No Rest For The Wicked

Indeed. We are far too busy hatching nefarious plots and corrupting the pure of heart.

I seem to have run up a remarkable sleep deficit this past week or so. Satchel Paige once said ‘the social ramble ain’t restful.’ I’ve been rambling quite a bit of late, and on top of it all, Bunny’s back in town for the holiday. Which means that no matter where I go during the course of the evening, (and I’ve been wandering farther afield than is my usual want) I return to the local to wind up the evening talk talk talking past last call on into that zone where the lights in the bar come back on. Because we have many many things to discuss, everything from the Red Sox to the ways and wiles of women.*

It should be understood that the topics Bunny and I cover are of great weight and much gravity. Topics that must be seriously pondered and considered, looked at first from this side and then that one. Topics such as…

… is Back in Black or Van Halen I the better album, song for song?

(Van Halen I is the better album by the way; Jamies Cryin’ tips the balance.)

…degrees of insanity we’ve witnessed in the female species i.e. Nature’s Way of Saying Don’t Touch.

(The act of stalking or sending weirdly sinister packages automatically merits Level I Red Flag status.)

…new drinks to be served at our some day to be opened Irish-Italian bistro/bar.

(Black and Ham anyone? Nothing says goodness like layers of prosciutto floating in Guinness.)

…Linwood pizza vs Town Spa pizza: the eternal battle

…the evil that clowns do.

…was Grady wrong to leave Pedro in?

(Yes, we still discuss this. Bunny insists on being wrong-headed.)

It should also be understood that the purpose of these debates is not necessarily to reach any sort of conclusion. Often they devolve into contests over who can make (and support) the most bizarre claims. This is especially true when strangers or newcomers, who may not comprehend our particular brand of silliness, are drawn into the conversation. Bunny’s newly-of-drinking-age little brother ventured down to the local last night and was somewhat bewildered by claims that Tron was a far better movie than Kill Bill. And once you’ve got hold of a ridiculous notion like that, the temptation to push it as far as you can is overwhelming. (What about Beastmaster – was that a better movie than The Godfather? Who would win a fight with pool cues – the Master Control Program or Hannibal Lecter?)

Good times, good times. I hope y’all have some over the weekend too. See ya next Monday my loyal half dozen.

*Of course one could make a pretty persuasive case that the Red Sox and women ARE everything, the rest mere details.

Spahn and Sain and Pray for Rain

Tom Boswell pens a fitting tribute to Warren Spahn.

For those of you who, like me, miss the ballast baseball provides to the rythm of our daily lives, there is some relief out there via the internet.

Boston Sports Media Watch is daily round-up of what the scribes are writing about New England sports. Lotso links here.

Bambino's Curse is the self-described diary of a Red Sox fan.

Although it's run by a Yankees fan (obviously) Bronx Banter is also a damn fine baseball blog.

Taken all together these just might help you make it to spring...

Evil Christmas Song of the Day

Today's winner: Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Time by Paul McCartney.

This is truly a vile song, from the hideous clanging synthesizer bits that sound vaguely like car horns or laser beams from bad 70s sci-fi, to the banal lyrics, to the absence of anything resembling a tune or a melody. Horrible, horrible, horrible, and yet again...horrible.

And just for equal measure, I believe that the video for this song was equally as horrid. Mostly I've tried to block it from my memory, yet little bits persist in popping to my forebrain every holiday season. I have vague and frightening memories of McCartney banging away one-handed on hat synthesizer, while a dwarf hideously dressed up as one of Santa's elves capers about the room. Not a shred of dignity allowed for anyone involved on that production.

The Horror, the horror...

...of inadvertently hearing a portion (a tiny portion, but oh so poisonous) of a disco version of The Little Drummer Boy.

Before I'd had my coffee.

Smash Your Radio

Number one sign I am becoming old and cranky: I hate everything on the radio (with the exception of 'nostalgia' shows like Left Over Lunch).

I especially hate Kid Rock's (at least I believe he's the wretched soul responsible) cover of Bad Company's Feel Like Making Love.

And I hate hearing Christmas songs on the radio before Thanksgiving.

Join me. Smash your radio.

That's When I Reach For My Revolver, or, Why Can't They Leave Ted Alone?

Heather is dead on with this post. Having pretty much run out of steam with the third Austin Powers flick, Michael Meyers follows in Jim Carey's footsteps and murders another classic book. Look, I appreciate the stuffed Thing One I received in my last box of Rice Krispies - but who thought this was a good idea? There's like, what, two hundred words in the whole book? And someone generated a screenplay from that.

Ugh. Those responsible for the above crimes deserve the bastinado.

On the flip side, I think I just may sequester myself to watch this film this evening.

Ten Totally Random Really Good Songs...

...that I have listened to this week.

I completely and unashamedly ripped this idea off from Chris the Music Guru at pressuredrop.

1. Sleater-Kinney - Turn It On
2. Jesus and Mary Chain - Far Gone And Out
3. Hank Williams Sr - Honky Tonkin
4. The Verve - Lucky Man
5. The Replacements - Valentine
6. The Beatles - Don't Bother Me
7. The Cowboy Junkies - Come Calling
8. Lucinda Williams - Those Three Days
9. Frank Sinatra - In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning
10. Echo And The Bunnymen - Lips Like Sugar

Celluloid Heroes

Movie questions from Cheddar X....grist for my uninspired mill. The first eight questions come courtesy of Chew's Place.

1. What's your favorite/least favorite movie?
It's impossible for me to list A favorite, some here's SOME favorites, in no particular oder: The Wild Bunch; The Empire Strikes Back; Saving Private Ryan; The Sure Thing; Aliens; Casablanca; Zulu; The Good, The Bad and The Ugly; The Princess Bride; Spinal Tap; State of Grace...I'll stop here.

Least favorite? I walked out of Black Widow with Deborah Winger. Since it's the only movie I've ever walked out of, I guess it takes the prize.
2. What's the best movie-adaptation of a book?
Fellowship of the Ring, hands down. To Have And Have Not, while a very loose adaptation, is still a damn fine film.
3. What movie makes you cry?
I can't think of a movie that made me cry. The ending of The Wild Bunch gives me shivers though.
4. What movie do you watch to cheer you up?
The scene in The Sure Thing where John Cusack hangs out in the bar with the two old guys never fails to crack me up. The fat old guy's attempts to start conversation ("I had fried food for lunch again today. I know, I know, I shouldn't have had it...") with the waitress are priceless.
Any John Hughes movie also brightens my day. Especially Sixteen Candles.
5. Any amusing stories involving movies or the movie theater?
Nope. Sorry.
6. Would you rather go to the theater or stay home and watch a movie?
I'll happily do either. Trips to the theater are generally reserved for 'special' movies though, like Master and Comander or (soon my precious soon) The Return of the King. Terminator 3, on the other hand, is definitely a rental.
7. Are you more awed by a good plot or special effects?
A good plot with strong actors is essential - special effects are just icing on the cake. The battle scenes in Zulu look somewhat contrived compared to the bloody realism of Saving Private Ryan. But the riveting story and excellent performances - especially Michael Caine - make the movie every bit as compelling today as it was 30 odd years ago.
8. Who is your favorite/least favorite actor/actress?
Another question where it's impossible to pick a single favorite. I like: Gary Oldman, Sean Penn, Sean Bean, Humphrey Bogart, Steve MacQueen, Anjelica Houston, Lauren Bacall, and Sigourney Weaver.

Above all, I dislike Tom Cruise. He is clearly an android.

Question nine comes courtesy of the proprietor of Cheddar X.
9. What's your favorite cult movie?
That would have to be Spinal Tap. I know all the dialogue (and isn't that vaguely tragic?).

From the Nightstand: Some Classics

It is the year of Our Lord 1751. Five years have passed since ‘Butcher’ Cumberland smashed Jacobite hopes at the battle of Culloden. Charles Edward Stuart – ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’ – has fled Scotland for exile in France. The chiefs of the Highland clans that rose against the reigning House of Hanover, bearers of ancient and proud names such as Cameron, Stewart, Fraser, MacDonalds and MacLachlans, have followed the Young Pretender into exile. Others remain in ragged hiding in remote parts of the Highlands; still others have gone to the headsman’s block. The feudal system of the Highland clans is scattered to the winds and those clansmen that survived the rebellion with their lives and property intact are now forbidden to wear the tartan or carry the claymore.

Yet hope lingers. Bonnie Prince Charlie remains alive in France, still a threat and a rallying symbol. Clandestine agents risk great danger, crossing the Channel to Scotland in the face of vigilant warships and patrolling redcoats, to make contact with the many who still sympathize with the Stuart cause. Into this morass comes David Balfour, newly adrift in the world, and ship wrecked on a barren coast of Scotland…

This folks, is the background to Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. Despite being read and praised by such contemporaries as Henry James, Kidnapped, along with Treasure Island, has long been relegated to the literary ghetto of ‘kid’s books’ – books that people read as children, then leave behind as they move into adulthood.

The description above doesn’t to me like anything aimed primarily at children. Stevenson wrote what could more accurately be termed as historical fiction, or more simply, thrillers. And judging from the best seller lists, thrillers are very popular indeed with adults. Books by Tom Clancy and the like fly off the shelves, and even Robert Ludlum manages generate sales from that land-of-the-dead-who-publish that he shares with V.C. Andrews.

“He was born with the gift of laughter, and a sense that the world was mad.”

And so begins, with that immortal first line, the novel Scaramouche, by Rafael Sabatini. Sabatini, who died in 1950, also wrote what we would call thrillers. Well-known in his day – he wrote more than 30 novels – his legacy today largely lives in through the screen adaptations of his most popular works, making him in that sense a predecessor of Clancy, Crichton and others whose thrillers wind up in the cinemas.

But you would be better served by first meeting Sabatini’s rogues and heroes in print: Scaramouche – bastard son of a noble, actor, playwright, revolutionary, and swordsman; Captain Blood – mercenary, doctor, convict and pirate. Last night I cracked the pages of The Sea Hawk, to make the acquaintance of Oliver Tressilian, Cornish gentleman and veteran of the defeat of the Spanish Armada.

Kidnapped, Scaramouche, Captain Blood, and The Sea Hawk are all in print and readily available. All of them make excellent companions for cold winter evenings.

Darklands

A post on Gut Rumbles led me to this post – Orion’s Belt – at the Dax Files, about his long friendship (and I use that term intentionally) with his dog.

I posted the link here for three reasons:
1. As a dog person through-and-through, I’m a sucker for any well-written dog story.
2. Like many serious posts, Orion’s Belt provoked a number of thoughts and reactions from me.
3. Dax’s post reminded me that, despite several attempts, I hadn’t written anything about putting my own dog down earlier this year. Granted it’s a topic of interest to about, oh, zero percent of my readers, but it’s a story that has been struggling to get out of me for months. I just hadn’t found the right approach.

Grief is an odd thing, in that it can make other people uncomfortable. Some because they’re self-centered, and don’t want to be bothered by other people’s troubles. But many more, I think, because they’re simply unsure how to react, how to behave around the person who’s grieving. So they say and do nothing at all. They may make the obligatory ‘sorry for your loss’ comment or gesture, but after that, they do their best to pretend nothing has happened. This tendency is exacerbated when you’re dealing with the loss of a dog (or any other pet I suppose, but I only know dogs). Folks who are not dog people, who have never bonded closely with a dog, simply can’t comprehend the magnitude of the loss of what to them is simply a dumb animal. And that makes them only more uncomfortable around you.

How do I know the above? Having been through two deaths in the last two years, one a person, the other a beagle, I’ve noticed how people reacted to me and treated me as I grieved. I’ve received nothing but stone silence from folks I never dreamed would be so cold.

But I’ve also been blessed with gifts of compassion and warmth, sometimes from the most unlikely of sources. While there will be many who avoid the topic of your loss and the accompanying emotions, there will be others who will understand implicitly. They may not comment directly – sometimes words are futile – but you will know them by the way they look at you, by the way they treat you, by the simple gesture of comfort they offer. Sometimes a companionable silence says more than any flowery words.

If you bring a dog into your life, you know that odds are, the dog will depart this life long before you do. You will accept this intellectually, but you will not be prepared for it. Even if you’re dog is old and ill, you will not be ready, and though you should have seen it coming it will happen seemingly out of the blue.

You will be asleep in the small hours of the morning when the beagle, who normally slumbers peacefully, curled up against your legs, wakes you up by coughing a vile black fluid all over you, herself, and the bedding.

You will sit up and snap on the lamp next to the bed, blinking in the sudden harsh light. Part of you will know this is finally it, the beginning of the end, but you’ll ignore that troublesome thought.

You’ll carry her out to the kitchen, clean her off, and then place her gently quietly in her dog bed under the table. Then you’ll clean yourself off and change the sheets on the bed. When you’re done, you’ll flick off the lights and call to her to follow you back to bed. She won’t move – she’ll just look at her. You’ll see her eyes glinting in the dark from under the table.

So you’ll pick up the dog bed and carry her and it back to the bedroom. You’ll put her down next to you and drop off into a fitful slumber. Often during the remainder of the night you’ll wake up and check on her, maybe pat her and talk to her. You’ll notice that despite her usual insistence on sharing your body heat she hasn’t stirred from her own little bed.

In the morning you’ll call the vet and make some noise about having her being ill and needing to be looked at right away. By now the troublesome voice will be louder, and in your heart you’ll know this will be a one way trip for her. But you’ll carry her out to the car – still in her bed – pretending otherwise.

The vet will see you as soon as you get there, and you’ll briefly discuss what can be done. He can get her back on her feet, but soon – very soon, all three of you will be right back in this examining room. So you’ll say enough is enough. You don’t want her to hurt anymore.

The vet will ask if you want to be in the room when it happens, and you’ll say yes because you wouldn’t dream of letting her die with strangers. And he’ll ask you if you’d like a moment alone with her and you’ll say no, because you’ll realize you already said your goodbyes.

The vet will leave the room briefly and return with a syringe. And then you’ll hold her and say go ahead and he’ll kill her. And you’ll always think of it as killing because you hate canting euphemisms like ‘putting to sleep’ or ‘putting down.’ Killing it was, and killing you’ll call it.

When it’s done you’ll thank the vet, who has been a very good vet indeed for the last ten years. And you’ll settle up your bill and take care of other things that need taking care of, and then you’ll be ready to go. You’ll step out of the same door you walked in through a short while ago, except this time it’s just you, and you’ll blink a little in the morning sunlight, because this time it’s the end and not the beginning.

Medley in A Minor

Some random links to entertain y'all, while I catch up with my life...

This woman is shocked - shocked! - to find Washington D.C. is full of metrosexuals. Um, yeah...I coulda told you that ten years ago, and I doubt it's gotten any better. Hell, I know it hasn't.

A tribute to John D. MacDonald's immmortal Travis McGee. I was first introduced to this character on a long ago trip to the Bahamas - an ideal place to make the McGee's acquaintance. If you've never read one of these novels -what are you waiting for?

Here's a piece on the commercialization of Tolkien's Middle Earth.

This gentleman felt that Master and Commander fell far short of the O'Brian novel's it was based on (link requires registration).

Mmmmmm.....bacon.

Send in the Clowns

If you should find yourself making casual conversation with someone who, during the course of the conversation, informs you that her father is clown, it's probably best not to ask her if he does the 'Silence-of-the-Lambs-in-front-of-the-mirror-dance' while he's putting on his make-up.

You might also want to refrain from referring to her later as 'clown blood.'

Just saying.

There is Not a Moment to Lose

In the summer of 1992 I travelled to London with my then girlfriend. Naturally, I dragged her into any bookstore that we passed that looked promising. And it was in one of these stores that I came across a book caled Master and Commander, by Patrick O'Brian. From the cover and the blurb on the back I learned it was the first in a series about an officer in the Royal Navy, set during the Napoleonic wars - much like C.S. Forester's Horatio Hornblower books. 'Well,' I thought, ' I doubt it's anywhere near as good as Forester's books, but what the hell - it'll probably be a decent airplane book for the flight back.'

I was wrong of course. It was better than Forester. I devoured Master and Commander and raced on to the succeeding volumes in the series. When I finished all the existing books, I waited in all eagerness for the latest one to be published. The series stood at 20 installements when O'Brian died in January 2000, and I wish he had written 20 more. I am certainly not alone in feeling this way. After 20 years of obscurity, the novels grained fame and a growing audience, beginning in the 1990s.

So it's with great delight that I read the excellent reviews of Peter Weir's film treatment of the books. I'll see this film this weekend - as 'Lucky' Jack Aubrey would say - there is not a moment to lose.

Play It Again Sam

Perhaps you're one of those folks who for some reason has never seen Casablanca.

Or maybe you're like me; you've seen the movie - love the movie - but have never seen Casablanca on the big screen.

Either way, your time has come. On Thanksgiving weekend the Brattle Theatre will be showing Casablanca, Friday through Sunday.

I'll be going, even if I have to go all by my wild lone. I don't mind doing that. If the movie is right - and Casablanca most assuredly is right - I find a seat and let the darkness and the magic of the flickering images take me away.

Round up the usual suspects. Maybe I'll see you there.

On The Road Again

This weekend I drove down to Pearl Harbor/New City in New York, to attend my fourth and final wedding of 2003. When I was in my early 20s I spent a lot of time driving between various points up and down the East Coast, at first by myself and later with The Beagle riding shotgun. It was during those many hours on the road that I developed my habit of incessantly scanning the radio in a search for good tunes. Even now that I have CD player in the Mach Five, I simply can’t help twitching the dial, mining the airwaves for musical gold. Now this can be difficult for passengers to handle since a) I will happily surf stations for 20 or minutes before settling on a proper song, and b) my idea of what constitutes a ‘proper song’ for a road trip has little to do with actual musical quality and everything to do with amusement value. My amusement value.

But since I was driving solo this weekend, I was free to indulge myself to my heart’s content. Here are some of the choicest gems I came across.

Gypsy Road by Cinderella
Mmmmmm…metallic hair-band goodness. I can’t properly mimic the lead singer’s scratchy screechy voice, but I can bang my head in proper fashion. Fun for me, and entertainment for any passing cars. Hey – sharing is caring.

True Colors by Cyndi Lauper
I’ve always thought she sounded like Elmer Fudd, so this song must be sung in that manner. ‘Twue co-wahs…’

Stayin’ Alive by The BeeGees.
Admit it – you like this one too. The proper mode of car dancing for this one is a steady yet ironic nod of the head, in time to the beat. If noticed by passing motorists, flash a peace sign or blow ‘em a kiss (depending on their gender).

Baby Got Back by Sir Mix-a-lot
This tune followed immediately after Stayin’ Alive, and there was much rejoicing. Yes, even white boys gotta shout.

Nothin’ But A Good Time by Poison
Make the heavy metal devil sign. Scream the lyrics. Enjoy.

Oh L’Amour by Erasure
Synth-pop madness strikes! This is the part of the road trip where we dance!

Rock Box and Mary, Mary by Run-DMC.
Allright, I cheated with these last two – I threw the CD in for the homestretch. Vehicular popping and locking may now commence.

Love Hurts

Apparently I still have a ways to go before my recovery is complete.

At the wedding on Saturday night, I found myself standing at the bar and catching with my friend G. As G is a life-long Yankees fan, the talk soon turned to the ALCS series, and the painful way the Red Sox lost game seven.

The bartender happened to over hear us discussing this topic, and thrust herself into the conversation by informing us that she was a big Yankees fan. In fact, she said, she was terribly disappointed that she didn't get to enjoy a parade for a Yankees World Series victory, and wasn't that sad?

I looked at her. I looked at G. I looked at her again.

'Oh, fuck your parade."

I said with a smile though. She was, after all, the gatekeeper of the beer.

Fearless Part II, or, My Mind's Playing Tricks on Me

Once I exited the plane, I was suddenly no longer afraid.

Not, it should be added, because I found a sudden wealth of courage. Nor was it because I somehow vanquished my fear by confronting it.

I simply wasn’t feeling anything. My mind had gone utterly blank. My brain was totally on the blink; my thought process brought to a crashing standstill. I was overwhelmed by the fact that I had just committed the completely illogical act of stepping out of the airplane, and by the fact that the wind roaring in my ears and buffeting my body was me, plummeting towards the ground at a speed fast approaching a hundred miles an hour and beyond.

This type of sensory overload is not an uncommon phenomenon among first-time jumpers. Hell, out of a morbid sense of curiosity I’d even read accident reports concerning students that never recovered from it, and the bad things that befell them. Walking out to the plane earlier, S had said to me, ‘Don’t worry. Even if you completely freeze up there we’ll still be able to pull your ripcord for you.’ I found these words to be of dubious comfort.

I floated in a sea of disbelief for what seemed to be an eternity. Gradually I became aware of a small voice in the back of my head, tugging on my sleeve and trying to get my attention.

‘Shouldn’t we be, you know, doing something right now?’

An absurdly reasonable response burbled up from somewhere in my mind.

‘Good idea. We’d better get our head in this game.’

And with that I snapped back to a very panicked full awareness of my situation. For fuck’s sake, how long had I frozen? How much altitude had I lost? Had I blown the whole jump? What was I supposed to be doing at this moment?

Arch. That was the first thing that popped into my head. I needed to arch: to throw my pelvis out towards the ground and bend my body into a bow, with my arms and legs in a slightly elevated ‘Y’ before and behind me. I needed to arch – hard – so I would fall in a stable position, instead of skittering all over the sky. I remembered C’s words ground school. Looking me up and down critically she’d said, ‘You’re light – the wind’s going to knock you around an awful lot up there. You’re going to really have to arch hard to remain stable.’ Well, at that particular moment I was arching as hard as humanly possible.

I checked my altitude, then looked to my left – the Jumpmaster flashed me the thumbs-up sign. I looked to the right – another thumbs up. Apparently I was now falling in a good stable position. Now I needed to make three practice ripcord touches, to make sure I could find the damn thing when it came to pull for real. I swung my left arm out in front and dropped my right arm back towards my side, grasping for the ripcord on my right hip. I couldn’t find it.

I knew full well the ripcord was there. I knew where both of them of were – the one for my main canopy on my right hip and the one for my reserve chute on the left side of my chest. I’d practiced reaching for both of them hundreds of times. I’d practiced reaching for them standing up in the summer sun. I’d practiced lying across a table in a arch while instructors timed me against a stop watch. I’d practiced while suspended from a harness in the hangar, being swung about by instructors simulating a malfunction. But on that first reach I couldn’t seem to find it.

When a human being is extremely frightened – when the mind perceives the situation to be one of ‘fight-or-flight’ – when your lizard brain starts telling your body ‘hey we could die here’ – in short, when you’re scared absolutely shitless, a whole host of chemicals gets dumped into your body – adrenalin and the like. There is a definite physical reaction to this: your heart rate accelerates, as does your breathing; you may forget to breathe entirely. You may freeze, or forget what you should be doing. You may suffer a deterioration of fine motor skills.

Which was exactly what was happening to me. Something that had seemed so routine – finding the main ripcord – was proving to be a struggle. As I flailed my right hand about, desperately seeking that ripcord, I felt the Jumpmaster’s hand grab mine and guide to the ripcord. ‘Great,’ I thought, ‘I really fucked that up.’

I was at least able to make the last two practice touches without assistance. Then I checked again with both Jumpmasters, and got the ok each time. Still falling in a stable position. I checked my altitude – still a little time left in free fall, but now all I had to do was fall a little further, wave-off, and pull.

So it’s understandable that I just about had a heart attack when I began to spin in a circle. ‘What the hell is going on,’ I thought, ‘this isn’t part of the plan. Am I screwing up and making this happen?’ I looked to either side, expecting to see the ‘pull immediately’ signal from one of the Jumpmasters, but there was nothing. They were acting like everything was cool, so I did likewise though I was shaking form the surprise. We went around a full 360, then stopped

I checked my altitude again. I had two altimeters, one strapped to my chest, one on my wrist. I didn’t dare tilt my head down and possibly throw myself out of position, so I locked onto the dial on my wrist. The hand was spinning swiftly, like one of those madly turning clock images used in old movies to indicate the passage of time. 8000 feet. 7000 feet. 6000 feet.

As soon as the needle hit the 6000 mark, I waved off by crossing my hands in front of me twice, reached for the ripcord, arched as hard as I could and pulled. I looked over my left shoulder, watching the main canopy come out behind me. For a moment it hung in the air, a great ball of silk at the end of some strings. I was mentally urging it to open. Open!

The canopy opened and I came to a very abrupt halt. I looked above me and saw the most beautiful thing – a lovely, square, fully opened main canopy. I had a bit of line twist at the top of the rigging, but as I reached up to grab the risers and twist out of it, they came untangled. Now I was sitting under a completely functional parachute. I wanted to hoot and holler. I wanted to giggle and clap my hands. I think I just dangled there with a big stupid grin on my face

Shiftless When Idle

Pictures from the 2003 Hancock St. Pub Crawl for Little Hearts have been posted.

Best. Quiz. Ever

They provide the song lyrics - you fill in the blanks. I score a 90.5 - I am truly a child of the 80's.

Linka via Dragon Bear Cave.