Yesterday's post stirred another long forgotten memory regarding scary movies and gravel roads. You'd think there would just be one or two of those, but... eh? what can I say. There's more.

I was, oh, maybe 16 or so and I was going to my friend Annie's surprise birthday party. Annie lived a couple miles away on the same stretch of gravel road as us. And, since this was going to be a 'surprise' birthday party, we weren't supposed to park at their house. Instead, we were directed to park over at the Schuler's house -- just next door. In the parlance of rural Minnesota, next door is equivalent to about a half-mile.

So, the night of the party, I drove my '74 American Motors Ambassador station wagon -- red with fake wood paneling -- over to Schuler's house, parked down the hill under a thicket of trees, and walked over to Annie' house.

The only thing I distinctly remember was watching a movie at the party -- Children of the Corn. Brrr. I still shudder just to repeat the name of that movie. As I mentioned, I do not like scary movies. I suppose I spent a good portion of the film hiding under a blanket, averting my eyes at any possible sequence of danger, which, thanks to the stupid genre, is approximately 90% of the movie. But, I survived. Mostly.

When it was time to leave, I had to walk back to my car. It was cloudy and cool. Very dark. I mean, very very dark. And my car was parked down the road a ways. A ways... on a dusty gravel road... in the inky black of night... with cornfields on either side.

Cornfields? This is not good. Not good at all. And, weren't those crazy Schulers Amish? (It turns out, no, they weren't, although the older sister did wear a lot of black).

There's no real end to this story. Except that I was gruesomely murdered in the thicket of trees next to my car. Fortunately, I got better.

As a strange postscript, a couple of years later Annie's family moved out of their house, and a new family moved in. A black family. And then they put up a large fence around the property, so it was largely assumed by the locals that they were drug dealers. Sadly, the stereotype was affirmed. Shortly after moving in, the DEA stormed the property in what was the largest drug bust in Minnesota history at that time.

Thinking of getting a new job? Try these cover letters.

If you've got a few minutes to kill, check out: How to Kill a Mockingbird.

Okay, so I guess Best Buy is trying some new Guerilla marketing campaign -- meet Kevin Kringle, Kris Kringle's stupid brother from Florida. I have to say, I kind of like it. Better than that dumb "idea box" sponge-bob wannabe, anyway. (say Jake, what's the scoop on this anyway?...)

A-ha! I knew I had a picture somewhere. Here's the road leading to the spooky Evil Dead house. This is right before you get to the cornfield (the barn in the background was our farm).

And here's what's remaining of the spooky house. Bear in mind, this doesn't look so spooky in full daylight, but just imagine this -- out in the middle of a woods next to a cornfield at least a mile from the nearest road. At NIGHT. Tell me this isn't spooky then.

Delano? Oh, Hella-no...

Went out to Mom's house for Turkey day in fabulous Delano, MN. Ever wonder who buys all of that heavy plastic Christmas decor (e.g., glowing santas, glowing snowmans, glowing baby jesus next to the glowing sheep)? The residents of Delano are largely responsible. It's absolutely shocking (and mildly entertaining) to see how much of this stuff is strewn about on front lawns.

Post-feast, to work off the effects of triptophan, Maddy and I went for a long walk through the mostly deserted town. Here's a few pictures.

Delano's biggest claim to fame was that A Simple Plan was filmed here. Great location for a movie shoot, I must say, because it has all that weird small Minnesota town stuff going on. And, it really says something about a place when Billy Bob Thornton "blends in". Mom was telling me about the filming, which happened at various locations, including just down the street from her house. All the locals congregated and in typical "Minnesota Nice" fashion, the whole street went deadly quiet when they called for Quiet on the Set. One of the crew members was boasting to Mom that the Coen bros. used HIS wood chipper in Fargo. How cool is that?

A Simple Plan was directed by Sam Raimi (who got his start with The Evil Dead before moving on to blockbusters like Spiderman), and word has it that he's set to remake The Evil Dead. That movie still freaks me out.

Anyway, it got me thinking. Sam, if you're listening, consider going back to Delano for the remake. I mean, there's a couple of great locations that would be perfect for The Evil Dead. First, I grew up on a farm about 4 miles outside of Delano. Across the street from our place, if you walk into the woods about a half mile, you'll come to a corn field. Walk along the edge of the cornfield another quarter mile or so, and then you'll come to the edge of a lake. At this point, if you yell at the top of your lungs, it's quite conceivable that nobody will ever hear you. Now, take a left and keep walking and, out in the middle of NOWHERE, is an old, rickety abandoned house. I'm not sure who ever lived there, but it's spooky. One of the walls is missing, all the windows have been knocked out, the floor is completely gone, and it tilts. It's ancient. It has no paint -- just rough-hewn wood. I would guess that nobody's lived there since the Great Depression (probably before), but it would be a great place to start the action in The Evil Dead.

Another must film location is the marble graveyards along the Crow River. There's a marble works in town (for fashioning headstones and the like), and just behind the works -- set back a ways -- is scrap marble that was piled up in this one area near the river. It's creepy. Very creepy. A bunch of old discarded gravestones -- botched etchings or cracked marble -- haphazardly scattered about. It looks like an abandoned graveyard. Amidst the smaller pieces are giant stacks of marble, piled up like old ruins. And, covering everything is weeds and brush and small trees. It really lends itself to a horror movie.

Anyway, that's my home town. Sort of. I actually went to school in Watertown, so I'm really a Watertown boy, even though technically I grew up with a Delano address. The reason we have a Delano address was because our mailbox was located on the "other" side of the gravel road. Had it been on the side were our house was, I would have had a Watertown address. Funny how that works.

Anyone want to buy a basset hound?... And a sofa?... oh, and my living room chair?... Special deal. One day only.

Yet another thrill-ride day with the pup. Oh, and if this sounds like a repeat story, welcome to my world.

So, I'm curled up on the sofa with my journal and a Varsity disposable fountain pen.

Dear Diary,

It's two days before Thanksgiving. You know what I'm thankful for? Me neither. I want popcorn. Do I have any popcorn? Mmmm. I'm not sure, I'll probably have to go to the store later. I do have soup though... I like soup. Cream soup or broth soup? Clam chowder? What makes clam chowder a chowder and not a soup? Is it the seafood? Um. No, I don't think so because then there's corn chowder and that doesn't have any seafood in it, does it? And what about Lobster bisque? Isn't a bisque kind of like a chowder? Maybe a bisque has to have seafood in it. Bisque. Bisssque. Bisssssssque. That sounds kind of sexy. Ah, screw it, I'm not even hungry. Except for popcorn. I'd be THANKFUL if I had some popcorn right now, that's what I'd be thankful for. Is there like a Hindu god I could pray to, you know for like popcorn? Hmmm. I'm hot. Well, just my feet. Oprah's wearing a pantsuit today. I don't like it. It's purple...

Writing is hard work, as you can see, so I decide to take a little break. I get up to change the channel check my stupid blog and get a cold glass of Guinness orange juice. I put down my journal and pen and wander off humming a Right Said Fred song.

I don't know, maybe 15 minutes later I'm ready to resume my writing. I walk into the living room and this is all that comes out.

"You... you... you... you... YOU!"

And this is not Chinese meditation, mind you. What I discovered was that my sweet, adorable little basset hound was chewing on my pen. My nifty black-inked fountain pen. Her mouth -- black. Her paws -- black. My floor -- covered with black footprints. My sofa (my SOFA!) -- spotted black. My chair -- black black black...

The next 20 minutes were spent blotting and wiping and trying to get Maddy back to her god-given colors. I stood over the crime scene -- hands at hips, head shaking. Tsk tsk tsk. Why didn't I just get a hamster?

Maddy spent some time outside, I went and got a haircut, and when I got home I realized it wasn't THAT big of a deal. The sofa's not new, and there's probably only going to be a small stain on the arm. And I can flip the cushion over on the chair. The ink was wet so at least I got it off the floor. Not that big a deal. No need to obsess over it anymore.

(Truth be known, by this time I was obsessing over the fact that my hair stylist said, and I quote, "Oh, you look like a baby." -- a reference to the fact that she hadn't seen me without my goatee before. Still. Even if it's a compliment, don't call me a baby. Well, unless it's in that Britney Spears kind of way, then you can. Baby baby baby me all you want. Just not in the literal sense. That makes me pout, and then I'm a parody of myself -- which I hate).

I'm writing this now from the ink-stained sofa and Maddy's sleeping beside me. Everything's covered with old bed sheets, a little too late, but hey, better late than never. And I'm looking at her with this sickly feeling in my stomach that this won't be the last time I write about this.

Hey, thanks everyone for trying out my new comments feature, you know, since I went to the trouble of re-arranging the site just so I could make this a little more interactive (cough*bullsh*t*cough). Let's see... I know have. Oh? Zero comments. Thanks a bunch. So glad I did that this weekend.

Pffft.

Okay, so maybe I didn't give you much to work with. I'll remedy that. Let's try something that I find works pretty well in my "private" life. I exchange e-mails daily with one of my best friends since 8th grade, and when you DO that... well, the conversation gets stale pretty quickly. I write obsessively about going to the dog park. She writes obsessively about new recipes and how her kids can projectile vomit. It's exciting.

So, what WE do is playing a little game called Question du Jour (or QduJ). Let's try it. And, just so I'm not talking to MYSELF (hint), feel FREE to use that damn little comment feature below. Remember. You can be anonymous.

QduJ: Have you ever had any broken bones? Explain how it happened (see comments for my response).

Well, I finally got around to updating the site to make it a little more manageable. I know many of you will be disappointed that I'm no longer using the tiny font on the pumpkin orange background, but deal with it.

Also added is the "comments" feature (see the link just below each post). You can now comment (ridicule, berate, etc.), and yes you can post anonymously. I would, however, suggest adding a small signature to your posts if you want me to know who you are...

So, that's about all I did over the weekend. Here's some dumb monday stuff.

Karate chimp.

Mack Leighty's Bonding With Your Children. Today's topic: Yu-Gi-Oh.

Yiddish with Dick and Jane.

Goin' shopping on the day after Thanksgiving? Well, then set a wake-up call with Darth Vader? Or Heidi Klum? Or... a chicken, if that's more your thing.

And if you do decide to go to Target, make sure you get one of these for only $35.99. Heck, at those prices, you can get one for yourself and one for a friend.

A Fool By Heavenly Compulsion

Today, we've got a little book review: He's Just Not That Into You.

After reading a lively discussion of this book on another friend's blog, I thought I'd give this book a shot to see what all the hoopla was about. It one of those Oprah books -- you know the ones. Sigh. Big mistake. Huge, huge mistake.

To start with, the subtitle of this book is "The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys". It would also be reasonable to market this as "The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Stalkers", since "guys" (per their definition) seem to share many of the hallmark characteristics of your garden-variety sociopath. To wit, here's one gem: "Men, for the most part, like to pursue women. We like not knowing if we can catch you. We feel rewarded when we do. Especially when the chase is a long one."

And then we like to say, "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again."

Pfft!

One of my (many) gripes with this book is with co-author Greg Behrendt, who judging by his book jacket photo should be parading tigers around at a Sigfried & Roy show. What a dickhead! Basically, he asserts that he knows how guys think because "he is one". Right, and that's why they picked YOU to work on an all women's TV show -- Sex in the City. Because your so guy-ish. Mr. Guy's Guy, Greg Behrendt. According to him, he played the game for years, and now like a magician (either Sigfried or Roy, you pick) he's going to unveil all of the sneaky little tricks that he's used -- all for your benefit, because YOU are sooooo fab-u-lous. If one thing can be learned from this book it is this: "If you're dating or married to Greg Behrendt, you are even more pathetic than the average woman READING this book".

Now, go catch me a tiger, bitch!

I digress. After reading this book, I was reminded of a scene in Spinal Tap where Derek Smalls is talking about their song "Sex Farm Woman".

DEREK: ...you know. Now, I mean a song like “Sex Farm”, we’re taking a sophisticated view of the idea of sex, you know, and music...

MARTY: ...and put it on a farm?

DEREK: Yeah.

This book takes a sophisticated view of the idea of men and women in relationships, and puts it... er... on a farm. Or something. It's just as banal.

Now, next point. This book is so single-mindedly simplistic about the behavior of men that it's maddening. If we don't do ______ [insert relationship verb], "we're just not into you." This totally discounts the more obvious explanation, which is, "we're stupid." I can handle being stupid, but I don't like some fruity-tooty tiger-handler telling me that my stupidity is the direct result of disinterest. Usually the opposite is true.

Here's one nugget from my own personal "I'm stupid" file. In college, I had a friend, and this friend's friend -- who, to protect the anonymity, let's call her J.Lo -- was "into me" (or so I was led to believe). My friend was starring as Cordelia in the campus production of King Lear, and she arranged for me to sit next to J.Lo on opening night. So, I did. We met just before the production was going to start, so we had to quickly get in and take our seats. And, trying to send out the "I'm into you" vibe, I tried to make small talk. In VAIN, I might add. "I haven't seen this play before, have you?" "Do you like cheese? I do." "You know what's better than roller derby? Nothing. Absolutely nothing is better than roller derby." I'm not good at small talk.

J.Lo occassionally looked my way, smiled, and nodded. She didn't seem rude or anything, but she sure AS HELL wasn't "into me" as I had hoped. So, I did what any reasonable male in my situation would do. I pouted.

After the play was over, my friend invited us to a cast party. By this time I was in the red zone on the sulk-o-meter, so out of spite (SPITE, mind you), I said, "Nah. I'm just going home. I'm tired" J.Lo seemed a little disappointed, but screw her, right? She couldn't even bother to talk to me during that oh-so-precious little bit of time we had.

Fast forward to the next morning, when my friend called.

"Um, were you mad at J.Lo or something? She thought you were a little... off..."

"Hel-lo? Yes I was off. I was talking and talking -- which you KNOW I suck at -- and she didn't acknowledge one single thing I said."

"Oh brother. Were you sitting on her left side?"

"YES."

"You DO know that she's deaf, right?"

Dead silence. Stupid stupid stupid. J.Lo had partial hearing in her right ear, but was completely deaf on the left side. So, inadvertently, I gave the "I'm not into you" vibe, even though I was very, very much into her. I was just... stupid. And she was deaf. Tragic, just like the bard's tale... To quote King Lear, "This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, -- often the surfeit of our own behaviour, -- we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion..."

(As a postscript, I did ask J.Lo out for a bona fide date some time later, but that even surpassed night one in the dating hall of shame. But that's another story for another time.)

Point is, I made a boo-boo, but it had a context. Context. Something this book sorely lacks, any comprehension of context.

Now, where is that damn Montecore? I've got a job for him.

For those of you who didn't relate to the Hamm's beer jingle (from yesterday), here's an old commercial featuring that famous song.

Interesting little game, if you have a sophomoric sense of humor. Eat Poop You Cat. Somebody starts the game with a random sentence. Then the next person draws a picture of it. And then the next person has to write a sentence describing the picture, without having seen the original sentence. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Anybody else got that Book of Questions? This person tries to provide the answers.

In response to the Sorryeverybody site, the world responds. Apologiesaccepted.

Straight from the "I did not know that" file: Have you ever looked at an ape? They have no buns.

Trying to lose weight? Sleep more and get a pooch, experts recommend. "If you're looking for motivation and social support to lose weight, you probably don't have to look any further than the pet in your own home," said Dr. Robert Kushner of Northwestern Medical School. Damn straight. I've lost probably 25-30 lbs. since getting Maddy. Although, it should be said, having a hound as my primary conversation partner has probably dropped my IQ by several points as well.

Rest in peace. The creator of my favorite advertising jingle in history passed away.

From the land of sky blue waters (waters),
From the land of pines, lofty balsams,
Comes the beer refreshing,
Hamm's, the beer refreshing...
Haaaamm's...

How much cookie dough is in cookie dough ice cream? And will it really make cookies? Well, let's find out.

McSweeney's on my hometown(s): On the Utility of Minneapolis-St. Paul as a Base of Operations for Various Well-Known Superheroes or Super Teams.

Overheard at the dog park on Sunday: A guy on a cell phone... "Church??? The dog park IS my church!..." I concurred.

Dangnabbit! The Jones Sodas are sold out. I really wanted to try this, but at least somebody had the courtesy to do a taste test.

Eurobad '74.

What I'm listening to these days: Neko Case's The Tigers Have Spoken. I normally don't like country music at all, but Neko... man, she's just a babe with a gorgeous voice.

Last week my Dad found an old story that I wrote, hmm, quite some time ago by the looks of it. I thought I'd share it with a critical analysis done by my adult self.

First, the story.

Brian locked in the zoo. Well, hot damn, we're off to a gripping start. I was always good at starting stories. Lots of tension, right off the bat -- Locked in the zoo! A chilling prospect. Of course, it's difficult to know if this was a metaphor or not. Could the 'zoo' be symbolic of my family? The confines of Myrtle G. Schuman Elementary School? Or perhaps society in general? Not sure, and I'm also not sure why I'm wearing a Freddy Krueger shirt and driving an enormous red convertible with a brown hood ornament. Hmph. Perhaps we could conclude that the zoo is a literal one, which would be interesting since as an adult, I live just 4 blocks from a zoo. One could say, almost "in" a zoo. Hmmmm. Interesting. Gee look at the birds. Okay, Mom, I definitely had ADD has a kid. I mean, come on, when you discover you're locked up in a zoo, normally the first words out of your mouth aren't "Gee, look at the birds". That's crazy talk. Hey, were did evry one go. Ooooh. Now we're getting a little dark. I'm all ALONE in the zoo (sans them birds, of course). This is getting existential. I'd better get going fast. Now, action. The protagonist must make a decision -- to get out, and fast-like. Uh oh it's too late. The reality of the situation takes hold. There is no getting out! I'm trapped, but perhaps I can try to escape this 'zoo'. I'l try to clim over fence. Nice try, but I think we all know where this is going... I can't. I'l haf to whate. Just like Estragon and Vladimir in Waiting for Godot -- the existial trip comes full circle with the inevitable realization that there is nothing left to do but wait. Notice the spelling of whate, though. It's like hate with a "w" tacked on. I think Beckett would approve.

So, that was today's storytime reading. After re-reading this, I think, someday hopefully in the very distant future, this would make an excellent obituary for myself.

Your Mission: Destroy Uncle



Should have seen this coming. You give your nephew a remote controlled Robot for his birthday, and he WILL try to attack you with it.

The Kevin F. Sherry Sweater Project.

Strange: Churchill's parrot is still alive and cursing the Nazis.

Stranger: Cheetah from the original Tarzan movies is still alive as well.

A little late with this link, but oh well: Sorry Everybody.

Brilliant! Just reading this, I'm already Jonesing for some Mashed Potato Soda (or "pop", as we like to call it here). And best of all -- proceeds from the Mashed Potato and Green Bean Casserole (or "hotdish", as we like to call it here) sodas all go to Toys for Tots. Guess who's goin' shoppin'?

This could just be the secret ingredient I need for my Meatloaftini...

I had a really busy weekend -- in addition to the 2 Westerberg concerts, I also went to an heirloom potlock dinner party. The concept is that people bring a dish from their "culture". Well. That might be an easy task if you're from an interesting culture, but for me it was a bit of a challenge. Since I wasn't about to stink up my house cooking Lutefisk, I finally settled on my one favorite culinary delight -- Tater Tot Hotdish. I think it was well received, even though I had to correct people SEVERAL TIMES that it was not a casserole. When properly prepared with ground beef and Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, it becomes, de facto, a hotdish. We don't need some fancy French name for it. It's hot, it's gray, and it's fabulous.

Good dog indeed!

Some of you are probably wondering when I'm going to comment about the election. Well, I hate to disappoint, but I'm not going to do a full all-out rant on the topic. For the days after the election, I was just frothing, but there is also the realization that 90% of the people that repeatedly visit here probably share my views, and the other 10% are probably just dropping by to look at the pictures of a hound dog wearing funny hats. Anyway, I think one new feature I'll add is the periodic salt-rubbing that I'll call: I told you so.

Color Me Impressed

The Westerberg shows at the Pantages this weekend were incredible. On Friday night, Paul was in good form (Pioneer Press review) -- 2 hours of both Replacements tunes and his solo stuff. Very good. Not too many surprises, but musically it was damn fine. I had the 4th worst seat in the house, and I still was happy to be there.

For last night's show, Paul was in a profoundly weird splendor. It's hard to describe, but he was on fire. First, he walks out with the band wearing bright red pants, a red shirt with white polka dots, a red leather jacket with spray-painted black dots, and a jesters hat. Oh, and he was wearing sunglasses that were painted red (over the eyes) with just 2 "X"s scratched out so he could see.

He played a couple of songs, did a headstand (or tried, anyway), and then smashed a guitar. He played a magnificent version of The Partridge Family's "I Think I Love You". After that, he did some solo stuff, and when the band came back out, he moved his mic down to the concert floor and came down for the fans. Everyone was out of there seat and mobbed up front (as it should be) by this time. Then he kept playing -- doing some blues numbers and playing harmonica.

This was Paul at his trippiest -- completely on the verge. He also did a weird, sad version of some classic 70's song (can't remember the title). When he was 17, his friend told him that it was the best song ever -- and then went home and killed himself. Needless to say, the song was pretty dark. But, after that was done, it was more 'Mats tunes to bring the mood back up.

He also screwed around with some of the guys in the band. For instance, he started the chords to "Rebel Rebel" by David Bowie, and when the band kicked in, he just walked off the stage. The guitar and bass player just kept trading looks, like "um, are YOU gonna sing this if he doesn't come back"? The Guitarist was starting to take a stab, but then Paul came out and saved him. Sort of. He tried to, but he was having problems with some of the other mics, so he did what came naturally. He smashed another guitar. The guitarist said, "Well, I guess we're not leaving until we run out of guitars".

Weird evening, but in my opinion, Paul should definitely put together a permanent band and start touring again. I don't think he could sustain that kind of intensity for a whole tour, but I certainly hope he doesn't wait another 8 years to do it again.

Wisdom is ignorance; stupidity... I call freedom!

-- Paul Westerberg, "Knockin' On Mine"

Well, after a dreary weak of sulking about the elections, it's time to look on the bright side. Tonight is the first of a 3-night stint with Paul Westerberg (Strib preview and Pioneer Press preview).

Paul hasn't played with a band in over 8 years, and tonight he's put together The Painkillers, which should rock. Michael Bland (Prince's former drummer, and now the drummer for Soul Asylum) is on the skins. The other exciting news is that they'll be playing Replacements tunes in addition to his solo stuff. I'm hitting tonight's show, and then again on Sunday. Can't hardly wait...



Sadly, the 'Mats former club and probably one of the most important clubs in the history of rock -- First Ave. -- closed indefinitely due to bankruptcy. Thanks for the memories.

The New North America.

20 Reasons why you shouldn't post your picture on the internet.

This is my brother Larry and this is his face. It has served him well for many years. UNTIL NOW!

I'm still in denial, and no, I'm not going to rant today. Maybe next week, but this week I'm still sulking...

In the meantime, here's some funny doggy pictures.

And a gallery of Bush voters.

Vote your heart.

But I don't want to be a pirate...



Big night of trick-or-treating last night. I went through 5 bags of candy and I had to shut the operation down at 7:30 when I ran out (saving 2 snack-sized Snickers for myself). That's a first. Normally, I have tons of leftovers, but not this year. And the classic Snickers were the last to go... Go figure. I like Snickers.

Speaking of snickers, it was an interesting weekend up at the dog park as well. I went up Saturday and met my "group" -- some of the regulars that I normally hang out with. Boy, just when you think you know somebody. They were all talking about their various experiences with psychopharmacology agents -- Prozac, Zoloft, Valium, etc. I'm not sure if they're all crazy or what, but I was a little shocked that they were all so... medicated. Although, after 9 months with the kid, I'm starting to see how this could be useful.

The kicker was that one woman related a story about how she couldn't use Prozac anymore after a psychotic episode she had.

Psychotic episode? Whaaaa?

Apparently, a few years back she was living in Northern California and one day just 'flipped out'. She hopped into her car, drove 13 hours to Los Angeles, and then tried to hold up a Dairy Queen. Oh, and she was completely naked at the time. No weapon or anything, and she had no idea what compelled her to pick a Dairy Queen. According to her, she just stood there -- starving hysterical naked -- and wanting the DQ guys to empty the drawers.

She didn't get the money, of course, but the guys with the white coats had to come and put her away for a while.

One thing that kept racing through my mind was the word 'brazier'. When I was growing up, the closest thing to a restaurant was the DQ in Delano -- "Home of the Brazier". When your about 13, "brazier" sounds an awful lot like the word "brassiere", so you can only imagine the number of permutations that little pun went through during my adolescence. And sadly, that's about the only thing that was racing through my mind as she related her psychotic episode. Brazier... Brassiere... Naked chick holding up a DQ...

Sigh. So, who's the crazy one?

2004's most scary Halloween costumes.

And, I'm thinking about signing up for Harlan Jacobson's TALK CINEMA. Each fall and spring Harlan Jacobson's TALK CINEMA offers its subscribers a unique series of quality films. Each series showcases innovative independent and foreign films. Screenings are followed by discussions led by distinguished critics and filmmakers... TALK CINEMA subscribers don't know in advance what the film is or who the guest speaker will be. We think this is part of the fun -- seeing a film the way the critics do, without any preconceived notions, without the hype.

Anybody else interested?