Missed Connections

"u were on one of my favorite tv shows in the 8Es. u were hanging out with a guy named Buddy. email me if u get this!"

Tonight I was playing Galvez music by the band from last night (Robbers on High Street. Consider this a plug for their LP, "Tree City". We went to see Brendan Benson at the Casbah. Robbers opened, and quickly found two new fans -- Gene left with their t-shirt while I left with their cd. Anyways, a track came on that Eric thought would be a perfect intro show for a tv.

Before I knew it, I had blurted out "Yes! The theme song for a reality show starring Scott Baio!"

What the hell? I mean, who *thinks* like that? Much less VOCALIZES IT?

He's an interesting 80's star I've lost track of. I know where most of them are- who's in rehab and who is enjoying a D list movie career and who is on Broadway (hi Doogie!) or running religious camps (Kirk Cameron). Oh, and who just gave up holding on to the 80s and returned to life with the rest of us civilians. But Scott Baio? No idea. Not a clue.

And while we're at it (and since I used to get them confused all the time) - where's Ralph Macchio? You see, I'm gonna start taking karate (henceforth to be pronounced "kah-raah-tayyyyyyyyy!" with a hand chop to the air) and I thought I'd write him a fan letter...


Real men wear red dresses.

This and many other truths were revealed this past Saturday, when I participated in my first ever Red Dress Run.

These truths are now available for the first time ever for the low, low, price of $9.95. (It was worth a try)


Ok, so we cheated. We spent the day shopping for red dresses, which were in short supply in San Diego county on that particular day. The dresses we found were appalling and we decided against them, although they're perfect if I ever interview for a secretarial position at a company that is 1000 years old and also requires nylons with my low heels. Yuck.

From the moment we turned the corner of City College, the starting line, we feasted our eyes upon red dresses of every size, shape and color. Bodies were equally arrayed (size, shape, color- not to mention gender and age). Usually the two were appallingly mismatched. But appalling quickly became funny, in fact delightful.

We fashioned cute little tee shirts out of our oversized "Stop Bush" tee shirts (some would claim that they're "SO six years ago!", but it ain't over til it's over and all of that. A tee shirt and skirt is very conservative gear for this particular athletic event. Men in thongs (but well-accessorized in capes and nipple rings) abounded. Girls in shredded long strips red barely-there material that harken to drying rags that hang and slap your car as you come out of the car wash. We were almost lame by comparison. Prom dresses, coctail dresses, sundresses, no dresses.

I suppose one place you *don't* need to make this particular statement is at a virtual parade of men (many of them of the military persuasion) running in teensy red dresses. On reflection, next year I'll be wearing a dress. Possibly gloves. Which brings me to my next point


No kids. Free beer. Ditto jello shots. New friends. Hundreds upon hundreds of eligible men basking comfortably in their inherent masculinity (as demonstrated by wearing a red dress and parading through Petco Park in it). Funny people abound. A dancefloor. A guarantee that you will have a great time and be entertained by thousands of costumes without embarassing them or being subjected to alien space invaders or obscure Star Wars references. Oh, and none of those cat suits, my #1 Enemy Halloween Costume worn by girls on that special day. Naked girl mugs (I view this one benefit to be slightly gender-specific, but it might convince my guy friends to do this next year)

And the $ goes to charity, so despite all the fun you're having, you're this awesome philanthropist and can spend the rest of the weekend patting yourself on the back.


So after the initial fascination with the sea of boys in red dresses wore off, I noticed a sudden shift in my mindframe. My surprise and staring was quickly replaced by my old friend Judgment. "Ugh. Why would he wear that and not wax his BACK?" I remedied my shock with a swig of beer (To take the edge off -- he was REALLY hairy!) and things were back to normal. I mean "normal".


We did. Nothing like wearing a weird outfit, getting tipsy, and hobbling through the streets of your city to bring the townsfolk together.

I can say this ranked among the most fun nights I've ever had in San Diego.


Next year. Be there or be square. Red is the new black, didn't you hear?

Caught In The Act

"What I need
is a good defense
'cause I'm feeling like
a criminal.

And I need to be redeemed..."

So sue me.

Once in awhile, when I feel lazy, I treat myself to chick lit. It makes the time on the (circle one: elliptical, exercise bike, recumbent bike) go faster. Today I did a bit of cardio, and noticing myself lagging, went to the weights. Lifted for a bit. Still lagging. So I went back to my gym locker and pulled it out. Yes, a Megan Cabot book. Like I said, sue me.

I folded the cover back and headed upstairs. Such a cute beginning! (Itemization of what the main characters bought at the airport, as told by their JFK airport store receipts, thus offering both insight into their personalities and a stage for their first encounter) Anyways, I sat on the bike. And Some Guy (capitalization intended) came and sat next to me.

Well, not six minutes into my grueling manual-level-one workout, I notice that Some Guy is reading over my shoulder! He doesn't think I can notice! He thinks because he's wearing headphones (and not the telltale white earbuds of an iPod! LOO-OO-ZE-ER!) I can't see. But I can. Because no one would strain their eyes that slanted and left to read the "quick start", "personal trainer" and "heart" buttons that hard. Over and over again. I'd read a paragraph and check back. Still there. Some Guy was truly shameless.

Do you even *realize* what a faux pas this is in Lillyland? Not that I expect social manners to be a premium at the gym, but I expected better, even from Some Guy. Yeah, file it under signing off "Cheers" (hi Ameer, hey there Neema) and incessant Seinfeld references...or...usage of the phrase "same difference" or "I couldn't give a care". Ugh. ANNOYING.

But what's more annoying is that I wanted to JUSTIFY myself. I wanted to lean over and say "heh heh, just some fun reading". I wanted to somehow tell him that Nobel winner Jose Saramago's recent novel is on my bedside (the same way I am right now slipping that into conversation). But why the need to justify myself? Particularly when it's better written than so much other stuff out there. Someone once pointedly observed to me that in The Da Vinci Code, all the "important" clues were IN ITALICS. Enough said.

I mean, what could reading chick lit really "say" about me? That I'm single? That I'm fun? That I might be of the sorting-my-life-out-mid-20s-female demographic? That I like a good laugh in well-written, by-definition-sarcastic prose? What happened to not judging a book by its cover? So what if the cover is pink? DON'T JUDGE!

Well, if all of this is a crime, then damnit, I'm a criminal.

Oh, and by the way...

I hate when people sign their emails "Cheers". No, wait -- I *loathe* it.

Thank you for your attention to this matter,
The Management


This weekend I went to a friend's wedding. Beautiful bride, beautiful setting, beautiful extensive buffet.

Observation #1: I think weddings are growing on me.

Much as the times may change, tradition doesn't. I was corralled with my single female compadres for the Bouquet Toss. You know, when the now-married girl throws her wilting bouquet at pandering single girls. Has there ever been a more demeaning tradition? Subtext: "Haha, I'm married and you're not."

Observation #2: Weddings are genocide of the single female species, who are terminated through public humiliation (see "bridesmaid dresses", "bouquet toss", and "dancing with Uncle Roy")

Well, I wasn't feeling it. So I took a few steps back. The girls had formed a U-shape. All I needed was Sylvie's wedding video to document my participation in this lineup for the zillionth time. So I kept inching back. I joked that I was "playing outfield", which of course received blank looks from the women all around me. But hey, I knew I was being funny. A few paces back, I bumped into the dj booth, so I was stuck. And there I stood.

So she launched it and...

flying in a perfect arc through the crisp valley air...

it went straight for the dj's head (bent thoughtfully over his turntable)....



I consider it public service on my part. Lillys-Against-Flora-Battered-Musicians. I was just saving a life, really. I didn't even have to do anything. I just stuck my open hand up to spare him the contact.

If I'd known he was going to play the Macarena so soon thereafter, I might not have made the effort.

Oh well, hindsight is 20/20 (I just typed "hindsight is 50/50" -- it's that sometimes too). And if pigs should fly, hell should freeze over and/or Bush should get a conscience and I get married next, you heard it here first.

"I Betcha Wonder How I Knew..."

How shaky the foundations of our towers of musical wisdom can be. I was listening to a Marvin Gaye collection on the drive back from LA tonight and realized that my introduction to him-- and possibly (ugh, barf) my appetizer for a lifetime of devotion to soul music -- was via the California Raisins.

That is just so weird.

And it reminds me of a time my brother told me that he loved the new Puff Daddy song on the Godzilla soundtrack (once upon a time, there was a Puff Daddy who was then a P Diddy. He'll probably become a symbol next- don't say I didn't call it). Anyways, I got SO mad because the hook of the song was Led Zeppelin, and it disturbed me to think that because of the way we constantly recast/recapitulat/remix music, he wouldn't know where the true credit lies.

But he isn't alone on that. I think we've all fallen victim to covers and remixes. I thought "Make Me Wanna Holla" was a hook original to Brand New Heavies. My cousin nearly nailed me to the wall with a glare upon that comment. I thought "Fever" was Madonna's. I thought White Christmas was New Kids On The Block's. Just kidding on that one.

But really, THE CALIFORNIA RAISINS? (groan) That said, what an amazing marketing campaign.

If I Were A Rich Girl

Tonight, rather than work out or catch up on work or phonecalls, I felt the need to reorganize cds. Is there a way to feel richer? Hello Mozart, hello Bebel Gilberto, hiya Wham! Great to see you again. Danny Wilson, man who sang that incredible song "Mary" (as rediscovered in "Something About Mary") -- I don't have *that* album, but a subsequent failure. Hi Danny. You're safe with me. Hi, Complete Madonna Collection. And hi U2 collection (just in case people accuse me of being a sap with Madonna). Cds by my friends and my siblings. And even my own brief appearance at the mic of Dave's Son. Oh! And look, being undecided, I have both Duran Duran "greatest hits" and "decade". Subtle differences, but requirements for the 80s fan.

Right now I'm listening to the soundtrack from Grand Theft Auto. They put out like 5 cds of the music from the video games. I'm listening to the "emotion" channel, so I nod my cap to Mr.Mister (Mister Mister?). This blog began after Toto's "Africa" had finished, but that deserves mention as well. There are songs playing that I can't even name, nor recognize the artist, and yet sing along naturally -- songs that must have played while I was in a carseat in the back of my mom's car on the way to nearly drown myself at the YMCA.

Have your fancy schmancy cars, your bags of Louis V. in brown-on-brown. Any day I feel poor, all it takes is a little journey through my music and I'm a rich girl (yes, I have that too). Plus, the memories it triggers are priceless. Memory after memory. Happy, sad, distant, recent, funny, awkward, nostalgic -- pick your poison. Kinda like flipping through old pictures, except you don't comment on how fat you were.

Honesty is the best policy.

Stop me if I've told you this blog before:

A short while back, a series of events led me to make this proclamation: "I hope my husband has a good health plan." Anyone who knows me -- or hell, anyone who has talked to me for more than two minutes -- knows that I don't begin sentences with "When I'm married" or "When I have a husband" or "at my wedding" and so on. (It's just not a frame of reference for me ever since Kirk Cameron gave his heart to Chelsea Noble. My heart will go on, etc etc.) But the comment came tumbling out of my mouth and I couldn't even take it back, because I'm Honest Lil and, well, I meant it!

Unfortunately, things got taken to another level when tonight I admitted to a friend (unprovoked AND via email- paper trail. Double whammy.) that if there were a website listing guys' health plans instead of their stupid favorite movies and hobbies, I'd probably drop the cash and sign up. Cupid, here I come.

To my defense, given Eric "The Great Galvini"s recent escapades with his HMO, I just think I'm evolving within my lifetime to survive this cruel, cruel world. Some girls want diamonds, some want a vacation home in Spain and an unlimited shopping budget. I mean, I'm not *fighting* the villa dream or anything, but some days all I want is low co-pays and immediate appointments, maybe a discount on prescriptions. Could it be that the Persian social wisdom that nudges us girlies to date doctors has the right idea after all?

Whatever, I'm just being honest.

Never Say Never

When I was little, the worst day of any school year was the President's Stupid Fitness Test. Capitalization intended, because that's exactly how I felt about it -- and still do, actually. I'll probably write my kids a sick note and sit on the couch and eat chocolate and let them watch movies with lots of "fuck this, fuck that", just to prove a point that day. All it did was make me feel shitty, because not only was I the last one, but I got less than zero sympathy for the fact that I had really bad asthma. I probably ran like a 56 minute mile. But at least I'd do it. And then my gym teacher would fail me and shun me. Maybe spank me. I don't know, I just know I was always *repelled* by the concept of moving faster than a brisk walk.

Somewhere along the way, however, I started to kinda overcome the asthma. It was a mental thing, I'm convinced. But it's brought me far --I bring this up to say that I'm forcing myself into being a runner. It's just happening. I don't even recognize myself anymore. We've had alot of talks about this lately - how we know we're getting older because our interests and priorities have changed. We've gone from "Hey -- bring over the Aftershock and let's do some shots before we hit up that party" to "Hey- will you call me at 7 to be sure I woke up for our long (read: 7 miles or so) run?" We have shunned clubs and bars and smokiness and flirting with random strangers in honor of solitude while fishing on a lake in the middle of the outskirts of nowhere. And so on and so forth.

The coolest thing about running, besides the fact that I could never do it before and in so doing relive a part of everyone else's happy childhood, is the fact that it totally wears me out. I have this chronic problem of just thinking too much. Some of that has to do with launching the company. Now that I'm the captain of my own ship, blah blah blah, I'm more driven than ever. Like I needed more motivation or something. Anyways, I'll watch tv -- say Sex and the City (ahem, I meant The Golden Girls) -- but actually my mind will be making a list of what authors I need to call or who I need to connect with in NY before they break for lunch. But running has brought this amazing calm into my life. Because I'm so friggin worn out by the time I'm done that I'm just happy to be alive. I don't really stress out. I take my time, eat a little something, and just usually sleep. When you're that tired, you don't worry about bills or what to do tomorrow or what was left undone. During the run sometimes you'll think about what's been bothering you, but for the most part, you just need to remind yourself to breathe, and that's enough work to focus on.

Secondary benefits to running include a sense of community. Strangers are friendly to each other in San Diego, but there's this runner comeraderie -- the little nod as you pass -- that you're in on. People who are walking look at you like you're a godess because you're running and they're "just walking". I remember when "just walking" was still a big deal. They respect you as a member of the I Take My Fitness Seriously community. Today, I was jogging towards two walkers, and the woman grabbed her husband and pulled him out of the way. I'd like to tell you it was because I move at such a rate that she worried for his safety given my oncoming speed, but it was just a gesture of respect. But hell, who doesn't like a little respect now and then.

Plus I got new coolmax(tm) socks that miraculously avoid stinky feet syndrome. Yay! Christmas present for CJ (no, he's not a runner. That's not the point.)

So yeah, basically I recommend running as the antidote to everything that has ever irked you. It's my present to myself. You take a look around and enjoy views because you're not zipping by in your car. You sweat out everything in your day. And then you think about the President's Stupid Fitness Test and sweat that out too. No phone, so you don't answer to anyone except yourself (I am loathe to carry ANYTHING more than my own damn body weight).

And then you get home and... just *crash*. I'm not even hungry when I'm done, which we all know is a miracle. The end. Cut scene. Nighty-night. It's a drug. And you do it over and over and over again, pushing yourself farther and higher, well, until your knees give out. Or at least I will :)

Thank You For Being a Friend...

Tonight, my sister, her boyfriend and I happened to catch two different shows back to back.

Sex and the City has met its throwback match: The Golden Girls.

I mean, really, what were the chances that we'd catch both in the same night? Ok, high. But still.

I hazard a guess that maybe Sex and the City is just a Golden Girls RIPOFF! I mean, look at the formula:

Four friends: the sexy one, the straightforward sarcastic one, the unexpectedly wise one, and the prude.
Golden Girls: Blanche, Dorothy, Sophia, Rose
Sex in the City: Samantha, Miranda, Carrie, Charlotte

Group of random girlfriends battling the issues particular to their age demographic.

Florida was the "it" place for the 80s. Miami Vice backs this concept up. Now? NYC. Maybe the Olympic Committee didn't agree, but the creators of Sex and the City did.

I'm sure somewhere in the internetosphere, a site must be dedicated already to this brilliant (if I may say so myself) observation. Let me know? If you do, I'll sing the St. Olaf Fight Song... (Go, St. Olaf, go go go! St. Olaf, Go! Go go go go go go go go go....)

But this all brings me to the Holy Grail of TV Knowledge. If you know, you are my hero: So like, really, what's the deal on this whole Bea Arthur gender thing?

Bonus if you know of anyone who has covered the theme song.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.