It's Love, Boys

I gave my gal a cookie, she let me see her underwear
I touched her on her fuzzy thigh, she didn't really seem to care
I got into her t-shirt
I got into her bloomers
But what the people say are just a bunch of nasty rumors
Because it's love, boys,
This time it's really love, it's really love
Because it's love, boys, this time it's really love

Pretty Polly 2x4, she slipped right through my bedroom door
She switched off the TV and put her hand upon my shorts
She kissed me on the cheek
She whispered in my ear
She sent me up a creek and she took away my fear
Because it's love, boys,
This time it's really love, it's really love
Because it's love, boys, this time it's really love

Later in the boudoir I got into her lingerie
We spent the night together and all my worries slid away
I paid my girl a visit
I crept behind her mirror
I touched her rosy fingers and I slept beside her feet
I listened to her dreaming and I flew into her sleep
Fluttering of eyelids, dreaming all the time
Never let 'em tell you that getting close is such a crime
Because it's love, boys,
This time it's really love, it's really love
Because it's love, boys, this time it's really love

Battlestar Galactica Toaster

Hi you two.

Thank you so much for the deluxe BSG toaster. I was tempted to blast it out of the box when I first saw it, so great was my fear and hatred for the cursed thing, but upon checking the label on the box I realized just in time that it was from two very wonderful people who could not possibly be Cylons, and so I let it live.

But then I started to think. It came delivered in a box. A boxed toaster, could this be some sort of subtle message sent to me by David and Colleen? What would motivate them to send me a virtual envoy of my sworn enemy, that while rendered harmless, is still my foe? At first blush, it was clearly a gift, given generously and freely to bring some joy into my life, joy that another member of the vile, mechanized Cylon race has fallen, converted to a utilitarian device to be used in the preparation of perfectly browned multi-grain foodstuff, but as the day passed it sat there, a mute, inert, yet malevolent presence on my kitchen table. It was boxed but might it possibly be able to somehow un-box itself?

I realized with a reeling surge of panic that I would need to devise a procedure to determine that it was actually safe to allow it aboard. I spent several days concocting a solution of toothpaste and Drano (common household items) that would irrefutably show that the Cylon DNA contained therein had indeed decomposed into a state that was purely and conclusively harmless. But in doing so I stumbled upon some very disturbing facts. The first was that, though apparently mechanical, the toaster in question had subtly biological characteristics wherein the plastic casing and metal undercarriage were seen to manifest a distinct cell structure, indistinguishable from those of human bones and organs. And then there was the observation that the cells appeared to be evolving in some unspecified vector, a very slow evolution, but an undeniable change nonetheless.

I must confess I was a bit overwhelmed with the facts as they came to light. In a weary and dizzied state I contemplated my options. Should I continue this disturbing and randomly reasoned experiment to it's logical conclusion? Should I bolt, jaw clenched, fit and determined, down to the flight deck and strap in as the ace pilot with the incredible record of survival against demonically incomprehensible odds? Should I abruptly and nepotistically take command of the other, failing, battlestar only to use it as a disposable shield in some vast and abrupt military operation? Should I just hit the bistro on the lower deck and, later that night, sleep with Gods-know-what smokin'-hot, sweat and grease stained woman I might catch the interest of, just for an episode or two? Or should I pursue my formerly repressed, yet now obvious lifelong dream of blossoming into the most brilliant, yet perilously unseasoned attorney to pass through this star system in a millenia? It was all so confusing. If only I could coax season 4, episode 4 to stream onto my computer in its entirety before the malignant viruses on the illegal host Web site brought my smoking CPU to a scorched and crackling halt. If only those fracking frackers hadn't annihilated my home planet in a hateful and effective attack.

Now I am on the run for all eternity (or at least until this season ends), across the skies, beyond the galaxies, fleeing, surviving, questing, searching - for the perfect slice of toast. With jam please.

To be continued.

She Speaks To Me

You got to do and you got to see
You must come through and you’ve got to be
You got to save and you’ve got to sin
You get more out than what ya put in
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!

Some are born to dream and fly
Some are made to cheat and lie
While I struggle and while I try
She brought me to life and she makes me die
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!

And she say…
Zoob zaba sayay
Zoob zabah zooyah
Zoob zabah zayah zooyah,
Zoob zaba zayah zoob zabah zooyah
Zoob zaba zayah zooyah...

I debarked upon this place
I had a smile upon my face
Lately I’ve been on the ropes
And when I lose my stupid hopes
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!

You got to do and you got to see
You must come through and you’ve got to be
You got to save and you got to sin
You get more out than what ya put in
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!
She speaks to me! She speaks to me!

And she say…
Zoob zaba zayay
Zoob zabah zooyah
Zoob zabah zayah zooyah,
Zoob zaba zayah zoob zabah zooyah
Zoob zaba zayah zooyah
Zooyah...

Valentine's Day Top Five

5. Wake up at 9.
4. Exquisite apple raspberry tart thing for breakfast.
3. Nap for 2 or 3 hours.
2. I'd rather not talk about this part.
1. Battlestar Galactica season 4 on the web.

Ukulele, [you-kuh-lay-lee] - noun:

A small, stringed instrument native to the Hawaiian Islands, superficially resembling a guitar that has been shrunk through careless laundering.

Known to inspire playfulness in some musicians and defensiveness in others. In the case of the former, it may induce the donning of grass skirts, leis and coconut brassieres. In the event of the latter, be alert for exceptional musicianship, overblown self-respect and mislaid sense of humor.

A poet of lost origins adds additional perspective:

A girl with a wee ukulele
Plucked and picked her strings daily
She strummed and she strummed
Till she audibly hummed
And then had to lie down somewhat frailly

There's a Song I Can't Write

I dropped off the new CD for replication and have signed off on the artwork, so the manufacturing begins! I'll have a bunch in a few weeks, very good to move it along. In honor of the event, a set of lyrics from the upcoming release...

There's a Song I Can't Write

There's a song I can't write and I'm singing it now
Singing it now
Singing it now
There's a song I can't write and I'm singing it now
Anyhow

There's a lot I won't do but I'll do it with you
Do it with you
Do it with you
There's a lot I won't do but I'll do it with you
Anyhoo

There's a lot on my mind that I should leave behind
Places to go and stuff I don't know
There's a lot on my plate that'll never get ate
There's a lot to be found if I ever get round...

There's a song I can't sing and I'll write it one day
Write it one day
Write it one day
There's a song I can't sing and I'll write it one day
Hey, what do you say?
Hey, what do you say?

Plan, [plan] - noun:

An approach to achieve an objective. An indispensable and unavoidable expenditure of effort which may include, but is not limited to: lists, goals, materials, budget, discussion, haggling, Excel spreadsheets, Power Point presentations, contingencies, assumptions, getting one's head around, reaching-out-to and bouncing things off of. Plans fall into two categories: Plan A and Plan B. Plan A is a fanciful stretching of the imagination for the purpose of inflating expectations to the point that one may become bouyant, possibly causing the feet to leave the ground. Plan B is the plan that is actually executed, at least in the early stages of Plan B. In practice, it is abandoned no more than a day or two into it's execution and replaced by activities constituting the reality of achievement of the objective. Some refer to this as Plan C, while others doggedly insist upon referring to it, erroneously, as The Plan.

Though seemingly useless in hindsight, plans are, in fact, essential. Without them we would be consigned to an aimless and dark existence of things that simply occur, for no apparent reason and with no obvious intent. Furthermore, it has been empirically shown that the act of planning stimulates the same area of the brain that deals with self-esteem and ego gratification. Planning also releases endorphins. This is seen to be a necessary balance to the overused and slightly charred areas of the cortex that are responsible for putting on your pants, getting out of the house and actually getting the thing done.