HOOKED ON OSCAR

The Flaming Bore's take on last night's Academy Awards presentation:

1. First off, I would like to thank my ol' friend Barb for calling before the show to tell me she was sending up a can of whup-ass weather from Oklahoma. The thunderstorm arrived just in time to knock out our satellite dish twenty minutes into the show. Good job, Barb.

2. I've been a James Franco fan ever since he did a TV movie about James Dean back in 2001, but as a co-host in tuxedo/strait jacket he looked soooo uncomfortable and was struggling to read the cue cards out of the sides of his eyes. When he wasn't in his tux, he was fine and funny. If there's a next time around, trade in the tux for a T-shirt and sweatpants, James.

3. As is usually the case, few of my favorites were winners. The only exception was Christian Bale, but not because of his supporting actor performance in The Fighter. Back in 2000 he starred in a cuckoo-fest called American Psycho that I don't think anyone saw but Library Lady and me, and he was the BEST controlled perverted maniac ever. When he started running through his yuppy apartment building naked with chainsaw, I knew he had a future...in something.

4. There is a tendency for Best Actor Oscars to go to those who play real people afflicted with one disorder or another. Alcoholism, autism, mental retardation, compulsive disorder, quadraplegia, schizophrenia--Oscar has seen it all, so I wasn't surprised when Colin Firth won last night for portraying a royal stutterer in the biopic The King's Speech. Now, I like Colin Firth okay, but Big Bore and I agreed that a movie about a stutterer doesn't sound all that dynamic, but we haven't seen it, so what do we know. I'm afraid, however, that this trend may lead to even more bio movies that sound ho-hum, like The Czar's Bunions or The Queen's Hangnail.

5. Back in the days of yore, Library Lady and I used to have our own Oscar Night party and come dressed as a movie character of the year. She was always creative--one year she was a glowing Karen Silkwood from the nuclear thriller Silkwood. Another time she was Gandhi, complete with mustache and bedsheet sari. I always dressed the same, since every year there seemed to be a movie that featured a hooker with a heart of gold. What a great excuse to drag out my pink and purple paisley, thigh-length ho dress from my college days. It was always high drama to see if I could squeeze into it for another year. Sounds like a title for a great movie, doesn't it? The Ho's Hips. Playing at a theatre near you.

See you at the movies.

RAINING FLOWERS

While I was rummaging through old Midwest Living magazines earlier this week when visiting Big Sis, "Eureka! I have found a new crafty project for spring!"

This looks like something I can throw together in one sitting. No talent required and, oh, so chic to place on the front porch of Casa de la Flaming Bore when spring arrives.

When I got back home, I went straight to work. No sense going from store to store trying to find the perfect umbrella. I got on the Internet and found exactly what I wanted within a minute--a child's purple parasol with curly-q handle. Ordered, stat.

Next, I made a stop at Michael's while in Wichita yesterday, stalking through the aisles searching for ribbon and artificial flowers and greenery that didn't look too fakey--pink tulips, yellow daffodils, and some smaller pink and yellow wildflowers. As soon as the umbrella arrives by UPS in a few days, I'll be ready to go into an arranging frenzy.

This better be as easy as it looks!!! In the meantime, I'm starting on a new bowling ball project as soon as I get my morning chores done. A girl can never have too many bowling balls in her yard!

A MISFIRE (AKA: "OH, FUUUUUUUUDGE!")

If I lived in Utah or Arizona, I would be fuming over how their state lawmakers are wasting time. Utah has recently passed legislation to designate the Browning M1911 semiautomatic pistol as the "official state firearm." Arizona may soon be voting on whether or not to designate the Colt revolver as its "official state firearm." What the heck is going on out west? Have they lost their minds?

State flowers and birds and trees are okay, I guess, and I didn't moan too much when Kansas designated the box turtle as its "state reptile" a few years back and the honeybee was declared the "state insect"--although I think ladybugs are cuter. But a firearm? Ridiculous. The sponsor of the Colt legislation in Arizona defended his action saying only 120 seconds were spent working on the bill's creation. Well, I'd say that's about two minutes too damned much.

If the lawmakers in Kansas ever decide to jump on the wagon train and take up arms, I'm going to be screaming all the way to Topeka. The only way I would EVER accept such an assinine idea is if our state designates the "Official Red Ryder 200-Shot Range Model Air Rifle with a Compass in the Stock and This Thing That Tells Time" as our state firearm. Then we could replace our current state motto, "Ad Astra Per Aspera" with "You'll Shoot Your Eye Out" and everyone would be happy.

PEA BRAIN

Recently I received an email from the good folks at Best Buy asking the tantalizing question: "Do you want to see the Black-Eyed Peas live?" Good god, no! After having the misfortune of viewing their Super Bowl halftime performance on TV a few weeks ago, make that a definite, emphatic, no doubt about it NO! Best Buy couldn't pay me to attend one of their concerts.

Although I have to admit Fergie has a rockin' solid, albeit knock-kneed, body in her little alien outfit, her pitchy screeching at the SBowl left me flat. The Pea Boys weren't as bad, but their dance troupe (I guess they were supposed to be robotic glow-sticks) were simply too robotic for my taste.

Anyway, I emailed back to Best Buy, thanking the business for its invitation, but said I would most certainly rather eat black-eyed peas, rotten ones, than go to a Black-Eyed Peas concert. Then I got an automated response back telling me not to respond to their email. Fine with me. Remove me from your mailing list, if you like. But please, no Peas.

TODAY IN HISTORY

From out of the photo archives and into the dishpan, today is not only the 279th birthday of the Father of our Country George Washington, but it's also the 56th birthday of the Father of the Remote Control, our dear Big Bore (age 3 months in the photo above, experiencing his first-ever Water Fart). Washington is famous for the saying, "I cannot tell a lie!" Big Bore is famous for once crying out in our kitchen, "I cannot smell the pie!" And there you have it. Your history lesson for today.

RUNAWAY

A question on an episode of "Family Feud" yesterday asked, "What would a 7-year-old take when running away from home?" That prompted another question from Big Bore.

"Did you ever run away from home when you were a kid?"

"Oh, sure," I answered. "I was probably 8 or 9--grade school, anyway. I can't remember what I was mad about, but I do recall announcing to Mom that I was leaving and she'd be sorry." Didn't we ALL try that song and dance at least once during our formative years?

"Where'd you go?" BB asked.

"As far as the brick trash burner out in the backyard," I said. "There was a hedge on the west side of it, and I stuffed myself between it and the burner. It was a good hiding spot."

Well, my plan was to stay there until Mom came running out in the backyard, frantic, shouting my name, and apologizing.

"Nancy Elizabeth!!! Where are you?? Please come home!! I'm so sorry!! You were right and I was wrong!! I'll do anything if you just come back home!!" Everything a kid wants to hear.

The trouble was, it didn't happen. I waited and waited. No Mom. No apology. No begging for forgiveness. Sonova____.

Eventually, it started getting dark. I was also getting hungry. Time to eat crow and go in for supper. When I sulked inside the house, Mom didn't say a word to me. It was like she hadn't even missed me. Geeesh! She took all the fun out of running away. What a spoilsport.

Years later Mom told me she knew where I was the entire time I'd "run away." She'd looked out a back window as soon as I stormed out of the house and saw where I hid. So much for making her worry. Our mother/daughter family feud had ended about as soon as it began--I just didn't know it.

TELLING IT LIKE IT ISN'T

Since I'm a diehard KU basketball fan, for better or for worse, I keep up with the news releases and comments on kusports.com. A variety of intellects respond to this site, but one of the most opinionated and funny is "jaybate," who recently outdid himself with this sarcastic remark to a story about two KU players who made the Big 12 All-Academic Team. Here's a portion of his response to these superior student athletes:

"....How lame are these guys for getting high GPAs, graduating, and being in grad school? I resent how inferior I am to these guys. Cut me some slack. I have to complain about something because my wife uses me for an emotional tampon and doesn't give me any. My father never thought I was as good as my brother. My boss uses me for scutt work. The adult video store has cut off my credit. My car has been repossessed--twice, and I haven't had steak in two months...."

And you thought YOU were having a bad day.

DROP ZONE

Okay. Enough is enough. Time to excavate the bedroom and hang up clothes. Let's take inventory: one sweatshirt, one t-shirt, one pair sweatpants, two pairs of socks, two bras, and one pair of undies strewn on the floor; three pairs of sweatpants, one pair slacks, one top slung over the quilt rack. Somewhere underneath is a quilt.

If this was the 1950s or early 60s and I was back home sharing a room with Big Sis, the above scenario would be grounds for war. Not some minor spat. Oh, no. We're talking Battle of the Little Big Horn, the bombing at Pearl Harbor, and Braveheart all rolled into one. Sis couldn't stand my slovenly ways, and I thumbed my nose at her neatness. Back then, we didn't have a quilt rack so I targeted door knobs as my main clothing drop-off spot. It drove her CRAZY!!!! Big Bore is another story. He could care less. He has his own little stash of clothes building up on the bedroom floor. As long as he can move around in the kitchen, he's happy.

Now, I am nowhere near the slob I used to be; in fact I have a good excuse. The dresser drawers are stuffed to the gills and my craft basket has been blockading the closet since Christmas. Yes, I still have ornaments rolling around and spools of ribbon ready for the cats to unwind. So, today and today only, I will find a better place to stash the basket and get the clothes put away. I promise. When tomorrow morning arrives, another clothing explosion may have hit the bedroom, but at least they will be different articles of apparel than the current ones. And I call that progress.

OUR CEILING GHOST

There is an old water stain on our bedroom ceiling that both Big Bore and I noticed one day has the appearance of a woman's face. She is a little Victorian lady with high cheek bones, deep-set eyes, and hair piled atop her head. See her? I've darkened this picture so maybe your imagination will have an easier time making out her features. She has a tiny button nose and frowning lips. Come on. Tell me we are not hallucinating. She is Mrs. Walter Moonlight, first lady of this home, and she watches over us every night. Seriously. I would have this stain repaired/removed except for the fact that I would miss her. Michaelangelo had his ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. We have our ceiling lady. This house has character--mainly, Mrs. Moonlight.

OUT OF A CANNON

I think the reason my great neph Brandon Matthew (I guess that's his name, although I've never called him that) is nicknamed Boomer is because he always seems to be a blast of energy in motion. He especially seems to enjoy challenging me whenever I have a camera in my hands. If I say, "Sit still and smile for the camera," he delights in running around or hiding his face. At his house he has a special race track from the living room, into the kitchen, through the bathroom, to the hallway, and back---with sometimes a rest stop in a bedroom just for good measure.

Somehow, I caught him in the act a few days ago as he was flying through the living room. The camera shutter must have been set at warp speed because he's not the blur that I usually get. Gotcha this time!

ATTACK OF THE TWO-HEADED BOY

Well, once again I have tried to take pictures of the little ones, and once again I have not been prepared for the unexpected. This was supposed to be a picture of 4-year-old Boomer by himself, but Baby Sweet William dashed into the viewfinder right as the release button went off. Boomer thought it was pretty funny that it appears his head is growing out of William's shoulder. Retakes were few and far between because some dumbo photographer forgot to recharge her camera battery. Oops! Maybe next time around.....

COMPUTER RAGE

The past few days we've been watching two of "Jeopardy's" top brainiacs compete against a computer named Watson, one of IBM's creations, and Big Bore is in a ball of snit (as in agitation, and not a ball of snot) because the computer is kicking ass...big time.

"The next thing you know we'll be electing a computer for president," he grumbled. "This is like some 'Twilight Zone' movie." As in scary.

"It's just another example of how Big Brother is watching," he continued in Orwellian authority. "Computers are going to be able to take over the world."

He was especially upset that the "Jeopardy" audience was responding to Watson.

"They're clapping for a damned computer! What's wrong with them?" he raged on.

Tomorrow is the last day Watson will be on the show--and not a minute too soon. It's rather boring watching this computer rattle out the correct answers in record speed. I much prefer having three human brains compete against each other. And Big Bore can calm down and quit sounding like a grumpy old man...at least from 4:30 to 5 PM, anyway.

LADY GAG ME

One of last night's "60 Minutes" segments featured an interview with pop icon (?) Lady Gaga, and I guess I really must be showing my age because I couldn't find even a tiny bit of anything interesting about her. My guess is that all the outrageous outfits and stage theatrics (including fireworks blowing out of her ass and breasticles) are supposed to cover up the fact that she has no actual talent. Of course, she's a Grammy-winning millionaire, so what do I know? If Lady Gaga wants to go with the Gag Factor, so be it. In the meantime, would somebody please toss that girl a mop and clean her up?

MAD ABOUT BIEBER

The latest MAD magazine cover features a cross between the mag's mascot Alfred E. Neuman and teen heartthrob Justin Bieber. This is what happens when the comic gene pool gets mixed up...and I love it!

I became a MAD fan many decades ago when Brother Beans brought them home during his rebellious teen years. Mama Bore didn't seem to care. At least we were reading...something. I enjoyed the sharp satire and the parodies on movies and TV shows. The writers had a great way of poking fun---but not maliciously.

Personally, I think the Biebermeister will be pleased with this cover. I've seen him on a number of TV shows, and he seems to have a good sense of humor about himself. Why should he care if MAD dogs his hair, book, movie, and music? He's a teen millionaire who is laughing all the way to the bank, joining Alfred E. in his mantra of, "What, me worry?"

If I wasn't so damned old, I'd become a Biebot, join his fan club, and start a scrapbook on him---just like I did when the Beatles were invading America. Making the cover of MAD is just another feather in his hairy little cap. You go, JB!

WISHFUL THINKING

To heck with all my snow pictures! Today I'm posting springtime in my zinnia garden. Soon? Maybe? A woman has the right to dream the impossible dream. Right? TGIF, and here's to the weekend thaw!

CHANGE

Excuse me for moaning, but I HATE CHANGE!!!! Recently I had to purchase a new computer before the old one croaked, and I've had a bitch of a time making the adjustment. The worst was getting my Internet and email to work. I was on the phone with my ISP last night for 45 minutes trying to get all the new connection codes entered. In the middle of it all, my tinnitus kicked in and it's been a buzzy mess ever since.

The Internet works the same, but the email is something different, no longer Outlook Express. This one is the "new and improved" email that has a menu that would rival anything at a 5-star restaurant. I don't need all these options. It took me 3o minutes just to figure out where the address book is located because it's no longer called an address book. Sonuva.....

Big Bore keeps telling me I will get used to my new computer---if I don't first go insane from the tinnitus. CHANGE STINKS.

SNOWBOUND

Tuesday Ramblings

It's snowing again today. Big fat, puffy flakes that have been falling for hours. Another good day to cuddle up with a book, although my current read is a Stephen King newbie and nothing he writes comes close to being cuddling material--blood curdling, maybe.

KU beat Evil Mizzou last night on the basketball court. Rock Chalk, my Jayhawks! Big Bore actually watched the entire game with me AND even clapped and cheered our boys on to victory. I'll make a rabid KU fan out of him yet. He keeps advocating that all 'Hawk fans need to wear yellow shoes to the games--the bird is the word.

We had plans to go to Pittsburg tomorrow to visit the family. Today is Mama Bore's 87th birthday, plus I have Valentine's Day goodies for the wee ones. Not sure now if we're going to make it, as the weather may put the skids on any travel. If that's the case, I'll just continue my hibernation with Stephen King and keep reading about madness and mayhem.

OH, SAY CAN YOU SING?

Did anyone out in cyberland watch the Super Bowl pre-game show last night and experience super agony when pop singer Christina Aguilera sang "The National Anthem?" It was torture!!

Now, at first I didn't say anything, just thinking my ears were acting up again. Did she just mess up that third line?" I thought. But then Big Bore blurted out, "What the hell is she singing?" and I knew I wasn't just the only person who wasn't feeling so proudly about what she was hailing, or wailing, or whatever it was she was doing.

"I'm not sure what she's singing, but it can't be The National Anthem," I answered.

I consider myself an anthem expert because once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away, I used to sing it before Fredonia High School basketball games in three-part harmony with a girls trio. We played it straight. No runs up the octave scale or drawn-out words. Our philosophy was to get it sung in 60 seconds. Otherwise, it was too long.

I didn't time Christina, but it was obvious her rendition was burned beyond recognition. And worse yet, she was probably getting paid tens of thousands of dollars to screw it up! Aaaaggghhhh!!! Joe Cocker on acid could have done a better job. Of course, what else should we expect from someone who became famous singing, "Gitchy, gitchy, gitchy, yah, yah, yah"???

On a more positive note, a new episode of "Glee" came on after the game, and BB and I were simply super bowled over when the Guy Gleeks sang, "She's Not There," a 1964 standard by The Zombies. Remember them? Applause, applause, encore, encore, standing ovation!!

Next year, we suggest that the Super Bowl planning committee just recruit some random high school glee club to sing "The National Anthem" and spare all of us the misery. The results will be ever so much better...and cheaper.

TRIPPING OUT

The other night Big Bore tried to locate Mount Rushmore on Google Earth, so I was compelled to drag out this old picture of Big Sis, Beans, and me (circa 1952) with those four famous faces. Who looks more stoned--the presidents or the goobers in front? It's a toss-up.

This was the one and only family trip we ever took, and I have absolutely no recollection of it. I think Beans would probably like to forget he ever wore red socks and black tennis shoes…and, no, he is not otherwise stark naked in this picture. It just looks that way. As usual, Big Sis has the pained expression of one who wishes she didn’t have two younger siblings hanging around.

This second picture is on the same family excursion up at Glacier National Park. I’m not sure what the deal is with me showing off my underpants--maybe I’m trying to explain that cool red socks run in the family--who knows. I always did have a knack for ruining family photos. That’s Mama Bore in the stylish sun dress and wacky hair-do.

Big Bore and I are in the talking stages right now of taking a late summer trip to Glacier, and believe me, if we are lucky enough to get to go, I will NOT be packing short dresses and red socks!

HAVE A COOKIE

Well, Big Bore and I got through January without blowing our diets, and we each lost 10 pounds. I have 15 more to go, and we don’t even want to talk about what he has left because it’s mildly depressing. I have created my own diet, which I call "The No Diet." Anything that tastes good is a NO.

And speaking of cookies :) ….my diet really hasn’t been too hard to follow (outta sight, outta mind) until the Girl Scouts recently came calling with their cookie sales. I can never refuse a scout of any kind, so I’ve purchased five boxes so far. I will put them in the freezer until such time I’m allowed to celebrate upon reaching my weight loss goal--hopefully before the next millennium.

Whoever writes up the cookie sales sheet for the scouts needs to provide a better description for them. When my super great niece Maddie was selling over the telephone recently, I asked her, “What’s a Thanks-A-Lot Cookie?” after she read it from her list. It’s something new.

“Well, it’s flat and brown and it has some lines and letters on it,” she said.

“I mean what flavor is it?”

“I don’t know.”

And sure enough, she’s right. The little neighbor gal was over here yesterday with the sales sheet, and she had no clue what a “Thanks-A-Lot” is, either. From looking at picture on the sheet, my guess is it’s shortbread half dipped in chocolate. Whatever. I went ahead and ordered a box of something flat, brown, with “thanks” written on it in five languages.

I actually look upon my Girl Scout purchases as a weight loss incentive. The sooner I lose these damned pounds, the sooner I get to bust open a box of those fabulous cookies and chow down. So, here’s shouting out a big Gracias, Danke, Merci, Grazie, and Thanks to all my scouting friends for helping me stick to my diet!!
　
　
　
　

SHOVE-L IT

Big Bore and I decided to dig ourselves out of the snow yesterday morning. Even though our town only received about a 6-8 inch dump of the stuff, the wind caused drifts in the backyard and driveway that were over two feet high, and there was no way we were going anywhere until we did some serious snow removal.

I’m not much help with such a task, even though I like to pretend that I am. Basically, I just get in the way. The snow was dry and light, so I started out all gung-ho, freeing the car’s back tires from a drift that had blown into the garage, but my lower back soon played out--well before the driveway was cleared. I tossed aside the shovel and tried the raking method, then just ended up stomping and kicking the drifts around. The scatter method is what Big Bore called it. While he was methodically cutting the snow into small sections and neatly clearing each patch all the way down to the cement, my areas were a mess. "That looks like you just set off a bomb in the snow," BB remarked. True.

Next, I decided to drive the car back and forth in the driveway as far as I could--while BB continued shoveling. Now, mind you, I cannot even steer the car straight out of the drive on a clear summer day, so I don’t know what possessed me to think I could do it with snow all over the place. Big Bore was wary right from the start.

“Use your side mirrors!” he yelled. He knows I NEVER use the side mirrors. I don’t trust them. I always just crank my head around and, in the process, crank the steering wheel around, and the next thing you know I’m ready to crash into the house.

Well, he got safely out of the way, put his hands over his eyes, and I just gave it the gas until the Saturn was somehow out in the middle of the street. "Hooray! Free at last!" I drove the car haphazardly in and out of the driveway, only briefly getting stuck one time out in the street, and soon we were ready to roll. Ta-Dum! No more shoveling needed!

Fortunately, I don't have driving privileges past the front of our house until the spring thaw.

　
　
　
　
　

MORE BIRD WATCHING

Fluffy and Critter spent most of yesterday watching birds flying around with the snow out one of the living room windows. The feeder hangs from an eave, only a few feet away. After the cats kept jumping up to the window for a better view, Big Bore got them a step stool and that's where they stayed for hours at a time. --I've got to hand it to the birds. For as little as they are, they sure do tolerate the cold well and they sure enjoy antagonizing the cats. I could almost hear them twittering: "You can't catch me! You can't catch me!" as they fluttered in front of their captive audience.

THE NOSE KNOWS

(The Flaming Bore is in Brain Freeze-Mode this morning because the weather has turned frightfully cold; therefore, I am re-printing a dandy little essay I wrote maybe ten years ago. It's longer than my usual blog, so set your snooze alarm.)

Is there anyone out there besides me who detests those scent strips that seem to have invaded magazine advertising in recent years? The perfume industry has created some noxious plot with the publishers to bombard readers with their stinkin' ads, thinking that this is a great idea to generate sales. I say it smells of a conspiracy.

The other day I settled down with my Entertainment Weekly and a turkey sandwich, prepared to read all about the "eternally hip" John Travolta, when I was attacked by the "essence" of Calvin Klein's "one"--touted as a unisex "fragrance for a man AND a woman." Now, it was bad enough that the models pictured with the ad looked like anorexic heroin addicts who had escaped from a circus freak show, BUT the worst part about it was the accompanying scent strip.

In the good old days, one had to scratch and sniff a pre-treated area on the perfume ad before being exposed to the lethal fumes. Thanks to advanced aroma technology, however, the reader is now immediately overwhelmed by the stench upon getting withing 50 feet of the infected magazine. Removing the culprit does little to cure the problem, as a lingering odor seems to permeate every page.

The effects these scent strips have on their victims obviously varies from sniffer to sniffer. I, fortunately, only suffer from day-long throbbing headaches and slight nausea. There is rumored to be medical documentation, however, of more sensitive smellers who've landed in trauma units when their lungs became clogged with aroma residue upon opening their magazines. Call 9-1-1! This is not good.

So, to combat the onslaught on noses everywhere, I took it upon myself to counterattack with a letter-writing campaign to every magazine that has fallen prey to this maddening advertising trend. One must be assertive when dealing with the forces of evil. I got out my pen and paper and proceeded to write EW a kind request to eliminate its use of scent strips. I labored over the wording, attempting to avoid any hints of hostility, and proofread my work, which wasn't easy considering the fact that Calvin's "one" was starting to cloud my vision.

When the masterpiece was ready to mail, I cautiously re-opened the magazine to locate an address for the envelope. Lo and behold, right there in fine print, was the following message: "Entertainment Weekly sometimes carries ads containing perfume or cologne samples. Subscribers who would prefer copies without the scent strips should..." write or call a toll-free number. I scrapped my letter and staggered to the phone, regardless of the fact that my previous experiences calling 1-800 numbers have typically left me subjected to elevator music for 45 minutes--another aggravation of life that will need to be addressed in a separate diatribe.

I am pleased to report that Entertainment Weekly only kept me waiting for 13 seconds before Norma of Customer Service came on the line to forever free me from the torture of scented advertising in that particuar magazine. Of course, it will take two to three weeks to make the necessary adjustments, but that's all right. I'll need about the same amount of time to recover from "one."

I think that it's mighty nice that publishers are finally giving their subscribers an option to have stink-free magazines, but this still doesn't solve the problem for those who buy magazines right off the rack or check them out from the library. Perhaps a warning label could be attached by the Surgeon General: "This magazine contains one of those obnoxious scent strips that could possibly make you violently ill or give you the appearance of being an anorexic herion addict who has escaped from a circus freak show." Either way, beware!!