My guys.

There's something anecdotal about them. There has to be, though the exact words evade me now.

Christmas Turkey

Track 7 on any given CD is almost always good. I'm sure there's an instance where Barry Manilow tells us I Write the Songs in the seven spot. It's a bad day when Achy Breaky Heart ends up there or someone slipped in 'MacArthur Park' quickly by accident before a road trip. Sometimes, these and other acrid tunes are so bad they're good. Six was afraid of seven for more than it's voracious appetite. You should test the theory. You'll see.
Albums, kids. They're where it's at. Yes, I still use CDs. No, I don't own an iPod. I am now and always have been a believer in the mix.

3 Reasons why Chelsea Handler is a trash-bag.

1.She treats perfectly respectable people like they're morons while she sounds like an insecure 13 year-old. Hint: speaking intelligently and respectfully gets you places that shaking like a leaf while trash talking never thought of.
2.She's kindofa who-err.
3.You're not 20, Chels. Time to become a lady.

At the end of the day 7-21-10

At the end of the lifelong day, I want to be able to say I had many like today. I had what I feel like is a real and true grown-up good day. We begin with waking up in a house I'm sitting. Shower (major plus here as the clawfoot tub and I are on the hate end of our relationship). Breakfast and good coffee in a to-go mug. 20 minute commute where I thought deeply about news stories and the state of things. Work. Work where I taught a class at the Community College and got along with my primary co-worker. Work where I got some stuff done and left early. I changed some to-dos into to-dones.

The world is full of boys, be a man.

I'm 30. I'm looking for my last first kiss.
Eons away from days spent pouring over the details and discussing it wildly with chitteringly gleeful hopefuls playing with little girl toys, talking big girl dreams. Well past the age where I'm taken to distant places by the idea of my first kiss. Or, for that matter, a first kiss. Any. Her first kiss, they kissed, would you kiss...blank? Fill in the name and pass it back to me. Top secret.
Mine was outside during a school dance with a boy and attended by no less than twelve people. It was so easy! So...planned. And it could be: the date, the time, the place compiled by a group of young people and brought to fruition by a pair as unmatched as the lost sock under your dryer to mine. You weren't sure what to do about on-lookers, but you sure knew what you had to do to keep your eye on the prize. You had to do M.A.S.H. The outcome of which you could bet a friendship, a 'totally awesome' cool thing was spoiled by trend possibly days later or even cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die about. Fate had been decided, no doubt, at the lunch table, then all you had to do was show up.
Any first kiss, at it's inception is full of promise.
Times have changed, yet I haven't learned much. I still get whisked off to a place where things and people and timing is just right where nobody worries about why and everyone knows what is. Kisses? Sure, they're in there. And there's still a committee that decides or at least reviews these things in my life. We don't convene at recess (lie) or at sleepovers (lie) or play with toys (lie) or swoon over videos, but we YouTube the shit out of them. Remember that? Me, too. When the committee's on recess, there's a fair amount of movies to fill my head with deceptively simple romance in case I forget about it or try to ignore it. This means you, Cameron Crowe. Why you gotta go making movies that make me consider these things are possible?
And when it isn't? I mean, if there aren't any on-lookers or rooters or fortune-telling pages from a notebook involved. When we're one boombox and one trench coat short of Lloyd Dobbler. What then? What now?
Now we wait.