Basted in Blood

Subtle, I know, it's a strong point of mine. I'll move on from there, no need to beat a dead horse....but, please remember that no matter what trials and tribulations you've experienced, very few could match that which a turkey must endure on his path to your holiday table. So, it's that time again. Time to share the list of 26 reasons that I am thankful this Thanksgiving season. As in years past, this list is in no particular order...and all the reasons on the list from 2007 and 2006 still apply. Here we go...

1. Clara. I miss you, mommy's girl
2. My home
3. Candles that smell like tasty treats
4. Encouragement
5. Baked Ruffles
6. Arabic
7. Butterflies. Real and tummy ones
8. Big Hunks and Cherry Blow Pops
9. Hope. Even in it's tiniest measure
10. Fresh oranges sprinkled with pico de gallo
11. My friends and family - just the most amazing people
12. Dental floss. The minty kind
13. Sharpie pens. And no, I'm not a huffer
14. Songs. Too many to list, but they are my prescribed anti-depressant
15. The Sierra's
16. Falling in love, for a second
17. Scar tissue
18. Books
19. Whispers
20. 65,189,669 votes for change, and hopefully the end of America's war-mongering
21. Bubble bath and bath bombs
22. Forgiveness
23. Hair dye. The person who invented hair color needs to be given a major prize
24. Asics running shoes
25. The Sierra's
26. You, for continuing to come here and share the burden of my all consuming angst

Enjoy your holiday. May peace, health and love find you in the coming year. And if you've indulged in some blood basted carcass...you better hide from karma, because she'll be looking for you too.

Powell Rules

Brave, honest, and real....balls of fucking steel. (ooh, that could be a song, and some of the best words I've put together in months!) So, I've granted General Colin Powell a lifelong, all access pass to my lovely candy land. Very, very few can say the same. And yes, for those of you who are imagining what that land might look like...I think Mr. Powell and Martin Gore will have all kinds of things to talk about. A true gentleman, statesman, and my political hero - he has inspired this girl, and reminded me that real men do still exist in this world. Color me all a tingle, with a little dab of "I told you so" just above my left eyebrow, for all of you who didn't believe that a Republican could be so sexy ;)

Guitar Pick

So, I've been learning to play the guitar. Under the patient and supportive tutelage of my master, I have finally made it to a place where I consider myself a guitar player. It has been an exercise in patience of the highest degree...and it has humbled me in ways that I did not know were possible. There were many, oh so many times that I questioned why I was continuing to practice something that I am clearly not good at, and in those moments of doubt a theory began to form in my little brain. A theory that would eventually allow me to let it all go and just accept my inadequacies. I realized that I couldn't help the fact that I sucked at guitar, I realized that in order to be great at it...I needed a penis.
There is a reason that all of the great guitar players are men. Women can be good guitar players, but great...none really come to mind. And it's not because women are not capable of being great musicians, it's simply because the guitar was built for a man. It seduces men. Just look at it's womanly shape. All curvy in the places that you hold closest to you...and that not-so-subtle tease of the flying V, with those legs going in opposite directions...no wonder boys pick up the guitar when they are 13 and lock themselves in their basements with it. And if you look at the neck of the guitar as simply a phallic extension of men's bodies, well...genius has no choice but to emerge. Further illustrating my point is the fact that many of the guitar greats were shy, introverted, geeky guys that weren't hanging out with girls after school. I mean, how many jocks and Abercrombie models do you see rockin' the guitar? Guys that are getting the real thing, don't need to put all of that suppressed energy into an instrument. Just think about it, how many sexually repressed guys do you know right now, who spend way too much time playing Rock Band and shredding that fake plastic guitar?
I think I'm on to something here. It certainly explains why after 4 years of lessons, I can barely call myself a guitar player. And come on girls, why do we think guitar players are so hot? I think we are subliminally reacting to the intimate observation of a man very, very into his lady. So, for those of you who might be pickin' up what I'm putting down...especially the boys out there, here's a little girl-on-girl action to perk up your day.

Christian the Lion- Reunion!

This makes me cry...and it's a true story. Look it up if you don't believe me. Fun Fact: Over the last century, the lion population in Africa has declined to around 20,000. Why? Because humans are gross. And speaking of gross, my apologies for the Aerosmith song...

Red Pixies for Big Brown

Big Brown chose to not meet the expectations of millions yesterday. Millions of people who lost millions of dollars, in 45 seconds. The resounding "fuck you" that Big Brown delivered in a last place finish was only magnified by the silence of the crowd as they searched their little brains for an answer as to how such a thing could've happened. The beauty lies in the fact that there is no reason. No injury, no jockey miscues...Big Brown simply didn't want to run, so he didn't. Rebel. Gotta love him for that. Taking the steam out of a loathesome sport like horse racing is definitely worthy of a top-tier candy reward. And in my world, the red pixy stick is as good as a crown (and that ugly blanket of carnations). People will eventually forget Big Brown, just as they have forgotten all the other triple crown contenders that also failed to meet their expectations. His owner will always wonder what could have been, and the $2.7m that Big Brown earned in winnings only means that an already rich family has even more money to pour into the flesh trade. Horse racing is a vile industry. But don't take my word for it, ask the "men" who call themselves jockeys...if you can catch them between meal purging and sweat box sessions.
Having said all of that, I must admit that I would love to have the job of naming race horses. I think Big Brown would have been more inspired if he hadn't been named after a corporation. I've made a list, because I like to do that.

IG's list of great race horse names: (do you see a theme?)

Gimme Shelter
Baba O'Riley
London Calling
Paranoid Android
Mrs. Robinson
When Doves Cry
Comfortably Numb
Gone Daddy Gone
Blasphemous Rumours
Ziggy Stardust
About a Girl
Backdoor Man

ya...no

I spy a little squirrel. She's poking her big head out from the lonely underground where she has taken emotional refuge for the last several weeks. Surviving on a steady diet of pickles and carrots, she thinks she might be ready for something a little tastier...like a Big Hunk and some Blow Pops. But as her eyes begin to adjust to the bright, bright light - what does she see? 128,000 dead in Myanmar, 40,000 dead in China, honor killings in Jordan, rape in the Congo, home foreclosures up the butt in the U.S., polar bears don't have enough ice, gas...well, whatever, and more than half of Americans are on chronic medications. Nice. On a less depressing note, the Vatican says it's ok to believe in Aliens (they are also God's creatures), just as long as they aren't gay, or protestant. Hillary is on the way out. Poor thing. Desperation isn't attractive on anyone, let alone someone who is already so ugly. And finally, it looks as if Mariah has found love again -- All might be right in the world afterall! So, without hesitation, it's back to the pickles and carrots. The emotionally fragile squirrel is headed underground again...she's not quite ready to spend time with y'all just yet. But, you know, if you've got a cherry blow pop hidden away somewhere that you'd like to share, she would more than likely invite you in for a bit...she likes the apple ones too.

If I were a....

If I were a song, what would I be? A song, a song...which one is me? Today I am "Crank" by Catherine Wheel.

Holy Cow!

A visual from an earlier post...This is "Big Boy", and he is still gracing me with his presence each day on my drive to and from work. He is a magnificent creature...how 'bout that rack?

Still

I could do it. And if I thought too much about it, I would. Not for you, but for us. I'm not on your path, but I'm somewhere nearby. Far enough that you can't see me, but trust me, I could hold your hand from here. And from where I am, the sky is clear, I'm facing the sun and there is nothing but a beautiful, endless horizon ahead. It doesn't matter where we place our feet...if you see what I see, then we are heading in the same direction. If I get there first, I'll stand in a high spot and wave so you can find me. And if you arrive before me, save me a seat right next to you. We'll have alot to talk about.

Metamorphosis

Folklore tells us that the ancient goddess of spring, Eostre, once saved a bird whose wings had frozen during the winter by turning it into a rabbit. This is how the iconic, egg toting lagomorph who we refer to as the Easter Bunny, was born. I'm sure she never envisioned how plastic and pink that beautiful story of transformation would become, but it does remind me of the importance of rebirth. And more importantly, it reminds me how sometimes we can become something much different than what we started out as. Metamorphosis - I love it. There is such pure beauty in growth that actually carves out new shapes, and perspectives. And while we can't always understand or explain these transformations, they can become so significant, that in the case of Eostre's wounded bird, a legend was born. So, should you find a bunny (or a giant cockroach) looking back at you in the mirror tomorrow morning, be happy and consider yourself blessed. Don't question how you got there, just embrace it...because while you are looking towards the discovery of a new version of you, the vast majority of everyone else out there is only seeing the shadow of what they used to be.

A Beautiful Day

In Yosemite Valley.

Religious Affairs

Which is worse? Having an affair with a man who belongs to another woman, or a man who belongs to Jesus? Either way, it all ends the same...sadness, hurt and a one-way ride to interpersonal purgatory. It is in this place, that you will wonder why you let it go so far, and why you didn't get out while the gettin' was good. You will take the blame, because you plain and simply should have known better. I mean, who can compete with Jesus? And the more significant question is, what kind of a dumb ass would try to? You will replay the beautiful moments you spent together and wonder why didn't that love translate into something real. You will fail, for a period of time, to realize that the guilt and dishonesty that plague the walls of the subterranean life of an affair is too much for even the grandest of love stories...and finally, in your darkest hour, you will begin to rationalize the whole thing away, tidy it up in a little box, and place it in the back of your heart with a label that reads "fragile - handle with care". If you are wise, you will not return to this place, no matter how hot Arabic sounds, or how kind and gentle he may be. If given the opportunity to go it again, the outcome would be the same, he wouldn't have it any other way. I guess losing a good man to Jesus is better than losing him to a 22 year old sorority girl. But then, maybe not. At least I can put gum in her hair.

Happiness is...

a beautiful new coat, 80GB of melodic space, snowy mountains, and spending time with a man who has a foot fetish. Purr...

T.M.V on New Year's Eve

Guitar players are hot, we all know that. But let me just tell you, left-handed guitar players redefine the meaning of hot...even when you look like a Muppet. I saw The Mars Volta on New Year's Eve in San Francisco, and they were incredible. They did an acoustic set that made me cry, it was so beautiful. And when they came back to "electrify" us, it was so friggin' loud that my hair and clothing were vibrating. And yes, that could have been interesting...but I was more preoccupied with preserving what little hearing I have left. It was way, way too loud. These guys have an energy that I haven't seen in a long time. They are total freaks that shimmy around on stage like two little hairy bookends - and I love them. If you don't know who The Mars Volta are, please go out and educate yourself. Even if you hate the sound, listen anyway, because they are doing something so different than anything else out there. And that in itself is worth a minute of your time.

Happy New Year, y'all.