Hello. I'm Johnny Cash.

I went to see Walk the Line again this past Friday. Kevin went, too. A date! An actual date with my husband! Somehow, even after 6 1/2 years, we have so much fun together.

It's such a great movie--just as good the second time around--and Kevin's reaction to it was amazing. I've never seen him react so strongly to a movie or even a piece of music. When Joaquin Phoenix self-consciously shuffles down a German street in his ill-fitting Air Force uniform, I thought I heard a slight laugh from Kevin. It turns out that he had let out a little sob. When I looked over at him, he leaned in and said "I miss Johnny Cash."

Success! He was buying it! I was afraid that he would somehow (I'm not quite sure how) reject Joaquin as Johnny and hate the whole movie as a result. When you make movies about people, about books, about baseball, about any noun that has rabid Fans, you tread on thin ice, my friend. Imagine the worldwide explosion of nerd protest if Lord of the Rings had sucked! It might have been on par with what happened to George Lucas for grotesquely marring Star Wars.

But I digress. Some jackass producer could have insisted that Freddie Prinze Jr. play Johnny, but that didn't happen, and a long national nightmare was preempted. Joaquin played him and, when he found his voice in Sun Studios (ask Kevin for the exact address--he knows it) singing "Folsom Prison Blues", Kevin started crying, I started crying, and I was reminded once again of one of the many reasons why I love Kevin. You've got to love a guy who loves music THAT MUCH.

I think I've written before how I've only seen Kevin cry a few times--well, no more times than you'd need two hands to count. At our wedding, at Stevie's birth, once when he was particularly proud of his dad for taking a public stand, maybe a couple of miscellaneous times. . . . But you never know when something about a musician is going to open the floodgates. I read aloud a newspaper article about Stevie Ray Vaughan's guitar--it was being auctioned or wasn't being auctioned or something, can't remember. I looked at Kevin and he was crying. And then I teared up, too, thinking of the loss.

My old boyfriend lived with a SERIOUS Deadhead in Colorado. When Jerry Garcia died, it was devastating to the Deadhead. I can understand that. Many of our favorite musicians are aging badly, thanks in part to habits that tend to cut lives a bit short. It's impossible to overlook the impact they've had on our lives--all the great songs and concerts--a lot of memories are tied to the work of musicians. And, if they're truly GREAT musicians, it's impossible to overlook their importance to music in general, and their impact--and the devastation at their death--grows.

In the spirit of Kevin's and my Top Ten lists, I'm going to compile of list of the Musician Deaths that Kevin is Most Dreading (Among Musicians of a Certain Age). This is not easy, and I might be wrong. I'll let y'all know how I did after I show this to Kevin tonight. Here's my attempt (in no particular order):

Willie Nelson--it will be a dark, DARK day
Neil Young--another bad one
Keith Richards--ew--really bad
B.B. King
Buddy Guy
Duane Allman
David Bowie
Pete Townshend
Mark Knopfler
Aretha Franklin
Dave Alvin

Oh, there are more, I know it! This is too hard.

Here are a few people that would be on my list but not necessarily Kevin's:
Van Morrison--and I'll cry, cry, cry
Pete Townshend--and cry some more
Lou Reed--and totally break down, devastated
George Clinton
Elton John

Do YOU have a list?

Tim Horton's donuts suck

That's right! Every day I drive past a Tim Horton's on the way to Stevie's school. Almost always the line of cars stretches out to the street. I can only assume that they have good coffee, because it can't be their donuts creating that much fuss. I'm eating one now. It's 8:00 a.m., so I can only assume, once again, that it was baked this morning. However, it is as tough and flavorless as a week-old hot dog bun. The only thing that makes it at all edible is the maple-ish glaze.

Compared to Krisp--what am I saying? There IS no comparison to Krispy Kreme. Tim Horton's donuts are the Garfunkel to KK's Simon, the Houston Texans to the Indianapolis Colts, the pelvic exam to the full body massage with warm oils, the hideous screeching of Lindsay Lohan to the rich baritone of Johnny Cash.

Oh, gee, what will I write about today?

I'm coming at this post with nothing concrete to say; with only the will to say it.

I'm drinking a Tropicana "Smoothie" because I couldn't bear to wait in the long Friday lunch line at the local chain that sells overpriced, yet real, smoothies. I bought it in our building's cafeteria. I've resisted until now becaue the first 4 ingredients are "Purified water, banana puree concentrate, white grape juice concentrate, high fructose corn syrup . . . " or, AKA "Water, sugar, sugar, really bad sugar". I know that real fruit is pretty much all sugar, too, but at least it tastes a lot better. This tastes like kiddie antibiotic flavoring.

I managed to talk my husband into coming out with me tonight! We're going to go see "Walk the Line" (my second viewing--I anticipate many more) and maybe go get some dinner. Stevie is being picked up by his grandfather. Their first task is to get Stevie's hair cut. It's plenty short, but sorta looks like grass that has been cut by a mower with very dull blades. I know it drives my mom a little nuts--she has asked me before to let it grow and then get him a "real" haircut. Truth is, though, he looks so darn cute with really short hair! However, Kevin and I can't give haircuts for shit! So he shines despite our ham-handed attempts to save money on kid's haircuts. After today's professional barbering, he might be too beautiful for this world. Or he might look like Forrest Gump. We'll see.

After that, they'll do whatever until mom gets there with pizza. Stevie plans on spending the night and going with my mom and a cousin to her workplace to see Santa on Saturday morning. Stevie is happy to spend the night, but not so thrilled about seeing Santa, whom he does not believe in. He asked me, "Is it just a person dressed up like Santa?" Yep, that's exactly what it is, but try not to spoil it for the other kids. I don't know where this Santatheism comes from. We're trying to play up the cool tradition part of the whole thing. I'm curious to see how it goes tomorrow. I suspect that he will air his beliefs to Santa, if he even feels the need to sidle up to the guy. Which I kind of doubt. He knows where his cookies and milk come from.

I really, really want to get ahold of the person(s) who designed the Northside Parkway that I have to drive on all workweek long. The built-in bottlenecks, the crappy asphalt, the extremely dangerous turn lanes with no lights and even less hope. Plus, the geniuses of progress keep on buildin', buildin' and buildin', and yet I see no plans--or even a way!--to expand the stupid road. Really, this person should be fucking throttled. But it's Christmas. And that can only mean . . .

It's "Gluttonfest" here at work! Each day until Christmas, two people bring in food for the rest of the department. It's fun because you get to eat a lot of yummy crap, but the sociology aspect of it is interesting, too. Who will participate, and what will they bring? Will it be homemade? Will there be too much, or not enough? If they bring in storebought food, will they bring those overdone baked goods pumped out by the nearest mega-grocery, with too much bad-tasting frosting and sprinkles enough to fill a billion rotten teeth? Or will they, like me, go to Krispy Kreme and bring in 5 DOZEN of the best donuts in the fricking world, all hot?

Normally I bake or chop or something, but I didn't even sign up for Gluttonfest this year (didn't think I would BE here, Doc) so I wanted to do something while I was still here, and I can't compete with KK. Plus, I heard the obnoxious morning DJs on Local Classic Rock Station pay respects to good samaritans. It was kinda funny because it was the good samaritans calling the station to expound on their good deeds, which isn't very good samaritan like. I was tempted to call and tell them about my upcoming Krispy Kreme purchase and what a great person I was for doing it . . . just kidding! (I'm saving that for my blog.) Actually, I wanted to call and tell them WHY I felt the need to get the KKs, which went beyond my personal need for KKs, exacerbated by the fact that I had burned my toast that very morning while I was outside scraping frost off of my windshield.

I wanted to do something nice for this department because they are great people. Just two Christmases ago, I was trying to help my dad shop for Christmas because he sucks at it and has no interest in it. He stopped by my work and gave me 7 $100 bills. I went straight to Toys 'r' Us and lost them--just lost them!--right out of my pocket. Long story short--looked everywhere, couldn't find the money (I just KNOW one of those sleazy toy merchants picked it up!), called my mean dad and confessed, offered to use my own money to buy his gifts, was told that I was irresponsible with other people's things and that I shouldn't have called at all. Boo hoo. Left the office in tears and much poorer than I had been when I arrived.

The next day, my new cube friend presented me with an envelope containing a good amount of the money I had lost. Seems she had taken the initiative to pass this envelope around the office and the then smallish staff had collected all of this money for someone they hardly knew--I had only been here 4 months--who had done a really stupid (yet innocently stupid) thing! It was incredible--the nicest thing that any group of relative strangers had ever or has ever done for me. And, for that, they get donuts. Oh--and a shitload of good karma. Merry Christmas to all good samaritans everywhere!

One Thousand Pardons

Whenever one puts something in print without taking the time to really craft it, one can piss people off or, at least, cause misunderstandings. It seems that I did just that with my "On Thanksgiving, Part II" post. I want to make amends.

Though I haven't lied, there are times when I tell a story and leave out a few things because I'm going for a certain vibe--funny, entertaining, frazzled, whatever. In my T-giving post, I described the "stereotypical" behavior of the turkey-frying men and the plight of the woman who did "everything else". I was going for 'amusing'. If I had truly been angry or annoyed at the situation, I would have said so. Lord knows I've voiced my opinion about the men-on-the-couch, women-in-the-kitchen dynamic in holidays past, and have often stated that it will be a different--and better--world when the men of a certain generation die and, thus, no longer serve as a bad influence on today's men.

In truth, there was more to the story. My sister-in-law prefers to work alone in the kitchen, and my brother is truly a New Man when it comes to doing his share for holiday meals. In fact, in the past, my brother has been THE cook for big family dinners that he has hosted, and he is one of the few men in my entire family to voluntarily help with any aspect of a big holiday meal. I should take this opportunity to give a shout-out to my stepdad who, although he is the same age as men who are prone to acting as though having a penis entitles them to sit on it while all the women around them work to make the holidays happen, is THE cook of the house, 365 days a year. He also does dishes. So my brother had a good role model.

So what is this post about? Apologies? Sure, I'll apologize for libel, though I meant none. Sexism as it relates to holiday dinners? Somewhat, although I don't think I need to go into detail about how ridiculous I think it is and how I told my husband that I would never tolerate it happening in our home--and it hasn't, or about how that wasn't really the issue at my brother's house last week. Or is it about writing and the danger of making private thoughts and experiences public? Honestly, I think that topic has been well covered by about a million people, so I won't go into that! I will say, however, that I don't mind "compromising my art" to keep the peace, especially if I am in the wrong--or at least coming across that way.