Hit the Nail on the Head

Last Wednesday, I, along with Tom, and about 7,500 other fans, spent the evening at Scottrade Center listening to the rantings, fumings and bitter tirades of my high school hero, Trent Reznor – and company – for nearly two and a half hours. Despite the years since Nine Inch Nails hit the music bins (nearly twenty!), they still sound as good – if not better – than ever.

Out of all the albums I have bought in my years – and there have been well over a thousand, maybe even two – the only one I can remember specifics on is Pretty Hate Machine, Nine Inch Nails’ inaugural album. March 1989. It had come out the month before and was unlike anything I had ever heard before. Nothing else I have bought has impacted me as greatly.

Tom and I saw NIN play in November 2006 (or was it 2005?) from the floor, but this time we were in the stands. I know I need to lose some weight, but those seats are made for midgets. Plain and simple. I felt bad that Tom had to fold his frame into those seats, his knees pressing against the seatback in front of him. But I was stuck between two guys who would have benefitted from me sitting elsewhere so they could have my legroom. Next time, we promised each other, box seats. Not only more room, but away from the odious odors of the unwashed (and undeoderized) masses.

But to pass the time until the opening band started, we commented, as did others around us, that since Trent got clean (which we applauded, by the way), his music has lost some of its edge. Instead of anger and frustration, it seems like he’s… trying to whine. Life is good for him and yet his music is still trying to pretend that it isn’t. So instead of blatant hostility, Trent’s – dare I say it – bellyaching.

While I don’t want him to go back on the stuff, Trent somehow needs to be less happy. Because he’s just reachin’ now. And that ain’t cool.

The opening band sucked. It wasn’t that they were inherently bad. It was just that they weren’t good. Every single song sounded like the one before it. And since we saw Queens of the Stone Age last time, standards were set high. And were so not met.

But then…

(Might as well insert contented sigh here.)

Yes, the show was awesome. It was instant frenzy from the start. It was almost everything I wanted it to be (I think the last show was better, but not by much.) He started off with songs from his latest, The Slip, and it was impossible not to get sucked up in the madness.

Then on to a song that I knew. March of the Pigs from the Downward Spiral. Gads, I remember introducing people to the ‘World According to Trent’ in college almost fifteen years ago. Hearing Tom behind me sing along to March of the Pigs was especially amusing. Especially when I called him on it and he had no idea that he was even doing it. I was just surprised that I could hear him above the rest of the crowd.

By the time he finished the song, Trent was soaking wet. I knew there was no way he would wear a long sleeve, botton down shirt all night long. And not that I wasn’t appreciating how nicely it clinged. I was just anticipating the ‘gun show’ that was about to happen.

Pardon me while I wax poetic about the shedding of the burgundy dress shirt. If memory serves me right, he wore a similar shirt when I saw him last time. And a few songs into the concert, the shirt came off revealing a black tank… covering a very well toned body. I was not that lucky this time. It was a black t-shirt.

Which still wasn’t a bad view. But there are very few men who are not vastly improved by wearing a black tank top. Kinda like women’s legs in a pair of black stockings. Although the guy sitting in the row behind me would be an exception to BOTH rules. It was like watching a horrible car accident. And it didn’t help matters any that he kept turning away from the stage, essentially doing a 180 away from Trent, and would smile at me. I pray that he was making eyes at someone else, but the gross feeling remains.

Mid-concert, there was a musical interlude involving Trent playing a xylophone. A lot of critics loved the instrumental album Ghosts I-IV, but I want screaming bitterness. It just seemed to bring the show to a screaming halt. It took a while for the momentum to start up again.

The encore was amazingly long. Maybe too long. But he played Hurt, which every freakin’ person in the place felt compelled to sing along with. I’ll sing along at a concert. But generally out loud. People pay a lot of money to hear a musician – not me – sing. But, I suppose, it is one of those songs that BEGS to be sung along with.

Some of the songs from Year Zero and The Slip were vastly improved by being performed live. Others were just as bad as the album versions. But I was happy with the attempts, I must admit. Can’t win ‘em all, but dammit, Trent put in some serious effort that night.

I missed out on my favorite Nine Inch Nails song live – most notably Sin. Not a fan of the album version since I heard what it could turn into before an audience. Maybe I’ll start to feel the same way about songs from Year Zero and The Slip. But I did get Terrible Lie, Head Like a Hole, Closer, Wish, and Gave Up.

And as Trent said that night during his encore, the first time he addressed the audience, he was having one of those days when everybody was against him every second of the day – but his time on stage were the two best hours of his day.

Mine, too.
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Wet Willies

More pictures from my day trip with Tom on August 9th. This time, an old abandoned water slide out in Valley Park. I spent more than a few summer days out there, but as the years have rolled past, my bearings got way off track. Tom, who had never visited before, knew where things were better than I did. It's kinda like being spun around and around, then asked to walk in a straight line. You know where things are, but getting there is a little difficult.

In fact, Tom dived (Get it? Water humor! Okay, they can't all be funny.) right in while I hung back, taking it all in.

It was obvious that we were not the first people to visit since the park's closing. I think I read somewhere that kids like to skateboard in here, but from the amount of graffiti, who would have time? I'm not one who appreciates most spray paint art, but the sheer magnitude made the water park seem like an art installation.

Above are the steps to the 'fast' slide. Not my favorite run as it was over so quick. But would love to go pack and walk the length to see if it was indeed shorter in distance as well as time.

We didn't get very far, not even halfway down the slide, before Tom wanted to get his camera. Alas, we had a visitor waiting for us by my car. The police officer was way cool, but that ended that leg of the day. So this is a poor idea of the depth of the water slide, but you can see the tandem slides from this angle.

I'm also standing just past the area of the slide that all kids loved... the peeling paint that allowed kids to slow down and have their friends meet up with them to make a chain. I'm sure it wasn't safe at all to have four, six, eight, ten kids -- two to a mat -- hit the pool at the bottom all at the same time.

Instead of satisfying my curiosity, visiting the old Wet Willies Water Slide has only made me want to see more of it. I know I'm too old to poke around in places I shouldn't (some might even call it trespassing), but I was too scared when I was younger.

Maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis early...

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Zombie Road

As promised, pictures of my expedition last Saturday (August 9th) with Tom. I won't rehash too many details from the trip since I previously did so, but I will break up the postings according to where the pictures are from.



Now, I didn't take hardly any shots of Zombie Road because, quite frankly, shots of crumbling road with thick vegetation on both sides, extending seemingly Heavenward, just isn't that exciting. I kept waiting for an abandoned structure or two, but it would seem that Tom and I didn't hike far enough

(Although I think we hiked plenty far as it was, thank you very much.)

When we came across this washout, I thought we had hit the end of the road. Tom thought otherwise and after he made it across to see if the road did indeed continue on around the bend, I soon joined him and we hiked another good half mile or more. Time and distance seem to dissolve when one cannot see the sky because of the dense trees.

Let me point out that the gully is deeper than it looks. I'd say it's about 4 feet deep, give or take a half foot in different areas.






I really think, and really hope, that this set of stairs is just a natural occurrence. The road below is washed out, showing the layers of the bedrock. Seeing the natural striations in the stone was pretty hip, but then made me question their actual naturalness, since the uniformity was so even. Was it the foundation for the road? The road had existed for decades prior to paving, so were we seeing the previous incarnations?

But the stairs were pretty interesting and definitely added to the spooky mood. I'm sure Tom was actually so over my girlie-girl routine, but aside from abandoned beer bottles, a blanket that had seen much better days draped over a limb and a trash can (Trash cans as trash seems slightly oxymoronic to me.), this was by far the most interesting thing we happened upon. Well, that and the road Tom's GPS said came in onto Lawler Ford Road, but never appeared.

If it is indeed an abandoned set of stairs to a long gone building, I'd be curious to know more about it.

And when I do go back, I'll hike to the end and find the buildings that are supposedly down by the Meramec, if they survived the last go-round of flooding.
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A Little History...

I have been itching to have an adventure. And not one of those spur of the moment types of adventures. None of that, “Let’s go to the Art Museum” eureka moments when you’re bored. I’m talking about one of those days where you finally do something you’ve “been meaning to do” for an indeterminate amount of time, but never have seemed to find the time until right then and there? Yesterday, I – and Tom – got an adventure. And then some.

Lately I’ve been a kick to embrace more local St. Louis history. Google maps, Microsoft Virtual Earth and the World Wide Web have become my playground as I find more and more vanishing – and not-so-vanishing, but very obscure – places I want to visit.

And of late, I have become enamored with the Meramec Highland. I find the idea of the remnants of a resort community just minutes from my house very… charming. Cottages populated the area just south of Big Bend, west of 270 for summer travelers just prior to the 20th century. Most are gone, but the few that remain are now private homes. Driving along the relaxed, twisty roads was like going back to another time. And place. I didn’t feel like I was in Kirkwood any longer, but rather somewhere more coastal. If I had rolled down the windows, I think I would have been disappointed not to smell the ocean.

All the homes look like a beach house should, except they all have their own distinct personalities. And most have charming little names. Again, I find the idea of homes with names absolutely charming.

I am sure that Tom did not appreciate my girly squeals as I read the names aloud with delight.

But the point of taking Tom to the Meramec Highlands was the train tunnel. I honestly can’t believe I introduced him to something train related in the St. Louis community, but I was glad that he got as big a kick out of the sealed up tunnel as I had hoped.

The tunnel is set back down a ways in a rock valley, a valley which was actually man-made in order to have the train tunnel. The tunnel itself is about 500 feet long and once you’ve seen it, there isn’t much else. But it’s quaint and absolutely a delight to see. It really does take you back to days gone by. It’s bricked up three fourths of the way up, with the rest covered up with bars to allow bats a place to roost. Some people had bent the bars back in certain spots to crawl through to the other side, but as curious as I was to see the other side (which I think is on private property), I did not want to crawl through bat guano.

I was disappointed that I couldn’t get on top of the tunnel, as it ascends way higher up than any of the pictures I saw on the internet indicated. Other people who visited have posted on the internet of climbing up, though goodness knows how, to see the hotel and fountain ruins. Very jealous of these people, but I am not willing to break my neck to see what I’m sure what has been mostly reclaimed by nature.

After the Highlands, I had the brilliant idea of hitting the Dee Koestering Park at The Meramec Highlands Quarry. When I say brilliant, I really mean idiotic. Never go to a park with trails without looking at a map of it online first. Learn from my mistakes. This park, while amazingly beautiful, could gain a widerspread popularity if they offered Segways to get up and down the hills.

Because I refuse to believe I’m that out of shape.

After we survived the park, we drove to Greentree Park and did only a cursory look for the old remains of the McConnell’s Beach house. We did find the remote control car track, but after the dirty looks that were shot our way, Tom and I headed over to Valley Park to get some much needed beverages.

On the way to a gas station, Tom had the cool idea of hitting Wet Willie's Water Slide. A fixture in my youth, the slide is now shuttered and abandoned. But certainly not forgotten, if the amount of graffiti covering the slide can act like a barometer.

There were three slides that made up the waterpark and I walked some of the length of one of them in bemused detachment, trying to remember some of my visits from my childhood. But all I could recall was getting sick from eating too soon before sliding… and the area of the slide where the paint was rough and we’d slow down enough to have our friends catch up with us. Otherwise, it was as if I was a stranger.

I shot off a couple of images with my camera, but Tom had left his in the car. As we walked back so he could grab his, we saw that we weren’t alone. The police officer was extremely cool, especially since he saw that we were indeed taking pictures instead of vandalizing or making out, and just patiently waited for us to leave.

After we headed off to greener pastures, we ended up at a wooded pasture. Of sorts. Lone Elk Park. It was nice and relaxing, especially the couple who thought feeding the elk would make the visit more memorable. Tom and I kept waiting for the lady to get a horn shoved in an uncomfortable place, but instead of an action-packed outing, it was rather staid. The elk wasn’t interested in the offered vitals and lazily wandered over to the rest of the herd.

I had never seen so many elk calves, nor had I seen so many congregating together. But it was a wonderful sight and made up for the lack of bison sighting. Which amounted to zero.

After the park, I wanted to try and find Lawler Ford Road, otherwise known as “Zombie Road.” It was getting late, so we stopped at the Long John Silver’s/A&W on Manchester for some grub. Deep fried fish and chicken along with fountain A&W. It doesn’t get much better than that. Except, did you know that you can get 12 hush puppies for a dollar? We soon found out that too much of a good thing can be a not-as-good-a-thing as it sounds.

Bellies full, we found the road exactly according to the directions I found on the internet. It’s an old paved road, about two miles in length, in Wildwood. Nestled in the belly of a valley of woods and other plant life, I can see how people get creeped out being there. The area is almost in complete shadow because of the amount of vegetation and water has created gullies, washing out the road in a few places and damaging the pavement in most others.

We didn’t walk the full length, but at some time I want to go back and see if I can find the abandoned shacks and beach cottages that are supposedly still standing. The road ends at the Meramec River and it was used mainly to haul freight, so I’m not too sure about the use of summer homes at the end of the road, but I do know that rail lines ran parallel along the length of the river.

It’s very obvious that the area is widely used due to the amount of discarded beverages – generally of the alcoholic kind – and other bits of random abandoned personal items. Trees were also tagged with pink tape, as if marked for trimming, as well as felled trees being clean-cut by chainsaws and moved off the road.

The name ‘Zombie Road’ comes from the stories of a man named Zombie who lived in a dilapidated shack by the river and murdered young lovers looking for an out of the way place. In the 70’s, a man was supposedly killed by a train and a boy fell to his death from the bluffs. Again, I’m not sure how much of that is true, but it makes creeping yourself out when walking the road so much easier.

We opted to cruise down to Sherman Beach Park and had a grand old time skipping stones and watching the sun dip lower and lower. I rather enjoyed wandering around the beach and watching Tomskip stones because he is way better than I am. When I am properly protected against the amount of mosquitoes that are in the area, I want to go back with him and learn his technique.

Yes Tom, I am jealous of your wrist action.

There was more girly squealing on my part when we left the beach, as there were little itty-bitty toads everywhere. We tried not to smush them, but it was nigh on impossible. And then there was tall grass to run through, before circumventing a shallow pit of stagnant water.

The town of Sherman is very near-by, so we swung through – although not without adventure. I took a road in the tiny little hamlet that turns from paved to gravel in an instant, so after turning around in someone’s driveway, we headed back the way we came.

Tom guided me over to 44 and we headed back to my neck of the woods. After all that, we needed some frozen custard!

We passed two school buses from Oklahoma that has bright strobe lights going to town on the roofs, and although I’ve seen crazy little siren lights on other buses, these lights were large and bright enough to be calling the mother ship to suck them up off the pavement. On any other day, it would have been merely annoying. But because of the nature of the day’s activities… it was downright weird.

Exiting the highway, we came full circle back to Kirkwood. Home of the best frozen custard ever. Except that the Custard Station was PACKED! It is good custard, but it was beyond crazy. And beyond rude. Very much a bummer, but we consoled ourselves with Ben & Jerry’s. Which wasn’t as packed, but was filled with extremely loud pre-teens. And lots of them.

But they were playing Nine Inch Nails in the store. How can you go wrong with a little Trent? And damn good ice cream is damn good ice cream. So we smirked at the kids, places our order and went outside to eat in peace. It was a gorgeous night, so sitting outside was probably the best course of action anyway. But watching the kids listed at the bathroom door worried me. What were the unseen children behind the door doing? Do I really want to know?

A trip to Borders to get Tom a map of Illinois for future adventures of his own rounded out the night.

Next adventure on the horizon? Castlewood State Park and how to view the Kaes House. If you have any ideas, I’d be happy to hear ‘em!

Oh, and I promise to post some pictures once I figure out how to upload them!
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Nah, nah, nah... Hey, hey... Goodbye...

Yesterday morning, I came across a news story that Slobodan Ilijevski had passed away. It was preliminary information – very short – but I became very upset. Later in the day, it became more in depth.

I did not know Slobo personally, but I had paid for a fair number of tickets back in the day to watch him defend goal for the Steamer, the Ambush and the Storm. I truly believe that one of the greatest soccer goaltenders passed away, way too young.

I saw Slobo play his last game at the ol’ St. Louis Arena. I went with my friend Jim, a person I miss having in my life as a friend. But I suppose that’s another part of the reason I’m sad. Another chip in the plate that was once a very carefree and almost reckless life.

Indoor soccer and ice hockey used to be my sports. I drug my father – who was more than willing to cover the cost of the sporting events – to as many games as time allowed. I think Dad was happy to go for two reasons… First, if I wouldn’t be a football fan, then he was willing to oblige whatever sport I’d embrace. And second, there was always a captive audience for my Dad to foist his stories upon.

Jim and I met my – our – freshman year of college. We both said that it was the best year of our life. It was so good that we ended up graduating from other universities, but that’s besides the point. And really, we ended up thriving in the new environments…

But getting back to the best year of our lives.

Part of the reason, and there were many, Jim and I got along so well was because we shared the same political leanings – and the same passion for St. Louis indoor soccer. It was like we found a kindred spirit in each other. Or at least someone to go to games with. And Jim even liked my Dad, who didn’t always want to be set aside.

When whatever incarnation of team we were watching would play, “Whoomp! There it is!,” Dad had no idea what was being chanted but would pretend he did by saying, “Hey! Hey, hey, hey!” If Jim wasn’t charmed by that, bless his heart, he sure acted like it. I, personally, thought that my Dad was a goober.

But Jim and I went without my Dad, too.

We went with his family. We went with friends. We went by ourselves.

And we watched Slobo make save after save.

I’m not sure if I would have been such a fan if Slobo hadn’t been a part of the team. He would wander from the goal. He was bold. He was daring. He was a blast to watch.

And he rarely let a blast kicked by the opposition get past him.

It was 1993 when I saw him play his last professional indoor soccer game. It’s funny how a newspaper article can take you back 15 years in mere seconds.
And with his retirement came my waning interest in indoor soccer. While certainly not a household name, Slobodan Ilijevski was certainly a marquee player.

One last time, with feeling… Slobo! Slobo! Slobo!
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Happy 232nd Birthday!

God Bless America.

Even if you don’t believe in God, on today, our nation’s birthday, you have to stand up a little straighter, sing a little louder and smile a little broader when you sing our national anthem or watch a fireworks celebration.

I’m a zealot patriot, even if I’m not the most informed when it comes to current events. Oh, I’m more informed than most, but most of what I see or read makes me cry. Barry has had to put me into news blackouts because of how upset I’ve gotten. The world breaks my heart, but also makes me proud. We do indeed live in the land of the free and the home of the brave. It’s easy to get jaded about the world outside our windows, but our founding fathers got it pretty darn close to perfect.

The national anthem makes me cry, too.

So many people see it as entertainment at sporting events, but I think it an HONOR to be able to sing the praises of our country. I hate the applause that follows the singing of The Star Spangled Banner, as the song itself is not meant to be entertainment. Just what is it that people are applauding? The singing? The flag? The song? A moment of solemn silence following the song, with hand still over heart, would seem more respectful.

I went to Fort McHenry in 8th grade, too young to appreciate the gravity and enormity of what I was being subjected to, but I wanted so badly to be a sponge and ‘get it.’ Sometimes mind over matter can be the most powerful decision one can make, but it wasn’t until I saw the flag that flew over the fort at the Smithsonian did it hit me.

The national anthem – in all it’s difficulty to sing – finally clicked. It wasn’t just a song, it was indeed an anthem for my – OUR – independence.

It was Tom who told me that applause for The Star Spangled Banner was considered offensive and I breathed a sigh of relief. For years now, he and I stand stoically after the anthem ends. And it feels good, knowing that my silence speaks greater volumes than all the hooting and hollering around me.

And when I hear it on the 4th of July, my chest tightens and I mourn for all those who made it possible for me to have the freedoms that I do.

But isn’t that what the Fabulous Fourth is all about? It’s a day reflect. To remember. To remember the heroes of the American Revolution. To remember the birth of a new nation.

When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

I mean really, how much more perfect does it get? Oh wait, it’s followed by:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

It’s easy to forget. And so hard to remember. But remember we must, for we are standing on the shoulders of men and women who clawed and climbed their way into a new way of life. Yes, some of our past is ugly and downright despicable. But while there is no going back, we can make sure the mistakes of the past are never repeated.

But for everything wrong about this country, I am grateful to be an American.

God Bless America, land that I love.
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To Sleep, Perchance to Dream...

To say that I am a poor sleeper is a complete understatement. I have spent my whole life wrestling with the god Hypnos and his brother Morpheus to allow me some respite.

I can go days where I lay awake all night, waiting for that moment where my body just gives out. In high school, I missed almost a whole semester because I would go so long without sleep that I would cry from the physical pain my body would be in. I graduated on time through correspondence classes and summer school.

I sent this link to Tom because I am highly jealous of the fact that he can nap. And he does so on a semi-regular basis. He sometimes takes two on a Saturday if he gets up early to go out and shoot pictures. Never mind the fact that he’s always exhausted. That’s not the point I’m trying to make right now. My point is that he can lie down and drift off.

All my life I have taken – desperately at times – medication, both prescription and over-the-counter (but never at the same time), to help me sleep. I apparently slept through the night almost immediately after my parents brought me home from the hospital as a baby, but somewhere – somehow – I became an insomniac.

I have to sleep at a regular bedtime. My body tells me ten o’clock is a good time, but I always try to push it a little bit longer. Okay, sometimes a lot longer. But I pay the consequences for reading “just one more chapter.” I have to have sleep schedule or I’m in physical pain.

I was going to say that lack of sleep causes me to not function well, but isn’t that everybody? And the truth of the matter is, I do function well on little sleep. Before my Mother died, she had congestive heart failure and lying down would put too much pressure on her chest, causing her to go into coughing fits. Sitting up took the pressure off her chest, but there was always the coughing. Which kept her from sleeping much.

So I would sit up with her most of the night, then either take her to dialysis or, after I went back to work, go to my job.

I was getting two to three hours of sleep a night. And felt every missed hour in every part of my body. But I wouldn’t trade one moment because sitting up with Mom is time I cherish.

Now, I read for 30 to 60 minutes before I turn off my lamp, cover my eyes with a sleep mask and put in my ear plugs. Why didn’t I think of earplugs in college? The loud dorm was when I slept the worst, but it took my husband, Barry, working nights, for me to come up with the near-perfect solution of almost-silence and absolute-dark.

But Barry does tell me to nap when, on a weekend, I had an especially poor night of sleep – or lack thereof. I’ve tried. I want to. I just either lay there – THINKING about wanting to sleep – or I do drift off, only to wake more exhausted than I began. What’s the point of trying when each and every time I fail?

How is it that I come from two parents who – literally – could sleep ANYWHERE. I mean, Mom took two naps a day and still got a full night’s sleep before her kidney’s failed. And Dad… it was almost rude how he could fall asleep mid-conversation.

Why didn’t I get the genetic ability to sleep with the skills of a professional? I swear, I would think I was adopted if I didn’t look just like the two of them.

Maybe it’s like twins… it skips a generation.
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Oh Black Water, Keep On Rolling…

The water was surprisingly murky as it flowed across the tops of my feet. When the water lapped at the bottom of my ankle bones, my toes disappeared from sight. And where I stood on the pavement, I watched the water churn against the lightpost not ten feet in front of me, knowing that I would get knocked down and sucked under if I were to attempt to wade that far. But not being able to see my toes in water less five inches deep was enough to keep me from going any further.

That, and I kept waiting for a severed foot to float by.

Last night, I hung out with Tom. He wanted to poke around the riverfront to see the flood water and I was curious myself, so I met him at his place before heading back towards downtown.

It should be noted that we did see the irony in the fact that we both work downtown and yet left the area, only to return. Since his work shift ends an hour before mine does, we need to figure out logistics.

We parked in a garage where the lower level was nearly submerged in water. I’m bad at judging distances, but I would say that on a normal day the river bank would have at least 20 yards further out. It was mind-boggling how much water there was. Which sounds rather naive, I know, but to see the magnitude of the water was rather humbling. It certainly put things into perspective.

Tom may have organized the field trip, but it was joked that I would have to follow through with the details. Bottled water was soon wished for. And lots of it. It was muggy and hot in the sun, but the moments in the shade were comfortable.

We hiked from the Landing over to the Arch grounds and made our way from the north stairs over to the south stairs. Both the side staircases were closed, but the main steps were closed about half-way down. People congregated throughout the park, the same as us – all looking at the floodwater.

We ate at Morgan Street Brewery, an experience that would have benefitted from us eating out on the sidewalk rather than indoors amongst the “meet market” crowd. The food was good, but the environment was discouraging. Drunk people are not ambiance. Especially for an evening of natural surroundings.

Hours were spent watching the water and I think that Tom and I haven’t had such a meaningful – and low-cost – Friday night. And the night went late, too. Tom and I eat early most times – 5 o’clock or so – then putter about before going in search of ice cream, then calling it a night by 9 or so. Last night, I got home around 11 pm. We just couldn’t leave the water.

I’ve grown up on the banks of the Mississippi River, but generally take the river for granted. The Mighty Mississippi River has been a mainstay in my life since I’ve lived in St. Louis all of my life. I never much think about it, generally taking it for granted or silently bemoaning the fact that it’s not an ocean with beach and clear water.

But last night I was in awe of the power and terrible beauty of nature. And by the looks of the people we passed, Tom and I were in good company.
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Not So Momentary Lapse of Reason...

Do you ever have moments were you aren’t exactly sure why you open your mouth and then once you do, you can’t shut up?

I bet right now, you’re wondering what the hell I’m talking about.

Friday night, I was hanging out with Tom and we were heading back to his car when I saw an old acquaintance from Mizzou. We didn’t part on the best of terms and yet, for some reason that I can’t fathom, I said ‘hi.’

Now, the last time I saw him was about ten or so years ago. It was Christmastime and there was a blizzard that made driving almost impossible. I was tooling around in a ’68 Impala… which wasn’t made to have the best traction. So I slid. A lot. And my passenger would scream each time I went a little sideways. Scream a lot. Which was very distracting. During a time I didn’t need to be distracted.

Now, mind you, just because I slid doesn’t mean that I ever lost control of the vehicle. I never went across lanes, despite having repeated urges to take my passenger out – even if it meant I was going with them. But in the Impala, I think the concrete barriers would have given before the Detroit steel did.

So in the middle of this blizzard, I had to find something for us to do because there was no rescheduling – they had driven up from Festus and I had to entertain them. Dammit.

In a bind, I called Tom, who was putting up his family’s Christmas tree. His friend Tim was helping, so I had two people to torment. Well, it wasn’t me who was doing the tormenting. I know one comment was made that when one stood close to the bookcase and bookstand, it was like being in a library. A silly grin was also cast in Tim’s direction, to which I took some heat afterwards.

We didn't stay long, but it was longer than was welcome by however long we were there, plus ten minutes.

I blocked out most of the evening, but bits and pieces came back to me Friday night.

And yet, I couldn’t shut up. I couldn’t walk past and not acknowledge him.

What is wrong with me?

Really, there is no need to answer that.

It would take way too long.
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Lost Weekend...

So tired. So weary.

So short.

My posting, that is.

This past weekend I worked a special event at a new hotel downtown that raised an astronomical amount of money for the non-profit agency that employs me. Saturday, I worked from 8:30am to 1 in the morning, thus obliterating any chance of a normal weekend. I got home ‘round 1:30, too tired to be chatty, but too wired to fall asleep… so I jawed Barry’s ear off for about an hour. I was finally able to drift off at 3am, after I was finally able to shut my mind down. But after being ‘on’ for so long, it was tough switching gears. Barry couldn't have been as tolerant as he appeared.

The event was go glamorous and luxe that even I was impressed... and I was working the event! A lot of it had to do with the surroundings. The outside of the hotel is rather hideous, but the inside was amazing. The guest rooms looked like a bedroom and the public areas were just as soothing and clean. Very modern and sleek and Asian-inspired. Loved it. And so did the event-goers. I think it helped them open up the purse strings.

Sunday morning came very early yesterday when my dogs woke me up before 7am. I nearly became a ‘cat only’ household when Lance, my ‘good’ dog, kept pestering me. Mid-morning brought an attempt at a nap, during which I must have fallen asleep – though I can’t remember any dreams. Since I don't remember them, I deny any sleep happened.

I rose from bed a little over an hour later, much more tired than I started out. That made me really mad, but Barry said that naps weren’t always refreshing. But they did help ensure that you slept better at night. Which I did. In fact, I was asleep by 9:15 last night and slept like a babe.

While that won’t happen tonight, I do plan on going to bed once this is posted.

Now, the weekend wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t fall on the heels of a long Wednesday. It was the day that never ended. I got to work at 5:30 to set up for the Board of Directors meeting, worked a full day, then headed over to Tom’s house to change for the baseball game. We won. 6-1. Houston. I think. Again, tired.

But the seats were awesome. Barry got tickets through his employer and gave up his seat. Tom and I enjoyed the company box, complete with a buffet of all-you-can-eat hot dogs and nachos. Hot dogs make me happy and ballpark hot dogs… Doesn’t get much better than that.

So… good company. Good food. Good weather. Great game. A damn long day being downtown – 5:30am to 10pm for all intents and purposes – but I had a blast at work and after. Not something I’d recommend on a regular basis, that’s for sure. But I wasn’t about to give the tickets to someone else just because I had to wake up at 4:30am.

I just don’t think that I’ll ever be inclined to do two uber-long days in less than a week. But for free hot dogs and a good cause, I’ll do what I have to do.

And then recover. Lot's of recovering. 10 years ago, this wouldn't even be an issue. Maybe not even five.

The next few nights I plan on being boring. I’m so excited about that.

But not too excited to sleep.

I hope.
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Splitting Hairs...

I TOTALLY rock short hair!

Today I chopped my hair and I love it. I must admit that I was apprehensive about it when I was sitting in the chair for the first half of the cut, but as I was able to see how it was beginning to come together I began to get excited. I know some women get emotionally attached to their hair, but it’s never been that way with me. Hair grows. Hair changes. Hair evolves. But a vast difference is always a little scary.

And so mine has morphed into a very Kiera Knightley-esque cut a la the movie Domino.

I decided to cut my hair because my friend M had to buzz hers. I won’t get into the details behind the need because it’s not my tale to tell, but to say that her life is complicated is like saying that I’m busty… it’s such a vast understatement.

But M is going through her complexities with aplomb and humor. We were friends before this latest chapter of her life, good friends, but I really hope she knows that although I think what’s happening sucks worse than anything could suck, I am grateful that it brought us closer together. I just can’t wait ‘til it’s over and we can get back to having fun.

But until then, she completely owns the pixie look.

Because M had to cut her hair, I felt compelled to shed some of my length. It’s not as short as M’s, but it is way shorter than it was before. Her hair was freakishly long – okay, gross exaggeration… but not by much – and while she may not have been emotionally attached to it, having to cut your hair versus wanting to cut your hair can be very traumatic.

I had to cut my hair in November. Eight inches. I was pissed. But M’s situation is not because the people at her work – a spa – decided that growing hair out for Locks of Love was not a flattering look. Her reasons are much less shallow and much more about… battle.

So I chose to cut my hair to support her. Out of everything I could do for her, this is the most visual. And the easiest. And since it was my choice to support in this manner, I am thrilled to lop my locks. I kinda even thought it would be shorter, but the way it is now makes me so very happy.

Plus, I think it makes my cheekbones look amazing.

M is not overly fond of her shorn look, but I think it makes her look impish and makes her eyes sparkle. She’s tired a lot, so the twinkle is not constant. However, whenever there’s a gleam, now you can really see it. And while not continuous, they are frequent. Hence, the impishness…

Yes, M is a fierce warrior, if also a weary one. I am proud of her and love her very much. She knows that. But I hope she sees her new ‘do as empowerment. The hair will grow back. But until then, I hope she embraces how kick ass she looks… and kicks some ass.

I just hope she knows that there’s an army of friends behind her. I, for one, am glad to help her fight any fight she needs fought. I just somehow think that she’d do it all on her own if we weren’t behind her.

But at least we’ll be sportin’ some rockin’ ‘dos in the meantime.
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The Whole Enchilada... And Tacos... And Burritos...

I’ve been meaning to rave about my new favorite restaurant for quite some, but have only just now gotten around to it. I highly recommend that you head my recommendation and hurry over to Amigos Cantina in Kirkwood, Missouri. In case you haven't figured it out from the name, they serve as close to authentic Mexican cuisine as I've ever had. No Tex Mex food here...

Last night, I had dinner there with my friend, Tom. We got there around 6ish and had a 30 or so minute wait ahead of us. Hannah, the hostess, recognized me – even without Barry. I know I’m the biggest dork ever, but it is so awesome to have a little hole in the wall restaurant where people who work there know who you are. And while a wait that long means it’s no longer a hole in the wall, it is just fabulous walking into a place and feeling right at home.

Now the long wait was new, but I was thrilled for them. And while I knew it would be well worth the wait for me, but I only hoped that Tom would be satisfied with the food after having to wait so long. I was actually nervous because I had hyped it up so much.

While we were waiting, my friend Barb came over to give me a hug. Her husband, Robert, is the chef who came up with the delicious menu and is the brainchild for this awesome space. I used to work with Barb at a spa and miss her immensely. She truly is one of my favorite people. It was a fabulous surprise to see her, although it wasn’t completely unexpected.

While I was at the spa, I had heard all about the time, energy and money they were putting into the restaurant. I have to say that the inside looks amazing. All dark wood and glass windows with amazing authentic Mexican decorations... very intimate and welcoming, all at the same time.

Now, when the restaurant had an open house of sorts for friends and family, I brought a 'restaurant warming' gift. So if you see a handmade clay wreath about six inches in diameter, you can thank me. and let me know where it is. I haven't seen it hung up yet.

But meanwhile, back at the ranch...

Tom had always gotten an earful during my days at the spa, so he was able to keep up with most of the gossip that Barb and I exchanged. But Barb’s children were itching to move on so with a promise to call, she went on her merry way. Soon after, Robert wandered outside, where Tom and I were anxiously waiting to be retrieved, to say his hellos. He was absolutely BEAMING when I asked if the restaurant was meeting his expectations or exceeding them.

Out of my handful of visits to Amigos, I have tried something new each time. Puffed tacos. Chicken sandwich. Chicken burrito. Nothing has disappointed. But since I like what I’ve tried, I want it again. Yet I force myself to keep trying new dishes so I can tell people how good they are.

Oh, and the margaritas are to die for. If you like margaritas, you will LOVE theirs.

I opted to try the Tilapia fish tacos and while they did not disappoint, I agree with Tom… fish doesn’t really belong in a taco. Live and learn – and definitely try it. It was divine, but I think I’ll keep trying new dishes.

And yes, Tom liked it. He’s already planning on trying the nachos the next time we go.

After we finished eating dinner, we cut across a parking lot and ended up at The Custard Station. In all the years we’ve been eating dinner in my neck of the woods, we have never once stopped at the cute little frozen custard stand.

That will now change.

I must say, the Peanut Butter Cup ‘cement’ that I tried was the tastiest frozen dessert that I have had in a long time, if not ever. It was whipped and light and just wonderful. But after the filling meal at Amigos, I think I’ll get the mini size next time. I’m not really a believer that too much of a good thing is bad, but being too full from really good food makes it a little less appreciated.

We sat in a little park behind the frozen custard stand by the train tracks and just talked and watched the world go by. In a time when there doesn’t always seem to be enough hours in the day, it was a pleasure to just kick back and ‘be.’ We were also amazed at how many people flocked to the little building. I mean, it was like a festival of frozen custard with all the people sitting around and watching children run and dance and watch the trains roll past. People had dogs with them. People rode their bikes over. It was so cool – pun intended – to see how the neighborhood just descended on the place.

But then the bugs drove us back to the car and we ended our lazy Saturday night roaming the stacks at the Borders in Sunset Hills. I picked up the latest of Laurell K Hamilton’s in paperback, The Harlequin.

I swear, I am addicted to her books. I resisted reading them for so long, but on a whim one day, I picked up the first in her Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter series… and was instantly hooked. Dammit! I read, like, 13 of her books in a row, I was so smitten. The books are a quick read and filled with beautiful characters who live here in St. Louis, who just happen to be undead. Good times.

Tom bought a book in the same vein (please excuse the pun). I can’t remember the name of it, but it was about zombies. Vampires and zombies. Awesome way to close a Saturday night.

Actually, reading the latest Hamilton and eating some of that custard would have been even better. I was just too full to even contemplate it at the time. But maybe tonight...
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Guilty Pleasures

A friend of mine asked a while ago if I had any musical guilty pleasures, but the only thing that came to mind was my favorite songs. But that didn’t count because there was no ‘embarrassment’ factor to them. But as time has gone on, a handful have come to mind…

‘Everlasting Love,’ ‘Build Me Up, Buttercup,’ ‘Forever in Blue Jeans,’ ‘Bad Medicine,’ Broadway show tunes, the entire Grease motion picture soundtrack…

These songs I rock out to in the safety of my car whenever they happen to fall on the dial I happen to be listening to at the moment. Rarely do I seek them out, but I turn up the volume whenever I hear them. Day brighteners they are, but if I happen to have company in the vehicle, I generally keep my excitement levels down to a dull roar.

Now, guilty pleasures are a fact of my life. Yes, there’s the usual foodstuff that is bad for me, but tastes of so good. Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs are a prime example. I know I should savor them since they are only available around Easter, but two weeks later… I’m cryin’ over their rapid departure. Can you freeze them? That might help.

But there are also foods that I only delve into every few years. Gooey Butter Cake is a prime example.

For those of you not in the know, Gooey Butter Cake is a St. Louis staple, same as Toasted Ravioli and provolone cheese thin crust pizza, otherwise known as St. Louis-style pizza. The cake consists of two layers – the bottom being yellow cake and the top layer consisting of either egg and cream cheese, or butter and sugar. Powdered or confectioner’s sugar is then dusted across the top.

And how did this delicious confection come about? According to Wikipedia, “The cake was supposedly first made by accident in the 1930s by a St. Louis-area German American baker who was trying to make regular cake batter but reversed the proportions of sugar and flour.” God bless that man.


My Mom always ate is as coffee cake for breakfast, so I have no idea if other people eat it as dessert. Frankly, I think any time of day is a good time for Gooey Butter Cake.

Also, ironically enough, Laurell K Hamilton has become a guilty pleasure. I say ironically because the first book of her Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter series is titled ‘Guilty Pleasures.’ Now, they are fun… and sexy… and mindless. They also because formulaic and predicable. But while it can be a detraction for some, I find it nice to have the consistency.

The characters are all physically beautiful and, for the most part, internally flawed in some regard. But not on the outside. Save one. Her character Asher, a vampire, has been marred by holy water that was dripped on him a la Chinese water torture. And because he is imperfect, I find him much more interesting than any of the other characters. Like, I skip over paragraphs to get to the parts in the book where he is.

Of course, it’s my Phantom of the Opera complex. Or the Beauty and the Beast complex. Or… Yeah, ran out of steam with that one. But I do like characters in books who are physically unattractive, but who have beautiful personalities. It makes me hope that I would be so open in real life.
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Another Brick in the Wall

Today we’re going to be schlepping the multitudes of retaining wall bricks that are sitting in the garage over to our friend Jason’s home. He wants ‘em, we don’t, so it’s a beautiful thing. The bricks are left over from a patio build and I guess we way over-estimated. I hope the delivery is a smooth one because getting these to our house was anything but fun.

We had bought a pallet of the bricks from Lowe’s and had them delivered. The original delivery date came and went, which was Mother’s Day, without any sign of the truck. I had taken Barry’s mother out for a massage, then to eat, with the intention of Barry meeting up with us. We ended up going back to the house so Barry could see his mother. Later in the afternoon, several phone calls resulted in finding out that the delivery date had been keyed in for the next Sunday, but that the delivery could be bumped up to Thursday. Sunday wasn’t going to do us any good because we had a crew coming over on Saturday to help. We should have just rescheduled our friends.

The pallet was loaded into the wrong kind of truck. It had a small hydraulic lift that was narrower than the width of the pallet, which meant hand unloading the truck. Except that they didn’t. They put the pallet on a pallet jack, rolled it to the mouth of the truck, then tried to roll it onto the lift. But the small lip where the lift met the truck kept the jack from rolling smoothly, but a nice shove got it right over. And into the street.

Needless to say, there were casualties. And while Lowe’s did replace them, we didn’t get an apology. They did, however, send people to help clean up the mess. But without cleaning tools. So Barry and I provided brooms, dustbins and bags to clean the mess up with. Nice.

So out they go. Or most of them. Will probably keep a large handful in case any of ours need to be replaced. But it looks to be a beautiful day, we’re clearing space in the garage and I get to get out of the house for a good while before I start my new job tomorrow.

And we’re also going to check in on Jason since his wife is out of town.
It’s not like that. Not worried about him partying hard or the like. I just want to make sure his two kids haven’t tied him up and are high on candy. I’m kidding. Sort of.

Actually, their children are the most well behaved kids I know. I keep telling Jennifer and Jason that it blows my mind how great their kids are because it’s so much easier to not be a good parent. But Jason and Jennifer are two of the coolest cats I know. In fact, Jason and his wife Jennifer set Barry and I up. For the longest time, I resisted meeting Barry. I had recently gotten back into the dating waters – and immediately wanted back out. I had gone on a year-long dating sabbatical, for all intents and purposes, and found that I preferred being single. The thought scared me, so I accepted offers and perused dating websites, all of which left me very disillusioned. I felt that I shouldn’t ignore my guy instinct and stay single.

And yet Jennifer and Jason wouldn’t shut up about Barry.

Fine, fine, I told them, anything to get you guys to shut up. I’m guessing Barry told them something similar.

Five and a half years later, with a one year wedding anniversary coming up, I blame them. So does Barry.

I worked with Jennifer for about a year before I quit and Jason was the younger brother of Barry’s best friend from high school. However, proof positive that St. Louis is the biggest small town, I actually knew Jason long before I ever met him. Turns out, he used to run in the same crowd as my best friend in early high school. So I heard stories about Jason, namely that he talked to trees. And when Jason and I had the moment where we realized that we knew the same people, I said, “You’re Jason who talks to trees!” Without batting an eye, he agreed.

Now, the story is that Jason was in the passenger seat while several friends were being driven home. Jason lived near Tower Grove Park and when he was nearly home, rolled down the window, stuck his torso out and started to tell the trees how much he liked them.

Jason Who Talks To Trees is a much funnier name than it is a story.

I just hope that today none of us end up with no one getting new names. I’m almost convinced these bricks are cursed.
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It is the Mind that Calculates...

I am dying for some adventure. Sitting around the house, applying for jobs, waiting to hear back, puttering, cleaning, watching TV… well, it ain’t me babe. There was a time in my not-so-recent past where being a lady of leisure would have held a certain appeal. I think it was because I worked at a spa booking appointments for ladies of leisure and I would feel a pang of jealousy that they could get a massage at 2:15 in the afternoon on a Tuesday and Thursday.

But they obviously had the means as well as the time to receive such services. I do not.

Which is not to say that I’m in any financial straights, but I’m not going to spend any more money than I have to when I’m not pulling any in. So I sit. And wait. And hope.

I want to work!

So in the meantime, I surf the Internet and dream wistfully of local places to visit that aren’t in any guidebooks. I mean, c’mon! If you aren’t supposed to go there, isn’t it all the more appealing?

Or maybe it’s just me…


For those of you not in the know, St. Louis is filled with local tales of hauntings and spooky tales. The Lemp Mansion is the number one example of local ghost stories. But the book The Exorcist, and subsequent movies, were based on the sad events that brought a little boy and his family to St. Louis. However, there are plenty of other attractions in the metropolitan area.

My itch to explore local 'paranomal' lore, for lack of a better word, isn't new. I can't say that it started when Tom took me to explore the Miles Mausoleum, but it did rocket from there. While it’s completely legit to visit, the tales involved in the desecration of the mausoleum make it sad to visit, but I felt no sense of spookiness. It was a rush to poke around the cemetery, but it's also quite a popular place to visit, so the illicit factor is quite low.

Recently, I happened across reference on the town of Moselle in Franklin County. A posting from the Underground Ozarks forum says (sic): "park in the church parking lot then there is a field behing it and foll ow the field back to the tree line you'll find a creek cross it and there will be an old worn road just in dirt follow that up a ways and youll see a whole old ass town up there watch out for mountian lions because they are up there - and if you remember the "yetti" sightings in missouri forever agoe this is also that place- it would be a very good place for a real the hills have eyes sort of thing so be caryful up there people around there are very wierd maby bring a gun of two" I don’t know if it would be worth the drive, but you don’t know until you go, right?

On Friday, I was jonesing to go out to Bee Tree Park down in Oakville, with it’s abandoned castle. It’s the castle that appeals to me, obviously. I know it’s fenced off and, supposedly, inaccessible, but such a thing of beauty should not be tucked away from public viewing. I’ve never seen it, so I don’t really know what I’m talking about, but needless to say, my curiosity has been piqued.

I also came across unverified information that there are two cemeteries in August A Busch Memorial Wildlife Park. Formerly an old Army training site, there are plenty of old munitions bunkers left over from WWII. Have explored some of the bunkers years ago and it's high time I go back out there. For a multitude of reasons it seems. Maybe when the leaves turn… I’m sure it’ll be GORGEOUS out there.

But over the weekend, my mind went from Bee Tree Park to another intriguing area south of where I live. Once I started doing some research, I decided that I really want to explore the grounds of the old Robert Koch Hospital. I know it would be considered trespassing. I know it would be wrong. But it saddens me that so many people died there and have been abandoned from our collective memory. My exploration would be self-serving, but it was also be an acknowledgment of people who weren’t even acknowledged with individual graves.

So maybe once I’m working, I’ll feel apt to drive to these places and explore. Once I have less time on my hands.
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Celluloid Comfort Food

A friend of mine, M., recently sent me a link of movies that are being REMADE. Movies. Not T.V. shows that are being revamped for the big screen. But previously made films that are perfectly good, generally beloved, films that have already been released into the wild. She was very upset that 'Near Dark' was on the list, a movie that I have never seen and somehow feel my life is lacking for it considering how outraged M. was. She then asked which listing ticked me off the most.

This was my response:

"Alright. I want you to know that this list has disturbed me greatly. And I keep bouncing between outrage over Footloose (What?!? Who could do it better than Kevin Bacon and John Lithgow? I mean really. Love me some John Hughes flicks, but this is the essential 80's flick for me. Call it celluloid comfort food, if you will), Escape From New York (Because it's freakin' Escape from New York! Despite it's flaws, I don't think it gets much better than Kurt Russell and filming in parts of St. Louis. A cult classic for a reason...) and The Evil Dead (Not my favorite film by far, but it's such a part of the American horror film lexicon. The idea of remaking this, even by it's own director, should cause rioting in the streets -- it's such an icon as well as cult classic.)

So thank you M., for causing angst inside this head of mine. Of course, if you didn't share, I wouldn't know to start petition drives to nip these ideas in the bud."


M. was completely tickled by the 'celluloid comfort food' comment. But it's true! Films become such a representation of our lives. We watch movies to escape from our lives. We love certain films for how they reflect our lives. Either we relate to the film or we want our lives to be like that on the screen. I tend to like films that are happy. Either they are funny or they are inspiring. But I generally like to leave a film feeling good about myself.

One notable exception in the movie 'No Country For Old Men.' I am glad I didn't drive when I left the theater because I might have driven my car into a wall. But the movie totally, totally blew me away. Despite being the antithesis of "feel good movie of the year."

But there are movies that you watch over and over again for certain qualities in them. And those certain qualities make you happy, whether the film is a happy one or not. My friend Tom and I recite lines from 'Heathers' as a part of our regular conversations. He talks about his "watt-ah-melon-ous" -- or his heat -- that came from watching 'The Birdcage.' I regularly chase my cat around the house, saying "Kitty!" a la Boo from 'Monsters, Inc" and my husband and I frequently advise each other to "Have fun storming the castle," taken from 'The Princess Bride.'

And these movies aren't always on your list of favorite films. But they are the ones you pop into the DVD players while you're wrapped up in a blanket on the couch eating soup when you feel kinda crappy. Others might call them guilty pleasures, but that has an implied air of embarrassment about it. Me, I have no shame...

1) Heathers

2) The Princess Bride

3) The Birdcage

4) Monsters, Inc (Noticing a trend here?)

5) Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade

6) A League of Their Own

7) Ghostbusters

8) The Blues Brothers

9) The Sound of Music

10) Clerks

These movies make me feel good. Some of them I would consider favorites, most I would not. I think it's due to their quotability factor. Why quote a movie you don't like and if it's not quotable, then maybe it's not worthy of multiple viewings.

But notice that none of them are on the list of remakes. Not all the movies on the list make me happy, nor have I seen all of them. But I do know that nearly all of them are indelibly marked in the cinematic history as being classics or, more aptly, cult classics. And there's a reason for that.

And apparently the very reasons that make them the classics they are, are the same reasons to remake them. Or so people who make a lot more money than I'll even see have decided.

If any from my list were to be remade, I must say that the world would be a little less bright. A little less happy.

And yes, I love 'Footloose.' It just isn't on my Top 10 List because it's not the most quotable film I've watched. But it is my youth. And had one of the best movie soundtracks next to 'Ferris Bueller's Day Off' (which was never released as far as I can tell). And was simple and wholesome and reminds me off days when you tried to "beat the man" rather than just trying to tread water in the real world. And a remake will make me wonder, what's next? A relaunching of 'The Electric Company?'
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