Back sometime in the mid-to-late 1980’s, Steve and John-Tim and I took a winter holiday road trip. Steve’s parents had loaned him their motorized camper, and we were off from Houston to Cloudcroft Angel Fire, outside of Taos, New Mexico, for some hot slope action at the ski resort there. I’d never been on skis, and wasn’t sure I was going to start now, but it was good to hang with the boys. Much jollity and unrestrained male bond-farting occurred.

Around 2 a.m. that night, I was asleep in the bunk over the driver’s cab of the camper, when I was awakened by a sense of serious Wrongness. The ride had gotten abruptly much bumpier and slidier and maybe more sideways’ish and sort of high-speed terrifying’ish.

Steve had been driving too long and too late, and had run out of uncut powder cocaine to keep him awake.

…. Just kidding. Steve has never, ever taken drugs. Seriously. His issue was always the sex addiction, not the drugs. Though, perhaps if he had been snorting uncut powder cocaine that night, he wouldn’t have

FALLEN ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL, DEPARTED FROM THE HIGHWAY AT EIGHTY A HUNDRED MILES AN HOUR, AND SLID A QUARTER OF A MILE INTO THE MIDDLE OF A PASTURE HIGHWAY MEDIAN OUTSIDE OF AMARILLO, TEXAS !!!!!

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As most of y’all have figured out by now, I am not, by nature, a cheerful sort.  But it being That Time of Year when everyone and their dog is making up lists of The Best, Worst, Blah-Blah-Blah of 2007, I thought, why the heck not get in on some of that action?

But, as I am in touch with the great powers of the universe, instead of looking back, I’d like to make my predictions for 2008.  I’m certain I will do just as well as any other real psychic.

In 2008, all the school boards across the US will simultaneously decide that creation “science” isn’t, and will boot all references to it from classroom text books.  They will also remember that one of the most basic tenets of our democracy is the separation of church and state and will start teaching that in school. But they won’t ignore the historical significance of religion, and will teach how it has affected our world — both for good and ill.  

In 2008, Americans in droves will voluntarily give up their gas guzzlers for more fuel-efficient vehicles.  They will also pressure the government to support real energy reform, not just crony giveaways to develop ethanol.

In 2008, Americans will demand that oversight in government be reinstated.  Democrats and Republicans will drop their petty bickering and unite to clean up government, realizing, at last, that everyone loses when the government is run like a banana republic.

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We went to see The Golden Compass, a movie which has been discussed already, and this is the first time I’ve seen the posters in person. (Don’t know if there was a trailer playing at this particular cinemaplexoid but there certainly wasn’t one in front of TGC.)

To be fair, no one really gets much easily seen credit in the large scale Jumper cinema display. It’s very big and hard to miss, but even the director, Doug Liman, just has two of his more commercially successful films listed prominently but not his name. Not even Samuel L. Jackson’s name appears.

Down at the bottom of the poster artifact, though, we did find the credits. There printed in dark gray type on a black background and, son-of-a-gun, there, along with Hayden Christensen and Rachel Bilson and Doug Liman and Jamie Bell and Simon Kinberg were the words based on the novel by Steven Gould.

I held my cell phone as a poor-man’s light while Laura took a snap with hers. The people in the theater, both employees and other theater goers, looked at us very strangely, but here it is:

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Barb and I are continuing our world* tour this week . . . and so far, the only mystery is how a postcard can receive an Oklahoma City postmark when it was mailed from the post office in Prague:

Oh, well.  Here’s hoping for better luck in St. Louis:

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*If by “World” you mean that long stretch between Austin and Kansas City.

I posted last week about an Ebay auction and low and behold, this week I received the following:

I have some vague idea who might have sent such a thing–it has a US stamp and an Oklahoma postmark. And so I deduce that it might be in Czech. The only words I know in Czech are…well, I don’t know any words in Czech. But I went to grad school, dammit, and I had a language requirement, and if that taught me anything, it taught me how to make a half-assed translation in a language I didn’t know. As best I can figure, the postcard reads:

I cannot resist. Muzete me this translate? “give me spout within beer.”

Much obliged!

And give my kind regards to the French Bean!*

I owe you a beer, Denton. Preferably at the Klášterní pivovar Strahov.

(Actually, it says ‘Give my regards to Bob’ but one translation software came back with this, and how could I not prefer ‘the French Bean?’)

While everybody else is spreading good cheer and all that, I view major holidays as an opportunity to eat. I can’t actually afford to eat in the style that I wish I was accustomed to, so I cook. This Christmas is a traditional fat and carb filled extravaganza. Oh, we’re having roasted green beans, but that’s about the only nod towards rational healthy eating. Otherwise we’re having an artery-clogging, insulin cranking traditional feast. A big beef standing rib, Yorkshire pudding, roasted potatoes.

When I was a kid, we never ate at my grandmother’s. Other people remember grandma’s cooking. My grandmother was not domestic. She didn’t actually wash her glasses, she just rinsed them, which my mother found so skeevy that I don’t think she ever drank so much as a glass of water at her mother-in-law’s, although she also never said anything until long after my grandparents were gone. We did eat there once. Overdone roast beef, potatoes, and those ice cream cups with the little wooden spoons. As a kid, I found the whole bag-of-little-ice-cream-cups thing enchanting. And I suspect it certainly saved on clean-up. But what I remember even more were the roasted potatoes. Brown and caramelized on the outside, meltingly creamy on the inside. I had never had a perfectly roasted potato before and to be frank, I don’t think I ever have since. I have always suspected it was an accident. Or maybe it was the one thing she cooked really, really well.

So when I found Nigella Lawson’s recipe for roasted potatoes, promising the secret to the perfect crunch brown exterior and the soft, creamy interior, I was instantly reminded of those wonderful potatoes from my grandmother. Nigella says that the perfect roasted potato is all a matter of one simple thing—the fat. And the fat is goose fat.

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As you’re reading this I’m off celebrating the season with the Tribe, known elsewhere as my in-laws. It will be noisy and confusing; also warm and loving. Chaos, headaches, good cheer, and barely contained outbursts will be interspersed among the hugs. You know the drill. Maybe you’re reading this as a brief respite from your own family turmoil and joy. Or maybe you’re ignoring the whole deal entire.

I’m aware that not everyone does the Christmas Thing. I’m aware that some would do it, but don’t have the proper equipment for it: snow, Dickensian fireplaces, enough fellow Christmas-shippers to support a groaning board of food. To help you out, I present A Virtual Yule Log. Feeling more Holidayish now?

Okay, above you have a Flaming Plum Pudding. How about a big Christmas Dinner?

And of course, presents under the Tree:

I wish, for all those celebrating, all those things in person, to their liking. To those not into the Christmas thing, may your day be Fine as Frog Hair, regardless. See a movie, eat some Chinese, do whatever you like to do while the rest of us are indulging.

And finally a little something for those who abjure Kris Kringle and all his works: Law and Chickens. Ka-ching (or maybe Buk-Buk)

It’s Christmas Eve, and the family is gathered around the big screen TV with hot apple cider, after eating a pot of White Chili stew, cookies, and a frolicking evening of off-key caroling up and down the block.

Here’s a Christmas card zombie carol for all my fellow zombies.

To all who celebrate Christmas, have a joyous noel. To everyone, have a lovely midwinter fest of your choosing. Tell those you hold dear how much they mean to you. Be bold in love. Love your neighbor as yourself. Eat brains.

Well, it’s a cold, bright Sunday morning here in Bryan. Time for some more music from another Texas boy who made good.

Sam ‘Lightnin’’ Hopkins was an old-school acoustic bluesman, with every damn credential imaginable. He chopped cotton, did time on the chain-gang, and drank like he meant it. He was also incredibly talented at what he did. He cut about a million albums and played about a million gigs, from high-profile arenas to gut-bucket juke-joints. He was a major influence on many Texas musicians.

The most famous story about him is this one, told by Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top, excerpted from an excellent Guitar Player magazine article about him:

To accompany Hopkins meant doing things his way, as Gibbons quickly learned: “We were playing a traditional blues and we all went to the second change, but Lightnin’ was still in the first change. He stopped and looked at us. Our bass player said, ‘Well, Lightnin’, that’s where the second change is supposed to be, isn’t it?’ Lightnin’ looked back and said, ‘Lightnin’ change when Lightnin’ want to change.’ And we knew — don’t do that no more!”

“You had to know and feel Lightnin’ and follow him,” seconds Johnny Winter. “I guess he played a lot by himself, and he didn’t worry about changes. It didn’t hurt a damn thing, either. Lightnin’ might not change on time all the time, but he was technically a damn good guitar player when he wanted to be. He could play his butt off, and he was always his own man.

I saw him play multiple times during the Sixties and Seventies. The details of those memories are blurred, as usual. But I do remember one glorious night in a hole-in-the-wall joint over in Houston’s Fifth Ward when Lightnin’ was obviously completely drunk on his ass. So drunk that he played the same song twice in a row. He did a hell of a job both times.

Here’s a YouTube cut from the DVD ‘The Blues According to Lightnin’ Hopkins’. Long, long ago, my old buddy Brian ‘Dr. Mojo’ Robertson gave me a copy of the tape of this. It’s an amazing showcase of a uniquely talented bluesman, and will repeatedly blow your mind.

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You might want to also try this one: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PILGaerSSEk

There are quite a few of his songs on YouTube, and many of them are haunting, with their deep-reverb late-at-night vibe. I have about a dozen of his albums on old cassettes, and really must transfer them over to the computer Real Soon Now. I heartily encourage you to check them out.

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Also – I’m about ready to get in the wind to Austin to hang with She Who Is Awesome and then come back here with her on our bikes, either this afternoon or tomorrow. Not sure how all that will play out, or how tired I’ll end up being, so I may or may not make another post today.

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http://blogs.usatoday.com/ondeadline/2007/12/lakota-withdraw.html

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http://www.commondreams.org/archive/2007/12/21/5946/

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http://www.lakotafreedom.com/index.html

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Should be all over the Net soon, especially if there’s a chance in hell that they can make it stick.

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Ike Turner died last week at the age of 76, and the news of his death made me ponder the fact that every artist’s life and work can be represented as a Venn diagram – two circles intersecting, separate yet inseparable.

It also made me ponder the fact that how an artist is perceived by everyone else depends on whether everyone else is looking at one circle or at the other . . . or at the place where they intersect.

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The Comic Wire (from CBR News) has a preview of 21 pages of the upcoming Jumpscars–the graphic novel prequel to the movie Jumper.

See the rest here.

I’m just got home from a business trip, I’ve had a hellish couple of weeks, and I have a cold. But thanks to Steve at Mysdirection, I have something to share with all of you. Click on through for the sheer genius of this.

Drive Someone Insane With Postcards

If I start getting postcards from Poland I’ll blame Denton. Why? Because when I first moved to Austin I was completely taken in by that Midwestern deference, but then my husband read Blackburn, which I had read many many years ago, and I was reminded that looks can be deceiving.

A while back we discussed the seven deadly sins, and that was fun. At some point we may do the seven virtues (or even the seven dwarfs…seven lends itself to all manner of foolishness). But I’ve been involved hands-on in a lot of Girl Scout-related virtue of late, and I gotta say, I’ve enjoyed it. As the nice philanthropists note in A Christmas Carol, “at this festive season of the year…it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present …” Well, some things haven’t changed.

All this explains why on Monday Avocado and I spent the day at Borders, wrapping gifts for tips, as part of a Girl Scout service project. The money goes to buy gift-cards for the teenagers in foster-care for whom “Toys for Tots” programs don’t really cut it. The week before the girls in the troop had spent a morning buying presents–books and toys–for younger kids. And there are the “stockings for the homeless” that the girls spent an evening stuffing: tube-socks filled with toiletries, candies and other small nicenesses (whenever I go to a convention I bring back the hotel shampoos and lotions in preparation for this Christmas project). And at the end of the week Avocado’s troop will rally at 7:45 am at the food bank to buy food which they will then prepare and serve to 200-300 homeless people.

That’s a lot of virtue for one kid, but I have to say that Avocado eats it up. As do I, as her escort and co-conspirator in all these projects. But Girl Scouts won’t last forever (I mean, the Scouts may, but Avocado’s involvement with them very likely won’t). So I’ve begun to realize that I want to find opportunities to do this sort of thing without tagging along with Avocado’s troop. In the meantime, what with life being chaotic and stuff, it’s cool to have this sort of opportunity come to us.

One of the things about having kids is the necessity of moral education. Which isn’t just the right-n-wrong stuff–the “what would you do if you found a wallet on the street” sort of ethics–but also the “no man is an island” civic involvment thing. San Francisco, with its large and highly visible homeless population, makes a great lab for this…if you’re willing to do more than hand over the occasional dollar bill and scurry by. So, at this festive season of the year we’ll be frosting cupcakes for the homeless and, as importantly, smiling and making eye contact.