Who Am I to Talk? Mine in High School Was a G-Man!

It all started with a great laugh on a bad night.

The bad night first. That would be last night, the night of the Orange Bowl, where my beloved Hokies got their heads (and various other parts of their bodies) handed to them on a plate by Stanford. It was an abomination, yet I watched till the bitter end.

But now the great laugh.

On Facebook, my new pal, the Nephie's galpal, Miss A, made a comment about the only reason she was watching the game was that Stanford had the worst mascot in history. I hadn't seen it, so I asked her about it. I mean, Stanford is "The Cardinal," referring to their colors. I said, "What is it, a piece of red?"

Oh, no, came the missive from Miss A. It's a tree. She advised me to google it. And when I did, well, I mean, my Lord. I cracked up, and spent the entire rest of that awful game hoping for just one look at the thing. Sadly, that look did not come.

Then some other commenters on Facebook posted their examples of horrid college mascots, and I knew there was a blog in there somewhere. So I did some research today.

And what I found. Well, let me tell you!

I've always thought I was rather doomed with mascots. I went to high school at ol' Graham High, and we were the G-Men. We never had an actual mascot till I was a senior, when a brave soul decided to dress up as a G-Man, in trenchcoat and fedora, and wander the stadium. In the Nephie's days in the drumline, though, the whole drumline dressed as G-Men, in the same trenchcoats and fedoras, and that was cool beyond belief. But by then I was out of the picture.

And although I didn't go to Virginia Tech, they're "my guys." They play right there in B'burg, my second home, and I love them and going to their games. They're the Hokies. Well, uh, yeah. What in the hell can you do with that, right? However, the original name for the Hokies is the Fighting Gobblers, no better, I'm sure you'll agree, and their original mascot was adorable and I love him till this day.

























Then around 1985 or so they changed him to a more robust turkey, in fact, a turkey with breasts so big he needs a GG cup, but he's still fun and we all love him. You know, 'cause we're those weird folks who call ourselves Hokies.

























But believe it or not, there are schools out there cheering and rooting right along with their mascots, and their mascots are some seriously weird-ass creatures. There were pictures I saw right there, right there on the internet in front of God and everybody, that made my hair curl. Which sucked, because winter-time is the only time of the year I enjoy me some straight hair.

So let's get to it. I wanted to do a Top Ten list of the worst college mascots, but it became too upsetting, so I have to go with a Top Fifteen.

The Top Fifteen Worst College Mascots

15. The University of California at Santa Cruz, Banana Slug: Now, Marla (MarlaMarla) suggested this, and I have to say it's a dumb idea for a mascot. But then again, if you've ever seen "Pulp Fiction," you know that Vincent Vega wore a Banana Slug shirt in the movie. So, dumb mascot, but - cute mascot in foam rubber form, so he only weighs in at 15.




















14. University of Dayton, Rudy Flyer: I don't know, he's like a big gas station attendant with dark goggles. Dayton are the Flyers, this is true, but this dude has no plane to speak of, he's just walking around wondering what to do next. If you think about it, it gets a little creepy.























13. Providence College, Friar: Ick. This is not the type of Friar I would want to seek spiritual guidance from. (Maybe I should consult the DeepFatFriar on this dude.)


















12. Pepperdine, Wave: Doesn't this guy look like a fermented Max Headroom? In any case, Pepperdine, and waves in general, are supposed to be cool, and this poor fellow looks like he's in his worst pajamas and what are supposed to be ripped muscles come off as, well, more pajamas. Oh, the shame.

























11. Southern Illinois University, The Saluki: I've always thought the Saluki was a most beautiful dog. Well, until now. Sic' him, Milo! He can't fight back with those yellow teeth.



















10. North Carolina School for the Arts, Fighting Pickle: OK, this only makes the number 10 spot because NCSA only has intramural sports, and therefore, we'll never see the fighting pickle on ESPN. But he is indeed the official mascot of the school, so he deserves a mention. I'm not sure about the headphones, I guess he's listening to Kraftwerk, arty pickle that he is. All I know is that I've had pickles fight my digestive system late into the night, so he might be very feisty.

















9. Stanford, The Tree: Yep. That's him. He's a tree. Not even a cardinal red tree. He's a demented Christmas tree, the kind you see on Christmas Eve after too many egg nogs. He's as badly put together as your 80-year old Aunt Edna when she goes out to the store. And - he has no arms. So if he falls over - well, "Little help here? Little help for a fallen tree, please?"


















8. St Louis University, Billiken: I don't know who St Louis University is, and I don't know who Billiken is, either. He's some sort of mouse/cat/dog/thing hybrid who scares the children who dare to come to sporting events. And shame on him.



















7. Wichita State, WuShock: This came via Facebook comment from Mike the blogless. Yeah, he was right on the money, too. What the fuck? Is it an angry bale of hay? Is it the wheat we hope never makes it into our bread? Is it what shows up in our dreams when we eat pizza at 1am? I don't know. I'm just glad we don't play them.

























6. University of Tulsa, Captain Cane: Oooh. I guess that means a hurricane and not sugar cane. But really, who knows? I was so struck by this fellow because he reminds me of my Nervous Breakdown. I mean, look at that head!

























Now we're getting to the goodies, folks....

5. University of Nebraska, Lil' Red: Now, I have to tell you, my friends, Lil' Red is rather new to the fold. The stalwart Nebraska mascot is a foam rubber Cornhusker named Herbie Husker. Yes, he's a big foam rubber man with a cowboy hat who just wants to be a dentist. No, wait, that's Hermie Husker. This abortion of a mascot, this Lil' Red, showed up 10 or so years ago and is so horrid that every time we see him, my sister and I cry out "Corn Boy! Corn Boy!" as if our eyes are being gouged out. He is rubber and inflatable, and a blight on the land. Here you get a moving picture visual. If only I had a pin.




4. Xavier University, Blue Bob: What is he? And more importantly, should Cookie Monster sue? I don't know, but God help us, he's ugly. He should be killed immediately, if only for the shoes.

























3. University of Arkansas at Monticello, Boll Weevil: So that's what a boll weevil looks like. A new one on me. Looks like the love child of the Domino's Noids (remember them?) and the Great Gazoo. Imagine the shame of being this for a whole game.

























2. Scottsdale Community College, The Fighting Artichoke: You know, I've never fought an artichoke. Are they really that tough? I think if you got in a good knee-kick, you could take this vegetable down for the count.


















And yes, the Number One Worst College Mascot Ever -

1. Delta State University, The Fighting Okra: OK, let's get this right out of the way. I've fought with okra before. Fried some up, put it on a plate, and about two hours later, my intestines were in the fight of their lives. And they lost. So I guess there's something to this Fighting Okra thing. But Lord, have mercy, what a mascot. Have you ever seen anything quite so horrid? Is it an okra? A pickle? A cucumber? Well, they say he's an okra, and if that's true, I'm sure Delta State's opponents all over the schedule are sitting on toilets everywhere bemoaning their fates.





















So, there you go. Have one that's worse? Yeah, right. I dare you! Let me know!

By Request!

You know, my buddy Duke's been putting up some pretty damn good blogs lately, ones that make me laugh. He's done his food blogs, about hot dogs and barbecue in different places, and now he's on to movie blogs. His talk of the "embiggened bug" and the "rubber suited monster" (RSM) genres had me rolling in my seat.

A couple of his blogs have tweaked my memory, and one of his early requests was "just stuff about your everyday life or your take on the latest crummy TV commercials." So Duke, this week's request blog goes out to you, there in that state beside mine.

Now, one of Duke's more recent blogs was about shoppers, and how there were two kinds. Grazers and Darters. The Grazer goes in to look, ponder, compare, contrast, write an essay, read it back, sleep on it - there in the aisle - wake up, read the essay again, then make a choice. The Darter knows what the purchase will be beforehand, where it will be from, at what price, and darts in to get it.

I'm a Darter. And I once went shopping for a get well card with my cousin Jacob, who is a Grazer. Jacob stood in the aisle of a Hallmark store for upwards of 45 minutes picking out a get well card for a co-worker. And while I don't fault Jacob for this, I mean, it's certainly to her credit that she wanted to pick the exact right card that said the perfect pre-written, pre-thought hokum in it, I, as a Darter, wanted to take a match and set fire to every damn get well card in the store.

Grazers and Darters should never shop together, unless each is wearing a watch and they split up to shop separately, then meet at a central point later. That way they can meet up after 3 hours, where the Grazer will show up with a nice pair of shoes and the Darter will show up with 4 books, 2 CDs, a DVD box set, a television, and a good buzz where there were 2 ½ hours left over after the Darter's shopping and he found a bar.

However, there's another little wrinkle mentioned in Duke's shopping blog, and that is the "buying in bulk, thus getting a better value" conundrum.

And this is what caused Mr M and I to nearly come to blows, and I mean knock-down drag-out physical brawling, in the B'burg Kroger one Saturday afternoon.

See, Mr M had to go to the grocery to buy some ingredients for a meat loaf he was making us. And one of those ingredients was mushrooms. And so along we loped to the mushroom aisle, carrying our little tote basket provided by the store, and Mr M suddenly started poring over the mushrooms. Yes, my friends and blogees, Mr M, a Darter from way back, had transformed in a minute's time into a Grazer.

Now, on his behalf, this was when he went back to school for another master's degree and was a lowly poor student instead of an unhappy wage-earner, but still. He stood there varying back and forth between two containers of mushrooms. The glass jar and the small can. The small can was very cheap. The glass jar was more expensive. But somehow Mr M became transfixed on the fact that the more expensive jar had more servings, and therefore, a cheaper PPM©. (Price Per Mushroom, a phrase I coined right there in the aisle and would come to use so often in the conversation passersby were ready to stuff giant portobellos from the produce section into my mouth.)

OK, I'll readily admit to being kind of obnoxious about it, now, anyway, but at the time I was incredulous. Mr M was making one meat loaf - he needed the mushrooms for nothing more than that loaf. Why would he want to buy the larger jar of mushrooms just because it had a better PPM© when he could save money by buying the small can with the worse PPM©, but it would be all the mushrooms he would need anyway?

There was a point where, because he's a pacifist, not a gentleman - ie, it's not that he wouldn't punch out a lady, but that he wouldn't punch out anyone - that Mr M turned from me and walked away. And every time I caught up to him he turned and walked in the opposite direction. It became a game, almost. I caught him hiding behind the suntan lotion display, crouched in the bakery with rolls on his head, anything to escape me.

One of our more fun grocery store jaunts. And I was a little much that day. I was right, but a little much.

Oh well, such is our happy friendship. Let's go on to commercials now.

Duke mentioned my take on the latest crummy TV commercials, and there are a lot of those out there, Sham-wow, are you listening, but I thought I'd mention some commercials I like. This is because I've been thinking a lot lately about one of my favorite commercials of all time, and how I can't find it on the internet.

I'm completely enamored of all the Frosted Mini-Wheats commercials. You know them, you should, anyway, because last year or so I blogged about them. They're the commercials with the little mini-wheats helping people do better at school or in their jobs, and I blogged about how I wanted my own little wheaty friend to help me through my day. After that blog they introduced all kind of new flavored wheats, and little bitty kid wheats, one of which still makes me laugh when he falls over because his back pack is too heavy. The latest one is a wheat helping his human friend who works at a coffee shop.

If you go to the Mini Wheats website, you'll see the wheats everywhere. In fact, as the site opens, it's a hoot to see a wheat walk out and pat his foot impatiently. But if you go here, you can view a couple of their commercials. Prepare to fall in love.

(An aside: I'm trying something new in my quest to learn a little more html. Hopefully, all these links will open in a new window so you can go there and not worry about the cumbersome back-and-forthing from commercial to blog. Because I care. No, wait, because I'm trying to learn some more html. And I care.)

There's a commercial I like that's current, I don't really know why. It just makes me smile. It's for Shredded Wheat, not the frosty good kind but the hay bale, unsugared kind. It's a man who asks what progress has done for us, and his answer is "nothing." He goes on to name every crappy thing about progress in the last hundred years, then tells us that's why Shredded Wheat has remained the same for a century. And he declares that Shredded Wheat put the "no" in "innovation." What makes me laugh is that he's in his big open office space and in the background you see someone at a 60s era desk playing solitaire. Not on a computer, on a big green board. If you haven't seen it, you can here.

Now, I'm going back to Duke's blogs, because when he wrote about the rubber suited monster (RSM) movies, it immediately made me think of a commercial from a few years ago I adored.

There's some council out there, the Why Don't You Get Off Your Lazy Ass And Be a Halfway Decent Father Council, who make commercials about how you don't have to be a superhuman to be a good dad, just spend time with your kids. Problem is, a dad who won't get off his lazy ass to spend time with his kids ain't gonna be moved by one of these commercials, cute as they may be.

However, here are two rubber suited monsters (RSMs) having a nice father-son outing. Love it!

And speaking of which, the WDYGOYLAABAHDFC has put out another commercial that's probably my favorite commercial in the last few years. You may have seen it, and therefore know the punch line already, but I can remember the first time I ever saw it and the total warm fuzziness that came over me at the end when all was revealed. I think it's adorable, and you can view it here.

And finally. The commercial I fell in love with at Christmas some years ago, that my Dear Nephew and I quoted like mad for years after, that was on You Tube at one time but has now vanished because of copyrighting. Boy, do I know what that's like.

Anyway, it was the Staples Sno-bot commercial, where a robot has been created to help people with their Staples Christmas shopping. He tells a shopper of several great buys and the shopper shows interest in a printer. The robot tries to steer the shopper in a different direction, but the shopper's mind is made up. Then the robot blurts out, "You can't have her - I love her!" As the commercial ends the printer is bought, and the robot says, in his monotone machine voice, "Weeping - weeping."

Boy, I miss that commercial.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Finishing this up on my afternoon off, and now headed to B'burg to work a little more on the Comfy Chair movie. Might come off, might not. Wish me luck.
* Remember, anyone, anywhere, anytime can make a request for a blog!

In The News

Hello, blogees. So, what's going on these days?

Well, babies are in the news. Seems a woman in California, who shall here remain unnamed though her name is all over the place everywhere else, has just given birth to a whole mess of babies. A litter, I think it could be called. Eight. Octuplets. And everyone is just going wild over it, or they were until they learned a little about Ms Mom's backstory.

These eight little fellas, sixteen hands and feet, eighty fingers and toes, were born through the miracle that is in vitro fertilization. As they all are. And they were all born healthy, in the span of five minutes, no less (as my sister remarked, "Well, they just came barreling out like a choo-choo train!"), and publishing houses and reality TV shows were just peeing their pants over this news, and stores and diaper companies and auto dealers were lining up at the door to be the first with a gift.

Thing is, there's a little more to the story. Mom is a single woman, living at home with her parents, which is nothing to be ashamed of, but she also has six other children there, yes, twelve hands and feet and sixty fingers and toes, waiting for her when she leaves the hospital. The six kids are three sets of twins, all born via the test tube, and the little mother also seems to have no gainful means of employment, according to all the news sources.

And pardon me for being so bold, but that is something to be ashamed of.

Unless you're crazy, which I believe this woman may well be. I mean, I don't know her, but Jesus H Christ in a chicken basket.

And that's why I don't want to mention her name. I will, however, mention the entire OB-GYN staff at Kaiser Permanente Hospital in Bellflower, CA. Because I can't believe they'd keep planting fertilized eggs in this woman. At least without sending her for some serious psychological testing. I mean, hell, when I had surgery some five years ago, I not only had to have a psychological workup, but the surgeon had to meet with my family, my "post-surgery support system," face to face to get to know them and make sure they were up to the task of looking after me for a few weeks.

And so we now have a new rival to the odious Duggar family, who are now on child 19, I believe it is, and are planning more. But they do seem to be gainfully employed, well, the dad is, and I'm sure the kids are, all taking care of each other.

Thing is, well. Well. Stop having all those kids, people! I don't care if you're rich or poor or married or not, you're bringing too many people onto the earth and using up other people's resources. Give it a fucking rest.

And no one seems to look at it from the point of view of the kids. One mom, fourteen kids? There's just not enough attention to go around.

But, that's me.

Let's see, what else is going on? Oh, drugs. Michael Phelps got his picture in the papers enjoying a little herbal refreshment straight from the bong. There was a fair amount of outrage, though not from his sponsors, and I'm happy about that. Because I'm thinking they might be of the same mindset as I am. "If this guy can win every race he entered in the Olympics, and he smokes pot, he really is one hell of an athlete."

News came through today that now the police are saying they just might arrest Michael. And I don't see how they can do that. What have they got? A picture of Michael and a bong. They can't prove what was in it. Might have been ground-up Wheaties for all they know, and I bet the Wheaties people would be very happy about that.

Big bucks are in the news. No, not the TARP, which we'll get to in the acrowinners, but the auction game. Seems someone is auctioning off the telephone number 867-5309. Yes, the phone number made famous by Tommy Tutone some 25 years ago is on the auction block. Which boggles the mind, because that has to be a number on phones all over the country, but this one seems to be in the 201 area code. Current bid? Nope, you're wrong. $365,000.

According to the guy who now owns the number, it's not your average 80s burnout who's looking to buy the number. Businesses think it would be a keen idea to have 867-5309 as their phone number.

Of course, my perfect scenario would be that some business spends upwards of $400,000 for the digits only to have Tommy Tutone refuse to sell his song to them for a commercial. But even if he does, I guess he could use the dough, so good on him.

And no mention of the news, for me, anyway, would be complete without mentioning a little shitbag called Stephen Fowler. As you all know, I'm addicted to the TV show "Wife Swap," yes, and I'm none too happy to admit it, but I am. This past week's show featured a redneck mom from Missouri who went to live with a snooty upper-class bunch of health-conscious environmentalists from San Franciso. The dad of that family was a British fellow named Stephen Fowler.

I'm also none too happy to admit that this episode of "Wife Swap" made me weep profusely. Mr Fowler was such a complete dickwad I found myself smack-dab face to face with the reality that people like this exist in the world. During this woman's visit to his home, and don't get me wrong, she was uneducated and backwards, but she had a good heart and was, after all, a human being, Mr Fowler treated her no better than a turd on his shoe. He ridiculed her, both to her face and to his children while she was in the room. He called her names, he made fun of her, he came up with such beautiful lines of conversation as, "I make more in a week than you do in a year," and, "You're uneducated, you're a redneck, and you're obese." By the end of the show, he'd instructed his two children to not acknowledge her existence.

It's hard to explain, there are a few clips on You Tube of the show, but nothing that really shows the absolute asshattery of this man, but trust me. Think of the worst person you've ever met and multiply it by ten, and you still don't have a Stephen Fowler.

Anyway, since the show aired, forums around the world are overloading from all the comments. The Fowlers have had to change their phone numbers, pull down their websites and facebook pages, and Mr Fowler has had to resign from one of the corporations he was affiliated with. Apparently hate mail is pouring in quicker than he can ridicule it, and they're now contemplating a lawsuit upon ABC Television for the edit they got.

Which was exactly, while drying my tears on Friday, what I said would happen. "When the shit hits the fan over this, they'll sue."

My question over all this is, if you think you are the most intelligent, wealthy, and witty little peg in the upper echelon, why in the hell would you go on "Wife Swap?" Talk around the forums seems to speculate it was to hype the wife's (Mrs Stephens-Fowler) business, which just happens to be - as a weight loss coach!

After all the ridicule her husband heaped on his overweight "Wife Swap" wife, I don't think Mrs Stephens-Fowler needs to be planning on expanding the business anytime soon.

And a funny little addendum to that. I could probably level Mr Asshat to the ground with one sentence. My mother's maiden name is Fowler, so somewhere along the line he could be related to me.

And that, I guess, is the news.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners. So, what would you rename the Trouble Asset Recovery Program, or TARP?
- Honorable Mentions go to Kellie (with an ie), with her "Totally Awful. Revelry. Planes." and the DeepFatFriar, with his "Total Assholes Raping Poor."
- Runner-Up goes to Stennie, with her "Treasury Aids Rich People."
- And this week's winner is Patrick, with his "Taste Ass, Regular People." You said you couldn't think of any other entries, but you didn't need any.
* Thanks to all who played, you've all done very well! (And I mean that, your entries were great.)

The Amazing Surfdog

I have a really good memory from about 18 years ago.

My sister, brother-in-law, and Dear Nephew had decided to get away for a weekend, and headed off to the beach one Friday. I generally loathe the beach, I don't even know why I was on the trip. Doesn't matter.

Anyway, on Saturday morning the four of us were walking along the beach, well, three were walking, one was toddling, Taytie was about two years old, and we heard someone yelling at my brother-in-law. We turned around and there was Stevie.

Stevie was one of the B-in-L's old running buddies. A joker if there ever was, my favorite story involving Stevie was when they were all kids and he was imitating James Brown and fell about six feet off one of the gang's porch and broke his arm. Anyway, Stevie had long since moved away, and here he was chasing us down the beach.

We all marveled at the sight of each other, then spent the day together. Stevie was there with a buddy of his, and they followed us back to our hotel, where we lazed by the pool the rest of the afternoon.

We were in lounge chairs, and we strapped Taytie into his water wings and put him in the baby pool. He was jumping around, the kid loved water even as an infant, and there were two other kids in the pool, obviously a brother and sister. The boy was about three, the girl was maybe five. And boy, was she a big sister. She was bossy. She was bossing her little brother all over that baby pool.

Trouble was, in short order she started bossing Taytie around the baby pool, splashing at him and telling him to go this edge or that. And we got just a little bit pissed.

So Stevie and his buddy went and sat on the edge of the baby pool, feet planted in the water. And there they were, Stevie, a tall, thin, scary-looking white guy, and his buddy, a short, beefy, scary-looking black guy, sitting at the edge of the pool, feet in the water, drinking beers from the can and smoking cigarettes. And that girl went back to bossing her brother, and Taytie splashed around in that pool like he was having the time of his life.

And my sister and I got a case of the helpless giggles till it hurt.

If you read my blog of Tuesday, you know that I'd had one of my favorite little movies, "Wind-Ups on Parade," yanked from You Tube because I'd used a piece of music they didn't like. It was Brian Setzer's version of "Sabre Dance."

Yesterday when I got home from work I noticed I had a comment on that blog, went to read it, and got quite a shock. You can read it too, if you like, but it was from a guy named Neil who was inquiring about my loss of video. He said he worked for Brian Setzer's record label and could help me get it reinstated if I wanted.

I had to rush off to band practice last night, but drove the entire way with my jaw still dropping, and when I got back I sent him an email saying basically, "Boy, would I," and he told me what he needed.

We swapped a few emails last night, then a few more today, and guess what? Yes, voila, bang-zoom, Mr Neil got my video reinstated and on You Tube once again. When he emailed me it was all done I replied, telling him he was like Superman swooping in to help the downtrodden.

Soon after that email from Neil, I got one from You Tube. They said simply, "The claim on your video "Wind-Ups on Parade" has been removed. Your video has been restored to its original state."

And now I know exactly how little Taytie felt, with the big guys behind him while he played.

That someone from a record company would take the time to work at helping Little Miss Nobody from Podunkville not only amazes me, it restores my faith in humankind. There are nice people out there.

So may I publicly thank Neil, and urge everyone to head over to Surfdog Records. Check out their stable of artists, then go buy one of their albums. They deserve the business.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Why is it no surprise to me that while Barack Obama is doing all these classy things the week before his inauguration, the entire Bush administration is acting like rats deserting a sinking ship? (Oh, that's interesting. When I originally typed that, I actually typed "a sinking shit!" My fingers knew what my mind was thinking!)

Wrist-Slapped by the Hand of Fate

Thursday I was getting ready to go to bed. Those of us still up late enough to chat in poundsqueeze were saying goodbye as a message popped up from hotmail. I had mail from You Tube.

I read it. "Oh, shit," I said. Again.

I'd said, "Oh, shit" some months earlier for the same reason.

When I made my little movie "The Great Houndini," I wanted to use "That Old Black Magic" for the background music. I headed to iTunes and found a copy by someone named Errol Garner. It was the cheesiest version I'd ever heard, the length was perfect, and so I scooped it up for 99 cents and let the good times roll. And they did, for a while, till I got the "Oh Shit" email. I'd been hand slapped for using the song.

That email was snippy, but benevolent. You Tube told me they knew I was using someone else's music, but they were so nice and appreciated the creativity I was using that they'd let me continue to keep my little video up there, provided they could put Google ads on the video's page. I was a little pissed off about the whole thing, but hey, what's an ad or two between friends.

After 2 months, the video mysteriously disappeared without so much as a by your leave.

The "Oh Shit" email of Thursday was a little different. It was in regards to one of my two personal favorites, "Wind-Ups on Parade." They didn't give a shit about my creativity, they didn't like that I was using Brian Setzer's "Sabre Dance," and my video had been yanked.

Now, don't give me that look. I know you are, but I don't need it. I'm no rube, I know that someone owns every piece of music out there, even "Happy Birthday," and that using someone else's music isn't exactly legal, even if I was nice enough to credit the piece of music and can't help but feel even a tiny bit like Brian Setzer might have gotten a little giggle out of seeing the flipping tomato trying to flip to his song.

When I use music in a video, if it's not from my personal LP or CD collection, I rerecord it with another program. Thing is, with "Wind-Ups" I was still very new in the moviemaking business and it never occurred to me to do that. With "That Old Black Magic," I was probably so happy finding that cheesy version I just forgot.

In either case the mistake was mine, and so shed no tears for me, after cussing a blue streak I was OK. That's not really what all this is about. Much.

What it's about is that in this last "Oh Shit" email, there was a small addition to the oh shit part. Those You Tubers were telling me that I could actually use a little program of theirs called Audio Swap and put new music over my flipping tomato. Audio Swap contains music from You Tube's "growing library of fully licensed songs."

Well, this I had to see.

And so I went to Audio Swap. It's pretty much what you might imagine. I went through about 16 genres of music and saw two artists I'd heard of.

Let's see, how about watching the flipping tomoato flip to "A Touch Too Much (Short Edit)" by Phonjaxx? Well, you can't, because that track is zero minutes and zero seconds long, which is one hell of a short edit. So how about watching Mr Burns and Smithers in a swan boat putting along to "Fixing My Brain" by mattfatt73? Well, that song weighs in (no pun intended, well maybe a little) at 6 minutes. That's a lot more putting than the swan boat putts.

As for artists I knew, I guess Huckleberry Hound could perform feats of magic to Andy Williams' "The Look of Love," if I played it twice, the song being under 3 minutes.

If I want to use folk or country, I mean, Huckie's a country dog, I could always go with "Sonny Sunny" by Liam Neeson. Oh, wait. That's Liam Nelson. When I first saw that I was amazed - Liam Neeson sings? Well, apparently he doesn't.

Anyway, you get the idea. I'm really tempted to take one of my videos and find one of their "growing library of fully licensed songs" just to see what it would look like. Probably not tempted enough to do it, but I might have a slow weekend sometime.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners. So, what did you all have to say about the scary seafood mousse in the picture below?
- Runner-Up was LilyG, with her "Happy and dead. Behold the terrine!" Tureen? Terrine? I don't know, the "happy and dead" was what won me over.
- And this week's winner is the DeepFatFriar, with his "Have a dab. Beats tater tots." Which is hilarious, but I'll take the tater tots, please.
- Thanks to all who played - you've all done very well!

Fun With The Biggies

I headed out to band tonight. First practice of the year, but I didn't make it. It was snowing here in B'field, and the farther along I went, the worse things got. I'm sure it wasn't bad in B'burg, but I had to consider a) getting out of B'field, and b) coming back home around midnight. I made it to the next town over, realized I was no fool, or maybe I am, and decided to turn tail and head for home. The wind was blowing so hard at that point that I didn't have to use my steering wheel. The wind just blew me backwards towards home.

Anyway, that's really neither here nor there. In the few free minutes I had at work there at TheCompanyIWorkFor today, I looked around at the news sites on the web. And I saw pictures of a big fat historic meeting between all the living presidents.

And I guess that is big, fat, and historic. I guess you don't often get all the Leaders of the Free Fucking World for the past 30 years all together in one place. So of course a picture had to be made of the big moment.


















It's an odd picture. Look at Jimmy Carter out there, standing all by himself. It's like no one likes him, and I'd be willing to believe that's true. No one liked him when he was president, and though he's been a stellar citizen in the private sector he always seems to be putting his foot in his mouth, generally on the Larry King show. I like you, Mr C, but you really should stay off the Larry King show.

Jimmy's also our shortest president. I always thought of him as kind of tall and lanky, so I'm chalking that up to the fact that people shrink as they get older.

However, that theory just blows itself out of the water when I look at GHW Bush over there, our oldest and tallest president. His bones sure didn't crimp and leave him all withered and hunched, did they? No, those fine silver-spoon-in-the-mouth bones are serving him well, and he surprised me by not having Barack standing at least a head over him.

Barack, as always, looks fine and dishy, but the expression on his face says, "God help me, I'm standing right smack-dab between two Bushes. If they bring in Jeb, I'm outta here." You can even see his top teeth on his bottom lip, as if he's starting to utter, "Fuuuuuck."

Also, three presidents down the line they seem to have run out of blue ties. I'm sure Bill Clinton wanted a blue one, it would take away from the fact that his nose always seems to be a hue between crimson and magenta, but no, the Picture People had to tell him, "Bill, it's red or nothing. Sorry." And Bill, who's dropped many points on the power scale since the 21st century began, had to take it and like it.

And there in the middle is ol' W. W Bush, Drinky McDumbass, the poorest excuse for a president any country has had, anywhere, anytime. All those other guys, they've got impromptu expressions. HW Bush is "Hey!" Obama is "Fuuuuck, yeah." Bill is his normal "Hyuck, hyuck, hyuck." And Jimmy is "Lawks a mercy, I'm in the picture. Hello!"

W Bush is posing like it's a school picture. "Pitchers! They're makin' pitchers! Look presidential!"

He's almost gone, folks. He'll be glad. We'll be gladder.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* It's still snowing. Oh, boy, I get to scrape the windshield tomorrow morning!

Mea Culpa

Check the news. Go ahead, I dare you. Boy, has there been a lot of apologizing going on lately.

I mean, just Friday I blogged about Sharon Stone and her "karma" misstep, and it didn't take long - well, until people started hissing when she walked down the street - for her to start falling over herself with apologies. Little Miley Ray Hannah Montana girl was giving the puppy eyes and the "I'm sorry" all over the place when she showed up on the cover of Vanity Fair all tarted up and naked. She didn't apologize for her father's mullet and the fact that he sang "Achy Breaky Heart," which would probably have been more appropriate. But I guess that's his apology to make.

In other celebrity knee-dippings and grovelings, Joaquin Phoenix issued an apology for missing the Cannes Film Festival - because he has the stomach flu. He apologized because he's sick. I mean, I'm sure he's very sorry he has the stomach flu, and though I don't know him, I'm rather sorry he has the stomach flu. But he doesn't have to project an apology overseas for there being one less monkey at the circus that is Cannes.

Hulk Hogan's son Nick is apologizing profusely for causing a car accident that left his (presumably former) friend in a something of a vegetative state. "I apologize.... Every single day I think about the accident and John." Yes, apparently you are thinking of it every day - as you sit in your jail cell trying to cop a deal for a reality TV show about what it will be like when you get out of prison. (This is true, I'm not making this up. I wish I was. Sorry.) (See? Now they've got me doing it!)

Jerry Springer recently apologized for, well, for "The Jerry Springer Show." And that's one apology I was happy to see. Apparently he's not so sorry for it he's giving back all the money he made, but in an effort to wipe his slate clean and get on to loftier pursuits like hosting "America's Got Talent," he's burying the hatchet with us all for perpetrating "The Jerry Springer Show" on us for, what, 15 years? Is he just now sorry, or was he sorry the whole time? Couldn't he have gotten really sorry about it about four years in and ended the whole thing?

In sports backdowns, Roger Clemens is terribly sorry for having an affair with country singer Mindy McCready when she was only 15. Actually, he's terribly sorry it came out that he had an affair with country singer Mindy McCready when she was only 15. Actually, Clemens should just issue a blanket apology for being a total blowhole, and for promising to retire over and over. Oddly enough, Ms McCready has been mum on the whole affair subject, but a while back she apologized for being caught drinking and driving for about the 12th time.

The Beijing Olympic Committee is just crushed and sorry that they issued volunteers a handbook on dealing with the throngs of tourists coming to the Olympics that had a little section called, "Dealing With The Disabled." This section contained such nuggets of wisdom as the disabled have "unusual personalities because of their disfigurements," and that the disabled also "can be very stubborn and controlling." Which you know, the disabled can be stubborn and controlling. They can also be very nice folks. The able-bodied can be stubborn and controlling as well. They should have just left out the title of the chapter "The Disabled," and substituted "Olympics Fans In General."

The world of politics is awash in apologies. This is because politicians are generally boobs and idiots and are always sticking their foot in it, coupled with the fact that politicians are never supposed to, on occasion, eat their feet.

Bill Clinton is apologizing to a journalist from Vanity Fair for calling him "sleazy" and "a scumbag." Which, you know, if that's what Bill thinks, it's what he thinks, I don't see why he should apologize for it. Of course, he should have just called the fellow a sleazy scumbag to his face instead of in the national papers. I have a feeling, though, Bill isn't the least bit sorry the Miley Ray Hannah Montana girl got naked and tarted up for a cover of Vanity Fair.

Bill's wife and limping candidate Hillary has had to do her share of sorrying. First there was that whole "I was in Bosnia with bullets flying past my head" statement, which proved to be untrue, and to her credit, she pretty much came out and said, "Hey, I'm sorry, I kind of, well, you know, lied." Takes a fair amount of guts. Then she made that gaffe that still boggles the mind, or my mind, because it was so bizarre and out of left field. That one a couple of weeks ago about her staying in the race until the California Primary because, well, you know, that's where Robert Kennedy was assassinated. Huh? She didn't quite cop to much when apologizing for that one, that one was more of an, "I'm so sorry everyone in the free fucking world took that the wrong way." I guess one "it's my fault, totally" is enough for her.

Obama's not immune. He's had to apologize a couple of times recently, one for the zany-ass church he attends, it's more dinner theatre, really, and performances that have taken place on the stage. Uh, pulpit. First there was Reverend Jeremiah Whore, sorry, Wright, who was just dying to get in the spotlight - and did. Then came the just as odious Reverend Michael Pfleger, who certainly could take the church version of the Oscar (©) with his impersonation of Hillary Clinton. Obama has apologized for the goings-on in his church so much - well, so much he left the church! Which must be kind of sad, as they sure put on an entertaining Sunday morning service, but if the performances keep up Barack will still be able to view them on all the news shows through the week.

Then, Barack recently apologized to news reporter Peggy Agar for saying to her - yes, for actually saying to her, when she asked him a question while he was occupied with some other people, "Just one second, sweetie." Well, I never! The nerve! What has the world come to when, instead of ignoring the woman right out, he turns to her to acknowledge he sees her, then calls her what I consider a term of endearment. No, "Beat it, sleazebag," no, "Outta my way, bitch." "Just one second, sweetie." Well, anyway, he called and left a flowery message of apology on her answering machine.

On the subject of zany-ass preachers, John McCain has had to apologize for his association with John Hagee, the creepy conservative shithead preacher who hates gays, Jews, Catholics, and anyone not just like him, and almost said that Hitler wasn't such a bad guy. McCain started running, hands waving in the air, from this man, and said he was sorry the shithead seemed to like him so much. Once the press got hold of some of Hagee's rantings, anyway.

Dick Cheney, who has, let's face it, so much to apologize for, tried to make a joke earlier this week when talking about his family tree. He mentioned inbreeding, he mentioned West Virginia. And Senator Robert Byrd mentioned something about taking him behind the White House and kicking his ass till he had his fourth heart attack, but was kind enough to do it in private so it didn't make the papers. Now Cheney has apologized to West Virginia, inbreeders, and anyone else who'll still listen to this douchebag.

Oddly enough, you know who isn't apologizing? Right. George Bush. This is because George Bush never apologizes. George Bush is like the schoolyard bully who does whatever it takes to get what he wants. He's the one man with the most to apologize for.

He won't, though. Never will. But I will. I'm truly sorry I live in a country full of people stupid enough to have voted for the man not once, but twice.

Hear me? I'm sorry!

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners! So speaking of politicians, tell me your campaign promises.
- Honorable Mention goes to - ME! (cause no one else played)
- Runner-Up goes to River Selkie (you are not an acronothing!), with her, "No lacey tights, real gams exposed!" Going for the sex vote!
- And this week's winner goes to DeepFatFriar, with his, "Nuclear lemon trees! Revivication! Genetic engineering!" I didn't realize the Looney Party was back on the ticket!
- Thanks to all who played, you've all done very well!

Bet's Celebrity Roundup

Hello, star-watchers. We here at Betland had a really slow day at work yesterday, and found ourselves reading a lot of CNN.com and MSNBC.com. And realizing that these two sites seem to consider news of celebrities just as important as actual stuff that we might care about, or even that may affect our lives.

Like....

Back on the market: It seems everyone's favorite handsome, devil-may-care bachelor George Clooney is a bachelor once again. Yes, girls, he's split from his most recent girlfriend, the one that lasted an amazing 9 or so months, possibly a record for Mr Cute. If you're interested in competing with Stennie, LilyG, and I for his affections, please send in your application. And realize that in our particular book, "compete" does not mean "fight to the death," it means "George is put into rotation traveling between the three of us and being our shared boyfriend." On second thought, don't apply, because that's already dividing his affections into thirds, and we'd just as soon you keep your big noses out of our affairs. You'll just have to apply for someone like Charlie Sheen, I'm afraid.

Dropping like flies: Sadly, a lot of the celebrity news taking up space on the news websites is of the sad RIP variety. It started with Sidney Pollack on Monday, and then came the flood of bad news: Dick Martin, he of "Laugh-In" fame, as goofy a guy as was ever on TV, and TV's all the better for it. He was the Gracie to Dan Rowan's George Burns, and I can't think of him without thinking of the Farkle family and their neighbor (who looked suspiciously like all of the Farkle children) Ferd Burfle. Earle Hagen, composer of the "Andy Griffith Show" theme (let's whistle along), a million other TV themes, and the cheesy jazz standard "Harlem Nocturne," which I always liked, cheesy or not. It's extremely hard to play on the oboe though, as that was the instrument I was playing when the mighty and feared B'burg Community Band did the piece, and, let's face it, I was certainly no oboe virtuoso anyway. Then Joseph Pevney, who directed a slew of "Star Trek"s, including everyone's favorite, "The Trouble With Tribbles." Last night it was Harvey Korman, one I'm still in a blue funk over because I absolutely adored him, and I feel like I need to watch "Blazing Saddles" tonight as a tribute to him and Hedy Lamarr. Sorry, that's Hedley. Then only today came the news of the death of Alexander Courage, who wrote the theme to "Star Trek." If I worked in any capacity on "Star Trek," I believe I'd be hiding under a rock for the next few days.

Karma bites you in the ass: The other celebrity news I've been keeping up with, and am frankly quite sick of keeping up with, is actress Sharon Stone's little faux pas regarding the earthquake in China and how it was "karma" for how the Chinese government has been treating Tibet. Apparently Ms Stone thought she'd found a way to work her particular cause into an interview, and it backfired tremendously, because the press got hold of it and ran, pissing off a third of the world's population and losing her her comfy celebrity endorsement with Christian Dior. Apparently she's been scrapped from all ads appearing in China, which struck me in a way that had me saying, "Christian Dior advertises in China?" but apparently it was something of a big deal. Now, let's be honest, China's government is creepy and oppressive, but I really don't think it's the place of an actress to tell the nearest and dearest of 80,000 dead peasants that it's their fault their loved ones died, especially an actress who's only famous because she decided to cross her legs and show her hoonie in a really bad film. So now she's saying that she wants to help the victims of the earthquake, and I say, fine, go over there and dig up dead bodies and start building them new houses. You hack.

Harvey Korman wouldn't have said such a thing.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* I've been forbidden to drink wine while recording the Hucklebug podcast. Ever again. And rightly so. For any listeners this week, I was just obnoxious, and now it's my turn to apologize. However, I will not be losing my Christian Dior endorsements, for which I am grateful.

Such Nice Boys

Hello.

For those who care, I'm feeling better today. A visit to the doctor, a big fat prescription of antibiotics, and a diet of soup and green tea has me feeling human again. My throat is still extremely sore, but the fever is gone, and I don't fear falling down when I try to walk.

However, I'm not feeling well enough for a trip. Which stinks, as I had one planned for tonight. My very own Hackensaw Boys are playing in Huntington, WV tonight. That's a mere 2 ½ hours away, way too close to give a pass to. But I'm giving it a pass. I'm just not up to it, I couldn't stand in a club for a few hours, and even if I forced myself, I know I'd end up as sick as I was two days ago. And my doctor basically forbade me to breathe on anyone.

So I left a comment on their myspace page. I did this to be funny, and because I told Ferd I'd see him tonight. The comment was along the lines of, "I had a great time in Morgantown, but was felled by strep throat and won't be in Huntington. If you'd like to stop by on your way there and play 'Gospel Plow' to cheer me up, you're welcome to, but I can't breathe on anyone, so you'll have to do it in my front yard. I'll wave from the window, though."

Ha ha. Ain't I cute.

Imagine my surprise when I checked my myspace page today. Yes, I have one of those awful things too, mainly set up so I'd have an easy email route to the Dear Nephew (this was before he became a college student and got his own .edu email). I noticed not an email from The Nephew, but a comment. From the Hackensaw Boys! "Feel better soon."

I keep telling you all they're such nice boys.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* It's Friday night, and I'm getting bold. I'm celebrating by eating solid food. There's a salad in the fridge with my name on it.

More How To Become a Sophisticate By Expanding Your Vocabulary Online While Wasting Time

Hello, linguists.

A few months back, when I was still fairly new to the addiction known as Text Twist (TT), I did a blog about the ins and outs of the game. "Ins" and "outs" being two words perfectly legal on the TT board. "Ins" gives you "sin," and "outs" gives you "out" and "oust." And "sot," if you leave out the u. Just in case you were wondering.

During that blog I gave a rather lengthy explanation of Text Twist People (TTP) words, and how you had to find those words to fit in the word grid, whether you knew the words or not. So when a word came up you'd never heard before, you just had to memorize it and realize it would show up another time. Words like ort, ted, sere, rhea, roc, and hafted. I then took the trouble, for you, my dear blogees, for I didn't give a flip as long as they got me points, yes, I went to the trouble to look them all up and give you their definitions.

I really shouldn't have done that.

I shouldn't have done that at all, because now when words come up I don't know, I take the time to wonder what they could mean. And as we all know, thinking is a definite minus in the Text Twist World (TTW). Thinking takes seconds, and seconds tick away, and words go unfound. Unfound. Seven letters. Will not show up on the Text Twist Board (TTB).

About four months have passed since that first blog. My goal at that time was to score 200,000 points. Today, that's a slow session. My highest score is in the 1.45 million range, and that happened last week. Then Stennie suggested we both reboot our computers to make the podcast recording go smoothly (smoothly - 8 letters - right out on the TTB), and when I did, I lost my highest score ever. I put that thought away, but fear that one night when I get drunk and angry, that thought may come crashing back.

Anyway, if you're interested in becoming one of those people who bores party guests to tears with your infinite wisdom vis a vis the English language, or you're just thinking of becoming a Text Twist Addict (TTA) yourself, which I don't recommend because it's quite maddening, I thought I'd give you the latest round of word definitions. Oh, but before I do, I may have a little correction to make. I went on and on in that first blog about the word "arces." How I couldn't find a definition for it anywhere. Don't quote me on this, but I'm beginning to believe this could possibly be because arces is not actually a word. I've seen plenty of "arcs," and a few "arced"s in my game, but never again an "arces," so maybe I was confusing the two words and combining them into one. Because I'm an idiot (I).

OK, here we go. Play along with Bet, and tell me how many of these you already knew.

Ret - Ret comes up all the time on the old TTB, because it contains three very popular letters. It's right up there with ted and ort. I kind of forgot about my old friend "ret" the first time around. Ret has nothing to do with carpetbaggers ravaging Southern women during the Civil War. It means "to soak," as in fibers. Well, that's nice. If everyone remembers correctly, ted means "to dry." So you ret and you ted, and you retted, which is a six letter word on the TTB. By the way, I pronounce ret "ret," not "rit," as people seem to mistakenly believe when I pronounce "pen" and "pin."

Wadi - The first time I saw "wadi" on the TTB, I thought it had to be a computer malfunction, or the TTP were pulling my leg (L). But no, "wadi" does appear from time to time. To me, it's a nonsense word, a lyric from a 50s doo-wop song: Boom boom shoo bop bop wadi wadi. But apparently this is not the case. A wadi is the bed of a stream in regions of Asia and Africa, which is dry until the rainy season, then forms an oasis. It's a gully. ("Gully" - five letters. Also gives you "gull" and "guy.")

Weir - Not "wire," though "wire" also gives you "weir" on the TTB. And "ire," but that's just showing off. Also, much to my chagrin, it is not meant to be the family featured in the much beloved and one-seasonal TV show "Freaks and Geeks." A weir is a fence or enclosure in a stream for taking fish. Hey, that's what the dictionary says, don't ask me, "Taking them where?" for I do not know. It's also a dam. "Dam." Gives you "mad." By the way if you have a d on your "weir" board, watch out - wire, wired, weir, weird, ire, red, dew, wed, dire, rid, ride, die, wide - you could blow the game wide open!

Dory - This is not that little explorer girl all the kids love nowadays. Her name is Dora. Unless there's one out there I don't know about. Dory the Actuory. No, that's stupid, it's actuary, but "Dora" doesn't really rhyme with "explorer" anyway, unless you have a weird accent. Anyway, back to dory. Apparently, well, not apparently, it's right here in black and white, a dory is a flat-bottomed boat with high flaring sides, a sharp bow, and a V-shaped transom. As in, "Dora the Explorer got a little too close to the dory, tumbled, and put her eye out on the sharp bow. And her little monkey friend laughed. Because he was a monkey."

Rood - Rood? "Surely the TTP do not know how to spell," was my reaction the first time I saw "rood" come up on the board. Was it some spoonerism? Hobin Rood? Wed Rood Forest? I like "rood," because it's the reverse of "door" and therefore always gives you an extra word, but let's face it. It's a silly-looking word. It's also religious, because it means "a crucifix," which goes against the TTP's "No Biblical Words (NBW) rule," but they use "cross" and "church," so I'll let it go.

Spall - No, not the brilliant British actor in all the Mike Leigh movies. That's Timothy, and even though that's a seven letter word, it would be out because it's a proper name. As would Tim as well, and Dory if it was the actuary and not the sharp-bowed boat. A spall is a tiny fragment or chip of stone. Timothy Spall's quite a large fellow. And Chip is also a name, but the TTP allow it, because it also means, well, a chip. And gives you "hip."

Dross - It's always nice to learn a new five-letter word. No matter how good you are at Text Twist (TT), and I'm quite good indeed if I do say so myself, five-letter words are always something of a crapshoot. (Nine letters - right out. However, both "crap" and "shoot" are eligible for points. As are "carp" and "hoots.") Now, if you're Southern, and I mean really Southern, more Southern than I could ever dream of being, "dross" could be your underwear, or those things you pull out of chest bureaus where you put your clothes. "Darlin', my chest of dross is almost full." (By the way, when I was growing up, there was a kid in our neighborhood who swore it was Chester drawers.) Anyway, "dross" is the scum that forms on molten metal, now that's specific, or waste or foreign matter. As in, "Darlin', there seems to be some dross in my dross."

Speaking of words, I had an interesting occurrence at work last week. I had to call the Virginia Department of Worker's Compensation. When I did, I got the obligatory "press one, press two" spiel, and it went on forever, "Press one if you need to report a claim, press two if you need a tax ID number," and when the recorded voice got to about eight it was, "Press eight if you need an ombudsman." Such a foreboding word, ombudsman, and yet funny at the same time. I imagined a lone man in a small office, behind a desk, wearing an African headdress and holding a spear, or in a black tuxedo and wearing a red fez. Sitting there patiently, waiting for the poor soul who needed an ombudsman.

Obviously, I don't know what an ombudsman is. It's nine letters, so I don't have to worry about it on the TTB, but if I don't know what it is, how will I know when I need one?

I hope if I do, he brings his fez.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners. So, what was on your shopping list?
- Runner-Up goes to Duke, with his, "Burned Toast, Tripe, Rancid Danish Donuts."
- And this week's winner goes to LilyG, with her, " Beef testicles, turtle resin, Dunkin Donuts." Mmmm. Gotta have that turtle resin.
- Thanks to all who played! You've all done very well!

Still In The Well

First of all, I'd like to start tonight's blog with a bit of a correction. You see, sometimes I don't think I make myself very clear. I was called on this last week in a comment from Stennie, when I said I threw away several packages of empty nylons. The minute I pushed "publish" on that comment, I knew someone was going to burn me. Leave it to Stennie. Of course, I should have said I threw away several empty packages of nylons. I'd say the actual empty nylons were thrown away months ago.

Sunday night's Olympic Update included - well, not included, was - a little blurb about how I was recording an album of clarinet music for Mr M. From his kind comment, I have a feeling Duke got the idea I was actually recording an album of my playing for Mr M. In fact, I was recording an album of clarinet music that belongs to Mr M and was made in the 50s, recording it into mp3 format for the man. Believe me, I don't have the chops to record an album of my own playing for anyone, and would only do it for Mr M if he had done something to seriously piss me off.

OK. Now that that's out of the way, let's get on to something much more important.

Lassie!

Last week I posed the question to the world, is there always a Lassie? We never see Lassie when there's no TV show or movie in front of us. Leading me to believe that 1) there isn't always a Lassie or 2) Lassie is something of a recluse.

Well, imagine my shock and surprise when Sunday evening I turned on the TV, hit the "info" button on the remote control, and saw a program was showing on PBS called, and no, I'm not making this up, "Lassie's Pet Vet." I don't guess I have to tell you that I hit the "1" and the "2" buttons quicker than you could say, "Arf Arf," and saw just what it was all about. And it was all about little segments for pet owners and pet owner wannabes about how pets are the wonderful things that they are. Like we didn't know.

There was a story about a woman who bought a bulldog to ease the pain of losing her husband. And a "man on the street" interview with folks telling us where their pets sleep at night. A surprising number of people sleep with their pets in the bed, which was, although my dogs were allowed just about everywhere in whatever home I was living in at the time, one place I could never cotton to. I used to let Dino, my cousin's Cairn Terrier, sleep in my bed, but that's because he was an unstoppable force and wormed his way in there when I was falling off into dreamland. Then he would commence to rooting up next to me until he had the entire bed and I was hanging onto the mattress by my fingernails. It was endearing, somehow. I don't know how, really, but somehow.

But the big and exciting news about all this is that the program was hosted by some veterinarian, and - Lassie himself (or herself, whatever). There the two of them were, the vet on a chair and Lassie right there beside him, smiling and barking. And looking magnificent, if I may say. And as if the knowledge that there is indeed apparently always a Lassie wasn't enough, the Lassie/vet segments took place outside. In front of a big red barn! So Lassie does live on a farm, and don't tell me it was just a television show set, because I won't believe you. Lassie lives on a farm and I'll fight the first person who tells me otherwise.

I decided to do a little internet research about "Lassie's Pet Vet," and found that Lassie has his own (or her own, whatever) website, lassie.com. The Pet Vet show is featured on the site, as is a tidy history of the doggie, where Lassie is always referred to as "she." Mmm-hmmm. Lassie also seems to have his (or her, whatever) own brand of dog food, which is all natural and probably good for the coat, and I'm guessing contains well water, and the fingers and toes of various villains.

There's a section that announces Lassie appearances, so if that's not a ringing endorsement that there's always a Lassie, I don't know what is. He (she, whatever) was even in Las Vegas several months ago. There's also a link to the Lassie "Pup Club," where kids can download coloring book pages and desktop themes.

There's a media section where we can watch clips from the old TV series, and one even includes everybody's favorite child actress Pamelyn Ferdin. And, in the same clip, a very young-looking Larry Wilcox.

But then, there it is. On the side of the screen, an ad. For the new Lassie movie. And suddenly my hopes became dashed that all this fun and frivolity was just there because there's a Lassie project on the horizon, and so some collie has been brought of the mothball closet to don the Lassie moniker.

I was depressed. So I said, "Fuck it," (sorry, Lassie) and went from lassie.com to lassie.net. And I liked lassie.net a whole lot better.

This is because it has a better history of Lassie, and explains how Lassie is in fact always a boy dog, the first transvestite superstar in Hollywood history. It also mentions that we're now enjoying the ninth generation Lassie, a direct descendant of the original movie Lassie, and so I was just having a ball on lassie.net, and lassie.com can go jump in the lake. Or the well. Because lassie.net tells me there's always a Lassie, and I'm not going anywhere else now that may tell me otherwise.

Lassie.net also features a great picture of Lassie in front of his Mitsubishi Eclipse, and one of him outside on a blanket, as if he's enjoying a little picnic with Timmy and the family. The merchandising section even sells a 16 oz chocolate collie. And I think you'll agree with me when I say it doesn't get any better than that.

So here's to Lassie. Sure, Asta had personality out the wazoo and could do backflips, Rin Tin Tin could run like the wind, Toto was an adorable sweetheart, and Benji showed you didn't have to be purebred to be a star. But Lassie, man. Lassie, the dog that could save Timmy from the well, be a friend to all the kids in the neighborhood, fight off bad men, tend to baby chicks on the farm, and I've no doubt could change the oil in your car and do your taxes without fear of an audit.

Good thing he's always around (or she's, whatever).

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners. So, what's your favorite day of the week, and why?
- Honorable Mention goes to Mr M, and his, "Tuesday, reaching around my fistula-saturated ass." Lame, schmlame, Mr M, I'm happy when anyone acros.
- Runner-Up goes to DeepFatFriar, and his, "Tuesday - right after Monday, feels slightly amicable." Yep, after Monday, anything is possible.
- And this week's winner is LilyG, with her, "Thursday -- Really, almost, mostly Friday. Saturday's ahoy!" Now, how can you not reward an acro that uses the word "ahoy?" You can't not!
- Thanks to all who played - you've all done very well!

More On The Lonely Life of the Golfer, or Members Only

When last I left you, my fine feathereds, I was having a little rant about commercials for prescription drugs, and how sad it must be to be a golfer these days. This is because all the prostate-fixers and weenie-unflacciders invite us to see their ads in Golf magazine and Golf Digest. I wondered aloud what that says about golfers, but since then I've actually been wondering what an issue of one of these golf magazines must look like. I mean, every other page must be an advertisement for some male prescription drug.

Anyway, I had no plans whatsoever for a sequel to Tuesday's blog. None. And this may not be one, but I had a strange occurrence at about 3:00 Wednesday morning. I woke up.

Now, this in and of itself isn't strange at all, I do that every night. But when it happened Wednesday, it was just so quiet in the house I reached over for the remote and flipped on the TV. It was tuned to CNN. Within about 7 minutes, there was a commercial break. And imagine my surprise when the first commercial in that break was for Levitra. Levitra! How I apologize to you, Levitra, for leaving you out of the erection pill family last blog. But wouldn't you just know it, by the time I could scramble up and grab my glasses to see what golf magazine contained their ad, it was over. And so I'll never know, unless I'm lucky enough to see it again before I end this blog.

So last night, sad soul that I am, I decided to do a little more internet research, and I went straight to Levitra's website. And boy, let me tell you, what a goldmine of information this place is. If I was a man, and therefore had that shaft of royalty known as a penis, and that penis just wasn't what it used to be, I'd go to that website, above all others, every day.

Because the Levitra people aren't like doctors. They're like your mom. All over that site it mentions high cholesterol, diabetes, and high blood pressure. It's those bad things that are causing the problem. Hell, there's even a link to a page called, "It's Not You." See, it's your mom! Patting your thigh, saying, "Dear, it's not you. Really, it's not." The websites for the other two drugs, Viagra and Cialis, are more like your football coach. Fist pumping and, "Let's get you in there and back in the game, sport!"

And I'm willing to make a confession right here and now, for what is a blog for but embarrassing confessions, I spent way too much time at the Levitra site. I kind of got addicted to it. It was just fascinating, for some reason.

It contained tidbits like this one, in the "Information for Partners" section. "Chances are your partner already realizes that something has changed in your sexual relationship." There's a bit of stating the obvious. But again, like your mom, the site goes on to state it's not your fault either, partner, you're just as cute and wonderful as you always were. Then there's a list of opening salvos - yes, actual word tracks, just like they try to get you to use at work - that you may feel comfortable with as a beginning to the "I'm going to go get some Levitra, so watch out" conversation. None of them start out with, "I have this friend...," but one does say, "You know, I've been thinking my [high blood pressure, diabetes, high cholesterol, insert one] may be causing a change in our sex life."

There's also a section on the site all about, and now, here's where things get a little rough, so I'm warning the squeamish now they may want to turn away, "erection quality." Apparently running the flag up the pole and having it salute isn't enough. There are three different items that make up whether your penis is quality stuff or something of an after-market part.

Of course there are separate sections about the "big three," the high cholesterol, diabetes, and high blood pressure that might be causing the problem. (Thanks, Mom.) There's also a "sexual health checklist" that one can fill out, print, and take to the doctor, just in case he's a little shy in bringing up the subject. Which is fine, and they're even tailored for the less erudite amongst you fellows who don't know the meaning of the word "penetrate." (I'm not kidding. You can go look if you like, but I'm warning you, it's addictive.)

And what would a site run by your mom be without something given to you for free. For there's a "Free Offers" section, where you can get three free tablets with your first prescription, and I'm betting this is a good thing because I have a feeling these drugs aren't for those on the lower end of the income scale. And you can sign up to have a free "fact kit" sent to you that looks like it has everything that's already covered on the website, but I'm left wondering, and I'm telling you, folks, I'm tempted to sign up to get my own free kit. I could always use Sherman's name, or Mr M's, or even Mike's. Like they'd ever know.

However. However!

The absolute brass ring on this website is the video. And yes, I'm embarrassed to admit this above everything else, but when you see a link to a video entitled, "How An Erection Works," and you don't have anything else on tap for the night, well. I mean, how can you not?

So let's get this right out of the way. It tells you exactly how an erection works, with, thank God, drawings. Because Mom wouldn't let them use real people. However, other than the rather science class-looking diagram at the beginning, a man's penis is represented by a red tube. With a curve in it. Sure, they call it a blood vessel, but we all know what's going on. The blood flowing through these vessels looks like cherry Life Savers, and when all is well, those Life Savers are just coursing through that vessel. And when all is not, well, it's about the saddest thing I've ever seen. One or two Life Savers limping out of the vessel, and believe me, it's not pretty. As is not the vessel itself, which, when unhealthy, is all bumpy and wrinkly, whereas the healthy vessel is nice and smooth.

The video also mentions the "big three," the reasons for your problem, and mentions side effects, the most horrific of which is the runny nose, imagine the trauma of a man all hopped up on Levitra towering over you with his nose running. In fact, this little video mentions just about everything about the male member and its problems except in which golf magazine their ad appears.

The most interesting thing, though, and possibly the most enlightening thing I've seen in years, occurs when there is an animated picture with the legend, "Erect Penis" superimposed on the screen. Now I know it's been a little while, but....

The picture we see of an erect penis looks like an eyeball. It's a circle, with a red inside and white outside. The only thing I could possibly imagine is that it's the cross-section of a penis, like they cut it in half. And that makes me wince, and I'm a girl, for cryin' out loud.

So maybe we should end here. Unless I'm missing something, and a penis really does look like a big round eyeball, in which case I need to do some more internet research, so we should end anyway.

Let's end.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Nothing, really. Tomorrow's Friday. Update your calendars!