I'm half Irish and tan like it. I dig ABBA and Wham! I've been known to bust a move like Elaine Benes.

No one is ever going to mistake me for anything but a white girl.

 

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I am banking on Kady Malloy in our "American Idol" pool at work. She was my first draft, followed closely by Brooke White, O she of the Rated-R-less life. 

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There are 9 guys hoping David Archuleta gets hit by a bus tonight. 

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Warning: This post contains material that may not be suitable for children. Or some adults.

If you're a fan of Jimmy Kimmel, you have probably seen the musical revelation girlfriend (and Bedford native) Sarah Silverman dropped on him recently.

 

 

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I was listening to NPR this weekend and "This American Life" had a really interesting program on testosterone that originally aired about six years ago. In the first segment, a man whose body stopped producing testosterone talked about the changes in him before he knew what was happening. He described it as almost god-like: Everything he saw he accepted as beautiful, but there was no passion or desire behind driving that acceptance. It was more like, well, this is all beautiful, but so what? So what? 

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Talk about surprising someone with bad news. Garrett never saw what hit him.

 

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Oh, Simon. You brought cranky to a new level last night. After the watching the show, I'm not sure if you liked anyone. 

 

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Is it just me who found the antics of David Archuleta somewhat annoying on Amerian Idol on Tuesday?

The top 12 men took to the stage in an apparent attempt to find out what color they sounded like (What was going on with Paula last night?)

 

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I tend to assume that any song by a band considered "classic" by my generation (Ramones, The Clash, etc.) is the original version of the song. I mean, it was the 70s. Music was still fresh and new, everything hadn't been done yet, so there was no reason to be covering anyone else's songs, right?

Observing my dad digging around on YouTube the other day, I made the startling discovery that "Indian Giver" was not originally by the Ramones. I'm not sure who was more unsettled by this - me, because it meant that one of my favorite Ramones tunes was a cover, or my dad, because he remembered the original and that made him realize just how many years it's been since it came out. 

 

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Spoon has put up a new mp3 for download on the bonus section of the band's Web site.

 

 

 

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So, I started this post intending to talk about my latest reality TV obsession, "Project Runway."  I was planning to guess the final three (Christian, Jillian and Rami...sorry Chris!) and even go so far as to predict the winner (Christian...sorry Jillian!)

But show me something shiny and I'm distracted.  In this case, a co-worker moseyed on over and somehow, we got on the subject of name generators.  All of a sudden, I'm no longer Karen. I'm "Cap'n Doris Greasepalms" ...

 

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My last longterm relationship didn't end so well, so I have no problem spending Valentine's Day by myself this year.

As far as Valentine's Day goes, I can usually take it or leave it. This year, however, is different. I discovered a rack of good-sized heart-shaped message cookies at Shaws in Milford the other day, and now I want the holiday to go on forever.

Deprive me of my reasonably-priced seasonal baked goods and there will be trouble. I'm serious. We're talking no joy in Mudville here.

 

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I have a unique vantage point in the newsroom. When the golden sun of late afternoon starts trickling in before the sunset, it generally focuses directly on my screen.

Most of the times, the blinds are pulled, tight, so the evening rolls in without my noticing it. But when the newsroom is feeling a little starved for sunlight, every once in a while, the sun shines in and leaves a bright glare across my screen.

 

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A few winters ago, fresh off heartbreak upon heartbreak and feeling hollowed-out from it all, a friend of mine invited me to an Anti-Valentine's Day poetry reading.

You had to bring sad poetry, angry poetry, heartbroken or triumphant poetry.

A lot of folks cheated a bit and brought the lyrics to favorite songs, but read as poems, they took on new life. I guess I cheated a bit, too.

 

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I'm a little bit obsessed with bacon, and it's become a bit of a legend in the newsroom. So much so that I received holiday gifts from co-workers at Christmas that included a "What would bacon do?" spinning wheel - sort of like a magic eight-ball. You spin the strip and sometimes it lands on answers like "sizzle" and "convert a vegan."

 

 

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