Dear people of the world who are unfortunate enough to listen to or buy music by The Pussycat Dolls:

Please stop immediately.
Thanks.

Love,
Jason

Again with the OMG

Jill's reply:

"I hate him already."

I love my friends.

...

Okay - this blind guy better be the second fucking coming of CHRIST for all the pimping he's getting...

Tiny Rant over.

Ah, Idol

I really can't begin yet. I just can't.

But ... I texted my bff Jill "The new judge is ... interesting," and she IMMEDIATELY shot back "Is that French for 'Bitch?'" and I almost wet my pants.

I am so excited.

:-)

I miss so many "special" people in my life. Tonight, I am feeling melancholy. It's totally self-indulgent. Fuck it. :-)

A Merry Little...

So much to write about, so little time right now...

My favorite Christmas song, hands down.

Overheard at Woodruff Place Neighborhood sale

One 10-12 year-old black girl to another:
"Yo Mama a BITCH!"

Other girl:

"At least MY mama didn't take it up the ASS last night!"

Day after day, I'm more confused ...

It's funny how small things can stir up large memories.

I was supposed to visit my folks today, but they've both been battling a bit of a head cold the past few days. I called Mom this morning and she could barely talk. We decided it was best if I let them rest today, and perhaps visit one night this coming week. She seemed so tired ... and her voice sounded like a scratchy 78 rpm record, like the ones my Dad keeps on the shelf in the basement -- Old recordings by Eddy Arnold, Fats Domino, Nelson Eddy, even Bessie Smith ... records that belonged to my Great Aunt Lois. Dad would dig through them gleefully and find ones that made his heart sing. He'd lower the needle gently, and I'd hold my breath with anticipation. Who would it be that night? He'd sing along, or sit back in his chair with a beer and soak in the sounds. I learned that from him -- the appreciation of music. The love of sounds and melody. For some reason, hearing Mom croak like a newborn frog reminded me of those times with Dad, in the living room with an RC Cola and a bag of pretzels. I miss those days. It's hard not to, now, when he asks me to make sure I visit this week so we can go over "some things." He's embracing his mortality and is doing so very bravely ... I wish I could purloin even a fraction of that steadfast courage. But I'm terrified. I can't let that show. And I won't. At least not publicly. I'll save my breakdowns for those stolen moments I have when I can turn on my "records," nurse a cocktail, and get lost. Dobie Gray sang "Give me the beat, boys, and free my soul ... I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away..." I love that song.

Oh I've been away ...

... and it's really unforgivable. But, shit happens ... and it sure has happened to me over the last few months. Nothing has killed me, obviously, but damn have I been tested. But, like Doris Mann, I'm Still Here. So ... onward.



I'm thrilled with the election results. How could I not be? I really didn't think I'd live to see the day, but it's fantastic to be wrong. Change has come, sure, but not for everyone. Still. Prop 8 passed in California. Gay marriage was effectively banned in Florida and Arizona. So ... two steps forward, one back. But I'm Still Here.



My parents have struggled with some major health issues, on and off, for the past two years. Dad has been especially tested of late. Their tenacity is inspiring, their drive determined and robust. Even though I hear the tinges of melancholy and fatigue in their voices, they're putting on a brave front. I continue to be thankful for each moment with them, and call at least once a day. It's a shame that it takes something so inevitable as aging to make me actually cherish them. If for nothing else than being lucky enough to be their son, I'm beyond fortunate.



I have tons of stuff to catch up on, blog wise. I'll do my best over the next few days. As a parting gift for now ... here's Shirl.