An old one off my World blog: Twilight, New Moon

Approaching the weekend before the biggest movie of the year for squealing teenage girls, I feel as though I must confess something.

I’m 35 and I love the “Twilight” series. I love Robert Pattinson as Edward Cullen. I am in the camp of Edward, not the lair of Jacob. The inner teenager in me swoons when Pattinson is on TV.

And I hate it. I guess I’m at that age when I know I should be more mature, shouldn’t swoon at movie stars and made-up characters, but the whole Twilight phenomenon is easier to catch than H1N1.

I know plenty of women who’ve gotten sucked into this romantic teen fiction. Men have hence been ruined for them, because no real man can live up to Stephanie Myer’s Edward. I didn’t expect to be among that camp. But now, Pattinson IS Edward, and my mind is having a hard time untangling the two. It’s like I’m 13 again.

I borrowed the first book on a whim, looking for something to read. I consumed it in 12 hours. During the next two months, I devoured the other three books, staying up past my bedtime for nights on end to enter the World of the Cullens.

But me? How did this happen to ME?

See, I thought I was way too tough for this. I thought I was grizzled and wizened. I thought working in the newspaper industry, as well as being a product of the grungy 90s and being an all-around sarcastic, surly girl, killed all my girly fantasies of being swept off my feet and into the arms of a One True Love.

Suffice it to say it hasn’t happened yet — that whole swept off my feet thing — but dang it if these books didn’t defrost my Romance Sensors.

Plus, I was an English major! I minored in Shakespeare! I shouldn’t be reading this, much less enjoying it as much as I did!

But sometimes, you have to suspend your intellect and go with what feels right.

The “Twilight” books are over-the-top, Gothic, read-in-one-night romances featuring the bad guy who’s really a prince. Perfect! That’s what all us girls want. The bad guy who’s crazy about us and only us, the guy that only we can understand, the one who does something unforgivable but can only truly be forgiven by us.

I’ll be the first to admit that women don’t make sense.

And I’ll also admit, as my friend and co-worker Jennifer Chancellor just pointed out, that Edward and Bella’s relationship is possibly unhealthier than Romeo and Juliet’s. We shouldn’t try to emulate those two.

But it’s fun to live in this land of make-believe for a moment or two, even if I know it means I’m not a grown-up. I’m actually quite happy about that.

I won’t be going to see “Twilight: New Moon” the week it comes out. I may be immature, but I’m too old to tolerate tittering girls for nearly two hours. I’ll go during a matinee, when the movie is about three weeks old. And I’ll probably enjoy every minute of it.

My work blog has become my permanent blog spot. It’s at tulsaworld.com/catbird.

My Fleetwood Mac review

Here’s the review of Fleetwood Mac I did for the Tulsa World:

BY SARAH HART
World Assistant Scene Editor
In their hit song “The Chain,” Fleetwood Mac says they’ll never break the chain. It seems they’ve made the chain even stronger.
And after Sunday night, thousands of fans are forever added as links.
Fleetwood Mac roared into the BOK Center to a huge crowd that was at once young, old, rock ‘n’ roll and classic, heavy metal and soft rock. The crowd roared back, from the opening “Monday Morning” to the second-encore closer “Silver Springs.”
Fleetwood Mac formed in the 1960s, and has often had its own internal soap opera. But its solidarity, strength and storytelling remain as polished and relevant today as when their album “Rumours” topped the charts.
“Our band has always had a complex and convoluted, emotional-ness to it,” guitarist Lindsey Buckingham said. “But that has always worked in our favor. We take breaks, but every time we get back together, we get a sense of forward motion.”
Buckingham said band decided that since they aren’t touring in support of an album, “Yet,” he said to cheers of those hopeful for a new Fleetwood Mac venture, “We thought ‘Let’s just go out there and have fun and do the songs that we love … and hopefully they’ll be the ones you love, too.’ ”
Oddly enough, the next song was “I Know I’m Not Wrong,” from their album “Tusk,” a song not as well-known as some of their other hits. Still, the audience grooved, and when Buckingham ground his guitar, going into one of many solos of the evening, he hopped like Chuck Berry across the stage.
Afterward, he grabbed his back as if aching, grinned to the audience hopped some more, growling “Oh yeah!” into the microphone.
The show’s spotlight went back and forth between Buckingham and Stevie Nicks, who got the audience going when she told the story of the song “Gypsy.”
“I met Lindsey when I was a senior and he was a junior,” she said. “I met him one day and didn’t see him again for two years. Then, out of the blue he called me one day and asked if I wanted to be in his band. I was like, ‘yeah,’ and I didn’t even know what kind of band it was.”
“He later told me it was a hard-rock band. And that moment catapulted me into the greatest musical time of all time, 1965-1970 in San Francisco … where I’m back to the velvet underground” (the first line of the song “Gypsy”).
The crowd went crazy for Nicks, who was looking as beautiful as ever, her waist-length honey-blond hair swaying, her arms wrapped in a sparkly black shawl. Meanwhile, on a screen behind the band, a sentimental song became even more so as snapshots of the band in their younger days went by.
Nicks was equally bewitching on “Rhiannon.” She turned her back to the audience and went into her patented trancelike dance, swaying her hips, shawl floating through the air. She was as cool and enigmatic as ever.
It’s hard to find a highlight on a greatest hits tour that features songs that you know by heart, but one of the most electrifying was “Gold Dust Woman.” Nicks disappeared off the stage often. Before that particular song, Nicks sang former band member Christine McVie’s part in “Say You Love Me,” which was weird coming from Nicks, but a nice homage to McVie.
Then Nicks darted off stage, and the band started the haunting beginning of “Gold Dust Woman.”
On the screens, chunks of gold confetti fell and there was Nicks, gold shawl wrapped around a black cat suit under a flowing red dress. She nailed the song, hitting notes she often leaves up to her backup singers. She was brooding, mysterious and moody, and it was downright spooky in parts.
Buckingham’s guitar work was as impressive throughout the show. He’s one of the most underrated guitarists in history, inventive and clean, charismatic and cool.
He sang some of his well-known songs, “Big Love” and “Never Going Back Again,” and the whole band joined in on “Second Hand News.”
Nicks also dazzled with a song from her solo career, “Stand Back.”
Some of the most touching moments were Nicks’ “Sara” and “Landslide.” During “Sara,” Buckingham backed up Nicks, and she later went to him for a lengthy embrace, a tender moment between the former lovers.
“I don’t personally know anyone in Oklahoma,” Nicks said to the frenzied crowd before playing “Landslide.” “So I’m just going to dedicate this to all you Oklahomans. We love you.”
The band actually had to wait for the audience to stop cheering so they could close the song. It was beautiful, awe-inspiring, and makes you understand why many bands have covered it.
Fleetwood Mac did two encores. When Nicks and Buckingham walked on stage for the first encore, they held hands. The band closed the first encore with the song that makes many think of Bill Clinton’s first campaign for president, “Don’t Stop.” For their first encore song, drummer Mick Fleetwood had a rousing drum session that bumped the BOK Center and got everyone on their toes. Then he introduced the backup band, which includes Lori Nicks, Stevie’s sister-in-law. Then he introduced Buckingham, Nicks (“Our first lady,” he called her) and bassist John McVie.
The BOK Center was close to a full house Sunday night, and Fleetwood Mac, whose fame has spanned 40-plus years, still has the chops to amaze and captivate any audience from start to finish.

Album O’ the Week: “Midnight Special,” Leadbelly

I am not a student of The Blues.
I like what I like, and that includes many country blues singers — something I figured out after declaring my disdain for Stevie Ray Vaughn and the like.
My appreciation begins and ends with Leadbelly. Some hangers-on have been added since my discovery of Mr. Huddie Ledbetter, but Leadbelly remains my favorite, time and time again.
If I could go back in time to any era, I’d like to see him live in Texas, New York or Louisiana. The man had a passion for music (and women, and alcohol and the like) that found its way into his 12-string acoustic. He has a sound like no other, and wrote so many songs that you know… you just don’t realize a man born in the late 1800s in Texas wrote them. Those who know me know I adore songwriters, especially those who make them interesting. I love a good story song, and Leadbelly was a master of the fable.
My first album was “Midnight Special,” which I bought off eBay for around $5 many years ago, when eBay was new. It’s got 19 or so songs, many of Leadbelly’s classics, and is a Library of Congress release of his music.
My mama raised me on Bill Monroe and his followers, and I find so many similarities between Leadbelly and the bluegrass sound. Bluegrass and country blues live a few houses down from each other. But country blues is steeped in danger and mystery, whereas bluegrass has many religious overtones. The perfect example of that bridging is on “Midnight Special:” “Where Did You Sleep Last Night,” made famous in my generation by Nirvana.
Originally called “Black Girl” the song is related to “In The Pines,” made famous by Bill Monroe. Both are born from the standard “The Longest Train.” The sentiment is the same: “In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don’t ever shine… I would shiver the whole night through.” Dark, scary, lost… it’s a story that we all feel we’ve lived.
“Midnight Special” is a perfect album for jumping into Leadbelly’s glorious catalog of music.
He wrote “Midnight Special,” which Creedance Clearwater Revival made a huge hit. Legend has it that if you were in the jail in Suger Land, Texas, and light from the train called the Midnight Special landed in your cell, you were released. So therefore, “Let the Midnight Special shine its ever-lovin’ light on me” makes perfect sense.
Other songs you’ve heard by other people can be found on this album, including “Goodnight, Irene,” “Pick a Bale O’ Cotton,” and “TB Blues.” He’s also the father of the song “House of the Rising Sun” and “Black Betty,” which are on separate anthologies. He inspired Led Zeppelin’s “Gallows Pole,” with “Gallis Pole.”
I’ve tried to coerce modern blues fans to listen and adore Leadbelly like I do. I meet with resistance, because modern blues fans are more impressed with the sound of the slide guitar than the words that make it a blues song. While Leadbelly was a maestro on his 12-string, as well as the accordion, concertina and other instruments, he didn’t have the chops of counterpart Robert Johnson. To a person who only listens to riffs, much of it sounds similar. But to someone picking through lyrics for diamonds, Leadbelly’s is the most fertile mine. And the music is great too. Simple, passionate.
Huddie sang the blues from experience. He really did kill a man. He womanized, claiming to “make it” with eight to 10 women a night in his youth (an exaggeration, I’m sure, but a nice fish story). He lived through the Depression, tuberculosis, poverty, racism, hatred and more. He was discovered during one of his stints in prison, and got out early for his talent.
It’s the little things that endear Leadbelly to me. For instance, in the song “Roberta,” he says “Oh Roberta, don’t you hear me calling you?” then, in an echo, says “Go ahead and call her.” He carries on in his songs, bending his booming voice into conversational tones and adding grunts and sound effects. He claps his hands, slaps his thighs, and moans like he’s been been studying the blues forever.
But he wasn’t a study. He was The Inventor, along with so many others from that era. What’s so interesting to me about that time is that there was no technology to spread the style. It just grew out of juke joints and saloons, from brothels and red-light districts, and split and splintered into countless styles and techniques. Leadbelly was my favorite, the most intriguing and prolific, the one who captured the time and made it relevant for any era.
If you like a good story, something inspiring, something that makes you want to live during the Depression in the poorest parts of Texas, listen to Leadbelly. Start with this album. It’s the one that made me fall in love with him, and spawned years of study of his music and life.

Lessons on hoops, Oklahoma weather, plus excuses

It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything. Even my album reviews are two weeks behind.
For that, I am sorry. But I have one excuse: I am a sports copy editor, it’s March, and most of the state’s team had some sort of postseason run.
Some (OU’s men and women) are still in the thick of it. I won’t venture a guess on the outcome. I realized last night when Mizzou beat the snot out of Memphis that maybe I don’t know much about prognosticating winners.
As I type this, I’m on a weekend day. I’ve got an extra day off this week — Saturday — which is flippin’ sweet. Unfortunately, it will be spent indoors. Because though it’s almost April, my lovely Panhandle Palace is going to get snowed on. Hardcore, apparently. Earlier in the week we had a big tornado outbreak. The temps topped 80 and I started thinking about yardwork pretty seriously. I ordered my yearly herbs (basil/thyme/rosemary — I kill all but the basil, which grows like a tree in my front yard) and thought about what poor flowering plant I’m going to choke the life out of this year. I chose something hardy that may not perish in the Oklahoma heat: Lantana.
But then, on Tuesday, reports of weekend snow surfaced. I was wearing my polka-dot Keds with no socks and a lacy shirt with a tank top underneath. I had removed all outdoorswear from my car.
And today, it’s like a Guns N’ Roses song: Cold November Rain. I left the house to renegotiate my auto insurance and sprinted into the AAA building at Fontana Center with FloJo’s speed and agility. (Or so I pictured it in my head). The rain was falling in icy darts that pierced my cable knit sweater with the utmost of ease. My mother wouldn’t have let me out of the house without a coat. But then again, she wore longhandles until July.
I heard my Nana Thomas’ words, clear as day though she’s been gone since 2004: Don’t ever plant before Easter. This year, Easter comes late: April 12. So hopefully my plants won’t be ready to be picked up until after then, because apparently winter just isn’t ready to give in.
It’s flat cold in Tulsa today. It’s 40 right now, and that’s about as high as it got. The rain won’t stop, and when I check the radar I see dreaded spots of pink in tow. That’s ice, something we Okies know all too well. And it appears we’re in the market for “Thundersnow,” a relatively obscure weather phenomenon that seems to exacerbate the severity of the ice. If it thunders during a below-42 day, schools will be closed for a week, it seems. Ice will pervade your very life, stranding you at home and *gasp* making you spend time with loved ones and pets!
But at least we’ve got basketball to stave off boredom. Tonight is Round 2 of the Sweet Sixteen and I can’t wait to watch. That Blake Griffin is a sight to behold, and I can only hope that he’ll continue his dominance.
But again, I shall make no wagers. My bracket is toast. I have no reason to hope for anyone to win, so I’m just going to cheer for our teams and the other Big 12 teams: Mizzou and Kansas.
I just checked the weather. We’re under a severe thunderstorm warning. The entire panhandle is getting snow like crazy, just a 100 miles or so west is getting ice and we’re getting thunder and lightening. And the cold is gaining strength.
I’ll never understand why I love the weather here, but it certainly isn’t boring. I feel sorry for the robins that are bob-bob-bobbin’ along in the back yard. Get some clothes on, guys!

Album o’ the week: Blood on the Tracks, Bob Dylan

I admit it. I spent most of my childhood and early adulthood not liking Bob Dylan. I just didn’t get the voice. Parts of me still don’t love everything Bob Dylan: For instance, I am not a fan of “Blowin’ in the Wind” because it’s just so overdone. The soundtrack of the mid-60s stuff, greatest folk singer ever stuff.

My love affair with Dylan began after he went electric, though I like some pre-protest albums, such as Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan.
But the real Dylan mystique: The effortless, genuine rawness of “Blood on the Tracks” is one of the most moving, realistic and gut-wrenching pieces of music ever laid on vinyl. (Sorry Bruce Springsteen, but Dylan’s maudlin appears to be purpose-driven, whereas yours is just omnipresent. But I still love you).

Anywho, Blood on the Tracks is divine. It came out in 1975, when I was a baby. But I can relate to it so perfectly. Dylan wrote it in response to his divorce from beloved wife Sara. He must’ve been terribly hurt to see the relationship end, because some of the lyrics will truly tear at your soul.
For instance: From “If You See Her, Say Hello”: “Oh, whatever makes her happy, I won’t stand in the way…Though the bitter taste still lingers on from the night I tried to make her stay.” or from the same song, “Sundown, yellow moon… I replay the past… I know every scene by heart, they all went by so fast…”

Who among us hasn’t felt that way about someone, some time or some place? Some NOUN?

Oddly enough, this isn’t a best-selling Dylan record, though it’s used as a mirror of judgment for others. Bob’s son Jakob’s album “Bringing Down the Horse” sold three times the copies that Blood sold. The Wallflowers outsold Bob. Travesty!

But then again, sometimes an album’s greatness isn’t measured by sales.
That’s why people like me write album reviews, I guess.

Why you should buy this: If you respect excellent songwriting, blues with depth, emotional music, it’s for you. It’s not just sad sappy sucker songs. It’s got happy overtones. It’s joyous in parts. The song “Buckets of Rain” has a hopeful tone. “Meet Me in the Morning” is sexy and adventurous: “Honey, we could be in Kansas/by the time the snow begins to thaw.” It’s stirring, beautiful, raw, painful and funny. All those good things in one album.

Is this a good first Dylan album?: Maybe not, honestly. You should definitely start with the greatest hits, which undoubtedly will include “Tangled Up In Blue” the track opener of Blood. But it won’t take you long to gravitate to Blood on the Tracks. It’s where it’s at, holmes.

But Sarah, this album is really old! I know, I know. But the passage of decades doesn’t erode the beauty of Bob. I swear, he transcends era. At least on this album and another of my favorites, Desire (“Isis” is the coolest song ever). Now, that hippie-dippie stuff from his protest albums is dated. Great, but dated. But time shouldn’t restrict you from Blood on the Tracks. It’s truly timeless (a classic, I guess).

Is this your favorite album? It’s becoming that way. Considering I woke up this morning with 1990s-era electronica (“Temple of Dreams” by Messiah, to be exact) and still found the urge to blog about and listen to Blood on the Tracks as well today, it’s up there.

I could go on, dragging up phrases and clauses that inspire me to a) write b) drink or c) embrace the finer points of progressive nihilism and all that it offers. Instead, I’m going to urge ya’ll to get out there and listen to some Dylan. It’ll do you right.

Album o’ the week

I am starting a new feature here on Catbird Seat. I hope y’all tune in every Thursday-ish and enjoy.
I will tell you about one of my favorite albums, and why you should listen to it.
Usually, this will be something I know well. So it might not be new. But if you are wanting to find some new tunes, check me out. I truly listen to everything, and have a little bit o’ everything in my collection.

THIS WEEK’S ALBUM
White Pepper, Ween

A brief history: Ween’s first “real” pop album. It’s also the most digestible for the non-hardcore Ween fan. It’s got some truly classic pop tunes, such as “Stay Forever,” “Even If You Don’t” and “Exactly Where I’m At.” It’s a major-label, heavily produced Ween album. It doesn’t contain the “F” word.

Why you’ll like it: It’s just good. It’s not my favorite Ween album, but my Ween taste leans toward the wild. And when I say “Not my favorite Ween album,” it’s still better than 90 percent of what’s out there. And besides, this isn’t about me, this is about what YOU would like. YOU the reader. That’s who I’m here for.
Some diehard Ween fans found fault with White Pepper. Too slick, not enough weirdness. They must have never seen Ween live (BEST. SHOW. EVER). I never thought of this as a sellout album, but one that just has some very talented musicians putting out a top-tier album that doesn’t have any songs about poop, weasels, pirates or stallions. (See every other Ween album before this one…)

Why I’m recommending it: Because it’s good. It might make you want to get up and dance a little. It’s got a soft side. It’s got a rebellious vibe, as all Ween albums do. It’s weird, like all Ween albums. But it’s spirited. “Bananas and Blow” is an old-timey story song. “Even If You Don’t” is about loving a bipolar person: “I love you, even if you don’t, you got a knife up to my throat why do you want to see me bleed?” “Pandy Fackler” is about a prostitute down on her luck. It’s got it all, and I think it’s an excellent entry point into the World of Ween. (Just don’t blame me when you buy “The Pod” and it’s totally too weird for you. You’ve been warned.)

But Sarah, White Pepper is from the ’90s!: No it’s not. It’s from early 2000. It doesn’t include studio-produced nuggets of synth loop or anything like that. There are no T-Pain/Kanye sound effects. They play REAL guitars, drums and bass. No one sings about their pain or sorrow. It’s — hold on for this — FUN. It’s a throwback to when music was still good.
So there you have it. My take on Ween’s White Pepper. Come back next week and I’ll have another album breakdown all ready for ye.

It’s a website and I helped!

You all know I love shameless self-promotion. So here goes.
With the help Web department at the Tulsa World, I put together a project on OU legend-in-the-making Blake Griffin. I compiled the information, gathered the videos, wrote the bio and all that stuff. The web department made it beautiful. My boss, Sports Editor Mike Strain, guided us through the whole project. It was a lot of fun and the site is now live. Please check it out! Blake Griffin site

We worked on another one of these, the Sam Bradford Heisman page that was also fun. But I’m especially proud of the Blake page because Mike asks me to compile the stuff and voila, I did it, and voila, it’s a Web page. I feel like I had a big hand in the final product, though the Web guys are the ones with the artistic talent.

Anywho, enjoy. And thanks for looking!

Who wants to live forever?

Sunday is my day to work only one job during tax season. I sleep in, drink coffee all morning, listen to music and play on the Interwebs. I write blogs. I check my weekly horoscope.
Today is no different, but I’m under the influence of a little angel on my shoulder — albeit the evil angel — telling me to go out and have more fun.
It started yesterday when I met a free-spirited girl at the tax place who handles savings bonds. She spent the previous 12 years in San Francisco, and there is something bohemian I like about her. I took her home yesterday and we decided we had to go out on the town sometime. I felt hopeful. Like maybe someone can get me out of this rut… didn’t really know I was in one, but apparently I am. My aforementioned weekly horoscope got downright nasty with me, reminding me to have a good time, shake my groove thing, because it’s now or never. I realized I haven’t been out for unbridled, silly, who-cares-who’s-watching fun in a long time.
And to top it all off, I watched a biography on Freddie Mercury. I’ve always loved Queen and felt a special bond with Mr. Mercury. Don’t ask me why — I just think we share a few personality traits. That over-the-top extroverted personality that likes a lot of alone time, too.
Don’t laugh, but I always weep when I think of Freddie. The song “These Are the Days of Our Lives” has haunted me since its release in the early 90s. He died right after that, and you could see that his once-vibrant frame was shrunken and battered by AIDS. But you can still see this look of, “Yeah, I’m sick. Who cares, fuck you, I’m Freddie Mercury and I am a star.” He looks at the camera and says, “I still love you,” and I melt down. I don’t understand why I feel personally connected, and I’m not like ultra fan-girl or something, but I can remember asking my parents about him when I was really young. I didn’t know what gay meant, I didn’t know Queen had a gay connotation… I just liked him. I liked the songs. I remember being in my front yard when I was 7 or 8, FM rock radio pouring from my open bedroom window, and listening to “We Will Rock You/We Are the Champions” and being totally moved by it. My parents didn’t discourage my love of Queen, they liked them, too. But I can remember my dad saying they were “girly” or something. Regardless, my lack of care on someone’s sexual orientation was as present then as it is now — do your thang, I don’t care. And if you are persecuted for doing your thing, I will stand by you. And all that jazz.
So this isn’t the first Queen kick I’ve been on… I own several of their albums. But this kick seems to come appropriately-timed. While there is a serious undertone to many of Mercury’s songs, an undercurrent is definitely embracing the beauties of life: Love, fun, friends, music… joy. Something I’ve forgotten to seek.
I have been limited by lack of cash, self-induced depression and a general malaise so much that I’ve forgotten to have fun. For nearly two years it’s been this way. I let a banal, weak attempt at a relationship keep me under for a year. That subsided, but I was then faced with a personal financial crisis. That locked me in my house, kept me worried and panicked.
That problem is lessening due to my second job. But I can’t shake its effects. I am really trying. And I think all these celestial signs are map points along the way to me remembering to stop and… you know… listen to Queen while smelling roses.
As I’m typing this, my computer chose “Crystal Blue Persuasion” from the iPod. Wow. It’s a new vibration.
Thanks, whoever’s doing this. I needed that!

The Mighty Putty myth revealed!

I have previously blogged on my desire for the Mighty Putty. I think I’ve found something cheap and similar that I didn’t have to buy from this guy:

So I bought another version, JB Weld Stick. Those of y’all who’ve done some auto repair know the JB Weld mystique. It’s like liquid duck tape, with more staying power. All that stands between you and sticking to something is JB Weld. Here’s the liquid version, which every grease monkey or grease monkey-apprentice has used:

I digress. I Googled Mighty Putty, and every consumer report says it’s the same stuff as is available at your local Auto Zone, which also usually has nice guys working there who will humor your silly questions like “Is this the same as Mighty Putty?” or “Why is one wiper blade longer than the other?” So I bought this JB Weld stick and finally got my robe hook back up on my bathroom door. I have this crappy bathroom door that won’t hold screws. I’ll rehang it and then accidentally apply too much pressure a few weeks later and it will fall down with much clatter, scaring me, the cat and the dog and leaving my robes to pile up on various unrobelike places.

I got it home, opened the box and found a little gray wad of what looks like modeling clay. Same as Mays says, you twist off a piece, rub it so it’s uniform color (this stuff is gray and black sted green and white like on the infomercial) and it’s ready to go. It needs five minutes to set, an hour to seal and a day to “cure.” So I’ve made an everlasting bond with the door and the hanger. The only way it’s coming down is if I swing from it with 10 people on my back, or so the box says.

I’m just glad I didn’t have to buy something off TV. I probably wouldn’t have ever really had faith in it. I don’t know why. I can buy stuff off eBay from people in other countries, but I don’t trust TV advertising.

Fill your day with picture pages!

I never get to do picture pages at work anymore because we are so short on space. So on Sunday, with me doing inside pages on the night of the Super Bowl and my boss requesting “atmospherey” shots, I took full advantage.

I don’t think he expected three-fourths of a page of pictures, but I thought it was nice. And I didn’t get in trouble. Have a look-see here

Also today, I embedded 1 million pieces of recruiting news onto a no-peeky page on our website. It’ll be unveiled Wednesday, National Signing Day. (I keep almost putting National Singing Day, which would be a lot of fun). It’s got YouTube vids, bios of future OU, TU and OSU players and all the high school drama you could ever want. I can’t wait until it’s all over!

It’s going to be a full week for me — taxes, signing day, plus the usual Bouts of Laziness. Whew! Wish me luck!

P.S. Yay Mike Tomlin and the Steelers. You rock.