I never thought I'd say this, but after watching the live performance of Will & Grace tonight, I have to admit this: the cast of Roc was far superior in their live performance. Harsh, I know ... but true. Those guys rocced. The cast, of course, had better stage credentials than ... well, most stage troupes. But since they were on Fox (and in the early years, no less), they get less praise from the rest of society.
And as a now-irregular viewer of W&G, I have to admit the few times I've seen the show, the political humor seems a bit out of place. I mean, it's ok for Murphy Brown to inject polihumor because, well, that's the nature of their show. But watching W&G reminded me of when A Different World veered a bit more towards that niche. It just doesn't fit.
Of course, since I'm required by the laws of physics to lust for Debra Messing (except during her freaky bulemic years), this hurts me to admit. But since the live show relied a bit on improv, the source of the jokes can't be pinned on some writer with a kick. Just focus folks, and the syndication checks will be your retirement income some day. Just curious, do they still run Murphy Brown in syndication anywhere?
Volumes have already been written about our recent near miss so I will not bore you further with those details, but I must reveal my embarassing new problem: getting over my fling with Frank Billingsley.
Who could resist the pull of such youthful blond hair and strong manly physique? Not I, for I was lost the moment he seized the reins of "this important weather update" and commanded me - nay, seduced me - into his Accu-weather love nest.
I lay wide-eyed and nervous as his reassuring hand massaged my nervous body, leaving a thick white line as it curved across my trembling flesh. I closed my eyes as the barometric pressure in my loins plummeted. There was no doubt: I was his.
In the days that followed, I was drawn ever closer to him as he shared so much of himself in the "Ask Frank" segments. He was so... vulnerable.. like a kitten in .25" of precipitation per hour. My lust surged to category 5 when he sensually whispered into my ear about the northeast quadrant of Rita - the "dirty" side of the storm. I knew what was happening was wrong... but I wanted it to be wrong. I needed this to be wrong in just this erotic way.
When I woke up Friday morning, he wasn't there. I wanted to hate him for it, but I was too afraid for that. I curled up in a cone of uncertainty and clinged to my blanket as I wondered where he was: was he walking Radar... was he checking the tides? I had to reassure myself that what we had was real, that I wasn't to be cast off like some early morning fisherman waiting for wind speed reports on area lakes at 5 AM. What we had was deeper. I knew he would return. And he did. He came to me as I slept, he came to me as I drank bottled water and filled my bathtub and taped my windows... always, he came.
But just like a candle, our flame was sure to be extinguished. That level of passion cannot be sustained. It is the poweful connection two people feel when they are swept up in the moment. We fed each other's fires and fused into a symbiotic duality. We touched each other's souls.
On Sunday, as I gazed upon his face telling me of the impending record highs and sunshine for that day, I could not see the soul I had once gazed upon. I had the bitter remorse of a lover who knows that what had happened was a brief fiery affair and that deep down we had only used each other: he for my ratings viewership, me for his semi-hourly storm track updates. What had felt so real only hours before now felt dead, passionless, empty.
I wept.
We are now as strangers who glance knowingly at each other, but look away hurriedly out of embarassment at the lie we told ourselves. And yet, I still sense that there is a glowing ember. Still waters may run deep, but choppy waters are exhilarating - the lifeblood of a passionate and careless fling. Though I may go on from here, casually assuming to "bring a jacket" or "take an umbrella" as indicated by my cursory glance at the sky, I cannot foreswear the possiblity that one day, as a "hard freeze" approaches, I will find myself nestled beside you once again.
Take heed, Mr. Billingsley, and keep just a corner of your heart open to me, for there will always be such a place for you within me.
If the grid goes down - by dint of natural disaster, terrorist strike or a spike in demand - Richard Factor has a Prius that can supply power to his home. Factor, an electronics buff who lives in New Jersey, spliced a heavy-duty outlet right into the car's electrical system and wired his home's appliances to the Prius via a standard computer-backup system. When the car's own potent battery loses too much energy, running the engine recharges it. "If you are frugal, one tank of gas can power the house for a couple of weeks," he says.
OK, next time, I really am taking up that offer to chill at the UberFort.
Via the Chron ...
In Houston's Third Ward, a large white goat sat carefree on a porch of a two-story house at Cleburne and Dowling, near Texas Southern University. Licking his coat and observing cars that passed by, he seemed unaffected by the aftermath of Hurricane Rita. But so did the rest of the area. Most of the damage, which appeared to be minimal, came in form of fallen trees and tree limbs. The streets were virtually empty, cluttered with branches and leaves, and stores remained closed. Some of the windows of houses were boarded, including one house at the corner of Dowling and Wichita. The boards were spray painted with the words, "Katrina, Katrina. We're here and so is our 9 (9mm gun).''
Don't act so surprised.
So Kassie, Jeff, myself and others hunkered with extreme prejudice at the UberBunker. Damage included newspapers blown down the street and some garbage that was, prior to the rains, illegally dumped into a BFI unit behind a liquor store by two unidentified persons in a white four-door sedan.
At this hour, not only have I made it back home, but Jeff and Kassie just got back to the inner city in about 40 min. Took me about 45. I gather that the media is advising people to stay put:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAA.
Rita's winds are now up to 175mph SUSTAINED, according to whatever TV news is on in the other room. This may decrease due to water temps but not much. Galveston-Freeport shoreline is now guessed at the center of the target cone. Think I should leave?
So I've been giving these preparation speeches for almost three years at work. Now to try out my own preparations; lucky I threw together a storm kit about six months ago and finally followed my own advice. What's in it? The ready.gov stuff, mostly, adapted to me. It's containerized in plastic boxes with handles and I have moving boxes left over from that project. Overnight I'll separate out the most valuable things, throw out some things, pack and book it early in the morn.
There may be time to return for another hauling run, but I'll assume not. I'll try out my non-major-freeway theory about how to get upstate and we'll see how much crap it gets me around. Didn't really think I'd be testing the theory anytime soon.
Keep a stiff upper whatever.
Nifty find here ... images of supermodels before and AFTER the photoshop retouch. Disturbing. Very very very disturbing.
and Cover! Seriously folks, are we heading towards nuclear attack? If so, I will make a bold first step of nominating the Clown Car Squad as heads of civil defense in Houston. Here's the organization:
Ralphieboy is in charge of in-school demonstrations of the duck & cover method. Must be performed in a pressed shirt, wrinkle-free slacks, a nice black tie and a Korean-era US army surplus helmet tilted on his head with the straps hanging down the side. I picture a 20 second demonstration followed by a 3 hour lecture on the principles of safe computing interspersed with Frank Zappa tunes.
Chief of counterattack must surely be Ulysses. Not only will his swift decision-making abilities ensure a response unlike the "My Pet Goat" scenario, he'll have a 50/50 shot of actually attacking the right country. Of course, he could just say the hell with it and attack France as kind of a day-long warm up to real warfare.
City Transportation Engineer Thrillhouse will ensure that the roadways never open again. His unique plan of blowing up every overpass in the greater Houston area and converting the entire metroplex into a pedestrian-friendly zone may seem strange at first, but I'm sure he will figure out a way to sell it to the masses before being beaten to death by soccer moms. That is if they can find a way to get to him without the use of their SUVs.
And finally, yours truly will be handling the dispensing of food & water rations. You notice I say water rations, because all alcohol will be hoarded stored away for safekeeping. For food, you folks had better learn to like Ramen and Sardines, because that's the food I don't like.
Sorry, but sacrifices must be made. And if my plan were to be implemented, I'm sure I can pick out the first four sacrifices that the city would make...
Behold ... you know the drill ... do we have a winner, or shall I go unearth some of the yet-to-be-used banners for previewing?
- and this is version 1.1 (different from the list I did on LJ)...
1960/ Walking To New Orleans, Fats Domino
1961/ Little Sister, Elvis Presley
1962/ The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, Gene Pitney
1963/ Hello Muddah Hello Fadduh!, Allan Sherman
1964/ Hi-heel Sneakers, Tommy Tucker
1965/ I Got You Babe, Sonny and Cher
1966/ These Boots Are Made For Walkin', Nancy Sinatra
1967/ Funky Broadway, Wilson Pickett
1968/ (Theme From) Valley Of The Dolls, Dionne Warwick
1969/ A Boy Named Sue, Johnny Cash
1970/ Thank You (Fallettin Me Be Mice Elf Again), Sly & The Family Stone
1971/ Amos Moses, Jerry Reed
1972/ School's Out, Alice Cooper
1973/ Reelin' In The Years, Steely Dan
1974/ Smokin' In The Boys Room, Brownsville Station
1975/ Pick Up The Pieces, Average White Band
1976/ This Masquerade, George Benson
1977/ Telephone Line, Electric Light Orchestra
1978/ Because The Night, Patti Smith
1979/ Time Passages, Al Stewart
1980/ Brass In Pocket, Pretenders
1981/ Hello Again, Neil Diamond
1982/ It's Gonna Take A Miracle, Deneice Williams
1983/ 1999, Prince
1984/ Girls Just Want To Have Fun, Cyndi Lauper
1985/ Walking On Sunshine, Katrina and The Waves
1986/ I Didn't Mean To Turn You On, Robert Palmer
1987/ La Bamba, Los Lobos
1988/ Roll With It, Steve Winwood
1989/ Love Shack, B-52's
1990/ It Must Have Been Love, Roxette
1991/ Silent Lucidity, Queensryche
1992/ I Can't Make You Love Me, Bonnie Raitt
1993/ Hey Jealousy, Gin Blossoms
1994/ I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That), Meat Loaf
1995/ No More "I Love You's", Annie Lennox
When I bought a new (cheap) innerspring mattress, it therefore became necessary to throw out the old one. In doing so, I noticed the date of manufacture had been stamped on the Serta sticker: October 10, 1963.
Apparently, I'd been sleeping on something only ten years younger than the Korean War stalemate, and about 1.5 months prior in manufacture to the Kennedy assassination.
I couldn't help but noticing that the site maintainer has inserted another article/post category heading; in addition to such subjects as Books, Movies and so on, there's now (should we make these visible?) "Psycho Chicks". Hmm.
My previous girl-of-a-significant-length-of-time would have qualified, but she was okay to ME. Only OTHER people considered her psycho. I have a mercifully short list of investigator reports, restraining orders or Maury Povich appearance tapes to share. My worry would be for the future.
See, my next job promises an increase in revenue. With that comes the opportunity that arrives alongside extra funds. And with that, possibly stupidity. So I'll watch my wallet as well as Johnson (and blood tests) since there's no way to regain lost time, and little way to regain lost health or sanity. Dating incurs cost; I don't mean I don't do it. I just counsel caution, or what some call healthy skepticism. You may be looking for something nice, but the other party may be sizing you up for somewhat un-nice purposes. Trust me.
I can think of ten things totally wrong with this.
Yes, it's work safe ... but prepare to laugh hysterically.