The Day Elvis Died

It was the summer of '77 and I was twenty, working a throwaway job to earn a few shekels between my junior and senior years of college. I didn't drive yet and even if I had, I didn't own a car. I didn't have a boyfriend either. Stuck like a one-legged mosquito decorating a molasses spill in the cloying gardenia-scented heat and humidity of an Atlanta August, I boarded public transportation at eight thirty each morning on North Druid Hills Road where I occupied an apartment with my mother. I rode to Lenox Square on Peachtree because I sold footwear at a freestanding Pix shoe store across the street from the shopping center.

My daily routine was to walk from the spot in the Lenox Square parking lot where the bus disgorged its passengers over to an open-air portion of the upscale mall. I'd head for Walgreens and enjoy a big Southern breakfast of eggs over medium, grits, bacon, hashbrowns, toast, and several cups of fresh, hot coffee. If someone had left a newspaper in the booth, I'd read the funnies and attempt to solve the Jumble. If there was no paper I'd read a chapter in my library book. By then it would be nearly ten o'clock, time to walk across Peachtree and punch in at Pix.

How quaint the short-lived illusions of youth! How swiftly the dancing clear freshets of innocence become roiling murky rivers of experience.

I remember what I was wearing on Tuesday, August 16th: a midi-length ash-pink polyester gabardine skirt that buttoned all the way up the front, bought on sale at Casual Corner, paired with a white short-sleeved sweater that our jaded forty-something assistant manager maintained I "filled out real good." I recall that in the late afternoon, near quitting time, I was fiddling with merchandise in the back left corner of the store where the size nines segued into the size tens, standing right smack underneath the speaker that a radio station came out of. (All day we listened to a quasi-conservative cross between elevator music and pablum rock. Tepid tunes. No hard stuff and certainly no rockabilly; at least half our customers were genteel blue-haired ladies. No Elvis.)

By the way I rarely if ever gave up a brain cell to Elvis Presley. To people of my generation Elvis was as much a part of the landscape as the Vietnam War, Watergate, bell bottoms, the energy crisis, and the hippie subculture. Myself, I had been a diehard Neil Diamond fan since I was fourteen. Elvis was not on my musical radar. But who even marginally aware of their surroundings in the '60s and '70s was entirely immune to the multitalented, raven-haired Elvis Aaron Presley -- now brooding, now playful, generous to a fault, a cocktail of raw sexuality blended with holiness religion -- and his unorthodox romantic relationship with Priscilla Beaulieu, the quintessential beehived and bedroom-eyed child bride? Elvis the legend, not to mention his artistic repertoire, had saturated the atmosphere like oxygen. He was ubiquitous as rain and the roses it fell on.

But as I stood biding my time arranging shoes in their cardboard coffins on an ordinary Tuesday, wishing it was time to clock out because I had plans to spend the evening with friends, the radio announcer's voice came out of the speaker and what he said made me forget the soles and my job and my friends and our plans and for all I know, my own name. Honestly, a snapshot of that moment is framed in my mental "This Is Your Life" photo album; since that time when I think of Elvis Presley I smell shoe leather. Because what the announcer said was that Elvis, age forty-two, had been found dead on the floor at Graceland that very day. Then from the speaker over my head came the mournful Are You Lonesome Tonight and I remember that my throat closed like I was going to cry.

In the ensuing thirty-one years Elvis has become immured, lodged like a deep reservoir of unshed tears in the collective consciousness. It is as though time still cranes its lovely long neck for him, endlessly searching the horizon for his beloved and iconic form to reappear. Some say he never left at all. In reality he lost his way, became adipose and drug-addled, ending up a pathetic parody of himself before perishing alone and untimely. But in dreams he remains the virile symbol of a world in flux, the wholesome yet incendiary standardbearer of change as cataclysmic as it was inevitable.

I understood none of this when I was twenty. Forty-two might as well have been eighty; surely at such an advanced age one's life was over anyway. I did the math and realized I would turn forty-two in 1999 ... almost 2000. In 1977 to speak that year-number summoned images of a science fiction movie. It could have no impact upon what I was convinced would be my own exceptional foray through a charmed and age-exempt existence. How quaint the short-lived illusions of youth! How swiftly the dancing clear freshets of innocence become roiling murky rivers of experience.

The only Elvis album I have ever owned is none of the sexy stuff but rather, gospel hymns. I can't find it but I know it's somewhere in my 250-disc collection. When he sings of heaven I like to envision him there, young again and beautiful, pure and at peace, robed in the gauzy bliss of redemption, not broken down, sick and sad. In many ways I equate Elvis's truncated earthly journey with hazy halcyon time-drops, shimmering mirages that twinkle beguilingly at the edge of darkness when I glance in the rear-view mirror of advancing years, back toward long gone glory days. The days that came and went on silent feet before August 16th, 1977 ... the day Elvis died.

This Time I Really Meme It

Time to finish the meme of fours, y'all. The one in which I was invited to participate by dear Diane Aldred, and which started here and continued here. This is the ground we have yet to cover: four places I have vacationed, four of my favorite dishes, and four blogs I visit every day.

I should be able to do this in a single -- albeit longish -- post. Then we'll be done. It's okay to be happy about that.

So here goes.

FOUR PLACES I HAVE VACATIONED: First let me say, in our family we have perfected the concept of the mini-vacation. Personally I do not like air travel and only go that route when absolutely necessary, like a year ago. I would prefer not to drive all over creation either. With few exceptions, I would rather sleep in my own bed. I don't care for overly-touristy places, nor do I enjoy the types of attractions where you have to stand around in line half the day to ride a death-defying roller coaster or such like, and everyone is sweaty and thirsty but a watery Coca-Cola costs five dollars. I've seen Mickey Mouse and have no need to see him again.

Half the fun is watching bold pigeons lurch around on the floor beneath the metal tables and chairs, their feet sticking in the powdered sugar that coats everything.

Plus which, we have found that with four grown children in addition to large and close-knit clans on both sides of our family tree, ample opportunities present themselves throughout the year to "get out of Dodge" for a day or two or four. What with major holidays, weddings, reunions, graduations, birthdays, anniversaries, and various other milestones and events occurring more or less nonstop, we find ourselves packing our bags at least a dozen times a year. I need a vacation from all of that.

The above notwithstanding, we've managed to do some decent vacationing over the years, and to have some fun along the way, and these are four of the places where that's happened:

[1] Chicago, Illinois ... I've written about this fascinating town before but I don't mind doing it again. I love Chicago and given a choice of destinations, that's where I'll go. You may keep your sun-drenched resorts, your sugar-sand beaches, your exotic ports of call. Keep London, Paris, Rome, and Vienna (well, I would like to see Vienna). I'll take the City of Broad Shoulders ... windy, raw, impossibly busy, improbably stylish, incessantly adventurous. Hunkered gamely by the thrashing lake, sparkling like a million fairies, Chicago thrums with an energy so infectious it seems to seep into your bone marrow. There is so much to do! Great shopping, wonderful restaurants, world-class museums, exciting sports teams, sophisticated performing arts, incredible architecture, fantastic sightseeing ... you may run out of time and money but you won't run out of options.

Your breath is taken away at the first sight of the Chicago skyline -- day or night, no matter the season, whether an aerial view or looming spectacularly on approach from the sprawling 'burbs -- and you never quite get it back until you leave. And then your chest aches to have your breath taken away again. At least mine does.

[2] Ocean City, New Jersey ... I like the tawdry excitement and endless variety of boardwalks, and I love the ocean, so Ocean City is a fun place to go. For two years we lived in South Jersey, a mere forty-minute drive from "the shore." Many was the time TG and I would get home from work, pack a picnic and our chairs and the kids, and head for the beach. We'd get there in plenty of time to find a private spot, eat our dinner, take a stroll where the waves meet the sand, and watch the fading-day sky turn its stunning corals and pinks and purples before "walking the boards" and then heading home.

Sometimes, depending on our mood, we'd forego the surf 'n sand part and go straight to the boards. We'd dine on pizza at Mack & Manco, then saunter aimlessly for awhile, people-watching, before indulging in a tub of Johnson's caramel corn or a frozen custard from Kohr Bros. Once, for our anniversary, TG and I spent the night at a bed and breakfast close to the beach. It was a June weekend so cold and damp we had to wear sweatshirts, but what glorious fun.

[3] Baton Rouge and New Orleans, Louisiana ... My mother grew up in Baton Rouge and numbers of our kinfolk still live in that neck of the woods. This has precipitated many lovely trips to Louisiana, a state and culture I dearly love. I have wonderful memories of visiting my grandparents and uncles, the fabulous meals they have prepared, and the colorful stories they have told.

Invariably when we venture into that part of the world we take in the impressive Art Deco state house -- the tallest capitol building in the United States, completed in 1932 -- where Huey P. Long was assassinated. We stroll the grounds admiring centuries-old live oaks dripping airy tangles of Spanish moss. We climb the 48 limestone steps, each engraved with the name of a State of the Union (Alaska and Hawaii were added later to the top step). In the lobby near the heavy brass banks of elevators we run our hands over the cool bullet-pocked marble walls marking the place where "The Kingfish" was shot down on a September night in 1935. Then we ascend to the observation deck where we watch hulking tankers queue up to drink deeply from refineries along the banks of the muddy Mississippi.

(I look there longer than usual because it was in the Exxon refinery that my Papaw labored for decades to feed his family. It was there that in the early '70s he suffered a grievous burn over one third of his body. From the bird's eye vantage point of the observation deck -- especially if my mother is with me -- we'll crane our necks eastward toward Greenoaks Memorial Park where my Mamaw and Papaw, alongside Mamaw's only sibling, Genevieve, and her husband Harold, sleep till Jesus comes. Later we will visit the graves.)

The next day we'll sortie early for an excursion down I-10 to New Orleans, mainly to gorge on beignets and café au lait at Cafe Du Monde across from Jackson Square. Half the fun is watching bold pigeons lurch around on the floor beneath the metal tables and chairs, their feet sticking in the powdered sugar that coats everything. Later we'll walk the streets of the French Quarter and buy still-warm pralines -- thick and lumpy with pecan halves, so sweet they'll cross your eyes -- from Aunt Sally's, all the while trying not to melt into puddles and slide through a shimmering slick of heat and sweat into the mighty Mississippi, to be lost among the rusty red barges. Such are only a few of the joys to be found in the Crescent City.

[4] Charleston, South Carolina ... since TG and I honeymooned in Charleston the third week in June of 1979, it has been a favorite place of mine. TG, an Ohioan, having spent four years as a cadet at The Citadel, has many fond memories of Charleston. So when we go we usually swing by the campus, pass through the Lesesne Gate, park across from the Summerall Chapel or maybe drive around to McAlister Field House, and walk a bit (depending on how hot it is). TG will begin to reminisce and I'll try to pretend I haven't heard it all before. Sometimes he'll happen across someone he knows ... but not very often, anymore.

For our 25th wedding anniversary in 2004, our children pooled their resources and sent us to Charleston for a few days. We stayed at the landmark Francis Marion Hotel overlooking Citadel Square, where we spent our honeymoon. It was fun to walk on the Battery at night and sneak peeks into the windows of antebellum mansions that face Charleston Harbor. There's unique shopping in the open-air market, architecture and history to die for (I love the cemeteries), and so many great restaurants you don't know where to start. One day we walked all the way out Calhoun Street to the water, where we watched freighters as tall and wide as buildings lumbering out toward the sea lanes. Afterwards we were so hot and tired, we rented a rickshaw to take us back to our hotel. We got rained on as we rode, and it felt so good. Charming city.

Mix and toss this all together until all the ingredients are blended evenly. Serve with a raspberry-walnut vinaigrette.

FOUR OF MY FAVORITE DISHES: Let me say here, I could go on for eight hundred more pages about food. I won't do that but I could. Just so you know. Diane will be careful after this how she throws those meme tags around.

[1] Chili. Nothing fancy ... it just happens to be my favorite. I make it with lots of browned ground chuck, cans of chili-hot beans and chili-seasoned diced tomatoes, and an extra packet of powdered chili seasoning to give it lots of spice. The trick is to assemble the chili early and slow-cook it all day in the crock pot. Then you ladle your portion onto a layer of Fritos and on top you put shredded cheddar, banana pepper rings, maybe some diced onion, and a dollop of sour cream. So good it will make your tongue slap your brains out.

[2] Banana Pudding. If there were only one dessert in the world, for me this would be it. And again, don't feel as though you have to get fancy. I know cooked pudding is better, but I don't care. Buy a box (or two) of Nilla Vanilla Wafers, twelve to fifteen firm bananas, and several boxes of Jello instant vanilla (or french vanilla) pudding. You'll need lots of ice-cold milk.

Generously layer cookies and banana slices in the bottom and up the sides of a huge bowl. The huger the better. When your layers are up to the tippy-top, prepare the pudding and pour it over the bananas and cookies, making sure to jiggle the bowl so the liquid goes all down in the crevices. Pop it in the fridge. You can put Cool Whip on yours if you want. I prefer real meringue but I'll eat it plain. I will eat a wheelbarrow full of banana pudding, plain. Mercy.

[3] Shepherd's Pie. Ahhhh ... the epitome of comfort food. I wish you could see the happy looks on my family's faces when they walk into the house (especially in winter but we had this dish two days ago) and realize I have made a huge pan of Shepherd's Pie for supper. Again you start with lots of ground chuck, cooked. When it's nice and brown and you've drained it, put it in the bottom of a big casserole dish. To that add one can of cream of mushroom soup. Mix that all up. Open up a great big can of Hanover Blue Lake fancy cut green beans. Drain that and spread the green beans in a layer over the soupy hamburger.

Make a big batch of mashed potatoes. Use regular brown Idaho spuds and do not peel them; just scrub and chunk them and throw the chunks in some boiling water. When they're soft, pour them into a colander you previously placed in the sink.  To the still-hot pan you cooked the taters in, add a stick of real butter and some milk that you've melted together. Put the potatoes back into the pot. Throw in some kosher salt and coarse-ground black pepper. Mash the potatoes with a masher and have your mixer ready. Blend the potatoes for a while, then add a lot of sour cream. Whip them up some more and taste to make sure you detect the ting of the salt. If you don't taste it, add some more salt and whip some more.

When the potatoes are ready, spread them thickly over the green bean layer. Go all the way to the top of your casserole dish, which should now weigh about twelve pounds. Swirl the creamy potatoes real pretty on top. You can add cheese if you want but in my opinion it's "a bit superfluous, really."  You want to bake this at 350 but first, place the dish on a flat pan to protect the bottom of your oven. The Shepherd's Pie will bubble up and a little bit will run out as it bakes. You want this to happen. Make a bunch of Jiffy cornbread muffins to go with it. Your grateful family will line up to kiss your hand (and yes, they will get mashed potatoes on it). The leftovers (if any exist) are scrumptious too.

[4] Hamburger and a Salad. Since I was a little girl this has been one of my favorite meals. Haul some more of that ground chuck out of the freezer. Season it with plenty of salt and pepper and form generous-sized patties. Put them on a large jellyroll pan and make indentations in the tops with your fingers. Liberally douse the burgers with Worcestershire Sauce and place them in a 350-degree oven. When they have been cooking for about twenty minutes, take them out and turn them over. Mash them down gently with a potato masher -- well, that's what I use -- but be careful because juice will squirt out. Put more Worc Sauce on top and put them back in the oven to cook until they are well done. Or I guess you can grill them if you want.

While the burgers are cooking, prepare a salad with no lettuce involved. Use that crunchy coleslaw in a bag ... the kind that's rough-chopped and has carrot and purple cabbage in it. Dump a bunch of that into a big mixing bowl and add a crisp diced apple (skin on), about a cup of walnuts or sunflower seeds, lots of bite-sized raw broccoli, a cucumber if you have it, and at least a cup of finely-shredded cheddar. You can add whatever else you like, too. It's impossible to do it wrong. Mix and toss this all together until the ingredients are blended evenly. Serve with a raspberry-walnut vinaigrette. (Whoever does not like that kind of dressing can rummage in the door of the fridge until they find what they want.)

Now arrange some substantial but fluffy hamburger buns face-up on a cookie sheet. Butter the buns (tops and bottoms). Take a big block of extra-sharp cheddar out of the fridge and cut one thick slice per hamburger. When the burgers in the oven are done, remove them and set your oven on broil. Put the buttered buns under the broiler but don't forget about them. Add a slice of cheddar to each burger. When the buns have toasted to golden brown, take them out and give each of them a juicy cheesy burger. Allow the buns to get to know the burgers really well before serving. This takes about five minutes.

When you take a big bite of hamburger followed by a forkful of that salad, you're going to wish your tummy would hold more. I promise.

FOUR BLOGS I VISIT EVERY DAY: I don't even visit my own blog every day, but many of the blogs I read faithfully are listed in my blogroll over there on the left. I read others too. You know who you are.

I'm not going to tag anyone. If somebody reads this and wants to answer all these same questions, have at it.

That's all, folks.

For now.

That Long Black Train

Here's an interesting video and a great song. Listen to the words. (Don't you just love it when you're trying to listen to a song and someone says, "Listen to the words!"?)

That's why I said it before you started listening.

Happy Sunday, everyone.

p.s. The artist is Josh Turner.

The Triple-Digit Treatment

"It's not the heat ... it's the stupidity."

Oh my soul. It is so hot in South Carolina. Why exactly do I live in South Carolina? Anyone? Oh yeah ... my house is here. And my family and my dog and my job. And my pillow. Dulled by the heat, I forgot all that for a mo. Soggy apologies.

Yesterday I was invited to report two depositions held at the Kershaw County Courthouse in small but adequately picturesque Camden, South Carolina. I am happy to relate that I was not required to get up early. I hate getting up early. I hate it with the heat of fifteen hundred backyard barbecue grills. No ... I woke up slowly and lolled in bed with my first cup of coffee for thirty blissful minutes before I was obliged to start getting ready.

I stayed cool during my shower, getting dressed, pouring my second cup of coffee, and applying cosmetics to my face ... although I wouldn't have been cool for that last part except for the small personal fan blowing directly on my face. And yes, I live in a rigorously air-conditioned house.

So then it was time to style my hair. The moment of truth. See, I have a lot of hair. I may have too much hair. Why do I have so much hair? Oh yeah ... I am a girl and consequently I do not wear my hair in a boy style. I wear my hair nearly to my shoulders. I aspire to glamour. Unfortunately (at least when it is time to "do" my hair) my tresses are thick and take a long time to dry. This means that in order to finish preparing to go somewhere, after I have taken great pains with my makeup and clothing, I am required to aim a gun-like appliance at my head and blast it with HOT air.

She eagerly rummaged through my suitcase-sized Kate Spade for so long I began to wonder if she was searching for something specific ... perhaps a stray mint julep?

By the time it's over, half the makeup I previously applied to my face has been transferred to three damp tissues that lie disconsolately in the wicker wastebasket beside the vanity. I am vain about my hair so I fiddle and fuss and fume until I have come perilously close to melting into a damp spot on the floor beside the wicker wastebasket.

(I can hear TG now, home from work several hours later: "Erica, where is your mother?" Erica dolefully points to the still-damp spot on the tile in the bathroom where I stand to arrange my hair. "There, Dad," she says. "What's left of her. She must've melted from the blow dryer." It was bound to happen sooner or later.)

((Do not allow TG to remarry. If he tries, force him to lie down until the impulse goes away.))

(((I do hope they organize a nice memorial service and conceal from my grandchildren how neurotic I was. I can hear them now, years in the future: "We never actually knew our maternal grandmother. At family reunions it's whispered that she was weird. She melted during the triple-digit heatwave of August 2008, you know.")))

((((Please y'all, show them a few nice pictures of me taken before I unexpectedly and untimely desolidified.))))

Rolling into Camden a few minutes behind schedule, I found the sleepy burg wilting beneath the zeal of a mid-morning sun that had already cranked it up to 99 Fahrenheit. At the first traffic light I got stopped by a policeman (no, not that way ... had you going, didn't I, a few steps down the dark corridors of schadenfreude* ...) who was escorting a funeral.

(I wonder if the dearly departed died of melting? I think they keep these statistics out of the local news.)

I found a parking space in a gritty unpaved lot across the street from the Kershaw County Courthouse, an edifice so ugly it causes one to wonder who was in such a bad mood that they approved the plans. Justice is served hot by default but sans benefit of moonlight and magnolias at that place, y'all. Even a teetotaler like me half-wished for a mint julep just for courage to approach the steps ... and as bad as it is on the outside, it's even worse on the inside. They need a decorator. And a janitor, apparently. Horrors.

But a girl's gotta do ... so I dug deep and mustered the wherewithal to enter, whereupon I was "greeted" by a gruff female with a boy hairstyle. She failed to comment on how nice my hair looked. Probably jealous. She eagerly rummaged through my suitcase-sized Kate Spade for so long I began to wonder if she was searching for something specific ... perhaps a stray mint julep? She even unzipped my cosmetic bag and rifled its contents. She inspected my compact and confiscated my comb. Yes! My comb! The one I use to fluff my hair! Dirty brickabrackalomer ... I thought.

At long last, after earning a much-needed brownie point by openly admiring the diminutive one-armed Captain Jack Sparrow doll (his missing arm is in the bottom of my purse but I can't seem to reattach it) that goes with me everywhere, and wondering aloud why I pack a rubber-banded raft of homemade vocabulary flashcards (because they make me smart), La Official Greeter allowed me to pass through the security portal where as usual I set off a faint buzz. She wanded me suspiciously before announcing that I was good to go.

I have gained admittance to the boarding areas of major airports with less attention to the minutiae of my person and belongings.

Excuse me while I pull over and park here for a mo. I'm no anarchist (much too lazy), but does anyone besides me think it's funny that the security folks at courthouses NEVER ask me to open the fifty-pound equipment suitcase that purrs along behind me on its little wheels? They take for granted I do not carry an extra comb in there ... not to mention a can of hairspray with which I could potentially blind a judge, or at least temporarily lacquer him to his bench. And then there's my pirate sword ...

Moving on. The lone dinky elevator in this architectural train wreck -- a true affront to aesthetically discriminating taxpayers such as yours truly -- didn't work (imagine!) so I had to clomp up the stairs dragging that bag. I fear I sounded like (and resembled) Quasimodo ascending the bell tower with a reluctant Esmeralda in tow. While attempting to locate the petit jury room I encountered a rude bureaucrat (imagine!), but that's a subject for another day.

A few hours later I was treated to lunch by one of the lawyers, a longtime personal friend. We were accompanied by the plaintiff (my lawyer friend's client) and a law clerk who was along for the ride. My lawyer friend, a true Southern Gentleman of the sort who might once have occupied the jasmine-scented verandah of an antebellum plantation while quaffing a mint julep and whistling Dixie, would I am sure have brought an air-conditioned chariot around to the curb if the trek to the sandwich shop were longer than two blocks ... but alas we walked.

When the thermometer has climbed to 102 and the sun is beating down like it won't have many more chances to unceremoniously fricassee planet Earth, and you are wearing a semi-dressy outfit with requisite foundation garments and high heels and have too much hair on your head and your face is dripping off, those two blocks could be the stunt double for an Olympic track and field heat (pun intended).

But we made it and soon enough I was lustily consuming my first meal of the day: a chicken salad sandwich keeping charming company with a small bag of Lay's classic potato chips and a thoughtfully pre-chilled pickle spear. Washed down with hallelujah-cold Diet Coke. Then later I had a chocolate-chip cookie the size of a jumbo fried egg allowed to roam free in a too-large skillet. Plus another Diet Coke (this one caffeine-free) ... and according to my scale at home I still managed to lose two pounds yesterday.

I think those two pounds of me are yet on the streets of Camden in the form of liquid ... uhm, glow. We southern girls really do glow. Yeah. Believe me ... we are hot. All compliments of the triple-digit treatment.

* Enjoyment gained from the misfortune of someone else.

Six Fours (And More) ... Part Two

As you know, about a week ago Diane at Much of a Muchness tagged me for a meme of fours. I could have simply listed four answers in each of the meme's six categories, but what fun would that have been? I enjoy embroidering! It's half the fun. So ...

FOUR TV SHOWS I LIKE: When I watch TV for the sake of entertainment (as opposed to information), my TV will likely be tuned to one of these four cable channels: Turner Classic Movies, TLC, Biography, or TV Land. Of the many fine shows offered on those channels, these are my favorites (in no particular order):

[1] Jon & Kate Plus Eight ... This is the kind of show you can't stop watching, even when you're gagging on it. Kate Gosselin, a somewhat neurotic and very controlling ex-nurse, and Jon, her practical and easygoing computer-programmer husband, got married in 1999. Their first pregnancy resulted in twin girls, Cara and Madelyn. They wanted another baby but had six instead: Joel, Collin, Aaden, Leah, Hannah, and Alexis. Now you can watch a blow-by-blow of the Gosselins' life with eight kids, six of whom (now four years old) are the same age and two of whom (now seven years old) behave like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, respectively.

The "reveals" are always attended by people who need a makeover every bit as much as the friend or family member they nominated for the show.

(Seriously, y'all ... if one of my kids had ever walked into the house after school on her seventh birthday, when everyone at home had been working all day to provide a party complete with a big cake and many gifts, and said kid slammed the door and kicked the balloons and generally threw a hissy fit because one or more of the day's developments was not to her liking, I would not have made excuses for her behavior, saying "She's exhausted ..." and neither would I have rewarded the kid's spleen-venting by allowing her to pile up on my bed and watch TV. But that's just me.)

I just read that over and it sounds mean. Apologies ... but I stand behind it.

Bottom line, the kids are very cute (if a tad spoiled around the edges) and Jon and Kate are funny without even trying. I love their commitment to one another. The family's adventures are interesting enough, although in a somewhat "it's all about us" fashion ... but then, it's their TV show so who else would it be about? I watch it because I like the Gosselins.

[2] What Not To Wear ... Stacy London and Clinton Kelly are hysterically funny and incredibly smart. They do not spare the feelings of the "contributors" when throwing their entire wardrobes into a trashcan or making them stand in the 360 mirror and be the butt of Stacy and Clinton's special brand of sartorial ridicule, but at the same time they are compassionate. They have the ability to really "see" the woman as an individual and, with the assistance of Nick (hair) and Carmindy (makeup), are astoundingly adept at helping her look better than you as a viewer could have imagined. This is a fascinating show. It's fun to see the outfits and the makeovers. Interestingly, the "reveals" are always attended by people who need a makeover every bit as much as the friend or family member they nominated for the show. No wonder Stacy and Clinton often remark on the staggering amount of work there remains for them to do.

[3] City Confidential ... I've been watching this show for longer than I can remember. For one thing, true crime is one of my favorite genre. For another, I love hearing the voice of City Confidential's longtime narrator, the late Paul Winfield (1939-2004). The timbre and inflection of his voice was ideal for a show that profiles an American city in the first half, and a real murder or murders (and subsequent trial) that took place in that city, in the second half. The writers use gallows humor to their advantage and Mr. Winfield's slightly-spooky voice is the pluperfect foil for the material. The shows made since Mr. Winfield's unfortunate demise, with Keith David narrating, are good too but not as good. I still watch.

[4] The Beverly Hillbillies ... TV Land makes it possible to do something we rarely get -- or even want -- to do: go back. And for my money, the best reason to go back is this crazy show. Oh, I like reruns of The Andy Griffith Show and I Love Lucy and Green Acres and Petticoat Junction as much as the next person, but for me, The Beverly Hillbillies is the best one of them all for pure funny. Oddly enough, even with Uncle Jed, Granny, Elly May, and Jethro to choose from, my favorite characters are Mr. Drysdale and Jane Hathaway. Miss Hathaway's spinster crush on Jethro and Mr. Drysdale's frenzied attempts to retain control over the Clampetts' millions, all mixed up with Granny's Appalachian recipes, Jed's hillbilly wisdom, Jethro's appetite, and Elly May's critters, makes for some hilarious situations. From the moment I hear the banjos of Flatt & Scruggs picking "The Ballad of Jed Clampett" in the opening credits, I feel like a kid again. In a good way.

To be continued ...