The Day The Music Died

These days, everyone's got an Ipod and everyone's listening to them practically 24 hours a day. Many of my students arrive to my class "plugged in," and the first thing they have to do is yank the buds out of their ears and wind up the wires and stash all the equipment. (I have a "no electronic or digital equipment of any kind" rule in room 245, period. Even their calculators can record, store text, and serve as Cheating Devices. It's incredible. But I digress.)

I have an Ipod. I got it by default. My husband had it sent to him free as a promotional gift because he is a Cleveland Cavaliers season ticket holder. It's one of those Ipod Shuffles. I was the only one at the Dept. who didn't have an MP3 player, so I ended up with it. Rick loaded it up with a bunch of MP3's that were on our computers, leftovers from the Napster Frenzy of CD Burning, and I was presented with my Very Own Customized Collection of Music.

Which I almost never listen to.

I also rarely listen to the radio or CD player in my car, put on the stereo or radio in my house when alone, or listen to any music when I'm taking one of my 45-minute baths. Right now, I'm typing this post alone in my home office, and the only sound is the forced-air furnace and the tapping of my keyboard. I could put on a CD, bring up Pandora in a separate browser window, or turn on a radio. I could even stick the earbuds of my Ipod into my ear and listen to my favorite songs. But I won't.

It's odd, isn't it, this lack of music in my life? Sometimes I think about it and try to trace back to where it began. It's relatively recent, I think. I don't know when music stopped being pleasant and soothing and started to simply add to the cacophany of my life--serving as yet one more thing I had to think about.

Radio is the worst. Too many commercials and interruptions. And, no, I'm not going to start paying for radio. It's bad enough I have to pay for television. I'm not in my car long enough to really listen to radio much anyway. But if I actually would hear a song, it would be at the end or in the middle. Or, if I heard a song that I didn't feel like hearing, then I had to flip stations endlessly. It's too annoying. So, I gave up on radio, except for NPR, but when I found myself listening to someone droning on and on about--and I'm not kidding here--Norwegian Folk Metal Music--I realized that I was turning into something that wasn't fit for society. I leave the radio off.

And I don't even keep CDs in my car. Again, it's just become noise to me. A CD by one artist invariably contains one or two that I don't like. And then, I have to skip. Or, I get bored. Or I find myself trying to figure out irksome lyrics. Pretty soon, I'm driving and trying to get a handle on the music stuff.

I'd rather have the quiet. I'm a public school teacher in a building of over 2000 teenagers. My whole day is full of talk and chatter and humanity. But no music. I still wonder at my new aversion to music.

When I was younger, my taste in music was largely informed by my older sister, Patti. She was a child of the sixties and a Beatlemaniac. In addition to the Fab Five, she turned me on to artists like Three Dog Night, Carly Simon, Simon and Garfunkel, James Taylor, Yes, Electric Light Orchestra, and The Moody Blues. I'm forever grateful for that.

Later, I listened to Seals and Crofts, Cat Stevens, and anything Elton John put out. I went through a brief KISS period (didn't everyone, now really!) and bought KISS Alive! on vinyl and wanted "to rock and roll all night and party every day." But I got over that and moved on to disco like everyone else and stopped following actual artists and sold out and just went to clubs and danced to horrid music that had an incredible backbeat.

But then came the Eighties, and that's the music that I really still love. Or loved? Or choose to listen to when I think of music. My Ipod has Duran Duran on it. And "Voices Carry" by Aimee Mann, then with Til Tuesday, and Flock of Seagulls and Thompson Twins and Bowie and Dire Straits and Fleetwood Mac (so 80s--they ruled the 80s) and Frankie Goes to Hollywood and George Michael (before all of that) and Rod Stewart and Talking Heads (come on, "Once in a Lifetime!?" listen to it!) and Wang Chung and The Cars.

Now? Hell, there's like, no one now. Music, quite frankly, stinks now. I hate most of it. Rap? Please. That's not music. It's nagging. If I want to hear someone yammer at me, I'll call my mother up and finally tell her some of the stuff I used to do in college. Awhile back, I liked Train. But their latest song is crappy. I liked Anna Nalick. But she only put out one album; I played it to death and her career is, apparently, dead. Not too long ago, Gina put up a video of a good song by a band, Aqualung. I liked it, so I had Rick download, er, get me some more songs by them. But I've only listened to them a couple of times and I don't like all of them. That's how it is with me and music. I get disappointed and I give up.

But, my point--and I believe I did have one and I am getting back to it--is this: at some point, the music left my life. I find it disconcerting and aggravating to listen to any kind of music. I am bewildered by the number of my peers for whom music is still a large part of their lives. I wonder if silence is anathema to them, or if they do balance the music with quiet. I realize I am in the minority; it is I who is the oddity.

And it wasn't always this way.

Brian Williams' Worrisome Career Move

In an absolutely startling career move--whether it's upward or downward remains to be seen--The King of Cravats, The Parliamentarian of Ties, that Nobleman of Neckwear, my news anchor crush Brian Williams will be hosting Saturday Night Live tomorrow night.

This brings to light several concerns.

First and foremost is how on Earth will I stay awake? I haven't been able to stay awake, even on Saturdays in the summertime, past 11:30 pm since I was about 30. Don't suggest coffee or Red Bull (how the heck do people drink that stuff? And is it carbonated? Because if it is, I automatically cannot drink it. Ever since going on my migraine medicine, I can't drink anything carbonated. Except champagne. I've managed to find a way to drink that! But I digress.) because caffeine late at night doesn't really keep me awake, it just makes me pee. A lot. But now you're tragically overinformed. (So what else is new at the Dept.?)

Secondly, if he wears a tie, or several ties (not all at the same time, but it is a comedy show...), is it incumbent upon me to do a Report? I would guess not since the title of the Tie Report is actually "The NBC Evening News' Brian Williams Tie Report", although I suppose I could do a special report. But, that sounds way worky for me, and I am nothing if not slothful by nature.

Thirdly, what if seeing Brian Williams do comedy makes me lose respect for him as a serious journalist? I have to admit, there are times when he is on location and wearing his hideous, ill-fitting shirts that my admiration fades just a wee bit. And, on occasion, when the camera pans down and shows that seriously ill-advised belt that he wears with the ostentatious silver accoutrements, I find myself cringing and my thoughts straying toward one tall, silver-haired, bold-cravat-wearing David Gregory (who fires some really snarky queries from his White House press room seat and gets called "Gregory" by The Angel of Death who actually looks like he wants to weep rather than call on our Hero). Imagine if the SNL cast makes Brian Williams don a toga or a chicken suit or some such undignified garb! (Oh my god! Could you imagine Brian Williams in short pants and a beanie with a helicopter propeller atop it? And carrying an all-day lolly?) Quelle horreur!

Finally--and this is really the big worry--what if he sucks? Really, now, what if he stands there and just lays a big, fat old egg? How will he--or more importantly, I--recover from that? Will I just lie in my bed, under my comforter, and softly whimper? Will I become bitter and blame it on the lousy writing of the inferior Millennium SNL team? Will I soldier on till the end, hoping it gets better or just turn it off at the musical guest?

Did Peter Jennings ever do SNL? Did Tom Brokaw? I know Walter Cronkite never did. If Brian Williams takes the comedy world by storm, we might see him hosting the Oscars. Then, winning one! And after that...?

If There's A Law Against This, Then I Am Way Overdue For An Orange Jumpsuit Fitting

There's a tired old bit of conventional wisdom about profanity being the crutch of people with lousy vocabularies and, quite frankly, I find that to be a load of crap. My command of the English language is something about which I am both inordinately vain and proud, yet I find that, in certain situations, nothing gets it done like good, old-fashioned cussing. Let's face it, swearing feels good. It releases pent-up frustrations, channels anger in a nonviolent direction, and likely rids your body of free radicals and aging phototoxins or some such other junk. It probably saves me approximately eleventy billion dollars annually on expensive spa treatments, cosmetic surgery, and Oil of Olay In A Drum. All that just from saying The F-Word when the button to open the microwave jams. Again.

Imagine my dismay, then, when this news item came to my attention recently:

WOMAN FACES JAIL TIME FOR SWEARING AT TOILET
A West Scranton woman could face up to 90 days in jail and a fine of up to $300 for allegedly shouting profanities at an overflowing toilet while inside her Luzerne Street home. Dawn Herb, whose potty mouth caught the attention of an off-duty police officer, was charged with disorderly conduct recently, prompting her to fire off a letter to the editor and vow to fight the charge.

Boy oh boy, is this troublesome. There is a sheriff's deputy that lives behind me, catty-corner actually, and when I deliver a blistering philippic to my electric can opener on a semi-weekly basis--the kind that inevitably begins with, "Why, you son-of-a-bitch!" at the top of my voice, it is entirely possible that he can hear me. Actually, it is entirely possible that most of the neighborhood can hear me. I hate this damned can opener. It's one of those "space saver" models that mounts under the cupboard above. I like that part of it. But, for some reason, it only works about a third of the time. The rest of the time it lets go of the can, or it refuses to bite down all the way, forcing me to send the can around and around and around about forty-seven times to get the fricking thing open, or it completely comes apart and I'm left with the entire opener apparatus stuck to the can which is still unopened. Then, the real yelling starts. Please, do not ask me why I have not purchased a new can opener. I really do not know. What am I waiting for? you may ask. Perhaps I am waiting for Rick to rescue me by coming home one day with a new can opener of his own accord. Perhaps my natural stubbornness and innate frugality are merely winning this war. After all, as often as I use this can opener, is it worth it to buy a new one? And let me stave off any queries regarding the Usage Of A Manual Apparatus. None of those in the house are operational, either. I know! It's like the Dept. is the place where can openers go to Exact Their Revenge! Sigh. But I digress.

And now, thanks to poor Dawn Herb of West Scranton, I have to worry about starting a shocking career as a criminal, led down the path of wrongdoing by a kitchen appliance. Her citation accuses her of "using obscene language or gestures with intent to cause public inconvenience, annoyance or alarm or recklessly (creating) a risk". This sounds like a lot of b.s. to me. And it does to Ms. Herb as well. “There was no intent to do anything,” Ms. Herb said. “I just feel so violated and irritated ... I don’t even have a criminal record.”

What recourse do habitual users of the more blasphemous invective have, now that we have been threatened with police action? Must we change our ways? Are we to cower in our homes, shut our windows, lower our voices, gargle with cologne to sweeten our jeremiads and lighten our tirades? No, says Mary Catherine Roper, an attorney with the American Civil Liberties Union based in Philadelphia. “It cannot be the basis for a citation. You can’t prosecute somebody for swearing at a cop or a toilet,” she said. “We bring one of these cases a year and sue some police departments because they do not remember that they are not the language police.”

Hear, hear! If there must be Language Police, then let them do the Real Work Of The Language That Must Be Done, such as stamping out "irregardless" or the improper use of apostrophes to make common nouns plural or the constant misuse of "it's" as a possessive. Good God, there's a helluva lot more for them to do than pick on a few of us cussers!

Epiphany

Some things just sort of creep up on you. You know how it is: you look at the calendar and suddenly, it's almost Christmas. Or you realize you forgot about your nephew's birthday. Worse, you pull out those navy pants now that it's fall and the waistband is a leetle bit tight. Where did those pounds come from? You didn't think you ate quite that many Lay's Classic potato chips right from the bag, but it looks like you did. This morning, a new grey hair is glinting at you from your bangs. And the habit that your husband has of leaving the room and leaving the remote for the TV in his chair across the room is now grounds for divorce. It's this kind of stuff that can lurk in the dusky margins of your life quite innocuously for oh, so very long, until one day, any one of them can be The One Thing that it takes to make you stop and Re-evaluate Your Life.

Readers, I've had That Moment. And I am going to share it with you. It was when I realized that Google had replaced my mother.

Oh, I can hear your anguished cries. Your ragged gasps. Your wailing and gnashing of teeth.

All that crap.

Er, lamentation.

Imagine my own dismay. But we all know that the first step on the Road to Recovery is knowing that you have a problem, and once I identified the problem, I knew I was on the way to solving it.

For years now, my mother has been crabbing at me about how I never call her and that she always has to be the one to call if we are ever going to talk at all. This is true. I won't deny that. My aversion to the telephone is well-known. I am not a Social Telephone Talker. To me, a telephone is a Necessary Communication Device, such as: "Hello? Yes, this is Nance. I will be there to meet you at 11:00 A.M. What should I wear, heels or flats? Thank you. Goodbye."

But my mother, who loves to chat on the telephone, cares not for my excuse. "I am your mother," she reminds me. "Don't you think I'd like to hear from you?"

Honestly, my reply in my head is, "Not really. Jared is away at college, and Hell be damned sure he doesn't really want to hear a whole lot from me. Sam is at the junior college and then goes to work and has his cell phone and he never ever checks in, even under penalty of death or vacuuming, so he doesn't want to hear from me. So, no, Mom. I can't imagine why you'd want to hear from me." But, do I say that aloud? Oh, heavens no. She's 78 and she can't really take it, I don't think. (Although...she is pretty tough, and she did raise me, after all. But, I'm more like my father was. But I digress.)

What I really say is, "Oh, Mom, I'm sorry. You know how I hate the phone. It's easier if you just call me. It's not like I'll hang up on you for heaven's sake."

And then she aims really low and pushes the classic Guilt Button: "You used to call me a lot more often."

And I realize that this is true. It really is. I used to call her tons more often. Tons. I'd be doing my crossword puzzle and call her and say, "Hey, Mom! What was the name of the guy who...?" and she'd know it if it was, say, from the 1920s through the 1960s, or in American history at all. Or, I'd call her from the lounge at school if we were trying like crazy to think of the name of some actor who was in an old movie that we were talking about or the words to an old song from the forties. Or let's say I was teaching an American novel that had a reference to an old product, like Ipana in it. I'd call her up and say, "Mom, what in the heck is I-P-A-N-A and how do you pronounce it, even?" And she'd get all excited and tell some bigass story about it from her childhood and even sing a jingle from the radio for it.

Sigh.

Not anymore.

Now...I have Google.

Let's face it: Google has made my mother obsolete. Who needs Patsy June when I have Google? It's faster and it's more complete. AND--I ask Google one question and get one answer. I don't have to also hear about grandchildren, my brother and sisters, my uncles and aunts, or any aches and pains. It's strictly business and one-way. Google is less involved.

Google replaced my mother.

Now that I've identified my problem, I think I've actually embraced it. I'm not even sure it's a problem anymore. Thanks for all your help! You guys are the best!

Politics: No Joke...Except This One

Quickie post, and it's material stolen from Defective Yeti. This has to be the best Knock Knock joke around right now. It is also, however, the saddest and most poignant. I'll be back later with a real post. Here goes.

Knock knock
Who's there?
George W. Bush
Oh, god. Still?
Yes, for 14 more months
F_*k.

Sigh.

Oh, Canada! And Some Other Stuff While I'm At It

I'm going to start with my biggest idea first and then it will likely go downhill from there. (How many other blogs are kind enough to provide such an endearing caveat, now answer me that, will you?)

This past weekend, Rick and I sneaked back up to Canada--Our Neighbour To The North--for a little trip. (This sparked a rather spirited and Seinfeldian discussion as to the proper terminology for said occurrence. What, really, should we have called it? We determined that "vacation" was a gross misnomer: vacations connote a longer stay than just our Friday-Saturday-home on Sunday-trip. A proper "vacation" must be at least one week, we decided. "Holiday" sounds too affected and British, and really implies something festive and event-oriented; we were not doing much of anything of the sort and are absolutely not British and while I am often affected, strove not to be while in Canada. This time. "Getaway" is certainly useful and very multipurpose, but tends to conjure up visions of spontaneous air travel and the leaving behind of distasteful and chaotic situations that one can no longer tolerate but must return to nonetheless. While this can often describe my career at The Rock, it is really not entirely truthful. We finally settled on "jaunt", which I am particularly happy about since it calls up images of car travel and energetic-ness and small go-look-ats within the short trip itself which is exactly what we did. But, as usual, I digress. Wow. A lot.)

Anyway. While we were sitting in a longish line at the Peace Bridge, waiting to cross into Canada, a Big Idea came to me. I was incredibly bored sitting there, as was everyone else, I am certain. What a missed opportunity, I thought. Here we all are, sitting in lines waiting to cross into an entirely different country, and all we are doing is waiting. (By the way, there were 15 lanes going into Canada. Only 8 were open. Why? I have noticed this phenomenon in banks, grocery stores, and other establishments. Why even build all those checkouts/lanes if they are never going to be utilized? If you are going to only have, say 11 lanes open, then just build 11. But I digress.)

So, back to us all waiting. I turn to Rick and say, "You know, this is a huge waste of time and resources. Why doesn't Canada take this amazing opportunity to entertain incoming tourists? Or educate us? There could be a huge slide show featuring famous Canadians! There could be wandering singers, or a figure dressed up like a moose and a Mountie. They could have a curling demonstration. There are tons and tons of Canada-intensive things that could be going on right at this moment, but instead, we are sitting here worrying about what they might ask us at the border and how long they will take. Remember at Sea World how they used to have a barbershop quartet that entertained the people in line who were waiting for the show? It made waiting less tedious. Canada should do that. But no mime. Never a mime." (There's never a reason for mimes. Never.)

And this could be going on for the U.S. side as well. I'm not just picking on Canadians. I would never do that. I am a fan of Canada. And Canadians. It's well-documented. But anyway, what do you think? I think the idea has merit, I really do.

Next up: my blog. I have put up a poll for all of you to vote on my latest attempt to alleviate my boredom by changing the color scheme on my blog. Thanks to the 7 of you who have exercised your democratic voices. (Seven, really? Can you not humor me just a little bit? Can you not...oh, good heavens. How pathetic am I, really?) Please feel welcome to offer any color scheme ideas in comments. Offer any topic ideas in comments. (Offer me menu planning in comments, but only if you're going to come here and shop for the groceries, too.) Seriously, I wish I weren't so persnickety about color and appearance; I'd just whomp up the basic template and be done with it. Why am I such a frickin' project? (Rick asks me this every day. He mutters it, though, and is astounded that I hear it.)

Related topic: The Tie Report. I do this mainly for me (and for Brian, but you know...it's almost as if he doesn't even read it!) and will continue to, but I wonder if any of you Fairly Newcomers even are aware that it exists. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, please scroll down my sidebar to read my nightly report on the tie being worn by Brian Williams of the NBC Nightly News. If you're thinking, "What? Why on earth would I want to read something as dull as that?", then clearly you need to read it.

Oh, and can I just be a homer for a moment? HOW ABOUT THOSE INDIANS?!

Rick and I stayed at a small country inn while in Canada; our room was charming and lovely, but it had no television. We went down to "the lounge" (that's Canadian for "living room") and watched the baseball game with other guests from Connecticut, Detroit, and Canada, all of whom were Indians fans. We chatted and cheered and had smart, lovely conversation. I was in heaven. As a matter of fact, I was in heaven pretty much the entire weekend: excellent wine, good food, delightful innkeeper, intelligent and pleasant company in the inn's breakfast room, and no rain. And I've finally gotten smart: I'm not telling anyone where we stay. Too many people know and it's nigh unto impossible to get a room in the summertime. Don't ask me! I mean it, now!

Last item: While shopping in Canada, I passed several times a store selling not only the hideous Crocs, but the little doodads that stick on them. Every time I passed the place, I said energetically, to no one in particular, "Stop selling Crocs!" It was my personal protest. I feel good about that.

And all this other stuff, too.

Yawn.

Let me warn you now--the only reason I'm posting is because it's been about five days and it's time. I usually post about every five days, and I don't want to lose readers by not following through on the informal contract I've established here at the Dept.

But I've really got nothing to say. I'm at that stage right now where I'm that ten-year-old brat who's standing at the front door on June 15th, bathed in glorious sunshine while her mother is inside doing laundry, feeding the baby with one hand and unloading the dishwasher with the other, and I'm pushing my forehead through the screen whining, "but I'm bored!"

It's terrible. I have a really low Boredom Threshhold. I start handing back student papers in class, and I stop and make my aide do it because I get massively bored. I hate the whole tedium of it: look at the name, walk to the kid, hand the paper to the kid (sometimes waiting for the kid to realize that I'm standing right there in front of her with her paper in front of her), turn around, repeat ad nauseum. And the grading! Right now, I'm grading the Act II test of the Arthur Miller play The Crucible. There are two essay questions. Imagine reading the same responses 95 times. That's what I'm doing. I want to stab my own eyeballs out. I mean, I realize that it's necessary. And some of the responses are well-written enough that they are not a punishment to read. But it's not like I'm reading for pleasure here. I'm reading the same stuff over and over again. I have to. They have to include certain things in their responses. It's what I'm measuring. It's that time of year, you know?

And I'm continually bored with dinner. What does everyone feel like eating? What do I feel like making? Or, where do we feel like going? Blech. Who cares anymore? Do you know what I had last night for dinner, left alone to my own devices? Here it is, in order: a half-pint of Haagen Dazs Chocolate Peanut-butter ice cream, a handful of Lay's potato chips, a half sandwich of cold meatloaf. Oh, and later, for a snack, a half of a bagel with a slice of Swiss cheese. Does this sound like the meal of an A.D.D. Refrigerator/Pantry Grazer or what? It's pathetic and sad. And it's all because I am intensely bored.

I'm already bored with The! New! Fall! Television! Lineup! . I wanted to watch "Journeyman" because it sounded like it would be very similar to a book I loved, The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. Instead, it got bogged down with a dumb secondary plotline and a completely unnecessary character and bored me senseless. That happened to me with "Heroes" last year. I started watching it, but soon realized that they were going to keep introducing character after character after character in a mindless and ceaseless parade for no apparent reason. I got hugely bored. (I surmise that they did, indeed, save the cheerleader, but I find that I don't care if they saved the world.) I wanted to really like "Chuck", but it got "dumb" and I got bored with all the double-agent crap in the second (third?) episode, and the characters got so cartoonish that I was actually yawning I was so bored. Scratch that one. I was charmed at first by "Pushing Daisies," but the nonstop narration started getting so invasively monotonous and boring that I kept noticing something annoying: for a guy whose second touch could kill the girl he's so crazy for, he sure gets damned close to her. Damned close. I just found that bothersome. I started obsessing over the fact that they didn't seem worried over that at all, and they stood really, really close to each other. A lot. To me, that's a problem.

But I digress.

My original point is, I am bored right now with stuff. Like the overall color scheme of my blog. But, I am not one to embrace change, nor risk alienating my readers. Plus, the blue is symbolic of my politics. Yet, I feel like I need a bit of a Fashion Makeover at the Dept. What do you think? Should I go for a new palette? What do you suggest?

Sigh. So many things to consider, yet I really don't feel like it. I'm suffering from Generalized Malaise. But, who isn't? Perhaps a change of scenery will do me good, both in cyberspace and the real world. I'm off for a bit of a getaway this weekend. When I come back, I'll try out your Blog Style Suggestions. In the meantime, I've given you plenty to Brainstorm about.

All The News That's Weird To Print: Cleaning Favorites, Green Glittery Bones, And Second-Story Mushrooms

Sometimes I read the newspaper and I swear that I've entered another dimension, one where the time-space continuum is warped and skewed and all life is madness and real people don't exist. And I'm not reading the Politics section about Republicans or an interview with The Angel of Death about his Surge Strategy or anything, either. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)

Usually, it's the Inside & Out section of The Plain Dealer, the cleverly titled segment all about gardening and decorating. It contains articles full of helpful hints and stories about things that the average homeowner/gardener reads and scoffs at with varying degrees of intensity. "Oh, certainly I will rub a small amount of linseed oil into the wooden handles of all my tools such as trowels, shovels, hoes, and rakes to prevent them from cracking and drying out!" I say as I read the feature article titled Chores Galore! "I don't even moisturize my flaky legs after every shower." Soon, I am moved by how Readers' Solutions for Cleaning Get Heloise's Seal of Approval. It seems that I missed my chance to send in my own favorite family recipe for cleaning solutions with other NE Ohioans awhile back. Alarmingly, this article took up nearly an entire page and people waxed not only nostalgic but downright poetic about their favorite concoctions for cleaning windows, floors, mirrors, and you-name-it. I nearly became ill. One woman actually wrote of her Aunt Helen's recipe for glass cleaner: "as I touched it lovingly, my heart was flooded with fond memories of her. She loved to clean. She would fill an empty bottle with this concoction and away she went." Good God. Of all the things for which one can be remembered, to have it be cleaning...well...yikes. Allow me to say this: my recipe for a cleaning solution is very simple. If at all possible, hire someone.

But trust the truly insane to come from La Diva Domestique, Martha Stewart. The most bizarre sentences I have ever read in print, bar none, have to be the ones in her column Eerie Decorations for Halloween Fun. I almost had no emotion in my personal database of feelings with which to react to them. Here they are:

(^)A giant glass cheese dome, something I have had in my kitchen for many years, formed the perfect display case for green-glittered plastic skulls and bones when set atop a very large cake stand.

And this caption under a photo of the aforementioned objets d'arts:

(^)Glittered plastic skeletal parts create a dramatic and unexpectedly artful ambience when set off by an oversized glass cheese dome.

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!?!?

O-kay.

You know, it's enough to put me off my paper.

Yet, I soldiered on, unwisely, it turned out. Starting on a column innocuously headed HOME MAINTENANCE, I was intrigued by the headline Remove the Source of Moisture if Mushroom Growing in a Home. This didn't sound too goofy to me; I live in a neighborhood of really old homes, some with dirt floor basements, and mushrooms sprout up in them once in a while. No biggie. Oh, dear reader...! First paragraph: I received an email from a reader recently who found a mushroom growing on a second-floor hardwood floor and asked if this was cause for alarm, and also asked for suggestions on how to handle it.

Holy crap! Is this "cause for alarm?" Ummm...is your second floor a mushroom farm? No? Then hell, yes, it's cause for alarm!

In the meantime, though, since it is October, do you have a slightly oversized cheese dome and some green glitter? Then I have a suggestion....

Find Some Bunny To Love

Not long ago, I was forced by my conscience to bring you these stories of man's inhumanity to our bovine brethren. Now comes news of callous disregard for yet another creature of the animal kingdom which holds a soft, warm spot in the warrens of my heart. I am, of course, speaking of...the bunny. To be certain you are in the proper frame of mind to continue reading this incredible tail...er, tale of shocking human criminal behavior, here is a picture of the kind of animal about which I am speaking:
Keep that in mind. I mean it, now. Here we go.

People have been seen dumping domestic rabbits all along the South Shore area of Long Island, New York in recent months. One call earlier this month reported a man in a white sedan leaving 20 rabbits at the Massapequa train station before driving away. "It sounds like someone is raising rabbits and trying to get out of the business," said Gerry McBride, who handles criminal complaints for the Nassau Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

This bunny-dumping is a practice that invariably leads to the deaths of said rabbits, who are tragically unequipped to live in the wild. They are often the victims of raccoon attacks, parasitic disease, or starvation. Luckily for some of these bunnies, the Long Island Rabbit Rescue Group is already on it, but they can only do so much. Few of these rescued rabbits survive because so many that are rescued are so young, and infested with parasites, fleas, and maggots. "It takes us six to eight months to [get someone to] adopt them," she said. "They're breeding and dying constantly."

Comments on this story at the Newsday website have been damning. Mary D of West Islip laments, "These animals are so defenseless. How can people be so uncaring?" Susan from Flushing is a bit more abrupt: "Anyone who abuses animals is a scumbag." Greta of AOL, who is a member of the Long Island Rabbit Rescue Group offers this: "bunnies can be litter trained, are incredibly social (more like a dog that uses a litter box...), and sweet, wonderful animals. 99% of the time, "negative behaviors" have more to do with the owner's improper care than the bunny being a "bad bunny". How true, Greta! How true! And if you don't believe Greta (and I!), just look at this picture:

How can you not believe that this bunny is sweet and wonderful and incredibly social? Or prayerful? This bunny is begging you not to dump it in Massapequa Park!

Finally, I leave you with this wonderful short film of the most engaging bunny of all time. Watch it and love it. And then, do your part to love bunnies. All bunnies. Forever.

all bunny pix courtesy of http://.cuteoverload.com/

Politics: The George Costanza Principle, Men Who Can't Manage Their Testosterone (With A Side Of History), A Favorite Quote, And My Two Favorite Dems

What a very long time it has been since I waxed political! One caveat before you peruse this post: it has also been a very long time since I had a decent session in the ol' rack monster. I'm a wee bit cranky, but you know what they say about politics and bedfellows anyway.

Oh, and by "session," I just mean "sleep." Sigh. What were you thinking!?

(=) Here's the thing about The Surge, The Petraeus Report, The Iraq Study Group, The War In General (No Pun Intended). Basically, we keep doing stuff that The Angel of Death wants to do and it has been sucking. I say we apply the George Costanza Principle as it happened in Seinfeld show #86, season 5 (1992-1993). In this episode, George realizes that in his whole life, nothing he has ever done has ever worked out for him. So, in a stunning display of daring and boldness, he decides to do the opposite of everything his instincts tell him to do. And an incredible series of successes follows: he meets a beautiful woman, he lands a job with the Yankees, and he gets a great apartment. So, here's the new Iraq Strategy: whatever W says to do, the commanders on the ground, the State Department, hell--everyone--should do the opposite. That should get this thing wrapped up by Christmas. Of this year.

(=) Next. I keep meeting up with men who want to talk politics with me and they invariably bring up The Hillary Issue. Nine times out of ten, they say, "Well, I just don't think that she can be/make a good president." Yet, when I press them for concrete reasons, they can't really offer anything other than this: "Well, she's so polarizing." Or, "Well, she can't win." Or, "I just don't like her." Which all boil down to this: "I can't set aside my testosterone and vote for a woman because, well...I just can't." Sigh. (Sometimes, I get really, really nasty and go in for the kill with Caucasian guys and ask them about Barack Obama to see if they will find a way to pillow the race issue. But not always because they can futz around about "experience.") Anyway, back to this one oldtimer I'm thinking of regarding Hillary. The real clincher was this: he says to me, "Ideally, I'd love to see this country really get back on track and get a really good stand-up CHRISTIAN in the White House!" Holy Crap. I said, "That's the kind of bullshit that got us into this mess in the first place." He said, "No a real one this time." Oh. My.
In the final analysis, I just keep telling everyone that it's way too early. Way. Too. Early. But for anyone who is intelligent, and anyone who doesn't mind reading something wonderful and historic and very short germane to the subject of a woman in the White House, you might really enjoy this. It's incredible how history continues to instruct those of us who are thoughtful enough to listen.

(=) This has to be one of my favorite quotes recently regarding The Angel of Death. Everyone knows that average Americans' attention spans are pathetic anyway; our interest in his war is even more limited since we know that we can't have any impact on it one way or another:
"You have an unpopular President going onto prime time television, interrupting Americans' TV programs, to remind them of why they don't like him."-- A "frustrated Capitol Hill Republican strategist with ties to the G.O.P. leadership," quoted by Time magazine, on President Bush's recent address on Iraq.

(=) Finally, I just have to say that two of my favorite Democrats are doing nicely. Al Gore, fresh from his Oscar win, just picked up an Emmy! And my heart of hearts, Bill Clinton, looks very fit and well and is now on a combination book tour/campaign trail. You know how I worry. Sigh. Those were the days, weren't they? Bill...and Al.... Time to check my "Days Left In Office Countdown" again. Because it WILL END.

IT WILL BE OVER.

Ugly AND Dangerous--What More Proof Do You Need?

This is a full-out Fashion Alert! No, I'm not talking about my latest purchase, the adorable red tartan plaid heels I wore to school today with a black pencil skirt, black flirty short-sleeved blouse and wide red belt. Look at how cute these are, and I got them on sale with Jared's discount:



But I digress.

I'm talking about the dangerous, injurious Crocs.


Have you heard of this? Not only are these rubbery miscarriages of fashion absolutely heinous to the eye, but they are now the cause of WORLDWIDE ESCALATOR CASUALTIES. No! I am not kidding. This is fact. There are countless reputable news outlets reporting this phenomenon. Why, as recently as yesterday (18 Sept. 2007), The Chicago Sun-Times online reported that "According to reports from as far away as Singapore and Japan, entrapments occur because of two of the shoes' selling points: their flexibility and grip. Some report the shoes get caught in the ''teeth'' at the bottom or top of the escalator, or in the crack between the steps and the side of the escalator."


One can only imagine the devastating and gory results.


Want to know more? Then do what alert and concerned mom and researcher Jodi McDermott of Vienna, Virginia did when her four-year-old son Rory got his Croc-encased foot stuck in a mall escalator last month! After managing to yank him free and rejoicing that he escaped with almost getting a toenail ripped off, she "came home and typed in 'Croc' and 'escalator,' and all these stories came up,'' she related, the horror still fresh in her voice. And no wonder! Undoubtedly, she was the Croc-Purchaser in the first place. Oh, the inhumanity!


As if the whole thing doesn't have the insidious undercurrent of a Stephen King novel about it already, the plot thickens. Croc officials, when reached for comment, claim that they are already working closely with the Elevator/Escalator Safety Foundation on a campaign to raise public awareness through education about this issue. But spokesperson for EESF, executive director Barbara Allen says that's just not true. Allen said that after an initial contact way back in 2006, no one from Crocs has contacted her since, nor returned subsequent calls made by her office. It's a case of see ya later, alligator.


Those Crocs. I always knew they were just plain no good. And now, there is proof.

Random Male Musings: Seers And Squash

Jared is home from college for the first time since leaving almost a month ago. Today, we took a nice drive in search of some fresh country vegetables, orchard-crisp apples, and a heavenly pecan pie from a pie shop not too far away. As a bonus, the ride provided the following nuggets from Rick and a local farmer.


This as we drove past one of the several fortune teller/card reader/medium residences in our area (Why we have so many, I have absolutely no idea. Undoubtedly, they know.):

Nance: Well, at least that fortune teller's house is well-kept, unlike the one over on the west side.
Rick: You think this one already knows we're not stopping by?



And then, as we were waiting in line to pay for our purchases at a farm stand....


We were getting a dozen ears of sweet corn, and I noticed some very nice butternut squash. It was only a dollar per squash, regardless of size. I grabbed a lovely chubby one and held it in my arms and, together with Rick, stood in line. The farmer, clad in Carhartt overalls and cap, counted out our ears of corn and said, "That'll be $4.85." Rick said, "And this squash, too." The farmer looked at me, smiled, and said, "Then 5.85!" As Rick counted out the cash, the man looked to me, still smiling, and said, "You look good with that squash."


I think I just smiled back.


Last Year on Dept of Nance: Funny?

Why Daniel Day-Lewis And Ohio Are Really Irritating Me

This morning I got an email that irritated me on two levels: one, the fact that I live in Ohio and two, the fact that a certain famous person steadfastly refuses to do what I want. At present, I have no control over either of these things, so I guess you could say then that the email actually frosted my cupcakes on three levels. Damn. Now I'm really pissed.

Let me explain.

My oft-AWOL friend Carrie surfaced in order to casually mention that she worked the Telluride Film Festival over Labor Day, where she shook the hand of:

Daniel Day-Lewis. Personal obsession de Nance circa 1992-present. Ever since "The Last of the Mohicans" hit the cinemas and my mother called me to tell me to go see it just because the actor who played Hawkeye was "my type." I have stuck by this man throughout the past 15 years, despite his innumerable fashion disasters, all the while hoping that he would someday come back to me. And it has been work, people. Witness:


I think I've more than made my point. As you can see by the most recent pic provided by Carrie, he has not even attempted to improve. It's like he doesn't care. It's like he doesn't even know I exist! Daniel Day-Lewis is the single most compelling argument out there for the revival of the old studio system back in the Golden Age of the big movie moguls. Back then, places like Paramount and MGM owned their stars and those people never dared appear out in public unless they were glammed up and perfectly coiffed. It was in their contract!

Also, I blame The Missus. Rebecca Miller, a filmmaker herself (daughter of the late American legend playwright Arthur Miller and who used to be an actress also) is apparently all caught up in her "art" and doesn't care what her husband looks like. Hell, judging by the photo up there, and others I've seen, she doesn't care much what she looks like, either. These two are letting a major opportunity go by to be a real filmmaking tour de force as a couple: articulate, talented, and attractive, both behind the camera and in front of it. They could be the darlings of Hollywood instead of Runners-Up on Blackwell's list and mentioned on TMZ.com and E!.

Heavy sigh.Come find me, Daniel. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far. Come find me.

All of which leads me to my other source of irritation, which is living in Ohio. Where I never see anyone famous, ever. Let's face it. It's Ohio. Oh. Boy. What do we have here to draw the famous and celebrated? Oh, yes, we do have the number one amusement park in the world, voted as such for ten years in a row. I haven't been there in 22 years, and it's 45 minutes away from me. But we have the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame...AND MUSEUM! For which the inductees receive their awards and hold their concerts...in New York City! Alas. Even our little presidential candidate isn't taken seriously here. I think you are getting my drift.

Here is a list of the famous people I have met. And by "met" I mean "have actually spoken to personally, not seen in a lecture or concert or sporting event or across a room and hollered at." Get ready. I do hope you are sitting down.
1. Otto Graham
2. Toni Morrison
3. There Is No Number Three. That's it. My list is over. I am an embarrassment.

Other bloggers have met wildly famous people. Ortizzle met a king and Paul McCartney. I have to give you hints to help you with the identities of the two that I met. (Hint: the first one is a former Cleveland Brown football player; the second, a Nobel Prize-winning author.) And now my friend in Colorado has had the luck to shake the hand of and probably chitchat with our shared obsession, Daniel Day-Lewis. At least he still looks like crap.

But the weather here sucks real bad.

Vintage Nance--Things That Make Me Giggle

News From The Fashion Fitting Room Front: Bluejean Bulletin

Every woman knows of the Top Three Fashion Terrors To Shop For. For those who are Not Of A Certain Age or who are simply so incredibly addicted to shopping that you are braindead, they are, in order:

1. bathing suit

2. bra

3. bluejeans

This weekend, Saturday to be exact, I went in pursuit of #3.

I probably should have gone in pursuit of #2 instead since I have been wearing the same one, unhappily I might add, for the past few years. Don't judge me! Do you know what it's like to look down into my bra each and every single day and see something eerily reminiscent of two morose teabags lying against the sides of their mugs, fearfully awaiting the boiling water? Ever since losing so much weight so rapidly, I have no idea what size I might be anymore, and this bra is the only one I own that is even remotely close to fitting me. And I cut the onerous tag out of it eons ago. Oh, and don't even suggest a professional fitting. I've seen those old ladies on tv and it just creeps me right out of my skin. The stuff they say is enough to make me tear up.

But I digress. I think I was talking about shopping for bluejeans.

Okay, then.

So.

I hit Express first because when it comes to pants, that is the store that never fails me. I am a straight-up, don't-even-have-to-try-it-on size 2 at Express. Until it comes to jeans, apparently. Now, it is not enough to just have "X2" jeans at Express. They have to have personality jeans as well. Their jeans have names: Stella, Eva, and Zelda. The names have little profiles, like Zelda is "shy around boys." Give me a break. If Zelda is so shy around boys, then why is she "ultra low rise and slim fit" which is jeanspeak for "so tight and slutty that I could not breathe or sit down without exposing my crack"? I ended up with a non-personality pair of bluejean trousers from their more, er...sedate line of real people pants that had no Name Ending In A.

As we browsed the outdoor shopping mall...er, "Lifestyle Centre"--these hoity-toity upspeak names kill me, they really do--we decided to stop at the Gap. I am old enough to remember when Gap jeans were the ugly stepchild of Levis, and no one would be caught dead wearing them. Now they are de rigeur and there is a Gap on every corner and in every Lifestyle Centre of chic cities and upscale districts. Anyway, Gap was having a sale on selected pairs of jeans, so I was ready to try some on. But...holy crap. There were eleventy billion kinds of jeans. I eavesdropped on an instructional talk that a gorgeous and knowledgeable salesgirl (of about 14) was giving to a similarly overwhelmed woman about the vast array of bluejean choices available, but soon I became bored and confused. I simply grabbed a 2R in every single style and headed into the fitting room. Readers, I had about 30 pounds of jeans in my arms. At least.

Boot cut, classic, curvy, long and lean, essential, flare, skinny, straight...it was insane. I ended up buying a pair but I have absolutely no frikkin' idea which one except that it was not one of the ones that was on sale. Of. Course.

And! All the ones I tried on were size twos, but not all of them fit.

How is that possible? And why do we accept it?

Heavy sigh.

I am not looking forward to bra shopping.

Vintage Dept. of Nance--a special day at physical therapy

Stephen Colbert Is On Notice Again, And Separated At Birth Continues

Okay, so I was watching The Colbert Report last night, and once again, I am convinced Stephen Colbert is reading my blog and stealing ideas from it. I made this charge before, called him out on it, and...nothing.

Did you really think something would come of it? Neither did I. But I digress. Anyway, Stephen was doing a segment about Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney and put up a graphic of Muppet Guy Smiley! Did I not just do two posts about Muppet lookalikes?! For those of you who are not familiar with either Guy Smiley or Mitt Romney, here is a helpful comparison:

I happen to agree, especially now, since Mitt has begun using some Grecian Formula.

However, if you look closely at Guy's most outstanding facial feature--no, not the popeyes--you'll soon be struck by the overwhelming feeling of familiarity...
Those eyebrows! And...

Holy Crap. Even the nose is the same.

Vintage Dept. of Nance --overheard at the doctor's office

Separated At Birth

Don't tell me you're not feelin' this one. Really, is it just me after a whole day back at The Rock, sweating in 90 degree heat and tropical humidity in our lovely historic (read "un-airconditioned") building? Is it?

Or does Senator John Warner (R-Virginia) bear a striking resemblance to Sam the Eagle from The Muppet Show?

Got something better?

Vintage Dept. of Nance: A Back-to-School Quickie Post

Sigh. Life's Little Tragedies

Is it too much to ask that I be happy? Is it too much to ask that my life be smooth, uninterrupted bliss? That things be hunky-dory? That a smile be my umbrella? That, instead of clouds, I skip and go directly to silver linings?

Well, apparently.

For instance:

Is there not a single decent unscented "invisible" antiperspirant? Because I have been looking for it for a year now. I am weary of white marks on my clothing. When I did find a clear gel that was okay, it actually bleached my colored tops under the arms! All the Dove brand that guarantee to be invisible (look! we can wear our tops on inside-out!) are scented. I don't want to smell like my deodorant. I want to smell like my cologne. Where is my perfect, unscented, invisible, non-damaging antiperspirant? WHERE IS IT?

I lost one disposable contact. Now I have one more rightie than I do leftie. Forever. I will never get back in sync. When my six-month prescription is done and I must re-up, I will have an extra rightie. I'm trying to stretch out this pair, but my one eye is getting all blurry and crappy and icky and I really need to switch it out, but it's not time for the other. It's all very annoying and upsetting. I like to keep things even and symmetrical at all times whenever possible. You should see me try to keep the dining room rug straight all day. Oh. my. god.

The meatloaf pan did not come completely clean in the dishwasher. This irritates me to no end. I mean, I have a DISHWASHER. The whole point of a "dishwasher" is for IT to wash the dishes. If I have to then handwash something when it comes out of the dishwasher, what is the convenience of that? Back in the old days, before I was forced into the position of modeling good behavior for my personal children, I would have let that sucker ride in there for as many loads as it took for it to come clean. (I think the record for a coffee cup that Rick let fester in his workshop was like, maybe, twelve times. At that point, we ended up tossing it.) But my point, and I do still have one, is this: It is the dishwasher's job to wash the dishes. That is what I paid for it to do. I don't think that is too much to ask.

This weather sucks. We were in a drought for the entire summer. Up until this past weekend, when we moved Jared into college. It rained--no, it poured, continuously the entire time we moved all 6 cartons, refrigerator, microwave, rolling cart, television stand, and miscellaneous stuff into his dormitory tower. It was freezing and wet and miserable. It has continued to rain here in the top tier of Ohio. My fish can pretty much swim over the rim of their pond, check out my basil and tomatoes in the garden, and come knocking on my back door. I go back to work at The Rock on Friday, at which time the rain will be replaced with sizzling 90 degree temperatures and Amazonian humidity. Of. Course. Shoot me now.

Ah, well. "Only through adversity do we become strong." Who said that, anyway? Right now, I wanna smack him. I say, "Bitch a little, wallow a lot, then move on." Or is it, "Bitch a lot, wallow a little...?" Whatever.

Vintage Dept. of Nance: I even had something to say about Pluto!

Dinner For None

It's official. I have, for one reason or another, totally given up these foods. They are off the menu, out of the rotation, not on the list, without standing.

1. Cheetos. This one is a shocker to everyone who knows me. I am a Cheetos devotee from way back, but last month, I finally hit my limit. I binged and they turned on me. My stomach was a roiling bag of greasy insurrection. Never again.

2. Doughnuts. I cannot recall the last time I had one of these, actually. Or called them by anything but their nickname "GutBombs." Oh sure, they look good. But once I would eat one, it would stick with me--literally, and in every way--for days and days. Honestly, I think the last time I consumed one was in 2000.

3. Orange Juice. Okay, not a food, but a beverage. It always looks so nutritious and sunny and innocent and healthful. But if I drink it, I immediately pay with The Vomity Belches of Destruction. You know what I mean. Those burples that are squirty little surprises of acid in your throat. And then comes the stomach ache. So not worth it. So, forget you, Orange Juice. A day without you is like a day with more sunshine.

4. Sloppy Joes. I finally have come to the realization that, after all these years, I just really do not like these and I do not care who makes them, so do not flood me with your special recipes. It's not the fact that they are or aren't really sloppy. I just don't like them. I'm not really sure why. Maybe because I feel like they are really a sauce masquerading as an entree sandwich. Maybe because my mother used to make such interchangeable chili, sloppy joes, and spaghetti sauce that I just got sick of all three and took it out on the sloppy joes by default. I almost never make them for the Dept., and when I do, I use Manwich. And I just pick at a clump, sans bun, on my plate.

5. Fish. Of any kind. Don't try to tell me all about orange roughy or halibut or tilapia--how mild they are or how they "aren't fishy at all" or how they are firm and meaty like chicken. That's a lot of crap and you know it. Fish is fish. And no, I don't like salmon, really, and yes, I've had it grilled, planked, poached, maple-glazed, and cooked really well by someone who knows how. In Alaska! Pulled right out of the ocean in front of me! So there! I will eat shellfish, but not oysters, which are just the equivalent of a fishy softboiled egg. Quelle horreur.

6. Dutch Loaf. This used to be my favorite luncheon meat when I was a kid. I haven't had it in decades. I probably would, but it now looks so suspect to me, in light of my adult knowledge of nutrition. Also, my kids won't eat it, nor will my husband, and I'm not about to buy it just for myself. So, it's goodby Dutch loaf. (Probably just as well anyway.)

Now, this list is not to be confused with foods I don't like; in a pinch, I'd probably eat each and every one of these if pressed. For example, if you were to invite me to a dinner party and one of these was on the menu, I would be polite and eat it (although if you threw a dinner party and served Dutch loaf sandwiches and Cheetos, I'd probably discreetly tuck a few bucks into your pocket at some point).

So, what foods are off your menu forever and why? Any surprises?

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: The Alaskan Adventure--Part VIII, The End

Time To Purge: Of Fireflies, Shoes, Politics, And, Of Course, Brian Williams

I'm so full of it lately.

Not that--I'm always full of that; didn't you see that adverb "lately?" The "it" I'm referring to now is random junk that I keep giving thought time to in spite of my best efforts not to. So it's time for another one of my purgative posts wherein I set free these pesky little Thought Nerfuls that keep tickling the grooves and twists of my grey matter. Now they're yours.

In no particular order:

~#~Man, if pointed-toe shoes go out of style soon, I am in a world of hurt. Oh, I know the round-toe babydoll look sneaked in there briefly, but I let it pass. I knew it wasn't For Real.

~#~I think I'm watching waaaay too much Food Network. I've noticed that when I'm prepping and cooking, I sometimes keep an internal narrative going inside my head: Okay, now when chopping up the red peppers, it's best to chop skin side down so that the knife goes more easily through the vegetable. And, add the cheese last when making pesto so that it doesn't process into paste. I don't do it all the time, but often enough that I'm definitely starting to become concerned.

~#~Hey, I'm here to tell you: It is the humidity.

~#~I've noticed something this summer. Not so many lightning bugs. At least that's what we NE Ohioans call them. You may call them "fireflies" in your location, but whatever you call them, I've seen precious few of them here. I used to have a running contest with the little kid who lived next door as to who would see the first lightning bug of the summer. They were always the harbinger of the season. This summer, there have been very few, and as with most things, I blame the Republicans. Which brings me to...

~#~The fact that I can pretty much boil down every environmental, economical, and societal ill to a Republican failing. Actually, I shouldn't say "Republican" without qualifying it by saying "The Angel of Death's Administration and Its Policies" which basically, for me, typifies what Republicans are. It's like the father in My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding who can trace every single benefit of civilization back to the Greeks. My son, a diehard liberal Democrat who says that only Dennis Kucinich truly stands for everything he (my son, Jared) believes in, said to me once, "Mom, there are some good Republicans." I said, "I doubt it." But I digress. My point is, there are probably fewer lightning bugs due to the outrageously poor environmental policies of the current administration which favor big polluters. See what I mean?

~#~Which brings me to this very useful visual aid, sent to me by my dear VBF, Leanne of Maryland. Not only are her (infrequent) emails often humorous, as I mentioned in an earlier post, but sometimes they contain valuable political info. Here is a wonderful site where you can view a comprehensive but easy to read chart that shows you every presidential candidate's current position on all the big issues from Abortion, Capital Punishment and the Iraq war to No Child Left Behind, Universal Health Care and Same-Sex Marriage. Thank you, Leanne.

~#~All Dept. of Nance readers are well-acquainted with my fascination for Brian Williams. I do, however, watch other news programs and have noticed something. See what you think:

I find these three men facially similar. Especially Chris Hansen, of Dateline's Catch a Predator fame, and dear Brian. It's almost a...Newsman Triptych of sorts! And don't you think that Stone Phillips, with very little major makeup, could play Ronald Reagan in a biopic of same? Take a long look now, and think about it.

~#~And while I'm playing Separated at Birth, here's another good one.

That's William Schneider of CNN and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew of Muppet Labs. I told you that I was full of it. And believe it or not, there's something I'm forgetting, but it'll just have to wait. In the meantime, set your own Nerfuls free in the comments. I've got some extra room now.

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: The Alaskan Adventure Part VII

I Blog, Therefore I Am...Two!

I think I've figured out why I've been so snarky lately. It's the Terrible Twos! In a shocking display of commitment and sticktoitiveness, the Dept. of Nance celebrates its two-year anniversary this week. Two years ago, almost to the day, I claimed my tiny piece of the Internets and posted this. And I sat back and waited. In my laughable naivete, I was unaware of how it all worked and honestly thought that readers would just find and read my blog and post comments galore and I would be happily read and enjoyed by people all over.

Um, duh.

And I also thought that I would have a neverending wellspring of things to write about with wit and wisdom and that I would post every single day. Wasn't I always thinking and opining about something? And wouldn't I be more than thrilled to have a forum in which to air my personal and political views about, oh--everything?

Sigh.

Luckily, I am a student at heart and if the written word exists on the subject, I will read every single syllable of it as many times as is necessary to make it part of my personal knowledge base. Little by little, I researched and read and visited other blogs and became part of the blogging community that began to build around me.

Some bloggers are "niche bloggers." They're food bloggers or mommy bloggers or political bloggers. Honestly, I'm not real sure what I am. One blogger who links to me categorizes me as a "culture critic." I kind of like that. It gives me lots of wiggle room. Sort of a wide berth to move around in. One of my colleagues offered "social satirist." I'm not sure if what I write is always strictly satire. I do like to exploit the irony in everyday situations. I am a little Seinfeldian in that; I am sort of an observational humorist in a lot of what I choose to write about. I'm not sure if I even have to be categorized, do I?

I know a few bloggers who are a little upset that they've kind of plateaued. They've not increased their page hits or their comment counts, no matter what they've done in the past year or so. One or two have taken a hiatus to rethink their blogs, and to perhaps decide whether or not to even continue blogging. I guess I can understand that. It all depends upon why you got into it, I suppose. Sure, I'd love to increase my hits and my comment count. I'd love to suddenly explode with new readers and have lively discussions among my commenters. I'd love it if, suddenly, The NBC Nightly News contacted me about my Tie Reports, or CNN picked up one of my posts about, say...bad fashion or cows in the press, or I had hits on the caliber of Neil at Citizen of the Month, or the mother of all blogging, you-know-who (rhymes with juice), but honestly, I'm doing pretty okay. Could a few of my lurkers come out and just post a comment and say, "hey, I usually lurk, but wanted to let you know I read you"? yeah. Would I be ecstatic with an average of 25 comments? yeah. But I'm pretty happy.

Finally, I think I'm going to have to quit being such a procrastinator and overall fraidy cat and make the Final Last Leap to "New Blogger." I've been resisting the change because I will totally lose all my sidebar changes and have to redo every little single thing. It will take a ton of picky work and likely be an entire afternoon. I have to copy/paste/save every little thing before the move, and I'm frankly scared to death. I hate change. But there are some cool things available on New Blogger that I'd like to do, and also, once the change is made, future revisions will be much easier. Wish me luck.

Oh, and the cake is for everyone. Enjoy. Happy Anniversary to me!

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: The Alaskan Adventure Part VI

My Beef With All The Bad Press About Cows

Cows again, my friends, are in the news. I don't go looking for these items; they find me. Yes, it seems that it is My Destiny to be an advocate for my bovine brethren...er, sistren, is it? whatever--since they cannot effectively manage their own publicity. Cases in point:

Item: Steer's Owner Ticketed for 'Excessive Mooing'. Incredibly, a Washington County, Ohio resident, who owns a single cow named Wally, was served with a misdemeanor citation for "ongoing nuisance cow mooing." Wally, who lives on a 33-acre farm zoned for 50 head of cattle, "moos maybe once or twice a day," says his owner, Karyl Hylle. Important to note is the fact that when the sheriff and/or his deputies had been called out on each of the 21 complaints by the neighbor, Mark (who asked that his last name not be used), Wally never said a single word. Even when prodded by reporters, Wally never uttered a sound. The citation carries a $1000 fine and/or 90 days in jail. Clearly, Mark just hates cows. Or has no knowledge of them. Cows moo. That is their native tongue. And, it would seem Wally does precious little of that as it is.

Item: Man Admits Sexually Molesting Cows. Lest you think this is a random, one-time thing, this 56-year-old man was charged with the same offense in 2000, but "police decided against bringing a cruelty-to-animals charge against Viens [the offender] after consulting with a veterinarian, who said no harm came to the cows." Did this horrific act occur in some Third World, unenlightened country as part of an occult ritual? No! It occurred in Vermont, U.S.A.! The farm employees caught him in the act, the police were called, and Mr. Viens gave them a sworn confession on the spot. Why not? He will only be charged with trespassing, I'm sure. After all, no harm came to the cows! How do they know?

Item: Global Warming and Stylish Cows. I am grown increasingly fatigued of cows being blamed in part for global warming. First was the FearMongering of Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy (mad cow disease--how I even hate to see it in words before me!), and its effect on beef and dairy, and now the insidiousness of the Republicans trying to mitigate the responsibility of big business by pointing the finger at innocent bovine flatulence. Who amongst us has not had a bit of intestinal gas every now and then? If your diet was made up entirely of grains and grass, wouldn't you have a bit of the bubbleguts? But I digress. An OpEd writer from Pennsylvania went to the PennEnvironment press conference to learn more about the devastation that could be wreaked upon Pennsylvania's particular environment by global warming if left unchecked. According to one spokesman, the forecast is dire for the state's dairy cows, whose milk production would drastically reduce due to heat stress. Rather than take this threat seriously, this cavalier writer instead spun it to blame the cows themselves, asking that since "gassy cows produce one quarter of the methane that's causing global warming," wouldn't it be better if the state's cows die, meaning that fewer of them are producing the gas? When the PennEnvironment guy reminded him that the cows wouldn't necessarily die, but produce less milk, this wag of a writer offered this solution: “couldn't we affix large, floppy sun hats to the cows' heads so they can graze in the heat? They would stay comfortable and look stylish.” I cannot even begin to enumerate the problems with this if he doesn't know them already. The least of which is that no one looks good in large, floppy sunhats especially if one is already large. Duh.

The incessant, inexplicably vicious campaign against cows continues. Their one champion besides me would be, perhaps, the Real California Cheese advertising campaign in which the happy cows play Marco Polo, Knock Knock Zoom Zoom, and otherwise frolic and behave in acceptably fun ways while decidedly not wearing clothing. Do your part. Become an advocate for cows today. Appreciate them. Count them when on long car trips. Moo at them when you pass them. Don't buy figurines of them wearing clothing. And never, ever order your beef well done. That's just wrong.

Last Year at The Dept. of Nance: The Alaskan Adventure Part V