var HOST = ''; // Copyright (c) 1996-1997 Athenia Associates. // // License is granted if and only if this entire // copyright notice is included. By Tomer Shiran. function setCookie (name, value, expires, path, domain, secure) { var curCookie = name + "=" + escape(value) + ((expires) ? "; expires=" + expires.toGMTString() : "") + ((path) ? "; path=" + path : "") + ((domain) ? "; domain=" + domain : "") + ((secure) ? "; secure" : ""); document.cookie = curCookie; } function getCookie (name) { var prefix = name + '='; var c = document.cookie; var nullstring = ''; var cookieStartIndex = c.indexOf(prefix); if (cookieStartIndex == -1) return nullstring; var cookieEndIndex = c.indexOf(";", cookieStartIndex + prefix.length); if (cookieEndIndex == -1) cookieEndIndex = c.length; return unescape(c.substring(cookieStartIndex + prefix.length, cookieEndIndex)); } function deleteCookie (name, path, domain) { if (getCookie(name)) document.cookie = name + "=" + ((path) ? "; path=" + path : "") + ((domain) ? "; domain=" + domain : "") + "; expires=Thu, 01-Jan-70 00:00:01 GMT"; } function fixDate (date) { var base = new Date(0); var skew = base.getTime(); if (skew > 0) date.setTime(date.getTime() - skew); } function rememberMe (f) { var now = new Date(); fixDate(now); now.setTime(now.getTime() + 365 * 24 * 60 * 60 * 1000); setCookie('mtcmtauth',, now, '', HOST, ''); setCookie('mtcmtmail',, now, '', HOST, ''); setCookie('mtcmthome', f.url.value, now, '', HOST, ''); } function forgetMe (f) { deleteCookie('mtcmtmail', '', HOST); deleteCookie('mtcmthome', '', HOST); deleteCookie('mtcmtauth', '', HOST); = ''; = ''; f.url.value = ''; } //-->
Doin' the time to get the dime. Her Momma did NOT raise her to drink cheap champagne.

April 09, 2004

I've Got a NEW Attitude


Fair Readers,

As many of you (read: ME) may have noticed, my last three blog titles with the exception of yesterday's and including today have been lyrics. (Gee that chick is whacky!) No, I don't really think that I'm a rock star, and I certainly don't think I am a monkey. Although I have been known to eat shit from time to time. (So! DAMN! PUNNY!). I am sure you all are sitting on the edge of your collective seats wondering what I am trying to signal to you. I'll tell you. Come closer. Closer. Closer. (DAMMIT! I said CLOSER!) Thank you. *wink wink*

When I was little, I wanted to be Vanna White. Vanna, in all her letter rotating later to become touch screening, one bad outfit after the other, need sunglasses to look at her teeth, Wheel of Fortune glory. We didn't have TV when I was little, but the minute I went to a friend's house, I'd grab the TV guide, pawing through it, noting the next time that WOF aired. Miraculously, I'd show up at the door at 6:00 every evening, like a stray dog. "Can we feed you?" my friend's mom asked, and I'd just shake my head no. "Are you lost?" she'd inquire. Head shake. "MOOM! She's here to watch WOF" "You are?" Nod. Nod. "Ummm. Okay. C'mon in, hon." And I'd glide in as if their living room was my own studio and mimic turn those letters with her. I smiled when she smiled. I gestured when she gestured. I whirled when she whirled. When I knew the answers, I kept my lips pressed in that knowing, demure smile. I. WAS. VANNA. MOTHERFUCKING. WHITE.

Given that I am 28 now, and Vanna doesn't look like she's going to croak anytime soon, I have decided that it is time for desperate measures. I need a new career. Which leads me back to the song lyrics. I have decided that I will do personal interpretations of song lyrics that strike my fancy. Kind of a William Shatner meets Irene Cara, if you will.

When I was 20, my Uncle Jimmy asked me what I was going to be when I grow up. "Famous," said I, confident in my undiscovered abilities. And I'm not just talking about my 15 minutes. I want the whole damn hour. I am certain that my interpretative talents and penchance for unusual dance moves coupled with the love of All that is TOP 40 will be my vehicle. And I, the willing driver.

THHPPPT. Yes. I am kidding. About the lyrics. Vanna White? No. As soon as I found out that Dan Akroyd left Saturday Night Live and that I would never get to replace Jane Curtin and hear "Jane, you ignorant slut," spill from his lips, I was heartbroken. Still am. It's all his fault. Blame him.

TCWH's SANITY SPEAKING: Of course I realize that this post is a direct result of my NOT leaving the house for the last five days. I'm going, I'm going. With the owner of the glasses. If I have to tell you which glasses in which picture I'm referring to, you're in trouble. I'm sure it will be a fun and frolickin' times. I'll post pics tomorrow.

by Alex at 06:35 AM | Comments (8) | TrackBack (1)
Beyond the Black Hole links with: What smells like tuna in here?
on April 9, 2004 03:05 PM Surfcat said:

Girl you already are a rockstar! You look like Vanna, but rock like a combo of Stevie Nicks and Pat Benetar! You are classy, funny and beautiful - plus you have the gift of writing beautifully and touching people (in a whiny voice: I didn't mean it like that)! I remember the glasses. Very cool for an ultra-nerd! I have to go back to work now... Now where is my diphenhydramine? I need a drink.

on April 9, 2004 05:12 PM Howard said:

You still want those Bubba teeth?

on April 10, 2004 01:00 AM Alex said:


I should stalk you more often. I came home last night and read all your comments after I was ummmm...altered, and what a pleasant surprise they were when the fog cleared this morning. YIPPEE!

on April 10, 2004 01:02 AM Alex said:


If you're drinking, I'm buying. Or the other way around!

on April 10, 2004 02:17 AM rachel said:

Man... I wanted to be in playboy.. what is wrong with me?

on April 10, 2004 05:03 PM Smitty said:

Hopefully you're not the Eggman or the Walrus, either. Coo Coo Cachoo! LOL

on April 12, 2004 09:56 AM TCWH said:


Believe me, if I had the boobs or the body, I'd be all over THAT magazine. Money, money, money!

on April 13, 2004 06:56 AM Simon said:

So where's the photos?

Post a comment

Remember personal info?