In Maine, there was an anti-discrimination extension to peoples of all sexual orientations passed the Maine Legislature in March of 2005 with support from a strong bipartisan majority in both houses of the Maine Legislature. Now, its being put up for repeal on the ballot.
There have been some yes on 1 stickers places, namely on this guy's bag I saw today at breakfast. I grimaced a little to the people I was sitting with and started talking about the voting issue and such. The guy with the sticker (which is red, white, and blue of course, the whole NO on 1 campaign is green and white. Just and observation.) is standing at the grill when my order is called up. I go up and have to walk past the Yes guy. I get back to the table to one of my fellow liberals pointing out that he was checking me out at the grill. Personally, I think he was reading the back of my shirt, but none the less, it was pretty ironic. How might that pick up go?
Yes guy: So, do you want to go out? Watch Armageddon, get some pie maybe?
Me: Erm, I vote NO on you.
Vote NO on 1 in Maine on November 8th
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
Happy Birthday T.S.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T. S. Eliot
S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, `` What is it? ''
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ``Do I dare?'' and, ``Do I dare?''
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: ``How his hair is growing thin!'']
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: ``But how his arms and legs are thin!'']
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: `` I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all''--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ``That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.''
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
``That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.''
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
T. S. Eliot
S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question...
Oh, do not ask, `` What is it? ''
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening.
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys.
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me.
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ``Do I dare?'' and, ``Do I dare?''
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: ``How his hair is growing thin!'']
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: ``But how his arms and legs are thin!'']
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep. . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: `` I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all''--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: ``That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.''
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow, or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
``That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.''
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Ramblings of the 3am On-duty person
I have a weird job. Resident Director is an odd thing if you look at it from the framework of the pragmatic 9-5er type of view. But I have been doing it for a long time, and while not wholly convienient at times it makes sense. I am on call this week, which basically means I can get called about anything from a lock out to vomit all over a bathroom to sending someone to the hospital. Weekend nights of on call are never much for good sleep, especially towards the beginning of the semester because you never know what you are going to get. So, I cuddle up on my couch with my day clothes still on, protected by my blue & green afgan and try to catch some "duty-sleep" in front of a trusty movie. But tonight, the shallow sleep did not happen, my head is too full of things to let myself drift off. I think about the state of the nation, the state of my students, the book I am reading, how can I ever rock as hard as Jack Black, the start of my student loans, the state of my heart, how much I love Ruth Fisher from Six Feet Under, the Serenity movie and how much I just want that verse to never end, writing and the block that I sometimes need a jackhammer to get chip away at it, what I am going to do for Thanksgiving, who can I call at this hour who won't mind it too too much, the additions I want to make to the tatoo on my arm, the age of thirty, the age of twenty nine, the age I will be when I feel like an adult, how tiny Hannah is, kisses, actually missing the push to write to send a packet into my professor, how the moon looked last year in Deer Isle, how much I really want a Pumpkin Head ale, who can I trust in politics, voting No on 1 on November 8th, the state of marriage and how ludicrious it is that the religious conservatives can tell anyone who they spend the rest of their lives with, how sometimes I think I was a gay man in my past life, if I could perform magic what spells would I cast, how cool telekineis would be minus all the crazy Carrie pig's blood prank and massacre, the comic book convention in Boston next week, Homecoming, job searching, what the hell it would be like to live off campus, and many other things that just kind of add up like small bees in my head until I have a swarm buzzing around in this hive-mind. I need a bee keeper to come with their calm mask and slow smoky vapor to lull the bees to sleep, let me collect the sweet combs of sleep and drink the honey until I am rested and sleep drunk off the nectar. It makes me wish I was four again and I could count on someone tucking me in and rubbing my back and smoothing the hair back from my head to find the cool side of the pillow. Sleep is a weird mistress. Sometimes she will readily bed you and hold you in her soft arms, and other times she won't put out. Damn crazy bitch.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Poem by James Wright
The Blessing
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is as delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
--James Wright
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Sara recommends
The Poem Adept -- Songs for the long lonely drive
I have had this album for a year, and for some insane reason it got put to the back burner of my rotation. Well, after seeing Pete Rothbart play again this week -- its back and its better than I remembered. And this lyric sent me off from "This Hotel Room" send me off into a new poem: I'll get a chair for you to stand on and get your words down from off of the shelf. An artist that can make me write on the spot always gets a special place for me.
Not getting Gesso on your clothes
Saucier has been working on this crazy community of arts program in Robie Andrews and I decided to take one of the seminars. Krista was so interesting and fun to observe being a teacher that I totally lost track of my brush and splattered white Gesso all over. Eh, small price to pay for a learning experience. Next time... aprons.
Dar Williams -- My Better Self
Ok, I am a total sucker for the Dar. She is just a great songwriter, I admire the poetry of her work, and how it seems like she always knows exactly what I wanted to listen to. This is her new album and oh my it does not disappoint. She laid down some bluesy tracks, a cover of Comfortably Numb with Ani Difranco, and its just another solid album. And "Miss you till I meet you" is another song that I could kick myself for not writing. She did it again. But then again, she has one up on me... you know, cause I can't play a tune. Defeated, but so deliciously.
Naked Food Juice -- Superfood Blue Machine
My blueberry hunger cannot be quenched sometimes -- I just love the little plump berries and how they burst sweet and tart on my tongue. This juice is obviously not the same experience -- but it gives me some of that lovely taste. I am a fan of the Odawalla blueberry based juice -- but sometimes its a little too pulpy. This one is good for a smoother drink.
September 30
If you don't know by now... you really don't know me at all.
I have had this album for a year, and for some insane reason it got put to the back burner of my rotation. Well, after seeing Pete Rothbart play again this week -- its back and its better than I remembered. And this lyric sent me off from "This Hotel Room" send me off into a new poem: I'll get a chair for you to stand on and get your words down from off of the shelf. An artist that can make me write on the spot always gets a special place for me.
Not getting Gesso on your clothes
Saucier has been working on this crazy community of arts program in Robie Andrews and I decided to take one of the seminars. Krista was so interesting and fun to observe being a teacher that I totally lost track of my brush and splattered white Gesso all over. Eh, small price to pay for a learning experience. Next time... aprons.
Dar Williams -- My Better Self
Ok, I am a total sucker for the Dar. She is just a great songwriter, I admire the poetry of her work, and how it seems like she always knows exactly what I wanted to listen to. This is her new album and oh my it does not disappoint. She laid down some bluesy tracks, a cover of Comfortably Numb with Ani Difranco, and its just another solid album. And "Miss you till I meet you" is another song that I could kick myself for not writing. She did it again. But then again, she has one up on me... you know, cause I can't play a tune. Defeated, but so deliciously.
Naked Food Juice -- Superfood Blue Machine
My blueberry hunger cannot be quenched sometimes -- I just love the little plump berries and how they burst sweet and tart on my tongue. This juice is obviously not the same experience -- but it gives me some of that lovely taste. I am a fan of the Odawalla blueberry based juice -- but sometimes its a little too pulpy. This one is good for a smoother drink.
September 30
If you don't know by now... you really don't know me at all.
Politics smolotics
| You are a Social Liberal (66% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (5% permissive) You are best described as a:
Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid |
Friday, September 16, 2005
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Poem by Kim Addonizio
So, I am becoming increasingly frustrated with the lack of appreciation for poetry in the world. Ok, I know what you are thinking, Sara just got her MFA and is feeling high and mighty about preaching poetry awareness...blah blah blah i wish she would stop talking so i could make a cheese sandwich, you can't cover poetry with delicious cheddar, hmm, sharp, man i am hungry.... LISTEN! The thing is, I hate the lofty better than thou poetry that poets only write to other poets. I like accessibility and beauty and tangibility. I don't write something that someone is not going to "get". I don't spell it out for people either -- but I to use imagery and senses to bring people to a different place. So, I could use this blog as a masturbatory forum where I only post my own stuff -- but its bigger than that. I have decided to post some poems I think would appeal to people on different levels, and ones that I love. Feel free to post your comments and thoughts on the poem -- and in essence if that happens -- great! Lets start talking. Poetry is the key to what is lacking in this world. And when I say that, lets not assume I think there is only one lock... and there ain't no skeleton key either. So, enough of the rant, onto the poem, and I hope you enjoy the new feature.
Fuck
There are people who will tell you
that using the word fuck in a poem
indicates a serious lapse
of taste, or imagination,
or both. It’s vulgar,
indecorous, an obscenity
that crashes down like an anvil
falling through a skylight
to land on a restaurant table,
on the white linen, the cut-glass vase of lilacs.
But if you were sitting
over coffee when the metal
hit your saucer like a missile,
wouldn’t that be the first thing
you’d say? Wouldn’t you leap back
shouting, or at least thinking it,
over and over, bell-not clanging
in the church of your brain
while the solicitous waiter
led you away, wouldn’t you prop
your shaking elbows on the bar
and order your first drink in months,
telling yourself you were lucky
to be alive? And if you wouldn’t
say anything but Mercy or Oh my
or Land sakes, well then
I don’t want to know you anyway
and I don’t give a fuck what you think
of my poem. The world is divided
into those whose opinions matter
and those who will never have
a clue, and if you knew
which one you were I could talk
to you, and tell you that sometimes
there’s only one word that means
what you need it to mean, the way
there’s only one person
when you first fall in love,
or one infant’s cry that calls forth
the burning milk, one name
that you pray to when prayer
is what’s left to you. I’m saying
in the beginning was the word
and it was good, it meant one human
entering another and it’s still
what I love, the word made
flesh. Fuck me, I say to the one
whose lovely body I want close,
and as we fuck I know it’s holy,
a psalm, a hymn, a hammer
ringing down on an anvil,
forging a whole new world.
--Kim Addonizio
Fuck
There are people who will tell you
that using the word fuck in a poem
indicates a serious lapse
of taste, or imagination,
or both. It’s vulgar,
indecorous, an obscenity
that crashes down like an anvil
falling through a skylight
to land on a restaurant table,
on the white linen, the cut-glass vase of lilacs.
But if you were sitting
over coffee when the metal
hit your saucer like a missile,
wouldn’t that be the first thing
you’d say? Wouldn’t you leap back
shouting, or at least thinking it,
over and over, bell-not clanging
in the church of your brain
while the solicitous waiter
led you away, wouldn’t you prop
your shaking elbows on the bar
and order your first drink in months,
telling yourself you were lucky
to be alive? And if you wouldn’t
say anything but Mercy or Oh my
or Land sakes, well then
I don’t want to know you anyway
and I don’t give a fuck what you think
of my poem. The world is divided
into those whose opinions matter
and those who will never have
a clue, and if you knew
which one you were I could talk
to you, and tell you that sometimes
there’s only one word that means
what you need it to mean, the way
there’s only one person
when you first fall in love,
or one infant’s cry that calls forth
the burning milk, one name
that you pray to when prayer
is what’s left to you. I’m saying
in the beginning was the word
and it was good, it meant one human
entering another and it’s still
what I love, the word made
flesh. Fuck me, I say to the one
whose lovely body I want close,
and as we fuck I know it’s holy,
a psalm, a hymn, a hammer
ringing down on an anvil,
forging a whole new world.
--Kim Addonizio
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Things I am currently obsessed with
*Six Feet Under (I finished season 2-- so don't spoil anything)
*Make Believe - Weezer
*Zinzibar & Altaro from the Body Shop
*Stash's English Breakfast Tea
*Serenity (yeah, kids, this one ain't going away)
*Hot rice pack for all your aches and pains
*My toes (I got a pedicure and the woman insisted i get a star painted on them. Got to admit, its pretty damn cute)
*Not swearing (it costs me 10 cents every time)
*Make Believe - Weezer
*Zinzibar & Altaro from the Body Shop
*Stash's English Breakfast Tea
*Serenity (yeah, kids, this one ain't going away)
*Hot rice pack for all your aches and pains
*My toes (I got a pedicure and the woman insisted i get a star painted on them. Got to admit, its pretty damn cute)
*Not swearing (it costs me 10 cents every time)
Monday, September 12, 2005
Fuel
"The poem will not be denied; to refuse to write it would be greater torture. It tears its way out of the brain, splintering and breaking its passage, and leaves that organ in the state of a jelly-fish when the task is done."
-May Sarton
Sometimes I feel like writing is something I do in my sleep, with each breath, each touch. I think that I should just use my skin as a tablet, thick black strokes, curved words imprinted on white. Would that make my words breathe more? Live more in this world, give them feet to walk around in? Do they get lonely and restless sitting in my books, hidden away in my bedroom, not allowed to see the moon smiling sad and cockeyed in the sky?
-May Sarton
Sometimes I feel like writing is something I do in my sleep, with each breath, each touch. I think that I should just use my skin as a tablet, thick black strokes, curved words imprinted on white. Would that make my words breathe more? Live more in this world, give them feet to walk around in? Do they get lonely and restless sitting in my books, hidden away in my bedroom, not allowed to see the moon smiling sad and cockeyed in the sky?
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Welcome to the world, Hannah.
Hannah Roberts Arey -- September 8, 2005
I know its cheesy to share baby pics, but come on, this one is damn cute.
This one looks like she has a crazy little smile. Probably gas, but I like to think of it as Hannah is going to be one funny chick.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Insensitivity at its peak.
Barbara Bush was touring the Astrodome and made the following statement.
"And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were
underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them."
I seriously did not even know how to react to this. Once again, I am left feeling likeI was slapped in the face, which is nothing compared to the kick in the teeth while already down and bleeding that was just delivered.
"And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were
underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them."
I seriously did not even know how to react to this. Once again, I am left feeling likeI was slapped in the face, which is nothing compared to the kick in the teeth while already down and bleeding that was just delivered.
Sara recommends
Converse High top sneakers, you pick your own color
I have had several pairs of Cons, low top plaid, a lime green, and still have the yellow. I got a pair of royal blue last night -- that color had been my quest for a while. Even though they do not have any arch support, I think they are the most comfortable sneaker (of the non working out variety) for my money. I have also found that anyone worthwhile admires a nice pair of cons.
Getting a really great song stuck in your head
Right now, its "All These Things That I've Done" by the Killers. Even though its a little annoying to get it stuck there, especially when its mostly the part: I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier", I still love bopping around to it in my inner loop.
Bonding with people over crappy situations
We had 3 fire alarms pulled in the matter of 36 hours. Yeah, pretty craptastic, but you have to turn those moments when six of you staff members are filling out police reports at 3am into golden moments. I brought candy down from the office and just started being goofy instead of pissed off. Part of me likes the moments that come from a small and not harmful crisis.
Death Cab for Cutie
Yes, yes, I finally listened to Torrey. Its only really going to happen this once. If any one has ever read his blog (see Word of Ham link on the left here) you will know how he basically goes teenage school girl over this band. (he also goes teenage school girl over Shirley Temple, ask him about it sometime) And, damn, I can see why now. I bought two albums last night and I can't get enough. Well played, Torrey well played.
Anticipation
Yeah, it might drive you insane and might not be able to think of anything else, but you know, there is something to be said for waiting. If Christmas was when ever you wanted it, the tree would not be as magical, the nog not as noggerific, the crinkle of the wrapping paper not as sharp. There has to be a reason why they say, "good things come to those that wait." Right? Or is that just a ploy that the "they" uses to get us to stop squirming in our seats. Naw, I believe them.
I have had several pairs of Cons, low top plaid, a lime green, and still have the yellow. I got a pair of royal blue last night -- that color had been my quest for a while. Even though they do not have any arch support, I think they are the most comfortable sneaker (of the non working out variety) for my money. I have also found that anyone worthwhile admires a nice pair of cons.
Getting a really great song stuck in your head
Right now, its "All These Things That I've Done" by the Killers. Even though its a little annoying to get it stuck there, especially when its mostly the part: I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier", I still love bopping around to it in my inner loop.
Bonding with people over crappy situations
We had 3 fire alarms pulled in the matter of 36 hours. Yeah, pretty craptastic, but you have to turn those moments when six of you staff members are filling out police reports at 3am into golden moments. I brought candy down from the office and just started being goofy instead of pissed off. Part of me likes the moments that come from a small and not harmful crisis.
Death Cab for Cutie
Yes, yes, I finally listened to Torrey. Its only really going to happen this once. If any one has ever read his blog (see Word of Ham link on the left here) you will know how he basically goes teenage school girl over this band. (he also goes teenage school girl over Shirley Temple, ask him about it sometime) And, damn, I can see why now. I bought two albums last night and I can't get enough. Well played, Torrey well played.
Anticipation
Yeah, it might drive you insane and might not be able to think of anything else, but you know, there is something to be said for waiting. If Christmas was when ever you wanted it, the tree would not be as magical, the nog not as noggerific, the crinkle of the wrapping paper not as sharp. There has to be a reason why they say, "good things come to those that wait." Right? Or is that just a ploy that the "they" uses to get us to stop squirming in our seats. Naw, I believe them.
Monday, September 05, 2005
Life should be like this all the time.
I think sometimes how someone approaches a amusement park ride can be indicative of how they approach life.
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