How to Win at the Game of Jazz

Special spanks to Pid for alerting me to this - on this, his horse's ass day.



I saw Wynton Marsalis last year in concert with the Lincoln Center orchestra - one of my top 5 concerts of all time. He does not suck.

Update: Apparently, Canuckians aren't worthy to view Comedy Central streaming: try here instead. Spanks to Cap'n Noise for the link.

Luscious Mad Men

The best show you're likely not watching: AMC's Mad Men. I only fell into watching it in the last few weeks because of its copious 16 Emmy award nominations. Provoked to know what the buzz was about, at least once, I set the DVR.

Wow. Luscious is the best word. The sets, the costumes, the images, the dialogue, the story. It defines, to me, What Is Sexy. From like, before, you know?

What I like best? Scene after scene after scene with what is NOT said. What is left to us to interpret, to noodle, to recognize and go "Yes!".

John Maeda's Laws of Simplicity, Law #10:

"Simplicity is about subtracting the obvious, and adding the meaningful."

Mad Men embodies this law. Check it out.

(Ok. So I'm in lust with Jon Hamm. Sue me!)

Hot Cocoa Ho-ness

Hot cocoa is a Cheek chilly weather ritual recently renewed. Had an "aha" moment when I first scrounged a few years back to whip up a cup from Hershey's cocoa powder, and recognized it as my Grandma's hot chocolate. A strong, provocative memory - as she died when I was six.

I believe I've perfected the ritual of assembling hot cocoa goodness. Follow these steps for a single cup:

1. Select your cocoa with care. I choose a powdered mix for convenience, as I ain't gonna get all Martha Stewart-y and select solid chocolate. Good on ya if that's your druther. Pick a powder of substance. No individual packages. And if you call Swiss Miss good stuff, stop reading now and get a life. Darker is better. Free trade if you can find it. Shown here is Trader Joe's Sipping Chocolate.

2. Put a cup of milk (8 ounces, or 1/4 litre for you metric types) in a 2-cup glass measuring cup and nuke on high in the microwave for 2 min 45 sec, or until it bubbles up. Be vigilant until you know your machine's time for boiling milk, as cleaning up the boiled over mess is a pain in the a**. Use at least 1 percent milk - skim milk is not worthy.

3. While the milk is cookin', measure out the recommended powder into an oversized cup. If the 'structions call for less than a cup o' milk, do the math and increase the ratio of powder to balance with 1 cup o' milk. Yes, you may have to deal with fractions for the first time since high school. Build a bridge and get over it.

4. Poor enough of the pipin' hot milk to just cover the powder, then mix thoroughly.


5. Slowly pour the rest of the milk into the cup, stirring constantly.

6. Add copious amounts of whipped cream, and top with your sprinkle of choice (mine is nutmeg).


The goal is to mitigate the hot cocoa suck factor of wasted goodness at the bottom of the cup. When made as directed above, your quaffing will yield no suck factor.


The fickle Atlanta spring has me guessing as to which day will bring the season's last hot cocoa experience, but the blooms about town hint that it will be soon.

Hello, Goodbye: Target is Sexy, Baby

Today's What Is Sexy bit (W.I.S.B.s):
Target is sexy.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a Target whore. Specifically, a Super Target whore. I'd say ho, but that's too soft. Even slut doesn't seem visceral enough. Target is one of my favoritist thangs.

If I had only one store to shop at, forever, it would be SuperTarget. I can clothe myself. I can accoutre my home. They sell cat litter. And the Archer Farms pu pus - ah. Don't get me started.

Target is running a series of ads using a VERY sexy chick covering The Beatles: here's one. Sophia Shorai - her cover is as yet unavailable in a single format. Shame. She's fabulous, and is an unsuck listen.

Strongbadness: Say Hi to Hygiene!, and Concerts

Watch the full video here.

I've been remiss in keeping up with Strongbad. Good thing there's fark.com to keep me up to speed on the quickfast. Here's to you sucking just enough to stay interesting.

And for you metal heads: be careful that you don't get yerself gussied down and suckered into liking non-metal bands by attending Concerts! You might get perplexed and intriguéd.

Sparks and Flames

Summer’s sultry heat has me languishing. No mint julep sipping on front porches here (Sheena, where are your rosemary mojitos when I need ‘em?). I’m a coward to the heat, running for cover in the shade and the sweet serenity of air conditioning.

The worst summers were those I worked at Kennedy Space Center. Out the door each morning at 6:30 AM, gingerly stepping the twenty feet from the front door to the car in the useless attempt to avoid breaking a sweat.

Dwelling on the negative ain’t my style. So I’ve been pondering the goodness of summer. And what’s come to mind the most are two things: the 4th of July, and fireworks.

From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void

FloridaDad is a Yankee Doodle Dandee. Most summers find me in his company to acknowledge and raise a glass for the occasion. I think he’s just about forgiven me for getting a permit from the Cape Canaveral fire department to light the candles for his 50th. Good times. Made gooder with the tradition addition in recent years of singing patriotic songs with PJamaMama at Grandma Beach’s as the Ron Jon’s barge launched their sparkly offerings into the sky.

This summer’s sparks came from different sources. Canada Day – oops, sorry, Sheenada Weekend – was my first serving of fireworks, as shown in Sheena’s vid capture:

From what I could see, they trumped the Ron Jon’s offerings. But they paled in comparison to Kimplicated’s faves at Lenox Square in Atlanta. She’d long championed them, but this year was my virgin attendance, up front and in the ash-ridden fallout zone.

Spanks to Kimplicated for this snap.

Big. Bang. Boom. Sparkly goodness and chest reverb. They took my breath away. They do that. Fireworks surprise. You don’t know what’s coming, exactly. You hear the “whomph” of their release, perhaps a trailing light as they catch fire streaking up the sky when you first notice their path. They’re intense. They burn and shine, lighting up the dark where you could hardly see before. The blues are always my favorites.

My last offering was the aforementioned Gatineau competition spied from an Ottawa balcony. Distanced fiery jewels in the setting sun sky, with the launch release again heralding performance. Reminded me of dashing outside after the Shuttle’s sonic boom to watch the ascent’s remainder. Fireworks’ sparks and the Shuttle’s launch: both steal your breath for an amazing few minutes, and then they’re gone. Over. Only smoke ghosts hint of their scene-stealing performance moments before.

I enjoyed these sparks and their passionate colors, but they were too brief. You can’t have fireworks e'yday, after all. Unless you’re on vacation at Disney World. So while I enjoyed them, they have me missing the longer lasting sparkly colors found in a wood burning fire.

I yearn for the cooler weather. For PJamaMama and her squire to once again play WoodFairies and set me up with oak and hickory. To enjoy the strangely satisfying sound of shoveling ash to make way for the next long, slow burn. To carefully layer fire’s trappings: newspaper, kindling, and wood (and ok, some of the “cheater” fire starter dupers). To tend the nascent flames as they inexorably build, their snap-crackle-hiss-pop cadence a soothing, perfect fall evening’s soundtrack. At the apex of intensity, the blue flame is my favorite. Continued tending as the flames take their time to wane, re-sparking as logs shift through the grate into hot red embers, slowly gasping into ash soon again satisfyingly shoveled.

So perhaps I’m not a coward to the heat after all. Mayhap I’m just particular about its form. Fires are more of an investment in time. Summer's fireworks have their place, but I’d rather lose myself in the heat of sultry, slow-made fire sparks in cooler seasons. It’s not a bad thing, being particular. After all, I *am* the Concubine of the Mountain Ash.

Coldplay's Sparks

Favorite Places. And sucking.

Visited CarolinaMom last week. She's called Yanceyville home for some 16 years. Each time I'm there, I wonder why it's been so long between visits.

The air is cleaner. The sky is bluer. The night sky yields more stars.

If you're ever driving through Yanceyville on 158, be sure to stop and have a bite at the Redneck Riviera (a.k.a., the diner counter at the Texaco). Their bacon sandwich is the bee's knees. Joined CarolinaMom for breakfast Friday morning with two of her exercise buddies. Mo blew me away - spry as all get out, clear eyed and level headed. You'd never know she was 81, had open heart surgery two years ago, or that after her husband died she decided to fulfill a lifelong dream and restore an old house. Girl's got game *and* gumption. Goin' ON!

We then moseyed on over to Chapel Hill to visit one of our shared guilty pleasures and druther place that does not completely suck: A Southern Season. Lunch in the café is required so as minimize the take home of well gotten booty. Incredible tea and wine selections. My favorite scores this trip were Illume candles, a deep dish pie plate, and Vosges chocolate bars (DancingSpice turned me on to Vosges years back). Bacon in chocolate is a challenge I whole heartedly accept - will report when consumed. Mo's son makes the sauce in the picture.


Friday night found us at the Yancey House for a Texas Hold 'Em event. Not just a local yocals affair, mind you, but an official satellite tourney feeding the world series of poker in Vegas.

As an urchin, my parents thought I had great luck at cards and often joked of staking me for Vegas. Guess it was beginner's luck, cuz dood. I suck. I didn't suck quite well enough to be the first out, missing the $25 loser's gift certificate. I was second out. But it afforded me the chance to take some great snaps of the old tobacco barn on the property, before and after the sun set.



Saturday afternoon found us on the other side of Caswell County for one of CarolinaMom's choir gigs - a 75th surprise birthday bash. All was well and good until we decided to leave before cake cutting. Car key nowhere to be found. AAA's response was 2 hours, so the choir ladies circled their wagons and got Mom back home to get another key. Good news: we stayed for cake. Bad news: the car key is *still* effing missing. High we searched. Low we searched. They asked twice if the birthday boy should sort through the garbage. Now we know the answer to the question, "How many people with ADD does it take to lose car keys?" Dood. I suck again. And not in a good way.

Last bit of suckage came with the realization that my cell phone does, in fact, work in Yanceyville. My Canada Day peeps had pointed out changing my roaming mode from *provider who shall be nameless* to *automagic*, and dayum if coverage wasn't granted. Same thang in Yanceyville. No EVDO, but phone worked. How lame I am not to have figgered it out before. I can show my ma how to become a DVR addict. I can do a wee bit o' tech support on her 'puter to fix a Windows application association snafu. But I can't figger out my own phone.

I don't have to know everything. I just have to know others who know what I don't. Good thing I've got those Canada Day peeps in my bag!

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Get Fuzzy, By Darby Conley

For whitenoise upon the occasion of his entering a sleep clinic:

I've employed a few things since college that have greatly improved my ability to fall, and stay, asleep.

1. Do not clock watch.
If you must keep a traditional alarm clock, turn it around to the wall and make sure you can't reach it in the middle of the night. Trust that the alarm will work. Setup a backup alarm if you're untrusting. In school I switched to using a kitchen timer, setting it for the number of hours I wanted to sleep. Worked like a freakin' charm.

2. Get a sound machine and use it at home AND away.
Its consistent noise cancelling will mask the odd sounds of strange and familiar places and be your personal serenity device. The clock I use now has 6 different sounds, and I use the one that sounds oddly enough like riding on an airplane at 30,000 feet. My Mom has the same clock and uses the waterfall sound, and when I sleep at her place I have to get up to pee in the middle of the night. Suggestable, am I.

3. Play Solitaire on a PDA.
Numbers 1 and 2 helped me stay asleep, but it used to take me an hour plus to fall sleep. A few years back I started playing solitaire on my PDA as I lay in bed, and in a few weeks something good happened. Playing it required enough brain power to concentrate on the game that my pointy head began to let go of the thoughts that would keep me going as I tried to fall asleep. And the brightness of the screen had the same mind numbing, soporific effect as a TV does in a dark room. I could then play just 5 to 10 minutes and I'd find my eyes getting droopy - sleep would come within minutes of turning off the PDA. Somehow in the past year or so, I stopped even needing the PDA, as I seem to have trained my pointy head to simply relax, listen to the airplane noise, and fall asleep.

I've recommended each of these to several friends with best results from the sound machine action. People have a hard time giving up clock watching - but trust me, it REALLY works. And sleeping leads to dreaming. Yum.

Gaping Void by Hugh MacLeod.

Belated Beach Food

Beach food does not suck. At all. Belated pics posted below.

Fried scallops and onion rings - both recent firsts in the past year, for me. Quaffed with equal parts pink lemonade and Yuengling lager.


The food not taken . . . Boone's freshwater aquarium, keeping urchin Ethan bespelled.


Pippen's guilty Guinness pleasure:


Cheek's first Cuban pulled pork, courtesy of Food Glorious Food in Tallahassee.


Trout caught by burly, manly men. Battered in panko, Target brand Archer Farms tater chips of the black pepper and sea salt variety with sesame seed added, lightly fried in olive oil and topped with olive tapenade, served with green beans, pasta, and a summer salad of fresh greens, green apples, feta, and walnuts. Best meal of the week.


Beach nachos: sharp cheddar, olives, black beans, sliced grape tomatoes, cracked black pepper, grated Italian spices, more cheddar added on top. Spread over blue corn chips and baked at 375 for 10 minutes. Served over chopped romaine with salsa of choice and sour cream.


Summed up beach goodness - need to get me more of dis.

If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad

Will soon get pediblinged for the holiday. What holiday, say you? Yankee Doodle Damn Dandy day, natch! Won't be with FloridaDad as I was last year. Bummer.

But my last toe bling will be sad to give up. Noonday bluish toes with pretty flowers. Not very sophisticated, but I'm not the sophisticated type. I'm more of the southern broad, literati chick type. On a good day.

But my blue toes make me happy. I think they'll be back soon.

No Weakends Here: Part 2 - Virginia Highlands Summerfest

Owning a bed and breakfast exists somewhere in the Cheek time continuum. I groove so muchly on having company come to stay a spell. My house gets clean, as my slackass isn’t motivated to be all Becky-Homecky on a daily basis. And I cook – well, breakfast anyway. Got my happy ass up early Saturday, made bacon, sliced strawberries, and baked cinnamon rolls to fuel my morning and leave for the guest, and headed to the Virginia Highlands Summerfest to recruit volunteers for the aquarium.

Second time volunteering thusly and alongside Marin’s Mommy. Fantastic people watching, and good music listening as our booth was near the stage at the Inman Middle School. Susan, the lovely owner of the home behind our booth location, graciously offered her facilities in lieu of festival Port-o-lets. Her hydrangeas were amazing – check ‘em out if you’re walking east on Virginia from Greencove, a couple doors down on the left.

(Port-o-lets? The only good memory I have of ‘em involves Sheena and the Molson Indy. When will the Beer Garden Queens reunite?)

Festival serendipity yielded in Shandi Berl’s Creative Works. Relieved her of a few magnetic bud vases (seen below on the fridge, left, awaiting buds - can you tell which is my fridge fave?)

and a beautiful wine stopper, but was *really* blown away by her knobs. You must see Shandi’s knobs! An order will be placed for the end tables to be painted white and distressed to show the cherry underneath, a craft activity forthcoming with ‘struction by SmartAsh.

Also lurved Trasea’s Glassworks that Marin’s Mommy drew my attention to. Wisely limiting the cash she brought to limit impulse purchases, we used Cheek’s plastic instead.


Lastly scored a nifty tropical bowl that now lives on my mantle.

My Latest Unsuck Crush

Ok. So there are BlogEntries you should know about, and also Blogs you should know about. Because occasionally, something *so* doesn't mostly suck that it's hard to pick your favorite facet. An unsuck crush, if you will.

Historically, first things Cheek-discovered as unsucking were books. Bit by Madeline L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time in the third grade, my love affair with science fiction was born. Octavia Butler. Orson Scott Card. Robert Heinlein. Frank Herbert. Julian May. Once I turned their pages, I kept turning. And turning. And re-turning, reading works again through the years. #1 fave is still Card’s Ender’s Game.

Books led to poetry. Poetry to plays. Plays back to fiction. Too many writers to list – a post for a rainy day. But there’s one book – and only one, so far – that found me *immediately* re-turning: Tom Robbins’ Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates. Run, don’t walk, and read it. When you do, be sure to come back and report if you have C.R.A.F.T. Club membership.

Unsucking Cheek seconds: musicians and the first time I heard one of their albums. Ok, ok, ok. CDs. Ok, ok, ok. Musical releases (there!, modern, only-known-digital young FREAKS!). First listens found me captured by the collection of songs, not just any one. Sure, there were standouts. But as a whole, I listened to the entire things over. And over. And over. (See next post if you’re curious.)

The test, tho', is time. I may think something is great, but does it last? Is it overdone? Does it become full of itself? Or does it only continue to have poignant meaning? New works are longed for, but once acquired, may or may not be enjoyed as readily. As wholesomely. Could be hit or miss. But overall, I keep seeking it out. I revel more than I rue. I rarely walk away.

So, back to B.Y.S.K.A.: there are those I peruse, and those I check daily. Ok, more than daily. I read them for withing: to connect with, identify with, groove with, learn with, laugh with. Before you leap to say “should it be ‘from’” - no, it’s *with*. Cuz this new fangled internet thang and its blog – sorry - blag spawn lets me interact, thanks very damn much.

There are many I like muchly and score high on my unsuck-o-meter – you know who you are. But please don’t be jealous of my new unsuck crush, CountryMouse. She’s earned this valentine. How, how, how do I choose my favorite post when betterer ones keep appearing?

Cheek’s CountryMouse unsuck list, dateline 27-Mar-2007 7:58 PM EDT:

1. Roll Call. One woman, many voices. I hope to meet them one day in concert.
2. Too Expensive. Every woman has been here. Or will.
3. The Peevies. She’s after Kernan the Grammarian’s heart with this compendium of malapropisms.
4. An Extrapolation. I was on the edge of my seat: *will* she?
5. Suburban Legends. The language, the lore; “bean blasphemy” at its best.
6. Walking a (Green) Mile in Someone Else’s Shoes. Stark honesty.
7. Have A Euphemistic Day. Foreplayfully good.

CountryMouse reminds me a lot of Hollis Gillespie. Hollis’ articles have appeared weekly in Creative Loafing for years. She contributes to NPR’s All Things Considered, collected her columns into 2 different books, and is working on bringing her tales to the small cable screen. I’m considering taking Hollis’ writing workshop this summer – I’ll be guarandamteed to pee my pants laughing, at a minimum.

CountryMouse, I reckon, and I believe rightly, that the wankosphere is your oyster. My glass is raised to your unsucky, non-lazy ass-mother of three self, and toasting to a blag future of only revel, no rue.