False Consciousness

The origins of my avatar

2006-11-06T16:19:00.000-05:00

"Art evokes the mystery without which the world would not exist.” - Rene Magritte

Signs of a Small Town Traveler

2006-11-02T23:08:00.000-05:00

I grew up in a small town in Kentucky. I was fortunate enough to have parents who took or sent me on trips all over the US and abroad. My parents were leisure travelers and ended up in such exotic places as Morocco and Ethiopia. In addition to curiosity about the world and open mindedness, my parents also burned the rules of the 'small town traveler' into my soul.

1. Leave the good jewelry at home
In a third world country rule number one is common sense. If you are staying at The Four Seasons near Columbus Circle there is really no need to replace your diamonds with zircons to prevent them from being ripped out of your ears by starving thieves.

2. Dress down
In some places it is considered an insult to show up in denim and track shoes. In other places it is just an unforgivable crime against fashion and a blight on the landscape. Regardless of the place, looking nice does not automatically make you a target for wandering criminals.

3. Always tie a colorful identifier around the handle of your black suitcase, so it will be easier to find on the luggage carousel

You can always spot the suitcase of the small town traveler by the gaudy ribbon or tape around the handle of the nondescript black suitcase. Here's an idea...Buy a suitcase that is not black and spare us the sight of your Care Bear ribbon.

Fear of Dreaming...

2006-10-31T21:10:00.000-05:00

Fear of Dreaming by Jim Carroll

Too many teeth
In this city
Are bared.

What I want is to sleep
inside a strange language, trimming

The bonsai under glass,
its redolent needles

clipped precise as The Buddha's fingernails.

Yet, I'm nervous to sleep. Afraid to dream
And fearful as well of waking too late.

Wary of the end of this century,
Its bloodthirsty and dead weight.

I've slept, I've dreamed, and I've awakened right on time.

But all endings are also beginnings. We just don't know it at the time. - Mitch Albom

2006-10-18T14:26:00.000-04:00

I'm taking an indefinite hiatus from the blogging world. Thank you all for visiting and commenting. Once a writer, now a reader.

- Anomie

Choices

2006-10-17T23:10:00.000-04:00

I am unapologetically unreasonable about a number of things. I believe in endless options and possibilities. I still believe that I can fit everything I care about into a backpack, move to a new city, and start over. To me most people and things can be replaced. I think of clothing as a costume and myself as a work in progress. Can I keep evolving and have the comfort of stability or will I be old and alone surrounded by my costumes and my memories?

I am a rock. I am an island. *

2006-10-17T22:22:00.000-04:00

Fiction
The sky was pale grey in the West. She swiped the palm of her hand across one dry, blurry eye. Her eyes hurt and had a pink tinge from the cigarette smoke and the smoke from the burning of her journals and computer hard drive in front of the fireplace before the drive commenced. She had been driving since one o'clock in the morning stopping only long enough to pee and buy more cigarettes at one of the many all night gas stations along the highway. She pressed a fingernail into her gum between her front bottom teeth and tasted blood with the tip of a cottony tongue. Riding shotgun was the pile of tissue used to wipe the tears and snot from her face before her head ran dry, now it was empty. As she pulled off the highway onto the side road leading to St. Mary's from habit she glanced at the gas gauge, near empty. She only needed enough to get there, someone else would take care of the return trip.

Waffle House glowed as she passed by, filled with the few who had forsaken sleep by choice or necessity. The Spanish moss hanging from the trees made the air smell like a graveyard. The boy soldiers were in evidence, coming in from late nights or starting early days. Developers had been here since her last visit. High priced lots were for sale where before there had only been swamp. Main Street still looked like something straight out of Mayberry. She remembered those streets in a boozy haze, back when she still pursued fun. The only other cars parked near the ferry belonged to the park service employees. Not many tourists went to the island this time of year.

The only bar in town wouldn't open for ten more hours. She bought a large styrofoam cup of coffee from the cafe near the dock, emptied half of it into a nearby trashcan, and added three mini-bottles of Baileys from her glove compartment to cut the taste. She cleared her car of trash, left the keys in the ignition, and gently shut the driver's side door before settling on the hood of the car. A chilly breeze blew in off the water and the ferry tied to the dock swayed and bumped with the waves. A park ranger approached her, they chatted about preservation, job satisfaction, and low federal wages. She dug five crumpled hundred dollar bills from her right pocket and crushed them into his palm. "I have friends on the island," she said, "could you take me there?" The ranger looked uncertain and she smiled at him.

They climbed into the smaller motor boat also moored to the dock and started across the choppy water. The backs of dolphins glistened between the waves and all she could hear was the sound of the motor. The ranger put the boat into idle and they slid up to the dock. She quickly dembarked, he tipped his hat, and sped back toward mainland. Inside the island ranger station a bearded man made coffee and scratched his head, oblivious to being watched. Past the resident parking, between the trees, past sea camp, over the dune bridge, and to the sea. A pack of wild horses milled on the beach in the distance.

She walked to the water's edge and carefully removed the black cashmere sweater, her father's 30 year old Levi's, and clogs. She placed her mother's pearls on top of the carefully folded clothing and put her license in the pocket of the empty jeans. As she marched into the sea the cold water was shocking, then she became numb as she swam away from the shore.

*Song by Simon and Garfunkle

Misconceptions about Neuroscientists

2006-10-16T19:19:00.000-04:00

Right now the Neuroscience Conference is being held at the Georgia World Congress Center. Today I had the chance to see the masses of delegates clogging the food court and I was surprised by the following observations.
1. Most neuroscientists are VERY young. Most of the delegates appeared to be between 23 and 26 years old.
2. Most neuroscientists are Asian. Now this could be a false observation. Perhaps most neuroscience conference attendees are Asian. Compared to the absence of fun in the outer provinces of China, the coup in Thailand, and the trigger happy environment in North Korea Georgia in October probably seems like a welcoming spot to travel.
3. Most neuroscientists are kind of attractive. I was shocked by the profusion of clear skin, svelte bodies, and shiny thick hair in the crowd. Has this group found the key to attraction or are they merely messing with our brains to change our perception?

I am a masochist

2006-10-15T22:34:00.000-04:00

Today I went to my favorite new salon spa. My hair stylist is a cuttingly gorgeous French man, who has very accurate but unfavorable observations on the average American.

The first time I visited his domain the man looked at me with disdain as I skulked in wearing my usual early morning weekend outfit of whatever was closest to the bed on the floor and unbrushed hair. I thought I was disheveled sexy, he thought I was a crazy homeless person who wandered in off the street.

The first time he cut my hair I was treated to a 90 minute monologue on how Americans have no sense of style and dress like pigs or as if they were going to feed pigs (due to his heavy accent I may have missed the exact phrase). After paying a king's ransom for the removal of about three millimeters of hair I walked out feeling unworthy and wanting to go back.

Today's subject was American workers and how they expect their bosses to be their psychiatrist or family. Monsieur Hotness regaled me with tales of the many employment applications he has received demanding two hour lunches, three day work weeks, and flex time. He is so disgusted he has decided to work alone seven days a week for roughly 12 hours a day. The only other employee is a fantastic aesthetician from Eastern Europe, who is also stunningly beautiful and appears to work the same grueling schedule as Monsieur Hotness. I can't help thinking he may have made the right choice.

Everytime I leave his salon, I feel slightly ashamed, a bit self-conscious, and humbled...I can't wait to go back in two weeks.

Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know. - Ernest Hemingway

2006-10-14T23:48:00.000-04:00

I enjoy watching life more than being an active part in it. One of my favorite things to do is to walk down the streets of an interesting city with my ipod to shield me from human voices. Life is more beautiful when you have your own soundtrack.

Old women and their feet

2006-10-14T14:58:00.000-04:00

Why do all old women have foot problems that they talk about volubly? Below is a conversation I overheard today at the nail salon. I don't think I'll be able to eat today.
Warning: Not for the sensitive of stomach.

Nice Thai Lady: Oh welcome! You come for spa pedicure?
Old woman: Oh yes! I need my toenails trimmed down a bit. My big toenail is pretty thick, so I'll need someone strong for this pedicure.
(Anomie gags.)
Nice Thai Lady: (Says something in Thai to other salon workers, which I choose to believe is:) This old cow comes in weekly to get her gnarled hooves clipped and painted and only tips 10%. I hope she dies soon.
(Nice Thai Lady smiles sweetly as other Thai ladies mumble.)
Old Woman: That callous on my left foot has been causing some discomfort lately. Could you shave it down?
Nice Thai Lady: Maybe we can use special pumice? (Blanches visibly.)
Anomie thinks: You crusty old bat, if you sold one of the fist sized blood diamonds in your earrings you could afford to get a foot transplant and spare everyone here your gruesome pied centered tales.
Nice Thai Lady: I turn on vibrating chair for you, very special customer.
Anomie adjusts her position hoping that in pidgin Thai-English vibrating chair means electric chair and the withered creator of noise pollution will soon be reduced to a blackened, smoking husk.
Chair goes on and old woman relaxes.
Old Lady: (Louder) This vibrating chair always makes me feel so good.
All clients silently think: Ewwwww!

As I see it, every day you do one of two things: build health or produce disease in yourself. - Adelle Davis

2006-10-12T19:47:00.000-04:00

Lately I have chosen to overlook the fact that the human mind is a delicate machine fueled by the body. For the past month or two I have disregarded my health by not going to the gym, eating erratically, sleeping irregularly, drinking too much, smoking too much, laughing too little, and neglecting my friends, family and loved ones. Now my body and mind are rebelling and I'm forced to slow down and recover.

Go to sleep, eat your vegetables, go for a run or walk tomorrow and your mind and body will thank you for it.

November by Azure Ray

2006-10-11T22:19:00.000-04:00

I wanted to share these lyrics. The acoustic version of this song is the best version. This song expresses how I've felt lately, hence all of the erratic posts. Thanks for reading. I'll be funny again soon and mock my own ennui.

November - Azure Ray
So I'm waiting for this test to end
So these lighter days can soon begin I'll be alone but maybe more carefree
Like a kite that floats so effortlessly
I was afraid to be alone
Now I'm scared thats how I'd like to be
All these faces none the same
How can there be so many personalities
So many lifeless empty hands
So many hearts in great demand
And now my sorrow seems so far away
Until I'm taken by these bolts of pain
But I turn them off and tuck them away
'till these rainy days that make them stay
And then I'll cry so hard to these sad songs
And the words still ring, once here now gone
And they echo through my head everyday
And I don't think they'll ever go away
Just like thinking of your childhood home
But we cant go back we're on our own
Ohh...
But I'm about to give this one more shot
And find it in myself
I'll find it in myself
So we're speeding towards that time of year
To the day that marks that you're not here
And I think I'll want to be alone
So please understand if I don't answer the phone
I'll just sit and stare at my deep blue walls
Until I can see nothing at all
Only particles some fast some slow
All my eyes can see is all I know
Ohh..
But I'm about to give this one more shot
And find it in myself
I'll find it in myself

Letter to a friend

2006-10-11T21:19:00.000-04:00

I began to write this as a letter to a friend when I realized it can apply universally. It seems that a majority of the population stops having new experiences when they reach a certain age. We sacrifice freedom and constant discovery for complacency and material comfort. We stop living in the realm of thoughts and dreams and turn to earthly pleasures for comfort: food; sex; money; drugs; alcohol. As we creep closer to death do we begin to live with caution? What happens to make someone forsake their life as an impoverished adventurer to a middle class maker of meatloaf?

I do not condemn, I only seek to understand. In many ways I have traded idealism for stability. Now I rarely experience the adrenaline highs and euphoric happiness of my careless days, but I am also no longer subject to crushing gloom.

What made you stop? What mechanism (internal or external) put a halt to your wanderlust?

Beat Reader

2006-10-10T21:00:00.000-04:00

Recently I was flipping through my tattered copy of "The Beat Reader". I've owned this book since I was in high school. I used to be a prolific highlighter. I would mark the words that I identified with in acid yellow ink to remind me of the feelings I had and the words that gave meaning to them.

Looking at the faded highlighted passages I was struck by the spirit of self-loathing and hopelessness that the words expressed. I remember feeling as if I was stuck in a whirlpool of gloom and sadness. The only exit (in my mind) from that vortex was death. I wasn't sure I believed in heaven or hell, but nothingness was better than constant pain.

I continued to try to kill myself slowly for many years until I was confronted with the reality of death. In 1996 three close friends committed suicide within a two month span, setting off a chain of self-inflicted and random tragedies that continued to decimate the ranks of those I cared about. Beneath my tears, I was...jealous. I was jealous of their bravery to confront the unknown. I was jealous that the world would never witness their beauty fading and their potential dismissed.

I still fight the emerging wrinkles that the advent of 30 has left in it's wake. I still function with more youthful abandon than is appropriate. I wake up every morning a bit surprised that I have been around for so long. I have an appreciation for life now. Each day is a gift I remember. There are so many people, images, and experiences that I have taught me something. I can focus on the present now that I'm not busy chasing death.

When death finds me I will not run, but I will not seek his embrace.

Histrionics

2006-10-10T20:50:00.000-04:00

I remember the first time I became aware that I had an accent. I was 10 years old and my parents videotaped my commentary on my brother's little league baseball game. We arrived home and popped the tape in the VCR so we could re-live the excrutiatingly boring two hours we had just spent broiling in the sun. Listening to myself I realized I sounded less like Martha Quinn and more like Ellie May Clampett. I was horrified and begged my parents to erase the tape to eradicate my shame at what I considered a most unfortunate accent. They laughed off my concerns and patted me on the head.

For the next year I would hide under the covers at night with my beige Fischer Price tape recorder and practice speaking like a Midwesterner. Record-rewind-play...over and over again until the voice coming out of the plastic box was without regionality, without ethnicity, was sterile. I used this voice for 12 years, until I moved to Atlanta. In Atlanta, surrounded by the sugar-coated melodies of Southern patios I rediscovered my true voice, the voice I tried to kill in my youth.

I still use my carefully cultivated accentless voice in most settings, but in my personal life I let the syllables multiply and the vowels linger.

Socioeconomics

2006-10-09T20:35:00.000-04:00

Fussell's model classifies Americans according to the following classes:
Top out-of-sight: the super-rich, heirs to huge fortunes
Upper Class: rich CEOs, diplomats, people who can afford full-time domestic staff, and some high salaried, prominent professionals (examples include surgeons and some highly-paid types of lawyers)
Upper-Middle Class: self-made well-educated professionals
Middle Class: office workers
High Prole: skilled blue-collar workers
Mid Prole: workers in factories and the service industry
Low Prole: manual laborers
Destitute: the homeless and disreputable (but still free)
Bottom out-of-sight: those incarcerated in prisons and institutions

Today I have dealt with the gamut of socioeconomic friends and acquaintances. In the morning, I was catering to the needs of the Upper Class and in the evening I shared a bottle of Dom Perignon with the Low Prole that I consider a friend and the keeper of my yard. That is the beauty of democracy.

"At Night I Lay With You..." by Ernest Hemingway

2006-10-08T23:33:00.000-04:00

At night I lay with you
And watched
The city whirl and spin about

Discovery

2006-10-08T22:56:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I put the ipod on shuffle and wore it most of the day. I am always surprised at the songs that emerge. I once read that sense of smell is one of the senses most connected to our memories. Due to seasonal allergies my sense of smell is non-functioning for the larger part of the year, so I believe that hearing may have taken over as my most connected sense to memory. A song can take me to places in my head and/or past to the point of total unawareness.

Great lyrics below.

"Man And Wife, The Latter (Damaged Goods)" by Desaparecidos
I'm growing out my hair
like it was when I was single
it was longer than I'd know you
I had no money then
I had no worries then at all
but with such a high standard of living
I just feel like I am dying
I would start an argument but you can barely even talk
but there is always good reason for your silence
you have to take care of some business
so I fix your plate and I stay out of the way
and you'll stay like that forever
right in front of your computer
you'll look up one day
but you won't recognize me
so you want to change?
you read a letter from a lawyer
want to take me out to dinner
you want to bury me under a mound of shopping bags
like it'd really make a difference
or make up for your disinterest
I'm a bill you pay
I'm a contract you can't break
and it's like I'm under water or on an endless escalator
I just go up and up but I don't ever reach the top
a nd it reads just like the bible
twenty centuries of scandal,
yeah, it all depends on how you interpret it
the word is love
the word is loss
the words are damaged goods
that's what I am
a lifetime gets chalked up to an experience
coincidence we're chained to the events
that's it

*Illustration "Loss of Memory" by AnnKarin Glass

The Recluse...*

2006-09-25T21:44:00.000-04:00

The end of September is generally the time I enter the corridor of sorrow. Traditionally this is the time of year when I am haunted by the memories of sadness past and repressed feelings of pain and loss. I think that occasionally wallowing in ennui can be cathartic.

If you happen to spot a girl with unshed tears in her blue eyes and a journal full of memories, give her a tissue and remind her that it is only seasonal.

*Song by Cursive

What's Your Currency?

2006-09-21T13:01:00.000-04:00

I thought (incorrectly) that Winston Churchill once said that "everyone is a whore, it is only the price that is in question". I can't find the exact quote, so perhaps Winston Churchill only said those words in my head.

A few days ago I asked a friend what their currency would be. They responded that they "would pay any price for silence" and asked me what my price/currency would be. Being more of a skipping stone than a sinking rock, I was unsure. The question made me think about what is most important to me in broader terms than people and possessions. I have decided my currency is peace. Peace is defined by Merriam-Webster as: 1 : a state of tranquility or quiet: as a : freedom from civil disturbance b : a state of security or order within a community provided for by law or custom 2 : freedom from disquieting or oppressive thoughts or emotions 3 : harmony in personal relations 4 a : a state or period of mutual concord between governments b : a pact or agreement to end hostilities between those who have been at war or in a state of enmity. I am exceptionally good at wartime strategy, but I have developed those skills in order to avoid or end conflict as soon as possible. I dislike disturbance, loud noises, and unrest. To me contentment is calm.

What is your currency?

Nothing is as certain as that the vices of leisure are gotten rid of by being busy. - Seneca

2006-09-20T15:04:00.000-04:00

The last two weeks have been crazy busy. No time to read, no time to write, no time to sit in the backyard and stare into nothing while enjoying a glass of merlot and a Dunhill (light). Expect a much longer and insightful post tomorrow or Friday.

A Heart Without A Mind...*

2006-09-12T22:11:00.000-04:00

I have decided the paradox of my existence is that I have an unlimited capacity for rebellion, but not enough passion for anything to bother to rebel.

*Song by Styrofoam

"God Deciding" *

2006-09-11T09:10:00.000-04:00

Although I don't have anything enlightening or prosaic to write about September 11th, I feel it would be disrespectful not to recognize it. Below is my story of that morning in Atlanta.

I was walking through the lobby of my office on the way to the mailroom on September 11th, 2001. The televisions in the lobby were tuned to CNN. Three people were milling around the reception desk and someone mentioned that a plane just flew into the World Trade Center. There was a second of joking about the navigational skills of bad amateur pilots. I giggled, picked up my mail, and headed back through the lobby. The crowd of three had grown to a crowd of twenty something in under 10 minutes. The second plane had hit and we had realized it was not an accident. Our entire office crowded around the television sets scattered throughout the floor and watched in stunned silence. By 9:30 am our office was evacuated for fear that we may be a target. By 9:45 am I was sitting on the rooftop deck of my loft watching the skies that were eerily free of planes (despite the fact that I lived in a flight path). At 10 am I turned on the radio and heard that the first tower had collapsed. I remember sitting and waiting all day long for the horrors to continue to unfold. I knew life in the US would forever be changed.

*Song by Hot Water Music

A Song for You...*

2006-09-08T10:59:00.000-04:00

I've been so many places in my life and time
I've sung a lot of songs I've made some bad rhymes
I've acted out my love in stages
With ten thousand people watching
Now we're alone and I'm singing my song for you
I hoped your image of me is what I hoped it to be
I treated you unkind but darlin' can't you see
There's no one more important to me
So darlin' won't you see right through me
When we're alone and I am singing my song for you
You taught me precious secrets of a love witholding nothing
You came out front when I was hiding
Now I am so much better, if my words don't come together
Listen to the melody cause my love is in there hiding
I love you in a place where there's no space or time
I love you for my life, you are a friend of mine
And when my life is over
Think of when we were together
When we were alone and I was singing my song for you

Love songs by boys are so much better than love songs by girls.

*Lyrics by Kind of Like Spitting

Bad Dog

2006-09-04T21:39:00.000-04:00

My dog, who I love more than 99.9% of humans I have met, ruined the weekend. He plowed through my mother's precious flowers, he antagonized the neighbors, he tackled a small boy, and tried to eat my parents cat. I think it may be time for a little discipline....

Gray...*

2006-08-31T12:49:00.000-04:00

I love it when the weather matches my mood. Today it is overcast and the temperature is mild. The day feels like a blank canvas.

I wish music was rated like wine. Wine has guidelines such as: white wine is only served with chicken, seafood, and other white meats; red wine goes with red meat; certain sweeter wines are paired best with desserts. Perhaps genres of music could be paired with moods?

Tonight I need to buy some music for the upcoming road trip. Recommendations?

*Song by Ani DiFranco

No Surprises...

2006-08-31T11:14:00.000-04:00

A heart thats full up like a landfill,
A job that slowly kills you,
Bruises that wont heal
You were so tired, happy,
Bring down the government,
They dont, they dont speak for her
Ill take the quiet life, a handshake of carbon monoxide

No alarms and no surprises, no alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises
Silent, silent
This is my final fit, my final bellyache with
No alarms and no surprises, no alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises, please

Such a pretty house, such a pretty garden
No alarms and no surprises, no alarms and no surprises
No alarms and no surprises, please

Random question, what do you think this song is about?

Dollars and Cents...*

2006-08-29T14:06:00.000-04:00

Today's post topic is courtesy of Doug from Waking Ambrose. Yesterday Doug asked me the following question:
What will your next job be?

I am ashamed to admit I have no idea.

I'm relatively pleased with my current job. It's not stressful, I am adequately compensated, and it is a very quiet environment. My job provides me with a place to go during the day, something to fill my time, and spending/saving money. I am content.

I don't usually actively seek employment, opportunities just arise, so my next job is a mystery. Perhaps I'll be a volunteer, a home maker, a philanthropist, or a student. The world holds many options for those with no set direction.

*Song by Radiohead

Impossible Outcomes...*

2006-08-22T12:49:00.000-04:00

A few days ago I was reminded of one of my inappropriate college year crushes. I had a crush on Gatewood Galbraith (http://www.gatewood.com/) my junior year of college. Gatewood is best known as a proponent of the legalization of "hemp" and perrenial candidate for Kentucky congress and governor.

Gatewood was a regular at the coffee shop where I worked about an hour a week (and hung out at for countless hours a week). He was a charming man, with a slight Southern Drawl and a chiseled face. My friends and I used to admire him jogging from the window of my student apartment. By my estimation Gatewood was probably about 50 years old at the time.

I wonder if Gatewood knew he had a lustful fan club of 20 year old co-eds?

*Song by The Get Up Kids

Wake from your sleep...*

2006-08-21T09:44:00.000-04:00

Sleep: Etymology: Middle English slepe, from Old English sl[AE]p; akin to Old High German slAf sleep and perhaps to Latin labi to slip, slide1 : the natural periodic suspension of consciousness during which the powers of the body are restored -- compare REM SLEEP, SLOW-WAVE SLEEP2 : a state resembling sleep: as a : a state of torpid inactivity b : DEATH ; also : TRANCE, COMA c : the closing of leaves or petals especially at night d : a state marked by a diminution of feeling followed by tingling e : the state of an animal during hibernation3 a : a period spent sleeping b : NIGHT c : a day's journey4 : crusty matter present in the corner of an eye upon awakening**

After 37.5 hours of sleep in three days, I am again joining the ranks of the conscious. Why do we allow our lives to exhaust us to the point of collapse?

*Lyrics from Exit Music by Radiohead

** Definition courtesy of Merriam-Webster

Caution To All Ye Whom May Enter

2006-08-14T09:23:00.000-04:00

Pictures to be added soon...
Over the weekend I attended a birthday party for two 34 year old men at Medieval Times. The party was my first visit to the hallowed halls of MT. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this particular tourist trap, below is an excerpt from their website.

As Medieval Times popularity grew in its native country, the welcome Spanish invasion hit Kissimmee, Florida in December 1983. Professional production and training staff from Spain brought with them the architectural flourishes, authentic costumes and weaponry that had become so popular in Europe. The U.S. response was immediate and overwhelming. Families, tourists and schools descended on the Castle, and a new dynasty had begun.

Medieval Times is located in such exotic locales as Buena Park, CA; Dallas, TX; Schaumburg, IL; Myrtle Beach, SC; Kissimmee, FL; Baltimore, MD; Lyndhurst, NJ; Toronto, Canada and the recently opened venue in Atlanta, GA inside the Discovery Mills Outlet Mall.

Upon arrival we stood in line for 20 minutes and were herded like cattle toward the ticket desk. Once at the ticket desk we were given yellow laminated cards to trade with our "serving wench" (a teenager named Jasmine) in exchange for a disgusting 'medieval' style meal (instant beef bouillon served out of a pail, garlic bread, dry roast chicken, bbq ribs, a hunk of potato, and 'medieval' pastry aka a Nutrigrain bar). At the same ticket desk were were presented with a yellow paper crown to mark us as "champions of the yellow knight". We proceeded to the mandatory photo with a grimy king dressed in the fiefdom's finest velour.

After 30 minutes of milling about and admiring the reproduction armor in the 'great hall'/bar area I decided to kill the pain of being there with a $40 22 ounce 'King's Goblet' filled with strawberry daiquiri. Once I was fully inebriated (20 minutes later due to the tragic combination of Claritin, rum, and an empty stomach) I was led by the cute four year old daughter of one of the birthday boys to 'Ye Olde Gift Shoppe'. Sixty dollars later the little girl was the proud owner of a princess hat and two faux dalmatian fur trimmed crowns for the birthday kings.

FINALLY, our yellow knight group was called and we were carried by the movement of the mob into the arena where the festivities take place. The arena smelled like a Footlocker on the bad side of town. The volume of the royal speakers was earshattering and their version of old English was atrocious, adding thee, ye, and thou does not old English make. The woman sitting two seats over from me emitted a high-pitched squealing sound for most of the three hours we were in the arena, she was the first of many knight groupies we ran met. The sandpit in the middle of the arena was filled with some depressed looking horses and scary looking knights. If you ever wondered what happened to the long haired, D&D players who sat in the back of every class in high school, look no farther than Medieval Times.

After close to four hours in the Medieval Times vicinity we were free.
Cost of an evening at Medieval Times (for two): $250
Escaping: Priceless

(Things I would rather have spent $250 on: 1. Enough alcohol to render me comatose for the duration of the show 2. A mallet with which to beat myself unconsciouss during the show 3. Almost anything other than an evening at Medieval Times)

Blackberry...*

2006-08-11T12:21:00.000-04:00

I hate my Blackberry. Inevitably, moments before I reach a nirvana-like state of calm I am disturbed by the annoying waspy buzzing sound that is like a siren song from my 9 to 5 (more accurately my 8 to 6, 7, or 8ish).

The only escape from urgent emails, stupid forwarded jokes and chain letters, and spam is going out of range. Unfortunately for me, Cingular's coverage area is immense. My options for getting away from it all is limited to third world countries (my future vacation list reads like a missionary's itinerary) or underground vaults.

"Just turn it off!", you may say. That advice is easier said than taken. The few times I have turned off my Blackberry I have been the recipient of a message from my boss's boss's boss. It's strange how you're never really needed until you're unavailable.

*Song by The Black Crowes (Note: I hate this song almost as much as I hate my Blackberry.)

Exit Music (For A Film)...*

2006-08-07T13:14:00.000-04:00

It is always disconcerting to have a movie moment in 'real' life. Today I snuck out of the office for a moment to brood and stare blankly into space (heat-induced depression) and had the privilege to witness a movie moment.

I was jolted from my ennui by the sound a a chanteur belting out Sam Cooke's "(What A) Wonderful World". The man was well-dressed and appeared to be stable. He simply sang his song in the middle of the outside entrance to the Arena, put on his jacket (which he had placed on a nearby chair), threw a wink my way, and proceeded across the street. What bravery to step outside the shackles of what is considered normal and provide enjoyment for the three people who were lucky enough to witness his performance.

It made me smile.

*Song by Radiohead

Breathe Me by Sia

2006-08-05T22:31:00.000-04:00

Just lyrics, but beautiful lyrics.

Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
I Hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame
Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am smallI'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold meI am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

Ride the Lightning...*

2006-08-02T20:17:00.000-04:00

Sometimes during moments of silence thoughts creep in...

All the truths that hide behind the cacophony of our daily babble-filled lives emerge.

I am not a religious zealot or a particularly good Christian, but during times like these when all is quiet outside, the inhabitants seeking refuge from the heat they created, lightning sizzling across the sky and a storm creeping toward me from the horizon, I speculate that the end is near.

It is impossible for me to imagine what fate the world holds for future generations. Are books such as Oryx and Crake and Friend of the Earth clairvoyant tales of our future?

I'm scared. Perhaps we're all scared and that is why we fill our lives with sounds, images, and overscheduling.

*Song by Metallica

Nice Dream...*

2006-07-27T12:16:00.000-04:00

"Throughout hundreds of years of history, what the skull has communicated is, 'I am dangerous.' that's where the irony is. You can buy dangerous for $11.99 at Kmart."
Thursday, July 26th NYT Style Section

I wrote a while back about The Preppie Pirate and how distraught I was that the zeitgeist of my generation was being appropriated by stockbrokers, college students, and mallrat teens who hang out at Hot Topic. Imagine my ire as I opened the New York Times this morning to find an article about the 'mainstreaming of the tete de mort' on the front page of the Thursday Styles section.

I am disconsolate.

*Song by Radiohead

Date With Ikea...*

2006-07-26T10:04:00.000-04:00

I hate IKEA.

I have spent at least three hours in IKEA this week, which is two hours and twenty-nine minutes too much.

I have eaten dinner at Ikea three nights in a row. After three consecutive evening meals consisting of Swedish delights (of descending nutritional value) I feel sluggish, as if I have Swedish Fish swimming through my veins.

I have bought and returned GRUNDTAL. I have struggled to help install the STODIS/SPANIS combo. I have surrendered to the unsightly steel of the KIRP. I have met the IKEA employee's amiability with malevolence. I have reconciled myself to hanging towels on rusty nails.

I surrender.

*Song by Pavement

Life In A Glass House...*

2006-07-20T12:07:00.000-04:00

I don't have anything witty or profound to say so this post is just some of my inner ramblings.

Humidity and shampoo
If you have more than a foot of hair that naturally leans towards "full of body" (aka puffy), do not use volumizing shampoo on days of 95 degree temperatures with over 50% humidity. I appear to be a walking piece of shrubbery today thanks to that shower mistake. You will look like a pom-pom ready for the dog show.

Megafest
If you have agoraphobia, you should plan to take a vacation OUTSIDE of Atlanta during the three-day 200,000 people event known as Megafest. This religious celebration brings oceans of people into the city and can leave the agoraphobic in need of tranquilizers and booze.

Spam
I think 'viral marketing' companies could benefit from doing some demographics research rather than their current shotgun approach, showering everyone with the same advertisements and hoping to hit their target. Today's choice pieces of spam that have eluded the company's spam filter include the following.
1. Abdul - (Like Madonna, Abdul is apparently known by one name only.) "Note the science doorway with billions of tadpoles". What does this mean? What idea or product is Abdul selling? This is a very ineffective morsel of electronic junk mail.
2. Four messages offering reduced price Viagra - I am a (fairly young) female. Why would I want to buy Viagra? Perhaps, they are advertising it early as a great Christmas or Hanukkah gift for your special grandfather or sugar daddy?
3. Ticketmaster - Oooo, pre-sale tickets for Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers. I have purchased LOTS of tickets from Ticketmaster over the years. Most of the tickets I have purchased have been for the ballet, the opera, or marginally popular indie-rock bands. Based on my buying patterns, I would not be a prime buyer of Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers tickets.

I'm sure when I was a marketing shill I made similar demographic bad judgments and now I am facing my karma.

By the way, for those of you who read my constantly changing sidebar I will never finish "Infinite Jest" or "Tropic of Cancer".

*Song by Radiohead

A Swim in Racoon Creek...*

2006-07-17T19:35:00.000-04:00

Wall decor in a South Carolina gas station...just too weird not to post.

*Song by Brian Henke

Medication...*

2006-07-14T20:08:00.000-04:00

To quote Isaac Brock, "We're all doctors trading sadness for numbness".

Today I went to see my physician, who is a bit reminiscent of Dr. Nick from the Simpsons. I am forced to continue seeing this doctor of questionable credentials because of my need for medication and his willingness to prescribe whatever I ask for. I'm not a drug addict popping Percocet like Sweet Tarts. I simply have a small serotonin deficiency that only medication can correct. My doctor also owns a medical spa that is next to his primary care practice. Here is a short transcript of my appointment.
Dr. Nick: Anomie, my favorite patient!
Anomie: Hi Dr. Nick! How is your daughter?
Dr. Nick: Ah, she is well....(blah, blah, blah). So what brings you here today?
Anomie: Your office called me and told me to come in as a follow up to the nasty bout of Legionnaires Disease I had last month.
Dr. Nick: (Flipping through chart) Ah, yes....So you are well?
Anomie: I feel great.
Dr. Nick: Do you need any other prescriptions? You want six month supply of Prozac? Your skin looks great, more Retin-A?
Anomie: Sure, that would be great. I'm a bit worried about this freckle on my arm that has appeared. It is large and asymmetrical, do you think I should see a dermatologist?
Dr. Nick: No, it looks fine! Did you want to schedule another laser hair removal appointment next door while you're here. I can do it now. (Note: There is an entire family of eight in the waiting room.)
Anomie: Uhhh...I think you may be a little busy, there are a lot of people in the waiting room.
Dr. Nick: (Pshaw sound) Medicare. I make time for you.
Anomie: You know I feel pretty hairless, maybe next time.
Dr. Nick: Come back and see me soon yeah?
Anomie: Of course. Take care.

I need to find another doctor.

*Song by Modest Mouse

Possibilities of Summer...*

2006-07-12T12:42:00.000-04:00

Today I emerged from the silence and tranquility of my office to discover what appeared to be thousands of small children cluttering the food court of the building. They were a relatively decorous horde. There was very little pushing, screaming, or ankle biting. But circling back on a subject addressed in a previous post on tourism, why would anyone bring small children on a tour of news facilities on a summer field trip?

Growing up in the middle of Kentucky, our choice of field trip options were unstupifyingly limited.

Childhood Field Trips I Remember:
1. Lincoln's Birthplace - The highlight is the cabin that Abraham Lincoln MAY have been born in protected within a mausoleum-type structure.
2. Fruit of the Loom factory - How treasured was the chance to see t-shirts being made before manufacturing facilities were moved to a sweatshop in Asia.
3. GM Corvette Assembly Plant - The socio-economic future of my classmates was made apparent on this trip. We were evenly divided between those who wished to work at the plant in the future and those who wished to own one of the cars.

I digress, my point is please, please, keep the children away from the office building. For selfish reasons (slight agoraphobia and pedophobia) and more wholesome motivations, I appeal to you to let the kids play outside. It's summer, you're only young once. Let the children frolic, run, and skin their knees. There is plenty of time for these kids to loiter in the food courts (as teens) or be sealed into climate controlled corporate tombs (as adults) later.

*Song by Matt Pond PA (Artwork by Nebo Peklo)

Author...*

2006-07-10T12:16:00.000-04:00

Monday mornings are usually a little ummm...challenging. I love my job, so I don't approach Mondays with dread, but with grim determination. Monday is more something to be conquered than a source of enjoyment.

Starbucks delivered to my desk will result in gratitude. The discovery that one of my bosses is on vacation inspires relief. A glance at www.somethingawful.com or a quick perusal of my favorite blogs my coax a giggle from my weekend damaged frame. One thing can make me smile like a fat kid at the all-you-can-eat sundae bar on a Monday morning...The arrival of the scrawny mailman bearing a brown cardboard box from Amazon will make a smile break across my face. I will rip open the box like a starving coyote to hold my newly arrived treasures. Today's new arrivals are: "The Subject Steve" by Sam Lipsyte; "Cooking With Fernet Branca" by James Hamilton-Patterson; and "Loving, Living, Party Going" by Henry Green.

Although I have enough unread books to keep myself amused for at least three months. I stick to the a Mormon table of four plan for literature. I keep at least 10 unread fiction tomes, five or more non-fiction, two books of poetry to add a bit of flavor, and at least one how-to book.

You will rarely see me review books here. Even though I love literature and read (0n average) three books a week I am afraid that my poor description of a book may taint another readers opinion or perception of the work under discussion.

If you would like recommendations, please email me directly at anomieatlanta@gmail.com.

*Song by Shimmerplanet

Dishes...*

2006-07-06T22:10:00.000-04:00

After surviving on nothing but restaurant fare and the kindness of friends with kitchens since April, I finally have a stove, dishwasher, microwave, and cabinets. I am only a sink and countertops away from having a working kitchen.

I am unreasonably excited about having a complete home again. To be able to walk through the dining room and guest room for the first time in months is on par with a child's first trip to Disneyland. The discovery of standing walls and a floor is wondrous! The lack of drywall dust in the air makes breathing an orgasmically joyful experience. The absence of sawdust on the dog is cause for a prayer of thanksgiving! I have walked through the valley of the shadow of neverending construction and am emerging scarred, but into a brighter, cleaner, more usable home. Just a few more weeks and I will be able to use the new bathroom, sleep in the new bedroom, and be able to cook (sob!) in the kitchen.

I will celebrate the completion of this seemingly Sisyphean project as if it were the birth of my first child!

*Song by Pulp

4th of July...*

2006-07-05T11:49:00.000-04:00

This weekend marked the first July 4th weekend I have spent at home in my adult life. It feels odd to wake up on a weekday and not go to work.

Among the many upsides of July 4th at home is that I have had time to tackle the many items on my ever pending to-do-list, enjoy some good clean fun, and celebrate my own independence from some negative influences in my life that have weighed me down for too long.

Over the weekend I had the most alcohol-free fun I have had since I was 10 years old. Saturday was the day of "special" pool Olympics. Me and two of my friends spent hours in the pool competing in such events as gliding contests, the one leg propulsion event, underwater handstand racing, and (by far the most amusing event) touching your foot to your head. I discovered my slowest walking and driving friend is actually quite swift in the water (a skill which prompted the suggestion that she swim everywhere in lieu of walking) and my least graceful friend is freakishly flexible (and able to put her foot over her head). I apparently excel in games of hopping. Who knew I had such a great vertical?

Sunday was the day when my kitchen again became semi-usable. I was able to relocate my stores of canned goods and enough dishes to supply a restaurant to their rightful place in the new cabinets. It feels good to kind of have my home back...Now that the dining room and guest room are cleared I can pretend that the kitchen is finished.

July 4th festivities were fun in a distinctly Southern way. I participated in conversations ranging from Goth Disney character costumes for Dragon Con, bellydancing, and the trading of recipes for such mayonnaise laden Southern delights as broccoli salad and deviled eggs. All this talk was interrupted by rousing games of water volleyball (with three generations of players, Grandpa Bob can kick ass in the water), horseshoes, and what I thought was a bratwurst eating contest, but was actually only a few ravenous guys with barbaric table manners. The evening ended by setting off an armory full of fireworks, surprisingly no one was maimed and only a few surface burns were sustained.

Conclusion: I should stay in town more often!

*Song by Soundgarden

Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect...*

2006-07-03T22:55:00.000-04:00

After months of living with various workmen in the house, remodeling is edging towards completion. Due to the language immersion of the past four months, I have learned the rudiments of contractor speak. This language has a similar sound to Klingon, as it is usually spoken through a mouth full of spit and dip and/or chewing tobacco. This strange breed of men appears to subsist on little more than nicotine, Tahitian Treat, and Nutty Bars.

Contractor: We will definitely be done by Friday. (Translation: It will be done by A Friday sometime in the unforeseeable future. The Friday in question may be as near as two weeks away or as far as the next appearance of Halley's Comet.)

Contractor: So it looks like everything is finished. (Translation: "Looks" is the keyword here. This means everything appears to be finished, but lurking behind the walls are loose wires waiting to detach at the slightest breeze and cause you to lose electricity in the kitchen and dining room area during your first post-construction dinner party. The pipes beneath the house are connected with chewing gum that will soften in the heat causing a leak that will only be discovered when raw sewage begins to seep up from beneath your original 1940s old growth pine wood floors.)

Home owner: So when do you think you should wrap things up? (Translation: When are you going to get the hell out of my house so I can change the locks and shower without fear of interruption?)

*by The Decemberist

Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish...

2006-06-28T14:37:00.000-04:00

http://www.cnn.com/2006/LAW/06/27/railroad.killer.ap/index.html

Angel Maturino Resendez was executed last night. In 1997 the so-called "Railroad Killer" tortured and killed a friend of mine. Resendez has been given almost nine years of life since he took Chris's life. I'm glad he is dead and I hope that there is an especially hot place in hell where he can feel a hundred times the pain he caused for eternity.

Tell me what you like and I'll tell you what you are. - John Ruskin

2006-06-26T12:17:00.000-04:00

Today I have no thoughts or stories to share, my brain is fried. I wanted to take some time to share a few of my recent favorite things. Please share yours too in the comments section.

Books:
1. The Moviegoer by Walker Percy
2. Happiness by Will Ferguson
3. The Tortilla Curtain by T.C. Boyle

Bands:
1. Radiohead
2. Get Up Kids
3. Jets to Brazil (and Jawbreaker by association)

Cities:
1. Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic
2. St. Petersburg, Russia
3. Hong Kong, China
4. Paris, France
5. St. Marys, GA USA

Magazines:
1. Chunklette
2. Giant Robot
3. Esquire

T-shirt Companies:
1. Y2K
2. Hanes (boys tees - plain white)

Artists:
1. Yves Klein
2. Marcel Duchamp
3. Henri Matisse
4. Rene Magritte

It's Your Wedding Day*

2006-06-25T20:33:00.000-04:00

As I mentioned in my previous post, I journeyed to the old homestead this weekend to attend my 21 year old cousin's wedding to the man our family knew only as Chuck.

I'll begin by describing the marital candidates.

Samantha is a sweet Southern blonde with big innocent blue eyes and the disposition of a yellow lab puppy. She is calm, loyal, and exceedingly affectionate. The girl has never met a stranger, only a potential friend. She was (placing the emphasis on WAS) a pharmacy student.

Chuck is very tall...and blocky. He is not disagreeable, he is merely silent. No one in our rather close family was sure of Chuck's full name until the engagement announcement was in the newspaper. We believe that Chuck either works in a factory or a stockroom, but that cannot be verified due to his disinclination to speak.

The wedding party arrived in a blaze of hot pink and black. It was like a Barbie wedding without the smiles and anatomically freakish figures. Chuck's family (who had remained hidden up to this point, much like Chuck's personality) were resplendent in their many tattoos (several of which resembled pentagrams). Our family was a sea of orthodontics finest work, straight white teeth bared in blocks of grimacing smiles. Aunt H. and I made a dash to the bathroom to spike our pink, alcohol-free punch and returned to find that our entire family had managed to squeeze around our grandparents table, condensed from the originally assigned two tables. Apparently, this lapse in decorum occurred for three reasons: 1) The discovery of my purse full of mini-bottles 2) It is much more polite to mock the other guests in a quiet tone of voice (hence the centralized location) 3) Their table was closer to the exit.

The celebratory toasts began just as we were formulating a plan of escape. Transcripts of these toasts are below.
Maid-of-honor (the bride's 16 year old sister): I have always looked up to Samantha. She is kind and loyal. Her only weakness is her inability to refuse a dare. One time at band camp she drank toilet water and now she is getting married. Congratulations! (At this point my mother leaned over and whispered, "Is she high?". This was not meant in snide way, I admitted to my parents that I dabbled in drugs during my college years and now they treat me as a drug dog to sniff out substance abuse in others).
Best man: I remember in college when Chuck got fleas. He didn't want me to say that, but Samantha told me I could say whatever I want. I hope it works out!
Father-of-the-bride (who tried to bribe Samantha to wait a few years to get married): I have two wonderful daughters (18 second pause) and now I guess I have a son-in-law.

I'm thinking I should bring the mini bottles to Christmas this year...

*song by Stephen Lynch

Wedding Supplies

2006-06-21T22:55:00.000-04:00

Friday morning I depart for the land of bluegrass for my cousin's wedding. I thought I should bring supplies. It is a Baptist wedding.

Invasion of the Tourists

2006-06-21T13:06:00.000-04:00

The air is warm, humidity has reached the dew point, and I am blinded by the glare of untanned legs in line for Starbucks.

It is time...For everyone from the area I refer to as the Mid-South to gather in Atlanta for (choke) vacation (?).

Disclaimer: I live in Atlanta. I am not originally from Atlanta. I moved here by choice (versus economic necessity or family pressure) shortly after my rather long (six year) college career that FINALLY ended in two degrees.

Atlanta has a lot of people, a lot of traffic, and some neat hidden niches. Before I MOVED to Atlanta I did not vacation here. Atlanta is not exactly the place where one would summer. Regardless of the city's landlocked geography and malarial climate, hordes of vacationers descend on our fair city every June and July.

How does one tell tourists from the local yokels you may ask? Well, the tourist have a few distinguishing features that are outlined below.
1. Skin tone - Our visitors only come in two shades, deep-sea pale or tanning bed orange. I have a theory that Atlanta may be promoted on "Melanin Challenged" websites.
2. Clothing - Atlanta is not New York. Well-heeled Atlantans seem to prefer the schizophrenic prints of Lily Pulitzer to the clean lines and neutral colors of Prada. The demographic that the Atlanta Tourism Board obviously markets to has a predilection for Big Dog wear and NASCAR branded body coverage.
3. Voice modulation disorder - Some of you may remember the SNL Will Ferrell skit in which Will plays a man who yells, even when he is whispering. Our guest residents cannot seem to talk below a level of 'light yell'.
4. They raise their eyes to the sky - Atlanta has no skyline. Are these tourists searching for God? Do they think that in Atlanta it rains Coca-Cola and by extending their scrawny or corpulent necks upward they will get a free taste of caramel colored, high-fructose corn syrup delight?
5. Directionally challenged - If one more person asks me for directions to the CNN Center (usually asked while they are standing directly in front of the building), the Georgia Aquarium, or 'the Mall' (Atlanta has a mall on every corner) I will tell them to get back in their car, get on the highway, and return to whatever culture and gentility forsaken place they have come from, and mapquest it.

If you are thinking of visiting Atlanta this summer, my advice is DON'T. Stay at home, there is nothing for you here.

Stolen Ideas - Read my answers and post your own

2006-06-20T09:54:00.000-04:00

Five things in my fridge/freezer
1. Bottled water
2. Ginger-soy salad dressing
3. Brita pitcher
4. Stoneyfield Fat-Free Yogurt (Blackberry)
5. Grey Goose

Five (unusual) things in my closets
1. Lowe Alpine internal frame backpack
2. Ball gown
3. Dead Milkmen t-shirt from 1994 tour
4. Dance Dance Revolution
5. "The 120 Days of Sodom" by Donatien Aldonse Francois le Marquis de Sade (a good southern girl would never keep it on her bookshelf)

Five things in my bag (purse/messenger bag/backpack)
1. Ipod Video
2. Slender notebook with "The Son of Man" by Rene Magritte printed on it
3. Cartier cigarettes
4. Toothbrush
5. Printed copy of recent JC Report

Five things on my bookcase
1. Numerous Norton Anthologies kept from my school days
2. "Sociology of Deviant Behavior" by Marshall Clinard
3. Well worn (highlighted, underlined, and page marked) copy of "The Beat Reader"
4. Equally well-worn copy of "A Guide to Elegance" by Genevieve Antoine Dariax
5. "Everything You Know Is Wrong: The Disinformation Guide to Secrets and Lies" by Russ Kick

The World is Shrinking and the Spread of the Preppie Pirate

2006-06-18T21:14:00.000-04:00

In 2005 I stumbled across a blogger based in Boston that posted about a new store, Ralph Lauren Rugby. Rugby stores are located exclusively near college campuses and are currently limited to eight stores. I perused the info on the Boston blog ambivalently, knowing that when in NYC I would never find the store and I wouldn't want to travel to the other cities where the stores are located. The writer of the Boston-based blog included some pictures of the store and merchandise, at which I glanced. Suddenly my eyes were drawn to a photo of the pants from my dreams: flat front khakis with tiny skull and crossbones embroidered on them in black. I had to own these pants! I called and store, had the pants sent to me, and yearned for more. "Clothing for preppie pirates!", I thought, "How novel!". After my initial rush of joy, I began to question what this might mean for what I considered to be my own uncommon aesthetics. When did the preppie pirate look go mainstream? More importantly, what is this development a reflection of?

We live in a world where the rise of user-generated content makes everything customized or customizable. Itunes enables the masses to discover semi-obscure indie rock bands whereas in earlier years these bands would only have been accessible by prowling clubs in Brooklyn or near Midwest universities. Coolhunter blogs expose us to products from around the world and e-commerce makes it possible to purchase these products from the pulsating comfort of our Kota Nezu Jellyfish Stool. Is the world becoming a "country without borders"*?

I'm torn between rejoicing that residents of first world countries now have the chance to purchase inspired goods (that would have only enjoyed miniscule sales in the years before meme spread by internet) and sadness that knowledge of these 'alternative' products is no longer a marker of the subculture (tribe) that I belonged to.

To use a cliche...The world is definitely becoming a smaller place and I'm claustrophobic.

*quote from "Pattern Recognition" by William Gibson

Date night

2006-06-16T13:15:00.000-04:00

At what point in a relationship does a couple start planning 'date night'? At the beginning of a relationship every time you see each other is date night. You always wear makeup, cute lingerie, and an adorable outfit to meet, even if it is a late night tryst. Is a pre-planned 'date night' a sign that you don't care the other days of the week when you see your beau? Is 'date night' an attempt to recapture the excitement and passion that marked those first few months of togetherness?

Eugenics

2006-06-15T17:16:00.000-04:00

Main Entry: eu·gen·ics Pronunciation: yu-'je-niks Function: noun plural but singular or plural in construction: a science that deals with the improvement (as by control of human mating) of hereditary qualities of a race or breed

Being a small (5' 1.5" without shoes and 5' 5" in my regular heels), somewhat attractive girl, I am often subject to the attentions of small men. They notice I am below their line of site (an elevated line of site due to their ridiculous cowboy boots or elevator shoes) and immediately hone in on my space like flies to shit. *

Ironically, I have never been attracted to a man under 5' 10". Although I have no desire and little likelihood of reproducing it seems that my brain has been imprinted by some kind of eugenic code that will only allow me to date men of heights that would produce a child of at least 5' 6".

Nature has a sense of humor.

*Rage inspired by the Association of Athletic Trainers event (which surrounded my building) full of 'vertically challenged' men trying to lecture me on smoking while I hid behind a grove of bamboo.

Maybe....

2006-06-14T22:03:00.000-04:00

I feel simultaneously manic and depressive today. I feel tired, but hyper. I feel expectant, but bored. I feel lonely, but suffocated. I feel grandiose, but paranoid. I can physically feel the dark circles beneath my eyes deepen.

Maybe my blood sugar is making me feel so fucked up. Maybe I need to get my meds adjusted. Maybe I just need to sleep again. Maybe I should look outward rather than inward. Maybe tomorrow this will seem funny. Maybe...maybe...maybe..soon I'll be fine.

The Dead Letter Office

2006-06-14T21:45:00.000-04:00

Written late last night
Since I was very young I have found the thought of the dead letter office chilling. All of the sentiments, greetings, and thoughts hanging in limbo make my heart hurt. Blogs that suddenly end make me feel similarly disquieted. What happened? Is there a happy ending? Did the writer die and leave their thoughts for posterity? Why was May 24th, 2004 the last day you posted? These abrupt endings to someone else's string of thought makes me confront my own mortality. What would I want to leave behind? Would the replies sent to nowhere tell a story?
http://www.thedeadletter.com/

Cleanin' Out My Closet...*

2006-06-13T10:40:00.000-04:00

On Sunday night, in the grip of an organizational anxiety attack I edited my bookshelves. Purging makes me feel empty (in a good way) and open to new possibilities. I throw out the broken, the obsolete, and the tarnished to make room for the treasured, the new, and the brilliant. As a result of my book purge, the entire cargo section of my Volvo wagon is filled with the refuse that includes the notable titles and genres below.

Six Months Off; Finding Work You Love; Managing Your Manager; Resume Updates - All purchased during my time with a cable channel start-up while reporting to a boss that makes Meryl Streep's character in the movie The Devil Wears Prada look like a saint.
Numerous 'society' tomes on Atlanta - Acquired during my non-profit job, when I spent the days trolling for donors and begging for event sponsors.
Prozac Nation (the only book I have read where the MOVIE is better); More, Now, Again; Better Than Beauty; numerous books by Simone de Beauvoir (most unread) - These books are the carcass of my ill-fated affair with a much older married man looking for a waif/muse. He was not worth the research or the effort.
Zen in America; several books written by the Dali Lama; even more books written by Deepak Chopra - Obviously purchased during my attempt to karma-cleanse after being the 'twenty years younger, other woman'.
Philadelphia Off the Beaten Path: A Guide to Unique Places; Philadelphia (Eyewitness Travel Guides); Streetwise Philadelphia - Precursor to the move to Philly that I backed out of because the boy I was moving for deserved someone who loved him more and differently than I could.
Lovers' I-Ching - Bought at the beginning of my relationship with 'D.' before I realized that I didn't need witchcraft, I just needed to recognize our compatibility.
All my books on marketing - I hated marketing, with the removal of all my reference materials I have finally decided never to go back.

I feel as if I have erased part of the whiteboard in my head and now I have room to write a new story.

* Song from Eminem's CD "The Eminem Show"

Perdition Revisited...

2006-06-08T23:16:00.000-04:00

I open my email on Wednesday and all is normal. I delete the twenty junk emails, check out the jcrew sale, catch up with a few friends, save the 14th email from the guy the girls and I met on vacation that I mean to write back, then happen to notice a familiar address that makes my blood run cold. The 'crazy' guy has written me again.

There have been a lot of conventionally questionable men in my life, but the 'crazy' guy stands alone.

Two years ago some acquaintances got me liquored up and dragged me to Cowboys, a country music dance club where rednecks go to find mates. I loathe country music and rednecks, but when I've had a few too many seabreezes I am a sucker for beautiful eyes and a strong jaw. I ended up talking to Adam for an hour. He was nice, he was definitely cute, and in my inebriated state I thought it was neat that he was an airline mechanic for the airline that I was spending way too much time on. I gave Adam my cellphone number (and apparently my email address). Adam called, I went out on ONE date with him, was reminded that my cerebral attraction to men is much stronger than my physical attraction and wrote him off, but that was not the last of Adam. Adam sent flowers, he sent poems, he sent a Build-a-Bear workshop rabbit with a note attached telling me about his hopes and dreams. Adam began sending emails and text messages before I boarded a flight telling me that he "hoped I had a safe flight in seat 3B". Adam freaked me the HELL out! After about three months (during which time I moved) I didn't hear from him anymore. I was happy that Adam has exhausted himself and was unable to find me.

Fast-forward to Wednesday. Adam had emailed me. He had apparently come across a momento of our ONE date and thought he should get in touch. I did not respond.

Too tired...

2006-06-05T22:27:00.000-04:00

To have coherent thoughts.

Stifling Domesticity

2006-06-02T23:24:00.000-04:00

Boredom is a dangerous emotion. I feel trapped in slow motion. I keep having dreams of flying. In my waking life my wings are clipped. Is this what getting older is about? Do we make our own cages of relationships, responsibilities, and obligations? When I was younger and I felt trapped I would jump in the car and take off. I would drive, listening to loud music, my windows open, Dunhill in hand, without a destination and only stop when I was so exhausted that I started hallucinating. Now I drive, listening to loud music, with the windows rolled up and the AC turned on so I won't muss my hair or irritate my allergies, to the dry cleaners, the grocery, the vet, the bank...the journey of mediocrity.

"When there is nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire." - Your Ex-Lover Is Dead by Stars

The Day of Denim

2006-06-02T12:26:00.000-04:00

Today I wore jeans to work for the first time. My definition of office casual is a suit without the jacket. Other people in my department wear jeans on casual Friday; it is just a custom that I have chosen to ignore up to today.

I keep my work life and my personal life segmented into two totally different spheres, so much so that I do not allow the people, clothing, or personas of in work/out work to meet.

I wondered if my denim experiment would cause people to treat me differently or illicit comment. Below are the results.

My boss (male): Asked me if “everything was okay?”
The camera training crew that sits near our office (male): Said “hello” for the first time in the eleven months I have worked on this floor
The 30-something year old analyst on the other side of the floor (male): Journeyed across the floor to my office to ask if “I had fun weekend plans?”
The newest Russian analyst (female): asked if I could help her fix her blackberry
Random homeless man in food court: Told me I was ‘lookin’ good’

Conclusion: Jeans apparently make me seem more approachable to men. To authority figures the denim casing implies illness (mental or physical) and a lapse in professionalism. To women (or perhaps just in Russia) denim equals technical knowledge.

I can’t wait for this day to be over….

Politically Correct in DR?!

2006-06-01T16:00:00.000-04:00

Above are pictures of the chocolate friends and the signage announcing them...does this seem wrong to anyone else?

Dolorous and chafed

2006-05-31T23:19:00.000-04:00

Tonight I can't sleep. Maybe it is the antibiotics, maybe it is the fact that I haven't had a FUCKING moment alone since sometime last week, maybe it is because I just keep listening to music rather than attempting to finish Swann's Way so I can be bored to sleep. Tonight, it is just me and the music...wishing that I was alone, wishing that someone wasn't always talking to me, wishing that I didn't have to smile, wishing that I was in my car driving with no destination...

What Would You Have Me Do by David Ford
Night After Night by The Sounds
The Hollows by Matt Pond PA
Your Ex-Lover is Dead by Stars
Gray or Blue by Jaymay
To Let Myself Go by Ane Brun

I left my health in San Francisco...

2006-05-31T13:07:00.000-04:00

I have never enjoyed myself in San Francisco. It’s odd, the city has all of the things I enjoy most; eclectic people and places, a plethora of great bookstores, the best Chinese food outside of Hong Kong, and it’s pedestrian friendly. Somehow, every time I go to San Francisco I come back with some kind of horrible ailment and an unreasonable amount of happiness that I live in Atlanta.

A brief synopsis of my trip

Friday: arrival- lunch – food poisoning
Saturday: Cody’s Bookstore – pit stop at Tiffany and Co. – tumble off a curb and into the street resulting in a bruised and bloody kneecap
Sunday: Buddhist wedding – step throat and sinus infection – departure

After spending all day in bed on Monday, I called in sick for the first time since 2001 because I could not physically stand up. After a penicillin shot and an outrageous dose of Omnicef I am once again among the upright. My body apparently loves the steamy humidity and searing heat of Atlanta. I have decided to avoid travel to places where the temperature is less than 80 degrees for the next few months.

Irritation

2006-05-25T22:04:00.000-04:00

ir·ri·ta·tion - a : the act of irritating b : something that irritates c : the state of being irritated2 : a condition of irritability , soreness, roughness, or inflammation of a bodily part

The opposite of irritation

Alone - Etymology: Middle English, from al all + one one1 : separated from others : ISOLATED2 : exclusive of anyone or anything else : ONLY3 a : considered without reference to any other b : INCOMPARABLE, UNIQUE - alone·ness /-'lOn-n&s/ nounsynonyms ALONE, SOLITARY, LONELY, LONESOME, LONE, FORLORN, DESOLATE mean isolated from others. ALONE stresses the objective fact of being by oneself with slighter notion of emotional involvement than most of the remaining terms . SOLITARY may indicate isolation as a chosen course but more often it suggests sadness and a sense of loss . LONELY adds to SOLITARY a suggestion of longing for companionship . LONESOME heightens the suggestion of sadness and poignancy . LONE may replace LONELY or LONESOME but typically is as objective as ALONE . FORLORN stresses dejection, woe, and listlessness at separation from one held dear . DESOLATE implies inconsolable grief at loss or bereavement .

In my opinion Merriam-Webster is wrong, alone and lonely are two very different things.

Contemporary Southern Euphemisms

2006-05-24T12:13:00.000-04:00

Unique = bat shit crazy
Different = socially inept
Sweet = stupid
Nice = ugly
Artistic = unemployed
Discriminating = unnecessarily choosy
Special = a person only their mother could love
Similar Background = at least as wealthy as his/her parents

Used in conversation

Clementine is so unique. Since her breakup with Beauford she has been in a bit of a funk. I tried to fix her up with Alston’s friend Trey, but she has discriminating taste and he’s artistic and they’re not from a similar background. I just hope she finds a nice man. She is such a sweet and special girl.

Whitest Boy Alive

2006-05-23T22:03:00.000-04:00

I love them! Listen...words cannot describe. The best of Kings of Convenience, without the flotsam.
http://www.myspace.com/thewhitestboyalive

Guest Spotlight: PdT "Why I Don't Dance"

2006-05-23T10:37:00.000-04:00

About the author: PdT is an architect in Miami who I have had the pleasure of knowing for the past seven or eight years. He has his own blog on MySpace, but his layout of many flashing lights and moving icons could cause epileptic fits.

Footloose is the reason I don’t and can’t dance. The movie came out in 1984 and at nine or ten years old I was still an impressionable child. I don’t remember if I actually saw it at the theater, but having an older sister you get exposed to their tween obsessions one way or another. I just wasn’t ready for Kevin Bacon at that age, not to be homophobic or anything, but compared to Lori Singers, who was a fucking mess in this movie, getting beat up and tossed around by her fucking goon boyfriend, it was a close call as to who was the prettiest on the set. In fact during the movie I kind of got them confused.
So apparently dancing was a big deal and this town had banned it. Kevin Bacon shows up and wants to dance and they hate him because he’s from the 80s and they live in Kansas or something. Things are not necessarily "footloose" after all, in fact something as inconsequential and light-hearted as dancing was much more loaded than our title would suggest. John Lithgow the preacher gets on his case and the goons dislike him cause he's pretty and they ain’t, so they fight him. He “looses” it and goes off to an abandoned factory to literally interpret his frustrations and his anger through the most logical form, dance. For weeks I wondered if I should express my displeasure at having to pick up my room by doing a Glissade and demi-plié in the kitchen. He was washing away his frustrations with dancing sweat and consequently purged away my need to dance forever. It was just way too much to out there, I didn't want to bare my soul bro, I just wanted to dance, what’s the big deal. Maybe John Lithgow was right, a man just wasn’t meant to move in that way. I wasn’t ready. It was a form of femininity I did not know men were capable of. He was so lithe, limber and into it, he just threw himself with a reckless abandon at the dance floor (or in this case abandoned factory floor). How could you just do something without thinking I thought? I just knew from watching him that if this is what dancing is about, then I might as well move to a town that has banned it. In the end Bacon was right and I had to learn. Luckily It was later that I discovered alcohol and drugs alleviated self consciousness, but only in perfect balances. - PdT

Signs You May Have Taken A Wrong Turn

2006-05-22T13:33:00.000-04:00

The Totem of Despair

On Saturday I drove to get my hair cut at a new place in a part of town I am not familiar with. M.’s friend M.J. had just broken off her engagement, changed residence, and gone back to the world of hairdressing in a 48 hour period. In a gesture of female solidarity (and because my split ends were out-of control) I found myself mapquesting to the obscure salon where she had very recently found employment. *

As anyone who has ever had the misfortune to drive in Atlanta can confirm, many streets here have the same or similar names. The duplication of street names is what led me to explore the “other” Avondale.

A few of the markers listed below clued me in that I may not be in the right area. I think most of the indicators listed are universal signs that you may be in the wrong neighborhood, unless of course you are looking for an unsavory experience.

Supreme Fish Delight Restaurant
These dining establishments appear to be located exclusively in the ghetto. They serve such tasty treats as: buffalo catfish, fried cornbread, and deep-fried animal parts that are usually only found in Chinatown.

Title Loan Offices
The average middle-class American would not need to borrow money, using their car title as collateral from a place that appears to be a converted Wendy’s. Transcript from imagined conversation with Buckhead Betty and title loan officer.
Buckhead Betty: So, how much will you loan me for the title of my 2005 Mercedes Benz E320 Station Wagon?
Title Loan Officer: Does it got rims?
Buckhead Betty: I’m sorry, rims?
Title Loan Officer: Ya know, chrome, custom, 20 inch?
Buckhead Betty: No I don’t know, so I assume I do not.
Title Loan Officer: I can give you fifteen.
Buckhead Betty: But that won’t pay for a semester at Westminster.
Title Loan Officer: I’ll throw in five for the watch and finger bling.
Buckhead Betty: Hmmm…

The Street as a Community Center
Most residents of better neighborhoods prefer to entertain, barbeque, and chat with their friends in the BACKyard. In what I’ll call “transitional” neighborhoods the street is the playground/kitchen/living room. If you see a Deluxe Barbeque Barrel in the street, surrounded by a group of people dancing to the music blaring out of the 1988 Grand Marquis parked in the center of the road, you should immediately reverse.

*Despite risking life and limb, M.J. is an incredible hair wizard and was worth all of the drama!

Ah, the quiet Saturday!

2006-05-20T23:06:00.000-04:00

Live music, nice weather, a perfect end to a day that started much, much too early.

I love my girls!

2006-05-19T14:41:00.000-04:00

The four best friends anyone could ask for, masked for purposes of anonymity. Four very special women (who usually look much cuter*), who embody the attributes of strength, beauty, intelligence and skill. I feel honored to have them as my friends.

*The picture was taken after many hours of festivities at the cabin.

Found in Bars

2006-05-19T11:16:00.000-04:00

What would possess an otherwise sane person to drag their Bugaboo stroller into a bar? I am not a “kid person”, I prefer the company of my dog to that of children, but even I realize that there are certain characters found in bars that children should not be exposed to until they are too old and jaded to care.

Young Investment Banker Guy – This guy (and it’s always a guy) has just graduated from college and has suddenly found himself receiving a six figure salary and working 20 hours a day. On his rare Saturday away from the office he is simultaneously: trying to score; trying to stay awake, and trying to out-drink his buddies to prove that in addition to being Lehman Brothers ‘Spencer’ that “the man” has not killed his college persona ‘The Spencmeister’.

Alcohol is dangerous to this fragile soul, who has seen the movie Wall Street 27 times too many and has the book Less Than Zero in the top drawer of his nightstand like the Bible. This guy illustrates the Rick James quote, “Cocaine is a hell of a drug”.

Fun Drunk Girl – She is best friends with the entire bar! She sings, she dances, she may flash some gratuitous nudity before puking in your cheese fries, but one thing is for sure…before the night is over she will be your responsibility.

Fun Drunk Girl always has pain behind her smile and slurred laughter. After her 14th Pink Lady, all hell will break loose. You may be her hostage listener on such interesting topics as: her eating disorder (past or present); how she is getting old and lonely; or her loose moral hook ups. She will sob at your table as all of her friends from the hours before drift away and you will have to help her find her way home.

The Armchair Philosophers – In the morning they haunt your favorite coffee shop and monopolize the outdoor setting, at night they can be found in the coziest pub or dive bar in your area. This group looks eclectic, but they have a few identifying marks (much like the Mark of the Beast) such as:
1. The sulky sneer – These people are NEVER happy and they love to share their misery with each other, innocent passersby, and anyone within earshot of their one hard of hearing member that talks at 80 decibels.
2. One item made of hemp – It will vary, from the linen-look hemp pants the closeted corporate lawyer is wearing to the rough hemp hair wraps in the fat masseuse’ hair.
3. A solution – These people are the thwarted leaders. They have the answers to the energy crisis, terrorism, Medicare, etc. All of these answers seem to involve some kind of socialist/communist government that they would of course be involved in. Hate to tell you folks, but under a socialist government’s 35% tax rate it may be hard to pay for your golf club membership or children’s Episcopalian education.

This is a real group of people who take ALL of the outdoor seating and prime parking at my favorite coffee spot every Sunday from 9am to noon. They only order one cup of coffee and nurse it for three hours and never tip the servers. If anyone from that group is reading this, I just want you to know that I hate you.

Happy Birthday Principe de Tristeza!

2006-05-18T13:32:00.000-04:00

I am vain enough to believe that the birthday boy (Principe de Tristeza) will read this today, perhaps not so much out of curiousity concerning my daily thoughts, but to see if he is mentioned (or because I email him and say, "LOOK AT MY BLOG, you're on it". People love seeing a tribute to themselves in print! Below is my birthday note to PdT, it can apply to most people's lives.

Dear PdT,

You are not so old and you have accomplished so much. You are a professional. You are self-sufficient. You are living back in the place that you love. Despite your newly elevated age, you are still the hippest of the hipsters! You would never disgrace yourself by doing any of the following.
1. Wearing tight jeans, a wife beater, and a blazer together
2. Proclaiming that "Float On" is the BEST Modest Mouse song and bragging that you saw them on The O.C. (http://www.mtv.com/news/articles/1486348/20040414/story.jhtml)
3. Going to a club owned by Gloria Estefan or frequented by Ricky Martin

Happy birthday, you bring laughter, knowledge and light to so many people. If it weren't for your influence during my college years I would probably still be listening to Phish and Widespread Panic, have dirty hair, and make my own clothing.

MySpace and the fountain of eternal youth!

2006-05-17T17:40:00.000-04:00

It appears that no one ever gets older than 30 on MySpace. For example:
1. I am 29 on MySpace, when I celebrated my 30th birthday last month, the first thing I did the morning of was change my birth year from 1976 to 1977. Let me emphasize that I changed my birth year at approximately 7am, before having my morning Dunhill, brushing my teeth or even using the bathroom I changed my age on my MySpace account.
2. My political science teacher from HIGH SCHOOL is on MySpace, his age is 29. Unless Mr. Ortiz was negative one when I was a senior in high school, he is lying. The fact that he also proclaims to love the band Sugarcult (demographic of average fan is a 15 to 16 year old girl) makes me think he may be, in the words of Waylon Jennings, ‘lookin’ for love in all the wrong places.
3. People who I went to college with who were in grad school when I was a freshman (and were not early admission prodigies) are listed as 29 years old. If you were a Teaching Assistant with a full beard and salt and pepper hair when I was 18, you are not 29 years old.

I know that extended adolescence (http://www.usatoday.com/life/lifestyle/2004-09-30-extended-adolescence_x.htm) is a part of our culture, but what is so bad about growing up?

Signs of depression

2006-05-17T13:52:00.000-04:00

Signs of Depression
Persistent sad, anxious, or "empty" mood
Feelings of hopelessness, pessimism
Feelings of guilt, worthlessness, helplessness
Loss of interest or pleasure in hobbies and activities that were once enjoyed, including sex
Decreased energy, fatigue, being "slowed down"
Difficulty concentrating, remembering, making decisions
Insomnia, early-morning awakening, or oversleeping
Appetite and/or weight loss or overeating and weight gain
Thoughts of death or suicide; suicide attempts
Restlessness, irritability
Persistent physical symptoms that do not respond to treatment, such as headaches, digestive disorders, and chronic pain

I wonder what it means if you have eight out of eleven?

2006 book reviews...

2006-05-16T13:55:00.000-04:00

Marley and Me - I laughed. I cried. Dogs are better than cats.
Haunted - Funny and sick! I was physically ill reading some of the stories contained in this book. Not Palahniuk's finest, but still a damn good read.
Guns, Germs, and Steel - If I ever read more than 20 pages of this book without falling asleep, it will be a miracle.
The Debutante Divorcee - Not highbrow, but a semi-amusing beach read...if you've had at least five drinks.
The Drinking Den - Good translation. Great book.
PostSecret - Although it is more of a coffee table book than a piece of literature, it stirs a spirit of voyeurism and sadness.
Stoned, Naked, and Looking in My Neighbors Window - The website www.grouphug.us is a better read than the book
Alias Grace - A well-written and engaging historical novel about accused murderess Grace Marks.
A Year in The Merde by Stephen Clarke - As someone who had a terrible time in Paris, I am in sympatico with Stephen Clarke. The Parisians are inefficient, the waiters are rude, and the people are intimidatingly stylish and intellectual.
Radical Simplicity by Dan Price - Dan Price has lived in 'alternative' structures for the past 10 years, his book is a diary of his many homemade homes. This book made ME want to live in a tepee and I think roughing it is a 3 1/2 star hotel.
Old School by Tobias Wolff - This book was incredible! As an Ayn Rand fan, it was interesting to see her depicted in an unflattering light.
Hey Nostradamus by Douglas Coupland - Wow, this book left me feeling whirled. I'm still trying to forget Jason, Heather, and Reg's stories.
Welcome to Higby by Mark Dunn - Bizarre, but fascinating.
Happiness by Will Ferguson - Interesting premise on how misery makes the world go round.
Pattern Recognition by William Gibson - Riveting mystery.

One more reason why I can never live in the suburbs

2006-05-15T10:19:00.000-04:00

http://www.somethingawful.com/articles.php?a=3800

A few things about suburbanites that Zack does not mention:
1. They think it is acceptable to leave the house in anything with a drawstring and/or elastic waistband. (Sidenote: I have recently noticed they also allow their children to leave the house in pajama pants.)
2. The women all have the same haircut. It is a choppy, Meg Ryan circa 1995 (Think "French Kiss") that never looks adorably gamine ala Meg, but always looks like the crazed mother of four has just cut her own hair with a kitchen knife ala Kathy Bates.
3. No one outside of the perimeter drives a car that weighs less than 6,000 pounds.

I am so tired...

2006-05-15T10:06:00.000-04:00

I'm tired. I'm tired of the construction on my house. I'm tired of giving the dog medicine every morning. I'm tired of taking my own medicine every night. I'm tired of going to work. I'm tired of smiling...at strangers, at co-workers, at friends. I'm tired of eating, smoking, and drinking. I just want to sit somewhere and watch the world go by for a few hours. I don't want to think, interact, or feel. My head needs a break.

I hope tomorrow I'm not so tired.

The raccoon with the orange tail and other crazy shit my parents have done…

2006-05-12T09:56:00.000-04:00

Let me preface this post with following disclaimer. My parents are seemingly normal people. They do not hate animals, nor do they use DDT based fertilizer. Unfortunately, they have a love for their landscaping that surpasses any consideration for the wildlife that ventures into their personal Giverny http://giverny.org/giverny/index.htm.

My mother smuggled tulip bulbs back from a trip they took to Holland. When she arrived back in the states, she lovingly planted these treasured bulbs in a prize spot in her garden. Days later the tulip bulbs began disappearing. Determined to humanely catch the varmint (http://www.mansgarden.com/varmints.html) who was feasting on her little piece of the Netherlands she persuaded my father to set up steel cage traps.

The day after the trap was set both mom and dad ventured to the garden to find a rather large raccoon inside the trap. My father took the raccoon (still in the cage) to nearby Darty’s farm and released it. In the days following, tulip bulbs were still disappearing and my mother (in a fit of paranoia) became convinced that the same raccoon was returning to their home from Darty’s farm, where they were being relocated. To prove my mother wrong, my dad began spray painting the tails of the captured raccoons orange before releasing them. Months later my dad ran into a friend of his (we’ll call him Cletus) that was on his way to Darty’s farm with his collection of shotguns. When asked what he was going to do there, Cletus told my father about the raccoon infestation on Darty’s farm and how some sicko had spray painted some of them orange (http://www.dispatch.co.za/2004/04/03/Easterncape/abun.html).

2006 3rd and 4th Quarter

2006-05-10T13:08:00.000-04:00

Reading a posting on (a friend's blog) today made me realize how I need a list of things I would like to do/accomplish this year. It's good to have goals. I mostly live aimlessly, without direction or destination and try to have some fun along the way. Below is my TO DO LIST for 3rd and 4th Quarter of 2006. Any advice or comments are welcome.
1. Lose the remaining 'relationship related' 15 lbs I've gained
a. Run at least three times a week
b. Walk the dog at least three times a week
2. Travel to a new place (domestic or international)
3. Stop consuming, start saving more (Really, how many handbags does one person need?)
4. Dance (Alone or with others, but always like Shakira)

What I said versus What I Thought

2006-05-09T16:45:00.000-04:00

The many things that a smile can hide....in this picture I was saying..
Are you ready Ms. DMV photographer?
I was thinking...
What horrible crime could you possibly have committed to be sentenced to working at the DMV?

I have noticed lately that what I say and what I actually think have a correlation. For example.

What I said is...
You look happy!
What I thought is...
You look FAT!

What I said is...
You're baby is soooo sweet!
What I thought is...
Your baby is so NOT CUTE!

What I said is...
I bet you had a lot of fun! (In reference to other's descriptions of dates, weekends, trips, etc.)
What I thought is...
I'm glad my life isn't as empty and boring as yours.

Life without credit cards!

2006-05-09T15:06:00.000-04:00

In a fit of rage over the $85 "membership fee" on my Amex, I paid off, cancelled, and cut up my only remaining credit card on Monday...I feel so empty...

There was an aura of unknown possibilities and potential recklessness attached to my $28,100 credit limit. It would have taken me YEARS to pay off the bill if I ever did max out the card, but I liked thinking about what I could do if I hit a point in my life when I didn't care...
1. Do a transfer to checking, withdraw the cash, and disappear to a Third World country with a nice climate for a year.
2. Get a nose job and liposuction to "change my look"
3. Live at the Ritz-Carlton in Hong Kong for two weeks.

What would you do with $28K?

I am living like a Parisian peasant

2006-05-08T13:48:00.000-04:00

A bit of background....
I grew up in an upper-middle class family. My parents are still married. I had a dog, a pool, every color of Ralph Lauren oxford made (with matching socks), and have always been given Volvos to drive.
Now I'm lower upper-middle class. I still have all the oxfords I can wear, a dog, and a Volvo, but no pool. Due to my aspirations to make our formerly two bedroom/one bath house (with a kitchen that has not been updated since the 1940s, into a modern three bedroom/two bath with an open (modern) kitchen, I am now living in a construction zone. There is dust in the air, we are confined to only two rooms of our house, and our Irishwolfhound mix has turned into a dustmop.

Now that the background is out of the way...

Over the weekend I was reading The Drinking Den (also known as L'Assommoir http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/L Emile Zola http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emile_Zola . The Drinking Den is part of the Les Rougon Macquart series that explores the squalid conditions of the lives of the Parisian working class during the late 1800s. In the book Gervaise and her husband Coupeau slowly but surely sink into a mire of drink and sloth because of their alcoholism. Obviously, I have nothing in common with the characters in the book. Despite the facts, I still found myself comparing my home under construction with their hovel in the tenements. I even drank a bit of muscadine for solidarity.

False consciousness and anomie

2006-04-24T16:23:00.000-04:00

With a blog name and screenname taken straight from a sociology book, it is a forgone conclusion that your are reading the thoughts of an armchair sociologist.

Anomie: For Durkheim, a social condition where the norms guiding conduct break down, leaving individuals without social restraint or guidance (see norms). [ Tony Bilton et al., Introductory Sociology. 3rd edition. London: Macmillan, 1996:654]

False Consciousness: Ways of thinking about the world or apprehending reality that are defective and which obscure the truth. Associated, though not exclusively, with Marx. [Tony Bilton et al., Introductory Sociology, 3rd edition. London, Macmillan, 1996:659]

Within my circle of friends and within the confines of my own mind, I live in a state of anomie and false consciousness.

Things I think, but usually don't say aloud:
1. The dumber you are, the more likely you are to talk...a lot
2. The cult of originality has made bad taste and/or fashion sense socially acceptable
3. When most people speak, it is more entertaining (and productive) to block the sound and make up dialogue in my head than actually listen to them
4. If I could have any super power I would want to have the ability to make others projectile vomit on cue
5. Most people are bigots, but only in 6pt font

I am politically incorrect in a way that some may find offensive, so you may want to restrict your reading.