Let’s Eat Hair

A hairball weighing 1kg (2lb) was found in the stomach of an Argentine girl who cannot stop eating her hair.
A hairball weighing 1kg (2lb) was found in the stomach of an Argentine girl who cannot stop eating her hair.

This girl likes her hair.

She likes it so much that she eats it.

That’s right. She eats her hair, and not just a little bit, a LOTTA bit. Like 2lb’s of it.

Apparently this is a REAL disease, as opposed to one of those silly made-up ones. This one is called trichophagia. And yes – it’s the compulsive eating of hair.

This one is really hard to wrap my head around. Literally. I don’t have enough hair to even reach it with my mouth…that’s the benefit of having short hair – I can’t have trichophagia in the classic sense.

Now, I suppose I could cut my hair off and then eat it, but what’s the fun of eating hair that’s no longer attached to your head? I mean, if you can’t put it into a ponytail and then suck on it in your mouth, why bother eating it. Once you cut the hair off it’s not part of your body anymore – it would be like clipping your nails and THEN eating them, vs. chewing them off directly into your mouth. Who does that?

Nobody does that.

Incidentally, if you eat your own fingernails it’s considered self-cannibalism, but if you eat your own hair it’s trichophagia. I guess hair eating is so exclusive that it gets its very own disorder named after it. I like that. It feels like something I’d want because it’s exclusive. Who doesn’t want to be exclusive and unique, just like everyone else?

Anyway – these are the things that are important today. There is no other news to speak of – so enjoy the hair eating. You’re welcome.

Silent Kay and the Night before Christmas

The night before Christmas was a long, long time ago. This fact is rarely disputed even thousands of years later, despite nights being eves and having their own associated celebrations. But this is not a tale of eves and nights – it’s a tale of a child, more powerful that she could have ever realized.

And so in that time of nights and Christmases there lived a young and precocious girl named Kay. She hardly ever spoke – her shyness so profound as to confuse and confound those who so desperately wanted to talk to her. So they called her Silent Kay (at least, the exceedingly naughty boys who insisted on pulling her hair after school called her that).

On the day before Christmas – neither night nor eve yet – Silent Kay was casually knitting a sweater to give to her mother. The value of home economics was seldom appreciated in youth, but Kay was an appreciable child and therefore knew the value of needles and knitting.

In the midst of her knitting came a knock at the door. Kay frowned in frustration at the callous disregard for her moment of knitting, but gave up her efforts as the knock came again.

Opening the door with a turn of the knob, Kay looked. What she saw on the doorstep was a bold and confusing sight to behold. On the doorstep was a knight – a knight whom she did not know.

What a silly thought I’ve just had, Kay thought to herself. I know no knights to begin with, much less this one who disturbs my holiday knitting. So she settled herself against the door frame and asked, “What do you need?”

“Pardon me,” said the knight. “I’m in need of your help! I have casually yet vigorously scraped my knees and my knuckles. I need a bandage.” He paused for a moment to fret, and then continued his thought. “I have a bandage in my knapsack, but I can’t get it out due to knots in the rope holding everything together! Please can you help me?”

Silent Kay pondered a moment then thought of her knitting. Knots were her thing and she nodded her head as if to say “yes.” She inquisitively wondered why nodding was easier than simply saying, but by the time she was nearing an answer she had already gone to the kitchen to fetch a knife.

“Here let me help you, good Knight,” said Kay. And with expertise in her grip she took knife to knot, and cut it away. “There,” she exclaimed, “the knot is undone. Now let’s find that bandage and fix you all up.”

“Oh, Kay,” said the knight. “You’ve been so kind to me that I must make the truth known to you. I am not really a knight. I am the King!”

This mad revelation caused Kay to go silent. The King at her house? How crazy was that?

“I would like to thank you for helping me, Kay. Especially since you helped me never knowing that I was really not a knight! If you will kneel down, on your right knee please, I will make you a real knight – a Knight of the Kingdom!”

It was the first time Kay even knew she lived in a kingdom, but the sweater would not knit itself, so she knelt down on her knee.

The king tapped her shoulder with his sword and proclaimed, “Kay on this Christmas Eve day, I dub thee a knight. From now on you will be known as Knight Kay.”

And that is how Silent Kay became a Knight before Christmas.

Beware the Hemicrania

I get headaches all the time. Not those little baby headaches that lazy people get so they can call in sick or leave early because they don’t like the project they are on and can just as easily browse the web from home as they can from work. I’m talking about the king of headaches. The Alpha and Omega of headaches. The great, I AM headache. I am of course speaking of the migraine.

The Book of Webster defines migraine as:
Main Entry: mi•graine
Pronunciation: ‘mI-“grAn, British often ‘mE-
Function: noun
Etymology: French, modification of Late Latin hemicrania pain in one side of the head, from Greek hEmikrania, from hEmi- hemi- + kranion cranium
Date: 15th century
1 : a condition marked by recurrent severe headache often with nausea and vomiting
2 : an episode or attack of migraine
– mi•grain•ous /-“grA-n&s/ adjective

I, however, define a migraine as: shoot me up with crystal meth, throw me to the ground, stomp on my neck with stiletto pumps (which look great when worn with a bathing suit because they help slenderize your hips *snaps to Ellen*), while Metallica plays through seven Infinity speakers attached to my ears (one extra on the left side), and a two year old boy digs out both of my eyes using a rusted fork, while a Shetland pony is kicking my ass, kind of headache.

In days of Olde when Knights were bold if a limb hurt bad enough, say a left arm that became gangrenous, you just cut it off, sewed up the hole, and went on living. Such a method would be a bit life-prohibitive in dealing with a migraine. Clearly we see that the most evident solution to a problem may not always be the most effective.

I know someone who says that she has migraines every day. She loves to pretend she has a migraine just so she doesn’t have to go to work. I don’t know about you, but when I’m in the land of make believe, I like to pretend something good. Like that I’m wearing a huge black cape with tall black boots, and a sassy black top hat, and I’m in New Orleans in the middle of an Anne Rice novel. I’m the vampire Jejune, consort to Lestat and Louis, leader of a vast empire of vampires, feeding on all the insanely boring and tasteless people of the world.

Unfortunately, some people like to pretend bad things, so that others will feel sympathy for them, bake cakes for them, send flowers to them, or let them go home early. I, however, am not a pretender when it comes to migraines. I can’t even imagine how someone could pretend to be exploding and imploding at the same time (if they can they should be in Cirque du Soleil, because that takes true talent).

My style of migraine, which some people also refer to as a cluster headache (because they cluster themselves together for a few months, then go on sabbatical, then come back for more), occurs on the left side of my head. It starts as a dull throbbing, more of a tease-ache, that tells me if I don’t get medicated soon, I’m going to regret it.

It then unfolds, like a bad novel. Multiple characters, subplots, climaxes, dénouements, it spreads its tendrils out across the left side of my face (the migraine, not the bad novel), snaking its way into my left eye, my left eardrum, and my left temple.

Sounds become muffled as my ear drum begins to pound to the beat of a symphony gone awry. My vision becomes blurry as my eyes tear, trying to wash out the invading menace (not Dennis, the migraine).

My face flushes as if I’ve just heard the naughtiest joke ever told. Streaks of heat shoot through my temple causing veins and arteries to rise to the surface, pulsing and throbbing to the beat of my heart. And then, the pain hits.

The pain is not unlike what Cary Elwes went through in The Princess Bride, when he was subjected to the pain amplifier down in the pit of despair. (if you haven’t realized by now, I am the master of obscure analogies)

Once the pain begins, there really is no way to stop it. I am down for the count. My left eye continues to tear, and becomes increasingly bloodshot, as if I’ve been on an all night drinking binge (though apparently only drinking from the left side of my mouth). My left cheek starts to alternately tense and relax, finally slacking into a downward flow as if a stroke has rendered it useless. (Although, since the right side of the body is controlled by the left side of the brain, one would think my right cheek would collapse, but migraines break all the rules.)

The blood vessels in my temple strain against the pressure as my heart continues to send blood to the side of the brain that really doesn’t need any more pressure.

And then, the vice is turned. I find myself laying face down, head between huge metal plates attached to screws. Slowly those screws are turning and the plates are moving closer and closer to each other, with my head still between them. I start to feel the pressure building. I’m like a roast inside a pressure cooker. The flames are on high, and the steam is flying out of the whistle so fast it’s gone supersonic. Dogs in the neighborhood start howling and barking as I get closer and closer to blowing my top.

Suddenly, the metal plates are gone. The dull ache has returned. It feels like a torn fingernail, that pulses and throbs, again to the beat of my tell tale heart. The throbbing that won’t go away, but stabs at my senses over and over. And then, the nausea hits.

I rarely throw up (except for a Cadbury Cream Egg incident, which I’ll bring up at Easter). Even after a night of heavy alcohol consumption (which is usually only on a day ending in “ay”) I never throw up. I was actually born with the anti-hangover gene. While technically a recessive gene, not unlike the gene for green eyes, blonde hair, or hitchhikers thumb, the anti-hangover gene was quite the envy of my college aged friends. Unfortunately, migraine is an “e” word (despite the fact that it starts with an M, if you turn the M sideways it resembles an E enough to be considered e-ville), and breaks all those rules, including rules that are genetically encoded in my body.

I’m not sure who came up with the term dry heaves, but whoever they are, they should be locked away in Azkaban (snaps to Harry Potter) for all eternity. Just hearing those two words, dry heaves, is enough to send one running to the nearest restroom. Rarely are my heaves dry. (note: those readers with delicate or weak stomachs are advised that the next section contains vivid and graphic language)

Dry heaves would indicate that absolutely nothing comes out in the process more clinically described as reverse peristalsis (and just to point out how much of a nerd I am, I didn’t even have to look that one up. It’s part of my daily vocabulary). For those who have not incorporated this…

Main Entry: peri•stal•sis
Pronunciation: “per-&-‘stol-s&s, -‘stäl-, -‘stal-
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural peri•stal•ses /-“sEz/
Etymology: New Latin, from Greek peristaltikos peristaltic
Date: 1859
: successive waves of involuntary contraction passing along the walls of a hollow muscular structure (as the esophagus or intestine) and forcing the contents onward

Unfortunately, for me, there is nothing dry about a migraine heave.

Let us consider for a moment, bile. Bile is a yellow or greenish viscid alkaline fluid produced in the liver, that aids in the emulsification and absorption of fats. I would assume that people who have had their liver removed for some reason would not be subject to dry heaves. I, on the other hand (or on the same hand – I am really not sure why you have to switch hands), have my liver, and get to have what I’d like to refer to as bile heaves. Sounds a lot better than dry heaves doesn’t it?

When my stomach and esophagus start to work in reverse, out comes the bile. A yucky, gooey, not dissimilar to Ghostbusters slime, comes spraying out of my body. The bitter e-ville sensation washes across my taste buds, causing me to heave again. (note: the taste buds have the ability to sense salty, sour, sweet, bitter, and umami – bile most likely falling into the sour and bitter category) (and that’s umami, not unagi for all you sushi fans who might get confused)

Quickly I down a glass of water, because when I was younger, I was told that throwing up water was better than a dry heave, and old habits are hard to break. The only benefit to drinking water during a period of nausea is that now you have something to mix with the bile before it comes back up.

Personally, if I know that whatever I drink is going to come right back up, I want it to be something that tastes good, or at least can mask the taste of the bile. My choice is rum. Not the nasty Bacardi gold rum, or the little bunny foo-foo Malibu rum that is so sweet I could throw it up even if I didn’t have a migraine…I’m talking about the Lieutenant Commander of rums, no, the Captain of rums. Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum. Not only is this rum so crisp and refreshing that it can be shot or served on the rocks without a mixer, but it has the ability to overpower the bile, and eliminate any bitter taste of green digestive enzyme. The side benefit to using rum over water, is that you get a nice healthy buzz while you remain crouched over the toilet.

Soon the nausea passes and I feel like my body has expended the last remaining ounce of energy left. I’m not unlike the battery on my laptop, that is like a poor player that struts and frets its hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. At this point I either collapse on the bathroom floor, or somehow stagger my way back to my bed or my desk (in the event I am at work during this brutal attack, in which case you may be wondering where I keep my rum, but that’s really not any of your concern right now), and lay my head down and close my eyes.

The tears start to stream down my face, as my body can simply withstand no more. I lay there panting like a rabid mongrel dog from a Stephen King novel (obviously Cujo), with small drips of saliva (another digestive enzyme but not one that is produced in the liver, nor one that is green) trickling down my dead left cheek. Obviously, I have my head left side down, otherwise the saliva would be defying gravity to flow down my left cheek, and despite the fact that saliva is a very cool enzyme, it’s not cool enough to break the laws of physics (I cannot change the laws of physics captain!).

Co-workers walk by with wide eyes and puzzled looks on their faces, as they see a little puddle of saliva and residual bile from my earlier heaving episode, wondering if they should call for help, or bring me a towel (because at Delta, it’s laid out like that).

As I continue to sit, and drool, and silently moan in pain (I’m once again screaming lonely in my nightmare), I realize that now the enzymes (including some leftover rum) are beginning to drip onto my polyester slacks (don’t ask why I’m wearing polyester…perhaps I became a flight attendant in my spare time, who knows).

Unfortunately, because polyester is made from multiple esters, and esters being any of a class of often fragrant compounds that can be represented by the formula RCOOR and that are usually formed by the reaction between an acid and an alcohol with elimination of water, I am in the position of having digestive enzymes reacting with acids and alcohols, and a terrible burning sensation ensues on my thigh. (ok, very obscure, I know, but you’ve read this far and haven’t stopped, so I’m trying to see how much I can get away with)

I glance over at the clock and see that’s it’s 8:05am. I lift my head up, send an email to the team, and tell them I’m going home with a headache. Thankfully they all have my address and know where to send the flowers and cake.

The Alphabet Song – Part II

There isn’t a part one. Well, there was, but it was crap. Not that part two is any better.

After the rain clouds have Burst in the sky, out Comes the sun and Dries up all the rain.

Even though you thought I was Fooling you with that rhyme, the Goal of the poem, is not to keep time.

How can you expect me to know every Itsy, bitsy thing Just because I’m the King?

Lately I’ve been thinking that Most of the work done around here is done by No one. That’s right. The Only one who seems to have a grasp on what is Possible is the Queen.

but her problem is that she Refuses to let anyone else offer advice, or do anything to Steal her Thunder.

honestly she really does Underestimate the Value of a good companion.

When will she ever learn that Xenon headlights are better for night driving?

Yesterday is too late – if she doesn’t get with it the Zephyr in the sky at night will hit her.

Chicken Stock

An annual festival of poultry bands, from around the world.

Peace, Love and Olive Oil

Genre Bands Attending
50’s/60’s Groups The Chicken Breasts, The Chickenelles, The Scramblers, The Wish Bones
80’s Pop Groups Gobble Gobble, The Eggrythmics, Le Chik
Acoustic Boneless-Skinless, Elton Hen
Alternative / Hippy The Bouillon Cubes, Free Range, Chicken Stock (headliner)
Ambient The Basting Project
Asiatic Chicken Fried Rice
Celtic The Cornish Game Hens
Classical The Quailish Quartet, Bird of a Feather
Country Western The Dixie Chicks
Crossover Band with Cow Drummer Chicken Fried Steak
Dance / Trance À La King
Disco The Teriyaki Twisters, Meringue
Electronic Dumpling Mode
Euro Bands Cordon Bleu, Chicken Kiev, The Cacciatore Crew, New Chicks on the Block
Grunge Stuffed, The Casseroles, Hard Boiled, White Meat
New Age The Croquettes
Pop / top40’s Chicken Noodle Soup
Punk The Little Dumplings, Wild Turkey
RAP / R&B Run KFC, bbQ, Finger Likin’ Gud
Religious / Gospel Divine Pâté
Soul Little Chicken
Stoner Bands Baked Chicken, Fried Chicken (cover band for Baked Chicken)
Youth Chorus Giblets

An Alarming Trend in Tattoos

SACRAMENTO, CA – For the past three months, Kit Harkins, owner and lead artist at Ink Me Up, has seen an alarming increase in operating expenses. “It’s like watching the prices at the gas station. Ink costs have risen almost 200% in less than six months, even henna products are becoming costly.

Kit also says she’s concerned by the growing number of temporary tattoo artists that have been opening shops around town. “These guys are taking my business because you could get enough temp tats to last a year for the cost of a real one.

This increase in product cost is taking a toll on Sacramento area design houses. Artists from all over the city have seen their profits evaporate as costs for a standardized vial of Focus Black have jumped from $6.95 on average to over $58.00.

But what is causing this price increase? Michael Bane of Ink, Inc., a national wholesale ink supply company, says the main cause is the expanding waistline of America.

People are getting heavier, which means arms are larger around, back skin is stretched tighter, and even ankles are bulkier than only 5 years ago. If you’re buying product for a basic tribal arm band, you’re likely using 1.5 to 2x the normal amount of ink. That’s hitting our buyers hard at the cash register, because increasing customer fees will drive them to alternative options.

Michael says the henna market, which typically has no supply constraints, is also feeling the pain. As customers move to temporary tattoo options, the demand for henna has sent prices to over $40 per standardized vial.

But the real concern, says Michael, are the disturbing reports about watered down inks. “The FDA contacted us about a month ago on a case involving a Chicago-based shop that was using a 75% ink to 25% mineral oil blend.  Essentially they were reducing costs by watering down the ink. The problem is that those designs will only remain visible for about a month before the mineral oil breaks down the ink.

A spokesman for the FDA, who regulates and licenses tattoo artists, told us they had seen eight cases from the Chicago area of tattoos that went from crisp and clear designs to a puddle of black. Customers were understandably irate.

It started out as a tribute to one of the greatest artists of our time, but as you can see, now it just looks like a hot black mess.” Illinois resident Carl D. showed us what used to be a life-sized tattoo of Elvis’ face, on his back. Now it looks like Carl has a bruise the size of a dinner plate. “There’s nothing I can do now except get it lasered off, but they’re tellin’ me it will take more than two years to clean it up. It’s gonna be agony!

Obesity in the country is at an all time high, and as bodies expand, tattoo shops around the country are doing what they can to stay in business. One store owner we talked to in Cleveland, where one in three hundred residents have at least one tattoo, said he’s exploring another option for conserving ink. “We get about ten to twelve customers a day at the main shop. I’ve done a couple experiments with increasing the distance between stipples.

Stipples refers to the art style typically used in tattoo work, wherein the needle is dotted across the skin as it injects ink. The owner continues, “By increasing the distance we’re actually able to use about 1/3rd less ink to cover the same surface area. Depending on the nature of the tattoo, the additional gap isn’t even noticeable, and the customer won’t require as much touch up work years down the road.

billboardWhatever method is used, artists from around the country have expressed their concerns about ink costs. One group in Florida has even joined forces with Fat Fighters, LLC. on a consumer marketing campaign at getting people to avoid the fast food bulge. Signs and billboards throughout Florida read…

Music Makes a People

I originally published this in 2003, and it’s long, so grab a soda and sit for a while. I felt that during this critical time in our country, when separation is becoming the norm, instead of inclusion it might be time to remind everyone that Music Makes a People Come Together. Because look around…everywhere you turn it’s heartache, it’s everywhere that you go…

Also note: If you are able to accurately count the number of musical references contained herein, you might win a prize.

Ma ma se, Ma ma sa, ma ma coo sa (Mama-say mama-sah ma-ma-coo-sah). Some of the most expressive words ever put to music (note: these words should not be mistaken for mecca lecca hi mecca hiney ho, which were expressive, yet never put to music).

Michael JacksonI want to spend a little time discussing the meaning of this phrase, this poetry in motion as it were and if you will, and the very critical place it holds in the balance of our universe. (note: for the unenlightened, this phrase comes from the great Michael Jackson, although borrowed from previous music samples)

As I am fond of doing, let me first consult the book. I am, of course, referring to the Alpha and Omega of books…Merriam-Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary (note: I am sure there will be those of you who are sons of preacher men, and will wanna be startin’ somethin’ with me for referring to this as “The Book”, but nothing you could say could tear me away from my god, my god, because literally, if god was one of us, or if god is a DJ and life is a dance floor, I think he/she/it would be OK with me making reference to multiple sources of lyrics).

Additionally, I find it valuable for us to slightly condense and/or modify this set of words, to help clarify the denotation, for you the reader. What we would come up with as a more apropos representation of the phonetic is “mama say, mama SA, ma ma coo ça.” While the difference is subtle, it will allow us a more cohesive representation of the true meaning of the phrase.

Those of you who were with us back on Mother’s Day, learned the origin and meaning behind that very special day and the word mother. This is the term we will begin with. Mama. While technically slang, or baby talk, as seen in the definition below, mama is a perfectly acceptable replacement for the colloquial mother (note: not the mother superior, who is a nun and not a real mother).

Main Entry: ma·ma
Variant(s): or mam·ma /’mä-m&, chiefly British m&-‘m[a’]/
Function: noun
Etymology: baby talk
Date: 1579

Who could dispute that some of the most important words of our time would include a reference to the holy and wonderful mother of creation, the mother earth? No one, that’s who. And if they did, then they obviously don’t believe in life after love and aren’t a part of this great and wonderful boogie rhythm nation that we call the United States. Because we’re never gonna survive unless we get a little crazy. (note: the attentive reader will notice that mama is a noun, and we all know that a noun’s a special kind of word, it’s any name you’ve ever heard, and you might find it quite interesting, a noun’s a person place or thing.)

Next, let’s schlemiel and schlimazel our way over to the word “say”. While you may think you know what this word means (“Why yes, I do! It’s the present tense of the action verb to say, meaning to verbalize thought through the mouth!”), you really don’t. The book defines say as:

Main Entry: say
Pronunciation: ‘sA, Southern also ‘se
Function: verb
Inflected Form(s): said /’sed, esp when subject follows s&d/; say·ing /’sA-i[ng]/; says /’sez, sometimes ‘sAz, esp when subject follows s&z/
Etymology: Middle English, from Old English secgan; akin to Old High German sagEn to say, Lithuanian sakyti, Greek ennepein to speak, tell
Date: before 12th century
transitive senses
1 a : to express in words b : to state as opinion or belief

You will notice, no doubt, that this verb stems from numerous languages, and is therefore an important word in the world. Expressions and beliefs are some of the founding notions of our information society. The first amendment of our constitution provides for the ability to freely express our beliefs, without retaliation or condemnation, no matter how divergent those beliefs may be – it’s an up thing. Kinda makes you think…Baby, I’m the lucky one. Obviously, society has found the great value and importance of the verb, say.
(Editorial note: I had to pause at this point because my phone was ringing…it was Rhiannon from Vienna calling…)

Next we see that the reference to the holy and wonderful mother of creation is so important, our phrase repeats it again.

So next up is “sa”. If you were to capitalize both letters to “SA”, you might wind up with the city code for San Antonio, Texas. You may be asking yourself at this point, Who’s Johnny? Or you may ask yourself, what does our phrase have to do with Texas, being that we’re talking about words of IMPORTANCE here? If you were to ask yourself these things, you’d be talking to yourself, quite possibly sharing the secrets that you keep while you’re talking in your sleep, which is a sign of insanity, and you obviously have too much free time and are probably sitting around on the beach drawing circles in the sand. But what else could these two letters mean or represent? Again, let us look to the book.

Main Entry: SA
Function: abbreviation
Latin sine anno without year, without date (everlasting, eternal)

Purple People EaterWell of course! The holy and wonderful mama, who speaks and expresses thought and belief and understanding and compassion without judgment, does so without end. World without end. Everlasting and eternal beliefs. Everlasting and eternal creation. The meaning is so obvious, if it were a one eyed one horned flying purple people eater, it might have bitten us.

Next we come to the doublet of ma’s. While you may be tempted to attribute this to the contracted slang for mama, don’t (note: at this point you probably wish you could turn back time and not give into the temptations, but you can’t, so you’re just going to have to face the music and hope that love will save the day). This word has rich meaning in and of itself. Once again, let us consult the book.

Main Entry: ma
Pronunciation: m[a’]
Usage: foreign term
Etymology: French
: my

This is truly a very interesting word to be incorporated into our phrase. My. Clearly what we see here is that use of a foreign language is critical in identifying that our phrase is for ALL people, not just for those of us who speak English as a primary language (note: obviously our phrase is encouraging us to go west, and shake our groove thing all across the world).

Additionally, by selecting French as the language of choice, our phrase adds a touch of class and refinement to its meaning. Additionally, on top of the previous additionally, the word “my” represents ownership, belonging, membership, self realization. As we all know, self awareness is one of the key factors to determining life, as defined by Star Trek, so let’s go Star Trekkin’ across the universe, boldly going forward ’cause we can’t find reverse. The ability to be aware of one’s self, and one’s place in the universe created by the holy and wonderful mama, is critical to the understanding of our phrase.

Next we come to one of the more interesting words in our phrase, “coo.”

Main Entry: coo
Pronunciation: ‘kü
Function: intransitive verb
Etymology: imitative
Date: 1670
1 : to make the low soft cry of a dove (which is representative of love and peace)
2 : to talk fondly, amorously (a love profusion)

You may have initially thought that this was a contracted form of cool, cootie, or Hacoona Matatta (what a wonderful phrase). It is not, so don’t. This word is big, it’s beautiful, and you’re gonna love it! Representative of peace, love, care and fondness, one should not be surprised that the holy and wonderful mama who eternally speaks of compassion and non-judgement would be juxtaposed with this word. (And in case you didn’t know, mother earth’s love is better than chocolate) This word is not dissimilar to a ray of light, cutting through the darkness of the world, and illuminating us with a higher love. Love is a many splendid thing. Love, lifts us up where we belong, all we need is love. You should already see that all things just keep getting better in our magical phrase.

Finally we come to the final word.

Main Entry: ça
Pronunciation: s[a’]
Usage: foreign term
Etymology: French
: it

You will note the diacritical mark on the first letter of this word, as again, we note the use of a foreign language to remind us of the worldly nature of our phrase. Also you will note that the word is again in French, reminding us that the French are very important in the world (Voulez-vous danser avec moi?).

A phrase can never be complete without a blend of both first and third person. As we noted before with “ma” translated to “my”, there is a word which represents the self, the oneness that we feel when we look at the man in the mirror and see ourselves staring back at us with the look of love. Here we are seeing the inclusion of the third person “it“, which represents not the masculine, not the feminine, but the neutral.

In the eyes of the loving and wonderful mama, we are all equal, we are family. Not created differently than anyone else, but created from one and the same. The use of the word “it” reminds us all that despite our differences, we are all uniquely unique in our uniqueness. (note: at this point you probably wish you could take one moment in time to ponder this paradox, but you can’t, so keep reading)

And so, accepting this phrase as exceptional, meaningful and the whole truth and nothing but the truth (would I lie to you?), let us take a brief moment to explore some of the other musical ramifications on life. Not all music is positive and happy. While the phrase that we have recently analyzed gives us a sense of peace, life, meaning, goodness and grace, there are those bits of word put to music, which fall into the “e-ville” category.

Darkness falls across the land, the midnight hour is close at hand, creatures crawl in search of blood, to terrorize ya’lls neighborhood. And whosoever shall be found, without the soul for getting down, must stand and face the hounds of hell, and rot inside a corpse shell. The foul stench is in the air, the funk of 40,000 years, and grisly ghouls from every tomb are closing in to seal your doom. And though you fight to stay alive, your body starts to shiver, for no known mortal can resist, the evil of the Thriller.

OK…what the H-E-double hockey sticks is THAT?! Calgon, take me away!
(Interjections HEY show excitement YEAH and emotion WOW, they’re generally set apart from a sentence by an exclamation point, or by a comma when the feeling’s not as strong: ignore for a moment that the above lyrics are from one of the best songs of all time and stay within the world of “e” with me a bit longer)

I’m sorry, but that’s just plain SCARY! I hear those words and I”m no longer one of the shiny happy people. I’m in the world of terror, pain, fright, death, and am screaming lonely in my nightmare. When Thriller first came out on video, I was in my middle school days of roller-skating-mania. Every free weekend a group of kids would go over to SportsWorld (which several years later was converted to an ice rink and renamed to the Ice House, which is also a brand of really cheap and repulsive beer, but anyway), and spend several hours spinning right round baby, right round like a record baby right round round round.

Sometimes, the DJ would stop the music, tell everyone to don’t turn around (Oh!Oh! der Kommissar’s in town Oh!Oh!), and skate in “reverse”. This was often a good thing to balance the blisters we were burning on the inside of our ankles. Down in one corner of the skating rink, was a huge movie screen that would descend from the rafters, like a Deus ex Machina, whenever they decided to play a video. Additionally, there was a huge shiny disco ball hanging in the middle of the rink, with little white lights pointed towards it, to provide a glittering light show on the floor. (note: there was also an ultra-cool snack bar that sold hot dogs, burgers, dirty pop, and cotton candy, but this isn’t really integral to the story, so I won’t mention it)

Being that Michael Jackson was mega-popular with the middle school crowd of the 80’s, it’s no wonder that the management at SportsWorld capitalized on the captive audience they had, and played the video as often as they possibly could. And this wasn’t the stripped down video, this was the full length mega-video. In case you weren’t aware, Thriller was the first music video to actually incorporate a plot and spoken story line into the production. In fact, the video starts off with MJ and his girlfriend (note: this may have been Billy Jean, or Valerie, who later turned into a bad girl toot toot beep beep talkin’ bout the sad girl, but we don’t know for sure) taking a little stroll, and coming across a very scary place…a graveyard with zombies and ghouls from every tomb, closing in to seal their doom, (note: notice how the e-ville creeps into everything, even my commentary) and having nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

The video was amazing. Everyone on the skate floor would stop to watch the hero of the movie suddenly grow fangs and start moon walking across the tombstones. Little did we know, that very early in our young lives, we were being introduced to the influence of “e” on the musical industry.

Ironically, there are those who believe that just because the former-archangel Lucifer was the former-angel of music (just call me angel, of the morning angel), that he has a direct influence on our lives by making music inherently e-ville, but that’s just a big load of malarkey, and the only people who believe that are people who obviously got a good job in the city, working for the man every night and day, never lose a minute of sleeping worrying about the way that things might have been if the devil had a blue dress on…oops, I did it again and got a little carried away there…back to our phrase…

By now it should be clear that the human population should rightly hold our phrase as the new mantra of celebration and unity (and while we’re at it, we might as well take a holiday and celebrate). We may not be movie stars, but when it comes to being happy, we are, and a day should never pass that we fail to kneel in front of our crosses, pentagrams, tetragrams, octograms (note: not to be confused with an octagon which would represent a stop in the name of love sign), polymorphic shrines, a father figure of a squatting Buddha, or any other icon which is representative of our own personal beliefs and gives praise to the new moon on blue monday.

I encourage all of you to get up offa that thang, reach up for the sunrise, jump for your love, and sing with me now (note: try to avoid singing this out loud at work, because with these compressed office cubes, voices carry) …

The world goes round and round but some things never change…the joy of living, joy of life, joy of laughing, joy of sight, the joy of Pepsi in your life, the joy of bubbles, joy of fun, the joy of Pepsi on your tongue, the greatest taste sensation under the sun. La la la la la, la la la la la…