a month ago

It was chilly that evening. I sat there on the Deli patio, all hunkered down with my trench coat wrapped tightly around me. I nursed a bottle of Anchor Steam and shoved a cheeseburger down my throat. Honest tears were running down my face, as I was surrounded by friends. We were talking about my life and its direction or lack of it.

My mind has always raced with the whimsy and the possibilities and the what-ifs, but I am perpetually fearful of making the change, so until then I will always wonder if this is enough.

Sometimes it's too comfortable. Sometimes I think a baby or Jesus will make it all better. Sometimes I just want a real career.

I write something like this at least once a year.

I will be 29-years-old later this month.

Yep.

I just saw that I have started three drafts for three different blog posts since I last updated. I guess I just haven't had much to say. Actually, that's not true. I was going to tell you about that time I broke up with my boyfriend freshman year of college, only when I went to break up with him, he was wearing an eyepatch because his roommate had just shot him in the eye with a pellet gun. That made it hard as hell to do the deed, but I got it done. Even after he told me it was the worst day of his life because he had been shot in the eye and his girlfriend wouldn't even kiss him, I got it done. And then afterward, while I was still in his dorm room, but broken up at that point, he started chatting online with his sister about what a dumb bitch I was. I was still in the room. Yes. I dated a moron. Me. I did. If dirt was dumb, he'd cover an entire football field. There was a greater point to that story, but I have forgotten it, which is probably why I never finished the blog post in the first place. Also, I was going to tell you about this weird pulsating feeling I had that made me feel like a squid.. oh, and there was that kid with the rose-tinted glasses I was in love with for about a week. Yep. That's what I was going to tell you, but the words I wanted to write are pretty much all forgotten now, so instead of elaborating on any of this, here, with the aid of my Facebook status feed, I will give you a recap of some stuff:

On August 3, I thought the cure for my angst would involve punching and drinking beer. Really, I got all pissed off inside, as I do pretty much every Monday I spend at work, and so I went to a box aerobics class afterward and then followed that by downing copious amounts of beer. I strive for balance in my life, you see.

On August 5, I instructed my first rowing class at InsideOut. I was rather nervous, but I've taught a class every week since then, and I have to say the nerves are finally wearing off. I enjoy instructing, and I really do think teaching my own class is helping me become a better rower. The Mister has even started taking my class. This is the first class of any kind that I have ever taught. Well, except that one time I worked at the call center and had to teach 60-year-old+ temporary associates how to use a gotdang mouse and keyboard. ("No. Nope. The mouse stays on the MOUSE PAD. You don't need to hold it up to the monitor. See. Like this.")

On August 13, I was fucking pissed as hell because Willie Herenton thought it would be funny to play the city of Memphis and threaten us with yet another run for Memphis mayor. Ass.

On August 15, I bought an Epson 3-in-1 printer at Target for $30. I may or may not have scanned by butt cheeks on this new gadget.

On August 17, I complained about missing the season premiere for Mad Men. I have to say, though the hype seems greater than ever, I don't like this season as much as I did the first two. Does anyone else share this feeling? Because I haven't heard anyone else say this. Don't get me wrong - I still love the show. I'm just slightly disappointed in their current ability to bring-it.

On August 18, I became friends with my boss on Facebook, curse words and all. I just wish FB didn't time stamp everyfuckingthing you do on their site because, well, you know.

On August 23, I paddled a portion of the Wolf River, the section west of the Ghost River section. It was a beautiful day to be in a kayak on the water. I kept gushing about how great the world is and how gorgeous Mother Nature can be, and then we were driving down the highway after the trip and heard a loud bang, which we only found out AFTER we got home to be the sound of our GPS flying out of one of the kayaks strapped to the roof of our car. Son of a bitch. We have a new GPS now. I also spilled beer on my Blackberry that night. It started acting all wonky, so it took a nap in a bag of dry white rice in order to dry out, and now all is well with the world.

On August 28, I went to the Otha Turner Family Goat Barbecue in Senatobia, MS. I wish it had a website because I would link to it, but it's too country for a website. Otha Turner played the fife, and his family still honors him and his music by inviting everyone to a big barbecue in their backyard every year. When I say backyard, I mean it's behind a country-as-all-get-out shack pretty much in the middle of nowhere. They make a stage out of trailer, and all kinds of blues musicians get together to jam for a couple of days. The family sets up a snack stand on the side of their yard, where they sell barbecue goat and barbecue pork sandwiches on Wonder Bread. They also have chicken wings, nachos, and pickled eggs. Oh, and beer, but you can bring your own if you want. Every once in a while an impromptu drum circle starts up, which is led by a fife player, and let me tell you, it is fucking awesome. I have never seen dancing like this in all my life. The energy alone from the vibrations emanating from the bass drum is enough to get your soul going. The crowd goes crazy. This was handsdown the best cultural, regional experience I've had since moving to Memphis. ... I now know why Brittany is such a good dancer. .. Oh, and these dudes were hitting on me, and one even called me a "snow bunny."

On September 3, I went to New Orleans. I had not been there since I was a kid. This was also Southern Decadence weekend, which left me feeling both scared and excited. I don't know why I was so frightened. Maybe because drag queens can be scary? Maybe because the sight of hundreds of bare fuzzy ass cheeks can be a little off-putting? Maybe because I'm allergice to Latex? I just don't know, but I put my fears to rest once we got to Bourbon Street. Everyone was having a great time. Assless chaps and all. I ate a muffuletta the size of my head and came home 10 lbs heavier, full of carbs and alcohol bloat. Woo! Go, me!

On September 8, I ran six miles. And it still kinda blows my mind. I don't know if I've ever gone that far before. I am training for the St. Jude HALF-marathon.

On September 14, the Memphis monsoon set in, and I thought the rain made my cup of hot tea taste even better. I think I was right.

On September 18, I ran the Cooper-Young Festival Friday 4-miler. Some mad-as-hell, crotchety guy was standing on his porch on Walker Avenue yelling at all the runners. He was pissed off because the cops had blocked the streets off for the run, and he had to, uh, like, WALK TO HIS HOUSE or some shit. wtfucks. So he's all, "Blahblahblah barricade blahblahblah goddamn blahblahblah shit blahblahblah fuck all y'all," as he's standing in his front doorway, waving his fist in the air. This dood made my blood boil. I mean, this run happens ONCE A YEAR. Get a life, man. And the proceeds raised from the run go to better our neighborhood, the neighborhood where he lives! So I looked up at him as I was running by, and I flipped him the bird, waved it proudly, and yelled back, "Hey, FUCK YOU, TOO!" and he goes, "Go to hell, you dirty whore!" ... Whoa. whoa. whoa. whoa. I started looking around, and none of the runners seemed to even notice that this was going on (or pretended not to notice). Weird. Anyway, the rest of the run was great. Cooper-Young really comes out to lend their support. I ran with a big smile on my face the rest of the way. Finished at 38:36. Not too bad, I think.

On September 19, I went to the Cooper-Young Festival. I bought a panoramic painting of South Main that I will hang over my desk at home. The artist is Stephen Hudson, and you can find many of his pieces at the Center for Southern Folklore. We made a point to get the booth-perusing out of the way early in the day, so we could then party our asses off, which we did thoroughly. No doubt. As always, I am missing large chunks of the day from my memory. That happens when you drink for twelve hours straight.

And yesterday, I was trippin' 'cos the mayor of our sweet city gave the Dalai Lama a fist bump.

I will leave for Texas soon. I have never been before. Dallas. Then to Austin.

Texas, to me, is a vast land of tall tales and tumbleweeds.
 


We shall see.

the playlist for my first rowing class

1. "The Carnival Is Over" - Dead Can Dance
2. "All Our Weekends" - French Kicks
3. "Meg White" - Ray LaMontagne
4. "Don't Let It Bring You Down" - Annie Lennox
5. "Valerie" - Mark Ronson featuring Amy Winehouse
6. "Dead Bodies" - Air
7. "Tive Razao" - Seu Jorge
8. "I Was a Sunny Rainphase" - Stereolab
9. "Angela" - Jarvis Cocker
10. "Zippers and Jeans" - Harlan T. Bobo
11. "Two Weeks" - Grizzly Bear
12. "La Valse d'Amelie" - Yann Tiersen
13. "Protection" - Massive Attack featuring Tracey Thorn

Getting the music together for the class has probably been my favorite part of the planning stage (not the actual rowing .... shhhhh!).

ragged

This is an email I just sent to my husband:

I'm feeling pretty crappy today. Everything makes me want to cry, and I hate it. I just talked to some guy on the phone, and he wasn't mean or even kinda mean, he was just calling to see if anyone wanted to co-op on his home that is FSBO, and instead of taking (my boss's) voicemail like I asked him to, he just dictated his message to me (which is annoying on any day), but I was so pissed off just by that, I started crying. wtf.

Just gloss over the real estate jargon.

Anyway, when I don't even know why I'm so angry and sad in the first place, I feel pathetic times ten trillion, and of course that self-pity just feeds into the angst and the sadness even more, and I feel more pathetic, and then I let some old guy in Cordova who doesn't understand the concept of voicemail make me cry. And then I think about how much I hate men because they aren't forced to feel like a fucking werewolf for a few days before having to bleed uncontrollably once a month. And then I figure I could just take a pill and have it all go away, but fuck that, why don't you go take a fucking pill, MAN.





I felt the same yesterday, but I was able to get out some frustration at the gym, which I was thankful for. Sadly, today, I am sore from the workout, so I will have to take a rest day. I will go home and make dinner for my husband instead, and I will probably bitch a lot and make stupid frowny faces and drag and shuffle my feet around on the hardwood like a stupid, mopey teenager. I will also probably start dumb fights with him because I didn't like the way he asked some silly question. I won't know where the anger is coming from, and I'll feel sad and guilty for treating him so badly, and I'll start the self-pity thing all over again, and then I will let some old guy in Cordova who doesn't understand the concept of voicemail make me cry.

I know this will happen because it happens every month. It also coincides with me staying up late at night to eat whole bars of Hershey chocolate while watching shit teevee.

I know, ladies. This is something we all share, something we all hate, and something that is not newsworthy. I just needed an outlet, and gotdamn, I am using it. There.

Does it even matter... no.

Let's talk about something a little more uplifting now.

I met Bette last night. Yes. In real life. In real time. On a real patio. In my for real neighborhood. It was very difficult for me not to gush all over her, not to yell to other tables about how great of a writer she is. We briefly talked about how it felt like we had already met, but I guess that's what happens when one invites herself into someone else's life by reading her blog. I have to thank Amanda for linking to Bette, for allowing me to find her. Both of their blogs are such interesting reads, and if you are not already reading them, you should. You should also ask Amanda for a copy of her zine, Beans & Cornbread, though I was rather late to the party, I just finished reading her collection of recipes over the weekend, and it left me feeling inspired and thankful to know such a wonderful person (oh, and yes, there was that fleeting feeling of jealousy that made me wonder to myself for a second, "JUST WHY CAN'T YOU DO SOMETHING SO CLEVER AND AS NICE AS THIS, LES!?"). Seriously, though, it's a great little read. I particularly enjoyed reading the little personal blurbs about her life that accompany all the recipes.

I teach my first rowing class tomorrow night. It's probably a good thing that I'm taking a rest day from working out today. I don't need to be too tired on Wednesday. The class will know I'm tired, and I will suck as an instructor, and then they will not come to my future classes, and then I will let some old guy in Cordova who doesn't understand the concept of voicemail make me cry. Heh. But seriously, I am excited about this. I have my class all planned out with my playlist ready to go. I will write more about rowing later, but in the meantime, I will say that it is not out in the open water. It's in a classroom; however, the machines do have actual water inside them, and that does help simulate the feeling of rowing on, say, the river. The machines we use are by WaterRower. Check them out if you're really that curious, though I doubt you are. I've already had one friend tell me to my face that she thought it sounded boring, so I don't doubt that other people would find it snoozeworthy, too. I will add that it does work 80% of your body's muscles when you exercise on the WaterRower correctly. 80%!

Lastly, on another positive note, I will visit New Orleans soon, and I have not been there since I was a kid. If you have any recommendations to give regarding your New Orleans favorites, kindly send them my way.

Thank you.

So I've been meaning to type up this entry for a while now, but I just haven't managed to let it dribble from my fingers. After a gchat session with Kerry the other day, I was encouraged to write about this, I figured it's time. I feel like this will be a culmination of oversharing. Mainly because what I'm about to write concerns a very personal issue for me. See, I'm rather insecure. Always have been. But I'm working very hard to fix that, and perhaps this will encourage someone... And perhaps not, but I feel a need to say this publicly, so by god, let's do this thing!

First, a not-so-brief history:

I was a chubby kid. Not morbidly-obese-child size, but rather plump. Yes, I was. Right around first grade is when I started noticing that I was a little larger than other children my age. My parents divorced before I started kindergarten, and living with a single mom and being an only child meant I was often left to my own devices. Television and food became my friends and constant companions and, often, my babysitters, so looking back I can see now how easy it was for me to become that way. I know very well what it's like to be called fat and laughed at by stupid little kids (and me being half-Asian also granted them the self-given right to squint and pull at the sides of their eyes and taunt me about that, too, which didn't help matters...). Even my stepbrothers, who were several years older than me, but still kids themselves, even nicknamed me with the word, "Fat." Seriously. "Hey, Fat, come over here." I am not joking. I'd go over to my dad's house on the weekend, and when my mom would come to pick me up, I remember the heart-to-hearts my dad and stepmother would have with my mother as we stood by the front porch saying our goodbyes. "Leslie wouldn't eat her vegetables all weekend . . . she's gettin' chubby . . . ," they'd say, like they were attempting to prompt some sort of intervention. So we'd go home, and I'd sit in front of the TV, probably eating, and I remember that feeling of not being good enough, but not really altogether understanding why. I once even overheard my grandmother discussing my weight with my dad and stepmother while they thought I was napping. I was probably only around 7-years-old when that happened. It's like I knew that my weight was obviously a problem for these people, but I didn't really know how to fix it, and my mother, who I felt was my only true kindred spirit back then, never made it seem like a big deal. After all, she was the one buying the cookies, the chips, always rewarding me with food. "You got straight A's! Where do you want to go eat? . . . " I overcompensated in other ways. Always excelling in school, I learned to get the positive attention I craved there. Instead of being called beautiful or precious or being someone's little princess, I was smart and well-behaved and an ideal student. I carried the extra weight all through middle school, where kids still continued to say the meanest things, and which I took to heart so deeply.

By high school, puberty came around full-force, and the weight shifted. The extra weight around my middle seem to turn into somewhat of an hourglass figure, and I got boobs and hips and somewhere the double chin went. So for the first time, in what seemed, since kindergarten I enjoyed some positive attention regarding my body, and I had some boyfriends and all that; although, I maintained the insecurities I had when I was younger. I still wasn't really what you'd call thin, and believing I was ugly and fat, though I wasn't, ultimately made me feel worthless. Classmates, television, movies, magazines, even one's own family can all contribute to this feeling that you're nothing unless you're thin. Most of us have been there at some point or another, so I know this is not news to anyone. I guess what I'm trying to say is that the damage was already done at that point. I look at photos of myself from my high school years, and I ask myself why I couldn't love that beautiful girl back then.

I started gaining weight again around my senior year. I was never really active during high school, but for a while, I seemed to have a high metabolism that allowed me to continue to eat whatever and whenever until that last year. Of course, when I went to college, I just gained more weight, and by 2001/2002 I was pushing 180. This was also right around when I noticed the depression. The self-loathing would often spiral out of control into these sad, almost rageful fits, and though I had seen myself possess mild versions of this behavior before, it was a thousand times worse at this point in my life.

I finally decided to do something about it, so I started walking on the treadmill in the fitness room of my apartment complex. And then I started jogging on the treadmill. My work at the time had a walking & jogging club, and participants would receive little rewards for the amount of miles they'd tred, and I suppose this is what inspired me to get moving. I also tried to make healthier meal choices at this point, and though I had only shed a few pounds, I felt pretty great about myself and my decisions. Seemingly free of depression. Working on saying goodbye to those insecurities.

And then I started having problems with my live-in boyfriend at the time. We broke up, but still had this messed up arrangement where we were still kind of living together, and hey, guess what! I was so messed up and guilt-ridden about our problems that I pretty much STOPPED EATING, but I continued to force myself to jog. In a matter of a month or so, I lost a tremendous amount of weight.

It was about that time that I left the apartment complex for another apartment (byebye, treadmill), and I met my husband. I don't know if anyone else gets this way, but when I look back at my past relationships and analyze the very beginning stages of those relationships, I can say that I have always eaten less during that period. I guess I've just existed on newly found love and excitement and nothing else but that during those times. This also happened when I met Mark, but that time around I was also suffering from (hey, let's face it) an eating disorder. The first couple of months together I continued to lose more weight, and before I knew it, I was 50 lbs lighter and wearing size 4 clothing for the first time in my life. I mean, I wasn't a size 4 even in the first grade.

I tried to play it off like I really lost all the weight from diet and exercise, and I'm not sure if anyone has ever caught on to the truth. I felt guilty about how I had done it, which of course just fed into the other insecure thoughts I've been having on a daily basis since grade school. I felt the binding walls of depression like no other in those next several years.

We moved to Memphis and bought a house and got married, and all the while, the weight started coming back. I continued to get depressed, almost crippled, barely able to get out of bed some days, barely able to make it to work, hating myself and my body and my sick mind, was on all sorts of medications for it, saw many therapists. "Why don't you try affirmations in the mirror every morning," they'd say. I'd go home and stare into the mirror and say, "I deserve to be happy and successful. I deserve to be loved," and I'd either laugh or cry. "Write a note to yourself about how beautiful and intelligent you are, and carry it around in your pocket." I did that for a week. "Sometimes people just need to accept that their depression is biological, and there's nothing that will change the way you feel except medication." I bought into this for a long time. You know, the lithium made me feel the worst. For the record, I'm quite sure I'm not bi-polar, and I don't know how you can tell that I am from our 10-minute sessions, Mr. Psychiatrist. Thank you. Yeah, so I've been through a lot of try-this-no-try-that, but sometimes they'd say, "Are you active? Do you workout? Or belong to a gym? You know, physical activity might help." And I'd agree to try, but never really would.

I joined a gym in January of 2008. I started working a couple of small shifts there every week and got a free membership. For all of 2008 I worked out a little, not always every week though, and sometimes, I wouldn't go for an entire month, and it took me a while to get used to gym culture. It wasn't until September when I finally told the anti-depressants to fuck off already. Coming off of them proved to be a weird couple of months. Then I decided to give this fitness thing a chance, for my health, and for my sanity. It was rather slow-going at first, but I really kicked it up a notch this spring. It was then that I realized that working at the gym took away from the time I could use to actually workout at the gym, so I quit in the beginning of May.

I've been trying to work out consistently for several months now. My goal is 5 hours of cardio a week, and I work with weights as well on two of those days. I walk, run, use the elliptical machine, bike, take rowing & box aerobic classes, and I lift handweights and use the weight machines. Alright, I'm just going to say it. I'M PROUD OF MYSELF. I can run five miles without stopping and not feel like a dead person afterward. I'm up to 125 lbs on the leg press. I can bench 220. OK. That last one is a lie, but you get what I'm saying here, right? I haven't lost a great amount of weight, maybe ten pounds or so, but I can see the muscle definition beginning to form on my arms and legs, and my clothes are fitting differently, and it's good. I've been learning a lot about nutrition, too, and have been trying to feed my body well, as I know it will also feed my mind well, too. I'm not a crazy health nut or anything. At least I hope not. I mean, I still eat pizza and Flamin' Hot Cheetos sometimes, and I drink beer like everyone else. Why, just this last Sunday, I made a chicken pot pie full of cream and fatty goodness, and it was awesome. And I know this because I ate it.

Alright alright alright.. what's the point here...

I feel great. That's it. That's what I want to say. I'm very happy with the lifestyle changes and choices I've made. I didn't quit. I have been consistent at this for months now, and I'm thoroughly enjoying the payoff. Also, I'm not on drugs anymore, and I almost feel like I can do anything. And really, what did I do? I went to the gym. And ate some more vegetables. And sometimes I choose skim over whole. Of course, we all have our bad days, and I have to remeber that I will be sad and unhappy sometimes. That is life. I've accepted that. But at the same time, I know that now I'm truly working on loving and healing myself, and that knowledge will always make me feel great.

Even on the worst days.

Even when there's shit on the bottom of my shoes.

"unfinished symphony . . . she's mobile poetry . . . making four-fifty an hour"

in the ideal world in my head t

On a slightly different note, I want to start a series of articles in the LampLighter. It's entitled, "Hey, Tell Us About Your F@&#!NG Awesome House!" No. I kid. Seriously, though, this series will focus on local Cooper-Young residents and the stories they have to share about their homes, focusing on the history of the dwelling (if known) and the architectual style of it. If I get this thing up and running, I'll want readers to help suggest the next month's subject. I was given a suggestion for the July issue this evening, but if anyone out there has a home in mind, please let me know.**



*What? You expect me to make these creative types stop smoking? Even the ones in my head?

**Not that I really expect the five people out there who read this to suggest anything, especially since they probably don't even live in the neighborhood.

counts seconds, not hours, nor minutes

Mark and I leave for New York in 8 days. This will be my second trip to the Big Apple. The anticipation is killing me, for I cannot CANNOT wait.

I want.

To feel the street noise jammed in my ears once again. The sound of sirens and horns bouncing all around. Standing on the subway platform with the whoosh running through my hair. Crowded sidewalks and pizza-by-the-slice. Bare, dirty city sandal-feet walking on the Central Park lawn. And a bike ride around the loop. Window shopping on the avenues. Dosas in Washington Square Park. Fancy ladies with fancy shoes. Bagels and lox. Times Square. Buskers in the park. Dim sum in Chinatown. Museums. Museums. Museums. $12 beers with Colin & Amy in Williamsburg. The people. All the people. So many people.

I am married to the best travel partner. The Mister is always in control and knows exactly where we're going and what we're doing, and he has all the maps and lists of obscure and interesting sights and smells and tastes. It's shameful, really, but all I have to do is enjoy. Our trips are set out in front of me like a mysterious, bountiful picnic. And who doesn't enjoy a good picnic? I should appreciate this more. We wouldn't go anywhere if it weren't for him. I simply wouldn't take the initiative. And that's just it. That's all it takes. A plan. Of course there's money and time. One will always need more money and more time, but with the right plan, it's possible. I am finding this.

I know it's been a while. I feel that's all I ever do in this blog now. All I do is apologize for its lack of blogginess. I have been very selfish this spring. I have been focusing on myself and my health and my home, all the while trying to maintain an active social life, and, people, it is hard. The lack of time makes it difficult. It's gotten to the point where I've declared that the theme for this year is, "Out of Time: There's Never Enough." Seriously, never before have I felt the constraints of hours and minutes as I do now. I have this burning desire to be everything (and anything) for everyone and myself, and it's impossible to choose, but time forces you to make a decision. It's a real bitch.

But there is time for New York. This I know.

love and luck

A song by Yann Tiersen from the film Amelie played on shuffle last night. I remember it reminding me of wishful thinking. And loneliness. I just want to say thank goodness that's not my life anymore, at least for now anyway.

In other news, check this out:

"Vintage Tattoo Inspired Fragrances for Men"

I'm sorry, but this calls for a big ol' WTF. What does that even mean? Can a fragrance really remind you of . . . vintage tattoos? I mean, what would that smell like? Prison and cigarettes? Motorcycle exhaust fumes and leather? Your cousin's garage and Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers? Sadly (and I really am saddened by this), this Love & Luck stuff actually smells OK, meaning I wouldn't demand for Mark to take another shower if he were to put this on before going out of the house. It's really not bad. But Christian Audigier, as a whole, THAT is one big ol' WTF.

hawk eats fish

This is lazy.

I did a Blackberry photo dump into Facebook the other night, and I am re-posting them here. Springtime is a busy time. Yes. Yes, it is. I wish I had more time for you, my dear bloggyblogblog.

This photo is blurry, but if you look closely you will see a lovely homemade fountain in this yard. It's OK. Feel free to admire the craftsmanship. This was somewhere near Knoxville, I think.

This is at Oak Court Mall. I appreciate the idea, and on most days, I would applaud it, just not when I'm in a hurry and getting excited for a second because I'm thinking I'm about to park RIGHT NEXT to the entrance.. when I'M NOT. I really do think it's a good idea though.

At Bruno's. On Madison. The food is a little Olive-Garden-ish, which is no surprise since the owner used to work there, BUT it's affordable, locally owned, tasty, and is in Midtown, so does it really matter? Also, they give you crayons so you can draw on the paper on the table. I know, that's like so 1994, but who doesn't like to drink a couple of glasses of wine and color at the same time?

At the Peabody in one of the shops by the lobby. This was placed in a glass case facing the hall... where I saw children. In fact, there were several of these ornaments placed, you know, here or there. How would you explain this to a child?


I had a conversation about luggage with a stranger last year. We were riding on one of those San Francisco cable cars, and we were in the standing room only section. Those things are kinda pricey, I think, like $5, and you get to stand up and hold onto an accordion-like gate while four other people rub up against you with every turn. Anyway, she went on and on about expensive luggage and about how it really does make traveling easier and better. And I did one of those things where I just nod my head and agree to everything she's saying, while secretly knowing that my suitcase really came from TJ Maxx and is a closeout, and not even a name brand closeout.

Do a Google image search for "accordion." It will make you smile. I'm sure of it.

This happened outside my office one day. Ouchy.

I'm not quite sure what they're called. I think they're calling themselves The Woodshed. I really enjoyed their show at Otherlands.

I ordered 2 boxes of paper and some staples. This is what the box of staples was shipped in.

At Beale Street Music Fest in the rain, waiting for Al Green.

John Lee Hooker, Jr. in the Blues Tent at BSMF