White Boy Bob says he doesn't know who Helen Reddy is.

Well, after today he will.

This week's "Lady" entry is from Australia's worst musical import, Helen Reddy. And that's saying something. I remember Ms. Reddy from my childhood in the 1970's -- her heyday. I remember hearing a report on the radio of her wearing a peek-a-boo dress, prompting my father to say at the time, "First you peek, then you boo."

Unfortunately, I don't have Ms. Reddy's version of "Ain't No Way to Treat a Lady," so you'll have to enjoy this one:



I hope you're keeping track of all the Lady songs. There will be a review and voting at the end.

to my brother and Cuntzilla.

Certain fashions irritate me for no good reason. They may not be inherently ugly; they may look good on you; you may like them. They just happen to rub me the wrong way.

For instance, I don't like two patterns next to each other. I don't like two or more metals together in a piece of jewelry. I don't like things that drape a lot, like dolman sleeves or ponchos or cowl necks. While animal prints don't bother me (unless combined with other prints, as I mentioned first), images of animals (pandas, tigers, etc.) on adult clothing DO bother me.

I don't like slouchy boots. I don't like slouchy socks. I don't like athletic clothes from the 1980's.

I don't know if that's an exhaustive list, but it's a start.

Something is pissing me off more royally than anything has pissed me off before. I'm sure it will be presented as "science vs. stupid Christians", and anyone who disputes the "findings" will be dismissed as a Bible-thumping loon.

However, one comment found on a blog post discussing the topic sums up my opinion nicely:

"I think what gets overlooked is that a tomb was found and some common Hebrew names on the ossuaries. Who is making the quantum leap? Maybe Jacobovici and Cameron perhaps? The other thing is how are DNA tests going to prove anything? All it MIGHT prove is some of these people are related -- but does the NYC crime lab have DNA of Jesus' family to use for comparison purposes? Sounds like slick marketing, huge leaps of faith by Cameron and Jacobovici; even more faith that Christians need to have."

So, obnoxious "documentarians", you can shove your "proof" up your ass. And I consider this additional proof that Cameron is in league with the devil, after his "Titanic" debacle featuring a theme song sung by "Satan's Little Helper" Celine Dion.

I rest my case. Just like the crazy people who see a face in a tortilla, Cameron is seeing Jesus where he isn't -- only where he wants Him to be.

Hooray for election day! I have a socially acceptable way to voice my dissent. No more yelling obscenities outside of the Walmart for me! Well, maybe on every other Wednesday.

I can tell the Park District board that their policies are as welcome as a sweaty jockstrap on my dining room table.

I can tell the School Board that they failed Economics 101.

I can tell the current mayor that he is a double-dealing fascist dictator whose political ambitions must be stopped. Well, not this election. But soon enough!

Hooray for democracy in action!

I conducted an experiment this evening. I decided to hit the "Next Blog" button three times, consecutively. At each third interval, I would blog what I found. I feel like an explorer! An incredibly lazy, random explorer! The treasures I discovered:

First, I stopped at efediez.blogspot.com. I'm going to call him E-Fed for short. He speaks Spanish; I speak high school Spanish. I need an interpreter for this video:



Next, I came to the most exciting find of my experiment at the cure-cancer blog -- Coco the Colossal Colon.
Keep your eyes peeled -- Coco may be appearing in a town near you soon.

Thirdly, I came upon a hapless college student's blog. I learned three things: he REALLY LOVES his girlfriend, Heather (who will probably break up with him within the next couple of years, maximum, because he is smothering her); he used the word "verisimilitude"; he's writing an Oscars post which has no hope of being as funny as Todd's. Although Todd will likely not use the word verisimilitude.


All in all, I must say the cancer site was the most interesting. Who'd have thought?

Also, this is a test. It is only a test.

The ÜberGirlies and I are on our own this weekend. Dilf's work has stolen him away to his company-wide meeting near lovely San José, California, so it's just me and them. Here's a list of things I won't be doing or attending this weekend, including:

• The Joan Collins book signing at the Border's downtown
• Arm-wrestling the Chicago Rollers roller derby ladies at the Five Star Bar and Grill
  
• The African Heritage Festival
• Asian Extreme screening series featuring cult, horror and exploitation films from Japan, Hong Kong, Korea and other Asian nations
• Harem in Chicago, with DJ Red Lox spinning Arabic, Mediterranean, Persian, reggae and hip-hop. Includes $5 Jager bombs, $5 apple martinis and hookahs for rent
• Pro Wrestling: Samoa Joe teams up with Homicide to battle Takeshi Morishima and Nigel McGuinness. Other bouts include Matt Sydal and Christpher Daniels against Jay and Mark Briscoe and "Classic" Colt Cabana versus Jimmy Jacobs
  
• Sunday Sunset Steppin' Class
• Eighty Chinese actors, dancers and martial artists performing in the touring epic action musical about Qin Shi Huang, the self-proclaimed first emperor of China
  
• Any of trillions of Oscar-related events
  
  

See what I'm missing!

I had never heard today's Bad Music "Lady" before today. It's by a British country band. You read that correctly; a BRITISH country and western band.

Now, I thought one of the benefits of living in Europe was avoiding country and western music. Like big belt buckles and Cheez Whiz, I thought the Continentals wisely declined to adopt such atrocities. Then I remembered my sister's friend who married the cowboy-obsessed Czech man, and it all seemed horribly plausible.

Anyway, the band is called "Smokie" and their abomination is called "Midnight Lady":



They also sell fanny packs, but only to fanclub members.

Today is a special Don't Wear Wednesday -- it is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent.

And so, I today's edition highlights something for which all of Western civilization should ask God and/or the universe to forgive -- novelty underwear:



Especially if it is edible and yet nestles itself in the butt crack.

"Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" is one of those shows Dilf and I watch every week even though we hate it. It seems we're not alone in our dislike; while the show started out with critical acclaim, it has since lost its luster.This article does a good job breaking down the show's downward trajectory, but I have a more general observation to make as well.

Consider this clip (don't worry; it's very brief):



Here's what I think. In today's technology, news, culture and trends are disseminated globally in an instant. People in Ohio (or Iowa, Alabama or Oklahoma for that matter) are able to hear a new song or jump on a bandwagon or adopt a fad as quickly as people in Los Angeles are.

This has lead to a backlash in some more traditional areas of our country, where some want to preserve their simple or "country" ways. I believe it has also lead to a backlash of sorts in Hollywood. Just as the social conservatives want to preserve their traditions, I think Hollywood elitists want to preserve their "tradition" as the "cool kids."

Well, the world has changed. People in Ohio are not the one-dimensional stereotypes portrayed on this show. Nor are Christians. Nor are law enforcement officials in small western towns. If people in the "flyover" states are not as savvy or sophisticated as their coastal counterparts, it is by choice, not lack of opportunity.

So, the "insider," "more-hip-than-thou" vibe given off by this show was not just insulting to most of the United States -- it also rang false. It seemed as desperate to hold onto its hiptitude as the sadly sagging baby boomer generation.

Also, I can't find a show using the old "door locked behind us" gag innovative. I can remember it being used on "The Odd Couple," "All in the Family" and "The Bob Newhart Show," just to name a few. If you're going to congratulate yourself on the freshness of your ideas, you might want to be sure you have some first.

Downers Grove needs change, people. One of the things it needs most is a woman who's willing to fight.

Enter Deborah Boyle. Now, many of you might be saying, "Didn't you ridicule the Boyle family just last fall?" The short answer is "yes." The long answer is, I was upset after reading about the 14-year-old girl with cerebral palsy who had been raped, and then reading that Bret Boyle was purported to be "psychologically damaged" by the prospect of attending Downers Grove South.

But here's the thing: the Boyles didn't come out of the gate using that angle. They put in for a normal transfer that many other people have put in before them for similar reasons. Only, theirs got turned down, for little or no reason. The all-powerful poobahs on the school board, who seem so irritatingly similar to the poohbahs on the park district board, just felt like being arbitrary. So, Deborah Boyle got her Irish up and fought. She fought tooth and nail, and one of those teeth and/or nails was the psychological angle. She wasn't going to sit there and take it. In fact, if she had slugged one of those board members in his/her smug puss, I would've been down at the police station with bail money and a bunch of cupcakes for her.

Actually, I would've vastly preferred that action to the psychology one, but then I'm not the one who would've been charged with assault.

I have more than just the Boyle's experience to suggest the school board needs some changin'.

Take what happened to Phil Labak when he went to file for candidacy. While he was there, one of the incumbents sauntered in -- WITH THE OTHER INCUMBENT'S PETITIONS along with her own. So, they would all appear together on the ballot. So, unsuspecting voters (granted, it's their own fault, but still) who might just check off a bunch of boxes in a row, would be more likely to re-elect the incumbents. This probably happens all the time, the "in-crowd" getting an edge. When Mr. Labak dared to question her royal highness the school board incumbent, he was accused of "causing a scene." Indeed! How dare the rabble question the aristocracy!

Not only do I believe this practice should be prohibited because it allows a group of people to rig the ballots, but how lazy is someone who can't drop off his/her own petition? I'm supposed to have faith in his/her work ethic after that?

So, Deborah Boyle and Phil Labak and all the other "little people" who haven't mattered in the past, you have my vote, at least. For what it's worth. Of course, I'm a "little people," too, so I'm not sure the impact I can have.

Also, Deborah and family? I apologize for my mean remarks earlier. You see, I got my Irish up when I read about that poor girl who had been raped, and... you understand. Friends?

I'd rather be sick than stupid.

I'm not talking charmingly naive, or delightfully simple, uninformed, or unsophisticated. I'm talking whiny, useless, unwilling to stretch your mind to do things for yourself, lazy-minded stupid.

I'm going to get better. Stupid is forever.

These people don't like me or my family.

I don't know why.

Another burden to bear.

Sigh.

It's basically the same post. It works.

Medical update: Double Post is having her gall bladder removed tomorrow. Elder still has the pneumonia, but she's on the mend. These things just take time. Younger, on the other hand, is now exhibiting the same symptoms that led to pneumonia in her sister. Fortunately, she's not the puker her sister is, so let's keep our fingers crossed.

Oh, and the Lawrence Welk:



It's still "disco square dance." No, seriously.

ÜberElder has viral pneumonia in one of her little lungs. It sounds scarier than it is; bacterial pneumonia is the more serious type. It's still no fun, though. So, I have some heaving duty nursing duties ahead of me this week.

Also, Double Post is sitting in an emergency room as we speak with horrible chest pains. She went to the emergency room in the middle of the night, too; they gave her an EKG and blood tests. It's not a heart attack, at least as far as they can tell, but they're not sure WHAT it is, either.

So. If you don't see me, you know where I am.

Our recent Super Bowl featured two head coaches of African ancestry. It was noted and discussed by sports commentators and news media sources alike as "historic." Some people wondered why it had to be mentioned at all; was that not in itself racist? If the two had German or Italian roots in common, would that have been relevant?

That both heartens and worries me. It heartens me because people are starting to get beyond the race issue. It worries me because people are forgetting just how racist this country was, and still is in some people's hearts.

Nobody likes to admit this, but not too long ago people with lots of melanin in their skin were considered to be "too stupid" to be coaches or managers, or even quarterbacks for that matter. So, that these two men with dark skin were not only head coaches, but head coaches of the two most successful NFL teams around, is a big "in-your-face" to the racists. Hooray!

We can't forget that the legacy of racism haunts us still. Until recently, I followed the name "George Washinton Carver" with "invented peanut butter." I saw a documentary on PBS or the History Channel that opened my eyes to what a genius he really was, and the many awe-inspiring contributions he made. We need to know things like this. Why were his real accomplishments diminished in the eyes of history? Gee, I wonder.

I hate being lied to more than just about anything else. And racism is a big lie. If it weren't, I would say to people with African ancestors, "Gee, I'm really sorry if this hurts your feelings, but you're a little less able than the rest of us." But it's not true. Skin pigment does not affect people's development.


But whoever forgets his history is doomed to repeat it. That's why we need Black History Month; we're already starting to forget it.

Last week, I received a large, flat envelope in the mail. It contained a magnetic dry-erase board emblazoned with a local realtor's advertising message. And a dry-erase pen!

I can use such an item attached to my refrigerator, so I can jot down items I need to buy at the grocery store. However, I am opposed to providing free advertising. I resent having to see this advertising when I want to use my new dry erase board. So, in a form of futile protest (and really, aren't all of my protests futile? I realize this, yet I continue to do it) I write a derogatory statement about the realtor.

ÜberElder, who can now read and write quite well, spotted the new item on the refrigerator. She read what I wrote. She decided to add her own two cents worth. Here's the result:

To the surprise of none, one of the candidates for Bad Lady Songs on Bad Music Thursday is Kenny Roger's "Lady," written by Bad Music auteur Lionel Ritchie:



No one writes Bad Music like Lionel. No one.

Remember our first two candidates:
Lay Lady Lay, by Bob Dylan
Lady in Red, by Chris DeBurgh and others

Now, what exactly is it about "lady" that lends itself to be included in terrible songs? Why does it feel so, well, icky? "Ladies" doesn't give me the creeps; why should the singular form of the word? Is there a doctor in the house who can explain my complicated psychological dislike of the word, "lady?"

People: if you are walking more than a block in temperatures below 20 degrees farenheit, you need to wear a hat. You know what's less attractive than hat hair? Frostbite. Gray or black dead flesh that eventually falls off. It's a lot like leprosy in that effect.

Put your damn hat on. You're not that hot-looking with perfect hair, anyways. A little smooshed hair isn't going to matter much either way. Nobody's looking at you in the first place. Except to say, "Why doesn't that idiot put on a hat? It's freezing out here!"

I wanted to sit down and work my Sudoku puzzle this Saturday, but the phone kept ringing. When it finally stopped, I settled into my comfy chair, my feet ensconced in fleecy slippers, and a toasty blanket thrown across my lap where a warm purring feline lay curled in a ball. I lifted my freshly-sharpened pencil into the air, and as it began its final approach toward the inky black squares on the crinkly newsprint...

blasted phone rang again. As my dear readers know, I am unaccustomed as I am to using profanity; but, even I have my limits and I began to curse under my breath. I was prepared to attack the hapless caller when I happened to glance at the caller I.D.

It was this lady.

So, like my mother before me, I went from snarling she-demon to sugar as soon as I picked up the receiver: "Hello?" I chirped, with syrup dripping into the phone. "Oh, HI, L.”

Then she said something that so galled me that I nearly lost my Mrs. Butterworth demeanor. She had the audacity to purr, "I don't know if you've worked either of the other school parties this year..."

Listen, bitch. Take a look at the room mom list again. Whose name appears first? That's right, mine. Whose appears second? That's right, C. While your bony ass was sitting at home eating low-carb Lean Cuisines and drinking Diet Coke, C and I planned and coordinated and attended the parties, chaperoned field trips and made sure all the other PTA events were staffed and attended. What I would expect to hear out of your mouth would be:

"Thank you for covering for me while I did absolutely fucking nothing. And now I am ready to tackle the Valentine's party, because the deal was I would handle that ALL BY MYSELF to make up for the fact that I, as I mentioned earlier, DID ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOTHING up to this point. So, I'm just calling to tell you, 'I've got this one covered. You can relax!'"

But that's not what I heard, was it? I heard your officious little voice dictating what I should do, asking me to come up with ideas, and just pissing me off in general. And you don't even have to plan the food, because the school provides ice cream for the Valentine's parties each year. So my question for you, you skanky do-nothing Ann Coulter body double, is "What the fuck??? Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK?”

Of course, that's not what I said. I cheerily gave her a craft idea and told her to keep in touch if she needed anything. She then pissed me off again by saying she would "Give some of the other mothers a chance to work a party," as if I was some sort of glory hog, instead of the default when no one else wanted to do anything.

Now, while she is supremely irritating, I am most angry with myself for not calling her on her bullshit. Perhaps next time, I shall challenge her to a fight.

I have some stories brewing in my little noggin, but until they formulate themselves into cohesive thoughts and plunk themselves into my computer so I can share them with you, enjoy this place holder. In its place. Because that's what place-holders do.

My fellow Chicagoans, please don't let this temporary setback get you down. Remember the Michael Jordan years? The running of the Bulls? The dynasty of NBA championships and civic pride? The Scottie Pippen Horace Grant Bill Cartwright John Paxson and I'm forgetting someone era?

That era began with losses. So buck up, bunky. This isn't an end, it's a beginning. A beginning of crazy snack-filled post-Christmas playoff parties. Every year. Until the Übergirlies graduate from high school.

We're not sniveling little wimps who can't handle a little setback. We're Chicagoans.

Superbowl Sunday is here. I have my football-shaped cake ready and Dilf is picking up my dip ingredients at the store. We'll be heading over to the neighbor's at 4 for the party.

I do want the Bears to win, due to geographical pride and all that. Mostly, though, I'm enjoying the pageantry, the spirit of celebration, and the taco dips. It's sort of like a Cinco de Mayo party three months early, but with gambling.

So, as a true Chicago Bear and as a woman who has given birth, I say... Bear Down, Chicago Bears...

As we bid a sad farewell to Swayze Week, let's end at the beginning -- Swayze's beginnings, that is. Behold, the glory of Swayze's film debut: Skatetown, USA:




We should've known he was destined for greatness, when he appeared with such luminaries as Ron Palillo, Ruth Buzzi, and Tiger Beat heartthrob Scott Baio.

You came out swinging, Swayze. And you never stopped.