Pass the BBQ sauce; it's word-eatin' time

Just last week some online friends and I were discussing the sad state of popular music in general, and Christian music as it tries to copy said drecky music to form a new genre of bad art. Of course, sniffed I, my dawg's sittin' out this fight 'cuz I don't like rock music anyway.

Yeah, right in a pig's left eye I don't. Almost as soon as I sent the words out, I began to list the ways:

Carry On by CSNY
Jump and When Is It Love by Van Halen
Don't Dream It's Over by Crowded House (decent cover by Sixpence None the Richer)
Lots of stuff by Journey and Foreigner and Fleetwood Mac, oh my
Beatles. Santana. Beatles. Duran Duran. Moody Blues. Layla (the high-spirited original, not that mousse-laden, sleepy unplugged thing). Beatles. And on and on.

And of course, the best of all, Mr. Mister with their tender Broken Wings and the inexpressibly beautiful Kyrie.

What I did notice was that my love of rock ended pretty much when the 80's did, which was when Nirvana came thrashing out of Seattle all angry and mean. Before that, there were safety pin-wearing metalheads a-plenty, but one could easily avoid their negativity and weirdness. Then it seemed to turn cynical and ugly. Pretty much gone were songs of yearning, reflection, poignancy. The nihilistic 90's gave way to the trashy hedonism of what is called modern "urban". Bands like Creed who evoked that earlier longing were ridiculed as irrelevant, derivative, sentimental. (Somehow or other, though, "irrelevance" made them a lot of cash!)

But then, as Stevie Nicks says, "...children get older--I'm getting older, too." All this I Don't Like Rock stuff really means that I like what I like, and am pickier about it than when I was young. Some of the music I like, Christian or otherwise, is Celtic, some classical, some Old Time, some New Age, some rock, some other genres or blended ones or none at all. I still maintain that "rock" is far too broad a category when Patsy Cline is installed in the R&R Hall of Fame; just as I still don't like boring or coarse or sappy or kick-you-with-my-jackboots stuff.

And now I am making no sense to myself because it is 2:40 am as I edit this for the last time. I really wanted to say more--and I did. There was a first draft of this entry; and like the fish that got away, was just about perfect. I was classic, I was eloquent. I was also very stupid and didn't backup. So my perfect crafted entry is no more. (Hey, I'm doing better than some I could name!) Point is, of course, that you never get it back. There's no place but onward, without that sparkling prose that might have been in this space had I not neglected the Prime Directive: Save Your Work. Ai, the pain.

Writing about not writing

Was going to post this long whinefest about not finding my muse or whatever the lame excuse might be for not writing; about the stacks of writing books and magazines I own and which look quite impressive piled up on that shelf in my closet; about hanging out with real writers who produce stuff; about how I keep imagining myself writing and intending to write and preparing to write and doing everything except actually showing up to write.

Then I find I can't even write about that, either. I'm just a wannabe wannabe.

Why is this woman smiling?

Brand new HP Pavilion:

200 GB hard drive
1 GB DDR2/SDRAM
Pent4
17" Flatscreen LCD monitor
WinXP Professional
Free scanner
Enough bells and whistles to choke an Oliphaunt.

On my desk and working. I am in Virtual Valinor.

Elrond spent the last three weeks forlorn and dejected since being taken down by an Orc arrow; he will now be cannibalized to further my friend's gaming obssession. Good thing I had my daughter's laptop as a backup. But what to call this one? Gandalf was the one I had before the late, great Elrond (how the mighty Elf-Lord has fallen!) This one is definitely a Valar. I'm going out on a limb here and naming him Manwë. After all, he is the greatest one I've ever known.

Now I need to figure out why all my PCs are male, while all my cars are female.

Funerals and the people who attend them

Perched in the eyrie for the past nine years, overlooking a funeral home, I have observed a social curiosity: white people, particularly older ones, almost always stand around talking and laughing in the parking lot afterwards. Hispanics occasionally serve snacks from the trunks of their cars, but do so somberly even as they allow their children to scamper about. Black people generally exit quickly, quietly weeping. Asians sometimes express their grief loudly; other times seem almost stoic. But every time I hear the sound of animated conversation and greeting, I am sure to find white people outside the funeral home doors.

Yep, there it is again. I knew before looking, and I was right.

The famed pink shoes mentioned last Thursday

Sorry, Grace and Imelda.

Worst. Wedding. Ever.

Come all ye young people about to get hitched,
Don't leave your guests-to-be in a ditch!
Refrain from the cards telling us what to buy,
Remember to stamp the RSVP reply.

Please don't start the wedding an hour past its time,
If you don't want us wilting from losing our prime.
If traditional vows you two opt to forgo,
At least put a lid on your impromptu notes.

Your planners were snippy, the attendants looked dour
The singer was offkey and so was the hour.
If you say the reception starts promptly at 6
But arrive two hours later, we might pitch a fit.

And if the sound system is blasting too loud
Migraines are the favors bestowed on the crowd.
(Despite the excuses the sound techies gave
'Twas a wedding reception, my dears, not a rave!)

We waited till 9, for good Heaven's sake--
Not even then had you inched towards the cake.
The coffee and punch were self-serve, hit or miss;
At least you provided each, one Hershey's Kiss.

The groom was a cutie, the bridal gown stunning,
But not once did you greet us or thank us for coming.
I do wish you well; I do so want to bless!
But your nuptials were
An unqualified mess.

Now I probably won't shut up

Tired. Up till after 4 am.

Peter Jennings has lung cancer. I hate his smug attitude, but not the man himself. The Lord send His mercy through this painful disease and chemo side effects, making Mr. Jennings ready to take the walk we all must.

Had to keep myself from compulsively blogging more yesterday. I can see where this could develop into addictive behavior.

Was in the supermarket, stuck in line without my backup book, so I grabbed a (gasp) People magazine off the rack to quick-scan an article about the Pope. When the blasted subscription cards fell out and I had to bend under a display and cart to retrieve them, I began formulating a list of peeves so pet I should buy feeding bowls for them. Today's topic: magazines.

*Aforementioned subscription cards. Please. If I wanted to subscribe, I wouldn't be checking the "No Thanks" box on the Publisher's Clearing House entries, now would I?

*While we're at it, publishers note: When the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, and I actually purchase a periodical, I immediately chop out all extraneous advertising pages and supplements and store in the nearest waste receptacle. They don't make it home or even out of the car. Nor do they even warrant a glance, except in annoyance while ripping.

*Apparently someone considers the inch-high, red-fonted "Women's Diet Breakthrough!" headline juxtaposed with a slaveringly appealing photo of a 2500-calorie whipped cream concoction some sort of cosmic balance.

*I don't give a redeyed rip about Paris Hilton, Ashton Kutcher, or any pop tart whose first name ends in "ey".

**********************************************************************
Listening: Travis Cottrell, Alive Forever; Altan, Best Of
Watching these days: The Brother Cadfael series
TV status: off
Online: Blog; Bejeweled 2; Yahoo Groups; Free Republic; Gmail; eBay; Internet for Christians
Offline: Scrabble 2.0, PowerPoint
Reading: Short stories

Attention span: Low

Pink Shoes

Our 30th anniversary celebration last Sunday night was a resounding success. All the minute details finally came together, thanks to good friends with loving hands and willing hearts--not to mention expertise with social situations like anniversary parties, a matter on which I was entirely clueless. The church building was decked out as for a wedding. Patrick and I, dressed to the nines (which in P's case meant a new vest) walked the aisle and said our vows again. It was all very sweet. We even had some friends sing the same processional we had at our original wedding, an original based on the Song of Solomon. We joked a bit during the ceremony; P forgot what hand to extend as we exchanged new rings (I finally got diamonds after 30 years!); the pastor's remarks on the meaning of covenant were profound. I never felt so loved and loving as when taking those vows with eyes wide open.

And yet the whole time my feet were screaming inside my high heeled pink satin Mary Jane shoes, the ones that wowed our daughter when I, in fear and trembling, brought them home from the mall. They were perfect with my dress, just stunning for the occasion. They looked like I'd raided Grace Kelly's closet. They made my feet look smaller (always a plus). I was ladylike and elegant in them, and in so much pain I could hardly stand. In fact, I *wasn't* standing. The audience likely thought, "Oh, how touching! Look how she holds onto him after all these years!" when the truth was, I was discreetly leaning on each foot to give the other a momentary break, and clutching my husband to keep from losing my balance.

Then the ceremony was over. We proceeded to the rear of the building and I thought, "R-e-l-i-e-f!" Yet I'd momentarily forgotten we needed to form a receiving line to greet our guests as they made their way back for punch, cake, and Death by Chocolate. So it was 15 more minutes of agony in the pink shoes, before I could kneel on a chair and take the load off. As soon as I could, I ran back to the nursery/dressing room and replaced Grace Kelly with Janeane Garofalo (my little black flats). Once home, the precious satin heels were bagged to go in storage or on Freecycle, I haven't decided yet.

The evening was a memory for a lifetime, one 30 years in the making. The guy I married again is my lover, protector, provider, and best friend. I would follow him anywhere--and have. He's worth waiting for, struggling with. He's even worth wearing the pink shoes for.

That was the reason I don't (didn't) blog

Almost a year gone by since the last entry. I'd forgotten I started this until I got something in my email advertising it, clicking on the proverbial light bulb...or dim bulb, in this case. Ah, there's nothing like repentance.