"Brian, Can You Please Try to Distract This Idiot By Playing That Flute Really Loudly?"*

Happy Birthday, Brian Jones.

The heartbreak mix: Elvis Costello and Burt Bacharach, Painted From Memory; Golden Palominos, This is How it Feels; Chet Baker Sings; Lloyd Cole, Don't Get Weird on Me, Babe; and the second disc from Best of Todd Rundgren.

And then Izzat Love? comes on, and you bang your forehead against the steering wheel.

And here I thought that there could be no greater reason than her performance in Orlando to love Tilda Swinton more.

*This story about Brian Jones on Fairly OddParents has GOT to be apocryphal. You know different, you write me.

Photo: Nico and Brian at Monterey. Don't know where it came from; folks all over are using w/o attribution.

Jungle Fury Fever in Operation Overdrive with My Achy Breaky Heart

Brag about not getting sick, and what happens? You're in bed for three days. Not happily.

But it was there I discovered my latest Power Ranger Boss Crush: David DeLautour, RJ of Jungle Fury. Ooh, la la, do they make them cute in New Zealand!

So my vicarious viewing children's TV crush list now goes: RJ of Jungle Fury; billionaire boss of Overdrive; and Billy Ray Cyrus.

Trampled Under Foot

When I was running today, I nearly tripped on a fragment of a 45-rpm single, on the sidewalk outside the embassy of the Vatican. The bit of label left on it read: Loving Time by James Busch, on Midnight Records. I think I remember it right, but I can't find anything like it on Google.

A couple of days ago I found a playing card on the sidewalk outside the Vice President's residence: the King of Diamonds.

And All I Got Was This Sticker

There’s a family tradition that we don’t say who we voted for, but that doesn’t stop a guy from asking. So I do the usual: Clues, diversions, hidden meanings, extrapolations.

Me: “This is the only clue I’m going to give you: When I turned on the car afterwards, the radio was playing ‘Play That Funky Music, White Boy.’”

DH: So that means, what, you wrote in Edwards?

Me: [Buckled.]

I’m wearing this fugly 3-inch-thick boiled wool suit jacket that’s like Mamie Eisenhower’s body armor. And I’m still freezing. I think it’s because of the 6 a.m. hot yoga. When you start your day in a 97-degree room, you know you’ll never be that warm again. And winter clothes bring a body down.

We Like Men With a Little More

Big discussion on the snarkee ladieezze blog about changing societal pressures on men to lose weight and men who are "too skinny." Majority of commenters say they prefer their men a little on the thicker side. Right on! I always think I have a type, but then it turns out to be the type I'm with that year or decade, over my lifetime as a serial monogamist. Right now, my type is hairy, with extremely muscular legs and maybe a little paunch (mmm, cozy). Eighteen (jesus!) years ago, my type was practically hairless golden brown sleek Pacific islander (I have been guilty of Asian fetish). Twenty years ago it was a long and lanky Northern European blonde. Twenty-five years: My pale Goth twin, my mirror in height and BMI. Thirty: Milk chocolate skin, soft sculpted muscles and a high, soft 'fro.

Starting to sound like Sinatra. From the brim to the dregs, baby! But my point is this: I recently had to listen to a very fine man kvetch because he's two pounds over marathon weight. And I'm thinking this is turning into a cultural thing, and it's ridiculous. Guys, love your bodies as the Goddess made them. Keep your heart and circulation healthy, and your ass will follow.

(Am I objectifying them by speaking only of their appearance? I remember their minds and secrets and jokes and taste in music and books and much more, too. But they are so beautiful, and it pleases me to remember their looks as well.)

It's also been weird because I've had some people ask if I'm "OK" because I dropped a lot of weight over the past two years. It's because I'm eating local/sustainable/simple/homegrown/herbs as much as possible, OK? I've been sick maybe twice in two years--not bad for someone under constant quivering-stress deadlines and personal drama who sleeps five hours on a good night. Plus, it's normal for me to be skinny. Pregnancies and hormones just skewed it for a couple years.

And my point with that: You eat decent food and you exercise because of how it makes you feel. How you look will always be subject to some genetic fortune.

PS: My taste in women is as constant as the northern star: Lanky, freckled strawberry blondes, or Angie Harmon.

They Take Orders From a Guinea Pig Drag Queen

Weekends, we let the child watch TV and eat cereal while we sleep in. Give me a damn break, her every other waking moment is filled with constructive, developmentally appropriate social and educational opportunities. She sits on the couch and keeps up a running report.

DD: My favorite Power Ranger, the Blue Power Ranger, her real name is Sally!

Me: Which one is this?

DD: Power Rangers Ninja Storm! And also I watched Power Rangers Mystic Force.

Me: Do they still have that same boss? You know, the rich one in a big house, with the guy who helps him? (To husband:) He's hot. In that softc-o-r-e kind of way, you know?

DH: (In pillow) Mmph.

DD: No, their boss in this one is a hamster.

Me: A hamster?

DD: A hamster, a hamster!

Me: I'd like to see that.

DD: He's on now! Look!

DH: What does he look like?

Me: A giant guinea pig. In drag. He's a guinea pig drag queen. Gesturing at a flat-screen TV.

DD: He gives them their orders!

Photo: Rod Lousich, the hot boss. No hamster he, nor softc-o-r-e in the least, but a respected theatrically trained actor from New Zealand! From Operation Overdrive, probably used actionably.

PS: Mom is PO'ed, but comfortable. Racking her brains for something positive to make from it all.

I Got the News

My husband, my ex-boyfriend (;)) and others have been pushing The Wire for years; I'm lately addicted. Stopped watching any TV for about a year, but started making an exception a few weeks ago, seeking escape from my own drama.

Newspaper folks do love to talk and talk they do about this plotline and its authenticity or writer's motivations. I've been around for bureau closures and buyouts and new owners who thought they could fire copy editors because spellcheck could do that job. My own MSM rise, halting and stilted as it was, was only made possible by the fact that I was young and willing to do more for less money than the ones they laid off and bought out. (That's the real meaning of "do more with less.") I never crossed a picket line (but I got some sweet pressure and lots of shots from a Detroit crew at a conference one weekend, and I did think about it til I sobered up), but a single-mom friend did. I actually managed to increase staff once at one place I worked, but that was because the owners were very very busy playing golf all the time. The Wire's newspaper scenes ring pitch-perfect to me and the ad hominem don't fly.

I'm desperately trying to distract myself until it's the right time to do a ritual for Imbolc, the pagan celebration of new beginnings, creativity, seeds stirring, sap just thinking of starting to rise, calves being birthed. Child's asleep and I can't write anything real. I'd planned a healing ritual, because I have some folks in mind there, but now I am furiously worried primarily about healing for my mother. I just got an email saying that while on her way to get her knee replacement, she fell and injured her shoulder. She is in pain and will need to heal for at least a month before the knee surgery can happen. My father has asked us not to call until tomorrow. So I'll call on the gods.

Photo: "Cosmic News," (Utah's Newspaper Rock), by Jahdakine, Creative Commons