Don't be such a hater

I was reading some blogs the other day, one on technology, another on media, one on copywriting, yet another on the female perspective on dating. All this reading and blog spying made me think about the big questions in life. For example, why do people blog? What is it that makes these bloggers think they have something interesting, pressing, vital to add to the grander conversation? Yeah, that's a pretty heavy question. And so, I thought about this and I thought to myself "Who cares? I'm going to blog about the really big issues that everyone can relate to."

The Big Cheese.

American, Cheddar. Gouda. Mozzarella. Drunken Goat. Brie. Manchego. Blue. Asiago. Parmesan. These are just some of the many tasty forms of cheese that inhabit my refrigerator at any one time. I love cheese and I'm not ashamed to admit it. It is delicious and nutritious and just plain awesome. Cheese can change the world and in fact it has. I'm not going to tell you how -- you're just going to have to trust me.

But as of late it was pointed out to me that I consume far too much cheese for any one person. Putting aside the fact that this observation was really annoying, I just don't believe it. How can there ever be too much cheese? I wish everyone was lactose intolerant because that would leave more cheese for me.

Maybe you're not so into the cheese -- that situation really sucks for you. Perhaps you like your cheese in small doses or you haven't experienced the unadulterated joy of cheese as a main course. How sad for you. I really mean that. I'm welling up at the very thought.

That's really all I had to say on the subject of cheese. I like it quite a bit and if you don't then we can't keep up these appearances any longer. Maybe if you opened your mind a little then you wouldn't be such a hater.

My Anthem

I was watering my plants this morning as I do every Monday morning -- they like the strict regimen of a routine watering on a pre-determined day, pre-determined by their master, that being me.

Anyway, I had the VH1 Classic on in the background because it generally puts me in one of those glorious nostalgic fogs where I dream of my foregone youth and once hot buns. Well, the most righteous video came on and stopped me in my watering tracks.

You can probably guess that it was Eddie Murphy's "Party All The Time" off of the "How Could It Be" album. Not only is this song too awesome to encapsulate, but the video will literally blow your mind. In case you don't remember, picture this. Rick James, super producer, super freak, and just generally a super dooper human being, is producing Eddie's track in the studio. There are several hangers-on just sorta hanging out in the background, presumably part of Eddie's awesome posse. As soon as Eddie starts whipping out the jam, everyone pretty much freaks out, which is to be expected. There's a lot of grooving and pointing fingers and smiling and unbridled happiness. When Rick joins Eddie on his guitar, things get really crazy. It's a magical duet. Rick's flowing blonde locks, Eddie's mastery of the mic, the hand clapping, the long looks into the camera, the mesmerizing chorus "My girl wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the time." It's history in the making.

So I've decided to take on "Party All The Time" as my own personal anthem. It really fits my personality and my philosophy on life. I hope no one else has already claimed this video hits classic as their own, allthough I could understand it, what with the freakalicious licks and Eddie's soaring alto. But I'm going to lay claim to it all the same, and all the rest of you girls who like to "party all the time" can just go right to hell.

That was powerful.

MER-MAGICAL

And so the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island happened yesterday under gray skies and minimal drizzle. The dreary forecast could not dampen the spirits of the many mermaids, mermen, and other indistinguishable but scantily clad costumey-looking folks. Being a first-timer to this particular parade, I thought it appropriate to not only attend but to participate in the parade as a mermaid in the #1 float. This all couldn't have been possible without my super agent S.J. She's highly connected.

What follows is a brief recap of the day's events in case you were fool enough to skip out.

11 a.m. My fellow fishfolk and I arrive bright and early at Coney Island to try on our costumes for the first time, only a wee 2 hours before the parade commences. Thanks to the help of a few safety pins and a rush tank top purchase, we were raring to go. The fruit headpieces proved heavy and painful, much like having brain surgery while fully conscious. The actual mer-gear was not all that flattering as far as flattering mer-gear goes, but I can go with the flow and I flowed and flowed and flowed all over the Coney. By showtime, the mermaids were looking SHARP.

1:30 p.m. On our walk down to the actual float, we were stopped several times for photographs. As a relatively shy public person, this was a very new and strange experience for me. I mean, I know people want to stop me on the street in my non-mermaid gear and ask for a photo but the perma-hard look on my face dissuades them. (Usually this look is due to me concentrating on where I'm going and not getting lost rather than an actual hardness of heart. Usually, not always.)

2:15 p.m. Anyway, we arrive at our float, board, balloon up, and off we go for our three-block titilation of Coney Island. It was the greatest 6 minutes of my life thus far. Hands down. With a live drum band behind us -- literally, right behind us -- we felt the rhythm of the night as Gloria Estefan might say and felt it all over. The rains held off until our #1 float made it safely back to shore near the world-famous Cyclone. We were cheered and waved to and photographed and interviewed, and it was all strange and delicious.

2:24 p.m. Safely out of costume and lobotomy-inducing headpiece, we watched the other parade-goers from a rooftop. I can't even begin to describe the sights and sounds of the parade and later those along the boardwalk. It was all too much for one Shiny Penny to take in. It was beautiful in its oddness and in the amount of flesh (Shylock would have found his "pound of flesh" and then some.) that was exposed and overexposed and generally hanging out all over. Never have I seen so much skin since that one foray to South Beach, which is a very scary place indeed.

6 p.m. 45 minutes later thanks to the trusty D train and I'm back at the headquarters to refuel and unload what I can and cannot remember from a very vigorous day's events. I'm leaving quite a bit out here because I'm still in a bit of shock.

Did I mention we danced on this float? Yes, I danced. I can cut it. I shook my Carmen Miranda-like shoulders like Ricky Ricardo was in town. It was excellent. You should have been there. But maybe you're scared of rain and of having fun and of showing up and showing face. I'm just saying. I'm just slinging some Coney-style trash talk. 'Cause that's how we do it in the parade circuit.

Yes, I am quietly judging you

You know they sell the funniest T-shirts these days. I ran across one with the subject line indicated here and thought to myself, "A mighty truth that one is." Another one of my top favorites is the following, "Meat is murder. Tasty, tasty murder."

The text T-shirt is all the rage these days. I was thinking long and hard about this trend for about the last five minutes. On one side of the debate are the poo-poo'ers who claim advertising is bad and people who wear T-shirts with witty sayings like "What's not to love?" lack originality (the people, that is, not the genius in marketing who came up with that witty saying). On the freedom-of-speech side are the folks wearing these clever T-shirts who feel this is an appropriate form of self-expression.

Let me tell you a story. My very good friend of many years and I were on a constitution one day when we spied in a store window a black T-shirt with large white block lettering that read, "Fuck you, you fucking fuck." We had a good laugh about that. I think it's a quote from the movie Scarface with Al Pacino. Anyway, every time I've seen that T-shirt since I've wanted to purchase this highly provocative garment for my very good friend of many years because she's quite the titilator in both brains and beauty.

Sometimes I visit the T-shirt site threadless.com which specializes in all kinds of generally awesome cotton garb. It's an open-source kind of operation which I endorse whole-heartedly. (If you don't know what that very technical term means, look it up. I'm busy.) I'm unclear on the business model but seeing as these T-shirts are only $10 and generally in short supply as they are almost always "sold out", I don't suspect anyone's being harmed in the making or manufacturing of these T-shirts. But then there's The Kathy Lee Gifford Scandal, and if that didn't throw you for a loop like it did this Shiny Penny, well then there you are.

I say if you've got something to say then say it already and if you are unable to articulate what you need to say then why not use your T-shirt to say that un-sayable something that you feel needs to be said so desperately. Sometimes, I wish my T-shirts were like mood rings that would convey my changing moods toward whomever is staring/ talking/ harrassing/ flirting/ annoying/ or whatever else with me. I have no doubt some evil genius somewhere has this sort of project in the innovation lab as I write.

So let the poo-poo'ers poo poo you and quietly judge you because at the end of the day I am not-so-quietly judging them right back.

In conclusion, I'd like to extend my suggestions for text T-shirts. Feel free to steal or co-opt these as you see fit. We both will know where the big ideas are really coming from.

REALLY GREAT IDEAS FOR TEXT TO PUT ON YOUR T-SHIRT

1. Sometimes I want to smack you. Sometimes I want you to smack yourself.

2. Show me the receipts. (As quoted from the Whitney Houston - Barbara Walters interview when the songstress was asked if she hit the pipe, which she vehemently denied with this very convincing retort.)

3. Stop doing it. Now.

4. I feel pretty.

5. I am hungry.

6. Do you have any cheese?

7. This is not funny anymore.

8. Can I go now?

9. Stop bugging me.

10. It ends here.

If you have any really great ideas for text to put on your T-shirt, send them my way and I'll let you know if you have a really great idea on your hands or you're just wasting everyone's time.

Balls!

I'm not much of a joiner or a follower. Not much of a supporter of causes, organizations, clubs, federations, philosophies, etc. I pretty much consider myself a renegade, unmoved by fancy words or pretty colors or tasty cookies. But this particular cause caught my eye and I spent time on the site getting to know the pain of its victims so I thought I'd share. There is an interactive game, which I'd recommend, as well as an official mourning place. Be sure to click on all the navigable items. It's well worth your time and patience.

www.supportforbullswhohavehadtheirballscutoffandeaten.org

I've done my part to spread the word. I feel really good about myself right now.

Tribute to World Domination

When people casually mention to me their plans for world domination or how those plans for world domination might get in the way of hanging out with me, I usually shrug it off with my happy-go-lucky laugh and an innocent shrug that says volumes, including: "oh well," "rats!" and "good luck with that." But I digress.

World domination will be my primary topic today. Here goes. Usually when the people above have mentioned their plans for world domination, those plans involved some sort of evil. This may not surprise you. It never surprised me for I know that there is in fact great capacity for evil when it comes to plans for world domination and just plans in general. However, what did surprise me was the connection between world domination and the Guinness Book of World Records. For, to make it into the latter is a sort of world domination. To be the world's fastest cherry stem knotter is pretty dominating and intimidating for that matter. Or take Kevin Cole for example. Kev holds the world record for the longest spaghetti strand blown out of a nostril in a single blow. It's on the books, if you don't believe me. Kevin Cole: evil genius or master of the known universe?

It's simply amazing the breadth and depth of world domination contained in the Guinness Book of World Records site. I highly recommend you take a spin through. One note of caution: when you google for Guinness, beware that the first link is for the delicious Irish beer with the foamy cap and when you click on that link you will find yourself in a very happy place and immediately grow very very thirsty and light headed and then a little bit sad that you do not have directly at your disposal one of those delicious Irish beers with the foamy cap. Depression will follow this last bit but try to snap yourself out of it and remember you're looking for the Guinness Book of World Records site and not the delicious Irish beer with the foamy cap that makes everyone smile and generally feel like a better person.

Okay. Back to world domination. I was listening to the radio today on a long drive to my secret hideaway where I generally go to charge my superpowers and eat until my face hurts. And so, I heard this story about the world's largest pinhole camera which will be photographing the world's largest picture. This is all happening at a naval base somewhere in the US. There are several fascinating bits to this story. The picture will be like 3 stories tall and take 10 days to develop in 200 gallons of chemicals. The pinhole of the camera is about 3/4 of an inch in diameter so I guess that's like the size of a gumball. The specially constructed hangar that houses the world's largest camera will be torn down once this one picture is taken.

Talk about world domination! That's how you do it! You create something so colossal, dare I say Godzilla-like, make it into the Guinness Book of World Records (in your own newly created category, mind you), and then destroy the beast. This story has made me re-evaluate all mentions of plans for world domination. Because really, if you're going to go about town with your big girl and big boy plans for world domination, you better aim for the Guinness (both the World Records and the delicious Irish beer with the foamy cap). All this talk reminds me of the Strongest Man Competition which may be unrelated but is equally fascinating. That's all I'm going to say on that subject.

In conclusion, I'm sure I have insulted many people right now who are wondering if they were in fact the spark to this highly entertaining and just generally awesome blog. I assure you that you can all rest easy tonight because total credit goes to my own inner evil genius and our collective plans for world domination. Further research will be launched into the category of my world domination -- a lot of ground is covered in the Guinness Book of World Records -- but I'm sure I can find something equal to my stature and talent as both an evil genius and a really kick-ass person that you should have hung out with instead of using that lame excuse about world domination. Awesome.

[DISCLAIMER: the "you" in the above is fictional. Should you think that you are in fact the you, you are wrong and probably need to take a long look in the mirror and ask yourself why you think everything is always about you.]

Can it!

What will those kooky Japanese think of next? First it was oxygen bars where you could sidle up to the pump and inhale to your heart's content. Mmm, air! Now the new craze is oxygen in a can. The launch of this radical product O2 Supli was yesterday in 11,000 7-11s across Japan. (When did 7-11 invade Japan??? Can I get a Big Gulp in Tokyo cause if so I am like totally on the next plane outta here!).

How does 02 Suppli work, you ask? Well, according to my sources, it shoots a big old gulp of air into the user's mouth, nose, throat via a plastic mask attached to the can. How cool is that? It's like whippits but without all the chemical crap and occasional blackouts and general stupidity of partaking in the whippit. So far, it sounds like the USP is an end to yawning, sighing, flatulation, and all the other really fun things that people do. What a buzz kill. Oh yeah, oxygen comes in two flavors: grapefruit and mint.

Similar to paying for water, paying for oxygen sounds a little off the wall to me. I know, "nothing's free in this world." I also know I am highly skeptical about almost everything, a Debbie Downer if you will (I prefer the descriptive "discriminating"), but maybe that's because I yawn and sigh with abandon, whenever and however often I damn well feel like it.

So my message to Japan regarding your oxygenated can of anti-fun is this:

YOU ARE NOT THE BOSS OF ME.

God, I love saying that.

I don't mind Japan so much really. If not for Japan, Hello Kitty would be homeless and I'm pretty sure she'd get her fat cat ass beat up real good if she had to hoof it on the dark, dirty streets. And thank Japan for sushi, a truly delicious and nutritious treat. And Sofia Coppola should be sending out some big props for winning that Oscar for that movie that had virtually no compelling text but was mesmerizing nonetheless due to the very intriguing backdrop of Japan and also for Bill Murray. Japan is totally the boss of her.

In sum, keep it coming, Japan. That's a big thumbs up from one Shiny Penny. Make that a double.

All of a sudden I'm winded. Can somebody open a window around here?

I love science

Check out the crazy scientists at eepybird.com when they take on Diet Coke and Mentos. The video is priceless. Their explanation of the chemical reaction somewhat frightening. Not surprisingly, Mentos thinks the video is awesome (they're European and Europeans are crazy and fun loving). Diet Coke was not amused (they're American and Americans generally stink in the crazy-in-a-good way and fun-loving department). Enjoy.

Go tell it on the mountain

I cannot sing. This is no secret. I have been justly accused of being "tone deaf". I am not complaining just laying some groundwork.

My fellow "tone deaf" friend and I enjoyed the musical stylings of one kick-ass choir last evening in a lively and bombastic (I love bombast) interpretation of Carmina Burana. You know this music as it's been popularized by Hollywood folk for a very long time. My personal favorite co-opt of the Carmina Burana is from my second most-favorite movie ever "The Mission" starring one hairy and delicious Robert DeNiro and Jeremy Irons. If you have by some freak stroke of un-luck never seen "The Mission", I excuse you from reading the rest of this blog until you have in fact seen "The Mission". It's that good. Anyway, Carmina Burana figures prominently throughout "The Mission". It's also in a whole bunch of other movies but we're getting way off topic here.

So I cannot sing. That was the original thread here. I cannot. I can't. It's not within the wide realm of my talents. It pains me actually. To the very deepest core of my super talented being, I feel this lack. Yes, it's true. My Achilles heel exposed for all to point at and laugh. Go ahead.

Good, now that you're finished with that nonsense, in closing I'd like to wish upon you good tone to make up for my chasm of tone deafness. Wasn't that generous of me? I think so. I can be really nice sometimes. I really do hope you can sing and that you do it in the streets and in the shower and on the subway and at restaurants and movie theaters and bars and pretty much everywhere. But if by chance you are as unlucky as me to be classified as "tone deaf", please do shut up.

Thanks for listening.

String Theory

I know a seamstress, the old-fashioned kind. She can sew anything. She's made bikinis for models. That's how good she is. I was with her one day in her basement as she was fixing a button for me. I noticed a string on her sleeve so I pulled it off to throw the offending string out. She immediately scolded me. That string was there on purpose. She put it there. It's bad luck to throw away such loose ends because you never know when you'll need that little bit of string. I guess that makes a lot of sense if you're a seamstress or say, MacGyver.

So anyway, I've been taking stock of things, inventory if you will, and observing the myriad loose ends about me.

Yeah, so that's it. I don't have any BIG IDEAS for you to steal. You should be ashamed of yourself that that idea even crossed your mind. Really. This isn't that kind of place.

For the record, I do not understand string theory. I googled it and read about four sentences before my head started to throb. I do like strings though. And theories are pretty neat too. And I think that ball of string up there looks pretty fun. Maybe I'll pick up my own ball of string at the local hardware store -- just for kicks. Sounds like a pretty awesome Saturday afternoon activity if you ask me.

The shower sessions, by request

My self-proclaimed "second-biggest fan" recently requested "more shower sessions" and "maybe even a photo." Normally I would balk at such requests, because that's what influential people do when they wield their power and frankly it's kind of fun for me to torture my self-proclaimed "second-biggest fan". Today not so. Today I will fulfill my self-proclaimed "second-biggest fan;s" wish for both "more shower sessions" and "maybe even a photo."

I submit this:

THE TITILATING STORY OF THE LOOFAH

From whence did you come hard sponge-like creature? How is it that you can magically transform under water into a soft sponge-like friend sloughing off my dead skin to reveal fresh, new, young skin? You. Unassuming. Stoic. Caretaker.

But you’ve been betrayed, dear sweet loofah, for I know from whence you issued. Prepare yourself for this shocking revelation, ripped right from the headlines inside my mind:

SQUASH DOES NOT EXACTLY DENY MOTHERING LOOFAH

You are not a sea creature. You are a fruit! A fruit! Can you believe the hypocrisy? A fruit! (Yes, puppies, squash is a fruit.)

Again, I did exhaustive research, on the Internet, and saw pictures, and as we all know the Internet never lies, so you can totally trust me when I tell you that our dear sweet friend loofah is in fact a fruit. I can't go into the sordid details of the loofah's birth and transformation because it's too painful and I do respect the loofah's privacy.

Now the Internet also instructed me on how to grow my own loofah. Apparently it’s a total snap. I am so determined to grow my own loofah that I can hardly concentrate. As my self-proclaimed “second-biggest fan” and my “first-biggest fan” both know I have a wicked green thumb. Evidence: the six-foot avocado tree (also a fruit) which thrives in my balmy, jungle-like abode. Granted, I did not plant avocado tree but I do water avocado tree and can therefore take full credit for its proud, tall and strong presence.

I hope you are as excited – and titilated – by the loofah's roots as I am. I’ll never look at my loofah the same way. I can’t hardly wait to jump in the shower tomorrow. If you’d like to educate yourself on the comings and goings of the loofah, I suggest you take a gander at any of the many sites that pop up when you ask.com "from whence did the loofah issue?"

This concludes my contemplation of the shower. See photo above for illustration.

Keeping it clean, your Shiny Penny.

Horrors and scopic devices

I’m not much of a believer, a believer in much of anything really. Okay, that’s technically untrue but for the sake of argument, stay with me for one short moment. Accepting the proposition that I am an unbeliver, nonbeliever, what have you, I do however read my horoscope. I said "read," not believe. This week foretells:

This week, you'll fear you're not getting the credit you deserve, but that's not necessarily so. Take a note from Dolly Parton's duets — she never gets into a decibel duel with her singing partner. But that doesn't mean you ever forget she's there. And because of how hot you look, no one will forget that you're at least half-responsible for how good sex with you is.

Now that’s interesting. I do like being compared to Dolly Parton on any and all occasions. I may not bear the blonde wig or the buxomness of this worthy comparison nor the tiny Dolly frame nor the ability to wear all white when I damn well feel like it but, putting all that aside – suspension of disbelief, kids – I fancy myself a Dolly Parton of sorts. No, I can’t sing worth a lick. But there is something very interesting there. And no, I haven’t quite figured it out at this particular juncture in the blog, but bear with me.

My interpretation of said scopic segment is thus. I am hot. Undeniable. I am unforgettable. Clearly. I am half-responsible. Excellent news. As for that last juicy nugget, yeah, it’s pretty much a given so why even bother? You know the James Brown song – fine, now you’re privy to the fact that I was the muse. Just don’t tell Jimmy; he gets dodgy about such confessions.

I think the point here is that I am, if anything, non-confrontational. I’m not going to duke it out with you because we both know at the end of the day I am too damn handsome and clever and charming to give a good God damn anyway. This isn’t narcissism; this is my burden to bear through this however-short and painful life.

In sum, I will from this point forward overlook your failure to “excuse me” while cutting into line or jostling me roughly at a street corner or other such lapses in basic human decency. Because I know, as you know, that I am like totally Dolly Parton and you’re just an accompanist who happens to keep good form and good tune when in my presence. Kudos to you!

at long last and three-armed babies

i warn you this may be a hodgepodge, a potpourri, a vomitorium of brilliance. you should sit down for this, just in case you were standing up at a computer station or reading over someone's shoulder or something intrusive and rude like that.

at long last i've taken pen to paper. praise be the forefathers. now see, that was a crazy nonsensical statement but maybe not so much as our forefathers oft took pen to paper. consider the constitution for a moment or the declaration of independence. see, not so crazytown now, is it? i digress. so i wrote a small something. it's complete and whole and i actually thought it all through and took crazy notes from my shower sessions. yes, i said shower sessions. i find a great deal of inspiration in the shower. what of it? stop trying to get me off topic. i wrote something, non work related, non freelance related, non pay related. a short performance piece. and i've submitted it so we'll see what happens. keep all appendages crossed. i think it's funny but i think nearly everything is funny so who can tell but seeing as i'm an expert critic of funny, you can pretty much take my word for it that it is indeed very very funny.

thanks to a loyal source, i was apprised of the birth of a three-armed chinese baby. i saw pictures. not the globe or inquirer pictures but real pictures because they were on the internet and the internet never lies. the baby had an arm growing out of its chest. almost fully formed as i recall but non-functioning. so baby's parents had the extra appendage removed even though the baby's other two arms are not as i recall fully workable. how strange and wonderful and unique. i think this baby is just about the coolest baby ever. i think this baby will be endowed with magical powers. i think i love this baby. i think this baby may save us all.

as for the 06/06/06, pish posh. bring it, beastmaster. i still have a little anger left to tussle with you and your minions.

the storm inside

wow, what a bad idea to go to the beach this weekend. for once the meterologists were correct in their doppler of torrential downpour. but it's hard to keep a shiny penny down for long. it's hard. not impossible. but hard. so whilst under the safe cover of my very floral umbrella or under the cover of a large canopy or under the cover of my beach resort, i had time to reflect and get to know this shiny penny on a very deep level. i learned several things. since i'm really into lists at the moment, here they are, in no particular order:

THINGS I LEARNED WHILST UNDER THE COVER OF MY VERY FLORAL UMBRELLA OR UNDER THE COVER OF A LARGE CANOPY OR UNDER THE COVER OF MY BEACH RESORT

-- life is hard.

-- often when there are raging storms outside, you can sometimes feel the grumblings of the storm inside.

-- i have some anger issues.

-- carl hiassen believes he is funny because he is so angry.

-- i believe carl hiassen is funny and angry, and sometimes at the same time.

-- there are t-shirts, barettes, nail polish, and other items that can change color in the sun, just not the ladies' bathing suits. and for you un-believers, there is a store that sells such items.

-- ripping the 22-year-old hostess a new one for asking for a cover charge is probably not very nice in the big ol' book of nice things to do to be considered a nice person in general.

-- wendy's chicken strips are delicious and deliciously crispy.


i could go on and on. but i have some "stuff" to work out because apparently i am angry about something -- i mean i'm angry about a lot of things but picking just one thing right now is just making me angrier. generally i'm a big fan of storms; don't get me wrong storms. anyway, i'm going to listen to some jesus & mary chain "happy when it rains" and change the lyrics to "angry when it rains" because i feel like doing something crazy like that. and i think i feel like being angry for just a little while longer for no particular reason other than i want to and you can't stop me and if you even try, you will some cold, wet wrath the likes of which have not been documented in history.

sweet dreams, puppies.

run to the hills

i was sucked into the vortex of one of those "list" shows again, but this time it ended happily. vh1 classic's greatest metal songs with a bunch of metalheads providing irrelevant and inane commentary. although i would dispute chris jericho as a music authority but he is a fine, fine wrestler and most definitely someone i would put on my PEOPLE I'D LIKE TO PUT IN MY POCKET list. anyhow, the reputable host, one sebastian bach (another contender for my pocket) intro'd iron maiden's "run to the hills". the memories came flooding back. i'm not much into metal but i have to say "run to the hills" ranks real high on my not-for-public list of dynamite songs.

i hadn't thought about this song in a long long time. but a couple months ago i heard this girl peel out on it at a heavy metal/punk karaoke night. my jaw dropped as did everyone else's, which can be accounted for by the fact that she had some killer vocals as well as the fact that she jennifer beale'd her bra off whilst singing.

maybe you don't know "run to the hills". shame on you. go buy it from itunes or whatever you kids do these days. steal it from your older brother for all i care. just get yourself informed. i've pasted the lyrics below.

in iron maiden fashion, i will be running to the (proverbial) hills this weekend so don't expect to hear from me, puppies.


Run to the hills
(harris)

White man came across the sea
He brought us pain and misery
He killed our tribes, he killed our creed
He took our game for his own need

We fought him hard we fought him well
Out on the plains we gave him hell
But many came too much for cree
Oh will we ever be set free?

Riding through dustclouds and barren wastes
Galloping hard on the plains
Chasing the redskins back to their holes
Fighting them at their own game
Murder for freedom a stab in the back
Women and children and cowards attack

Run to the hills run for your lives
Run to the hills run for your lives

Soldier blue on the barren wastes
Hunting and killing their game
Raping the women and wasting the men
The only good indians are tame
Selling them whisky and taking their gold
Enslaving the young and destroying the old

Run to the hills run for your lives
(repeat to end)