Monday, December 15, 2008

Ignorance is Bigotry?

I'm not sure who I will eventually freak out on, but I am becoming more and more sickened by the jokes, emails and comments about our President-Elect. I received an email today from a friend that had photos of all the former Presidents' vehicles, mostly limousines, with the names of the Presidents who rode in them underneath, ending with a picture of some asinine-looking orange low rider and "Guess who?" typed under it. Amusing...

Aaron received a text message the night of the election from an unknown number that said, "What do Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy and Barack Obama have in common? Nothing... yet." When did death threats become funny?

Recently I became involved in a conversation about how the White House will be redecorated for the new President. To keep a longer story short, mentions of beaded doorways and dinners of fried chicken and collard greens were made. I just kept quiet, silently taking stock of the complete and utter ignorance of some of the people whose company I apparently employ.

What shocks me is my/our tolerance of this type of speech. I'm am clearly not opposed to free speech, but our individual lack of awareness of the people who surround us and what their personal views may or may not be disturbs me. Why do people assume I would find a racial joke about our next President funny? I am proud to say I voted for Barack Obama, but I am beginning to feel ashamed that I tolerate the ignorant-speak all around me. I was worried that my vehicle would be vandalized if I put any sort of Obama-Biden paraphernalia on it before the election. Actually, in Ruidoso I'd be afraid of what might happen to my car even though he won!

What I am not afraid of is the competence of the rest of us - the rest of the world - who celebrated the election of a new President who undoubtedly has more couth, grace and diplomacy in his little finger than our current President has in his entire body. President Bush had shoes hurled at him in Iraq. I am sad to admit that one of the few countries that may happen to Barack Obama is our own, a country that was supposedly founded upon tolerance and freedom.

Be aware and educated if you are going to share your bigoted opinions. And next time you want to push racist jokes about a President who has already begun to alter the negative impressions most of the world has of the United States, be ready to debate.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Three Moments Defining My Age (thus far)

I first started to "believe" I was getting old last year (or possibly the year before) when my laugh lines started to stick. And by stick, I mean they don't go away when my smile does. It was mildly devastating, but there's not much I can do about it besides freeze my face with Botox, which I may eventually do. Never say never!

The second happened to me last year around this time. The cover of Rolling Stone featured a saucy-looking group of hooligans... thin, smoking, leather-clad, with hair bigger than mine was after my last perm. Otherwise known as Guns n' Roses, circa 1987. The cover was in celebration of Appetite for Destruction's twenty year anniversary. Picture an 8-year-old Sarah jamming out to Mr. Brownstone, unwittingly singing along to the bitchin' tunes, "...and when you're high you never, ever wanna come down." I had no idea what it meant, I just knew it ROCKED. However, seeing the cover of The Rolling Stone, knowing it was the second album I fell in love with after John Cougar Mellencamp's The Lonesome Jubilee... It just really made me feel my age.

The last incident happened quite recently. I purchased tickets to see Beck next week in El Paso and was bragging to a couple of Landlocked employees about it, one of whom is approximately 17 years old. Said teenager had no idea who Beck was (even though he has a new album out) and was disturbingly unfamiliar with such classics as "Where It's At," "Loser," and "Devil's Haircut." I promptly conducted a YouTube search to school this young mind in the ways of Beck, only to realize he has gone from pop star to indy jammer. His newer stuff is just as good as the classics that I popped into my $300 CD player ten or eleven years ago. Maybe he just needs to fire his public relations and/or promotions people. Check out Gamma Ray, and just try to lie to me and say you don't want to get up and start doing some sort of a dance involving mime-swimming.

But alas, I am still going to concerts, and I haven't had anyone guess my age lately, maybe for a reason. So I can't be that old, can I? I ran a 5K last weekend, I text message more than I talk on the phone, I have an iPod as of earlier this year, I'm up on the lingo (Right off!) and the new tunes that are tolerable. I may not know what Ne-Yo is, but I'm rockin' to Kings of Leon, My Morning Jacket and Santogold! Ah, who am I fooling? I may be old, but I am still f@cking cool.**

**This opinion belongs to the author. :)

Long Time, No Blog

For shame. It has been months since I've blogged, or written anything besides restaurant orders or checks. I wonder if anyone even checks to see if I've written anymore. The last three months have been strange and great and fun, but I'm glad they're over. Working eight-plus shifts at Le Bistro a week, plus making super-fantastic desserts for Landlocked, plus desserts on occasion for Bistro, plus trying to keep up with yogging... was trying. One week I had to work about eight shifts and make twelve cakes for a party of 200, which also happened to be the same day of the wonderful floods. Good times, Mother Nature!

The summer has ended on some fantastical notes, though. I am officially working with my awesome-o boyfriend at Landlocked and it's been fun so far. We'll see if he's ready to fire my whiny butt anytime soon. I also got to play bridesmaid in Evelyn's wedding last weekend, which was wonderful. So wonderful, that when I got to give my #2 speech, I cried the whole way through and undoubtedly made a complete tool of myself (and embarrassed the crap out of Aaron by catching the bouquet later... WHOOPS!). But it was incredible to see all of my college friends. It makes me sad that we all don't live in Las Cruces and hang out at The Brew after happy hour at Si Senor, but it also makes the times we do get together even more special.

Anyhoo, I am hoping my new slave arrangement will allow for more writing time, ergo more blogs in the future. Birthdays are coming up, so some fodder much come from getting old. OLD. Check back...

Monday, June 16, 2008

Fellow Elitists Sought

Elitist seeks like-minded individual(s) for general social purposes, probably just some drinks and heckling, maybe some lively pop culture discussion, attendance at a movie from time to time, etc. Magic christians, hippies, drug addicts, those with sub par intelligence and/or offensive body odor need not apply, as well as people with identifiable neuroses they take seriously. Interested parties please apply via witty, entertaining, and grammatically correct comments to this blog.

This is basically my way of saying I miss all of my friends, who are spread all over the country, and I can't wait to spend some quality time with my girls this weekend in Albuquerque (a.k.a. The Artist Formerly Known as Steve, or TAFKAS). Do 90 percent of the people in Ruidoso just suck, or am I so much of a snob that no one dare find out that I am actually a pretty easygoing person?

*Visit again soon because I will certainly be blogging about the Texans and my dining experiences with them very soon.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Death Dreams and the Turnaround

I like to try to keep my blog as un-diary-esque as possible, but sometimes we all need to write a little something when attention trumps opinion.

Yesterday morning I woke up for a while, very early, and had some trouble falling back to sleep, but when I did I had a dream starring my dead brother. We were building or creating something, like a painting or a sculpture to our right side. I was sitting in front of him, and working with one hand, not seeing who was behind me, but knowing. Then I heard him sort of sniffing, crying, and whatnot, so I turned around and asked what was wrong, "Why are you crying?" He said he was sad because he missed Matt, but he was Matt, so I awoke confused, missing my brother more than usual, and wishing someone in this stupid world knew what it is like to lose your sibling and have your entire family dynamic crushed to bits, and have it become clearer and clearer every day that it is irreparable; that it will never, ever be the same, and probably won't even come to a point where things are even mildly comfortable.

Who can you convey your feelings to when it seems like no one wants to hear about death and grief? I use paper, a pen, my keyboard. It even seems taboo in my own house, with my brother and mom, who might be two people who understand, but things are so strained, I find it hard to even discuss the album I bought yesterday with them.

So anyways, I suppose my dreams that I remember with my brother are about as frequent as they have been since he died. It made me more sad than usual for a while, I cried, then I realized it wasn't doing me any good to be morose and depressed, so I let my mind wander and, in my crazed mind of minds, came up with a name for teeth that are half-covered by gums. Jack White on the cover of the last Rolling Stone is a great example:

If you can't see it, it's got to have some sort of a label in the medical lexicon (I couldn't bring myself to scroll through the Google Image Search), but I have officially dubbed them "mummy teeth." It has yet to be listed on Urban Dictionary, but I'll see what I can do about that. Dolphin teeth, you aren't the only classification for weird teeth anymore!

Anyways, by this time I was cracking up at myself, which I often do, and ended up having a good day on 4/20, opting to have some beer instead of smoking a bowl. Good times!

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Sober Snapshots?

As I listen to Tool’s "Sober" and browse the photos on my MySpace, I notice a recurring theme in about 95 percent of the pictures taken - I’m drunk or most likely well on my way to an enhanced version of myself. The thing is, I really don’t think I drink that much. I know I used to... drink and drown in Mexico on Thursday nights and a subsequent absence in History Friday morning my Freshman year at NMSU. Tailgating in its many forms... whether it was Delta Chi’s jungle juice or Cold Duck with professors at Texas Tech at nine in the morning, good times, pictures taken. Weddings, wine festivals, Tom Selleck’s birthday (Amanda, you are my hero), it seems like it doesn’t take much to convince me it’s a holiday worth celebrating with a totty.

I guess my pending trip to Phoenix this weekend got me thinking about my crap camera (hate you) and the fact that we’ll probably be taking loads of pictures of drunken times with Jenny... I am actually kind of scared. I can’t drink like I used to and the last two times Evelyn and Jason had destination drink fests where I was involved, I vomited (once in Ruidoso, once in Dallas). But there’s nothing quite like telling the story of trying to stealthily remove a full beer from the Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 Club after a Mavs game, only to be stopped by the security guard, whom you take a photo of moments later to document how bad he sucked for not letting you take an open container into public.

Ah, so many classic drunken photographs, so little time. My all-time favorite has to be with the walker outside of the CVS by Amanda’s in DC... That was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I so took advantage of it. Killer.

So, wish me luck and look for a new album of photos posted next week if you’re so inclined. Hopefully I’ll find some other cool stuff to pose with (don’t get any weird ideas)...

Friday, April 04, 2008

On death and dying and euthanasia

It was a very long time ago that I decided I didn't want to be one of those people who lives a horrifically long life. I don't really understand people who want to live until they are so old and decrepit that they have regressed to an infant-like state of being. Truly, youth is wasted on the youth, and if we started old and grew progressively younger, knowing what age has taught us, perhaps we could live richer lives, but that's just not how it is.

A very old woman came into the restaurant yesterday. She looked very familiar to me; one of those people who isn't quite regular enough for me to know their name, but enough that I know she's local and has been here before. The cook came out to greet her while she was eating, only to discover her husband had passed recently. So here she is, dining alone, using a cane to walk, and expressing the sadness of her husband's death. Not the life I want to leave.

Another older couple who are regulars at the restaurant lost one half of their partnership a couple of weeks ago. I can remember they used to come in holding hands, struggling a bit to get around, until they were both using walkers to even get from the car to the door, twenty feet away. It's been sad to see their health go, but they were clearly still very smitten with each other and now I wonder how long the wife will last without her husband. Also not the life I want to leave.

Yet another instance of death surrounding the restaurant, a woman who had been battling cancer for many years finally succumbed to the disease. I would say she was in her mid-to-late fifties and was spry until the very end. She went quickly, which I suppose is fortunate, but her devastated husband remains with the rest of his life to live. Maybe the way she went is one way to go... Knowing you probably don't have long to be here, and living the way you want until you can't function any longer, slipping into a painless coma and moving on.

Maybe I don't know enough about life or death to be talking about it in this way, but I do know I never want to be in a position where someone else has to feed me and wipe my ass and I have to use a motorized scooter to get around. Now senile and functional is totally cool with me. If I can make it to the bathroom easily and think I'm on a throne of solid gold and am talking to myself about the conversation I had yesterday with Franklin Roosevelt, that is fine. It's the thought of me in an old people's home, drooling on myself while I watch Jeopardy! with my ass exposed that freaks me out.

So when is a good time to go? Why can't we choose? I know some people presently who'd be perfectly happy to go now because their health and wits are not entirely about them, which begs another question, why can't we make a decision when we're lucid to end our lives when they become less-than-beneficial to ourselves and our families? I am writing this right now... if I am ever in a vegetative state, pull the plug. Seriously. I should probably talk to a lawyer about this, but I mean it. None of the false hope that medical miracles will bring back a dead brain, ok?

Speaking of medicine, is it really extending productive lives when people cling to whatever sub par lives they have with whatever synthetic concoction the pharmaceutical gods decide to hand them? Or is it merely meddling with evolution and the survival of the fittest? We all know I loathe prescription drugs, and this is just one of the reasons. It comes from the same part of my brain that disapproves of in vitro fertilization and the crazy hormone treatments people go through in order to have children. If you can't make babies the regular way, there's a reason, one way or another. It doesn't matter. There are plenty of kids out there who are already born and need someone to take care of them. Angelina Jolie and Madonna have taught us that. Sorry... tangent.

A belligerent part of me feels somewhat entitled to talk freely about these things because I lost my brother. I count him lucky, and not in a sick, masochistic, feeling-sorry-for-myself-and-want-to-die kind of way. All I mean is that life is hard, no matter what way you look at it. I definitely touched on this in "Reproductive Prowess". This is not to say that wonderful things will not and do not happen to everyone, and a lot of it has to do with your own perspective on life and state of mind, but it is the struggle of mankind to just survive, and this is quite obviously not the same lot it was when we first started walking upright. Even if you have all the money in the world and it seems like you shouldn't have anything to worry about and be depressed about, and no Saber-Toothed Tigers are trying to eat you, you'll probably find something to be pissed and/or sad about. Mo' money, mo' problems, right, Biggie Smalls? Biggie Smalls... Biggie Smalls... Biggie Smalls...

I guess I don't really know what the point of this blog was. Just some random thoughts in support of euthanasia, generated by a contemplative sadness in being confronted with death and just getting old. Biggie Smalls.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

Waiting Squared

You may or may not know I am a server at a smallish restaurant here in Ruidoso and normally I like my job. Or maybe I just like the money and lack of stress to take home with me when the day is done. That’s not to say that many a night during the summer I didn’t have crazy awake-dreams where I thought I was still at the restaurant, or that customers were at my house waiting to eat or something, but usually most of the manic stress happens at the P.O.B.

This is also not to say that I haven’t broken down from time to time (what my boss refers to as "cracking up"). I try to keep those instances to a minimum and just keep my adrenaline to myself until later, but I have been formulating a list in my head about stuff that makes me NUTS about restaurant customers, and thought I’d share what I can remember here....

Special eaters - Go the F*CK home. No one wants to deal with your aversion to butter or salt or peas or cheese or meat or eggs or capers or cumin. That’s why you go out to restaurants... the food tastes better because the cooks use more of that "bad" stuff to taste up your normally bland food. And your server pretends to care, but we don’t. We secretly loathe you and honestly, unless someone has a severe allergy, I probably don’t even say anything and neither do you because -GASP- your food tastes good that way! ONE HUNDRED PERCENT of the time someone designed a recipe one way because it works. They know what they’re doing. Leave well enough alone.

Ten percenters - The year is 2008, not 1958. The norm for tipping these days is twenty percent. If you can’t afford to tip your server, you can’t afford to eat at an establishment that employs people to refill your drinks, bring you your food, ask you if you need anything else. Go to Arby’s. They don’t expect tips because they get paid more than three bucks an hour. And seriously, I don’t think restaurant patrons know how much this means to a server. Give them the twenty percent, and maybe give them a dollar more. ONE DOLLAR. You have no idea how you could make someone’s day.

Well-done steak eaters - Stop kidding yourself when you try to order a steak medium-rare by saying, "Wellllll... What’s medium here? I like it just pink in the middle, but still juicy." "Medium is still going to be a little bloody, dear patron." "Oh, no, no, no. No blood." Mental note: Hmmm, ok. How about medium-well, you nasty bastard? And when you say it’s too dry and ask for steak sauce you can kiss my ass because we don’t have any.... Just effing order the steak how you want it. I won’t say anything to your face...

Flavored tea drinkers/straw users - Let’s start here with a question: Who started this flavored tea trend? Trust me, I love a flavored tea as much as the next idiot, but I would never expect an establishment to carry flavored teas unless it was like "Aunt Bea’s Flavored Tea Emporium". So stop acting so surprised when I tell you we only have regular iced tea. And to those of you who require a straw to drink a beverage... I don’t get it. If you have serious tooth sensitivity, you should carry your own straws with you. If you don’t like your lips to touch a restaurant glass, you are a lunatic. And if you’re a kid, too bad. You need to learn how to drink out of a glass like the rest of functioning society.

Obese people - You gross me out and I don’t even want to feed you because it’s like enabling an alcoholic. You ask for a fourth basket of bread and extra butter and another Diet Coke, and I die a little bit inside. Then you can’t decide if you want to get dessert because you’re so full. Just get it. You know you’re going to eat that half gallon of rocky road when you get home regardless. Might as well add another six bucks to my sales...

Old people - You don’t have an appetite, so don’t go out to eat. You want your coffee at temperatures that cause evaporation. You ask for ice to put in your wine. You tip badly. You smell. You ask for salt and pepper before I have even given you a menu (Which reminds me to tell you that you are an uncouth jerk if you season your food before you taste it). You complain more than anyone and that makes me hate you.

Wannabe sommeliers - Having you taste the wine before I pour you a glass is NOT to see whether or not you like the wine. It is to make sure the bottle has not turned because of the cork, etc. If you don’t like it, that’s your fault because you don’t know what kind of wine you ordered/like. And by the way, smelling the cork is for morons. If you want to squeeze it to make sure it’s not dry or rotted, be my guest. But smelling it forces me to probably give you a look of severe disdain that you don’t recognize because you don’t know me. And to those of you who drink white zinfandel... I am not even going to go there. You are just revoltingly lame.

Table movers/chair swappers - I’ll keep this simple. The host seated you in one place for a reason. Stay there unless there is a REALLY good reason to move. And leave the chairs where they are. If you have a bony ass or hemorrhoids, carry around your donut cushion because that is not my fault.

Wow. I honestly probably have a list ten times this long with more nuggets you can’t live without. It’ll get worse. Maybe I’ll get some more written down. Until then, if you haven’t seen Waiting, watch it. It’s incredibly accurate where restaurants are concerned and if you’re never going to wait tables to see what it’s like, you need to be taught a lesson by Ryan Reynolds and Luis Guzman. Watch it immediately if not sooner. If nothing else, it’s funny as hell.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Exaggerated perceived benefits of big city life

I desired to move to a bigger city for three main reasons that I can think of:

  1. More people
  2. Music scene
  3. Shopping

Not sure why you’d want to live in a friggin’ huge city otherwise, because as I have learned, it sort of sucks (well, Dallas sucked kinda). I have found that there are as many things that I love about living in a small town as there are things that irritate the hell out of me.


Right now the number one item on my list of aggravations are tourists – from Texas and Mexico. They drive like shit, act like shits, look like shit, and even smell like shit because they’re all over-cologners. But on the flip side, they leave (they come back, but they do leave). In a big city, you have idiots driving all over the place from out of town, or even from the other side of town, constantly. They have no idea where they are or what’s going on… I have been this idiot on many an occasion.

So there’s one part of the "more people" item on my list. I figured, "There’s got to be more cool people in a big city as compared to this tiny mountain town…" No, not really. Maybe in some bigger cities the average age is lower, but as the city grows, so do the number of assholes inhabiting it. I believe that’s what we call correlation. So in a large town you’re just as screwed as you are in a small town. It’s all about statistics.


Next on my list is music. I really enjoy going to concerts of bands I like, and there aren’t a lot in Ruidoso, or even New Mexico for that matter. I think Smash Mouth (You remember them… they’re on all the bad 90s compilation albums and the Shrek soundtracks!) just played out at the Inn of the Mountain Gods. Awesome, no? I check on tours of bands I’d like to see, and the list of venues maybe goes something like this: Phoenix, Los Angeles, San Francisco (three dates), Seattle, Denver, Dallas, Washington, D.C., New York… you get the idea. The thing is, I really don’t have too much to complain about. We have a decent live music ring here and I am pretty sure I am dating the ring leader, who can talk DJ Pete into letting my East Coast BFF touch his afro (and there is definitely a picture of said ’fro-pulling in my pics, so check it out). So we have a good time regardless, I suppose.

And then because I am lucky and know like five people, sometimes I get cool opportunities to become the lucky recipient of two $100 tickets to see Willie Nelson out at the Inn before he stops touring. And by "stops touring," I mean dies, because we all know he’s going to smoke dope and sing songs until that day, right? That concert would have been insane if the venue hadn’t sucked and crazed hicks weren’t screaming, "WILLLLLAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!! WILL-(gasp)-layyyyyy…" Actually, that was incredibly entertaining all by itself.


Shopping. All I can do when confronted with this topic is sigh. Too much thought could send me into fits of tears. There are a couple of cute shops in Ruidoso that may seem quaint and novel to visitors, but to me they’re just a bunch of Forever 21 clones in a charming store’s pajamas. The one shoe store SUCKS ("These shoes rule… these shoes SUCK!"). J. Roberts carries decent jeans from time to time that are reasonably priced, but unless you’re into buying $70 tops that fall apart after one outing, you’re effed. There’s no way someone else could borrow your top, betch. My purchases usually occur online or out of town, unfortunately. The good thing about this, however, is that I don’t do a lot of impulse buying. I give online purchases more thought and dedication because it’s a chore, and you can never be quite sure if what you’re getting will fit right, etc. A good Coach bag always fits, but anyways. I think I’m going to go to Walgreens now and look at the hair care products…

There are a plethora of other reasons why big cities suck or little towns suck in comparison to each other, like public transportation. Equally scary and entertaining if you ask me… wonky eyes on the Metro, the BP-riddled DART, breaking down on the El, Mohammed the cabbie in DC…

This blog brought to you by Sack, Amanda, and the letter B. Sack gave me the title and Amanda wrote a similar, but less cynical blog not too long ago. Thanks, yo!

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Tales of Carbon Monoxide

I find myself at my house less and less these days, thanks to my own personal Latch Key program, also known as my boyfriend. When I am at my house, I'm tucked away in my "lair", tooling around on the internet, getting ready for work, doing laundry... Things that do not require my presence at the front of the house, which is maybe why I have the little bit of motivation it takes to do the things that construct my life. I suspect that some sort of a carbon monoxide leak is happening in the front of my house, ergo whenever I come home my family is mimicking the lives of house cats: sleep, eat, play (which equals watching TV), repeat. I really do think some sort of a gas leak must be the culprit.

I get it. I do. When I moved backed to Ruidoso from El Paso last April, I was (as Amanda has me saying) in a "bad way." Although I don't think I slept any more than normal (P.S. my "normal" is like nine hours... seriously), I think I had a daily routine of television and just hanging out, but that got old after about a week. I went and got my old job back, started jogging again, had my usual conversations with friends abroad via the computer and phone, etc. That's when I stop getting it. After two weeks of being a zombie, don't most people start to get stir crazy and need something other than programs hosted by Bill Kurtis to fill their days?

It's not like I do anything important, either. I'm not running marathons, or curing the HIV, or devising a plan to eradicate hunger worldwide. Monday I spent two hours at the tire place to find out I have to buy two new tires for my Jeep (while writing in my Moleskine about living with crazy people, which I have deduced I am really, really good at). I go to work every other day. On days off I run errands, go to the ever-popular shopping mecca of Ruidoso (Wal-Mart), have a meal or two with my beau, yog if the weather's nice, paint the lair... things like that.

But coming here, where narcolepsy reigns supreme, disrupts my well being for a few moments out of every day. How to motivate people, though? I'm not very good at motivating anyone by means that do not include "Dr. Philling" them, because I think most things are incredibly obvious (unless you're dealing with people who communicate on a purely metaphorical level daily). Por ejemplo, if you know you're not happy, don't you usually know why? Don't you know what could probably make it better, whether it's getting a pet, or exercising more, or finding a new job, or buying a new bag, or keeping your distance from crazy people? Someone send me a link for a book about lighting a fire under someone's ass without simultaneously destroying the shred of self-esteem they may or may not have left...

I am going to stop now. Before I become one of those idiots who blogs about their life as if other people actually give a shit. For some reason I have nothing interesting to say. :)

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Sarah needs to figure out what the f*ck she's doing in this life.

Lately I have been enjoying utilizing the "Status" feature on MySpace. My status may or may not change a couple of times a day, depending on how busy I am or how "ninja" I feel. Tonight I am feeling particularly disappointed in myself and where my lot has taken me, so I made it known on MySpace. Talking with a friend today made me wonder if my problem of not knowing what I want to be when I grow up is just an issue of an unlucky few, or a generational flaw. I am grown up, but I have no real idea what the heck I want to do for the rest of my life, however long or short it may be. Or maybe I just don't have a plan.

Don't want: To work in an office ever again. To have people demean my intelligence on a daily basis. To be treated as lesser when I am better. To end up as the saddest person I know, whom I also happen to live with. To grieve anymore.

The pathetic part is my wants are so not focused. I want to write what I want to write, and get paid for it because I know I will never be fully satisfied in my life working to live as opposed to living to work. I like to listen to music, read about it, write about it, and maybe talk about it with people who aren't retarded. I want to write about my life (I put the ordinary in extraordinary, so we'll see where that goes). I need help with those things. I want love, fresh air, mountains, and to hang out with my friends and my dog. Ah, the things I like seem few and far between at times. I bitch about the same shit over and over again, but for some reason it doesn't do any good... Imagine that.

I've been composing a manifesto of sorts over the past day (since I had my keyboard replaced by one of the nerds from the movie Nerds) and have some great and thoroughly inappropriate one-liners I want to share with the world that made me wonder how - should I ever find an opportunity to publish some of the terribleness that is my private life - how could I openly be held accountable for what I write? Scathing rips on my family life, relationships and sex, the occasional illegal activity (ah, yes... use your imagination because that's probably more fun than my reality), death, friends, work, and so on and so forth. I'd become a pariah of all trades. Maybe it really is time to start posting on my other anonymous blog...

Gawd help us all if I should die before I can destroy all of my journals and the Dell's hard drive and an assortment of college notebooks I used for random thoughts after they'd served their scholarly purpose.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

My "i" Problem

Trust me, i have wanted to blog at least three or four times since my last post, but pretty much right after i clicked "Publish Post" my "i" key on my Dell's keyboard finally gave out. My huge dog inadvertently hopped on the Dell about a year and a half ago or so when i was in Dallas and popped off the "n" and "i" keys. The "n" snapped right back on, but the "i" was on a road to slow death, ending in me having a horrible callous on my right pointer finger from pushing so hard where the key used to be, and finally having to Control+V every time i need an "i". And i am far too lazy to copy and paste uppercase and lowercase because i really like to talk about myself...

Anyways, a new keyboard is in the mail, ordered from William at Dell, also known as Nacho Libre ("Chancho, when you are a man, sometimes you wear stretchy pants in your room. It's for fun.") or Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite. i guess i was just thankful to not have an indian guy on the other line because they are hard for me to understand, and was the case when i called last week to order my keyboard (the guy's name was definitely not "Brian" like he said). So i hung up. Spanish accents i am used to. Clearly. So William/Pedro ended up not only selling me the keyboard, but also more memory for my beloved Dell. Sneaky, Pedro. Very sneaky. Tripled my cost, but whatever. Maybe someday i'll be cool and have an iPod and download music from the mystical force known as "iTunes".

More later on my indefinitely suspended move to Denver. Sometimes things seem to work out exactly the way they are supposed to, but then again, you never know. The older i get, the more i am learning to just go with the flow. i can say with great certainty that i am a spoiled person, and to have to live like i did in Dallas is just unacceptable at this juncture.

in other great news, my BFF from DC is coming to The Land of Enchantment via the a$$hole of Texas (a.k.a. El Paso) in like two weeks. i am very excited, and looking forward to drinking abnormal quantities of alcohol at inappropriate times of the day, making fun of and/or taking pictures with midgets at Quarters (a.k.a. Ziggy's, and Cheech and Chong's), spending quality time with the Pistachio in Alamogordo, maybe a Grease duet, all interspersed with sweet dance moves and viewing of Hell Date on BET. A splendid time is guaranteed for all!

Tuesday, January 08, 2008

I vote Sam!

For a while now I've been contemplating a fantastic blog about The Bravery versus The Killers, since they have an openly public feud, are on the same record label, and have similar sounds. I really liked The Killers when they first came out, back in the day. I distinctly recall seeing the "Somebody Told Me" video on MTV2 when they still played a lot of alt rock (now we know they play reruns of Run's House). That was in about two-double-ought-three, I believe. I got Hot Fuss in 2004, I think, and it was great. My favorite song off that album is still "Believe Me Natalie." Great drums...

Anyways, I started to like The Bravery as soon as I saw "An Honest Mistake," also on MTV2 (probably). Cool video, and Sam Endicott's vocals are seriously sexy, as opposed to Brandon Flowers', whose seem forced to me (read: suck it, Flowers). It cracked me up when The Killers had to cancel shows because of Brandon's voice going out or something last year and Madison on Alt Nation (Sirius) was like, "Uh, what voice?"

I sort of forgot about The Bravery after I saw that video, though. Maybe they should hire a new publicist (you know, call me, whatever). My love for The Bravery grew exponentially when I heard "Time Won't Let Me Go" early in 2007. I bought The Sun and the Moon the very next time I was in a real city and in its entirety is an incredible sophomore album, unlike Sam's Town, The Killers' failed attempt at another Hot Fuss. It's so monotonous, I could cry. Maybe that's why Brandon Flowers decided to talk smizzack about The Bravery and a bunch of other bands whose records didn't blow. Or maybe Flowers is jealous that every member of The Bravery is really, really ridiculously good-looking and The Killers are Brandon Flowers (little person) and a bunch of haggard dudes.

My partiality to The Bravery grew even more when I saw them on Halloween with Amanda in Washington, D.C. Rock and roll at it's finest... small venue, synthesizers, who could ask for anything more? Oh, except I am a huge fan of the two slower songs on The Sun and the Moon ("Tragedy Bound" and "The Ocean") and would have probably passed out if they would have played those... So has been created a life-long fan of The Bravery, necessitating me to judge The Killers very harshly.

Herein lies the fodder for this blog. I was getting ready to write about something else entirely, but the new Killers' single (no, not the Joy Division remake) came on IMF. The song's called "Tranquilize" and features legendary rock star, Lou Reed. If you don't know who Lou Reed is, you don't know much about rock n' roll. Or you don't know as much as I do, which is forgivable... you probably didn't have a hippie mother who took you to see The Rolling Stones when you were in high school (or The Grateful Dead while you were in utero, for that matter) and a dad who's worked in radio and played "Yellow Submarine" for you on his guitar when you were little.

But back to Lou Reed. Lou Reed's heel has probably seen more action than Brandon Flowers could ever imagine to experience in his little Mormon life, in his tiny Mormon body. How did these two meet and how did Brandon Flowers not spontaneously combust in the presence of heroin, punk rock, and bisexuality's poster child? They idolized Lou in Trainspotting. He dated a tranny for years. Brandon Flowers isn't allowed to smoke or drink, but maybe his selling point is that he's a cult member, I don't know. He'll never be tranquilized unless he gets stung by a bee or something... That I know.

Here's the rub: I like "Shadowplay" (the Joy Division remake) and "Tranquilize" so maybe I'll like Sawdust. All I know is that if Brandon Flowers and Sam Endicott ever came to fisticuffs, I vote Sam.

Monday, January 07, 2008

Short Thoughts on a Sad Day

It was two years today (January 6th) since my brother died. I have tried successfully not to dwell by sleeping until almost 1:30 this afternoon and then dulling my mind with TV, the internet, and making a ridiculous purchase from Sephora. When I finally stop watching TV and try to go to sleep is when it will be hard. I've also successfully avoided all contact through my phone today.

I do remember that day like it just happened, though. The feelings are just somewhat different. Sometimes that chest-crushing, broken-hearted feeling returns, but back then it was all day, every day. I couldn't sleep, and when I did, I had nightmares, or woke up crying. It was so hard. It still is. The hardest part is I don't think anyone understands on any level still. My family's dynamic was completely destroyed two years ago and we still haven't figured out how to make it work. How to just be around each other and not feel uncomfortable because someone is missing.

I still don't understand how someone can be here one day and gone forever the next. We're way beyond that point that maybe he's off fighting fires and he'll be home in a few months. This is a situation where you have to figure out how to adjust and live your life with a huge piece missing. It's like being an amputee or something. I last saw my brother on January 1st, 2006. He called me on January 3rd. On January 6th, he was dead.

On The Wheeler Blog you can read what Josh and I wrote for a printout for his memorial service. That was about the worst thing I've ever had to do. We should not have had to do it, and it felt like nothing could be good enough for Matt. I still don't feel like I can do anything to honor his memory. So I watched cartoons all day.