I Feel the Earth Move

I FEEL THE EARTH MOVE
Carole King/Martika, Written by: Carole King
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down, tumbling down
I feel my heart start to trembling
Whenever you're around
Ooh, baby, when I see your face
Mellow as the month of May
Oh, darling, I can't stand it
When you look at me that way
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down, tumbling down
I feel my heart start to trembling
Whenever you're around
Oh, darling, when you're near me
And you tenderly call my name
I know that my emotions
Are something I just can't tame
I've just got to have you, baby
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down, tumbling down
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down
I just lose control
Down to my very soul
I get a hot and cold all over
I feel the earth move under my feet
I feel the sky tumbling down,
Tumbling down, tumbling down...

Are You Ready For an Earthquake in BC?
Have you been seeing more commercials on "preparation kits", and "earthquake readiness"

British Columbia experiences over 1,200 earthquakes a year, 300 of which occur in the lower mainland and on Vancouver island. Almost all of these earthquakes are too small to be felt. However, a stronger earthquake could occur at any time. It may happen during the day or at night, on a weekend or a workday, in any season and in any weather condition.

The government knows more than it wants to scare you! Be ready, they are warning us...it's their way of saying "see we warned you so"

British Columbia is vulnerable to two types of earthquakes: those occurring within the earth’s crustal plates and those occurring at the interface between crustal plates. Earthquakes that originate within a plate are seldom greater than magnitude 7.5 and typically shake for less than one minute. In contrast, earthquakes that originate between plates are usually larger than magnitude 8.0 and the shaking may last as long as 3 or 4 minutes.
British Columbia is vulnerable to the largest type of earthquake called a “subduction” quake, which occurs between two plates. The Cascadia Subduction Zone is located approximately 100 kilometres west of Vancouver Island and earthquakes here recur every 550 years on average. The range of recurrence, however, varies from 200 years to 900 years. The last subduction earthquake was in January 1700 – 304 years ago.
The most powerful earthquake ever recorded in Canada is a magnitude 8.1 earthquake in the Queen Charlotte Islands--and the largest earthquake likely to have occurred in Canada is the 1700 Cascadia Earthquake with an estimated magnitude of 9.0.
What’s the largest earthquake possible?
The largest earthquakes recorded on earth are subduction earthquakes-- measuring magnitude 9.5 off the coast of Chile in 1960 and magnitude 9.2 in Alaska in 1964. Generally the size of an earthquake is controlled by the length of the faults on which they occur. The longer the fault--the stronger the potential earthquake. Currently, there are no known faults capable of generating a magnitude 10.0 or larger earthquake.

=======================

The Coming Catastrophe - An expert in such fields as advanced programming and database systems, Brent Miller discussed his involvement with The Horizon Project, which brings together numerous researchers and scientists. From analyzing a variety of ancient data and evidence, the group has concluded that Earth is about to enter a catastrophic phase, which occurs on a cyclic basis. Miller cited evidence for past global catastrophes, such as sunken ancient cities, polar ice samples containing cosmic dust, ancient accounts of the sun moving backwards in the sky, and missing ancient technologies. The catastrophe occurred from a sudden geographic Pole Shift, he said, explaining that this takes place as the solar system nears the 'Galactic Plain' (see graphic below). During this calamity, massive waves will wipe out 1/3 of the population, particularly those living on the coast lines, he warned, and another third will die within six months of the shift, due to the aftermath. He noted that Nostradamus, Cayce, Mother Shipton, the Mayan calendar, and current remote viewers all foresee a cataclysmic event taking place in the future. People can prepare by moving away from the coast, and planning out survival strategies of how they can live without the current infrastructure, Miller offered.

For more visit website.....http://www.coasttocoastam.com/shows/2007/01/29.html

or mainpage....

http://www.coasttocoastam.com/george/about.html

Preparations Kits should include:
WATER
Store water in plastic containers such as soft drink bottles. Avoid using containers that will decompose or break, such as milk cartons or glass bottles. A normally active person needs to drink at least two quarts of water each day. Hot environments and intense physical activity can double that amount. Children, nursing mothers, and ill people will need more.
Store one gallon of water per person per day. Don't forget your pets.
Keep at least a three-day supply of water per person (two quarts for drinking, two quarts for each person in your household for food preparation/sanitation).
Change this water every six months. Household liquid bleach to kill microorganisms:
Use only regular household liquid bleach that contains 5.25 percent sodium hypochlorite. Do not use scented bleaches, colorsafe bleaches or bleaches with added cleaners.
Add 16 drops of bleach per gallon of water, stir and let stand for 30 minutes. If the water does not have a slight bleach odor, repeat the dosage and let stand another 15 minutes.
The only agent used to treat water should be household liquid bleach. Other chemicals, such as iodine or water treatment products sold in camping or surplus stores that do not contain 5.25 percent sodium hypochlorite as the only active ingredient, are not recommended and should not be used.

FOOD
Ready-to-eat canned meats, fruits, vegetables.
Canned juices, milk, soup
Sugar, salt, pepper
High energy foods such as peanut butter, jelly, crackers, granola bars, trail mix; foods that will not increase thirst.
Vitamins
Foods for infants, elderly, persons with special dietary needs
Comfort/stress foods: cookies, hard candy, sweetened cereals, lollipops, instant coffee, tea bags.
Pet food, at least one ounce per animal pound per day.
Avoid foods like rice, pasta and dry beans that require a great deal of water to prepare. Remember to restock your food once a year. A three day supply of non-perishable food such as canned meats, fruits vegetables, energy bars etc. Be
sure to include only food that requires minimal preparation and no cooking preparation. The following is an example
menu.
Breakfast: Cans of juice, coffee, tea or milk; canned fruit; cardboard packs of wrapped granola bars or
cookies.
Lunch: Boxes of crackers or canned brown bread; canned sandwich spread; peanut butter in a plastic jar;
Velveeta (cheeselike and doesn't need refrigeration), dried fruit and hard candy; energy bars; nuts.
Dinner: Canned meat or seafood; canned spaghetti, ravioli, chili, stew, tamales. Other good choices are
canned beans or other vegetables, pudding cups, and ready-to-eat soups. There are single servings of
vegetarian Indian dishes in plastic pouches that have long shelf lives

FIRST AID KIT
Sterile adhesive bandages in assorted sizes
Assorted sizes of safety pins
Cleansing agent/soap
Latex gloves (2 pairs)
Sunscreen
2-inch sterile gauze pads (4-6)
4-inch sterile gauze pads (4-6)
Triangular bandages (3)
Non-prescription drugs such as Pain relievers, Anti-diarrhea medicines, Antacid, Syrup of Ipecac (used to induce vomiting with the advice of a Poison Control Center), Laxatives, Activated charcoal (used with advice from the Poison Control Center)
Various roller bandages
Scissors
Tweezers
Needle
Moistened towelettes
Antiseptic
Thermometer
Tongue blades (2)
Tube of petroleum jelly or other lubricant
TOOLS AND SUPPLIES
Paper cups, plates, and plastic utensils
Battery-operated radio and extra batteries
Flashlight and extra batteries
Cash or traveler's checks, in case banks are closed in the days following an earthquake
Non-electric can opener or a utility knife
Small fire extinguisher
Pliers
Tape
Matches in a waterproof container
Aluminum foil
Plastic storage containers
Signal flare
Paper, pencil
Needles, thread
Medicine dropper
Wrench, to turn off gas and water
SANITATION
Toilet paper
Soap, liquid detergent
Feminine supplies
Plastic garbage bags and ties
Plastic bucket with tight lid
Disinfectant
Household chlorine bleach
Poop bags and scooper for pet waste
CLOTHING AND BEDDING
Sturdy shoes or work boots (keep near your bed)
Rain gear
Blankets or sleeping bags
Warm clothing
Sunglasses (keep your spare eyeglasses in the emergency kit, too.)
DOCUMENTS
Will, insurance policies, contracts deeds, stocks and bonds
Passports, social security cards, immunization records
Bank account numbers
Credit card account numbers and companies
Inventory of valuable household goods, important telephone numbers
Family records (birth, marriage, death certificates)
**Remember to include special needs family members such as a baby or an older person might have. It is also good to store in a water proof plastic bag important family documents (passports, wills, medical records etc.) along with your earthquake survival kit.

Just another day at the office....

Secret Attic of Mountain Poses

We had one once, in a big old house on an isolated street, near the river that dragged in fog day after day after day. The attic was a spooky place, a place I remember being only 7 or 8 years old. It was a time, a smell, a taste, a haunt of a memory of a child who shovelled into the snow drifts, high into the frozen curbs of real people. But I never dared go there, not even doubled-dogged dared, because up the climb towards the darkness, the Dunta waited and he was not supposed to be real.

My dad was real though, connected to the union hall that prestigiously aligned its docks on Front Street, with promises of wealth and prosperity and unionized banter, the river was the only income for a young man with a young family, and he was lured as any father would be, as his father was, and probably his father.

The ocean smells like seaweed and dad came home everyday feather-brushed in it, mixed with charcoal dust, and he brought white bars of soap and dirty sack of laundry for mom to tend to. We liked dad's work because they had company parties with hired clowns and hotdogs and ice-cream and I had an answer to "what does your dad do?" I proudly responded "my dad's a coalminer" because this is what I thought he did, after listening to all those country songs he played, I just assumed. I eventually would learn he worked at a shipping port that loaded coal onto huge ocean freighters, destined to far, far away places, like the attic upstairs.

Moody Street was a good street, even though there were vampires and zombies and dead people and ghosts and the Dunta. Gramma and Grampa lived nearby on Royal Avenue and we had dinner there every Sunday. Grampa had a lot of sawdust in his shed, which made for easy cleanups when we kids puked up after such opulence. Royal Avenue was also a good street. This is where we went to school, at John Robson Elementary, just a stone's throw away from Grampa's wood chips and Clayton's General Store. I grew up in a block that would have survived a nuclear blast, with all the necessities of life and rumours, and judgement, and food and water.

My friend, who was a boy, Reggie, also lived on Royal Avenue, in "Boy's Block" and had presented me with a trinket of half of a heart, the other half which he kept, thus binding us forever. His mom was there, admiring our cuteness, and I wasn't sure what to do, so I hugged her. I think I lost my half after recess the next day and was too embarrassed to play with him without his token of unity. After all, I had given his mom a contractual hug.

I never cared much for jewelry. I still don't. We kids would rather play near the firehall and sneak into the smokestack, a place where my memory still struggles to coagulate; a long chimney where bats hung and slept and nested, to scare the crap out of kids who broke into the ash stained bricked walls of ancient firepits and cremations of once people. We'd stand in the center of the chimney, gazing upwards towards a shrinking spiral of light, smaller, and smaller, until we were no longer brave enough to withstand the hisses of bat cries, and falling bat poop, and mother yells for dinner.

Boy's Block was like that, a fearful place of hisses and police sirens and men, and bad men who gazed out of window frames all day long, who watched children as they played. Today, my recollection is it was just an apartment complex for cheap rent for women, for single women with child, for men with men, for bad men on prisoner's promise. For bad women and once people. It was for anyone desperate enough to live in a place like this and it's long corridors of doors, which was only one step up from Hell. And to think we only lived up one block from them, divided only by a grand cherry tree.

Then I felt awful about losing Reggie's heart half, a fee that must have dug into a savings meant to take them out of poverty, but reserved momentarily to charm me. Reg just disappeared one day, as did our neighbours, the Wong Family, who had a live-in gramma who prepared dinner by chopping off a chicken's head in the backyard, and we'd watch it run around in circles for a long time, a headless, silent chicken, making us somewhat dizzy in it's death. Then she hung the damn thing up on the clothes line, along the drying towels and laundry, such bizarre things at the Wong House, really, really, Wong.

Sort of like Farmer's Market, where mom shopped for fresh fruit and vegetables, yet it stunk like the Wong house, like pig's pee on hay with the familiar smell of dead chickens wallowing in the air. I hated that place because no one spoke kid, no one spoke fun. Then we'd end up at Army and Navy, another sort of stink, like rotten moth balls and dead cloth, harbouring the old hotdog vending machine on the ground floor, spinning the same weiners over and over again, wrinkled and dehydrated in mothball air.

I honestly can't remember my mom shopping in nice smelling places. This was the worst floor to shop on, with fish tackle, and tents, and army boots. Or we'd end up on the top floor, with all the linens and fabrics and clothes patterns. Rarely, did my mom shop in the middle floors, the fun floors full of toys and gadgets and the soft icecream vending machine. But, in retrospect, we were the best dressed kids at school and never missed days due to samonella or ecoli poisoning.

Mom was multi-talented, like Bewitched, but for real. She could whip up a blazer and pant combo on her sewing machine, have meat in the oven, and still prepare bath time, and laundry time, and once upon a time in the quiet of Moody Street, despite the lingering door to the attic. I knew it was there, it was just a matter of time.

And one day I did go there.

Sabrina grasped her daddy's neck in death grip, hard. She clung on, shivering in the dampness of August's last breath. Like summer had given up and forgotten there were children still playing in the park. Daddy walked her across the street towards her room of dolls and light, towards the safety and comfort and warm bath of mommy.

Something was wrong. She knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.

She was afraid to look. Her pupils avoided looking at us, as she attempted to steer them left, then right, then left, then up and down. She didn't want to go there anymore, to the neighbour's house for daycare. Sabrina's only 6 years old and doesn't know how to be afraid, she never lived near a smokestack, or lived near a Boy's Block. She doesn't know how to say, "my dad's a coalminer".

She can't communicate her being. Not like me, not like when I was six and knew every corner of Moody Street and how to survive it.
The doctors think it's phycological. One doctor went as far as to assess it was my fault because I had dropped her on her head when she was a baby. Another doctor concluded it was a nervous reaction to her being fondled and touched in her privates, and it's a natural, nervous reaction to not use your eyes anymore, to avoid seeing what happened.

No, but that's not what they called it at court. Or at the police station where we videotape her testimony, the one where I inconspicuously stand there and watch through a see-through mirror, like in the god-damned fucking movies, except, my little blonde haired girl is on the other side with the bad fucking guys, showing the undercover fucking cops where he touched her cunt.

And I can't breath anymore, the smoke stack has swallowed me up, taken me to the once people. They called it sexual touching or sexual interference, they can't make up their fucking minds what to call it. And I'm hoping Sabrina doesn't describe her private as a "cunt". Because I've used that word so many times before, please, oh please, Sabrina, remember to call it a vagina. It's a vagina. A vagina.

Sabrina remembers pretending to be like starfish. He asked her to spread her arms and legs and pose like one, and it only cost the removal of his sister from the room for 10 minutes, for 10 dollars.

And the sister would lie, protecting her stink of a teenaged brother with such conviction of family, a unity where the kids had to hide extra food under their beds, where the parents hid extra vodka shots from repeating guests. Their children knew how to avoid the attic, even when there wasn't one.

I tip-toe up the stairs. It's not dark, but it's not light either. The Dunta's up there, I know he is, and he's waiting to be captured. And I'm the only person on Earth who knows he needs to be caught, because if I didn't, there wouldn't be the safety of Sabrina's mom. There wouldn't be the safety of Sabrina's gramma, or grampa, or a happy ending, or a happy beginning, or a middle shopping floor. There would have been just stupid things of another person's stupid being.

Stupid things that just takes one breath, one pause, one step, one step at a time. Step back and breath deep, and drink, and drink and let the emptiness fill up with fog. Fog is good sometimes, especially the ones that recirculate onto itself.

I remember fog being a really good thing when I didn't have the answer and could fall asleep into denial and let the cherry tree defend me, or the sawdust cleanse me, or when I didn't have to be brave enough because they said Sabrina would forget all about it, being as young as she was.

I would awaken to tree full of presents, Christmas presents stuffing the living room, so full of all our heart's desires and dolls, and tea-sets and bicycles. And it's all in black and white, but I remember, I remember the glee and screams, as my sister and brother awoke to Christmas Day. Santa had come again, overnight, then disappeared into another a room, into the attic full of your beautiful art.

Full of mountain poses. You painted canvasses of sunrises, sunfalls, sunscapes, and rivers, trees, fallen skies, and hazel mists, rainbows, and ancient logs, happy streams, and happy colours, and lots of landscapes, and mountains.

Sabrina will eventually be diagnosed with an eye disease that come on by universal chance, a hereditary glitch, not by the suffering of her parent's injustices and sins. It just happens sometimes. It didn't happen because I made her eat hotdogs at the Army and Navy, or because I said swears, or because she was taken by a once people.

You see, the child who offended her, is now a once person to me....a nothing. And the doctors who treated her are nothing, the ones who pandered eight months of her life away to finally figuring out what was happening. That it wasn't in her mind, or her mom's mind, that doctor's are just people, not super humans, not even half-hearted caring ones, like Reggie.

They are far, far less than the monsters I once knew, and the ghosts and the vampires and dead people I was so afraid of, and the Dunta on Moody Street.

They are nothing,

and up in the secret attic, there's....

and I hope Sabrina forgets, because it seems I remember so much.

Clint Eastwood Never Peed His Pants

It was a scorcher yesterday, a high plains drifter sort of thing, with the desert heat rising, a foggy mirage drifting towards the horizon, then, poof, he's gone. And it would happen, in the heat of anger, a child has left daycare, poof, melted by the sun. It was just that quick.

Here's how it happened.

I do a pretty good job running the daycare, taking care of little children, treating them as if they were my own. In fact, my clients praise me for my efforts and I am rewarded with long term relationships, a partnership of caregiving that allows me to see their babies grow and grow until the inevitable first day of school.

I know their children well. I was there.

One little guy is in the process of being potty-trained. He's about 2-1/2 years old and is being bribed to use the toilet. He went from diapers, to training pants, to big boy underwear within a month, poof, he's toilet trained. Or so his parents think.

One day he showed up at daycare in big boy undies because he's been using the toilet at home "all the time", and he gets presents, and if he pees it's just a little accident. At daycare it is not an accident, it's an unhygenic headache I have to deal with, keeping other children away from the puddle, finding the carpet and couch locations where he played, or sat, and peed. It's time consuming.

So I changed him, putting on his spare clothes his mother has conveniently had the foresight to bring, since I suppose their version of "all the time" really means "he's gonna pee because we brought extra clothes". And, yes, the cute little pugsley-wugsley peed again. Did we make a wittle mistake...a wittle waccident.

Listen here, high plains drifter, your little cowboy needs to wear training pants at daycare. You should have been there, it was like high noon had struck, itchy fingers dangling ever so closely to her gun belt, sweat sluggishly sliding down her brow, draw!

She shot me, screaming, "how dare I put him back in training pants over two little accidents, and how they worked so hard to toilet train him, and how unprofessional I am, and I'm going to make phone calls, and I'm going to report you, and your daycare makes my child ill all the time because of the other children, so an eye-for-an-eye, they can damn well walk in my son's pee". Well, that was the jest of it.

All the while I'm wondering who was this person, since I've never seen her act like this before, but I stood my ground, dug my spurs deep into the linoleum and told this imposter, no big boy undies until I am certain he won't pee on my carpets again. Another client was picking up his children and witnessed this whole ordeal, and so did all the little children nearby. It's not nice to yell at daycare, it's scary, it's tacky, it's having no regard for other people in an attempt to have it your own way.

In fact, I compromised. I was willing to allow her son to come in the next day wearing undies, but should he pee in them, I was going to put on training pants, not another set of spare clothes. I was being fair, I think, meeting her half way. But no, she stormed off, with little cowboy riding the reigns, with a training pant weighed down with urine.

Then the phone calls start coming in, late in the evening, by a husband who has heard her version of what happened, and he sounds tipsy, and I just hang up. Then she calls. Apparently, there's been a big miscommunication. Well, no actually, there's hasn't. You're still not going to have it your way, so fuck off.

I don't take too kindly to threats, you see, she said some dang good fighting words I am not willing to forget. After all, I took care of her son for well over a year, she didn't complain then. I hope she makes all her phone calls, as she attempts to hang my daycare high. I wish her well in all her endeavors, but I already know, there's no one, not one marshal in the land willing to shut me down over her son's tighty-whiteys.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

And just in case there's any confusion with regards to potty training, or any other rules and procedures I follow at my daycare operation, a "Parent's Handbook" is provided to all clients, via my web page. Here's my policy regarding big boy undies (which this client has broken on several levels)

"When you feel your child is ready for potty training, I ask that you begin this teaching at home. I will follow through and encourage your child while in my care. Please keep in mind that the activity level here can distract your child from responding to an urge to use the potty, more so than at your home. Therefore, I will continue to use diapers or pull-ups until your child can and will announce that he/she must use the bathroom (not just at home, but here, also) and can control his/her bladder and bowels for a few minutes beyond that announcement. When the child has reached this point, training pants may be used.

Do not bring your child in panties or underwear until he/she has naptime and bedtime control established.

I also ask that during toilet learning, the child be dressed in "user-friendly" clothing as much as possible. The best items are shorts and pants with elastic waists, or dresses for girls. Try to avoid really tight clothing, pants with snaps and zippers, and overalls as often as you can. Your child will want to help pull pants, etc. up and down, plus clothing with too many "gadgets" makes it harder to get the child on the potty in time."

Choose and be the Dufus at the Water Cooler

I was watching Entertainment Tonight (the U.S version) and all the pre-Golden Globe Award ceremonies and pomp, including the fashion sense of CoJo, our Canadian pretty faced kid-done-good, who almost died from kidney failure, a trusted voice of style.

I had this eerie feeling about him tonight, like I've seen him before, in another life....

CoJo looks more like this now, a chubbier face, because of all the meds he must take for his kidney transplant, but gosh, don't you think he looks like Chastity Bono.

You know, Sonny and Cher's kid. I loved that show.

So, back to the Golden Globe Awards, full of Keifer Sutherland and his hit show "24", then there's Prison Break. I understand both will air on Monday evenings at 8pm. Who do I pick? I love both shows and this is killing me, almost as much as parents who name their kid Wentworth. Come on now. What in the hell name is that. Wentworth. I looked it up, Google says it's a parliamentary constituency in South Yorkshire, and if I want to know more about the genealogy I'll have to pay $24.99 for a subscription...screw that, I'll just let my mind sort it out in a big school yard fight.

What if I show up at work and everyone watched Jack Bauer's escape from a nuclear blast, saving humanity, with speed dial to every presidential elect, three terms in a row, and I tuned into watch Michael Scofield's escape back into prison instead. Oh, I am going to be such a loser geek, then there'll be whispers of my mental stability and loyalty to the realities of television.

Dilemma: "24" or Prison Break.


Oh, yes, T.V. land, you play a naughty game. You've played me a thousand times before in your prime time wars. Do I get invited to lunch with the cool people, or am I brown-bagging it with my just desserts being a fleeting memory of Wentworth's flourescent eyes.

Keifer or Wentworth....Keifer, actually that's kind of weird name, too.

Oops, sorry...wrong Sutherland, but you must admit, father and son look alike,

or

Wentworth....


Animated GIFs

Put Flowers on My Face

I am increasingly forgetting my past as the consciousness of days melt away into each other, and the other, and the other. I don't do it on purpose. It drives me crazy when my google search in my brain doesn't work. I especially recognize these failed searches when I can't remember quotes from movies, or who starred in what, and their names, and all the titillating scandals.

But even more worrisome is how my gray matter has become defragmented and distorted and impulsively tries to provide a quick response to my queries, which usually are more memory blocks with just a hint of recognition. Then these little hints evolve into digression, and I digress, and digress, and digress, until finally I can't remember what it was I was thinking about. My brain is such a slutty tease.

You know, sort of like Algernon, and "don't forget to put flowers on Algernon's grave". See! I did it again! I wasn't going to talk about rats today. I was going to talk about the X-Files and The Warriors, although I'm fairly certain there was a movie made about Algernon, I'm positive it didn't star David Duchovny or that bitch wife of his, Tia. I remember her name because it's my daughter's middle name. She's the one who forced the X-Files to relocate to California after many successful years filming in Vancouver. She got wiped out by a big tidal wave in some movie, can't remember, but I do recall David's whine "I want to be with my wife", o-boo-hoo, then the producers just up and left. Then he starts shitting about Vancouver being an ice-aged forest. Don't get me started.

So, what I really was thinking about was how the kid next door comes over and asks if Brandon can come out to play. Abracadabra, I'm transported to movieland, and The Warriors and favorite line "Warriors, come out to play-ya".

And there's the girl, Debra Van-van-van-van,
who was the daughter of Ted Baxter from Mary Tyler Moore, but on a different show.


I wonder how she's doing? She had that big steamy kiss with that hunky guy in The Warriors. I think he's dead now, no wait, it's his career that died after starring in that crapola movie, The Shining, no, not The Shining, it was Glitter-something. Oh who cares, at least we got one good cult film to rant about a generation later.

I loved Valerie Bertinelli.
I hope she's not dead. She reminds me of Debra Van-van-van-van, except she started to piss me off when she referred to her husband, the king of guitar, as "Edward". Come on now, bitch...it's Eddie, Eddie van Halen, okay, no one calls a rockstar Edward.




So Valerie was in a T.V. series
a successful one because I watched it all the time, and the mom had red hair, just like


Lois

in Family Guy. I love Stewie.

Anyways, I went to watch the X-Files being filmed once.

It was amazingly boring. The guy I worked with, who came up from the California office because, apparently, we Canadian counterparts are too damned stupid to write Ada,
had a rented home on some prime land in Richmond, an isolated back country scene, with a verandaed house and a sign on the front door, "He has Risen". Talk about poor language skills. So the scene involves a car chase and a big truck full of chicken cages, and they topple over and, oh what a mess. I think it turned out to be the most boring X-Files episode of all time, and I was there.

And this all began because I couldn't remember the name of the woman who was the partner to David, you know, the brainy redhead skeptic doctor. Gilligan.

Capoeira - Cool Martial Arts

I've noticed I post many of Sabrina's activities. My son, Brandon, has many interests as well. He "loves" Capoeira and is currently enrolled in Kikara Kickboxing. He'd like to switch, but I'd much rather keep him in something safer, where they only learn to break opponents arms and legs and such, and not their necks. Capoeira seems to be more like martial-gymnastics-art, sort of like kickboxing, but with style.

Family Guy Meets Randy Newman

For some reason, my YouTube videos have not been loading on my Blog. I have had to re-post alternate videos. Hopefully, I can paste the original, intended ones back later. Until then, for your enjoyment, I present:

Sabrina's Space Scamp '06