Wiki, wiki, what, what!?

Some of you may have heard about this little user-generated content site called Wikipedia. I was madly in love from the first search.

Now granted, you never know who is authoring these entries. I once saw an entry that claimed former first lady Laura Bush aborted babies for fun on the weekends. While not a fan of the entire Bush clan, I kinda doubted the validity of that one. There is a system of checks and balances to verify data, so that particular page didn't last long, sadly.

I even wrote a wiki once for a former client.

I recently found a new love. I don't feel it's cheating, because it's yet another wiki ... so as long as you keep it in the family, right?

It's called Wikimedia Commons and it's a file sharing site, which is the shit. You may not know why now, but trust me, the shit it is. Why just this week I was crafting a little video for the DOT and thought to myself, "Self, what this needs is a touch of Vivaldi."

Enter Wikimedia Commons. Not only did I download a copywrite-free version of "Spring" but I also snatched some Mozart, Bach and Beethoven, all of which will be featured in a future video of my creation.

I know. It's sugar, isn't it?

Yeah, life sucked before the Internet.

And the super shall reign

I know I've talked about the "super group" (trademark pending) before. It seems like some killer bands have split and reformed to make additional killer bands in the last few years.

Take for example Audioslave, the magical combination of Rage Against the Machine and Soundgarden. Then you have the Raconteurs, which, well, they are the shiznick.

Recently a friend introduced me to Them Crooked Vultures.

Now in the pantheon of "super groups" this one is going to reign supreme in my heart. Formed by Josh Homme from Queens of the Stone Age, Dave Grohl from the Foo Fighters and John Paul Jones from this little band you may have heard of called LED ZEPPELIN. (If I have to link to Led Zeppelin so you know who they are, then get the fuck off my blog.)

Needless to say, while worried for the future of my beloved Foos, I pretty much creamed my panties when I found out about this band.

I require music the way some people require soda or chocolate chip cookies. Sure, I can live without it, but why the hell would I? And when your soda is made of pure unadulterated rock, then addiction must be guaranteed.

Do I need to say anything else?

For the love of all that's bacon

Before I had my funky little allergy, I was what you might call a verging vegetarian. I ate very little meat, and when I did it was fish or chicken. I hated red meat. Anything with too rich a flavor, such as wild game, was repulsive.

I just knew that meat hurt my stomach. In retrospect, I see it was the half-loaf of bread I choked down with dinner that was ripping my intestines apart. Be thankful for that bit of knowledge.

Since last year, not only have I grown to love meat, it is a true cornerstone of my diet. One meat in particular has blossomed in the cockles of my heart: bacon.

When not smothered in syrup overflow from surrounding pancakes, bacon is the stuff of gods. And, my sister taught me how to cook it in the oven so it doesn't stink up the house. Since that day, bacon is a constant on my grocery list.

Now I know what you're thinking: no one should eat that much bacon. But when it's not paired with the bread on your BLT, you can actually eat more of it.

So imagine my chagrin when I saw an article this weekend titled, Against Bacon. I was prepared to be aghast!

And then one little quote saved the day. "There's a reason you've allowed yourself to be bacon-brainwashed. His name is George W. Bush. You ran to bacon when he took office and started tappipng your phone line. You found bacon comforting and distracting. Before you knew it you were starting blogs called Bacon Freak and the Bacon Show."

Proving once again that Bush is to blame for everything.

Influence

Stepped out of my Missouri safety and made the trek to Chicago this weekend.

I spent three days, neck craned, soaking in the vibrancy only a big city can offer. As with any destination, I ask myself one question: Could I live here?

I’m a small-town girl, but I so love the big city. I could make a live among the high rises, navigating the sidewalks in my Micheal Kors pumps.

But I wouldn’t. Once upon a time I would have traded my life in the sleepy pace of Kansas City for the rush of Chicago, New York or L.A.

Today I look to my right and see the tow-headed influence that has required me to vastly rearrange my priorities. Could I live there? Yes. Could I raise my son there? Not just yet.

When your life requires you to cross town on a bus to play in the yard, that’s not the life for me. I’d much rather sit on the back porch and watch him swing. Or play a lively game of bocce instead of surrounding myself with steel and glass.

Even if that means no Micheal Kors pumps to keep me warm in the winter.

It's called rhythm and blues

It is subtle infusion of blues guitar and smoky bar, tinged with a lack of inhibition triggered by a sweet shot called the red-headed slut.

The hair on my arms prickle and raise as the bass beats a soothing rhythm in my chest. I smile, and sink into the music, letting it wash over me and invade that hollow palce in the back of my mind where doubt and loneliness sometimes rein. Only the music can brush it aside.

There are no commitments to be met, no agendas to set. I am not obligated to smile, reciprocate, or even speculate. Merely to be imbued.

This is a love affair that transcends the emotional. I cannot resist the lure. The love I give is returned note for note. It may be the only true relationship there is.

I wished for something true...

Why won't Dave Grohl marry me?

Do oldies make you old?

Spent the weekend with the parents recently. My dad and I have two major things in common: cooking and music. On a drive into the Cardinals game on Saturday, we listened to the oldies station, singing and trying to remember the names of the artists. At one point the Doobie Brothers were on.

My dad sighed and said, these guys shouldn't be on the oldies station! That makes me feel so old. I agreed and we moved on.

Today on my drive into work, again listening to the oldies station (because it's safe for the ball of fire, FYI! Don't be a hater ...) and the Eurythmics, "Sweet Dreams" came on.

Now what the hell!? The Doobies are old. Annie Lennox, that's my generation. That's just not cool.

I immediately flipped over to the alternative station to absorb some of that youth-infused crap they call music today.

Oh yeah, that comment doesn't make me sound old.