Just for today, I can have a social life that is fulfilling. Last night I went to a party! I met a nice lady who is an animal psychic/financial planner and we had a really good talk about my late cat, Kenicky, who passed away five years ago. She told me that Kenicky had a message for me and that it was that it was OK for me to move on and get a new cat. I don't know if I'm ready, but it's nice to know that he's OK with that.

The only down side to the evening came when Janeane asked me to change the CD. I couldn't figure out how to get it to play and somehow I managed to break the stereo. Janeane told me that it was OK, I didn't ruin the party, just ended it. I felt really, really bad. But just for today I know that it's OK to make mistakes.

It seems that now that my generation is moving into the decision making stratosphere of American culture, 80's music is no longer some hip party theme. I used to think that I just had bad taste in music, but now I realize that a) it wasn't all bad and b) I actually have a biochemical need to listen to Modern English or Prince or Duran Duran, (do I even need to write them out?) etc. And it goes a lot deeper than re-awakening memories of the slow dance parties my friend Reb1 (tag name) had in her parents' garage. If truth be told, maybe being a teenageer in the 80's was the universe's redemption for being a child of the 70's, and maybe the 80's had, in fact, mystic hopefulness that went beyond my teenaged emotions and Madonna's (who - I don't care what anyone says - rocks!) brand of female self-empowerment.

Just for today, I can accept that my need for 80's music isn't as shallow as it seems (and maybe is a little).

I'm haunted. Really. I bought it at a used CD store in November in a moment of extreme self-acceptance. I have always felt some shame for my less than cutting-edge music taste. I can probably pin that one on the two years I had of the French horn. Forget about how I sounded, I had to carry that thing around. That, my tupperware lunchbox, and my backpack probably equaled about eighty pounds. The weight of fourth and fifth grade deafend me to cool music...

Anyway, I was going to include "If You Leave" on a compilation of my favorite cheeze ball songs for my sister when I found it missing. It makes me sad because I loved that movie so much. Whether he knew it or not, John Hughes created rays of light that shot through the morbid thoughts of my teen years. It all began in the sixth grade when my best friend and I "worked" as traffic guards to earn free movie passes (though I didn't need any movie passes to tell cars when to stop and go). Once a month on Saturday afternoons we went to the movie theater and watched John Hughes' latest creation; Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Foot Loose (not a John Hughes film), all of 'em. These were defining moments in our 12-, 13- 14-year-old lives. Molly Ringwald felt like an intimate acquantaince, an older sister that we worshiped. She wasn't some archetypal Gwyneth or ???, but neither were we. She had her own natural spirit thing going on. She was so real. Who has that now?

I loved "Pretty in Pink" because Molly Ringwald played a girl from the other side of the tracks. She drove through rich neighborhoods and gawked at nice homes and dreamed of a different life. She failed to value herself and her creativity, but she didn't give up. I remember my friend calling me after seeing it (I can't remember why I didn't go) and told me that the ending was "bullshit" because Mollly ended up with the rich popular dude. We were both outraged and cynical, but not deterred from the fluttering of our hopeful hearts for rich popular dudes

In a world that felt frightening and heartless, John Hughes was a ray of hope, albeit a ray of very "white" hope (more on my all-black basketball team later)...He understood the feeling of wanting so badly to be different than who you are. And he made those fantasies come true. But what I remember is the feeling of hope around that time.

With that said, where is my godamn CD (does my boyfriend have it?)

Being the karaoke whore that I am, I stayed out late last night waiting with baited breath for the MC to call my name so myself and my friend Tom could sing a truly lame rendition of "Suddenly Seymour." We spent the whole song trying to catch up with the changing color of the words on the screen. We were far better when we first sang it and, at that time, I literally didn't even know the song. In an ideal world, they would have a warm-up room where the slightly less drunk karaoke-ers could go and hum a few bars and get reacquainted with the tune. One thing I've learned, there's more to a song than the chorus. But such is the mystery of karaoke...where one fears to tread that is the song one must sing...

Just for today, it's OK that I don't sing perfectly.

There aren't words to express how inspired I was by the Madonna concert...but I'll try. Here goes...I WAS SO FUCKING INSPIRED BY THE MADONNA CONCERT! Unlike this season's "The Sopranos" (sooooo dissappointing...), she is worth the wait and the hype.

If ever I fear that I might offend some potential suitor with my un-lady like candor (which is...really, so annoyingly tame...I mean I used the F-word ...big deal), I need only remind myself that Madonna is a successful money-making machine of a woman who does things at 47 like grind on a speaker and stick her finger down her pants and then lick it (not exactly my style, but provocative is always good)...AND YET is still married to a nice looking successful man ten years her junior, and seemingly unthreatened by her immense power (I mean if he were, would he have stuck around this long?). In other words, she is a beacon of hope for all powerful women who fear that their success might threaten the fragile egos of eligible men (which is NOT ALL MEN...'kay?). And not only that, but she rocks, wears cool clothes, and has, at 47, the body of a very petite teenaged super-model. Thanks Madonna for inspiring me to get my co-dependent head out of my ass (not to mention to yoga this morning...damn, I want those legs) and to EXPRESS MYSELF!!!

Just for today, I am inspired by Madonna.

A few hours before Michael Jackson died I was looking for my car. At one point, I decided that it must have been stolen. That's when I remembered that I had parked it near the beach. (This used to happen all the time until I accepted that I have a bad case of Lost Car Syndrome).

I drove to my New Coffee Shop, having broken up with the old one because "the vibe got weird." I have since run into other defectors, including one employee, from The Other Coffee Shop who agree with me about the vibe change, though, we disagree on why. Burnt grilled cheese sandwich smell, or too many homeless people? However, the The New Coffee Shop might be headed to Weird Vibe Land as they keep bringing in a guy to make repairs using a power tool during prime hours. If you ever wonder how you might run a coffee shop business into the ground, start using loud power tools every day around 1:00 pm. Both yesterday and today the Repair Guy managed to clear the room.

An hour after MJ died, I was crying and talking to my father. Only, I didn't know that Michael Jackson, the voice that sang the soundtrack to my life from the 6th to the 8th grade, had passed away. I was crying over something else. But later, I wondered if I was just picking up on the vibe of MJ's absence from this world.

Facebook has gone mad with statuses about Michael Jackson.

Just for today, I can mourn Michael Jackson.

True Sexy Never Ages.

I Want To Make Out With You.

Purple Orgasms.

Love In A Gold Sequined Turtle Neck Pant Suit.

(I have to say, Prince is the only heterosexual male in the world who could pull off the Gold Sequined Turtle Neck Pant Suit Look...there's that much sex appeal packed into that 4'11 100 lb. body.)

In junior high, we had slow dance parties consisting entirely of the Purple Rain album played over and over again. And after watching him (at 52) at The Forum, I had to wonder if we could be held entirely responsible for our actions. (Parents?). We had hormones, but his voice didn't help the situation.

Just for today, I'm a fan of the Purple One.

My Norah Jones Pandora station sounded like a good idea until the somber ratio of songs got too high. I'm sure I'd find Nora very soulful and charming in person, but she sounds like she's perpetually curled up in a fluffy blanket on a rainy sunday contemplating her ex-boyfriend who left her for a music tour. And while she can't really blame him, she misses his tender touch...even though deep down she knows he's banging the manager's daughter between gigs. (I'm sorry, I just couldn't put that one to rest). Get some sass, girl! You're not 12 anymore! Ok, so maybe being fiery feminist is totally dated (maybe?), but I still hearken (yearn?) for Alanis Morisette circa "You Oughta Know." And I reference her partly because yes, I'm way old, but mostly because, sadly, I can't think of any good Bitches out there (and I use that word in the most awesome way) who really speak for all women who express unabashed annoyance at the ever-growing douchbag quota...

Seriously, I'm kind of embarrassed for female artists who get all mopey for love. Yes, I'm jaded.

Thank God for my "The Lion King" and "Pretty In Pink" stations.

Just for today, I can listen to Pandora.