Do They Know What a Christmas Song Is At All?

"I met a man who lives in Tennessee and he was heading for
Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie.
From Pennsylvania folks are travelling down to Dixie's sunny shore.
From Atlantic to Pacific, gee, the traffic is terrific."
--from the song "(There's No Place) Like Home for the Holidays," by Al Stillman and Robert Allen

Unless you're completely oblivious to your surroundings or haven't looked at a calendar in a few months, you know it's the holiday season.  Consequently, everywhere you go, you hear holiday music.  The problem I have with Christmas music (aside from the fact that, since I work in retail, I'm often burned out on it by Veterans' Day), is that even though the songs may be performed by an artist I like, I've already heard that song countless times by a host of other artists.  At this point, there's nothing left for me to do but examine the lyrics.  And when you stop to really think about it, some of these lyrics just make you say, "huh?"
 

Some of these lyrics make no sense to me.  For example, ponder the lyric that I quoted at the top of this post.  I want to know what kind of traffic Stillman and Allen were driving through.  I've never travelled through "terrific" traffic, especially when I'm going anywhere for the holidays.  I dare anyone to try to drive out of Bloomington, Indiana, at 5:00 in the afternoon on any given day, let alone during a weekend or major holiday.  I guaran-friggin'-tee you the word "terrific" is not the first word that will pass your lips.  If you're anything like me, it will probably be a word (or three) that can't be said on network television.  From experience I can tell you that some of the traffic in Bloomington is so gridlocked it makes Congress look functional.  And I'm sure it's even worse in the big cities.  I promise you that no one in their right mind has ever sat behind fifteen other cars that don't appear to be moving and thought, "this is great!"  The only time I've ever been in terrific traffic is when mine is the only car on the road.

The other song that has really puzzled me lately is "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year," written by Edward Pola and George Wyle.  A question comes to mind.  Just out of curiosity... y'know... for my own edification--have you ever mistletoed?  I've never mistletoed.  I've never jingle belled either.  Do you know why?  BECAUSE THESE ARE NOT VERBS! 

 Something else about "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" annoys me.  Every year I ask this question and no one has ever been able to give me a satisfactory answer, so I'll ask it again.  Aside from Charles Dickens and maybe Tim Burton who in the hell tells scary ghost stories at Christmas?  I have a theory that this must be some kind of weird German tradition kind of like the "Christmas Pickle."  Gotta love those crazy Germans.  Regardless, I believe that Pola and Wyle never worked retail.  If they had, this song would likely never have been written... or if it had, it would be much different.

Does anyone know when the song "When You Wish Upon a Star" became a Christmas song?  That's right, "When You Wish Upon a Star," written by Leigh Harline and Ned Washington, and first sung by Cliff Edwards in the 1940 animated Disney classic Pinocchio appeared two years ago on Rod Stewart's Christmas album.  ????????  I was willing to write that off as a UK thing.  After some of the things Susan Boyle put on her first Christmas album including (and I'm not making any of these up) Crowded House's "Don't Dream It's Over" and Lou Reed's "Perfect Day," I just assumed that those lovably nutty Brits had a different definition of "holiday music" than the rest of us.  In fact someone once told me that Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is the biggest selling Christmas song in the UK--even though it's not a Christmas song and was written by a Jewish Buddhist (Jewddhist?).  And, yes, Boyle included that on her holiday album as well.  As such, I was willing to forgive "Rod the Mod" for his inclusion of "When You Wish Upon a Star," until last year when Idina Menzel also put the song on her Christmas album.  Did I miss something?  I don't remember anything in the song relating to any holiday.  I don't even remember anything relating to the winter season.  Is wishing upon a star some sort of thing that non-Christian kids can do instead of writing letters to Santa Claus?  THIS IS NOT A CHRISTMAS SONG!!!!  I know I'm telling the truth about this because my nose didn't start growing when I wrote that last sentence.

I've also noticed certain thematic elements in songs.  A couple years ago, a friend of mine described the song "Baby It's Cold Outside" (which also has very little to do with Christmas itself) as "rapey"--if that even is a word.  The more I listen to it, I have to say it really is.  I found it amusing a year or so later when comedians Key and Peele said the same thing (even using the word "rapey") before presenting their own take on this holiday standard titled "Just Stay For the Night" (which you can view at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qc_F0zP9usU if you're so inclined).  Even my own sister once referred to "Baby It's Cold Outside" as a "rape anthem."  In retrospect, I suppose it's not as bad as the Crystals' 1962 (non-holiday) recording "He Hit Me (and It Felt Like a Kiss)," which I'm sure Carole King now regrets co-writing, but it's still something we might want to sing less and less as time progresses.

I'm also trying to figure out how I never noticed it before, but "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" is incredibly sad, isn't it?  It was originally written by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blaine and introduced in the 1944 Judy Garland film Meet Me in St. Louis.  Over the years, I noticed that there are alternate, less depressing lyrics.  Depending on who is singing, you may hear it sung "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough."  This line was written at the request of Frank Sinatra who recorded the song in 1957 for his album A Jolly Christmas From Frank Sinatra.  The Chairman of the Ol' Blue Eyes felt that the original lyric, "Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow," wasn't exactly in the spirit of the title of the album and asked Hugh Martin if he could "jolly up that line."  Today, you can still hear both versions.

Further research indicates that the situation is worse than I originally thought.  According to Wikipedia, many of the song's original lyrics were thrown out before filming of Meet Me in St. Louis even began.  Originally the song opened with:

"Have yourself a merry little Christmas, it may be your last.
Next year may we all be living in the past.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, pop that Champagne cork.
Next year may we all be living in New York."

Well, at least it rhymed.  Fortunately Judy Garland, her Meet Me in St. Louis co-star Tom Drake, and the film's director Vincente Minnelli, all agreed that this was too depressing and asked Martin to write something a bit more upbeat.  This has got to be rough on a songwriter.  You pour your heart and soul into the lyrics and the people you write the song for ask you to write something else.  After you've done that, someone comes up to you nearly a decade and a half later and asks you to make another alteration because it's not "jolly" enough.  If I were Hugh Martin, my first instinct would be to tell Frank to record another song if he didn't like it, possibly "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."

This holiday season, before singing along with your favourite Christmas tunes, I beg of you don't just sing along because you know the words.  Think about the true meaning of the lyrics and whether the song you're singing is even fit for the holiday season.

Thank you and have a Happy Holiday Season!

Let's Begin at the Very Beginning...

I've been writing a story.  It's coming along in bits and pieces over time.  Rodgers and Hammerstein once said that the very beginning is "a very good place to start."  So here's the very beginning of my story and the only part of the story with which I'm completely happy and/or comfortable sharing here:

Prologue—1979

It was story time. Dustin was still trying to figure out what he was doing in this asylum. Why had his parents abandoned him to be with these other five-year-olds? The adult woman who seemed to be in charge led them to the center of the room where they were all told to sit “Indian style” on the floor. Dustin had no clue what that meant, but he saw a few of the other kids sit down and cross their legs under them, kind of like the girl on the butter box. He awkwardly tried to position himself the way the children around him had. He noticed the adult woman in charge seemed to have the presence of mind to sit in a chair. He wondered what made her so special that she didn't have to sit on the floor.

Dustin tried hard to concentrate on the story. It was a good story, but the tingling in his right leg was incredibly distracting. He began to wonder how Indians could abide sitting in this position for extended periods of time. Suddenly, the story that the adult woman was reading became irrelevant. As the tingling in his leg turned to numbness, further distracting him from the story, he looked around the room for something to distract him from the tingling and numbness.

His eyes landed on the little girl seated next to him. There was something about this girl. Dustin didn't know what it was. Had he been any older he might have worried that he was staring at her. Fortunately for Dustin, he was only five and most five-year-olds don't have the most developed sense of social etiquette. Consequently, he stared at the little girl. Even more fortunately for Dustin, the little girl didn't notice that he stared at her. Had he been any older, he might have interpreted that as a sign of things to come.

Dustin couldn't figure out why he was suddenly fascinated by her. Maybe it was her red hair. Maybe it was her glasses—she was the only person other than his sister and grandmother who wore bifocals. Maybe it was the fact that she seemed as disinterested in the story as he was. Staring at her had caused him to forget the numbness in his leg—maybe that's why he was entranced by her. He decided it was the bifocals and tried hard to resuscitate his leg.

The only thing he knew about her was that her name was Kathy...

Random Thoughts

Did you ever notice that, when you're walking down the street, drivers are some of the dumbest people on the planet?

Gloria Estefan freaks me out.  I spent many of my formative years living in fear that the rhythm was going to get me.

I've given this a lot of thought and, after much careful consideration, I've determined conclusively and unequivocally that we must bring back the flapper... as soon as possible... right now if we can.

I recently realized that all of my coat hangers are secretly gay and ashamed to admit it.  Although, personally, I think they belong in the closet and I'm really sorry I outed them here.

Every Christmas tree angel I've ever known seems to have a giant stick up her ass.

Did you ever notice that, when you're driving a car, pedestrians are some of the dumbest people on the planet?

I think it would have been really cool if Jesus had turned the water into wine as he walked across it.  Think of it--TWO miracles for the price of one!  Clearly efficiency is not a Christian value.

If history has taught me anything, it's taught me that if you're name is "Richard" and you go by "Dick," there's probably a good and justifiable reason for it.

Ever since I saw the movie A View to a Kill thirty years ago, I've been wondering where on the female anatomy the "Tchaikovsky" is.  If anyone knows, please contact me.  I think it would answer a lot of questions I have about women.

If an English person is gay and not open about it, is that person said to be "in the cupboard"?

Adjusted for inflation, how much would the Six Million Dollar Man cost if we were to rebuild him today?  Conversely, how much has the Six Million Dollar Man depreciated in value since 1974? 

I once saw a bumper sticker that read, "Try Jesus."  I gave it some serious thought, but then I realized that the Romans beat me to it.

I would rather actually sail away on the River Styx than listen to Styx sing "Come Sail Away."

I have a theory that those who don't pay attention in school to science, math, or history will one day grow up to become conservative political pundits.

I've always felt that Jesus Christ had a severe messianic complex.

If I Can't Believe It's Not Butter is now new and improved, does that mean that the original stuff actually was butter? Or does it mean that I now officially can believe it wasn't butter to begin with? Wow--this conundrum might keep me up at night.

The more I think about it, the more I firmly believe that Samantha should have ended up with Farmer Ted.

A treadmill is nothing more than the human equivalent of a hamster wheel.

I can't hear "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" without picturing Madeline Kahn brushing her hair.

One morning the sun rose and turned every vampire to dust.  From that day forward, no one was ever able to write another teenage romance novel ever again.  The End.

Restoration of... What Again?

My friend Ben recently suggested I watch a new program on Netflix called "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt" in which the great Ellie Kemper plays a member of a kooky, religious, doomsday cult that had been living in an underground bunker, where they were taught that the Earth had been destroyed and they were the last living people on the planet.  After fifteen years, law enforcement breaks in and frees the members, many of whom had been forcibly inducted into the cult as children.  After being featured in national news programs and seeing that the world is still very much in existence, Kimmy decides to stay in New York City and try to make sense of the last decade and a half that she missed.

I have to be honest.  I've only watched one episode.  I do plan on finishing the series.  It's terribly funny, well acted, and well written (the show was co-created by Tina Fey, on whom I've had a serious crush since Kimmy Schmidt went underground), and frankly, I'll watch just about anything with Carol Kane in it.  My only initial complaint of the show is that the cult in question was based in Indiana and those who were rescued were referred to in the press as the "Indiana Mole People."  As a proud Hoosier, I get the impression that the rest of the country regards us as a bunch of backwoods rubes, which frankly agitates the shit out of me.  And then along comes Kimmy Schmidt to reinforce that negative stereotype.  However, in the last few days, I've come to the grievous and lamentable conclusion that the rest of the country may be right about us. 

This week Indiana passed the Religious Freedom Restoration Act, or SB101.  In spite of what the bill's sponsors (including Governor Mike Pence) claim, the bill essentially allows for business owners to refuse service to certain customers on the basis that doing so violates their religious principles.  This is a broad overview with potentially broad results and repercussions, but let's just say what it really does.  It allows business owners to discriminate against and refuse service to same-sex couples because they find homosexuality an abomination.  I know, I know... it's Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.  In moments like these, I really wish Eve's name had actually been Katherine... or, better yet, Kelly.

Needless to say there has been an immediate backlash not just from forward-thinking Hoosiers, but from the rest of the country.  Indiana has become a pariah to out of state companies who at one time considered investing in this state.  GenCon, the largest gaming convention in the country, has threatened to leave Indianapolis.  Marc Benioff, the CEO of the San Francisco based cloud computing company Salesforce--which, last year, purchased the Indy-based email marketing firm ExactTarget--wrote on his personal Twitter account, "Today we are canceling all programs that require our customers/employees to travel to Indiana to face discrimination," adding that he would "dramatically reduce" how much his company would invest in the state of Indiana.

Even the media was offended.  During Friday's broadcast of the CBS Evening News, the person reporting about the passage of the bill was reporting from Chicago.  That's right--CBS News was so offended by the passage of a bill in Indiana that they reported it from Illinois!

Personally, I've been having problems because I've been confusing SB101 with SB150, which is the celebration of South Bend's sesquicentennial.  I also don't like the name "Religious Freedom Restoration Act," just because I don't believe anyone's religious freedom was ever in jeopardy.  So I don't know what else to call it other than "This Fucking Bill."  There are some other even more politically incorrect terms I can use, but they're probably even more offensive than this fucking bill.

Like a lot of people, I'm appalled by this travesty of legislation (hey, there's another good term).  I realize that you have the right in this country to believe whatever you want to believe.  And I'm fine with that.  I'm even willing to engage in a discussion about your beliefs and I will even go so far as to respect them and you and agree to disagree, and all that.  But I draw the line when you publicly discriminate against people and treat them as second class citizens.  This is the twenty-first century, for Christ's sake!  When are we going to realize that just because a person is "different" (and damn I do hate that word), that doesn't mean that they are bad, evil, or unrighteous... or whatever.  People are people and they should be treated as such.  And for those who like to quote scripture and, consequently Fox News (or "Faux News" as I've suddenly found myself calling it--thanks for that, Jake), let me just take this moment to quote some myself: 

"Do not judge lest you be judged.
"For in the way you judge, you will be judged; and by your standard of measure, it will be measured to you."(Matthew 7:1-2, NAS)

So by that logic, I found the bright side of this whole farkakte thing (that's right--I said "farkakte").  There is a very simple solution to this.  Any business owner who opposes SB101 (and I'm sure there are many) can now legally deny service to any state legislator who had anything to do with enacting this law, including Governor Pence, on the grounds that serving them violates their religious beliefs regarding bigotry and intolerance. I realize this sounds somewhat hypocritical, but so does using the names of God and Jesus to justify any type of discrimination. I challenge all Indiana business owners opposed to this bill to deny service based on religous beliefs to those who supported it for the same reasons. Let's see how they like it. If we can all do this, I have a feeling the law will be overturned sooner rather than later.

A Poem by William Allen

Reflections in a Blank Piece of Paper

 

--William Allen, 13 February, 1992

Repeal Daylight Saving Time!

Do you realize that at this time yesterday it was an hour earlier than it is right now?  Does that make any sense to anyone else?  Honestly, that phrase should be nominated for a Hugo Award.  It sounds like something Christopher Nolan would turn into a seriously confusing film.

Last night, before going to bed, I set my clocks ahead one hour like I was supposed to do for Daylight Saving Time, set my alarms properly, and I still woke up twenty minutes late.  And do you know why?  BECAUSE TIME TRAVELING ONE HOUR INTO THE FUTURE IS NOT FRIGGIN' NATURAL!!!!!!!!  If I'm going to travel into the future, I want to travel far enough ahead to see real social and technological advancements.  I want to see a cure for cancer and AIDS, I want to see a universal acceptance of gay rights, and I want to see flying cars.  None of those things are going to develop in one piddly little hour--what's the point?!?  To paraphrase Jimmy Buffett, damn, I do detest losing an hour for no good reason at all.

Growing up in Indiana, we never had Daylight Saving Time until we finally gave in to what I can only assume was peer pressure in 2007.  Frankly, I never understood the point.  There are many arguments for using this absurd concept, most of which appear to be strictly psychological to me.  For example, as a small child, my bedtime was 8pm.  During the summer, I didn't understand why I had to go to bed when the sun was still out.  The solution?  Let me stay up until 9 during the summer.  See?  Simple.  Easy.  We didn't have to change our clocks or anything.

One of my issues with this is the name--"Daylight Saving Time."  This implies that we're saving daylight, which we aren't.  Whoever named this absurd concept (I'm sorry, I know I used that phrase before, but I honestly can't think of anything better to call it) clearly had no knowledge of astronomy or physics--we get just as much daylight as we always have for this particular time of year on this particular part of the planet.  That never changes.

Furthermore, when we're not on Daylight Saving Time, we're on what's called Standard Time.  For it to be standard, shouldn't it have a bigger slice of the pie than anything else?  Has anyone else noticed that we spend less time during the year on Standard Time than we do on Daylight Saving?  That time has gotten even less since President Bush made us start Daylight Saving three weeks earlier during his administration.

I understand that in the fall, I'll get that hour back, but, like most Americans, I'll probably spend it sleeping in.  Of course, the time is supposed to change at 2am.  Sadly, in another hour, it'll be 2am again and you'll just have to set your clock back another hour.  I think Dennis Miller told that joke originally, but I've always liked it.

In the end, all Daylight Saving Time does is screw with our biological clocks.  That alone can't be healthy.  I know I'm not the only person who feels this way.  The only reason we haven't repealed this outdated and bizarre way of thinking is because people fear change.  We need to get past this irrational fear, pick a time, and stop adjusting it.  Spring forward if you must but stay there and don't ever go back.  Or fall back to where we were yesterday, but again, stay there.  I don't care, just pick one!  Either way, let's repeal Daylight Saving Time!

For more on this (presented much more eloquently than I could ever present it), please go to http://www.theatlantic.com/national/archive/2013/11/daylight-saving-time-americas-greatest-shame/354753/ .

Manual vs. Automatic Transmissions

A few years ago, I was looking up information about hybrid cars on the internet. Not that I could afford to buy a new car (then or now), I was just kind of curious. I checked out the Toyota website (which is what everyone in my immediate family drives). I was looking at the Prius. I was horrified, appalled and any other word that has a similar meaning to discover that you could not get a hybrid car with a manual transmission (at least not from Toyota). I realize that I'm not going to win any elections by saying this and I actually hate to do so, but if that's the case, screw the environment!

My first instinct was to come to the conclusion that there are two kinds of people in this world:  Those who can drive a stick shift and those who don't really know how to drive a car (not to impugn anyone's skill behind the wheel of a moving vehicle).  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that there are two types of drivers: those who drive to get from Point A to Point B and those who actually relish the journey (and might even be trying to get to another point entirely). And most of us who love to just get out on the open road prefer a stick shift to an automatic.

It was a few years prior to that I discovered that I fall into the category of people who really truly love to drive. One weekend, I just needed to get my bearings and get away from anything and anyone familiar. I rented a vehicle and disappeared from sight for a weekend.

As I was driving home two days later, I put a recently purchased Bruce Springsteen CD in the car's stereo system. As I was driving south along US 31, which is essentially miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles, I really started to get into the music. I was starting to jam and discovered just how great Bruce Springsteen is to drive to. But as I was grooving hard to such tunes as “Two Hearts” and “Prove It All Night,” I realized that something was missing. I tried pounding the steering wheel in time to the music, my left leg was bobbing up and down on the floorboards, I even punched the air around the empty passenger seat, but no matter what I did that void was still there. I realized the problem was that I couldn't shift gears.

A few weeks later, my father let me test my theory in his manual pickup truck. As I drove down the open highway and finally got to experience the visceral pleasure of shifting into the upper gears while rocking out to “Badlands” and “Adam Raised a Cain,” I found my theory to be true. Bruce Springsteen, particularly with the E Street Band, sounds better in a stick shift! I should point out as well that this was an incredibly generous thing for my father to let me do (especially with him in the passenger seat) since the first time he heard me listening to Bruce Springsteen he said, "I thought I raised you better than that."

As time progressed, I discovered that any music that I would classify as "driving music"--Meat Loaf, the Stones, AC/DC, whatever--sounds better in a stick shift. With this, I began to savour the drive. It became a very tactile experience for me. I like putting in the clutch and shifting gears. I like just putting my hand on the gear lever and resting it there while I drive. It's all part of the experience.

When I get behind the wheel and get into about fourth gear on the open highway with the right song coming out of the speakers I get this maniacal grin on my face and sometimes let out a demented laugh as if I'm James Bond and have just escaped from enemy forces. Once or twice, I've even let out a howl not too dissimilar to that of D-Day at the end of Animal House. In moments like that, there is no place I would rather be than behind the wheel.

I actually pity those who never learned to drive anything but an automatic. It's because of them that I can't rent a car with a manual transmission. It's because of them that hybrid cars are only available in automatics.

I contend that there's no artistic value in driving an automatic, I don't care how much better it is for the environment. That's right, I said it. There's an art to driving stick. With an automatic it's just "point 'n' shoot"--and if you've got cruise control, all you have to do is point. With a stick, you have to know what gear you're in and what gear you need to be in or should be in for that curve in the road up ahead. You need to be able to know when to be in those respective gears and how to get to those gears. As I said, it's a tactile experience. You don't get that in an automatic.

I still argue that there are too many of us out there who prefer stick shifts that engineers will have to develop some way of incorporating it into an electric motor or whatever we're using in the future. It can't be impossible. After all, we have two benchmarks in science and technology and we achieved both of them before I was ever born. There's a general attitude that since we've put a man on the moon, there's nothing we can't accomplish. And why not? Seriously, if we can put a man on the moon there's no reason I can't drive a hydrogen powered car with a manual transmission. Frankly, I think that would be the greatest thing since sliced bread, which, apparently is the second greatest scientific and technological benchmark in our history.

Please, for the love of all that is sacred and holy, leave me my manual transmission.

A Letter to "Entertainment Weekly" from an Academy Award

Dear Entertainment Weekly:

As an Oscar, I am deeply offended by seeing Neil Patrick Harris, an actor whom I admire, on your cover in gold-face.  It is an insult and a slap in the face to my people and my heritage.

I realize that you probably look at us as nothing more than trophies.  But in the film world, we are the trophies.  We are awarded to the best of what cinema gave to all of you during the previous year.  Since 1929 we have been coveted by actors, directors, screenwriters, and cinematographers.  Since 1958, once a year, an entire evening of network television is devoted to us.  To have our legacy reduced to a racist stereotype on your cover is an absolute indignation.

I realize that neither you nor Mr. Harris were trying to offend.  I am sure that it was all done in good fun.  My cousin (who was awarded to Isaac Hayes for writing "Theme From Shaft") even theorized that the whole thing was photoshopped.  But we trophies have feelings too.  Unless there was a satirical context to the photo, which I failed to detect, it came across as nothing more than politically incorrect cultural insensitivity.

We are not looking to generate any controversy,  We simply ask that in the future you think of us as more than just a knick-knack that sits on an incredibly talented person's shelf.  We are important pieces of film history with a long and distinguished tradition.  Please remember that before once again publishing something so degrading.

Sincerely,

The Academy Award
(specifically the one that was awarded to Edmund Gwenn for his work in Miracle on 34th Street)

What the Hell am I Doing?

People have been suggesting for years that I write a blog.  I don't know why I resisted exactly.  Maybe I just thought that nobody would be interested in reading what I had to say.  But a dear, dear friend of mine basically gave me a deadline to start this.  Since I value this friend's advice, I thought... why the hell not?

I write.  It's how I express myself.  I truly believe that anyone who does anything creative does so primarily for their own amusement.  Sharing it with other people in the hopes that our creations find and/or develop an audience requires a certain amount of courage.  But it also takes a certain amount of arrogance to think that what we create might, or even does, matter to others.  I'll try my best to keep that part of my personality to a minimum--unless I'm watching "Jeopardy!", in which case, all bets are off.

I've been assembling essays, poems, random thoughts, etc., over many years in the hopes of putting together a book.  I assume that I'll be putting many of them in this blog just to get them out there.  In the meantime, I'll just give you a few facts about me, some of which may seem random, but, hey, that's just how I roll.

In addition to writing, I like to announce and do voice-over work.  I haven't done much professionally at this point, but hope springs eternal.  I am the announcer for the South Bend Roller Girls, the local women's roller derby team(s).  I keep hoping that sometime someone in attendance who works for a radio station or something likes what they hear and decides to hire me for more money than I currently make and gives me the chance to do it for a living.

I'm a popular culture junkie.  I devour music, film, television, and literature... which is probably what sparked my interest in writing in the first place.

I prefer Coke to Pepsi, the Stones to the Beatles, and stick shifts to automatic transmissions.  My favourite cereal is Grape-Nuts, my favourite colour is blue, my favourite ice cream is butter pecan, and I have a fondness for expensive single malt Scotch whisky.

I pride myself on my eclectic tastes.  While I prefer the Stones to the Beatles, my favourite album of all time is the Beatles' 1969 masterpiece Abbey Road.  Not surprisingly, my favourite guitarist is Keith Richards, my favourite drummer is Charlie Watts... but my favourite singer?  Otis Redding (no offense, Mick).

And yes, I prefer to use English spellings on words like "favourite," "colour," and "neighbourhood."  I do this primarily to be ornery.

I'm sure I'll be delving into these things as this blog progresses, but time constraints require me to sign off here for now.  The arrogant part of me hopes you enjoy what you will read in the future (or even what you've just read).  Until we meet again...