Halloween Concerns

Is it true that as we age, we actually grow younger? I ask only because I'm concerned about myself.

It's finally here: Halloween. And I'm downright giddy. It's my favorite night of the year, other than the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend with 1100 miles of Indy and Nascar racing.

Should I be concerned that I actually skipped out of work a couple of minutes early to be certain to get the jack-o-lantern luminarias lit for the sidewalk to my house?

Should I be concerned that I actually bought a strobe light this year that made my hands shake with an-ti-ci-SAY IT-pa-tion?

Should I be concerned that I've been bummed out all month because our neighborhood association said that people love to steal inflatable holiday decorations so I had to wait to put my 8 foot tall Dracula out tonight for one night only?

Should I be concerned that I've got 72,407 tons of chocolate candy, enough for 3000 children (or five premenstrual women) and I've had only 10 trick-or-treaters?

Should I be concerned that the creepy music and sound effects I have wafting inside and out are beginning to give me, Miss Hardcore Horror Queen, the willies?

And most importantly, why am I bummed that I can't get out there so people can see my fantastic costume?

Ooooooo, that's the doorbell! No more worries.

Happy Halloween, y'all! Now get out there and scare some people!!!!! BWWWWAHHHHH

She's baaaaaaccccckkkkkk

Wow - a double post kinda day..... but this is important and I feel I must comment.

I don't know if I can take it. I'd actually blocked her out of my mind. It wasn't easy. That screechy, can-ya-be-any-more-gullible hick was burned onto my retinas for several months as I was watching the likes of ultra-hot shaved head guys and uber talented guys needing orthodontics on American Idol. I put up with the likes of her by speeding through the DVR to get to the worthy ones. But like the gum on my shoe that she is, she's back to make our lives miserable, at least mine. Remind me not to listen to the radio for a few months. It's a good thing I have alot of CDs and can tolerate talk radio.

Kelli Pickler.

I honestly thought I would never have to see or hear that name again. There was no way a record producer could ever morph her voice into something listenable. I guess Clive Davis thinks he can work magic and there will be someone (probably several people) who will buy this junk. I'm going on the record now to say that I must've been wrong this time. It pains me to admit that.

Pickler is listed on my yahoo homepage as the next big thing and has a single coming out called "Red High Heels." I think I just hacked up a lung. Who has she paid or slept with that she gets billing like that? So. Wrong. Clive, you suck.

I knew I shoulda dyed my hair blonde and gotten an accent. Dammit.

The world as we know it has just shifted into ridiculous mode. At warped speed. Grrrreat.

Homophobic Parking

Maybe it's a Texas thing, but I'm dubious. At least, I can say it's usually a pickup truck thing. It can be huge F-250's or wee Ford Rangers. Or Subaru Brats. (Yeah, they're still out there.)

Either way - I have a theory about these pickup truck drivers who insist upon parking in spaces nose-out, or backwards.

There can only be two reasons for parking this way. (1) You are robbing a bank and need to make a hasty getaway. (2) You are homophobic.....or are you in denial? Just sayin.

If it's No. 1, then you just go right ahead, idiot.

If it's No. 2, I have a bone to pick with you. What's with this stupid parking decision? If you have the time to back into a parking space, then you have the time to reverse after the parking job. Either way, you have to reverse at some point. Are you afraid of getting a banana in your tailpipe? Geez, that only happens in Eddie Murphy movies.....20 years ago. Ain't gonna happen now, dude.

So what happened in your upbringing to create this ourwardly aggressive behavior and are you aware that you aren't fooling anyone? Hey, if you had an unfortunate experience with your scoutmaster at cub scout camp, get therapy or come on out of the closet and stop bugging normal car-parkers like me.

I have enough on my mind than to worry about your phobias. Like maybe I need therapy to figure out why this bugs me so much.

Now - get out of my way, homophobe. Git!

Celebrity Paranormal Project

CruiserMel digs Halloween. I mean, almost pathologically. I'm a sucker for 70's slasher films. Jamie Lee Curtis is my heroine. (That's hero, girlie-style, not the drug. Duh.) She totally ruled. I could only aspire to be half the babysitter she was. To this day, I live for putting out my 8' tall inflatable Dracula in the yard. This year I've added black & pink spider lights to my front door. The kiddies will totally want to come to my castle, if only to listen to the scarey "Sounds of the Haunted Castle" cd I'll have playing from behind the bushes out front on a continuous loop and to dig deep into the orange & black bowl of peanut butter taffy kisses and Sugar Daddy bars. I'll be in full costume by 5:01 and ready to greet the kiddies.

You all know my guilty pleasure of watching VH1 celebreality shows already. Flav. Bonaduce. And now to get us in that heebee-geebee place for Halloween, the nice folks at VH1 have graced us with The Celebrity Paranormal Project. How cool is that? Celebrities getting the begeebers scared out of them - for our entertainment. Pull up a bowl of candy corn and let's get on with it!

CPP started last weekend and I have to admit I was a little skeptical. They gatherered Gary Busey, Hal Sparks (I heart him so much), Tocarra Jones, Jenna Morasca (from Survivor), and Donna D'Errico (from Baywatch and Nikki Sixx fame) together at a supposedly haunted sanatorium in Kentucky called Waverly Hills. 63,000 people lost their battles with TB here in the 20's and 30's, as the story was unfolded to us. Their mission was to find out if this place is truly haunted or just urban legend. They had from 9:00 pm until sunrise to figure it out. Let me tell you, that place creeped me out not so much for it's ghostly appearance, but because it looked like the middle school I attended. From the outside. On the inside, it looked more like my bedroom, but I digress.

The show is filmed by the cast themselves, using those halos on their heads, which are creepy enough to begin with. They always seem to have a fisheye warp to the picture. Anyway, I was thinking all this was just made-up Hollyweird fiction, but I was sucked in immediately. I wanted to see how they could get any creepier than Gary Busey just being himself - and they nailed it!

I won't give you details as you simply must see this show! Word of warning: I am pretty hardcore when it comes to scarey things, but I would not start watching it too late at night. I found it at 11:00 pm and when it was over at midnight, I had to clear it out of my conscience with an hour of fictionalized horror before I could turn off the lights. (Young Frankenstein - yeah baby.) But I couldn't wait until Monday morning when I could do a little research to see if Waverly Hills Sanatorium was a real place or not. It is. Great googly moogly - the place is for real! Here come the shivers again. The next installment of CPP will have a completely new cast and location. I think Rachel Hunter is involved. Nothing should scare her after having to wake up next to Rod Stewart's spikey hair when they were married. This'll be good.

Speaking of scarey things.....I've got a little haunting going on at casa de cruisermel myself. I have a funky little lamp in a guest room at my house that is turned on & off by basically tapping the base. There is no on-0ff switch. It's super-groovy, shaped like a lava lamp, and it's one of my favorite things. Ever. Anyway - every night since Sunday (did I mention that I watched CPP for the first time Sunday night?) the dang thing is ON when I head to my bedroom for some shut-eye. Hmmm, headcount of residents of the house: 1. me 2. dog. Unless the dog has decided to eff with my head, and unless I'm getting dementia and forgetting that I've turned the bloody thing on earlier in the evening.....then there's a monster living in my house. I'm sure it looks sorta foggy & misty, it's green, covered in scales, dropping appendages due to rotting flesh, and it digs the 70's. Or maybe it just needs lighting to read some Stephen King novel.

MMMBBBWWWWWWWHHHAAAAAAA


Hey, would ya leave already?

Ruby Jane's Birthday

It wasn't an ordinary night at the neighborhood bar last weekend. It may have looked ordinary, but alas by night's end, it was one of those occasions where you are somehow airlifted into your own future and can only hope it will be as fun as what you've just seen before your very eyes.

Ruby Jane was surrounded by about 10 friends, male and female. There was no Grecian Formula or Lady Clairol being used by this bunch. They were the real deal. You had to shade your eyes from the glare coming off that grey hair. There was a steady stream of cocktails and beers going to that table. There must've been a special occasion to be having that much fun. Ah yes - Ruby Jane was celebrating her birthday. I didn't think to ask which birthday, but I would venture to say she has turned 49 a few times.

The group was having the time of their lives; so much so that they were attracting a crowd just by their contagious hootin' and hollerin'. Before ya knew it, a group of people from another table were presenting Ruby Jane (and her cohorts) a tray of shots called Chocolate Cake. You can't have a birthday party without a little cake! That would be un-American. Apparently, there is a ritual attached to this shot. First you suck on a sugared lemon slice and then you down a shot of vodka & Frangelico. Makes ya shudder, don't it? But I was assured that it really tastes just like the real thing. Ruby Jane was in her element and it was refreshing to see. I'm pretty sure I saw some of the partiers making little lemon smileys after doing their shots. Priceless.

The scene was something I dream of for my own future; to have good times in my older years with long-time friends, chocolate cake shots, and not a box of hair color within miles!

Be gone with yourself. Get back to work, ya bum!

Dinner Last Night

Overheard: "Everyday I reach a higher plateau of my own ineffectiveness."

That about covers it all.

Tootles!

Of Helmets and Gymsuits

Last night on the local news there was a story about the girls' soccer team from my old high school being up-in-arms about having to wear protective headgear, whereas the boys' team could bash their heads in any which way they wanted.

It got me to thinking about my own years in junior and senior high, in a gym class sorta way and I thought I would share my trip down memory lane with you, dear reader. (*tap tap* Is this thing on?)

Seventh grade gym class meant more than just supervised "play" as we'd been enjoying since the early days of first grade. This was serious. It was all about getting the Presidential Physical Fitness patch. And what were we to stitch this patch onto, but a gymsuit. Gym. Suit. The very word is making me cringe. How come the boys could wear shorts and a t-shirt, but girls were forced to drive to JC Penney to buy a gymsuit? Life sucks.

But we are talking about the early-mid 70's.......before shoulderpads, toe-socks and platform shoes. Lucky for us, we actually had two options for our gymsuits - one was a royal blue, snap-down-the-front bloomer contraption that did nothing but make butts look larger, while also hiding the less-than-ample bustline. This option was the one for me. The other option was a red & white over-all styled suit that snapped at the shoulders. It was cuter than the blue one, but my mom said I looked better in blue and since she was forking over the $15, her vote ruled. My friend E (protecting the innocent) always got what she (and I) wanted and thus, she got the red suit.

One day while training for the PPFT, we were practicing our gymnastics moves. For safety reasons, we had to have a buddy "spot" for each of us. E & I were practicing back bends. (Oh my gosh, how did we bend ourselves like that?) E was in full bend when the lesbian teacher (okay, I don't know this as fact, but it's a gym teacher for goodness sakes) said something creepy about how she needed to bend more. (early pervdom perhaps?) E tried with all her might but needed just that little nudge to get her there, so I grabbed a handful of red polyester fabric at her waist/stomach and tugged - upwards. Suddenly the snaps at both shoulders gave way and I had a handful of red fabric. Poor E was completely exposed, training bra and all. That dang gymsuit sprung away from her body like a rubber band. All we could do was laugh. And laugh. And laugh some more. Oh yeah, and get her covered up again.

I was deep in thought on my sofa last night when this story popped into my bourbon-clouded mind when suddenly I laughed until I snorted. Out loud. Alone. It was a beautiful moment. I giggled for about an hour after that. In fact, I'm still giggling. At E's expense. Sorry, E.

Love ya babe. Don't ever change. And don't do any backbends without a spotter.

Now - y'all move it along. There's nothing to see here. Go on!

Convinced Of The Conspiracy

I have a Romanian friend. His Americanized name is Chip. We met on a cruise where he was a casino dealer with a wicked sense of humor and damn good luck, seeing as how he ripped me off of several hundred dollars, if I may say so. We met while I was vacationing with my friend Linda in July. I offered "whenever you are in Dallas..." and you know the rest.

Being on a break between cruise contracts, Chip contacted me and said he'd like to see Dallas for a couple of days in mid-October. A weekend showing off my fair city sounded like fun. What he didn't mention was that he would be flying in on Sunday night. So much for the weekend idea. But I consider myself adaptable, so I rolled with it and took Monday off from work. But what to do on a Monday in Dallas?

First stop: Tex Mex. He'd stopped weekly in Cozumel (cruiseship, you remember) for 6 months, eaten dozens of quesadillas, but never tried sopapillas. Those pillows of sweet yumminess were like nectar to Chip. I've never seen a grown man slurp up all that honeyed goodness in public, until I had seen Chip with a plato de sopapillas in front of him. I was careful to keep my hands to myself. Sticky doesn't look good on CruiserMel. Sidenote: Chip took us to the Transylvania Restaurant in Cozumel. How cool is that? Eating Romanian food in Mexico. It doesn't get much weirder than that.

Then we went to a flag store to buy a Texas flag (and a US flag - yay!) and then it was onward to the place that made Dallas famous......the site where JFK was assassinated. Being a resident of Dallas all my life, I thought it might be a little dull, but at least it would fill an hour or so, until I could think of someplace else to take this almost-stranger. Au contraire (?) mon ami. We ambled around, while he was taking pics with his phone* and came across the coolest dude I've met in a long time. I didn't get his name, but he appears to be a permanent fixture at the Grassy Knoll. He's filled with juicy stories, photos, and....wait for it.....a DVD for a mere $20! We took the bait. Ya gotta give the dude credit - if he's making a living by ripping off the actual Sixth Floor Museum (the REAL museum) by grabbing people's attention before they make it to the door, then good for him. He had beautiful teeth too. I was jealous. I need to sell crap at the Knoll, I suppose.

Anyway, after listening to his monologue for about 15 minutes, we were firm believers that Oswald was not the lone shooter. Okay - so I've waffled on this subject since I knew anything about waffles, but I'm set-in-stone (get it? Oliver Stone? whatevs) about it now. So is Chip. As much as a Romanian casino dealer can be.

*I kept thinking we'd get hauled in by the HSA, not kidding. Here is this very eastern European-non-American-looking man, on foot, taking pictures with a cellphone of sixth floor windows, courthouses, and every skyscraper in downtown Dallas. Are you following me here? I counted myself lucky to not be party to a national incident. How would I explain that to my mother?

What are you doing still here? Off with yourself. Do something constructive, ya hear?

And The Winner Is.......

SPOILER ALERT: If you haven't seen who Flavor Flav picked as his flavor du jour or if, on the off chance you're not interested (and you know you are), stop reading right here and have a nice day.

Okay, okay, I know I've been lax at posting the winner of the Flavor Of Love Part Deux. Flav made his decision last Sunday, but I've been wailing and gnashing my grill ever since and just couldn't bring myself to see the result in print until now. New York is out. Deelishis is in.

Miss Deelishis was the logical choice, as she was somewhat demure, quiet, a little classy (though that backside has some serious rumba in da house), and not outwardly calculating. New York was a tornado of all things classless, loud, cunning, brash, and just about all words usually found unflattering of proper ladies. She was also great television. Poor New York lost not once, but twice on Flavor Of Love. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, she put herself on the auction block in both season one and two and still lost. Honey, maybe you need to check out an etiquette class or basically find yourself an older man - preferably rich, white, and deaf - because you just can't cut it in the rap world. Oh, you may "look" good, but those implants will only get you so far.

Let me say that the best quote of the results show happened in the build-up. Deelishis was getting ready for her one-on-one date with Flav, while having to share quarters with NY. Apparently New York was a little antsy and Deelishis took notice and said (oh my, can I type this straight-faced?) "She's in there swinging those nasty weaves!" I about busted a move right there. Girlfriend! I'm am so down wit chu.

Oh well - congrats Deelishis and Flav. I hope you have a bootylicious (er, bootylishis) romance.......until season three is offered up. heh

Tootles! Buh-bye. Scram!

Fun Things John Mayer Does At Airports

John Mayer, the man I actually love for his mind (don't laugh), had an entry last week on his blog showing that he apparently looks like Jessica Lange. I'm not buying it entirely, but I had to go check it out because, well - John's cool.

The instructions state to use a photo of yourself straight-on, straight-faced. So I went searching for a pic of yours truly. It seems ole CruiserMel doesn't like to face forward in pictures. (Could this be flashbacks to a previous lifetime of having my mugshot on "wanted" posters?) I had to delve waaaaaaaay back into the depths of my photo album to avoid drunken party pics and multi-subject photos. I finally found a somewhat blurry photo from Christmas 2004. That should do it.

Loaded the picture.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait.
Do I not look like anyone famous?
Wait.
I'm getting nervous now.
Wait.........
MY STARS! I look like THEM?

(I am wishing right now that I could figure out how to include the whiz-bang photo graphics, but I can't be good at everything, so get over it and use your imagination for once.)

I suppose it could've been worse. I could've come out looking like Witchipoo, which surely would've happened if the picture had been taken at 7:00 a.m.

Jane Curtain. Actually I can sort of buy into this one, as I've been told that before, since her days on SNL. I didn't used to agree, but if the experts say it is so then it must be true. Jaime Pressly - hmmmmmm. Pretty girl. Cool. But Zsa Zsa Gabor? WTF? Or a British pop star (Geri Halliwell) or a Japanese pop star (Ayumi Hamosaki)? Wait - that would be my rock-star-dream-come-true. Cool.

You should check this out. http://www.myheritage.com

John sweetie, I'm glad to see you're using your downtime at airports to be creative and feed my internet addiction.

Scat! Get outta here! Don't you have other things to be doing like checking out who you look like?

Oh no I di'nnt

Time to 'fess up: I'm an addict. And not even to what one would call "quality" television. Don't get me wrong, I have been known to watch The History Channel, TLC, and even some PBS on occasion. But my guilty pleasure is what I affectionately call "Freak TV." It's completely bad for human consumption, but oh so tasty. Matter of fact, it probably rots teeth. I will confer with my dentist to see if this is true and get back to you later. It's that plate of cheesy enchiladas, on top of a greasy pepperoni pizza, with a side of mac-n-cheese followed by a huge ramekin of chocolate mousse. (insert your favorites if you like)

My most recent find in the Freak TV Guide is Flavor of Love on VH-1. Don't sit there and tell me you haven't watched even a couple of minutes of this trash. It is the trashiest of trash and yet I can't stop watching it. It's a freakin' train wreck and I'm just looking for the bling to fly. If you think ABC's The Bachelor is women at their complete basest, you ain't seen nuffin yet.

The women (I can't possibly call them ladies) on this show are swinging their backsides in much-too-tight miniskirts like there's no tomorrow. They are pole-dancing to win their man (Flavor Flav, if you've been under a rock). To say they are getting their freak on is putting it mildly. And on national television, no less! You may ask yourself "Where are their mothers?" Well, Flav has an answer for that and to prove it, he actually brings some of the parents to his crib to hang with his posse. Oy vey. The mothers are even worse than the candidates for Flav's affection or riches or his grill or whatevah. I'm not kidding here, this is the epitome of "Freak TV."

And to make matters worse, here is the part that totally chaps me: Flavor Flav is the most normal of the group. I would never be caught dead saying that Flav (I feel I can call him by his nickname since we spent hours together the other day, just us and the DVR) is in any way a brainy person, or even logical, but in comparison to his posse, he's Albert Einstein, or at least Ben Stein. That's the part that scares me. Flav is the normal one? I'll rot in hell for saying that.

All I can say is that I really must have an addictive personality because I'm beginning to prepare myself for the withdrawl I'll suffer when Flav picks his new love this Sunday and the show is gone, until Flavor of Love 3. I'm really wondering if I'll have any fingernails left after that.

But wait - all is not lost. Breaking Bonaduce starts up pretty soon. Whew, close one.

Now go on - what are you hanging around here for? Happy Thursday!

The Rozerem Question

Am I the only person who gets wrapped around the axle about some commercials? There are times I can sit for hours watching TV and never have an emotional reaction to anything - but occasionally there is that single, one-minute commercial that just sticks in my craw.

I'm talking about that bizarro Rozerem ad. You know the one: bedhead dude comes into the kitchen, scratching himself (pretty), only to find Abraham Lincoln and a badger or something playing chess. And there's a silent astronaut making a sammich in the background. WTF? Rozerem is a sleeping aid. I get it. The whole premise (and I'm only guessing here) is that if take their little pill, you'll have dreams of playing chess with Honest Abe and a hairy, sarcastic mammal.

I don't even know where to go with this. This ad could possibly cause a person to actually lose sleep, ferheavenssake.

First, do you really want to play chess with Abe? Ever? Wouldn't you rather be dreaming of doing a rock star? Secondly, if this guy isn't dreaming, then why the eff are these people (and a rodent) in his kitchen? Does this mean he's already taken the damn pill and now he's actually sleeping? Honestly, Abe, this just puts my brain on spin cycle. Sometimes I think my head is making sounds like those made by the old machines in Young Frankenstein's laboratory and it just needs a whacking from Marty Feldman.

Am I insane to let this stuff get to me? Note to self: contact Rozerem folks for Monarch notes on what this bit of tasty television means.

Whew - I feel better. I'm exhausted now and that's a good thing too, 'cause I don't think I would want to take Rozerem. In fact, I'm gonna go do a rock star tonight (in my dreams) out of spite. Nighty-night.

The Slug Contributes

So.......I've become completely mezmerized by reading blogs. I'm not sure how it happened, but the wonderful world of blogs wafted past me and I picked up the scent.

At first it was a simple activity to fill the downtimes or avoid working. Snooping into the lives of others was entertainment. Little by little I found myself clicking on the blogs of those who entertain my favorite bloggers. And just like any drug, even that wasn't enough to fill the void. I was feeling like a total slug....sucking off of society, not contributing.

And so it begins.

Surely my lame existence couldn't possibly intrigue a person "out there" who could be cleaning the lint filter of the dryer or trimming their toenails. Or could it? I mean - people watch reality television ad nauseum and much of that airtime could be replaced with static for the most part and people would gaze in amazement.

Wait, maybe I'm going at this all wrong. Maybe a blog isn't so much for the reader, but for the writer. (Hey, could someone turn down that lightbulb over my head, please?)

Therapy. Or maybe not. Our's is not to wonder why......

Hopefully I can sort out what's going on in my little head while entertaining a couple of you people with my ramblings. Bonus.

Meanwhile - let me leave you with the best music lyric heard this week. It comes from my new crush: John Mayer. Dang, I love that man's mind.

"Cause I can't wait to figure out what's wrong with me, so I can say this is the way that I used to be." Brilliant.

Go on with yourself - have a happy week. Go. Git outta here, ya hear?