Janelle Monae for Bond!

(Alternate titles: Janelle Monaes are Forever, On Her Majesty's Janelle Monae, GoldJanelleMonae, The Spy who JanelleMonaed Me, etc.)

Oh, James Bond. I don't know who doesn't love a good old fashioned overall heinously misogynistic tale of derring-do set in several improbable locations with at least one giant, improbable killer weapon. My roommate Marie and I certainly do. In fact, Marie sent me a mix with all of the James Bond theme songs for my workaday pleasure. And let me tell you, drafting tweets is certainly far more exciting when backed by a chorus of "View to a Kill" by Duran Duran.

Did you know: there's a new Bond film coming out! It's called Skyfall and it stars Daniel Craig as everyone's favorite sandy haired 007. It's shaping up to be an excellent movie, with one exception: rumor has it that the studio is in talks with Adelle and Michael Buble to perform the theme song.

Here's the thing. James Bond songs are unique, and the good ones have a similar quality. They're epic! They have a ton of brass! They're sexy! Most of the best ones are belted by awesome women! Remember Shirley Bassey singing Goldfinger and Diamonds are Forever? Of course you do. Here, listen to it while you read the remainder of this post:

That's not to say Adelle is not an awesome woman who can belt (she is) or that I wouldn't like to hear Michael Buble cover Tom Jones's Thunderball (I would). I just want to know who in Hollywood I need to bribe to get them to hire Janelle Monae instead. My reasons are outlined below.

1. Janelle Monae can SING.

Her range is three and a half octaves! Can you even imagine? No, you can't, because your head would explode from trying to contain all the awesome.

AND, even more than that, she can sing in a variety of styles, including the unique 1960s spy sexy soul/jazz/brassy genre that I am going to call "Bondy." Each of her songs is a bit Bondy, but the most Bondy is BabopbyeYa, but it's, like, seven minutes long. This is why I did not embed it, even though I wanted to.

BECAUSE EVERYONE SHOULD BE LISTENING TO JANELLE MONAE ALL THE TIME.

Besides, as she said in Blues and Soul:

"I mean, in terms of influence it encompasses all the things I love - scores for films like ‘Goldfinger’ mixed with albums like Stevie Wonder’s ‘Music Of My Mind’ and David Bowie’s ‘Ziggy Stardust’, along with experimental hip hop stuff like Outkast’s Stankonia.’"

Did you keep reading after she listed Goldfinger as her first major influence for her album? Yes? WHY? WHY ARE YOU NOT ON THE PHONE DEMANDING THAT MGM IMMEDIATELY HIRE JANELLE MONAE?

2. She ROCKS. 
Honestly? Adele is great. Like, really great. I love her! Girl has soul. But she doesn't, you know, rock. And do I even need to make the case that Michael Buble does not rock?

This is Michael Buble attempting (and failing) to rock.

And the Daniel Craig plays the new James Bond in a way that is simultaneously sexy, and deep, and funny... and he kind of rocks. Speaking of, do you know who else rocks?

Janelle Monae. Period.

3. Janelle Monae is about to have a huge year.
According to her Wikipedia page, and the source cited in the Wikipedia page, Janelle Monae is looking to release two full albums and possibly a movie (or series of music videos?) this year. She's touring with the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Right now, there is nothing this woman couldn't do. Hollywood would be an idiotic and slow trundling beast to NOT make a bet on her. (Disclaimer: everyone knows that Hollywood IS an idiotic and slow trundling beast, but seriously, dudes. Do you want your opening credits to be worth the cost of admission alone? THEN HIRE JANELLE MONAE. Hire her like your life depended on it.)

4. Janelle Monae can totally rock a tux.


Seriously, have you SEEN this woman in a tux? It's her trademark uniform. And let me tell you, she looks DAMN fine in it. Damn fine.

Just look at that! I'll bet you were confused for a second. I'll bet you thought to yourself. "Huh! I know one of these people is a young Sean Connery of early James Bond fame, and the other one is Janelle Monae, a young breakout star known for her incredible vocal range, intense performances, and indefatigable energy, but I don't know which is which! They both look so good in a tux!"

Well, let me tell you something: IT DOESN'T MATTER. Nobody is going to accidentally hire Sean Connery to sing a Bond theme song.

5. It would make me really, really, unbelievably happy

That has to count for something, right?

6. I would be willing to settle for Janelle Monae starring in the next James Bond movie. As Bond. Janelle Bond. 

I realize that this is not really a reason so much as it's a way for me to hedge my bets. Because, here's the deal. I realize that Bond is a fundamentally British character, but is there a law somewhere that says Bond has to be a white male? Who can't sing? Also, is there anything in this world more fun than making Ian Fleming roll over in his grave? (Answer: absolutely not.)

It's time for us to have a female Bond. It's time for us to have a black Bond. It's time, quite simply, for Janelle Monae to be the next Bond.

But wait, you're saying. Wouldn't it be better for Janelle Monae to reprise Grace Jones's role as May Day from View to a Kill? 

Good call on the similar hair, other person I'm talking to. But in every other way, NO. Janelle Monae is not a villain, and she certainly won't be playing a maniacal foil to Christopher Walken's baby Nazi. (...I'm pretty sure, anyway. Reality seems to get fuzzy around Christopher Walken.)

In conclusion, MGM should be on the phone with Janelle Monae right now, despite the fact that it's 1am on a Friday morning. It's only 10pm on the West Coast, and just barely midnight in Kansas. She'd totally take your call, studio execs. And allow me to gracefully and preemptively accept on her behalf.

After all, she already has the tux.

I'm smart.

Really. It's not an exaggeration. Sometimes I surprise myself by just how mind-blowingly, awesomely smart I am.

My smarts aren't really limited to either book smarts or street smarts. I haven't been mugged at all while living in DC for three long years of wandering around alone late at night. More than that, I can explain to you, in depth, the concept behind a bicameral system of government and the compromises that early Founders made to get to that compromise. I can still tell you the quadratic formula. Hell, I can SING you the quadratic formula.

That said, there are many, many things I do not know. I have an understanding of how the parliamentary system creates a government, but, if pressed, I couldn't whiteboard the process. I can tell you what quarks are, but if you ask me to describe their movements and exactly how they go about making everything we see, smell, and touch, I don't know if I can. My understanding of science overall is probably something I could work on.

Oh, also? I'm funny. Yep, I'm super funny. It's difficult to prove when I put myself on the spot like this, but let me tell you about llamas. They're awesome, and they have bifurcated lips. Their lips are actually just like little finger tips, nuzzling each other and roaming around as they try to grab hay from your outstretched hands.

Oh, that reminds me. Ostriches? Terrifying. They are nine foot tall dinosaurs that will stop at nothing to get the food you are gingerly and foolishly offering them in your outstretched hand. They will give you blood blisters and their beady little eyes will not look sorry about it. But it's okay! You can go back to feeding the llamas, and nobody will say you didn't try.

But back to me. It's important for me to remember, on days like today, that I am actually, all around, a pretty awesome person. I like hanging out with myself most of the time. And when people question my competence and intelligence and instincts and then spew complete and utter bullshit in the most PC way possible, what they are really doing is revealing their own limitations.

And when they tell me that a process of seeking approval will actually streamline the process, it's not because I'm they think I'm dumb and won't notice the inherent logical fallacies in their statements.

No, it's because they are being exceptionally silly.

And, at the end of the day, it's also important that I point out that I am quite humble.

Take it away, Chaka Khan!

May the weekend bring only good things.

SUNDAY SUPPER FRANKS
8 frankfurters
1/4 c. peanut butter
2 T. finely chopped onion
1/2 c. bottled cheese spread
2 T. pickle relish

Split frankfurters lengthwise, but not all the way through. Combine the rest of ingredients. Spoon 2 T. peanut mixture over cut sides of each frankfurter. Broil until bubbly and browned. Serve in buns. 8 servings.
 

EURO! TRAINING!

I don't understand why everyone's looking at me funny in the gym. I'm just doing normal stuff, like front faced one-legged bench squats, Romanian basket crunches, and push jump blintz balls. 

Also, some jams to get you going:

And specifically the worst weight loss advice you've ever heard: The Worrying Way by the Fabulettes.

Story Telling

It's an art.

I'm always trying to get better at it, as I do tend to prattle on and I figure my audience might as well enjoy themselves. I try to figure out how to make people laugh, how to hook people in, and how not to get caught up in the details of things-- "So this one time my mom... well, he wasn't really my mom's friend, I think he was a coworker of my mom's? Or maybe the boyfriend of one of her coworkers? Anyway, somehow my mom knew him... wait, no, it was my Aunt's pastor! Okay, so this one time my Aunt's pastor..." because I value storytelling as a medium to express myself.
There are a lot of terrible stories out there. Not stories that are difficult to hear or stories of the baser nature of man, though those do exist, but stories that are uninteresting and poorly told.

 

God, Mary, NOBODY CARES.

I have a quiet voice. I always have and sometimes I think I always will. I can project (as my roommate who graciously endured me singing "Just Around the Riverbend" from Pocahontas this morning can tell you), but I don't always like how it makes me sound, especially in large settings. Sometimes I think having a quiet voice is an especially effective communication tool.

That said, I wish my voice had a really interesting quality. Like Eartha Kitt.

I also tend to live my life in a way that will lead me to have more interesting stories. Want to pretend to be pregnant to research crisis pregnancy centers and abortion misinformation? Do I! Should I be a narc as a covert underage buyer of alcohol working with the cops at 16? Absolutely. Would I help hang this sign up on a roof in Vermont, even though it's slick with snow and there are high winds and no handrails? Yes, please!

If I have to have an average voice, God, at least let me tell good stories. Just maybe not quite as good as this.

Fitocracy, fellowship, stationary cycling to Mordor, etc.

My mind, body, and possibly soul, have been taken over. By Fitocracy. Beautiful, beautiful Fitocracy.*

You can't see it, but I'm actively salivating right now.

It's such a genius system. You do exercises and you get points! And it is super motivating for me for whatever reason. 

Here's my current obsession. We're going to Mount Doom! (Please note: this was originally sent as an email to one Emily "Mac" McC.)

Apparently someone spent way, way, WAY too much time reading Tolkein ("But NO!" you gasp, "it can't be done!") and spent way, way, WAY too much time looking at the map of Middle Earth (I can hear you inhaling to make a point, but hear me out) and managed to calculate the milage that the Fellowship went during each stage of their journey.

Yes. This is apparently a thing.

This week's quest is as follows: 

"The road goes ever on and on..." 

The One Ring has been found and it is up to you and your companions to get it to Mordor and into Mount Doom, a distance of 1560 miles! The Atlas of Middle Earth by Karen Wynn Fonstad breaks down the journey by day. For instance the first week is 135 miles. This continuing quest series will go week by week through the trek to Mount Doom from the Shire. 

[A] Complete the week's distance in combined endurance activities split amongst you and your 8 companions. 
[N] Complete the week's distance in combined endurance activities split amongst you and your 3 short, hairy footed companions. 
[H] Complete the week's distance in combined endurance activities split amongst you and your stalwart gardener companion. 
[H+] Complete the week's distance in combined endurance activities on your own. 

Week 1? I took a spin class. It was one of my less good decisions in life. 

1) Spin bikes are far, far, FAR more complicated than real bikes. If you turn them on, the wheels spin by themselves! and you're not going anywhere!

2) Your foot can come out of the pedals! and the pedals don't stop! Mine didn't, anyway!

3) I. Freaking. Hate. Cardio. (That isn't swing dancing.) For serious. Who thought this was a good idea? I blame Pheddipides. DAMN YOU PHEDDIPIDES FOR INVENTING CARDIO. (I don't actually hate cardio, but it's not my idea of a fun time.)

4) Okay, so you know the saddle of the bike? It gets deeply in touch with some really personal parts of your body. And then also you stand up and sit down while pedaling a bunch of times. And so... I think I'm sore? On my vagina? (I'm sorry you had to read that sentence. So, so sorry.)

5) The other people on Fitocracy really can't figure out what the concept of a "group" is. We had a group. That group had a post/comment thread. We moved it over to the forum. Every Tom, Dick, and Sally are all jumping in on this being like "ooh, I too went several miles today!" and I just want to be all "WHO DIED AND MADE YOU ARAGORN? BACK UP"**

6) This exchange actually totally happened: 

Me: So, how many miles was that that we just did? 
Spin instructor: Wow, I've never had someone ask that before. 
Me: Really? 
SI: Yeah, I know the average calories burned, but no one asks miles... let me check. 
Me: Huh. 
SI: Why do you ask? 
Me: Uh, my friends and I are having a competition. It involves going 135 miles in a week. 
SI: Have you tried running? 
Me: ...Sort of. 
SI: 20 miles. 
Me: YES!! 

So yes, Fitocracy is apparently my friends.

Emily replied:

Oh man.  I'm so glad I couldn't sleep and got my computer back out and that this was here.  Hahahahaha Who died and made you Aragorn hahahahHAHAHAHAHHA.  This is amazing.  (Also?  I'm sorry.  Why would you get out that map and try to calculate mileage?  Like, why wouldn't you just pick an arbitrary number and CALL it the distance to Mount Doom?  I know the answer is "because these are Tolkein fans and it's the Internet and They Will Check Your Math" but also REALLY.)
Dooce has the same complaints about spinning.  Between the two of you I'm quite sure I'll never try it.  Unless possibly the Nazgul were on my tail.

And then I replied to her:

I'm so glad you found this entertaining. Do you know what doesn't find this entertaining and still hurts this morning? ...never mind.
...I just realized this might be going on for as many as ten weeks. I'm going to DIE.
TOLKEIN WHY THE FUCK IS MOUNT DOOM SO FAR AWAY CAN'T IT BE CLOSER PLEASE I'VE GOT SHIT TO DO AND SPIN CLASS IS RIDONK

That first week a user by the name of BioNerd and I went to Mordor together. It was great. We ended up going 136.5 miles together. He was Frodo, I was Sam, and we ended up in Bree with the other revelers.

But it meant a LOT of time on the stationary cycle. And, as Boromir says...

Week 2 I took a bit of a breather and joined a larger fellowship to go to Weathertop. I only had to do about 9 miles walking. This was infinitely easier, but doesn't make for funny stories.

Week 3, our questmaster (ChasingBoston, so-called because he's trying to run a marathon that will qualify him for Boston, etc.) apparently had a really busy week. By Tuesday afternoon, he had not posted an update to the "We're going to Mordor!!!1!" thread. Which was weird, but no matter! I have google fu.

Me: So, um, hi everyone. I don't know what's going on this week (is UCQC having a rest week?), but I looked up the distance from Weathertop to the steep hills of the Trollshaws, and it looks like it's 121 miles for this week. Who's up for another week? 

Everyone: Yaaay

Everyone: logging logging logging

ChasingBoston: Sorry for the huge delay everyone, my week has been completely insane. The One Ring Quests will return on 11/21 with some tweakage. 

BioNerd (remember him?): If you take a look at CB's most recent CON posting, it looks like no journey to Mordor this week, but they resume next week. Which should prove interesting for me as my gym is closed Thursday through Saturday (college campus; Thanksgiving break) and snow plus exercise induced asthma will reduce my outdoor capabilities. Perhaps I will pace in a long hallway...

So Week 3 was called off and the battle for Week 4 was on. Please note, Week 4 was also the week of Thanksgiving. I had to drive 1050 miles from Virginia to Buffalo, NY to Cooperstown, NY and back to Virginia. Although I walked 14.5 miles in addition, it was not quite enough to get my team across the finish line. Also...

A user called Thirteen wandered into our team's thread (remember, our team is kind of an amorphous blob anyway) with the following message:

Thirteen:  You wander past the forge and into the equipment shop, where you're immediately overwhelmed by the smell of leather, oil and some of the stranger reagents from the magical supply section. To your left, you see a small noticeboard. 

>look noticeboard

Yellowing handbills and flyers are held to the board by rough tacks, but most are months, if not years old, the adventurers who posted them doubtless long dead. You notice one newer-looking sheet, painstakingly hand-lettered on red paper, pinned to the far right of the board.

>examine red flyer 

Help Wanted 

We require a honed and well-fettled warrior be to hire on as a mercenary for the week with The Four Apocalyptic Riders of Epic Questing, a legendary band of quasi-anti-heroes set to combat the forces of law and oppression wherever they might be found.We're a rider down due to the holidays, and we can't have an apocalypse without one... 

We'll probably need about 50km from you once the rest of our mileage for tomorrow is added up. 

BioNerd responded:

I like law, but oppose oppression. I should certainly be up to 50km by the end of the day tomorrow, as the stable for my unmoving steed shall be open again, and it looks unlikely that my friends and I will be able to jointly finish this leg as is.

GOD I love fitness nerds. On the other hand, BioNerd was poached! He was wandering up and down a hallway for a team that was not mine! It was a MORDOR FAIL last week and I take my role as Samwise pretty seriously. This week? IT IS ON. Only 92 miles to Rivendell, and I just sent BioNerd a PM asking if he wanted to be the Frodo to my Sam again. (Is that weird? It's maybe a little weird.)

********

So now I have a weekly "My Trip To Mordor" newsletter going out to my friends, trying to recruit them to come with me (and maybe turn them into Fitocracy zombies...). Let's be clear: prior to Fitocracy, I would never have spent any significant time on a stationary cycle. I would never have made it a priority to go to the gym five or six times a week. And I certainly wouldn't be planning really intense workouts using major lifts just so I could level up faster.
This is all thanks to Brian Wang and Dick Talens,*** a couple of gamer nerds (with HILARIOUS NAMES) turned body builders:

Brian Wang and Dick Talens, ladies and gents. Try to contain yourselves.

In conclusion, THANK YOU, FITOCRACY. I realize this entire entry might be impossible to parse for someone who has not heard me waxing on and on about it, but yes. There it is.

* What is Fitocracy? you ask. Join first, ask questions later.
**Please note, I'm not usually this violent, except after weight lifting when I decide I want to punch a mountain. Also, I didn't understand our group's purpose on Week 1, which was to log our activities and then shake out the group makeup based on performance. Nobody was doing anything wrong, but me being angry is hilarious, so I kept it in.

***And the rest of the Fitocracy team. I love you all.

Codcast

This Thanksgiving weekend, I drove for about 23 hours, all told, and listened to two audiobooks. The first, for those of you keeping track, was Christopher Moore's Practical Demonkeeping. It was a good audiobook-- the reader, Oliver Wyman, did a good job handling different characters and narration.

The really fantastic book, the book that I listened to for almost eight hours, basically straight through, is Cod: A Biography of the Fish that Changed the World.

I dubbed my experience with this book the Codcast.

Photo: Hans-Petter Fjeld (CC-BY-SA)

The audiobook was interesting, not least because the book was interesting. The narrator, Richard M. Davidson, initially sounded exactly like Steve Inskeep of NPR. I got really excited, and it was kind of a letdown when it turned out not to be him. Davidson seems to be a master at the not-quite-an-accent: enough of a lilt to know we're talking to someone from Iceland/Newfoundland/Wales, but not a jarring full-on accent by any means. 

And this book. Oh, this book. To listen to this book, you could come to the following conclusions:

• Cod is responsible for the discovery of America.
• Cod is responsible for the American Revolution.
• Cod is responsible for bringing Iceland out of the middle ages during World War II.
• Cod is responsible for most of Canada.
• Cod is not really responsible for slavery, but cod did keep it profitable by providing a cheap protein source.
• Without cod, life as we know it will end.
• Especially because fishermen are our nation's greatest natural resource.
• (Aside from cod.)

Now, many of these claims are mostly true. But, like any history that just focuses on a single topic, kind of incomplete. It's true that Massachusetts wouldn't have had the middle class that it did in the 1700s without cod. It's true that cod fishing was so successful that England found colonial trade difficult to regulate. But it's a bit of a stretch (note to self: do not edit to say "a bit fishy") to say that cod is absolutely responsible for the American Revolution. Srsly.


(Aside: Googling "Fish in costume" will really only get you pictures of people wearing fish costumes and no costumed fish. I am imagining a picture of a fish wearing a red coat, like the Redcoats wore, and staring out with glassy eyes, to accompany this passage. The internet did not provide. The closest things I could find was a dog in a fish costume (at least it wasn't a human?) and this picture: 

YES)

In other fish-related news, here are the Top 10 Coelacanth Stories of 2011. 

Please pay special attention to number 8, which features a hulu depicting how Coelacanth were almost fished to extinction and it is GLORIOUS. An obscure government agency promoting conservation through dance? Women in purple jangle dresses, men miming fishing, dancing, a happy little tune that at times turns sinister... I literally cannot ask for more from a youtube video. Here, just watch it for yourself:

I repeat: GLORIOUS. But, as a commenter pointed out, the "fishing to near extinction" probably happened millions and millions of years ago. He was not properly watching the jangle dresses, methinks.

Oh, what's that? You want a disturbing fish picture that I ran across while trying to find "fish wearing shirts?" Okay.

You're welcome.

PEANUT BUTTER SOUP

1 c. cruncy [sic] peanut butter

2 1/2 c. milk

1/2 t. salt

In medium size saucepan combine peanut butter and 1/2 cup milk. Simmer over low heat; gradually add remaining milk; stir constantly. Add salt, simmer; stir frequently for 10 min. or til hot. Garnish with any of the following: chopped onion, chopped green pepper, or crumbled bacon. 3 1/2 cups. 

 

My great aunt Velma passed away recently. Among her possessions were many amazing cookbooks of the mid-20th century, including It's Easy to be a Gourmet with Peanuts. 

Now, I love peanut butter as much as the next person (unless, of course, the next person happens to be George Washington Carver).* I have been known to mix it with plain yogurt for breakfast, eat it on carrots, and chomp on it by the spoonful. But even I have my limits.

And my limit is this:

Chickabiddy Deviled Eggs

6 hard cooked eggs 

3 T. mayonnaise

 1/4 c. crunchy peanut butter 

1 1/2 T. minced onion 

12 large stuffed olives

 parsley sprigs 

 French dressing

 salted peanuts  

1 1/2 T. minced parsley

Simmer eggs 20 min.; remove shells and cut in half lengthwise. Remove yolks, mash, and mix thoroughly with mayonnaise, peanut butter, onion and parsley. Fill egg whites. MAKE CHICK'S HEAD: Cut ends from a stuffed olive, leaving 3/8" center section with both bright 'eyes' showing. Spear round side of olive with half a toothpick and run other end of pick into egg filling at egg's rounded end, with olive slice upright. Chick's topknot and bill are pimento bits from end pieces of olive. Tuck in parsley sprig for tail. Serve chicks on a bed of chopped lettuce, with French dressing starred with peanut halves.

What? What even is this? I will not make a chick's head. Further, I will not chop olives into eyes! Moreover, peanut butter and eggs? I will take more convincing, Oklahoma Peanut Commission.

*True story: I have a portrait of George Washington Carver hanging up in my room. It's amazing. He is doing something horticulturally to a flower and he's older and he's just so happy! I go and visit him in the National Portrait Gallery if I'm feeling down. Never fails.

I love the headlines from the Navajo message board I sometimes visit. They are basically always the best. What follows is a sampling.


From Denver Westwood News:

New DIA artwork hasn't inspired any conspiracy theories yet

It's what's aboveground at DIA that's new. The scaffolding that had obscured the former site of "Mountain Mirage" — the piece of public art that was supposed to shoot water in a silhouette of theRocky Mountains but instead dripped down into the train equipment below, earning the piece the nickname "Wilma's Wet Spot," in honor of then-First Lady Wilma Webb, who was heading Denver's arts commission – has been removed, revealing a new piece of public art. One guaranteed not to leak. 

[...]  

And so far, no one has suggested that the new work holds a secret message about the New World Order — as conspiracy theorists have for the Leo Tanguma mural "Children of the World Dream Peace," which is just around the corner.

And DIA can't sweep that rumor under a fake Navajo rug. 

 From the ABQ Journal:

Eerie Sound Haunts Crownpoint

“It starts out as a low, raspy growl and ends up like a big man yelling,” said Natalie Murphy, who heard the sound shortly after midnight on the night after Labor Day as she was visiting her hometown from Denver. “It sounds like something in pain. There’s something human about it, but not quite.” 

“There’s a lot of strange things that go on around here, over and above the usual kids causing trouble,” the employee told the paper. “We’re kind of used to it.”
Navajo Nation Police Sgt. Tommy Rogers of the Crownpoint District said he’d heard enough complaints about the eerie howl that he tried to get to the bottom of it Sunday night, the Times said. 

“I had several officers assigned to stay up all night, listen for the noise and try to find whatever is causing it,” Rogers told the paper. “They didn’t hear anything except dogs.” 

Rogers said he has never heard the sound and is not planning to devote any more time to investigating it, the Times said. 

“As far as we’re concerned, the complaint is unfounded,” Rogers said.

I have recently acquired some very small kittens. To prove to a friend how small the kittens are, I took this picture of my roommate, Marie, holding a tiny kitten.

She is so very small.

In response, my friend Becky, whose cat was probably never a kitten and came just as large and ornery as she is today, sent this photo.

 She bit Becky basically immediately afterwards.

Tiny kittens: the answer to all life's problems.

Taylor and the Tapir

A story of awkward friendship

by Lexie, the awkwardest sister-in-law

This is Taylor. She is the most beautiful young woman in the world.

She has a wonderful husband.

Who she sometimes made feel uncomfortable. 

That was okay, though, because he often made everyone uncomfortable. By looking like a serial killer.

Taylor had lots of animal friends, like Mr. Peepers.

Mr. Peepers had huge eyes, but he wasn't quite awkward enough.

What Taylor really wanted was an animal friend to be as awkward as can be.

So Taylor and Michael went to the zoo. Fact.

They awkwarded up the place right quick.

Michael got off to a great start, sitting as awkwardly as possible above some strange creatures made of metal.

And then he found a giraffe. It's hard to be more awkward than a giraffe.

But the llama has bifurcated lips. Michael found an awkward animal friend! 

But Taylor was still looking.

Looking and making grabby hands.

"Where can I find an animal that's as awkward as I am?" she yelled at a fence.

She heard something scurry around. Awkwardly. 

"Hello," said the creature, standing as awkwardly as possible. "I am a tapir."

Taylor and Michael made a face at it.

"Euuughhhghh!" Taylor said.

"FINE," said the tapir. "I can be awkward all by myself!" And he stuck out his tongue.

Taylor, offended, stuck out her tongue in reply!

To be fair, she did have a cupcake.

Though they were still a little incredulous, Taylor and Michael began to get excited.

"I might have a new awkward animal friend!" said Taylor.

And she did.

THE END!

These are the roots of rhythm and the roots of rhythm remain.

I said, "Take this child, Lord, from Tucson, Arizona
Give her the wings to fly through harmony
and she won't bother you no more."

This is the story of how we begin to remember.

This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein.

After the dream of falling and calling your name out.

These are the roots of rhythm. And the roots of rhythm remain.

--Paul Simon, Linda Ronstadt, Under African Skies.

Did you know? The Arizona flag is the prettiest of all the state flags. Fact.

Aw jeez, there's a rat in the ceiling. Or possibly wolves in the walls. Becca insinuated it might be an alien intruder, which would be great, but only if I could rely on some significant extraterrestrial detective work to help remedy the situation. But alas, I have only my wits and a rat in the ceiling.

Okay, I've decided he's a small mouse and his name is Moose. And he's my friend and totally won't give me the Hanta Virus.

This seems like as good a time as any to do a 2010 concert recap and try to forget yesterday for a moment.

My resolution last year was to attend more live music concerts. That happened... mostly. I certainly bought more tickets to more live music concerts. Here are the concerts to which I purchased tickets but did not attend:

Mark Cohen
OK Go
Julia Nunes (still angry about that one)

Here are the concerts I did attend:

String Quartet at American History Museum
Carolina Chocolate Drops
Vampire Weekend
Janelle Monae
Patomac Bombs
Punch Brothers
The Hallelujah Chorus at the National Cathedral

Pretty good list, all around.

A prayer to Nuestra Señora de las Estradas:

Why? As though there is not enough blood spilled in the desert.

A prayer of thanks that my loved ones are safe, a prayer of desperation that others are not.

The dead: Christina Greene, 9, Gabe Zimmerman, 30, John Roll, 63, Dorthy Murray, 76, Dorwin Stoddard, 76, Phyllis Scheck, 79.
And a political leader who is by all accounts decent, for isn't that the most sacred thing in politics, is critically wounded. For what? To prove a point? For a crazy man's wild fantasy that his legacy would last?


John McCain said it best: this is a disgrace to Arizona.

Little Christina was born on 9/11/2001. She was nine. And she was stolen from our desert and our sky.

I'll bet you're all wondering why I called you here today. I have a serious subject to discuss.

WHABAM!!!!!

LADIES AND GENTS I PRESENT TO YOU:

JAMES FRANCO IN DRAG

YESSSSSSSSSS!

Can we, as a nation, as a people agree that James Franco in drag is the hottest thing to hit this country since the Beatles' plane touched down in 1964??? I don't care if you're a straight male, a straight female, a gay person of either gender, bisexual, transgendered, whathaveyou, JAMES FRANCO IN DRAG is like the new gold standard of hotness.

James Franco in drag is like the lingua franca of attractive.

James Franco in drag is basically Dr. Frankenfurter combined with Anna Wintour combined with Brad Pitt combined with Angelica Heuston combined with PURE AWESOME. And then SET ON FIRE, a fire started by the sheer hotness of James Franco in drag.


I want to write a movie starring James Franco in drag that would just be him, in drag, sitting on a stool, reading poetry. Shot in black and white. And I would make MILLIONS.

In fact, I'm going to begin a letter-writing campaign declaring that we should edit the common parlance to replace "lie back and think of England" with "lie back and think of James Franco in drag" because, hell, everyone would have more fun that way.

Have I mentioned I'm feverish? I'm feverish.

FEVERISH WITH LOVE FOR JAMES FRANCO IN DRAG.

Also a fever of, like, 99.9F, but I can't tell because I don't have a temperature because I'm not a real adult yet because I haven't made sweet sweet love to James Franco in drag.

Haha, scratch that last bit. What I meant to say was that I don't own a thermometer. But given the option, I would go for sweet sweet lovin' every time. EVERY DAMN TIME.

Shit man, James Franco in drag. James fuckin' Franco in drag.

You know, come to think of it, James Franco in drag would make a pretty rad name for a rock band.

It's bedtime like woah.

I have finally found My Cause! The cause that I would become a vigilante masked superhero for! You know, with a cape!

I'm too good-natured for my own good to get really worked up about most things. Petty crime? Maybe those people really needed whatever it was they stole from me. Biting insults? Yeah, they hurt my feelings, but you have to admit that it was clever and funny, so kudos!

But that for which I WILL NOT STAND is my daily battle not to get hit by cars while walking to work. SERIOUSLY. Everybody out on the road at 8:30 in the morning on a weekday in NW Washington, DC is a fucking MANIAC. They must all be late for work or whatever, and combine their East Coast entitlement with their four cups of coffee they have already imbibed and the fucking traffic on Georgia Avenue AND a two-ton destruction machine made of steel and SERIOUSLY I have a close call pretty much twice a week.

What is the deal, people? I'm about to start wearing some brass knuckles and punching the shit out of any car that threatens me while I'm in the crosswalk. Because DC has these things called traffic laws? (Wild, I know.) And when someone is in a crosswalk you're supposed to stop for them? That means stop your car ALL THE WAY with the BREAK PEDAL which should be IN THE MIDDLE.

I've already got my outfit worked out. Day glo vest, gloves with stop signs on them, a mask that covers my eyes but not my ANGRY EYEBROWS so I can let the drivers know my discontent.

Seriously.

I experience music in a much more intense way than some people do.

I need to beat a drum to keep my heartbeat in my chest. To keep my thoughts from descending to chaos away from the beat of the world.

I realize this sounds a little, you know, hippie in a drum circle, but so what? The people who hate drum circles are only the ones who aren't in them, and, in a way, the entire world operates on the same principle as a drum circle. Christ. I need to stop talking about that now, if only because I'm weirding myself out.

And now there's a whole new emotional depth to any music I choose to listen to. So, sure fire cry song: where are you now - wynn walent.

Then we've got to wrest it back from the brink, so we'll try a classic: John Wayne's Teeth - Eaglebear Singers.

And then, if you're feeling up for another bout of weeping, try this on for size: See You Soon - Coldplay.

I keep contemplating making a playlist. One that would make me feel enough, but not too much. But this is a bankrupt notion for a couple reasons. 1) It wouldn't work. I don't have anything that consistently doesn't make me cry yet. And 2) I would never be able to listen to any of these songs again.

That will probably happen anyway, but still.

When I'm not listening to music, I'm memorizing poetry. I just need to have some fucking rhythm right now, at all times, or I feel like I'll lose track of... something vital.

I don't grind my teeth, but the dentist says that beating them in constant rhythm is just as bad for them.

A friend of mine died last week. He was 25. His name was Jim.

It's so very strange to have someone you know die this young. The cause is nearly always a tragic accident of some sort: a motorcycle crash or falling into a river and being carried away by the current. Jim died in a small plane crash in northern Colorado on Wednesday, August 4.

***

I have so many things I want to ask him. Not important things. I want to ask him which albums be bought off of Amazon's monthly mp3 $5 albums. There are usually 100, this month there are 1000, and I don't know where to start. I want to ask him how his cat is. I want to ask him how he likes Boston in the summer.

***

I don't know if it's irony or what, but I keep thinking back to all those months that I was so sure he was going to die in Iraq. He had joined the army right out of high school, served a tour in Korea, and then began attending Lewis & Clark College. With me. And all my friends.

In 2006 he was called back up. He was able to make a case for finishing out the year, but headed to Iraq in the summer of 2007. And I was so worried.

I had a google news alert for his name. Just in case.

When he came back in 2008, I was so happy. We all were.

***

One time, in early 2007, he showed me an indie band with a male guitarist who he thought looked like me. What was that band, Jim? I can't remember.

***

He is one of the brightest kids I know. And of everyone I know, he is the person who most deserved to reach old age. He could be a fairly crotchety 25 year old. I couldn't wait until we were old together, drinking his home-brewed ginger beer and complaining about the youth and their lack of respect. He had no time for bullshit and even less time for whiners.

***

Was it TV on the Radio? No, I would have remembered it like that, and, besides, that guy doesn't look anything like me. Maybe the band began with a w.

***

I went to visit him in Boston last autumn. I am so glad I did. We drank beer (gluten free for me) and watched the first two hours of Ken Burns's National Parks documentary.

He had a ball pit he and his girlfriend Chelsea made.

***

Passion Pit? No, they weren't around in early 2007. I wish I could just ask him.

***

As difficult as this is for all of us who counted Jim as a friend, the past few days have been exponentially worse for Chelsea. She lost her mother, her stepfather, and Jim as well in that plane crash. They were flying back home after visiting her at her summer job in Rocky Mountains National Park. The small, single engine plane didn't make it out of Colorado.

My loss is so small and pathetic compared to hers. My heart breaks for her.

***

I know it wasn't Jang Ki-ha and Faces. The band wasn't Korean, that's for sure. Maybe Canadian? I feel like I should be able to remember. I wanted to buy their CD. Or maybe I was just flattered that Jim saw them and thought of me.

***

Jim liked to dance. He was a Scottish country dancer and he owned his own kilt. It had many, many pleats. He thought utilikilts were a waste of good fabric, and if you were going to be wearing a kilt, it might as well be tartan.

He was a man of Opinions.

***

He and I danced together, many a time. We danced traditional Irish dances, Scottish dances, Israeli dances, Salsa, the Meringue, the Cha-Cha-Cha. We took a ballroom dance class together. He was a great lead, and I was a competent follow. He was my favorite partner in the class.

One time we went to Portland's largest Contra dance together, along with several other friends. The band was huge and the music was fast. He knew how to use centrifugal force (or centripetal, or whatever-- he was the physics major, not I) and he spun me like I'd never been spun before. I felt like anything was possible. I felt like I could fly.

***

He ironed all his clothes. I think that was something he picked up from the Army. Some of the protocol never left him.

***

I broke down crying last night when I realized he was probably still wearing his dog tags. I saw he was still wearing them when I visited Boston. I sort of pointed at them and said, "Really?" He didn't answer.

When the sheriff's department found the crash site, they thought there was only one person in the plane.

***

We first met on September 19, 2005. I know, because he was dressed as a pirate. For a long time I knew him only as "Jim the pirate kid." He was really good at talking like a pirate.

Other things he was really good at: mixing drinks, dating, fixing electronics, gathering people to eat waffles and drink wine and play wii. Making tacos. Making me laugh.

***

I wish I could talk to him again. I wish I could see him again. I wish I knew what band he showed me in 2007. I think it was Wintersleep, second in from the right. But I'll never know for sure.

***

I knew Jim pretty well. But I'll never get to know him better. I'll never hear all his stories from his time in Iraq. I will never get to dance with him again.

I hope he died without feeling any pain.