Ram Jam

See The Wrestler. Or get ready for SPOILERS!!

It'll be tough to find something novel to say about Mickey Rourke's performance. This character is totally conflicted until the end. In the blink of an eye Randy "The Ram" Robinson goes from annoyed to playful, connected to independent, sweet to aggressive, and hopeless to inspired. His glittering wrestler persona is in direct opposition to his real tattered life. This all sounds simple on paper, but Mickey Rourke is masterful at portraying a man who is totally present in both worlds. With age, he now has the opportunity to be a charming love interest as well as a charming father, and I just adore his charm factor. The charm is painfully short-lived, then, testosterone city, baby--but not necessarily the tearing-the-door-off-the-hinges type of manliness. It's a very focused masculinity that makes me love buff dudes with long hair. Putting up with tiny pricks of pain (staple gun to the chest, steroid shot in the butt, high-velocity airborne candlesticks), rocking out to AC/DC in a van, and lifting weights in the bathroom.

I'm all over the place.

Oh! The most wonderful contradiction of all--the fact that Randy is a sweet guy in this tough exterior. I know. Predictable. It's simple. Mickey Rourke makes this simple story fascinating by telling 12 other stories with his eyes, the only body part unscathed by Hollywood surgeons. In the end there is ultimate, independent redemption, without a snappy happy ending. I didn't cry until after I left the theater. I love this film, and I'm okay with the fact that I got my hopes WAY up for it.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I will try to make this simple, so no one has an aneurysm.

This Christmas, I saw a commercial for Guitar Hero. Or was it Rock Band? I'm not sure. The commercial was a mom with her kids (one of them a baby in a high chair), huddled around the TV, watching this video game. They weren't making any eye contact. The mom was sorta playing, and sorta singing. The kids were kinda moving around to the beat, sorta. God, it seemed exhilarating.

Is it too much for me to worry that there will be no new music for the 2028 version of GH if kids don't pick up a real guitar at some point? And where will the next generation come from if said kids don't have a vehicle like the guitar ballad with which to get laid?

If you are pregnant, planning to get pregnant, or know anyone in either situation, please do what you can to help that future rock star hold a steady beat. And if you have the money to buy a video game console, you have the money to buy a shitty keyboard or guitar from a pawn shop.

That's all I want to say.

I Want The Key To The Front Door

About a month ago, I pondered the idea of a graceful age to exit the music biz. The egomaniacal stagehog in me sees and hears myself as perfect in every way for the rest of eternity. The self-conscious objector in me is scared to death of singing one foul note. And the moment that foul note is coupled with crow's feet, I will need to find a hole in which to bury myself. It's probably something I got from watching too much TV. No one can escape the youth-obsessed expectations of society, but for a performer, it's especially scary. With shows like American Idol, audiences have been given license to not only disapprove of, but abusively ridicule people who are less than perfect in the looks and sound department. And oldies aren't even allowed to enter, let alone audition. Fuck you, Simon Cowell.

Marky and I rented a documentary last night that changed my mind about expiration dates. "Young At Heart" is about a chorus with an average age of 80. Not that unusual for a church choir or a community chorale. The difference here is the repertoire, including arrangements of Talking Heads, Coldplay, The Clash, and Sonic Youth. The music is basically the same, except that you can understand the lyrics better with the Young@Heart gang.

Bob, the strict yet loving choir director, brings in music he loves. He's 53, and stands on the stage during performances, conducting the choir in what I originally thought to be a controlling manner. After seeing several performances, though, I saw him simply as a more hands-on connected leader. Joe, the choir member known for his amazing memorization ability, refuses chemo treatment against his doctor's orders. Why? He had a gig. Elaine, 90, lives in a retirement village, and is the only resident with a key to the front door of the facility. Why? She has gigs. The staff is usually gone by the time she gets back. Fred retired from the choir after a heart attack. He came back for what he referred to as his "ugly duckling song," Coldplay's "Fix You," and delivers the most heart wrenching performance, punctuated by the whisps of his oxygen tank. Did he worry that he couldn't stand? That he had tubes in his nose? No. He had a gig.

The first gig we see in this movie is at the local prison. I would be scared. Scared of criminals doing criminal things. That's me. I thought the Young@Hearts should be scared of being made fun of. I mean, what was Bob thinking, putting them in front of cold hearted criminals? But those senior citizens confidently sang, danced, and won that crowd over. Many convicts hugged the choir members afterward, one of them saying it was the best performance he had ever seen. And I believe him.

I now think there is no expiration date, only graduations. I've already had several. Talent shows, coffeehouses, community theater, college theater, small town band, big town band. One day, I will graduate to the next thing. And it will have to be musical. I don't want to ever not be rehearsing for something. And I think I have to sing until my dying day. If that means I have to come home late until age 90, great. If at that time, I decide to prioritize my absolute love of music over a questionable medical procedure, so be it. And if it takes my whole life to feel completely confident on stage, then I need to be on stage when that happens.

Every Little Boy Needs a Girl

I realize after writing the last blog, that I may be the only person on earth that loves this album. Beside the fact that it contains one of the most insipid New Wave ditties of all time (title track), I also truly believe it is one of the most romantic pop albums of all time. I think of it in terms of my middle school self, struggling through adolescence. My heart beats a little harder when I hear this guy sing. Here is a detailed listening guide to Pop Goes The World by Men Without Hats.

1. Intro: An tiny elf-like voice accompanied by synthesized beats and whirs. You can barely hear him. He's trying to get our attention. The background noise becomes more audible, but it's not really music, yet. The elf is telling us that something really big is coming. The beats get more structured and intense, the volume swells, strings begin frantically soaring, searching, becoming cacophonous, until they crescendo into...

2. Pop Goes The World: Aside from the cutesy little girl introducing the song, this is well-trodden territory. Johnny play geetar, Jenny play bass.

3. On Tuesday: Like a nerdy but wonderful trip to the Ren Fair, the woody flute floats above this sweet melody. "It was only make believe, then along came Tuesday," repeats, and resonates. You're a 7th grader who just saw Beauty and the Beast, and your boyfriend is Prince Charming, and you get to meet up at your lockers after 3rd and 5th period. This is the anthem to untarnished love. Even love lost. When you're young, you think you've had your heart broken, but you won't know that, really, until later. Right now, it's puppy love.

4. Bright Side of The Sun: This is our first look at true melancholy on this album. It's just 40 seconds long, but the yearning in the insisitant piano part makes you wish it would last all afternoon. For the first time, you are looking to the future. The real future. It's a look into the future, looking into the past. Kinda like when you can see yourself having kids with a guy, even grandkids, and telling those kids about when you were their age. Just lovely. It's my 2nd favorite song, here.

5. O Sole Mio: And out of the murkiness of that rainy forecast, comes the perky song about being a rainbow. Did you ever keep a secret about yourself, that you couldn't tell even your best friend? I think that's what's going on here. The bridge takes this scary turn, the singer desperately questioning why he's not like everyone else, and wondering if it's hurting his loved ones. Here is the awareness of solitude.

6. Lose My Way: This song is more mature than the rest. It's my favorite, with the ascending piano parts, repetition, and angelic motifs. Until now, there has only been one male voice, but another joins him here, echoing, playing the role of his conscience. The homophony in the line, "Some are weak and some are wise, And summer comes as no surprise," always impresses me. Men Without Hats aren't probably well-known for their innovative poetry, but I just love this song. The autumn leaves imagery makes me shiver. This is more than heartbreak. He's made some serious mistakes, and he knows the worst is still to come.

7. The Real World: I'll be honest, I know this song the least. I don't like listening to it all the way through. First, it has a creepy I-took-a-drag-off-the-caterpillar's-hookah Alice in Wonderland vibe. Also the first recording I ever had, cut this song off halfway through, so I remember it ending after about 25 seconds. I hate listening to the whole thing.

8. Moonbeam: Back to middle school. Perhaps the fall dance was a bust, and your boyfriend dumped you, but it's March, now. The Sadie Hawkins dance is just around the corner, and the new boy you adore circled "yes" when you asked him via origami folded note. Hope springs eternal. It's only a couple months till summer, the sun is shining, and you have a new haircut. Spring Fever, I suppose, is in the air. "You were on a moonbeam, and I was in a cloud, And everything was blue green, and everything was loud." You're gonna dance your ass off.

9. In The Name Of Angels: Jenny and Johnny are a solid couple. They're confident, they have lots of friends, they can hold hands in the hall, they're the model for the perfect middle school pair. And all this earthly imagery, again, with the wind, earth, sea. It's not about hairspray, belts, or skateboards, no. Jenny and Johnny will probably be together forever, but there is this undertone. Of dread. It's tough to focus on it, with the noise of life clanging away, but at any moment, something bad could happen. Don't get too comfortable.

10. La Valse D'Euge'Nie: Transition. No words. Just a scratchy record playing a watery, ancient waltz. Really an extended intro to...

11. Jenny Wore Black: Truly the most insipid song on the album. I suppose I hate this one because all the girls in my school wore black to be deep, and I was really holding on to the Punky Brewster thing. Black eyeliner, black t-shirts, black dresses. Gosh, I think I just described my entire wardrobe and caboodle case. Let me try to be a little more objective. This is a fight Jenny and Johnny had because Johnny was pushing Jenny too far. She still wanted to be a kid, she wasn't sure if she was ready to grow up yet. So they broke up. And the whole school got to see the fight. And they were shocked.

12. Intro/Walk On Water: Another old-timey watery piano introduction to a jumpy 80's tune. This time there are lyrics. You can feel distinct generations in this music. And distant generations, at that. Maybe Johnny didn't want to tell his dad what was going on, but knew that his grandpa wouldn't spill the beans, so that was his confidant. And grandpa masterfully explained to Johnny the beauty of youth: Immortality.

13. The End of the World: "Will Jenny be older, will music be heard? Will we all meet again at the end of the world?" It looks corny in print, but this finale of a beautiful song set is the culmination of all the poetic thoughts and musical ideas from Pop Goes The World. Starting with simple piano chords, swirling keyboard, harp, theremin whirs, and a marching snare drum, the song is simple, hopeful. An obvious review of song titles echoes in the background.

I don't know anyone else who will admit to loving this album the way I do. I find that it's harder to fall in love with an album these days, when iTunes offers such instant gratification with singles for 99 cents. Buying singles for a buck is grand, but I miss the days when recording artists strove for the arc of an album. It's not as necessary today. Antique though I may be, I'm thrilled that I am of the age that I can impart advice like Johnny's grandfather.

Pop Goes My Subject

My favorite Christmas album is Pop Goes The World by Men Without Hats. It's not really a Christmas album, but I played it for the first time right around Christmas, and it sounds like yuletime magic to me.

I may be dating myself, but the first recording I ever had of Pop Goes the World was one copied onto a cassette. I was 12, and spending the night at a friend's house. I won't reveal her name, for reasons you will understand soon. Let's call her "Dawn." Dawn lived right across the street from our middle school, in a powder pink stucco house. She had posters of Charlie Chaplin and Marilyn Monroe in her bedroom. I remember thinking she was a little weird for having a poster of a girl, because all my posters were of Wham and The Monkees. She was popular, though, and I was so thrilled that I had duped Dawn into thinking I could be one of her kind, I overlooked it.

I don't remember having dinner there, but after dinner time, Dawn's mom left for her nightshift nurse duty. I didn't know she would be gone, and therefore hadn't let my mom know, but I acted cool. We hung out in our pajamas in the living room, sitting on the hardwood floor, talking about boys, listening to Men Without Hats and The Violent Femmes. I tried to keep up with her New Wave music tastes, but it was foreign territory. She introduced me to "Blister in the Sun," for which we choreographed a dance involving a skateboard. "Add it Up" was the first time I had ever heard the "F" word in a song. I was thrilled. Was this my ticket to popularity? What would Dawn introduce next? She reached beneath the couch and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Her older sister emerged from her room, and didn't stop Dawn from lighting up. She wordlessly swiped a cig, and disappeared back into her space. Was this my first cigarette? Sadly, no, I couldn't hang. Mothers leaving for nightshifts? Cuss words? These were things I could handle. But I refused the cigarette, terrified that Dawn would ignore me the rest of the night. She didn't mind, though. We continued to talk about boys.

I wondered why Dawn's sister kept her mouth shut about these misdeeds. Turns out sister was even more of a miscreant, having stolen mom's car for joyrides. And she didn't steal the car from the driveway. Remember, the mom had a night job at the hospital. Sister would steal the car from her reserved spot at work, and return it before mom got off. Trouble is, during one of the joyrides, someone parked in the reserved spot before sister got back. She was pretty much in the doghouse for life, and Dawn was untouchable. She liked weird music, smoked, and had posters of old-time icons. Dawn was cool.

We didn't go on any joyrides, but Dawn did make copies of the Femmes and MWH's albums, one on each side. I went right home the next day to an empty house. I slipped the tape in the stereo, and blasted it. Jumping around my living room, I yelled along with the raging anthem. "Why can't I get... Just one..."

"Are you sure you want mom to hear this?" My brother asked. He was, luckily, the first one to come home. Wait, how did he know this song? Scared, I grabbed my new treasure and only listened that side of the tape in my room. I didn't hear the other side again until months later.

My parents and I were decorating the house for Christmas, and mom asked me to find some music. I turned on Pop Goes The World, and it was perfect. We switched out all of our window valances to reflect the mauve theme we had going on the tree. There were mauve ribbons, iridescent icicles, miles of clear beads, glass globes, and white twinkling lights. It looked like a big pink bubble bath to me, and I was ecstatic to have a theme tree. And the album was the perfect ethereal companion to that scene. There is a lovely emotional arc, and a cast of Man, Woman, and Child. Well, I thought it was lovely. My mom jumped out of her skin every time the quiet, saccharine ballads would dive into the thumping pop tunes. And that made it perfect, too. There is something to be said for the tween soundtrack to pissing your mom off.

Originally, I was going to write a review of this 21-year old album, and we've gone in a different direction. Instead, I will sign off, challenging you to listen to this album as you decorate your tree, or wrap presents with a loved one. Whether it be your boyfriend, pet, or mom, those marathon holiday tasks are nicely adorned with this heavenly piece of music.

Trying to Get My Mansions Green

Wednesday night, I saw a musical production of "Grey Gardens" at the Northlight Theater in Skokie. If you are not familiar with this story, (even if you are familiar, honestly) you might not understand how it could be adapted into a musical. It makes perfect sense to me.

Grey Gardens is a documentary from the 70's that opened the doors on the elderly Edith "Big Edie" Bouvier Beale and her middle-aged daughter, Edith "Little Edie" Bouvier Beale. They were cousins of Jackie Kennedy who lived the life of two deranged old maids in a once-magnificent, now dilapidated mansion, Grey Gardens. Of the 28 or so rooms, they only utilized a single bedroom with a dorm fridge and a hotplate, occasionally traveling to the deck to sun themselves. A gardener, 50 cats, and several raccoons also lived there. It's easy to forget you're watching a documentary, because the subjects are so colorful and lively for the camera. Big Edie sits in her bed and listens to records, mostly. She is constantly looking for missing cats, and warbles along with her music. After awhile, the audience is clued in that the singer on her records is actually her. She did some recording in the 40's, but it's tough to gauge if it's just a personal recording by some rich lady, or if she was truly regarded as a talent. Little Edie, the sole caretaker for her ailing mother, shines for the camera with political statements, personally designed outfits, and song and dance routines. Likewise, the audience soon understands that her every moment is as insane and meaningless as the next.

There is no beginning, and no conclusion. There is simply this moment in time that is Grey Gardens. It's fascinating and frightening to know that a family could shun their own so completely. However, the Beale gals were proud, and didn't seem to want anyone invading their routine. There is Jerry, the long-haired young man who inexplicably comes around and keeps things running. He tokes up now and again, eats some hotplate corn, and offers the women a washer and dryer, which they refuse. The women bicker, but seem to coexist happily. In a shocking climax of rebellion, Edie denounces her mother, packs her belongings in a trunk, wraps herself in a tattered mink coat, and gets about as far as the front porch before being sucked back into her prison.

With all the crooning, softshoe, and monologues, this story was begging to become a musical. The Northlight cast was perfect, the songs were funny, sad, and bizarre. The first act was set 20 years before the documentary, which was nice to get some backstory, however hypothesized. In that act, the two larger-than-life crazies are infinitely more relatable. So much so that the audience can't help but self-examine their own quirky tendencies that could potentially snowball later in life.

I'm a singer. I love to be onstage. I'm getting to the age where I have to decide, though. Is it a job? Or is it something I do to get attention? And when will I know to stop? When does a smoky torch song evolve into a howling session? And all those nights Marky and I enjoy holing up on the couch to fall asleep to the TV. Have we unwittingly become hermits? Is the purple couch our hotplate? We're not nuts (yet), but we certainly enjoy each other's company more than anyone else's. Sure our conversation is repetitive, and we talk to the cat. We talk to the cat a lot. Okay. Early New Year's Resolutions: 1. Have more people over. 2. Get out of the house. We had a friend over for Thanksgiving, and he washed the dishes. He also cleaned the stove. Resolution #3. Clean the kitchen better. Unless, of course, there's a documentary in it for us. No press is bad press.

These Are The Rejections I Know, I Know

Marky's two, now famous, rejections are at the top of the list. Then there's the person who bought my book, and decided to trade it for a scarf, instead. That's not a lose-lose situation, I know, but I count it as a rejection.

I've sent off countless query letters (for only a short amount of time, mind you--I'm being SUPER antsy and sensitive), and have gotten all rejections. At first I said to myself, "Well, as long as book agents are reading my queries, and it's getting out into the collective consciousness, it's okay if I get rejected. They gave me a chance." I'm here to admit, it's much better thinking a book agent didn't even look at the query, than having one ask for the first five pages and then turn it down. Utter heartbreak. At least I send SASE's in my favorite color, lime green. Getting cheery envelopes in the mail seems to soften the blow of the inevitable rejection letter lurking inside.

As fun as it is wallowing in my own goth girl self-pity, there is an unfortunate bright side to this subject. I've started rejecting things, too. I reject the notion that I should feel guilty for someone else's problem. I reject diving into paranoia and mental instability just because the person talking to me is going that route. I reject my former motto, "I can knit anything as long as it's a square or a rectangle." My new motto is, "I can knit anything!" Or perhaps, "I can do anything!"

Oscar the Grouch

Here's one of my life's contradictions: Salmon is my favorite food, but I get sick with anxiety when I enter the aquarium section of the pet store.

Fish scare the hell out of me. Has everyone heard about the new pedicures where fish nibble your feet? Disgusting. Dis-GUS-ting. While cruising along in a pontoon at Elephant Butte, my family heard a loud THUD. After circling back around to the site of impact, we found a dead fish. Not just any dead fish--a fish with rigor mortis. This fish had been dead for centuries. It stunk to high heaven, and I thought I would die from the yuckiness of the whole thing. And then there was my stepdad's Oscar.

Otherwise known as a Cichlid, the Oscar starts out about the size of a silver dollar. Sometime around my elementary school days, my stepdad bought one of those little octagonal cutesy fishtanks, and filled it with a small community of fish. The two I remember well were an Oscar, and a plecostomus (a crap sucker). We named them Oscar (obviously) and Felix (because the sucker cleaned up after the slovenly Cichlid). We took such good care of the fish that they soon outgrew their surroundings. A larger tank was in order. We upgraded to a 10-gallon tank, and outfitted the pair with some new plants and rocks. About a year went by, and we had to get yet another tank, because the beastly Oscar outgrew his home again. This time, per the suggestion of the pet store guy, we got the 55-gallon tank, and hoped Oscar would stop growing.

Not only was Oscar getting monstrously large, but Felix was getting big, too. Oscar had some serious crap to clean up, and Felix worked day and night. For years. I thought those sucker fish were cute at first, but when he grew to the size of a sweet potato, and I could see the gory detail in his sucker mouth and googly eyes, he went from funny to just plain freaky. Oscar mostly ate fish sticks that resembled Chinese crunchy noodles. He often ate to excess, and after a few too many, he would throw them up. It was funny the first few times, but after seeing his repeated bulimia, it just got gross. The pet store guy spoke up again. He suggested live goldfish for Oscar's diet. I should tell you now that I have a certain respect for Oscars. I think they're totally icky, but I feel that they are one of the most emotionally readable animals out there. When we dumped those poor live goldfish in the tank, he went for it. I was okay when he ate the first one. Then the second. The tough part was watching the third goldfish, only half-eaten, still gasping for water, his little mouth hanging out of Oscar's. I know. Horror story. And it was like a train wreck. I was in high school at this point, and had developed a horrible fear of fish. Oscar was more than hungry. He was a murderer. But so was I.

When Oscar and Felix got the deluxe condo upgrade, my stepdad thought he would do the nice thing and set up the small tank in my bedroom. He bought fish, food, aquarium plants, the whole nine yards. All I had to do was feed them. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I hated those fish. I wouldn't feed them. Their starvation became so advanced that they became cannibals. There were little fish carcasses, skeletons, lying on the pebble floor. And this became a vicious cycle, because I just got more freaked out. And then he'd buy me more fish, because the old ones were disappearing. I couldn't win.

Meanwhile, Oscar got to be so big and strong, that he could splash water out of his tank. I'm not talking about a spritz here and there. I'm saying he would rear back, do this quaky-shaky thing with his tail, and SPLASH! Eight, ten ounces of water, all over the living room floor. If you got too close to his glass barrier, he would turn from a lustrous shade of orange, into a smoky, black and brown, dull pallor. If you didn't relent, he would look you dead in the eye, open his mouth wide, and do what I can only imagine was screaming in fish-ese. You're probably wondering why I egged him on, but I stayed the hell away from him. I know he did the chameleon screaming thing because little kids would come to our house and run right up to the glass. And those little kids are probably scared of fish, now, too.

This fish got to be nine years old by the time I went to college. There were many reasons I was glad to leave for college, and one of the biggies was not worrying every morning that I might be the one to find Oscar floating belly up after his extraordinarily long life. He lived to see 11, if memory serves. Mom called me one day and told me that Oscar was gone. I didn't want details. She told me that my stepdad had a private ceremony for his fish, and I'm glad it was special for them. If he is in the ground somewhere, I know there is a tree nearby that is thankful for all that fertilizer.

A Diction Addiction

Since a friend recommended him, I've been listening to Citizen Cope's album, The Clarence Greenwood Recordings, a shitty title if I may say so.  I get turned off easily by titles, and I thought for some reason this would be a country album.  Hold up: I'm not one of the weenies that say, "I like any music except country," I simply wasn't in a country phase at the moment.  I needed something gritty and true and organic.  And I didn't know this was exactly what I wanted.  

Keenly aware that I am a fool for marketing and my opinion can be swayed on a dime, I tried to avoid reviews, and simply listen to the album.  This will be an uneducated look at the work of Citizen Cope.  I don't know anything about this guy, but I have made up a story in my mind.  Here goes. 

Clarence Greenwood was probably born in a town much like my college town.  Dusty, undereducated, access to crystal meth, three mega Wal-Marts.  His rural poetry depicts savvy street hustlers ("Bullet and a Target"), crazy vagrants defending street art ("Pablo Picasso"), and an emergency car ride to the delivery room ("Son's Gonna Rise").  Between the chaotic themes sit the sweet "Hurricane Waters," and the heartbreaking "Sideways," a perfect unrequited love ballad.  

Upon first listen, I was only drawn to a couple of songs, but I let a couple more in, then a couple more, and suddenly the entire album showed itself to soar along a beautifully crafted arc of emotion.  For a girl who is fanatical about pronunciation, I was initially annoyed by Citizen Cope's rhymes.  Pablo Picasso's "Mr. Officer, if you come to take her;  Then that means one of us gonna end up in a stretcher," is a particularly slanty example, but what female wouldn't love for her man to defend her so fervently?  His consistently mush-mouthed words are what I consider less an artistic expression, and more an honest, unaffected interpretation of his world. 

Beside the words, the music is undeniably groovy.  Each song has it's own sexy, hip-swinging undulation.  The simplicity in each arrangement is what's impressive.  This CD doesn't need to be loud or complicated.  Citizen Cope injects a thin piano riff, hands clapping, or a persistent high hat, and each song becomes infectious.  There's nothing new here.  Acoustic guitar, drums, Hammond organ.  It's the way he puts it all together.  

After getting to know his voice really well (I listened to this album non stop for about four weeks--par for the course with my musical obsessions), I was thrilled to hear him in the preview for the new Robert DeNiro movie, "What Just Happened?".  "Brother Lee" is my favorite song off his new album, Every Waking Moment.  I don't know this album as well, yet, but give me a few more weeks.  

Feco De Gato

For all of you devoted readers, this is a repeat, but it bears repeating, don't you agree?

Kitty Litter Cake

Ingredients:
Chocolate Cake Mix (plus any eggs, oil, and water as directed)

Chocolate Pudding Mix (and milk, of course--you can use pre-made pudding, but homemade is better!)

Package of Shortbread Cookies (Keebler Simply Shortbread is my fave)

15-20 Tootsie Rolls

Blue and green food coloring

Small kitty litter tray, plastic litter box liner, and small pooper scooper to serve. 

Prepare the cake as directed, and cool completely.  Prepare pudding as directed.  Crumble the cake into a large mixing bowl.  Fold in the pudding.  Line the tray and pour in the cake-pudding mixture.  Level the mixture with a spatula (It doesn't have to be perfect). 

Blend shortbread cookies in a food processor, adding a few drops of blue food coloring to make a nice grayish color.  Reserve 2 tablespoons of crumbs in a plastic baggie.  Pour the crumbs all over the cake-pudding.  Add several drops of green and blue food coloring to the baggie of crumbs, until they are pine green.  Sprinkle on top of the gray crumbs. 

Form turds of various sizes and shapes from the Tootsie Rolls.  Microwave unwrapped candies for 10 seconds to speed up the process.  This is where you can show your creativity.  Turd forming cannot be taught.  It takes many years of scooping kitty poop to understand the subtleties of feline waste.  This is what will really sell the cake. 

Serve with the scooper.  Enjoy.  Or, at least, try to enjoy.

What Would Breesus Do?

There comes a time in every woman's life when she must decide which path to take...when someone steals her food from the company fridge. I know, I know. One little pear isn't a big deal. But when that pear was handpicked from the overpriced produce section at Dominick's in the dead heat of a company weight-loss competition? Houston, we have a problem.

For 5 months, I started my day the same. Rise 2 hours before work, eat a nutritious brekkie, bike to work, place a salad, an apple, and a string cheese in the fridge.  I'd power through 3 liters of water, get to lunch hour, eat, and look forward to that stupid apple and string cheese as a snack.  There were 23 of us in this competition, and although items had been stolen from the fridge in the past, we as a team outnumbered the bad guys.  No one was taking the holy diet food, even if it was unmarked.  Until the day I brought the pear.  

The pear was a choice I had made through labor intensive fiber study.  By labor intensive, I mean surfing the net between incoming calls at work.  Becoming more dog-like in my eating habits, I needed to find a way to shake things up.  A pear has more fiber than an apple, and it tastes great with white cheese (I prefer cheddar with my apples).  So, not only did I get a pear, I got a gourmet red pear that had the perfect amount of squoosh when you gave it a gentle squeeze.  I so looked forward to the granular, sweet, juicy treasure I lovingly placed in the crisper.  Brekkie, bike, water, lunch, back to work.  That beautiful baby was waiting for me, I just had to get to 3 o'clock.  

It was time.  I rose from my ergonomically unsound sitting device, removed the wireless telecommunication tool from my ear, and made the commute to the northernmost region of the office: The Lunchroom.  I brushed off any passing salutations.  No time for that.  Nay, I would not make the effort to turn off the television set that was blaring a sports match, even though nary a soul was there to watch.  My sights were set on the towering stainless steel box that housed the pear of my dreams.  I grasped the cold black handle.  With all my might, I pulled.  The gleaming lightbulb shone down on the contents of each glass shelf.  Leftover mu shu.  Bottles of half-used salad dressing.  A lonesome diet coke.  Where was she?  My pear was nowhere to be found.  I closed my eyes, then tried to look again.  The string cheese was still there.  But my lady had gone.  

Only one person would stoop so low.  I will protect his true identity, for there is a possibility he is innocent of... something, maybe.  We'll call him Fitch.  I bounded back through the coat-infested hallway, dashed past the overflowing file cabinets, swung the glass door wide open.  And there he was.  In my department.  With red pear all over his mangy muzzle.  One more glass door to open.  I steeled myself.  Be calm.  Do what you can to avoid a scene.  But confront!  I turned the knob and entered.  

"Hey, that's my pear," I casually accused.

"Oh, oh, this?  Oh, oh, uh, oh, I uh, brought this from home.  *Crunch.  Slurp.*"  The coward.  What could I do?  How do you deal with a liar?  And who in their right mind would believe a dog of such low standards would actually pick a red pear from the fancy fruit section?  He probably didn't even know it was a pear!  He probably thought it was an apple with a weight problem.  I tried to pity him.  But I was angry.  Angrier than I should have been.  I went for a walk.  

I called my pastor/guru/drinking buddy for help.  "I know what Satan would do.  I think I know what Jesus would do.  But what do I do?"  

"Well, do you think he did it because he was hungry?  Maybe you could bring him another apple tomorrow," She offered.

"My plan is to take the Jesus route, with a Satan flare.  I want to start knitting cozies for my fruit.  That way, people will know it's mine."

Supportively, she agreed, "Oh, you could embroider a big 'B' on the cozy!" 

"Well, that's where Satan comes in.  I wouldn't embroider my name.  I would write, 'Fuck off, Fatass' instead."

Hysterical laughter ensues.

"And here's the beauty part.  In my fantasy, he pulls me into the head honcho office, cozy in hand, waving it wildly, accusing me of calling him 'Fatass,' but I will just shrug and tell my bosses that I meant my fat ass, 'I'm in a diet competition, and I want my fat ass to fuck off.  I never imagined someone else would misinterpret my diet joke.  Unless Fitch has something to confess.  Do you Fitch?'"

"Well, I suppose if it's in a really nice cursive," Guru insisted.  More laughter.  

That night, I went home and made the most beautiful pear and apple cozies.  And I didn't embroider anything on them.  And the next day I did a double Jesus.  I brought two apples.  One for me.  One if Fitch needed one.  

And before I put them in the fridge, I licked both of them.  

Bouncing Baby Book Born!

But, it's not really a baby book. In fact, I think the book has a somewhat deceptive title. It's not religious, either. Gosh, I think I spend a lot of time talking about what the book isn't. My book summary starts with, "This isn't a book about my husband's kidney transplant." So what the hell is it?

The Blessing of I Understand is my first attempt at a book. It's a funny, touching, life-affirming memoir chronicling the last two years of my life. Here's the skinny: September '06, my husband and I got married. October '06, he got sick. Really sick. July '07, he got a kidney transplant. October '08, we find ourselves transformed in ways we never thought possible.

Writing the book has been the hardest thing since living the actual story. Some nights I would sit at the computer and get sick remembering how difficult it all was. Now that it's all out on paper, it's almost like the memory can have some rest. The story isn't all doom and gloom, though. There are some very funny, real moments. I'm so lucky to be a partner to a man who makes me laugh through thick and thin.

I've learned a lot about myself in writing The Blessing. I also learned what a PDF file is, how to cut and paste with a Mac, how useful a Bcc can be, and that anyone can independently publish a book. It took me over a year to finish, and I'm ready to start new projects! Beginning Oct. 15, the book will be available at: www.lulu.com/breegordon.

Stay tuned for more blogs. I will make subsequent entries much more colorful and ridiculous.

Breezy

Loud, Fast, and High, or To Poorly Paraphrase Julie Delpy

Couple days ago, mid-afternoon TV time, I walked to the bathroom and heard Marky exclaim from the living room, "Oh, awsome!"   Imagining he was reacting to a text message, I ignored it.  When I returned and grabbed the remote to switch to Jeopardy, he stopped me, "Didn't you hear?  Alice Smith is going to be on Ellen.  Isn't that the girl you like?" 

It took a lot of prodding from my online radio station, but I finally gave in and listened to her debut effort, "For Lovers, Dreamers & Me".  It's my favorite album of last year.  She is a groovy young singer/pianist who uses 100% of her sultry voice.  Moans, groans, howls, growls, the whole nine yards.  I love her.  Everyone who asks me what I am listening to gets this spiel.  I have heard that not all of the songs are original, but her arrangements are really special.  Bassy piano (such as the intro of "Gary Song")  and intricate backing vocals (sometimes gurgling like Aquaman, in "Woodstock") embellish her sound beautifully.  Her timbre shifts from sexy to goofy to downright musically intelligent ("Love Endeavor") from track to track.  Artists like this understandably have a tough time showcasing the full spectrum of their talent in one song.  In college, the rule was "Loud Fast and High" when choosing a piece for a scholarship jury or a judge who wasn't familiar with your repertoire.  I resented that rule, but it worked.   Also, Julie Delpy's character in Before Sunrise (a movie I hate intensely), put it well when she said something like "I hate it when men tell me to smile.  Like me smiling will make them feel better about themselves."  It's the only thing I like about that movie.  I hate it when people tell me to smile.  Oooh... hate it.  But, it works.  I promise I'll eventually get to why I am bringing up that turd of a movie. 

Alice Smith's recent appearance on "Ellen" was her network debut.  She picked a good song, "Dreams".  It isn't fast or high, but it gets pretty damn loud.  After only gazing at a caricature on the cover of her album, I eagerly anticipated the living, breathing chanteuse.  And there she was.  Without her piano.  Her guitarist morosely plucked the otherwise sexy undulating piano part.  For the life of me, I can't think of a good reason for her not to show off the fact that she plays and sings.   Strike two, the sighing backup vocals were absent as well.  At the approach of my network debut, I would hope that my manager would advise me to hire a couple breathy chicks to back me.  I know it's a little specific, but her original sighs turned into Alanis-esque yodels.  Here's the last thing that just ruined the performance for me:  The girl never smiled.  Didn't make any facial expression whatsoever.  Until Ellen came up to greet her afterward.  Then she just lit up like a Christmas tree.  What expression.  I'm not saying she should have smiled through this dark song, but she could have used more body language than a corpse.  Here's why: I'm sure that going to an Alice Smith concert is like riding an emotional sine wave, but when you only have one song to show everyone what you've got, you better show them ALL YOU GOT!  I do have a compliment to share, though.  When she pumped up her volume, she pumped it effortlessly, and to a degree I didn't think was possible.  Damn. That girl has some pipes. 

Okay.  Alice, if you are reading this, I am your fan for life.  I just want everyone else to be, too.  Friends who I have suggested Alice to, I hope you give Alice a try, even though her "Ellen" appearance was incongruent with her album.