Also (Part II), if I don’t get Milli Vanilli’s Blame It On the Rain OUT OF MY HEAD… well. I don’t know what will happen. But it might be bad.

Reviewed today:

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Rest in peace, James Brown, who passed away Christmas morning. The newspaper said he held one last toy giveaway on Saturday in Augusta. Yay, Santa… My favorite song of his, that I’m always humming at Christmastime…

Santa Claus/
go straight to the ghetto/
Santa Claus/
go straight to the ghetto/
Tell them James Brown sent you/
Ha!/
go straight to the ghetto/
you know that I know that you will see/
’cause that was once/
me/
hit it/
hit it/

And for Tuesday Recipe Club (you might need to save this one ’til next summer, but the pie crust recipes are great for any time):

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Hullo, Internet,

How’s it hanging? Yeah, it’s good here, too. Kids are still asleep (8 a.m. right now — I’m guessing Wacky Boy will wake up around 9:30-10; Wacky Girl I’ll probably see 9ish), I had a quiet breakfast with my husband, fed the pets, the dishwasher is running, I’ve had a cup of coffee and am heading for a second.

I need to work on my new manuscript over Christmas break. And at what point do I begin to call it “my old manuscript”? I think I started it mid-summer, but a mojitos fog prevents me from remembering much of last summer. (Thank God for this historical document that is my blog. If it’s on the Internet, it must be accurate, yes?)

Still not drinking? Correct, I’m still not drinking. I’m not doing it the “right” way, though. The never-touch-booze way of not drinking. The “I’ve been clean for two months/two years/two decades” thing. I know that that works for a lot of people, but I have bad impulse control. So if I’m telling myself, YOU CAN NEVER DRINK AGAIN. EVER! That would send me into panic mode and I’d break out the gin and tonics. But if I say, You can if you want, but why would you want to? Then it’s OK. That makes no sense, does it?

I went out to hear some jazz at the Blue Monk with Hockey God and some friends weekend before last, and had two Bloody Marys. (Nice club, by the way, if you’re in Portland or come for a visit. Intimate, no smoking, good bands.) The really good thing about not drinking — wow do you ever get buzzed when you do drink! But it was kind of, eh, whatever. I’m not so into the booze. So, two drinks since last August or something? Not bad. My family appreciates my new non-grouchy self. I appreciate the fact that I don’t look like a raging drunk after one glass of wine. (“High Irish Flush,” it’s called, when your cheeks get the “red apples.”) And really, the only reason I like a Bloody Mary is for the salad that comes with it. And you don’t need vodka for that. So Virgin Bloody Marys are fine by me.

I think you’ve probably already guessed that impulse control is a problem here. Maybe this was a clue.

My family has no self-control, either. Obviously. But I’m promising you, I am going to try to hammer out an outline for the new book and a few chapters over break. Since the kids enjoy sleeping in, and morning is my favorite time to write. Still trying to get an agent. Keep fingers crossed.

Now, a few little things, as long as I’m here:

1) I let Wacky Girl spend her Christmas money to order Emily, Molly’s friend, from American Girl Dolls. Yes, I spent $102 on a doll. Fwaaaaa. No, I can’t believe it either. Actually, I did not spend $102. I spent $115, with shipping. Actually, it wasn’t even my money — it was money from her Wacky Gramps, Wacky Grandma, and Wacky Uncle. Thank you all for making my daughter’s dream come true…

2) Wacky Boy’s Christmas money? He was content to spend $12.90 buying a copy of Dinosaur. (Hockey God had a credit on his Amazon account, yay.) I’ll take the rest of his money and sock it away in his college fund. When it comes time to pay for her college tuition, I’ll tell Wacky Girl to sell her dolls.

3) Christmas cookies are wicked. I am not doing anymore baking. Period.

4) Speaking of wicked, Donald Trump hasn’t fired her, yet, but things don’t look good for Tara Conner, Miss USA. She supposedly tested positive for cocaine, was “lustily kissing” Miss Teen USA, and was drinking at the bars (she’s underage). Where did I hear all this? The View, naturally. Where I get all the information that Housewives Need to Know.

Tara supposedly had her tiara on the bar next to her.

“Yeah, well how do you think she gets the free drinks?” Rosie O’Donnell quipped.

Trump, let her keep the tiara.

(Ed. to say: Just got a bulletin from People mag — my other source of news, besides the View. Is this wrong? Trump is giving her a second chance. “You! Off to rehab!” Happy holidays, Tara, ya little lush.)

“Witchi Tai To gim-mie rah/
Whoa ron-nee ka/
Whoa ron-nee ka/
Hey-ney hey-ney no wah/

Water spirit feelings/
Springin’ round my head/
Makes me feel glad/
That I’m not dead”

— Jim Pepper (peyote chant set to music)

Pepper’s not dead, not really. He’s here every time I listen to his music.

You guys, everyone out there in the blogger world — peace, happy New Year, and much love. I know that a lot of us get depressed and crazy this time of year. Just keep going.

And thanks for reading my blog. De-lurk, would you please? Heh heh heh.

WM

I can’t wait to get into bed with my husband at night. No, really. I cannot wait.

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Dear Mick, Keith et al.,

We need to talk. I don’t know of a nice way to say this, but you need to hang up the bag of tricks, boys, and please retire. Shauna Lyon puts it well in this week’s New Yorker, when she compares you to a corporate juggernaut and an “enduring medical miracle”:

“Can your grandfather even climb a tree, much less fall out of one, bash his head, survive, and still remember the changes on ‘Sister Morphine’?”

No, neither of my grandfathers can do this, due to the fact that they are both deceased. And not much older at their passings than you guys are at this moment. Lyon also compares you to diptheria and/or kudzu, and really, did you mean for it to come to this? No, I did not think so. But what really pushed me to write you this letter was when I read about the new documentary Martin Scorsese is filming about y’all, and that you had to hire “seventy-five dollar girls” to come sex it up a little. That they were asked to dress “trendy, sexy, hip… Women really glam it up, but not trashy… nothing too over the top and outrageous (wigs, crazy hats, etc.)…”

No wigs? No crazy hats? What the fuck is wrong with you guys? I just watched “Gimme Shelter” last week. Why, I do not know. I was running a high fever, and it seemed like a good idea. I loved your music when I was a teenager. So did my friends, and y’all were all we would listen to. I’m not talking about a five- or six-month period. I’m taking three, four years. To the point where we were planning a party and my boyfriend begged, “Please, could we possibly listen to something other than the Stones?” And we all yelled, “NO!” at him and almost wouldn’t let him party with us.

Almost. We gave in because, you know. He had all the pot. Anyway, I’ve loved you guys for a good long time now. I loved “Some Girls,” even though it was my mom’s favorite album, too, and like, how uncool is that to love the same album your ma does? I loved “One Hit to the Body” and I still listen to “Exile on Main Street” and “Sticky Fingers” over and over until my husband asks, “Please, could we possibly listen to something other than the Stones?” (Seems to be a pattern in my life.)

Anyway, I’ve seen “Gimme Shelter” probably fifty times, because I thought Tina Turner was just too fucking righteous in it, and although I didn’t like the part where the Hell’s Angels knock Marty Balin unconscious, I liked the Jefferson Airplane’s set up until that point. You want to talk sexy? Let’s talk about the Flying Burrito Brothers, and their set at Altamont. Ha! Kidding. The Flying Burrito Brothers didn’t do much for me, you know, sexually. You know who was sexy? The crowd. The guys with their fringed suede jackets. “And beatnik chicks/just wearing their smocks,” as the Beastie Boys would put it. The beads and the hats and the crazy wigs. And maybe some people who, eh, you didn’t really want to see take off their clothes went ahead and stripped, but there were enough other sexy people there that it didn’t matter.

Now, tell me — you played with Tina Turner and now you’re saying no crazy wigs? I mean, for real, what the fuck is wrong with y’all that you have to pay extras to kinda, what, prop you up? This is supposed to be a documentary, but when you’re staging things and posing people, and yadda yadda, that’s fiction, not fact.

A fact: Meredith Hunter was sexy at Altamont, with his electric green suit and his purple dress shirt, dancing with his sexy girlfriend who did indeed know how to dress, grooving on the Jefferson Airplane. He was sexy right up until the Hells Angels grabbed his gun and stabbed and kicked him to death. And then it was just God rest his soul and why the hell did I watch “Gimme Shelter” so many times? It took a fever for me to figure this out? You guys gave his mom $10,000, for losing her sweet, sexy, 18-year-old son. Is she still alive? If she is you need to give her some cash and make sure she’s set. Because how shitty is that, for 8 bazillion Stones-loving idiots like me to watch “Gimme Shelter” over and over and watch her son being killed onscreen. No one ever went to jail for that one, remember?

So please, hang it up. No crazy hats, no wigs. Just call it a day. Shidoobee.

Love,

WM

Why does my husband hate Prince? I love Prince. Going back (waaaaaaaaaaaay back) to his first album. And second. And third. And now, 3121 his, what, three thousand one hundred and twenty-first album, right? Which is why he numbered it that? (That sentence is so ungrammatically correct.)

It sounds like old Prince and I love it. It sounds like new Prince and I love it. Here’s the main reason I’ve always loved Prince: When You Were Mine….

“I never cared (didn’t care)/
I never was the kind to make a fuss/
When he was there/
Sleeping in between the two of us…”

…which honest to God I listened to about eight million times in a row when I was 18. OK, I still listen to Prince, old and new, all the time now. I am an addict, are you happy? Now you know. That, along with, you know, Erotic City.

“All of my purple life/
I’ve been looking for a dame/
That would wanna be my wife/
That was my intention, babe”

Prince is funny! And funky! And he makes you want to screw! What else do you need in a song, damn. So I’m attaching Wacky Dee’s review of the new album, sent in a private e-mail to his friend Extremely Wacky T, who lives in Minneapolis. (Edited to say: Excuse me — he prefers “Hockey God” to WD.)

T told me that when he moved there they made him sign a pledge devoting lifetime allegiance to Prince. He was already a fan and said “YES WHERE DO I SIGN?” That, to me, IS REASON ENOUGH TO BAIL ON PORTLAND, ORE. AND MOVE TO MINNEAPOLIS.That, alone, is reason enough for WD to say NO to Minneapolis. Based on this, I have no qualms about publishing my husband’s personal e-mails. Huh. Is that wrong? “LITTLE JAPANESE IMPORT CAR” MY ASS, WD.

Prince is a 1959 Chevy Impala with fuzzy dice.

Here’s the e:

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C called Wacky Sister over the weekend — they’re hanging in. We went to see the Sprinkler, Crackerbash, Pond & Hazel reunion show on Saturday, me, Wacky Sister, and her friend C. Too loud, too fun. I (heart) Sean Croghan. I (heart) both the Croghan brothers. Don’t tell anyone it’s a secret.

C, if you’re reading this, we saw Sean’s brother Paul and told him you’re fine. He was glad and sends you a hello.

and now, the quote of the day: “Truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.”

— Flannery O’Connor, writer (1925-1964)

“You! What PLANET is this!”
— McCoy, “The City on the Edge of Forever”, stardate 3134.0

Last night my Wacky Friend A and I went to the zoo to see Ozotmatli (sp?), crazy Red Hot Chili Peppers sounding band from L.A. — kinda Tower of Power, with the horns and all, and Los Lonely Boys, to whom i pledge my undying adoration.

V. good show, nice warm night, under the moon and the stars. Huge crowd. Best show i’ve ever seen at the zoo, and A agrees.

WM