But wait, there’s more… Chris also sings the tender, metro sexual opening theme song for the newest James Bond movie…which is actually quite good. Very good. The new Bond man is a blond-haired, blue-eyed, sculpted piece of…art… by the name of Daniel Craig. NOT metro sexual and NOT photogenic either, yet he has a screen presence and cocky panache that has hooked all of the Bond legion nay-sayers. In my own sheepish opinion, “they” have saved the franchise with this one -- “Casino Royale.” We have all of the Bond movies, and rotate them regularly, so I am totally in touch with my Bond side, therefore I feel comfortable enough in saying that this one is brilliant. The “young set” isn’t as impressed, because 99% of them have watched only the last 2 or 3 overblown, sorry- excuse-for-Bond movies and don’t understand (and aren’t very receptive to) how James Bond came to be. It if ain’t like watching a video game, they ain’t gon’ like it very much.
A few comments from IMDb…
Well certain people thought Daniel Craig could not pull it off, but he has and with style and a cold steel edge, not seen since Sean Connery.
This is proper action hero stuff, but he actually looks like if he wanted to, he could kill you.
With an opening sequence that will stop you from blinking for 20 minutes.
The film is class, from the cinematography, to the three dimensional villains, and Bond's rapid learning curve.
Like Dr No, you see a killer, just he is on our side.
Don't read reviews, just go and see it, and tell your friends what you thought, you won't be disappointed.
And there you have it.
As I’m sure you are aware, the Rockets are engaged in some “something or other important playoffs” of the country…or the world…and I am left a basketball widow. I may as well parade in all of my lovers as my husband glazes over and starts in with the grunts and bursts of expletives. Nightly he and the dogs root into the big leather chair, amply supplied with beer, beer nuts, laptop computer, six remotes and various other sundry gadgetry needed to successfully navigate the underbelly of the basketball beast.
He accuses me of being ambiguous about sports. (!?!) Damn-him, I am not ambiguous; I really do sort of love Houston Rockets… really. I also like the Houston Astros enough-okay too. Really.
Is it just Jeff Van Gundy, or do all basketball coaches look like hell?
Praise the Lord… my daughter's 18th birthday came and went without having to post bond, file a hefty insurance claim or needing a stomach pumped. I took her to a trendy (absolutely sucked and was filthy) Sushi and Sake parlor (her wish); then afterwards to see a live theatrical production in Houston (out of New York) of the production of “Wicked.” The tickets cost me dearly, obtained them from some ticket racketeering outfit out of Pennsylvania (!?!) that assured me equal or better seats if my choice was not available. Ahem…We were a bit oxygen deprived, but at least we were in the Center. And it was all good.
An official quote from the “official” website…
SO MUCH HAPPENED BEFORE DOROTHY DROPPED IN.
Long before Dorothy drops in, two other girls meet in the land of Oz. One - born with emerald green skin - is smart, fiery and misunderstood. The other is beautiful, ambitious and very popular. How these two grow to become the Wicked Witch of the West and Glinda the Good Witch makes for the most spellbinding new musical in years.
When WICKED opened on Broadway, it worked its magic on critics and audiences alike. The show went on to win 15 major awards, including the Grammy® and 3 Tony® Awards." Today, WICKED is "Broadway’s biggest blockbuster."
I must say…it was brilliant. I truly envy a person’s ability to cobble together and conjure sheer f’d-up brilliance. My daughter sat hunched forward, straining to hear every word. She even applauded at the appropriate moments…and she is certainly not one for applause. I consider the event a success.
We are now fully engaged in the horror that is the Cy-Fair PROJECT PROM. Because of my vast support network of liars and backstabbers, I have been fully brainwashed in the theory and by application that …they are only seniors once. (ahem, God willing) Over the weekend we found “a dress”. I truly wish that I could believe in my heart that it is “THE dress” but the rigorous exercise of “milestone-event” shopping drains my daughter's battery quicker than the one on my “kickstart-less” Yamaha (Mother’s day present 2 years ago woo-hoo!) so she and I were in meltdown mode relatively quickly -- about the time that our Starbucks (a/k/a Fourbucks) wore off actually. Together we had agreed to not latch onto the first dress that fit, but of course she did. It is beautiful (unfortunately too revealing), and the price was right, but then the woman behind the counter started in on more indoctrination and brainwashing about the perfect stick-on, strapless bra, slimming girdle devices, necessary double-sided garment tape for strategic spots…things quickly got out of hand. Well, sh*t. After all, she is only a senior once…
Trousseau in tow, and as I’m licking off my wounds, she perks up a notch and suggests a trip to the Mac counter “just to look”. I’m laughing to myself right now, because I’m pretty sure you’re completely glazed over with all of this prom nonsense, but just sit tight. This has been very therapeutic for me, heh.
Mac is the cosmetic empire to all of the ugly “beautiful people.” And every female between the ages of 14 and 24 would slap her granny just to be “done up” in Mac for a milestone event. Well, I just wont go into it all, but we left with a parcel of Mac. Since My Brain is now numbed-up, my high-interest credit card has suddenly become a blank check. So… of course I suggested topping off the day with shoe-gazing (just looking). Mere’s idea of shoe elegance clashes with mine. I could write you an additional four pages of the half-assery that next takes place in the shoe department, but I won’t -- other than to say…upon conclusion of that ass-whippin’, she was crying and I was behaving like a white trash mother of 5 toddlers in a Piggly-Wiggly. Needless to say, we were attracting quite a bit of attention.
As I sit here now, softly blubbering to you, my friends, we still do not have shoes for prom. Remember, as I am the great over-corrector, we will surely be out looking for the perfect pair…an hour before prom. And so it goes…
What do you know about paintball? My youngest son is my self-motivated and “driven” (though sometimes misguided) child. Every day he straps weights on his little frame, decks out in full-on battle regalia and “runs drills.” He even, with his own allowance, purchases (and studies) magazines that dither in the “sport.” He is forbidden to use the paintballs in the back yard, and he swears that he does not use them, but why are all of the dog piles in the back yard bright turquoise? I once was told that paintballs were filled with yummy dyed yogurt!?!
Speaking of “that subject” my terrorist basset baby is upstairs, doing the rounds. She also “runs drills” and it has everything to do with chasing the resident homosexual. I just heard something crash upstairs, and I don’t mean a vase; I mean something significant, like a treadmill or television. Hang on a minute…
Well, I don’t see anything so I suppose what I heard were their bodies flailing about. Before we got Mercedes, I had a complete misconception of the basset hound. I’m not sure if it is the breed or just the one we ended up with, but she is a sassy little rocket dog. All snapping muscle and raw sinew. And quick!
She and the cat raise the roof around here. When I fell in love with Mercedes, she was six weeks old and teeny. She was on top of a squirming little wad of about 10 of her siblings. Her littermates were staggering around like Blind Lemon Jefferson, but our little girl was making tiny growls and wuffs and knocking them all down like little bowling pins. Simply excellent. She was born the Alpha.
When we brought Mercedes home, our pessimistic, lounging, conniving, completely bored cat Zero simply observed -- from some height, with a cynical, half-interested curiosity. Within a couple of days, that curiosity welled into a genuine, disdainful interest. As a result, the puppy’s amazing instincts kicked in. Though she was still wobbling about, her little nose kicked in and was going crazy. She began staring up and yipping back at Zero. Within a mere two days or so, that yip would start up and then crack into a hound dog bay. Aaaarrryoooooo! It was the funniest sound you could imagine. A voice much too big for the little body it came from. Sort of like my youngest son's voice right now, ha-ha.
That little bay seemed to signal Zero that the game was on. I genuinely believe that Zero was the one that started the bizarre drills that these two engage in every…single…morning, beginning about 6:45 a.m.-ish. At first, when the puppy broke out of the wobble phase and started puppy-galloping, it would simply crash into Zero. Zero invited it, of course, stretched out on the slate, arching his forehead, flicking and taunting with his tail. At first we thought it wise to keep them apart because of all of the yipping and growling, hissing and spitting, but, upon observation, we realized that it was all in good spirit. That cat could have, and still could, shred that dog to pieces it wanted to.
Within a few weeks, the puppy was an inch or so taller, incredibly nimble and quick (thanks to Zero) and the charging became a YouTuber’s dream. (this was before YouTube was a big deal, else I would have filmed it.) The pup would charge at full speed, like a bull. Zero would flatten out on his back, belly-up, and execute by kicking the charging puppy up in the air and over into the most awesome body-flip-slam. It was the funniest thing ever. That went on for about two, three months, the puppy getting heavier and more determined by the day. Sadly, those body-flip-slam days are gone but have been replaced by equally hilarious hijinks.
Like the day they were “drilling” in the sunroom and the cat lithely jumps from the couch onto a TV tray, then launches up to the fireplace mantle. Mercedes had been watching carefully. Without considering it, she rockets up onto the couch, then up onto the TV tray, intent upon following Zero anywhere…anytime…bring it on. Of course the tray crashes down and Mercedes learns a valuable lesson: Oh, I’m not a cat, am I? Good stuff.
This evening we will be leaving for Hughes Springs to see Mom and Dad. It is Wildflower Trails Festival, and they appreciate when we come home for that. Besides, it has been five months and I’m very homesick. And because our mother runs late all of the time (something she protests, by the way) she has levered us into a tight departure schedule by enticing us with roasted farm animals, fresh-plucked vegetables and various rural pastries that await our arrival. (the woman is crafty) There’s the guarantee that it will all be fresh, hot and timed perfectly, as long as we stick to the schedule. She then asks us for special requests. I am anticipating the typical long car ride with a frustrated, speed-racing husband, increasingly ripening dog odors (about Longview they start yip-howling and licking at their quivering little butts) , and grumbling teens who are engaged in an angry Ipod volume contest.
So to our mother, I sigh and put in my special request: A beer. Really…just a beer…Mom. That’s it. Beer -- and maybe a cookie . Mom laughs knowingly and empathizes, agreeing to not go to “too much trouble.” Alas, I am not fooled by our mother. We will probably be pulling in around midnight tonight and the table will be spread out like Thanksgiving…all of their Christmas trees decorated with a Spring theme… candles blazing… parrots squawking… all 35 dogs snarling and circling outside, working out their vague hierarchy, yipping like a pack of wild, butt-sniffing dingoes…
There’s no place like home. Wish my brother could be with me.
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