Christopher Walken just solved my life

I have of late been scorched by a dilemma, to the point of utter panic. I had a problem so great and all-consuming that I began to feel it was going to suck me down in the mire and kill me. Ancient  terrors, things I had not had to even think about for decades, stood bolt upright out of nowhere like cobras weaving in front of my eyes. My insides were collapsing like imploded buildings. Every way I looked at the situation, it looked bad, worse than bad. It looked terrible, even fatal. I was stuck, trapped, unable to breathe, and had never felt more powerless in my entire life.

It got so bad that I Asked The Universe to Help Me. 

Have you ever done this? Probably not. But when things are bad, I mean really really bad, you sort of put out a cry to the Great Whatever: someone, something out there, HELP me please. I do not believe in any sort of traditional or conventional God (any more - I did, and that is another story of disaster and disillusion), so I can't yell at Jehovah and order him around. I can't scream at Jesus to hurry up already and give me what I want, because that's what traditional prayer is all about. Gimme, God.

But I just had to send up a something, a shout, a scream, a - . I looked at all kinds of videos about alien abduction, because that's what I've been doing lately, strictly because of Christopher Walken and that bizarre Communion movie he did years ago. But it got me thinking about what IS "out there", or might be. I wondered if someone or something might help me out of this squirming, squeaming terror, this sense my guts were wound around and around and around some sword of heated iron and could never be untwisted again. 

I had no direction, no discernment. I looked at this and I looked at that. I even looked at some Walken interviews, in which I am convinced (more and more) that he is me. 

But then this.

This came, and I swear to God, it  was the answer to all the inarticulate non-prayers I was sending up to the Universe. Somebody jumps out of nowhere with a gun and shouts a life-and-death command, words charged with mortal threat, with brain-bursting peril, and -

You say no.

No.

It goes like this.


"Put your hands up!"

"No."

"What?"

"I said no."

"Why not?

"I don't want to."

"But I've got a gun."

"I don't care."

"This doesn't make any sense!"

"Too bad."


This is the "solve". Even with that gun to my head - and it has been a most poisonous gun, a threat to my wellbeing, if not my very sanity - I not only CAN say no, I not only WILL say no, but I am SAYING NO RIGHT NOW, even as I am writing this.

Everyone blathers on about the great yes of life. And yes. I can see it: sometimes, you have to know what to say yes to. But when you have an actual gun to your head, and you say no, it throws the entire situation out of kilter. It throws everyone off-balance. The earth begins to turn the other way. This is the spooky magic of "a" Christopher Walken (as if there is any other). He is the Merlin of "no", the Godfather of "no", the Jedi, the Dude, the Kahuna, the Meester Beeg, and everyone else supremely important you can think of. 

And the rest of us are just idiots.

It's just one syllable. It's just  two letters. It can change everything. It DOES change everything. Colours suddenly spring into their reverse; orange becomes blue. Spring lambs turn into springs. It's a force, and so idiot-simple that no one uses it. It's haiku-like simplicity (and does it really have seventeen syllables or whatever? No, thirteen, but it's so profound that it has just changed all the rules of haiku forever, and from now on they will all have thirteen syllables - in fact, all haikus everywhere, ever written in the world, have just become thirteen syllables.)

No.

I said no. 

I don't want to. 

I don't care. 

Too bad.

I have heard the Zen koan "no is a complete sentence", but I have never seen anyone actually practice it, because no one has. No one can, because they don't think they can. They've never heard of it. 

My time will come, and soon, and I want to put this in my pocket for that moment which will be life-changing, and either help me step up, or step out and down into the mine-chute, the one where you never stop falling. 

How to delete your life

69-Year-Old Dutch Man Identifies As “Age Fluid” And Seeks To Legally Change His Age By 20 Years

By Bernadette Deron
Published November 12, 2018

He claims that his biological age does not reflect his emotional age, and is hurting his chances with women on Tinder.

69-year-old Dutch “positivity guru”, Emile Ratelband, has embarked on a legal battle in the Netherlands to legally make his age 20 years younger.

Born on March 11, 1949, Ratelband wishes to change his birth date to March 11, 1969.

Ratelband is a motivational speaker and trainer in neuro-linguistic programming. He said in a courtroom in the city of Arnhem in the eastern Dutch province of Gelderland recently that he doesn’t feel “comfortable” with his date of birth. Instead, Emile Ratelband wishes to be identified as 20 years his junior. He believes this age change will enable him to go back to work and to achieve more success in his personal life.

The guru feels that he is discriminated against on dating apps like Tinder because of his age. He continues that his advanced age is not reflective of either his character or physical well-being:

“I have done a check-up and what does it show? My biological age is 45 years. When I’m 69, I am limited. If I’m 49, then I can buy a new house, drive a different car. I can take up more work. When I’m on Tinder and it says I’m 69, I don’t get an answer. When I’m 49, with the face I have, I will be in a luxurious position.”

Emile Ratelband added that if transgender people are allowed to undergo a sex change operation and identify as a different gender, then if he identifies as a different age he should thus be allowed to change his date of birth:

“Transgenders can now have their gender changed on their birth certificate, and in the same spirit there should be room for an age change.”

The judge apparently seemed to be somewhat sympathetic to Ratelband’s cause. He noted that the concept of legally changing one’s gender was once completely unthinkable:

“I agree with you,” the judge said, “a lot of years ago we thought that was impossible.”

But the judge also recognized that there would ensue negative consequences from changing one’s date of birth, namely that the process would effectively delete a massive chunk of one’s life.

The judge asked Emile Ratelband what would happen to the early years of his life, from 1949 to 1969, should his request be granted: “For whom did your parents care? Who was that little boy then?”

"With the face I have, I will be in a luxurious position" - E. Ratelband

Emile Ratelband nullified this statement and responded that both his parents are dead. He argued that his legal age-change would actually be good for the government, as he would not seek his pension until he reaches the country’s retirement age again, 20 years down the line.

As ridiculous as the argument sounds, Ratelband’s court battle has actually tested the limits of individual human rights.

Indeed, at the end of the 45-minute court session, Emile Ratelband stated that his case is “really a question of free will.”

The court is scheduled to submit a written ruling in early December 2018.

BLOGGER'S BLOTTER. About this, I just don't know what to say. I'd rather say nothing and call it a day, but feel called upon to say something.

This guy is just squirrely enough (see squirrel picture) to be taken seriously: that is, taken to mean that he means it. With his weaselly sense of influence, of entitlement, of agency, he might just pull this off.

It just means the Gabor sisters were around in the wrong era. Were they here today, they could just keep going back for more and more birth date changes, knocking off the decades, even if it meant having so many brow lifts they became airborne. But surely this is a sardonic view, written from the perspective of someone who has never experienced it.

We're in a position now where we can't say anything at all about any of this, however, which is the only reason I find this interesting at all. Is he really backhanding the whole transgender movement and trying to make it look ridiculous? Or is he - serious? Does he want to jam himself right in behind the thin edge of the wedge driven by transgender pioneers? Thus he'd reap all the rewards, without having to experience all that agony of soul.

If he has one.

Imagine seeing that face on Tinder. I don't care if he says he's 39 or 29 or even 19. He is a holy horror of a man. His website is hilarious: he claims to make "tailor-made presentations" to all sorts of businesses, meaning: look, pay me enough and I will say anything you want, even if I don't mean any of it at all.

A man for our times.

But really. Tinder, and such.  I'm too old for all that, but I hear it's a real meat market, and how fresh IS the meat of a man who is nearly 70?  For that matter, 50 is seriously pushing the best-before date.

No, it MUST be a joke. Or not? I heard about the first successful human head transplant on the news a few months ago, the item read straight, no horrors or commentary or anything. Just: here's what they're doing in the operating room, folks. My stomach dropped at the same time that my hair stood up. I was unable to look it up on the internet to see if it was true.

This guy may want some other organ transplanted. Or is it his brain, after all? Put that ugly pocked head on the body of a 29-year-old, and see how far he gets on Tinder. 

Beautiful sight Herd of Horses

Please turn up  the sound on this! The clopping of hooves is even more enchanting than the sight of all these horses swiftly trotting along the path, one after the other. 

Nefarious motives: the eyes of Elizabeth Holmes

Excerpt from: Body Language Analysis №4195: Elizabeth Holmes, Theranos, and Red Flags — Nonverbal and Emotional Intelligence

Three years ago, Elizabeth Holmes was the newest Golden Child of Silicon Valley. Her company, which she started when she was just 19 after dropping out of Stanford University, had claimed to have revolutionized the practice of medicine by being able to perform testing on just a few drops of blood — from only a finger prick (only 1/100 to 1/1000 of that typically needed with conventional methods). Such a discovery would also dramatically decrease the costs of blood tests. Ms. Holmes also had quite a knack for convincing investors to bankroll her company — which they did to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars.

But in October of 2015, based on the work of John Carreyrou of The Wall Street Journal, deep concerns as to the credibility of Theranos’ technology were raised — and the facade failed.

What follows is a partial nonverbal analysis of Ms. Holmes from this April 2015 CBS interview.





The aberrant behavior of Elizabeth Holmes’ eyelids is striking. Note how widely they’re opened. The “whites of her eyes” (sclera) are visible 360º around the colored portions (irides or irises) of both eyes.





Moreover, her eyelids are open to this extreme — not just for a second or two — but nearly continuously throughout this interview. This is extremely unusual.

Additionally, in the image immediately above (2:25), Ms. Holmes is also displaying a component of Disgust (note her tightened and forward-vectored mid and lower face — along with her nostril flaring and tightened lips).





You may have also noticed that Elizabeth Holmes blinks much less frequently than normal. This should immediately jump out to you as unnatural. This red flag is a behavior correlated with nefarious motives — so much so, that it’s even been used in animations for decades.





Now, you may say that maybe Elizabeth Holmes’ forehead had been treated with Botox — and you’d be correct. But although her forehead activity is somewhat diminished due to Botox — the dynamic movement captured here (3:48) proves that it is still quite functional. Concave-up furrows are clearly visible on her forehead and her eyebrows are also momentarily elevated.

It’s profoundly important to stress — that when a person’s eyelids are opened wide during moments of verbal emphasis — there is almost always a simultaneous contraction and elevation of their forehead muscles too — as was imaged in this last example.

But the fact that such forehead contribution was rarely seen throughout this interview — that her eyelids were opened wide with a relaxed forehead — and this display was virtually continuous — is a tremendous red flag. It screams of deception. It also signals psychological pathology.

Intriguingly, although the frequency of Ms. Holmes’ voice is quite deep — witnesses have documented that she’s feigning. It’s another affectation.

Jennifer Lawrence will be playing Elizabeth Holmes in a 2019 film version of this fall from grace. It’s to be titled Bad Blood and will be directed by Adam McKay (The Big Short).

SUMMARY: In the absence of a few medical conditions (such as Thyroid eye disease), when the eyelids are opened so widely, with such high frequency and long duration — coupled with a relaxed forehead (e.g., as is demonstrated in the first three images and during almost this entire interview), there’s a very high correlation with:

• Deception
• Antisocial Personality Disorder (commonly referred to as Sociopath Behavior)

Dr. Jack Brown

Body Language/Nonverbal Communication Expert and Physician
May 29

BLOGGER'S OBSERVATIONS. So why do I keep on posting stuff about Elizabeth Holmes? She is one of the more fascinating criminals of the 21st century, maybe of the last 100 years. It is said that she created a niche for herself by ascertaining a yearning, need, or even a guilt or shame in society that ached for redemption. She WAS that redemption: a supernaturally-blue-eyed blonde (hair color as natural as that alabaster stone forehead), a barely-in-her-20s wunderkind, a self-proclaimed genius who was - gasp - female! An actual live woman, doing the Steve Jobs bit, bucking the trend, breaking the mold (but not really, because that's not how you create and fulfill a need. You slip very slimily INTO the mold, thus easing and filling the hollow howling ache in the collective consciousness, redeeming and forgiving the meanness of our faith in womankind and their ability to create and transform.)

But oh, woe. How could we miss this? She wasn't a genius at all (even though she TOLD us she was, damn it! That's just not fair.) She was this sour little bundle of megalomaniacal greed, not smart at all but merely crafty, wily, manipulative, supremely egotistical, and so Antarctically indifferent in her icy core that she could actually feign warmth with that froggy adenoidal voice of hers. She could produce a dizzying facsimile of deep interest in her victims by allowing her sclera to show 360  degrees all around her irises. No kidding, that is how she did it - that, and not blinking, not ever, probably practicing it in front of the mirror or, perhaps, watching old videos of Marshall Applewhite.

Elizabeth was a cult, a shiny blonde one-woman cult, and people fell into line, but they fell into line largely due to a burning, almost unbearable hope that Some Day, Some Woman would come along, someone so glowingly and world-beatingly successful  that they could bow down and worship, lift her up, put her on magazine covers like Forbes, and thus tell themselves and the world, SEE, see how we're acting, we don't discriminate, and we DO think women can do all kinds of swell things and be blonde and blue-eyed at the same time!

But oh. No! Now those blinded worshippers have been knocked on their asses, and sit there stunned and blinking. Wait! How could a GIRL. . .But that's the thing. Didn't we already know women could be ruthless and heartless and utterly-self-servingly-sociopathic? Look at Cruella de Ville. That chick in Fatal Attraction. The Sunset Boulevard lady. (Never mind that they're all fictional.) But Elizabeth had so much confidence, she seemed to know something, and there is nothing more seductive than a woman who seems to know something. So here was this mega-billion-dollar phenom who turned out to be crass, tin-plated, shallow, and utterly uninformed about ANY aspect of medicine or science (and if you saw transcripts of some of her interviews, undazzled by those icy ever-open scleral globes, you'd recognize her laughable ignorance at once). She was all show and no go, and the vaporware she didn't produce wasn't just another talking vibrator or a refrigerator that anticipates your grocery needs. It was all about blood - human blood -  literally, about sucking blood out of people's fingers with some ludicrous thing called a "nanotainer".

The old videos, the early 2015 ones (which is really not so long ago) are now embarrassing to watch, with rich old men (board members, mostly) grabbing their scrotums every time she told a lame joke or made a ridiculous globally-transformative prediction.  Well, she did change the world, sort of. She knocked a whole lot of people on their asses, but for all the wrong reasons.

The one question that lingers in my mind is: since it took nine years for her bubble to burst, and since she couldn't have spent ALL that time grasping the scrotums of rich old men, what did she DO all day? How did she fill her time? Doing eyeball exercises, having her forehead frozen and her hair foiled?  Getting voice lessons for that dull drone she used, or was that just Steve Jobs-style steroids?

Like Martha Stewart, Elizabeth may rise again. But those crazy eyes disturb me. Something is just not right there. They have a feverish quality. a shininess that is unnatural.  Madness can, if turned just the right way, change the world. We've seen it. But the ideal of blonde and blue-eyed has had its share of bad press. 

Yugoslavia - and so do I

Slavic Superstars of the '70s!

Christopher Walken reading "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe

I am a late-blooming Christopher Walken fan, meaning that I don't think I appreciated his oddness before. Now I do. Has that anything to do with my OWN late-blooming oddness? (Let me think.) But Walken transcends any category, and it was no surprise to me when I learned he is a classically trained dancer (pay attention next time he jumps up on a bar in that movie, that. .  .) and stage actor. Back then, actors had to actually learn their trade: dance, sing, enunciate, project, all while putting their individual stamp on their characters.

It shows in the performances.

Early Walken was almost surreally beautiful, with those lips, those eyes. . . Then he seemed to outgrow that baby-soft androgyny and became really interesting. Good bones are the key to an actor keeping his looks, and these Walken has, those marvelous cheekbones and, no doubt, a skeleton which is very fine indeed.

I have just sent away for a DVD of one of Walken's early performances, a very poorly-rated Israeli musical version of Puss in Boots. I want to see Walken as Puss (in Boots!) and see him dance cat-ly, which I can picture him doing. 'Til then, people, listen to him inhabit Poe's Raven as no one else, enunciating clearly yet naturally, and making the time-worn poem somehow seem conversational, like a particularly gifted Shakespearian actor bringing iambic pentameter to life. 

I love his somehow-seductive Queens-ly vowel sounds, love his lack of melodrama, his deep understanding and ability to walk around inside this American epic (see him Walken?). The only thing I double-dog HATE about this video is all the crappy noise in the background. Almost everyone remarked in the YouTube comments section that the poem was marred by fake wind noises, wailing electric guitars, over-dramatic thumps and bumps. Ironic, because Walken always avoids that kind of shit himself. If I find an isolated vocal track of this gem, I will post it, but so far no.

Aside from the worlds within his face, this I love about Walken: he says he never chases after anything. Unlike me, diametrically opposed to me who has flung herself bodily against brick wall after brick wall after brick wall, to gain only broken bones and soul-bruises while the walls stand laughingly whole, he doesn't chase work, he doesn't chase fame, he doesn't even chase women (he has been married even longer than I have). It comes to him. This is one spooky power, and it is beyond even self-confidence. It can't be manufactured. Bob Dylan had/has this same ability to magnetize, even with his extreme introversion and basic selfishness. People are sucked towards him helplessly, never knowing that the vacuum is actually inside themselves.

The incredible Camel Toe Sisters

SOLID POTATO SALAD

The Ross Sisters '44

Some folks like their 'taters Lyonnaise,
Some prefer French fries,
But I like mine fixed with mayonnaise,
Coleslaw on the side.

Solid potato salad,
That's solid salad, Jack!
Solid potato salad, boy,
Take a plate, fill it up, bring it right back!

Solid potato salad,
And let's have no "yak-yak!".
Solid potato salad, boy,
Take a plate, fill it up, bring it right back!

The farmer said to the spud,
"Your skin looks mighty pallid,
So I'll dig you later, bud,
For some solid - potato salad!".

Solid potato salad,
That's solid salad, Jack!
Solid potato salad, boy,
Take a plate, fill it up and bring it right back!

Take a plate, fill it up and bring it right back!

Take a plate, fill it up and bring it right back!

Take a plate, fill it up and bring it right back!

Solid potato - salad,
These are really fine and you'd better latch on!
Solid potato - salad,
For there's a date, get a plate before it's all gone!

The farmer said to the spud,
"You're skin looks mighty pallid,
So I'll dig you later, bud,
For some solid - poatao salad!".

Solid potato salad,
That's solid salad, Jack!
Solid potato salad, boy,
Take a plate, fill it up,
Take a plate, fill it up and bring it right back!
Take a plate, fill it up and bring it right back!

PLEASE NOTE. This is, without a doubt, the strangest video you will ever watch, or at least the strangest 1940s/movie musical/sister act/contortionist routine. These girls appear to be half snake/half rubber, and could likely ooze under the crack of a door if they wanted to. Their scant costumes and the impossible writhing that happens underneath them lead to a distinct recurrence of camel toe. (Maybe it was part of the act?)

Most videos of this legendary routine start with the contortionist "dance" number, but the song was so strange, so incomprehensible, that I had to post the whole thing. These women were no doubt extremely talented, but it was a specialized thing suited to vaudeville, which by the 1940s had pretty much died out. Radio still ruled supreme (and didn't lend itself to contortionist acts), there was no TV yet and thus no Ted Mack or Ed Sullivan Show, and by that time they would've been too old for these incredible contortions anyway. 

If you want to just see the contortionist routine, start at 2:24. But the song is so odd, so incomprehensible, that I suggest you watch it too. There were some weird "foodie" songs in the '40s, the one about "the frim-fram sauce with shifafa on the side", and the one about "hold tight, hold tight, Mama wants some seafood" (or whatever it is), so maybe this was in the same genre. Nat King Cole recorded it, and subsequent lyrics razor-bladed out "your skin looks mighty pallid" - a sly wink Nat would appreciate, but horribly racist to anyone else (and most of the lyrics I found on the internet omitted it). 

With or without pallid potato salad, watch this. Be amazed, and a little afraid. Or a lot.

I don't want French fried potatoes
Red ripe tomatoes
I'm never satisfied
I want the frim fram sauce with the Ausen fay
With chafafa on the side

I don't want pork chops and bacon
That won't awaken
My appetite inside
I want the frim fram sauce with the Ausen fay
With chafafa on the side

Now a Fellas really got to eat
And a Fellas should eat right
Five will get you ten
I'm gonna feed myself right tonight

I don't want fish cakes and rye bread
You heard what I said
Waiter, please serve mine fried
I want the frim fram sauce with the Ausen fay
With chafafa on the side

Now a Fellas really got to eat
And a Fellas should eat right
Five will get you ten
I'm gonna feed myself right tonight

I don't want fish cakes and rye bread
You heard what I said
Waiter, please serve mine fried
I want the frim fram sauce with the Ausen fay
With chafafa on the side

Now if you don't have it, Just bring me the check for the water

(and if that's not weird enough - )

Choo choo to Broadway foo Cincinnati
Don't get icky with the one two three
Life is just so fine on the solid side of the line, rip

Hold tight, hold tight, a-hold tight, hold tight
Fododo-de-yacka saki
Want some sea food mama
Shrimps and rice they're very nice
Hold tight, hold tight, a-hold tight, hold tight
Fododo-de-yacka saki

Want some sea food mama
Shrimps and rice they're very nice
I like oysters, lobsters too,
I like my tasty butter fish, fooo
When I come home late at night
I get my favorite dish, fish 

Hold tight, hold tight, a-hold tight, hold tight
Fododo-de-yacka saki
Want some seafood mama
Shrimps and rice they're very niiiiiiiiiiiiice
Bad da do daa, da de do da do daa, ba da da da do daaaa
Fododododo Yacka sacki

want some seafood Mama
Shrimps and rice they're always very nice
Fododo dya, Fododo dya Fododo-de-yacka saki
want some seafood Mama
Oh won't you give it to me
cause I'm as happy as can be

When the seafood comes to me

La-da-da La-da-da La-da-da
I like oysters, lobsters too
Ba-da-da-dat-dat-da-dada-data
When I get home late at night
I get my favorite dish, fish

Hold tight, hold tight, a-hold tight, hold tight
Fododo-de-yacka saki
Want some sea food mama
Shrimps and rice are very nice
Ho, ho, hold tight won't cha hold tight, Hold tight
Fododododo Yacka sacki

want some seafood Mama

Shrimpers a-hand ri-hice a-hare very nice
I like oysters, lobsters too,
I like my tasty butter fish, Joe
When I come home late at night
drip drip dripin' on the window pane
Wash it

Hold tight do-dat-do-day
Hold tight she wants some seafood Mama
Shrimpers and rice they're very nice
I like oysters, lobsters too,
I like my tasty butter fish, fooo

When I come home late at night
I get my favorite dish, fish
Hold tight, hold tight
Hold tight, hold tight
Want some seafood Oh Mama
Shrimpers and rice Oh Hold tight

Elizabeth Holmes: yes and no

My last Elizabeth Holmes animation/gif? Let's hope so.

Surprise!

SURPRISE!

Rare white 'spirit moose'

"Spirit moose" sighting in Ontario. Not albino, but leucistic (recessive gene).

Trolls! Trolls! Everyone trolls!

Trolls. Trolls! So when did this addiction start? I don't know, and I don't particularly care. How many trolls do I have? I don't count them. What are the names? Only half a dozen or so have names, and I tend to forget them anyway.

Am I attached to my trolls? As much as I'd be attached to a living thing, a pet, or at least a plant.

They are comforting to me, and sometimes I truly need comforting and can't find it anywhere else. These two lovelies are the ones I ordered from Etsy recently and haven't received yet. And I was going to just be happy and wait for them, and then. . . 

I shouldn't have gone on eBay, I know. My cat tries to get me to stop.

But somehow, it never works.

I think the vendor of these trolls either has NO idea how much they are actually worth, or is salting her shop with incredible bargains to draw people in, as most stores do.

But here. 

BEHOLD!

The thing you have to realize is that I live in Canada, so trolls will cost me easily twice what they are in the States. Shipping and handling is ludicrous, often much more than what the troll costs (even for tiny ones that weigh a few grams). And this set of three, all told, was $57.00 in Canadian dollars. 

Any one of these large-sized (7", 8" and 9") beauties could command a couple of hundred in this country, given the pristine shape they're in. There is not much in the way of clothes, but I provide those, handmade with love and tailored to fit. Troll outfits are seldom very impressive unless you get those fancy custom-made ones from Etsy vendors such as Lucretia's Lair, and they'll run you $50.00 each (plus $65.00 shipping and handling).

The hair is in particularly good shape in this group, and the orange hair is gorgeous, a rare colour, and might even be a mohair replacement which would up the value by at least another $20.00 or $30.00. I only have one other mohair troll, and though he's totally lovely, there are flaws in the vinyl that would likely cut his market value in half.

So. . . sigh. More trolls. I had to buy them before someone else snapped them up, which has happened to me more times than I can count. I need something to make me feel better, I guess, as I wander through this wilderness alone.

I do troll box openings on YouTube which command the usual one (or zero) views, but I guess I do them for myself, and because I desperately needed a fulfilling hobby once the grandkids became adolescents and Grandma was no longer "cool".

Trolls take me back to the very best year of my life: 1964, when everything happened for me. The Beatles came on the Ed Sullivan Show for the first time on my tenth birthday. My Dad gave me a horse. (Yes, a horse.) I was in an accelerated Grade 5 class in school which was total mayhem, a 1960s educational experiment in which nobody learned anything all year and the teacher had a nervous breaktown by Christmas. Sheer bliss! I also stopped taking violin lessons, which was like having a thousand pounds of chains slide off my shoulders.

And - trolls. There were trolls. Two close friends also had troll fever, and it cemented the bond between us and made it magical.

Trolls aren't like Barbies or Cabbage Patch Kids or ANY other doll. Even calling them dolls doesn't seem to fit. They have a spooky, slightly creepy quality that some people frankly hate, but that makes them all the more appealing to me.

So I have FIVE trolls coming, five times the excitement, five times the bliss!