Turkeys Galore

Countdown to the Super Bowl begins now. I estimate four hours. I'm talking about the bowl of gravy that will be placed next to the turkey that Woowoo Charly will be roasting today for the simple reason that you can never have too much of that big bird. Unless, of course, as my mother once told me, provoking a sleepless night as I pondered its meaning, "your eyes are too big for your stomach."

I would hope that the other Super Bowl, the one pitting a bunch of baby horses against people canonized by the church, this coming Sunday (Sunday? Shouldn't playing on that "holy" day give the Saints an unfair edge?) turns out to be as good as our roast bird and not just another, well, turkey.

Interjections: Our dogs have decided that barking is a form of exercise. Each one, not wanting the other to get in better shape, barks along with whichever one starts the cacaphony. Swell.

The founder of my Writer's Group has changed our name to The Writer's Guild. I told him my dick felt bigger already. He wrote back and said the name change gave him a "guildy pleasure."

Back to the text.

Woowoo Charly is a Grammy a few times over, so she stayed up last night to watch other Grammys get some kind of awards. A few Grampys were honored as well. I joined her for a little while to see what the fuss was all about, but had to leave after watching a group called the Black Eyed Peas do something on stage that was incomprehensible to me. If they were supposed to be dancing they weren't very good, jumping around as they were to the only noticeable musical instruments, the drums and if they were singing, well, that would be silly as they mostly just shouted and pointed at the audience a lot. I guess they did something, though, that I missed, because they did get one of the awards. Earlier in the show a very attractive woman named Pink, who wasn't, came on stage in a nice white dress and began to warble what I thought was an actual song. She was doing pretty well I thought and even when the heat of the stage lights must have gotten too much for her and she felt compelled to take off all of her clothes, I didn't mind a bit. It was when she got trapped in a lacy net of some sort, the modern equivalent of the old fashioned hook from the wings I suppose, that I became concerned for her safety. But not to worry, she trooper-ed on and continued singing while she fought to be released. I don't know if she won an award or not, but she certainly deserved one for the effort.

I left the Grammys to Grammy and retired to our guest room where I searched the TV there for something else to watch. My on-screen guide offered among other things a movie entitled, "Crepuscular." I liked the way that Spanish word sounded, so I clicked it on to see if I could determine its meaning without looking it up in the dictionary or on Funk and Google. The movie was "Twilight." As words go, I like them both. Every English speaker knows that at a certain hour of the day the light gets twi, hence the name for that time of day. It also sounds like something Elmer Fudd might say if you said to him that the beer was too heavy. Crepuscular, on the other hand, sounds like a description of someone with open sores. (One reason for me tuning in.) "His body grew increasingly crepuscular from the vicious zombie bites." I remember falling asleep to the movie back in New York last September having tried to watch it after a multi-margarita lunch. I fell asleep to it again last night, but promised my self another viewing attempt should it pass my way again. The movie, as almost everyone knows, is a teenage vampires in love saga that has, to hear all the talk, apparently moistened the panties of teenage girls and young women throughout the known universe. Having some vampire in my DNA - I don't like garlic, crosses don't repel me, but they don't mean anything either, and my image in the mirror is fading more everyday (although this may have something to do with my eyeglass prescription) - I need to catch up on all the new moves in case I come back as a blood sucker in my next incarnation. I do, of late, find myself liking the color red more and more.

Especially when it's my cranberry sauce.