My Moon, My Man

Here's a question: How come RnB and Rap videos almost always feature people standing still? Why aren't they going anywhere or doing anything? There is the patented "at a table" thing with guys tossing stacks of cash at one another, gambling, playing with rented jewelry and ignoring the girls who are draped across their backs or laps. There is the 'standing here and rapping/singing' thing that women and men do in equal measure where they lip-synch heartfelt pleas to the audience so the audience can call the model in the song and tell her to stop breaking his/her heart even though they have done wrong.

How come they are never in a club/at a party just dancing and having a good time. Why are they never at the skating rink, the park, dancing in an elevator, running down the street.

Oh, well, there are occasional running down the street scenes, but they usually involve the long arm of the law CHASING someone. Or a man chasing a woman. Or vice versa. And why don't people smile?

I'm beginning to agree with Tina Turner on RnB being entirely too depressing. Why all the tragic songs. There is more to write and sing about. Soul music was celebratory, the Blues was even celebratory though both 'genres' came out of some serious hard times. What is hip hop doing?

That's my semi deep thought of the day.

Here's a little something to enjoy:

Nina Simone Piano Improvisation


And something a little more recent, but by some standards, not much more...


Finally, hold on to your drawers, Blowin' In the Wind (the seminal Dylan composition) as interpreted by Mr. Soul himself...

Bishop Morton has Man Breasts

I don't know the guy. I just fell across him on television as I surfed. I was looking for a Simpson's rerun.

I believe he's preaching to a Protestant congregation, but he's wearing Catholic Bishop attire. And he looks like a transgendered woman. He's very soft beneath his robes, when he leans forward his breasts swing pendulously...it's amazing. And he has a jheri curl that hangs just below his ears and it's parted down the middle and when he turns to put his back toward the camera you also see his balding patch.

I turned th channel to watfch Family Guy, i coudln't take too much more of Bishop Morton. I can't figure out what religion he's a part of. The Family Guy is simpler and easier to deal with. Stewie (sp?) just won a little girl pageant in Texas. it was heartwarming the way his eyes teared up.

And look at this, the creepiest chracter from Prison Break, the pedophile/killer is playing Bobby Kennedy in "Jackie, Ethel, Joan: Camelot" a movie on ION channel. He's so good. It's why I love his character on Prison Break, he's downright Serpentine and ever-so-terrible. He made a convincing Bobby Kennedy, despite not looking like Bobby Kennedy in the least.

Well, those are my observations for sunday evening.

You're Never to Young to Pay Your Dues

It's late for me.

I just finished watching The Shooter with Mark Wahlberg. I remember how tasty he looked in his CK tighty boxers back in the day when he was Marky Mark...delicious. I like what he's done with his career, though, and I usually see his movies at some point in time or another. The projects he chooses are typically interesting and he's a handsome, but not overwhelming, lead actor. The Shooter was quite well done. I enjoyed the plot and the final scene and all the killing that happened in the in-between.

I'm enjoying life a lot right now. I have a new ring with a big pink multifaceted stone. I like to jiggle my finger and let the light catch the fire in the stone. It's the small things.

Today I cooked lunch for me and my dad and the dogs. Well, the dogs got a fair portion of my lunch, so they are included in the telling. I steamed some chicken with beer (beer chicken a this girl) and had pasta salad and steamed/grilled veggies and somehting else i'm not recalling at the moment. It was great. I'm so loving technology that fixes all my shortcomings. I intend to enjoy life to the fullest, having things do my cooking and cleaning and whatnot.

I just get misty thinking about the world and how great technology is in general and in specific.

This is my 75th post. Wow. Look at me. I'd like to thank the committee...I don't think I would be this far along without the time for reflection and development being the sick & shut-in has afforded me. Plus, I've gotten to explore different avenues of my little life that have gone long neglected up to this point.

For instance, today I repeated my (vaguely) routine of taking carrots down to the horses. I'll admit, yesterday was the first time this new batch of horses struck me as sentient beings. Up until yesterday's carroting they weren't more than big pretty four-legged dogs. But yesterday, one of the horses looked at me beseechingly. It was such pure pathos that I could almost hear her begging me for another carrot. I *FELT* that pain, I know that pain. Today, of course, she gave me the evil eye and got aggressive in her communication that I was to reserve all my carrots for her, but these things happen in the course of building a relationship, or so I tell myself.

ah well, it's late and my back hurts and i'm still healing. Horses are sentient beings. And they are beautiful. Happy Sunday to everyone out there in cyberspace.

In Brooklyn/74th Post/La Lohan cRaZY

So, I just finished watching a documentary on the Brooklyn Dodgers. I admit I never knew Jackie Robinson played for Brooklyn and not the Yankees. There is someone in Brooklyn who is reading this right now, booking a flight to come whup my ass, I'm sure. I just committed a major, major infraction. But I've only just started liking baseball, I love the camaraderie of it and the hot dogs are the best ever!

And Roy Campanella, I've been confused for years about who he was. Now I know, he was a catcher and a good looking guy!!!

The documentary also brought in one of my favorite New York City icons, Robert Moses. The man who made the Interstate and championed the suburb. What this guy did was amazing and I've been curious about his personality. He was a major asshole. And, I think, a manager par excellence. He set his vision and pretty much bullied his way to lifetime success. 40 years of running things.

Also, I learned when I logged in that this is my 74th post!!! My goal is 100 posts and I'm excited to be 3/4 to my goal. Rawkin'!!!

Finally, I like everyone else got bombarded by media coverage of Lindsey Lohan's post-Rehab activities. She's a d-r-u-n-k - maybe she used to be an alchoholic, but now she's just a drunk'n'druggie. Cocaine...??? So passe.

Wish You Were Here

Wanted to share some great music with you.


Lyrics by Pink Floyd

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.

It's all fun and games until the Flying Monkeys Attack

Isn't that just the pure truth? There you are, meandering through your life doing your best to have a nice time and keep folks happy and then here come the damn monkeys - flinging offal and whatnot.

So, today was a good day. An Ice Cube good day, all but mama cookin' a breakfast with no hog. I dusted the house and noticed the difference. I did some of my day-job work and figured out the next chapter in my latest little story.

Then the monkeys showed up! ze Visigoth got home in a pretty good but semi-strange mood. I'd found some aquamarine men's tighty undershorts in my closet and i gave them to him. He said they weren't his.

Fast forward 20 minutes and he's asking who they belong to and suggesting names. Cue: Mortification. It wasn't funny any more and I coulda sworn I heard monkeys screeching in my ears.

Luckily, the day was saved by my new writing class. Hooray! I'm back in school. I'm probably jumping the gun just a little on the whole "going to school" thing if only because physically it's a difficult campus to get around and there isn't any drop-off access. So, I have to walk for 7 minutes. I'm two and one half weeks away from the last surgery, about 2 months from the latest really big surgery.

The payoff for my pain, though, is a cool class that is basically a lecture with exercises and an interesting instructor. So, yay for me, I was not carried off by the flying monkeys.

(You Caught Me) Smilin'

Seven years ago I got married.. Murried. or something like it.

I, of course, put the business out of my mind as soon as I did it and couldn't have told you my anniversary if pressed hard, but someone found some pictures yesterday and let me know i'd hit the seven-year mark. The intent was to reflect on the past seven years and how much I've done and how far I've come. I had good intentions when I got married as well. And we all know what the road to hell is paved with.

I have two pictures from that day now, both were emailed yesterday. One is okay, the other makes me cringe. Ah, the folly and fun of our youth!

Tangentially related is an article on Sly Stone that is out in this month's Vanity Fair. I put a bet up with the Visigoth about how coherent Sly would be during this article and whether it was an article about NOT finding Sly, seeing as he can be all manner of super-elusive for 20+ years.

Surprisingly, Sly was coherent. Sly is pretty clean. Sly is still psychedelic, but he lives in Napa (in a house I recognize), drives choppers. Sly is not reflective at all on his years of reclusiveness. He doesn't care to think much about the lyrics of his old songs or how they were put together - at least not to our intrepid reporter. But he has started performing. His little sister Vet put her energy into snatching him up outta L.A.

For the record, that wacked out performance at the Grammy's was the result of Sly falling down a cliff off the back of his L.A. home the day before. No one thought he would show, especially, but he did, in a neck brace etc. And the entire original band - with the exception of Larry Graham - was there performing (larry had a cold) but they were behind the "session band" in front and two layers behind all the 'today's talent' who covered Sly's songs for the show.

Anyway, Sly has been snatched up and is performing. And lately he did a gig at the Flamingo Showroom on the Vegas strip. Here is the part I loved about the article and the last seven years of my life, simulataneously:

"But there was one mesmerizing moment that seemed lost on the liquored-up, good-timey Vegas crowd. "Stand!" began not with the rousing drumroll you hear on the record, but with Stone singing a cappella in a soft, deliberately fragile voice. ("I just felt like doing it like that - so everybody could really hear it properly," he later told me.) Some of the crowd chattered through it, but to hear him almost whisper these words -

Stand
In the end you'll still be you
One that's done all the things you set out to do

Stand
There's a cross for you to bear
Things to go through if you're going anywhere

-and to know the things he went through, the things he set out to do, the things he achieved, and the things he threw away; and then, to see him there, hunched and older but still standing, onstage, surrounded by family..."

And There is the summation of my past seven, twenty-seven years - rolled up neatly in two stanzas of one song and the interpretation of one moment by an observer at a concert.

There are things to go through if you're going anywhere in this lifetime. There is a cross to bear, there will be struggle and you'll carry your wounds with you. And in the end, if you halfway work at it, you'll still be yourself through it all and you will do whatever it is you set out to do, no matter how lofty the goal.

The greatest gift is to experience all of that (and much, much more) and still find yourself loved and cherished by those you love and cherish - to see yourself up there, hunched and older, surrounded by family.


Happy Monday to all ya'll

Day One - At the Condo and I'm Okay

I considered titling this post after a R.E.M. song "It's the End of the World as We Know It (and I feel fine)" but it's not the end of the world, it's just the beginning.

Let me take a moment and tell you about my morning. I bought a new bra a few days ago, this lacy elle mcpherson number in teal and pastel pink and it's divine. I think I'll do lace for the rest of summer, it feels good to have pretty dritties. So, since the air conditioning man had to come by (I do this twice a year because I refuse to replace the air conditioner or pay upwards of $1200.00 for them to 'find' the leak that causes the unit to stop working every 70-90 days) I went ahead and threw on the new chest-wrangler, black long-sleeved 'hometown' shirt and some black workout pants. All of this i accentuated with a subtle pair of skull n' crossbones chooka wellingtons (rainboots for all the 'mericans).

Well, Bob the air conditioning repair man was efficient and all went well. I had the secret delight of wearing my first fitting undergarment since all the surgeries started. I ended up home because we had an office 'open house' for a our new physician, the wry and witty Dr. Jones. I hid out for most of the open house. Apparently since the last time I bought new clothes - say three weeks ago - I've dropped a few more pounds and my formerly very cute halter ankle-length gingham dress from Target no longer fits. This i could not have anticipated and did not understand at all, so I kept manipulating the dress, tying and retying the spaghetti strap halter and just feeling flummoxed that it was fitting all wrong. Finally my little sister, in something of a hunger-induced snit, grabbed the back of the dress and pulled back about an inch indicating that there was too much dress and too little flesh.

I'm beginning to feel a bit model-ish. I laugh at myself, quietly, when I eat because I pick out everything. I've become a terror at restaurants, I'm the girl who orders everything on the side and changes the basic chemistry of the dish with specifications of how to prepare it. I don't know if I would hate me if I were serving myself - I think I would not because at least I'm pleasant and clear in my instructions.

Speaking of, today the Visigoth and I went for lunch in downtown Decatur. We actually went to a sale in downtown Decatur, but we couldn't find the store (Kaleidoscope Boutique, I'm trying to size myself on all manner of clothing). So, we settled for lunch. We went to Ted's Bison Bar or Montana Ted's - something in that vein. Our server was a certified idiot. He wrote down our entire order and the only thing he got correct was the basic food groups - everything else was screwed. Meanwhile there was this fantastic young lady (that being relative, she could have been older than I am, but I'm telling the story, so I take license here) who was hanging around, reorganizing tables and generally being very competent. Long story short, after we BOTH sent our meals back to the kitchen (how do you foosh up the order for a cheeseburger and fries? It's just not that complicated!) I requested the competent young woman become our server. It's easier to ask for what you need than it is to suffer through what is intolerable. Plus, my anger meter is way low and I didn't want to test myself and just how much calm I have inside of me.

For the record, I suspect a lot, but this is a one-day-at-a-time thing. You can't go from being the queen-of-mean to Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm or at least a peaceful spring of calmness in one fell swoop. I do think all the anesthesia helps. Entire pockets of my memory have been erased. Who needs to get angry when you can't recall the ugly parts any longer?

I digress. It turns out the first, mentally challenged server was the son of the accountant for the restaurant (and former TBS owner). Apparently the father came to the restaurant the week prior and his scion screwed his order as well. Competent he is not.

Well, my back hurts now. It's time to zone out, relax my back and relish the day. Tomorrow I will report on my actividades of watching Pulp Fiction for the first time. I laughed my head off.

Harry is HOTTTTT!!!!

Oh God.

I just saw Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and despite being a healthy-sized film, it just flew by. My sister and I were annoyed before the movie because this lady was nattering on endlessly about how much she loved harry and I made the comment that if that lady kept on talking through the movie there might be some slapping going on.

Instead, Caitlin and I were the loudest people in the theatre. For starters, Daniel Radcliffe has turned into quite the handsome, strapping young man. I don't even know where to start, the hair, the eyes, the porcelain skin and pec and the sarms and the ...ahhhhhhh. He is a teen dream!!!!! I've sighed about 15 times, very deeply, in writing the last 10 words.

*Sigh*

There is a kissing scene, anyone who has read the book knows harry gets his first kiss in number 4 but the on-screen realization of that kiss is classic cinema. It's a 'hit-ya-in-the-solar-plexus-and-make-you-think-you-are-in-the-moment' kiss. It's a kiss where you admire his jawline, the soft, gentleness of his lips against hers (yours) and if you're lucky, you've had those kisses. Those heart-stopping, breath-suspending wonderfully supple kisses. They don't have to be involved, just sweet and simple and lovely.

Truly Lovely.

I think I fell in massive like with my first movie star since Orlando Bloom. There is a trend here - British, middle class, dark hair and eyes...charming and gorgeous. With any luck...

Good night and good kisses to you all.

She Calls Me Adolescent

She Calls Me Adolescent
This summer i went back
to the years I missed
being an adult at an early age
required a backtrack or two

now there is leisure time
to figure out what i missed
or hid away for the few,
far between private times.

she calls me adolescent
he says i'm 16
i woudn't give up this time
for anything.

© Camille A Williams

Well, my russian music sites are no more. Apparently the RIAA (they are the debbil) used Russia's desire to join the World Trade Organization to force the sites to close. Something similar was done in Sweden about a year ago to a sharenet organiztion, PirateBay, that had the BEST movies. The deal with all of this is that it doesn't take money from an artist to have their music downloaded, even if it is paid for in rubles (that was brilliant, simply brilliant, maybe the Sudan or Egypt can start a service), it takes money from the executives who make their money from the sweat of the artists and the work of songwriters, sound engineers etc.

A moment of silence for capitalism at its purest.

In the meantime, I finally buckled and bought Sam Cooke: Live at the Harlem Club from Itunes. I had to have it. Sam's voice is so smooth, so supple, and at the same time so raw that it's the vocal equivalent of sonic sex. Sonic orgasm. I do love Sam Cooke's voice and look. I definately would have thrown my undergarments on the stage while he sang - whether it was secular or spiritual.

Not much is happening today. I've turned my room into a sauna, being a little low on blood means I get cold easily. I always have a chill. Additionally, I took a page from Huey Freeman of the Boondocks' book and decided to draft a contract for my return to work. I'm requiring total creative control. I have a vision and I've been fighting for 4 years to institute minor parts of my vision, but for my business to make the money it is capable of doing without any member of the team stroking out in the process, we need to follow the vision through.

I also realized that I have a diminished supply of anger. It's slipping away. Perhaps I'm spending too mmuch time with my dad or the animals, but anger isn't easy for me to access. Then, there is the obvious answer, I'm not in pain so it's not nearly as easy to irritate me since I'm not already past the point of normal irritation. I think there are many factors in my shifting change in temperment, not the least of which is that I live in a calm, supportive environmet and I catheterize myself multiple times a day. Really, how much anger can you maintain when you've got to find the right hole?

Just a note, since I love my technology, if you have a Mac, download Gimp, it's photoshop for broke folks.

Love: Avoid It At All Costs

More wisdom from the invaluable tome "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Universe."

Fool People With Your Culinary Geekdom!

I spent the early part of my day reconfiguring a wireless network. Last week I bought a MIA Grill (www.miagrill.com or overstock.com) and today it was put to use.

I have made a crucial decision in my life: I cannot cook. I've no real abiding interest in cooking. However, I love great food in moderation and the tastier the meal, the more moderate I eat. Well, this MIA Grill is my brand new love. Love. Love Love. I didn't even use it myself, it was used in a household where I'm staying and I love it.

I have now decided that technology can make up for any natural deficiencies I may have. My body goes haywire, technology, robotics, and an extremely skilled group of surgeons can fix me. I can't cook - I buy things that cook for me. I hate shopping - and god created paypal....

Still, I refuse to go over to the darkside and download Internet Explorer just so I can post pics on this myspace blog. Instead, I downloaded Netscape and hoped for the best. The best did not happen.

Remember kids, it's not what you don't have to work with, it's all about what you're willing to find to make yourself successful.

Beer Chicken to You All!

A Tiny Tirade To Start

I went through all the trouble of downloading Firefox on my Mac, totally unnecessary btw, just so I could use advanced text editor for this blog and myspace is still refusing to accept my browser for advanced editor settings. It's beyond conspiracy, I'm beginning to take this personally. Additionally, I wanted to upload a new picture and that would not work either. Am I asking too much? Obviously.

Well, I'm over my post-operative depression for the most part. I'm still sore and cranky, but I'm eating again and most of the bitterness has passed. I did spend a couple hours last night riding around in the electric carts provided by Wal-Mart and Kroger while grocery shopping, that was big fun. I am a dangerous driver, I hit about 3 kids and their parents apologized to me even though the run-ins were avoidable if only I'd been paying attention to the direction I was driving in. Ah well, there are small benefits to being a crip.

Today I sat on the porch and watched what has to be timeless male/female behavior dynamic. Perhaps we can expand the metaphor beyond male/female and into the realm of social hierarchy dynamics. Whatever floats your boat. I watched two dog, Buddy and Dolly, dance the dance of insanity. Dolly is part rat terrier, she's energetic, brown, skinny as a rail and greedy as all outdoors. She's also about 1 foot tall.

Buddy is a full-blood Collie, shaggy, older, gentler, but he's never been clipped so he's got his 'older man' vibe in full effect. Every so often he and Dolly tangle with one another. Not that sort of tangling, more of the 'one of us is gonna bleed' tangling. Usually Dolly starts the fracas.

Today I watched Dolly flirt with Buddy, and oh how she flirted. She sniffed his paws, she licked his nose, she scampered across the deck and poor Buddy followed. How many times has he gotten close to her in the months I've been here and been rewarded with snarls and snaps? STill, he follows her! And it occurred to me, this plays out every single day.

Recently I threw a rather significant series of fits - the healing wasn't going as well as I'd hoped, I was uncomfortable (read: everything hurt like fresh hell) and no one seemed to have an answer for why. So, I called my boyfriend crying as though all my sutures had opened, and I sobbed on my father's shoulder and I had sporadic teary outbursts as I ate yogurt. It was all very entertaining for most of the people watching. I called my surgeon, but I was so upset that I couldn't get the numbers right, so I had my boyfriend call. Well, the upshot of all this is that my boyfriend - himself a top-notch surgeon - culled the supplies to deal with my medical emergency then made the hour-and-change drive down to my dad's house to fix his woman in distress.

Of course, by the time he showed up, my medical distress had resolved somewhat and what remained was emotional distress and quite a bit of fatigue. When he walked purposefully into the house my father told him "she's not going to let you touch her" which made my boyfriend think "for all the trouble I've gone through, i'm going to put this catheter down her throat if i have to!" Well, he gets up to my room and he tries to tell me my surgeon has insisted I take the medical treatment. I inform my boyfriend i talked to my surgeon not 15 minutes ago and told him I was refusing treatment, I could make it through the night and no one was touching me, damn it.

AT that point I saw the thought flit across his face "I could strangle her with this bit of tubing" but he resisted the urge and held me til I fell asleep. The family has been laughing ever since.

Dolly and buddy are just like that. There she was sniffing and being quasi-friendly with him when I knew I'd hear her snarling like a cornered animal within 10 minutes because of his ardent attentions. Why does this happen? It's all very confusing to witness, though it makes perfect sense when you're the creature who is feeling cornered. The brain, I suppose, is powerful mojo. Whatever fears and pains we store in my minds as emotions and memories make a real mess of things when given free rein, even if they weren't intended to have free rein, perhaps just a little crack in the wall to relieve the pressure of contemplating mortality.

Fatigue is also a culprit. I guess if it can kill you while driving, it can wreak your life in a multitude of other ways as well.

Well, that's my transmission for today. i shall make a real effort to attach a picture of buddy and dolly to complete the descriptions I offered, especially so my readers can see just how outmatched Dolly is when she starts shit with Buddy. She always wins, though, mainly because he lets her. Go figure.

Post-Op Depression Part Deux

Okay, I'm back. Nothing much has happened. I did cook dinner for myself after a nice cathartic cry. Some real woe-is-I stuff went on and then, as usual, it passed because well, I can't stay sad that long. Plus, I have my giggly little sister Nyira in the house with me and she gets tickled so easily that I can't stay angry with her around. It's hard to be upset when someone is chuckling merrily beside you. I learned a long time ago not to even bother, it's pointless.

Right now I'm mildly disgruntled because my abdomen hurts and is wrapped like a frickin' mummy. They opened all my incisions and did things through them. I'm very fortunate, I don't have a smiley face (huge half-moon incision) across my abdomen, it's just three half-inch marks and then a full inch incision in my belly button. the half-inchers actually fade into non-existence after about a year and a half. I can't even find them once they have faded. the belly button scar sticks. But, I've been having such a great time since my second to last surgery for the ileostomy, healing steadily, building strength, feeling good - that being slapped back into just a corner of the post-op vulnearbility more or less pisses me off. I'm tired, I nap in three-hour stretches. This is normal post-op behavior, but no longer normal Camille behavior. I think this is callled cognitive dissonance, what my brain wants and what the reality of my situation is are at odds. Mmmm. maybe some subject verb confusion in that last sentence. let's blame it on the painkillers, though.

Happy Feet ended up being a sneaky "message" movie. I'm all ready to start sending my funds to greenpeace because of the tap dancing penguin Mumble. I did enjoy Brittney Murphey in this movie. i think she's one of my favorite young talents. Her raspy voice and doe-eyes are great modes of communication. I loved her in Sin City, which is very nearly in my pantheon of favorite movies of all-time. Brittney kicks ass, but she maintains a pretty low-profile. she's doing her damn thing and I give respect to that.

Okay, all this sitting up has me feeling winded and my arm is going numb. Frick Frack Frick. I'll be relieved or some equivilent emotion when all of this is over. I do mean ALL of it, too. When every surgery is done, when all the healing is complete and I know what it means to be a healthy human being with and interesting medical history, I cannot imagine what my life will be like. Hopefully it will closely resemble my life in Heavenly Acres - calm, reflective, filled with observation of funny events and participation in activities with people I love.

I dare to dream at this point. I dare to dream.

Post-Op Depression

It happens. Post-op depression. I always have a bout, usually once I'm certain I'm in the clear I experience a day or two of relieved super anxiety. it always helps to get involved in something 'happy.' today's happy activity is watching Happy Feet and right now Mumble, the outcast little emperor penguine is tapping up a happy storm to Back in the Day by Steview Wonder.

Uh. the seagulls are Italian Mobsters and they believe they have been abducted by aliens. Today is an italian day for me, I started out with The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly by Roberto Bertolini. I like Clint Eastwood movies, he's so good listening and there is always such morality to his movies. I found The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly fascinating because I don't think there was an ounce of dialogue for the first 20 minutes. There were plenty of sketchy looks, gunfire, a rape or two and the multiple hangings of one man. A lot went on before a word was uttered. Oh and the title was displayed really differently - there would be an entire scene without a real focus or focal character, then once the focal character had emerged his place in the title was written in bloody script next to his face "The Ugly," then "The Bad," then "the Good." Clint was the good. Kickass.

Lately I've been examining the six degrees of separation rule. In short, the theory is that every person on earth is separated by about 6 other people - or six degrees. But lately, whenever I've been asked about certain people, or found myself wondering about one person or another - whether it's Paris Hilton or His Holiness the Dalai Lama and I realized that I know exactly one person who knows the person in question directly. I have one degree of separation between me and most people that I might be interested in at least having a conversation with. That's funny and a little confusing because I never want to meet anyone in particular, but I guess, if I were so inclined, I would.

My Papa and my boyfriend just walked in, so now I get to defrag on the whole stepfather is a total asshole thing.