For those of you who have seen the post below, wondered to yourself why I think the best song in the world is by ABBA, then NOT played the video, for the love of God, will you please go back and play it? It's not ABBA.

(Also, I didn't make the video; it's just the only one I could find on YouTube with The Song.

I don't really know a whole lot about music on account of that thing where I wasn't allowed to own a radio while I was living with my parents unless I made an AM one myself (for reals) except that somehow a couple of my sisters owned radios, and I guess they just fulfilled the household radio quota or something. So, point is, I didn't listen to a lot of music before I was 18. Take that into account while I introduce you to the best song in the world:



Yup, it's the awesomest. My sister would have you believe Warren Zevon is the best, but fortunately, we know she's wrong. Zevon is good, but he's no Trout Fishing in America.

You should go look at my sister's blog. It's a blog designed mostly for making money, and today's entry has a homemade commercial featuring my sister and brother-in-law. Honestly, you need to watch it.

Good Idea, Sucky Execution 2: The Worst Harry Potter Book Ever

Haha! Now there's a sensational title, one designed to draw crowds armed with pitchforks and skewers, eh? But really, I think it's important for us to review the absolute worst Harry Potter book written: Exploring Harry Potter, part of Beacham's Sourcebooks for Teaching Young Adult Fiction. Wow! A real scholarly work written about a series we all love! It must rock, right?

Heh. Of course not, or I wouldn't be here bitching about it.

The author is one Elizabeth D. Schafer. What qualifications does she have for writing this book? "Elizabeth D. Schafer earned a Ph.D. in the History of Science and Technology from Auburn University." Say, that doesn't sound like it has a lot to do with Kiddie Lit, does it? Fear not: she has also "completed graduate courses in children's literature." Isn't it comforting to know that any one of you is just two 500 level courses away from being qualified to publish a work in Beacham's Sourcebooks for Teaching Young Adult Fiction?

Enough picking at details -- let's see what Schafer has to say.

Regarding the fairy tale tradition of gold troves: " . . . centuries later the Grimm Brothers discovered the fairy tale of Rapunzel, who was forced by a tyrant to spin straw into gold before he would release her to marry the king." Well, that's an easy mistake to make; after all, books of fairy tales are hard to come by, and fact checking the age old tale of Rapunzel certainly couldn't have been done by asking your average 6-year-old.

Harry's "donning of the Invisibility Cloak in Book I symbolizes Harry's new identity, maturity, and healthy self-esteem." Yes, because an adolescent wanting to be invisible is absolutely a sign of healthy self-esteem.

"Interestingly, Harry does not reimburse the Weasleys when they host him at their house." Shockingly rude, isn't he. I know that when I stayed over at friend's house when I was 11, I paid rent and bought groceries at least twice a week.

"Ron's mother Molly . . . serves as an Earth Mother figure guiding [Harry] in his transition from mere mortal to eminent wizard." Okay, a. why does every chubby woman have to be an Earth Mother? and b. what part of constantly trying to shelter Harry and prevent him from growing up constitute guiding him to being an eminent wizard? Just curious.

"[Ginny's] immaturity and infatuation enable Voldemort to invade the school." Wow, blame the victim much?

"Harry seems to be Hermione's price, awakening her with his bravery." Do I sense a frustrated fanfic here?

"Professor Quirrell, whose name suggests his quarrelsome behavior . . ." Funny, I don't recall any quarrels. Evilness, sure. As my friend Brandon suggested, Quirrell seems more likely to suggests "squirrel," an appropriate description of the stuttering, scurrying man, but my friend Brandon has not completed graduate courses in children's literature, so I do not think we can rely on his opinion.

"Lockheart breaks down and loses his mind." Did she even read the books before writing this?

"The librarian Madame Pince pounces on demanding students and is stingy about loaning books. Her surname rhymes with pence . . ." Did they redefine "rhyme" when I wasn't looking?

"Pettigrew's missing finger symbolizes his inability to make his point effectively." Why, yes, she is pulling this straight out of her ass.

All in all, a textual analysis of Harry Potter could be fun, but it ought to have been written by someone not stupid.

For those of you who knew I was having a tooth extracted today and also knew about my worries concerning whether I would live through it and also were under strict orders to destroy my hard drive before anyone could have a chance to find the porn I deleted last night but probably not permanently -- I lived.

Of course, there's a world of difference between being alive and living, and right now I can only claim being alive. I am probably not the most disgusting person alive (no, this guy is) (wow, did you really click on that? masochist), but I am right up there, what with the drooling blood and blood-crusted lips and bloody spit wads.

One positive aspect was the dentist claiming that my tooth was secretly a wisdom tooth, which I totally don't get since I already had four of those out, and I only had 28 teeth left. It seems that this tooth (bottom on the left, far back) would then be by default a molar. But whatever, we'll go with it. You see, in my own personal hierarchy of Medical Conditions and the Shame That Accompanies Them, needing to have a wisdom tooth out is far less shameful than having a molar out. A wisdom tooth extraction generally happens when you're young and suggests a coming of age; it's practically a John Hughes film. Having any other teeth out suggests hickishness and marriage to one's cousin Cletus. This fifth wisdom tooth hypothesis is further supported by the fact that one of my sisters actually does have five wisdom teeth, so I can claim a possible genetic predisposition. In short, if anyone at all asks, I'll be claiming this extraction as a wisdom tooth and that's that.

Any now, back to slurping up cherry Jell-O. I opted for the red so that I can maybe pretend my bloody drool is really Jell-O drool. Yummy either way!

I for one welcome our Netherlandian overlords

According to the hit tracking site I use to track your every click and move, yesterday this journal had its very first reader from another country -- and not some wimpy, practically-America country either (coughCanadacough) -- the Netherlands!

You got here searching for Gummi Bears bounding here and there, and I hope you were satisfied with what you found. Of course, you probably weren't, since I don't think I actually wrote anything about them, but maybe I should now? To fulfill the needs of the readership?

Gummi Bears was one of the awesome cartoons of the 90's. Or maybe the 80's. It involved a bunch of anthropomorphic bears who were addicted to steroids. Everyone else wanted to steal their "juice," and the main action revolved around the fights and car chases and so on involved in not letting rival gangs get the juice. The pro-drug platform of the show was an awesome counterpoint to Nancy Reagan and helped to glorify drugs, effectively putting an early nail in the coffin of the War on Drugs.

I just have to share . . .

I am having a ridiculously good hair day. Same old shampoo, same old 30 seconds with the hair dryer, damp-head-under-wool-hood-from-home-to-work secret conditioning method. But my hair! Silky, shiny, manageable.

I just can't stop touching it.

You know what I miss? What I feel all nostalgic for? Dockers. No one ever uses that word anymore. They were all anyone (and by anyone, I mean Lisa Troy) could talk about in high school, and while I never went to one, or wanted to go to one, or had a prayer in hell of being invited to one, I still feel like they're a part of my cultural heritage, and everytime someone asks me why I'm feeling nostalgic for pants, a little part of me dies.

Also, I want "thongs" to mean flip-flops again, because "flip-flop" is a stupid word, and I want more people to understand that "tagging" means stealing anything not nailed down just for the sheer joy of the tag and the glory that accompanies the tag, and has nothing to do with spray paint.

(Ultimate tag: someone may wish to forget ever doing this, but it was you-know-you securing the you-know-what from Holcombe Hall. Brilliant.)

And I miss Wallace and Ladmo. Only six of you, max, get that reference, but I really miss it. I'd still trade my soul for a Ladmo Bag.

Good Idea, Sucky Execution

Let's have a weekly feature, shall we? We'll call it "Good Idea, Sucky Execution." First in the series is this video, "Goth Barbie." It's a brilliant idea! It could be so funny! Even the script is pretty good, but the voice over is awful. The woman doing most of it is clearly repressing laughter, which does not contribute to the realistic approach needed to pull this off, and whoever is singing the jingle sounds so fake, like a couple of tweens singing badly . . . well, they just seal this video's fate as a resident in our "Good Idea, Sucky Execution" graveyard.

Cooking with Crazy

If I had my own television cooking show it would be called "The Anxious Chef" or "The Nervous Gourmet" or maybe the "Paranoid Pyscho Cook" -- something to convey the terror with which I approach my cooking. I never learned how to cook properly growing up, and I feel a bit crippled over the lack. There's no signature dish anyone would associate with me, no "Mara's Chocolate Pecan Pie," "Erin's Potato Chips," "Ressa's Pepperoni Salad," or "KC's Stir Fry Sauce."

So I eat out a lot. I live in Chicago -- I'm surrounded by delicious food. But at a certain point, eating out becomes a bit of a surrender, doesn't it? An admission of one's own incompetence. It's humiliating.

This morning, I decided to cook breakfast. "Egg in a basket" sounds delicious, right? Any idiot can handle what is really just toast and fried eggs, right? So I gave it a whirl.


It looks kind of tasty, doesn't it? Unfortunately, that didn't last since I flipped them over to finish them -- how else to cook the whites hanging around on the top or the bread, all uncooked and waiting to poison me? And then of course there was no yolk left to dip the bread in as I'd imagined. And it just tasted kind of yucky. I did eat the bread holes and nibbled off the edges, and that was all yummy. I think though, that maybe I just don't like fried eggs. I can hardly believe it, they look so dadgum delicious, but I never seem to encounter one that tastes the way I think it should.

Eggs in a Basket Final Grade: D.

It seems that as a "blogger" in this modern America, I have a host of duties, particularly as a "blogger" on a grown-up blog site like Blogger. Whereas back in my Live Journal days, my only real duty was to be periodically angsty, with anything else counting just as a delicious, creamy, chocolatey frosting on the cake, here in grown-up "blog" land, I must address serious issues. Politics. Health care. Wars in countries whose names start with "I." It is a solemn duty, my friends, and one I take seriously.

Consequently, I do hereby declare that once each (random unit of time), I will dedicate a journal entry to a serious issue in the world around us.

This (random unit of time)'s issue is: Politics.

This (random unit of time)'s stance on the current issue is: Just say no.

Well! I think we're all better people for having read that, aren't we?

Back to boogers and spit tomorrow.

Every night before I go to bed, I say the same little prayer:

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord of sex to dream,
And if I die before I wake,
I pray I had a good sex dream first.

Okay, maybe not so much every night as just last night, but the point is I firmly believe that it is the solemn duty of my subconscious to compensate for my lack of getting any in real life. To date, said subconscious has failed to get with the program. I've only ever had one -- ONE! -- measly sex dream. And though I enjoyed it in the dream, I was fairly squicked out when I woke up. Still, I pray for dreams of sex, with little hope of it happening.

But then, last night, it happened! A sex dream! Even as I was dreaming it, I was thinking "Finally!" Unfortunately, before we could really get down to it, the people whose house we'd broken into to have sex in their bed came home, and he had to run off whilst I nonchalantly made conversation with the people who never thought to ask what the fuck I was doing there. And then I woke up. So, no, there was no actual sex. Naked in bed, yes. Sex, no.

I'd like to give my subconscious kudos for making an effort, but I would also like to inform it that it needn't bother trying if it's going to make me have sex with men with scuzzy little mustaches. Really, let's not even bother next time if that's the best we can do, okay?

Eight! Eight of all things! I have just had my eighth burnt out light bulb in the last two weeks. This is really bordering on the absurd. Is there something about winter which makes light bulbs burn out? Are all the light bulbs naturally dying at the same time? Or is there something more sinister going on?

When I think about L.M. Montgomery, I touch myself

As promised, one lesbian love letter:

"My Darling--

It really is quite delicious to write that. I ought to be washing a few things but it is really too romantic a night. But the sweet incense of your presence still broods around me like a dream from which I am only half awake.

Darling, I love you so terribly, I do. I have a suspicion that is my chronic indisposition were accurately diagnosed much of it must be pronounced "love." To say that I worship you is a most colorless statement of the fact. I can't tell you how much I loved having you. You are just as pretty as ever you can be with your lovely long braids and sweet, sweet face, and the blue dressing gown, and I adore you. I want you again. I simply cannot endure bot to have you again soon. It sounds quite ungrateful, I know, but I am suffering all the agonies of being in love. I have derived some comfort from sleeping in the precise spot you occupied half hopeful that some of the dear warmth might still be found to linger. But I crave something tangible. I want to hold in my arms what is dearer than life to me -- to lie "spoon fashion" all through a long long night -- to cover your wee hands, your beautiful throat and every part of you with kisses. I'm just mad with love for you.

Perhaps tomorrow I shall be sorry I wrote this. But it is true. I have a feeling that I have treated you unfairly.

And after this shameless confession don't you think I am a terrible creature?"

Ah, l'amour.

My house, in the middle of my street . . .

I know that a number of you have been chomping at the bit to see where I live.

"Chicago! She lives in Chicago! It must be so exciting! So glamorous! I'm so jealous! I wish I lived there!"










Yes, yes it is that, and more. And because you've been so excited to see where I live, I thought I'd give you a few views of my pad.

Right here, friends, is the glorious view from my front window. With its dead sticks claiming to be trees, its slushy streets, and a sky as grey as my roots, Chicago is unmatched in its winter beauty. (I included the street sign so you can stalk me. Y'know, if you want. No pressure. I'm not saying you have to stalk me, I just think it would be nice if someone would stalk me once in a while. Hey, I know you're busy, I know you have a life, I know you can't be out stalking me every night.

...

But if you loved me, you would.)


And here I give you the view from the back door.



It is glamorous, isn't it?

All kidding aside, we got a shitload of snow a couple days ago. See?


What a waste. All that snow should be melted down to give water to a third-world village for a week. Or . . . or . . .

SNOWMAN!


Why is he screaming?

"You bitch! You fucking plucked my eye out, you fucking bitch!"



Wha-? I plucked out no eye!






"Oh yeah? Then what's that?"











Ummm . . .









"You're a fucking psycho, you know that?"



You know what? I think it's time for your meds now.





"Meds? I'm not any m--ARGHHHHHHHH!"


Sorry, boys and girls, Mr. Snowman had to go. Hope you enjoyed your tour of my home!


"I . . . hate . . . you . . ."



Aw. I love you too, Mr. Snowman.