Something Awesome

For Christina:

There has never been a mullet like it.  Davy Jones circa 1987.

Davy Jones

It's hard for me to describe how I feel about the sudden death of Davy Jones of the Monkees.  How can anything I say be enough?  How can I properly express my appreciation?

I took a writing class once, and the teacher's mantra was, "Show, don't tell."  Okay.  I can do that.  This is how it began:

During the summers, Nick at Nite used to devote one night of the week to a different TV show.  I grumbled when they switched over from my beloved Munster Monday to Monkee Monday.  I never saw The Monkees before, and the commercials looked kind of stupid.  Certainly not up to the high standards set by The Munsters!  Luckily, my eleven year old self was totally obsessed with boys, and these ones were kind of cute...
 
So of course, I ended up in love with the show.  It was campy, zany fun, injected with great music and cute, if strangely dressed, guys.  In short, ideal for a preteen kid who couldn't decide if she was supposed to be watching Scooby Doo or MTV's Real World.  I became infatuated with Davy Jones, "the cute one" with the adorable British accent, perfectly unaware that he was actually in his early 50s at the time.
 
During a certain point that summer, Nick at Nite cancelled The Monkees' weekly run, but aired a twelve hour, overnight marathon of the show (a parting gift?) on it's sister network, TV Land.
 
I set my VCR, and watched all 24 episodes over the next two days.  For several years, this was my main source of the Monkees. 

I was alone in my mania until summer 2000, when Christina (finally) came on board with the debut of the VH1 biopic Daydream Believers: The Monkees' Story.  The cute boys got to her, too.

Now that I had a compatriot, my obsession became probably unbearable for my parents.  I wanted everything: records, CDs, videos, memorabilia.  My collection grew along with my fanaticism.  I started wearing bell bottoms. 

The pinnacle of my life, I thought, would be seeing a Monkees concert.  When they announced a 2001 tour, minus member Mike Nesmith, you better believe Christina and I were going.

The night was a blur from the very start.  Christina and I could not have been more wired.  It was a fantastic concert, made even better by Christina's sneaky and wonderful mom.  Unbeknownst to us, she sent the band a letter telling them what huge fans we were.  Davy Jones gave us a shout out from the stage.  He mispronounced my name six ways from Sunday, and I ended up with a new nickname from Christina as a result.

My heart still beats a little faster thinking about Davy trying to say my name.

I will never forget how happy we were that night, and how happy the Monkees have always made me.  I watch the episodes now and I laugh; not because the jokes are particularly funny, but instead because of how I felt watching them as a kid. 

Who knows if I would have gotten obsessed with the Monkees if it wasn't for that cute English boy.  I will be grateful to Davy Jones forever.  The Monkees brought more joy into my childhood than I imagined was possible.

I'm amazed and touched by the outpouring of love directed at Davy Jones and his family.  I'm glad I'm not alone in my appreciation.  I hope he knew how loved he was.

What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

I opted to watch What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? on TCM instead of the Oscars on Sunday, and I can not say I regret it.  The acting was over the top (in a good way) and Bette Davis was truly creepy as a psychotic woman stuck in her childhood.
 
I spent most of the time wondering how much they paid the then 53 year old Bette Davis to look like this on screen:

Baby Jane Hudson feels pretty, oh so pretty

I always loved Bette Davis.  She had a real presence about her, beyond just her super-famous eyes.  Not many women could appear on screen with Marilyn Monroe (in All About Eve, though it's brief) and steal the attention.  Not to mention that Marilyn was 20 years her junior.  Bette can somehow be over the top and believable at the same time. 

My interest in Joan Crawford's work is much more recent.  She plays the tortured sister in Baby Jane beautifully.  And Joan is oh-so gorgeous, with that regal quality as always.

Of course, the best movie Joan Crawford made was Mildred Pierce, which I saw for the first time over the summer.  It was an instant favorite.

I'm not going to comment on the feud that took place between Bette and Joan because, well, I'm not a film historian and I think half of the things said about the two of them are probably exaggerated.  But, in my opinion, a feud between two stars of their caliber does indeed make for a great story.  Especially because there isn't really any proof. 

They didn't talk about hating each other in interviews.  There were no photos of Bette Davis with her hands around Joan Crawford's throat. 

And that is the "problem" with the world we live in now.  The very same fantastic technology that allows any idiot to put their thoughts into the world (yes myself included) also takes away any semblance of mystery that once surrounded our idols.

For example, do I need to see live instagrams of Katy Perry's nail salon visit?  Or know when Kim Kardashian is getting cellulite treatments?  Or, worse, when Ashton Kutcher has an opinion? 

Am I the only one who can barely remember the days when celebrities used to take shits in private?  

Of course, I have a double standard.  Because I tweet constantly and blog and use Facebook like every other person.  But there's just something romantic about a time when I couldn't find out every detail of every person's life with ease.

I mean, can you imagine Joan Crawford and Bette Davis tweeting nasty comments about each other in 1962?

Bette Davis @YouBette
SO NOT surprised that @THE_JoanC put weights in her pockets b4 I had to drag her bony ass across the floor all day - #ThingsIPutUpWith !!


Joan Crawford @THE_JoanC
@YouBette Maybe it will teach you not to make contact next time we have a 'kicking crippled sister in head' scene.


Bette Davis @YouBette
@THE_JoanC If I have to tell you that was an accident one more time, I'll ACTUALLY kick you in the head.


Joan Crawford @THE_JoanC
@YouBette Come at me.

OK, I guess I did comment on the feud.  So sue me!  (note: please don't sue me.)

Favorite Albums - The Doors 3/5

I know, I know - how old am I?  Well, an acquaintance once told me I had "an old soul" and I guess it's not far from the truth.  Most of my favorite bands are from the '60s and '70s.  I suspect that I was a hippie in a past life.

With that background in mind, I present to you another one of my favorites: The Doors self-entitled debut album from 1967.  
 
(Full disclosure: it can be a toss up for me between this album and the Doors' 1970 release  Morrison Hotel.  Both are fantastic and beg to be listened to.  On sweet, sweet vinyl, if you can swing it.)
 

It has probably been a year since the last time I played the Doors first album in its entirety.  Listening to it again yesterday just reaffirmed what I've always loved about it: this album sounds like the '60s.  Fortunately, it achieves this without all the "make love, not war, and let's wear flowers in our hair" type of stuff that so frequently dates music from this time period.  ("Age of Aquarius," anyone?)
 
On the contrary, despite the distinct '60s vibe and inclusion of tasty harpsichord solos, this album sounds pretty modern to me.  
 
Take, for example, a killer song like "Break on Through (To the Other Side)."  This is one of those songs that could easily be played on a modern rock station without sounding out of place.  It's also, in my opinion, the strongest song on the album.

The very prominent bass line is mirrored and embellished by the guitar.  I find this to be quite a modern and effective use of the bass.  A popular song that makes use of the bass in a similar way is the Red Hot Chili Pepper's "Otherside."  
 
This album includes my first favorite Doors song, the sinister sounding "The Crystal Ship."  The song is extremely atmospheric without passing into Pink Floyd territory.  It also has the interesting quality of being the only song on the album that is sans guitar.  Instead, it relies on a beautiful and haunting piano piece, accented with an echoey harpsichord. 
 
One of the most interesting aspects of any album by the Doors is Jim Morrison's vocal performance.  As I mentioned in an earlier post, I'm not big on lyrics.  But Morrison's voice makes you care about what he's singing.  It's a voice I can get behind!  
 
Although he puts in excellent performances on every track, I really enjoy Morrison's voice in the song "Soul Kitchen."  He makes this song.  The growl he affects during the chorus is seriously memorable.  The song wouldn't be nearly as interesting without it, although it's a nice little rock number.  
 
If you have any minor interest in '60s rock, the debut Doors album is a great place to begin your journey.  My favorite songs are: "Break on Through (To the Other Side)" "Light My Fire" "The Crystal Ship" and "Twentieth Century Fox."  
 

Favorite Albums - The Colour and the Shape 2/5

Anyone who knows me at all knows that a Foo Fighters album had to make this list.  Here it is.

The Colour and the Shape was the band's sophomore album, but that's kind of not true because the first album was basically "the Dave Grohl music project."

Anyway, it's their best album.  What I like about it is that it sounds much more polished than the previous (self entitled) album, yet it doesn't lose that biting edge. 

Screamy rock anthems, like "Wind Up" and "Enough Space," make you want to go to jump up and down at a concert.  The simple, driving guitar riffs make these songs instantly memorable. 

The enormous hit "Everlong" is moody and dramatic, but in a different way from, say, a Meatloaf song.  Yes, there's the oft-talked about whispering, but it's followed by a kind of musical build up that is just plain rockin.  I don't find that any song on this album crosses the line into over-produced.

My favorite song on the album (today) is "My Poor Brain."  I absolutely love the quiet/loud/quiet/loud way it plays out.  Grohl almost whispers the refrain lyrics over a quiet, bouncy tune.  Comparatively, the chorus is a cacophony of drums, screaming, and distorted guitar.  I feel that it mimics the way people think, that kind of stop and go quality that life has, with cacophony equaling confusion.  Maybe that's just me.

(And the lyrics make me so happy.  I don't usually give a shit about lyrics, but I can't help but smile when he screams "Sometimes I wish that I could change / I can't save you from my poor braaain-aaain-aaain-aaain-OK!)

Although there are a lot of different types of songs on the album, from folksy ("See You") to straight guitar-driven rock ("Monkey Wrench") to even ballad ("Walking After You"), nothing on the album really feels out of place.  The only song I tend to skip is "February Stars," which, in my opinion, just kind of sits there with no life until three minutes have passed.

But then, I'm not a slow song kind of girl.  

Favorite Albums - The White Album 1/5

I love music.  Pop, punk, disco, rap - my musical tastes are many and varied and often bizarro.  And usually dictated by my mood on any given day.

Like most people, my favorite albums, songs, and musicians are always changing, too.  One day I'm obsessed with the Bob Dylan, the next it's all about the Ramones.  And the day after that I am digging Kanye.

But I think I've narrowed it down to five albums that will always be in my top ten, if not higher.  At the very least, it will be fun to look back at this in five years to wonder what the hell I was thinking.

So, here's my first one:
 
The Beatles' White Album might be my favorite of all time, but try to resist quoting me on that, if you can manage.  I really obsess over this album, though.  I normally play disk 1 and then disk 2 and then disk 1 and then disk 2 (rinse repeat) over and over when I listen to it.

There is so much balance and juxtaposition: the gorgeously melodic "Blackbird" follows the slow and draining beat of "I'm So Tired."  Arguably the hardest rocking song the Beatles ever put out, "Helter Skelter," is followed by the floaty Harrison penned "Long, Long, Long," with it's ethereal guitar and driving drum beats. 

The only weak point of the album occurs at the end of disk 2, when the performance art-esque "Revolution 9" hits your speakers followed by the tongue in cheek Ringo ballad "Good Night."  But, then, there is a reason those tracks were placed at the end of a two disk album.

Some of my favorite tracks: "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" "Long, Long, Long" "Sexy Sadie" "Dear Prudence"

Acoustic

I've been in a quiet mood musically.  Instead of the exceptional loud rock and roll that usually fills my earballs, I've been hitting the softer stuff.  Like this (normally shunned by me) song by the Foo Fighters:

This happens with me a lot; I get a little obsessed with a song I am typically unimpressed with.

For instance: Three Marlenas by the Wallflowers.  I never cared for that song, it kind of bored me.  And, listen, I lived in the 90s so that's not normal, I realize.  But after I saw the Wallflowers in concert, I couldn't stop listening to that song for about a week straight.  Probably longer.  One of the best shows I've ever been to.

Something similar happened with the song Any Time At All by the Beatles from A Hard Day's Night.  I bought the cd and skipped that song religiously until probably my hundredth listen.  Left it on by accident and started to love it.  Still do, in fact.

So, yeah, some of my favorite songs have been underwhelming, at first.  Sleeper hits, if you will.

But I'm hoping this February funk passes soon.  Not sure how much more acoustic shit I can stand wanting to listen to. 

One Moment in Time

In the coming weeks, there are bound to be countless tributes to Whitney Houston, who died of unknown causes one day before the 2012 Grammy Awards.  A ceremony she once, for all intents and purposes, owned.  But that was years ago.

Celebrities have come out of the woodwork to give their two cents through television and radio interviews.  Twitter and Facebook are aflutter with memories of Houston, her music, and of course, The Bodyguard.  Which was a great movie.

Some people can't stop talking about her problems, which I think is totally inappropriate at this time.  There's enough to talk about without calling her out from beyond the grave less than 24 hours after her passing.

It would be remiss of me to imply that I was a huge Whitney Houston fan.  I knew a handful of her songs and I can appreciate her incredible talent.

But I feel like I have to put something "out there" (proverbially).

Between the ages of five and seven, I listened to the song "One Moment in Time" every day.  Multiple times a day.  It was on a cassette that came with my parent's 1990 Ford Taurus.

I thought that song was so ridiculously beautiful, meaningful, and EPIC.  I sang it at the top of my lungs.  I literally wore the cassette tape out.  It was my very favorite song for most of my childhood.

Like I said, I was never a big fan.  But she made one song that brought a little girl in the early 90s so much joy, that no amount of controversy could taint her career.  She was a success.

Rest in peace, Whitney Houston.

"Oh, get a job? Just get a job?"

 

  

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia genius-ness aside, what does one do to get a good job?

My resume and cover letter have been polished about five dozen times and I've contacted people I thought might help.  And yet, my perfect job has somehow eluded me. 

I was thinking about becoming a Jedi, but my qualifications are kind of weak (damn midi-chlorians).

Fuck off, you must.

Dog sledding instructor is off the table.  I have vertigo and an irrational fear of huskies.  

No really, I'd much rather sleep here than a house.

My hand modelling days are over since I was mauled by this batshit lion kitten.

Don't forget your hand-sunscreen.

I can't be a private investigator because Cheaters isn't hiring and, puh-leaze, no place else is good enough for this gum shoes.

Maybe they have an opening in the blurring faces division.

I know, I know, gourmet chef is my calling.  But apparently Campbell's Soup can be made by practically anyone and "Velveeta yum yum" isn't an actual food.  (could have fooled me)

Certainly you didn't want the fish tonight?

Oh, well.  I'm certain the economy will turn around and I will find my dream job.  This is America, after all.  Home of the American Dream, which I think involves white picket fences, kids playing in the yard, and a wallets full of cash.  Anyone can be anything they want to be; that's what this country was built on!

Beer me.

 

"Was she feeble minded? My mother...was she?"

Montgomery Clift.  The name makes me happy and sad.  Happy because I believe that his great talent has actually enriched my life.  And yet he's not a household name.

I think he was the best actor of his generation.  Maybe of any generation.  He had a subtlety that Brando couldn't even come close to.  Monty seemed to become a character, like he could remold himself for every new film.

His performances frequently take my breath away. 

Here, in a brief appearance in the star studded 1961 film Judgement at Nuremburg, Clift plays a man whose destroyed life is put on the stand in a post WWII trial against German judges who served during the Nazi regime.  Clift, who had about ten minutes of screen time total, was nominated for an Academy Award for his effort.  A clip:

 

 

Students of acting should see this, should study it.  Clift has found a way to portray the story of a man that perhaps had dreams like any other person, but ends up totally shattered.  He tells his story with few words.  And yet, he says all there is to say. 

The pain behind Clift's sensitive eyes, the tensing muscles around his mouth; he was totally in control of his performance.  I have heard many people argue that he didn't have to act, that his train wreck of a life gave the performance for him.  They cite as proof Clift's shaking in this scene (you can see it around the 8:40 and 9:00 marks) from his excessive drug and alcohol use, not to mention failing physical and mental health after a car wreck destroyed his face years earlier.

Maybe that's why he didn't win the Oscar.  It was too easy to accept that such a believable and (in my opinion) important performance was a fluke given by a man who was seemingly pretty destroyed, himself.

I argue that Clift knew what he was doing.  The man he was portraying was fragile but proud, especially as he walks into the courtroom and states his name and profession (not seen in the above clip).  This changes as he recounts the single most horrifying experience of his life.  He's been treated like an animal, sterilized based on his perceived intelligence in the name of cultivating a mythical "master race."

As he tells the story of what happened, he gets quieter and he fidgets in his seat.  At the 1:50 and 2:08 marks, it appears that he can't even bring himself to name what was done to him.  And when he is asked point blank by an attorney, "Were you, in fact, sterilized?" he again can't bring himself to say the words.  Instead he seems to hesitate and then forces himself to give a nod. 

The next three seconds, it seems to me, are acting brilliance.  In shame, Clift looks down and then gives a quick sideways glance to the presiding judges.  These subtle eye movements say volumes.  It is as if his manhood, besides his humanity, were destroyed, and he is embarrassed to have everyone in the court know.  All the layers have been stripped.  This man, who seemed proud and ready to please when he first walked in, is now bare and exposed.  This is all understood because of three seconds of eye movements. 

His break down intensifies as he talks about his mother, and the shaking worsens.  We need no back story.  We can tell by the way the man speaks about his mother that she was something else that they took from him.

His proclamation, "Since that day, I've been half I've ever been," is an emotional crescendo, as the weight of all that the character has been through, including the humiliation he endured during the trial, breaks him down for one last moment on the screen. 

Even towards the end of his (too short) life, Montgomery Clift could display more talent in three seconds than most actors in their entire careers.  The fact that he stood out in a film amongst acting greats like Spencer Tracy, Marlene Dietrich, Burt Lancaster, and Judy Garland, proves that further.

A voice like Katharine Hepburn

I want to write a story about a girl with a voice like Katharine Hepburn.  A young Katharine Hepburn, but wise for her years and still full of innocence.  

She'll have Hepburn's tenacity and her unconventional femininity.  Maybe she'll even wear "trousers" to work instead of skirts.  Maybe she'll work at a brewery in Milwaukee and paint on the weekends.

She'll have black hair and she won't fall for a guy like Spencer Tracy.

She'll fall for a kookie guy like Johnny Depp who showers only twice monthly. 

I'm Sad

It's been a tough few days, and I am sad.  Reading The Hobbit isn't cheering me up.  But I really like this picture:

Writers on Writers Writing

Here's why I hate calling myself a writer:

http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2012/01/03/25-things-writers-should-stop-doing/

Writers talk a good game and think they are world VIP's because they write shit.  Believe you me, something does NOT matter more because you write it down. 

Yet there are a lot of (jesus forbid) excellent tips here, true tips.  I just hate the idea that writers need advice on writing.  Fucking accountants don't need advice on accounting, do they?

Griffith Observatory

I'd like to visit Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles some day.  No, I'm not big on astronomy.

Parts of one of my favorite, most life-changing movies were filmed there.  The movie, of course, is Rebel Without a Cause, and the climactic finals scenes were shot in and around the Observatory.

In Fairmount, Indiana, I saw a duplicate of this statue (which resides outside Griffith Observatory):

Of course, this one looks out over the Hollywood hills and the one I saw was in the middle of a tiny town square surrounded by trees and preteens on Huffy bikes.  I know which one is more glamorous, but you have to give the heart and soul award to Fairmount.  One of my all-time favorite towns.

Back to the Observatory.  I want to stand where (spoiler alert) Jim gives Plato his jacket and takes the bullets out of his gun.  And then proceed to the spot on the front lawn where Plato is shot by the cops and Jim dramatically yells, "I got the bullets!" 

It gives me chills just thinking about it.  What a brilliant film, and how brilliant to film it in such a public spot, where fans can recreate those memorable scenes. 

Might be tough to recreate the flash mob scene around back, though. 

Are You Happy?

I came across this image:

Which I love.  My life consists of a back and forth amongst all these options.  I usually think I'm an "Are you happy?" No.  "Do you want to be happy?" Yes.

But sometimes I kind of enjoy the misery.  Other days I am genuinely happy.  I guess I have a disorder yet to be diagnosed.  Either that, or maybe I just sleep really well some nights.

Then again, my moods could also correlate to the amount of caffeine in my system.

Right now, for example, I'm very happy.  But I wasn't terribly happy when I woke up.  Maybe that's because One Tree Hill was the only thing on television.  In any case, I know one thing for certain: I'm at my happiest when I have an obsession going on.  I'm an easily obsessed person. 

Right now, I'm obsessed with Tolkien.  John and I are reading The Hobbit and marveling at the wit and imagination it contains.  The last time I read it, I was in high school, and to be honest, it (somehow) bored me.  But it's brilliant.

I'm also obsessed with losing ten pounds, though obviously this is not the kind of obsession that makes me happy.  Especially since it's not going terribly well, as evidenced by the donut I'm eating right as I type. 

I believe my next obsession will be: finding someone who can cut my hair like this:

And I do mean the female, although Dominic Monaghan and Billy Boyd are pretty dapper too.

Maybe my next obsession should actually be figuring out why Cate Blanchett is so stunningly beautiful. 

Anyway.  I'm going to try follow the advice of the image at the top of this post.  Since I'm normally the No-Yes type, it says I should change something.  Easier said than done, especially for someone as lazy and complacent as I am.  But it's absolutely right: I can envision where I want to be in life, so I need to make some changes and just get my ass there.

I think my first step will be to take a writing course.  And my second step might just be getting that haircut.

This Podunk Town

Christina and I dreamed of getting out of our hometown for so long that I really don't remember a time when we were content in Bangor.  We felt like we would overdose on peace and quiet and hickness.  Excitement and drama is what we lacked, and why we wanted out.

And yet, when she moved during college, I longed for the days when I could do the following:

1. Give her a call and say, "Yo, I'm comin' over."
2. Hop in my car
3. Be at her house in eight minutes.

I timed it a lot.  Once, I made it in seven.  It was only once though. 

Most of the time there were deer in the way.  Or cows.  Or horses.  A variety of wildlife (and tame life) inhabit the woods between the little farm house on Fox Gap Road and the log cabin on Million Dollar Highway.

It was really called Million Dollar Highway.  It was home to farms, some small and ill-kept homes, trailers, a nice house or two, and most importantly, the house that became a haven for me during my teenage years. 

I think I spent more time at Christina's house than I did my own when I finally got my drivers license.  The area between her house and Portland became our habitat.  We dined on shepherd's pie and scones at Union Jack's Cafe.  We looked at the antique shops full of pretty things we couldn't afford.  We ate ice cream every damn night at Kelly's.  We listened to the Monkees and the Beatles in the car.  My mom's car had a CD player, which was very awesome.

This tiny amount of freedom made our sixteen year old selves giddy, and we laughed the entire time. 

I still have the car, but I don't have the ability to see Christina whenever I want.  We can't go to Union Jack's, it flooded twice and closed.  Kelly's ice cream sucks now.  The little house on Million Dollar Highways belongs to strangers who chopped down the hedges.

Little things slip away as you get older, and then, big things.  It's a shame that Christina and I wished away our time in Bangor so often.  No one could have convinced us otherwise, though, when we were thirteen and hungry for city adventure.  It happened soon enough.

I think I'll Keep My Christmas Tree Up

Because, who could not use some more twinkle lights in their lives?  This little guy lives in my bedroom at my parent's house, where I spend quite a bit of time still.

There's a crummy cell phone picture of him.  Maybe I will take away Mossy the Moose and the little nativity.  But the tiny silver tree is dreamy and makes an excellent nightlight.   

Of course, my seven year old self would have scoffed at this idea.  I had such a pure, delicious vision of what Christmas was.  First of December, my box of decorations came down from the attic and I spent hours smothering a tiny green artificial tree in lights, ornaments, and strings of popcorn and pearly beads.  

That tree went up in my room every year until my first year of college, when it mysteriously disappeared.  I suspect water damage caused my parents to throw the box out, but they didn't have the heart to tell me.  I mean, a two foot tall artificial tree can't just get up and walk away by itself, dragging a cardboard box full of ornaments behind it, right?  

My tree, in particular, even lost a plastic foot somewhere along the way, down from four to three.  It fell over at least once a year, causing me to invest in primarily unbreakable ornaments.  The tree sat beside a glitter-covered plastic nativity set and a train of some sort.

Those decorations represented all that was Christmas in my small world.  The season began December first and ended at the end of Christmas day, causing the 25th to be the closest thing to bittersweet I've ever experienced, even now.

I used to leave the little tree up in my room until January first, then it was back to the attic for another eleven months.  It was just my way of doing things.  In the back of my mind, I had the feeling that the anticipation of Christmas was most of the fun, and I didn't want to overdo it and risk making the season less magical.

Has Christmas lost all its wonder?  Am I succumbing to the end of the magic by leaving this little tree up for a few more weeks, months?  What if I leave it up until the end of the year?

What I learned in 2011

By way of a first post, I will jot down a few things I learned in 2011.  Maybe not the most earth shattering introduction, but it will do.

1. Everything is better with a kitten.  Specifically a sweet, even tempered kitten named Reggie who is orange and fluffy and gorgeous.  He loves watching me type.  He's doing it right now.

2. I really liked Borders.  Now that it has gone out of business, there is a chain bookstore sized hole in my heart.  Barnes and Noble feels so soulless in comparison, because they like to pretend they aren't a massive chain what with their "Employee Picks" and murals on the walls.  At least Borders was honest.

3. I'm an OK cook.  This year I learned how to make meat lasagna, chicken gnocchi soup (a la Olive Garden), the best creamy tomato sauce in the world, and a few other things.  I also learned that I actually like cooking!

4. The publishing industry is probably not for me.  Maybe it would be if it was still the publishing industry of "old," in which editors edited and writers retained most of their integrity.  I'm sure there are still publishing houses like this, but it doesn't seem to be the most prevalent business model.

5. J.R.R. Tolkien was an utter genius.  The more of his work that I read (and reread), the more astounded I am by his imagination.

6. I'm truly sad to see soap operas go by the wayside.  I've always wanted to write for a soap, and now that is basically and impossible dream.  Every cancellation hits me "right here."

6. No one cares what I have to say, but I still tweet constantly.  Meaning, I've learned that I'm an egomaniac.

7. Major catastrophes, such as the nuclear crisis in Japan this past year, really shake me.  I truly was scared for myself, my friends and family, and the world.  It makes me happy that I have what I think of as sympathy.  I wasn't just concerned about myself, even though I'm relatively self-centered.

8. I always feel better about myself when I dress nice.  I've discovered that more and more this year, and I'm now slightly addicted to dresses.  So simple, you hardly have to worry about styling it, yet you look classy!  It's magic.

9. I never care about sweets and the like unless I'm watching my diet.  Then, shoveling cookies and candy into my face becomes my all-consuming desire.

10. Music may not actually sound better on vinyl, but it's definitely cooler to put a record on the turn table than to hit "play" on the ipod.

11. I want to create my own jewelry line some day, and maybe sell on Etsy.  Or at Renaissance Faires, like Luke's sister on Gilmore Girls. 

12. Nothing is more important than keeping up relationships.  I know I need to work harder on this in 2012.

13. The idea that the world will end in 2012 is kind of exciting.  I know that sounds morbid, but there it is.