Is it shallow of me to hope Peyton Manning smears Rex Gross-man in the Stupid Super Bowl?

Since Peyton’s a home-town guy, even though neither one of us is living in the town we once called home, I’d be delighted if the Saints exacted some vicarious retribution through him. Especially since the NFL fined Reggie Bush $5,000 for backflipping into the end zone. “Taunting” they called it. So rub our faces in it already. Losing wasn’t enough for you people? And then there was that sign some of the Bears fans sported, “The Bears are going to finish what Katrina started.” Oh, really? The wind in your city must tunnel itself through your empty brains.

The South may rise again–it just might take a detour through Indianopolis first.

Well, now I understand. It was bluest blue day of the universe. I wonder how many applications WalMart had yesterday?

Hi everyone! My name is Erin  and for some odd reason I was asked to guest blog. I cannot imagine what I would have to say that might be half as interesting as my mom, she is such a phenomenal writer. However, my fears have not prevented me from writing. Please accept my advance apologies if the writing isn’t exactly up to par.

I must confess, I am a procrastinator. Really big procrastinator. I realized in high school that I was a huge procrastinator. I could write papers at the last minute and get good grades. I could study the night before and make fairly good grades. It seemed as though in high school, it was okay to be a procrastinator because the subject matter was never so hard that the last ditch effort to write a paper or study for a test was enough. I probably could have made better grades in high school had I written term papers, or at least started writing them, when the assignment was handed out, or had I studied for tests and/or quizzes earlier than the night before. But, since my grades were good enough to graduate advanced with honors, I was not too concerned.

Unfortunately, that procrastination effort does not transfer well in college. So much more is required of students in college. More unfortunate, I have trained myself to write papers under extreme pressure situations. And, as though that isn’t enough pressure, I expect another procrastinator to read/review/revise them for me under those same stressful situations. I think that I tend to forget that my English teacher, procrastinating, mother would much rather not review yet another paper! But, I want and expect her to do it pronto!

I have decided that my procrastination is encoded in my DNA, on my mother’s side of course. I find myself waiting until the last minute to read 200 pages, for just one class! A friend of mine is usually upset with me because my grades could be so much better had I not procrastinated and actually studied as much as I should have.

I am a political science major at the University of Houston. There are a lot of difficult majors out there, but political science in my opinion, is one of the most difficult. I write papers on The Republic of Plato and develop country reports on Greece or Israel. Luckily, I love the material. Unluckily, the tests are much harder than the papers! I fear that my procrastination will get the best of me. Sure I can get by with a decent grade by studying for tests the night before, not really reading the material, just taking notes in class, but I want to do great and be great.

Procrastination can easily prevent that. It is not as though I want or like to procrastinate, like I said, it is encoded in my DNA. I pray that my procrastination is not passed onto my children. Is it possible to de-code procrastination from my DNA?!?

I do not think that law school will afford me the ability to blame mom. I hope in August 2008 to be attending law school at the University of Houston. I am begging my procrastinator mom to save me where I lack in grades with an outstanding personal statement. I am asking a woman who has waited until almost the last minute to prepare herself for National Boards to help me with a personal statement. What a great idea that is, two procrastinators, two school projects, two deadlines.

I’ve finally decided what I want to be on my way to growing up.

At some point, God willing and the levees don’t break, I’ll be a multi-published writer who is entertaining the grandchildren on the lanai of my Kauai summer home while I’m chatting with my agent who’s about to break the news that Julia Roberts agreed to walk on her knees so that she can play me in the film version of my life.

In the meantime, I want to be one of those people who gets to name paint colors. My father owned a hardware store, and I spent too much time there browsing through the paint chip files. It’s just so intriguing that grown people are paid to ponder preposterous paint names. Do they do this before or after lunch, I wonder, contemplating if lunch consists mostly of solid or liquid food substances.

I probably should be a bit ashamed to admit that I cruised through the Benjamin Moore site before composing the blog, but it was all in the name of research. Truth is, there are at least a bazillion paint color names–far too many for me to wax poetic about here.

I found that pink can be charming, passion, lilac, bunny nose, newborn, wild, posy, lace, blush, blossom, pansy, innocence, and ballerina, wild, paradise, gypsy, princess, and I Love You (to name a few).

If you don’t get to travel much, you may, instead, vacation vicariously through the following: Tulsa Twilight, Rocky Mountain Sky, Honolulu Blue, Gobi Desert, Yosemite Blue, Caribbean Azure, Galapagos Turquoise, Naples Blue,Tuscon Teal, Venezuelan Sky, Grand Canyon Red, Douglas Fir, Toronto Blue.

Hungry? American Cheese, Sharp Cheddar, Carrot Stick, Eggshell, Neon Celery, Peach Parfait, Lemonade, and an assortment of mousses and sorbets of varying shades.

But let’s get real. What color is Dog’s Ear? Funky Fruit?

Let’s petition for names we can honestly and immediately visualize–like Baby Urp Yellow, Roast Beef Gravy Brown, Pawprints on the Carpet Deep Black, Raw Oyster Gray, Clean Diaper White, Similac with Iron Ecru, Runny Nose Green, Fish Stick Taupe.

Based on what’s coming out of the Sundance Film Festival this year, I think some savvy director ought to get a jumpstart for next year and consider making films based on some of the chapters in Leviticus, Song of Solomon, Amnor and Tamar, and Lot and his two daughters.

Two press-generating movies this year are Hounddog and Zoo. Billed as a “Southern gothic tale,” Hounddog stars Dakota Fanning, who portrays a 12-year-old being raised by an abusive father and alcoholic grandmother. Being a New Orleans girl, I am offended already by the Southern label. Talk about a movie that’s going to perpetuate God sending Hurricane Katrina as a massive moral cleansing. Hello. Acts of degradation are not limited to states that serve grits.

In the movie, Dakota is raped while her 12-year-old boyfriend watches. Thankfully, the movie spares audiences the details of the rape scene (Dakota screaming “No!” and slamming her hand on the ground are the only actions) , but it does show her naked father climbing into bed with her.

Dakota said she would tell her friends to see Hounddog with their parents’ approval, because it addresses many topics they will either soon face or, perhaps, already have. “I’m going to be a freshman in high school in September, and I think it would be irresponsible of my parents not to let me know of things that happen and to try not to get yourself in uncomfortable situations,” said Fanning, who turns 13 next month. “It’s educational.”

Well, Ms. Fanning. Take your vitamins because you’re going to be quite the busy chick over the next ten years if your parents’ idea of informing you of horrific happenings is to have you act them out in movies.  To refer to rape, especially of a pre-teen, as an “uncomfortable situation” is an uncomfortable situation in itself.

“Educational”? Gotta love the posturing from a 12-year-old. Well, since the rapist in the movie is never caught, and she fails to tell anyone about it, I’m having a difficult time discerning the “educational” value. Let’s see, what did we learn here? Child rape is the new gratuitous sex? Is that the message we want young girls to take away?

As if that’s not enough to make you want to slap Fanning’s parents all the way back to the land of responsible parenthood, there’s a documentary entitled Zoo. In this gem, a man finds intimate companionship in a barn with an Arabian stallion. Based on a true story, the film relates the events that unfold after the man dies after being dropped off at a hospital in Enumclaw, WA. Apparently, his death resulted from an “incident” –the details of which I’d rather not know. Long story short–the farm was found along with “buckets full” (quote from Karina Longworth on Netscape) of video tapes showing this man and others who participated. The men would meet at the farm, knock down a few daiquiris, and then —

The director says: “I anesthetized the sleaze right out of it.” So, what? Now it’s Mr. Ed meets Gilligan?

What truly dumbfounded me is the filmmaker discussing the “universal” nature of the film for middle-class America. Okay, now I’m scared. If that’s the new middle class, who are all those Super Bowl commercials for?

I won’t delve into more of the Mr. Hands story (yep, that was his online screen name) because I need to not throw up while I’m cooking dinner for my NOT-middle-class-anymore family.

The closing irony is that one of the news headlines is a blurb about an airline employee deleting God’s name and any references to Him in the film The Queen.

Anybody seen an ark lately?

Pamela Anderson is not happy about the possibility that the Post Office might honor Kentucky Fried Chicken’s founder with a stamp. “Honoring a man whose legacy involves breaking animals’ bones and scalding animals to death in defeathering tanks is contrary to the values of most compassionate citizens, and I hope that you’ll deny KFC’s request,” Anderson wrote in a letter to Postmaster General John E. Potter. “How about another Elvis stamp instead?”

So, here we are. Pamela Anderson, of the microwave marriage to Kid Rock and boomerang marriage to Tommy Lee, who wrote on her website (fasten your seatbelt):

“We’re all human – we all make mistakes – we all get sick sometimes – we need to support each other – be conscious of our choices – take advantage of our right to vote – and teach our kids to care about animals, the environment and other people around the world. We are blessed!”

Hello? Is anyone home? Not that Elvis didn’t make significant contributions to the world of rock, all those pelvic thrusts included. But the man did have as many as ten different drugs in his body at the time of his death according to autopsy records.

Last year she wrote  Governor Fletcher of Kentucky, “The bust of Colonel Sanders stands as a monument to cruelty and has no place in the Kentucky State Capitol. The chickens are bred and drugged so quickly that many become crippled under their own weight.”  Speaking of being crippled under your own weight, the woman with quite a bust of her own lost the battle to have the Colonel’s removed.

Pam, dear, I respect your right to be a vegetarian. I respect your support of PETA, though I must admit that I find the blurb on your website that “animals have an interest in leading their own lives” quite fascinating.  How, exactly, did you come to discover that? But, really. What about those flexitarians (note: I promise I did not make this up. Google it.)? Do they consume poultry slaughtered humanely? Hey, now that’s a notion. Maybe that could be a cause to pursue. A humane way to provide meat and chicken. After all, fried chicken feathers aren’t going to fly in KFC.