Forgetfulness

Forgetfulness
by Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Smile for me, Mommy

I wanna see yo' grill.





We're all familiar with my candy fascination these days. I can't get over the fact that, in our ADHD-plagued society, kids seem to be bored with just a good ole fashion sugar fix on a stick. The standard bar-shaped chocolate. Now the candy has to have a purpose, a style, a gimmick. When did the sugar rush fail to become enough of a benefit in its own right?

On this blog we've seen Sniffles, the ever-oozing, ill-intentioned face faucet. We've also checked out the delicious and nutritious 1/4 lb. Mallow Burger, complete with patty, cheese, bun and extra toppings.

Today we are finding just how early children pick up on the hip hop lifestyle. And, as it seems, just how good it tastes to be a gangsta. Apparently Lil' Jon has not only forayed into the energy drink market but also the candy aisle. I found a new fascination in the Smilz! Strawberry flavored lollipop.

It works like this: the average sized lollipop is inserted into the mouth (like a pacifier or any normal sucker might) Though, instead of having a boring ole stick protruding from your lips, you now have a grill to face the oncoming world. A sweet treat for the tongue... AND guaranteed playground cred. I can hear it now -- the kids sayin, "Yo, check out her grill! That shit be dope! I can see her shinin' all da way from dat monkeybar."

That's how kids talk these days. I would know; I hang out at the local jungle gym.

Lookin like dis:





Update: As I do more research into the grill phenomenon, it appears I should have seen this candycoming:

Lyrics from Nelly's hit song, "Grillz" :

"I got a grill they call penny candy
you know what that means,
it look like Now n Laters, gum drops, jelly beans"


Or in our case, perhaps its just the reverse.

Thanks, Nelly. It all makes sense now.

Georgia Tech's idea of a contact sport

hahahahahahahahha. Nerd.

See what i did there? He's a cheerleader. In a facemask. And he's for Georgia Tech.

Brilliant.

How I like to THINK I write best

What kind of work couldn't be enhanced by a glass or two of the finest Two Buck Chuck Chardonnay?

If there is a career out there that can't be helped by some of this fine lubrication - its a career I need not know.

Nautica's Erotica

So, you remember that awkward girl in the Glamour Shot from a few entries ago? Well, good news if you're still pointing and laughing at me for that one...
I found my middle school diary.

Now, I would never try to claim that I was a great writer during those awkward years (nor, would I really have the cajones to claim that at any age) but DAMN if that blue-quilted, bumper-sticker covered book isn't a page turner. The break ups, the make ups, the gossip and fights -- all transcribed in an ever-changing handwriting which happened to grow progressively "cooler" with each turning page (I could even tell you which friend's handwriting I was trying to channel in each phase) The lingo, the lost middle school vocab -- all quite priceless.

A few things I learned through this study:

I like boys. A lot.

Being called 'a fish' is quite humiliating.
Fish: (n.) a girl who is in a relationship but is too shy to let her boyfriend kiss her and is, in this case, a repeat offender.

I like to make lists for no apparent reason. Come to think of it, I still do.


So while I was reading through these benign and uneventful daily listings of new teachers, tennis team drama, and gossip from the halls of Dickerson Middle school, I came to an awakening in the last third of the journal that I wasn't aware, at 13 years of age, I was capable of. Or at least hadn't written about it until that point. It came out of nowhere which made it all the more hilarious ---

June 17, 1997 (8th grade) was when, as it seems, things changed for little Liza.

Now I may be sharing this because Im stupid or maybe because one of my favorite things to do in life is laugh at myself, but whatever the reason, here is my pre-pubescent erotica (doused in Nautica)

And please remember -- you are laughing WITH me, not AT me, K?

6/17/97
Dear Athens (where I bought my first journal, quite creative huh?)

Move out of the way, Sara Hauseman, Josh is officially mine... and I have some pretty heavy proof that he is!!
Summer is here and on the last day of school Sara dumped Josh, just in time for him to ask me out. He did and then I made my way 2 6 Flags w/ Kelli, Ali, + Tera. We met 3 guys, but I was so proud... I didn't flirt 1 bit, unlike the rest of 'em.
But for the real reason I'm writing 2nite. I finally got kissed. Josh, Trevor, & I went to c Gone Fishin' and ended up seeing Speed 2. I payed attention to 1/2 the movie, But it went slowly. first Josh picked up my hand and held it, interlocking our fingers and stared deep into my eyes. After awhile, I finally put my head on his shoulders, his head was on my head. He kissed my forehead lightly a couple times and BAM! we were kissing and frenching for almost the rest of the movie. I could tell he was looking for a way up my shirt, he touched my boobs, rubbed my thighs and everything behind that. He had his hands on my stomach but not for long. He whispered I <3 U, I could barely return it, I was breathless. I will never forget that. I still smell like Nautica from his hand stroking my face. ---> (drawing of a pair of lips) I <3 Josh.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Yeah. Judy Blume worthy I am not.

To be honest, it still makes me feel a little dirty for having written it in permanent ink, but another small part of me loves that I have it. I honestly don't think I would be able to recall the details of my first kiss so vividly if I hadn't just reread it in all its descriptive glory. I can almost still smell the Nautica on my face. And God knows if I ever actually got my hands on some Nautica (do they still make that shit?) Im sure the memories would come flooding back all the more brilliantly.

Ill finish this entry with my apologies to Sandra Bullock for not catching the rest of her box office glory and to Josh Gilbert for including him in my expose. Hey, at least I didn't talk about the braces, right?

The life and death of produce

Last weekend, I had a long conversation with my friend's grandfather. Over pitchers of sangria, we discussed his grandkids, his work, my school, his marriage, and, well -- life in general.

One thing he said that caught me off guard and still has me thinking.

In a passing comment, he mentioned "Well, when you're my age, you learn not to buy the green bananas."

I love it because it could come across as quite a depressing way to look at age, but for some reason its not. And for the same reason he doesn't buy the green bananas, I think he was able to sit there and tell crude jokes over multiple sangrias with me. He was taking each day for what it was worth, and for the first time that I can remember -- I looked forward to having his sensibility if Im lucky enough to reach his age in good health.

Evidence from the Crime Scene

SNIFFLES the Leaky Nose, in all its oozing greatness.

Million Dollar Insult

So yesterday, we went to Singleton's Appliance Resale (you know, used stoves, washers, dryers, the like) in the sketchiest of sketches in Decatur. And if you can't imagine what kind of atmosphere might be like in a place that sells old used kitchen electronics, its that place you could pass on the road every single day of your life and never recall, if asked, what exactly existed in that shoddy little building. Hand painted window lettering, ply-wood panel walls, and a chatty redneck man behind the the counter. Singleton, with white hair, a beer gut, Hulk Hogan tan, and a sparklin' of gold teeth when he told story after story about his years in delivering washer and dryers in Atlanta. His partner in crime, J.R. (or Junior, whichever you prefer to call him) had the most interesting patch of facial hair on his 65 year old face. His salt and pepper mustache seemed to be sprinkled across the entirety of his cheeks and the space between his nose and upper lip. It only ended where his hair line began. Junior was described to us by our first friend as a man "who likes to talk" (pot.kettle.black.)

There was one other fellow in the shop besides the two fish-out-of-water blonde girls, their new friends J.R. and Singleton. This was "the guy cutting the grass out back" --- which struck me as odd only because, upon further inspection, I realized the only thing resembling a patch of grass amongst the sea of gravel was the few weeds desperately fighting their way up through the cracks of asphalt. I looked again at this so-called lawn care man, his baggy jeans, bugged-out eyes, and limping walk to see where exactly he was heading to do his work and what "cutting the grass" could perhaps be code for.

Apparently, the topiary tender was giving me the once over at the same time I was taking him in because upon eye contact he proceeds to ask me,

"Scuse me. You a boxer?"

(silence)

A boxer? A BOXER??!?! A boxer. This man asked me if I, all 5'3(and a half inch) blonde boobness of me, was some sort of fighter. I believe it had something to do with my regrettable attire of workout shorts, sports tank top, and running shoes (maybe the mouthguard might have been off-throwing?) but -- still! I look at him. I glare at him. He stares back at me. I give him a resounding NO, look over at Liz in dispair, and he spits out something under his breath about "well, cuz you look like youz in shape."

Oh no, nononono. the damage had been done.




What I want to do, in looking back on it, is go back and ask this dear landscape architect a few simple questions as to what could possibly have been running through his head besides where to spread the fertilizer.

A) Do I look like a man? A burly snarling man-woman? Do I even have a hint of over-grown muscle going on that I seem to have overlooked, making me more Million Dollar Baby than babe?

B) If I was wearing this outfit (see below)



PLUS




Would this appear most suitable for: Aerobic class instructor? Jogger? or BOXER?? Maybe what it actually was -- a sunny Saturday afternoon rental bike ride through Piedmont Park with my friends?

C) If you saw a young woman who you took, from first glance, to be of the "working-out type" and you wanted to know what she was doing to create her butch-y physique (so maybe your lanky ghetto ass could steal her secrets and earn a little more Decatur street cred) -- do you immediately assume she prefers knocking bitches out over Pilates?

D) Lastly, (and this is more of a statement, than a question) If you are trying to make new friends of the female gender or perhaps open conversation with a stranger in the room, never default to wondering aloud what man-dominated sport she prefers. No disrespect to the small percentage of women that do participate, the smaller of them that are actually reading this (that would be asking for quite the ass-kicking, wouldn't it?) but Laila Ali I am not.

That is all, young man. Now get back to your hedge-trimming before I beat yo' ass.

Not my words, but in a way -- they are.

I've been getting into books on tape lately as a way to fly through some of the novels that I always mean to read but never get a chance to get to. Right now, I'm in the middle of reading Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love and, while I love the whole thing so far, I literally almost had to stop my car when she was reading this particular description of her love life ---

It was me.

It was, in short, the relationship history and pattern I had created for myself since the age of 14. It was the same story I have been harping on to myself and to friends when I find myself wondering what I stand for without a guy. Its like I had lived up to the exact same vantage point she was telling her story from. I felt like she was speaking about me, to me, or stealing a page from my journal and reading it out loud over my car stereo. I know its mostly cliche boy drama, but as an overall guilt in my life, its been something I've really struggled with. Especially when I came back to Atlanta.

I've included the excerpt I'm talking about because, in a way, I find that her writing voice even SOUNDS like mine in this excerpt (or at least what I wish mine to sound like)

And I thoroughly recommend the read or, if you're like me, the listen.



Im not having sex for now. When I get lonely these days, I think: So be lonely, Liz. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.

It’s a kind of emergency life-saving policy, more than anything else. I got started early in life with the pursuit of sexual and romantic pleasure. I barely had an adolescence before I had my first boyfriend, and I have consistently had a boy or a man (or sometimes both) in my life ever since I was 15 years old. Each overlapping the next, with never so much as a week’s breather in between. And I can’t help but think that’s been something of a liability on my path to maturity.

Moreover, I have boundary issues with men. Or maybe that’s not fair to say. To have issues with boundaries, one must HAVE boundaries in the first place, right? But I disappear into the person I love. I am the permeable membrane. If I love you, you can have everything. You can have my time, my devotion, my ass, my money, my family, my dog, my dog’s money, my dog’s time – everything. If I love you, I will carry for you all your pain, I will assume for you all your debts (in every definition of the word), I will protect you from your own insecurity, I will project upon you all sorts of good qualities that you have never actually cultivated in yourself and I will buy Christmas presents for your entire family. I will give you the sun and the rain, and if they are not available, I will give you a sun check and a rain check. I will give you all this and more, until I get so exhausted and depleted that the only way I can recover my energy is by becoming infatuated with someone else.

I do not relay these facts about myself with pride, but this is how its always been.

Some time after I’d left my husband, I was at a party and a guy I barely knew said to me, “You know, you seem like a completely different person now that you’re with this new boyfriend. You used to look like your husband, but now you look like David. You even dress like him and talk like him. You know how some people look like their dogs? I think maybe you always look like your men.”

Dear God, I could use a little break from this cycle, to give myself some space to discover what I look like and talk like when I’m not trying to merge with someone. And also, lets be honest – it might be a generous public service for me to leave intimacy alone for a while. When I scan back on my romantic record, it doesn’t look so good. It has been one catastrophe after another. How many more different types of men can I keep trying to love and continue to fail? Think of it this way – if you had ten serious traffic accidents in a row, wouldn’t they eventually take your driver’s license away? Wouldn’t you kind of want them to?

This much I know – Im exhausted by the cumulative consequences of a lifetime of hasty choices and chaotic passions. By the time I left for Italy, my body and spirit were depleted. I felt like the soil on some desperate sharecropper’s farm, sorely overworked and needing a fallow season. So that’s why I’ve quit.

RIP Clean clothes.

We bought a used dryer in September and it died on us this week. Of course, of the three people doing laundry in this house, my wet clothes were in it during its last stuttering, gasping, puttering-out attempt at a cycle. And now, thanks to a combination of an unfixable dryer and my lack of motivation to go elsewhere, there are two wet piles of clothes in the kitchen. And its beginning to smell a lot like mildew.

Rest in peace, crappy Whirlpool. Thanks for your short-lived laundry service, I hope there is a place for you up there in home appliance heaven.

The picture is intended for Elijah, who I discovered running around my house with my still-not-dry Hanes granny panties inside-out on his head.

Self-Detonated Blackmail

There was a time in my life when this was all I wanted for my birthday. It was a dark period -- one I've tried desperately to forget.
I'd like to point the finger at my mother for letting me think this was okay -- she should have had the foresight to know I would only suffer more self esteem issues for having proof of my awkward vanity and bad sense of style. I mean, seriously, couldn't the nice lady in the costume closet dress me in something a little classier than faux leopard fur? Sequence and crushed velvet, perhaps?

The nerve of some people...

Fun for all ages.

I haven't seen a good animated film in a while but Im happy to report that Disney Pixar's Ratatouille was delightful and delicious. The only reported side effect being the insatiable craving for wine and cheese that followed.

And as the 5 year old critic walking out of the theatre behind us exclaimed,

"That was great! It was the best animated movie I have seen in my ENTIRE life!"


Now THAT, my friends, is a five star review.

Nose Candy for the kids

"Its sNOt What You Think," reads the tagline -- but Im pretty sure I'm pickin' up what they're puttin' down. And as far as I'm concerned, it is, in theory, the best candy I've seen on the market since I was of age (candy-eating age, that is). Which means, of course I had to buy it. In regards to flavor, I can't say it was exactly worth the purchase: if they were trying to capture the essence of mucus in a sugar-based syrup, I think they succeeded. On entertainment value alone, it is, well, priceless.



As you can see, there are two black straps which are for appropriately affixing your Hose Nose to your face (the straps are adjustable, like bras, to fit over any schnozz). Then, once your new plastic-warted orange nose is in place, you twist the snot cap off the nostril area. From there, you're ready to enjoy all the leaky goo that drips down to your ready and waiting tongue.

Brilliant, I say: 5 stars on concept, 1 star on taste (Sorry Sniffles, but how hard can it be to make sugar goo taste good?) 1 star on mechanics, as it appears my leaky nose was a little overactive and, while i wasn't looking, left a nice gooey surprise on my dress to discover later. Let me tell you -- quite the adhesive snot we have on our hands.*


Who gets to write the tag lines for this stuff?? Leaky Nose makers, if you're reading this, hit me up. And get your tissues ready, because my snot puns will blow you away.

But seriously, bless you, thank you, and Gesundheit to you for creating this product. I can't wait to see what you might think up next. (but here's a start: Pickable Scabs with an oozing Cherry-flavored center)



** includes other unsuspecting extremities -- legs, clothing, and midgets standing below you.



SIDENOTE: Just for kicks, here's a look at the life-sized Marshmallow hamburger that also struck my fancy at the Chevron checkout counter. It comes complete with mallow cheese and sesame seed icing on top. I'd compare it to a 1/4 lb. burger, so maybe if there are some mallow fries out there (I feel like I've seen them) you could get that side and a Coke and make a nice "diabetes-meets-Disney" Happy meal. And don't think I would forget including a toy..... But believe me, its'not what you think.

"I'm sick of following my dreams. I'm just going to ask where they are going and meet up with them later."

-- Mitch Hedberg

Summer Self-Lovin'

Recently, I've gotten the chance to get reacquainted with the little girl inside of me. A girl who spent hours in the basement building forts and listening to Fine Young Cannibals and Rainbow Brite on cassette tape. She had an imaginary friend named Kate and, as far as friends were concerned, Kate was enough to get by. More than Kate meant having to split toys evenly, which never ended well.

Who could have predicted that this imaginative girl could grow up into the type of woman she would never understand? The grown up version could be lazy, uninspired, and hesitant. Worst of all, she was so influenced by the masses that, at the end of the day, she had no energy left for catching lightning bugs.

The self-sufficient girl was, I guess, outgrown in middle school. I got over whatever it was I found fascinating within myself and started looking to others for example. What were the pretty girls wearing? Who was eating at the popular lunch table? What was Natalie telling Jessica about who Michael had a crush on? Ohhh, I wanted to be in on it. I wanted it to be me.

I continued on through awkward middle school years, dropping out of band because I didn't want to be "seen" as a music nerd, even though I was good at it. I stopped playing tennis because I had gotten to a higher level than my friends -- which meant Id have to go off on my own and take things seriously. Instead of becoming a tennis junkie that no one could relate to, I picked up soccer on a whim. After all, it was a team sport and I would always have someone to to socialize with -- even if it was on the sidelines.

The pattern continued -- highschool, college sorority life (don't even get me started), then the real world -- and then??

It took me until about a year ago to pick up on the bad behavior. How I always substituted validation from others for actual self worth. I came back to Atlanta from LA, breaking up with a truly wonderful guy who loved me for four unfaultering years. At 23 years old, I had finally stepped back to look at the reflection and found nothing I could be proud of. Yes, I had a great boyfriend and an easy life in that regard, but it didn't mean anything unless I had something that defined me on my own. I wanted to do something with my life that I enjoyed. Writing and getting to be creative was what, at the end of the day, always filled me from the inside in.

So I finally re-steered myself onto the right road. But looking back on it, I most recently hit an obstacle. While I should have been more focused on school and what that entailed, I switched gears to focus on always being around a guy, always wanting something for US to do. It was fun and exciting but here I was back in my pattern, and unwittingly, losing what little I had gained.

A few weeks ago, that chapter came to an end (as chapters tend to do) and I was left feeling like someone had scooped out my insides -- leaving nothing but a drafty midsection and the awkward sensation that something big was missing. Not only had he moved out and moved on to new adventures, but with him, he had taken so much of what I had put into the last year -- my time, energy, emotions. I had unwittingly given them all to him. It was so goddamn frustrating because I had no one to blame but myself. And no one to commiserate with me but me.

So, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I met up with that little girl I used to know from our years in fort construction. As the days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into lonely weekends, I found that I actually enjoyed quiet time. There were nights spent desperately wondering what I would do because I was so alone but that gave me a reason to find little projects, self-improvements. It was a slow, rejuvenating therapy administered by the child with the side ponytail. As part of treatment, she had me listen to cheesy music, dance and sing at the top of my lungs. I started working out hard to push myself again, to rebuild and, not to just to go through the motions on a social level. I felt BETTER than I had in ages, just from a few weeks alone. I started to realize that maybe the type of girl I had always wanted to be was someone I already was -- she just never really got a chance to strut her stuff.

So here's to long-awaited reunions with old friends that turn out to be your best. To the lessons in life that truly are all learned in kindergarten. Maybe its just taken this many years to finally slow down into an uncongested, traffic-free road with no distractions. Just me, my thoughts, and a rear-view mirror in case. There's still a lot of terrain to figure out. But whatever comes, I guess it'll be quite a fun adventure -- as it seems I've lucked-out with a pretty kick-ass navigator.

Saturday Morning Thoughts on Vanity

I feel like I shouldn't even try to be presentable on days following a hard night's work on the town. Instead, I'd like what I wear to address what people already might think of me. After all, self expression through t-shirt slogans seems to be what all the cool kids are doing these days.

No More About Me

R.I.P. Old Myspace Profile (as you can see, Im updating Myspace, so its getting really boring around here -- need.school.now -- losing.sanity.)

I usually have to write everything down or, chances are, I'll forget. I could use a personal secretary. But I'll settle for the neon pink post-its next to my bed. ====== I consider myself the ultimate Georgia Bulldawg fan, but have recently caught myself shit-talking about my own team more often than supporting. ====== I want to play more scratch-off lotto. I think the roller coaster of emotions that are experienced while coin-scratching that silver crap is totally worth the buck spent (a chance at a couple G's doesn't hurt either). ===== I never can make up my mind. Though I always mean well. If a flake could be charming, then I'd be a total catch.

Pass it on.

The best note I've gotten in awhile.

Recently my main girl at my morning coffee stop, Belly, quit for undisclosed reasons. And since I wasn't there to wish her farewell -- she left me this message which, thank goodness, tied up some loose ends that I otherwise would have had to figure out on my own. Or... you know, maybe I would have been just fine never knowing.

To Christi -- Thanks for the good memories, free coffee, shop gossip, and -- more often than not -- the T.M.I. I got every morning I spent with you.

Old Lady Marathon

She rounded that last hill in the marathon of her life. Her fanny pack bounced in rhythm with her sagging breasts. Her curly white hair poked out in all directions, gasping for a breath of fresh air from under that sweat stained cap. Her paper number was pinned haphazardly to a race shirt, as if it, like her, were hanging on to the last thread for dear life.

There it was: mile marker 24 of the 26 mile marathon. It was all downhill from here to the gates of the finish line. She looked up at that sign, just like the 23 before it: pumping her wrinkled fist and singing off key:

"Aaand another one down and another one gone. Another one bites the dust..."

She celebrated each marker as another milestone passed. Death was her bitch. And this was her victory lap.

Tales from the Timber Ridge Cafeteria

We all have that vivid memory of sitting down at that endlessly long, thin wood table in the cafeteria. Surrounded by your peers, you pull out your lunch box and compare its contents with those around you. My lunch box happened to be the same insulated cooler that all the other girls carried -- each in various hues of pastel.

One of the easiest ways to fit in in Mrs. Clyne's second grade class came in the form of having the same food storage unit as the rest of the kids. It didn't promise to make you the most popular, but it gave you a better rank -- status enough to sit in the middle, flanking the future JV quarterback and his Little Mites girlfriend. This was the nucleus of the lunch table and that Igloo cooler kept you magnetically pulled in to the center, rather than wedged in on the outskirst. Kids in that caste quietly sulked over their styrofoam lunch trays and luke-warm milk cartons. They yearned for a turquoise lunch box like mine, wished they could open it to find a feast of treats like Tiffany and Ashley had. They too wanted to be included in this twisted, pre-pubescent Mean Girls-squad that I painstakingly made sure to be a part of.

I dreaded the days when Mom was too busy to pack my lunch or to make a run to the grocery to stock up on bologna and granola bars. I can't think of anything I dreaded more than having to cash in those yellow perforated slips of paper in exchange for whatever the hair-netted fat lady with warts plopped onto your waiting vessle. Who knew humiliation could come in the form of foldable meal tickets -- food stamps with training wheels.

My best friend, Beth, had a mom who must have majored in the art of packing school lunches. Every single day, Beth would pull out what seemed to be the model of elementary dining excellence. Like Five-gold-Star sticker masterpieces, they were always perfect, indulgent yet satisfying to the pickiest of eaters. They were mini four course meals, ziplocked and organized neatly in her pink Igloo cooler, under the lid that screamed "BETH'S LUNCH" with starbursts of purple and yellow paint pen. Sometimes she got a note reminding her how much she was loved (as if the extra candy didn't already say so.) But what really caught my attention was the constant presence of two Funfetti cupcakes. They were quite the confectionary specimens -- Always perfectly iced, equal in size and sprinkles. Had they been left to survive the war vessel that was my lunch box, through the terrains of tree climbing before the bus came to pick me up, they would never have made it to the cafeteria. But Beth's vanilla-frosted dreams arrived first-class priority to the cafeteria. They rode in more style than most of the kids did -- car-pooled door-to-school door every morning in a luxury Cadillac, while the rest of us shared the tight brown pleather and obnnoxious fumes of the Big Cheese.


Her food may never have been spoiled like mine sometimes was (I once had to be sent to the nurses office when, after biting into the Re-liv granola bar my mother packed, it turned out to be infested with small white insects) but spoiled food and spoiled people are two totally different dilemmas, one being quite incurable. And, in that case, I think I'll take a dose of the nurses' Donald Duck Orange Juice -- apparently the acid kills bugs as well as it kills cafeteria humiliation.

Soundtrack to your life.

We all know the story. Certain songs mean something to you because it mimics a piece of life: something felt before, something felt but not necessarily put into words, and something that is now tangible (in the audible sense.)

For me, I am linked to a song because of a beat I can't escape. Its that feeling that I have to move, have to leave the world around me for a second or two to become part of the world that the song creates. It could be in another language, it could be talking about something I don't even relate to, it doesn't really matter. But there is some kind of connection in the way a voice and a beat can in a way become one and just take control of the body. Make me feel like no one is watching and for once, even if they are, I won't really care.




There are those songs that inspire simply by a voice -- the kind of voice that strikes you like its the first time in your life that you've heard a person sing. A voice you wish you could own for yourself -- take it out of your back pocket once in awhile to show off to friends and admirers. And just because you are listening to that voice, you feel like your day becomes epic. You can bask in the glory of that human power that isn't necessarily yours but, for the moment, you can have it. Take it out on loan. Share it with others.

But music in general, man. Wish it could follow me everywhere. I don't really need the silence. Thank God for the iPod. With those little white earbuds in, taking dishes out of the dishwasher has romance to it. Standing in the checkout line, eating an apple, taking the dog on a walk - it all seems so poetic when you have the soundtrack of your life to back you up.

I recently read some lyrics that I probably wouldn't have related to or even taken notice of if I hadn't seen them first in written format. I was taken aback as to how relatable I found them. Its amazing to me when a song isn't just about love or loss, isn't trying to be overly emotional, deep, esoteric. Just admitting that we are all just a little jaded, a little lost, a little apathetic -- its refreshing to hear (at least to me) and more inspiring than just another song about the art in life, in death, the scorn of relationships gone wrong.

So here it is. A song to eat potato chips and watch Sportscenter by. A song of a generation. A song that I can relate to as I try to make sense of it all -- try, with all earnesty, to make something of life -- but just end up blogging about it instead.


A Song for Clay -- Bloc Party

A sample of lyrics I speak of:

I am trying to be heroic,
In an age of modernity.
I am trying to be heroic,
because all around me history sings.

So I enjoy and I devour
flesh and wine and luxury.
But in my heart,
I am lukewarm;
nothing ever really touches me.

Small Pleasures = Great Joy

Life is good. February is Cold. Superbowl Sunday is Funday. Go Colts.

Here's what makes me happy and what hopefully will help get me through the post-holiday cold days (winter without the charm) till the months are finally warmer.



Extra foam in my morning latte at Belly General Store. My girl takes pride in having the best foam around. Its passionate coffee making. Don't judge. After letting her know her status as the best latte maker this side of 285, she went so far in her gratitude as to draw an "L" with chocolate over the massive amounts of foam. Overpriced coffee doesn't sting the pockets so much when you go where everyone knows your name -- And takes the time to drizzle it out in sweet dark goodness.

Cookie dough ice cream. Straight out of the carton. A shared spoon.

Climbing on the roof just to take in the scenes of an early February afternoon. The things you missed doing when you were young CAN and SHOULD be made up at some point in your life. Even at 24. And even at 40 degrees farenheit.

Making the last cup shot at beer pong; basking in the glorious look of defeat your opponent takes on when chugging that last warm cup of bad beer. Being as unhumble as possible when they do so.

The 700 Club Christian News of the World. Unbiased coverage at its finest.

My Memory Foam mattress topper. Pure Beech silken t-shirt sheets. Feeling like you could sleep for days and knowing that you wouldn't miss all that much.

Ostrich burgers. Medium rare. Seriously -- you'll never wish for fatty beef again. Rare. Well done.

Good champagne on a Saturday afternoon for no reason other than SEC basketball on T.V. and the need for something to wash down supreme pizza and breadsticks.

The Blotter in Creative Loafing. Feeling better about my life compared to the man in tan shorts lying across Peachtree Street, drinking Mr. Bostons, and telling the officer, "I'll kick yo ass. 'Cause I'm from Macon, man." Suddenly, my life path doesn't seem so twisted and the days don't seem so cold.

Television smashing with a pink hammer in a darkened parking lot. Who knew the explosion that could happen from just a little crack to the screen? My God! As I stood there in my hooded gangster sweatshirt, next to the dumpster, holding that girly hammer over my head, I felt the exciting rush that must make vandalism the sport that it is.

Music with soul to it. Rhythm. Blues. A bass line. Black, white, red, and yellow soul. No discrimination. Case in point: Amy Winehouse -- White, British, and more soul than James Brown's loafer collection.

A crackling fire and rearranging the living room so as to sit as close as possible to said fire and the television at the same time. Perfection.

The list goes on.




I really haven't missed living in Los Angeles till most recently. I forgot that winter doesn't just mean a 10 degree drop in temperature, causing you to wear long sleeves to the beach and sweaters at night. In some places, winter means ice picks to the car windshield and numbness to the extremities. Yes, I realize that this is Atlanta. Not Nova Scotia. But Whatever. Im over this season already. Wake me up when it's April.

A Love/Hate Relationship

So, whats a betting Bulldawg to do when faced with choosing a team for the Championship game? Put her chips in the safe pile and win a modest profit with the majority on Ohio State? Or stick to her gut's quiet reminder that any under-appreciated team in the SEC (the best conference in the nation, mind you) stands a great chance at taking home glory?

How 'bout if that SEC team just happens to be a sworn nemesis?

At the start of the game, Id planned to put my loyalty with my money and root for the Buckeyes, hoping to see a couple beers worth of satisfaction in cash. This bowl season is the first that I'd participated in a pool and, shockingly enough, had a chance of profiting if all went as expected by the "experts." [pah]

However, that all changed within the first 30 seconds of the game and Ohio State's blink-and-you-missed-it touchdown. It suddenly wasn't about money anymore; I found myself getting quite offended at the idea of Florida getting embarassed out there. I mean, NO ONE is allowed to run over "MY SEC" like that! And there it was, out nowhere: my unexpected alliance with Florida.

I realize now that what I thought was a lifetime grudge against all things chomping and swamping related is nothing more than intense sibling rivalry. Here we are, growing up together, comparing our success and defeat to each other, poking each other across the border (a line drawn much like in the backseat of the road-tripping station wagon), and ruffing each other up in our own backyard. Ok, I'll go ahead and admit that we've been Florida's personal whipping boy -- the younger, misunderstood brother -- for the better half of the decade; I guess thats what makes my sudden alliance such a bitter pill to swallow.

Whatever. There I was on Monday night, watching in envy as our counterpart answered that first Ohio State touchdown with an all-out, all-game beatdown. From somewhere deep in me came a swell of pride. It was for them, for us, and for the SEC as a whole (ok, so yea, they're tromping all over the field happens to make us look better). We may beat each other up all season, and the best teams may take shocking losses from the worst, but by no means does that equate to a weak conference. Out here on southern football fields, there's more than just a game being played. National rankings come second-thought to the bragging rights at home, the pride over your neighbors and the people you grew up wrestling over the last bowl of Cap'n Crunch with. At a time like this, those feelings of hate, those years of fighting are all bygones. When the #1 bully is looking to manhandle, as expected, one of your own flesh and blood, you stand defensive and united behind your better-seasoned half -- no matter what dirty names they called you at last night's dinner table.

Granted, there's not much I could do to support from the booth and through the big screen at Twisted Taco, but the point is this: watching #1 and #2 go head to head made me realize how great it is to be part of the SEC. I'll still always hate the Gators and will probably forget said alliance no sooner than I finish writing this blog. BUT, take heed, I will remain proud of them for hushing the nay-sayers, the critics that thought a one-loss team couldn't stand a chance, and the rest of the country who doesn't understand our amazing conference FULL of bitter rivalries. So take notice, ESPN: we are the best conference out there and its not because our best teams go undefeated every season.

The Gators not only stood a chance -- they took that chance, smashed its odds, and handed over in return a no-mercy blood-bath to the Buckeyes. Go Gators! And Long Live SEC Football, yo.

Rando-lution

On a similar note to my first blog, I figure I could share with myself and that one other viewer out there (Hi, Mom) my New Year's Resolutions for 2007. I figure that even though I fail miserably by the time February 1st rolls up, I will never tire of making lists of self-promises. So here we go, into 2007:

- I resolve to spend more time preparing for old age and less time as a typical 20-something. Id like, for once, to be the first one to bed and first to rise. I'd like to take ballroom dancing. Start painting. Play golf. Write letters. Read hardback books. Watch movies without color. Go on nature walks. Talk to my family more.
I think my liver will thank me. Give her some time off of purifying the system of Redbull and Pinot, rinsing, then repeating.

- I resolve to spend more time reliving my young age and just a third of my time as a typical 20something. I'll be the last to bed, first to rise. I'll make up my own style of dance. Start finger-painting. Play t-ball. Write love notes. Read pop-up books. Watch movies with talking animals. Go on adventure walks in make-believe places. Talk to people that aren't really there. I'll stay out in the yard till its too dark to see my hand in front of my face. At this point, my liver will start to miss her old companion, alcohol. But only a little bit.

- I resolve to learn how to use the words "Thanks, but no thanks" whenever and for whatever reason I choose to. Also, to learn how to use the words "righteous rockstar" interchangeably with my first name. This might come a little easier to myself and to others than the first one.

- I resolve to hold on to all forms of my identity, money, and credit cards by inventing the first-ever extendable/retractable leash for personal items. It will function much like the keychain that security personnel might attach to their belt - it will be quick, organized way to eliminate my ability to lose things and a very profitable resolution once I patent my idea.

- I resolve to embrace the good changes as adventure and the bad changes as adventure.

- I resolve to not break my phones.

- I resolve to answer said phone more and screen calls less.

- I resolve to take more pictures. But first I must master the above-mentioned art of not losing/breaking things (including cameras) and then I will take that well-kept camera everywhere and have better documentation of this fabulous thing called life.

- I resolve to spend less time self-editing in hopes of pleasing others and more time letting my inner monologue indulge in its dream of becoming a public speaker.

- I resolve to spend less time on the computer worlds of Facebook and Myspace, living quite scarily close to the Second Life way-of-life. This leaves more time for living, well, ...life.

- I resolve to buy less but eat more of the fruits and veggies that I always have great intention of using, but inevitably leave it orphaned and decaying in the back of my overstuffed fridge.

- I resolve to spend less time making resolutions and promises and more time getting out there and just being.

Two Weeks of Un-Productivity and Merriment (aka Winter Break)

I dedicate this first blog, as well as these past two Holiday weeks, to myself.

Yes. I am that vain. But its also just been that time of year -- time for joy, cheer, and a little self-indulgence. And as for the purpose of blogging really, I can't see it being of any entertainment to anyone but myself. And thats okay. I can live with that --- as I have with many non-electronic journals of my past. Whats better than sharing with myself? Having record of my non-purposeful, non-sensical, and often rambling thoughts?

Sharing with others, you say? Psshhh. Ok, fine, Ill give you that. So here I am to share my little world with others. Its like taking the lock off my Hello Kitty Diary. Except this time around, Ill have more to share with you poor bored souls than "One day I will marry Jonathan Taylor Thomas." Hopefully.

I start back to class tomorrow, continuing on to my third quarter at The Creative Circus. Im nervous. After all this time spent attempting to morph my ass and the couch into one being, watching endless reruns of America's Next Top Model, and eating ice cream sandwiches for breakfast, Im pretty sure all that was creatively gained last quarter, has been effectively drowned in a deep pool of New Year's champagne and cheesecake sludge. But its go time now and I cross my fingers and inner creative fibers that it will be a successful one.

Oh, the holidays. Every single year, I vow it will be different -- I WILL persevere over the gluttonous svengali grip it has on me. I WILL refuse that third piece of pumpkin pie. I tried mentally seperating myself from the need for merriment and even naming this break "The 2 week period of Real Productivity." During which, I planned to start a diet, join a gym, actually GO to said gym, clean house, read books, write in my dusty journal, etc. I so far succeeded in joining said gym, appearing a few times to skip around on a treadmill for a few ticks on the clock, and of course making my infamous post-it checklists of chores to complete. I did get some of them done. But mostly, my Scrooge mentality of productivity broke under the spells of the Holiday peer pressure; I managed to drink considerable amounts of wine, play with friends, hang with my newly-Americanized brother (who's back fresh from his 7 month Latin lifestyle), surf the net, eat too much dessert, and finally get my hair cut, among other things. 7 out of 43 ain't bad, right?

While I realize this is all sounding pathetic, I don't really mind. Its been relaxing to say in the least...Ive had time to sit back and take a look at where things are headed... given, it was all in very slow motion. Feeling unproductive is not something I'd like getting used to...but every now and then, I guess its ok to own up to it.

Happy 2007, self. ... and to all one of you readers out there, hope this new year brings as much promise as I wish for.