Alright, it’s Christmas, and the only poor souls who visit this blaaarg are my friends, who have requested some of the This Is Ugly stickers I posted about earlier and, frankly, I don’t like making money off my friends. Especially about something like street art. That feels wrong. So lemme know what you want and let us ring in the new year with some Ugly.

Wholesale prices are as follows (shipping is included in prices, so that’s why the math seems all wiggety.)

Bundles

5 Stickers $1.50 USD 25 Stickers $7.00 USD 50 Stickers $13.00 USD 100 Stickers $25.00 USD

Oh, heeeey, Crazy Mind!

Y’know, I was using all that sudden, unexpected mania you’ve been hurling at me recently to fire off an angry missive to you about it late last night until I realized you might actually be really impressed with how innovatively I’ve upcycled your spiteful curveballs. So I thought I’d share, ’cause I’m actually quite proud of my results and you know how I like to talk it out with you when we’ve been at odds. Have a seat.

See, originally, I was admittedly pretty pissed at you for throwing in such an underhanded game-changer this far into our relationship. I thought we had a decent arrangement going; after years of torment, you let me settle into a “normal” life and only drag your crippling depression out once a year just to, I dunno, prove you still can or something. And, sure, I’d acquired enough tools in my belt to handle your inevitable arrivals and just kind of wait them out without getting all self-loath-y and self-destructive, which may have pissed you off a little, but you brought out some new tricks of your own to up your efficiency (like this year when you introduced your new “drooling on myself unconsciously while staring into the middle distance and, thus, taking my self-confidence down a peg or two” app. Quite effective at rattling my sense of sanity. Good work on your part.) so I just thought we’d continue like that for forever. I’d accepted that as a highly probable life path and was cool with working around it so that we could interact without it turning into a downward spiral again. But I guess my implementing active recovery on you these last few years and not bothering to toy with the idea of self-harm ever again must’ve pissed you off something fierce.

And, I gotta hand it to you, springing an abrupt series of mania on me was a damned genius plan on your part. Seriously, not only is it the polar opposite of what I’m well-adjusted to and prepared for but it completely manipulated my strengths and my penchant for ongoing recovery so that my manic episodes were spent obsessing about how to right past wrongs and address old, unanswered questions and other “Step 9″ motives we all know I worry about too much when I’m leveled off. So, not only did I have this crazy super-energy keeping me up all night and this unusual sense of overblown confidence (which, apparently, is a symptom of mania I was not aware of) but I also had you using my good intentions and deeply-rooted beliefs in daily recovery practices as fuel AND justification for my resulting actions. Well played, indeed!

Unfortunately, however, your plan kind of backfired on you, ultimately. Oh, sure, I spent a handful of sleepless nights hammering out massive emails to people in my past to whom I felt deserved an apology (but who, in reality, probably never needed or wanted one or even remembered the original problem) and, with my good intentions squarely before me, I made sure to really delve into the topics at hand on all emotional, personal, psychological and philosophical levels for what I thought would be the benefit of the reader. After these emails came an exchange with an old friend with whom I’d had a brief… fling? (we never really defined it) that ended abruptly and from whom I’d kind of always wanted to know what happened, during which I continued my oversharing, babbling rhetoric. And even after that, there was the completely irrational overreaction to a friend’s response on a debate in freaking Facebook that caused me to panic and send her 7 text messages apologizing for any inadvertent insult I may have delivered while expressing disagreement. Naturally, after each of these instances, I would step back and think, “WHOAWHATTHEFUCKAMIDOING!??!” and feel genuine fear at my inability to stop these impulses that seemed so necessary and imperative while I was implementing them. And then there was the terror of trying to control myself at night by just lying down and trying to breathe while my brain whirred with worry and the desire to get up and remedy things (friendships, messy dishes, touch-up paint jobs… didn’t matter) and my body wouldn’t lie still and I had this constant urge to just start screaming. Oh yeah, your plan was fucking effective; it scared the shit out of me with the idea that there was a new type of Crazy going on and you were somehow evolving along with my recovery, it destroyed my moods during the days when I was delirious from insomnia, it made me mortified when I revisited the crazed messages I’d been sending out, it made me stop trusting myself… you did well.

But, again, it didn’t work. I’d lie and say that I hate to crush your hopes because I know you worked really hard on all this and had a lot of hopes for it but, really, I do like to gloat about crushing your intentions.

See, unfortunately, the people to whom I sent my blathering volumes of hopeful reconciliation turned out to be genuinely chill and understanding and responded with casual appreciation for me having broached the subject. (And NONE of them sounded terrified by my overzealous rambling.) So that part turned out to be nothing but beneficial and did, incidentally, help in my overall recovery. Thanks!

Also, my deteriorating demeanor finally pushed my husband to be honest with me about how my depression has been affecting him and our marriage negatively (a big deal for him) and we sat down and made a game plan for how I could better manage his generosity and kindness without sapping him of energy or neglecting his needs. And that lead to us having one of those big happy talks about why we love each other and what we appreciate in each other as people and how genuinely happy we are to be together. And then we had a freaking amazing two-person bedroom party (seriously, it was in the Top 2 or 3 ever.) And now I’m all motivated to shift my focus and work harder on managing myself in terms of my role as a family member as opposed to just someone with depression. So thanks for that, too!

Oh yeah! And then! When I posted something publicly to vent about how your little week-o-fuckery was making me a walking social disaster, my friends came out of the woodwork to tell me that that’s actually something THEY LIKE in my character (in moderation, of course.) And, during all this, when I went to whine on my blog (to God, specifically) with self-centered pity about how rough I’ve been having it in the spiritual/emotional department (which, by the way, disgusts myself and is kind of painfully redundant when you look at everything I’ve written here over the years) people still came out to send good vibes and wish me well. I know! Craziness, right!?

Ohohoh! And I lost that ten pounds (and change) I’ve been freaking out about since January because I’ve been weirdly not hungry but have been loaded with energy. THANKS A BUNCH!

So, I guess what I’m really, ultimately trying to say here, Crazy Mind of Mine, is FUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCK YOOOOOOOOOOOU.

Gleefully still alive in every possible sense,

L P-S

Oh yeah! I forgot the big one that I have to resist the urge to blurt at least a couple times a year to various people!

~ ::stomps foot:: ::whines:: NNnnnoooooooo-wah! I don’t waaaannna match your elevated vocal pitch to greet you and then pretend to be friendly and listen to what you’ve been “up to” for the next five minutes just because we visited the same cluster of buildings for a few years about a decade ago. You never even made eye contact with me then and neither did the friends of yours that I don’t wanna hear all about eiiittheerrrrr-ah! Go awaaaay… I’m still weird and unpopular and subscribing to crazy hippie ideals; you won’t like me any more now than you did then. I promise. Seriously. Let’s just save our time? Please?

No, okay, look; I know having Asperger’s is nothing to joke about and I would never ever ridicule anybody who has select moments of genius while getting away with saying whatever is on his or her mind because he or she can’t pick up social cues. In fact, I’m pretty jealous of the ability to live without a filter and, at least once a day, I yearn to momentarily escape the confines of a life well-conditioned with manners (…and “manners” in the South, no less; so take whatever your definition of “manners” is, multiply that by 4, and then add some nonsensical unspoken rules and therewego) and blurt out exactly what I’m thinking with the full realization that it is wildly socially inappropriate but with none of the oppressive feelings of conscience.

So in this Friday Confessional, I’ve decided to just come out and publicly say all the shit that I’ve reallyreally wanted to recently but know better than to broadcast in a public forum (again… manners) or even hint that I have an opinion about because, admittedly, some of it is none of my damned business. I know this may seem like a completely passive-aggressive way to address my problems and/or those people to whom I’m responding from the standpoint of the reader, but, hey, nobody said this blog was put here for your benefit. Maybe this is all part of my personal therapy and purging my ongoing unspoken frustrations is a meditational tool to help me move forward. Ever think of that? Maybe I’m just venting just to put it all out there in the Universe and clear my conscious of untackled sentiment whether or not it’s ever going to be read by anybody. Nobody asked you to read this; there’s never been a request that you check in on my happenings. Never stopped to think about that, didja? Well, now we’ve both had some introspection… You’re welcome. (And if you have a response to that, feel free to post it passive-aggressively to your own public blog.)

LET’S BEGIN!

~ You used to hurt my feelings until I stopped and realized what a total loser you’ve grown up to be. It’s weird; I’d always subscribed to and carried around this underlying, inherent idea that you were “cooler than me”, so I never really reevaluated who you’d become over time, (even though that’s what I want everyone to do to me and get frustrated when they don’t) and when I finally did, I realized that you kinda suck. You kinda suck a lot.

~ Whooooooanononono. You don’t get to run away again until you at least give me a freaking answer. WHAT WAS THAT?! There was this, like, affinity and then you got all angry for no reason and then there was the apology a couple years later (out of freaking nowhere, I’ll add…from another STATE) and then a “oh hey! Look forward to getting to know the ‘new you’!” reunion and then you’re gone again. I mean, I’m chalking it up to “sociopath” (as opposed to, say, “tortured genius” or “enigma” but still.) But seriously, what is your deal, man? What was the point of all that in the first place? People don’t just act like that, you know. Not over such an extended length of time and toward one person. It’s weird.

~ IT’S ALL A LIE, EVERYBODY!!! ALL OF IT!!!! I HAVE PROOF!!! I REALLY DO but if I share it with you it’ll just appear to be for my own benefit and it’ll make me look like some crazy, vindictive stalker, which isn’t the case; I just happen to be privy to a lot of information. BUT IT’S A LIE!!! A LIE I TELL YOU!!!!

~ So, um, I know we’ve joked around about thinking each other is hot ‘n junk but, if we had made out when we hung out, that would’ve been weird and made things all awkward and never would’ve gone as hoped, right…? I mean… right?

~ Okay, look. It’s no secret that you were always in love with my friend and that’s cool; she’s one of those people who is literally enigmatic in her creativity and beauty. And I get that I was probably a consolation prize of sorts - I wasn’t really heartbroken by the prospect to begin with, considering I wasn’t the first and I was honestly just into having a good time at that point in my life -  but, I would kind of like to know: we had fun, right? ‘Cause, like, we didn’t speak and then we suddenly did again and we were all “oh hey, cool person! nothing ever happened even though the last time we spoke I was a little pissed at you! But you’re still a generally rad human being I’ve always liked!” That’s kind of how it’s always been, right? I’m not missing anything? There’re no buried resentments on your end? All on the same page here?

~ You see? This? This right here? This is the reason you paid for years of your kid’s therapy and rehab. And, ohbytheway, EVERYBODY knows it. Everyone. Every single person who knows who you are and/or knows you by name. Most of the people who look you in the eyes every day. Everyone. Even you, apparently.

~MAKING RACIST JOKES MAKES PEOPLE WITH BRAINS UNCOMFORTABLE, YOU MORON. I don’t care how “educated” or “hip” you are; you sound like a fucking idiot when you make terrible jokes (and I mean “terrible” in the “not-funny-and-painfully-cliched-and-OMG-so-offensive-I’m-embarrassed-to-be-around-such-ignorant-rhetoric”) about entire groups of people when they’re 20 feet away. Also, white people joking around with the “n” word is the reason I effing hate being white a lot of the time. It stopped being funny a long time ago - like, before we were born. Pay attention.

~Oh, see, by the time you get to be our age, being generally mad at the world and wanting to tell everyone about it all the time is kinda lame. Don’t get me wrong; a lot of us are angry about “The Man” and corporate America and a whole laundry list of junk, but, after you get past the hating-your-superiors era in your late-teens and the self-numbifying-through-self-medicating era of your early 20’s, you start learning how to channel that general “The World is Effed Up” anger into productive things like, I dunno, activism or getting into politics or creating art or volunteering to make the world a better place. Not wearing chains and carving 666 into everything to actively scare the “mindless everyday people.” Because, honestly, nobody really cares how you’re “expressing the darkness”, no matter how loudly you do it. Seriously, you look like kids 15 years younger than us shopping at Hot Topic so they can “fight the power” and “be individuals” in the hour their moms have dropped them off at the mall. And the only statement you’re actively, loudly making is, “I’m sad on the inside and don’t know how to grow emotionally.”

~ Your life sucks because you made it that way. And I’m tired of listening to you whine about it. Actually, everyone’s tired of listening to you whine about how you’re on the brink of making changes and then not ever doing it. It’s really. Really. Tiresome. In fact, even making fun of you saying that you’re going to make changes and then not has become tiresome. And that’s when we know it’s bad.

~ Wait. Wait. Wait. You’re against gay marriage?! Didn’t you… used to be gay?! Oh, we’re going with that whole “I was tempted” thing? I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works… For example, I’ve been “tempted” to have sexual relations with men and women, but never with animals or children… it’s not like lustful temptation is just nailing people with desire willy-nilly, causing them to gravitate toward anything that’s able to fornicate. So, yeah, you sound ridiculous right now.

~ There’s never a good/convenient time to leave your spouse. And I know there aren’t set “rules” or “manners” for this sort of thing, but if you’re going to talk about leaving him/her every six months behind his/her back and then expect me to be comfortable when you’re keep procrastinating, you’re just making your company uncomfortable. FYI.

~ You’re still so beautiful, it makes me sigh the same way I did whenever you were around me in high school. Even though now it’s just though the computer, which is slightly weird, now that I’m actually admitting it to myself.

~ I always feel guilty talking to you because we had such similar “accidental” situations and mine has turned out so much better than yours and it just feels awkward talking about it because my story very easily could’ve been yours and I’m so sorry because you’re just as deserving as I am of a stable, happy life and I’d have you move in with us as a means to even the karmic score or something, but that would make you feel like a charity case, which would make the dynamic worse and that’s not what I want but, dammit, how did I luck out when I was making plenty of deliberate, bad choices at the time? I hope you know I think about you all the time but that’s why I don’t call as often as I should. That’s the honest truth. I know, it’s really really effed up and even saying it out loud sounds like I’m all high and mighty and braggy and snotty and looking-down-y, but it’s true. I feel guilty a lot about it, actually.

~ I don’t give a shit what brand of moron you’re into at the moment, when he started hurting and scaring your kid, I lost all respect for you. It’s not about you anymore, idiot; you’ve known that longer than I have. Quit acting like a hopeless, lovelorn tween about some dude with emotional issues, grow a pair, and get your kid out of there before you’re paying for his therapy… or bail… You’ve got a really cool kid; I’d be livid if you screwed him up because you were pulling this selfish, helpless crap until he moves out.

~ Really? You really lost respect for me because I put into legal documentation the love that I have for the man who fathered my child? What a totally awesome feminist mentor you turned out to be.

~ I realize how totally and completely lame this is but I’d honestly like to know what your opinion of me was back then and what my role in that group dynamic was. I keep getting the feeling that our viewpoints were pretty conflicting judging by the things we share with each other now, but I’d like to get everybody liquored up and have aaalll the truths come tumbling out sometime. We’re in a place where retrospective insights can be shared without fear of hurting each other, right? We’re all totally over whatever drama happened to those people we were back then, right? C’maaaan… Like you don’t want to know the same about our insights to the whole thing… I mean, we’re still friends. What’s the worst that could haaappeennn?

~ No, seriously; how do someone’s looks peak in high school? You’re starting to make me think the “It Gets Better” Campaign is exclusively for gay kids.

~Oh, hey! Now that you’re finally “out”, are you still starting needless personal drama with your vulnerable, adolescent pupils or are you done being wholly motivated by your mismanaged anger now?

~ Heads up, you guys; we’re all living “lifestyles of sin”, which is why those Bibles you supposedly check in with daily say you guys need Christ in the first place. So, refusing to go dancing with gay people because you don’t support their lifestyles and you’d “be uncomfortable around all that sinning” not only contradicts pretty much everything Christ instructed his followers to do (like hanging out with the “castoffs of society” and “not judging others”), but must also mean you don’t listen to ANY music at all because, you know, those guys live in sin (again, as we all do, which is why “we need Christ”… am I talking in circles here?)

~ Hey, uh… I know this is whoa-belated but, was that a date? Because I’m never any good at telling whether or not I’m on a date unless I’m already in a relationship with the person I’m on a date with OR it’s been stated as “a date” instead of “hanging out” and so I’m still confused… well, I say “still”, but, actually, it didn’t dawn on me until, like, years later that, “Holy crap. I think he meant for that to be a date. And I participated in a way that would’ve made myself repellant.” (This one applies to a couple people, actually. I apologize if I was raining on your parade or being a total cock-block; I’m a little inept when it comes to how people get together.)

~ Wow! What leaden testicles you must have, to be able to ignore the earnest and sincere apologies of someone humbled from when she was acting like a complete and total colostomy bag toward you in the distant past and who came forth to make amends on multiple occasions! The maidens must fawn about you and weep at your virility for being able to blatantly ignore formal apologies and, yet, you continue in tolerant strength to keep this humbled, beseeching, flawed soul on your Facebook “friends” list! O, such might of character! Ah, such power! (No, but seriously, I unfriended you a couple years ago. Stop acting like an indignant ass about an imaginary online power struggle.)

~ Your spouse is a snooze and nobody has any idea how you guys got [and stayed] together. I mean, you seem really happy, which we definitely like to see and be around, but we feel like you may be in love with a wax figure and that worries us a little. But, again, as long as you’re happy, we’re happy. Confused, but happy.

~ CHILDREN ARE NOT HIP, COOL ACCESSORIES YOU STRAP ON WHEN YOU WANT TO LOOK MORE WORLDLY AND IN-THE-NOW. Seriously. They’re going to loathe you one day if you keep this up.

~ I seriously hope you haven’t been reading all these entries. I mean, I put them out there so that everybody can, but I always make that assumption that you’re off, you know, living your life and not thinking about me, so you’ve missed whatever I’ve been self-centered and rambling on about recently. But then, on the other hand, I want you to find me fascinating. I kind of never change in that regard. (Disclaimer: I’ve never once proposed to have rational feelings about anything, especially not this situation.)

~ Dude, you really really hurt me that last time, but I didn’t say anything because 1) you’re my friend and 2) I still feel guilty for crapping on you all those times for the same reasons way back when. (And, yes, I know holding myself hostage over the past is wrong and unhealthy.) But that really stung, dude.

~ Your husband is icky and creepy. We’re very very happy that he makes you happy and he puts you first and he’s genuinely a good husband and we’d never tell you to leave him because it’s not that serious and, again, he makes you happy and he’s a good guy and he’s what you need… but he’s icky (that’s the technical terminology for the attributed characteristics in full. I looked it up), which is unlike you.

~ Every time I look at your life I get so so grateful and happy about mine. And, while I admittedly indulge in schadenfreude from time-to-time, this honestly isn’t what that is [anymore]; I’m not pointing and laughing at you/your chosen situation [anymore]. I’m just sooo effing glad I don’t have your life… and I hold those emotions in a peaceful, non-aggressive way… in which I still chuckle to myself… with personal glee regarding my situation exclusively. It’s different.

~ I love you more than 99.998% of the people I’ve ever met. You know me better than I know myself sometimes and, still, you have this deep, unwavering (perhaps delusional) belief that I’m something phenomenal and remarkable and world-altering. We’ve been through so much shit (deactivated lasers with maahh dick…) together in this last decade and I’m so freaking proud of who you are and who you’ve become and what you’re getting ready to do with your life and how hugely you’re going to impact the world when you open up and let loose with all your game-changing talent. It’s obvious after all we’ve done together that I’ll love you no matter what happens or where our lives take us. But sohelpmeGod, if you get out to LA and “Woody Allen” yourself into a scared little self-doubting corner where you do nothing out of stupid, inherent fear of your own wild success, I will board a plane to the West Coast, find your apartment, ring your doorbell, slap your face as hard as my physical body is able, crumple in a ball to recover my energy, and then fly back home without saying a word. I swear to God. I’ll panhandle and/or max out my credit card to afford a trip for that explicit purpose. I’m not joking. I’ll smack the white off your face, you hear me? Because I love you. Dammit.

Among the unspoken joys of becoming a parent is getting to listen to other parents pushily inform you why your parenting choices are obviously uneducated and inferior to theirs. (Seriously, we should do away with Sex Ed and just make teenagers hang out with other moms for a week; they won’t wanna touch each other ever again.) According to my numerous unsolicited sources, I’m wasting my time by not “couponing” (this is apparently a verb in suburbia) for 2 hours every night, I’m feeding my child nothing but poison glazed with sugar and tire tread, and I’m actively helping her brain rot completely out of her skull so quickly that she will arrive at kindergarten with only the ability to drool and stare at a wall while her peers discuss Dostoevsky and self-edit their Harvard application essays. So helpful, my peers are…

One of the great “debates” (I put that in quotations because I don’t actually believe there’s a war going on, even though many many women REALLY WANT YOU TO BELIEVE THERE IS, DAMMIT!!!) in the parenting world is what kind of schooling is The Right One. This conflict can just as easily be summarized into the thesis: Public School is The Devil.

And that’s the biggest load of horse crap ever. EVER.

Alright, allow me to say up front that “I get it.” I totally and completely understand why people are loudly proclaiming the incompetence of public schools; I teach college and am constantly depressed by the failures of the public school system as evidenced in the knowledge of my students. (For example: Only one of my 44 students this semester could tell me the date and cause of The Great Depression without more than 15 seconds of thought - 60% of them didn’t know at all. Same goes for WWII, Vietnam, and the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Also, I have students putting quotation marks around the words “he said” instead of around the actual quote. Yeah…) I get that crappy funding lends itself to oversized classrooms, lack of materials and, ultimately, rampant apathy. I get all that.

HOWEVER, you know what? I AM LOUDLY AND UNABASHEDLY PROUD TO BE A PRODUCT OF THE PUBLIC SCHOOL SYSTEM (and I ain’t no idiot, y’all.)

Let me explain.

Ultimately, public school is a perfect analogy for life and how the world works. A student is thrown in there among people with whom he or she (I’ll say “she from here on, ’cause I’m a “she”) may not have anything in common with demographically and has to learn how to function among them. This isn’t as basic as a student learning something as simple PC “tolerance” (read: “Oh, it’s adorable that you want to get ‘gay-married’ but I still think you’re going to burn in Hell so please don’t make eye-contact with me”) ; this is about raising a child in an environment where she is one of many many different types of peoples, thus providing her the opportunity to learn how to relate to, befriend, interact with, and, at the very least, coexist with many different types of people and handle a number of different social situations. She is expected to recognize others as friends and learn how to mange their widely-varying influences on herself to help her grow as a person and find her own identity. I know “homeschool moms” like to defend their choices by usually whining saying “Oh, we get [fill in precious, precious child's name here] out and involved with tons of social extracurriculars!!!!!!!!” but, the truth is that even those groups are homogeneous groupings of children with similar (if not identical) backgrounds, income-levels, etc. At public school, a student is exposed to eeeverything , which is basically a miniaturized version of what humanity looks like. Going to public school, I had friends who were raised in houses so big I would repeatedly get lost when I visited and other friends who had awesome sleepovers where we’d play “Capture the Flag” in their trailer parks and I hung out with those people without any pretense or irony but, merely, because I was a kid and wanted to hang out with somebody I thought was cool. At public school, I learned the differences between racial cultures (I once got laughed at by a few of my friends in 4th grade because I didn’t/don’t put grease in my hair and I had to keep explaining that I didn’t want grease in my hair; in my family, we were always trying to wash it out. It was an innocent conversation without any conflict or social awareness of what was really happening; only when I got older did I realize that it was a “black people do this and white people do that differently” conversation… and it all happened without any malice or anger or offense. Imagine that…) and I was raised in an educational society where there was no “them” and “us”; we legitimately were all the same and had the same potential, whether we were black or white or poor or rich or supertrendy or fug or whatever. In this environment, we are all people and we are all encouraged to see each other in the same light.

Additionally, public school kids are presented with an image of the world that has no bias, no pre-stated conditions; we were given reality as it was with the expectation that we would interpret and define it for ourselves. My favorite example of this happened when we were in 2nd and 3rd grade and participated in the annual Moore County Drug March, in which all the kids of every elementary and middle school in Moore County would don red clothing, make little flags, and parade a couple miles through the neighborhoods around the school screaming “NO MORE DRUGS! NO MORE DRUGS!” Now, while the other schools in the area would take their students through quaint little neighborhoods, our elementary school was in the building that used to be the Black High School during racial segregation and was surrounded by the old, run-down remnants of that era. There were horribly-decaying old houses with people constantly going in and out and, in between legitimately cute little houses where many of my classmates lived, there were hollowed-out shacks with bullet-holes and fresh police tape wrapped around them. But still, we paraded through the streets, waving our flags and bellowing “NO MORE DRUGS!!!” to people watching from their front stoops and, what’s funny is that we never thought to be scared. Not one of us ever said, “Those guys standing on the corner drinking out of paper bags look pissed; we might be hurting their market.” We just smiled and waved at our friends’ parents who ran out of their houses to take pictures of us and we whined about how tired we were at the end of the hour. You know. Just like kids. Only later did I think, “Holy crap. They marched us through the ghetto to scream at drug dealers.” That’s kind of how it was with everything in public school; things were what they were and our teachers encouraged us to explore things without any preconceived notions about the context. It was powerful stuff.

Of course, the natural progression of age lent itself to teaching us about the pressures of social expectations, as we merged into our teenage years and found ourselves segregated by what we were wearing or who was more attractive to the opposite sex (and why those people were inherently supposed to be feared and hated by people like me until I learned valuable lessons about self-love after my early 20’s) and, while I hate that a lot of that type of social education is inflicted on children and perpetuated from tradition, I do think that that, too, is an important lesson in learning how to navigate the waters of society. Even if a person decides not to subscribe to the bullshit that is society’s superficial expectations, knowing how to recognize it in its many forms and how it all works is invaluable when going out into the world. Sure, there are cliques and “popular kids vs. losers” dynamics going on in private schools, but arguably without nearly as much range in demographics. Secluded kids in private schools don’t have the designer-label-quietly-bitchy-white-girl-prom-queen clique getting laughed at by the proud-to-rule-the-hood-black-girls clique for having no rhythm; there aren’t any Hispanic family feuds perpetuating themselves in the hallways or rednecks wearing camo and talking about deer hunting and there certainly isn’t the facet of getting to watch all those insanely, radically different groups learn how to get along together. And, sure, I can understand wanting to protect your children from crazy goth kids who may try to blow up the school or emo kids who are making it trendy to sit around and cut themselves or whatever other demographic you’re uncomfortable with but, you know what? Shielding your children from people who are different than yourselves isn’t just a disservice; it’s ignorant. By putting a child in a situation where she has to learn about societal standards/roles and learn about the motivations of others’ family lives and learn how to relate to people who are completely different than herself, a parent is giving that child the tools to rule the world. (And, besides, the odds of your kid being shot or blown up at school are about the same as those of you getting shot or blown up at the bank.)

Sure, a kid can go to a school where everyone is just like her and then graduate into a university that is full of more people just like her and then go to work at a place with people just like her because of networking with other people just like her. Sure. That happens a lot. But those people tend to have a perception about the rest of the world that enables them to observe and examine other races/cultures/demographics like exhibits or temporary, disposable situations instead of real, tangible lifestyles and realities for other people. (No, I’m not saying ALL of those people think that way; I’m just saying it’s a very noticeable mentality bred from homogenized learning tactics.) The ideas of “them” and “us” are only perpetuated in this way and keeps people from understanding each other as actual, you know, PEOPLE, instead of faceless bodies filling demographic/societal roles. One facet of this that irritates the crap out of me is that this mentality keeps people from showing compassion toward those who live in poverty because of blatant misunderstanding about the condition OR (and this facet bugs me more) they only “give to charity” in organized, formal settings which still allows them to be socially disconnected from the people they are supposedly helping out of love and compassion. There’s that concept that it’s wonderful to give your money to homeless shelters but you’d NEVER take a homeless person out for lunch; it stems from the idea that “they” (the homeless/poverty-stricken) are deserving of this life, instead of the thought that they are just people like yourself. Going to public school, I knew kids who were homeless or had been at one point; I was good friends with a girl who shared a rundown, single-wide trailer in the boonies with 11 other people; and I knew dozens of kids on welfare and who lived in government housing. My point is that poverty was tangible for me (even though I was fortunate enough not to experience it within my household) and charity was as easy as splitting my lunch with a classmate who couldn’t afford it. (Which I believe is what Jesus was into, wasn’t He? Hanging out with different people and sharing lunch with them? I feel like I read about that somewhere…)

“But the education system is so flawed! It doesn’t teach kids crap!” you say. Dude, that’s incredibly ignorant of you. Here’s the thing about public school that teaches another valuable lesson about how the world works: Students have to work harder if they want to get ahead. (Ohhh! No way!!! That applies to life!) Because public school has to teach to the median, there are many students who get lost and left behind (read: Me in any math class I ever took ever.) and there are those who are super far ahead (read: Me in any English class ever.) Now, the kids who aren’t doing so well have to learn how to recognize their failures and make the extra effort and do what is necessary to improve him or herself (Ooo! Life-lesson alert agaiiin!! How could that possibly apply to being a responsible, self-actualized adult? Hmmm…) and those who are awesome at certain things are encouraged to seek out opportunities that will allow them to explore this talent (like writing club or the student yearbook group or the volleyball team or drama club in my case.) Sure, there are a lot of smart kids who aren’t spoon-fed the vast wealth of information they can probably handle so guess what? They get to learn an important lesson about initiative and how, if you really want to better yourself, it’s up to you to do that. If a student isn’t learning enough about history, it’s up to her to head on over to the library and read more about it (and, oh, I sooo did.) That teaches self-motivation and the realization that the world isn’t going to coddle each person and cater to everyone’s immediate needs. The same goes for the average student, too; if a student has been coasting through school on mediocre grades because she’s totally enrapt with her boyfriend/video games/blog/whatever, she has the choice to just be cool with that or work a little harder and shift her focus from distractions so she can be better. Sure, it’s a tough lesson that kids aren’t going to fully understand until they’re older, but these lessons instill habits and realizations that become a part of an adult’s common knowledge: If you’re not happy being mediocre, it’s up to you to change it. If you’re not happy failing at something, it’s up to you to fix it. If you want to do better than the status quo, you have to get out there and make it happen. Duh. Too easily, Americans want to blame “the system” or “the teachers” or “them” (in general) for being the way we are when, really, it’s up to each of us to make our lives the way we want it to be. This is something that public schools are teaching on a daily basis. There are always teachers at public schools who offer kids a little extra help when they need it and there are always special groups students can get involved with that will allow them to better themselves. Always. It is up to those students to use the resources and opportunities provided to make themselves better. And, if those somehow don’t exist, they’re faced with the challenge of going out and finding opportunities on their own (kinda like how we found good music, even though we lived in the South during the late-90’s-early-00’s… Read: Creed.) That’s part of life, folks.

One of the people I most admire is a young man I met in high school who, by all statistical standards, very easily could’ve dropped out and continued taking care of his single mother in the rough area of town where they lived. Defying the odds (and asking for no extra fanfare or credit), this guy made amazing grades, was involved with every single extracurricular project he could within the Theater program at our arts-based high school, got himself into a wonderful out-of-state university (although he majored in Theater, which, admittedly, is a bogus degree in a field that nobody will ever need accreditation to succeed within… I digress) and went forward to get blissfully married and now has a job at the freaking Pentagon (not sure how it happened, but he digs it, so that’s what counts here.) Now, while his isn’t the path I personally would’ve chosen (and, um, didn’t choose… which is why I get to tell stories about life in a mental hospital), what is remarkable is my friend’s unbelievable determination; from the day I met him, he’s been stating what it is that he wants with his life and, without requiring or demanding any credit for his efforts and determination, he has gone forth and done everything he said he wanted to. He has made his own opportunities and milked them dry and made the life he wanted. And he went to public school. In South Carolina, no less.

Sure, there are kids who get discouraged and give up. And there are kids (a LOT of them if you live in a tourist town like I did) who can get a job as a manager for some crap job making $22,000/yr when they’re 16, so they quit school to live that temporary awesomeness. And there are people who just don’t want to be in school at all so they join a gang or start dealing drugs and live a life of drama and violence. Yes. That all happens. And you know what? That stuff happens out here in the real world, too. There are plenty of people out here tolerating boring, mediocre lives in which they aren’t happy that will never improve due to lack of self-motivation. There are plenty of people who just give up in tough situations and turn to crappy quick-fixes to remedy things.  Public school teaches students how to recognize those failures in others and avoid them in themselves. It teaches self-motivation and it teaches students how to find their own strengths and how to find passion to work toward those in a world where there are so so many options and so much outside pressure and temptation to retreat. Try finding that in homeschool.

Going to public school has been one of the very most valuable life experiences I have in my arsenal. Sure, when I was a teenager/young adult, I thought I was better off hiding out amongst people who came from identical backgrounds as myself but, after I started teaching, I realized what a gift I’d been given. I can walk into any social situation with ease and confidence from having experience dealing with similar situations throughout my life. I can relate to and earn respect from the students that I teach in rural North Carolina because I understand their demographic on an organic level, instead of only having read about their statistics in some research piece somewhere and cobbling together methods from my assumptions. I can coexist and communicate with people from many different racial, ethnic, or economical backgrounds because I’ve been doing it my whole life. I understand a wide variety of perspectives on all sorts of issues and historical events throughout the last 20-ish years because I’ve been experiencing them along with many different types of people since I was a little girl. I know lingo and jargon and social nuances and I know when to say what in most social situations and what immediate effect it will have on the group I’m in and I know when to be PC and when I can get away with being irreverent in mixed company and I know how to cater to the needs of those who are in a completely different state of their lives than I am in mine. I can talk to people from any walk of life on a level that is respectful and coherent with their particular story or understanding of life and I can relate to and learn from people this way. Truly, this is the gift that keeps on giving.

Most importantly, though, I’ve learned how to define my character and grow a backbone around people who disagree with me because I had the opportunity to observe and experience a variety of mentalities through my peers and realize exactly what it is that I want, love, and stand for as an individual person among billions.

So there you go. Public school made me a well-rounded human being, capable of respecting and coexisting with others and navigating the waters of society with the tools I learned growing up. I have learned the value of self-motivation through countless examples and experiences. Simply put: Public school works because it made me a student of our society as a whole and, additionally, it forced me to create my life for myself instead of depending on others to provide my opportunities.

This is why I smile smugly whenever some uber-condescending, suburban white lady is rolling her eyes and scoffing, “I would NEVER send my child to public school!” Well, that and the thought of her trying to dance…

Dear Birthday Fairy,
I made a mistake. I kind of took you for granted last year and just assumed you’d deliver magic like you did in 2009 (remember? Snow and Obama on the same day?!), so I didn’t nag you with specific requests and kinda got stuck with diddly stuff. And this year I forgot to ask Christmas fairy for any silly indulgences so I had to make a lot of returns at Bed Bath and Beyond due to people who believe that more “stuff” given = more love shared. (::Sigh::)

So, my bad. Anyway, I hope you’ve had a great year and are taking care of yourself. The list is in order from “Things I’ll Try to Get Even If You Don’t” to “Frivolous Things I Can Live Without”

Let’s get started!

Ammo for my Dream Garden
I finally have the time, the will and the yard to build the Backyard of my [budgeted] Dreams, but I need a little help. There’s a pile of here-and-there’s that I need (like a wheelbarrow, hedge-trimmers. mortar, bricks/stones, etc) and I want at least a bazillion things from a local nursery (I’m going to have a flower garden AND a vegetable garden with fruit trees! There’s a lot of plantery to be procured!) so, really, if you wanna just send some money for that local nursery or a gift card to Lowe’s/Home Depot, that works for me. I won’t be picky.

Invisible Shelves
Look, I have a crapload of books. I’ve read about 75% of them and have the other 25% in a giant stack/pile/mound beside my nightstand (where they HAVE to stay because I’m one of those people who reads 5 books at the same time. For example, this week I’m simultaneously reading “In Defense of Food”, “Fargo Rock City”, “Man and His Symbols” and the autobiographies of both Mae West and Tallulah Bankhead), which drives my husband bonkers because, apparently, they’re a fire hazard or a potential home for a colony of rodents or impossible to surmount or something… So, with these cool bookshelves, I can make my clutter look like some sort of wizardry! And who doesn’t want that? In fact, maybe he’ll be so astounded by my coolness that he won’t yell at me for spending money on more books than I’ll ever be able to read ever!! Win/win!

Running Shoes
I like New Balance but, because I only update running shoes every 2-3 years, I don’t know much about the styles. I just know that I’m not much of a runner. But when I do it, I’m gonna need shoes that have tread on them. Unlike the ones I have now.

Yoga Mat
It has become apparent that getting into a couple poses once or twice a day is something I enjoy, which is weird because regimented exercise has always been one of those things I hate so very, very much. However, if I’m gonna do this, I at least need a decent mat because I’ve got rugburn like whoa.

Exercise ball
Doing repetitions of weird acrobatics is another weird thing I like to do on days around the house; however, my original exercise ball burst when the cats discovered its launching abilities. Fantastic.

Another Trip to Burning Man

Alright, I’ll tell you right now that I’d sacrifice every single thing on this whole list to get back out to the Playa this year. I ached to go for the 7 years leading up to last year’s trek but, now, after having been, I’m afraid I’m going to miss it so badly I’ll hurt the whole week it’s going on. This being said, there’s no way we can make a trip like that work. I know people are always saying “there are ways” and “you just have to budget your money” and all that noise but honestly? It’s impossible for us to go again. Like I’ve said, if we hadn’t been handed that $1,000 prize for the exclusive purpose of going to the event last year, we never ever would’ve considered it (even if we’d won that same amount of money from another source.) When I went, it hurt when people kept saying “Well, there’s always next year” because I knew and still know that, for the foreseeable future, the 2010 trip to the Burn will be a once-in-a-lifetime trip. And I made sure to savor it as such and be incredibly grateful for the opportunity to do so.

But, man, it’d be great to get out there again.

The Following Books
Believe it or not! There are only a couple!

DIY Delicious
‘Cause I wanna learn how to make stuff from scratch

How to Build a Fire and other Handy Things Your Grandfather Knew

Or anything else on My Amazon Wish List

A Wax Seal Press
Not with my initials or a fleur de lys, please.

Those Pretty, Pretty Peacock Shoes of Magicalness
I will never own them if you don’t deliver, Birthday Fairy. I’m just putting that out there. Size 9, please!

Toy Story 3 and/or Ponyo on DVD
These are actually gifts for the Bear, but also for me; we haven’t been able to return “Toy Story 3″ to Netflix in a month because the Bear looooves it so much. So, essentially, we’ve been renting it by the month. I don’t mind either movie and would like to have my Netflix service back, so owning these is kind of just practical, even though usually I feel like owning DVDs is a total racket.

The Just Ducky Tea Infuser
I actually bought one of these for my grandmother-in-law, but I didn’t have the funds at the time for another. They’re so cute and GENIUS; when your tea is sufficiently submerged, the ducky floats! How cute is that!?

Homemade, Artsy Stepping Stones
Ideally, these would be made by a friend of mine who does mosaics, but I also like the idea of having a number of artists/friends make super pretty stepping stones for my garden, since the plain, cinder ones are a drag. And I hate the ones that come in kits that have whimsical stuff written all over them. I don’t even necessarily want them to be any more than pretty broken glass shoved into concrete; they’ve just gotta be colorful and shiny. Or hook me up with the materials and I’ll do it myself.

Coconut Lime Verbena Shampoo/Conditioner/Lotion/etc.

Look, I just don’t have $7.50 to spend on mediocre shampoo I’m only going to get 6 uses out of. However, having my hair smell like a tropical vacation wonderland in the middle of the winter is a true joy and delight and, frankly, that Suave coconut scent is whack. (Yeah, I said it.) This stuff is amazing and luxurious and lets me leave my [usually harried] shower feeling like I just sipped a Cranberry and Malibu Rum on the beach. Also, this is the first time I’ve excitedly wanted something from Bath and Body Works since I was 12.

A Skateboard and a Cool Skater to Teach Me How
I’ve just always wanted to learn. I figure 28 is as young as I’ll ever be again, so let’s do this thing.
Also, I’m really glad I’m learning how to do this in an age when JNCOs are no longer cool or else I’d have to add “dental insurance” to this wishlist.

A Pretty Pretty Necky Kayak

Still on the list, dude. Still wide open to receiving it. Still living in a place with tons of water. Just FYI.

If none of those things sound like the sort of thing you’re into, feel free to grab me a gift card to Whole Foods, Ten Thousand Villages, World Market, Adam and Eve (or AdamEve.com. And, yes, I know I work for Passion Parties, but PP doesn’t sell some of the stuff I like from A&E), Pin Up Girl Clothing or the Flying Biscuit. Or a domestic, round-trip plane ticket to NYC to see my sister. Any of the above, really. Do what’s right for you.

If you want to just drop the hint to my husband that I’d REALLY like to go out to Taverna in Raleigh for wonderful Greek food and then somewhere to see something awesome (like a stand-up comedian or a concert or an indie film) or do something awesome (karaoke, rodeo, night at a B&B, ice-skating, laser tag, ghost hunting, indoor skydiving), that’d be perfectly acceptable and, actually, more exciting than the invisible bookshelves. Again, I’m open to creativity.

Thank you again for your time and effort.

Most sincerely,
Liz

I’ve started penning my own eulogy. And I genuinely enjoy it.

Okay, right there I’ve come across like some zitfaced emo kid who’s obsessed with death and crying out for attention because all the girls just want to be friends and his dad is never home to play catch with him but I swear that’s not even close to where this is going. Just hear me out. I’m not dying, I’m not planning on dying, I don’t have a feeling like I’m going to be dying soon and I honestly don’t even think about death that often at all. I’m not going through another depression, either. I promise. In fact, everything is really wonderful right now.

But, since I’ve had my daughter, I’ve had to start taking into consideration that I’m probably not going to be on this physical plane forever and I’ve had to make arrangements to accommodate her needs once I’m no longer around - something that I really hope doesn’t happen until I’ve had a chance to travel the world with her and my husband. (Being a “grown up” means having crappy responsibilities like making game plans for after your demise. Gross.) Since I have nothing but a guitar given to me by a Grammy award winner/Broadway star and some jewelry to leave to her, my legal list of post-mortem gifts is pretty short. My list of demands for my carcass’s maintenance is equally short, merely requesting that it be cremated and disposed of somewhere pretty and non-urban. (And if anyone spends money on a piece of furniture and a hole to plant me in, I will haunt them in the most annoying ways possible, every day of their remaining lives. The same goes for anyone who puts an “In Memory Of” sticker on their car for me or puts flowers on the place where I bit it - roadside accident locations, etc. - or posts their sentiments on my Facebook wall instead of sending my family a note or pairs my name with the abbreviation “RIP” in any forum. I’m not even kidding. I’ll go through poltergeist training and wreak some Spielberg-quality havoc.)

And then I started thinking about funerals and getting weirded out. The whole idea of everyone getting together and crying over my remains (hopefully ashes at that point) and saying nothing but great things about me and acting way more reverent than they ever would in my presence just seems so incredibly pretentious and phony. Not to mention a total drag.

But what I hated the most about the idea of my own funeral/memorial service is the idea that I wouldn’t actually have any active part in the affair and, to be blunt, I’m not cool with that. If we’re going to sit around and talk about my life, I wanna be able to chip in a couple sentiments, too. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.

Now, a while ago I penned a letter to the Bear to tell her everything I want her to know in case I don’t get a chance. I’ve also written one to each of her potential caregivers, to relay a couple principles I desperately want my child to grow up with. I also rarely go a year without telling everyone in my life how I feel about them and I’m just one of those bothersome people who always has to come right out and say whatever it is that needs to be said so I never have to say “I should’ve told them when I had the chance.” (This makes me look unbelievably creepy and socially inept at times, by the way, as I’m often one who confronts old classmates with weird things like “Hey, remember that time you stood up for me in the 7th grade? I still remember that. It meant a lot. Thanks.” See? Creepy.) So, in writing my own eulogy, I’m not going to make it a big production of public gratitude like I’ve won an award or something - I’m dead, not taking home the SAG statuette for Best Supporting Actress.

I just want to be part of the party. I want to share memories and laugh about times I royally screwed things up and relate insane adventures I found myself a part of and talk frankly about my life, hopefully as a means to invite others to do the same. I’m not going to make it very long; I’m not about to make people sit through what I should’ve made a memoir, if I was really so intent on rambling about myself for long stretches. But I do want to have fun with it - I might make stuff up, just to see if anyone catches on and giggles - and I want it to make those who cared enough to congregate glad they did.

Actually, I’d really like the whole event - no matter the size - to be a celebration. I want one of my friends to sing Tenacious D’s “Dude, I Totally Miss You” and I want a New Orleans jazz band to play “When the Saints Go Marching In” at the end and I want everyone to wear anything but black and bring a covered dish for a potluck picnic afterward. (Ideally, I’d have enough money to leave behind to throw an actual bash with an ice cream bar and sushi and elephant rides and an 80’s cover band and bellydancers and hoopers and karaoke and a screening of “Amelie” and a bluegrass jam session, but I don’t want my family to have to deal with caterers and party prep, so I’ll just leave behind those four initial wishes and let them go from there.) I want it to be irreverent and I want people to talk about me realistically and I don’t want people to waste money sending me flowers (because I’m freaking dead. Hello? No olfactory senses in the afterlife.)

But, mostly, I just want to be able to share one last event with my loved ones and to be able to candidly reflect on my life and who I was as a person, since we’re already having a party all about me anyway. And, honestly, I’m not sure why more people don’t do that. I mean, I know it sounds a little conceited to want to be one of the ones that heaps praise on yourself but, if the topic of conversation is YOUR life, why shouldn’t you be allowed to give your $.02? And isn’t it a little conceited to want to sit back and let loved ones (and sometimes a preacher/rabbi they’ve never even met) stand in front of a crowd and tearfully glorify you as a flawless human being? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want people getting up and bringing up every single one of my faults and saying I was a horrible person (why would you go to a horrible person’s funeral anyway?) but I don’t want people who knew me painting me to be some perfect saint that I just wasn’t; that’s kind of gross, actually… and disrespectful as that sort of artificiality is something my whole life/self is opposed to. So, in writing my own eulogy, I’ll be able to set the tone of conversation and loosen people’s reservations (and make those who are obligated to be there and lean on the more reverent-and-conservative side reeeeally uncomfortable, which will also be entertaining.)

For me, writing my own eulogy isn’t about trying to take over the reins or clamor for power over a situation in which I ultimately have no control. It isn’t going to be a means of making a mockery of death or the traditions of memoriam, nor will it be about undermining or belittling the ways my family chooses to deal with my passing. I’m not doing it to rebel or buck tradition or make people uncomfortable.

Writing my eulogy is not only an attempt to act as a welcoming hostess/emcee for the gathering and to put at ease the wonderful people who were kind enough to come; it’s mostly a way for me to be a part of the conversations that will verbally sum up my time here on Earth and, frankly, I think it’s my responsibility to define my life, instead of leaving it up to someone else. Obviously, I can’t control how I’m remembered or what people think of me, but I owe it to myself (at least) to state and rejoice in my reality and identity, no matter how minuscule they may be in the grand scheme of things. Those are the only things I can ever truly call my own and I feel that the only person who can genuinely memorialize them is me. I can’t say what my life was or wasn’t to anyone else, but I don’t think it’s crossing any lines to proclaim what it was to me, for myself. In fact, I think it’s necessary.

Obviously, I’ll have to update this eulogy every so often, as it will have a bit of a shelf life and my perspective will hopefully continue to grow and shift as I age but, even then, I think summing up one’s own existence from time to time might be an incredibly healthy practice. Stepping into the role of “objective third party” and taking a look at my life as though the story is complete has been an amazing way to take personal inventory. If I’m disappointed with the storyline, I realize the need for change. If I’m happy with parts of the story, I’m reminded to take some time to express gratitude for all of it. I know it may sound sick and twisted but writing my own eulogy is a mental exercise I really benefit from, so long as I do it every few years and not obsessively. (Although I can’t imagine being obsessive enough about my life that I’d want to write a new one every week.) It gives me a chance to step back and look at the Big Picture and what’s really important versus what really isn’t going to matter in the end.

So, yeah, it sounds a little Emily Dickinson and it really freaked my husband out when I told him about it, but it’s something that seems a little common sense-y to me, now that I’ve had time to think about it. Why wouldn’t everyone want to be part of the greatest, most definitive celebration of their own lives, even if only through shared words and memories? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

On special request from Posephus, I thought I’d include the tunes I was obsessing over as of late.

This week is the single busiest week of my whole entire life (not exaggerating) and, even though all the things I’ve been up to are proactive and forward-moving and positive and glee-inducing, I’ve still been in need of some sort of outlet/distraction. And, since RuPauls’ Drag Race ended in such a disaster, I thought I’d take a brief moment to compile a list or two for the sake of taking my mind off the insanity going on around me.

So, recently I’ve just started putting up a daily musical greeting as a Facebook status update and the week has been a little brighter as I’ve been delving back into my personal memory archives and pulling out the tunes that embellished an era. At the moment, the theme is mid-90’s r&b and, frankly, I could go on forever but then I’d start looking like one of those white kids they make fun of on StuffWhitePeopleLike.com under the “Black People Music that Black People Don’t Even Like Anymore” category. So I’m sticking to a few that changed things for me and then leaving it at that. I know I’m being mainstream and just scratching the surface; this isn’t an art exhibition after years of in depth research - it’s just me, posting slightly-forgotten videos to the delight of a few friends. Nothing serious.

But then I started thinking about expounding on this practice and bringing out a new theme every week, starting with “Early-90’s Dance Tracks” in celebration of all my friends who will be graduating next week. (There will be Crystal Waters and Cece Peniston and the Real McCoy. Get Excited.) And now, because my mind has started this weird obsession with this miniature, completely unnecessary and barely relevant project, I have pages of notes in different genres of 90’s music that I could use for, like, forever.

But knowing me, I really should just get all of it out there without trying to attempt a long-term commitment on a sudden, temporary idea.

so without further rambling ado, I give you the
SHAMELESS OBSCURE 90′S MUSIC EXPLORATION BY RANDOM CATEGORY Project

This installment is “Decent but forgettable alt-rock songs you’ll never think of right off”

The first section is “Little-Known Chick Rock tracks that weren’t terrible/pretentious.”
————————–
~ Letters to Cleo “Here and Now”
Love it. I just think it embodies the 1990’s as a girl. Completely

~ Anouk “Nobody’s Wife”
Say what you want about Alanis, Anouk was just perfect to scream along to and I sure did. I still do even though the lyrics don’t really apply anymore… but they did for a while. (Also, that video had to cost $10 at most. It’s TERRIBLE.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mFuaFNQ8K5A

~ Holly McNarland “Elmo”
OhGoodLordinHeaven, after I saw McNarland on a side stage at Lilith Fair (just after K’s Choice!) I was hooked. I wailed along to this song every night for at least 6 months, like I was being paid for my performance. Even now I’ll crack her out and wail along, although I’m hardly able to conjure as much anger as I could when I was 15.

~ JoyDrop “Beautiful”
Oh God, I lived for this song (really more in 2000 but it counts) and all the symbolism it had in my deep, tortured adolescent existence. MAAAAUUGHH!
… anyway.
I liked it. I think it’s powerful and it speaks to every girl and it helped move me forward, even a little.

~Luscious Jackson “Naked Eye”
I don’t know any of the words except the chorus but she’s still magic. And I soooo wanted that haaaiir.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tIAAx2vAxic
(Embedding disabled)

~ Jill Sobule “I Kissed a Girl”
Everyone was wigging out about Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” and I was kinda appalled because that song was SO 15 years ago. Stupid kids thinking they’re all radical and original…

~ Bif Naked “Moment of Weakness”
It’s obvious she wanted to be Gwen but this song was still pretty great

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UWuddKPLXSw
(Embedding disabled)

~ And Marcheeba’s “Big Calm” album was the most important one in my late 90’s but “The Sea” got me the most.

(Not actual video but you muuuust liiiiisten. It’ll change you.)

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And then this section is “Pop-ish Dude Alt Rock Songs You’re Probably Going to go “AAwww!! I forgot this one!!” About Even if it’s Terrible”

~ Placebo “Pure Morning”
It’s beautiful. It’s poignant. The video will cover you in chills. I still listen to it when I need to conjure a powerful mood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KbHkwrGgsoA
(Embedding disabled but you HHAAAVE to watch it. You really do. It’s beautiful.)

~ Reef “Place Your Hands”
Try not to sing and jump along the second time you listen to it. Try. Also, the jumping and splashy water effects are pretty rad, too.

~ Spacehog “In the Meantime”
Love. Lovelove. It’s part of the 90’s canon as far as I’m concerned. It moves my heart. It makes me want to dance and love people. I love it. Have I mentioned that?

~New Radicals “You Get What You Give”
I’m glad they made their money and got out of the game before it stunted them; that’s admirable. I saw them open for the Goo Goo Dolls and they were tons of fun. Highly recommended.

~ Local H “Down to the Floor”

It’s like they were allllmost sad enough to be Grunge but noooott quite. I think that’s what I liked about them, actually. Also, I’ll take any reason to scream “COPACETIC!!”

~White Town “Your Woman”
Nobody had any idea what the song was about and nobody really figured anything out from the video. But it’s still got an amazing sound.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVL-zZnD3VU
(Embedding disabled)

~ Tripping Daisy “I Gotta Girl”
I’ll be shocked if anyone can remember this one. Because it’s trippy.

~ Harvey Danger “Flagpole Sittah”
Remember when everyone thought they were going to be the new hot shit like Supersonic (”closing time”) or Eve 6 (ugh… that “heart in a blender” song killed me from the start) or Marcy Playground (why they had a hit was beyond me) and, instead they only got into a preview for some Katie Holmes movie and then they were out?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nBgmC_USeoM
(Not the actual video but is the actual song)

~ Barenaked Ladies “Brian Wilson”
Before “stunt” came out, they were actually a fantastically genius college-y band (I normally don’t even like college-y) whose songs were amazing and whose concerts were the funniest damned things I’d ever been to. And LISTEN to that jam session/piano solo at the end. Daaaaaamn. (If you gt a chance, listen to their “Rock Spectacle” album. It’s pretty amazing.)

~ Dishwalla “Counting Blue Cars”
With sounds and lyrics like this I really thought we’d be watching them for a while. Ah well. Lines from this song are still among my favorite lyrics. (Also, this video might be THE MOST 90’s of the ones posted here.)

~Primitive Radio Gods “Standing Outside a Broken Phonebooth with Money in my Hand”
I just wanted to meet the soul brother wailing in the background; screw that wussy lead singer.

~Cowboy Mouth “Jenny Says”

NEVER a more energetic band to watch. Music = meh. Concerts - YYYYYYYYEAAAAAHHH!

~ Soul Coughing “Circles”
I laughed at every one of my friends who bought this terrible album. Because if this was the best song they could pick from the list, that’s bad. Bad bad.

(Not actual video. And not really worth your time.)

~ Whitest Kids You Know “Freak of the Week”

It never “spoke” to me or anything. In fact, I didn’t even really like it. But I thought about it and did the “Awww” thing anyway. So here we are.

~ The Verve Pipe “Freshmen”

Don’t act like you don’t remember. I actually saw them in concert the summer that that song was huge. They had a couple good ones but they all pretty much sounded the same. So it goes…

~ Shawn Mullins “Lullabye”
I’m not going to say I loved it and I always thought the singer was whoa pretentious, but my heart hurt for the girl in the song for some reason and I may just always remember that. Or equate it with that time of my life. Or something.

~ Fastball “The Way”
I’m not a fan but my hubs loved them, so this is for him.

~ Caroline’s Spine “Attention Please”
Anybody remember this? Anybody?
This is not the official vid ’cause I couldn’t find it. They might’ve been that small of a band

~ Sister Hazel “All For You”
This may belong in the “Mediocre 90’s music” category but, if Soul Coughing made this list, then so does this one:

And, finally,

~ The Verve “Bittersweet Symphony”
Because we all know we enjoyed it but it still comes up too much in pretention to be sincerely appreciated.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zx3m4e45bTo&feature=related
(Embedding disabled)

NOTE: The Southern Delicacies subseries will be intermingled amongst full-size entries.*

The Hushpuppy

Most commonly seen at local fried seafood houses and barbecue joints, the Southern hushpuppy is among many unsung culinary treasures in the South. Originating during the Civil War, hushpuppies were small nuggets of leftover cornbread, carried in the pockets of Confederate soldiers to feed to their dogs in order to keep them silent on the warpath. (Hence the name.) Now, they’ve morphed into a combination between cornbread, cake and a doughnut and are simply divine when still steaming and dunked into a dish of soft honey-butter. Strangely, hushpuppies aren’t usually seen in homecooked meals but are sometimes found at high-end seafood restaurants in attempts to boast an authentic Southern atmosphere. This effort is usually successful if the restaurant owner or sous chef is a native of the South but any attempt to make hushpuppies by a Yankee will be severely scorned unless his or her parents are Southerners, due to the strict I-Know-Your-Mama/Who’s-Yer-Papa clause.

* OTHER NOTE: Because of the incredible popularity of these blog entries, I’ve bought another domain and am working on setting up a separate blog just for this subject (one reason why this entry is so short), so I can still write about my personal life here and those people who are just interested in reading about Southernisms don’t have to wade through my self-indulgence. I’ll let you know when it’s up. ::sigh:: Like I don’t have enough going on right now. Ah well, at least I genuinely love all the projects I’m working on, even if I’m running out of burners to keep these pots on.

Look, I’m as anti-corporation and overspending as Rev. Billy and The Church of Stop Shopping as I hate how the big superstores are wrecking and sapping the character out of small town America and treating their employees like slaves and outsourcing labor to underpaid poverty-stricken villages. However, there are a handful of Southern-based food corporations that are just plain doin’ us proud and that, frankly, I don’t ever want to live without.

Now, the obvious go-to Southern corporation is a little mom-and-pop company called Coca-Cola you may or may not be familiar with. Oh, good lordy, I’ve never seen a group of people so excited to scream their name repeatedly across the globe for the sake of indoctrination (well, other than Disney… and McDonald’s… and America… but still!) and, honestly, the marketing has gone from cute and innocent to outright ridiculous. For example, if you should ever have the time/money you’d like to dump in a sewer, you may want to visit Coca-Cola’s museum, located in the beverage’s native town of Atlanta, Georgia. There, you’ll learn about the “rich history” of this admittedly delicious drink and be exposed to more hyper-sentimental advertising than you can possibly imagine. Coca-Cola proudly shows montages of their archived ad campaigns, where they subtly claim to have inspired greatness, unified cultures and genuinely changed the world for the better since their founding. You’ll see images of WWII soldiers coming home from war, being greeted with a Coke at the door and Special Olympians breaking the ribbon at the finish line just before enjoying a fresh Coke and shoeless African children smiling with glass bottles of Coke in their hands and, oh! It’s just so special and powerful and makes you want to buy seven cases and hand them out to new friends on your way back to your car.

Here’s the secret: Southerners aren’t that impressed. I mean, we love Coke and all but we don’t brag about it being part of our culture the way we do with other things. And, yes, Georgians love Coke because it’s part of their specific heritage and it brings a crapload of income to their state but the rest of us just think Coke has gone and gotten “too good for it’s raisin’” and we don’t take kindly to that.

Same goes for Pepsi, although they have more fun in their advertising, so we let them slide.

FUN FACT: In every blind study since the company was founded, RC Cola has beaten both Pepsi and Coke in taste tests. True story.

Let’s get to the good stuff. This particular entry is dedicated to Southern foodie corps in the restaurant realm.

First up is a small company from my original hometown of Burlington, NC. Now, the company isn’t huge, per se, but they’ve far surpassed the multi-million dollar mark and are growing exponentially. If you know of Biscuitville then you “get it”. You’re already wiping drool from your chin and thinking about the sting those flat, spicy sausage patties leave on your tongue. However, the legendary biscuits are an old secret from a family my dad’s parents are apparently close friends with. The story goes that, when the grandmother of Biscuitville’s founders passed away she allowed the brothers a choice: One could have the farm and the other could have her biscuit recipe. (My dad rolls his eyes at this, but it makes for a great marketing angle.) Now, the company owns over 50 restaurants in NC and VA (that are PACKED from 7-10 every day of the week) and has no plans to slow down.

But no Southerner is dumb enough to try to compare Biscuitville with the holy institute of Bojangles. The North Carolina-based company sells roughly 3 bajillion “Cajun-style” spicy chicken breasts on warm, buttery biscuits every year to thousands of Southeasterners who have no idea whether or not it tastes like anything from America’s Cajun community and really don’t even care. While you could treat yourself to a side of “Botato Rounds” (tater tots) or “dirty rice”, you might as well experience real bliss by getting their spicy seasoned fries, which will make you contemplate selling your home/car/children to afford bulk quantities of. Top it all off with a bucket of their award-winning sweet tea (it’s the best fast-food sweet tea out there as far as I’m concerned) and you’ve entered nirvana, my friend. (Silly Buddhists and their silent fasting - don’t they know the same effect can be achieved in a deep-fried-with-a-side-of-sugar-water format?) And, much like sweet tea at an afternoon picnic, a tailgate party just isn’t a real tailgate party without a Bojangles Tailgate Deal (or two) in tow. Kentucky Fried whatwhonow?

Alright, say what you want about KFC and their world domination tactics (they have them in Australia but nobody bothered to tell those poor people what “KFC” stood for. Sacrilege!), they don’t deserve half the credit earned by the illustrious, hallowed Chick-Fil-A. Chick-Fil-A started as a mall-vendor-style franchise and began breaking off into freestanding restaurants… um… sometime. Anyway, now they have some 1,500 restaurants in 38 states and are only growing, slowly but steadily. Chick-Fil-A makes the best effing chicken sandwiches you will ever experience in your whole life, with chicken coated in a secret mix of spices and flour, fried and laid atop two signature pickle slices between two freshly buttered buns. Naturally, they offer this chicken in nugget form, although the chicken strips are made by soaking the chicken in buttermilk overnight before fryin’ ‘em up the next day. Pair this with their monstrous waffle fries and a giant lemonade and it just may be the best day of your life. (The lemonade is all freshly squeezed by hand, by the way. I know this because I used to do it. See the next FUN FACT below.)

Chick-Fil-A is run by the single creepiest-looking old guy you’ll ever see in your life, who likes to boast about his generosity and altruism a LOT. Much like Coca-Cola, the company looooves for customers to believe that they’re the patron saints of the South, giving to the needy, sending college kids to school, building summer camps for special needs kids, etc. And, sure, they do some charitable work but, more often than not, their loud self-promotion far outweighs the progress or impact they actually make. (For example: In order to earn the Chick-Fil-A scholarship - $1,000 - a high school employee must have worked at the restaurant for 30+ hours every week for at least a year AND must have a 3.5 GPA… which is - of course - impossible if his/her life is being monopolized by working at a fast food joint for $6 an hour.)

Oh, and Chick-Fil-A has also had this ongoing ad campaign that involves cows pleading with the public to “EET MOR CHICKIN”, in order to spare their bovine hides from human consumption. Sure, it was an adorable concept in 1995 when it first launched, eliciting microscopic chuckles from those who noticed, but the humor flew the coop (see what I did there?! hilarious!) some 10 years ago and now it’s just painful to deal with, like a 6 year old who milks a joke (again! I’m on fie-yah!) until you want to lock them in their rooms for the afternoon. (I guess they’re beating the dead cow on this one. Ba-ZING!)

FUN FACT: My first part-time job was working the drive-thru at a Chick-Fil-A across from a whorehouse, just a few roads over from Ocean Blvd. in Myrtle Beach, SC. And I highly recommend you never ever eat at that one, as the poor management lead to a group of guys bleaching their hair over the food prep station one night, breaking into co-ed fights over the fry station/in the freezer/in the back office, and a whole array of other unspeakably revolting acts that happened routinely. (I’m really not exaggerating.) The rest of the Chick-Fil-A’s in that town are manned by another guy who’s impeccable with his managerial tactics, so those places are safe.

Oh, and once when I worked there, a male stripper asked us to borrow our cow costume for a new routine he had in mind. We said “Um, how about no.” and men in cow costumes have bothered me ever since.

Southerners are not completely obsessed with the varied art forms of preparing fried chicken, however. Sitting humbly off hundreds of truck stops across the Southeast, Waffle House is one of those Southern staples that elicits feelings similar to those associated with that one weird cousin you have who doesn’t bathe every day and brings questionable company to family gatherings. (Or, in my family: me.) I believe one stand-up comic [whose name escapes me at the moment] really hit the nail on the head when he described Waffle House as “a truck stop bathroom that serves food.” Don’t get me wrong; the place has substantial breakfast foods and can whip up a mean omelette but nobody will ever stumble in there for a fine dining experience or even a classy Sunday brunch. Everybody knows that Waffle House was established for the delight and convenience of truckers and drunk people. This point is vindicated by the fact that the restaurant’s menus include illustrations for those unable to enunciate their orders.

However, no matter how sober, fatigued or starving-and-desperate you are when you find yourself in one of the 1,600+ Waffle House’s in the U.S., you’re never going to leave without having experienced the franchise’s own brand of magic. Of all the great Southern corporate restaurants, Waffle House is unique in its ability to display the most character and authentic flavor of Americana. Despite the industrial, sterile, hard lines and black-and-white tiles of the diner, Waffle House brims with color, brought in fresh by the incredible diversity of those who eat there. I don’t know why there’s a website dedicated to the freak show that is Wal-Mart clientele when there isn’t one for Waffle House. At Waffle House, there is an equal level of insanity but with a few ounces of Shady stirred in. You’re not likely to see anything too crazy in the morning hours but, after nightfall, any Waffle House in the country becomes a blossoming hub of ethnographic exploration. There is no singular demographic for the late-night Waffle House customer base. You may see a pimp with three of his… um… employees sitting at a booth right behind four middle-aged women with towering hair and Day-glow eyeshadow getting coffee on the way home from their Baptist Women’s Trio rehearsal. Truckers strike up optimistic conversations with strippers who are just off the clock or drunken sorority girls whose dates have gone to the bathroom for a suspiciously long amount of time. The real party begins when someone has the courage to walk up to the diner’s jukebox and play one of 12 Waffle House-themed ditties that nobody will ever learn the words to. Yes, if you want a thorough study of contemporary Southern humanity, don’t waste your time doing field work going door to door in small rural towns; just pick out a corner booth at their town’s Waffle House a little before dusk and wait for the magic to happen. And feel free to enjoy the coffee refills while you’re there.

FUN FACT: Waffle House sells more steak than any other American restaurant franchise. I don’t know how I know this.

I would be written out of my family’s will and cast out of society if I forgot to mention Krispy Kreme in this article. Simply put, Krispy Kreme doughnuts are the second best thing God has ever given us.

As I’ve mentioned before, the only time you should really be terrified of Southerners en masse is when the Hot Doughnuts Now sign flickers to life when you’re in traffic. Like a beacon of rapture and acceptance, the glow acts as a homing device for anyone within 4.39 miles of the restaurant, signaling to Southerners that the time for joy is now! Happiness and fulfillment is just a few quarters away!

The Krispy Kreme formula is a simple one: fried dough + sugar = magic. The empire started in the small-ish city of Winston-Salem, NC in the late 1930’s and, while you’d think that there would be dozens of similar corporations, somehow Krispy Kreme was the one that created The Perfect Doughnut.

At some of the older restaurants you can see the doughnuts being made, although I should warn you, it’s both an erotic and spiritual experience, which may be disruptive to anyone who isn’t fully stable and prepared for such a disconcerting event. You can watch an endless stream of circular dough float through a canal of oil, being gently rotated by loving, angelic automatic arms and then bounding up onto a conveyor belt where it bounces along toward a cascading curtain of glaze, shimmering in the early-morning sun. I’ve been brought to tears by the majesty myself.

FUN FACT: There’s actually a Krispy Kreme museum, by the way. I believe the theme is “Heaven: Behind the Scenes”.

In the last few decades, Krispy Kreme has really taken off and is now an international franchise, much to the amusement and slight smugness of Southerners.

A few years ago Southern writer Celia Rivenbark wrote a hilarious diatribe about how KK has gotten too big for it’s britches and is now just another trendy accessory seen in the hands of celebrities, not unlike the pocketbook poodle or windshield-sized sunglasses. She balked at the audacity of the company to put reheating instructions on the side of the box, declaring, “Reheat?!?! Everyone knows you don’t reheat Krispy Kremes! You eat them at the cash register while you’re fishing change out of your pockets and trying not to burn your fingers!” (If you’re Southern and you’ve done that, clap your hands. ::clap! clap!::)

But, unlike Coke (or “Ko-Koler”, depending on how far South you are) Krispy Kreme is still something that we cherish and proudly call our own here in the South. Maybe it’s because the company isn’t claiming to be saving the world - although it very well may be - or maybe because it hasn’t sold out and tried to change its image to something more relevant or maybe it’s because eating there makes us feel like we’re getting a hug from God, but, whatever the case, we take pride in being the people that are giving the world the gift of The Perfect Doughnut.

And, while their coffee may be pretty great, no self-respecting, moral Southerner would ever admit to enjoying Dunkin Donuts as anything other than a last-resort substitute.

A lot of Southerners have been screaming that “The South Will Rise AGIN’!” for decades, but nobody else expected us to come up so stealthily. We’ll call America ours one day as we slowly climb toward world domination, one Waffle House at a time.

MUAHAhahahahahahaha!!!

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NOTE: Anything that didn’t make the cut wasn’t important enough (in my opinion, of course, ’cause I write these) to qualify as part of the Southern corporate culinary canon. Oh, I know there are some great ones out there but I don’t have time to get into specifics; I need to educate the outsiders on the imperative knowledge before their attention wanes. Maybe if this series goes on long enough I can incorporate some of the smaller companies. We’ll see.