While my mother has won international competitions in creating empathy for herself, I have to feel a little bad for her right now.

She is in the adopted land of my people - Miami Beach - but is a bit of a second-class citizen.

"My son the managing editor" sounds OK. It's better than "my son the unemployed shoe salesman" or "my son the recovering meth addict."

But it pales in comparison to what she is surely hearing over early-bird dinners.

There is "my son the accountant" and "my son the lawyer."

And, at the top of the Kosher food chain ... "my son the doctor."

But I can send some solace her way.

I've come to realize that I am a doctor of sorts.

For this blog, forget my last name is Glantz.

It is Frankenstein ... Dr. Frankenstein.

Yes, I have created a monster.

It's name: Lisa Mossie.

I'm not saying Lisa looks or acts like a monster. She makes a nice appearance and is, by and large, a nice woman who works hard at her job and looks out for her family.

But get her behind a keyboard and she's downright frightful.

She has made it clear that her husband has politicized her and that I didn't "discover" her. Technically, that is correct. Columbus didn't "discover" America, either.

But, as I've written 10,001 times previously, I found her letters to the editor - mostly critical of yours truly - so entertaining that I offered her own column every other Thursday.

Her columns were so well-written that I offered her the chance to make it a weekly offering.

Since then, we've taken some cheap shots at one another - in print and on the air (Behind The Headlines is currently on hiatus as we retool, but it has nothing to do with the writers' strike) - but not let it get in the way of any kinship one columnist feels toward another.

And what I'm about to write isn't about lack of respect, because I still respect Lisa's point of view and will defend her right to express it. Moreover, being a writer-type, I think she is a heckuva writer.

The scary part is that she is so good at expressing it that some ideas many of us find downright offensive are so carefully worded they almost fail to register on the sensitivity meters she thinks should be unplugged across a nation already buried in narcissism.

Take, for example, her Jan. 24 column about what she believes to be the exploitation of Martin Luther King Jr.'s dream.

She took an overdue break from mentioning me by name, but it was clearly a response to my column on Jan. 20, which stated the dream has yet to be realized.

It is clear to me that Lisa is one of those right-wingers living in a self-imposed sheltered world and kidding herself that everything outside of it is A-OK.

Lisa is well-read, which comes out in her columns, but she leaves herself open because she reads selectively.

She and I do agree from time to time - like on Saudi Arabia and many quality of life issues - and one of those subjects is that issues of race should not be brushed with one broad stroke.

Lisa took a bold stance - one that rocked most in our newsroom, but not myself - on the Duke University rape scandal.

That's when a black exotic dancer accused members of the snow-white school's lacrosse team of gang rape.

Lisa saw early holes in the case and wrote about them in a column. She took some hits, defended her position and has ultimately been vindicated.

I know the feeling. It's a good one. Example: I get warm and fuzzy each time I look at the approval rating of President Lame Schmuck.

I never disagreed with Lisa on her stance on the Duke scandal, which was turned into a racial issue by a media frenzy when it was really the accusations of one woman who happened to be black.

But Lisa is now like one of those one-hit wonders from the 1970s - maybe Debbie Boone of "You Light Up My Life" infamy - who keeps going around trying to sing that same song, maybe to different arrangements, to anyone who'll listen.

Her recent attempt to fit her tired Duke argument into the situation in Jena, La., and then reach the conclusion that liberals need to grow up is nothing less than shameful.

Like she did when trying to support her flimsy case for Lee Harvey Oswald acting alone, she is taking bits and pieces of information and framing them out of context to paint a picture where anyone who defines a liberal - i.e. keeping an open mind - is a fool's fool.

It could be that she was so ostracized in the days when other kids called her Lisette in school that she doesn't realize that almost every major event that happens in a middle or high school - from every fistfight, catty remark in the girl's room, election of the homecoming court, etc. - is ultimately connected.

This is particularly true when you are talking about a small school in a small and isolated southern town where the working class whites live and pray apart from the destitute blacks.

Lisa wants us to believe that everything that happened in Jena - including initially charging the black kids who beat up the "poor innocent" white kid with attempted murder, as opposed to the rightful charge of assault - was much to do about nothing.

She decries the fact that it became fodder for those of us who know that King's dream remains in limbo, going so far as to say that he would be turning in his grave.

The only thing that turns with a statement like that are a bunch of stomachs.

Except that of my mother. She's thrilled. Her son is a doctor after all.

Back in 2006, if you asked me what the word "blog" meant, I would've yawned with boredom while shrugging my shoulders. If pressed to guess, it would have been that it was the name of some alien character in a Star Wars movie.

Little did I know it, but I was a burgeoning blogger anyway. I wrote a column as the winter Olympics approached decrying the fact that, to satisfy women viewers, we were going to have to endure too much figure skating coverage and little of anything else.

I made it clear, however, that I loved women - especially women singer-songwriters. And I directed readers to our Web site for a Web-only listing of my Top 10 women singer-songwriters.

As it turned out, this pre-blog made me famous in the Blogosphere, as it got picked up around by fan Web sites - particularly Stevie Nicks and Natalie Merchant sites.

So, as a service to you, my two current "My Back Pages" readers, enjoy this trip back in time:

Whenever drawing up a Top 10 list for musicians, points are automatically deducted for those who do not write their own songs.

Even though I have a soft spot for women with pretty faces and sultry voices, this rule does not bend. If one truly believes in equality between the sexes, then there needs to be equality in valuing what they have to say. Therefore, this list of the women in music I most adore will not include those who made most of their reputations singing what other people wrote. If you're looking for Joan Jett, Aretha Franklin, Tina Turner, Cher, etc. ... you've docked your ship at the wrong port.

For those of you who are still with me, here we go:

10-A) Patti Scialfa - Stop rolling your eyes. It has nothing to do with her being Bruce Springsteen's wife. OK, it kinda does. Out of respect to The Boss, I dutifully bought her first album, "Rumble Doll," in 1993 with relatively low expectations. That album, along with the 2004 follow-up - "23rd Street Lullaby" - are stellar efforts. She writes all her own songs and Bruce is barely involved.
Best Song: "As Long As I (Can Be With You)"

10-B) Amy Ray - The better half of the Indigo Girls. I like almost all of her songs, while most of those by Emily Saliers put me to sleep. Her solo album includes a song called "Johnny Rottentail," which I usually listen to at least three times in a row.
Best Song: "Tried To Be True"

9) Chrissie Hynde - The front-woman for The Pretenders, Hynde rattled off a long stretch of quality songs back when music was music.
Best Song: "Mystery Achievement"

8-A) Alanis Morisette - That "Jagged Little Pill" album is almost as addictive as oil is to the American people (so sayeth the Oil Pusher). Gotta love the angst. It makes me almost hate men, too.
Best Song: "You Oughtta Know"

8-B) Aimee Mann - I remember her from the days when she was in a band called 'Til Tuesday that had two cool hits called "Voices Carry" and "Coming Up Close." Some of my friends kept telling me she was still evolving, but I remained dubious until I heard "Wise Up" in the movie "Jerry Maguire." Then, for my 40th birthday, sports writer Dennis C. Way got me her "Forgotten Arm" album and it's one the best things I've heard in years.
Best Song: "Goodbye Caroline"

7) Carole King - She paved the way for female singer-songwriters. After writing or co-writing several hits in the 1960s - "One Fine Day" and "The Loco-Motion" - King recorded her own songs in her voice and connected with the masses with her second solo effort in 1971 called "Tapestry." It was one of the defining efforts of an era.
Best song: "It's Too Late"

7-A) Rickie Lee Jones - While I'm not big jazz fan, she is more of a true original that cannot be locked into any genre anyway.
Best Song: "Last Chance Texaco"

6) Joni Mitchell - Although she got a little strange for a while, Joni's first few albums were practically perfection. One of the best there is at summing up the meaning of life in three minutes.
Best Song: "Big Yellow Taxi"

5) Patti Smith - One of those artists, male or female, who becomes so overrated by critics that she becomes underrated by those tired of reading about her hidden genius. She has some strange stuff, which is probably overplayed on college radio, but more taut efforts - songs like "Frederick" and "Dancing Barefoot" - are like heat-seeking missiles to the soul.
Best Song: "Because The Night" (co-written with that Springsteen guy)

4) Sinead O'Connor - If she had not gone off the deep end after her first few albums, she would be even higher on the list. Rage and sensitivity collided like a marriage made in heaven from the onset.

Best Song: "The Last Day Of Our Acquaintance"

3) Natalie Merchant - I saw a new group called 10,000 Maniacs warm up for R.E.M. back in the day and this girl lead singer with long hair kept spinning in circles while she sang. But she sang well enough above the din of simple-yet-fresh sounding songs that I bought the album. That was the start of a love affair that has continued into a perplexing underrated solo career.
Best Song: "Kind And Generous"

2) Tracy Chapman - She followed her near-perfect debut album with a second effort that featured a song called "All That You Have Is Your Soul." And she still has her soul in a difficult business to keep it in.
Best Song: "Fast Car"

1) Stevie Nicks - This list was hard to compile, until now. The top spot was never in doubt. I've been willingly haunted by this enchanting spirit since the first time I heard a Fleetwood Mac song (a looooong time ago). And it'll be that way until "the landslide brings it down."
Best Song: "Landslide'

Honorable Mention: Heart (the Wilson sisters); Laura Nyro; Melanie; Madonna; Pat Benetar; Melissa Etheridge; Janis Joplin; Sheryl Crow; Maria McKee; Christine McVie; and Janis Ian.

Last Updated ( Wednesday, 04 July 2007 )

In my "boring and predictable" column (Dec. 30) on New Year's resolutions, I forgot perhaps the most important resolution of all.

It is to find a go-to breakfast place that I don't need plane or train tickets to reach (so don't start telling me about diners in Limerick, Collegeville and Trappe).

Why is this so important? Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, is it not?

It ties directly into the resolution on losing weight, which most of my small pool of loved ones would say should be first on my list - even above acting my age.

How so?

Eat a good, hearty breakfast and the pangs come lunchtime can realistically be quelled with, dare it say it, a s-s-salad. From there, a healthy dinner could conceivably follow. Do this enough times, and I could actually shed some excess poundage.

Too many times, though, the opposite is true.

I eat little or nothing for breakfast, pig out at lunch on the type of quick-and-easy food that still leaves me hungry all over again 4 1/2 minutes later and I'm going into dinner like a wild boar. Do this enough times, and the pounds - not to mention the burgeoning sleep apnea and open invitation for early Diabetes - will be flocking to my body like immigrants to Ellis Island at the turn of the 20th century.

Plus, for reasons unknown, I just have a weakness for breakfast food. Going out for breakfast on a Saturday or Sunday morning is something my wife and I both enjoy.

Pre-Sofia (our daughter), we used to make a day of it. We would venture northbound along Rt. 73 to what was the area's premier breakfast-brunch joint - The Cedars ... (never caught official the name, to be honest) - in Worcester Township. From there, we would hit the stores in Skippack and then either jump onto Rt. 113 and find our way to the Hennings Market in Harleysville or keep going to Zerns Famers Market in Gilbertsville.

But you may need to play the theme to "Love Story" as I regale you with the sad ending to this one. We gleefully drove along one day last spring, singing along to Bruce Springsteen's Seeger Sessions album and temporarily shedding ourselves of all cares as we pulled into the lot in Cedars.

"Wow," I said. "There's hardly anyone here. We're going to get a spot by the door."

My wife concurred without giving it a second thought and got out of the car and marched to the entrance while salivating.

A voice then called from the back on the place, near the kitchen.

"Are you here to eat?" he said.

"Yes," one of us replied.

"It's closed," said the man, while throwing some junk into the back of his pickup truck. "Why don't you try Mal's Diner in Skippack."

"Forever?" one of us said.

"Yep, forever," he answered, clearly not interested in filing a long and detailed report with us.

With heavy hearts we followed his advice and continued on to Mal's. The food had no chance that day. I was so geared up for my normal Cedars breakfast - three eggs once over, scrapple or bacon, potatoes, pancakes, french toast, large OJ and decaf coffee - and my wife hers (a vegetable omelet that I would often finish off) that nothing was going to ease our pain.

We have since gone back to Mal's and open minds, and it remains on the growing list of breakfast places that are OK but not "it." The list also includes some "chains" - IHOP and Cracker Barrel - but we long for the charm, a shorter wait for a table, at a mom-and-pop place.

I feel like a basketball coach who has some decent players but no one to call on to take that key shot down the stretch.

There are two leaders in this ongoing quest to replace of the Cedars restaurant. They are Patti Jean's Diner in Jeffersonville (best creamed chip beef I've had in years) and some joint in Towamencin (I forget its name or exactly how to get there, other than that it is adjacent to a beer distributor).

Patti Jean's let me down recently when we tried to order dinner from there (see the "I Don't Like Mondays" blog entry), and it's also not located in the path of our normal travels, but they fell all over Sofia - proving they have hearts and souls - and gave us good service and food.

If you can tell me of a better place, go for it. All suggestions are welcome.

There will only be one place without a name in Cedars.

I'm never one who shies away from admitting a mistake (on the rare occasion when I actually make one). My first reaction is to look for accomplices to my unwitting crime, but I ultimately plead guilty and beg the moot court du jour for mercy.

This brings us to a mistake to which I plead guilty, albeit with an explanation.

A recent column (Dec. 22) referred to the upcoming deer kill in the Norristown Farm Park and I wrote that it was going to happen Jan. 13.

As a concerned reader pointed out, it is not Jan. 13. I was off by a number, taking the steam out of my one-liner about giving the "hunters" Viagra with instructions to call a pretty nurse if a certain something last more than four hours.

Sadly, no pill - or monkey - is going to stop this horror show. These guys get high on the thrill of the kill. This tragic event is slated for Jan. 23.

The reader didn't want these fools reading my column and showing up in their dopey camouflage Halloween costumes on the wrong day. These predisposes that they not only read my column, which I doubt, but that they even read at all.

Maybe I'm being a little harsh, I don't know. What I do know is that a lot of these hunter types will not be showing up Jan. 23 to act out of any sort of civic responsibility to eradicate the park of a perceived surplus of harmless deer.

They like killing other creatures and hanging their heads on the wall. That's where the story ends. It's as short as the children's books I read to my daughter.

Between this mentality and views that equate to letting the polar bears drawn and the primates in Africa die, I wonder if my children's children will grow up on a planet shared only by dogs and cats (there are plenty of extras being euthanized each day at shelters, if anyone cares to adopt) and these annoying "stink" bugs that seem to flock to my house the way hippies did to Woodstock.

There is a big picture. Let's take the time to see it.

I'm sorry for the mistake, but even sorrier for the situation - one rubber-stamped by the Montco powers that be trying to appeal to a perceived base the way that John Kerry did when he played the fool as a stalker of geese.

There are a lot of things I'm tired of witnessing this holiday season.

The sales and their pathetic pitches are high on the list, but have been supplanted at the top.

Each year, after the eggnog and mistletoe have reached obsolescence, something else comes at us with a vengeance.

Public service announcements from all quarters encouraging us to "drink responsibly" and preaching to the choir with gratuitous cautions about drinking about driving.

And oy ... the Internet. It was filled with enough remedies - most of which fall under the heading of urban myths in waiting - are getting over hangovers.

Hey, people, here's a more direct - and novel - approach: Just don't drink, period.

No fatal accidents, no DUI arrests, no hangovers.

Duh?