I woke up at 7:30 on Sunday morning feeling as if someone had beat me up mercilessly, and without missing any part of my body. Everything from my fingers to ankles to cheeks to elbows--everything-- was completely sore. And things went from bad to worse. Within a few hours I was alternately shaking and sweating and had a temperature and I spent all of Sunday on the couch, feeling, and I am sure, looking, pathetic.
I'm still not feeling great, but today I was able to eat something other than coffee ice cream (it's weird what you can tolerate eating when you have no appetite), so I must be on the mend.
But really, who gets the flu in the middle of June? I mean, I haven't even been around anyone or anywhere where that would make sense.
The bright spots in the last couple of days were 1) a funny text message joke from Dr. Awesome and 2) a fabulous Glenn Danzig you tube video sent to me by Mikey J. Thank you, gentlemen.
Lest this become nothing but a post bitching about my not-so-interesting illness--
***
An apology to J-Bro, since I forgot to mention her in my post about Acapulco's Gold. I am especially remiss because that 21st birthday celebration was sort of memorable. And to Qwanty: I wonder--am I using the term "cognitive dissonance" at all correctly? Because I almost didn't do it, knowing that you were reading. I have a feeling it is one of those terms that gets misused by the masses--you know, like "irony".
***
Did you hear that Tommy Lee and Pammy have moved back in together? I'm really pulling for those crazy kids. And, let's face it, they are both so disgusting and filthy at this point that they really aren't fit for anyone else (particularly now that Pam has already had a Kid Rock phase).
***
FSK visited from New York at the end of last week, and it was really, really fun to see her, and to see the other PSU crew that turned out for her visit. Also, she wanted to eat at the exact places that I have been wanting to eat since I've been here: Dots and the Delta. Come to think of it, maybe I was susceptible to the last of the flu virus because of the comfort food diet last week.
***
Good things come in threes, you know. My parents celebrated their 38th (!) wedding anniversary on Friday. That's cute, right? Blake celebrated his last birthday as a 20-something on Saturday. We had a family BBQ at the compound. Sunday, of course, was Father's Day. I'm afraid that it was a bit of a disappointment for Bruce (as you already know, I wasn't much for a celebration). It's too bad, because as most of you know, he's one of the best dads out there.
17 June 2008
11 June 2008
Word Made Flesh
OK, so I'm not some kind of hippie or anything--I'm as much of a skeptic as anyone you are likely to meet--but sometimes I do have to admit that there does seem to be a relationship between speaking something and having it come to pass. That is--sometimes it does feel that you can talk something into being.
Just a few mere hours ago, I spoke of the legendary and mighty Space Room, and lo! That is where I spent the last 3 hours, quite happily. For those of you who have enjoyed the pleasures of the Space Room, I invite you to lean back and recollect the wonderful times that you have had there. For those of you who have not been initiated, I say to you, come visit me here tout de suite so that you can begin making memories of your own. I will pick you up at the airport and deliver you immediately to the Space Room.
I've been frequenting the Space Room since I turned 21. The last time I was there was about a year ago. I'm always afraid that it will not be as good when I go back. But tonight I went with my cousin, and his lovely boyfriend Sean (who is also a colleague of mine) and it was everything that I remembered: the drinks were strong and cheap, the waitresses sassy, the jukebox filled with Neil Diamond, Patsy Cline, Elton John, Johnny Cash and the Beatles. My Bloody Mary glass was filled with the inexplicable sesame seeds. We were bathed in black light and surrounded by florescent paintings of Mt. Hood, downtown Portland, and Haystack Rock.
In a word, the Space Room is always, always reliable. And that reliability provides the backdrop for great conversation, memorable occasions, and all-around good times. And lest you think that I am just (once again) being biased in favor of PDX, let me tell you what Sean said about it: a) that as soon as he walked in he felt like he was on the set of a movie and b) by the time he left, the Space Room was his new favorite bar ever.
God bless Sean, and God bless the Space Room.
Just a few mere hours ago, I spoke of the legendary and mighty Space Room, and lo! That is where I spent the last 3 hours, quite happily. For those of you who have enjoyed the pleasures of the Space Room, I invite you to lean back and recollect the wonderful times that you have had there. For those of you who have not been initiated, I say to you, come visit me here tout de suite so that you can begin making memories of your own. I will pick you up at the airport and deliver you immediately to the Space Room.
I've been frequenting the Space Room since I turned 21. The last time I was there was about a year ago. I'm always afraid that it will not be as good when I go back. But tonight I went with my cousin, and his lovely boyfriend Sean (who is also a colleague of mine) and it was everything that I remembered: the drinks were strong and cheap, the waitresses sassy, the jukebox filled with Neil Diamond, Patsy Cline, Elton John, Johnny Cash and the Beatles. My Bloody Mary glass was filled with the inexplicable sesame seeds. We were bathed in black light and surrounded by florescent paintings of Mt. Hood, downtown Portland, and Haystack Rock.
In a word, the Space Room is always, always reliable. And that reliability provides the backdrop for great conversation, memorable occasions, and all-around good times. And lest you think that I am just (once again) being biased in favor of PDX, let me tell you what Sean said about it: a) that as soon as he walked in he felt like he was on the set of a movie and b) by the time he left, the Space Room was his new favorite bar ever.
God bless Sean, and God bless the Space Room.
10 June 2008
Golden Evenings
Friday night I was out working at a coffee shop and my parents called me and asked me to meet them at Acapulco's Gold for dinner. Which was awesome.
My parents love Acapulco's Gold, which is sort of weird, because it isn't really a "parents" kind of place. But they have (according to my mother) great chicken nachos and the strongest, cheapest, and most easily drinkable margaritas I've ever had. The margaritas taste sort of like lemon-lime crystal lite, but with a kick. That sounds disgusting, but it is actually sort of marvelous.
Further, all the servers are heavily tattooed and pierced, there are always a couple of tables of gay boys, and the restaurant is all the way over in deep NW--a long drive from the Happy Valley compound.
But Bruce and the Kare Bear love it.
There are two strange consequences of this for me:
1. Many of my adult family memories actually take place at the Gold. My parents have taken all my out-of-town guests there (Laura has an especially good story about the night that we went there). We've celebrated family birthdays there. Dr. Awesome and I took our parents there together. AND, the Gold is where my brother and sister-in-law told us that they were having a baby. (Not just any baby, it turns out, but rather the lovely Lady E.)
2. Because so many of my family memories take place at the Gold, but also so many of my 20-something memories happened there too, I have some serious cognitive dissonance about the place. After all, I also have memories of going there with Anita and Katie (Katie got so drunk BEFORE dinner that she spent most of the meal outside throwing up). And of the time that I walked there with Emily after work at the pharm and we split 2 pitchers of margaritas (which could easily kill a horse) and then walked back to the pharm and, because I was still drunk, I had to take the # 15 bus down Belmont and call my dad to pick me up. And there have been lots of nights there with Qwanty (when she dated the bun-wearing guy) and Dr. Awesome and my brother and who knows who else.
I don't mind Acapulco's Gold as a crossroads for my youthful memories and my family memories, but shoot me if I ever start hanging out at the Space Room or BOG with my parents--it'll be all over then.
My parents love Acapulco's Gold, which is sort of weird, because it isn't really a "parents" kind of place. But they have (according to my mother) great chicken nachos and the strongest, cheapest, and most easily drinkable margaritas I've ever had. The margaritas taste sort of like lemon-lime crystal lite, but with a kick. That sounds disgusting, but it is actually sort of marvelous.
Further, all the servers are heavily tattooed and pierced, there are always a couple of tables of gay boys, and the restaurant is all the way over in deep NW--a long drive from the Happy Valley compound.
But Bruce and the Kare Bear love it.
There are two strange consequences of this for me:
1. Many of my adult family memories actually take place at the Gold. My parents have taken all my out-of-town guests there (Laura has an especially good story about the night that we went there). We've celebrated family birthdays there. Dr. Awesome and I took our parents there together. AND, the Gold is where my brother and sister-in-law told us that they were having a baby. (Not just any baby, it turns out, but rather the lovely Lady E.)
2. Because so many of my family memories take place at the Gold, but also so many of my 20-something memories happened there too, I have some serious cognitive dissonance about the place. After all, I also have memories of going there with Anita and Katie (Katie got so drunk BEFORE dinner that she spent most of the meal outside throwing up). And of the time that I walked there with Emily after work at the pharm and we split 2 pitchers of margaritas (which could easily kill a horse) and then walked back to the pharm and, because I was still drunk, I had to take the # 15 bus down Belmont and call my dad to pick me up. And there have been lots of nights there with Qwanty (when she dated the bun-wearing guy) and Dr. Awesome and my brother and who knows who else.
I don't mind Acapulco's Gold as a crossroads for my youthful memories and my family memories, but shoot me if I ever start hanging out at the Space Room or BOG with my parents--it'll be all over then.
02 June 2008
This One Goes Out to the One--
QWANTY! I do believe that today is your special day. You are officially "older than Jesus". Congratulations.
Qwanty and I haven't spent either of our birthdays together in a long, long time, but we already had made a lifetime's worth of birthday memories in our youth.
Like the time that we rode around in a limo listening to the audio tape of the Singing Nun she bought me for my 16th birthday.
Or the time we went to Who Song and Larry's with her parents and her lame boyfriend Ryan and I walked out of the bathroom with toilet paper on my shoe (god bless Rick, he was the thing that MOST redeemed that night).
Or the time that Qwanty and her ex-hubbie took me out to her brother-in-law's restaurant and she got so drunk on gin from Eric's flask that she slid under the table before we even ate.
Ahhhh. Good times.
Qwanty and I haven't spent either of our birthdays together in a long, long time, but we already had made a lifetime's worth of birthday memories in our youth.
Like the time that we rode around in a limo listening to the audio tape of the Singing Nun she bought me for my 16th birthday.
Or the time we went to Who Song and Larry's with her parents and her lame boyfriend Ryan and I walked out of the bathroom with toilet paper on my shoe (god bless Rick, he was the thing that MOST redeemed that night).
Or the time that Qwanty and her ex-hubbie took me out to her brother-in-law's restaurant and she got so drunk on gin from Eric's flask that she slid under the table before we even ate.
Ahhhh. Good times.
Rules to Sing By
Late-ish last night I got back from spending the weekend at the chalet (or as Dr. Awesome calls it, the "shallot") with Jane. Spending time with Jane always convinces me that I want to sing karaoke. This is because Jane has a deep political and philosophical fondness for karaoke since it is, according to her, the most democratic of all leisure activities. (Everyone gets a moment on the stage, other singers understand that it is important to be a good audience, it is less about talent and more about heart, so on and so on.)
The problem is that I'm not built right for karaoke. Sadly, I do care about sounding decent. I am not a "performer," so I don't have the option of pleasing a crowd by being purely entertaining. (Whatever that means. For instance, I can't jump on a table and belt out "Sweet Caroline" like Andy Z.) As a result, I'm really uptight about picking the right song, and then I get honestly nervous until I get called. So, I'm not really much fun.
This is completely exacerbated by the fact that (and try to hold in your surprise about this one, readers) I am sort of a control freak, so I can't get drunk as a way to enjoy the karaoke experience and calm the nerves. In fact, I tend to only engage in karaoke when completely sober.
Let's be honest, people, I'm just not that much fun.
But I do (and I say this very, very self-consciously) love to sing. So I can't NOT sing karaoke, if it is offered to me.
As a result, I have developed a set of strict rules for choosing karaoke songs for myself. Here, for the first time in print (well, not print, but you know what I mean) are:
Kristin's Rules for Karaoke Song Selection:
1. The song must be under 4 minutes. No one wants me up there for the whole of "Carry on Wayward Son" or the long version of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" or anything by Meat Loaf. It's too long. I don't need that much stage time.
2. The song must not have an intro, outro or bridge that lasts more than about 4 measures. I get nervous. So I don't want time to wonder what to do with myself (and particularly my hands) while I am up there. I want it to be all singing, all the time, if possible. You do too. No one wants to watch me wring my hands onstage during a guitar solo.
3. The song must be in my range. No struggling to make high or low notes. That's a bad scene.
4. The song must not have any potentially embarrassing lyrics. Hey, I know that my brother once won a karaoke contest by doing a ripping version of the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself", but I couldn't get through it in front of strangers. Or people I know. I just couldn't get through it. I am a lady, after all.
5. No power ballads. This one breaks my heart, because no one wants to bust out some "Angel" or "What About Love" or (the king of all power ballads) "Still Lovin' You" as I do. But power ballads usually break 3 or 4 out of the other criteria, and so I have had to ban them as a class. These are songs that, sadly, are relegated to my car.
6. The song must have lyrics that are already completely known to me. I'm going to watch the words the whole time that I'm singing, but it isn't because I don't already know them. It is because I don't want to make eye contact with anyone watching me. I don't want to screw up, and the best way not to screw up is to already know the words.
These are some songs that meet all the criteria above, and that I have thus approved for possible karaoke choices: "Manic Monday", "Johnny Angel", "Teenager in Love" (which becomes somewhat more inappropriate the older I get), "Love is all Around", and, occasionally, "Ramblin' Man". I have also recently come around to thinking that I should add the Violent Femmes song "American Music"--there are lots of fun uh-uh-ohs in that one . . .
The problem is that I'm not built right for karaoke. Sadly, I do care about sounding decent. I am not a "performer," so I don't have the option of pleasing a crowd by being purely entertaining. (Whatever that means. For instance, I can't jump on a table and belt out "Sweet Caroline" like Andy Z.) As a result, I'm really uptight about picking the right song, and then I get honestly nervous until I get called. So, I'm not really much fun.
This is completely exacerbated by the fact that (and try to hold in your surprise about this one, readers) I am sort of a control freak, so I can't get drunk as a way to enjoy the karaoke experience and calm the nerves. In fact, I tend to only engage in karaoke when completely sober.
Let's be honest, people, I'm just not that much fun.
But I do (and I say this very, very self-consciously) love to sing. So I can't NOT sing karaoke, if it is offered to me.
As a result, I have developed a set of strict rules for choosing karaoke songs for myself. Here, for the first time in print (well, not print, but you know what I mean) are:
Kristin's Rules for Karaoke Song Selection:
1. The song must be under 4 minutes. No one wants me up there for the whole of "Carry on Wayward Son" or the long version of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" or anything by Meat Loaf. It's too long. I don't need that much stage time.
2. The song must not have an intro, outro or bridge that lasts more than about 4 measures. I get nervous. So I don't want time to wonder what to do with myself (and particularly my hands) while I am up there. I want it to be all singing, all the time, if possible. You do too. No one wants to watch me wring my hands onstage during a guitar solo.
3. The song must be in my range. No struggling to make high or low notes. That's a bad scene.
4. The song must not have any potentially embarrassing lyrics. Hey, I know that my brother once won a karaoke contest by doing a ripping version of the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself", but I couldn't get through it in front of strangers. Or people I know. I just couldn't get through it. I am a lady, after all.
5. No power ballads. This one breaks my heart, because no one wants to bust out some "Angel" or "What About Love" or (the king of all power ballads) "Still Lovin' You" as I do. But power ballads usually break 3 or 4 out of the other criteria, and so I have had to ban them as a class. These are songs that, sadly, are relegated to my car.
6. The song must have lyrics that are already completely known to me. I'm going to watch the words the whole time that I'm singing, but it isn't because I don't already know them. It is because I don't want to make eye contact with anyone watching me. I don't want to screw up, and the best way not to screw up is to already know the words.
These are some songs that meet all the criteria above, and that I have thus approved for possible karaoke choices: "Manic Monday", "Johnny Angel", "Teenager in Love" (which becomes somewhat more inappropriate the older I get), "Love is all Around", and, occasionally, "Ramblin' Man". I have also recently come around to thinking that I should add the Violent Femmes song "American Music"--there are lots of fun uh-uh-ohs in that one . . .
29 May 2008
Sad, Sad News
I honestly hate being the bearer of bad news, although maybe you all will have heard this by the time you read this. On the way home tonight (during a break from what was a very illuminating Love Line), I heard the news that Harvey Korman has died.
I have to admit that I've never been a big Blazing Saddles fan (to quote my brother Ryan/Jimmy, "I get it, I just don't think it's funny"). But I loved, loved, loved Korman on the Carol Burnett Show--which used to rerun on Saturday or Sunday nights when I was a kid. I have a fondness for comedians who can't stay in character (this explains my weird thing for Jimmy Fallon too), particularly when they are being cracked up by someone they share the stage with who is even funnier than they are. It's totally unprofessional, I know. But it was always clear to me that Tim Conway just really, really cracked Harvey Korman up. And that is very sweet. It always made Korman seem like a good guy--that he didn't begrudge Conway the greater share of the laughter.
And I know that you know what I'm talking about. If you are Jimmy Fallon it is impossible to be professional. No amount of rehearsal can prepare you-- it doesn't matter how many times you've heard that freakshow Christopher Walken say, "I gotta have more cow bell" or how many times you've seen Will Ferrell jump up and down, beating on the cowbell, exposing his hairy belly, you can't freaking keep yourself from laughing. Every subsequent time I see that skit, the thing that always really gets me going is watching Fallon in the background.
Nothing is a testament to a comedian's talent like the laughter of other comedians, and nothing is a testament to a man like his deep appreciation of that which is funny. There is something beautiful and generous about that kind of relationship between funny people. And this is what I loved about watching Tim Conway and Harvey Korman together.
I have to admit that I've never been a big Blazing Saddles fan (to quote my brother Ryan/Jimmy, "I get it, I just don't think it's funny"). But I loved, loved, loved Korman on the Carol Burnett Show--which used to rerun on Saturday or Sunday nights when I was a kid. I have a fondness for comedians who can't stay in character (this explains my weird thing for Jimmy Fallon too), particularly when they are being cracked up by someone they share the stage with who is even funnier than they are. It's totally unprofessional, I know. But it was always clear to me that Tim Conway just really, really cracked Harvey Korman up. And that is very sweet. It always made Korman seem like a good guy--that he didn't begrudge Conway the greater share of the laughter.
And I know that you know what I'm talking about. If you are Jimmy Fallon it is impossible to be professional. No amount of rehearsal can prepare you-- it doesn't matter how many times you've heard that freakshow Christopher Walken say, "I gotta have more cow bell" or how many times you've seen Will Ferrell jump up and down, beating on the cowbell, exposing his hairy belly, you can't freaking keep yourself from laughing. Every subsequent time I see that skit, the thing that always really gets me going is watching Fallon in the background.
Nothing is a testament to a comedian's talent like the laughter of other comedians, and nothing is a testament to a man like his deep appreciation of that which is funny. There is something beautiful and generous about that kind of relationship between funny people. And this is what I loved about watching Tim Conway and Harvey Korman together.
28 May 2008
Thoughts, which maybe I should have kept to myself
You'd think that I'd have been living away from Portland long enough that I wouldn't run into people all the damn time when I'm here, but it just isn't true. Is Portland that small? Do I know that many people? Neither of those things seems possible. But when I ventured into the big world this afternoon--to read a little Bakhtin and drink a little coffee--I ran into Andy Z, whom I love, but have seen little of in the last few years. It was weird too--because I walked into this newish coffeeshop (the Albina Press outlet on Hawthorne, which, by the way, does have coffee worth the ridiculous hype that these people have received) and there he was, facing me, looking like he was just waiting for me to walk in the door. He seemed not at all surprised, and not all that happy either, although he invited me to sit with him. I did. We hung out and talked, mostly teaching, excitedly, for about 2 hours.
It was nice to see the guy. He's enthusiastic as hell, which I appreciate. And he's pretty upbeat. I wonder if he's still upset about the time I yelled at him for freaking out about a grade mix up in Ray Mariels's class. I hope not. I was probably too hard on him.
Anyway, I didn't get any reading of Bakhtin done. And then I was driving toward downtown and I saw one of my least favorite PSU profs (name withheld) walking down the street. Again with the people I know!
Wow. I just realized that this is really, really lame content. Sorry about that.
***
Now, follow up notes about the Indiana Jones post. Thank you all for reading it, even though I was sort of bitchy and long-winded. And for commenting. I like it when you comment. It makes me feel loved, because, frankly, I am needy for your affirmation.
1. Cecil is my grandfather's name. I think that he's been mentioned a few times on the blog, but maybe not introduced. He's the world's cutest grandpa--even my 3-year-old niece knows that.
2. It is probably true that only every other Indiana Jones film is good. That's not really good enough, considering the resources available to these jackasses. I mean, I'm no David Mamet or whatever, but put me in a room with a couple friends and I could write a better screenplay. (Perhaps I shouldn't tell you this, but I just made myself laugh with the David Mamet thing. Because, really?)
3. J-bro: calm down. Did I once say anything about not enjoying the film? Because I totally did. Enjoy it. My enjoyment then spilled over into a day of thinking and then writing about it. If the fact that I ask critical questions about the film (and let's face it--they aren't really that thoughtful or critical) makes you enjoy it less, then I think that is your problem and not mine. Also, I will have you know that Bruce totally read your comment about wanting to take a dump on my head. C'mon!
Even little G, who is just 5.75 years old, knows how much fun it is to be critical--even about cultural products that you love. A couple of weeks ago we spent an afternoon reading The Cat in the Hat and The Cat in the Hat Comes Back for the 40 millionth time and then making a list of important questions that we'd like to ask the Seuss about the books. They are as follows:
1. Why is the talking fish in the first book and not in the second?
2. Why doesn't the boy have a name? His sister has a name (Sally) even though she isn't really all that involved in the plot. 2a. What should the boy's name be and why?
3. Why does the mother of Sally and the boy keep leaving them home alone? Aren't they a little young for that? What is she doing that she can't take them with?
4. In the second book, why is it not good enough to expel the pink cat cake ring from the house? Once the stain is out on the snow, why can't they leave it? After all, pink snow is just going to melt anyway.
5. What is "VOOM" exactly, and what else can it do other than make pink snow white again? This is, as I am sure we all can agree, not a function one would have to employ often.
Now, you can't tell me, J-bro, that these questions do anything other than enhance the experience of reading the Seuss.
***
Tonight I was listening to a mix I made several years ago for the Monster's birthday. You know that Wilco song "Heavy Metal Drummer" from YHF? I love that song. But I just realized tonight that it always reminds me of Chuck Klosterman. It's like my Chuck Klosterman song. Perhaps my Chuck Klosterman song should be an actual KISS song, and not just one that references KISS, but that would mean having to actually listen to KISS, which I don't want to do just to think about Chuckie K. (Oh yeah, to bring it full circle, that song is on this mix I made for the Monster. Which is weird. Because I don't think that he likes Wilco, KISS, Chuck K, or heavy metal drummers/drumming. Why did I ever hang out with that guy?)
It was nice to see the guy. He's enthusiastic as hell, which I appreciate. And he's pretty upbeat. I wonder if he's still upset about the time I yelled at him for freaking out about a grade mix up in Ray Mariels's class. I hope not. I was probably too hard on him.
Anyway, I didn't get any reading of Bakhtin done. And then I was driving toward downtown and I saw one of my least favorite PSU profs (name withheld) walking down the street. Again with the people I know!
Wow. I just realized that this is really, really lame content. Sorry about that.
***
Now, follow up notes about the Indiana Jones post. Thank you all for reading it, even though I was sort of bitchy and long-winded. And for commenting. I like it when you comment. It makes me feel loved, because, frankly, I am needy for your affirmation.
1. Cecil is my grandfather's name. I think that he's been mentioned a few times on the blog, but maybe not introduced. He's the world's cutest grandpa--even my 3-year-old niece knows that.
2. It is probably true that only every other Indiana Jones film is good. That's not really good enough, considering the resources available to these jackasses. I mean, I'm no David Mamet or whatever, but put me in a room with a couple friends and I could write a better screenplay. (Perhaps I shouldn't tell you this, but I just made myself laugh with the David Mamet thing. Because, really?)
3. J-bro: calm down. Did I once say anything about not enjoying the film? Because I totally did. Enjoy it. My enjoyment then spilled over into a day of thinking and then writing about it. If the fact that I ask critical questions about the film (and let's face it--they aren't really that thoughtful or critical) makes you enjoy it less, then I think that is your problem and not mine. Also, I will have you know that Bruce totally read your comment about wanting to take a dump on my head. C'mon!
Even little G, who is just 5.75 years old, knows how much fun it is to be critical--even about cultural products that you love. A couple of weeks ago we spent an afternoon reading The Cat in the Hat and The Cat in the Hat Comes Back for the 40 millionth time and then making a list of important questions that we'd like to ask the Seuss about the books. They are as follows:
1. Why is the talking fish in the first book and not in the second?
2. Why doesn't the boy have a name? His sister has a name (Sally) even though she isn't really all that involved in the plot. 2a. What should the boy's name be and why?
3. Why does the mother of Sally and the boy keep leaving them home alone? Aren't they a little young for that? What is she doing that she can't take them with?
4. In the second book, why is it not good enough to expel the pink cat cake ring from the house? Once the stain is out on the snow, why can't they leave it? After all, pink snow is just going to melt anyway.
5. What is "VOOM" exactly, and what else can it do other than make pink snow white again? This is, as I am sure we all can agree, not a function one would have to employ often.
Now, you can't tell me, J-bro, that these questions do anything other than enhance the experience of reading the Seuss.
***
Tonight I was listening to a mix I made several years ago for the Monster's birthday. You know that Wilco song "Heavy Metal Drummer" from YHF? I love that song. But I just realized tonight that it always reminds me of Chuck Klosterman. It's like my Chuck Klosterman song. Perhaps my Chuck Klosterman song should be an actual KISS song, and not just one that references KISS, but that would mean having to actually listen to KISS, which I don't want to do just to think about Chuckie K. (Oh yeah, to bring it full circle, that song is on this mix I made for the Monster. Which is weird. Because I don't think that he likes Wilco, KISS, Chuck K, or heavy metal drummers/drumming. Why did I ever hang out with that guy?)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)