A couple months back, living in Nashville, I was YouTubing. You know how YouTube suggests similar videos "you might also enjoy" after each video you watch? The following is one of those and it is so deliciously disturbing and obnoxious that I've shared it with more than a few friends over the months and now it's time to go public with it. Well it already has about a million views but you get the point, and if you are one of the unfortunate/fortunate few still missing out, please enjoy and don't stop before the rapturous 60 second note hold near the end.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Read
It has been brought to my attention that I attempted to start a book club, suggested one book and never brought it up again. I quickly realized that I'm no Oprah, I guess. Anyhow, forget the whole "club" thing, instead from time to time I'll just suggest a good read, probably something I've already started and enjoy. Feel free to read along and comment as you go (a la club of yesteryear).
I've mentioned before that one of my favorite books is "Bridge to Terabithia" by Katherine Paterson and it turns out she's got a pretty full resume of other short books, several of which are award winners. If you'd like to join me in reading "Linguistic Anthropology" I'd be happy as a clam, but if you're looking for something a bit lighter I recommend "Jacob Have I Loved", yet another Newberry Award winner by Katherine Paterson.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Risk
Three weeks ago I went to church for the first time in Flagstaff. During the Elder's quorum class one kid particularly stood out. I can't remember his name but as this story unravels imagine the love child of Mr. Burns (with hair) from the Simpson's and Gollum from Lord of the Rings. OK, not that awkward, but really quite hunched and bony for an 18 year-old. He introduced himself as an incoming freshman from Phoenix then quickly sat down, only to stand right back up and add that if anyone in the congregation was interested and had "about six or seven hours free one day" he would love to host a hearty game of Risk. My soul dwindled a little bit in that moment mostly because I knew there were probably a fair amount of guys in the room looking forward to taking him up on such a generous offer.
Yesterday I went to church again. The third hour class arrived and I took a seat in the middle row. Just after sitting that same boy was the next to walk in and sit almost right in front of me. He turned around to face me and the following conversation erupted:
Boy: Did you shave your head so we wouldn't know that you're balding? You are balding, right?
Me: (completely thrown off and a bit shocked) I, uh. ha.
Boy: I'm glad I don't have that problem.
Me: I like to cut it (unable to fully explain the haircut I had given myself the night before) sho(rt)....
Boy: (talking over me) My grandpa started losing his hair at 26 and it never came back. He's completely bald now. I don't know what I'll do if I have that same problem. How old are you? How old were you when you started balding?
Me: (staying calm and nervously laughing. completely aware that the room was near full and all ears were listening in on the conversation I was pitifully losing) I'm obviously balding and I like to cut it short because I think it looks better like this. I've accepted my baldness, it doesn't bother me too much.
Boy: (shaking his head sympathetically for my unfortunate condition) Man, that sucks! I just don't know what I would do. That would be so hard (leaning in to inspect my scalp).
Me: (leaning away. red-faced and panicky, looking around for some quick support. Locating the other bald guy in the room whose eyes quickly avoided mine) It's not a big deal, really. Everyone loses their hair eventually. It doesn't bother me.
Boy: I just really hope I never go bald.
Me: I kind of hope you do. Now.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
First Day of School Blues
In the middle of my first day at NAU I took a short break and ordered a smoothie from the Jamba Juice in the student center. While waiting for my order the following conversation took place:
Boy: (in a somewhat creepy melodic whisper) Would you mind if I took a seat at your table?
Me: (most likely glaring at his spiked hair and black cape, but keeping it cool) Of course. How's you're day going?
Boy: (still whisper-singing) Well today is Tuesday, my hardest day of the week. If I make it through today I should be fine.
Me: Oh, good luck then. What are you studying?
Boy: Elementary education.
Me: (concerned for the well-being of my future children) Oh yeah? Sounds tough. How far along are you in the program?
Boy: I'm in my second year. How long have you been here?
Me: Today is my first day ever!
Boy: Really? You look WAY, WAY older than that.
Me: I think they just called my order number. See ya.
Boy: (in a somewhat creepy melodic whisper) Would you mind if I took a seat at your table?
Me: (most likely glaring at his spiked hair and black cape, but keeping it cool) Of course. How's you're day going?
Boy: (still whisper-singing) Well today is Tuesday, my hardest day of the week. If I make it through today I should be fine.
Me: Oh, good luck then. What are you studying?
Boy: Elementary education.
Me: (concerned for the well-being of my future children) Oh yeah? Sounds tough. How far along are you in the program?
Boy: I'm in my second year. How long have you been here?
Me: Today is my first day ever!
Boy: Really? You look WAY, WAY older than that.
Me: I think they just called my order number. See ya.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Scallywag
I'm a big believer in signs. Some are straightforward, others not so much. Tell me please, why, when I've probably seen no more than one person donning an eye patch in the last three years, have I seen three in the last three days?
Saturday, July 11, 2009
The Iron Butterfly
If I had known she was only going to sign 150 autographs I most certainly, not to mention eagerly, would have left my house at 5:00 a.m. instead of at 6:00. Dolly wasn't set to appear until 10:00 which left me at my approximated 205th spot in line with no less than 600 other ecstatic, bejeweled, costumed, tired, hungry, sweating, and possibly rabid Dolly Parton fanatics. With records, posters, t-shirts, and dolls in tote for the country music legend to sign we stood united, knowing that our chances of meeting her were slim, but continuously hoping and praying to the God that is so good that we might catch even the slightest glimpse of that puffy surgical masterpiece we still call a face.
With angst swelling within, minutes were like days and hours felt like years as we stood. The Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum in downtown Nashville had become our fortress that held within its confines security, peace, and most importantly, a wig-wearing seven-time Grammy winning phenomenon. 8:00 trotted by and a commotion suddenly erupted from the masses. There was a noise coming from the Hall of Fame entrance, the door rattled. "Could it be?" we couldn't help but wonder. Would La Partón dare emerge from her cocoon of safety to quench our craze and curiosity?
The doors flew open and a disappointed gasp revealed that She Who Must Not Be Named, though generous enough to distribute 2.5 million books annually to underprivileged children around the world, was not crazy enough to throw herself to a starved pack of wolves. It was, in fact, a representative from the Museum informing us that the 150 tickets had been distributed to the lucky early birds BUT there was a slight chance a few more would be handed out "based on several possible circumstances." Circumstances came, four additional individuals were invited to join the elite inside the building while the rest of us, unsatisfied, refused to leave.
By 8:45 I had developed at least two Facebook friend-worthy camaraderies with two girls who had come to Nashville from San Francisco for a music festival that had ended the previous night and caught wind of the appearance. And a couple, dedicated lifelong fans, who moved to Music City to get closer to the sultry Smoky Mountain Songbird. Together we reminisced; discussing our favorite Parton-composed songs, the moment we became fans, her positive influence on the world, her infectious sense of humor and her giant plastic face. One of the girls pointed out, "She's such a role model for strong independent women." amen. Caught in a moment of agreement our attention suddenly shifted to the newly flared commotion behind us. A woman screamed. Then a small crowd sprinted to the window and unable to restrain myself I joined them. It was finally happening. She had arrived. Mercilessly I shoved my way to a prime spot on the window. I found her and gasped. I knocked. She turned her huge face and looked me in the eyes. Instantly I began to sweat. The Backwoods Barbie herself and I were separated by one inch of glass and a bookcase.
Dizzy, I scrambled to find my "friends" and spot in line just in time for a second museum rep. to make a final announcement that we would all get to enter the museum in groups of five, to take a photo. Suddenly feeling out of place and unworthy of her presence without so much as a "Dolly Forever" t-shirt, I momentarily panicked and considered making a mad dash for my car. After all, I had seen her already. I took a deep breath however, collected my emotions and waited in silence for the next 15 minutes until I was finally ushered in.
Like cattle to the slaughter we were placed in a steadily and quickly moving line that wove between bookshelves. We were told to have cameras ready as stopping would not be an option. I neared the desk where she sat upon her throne, the Queen of Nashville, graciously signing autographs and exchanging laughs with the beaming 154. My camera in hand, I was ferociously snapping, struggling to capture every intimate moment with the Iron Butterfly. And then it was over.
With angst swelling within, minutes were like days and hours felt like years as we stood. The Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum in downtown Nashville had become our fortress that held within its confines security, peace, and most importantly, a wig-wearing seven-time Grammy winning phenomenon. 8:00 trotted by and a commotion suddenly erupted from the masses. There was a noise coming from the Hall of Fame entrance, the door rattled. "Could it be?" we couldn't help but wonder. Would La Partón dare emerge from her cocoon of safety to quench our craze and curiosity?
The doors flew open and a disappointed gasp revealed that She Who Must Not Be Named, though generous enough to distribute 2.5 million books annually to underprivileged children around the world, was not crazy enough to throw herself to a starved pack of wolves. It was, in fact, a representative from the Museum informing us that the 150 tickets had been distributed to the lucky early birds BUT there was a slight chance a few more would be handed out "based on several possible circumstances." Circumstances came, four additional individuals were invited to join the elite inside the building while the rest of us, unsatisfied, refused to leave.
By 8:45 I had developed at least two Facebook friend-worthy camaraderies with two girls who had come to Nashville from San Francisco for a music festival that had ended the previous night and caught wind of the appearance. And a couple, dedicated lifelong fans, who moved to Music City to get closer to the sultry Smoky Mountain Songbird. Together we reminisced; discussing our favorite Parton-composed songs, the moment we became fans, her positive influence on the world, her infectious sense of humor and her giant plastic face. One of the girls pointed out, "She's such a role model for strong independent women." amen. Caught in a moment of agreement our attention suddenly shifted to the newly flared commotion behind us. A woman screamed. Then a small crowd sprinted to the window and unable to restrain myself I joined them. It was finally happening. She had arrived. Mercilessly I shoved my way to a prime spot on the window. I found her and gasped. I knocked. She turned her huge face and looked me in the eyes. Instantly I began to sweat. The Backwoods Barbie herself and I were separated by one inch of glass and a bookcase.
Dizzy, I scrambled to find my "friends" and spot in line just in time for a second museum rep. to make a final announcement that we would all get to enter the museum in groups of five, to take a photo. Suddenly feeling out of place and unworthy of her presence without so much as a "Dolly Forever" t-shirt, I momentarily panicked and considered making a mad dash for my car. After all, I had seen her already. I took a deep breath however, collected my emotions and waited in silence for the next 15 minutes until I was finally ushered in.
Like cattle to the slaughter we were placed in a steadily and quickly moving line that wove between bookshelves. We were told to have cameras ready as stopping would not be an option. I neared the desk where she sat upon her throne, the Queen of Nashville, graciously signing autographs and exchanging laughs with the beaming 154. My camera in hand, I was ferociously snapping, struggling to capture every intimate moment with the Iron Butterfly. And then it was over.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Mission Nashville: Complete
Persistence pays off. One month and 11 days after having arrived in the Volunteer State this is what happened with a little hard work, lots of dedication and several hours in an early morning line.
Details to come. Trust me, you want these details.
Details to come. Trust me, you want these details.
Friday, June 12, 2009
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