I believe it was Eb, double-style, extra fortissimo, don't you know.

One film that I have loved since before I can remember is called The Point. It's a crudely animated movie that was released in 1971. It stars a young boy named Oblio, and his dog Arrow. Oblio ends up banished to the pointless forest, only to learn amazing life lessons that go unacknowledged in this day and age.

My favorite character of all time, and the voice I hear in my head that tries to calm my nerves when I'm being over-analytical and nervous (aside from the voice of my darling father), is that of the Rock Man. In fact, while I've designed several tattoos for myself that I've yet to get, the Rock Man is one that I consider a priority. Even revisiting this old film, whether it's Rock Man's scene, or the miscellaneous songs written for it, or just having it in the background while I go about my life, catching occasional glimpses of the animation style and listening to the characters I've grown up adoring, always leaves me with a sense of calmness that my personality normally lacks.

The entire movie is on YouTube, if you feel so inclined. But, if you don't, no worries. I'll still implore you to spend a few minutes listening to the Rock Man, in all his infinite wisdom.

Totes inTERESTing... maybe.

This was a conversation I had with a friend of mine as we tried to uncover the mystery behind slang. 

Him: That’s totally interesting…. Totes interesting… totes terest? 

me: (I just stare at him with the most confused face I could muster.)

Him: Yeah, "terest" isn't going to catch on… I have a feeling.

me: Wait, what the hell are you talking about?

Him: You know! Terest! As in, “Hmmm..I find that in-TEREST-ing.”

me: Uhh.... nope. I don’t think that’s an actual slang term.

Him: That is because I just made it up. Obvs.

me: Plus, it has too many syllables. Slang has to be simple so you basically HAVE to use it. All slang is like that, right?

Him: Maybe. Some slang just doesn't make any sense, though. 

me: Of course it does! For example, people say, "Fuck," instead of, "I accidentally dropped those scissors on my foot and it hurt quite a bit, and I'm probably bleeding and going to end up losing a toe." 

Him: Well, not always....

me: Or they'll say something's, "ridic'," instead of "Well goodness! That isn't quite preposterous, but it IS certainly quite ridiculous." 

Him: You seem to have very specific definitions surrounding your use of slang. What else?

me: .... I'm trying to think of more, but aside from "fuck" and "ridic'" I can only come up with old slang... like, "color me excited!" and, "Sit on it!"

Him: Wow. That says a lot. Though I can't decide if it's that you're really old, or you spend the majority of your time around really old people..... Wait, are you calling me old?!?

me: Not at all. I'm the old one, and also, according to the evidence, pretty lame. Oh!!!!! Wait!!!! Lame totes counts as slang! People say "lame" instead of "that's awfully stupid, I'm feeling bored, and I wish you would just shut up." 

Him: (Laughs at my excitement over coming up with a slang term that's even vaguely contemporary.)

me: Hey, you know what? You can just... go... SIT ON IT. Yeah, that's right, Giggles McGee. What have you got to say to THAT?!

Him: (Still laughing) LAME!

-L

Summertime... and Atlanta is sticky.

Summers in Atlanta are the worst. I loathe being too hot. Every year I think to myself, "Don't worry, self. There's no way this year will be as wretchedly hot and humid as last year." Every year I'm wrong. Blech.

It doesn't help that today has been a particularly stressful day. Work is getting the better of me, and I find myself frustrated and bothered. I'm also feeling impatient, because there are a few projects I'm handling that I can't really do anything with until the other parties involved get back to me. Patience is not my strong suit.

The whole thing is horrifically tragic.

I should probably let my boss know that I'll be spending the rest of my day throwing and attending a pity party for one. He'll be invited, of course, but who wants to go to a crappy party like that? No one, that's who. I don't even want to go, and it's MY party, for and about and planned by me. I'll even be serving... um... water and sunflower seeds. Sorry, self. That's all I've got. 

It's raining cats and dogs. And rain. Minus the cats and dogs.

That's right. Atlanta is getting soaked. I love the rain, mostly because it cools everything off. I get really pissy when I'm too hot. It makes me lazy, too. And feel all gross and sticky. When I'm too cold, however, it motivates me to get up off my ass (until I find a big, fluffy blanket and a giant sweater that is in no way attractive but is so comfortable I don't give a shit, and then snuggle up with Lucy and nap).

And there's your Atlanta weather report.

In other news, work has been interesting as of late. It's great, because work is always going to be interesting. It's owned/run by open-minded, easy going, unconventional people, and they're all stellar. I take for granted the fact that I don't have to worry about saying, "shit!" if I drop something on my foot, and that I can bring my 130 lbs Great Dane to work to play with the owners' basset hounds, and that everyone here (well, the Fab 5 at least) supports and encourages everyone else. Plus, the damn place is a zoo, and there's always something going on at the complex.

All of this hilarity is creatively motivating for me. I haven't been painting as much anymore, but I have been trying to sketch and play with color and all that nonsense. And when I say "nonsense," I really mean it. My random little doodles are in no way the work of... well... I wanted to say "a master", but they're really not even student-caliber.

Despite the amateur nature of my little doodles, they're occasionally amusing. So it was no surprise the other day when I had a spark of inspiration, and grabbed my pen for a 5 minute sketch break.

What happened next was terrifying. For some reason, what I imagined in my head was WAY less bizarre and creepy when in my head than it was once on paper. I swear to god that there's a story surrounding this, um, thing. But that's not important. What is important, is that you say hello to MissBeard.

The Beatles sound nothing like a flat tire.

I suddenly realized that I promised to share the story of my first flat tire here. So here you go.

I was maybe 18 years old. My first car was a 1995 Honda Accord. It was champagne colored (which is a fancy way of saying "old lady gold" colored), and it was a manual. It took me far too long to learn how to drive the bastard, so once I figured the transmission out I was constantly driving somewhere.

It was a lovely day in Atlanta. There was a cool breeze, and my senior year of high school was coming to a close. I was driving down Briarcliff Rd, headed away from school and toward home, more than likely. I had a Beatles song ("I Want You" from Abbey Rd) playing louder than my now 25 year old self would be able to enjoy. I love that song because of the bass line, and as I was listening to the bass kick in I heard an unfamiliar, "WHUB WHUB WHUB."

I listened for a minute, and then begrudgingly turned the song down. The "WHUB WHUB WHUB" continued.

I turned off onto a side street, pulled the E brake, and got out to investigate. The rear passenger tire was so flat ("How flat was it?") that it could be confused for Calista Flockhart's chest. Or pancakes. Or Otto after K-k-k-Ken c-c-c-came to k-k-k-kill him.

Being the little go-getter that I am, I decided to change the bastard myself. I had a spare tire in the trunk, and all the tools I would need to handle the job (despite the lack of a smartphone to coach me with its incredibly useful internet access).

As I pulled all the crap I would need out of the trunk, I suddenly figured out why a spring/summer day in Atlanta had such a lovely breeze. It was bringing rain. Or, rather, it brought the rain, which chose to pour down upon me at that very moment.

I looked up, scowled at the asshole clouds and their shit timing, and continued to search the trunk for the jack. I found it, went around to the side of the car, and started to try to change my tire.

I positioned the jack, figured out how to lift the tail end of the car with the hooked, hangar-esque rod I had, and raised that flat tire off the ground. Then I went to actually remove it, and realized that the lug nuts had last been put on the car by the Hulk. It was physically impossible to get them off.

Believe me. I sat crouched there for what seemed like hours, in the flash-thunderstorm, trying to convince myself that I just needed to twist a little harder. I was so determined to prove that I could handle a simple flat tire, and prove that I was an "adult" at 18, and prove that I wasn't afraid of a little rain, that I would've succeeded were it not for those high powered drills that shops use to put the lug nuts back on wheels.

I eventually gave up, frustrated, and managed to half-trip over the curb. Which then caused me to step in the most poorly-placed anthill in the history of ants. In flip flops, no less. And (still) in the rain.

I escaped the anthill with only a few bites on my foot. I got back into the car (gently, so as to not disturb the jack that I had entirely forgotten about/given up on), and searched for my old, flimsy flip phone.

I called my dad's office (he refused to have a cell phone, so it was the only way to reach him), and got his voicemail. So I called home, and got the answering machine (I assume Bec was out picking up Mara from school). I then sat in my car, in the rain, scratching the new ant bites on my foot, and I cried tears of frustration that rivaled those of a 3 year old coming down from a sugar buzz.

After a few minutes, I forced myself to put an end to the itchy, soaking wet pity party I was in the midst of throwing. I grabbed my shitty Samsung and called my grandparents.

Grandpa and Gram lived outside of Atlanta by anywhere from 30-45 minutes (depending upon the time of day.... You know, Atlanta traffic and all that). But they had always shown me that I could call on them no matter what. When my mother would promise to show up and then just find something better to do... when I was confused and emotional and needed to spend a night or two away from Daddy and Bec... when I needed to learn how to drive and Gramps would pick me up at 8am on Saturdays, trusting me to drive his truck around the city... when all I wanted was to build a couch fort and have chocolate malts and watch movies all night with Gram and Ida... they were always in my life, picking up any pieces that I dropped and making me feel loved despite that.

Gramps answered the phone on the third ring.

"Middletons," he said (which is still his greeting when answering the phone).

I sniffled, and tried not to be too upset so as not to worry him. "Gr-Gramps? I have a flat tire, and I tried to change it but can't get the lug nuts off, and it's raining, and ants attacked me and no one will answer their phones and I don't know what to do and-and-and...."

I lost it and just started sobbing.

I could hear Gramps on the other end of the line, trying really, really hard not to laugh at my emotional response to this hysterically ridiculous horrific chain of events.

"Okay, okay, tell me where you are."

I did.

"I'll be there in 35 minutes. Just stay there, stay out of the rain, and try not to step in anymore ant hills."

So I sat in my car, calmed myself down, and finished the Beatles song (well, finished the album) I was listening to back before I could even imagine a scenario such as the one I was living.

Finally, Gramps pulled up in his sparkly, green truck. As he got there, the clouds parted and the rain stopped. For a brief second I felt like Daffy Duck in those old cartoons, except for the fact that Daffy's grandfather never showed up to give that raincloud a talking to. Then Gramps got out of the truck, put the donut on my car, and followed me down the street to Sears.

Maybe it was because I was a broke, soaking wet, ant-bitten high school student... or maybe it was because he just loves me to death... or maybe it was even due to the fact that I managed to provide such unexpected entertainment... but Gramps pulled out his wallet and bought me a set of new tires (which was a HUGE deal, because he is very, VERY... careful with his money). He waited with me, to make sure they were on the car and safe and ready to go, and then he went home. And so did I.

I've since had to change a flat tire here or there, and managed it okay on my own. But despite the rain, and the poor timing, and the douchebag ants that had to bite a girl when she was down, I'm glad I couldn't get those stubborn, asshole lug nuts off that day. I love my grandfather, and damn it, he loves me too.

And that was the story of my first flat tire. Sorry it ended so mushily, but it always makes me feel loved, and that reminds me to be grateful. Sleep well, darlings. Or don't. You know, whatever.

<3
-L

Not to be cliche, but I just opened with, "Not to be cliche, but...".

You know the old saying, "The only constant in life is change,"?

I hate that saying.

I hate it for the same reason one person may hate the person they're arguing with, after being shown how their opponent is absolutely 100% on the money.

The only constant in life is change. It's true. That's why it's irritating (at least today... sometimes it's simply something to look forward to).

I wish I had something witty but poignant to say. My creativity lately has been frustratingly attention deficit. I'm hoping that I can give it a good jumpstart, or at least remind my creativity that I'm not going to allow its bullshit lack of focus ruin my drive. Damn it.

Love to all. I hope to post again soon, with something at least somewhat more interesting than, "Haha, I can't focus long enough to write anything interesting, so consider this a throwaway post, lolololol."

<3
-L

Red clearly means go

For the record, I fucking hate cyclists.

I understand that hating an entire group of people (without personally knowing everyone in that group) is... um... fuck. I feel like there's a word for just general prejudice that applies to a specific group.....

We're just going to go with "nonracist racism". Because I don't really give a damn what color their skin is, or where they're from, or who their parents are. If they're on a bicycle, wearing spandex jumpsuits and helmets designed to make them look cool (but really only make them look even more douchey), then I hate them.

There's a reason for this, too, beyond my impatience when stuck behind one of them. Let me tell you a story.

Yesterday I was driving home from work. In front of me was, you guessed it, a cyclist. Because I work 9-10 hour days, and was in no mood to drive 15 miles an hour all the way through my neighborhood, and there were no cars in the oncoming lane, I sped up and went around that self-righteous asshole. I ended up just missing the light I was trying to make about a half mile away. So I sat there, waiting for my light to turn green. As the opposing light turned yellow and I slipped Honda into first gear, preparing for my green light (because you should STOP at red lights, and GO at green lights, according to the RULES OF THE ROAD) that son of a bitch peeled around my car, and jumped in front of me. He made it to the other end of the intersection as my light turned green.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am totally down with sharing the road and all that jazz. But I am NOT down with people on bicycles pretending that they're cars, and holding up traffic, and being all pompous and spandexy, if they're just going to ignore the rules when it suits them.

They aren't called The Rules of Driving a Car. They're The Rules of the FUCKING ROAD. You know, that thing that they're riding their wheely, leg-powered, banana-seated nonsense on? Yeah, that's right, cyclists. YOU'RE ON A ROAD. ACT LIKE IT.

I mean, Jesus, they could at least have the decency to stop at a fucking red light (unless a Marta bus is nearby and decides to teach them a lesson... but that would be the last red light they sped through).

You know what? If the cyclists REALLY just insist on never stopping for red lights, that's fine. I can learn to live with that. All I ask is that they ride on the sidewalk, where things that don't have to stop for red lights (like pedestrians, or joggers, or stray dogs) tend to hang out.

The most frustrating thing is that I can't just give the assholes a friendly bumper tap to prove my point.

Jerks. 

Hello?... No, I'm writing a blog entry.... A BLOG ENTRY!... Nah, it's rubbish.

I recently started re-watching Lost. It was during the second episode that Sayid made a little speech about people tracking down batteries, and not using their electronics so they could save the power.

And then my brain was all, “You know what would be funny? If that dildo from HappyTrigger TV was there, with his comically giant cell phone.  It would be like, ‘Doo do do doo, doo do do dooo, doo do do doo doooooo….'

'HELLO?! HELLO?! No, I’m on an island! AN ISLAND! Yeah. Yeah the plane went down, some guy is giving a speech about batteries or something, it’s all rubbish. I SAID IT’S RUBBISH! Yeah, so what are you up to? Yeah? Wait, what?! HELLO?! HELLO?!!! Fuck. Phone’s dead.’”

I could just see everyone in the entire cast slowly turning their heads to look at him, with the most incredulous expressions on their faces. Then I laughed my ass off for a good 15 minutes.

I may have to make this happen... if only to prove that it's actually funny to people other than me.

In other news, Lucy is ridiculous. I was sitting on the couch with her the other day, and when I looked at her I was greeted by:

I laughed to myself, imagining that Lucy was sitting there for the past 10 minutes trying to get my attention with her dog brain, which would've sounded something like this:

"Mom! Mom, look at me! Mom, LOOK. My tail is a mustache! Hey, MOM. I mustache you a question! Hahaha! Mommmm, you aren't even looking!"

Then I turned to Lucy, and told her that her tail was not a mustache, and to quit screwing around. She rolled her eyes, sighed a little bit, and proceeded to spread out to the point of taking up a good 7/8 of the couch.

Jerkdog.







That's all for now. I have to go learn how to creatively edit two shows together (in order to prove that I'm more funny than totally mental), and keep my dog from making mustaches at me with her tail. It's going to be a very busy day.

<3,
-L

Apples and oranges... and Rainbow Trout?

MacBook is still at the computer hospital. I called Apple today, and they’re waiting on some parts so that they can figure out if they’re right in assuming that the logic board was faulty, or that something else was corrupt... or, um, something. 

I have no idea what any of that meant. All I heard was, “Blah, blah, waiting… blah, dead computer, blah blah give us 24 hours to get the parts in and we’ll call you.” Tragic. 

I think the worst part about not having the damn thing is that I am not fond of silence. I always have some show or movie playing, even if I’m busy with something that demands my full attention. I think it’s a generational thing. I mean, commercial radio broadcasts didn’t exist until the 1920s. Before then, you had to just keep musicians around if you couldn’t deal with silence. Maybe this is why my generation is so damn attention deficit.

Discussing the downfall of MacBook with a friend of mine led into this conversation:

Him: So… what if Apple had gone with a different fruit? Like “Banana”? Or “Grape”

Me: No, no. Apple used to be Macintosh, which is a type of apple. So it would have to be like Clementine originally, and then changed to Orange once the Clementines were gaining popularity.

Him: Clementines aren’t oranges. Are they? They’re too small. They’re tangerines or something.

Me: They may as well be oranges. I thought tangerines were a type of orange, too. If it’s a round, orange fruit, it’s an orange in my book. Also, if they hadn’t gone with the name Apple in this strange, alternate universe, then wouldn’t the operating systems be named after something other than big cats? Like birds, or types of fish, or something?

Him: I heard Orange was going to come out with Tuna in a few weeks, but if you ask me, I think Largemouth Bass is a way better OS.

Me: Yeah, I prefer to keep my Orange running Rainbow Trout. I like to kick it old school.

Him: Psh. If you really wanted to keep it old school, you’d be running Tilapia 2.0. Duh.

Me: Rainbow Trout came out before Tilapia 2.0. It was on the original Clementine. You need to brush up on your Orange history.

Him: You are so wrong. Your brain must be running Salmon. *rolls eyes*

So, you know, at least I have plenty of stellar friends to distract me from my lack of a distraction. Or something like that. Ugh, I can't think today. Maybe my brain is running Salmon. 

-L 

Are we going to be tested on this?

Apologies for the horrific handwriting. And if you subscribe to my posts, I'm sorry the first go-round was out of order.

<3
-L