All Made Up

Brought to you by the mirror on the wall.

I’m no good at public primping. It’s not just because I’ve always been the anti-Barbie; I simply never practiced when I was growing up. In my hometown, one of the worst types of criticism that could be leveled at a girl or a woman was that she was conceited or otherwise full of herself. Unless you wanted to be razzed about your vanity for weeks on end, you didn’t spend more than a moment looking in a mirror anywhere anyone could see you. Anything beyond smoothing your hair, straightening your blouse, and checking your teeth for stray flakes of parsley definitely meant you were too into your own good looks and needed taking down a peg. You could buy a little leeway with an “I’m so fat,” but not much, because then you were just fishing for compliments on your figure.

You think I’m kidding? The code was strict. I remember once watching, while waiting my turn in a high school bathroom, a classmate spending several minutes refeathering her hair and draping her sweater just right. I also remember the names we all called her as soon as she was out the door, and how the rest of us made a point of being virtuously quick with our own washing up.

Damned vain if you do and damned vain if you don’t. Get it? Out in public, expect to be looked at by everyone but yourself.

But only public primping was verboten. Hometown propriety also required that girls and women be seen to have made an effort to look nice, because anyone who didn’t was automatically either admitting defeat (the ugly girls, how sad) or silently sneering at the rest because they thought they already looked okay, which is of course a sin.

So you had to make an effort — in the privacy of your own home. But not too much of an effort. Being visibly made up or having overly styled hair was a sign of either ineptitude or sluttiness, possibly both. I, like everyone else, spent countless hours in front of the bathroom mirror applying layer after layer of spackle and spray trying to achieve the “natural” look.

I made the too-much-effort mistake once — once — in junior high. I showed up at school bearing evidence of one of my first forays into cosmetics (blue eye shadow; it was the early 80s, okay? cut me some slack), and my nemesis CheRae took great pleasure in pointing out to the entire junior high band that I’d finally decided to become one of the big girls. I remember where both of us were standing, what my classmates’ laughter sounded like, and how hot my face felt. I scraped off the blue at the first opportunity and didn’t try eye shadow again until high school.

Old habits die hard. I still won’t do more than glance at myself in a public restroom mirror, even if I’m the only one there. Just long enough to see that my hair and clothes aren’t in too much disarray. Hell, I won’t even look my reflection in the eye while I wash my hands. What kind of woman stares at herself in the mirror all day? An uppity slut, that’s what kind, and my mother did not raise me to be an uppity slut, thank you very much.

By the same token, I still don’t leave my house for anything but a workout without a dusting of powder on my nose and a swipe of mascara on my eyelashes. You wouldn’t know it to look at me — and that’s the point. You’re supposed to know that I tried, but not how hard. You’re supposed to know that I care, but not how much.

Stupid, right? Here I am a powerful, confident, independent, 21st-century womanhearmeroar, yet I’m still following the arbitrary rules of junior high society.

If I ever truly grow up and move away from that place, I’ll send you a postcard. A pretty one. But not too pretty.

Today around the world: November 29 is Unity Day in Vanuatu (part of Oceania, group of islands in the South Pacific Ocean, about three-quarters of the way from Hawaii to Australia).

FourShadowing

So I went to the Four Shadow concert Saturday night. I flew solo because everyone else I could have invited was out of town for Thanksgiving.

I arrived at the venue to discover that the ticket I jumped through numerous hoops to purchase was not waiting at the will-call window as requested. A frantic search of the computer revealed that it's in the mail and I should receive it Monday. Er . . . The bustling boss lady printed me one on the spot, so no problem, really. But considering the challenges I experienced just trying to order the ticket, this snafu left me seriously unimpressed with the box office.

Anyway.

Searching for the bathroom before the show, I ran into half the band: tenor David fluttering around the merch table and bass/vp Stacy noodling at a piano tucked back in a corner near the restrooms. They looked young and small in jeans and sweatshirts. I hoped they were planning to dress up more for the concert. (Some did, some didn't, and I'll tell you what, it makes a difference.) Anyhow, I didn't bother them.

The doors opened at 7:15 for the 7:30 show and the small community theater filled slowly to half capacity; 75 people max. My seat turned out to be center left, on the legally mandated tenor side. (Seriously, is it a musical requirement that basses go stage left and tenors stage right?) Never underestimate the ability of besweatered suburbanites to make a lengthy production of meandering to their seats.

Is it also a rule in the a cappella community that for holiday concerts, the microphone stands must be wrapped in tinsel garlands?

Once the meandering finished, the concert started almost on time. You could tell Four Shadow is used to performing for children: much forced silliness (although the kidlets brought onstage to toss white confetti during "Let It Snow" were genuinely cute). There were several older kids in the audience, including a few tweens in the front rows trying on their first fangirl crushes.

I also heard someone say there were a mother and two daughters present who have seen Four Shadow 147 times. That's . . . a lot. FS is the house band at local amusement park Valleyfair and they perform regularly around town, so it's not that hard to find them. But still. 147? OY.

I suspected the band was tired: a couple voice cracks, a couple shaky notes, not much energy coming from the stage. Mostly they remained very still while singing. Maybe it's not fair to compare these earnest young locals to the big leaguers, but once you've seen Tonic Sol-Fa's modest moves or the new Rockapella dance party, guys who just sit or stand there seem dull. But they still did the best send-up of "The 12 Days of X-Mess" I've ever heard, and the only live performance of "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" I'm likely to witness this season. I hope.

I don't mean to imply that they suck or anything. They don't, not by a long shot. At their best, they have four strong voices, which was especially apparent during the obligatory off-mic encore. The singing is good; the showy part of the show needs work. And they need a good sound engineer on their side. Right now their studio albums sound considerably better than their live blend, and most of that probably isn't their fault.

Favorite A: baritone Kevin. Excellent dark curls — much cuter than his publicity photo! — red nerd specs, and a fine rendition of "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch." He filled in a little vocal percussion as well. I like his voice but not his delivery; too American Idol.

Favorite B: Stacy, who did an admirable job of blending warm bass with decent vocal percussion. He also belted out a supremely Elvisized "Blue Christmas" that I quite enjoyed.

Wish I'd heard more of: second tenor David.

Guy I've avoided mentioning, which is a Minnesota-nice way of saying "nice voice, but the dungeon master look just didn't work for a holiday concert:" high tenor Drew.

Overall grade: B. I was not inspired to stick around for the m&g. In fact, I was the first one out of the building.

Would I see Four Shadow again? Yes, if it were within 20 miles, under $20, and didn't conflict with a T'ai Chi class. I suspect they have some funnier shtick than they felt free to express in a family-friendly holiday concert, so I'll make a point of seeing one of their regular shows before rendering a final verdict.

Sunflowers

Something to remember as winter settles in.

Cowboys Don’t Drink Bathwater

Brought to you by the Wild West.

When I was a young ‘un growing up not too far from Deadwood, I wanted to be a cowboy in the worst way. I had (and still have) friends and relatives who were genuine range riding, cattle herding, bronc busting (and it’s bronc, not bronc-o, tenderfoot), rodeo winning cowboys and cowgirls, and I was sorely vexed at being a townie. The reason?

Horses.

I wanted a horse more than anything else in the world. I rode several stick horses into the ground, exhausted whole herds of imaginary mounts, and mentally referred to my 10-speed as my steed. I explained to my parents how we could fence in the back yard and use the garage as a barn, and I fantasized for years about coming home on my birthday to find my wish granted. I even assured Mother and Father Media that I would rather ride a horse than drive a car when I turned 14 so they wouldn’t have to worry about me behind the wheel. (Alas, I ended up with the car.)

Even though I remained unmounted, I admired the cowboys who’d tamed the prairie and strove to live up to their example. I was, as my friend Kelly was fond of saying, “rough and tough and hard to bluff; I picked my nose and ate the stuff.” I wore hats, vests, chaps and — until they grew too expensive — boots in my gallops around park and playground. I lived by the code of the west.

This code included bathing whether I needed it or not. Actually, I didn’t mind bathing, because I was an avid swimmer in my spare time. Tub time was fun time as far as I was concerned. It was perhaps less so for Mother Media, who had to supervise and prevent me from flooding the bathroom. She used the time to teach me rhymes and songs, and to correct some of the uncivilized habits I’d developed rustling cattle in the back yard. Like drinking the bathwater, for instance.

For a long time, I didn’t understand why drinking my bathwater was a bad idea. In my eyes, water was by definition clean, so surely it was fine for drinking. Mother Media had different ideas about that, however, and we disagreed for some time — until, like Wild Bill at the poker table, she pulled an ace out of her sleeve one day.

“Cowboys don’t drink bathwater,” she informed me. And from that moment forward, neither did I.

Not drinking bathwater is one of the few cowboy traits I retain in adulthood. I live comfortably in a metropolitan suburb, not rough on the range. I never learned to soothe restless dogies by playing the harmonica (although I can torment cats with an oboe). I avoid country music and the company of men who spit. The only rodeo I’ve ever been in was made by Isuzu, and my high-heeled boots came from Eddie Bauer. I almost never say “yee-ha.”

And I still don’t have a horse.

Today around the world: November 25 is Sinkie Day in the U.S., celebrating the joys of eating while leaning over the sink. It’s also the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women, which is a little more important.

La Brujita

I went to my friend Elyse's flamenco recital. Muy caliente!!

Brava, Brujita!

Yesterday I had the pleasure of seeing my friend La Brujita (the Little Witch) perform in her first flamenco dance recital. Dang, that was cool! The rhythm and percussion appeal to me enormously (I swear I was a drummer and/or tap dancer in a previous life), as did the vibrant dresses, dramatic fringed shawls, and sassy fake eyelashes. And the high-heeled, high-impact shoes, of course. Women of all ages and sizes stomped and swirled about the stage, including one lady with butt-length platinum dreadlocks and one freakishly skinny person with long, long arms like live wires dropped in a lake.

What appealed to me most, though, was that the older women were the best dancers. Flamenco is not a dance for girls. It's for women of a certain age. Flamenco is a dance of grand passion, and while the younger women can perform the movements, it's the more mature ones who live them, who own them. The two soloists who were clearly grandmothers impressed me with their complete confidence and sly knowingness. Their feet were just as fast as the younger women's, and they'd earned the right to look down their noses at those whose heels and hearts remained still.

My only complaint: admission, at $15, was steep.

Another, tangential complaint: the evil MMS network is down AGAIN, so I can't yet post the photo I took of La Brujita in her royal purple finery. That cursed network is down more than it's up these days. Needs e-Viagra.

After the performance, a couple other friends and I went across the street to Sebastian Joe's, one of the best ice cream shops in the world. I had a double dip of cinnamon and Oreo on a chocolate-and-Heath-dipped cone — and, in what may be a personal record, didn’t even think about being hungry for supper.

Today I’m trying to decide between donating blood in the afternoon and going to T’ai Chi in the evening. Each is a worthwhile activity, but I won’t feel good if I do both.

Today around the world: November 21 is World Television Day. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to embrace my TV or smash it.

Winter has arrived

Chilly view out the office window -- but at least it's nature, not concrete.

Wouldn't Want to Paint It

Once upon a time in the mid-80s, I had a cassette titled I Have a Pony, an album by deadpan one-line comic Steven Wright. Genius, pure and simple. Wright was famous for muttering things like, “I bought some powdered water, but I didn’t know what to add.” And “My girlfriend got poison ivy on her brain. The only way she could scratch was by thinking about sandpaper.” And “It’s a small world, but I wouldn’t want to paint it.”

I played the hell out of that album in the car, in the house, and everywhere in between. Pretty much memorized it. Then, like all temporary passions, it faded from view.

Yesterday I found in the mail a package from Mother Media. It was I Have a Pony on CD. I laughed out loud, then listened to it on the way to T’ai Chi (and thanks to the lousy traffic, I made it through the entire 45-minute CD during my 15-mile journey). I soon found that in the 20 years since Pony’s release, I had forgotten almost none of the jokes. I may not repeat them on an irritating daily basis like I used to, but they’re still in there.

I cannot, of course, recite any of the poems and prayers I was made to memorize as a child, nor the mission statement of most of the companies I’ve worked for. Ask me the lyrics to certain Weird Al songs, however, and I’m all over it. Priorities.

Anyway, it is indeed a small world, painted or not. Here at the new job, I’ve met a woman who knows one of my T’ai Chi friends from elsewhere, and at T’ai Chi someone asked after one of my new colleagues whom he knew. I’ve also met someone who went to the same college I did and knew many of the same professors; we even share a favorite. And of course there’s that whole parallel life thing between me and the Kerner.

Which brings to mind one last Wrightism: “I like to reminsce with people I don’t know. Granted, it takes longer . . .” But I’ve tried it, and it is kind of fun.

Today around the world: November 18 is Mickey Mouse’s birthday in the U.S. Did you know you can sing the words to “Amazing Grace” to the Mickey Mouse Club theme song? Try it.

The Pause That Refreshes

According to the "Which Punctuation Mark Are You?" test:

Semicolon You scored 30% Sociability and 82% Sophistication!

Congratulations! You are the semicolon! You are the highest expression of punctuation; no one has more of a right to be proud. In the hands of a master, you will purr, sneering at commas, dismissing periods as beneath your contempt. You separate and connect at the same time, and no one does it better. The novice will find you difficult to come to terms with, but you need no one. You are secure in your elegance, knowing that you, and only you, have the power to mark the skill or incompetence of the craftsman. You have no natural enemies; all fear you. And never, NEVER let anyone tell you that you cannot appear in dialogue!

My test tracked 2 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 20% on Sociability You scored higher than 94% on Sophistication

Link: The Which Punctuation Mark Are You Test written by Gazda on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Winter Quarters

Brought to you by the weather.

In the olden days, war in inhospitable climes saw a hiatus while armies marched to their winter quarters somewhere warmer. Winter has finally arrived in Minnesota — and I'd be displaying a chilly photo if the stupid MMS network weren't down again — so I've taken a hint from those great military minds and established winter quarters of my own. Alas, I have not moved to the Bahamas; I've only set up an auxiliary office on the second floor of Sensational Acres. Why? Because heat rises, and everybody knows the Media Sensation is hot, or wants to be.

It's long been my habit to do my leisure reading upstairs during the winter, lounging on my bed in light pjs without cranking the furnace. My new laptop computer and wireless network have also made surfing from the Serta possible. However, if I wanted to do any writing with pen and paper, as I did this evening, or watch a movie, I had to do it downstairs at my desk or downstairs in my living room. With the price of heating fuel expected to rise as fast as the temperature falls this winter, I wanted to take better advantage of thermal physics, so I decided to put some effort into my upstairs arrangements.

It was quite an operation. First, I had to build a desk. And by "build," of course I mean "haul scrap lumber and some retired end tables in from the garage and pile them up." The lumber is slabs of ½-inch MDF (multidirectional fiberboard) left over from last year's near-eternal pantry shelf project: two small rectangles and a large rectrapezoid. The end tables are iron-framed nesting tables I bought when I moved to the Twin Cities 12 years ago. These things are all very heavy when you're hauling them up the stairs.

Like all armies, I march on my stomach. I paused here for a strawberry-cream cheese muffin.

Setting up the desk was the easy part. I slipped the small pieces of MDF beneath the shorter of the nesting tables and laid a slim paperback book on top to bring the surface level with that of the larger table. I set the large piece of MDF on top and bam! Instant desk.

The hard part was getting my electronics connected. Like all houses built before 2004, Sensational Acres lacks the number of electrical outlets needed for my high-tech lifestyle. I needed to plug at least three items — reading lamp, computer, and Treo charger — into the single outlet in my office corner. I trotted downstairs for a three-receptacle adapter I knew I had in the junk drawer and trotted back up with it. Oops, it was a three-pronger that needed an adapter of its own to plug into the wall. Trot trot trot back downstairs to the junk drawer; trot trot trot back up with the device. All this activity raised my temperature a bit, but I knew the glow wouldn't last. So I crawled under/behind the papasan chair to do all the plugging — in the dark, since I had to unplug the lamp to rearrange everything.

But it all came together in a moment, and now I'm good to go. My bedroom has become a fully functional multimedia work and entertainment center. The iBook shoulders most of the load: web surfing, DVD playing, music playing. With the flat surface of the desk available, I can now also work on a freelance project without shivering in my first-floor office. And the best part is, I can do it all in a t-shirt and lounging pants with the thermostat set at "don't break the bank." Winter quarters! Worth the effort.

Today around the world: November 15 is Peace Day in Ivory Coast — and elsewhere, I hope.

RFP Machine

Brought to you by my literal mind. Here's just a sampling of what's rolling around inside it this evening.

• Today I began my four-day training on the RFP Machine. Being the literal-minded chick that I am, I thought that the RFP Machine was an actual machine and that I would be learning about buttons and switches and moving parts and such. Why a marketing writer would need to know how to operate non-computer machinery was a mystery to me, but hey, I'm the new girl. I go where they tell me, and happily.
  
  When I got there today, I learned that RFP Machine is a software application, not hardware. It's used in answering Requests For Proposals — requests from potential clients to my company for info about its products and services. It's a database of FAQs. D'OH!
  
  
• Every month, the same gripe: Where's the freelance project that was scheduled to land on my doorstep today, or some e-mail or phone call or smoke signal explaining its absence? And every month, the same answer: Der, huh?
  
  I bowed out of T'ai Chi and my Partner-san workout tonight to stay home and do it, and it ain't here. *Sigh.* I left a voice message for the perp. Maybe I should raise my rates every time this happens, eh?
  
  
• As some of you may recall, in the weeks preceding my ouster from the FBO, I sent out numerous resumes. One of those landed on the desk of a Mr. E. Mr. E left me two urgent-sounding messages last week begging me to call back because he was very, very interested in my credentials. I left him a message thanking him for his interest but explaining that I've already accepted a position and am no longer available.
  
  Today I came home and found yet another message from Mr. E waiting for me. I called back and left another reply. I wonder what he wants. If he wants to pay me exorbitant rates to redline his whatever (not as dirty as it sounds) from afar, we'll talk. Otherwise, he needs to find another phone-tag buddy. One that's not long-distance.
  
  
• I have one episode to go and then I'll be done watching Firefly. I'm putting it off. I don't want the fun to end. Firefly was a really, really good show, and I've fallen in love with it in under a dozen episodes. Heck, they had me at the first Chinese expletive. Why oh why was it canceled? Oh yeah: network doo-doo heads.
  

Today around the world: November 14 is Readjustment Day in Guinea Bissau. So put the Internet back the way you found it.

Never Smell the Inside of a Hat.

"Never smell the inside of a hat."

That's what my lunchtime fortune cookie said. Sage advice, I guess.

What's the oddest fortune cookie fortune you ever got?

There's No Place Like HMO

After Monday's all-day orientation, yesterday was my first day at my new desk. So far I've been given cookies and scones, a cyclamen, a free Flash drive (!) and carte blanche with the office supply catalog, so I think I'm gonna like it here. And no one has said "lift up," but they have provided me with materials and scheduled training specific to the job I will be doing. This is a novelty after the last place I worked.

There are several people in my department who are in my age group and seem to share my sense of humor, which is great. The photos of CNE on my desk remain the cutest baby/kid pictures in the whole office.

One of my new colleagues is also named Kim, so we're trying to figure out who gets called what. Neither of us wants to be "Kimmy," although she's less resistant to the idea than I am. I'm sure one of us will acquire a nickname pretty soon, and of course I'm always willing to answer to "Your Grace" — but "Kim-chi" seems more likely with this crowd.

Turns out I pass the other Kim's apartment building on my way to the office. When the weather is nice, we and one other woman who lives nearby might try walking to work together. It's just under 2 miles for me.

This building houses a cafeteria (to which I'll be going soon because I remembered to pack a teapot and Earl Grey this morning, but forgot to pack a lunch) and a small convenience store. There are also small, vividly upholstered seating lounges scattered throughout the building.

My cube is one cube from the wall of windows that look out over the condo construction site next door and the river farther to the south. I didn't realize how much I missed seeing signs of nature, even suburban nature, outside the office window until I worked downtown for a few months. The difference between the grey of the concrete jungle and the grey of trees and water preparing for winter is huge.

This HMO employs nearly 10,000 people in its various clinics and other facilities. I think all of them park at this building; the lot is vast and full.

With a November start date, I have 3.25 PTO (paid time off; combined vacation & sick leave) days available between now and the end of the year — just enough for my trip to Missouri in December. The company also offers me either one additional day or the monetary equivalent of that day. I'm taking the day. Don't know what I'll do with it yet, but I'm sure I can think of something.

If I read the orientation materials right, I'll start the new year with 19 PTO days available, plus the option to take 5 more days or their monetary equivalents — and I could purchase more days on top of that if I wanted to. I'm still picking my jaw up off the floor! What in the world am I going to do with 19 paid days off? Oh yeah — go to Italy. Did I mention I'm going to Italy in 2006? I am. Viva Italia!

Payday is every other Friday. This Friday is a payday, and I'll get a check for this week's work. No waiting. Cool!

So . . . Many thanks to all who have sent me good wishes on my new venture. I think they're working.

Undone

Brought to you by things I did not do.

I was feeling reflective on my last day of leisure before going back to work. For the most part, I used my vacation time as I'd hoped to. However, there are a few things I did not do:

1. cook
   
2. go places. Since I wanted to continue attending T'ai Chi classes regularly, I was anchored to town. My choice.
   
3. write huge lots of prose. I wrote a little, but not a lot.
   
4. go to lots of matinees; I only attended a few. There's just not much in theaters I want to see right now.
   
5. work out a lot
   
6. take naps. I'm just no good at napping.
   
7. stay up late into the night. Apparently I'm no good at that any more, either. I didn't make it past 11:30 even once.
   
8. read everything on my list
   
9. devise a system to permanently declutter the countertop just inside the back door
   
10. connect my DVD player to my VCR and then to the amplifier, allowing movies and TV soundtracks to take advantage of the stereo speakers
    
11. get tired of my aimless schedule
    

No regrets. That's a shorter list than I thought it would be. I'd do it again — under different circumstances, maybe.

Today around the world: November 8 is Election Day in the U.S. and World Town Planning Day everywhere. Go on, get crackin'.

Tonic Sol-Fa

Brought to you by Tonic Sol-Fa.

*dangles ticking pocket watch*

You're getting veeeeerrrrryyy sleeeepy.

You will go to www.tonicsolfa.com.
You will ignore the annoying Flash graphics and the lack of personal bios on the guys and proceed straight to the tour calendar.
You will learn when Tonic Sol-Fa is performing in your area.
You will buy a ticket, and one for a friend.
You will attend the concert.
You will start grinning as soon as the music starts.
You will be amazed that four medium-sized slacker types can make such a big sound.
You will compare their groovy shoes to those of every other musical ensemble you've ever seen, and Tonic Sol-Fa will come out miles ahead.

You will learn who's who. You will figure out that the twitchy blond lead singer is Shaun. The adorable, floor-shaking bass is Jared. The tenor/vocal percussionist/dance captain/class clown is Greg. The sweet baritone with the retro mustache is Mark.
You will develop at least one insta-crush.
You will leave Jared alone; he is mine.
You will wonder how they can ba-dum-bum so dang fast so continually.
You will enjoy innovative arrangements of cover tunes.
You will be impressed by catchy originals.
You will clap along even when not asked to because the rhythm is so infectious.
You will, if asked, answer questions directed at you from the stage ? unlike a certain wet blanket at last night's concert, who gave them next to nothing to work with and came off looking like a complete jerk.

You will fidget impatiently through intermission.

You will applaud the band's return to the stage, and not just because they executed a wardrobe change during the break.
You will remark to yourself that Shaun's voice is slightly unusual, you're not quite sure how, and that you really, really like it.
You will watch with interest as Greg controls the stage lighting with a set of foot pedals on the floor in front of his stool.
You will make a mental note to sit closer to Mark's side next time so you can hear his mellow harmonies better.
You will mentally volunteer to polish Jared's tambourine.
You will chair dance.
You will be very disappointed when the show ends.
You will applaud wildly.
You will listen raptly during the off-mic encore.
You will be left wanting more.

You will attend the meet-and-greet after the concert.
You will shoo stragglers from your path on the way to the lobby.
You will receive a warm handshake and a friendly introduction from each band member.
You will answer their questions about where you're from and what you do, because they are sincere.
You will obtain illegible autographs.
You will take photos of cute, smiling singers.
You will buy all of Tonic Sol-Fa's albums.
You will PayPal Jugglernaut $25.00 for giving you such great advice.

When I count to three, you will awaken feeling refreshed and craving some fantastic a cappella music. You will remember all that I have said and will follow my instructions.

One. Two. Three.

Autographed album

My newly signed copy of TSF's album Red Vinyl.

Greg & Jared

Tenor/vocal percussion & AWESOME bass

Kitty clogs

Behind us in the autograph line.

SWFs

A few of the scores of stodgy white folks in the audience.

Meet Ned Nelson

Shaun, TSF's lead singer, tried to wring some audience participation out of Ned, but he refused to play along. Boo, Ned, boo!

TSF stage

They have a fog machine going so the colored lights show distinctly.

The senior citizens behind Anna and me think the group ought to try some calypso tunes. Mmm . . . Kay.

Tonic Sol-Fa concert

Excellent fifth-row seats, right in front of some very large speakers.

Raves for Faves

Brought to you by Fridays, Coca Cola, Snickers, the letter K, the color blue, the number 7, and a few more of my favorite things.

Favorite former employer: Today's Health & Wellness magazine, which brought home both gold and silver medals from last night's MMPA Awards. X-treme high fives to art director Nancy Eato (gold: best use of visuals), news editor Kelly Rice (silver: best regular column/department), and El Queso Grande Claire Lewis on the well-deserved honors!

Congrats also to Jen Buege for her Cooking Club e-newsletter (gold: digital media) and Grassmaster Amy Sitze for Gardening How-To's bronze medal (best use visuals). I'm proud to know you all.

Favorite guilty pleasure: washing down leftover Halloween candy with Bass Ale. Hey, it's a great way to toast my friends' accomplishments.

Favorite TV show I never saw: Firefly. Thanks to the Miracle of Netflix, I'm able to watch in full, without commercials, every episode of this addictive sci-fi/western series. I didn't see it during its short broadcast run, since I don't get that channel, but once Senor Editor convinced me to see Serenity, the movie based on the show, a few weeks ago, I had to have it. I've been enjoying regular doses of Captain Tightpants and his motley crew ever since. Shiny!

Favorite new music find: The Twin Cities' best-kept secret, Four Shadow. This a cappella quartet can be found performing at the Valleyfair amusement park during the summer and touring the Midwest during the off-season. Their sweet sound, sharp arrangements, high energy, and less-is-more approach to vocal percussion push them toward the top of my playlist. Plus, the guys are cute. I hope to catch them in concert sometime this winter. In the meantime, go visit their website and download the free songs they offer there. I especially recommend "Breathin'."

Favorite new — make that new favorite — mystery writer: Sujata Massey, who's not new to the scene at all, only new to me. (Yeah, like everything else on this list.) Sixty pages into her 1997 debut novel The Salaryman's Wife, featuring a Japanese-American woman living in Tokyo, I already know I'll buy everything else she has written. Wit and vigor keep Massey's lessons on Japanese culture from seeming preachy.

Favorite geek crush: sci-fi writer Cory Doctorow. Doctorow is just about the most accessible author working today. He podcasts himself reading from his very interesting works, so I've listened to some of that. Salon.com is currently publishing his novella Themepunks in serial form, so I've been keeping up with that, too. Salon.com also published his short story Anda's Game, so I checked the archives and read that. (50 points to the first person to tell me why that's a very clever title for a sci-fi short story; 100 if you've read it and can expound.) Visit www.craphound.com for literary coolness.

Perhaps the coolest thing, though, aside from Doctorow's excellent stories, is his firm belief that his work should be freely accessible to anyone, anytime. So if you go to this page, you can sign up for an RSS feed that will magically supply your RSS aggregator with a daily chapter or three from his unsettling novel Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town. He calls it a "cool remix." I call it totally awesome. Tap into the glory that is Cory.

Favorite news commentary: Broadsheet, a new feature at Salon.com. Broadsheet offers savvy commentary on current events written by and for smart women — and men.

Favorite thing about being on vacation, even if this is my last free weekday before returning to work: I'm writing today's blog from the comfort of my bed, iBook on my lap, cats at my feet, tea at my elbow, music playing softly in the background. The only reason I got out of bed at all today was because I needed to use the bathroom. I've thoroughly enjoyed my month of sloth, which has passed much too quickly.

"What? Where's your Protestant work ethic?" you cry.

Dude. I am so not Protestant.

Everyone deserves a chance to relax and simply be, without hurry or obligation. I'm glad I've had one. You should try it — and everything else I've mentioned here.

Today around the world: November 4 is Constitution Day in Tonga.

(Nearly) Leafless lawn

. . And here's the yard after O Toro made the rounds. Notice those clean gutters!

Leafy lawn

This is my yard before 1.5 hours of mulcher/mower madness.

The gloves are off.

And the gutters of Sensational Acres are clean.