Happy Trees, Sad Trees

Well, I'm back from the world of IT hell, and into the world of squidgey tummies, non-hot flash fevers, and the head rush/spins.

So, I'll keep it brief. No, really.

Nothing gets in the way of The Baroness and her sick-naps. Nothing.

Here goes. One last Vegas story. It's late in coming, but I've been without communication for days. Days. Maybe that's what's making me sick.

One day while the Baron and his associates were having their morning symposium, I busted out of the Land O'Canals to take a walk. In the real world.

OK, the sort-of-real world.

As I am usually based in a geographical location where it is gray and gloomy about 2/3 of the year, I felt compelled to walk on the sunny side of the street. To grab me some Vitamin D, as it were.

It was on this stroll that I came across what Vegas is all about.

Happy Trees.

And Sad Trees.

Standing on my side of the Strip, looking at the view across the boulevard, I saw this:

Here is Vegas at its shiny best: The Wynn Hotel with it's lustrous, well-tended palms and assorted pampered arborage. The whole landscape exudes privilege and opulence, whether you can afford it or not. Here is a Las Vegas where they go out of their way to make everything appear flawless, down to the grooming of the plants. Happy Trees.

No doubt inspired, in turn, by this guy:


Then I looked at the empty cement lot next to me. It was filled with refuse, and the withered near-dead trees. Neglect, and potentially some abuse seemed evident:

Sad Trees.

This, I'll posit, is the real LV. And these sad trees? Like the city itself and its current condition, perhaps the result of a little too much greed and a lot too much overreaching.

Here's the weird part. When I went to zoom in with my crap phone camera, this is what was painted on the side of the container:

click to see the larger weirdness...

Coincidence? I think not.

Thoughtful Thursday

...I'm moaning all the morning
and mourning all the night
And in between it's nicotine
And not much heart to fight
Black coffee
Feelin' low as the ground
It's driving me crazy just waiting for my baby
To maybe come around... around
I'm waiting for my baby
To maybe come around...

"Black Coffee", Sonny Burke & Paul Francis Webster

By "moaning", here I'm referring to my morning Serengeti-ish growl waiting for the kettle to boil (yeah, I kick my coffee old school - french press, baby).

And the "driving me crazy waiting for my baby to maybe come around"?

Well, I'm hoping that one day, my dream of having a personal barrista arriving on my doorstep will come true. Preferably at about 6:45 am, Monday to Friday; 8:00 am, weekends.

So what is all this talk of java?

Joe?

1,3,7-trimethylxanthine?

Primarily, none of the vonB magic would never occur without the aid of this stimulant. There would be no "Thoughtful" in Thursday or any other day of the week if I did not have that oil to grease the cogs.

Because I am SO not a morning person. Nor a night owl.

I'm kind of a early-to-mid-afternoon chick. After 4:30, it's all downhill (I blame this on my prairie upbringing - I think there's a dormant farmer gene there somewhere)(although getting up at 6:45 would make me a pretty crappy farmer...).

I digress.

My dear friend Asthma Girl asked her readers to engage in a Starbucks Coffee challenge. It seems that her local coffeteria is all hot to trot about their new instant coffee line, "VIA", and have been haranguing her every time she sets foot in the door to get her oatmeal fix.

She finally caved, and has enlisted her troops to go a blog-wide taste test. Go to her site here to be directed to various opinions. Here is mine (plus a treat at the end):

**************
Hello, Rome? Stick to Pasta.
It is rather appropriate that one of the meanings of VIA means "through". Because, not unlike being relieved that I am through drinking the imaging barium I have to take for periodic CAT scans, I am very glad that I am through tasting this sludge that Starbucks is passing off as coffee. It is the coffee monopoly's equivalent of a McRib.

You know that sound you hear, that whoosh when you open a new package of vacuum-packed coffee? The one that kind of ensures that there is a modicum of freshness happening?

Yeah, this is not happening when I open my little single-serving of Starbuck's new VIA coffee.

I've been fortunate enough to receive two packets to try. One will be used in the critical first cup of the day, the other for a mid-day pick me up.

I have to say up front that, being from the Pacific Northwest, I'm a bit of a coffee snob.

So coming into this challenge, I already had a bias against the touted "Italian Roast" VIA. One, because it's instant. And two? Because it's instant.

Even with the warmed milk to help bring it to another level, VIA only managed to get from the sub-basement to the ground floor. Barely.

There was an odd, smoky flavour which lingered at the back of my tongue and wouldn't go away. Ich. Not an auspicious beginning.

It was not much better the following afternoon. As a caffiene delivery system, I suppose it is adequate.

As a well-rounded, enjoyable cup of coffee, I'd have to say "Arrivederci, Roma".

VIA: Veiled in Ashes.
*************************************

Every Baroness Should Have a Castle

I know what you're thinking.

It's only kings and queens who have castles.

You may remember from an earlier post that, damn it all, I am going to be a rebel. I'm not going to make history by being well-behaved or by dreaming small.

Like my pal Sandy says, "Bigger's better, more is best."

So I'm thinking that instead of some crappy timeshare in Puerto Vallarta, I should have a castle.

You know, a fortress. A stronghold. Something substantial, but still something that feels all snuggly and comfy inside. Something that makes me sigh because of its structural beauty.

Here's the castle I choose:

Nathan Fillion, a.k.a. Rick Castle

Not only was he born in the same city as me(I see this as a plus - shared history and all that), he's funny and rogue-ish and all kinds of variations of yummy.

If you've not ever heard of my castle, I urge you to rent the movie "Waitress".

He'll charm your moat right off.

Thoughtful Thursday

Well, I don't know about you, but there are very few people on the face of God's green earth who are more looking forward to the calendar clicking over from today to tomorrow than yours truly.

Ah, Spring.

I did see a robin bob-bob-bobbin' along in my back yard last week - this has always been my own personal indicator of Spring.

And then?

It snowed.

Wah.

But tomorrow? It is official.

People will be accountable.

(Mostly weatherman - but do they really count?)(I'll talk about these "meteorologists " -which rank right up there with "mixologists" and "scatologists" - some other day... )

We all recognize that one of the most disheartening things about the weather is its unpredictability. We are left, most times, being reactive rather than proactive to what befalls us.

But it recently occurred to me that one of the other things that is so troubling about inclement weather is its enormity.

There is nothing like raging winds and driving sleet to make one feel like a mere speck in the grand scheme of things. It is easy to feel lost and inconsequential.

I'm hoping that today's quote from SARK will give you the comfort and warmth you need, when she tells you:

You are seen
You are known
You are loved

May your tomorrow be filled with a flock of robins, a splash of crocuses, and a feeling of renewal.

Thoughtful Thursday

Every once in a while, it dawns on me that part of the aggravation of trying to find personal calm within the realm of the real world is due to the fact that everything is always, always, always so damned complicated.

Yet to begin, once again, to be able to get down to the bare-bones organic-ness is to once again find overwhelming beauty in the utmost simplicity.

This week, I've started looking around for materials to use for our Passover meal.

It's an evening of readings and stories, and every year I try to find pieces that are uncomplicated yet resonant with our gathering: the usual adults, and an ever-evolving group of teenagers.

To keep the fine balance between tradition and modernity is a daunting task. But completely necessary - who among us ever wants to sit and be talked at all evening? This should be a time of honor, of education, and of inspiration, presented in a way as palatable as the feast served afterwards.

Through the sifting, I found this poem - on the surface beautifully simple, easily understood , yet with deep and significant implications - how many of us take all of these things for granted? How many of us ever bother to distill the gentle magnificence of those things which sustain us?

Blessing of the Stew Pot
Blessed be the Creator
and all creative hands
which plant and harvest
pack and haul and hand
over sustenance -
Blessed be the carrot and cow,
potato and mushroom,
tomato and bean,
parsley and peas,
onion and thyme,
garlic and bay leaf,
pepper and water,
marjoram and oil,
and blessed be fire -
and blessed be the enjoyment
of nose and eye,
and blessed be color -
and blessed be the Creator
for the miracle of the red potato,
for the miracle of green bean,
for the miracle of fawn mushrooms
and blessed be God
for the miracle of earth:
ancestors, grass, bird,
deer and all gone,
wild creatures
whose bodies became,
carrots, peas and wild
flowers, who
give sustenance
to human hands, whose
agile dance of music
nourishes the ear
and soul of the dog
resting under the stove
and the woman working over
the stove and the geese
out the open window
strolling in the backyard.
And blessed be God
for all, all, all.

Alla Renee Bozarth

Conversations in the Cab

It would seem that, sometimes, there is a distinct gap between the best intentions and reality.

Because when I was doing my pre-trip planning, all of the kitsch-o-rama I wanted to investigate seemed relatively close to our hotel.

At least it looked that way on Google Maps.

But in a real-life illustration of the word "mirage", it appears (or doesn't appear) that although something looks close enough to reach out and touch - in Las Vegas, it takes approximately 14 hours to walk there. Huh.

As a result, the Baron and I spent a little bit of time in taxis.

Never one to waste time just gawking, we always choose to gawk and sass at the same time.

One of our topics of interest were the billboards all over the damn place for some magician that neither of us had either heard of. Keep in mind, The Baron and I are pretty pop-culture savvy - we are even irksomely aware of those who lurk around the sketchy boundaries of the D-List.

So imagine our amusement when someone completely unheard of promotes himself as "Amazing".

Baron: There’s another billboard for The Amazing Jonathan – you should blog about him.

I hear he’s pretty amazing.

Baroness: That’s funny, because I’ve heard he’s not. He is - in fact- The So-So Jonathan.

Baron: Yet I hear he’s Amazing.

Baroness: Amazing? Hunh.

Baron: Yup. That's what his mother said when I was talking to her.

Baroness: And when I was talking to her, she also said he only got a "C" in math.

Not so amazing.

Great at magic, can't balance a chequebook.

Baron: Really? Only a "C"?

Baroness: Right. "The So-So Jonathan".

Baron: I'll alert the media.

****************
Another conversation was initiated when we rode down a couple of the less-savoury side streets, and actually saw, um, working girls working their, um, girls.

Baroness: That reminds me - did you see all those meeting displays in our hotel’s ballrooms for the "American Association of Orthopedic Surgeons"? I’ll tell ya, if I was a gold digger, I would be over there like a bullet. Hanging out. Schmoozing. Marrying one of those guys would be the catch of a lifetime.

Baron: (stony gaze)

Baroness: You know, kind of like you're the catch of a lifetime, hon. Yup, I already have my catch. So happy. So content. So lucky. Lucky, lucky me. Yeah. Lucky. Great catch.

But I'm just sayin', you know. . . IF I was a single woman, living in Las Vegas, looking for a way upward and out....

Just sayin', is all.

Baron: And pray tell, what clever pick-up line would you use?

Baroness: How about “I understand you’re a doctor. Would you please take a look at this?”

Baron (pretending to be orthopedic surgeon): “Why? Is there a foot in there?”

Baroness (pretending to be the gold digger): “No, but there could be . . .”

Baron:

(stony gaze)

(long pause)

A foot?

Babe, c'mon. That is a completely impossible measurement.

Even for an orthopedic surgeon.

Baroness: Maybe not for the "Amazing Jonathan". . .

Baron: Be thankful you're married, Miss GoldDigger, with lines like that.

Oy.

Baroness: Yet here we are, sucker.

(smug smirk)

Hollandaise of the Rich and Famous

With one small remark, the Baron summed up all the sensory overload I was experiencing.

"Las Vegas is the adult version of Disneyland".

Truer words.

And, as I walked through the Grand Canal Shoppes (note the pretentious extra "p" and "e" - gah), I knew I had wandered into Fantasy Land.

Well, not quite into.

Because I was too intimidated to actually cross the portal to this particular shop to look at the prices as part of my investigative journalising - that what the interwebs is for, y'all.

Instead, I cemented my yokel status by taking pictures through the window.

Pictures of sparkling, beckoning, Judith Lieber evening bags.

OK, so I fully understand the tourist appeal of these:


And the cutesy-pootsie-ness of this:

"Strawberry Cupcake" Evening Bag

but this?

"Provencal" evening bag

My mom always told me, with her Prairie wisdom, "You can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear".

But apparently raiding the vegetable patch is fair game.

And for the $5900 price tag, they'll even throw in some dipping sauce and a wet-nap.

In the Anals* of My History

I knew.

Between the constantly popping Pepcids and being told "We've found a small mass"...

I knew.

Amidst frantically scouring the internet and flipflopping back and forth between moving forward to call my GP and staying put, hoping it would go away...

I knew.

While taking all the initial tests, and downing a course of antibiotics for an alleged gut bug...

I knew.

I knew I had colon cancer.

With every fibre of my being, I knew.

And I so desperately did not want to know.

I wanted to tuck it into the furthest corner of the attic, out of sight, out of mind, with the fervent hope that it would go away, nibbled to some minute pile of pulp by marauding squirrels.

But I knew.

I finally knew, and finally came to the awful conclusion that if I did nothing, it would not go away.

That it would never go away. But I might, if I did not act.

Because here's what else I knew. I knew that somewhere in amongst my dysfunctional viscera were a heart and a soul that were inextricably interconnected with my husband and my sons, and I could not imagine a life without them.

I knew that making that first call would be opening a horrific, debasing, potentially bad-news-all-around can of worms.

But I did it anyway.

Mind you, this was not without a struggle. A long, drawn-out, exhausting internal struggle.

Because I knew that once the call was made - poof! My current life would vanish.

But I knew.

So I did it.

And what about you? What should you know?

You should know, as witnessed by my button on the top right, that March is Colon Cancer Awareness Month. The color for the ribbon is either brown or blue. (Brown? Seriously? Gah - Who the hell is the marketing genius behind this?)

You should know that, not counting skin cancers, colo-rectal cancer is the third most common cancer found in men and women in the US. The American Cancer Society estimates that there will be about 108,070 new cases of colon cancer and 40,740 new cases of rectal cancer in 2008 in the United States. Combined, they will cause about 49,960 deaths.

But it doesn't have to be this way.

Early diagnosis is key to successfully treating the disease; there's a 90% cure rate if caught early enough.

Part of the problem is receiving early diagnosis. Because this is a nasty disease in an equally nasty location. No one wants to tell anyone about problems with their plumbing.

No one wants to have their booty under scrutiny, in the best of circumstances. OK, OK, there are some, but chances are they belong to a different subset demographic. And maybe Jennifer Lopez - because really - if I had an ass like hers, I would be showing it off all the time...

Sadly, a lot of people wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

Until the disease has significantly progressed.

Sometimes, though, people aren't even aware they are waiting; there may be no noticeable early warnings. It can be silent and stealthy.

This is why regular screening after the age of 50 is also essential. This includes making an arrangement for a colonoscopy. And if a family member has had polyps or tumours, it becomes critical that you get checked out.

Does it make you uncomfortable? Giving a stool sample? Thinking about someone - a trained professional, may I add - going in through your back door to assure you that you have a clean bill of health?

Believe me.

No one has ever died from embarrassment.

I know.



(* I also know that I spelled this incorrectly. Language police, begone with you.)

Lessons from La Liberace, Part III

Sadly(happily?), today marks the final day of our tripping the light fantastic through the Liberace Museum.

But happily(sadly?), I have painstakingly saved the best for last. (Although that may be up for debate)(Talk amongst yourselves; leave me out of it, please)

Let me tell you something - it has been sheer torture keeping these pictures tucked away. Patience, for the Baroness, is not a virtue, but a scourge.

So with a flourished wave of my hand, let us:

Begin the Bedazzled!!*

(*I encourage you to click on the photos for maximum retinal damage wow factor)

Oops! Wrong photo.

Let's try this again. Flourish with arm, pas de bouree ballet move, yadda yadda yadda, "Begin the BeDazzled, an-n-n-n-nd here we go:

Ahh. Much better.

Here it is; where it all the magic happened - the drawing board. . .

. . .as in, "back to the".

Because why would the King of Bling settle for this?

(uh, hello? I'm referring to the tuxedo)

When he could have someone design this?

So who were the players in this glitterati brain trust? Most were Hollywood types, trained costumers to the stars and to the movies.

We can first lay the blame honors on Syd Devore. It was he who first ventured to the drawing board to pimp out the tuxedo worn to Liberace's inital Hollywood Bowl appearance.

For the bugle beads, braids, and sequins, we can blame praise Frank Acuna; his experience in costuming bullfighters and swashbucklers for cinema gave the edge when it came to cladding our tuneful toreador and buckling his swishes, er, swashes.

Then came Frank Ortiz, master of rhinestones. Michael Travis, latter-day costumer. And no friend of PETA; Anna Nateece, furrier.

If I could just ask you to lay your skepticism aside for an oh-so-brief moment, I will tell you this - while these outfits are not only over the top, but out the back, down the road, and well on their way to Candyland - there is no question that there is real craftsmanship and artisanry here. These numbers are truly labors of love, and works of art.

The amount of time spent on each piece must have been staggering.

So if you must, scoff at the playah - but lay off the creatah.

Design #1: Pretty in Pink

Some say the clothes make the man. Here I am willing to posit that it's the cape.

Some poor turkey gave its feathers for this baby.

How fowl.

Design #2: The Lasagne

Liberace playfully coined this getup "The Lasagne", as he could slop Italian all over himself (yes, I deliberately left this open-ended), and no one would be able to discern the stains.

This was quickly followed by Part 2 of "The Condiment Series":

The Mustard.

Design #4: Pink Kitten...

...with a whip.

Oh, Pinky. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Pink. Shiny. Little furry bobbly things that tickle, tethered on what appears to be either a sparkly whip or a curtain rope.

Very "Gone with the Wind."

Design #5: King Neptune Costume

Called this because of the scalloping and Boticelli-esque visual nods. Personally, I think it's because when you press your ear against it, you can hear the ocean (and when you press your nose against it, you can smell tuna fish - see Designs 2 and 3)

Weighs in at 200 pounds. Yikes.

Design #6: God Bless America

Let freedom (and hot pants) reign.

Design #7: A Vision in Violet

Apparently the cape is 5-tiered. Meh.

I was more dazzled by the boots.
They are made for walkin'.

Design #8: The Czar Nicholas

When he made his entrance onto the stage wearing this, he was accompanied by two Russian wolfhounds (affectionately named Sigfried and Roy).

Design #9: The Dr. Zhivago

OK, I didn't write down the name of this one, but it does kind of look like a continuation of the Russian series. All that's missing is Lara.

Oh, wait! There she is - virginal and untouched in her muff.

Design #10: Bond via Borat
While the tuxedo is very 007 (ish), the cape appeared to be creepily constructed of either the hair of young Balinese boys or bags of black-market pubis.

The sign said it was monkey fur, but I'm not buying it.

Last but certainly never least,

Design #11 - El Matador

Olé , indeed. No self-respecting bull is going to have the will to charge this.

Viva La Toreador¡

Viva Las Vegas ¡

Viva La Liberace!!

Thoughtful Thursday

One of the adjectives sadly missing from describing the Baroness would be spontaneity.

I am no good with surprises, and too much of a control freak to just "wing it". If I am ever put in a position where I have to think on my feet, I am plagued with doubt over my decisions for, oh, I don't know - about 20 years.

There goes my career in improv.

You may be asking yourself, "What does any of this have to do with Thoughtful Thursday"? I'm getting there.

I recently had a phone message waiting for me; an invitation to be a guest at an awards luncheon next week. This ceremony is to honor the nominated women for their contributions within our community. I know a couple of the nominees - they are so very worthy of the attention.

Here's the thing. Up until about an hour ago, I waffled about saying yes. I was concerned that I really had no place being there, in a room full of driven, networking women. All empowering each other with their wisdom and magic, trading business cards and synergizing.

What exactly would I have to contribute to the energy in the room? What valuable service could I possibly offer for barter? Would I tell people I'm a "writer"? Or would I use my usual line: "I write a blog"?

And then I thought, screw it. I'm going.

Buoying me along in my decision is today's quote from one of my favorite writers in the blogosphere (please note that I did not say "blog writer" - to me there is a vast distinction), the always brilliant Blog Antagonist at Blogs Are Stupid.

She is the polar opposite of stupid. Her posts are rich with insight, information, and inspiration. I urge you to visit her.

One of my favorite features on her page is her list of quotations. I've seen this one before, but today? It just jumped out at me and screamed at me to say yes to the invitation:

"Well behaved women rarely make history."
~Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

Maybe I do have a place after all...

Toot, Toot, Beep, Beep YEAH!

Here in the vonBloggenschtern abode, there is much intellectualizing over making the "right" choice in vehicle, now that the Baron's lease is set to expire.

It goes round and round until we're dizzy and slightly pukey. Hybrid versus smart car versus smart car's slightly stupider older cousin(the hybrid SUV) versus electric scooter with a sidecar.

The Baron has specific needs, you see. He needs room for junk in his trunk (and by junk I mean hockey gear)(and by trunk I mean trunk).

A little further afield, it would appear that more automobile decisions are being discussed - should the U.S., as part of its economic recovery, start sending the unpopular gas-guzzling Hummer SUV's over to Iraq where there is apparently a niche market among young men?

Such quandries. So many pros and cons. So many permutations and combinations.

Imagine then, if you will, if your only decision was this easy:

Pinky?

or

Sparkley?

Do I feel diva-esque, and do I not want my loyal fans to make direct eye contact with me? Or

Do I want to scream my spectacular-osciousness from the back of a convertible and practice my
Queen Elizabeth wave?

(Please, please, please click on the picture to check out the sign)
(Artifacts? )
(Really?)
(Is that the nicest word you could think of ?)

Such were the mind-blowing decisions made on a regular basis by our man of the people, Liberace.

The first car kind of reminded me of a clown car. I'm sure that it was insanely expensive, and could only be purchased with a vial of genuine unicorn tears, but nevertheless.

It was kind of freaky. And if you take away the dazzle, it looks slightly Gestapo.

Just sayin'.

I did manage to make like an "artiste", and snap this lovely picture of it (thanks to Tracey & Carmi for their constant photographic inspirations):

As for the "Rhinestone Roadster", well.

I am (partially) without speech. It was the most fabulous shiny thing I have ever seen in my life. And let me tell you something - I have seen a lot of shiny.

A LOT, people.

I have to wonder about the people who painstakingly glued all of these on. Who were they? Where was this done? Were there waivers to be signed, in the event of blindness or insanity?

Or maybe, just maybe they just morphed from car designer. . .

to costume designer!

(Bah-lingggggggggg!)

Come back tomorrow to see "Begin the BeDazzling"! Ciao for now, darlings!

Lessons from La Liberace, Part II

Darlings!

Here I am again, your Decent Docent of All Things Shiny and Spectacular.

The image above is taken from a tasteful lady's handbag being sold at The Liberace Museum Gift Shop. I included it to illustrate to all you non-believers out there what a sexy beast Mr. L really was. Check out the boobage - not a hint of nip anywhere. Dude sure knew how to work it.

Now those of you who wish to give your eyeballs a gentle bleaching before we proceed, please do so know in an orderly fashion. We'll wait.

Originally, I was going to blow all of your minds with the Costume Portion of the program.

But my editor has suggested that I leave the best for last.

And I always listen to my editor.

Because otherwise he poops on the floor when I'm out, that's why.

So.

Today.

The Awards.

I must say, the word that comes to mind when I entered the Awards area of the Liberace Museum was intriguing.

Why, you may ask?

Well, for one, I never realized that the King Of Bling had won these:

Uh huh. They read "Best Entertainment Program - The Liberace Show", and "Most Outstanding Male Personality 1953".

Hmm. While I'll agree with the "Personality", which he obviously had in spades, I have been reading that La Lee was not one to be standing out anywhere. He was quite comfy in way back in his , um, armoire with his feathered capes and rhinestone booties (I hear it smelled like lilacs and coconuts in there...).

In his acceptance speech*, "'after thanking his mother, his brother, his managers and the television station producers, he also thanked his sponsor 'The Citizens National Bank, whose product I admire' " .

Oh ho ho, what a saucy chappy, our Liberace. Knew the value of cross-marketing.

Not happy to rest on his bedazzled laurels, Mr. Fancy also was the proud recipient of this:

(complete with a reference letter for the Papal Venetian Cape Maker, Gianfranco diGeeGaw)

and this:

(I'm not even going to mention the irony here...)

and this:

The Canadian equivalent of an Emmy.
No kidding.
Really.

Dare I say it?

Take a gander!

Oh ho ho, I think the Baroness has been breathing in too many costume preservatives...

There were a couple of awards missing from the Museum, for respectively obvious reasons.

First were the 2 stars on Hollywood's Walk of Fame. I mean, c'mon, whadda they gonna do? Tear up the sidewalk? That would just set a nasty precedent.

But if you should ever find yourself trodding along Hollywood Boulevard between McCadden and Las Palmas, you will see them glittering up at you. Who am I kidding? You can probably see them from space.

Just remember - step lightly.

Mince, even.

The second award I did not see in the Grand Hall of Accomplishments (or maybe just didn't take a picture of) was the coveted "Golden Mike" awards, given to Liberace in 1981 by the Pacific Pioneer Broadcasters.

Strangely, it seemed to disappear shortly after being presented.

Coming up on Tour de Force Tuesday: Baby You Can Drive My Car...

Until then, Be Fabulous!!!


*from the book "Liberace: An American Boy" by Darden Asbury Pyron

The Journey Ends and The Journey Begins

I read the news today.

Oh boy.

I learned that on Friday evening one of our ferocious fellow bloggers, Lisa Kelly of Clusterfook, left her physical pain and her suffering behind this past Friday evening and passed on.

I would be remiss if I didn't pay my respects, but I cannot possibly write anything that hasn't already been written as a tribute to this fine woman.

Instead, I will offer up a Thoughtful Thursday piece from a few weeks ago.

Be in peace and comfort, dear Lisa.

My heart goes out to your husband and your daughters - may they soon come to a place where they feel your presence rather than your absence.

************************
Many among us make difficult decisions; sometimes daily, sometimes only once.

But how many of us must make a decision that will potentially forever effect the life we have known for all of our years on the planet? And not only our life, but the lives of those who love us dearly, of those whose lives have only ever known our love?

This past Tuesday, Lisa Kelly did just that.

After a series of critical setbacks, Lisa, who openly and bravely writes the blog Clusterfook, decided that she would finally stop her latest series of chemotherapy treatment. It was killing her faster than the ovarian cancer she has been dealing with.

The ovarian cancer she has faced down two times before.

Lisa has made a decision that I cannot begin to fathom. She has recognized that her time to leave this plane is drawing near, and she has weighed the options of continuing a course of medication that pummels her into submission versus gracefully readying for what is to come. She has said in the past "It is what it is"; she now has acknowledged that it is indeed so. It is her time.

Her time to leave her husband, who she refers to as Dude, and her two beautiful young daughters, Cam and Teenie.

I began reading Lisa's posts when she began her latest go-round. While I could gush at length of her many, many attributes, let me instead give up the highest of praise and gratitude for her willingness to take us on this leg of her journey, and her unwavering openness in exposing the sheer ugliness of this disease.

I urge everyone to walk back through Lisa's steps for an eye-opening experience of what really happens. This is vitality and struggle and pain at its most organic level; this is a woman's life - and a journey she chose to share with us.

It is research into this insidious cancer that we must raise money for. Let that damned pink machine run on it's own steam for awhile. It's time to feel the teal.

And heal the teal.

The comment section of Lisa' "Hospice" post is overflowing with soothing words and wishes for days free of pain and filled with love.

One commenter shared a Robert Frost poem which seems appropriate when honoring a woman whose bravery shines like a glowing aura around her, and spreads her precious warmth far and wide through her vast readership:

Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
so dawn does down to day
Nothing gold can stay.

"It is what it is"
~Lisa Kelly~