Reproductive Prowess

This rant brought to you by the people on MySpace who deem it necessary to post photos of their babies everywhere and the letter G.

While thumbing through my MySpace friends today I couldn't help but notice a recurring trend: Everyone with kids has a photograph of the child as their profile picture. First of all, why? I understand you are proud that you had sex and maybe something went "right," but why? I feel like it's an Amber Alert waiting to happen. A poster saying, "I live in _____ zip code, am __ years old, and this is my tiny, adorable and vulnerable baby!"

Which begs more questions. Why do intelligent humans reproduce? Just to see what "it" would look like? To have a Mini Me? Testing the parenting waters (would you be a good one)? Are they sadists? Because even people who have led the most charmed lives have pain and suffering inflicted by life. Life is hard, and even if your life is "easy" by other people's standards, you are going to find something fucked about it (Like why is Paris Hilton like that?). Do you really believe you can make a better life for your child(ren)? Do you really think having kids will fulfil you?

What frightens me is that stupid people truly are reproducing at an alarming rate. Smarties are waiting until they're financially stable and have truly taken the time to accept that their lives are about to be forever altered. They know how to use birth control. Stupid people apparently missed that day in life when the memo went out announcing sex begets babies and babies are goddamn expensive, and in my observations cause their parents equal amounts of joy and grief.

So let's do the math... If fewer intelligent people choose to reproduce (or have less kids), and the dumbasses are reproducing at a rate of how many 40s of malt liquor they can imbibe in any given hour, squared, evolution will eventually win and the human race will be retarded, hence leaders around the world like GWB, war abound, and then end of civilization as we know (knew) it. So that may be a dramatic oversimplification, but you wait. I will be the one laughing my ass off in the spirit world.

How can people be so idealistic and naive to think that "My kid is going to be different." Different how? Are you converting to Anabaptism and moving to an Amish community to keep your kids from all the horrible stuff in the media and society? Trust me, your kids will harbor resentment if pop culture is forbidden (and by pop culture, I mean all things cool). My mom sent us to school with a PBJ, an apple and a yogurt when everyone else had Lunchables, Fruit Roll-Ups, Snack Packs and Doritos. No MTV. No "Blossom," for chrissakes! And look at me now... the most cynical of all.

Which brings me to my last theory of the day: There are three types of people. Idealists who believe life should be one way, and because it isn't one way, they are depressed and/or angry. You know who you are. The second are realists who know life is what it is, there are ups and downs, downs, downs, but you go with the flow and accept that it will never be like it is in the movies (but you have movie moments to look forward to). Then there are the opposite-end idealists, who probably know that life will never be as satisfying as they had hoped, but they fake it. They're the magic Christians filled with the "light" and who also secretly (secretly) go home and cry or pop pills or beat their kids after a day of saccharin smiles and God-bless-yous.

Call me what you will... Cynic. Pessimist. Panda jerk. Genius. But I fall into that second group I mentioned above and even though you may not believe it, I will be happy for you if you choose to have or adopt children as long as you know what you're doing and don't kid yourself. Final Deep Thought: Christina Aguilera, get off the cover of Marie Claire before I vomit. I'd rather see naked Gene Hackman than that! Geez.

Attack of the Emo

Does anyone really know what "emo" is? The most popular (read: funny) definition on Urban Dictionary says:

Genre of softcore punk music that integrates unenthusiastic melodramatic 17 year olds who dont smile, high pitched overwrought lyrics and inaudible guitar rifts with tight wool sweaters, tighter jeans, itchy scarfs (even in the summer), ripped chucks with favorite bands signature, black square rimmed glasses, and ebony greasy unwashed hair that is required to cover at least 3/5 ths of the face at an angle.

Wikipedia tells me it originated in Washington, D.C., which makes sense to me because it's utterly depressing there if you might want to express yourself through any channel that isn't a political campaign. And fashion is like shopping at a country club uniform warehouse, so we can deduce that the emos "rebelled" in a sensitive yet angry manner. But I don't believe that it's a version of punk in the least.

I've compiled my own short list of bands I think are emo that you may or may not want to avoid, and here they are for your warning pleasure...

AFI
Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy
The Used
Saosin
Tiger Army
30 Seconds to Mars

We had three dishwashers over the summer who qualified as emo (I think). The first one, Emo Tim, age 19, looked emo. He even had an ever-bloodshot eye and a Friar Tuck haircut with the I-could-care-less-if-I-get-anywhere saunter. One day I asked him what emo was and he said, "It depends on who you ask." His protege, a lad about five years younger than Emo Tim, whom we lovingly referred to as Mr. Frodo because of his tiny stature, modeled himself after Tim, but couldn't quite pull it off with his blond hair and 14-year-old cherubic face. He did, however, have an emo-bang that covered his eye, so maybe he's gonna make it.

Really quick, I'd like to add Coheed & Cambria to my list. Here's a picture of the lead singer. He's on the far right.
The third dishwasher came after Mr. Frodo and Tim and claimed he was the one who Tim got all of his fashion ideas from, which pretty much were limited to fashion eyeglass frames, very thick belts, and skinny jeans. His name was Andrew and I asked him if he'd rather be called "Andy" or "Andrew" (I'm bossy, I need to know people's names so I can boss with convincing faux-authority) and he said he didn't care. This alerted me immediately to his feigned emo-ness. I think the correct emo answer would have been, "Drew," or "Robert Smith of The Cure." Not really. None of those dumbasses even know who Robert Smith is.


You can be pretty sure that any bands with a completely unnecessary "The" preceding the lame band name can secure a place in the emo bizzarro world along with some or any of the following characteristics:

-Any band members who wear eyeliner
-Music videos in grayscale
-Hair that "appears" dirty or flat-ironed (or both) or over an eye
-Skinny jeans
-Too short/tight t-shirts
-Fabricated and practiced sullen or pained facial expressions

Do we know what emo is yet?

Post Script: I just saw a commercial for Rockband.com, where the actors address the "The" phenomenon I wrote about a couple of months ago. Collective subconscious? I think not... Who's reading my blog besides Jaime?

Don't Worry, I Still Think Nickelback Sucks

No, I haven't blogged in a long, long stretch, but please rest assured that I still strongly believe Nickelback sucks. And I stand by the musings in my last blog concerning "newer" bands with names starting with "The".

Speaking of, I am so fortunate to have my former life partner in our Nation's Capitol looking out for my musical interests, and informing me that The Bravery are playing there at the end of October with tickets available for the low low price of only $25 (and Straylight Run is opening, so LUCKY). My trip has been pending (for well over a year) and is now scheduled. So look out D.C. and hot hot Sam Endicott. I CAN'T WAIT.

Ok, so clearly opposite of my future fourth ex-husband Sam is Jackie McKeown of 1990s (this is the name of the band). Their single "You're Supposed To Be My Friend" pretty much rocks and the video is effing hilarious (so check it out). Now, Jackie is fugly, and we know how I have a problem with fugly stars spotlighting their genealogical misgivings in my face on TV (please reference a blog from last year about Death Cab for Cutie). He quite literally looks like the lovechild of Shelly Duvall (The Shining) and Steve Buschemi (while Chad Kroeger looks like the lovechild of the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz and Danny Bonaduce). And for you Dallas friends, 1990s are playing on November 14 at The Palladium Ballroom, so I highly advise wearing your Fugly Protectivewear (whatever that may be) when you attend. And you should attend.

What else... Yeah, that's all I'm feelin' right now. It was an arduous summer sans Internet, so I didn't blog. Now I should be back to my normal, Internet-addicted life. I look forward to entertaining the three of you with minutes of jaded ramblings again.

"The" Trend

I found out a couple of days ago that Tony Parker of the San Antonio Spurs is a hip hop star in France and this bothers me. His video was on IMF and it was like a train wreck in a foreign tongue. Apparently he was raised in France and is undoubtedly rapping about their new president, the Eiffel Tower, and rims/grills. Granted, I can’t understand a word of it except for when he says, “Tony P.” and the text message his lady, Eva Longoria (who cameos in the video), sends him on his phone. Anyways, I keep hearing hip hop is dead, but I think Tony P. can single-handedly resurrect it. That is if he can cross over to the English language and try not to mirror the musical careers of other bi-talented stars like Shaq and Bruce Willis.

Other than T.P., I just want to give fair warning about emerging bands with names that start with “The”. Now historically it seems that more of these that bands broke through in the 60s, had a noun following “The”, and are visionary rock n’ roll mavericks. I just have this lingering suspicion that these new bands failed to come up with a decent name and felt like “The” (placed before whatever they could manifest over a bowl and some Arbor Mist) gave them a nonexistent edge (read: Manolo’s Shoe Blog). The only way I could accept their grammatical blasphemy is a band member with an advanced degree, and as far as I know there aren’t any Rivers Cuomos or MENSA members in those bands.

Beware The Almost, The Higher, The Used (who used to be cool…), The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, The Nickelback, and any other new band that looks like they have a preteen who abuses flat irons and straightening serum as a lead singer (or the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz… Chad Kroeger!). Fear not The Bravery, for their music rocks and might make your face melt. The National, The Fratellis, and The Kooks have yet to offend me with visuals or horrible music (I actually like all three bands), but it’s sort of like, “The National what? The National Mattress Sales Event?” And yes, I did refer to these bands as “emerging” although they may have been together since they were like 12 or 13 years old. Which was like last year.

Moving on, you may or may not have gathered that I am back at the French restaurant I have been employed by off and on for like the past three and a half years. It’s probably the most fun job I have ever had, and even when it’s slow I make more money than I have at any job I have ever held. Ever. So I can’t complain when I owed two grand to the apartment complex at which I broke my lease last month. I expect by the end of the summer, not only will I have had that paid off for a month or two, but will have a couple of new leather best friends from Coach and a zero balance on all of my credit cards. Glorious! How hard is it to find a “real” job I like this much and make this much money doing? I eagerly await your answers to this burning question.

I think next time I may blog about the merit of our current presidential candidates based solely on their names… It’s just too easy and abnormal to ignore.

Nickelback Sucks, Part I

So my life consists of: working, reading books, journaling, listening to alternative rock on Sirius on my television, and occasionally going out on the town (I mean village).

Work is pretty awesome. We have a chick who works only at lunch and keeps a knife in her biker boots. She also has a seemingly mentally challenged son who washed dishes one day, which brings me to our newest dishwasher… We “affectionately” refer to him as Pedro because he had hair like Pedro in Napoleon Dynamite until he shaved it all off. Like Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite. He talks to himself and our “sous chef” caught him talking to himself – no, more like having a conversation and taking the task of being the female he was talking to upon himself. In other words, he may also have multiple personality disorder and one of them is a female. I have also been delegated the task of firing the knife-wielder before Jeff gets back. So I may fall victim to work-related violence when she goes postal. Never a dull moment.

Going out is a little like going to an ugly conference. There used to be at least a few attractive people in Ruidoso. I guess they all died or moved away for fear of catching the ugly disease. Sorry, I shouldn’t make fun of these people because I know I’m not perfect, but seriously… I think global warming is more being caused by all the heat obese people conduct than pollution and the destruction of the rainforests combined.

Alt Nation 21 on Sirius is my new best friend. I can’t tell you how much I love Peter Bjorn & John (a little pissed yet intrigued that Kanye West sampled “Young Folks”), the new White Stripes song (well, you can’t be a pimp and a prostitute, too…), the synthesizers of Shiny Toy Guns and The Killers, and scary Amy Winehouse and bitchy Lily Allen. My Chemical Romance is even starting to grow on me a little. Everyone should check out The Bravery (if you haven’t already), Plain White T’s (not to be confused with Plain Brown Wrapper, a.k.a. Wet Brown Paper Sack, from Lubbock), and Cold War Kids. Yay! I still hate The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus and Switchfoot, though. I also still loathe Nickelback, but luckily they never play that kanuck bullshit on this station. Boo Nickelback and all of their fans who willingly allow themselves to be exposed to mediocre music, thereby supporting the modern day equivalent to Air Supply, and creating an arena for more bands just like them. See you in hell, Chad Kroeger!!

I listen to Alt Nation when I’m off work and reading or sleeping or writing. I just finished The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. What I need to do is finish re-reading the last three Harry Potter books before the new movie and last book come out this summer and J.K. Rowling breaks my heart by ending the series. But I’m about to start The Time Traveler’s Wife, which I am told is amazing. So we shall see!

The Internet and I have all but ended our long and sordid affair as of about two months ago. I check my e-mail and MySpace about once a week if I’m lucky. And can I please tell you that not being attached to that crap is absolutely liberating? I hope we don’t get the Internet back because it will undoubtedly suck me into its electronic communication wiles. The bastard. But not blogging regularly sucks because I know how much like three people out there enjoy reading my musings. Maybe you all should tell other people about my blog and give me subject suggestions and feedback… I’m aiming for a weekly posting.

Planned highlights for the summer include Harry Potter and paying off my debt, minus my student loans. We’ll save those for my future third ex-husband, Peyton Manning, to settle when we get married in the next decade or so. My life is entirely too exciting!

Busy, busy, busy...

So all I pretty much ever do now is work and it's pretty fun again! I miss my partner in crime, Fancypants, but there are plenty of new characters to entertain me. This is merely a teaser blog since I have no time to blog right now while I sit at Schlotzsky's, using the internet since we have none, but anyways...

I will work on some sort of a manifesto about all of the interesting things that have occurred since I got back to Ruidoso (Sarah's back, back again...), like being called "evil incarnate" and hanging out with friends from years ago. And maybe I might bitch some more about music and the return of the synthesizer (UPGRADE!).

I should probably blog about my trip to Las Vegas, too...

Falsetto Madness

So I’ve happened upon the new Maroon 5 video a couple of times lately on Fuse and Vh1 and I’m undeniably unimpressed. What the hell was: a.) the video’s director thinking, and b.) the band thinking when succumbing to the idea that the video should just pretty much be a three-minute long head shot of Adam Levine?

Don’t get me wrong, Adam Levine is a good-looking dude. But apparently he’s so incredibly handsome that the whole band is just short of nonexistent. Might as well change the band’s name to Maroon 1. And who does he think he’s fooling, trying to gain street cred by “playing” the guitar (while wearing a scarf tucked into a blazer)? After studying the video, I’ve come to the executive conclusion that he can play guitar about as well as Mick Jagger, or those chicks in the late Robert Palmer’s “Simply Irresistible” video.

Levine should stick to what his bone structure dictates – Gillette or Axe commercials. Maybe he and David Beckam could start a club for famous guys with superhuman good looks who are clearly in the wrong profession. Or better yet, Levine should get in touch with Barry Gibb, Justin Timberlake, and Robin Thicke to form a falsetto force with a presence so formidable it would rival the likes of the Cosa Nostra.

This may be a premature judgment, but I don’t see Maroon 5 sticking around. Maybe they can take the hot dog route to band formation a la the Velvet Revolver and Audioslave, and get together for some jam sessions with the former members of N’Sync and 98 Degrees. I’ll leave that to your imagination, but I posit there will be much Zima consumption, pirouettes, and pensive looks into outer space.

Here's to the Artists!

Where in the Bible does it say, "Judge not, lest ye be judged?" Anyone? Bueller? Christian or not, I feel like that's a testament to live by. I used to live this way… then I went to college and developed a superiority complex. Don't get me wrong, I have some of the best friends ever and would not give them, or any of my experiences in college, up for the world. But I am so sad that he dreamer inside me was suppressed by an idea of what I'm supposed to be.

I've talked about this before – society's expectations. I used to write and draw. I used to be an English major. Then I was told there was no money in that, so I switched to Journalism. Then I was told there was no money in that, so I focused on PR – where the "money" is, apparently. Yeah… I was making $19K before taxes when I graduated and got my first job in PR doing mostly data entry. Anyways...

Now I look back and it's not quite regret I feel because I have learned so much, but it's sadness that I allowed money to influence and stall my dream. It laid dormant while I tried to make the bucks, went back to school to delay having to make the bucks with hopes of making more with my advanced degree…

Then something changed on January 6, 2006. Something that put everything in perspective and created complete chaos simultaneously. I don't really care about money anymore. I don't care about having the house, the car, the stuff.

What matters is my family, what few friends I have who understand (or at least try to understand) what I've been through and why I've made some of the random decisions I've made in the last fifteen months. Call it stupidity, call it post-traumatic stress disorder, call it whatever the fuck you want to. I'm calling it enlightenment because my dream isn't dead. I love to write. I feel lucky to have a passion for something I've been told I'm sort of good at. So I'm taking another chance – I call it an opportunity – to realize my dream.

Because I'm not that person who can run the rat race. I'd rather die. I don't like dressing up for work and having to wear a thong and heels every day. I hate having to hide my tattoo and take out my tongue ring because clearly those things affect my ability to function in the workplace (oh wait, maybe they do… maybe they're a sign of my contempt for the man). I hate, hate, hate being told what I can and cannot do between the hours of 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. I work just as well at 9 p.m. and 4 a.m. as I do at 8:56 in the morning when I'd rather be watching Matt Lauer tell me about a new way to detect breast cancer on the Today Show than checking my e-mail.

And why should I be up in the middle of the night, stressed out to the point of tears because I am miserable doing anything less than what I dream? I'd rather wait tables and leave work at work, and be able to sleep at night for the rest of my life.

So here's to the artists! I know too few, which is why I feel I have to write an explanation for my erratic behavior. I wonder if Kerouac or Hunter S. had this problem… wondering what their peers thought. I'm going to go ahead and say not so much.

I'm not sorry I keep trying to find something that makes me happy and not discovering it. I am sorry if I'm a failure or that I can't handle pressure. So many things are no longer important to me, but I am learning what is. I don't want to waste any more time. My circumstances may not be the best, but maybe they are.

Don't you think crazy people make the best artists? Plath, Brando, Van Gogh, Bea Arthur (lol), the great Jeff Curtis, Jerry Seinfeld… you get the idea. Mental illness and/or a tortured life equal massive amounts of creativity that can be enjoyed by all. Even the sane ones.

ROSALITA???

Today I talked to the first celebrity I've talked to since telling Bruce Willis he wasn't allowed to catch his daughter (it was probably the condom-lover, Rumor) from the diving board back in '98. I mean besides heckling Sammy Hagar in Lubbock and telling Dave Matthews to take off his pants in Dallas...

Ok, so maybe she's not as famous as the Bruce or Dave, but she's clearly one of my personal heroes due solely to the fact that she was in The Goonies. I know you're thinking, "Wow, Sarah talked to Martha Plimpton!" No, not so much. "Kerri Green?" No... "Anne Ramsey??" No, she's dead. Ok, I'll tell you. It was Rosalita, also known as Lupe Ontiveros. She played Yolanda Salvidar in Selena and has most recently been "Mama Solis" in Desperate Housewives. She's also from the illustrious town of El Paso.

So I guess what's important is not that I talked to an Emmy-nominated actress. It's the ass I made of myself the three-ish times I talked to her assistant "Enrique" before I talked to her.

The first time I talked to him, I forgot who I was trying to score an interview with... "I'm calling in regards to... uh... uh... oh my gawd I'm drawing a blank... uh..." Did he help me? Not so much. Kind of an ass, actually. Said I would not be able to meet with her in person because they wanted to get more publicity for the event she's coming here for. So I had to ask my editor because this is not protocol.

Check.

Next time I talk to "Enrique", I am cool. I say we need photos since we aren't going to be meeting with Ms. Ontiveros, and we'd like a still from Babel since she was also nominated for an Academy Award for that film, which is what my publisher's wife told me. Yeah, that's not her. It's someone named Adriana Barraza. Wow, thanks publisher's genius wife. But, I schedule the interview and go home.

Check.

I get home and realize I have to be at City Council all day. And by all day, I mean during the time I had erroneously scheduled the interview. So I am frantically trying to get a hold of "Enrique" to reschedule. Thankfully she was available today because I was at City Hall for about six and a half hours. NOT thankfully, Enrique told Lupe about my faux pas. Who knows if he told her about the Babel thing.

Then yesterday after City Council, I'm telling Nick about the whole series of events and as if I'm not nervous enough about talking to a movie star the next day, his boss informs me that the Ontiveros wanted to be paid for the interview originally, so I went into the interview assuming she didn't want to talk to me...

All I can say is I.B.S. to the extreme.

Luckily my 45-minute chat with her went fairly swimmingly, although my publisher asked me to ask her how much money she made. I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Somebody kick this kid in the shin.

So you may or may not recall a while back that kid who was kidnapped in Florida by some sick-o pederast, only to escape and be rescued. The boy was touted a hero in his own right and I could not agree more. The child was taken against his will, was undoubtedly scared out of his gourd and was sharp enough to get away, unscathed.

You must have seen the story develop over the past few days of the 12-year-old Boy Scout who wandered away from his group camping trip and found himself lost in the woods. He, too, is being praised for his survival skills and seeming tenacity. For one thing, I'm sick of hearing about it when there's a presidential election coming up next year and people are dying in the war and Africa. If you want to warm my heart with a tear-jerking story about heroism, I'd rather hear about a mentally challenged person who saved a parakeet from a house fire, because that person clearly has more wits than this kid in my opinion.

The kid decided to take off on his own because the friends he liked didn't show for the camping trip, i.e. he was "homesick". I used to go to camp for an entire month during the summer when I was a kid in the mountains near Santa Fe. I got homesick sometimes. Common sense even at 10 told me I should not embark on a trek back to Farmington because it just wasn't a good idea. Did he think he'd pass a phone booth in the wilderness?

So when did this kid's common sense fail him and the foreshadowing of the rest of his certain failure of a life set in? I'm not sure, but luckily after a few days in the North Carolina woods at "freezing" temperatures, a woman and her dog named Gandalf found him. Reports say one of the first things he requested was a helicopter ride. Then food and water and whatnot. Then his dad tells cameras that he told his son before the camping trip that if he didn't have fun, dad would give him five dollars, and said he'd pay up. Dude, after the initial relief wore off that I was alive and well, I guarantee you I would not have been given my five dollars or a helicopter ride, but rather a grounding and incessant lectures on my bad decision.

And this child is being heralded a hero. He is being called a hero for making a bad choice and somehow, amazingly, surviving for a couple of days without his ADHD medication. Shocker... when he was off the meds, he somehow managed to make calculated survival decisions. That's amazing.

Please let's keep on rewarding mediocrity and see what happens. I can't WAIT for a kid who grew up on Ritalin and without dodge ball to be running the United States. We might as well elect Clay Aiken as President right now and get it over with.

Sun City, hangovers and stripper vans... OH MY!

I'm writing for a living now, so I haven't been feeling like blogging, although I have had some ideas. Let's just bullet through some of the happenings of late, shall we?

-I moved to El Paso for an awesome job at a weekly paper. I LOVE IT!!

-I stayed at a friend's apartment while he stayed at his parent's house for a week before I got my apartment, and I have some thoughts on guys decorating their spaces without the assistance of an interior design professional, or at least a female friend with some fashion and aesthetic sense to her being. In short, my content analysis over the years reveals that guys should never embark on interior design unless they have that special flair, should never allow their mothers to help them (unless said mother is an interior decorator, and even then you should proceed with caution), cheaper is never better. Save up for the good stuff.

-El Paso women make me look really good. I mean, I'm like fucking Gisele Bundchen compared to most of these chicks. And if you live here, you know I'm not being conceited. At all.

-I hate when radio stations play "Tainted Love" and cut off the snappy ending. You know the part that goes, "Baby, baby... where did our love goooo?" You know what I'm talking about.

-I have an idea for a funny column that includes me riding the Sun Metro for a month, but I'm afraid it would be so hilarious, my own head would explode.

-Sunsets and sunrises on mountains or mesas beat out a sunset or sunrise on building any day, any time, forever.

-I started thinking about it today, and I estimated I have spent at least 7,000 hours being hungover over the last ten years. And that's probably on the modest end...

-There is a huge difference between Hispanics and Mexican Nationals in El Paso and in Dallas.

-Being a pedestrian in El Paso is like having a contract out for your own death. I would not recommend walking here. Or driving, really. I have been passed on Mesa, driving 40 miles per hour, by people drag racing. Today it was a newer model Cadillac sedan and like a 1998 Mustang... WTF? I did, however, go for an exploratory walk the other evening and actually stopped traffic near my apartment. Granted, I was waiting to cross at a crosswalk, but there was no light. Some guy was nice enough to stop and about 15 other cars had to follow suit. It was quite touching! Thanks to that guy for being so polite.

-Riding around in the Jaguars van (Jaguars is a strip club in El Paso) is pretty fun. So is drinking Dom Perignon. And no, I am not moonlighting as a stripper... that would be scary.

-I had a Novocaine shot (actually two sets of shots) about four hours ago and my lip and chin are still numb.

I think they were Muslim.

This past Friday I experienced a documentary that has inspired me to vote from here on out. I'm not quite left wing, not quite right. I believe I'm what you call a social liberal, fiscal conservative. However, I don't vote in presidential elections because I think the electoral college is completely whack, and in fact, I almost wrote a paper about it in grad school...

Anyways, I watched a film called Jesus Camp, and it seriously blew my mind. The filmmakers basically follow a few kids around right before and during a time they spend at a church camp in North Dakota. Seems pretty boring, except for the fact that these kids come from fundamentalist evangelical families. In other words, Pentecostals. And by Pentecostals, I mean those people who get all jiggy in church, seize up on the floor, speak in tongues, etc.

The woman who organizes the church camp is more or less brain washing these kids into joining an army of God, who are here to support the United States of America and George W. Bush. A particular scene in the movie portrays a woman holding a life-size cardboard cutout of GWB, to which the children are all asked to send a blessing, and welcome him to their camp. Riiiiight... But the truly frightening part is that if these children don't grow up and end up as strippers or crack dealers, they're going to be trying to take my social freedoms away or will be the next Timothy McVey.

This film is also set during the time when Sandra Day O'Connor left the Supreme Court and GWB's ultra-conservative nomination gained the position (can't recall his name now). We also get a visit with Ted Haggard, the "leader" of the evangelical nation, who turned out to be paying a male prostitute for sex and meth. Watch the movie... he is a complete jerk to this young kid with a rullet (a rat tail that is nearly a mullet) who likes to preach the Word to his friends (or whoever will listen), and is clearly totally self-absorbed, being the leader of a group of delusional Jesus freaks. I can't even imagine a more hypocritical situation in my wildest dreams...

I don't want to spoil the uncomfortable moments and ridiculous ideas these ignorant zealots hold close to their hearts, but they include anti-abortion (of course), the "fact" that global warming doesn't exist (and they're trashing the planet while they're here because Jesus is coming back tomorrow), and the idea that people who don't go to the crazy, clap your hands and scream to God churches don't have God in their churches at all (I guess this includes me and my Episcopalians, who do the stand-sit-kneel routine). The point is, we social liberals need to exercise out right to vote and be heard, because unfortunately people like me who are just sort of incapable where politics are concerned are not as motivated to go stand in front of the Lincoln Memorial in freezing weather at a Pro-Choice rally as these people are. And they don't know any more about it than I do. The difference is that they don't care if they're made a fool. In fact, I don't even think they know they possess such a wide range of misinformation and have made complete imbeciles of themselves.

I will share with you the moment the title from this blog came from. One of the young zealots approaches a group of middle-aged-to-elder African American men in a park who are playing cards or dominoes or something and says, "If you were to die today, do you know where you'd go?" The man answers, "To Heaven," and she says, "Well, are you sure?" to which he replies, "Yes." So she says, "Ok," and proceeds to run back across the street, fellow Magic Christian children in tow, and says, "I think they were Muslim."

These kids are frighteningly ignorant by no fault of their own. I feel so sorry for them and their home-schooled asses.

TV is life.

Life sans cable is barely livable. Days like this (i.e. my days off when I don't have many errands to run, etc.) make me want to claw my eyes out. If I had money, I'd be at Target (and then I'd watch TV later). If my eyes weren't burning and I didn't have a lingering sinus headache from this cold I'm getting over, I might read. The boredom has caused lethargy and all I want to do is watch some flipping A&E (or Bravo if they're showing Top Chef or Project Runway reruns).

I don't feel inspired to write about anything of consequence, unless you all are interested in hearing about how sometimes I park in my parking garage and start to walk to my apartment until I get this very "The Shining" feeling and realize I'm walking down the corridor of the third level, when I live on the fourth... When I figure it out, I'm always waiting for two little girls to start pedaling after me on their plastic three-wheelers.

Being broke and not having cable really sucks. I should probably start donating plasma so I can at least get some basic channels to flip between and a sweet scar on my arm...

I need help.

So most of you know that pretty much my only passion (if you can call it that) is writing. I do it for fun, when I'm bored, when I'm angry (or sad, clearly), when I think something is amusing and/or confusing, etc. Anyways, so I need to narrow it down a tick so I can start writing for the riz-eal, get my stuff out, and if my Karma turns around, get paid for doing what I totally heart.

So how can I narrow it down? Many of you who read my MySpace blog haven't (or won't) read my Blogspot blog, and vice-versa, but fortunately since like September or something of last year, they contain the same posts. Now before that, I have humorous postings about Ruidoso, music, fashion, bartending and waiting tables, grad school, etc. on the Blogspot blog. I could blog leagues (yes, I just used a nautical measurement to describe writing) about love and relationships a la Carrie Bradshaw, but I don't want my family reading the sordid (or lack thereof) details of my personal life (or lack thereof). I have secrets... from everyone except my mom, so if you want to know anything about me, ask her. Somehow she's managed to know me better than I know myself...

What do you think? If I keep writing about Matt, he's going to kick my ass eventually. Those writings and others yet to be may someday be a book, but for now I'd like to focus on something people want to read (unless someone knows about a magazine for the bereaved...).

Should I stop caring about what my dad might think and start writing about relationships? Should I get Fuse and start writing about how Jared Leto needs to choose between music and acting? Should I blog about Starbucks and the fleecing of America (hahaha)? My dog?

I highly value your opinion. Thank you.

Why does it hurt so bad?

I've often said to myself and others that I think my brother was the lucky one, having died so young. He doesn't have to go through the pain and trials of living, getting old and decrepit, losing more loved ones. That may sound morbid to some, but clearly if you think that, you have not been through what I have been through. I would gladly take his place. Matt is an irreplaceable link in a chain that is now broken and feels unrepairable.

Why is it always the people who live their lives how they want to and are essentially happy and content die? Is that called irony, or poetic justice, or cruelty? Should I ever reach a point of contentment, will I die?

In my mind I still find it impossible to fathom that he is gone. Physically I know I cannot talk to him face-to-face or on the phone. We won't go to the bar and chant "Wheeler!" ever again, he'll never give me snowboarding lessons again, or send me funny pictures of Murray accompanied by recordings of his voice. We'll never watch South Park, The Simpsons, Family Guy, or Futurama together ever again. We won't play Trivial Pursuit and get mad because Josh always got the easy questions. We'll never have another Chinese buffet eating contest, which was probably followed by some sort of a bowel sounds contest. No more C-walking contests. No more anything but hypothetical conversations with the air, dreams, and memories that I am completely and utterly terrified of forgetting (any more than I already haven't forgotten or written down, anyways).

My blogs seem sad, right? Well, they are, but I want everyone to know that I do have a light at the end of the tunnel, albeit dim. I don't believe I will be despaired forever. I'm just trying to come to terms with reality and decide what I need to do to make it better.

TEXAS IS THE DEVIL!

Yeah, you read right. TEXAS IS THE DEVIL! I came to this melodious conclusion while I was driving home from work this afternoon, which took all of about five minutes. A quick and dirty mental content analysis told me that everything shitty that's happened to me and my family over the past two and a half years started when I moved to Lubbock in August of 2004. Because, really, before that life was good!

Before that I'd spent a year in Ruidoso, waiting tables and bartending, pseudo-dating a fun guy, going out and having a blast every weekend, driving up to Albuquerque to visit Eve, went to go see my dad in 2004, my friends came to visit me pretty often, etc. Generally it was a stupendous time in the life of Sarah, but unfortunately, Sarah has to have a purpose and a goal, or she feels worthless, so she went to graduate school.

First things first. Like two weeks before I moved, Richard hired Satan Incarnate, also known as the Psycho Hose Beast, otherwise known as the skank my brother Josh "dates". Josh met her at Le Bistro and the rest is sordid history. She's been nothing but bleach poured into an open and festering wound since they got together. I won't discuss it here to protect my brother's privacy, but it hasn't been good and has caused my mom more stress and heartache then I think anyone will ever realize. So this has been a continual challenge for two and a half years.

Then the following Spring I meet the man of my nightmares, who I will refer to as "Hick Boy". I met him while visiting Evelyn in Albuquerque, and found out that he didn't live far from Lubbock, so we started a "long distance" relationship, fell for each other (gag me), and then he asked me to move in with him in a terrible, terrible, smelly, poor excuse for a town in the Texas Panhandle. Well, it was either move there with Hick Boy, or back home to Ruidoso and continue the stress of a long distance relationship, so I took the plunge against my own judgment (notice I didn't say "good" judgment). Had I not been living in Texas, I don't think this relationship would have gone past the night we met.

Most of us know how that relationship turned out... For brevity's sake, let's just say f*cked up.

Shortly after that move, I got some bad news about my mom's health and returned home to be with my family with Hick Boy in tow. This was New Year's, 2005/2006, and the last time I got to see my brother, Matt, before he died on January 6, 2006. Still unbelievable to me. That event led to other traumatic events, mental processes, and behavior I don't care to elaborate on.

Hick Boy and I parted ways sometime around the end of February or beginning of March last year, and I moved home, having to travel to Lubbock once a week (not exactly every week because my professor was awesome) so I could finish my Master's degree. That's a three and a half hour drive, one-way, for anyone who's interested... But I did finish.

I visited Dallas twice last spring and really liked it, so being spontaneous and wanting away from New Mexico and all of that horrible-ness regarding my brother's death, I moved here in July, thinking I would easily be able to find a job. Not. So. Much. Ok, so I have had three jobs since I've been here, but none of them are in Mass Communications or writing, so I'm back at square one. However, I have to say that I have learned that I am not really interested in advertising or public relations anymore. Just journalism and writing. So that's a plus, I suppose...

In September of last year, my mom came down with a terrible case of pneumonia that almost killed her. That was fun, let me tell you. Apart from the passing of my beloved brother, this was an incredibly disturbing time. My mother was in rare form and I don't care to ever see her or anyone in that condition ever again. I hope that I, and everyone I love, dies before we come to that state of being. It was horrible.

Other "complications" from aforementioned events have taken place, but I think I've made my point. Texas is jacking with my Karma and I am so over it. "Land of Entrapment"? Fuck you. I want to go home.

*Do you like how I edited the first F-bomb, but let the second one go? That's called accentuation. And I like it.

Manic ___day?

I'm toying with the idea that I may be bipolar (yes, it's funny, and no, it's not). It's really weird because I can go from the last blog that I wrote (see MySpace blog), as morose and pessimistic as it (read: I) was, to being perfectly happy (or as happy as one can be when his or her life is in utter and complete, but totally entertaining, disarray). The feeling is sort of like that excited feeling you have in your gut and your chest when you're about to see someone you have a crush on, or you're going to go to your favorite theme park or something, or (if you're me in grad school) you found the perfect scholarly peer-reviewed article to compliment your research paper and quite literally you just want to squeal, "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" All. The. Time.

It's like my thoughts are racing, I can't think or type fast enough, I can't say everything I want to say because there's too much information. Like I'm on some sort of amphetamine (no, I am not on some sort of amphetamine, and I have stopped drinking coffee as of like a week/week and a half ago). It's like I'm a, I'm a, I'm a, I'm a... t-t-t-t-today, junior!! Hopefully you get the idea.

Nothing happened to make me feel this way, and it's not the first time by far. I go to work, I don't go to work, I work out, I don't work out, I eat, I don't eat, whatever. I didn't like win the lottery or find out my brother is alive and secretly living on an island with Tupac and Elvis. I just sort of morphed from goth kid to pep squad. And I can't quite pinpoint when it happened.

There are a lot of things I do or don't do when I'm "blue" as opposed to when I want to squeal. Por ejemplo, today I did not take a nap, I filed away all of my paperwork from the last 2+ months, I actually cooked myself dinner (I cooked... for like five minutes!), and I haven't cried or wanted to cry, I put away the clean dishes, and some other stuff... it's all very bizarre to me because two days ago I would have done the opposite.

I have never truly bought into the whole "depression" scene and I'm not sure I do even now. Even after considering anti-depressants (and trying them for a very short period after Matt died), I am not truly convinced they'd do anything. When I feel the way I do now, I all but forget what that other bad feeling is like, when two days ago it seemed like it was consuming my very soul. Yet inside I know that feeling lurks dormant and will return. When? Who knows??

Maybe it's just ups and downs... moods, if you will (but most moods I've heard of don't make you want to either scream in anguish or squeal with delight). Maybe it's the anti-PMS. Maybe I'm just excited that I bought my toy poodle a camoflauge coat yesterday. Or maybe, just maybe, all I need to do is take advantage of these times of glee because clearly my writing is a lot - or a least a little - better (unless I'm writing poetry, because poetry and happiness do not cross paths in my world).

I don't have much to say...

Tomorrow marks one year since my brother died and I just don't even have words. Thinking about some of it makes me feel literally, mentally, clinically insane. Today actually marks the last day he signed in to his MySpace a year ago. Now we have a MySpace dedicated to his memory (he's my #1 friend, if you want to see the page). I guess it makes us feel better in a sense.

I had a blog once upon a time dedicated to me and my brothers - The Wheeler Three. If you want to check it out, click here. Actually please check it out. Maybe it'll help people who didn't know us all understand why this has changed my life forever and profoundly. He was my and Josh's brother and best friend, and friend to so many others. We're only beginning to realize how many lives he affected positively.

It's been rough being home. I'll probably write about it later.

And this computer/Internet connection is so f*cked up I can't even upload a picture of Matt.