TH13: More Freakish Album Covers, and an update from the 'rents.
Thursday, Dec. 14, 2006 at 8:17 a.m.
Ms. Weela Gallez is still wearing odd clothing and screeching non sequiturs while clutching a monkey. The difference is, she�s doing it from a busy street corner, blocking your path to the ATM.
I thought this might have been the first official punk band, but then I saw the back side of the album cover:
Yikes! Just have a freaking diagram, why don�t you? And adults are worried about today�s album covers?
Although, truth be told, I�d worry about this too. It reminds me of Frank Zappa�s We�re Only in it for the Money, and I�m wondering which guy on this cover is the �Indian of the Group�.
GAH! Geraldine and her �friend� Ricky sing Christian tunes about trees talking. Well, that doesn�t sound like your normal Christian dogma to me, unless it�s that Church of the Most Blessed Peyote.
This may be the only �snuff� album cover I�ve seen. Do you think that Larry Flynt would pay money for this one?
Um . . . yeah. Fun At a Circus in Pascagoula, Mississippi, post-Hurricane Katrina. Joy!
Okay, read Mrs. Miller�s song titles, then check out the . . . hue of her �brownies�. I want to hear this woman�s music. Hell, I�d like her to be my next-door neighbor.
I�m pretty sure this picture was taken at Cypress Gardens, Florida, which at one time was the Water Ski Show Capital of the World. And Elsewhere. (I actually liked visiting there, because they had the most beautiful orchids growing everywhere) What I want to know is, if that platform tumps over, does that electric organ have enough power to electrocute Lenny Dee? Please?
�Clifton, your blind date is here.�
Oh, like Clifton�s such a catch.
. . . and Their Owners who Love Them. Not that there�s anything wrong with that.
But is it Reborn so much as Fallen into the Eternal Pit of Blue Polyester Leisure Suits?
Wow, I know they taught you The Girl From Inpanema at those Wurlizter stores, but I had no idea they had a weight-training program!
On this day in 1944, Lupe Velez, Hollywood's "Mexican Spitfire" of the 1940's, commits suicide with an overdose of sleeping pills. Contrary to her plans of being found laid out on the bed in a silk nightgown, she is instead discovered in the bathroom with her head in the toilet.
Oh, dear, the best laid plans, yes? I�m sure she left a beautiful corpse, for the most part, but I�m pretty sure Jimmy Dean didn�t include the toilet part in his rules for living and dying. It makes me wonder, it seems that our bodies are much smarter than we are. However, I�m not sure that hold true for my Dad, as his body is doing something and we have no idea what. His blood sugars are still all over the map, but he�s going to the hypobaric chamber everyday and Mom�s gotten adept at changing his dressing and drawing his insulin for him. Dad also got a swanky new glucose monitor, one that�s much easier to use, that that makes everyone happy.
So it�s getting better. Mom�s calming down and moving into a routine. Her biggest complaint is that she can�t seem to make it to her water aerobic classes because of the hypobaric schedule (which changes everyday, based on the availability of the corpsmen on base) and she doesn�t have the energy to put up a Christmas tree. So I went to Hallmark.com and sent a little evergreen tree with red baubles in a Peanuts� tin, although the tree is much more healthy than the one in the Charlie Brown special.
Bubba went to see Dad�s internist along with Mom on Tuesday, and got the low-down on Dad�s condition, and annoyed Mom with the �you need to get help� talk. While I was there, I even printed out pages from websites in the area of resources to assist Mom, but she wasn�t having any of it. I suppose this is part of her way of �suffering in silence� (yeah, silence, right) but I think it�s also a generational thing � back when, you didn�t ask for outside help unless it was from a family member. And you certainly didn�t pay for such assistance. But of course, now, families are so far flung (and generally smaller). Now I get to listen to Mom have her 30-second breakdown on every phone call � and yes, the breakdowns only last 30 seconds or so. It�s pretty amazing. When I have a breakdown it lasts for several hours, but then I only throw a wobbly once a quarter or so.
So anyway, everyone�s hanging pretty tough in Florida. While I was there, I hastily knitted an oversized Foofie� for Dad, one that would fit over his wound dressing and lace up like a shoe. It even has grippy shelf liner on the sole to keep him from slipping, and apparently everyone at the base think it�s the absolute bee�s knees. So I�m going to knit him another one to have as a spare.
Hubster needs to go Christmas shopping for his wife. I can�t wait until I get all the stuff I have for him wrapped and under the tree, because the sheer quantity of presents for him makes him go a little crazy and I get more nifty stuff that way. I swear, though, he�s just kind of easy to buy for. And I�m like a can of Pringles� when it comes to gift-giving: once I pop, I just can�t stop. Of course, I got stocking stuffers for him like chili-flavored pistaschios and tubes of mini M&Ms and stuff. Then he gets me stocking stuffers like wind-up scorpions, which make me scream and run from the room.
Because that�s what Hubsters are for, I suppose.