I'm a Walking Contradiction

Test - Jason

2009-11-16T21:12:00.000-05:00

Testing, testing, one, two, one, two...

2009-11-11T21:53:00.003-05:00

Summer vacation: I can go wild!

2008-06-05T15:20:00.002-04:00

So, the one thing about being a crazed teacher that I dislike is that I don't really have any free time to keep up with this phenomenon I hear some people still experience called "reading for pleasure." This school year, I read Romeo and Juliet four times, but all of the Joyce Carol Oates remained untouched on my bookshelves.

Don't get me wrong, I didn't give up the mission entirely; however, books that would normally take me a week to read suddenly took me months as I snuck in a few pages between grading research papers (while drinking wine), planning lessons (while drinking wine), and editing comma splices and faulty parallelism (while drinking massive amounts of wine). I found that reading in rushed intervals made it hard to enjoy the actual material. Or, maybe the books just sucked (sorry Cat's Cradle).

Now I am on summer vacation, and I'm excited to read like a madwoman. That is why I borrowed American Psycho (pun intended) to kick off the string of easy, breezy reads. It's great. Just last night before bed, Patrick Bateman gouged out a homeless man's eyes and beat his dog to death. Today, he beat up a coupla prostitutes. Soon, I anticipate an exciting episode with a chainsaw.

Shakespeare ain't got nothing on Bret Easton Ellis.

WWJTD?

2008-05-19T01:01:00.002-04:00

On Friday night, I saw one of my favorite bands, Wilco, for the 4th time live in concert. I got to the venue three hours before the opening band went on in an attempt to score great general admission seats. Which, with a little help from my friends, I did. Balcony, dead center, with a little ledge for my beer and no one standing in front of me.

Except, as luck would have it, I pick the spot directly behind the most obnoxious girls in the place who paid $2 more per ticket to show up after the opener was finished (in this case, a really smart move considering Retribution Gospel Choir sucked pretty hard).

There were three of these girls, and I can only describe them as this weird mix between trashy and hippie dippie. They danced like they were tripping at a Grateful Dead concert. They chain smoked yet held their cigarettes like novice fifteen year olds experimenting with nicotine. They were like horseshit; they were everywhere, moving all over the aisle and changing seats every two seconds. None of that would have been so bad if they weren't right in my damn way.

So, the guys I went to the concert with decided to approach them about their crazy ways. The ringleader of the Trashy Hippies called them assholes right off the bat. So, of course, three or seven beers in, I told her very plainly that she was acting like a bitch. Plus, and this is a fact: she had very weird, coneshaped boobs. That's probably from where the bitchiness stemmed.

Anyhooters, she went on to tell me that Jeff Tweedy wouldn't approve of my behavior. It wasn't very Wilco-like. Have another, moron.

After that, she decided to take the obnoxiousness up to an eleven by deliberately blowing cig smoke in my face and singing at the top of her lungs. It was pretty much an embarrassing sight. You know those people who try way too hard to look like they're having the time of their lives while their ex-boyfriends are across the way with their new girlfriends, looking all schmoopie? It was something like that.

I did, in fact, have an awesome time, and it was a great concert. After it was over, I was talking to acquaintances and the like before we left the show. Turns out that while I had managed to forget about the previous incidents, Rosey tried to earnestly compliment the Trashy Hippie on her back tattoo, but she wasn't having it. She took his perceived mocking out on me by barging up and letting me know she thought I was a horrible person. I told her that she was a horrible person as well.

Then I went to Fitz's and had one more beer and talked shop with Rich from Falling Martins. 'Twas a fantastic night.

Forgive me music lords for I have sinned...

2008-05-14T23:35:00.002-04:00

I told Rosey to go ahead and include me in the mass ticket purchase for tonight's Radiohead show at the old Riverport several months ago. I think I wanted a ticket because all of my friends were going. And, it's Radiohead...I'm supposed to be really into them, given what a music snob I am.

As the concert rolled nearer, I was having second thoughts about going. I mean, I just went to see The Swell Season last Tuesday. Wilco is this Friday. I have focus group notes to type and final exams to write and papers to grade and parents to visit and Z's to catch. Am I really that into Radiohead?

Someone e-mailed me a set list, and it turned out that I knew not three, not two, not one, but zero songs. Again, why did I buy a ticket to Radiohead?

Around six o'clock tonight, I made the executive decision: I'm just not that into Radiohead, and by Henry, I'm not going to the show. I am going to sit on my couch and get work done with trashy TV on in the background. And I am going to like it.

So, I guess you can remove the "music elitist" tag off my awesome concert tees now because I have committed the biggest sin of all. Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. Radiohead rules. The band is awesome live. It's probably my only chance to ever see them.

But, seriously, it was probably my only chance to see the season finale of America's Next Top Model, too.

Aller-GEEZ.

2008-05-13T00:18:00.004-04:00

You don't stand a chance against my allergy sneezes. They stealthily creep up on you, and then they blast a gust of 100 mph wind, backwashed pollen, and a fine mist of snot right back at you. If you see me making a weird motion with my lower lip and bottom chin, I am simply scratching the roof of my mouth with my tongue. If my tear ducts look like they are going to overtake my schlera, well, they just may.

I thought I'd let you know.

Happy Good Friday.

2008-03-21T19:03:00.002-04:00

No meat, but lots of beer.

Bunions.

2008-02-28T20:44:00.005-05:00

Sometimes I rub my feet together at night, and I feel that my big toe knuckles are growing in size. Maybe it's paranoia from too many New Balance shifts in which I'd hear about otherwise attractive, hoity-toity suburbanites divulge in full detail about their painful bunion surgeries. Maybe I am growing bunions. Have you seen Posh Spice's feet? This is really something to worry about.

Dawson's Creek: Like a Virgin

2007-08-06T13:54:00.000-04:00

Episode title: Like a Virgin
Year: 1999
TiVO synopsis: Dawson meets a young woman who brings trouble into his life; Joey may have found a new friend; Jen challenges the head cheerleader; Mitch becomes the varsity football coach.

Vocabulary Words:
-nimrod
-diatribe
-brazen
-mitigate
-excommunicate

Dawson's Movie References:
Risky Business

This is the season three premiere.

We begin on a bus back to Capeside from an undisclosed location, and as Dawson's luck would have it (compared to all of his other friends in the Creek, he does have luck...his parents are merely separated as opposed to imprisoned, loony, out of the picture, or dead), he is sitting next to a gorgeous, mysterious blonde. It's the Sweet Valley High girl! Their conversation is loaded with blatant subtext about boys becoming men via a relationship with a a fantasy woman. Dawson sweats a lot on this bus trip.

After the credits, we cut to Joey at work on the dock. She is pissy. What's new? Joey seriously needs to remove the giant stick lodged up her ass.

We find out that Jen is back to living with Grams, and gay Jack has moved in, too. Jen's hair is crimped. Gag.

We then learn that Capeside's high school mascot is the Minutemen. I have no doubt this is an intentional knock against Dawson's future devirginization.

The only black people in Capeside are the new high school principal and Joey's older sister's baby. I don't know where Bessie's baby daddy is anymore.

The cheerleaders at Capeside are bitches, man. That rebel Jen is going to try out for the squad to shake things up. The head cheerleader has gigantic nostrils. Her name is Belinda. I have never known a Belinda in real life. Have you?

Pacey takes Dawson to a strip club to get his mind off of Joey but all of the dancers have clothes on. This, apparently, is common practice in Capeside. The boys order beers with no problem. Pacey tells Dawson to just get laid already. Hallelujah, somebody said it. Turns out, their waitress is the Sweet Valley High girl from the bus. Foreshadowing, anyone? Don't get your hopes up.

Dawson's temptress has a short blonde 'do, a la Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. I don't think that's an oversight either. Dawson better watch out for the ice pick. And anyways, short hair = slut. Common knowledge. If she can't tie her hair back in a pony, she's an easy lay. This random girl shows up unexpectedly at Dawson's house, and Pacey convinces Dawson to steal (ahem...borrow) his father's boat so he can get laid on the water going 60 miles per hour.

A girl trying out for the cheerleading squad has biker shorts on, and her ass looks like a bag of socks.

Oooh - another black person! This time, a cheerleader with no lines.

Jen has sweat pits before she even tries out for the cheerleading squad. Ew. She gives a Dixie Carter in Designing Women type of rallying speech, telling off Belinda, the head cheerleader. Everyone claps. Jen is moving up in the world.

The Sweet Valley High girl won't tell Dawson her name. She is a fantasy. On the boat, she just rubs a chrome pole up and down over and over again two inches from his face, but I'm sure isn't meant to imply anything either.

As soon as we find out the slut's name is Eve, Dawson crashes his boat. He tried to steer the boat with his boner and instead, he crashed into Joey's dock. Joey really thought she knew him, but she guesses not.

In general, Jen walks like she just got off a horse. Without a kick, a herkie, or a high V, Jen becomes head cheerleader.

The boat will cost about $3000 to fix. The clothed strippers came up with $400 to help Dawson out. Golly gee.

Pacey puts a pair of Ray Bans on, a piano plays the opening chords to "Old Time Rock 'n' Roll," and I have officially entered Tom Cruise hell. They are going to throw a party to raise the money.

"Teenage boys will come. They most definitely will come."

I didn't realize Dawson's Creek was so dirty.

The party starts, and it is a total sausage fest. Joey sneaks in through the bedroom window and apologizes for going batshit, like, three hundred times. And then little Joey Potter from the Creek takes her shirt off in an attempt seduce Dawson. Not surprisingly, Dawson turns her down. Joey defends her actions: "I can be sexual Dawson!!!" Yeah, right, Joey.

Dawson's dad comes home. Dawson's going to Illinois.

Today.

2007-08-05T23:50:00.001-04:00

I have not showered.
I have eaten lots of carbs.
I have watched way too much television.
I have not worked out.
I have not brushed my hair.
I have not spoken to anyone since around 2 PM.
I have not been outside since around 1 PM.
I have not found my remote control.
I have not changed the channel in quite awhile.
I have read a couple of tabloid magazines.
I have checked the TiVO season pass manager three times for taped episodes of Dawson's Creek.
I have finished a book about the Holocaust while watching Rock of Love.
I have had no emotional epiphanies, intellectual thoughts, or motivational bursts.
I have thought of mostly nothing, and it has been good.

"I don't wanna wait" for tomorrow's episode!

2007-08-03T15:54:00.000-04:00

Because of the magic and wonder that is TiVO, I was recently able to add a season pass for Dawson's Creek. This is a series that I never really bothered to watch when it originally began. Somehow, I managed to get sucked in during my huge bouts of procrastination in college. Living with 60 other girls in a sorority house that boasted only one static-free, color television is another solid reason. I watched what the masses were watching. Plus, I was partially inspired to start this love affair because my boyfriend has recently watched every single episode of the O.C. courtesy of the Soap channel and his buddy, TiVO. (It takes a shit after Marissa dies...if you don't count the fact that it took a shit when the first ever credit rolled during the first ever episode).

Seriously, why not watch teen dramas commercial-free?

So far, my season pass has been serving me well. I get up in the morning around 9 or 10 AM to find that a fresh episode has been recorded for me prior to my awakening. I rub my eyes, I do a little stretch, and then I settle on our big, comfy leather couch to watch the craziness unfold among these teenagers who have a ridiculously bombastic vocabulary. (How, if Pacey is such a crap student, does he know how to use words like "invariably" and "proclivity" and "juggernaut?" I want answers!)

Last night, after a shower and a fleeting moment's contemplation of joining my friends at a bar, I decided instead to crash on the couch and catch up on my Dawson's episodes. I had been out of town since Monday afternoon, and I knew that I'd have at least three, maybe four, waiting for me.

Holy shit. In only four episodes, Dawson and Joey get back together, Joey's dad returns from the slammer, Abby Morgan, drunk and evil, drowns in the Creek, Jen goes psycho at Abby's funeral and gets her rocks off by kicking God in the balls right in front of Grams, Grams kicks aetheist Jen out of the house, Andy, under all the stress of losing Abby, a girl she wasn't even friends with, starts seeing and talking to her dead brother, Pacey and Jack save her from her own lunacy by bitchslapping her a coupla times (just kidding...I wish), Jack and Andy's dad threaten to take them all back to Providence (how ironic), Jack decides life is better for a gay in Capeside, Andy gets the hell out of dodge, Joey's father starts dealing narcotics, The Icehouse burns down, Pacey punches his sumbitch father in the face, Jen casually contemplates suicide, Joey turns her dad into the pigs, and Dawson and Joey break up.

How exhausted are you? I think I went through a whole box of Kleenex. Then again, I'm a huge loser. Love live the Creek!

Happy Memorial Day!

2007-05-28T10:39:00.000-04:00

Long time, no blog. Very huge chance no one checks this anymore. Of course, I have nothing new to write on here. But, here is a Memorial Day present for you all.

A very quick read...

Off My Chest: Unwanted Packages

Hope to be back here more during the summer, but I also kinda want to start a book...

I don't wanna wait...

2007-03-18T12:34:00.000-04:00

Just so you all know, Matt and I are spending our Sunday morning watching TIVO'ed reruns of Dawson's Creek. We're watching the one where the whole gang goes to a typical Capeside rave, complete with fruit platters to keep the hungry glowstick dancers satisfied. As Matt says, "Less chatter. More Andy freaking out."

If the kettle's black...

2007-03-08T23:39:00.001-05:00

Newt Gingrich admits to having an extramarital affair while he led the probe on Clinton.

Probe.

Blog taking a backseat...

2007-02-28T00:56:00.000-05:00

I promise that I will have loads of blog action this summer when school is not in session. Until then, I'll tell you a kid sneezed so hard in class that he farted, and I'll also share this reading material with you:

Fuck, Marry, or Kill

Did the Oscars Make You Grouchy?

12 Questions with Guster

12 Questions with Joshua Radin

2007-02-15T13:22:00.000-05:00

Click here to read InsideSTL's 12 Questions with Joshua Radin. He's a singer-songwriter originally from Ohio. He went to college with Zach Braff and Cary Brothers. It might the closest I ever get to my celebrity brother.

Stupid blogger...

2007-02-15T00:01:00.000-05:00

So, a few people have told me they can't leave comments on my blog anymore. This started when they made me switch over to the new Beta version. Did any other bloggers out there have this problem? Can anything be done? I've looked on blogger.com for years to find a simple e-mail address in hopes of getting a straight answer. But, nothing.

Some reading...

2007-02-14T07:09:00.000-05:00

You could even print this out and take it to the bathroom with you. Just don't use it as toilet paper, please.

Off My Chest: When Did Everyone Get So Young?

This Day in History: 2/13

Concert Review: The Shins at The Pageant

The kids aren't alright...

2007-02-12T16:32:00.000-05:00

Last night, Cheers Heavy and I went to The Shins concert in St. Louis. It was shocking at the number of high school aged kids at the concert. What was even more shocking was the number of junior high aged kids at the concert. I went to a lot of concerts back in 6th and 7th grade, but nothing ever as cool as The Shins and certainly not without parental supervision.

Let's look past the fact that these unattended, easily influenced children could have easily scored their first cigarette or cup of beer. That's an obvious consequence of letting your children go unaccompanied to a rock concert.

Let's talk about the behavior of these children. Sure, I guess they are much cooler than I was in 6th grade. I was going to concerts like MC Hammer and Boyz II Men. Never Warrant or EMF. But, I never acted as embarrassingly as they made me feel for them last night.

These kids EMBARRASSED me.

Viva Voce was the opener and they begun with a quite literal song entitled "We Don't Fuck Around." They also reprised their (to me, unnecessary) proclamation of their bad-assity at the end of their set. They sing the word "fuck," like, 53 times throughout this song. Fine, little kids are hearing the F-bomb dropped right and left. I'm sure they've heard - and said - worse.

But, then this little squirt who couldn't have been more than 11 stands up next to me when The Shins come out on stage and screams, "Yeah! We don't fuck around!" Shut up. Just stop it. You are not cool.

And there were three teenage girls performing choreographed routines to "Phantom Ship" and another couple who dove into some fancy footwork. Again, stop it. This isn't the high school prom of your dreams. We don't bust out planned moves at rock concerts. I'm embarrassed for you.

Oh, and there were plenty of twerps wearing their newly purchased concert tees over the clothes they already wore to the concert. Seriously, someone needs to tell them.

I kept telling Cheers Heavy that I did not act like that. I didn't smoke or sip on a Bartles & James either. But, after much contemplation in the last 24 hours, I've determined that I was still cooler than those twerps were back in the day.

I'm pretty sure of it.

12 Questions with Viva Voce

2007-02-08T09:03:00.001-05:00

They were scary. Click here.

12 Questions with Steve Ewing (formerly of The Urge)

2007-02-07T01:09:00.001-05:00

He was definitely a man of few words. But, click here to read.

Myspace is awesome...

2007-02-04T00:01:00.000-05:00

So, the only reason I joined Myspace to begin with was because I wanted to look at pictures of Sound Team, this band I had gone to see at the Hi-Pointe (R.I.P.) with Jables last June. I ended up sending them a message to ask if they would answer the "12 Questions" for InsideSTL, and they said yes. I was psyched.

In the past three days, I've taken over some of the editorial duties for InsideSTL's music section. Since last June, I've written an article once a week. Now, I am updating the CD releases, the concert calendar, and the band profiles, along with editing/posting others' articles. It's not that I have the time; but I know somehow I'll make the time. And hopefully turn this section into something much cooler than it currently is.

I know that the "12 Questions" feature gets the most hits, which is what we need to sell ads. I decide to blanket the Myspace band circuit with an e-mail request, inquiring if particular bands would be interested in participating. In less than 24 hours, with about thirty e-mails sent, I've gotten four responses. Viva Voce (opening for The Shins in the Lou in a week), Cary Brothers, Joshua Radin, and Eagles of Death Metal.

In closing, if you know of anyone in a band or anyone doing anything musical and cool, please send them my way.

Oh, Jude.

2007-02-02T23:56:00.000-05:00

I am visiting my folks this weekend to relax and spend some quality time at home. Tonight, I drank wine, graded papers, and hung out with my parents on the couch. For some reason, we started playing this "game," in which we all had to sing a song that started with an A...then a B...then a C...

We made an allowance for Q.

Once we got to V, we all sat in silence for quite awhile. I busted out the oldies for all the other letters, so my parents could be in the know. But, I blanked on an oldie for V.

So, I said, "You guys probably don't know this one, but it's called 'Veronica' and it's by Elvis Costello." And I started singing.

After five more minutes, my mom said, "You guys probably don't know this one, but it's called 'Vicious' and it's by Deaf Lepper." And she said "Vicious" with a hissing voice.

I think I might have peed my pants.

A little R&R with Ramon

2007-01-26T20:38:00.000-05:00

Still feeling quite sore from my attempts at doing The Worm last Friday and exhausted after two weeks of teaching, I booked an 80 minute massage today with a gift certificate received at Christmas. I usually prefer females masseuses, but none were available. I gave the "ok" to a man named Ramon. He did a lovely job, although I was never able to fully relax because the little voice in my head kept screaming, "There's a strange man touching me! There's a strange man touching me!"

But, I really do recommend a long massage if you want to treat yourself. The extra time allowed Ramon to spend about two minutes on my right pinky toe alone.

Sore little glow worm...

2007-01-22T19:52:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you exert yourself physically, and you're sore the next day. Sometimes, like in the instances of waterskiing or Taebo, you exert yourself physically, and you're sore for two days. Very rarely, do you exert yourself physically and remain sore four days later. But, this is what happens when you spend three hours - rather unsuccessfully - trying to do The Worm.

I can barely raise my arms to shampoo my hair.

Moving on up...

2007-01-11T13:05:00.000-05:00

We met as shoe slangers, now we've graduated to part-time rinky dink columnists. My friend Kara now has a column on InsideSTL on Thursdays. She will continue to be the master of all things celebrity. Check out her first column here.

Getting ready to ride the hobby horse (as soon as I get some time)...

2007-01-09T23:12:00.000-05:00

My mom and dad bought me a trumpet for my birthday. I used to play the trumpet in the jazz band over ten years ago. I can play a C major scale, but the high C is now hard to get. And I know nothing about tuning, oiling, or cleaning my new piece of brass.

My friend Suzanne bought me some taps that I can attach to a new pair of split soles. I took dance classes for fifteen years, but I haven't officially tapped since I was eighteen.

Look out world.

Sidenote: Speaking of hobbies, one of mine is reading. I just read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, and it was wonderful. I read it in a day.

What will drunken Salukis eat at 3 A.M. now?

2007-01-08T01:23:00.000-05:00

My friend Kerri got a text on Saturday letting us know that Winston the Bagel Man was dead. If you've ever partied in Carbondale, Illinois, you probably know who Winston is. Or was. He made really good bagels.

I immediately called my brother, who is a recent graduate of SIU-Carbondale. He gasped and immediately followed up the news by asking, "How did you find this out?"

And on and on, that was the question of the day. How did we know for sure that Winston the Bagel Man had died?

We decided that we probably wouldn't find out if Dan the Preacher Man or Spare Anything or Cleve died.

And I guess that's just as well. I'd like for those legends to live on forever. Even Cleve, despite his unfaltering yet inexplicable hatred for me.

This kicks ass...

2007-01-07T15:59:00.000-05:00

The Music Genome Project. Check it out.

They say it's my birthday...

2007-01-04T00:57:00.000-05:00

But, I'm in total denial about turning 27. I think I'll do another year of 26.

The meaning behind candied orange slices...

2007-01-03T02:28:00.000-05:00

The summer after my Grandma Ree died, I worked at a hospital gift shop a few days a week while I took summer college classes. It was a fun job; I got to blow up bouquets of balloons when babies were born and gift wrap get-well-soon presents.

One day, I had the task of restocking the candy selection. As I refilled rows and rows of Snickers and Skittles, I came to the Sunkist candied orange slices, and I immediately gasped and dropped the package of sweets.

I could always count on a full supply of orange slices snuggled in my Grandma Ree's fancy crystal candy dishes. Regular visits to her smoky kitchen were the only reason they existed in my life; the only reason they mattered was because she took such great care in the maintenance of her candy inventory. She did not eat these things, and we didn't particularly like them. But because they were her careful selection for us, we ate them and loved them. And we probably should have savored them.

Today is the seven year anniversary of my Grandma Ree's death, and as usual, my thoughts are with her. The memories are mostly bittersweet now, as time and distance have been helpful and necessary aids in the healing process. But every once in awhile, I'm attacked with a seemingly ordinary piece of nothing, like a candied orange slice, that becomes absolutely everything in mere seconds when my brain makes the right connection.

It's taken awhile, but I realize that I'm lucky. Not only is my Grandma Ree in my dreams and my memories and my pleasant conversations with family and friends...she is in standard, boring, routine items, imbued with significance from my skewed perspective.

She's in wooden salad bowls, Breyer's ice cream, and Mike Shannon's voice on the radio. She's in The Price is Right, As the World Turns, and Miss America pageants. She's in organ music, RC Cola, and Solitaire. She's in Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, The General Lee, and The Last Supper. She's in ceramic Christmas trees, ripe tomatoes, and ashtrays.

And so, I will think of her today, as I do every other day. And I will wonder where she's going to pop up next.

You can punch me in the face, if you want...

2006-12-29T16:24:00.000-05:00

Today I braved the absolute hell that is the mall immediately after the holidays.

Sidenote: Can this leggings trend please go away? I'm jealous of all the cute little skinny, flat-chested whores that get to step out looking like Lohanminal.

I decided that I had worked up a little appetite, so I stopped at Ben and Jerry's for a delicious smoothie. The stand was staffed by a sprite of a man, who turned out to be quite insane.

"Can I help you?"

"Uhh, yeah. Can I get any smoothie I want without the yogurt, just the fruit?"

"Of course. You can get anything you want."

"Ok... Can I get the strawberry lemonade smoothie without yogurt?"

"Sure, you can even punch me in the face, if you want."

Um, what? I paused for just a second to comprehend what the man said, but my bewilderment rapidly evolved into "Don't tempt me, buddy. I was attacked by a coffee mug a couple of days ago, and my lip still has a knot in it. I would love to redirect my pain to your face."

But, I didn't punch him. Instead, I laughed awkwardly and patiently waited for him to concoct my strawberry lemonade smoothie WITH the yogurt that I made such a fuss about NOT wanting. Then, even though he got my order wrong, I tipped him a dollar because he said that the money went directly toward his bus fare.

I should have at least kicked him in the shins.

Bertha, Cassie, and Darlene

2006-12-27T20:41:00.000-05:00

My post from yesterday was about the fever blister on my face. That's not nearly the problem now. A coffee mug fell out of the cabinet and collided with my face this morning. The picture is what resulted.

A Scrubs' Charlie Brown Christmas

2006-12-26T19:44:00.000-05:00

I'm a day late (as usual), but if you're a fan of Scrubs, then you'll enjoy this video:

There's a tropical storm raging on my face.

2006-12-26T17:37:00.000-05:00

So, the 26th year of my life has proven that I'm prone to fever blisters. Never before this age did I suffer from the absolute wrath that is facial herpes. I'm hoping with my upcoming 27th birthday to rid myself of this catastrophe. I'm not trying to advertise my vanity. But it makes me feel horribly ugly.

I woke up with one on Christmas morning. Recently purchased meds have prevented my face from swelling like I just got my ass kicked in a boxing match. However, it still sucks. These suckers usually take a good three weeks to heal. And yes, I am totally whining.

Jables and I have decided to devise a naming system for my current and future outbreaks. Although it's a fun game, I truly hope that the first round of naming is also the last.

We based our system on how hurricanes are named. We will start with the letter A. We will rotate between the female and male sexes. The only stipulation that I added was that the name must be extremely hideous, much like my face.

Therefore, this fever blister's name is Agatha.

Merry Christmas!

2006-12-23T16:19:00.000-05:00

I know I'm a little MIA on the blog action, but I still wanted to use it to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. I hope you're on the nice list.

First, he brought sexy back, now this...

2006-12-17T22:36:00.000-05:00

I knew if I gave the YouTube geeks a little time, I would be able to post this SNL skit on my blog. I have watched this no less than 25 times in the last 24 hours. Hilarious.

Weez!

2006-12-15T09:40:00.000-05:00

Remember when you'd take a piece of chalk and put it inside the chalkboard eraser so when the teacher went to erase the board, he or she would actually write MORE on the board?

That was funny.

Cupla concert reviews...

2006-12-13T08:41:00.000-05:00

Click to read recent reviews on My Morning Jacket and Ray LaMontagne...

I love being a girl!

2006-12-11T01:09:00.000-05:00

You know how it sucks to be a girl? I'm sure you've had these conversations with your favorite female before. We girls have more body parts to shave, Aunt Flo comes to visit us each month, it's typically harder for us to reach the big "O" during s-e-x, and oh yeah, there's the whole having kids thing. To quote Kirstie Alley in Look Who's Talking: "Try squeezing something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon."

But I think I've figured out one reason why it's better to be a girl.

If one is really desperate to get drunk, one can always insert an alcohol-soaked treat inside a highly membraned body opening to feel an immediate buzz.

Rosey informed Cheers Heavy and I of the sake enemas offered in Japan. I think those would be rather uncomfortable. However, I've heard that Swedish gals often take advantage of vodka tampons, which are easy to insert and unnoticeable once inside the body. I've never partaken in such a sport; however, I'm glad to know that if I wanted to, it would be virtually painless.

Are you hot for teacher?

2006-12-08T23:43:00.000-05:00

Just thought I'd let you all know that I am officially Ms. Cook. I was hired to teach part-time next semester at the same high school where I've been student teaching. I'll teach Contemporary Lit and World Lit while I finish up my Masters. Hurrah for plum pudding!

And incase you were wondering, the Martina McBride concert was more like a show you'd see in Branson, Missouri. She has a wonderful voice, and I love Christmas tunes. But the cheesiness factor was at an all-time high: lots of jazzy hand gestures, bad skits, and costume changes. I enjoyed myself, mostly because it made my grandma happy. And for a good fifteen minutes, my mom allowed me to poke fun and criticize nearly everything I saw. Eventually she gave me the stank eye, and I shut up. I truly don't mean to sound like the Grinch, but the woman went out and asked random people in the crowd if they preferred ham or turkey on Christmas. Yup.

Country Christmas...

2006-12-08T12:44:00.000-05:00

You wanna know what I am doing tonight? Going to the flipping Martina McBride Christmas concert with my mom and grandma, that's what. I should rephrase. Being forced to go against my will to the fucking Martina McBride Christmas concert with my mom and grandma, that's what.

Totally normal.

2006-12-07T15:50:00.000-05:00

I just entered my classroom to find the room had turned into a beauty shop. Leah, one of our freshman students, is braiding my cooperating teacher's hair into corn rows. He is a 44-year-old man with a long, nappy, kinky, white ponytail.

There are twelve students in here watching the action. And Leah keeps shouting, "If this ain't the longest hair!"

Masculinity via the crock pot...

2006-12-04T23:21:00.000-05:00

William Shakespeare once wrote a poem called "The Seven Ages of Man," but I don't think "buying a crock pot" was included as one of the significant steps in life. Jables, however, insists that a real man should be able to concoct a tasty vat of chili before it's all said and done. He received his crock pot as a recent birthday gift, and he's put it to good use. I can almost see the chest hair sprouting.

Last week, he made a spicy batch of Italian beef, and it slow cooked overnight. Since my bedroom is mere steps from the kitchen, the pungent aroma of simmering cow literally showed up in my dreams. My subconscious kept asking, "What the Sam is that smell?"

Today I came home to a completed vat of cheese, beef, salsa, and jalapenos. Jables found the immediate need to shave.

I'm old.

2006-12-02T18:11:00.000-05:00

Jables drove Cheers Heavy and I to Chicago yesterday by way of Highway 57 North. I think it's only fitting that as we passed the Champaign exit (we all went to college at the U of I), Matt found my first ever (noticed) grey hair while I was resting contentedly with my head in his lap. Apparently, this rascal was joined by many other hueless comrades.

I will soon be 27. Isn't that the age that all those musicians died? I mean, I don't do massive amounts of heroine or anything, but I'm dangerously close to 30. Shit.

Self-diagnosis

2006-11-27T21:06:00.000-05:00

I think I have a touch of OCD. I like things perfectly aligned. Perpendicular or parallel. Labels facing forward.

This isn't a matter of preference. This is a matter of I-won't-stop-until-things-are-perpendicular-or-parallel.

Chew on that.

Happy Wacky Wednesday...

2006-11-22T09:14:00.000-05:00

The eve of Thanksgiving is upon us, and that means getting trashed with high school friends until the wee hours of the morning so you are good and hungover for your grandma's Turkey Day dinner. Luckily for me, I crave carbs when I've had too much to drink. I might call dibs on that whole dish of dressing.

In related news, it's Jables' birthday. Wish him a happy one and spank him on the ass if you get a chance.

Hair today, gone today...

2006-11-21T15:04:00.000-05:00

I just witnessed a brutal 2-on-1 girl fight right outside my classroom door. The weaves went flying. By the time the girls were separated and taken to different principals' offices, the hallway floor was littered with broken hair pieces. Ouch.

Fight your own battles, Vanessa.

2006-11-19T23:41:00.000-05:00

Vanessa forces me to fight her battles for her. When drunken at a bar, she becomes beligerently angry when anyone dances in a manner contrary to what Vanessa deems appropriate. Despite the fact that she's a much better dancer than I, she literally pushes me into the targeted stranger's personal space and orders me to try and show him or her up. Her eyes get wild, and she gives me a pep talk with her peepers, even though I shoot back looks of helplessness and confusion.

Once, in New York City, she pushed me into a circle comprised of Rachel, Shane, and Veronica from MTV's Road Rules. She believed that Rachel and Veronica wanted themselves too much, and they needed to be put in their places. She didn't care so much about Shane, although he was dancing shirtless.

Last night, she pushed me into a man with a really sweaty back.

It pays to be young, hot, and Republican...

2006-11-14T00:21:00.000-05:00

Before you read any more of this post, check out the necessary background information: Three's Company, Too!

Here is an e-mail I received from a reader about roomie Jables:

Hi Katie-

My name is Jen & I read the article & loved it. I too, share an affinity for the Style network & replacing meals with chips & salsa. My real question, though...does this Repbulican roommate of yours need a date? ;-) I've always got my eyes & ears open for hot young republican males. Sadly, there aren't many of them to be found. I'm trying to make it a goal---$ex up the republican party...and not with hot pages, either...Anyway, I enjoy reading your articles. Take-care!

There was also a lengthy thread of controversy on the site's message board about the impossibility of Jables, Rosey, and I living peacefully and platonically together. Pretty hilarious.

You say pomelo, I say oversized tennis ball...

2006-11-12T14:35:00.000-05:00

From wikipedia.org:

The pomelo (or pummelo, pommelo, jabong, or shaddock), Citrus maxima (also Citrus grandis), is a citrus fruit, usually a pale green to yellow when ripe, larger than a grapefruit, with sweet flesh and thick spongy rind.

Cheers Heavy and Rosey decided to purchase one of these from Dierberg's last night. They were curious about its large size and rumored bright red innards. We had a fondue dinner at Britt and Rod's, and they patiently waited well into the night to cut open the pomelo.

When the time finally came, Rosey sang a ceremonial song to the tune of "Good Vibrations" by Marky Mark.

Come on, come on
Peel it, peel it
Peel the pomelo!

Turns out, it didn't taste that great. Jeff Bradley, commented on the large amount of "membrane." Some call it the rind. The fruit's flesh was actually pale pink, not blood red.

We didn't let our disappointment ruin the rest of the night.

A quick chuckle for a hungover gal...

2006-11-10T13:33:00.000-05:00

The media never ceases to amaze me with their rapidfire, witty nicknaming of emerging pop culture news stories.

TomKat...
Bennifer...
Nipplegate...

And now:

Fed Ex in honor of Britney and Kevin's demise.

I love it.

I don't wanna see your grill...

2006-11-09T14:21:00.000-05:00

If I never see another grill, it'll be too soon.

And no, I don't mean the innovative cooking amenity made famous by Weber and Foreman and other geniuses.

I mean the ridiculous bling-infused mouthpieces made famous by fancy rapper types like Nelly and Ja Rule and Ludacris.

The administration did not react quickly enough to this fashion fad (dear God, let's hope it's a fad) in order to effectively incorporate the donning of grills into the school dress code rules. Therefore, grills are allowed in school.

When they need to speak, they slip the grills out and indifferently place the hunk of faux platinum on top of their desks. When the grills are inside their mouths, they are ground against teeth while I'm within audible earshot. I can clearly hear the onset of TMJ echoing from their pipe holes.

No, don't smile for me, daddy. I dont wanna see your grill. No, no, not your grill.

Where there's Quankie, there's fire...

2006-11-03T12:07:00.000-05:00

So, I'm noticing a pattern in my life. People enjoy setting vehicles in my general vicinity on fire.

On Friday the 13th during my junior year of high school, a group of girls spent the night at my house after a football game. We stayed up very late with some of our guy friends, watching Jason stab naked chicks to death at Camp Crystal Lake. We also kept a close watch out of my front door, incase any adventurous classmates attempted to don Principal Quank's house with toilet paper or soap.

Around 3 AM, we were still awake. We had noticed a particular car driving around my house again and again. Or, to put it in female Christophorian high school terms, someone was psycho stalking my crib. The car belonged to the ex-girlfriend of Shaun, one of the boys who was hanging out with us. When we looked out of the front door that time, we noticed a little spark under the car parked the farthest away from my house, at the end of the driveway.

We all rushed out to see what was doing. We immediately saw the word "BITCH" written with soap on the hood of the car and an oily rag tucked neatly under the graffiti. The flames grew higher. Really fast. And all hell broke loose.

Here you have a group of eight high schoolers, six girls and two boys, trying to extinguish a car fire. The garden hose would not reach far enough. Flower pots had holes in the bottom of them. My parents wouldn't wake up.

Sarah went to my sleeping parents' bedroom to try her luck. My dad was passed out after an enjoyable night of beer drinking at the local Knights of Columbus. Despite sleeping in his tighty-whities, Sarah plowed into the room and shook him (her high school principal, mind you) until he cracked an eyelid. She screamed, "Mr. Quank, get your ass out of bed!"

The normally softspoken Cheryl called the volunteer firefighters and bellowed, "There's a fire at the Quanks! Get your ass out here!" No directions needed.

At one point, it sounded like the car may explode, or at least that's what our imaginations lured us to believe. The boys bravely grabbed us girls and commanded us to hit the decks. I swear I flew under my mom's Jeep Cherokee in one fluid motion, like a cartoon character.

Finally, the firemen showed up and put out the flames. We found that my friend Ami's car windows had been shattered as well. Nobody was ever charged with the crime. That was one pissed off ex-girlfriend.

***End scene, advance ten years later***

It was Halloween just four days ago. Rosey, Jables, Cheers Heavy, and I enjoyed a night of handing out candy to trick or treaters. We decided to rent High Tension (one of the goriest movies ever made) to suitably complete our Halloween evening. We hadn't even made it through the opening credits when we began to hear weird noises from the backyard. After the second or third round, we were a little creeped, so we decided to check it out.

We looked out of the kitchen door to see flames and dark black smoke rising high into the sky. Instant panic ensued as we all tried to push each other out of the way to call 911. Our neighbors, who had discovered the fire way before us, let us know that they had already made the call.

We ran outside. A car, parked in the alley, was in flames. The car was parked right next to Josh's garage, and the detached building was also alight. Josh's car was parked inside. No one ever parks in the alley, so we assumed that the car was stolen.

Thankfully, the firefighters arrived much more expediently than their Christopher counterparts. The fire was thorougly extinguished, but Josh's garage was left with a good amount of damage.

We still aren't sure what exactly went down. Needless to say, we never got to that movie.

Christmas came early...

2006-10-29T23:00:00.000-05:00

...with the Cardinals' World Series win. This town went crazy!

Links to some of my Birds baseball related articles:
Different Breeds of Birds Fans
Musical Musings on Baseball
Diary of a Mad Fan

I'm very bitter.

2006-10-29T17:16:00.000-05:00

R.I.P Studio 60. Check out the story here.

Fall Classic pictures...

2006-10-27T14:18:00.000-04:00

Watching Game 1 with roomies Rosey and Jables

Game 4 rain delay (and eventual rain out)...HAT-ED it!

Thursday's Game 4

Cards fans take over the streets

As a youngin', John called it the World Serious. I think he was right.

A red state conspiracy indeed...

2006-10-24T11:17:00.000-04:00

Holy embarrassment, Batman.

The Cards are in the World Series for the second time in three years. In 2004, the musical selections for "The National Anthem" and "God Bless America" were nothing short of cringe-worthy. We're talking Scott Stapp from Creed here, folks.

After watching the talent Detroit (Motown, for God's sakes) threw out, we were hoping that St. Louis could trump the Michigan talent pool. Their highlights featured Bob Seger, John Mellencamp, and Anita Baker.

Sidenote: When Anita Baker appeared onscreen to sing "The National Anthem," I commented that my mom was probably crying. Matt then said, "If your mom is crying right now, she should be shot." I explained that she wouldn't be crying because of her overwhelming patriotism but rather because Anita Baker has always been one of her favorite artists. I then let Matt know that I accidently forgot he was dead inside for about five seconds. I also reminded him that his dad cries a lot for a guy. He said that his dad cries, like, three times a year. Rosey suggested that if I could personally make Matt's dad cry more than four times in one day, Matt should give me a million dollars.

So, you are probably wondering if our talent line-up fares any better than that of 2004. The answer, in brief, is fuck no.

Trace Adkins, Jo Dee Messina, Billy Ray Cyrus, and Sugarland will be doing the honors.

No wonder people think our city is full of conservative hillbillies ready to back the religious right 'til the cows come home. How about some diversity? Good thing no one outside of St. Louis or Detroit is watching this Series.

2 + 2 = ???

2006-10-23T20:30:00.000-04:00

A few Saturdays ago, my roomies Jables and Rosey decided to start drinking Bloody Marys around noon. By the time I got home from the Cardinal game, they were well on their way. I walked into a rousing round of The Family Guy drinking game. And thank God, I wasn't too late to hear Rosey deliver dramatic readings from our book of "Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey."

Sidenote: If there were two guys name Flippy and Hambone, who would you think liked dolphins more?

My roomies intoxicatingly posed a very serious question: If you do a 'number two' twice in the same bar, does that equal a foursie? No one was quite sure of the answer.

A few days later, Rosey received a shipment from Japan. The box included an assortment of philosophy books from his undergrad days. I was attracted to a book on existentialism. I flipped through and saw that "Notes from Underground" by Fyodor Dostoevsky was included. I thought I'd show off my brilliance by talking about the 'most advantageous advantage' explained in the text. Rosey remembered this passage as well, so we sat downstairs in his basement bedroom talking shop for another thirty minutes and pretending to be very intellectual.

* * *

Now, much later, I still ponder the drunken question my roommates asked me on their drunken Saturday afternoon. In Dostoevsky's classic novella, the main character, The Underground Man, claims that humankind's 'most advantageous advantage' is its ability to use emotion to defy reason. We are the only species on the planet with the necessary higher order thinking skills to act in direct opposition to science, math, and plain old common sense. The Underground Man emphatically claims that 2 + 2 = 5, just because he can.

Therefore, to answer Jables' and Rosey's question: Two poops in a single location can equal a foursie. But it can also equal a fivesie if you want it to. That's your 'most advantageous advantage.' Enjoy.

Catch-22

2006-10-22T14:48:00.000-04:00

Per Rosey after a long night of drinking before, during, and after the Cardinals big win:

"Brushing your teeth on a Sunday morning is like a Catch-22. If you don't do it, the taste in your mouth might make you puke. If you do it, the utensil in your mouth might make you puke."

Heller would be proud.

Important advice

2006-10-21T12:36:00.000-04:00

One of the English teachers at my high school told me: "You're never too drunk to grade papers."

Yadier is my lover.

2006-10-20T01:03:00.000-04:00

Whew. I was the world's biggest stress case tonight, and I think that half of my head of hair is lying on the floor of Matt's condo. But, the Birds pulled through, and we're going to the Series, baby!!! 36dd1, you better get ready!

More Barndance pics...

2006-10-16T02:13:00.000-04:00

Barndance! at the Dojo

2006-10-16T02:02:00.000-04:00

Here are some pictures of our recent party. There are so many funny stories, but I am up way too late...so perhaps I am relying on some of you revelers to post your favorite anecdotes (if you can remember through the thick haze). I will add more tomorrow. Well, wait...it is tomorrow. So, later today after I sleep for five hours, teach America's youth, and watch Jeopardy! And I might take a nap. But then I'll do it.

Whatcha listenin' to?

2006-10-16T01:41:00.000-04:00

Sorry to totally rip you off, creeperjam, but I'm stealing your idea.

Most people who belong to the Myspace world choose a default song that automatically plays when someone views their page. Here are the default songs for all of us Myspace losers:

1. Quank - "The Heat is On" by Glenn Frey (GO BIRDS!!!)
2. creeperjam - "Treehouse" by I'm from Barcelona
3. Dinner - "Everyone Gets a Star" by Albert Hammond, Jr.
4. Britt - "Paperweight" by Schuyler Fisk and Joshua Radin
5. Lauren - "Belief" by John Mayer

There are a good number of my best friends who don't have music. I change my song once a week.

You are cordinally invited...

2006-10-11T12:17:00.000-04:00

Come one, come all
To the harvest ball
Everybody is welcome
Be careful; don't fall!

That's from Sesame Street.

Ain't no party
Like a dojo party
Cause a dojo party
Don't stop

That's from 52 rap songs.

The point is: If you read this blog, you are invited to our Barndance at the Dojo Saturday night. Jables, Rosey, and I believe that it will be the stuff that dreams are made of. Check ya.

I crossed the blogging line.

2006-10-10T00:04:00.000-04:00

I kind of had a feeling that I was crossing the blogging line when I wrote about the mysterious tampon. My instincts were proven to be in full working order when my friend Nikki e-mailed me today. Her subject line merely read "Appalled." Her e-mail said something about puking in her mouth. She also wondered if Rosey was getting a new bed.

For those of you out there who are wondering if Rosey is getting a new bed, no he is not.

I think he'll make it. I did equip him with OxyClean, and he discovered the wonders of Lysol disinfectant spray on his own.

Sorry if anyone else puked in his or her mouth after reading yesterday's post. Nikki, I love you. Don't ever change.

Take it to the crime lab!

2006-10-09T01:18:00.000-04:00

Third roomie Rosey officially moved into the Dojo this week. Upon cleaning his basement abode, he found a particularly unsanitary situation that needed to be handled.

Sidenote: It is not my intent to gross you out beyond belief. It is only my wish to convey a mysterious story.

While changing his sheets, between his matress and box springs, he saw what he thought to be a dead mouse. Thanks to closer inspection, he unfortunately determined that it was not a recently deceased rodent. It was a tampon. Both have tails, if you will.

Frankly, the appearance of this tampon sans wrapper is unknown.

The facts are as follows:

1. The mattress and box springs were a joint purchase from a good mutual friend.
2. The two pieces have been sitting in the basement room since last spring, waiting for Rosey to return to the States.
3. Many people have crashed in the basement room during weekend visits to the Lou.
4. We assume the tampon was left by a female.

When I first heard this story, all I could do was shake my head in disbelief and apologize, as if I had something to do with it. All Jables could utter was: "Take it to the crime lab!"

The Wilkie Richter Scale

2006-10-04T00:07:00.000-04:00

I buttoned my teachery cardigan the wrong way today, and I taught an entire freshman Language & Literature class incorrectly fastened. After class, a student approached me to alert me to my fashion faux pas. She explained that she noticed my error near the beginning of class, but she didn't want to embarrass me by telling me in front of the twenty-six other students. I thanked her, but I also eased her awkwardness by letting her know that it takes quite a lot to make me blush.

Sidenote: It really doesn't. But this is what you have to say.

Later today, I showed a video of Dr. King's "I Have a Dream" speech. However, I announced the clip as Dr. King's "I Have a Speech" Dream. Hilarity ensued. Although I didn't feel as if this incident topped my list of most embarrassing moments, a student reminded me that "those types of things happen to everyone."

Man, tough crowd.

I discovered, where embarrassing moments and students are concerned, I have an internal ranking scale to which my brain and nerve endings automatically refer. Let's call it the Wilkie Richter Scale.

Wilkie was my high school chemistry teacher and volleyball coach. Sometimes, when trying to balance chemical equations on the chalkboard, he'd get stumped and say, "Nahhhh, that's not right." Then he'd erase his work and start over while we sat with our eyes crossed and our mouths open. He had chronic halitosis; it was so bad that no Lady Bearcat could stand to be part of the huddle. His shirts had neon green pit stains, and he rocked a perpetual wedgie. He often glorified that wedgie by donning knit coaching shorts. And Wilkie was not a thin man. At all. Sometimes people call him Bubba.

One day, in his senior physics class, Wilkie felt something itchy inside his shirt. He reached down the neck to pull out a dryer sheet. He received some laughter from the class, but ultimately, it was no big deal. But Wilkie went back for more. He still felt something inside his shirt. He reached down this time to pull out a pair of his seven year old daughter's Barbie underwear.

That was a 10.0 on the Wilkie Richter scale. My incidents don't even register.

What is even too easy for me?

2006-10-03T17:07:00.001-04:00

This week is "Preschool Week" or something like that on Jeopardy! and that really sucks.

Have you no shame?

2006-10-01T21:21:00.000-04:00

Today I watched Before Sunrise, a film starring Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy. It's my kind of movie: slow, character-driven, chock full of interesting conversation. (Although some of this conversation seemed a titch bit pretentious). I was thoroughly enjoying myself until the two were seated at an outdoor cafe (like, the first of five outdoor cafes they visit) in Vienna and Ethan Hawke told Julie Delpy he wanted to tell her a secret. He urged her to come closer so he could whisper. He coaxed her with a couple of "c'meres." When she was inches from his scruffy early 90s face, he planted a smooch on her lips.

Does anyone else realize the blatant theft of this smooth move? If you remember, Kevin Bacon does the exact same thing to Ariel in Footloose after she gives him a Bible with all the dancing verses underlined to help him with his speech at the town meeting later that evening.

That is the Kevin Bacon that makes me swoon. Ethan Hawke, with his greasy hair, sunken cheekbones, and leather jacket just irritates me.

Not a stereotype; just a fact

2006-09-29T11:41:00.000-04:00

I've been trying to avoid writing about my daily experiences in a high school, although Lord knows I could write lengthy posts about the hilarity that ensues on a regular basis. However, this particular story is too funny to keep from you.

I had a junior American Lit class yesterday, which is comprised of 15 students who are mostly male and mostly African-American. We are starting a unit on Civil Rights literature. In class, we showed them an updated version of a Twlight Zone episode starring Vivica Fox. In the episode, a man travels back in time after an accident and wakes up the day before Dr. King is going to be shot in Memphis.

When the episode began, the kids were loud and talking to their friends across the room. I made the announcement: "Guys, this is just like you're at the theater. No cell phones, no crying babies, no talking to your friends."

One African-American boy who sat in the back of the room politely raised his hand and said, "Ms. Cook. Black people aren't quiet during movies."

I said, "That's just a stereotype."

Another African-American boy chimed in, serious as can be. "No, Ms. Cook. It's not a stereotype. It's just a fact."

I got a good chuckle out of that one; they were very pleased they could make me laugh.

For the rest of the episode, everyone was on his or her best behavior.

Violet, you're turning violet!

2006-09-27T11:33:00.000-04:00

It's not too early to think about Halloween costumes. They require much preparation, especially if you want to create something from scratch. Does anyone have an idea as to how I can turn myself into a blueberry? I want to be Violet from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. If not, Matt and I are going to be members of Devo. We're trying to recruit Rosey.

Josh and his woman have been prepared for literally weeks. They ordered costumes from a nearby shop. They are going to be a couple of crazy Germans and wear leiterhausen. I told Josh his name for the night is Gepetto.

If worse comes to worse, I'll just be Wilson the Volleyball again. I wear half a volleyball on my head, and I have a great t-shirt that I painted with the bloody handprint.

Norah the baby is going to be a chicken.

Has anyone else given this much thought?

No more wire hangers!

2006-09-21T23:45:00.000-04:00

I went to pick up my drycleaning today, and there was a large sign behind the counter that read, "The United States has a dramatic hanger shortage. Please turn in your unused hangers!"

What? How does this happen?

R.I.P.

2006-09-20T18:19:00.000-04:00

It was my greatest hope to actually be slightly creative with this posting and write it as an obituary, but I have neither the time nor the ability to keep my eyes open long enough to try.

That being said, I will tell you that the car I have driven for the past 8.5 years is no longer. I am the proud owner of a new charcoal gray Toyota Corolla, and life sure is sweet. I'm a new woman.

If you know me at all, you understand that I had just a few problems with my last car, a Grand Prix.

Try this out for size:

-headlights bashed in by randoms on the U of I campus
-scary car accident in the pouring rain...I lost control and rammed into a guard rail, facing oncoming traffic
-rearended by an Asian woman who didn't speak English
-rearended by a student trying to get to a final exam
-rearended by a student going to the library to study for final exams
-blown fuse near my rearview mirror that shorted on my drive to work, resulting in me thinking my car was going to catch on fire
-rearview mirror fell off
-sunroof that would open but not close
-faulty alternator
-attempted auto theft (caught them in the act), which resulted in quite a few scratches and dents

I will say that my Grand Prix was basically a transformer, from a Pontiac coupe to a stretch limo. Once, I had nine or ten people in it...including two in the trunk. And they were alive.

How Cheers Heavy almost got his ass kicked by a professional athlete...

2006-09-19T00:30:00.000-04:00

Last Thursday, Matt and I attended the first anniversary party of InsideSTL. There were many pro athletes on hand to celebrate the site's 1st birthday, along with the 2nd birthday of "The Morning Grind," an AM radio show that the site's creator co-hosts.

Jim Edmonds taped a radio interview during a live broadcast of the show. (The show was aired the following morning...a crucial point in the master plan so that the co-hosts could get sufficiently drunk that night without the burden of a 5 AM wake up call).

After a brief interview with the co-hosts, questions went to the audience; anyone could ask whatever he or she wanted. However, everyone was pretty shy. They were holding back and basically ignoring the guy with the mic.

But, not old Cheers Heavy. He decided to ask, with some heavy duty prompting from The Cat, "Where can I get my own Jim Edmonds half-shirt?" (You see, Edmonds is notorious for cutting off the bottoms of his t-shirts and letting his tummy run wild. He gets a ton of shit for it. And he can't take a joke.)

Edmonds immediately gave Matt the ole stank eye and proceeded to mutter "sweet nothings" to him from his perch onstage. We were a little ner-vi.

Later, Edmonds girlfriend and baby mama (who is my childhood friend) asked me to come over and meet Jimmy Ballgame/Radio/Half-shirt. I was slightly embarrassed that Matt was at my side. Or again, maybe just a titch bit nervous.

Much later, Matt and Edmonds meet in the men's bathroom.

Matt: "Half-shirt?"

Edmonds: "Yeah."

Matt: "The Cat told me to do it. He said it would be good for the show!"

Edmonds: "I figured as much."

Ladies, good morning...

2006-09-17T18:24:00.000-04:00

Here is an e-mail I received from my friend Kara who saw Justin Timberlake perform in Memphis last week for a taping of Good Morning America. It's brilliant.

It was everything I could've hoped and more. We got up at 4:00 and were on Beale by 5. My t-shirt said "dirty babe" in front and "you see these shackles baby i'm your slave" on the back. My roommate Meagan's shirt said "VIP" in front and "drinks on me" on back, my friend Thomas (a big hairy guy with mutton chops) had a shirt that said "come here gurl" in front and "go 'head be gone wit it" on back. Brad (the little guy) had a shirt that said "i'll let you whip me" on front and "if I misbehave" on back....uready?"

Anyway, when we got there, the band was warming up, so it was like a "Sexyback," "My Love" and "Rock Your Body" instrumental dance party. There were a lot of bums left over from Beale Street the night before, a few prostitutes, and an overarching drunk smell...Memphis at it's finest.

Then, finally, JT came out and did the sound check. He made fun of everyone for being outside at 5 am, when it was still dark, and it was sufficiently awkward. He was just wearing under armor and jeans. He went back inside or backstage or wherever, the guy started screaming "TIMBO" again, and we were stuck waiting it out again. But then it happened: Justin Timberlake came out in all his sexy glory, did the three-song set, and it was awesome.

He is so cute and tiny that I want to take him home and give him a bath in my sink and carry him around in an oversized Louis Vuitton bag...and maybe some other stuff. It was awesome, the show was so fun, and JT and I are in love.

Embarrassment is a dorky white teacher...

2006-09-15T17:51:00.000-04:00

Today in class, I modeled how to write a free verse poem concerning an abstract idea made more tangible by addressing each of the five senses.

Prewriting looked something like this:

Victory is...

Looks like - a Statesmen in the endzone
Sounds like - the roar of the crowd
Smells like - pigskin leather of a football
Tastes like - sweat inside a helmet
Feels like - smooth metal of a trophy

I emphasized the need to create images based on the five sense. Thinking I was funny, I said, "But you don't have to worry about the sixth sense." And to make it worse, I whispered "I seeee deeaaad peeoople." You know, when you're a teacher, you're on stage.

Some kids giggled, but the best response was from a kid in the front row who said, "I seeeee whiiiiite peeoople."

Indeed.

You're the boy with all the leather hips...

2006-09-15T12:24:00.000-04:00

I noticed something about myself today. I call everyone who is named "Michael" by both their first and last names. Everytime.

Is there a heaven for a G?

2006-09-13T23:28:00.000-04:00

Where were you when you found out Tupac died? I was in my friend Alechia's kitchen. Her brother, Khorey, informed us of the sad news. He read it in the Southern Illinoisian. We were both in utter disbelief. We used to cruise around uptown bumping his music in my Mustang's factory stereo system. Tupac was our boy.

That's not normal?

Today is the ten year anniversary of his death.

One of my favorite rap songs is a tribute to Tupac, and it goes a little somethin' like this (hit it):

By the freedom of God, we got a sure shot
And Jesus you've been good to me, when it all stops
My life goes on for sure, Mr. Shakur
And bless with your presence, your essence, remains pure.

9/11.

2006-09-11T00:17:00.000-04:00

Because writing this article for InsideSTL left me emotionally spent, I'm going to use it on my blog for the official 5-year anniversary of 9/11. I would just direct you to the link, but they seem to change on me these days.

I was aware that my “Off My Chest” column, published every Monday, fell on September 11th many weeks before I actually needed to get cracking on today’s article. Perhaps I was simply being impractically hard on myself, but I struggled a great deal with whether or not to comment on the fact that today is the five year anniversary of 9/11. Usually, I use this opportunity to vent on the latest pop cultural phenomenon that’s bugging me; my last three articles have featured verbal attacks on Lindsay Lohan, St. Louis jersey chasers, and my hatred for the word “panties.” However, I honestly cannot find the nerve (or perhaps the courage) to write about something so trivial or frivolous on such a significant day that undoubtedly troubles each and every one of us.

That being said, I wanted to ensure that I did not exploit today’s column as a means of expressing my political views or opinion about the war in Iraq. This is not that kind of website; I am not that kind of person. I would never take advantage of this position in order to dominate a little of your time with my political perspective. Who cares what I think, anyway? This topic is too meaningful to trigger the inevitable blasting of my thoughts all over the site’s message boards. In the spirit of a very necessary bipartisan viewpoint, I wondered for quite some time if I truly had any sort of opinion on 9/11 that could translate to something universal for us all, a common idea or emotion that resonates within us all. I hope I do this immense (at least, to me) undertaking some semblance of justice.

Let me act like a teacher for a second. When our country declared its independence from England in 1776, its members individually and collectively made exacting attempts to separate America’s foundation and ideals from those of England. To be more specific, our founding fathers and other innovative and scrupulous fellows yearned to establish a society that was drastically different from the oppressive nature of England’s former rule. This is why we have a democracy rather than a monarchy. They also desired to develop a culture that was unique and inventive, without a trace of influence from those uppity Brits. This is why, particularly in the realm of literature and other art forms, prominent new Americans called for a universal experience.

Ralph Waldo Emerson, an American author, poet, and philosopher, was one of these leaders. He sought literature that would unite a young America; in essence, he wanted to stop copying ideas and techniques from the British. He also believed that the new country should perpetuate a common myth to give the fledging society a sense of history and of folklore. These myths are still well-known today, including stories such as the first Thanksgiving, George Washington and the cherry tree, and Paul Bunyan and Babe, his blue ox. Granted, many of these tales are drastically sugarcoated or are utter fabrications. But, we all know them; we all heard them when we were children. They unite us as Americans (perhaps now only very minutely), and they are part of our familiar, collective experience.

What constitutes our modern day collective experience isn’t nearly so footloose and fancy free. We don’t typically elect political leaders who boast they “can never tell a lie.” We now see through the bullshit of glorified European-American and Native American relations. And I’m pretty sure that I’ve never seen a blue ox. Our reality, what we see in the news everyday, what we wake up to every morning, is simply dismal and frankly, downright scary in comparison. 9/11 was the ultimate blow to our country’s sense of success and security, abroad and within our own borders. Five years later, I’m still in disbelief and just profoundly sad.

Dave Letterman said it best in his first monologue after the attacks took place: “The reason we were attacked, the reason these people are dead, these people are missing and dead, and they weren’t doing anything wrong, they were living their lives… Another smaller group of people stole some airplanes and crashed them into buildings. We’re told that they were zealous, fueled by religious fervor… If you live to be 1,000 years old, will that make any sense to you? Will that make any goddamn sense?” Because it’s so difficult to wrap my brain around these attacks, they seem unreal. To me, 9/11 seems like it should be our new collective myth; unfortunately, it’s our universal horrible truth.

What I find does correlate to Emerson’s ideas is Hollywood’s recent attempts to make big budget films (United 93, World Trade Center) based on the events that took place on September 11, 2001. Many have criticized production companies for allowing the movies to be made “too soon.” Others have condemned the creators for capitalizing on the pain, grief, and misfortune of others to make a profit.

Although I haven’t been brave enough to actually see any of the movies for fear of some odd emotional release that may or may not border on insanity (read: I’m a crier), I disagree with the films’ detractors. To me, it’s a matter of human nature: the innate need to document history, to tell these stories, to illustrate inspiring triumphs of the human spirit. After all, it was Emerson who said, “What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us.” These movies are two in a growing collection of creative expressions that represent the action and aftermath of a turning point in our society. We have the beginnings of an updated canon of works of art that symbolize and define us as human beings living in a post-9/11 U.S. Like the young America in 1776 and the decades following, we live in a country during a time that no other nation can accurately detail.

Only we know what this feels like.

If you wanna watch the entirety of Dave's monologue after 9/11, click here.

I love every single one of you, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

2006-09-10T15:48:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, Matt and I went to a rally for U.S. Senate Democratic candidate, Claire McCaskill. President Clinton spoke at the rally, and he was amazing. Eloquent, enthusiastic, humorous, and reasonable.

Not necessarily a feather in my cap...

2006-09-08T17:45:00.000-04:00

I would suck on Jeopardy! It's not that I don't know ANY of the answers (although there are a shit ton I don't know)...it's that I can't think fast enough to pull those random bits of info out of my head. And then to answer in a question form, no less.

It's like the time I was on the JV scholar bowl team in 6th grade. The question was something like "What did Yankee Doodle pull out of his cap?" I buzzed in immediately. And then I went blank. I tried to sing the nursery rhyme in my head, but the words wouldn't come. I had to answer something, so I screamed out "Noodle!" I earned a new nickname that day (see, with nicknames, usually other people give them to you...you don't make them up yourself). Seriously, years later, Roger Flatt who played the trombone in the jazz band next to my trumpet still called me Noodle.

Last weekend, I was in Dallas visiting my cousin Karie, her husband Ward, and their two little girls, Emily and Madeleine. My cousin Kelly also visited from Jacksonville, Florida. All of us girls were playing Catchphrase together. Karie tried to get Kelly to guess the phrase "wedding bells." But, all that could come out of Kelly's mouth was "GLOCKENSPIEL!"

Noodle, Glockenspiel, what do you want from us?

Who is YOUR next Two Scoops?

2006-09-06T12:22:00.000-04:00

In typical Cheers Heavy fashion, Matt has decided to give himself another nickname.

He used to sign his e-mails to me "Guycrest...out." You can easily see how worthy of insult that is.

Then, he made up the nickname "Goose" and acted like that was normal.

Now, he wishes to be called "Hew." As in the second syllable of his name, Matthew. As in Topher (Christopher) Grace. As in dipshit.

I tried to wake him up last Saturday morning to take me to the airport. I nudged him and poked him and prodded him. He wouldn't wake up.

I said, "Matt."

Nothing.

"Matty."

Nothing.

"Matthew."

Nothing.

"Matteo."

Nothing.

"HEW!!!"

He rolled over and asked, "What time are we leaving?"

We made it out alright...

2006-09-05T21:16:00.000-04:00

Grand Cayman 2004

Incase you're wondering who that man in the middle is, that's Rex. See, Rex was our guide on our "swimming with the stingrays" excursion in Grand Cayman. Stingrays feel like jelly. Their mouths are funny.

Right after this picture was taken, Nikki had to swim away from the action because she was incredibly hungover, and the strong waves surrounding the stingray sandbar were not helping her nausea. She ended up puking in the ocean.

About thirty minutes later, we heard a girl scream, "Gross! There's puke floating over there!"

Yes siree Bob. Nikki is a pretty classy gal.

This week's InsideSTL articles...

2006-08-31T16:54:00.000-04:00

Because so many of you who read this blog know love Survivor Sal more than life itself, I thought I'd direct you to my latest 12 Questions.

Also, this week, Monday's "Off My Chest" about jersey chasers. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

A man spends his vacation exploring the depths of existentialism...

2006-08-30T19:36:00.000-04:00

First, watch this clip from The Daily Show last night.

I love the line: "a Westerner who kills an Arab for no good reason and dies without remorse..." Hilarious.

I actually really like this book; it has one of the best closing paragraphs of any book I've ever read.

"...I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up with the stars in my face. Sounds of the countryside were drifting in. Smells of night, earth, and salt air were cooling my temples. The wondrous peace of that sleeping summer flowed through me like a tide. Then, in the dark hour before dawn, sirens blasted. They were announcing departures for a world that now and forever meant nothing to me. For the first time in a long time I thought about Maman. I felt as if I understood why at the end of her life she had taken a "fiance," why she had played at beginning again. Even there, in that home where lives were fading out, evening was a kind of wistful respite. So close to death, Maman must have felt free then and ready to live it all again. Nobody, nobody had the right to cry over her. And I felt ready to live it all again too. As if that blind rage had washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the gentle indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself - so like a brother, really - I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again..."

Miss Thang.

2006-08-29T23:44:00.000-04:00

I just have to say that Norah Bridget Holzmacher is one cute baby.

Last weekend, Cheers Heavy passed out royally drunk after feasting on homemade taco dip. As he drifted off to sleep, he mumbled, "I love taco dip. And Norah."

I saw her puke chicken baby food all over her daddy tonight. What's not to love?

Enjoy some pictures of the little nugget.

Squash it.

2006-08-27T14:58:00.000-04:00

I long for the days when people settled their beefs with a good old fashioned dance-off.

Someone trespassing on your turf? Break out the funky beats and battle on your front lawn. Someone hitting on your guy? Turn up the boombox and square off Electric Boogaloo style.

Yesterday, the Cards/Cubs rivalry brought out a certain nostalgia for the aforementioned judicial system at Al Hrabosky's Ballpark Saloon. Even though the day's game put the series at 2-0 in favor of the Cards, that didn't stop visiting Cubs fans from attempting to grab the upperhand with their footloose feet.

Berf, Jables' and Dinner's college buddy, drove down to St. Louis to attend the series and party it up. I'm not sure whether he knew he'd be participating in a series of dance-offs throughout the course of the day, but I personally think that these impromptu contests are his secret weapon. An objective bystander wouldn't guess that Berf, who stands at approximately ten feet tall, is any sort of dancing machine. However, in his signature wife beater and Aviator sunglasses, he proved that he was indeed a force to be reckoned with.

Berf commanded a crowd right away, as he pretended to double dutch while his friend Dusty twirled an imaginary rope. As a circle of patrons closed around him, there wasn't much the white girl battling him could do. She tried to hump the floor, she tried to grind on her gal pal, she tried to shake what her mama gave her. But, to no avail.

This is when the DJ noticed the commotion taking place in the corner of the bar. He brought a portable mic over to broadcast the play-by-play over the speakers. Berf immediately earned the nickname "Iceman." However, the tables were turned when the DJ (and Cardinals fan) performed an outstanding Michael Jackson impression. I joined him in the circle for a double dose of the moonwalk. He then led me in a surprise salsa routine, which resulted in a dramatic dip and perhaps a broken back.

Injuries aside, mission complete. The dance-off was decided. And it was a clean competition.

I wish McGwire and Sosa could have popped 'n locked (rather than juiced 'n corked) their way through the homerun race of '98.

Lastly, I've always wondered how the entire high school student body can bust out a pre-choreographed dance at the prom, but now I realize some things are just instinctive. Tonight, Cards fans across the country are simultaneously doing an dance move we like to call "The Sweep." We didn't even need to practice.

12 Questions...

2006-08-24T14:19:00.000-04:00

12 Questions is a sometimes feature on InsideSTL's Music Section. The other guy who writes for the section works for EMI records in artist development, so obviously, he has more connections in the music industry than I. Plus, he's part-owner of the website, which puts him slightly closer to the professional athlete demographic than I.

I decided to have a go at it. Here's my first 12 Questions.

Jump little children.

2006-08-22T22:29:00.000-04:00

Today I attended a lot of district meetings at the high school, as the "official kick off" of the school year. After a nice continental breakfast, the marching band played, the cheerleaders performed the school song, and a middle school chorus sang the National Anthem. Everyone was given orange and black Mardi Gras beads. It was really a lot of hullabaloo. The best part was when the same chorus busted out a Napoleon Dynamite-esque rendition of Earth, Wind, and Fire's "Shooting Star."

Rhythmless children performing groovy dance moves while wearing neon headbands.

It's gonna be a great semester.

Good day, sunshine...

2006-08-21T23:36:00.000-04:00

If you are old school "I'm a Walking Contradiction," you might remember my second ever blog posting in which I honored the then recently deceased Chris Penn (who played Willard, the corn-fed guy with two left feet in Footloose) with a listing of my favorite dance sequences from movies past.

Tonight, I have to add a new one to the list: the ending to Little Miss Sunshine.

I realize that it's still in the theaters, so I won't bum you out with any spoilers.

Honestly, I was laughing through my tears of sadness. It takes a special kind of person to hysterically laugh and bawl like a baby at the same time. Or maybe an insane person.

Either way, go see this flick. Now.

His future's so bright...

2006-08-21T01:00:00.000-04:00

Samuel L. delivers a tasty treat...

2006-08-18T14:36:00.000-04:00

Last night, we developed a lot of permutations of the Snakes on a Plane catchphrase. You know, the one that goes "I gotta get these mothafuckin' snakes off this mothafuckin' plane." Try it, it's fun.

Highlights include:

I gotta get these mothafuckin' steaks off this mothafuckin' grill.

I gotta get these mothafuckin' headphones out of my mothafuckin' bag.

I gotta get the mothafuckin' cap off this mothafuckin' bottle of beer.

I gotta get these mothafuckin' cookies out of the mothafuckin' oven.

Who are the ad wizards that came up with that one?

2006-08-17T21:48:00.000-04:00

Rodney is going to be a chiropractor. The ad that he wants to use for his future practice goes something like this:

(Oh yeah, the practice will be called Honest Abe's).

Honest Abe freed the slaves. Now let him free you from back pain.

Ch-ch-ch-changes.

2006-08-16T21:09:00.000-04:00

Have I already used that as a title for a post before? I think so. But, the revealing part is that a) changes are inevitable and b) whenever I endure a serious change in my life, I immediately think of David Bowie.

I'll direct your attention to the new blog description at the top of the page. Exhibit A suggests that a major change is taking place in my future.

What is that change, you might wonder? Tomorrow is my last day as a part-time shoe slanger, that's what.

I will be working full-time, but not getting paid, as a student teacher at a local St. Louis high school. My first week of orientations, workshops, and getting-to-know-you activities starts Monday. And then I teach America's youth.

It's simple.

And I used the word "change" a great deal in this post. My apologies. You can tell me to get a thesaurus, if you want.

That's not very thuggish...

2006-08-16T02:35:00.000-04:00

Hollywood really baffled me yesterday. Kate Hudson and Chris Robinson split! LaLohan's big side-boob braless in a potato sack of a dress! Tucker Carlson on the next season of Dancing with the Stars!

But really got me was finding out that Tony Danza used to write Tupac letters while the rapper was in jail. Tupac, apparently, really appreciated this.

Around town...

2006-08-15T00:22:00.000-04:00

Coming home is never easy.

2006-08-14T17:11:00.000-04:00

What do you do when you get a bloody nose driving on the interstate from Chicago to St. Louis with no napkins or tissues? You sure as hell don't pull over. You keep going.

You drive until you're back at your grad school campus. You get out of the car, with a bloody face, crusted fingernails, and scabby nostrils. You walk to the nearest bathroom like you own the place. And you don't apologize for making the white porcelain sink red, like an impromptu watercolor your nose decided to paint.

Then you go to the library and wait for class to start. Vacation is over.

I have a flower in my hair...

2006-08-10T06:54:00.000-04:00

I took one of those puppies from the pictures below and stuck it behind my ear. I'm on my way to San Fran baby. I'll be back sometime on Monday.