*giggle*

I'm so ordering this shirt for myself on Friday when I get paid. Especially since it's 'Surfolk' County Public Schools. And it's 1987.

Personally, I celebrate the man's entire catalog

Although he wasn't talking about the same Michael, Bob Slydell in "Office Space" definitely said it best.

But I don't celebrate Michael Bolton.

I celebrate Michael McDonald.

To me, it doesn't get any better than when he sings, "Ain't No Mountain High Enough."

And, yes. I own BOTH Motown CDs.

Now, I know what you're thinking.

"Jacque ... that man ruined the Doobie Brothers. He destroyed an American institution."

You call this destroying?



That is musical magic. Much like Ricky Bobby in "Talledega Nights," when Michael McDonald wakes up in the morning, he pisses excellence.

Excellence like this gem from the 1986 movie, "Running Scared."



I know what you're thinking.

"Jacque, that movie is great on its own. It didn't need a song to make it better! It's got Billy Crystal and Gregory Hines for the love of God."

You ... would be wrong. That song makes the perfect compliment to an already fantastic flick.

Play that YouTube vid and you try to tell me you're not chair dancing -- even a little. It's impossible. The power of Michael compels you. You can't sit there with a frown when "Sweet Freedom" starts to play. You'll be humming it and realizing that all of those times you thought that genius destoryed the Doobie Brothers, you were very, very wrong.

The Dead Neighbor Proxy

Seeing this post about the word "vajayjay" on my friend Jim's blog this morning reminded me of one of my life-governing principles.

Sure, I've got the life-governing principles on men.

1. Don't trust a man with two first names, or a man who has a first name for a last name.
2. Don't trust a man with a standalone mustache.
3. Don't trust a man who has, or had (and found it to be the pinnacle of fashion) a mullet.
4. Don't trust a man who wears douchebag sunglasses.
5. Don't trust a man who uses more styling products than you do.

But one of my other life-governing principles involves this woman. Oprah.

Maybe it's not JUST Oprah, but she is the most powerful vehicle for the proxy.

Oprah is a very, very powerful woman.

In token, most American women are sheep.

Oprah puts her "O" on a book, and millions of people run to the closest Barnes and Noble, Wal-Mart, Target, grocery store, flea market and what-have-you to buy a copy.

Oprah says, "Ham will make you lose weight! I love ham!" and no grocery store in suburbia has ham on the shelves.

Oprah says, "Stripes are the hot fashion this season" and every woman you pass who isn't in a velvet track suit is wearing stripes of various widths and colors.

Oprah says, "HEEEEEYYYYY! LAAAADIEEEES!! GO KILL YA' NAAAAAY-BOR!!" and I swear to GOD as I sit here, there would be dead neighbors all over the United States. Everywhere you went, there would be dead neighbors.

All because of the power she wields. Hence the "Dead Neighbor Proxy." This, naturally, leads me to label her as a terrorist. I have middle-aged women in my neighborhood. I'm a moving target.

Don't get me wrong, though. It's not just Oprah's fault. It's her legion of militant, sheep-like followers that are equally at fault. It's not going to be Oprah that kills me by poisoning my banana bread with strychnine. It's going to be the sweet older lady who lives two townhouses down from me. It could be my mother or my sister, who are both HUGE, HUGE Oprah devotees. I can't tell you how many times I've been handed a book because, "I saw it on Oprah," or had a story start out with, "I was watching Oprah today after work, and ..."

But I am wearing stripes today. Not because Oprah told me. Because I haven't worn this shirt yet and I got it for $1.99 at New York and Co.