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.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
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
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Witches in May
This house wasn't like most. From afar it appeared normal but as I closed in on it I realized that instead of the common "Welcome" decal on the door this one read, "Leave your brooms at the door". Additionally, the ever present floral wreath hanging on the door hugged within its hole a five point star creating a pentagram. No doubt about it, I was at the home of a real life witch. Eureka! Believe it or not I'm no stranger to witchery, in fact while working the graveyard shift at an old folks home after high school I was often on shift with a practicing Wiccan called Janessa, who made a constant effort at converting me (hence my aforementioned pentagram realization). I knew only one thing, I HAD to knock on her door.
I made my way up the walkway, through weeds, past potted herbs, overflowing ashtrays, past a broom and by porcelain frogs. I knocked and a gaggle of dogs let loose on the other side of the door howling, barking, snarling and scratching. Someone was coming, shrieking at the dogs to shut up and move out of the way. And then she opened the door, but just a crack. I said the only thing I could think to say in my moment of panic and excitement, "How many you got back there?" (dogs, that is) To which she responded, "Five." "Oh." I said. I surprised myself next when from my mouth spilled, "So are you a witch, or what?" In her smoky bark she replied, "Some people call me that," "Oh, that's cool," I squeaked. She questioned, "Do you need something?" Do I need something? DO I NEED SOMETHING? My mind let loose imagining the precious treasures a witch could possibly offer; potions, spells, herbs, frog eyes, Hansel and/or Gretal with or without a side of gingerbread, tiger tears, ghouls, cauldrons, invisibility cloaks, Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans, black flame candles, fairy dust and the likes, the options are virtually endless. Keeping cool nonchalantly said I to her, "No. Just curious is all." Without so much as a thought she slammed what little crack of door she opened for me and I went on my merry way satisfied with having met a real life, genuine, first class, primetime, grade-A witch (for the second time, I guess). At least I know where to go next time I'm in the market for some witching goods.
Later on my drive home I passed a farm where I spotted grazing in its fields at least three buffalo. REAL LIFE BUFFALO and a REAL LIFE WITCH! What a day.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Arkansas
Another noteworthy discovery from my southern adventure travel log:
"I have officially driven through Arkansas and found that people actually live here! It's a place where people live and eat and *thrive just like they do everywhere else in the country. Besides and in addition to my own observations, according to the East Indian man working at the EconoLodge it's 'a very nice place.' Weird, huh? Who would've thought, certainly not I."
*debatable.
"I have officially driven through Arkansas and found that people actually live here! It's a place where people live and eat and *thrive just like they do everywhere else in the country. Besides and in addition to my own observations, according to the East Indian man working at the EconoLodge it's 'a very nice place.' Weird, huh? Who would've thought, certainly not I."
*debatable.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Tennessean Tales
I met a woman the other day called Frankie. She lost 98 pounds and won the Biggest Loser competition at her local gym in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. I told her about my plans to attend graduate school in Arizona this fall, she became excited and told me that I absolutely had to meet her daughter. To my delight her daughter, Tina, shortly thereafter arrived and Frankie yelled, "Tina, get over here! This here is Matt, he's buyin' up some property in Arizona." I shot a confused look at Frankie and apparently impressed by my sudden status as a soon-to-be land owner Tina licked her lips and questioned, "Oh, really? Is it oceanfront? I love the beach"
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