We've Moved...

I have serious doubts that anyone will read this, but just in case, you should know that we've moved, and are doing our thing here.

Hold onto the nights / hold onto the memories / I wish that I could give you something more / that I could be yours

Your Local TJ Maxx

I was looking forward to a highly pleasant lunchbreak today, as the weather was sunny and a little cool, and I had something to do. A mission. For me these usually require searching for a particular album or article of clothing. Today it was the basic white ribbed tank. Now, I know what you're thinking: Those are everywhere, it would take five minutes!
Not so any more as summer garb is rapidly being replaced with the "must-haves" of fall fashion. I nearly wept when I espied a skinny scarf display. However, I thought between H&M, American Eagle, the Gap, Urban Outfitters, and Filene's I'd be able to come up with something. Alas. The five left at H&M had too skinny of straps (sleeves?), American Eagle now carries only camisoles, Gap Body has tanks, but not ribbed, the Urban Outfitters ones are so thin and filmy I might as well just wear a Hane's wife-beater and practically bare my bra to the world, and Filene's was just a catastrophy I don't even want to talk about. I had hoped to avoid it, but I now must go to the Prudential Center. Or "the Pru" if you're one of those people. It makes me spendy. And I don't want to order online because the basic white ribbed tank is my second favorite article of clothing following my jeans, and I simply cannot wait.
But anyway, on my remarkable mission (because, you must admit, it's quite a feat to hit up all those stores in one measley hour considering they're not all next to eachother), I had the unfortunate experience of stepping in gum. I'm still obsessed with my month old skinny-strap black Rainbow flip-flops, and was dismayed as I felt that unwelcome initial pop as my foot pulled free of the nasty sidewalk. Is it even possible to get gum out of the tread of your footwear? Or do you just wait until it wears down? Today I acquired a leaf, green glass, and a new ecosystem on my wonderful wonderful flip-flop (I can't call them "thongs" because I'm eight years old and I'll giggle). All around Filene's I made that embarrassing unsticking sound with every other step. It's like having a squeaky shoe.
One of my first actions upon arriving at home was to get at the offending gum with a butter knife. I think it's worked somewhat because I removed the glass, leaf and ecosystem, and I'm not sticking anymore. I had errands to run and didn't want to wear anything other than my Rainbows because I love them.
The most notable errand is box-hunting (for the move), and it's brutal. I won't go into it, except you know how sometimes you can just raid big supermarket recycle bins and call it a day? Oh man. Bums. They just camp out by the carboard! Fortunately the goldmine was discovered behind TJ Maxx. And I may go back to salvage heaps of bubble wrap that were still in the unbroken-down boxes. So to all you box (or, hell, bargain)-hunters out there: Go to your local TJ Maxx.

backfat for cubie

is there anything more frustrating than walking out to your car to head off to the office - when the sun is shining brightly but has that tinge of sadness around its edges because summer is well on its way to being over - and so you unlock the door to your car to head off to a job that you are grateful for because it pays bills but when you sit down and honestly think about it you aren't exactly sure how you landed this job or how you've managed to acheive success and whatnot even though your heart - as they say, is not in it...

but you have the aforementioned bills that beckon and a rudimentary escape plan forming in your head so you decide it's probably best to go ahead and go into the office take your lumps and be done with it because hey, it's already tuesday and tomorrow will be wednesday which means the weekend is just around the bend...and so you put the key into the ignition of your suv of choice turn it just so and nothing.

well, not nothing...it cranks, and cranks, and cranks but it simply refused to turn over and you think to yourself, hey wait a second - i didn't take on a car payment to have car trouble - in fact the very reason we took on this car payment was to eliminate car trouble once for all - but alas...and so you fiddle with wires under the hood and consult your owners manual and crank some more but the result is the same...and as you sit there staring through the windshield, you consult the rolodex in your head and begin diagnosing the malfunction based on your past experiences with car trouble and you wonder what those cartalk guys would say if they happened by and realize the inevitable - faulty fuel pump...because it's really the only thing that makes sense in this scenario...the starter is engaging and the plugs are firing so it can't be an electrical problem - and fuel pumps are notorious for going without warning - sometimes there are intermittent signs but then at other times they just leave you stranded - so you call into work and a co-worker graciously offers to pick you up because after all, there is work to be done - not that you can concentrate on work because you spend the bulk of the day wondering what to do about the car trouble - that is, when you aren't wondering who will be crowned the next lead singer of inxs - even as you dream of ways to arrange a chance encounter with the newly single brooke burke

but i think i realized today that life can be alot like car trouble sometimes all it takes is a simple breakdown to make you realize that you just might be stuck and i wonder at the people in the cubes around me and in cubes across amerika...is this how they envisioned life turning out? waking up each morning going to a job they could really care less about? it's like something out of a camus novel the way we go through the same routine every day for years as our hair thins out, our waist lines expand and back fat forms on our -- backs and our face takes on the look of someone who has settled because of the mortgage and the car payment and the kids need to get into a good college so they won't have to go through what we are going through at this very second - and i wonder is all of that stuff really worth it?

wouldn't it be far better if we pursued those things in life that we were/are truly passionate about? is it really over idealistic to presume that we could find a way to make things work if we were doing something we could care about deeply? and maybe, just maybe if we were pursuing our passions maybe money wouldn't matter so much - perhaps we are all cowards when it comes to stepping out into the unknown...and that, ladies and gentlemen is why i have decided to quit my job to go back to school to pursue my dream to become a professional fencer and as such, i will be taking applications for people willing to be my foils until i can build up enough confidence to compete professionally

spork & beans

so this past weekend i had occasion to attend that dreaded event formidably known as the family reunion replete with all the eye-rolling - green bean casserole - and warmed over deviled eggs that we have all come to expect over the years...and somewhere between the slip 'n slide and the family sing it donned on me that i might be a member of the strangest collection of relatives known to man. and i say that with the full realization that most folks feel much the same about certain relatives that always turn up at family functions even though you're pretty sure that they weren't invited. and even though they somehow got the memo detailing the date, time, and location of the gathering they seem to have missed the part that encouraged the bringing of food & or beverages - so they conveniently have just enough tallboys to tide them over for the aftenoon but that cooler lid stays locked up tight anytime you happen to walk by.

and so by the time the dinner bell rings a distant cousin has to drag you kicking and screaming from your prone position in the kiddie pool where you were only trying to put yourself out of your misery because a: it's unbearably hot & b: your hot aunt just reminded you of the time you accidentally saw her naked because she had the audacity to use the very same restroom that housed the linen closet that you chose as your hiding spot....and also, you're drunckle keeps getting emotional because he's half lit & really can't believe how much you've grown and wasn't it just yesterday that he was baiting your hooks and teaching you how to throw a football...and really it's amazing that he could remember any of that because he was constantly stealing pieces of your home chemistry set for reasons you still haven't been able to ascertain.

but just as you're recovering childhood memories probably better left alone - you are saved by the family photo because it's important to gather everyone together and preserve this moment in history because really, how often do we do this? and that's probably why no one seems to mind that random kids from the neighborhood somehow make it into the shot - because when will you have the chance to see those little brats again...and also, it would take a great amount of time and effort to chase them away and the sun is going down and the mosquitos are buzzing because your fat relatives reek of pure unadulterated sugar & sugar bi-products...and you wonder how none of them are diabetic, but this thought is quickly chased away by the rage that wells up within you when you realize that there are at least 5 more cameras left and at least three of those will have features so complicated that the owner of said camera (after 15 minutes of shouting out instructions) will have to go up to the front and demonstrate how the blessed thing works which means they'll have to repose themselves...and really it makes no sense in this modern age of technological whatnot that so many pictures should need to be taken...

i mean couldn't we just take one picture and send it out in a lovely e-mail? better yet, give me the memory card, i'll print up the photo onto a t-shirt and send it out to everyone complete with a clever reunion themed top ten list on the back...that, dear friends would be the bomb.com

i might even photoshop our heads atop the bodies of penguins posing on a glacier for my cousin who is obsessed with penguins. seriously, it's pretty much the only thing he talks about...he is well past the age where his hormones should have borne forth in him an interest in the ladies, but really...all he cares about are penguins....which, i know that penguins are strange and mysterious in that sort of austere, flightless way...but come on when you are a student living in a dorm at a major university you might want to dial back the wierdness a notch. or two...and i wonder how that happens. i mean how do you become interested in something like penguins?

i will openly admit to being interested in many diverse things - if by diverse you mean action figures with hinged knees and real hair...and maybe that is strange...maybe, many of my relatives stand and wonder heads agog and mouths agape about my strange obsession with action star hair when i should really be thinking about settling down and starting a family...and of course i don't even want to think about that because i am currently in the throes of one of the worst breakups i have ever had to endure - and it's a miracle that i even make it out of bed most mornings...and i don't know if it makes it better or worse that i never even spoke to this woman - because for all the fuss that gets made, i often find that communication can be so over rated. i mean seriously, how many times have you liked an attractive stranger less after you had a conversation with them? it happens to me alot. still - the no talking thing? sort of makes it difficult to acheive closure or to find out where things went wrong...so the best that you can hope for is that your real hair will be in perfect order in anticipation of a chance encounter because it's hard to be taken seriously as a super action star/former lover if you have fake hair. seriously. just ask ben affleck.

You Are Where You Eat

Restaurants are peculiar things, so much so that I'm willing to say I'm fascinated by them. Like a lot of us, I enjoy eating really good food. Part of this is no doubt attributed to my southern upbringing (where eating really good food is a crucial aspect of daily life), but I also simply enjoy food for what it is. The preparation, the creation, the sharing of it with others, and of course, stuffing my own face...it's all part of the experience of food. As a kid I was fairly picky, but as life has progressed my palate has expanded (oddly enough, so has my waistline, but that's what the gym is for, right?) to the point that I'll try just about anything at least once. Some people never grow out of being picky, but, to avoid the negative social stigma, refer to themselves as being "selective." To those of you I say this: you do not fool me...I saw you in the Circle K parking lot gobbling down a whole box of Zingers then chasing it with your soft drink of choice. Selective my ass. These are the people I want to force feed, just so maybe they'll realize there's more on the menu than meat loaf, or fried rice, or whatever the case may be. Very few people take kindly to being force fed though (if they do, you might want to find a new friend before they go all Rex Vandekamp on you) so I'll just keep marching around the local Applebee's holding up a sign that reads: "Didn't you get the pot pie last time?"

Conveniently, this brings me back to the subject of restaurants (coincidence or clever ploy?), and in an effort to be up front, I'll admit my bias from the beginning: I do not like chain restaurants. Obviously a large portion of our society does, but I do not count myself among their ranks. The idea that I can have identical bacon cheeseburgers at TGIFridays, whether I'm in Portland or Pascagoula, turns my stomach. It would be like going on vacation and sitting in your hotel watching Family Feud all day. For the sake of the saints, couldn't you do that at home? I'm all for a blended, melting pot society, but at the same time appreciate it when people embrace their unique culinary heritage. That means the good folks of New England should keep cooking their clam chowder and Boston baked beans, and my fellow southerners need to provide the barbecue, fried chicken and sweet tea. Southern California/Texas, we're counting on you for the tacos and tamales (Northern California: bring more wine). We can rely on the Northwest for the coffee, but I'm also going to put them down for the seafood. For those of you in the Midwest...just keep doing...whatever it is you do (I don't know, potatoes...cabbage maybe?). When I go to a new city, or am traveling in a new part of the country, I like to know where the locals eat, not where the closest Olive Garden is. Not only do you get a great meal (nine times out of ten), you get a taste of the local flavor, the local gossip, and (if you're lucky) a little bit of local music. The next time you're in that city you'll know where to get a damn good meal, where to get your flat tire fixed, and maybe even who sleeps around. For your benefit (and to shamelessly plug these establishments to the five people reading this) I've included a few of my southeastern favorites below:

Nashville:
1) SATCO
2) Rotier's
3) Davinci's Gourmet Pizza

Charlotte:
1) Fuel Pizza
2) Taipei Express
3) The Penguin

Metro-Atlanta:
1) The OK Cafe
2) Marietta Pizza Company
3) Willie Rae's

I try to steer clear of anything that might look like preaching or coercion in this venue (leaving that to guys who stand on street corners or lurk in back alleys), but let me implore you to stop being such a jackass. Support your local diner, or the burgeoning Mexican restaurant on the other side of town (even if no one in there speaks a lick of English...you took Spanish in high school, figure it out). Give that Mom & Pop dive a shot (get to know the Mom or the Pop while you're at it), and think of it as an investment in your community, your neighbors, and yourself. These are the places and people that will take the time to get to know you, to remember your name, and be glad to see you when you come back. If you simply must spend your money in a chain restaurant (and sometimes I do...the [christian] chicken biscuits of Chick-fil-A are an albatross around my neck), just remember this: they really couldn't care less.

Go to East Asheville Hardware / before you go to Lowe's / you'll help to keep them opened / I'm worried they might close / from the stiff competition / from the national conglomerate / with the full-page ad in the color section of the Sunday paper supplement / and, stacks of plastic swimming pools / and, seven brands of power tools / with rows and rows of registers all having nice days

That Most Sacred Tradition

After two years of getting sucked into the great frenzy that is "Red Sox Nation," I finally went to a game a few weeks ago. I believe we were playing Toronto, but honestly the memories that really impacted me have nothing to do with baseball. The pitching was exceptional, and that made for a quick and boring game for which I was grateful since a.) baseball is boring anyway and b.) it was pretty hot outside. The weather was actually picture perfect for America's pastime. The Boston haze had burned away, and the colors of the grass, sky, green monster, and uniforms were vibrant and delightful. Near the end of the game, things picked up because it seemed the Sox might be making a comeback, so that was actually really fun and intense. Everyone standing and screaming...and we lost. But here's what really stayed with me:

1. The man next to me with a gigantic bag of peanuts, resulting in a gigantic pile of shells... and how on earth is he comfortable in these chairs, he's gigantic!

2. Two rows up, there's a very tan, tooley guy (probably very early twenties) and 3 high school girls who fawn on his every word and laugh excessively at his jokes. He has a bleached teeth laugh. I don't know how else to say it. Somehow they get beer (fakes id's must be damn good), and it all gets louder and dumber. I'm sickened and fascinated at this display. He's a collar popper.

3. The baseball I almost caught/got knocked out by. The outfielders were loping in and Johnny Damon flicked the ball into the crowd; it bounced off something and came careening toward me. Sans glove, I ducked. Two rows back caught it. Lesson learned: bring a glove. Do I even still have one?

4. We never once got to scream "CHARGE."

5. But I did sing "Take me out to the ball game" with gusto.

6. A lopsided sunburn. I spent a good amount of time trying to shift so it wouldn't be quite so extreme, but... the old left shoulder took the brunt.

7. Frozen hot dog? Awesome. Cake, ice cream, whipped cream and chocolate syrup. No napkin, but not a single wayward, oozing drop. Shaped like a hot dog.

8. Possibly the greatest part ever? "Sweet Caroline." Yes, I do mean the Neil Diamond song, as a matter of fact. It was played during an inning switch (gracious, what the hell is the proper lingo?), and we all start singing along, with everyone screaming it out by the time we get to "TOUCHING YOOOUUU!!!!! SWEET CAROLINE!" music cuts out and the crowd goes "WHOA WHOA WHOOOOAAA" and it comes back on and cuts out again for "SO GOOD SO GOOD!" The players take the field right at the end of the second verse, and even though the music has stopped and the game is going, everyone keeps singing. It was amazing. It was beautiful. I'll never forget the thrill, and the wonder at how everyone in America knows the words to Neil Diamond songs, even if said songs are passionately hated.

I did inquire about this "Sweet Caroline" phenomenon the next week at work. Does this always happen? Everyone seemed ready for it so surely it couldn't have been a one time thing. And in fact? It's played at the same time at every single game. Why "Sweet Caroline"? Why not, like, "America?" Why Neil Diamond? How did it start? Is there an entertaining history? Or is it just really freaking fun to sing along to, with thousands of other maniacs? Because if it is the latter reason, that totally makes sense to me. Turn's out, yeah, it's just a fun song. Mystery solved.

I can't wait to get to another game. I can't wait to be in the crowd with a plastic cup of beer, peanuts crunching underfoot, ponytail looped through the Sox cap, the only time I wear shorts, eating hot dogs, screaming, high-fiving, and a stranger's sweaty arms touching me. . . "TOUCHING YOOOOOUU!!! SWEET CAROLINE! DUN DUN DUUUUN! GOOD TIMES NEVER SEEMED SO GOOD! SO GOOD! SO GOOD!"

elvis frappuccino

so you're inxs and you find yourself lost in the ipod shuffle of yesteryear desperately wondering how you can make your own particular brand of music relevant again - no small task for any band whose best years are clearly behind them (yes i'm talking about you u2) but then you factor in the fact that your charismatic lead singer with the golden vocal chords and latent sex appeal happens to be dead - well you're sort of screwed...

unless of course you have the good fortune to cash in on the reality television juggernaut that is sometimes referred to as the reality television juggernaut which, not only gets your band back into the public eye - it also happens to generate tons of free publicity for this upcoming album that will be released with the singer who prevails in this televised audition of e.p.i.c. proportions...it should also be noted here that any opportunity to appear on television with the stunning brooke burke (not to be confused with brooke burns of north shore/dog eat dog infamy whose porcelain veneers haunt me. and i don not lie.) is never a bad idea...in fact, i auditioned for the show (the show being rockstar inxs) and did fairly well for myself all the way through regional finals where i performed every day i write the book. only, instead of saying book - i substituted the word brooke. and even though she found this adorable (my word not hers) the producers found it cloying (which...is that even a word?) and i got the boot - but brooke and i are pan pals (seriously. we trade bread recipes) and it's great.

- thus i can comfortably proclaim that even though i am not going to be the new lead singer for inxs the forthcoming record will most likely do bang up business - i'm predicting at least 500,000 sold domestically (probably 7 or 8 billion sold in australia) - which is still a gold record, and a measure of moderate success - even though said record probably won't be very good...and let's be realistic, it won't - the career of inxs was in the tank long before michael hutchence checked out - the same michael hutchence who once publicly complained that u2 had co-opted the inxs sound on achtung baby (which, yeah i guess i can sort of see that on a song like mysterious ways) and this - and this alone was the reason that record sales had begun to flag...but come on mike, people didn't stop buying radiohead records just because those asshats that call themselves coldplay co-opted their sound. but we'll forgive michael for this oversight because i think the real trouble with him was that he never really got over ubermodel helena christiansen - most famous for her romp on the beach with elvis frapuccino aka chris isaak in his wicked game video - and i could see how michael might have trouble getting over a girl like that - she's gloriously beautiful with the kind of eyes that one could really get lost in...seriously. just ask debbie gibson.


where was i? oh yes. don't get me wrong i don't begrudge inxs any (inx)success that might come from this latest venture - i mean seriously, they could have tapped david lee roth to front the band - or that dude from extreme that totally (& ultimately) ruined van halen once for all (and thank holy heaven for that). and this is really a pretty clever marketing ploy on their part and they will no doubt line their pockets with large sweaty wads of cash - and also? how can you be angry with the band that gave us never tear us apart hands down one of the greatest songs of my lifetime - and i'm not just saying that because of its recent inclusion on the donnie darko directors cut...because any of us who have seen the classic donkeyman video recognize immediately that donnie darko is nothing short of plagiarism and poor man's tobey macguire can just kiss it

- also, i'm not just singing the praises of never tear us apart because of the phenomenal sexophone solo that features prominently - even though it does totally rock - it's simply a perfectly crafted/and executed pop song with the strings and the sax and that nifty guitar break between the chorus and the verse - that song seriously fights for my allegiance with the promise by when in rome as the greatest song of the almost 1990's and thank you napolean dynamite for bringing it back.

I Do What I Likes & I Likes What I Do

I was in Las Vegas recently. While it would be much more glamorous to tell you I was there to compete in one of those poker tournaments that ESPN televises (for reasons I'll never know), or that Brooke Burke and Jenny McCarthy had called me up and, in unison, shouted "Go west, young man!" such was not the case. Not that the poker jackpot wouldn't have been nice (sadly, the only poker rules I know involve the removal of clothing), or that a scripted party at the Palms wouldn't have been side-splittingly funny...it's just that it wouldn't be true. Rather than bore all of us with the mundane details of tradeshows, exhibits and other industry nonsense, I'm more inclined to tell you about some of the people I encountered.

A lot of folks play the slot machines, but apparently only dunces play in the daytime. One such dunce was an elderly woman and her (I assume) husband. They both appeared to be in their early eighties (this might not seem so old if you're reading this and are 95, in which case I'd like you to know that I'm proud of you and your internet savvy self, so keep up the good work). Anyway, this woman would press the "spin" button then feverishly rub the screen with a small circular piece of cloth. In fact, she would keep rubbing until the machine stopped rotating. I watched for awhile, then asked her what she was doing with the cloth (as a sidenote, I asked politely, because that whole cynical jackass thing often falls flat with our senior demographic...trust me). She claimed, as the husband took another hit off the oxygen tank, that her cloth had been blessed. I smiled knowingly (knowing that to continue in this conversation would be a one-way ticket to Crazyville) and walked away. I could have understood (and maybe even acknowledged) a lucky cloth, but a blessed one? Who blessed it? I've got a sinking feeling it was this guy, although I guess it could have been this guy, or even her, but most definitely not him because we are talking about gambling here people.

If you've ever heard the rumor about there being a lot of prostitutes in Las Vegas, then allow me to confirm it. It wasn't unusual to encounter four or five on the brief walk from Bally's over to the Bellagio. How do I know they were prostitutes? Well, that's a good question (albeit one I'm asking myself). I don't have a special radar that sounds an alarm when I'm within a certain proximity to venereal disease, nor do I boldly approach people and inquire about their livelihoods, so let me break it to you this way: Nice girls will not walk up to you and start conversations, at least not in Vegas. If you are approached it's probably not with the intention of sitting down for a few hands of Old Maid while you each enjoy an ice cold Coca~Cola Classic, followed by a few rounds of "Father, I Adore You." If you're in Las Vegas and a girl smiles at you, ten bucks says she's a hooker (and, to be fair, that ten bucks won't go far). If said girl invites you to join her and her friend Natasha (my apologies to all women named Natasha who are not prostitutes) for a few drinks, they're both hookers, and you're automatically out-numbered. Finally, if either of these girls suggests "negotiating" (which is synonymous with "dickering," although I was afraid using that term might confuse a few of you for obvious reasons) the price once inside your room, then you should be aware that these girls are not selling Amway. I'll never admit to agreeing with Sting on anything else, but you really shouldn't feel obligated to either 1) put on the red light, or 2) sell your body to the night. If, like me, you've never had to pay for sex before, there's no reason to start just because you're in Nevada. On the other hand, if you've made a habit of soliciting the services of a prostitute, look out...one of these days she's going to be a cop, or a man, so go ahead and take your chances every chance you get.

I would have been glad to only spend one day in Si(lico)n(e) City, but instead it was five. I flew the red-eye back into Atlanta early (like 12:35am early) Thursday morning, and ended up sitting next to a Mormon couple in their early twenties. I was against the window, having taken my seat first, and Kayla and Jeff shortly joined me. Jeff took the aisle seat and promptly went to sleep, and Kayla (who was traveling back to South Carolina to visit her family) took her place like most people who get stuck in the middle seat do...slowly and with regret. Obviously I didn't know that either of them were Mormons at first (neither was wearing a white short-sleeve dress shirt with a black necktie, and neither straddled a bicycle), but when they mentioned they were from Utah I all but knew. I wanted to ask Jeff where his other wives were, but thought that might be a bit forward. Kayla and I ended up chatting for the majority of the flight. As it turned out, she had gone to high school with a fraternity brother of mine, proving that, like that damn song says, it is a small world after all. We talked about God, about Mormonism, about being married in Heaven, about Monks stealing parts of the Bible and hiding it in caves, about family and death, the realities of being newly married and paying things like car insurance, about politics and cigarettes, and of course we talked about music (a direction that I will always steer the conversation to eventually). One thing impressed me more than anything during the time we talked, and that was the degree with which she embraced her beliefs. I asked a lot of questions about her faith, and honestly, she believed some pretty wild things (come on...the whole golden tablets stuff is out there), but she didn't question it. Sure, we can argue all day long that such firm conviction is the product of indoctrination, never knowing anything different, or even brainwashing. But I don't think I can explain away her passion that easily. I can do what I do best though (because I do what I likes & I likes what I do), and leave you with a bit of music...

Are you, are you ready for that great atomic power / will you rise to meet your savior in the air / will you shout or will you cry / when the fire rains from on high / are you ready for that great atomic power