Tit for Tat

I've been thinking about getting a tattoo.

(I never really considered tattoos for myself until last year. Something about dealing with hubby's cancer and coming through the fear and uncertainty felt like a rite of passage. I think that's a big part of my sudden desire to mark myself permanently as someone different. Living scared and stressed to the marrow for months tweaked my perception of what's really essential. As a result, my incessant, insecure fretting about who I "should be" has started to abate. There's irony, isn't there, in the fact that halting my OCD levels of "Who am I?" has led me to understand better who I am.)

I think what I most enjoy about the idea of a great tattoo is the art in it. Having my own piece of art to carry around on my skin. Which brings me back to pondering what kind of design I'd like for me. I find retro-style, classic "pinup girls" very appealing as tattoos. Especially on women (I've seen a couple women get versions of pinups on Miami Ink--one got a sailor girl to honor her dad, a Navy man; the other woman got her own motorcycle customization company's logo, stylized into a pinup). Just any curvaceous female form isn't going to work. Consider the unfortunately common mudflap girl, you know the one: the shadow girl, all boobs and big hair.
Blech.

If I saw her on a mudflap, I'd be pretty impressed with the person driving that truck. She's far sexier (and very glamorous--do you see her tiny red manicured digits, people?) I found her among lots of great Alberto Vargas girls and lots of other pinups at The Pinup Page, which I found so I could do a little research on "my" tattoo.

Here's one that I called Hubby in to see, asking if he could figure out why I like her so much (besides the fact that she's the art of Pearl Frush, a female pinup artist of the 40s and 50s). If you've read a few of my other posts, you'll probably get it as quickly as Hubby did:

Yeah, of course. The shoes. Those platforms rock, don't you think?

Then I found this one, and she has such a pretty, open smile, I fell in love with her:

These women have beautiful faces and bodies, but they also look like you could have a laugh and some good conversation with any of them. I didn't know a shadow could look vapid, but check out Mudflap Girl again.

I want my beauty to look as sexy and curvy as the best of them, but I want her to show a little brain to go along with all the skin. So I'm looking for one I can modify into a "librarian pinup." Perhaps she can be perched on a book ladder and sport a pair of reading glasses on the tip of her nose. Or how about my girl here, with nothing but an open OED to keep her modest:

Of course, she'll need some shoes...

As scout pointed out, a pinup tattoo belongs on one's bicep. True, but my arms are in no shape to support a tattoo (what would a nice girl like that be doing in a place like this?). So I'm thinking I'd put her on my back. Up along the shoulder blade.

What do you think?


(All images from The Pinup Page. )

Autumn

It's Fall.

For me, anyway. I started sensing the bend in the sunlight a few weeks ago. And what feels to me like the last, desperate blast of heat from summer, bringing out the big guns in a final attempt to assert itself. I know what you're thinking, those of you who have known New England autumns, what most think of as "real" fall. Actual seasons. The thing is, we have seasons in SoCal. But they are much more subtle. Which makes that turn from summer even more precious, to me, who lives happiest and best between September and December. I suppose if I ever live in, say, Boston, the overtness of trees in full flame and preponderance of crisp, cool days would make my head (and heart) explode. It might be almost too much.

You know SAD? People with SAD need summery sun--or at least sunlamps--to alleviate the depression that sets in when winter gets too long and dark. I think I have my own version. I look forward to fall all year. To shorter days, cooler weather, blue, breezy skies. To the un-greening of leaves, seeing pumpkins, needing a sweater. To the deep nostalgia that washes over me as back-to-school approaches. I admit it, I'm one of those annoying people who actually looked forward to the new school year as a kid. I was ready to see my friends/classmates again, to wear spanking new clothes, and to be an ant again after three months as a grasshopper. Autumn has always brought a feeling of possibility into my soul. I always get excited when fall comes, I always remember years past and vibrate a little with the sense that something new is just around the corner.

My New Year begins the day after Labor Day. Y'all can have January 1st and May Day. Early September is my time for "spring cleaning" of the mind, for revitalizing, re-energizing, resolving to do better, for dusting out my spiritual cobwebs.

Happy Fall.

Sparks Fly?

Hubby and I, scout and sporksforall attended the WNBA Western Conference Championship game last night in the OC, courtesy of sporksforall who had proposed such an outing as an innovation in our usual social routine as a foursome. She sweetened the deal by suggesting that a trip to the Duck Pond should include a pre- or post-game meal at Rutabegorz, which despite its oddly spelled name, serves FANTASTIC apple pie, as scout has opined many times. Scout's estimation being important because she likes her the apple pie.

I have never been to a WNBA game before. The one time I attended a professional women's sporting event was the FIFA Women's World Cup '99, the year it went all the way to penalty kicks determining USA's 5-4 victory over China. I remember the swell of inspiration and pride I felt along with the World Cup-level tension when I looked around the Rose Bowl and saw all the girls and women in the stands, faces painted with slogans, hope and excitement. (I also remember getting violently ill with heat exhaustion and dehydration, and Jennifer Lopez's shameful performance at half-time--she was lip-synching! To the wrong track! At an INTERNATIONAL SPORTS EVENT! J-Low.)

Anyhow, the opportunity to attend another pro women's sporting event was welcomed roundly by hubby (who loves sports and pie) and me (looking forward to my second pro women's sporting event).

After a bout with traffic so horrific that we were forced to scrap our plans for an early dinner, we arrived at the Pond. As we walked across the parking lot I noticed the sad disparity in available parking spaces between this arena and the Angels stadium--hosting major league baseball--on the other side of the 57 freeway. Over there, hundreds upon hundreds of cars glinted mockingly in the late-afternoon sun. Scout piped up to congratulate me on my first visit to a lesbian bar. I asked if Rutebegorz was a lesbian bar. Scout laughed and said, no, the Pond was going to be a lesbian bar today, what with the women's b-ball. Audiences for these events generally break down into three groups: little girls and their moms, lesbians, and those basketball fans who can't afford Lakers tickets.

Well, the Sparks played some suck-a$$ ball, let me tell you. They had no defense, Lisa Leslie's basket-shooting ability was on hiatus, and none of them could catch a rebound to save their souls. Our "Littlest Spark, " Temeka Johnson, was the only one capable of a fast break and some energy, im[VERY]ho. But one 5'-3" dynamo doth not an entire team carry. Especially when the Monarchs were playing as tight a defense as they were, and racking up 3-point hoops like it wasn't no big thing.

The disappointment of our homegirls not bringing it on allowed me free reign in one of my favorite activities at sporting events, people-watching. The audience at the Sparks game most definitely did not disappoint. Indeed, girls, lesbians and less-fortunate basketball fans comprised our cohort. Sporksforall and scout pointed out the Monarchs fan to our southwest in the stands, who had brought along her silver-painted face, her Monarchs t-shirt, and a sealed Wheaties box honoring the 2005 champions. Which she held up like a banner to cheer on her team at every opportunity (and there were lots of those opportunities). There was also someone shrilling "C'mon LADIES!!!" about two rows behind my right eardrum. (The ladies did not c'mon. We all wished heartily, and clapped gamely for the points our girls did manage to score. But it was a round defeat from start to finish, ending in a 72-58 final score, which cinched the Monarchs' 2-game victory and their Western Conference championship.)

Hubby noted the lack of Oregon Ducks in the provenance of the team's lineup. With disappointment, since Ducks origins always raise his spirits and his rooting powers. Confused by his statement, as we were at the Pond, where the Anaheim Ducks (hockey) play in season, he had to clarify that most college ball teams name the women's version as the "Lady" whatevers. (As in "Lady Ducks.") Yikes. I find that offensive. Even my own alma mater--a university and college town so liberal-minded that they birthed the free-speech movement, and officially renamed Columbus Day "Indigenous People's Day"--couldn't muster the respect or imagination to come up with anything better than "Lady Bears?" ? !

I had taken up in my people-watching with the most convenient groups, folks sitting in our row and in front of us. We had an older couple and their grandson(?) to our left. "Nana" had presciently brought along a Danielle Steele paperback, and mostly read that. She did look up for the Sparks Troop performance and the "dance for a pizza" contest. (But, oddly?, she didn't dance.) The five women in front of us were more interesting, and far easier to observe unobtrusively. I spent some time trying to analyze the relationships between them. Conferring with scout determined that we probably had two couples: one obvious duo who matched down to the impressive amount of hair product they were sporting, another couple not very matched, and their fifth-wheel friend, who was eventually invited out of her aisle seat and into a seat in the middle of not-matched couple, so she wouldn't feel left out.

The matchy-matchiness or not of the two couples got me thinking. Being straight, I found the most boyish-looking woman in the five most physically attractive (that's good, because if hubby were a woman, he'd be about as butch a women as I can imagine). But the matched couple had similar hairstyles, and obviously shared hair product. They had similar clothing styles, too, and looked about the same size. Here was a whole new angle: If you are attracted to women whose styles and sizes are similar to yours, why, you might double your wardrobe (and your shoe collection!). Along with finding your soul-mate and life's companion, of course.

By the time we were down to the fourth quarter with 4 minutes to go and no comeback in sight, it was time to head out for dinner (and pie). On that count, we were not disappointed. My Vegetarian Cobb Salad was served in a large deep bowl, which allowed for easy tossing. The $1 Fiesta Dip was scrumptious, and the apple pie was indeed FANTASTIC. And served in portions to overwhelm the dessert plate it came on. As hubby says, "Yummo!"

Someone else's shoes

I'm reading a book right now about this custom among the Amish: adolescents spend a few years of their teendom living like "English" teens. If you caught the reality show "Amish in the City" on UPN a couple of years ago, you have an idea what this is all about. Although the Amish youth cast on the show to live in a house with non-Amish youth led relatively conservative experimental lives (at least on camera). Apparently, many of the kids spend a lot of time trying on drugs, drink, sex and the like for size. While not all Amish teens go that far outside the bounds of ordnung, this time spent living an Amish-alternative life is basically encouraged, since Amish believe folks aren't ready to make the final decision for baptism and "joining church" until they are adults, and know enough about life outside the faith to make a fully informed decision. It's fascinating to me that people whose lives are intentionally lived wholly separately from the everyday world most of us know can encourage their young to go out and spend a few years courting the devil himself. Some in rumspringa return to their Amish lives and families. Some don't. They find new lives and ways.

I've always been intrigued by the thought of living other lives. Growing up in SoCal in the 70s and early 80s, my friends were as likely to have been born in Pusan or Guatemala City as they were to have come from more local environs. Which always gave me a burning desire to know what it's like to think and speak in some other language, eat duk for an after-school snack, and have early childhood memories of exotic (to me) landscapes. It sparked an intense interest in language(s) and travel that I may never fulfill. Even learning other languages and going to other places couldn't give me what I really wanted, which was to know what it means to be "other" than myself.

I spent my college years in Berkeley, which was definitely the fire to my SoCal fryng pan. An explosion of experiences and opportunities, none of which (I regret to say) focused much on the actual academic stuff. Nonetheless, that's where my eyes were opened to my political self, and where I indulged my social appetites far beyond the boundaries most would have set for me.

Now that I'm pushing forty (I'll get there in December!), the potential other lives still beckon, but they are tempered by much more quotidien desires. Growing old with hubby, having my family and good friends nearby, and wanting (somewhat desperately) to have a child figure highest now on my list. I can look back and see lots of forks in lots of roads that would have determined completely different futures. And I still wonder.

New Shoes!!!

Except my wheels, stoppers and laces are all the same deep purple color. Old-school, white-boot "ladies rink skates" [sic] as the box refers to them. I've had a rather consuming urge for months to get myself in a pair of skates and head out into the world. I tried inline skating exactly twice and didn't like it at all, trained as I was by years of perfecting my technique in "quad" skates (or "derby," which seems to be the hipper new way of referring to them).

And no, I haven't been in skates for about twenty years or so, but I have every confidence that a pair of kneepads and a brazen refusal to accept my middle age status will have me rolling happily in no time. (This time, though, unlike my 14-year-old self, wearing something other than the scalloped terry shorts and rainbow t-shirt of yesteryear.)

Flip Flops

Today's shoes are ones I can wear on my head. Well, my ears. I thought I'd share them because a) I really like these earrings and b) because they were a present from hubby on Valentine's Day, our first as married folks and after surviving the Summer of Shit (hereafter referred to as S.O.S.) .

Summer of Shit, summer 2005 to those of you unafflicted by the horror, saw the diagnosis of bryduck's lymphoma (immediately after the sports doc he saw for the unexplained and excruciating neck pain he was feeling said, "At least you don't have cancer! We'll fix you up, Chief!"). And continued throes in scout's long battle to find out what was going on with her. Along with heart troubles for my dad and bryduck's mom, and the bad fall and break of hip #2 for bryduck's mom.

Anyways, as I think I told y'all in a previous post, hubby has taken an interest in my shoe hobby, and it was a stroke of genius and thoughtfulness on his part to find me some jewelry about shoes for a V-Day gift.

There's something about a flip-flop interpreted in white gold and diamonds that I find witty. (Actually, I think I just enjoy using "interpret" and "witty" together in a fashion context, since it reads like something off Project Runway, an all-time favorite reality show of mine.) I like these better than earrings of shoes that I wear more typically, i.e. 3" heels. In fact, in the last two months, I've purchased three pairs of actual flip-flops which I've taken to wearing around regularly in contrast to my usual more constructed summer sandals... Coincidence? I think not.

All the shoes that's fit to print...

Yes, I have finally given in to my desire to share shoes with the world. I started this blog a year and a half ago, and I've only posted three entries. I've been battling the urge to talk about footwear because footwear is frivolous, right? I suppose it is, although lately I've been facing my fetish square on and let me tell you, the light of day feels good on my face. No more hiding behind higher principles and deep thoughts.

I love shoes. I love shoes. I love shoes. Mostly shoes with heels higher than 2 inches, but even that rule isn't hard and fast. I suspect it has something to do with:
a) having a mother who always wore high heels in rebellion against her petite (5' 2") stature, and whose shoe size I had surpassed by the age of 12 (while it took another 2 years before I even had to think about needing a bra)
b) I have serious issues with just about every part of my body except my feet
c) I'm a librarian, which fairly DEMANDS that I slash the stereotype by wearing anything but sensible shoes to work.

I've been thinking about doing a "Daily Shoe" here for a while, and have only avoided it because it seemed silly to talk about shoes and nothing else. But here I am, so I may as well go ahead. Only 3 people know about my blog anyway, and I'm married to one of them, who knows how I feel (he let me have the "walk-in" closet when we moved into our current digs--because my shoe collection requires a fair amount of storage). So I'm not risking much.

Let me be clear: I'm no Imelda Marcos. Most of my high-end shoe purchases took place when I was with my previous boyfriend; ex-novio had a South American tailor for a father, and the man had some taste. Expensive taste. Much of my lifestyle during that relationship might be summed up by the phrase "keeping up with the Joneses." He was a good person and I believe he loved me, but I spent five years ignoring how wrong he was for me. For a lot of reasons I won't go into. But meanwhile, I sure did some shopping. A nice distraction, I suppose, from all those reasons he was wrong for me. Many a shopping spree--and I use the word "spree" in the same sense meant when modified by "killing"--began with a little stroll around the mall, and snowballed quickly from spotting a nice little pair somewhere. After having-to-find-a-skirt-
to-match-the-shoes-and-a-top-to-match-the-skirt-and-a-bag-and-and-jewelry
-to-match-the-ensemble-and-some-fresh-makeup-to finish-the-look. To the tidy sum of, say, 400 bucks or so. Like most addicts, it took some time and lots of $$ before I recognized the compulsion. And it all started with the gateway shoes.

Hubby is right for me and then some. And he doesn't (or didn't) have clue one about shoes. He's pretty laid back and doesn't own more than about 5 pairs of shoes if you count the workout sneaks. But he's willing to watch "What Not to Wear" (both the British and the American ones); he lets me explain the difference between a slingback and an espadrille, and he accepts the shoe-worshipping part of me readily. He'll even absorb my eager lessons about how to recognize a wedge or a peep-toe and point out examples to prove he was paying attention. The sweet boy will even ask questions. Not because he's particularly interested in shoes, but because he's interested in my hobbies and in me. It's a very sweet thing to have someone who wants to know and share all the things--big and small--that make me, well, me.

So watch for the shoes.

Patriot Act

I'm blown away, again.

Hubby and and I were among the fans who enjoyed Bruce Springsteen's show Monday night at the Greek Theater. This was my third live Springsteen show, and I tell you this, the experience each time has been almost religious in the passion and fervor the man ignites in everyone present. We've all probably heard about how great Bruce's live shows are, how hard he works and how hard he plays, but to live the glory (yes, glory) of it is something I highly recommend, whether you consider yourself a fan or not. (The celebrity quotient alone is great for all you people-watchers out there.)

This show is a stop on his tour with the "Seeger Session Band," where he brings selections of American folk music to breathing, crying, screaming life. The Seeger Session Band includes horns, violins, banjo, upright bass, keyboards and more, outstanding musicians, each one of whom brought roars of approval at every turn. When I say the accordionist tore up the place, you know there was some MUSIC being played. From rollicking, sing-along versions of "Pay Me My Money Down" and "Old Dan Tucker" to heartful, stunning ballads of "We Shall Overcome" and "Eyes on the Prize," Bruce and the band sweated and bled every note. "Overcome" in its sad hopefulness, and "When the Saints Go Marching In" as a wistful prayer (sung by Bruce, Patti and Mark Anthony Thompson) were beautiful. The Celtic fiddle-and-drums "Mrs. McGrath" was a plea from the heart to feel each mother's hurt when her son comes home from war broken, having traded his blood and bones for a hollow cause.

Hubby gave a great review of the performance and the music, he puts it more eloquently than I can. So I won't say more about the quality of the music and the musicians (all 18 of 'em) other than that it was excellent.

Each time I have seen his shows I am impressed by Bruce's profound love for his country. In a way that none of the flag-flying automobile drivers and chest-beating politicians can touch, Bruce expresses the ache for what we should be and the hope that most of us feel it, too. He seems to sing for everyone who has been knocked down, screwed over, or cheated. And for anyone who has known empty sacrifices in war. For those of us in real pain with real problems, people who get overlooked or forgotten once the next new distraction throws up its shiny glare.

I left the show feeling like I'd had a spiritual experience, one that inspired me to get outside myself and remember people suffering in war and poverty and devastation. In my heart, not my head. I know it seems like I'm overstating it, or hanging some kind of hero banner around the guy's neck, but I admire the way he loves America. His music and the passion in his expression are amazing; he must be exhausted by the intensity and energy of what he shares with his audiences every moment he is onstage. It's an emotional, urgent demand for America to acknowledge all of her suffering and give that pain real value by doing something to stop it.

America's Next Top Medal

No, not gold. Silver. Why? Because Lindsey Jacobellis, taking advantage of her 3-second lead in the snobo cross finals, decided to "showboat" during her last jump, lost her balance, and fell, giving Swiss competitor Tanja Frieden the chance to glide past across the finish line, winning the gold.

The NBC cameras and commentators, true to the US-centric coverage, were following Jacobellis from the start when she was second out of the gate, through her chance to grab the lead over a Canadian competitor, to her impressive lead toward the last quarter or so of the run. Coming off the last jump, she twisted her legs, grabbing the board in the air in a move called a "Method Air." She landed off-balance as a result and fell, losing her lead. It was pure celebratory grandstanding, and it cost her a medal she would have easily taken otherwise. At first, it wasn't clear why she had fallen, but the instant replay slo-mo showed clearly the mid-air maneuver. The commentators were itching to ask her about it. It was a horribly embarrassing moment, and it showed in Jacobellis's stunned face once the race was over. The commentator asked her about it, and Lindsey tried to say she was just grabbing her board to stabilize it, but the commentator wouldn't let go and asked her about how that Method Air worked for her. (As bryduck dryly commented, "We need this reporter to go after Bush.")

I can only say that this is a telling example of why I am currently often embarrassed by my nationality. Even if Lindsey had held onto her balance and her lead, such showboating is just poor sportsmanship. I'm sorry it happened, and particularly in snowboarding, because I had just been saying how much I like the US snowboard athletes. They seem, as a group, like a really cool, down-to-earth bunch of people, "just happy to be here at the Olympics," and I watched with an eagle eye how naturally they all seemed to congratulate one another, regardless of nationality and who placed where, after each event. (I was really impressed at how happily US snowboarder Seth Wescott hugged and congratulated the competitor who took the lead away from him in the final qualifying run. Of course, Wescott ended up winning the gold medal, but he didn't show off or get all "in your face" about it. He and the male and female half-pipe snowboard gold medalists, all American, have all been pretty at ease, excited but not overly cocky about winning the gold, at least when reporters and cameras are around to capture it. Then comes Lindsey Jacobellis (pronounced "Jacob-Ellis;" I don't know why someone didn't force a hyphen on that family!).

Seems to me that's a big problem with the US. America doesn't play nice with others. In our global political actions (glo-po cross?), she has trained hard, but once she took the lead she hasn't let any of the other players forget it. She has made moves full of hubris and often wrong-headedness due to a lack of real empathy or understanding of her competitor's mindset or skills, and just continues blithely on until something happens to stun her into "Huh? What?" After which she refuses to face facts and fix the problem.

It's obviously not a perfect metaphor, and poor "Unlucky Lindsey" (as she was dubbed on the NBC Olympics site) shouldn't carry the weight of my shame at American political hubris on her narrow, disappointed shoulders. But she could have waited another fraction of a second to celebrate her "win."

Look, Ma! Both hands! I'M BLOGGINGGGGGGG.....

I figured I'd get in on the blogging action, oh, 11 months ago, and promptly set up my account here at Blogspot. Since then, I've had nothing to say so it lazed around, apathetic and devoid of comment.

Now that my beloved and two closest friends in life are furiously and fantastically blogging on a regular basis, I'm feeling gentle pressure to prove I have something to say. Which I might not, actually. If you know me, I'm pretty willing to vomit my life story--and extra commentary about everything under the sun--all over you in person, so maybe I get it out of my system and there's nothing left to say in another forum. I hope not. Somehow, that thought depresses me.

What's interesting about the blogs I read daily (see links to the aforementioned three blogs at right) is that my peeps are showing bits of themselves virtually that I have not (yet?) discovered in person. (Perhaps because I'm always so busy talking about myself and my issues when we're together--the poor things have been vying for attention, but me and my ego gaily natter on and on...)

Sporksforall, for example, shares the sorts of emotional things about herself and her life that don't come up the same way in person. Don't get me wrong, she expresses her feelings just fine, but she writes so beautifully (and I haven't had the chance to read her writing much before her blog) and her more poignant posts often stun me in their loveliness.

Scout, too, blogs some "deepest darkest" stuff that fascinates and surprises me. She's willing to expose her soft underbelly online, but with wonderful humor to go along with her courage. I've known her very well for 10 years or so, and I am learning much about her, not the least being her prodigious writing talent. She tells deep truths without necessarily reporting facts. As we've all heard much about Mr. Frey and Nasdijj, props to Scout for being honest and knowing how to make a good story better.

Bryduck? Well, he's my beloved, my best friend, my happiness. I know it's corny to say so, but it's true. I figure by now, after the year we had in '05, I know him as well as one person knows another. But he's such an eloquent writer and has such passion, especially politically, at a time when most folks out there don't seem to give a crap. [interruption] A colleague shared a great cartoon with me the other day, where a monkey is looking down at the ground, saying "What's that? A banana? Awww, I don't care" with the caption "Disinterested George." [/interruption] He's about the most interesting man I've ever known, for lots of reasons including his huuuge ingelligence, his wacky perspective, his sweetness, and unassailable integrity. His word? You can trust it. Perhaps its the girl in me as I tend to go more for the personal in blogs than the political, but someone needs to say the things he has to say, and he says them better than anyone. He writes eloquently about the emotional stuff and I love him all the more for it.

Anyways, I know I'm probably supposed to say something about myself, so without having been officially "tagged," I'm gonna answer the survey that seems to be bloggily popular right now:

Four jobs I've had:
1) grocery bagger/cart pusher for Ralphs (to this day, I am highly critical of the baggers who don't take pride in a well-balanced bag of goods--it's an art form, I tell ya!
2) cookie baker/counterperson for Baker Street cookies
3) book/paper conservation intern at the Getty Research Institute (I did get paid, but more of a stipend)--probably the most fun I'll ever have as work, but something I'd need years more of schooling including lots of organic chemistry to do forever
4) reference librarian at a SoCal public library

Four movies I could watch over and over:
1) Big Night (for many reasons, but mostly because I love the scene at the end with no dialogue but lots of feeling)
2) When Harry Met Sally ("..but Baby Fish Mouth is sweeping the nation..")
3) Gone with the Wind (I apologize heartily for political incorrectness, but I loved this movie as a kid--my mom took me to see it for my ninth birthday because I loved it so much--and it remains, I think, the movie most faithful to its source novel in script, tone, and casting. It's a sentimental favorite and it's hard to shake those.)
4) Anything (Top Gun, A Few Good Men, The Hunt for Red October) Bryduck likes to recite lines to when we happen upon them. They tend toward corny and toward Tom Cruise (what's up with that?)

Four places I've lived:
1) Lake Tahoe
2) North Hollywood
3) Berkeley
4) Glendale (yep, it's true--never lived outside of California!)

Four television shows I love:
1) Joan of Arcadia (hey, CBS? It's not true! People talking to ghosts doesn't skew younger than people talking to God! And Patricia Arquette--see 2)--kicks Jennifer Love Hewitt's a$$ any day of the week!!!!
2) Medium -- one of the most realistic character- (even if she is a psychic crime-solver) and family-portrayals on tv. Patricia Arquette ROCKS!
3) Lost
4) Project Runway

Four places I've vacationed:
1) Italy
2) Canadian Rockies
3) Jacksonville, FL (yeah, I know--enough said)
4) Washington, DC and environs (special shoutout to Bryduck's Uncle Roy and fond remembrance of his Uncle Wayne)

Four sites I visit daily:
1) Woot
2) Salon
3) Google (it's the workhorse, the sine qua non of the reference desk, even if lots of ref librarians out there pine for the good old days of encyclopedias, atlases and "real" reference work--we aren't competing with Google, folks!)
4) Epicurious

Four places I'd rather be:
1) Anywhere but where I am, usually--I've got a real travel itch.
2) Somewhere bustling where I'm on vacation (Paris, NYC, Boston, which I haven't yet had the pleasure of...)
3) Somewhere exotic to me)-- Egypt, Nepal, Ohio
4) Somewhere where privacy and civil liberty means something, where my medicine is socialized, my beef is prion-free, I don't have to drive a car to get somewhere, and there are rainbows and lollipops, tra-la-la...

Four books I love:
1) Blink
2) Flu (Remember the Rupert Holmes song? "If you like Gina Kolatas.." runs through my head when I think of this book's author)
3) Opening Skinner's Box
4) So far, Misquoting Jesus since it touches on religious literalism, comparative language, and lots of other stuff I am interested in and think important ...
(yep, there's a pattern--I like popular nonfiction a lot)

Four video games I play:
1) Gem Shop
2) Minesweeper, Hearts or Mah Jong solitaire when I'm waiting online or distracting myself to solve a problem
3) I'm not too into video games, generally. I've heard about two that might be fun to me--the SIMS stuff and the one where you design and "ride" a roller coaster. But not enough to find, purchase and try them out. Yet.

Four bloggers I'm tagging:
1) Not even sure what it means to tag a blogger--
2) The ones I read daily and like are all listed and have already been tagged...


Okay! Well that's enough for one day!