough, you kick at it, beat it, it will never cover any of us."

That's exactly how I felt.

Once I made it in to TheCompanyIWorkFor I checked my blog, to find that not only do I still not have any comments, but YACCS now says it will be September 8th before they're back. Well, I'll give the mofos till the 8th, but if things aren't back up and running by them, fuck 'em. I'll find something else.

That blanket's shrinking, I do believe. I have the afternoon off, and now that errands are done, I'm trying for a nap.

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( 4:22 PM ) EK B
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COMMENTS ARE NOT BACK, COMMENTS ARE NOT BACK!

I can't win, can I? #

( 4:09 PM ) EK B
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COMMENTS ARE BACK, COMMENTS ARE BACK!

OK, everyone, comment on every post I've written since they went down! #

( 6:02 PM ) EK B
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ACROMANIA CANCELLED

Well, folks, it's with a heavy heart (amongst other things) that I must call Acro cancelled for this week. YACCS is still down for the comments, their site said Sept 2d or 3d was the day it was all supposed to be fixed. Well, pbbbbbt to the 2d, apparently. Hoping for the 3d or, like Mitchie, I may be looking elsewhere in comments department.

I've felt a bit like Santa in "Rudolph" all day today - you know, would someone come along to save the day, or would I have to cancel Acro and disappoint all the kids? "And they've been so good this year, too."

Well, let's shoot for next Monday, and see what happens. Thanks, guys! #

      ( 3:23 PM ) EK B
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Oh my. If these comments stay down, it's going to play hell with Acromania. Everyone keep a good thought. #

      ( 3:20 PM ) EK B
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Oh, Jeazle Peats! Since it's a holiday and I'm lazing around at home (just like the Good Lord intended me to do), I seem to have forgotten all about it being Monday, and therefore time for a round of AcroMania!

We have another guest judge this week, and that is the very lovely and extremely yummy Michelle. Mitchie, you do remember you're judge this week, right? Don't make me come up there to remind you. Oh, on second thought, please make me come up there to remind you, you dish.

As everyone knows by now, but I keep repeating, everyone gets three entries to try and make the best acronym corresponding to the letters on the tiles randomly drawn from the acrobasket. Since I haven't talked to Michelle about the judging, let's make the judging time 11pm eastern, that way she'll have plenty of time to "do her thing." *rrrrowrrr!*

And here are this week's letters:

M A O E

There you have it, friends. Now.........acro! #

      ( 12:46 AM ) EK B
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The Results Are In

The Pop Quizzes have been graded, and we have a winner! I think you all probably did better than you thought you would, but to save embarrassment and fistfights, I shan't post orders of finish.

But I will announce to you all that our top scorer in the quiz and winner of a decidedly non-fabulous prize is Kellie! She got a score of 72, and top honors by 5 points.

(By the way, I scored based on a 100 point system, so a 100 was possible. If not probable.)

Here were the correct answers:

Part 1: Q & A

1. What two things are to be remembered from the Sauerkraut Band rehearsal/party/dinner/photo session?

This was so plain, and one person got it. "It was hot. And I got drunk."

2. What famous lady came to Bluefield, WV hawking war bonds?

Greer Garson. Well done.

3. What was the name of the TV series my cousin and I created in the mid-70s?

"These Are The Times." No one got that one, and it was hard, I admit. Venice had a great guess, though, with "Peas In A Pod."

4. What is a large group of diverse bands coming together to play a concert called?

A polytet. Well done indeed.

5. Name any three ingridients of Hoppin' John salad.

Any of these: rice, corn, black-eyed peas (I accepted "beans" cause they really are beans), onion, jalapenos, and an oil and vinegar marinade.

6. Who professed his love for me?

Only one person remembered my doorstep magazine salesman whose last-ditch effort was "Have I told you I love you?" (By the way, some of you know that Nervous William did in fact profess his love for me some years ago, but I don't remember ever blogging about it.)

7. Who�s the only person to not yet judge Acrochallenge?

I realized after the answers started coming in that there are three people who haven't judged! So I accepted any of them as answers: Flipsycab, Kellie, or Jeff. (and you all are going to judge.)

8. What dish can I never make as good as Mr M does?

Tuna pasta salad. Lots of fudging on this one, but only one totally correct answer.

9. What is the sound of the perfect swim goggle?

One correct answer again: "pbbbbbbbbbt."

10. What in my house is haunted?

My den television (though I accepted just "television.") Well done again.

Part 2: Matching (match the letters to their corresponding numbers)

1. Mowing Boy - f. Comes right in
2. Bill - g. Criminally insane doggie
3. Ed - h. Leads the band
4. Ervin - c. Cute little boy
5. Linda - a. Jellybean
6. Zippy - d. Book
7. Mr M - b. Tormentor
8. Stennie - j. Maven!
9. Terri - e. Jacob
10. Peabody - i. Genius doggie

You all did quite well on the matching.

Part 3: True/False

1. During Blogathon 2003, I watched as many movies as Stennie did.

False! Not even! My TV was always on, but I only watched two movies.

2. When swimming, I consider "success" 25 laps.

OK, first of all, False! People, people, what do I stress? I'm anal - Laps have to be done in groupings of three! I chose a non-multiple of three so you'd know it was false. Tsk, tsk. Actually the answer is 30, but I cannot believe two different people gave the same answer. Which was "False, because you don't consider anything you do a success." That was weird, man.

3. According to the internet test I took, my "inner band instrument" is saxophone.

False again! My inner band instrument was the flutie toot toot.

4. I'd never seen "The Philadelphia Story" until this year.

Believe it or not, true! Boy, am I glad I decided to rent it, though.

5. July 4th saw me suddenly afflicted by a massive toothache.

False! I was afflicted, but by a massive urinary tract infection. (Mr M's answer was "False, you were afflicted by me.")

Part 4: Short Essay (really, a few sentences is plenty)

I graded quite liberally on these, and you all did quite well.

1. Compare and contrast Mr M to Captain Asshole.

Anything along the lines of them never being together in the same room, alter-egos of my buddy, etc, or, like Mike, you could have said, "They both talk like Winnie The Pooh."

2. Is Bet a pod? Why or why not?

Only you can decide this, but anyone who gave an opinion and backed it up did well.

3. Compare and contrast Pen/Pin and Boil/Bull.

I didn't want to, but I gave full points to anyone who said they sound the same when I say them. Even though they don't. Yall lucked out on this one.

4. Give a brief explanation of Post Blogathon Depression.

Anything from insomnia, feeling unloved, misunderstood, realizing your best buddies are on the 'net, having your family not understand your internet addictions.....

5. If inviting me to a pot luck party, what would you ask me to bring, and why?

Everyone got some points for this, but full points when to anyone who named a dish they think I do well, or asked me to bring napkins and paper plates (or the one who also said I could bring mustard and ketchup).

Thanks for all who participated in the quiz. It was fun and yall made my day.
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Home of the world-famous Emotional Roller Coaster

The current mood of agnes_g@hotmail.com at www.imood.com

Back To The Comfy Chair

Bet's 2003 Movie List

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