Can we get some weed over here? STAT!

I make no secret of the fact that I'm a bit retarded for the Stereophonics.

I'm also strangely attracted to Kelly Jones, which I find surprising only because he's roughly the size of a 12 year-old girl. But when his hair is on point and he gets his strut on, he's pretty much like sexy from concentrate. And his casual whiskey-and-cigarettes habit seems to be working in his favor, much in the same way it did for Paul Weller. In fact, I would not be at all surprised to find that he was generated in a lab using some closely-guarded Weller DNA. Unlike Paul, though, KJ's vocal range is about as big as his waist measurement. But he's smart enough to only sing that which he knows he can make his bitch. Often without even breaking a sweat. Part of the reason why he's a little fox is the sheer effortlessness with which he, for instance, shows up the Black Crowes with their own song.



This is not to say that I will buy everything the Stereophonics machine tries to sell me. There is the unnecessary cover of the Rolling Stones' "Angie" - a song not even the dulcet rasp of Kelly Jones can endear to me. There is the hero worship of John Fogerty. Not to mention the song about the white trash wedding. But, much like his hair, when KJ is on point, he can make almost anything work.

My favorite Stereophonics album, as it turns out, was the one KJ wrote when they were all really, really high. As you do. It was full of dirrrty blues-rock about making out / breaking up with the laydeez. I loved every aspect of it - the hair, the wearing of scarves, the back-up singers. It was critically maligned across the board, although no one could deny that it spawned the "Maybe Tomorrow," the Best. Song. Ever.



I have 4 different versions of it. I never get tired of it. I love it acoustic, electric, solo, in a house, with a mouse. Really, the only thing that could make it better is if Kelly Clarkson covered it. It firmly cemented KJ as someone whom I would follow, if not blindly, than at least willingly enough to excuse the time he went onstage dressed like Hunter S. Thompson.

But then the next album came out, and there was an unfortunate dearth of back-up singers, keyboards and, apparently, marijuana. KJ was now all about leather jackets, wearing sunglasses onstage like a pocket-sized Bono, and one-word song titles. They made a bunch of wonky concept videos, one of which involved Jesus at a fashion show and KJ singing mostly in falsetto. It's not as bad as it sounds, but it was still not as great as I wanted it to be. I'm not even going to get into my distaste for "Doorman," which now seems to be a permanent fixture in the live set. Or the fact that someone I often point to as a gifted lyricist actually came up with "Suck my banana / Suck it with cream." Yeah. Let's not talk about that.

KJ now seems fairly determined to churn out a new release every year, reinventing the band in the process. So I was holding out a faint hope that the album that's due this fall would be somewhat of a return to him serving up some sex with that violence. Maybe a little more introspective, as opposed to punk songs directed at the bouncer who wouldn't let you into a club because doesn't he KNOW that you're Kelly Motherfucking Jones?

Apparently? Not so.

At this moment, I'm underwhelmed by "Bank Holiday Monday," which is evidently the first single in the UK. It's fast and shouty and seemingly devoid of any bump to go with its grind. I'm intrigued by the idea that "Daisy Lane" is a Beatles-esque track about a stabbing, so points there. They played "It Means Nothing" at the BBC's Radio 1 concert recently, and while I like the melody line, it seems to be a weak attempt at recapturing "Maybe Tomorrow." Except that it goes in circles and isn't half as lyrically interesting.



And did they really write a song about the war? Seriously? DO NOT WANT.

Come on, KJ. Be mama's little sex pixie again! Let me find your bong and pour you Crown Royale until you start dressing like Keith Richards and wailing about those bad, bad women who broke your heart.

But, if I'm going to be completely honest? I would listen to KJ read the Boise phone book while accompanied on the sitar by a drunk monkey. And so...I will buy the new album the day it hits iTunes, and I will learn all the words to the song about the stabbing. I will sing those words loud and proud when KJ and his cohorts, Big Rich and Javier The Happy Drummer, come back to the Bowery Ballroom to unleash their singular brand of slightly-less-sexy rock panache. Sans back-up singers, of course, but what can you do?

However I will be going to the bar during "Doorman."

Playlist: Summer 2007

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On the occasion of my (almost) on-time departure

The Borders bookstore was woefully unable to meet my needs. I don't like bookstores in general. anytime I go into the massive Barnes & Noble in Union Square, I feel like the huge stacks are going to overwhelm my psyche. There is just too much inventory, and I need to employ blinders just to get what I need and escape with my sanity.

But in my slapdash preparation this morning, I completely forgot to bring any reading material for the plane. I had read my monthly regiment of fashion magazines at the nail salon on Tuesday, and I dislike magazines generally. Once I'm updated on shoes and lip gloss for the season, I'm good to go. I had meant to look through Leslie's collection of books that she keeps under the TV - there's quite a variety, from analysis of sex workers to Hemingway - but I didn't think of it. I had gotten home late last night, and I was mentally wringing my hands over what I had decided to bring to LA for the weekend. I almost forgot underwear altogether, and it's really not that kind of trip.

We haven't had Internet at work for the last few days, and the new server was being installed this morning, so I wasn't in too much of a rush to get to the office. Still, I forgot to grab a book, which left me wandering through the annoyingly tiny Borders in Terminal C, across from the duty-free store.

I stood in the Biography section, since that's always my preferred genre. Fiction is hit-or-miss, and there are too many choices. It's like trying to pick an album based solely on the artwork and that rarely works out. Books are about as expensive as CDs at this point. Either way, I was not in the mood to take a $20 crap shoot. There was much less selection in Biography - I didn't want to read the David Hasselhoff autobiography, nor the life and times of Ghandi or that girl who gave blowjobs to all those rappers. And those were pretty much my options. There were a few books by authors whose names I didn't recognize, but I'll pretty much read anything about anyone's life. On the other hand, they all seemed to be very serious and "inspiring," according to the press blurbs. I really wasn't in the mood for that either. So I went to my gate with no book.

No luck on distraction from the movie - it's that one with Hilary Swank that's exactly like the one where Michelle Pfeiffer teaches the ghetto kids the importance of book learning. Except Hilary Swank doesn't get the benefit of cred in the form of Coolio. I do not doubt that someone will get shot and that person will be a completely innocent party. I've seen "Lean On Me." I know how this goes.

These flights seem long, even though it's really only 5 hours or so in the air. We left about an hour late, but the pilot promised that we would have a close to on-time arrival regardless. Something about being re-routed to fly over Iowa. Whatever, I'll take it.

Chris is supposed to take me to some bar that's "completely awesome."

I asked if I would need to change since I'm wearing the decidedly unglamorous staple of jeans, sneakers and one of my 6 American Apparel v-neck t-shirts.

"Oh, it's in a mall in the Valley," he assured me. "You're fine, don't even worry."

"So when you say it's awesome, you mean that ironically." In college, we used to say that TJ's bar was awesome, and TJ's was filled with was depressed travelling salesmen and had a terrible jukebox, filled mostly with Celine Dion and Richard Marx. But they didn't card, which was nice.

Chris considered this. "Yes and no."

So that will be interesting. Going to visit Chris has become more routine over the last year or so. Not that I don't look forward to it, but we do much less planning and hyping in the preceeding weeks. In fact, I haven't really talked to him at all until I called him from the Borders to say that we were (supposedly) going to leave on time. It doesn't matter - he had cleaned and bought liquor. We're all set.

Life 101 with Bling Judy

From what I understand, motherhood is often an aggravating, thankless life sentence. I got Mom some Bob Seger tickets once, though. It's the least I could do.

In honor of Mother's Day, I thought it would be nice to share some of the invaluable wisdom that my mother has passed down to me over the years - sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.

Never put bras in the dryer.

Potatoes are not really a vegetable.

Put no stock whatsoever in what someone tells you. Only believe what they do. In general, people are too lazy and selfish to actually follow through on things they don't really care about.

Never get married. When it comes time (and, make no mistake, the time will come) to kick him to the curb, it's much cheaper if it's not legally binding.

Female pets will tolerate you. Male pets will adore you.

If the straw doesn't stand up in the frozen margarita, it's not cold enough.

Everyone is too busy worrying about their own cellulite to think you look fat in your bathing suit. Get over it. No one is looking at you.

Always make your bed. It will make you feel better when you get home and your bedroom isn't a hellhole.

Thou shalt not wear open-toe shoes unless thou hast had a pedicure.

If you don't know, ask.

It's impossible to own too many pairs of flip flops.

The hardest thing you will ever do is watch the people you love make mistakes. But unless they get hurt, they'll never learn.

No one knows what size your jeans are unless you tell them. Just wear what fits.

Always send thank you notes to family members because you never know whose will you're in.

Your daughter only acts like she's not paying attention you when tell her things. She also wishes you wouldn't wear those pants out of the house.

When cups runneth over

OK, so I have a big rack. It's just a fact, not really a selling point. I didn't ask for it, I was gifted it by top-heavy maternal genetics. I've tried to give some of it back at least twice, but damned if I can come up with $17,000 for surgery. So I'm left with the task of reigning it in on a daily basis.

In general, I buy most of my bras online from UK companies. For whatever reason, the British are the champions of the naturally well-endowed - meaning that they make large bras for those of us who actually need support. I'm sorry to tell you, those girls with free-standing DDs? Did not come by them honestly. Shocking, I know. Two patches of fabric held together with string is not going to cut it for those of us without any choice in the matter.

There's at least one company that actually has a policy of only using models that are at least a D-cup, which I applaud. When you're packing a lot of business upfront, it's really hard to tell what a bra is going to look like when it's modelled by someone who probably doesn't need to wear a bra in the first place. Yes, I'm looking at you, Victoria's Secret.

So I'm all for the employment of bustier models for the sake realism. However, I was a little dismayed to be confronted with this when all I wanted was a new minimizer:



If she actually didn't pay for those, I feel sorry for her.

My dignity is in a plastic bin

George Carlin does a great bit about airline travel.



I watched the whole show so much when I was 12 that I wore out the VHS tape and still have most of it committed to memory. I involuntarily recite the above airline rant to myself anytime I fly. Seatbelt! High tech shit!

I have a mixed relationship with travel. On one hand, I really like being other places. However, the process of getting to other places is never anything except tedious and irritating, filled with a lot of stupid and people pretending to be important. Maybe the only exception would be driving, although I generally take a passive role there as well. My job is to navigate, often with interesting results since being nearsighted doesn't lend itself well to reading highway signs at a distance, and to make sure that the music situation is properly handled. But I've officially decided that I care not for flying. Not at all.

A few weeks ago, I got to LaGuardia maybe an hour before I was supposed to board my flight to Denver. I got in the security line with my carry-on and my "personal item." While I wouldn't consider myself a frequent flyer by any means - I fly maybe 5 or 6 times a year - I still try to make my trip through security as efficient as possible. I wear slip-on sneakers and no jewelry. I take off my jacket and lay it flat in the plastic bucket. I leave my bowie knife/handgun/taser at home - something that evidently escapes the mind of some folks, which why there are signs to that effect. These are simple things - things that anyone who's been anywhere near an airport since 1990 ought to be well-versed in. So that's why I get highly irritated at these self-important corporate assholes who we're supposed to believe fly every week have to hold up the process. They wait until they're about to walk through the metal detector before the remember they have to take off their shoes, take the $34 in change out of their pocket and take their fucking laptop out of it's case. I watched one guy go through the metal detector about 4 times before they finally let him go without figuring out why it was going off.

But who gets pulled out of line for being a suspected threat to airline security? Yeah. Exactly.

For the second time in my flying career (which started almost 15 years ago, PS), I had my shoulder bag searched. Awesome. They're really taking this whole illusion of safety thing quite seriously. With the air of friendly severity I've become well-acquainted with in the last couple of years, a member of airport security told me to wait so he could get some gloves. Just to complete the overall symbolism of a hand up your ass, I guess.

"Do you have any dangerous materials in here that I need to be aware of?"

No, but I do have quite a few loose maxi pads in there, which - Oh, OK, cool. Just throw those on the table there. Not a problem. Also feel free to unzip every item in there and poke around. Yes, that's where I keep my condoms. Never hurts to be an optimist, right? Haha! I'm so glad we're having this time to get to know each other.

"Well, I for one feel a lot safer now," I said when Officer Precaution was finished.

He gave me blank look, unsure if I was kidding, and told me I was clear to proceed. I guess I should be glad that I wasn't strip searched at a detention center and put on a watch list. I'm hoping that Al Quaeda never decides to start putting explosives in Kotex because then I am so screwed.