On the Road... to Nashville

Phil's Gasoline poem got me to thinking about the last great road trip I took.

By two strokes of the scythe of impending recession, a friend and I both found ourselves laid off from our jobs earlier this year at about the same time. After about a day of cabin fever, my friend called me and said, "Hey, fellow person-of-leisure, how about we get our Keroac on and go on a road trip? It's not like either of us has anything better to do!"

We had no idea where we wanted to go at first, so we went to Borders and browsed the travel section for an hour or so. Money was tight, so places like Disney World, Canada, and Seattle were quickly eliminated. We eventually decided that New Orleans would be our destination. We'd stay at India House, since I'd had rave reviews and great stories from another friend who'd stayed there. We'd have cafe au lait and beignets and write about it all, then turn it into the Great American Novel. Yeah!

Then, we realized something: New Orleans is far, far away.
We made it as far as Nashville.

I'm sure we'd have had lots of fun in New Orleans, but as it was, we discovered all the fun you can have in Nashville without paying a cover charge. There are some great record stores (and some not so great) and used guitar shops. At one of these, we scored free demo CD's from Masta Gravity, which have been worth every cent we paid for them in entertainment value! We visited the Gibson factory, and ...walked past places like the Country Hall of Fame and RCA Studio. We had pizza at a restaurant that lets you color on the tables.

So, okay, there isn't actually a whole lot to do in Nashville if you're broke and without a native guide. Still, we had fun there and found even more glee in Gatlinburg on the way home. Gatlinburg, in case you've never experienced it, is just like Virginia Beach (or any other second-string oceanfront tourist town), just without the beach. The main difference is that the sketchy motels in Gatlinburg averaged about $15/night, whereas in Virginia Beach, they've got the balls to still charge you $50 even in the off-season.

To my knowledge, neither of us has written the Great American Novel yet, although I have written a short story that looks like it's going to be the first of a collection inspired partly by events from that trip. Still, if nothing else, we learned that not only can you find a way to make the best of a bad situation, but also, just going where the road takes you can be as much fun as making a plan and sticking to it.

Poetry Assignment: Gasoline

This looks like it could be a daily thing, which is fine by me. Anyone who wishes to join in the fun should feel free to do so, and let one of us know so we can link to you!
Today's entry harks back to Black Friday.

100% Legal!

Ski Mask
Air rifle
Smoke bombs
Gasoline

Kitty litter
Packing peanuts
Hairspray
Vasoline

Will that be paper or plastic?

Melissa's poem here & Phil's poem here

Poetry Assignment: Ice

Challenged by Melissa to write a poem using the word ice, I accepted only on the understanding that I am not a poet and my entry is allowed to be awful.
With that, here it is:

Ice & Fire

He said I was as cold as…
I had to be
Because his temper was as hot as…

My heart is now as hard as…
Until the next time
He loses control like a wild…

You see this calm as smooth as…
It won’t survive
My shame that burns like…

See Phil's entry here and Melissa's entry here.

Who says the news is all bad?

My mother is a giant, unabashed Fanilow.

For as long as I can remember, she has been torturing us with the entire library of a man who did not write his hit, "I Write the Songs." Every 8-hour roadtrip to visit family in Pennsylvania, every weekend morning, and especially the Christmas season has had its soundtrack provided by Barry Manilow. Everyone I know is aware of this, and most of them have been Barry-rolled right along with me, just when we thought it was safe.

At last, there is a person in a position of authority who understands my suffering and has harnessed the dark, evil power of this nose with a crooner attached! From Yahoo! Music:

Speaking of old and boring...and Barry Manilow, again...the adult-contemporary crooner's mellow music is now the unexpected cornerstone of a bizarre but apparently effective new plan of justice masterminded by Colorado judge Paul Sacco. Judge Sacco is punishing people who land in court for noise violations (blasting their stereos, rehearsing with bands, hosting raging parties) by sentencing then to an hour-long, high-volume Barry Manilow listening session. Of course, for some Barry fans the prospect of 60 minutes of "Mandy" or "Weekend In New England" might sound absolutely delightful, but for most violators who wind up in Sacco's courtroom, it's a cruel and unusual punishment indeed. And just in case any of the offenders emerge from this experience with a new appreciation for Manilow, it seems law officials take surveys after each punishing session. That way, if any of the lawbreakers actually dig a particular Barry song (like, say, "Copacabana"), that ditty is removed from the court-ordered playlist.

This makes that new Greatest Songs of the 80's album... no easier to suffer through. Still, at least I know it'll be used for a good cause.

Love the Living, episode II: With a Little Help From the Dead

Two years ago this week, someone I knew casually--an acquaintance, my brother-in-law's friend who I'd say hi to in passing, but that's about it--very unexpectedly and quickly became one of my closest friends. Circumstances threw us together at the pub one night and left us to keep each other company while our mutual friends got drunk and played darts. Within two months, Chip and I had crammed each other full of our life stories and were stuck with each other.

The funny thing about becoming such close friends so quickly is that we didn't really have a chance to get used to all the idiosyncrasies that a life-long friend just recognizes as part of you and doesn't think twice about. One of mine is that I talk to Dottie, my grandmother, a habit that wouldn't be strange at all if she was still alive. Don't get me wrong, I'm not in any kind of denial or suffering from delusions; it's just that she was funny as hell, had something to say about everything, and there are just times when I can almost hear her voice because I know exactly what she'd say right then, and before I know what I'm doing, I respond. (A favorite Dottie-ism from everyone who knew her was "That's funny (or any other adjective) enough to knock a buzzard off a shitwagon," and I catch myself thinking it and having to work hard to suppress the giggles.)

One night, we were standing in his kitchen, baking a cake, and I couldn't find a pair of scissors to open a package of some ingredient and was about to just bite a hole in the top. At that moment, I heard Dottie in my head, "not your God-given teeth! Why the hell did you put up with those braces if you're just gonna screw 'em up again." "I know, I know," I sighed--out loud. For a moment, I panicked. Did I just talk out loud to my dead grandmother in front of a New Guy? Yup, I did. While I freaked out for a decade, only a fraction of a second had actually passed before Chip, without looking up from the recipe, reached in a drawer, handed me a knife, and blandly said, "listen to your Gram."

By now, we've been through ups and downs a-plenty, but even on the downs, I know we'll get through it because from the beginning, I've had this friend who really accepts who I am without judging me--though he reserves the right to joke me or immortalize my blunders in a story. At least he's fair; I get the same right, if he doesn't beat me to it since he has far better luck getting published than I do!

It's exactly this kind of no-holds-barred friendship that I've realized really gives my life its substance as I've been going through this whole "how did I get here" phase. There have been lots of times when I've felt life has dealt me a really unfair hand without an option to fold. Now, though, I'm focusing on these wild cards I've been given that make up for some of the bad deals. Nothing can undo Dottie's death, but yet, she still helped me realize the kind of rare friend I'd found in Chip, who in turn breathes a little life into her by getting to know her through me.

I am the luckiest purple-haired girl in the world.

Only for a moment, then the moment's gone

About 8 years ago, I was spending my Saturdays up a wall at the rock gym.  Typically the music pumping through this giant, echoing warehouse was either the loudest, least-intelligible CD in someone's collection, or whatever was playing on FM99.  I guess the thinking was that this high-energy, eardrum-assaulting fusillade of sound would pump us up and push out all thoughts except, "get to the top."  Okay, I could dig it.

One day, I was belaying for this giant hulk of a Navy SEAL who was taking his sweet time and just hanging on the line.  The gym was packed; there was a line at every route; it was freezing cold in there; I was getting t-totally ticked off at this dude who could break me in half if I mouthed off at him.  Then, halfway through the Hatebreed song that'd been doing nothing whatsoever to soothe my mounting irritation, there was a click, a crackle, a pause, and then, in that silence, Kansas!

Everyone just stopped for a second, frozen in surprise until one by one, we all found ourselves singing along to Dust in the Wind.  We closed our eyes; all our dreams passed before our eyes; we knew that nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky.  It was this insane, beautiful moment of disharmonious unity in voices from military personnel, hippies, jocks, boy scouts, and all kinds of people who'd have asked you what you were smoking if you ever asked them if they'd ever sing together.

Suddenly, I forgot I was irritated, forgot it was 40 degrees outside and the gym didn't have climate control, forgot about the long line I'd have to stand in before I got to climb the route I wanted.  I was standing as one of a crowd, brought together by two kinds of dust in the wind--the chalk falling from climbers' hands and the song falling from our mouths.  The song ended and was followed by a return to angry metal, but the day was saved.  My SEAL finished his climb and I was able to enjoy my turn.

That's one of those perfect moments that may be forgotten to everyone else who was in the gym that day, but I remember it at times like this, when it seems like almost nothing is going right.  Sometimes, all it takes is a moment to remember how to look on the bright side.

Assignment: Love the Living

In a recent conversation I had with my mom, she informed me that she does not visit cemeteries.  Ever.  She said it's because she lets people know she cares while they're alive, and once they're dead, it's too late.

I used to have a pretty hot temper, until I raised my voice at someone once and they said to me, "you're just like your dad."

Those two seemingly-unrelated pieces of information provide the foundation for my philosophy on interpersonal relationships.  Simply put, if I have something nice to say, I say it, and if I can't say something nice, well, I'll do my best.  It's a work in progress, especially the second part, but oddly enough, the first part is the hardest.  Think about it:  how many times in a day do you think something nice about someone but never say it?  You might think, "I like her shoes," "Wow, he smells good," or even, "I'm really glad I work with her; she's so nice."  I think a lot of times, we let those thoughts stay in our heads because we're afraid the other person will think we're weird, but personally, I'd rather risk it.
I mean, the only time I've ever taken offense at someone saying something complimentary to me has been when some guy was hitting on me under inappropriate circumstances.  Think about it.  Really think: have you ever felt worse about yourself or had your day ruined because someone called you just to say they were thinking of you?  I know I haven't.  This is all aside from the warm fuzzy you get yourself when you get to see someone smile because of you.  That receptionist at your car dealership, the cashier at the UPS store, the barista at the coffee shop--these are people who get hassled a lot and your smile really can make their day.  You know they're programmed to say "thank you; have a nice day," but what if you beat them to it?  Look them in the face, smile, and tell them to have a nice day.  Odds are, they'll look a little surprised, but not in a bad way.

Once again, I have to give credit to my friends, my urban family.  I can probably never leave Verizon, because I can't bear the thought of losing some of these great voicemails I have saved.  I have a few from Andrew, who does the best Chewbacca, Kermit the Frog, and Marvin the Martian impressions ever.  Dude is a walking cartoon.  I have some from Chip, who reads passages from books he thinks I'll like or that make him think of me.  I have Amber, who for some reason calls to tell me about it every time she sees anything painted Pepto-Bismol pink.  I have a dozen people singing "Livin' on a Prayer," because they get a kick out of it being my ringback tone.  The voicemail happythoughts are especially great, because I can listen to them over and over again if I'm having a bad day and always have a reason to smile, no matter what else is going on.

I challenge you to spend the rest of the day (or tomorrow if that's the next time you'll see people) saying out loud anything nice you think.  Maybe filter it for appropriateness (i.e. tell your boss's wife she looks nice, not that she has a great rack), but do it!  Don't assume that your best friend knows you wish you got to talk more, even though your job is crazy right now.  Tell him!  Don't assume that your girlfriend knows you think she's hot.  Say so!  I dare you.

Fight Deadlines with Brownies! (recipe included!)

By the time I got to my last semester as an undergrad, I'd somehow managed to take all the classes that were required, and then some, but still come up 6 credits short of the number required to graduate. I was taking a full load of classes as it was, plus working 2 part-time jobs and apprenticing with a nocturnal glass artist. Bummer. Still, I was unwilling and unable to put off graduation, so I reached a compromise with my advisor: 6 credits of literary independent study on a topic of my choosing. Thinking myself very smart and sneaky, I came up with "The History of Speculative Fiction," essentially doing a giant book report on fantasy and sci-fi books I'd already read. I started with The King of Elfland's Daughter and ended with Dune. Figuring I didn't really have any work to do, I just kind of forgot about the part where I had to write a minimum of ten pages on each book, until a week before the end of the semester. Crap.

I suffered the worst case of Deadline Elves* I'd ever had. I had this huge document to create and for some reason, I suddenly cared a LOT about the Cirque du Soleil marathon that was showing on TV. My boyfriend at the time kept bringing me coffee, which was great, except I was bouncing off the ever-loving walls and finding every excuse I could to leave the house. Suddenly, the car needed to be filled with gas; we needed something from the grocery store; I remembered I'd run out of blank CD's; the grass could stand to be cut... Luckily, during one of those trips to the grocery store, I'd decided I needed chocolate ('cause I wasn't already caffeinated/sugar high enough!) and lo and behold, therein lay the solution to my Deadline Elf infestation and the beginning of my quest for the perfect brownie recipe. I got home, mixed up the brownies, put them in the oven, then realized something. They were going to be in the oven for 30-40 minutes.
That was 30-40 minutes I couldn't go anywhere or do much else. 30-40 minutes that I might as well spend writing. By the end of the week, the house was full of baked goods and my advisor's inbox was full of my completed assignment. The habit continues to this day, as my roommates are enjoying a pan of mint-chocolate chip brownies that helped me write 3,000 words the other day.

And now--now that I've just written a few hundred words that do nothing to help increase the word count of my novel--I will pass the cure for Deadline Elves on to you.
The brownie recipe I have tweaked and perfected over the past few years to require only 1 bowl, 1 spoon, 1 measuring cup, 1 pan, and 5 ingredients is now yours, to help you get through National Novel Writing Month:

Ingredients:
1 stick unsalted sweet-cream butter
1 4oz bar Ghirardelli's 100% chocolate (if you use a different chocolate, make sure it's at least 70% dark or it'll change the consistency of the brownies and I can't guarantee what'll happen)
2 cups light brown sugar (if you don't have brown sugar; regular sugar will do the job, but they'll taste a little different)
4 eggs (or 1 cup EggBeaters)
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour

1. Melt the butter & chocolate together in 30-second zaps in the microwave, stirring between zaps.
2. Stir in the brown sugar
3. Add the eggs one at a time (it might seem like way too many eggs, but trust me, all 4 will mix in)
4. Make sure you stir up the flour & spoon it lightly into the measuring cup. If you pack it down, it'll be too much and the brownies will be dry. Stir in the flour just until it's all combined and all the big lumps are gone.
5. Bake in a greased pan @ 375: 18-20 min in muffin tins; 30-35 min in 9-by-whatever-inch (lasagna size) dish, or whenever a toothpick stuck in the middle comes out clean.

Notes:
1. These are fudgy-gooey brownies, not fluffy-cakey brownies.
2. Really good with some mint essence, peanut butter chips (use Maranatha brand if you can find them at either Whole Foods, Earth Fare, or sometimes the organic section at Kroger or Harris Teeter. Reese's has got nothing on these!), or cinnamon & cayenne to taste (when you're in a really deep, dark, smoldering chocolate mood!)

Enjoy!


***
*"Deadline elves are the reason that such writers will often find themselves unaccountably having their fifth bath of the day, or taking a bracing walk instead of knuckling down to the work at hand. Similarly, the elves may lead writers to consume more cups of tea per day than is either useful or desirable. In all cases, the writer is absolutely convinced that as soon as they have finished their bath, walk or cup of tea they really will get on and do some work. No, honestly, they will. No, look, that rather interesting television program is just starting, after that, though, they will start work in earnest, absolutely definitely." from The Hitchhiker's Guide to Deadlines

Yes, we can free the WM3!

As an American, I'm well aware that freedom isn't free. Aside from less tangible donations of time, occupation, and sometimes life, on a day to day basis, it flat out costs money. I pay taxes, I support local businesses, and I vote with my money by not spending it with businesses who will use it to further causes I don't agree with. This probably sounds familiar.

There are some of us, however, who have found that freedom can come with a much steeper pricetag. Among those experiencing the worst form of stickershock are Damien Echols, Jessie Misskelley, Jr., and Jason Baldwin, collectively known as the West Memphis Three. By the time they gain their freedom, each will have given his entire adult life thus far, but still, that isn't enough. You know that line you hear on all those crime dramas about how "if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you," leading you to assume that the words "free of charge" just go without saying? Well, there's a reason they don't say "free of charge." A legal defense, especially the kind of good one the WM3 so desperately need, is (to use the understatement of the century) costly in the extreme.

Recently, I undertook to design a tattoo for the amazing woman behind so many WM3 events. The original plan was to design the art for her, then auction off my original piece (snazzed up a bit to be suitable for framing) and have the proceeds go to the Damien Echols Legal Defense Fund. After a conversation with one of my cousins who is a tattoo artist, I have decided to take it a few steps further. I'll post more information as things solidify but here's what I'm planning and what I need from viewers like you!

What I want: I would like to have the piece I've already designed, along with one other, added to the walls-o-samples you see when you walk in to a tattoo shop, or a page in a book of what's offered, or some other kind of notice that the shop is supporting the WM3 and will donate a portion (at their discretion) of the proceeds to the legal defense fund.
What I need: Contact information for tattoo shops and/or licensed individual artists who would be willing to participate. I live in the Raleigh-Durham region in NC and pretty much have this area covered. However, don't hesitate to tell me anyway if you know of someone you're sure I don't.
What I want: A website where I can post the artwork and publish the names and contact information of the artists/studios who participate, that way they get something more than a warm fuzzy out of the deal. Good PR never hurt anyone, right?
What I need: Someone more skilled at web design than I am, who is willing to do the work in return for only warm fuzzies (and maybe a batch of my famous brownies if you're really nice).
What I want: Ultimately, to put the design on t-shirts & any other swag I can.
What I need: A way to do that without overhead. Don't say CafePress. Don't get me wrong, they're great for what they are, but they're not what I'm looking for.

What I'll be doing in the meantime:

• getting good, clean renditions of my designs up and ready to be posted & distributed
• starting a Facebook group
• putting together presskits for studio owners/artists and oh, anyone else who ought to have one
• doing my own research on all of the above things I want

What you can do even if you have no information or skills relevant to my needs for this project:

• Repost, ReTweet, and link to this post
• Learn about the WM3, the case history, current events, and more at the official website.
• Friend WM3 World Awareness on MySpace
• Follow wm3awareness on Twitter
• Donate to the defense fund
• Sport your WM3 swag
• Support those who support the WM3: Listen to Pearl Jam, Henry Rollins, or Jello Biafra (to name a few). Read Margaret Cho's I Have Chosen to Stay and Fight. Hell, even watch a Will Ferrell or Jack Black movie.
• Watch the HBO documentary series Paradise Lost, which chronicles the Robin Hood Hills murders, trial, and wrongful conviction of Echols, Misskelley, and Baldwin.
• Find Devil's Knot in the True Crime section of your local bookstore or library.
• Stay tuned here for more updates on this project.
• Anything else you can think of!

The tide of hope is high in our nation right now. Let's keep it going and add another "Yes we can!" to the chorus!

Urban Family

I'm pretty sure my friends and I learned the term from Bridget Jones' Diary.  At any rate, we've used "Urban Family" to describe this bizarre and often inappropriately close relationship that has evolved over the past two decades.  We aren't related by blood, but as we've learned, that means nothing. 

I have been so fortunate in my life that it truly baffles and saddens me when I hear someone say they don't really have a best friend.  Not one?  I have so many as to render the word best nearly meaningless.  We sit at each other's kitchen tables, drinking coffee and baking brownies.  We call each other at all hours of the day and night when our hearts get broken, when our families go crazy, when we see a Pepto-Bismol-Pink limousine with spinner rims pass us on the highway.

My friends' parents grill me about my job situation, about my love life, about my relationship with my own parents.  I know every word of the text message some dirtbag used to break up with one friend and every word of her scathing reply.  I also have no secrets from my friends.  I'm an open book, and though I say they can ask me anything while I reserve the right to not reply, that's a right I never exercise.  We do things that some people think only happen on sitcoms.  So many times, it doesn't occur to me that our ways are strange and send odd messages to new people who may be just getting to know one or more of us.

So, if you do befriend us (because if you befriend one of us, sooner or later the rest are bound to follow), here are some things you can expect:
We tie balloons on your doornob for you to find after your boss chewed you out at work.  We show up with a case of beer and box-set of Elvis movies to take your mind off it after you've told a guy you were in love with him and it didn't work out.  We make you a mix CD and some cookies when your cat dies.  We remember your weird dietary restrictions, so when you need cupcakes, you can rest assured that they'll be vegan, or gluten-free, or soy-free, or whatever-you're-allergic-to-free.  We'll remember your birthday.  We love inside jokes and will let them run for decades.  We stop apologizing for the laundry piled on the sofa or dishes in the sink by your third or fourth visit because at that point, we don't consider you company anymore; you're one of us.  We'll take up the entire waiting area if you're in the hospital.  We'll go with you to your friend's wedding because you're single and don't know anyone but the bride.  We'll hold your stuff while you go on the rides we hate at Busch Gardens.  If you move away, we'll visit you and send you things in the mail, so you have a piece of us you can see and touch when we can't be there to give you a hug or a high five.
Most of all, we will stick by you, through weddings, divorces, births of children, changes of jobs, hookups, breakups, sporting events, musical performances, poetry readings, gallery openings, film screenings, dances, movie marathons, and all days ending in "y."  That's just what family does, and Urban Families do it even better to make up for not sharing genes.

Mulligans

According to the Reduced Shakespeare Company, "a mulligan is a religious term for another shot without penalty, kind of like confession."

I love fall-back day, when Daylight Savings Time ends.  We get to have a mulligan on an entire hour and it always gets me thinking:  if I really could take one entire hour out of this year and do it over without penalty, what would I do?

What would you do?