I bet you thought you knew what this week's Bad Music Thursday would be this week, considering it's Crazy for Swayze week. The problem is, I've already done that.

Of course, I could use someone performing a cover of the song, like this or this.

Instead, I decided upon a more unique approach. While this choice does not showcase the awesome musical power of Patrick Swayze's voice, it does showcase his fine acting skills. Consider it "fan fic" in the form of a music video, if you will:

It's so difficult to find a fashion "don't" amongst Patrick's many do's -- he looks fantastic in EVERYTHING. But Patrick does have some fashion advice:

If at all possible, DON'T wear a shirt



Even with overalls



Especially not when DANCING



But if you MUST wear a shirt, make it SHINY



Patrick also has fashion advice regarding pants -- dance pants, lycra pants, tight acid-wash jeans -- but I don't think the world is ready for those images yet. Oh, wait, one more thing:



The proper undergarments are vital to any look. Good advice, Patrick!

MeatLOAF, that is ... in the trucker movie extraordinaire, Black Dog (1998), of which the Four Word Film Review says, "Swayze burns the Meatloaf!"

The chase scenes!



The trucks! The Randy Travis!

I'm swooning over Swayze. I'd wear his trucker hat any day of the week -- twice on Sundays.

Sysm has a problem; his puppy piddles on the floor. He has a nervous disposition. Sysm says, "Our house is just over-stimuating. I'd be jumpy, too, if I were him."

I suggested he play some Zamfir music to calm things down. I provided him with a soothing video, to demonstrate the wonders of Zamfir and his pan pipe:



See? better than aromatherapy! Hey, I wonder if that video comes in Smell-O-Vision? Wouldn't that be awesome?

I went back to the Doctor today (three time's a charm! right! RIGHT??!!).

Did you think pedophilia stories couldn't get any weirder? Stories of people becoming priests, teachers and police officers with the sole purpose of abusing young people on their minds ... creepy old men buying houses near water parks just to see the parade of kids in their swimsuits walk by ... endless perps on Dateline NBC caught with their pants down... well, this one takes it up a notch. Bam!

Neil Rodreick successfully passed himself off as a 7th grader just to fondle little kids. And how did he manage to accomplish this? I mean, wouldn't he need another creepy adult to pose as his guardian?

Enter Lonnie Stiffler (no pun intended), age 61, and Robert Snow, age 43. Authorities say Stiffler and Snow met Rodreick online, thinking he was a preteen, took him from his home state of Oklahoma to Arizona where they carried on a sexual relationship with him. Stiffler took little Neil to school with some forged documents (birth certificate, etc.) and enrolled him in school as his grandson.

I want to know how they faked the medical and dental forms.

In other freak related news...

I fear Carl Spackler has an agenda. I think he's going to get a job in the Chicago area. I think he's going to spend 6 days a week working and trolling for female flesh. I think he then plans to spend Sundays on my couch watching the Speed Channel and eating Sunday dinner and taking home leftovers in Ziploc storage containers.

That is my fear.

We are comparing and contrasting "Lady" songs for the next few weeks here in Bad Music Thursday-land. Remember last week's? Get ready for the next item up for your consideration.

A truly bad song is bad no matter who covers it. Sometimes, a song isn't bad so much as delivered poorly. Here is Chris de Burgh's "Lady in Red" covered by what appears to be a very young Ray Romano (but it isn't):



Do you like the song better now?

Every week, I pick out clothes that are, in my opinion, so outrageously, irredeemably bad, that all one would have to do is gaze upon them to understand why they belong on "Don't Wear Wednesdays."

But then, I read a review of the documentary DVD "Jesus Camp" in my Tribune today. One of the young filmakers made the following statement about what she learned while covering her subject:

"It forever changed the way I look at this country. Having spent the last 30-plus years on the East Coast -- in Washington, DC or New York -- thinking people have the same world view as me is totally ignorant. I had not grasped the range of differences and furthermore, we're actually the minority. We live in a very sheltered bubble, being in big cities. I'll be you could go an hour and a half outside Chicago and find a church just like Becky's. And I didn't know that before."

So now I am frightened. I am frightened of de Toqueville's "Tyranny of the Majority."

Maybe I'm the only one who thinks buying this from Frederick's of Hollywood



or this from Lover's Lane



is a bad idea, because they are poorly constructed, unflattering and crimes against elegance.

Maybe many people find this T shirt



or this one



clever and amusing, instead of horrifying and embarrassing to 21st century American culture.

Maybe my park district is right -- people don't want tranquil places of beauty and nature trails; they want astroturf and brightly-lit baseball fields and parking lots. Maybe George Bush WAS elected fair and square.

American Idol -- Hamburger Helper -- WalMart -- Olive Garden -- Dane Cook.... it's all becoming ominously clear to me now. These things aren't anomalies; people like them. They really like them.

I never thought of myself as a cultural elitist. I mourn the absence of Ruffles and onion dip from parties. I love patty melts. I watch "Super Nanny" and "Wife Swap". I like kitschy 70's music. But maybe those things are highbrow now. Maybe "Hee Haw" is considered classic television, and wearing cut-off short shorts with tube tops is now considered acceptable attire in courtrooms, churches and 5-star restaurants.

Somebody hold me. The State of the Union address is on tonight, and I think the majority of Americans will believe it. Like the 60 percent who don't believe in Evolution.

It seems that my innocent Superbowl party is getting overblown into the type of event at which celebrities show up sans panties. Mr. Pipewrench and Mr. Spackler are leading the charge; Dr. Sardonic is even thinking of calling in friends from Thailand, and you know how crazy those people can get.

See, I was thinking my family and maybe a couple of neighbors would show up for chili or lasagne or something. This is much more sensational, and requires a bit more thought and planning. Perhaps I can borrow a disco ball from someone.

To address some party comments directly:

Mr. Spackler, my cat is only afraid of one thing, and it's not the pink escalade. Although if you want to go for a drunken joy ride in it anyways, be my guest. Also, Miss Muffin would fuck you up pretty badly if you tried to stuff her in the microwave; my sister's dog, on the other hand, is quite placid and not very bright, and she'd be more than willing to sacrifice him.

Mr. Pipewrench, if you bring hookers and blow, you'll have to keep them in the storage shed in the back yard. Plus, the only balloon animals that capture Mr. Spackler's imagination are these.

The new super colossal antibiotic has caused me to break out in hives. HIVES! Itchy, splotchy red hives.

Since I need both hands for scratching myself like a flea-infected ape, I won't be able to type until later.

By the way, Superbowl party at my house in case anyone's interested.

I'm just depressed because my Mystery Disease, once seeming to be on the decline, has stepped up its assault on my body. I so desperately want to be back to normal and do my normal things and have spunk and pep and dreams and hopes, but that's not happening for me.

I've started the MegaPills the doctor told me I probably wouldn't need, but that she prescribed "just in case." So, if these don't work, I suppose the NIH will be arriving to take my diseases carcass to a secret lab someplace.

Adding to the creepiness is my cat. Usually, she only has eyes for the ÜberGirls when they're home, but lately she has attached herself to me. She stares at me adoringly, follows me around, and jumps into my lap at every opportunity. I think she knows I'm dying, and she's saying, "Dibs on the meat!" to the rest of my family.

I want to go out and do something fun and delightfully kitschy, like bowling or roller skating or joining in a community sing-a-long, but I guess I will settle for take-out and NetFlix.

If anyone wants to volunteer to come over and wax my eyebrows and give me a manicure/pedicure or work on redecorating strategies with me while I convalesce, drop me a line.

Smoochies.

Not this song. I love this song. The stuff on the list. I'm rebelling.

Some of these things I have/ still like(d). I'm just mad at them. Do you really want an explanation? I thought not.

stainless steel appliances
granite countertops
Brazillian (or any other exotic) hardwood floors
soaker tubs, especially jetted
travertine tile
weight loss programs
spas
nail polish
waxed eyebrows
plastic surgery
professional landscaping
cashmere
Williams Sonoma, Crate and Barrel, Pottery Barn
designer clothing, especially jeans
expensive coffee
bicyclists in spandex
jogging
paint your own pottery
Blue Shield of California
matching socks
healthy food
leaving the house
skinny people
"aestiticians"
Bras
Tight waistbands


There's probably more. I don't feel like writing.

For the next few weeks, I will be featuring songs with "Lady" in the title. They all suck to varying degrees; at the end you will vote on which song sucks the most.

This week's offering coincides with my earlier stories of on-the-cusp-of-puberty discomfort with Mick Jagger and all things overtly and agressively sexual. This song gave me the heebie-jeebies at that age, and I ain't too fond of it now:



It's the kind of sexual invitation that I would not only decline, but decline with some sort of physical repulsion. Now, if it were an offer for a nice, long, undisturbed nap...

I haven't been well since the second week of December. I've been to the doctor twice, and been prescribed six different medicines. The first doctor prescribed me three things; one worked, for my cough.

The second doctor prescribed me three things; one worked, for my ear.

But my tonsils and glands continued to be swollen, I still have bouts of fatigue and now my throat is once again killing me. On one side. It's not merely irritated -- it's impassable and swallowing is unbearable.

I'll wait a couple of days. If this doesn't improve, it'll be trip three to the doctor for me. What the hell, people. What the hell?

Elle Magazine is featuring the new Spring 2007 fashions this month, as dictated to us by a completely deranged and clueless fashion industry.

Now, we have come to expect crazy artistic shit that designers don't expect anyone to actually wear on the street, like this:



That's fine; they want to create some fantasmic walking art, I understand.

It's this stuff I don't get:







Why, fashion world? Why? Tent dresses? Creepy little girl jumpers? Whatever the hell that other thing is? I can't wear that crap to the grocery store. Can people wear that to work? Out to dinner? Maybe to the movies. Nobody sees you in the dark.

Part I
Part II

The trip from Niagara Falls to Boston had its positives. For one, my physical discomfort dulled the effects of my siblings' tauntings. Their sing-song impersonations of Mr. Jagger singing "Emotional Rescue" and "Miss You" (changed, naturally to Miss SUE) barely penetrated my consciousness. For another, cruise control put a stop to my father's carsick-promoting style of driving, where he accelerates... then eases off... then accelerates again to mimic a boat rocking back and forth.

Until we reached the town of Boston, of course. Good old dad's foot began its familiar rocking motion, and my innards began their now-familiar gurgling and bubbling. This time, the threat came not from the stomach, but from down below. And the threat was dangerously imminent. I alerted my mother to the pending disaster.

"Pull over, [dad's name], Susie needs to use the bathroom," my mother announced.

"Where?" asked my dad.

"ANYWHERE!" commanded my mother.

So my father slowed the car to the curb in one of the swankiest areas of downtown Boston, and I began to breathe a bit easier. Until he gunned the engine and pulled away. It was like one of those horror movies, where you think the monster is finally dead, only to have him leap back to his feet and lunge at you one more time.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" shrieked my mother.

"I think those parking meters over there are 5 cents cheaper," calmly replied my dad.

"THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!!!" shrieked my mother and I simultaneously.

"Okay, okay," muttered my dad in a hurt tone. The thing that makes this all the more bewildering is that my dad is not a penny pincher. In fact, he is a gregarious good-time Charlie, especially on vacation. What made him turn into a fiscal conservative at that exact moment is unclear, but he turned back around and dropped us off in front of one of the most prestigious hotels in Boston.

My mother and I rushed into the lobby to a man who looked like he had stepped out of a 1930's movie about a grand hotel. He had on striped trousers, a morning coat and a cravat, and he stood in back of a podium looking officious. "Can my daughter use your bathroom?" panted my mother.

Mr. Peanut leaned down over his lectern, and peered at me over his half-moon glasses. My heart sunk at that moment. We clearly did not belong in this establishment. We were in the bastion of preppiness in the heyday of preppiness, and the "smart set" lounged about in the lobby sipping sea breezes with sweaters tied jauntily around their necks. It was as if F. Scott Fitzgerald had come back from the dead and updated his characters for the 1980's, with Izods and Sperry Topsiders and cocaine. And here stood my mother and I, dumpy and disheveled and sweaty and looking every inch the sausage-eating, beer-swilling Midwesterners we were. I was done for, I knew it.

But then that man, that kindly, sainted man, uttered the most beautiful words I had ever heard in the English language: "By all MEANS, madame!" he declared, pointing in the direction we needed to go.

We rushed as quickly as we could with me clinching myself shut. We barrelled through the door, startling the upper crust of society, and I burst into a stall (thankfully, empty.) Once inside, I experienced unparalleled relief, a feeling unsurpassed until my final push brought ÜberElder's 9 pounds of flesh into the world roughly 20 years later.

We emerged from the hotel, me shaking but otherwise euphoric, and proceeded to enjoy the sights of Boston. But of course you KNOW there's more to this story...

Part I

The first stop on our vacation was beautiful, scenic Niagara Falls. We stuffed all five of ourselves and our luggage into our 1980 Mercury Cougar and set out from our suburban Chicago home just before sunrise. Considering it was midsummer, that was quite early. Quite. But we had a schedule, people! We had to make it to Niagara Falls, New York by nightfall.

Despite the early hour, our trip's beginning was uneventful. While there were a few Mick Jagger references early on in our travels, nothing suggested the trip would be anything but pleasurable. I mean, the natural wonder of Niagara Falls, the urban sophistication of Boston, the lovely beaches of Cape Cod, the history, the charm of New England; what could possibly go wrong?

Then we stopped at Hardee's for lunch.

The vomiting started almost immediately after we got settled into our motel room, but not before I had the opportunity to swig down a can of generic black cherry soda from our family cooler. Just to add some color. Yep, not much else beats vomiting up a rancid fast food hamburger and black cherry soda. I can feel it to this day, like the southern comfort, and the upside-down-margarita that came rightside up onto the Eisenhower Expressway when I was 21. It was memorable, indeed.

Then we viewed the Falls, took a day trip to the Canadian side, and continued on to Boston the next day. Which is when our horror begins escalating, of course. (When I say "our," I really mean "my.")

Some people felt that yesterday's Bad Music Thursday wasn't very Bad. That led me to thinking about music that other people have hated with a passion, that I didn't think was horrible to the same degree. My brother, for example, had two songs that caused him to descend into madness: "Age of Aquarious" by the Fifth Dimension, and Bette Midler's "The Rose."

Of the two, I remember his apoplectic fits about "The Rose" more sharply. He literally couldn't bear it. In fact, if it were playing in a public place, he would leave the building. Immediately.

This severe reaction led him to be holding a plastic grocery bag full of my vomit in a Salem, Massachusetts parking lot one day. More on that later. Thinking about that particular incident led me to think about that entire family vacation, a two-week period that encapsulates the comingled horror and delight that sum up my childhood.

It all started when...(cue flashback music, picture goes all wavy)

The summer between my sixth and seventh grades, my parents took my eldest sister (not double post), my brother and I on a family vacation to Niagra Falls and New England. This summer was a particularly awkward one for me: I was on the cusp of womanhood (my first period would arrive only weeks after our return from vacation), I was not very confident or coordinated, I was uncomfortable with my body ... you gals out there understand. I was vulnerable to attack. And I had an older brother and sister at home with me. It was like an episode of "Wild Kingdom," and I was the juicy, juicy gazelle with a limp.

The first onslaught came before we even left. A couple of days before our long journey eastward, I was watching Solid Gold. Suddenly, without warning, a video for the Rolling Stone's Start Me Up came on the television. I just sat there, waiting for it to end. Alas, my sister caught me watching it. "You LOVE him!" she said, pointing to Mick Jagger.

"I DO NOT!" I squealed, horrified. Truthfully, he terrified me -- those lips, those jarring movements, his exposed hairy armpits -- make it stop!

"Why are you watching him, then?" she said, with an evil, cunning smile curling her lips. "I bet he LOVES YOU!"

"Cut it out!" I implored. It was too late. I knew there was no stopping it. From that day and throughout the vacation, whenever I was peaceful and happy, my sister would start singing, "I'm so HOT FOR SUE, I'm so HOT FOR SUE, I'm so HOT FOR SUE..." I would tearfully cry for her to stop, but it only egged her on.

And this was only the beginning.
To be continued...

Bad Music Thursday has encountered Clarence Carter before.

It seems Clarence Carter was menacing the airwaves long before he was "Strokin'." He was honing his gift for irritating songwriting for years. Witness:



The worst part is, it sticks with you. Just wait. You'll find it popping into your head hours, days, even years after you thought it was gone.

If you can stay through to the end, you will be rewarded with his special trick.

I know plastic surgery is here to stay, and despite my overall discomfort with the homogenization of yet another facet of our lives, I've come to grips with that fact.

I'm wondering, though... are thin lips that bad? Hairy eyebrows? Is this an improvement? I vote "no."

Feel free to disagree with me.

I would have looked up boob jobs, too, but you can do that in your own spare time.

Double Post was so overcome with envy at my new pasta maker that she sent me this:



That is the Red Green Show, a "comedy" so unfunny it makes Dane Cook seem watchable in comparison. The few times I've had the misfortune to encounter the Red Green Show, it felt like someone took a cheese grater to my soul, leaving naught but shreds of my dignity behind.

Yet Double Post enjoys it.

How someone purportedly sharing my DNA, growing up in the same household as me, drinking the same water and breathing the same air, could find that show amusing ... well, all I can think is that it's some kind of throwback to a primitive ancestor whose apelike, recessive genes somehow manifested themselves in the comedy receptor in my sister's brain.

Otherwise, she's quite nice and normal.

As Terasita promised, my Sunday newspaper was a coupon smorgasbord. I think there were 5 booklets worth! I was in heaven mining for the bizarre and the inedible.

First, I found a coupon for a delicacy known as Hamburger Helper Cheesy Jambalaya. Doesn't that sound tasty? It's a New Orleans favorite, according to the website.

Those of us who have eaten jambalaya know two things to be true: it contains neither cheese nor hamburger meat. In fact, Cajun food in general does not contain cheese, powdered or otherwise. Leave it to the Hamburger Helper folks to put an innovative spin on an established cuisine! Viva le frommage!

And for those of you looking for a romantic Valentine's Day gift for that special lady, the Danbury Mint has your answer: The Chicago Bears Charm Bracelet.

Here's what Danbury has to say about this exciting offer:

"As an elegant finishing touch, each bracelet includes an elegant gift box at no additional charge." (They mentioned "elegant" twice in the same sentence! That must be one elegant gift box!) Then, "The Chicago Bears Charm Bracelet nestles within a luxurious presentation case." (emphasis theirs)

So, is the $99 price tag for the fabulous bracelet, or the kickass box it comes in? They sure are selling the hell out of that box.

Anyways, operators are standing by 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Your satisfaction is completely guaranteed!*

*guarantee applies only to gift box. I'm kidding; they won't refund your money no matter what.

I received a previously backordered Christmas present yesterday. I will be practicing so I can make a feast to celebrate next week's football playoff games. Hooray for Dilf and my fabulous present!

In fact, if you're sitting there reading this, get your ass over here and help me!

There I was, in a happy bubble of placid thoughtlessness, until Mr. Anderson comes along and pops it. Fie upon you, Anderson!

Because of him and the doctoral theses he keeps leaving on B.A.'s blog, I went in search of the information about the effects of poverty on brain chemistry. I read this and began to think about it. I don't want to think! I want to be wrapped in a warm, soft cocoon of complacency! It's nice and comfy in there!

But it was too late. Mr. Anderson's poison had taken affect.

I'm not sure I agree 100 percent with everything the author writes, but it's worth considering. Points to ponder:

Through their unwitting lapdogs - the psychiatric establishment and geneticists - drug companies teach that emotional distress is a chemical destiny only alterable by pills. But in a sane world, while drugs are sometimes necessary in emergencies, they would hardly ever be used for more than a few months. Instead, there would be a massive effort by government to create a society that is not craziness- inducing and that provides talking cures for those already damaged by it.

(Now, the Libertarians among us are sure to cluck over the words "government" and "create a society." Let's just consider government in theory, as in "we the people," not as it's currently being practiced.)

Also:

[Cognitive Behavior Therapy] comes from a stable of psychology that deems accurate negative thoughts about oneself as "depressive realism", and health as living in a rose-tinted bubble of positive illusions. For, truly, emotional distress is a form of dissent - an important signal that early family experiences and adult society have been or are distressing.

Finally, a point that I do agree with 100 percent: "Sanity is a much more useful notion than illness - emotional maturity should be the goal, not happiness."

Emotional maturity... hmmm.

A strong argument could be made that Dirty Dancing is the the worst soundtrack, perhaps the worst movie, ever made.

(Of course, someone I know rented the movie over and over and over again in an attempt to get into his high school girlfriend's pants. Some things you only find out after you're married. They throw out those video rental records after awhile, don't they? Sigh.)

Today, I'd like to highlight just one of those insults to human dignity: Patrick Swayze's "She's Like the Wind."



An abomination of that magnitude could not possibly have been wrought by human hands. I believe he is at least a malevolent being from another planet, if not a demon from the most desolate pit of hell. He means to destroy us all with his movies and his singing and his dancing and his exaggerated abdominal muscles.




Whatever you do, don't look directly into his eyes. Too late! Now you're his plaything!

Since I'm in the fighting mood...

Ubermilf is a Giant Lizard that carries a Samurai Sword, fears the Military, is Covered with a Thick Slime, and lives beneath New York. Strength: 10 Agility: 7 Intelligence: 4 To see if your Giant Battle Monster can defeat Ubermilf, enter your name and choose an attack: fights Ubermilf using Strength Agility Intelligence

Double Post would love for me to relate the story of the screaming match I had with my eldest sister yesterday, and I would love to unburden myself. But I don't want to exacerbate the situation, no matter how deliciously entertaining it might be for my beloved readers.

Let me just issue a public service announcement: if making au gratin potatoes to bring to a family function stresses you, don't do it. If the resentment gnaws at you until you feel you must lash out at someone, bring baked beans instead. It's okay, really.

And don't ever, ever try to get between me and my kids.

Ah, the new year. Time to wipe the slate clean, take stock of what's working in your life, and eliminate what's holding you back.

Like many, I have New Year's resolutions for 2007:

• Unclog my festering, diseased ears.
  
• Take better care of my nails. Don't cut my toenails too short.
• Get Nick a girlfriend. A real one this time.
• Stop Pipewrench before he kills again.
• Be kinder, more understanding.
• Get SYSM gig in Kiss tribute band
• Find last non-mobbed-up man in Jersey for Brooke
• Throw out Dilf's crocs
• Three words: Stronger, Better, Faster!

I feel confident I can achieve at least one of those goals. Goodbye, Crocs!