Esther Phillips’s version of “Crazy Love”

America, if you have but ninety-nine cents, you need to run out and buy this song from iTunes.

I wish I had more to say about the topic, but I am dumbfounded by how much I love this song.

B’niloquence Brown is Born!

Mag has created the most awesome drawings of what our future children will look like.  Seriously, when you see how cute they are, you will rue that Science isn’t any farther along in changing women’s bone marrow into sperm.

Some of you may feel the need to beg me to have your children.  So, just be forewarned before you click on this link.

Ready?

Seriously, if you have ovaries, they will ache.  If you have sperm, don’t be surprised to feel the tug of them all lining up to get a shot at me.

Ready, ready?

Okay.

If Only Hispanic Nashville Would Come Up with a Brochure…

In my spare time, I’m going to whoop up some brochures for Hispanic Nashville so that folks associated with the site can just hand them out as necessary.

The first one would be

Hispanic, Latino, Chicano–What’s the Difference?

Hispanic–Loosely, someone of Spanish descent. In some circles, used to refer exclusively to Spain. In other cases, used almost interchangeably with “Latino.” Martin Sheen, for instance, could clearly identify as Hispanic.

Latino/a–Someone from Latin America living in the United States. It goes without saying that no one is Latino until they show up here; they have no reason to be. Martin Sheen would not be Latino as his family is directly from Spain.

Chicano/a–An ethnically Mexican politically active person from west of the Mississippi.

My second brochure would be

White and Hispanic are Not Mutually Exclusive Terms (Kleinheider)

See Martin Sheen.  A Hispanic man.  Also, white.  Because, get this!  There are white people in Spain.   Shoot, check out Bridgett Rivera’s blue eyes.  Where do you think those came from?

Hell, Kleinheider, let’s recall these words of wisdom:

Mexican heritage doesn’t even mean she is not European-American. Plenty of blonde haired blue-eyed Mexicans. Well, not plenty, but they do exist — and they pretty much rule Mexico.

It’s just funny that we United Statesmen make up these terms–Hispanic, Latino–and then sit around and pass judgment on whether folks fit the term or not.  We made it up!  Nobody was Latino or Hispanic until we made the terms up.  So, I would think that, if the categories are arbitrary, whoever wants to stick themselves in them pretty much can.

Ha, no wonder I’m a blogger and not a pamphleteer.  All my pamphlets sound more like blog entries than handy guides to anything.

Damn this Midwestern Work Ethic

Today is exactly the kind of day to slide the seat way back, roll the window down, stick your feet out, slowly work your way through a cup of ice cream and just let the guy driving you around drive you where ever the day takes him.

Exactly the kind of day where you find yourself singing along loudly to “Brown-eyed Girl” and hoping to hear that beautiful new Nora Jones song.

But that’s not the kind of day I’m having.

Pbhtbhtbhthtbtht to that.

I am having one bit of fun. I’m trying to come up with melodies for a song Plimco has to sing. Which reminds me, I need to ask the Professor if I can borrow her recorder.

Is one bit of fun enough to carry me through the whole day?

I don’t know. We’ll have to see.

Why Does Miss America Hate America?

I don’t quite know what to make of this story, but I’m open to suggestions.  Why would Miss America participate in a sting on internet sexual predators and then refuse to testify against them?

Her platform is even keeping children safe on the internet.  Well, shoot.  If she’s not going to actually help put these dudes in jail, she’s not actually making any effort to keep kids safe is she?

How can she refuse to testify and remain Miss America?

A Night of Nightmares

I slept the weirdest sleep last night.  I could not shake this dream I was having.  I’d wake up and go back to sleep and still be in the same dream.

Here is the dream:

Kate O’ and I have to go pick up Coble and go to something.  I don’t know what, but it’s fun to imagine what kind of event would require the three of us.  Anyway, that’s beside the point.  Kate O’ and I go to Coble’s house, which is like her real house, but twice the size with a big arboretum in the middle.

I had a Diet Dr Pepper for breakfast, though, and I cannot stop peeing.  Seriously, like every ten seconds, I have to leave whatever we’re doing in Coble’s house to go pee.

Finally, I determine that I must be sick and cannot go to whatever thing we were going to go to, because I must spend however long, until my bladder completely empties, in Coble’s house.

Which is unfortunate, because, at about this time, we are attacked by Pumpkinhead.  Coble’s 12-year-old sister-in-law* meets a gruesome end as a pile of dripping flesh and blood on the ceiling.  And the three of us are all trapped in the bathroom.

We think we’re safe because it’s just about dawn, but wrong!  Pumpkinhead bursts into the bathroom and kills us.

Then, suddenly, I’m Pumpkinhead and I’m stealing the Cobles’ car and making a break for it.  I end up at a shopping mall where I am a ghost.  My boyfriend is trying to bring me back from the dead with black magic and I am desperately blowing all his candles out trying to stop him.

Coble’s ghost sister-in-law manages to trap Pumpkinhead in a mirror and we are all saved, except that now we’re all state legislators and we’re on a retreat up in the mountains.  I need to take a shower but I can’t find any soap or shampoo.  I’m sneaking into other people’s showers, trying to steal theirs, but they all have just used the last of what they had.

I don’t know why, but that scared the shit out of me worse than being killed by Pumpkinhead.

It was weird.  I don’t even think I’ve ever seen Pumpkinhead.

Anyway, I guess I was a little more anxious about the Tennessean article than I thought.  I don’t think it takes a genius to read that into that dream–I’m supposed to be participating with these women who are much more open on-line about who they are than I am.  I can’t quite hack it.  Everyone gets killed.

Ha, yeah, you don’t need to be a psychic to see what’s worrying me.

I’ve gotten an email or two to that general effect as well–Are you sure you want to do this?  Did you check to see how easy you were to find before you did?

And, yeah, all those things are true.  But here’s the thing.  I’m not really anonymous.  Someone out there, who I don’t know, knows exactly who I am and has shown in the past a willingness to post that.  I also attend all kinds of blogger get-togethers and use my real name.  Hell, I gave my real name to the Republicans so that I could be a part of Blogger Day on the Hill.

And, anyone who does even mild digging about the play is going to be able to figure out my name.

I guess I’d rather my identity be an open secret than a poorly guarded secret, if that makes sense.

I don’t know.  I am anxious about it, a little bit.  But I’m anxious about everything, as you may have noticed, and I don’t want that to prevent me from taking opportunities when they’re presented to me.

I am afraid of everything, it’s true.  I walk around a big fearful mess.  But I’m trying to be brave and to make opportunities for myself and to not hesitate to take opportunities when they’re presented to me, even in the face of my fear.

I see, from the outside, that you have to be willing to take risks if you want anything in life.  I am a horrible risk-taker.  But I’m trying to learn.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that it will be okay and, if it’s not okay, we’ll get through it.

And shoot!  I’m in the Tennessean today.  That’s pretty damn cool.

So, you know, what the fuck?  If we’re throwing caution to the wind, let’s throw caution to the wind.

Here’s the story.

Ha, I am such a dork.

*Note: Dream sister-in-law, obviously.  I don’t know if Mr. Coble even has a sister.