Retro Jungle

Lately when I've been working on design projects at work, I'm pushing for any direction we could go that involves using a retro flair - whether it's the colors, images or typeface. I was looking around for retro images one day when I stumbled on these 50s and 60s style pinup girls. Depending on the artist, the pinups are elegant, seductive or in some comical situation. I've decided to update my profile picture each month with one of these pinup illustrations - and in honor of the stellar job I've been doing at work lately (cough, cough), I thought I'd follow October's spider-gazing Nancy Drew look-alike with a bonafide working girl. Oh, and the quote in the header. I'll be refreshing that as well - just to keep it spruced up around here.

Autumn: The Album

For me, the arrival of Halloween and the passing of daylight savings mark that point in time when fall is no longer this nebulous oncoming season but a fully emerged time of year. And some songs simply seem to capture this time of year better than others. In light of fall's full-fledged arrival and because I'll be spending an indecent amount of time in the car this weekend, I put together a little fall collection. I may catch some criticism for some of these choices, but for whatever reason, these were the songs that said fall to me this October:

1. Sparks (Coldplay)
2. Angel (Matt Nathanson)
3. Foolish Games (Jewel)
4. Everybody Hurts (R.E.M.)
5. Wait (Sarah McLachlan)
6. Just Another (Pete Yorn)
7. Falling in Love (Lisa Loeb)
8. All My Friends (Counting Crows)
9. Quite Often (Trent Dabbs)
10. Pictures of You (The Cure)
11. As I'm Leaving (David Gray)
12. New York State of Mind (Billy Joel)
13. Stop This Train (John Mayer)
14. Girl (Tori Amos)
15. The Awakening (Jennifer Nettles Band)
16. Cathedrals (Jump, Little Children)

Fake Comedy - It's a Tragedy

The other night I came across the movie Prime on HBO. You may remember this movie - it came out last year and stars Uma Thurman as a wealthy power-exec in Manhattan with a few abandonment issues over her ex-husband who cheated on and left her. But she's working things out with her therapist - played by Meryl Streep - when she falls in love with David, a 24-year-old painter - played by Bryan Greenberg - more than 10 years younger than her - and Streep's son to boot. And wackiness ensues, right?

I caught the movie about halfway through, so I can't attest to how much hilarity the first hour held. But as for the second half, I can tell you I didn't come as close to cracking a smile as shedding a tear. By the way, consider this your official spoiler alert - the rest of this post will disclose the ending of the movie.

The previews for this movie were a montage of awkward situations, like Meryl Streep diving out of sight in Pottery Barn to preserve her role as Thurman's therapist when the happy couple is lurking in the bedding section just across the way. In fact, the movie poster bills it "A Therapeutic New Comedy" and shows Streep with a slapstick look of shock and disapproval on her face.

But the truth was that Uma Thurman was in a truly heartbreaking situation. And when Streep reveals who she is, Thurman loses her therapist, Streep her patient, and the mother-son relationship is left in shambles. After a string of break ups and reuniting, Thurman and Greenberg's characters decide to call it quits - after all, Thurman definitely wants a baby and Greenberg has too much life to live to be complicated by love and family.

I might have enjoyed this movie if I hadn't anticipated being in stitches. But as it was, I kept waiting for the faint hope to blossom into resolution with some witty dialogue and big hugs at the end. Instead, I was left out in the cold with Greenberg, looking through a cafe window at Thurman who looked rather wan and sad and then fade to dark.

I felt the same way about In Good Company, starring Topher Grace and Dennis Quaid. Even its tagline, "He's rich, young and handsome. He's in love with you and he's your dad's boss." promises a movie of comedic situation and clever comebacks. In the end, you're left feeling so desperately sad for Grace's character - whose life is never quite as funny as the movie tries to make it - and with a fragile hope that he's finally found some direction. But a comedy it is not.

This false billing is such an annoyance. I want to know what I'm watching. And I'm not going to be turned off by a movie just because it doesn't deliver sketch comedy on a platter. I'm a girl of varied tastes - I can handle the drama. But if you tell me it's a comedy, I better laugh so hard I cry. Not just cry.

Farewell, Daylight Savings Time

Goodbye, Daylight Savings Time.
As I have already enjoyed that one-time-only extra hour of sleep, I am missing you already. Especially since it's only 6:30 and been dark as night for half an hour. That's only going to get worse between now and December. While I know some people are opposed to you (that means you, Arizona and Kim Shable), I welcome you whole-heartedly. Who wouldn't want it to be light when they leave the office? Now I am doomed to days where I have to turn my headlights on when departing from work, and frankly, that's a little depressing. I like my days long and my nights short. Is that too much to ask?

And while I enjoy fall, I do not enjoy this early darkness. It quite honestly makes my weekends seem shorter. At 6:30, it's already night. My weekend is o-v-e-r by all accounts.

I hear you're going to come earlier and stay later next year. Bravo to that. I'll be sure to throw a party when you get here. I'll be waiting impatiently until then.

Love,
Ash

Ciao!

Dear Reader in Rubano, Veneto:
Ciao! I don't know if we know each other, but I see that you dialed into my blog by conducting a Google search of my blog's name. If we haven't yet been properly introduced, I extend my sincerest greetings. And now that we're friends, could we arrange some sort of visit straightaway? I feel certain we could become better friends in person. Over a glass of red wine. In Florence maybe? Although I've always wanted to go to Venice. But it's your call. Whichever's most convenient.

Come back anytime.

Your New Friend,
Ash

Scrub-a-palooza '06 (or Why I Can Die Tonight)

Don't worry. I'm not planning to die tonight. But if I do, I'll know that my mother will never find the things I found in the kitchen when I decided to clean out the fridge, freezer and cabinets. It was a fairly grizzly scene, as some of the items that wound up in the trash should have met their end a long time ago. I don't clean out like this very often. Which would explain why I discarded

* Not one but two containers of spoiled milk

* At least three containers of chewy-looking ice cream

* Two unidentifiable iced-over meat products (one including a best if used by date of February 2005)

* A box of Cheez-Its that were no longer orange

* A bag of chips that were unopened when I found them but tasted like dust

* Two boxes of Triscuits from an unknown time (following the chips, I did not taste them to determine their condition)

And Mom, sorry that you don't have any cool packs at home. There are no less than 8 in my freezer.

I have since moved on to the bedroom where approximately 26 pairs of shoes have escaped their boxes and the clean laundry from three weeks ago is still in the clothes basket.

Scrub-a-palooza '06 was powered by the music of The Killers, Justin Timberlake, Our Lady Peace, Heather Nova, Saint Etienne and Smashing Pumpkins. Refreshments provided by Elizabeth's Pizza and Michelob Amberbock.

Frogs & Snails & Puppy Dog Tails

For the five years I've lived in Wilmywood, I've always admired the sterling silver music boxes in the window at Kingoff's Jewelers. The realistic looking Reed & Barton boxes come in a variety of animals - a polar bear, fish, duck, lamb and ladybug. But my unequivocal favorite is the frog. Whenever I'm strolling downtown, I gaze in the window and think about buying one. And today I got my wish. Next weekend, I'll be in Atlanta for the baby shower in Sprout's honor, and I couldn't resist the opportunity to finally have my frog. He plays "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," by the way.

It couldn't have been a more perfect day to pick up my frog, and instead of returning home directly, I went down to the riverwalk. The wind was quite gusty, but the sidewalk cafes and riverfront restaurants were packed with late afternoon lunchers and the see-and-be-seen crowd. A number of large boats were docked along the walk with names like "Inspiration" and "Worth the Wait." I've seen a few names down there that gave me a chuckle - like one called "My Divorce" and one that's called "Second Marriage." The boaters always make a big show of sitting on one of the decks and pretending they don't want people to stare, but why else dock there?

On the return home, I tested my willpower by strolling past Kilwin's - without going in. The smell of the wafflecones was tempting, but I held my resolve to not spoil whatever good I'd done in taking the walk by succumbing to the urge for ice cream. I noticed, too, that the brewery is open again, which made me want a black raspberry - another indulgence that would replenish whatever calories I'd burned. Now if I can just apply the same resolve to improving the state of my apartment, I'll be in good shape.

Try to Catch the Deluge in a Paper Cup

I wrote a recent post about music and how connected it is to certain memories, times of year, and periods in life. And I mentioned that "Don't Dream It's Over" by Crowded House is best listened to on a rainy day when it's cool because of the change of season. Since fall has come on fast here in Wilmywood, and this late October night is absolutely drenched, I give you the perfect song for the evening.

What Can Brown Do For You?

My detective efforts paid off, and I had a lovely rendezvous with my dear Crazy J this evening. I had decided that it might be time to stop playing the blonde bombshell and let Crazy J work his color magic and reunite me with my natural color.

He's at a new salon, by the way, and this one is at the mall. While it doesn't have the quiet ambiance of the chi-chi salon he left behind, the people watching is stellar. And if there's one thing I love about a fabulous gay man, it is the unabashed snark. While I was there, he made me check out a fellow stylist's husband, who he thinks is gay, and confirm that the hubby was checking him out. He passed judgement on every head of hair that walked in the door. And all the ones in the pages of the Cosmo I was reading through the color application. It also happened to contain the 50 Hottest Guys, and he was heartened that we had the same taste in men - we both favored Mr. Nebraska. And his new word is "adorkable." He pointed out to me one stylist who also happens to be stripper. "But she looks so young!" I exclaimed. "I know," he sighed. "But hey, when I was 19, I took my clothes off too. And it would've been great if I'd have gotten paid for it."

Love Crazy J. And love, love, love my new golden brown hair. When I got home, I did what any girl does to test out a new hairstyle. I cranked up the Justin Timberlake and hosted an impromptu living room dance party. I am so sexy.

King of Hearts

Stephen King beat me to it. The prolific horror writer has tapped into his softer side and is releasing a book call Lisey's Story - a romance with a supernatural edge. The Boston Globe panned it, and I have to wonder who King thought would be the reader for his latest novel. Certainly his core audience isn't going to be interested in a romance - however supernatural it might be - as from all accounts this book is strictly devoid of King's usual fright and gore. And, I'm not sure that I, devoted fan of the romance novel, would want to read King's take on the genre. Also, King dedicates the book to his wife, Tabitha, and as the Globe review suggests, may draw heavily on their relationship as fodder for the book's romance. You can read an excerpt here. I wonder if it will have a cover like this - if so, I hope they use King as the cover model.

In Praise of My Fellow Man

Generally speaking, I hate Wal-Mart. I hate the big-boxness. The battleship blue of its sign. And the crowds, which are inevitably horrid from the moment you pull into the parking lot to the checkout line. But tonight, I needed two disparate things - groceries and a tire guage. No choice about either one, and Wal-Mart was more appealing than making two stops. My cupboards are in a sad state of affairs with all my comings and goings. And the new car comes with a guage that tells me when my tire pressure is low - this time around because of the sudden drop in temperatures.

I decided to chance it. I actually maneuvered into a parking space without much ado. I was mad that the only tire guage left was the $10 one. I debated what to do about knocking off a glass jar candle - Kim will attest this accident seems to be my lot in life. But I managed to assemble a reasonable menu for dinner, grab a loaf of bread, some Diet Cokes.

At the checkout lines, all of the under 20 items lines were packed, so I picked the traditional fare. The guy in front of me had a buggy full of groceries. But I was too tired to care, finding some relief in making it to the Wal-Mart finish line to seek out a shorter line. He had already unloaded a few things from his cart when he saw me fall in line behind him. And he put those items back in his cart and invited me to go in front of him. That never happens. I thanked him for his kindness and pulled ahead.

Checking out in front of me was a young black man. He pulled cash from his pocket to pay and unknowingly scattered a few bills on the floor. I didn't notice until he started to walk away, but I managed to catch him in time for him to get his money.

On the way home, I thought about all the little ways that humanity finds you when you least expect it. Sometimes in quiet subtle ways, like some guy responding to your harried face and letting you go first in the Wal-Mart line. He could've ignored me. I could've ignored the money on the floor or taken it for myself - it was just a couple of dollars. But somehow, the kindness showed to me made me want to make the effort to call attention to someone else's potential misfortune.

After dinner, I cleaned a few moldy things out of the fridge and took the trash out to the big cans behind the house. Tomorrow's pick up day, so I rolled mine to the end of the drive. On a lark, I rolled my neighbor's cans out there, too. I'm not the neighborly type - I only know their names and not much else about them.

It's a cold clear night, this week marking the first taste of frost. Downtown's bright - they're filming One Tree Hill down on the corner. As I turned back toward the house, I saw the lights blazing in everyone's windows. Maybe one of them was inside thinking about a bad day. Or talking on the phone to a good friend. Or just cozied up inside not wanting to venture out into the cold. Whatever they might be doing, they don't have to take the trash out.

Sexiest Man Alive: 1790

I have a page-a-day calendar on my desk at work that offers a Jeopardy-esque trivia question each day. Today's is

Q: After which of the U.S.'s Founding Fathers did Martha Washington name an amorous tomcat?

A: Alexander Hamilton, who had a reputation as a ladies' man. The very first First Lady dubbed the house cat at Revolutionary Army headquarters "Hamilton"

I looked up dear old Alex to remind myself what he looked like. Hmm. I'm not sure I see the attraction. But in 200 years, I fully expect women to look at Mick Jagger and wonder what women were thinking. Maybe I just have a block against Alexander because I once sent out a press release in which I stated he was a former president - based entirely on the fact that he's on the $10 bill. In my defense, I would like to say two people in my office and the client okayed the release. But just for the record - never assume someone was president just because you paid for a movie ticket with his face.

Make 'Em Laugh

At work, I am at the helm of a project that is unfolding according to the very letter of Murphy's Law. It's been delayed in every aspect, forgotten by staff and vendors, held up and tangled in every way possible. On Friday, the sheer exhaustion of it all left me in tears - not to mention the threat of being late to Lauren & Jason's wedding. All this to say, there hasn't been much to crack a smile about at work the last couple of days. It doesn't help that two of our resident Masters of Sarcasm are away from the office.

It's a gentle reminder of one of those things I've been tossing around in my head lately - a sort of odd realization about some of my favorite people in the world. They make me laugh. It's such a simple thing, really. But the people whose company I enjoy most incite me to laughter over all the things that moments before seemed so bleak. For me, humor is necessary and comforting. It is that thing I reach for when all else fails - as it often does.

Perhaps my love of humor was bred into me by my brother, an innate comedian who to this day could easily command a room full of strangers with ease and have them in stitches without breaking a sweat. And for a long time, I was his most attentive audience. I don't at all possess his comic timing, but I learned a thing or two along the way - if nothing else, an abiding love for side-splitting laughter.

As I've gotten older, that group I consider close friends has grown and changed, I find that those I turn to most often are the ones who can make me laugh. Like today, Kim called me while walking the dog, and we laughed over the difficulty of collecting dog poop amongst the fallen leaves - dashed off a quick rhyme about it to the tune of "Sexy Back." Her sense of humor is legendary, and she never fails to give me a chuckle even on the worst of days. I can remember in grad school - some of those less-than-wonderful times - when I'd be crying my eyes out and yet laughing at some wit she interjected to cheer me. And on Sunday, at the coffehouse, on perhaps the dreariest day we've had lately, Tom still managed to break me into hearty laughter as we planned our blockbuster best-sellers.

Even in Singin' in the Rain, one of my favorite movies, Gene Kelly has his debonair good looks and neat softshoe, but it's Donald O'Connor who truly steals my heart with his furious slapstick "Make 'Em Laugh."

All those cliches - all in good humor, laughter is the best medicine - are borne from a grain of truth. It is the thing that makes me feel most profoundly better at any given moment. To be provoked into earnest laughter is such a wonderful feeling. I remember reading in a college psych class that children laugh anywhere from 50 to 75 times a day. The average adult? Less than 15.

And maybe that's one thing I've loved about the blog. As Pen & M suggested, the lure of comments are sometimes to say "Aren't I fancy, too?" But they also are a spectacular and varied display of each person's sense of humor, and even as I'm writing something to post, I'm anticipating all of the hilarious commentary that might ensue. Make 'em laugh, indeed.

Spare Me 60 Seconds for Studio 60

Dear NBC Studio Execs:
Please be like Jordan McDeere. Please understand that not all of us want to watch 17 hours straight of reality television - with all due respect to those who do. But please, NBC, I've heard the rumblings. I knows you've been making cuts and that my dear Studio 60 hasn't been holding up in the ratings. But, please, I beg you. Don't axe it.

Take a look around at the brilliant but cancelled shows that litter the past few years - Arrested Development. People wish that was still on TV. They campaign for it to be back on television. There are tshirts for that!! And they'll wish this was on TV if you snatch it away from us all. Because it's smart. It's funny. It's entertainment that isn't spoon-fed drivel.

And Sarah Paulson? She's amazing. She knocks my socks off. The whole cast is fantastic. It's fantastic, thoughtful acting. The way The West Wing portrayed the president we long for, Studio 60 shows a side of Hollywood we hope for - the side with a brain.

I was a little desperate when I heard the rumors, and my friend Kim looked it up and told me it's in the top 20 podcast downloads. See? See there? The rich people with the iPods are loving your show. Then I read an article that suggested people aren't interested because they don't have anything in common with the high-powered studio execs portrayed on the show. Like I've got so much in common with the ladies of Wisteria Lane. Or the detectives on CSI. And frankly, I don't have enough money to buy Manolo Blahniks - probably never will - but I love Sex & the City with all my heart.

The only thing I need to have in common with this show is we need to be together on Monday nights at 10. Seriously. This is my return to network television. Don't let me down. Pretty please? Pretty please with sugar on top?

XO,
Ash

P.S. Did I mention how much I love Bradley Whitford?

Spooky Little Girl

It's that time of year - I knew it when I heard the ghost tour outside my house through the open window on Saturday night. I've never been on the tour, but I could tell the guests were getting the extended All-Hallows version of whatever haunted tale accompanies my house.

And turning on the TV, there's the deluge of scary movie marathons and ghost documentaries and VH1's new show that sends five B-listers on a similar journey as the old MTV show Fear. For a girl like me, this time of year is scary. Because at every turn there's something to scare me out of my wits.

I scare easily. I admit it. I find being scared both delicious and agonizing, and my imagination knows no bounds when it comes to whipping me into a frenzied terror. I slept with my brother for almost a year when I was nine after watching an Unsolved Mysteries episode on aliens. In fourth grade, Flowers in the Attic scared me so badly, I threw up six or seven times from sheer anxiety. My brother was forbidden to let me watch a full movie trailer for Nightmare on Elm Street because my terror of Freddy Krueger had me unnerved day and night.

As I got older, I learned to tolerate the scary movies - even like them. At a high school sleepover, we watched The Changling, which is to this day, the scariest movie I've ever seen. But it was a delicious, hilarious kind of scared with half a dozen girls laughing and screaming. And then when I went to college, I had my own set of paranormal expereinces between the old dorm where I lived and the old house where I worked.

I guess every college comes with its set of stories. Ours involved a girl who hung herself in an upper floor study room - students swore they could hear her feet scuffling about in the closet. Or the hall in one of the dorms that supposedly had a pentagram on the wall that appeared through innumerable coats of paint. A tall shadowy figure was said to lurk in same-said dorm's parking lot. A pair of lovers biking up the mountain road were supposedly struck and killed one foggy night. Legend says if you pull up on the bridge where they were killed, turn off the engine and the lights and honk three times, you can see a ghastly face in your rearview mirror. The town itself boasted a road where you could supposedly take seven people, leave them each at a bridge, and on the way back, you would only encounter six friends, one lost in some alternate time warp until you retraced your initial route.

I always believed in ghosts until then in the sense that I feared them. But it wasn't until college that I had real experiences - not a one involving the standard fare. My freshman year, I had my first strange experience in an all women's dorm. I woke up several nights in a row hearing heavy footsteps above me - even though the attic above me was only accessible by a key held by one student in the building. Until one night, I sat in my room, up late studying, my roommate out and about. And I heard the footsteps and then the indescribable feeling - and you doubters will call it an improbable feeling - that I was not alone. "Please go away," I whispered. And then it did - whether I was sending away my own feeling or a ghost.

The second dorm I lived in came with a forceful banging under the floor. Furnace? Radiator? Hot water heater? Likely. But one night, I stood brushing my teeth, trying to ignore the persistent banging. Until I not only heard it, I felt it. Directly under me. The floor feeling like something was going to come up through - so insistently that I jumped back out of the bathroom.

At the founder's house, I gave tours, starting with the second semester of my freshman year. The origin of the house is unknown, only traced back into the early 1800s when the founder's family acquired it. Over the years, I experienced all sorts of strange feelings, unexplained noises, closing doors and eerie presences. I admit I never saw anything manifest. But at times, it was so palpable - that feeling of not being alone. A shift in the energy or temperature or pressure or smells.

We played hide-and-seek from time to time in the winter months. I once hid in a closet - the closet that housed the founder's old trunk with its travel decal from a ship that sailed shortly after Titanic. The musty smell of the closet somehow became heavier with each passing moment. I was so overcome with fear that I started to cry.

Once while vacuuming the mother's room - the room in which she died - I could tell I wasn't alone. Not only that, but I could tell whatever was with me was disturbed, angered by my presence. I dropped the vacuum and ran. Another student I knew who worked in the summer once lay on the bed in that room for a nap due to a headache. She came down later to thank a fellow worker for checking on her - which her coworker had never done.

I heard the sound of the upstairs doors closing like dominos, only to find them wide open upon inspection. One weekend when working by myself, I heard the front door open, stepped into the hall to see who had arrived, to see the door closing again as though someone had left from inside the house. Jenny Ray and I once sat on the second floor landing, the only people in the house, and listened to the unmistakable sound of tinkling crystal and clinking silverware as though the maid was setting the dining room table.

I arrived at work one day to relieve my friend Laura who had been working alone. She launched into how she was washing dishes, felt she was being watched and turned to see...and I interjected, "The little boy in red." She had never heard the story and was astonished that I could guess such a thing. A woman with a "sensitive" little girl told us one day that her daughter talked to the little boy upstairs.

Other students heard 1930s radio...heard footsteps...saw the doors open and shut. I was always uneasy when I was alone in the house. And never, ever went certain places by myself like the servants staircase that began just outside the kitchen and wound in tight, narrow flights up to the attic. Another off limits space - the attic was eerie and musty and fairly begged to be considered for a horror movie set.

In the house on Grace, I've felt scared a few times. Thunderstorms in this apartment can make the back of my neck prickle with fear. But I don't have a distinct sense of anything like I did at the house in college. Nonetheless, this time of year, I try to be careful about how much TV I watch - limit my intake of horror flicks and scary movie moment countdowns and Most Haunted and Ghostly Travels. Otherwise, I'd just be so paralyzed with fear I couldn't hardly breathe. And I've already got a black cat crossing my path at every turn, so I best not chance getting spooked.

Bed Bugs

While trying to nap this afternoon, I could hear Kudzu speeding around the apartment, scrabbling against the wooden floor. I thought he'd just been overcome by an attack of the cat crazies, as he often does when I'm ready to sleep. The phone began to ring, and at that moment, Kudzu leapt onto the nightstand. I sat up to see what brought on this uncharacteristic behavior and found a large locust perched beside the alarm clock. At least 2 1/2 inches long.

Kudzu pawed at it, sending it into the blinds. He nimbly jumped on the sill and neatly snatched the bug by its hindquarters. I, of course, screamed and ran into the other room. At this very moment, he's waiting patiently for the locust to emerge from behind the wardrobe. (And I am watching from the safety of the couch.) I know it's still alive. And now I have that horrible creepy feeling like after you watch the bug tunnel scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. I think I'm going to have to abandon the house for awhile. If I find that thing in one of my shoes tomorrow, there will be hell to pay.

Firework Spectacluar

Tonight I was treated to an impromptu firework spectacular, no doubt launched from a river barge for some event at the Hilton or the Battleship. As odd as fireworks in October might seem, it made me smile. I've seen this firework display in October before - which inspired me to write a poem that eventually became the short story "Fireworks on the Fourth." There were two particularly eerie ones tonight - one that looked strangely like the Dark Mark in red and one that was at least 50 spinners that sounded like ghostly screams. Kudzu found them all particularly distressing and hid under the daybed in the living room.

Most of you have read it, but in honor of the occasion, here is the opening scene from the story that reads like de ja vu to me at the moment.

October
I called but I hung up before your answering machine picked up so I didn’t have to hear your voice. It was still strange to me, your absence, not being able to bear the sound of your voice. I wanted you to hear the anomalous explosions of fireworks popping off over the river in October. I watched them between the old oak trees in the backyard, feet propped on the wrought iron railing. The scream of a spinner broke through the cool air and gold sparks split through the stars.

I thought about going inside, and then I heard a remnant of your voice from July saying, “Wait. We can’t leave until the finale,” your eyes like marbles. That day at the park was the last time that we were together pretending to be happy. When the finale came, you put your hand to your chest to feel the vibrations of one boom after another. You left the next day.

From the porch I watched the finale, hysterical combustion of color and sound. I stood and put my hand to my chest, but I was too far away to feel them inside me. I saw only the spindles of smoke drifting across the sky like ghosts.

Christmas Comes Early

I find it interesting when artists choose to record a Christmas album. Not so much the pop stars who are churning out holiday covers just in time for the tweens to snatch up during Yuletide (NKOTB Christmas, anyone?). But every once in awhile, someone unexpected makes a Christmas album - Jewel's holiday collection is fabulous.

And while checking out the goings-on of some of my favorite artists, I discovered that Sarah McLachlan has a holiday album out called Wintersong. It includes a cover of Joni Mitchell's "River" - and, really, who better to cover that track? Although the Indigo Girls did a pretty wonderful cover of it some years back. Also, who could resist Sarah McLachlan singing "Happy Xmas (War is Over)"?

I have a strict no Christmas music until after Thanksgiving rule, but I might have to break it for the love of Sarah. This album marks her first new music since Afterglow in 2003 - and possibly the shortest time between two albums ever. She could release a compilation of children's classics, and I'd go buy it.

1. Happy Xmas (War Is Over)
2. What Child Is This? (Greensleeves)
3. River
4. Wintersong
5. I'll Be Home For Christmas
6. O Little Town Of Bethlehem
7. The First Noel/Mary Mary
8. Silent Night
9. Song For A Winter's Night
10. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas
11. In A Bleak Mid-Winter
12. Christmas Time Is Here

Just What I Needed

After hearing what others in the office are wearing to Lauren's wedding tomorrow, I worried that I might be under dressed for the occasion. I'm rather terrible at determining what's appropriate to wear to a wedding.

I decided to go to TJ Maxx in a last-ditch effort to find something better to wear. I tried on several dresses - too much cleavage, too tight, too much tummy pooching out from the side view. I walked out with a shirt and a pair of Ralph Lauren sunglasses. How is this going to help me tomorrow? At least the sun won't be in my eyes.

Government & Groceries

I finally received the information in the mail about becoming a member of the Gallup Poll. Tonight I sat down to fill out the survey information. Most of it was standard personal information - birth date, gender, race, religion. After that, the following questions were listed, in this order:

Do you approve or disapprove of the job President Bush is doing?

Are you the primary purchaser of groceries in your household?

This should be interesting.

And the Winner is...

Jeffrey is IN. I have to say, despite my love of Michael (bringing it from the ATL), I was pulling from Uli on this one. I thought her collection was the most beautiful, versatile, cohesive and wearable. Obviously, the judges were looking for creativity and point of view. I think they felt that Jeffrey had the most singular voice of any of the designers. I didn't love his collection, but I can appreciate his passion and his unique point of view.

I was disappointed in Michael's collection. All those lace-up tops. Michael, where was your beautifully tailored sportswear, my man? And Laura brought the sternum-baring stiffness. Although I did think that her final piece was really lovely with the beading.

And did anyone else think the models overall walked like zombies? Maybe I just don't understand the way it's done. I'll practice the dead-walk in the living room so I won't be auffed.

No Comment

Hmmm. I know there's been some general discussion about the lag in blogs lately -- or there's this or this. I'm wondering what happened to the peanut gallery. Where is everybody? Is it me? Y'all would tell me, right?

The Case of the Missing Stylist

I called the salon today to make an appointment with Crazy J. I've decided to grow my hair out a little, but it needs a trim, and I want to have him dye it back to my natural color. Y'all, that's a mystery itself. No one answered at the salon, and I left a message saying I needed a cut and color. I didn't hear from them before I left the office, and I made a mental note to call again tomorrow.

At 6:45, I got a call from the salon. It was the owner. To tell me that Crazy J is no longer there. He's flown the coop again. He thinks that Crazy J may be at one of the mall salons. Not the one he was at prior to this one. Another one. Maybe Rage? Well, at least he's not in jail.

I cannot find a comprehensive listing of the shops in the mall. I am a desperate woman. This is hair, y'all. This is serious business. I'm on the case. I'll take the clues, collect the evidence. With Google & Yellow Pages by my side, I'll track him down. And so help me, I'm going to have a good haircut. Mark my words.

The Unblogables

One of the groomsmen in Dan & Jenn's wedding happens to be a poet in the final stages of his MFA. In the limo, we talked briefly about writing. He asked if I still wrote fiction - a question I get a lot after I've confessed that I have an MFA. I laughed a little and said no. I told him that I was blogging and journaling a lot but still not quite ready to get back in the saddle with fiction.

I wondered what he thought from that side of the fence - the final throes of the thesis work; the squeezing out of every last drop of energy you have to put into it; the feeling that something you'd put that much of yourself into had to amount to something. And me looking at him from what seemed a great distance and thinking about how I can't even seem to remember how to put a story together anymore.

Later I thought about how I had matriculated from this very serious writing place to writing posts about Paris Hilton's unfortunate wardrobe choice on magazine covers and broken computers. And of course, there is the other side - the personal journaling and sorting out of life that takes place in the offline corridors of this machine that's for me and me alone. I often think it's my better writing, but as many of the bloggers have discussed at length, there's certain unblogable territory. Online, we're all iceberg writers - just the tip that belies what goes far deeper under the surface.

I like my career and respect the integrity of it and my clients, and so I refrain from writing more than what skims the surface and holds on to some level of anonimity. And my family doesn't even know the blog exists, but there's certain sacredness to that part of my life. There's just a certain amount of what goes on in daily life that's top security access, that's not just for anyone who happens by.

I guess I felt a little guilty admitting that all I was writing at this point was a blog and a journal. I didn't further incriminate myself by telling him that I also write ad copy for The Man.

I want to write what's honest and gritty and close to the bone. But it's too hard when you don't know who's watching. Or who might get hurt. Or fired. Or angry. I admire you nonfictioneers who are willing to tell that kind of truth and make it artful. I'll just have to collect my unblogables and change the names to protect the innocent and produce a story that's honest and gritty and close to the bone. And pretend it's a lie.

Artwork that captured this feeling perfectly: Critique of Judgment, Observer by Ralph L. Steeds

Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday to Justin! Today is his 30th birthday. I'm pretty sure he'll be getting an AARP card in the mail any day now. Which is good. We'll get senior citizen discounts when we got out to dinner this week.

You share a birthday with Montgomery Clift, Rita Hayworth, Wyclef Jean, Arthur Miller, and, as you well know, your dear Evil Knievel. You're a classic.

J, I hope you have a great day, many happy returns and all that monkey business!

Busting with Embarassment

Dear Guests of Jenn's & Dan's Wedding:
Kim has been so kind as to share her digital photos of this weekend's events with me via Snapfish. Upon viewing those photos taken following the Strap Disaster of '06, I must issue an apology to your guests post haste (particularly to the grandmothers and children in attendance).

I was worried that my ample bosom might get out of control during the dancing portion of the evening, but I recklessly threw caution to the wind and embraced the opportunity to get down girl go 'head get down. The photos capturing this part of the wedding festivities reveal a grizzly scene. To anyone I scandalized, I am deeply sorry. And upon realizing what a very ill-fitting state the dress was left in without the straps, I must express my great regret at the wound dealt to my own dignity.

My only stroke of luck was that the Go Fug Yourself girls were not in attendance. I shudder to think. Next time, I promise to bring a dickey as a back up in case of emergency.

In Abject Apology,
Ash

A Public Service Announcement: Drink Water

"I've seen her get dehydrated, sir. It's pretty gross." - John Bender, The Breakfast Club

We at the Kudzu Jungle would like to offer a public service announcement to remind our readers to drink water. Water is what keeps your body hydrated and all of your important bodily functions going smoothly. Here are some interesting facts about water that you may not know.

* When you fly, your body loses moisture. Score one for dehydration!

* When you're busy with wedding activities, and forget to drink water, your body becomes even more dehydrated.

* Dancing like a maniac for approximately four hours will cause your body to lose moisture through the persistent sheen of sweat created from your devotion to classics like "Shout" and "Respect".

* Red wine does not rehydrate your body as effectively as water.

* Cramping in the toes, ankles and calves while square dancing to "Cotton Eye Joe" is a sign that you should drink water without delay.

* Dehydration can cause you to feel tired, dizzy and nauseated, especially when combined from sheer exhaustion after dancing like it's your job for four hours in a dress meant to keep all of your internal organs from having enough room to function.

* At the above stated point of dehydration, two bottles of water consumed during the night when you wake up every thirty minutes in abject misery will not replenish your shriveled body fast enough.

* The only sure way to make dehydration more fun is to throw up the next morning.

* Muscles and joints depleted of water during dehydration may feel like Tony Soprano took a tire iron to them as was the case with my knees this morning.

* Dehydration may remind you that you aren't 18 anymore and that you should have spent more time sitting in the chair like a well-behaved lady.

* Dehydration is not fun when all you can eat for breakfast is dry Cheerios and a half a banana before getting on the plane.

So, kids, remember. Drink your water - Dasani, Evian, sparkling, still, on the rocks or from the tap - wet your whistle. You'll be glad you did.

I, Bridesmaid: A Review

Three days, two time zones and four plane rides later, I am back in NC with Mr. Kudzu. Jenn & Dan had the luck of a fantastic weekend of wedding weather - although a wee bit on the crisp side if you're going to be wearing a strapless gown. Jenn looked lovely, and the ceremony was at the perfect time of day with all the golden late afternoon light coming into the church. As for how I did with my bridesmaid performance...well, you know what they say about good intentions.

The dress I was supposed to wear elegantly? Broke it. Despite the full-torso torture bra trying to hold me in and the scary panties popular with grannies the world over, I somehow managed to bust the strap on my dress. During pictures. And just after that, the photographer said for us to lean forward, and I said, "You don't want me to do that." Several safety pins later, I gave in to the fact that dress was not meant to be held together, took the straps off and apologized in advance for any indecent exposure. By the end of the night, the overuse of my groove thang had also broken the boning in the dress which was sticking out just above my hip.

Crying delicately? I did that pretty well. Although there was a moment when suddenly everyone disappeared just after Jenn was all dressed, and I did threaten to cry her a river. But during the service, I had a secret kleenex hidden in the palm of my hand which I used to stem the tide during a prayer. Very clever.

Up & down the aisle, I managed to make it without incident. And I even avoided collision with the grand piano when moving out of the way for Jenn & Dan to light the unity candle.

As for the dancing. Well. Oh, my. I am afraid to report that I lost my head completely and danced to nearly every song with unabashed gusto. I couldn't quite tell if the wedding guests were entertained or confused by my don't-stop-til-you-get-enough momentum, but I was like a crazy person out there. And just when I had settled down and said I wasn't going to dance anymore, they played "Devil Went Down to Georgia" and you know I ain't sittin' that one out. Move out of the way, y'all. It's time to break out the clogging.

And so, Jenn & Dan, sorry about the inevitable slew of pictures that will feature yours truly in the throws of some bizarre and uncoordinated dance move. But I had a good time. Congrats.

ILM to the STL

I'm continuing my globe-trotting ways and headed out of town this weekend for an autumn wedding in the Gateway City. I hope I packed my toiletries in such way that doesn't bring the TSA down on my head. I'm just looking to condition my hair, guys. Keep your tasers in check.

This wedding will make number 5 in the way of bridesmaid duty, so I guess I'm almost twice around the block on that whole 3 times a bridesmaid rule. Always the overachiever at heart. As a good bridesmaid, I plan to wear my dress as elegantly as I possibly can, try not to look fat, cry delicately (no easy task for a self-proclaimed sobber) and not trip on the way down the aisle. I have to say I'm in luck this time around with some of the most practical shoes I've ever been allowed in a wedding. Also, I'm going to try to keep my dancing in check. At my friend & co-worker Hilary's wedding, I might have overdone it and inspired her photographer to go beyond capturing me as a wedding guest into documenting me as a wild, flailing subject. Sorry, Hil.

So, in conclusion, I will behave appropriately so as not to be tackled by airport security, embarrass the happy couple or be everafter banned from the fair city of St. Louis. Y'all have a good weekend.

Steamed

Dear Romance Writers of America:
I hope you're happy. I've tried to keep silent on this issue, but the book I received in the mail today has forced me out in the open. It's quite likely I will be stripped of my MFA for writing this letter, but it's time. You must be confronted.

Admitting that you read pulp romance novels is akin to admitting you have a crack habit. Or cross dress. Or enjoy playing the bongos naked and high. So please, help a girl out. I ordered a book that I was hoping to read on one of the plane rides I'll be taking over the next few weeks. Taking it out of the envelope, I noted that the cover was a little pink, a little girly, but bearable. And then BAM! The back cover detoured right past the Tasteville exit and went straight down to Smutty Town.

Now, I have read a lot of these books. And this particular one takes place in Regency England. I'm pretty sure there's not going to be a scene where our heroine is pressed against a tree in a flimsy dress with half her bosom showing while she's molested from the shirtless reject from the Iron Man competition. I DO NOT want to see Conan the Barbarian on my book cover.

I know there's going to be some steaminess in this book. But let's keep it inside the covers, okay? I don't want to see these women swooning so hard their clothes are falling off. And really. Do we need to be subjected to so many male nipples?

In conclusion, I'd like to say that it is my belief that many intelligent and sensible women, like myself, for whatever reason, enjoy these kinds of novels. We don't want to admit it our next board meeting, but we don't mind it on the airplane. Unless we're going to have to flash the guy next to us with Boobs & Brawn: A Love Story. So please, PLEASE, cover up on the cover. 'Kay?

Love & Semi-Nudity,
Ashley

I am Bill Lumbergh

Dear Coworkers:
Please forgive me. I have turned into Bill Lumbergh. It's not my fault, really. I didn't want to have to get involved with this (aptly dubbed by one of you) I-Robot of a system. But get involved I did.

In the beginning, it was about saving you from another software trainer who could be much, much worse than me. However, at this point, I've been drawn into the matrix. I'm no longer sure what we can manipulate in the system setup and what the system will default on, override or spill blood to maintain. I'm not sure which pill I took or if there is a spoon, but I'm pretty sure that I'm going to have eye problems from scrutinizing all these tiny little menus. But I won't complain about that here, because really, this is about apologizing to you, my fellow colleagues, for the pain I have inflicted on you this week.

Tomorrow we're going to talk about numbers - just when you thought it couldn't get worse. And just so you know, I-Robot is watching you. I stumbled upon the system log tonight. I know what every one of you did in the system today. I didn't mean to know. And I didn't mean to start saying things like "The system will automatically populate the fields" and "We have to establish protocol for project entry" but I did. I'd like to close by saying I'm sorry in advance for the memo about the TPS reports. And for the fax machine. And for making you potentially lose your Christmas holidays. I hope this doesn't mean someone's going to burn down the office.

Regretfully,
Lumbergh

Does R.A.B. Live?

If you're a Potter fan, you're not asking yourself right now, "Who's R.A.B.?" The mysterious R.A.B. who holds (or has already destroyed) one of Voldemort's horcruxes has been the subject of a lot of conjecture. The webmistress of a Portuguese fan site claims that she clarified with J.K. Rowling's camp the middle name and gender of Regulus Black before the publication of Half-Blood Prince. The middle name - Arcturus. Many had already guessed that Regulus was indeed R.A.B.

An article I read recently suggests that Regulus may not be dead, but in hiding, after stealing the horcrux. Hmmm. Very intriguing. And does he have that mirror of Sirius' we've been promised we'll see again? Thoughts?

And, just to brag, I took the Grade 2 W.O.M.B.A.T. (Wizards' Ordinary Magic and Basic Aptitude Test) on Rowling's official site last weekend. And I earned my second Exceeds Expectations. If I'm not around tomorrow, it's because I've gone to Hogwarts.

P.S. Trailer for Order of the Phoenix to be released November 17.

Question

If you eat sushi, which is by all accounts quite healthy, and a pear for dinner, but drink beer with it, is this just total caloric equillibrium? Is this dietary stalemate?

Return of the Sad Mac

Okay, so I got the Sad Mac back about a week ago, but today was the first day I had free to get it hooked up and reloaded with software. The technician called me late in the game to let me know he had been able to recover some documents. Just some. I'm glad I didn't get my hopes up. In 12 recovery attempts, the following was restored to my computer:

* Photos of horses that were tacked on to a client photo shoot by the photographer. The horses didn't even belong to the client.

* An ad from last year's Azalea Festival

* The Garden State Soundtrack

* A single photo from a recent golf course event

* A series of .docs that are incomprehensible gobbledy-gook

* Four photos of Kudzu

* Nothing at all relevant to my job

Go Down to Sam's Town

After begging Lauren to take me to Best Buy last week to get The Killers' new album Sam's Town, I had ample time to listen to it during the drive time. It carries off the concept of Las Vegas desert heat pretty well, but it comes off like a hot summer album, and I'm disappointed that they held its release for the fall.

The overall sound has an 80s glam rock tinge to it, bringing to mind The Cure, Queen and David Bowie. Though he gives a good go at it, Brandon Flowers doesn't quite have the showmanship of Freddie Mercury or David Bowie, but maybe with another album or two he'll get past some of his posturing. For now, at least he is very hot.

Sam's Town moves away just slightly from the heavily layered techno-beat of Hot Fuss and opts for a fuller sound. Standout tracks are the first single "When You Were Young", "The River is Wild" and "Why Do I Keep Counting?" is growing on me. "Bling (Confessions of a King)" has little U2 thrown in and strangely evokes the E.R. theme in my head. "Uncle Jonny" is a more modern rock track whose lyrics bring Billy Joel's "Captain Jack" to mind. And "Reasons Unknown" is another of my favorites because it's got a dash of Psychadelic Furs in it that makes me think that in some universe, Andie and Duckie are listening to it together at Tracks.

If you liked Hot Fuss, you'll like Sam's Town. The Killers deliver a cohesive, well-done album, although parts of it felt a little too glossy and rock opera-ish, rather than possessing the ragged energy of some of the tracks on Hot Fuss. It's great music for getting ready to go out on a Friday night, driving with a car full of people to somewhere fun or for throwing into a party mix for a kick of adrenaline. If I got invited to Sam's Town, I'd definitely go.

Sheer Perfection

Mountain Day was absolute perfection from beginning to end. It started with coffee in the morning with Mom & Dad and made-to-order weather. It was crisp and cool with enough of a chill in the air to bite at you a little. We drove the Rav up to pick up my brother & sister-in-law. She's quite pregnant, now that we're less than 100 days from the due date.

The afternoon at B.C. was an exemplary Mountain Day. Old friends, lots of hugs, catching up. A bucket of chicken, grape salad and cookies. It was so relaxing, reclining on the blanket under a big tree. We talked about the sun coming through the leaves and took pictures of everyone comparing his or her belly to Eva's. Dad may have won that one.
Afterwards, we drove up into the mountains to look at a piece of land Dad wanted to see. It was incredibly peaceful with the trees creating a full canopy over the road. And it was a thrilling little drive for me navigating the curves and hairpin turns after the flatness of Wilmywood.

We closed out the afternoon by visiting with my old work supervisor, who is 78 going on 79 and just as spry as she ever was. She's the person I think about from time to time when I need perspective on life. She always had the simplest, best advice. In fact, one day at lunch, after a professor had trashed one of my poems, she said, "Well, we'll just have to pray for him."

On the way back to Justin & Eva's house, I got to feel Sprout move! I've never had the opportunity to feel a baby move, but it felt like a little balloon was in there bumping against the ceiling. It was amazing! And the doctor's told them he's going to be a big boy!

I couldn't have ask for anything more. But like all good fairy tales, the day came to an end. And nothing made that clearer than the lonely, miserable drive home in the rain I had yesterday. Even Kudzu and I were at odds after I scolded him for attacking the headrest with his claws. All in all, though, it was about 16 or 17 hours in car, but worth every minute. Mark your calendars for next year.

Out of Context

I'm headed out of town tomorrow to go to Mountain Day, so I thought I'd leave you all with a little writing exercise before I go. Oh, and the last John Mayer post for at least a week. Cross my heart.

I read a recent interview with him - maybe from Entertainment Weekly - that included the following exchange.

Interviewer: I'd like to quote you out of context. You may begin.
John Mayer: All three at the same time. All equally as snug.

So, I'd like to quote you, kind readers, out of context. You may begin.

Spooked

Last night and tonight, I spent the better part of my afternoon and evening aboard the battleship working corporate events. Word has it that this particular battleship is quite haunted. It was torpedoed during combat in WWII, and a number of soldiers were killed. The night watchmen and visitors to the ship have reported unexplainable noises, clanging, footsteps, and, most frightening of all, a soldier with a white flaming head. We were chatting about such things as we ate barbecue and fried chicken - the reported ghosts and the TV show that came and captured some pretty freakish evidence in support of the claims.

Luckily, we're on the decks for the most part so I don't have to go into the ship that much. If you've never been on board a ship like this, the interior is a labyrinth of tight corridors and narrow passageways. And it has a very distinctive smell of metal and teak. Inside the ship, sound is abnormally muffled and echoed. It's rather oppressive - and definitely a claustrophobic's worst nightmare.

We were storing boxes and empty coolers in a room down a corridor just off the deck. I went to get boxes to pack the leftover wine in as the event wound down, well past sundown. The ship isn't very well lit at night, and the entrance was behind a turret where it was rather dark. As I entered, I couldn't help feel a little uneasy at being alone inside the eerie corridor. In the storage room, I selected my box and stood up to carry it out. Little did I know there was mirror on the other wall. The movement of my own reflection nearly stopped my heart. I chuckled at my own silliness and moved toward the door.

Just as I reached the doorway, another door opened to my right, with that heaving metal sound characterized in old war movies. I almost screamed - but fear had me so breathless, I'm not sure I could have. Without a seconds' pause, I started to run down the hall toward the deck. And then a glance over my shoulder revealed one of the band members. Apparently, there's a bathroom in there. I felt utterly ridiculous.

"Did you think I was a ghost?" he asked.

"Yes," I said sheepishly. "And not only that, I thought you had me." What a complete moron I am - 27 and running away from a "ghost" at a corporate event. Very professional.

A little while later, I was headed back to the storage room and the same guy came out as I was going in. Very quietly, he said, "Boo."

This is Hysterical

No, seriously. I know you're sick of my recent obsession with John Mayer. The graphic designer at work has threatened an intervention after he figured that I'd said something about John Mayer about 20 times this week. But this. This is utterly hilarious. I was crying when I watched it.

Apparently John had a TV show on VH1 - did anyone know this? And he staged this focus group with four 19-year-old girls. I have to say, I feel a little sorry for them. If this had been me ten years ago with Adam Duritz, I would've been just as retarded. Check it out.

On a Musical Note

I often think in music. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music. ... I get most joy in life out of music. - Albert Einstein

I go through phases in life where I'm more or less attached to music. Sometimes I listen to the radio with general indifference, but then I enter a phase - like now - where I have to have music on every second of every day or the silence is deafening.

I remember when I was little, my dad used to play his guitar sometimes at night. He usually played old country tunes like "Tennessee Waltz" or "Frankie & Johnnie." He was completely self-taught on a guitar he bought at a pawn shop, and I have always wished I'd inherited even a trace of his musical ear. As I got older there was my sister, six years older than me, who shaped my early music tastes with the tapes she'd let me listen to while she was at school - Madonna, Wham! and Michael Jackson.

And when I first got my CD player, I only had 5 CDs that I listened to endlessly including Counting Crows' August & Everything After, Dave Matthews Band's Under the Table & Dreaming and Sarah McLachlan's Fumbling Towards Ecstasy. And from there, the collection grew and expanded. Tastes changed. Friends introduced new songs, new bands. And now I've amassed a fair collection of music. Most of which has profound meaning to me, whether in its lyrics or its connection to the past.

I love how some songs are irrevocably tied to moments in my life, and no matter when I hear them, I am transported back to that moment. "Africa" by Toto makes me think of going to the park, eating bologna and cheese sandwiches and listening to WRFC 960 AM in my mom's gray Oldsmobile with the plushy red seats. Other songs simply give me a certain feeling when I hear them - Tori Amos' "Putting the Damage On" can make me cry at the drop of a hat and David Gray's "Twilight" makes me want to go downtown and sit in a dark bar. And then there are songs that I only want to listen to under certain conditions. Like "One" by U2 and "Don't Dream It's Over" by Crowded House are best listened to when it's raining at the change of season and cold like the beginning of winter or spring.

I was telling Kim today that I wanted to make an autumn mix, with songs from This Desert Life (an inherently fallish album) and "As I'm Leaving" by David Gray. And we talked about how the songs that came out our first year of grad school make us think of fall - like "Clint Eastwood" by the Gorillaz and "Start the Commotion" by The Wiseguys. Which led me into thinking about songs that make me think of the grad school years like "Tiny Dancer" and "Sex Machine" - two songs played so relentlessly on the juke box at Cedars, I'm surprised I still like them. And "Teenage Wasteland" - (which Kim & I decided is a spring song) makes both of us feel like we're going somewhere important. Like Krispy Kreme.

I'm fond, too, in my solitude, of thinking, "If my life were a movie, what song would be playing right now?" When Kim was in town, we were all sitting at the bar, and "Here Comes the Sun" started playing and it seemed like the end of the movie when the camera is panning out from the characters and the credits start to roll and you know everything's going to work out just fine.

Ah, music. How you move me.

One Week & Counting

A Dear John Letter

Dear John:
I stayed up really late to see you on The Tonight Show last night. And that's a sacrifice for a working girl like me (especially when my neighbor was out on his porch shouting AGAIN at 6 AM this morning, but that's another story). Your performance did not disappoint, but, John, dear, what were you wearing? Seriously, this is national television, and you kind of looked like you just got out of bed. That long robe-y looking coat and the pajama pants and those Chuck Taylors that looked - dare I say it - like platform sneakers? You looked a bit disheveled.

Did you check out the guy next to you before you went on stage? Your backup vocal guitar player? He was wearing a shirt and tie and pressed pants and looked rather dapper. And I know that's not you, but look at this picture I found of you - this is much, much better. A nice t-shirt, some rock star jeans, and that guitar is fabulous.

So anyway, John, I just wanted to say, check yourself in the mirror next time. You're a good-looking guy - I know you can work it. But stellar performance. That guitar solo was hot. And you've won me over on the new hair. Love the new album. Keep up the good work.

XOXO,
Ash

Tonight on NBC

Another stellar episode of Studio 60. Although I might be developing an overly large crush on Bradley Whitford. Eh, what's done is done. They're doing a brilliant job of hints and allegations about all the relationships between the characters and creating a sense of tension through the whole show. I admire them for eeking out the storylines instead of trying to spill out all the back story in the first few episodes. Mystery is where it's at. And great laughs. Next week's episode looks even better.

Also, JOHN MAYER is on the Tonight Show tonight. And YES, I am staying up to watch. Because I'm a good fan like that. Review tomorrow - even if I am the only one reading this blog who cares.

Smash Lives

For those of you who may not know, once upon a time, I used to be called Smash due to a certain lack of grace & poise. And just to live up to the nickname, in the past two days at work, I have cut my arm on a zip tie, pulled a ream of copy paper down on my head and gotten a wicked paper cut on a file folder. And then this little Three Stooges moment (sans two stooges) in the supply closet. I went to put back some software that I had used, and the shelf was just out of my reach, but I figured I could tip it up on the shelf and push it into place. But there was already some stuff there, so when I tipped it over the shelf, it slanted down and fell on my head. In my eagerness to get out from under the rain of software, I stepped back onto the dust mop, making the handle hit me soundly in the head. And so I stepped forward on the vacuum cleaner and knocked it over, losing balance myself and grabbing the doorframe to keep from falling. We laughed til we cried.