Recalling my recently broken wrist you might assume me clumsy, accident prone, or affected with Münchausen syndrome. However, the agent of the disaster was a heavy wood stool, part of a trio I’ve been meaning to replace for a year. I was meandering through the dark kitchen the other night when one of these vile excuses for counter seating got in my toe’s way.

When what I thought was a classic stub toe ended up throbbing well into the next afternoon I gave it further inspection. Finding the toe streaked with purplish black, to cover all bases and verify the chance of needing an amputation was slim, I took a photo and sent it off. Consequently, I am taping two toes together and abandoning the flip flops for sturdier shoes. I have been told I need no other treatment at this time.

There is no repaying these cyberspace diagnosticians of mine. That’s the problem with not being a professional in the way of a doctor, accountant, lawyer, or agent to the stars. I have very little to offer friends and family in times of crisis. Even my mixology talent is limited to gin and tonic, tequila straight up, or a martini. Though I can shake or stir with equal expertise. In general there is very little practical use for someone who compiles and analyzes facts and observations. As you can imagine, the “help me please my statistical data is totally out of whack” pleas are few and far between.

Such is life.

Enjoy your weekend — she says patronizingly, as if anyone is going to “not enjoy their weekend on purpose.

And because you can’t go wrong with lyrics like “what’s your name (what’s your name), who’s your daddy (who’ your daddy), (he rich), is he rich like me “, even when performed by men old enough to be my father’s much older brothers. I give you my August obsession, The Zombies, singing Time of the Season.

There’s a funkier one on Compulsions, with their much younger voices, and a un-embeddable but awesome version here.

Wonderland or Not.

I’ve already posted this week that I will miss the location of my old job — far away from HR central.

Have read The Best Magazine Articles Ever. More specifically, the article listing the best articles, not the best articles per say. Except one. I managed to get to the November 1964 Richard Hofstadter gem (tagged Conservatism; Conspiracies; Political psychology; Radicalism), from Harper’s. “The Paranoid Style in American Politics”.

I’ve also read the The Epitaph to Elegy Written in a Country Church-Yard , and should you wonder why, it is because someone sent it to me in an email. No idea who, the sender’s address was unfamiliar to me, though it didn’t end up in spam which adds a bit of legitimacy to it. Why would anyone send such a thing to me? The motive remains unclear. Maybe they know my love of poetry, but understand my attention span is limited, and so felt the whole poem would have been too much. Perhaps a death threat. Anyone’s guess.

I have seen the light and the thrill is gone. Maybe I’ve just listened toThe Thrill Is Gone, too many times this evening.

I love this King/Chapman version. King’s is the standard bearer because of his legendary mad guitar skills, but Paul Butterfield and Aretha Franklin do killer versions of this song.

[See post to listen to audio]

This link for those for those using Google Chrome — in which this audio player doesn’t seem to work.

What have you Read (Seen, Listened To, Will Miss), this week?

Wonderland or Not.

Regardless, I have a hard time getting worked up about Mel Gibson. It is not like we didn’t already know he was bad news. There were clues. The 7 children with his first wife, the anti-Semitism and sexism displayed in the 2006 drunken rant, and The Passion of the Christ — all consequential indicators of zealous incongruity.

I was angry when Whoopi defended Polanski in the infamous Whoopi says it’s not rape rape incident because the topic as it applied to the story was relevant to the issue of at hand — rape. This Mel Gibson thing, while pertinent, is immaterial to the real the issues of race, misogyny, sexism. It’s relevant to Mel Gibson, his career, his lovers his haters, Radar Online’s pocketbook and so on. In the scheme of things — not so significant.

If anyone wants to discuss something directly related to the matters at hand, why not discuss the new political correctness requiring everyone who will run for office, or is in office and up for reelection during the next decade, to parrot that old “the tea party is not racist, just inclusive of few people who express racist views” slant.

–

My original post was about the song So In Love. I was distracted. I still want to post the song, if only because a blogger should always provide relief from the storm of their rants. That, and I’m recently obsessed with this song and it’s various incarnations — from Ella Fitzgerald to K.D. Lang.

Written originally for the musical Kiss Me Kate, there are hundreds of versions and styles of this Cole Porter song. I like most of them. This the Lara Fabian & Mario Frangoulis version as it is performed in the play Kiss Me Kate, in the film De-Lovely.

Peace

Wonderland or Not.