Talk about beating a dead horse...

Today, I'm waxing rhapsodic. Not too long ago I was going through yet another box and out came an old scrapbook. A VERY old scrapbook, one kept by my mother. In typical my mother's style, there are two pages of neatly put together items and then a wad of cut out newspaper clippings stuffed between two pages.

My mother loved Roy Rogers and William Holden and there's an unbelievable cache of newspaper clippings about them, mostly Roy. And Dale. And their kids.

For years, there was a Roy Rogers museum, first in Apple Valley and then in Victorville. A two hour drive, more or less, from my mother's house. How many times did she go?

Not once.

Well, you had to know my mother, if you did, that would make sense. Well, it never made sense, but it wouldn't surprise you, either.

My mother outlived Roy, but not by much. After her death the hubster and the boys and I started going to Las Vegas regularily. She probably didn't approve, but hey, it wasn't my problem anymore. Well, we spent a fair amount of time blasting by the Roy Rogers Museum, all rustic and wood and sitting cheerfully in the middle of it's big parking lot in Victorville. But, we were always in a hurry to get somewhere or it was closed.

One day we heard the rumor that it might be closing, moving to greener pastures or something like that. So we made the trip. Two whole hours drive time. We pulled into the huge and 98% empty parking lot, paid our two bucks (I actually don't remember how much it was) and spent a hot desert day happily wandering through the dark, cool rambling place, looking at silver saddles and original costumes from Nudie, reading newspaper clippings, taking pictures of Trigger, the usual stuff. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. So, when the announcement was official, the museum was moving to Branson, we made another trip. We met up with my father in the high desert for a farewell. As, frankly, I have no intentions of hanging out in Branson. I had a gut feeling the move was a bad idea, but then, no one asked me.

We not only wandered the cool dark interior of the ranch house, a cowboy taught us to lasso a post. We stocked up in the gift shop, but only stuff that said "Victorville, CA" on it. Including a set of four stone coasters which still sit on the end table in the living room. Several of them are pretty creepy dark now too because we use them. A lot. Coffee spills will win, eventually. And my father, ever prepared, brought his camera.

Fast forward to a month ago, when I unearthed the scrapbook. A small picture of the then dating Roy and Dale at the Coconut Grove. Roy and Dale get married. Roy and Dale have kids. Roy and Dale on TV, in movies, news reports of the daughter who was killed in a bus accident and a son who died as a young adult, it's all there. And, what to do with it? It's interesting but I don't have enough room for my own crap, let alone my mother's. So I thought, I know. I'll give it to the museum. I'll e-mail them and pack it up and send it to Branson.

Well, I was right, moving to Branson was a dumb idea. The museum closed for good late last year. The letter to members and fans on the website mentions the failing ecomony and the advanced age of Roy's fans.

Frankly, I always thought Branson was going to end up being a star gone Nova. It shone bright and burned hot for awhile and now it's turning into a gaseous ball of empty space. I mean, face it. I'm NOT going to drive to Missouri to see Andy Williams. Sure, the ticket prices are better but how much is it going to cost me to GET to Missouri? And then I'm stuck in Missouri. Watching Tony Orlando and the Lennon Sisters. Not all the Lennon Sisters either, just Janet and Kathy. And they've recruited Mimi, who never performed with them before. I'm guessing Peggy and Dianne ran screaming out of Missouri and took Dawn with them. There are a bazillion "tribute" shows and something called "Noah, the Musical." No, even I couldn't make that up. Suffice it to say Branson did NOT become the Broadway of the Midwest. More like the Laughlin of the Midwest. Without the slot machines.

So the museum, alas, is no more. The contents are systematically being auctioned off with one last, big blast to clear the entire kit and caboodle out coming up this July. On the block then will be the big, family dining room table made by George Montgomery. The jeep, named "Nellybelle" used on the TV show, their custom Cadillac (or maybe it was a Lincoln, I don't remember), a ton of beautiful saddles and tack and yes, God help us, Trigger.

While it saddens me that there are no longer any fans left it saddens me more that a) fans now age off the radar and there is no history to pass on. Grandparents didn't give their grandchildren a taste of the fun they had and the things that they appreciated. Some kid MIGHT want to go see the Roy Rogers Museum because he or she remembers watching "The Paleface" one weekend at Grandma's and they LOVED it but grandma never showed them that film and b) they've stooped to putting the stuffed horse on the auction block. Why don't you put your parent's headstones up while your at it? BTW, yes, I KNOW where those headstones are, I'm mildly surprised they didn't move Roy and Dale to Branson and try to make a buck off them, much like Lucy Arnaz did with HER mother.

Come on, guys...one of Roy's kids, grandkids, a rogue niece...please? Take Trigger with you. Jeez, who the hell wants a stuffed horse in their den anyway? Besides, he's on his hind legs, he's gonna be WAY too tall for the average room.

Have a heart. Keep the horse.

The "Y" Chromosome And The Optic Nerve.

Well, okay, it's that time of year. Something must be said about "American Idol." I don't know why it's on Fox. It sounds like it belongs on The Nashville Network with the grand finale live from Ryman Hall. I'm guessing country is in this year. Except for the girl with the Irish name who rocked "Paint It Black", I liked her. Otherwise, they all sound like Reba McIntyre and they're all boring. Unlike Reba.

Oh, and Ellen? What's with the hair? Okay, the hair looks okay. She basically looks fine, I think she's got the prettiest eyes since Paul Newman in "Cat On A Hot Tin Roof." But the hair does something odd for her ears. I've never even noticed she had them before, now I can't take my eyes off them. Sorry, but it makes her look as if she should be speaking Elvish. This is so boring I'm actually starting to look forward to "Dancing With The Stars" next week. Oh boy, Buzz Aldrin in Copabana sleeves attempting the Samba. Television doesn't get much better.

Maybe it's the time change, when my circadian clock settles back into some sort of rhythm the contestants might get better. I doubt it, but I'm willing to give the benefit of the doubt here. When we "spring ahead" it always seems to take me a week, it's kind of like jet lag for me. I'm tired and therefore more aware of things that would normally sort of slide by. For example, just how long has the hubster been IMing me at work and asking me things like "where's that blue envelope I wrote the phone number on that chick from the bank gave me?" "Where's my blazer?" and "I can't find my notebook." I think it's losing that hour, I've suddenly become aware of this. Yeah, that's it. In my exhausted state my senses are heightened. Or else I'm just testy.

Whatever the reason, there's definitely some sort of disturbance in the force. A friend of mine, who is also married to a guy who works from home, has been experiencing the same phenomenon lately. She's getting calls from her husband with important, day interrupting questions like "Do you know where the box I got from Amazon yesterday is?"

Guys? After the obvious, as in "your jacket is in the closet" and the inevitable response "no, it's not, I looked there" what do you expect US to do? I can look everywhere but the blue envelope with the phone number on it isn't IN MY OFFICE. For what it's worth, your blazer WAS in the closet(I found it there on the hangar when I got home), the charger for your iPod was in plain sight on the coffee table and the box from Amazon (so I hear) was under the morning paper. Where you all said you looked. Is it some sort of vision thing maybe? That "y" chromosome you're so proud of has some sort of strange effect on the optic nerve of the male of the species, enabling them to find absolutely nothing except the TV remote until a sudden influx of estrogen achieves a sort of balance in the cosmos?

And no, I'm not picking on husbands in particular. I have two sons. It's the same thing. The lost W2s showed up in the exact place I told him to look, the place he looked in three times. Belts, shoes, wallets, you name it, "Have you seen my shoes?" "Hmmm, let me check. No, they're not under my desk." Do you suppose Tiger Woods used to text his wife "where'd I leave the salami I've been trying to hide?"

Speaking of Tiger, he's going to tee off at the Masters next month. He's out of rehab, at least for the week and being allowed to work. I saw this on the news today, all day. It was only eclipsed by the earthquake I slept through. And then it hit me.

What if Tiger didn't do anything? I mean, let's think this through. The only women who have come forward in front of cameras are porn performers. Now, I'm guessing their acting abilities aren't going to get them noticed by Kurasawa anytime soon, but they can probably deliver a line and they wouldn't be shy about appearing in public and discussing their sex life.

And golf has been getting progressively more boring. It's right up there with "American Idol" lately.

Can you imagine the ratings the Masters will get? The galleries? For the first time in 20 years, people might actually know who wins the thing. They won't remember who won it a month later but that's to be expected. Quick. What movie won best picture last week? No Google.

Took you a few seconds, didn't it?

In any event, this just may be the biggest, and most successful publicity stunt ever perpetrated. Or Tiger may just be a jerk. Hard to tell. How much you want to bet he calls his wife in Florida from his hotel room in Augusta and asks her where he put his golf clubs after he picked them up from baggage claim?

Good Night, David...

My, oh my, where to begin?

Well, okay, I'll start with NBC and see where it takes me. I've just finished up NBC's 17 day commercial for The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, otherwise known as the Winter Olympics. For God's SAKE, I life in California and I'm in the same freaking TIME ZONE AS VANCOUVER! I don't suppose you would care to explain to me WHY every damn night was a six hour old CLIP show? The athletes must have been getting up at 4am to get ready for a 6am start time so YOU could tape, edit, add funny sound effects, write scripts for Costas (who is a damn fine interviewer on his own) and package all of this into a four hour prime time special.

And, considering how much editing was obviously being done, why did you decide to keep it on the air until MIDNIGHT? Oh DUH! More commercials! Or is that more commercial time you COULDN'T SELL? Because guys, I'm not THAT stupid. No one is THAT stupid. Do you really think I believe that someone actually bought time to run that ridiculous, in-your-face-Conan fans "get back to where you once belonged" commercial for The Tonight Show with Jay Leno?

You couldn't sell the time to Proctor and Gambel so you filled it with lame ass commercials for Jay Leno and Jerry Seinfeld and The Office.

You LEFT THE CLOSING CEREMONY before it was over to run that idiotic "Marriage Ref" and the local news, then went back so we could watch the rest of it at 11:30. Is that really what you think of your viewers? I'm guessing yes, it is. And you actually wonder why you're in 17th place amoung the FOUR major networks? Well, I'll tell you why. As a television network...you SUCK.

Your comedies are borderline funny at best (no offense, 30 Rock, because you're being wasted on NBC). Your dramas are old and tired, your news coverage (with the exception of the exceptionally witty Brian Williams) is abysmal, that guy you gave "Meet the Press" to after the devastating loss of Tim Russert isn't doing you any good, your sports coverage is lackluster and let's not even GO to your late night programming, which everyone knows you totally Effed up.

Nah, I can't stay away from late night. You tied O'Brien's hands when he came in at 11:35, his best stuff was left in New York because it was too risque for the before midnight crowd. So, while a very tall guy in a bear suit could no longer come out and go nuts with a diaper to "The Saber Dance" (because that's too over the line for the 11:35 crowd), it's okay for Leno to bring out Olympic medalist (yep, one of them is gold) Lindsay Vonn, ridicule her Sports Illustrated cover and then, when referencing the fact that Vonn's husband is her coach and manager, actually ask:

“Does that work in all aspects… in the bedroom, everywhere?”

Now, not only is that a question asked by a pig, it's not funny. I can, will and have forgiven a LOT of totally inappropriate stuff in my life because it made me laugh. Not only was that question not funny, it wasn't even mildly entertaining. What WOULD have been entertaining is if Lindsay Vonn had slapped Leno. Because, frankly, no one would have blamed her. The thought occurred to me though, that, had she done so, no one except the studio audience would have seen it. Because Leno and NBC no longer have to be on the up and up regarding what is and isn't shown.

So, here's my take on the whole thing. At NBC it's okay, in fact encouraged, to aspire to mediocrity. It's perfectly okay to be a chauvanist. It's okay to rip off other performers ideas. It's okay to deliver bad coverage of news, sports and current events. It's okay to badmouth your own ideas and try to make them everyone else's fault but your own.

It, apparently, is NOT okay to be funny, smart, informed, creative or just plain entertaining. Now this, in it's own way, is also okay. What isn't okay is to whine about your lousy ratings because of it.

Almost 30 years ago, David Brinkley left NBC and landed at ABC. David Brinkley was one smart man.

And I want a little umbrella in that too.

Okay, first things first. The car is safe and snug in the carport. Thanks to a bookkeeping error made, quite innocently, by a third party the hubster found himself in possession of a check he didn't know he had coming. Wachovia, I see, is becoming Wells Fargo next month. Well, good riddance. Normally, when something like this happens I subscribe to the "better the devil you know" platitude but, in this case, I'm in hell already so who cares? At least maybe Wells Fargo will allow us to make a car payment by some method other than Western Union, which adds $12.95 a month. Yep. Wachovia demands any cash payment be via Western Union. You can't even ask your bank to wire it. You can not walk into a Wachovia bank and make your car payment. I figure, Wells Fargo might be better. In any case, they sure can't be any worse.

Now, on to other things.

We're currently in our 16th day of captivity, held hostage by the Winter Games. In approximately 36 hours I'm told the closing ceremonies will "draw to a close" and we will be released, once again free to watch the six times a day showings of "Mamma Mia!" on cable.

Against my better judgement I found myself, on day 14, watching the Ladies' Figure Skating finals. Oddly enough, the ladies don't seem to fall down nearly as often as the men. Maybe it's that center of gravity thing, I'm not sure. There are some similarities though. The ladies don't seem to use "Firebird". However, if you see a red costume trimmed with black, brace yourself, it's "Carmen". Now, don't get me wrong, I like opera a LOT and Carmen is, far and away, my favorite. It's pretty much your standard opera as things go, some chick fails to walk the straight and narrow, sings about her loose morals and dies. Carmen, however, does this without as much pathos as, say, Madame Butterfly. Someone lit a fire under Carmen, I like her. She's one sexy little slut. Anyway as the third skater of the evening glided out in red and black, looked enticingly over her shoulder, batter her perfectly mascaraed eyes at the judges and took of to "The March Of The Toreadors" my son said "just ONCE I want to see someone come out and start skating to The Piña Colada Song."

I actually took a shine to two of the skaters though. One was an Australian girl who didn't know she was even GOING to the Olympics until about 30 minutes before her flight took off. Okay, it was three weeks. Apparently Australia didn't qualify to have a skater go. Israel did. But the Israeli skater came in, I dunno, something like 22nd in the World Championships. This was good enough for the IOC but not, apparently, for the Israel Olympic Committee. Their rules say if you don't do better than 14th they don't care what the IOC says, you stay home and watch it on TV. (I hope Israel's coverage is better than the U.S. coverage, which basically sucks.) So, at the last minute, the little Australian girl was bundled onto a plane which landed in Vancouver.

This was, from what I gather, the first time she had ever competed in Senior's Ladies or whatever it's called. She was a junior, she's just turned 16. If she were from China, I would assume she was actually 12. But, as she's from Australia, I, for some unknown reason, assume that she's really 16 as the Australian's strike me as a people who don't lie about their age since the faster you grow up the faster you can legally buy a gallon can of Foster's at 9am.

Well, she skated her short program and I found myself routing that she would make the top 24 and be able to do the finals. She came in 18th. And she skated her long program on Thursday night. Now I have learned that junior skaters do a three and a half minute long program, senior skaters long program's are four minutes long. This girl was skating her first four minute long program. She was good. Young, cute, not going to win a medal but she was good. Until she passed 3 minutes and 30 seconds and ran out of steam faster than a train engine that's run out of coal. But she kept going. She jumped - and fell. Flat. She looked utterly exhausted, lying there on the ice for a split second. She looked as if she wanted to say "you guys go on ahead, I'll catch up with you." But she dragged herself up off the ice and finished her program, including one more somethingorother jump (which she landed).

I like that girl.

I also like the American girl who came in an unexpected fourth. I loved the look on her face and the "oh my GOD!" shriek she let out when she saw she had finished just shy of the bronze medal. And I really loved the story on the news about her last night. Seems that, in her forth place position when all was said and done, she's now expected to perform in the Figure Skating exhibition that always takes place at the end of the Winter Games. But...as this is her first Olympics and she, too, is just 16, and was basically hoping to avoid embarrassing herself this time as she starts working her way to the next winter games, well...she doesn't HAVE an exhibition program. It never occurred to her she might need one yet. So there she was yesterday, frantically choreographing a program for tonight's show with her best friend at the ice rink back home via Skype.

If there's a God, she'll use "The Piña Colada Song."

The joy of the "Annie Oakley"

First off. There a light at the end of my tunnel. How Freudian is THAT? As a rule, these lights are smack dab in the middle of a train engine. However, I have a 24 hour reprieve and that will, most likely, bring us a step closer to being able to sleep at night. The rat bastards at Wachovia are playing good cop/bad cop with us. Jeez, people, you're a freaking COMPANY, grow U.P.

However this 24 hours with combined with the phone number to our insurance agent which has resulted in an adjustment to our expected payment (because Wachovia maintains we had no insurance and was charging us for it) and the check that the hubster can pick up tomorrow from an employer who uses his skills free lance and had neglected to compensate him recently (no, nothing hostile about that, there was a change in bookkeeping procedures as well as the guy who implements said procedures and we sort of fell through a crack) will, I believe, enable us to maintain the car keys. Along with the ignition they fit.

I've been thinking about the changes that our not quite poverty has brought a lot recently though. We're not destitute. We have managed to keep a roof over our heads and, apparently, at least ONE car in our carport. Food on the table. Granted, there's a lot of rice and pasta but then, on the other hand, have you seen the SIZE of my sons? Yeah, it's sort of the glue that fills in between the protein.

But...some good things. I discovered something called The Treasure Box. Why was I not getting this before? Anyone can buy one. How cool is that? When my ship actually ties up at the same dock I'm standing on for a change I will still order my treasure boxes.

But the best thing is opening nights at the theater. Seriously. I spent I don't know how many thousands of dollars on theater tickets in my lifetime. I LOVE the theater. Especially musicals. Now, thanks to my son, who also loves theater, we have discovered how to go for free. Free theater. Several theaters here have big, opening night galas, press, VIPs, a real dress up night. Because it's such a special night they don't like empty seats. Not that they ever do, but, for some reason, they REALLY don't like them on opening night. So, at curtain time, the unsold seats and the will-calls that weren't picked up and the season tickets that were cancelled are given away.

We dress up and we hie ourselves to the theater about four hours before curtain. We bring a blanket and iPods and a deck of cards. Someone holds our place while someone else goes to the local Burger King and brings back 10 dollars worth of stuff off the dollar menu and one super duper large drink with several straws. And we sit and we play and we talk. And about 90 minutes before curtain we all get numbers and then about 30 minutes before curtain we all pack up and stand up in a single line and get ready.

And about 5 minutes before curtain the nice man from the Theater stands at the front of the line with a handful of tickets and we start. There's no guarantee your group will sit together. And he hands out tickets and he said "hurry, hurry, go straight to your seats" and then he goes to the box office area and we wait and hold our breath to see if he comes back with more tickets. Most of the time, he does. And by the time we get there (because our numbers are usually in the 60s) he's really hurrying us along but we smile and say "thank you so much" and then we RUN. And usually at least two of us end up next to each other.

Honestly? I wouldn't trade those long afternoons playing gin rummy outside the Ahmanson with my kids for for fourth row, center seats, bought and paid for.

We didn't get in once. The nice man felt bad and told us he really felt bad because we were dressed so nice. What part of "PLEASE DRESS FOR AN OPENING NIGHT" don't so many of these people GET? Honestly, appropriate dress does NOT consist of your clean jeans and best hoodie, people. The last time we were there the nice man actually had to bring his assistants out and take them up and down the line and say "THIS is what I expect you to look like the next time you're in this line".

Anyway, back to the time we DIDN'T get in to see "Parade". He gave us tickets to another show at another theater. Comps. The show wasn't doing very good business and we ended up...Fourth Row, Center. And thought the show was amazingly good. We would never have even thought to go otherwise.

So anyway, this Tuesday, we line up for "Dream Girls". We may get in, we may not. But the sheeer fun of waiting in line, goofing with my kids, chatting with strangers is worth the try. Had I not had to drop so much excess baggage from my life the last two years I would never have known about this. And I would have been missing so much.

Honestly, this one's just for me.

This isn't for anyone to read. It's not funny, it's not thought provoking, it's just a middle age woman losing it. I am angry. As angry as I've even been in my life. I have always been someone who just gives things away. Some guy shows up with a sob story on how he's going to be thrown out because he can't pay his rent and I've been right there with the checkbook. And it occurs to me now that if the people who owe me money, the people who boo hoo'd their way into my bank account would cough up HALF of what they own me I would not be such a whiney sack of nothing right now.

So, now the bank is coming for the car. You freaking rat bastards who are driving your cars because you can't pay me the money I came up with for you can just kiss my backside. I'm TIRED of being the one who always needs the hugs, I want to give them.

The good will of my friends must be strained to the limit by now and why not?

How does a person get to this age, smack dab in my mid-fifties, and be in worse shape then they were when they were 17? You spend your life trying to do for other people. You help them out, you give up your life for them. Seriously. I mean, how many years did I have what amounted to the sole care and feeding of my mother? My mother who couldn't function without someone in her life and when my father took off I ended up with 100% of the bill? But I did it, because I thought it was the right thing to do, and because I really believed that eventually, something would happen and I'd be able to live for me.

Then, we take on the double...a husband. And the kids. So here we are, dealing with parents and being parents. Wives, mothers, daughters, employees, housekeepers, bookkeepers, you name it. And then people wonder, why are we tired, cranky, weepy, depressed and angry?

I admit, my life is a train wreck the last few years. Some of it comes from trying to please everyone, take care of everyone. I've got three people dangling the carrot of redemption in front of me with schemes, plans, offers, everything's coming up roses, just hang in a little longer.

And here I sit, like an irresponsible teen-ager, with a rat bastard bank refusing to make any arrangements with us and coming to pick up the only car this week-end, thankyouverymuch.

Thank you blond lady who paid how many month's rent on our nickel and has been PROMISING to pay SOMETHING back since January 14?

Thank you, you lumbering wanna be screenwriter who squeezed my LAST available cash out of me with a sob story about imminent eviction only to come by six months later in a brand new, fully paid for car that his MOTHER bought and paid for? Dude, you're older than I am. You're NOT going to break into the 'business' now. Grow up.

But then, I chose to marry an artist, I blame myself a lot. An artist pleases themselves. Their spouses work any stinking job they can get because the artist is, well, an artist.

And maybe there's art in your soul too, not that you'll ever be able to put it on a canvass. You've been too busy working 40 hours a week and doing the dishes and cooking dinner and making sure the kids are out on time and getting good grades and, in short, being everything they can be instead of what you ended up being and now you can't even get in the damn car and drive 45 minutes up the coast and taste the salt air coming off the ocean.

I've lived without gas for heat or hot water in the winter, cooking everything on a hot plate, crock pot and an electric skillet. I've been without power. My home was sold out from under me. I've got a lawyer who says "don't worry" and then forgets to do whatever lawyer thing he was going to do, but he works pro-bono for us so we just sort of put up with whatever gets, or does not get done.

I jump every time I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I panic when the phone rings, when someone walks down a street behind me. This is my life now, 24/7.

And finally, I've just run out of steam .

I stayed up until midnight for THIS?

The Winter Games. Day 11.

My eyes are bloodshot. I sleep, maybe 4 hours a night. Otherwise, I might miss curling after dark. Eleven days of ice skating. Speed, short track. Pairs figure skating. Mens figure skating. And now, day three of ice dancing. Dear God, I know what a twizzle is.

There's always a lot of talk about the way ice skating is scored. I think I know what's wrong with it though. The rules are antiquated and the judges are so busy looking at twizzles and how many times a skater and grab his or her blade and use it to haul their foot over their head that they're missing the really obvious stuff.

So, in the interest of breathing new life into the sport, I have a few suggestions.

After the first three bars of that warbling violin solo that signals Scheherazade, a mandatory five point deduction will be taken for complete and total lack of originality. Anything from "Man of La Mancha" receives a three point deduction for the same reason unless you use "The Impossible Dream" in which case you will be disqualified.

"The Firebird" is banned. Actually, an argument could be made that all Stravinsky should be banned, just on general principles, but that doesn't really apply here. The penalty for using anything by Andrew Lloyd Webber is still being debated, it can be used for the 2011 competitions but don't get to attached to it. Unless it's from "Cats". Don't even bother, Cats will get you disqualified quicker than whacking your competitor's kneecaps.

Only one costume by Vera Wang is allowed per career, so you'd better be pretty damn sure it's a good one. Don't take the labels out and claim you found it at a vintage ice rink gift shop either, we're wise to that one.

As for the rest of it, use some common sense. Painting big glitter tears on your faces and skating to "Send in The Clowns" didn't do your cause any good. That couple who skated to the theme from "Love Story"? I can't even GO there. I've got an idea. Next time, put on your afternoon around the house duds, lace up your skates and crank up "Cousin Dupree" by Steely Dan THAT'LL get the crowd going.

Eleven freaking nights of nymphs leaping across the ice and do any of you hear the audience clapping in time to your music? Guess why?

You're boring! Go down to Amoeba records, plug in the headphones and get some new music!

You, guy in the form fitting black turtleneck bodysuit leaping to Scheherazade? Next short program I'd like to see you in a big plaid jacket, looking something like one of the MacKenzie brothers and doing an interpretive dance to "The Lumberjack Song". Where you stash the bra is up to you. Slap on a Fedora and do your final to the theme from "Raiders of the Lost Ark". Or "Beat It", which would enable you to wear more bling. AND the fedora. While we're talking headgear, how about "You Can Leave Your Hat On." Jeez, I'd be happy to hear "I'm a Little Teapot" at this point.

Stop hanging on to your foot too. Who the hell decided that was worth extra points? Every morning I get up, get dressed, sit on the edge of my bed and haul my overweight, middle age thigh up by my foot where I ceremoniously drop it in my lap and hope it stays there long enough for me to get my shoes tied. No one gives me extra points for that.

Call me, I'm listed. You can borrow my iPod.