Icebergs

I'm sitting at my desk completely dumbfounded because my new research project is photovoltaic collectors. I didn't even know how to say it until my boss corrected me. I'm a good researcher and writer but I haven't done any math or science since the last presidential administration. Except for now. The math I did to figure out the last math I did. I remember sitting in physics my freshman year of college and not caring because I was going to be a writer. What writer needs statistics and physics? The only thing I remember about physics was, yes, the bell-curve really does work against you and that icebergs in the ocean are only 11% exposed. The rest is underwater. So the people in the Titanic were screwed because they hit one big ass iceberg-- 89% unseen. I can't even tell you what that has to do with physics, but there was an equation involved. There were always equations in physics. So now I'm staring at photovoltaic collectors and I can't even tell you the difference between a watt, volt, and amp. And I'm supposed to learn this forwards and backwards. I don't even know if you have to convert these measurements from inch-pounds into international language. What is European for watt? Is there European for watt? Who uses these things anyways? Only hippies care and they can't afford this high-tech shit. Is there a difference between silicon and silicone? Oh god, I don't know. I just want to take my head and jam it into this computer screen so maybe they'll send me home and I can put off photovoltaic collectors for one more day.

Sight, sound, and gray matter

It's raining outside.

Scratch that. It's storming outside. The thunder rolled in and lightning is peeking through the gun metal clouds. The lightning flashes directly above me, but not in the horizon. I don't know if I've ever seen that before.

The rumbling stirs me from my peaceful spot in my bed. I was indulging in a piece of chick lit, but couldn't turn off my analytical brain long enough and I was soon scribbling notes in the back pages. Sight. Sound. Gray matter.

The storm comes in and I know what I have to do. I turn off all the lights and light every candle. I open the blinds. Sight.

Then I turn off the quietly humming air conditioner and open all the windows. Sound.

I place a call to the people I was supposed to be going out with tonight. No, I will not be making it out; it's storming. Yes, I am a chicken shit. Gray matter.

It's been awhile since I've been able to enjoy a storm and I'm taking my chance tonight. I'm about to turn off this computer so I can sit in the dark with my martini and blanket.

Storms are a lot more enjoyable when there's not a hole in your ceiling.

Architects are good

Well God didn't answer my prayer regarding an all male modeling agency moving in next door. He didn't let me down completely though, it's being overtaken by an architectural firm.

There's one thing I've decided since moving to Atlanta: I like architects.

They're hot, brainy, and artistic all wrapped up in a "I just want to put you in my pocket and take you with me" package. Yes, architects are good. I learned this when we had the fire alarm go off a couple of months ago and two floors of architects spilled into our parking lot. I was hung over and sans makeup.

I grabbed my lesbian coworker who couldn't keep from eyeing them herself. "Where did all these hot guys come from?!" I hissed.

"They're from the architectural firm in our building," she explained. "Did you see the one with the beard?"

"Ooh, good call. But I get dibs because you're a lesbian."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Why didn't I wear makeup today?!"

"Because you didn't know the building was going to catch on fire."

Just then the fire truck pulled in our parking lot. We took a few steps back. I eyed the firemen, but was disappointed. I turned back to the architects.

"Quick, push me into that one!" I hissed again.

"Why?"

"So I'll have an excuse to talk to him. Make it look like an accident!"

She just laughed, not realizing I was dead serious.

So yes, architects are good. Besides, I would have eventually run out of "but he can't turn left!" jokes.

B-friends, not to be confused with B-list friends

So... I think I have a best friend.

I'm a little cautious using that word. Matter of fact all words that start with "b" and end in "friend" are not words I throw around lightly. And they're not words that typically have great endings for me.

Threatening messages, cars keyed, clothes burnt: all casualties of the b-friend.

No wonder I am wholly terrified of women.

I'm okay with calling myself my own b-friend, and not in a cheesy 4H kind of way. I'm possessive and can be pretty selfish at times, so no one treats me better than myself. No ones else will go on-line shopping for me when I'm depressed and no one else knows my secret cure all for a bad mood. So that's the way I have been operating for the past several years.

The results are far worse for the other b-friend word. Although nothing may happen personally to me, thousands of people die and the country goes into a state of emergency. I'm not speaking hyperbolically. Remember 9/11? It happened the morning after a serious break-up. Remember Katrina? The day after a serious break-up. For the health of this country, it is good that I remain single for awhile.

But the female b-friend variety--

I met her at work and fell in love with her bracelets. I asked her out to lunch and remember how awkward it was; it truly felt like a first date. After a few awkward lunches, we graduated to after work specials. Then we were going to events together and getting each other out of the house. Advice seeking soon followed. But none of these things make the b-friend.

Then there was the night I was lying in bed with the comforter tucked in around me, watching my Blockbuster on-line arrival. The phone rang. We had already spoken several times that day, but when I answered, her tone was different. She had been crying. It takes a lot for me to cry in front of someone. At the very least, it takes a lot of vodka. I had a feeling she was the same way. Through her sniffles I could feel her embarrassment. "I didn't know who else to call," she said.

I think relationships change once someone cries. Factors like vulnerability and trust enter into the friendship. Sure I would fold my arms and lean back into her, but could I cry? "I just want you to be happy," I said and I realized I truly meant it. And in the same manner of driving down that lonely highway and wondering if you really love him, I began to ponder, "Is she my b-friend?"

Yesterday she calls me during my lunch break. She had been out of town so we haven't been able to gab and eat lunch together. We sat on the phone, me in my cubicle and her in New Jersey, and we ate lunch. It was then I realized, yes, I have a best friend.

Dear Law of Averages,

You effing suck. I really hate you. Tell your cousin Marshall I feel the same about him too.

Screw you both,
James

My ceiling is fixed. Not without calling the local housing authorities and contacting a lawyer, but my ceiling is fixed. I had still felt wronged by my apartment complex. Throughout the 5 week ordeal, they didn't even provide me with so much as a tarp to collect the falling plaster. Not one damn bucket for the pee-colored rain dripping in my kitchen. After another call to the manager, I demanded concessions on my rent. "My apartment has not been up to building code for over a month," I told them. "That's 30 days where I faithfully paid rent, and 30 days where you did not keep your end of the contract we made. My apartment is not 'habitable' by legal definition. You couldn't have rented this apartment out in the condition it was in, so you can't expect me to pay the full month's rent."

So they made concessions with me.

I thought about what I could do with the money I would not be paying towards next month's rent. I can finally get that digital camera, I thought. I am the only person in the world that doesn't have one. I can't keep relying on my camera phone.

It sounded like a good idea and it made me happy. Finally something was happening my way. I left work a couple minutes early to go make my purchase and when I stuck my key in the ignition, it made a funny noise, like a dying robot. The battery was completely dead. I couldn't even lock my doors to go back in the building. After asking around I found a couple of people who could jump start my truck and I promptly drove to a parts place. They tested my battery and smiled crookedly while they told me I needed a new one. They also laughed that they had never seen a battery die for no reason during the summer months before, only the winter months.

Now I am the owner of a new car battery, but not a digital camera.

So screw you, Law of Averages. And your little dog too.

Invader

I read an article on-line a few weeks ago that women's bathroom products are 30% higher on cost than men's. It was a part of a super-saver series. If women bought non gender related products, they could save a pretty penny.

In the aisles of Wal-Mart Sunday, I took the test. The pretty pink fruit scented shaving gel with extra aloe I had been buying for years cost $2.79. I skimmed the bottom shelf and found Colgate shaving cream with extra aloe for $.99. Holy crap! That's a lot more than a 30% increase!

Next item: razors. The disposable pink daisies came 10 in a bag for $2.99. Man-blue disposable razors? 25 for $1.99. Oh dear God, I couldn't believe how much money I have been spending over the years so I could have pink things! With the exception of deodorant and conditioner, I bought all non gender bathroom products: shaving cream, razors, soap, and mousse. I saved a ton that I promptly spent in the bargain bins at Barnes & Noble.

Yesterday I returned home from work and I stopped in the entryway with my keys in the door. My apartment felt wrong. It felt like there was someone there while I was gone. Moreover, it felt like a man was there while I was gone. I stood on the slate tile and inhaled. Yes, a man had been here.

I dropped my keys in the basket and turned around and faced my bathroom door, following the scent. It smelled of all things man: Irish Spring soap and shaving cream. I felt a pang in my heart, remembering all the times I returned home to that smell. If I walked around the corner I would see the man napping with my dog.

I didn't have to walk around the corner; I knew no one would be there. I stared motionless at my bathroom door. I had done it to myself. I didn't buy the girlie products and now it smelled like a man. I didn't even know I had missed the scent until it came wafting out at me, but there I stood spellbound.

Nikita came out from under the bed, stretched and yawned and wagged her way over to me. I crouched low to pet her, still staring at the bathroom, almost willing someone to walk out of it. I felt lonely. For the first time in a very long time, I felt lonely. I inhaled one last time, feeling another pang.

Nikita licked my wrist and brought me back to present times: a happy dog, a beautiful apartment with everything I could want or need for, and a busy schedule that didn't allow me to pause and think about such things. The phone would ring in a minute and I would spend the hour before dinner gabbing to my best friends about upcoming plans, laughing while the grilled chicken consumed the sharp smell of Irish Spring.

Simple Pleasures

I went home to see my mother and step-father on Sunday. They thought it was to visit. However, I was just really missing Wal-Mart. Atlanta doesn't have one, and after $72 on groceries last week at Publix and the cupboards are bare again, I decided I needed a spree at one.

I had finally accepted Atlanta's smaller grocery stores: a Target with 2 floors, Publix with really long aisles and only carries two-thirds of what I really want. (How can a grocery store NOT have turkey chili? Seriously? Slim Fast in powder form? Not here!)

I grabbed a cart at Wal-Mart and began sweet talking the food, "Hello Hamburger Helper, I've missed you! What's that? You actually have 2 new varieties? Yes please!"

My mother put a little distance between us when I shrilled with glee at the cereal aisle. "Look Ma, they have three sizes of Lucky Charms! Three sizes! I bet that big one won't even fit in my cupboard!"

She yelled at me when I began baby talking the Pringles, all $1 a can. "You're so cute! Yes you are! And I can take your brothers and your sisters home with me because you're less than half the price than in Atlanta!"

Seriously, most fun I had all week. I filled and entire cart full of mostly premade food that will last me months and handed over my credit card when the total reached $58. I saved $8 in crackers alone. Now for all this eating I have planned.

Blue is my world when I'm without you, Part 3

Part 1
Part 2

My old blue jeans. The ones I'm unnaturally attached to. They were the reason of my last relationship. We were both wearing Calvin Kleins in the same wash. We bonded over our pants. (Hush, you.)

I was also wearing them the night my ex-boyfriend came up behind me in a bar and breathed into my ear, "Your ass doesn't look like a perfect peach, it looks like a perfect apple."

"Is that better?" I asked without turning around.

"Mmm."

I told all this to Erin.

She sighed, "You might have to spend some extra money and go to the other mall."

"Not Phipps!"

"Yes, Phipps."

"You know how expensive Phipps is?"

"Yes, but they have people who work there for a living, not just for after school jobs. They know what they're doing. You go in there and pick a store and tell them what you want-"

"Like jeans that cover my ass and don't bunch around the ankles?"

"I hate that new style!"

"Damn skinny jeans."

"So yeah, find a store in Phipps and they'll help you out."

"I'm so sick of this."

"I know."

So I drove there. A girl couldn't be seen walking into Phipps; she had to arrive in style. And by style, I mean a 1998 Explorer. But it has leather.

I passed Gucci and Versace. Paused momentarily and drooled at Tiffany's (oddly the title Capote didn't go for). Maybe I could forget about the blue jeans and get a tiny tiny diamond. Then I remembered my priorities and passed Tiffany's as well.

There is was: Lucky Jeans. They had a curtain of blue jeans hanging in the window; this was the place. I walked in and tried to discreetly examine a price tag.

"Can I help you?"

I was caught like a kid with his hand in the candy barrel. I dropped the tag, cursing that I never got to see the price. He was a nice looking man, but I was on a mission.

"Yes. I am looking for blue jeans. Low rise. And by low rise I mean right below the belly button, not right above the pubic hair."

He stifled a laugh.

"And nothing tight. I do not want to see the word, 'stretch.' And none of the new style with the 80's ankles."

He nodded, smiling. "This isn't your first place is it?"

"This isn't even my first week for this pair of jeans."

He led me to a shelf marked "Sundown." They were available in every shade. "What size are you? he asked."

I squinted at the jeans and panicked. They were all in boy sizes. Shit. "Um, I don't know."

You look about a 28," he said. "Now what color wash?"

"Not acid wash. I actually like them kind of dark."

His face lit up. He crouched down to the bottom shelf and grabbed a pair that looked almost black. "These just came in last week. It's a brand new color. I love them."

He unfolded the jeans and they didn't look as black as they originally did on the shelf. "Um, okay." And then pointing to the next pair not as dark, "And those too."

In the dressing room I tried the lighter of the two pair on. They fit better than anything I had previously tried on, but they were still a bit hippie (not in a bell-bottom way, only ladies will understand). I looked at the price tag: $90. Sadly, I pulled the jeans off.

Then I grabbed the new hip pair so dark I fade into the night, ninja-style. I put them on. Just then, the ceiling busted open and an angel appeared singing with a harp in her arms. God's light shone down on me in the Lucky dressing room in Phipps Mall. This was it. The perfect pair. I've never had a pair of jeans that fit me so well; it was like they used my body to design those jeans.

"Everything all right in there?"

The ceiling closed back up and the angel fled. "Yeah, I have a question though." I pulled back the curtain. "I had two pairs of jeans in the same style and the same size. Why do they fit me differently?"

"Even though they are the same cut, each pair is made separately," he explained. He pointed to my holy jeans, "Those were made a different time than the others, so they might differ slightly, altering the fit. They are all priced differently too even though they are the same style."

I grabbed the tag: $115. "These are more than the others!"

"Remember, they just came out."

I had no choice but to get the heavenly pair. With tax it was $120. I just spent $120 on blue jeans. $120 on an article of clothing deemed not suitable to wear to work.

But as you see, I had no choice.

Just so you know

My parents are currently on their way to my apartment. I called and left a wavering message that my truck no longer worked because the stoplight switch broke off, so they are on their way to fix it for me. In case they ask who put it on, the answer is not a homeless man.

Learn. Repeat.

Assclownery

I have been dead set about giving myself a black eye before the week is over.

I was an ass enough to close my tailgate of my SUV ON MY EYE SOCKET. It swelled up a nice puffy red, as if I were fresh from the saucy world of date abuse.

Cards to women's shelters received: 1.

After a night alternating a cold beer bottle and a bag of frozen red peppers on the eye, the swelling went down. Makeup fixed everything else as not to require any unexpected time off from work.

Then last night I was lying on my floor. Drunk. I had 3 beers with dinner and I couldn't believe I was intoxicated. The room was slightly spinning and the TV was on, but I couldn't focus on it. Nikita was thrilled that I was passed out on the floor before 9:30 PM and was sticking her snout in my face, alternating smelling and licking. I wasn't looking and stuck my hand up to scratch her head. I missed. I turned and stuck my head up to see where she went and my other eye socket collided with the crown of her doggie head.

"Ow!" I screamed.

"Woo!" She offered back.

I slapped my hand to my face, covering up the wound. It really hurt, more so than the corner of the tailgate. I've seen her knock her head around and she never reacts, so I know it's pretty tough. Tougher than my head apparently. I lied on the floor whimpering so she stuck her snout in my face again, made the smelling anteater sound, and gave me a final winning lick.

So now there is a faint green bruise under my eyebrow on the other eye.

Insert power fist here

"I can't believe I chose the hottest month of the year to play in Atlanta. What's worse is that I'm starting my tour here and I haven't worked off my beer gut yet."
--Butch Walker 07-19-06

I wasn't imagining big spoon/little spoon with Butch Walker on this occasion; I was in the middle of The Variety Playhouse watching Walker perform for the third time this year. If you're from outside of Atlanta, you probably know him best for producing that band you really like, or more recently, from his short-lived spot as a judge for this year's "Rockstar: Supernova." Even though Walker spends more time in California these days, he still keeps a special place in his heart for the city and the people that made him famous.

"I've put three solo albums out so far and I've toured extensively. Every time I play in Atlanta, I see the same faces. You don't know how much that means to me."

I smiled inwardly. I am one of those people and I'm glad Walker has noticed this too. Something has to be said about his fans, for a guy whose turn in the spotlight was indeed for 15 minutes. I've seen a girl with his face tattooed on her arm. That's dedication. It also speaks volumes that his newest album dropped a week ago and Walker was able to let his Atlanta fans sing lines from his new material. They had a week to learn it and they studied hard. I'm not sure the same can be said for other cities.

"It's great starting in Atlanta. Y'all need to come to Nashville tomorrow and do it all over again. We're showing off here, but tomorrow we're going to be like, 'Oh shit.' There's room for y'all, come along!"

The testimony can be seen during certain songs. When "Lights Out" debuted over 2 tours ago, Walker encouraged fans to scream, "Hell yeah!" with a pump of a fist. Years later and fans are still hitting the cue with the damn the man gesture, myself included, without any instruction from Walker. Older fans still periodically flash the double-handed horns, a symbol Walker often used during the early touring with The Marvelous 3.

His most memorable show for me was at the Tabernacle in 2001. There were fire and explosions, then when he sat on the piano for his ballads, it snowed. It was during the height of the Marvelous 3 period. At the time Walker stated that the Tabernacle was the largest venue they ever sold out. He has since toned down the performances in lieu for more attention focused on his songwriting, but this may also be related to a knee injury he sustained after jumping off a speaker one tour, forcing him to finish the tour in crutches.

The show tonight was everything you'd expect from the great performer. When Walker made his way to the piano for his ballad trio he said, "Let me just play one more song here. This is the only chance I'm going to get to catch my breath tonight! I'm a giver not a taker!" Of course the offer of one more song will never be turned down by a Butch Walker fan.

Check his newest album here.

My dog is an effing genius

She's learning to earn her keep around here. That $8 bag a kibble once a month has turned into an investment.

She just caught and ate a fly. The same one that has been flitting around my apartment the last 3 days, annoying the hell out of me.

Bravo, Nikita, bravo.

Story of my freaking life.

Because I'd rather be at home, watching bad daytime TV:

The Mean Reds

Do not mess with me; I am mean today.

I had to stop in the ghetto for gas before work this morning. The cheap ass gas station was so old the card readers weren't reading my credit card. I drove to 3 different pumps and used 2 different cards before going inside.

I hate having to speak through a plastic partition, but that's the way it is in the ghetto.

"Debit or credit?" he asked.

"Credit."

"What's your zip code?"

I was already annoyed with not being able to use my card at the pump. "Why do you need my zip code?"

"To protect against fraud."

I looked around. I was the only person there wearing a shirt AND pants AND shoes, if anyone was going to use a card fraudulently, it wasn't going to be me. "Fine," and I gave him my zip.

He then says, "I need some ID."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"You need ID in addition to my zip code on my billing statement?"

"Yes."

"Fine!" Now fully pissed, I ran outside and grabbed my purse. Inside I slammed my driver's license against the plastic partition. "There's my ID, now please put $20 on pump 2."

"I need you to take the ID out of your wallet and slide it under."

"No. You can see it fine through the plastic. Here it is. Please put $20 on my card now." I said evenly.

"What's with your attitude?"

"I just want to get gas! I've gone to 3 of your pumps, none of which have the credit card reader working and now you're making me jump through hoops. Please put $20 on my card!"

"You know what? No. You cannot get gas here today." And he slid my card back under the partition to me.

There's a gas station on every block; I hope he doesn't think he's special. I stomped out of the store, caught his eye through the window, removed the gas pump, and let it drop on the cement.

At work I made a phone call to my apartment manager. For those of you following, my ceiling has still not been fixed. I was nice about it for 30 days, and I'm done being nice.

The apartment manager was completely incompetent. "I've never heard of your problem because I'm not on the maintenance staff," he quipped.

"Well, as the manager, it's your job to know this stuff," I suggested.

"Well, if no one tells me, how am I supposed to know?"

Seriously? That's the best he's got? That's his best excuse? "I don't know, why don't you hold a meeting with your staff!"

I took a deep breath, fully enraged for the second time before 9:30 am. "It was your name on the work order and, you, not the maintenance staff called the contractor out. They don't have the authority to do that!"

He was snide with me and hung up on me. I called him back and we really got into until he hung up on me again.

I slammed the phone down and screamed "Asshole!" The people in adjoining cubicles began applauding.

"Well done!" they cheered.

"Wow, I've never heard you yell before," one said.

"I've never heard anyone use the word 'attitudinal' in an argument before!" another laughed.

So I called the local housing authority and told them my apartment hasn't been up to building code for over a month. Nothing will come of it, but he'll eventually have to deal with inspectors and my complaint will be on file for anyone who wants to see.

So I ain't taking your crap today. I'm in the mood where if you cut me off, I will let you hit me just to fuck up your day. My truck is old, it can take it.

And if you want me to yell at anyone for you, send 'em my way.

I need a vacation.

60 Seconds with Butch Walker

Sure I would let him spoon me... with a clean bill of health from the CDC. We'd lie on top of a bed and he would lay his free hand on the back of my thigh. He'd lean in and just talk to me. I'd wiggle my butt and press it into him and ask for the Katrina story again (not the hurricane).

In reality, I would wait until my number was called and I'd walk into a coffee shop in Little 5 Points. He would be standing at the end of the bar, beer bottle at his side. It would be the just us; the coffee shop was not open this afternoon.

I've met him a dozen times over the years. I've seen him perform double that amount. I've even interviewed him once. He's been around for every love and, more importantly, for every heartache. He and I go way back. Just don't ask him that, because he'll have no idea who I am.

He leaned against the bar. Next to him laid a small stack of CDs from people hoping he'd produce their bands; he welcomed their submissions.

I smiled and stuck my hand out. He looked at it before taking it.

"Hi, I'm Jamie." Out of habit, I studied his eyes for a couple of seconds. For the first time, they weren't bloodshot.

"Hey there. How are you?"

"I'm good. I brought some stuff for you to sign." I fanned out the 6 CD covers and the DVD cover. He was only supposed to sign one item—the new CD—but the line had died down and I hoped my forward thinking move of already having the cover art removed from the cases would not reach any objections.

"Okay cool," he grabbed the stack from me and began scribbling. "So did you like the show?"

"Oh I loved it as usual. I really like the direction you've taken, both musically and lyrically."

"That's awesome to know, thanks."

"Actually, I have a question for you."

"Oh yeah, what's that?" His head was still bent down, signing.

"The song 'Joan,' is it intentionally ambiguous?"

He stopped signing and stared at me, thinking for a moment. It was like he was pondering the possibility for the first time. "Yes... ambiguous," he began slowly. His face lit up either from understanding the question or from the recognition of the answer, "It is!"

I felt the need to explain myself, "Because, you know, you never really say whether the blood is hers or her boyfriend's. Did the protagonist know her or just lived in the apartment after her? There isn't an answer to these questions; it's ambiguous."

"I had a really difficult time writing that song," he explained. "I personally didn't know what was going to happen, so I left it open-ended. The result is what you've heard. I've never written a song that didn't have a clear ending before. It was a difficult decision to leave it open like that, sort of unfinished. Did you like it?"

"You don't know the drunken debates I've gotten into over your intentions as a writer with that song. I've argued both ways. Every couple of months I'll change my mind over something as small as a inflection in your voice."

"It's my only song like that. It was challenging; I feel my writing has grown from that experience. I'm glad it goes over well." He finished signing my assortment and handed it back to me.

"Well, it was nice meeting you," I stuck my hand out again (loser).

This time he accepted it a little more willingly. My gaze followed his heart tattoo from his wrist back up to his eyes. I still couldn't believe there wasn't an ounce of red in them. He caught my gaze and held it for a moment.

"Bye."

"Bye, Jamie," he smiled.

I walked past him and a lady offered me a piece of chocolate cake. Because that is what you get after meeting Butch Walker. I walked out the back door of the coffee shop into an alley where a guy was wearing green short shorts and had a wooden sword duct taped to him. I smiled, but not at the freak in the shorts. I smiled because I still had a bit of journalist inside of me: it's not all forgotten. I asked the question that no one else asked.

You're So Screwed:The Joya Williams edition

Why are you smiling? WHY? WHY? WHY? You, dearie, are up shit creek and that creek is about to turn into waterfall. After you go over the falls, you are going to land into a cesspool of floaters and sinkers. And you have no boat. You're that screwed.

Thoughts for the day

I'm glad the World Cup is over for the only reason that everyone can stop pretending like they've been following soccer all along. You haven't. You know it. I know it. For God's sake, we call it soccer.

I saw that headbutt on replay though. Totally hot.

***

After spending my lunch hour at Urban Outfitters, I have to admit that there is no "Everyone Loves a ____ Girl" t-shirt for me. I'm not Irish, Italian, Asian, Jewish, or Catholic. I don't think they'd ever make a "Everyone Loves a Austrian Girl" or "German Girl" t-shirt because they could only decorate those in swastikas, and-- lets face it-- "Everyone loves a German Girl" just has a different meaning.

Dear God,

I know you always hate it that people only come to you when they have problems. I get that. But if you can't be the one we turn to, then what else are we supposed to do?

See, God, I have this problem. You know that empty office in my building? You know, the one with the all glass front located next to my office? If you could fill that with a male modeling agency, that'd be great.

Thanks in advance,
James

An open letter to Dallas Austin

You're an idiot.

And not just for writing that dumbass "Atlanta" song. Seriously, does it even have words? Isn't it just unknown people vocalizing the whole time? I didn't even know it was possible to make an entire city sound like they are suffering from DTs, but you brought us there.

But this isn't even the purpose for my letter.

You're an idiot for going to a country where they behead people and bringing your cocaine with you. You told the authorities you "forgot to get rid of it." Because that makes it okay! Pretty dumbass move.

When I found out you were sentenced to four years in a Dubai prison, I got excited. That seemed punishment enough. Unfortunately the country didn't want you and now you're back here with us. Back at Cafe Dupree doing blow off the toilet seat.

God must hate me.

An ode to Baton Bob

I'm selfish enough to think that he was my secret. I had first seen him here, and I'm sorry baby, but the tutu took me by surprise. By the third time I saw him, he was a welcome fixture in my outings. He and I seemed to go everywhere together. A part of me felt like he showed up just for my enjoyment.

I called him Queen Bee because of our first memorable meeting. After describing my secret treasure of Midtown to my coworker, she says, "Oh. You mean Baton Bob." I got the idea that one of her friends coined the moniker and dismissed it. Then last weekend I read Creative Loafing and sure enough it mentions Baton Bob several times. He has a name.

I was slightly disappointed. Baton Bob wasn't dressing up and blowing the whistle just for me, he was doing it for everyone in Midtown. On the plus side, I thought I could Google his name and get a few photos because he's always been too quick for me to take a picture.

Google finished the name for me. Hmm, he is a popular search. Then I nearly peed in my pants as I screamed in my cubicle during my lunch hour. Baton Bob has his own Wikipedia entry. It's in the freaking Internet encyclopedia. He's not just entertaining Midtown, he's entertaining the world.

Oh, did I mention they did a story on him on CNN? May Baton Bob bring you enough enjoyment as he brings me.

Worst Fourth of July. Ever.

The plan seemed simple: go to Centennial Park and watch the fireworks. Make fun of people walking by (but quietly enough as to not get beat up). Eat carnie food.

• Go to Centennial: check.
• Eat carnie food: check.
• Make fun of people: check check.

Centennial Park was clearly not in our demographic. I couldn't tell the people with platinum teeth and the long t-shirts from the celebrities with platinum teeth and long t-shirts. I probably saw 4 celebrities and never even knew it. The fact that Blessid Union of Souls was scheduled to play before the fireworks had me giggling. It's their first gig in, what, 7 years? The crowd is going to boo them off the stage. I belted out off-key to Erin, "I believe love is the answer/ I believe love will find a way," while reaching out to her in my obvious need of tender love and feeling before falling over in giggles.

I had already been searched and the police had already corralled the kids out of the reflection pool in the center of the park. We were sitting comfortably on the grass. The heat had died when the grey clouds covered the sky. They looked serious, but not formidable.

"I think if it was going to rain, it would have done so by now," I mused with my nose to the sky. It had always rained a little on the Fourth of July for as long as I remembered. My mother said that this was always a blessing because if any fireworks went astray, everything would be too wet to catch on fire.

Carnie food consumed, we were thirsty and looking for a bathroom. A clean bathroom. We surveyed the surrounding buildings and decided which ones would most likely let us in. We settled on CNN. They're always open-- CNN is always broadcasting. Erin and her friend waited in line for the bathroom while I waited in line for the drinks. The trip took longer than I thought. A concern was growing inside of me. We were inside too long, the grey clouds hadn't passed yet, and I was probably missing my song. As we approached the front door to leave the building, my foreboding increased. "If it's raining, I'm waiting it out in here," I informed them.

It looked like the front doors exploded. People were running in, screaming, and falling down. The lobby of CNN was instantly packed. Security guards appeared out of nowhere. It was pure chaos. Outside the trees were giving in to the wind. Lightning took the place of firecrackers.

We didn't know what to do and we were scared at the chaos. I don't like large crowds. The deafening screams made it worse. Children were crying. Missing shoes littered the wet floor where one woman wrung out her shirt. We found a small group of presumed college students huddling against the CNN sign against the wall and we went and huddled with them. I'm sure we looked ridiculous. 7 white people looking frightened in front of the giant red CNN letters while havoc surrounded them. I would have laughed at the sight had I not been apart of it. I felt the need to call my parents and let them know I was in the midst of the most ghetto moment of my life. The security guards kicked a few men out of the building, escorting them out into the storm. We never saw them or the security guards again. We were wallflowers in the midst of anarchy. "Next year we're going to Lenox," I muttered.

The storm would not let up. Blessid Union of Souls would never perform. The fireworks would not be lit. The blanket and chairs we were sitting on were now official donations to the homeless; there was no way we were going back into the park to get them. Some tired of waiting in the building and braved the storm. Children had settled into wet whimpers. The college kids disappeared. Missing shoes multiplied. When the rain settled into a light pattern, we too left the building and tried to find the car. Streets were gridlocked and some were even flooded. The only light in the sky was the lightning, which had still not left.

Erin's phone rang, "What? The trains aren't coming in?" My chin fell to my chest. This was not good news. The MARTA station had flooded and everyone that took the train in to Centennial could not get back. "Of course, we'll come and get you," I heard her say.

We climbed into her Civic. "There were four of them, right?" I asked. That made 7 wet girls. Instead of heading away from the park, we had to drive right to it to get the girls. Traffic was not moving and fire trucks and ambulances had nowhere to go, they just sat on their horns, similar to me when traffic pisses me off.

It was now 10 PM. We left to go to the bathroom at 8 PM. Erin flashed her lights when we saw the girls walk down the sidewalk. They opened the door and began cramming themselves into the backseat like squeezing sausage into its casings. A girl on the phone with her boyfriend sat on my lap; I have never spoken to her in my life. Everyone leans to me while one tries to shut the door. It took several attempts before she was successful. There was no room for my arms and I had to rest them behind the headrest.

Thank God for living in the city. I was the first one out. I swiped my card at the gate and entered, still limping from the weight that was on my leg. It was only then I thought, Omigod, my ceiling. I unlocked my door and ran into the kitchen without even greeting Nikita. There was now a perpendicular hole to the one already there. When they were inspecting my apartment, they moved one of my buckets and the carpet and towel was soaking while the bucket was dry. Plaster was in the carpet.

I heard it. A firecracker. I ran barefoot to my balcony and took a picture of the only firecracker I would see this Fourth of July. I returned, wrung out the towel before replacing it on the carpet, aligned the bucket with the second hole, and then I went to bed, grateful that I had work in the morning.

On Storytelling

"You have such an interesting life," Ryan exhales, smoking on my balcony in Midtown. We're looking to the left at my narrow city view, but it's a view nonetheless. "I mean, I sleep and read and occasionally eat. But you're blog has like, 'I almost died today. 3 times!'"

"Really? Do you think my life is more active than others, or just that I'm better at finding the story? I always thought it was the latter."

"I honestly don't know. If people aren't telling their stories, we'll never know."

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

A couple of weeks ago I found out my friend had died. Paul and I had actually been trying to find him for months to reestablish communication. It was Paul who came across the MySpace page and sent it to me. It was me who read the page and figured out he was no longer with us. I sent a e-mail out to the keeper of the dedication page asking what happened, but never got a response.

That night when I was asleep, I dreamed. I dreamed about Fish. We were in the desert walking alongside a road. The road was very straight except for a sharp curve. When Fish and I approached the curve, we stopped to stare at it. "I didn't see the curve," he half-laughed and shrugged. I nodded. Fish continued talking to me. He told me he was alright and happy. I think I said I missed him and had been trying to get back in touch with him. We were standing at the sharp curve and looking at the landscape below us. To comfort me, he put his arm around my shoulders. I felt it. Not like you feel things in dreams where you know you're touching something and are remotely aware of what it feels like, or how you say things in dreams and know you're not really speaking. I was fully aware of his arm around me. Even in my dream I knew that this touch was real.

After weeks of tracking people down, I finally got a response to what happened. Joe wrote,

"The story is that as he was driving home he went around dead mans curve, which caused some DVDs to slide in his truck seat. He must have been reaching over to keep them from falling into the floor and didn't realize that he was going straight as the road was slightly bending to the right. This then caused him to cross the yellow line enough that a mini bus collided with him head on."

The setting was different, but the message was the same. He didn't see the curve.