Many, many, (many to the tenth power) years ago, I was young, adventuresome and caught in a downpour trying to get from Vineyard Haven where my cousin and I had gone to swim back to Oak Bluffs where we were staying (this is Martha’s Vineyard folks).  We had walked there but now we were soaked.  So my cousin decides what we really need to do is hitchhike the rest of the way.

Now, a few years back, when we were teenagers we’d hitchhiked as a group.  Our caveat was that we we only allowed to accept rides from little old ladies.  Yeah, we followed that.  But on this particular day I was convinced that no one was going to stop for two soaking wet women but an ax murderer with a gun under his seat.  You can see that at an early age I had a flair for murderous fantasy.

Still I wasn’t too worried since not a soul stopped for us . . . until a lone car slows and eventually stops in front of us.  The first thing I notice as we approach the car is that there is a baby seat in the back.  So okay, how bad could he be if he’s got a back seat stuffed with baby toys?  Still, as the two of us squeeze into the front seat, I tell my cousin to get in first since this was her idea.  If this guy starts anything I’m throwing myself from the car.

So we’re finally in and I’m so squished I can’t see who’s driving.  I can only hear his voice, which sounds oddly familiar.  He’s telling us about how he only stopped for us because he was lost and he was hoping we could tell him how to get back to where he was staying.

And it hits me who the voice belongs to.  I can’t see him, so I have to ask.  “I may be completely crazy, but are you Richard Dreyfuss?”  He laughs and says, “Yeah, and my hobby is picking up strange women in the rain.”  My cousin elbows me and tells me she was trying to play it cool.  Oh, well.

Well, we show him where to go, then he drops us off at our B&B (The Pequot, by the way, only two blocks).  We try to tell him how to get back to where he’s staying.  From the befuddled look he gave us we figured he’d be looking for some other drenched folks for further instruction.

The funny thing is, this happened a couple of years after Jaws was filmed on the island.  So it couldn’t have been his first time there.

But THAT is where I got the idea for my hero Jarad Naughton’s faulty sense of direction in Spellbound.

And, yes, I did climb the mountainside at Gay Head on a dare.  What the hell was I thinking?!?

No, not one of my novels but my baby offspring.  She’s the one in the front row in the hat.  She and her brother (who, incidentally, has sported a mohawk every summer for the last three years) go to this church to listen to underground or alternative bands.  Good clean fun.  Most of the kids I know who go are in Catholic school, driven by or picked up by parents (often me or my husband).

To the neighborhood I say, lighten up.  They may be loud and dressed in a way your generation deems inappropriate, but at least the pack of teenagers on the street isn’t hitting you over the head or thiefing your purse.  Not that night, anyway.

Now McCain is likening Obama to such political luminaries as Britney Spears and Paris Hilton, calling Obama the biggest celebrity in the world. Is that all you’ve got McCain? Obama isn’t qualified to run the country because . . . people like him? Whoa! Ride him out of town on a rail for that.

I’m sure you can find video of that commercial all over the web. Here’s another bit of video that is just plain sad. I also admit most of it is taken out of context, but it’s still pitiful.

McCain is reminding me more and more of some old curmudgeon crabby because his lap rug is out of place.  So my message to McCain–quit grousing grandpa.  Go on and take your nap now.  You’ll feel better later.

Give up?

It’s Bobby Sherman’s birthday. Maybe you have to be a baby boomer to care, but Bobby turns 64 today. That’s right the hearththrob of Here Come the Brides is a senior citizen.

Sherman dropped out of sight, becoming a policeman, after the series faded, but when He sang Julie, Julie, Julie, Do You love me? I substituted Dee dee, Dee dee, Dee dee–and swooned with everybody else.

Sigh. Now Bobby’s old enough to get the seniors discount at the movies. I guess it had to happen sometime, but there seems to be something very bizarre in that.

I haven’t seen the movie, but my nephew was there for the first midnight show in our area–come to think of it, he never did call to tell me what he thought of it. As y’all know, I’m much more of a Netflix kind of gal. I watch when I can eat my own damn popcorn. LOL

But does this whole hoopla strike anyone but me as being kind of morbid? I mean doesn’t it seem like folks want to see it just because Heath Ledger is dead? I’ve been a big fan of his since the commercial bomb but personal love, A Knight’s Tale, so it’s not as if I haven’t been following her career. Still, I wonder if people would be so quick to rush out to see the movie if Ledger had lived.

But let’s focus on the positive. It doesn’t surprise me there’s Oscar buzz around his performance. I hope he gets the nomination at least. I still loved Jack Nicholson as the Joker, though. Eventually I’ll see this new one to compare.

I have to admit it . . . I’m a sucker for muscles, watching them move and flex and extend. Men who use those muscles gracefully are the sexiest of all if you ask me. So, whenever there’s a man doing a grand jete, I’m there applauding.

I got my first taste of the dancer’s bug when I was a wee lassie and my mom took me to see the American Ballet Theater. One of the pieces had to do with war. Whenever Death, in the form of a strong male dancer, appeared, others fell, and I was entranced. Who’d have guessed I’d become a pacifist?

Earlier this year I swooned over the performances given by the Dance Theater of Harlem given at City Center. It was the first time I’d seen their signature piece Revelations and I wasn’t disappointed.

Currently I’m settling for my Wednesday/Thursday night fixes of SYTYCD. Sigh.

I’m a Dodge Viper!

You’re all about raw power. You’re tough, you’re loud, and you don’t take crap from anyone. Leave finesse to the other cars, the ones eating your dust.

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

While you’re at the site, read about the top 10 sex myths (only 2 are true, including one that should make lovers of black men very happy).

–George Carlin

The first thing I heard when I woke up this morning and turned on the TV for the news was that George Carlin had died. While his dead is not as shocking as Tim Russert’s, I was surprised. Carlin struck me as too cantankerous to die–at least anytime soon. He was still performing in Vegas as late as last weekend, for chrissake. Complaining of chest pains, the 71-year-old Carlin was brought to the Santa Monica Hospital where he died of a heart attack.

Carlin started out as a suit-and-tie comedian, performing on such exalted shows as Ed Sullivan, Jack Paar and The Tonight Show. He shed his variety show persona in the ’70s when he dropped out, grew a beard and started doing drugs. His “7 Words You Can’t Say on TV.”

When Carlin wasn’t busy being profane, he was often profound, or both at the same time–and almost always funny. I don’t know how fitting a tribute this is, but I’d been reading his book Brain Droppings as a throne room selection. As I writer, I particularly appreciate his take on the mangling of the English language by folks who know nothing about it.

Carlin was scheduled to win the 2008 Mark Twain prize for American Humor to be handed out in November by the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.

I’m not going to mourn Carlin. I can imagine what he’d say about wakes and funerals and the like. Mourning is bullshit. There’s even a bit on his website about the passing of celebrities. So I won’t contribute to the hoopla. But I will miss his wit and his insight.

To read more about Carlin, go here.

Your Blogging Type is Confident and Insightful

You’ve got a ton of brain power, and you leverage it into a brilliant blog. Both creative and logical, you come up with amazing ideas and insights. A total perfectionist, you find yourself revising and rewriting posts a lot of the time. You blog for yourself – and you don’t care how popular (or unpopular) your blog is!