Neil Diamond

Click on the link above in the title. Love this article. Love Neil Diamond. Love Cracklin' Rosie.



Okay, hit play. Watch how banal he looks in the beginning. And then . . . watch his dimples as he starts to warm up. Love it.

Read the article. Class act.

Good day, all. . .

Greedy Grins and Selfish Smiles

The title I just claimed as my own is not that—my own. I'd love to lie to you and say that is it. And I could. Because the author is only 15 and she is my sister. I could bribe her. Tell her to let me have it for some pop tarts. But the truth is, she wrote it. And she wrote this post on her VERY OWN BLOG.

She is E. Fatale. But she is more than that. I'll not say much more than that, because she is my sister and I cherish her. I'm greedy and will not share her wholly with you all. But I will say this—watch for her. Watch for her when you walk through Barnes and Noble with a coffee ten years from now. Listen for her words in the mouths of future political incumbents. She will speak. And people will listen. I'm not quite sure where or how yet, and that's half of her magic. Her energy is all over the map. But her language gets me riled up, and barely anything does.

I read this post at midnight one night. I started with an, 'oh, she's blogging, how nice?' and it ended with me waking everyone in the house and shaking them and saying, "DO YOU KNOW WHO WROTE THIS?!"

E. Fatale, I adore you. We all do. I adore how, at age 15, your voice whispers that you know who you are. Not wholly, yet, but enough to stride strongly forward, pushing away anyone who tries to quiet that voice. I love that. You inspire me. Really.

All of you, go to this site today and tell just one young person to keep changing this world. Do it. Because she'll keep doing it. With or without you. Bookmark this site. Why? Because one day soon, maybe election day, you'll watch the world and feel sad. You'll say what I often do. . . 'Why? . . .Why?' And then you'll think of E. Fatale. You'll go to her site, and you'll hear new life. . . and youth. . . and hope. . and brilliance. And then you'll let the old just wash away. . .and you'll smile.

This song makes me think of my E. Fatale. It makes me think, with reverence, of our youth, often better than us. . .

Play it. A lot. Listen when they say, "That was when I ruled the world," because she does, now. . .

A Good Day for Love Stories. . .

So tell me one. . .in three sentences or less. But first, close your eyes. Think back. Tell me your BEST. . .and that may mean your worst. . .

A Fountain of Families

Well All, the wedding is over. What a wonderful, wonderful night. Really. All the dress drama over the summer culminated in grand style this weekend.

I'm still sifting through the mental snapshots and audio bytes from the evening and all the surrounding festivities, but today, I just want to say, THAT NIGHT WAS ONE FOR THE BOOKS.

What a wonderful family. I feel very lucking today to have such a group as In-Law's. And now the family has grown more. And the In-Law's of my In-Law's are fantastic, too.

The snapshot that I keep remembering most is a the group of women on the dance floor, laughing so hard that dancing was secondary. I feel very lucky.

My feet, however, have not yet recovered. . .Need more fountain, please.

ScotiaMade—Wry Wit with Pretty Pictures

Starting this blog has inspired me to be more proactive about documenting my life in writing. The only problem is, it's all in my voice and from my P.O.V.—too boring.

So I have sought high and low for a voice that speaks to mine and somewhat like mine, but with more EDGE!

Have found one. Her name is Cheryl. That's how edgy she is—no last name. Like Madonna, or Cher.

I found her at her Etsy shop, ScotiaMade. If you have even one drop of unarticulated angst or dying-to-drip sarcasm in your person, please go there. She sells articulated wry wit on paper, with pretty illustrations, adding even more to the satire. And she even laminates said notes in the event you need to leave some poison on a car that will go unattended for awhile. BRILLIANT. Also, probably easier to remove fingerprints from a laminated card. Am making a note to myself about that now.

So, Cheryl, if you're reading this now, please drop me a note and let me know if you want the job of narrating my life—complete with dripping sarcasm. Well done, girl.

I've taken the liberty of 'mocking' up a sample of how we could lay it out, complete with samples from your shop.

Jerk that Pistol and Go To Work

Tombstone is one of my favorite movies of all time. Honestly, some of the dialogue and scene set-ups are bit obvious and forced, but talk about riddled with great quotes. Watch the clip. Every time I see this scene, it puts me in the mood to go out into the world and do my worst. Today is that kind of day. I dedicate this post to my friends who walk into the world in this mood every day. Enjoy.

Memorable quotes:

That's the rumor.

Shut up, Ike.

Age quod agis.

Evidently Mr. Ringo's an educated man. Now I really hate him.

I spent my whole life not knowing what I want out of it, just chasing my tail. Now for the first time I know exactly what I want and who... that's the damnable misery of it.

There is no normal life, Wyatt, there's just life, ya live it.

It appears my hypocrisy knows no bounds.

I'm your huckleberry...

I'm a woman, I like men. If that means I'm not "lady-like", then I guess I'm just not a lady! At least I'm honest.

Why Johnny Ringo, you look like somebody just walked over your grave.

Nonsense, I have not yet begun to defile myself.

You gonna do somethin'? Or are you just gonna stand there and bleed?

And one of my favorite exchanges of dialogue between Turkey Creek Jack Johnson and Doc Holiday:

Turkey Creek Jack Johnson: Why you doin' this, Doc?
Doc Holliday: Because Wyatt Earp is my friend.
Turkey Creek Jack Johnson: Friend? Hell, I got lots of friends.
Doc Holliday: ...I don't.

You're no daisy! You're no daisy at all. Poor soul, you were just too high strung.

It would appear that the strain was more than he could bear.


And the list goes on. . .

Pint-sized Genius

I'm at the computer yesterday.

Does that surprise anyone?

My two sons are playing behind me.

Oldest (6) says to youngest (3), "You're a baby."

But I only half hear it.

If you have kids, you'll get this.

And youngest says, "Not a bee-bee. NOT!"

And oldest says, "You ARE a baby."

And the cadence relaxes me. And I tune out.

If you have kids, you'll get this.

And I am interrupted by oldest saying, "Mom?"

And I say, "Yes, doll?"

And oldest says, "Isn't Max the cutest little baby?"

And I smile and turn, and my spell is broken, and I say, "YES! He is the cutest little baby!"

And oldest turns quickly to youngest and says, "SEEEEE. Mom says you're a baby, too!"

Fecking brilliant. Must sharpen wit to spar with six-year-old.

Emily Post Goes Wild

I've decided that my sisters are just too good. I must brag.

So I’ll start with the eldest. We’ll call her Lilu, as that is what my sons call her. That is her on the left, looking lovely.

And for the sake of economy, I will offer only three anecdotes that will give you all a sampling of the breadth of her greatness.

The Classic Beauty



Lilu is a lovely girl, yes. But it’s more than that. She’s got something else, too. Some people call it charisma. Some people call it ‘that spark.’ Well, she has it—in spades.

She stops traffic, literally.

On a trip to Italy with my father when she was 21, she walked with him down a busy street on their way to dinner. She wore a little black dress.

A bus of Italian men driving past stopped in the middle of traffic and all the men moved to the side of the bus which allowed them the best vantage point from which to appreciate her ‘spark.’ God, I love Italy.

My father told me the story. “She didn’t even notice,” he laughed. Like I said—IN SPADES.

The Model Soldier

Lilu modeled in high school. Mostly runway due to her height (and charisma). When she was 17, a scout from Ford Models contacted her and my parents asking if she would come to New York. My mother declined on her behalf, politely. Lilu did not mind. It was more of an amusement for her anyway, she said.

She was more interested in a grand adventure. One that involved more ‘seeing’ than being seen. So she joined the Air Force when she was 20.

She came home and announced to my father, himself a veteran, that she had signed the papers. Wish you could have seen the look. It was not pride. “Why?” he asked. “I saw Private Benjamin and thought it looked fun. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” she said.

And so she went off in a very tiny plane surrounded by large young men. She was grinning and waving. They were not. Quite a mix.

And she traveled and had great adventures and met a wonderful man whom she married. He's a champ. And so patient handling all her 'charisma.'


And after five years serving her country with high praise and honors, the anthrax vaccine began to circulate. And she worked in the pharmacy. And she saw what was happening to women who took it. It was horrible, she said. The most damning evidence against it was written on the vaccine itself, in very small print: Not proven to not cause birth defects, it said.

My sister is lion-hearted. And, she had not yet had children. So that was that. When it was her turn on the rotation to begin the eight-month series of shots, she said No Thank You, ever the polite girl. She was only in the military for six more months, she argued. Wouldn’t even be able to finish the series, let alone be transferred to a high-risk place that warranted that sort of preventative action.

So they took away her stripes, one at a time, and with it her pay, each time she refused. They would not kick her out, but they reduced her pay to the point that she could barely survive. So she decided to ‘encourage’ them to kick her out.

She went to the pharmacy one morning, sat in front of her computer, and drafted an email warning all women not to take it. She gave specific examples of what it was doing to their bodies. And then she sent it, to the entire base.

Within five minutes she found herself in the top guy’s office. What do they call him? Colonel? And she was shaking, but steel-faced.

And he walked in and shut the door. And he said, “Are you determined to not take the vaccine?”

And she said, “Yes, sir. I am.”

And he said, “Okay. When I sign these papers you will be dishonorably discharged and lose all rights to veteran benefits (including the free tuition for medical school on which she had been counting and the VA loan for a home). Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Okay.” And he signed.

And he told her she could leave. And as she did, he added, “Off the record, I wouldn’t have taken it either.”

And she smiled.


The Etiquette Evangelist

Lilu did go to college. And she paid for it, with no regret. And now she is a middle school teacher living in the mountains of Northern Idaho, surrounded by a backdrop that complements her own mix of strength, majesty and beauty.

And she teaches a gratuitous class on etiquette to those young people. And though her colleagues find it ‘quaint’ and ‘antiquated,’ she just smiles and pushes on with her cause.

And why do you think she has a heart for such a cause? Because she wants to bring a love of fine things paired with ferver and knowledge to all. Because she is all of those things—in spades.



I dedicate this song to my sister Lilu today. It is one of her favorites, and suits her so well. . .

So Bloody Geeked

Every time Steely Dan comes to town, my husband goes out with the guys from his college band and they have a hellofa boys' night. And I love that. I love that they have that.

But sometimes it makes me sad because before I was his wife, I was his friend and was friends with the band members. And we played hard.

And you know what? Last night, my husband called me and told me he was INVITING ME OUT WITH THE BOYS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I AM GOING. I AM SO EXCITED. THANK YOU, HUSBAND. THANK YOU.

Promise to be on my best behavior. For the most part. Grin.

The Trade In

As a marketeer by trade and nature, I often wonder why an entire demographic is sometimes left out of an ad campaign. Obviously, you don't sell Scotch to toddlers (although TEETHING toddlers are 'sorely' under-represented in the hard liquor industry). But then there are campaigns that seem to preemptively say, That group won’t buy this, so why waste dollars trying to sell it to them?

But does anything about that sentiment make sense? Hey, let’s spend lots of money trying to get the attention of people who already buy it. Hmmm? I really do get it. I do. But I'm too scrappy not to go after the elusive fish. And I feel like writing this ad 'outside the demographic' so I'm just gonna do it. This is my land. The land of 'off brief.'

Take Ford’s F-150, my all-time-favorite vehicle. And I’m a girl. And I’m a girly girl. And why, then, might I like this truck? Because it’s manly. Duh.

Imagine what you could do with an ad campaign that sold the world’s greatest ‘man’ to women, complete with a key.

I call this The Trade In:

Ext. Ford Dealership sales lot

Salesman
(Standing with man and woman next to new F-150, addressing the man, of course)
It has the new Tailgate Step. You open the tailgate, pull down the step and it helps you climb in.

Pan to woman. V.O. of her thinking

Woman
Help me into the truck? What a gentleman.

Woman climbs into the cab, shuts the door and rolls down the window to hear more.

Salesman
(To man)
It has a 5.4-Liter, 3-Valve Triton V-8 engine.

Pan to woman. V.O. of her thinking

Woman
And he’s strong . . .

Salesman
It has Voice-Activated Navigation

V.O. of woman thinking

Woman
And he’s good with directions. . .

This continues for roughly 15 more seconds of the spot.

Woman
(leans out window and addresses salesman)
Didn't you say you take trade ins?

Salesman
(beaming at the scent of a sale)
Absolutely.

Woman
(Pointing to the man still standing in lot with salesman)
Fantastic. Then you can keep him. I’ll take this one.

Woman and F-150 peel out of lot.

Salesman
(A bit confused, to man)
Um, I did't see that one coming. Did you?

Man
(Shrugs) Well, sort of.

Pike's Place

Can I start by saying that I hate slide shows. And I hate when people go on trips with only the 'slide show in mind.' But I have to share this about my trip. I was with my sisters. And I adore my sisters. Anyone would, really. They're like me. Enough said.

So we go to Pike's Place one night to purchase fish for dinner. And if you've clicked on the above spot, you'll get what this place does to people, especially women.

There are men and they are wearing waders. They are young and it is believable that they are the ones who actually go out onto the boats. And they throw fish—right over your head. And they chant.

Are there women reading this? Are you getting this? Pike's Place is to women as Victoria's Secret is to men. A bit disorienting.

So I'm in charge of picking the fish for dinner, and all I can think about are waders and flying fish.

So I settle on Chilean Sea Bass. A favorite.

This is actually how it went. The man in waders, standing next to me, large dead fish in hand, says, What can I get you?

And I spit out, Halibut. Yes, halibut. And then, Crab, yes, crab. And then I see the Bass. And I love it. So I buy nearly ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS worth. It was the waders, I swear.

And they pack it for me. And I leave in female triumph. I have come. I have purchased.

And then my brother-in-law asks, so nicely, Did you notice that Chilean Sea Bass is not fished out of this area? Did you notice the tag said 'frozen?'

And at this point I'm away from the waders and the male fish-throwing and I say, Hah?

And he says, Just saying.

And I say, Son-of-b*&^%$.

And he says, Just saying.

So I ate fish, IN SEATTLE, from Chili. Bloody waders.

Pee-pee plane

How do you begin a post with a title like that? Well, it goes like this. We're in Spokane. We're headed, all four of my family, to Seattle and then on to Detroit. All bags are checked. All CLOTHING is checked. We board the jump flight by walking out onto the, what do they call that?, tarmack? You know, when there's no tunnel thingy? And the plane is creepyly small. But you sort of feel like the president because you're hopping onto such a tiny plane? You get it.

So it's over-booked. We've purchased four tickets, but we find only three seats. And you know what? I could care less. Just get us the hell out of here, she's thinking. And so I grab both boys and slide into the last two seats on the left. Husband finds seat near front, conveniently.

And then the engines roar, and then the wheels begin to move, and then I feel something warm spreading over my trousers. Yep. I do. And I know what it is. And I ask him, and he confirms it. Yep, I pee-peed. And, remember, all the clothes are checked, and remember, we have a FIVE hour flight directly after this one.

And then, just as the seat belt lights disappear, the drink cart appears, on my left. And you know what that means? We are at the back of the plane and the bathroom is at the front. So we will have to wait until that fecking drink cart gets all the way up and all the way back. So you know what I order from that drink cart? Ten glasses of wine.

Fabulous flight. Loved it. Very warm lap.

A Call for Justice

You may have all noticed that Miss Ive has an addictive personality. If not, just so you know, she does. After last week's success on the zoo vote, she is now going after bigger fish.

I am enclosing a post from a contributor on Peterman's Eye today because it moved me. Really. It will you, too. A very eloquent plea. Please read and pass. Especially to powerful can-do types, like yourselves. Love ya'll.


Friends,

If I may turn the subject a little bit, let me tell you how an exemplar of courage, hard work, and self reliance may benefit from your practical assistance.

Lancaster, SC ( pronounced LAN kuh ster, not like LAN CASS ter, PA) is a sleepy place. The entire county has just over 60,000 residents. The county was founded in 1785 and their red brick courthouse was designed by Robert Mills, who also designed the Washington Monument. Lancaster was the home of Col Elliott White Springs and Springs Mills was for a long time the dominant employer. I will leave for someone else the pleasant job of discussing Col. Springs, a colorful man who had much in common with President Roosevelt.

On monday, the historic courthouse was badly damaged by an arsonist's efforts. In South Carolina, the prosecutor is called a SOLICITOR and the Solicitor whose territory includes Lancaster is a fine fellow of just under 50 named Doug Barfield.

You would like Doug. He has a Harley Davidson, but he doesn't talk about it much. He is a graduate of Clemson and USC Law. His wife teaches foreign language at the local high school, where Doug's father was once the Ag (riculture) teacher. They have two sons. A couple of years ago, Doug had himself an intestinal disaster while visiting his inlaws near Charleston. He ended up with a colostomy bag for about 4 months and a fairly entertaining routine of stories and commentary about the experience. He had few complaints. He is a thorough and methodical trial lawyer, more given to persistence and details than to flash or histrionics. He doesn't try many cases, because defense lawyers know that he usually wins.

I am telling you about Doug because it seems pretty clear that someone burned the courthouse to stop him from trying some criminal case. Just now, which criminal case is unclear. In case there was any question, Doug announced on Monday that court would go on, in an alternative location. On tuesday, they began the process of cleaning up, while carrying on the usual business of criminal court in a small southern town. Early this morning, the same forces struck again, this time burning Doug's office across the street.

Once he gets the mud cleared away, I am sure Doug will repeat his intention not to be stopped.

While the contemplative discussion of this community is a fine thing, I am asking each of you to see what you can do to assist Jeff Hammond, the affable and capable Clerk Of Court for Lancaster County, SC, and Doug Barfield, the Sixth Circuit Solicitor. Someone will eventually organize some kind of relief project. Eventually, Insurance companies will reimburse losses. But today, there is a need for clerical help and the most basic kind of grunt work. Your efforts to call attention to this situation will help.

Thanks

Willie Trask

On the Lamb (Forget-me-not)

To all who voted yesterday, I thank you. Sincerely. Here is the news as of Two AM (Can you tell I'm still not sleeping?)

"Detroit- Voters in Oakland, Wayne and Macomb counties have overwhelmingly passed a special property tax to help fund operations at the Detroit Zoo." -Click On Detroit.com

You'll be pleased to know that Miss Ive did vote, but almost forgot, after all that fuss. Does that surprise anyone? 

She has been distracted. But she will be back with her typical verve very shortly. 

It might also please you all to know that when she did vote, she colored outside of the lines on the little bubbles, something she highly recommends, actually, and was scolded sorely by poll volunteers. She, in return, 'accidentally' dropped her entire breakfast bag of nuts onto their tidy little table. Ahhhh. It made  her feel better.

Miss Ive will be out of touch for the rest of the week while she catches up on tons of work (beefing up her defense for recent zoo exploits).

Can't tell you all how much it meant to see your faces on here while away in the mountains. So dear to me.

Will be with you soon. 

Forget-me-not.

THE BIG DAY!!!

Miss Ive will keep this short and sweet, as she knows you ALL HAVE ENOUGH TO DO TODAY!

You all remember how Miss Ive's first attempt to save the zoo ended.

So don't do that.

Just go vote. Trust her.

And then go straight home and congratulate yourself for being so kind to your fellow creatures.

And you can do it like she does.

Or you can do it like she does.




And remember how Miss Ive will reward you all for helping. PUBLIC HUMILIATION.

See You All at the Polls!

Day 5

Do you remember where we left Miss Ive last week? Remember this?




Yeah, Miss Ive has a sneaking suspicion he does, too. She will wait to read the official report to be sure.

The rest of Miss Ive's story is growing near to close. And, as the rest of it went fairly quickly, she will let the pictures speak for themselves. Especially since her recently acquired legal counsel has requested she shut her gob.

Let's just say, hypothetically, that after she'd filled herself full of ice cream,if indeed she ever did such a thing, she was a little tired.



And then, suppose she was a lot tired.



And then, though the photo has since been destroyed by said lawyer for fear of 'defamation of character' do to obscene exposure, let's just presume she was really, really tired. And made herself right at home. All over that bed.

And suppose some parents with young children were a bit surprised and offended by Miss Ive's making herself at home, and contacted zoo authorities.

And suppose Miss Ive heard them calling and got the hell out of there as fast as her feet would take her, which, technically, would have led to a sequence not unlike this:













Of course, this is just one possibility. Miss Ive honestly has no recollection. Honest.


Okay, lawyer has stepped out for hot beverage. That's pretty much exactly how it went down. And Miss Ive really IS sorry. REALLY.

And she's not exactly sure, now that she thinks back, how she got to the zoo in the first place or what Ms. Goodall would have done differently. But, she has developed a new zoo-saving strategy for tomorrow, that will, hopefully, involve less, let's just say, POSTURING.

Very Big Day tomorrow, all. Stay tuned.

Day 4

Miss Ive left the butterfly house at the top of her game. The phrase that came to Miss Ive was 'fat and happy,' which made her think of food, of course. And she had none, of course. So she consulted the map.


And though she truly appreciated its diverse colors, textures, and Fung Shui-ish-ness, she did not find it all that helpful in the food-finding department. And as she pondered what to do next, she stood with her back to this. Yes, I know.


But when the heady scent of processed sugar and artificial coloring is in the air, Miss Ive has an internal compass. And only minutes later, she found this lovely bouquet, which, alas, she could not open due to the entire tub of body butter still coating her entire person, particularly her outer extremities. Remember? Okay, point: butterflies. Drat.



Which made her slightly desperate.

And then even more desperate.

Side note: Miss Ive thinks this gentleman deserves a raise. He would not, under any circumstances, give up the Dippin' Dots. Highly commendable. Wish you could have seen the look on Miss Ive's face. But after she knocked him out cold and dragged him to the aquarium to nap with the fish, she did have her fill of delicious ice cream, fashioned into tiny dots. She's not sure what she thinks of these, by the way.

But she is thankful for them and sincerely hope that the young man attending the cart has since recovered nicely. Miss Ive is sorry. And, if it makes him feel any better, she did cover him up and leave a wall of WET FLOOR signs blockading him from aquarium traffic. She is a thoughtful girl.

Stay tuned for more Jane Jones Chronicles on Monday of next week. Bring hot beverage and a synopsis, detailing why Miss Ive is at the zoo in the first place.