alexv

I'm so excited!    I just got John Shuttleworth's autograph in the mail!

That's his lovely wife mary on the right. 

 

Here's one of my favorite John Shuttleworth songs. It's kind of my anthem, so don't be afraid to punch the sky.

 

1.     Song that mentions (at least) one city.

Neil Innes and Eric Idle - 24 Hours in Tunbridge Wells.

2.     Song from your childhood or song that makes you think of your childhood because of the lyrics.

B-52s - Channel Z.

I still remember when they first introduced cable tv to supplement antenna broadcasts. In Los Angeles, it was called the Z Channel.   I was about 8 years old, and I think it was the first time I'd seen movies with the naughty bits left in.

3.  X-Mas song.

Albert Brooks - The Meaning of Christmas.

 

 

 

4.  Song that makes you think of a person that means a lot to you.

Carlos Gardel - Mi Buenos Aires Querido.

 

5.  Male/female duet.

Sophia Loren and Peter Sellers - I fell in Love with an Englishman.

6.  Song you've formerly misunderstood the lyrics to.

Dorothy Lamour - Lovely Hula Hands.

7. Song with 'rock n roll' or 'rock' or 'roll' in the title.

Shelley Fabares and Paul Peterson - What Did They Do Before Rock and Roll?

 

8.  Song that comforts you.

John Shuttleworth - How To Be Happy In A Sad, Sad World.

 

9. Song with a hidden meaning (like sex, drugs etc).

Elsa Lanchester - I'm Glad To See Your Back.

I recently read her autobiography, which I highly recommend, despite it being quite sad. The title of this song was suggested by her husband, Charles Laughton, who had been playing Bottom (in Shakespeare, I mean).

10. Cover song (that you like more than the original).

Señor Coconut - Smoke on the Water.

11. Song you used to hate/not like but grew to love/like.
Sorry, I still hate all of them.

 

12. An instrumental song.

John Morris - Transylvania Lullaby (from Young Frankenstein).

 

 

Link to these songs.

Jesus Shaves, by David Sedaris

"And what does one do on the fourteenth of July? Does one celebrate Bastille Day?"

It was my second month of French class, and the teacher was leading us in an exercise designed to promote the use of one, our latest personal pronoun.

"Might one sing on Bastille Day?" she asked. "Might one dance in the street? Somebody give me an answer."

Printed in our textbooks was a list of major holidays alongside a scattered arrangement of photos depicting French people in the act of celebration. The object was to match the holiday with the corresponding picture. It was simple enough but seemed an exercise better suited to the use of the word they. I didn't know about the rest of the class, but when Bastille Day eventually rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.

Normally, when working from the book, it was my habit to tune out my fellow students and scout ahead, concentrating on the question I'd calculated might fall to me, but this afternoon, we were veering from the usual format. Questions were answered on a volunteer basis, and I was able to sit back, confident that the same few students would do the talking. Today's discussion was dominated by an Italian nanny, two chatty Poles, and a pouty, plump Moroccan woman who had grown up speaking French and had enrolled in the class to improve her spelling. She'd covered these lessons back in the third grade and took every opportunity to demonstrate her superiority. A question would be asked and she'd give the answer, behaving as though this were a game show and, if quick enough, she might go home with a tropical vacation or a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer. By the end of her first day, she'd raised her hand so many times, her shoulder had given out. Now she just leaned back in her seat and shouted the answers, her bronzed arms folded across her chest like some great grammar genie.

We finished discussing Bastille Day, and the teacher moved on to Easter, which was represented in our textbook by a black-and-white photograph of a chocolate bell lying upon a bed of palm fronds.

"And what does one do on Easter? Would anyone like to tell us?"

The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the question when the Moroccan student interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, but what's an Easter?"

Despite her having grown up in a Muslim country, it seemed she might have heard it mentioned once or twice, but no. "I mean it," she said. "I have no idea what you people are talking about."

The teacher then called upon the rest of us to explain.

The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. "It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and . . . oh, shit."

She faltered, and her fellow countryman came to her aid.

"He call his self Jesus, and then he be die one day on two . . . morsels of . . . lumber."

The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.

"He die one day, and then he go above of my head to live with your father."

"He weared the long hair, and after he died, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."

"He nice, the Jesus."

"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today."

Part of the problem had to do with grammar. Simple nouns such as cross and resurrection were beyond our grasp, let alone such complicated reflexive phrases as "To give of yourself your only begotten son." Faced with the challenge of explaining the cornerstone of Christianity, we did what any self-respecting group of people might do. We talked about food instead.

"Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb," the Italian nanny explained. "One, too, may eat of the chocolate."

"And who brings the chocolate?" the teacher asked.

I knew the word, and so I raised my hand, saying, "The Rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate."

My classmates reacted as though I'd attributed the delivery to the Antichrist. They were mortified.

"A rabbit?" The teacher, assuming I'd used the wrong word, positioned her index fingers on top of her head, wiggling them as though they were ears. "You mean one of these? A rabbit rabbit?"

"Well, sure," I said. "He come in the night when one sleep on a bed. With a hand he have the basket and foods."

The teacher sadly shook her head, as if this explained everything that was wrong with my country. "No, no," she said. "Here in France the chocolate is brought by the big bell that flies in from Rome."

I called for a time-out. "But how do the bell know where you live?"

"Well," she said, "how does a rabbit?"

It was a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That's a start. Rabbits move from place to place, while most bells can only go back and forth--and they can't even do that on their own power. On top of that, the Easter Bunny has character; he's someone you'd like to meet and shake hands with. A bell has all the personality of a cast-iron skillet. It's like saying that come Christmas, a magic dustpan flies in from the North Pole, led by eight flying cinder blocks. Who wants to stay up all night so they can see a bell? And why fly one in from Rome when they've got more bells than they know what to do with right here in Paris? That's the most implausible aspect of the whole story, as there's no way the bells of France would allow a foreign worker to fly in and take their jobs. That Roman bell would be lucky to get work cleaning up after a French bell's dog -and even then he'd need papers. It just didn't add up.

Nothing we said was of any help to the Moroccan student. A dead man with long hair supposedly living with her father, a leg of lamb served with palm fronds and chocolate. Confused and disgusted, she shrugged her massive shoulders and turned her attention back to the comic book she kept hidden beneath her binder. I wondered then if, without the language barrier, my classmates and I could have done a better job making sense of Christianity, an idea that sounds pretty far-fetched to begin with.

In communicating any religious belief, the operative word is faith, a concept illustrated by our very presence in that classroom. Why bother struggling with the grammar lessons of a six-year-old if each of us didn't believe that, against all reason, we might eventually improve? If I could hope to one day carry on a fluent conversation, it was a relatively short leap to believing that a rabbit might visit my home in the middle of the night, leaving behind a handful of chocolate kisses and a carton of menthol cigarettes. So why stop there? If I could believe in myself, why not give other improbabilities the benefit of the doubt? I accepted the idea that an omniscient God had cast me in his own image and that he watched over me and guided me from one place to the next. The virgin birth, the resurrection, and the countless miracles -my heart expanded to encompass all the wonders and possibilities of the universe.

A bell, though, that's fucked up.

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This is a matter of great urgency. We need a blank check. We need the funds
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Please reply with all of your bank account, IRA and college fund account
numbers and those of your children and grandchildren to
wallstreetbailout@treasury.gov so that we may transfer your commission for
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funds.
Yours Faithfully Minister of Treasury Paulson

Eye color: hazel/brown

Hair color: fleshtone

Height: 5'9"

Right or left handed: Left

Nicknames: Butzi, Schnookums, TripleCool.

Favorite food: chocolate.

Number of piercings: 16

Any tattoos: just the usual butterfly on my ankle.

Favorite clothing brand:  Target.

Favorite scent: bacon.

Favorite book: Alone, by Admiral Richard Byrd.

The best film of all time is: Doctor Strangelove.

Favorite music genre: Edwardian music hall ballads.

My choice band/musician in the world is: Jack Hylton.

Favorite drink:  ice water.

Favorite season: Winter

Tea or coffee: Coffee.

Silver or gold: Gold.

weaknesses: Procrastina.....

Strengths: dedicated flosser.

Fears: flying, heights, girls, monsters, being eaten by clowns.

Pet peeves: Noise, crowds, modern architecture.

When I'm sad or down, I: work on my enemies list.

Do you sing: only in the shower or on Youtube.

If you could have your dream career, what would it be: weatherman or filmcritic.

What makes you happy: cats, gardening, windowshopping, photoshopping.

First thought when you wake up: Those aren't pillows!

Do you get motion sickness: Only once, on a train in the mountains.

Do you like thunderstorms: yes, they're almost unheard of here.

Dream vacation: Renting a Schloss in Austria with Curly.

Do you have a crush on anyone: yes.

I'm addicated to...: the internet

What's your phone's ringtone: vibrate.

What can't you live without: cats, internet, books, chocolate.

    So I recently bought a new pair of slippers or flip-flops to wear when I'm taking out the trash or otherwise going out into the back yard.  At first I kept them just inside the back door, which was the most convenient place for them, until one morning, not too long ago, I slid my foot into one of them to discover a pool of cat urine inside it.  Let me tell you that this is a terrible way to start the day.  Cat urine, even when fresh, smells a lot stronger than people-urine, even when not fresh.  I had to really scrub to get them clean. Not to mention my feet.

    From then on, I kept the slippers just outside the back door, where the cats couldn't get at them.  Sure it would be less convenient, but better safe than sorry.   Well, one day not long therafter, I went outside and slid my foot into one of the slippers to discover a pool of cat urine inside it. A neighborhood cat must have been by and decided that my slippers were lacking that personal touch that makes all the difference.

    My question, which I hereby put  to the floor of the house, for any and all Buzznetters to answer, is, where should I keep my slippers to keep them dry? 

Lately it seems that everyone is posting pictures of themselves leaning forward toward the camera to show their cleavage.  And I'm wondering if I should do so, too.   I think it would get me buzz points, but I don't want to feel cheap.  

What do you think?

There are no fat Meezes.  Or old ones.  There should be something called Geez.com for old geezers like me.

"Some clergymen were under the conviction that lovemaking on the Sabbath, even between husband and wife, was the gravest of sins.  And they also believed that they could determine when many of such misbehaviours occurred, for it was thought that a child was born on the same day of the week when it was conceived.   So some clergymen were certain that a child born on Sunday was conceived on Sunday.  The Reverend Israel Loring of Sudbury, Massachusetts, was especially well known for punishing couples whom he thought had made love on the Sabbath.  He steadfastly refused to baptize children who were born on Sunday, convinced that they had been conceived on the Sabbath.  His policy changed when his own wife gave birth to twins on the Sabbath."
  -- Claudia Durst Johnson, Daily Life in Colonial New England, p. 24.

Swelter 

...seems to be arriving earlier every year. 

No sooner have I taken down my decorations for Musk Melon Day than I have to start getting ready for International Talk Like A Pirate Day.

Arrrgh!

RULES
1. You post your top 10 fantasy guys/girls
2. You tag 10 people.
3. You CANNOT tag someone who has already been tagged.
4. You have to let the people you tagged know that they've been tagged.
5. These are the rules they must be repeated every time.
6. THERE MUST BE PHOTOS! AT ALL TIMES!
======
One of my earliest crushes would be Jodie Foster.  I remember her as a child star from Walt Disney family movies.

============

I always had a thing for sitcom moms, too..   Elizabeth Montgomery from Bewitched, Carolyn Jones from The Addams Family, and Juliet Mills from Nanny and the Professor (bonus points for the English accent!).  William Demarest was the sitcom mom for My Three Sons, a remarkably progressive choice for 1960.


=========

I was never very interested in pop music, but I made an exception for Olivia Newton John.  She too, had an exotic accent, as did Sheena Easton, although that "Morning Train" song was a bit repetitive.  Kylie Minogue is good, too.


=========

Dream classmates.  It goes without saying that I had a crush on Marcia Brady, but I also thought Jan was pretty cute, too.  And she would have made a better girlfriend, because Marcia was too popular and snobby, whereas Jan was insecure and probably more loyal.  Yes, I thought about stuff like that.
I also had a crush on the three Square Pegs girls.  I liked their innocence.  They faked that real good.



Bombshells.  It was worth staying up late at night, sitting through the Carpeteria and suit warehouse commercials, to see the schlocky TV movies with the top -heavy leading ladies.  In this category I would also put Love American Style, a dangerous program to be watched with the door barred against one's parents.  It was always promising to become soft-core European TV, but never quite did. 




How did this get in here?

1) My middle name is Eric.  You losers without a middle name don't know what you're missing.

2) Whenever I read about a disease, I begin to feel the symptoms.
 
3) I have to take notes when reading a novel.  Otherwise I can't remember who is who.  Sometimes I  draw a map, too.  Sometimes I'll search online for a map that someone else has drawn.  This is why I am usually a very slow reader.

4) I'm a pack rat. Whenever I clean house, my possessions expand to fill all the available space.

5) Sleeping is my favorite pastime.

6) My internet addiction cured me of my television addiction.

7) My life is a constant struggle between my laziness and my appetites.

 8) I used to be scared of pretty girls, until I realized they're way more scared of me.

THIS

Is not me.

  


 Today I felt an unfamiliar soaring of the heart.  I was taken with a warm affection for my fellow human beings, and the conviction that this old world isn't such a bad place after all.  I attribute this to the pain pills my doctor gave me for my back.

 They really took hold this morning while I was at the supermarket.  I seem to have come home with all sorts of bakery treats and jambalaya fixin's that weren't on my shopping list.  (By the way, the nectarines are perfect right now.  I strongly recommend them.)  So I was kind of pushing my shopping cart around erratically, telling various ladies how beautiful they were, and that I loved them.

  I made it home okay.  Now I'm going to post this and take a nap.  

Q:  I thought I'd begin by asking you why you chose to apply here for the position of house cat.

A:  Well, I happened to be passing by, and I thought I smelled bacon.

Q:  Yes, it was. 

A:  I trust my instincts, you see.  I'm a spontaneous fellow.

Q:  Well, I'm looking for a cat with initiative.  A self-starter.

A:  That's me in a nutshell.

Q:  So tell me, what would you say is your greatest strength?

A:  I have excellent night vision.  Plus, I can leap about 6 times my own height.  Always seem to land on my feet, too.

Q:  That's impressive.  Your greatest weakness?

A:  (scratching behind his ear).  Pardon me.  My greatest weakness  would have to be yarn.  You think I'd know better now, but the fact is, whenever someone runs a piece of yarn in front of me, I'm diving madly after it, trying to catch it, and the thing is escaping between my little fingers.  String is the same way. 

Q:  That hasn't turned you off to yarn though?  We have quite a lot of yarn and string here.

A:  Good lord no!  I like a challenge. 

Q:  Well that's good then.   (checking his manual) Tell me, what are your short and long term goals? Where do you see yourself in the next several years?

A:  Hmm....(licking his elbow)......For the short term, I'm pretty much focused on lunch right now.  Followed by a bit of grooming and a nap in a warm, sunny corner.

Q:  And for the long term?

A:  There's a cardboard box on the top shelf that I've had my eye on.  I'd like to see what it's like in there.  Could be a fort.  Could be a bed.  Time will tell.

Q:  I see you've already done a bit of research about our establishment.

A:  I like to scope things out, yes.  I noticed you have a nice stand of catnip growing by your back stairs.

Q:  Is that catnip?  I thought it was oregano.  I made some pasta sauce with it the other night and it was awful.

A:  Well, that might have been the urine. 

Q:  The what?

A:  I don't like to say anything against any of the other cats you may be considering, but I saw a gray tomcat peeing on your bushes just the other night.

Q:  They pee on bushes?

A:  All the time.   Of course, if this had been my territory, I would have chased him off. 

Q:  (biting his pencil with a concerned look on his face, and staring hard at his spiral-bound notebook)  Tell me, what is the most important thing you've learned from your experiences as a cat?

A:  Don't run into the mirror.  It's not another cat, it's you.

Q:  That's sound advice.  What was your biggest challenge or disappointment, and how did you deal with it?

A:  (rubbing his nose with a damp paw)  Some of those catfoods with the dodgy names.  "Captain's Platter,"  "Savory Supper."  
What's that stuff supposed to be?  If it doesn't say beef or chicken, or salmon on the label, I'm suspicious.  I mean, it might be a bunch of lips and hooves for all I know.

Q:  I can see how that might be a concern.  And how would you handle that?

A:  Well, I try to keep an open mind.  If the feeder has made an honest mistake, I'll take a few polite sniffs at the food and then turn and stare at them meaningfully, before trotting away.  But if the person doesn't move up to a proper sort of food offering, I have little choice but to throw up on their nicest carpet or sofa.  They soon get the message.  Humans are fast learners when their furniture is at stake.

Q:  That sounds like a very effective strategy.  (making notes) Now, I'd like you to tell me about a time when you were held accountable for a problem you didn't cause.  How did you resolve it?

A:  At my previous situation, there was an episode involving a butter-dish on the dinner table.  I was falsely accused of jumping onto the table---something I never do---and licking the butter.   Apparently some whiskers were found on the scene.  I believe the family dog set me up.  I gave my notice.

Q:  I can't blame you.  Do you have any questions for me?

A:  Yes, how often do you change the litter box around here? 

Q:  Oh, every day. 

A:  Because I know sometimes humans let that slide. 

Q:  No, we're very proud of our standards here.    Is there anything else that you think I should know?

A:  Yes, that headless mouse outside by the back door is from me.  Just a sort of thank-you for taking the time and trouble to interview me.

Q:  That's very considerate of you.  You really do seem like the ideal candidate. 

A:  (purrs)

Q:  Well, I think I can go ahead an offer you the position.  May I call you Mister Fluffymittens?

A:  I answer to Rex.

Q:  Right.  Rex it is. 

A:  (stretching all four feet at once and yawning) Good.  I'll start at once. (curling up into a ball and going to sleep).

---

That's right.  Not an early April Fool's.

Here it is:  right now, I'm able to post comments in Internet Explorer but not in my usual Firefox browser. 

How is that?

Just kidding.  But this is hilarious.

 

 

 

Hundreds of looters head to Devon coast shipwreck.

If they have a good selection of BMW motorbikes, I'd like a red one.

The President of Turkmenistan died today.  The Guardian newspaper remembers him:

"Among Niyazov's decrees were bans on lip-synching, car radios and the playing of recorded music at weddings. He once ordered doctors to stop taking the Hippocratic Oath and swear allegiance to him instead.

His image was everywhere, including Ashgabat's central square, where a soaring golden statue rotated so Niyazov's likeness would always face the sun."