Observations from my Present Hangover.

Presently working on a longer post detailing my trip to Williamsburg, VA, to celebrate a belated St. Patrick's Day/housewarming/no-excuse-needed soiree (anybody know how to do that French accent thingee in Windows?) with Natalie of Moose Munch, hubby Dan and canine children Bailey and Luna. I also need to read Paradise Lost, Pride and Prejudice, and a bunch of other stuff while unabashedly sneaking in a ride to the beach, as it is far too gorgeous a day to do otherwise. So we'll all have to live with another grab-bag sort of post or two untill all of the former has been accomplished.

I'm aware and failrly disconcerted that this has been preponderantly an all-about-me blog of late, and would like to mix in a greater quantity of news and issue-oriented stuff on a more regular basis. I am under no delusion that my life is so interesting that it need be assiduously conveyed in intricate detail to my vast and appreciative readership. We'll se what can be done about that.

Ah, well then. Click here to find out the real truth about Michael Jackson, and consider the above personal exhortation to be temporarily fulfilled. Verily I say, my blog has returned to the cutting-edge journalism for which it enjoys international renown.

That post about ALS is just going to sit there and collect dust until we reach at least $100. We're presently at $25, only because I put it there. So, if you're tired of skipping over it to read other things, the question you might well ask is "is it me, am I the one causing this?"

The marketing agent that came up with the name Ocean Spray for a potable product is either insane and hence needing a new line of work like at the transit authority, or is just plain ignorant as to what ocean spray actually tastes like. Blech. Tastes like a dead cow marinated in rock salt and left to decompose. I wonder what brilliant names were skipped over before this one was selected. Old Shoe Sole Cranberry Juice? Disused Tissue Cran-Apple? Dog's Breath Ruby-Red Grapefruit, perhaps? Fetid Air Kiwi-Lime? To be a fly on the wall in that meeting.

While I was busy returning from Virginia, LeBron James was busy putting up the greatest individual game in Cleveland Cavaliers history, nothching 56 points, ten boards and five assists against the Toronto Raptors. Problem for the King was that his center is in an ugly slump and the bench blows chunks, so the Cavs lost anyway, their ninth straight on the road, following which coach Paul Silas was fired. It'll look good come contract negotiations, I suppose.

Cab drivers have some of the most interesting stories in the world, if for no other reason than half of them are refugees and immigrants from some of the most wretched places on earth. More people should talk to them instead of acting in such a confounded hurry and blathering on their cel phones. I've learned more about Palestine since moving to Wilmington than the NY Times ever taught me, all because I needed a ride home from the downtown taverns.

Can anyone tell me why are whales so much more prevalent on the Pacific Coast than the Atlantic? Is it gratitude to all the hippies who campaigned to save them back in the 70's, and residual anger about those whalers in Maine? Really, I'm curious about this--and I wanna see some whales, confound it. Or dolphins, or something. Why does the left coast get all the cool wildlife?

Speaking of ancient and wondrous sea creatures, I had the pleasure and honor of watching Spring Break Shark Attack, sans volume, at the local pub last night. If only TV movies were eligible for Oscars, well, Meryl Streep, Kevin Spacey and Denzel Washington had better take notice. The story, the acting, the sharks man, so gripping, so riveting...okay, I'll cut it out now. I swear to mon Dieu if this stuff got any more vapid, CBS would literally have to start broadcasting empty snow interrupted at ten minute intervals by advertisements, listing it as "performance art" in TV Guide. Please CBS, CSI Miami reruns, anything, just don't ever spend money on anything this cheesy again. Then again, it did have lots of girls in bikinis and a decent amount of blood (but no corresponding gore; that's why network TV sucks), and with the sound off and one dollar Miller High Life--never mind this was a fine film. Keep at it, CBS. Oh, but one tiny objection: I don't think there are as many big sharks left in the world as there were in the subtly and tastefully executed grand finale...whoops, we've descended into sarcasm again. But remember, er, forget, at thy peril the critical didactic moral parable represented in such grandiose artistic statements: God punishes fornication by sending sharks after you. That's right, big, mean, hungry sharks. Or demonic killers in hockey masks. Bad stuff, in any case.

I am now two paragraphs past having run out of things to babble about. I'll tell you a little bit about Virginia sometime tomorrow. I'm off to the beach to suffer through Jane Austen. Early novels are painful, but the beach is good, so perhaps I will achieve the proper acid/base karmic ratio. Y'all come back now, hear?