Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Oscar Night

People in Libya, hold your horses.

Union in Wisconsin: stand your ground.

Nobody DO anything, because the Oscars are on.

The devotion to the Oscars runs deep in my family. For example, right now my brother has realized that the oozy sores scattered over his torso might be chicken pox. Since he's in Albuquerque New Mexico, I'm inclined to say Measles. Of course, no one is going to the ER because: Oscar night? The world ends. You had your chance, Libya.

You Be the Judge

Gary's kept quiet last few days, since I'm not such a good listener when I'm asleep. Well, I'm awake now. He's said two things today that I think are questionable.

On salted chocolate caramels: "The dark ones are better, because the salt flavor 'matches' better with the dark chocolate. Plus, the dark ones are smaller, and candy tastes differently when it is different sizes."

On a particular pair of jeans that are the same size as all of his jeans: "Those jeans always fit half a size smaller, because they're dark. Dark-wash Levis and Dockers always fit more snugly. That's because they process they use to dye them darker makes the cloth shrink."

All I can think is that 1) he gets drunk on my rapt attention and starts talking out of his ass, or 2) he is right. I can see his point.  Of two versions of a thing, the darker version would usually be smaller and more condensed. That would apply to size and flavor. The more I think about it the more sense it makes.

I need to get out of the house and check in on reality.

Do You Like Space Liftoffs? And Holst's 'The Planets?'

In honor of the space shuttle liftoff today, here is the slow-motion liftoff of Apollo 11, set to music.

Siiiiiick

I feel like dehydrated poo.

 

Buddhist Monks. Crazy? You Decide.

I'm still thinking about Jared Loughner, the crazy guy who shot Congresswoman Giffords. 

(By the way, the Federal Marshalls released a new, more neutral mugshot.

Old Mugshot: Crazy eyes!  New Mugshot: Bratty Eyes

    

He's less slappable in the new mugshot. Or maybe more? I can't decide.)

At any rate, what brought him back to mind was Joe Biden's statement about Egypt. At some point, and I can't say specifically when, because I was by the Equator being pummelled by the Sun, Joe Biden remarked on how much the people wanted reform. He cited a case of a 26-year old Tunisian setting himself on fire in protest.

I believe it happened. I believe it was a result of repression. But aren't there a group of people in the middle east saying, "Did you hear about that crazy college kid who set himself on fire?" "Oh, yes, that kid's obviously mentally ill."

And worse, somewhere across the seas a Dopple-Biden is claiming Jared Loughner sacrificed himself in a noble effort to rid the people of an agent of our evil government. An unsettling thought.

 

New Favorite Show: Shameless

Gary on why he never watched The Sopranos: "All the characters are bad. There's no hero. No one to root for."

Gary on why he never watched Rescue Me: "All the characters are bad. There's no hero. No one to root for."

Gary on why he never watched Boardwalk Empire: All the characters are bad. There's no hero. No one to root for."

Gary's new favorite show in Shameless. And it's a testament to how good this show is that he has suspended his moral code. Everyone in the show is unscrupulous.

It's based on a British show, which I look forward to seeing someday on BBCA, but the American version has William H. Macy and Joan Cusack and some luminously pretty woman. And some guy with dark hair. But mainly, some magical writers who can write long epic drunken rants for William H. Macy. And usually, I wouldn't like drunken rants, but these are so wrong ...

Okay, I'm ashamed to tell you this. The most recent episode has WHM playing "Frank" who is trying to hustle up some cash, so he tries to pawn a watch. The shopkeeper turns and Frank sees he's wearing a yarmulke, so Frank begins railing against Palestinians. When Frank asks $200 for the watch, and the shopkeeper counters with $35, there is this scene (which is WRONG) while Frank tries to school the Jewish man on negotiation. (In a way that is WRONG.)

But of course, the shopkeeper turns out to be the hero of the scene. I guess that's what makes it acceptable to Gary that everyone on the show is corrupt, because the peripheral characters are then shining examples of reason.

Of course, I'm just an easy target for anything inappropriate, so that's why I love it.

Muammar al-Gaddafi

Ah, so that's how WIkipedia is spelling Mo's name. Muammar Khaddafi is the spelling I remember, though I think one news outlet went with the Q.

I was amazed to hear he's been ruling 40 plus years. I think it was the "Libyan Hit Squads" that brought him international press attention, back in the early eighties.

But I will never be able to think of him a crazed dictator, because he will always live on in my memory in the SNL commercial spoof of the "Jordache Look."

Even though it aired 10/3/1981, 2/6/82, and 3/27/82, I couldn't for the life of me find it anywhere. All that the CIA LEFT OUT THERE (citation needed) was transcript, which I give you here.

 The Khaddaffi Look

 

[Libyan leader Muammar Khaddafi is shown performing various tasks in the style of a Jordache Jeans commercial]

Singer:
"He's a liberated Libyan with an independent mind.
He's a dominating leader who is working overtime.
He's got the look the Third World is after.
He wants to be the OPEC master.
Drillin' (woo-ooo), killin' (woo-ooo)
Invadin' Chad, Khaddaffi has the look that's bad!
The Khaddaffi look, the Khaddaffi look."

Announcer: Whether you're extending your territorial waters or just chopping off a criminal's hand, do it in clothes by Colonel Muammar Khaddaffi.

Singer: "The Khaddaffi look, the Khaddaffi look..."

Props to SNL Transcripts for not caving in to the CIA.

Issue

Wednesday before the cruise: I hear a scritching in the wall. Is it a squirrel? I ignore it.

Thursday before the cruise: I find mouse droppings in the broiler pan which is stored under the oven. I delude myself and say, oh, I haven't used that pan in years,so that mouse must be dead.

So, tonight I went on a little bit of a cooking spree, and two of the five bowls I pull from under the counter contained mouse poo.

"Gary, we have mice."
"It is spring. Everyone has mice. Let them be."
"The mice must die. Remember the last time?"
"Oh, all right. There are still unused traps out in the garage. I'll bring them in."

I hate mice, and mice in my Kitchen is unthinkable. Because when mice die all their lice jump off. Into my corningware. Shudder.

Foo-foo Dogs

This happened the day we left for the cruise.

We dropped Mac off to be boarded, and came back home to pick up some things before we left for the airport. We pulled into the driveway, and there was a foo-foo girly little white dog peeing on our mailbox.

Thought 1: "Right now our house is being robbed by someone with a dog."
Thought 2: "Little bitch knows Mac's gone. This is a contempt pee."

Gary said, "It's wearing a leash. Jump out and see where it lives."

I jumped out in the snow. In my summer shoes. The little white dog took that chance to bound over the snowbank where I was standing and jog down the street.

I jogged after LWD, and I tried to step on the red leash trailing behind her. But as I went faster, LWD went faster. Always with the leash a few inches ahead of me. Then LWD got far enough ahead that I couldn't catch her. 

I stopped.
She stopped.
Then she barked at me.

She barked, "Come on, fat ass. Come get me. I am a sweet helpless dog."

And it went on this way for a few driveways. I'd jog, she'd jog, I'd fall behind, she'd stop and encourage me. We crossed someones front yard, then back yard, then another street.

There was a little brown foo-foo dog alone on a corner lot, barking madly at LWD.

"Oh no," I thought, "Dog fight." Turns out little brown dog was trailing an identical red leash. A red leash that should have been connected to someone.

Little brown dog led little white dog through several sideyards.  I'll fall behind, white dog would wait for me and bark, brown dog would wait for her and bark. My own little spirit guides leading me to ... what? What had been on the end of those red leashes?

Well, obviously someone who was now incapacitated, blood from his head wound freezing to the empty sidewalk.

"Come on!" barked the foo-foo dogs. "He needs your help!" They turned a corner and headed straight to the front door of a house, then looked back at me expectantly. The screen door was closed. The front door was open.

Luckily, I didn't have to trespass to find the dead body  in the house. At that moment, a living man in a blue sweater came over a hill up the street, yelling "Puppies! Come here!"

"Are these your dogs?" I yelled.

Little white dog then scrabbled desparately at the screen door. She put on a big Production about how she really wanted to be Inside. Outside was awful! This mean woman chased them!

"Yeah, you better get back in Baby!" the man yelled. Then, to me, "Thanks for finding them. I could hear them barking, but I couldn't tell where it was coming from."

I began to tell him I found Baby by my house, just over  ... over where?

I had no idea where I was. Luckily I could trace my path back through the snow to home. Gary was there, remarkably calm given that I'd vanished for ten minutes on a day we had to catch a flight. If I see Baby and Not-Baby again I'll just herd them home with the Mini.

New Music on the Cruise

The nicest thing about the cruise is discovering new music, usually new music Canadians have known about for decades, like Jason Plumb. There's never enough time to hear all the bands, so you discover new music by walking past their venue on the way to the bathroom.

Gary and I both picked up new favorites this year. Gary, as usual, was drawn to the singer with breasts, Jenn Grant.

She has a very nice warbly voice. And breasts, and you know that's all Gary needs. I need lyrics, but she had some good lyrics in her song about her dog. (No lyrics inserts on the ship. Boo.)

I think my favorite artist this time around was Mike Evin. His recent visit with his grandmother inspired a few songs about being old. I'm not old enough for those songs, but at least they weren't songs about New Love and the way You smell in the morning and how You broke my heart and the summer We turned eighteen.

What I need is a song about the summer We turned 48 and how the beast with two backs has lots of saggy fat. There. That's a lyric. Writre a song about that.

There were some bands I haven't had a chance to hear, like Massachusetts band Stephen Kellogg and the SIxers. Here's what troubles me: I recognize that guy in the white tie below. Perhaps he's been on the ship before, or perhaps he just resembles my hairdresser, Hot Steve, who has his own album on Amazon and iTunes now.  Even odder: the guy to his left is wearing a Kutis funeral home t-shirt which, if the commercials are to be believed, is a "Saint Louis owned and operated funeral home."

 

Now, this last thing is remarkable. I'm so deep in the indie music scene that I recognized "Longtime [Alternate Routes] band member, bassist Chip Johnson." (Guy on the right.) They played at Blueberry Hill. I plotted to breed the guy next to him with Steven Page.

 

I went up to him, and said, "Aren't you the bassist with Alternate Routes?"

"Alternate Routes ... goes on without me."

"So are you performing on the ship?"

"I'm just hanging out with Stephen Kellog. He had room and I said sure, free cruise."

I KNOW. I sensed that he was temporarily One of Us and was able to speak with him without making an ass of myself.

Slippery Brown Slope

Gary threw his back out while we were packing for the cruise.

"Well, that's it. I can't go."
"Okay then! See you in a week."

He realized that would not fly TWO years in a row. (Instead, he was a trouper and brought along his cane and back brace.)

In Gary's world, pain and illness are like Male PMS: it gives you a great excuse to act like a dick. And dick it up he did, I'm afraid, at least until we got to the hotel. Then he had a few key lime martinis to relax his sore back. As a side effect, the "ugly" room he disparaged before was charming, and the "awful noise" from the street was manageable.

The next day he had two drinks at Wet Willies, and again I noticed: the alcohol not only soothed his back pain, but he was much less irritable. I encouraged him to drink as much as possible. He was very pleasant company.

His muscle-relaxant of choice on the cruise was "Baileys, double, straight up." By Thursday the bartenders would "confirm" his order before he said it. Morning: I couldn't move in the room without a squabble. Evening: I couldn't move in the room without having my boobs honked. Delightful!

I began to trick him into drinking Bailey's. I'd order it "by accident." I know it was wrong. He drank so much Baileys he fancied himself a connoisseur. He claimed the Bailey's we had in the upscale on-board restaurant was a higher grade. Like Gold and Silver Patron, but for Bailey's.

Not that we are back, it's been hard not to coax him to drink every night. He's so much more agreeable. I know. I didn't encourage him to drink anything tonight, though he complained his back hurt. I know it's a slippery slope.

South Beach

I can tell you about South Beach from the corner of 8th and Ocean up to 17th and Collins.

 

From the South, northward.

8th and Ocean
Many of the cruisers stayed at the Colony Hotel, which is close to a remarkable bar called Wet Willies. It serves my type of liquor. All Slushies, all the time.

 

I had a mix of Chocolate Thunder and Monkey Shines, so it had a nice chocolate / banana flavor. You couldn't even taste the alcohol, which was there, I assure you.

After, we had dinner at the fabled News Cafe. Crabcakes: on a scale of 1 (my crabcakes) to 10 (Almonds in Clayton crabcake cruller) they were a 5. The philly sandwich was very nice ... but fabled? Why?

11th and Ocean
Our hotel, the Hotel Victor, has a jellyfish theme, including jellyfish lamps and a jellyfish tank.

 

Our room (ooh, fancy mirror shot - check out the jellyfish lamp in the reflection):

 

The bathroom was particularly cunning. First, it had bath salts in a small vial, and we tried five times but could never get the proper focus on a photo of us trying to snort it. Next, the toilet was behind a door with a porthole, but the rest of the bathroom was open. There were curtains you could draw, but forget that. Last, the over-the-sink mirror was on a set of rails, so you could slide it across the wall to where you wanted it.

I asked that we not have a pool view, because Gary would have felt pervy waking up to bikini beauties (no, he WOULD). I didn't realize this forces you to have an ocean view.

 

We walked there and I put my toes in the ocean. Gary felt pervy fully dressed on the beach (he DID) so we left.

17th and Collins
UrbanSpoon recommended a place called Casa Tua for lunch, and as soon as we passed 16th and Collins the streets began to empty. Gary decided that meant it was a high-crime area (you may remember Le Chat episode in France), so things were tense. Ended up UrbanSpoon was wrong, Casa Tua is not a lunch place, so I collapsed by the beachfront (safe) while Gary went and got me some butterscotch. Then we backtracked to ...

16th and Collins
We ate lunch at the fabled Pizza Bar. High ratings on UrbanSpoon and Google. Have people never had pizza in South Beach? It was steamed pizza. They cooked it fresh, but they could have cooked it more. Dampest pizza I've ever had.

Hear me complain about the food? The best food was unquestionably the butterscotch (Werther's) and the paella (at the hotel - see below). That will be the last paella I eat, because it was pricey. The waiter listed it when he told us about the specials! It was for two, but it was $103.00. I KNOW. I love the extra three bucks,as if to prove they line itemized it. I am mentally maxed out. That, plus the four cocktails and the required gratuity we didn't notice and the forty dollar tip Gary threw on top of that total - gah. I'm back to eating at Bob Evan's and liking it.

Nudity, Planned and Otherwise

Planned Nudity
If you have the naked photo, look for the redhead in sunglasses with her leg draped over the white railing. Someone else's arm is behind her head and covers Jim the Bassist's penis. Follow Jim's left arm up to where it ends at a man wearing round sunglasses and a watch. That man's watch arm lands at my sternum. You can follow my right breast as it points down, or look to the left to find Gary. He's between me and the (diapered) baby.

Voyeur Nudity
I was out on my balcony, and I glanced toward the my friend's balcony two doors down. There's a a partition between balconies that extends almost, not quite, to the railing. I saw the knee of one of her suite-mates, and then I saw a woman wander toward the edge. She was close enough to the edge for me to see she was wearing a mesh bra. I saw her long enough to feel guilty I was seeing her transparent bra when a naked woman came up to the railing. Na. Ked. I looked the other direction, because clearly she had no idea I was there. Then I thought, well, she's the one out there naked, and I looked back. Then she went back in, damnit, and I hadn't thought to look at her face.

I saw my friend later, with two other women, and I gave her grief about the naked party on her balcony. And of course the two other women were the nudists. But it was cool. That kind of a boat.

Celebrity Nudity
A newbie couple came on the boat, and asked us if BNL would only be doing the three ticketed evening concerts. "Oh, no," we said, "There are sail-away shows and kid's shows and all their side projects. Plus, they pop-in to all the other band's shows and play along for a song."

So, evidently there was a planned pop-in to the Guster concert by Tyler, the BNL drummer. At then end of one song Guster segues into the theme from Chariots of Fire, and Ty was supposed to jog around the stage in his underwear. Which is what happened. Minus the underwear.

The only shot Gary got was just at the second Naked Ty jogs behind Ryan the front man.

 

Really a damn shame. I can't find the video anywhere yet. Ty is quite bouncy.

Urp

Well, after years of happy sea-health, I'm feeling a touch of sea-sickness. It isn't what I'd expected.

I eat food. Food gets to my duodenum, becomes gorge, and then rises back through my esophagus until it reaches my ears. This causes a) itchy ears b) burping and c) a backward peristaltic process.

I keep eating in the hope my digested food will reach a critical mass. It can't defy gravity forever. The only way out is down, food, get used to it.

Happily I haven't done anything but burp. I'm considering going off the coast of Cozumel and drinking some water so things move the right direction.

Overcast in Mexico - I could not BE happier

De riguer

Miami Heat and my brush with greatness

It would seem my body would actually be happier back in Saint Louis with their three inches of accumulated snow. All I did was walk across Ocean View Drive, feel sand on my feet, and Puke. Well, I didn't quite, but only because I was in a crowd. Instead, Gary found us a bench and I burped and swallowed until the tidal wave of nausea passed. I blamed the heat. I could have blamed the two key lime martinis from last night, I suppose.

The heat really started to get to me after lunch. I was walking so slowly that Gary was 15 feet ahead of me. So when Senator Claire McCaskill popped out of a side door of a fancy hotel, (Yes! True!) he was close enough to murmur "Senator" and nod politely.

"CLAAAAAIRE!" I roared from down the road. When I threw my arms apart expressively, she headed right for me.

I pointed at her happily and said, "You make me proud!"

"It's all good work," she replied. "Good to see you!"

"I saw you were on the flight from Saint Louis last night," I babbled. Because that IS the entire basis for our non-relationship, that and our slant to the left. I might have actually been slanting to the left, because she patted my left arm and said, "I'm glad to be here. They got three inches of snow last night!" Then she moved on. And probably questioned her life's work.

Paella for dinner

Eeeeeeeeeee!

Fellow Traveler

There was a woman with a sweet face and a blonde pageboy traveling with a tall gentleman. She steered him to a seat and stood herself. They were almost old enough that you might assume the woman would plop right down. Instead she got on her cell and said, "what's the statement."

She listened in a fashion that suggested she was willing the information across the line.

I thought, damn, I should know who you are. She kind of reminded me of Senator Claire McCaskill.

She said, "Good. Go." and hung up.

I admired her ring and pants and nifty pink jacket. Then some guy came up to her and introduced himself. Said he really appreciated all her hard work.

She leaned to his girlfriend, shook her hand, said she was "Claire."

Evidently I was not cool enough, because Gary felt my heart jump and whispered, "I thought that was her."

She flies business class, not first. So now a guy a few rows in from me is taking video of her.

Exciting!

Bias Bullet and Boat Bullet

Bias
The first day the pro-Mubarak supporters made an appearance (riding in on camels - repressed theater majors, I say), I heard my beloved Anderson refer to "the protesters" on his left and "the mob" on his right. Huh, I thought, that's a little biased. Aren't they both throwing rocks?

Then they next day he continued on describing anyone who was violent as a "paid Mubarak supporter" or "a thug." How did he know their politics? They don't wear uniforms.  Maybe some peaceful protesters decided to bring their camels to the riot the next day. I don't trust anything that seems as black-and-white as they are reporting.

Boat
For the next week you will see nothing on this blog except upside-down and sideways photos. That's if I'm in port ... out of port I will pay through the nose to write a little scrap of text, while Gary stands behind me chanting "Are you done yet? Done yet? Still not done?"

 

The Dog Saves Our Lives: A True Story

 

We tried to go to bed last night at 11, but the dog wouldn't settle. He planted himself at the foot of the German-Shepherd-weight Grand Carpeted Staircase leading to our bed and barked. We both got up, let him outside, gave him treats, rubbed his belly, checked his ears, and hauled the little bastard up into bed and pinned him there. Every time he'd get free, bound down the Grand Staircase, and bark.

At about 2:30 am we'd tried every configuration of bed, chair, guest bed we could think of. I was in the big bed when Gary picked Mac up, dumped him on top of my head, and then knelt down to whisper sweet comfort to the dog, when suddenly there was a loud bang and Gary - screamed. Gary hauled me out of bed as I screamed back, "Are you okay?"  I looked around to see the damage - and our bed had collapsed. It's one of those beds in which the box spring is suspended off the floor, and for about twelve years you could admire the wood floor beneath. For the past eight years a smaller mattress has been stored underneath, so the box spring and my mattress only plummeted three inches. Still. Could have died.

Gary immediately said, "That's what the dog was trying to tell us!"

Well, he immediately said, "That's from all the wild sex we've been having" and THEN he said, "You know you're fat when the bed breaks" and THEN he said the thing about the dog.

But still, we gave the dog credit for sensing the bed was unstable. (A supporting piece broke off.) Of course the blame goes to me, as two days ago I begged Gary for help so we could flip and pivot the mattress. Never flip and pivot the mattress! It could be fatal.

I thought I'd get ahead of the game and shop for a new bed online, since I figured Gary would turn on our bedroom set because it tried to kill us. Instead, Gary is making an effort to rehabilitate the bed by use of a power drill and some screws. It can plot against us next week while we are gone.

Government Shutdown

I know I'm being paranoid, but consider this:

Missouri has called out the national guard to help with the snow disaster.

The police are not patrolling in Saint Louis City due to the weather.

Highway 70 is shut down all through the middle of the state. Hundreds of miles. No highway.

The weather.com radar map.Blue- snow, pink - ice.

 

And I would swallow it all whole, but then I look outside. There is only a quarter inch of ice on my trees, a half inch of sleet on my patio, and an inch of powdery snow on top. This is not life-threatening. This not a blizzard. A blizzard of bullshit, maybe.

So I ask myself, why is the government trapping us inside under false pretenses? Is the Egyptian president flying here and they had to close the airspace? Was there a nerve gas spill?

I just say this to the people in Australia: I would be very sceptical about that Cat 5 hurricane headed at you.