What is wrong with this sentence?

1. I should have placed a comma before "but."
   
   
2. I should have used longer pieces of bacon.

The "F" word

I am writing for a funkalicious site, Cool Mom Picks. I like many things about CMP, but what I like most is that it works this way: I am asked if I want to review something, and then I do, and then they run it.  There's no pressure to like anything, which is good because I, good sir, am not that kind of blogger.

Don't get me wrong -- I do have my price. If, say, the Bureau of Please Like Hawaii wanted to give me a trip for four to Hawaii as long as I promised to say I did, indeed, like Hawaii, I would. I'd lie by omission about the bad parts, such as the fact that apparently dolphins don't actually serve you frozen drinks on their heads like swimming waiters and the gravitational pull of Hawaii doesn't make you skinnier and I would just be like, "Wow! Hawaii! You gotta try it!" But for anything less than a trip for four to Hawaii with or without the dolphin waiters? I am pulling no punches.

When I wrote for Hooters (ahem) magazine, I was also the media editor, which meant reviewing buttloads of music. But not my kind of music, of course, music for a dorky suburban mom writing secretly under a number of male pen names and also working full-time as the managing editor of an educational magazine (I was, for a span of time there, not unlike "Victor/Victoria," in a "Reading is Fundamental" tee-shirt). No, the kind of music I was sent to review was crunk and heavy country and whatever else PR folk thought the Hooters crowd would like. I dutifully listened to each frickin' CD on my way to work and on my way home from work and tried to find good and helpful things to say, looking at the music from the view of a twenty-something guy who would buy a Hooters magazine and flip to the music section. And if I didn't like something, I did not write about it. I knew well that I knew little and was not about to adversely affect someone's burgeoning crunk career with my stoopid.

In other words, it's nice to be working within my demographic. Although I assume my writing is suffering now that I don't have to find fourteen coy euphemisms for "boobs."

The day the news jumped the shark

Hurray for nature!

Sailfishing: Just like sex with an elderly, rich person.

I can't tell you about the new job, cuz I might get fired. I can't tell you about life stuff, in case you steal my identity. My drunken, topless photos are restricted.

This is an lolcats perfect storm.

Consider The Ice Skating Bear

If you find yourself in the vicinity of an angry Russian bear who is being forced to ice-skate, be aware that he may not be in the best of moods. Proceed with caution. If you find yourself on the ice with a bear who has ice skates strapped to his feet and is being prodded to perform for the amusement of an assembled throng, we cannot advise you strongly enough to get off the ice.

1978

I can't remember who took the photo, but I remember the backyard and my favorite plaid shirt, and I recall thinking my Dorothy Hammill haircut made me look like a mushroom. I enjoyed the way my bell bottoms made a swoosh swoosh noise at my ankles when I walked.

Behind me, about to get nailed by my bony elbow, was Martha. She had cleverly matched, you will note, her shoes to her belt. She was my best friend for two glorious middle school years, and then I moved all the way to Boston. After a couple of years of letter writing and a few visits, we lost touch, forever. Only not, because more than twenty years after I moved away, I moved back to California. And guess who is one of my best friends again? Although she's still that short.

I was 5'7" at this point, I think, and still growing. I was fairly certain I was about to be discovered by some famous director to sing and dance my way into the movies. To prepare, Martha and I practiced a sad little mime routine, and I also worked on some scarf juggling and clever patter, which may have included one or more puns. I blame The Gong Show.