This is really important.

A platypus' spurs are poisonous.
I found this out today, and I have decided that they are by far the most bizarre creature on the planet. Also the coolest. Whoever created the earth was completely under the influence of something whenever he/she created the platypus.

We're down to hours on the Puckett return.
And we're down to a few days on my sister's return.
The stress of finals and such however, makes everything seem further away.

Surprise Visitors

I'm not going to lie, this morning started out as really lame. But I could feel goodness coming on, you know?
It wasn't really lame actually, it was just disjointed and awkward. I felt rushed despite the fact that I was taking my time. I've been sleeping in more lately (by sleeping in I mean, sleeping in until 8 vs. my usual 6:30-7 rising) and that loss of an hour and a half is really throwing me off. Plus I have two papers to write, but they're not exciting at all they're "this is what I learned" papers, and I'm having trouble writing them because they are so boxed.
But then, as I was sitting at home slightly lonely, trying to write them stevi called me.
"Hey I'm bringing a friend home, is that okay?"
"Yeah, thats fine why?"
"I just wanted to make sure it was okay."

I figured she was bringing home her friend Ryan who she had lunch with today.
But she brought home (drumroll please)...



Dan Fahrner! (the one pointing to the left). It was so good to see him. My jaw hit the floor.
It was really good seeing him. Really good indeed.
Infact, I've gone through bouts of missing him alot, because I don't think I've had quite as much fun with anyone as I did him. Rest assured, we've had our fair share of rough spots along the way, but they were mostly circumstantial. And we're both done with those circumstances.
Plus, I'll be seeing a lot of him in the next few weeks, so we'll see how that goes. If anything I'll just be really glad to have him back in the picture.

Its good when people you've secretly missed integrate themselves back in.

COUNTDOWNS:

3 days until the return of Rachel Puckett!!!
10 days until I see my sister (i love her i love her i love her) and I go home!

HIBERNATION

So, two more weeks and I'm going to hibernate.
With my sister, on our couches. with sleepy time tea.

some bad movies.

and big cozy pjs and blankets.

until then. i have a protools project to finish. a portfolio to finish. five finals. a two minute news program to make. two online quizzes to take. three papers to write. ...and not much sleep to get.

My Porsche

So, if you haven't gotten wind yet, Debbie (Downer) my car, got a slight face lift this weekend. I decided when I was pulling out of the Meijer gas station, on my way home, that the dent on the driver's side back door would be really well accented on the other side by a blue racing stripe donated by the Blue Honda Civic of the man in front of me.
I'm kidding, there's no way in hell I would do that on purpose.
My mom said she's figured out my scheme, I just don't want doors on my car. I told her it would make for better ventilation.
Debbie is a downer because she got sideswiped the first week I brought her up to Muncie, and something's been weird with her ever since. She's a Chevy Cavalier I got the day before I came up to school last year.
So now, since she has a dent on both sides, I figured, I would treat her nicely and make her feel beautiful, since I roughed her up so much. I got her tires rotated, and gave her an oil change, and then yesterday I detailed her interior and got her a new Mistletoe scented air freshner.
See something you need to know is that Debbie smells like a hippie. I don't know who owned her before, because she was a repo from my Dad's bank, but whoever it was liked to smoke weed. My car smells like insence no matter what I do. Everyone comments on this, everyone. I've tried everything, cleaning her, different scented air freshners, leaving the windows slightly down. She still smells like hippie.
I'd never tried a more manly scent, other than Citrus and Sage last year, and that only made it worse. (I don't know why I thought it would help.) But Mistletoe, that could help.
So when I sat down in my car yesterday after the air freshner had been in there for a while, I was relieved to smell it at first. I thought I had finally conquered the hippie in her. And then I breathed in again, and realized that I had accomplished making Debbie smell like Santa had driven her home from Woodstock.
humph.

However, I was reminded of a funny moment from when I was sixteen yesterday.
I had let Sarah, my sister, borrow the Civic for a while when she was up at college, so that she would have a way to get home other than her motorcycle during the winter. I didn't know when she was coming home for Christmas break.
So my Mom and I were driving home one day, while Sarah had the Civic. We pulled onto my road and I saw a Porsche convertible parked nicely in front of my house.
"What's that?" Thinking immediately about when we would have gotten this new car.
My mom however, looked up in the driveway and noticed my Civic was back, she did not notice the Porsche.
"That's your car."
My jaw dropped. Finally, my parents had aknowledged how charitable I had been with the Civic, and rewarded me by getting me this Porsche. I could see it now, driving on the highway with a fruity scarf around my head. With a Porsche of course, I could go anywhere I wanted to, whenever I wanted to. People would see me arrive unexpectedly and just say,
"Oh look, she has a Porsche. Honey, put some lamb in the oven, we have company. And get out our best bottle of wine."
"Really?!" Just double checking. Mom had no idea why I was so excited.
"Yeah, I guess Sarah came home a day early." That's when I looked up and saw the Civic. This is where my dream ended.
"Oh. So...the Porsche isn't ours."
I've never seen my Mom laugh that hard at my expense. I've never been so heart broken over a material object. I knew my fantasy was stupid, but for a moment in time, that Porsche was mine. And it was a beautiful moment.
"You really think if we bought a Porsche, I would give it to YOU?"
Funny Mom funny. She went in the house. I lingered outside for a moment and said goodbye to the random Porsche sitting in front of our house. I found out later it was our neighbor's, but they were having their driveway re-paved and needed somewhere to park it.

Giant Squid

I am deathly afraid of giant squid.
My mom told me to write about this today when we had a good long talk about them.

I think it was Freud that says most irrational fears (although I will argue to the death that this is completely rational of me) stem from something that happened to you at a very young age.
If we're going along this route it all started when my parents took me to Disney World and I rode 10,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I was the sorry kid who got stuck on the window right next to the big squid eye as the fake submarine restlessly shook the living daylights out of you, while lights flickered, and people screamed, and alarms sounded. This doesn't paint a very pretty picture, especially for a five year old.
A mere seven years later I found myself on family vacation again, except this time we were in the Smithsonian in Washington D.C., in a deep sea science exhibit. Don't misunderstand me, I have a deep passion for all things oceanic, sans giant squid. I didn't even realize I was afraid of giant squid at the time I was twelve, until my father called to me from across the exhibit,
"Laura, come over here. I want to show you something."
Now, my biological father might not have been the coolest guy on earth, but he had a knack for finding pretty awesome museum exhibits. This moment, however, was not one of his strongest. Because what I found when I went to where he was standing was a pickled giant squid eye recovered off of some small Asian Coast. The eye was bigger than me. (Back come all of the associated feelings from the ride seven years prior, in my head alarms were going off, lights were flickering, small children were screaming, including myself.) In this moment of panic I immediately tried to find something to avert my eyes to, only to find a life sized replica of a giant squid next to a life sized replica of a Sperm Whale...and there wasn't much of a size difference.
We weren't in that exhibit much longer after that.

I'm really cruel to myelf, I like to torture myself. For instance, last summer when I was home for a bit, I found myself drawn to a discovery channel special on giant squid and I watched the entirety of it. I was both terrified and intruiged. I learned things, like the fact that giant squid have BEAKS in their tentacles, and that they torture their prey. Their prey include really large things like small whales, sharks, and such. Tons of stories have amassed over the years of how cruel they can be. The only thing that eats them are Sperm Whales.
Rest assured, the Discovery Channel told me no one had actually ever seen a live one. Only dead ones that wash ashore. Dead ones that at their longest have tentacles twenty-five feet long. (That's close to five of me.)

False sense of security Discovery Channel, thanks. Not three months later there was the first ever recorded sighting and proof that giant squid excist somewhere off of the Japanese coast. I saw the pictures. It's scary.

I know you're all thinking that this is completely irrational of me, and probably the lamest phobia a gal could have. But really, its quite rational, and functional. 1. I have every reason to be afraid of giant squid. If I did for some reason encounter one, it would no doubt eat me with its creepy tentacles and beak, and it would hurt, and probably also involve me drowning, etc. 2. It's functional because the odds of this actually occuring are so slim. I can go about my daily life (especially in the midwest) without ever having to worry about running into one. If I was a deepsea fisherman in Japan, this would be quite different.

Anyway, so this summer Rachel and I decided it would be really cool to go to the IMAX. The first one that we went to was called "Deep Sea 3-D." The poster of it had a big sea turtle and some coral-reef madness. It seemed safe enough. Narrated by Johnny Depp, I expected it to be a more interactive real-life Finding Nemo kind of thing. Right before it started I had a forshadowing moment.
"Rache, if there are giant squid in this thing, I'm going to freak out, you realize."
"No Laura, you're completely cool."
"Rache, I'm not sure you get what I'm saying." As I said this, the lights dimmed, children ooh-ed and and ahh-ed, jelly fish danced infront of my nose, and I kept my fear to myself.
About three-fourths through the movie I was suffering from a false sense of security. But then the music changed. Johnny's tone changed. And the background went black.
"BUT in the middle of the ocean you'll find your worst nightmare."
"Dammit." I muttered under my breath. I then tried to convince myself that this would be some kind of shark segment, despite my knowledge that sharks don't live in the middle of the ocean like that.
"They'll eat sharks." Well, there goes that idea. A squid darts across the screen.
"They'll eat humans." Dammit dammit dammit. Two more.
"THEY'LL EAT ANYTHING." The damn squid attacks the camera. In 3-D. So really, this is my worst nightmare. And surrounded by old people and cub-scouts, I was the only ass that screamed. Rache just kept whispering comforting things like, "Laura it's ok. I'm so sorry, It's almost over. shh."

Thank You

Last night was one of those defining moments that sometimes pass too quickly.
Thank You to everyone who came to the CD release show last night, every person there meant the world to me, and everyone else in the band. It was a complete blast.
I'm home in Evansville right now for the first time in three months, and that's nice. It's really good to see my parents. You all have no idea how much I love them. My Mom and Dad are two of my closest friends. I don't make fun of anyone like I do them. Tonight at the dinner table we had a half hour debate on how baldness can be attractive, in an attempt to raise my Dad's self esteem. While he was grabbing seconds I picked up my Mom's copy of Peoplemagazine and found the page where it listed all of the attractive bald men (People=high quality reading.)...(I'm completely joking.) and started listing them, including Patrick Stewart, my childhood and lifetime hero. (Jean Luc Picard from Star Trek, the next generation. STNG for all of you trekkies. I took it there, don't question it.) When Dad came back to the table and was upset that I had cheated by referencing someone else's list.

Just so you know, my Dad looks like Mr. Clean. And he's a badass.
And Mom, well, she's just funny.

Sarah (my sister and soulmate) isn't coming home for Thanksgiving and this upsets me. Why did she have to be an overachiever and go to Harvard. Why Sarah? hmm? How selfish of you, to leave and be successful. (Kidding again, I'm really proud)... (But seriously come home.) Turkey day isn't the same without her to sit around and watch Xena with while the tytrophan wears out of our systems.

Wow, I've dropped a Star Trek and Xena reference in the same blog. Let's drop the biggest nerd-bomb, shall we?



Now here we have the McClouds from the greatest TV show ever, Highlander. Let's bask in the glory.


IN OTHER NEWS.

Again, thank you for everyone who came last night, and all of your support. 62 cds sold, that's impressive guys. If you listen really closely...you can hear the sound of the band slowly getting out of the big hole of debt we're in. And that's comforting.
Plus, we're having incredibly large amounts of fun while we're doing it.
I cannot begin to explain the elation that comes along with being a member of This Story. (www.myspace.com/thisstory) It's such an honor to know all of the guys in the band, and even more of one to call them my friends and comrades. I'm constantly surrounded by a large group of support and love, and that's probably why I find myself hugging them all of the time. The oppurtunities that have arisen from this are immense, and I've made some of the greatest friends of my life.
So honestly, to everyone who has helped, and taken notice of all of the hard work we've put into everything and will continue to do...Thank you.

xoxoxo hearts n' such. Laura

More to it.

Editing still.

I'm inserting this scene somewhere. And the other one is going in my driving home essay. Because I need to talk about the drive home, more than the befores and afters.

How I felt when I saw him. (a challenge from Newg. He doesn't like the idea of falling stomachs or washing relief.)

Imagine a rather large calloused, rough, manual labor hand on your torso. This hand defies physics and reaches into you, hooking the bottom of your stomach with its pinky and the top of your heart with your thumb, this hand then draws itself together, forming a tight fist, stretching and compressing your organs all at once, neglegent of any and all nausea and pain that this might cause you. You are left to just deal with this feeling, experience it a bit, and carry on.
That is how it felt every time I saw him.

more later, I have to go to class.

More editing.

DREW
I met Drew last year when I was sitting in front of the local coffee shop, having a sub-par day. He had a weird staring problem. He kept smiling. As he started to walk by with some friends he said,
“Hey, I like your head band,” and as I turned around to say thank you he stopped and said, “and your eyes.”
We began to email one another and stumbled into a two weeklong conversation about home. I wanted to know how he kept so stable while beings so nomadic.
I feel like this might have actually been a reaction spawned from Ben Danger (for those of you who haven’t read the essay, I have a friend who’s middle name is literally danger, this isn’t the Ben from Florida.). Drew and I met the same week I received news of Ben’s suicide; I was so dumbfounded. How could this character, Drew, grace my life and be flourishing in the same lifestyle that eventually kill Ben? Where was the difference? Where was the line between failure and success? Between life and death.
Eventually one day, ironically, Drew replied to one of my e-mails with,
“You should write me a letter.”
It’s strange the parallels that life presents us with, the breakdown and the buildup. There I was, on the tail end of an intense five-year letter correspondence that ended in eminent disaster, and out of nowhere, appears the second round of life to fill that deep void.
Letters have always been important to me, more so in recent years than anything else. I’ve found that many of the people who are most important to me are the most honest in writing. Ben Danger weaved himself into my life that way. You can look back on letters and see things that you didn’t see before. Writing a letter is giving a part of your self away to another person, sending it off for them to hold, keep, and revisit. Letters are two lives intertwining and resonating.
Drew appealing to that side of me is key. I needed that jolt of optimism, compassion, and love after such a dismal finale from Ben.

i know you're reading this

It has come to my attention that people are actually reading this, occasionally when bored.
not even necessarily people I know very well. I'm talking to facebook stalkers. Which is cool, I mean, I'm the one who put a link to this up there.
But you're all being creepy by not saying anything, and just reading. That's really stalker-ish.
So if you're shadowing me, atleast let me know. Give me feed back, I'd appreciatte it.
If you're just reading this, and not saying anythng because you think I'll be weirded out that youre reading it at all, you're wrong.
You reading is equivalent to being the creepy kid who sat behind you in fourth grade and breathed to hard, making you ever aware of his presence.
I forget his name, but that's of no consequence, we all knew that kid. He was friends with the guy who ate paste waaaay longer than necessary.
Don't be that guy.

Things I Wrote Today

So I started to expand and revise my paper on driving home for the first time after the tornado hit Newburgh. I've decided that this essay is going to be alot longer when I'm done revising it, because there are some things that I am ready to delve into, and it has been asked of me.
In the draft that was returned to me Todd had underlined certain passages and asked that I expand on them. So my goal today was just that.

SUMMARY: the essay is about fall semester of my sophmore year, when a tornado went through my home town amidst other personal chaos, and the different methods of coping with this. It goes through the initial shock, processing, anger, outlash, preperation for returning, and finally getting home.

LINE ONE:
"The churning bile in my stomach" (upon being told that a tornado went through)
The lining of your stomach is amazingly thin for all of the acids it contains in order to digest. The feeling of all of this eroding inside of me was what I used as a momentary distraction as I dialed. So I didn't have to think about how to react if my home was gone, if my parents were hurt, if my dog and cats were now stray and injured.

LINE TWO: "I let him know exactly what I thought of him and his opinions." (aka: that one time I bitched out a guy in my Symbolic Logic Class. Originally I just left the bitching out to the reader's imagination.)
My voice and my words cast a larger shadow over the classroom than I am physically capable of casting. I remember noticing my classmate's faces as I spoke, rather than thinking about what I was saying. They were either watching, jaws slightly ajar, or looking down with guilt. Guilt that wasn't theres to feel. Guilt I was enducing.
They didn't cause the tornado. There was no one to blame. But I was giving a verbal lashing so that for a moment, they could feel a lesser version of what I was going through, of what my friends were going through, of what all of those families were going through.
We were all helpless. There was nothing any of us could have done to prevent the tornado, or anticipated it more. There was nothing that my classmates could do to prevent me from verbally lashing out at this guy. His seemingly harmless sarcasm had snapped something in me. I went into a mode of communicaiton that is unhindered, I verbally unleashed a rare side of me, the blatant side, the side that is uncompromising and void of forgiveness.

LINE THREE: How this all shaped my character. Because I keep saying it did, but I don't say how.
"I started to really make decisions for myself in this time. I decided who I wanted to be, to operate in the image of the woman that I want to grow up to be. I thought alot about how she, that grown and mature adult version of myself, would act in these situations. I started to respect her opinions and values, I started to respect my own. I started to view myself as valuable and capable, as independent and consistant.

SOON TO COME: "Indiana-grey"
For those of you who live here, you know what I'm talking about. Indiana deserves its own grey crayon. If you don't believe me, look out at the overcast sky.

witnessing.

I just witnessed a pivotal moment in a girl's life.
She was downstairs in the Atrium making small talk with a girl behind the counter in the Barnes and Noble cafe, asking about the school. This is where she's coming.
I remember my freshmen orientation and thinking that college felt alot like summer camp at that point, and hating it. My mom and I lied to come home early.
When I sat down in my first class I felt like I ruled the school, and moved because I was suspect that the upper classmen in front of me would undoubtedly copy off of me. I felt like a different breed.
I never thought I would actually be living the life that I had daydreamed of since highschool. That I would be making something of my music, skipping classes with professor's permission so that I could go to play shows in Bloomington.
That I would cut out some of the most devastating characters in my life, who lived under the guises of my closest and dearest friends. Through that learning the value of real friendship, and meeting the people who would reinforce my true character, the people who I wake up thinking of, and looking forward to. (Sarah, Stevi, Puckett, Justin, Newg, Sarah v. 2.0, Ali, Ashley, etc. etc. etc.)
Content isn't one of those words that was ever really synonymous with my life.
But sitting down and writing, or talking, or walking, or any verb that I can think of, I find that I am really proud of myself. I know that there's so much more beauty to come, but I like where I'm at right now.
So much to look forward to.

Ok, now someone go light a candle and sing some folk songs about rainbows and harmony.

conversation with newg

ME: stupid question
CHRIS: (raise of eyebrow)
ME: when you’re typing oohed is it o-o-h-e-d or o-o-‘-d?
CHRIS: (Contemplative face)
There’s no ‘h’ in ‘ood” other wise it’s oohed.
ME:Really?
CHRIS: Really.
ME: You sure?
CHRIS: Yeah.
ME: huh…….but still is there an apostrophe in that?”

Dave Sedaris

he's gotten alot better, as was said in class, this book is good because it's focused, not random.
(Dave Eggers always has my heart though.)
Hearing Sedaris in class did change the way i read the book though. His voice was alot less lethargic and nasel- based in my head. So that definitely put a damper on the reading occasion for me.

Discovering the deeper meaning of Hijara to me today was like a goldmine. I love unearthing deeper meanings behind things like that, it means alot to me. I really want to assume that Sedaris took it to the deepest level on that, that he was fully aware of the fact that Hijara was Mohammed's fleeing of his homeland after being enlightened in Mecca, leaving behind everything that he had known with just his first wife and some followers and family, just so that they wouldn't be persecuted.
That's one of the most sacred Islamic stories. It's the reason that they have to visit Mecca in their life time.

He had to have known in order to sight that, correct.

Plus, you know a story has deeper meaning when a Joni Mitchell song is involved.

I guess the thing that I enjoy most about Sedaris's writing is that he makes us connect the dots. you know?
more on this later.

the Major Deal

So.
It's of my opinion that you should be able to invest passion into all of your work, or you shouldn't be doing it.
Therefore, the classes that you're majoring in should probably be your favorite classes right?
It's not that I don't like audio production, I love protools etc. etc... but we're not learning what I want to do with it. So far we've recorded outdoor noises, radio spots, and now more indoor noises. I can only record a flushing toilet so many times. I want to produce music, and that's not what the focus is in telecommunications it seems. Everyone around me wants to move to LA and make movies.

I don't want to do that at all.
I mean, not even close.
So I don't really identify with anyone in my classes because none of them want to do what I do. And isn't that the point of a major?

On another note, I've fallen in love with my english minor, but it's too late to major in it if I want to graduate anytime soon.
And I could do my other minor, comm studies... that's feasable.
Those are all of the classes I love, to be quite honest. And I'm better at them too.

what to do.
and what's with the shame of a general studies major?
I could do that and graduate with four minors in four years.
is that so bad?

The Singer Solution to World Poverty

My freshman year I was hanging out with my transition friends (the kids that you find the first week of school who you know aren't really well suited to you, but you hang out with them just the same because they're all you have for the time being.)
And this hippie girl was with us, and she got sbarro all over her face. Being the polite young woman that I was, I offered her a napkin.
Being the impolite young woman that she was, she made a face that I can hardly begin to describe, but it was somewhere inbetween disgusted, annoyed, and revolted.
"I don't believe in napkins." The sentence exited her mouth, rushed and urgent. I was astonished.
I wanted to say "Well I don't believe that pizza sauce was intended to be on your face, and I am holding in my hand the solution to this problem. Secondly, how is it that you can believe in a corporate pizza chain and not napkins? Thirdly, how can you not believe in napkins? What does that mean? I believe it exists...I'm holding it in my hand, it's here I can feel it."

What does this have to do with "The Singer Solution to World Poverty"? Absolutely nothing, it's true. But for some reason, reading it brought the story to mind, so here we are.

OK, I just reread it twice. (Which took alot of will power) and I really don't know what to say about this essay, besides the point that it could have ended alot earlier than it did.
It's like seeing the movie "Monster." phenomenal movie, really drove it's point home, I could barely make it through it, and I would rather never see it again. Although I encourage everyone to see it just once.
The thing is, we all get his point. It's one of those rude awakenings that everyone needs once in a while, but that doesn't make it enjoyable in the least.
I would like to see Peter Singers' home and see how comfortable it is. What kind of car he drives, how large his wardrobe is. Does he have a TV? How many channels does he get? Is his couch uncomfortable to sit on, if he even has one? Does he eat on tupperware or does he have fine china. Is his coffee chock o' nuts or Starbucks?

On Seeing England for the First Time

So when I think of Carribean Islanders, I do not think of bitterness and resentment and the assimilation of a culture during the colonial period.
I think of sunny beaches, cheerful dispositions, and good music.
So this essay was a real eye opener. Because the voice of the colonists is a voice that is rarely heard over the voice of the people doing the colonizing... if that makes sense. Jamaica Kincaid had a completely unique perspective that I had never even thought about before. And her point is so valid.
It's proposterous to try and instill the culture of England (where it's predominately cold, rainy, and grey) on the Carribean Island of Antigua (tropical climate, where they probably never would have come up with tea and crumpets to their life).

"But this breakfast business was Made in England like almost everything else that surrounded us, the exceptions being the sea, the sky, and the air we breathed."

Sadly, this is precisely what happened, but this isn't a travesty we hear about. We hear about people dying every day, we hear about North Korea's nuclear threats, and wars in Bahgdad, but when a Western Civilization assimilates an entire culture of people, no one seems to notice.

"I did not know then that this statement was part of a process that would result in my erasure, not my physical erasure, but my erasure all the same."

And the effect that it can have is stunning.

"England was to be our source of myth and the source from which we got our sense of reality, our sense of what was meaningful, our sense of what was meaningless, and much about our own lives and much about the very idea of us headed that last list."

Cultural Criticisms

This Essay is my nemesis.
Seriously. I have been brainstorming on this for so long and I've got nothing.
Let's take a moment to quote Stan Sollars, a man who day by day is becoming more and more of a hero to me.
"Somedays you get the bear. Somedays the bear gets you, but if it's one of those days where he's gonna get you, damn if you're not gonna take a peice of the sonuvabitch down with you."

He's so poignant.
So this is me taking a peice of the sonuvabitch down with me.

The only somewhat half decent idea I've had about this essay is my beef with the pressure our culture puts on recent college graduates, because I've seen so many of my friends fall victim to it, and suffer because of it.
But whatever could I mean?
What I mean is this.
Sherman came home two weekends ago and we started to talk about all of our friends who are getting married for the wrong reasons. Yes, there are a few that are going about it correctly and they will more than likely do very well (Tiffany! Jason!). But it really bothers me that I don't have enough fingers to count the number of couples who have gotten hitched but I have more than enough fingers to count the number of months that they've known eachother. It seems like they are succumbing to the unstated pressure of graduating college and the necessity for choosing some 'direction' towards something solid.
I'm all about impulse, but really, this is a life long commitment, or atleast it should be. This is a right that people are fighting for, gay america wants to get married too, and all of us straight folk are just sitting around abusing the privelage. Not many people seem to be taking the institution of marraige seriously anymore. It's not 'til death do us part' any more, its 'til we get sick of eachother and then we take advantage of the prenup.'
Come on.
Why can't we be more like geese? (I'll expand on this later).
Besides getting married, it seems like college graduates have a very limited number of options presented to them after they take off the cap and gown.
THE THREE GOOD OPTIONS
1. get a good job (good luck)
2. go to grad school (oooh yay, more loans!)
3. get married.

These three options give us some esteem from our elders to that they have something to brag about in the yearly christmas letter update that they send to relatives who only show up at weddings and funerals.

THE NOT SO COOL OPTIONS
1. Move back home to get an 'alright' job to save money to move somewhere else later, when really we all know you'll stay there.
2. Stay in your college town with your college job until you're either
a) a townie
b) you move somewhere else

These are the options where your parents sugar coat your actions and make it sound like you're being alot more accomplished than you are.
I know these letters, we get them every year.

I'd say that there's a token 1% of achievers out there who actually just GO and DO what they really want to. They're the ones who everyone else goes to visit and live vicariously through.

I find it strange that so many people my age were so eager to go out and explore and conquer when we were 18 and 19, but by the time that we're 22 and getting diplomas we get scared and rarely follow through with the dreams that we just spent alot of time, energy, and money chasing. The way I look at it, if you've spent the past four or five years hitting the books and studying a feild of work that you really want to get involved in, why not go for the gold?
Why do we feel this pressure? Why must our lives be chosen in our early twenties. Will someone please remind my generation that the odds are not in the favor of doing what you do in your first job forever?
Chasing what you really want isn't necessarilly going to be easy, you will more than likely have to start at the bottom of the totem pole and work your way up again, but the pay off of all of that hardwork I guarantee is 100% more satisfying than other options.
I think we're all just chicken shits.

"You just can't do anything right, can you?"

HOLY COW is a phrase that came to mind on this one. Debra Dickerson let it all out when she wrote "Who Shot Johnny". Throughout the peace there were some points that were so intense that I forgot to breathe.
I might be dramaticizing a bit, but she seriously gets her point across.
The shift segment is genius.

SEGMENT 1:
She just tells the story of her nephew being shot. The bitterness is alluded to, and she establishes her intellegence in the beginning, which is strategic. She is proud to be a Harvard Graduate, and she's not ashamed of being admitted through affirmative action.
The picture that she paints of Johnny is interesting also. She talks about him through contrast. She takes stereotypes and rebutes them. And plays on his strenghts, how he was never unconcious after being shot in the back, and how he never complains.
"Being black, male, and shot, he must apparently be involved with gangs or drugs. Probably both."
Law and Order doesn't help with this stereotype. Infact alot of TV shows that deal with crime don't. We draw conclusions based on our realm of knowledge, and alot of the kids that I know have never been shot. I've never even seen a gun outside of a bb gun, and even those scare me. But when I think of someone being shot at random, I automatically assume that there must be something bigger going on. I'm not going to lie, I would assume that something else had to have caused it, because who in their rational mind would shoot an innocent guy for jumping up and down and waving?
And she makes such a strong point, when she continues to rip apart the stereotype because of how much they disrepute her culture.
"We rarely wonder about or discuss the brother who shot him because we already know everything about him....he snatched my widowed mother's purse as she waited in predawn darkness for the bus to work and then broke into our house while she soldered on an assembly line....he kept us from sitting on our own front porch after dark and laid the foundation for our periodic bouts of self hating anger and raial embarrassment. He made our neighborhood a ghetto. He is the poster fool behind the maddening community knowledge that ther are still some black mothers who raise their daughters but merely love their sons."
WHOA.
That, my friends is a crescendo. Its effective because it is genuine, and it has been stifled for years, and her nephew getting shot was the final straw for Dickerson.
The shift to second person in the last few sentences is clutch. It leaves the reader feeling partially responsible for not voicing out against it as well, and it is directed at the shooter, and for everyone else who has made her feel this way over the course of her life and will continue to.

life

So. First things first.
I have a new computer, after a tremendously large cup of coffee attacked my last one. I'm trying to think of a name for this one.
But since my old computer died a ridiculously unexpected death, after some troubles earlier this summer, my entire music library was pretty much wiped. I'm in recuperation. I mourned my music library.
you have to understand, music is my life. And will be for a great while. There's a song for every occasion.
Sad: how about some feist? or some debussy? maybe even a little devendra?
Happy: What's going on cardigans? kings of convenience? lemon jelly? sufjan stevens?
melancholy: feist, good to see you. What's up tom waits, hanging out with rainer maria today?

So if you have enough free time to be reading this, feel free to make a contribution to my music library. Believe me, it would be appreciatted.

I came to the realization last night that I've successfully immersed myself in my music, school, and work. And hanging out with my friends. But that's pretty much what my life consists of.
I have no room for complaint.
Week to week I pretty much have life conquered:
Monday: class all day, harp lessons, work
Tuesday: laundry in the morning, class, work, bandpractice, workout
Wednesday: class all day, sometimes work, workout,LOST
Thursday: class in the morning, work, other band practice, Grey's Anatomy, workout
Friday: class, work, show
Saturday: work, show
Sunday: work, day to myself, sometimes church in indy

life is good. stable.
The thing about this is, as monotonous as that might appear, no day is the same. I've worked at the cup for over a year now, and not a single shift I have ever worked has been the same. And we have a really good crew now, and really good customers, so there's always something new. It keeps you on your toes. It's the same with shows. The ones this weekend could have been better, but it happens. It was still fun. And we're in the midst of writing new stuff. So, that's never a bad thing. And I love all of my classes.
and lord knows Lost and Grey's Anatomy are incredibly high quality.

yes.
more later, now class.

I went to Indianapolis yesterday.

Sarah and I went down to monument for circle and these were some of the results.

P.S: I played a show with my band last night in the Student Center ballroom, and it was amazing. Honestly, the best show we've ever played. It was fantastic. It felt great. No, it felt amazing.

Rewritten Paragraph

The ORIGINAL:
It took me forty awhile before I got there, and the apartment was a wreck.
There were beer cans all over the place. It was like a trash can. There were
cigarette butts spilling out of the ashtray and ashes were spread all over the
floor. From the living room, I went into the kitchen. There were more beer
cans. I wondered where my father was. His checkbook was open, but there were
only deposit/withdrawal slips. What had happened? I turned off the TV. I
looked around, at my father’s life.

My Version:
When I finally got to the apartment, I came to the harsh realization that it wasn't an apartment at all, it was a trash heap. The living room was decorated with countless beer cans, either empty or half-full, and full of cigarette butts. The smell of the place was putrid, but I slowly made my way into the kitchen, only to find more. The TV hummed with the background, probably left on for the sake of not feeling so alone than for entertainment. It was in here that I found his checkbook, his check-less check book, bearing only deposit and withdrawl slips. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to make him live this way? Was this really my father's life?

Lovely lower purposes.

I found it easy to relate to this story, and the feeling Ian Frazier is trying to get at. I think everyone reminices about the carelessness of our childhoods. I actually have very vivid memories of stomping on the ice at the bus stop when I lived near Chicago, much like he discusses in the creeks.
His character himself is so distant though, from the narrative, that I felt like the memoir was almost forced rather than genuine. No one enjoys forced nostalgia. He uses such large vocabulary to describe such simple moments, I think that's my problem with it. "...the joke filled monotony of his synopsis went well with the soggy afternoon, the muddy water, the endless tangled brush...the woods were ideal for those trains of thought that involved tedium and brooding. Often when I went by myself I would climb a tree and just sit."

WORDS UNNECESSARY: "joke filled monotony", "synopsis", "the trains of thought that involved TEDIUM AND BROODING"

He didn't think like that when it was happening. He's so distant from his inner child, it doesn't capture the moment at all.
I would write it like this.

"His way of describing it went well with the sweaty afternoons, the muddy water, the brush that was more tangled than our hair. The woods were perfect for endless, pointless thinking. I would just climb a tree and sit."

Or something along those lines. Frazier was a little thesaurus happy.
Later on he uses phrases like "suprious nostalgia"
hmph.

two strengths of this though:
The description of the day he realized that he was too old to just sit in a tree and think, and goof off with not doing anything. I think everyone has had this epiphany. I remember one day my sister and I whipped out our massive lego collection and started building, and about half way through we kind of looked at eachother, lost. We felt out of place.
His Adam and Eve comparison? Clutch.
I also am a big fan of the part where he talks about taking his kids fishing. Because this part, I feel, is genuine. Not being a parent, it's a little harder for me to relate to, but you can tell this is the portion of the story that spawned the entire reflection itself. This is what got it started.

Bourbon St. is cool too.

To be honest the first story of the kids tap dancing really kind of freaked me out. It was very haunting. I've never been to New Orleans, but it's hard to believe sometimes that children need to dance on the street to make a living. Although I admire tap dancers, I know how difficult it can be.
I love Uncle Pat though.
The amazing thing about this writing style is how much it makes you feel at home. Rick Bragg really makes you feel like you are getting the inside scoop on this incredibly unique culture. The fact that in the second installment he refines his focus to a specific person and his role in the community really showcases Bragg's talent at that kind of literary intimacy.
"Uncle Pat, who lives on Matherne Street and ran a propeller shop for 30 years, knows almost everyone. He has only been the chief for for years, but he has been an observer of his community all his life. When there is a small breakdown in its character he knows which tiny shack or mobile home to call on."
WOW.
In those two sentences, buy establishing such detail as Uncle Pat's street, he makes you feel like this story is being told while rocking back and forth on a front porch with a cork pipe and a banjo. It doesn't hide the fact that the characters in this story are in poverty, but it showcases their strength and comradery.
We'll count this as half of my blog on this, I'll expand on this after my french test.
wish me luck.

Freewrite

I liked where I was going with this, so I decided to publish my freewrite from class the other day.

Somewhere out there, floating around the nation, is a manuscript about me. From what I've been told, it's almost 200 pages long. I come in on page eleven.
Ben Brownlow and I met twelve years ago, in the school library, I was in fourth grade, he was in fifth, and we were both taking advantage of the scholastic book sale.
We weren't really friends until after I moved. So six years later, when I was a freshman in highschool, now living in southern Indiana, I went to visit our long time mutual friend (and pen pal since I had moved) Amy back in Chicago. Ben came to her hourse and we hit it of. This is apparently where his book starts, and where this story will take off.
Ben was suspended/expelled from school for passing out innappropriate flyers of President Bush Jr., resulting in him having alot of free time. Amy had told him about her and my correspondence, inspired, he began to write me.
I don't recall the content, but I remember laughing alot. Ben was ridiculous, and very funny. Cynical. And he would take things too far everytime. Funnier. He told me about the flyers, and everything that went along with it.
Two years later he and I were still writing. Amy and I were not. Now Ben had immersed himself in the beats. Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy were his heroes. The details that he provided me with were vague, but he had made me aware of the fact that his home situation wasn't very functional. He was taking classes at a local community college and traveling constantly on the weekends. He wasn't happy, which was apparent. Phonecalls which were once few and far between and lighthearted, had turned into frequent depressed and overwhelming conversations. I worried about him alot, and always took a great amount of time to reassure him of the promise his future held for him if he kept his chin up.
But then I started getting post cards from all over the country. He had fled from home. I received short notes from Colorado, Oregon, all over. I'm not going to try and explain the essence of his and my friendship. I was one of his few sources of support, and the details of his life were vague, and few and far between. I knew his state of mind though, it was chaotic, confused, lost, depressed and misguided. I remember one conversation where he told me that he had been train hopping one night ...
this is too rough. Sorry.

Decoration done, pretty much.

And that's my apartment.

Mirrorings-Chuck Palahniuk's inspiration for Invisible Monsters?

Am I right? That can't be just a coincedence, can it? Has Chuck been harboring a secret fandom for Miss Lucy Grealy? hmm? I'm suspect.
I read this early this morning, because I like waking up early to read and review, and I felt inspired by it. Although it had its agitating moments, which I will get to later, but for right now, let's highlight some things.
"I knew that to feel warm instead of cold was its own kind of joy, that to eat was a reenactment of the grace of some god whom I could only dimly define, and that to simply be alive was a rare ephemeral gift." (I took joy out of the fact that I read this over a cup of tea.)
But really, thats a good way to look at things. I was feeling sour on my way to class because I was suffering from that ever taxing wet-bottom of pant syndrome that the rain brings. But then I thought about Lucy Grealy, and then I started to think about what a strange little miracle that the water cycle works the way it does, and that some genius named Levi, over two hundred years ago figured out how to make denim so that he could pan for gold, and so that centuries from then, my jeans could get wet.
Genius.
I also liked the line "before I was literally, physically able to use my name and the word "woman" in the same sentence." That line has punch. zing boom Lucy, zing boom. I feel that way sometimes. I think every lady does.
Also, "Gradually, Ibecame unable to say "I'm depressed' but could say only, "I'm ugly," because the two, had become inextricably linked in my mind. "
That's clutch. I mean, really. Very introspective and insightful. Like a Joni Mitchell line if Joni decided to elaborate.
But then she gets artsy again with "it had suddenly occurred to me that I didn't have to make time pass, that it would do it of its own accord, that i simply had to relax and take no action."
and "As for Kafka, who had always been one of my favorite writers, he helped me in that I felt permission to feel alienated and tohave that alienation be ok, bearable, noble even." Wilde and R.M. Rilke did that for me, completely. Letters to a young poet? Czech it.
All in all this essay made me very glad of my purchase of "Autobiography of a Face" because I have every intention of reading it now. Although every once in a while Grealy reminded me of neo-goth-nighmare-before-christmas-garbed-black-shirts-with-whitty-white-writing-blue-monday loving kids. But there is an essential difference between her and them.
1. She didn't come agitate me when I was working at E.B. Games
2. She actually has a reasonable excuse to have that attitude, and normally, they don't.

Oranges and Fish from heaven...you can forget that.--The Telephone

Let's have a celebration for this short story, shall we? On the McKinley scale of 5 stars, I give this essay a strong 4 if not 4.5, depending on my mood.
Mr. Anwaar Accawi is divinely inspired, it would seem. Or atleast that's the impression he makes with his frequent references to the heavens and the way he paints his cousin-marrying, simple, private home town in Lebanon. Don't be a doubter.
"fall from the sky..."
"Heavens were shut for months,"
"fish and oranges from heaven."
^all lines from the story.
In a little religious reflection, I have to say that the theme of "The Telephone" is very reminicent of many religious texts, of all beliefs. One of humanity's greatest flaws being its discontent, restlessness, and acceptance of simplicity. We always have to make things more complicated with our curiosities and idiosyncities.
Anwaar graces this. His entire community was content until they decided to try and improve themselves, after withstanding decades of global peer pressure they decided to "progress" and get a telephone. And then things changed, and people realized that there was "more" in the world, and suddenly they weren't satisfied.
It would be nice to be satisfied wouldn't it? I guess the general masses just aren't. There's just more to be had.
My favorite character was that of Im Kaleem. The loveable whore. Not really whore, because she loved all of he men whom she pleased. (That must have been emotionally taxing right? She gave Natalie Imbruglia a real run for her money on the whole "torn" thing.) And my little heart empathized with her when all of the men of the village ditched her for the telephone. I mean really, who were they expecting to call? Men and their toys.
See what I mean about dissatisfaction? Im Kaleem all of a sudden wasn't cutting it. As there wives weren't before her.
Hopefully someday the telephone won't be enough. But until then, "I'm still looking for that better life."

An Entrance to the Woods, an exit from every day life.

I identified with this essay. I thought it had portions that were beautiful.
And can I just say that I know the exact strip of woods that he was talking about? We had to drive through Lexington to visit family friends in Nashville from Charlotte when I was little. So the second that he brought up I-64, I knew the highway. And when he brought up Daniel Boone National Forest...

That's the forest he was talking about. I'm pretty sure that I've been on feild-trips there. It's gorgeous.
I wonder if this is the part that he's talking about
"From the dry oak woods of the ridge I pass down into the rock. The foot trails of the Red River Gorge all seek these stony notches that little streams have cut back through the cliffs. I pass a ledge overhanding a sheer drop of the rock, where in a wetter time there would be a water fall..."
I like that part, it paints a picture.
Parts of this essay were very thoreau-ish. I guess there's just a universal theme for "I went into the woods..." stories. It's about finding yourself, it's about getting back to the basics of humanity and exisitance. Minimalism.
I think everyone has their escape routes. My roommate goes on runs, I go on drives or watch the airplanes take off at airports.

Smegma

"Why is it that boys get all the cool sex words? Semen, cool word. Sperm, cool word. Wait, ovum? no. SMEGMA?! We get smegma?"
I think we're all in agreement. Stevi is amazing.

If the Lord is my Shepherd, I hope he doesn't punch me in the jaw.

Don't You?

This is a reaction to "Out Like a Lamb" a short story.
I actually read this before in one of my core English classes, and I didn't like it for some reason. Some reason that is completely past me because I loved it this time.
To throw "some stars out" on a five star scale I'd give it a three and a half. I like it when I read it to myself, but we read it outloud in class today and the complete change in tone, the way it was read, made me interpret it completely differently.
The fact that the author was a Catholic also altered my view of it. That changes the whole thing. (This is an appreciative shout out to my Eng300 class last spring, stories are always more enjoyable if you have a relation or common ground with whoever is behind it).
So he's a Catholic who said, "...Christ called us his flock, his sheep; there were pictures of him holding a lamb in his arms. His face was tender and loving, and I grew up with a sense of those feelings, of being a source of them: we were sweet and loveable sheep. But after a few weeks in that New Hampshire house, I saw that Christ's analogy meant something entirely different. We were stupid helpless brutes, and without constant watching we would foolishly destroy ourselves."
This sets such a good tone. He analyzes waaay too much, to the point where the bias that this creates towards sheep influences his religious belief. Also the way he paints himself up as a cowboy, a failed cowboy at that.
A cowboy who is good at what he does would not accidentally kill a sheep by shooting it in the ass.
It's such a contrast to me. Cowboy writers. Tough guys who harbor an inner poet. Not to say that this story is incredibly poetic, but the act of writing well is an art.
I'm ranting.
I'll stop.

Suffering from insomnia, so I'll react to Lamott and be productive.

So the last bit of Bird by Bird blew me away. Lamott went from being witty and funny to really introspective and enlightening. One thing that I liked about this book was the variation in her writing. She's a very strong writer no matter what mood she's trying to take on, and I respect that.
Some excerpts I underlined:

P192: "...maybe this is the only way we ever really have anyone- there is still something to be said for painting portraits of the people we have loved, for trying to express those moments that seem so inexpressibly beautiful, the ones that change us and deepen us."

p913: I liked her reaction to the editor who said she made 'the mistake of thinking that everything that has happened to you is interesting'. In reaction to the editor: he's made the mistake of thinking that his opinion means much. I think that pretty much everything that she has said is interesting. Minus her long excerpts on getting published, because that's not my main goal in life. Although I'm sure that those sections would be of interest to aspiring authors.

p914: (sorry, she was on a role in this part I guess) Where she talks about how since she was writing for people who she loves, she was really careful and soulful with her writing, making sure not to be overly self-indulgent, and because of her selflessness in her writing, it was her best. You have to respect that. Although it's different for everyone. It might not work like that. Some people just write to get what they were keeping in, out. Not just for other people. I think it would be more of a challenge to write about someone else's experience, because it's so seperate from you.
For instance, I think it's an incredible challenge to write a good biography, and I commemorate those who do. I remember reading John Adams by Dave McCullough for my AP History class in highschool, and although large portions of it were amazing, I have a very vivid recollection pulling a little engine that could it was so hard to get through.

On the next pg. (195) she talks about writing in her own voice. And how it's natural to take on the voices of the authors you admire before you find your own voice. And then after you get into your own you write in honor of them. I couldn't help but get self concious at that part....I hope I write in my own voice. I'm going to list my influences real quick and someone can react and call me out on it if I'm too much like any of these writers. I mean, obviously there will be influence, but I dont want to be overbearing.
1. Oscar Wilde
2. Dave Eggers
3. Milan Kundera
4. Jack Kerouac
5. Rainer Maria Rilke
6. Pablo Neruda

Ok now I look at that list and I chuckle at myself.
There's no way I could compare to ANY of their genius.

P196: her use of the word "fantastical" is...fantastical.
....
is that even a word??

Now, page 200 really got to me.
Because it directly hits on my theme for the rest of the semester. Home.
"God is your home," and I pass othis on mostly because all of the interesting characters I've ever worked with-including myself- have had at their center a feeling of otherness, of homesickness. And it's wonderful to watch someone finally open that forbidden door that has kept him or her away. What gets exposed is not people's baseness but their humanity. It turns out that the truth, or reality, is our home."
There. Right there. She nailed it for me. That's my goal for this semester.

I woke up at 4:30 this morning to make muffins for muncie and this is the result.

lots and lots of it.

One Liners

Newg saves money on pomade by only washing his hair every three to four days. It's true. He just told me.
One could also assume that this also saves him money on shampoo.
Every year I collect one liners that my teachers say in classes, and write them all down to laugh at later. I have a pretty good collection going. Honestly you would not believe what some professors say. Don't worry I'm not citing anyone. Taken out of context some of these could completely be mis-interpreted, and I like all of these professors.
So here are some:

"It's alot easier to believe in God when you have guns"
"If you don't want the gorilla to get through the wall, then don't put a gorilla sized door on the wall."
"stay away from dialect...unless you're Mark Twain."
Newg improved on this: Yes I agree, sometimes even when you're Mark Twain.
"If only the government knew how I used my grant money."
"Hey, Let go of my tennis shoes."
"I really don't understand why college students don't watch teletubbies when they are high."
"How do you spell E.T?"

In other news.
I try to do a random act of kindness every day. On lazy days I just hold open the door for people.
Today was a lazy day.
I was on my way into the RB building for lit class and proceeded to hold open the door for two young men who were approaching. And then two more young men came, and then three, and two more...and pretty much I found myself stuck there for a solid two or three minutes holding open the door for people. I felt like a lawn jockey. As illustrated. I was stranded there. Newg's friend Amanda came by and gave me a pity face followed by a "oh honey."
Luckily I counted, and I'm counting my good deed for the rest of the week because I literally held open the door for thirty people.

In other news, this week I get to cross off three more things off of my imposing list of things to do before I die, so now I only have 95 more life goals. Tomorrow I have a 1.professional photoshoot and a 2.magazine interview for the school's weekly installation of 72 hours. Today I had my first 3. harp lesson. And I really took a liking to it. I can't wait to practice tomorrow. Luckily for me I already have calluses from piano-ing and barista-ing, so my hands are pretty much made for it.
I've never been so excited to play scales before.

I'm procrastinating by writing this so I'm going to get back to work.

Oh, the Muncie Scene

So Aaron is back in town, and I miss waking up to seeing him every morning this summer, doing dishes and making coffee. Although the new apartment is so amazing and chic that I wouldn't trade it for the world.
Today was grey and green which was good. Any excuse to sport my hoodies is permissable. When I went to work, Aaron ran out and greeted me with a hug and I loved it.
And then my band played a benefit show for muscular dystrophy at the village green, which was pretty cool. It's good playing shows like that, because to be honest, it's like playing for good friends in the living room. And I'm really excited about the direction that we are moving in.

I miss my mom and my sister and Rachel Puckett.

Speaking of Puckett... one of the regulars (quadruple shot espresso with six ice cubes-the man likes his caffeine) came through the drive-thru today and commented on a picture that she posted on her flickr account of her apartment in Florida and the painting in the background.

A painting which I painted.

Which I let him know. he proceeded to give me his card and commissioned me to paint for him. And then Keenan, (grande coffee with ice on hot days) (also in my top five customer list) asked me to paint him one too.
I'm gonna be a painting machine!

I also painted this picture in my room.
If anyone wants me to paint for them, let me know.

School Lunches- a shout out to Anne Lamott

so, for 286 we are reading a book about writing, "Bird by Bird", (I recommend it. Also, I'm reading "the Joke" by Milan Kundera)
well wait..
That gets a new paragraph.
A classmate of mine today referenced Lamott's line today about how American authors need to be hopeful, and french writers don't need to worry about it, he followed with a Camus reference.
First of all, France does have some pretty depressing authors, and "The Stranger" will probably make you want to go cry in a corner and/or take a nap to pretend you never read it. But read "The Three Musketeers" by Dumas and tell me you don't laugh outloud at his description of the horse.
It's pretty brilliant.
But if you want to read something depressing, read some Czech writing. Like Milan Kundera. Now THAT is depressing. Or read "Night".
Or hell, read one of those Lurlene McDaniel books that my OCD friend Stephanie read in fifth grade about people with fatal diseases. (Most of those novellas go on to become lifetime movies, I'm pretty sure. It's along the same lines as "The Face on the Milk Carton.")
That's enough of that tangent.


In other news, Lamott suggests when you have writers' block, to write about school lunches.
So I'm gonna give it a whack.

Well, most of my elementary school career was spent at All Saints Elementary, a private Catholic School in Charlotte N.C., and we never had the typical school lunch. (Although we did have those confusing milk packets that you had to spear with a straw in order to drink, which took a certain amount of talent and practice.)
What we did have as school lunches was fast food. Somehow, our school made deals with McDonald's, Pizza Hut, and Taco Bell, who supplied our school with hamburgers, cheese pizza, tacos, every day of the school week. McDonalds got Mondays and Wednesdays, Pizza Hut got Tuesdays, Taco Bell got Thursdays, and Fridays you had to fend for yourself.
Now, at the time, I was incredibly bitter about the fact that my mom would not give me lunch money. She argued that it was more economical and healthier for my sister and I to pack our own lunches. That didn't really mean shit to me. All of the other kids were cooler than me, they had fast food.
David Eades and Michael Gatto would sit next to me, making conversation over their happy meals, while I poked around at my un-happy meal with the cheesy note on my napkin from my mom.
Later in life though, I laugh at Michael and David, who have been filling their arteries with all sorts of nonsense from such a young age! Chemically enhanced food! I commend my mother for not giving into my pleading. She really did have Sarah's and my best interest in mind.
If you don't know what I mean, go watch Supersize me, or read Fast Food Nation. Or go to a cow farm.
So I'm proud of the Turkey sandwiches I had, cut in triangles, and my fresh strawberry's and hi-c.
I'm going to call my Mom and thank her.
And then I'm going to pay my gap bill.
And then I'm going to go to class.

So I'm using this blog for my lit class

True story.
No Joke.
I hope I never said anything offensive on here before this, because I really don't think I'm going to hide anything.
I think I'm going to make a system or something to show when I am writing for Eng286.
Which is a class I thoroughly enjoy by the way. So much that I didn't abbreviate.
But how could I not love a class that has Dave Eggers as one of our reading choices? Anywho,
The reading that we did for this class covered the complexity of what an essay is. And to be honest I had never really thought about it the way our text (Best American Essays) had, (from here on out it's gonna be BAE, because that book and I are buddies enough that we can use informal titles). Anyway.
I did enjoy the fact that it had all sorts of well known authors as contributors. Some of which had notable names, which gained silent smiles from me as I read. Which, while reading is the equivalent to a head nod.

"Hey Amy Tan, what's crackin? Oh you submitted a work to Best American Essays? That's fantastic, I can't wait 'til I get to that chapter."

Yes. I took it there.
So now I realize that essays are important. And that I am going to research this Montaigne character, because he intrigues me and I like to put my studies in historical context.
I'm now, for the first time, going to take advantage of this picture option I have. It's one of the MTCUP, where I work. Tomorrow I get to train the new kid with my manager and friend Ashley.
huzzah!

What does your coffee table literature say about you?

Last night was laborious in Apt. 4.
Our mission: coffee table.
SIDENOTE: naturally the two baristas purchase a coffee table before buying anyother living room or kitchen furniture, right?

So we accomplished our mission, (we'll neglect the fact that it's still kind of wobbly, we are suffering from a power tool famine.)
Stevi and then immediately christened our new investment with a stack of coffee table books.

If I were someone, and I was waiting for us in the living room I would have one of two reactions to our coffee table books.

1. Wow these girls suffer from multiple personality disorder
and or
2. Wow these girls are completely badass.

We have
Where's Waldo- the newest one, meant for entertainment for hours on end.
Post Secret- a collection of secrets sent in on anonymous post cards
The Mane Thing- a book with everything you've ever needed to know about hair care
The St. Martin's Guide to Writing- Stevi didn't know where else to put it.
Design it Yourself- A book I picked up that teaches you how to make everything from clothing, to paper, to books, to websites

In other news
I picked up this book which is a collection of letters by Senor Jack Kerouac, which I was really looking forward to. Being a letter enthusiast, and a J.K. enthusiast, I figured it would be right up my alley.
Dissapointment was awaiting me however, because the editor of the book must have been ridiculously lazy. He included pretty much every letter ever.
ever.
including the letters Jack sent to almost complete strangers asking them if they would mail his manuscripts to his publisher.
why the hell would I want to read that?
I was expecting brain revolutions, letter upon meaningful letter.
I guess I just assumed that most fantastic writers made everything they wrote golden.
So if you want to read a book of letters, don't read that one. I encourage you to read "Letters to a Young Poet" by Rainer Maria Rilke, which will indeed change your life for the better.

I apologize if this blog is boring.

'ok pre-teen...learn how to count'

Some funny things.
Such as what Stevi said in the Wendy's drive thru this evening on our way back from Indy. To the acne-ridden hootie and the blowfish haired dork wonder who gave us our change.
Another funny thing
Two other funny things
1 Listening to Stevi verbally abuse Link as she uses him to take out any and all pent up evil she has hidden in her veins. Such remarks as
"oh that's right bitch, i've got a sheild"
"I will make you bleed"
"SHIT HE CAN SHOOT THROUGH THE STATUES!!!"
"*gasp*I have a heart and a half! this fucker's going down"
"you're going down bitch! it's lightning!....oh fuck i'm down to half a heart"
"nodontdrawmeintothedarkworld!nodontdrawmeintothedarkworld!"
2. her boyfriend, ro-bear, shared with her the somewhat embarrassing news that he never realized why the count on sesame street was ironically named...the count.
he just assumed all vampires were counts
never realizing the irony in the fact that the count's favorite past-time was...count-ing.
this reminds me of the time i realized that my mom's world famous (if our home kitchen qualifies as the world) corn-flake chicken, is breaded with actual corn flakes! like what you eat for breakfast!
a revelation which i had last year and immediately called to tell my sister.
I might as well have unearthed the fountain of youth.
or in stevi's current case, the ever-covetted mega-sword.

I'm sorry, i have just been corrected. MASTER-sword.
regardless, sarah didn't share my enthusiasm about my discovery. I now can identify with the way captain christopher columbus must have felt when he realized...he made a HUGE historical f-up when he said he landed in India. Causing all sorts of future confusion for PC people everywhere when it came to who's an "indian".

I went to Orlando! It was fun.
I live in an apartment now! Also fun.
My foot's asleep! not so fun.


EVERYONE read "the Know-it-all" by A.J Jacobs. especially if you like trivia.

and i have pictures up on flickr.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/lcrelyea

also, i pledge to blog more often.

Debbie isn't so much a downer.

Debbie is my car for those of you who don't know.
Her name is debbie because she got sideswiped three weeks after purchase.
Anyway, I went on a joyride with Ted last night which started at 11, went til 2 a.m (we both had to wake up at 6a.m. folks) and was by far the best joyride I have gone on in a long time.
I take alot of joyrides by myself usually. I seldom take people with me. Some people have places that they go to think, i just drive, or walk as it may be. If I had a bike i would probably ride it too. Does that qualify me as an escapist? I think it has alot to do with the fact that I moved around so much when I was younger. Because alot of my best childhood memories involve moving (i mean it's not like i didn't move often enough) or road trips.
Ted was phenomenal company.
I hope to see more of him.


ps: do-gooder isaac brought his girlfriend in a couple weeks ago, and shes a ray of sunshine as well.

pps: la viva est bella.

Commercials and Coffee

I don't think I ever said anything about the do-gooder.

Did I?

Yes, I did.
Isaac Joseph.
He is indeed a ray of sunshine I have decided.
He graced my life again yesterday along with some friends of his from church, Chad and T--something. I forgot.
Anyway, he comes in with these two older guys and a camera, and asks me if it would be ok if they shot a commercial for the do-gooding the church is sponsoring.
I'll admit, I have a weakness for this kid, so I said sure. So we re-inacted the do-gooding EXCEPT it wasn't isaac doing the gooding, it was his friend T-something, dressed up as a superhero.
They were there for about 2 hours, I got to be in it! (fun!)
At the end Isaac came back to the drive thru and gave me a mix cd, which is incredibly emo, but it's so good.
Really, its the best mix I've gotten in an incredibly long time. I know that it wasn't originally intended for me, but I love it because I can tell he put alot of himself into it, for whomever it was intended for. Every song was carefully thought through, the transitions are strong, its high quality stuff. He was trying to tell someone something, whoever it was originally intended for.

Spring break should be great. I intend to get this ripple records thing off of the ground.
Today I intend to
-contact a few more musicians to see if they are interested
-compose the first draft of the waiver
-select some of the songs that we are going to use.

By the end of the week I want to have the website started, a myspace page, enough artists for the first cd, and a pretty good idea of how we are going to get them published. (Artwork).
Also, get a hold of Alex to see about getting a kick-off show.
It should be fantastic.

I painted last night with Puckett. I love the painting. I can't decide who I'm going to give it to.
Part of me thinks it's going to be Emily's.
Part of me wants to give it to my mom.
Part of me wants to keep it.
We'll see.
Its a painting of a spring-time forest with the sun filtering through the trees.
My all-time favorite simple pleasure, of which there are many.
TOP FIVE:
1. sun filtering through the leaves
2. the cool feeling of the air on your back after a good warm shower
3. the perfect morning coffee
4. the first breath of spring
5. the feeling of accomplishment you get when you finish something you worked incredibly hard on.


speaking of which, I'm going to get to work.

Don't Procrastinate

I've learned my lesson.

So, for the first time this year. (Honestly) I have completely procrastinated on a large amount of large projects and studying for a great amount of tests which I have this approaching week.
It happens.
1. A website (30% of my Tcom grade)
2. A 4-6 page paper due on Monday
3. Another information roundup due on Friday
4. A test on Wednesday
5. A test on Thursday

LAAAAAME, and it's all my fault. Oh, did I mention that I have two presentations this week? Oh, it's the truth. Don't doubt it.
I'm telling you, never again.

So Bracken, my darling, I'm finding safe harbor between your shelves and PC's for the weekend again, just like days of old.

In other news.

The coolest thing happened the other day.
A man by the name of Isaac Joseph came into the MTcup during my super long shift and after some short conversation asked me if I would do him a favor. I replied with a raised eyebrow and a hesitant nod.
He slid me $5.
He asked me to cover the next person's drink with it, keep the change for a tip, and to then give them a card which read "Yes it really was free! Random Act of Kindness, have a great day."
I was amazed.
So I followe his instructions when Wally, a regular of ours, came in next and purchased his regular short cup o' joe, which was a mere $1.25. Well I would have felt horrible taking the$3.75 in change, because it wasn't me that did anything great, so I gave Wally the change. He gave me a $2.00 tip and then HID the last dollar in our store for someone to find to make their day. An hour later Lori, our cleaning lady discovered the dollar with great joy and exclamation.

I have greater faith in the human race.
I've told alot of people about it, and it seems as if people are spreading the love, which makes it even better.
Why can't there be more people like Isaac Joseph?

Ok back to work!

"If you only had ONE shot"

So, there’s this girl I know who had the epitome of what we know as “the pixie cut”. I mean her hair was short. Less than an inch, no kidding.
Anyway, I’ve seen her lately and all of a sudden her hair has transcended the “pixie hair cut” line into the “short hair” spectrum.
Overnight almost. All of a sudden she went from being the lead singer of the Cranberries to early nineties one-hit wonder Natalie imbruglia. Her hair is growing like a weed in spring.
I myself, have been stuck in the “short haired” stage of life for a long time, and mentally I feel like I’m over it. I’m ready for the akward medium length. I would really enjoy having the capability to pull it back into a non-ridiculous looking ponytail.
So I asked her. “how is it that your hair is growing so quickly?”
“Vodka”
what?
No really, WHAT?
“You know that season of friends where all of a sudden Rachel and Monica’s hair was ridiculously long and everyone thought they were using extentions?”
I noted her reference, and realized, despite NOT being a rather large fan of friends, I did in fact know what she was talking about.
“Well a friend of mine bought this Beauty Secrets of the Stars book, and it said that the way they got their hair to be so long was by putting a shot of vodka into a 12 oz. shampoo bottle. They weren’t extentions it was their real hair. She told me about it, and I thought I’d try it.”
Apparently the alcohol cleanses the hair of all of the build-up and chemicals from the products we put in our hair. It then stimulates the hair follicles by opening them up to air, which promotes growth.
I was dumbfounded.
I told some friends, research was done and apparently its legit.
I’ve decided to give it a shot.
Pun intended, completely. (chuckle here)
So yesterday my 26 year-old friend Aaron mixed a shot in with my Pantene-Pro V. I used it this morning and it didn’t pull an overnight Rapunzel on me or anything. My head’s not a chia pet. BUT when I used it I did noticed an immediate difference in how shiny and soft it was.
So we’ll see.
As of right now my hair is hesitating above my shoulders and it is 8:39 am Wednesday, February 22, 2006.
Let’s say we check-in in a few weeks and we’ll see where we’re at.
**I am also taking vitamins, drinking a lot of water, and eating well. I’m cutting down on straightening and curling my hair, and if I can afford the time, I’ll refrain from blowing it dry. All of those great things they tell you to do.
Because I want my hair to be decently long before I go to Orlando.

Two seconds later...

In the computer lab...I have a story for you all.

Last year downstairs in the Atrium Emily shared a cup of coffee with a guy who looked like Captain McGorgeous from the Notebook. (I can't remember what the actor's name is, but we all know who I'm talking about). This guy looked EXACTLY like him.
It was his first cup of Joe EVER and Em helped him prepare it. They shared short conversation, she was smitten as a kitten. It was lovely. From then on we saw him everywhere, and had to put alot of effort into making sure we were still standing when he walked by, because he was that nice of a guy, and he was that gorgeous. etc. etc. etc.
He's the kind of guy who you could see building himself a log cabin and hiking into the eternal sunset with the love of his life (who happens to be a gorgeous botanist or something and resembles someone like Reese Witherspoon or some other flawless looking person).
A few months later we saw him riding a bike on campus without a shirt on.
Anyway, he's the lab attendant in the compter lab I'm in right now.
And bold Emily just struck up conversation again.

Two seconds later...

In the computer lab...I have a story for you all.

Last year downstairs in the Atrium Emily shared a cup of coffee with a guy who looked like Captain McGorgeous from the Notebook. (I can't remember what the actor's name is, but we all know who I'm talking about). This guy looked EXACTLY like him.
It was his first cup of Joe EVER and Em helped him prepare it. They shared short conversation, she was smitten as a kitten. It was lovely. From then on we saw him everywhere, and had to put alot of effort into making sure we were still standing when he walked by, because he was that nice of a guy, and he was that gorgeous. etc. etc. etc.
He's the kind of guy who you could see building himself a log cabin and hiking into the eternal sunset with the love of his life (who happens to be a gorgeous botanist or something and resembles someone like Reese Witherspoon or some other flawless looking person).
A few months later we saw him riding a bike on campus without a shirt on.
Anyway, he's the lab attendant in the compter lab I'm in right now.
And bold Emily just struck up conversation again.

First, possibly the worst.

Blog's huh? I feel like I'm kind of a later bloomer with this. Shoudln't I have started one of these when Starbuck's started appearing on every corner?
Oh well it happens. And now I guess people who are interested can read my random rants anytime they want.
I'm giving a wedding toast today for my best friend in a presentational communications class. It's kind of a strange thought, because I probably WILL be delivering a toast at her actual wedding someday. And this is a practice run. The goal for this one is to make people laugh so hard that they cry.
And to get class best speech.
Because the Michael-Moore-loving-dandelion-supplement-loving guy who sits behind me has a complete Monopoly on those speeches. And every time I'm short by one vote. Well he's WAY too cynical to deliver a good wedding toast. So I have strategy today.
I will prevail.
And if I don't, Emily will.

I'll let you know how it goes.