Inappropriate Use Of Bacon?

Why not just call this "The Pregnancy Craving" and be honest about it?
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Tiger Tunes: Not A Pretty Girl....But a Pretty Album

Hi kids.  As promised, I’m back with the kickoff to my new series, Tiger Tunes: A-Z.  The first victim is none other than indie folk goddess Ani Difranco and her 1995 album Not a Pretty Girl. 

I was given this album when I was in high school (a few years after it had come out, mind you…I’m old, but not THAT old!), and it’s still one of the standouts from my music collection, and an essential to those of you who have a substantial amount of indie music in your collections.  Here is a track-by-track review, including grades for each song.

Worthy:  The album starts off with a mid-tempo groover set to hippie poetry percussion. Ani basically talks about how she and her boyfriend don’t deserve each other.  Simple message, cool song.  Grade: A

Tiptoe:  This one really isn’t a song so much as it is Ani reciting a free verse poem about a girl about to get an abortion who is contemplating suicide.  Is it autobiographical?  Who knows, but it IS different and clever. Grade: A-

Cradle and All:  The tempo picks up, and Ani rocks out here.  The irony of the arrangement, juxtaposed with the lullaby lyrics of the chorus, does a brilliant job of showcasing Ani’s creativity.  Grade: A-

Shy:  This track comes off as more of a background track than the previous three.  It’s another mid-tempo song that does have a catchy bass line, but doesn’t really pick up until about halfway through.  Still, it’s solid.  Grade: B

Sorry I Am:  This one is pretty self-explanatory, as it’s pretty much an apology song.  Yet Ani’s vigorous guitar-strumming exhibits both loud and soft dynamics that make this a great song to listen to while just lying on your bed on a gloomy Sunday afternoon.  Grade: A

Light of Some Kind:  The aforementioned vigorous guitar-strumming is back in full-force, and Ani’s voice exhibits a growing frustration as the song progresses.  However, as with many Ani songs, I listen to this and fear that she’s going to break a string right in the middle of the song. Boinnnnnngggggg.

Not a Pretty Girl:  The title track is one of many songs thatAni has written over the years that express her individuality and feminism.  She talks about how being her own woman might be misconstrued by some as being angry, bitter, and in need of help to survive in the world.  The awesome line “I ain’t no damsel in distress and I don’t need to be rescued/ So put me down, Punk” particularly stands out for me.  Grade: A+

The Million That You Never Made:  Another song where the guitar strings take a butt-kicking.  This one starts out with a vigorous, fast, yet soft riff that crescendos gradually as the song progresses.  Ani’s voice grows increasingly pissed-off as she hisses to the subject of the song that she could be the millions of dollars that he (she?) could and never made.  The climax explodes with guitar and pounding drums, and the last chord ends with a melancholy sound that, quite frankly, always creeped me out a little.  That’s a good thing.  Grade: A

Hour Follows Hour:  Ani slows it down by crooning out another lazy day ballad accompanied by some gorgeous guitar work.  However, the song tends to drag quite a bit in places, and ends with a bit of a whimper.  It’s another good song to play in the background, but it’s also the weakest track on the album. Grade: B-/C+

32 Flavors:  From the weakest track, we go to the strongest track.  This is Ani’s most well-known song, and some outside of her fan base might recognize it by the cover Alana Davis did the same year.  It’s another long track, but the interesting percussion, infectious guitar riff, brilliant lyrics, and unique African chants towards the end make it an absolute gem.  It’s a song that I really relate to, because the lyrics talk more about individuality and a refusal to be stereotyped.  The line “I am a poster girl with no poster/I am 32 flavors and them some” is a tagline I often use for e-mails and my social networking pages, and I have Ani to thank for it.  Amen, Sister.  Grade:  A+

Asking Too Much:  The things that stand out for me on this track are the interesting syncopation of the rhythm and the brief tempo change during the last 30 seconds.  It’s short, yet cool.  Grade:  B+

This Bouquet:   This is the shortest track on the album, and it curiously seems to go by a little too fast before I can get a really good listen on it.  It’s a bit on the “filler track” side, so it’s not Ani’s best, but it’s not the worst either. Grade: B

Crime For Crime:  Ani gets more political here, tackling the subject of the death penalty.  However, not only is the subject matter heavy and well-expressed, but the rhythms are intricate and heavy enough to jam to in the car, and the riffs are uniquely catchy.  Yet another example of a creative genius. Grade:  A

Coming Up:  I’m not exactly sure what to make of this song.  I have no idea what it’s about, since Ani pretty much rambles off another free verse poem against the background of guitar and tambourine.  But then again, it’s pretty awesome in its own way.  Grade:  A-

Tiptoe (Outtakes):  The album ends on a self-explanatory note, with Ani basically laughing and cursing her way through the Tiptoe poem.  A weird way to end, but you at least get a laugh out of it.  Grade:  B+

And there you have it.  Not a Pretty Girl is definitely not perfect, but all of the songs have enough interesting elements so that there is not a clunker in the bunch.  Still, it remains one of my favorite Ani Difranco albums due in large part to 32 Flavors.  Ani’s creativity with metaphor always impresses me, and by the way she churns out her multiple albums, I’ll be continuing to enjoy her for years to come.


Recommended Tracks: "Worthy," "32 Flavors," "The Million That You Never Made," "Cradle Will Rock

Until next time….long live healthy guitar strings.

Bulletstorm Review

Bulletstorm does so many things exceptionally, outrageously well as to eclipse the one area where I could argue it fails.

You’re Grayson Hunt. He’s a perpetually sloshed 26^th century dime-store-Duke-Nukem space pirate and ex-assassin who wants off the horror-show wasteland of a former resort planet called Stygia where he crash landed with his crew’s sole survivor, the bitten, sullen half-cyborg Ishi Sato. See, getting off that rock full of genetically enhanced mutants, Godzilla-esque monsters, criminals and flesh-eating flora would make getting revenge the Army General that lied to and betrayed him and his crew so much easier.

I’m really not dumbing much down. That’s your story. It plays out over seven acts plus a prologue, and completing “Campaign” mode shouldn’t take a first-person-shooter veteran much more than a lone lazy afternoon.

That’s really a damn shame, because despite an unremarkable single-player campaign scenario, the big-and-loud action, hilarious voice performances and acerbic script, and refreshingly skill-based mechanics make a very enjoyable FPS experience.

Look, it’s not an Earth-shaking generality that whatever game aspect a developer emphasizes gets the extra loving at some other area’s expense. It rarely occurs to us as gamers that there’s a finite amount of data, code and of course time – however astronomical “next-generation” technology has made that ceiling – that developers have to craft any given game. Nor is it beyond comprehension that studios and developers realize something very simple: gaming is the business of capturing an audience. Gamers who buy first-person shooters buy them mostly for the online/multiplayer experience. Therefore, if that’s what the audience wants, sliding attention from the less-important-to-buyers single player campaign to the crucial-selling-point multiplayer experience makes perfect sense.

Still, the game feels so incomplete without a solid single-player mode. If EA’s sports franchises can develop infinitely deep full-season, single-player franchise modes for Madden every single year without ever sacrificing a satisfying online experience, I don’t see how developers emphasizing other genres can’t match that.

Bulletstorm’s game-play mechanics and presentation simply couldn’t excel beyond the standard run-gun-and-melee FPS pale with any engine except Unreal Engine 3.5. When you tag a game’s packaging “Kill With Skill” because you’re encouraging and giving players almost unheard-of tools to kill and destroy as creatively as possible, every viscera-coated death’s ultimate visual had better be worth the carnage’s elaborate, skillful execution. From dynamic rag-doll physics to some glorious bullet-time style slow-downs to ratchet up painful impact, Unreal just does what Unreal always does best: some of the most satisfying game-play visuals any engine can provide.

Unless you’re playing a FPS for the first time since the original Goldeneye or Perfect Dark, I have some bad news: this game won’t exactly overwhelm your eyes. This isn’t exactly cel-shading, but then again, this isn’t exactly Mass Effect 2 or Halo in tone. Given the game’s raucous, dumb-fun tone and dark humor, though, something a little more cartoonish and bigger-than-life rather than life-like feels appropriate. After so many visually stellar games like Mass Effect 2, Heavy Rain, the upcoming L.A. Noirre and The Godfather, a game like this is a good reminder that sometimes a game can’t really help you escape while playing it without a little exaggeration and insane bombast. All the more reason I can’t and won’t fault Gray reminding me of an alkie Deadpool who looks like a ridiculous Hugh Jackman caricature.

But any hot-rod can look pretty when standing still in “Park.” You only appreciate its power when it moves you. Playing Bulletstorm actually made me a little bit . . . . well, angry. Oh, not at People Can Fly or Epic. But developers like Bungie can quite frankly die in a fiery fire, because these lower-on-the-totem-pole developers just proved that there can be much, much more to FPS combat than “run, point, shoot.” I haven’t played many shooters except BioShock and Mass Effect 2 that so effectively combine melee/ranged attacks and firearms to create so many free-form attacks that keep the game so fresh. Using the ranged “leash,” Gray can rip armor from mini-bosses, fling enemies off structures and into nearby hazards or simply rip enemies toward him and riddle them with a mid-air shower of lead.


I must admit, two hours in, and I was one happy little gore-hound. It's not every day I get to laud praise upon a game because it rewards me for the ultra-specific combo of blasting an enemy in the gonads, then kicking him in the skull to finish him off, or rewarding me with this games XP equivalent because I dispatched a foe by literally pumping his anal cavity full of lead. But I've also played few games that make a little resourcefulness so rewarding. Environmental attacks can feel like an after-thought sometimes, when really using them well can be the hallmark of an intelligent, cagey gamer. In Bulletstorm, creative and effective use of the environment can often be preferable over chewing through clips of ammo.


Personally, I several times disposed of enemies that repeatedly dodged my push-kicks with backward jumps by kicking at them until they either backed against a wall against which I could stomp them, or occasionally kicked them straight off a ledge.

It really goes beyond that, though. Not only does the game give players that violently creative freedom and provide big rewards for honing actual technique, but it ties doing so to surviving the game. The bigger and more skillful the kills, the more “skillpoints.” And those skillpoints buy ammunition and upgrades from checkpoint “dropkits” scattered randomly across the maps. Anyone who wants to survive this, especially at higher difficulty settings, won’t think of settling for standard 10-point kills when just a little extra effort could keep you alive by affording you timely upgrades to keep up with the ramping-up strength of enemies.

Best of all, I must admit my admiration for a perfectly balanced difficulty. Things absolutely get hairy, but nothing ever feels insurmountable. I particularly adore the “sniper” mechanic of POV-steering a bullet around obstacles and into a fleeing enemy’s soft tissue. Even when I fired a near-miss, it was never actually frustrating. It just made me knuckle up and say “So damn close! OK, I know I can do this, let’s get this done . . .”

Those are the hallmarks of every truly great game I’ve ever played, the best of the best: difficulty that challenged me but never broke me, and free-form control to pull off visually-satisfying, skillful feats in-game.

I picked on Bungie above for a reason. I must admit, Halo tells a magnificent story throughout the series. That’s never been my problem with the franchise. The combat has just always felt too static to me, much in the same way that the first two Assassin’s Creed games’ combat grew repetitive and would’ve made wanting to see the games through to the end difficult had it not been for those games’ phenomenal visuals and intriguing stories.

To be fair, the frustration with Bulletstorm makes a U-turn and sprints to almost the precise opposite extreme: the game-play and controls could set a new standard for dynamic FPS combat mechanics but just as it proves that the genre can do so much more than run-gun-and-melee, it misses Bungie’s Halo high-water mark for a FPS with an epic, compelling, lengthy solo campaign. In my opinion, it makes Bulletstorm feel like three-fifths of a truly great game – just a little more than halfway there.

I can’t recommend buying Bulletstorm unless one could either find it very, very cheap, or truly loves online gaming and can’t wait to go mano-a-mano with friends using the distinctive combat mechanics. Make no mistake, that’s truly a worthwhile experience and should keep multiplayer-shooter lovers coming back.

Just start that party without me.

I’m Sleepless Colin, and you’re not.

Taiwanese Animated Chris Brown "Good Morning America" Mad Flip-Out Good Time!

Brace yourself. The Sims have gone bat-shit.

"8 Mile" coming this evening

Router issues forced me to postpone getting the "8 Mile" review up this morning. Once I play catch-up, it's coming sometime this evening. Watch Twitter and your e-mail (if you're a follower....if not, get on that!) for notification when it's up.

Thanks!

Lather, Rinse, Retort #1: Let's Not Mistake WWE For Wrestling...

(A writer who writes more than he or she reads is called “a hack.”


My multi-thousand-dollar collegiate journalism education taught me nothing useful, if not that indelible truth. Reading great writing instills the qualities that make great writing great. Reading poor writing conversely reminds one gently, “Please, don’t be this guy.”


Dialogue has to start with somebody reading, hearing or seeing something somewhere. For that information intake to become a dialogue, somebody at some point must discuss information that’s presented and present a viewpoint. That’s the early strains of conversation, in which information flows one way, and feedback flows back the opposite way.


That’s sort of what I’m going for here. That conversation isn’t always the most intelligent discourse. Read YouTube comments sometime. That “conversation” alone convinces me that English will one day be a dead language. But at the very least, I can some expressed opinions I find here on these Interwebz, and maybe generate some talking points of my own. Keep in mind, I’m an ex-journalist, so expect what I sometimes write to center on the responsibility – or I warn you, more commonly, the lack thereof – exhibited by journalists and the blogosphere.


Because I assure you, they are not the same thing.)






I read about this originally via 411mania.com, who re-posted a rare accurate article synopsis from the original TVweek.com posting. Believe me, the more of these I write, the more you’ll see how much I hold myself back from week after week from simply defaulting to attacking 411mania’s columnists.


It seems TVWeek.com received a cease-and-desist bitch-slap from World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) publicist Kellie Baldyga for calling a spade a spade, and having the audacity to juxtapose “World Wrestling Entertainment” and “professional wrestling” within scant sentences of one another.


Writer Chuck Ross had written a brief piece announcing – per official WWE press release – that none other than Drew Carey would be inducted April 2 into the WWE Hall of Fame.
Spelled out, that would be the World Wrestling Entertainment Hall of Fame. It’s honor roll consists vastly of professional wrestlers, professional wrestling promoters and announcers who lent play-by-play and color commentary to professional wrestling matches. Even its “Celebrity Wing” members – so far including Pete Rose, William “The Refrigerator” Perry, William Shatner, Bob Uecker and soon Carey – have all created memorable moments associated with professional wrestling events.


For those that don’t already realize that significance, the Hall of Fame induction ceremony has become a showpiece tradition among the company’s festivities during it’s single biggest annual weekend: the Saturday night before Wrestlemania. See, ring announcer Howard Finkel first suggested the name because when the first event was born 27 years ago, WWE Chairman Vince McMahon and some orange fellow calling himself Hulk Hogan partnered with MTV in a campaign both parties dubbed “Rock and Wrestling” that spread professional wrestling’s popularity to a magnitude Finkel likened to Beatle-mania.


Hence, the then-World Wrestling Federation birthed an event celebrating professional wrestling nationwide . . . “Wrestlemania.”


But boy-howdy-doody-tutti-frutti, did Ross say exactly the wrong thing about Carey’s Hall-of-Fame credentials! I’m sure that the classic tease-don’t-tell headline initially looked great – the kind that evokes a “Tell me more!” curiosity that keeps eyes panning down, down, down the text.


Sometimes, such a headline only takes combining just the right odd-but-true elements, such as “Drew Carey Inducted Into Pro Wrestling Hall of Fame. Huh? Drew Carey??!!”


In his finest hour, Ross made his gravest error. The fool – the clever, clever fool! – in his tangled web of deceit to incite wonder by associating a famed and successful actor and comedian with brief past professional-wrestling exploits over-generalized that a Hall of Fame established by a company whose full, proper name included the noun “wrestling” would indeed be a pro-wrestling hall of fame.

Believer us, Drew: everything about this situation makes about as much sense to us as it apparently does to you.




But Ross then hit bottom and began digging. His brief article detailed, per the press release, that it was indeed the WWE Hall of Fame that would induct Carey. What came next must have seemed so logical once: explain why World Wrestling Entertainment would honor Carey. Well, few may realize this, but Carey and wrestl- . . . *Ahem* McMahons, pardon my impertinence . . . “WWE Superstar” Kane once engaged in a little schtick inside a ring during a professional wrestling match called the WWE (mind, that’s World Wrestling Entertainment . . .) Royal Rumble.


The backlash didn’t keep Ross or TVWeek.com owner Rance Crain waiting. Ross claimed that both quickly received Baldyga’s email “demanding” that Ross make a crucial correction.
"We are no longer a wrestling company but rather a global entertainment company with a movie studio, international licensing deals, publisher of three magazines, consumer good distributor and more,” Ross quoted from the e-mail in a March 18 piece on the site.


Ross then quoted this snippet from a follow-up conversation with the yappy little lapdog, after Ross referred to the 2001 Royal Rumble as a “wrestling” event. Please, every deity in Heaven, Paradise, Nirvana and the Farplane, let this be accurate because it is among the funniest things I’ve ever read.


“No, we don't do wrestling events. They're entertainments. And we don’t call them wrestlers. They’re Superstars and Divas,” Baldyga allegedly said.


(NOTE: I capitalized “Superstars” and “Divas” because for Zombie-Jesus-Only-Knows what reason, World Wrestling Entertainment constantly does. I have about the patience for this that Ross does.)


“Entertainments.”


But of course, I see the point. Of course it isn’t a wrestling company. It’s an “entertainment” company – an entertainment company that the general public and more importantly the company’s core fan-base, customers and source of revenue associates with its two weekly two-hour television programs, 12 annual pay-per-view events (including one clearly dubbed “Wrestlemania,” so as not to confuse anyone) and one web-exclusive series featuring action and activities that many mistakenly confuse with professional wrestling.

Yeah, we really want to think before calling what this guy does "professional wrestling" . . .

(Reading that again, “mistakenly confused with professional wrestling” sometimes rings true on so many more levels . . .)


But I won’t sell short the movie studio! No, not the movie studio – the very same movie studio bearing the name “WWE (remember, that’s World Wrestling Entertainment) Films” and prominently features performers that coincidentally engage weekly in that thing that everyone keeps mistakenly deeming “professional wrestling.”


Nor the merchandising – which includes replica rings in which performers do that thing which looks like that “W” word I’m not supposed to use, action figures bearing the likenesses of the not-wrestlers that people recognize because they’re on TV every week doing that not-wrestling thing.


But the magazines! I won’t besmirch the magazines, either – you know, the ones that tie in with the not-wrestling that takes place weekly on national cable and network television inside the not-wrestling ring.


Because doing that would be a disgrace and an insult to what so many performers gave their health – and, in some instances, ultimately their lives – to do: perform what I’m sure Owen Hart and Chris Benoit in their time on Earth proudly called “entertainments.


I won’t go into all that. Instead, I will stick to head-butting my monitor hoping that concussing myself repeatedly until I think two-plus-two equals “Jello” will put me into something close to Baldyga's mindset wherein this resembles logic.


First and foremost, I commend Ross simply for not personally flying to Stamford, Conn. to bitch-slap this nitwit for “demanding” that he do a damn thing. We’re a free press. As long as what’s printed or aired can be conclusively proven to be factually correct, the U.S. Supreme Court recognizes precious few mechanisms for forcing the media to do a single solitary damn thing. “We think your accurate description conflicts with our delusional, flimsy public-relations line” doesn’t rank among the grievous exceptions to the Court’s standard that a free press is among the most sacred, vital liberties – especially not when World Wrestling Entertainment couldn’t possibly prove any actual malice if they’d tried, let alone any damage incurred.


More to the point, every single additional revenue stream Baldyga rattled off flows forth from the intellectual properties made recognizable by a product that could loosely be defined as “professional wrestling.” I could start a baseball league in which teams play games by rules universally established and recognized as “baseball.” Just because I sell concessions between innings, doesn’t mean I can rationally jump down the throat of anybody who calls it “baseball” and insist that what the people playing the game are doing is actually called “nachos.”


Good Lord, even when McMahon made an ill-advised pass at creating a football league, he tapped ex-professional wrestler Jesse Ventura to join the announce team. When he started the equally stupid and equally ill-fated World Bodybuilding Federation, he advertised it most prominently during World Wrestling Federation events. No enterprise even remotely near the World Wrestling Entertainment umbrella lacks a tie to that thing so many people call “professional wrestling”!


You can’t undo what you’ve done. If I carved a Mount Rushmore of the four faces responsible with anybody making a living in professional wrestling today, it would be composed of Gorgeous George, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Hulk Hogan and Vince McMahon. Of those four, Gorgeous George (a man history credits with not only igniting wrestling’s first popularity boom, but doing so through the advent of television) died decades before he could ever witness Hogan’s staggering surge to becoming a pop-culture icon bigger than just the wrestling business; Hogan’s years as a wrestler have left him with replaced hips and knees and persistent, chronic back pain; Austin in many people’s minds eclipsed even Hogan’s success and drawing power, but broke his neck and lost multiple marriages doing so.
McMahon? He’s a billionaire living in denial of where those billions came from.


You run a successful wrestling company, Vince. Trust us, we thank you for it.


Now quit treating us like idiots.


I'm Sleepless Colin, and you're not.




To Chuck Ross' TVWeek.com account of this whole stupid mess:
http://www.tvweek.com/blogs/2011/03/whoaa-nellie-when-brands-go-horribly-wrong-pstvince-mcmahon-and-the-wwe-are-no-longer-in-the-wrestli.php

Why Do I OWN This?: Defined By Limits

Stop me if you’ve heard this one: once upon a time, a publisher made a writer a bet.

This gifted writer was so artful with language, painting in so many vivid hues, that a contemporary felt like testing him. The writer’s previous book used a total 223 words over an entire story. The publisher bet the writer that the writer couldn’t write a good story using a mere 50 different words.

Good news! The writer won the bet! Bad news! You’ve probably never read the story. Who really remembers a story about some kid talking an adult into eating questionably colored eggs and ham, anyway?

The best news? The most inspiring, brilliant things sometimes arise not when the sky’s the limit, but instead the ceiling.

I could spend hours parrusing Netflix and never finish finding interesting movies – new ones that I can slip comfortably into like a hot tub, or awful ones that, like biting into a green egg, remind me what makes the good stuff so good.

But there’s the rub. I think I rely too much upon Netflix. At least a few hundred DVDs sit upon my shelves and draw dust whilst I forget little by little why I treasure them so much in the first place. Disturbing, considering that it’s those items – and not my Netflix queue – that hints to anyone at what I really value, movie-wise.

So I’m casting down my own gauntlet: Sleepless One, cast your analytical eye upon yourself and honestly assess what your collection says about what you actually like about movies. I’ll traverse my entire library, in alphabetical order, and ascertain exactly why I love and own the movies I do. So often among Internet critics, it’s eviscerating shitty movies that comes easily, and makes the best entertainment. I won’t lie, I own some awful bad movies myself. But I bet I can do something few other personalities can: make an intriguing case for actually loving certain movies.

For this purpose, I’m leaving out complete TV-series seasons and wrestling DVDs. Tv-on-DVD would just take too long, and some collections have their own dedicated reviews in the pipeline. The wrestling DVDs just don’t lend themselves to this format. Besides, if you’re not a wrestling fan to begin with, even what I really love about those DVDs probably wouldn’t register with you, anyway.

But I’m starting with “numerical” titles. That constitutes exactly what it implies: any title that begins with numerals. The first candidate? Well, here’s a hint:

You know as well as I do that something about “Academy Award-winner Eminem” will never, ever fully register just right.

Until then, I’m Sleepless Colin and you’re not.

Meet TigerCubGirl!

(S.C.'s NOTE: While I take care of a little business and ready a special little story to tell around the campfire's glow a little later, I'm leaving you scamps in the company of a trusted sitter!


Meet someone who's been on a wild, nine-year ride with The Sleepless One. She and I go way back to my early, early college days and she's seen many stretches of good and bad road with me since. That is to say, she's that one friend everyone has who knows where the bodies are buried . . .


She also has a unique approach toward traversing her iTunes library's twisting, vine-choked aural jungle.


So be good to the Diner's server of top-flight tunes, TigerCubGirl!)






A to Z #1: Mr. Monk Has Nothing On Me

A friend of mine once said that he believed that we all had a little bit of OCD in all of us.  Not necessarily pathological, but a little tiny part of our personality has a weird need for order, or cleanliness, or rituals, or all of the above. 

Ok, “all of the above” would probably put someone in the same category as Adrian Monk, but you all know what I mean.

Anyway, I believe that my friend’s theory is definitely true, as I have had a weird thing for order my whole life.  I love saving the best for last.  If I’m reading a stack of books, I like to read my least favorite first and my absolute favorite last.  If the stack is new, I start with the one that appeals to me the least, and work my way up. 

The same goes for my music.  I listen to my least favorite first, and save the album I’ve been dying to get for months as the very last album I listen to in my continually growing music collection.  I love the feeling of anticipation as I listen to music that I like, yet knowing that I’m going to be listening to music that I will absolutely love and will be putting on repeat for hundreds of times.  This type of behavior is quirky enough for someone to raise an eyebrow at, but not so weird and creepy that I’d need 500 mg of Efexor 4 times a day.

Yet as much as I practice this ritual with my physical CD collection, I use a different approach whenever I listen to my iTunes:  Alphabetically.

Being both a computer and music junkie, I get much pleasure out of listening to music on my desktop, regardless if it’s out of order concerning my favorite albums.  With my CD collection, that type of thing would normally bother me.  However, it’s not a problem with the digital stuff.  Perhaps, it’s because the music is already automatically sorted into some order, even if it’s not the system I usually use.  Whatever the reason, I’ve been listening to my iTunes in alphabetical order for the past several months, and that’s not going to change until I get to the end of my library.  And, starting next week, I will give you all a taste of what I like.

Each week, I will review an album in my library in alphabetical order.  One album from each letter.  And it will not necessarily be new stuff.  It will be any freaking thing I want.  One week, I could give you all ABBA, the next week it could be Bon Iver.  One week it could be Cake, the next it could be Dean Martin.

Of course, I should mention that alphabetical order in the iTunes world means that with solo artists, they are sorted according to their first name instead of heir last name.  So Ani Difranco, who I will be reviewing next week, is a legitimate artist to go first instead of fourth for the letter D.

So kids, I present to you iAnne: A-Z.  Next weeks review for the letter A….Ani Difranco’s Not A Pretty Girl.

Until next time…..long live OCD-type quirks.

Well, everybody wants a Walmart alternative...

The biggest challenge to finding a three-nippled fortune teller is knowing where to look....
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Snake bites boob, succumbs to silicone poisoning

I'm giving the benefit of a doubt that the headline speaks "amply" for itself. Rest in peace, you poor, motorboatin' son of a bitch, you....

Testing my text-posting functionality....

Test

Just a test of my e-mail posting functionality. Nothing to see here...
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