Do Re Me(me)

I blame her for this, this unmerited exposition of an octet of factoids all about ME. Best of all, I am required to tag eight lucky contestants who will, doubtless, be unyielding in their expressions of gratitude for the honour. For example: Oh, Ms. Dogma, my gratitude to you knows no bounds, it is... boundless. It has no boundaries, so vast is it I cannot relate it to any chart. It is uncharted. It is on a chartered bus. With a fez on.

So, to quote Ms. Dogma, here are the rules, anyway: Anyway here are the rules:
-list 8 facts/habits about yourself
-post the rules at the beginning before those facts/habits are listed wherever you damn well please.
-tag 8 people and post their names, go to their blogs and leave them a comment, letting them know that they have been tagged and ask them to read your blog.

There you go. Mo and I debated whether the facts/habits listed ought be "interesting". I am of two minds. Obviously, if I am telling you something about me, it is prima facie very interesting. You will be interested. You cannot help yourselves. I know. It's all right. There there.

The other mind says: You don't have eight facts/habits about yourself to list. You are more boring than a toilet paper sandwich made on wonderbread (which also makes a fine toilet paper). You'll just have to make something up.

So here we go.

Uno: I have now exhausted my vocabulary of the Spanish language.

2: I am wracked with guilt over nearly every action I commit each day. I writhe (largely internally) with discomfort at day's end in consideration of my omissions. Welcome to my head.

3: I do not understand the subject of taste. For example: Simone Bocelli is a not-very-good opera singer. His blindness does not make his music any more appealing. It is the aural equivalent of aerosol cheese. That grouping of opera hotties, I don't know their brand, "Jismo" or something like that, they are the aural equivalent of microwaved Tilsit cheese with a side of mouldering sweatsock. Is the music-consuming public so facile as to be attracted to the lamed or incredibly hot among the musical world as the recipients (ok, the managers of the lamed etc.) of their discretionary income (ok, borrowed on credit money)? What's next, 3 amputee tenors singing "Ein Schwert verheiss mir der Vater" to a glockenspiel accompaniment while waterskiing naked on Lake Geneva? Wait... I want to sign that act!



Quattro: Audis suck. Suzi Quatro is no better even if she is not a German car. Audis are no better for not playing rock bass and singing such classics as... actually, Ms. Quatro's music is entirely forgotten by me.

5. I like pants. I am also partial to socks. I am wearing some right now!

F. Many of my favourite sentences begin with this letter. Maybe "favourite" is a code word for "most often used".

7. I don't want to tag anyone. I tried to send love to certain high falutin blog types a couple of months ago and he rebuffed me. I am still on a serious course of Adlerian therapy. (Classical Adler, not Zero Adler, or New Adler, or Zero Adler, that tastless alternative to the real thing.) What would happen if I tagged eight people and made them, like, talk about themselves? Oh, wait, they're fucking bloggers. What else are we doing?


Ocho: I have eight fingers and two thumbs. Why aren't the great toes called "foot-thumbs"? Is it because they are not opposing digits? Either way this is notice that there will be no singing of "I have ten fingers"-type nursery rhymes in this house. I cannot abide this obvious inaccuracy. (Nor, for obvious reasons, will Mo permit me to run a home-school operation. Not that we are so inclined. Oh, who cares.)

There.

The lucky eight: IAM, Denver Dad, Nonlinear Girl, Crouton Boy. I will email them the good news tonight! Don't delay! Type now!

(I know that's 4. I reason that Mo is on for the other half. Back to you, honey!)

V-man out.