Brilliant ... just brilliant

I long for the day when I can come to this blog and say, with no sarcasm whatsoever, "Look! Our state legislature has done a wonderful thing! Kudos!"

But, alas, I cannot. This is not Camelot, and they are ... well, who they are.

This latest effort goes into effect tomorrow. To wit:

Everyone shows ID for beer in Tenn.

By LUCAS L. JOHNSON II, Associated Press Writer 1 hour, 18 minutes ago

NASHVILLE, Tenn. - Comer Wilson hasn't had to show his ID to buy beer in a while. Maybe it's the 66-year-old man's long white beard.

Starting Sunday, gray hair won't be good enough. Wilson and everyone else will be required to show identification before buying beer in Tennessee stores — no matter how old the buyer appears.

"It's the stupidest law I ever heard of," Wilson said. "You can see I'm over 21."

Tennessee is the first state to make universal carding mandatory, says the National Alcohol Beverage Control Association. However, the law does not apply to beer sales in bars and restaurants, and it does not cover wine and liquor.

Supporters say it keeps grocery store and convenience store clerks from having to guess a customer's age. Democratic Gov. Phil Bredesen said it's a good way to address the problems of underage drinking. And the 63-year-old governor said he personally won't mind the extra effort to buy beer.

"I'll be very pleased when I'm carded, and in my mind I'll just imagine it's because I look so young," he said.

Rich Foge, executive director of the Tennessee Malt Beverage Association, said he expects there might be some initial resistance from the beer-buying public.

"But once people live with it for a month or two, it's going to go fine," he said. "It gets routine after a while."

Jarron Springer, president of the Tennessee Grocers and Convenience Store Association, said he understands the law "may seem a little odd" to people who are obviously older than 21, but he said it's necessary to make sure no one slips through the cracks.

"If we're going to hold clerks accountable for their actions, then there's no room for discretion," Springer said. "It's either all or nothing."

The blanket requirement makes it easier for stores to comply, said Steve Schmidt, spokesman for the National Alcohol Beverage Control Association

"There's no need to judge whether someone looks 21, 25 or 30," he said. "It's a set, consistent standard across the entire state."

Richard Rollins, who owns a convenience store in Nashville, is already using a computerized scanner to check everyone's driver's licenses when they buy beer.

"We just say we're trying to keep our beer permit, and this is the safest way," Rollins said.

But it has stopped Jeff Campbell from shopping at Rollins' market.

"I don't mind them asking for my ID, but they don't need my driver's license number," said Campbell, 43. "I'm just buying a six-pack. All they need to know is how old I am."

Rollins said scanning licenses has proved beneficial in other ways, such as catching criminals. When one customer tried to make a purchase using a counterfeit bill, Rollins said police were able to track him down because the receipt from the scanner showed his name and license number — and his address.

The new law, which expires after a year unless the Legislature decides to renew it, also creates a voluntary training program for vendors and their employees.

Participating businesses would face lower fines if found guilty of selling beer to a minor, and their beer permits cannot be revoked on a first offense. However, they face fines of up to $1,000 for each underage sale and they lose their status if they commit two violations in a 12-month period.

Another violation could mean suspension or revocation of a license, and fine of up to $2,500.

Noncertified vendors can face those penalties on a first offense.

Marylee Booth, executive director of the Tennessee Oil Marketers Association, which represents gas stations and convenience stores, said the intention is not to hurt vendors, but to help them protect minors.

"We're doing everything we can to keep minors from buying beer," Booth said. "This is just one more tool we want to try."
___
Associated Press writer Erik Schelzig contributed to this report.

My question is, what's wrong with the cashier carding if she is unsure? It's been more than a few years ago since I worked in a convenience store, but that's exactly how I did it. A few would resist, but they'd haul out their IDs when they saw that the transaction wouldn't be completed unless they showed me proof of their date of birth.

Obviously, these men and women are out of touch with reality if they think this one little law will curb underage drinking. Most of these kids have a older-than-21 friend who is more than happy to make the buy.

To me, it appears some high-positioned lobbyists have courted our solons to ensure that their clients don't have to shoulder a bit of responsibility and common sense. And it worked.

Way to go, Tennessee representatives and senate! Insert dripping sarcasm here.

Soaring with the eagles

The bald eagle has been endangered for practically all my life. What good news to know that its numbers have increased enough to get it kicked off the endangered species list! Fly, eagle, fly!

U.S. bald eagle numbers making recovery
By H. JOSEF HEBERT, Associated Press Writer

WASHINGTON - The American bald eagle, a national symbol once almost wiped out by hunters and DDT poisoning, has not only survived but is thriving.

The Interior Department will announce on Thursday it is removing the majestic bird from the protection of the Endangered Species Act, capping a four-decade struggle for recovery.

Government biologists have counted nearly 10,000 mating pairs of bald eagles, including at least one pair in each of 48 contiguous states, giving assurance that the bird's survival is no longer in jeopardy.

The eagle population hit bottom in 1963 when only 417 mating pairs could be documented in the 48 states and its future survival as a species was in doubt.

There were once believed to be as many as a half million bald eagles in North America, predating the Europeans' arrival. The Continental Congress put the bird onto the country's official seal in 1782, although Benjamin Franklin preferred the turkey and called the eagle a "bird of bad moral character."

The Interior Department has been mulling over what to do about the bald eagle for eight years since government biologists in 1999 concluded its recovery had been a success.

Earlier this year, a federal court directed Interior to make a decision on the bird's status by this Friday, acting in a lawsuit by a Minnesota man who complained the government's delays kept him from developing seven acres that included an eagle's nest.

Damien Schiff, attorney for Pacific Legal Foundation which represents the developer, said Wednesday the delisting is "a victory for property owners." But he worried a proposed eagle protection plan using another law will still be too restrictive.

Conservationists called the eagle recovery a vindication of the 1973 Endangered Species Act, which has been under attack from property rights and business groups, and the subject of internal review at the Interior Department.

Environmentalists worry changes in implementing the law will make it harder keep plants and animals from disappearing, especially ones lacking the symbolism of the bald eagle.

"No other species has that advantage," says Michael Bean, an endangered species expert at Environmental Defense. "It's the national symbol."

John Kostyack of the National Wildlife Federation, called the eagle resurgence "truly one of America's great wildlife success stories" that shows the federal law is needed and can work.

"The rescue of the bald eagle ... ranks among the greatest victories of American conservation," said John Flicker, president of the National Audubon Society, whose group's annual bird count shows "the eagle has recovered across America."

The bird, first declared endangered in 1967, was not always held with such affection. Over the decades, it was both revered and hated — which almost brought its demise.

A majestic bird with a wing span that can extend more than seven feet and powerful
talons that allow it to swoop down and grab its prey — be it fish in a mountain lake or a rabbit or raccoon — was viewed by many as a scavenger, nuisance and dangerous predator.

It was hunted for its feathers, shot from airplanes, the subject of a 50-cent bounty in Alaska, poisoned in some states and fed to hogs in others. Congress passed a law in 1940, still on the books, that made killing a bald eagle illegal.

But the bird's decline accelerated, thanks to DDT, the insecticide that began to be widely used in the 1940s to control mosquitoes. DDT seeped into lakes and streams and into fish, the eagle's favorite food, harming adult birds and their eggs.

When DDT was banned in 1972, the eagle's recovery began, slowly.

George Wallace, vice president and chief conservation officer for the American Bird Conservancy, recalls when he was still in high school in the 1970s he saw his first bald eagle on Plum Island in Massachusetts. It was a rarity.

"Seeing a bald eagle in the mid '70s was a big deal," he said Wednesday. "It was something you really looked forward to seeing. Now, to be honest, bald eagles are pretty common."

The Evil Empire

Eternal damnation is not a fiery pit run by a horned, pitchfork-toting dude with a forked tail. It's a mega-store with Sam Walton's portrait on display. And Wal-Mart is thy name.

Walton, rest his soul, was most likely looking to be a successful businessman (and becoming a billionaire in the process didn't hurt) when he started what has grown into hell on Earth. He is not to blame.

Rather, it is the demonic beings who guide their shopping carts along the merchandise-riddled aisles that make Wal-Mart less than holy.

I offer two examples:

-- Last night, The Girl and I were perusing the offerings in our area Wal-Mart when a demon pushed one of the shopping carts past my daughter. I could almost hear the whoosh from the cart's jet engines as she zoomed past, yelling over her shoulder: "Excuse me, honey, I'm going around you."

Keep in mind that this demon was already around us and ahead of us when she screeched out her advisory.

What was her destination? The cat food aisle.

That must have been one hungry kitty, considering the way she was careening through the store.

-- The second example, also last night, included another woman and her myriad of children.

(Note: Is Wal-Mart a form of recreation for some of these families? Every time I'm in there, there's about three families of 12 -- the WHOLE family -- shopping. Can no one stay at home and mind the dog? Would it kill Dad to watch the kids while Mom goes into town for supplies? Or vice versa? Where do you put your purchases in the vehicle when a dozen warm bodies are littering it? And they always have purchases -- big ones. I have yet to see a U-Haul trailer in the parking lot, so logic tells me they're sitting on their fish sticks and tubs of Neapolitan ice cream on the ride home. I guess the little ones get stuck holding the bread and eggs. But I digress.)

Back to the woman and her throng of children. I'm in the dairy aisle, and The Girl was looking for something specific when I looked to my rear and saw this demon pushing her cart very rapidly down the aisle, with all the kids holding on to the sides and the front. It was surreal -- almost like a scene from "ER" when they have a critical patient they're rushing in.

"Moooooom! Slow down!" warned one of the imps with a modicum of sense, apparently inherited from the father. "You're going to run over people."

"Well, I'm in a hurry!" the bitch huffed.

"So what?!?" yelled I, my bitch switch now officially switched.

The bitch with all the kids responded by whipping out her cell phone and making a phone call. She continued the conversation as she and her entourage ambled aisle after aisle. (OK, I kept up with her, I admit it. Call me bitchy but, you know, she flipped the switch.)

I would avoid Wal-Mart if I could -- believe me, I would. Unfortunately, it's the closest store to my home. Equally unfortunately, it would be fiscally irresponsible of me not to shop there in my sorry financial shape.

So I guess I'll suck it up and keep reading Behind the Counter. It gives me a twisted sense of consolation to know that my opinions are shared by someone else in the store.

Her e-mail isn't working

Let me say it again: Her e-mail isn't working.

She has no e-mail. It's not working.

Irritating, isn't it?

Imagine hearing it, I swear to God, SEVENTEEN times. At least. In an hour. With the words rearranged. Or replaced. But the meaning's the same.

My e-mail isn't working.

Not working. I can't get e-mail.

People are sending me e-mail. I'm not getting it.

I have no e-mail.

I have a problem: I have no e-mail.

No e-mail ...

No e-mail ...

No e-mail.

Argh!

In case you haven't guessed, this is a co-worker. She's not in my department, thank God. But I can hear her over the people who are. Not only is she repetitive, she's VERY LOUD. And she talks. Constantly. And laughs. And snickers, in this really silly-sounding pssssssssssss-sss-sss that sounds like she's deflating. Only she's not. Unfortunately.

Our desks are separated by a very thin wall. A doorway leads from one department to another. A doorway -- with no door. Don't recommend that I see management about installing a door. Been there, done that. They want to try "other methods." Insert eyeroll here.

My therapist recommends buying a white-noise machine. I'm not against that, but it really chaps my ass that I have to be out $50-plus when these anemic managers could tell her to Just Shut Up.

They say they've told her to hush. I believe that, but it's doing no good. She's yet to cease and desist. Meanwhile, folks in my department who aren't nearly as loud are repeatedly told to keep it quiet. Insert another eyeroll.

You know what the bad thing is? Other than her annoyingly loud voice, tendency to bug the shit out of me with repetition and that idiotic hissing, I actually like her. (I know! It's like saying, "Other than that unfortunate shooting of your husband, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?")

She's friendly. She's good at her job. Unfortunately, she and I work the same hours. And. She. Won't. Shut. Up.

So, until I can spring for the machine, I've found my own version of White noise -- The White Stripes on my iTunes. Their music is the only thing I've found that will drown her out. Know the words to "Icky Thump"? I do.

Rock on, Jack. Bang those drums, Meg. And you on the other side of the wall, SHUT THE HELL UP!

So you think you know The Boy Who Lived?

Put it to the test!

How High is Your Harry Potter IQ?

(Not bragging, but I got everything correct. Isn't that, like, perfect? Insert mebeam here.)

Testing, testing ...

My spacebar was all over the place in the last post. So I took it apart, gave it a good spray with canned air, and put it back together.

All is right with the world now. (Or at least my keyboard. I looooooooove this keyboard, so knowing it was merely sick is a relief.)

Warning to the wise: Be prepared to see disgusting stuff if you ever pry a key off your keyboard. I know it's there, but I'm always unprepared. Ewwwwwwwwwwwww.

Incredible

Incredibly sickening, that is.

The Girl is on throes of the four-year life's journey known as high school. Naturally, friends want to know my impressions as the first-time mom of a high schooler.

The latest contenders are a couple of her father's friends, who have a son a year younger than The Girl. As the mother and I chatted, the father informed his wife that their son likely would not be going to high school next year.

Apparently, that was news to her, for she replied, "Really? Why?"

"My son," this baboon declared, "will not go to a high school where a f** is the principal."

(My apologies to baboons. It's the first metaphor that entered my mind that was family friendly.)

The mother, who normally is not my favorite person, became my hero with her next carefully chosen words:

"Uh-huh." Insert huge pregnant pause here. "Well, you'll be homeschooling him, then, because I'm not going to do it."

As much as I love my little corner of the world, I abhor these attitudes. Said principal is a caring man whose priority is the students. I don't know his sexual orientation, nor do I care.

The students in this district couldn't be in better hands. I'm proud and delighted my daughter will be in high school with an exemplary leader at the helm.

Unfortunately, The Baboon's attitude is rampant here. If the principal were African-American, I have no doubt he would have inserted the n-word in place of the f-word.

Disgusting. It truly is.

Did I mention that The Baboon has a highly regarded job? Yeah. Scary thought.

Asshole.

***
Dark ages attitudes aside, mornings like this one remind me why I love East Tennessee.

After a much-needed downpour yesterday, it is sunny and beautiful outside. The lush greens are showing off, and the mugginess has lifted.

It's a clear, beautiful day. Enjoy it.

Welcome to the club!

The newest members of the I'm Famous But My Baby Has a Normal Name Club are ...


Drumroll, please.


Kevin James and Julia Roberts!


James, whom I loved on "King of Queens" and am looking forward to seeing with My Adam in "I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry," named his wee Flag Day arrival Shea Joelle.

And Roberts' babe, born on My Sir Paul's 65th birthday, is known as Henry Daniel.

(Adam and Sir Paul, it may be noted, are both members of the club. Adam's daughter is Sadie Madison. Sir Paul is, of course, the father of designer Stella McCartney. His other children are Mary, James and Beatrice. He is also the adopted dad of Heather, Linda McCartney's daughter from a previous marriage.)

Congrats to the new parents! And welcome to the club!

Happy birthday, Grandpa!

Had he lived, my dear grandfather would have been 90 years old today.

I know everybody thinks their grandfather was the greatest. But mine really was. I'll put him up against anyone.

I can't remember a time when I didn't adore my father's father. By many standards, he was an unexceptional man. He didn't finish elementary school. The Army rejected him for having flat feet. In all his 71 years of living on this planet, he had traveled no farther than Kentucky -- and Georgia, for the great reject the U.S. Army issued.

Those people who would dismiss him on those terms don't know my Grandpa.

He was loving, loyal and kind. He loved a chaw of Red Man, mixed with Beech Nut. Nothing was more restful to him than sitting on the front porch on a summer's evening with a bowl of vanilla ice cream. And no meal was complete without a spoonful of Peter Pan peanut butter.

(I'm glad my grandfather didn't live to see the Peter Pan recall earlier this year. It would have crushed him. Choosy mothers may choose Jif, but grandfathers loved Peter Pan.)

Grandpa's childhood was rough. He was 6 when his mother died, and his father sent him into the bowels of the earth as a coal miner at age 14. He was paid in scrip -- or rather, my great-grandfather was. Grandpa didn't see any of his pay for years.

He married my grandmother in 1940, and together they raised five children. My father was their second born, and the second son. While he worked in the sawmill by day, he, my grandmother and the kids worked to build what became the family home. Grandpa designed it himself, and it was the place I thought of as home for my first 25 years. Even today, the word "home" conjures up images of the house my grandfather designed and led his family in building.

I was the first grandchild, and I freely admit my Grandpa spoiled me rotten. One of my first memories is of being devastated because I couldn't marry him. I thought then -- and I still think today -- my grandmother got the last good one.

My childhood memories are filled with Grandpa, who served as a surrogate father when his own son abandoned me, my mother and my sister. He was a consummate storyteller who could keep me in stitches. I double over when I regale others with his stories, but they look at me with stony silence. That storytelling gene, undoubtedly, died with him.

I was in college when my grandfather began having health problems. The coal mines took their toll, and combined with years of smoking, he suffered from emphysema. He suffered a heart attack while in the hospital for pneumonia, and while he recovered from that, it was another stealth disease that robbed his mind and eventually claimed his life.

Alzheimer's disease. It was a funny-sounding term I remember reading about in John Irving's Cider House Rules. Now, we were living it. Thoughts and functions that once seemed involuntary were taking their toll on my wonderful grandfather. Nine months before it would claim his life, the disease erased any memory of me. I -- and the rest of the family -- became mere faces hovering over his bed.

His hard-fought battle was lost in 1991, and a day doesn't go by that I don't think of my Grandpa. I honored his memory a couple of years later by naming my daughter after him, and I tell her often about the great-grandfather I wish she had known -- the great-grandfather who would have poured all his love onto her.

Happy birthday, Grandpa. I'll love you forever.

She's full of excrement

No way in hell would I sign that joke Angelina Whorlie's attorney is passing off as a media contract to interview his client and her concubine, Brad's the Pitts. Furthermore, any editor and/or publisher should be fired and shamed out of the profession if they affix their names to such a document.

Shame on you, Whorlie! This is even a low step for you, you brother-kissing, blood-vial-wearing, husband-stealing, calling-your-baby-a-blob piece of shit.

And people wonder why I won't give you or your films the time of day. Stop the bullshit, and go tend to your flock. They need a mother.

And stop collecting them. Stamps are for collecting, children are not. You, my dear, are no Mia Farrow. You'll never see the day when you're good enough to scrub Mia Farrow's toilet.

I heart Mike Luckovich

Need I say more about why the Atlanta Journal-Constitution's cartoonist is one of my favorites?

I'm not alone

My mother's death left me with more questions than answers.

Bipolar disorder, the mental illness that prompted my mother to take her life, is genetic. Could it be that I'll be afflicted with it somewhere down the road. What about my beautiful daughter? Could this horrible disease affect her thoughts and addle her peaceful existence?

Could I, by calling my mother earlier that day, have prevented it?

Is there some way I can talk to her? I just want to hear from her one more time.

I found out a week or so ago that someone else is having the same kind of thoughts.

Anyone who watched "The Young and The Restless" in the 1980s is familiar with Thom Bierdz. The name may not be familiar, but his role as Phillip Chancellor III has been pivotal since the early days of the soap.

(This is the part where I admit that I was an unabashed fan. I thought he was just about the most handsome thing I'd ever seen walk across the TV screen.)

That's why I immediately recognized his name when I came across it while doing some online research last Sunday. I always wondered whatever happened to the guy whose smoldering good looks lit up my TV screen daily and whose demise has me carrying a grudge against "The Young and the Restless" almost 20 years later.

What happened was an almost indescribable horror.

After Thom's character was written off in 1989, it looked like he was headed for a career to match Tom Cruise's. His fast track to stardom was stopped weeks later, however, when his baby brother bludgeoned their mother to death with a baseball bat. And some years later, his other brother committed suicide.

Thom reveals all those feelings and his search inside himself in Forgiving Troy: The Art-o-biography of Thom Bierdz. I found excerpts of the book on his Web site, and I was mesmerized.

He had the same feelings I do. In reading those few pages, I found someone who looked into my soul.

That feeling was even more validated when I received the book in the mail today. Now an acclaimed artist, Thom uses some of his paintings to illustrate the feelings he describes in words. It's a heart-wrenching, soul-searching read, and one I highly recommend.

For me, it's therapeutic. By reading about Thom's trials and tribulations, I'm discovering myself -- and my mother.

Thanks, Thom.

Back atcha, babe

I decided yesterday that I was tired of driving a trash can. So I cleaned out my car.

Cleaned the windows. Vacuumed, which sucked up the dirt but left most of the white dog hairs clinging to the seats. (The fact that this dog isn't bald -- and has no bald spots -- is one of the great mysteries of life. I continue to clean up enough hair to knit a new litter of pups.)

I even used Armor-All on the dash. I haven't done that since high school, which is longer ago than I care to remember.

My car is now spiffy on the inside.

And my thanks? An aching back, just in time for work on Monday.

Excuse me while I moan and adjust the heating pad.

Men's Health

Apparently, Men's Health magazine decided I have a subscription.

I ask you, WHY would I subscribe to Men's Health? I am not a man. The only male in my life is a 4-year-old Pekingese, and while he's adorable, the only use he'd have for Men's Health is to chew on its pages and maybe provide me with paper should he have an accident.

I found a toll-free number inside the magazine, so I called to cancel my "subscription." (I'm still rolling my eyes. Ye gads!)

I'm probably going to give the two issues they kindly sent yesterday to a co-worker. Lord knows I don't need them -- well, unless the dog has the aforementioned accident, and there's plenty of unsolicited junk mail lying around here to take care of that.

Can't believe I did that

I spent the better part of yesterday evening surfing the Internet looking for Paris Hilton footage.

I know! It's bad! I'm dying of shame here.

I despise Paris Hilton. I disliked her even before she decided she was above the law and too privileged to read her own mail. That haughty "I'm-so-rich-my-feces-doesn't-stink" look always makes me want to slap her, if for nothing else because she'd be disgusted because a middle-class peon touched her. I'd have disinfectant handy, of course -- for me.

The fact that she went kicking and screaming back to jail made my day. (OK, it was a high -- finding my favorite slacks in my size after searching in three cities made my day.)

However, that might have even been replaced had I been able to see Paris screaming, Mooooom! It's not right!

I guess I'll have to live with the descriptions because apparently there were no cameras in the courtroom.

I applaud Judge Michael Sauer in sending her skanky ass back to the slammer. Sheriff Lee Baca should be ashamed of himself.

To the grandmother of my progeny

Anyone who spends any amount of time with us knows within minutes that our feelings for one another are exactly warm. I tolerated you for years because of your son and granddaughter. But guess what? I don't have to do that anymore!

Your granddaughter is old enough now to choose where she wants to spend time, and your house isn't even in the top 50. Rest assured, I didn't say anything to turn her against you. No, my dear, that was all your doing.

I don't take her to visit you. That's your son's responsibility. I don't expect him to take her for visits to my father's house. He's aware of the arrangement. He even signed papers saying as much.

No matter what we do, we cannot change that I'm your granddaughter's mother, or vice versa. However, we don't have to be in one another's faces, and we don't have to be part of each other's lives outside your granddaughter. That's a caveat I am delighted to live with.

So when my phone rang today with a familiar number on caller ID, I couldn't place it at first. Your granddaughter didn't recognize it, either. So I answered.

I recognized your voice immediately. Apparently, you did the same, but you asked who you were speaking to anyway. I gave my name, and you hung up.

Let me add right here that I'm about as delighted to hear from you as I would be to learn that I have rickets. But I'm willing to be nice. If you had been civil and said something like, Oh, I'm sorry! I thought I called someone else! I would have understood. I would have taken the call with a wink and a nudge, and it would have been our little secret.

But you didn't. You hung up instantly. So I'm telling everybody.

I'm telling your hairdresser. I'm telling the ladies in your art league. I'm telling my neighbors. Hell, I'm telling the world right now on the World Wide Web. Guess what, planet? My offspring's grandmother is a rude doofus!

Oh, and before I forget, it's plastic, not plaskick; Wal-Mart, not Wal-Mark; Kmart, not Kmark.

It was 40 years ago today ...

(In the U.S. that is) That the Beatles released Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, the album Rolling Stone refers to as the best of all time. Ever. Period. Who am I to argue with one of the industry's most respected periodicals?

The album was released a day earlier in Britain. (On my parents' anniversary, but that's neither here nor there -- although they and the Beatles ultimately met the same fate ...)

Choosing a favorite song is like asking a mother to choose her favorite child. (I never have a problem with the latter, however.) I love Ringo's nasal twang in "With a Little Help from My Friends." "A Day in the Life" ... a mixture of Lennon and McCartney in one song. "When I'm 64" holds a dear place. Cute, catchy and hey, who other than Heather Mills wouldn't love Paul now that he's 64 -- almost 65?!? Plus, it's in The World According to Garp, a movie based on one of my favorite novels.

Check out "Sgt. Pepper: A to Z," and listen to some of the tunes while you're there.

Happy birthday, Sgt. Pepper!

Got class?

The New York Times has a graphic in which you can identify four aspects about yourself and choose which class you fall into.

According to the graphic, I'm average. Great education, good job, but my salary and worth suck rocks. Hey, two out of four ain't bad. ;)