City blood

"Want some of this?!" I yell to my brother over the shaky din of the front-end loader as he hauls his Dickey-clad lower half toward a location on the family farm that will make him some money. I shake a bright orange can of mosquito repellent at him.

He looks at me like I'm some sort of communist.

"NO!" he shouts at me, shaking his head. It's like I've suggested that he take out twenty percent of his paycheck to solve the mystery of why men leave the toilet seat up and why women always think they can change a man.

"They're eating me up!" I holler as a means of explanation for the intricate aerosol dance I'm performing as I glance at my bare legs. I scowl at the throbbing patches of skin where enterprising mosquitoes have already staked their claim. I squint my eyes, fan myself, and cover my limbs in sticky chemicals that supposedly will keep blood-sucking parasites at bay. The dogs, previously nosing pressingly into my creases, back off.

"You've been in the city too long," my brother tells me. I don't know what to say; I hardly consider Memphis a city in the traditional meaning of the word, and instead think of it as one big rural neighborhood with pizza delivery. I shrug off his comments and douse myself in chemical. The following day, my mother and I will spot a clandestine colony of honeybees constructing honeycombs out of sight behind plywood covering what used to be the door to the only bank in town and I will creep ever closer for a glimpse behind their buzzing curtain, but for now I will smack at a buzzing pest hovering near my thigh, wondering what's in the repellent that keeps the blood-suckers at bay. The sky contracts. The clouds pulse silently and lower to cover the horizon in a full-court press. I smile, content.

This is my home, even if I'm the only one in the entire family that the mosquitoes still bother.

The mosquitoes, I remind my brother, have always eaten me alive.

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Today the clouds hung low and common like weightless glaciers, suspended in the sky above and beyond me. I kept my gaze trained to them all day, mouth slightly agape like some kind of developmentally disabled infant with her hands pointed toward a mobile featuring the skies. I say that because a big blue sky like that makes me feel dumb and happy. It didn't seem real, the scale of it all. I wondered what it must be like to look into the near horizon and see an honest-to-god mountain or two. Every day. How that might affect perception for someone used to a flat plane. I think I might feel constantly watched if anything other than sky ever crept up around me. Or do the mountains push an illusion of privacy? I have lived in the flat lands of West Tennessee all my life and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to answer that question.

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We watched a movie this weekend, a cautionary tale: Don't let the machines evolve faster than we do. Wall•E is a Pixar flick with a calming political influence mapped in its bones. You watch it and you can't help but want to say shucks, we fucked it all up, and then feed and clothe the lowly artists who have to cope with the mundane storytelling and shading of each animated post-apocalyptic form. I watched with great interest all the sci-fi homages. Johnny-Five and Hal, yes. And likely more that I did not tap into or have forgotten or am too lazy to mention.

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We buried two small, quaint bundles of treasure today. Stickers and typing-paper explanations. The geocaching community in Saltillo is no doubt fledgling at best, but could be bolstered by the unbridled enthusiasm of two pre-teens, a millenial, and a baby boomer. Funny to think that I'd never given geocaching a single thought until this past week when a soon-to-be-honeymooning friend mentioned it and suddenly the world skidded into silly relief in relation to the idea that people were hiding tiny treasures all over town. I don't know; maybe it's easy to ignore that fact and remain happy but as far as I know, you ought to seek shelter under the nearest ban on allcaps and just enjoy the summer from then on out.

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Would it surprise anyone to know that I was totally drunk as this post was going up?

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Update, from the future!!!: I sobered up and edited this post ... extensively. Didn't edit out the stupid, though. That's going to stay for posterity. Honestly, sometimes I am amazed at the random shit that I will say or write once I've got a couple of drinks in me. I get mouthy when I drink. And lately I've been reading a lot of fiction, which tends to make me wordy when I write. Drinking while writing, well, I get mouthy and wordy and messy and then have to answer for it to my sober self the next day.

Describing Billie

I've been on a real Billie Holiday kick lately. I attribute this development to something akin to typical mid-twenties labor pains and the fact that it's already nasty hot and it's not even summer yet. Putting a Billie Holiday record on has roughly the same effect on a room as turning on an oscillating fan and taking off a couple of layers of clothes. The only way the setting could possibly improve is if you've got one hand clenched around a glass of champagne, and your other arm wrapped tightly around a man who smells like soap and salt, your chin perched on his shoulder as you two shuffle side by side to the slow, swinging beat, your shadows long from the candlelight.

Early last year, I posted about an NPR segment called "Vocal impressions", where listeners described various iconic American voices. I offered up a description of Al Green's voice at the time that I'm still actually pretty happy with ("A lovesick panther with a shard of glass stuck in his paw").

But Billie? She's proving a bit harder to describe, though I sure would love to pin her sound down.

A fully-grown woman, sipping bourbon while playing hopscotch.

The dew dripping off an old wooden radio, left sitting on the porch.

A hot-air balloon drifting into the sunset.

Homemade lemonade and sweat at dusk.

A trumpet mute made out of daisies.

Help me out.

In which I drunkenly promote my friends' awesomeness

Y'all, check out my man Fritz, burning up the interwebs with his dating advice from circus performers. Effing awesome and hilarious and at least one of those questions floating out there was plucked more or less from my own life (I'll let you guess which one).

I would also dote on another friend of mine who recently — by permission of an unusually amiable and serendipity-friendly Universe — got [some musician we adore] and her boyfriend to read one of her short stories and agree that the story was awesome and hilarious (duh) but I won't link her or mention her by name because she's modest and afraid of looking like a dork. I, however, have no such reservations, and will only delete this mention when she phones me in a few hours and tells me to. Or calls me something akin to "fuzzy bunny." But only if she promises to have her boyfriend call me later and do impersonations of Marge Simpson again. Because that was all kinds of awesome the first time around.

I love you guys. Shit.

Ouch

Note to self: During marathon early-morning phone calls, alternate water with all those glasses of wine, especially if you plan to do anything remotely productive the next day.

F——king up

Some days ... I swear.

I know that being human is an ongoing experiment in imperfection. I get that. I don't expect to be perfect. In any way. Never have been, never will be. But I go through these periods where I am just a total fuckup at nearly everything I do, and I have no idea why it happens.

Now, before you try to console me and tell me that I'm just having a bad day/week/month/year/whatever, and that everyone goes through this and shit happens and all that, know this: I have always been somewhat of a fuckup.

It's true. I always let little things slip through, or I ignore things or get distracted and don't notice when things have gone to shit. I'm not as meticulous about things as I'd have the world believe. I am often oblivious. I fudge details. I am not the sort of anal-retentive taskmaster I like to pretend to be. In fact, I'm pretty laid back about most everything.

And sometimes that results in me getting shit wrong at work. And it drives me up a fucking wall that I let that happen. Because it shouldn't. Thousands of eyes are watching.

People (myself included) read newspapers and get fucking giddy when they notice things that are wrong. It's probably because newspapers purport to be publications of prestige and record; we are the final word, the bit that, were we in a movie, would be spinning toward the camera in a dramatic attempt to have meaning and finality. So when I fuck up a news page, I am essentially pissing on posterity. That's not an easy burden to carry.

I don't know where my fuckups come from. I sometimes wonder if it's a problem that stems from some sort of undiagnosed ADD. Can I blame the internet, or those several years that I spent juggling three jobs and full-time classwork, where I was never really focused on anything? Or is it just me and my personality?

Just now, when writing this, I had to leave and take a breather on the balcony. I'm not sure I can do anything in one sitting anymore. I've got a dozen windows open at all times: A dozen eyes peeking into other realities, each one vying for my full attention.

And for what? I have no idea.

I am terrified of being the weakest link, of being looked at as the one who can't be counted on to get shit done. I have always prided myself on being the type you could go to if you needed to make things happen. But I'm not sure that's me anymore. The older I get, the more wiry grey sprigs crop up on my scalp, and the flakier I am.

I want to fix it. Now.

[I got really excited when I stumbled upon Fuckup.co.uk, a compendium of fuckups, but what a letdown to find that there's only one confession on the entire site. There's a gap in the market; someone needs to make that shit happen.]

Voting is important. And stuff.

It's 3 a.m. I'm not technically sober. I'm perched on three pillows on my computer chair so I can reach the keyboard. And it's time to vote on some best-of Memphis stuff. So, have at it.

Liveblogging the MTV Movie Awards ... sort of

Yeah, I'm home and the TV's on and, you know, why not?

So, so far:

• Sarah Siverman is awesome.

• Jack Nicholson is drunk.

• I'll be asleep in less than an hour.

• Justin Long just said "fully erect." I am confused.

• Ooh, they just showed Sacha Baron Cohen. Hott.

• Dane Cook cut his hair. I don't care if he's the official douchebag comedian. He's hott.

• Why are they pimping out all these cars?

• Jay-Z is unattractive and minimally talented, yet really rich and famous. I am unattractive and minimally talented, yet poor and unknown. The universe lacks justice.

• Will Ferrel and Sacha Baron Cohen just made out. I'm going to need a few minutes to myself. In the shower.

Day 72 — Scribbles

I'll have to write more about the Rob Crow show when I get up tomorrow (today; this was taken at 1 or 2 a.m.). I'm way too drunk right now. I'm so drunk I wrote all kinds of shit on myself while waiting for the bartender to ring me up. What did I write? Your guess is as good as mine. Lots of stars, though — a sign I'm in good spirits.

Project 365

Pay up, y'all

• I burnt the ever-loving shit out of my left thumb and forefinger today, getting Texas Toast out of the oven with what are, apparently, completely decorative pot-holders. It has taken me, like, fifteen minutes to type this many letters.

• My neighbor has three big dogs living in her apartment. It's sweet in theory, but really annoying in practice.

• Perfect pre-spring sipping wine: Viognier. Mmm, apples and honeysuckle.

• I've spent more time than is reasonable looking at this cat macro thread. I only made it through the first 21 pages. There are, like, 30 more.

• I took a walk to Rite-Aid today. Wondered why I've never been in Cosmic Closet. Is it better to go when broke or when moneyed?

• I totally just looked up "moneyed" to make sure it was a word.

• My weekend is half over. What to do? I thought about going to see that Eggleston exhibition tomorrow, but my budget is tight. I'm gonna squeeze Rob Crow in there. Then nothing 'til the end of the week. Blah.

A child

Why is it that, at 25 years old, I still feel like some sort of 10-year-old pretending to be grown up when I paint my nails?

Seems silly.

Kibbles 'n' grits

• I've been reading a lot lately about Tuscan wines, and trying to teach myself how to properly pronounce Italian words and phrases, and it has rekindled in me the long-held hunch that I am an Italian trapped in a Scotch-Irish body. "Sangiovese" and "Brunello" and "Trebbiano" can't help but sound rich and sensuous as they roll off the tongue. (And to think, I thought it was "san-gee-oh-VEESE" until, like, two days ago.)

• Today I left the office at 5:30 in a huff, irked because there was nothing for me to do and I was bored out of my mind, so I took an early lunch break and went to the liquor store (I'm not sure I could be more of a skank) to stock up on wine for the weekend. My rage was not abated by my mini-roadtrip, however. On the contrary. It festered, fed by my finicky blinker, which decided to be all rebellious during rush hour and NOT WORK AT ALL, leading me to avoid left-hand turns altogether. Which made for a comical trip around Midtown. I swear, that car is asking to be melted down into scrap metal. And I threatened to take it out to a vacant field and burn it. But it didn't listen. Damn unintelligent machines.

• Moods intrigue me. When I feel a foul one rise up from my gut and sour everything around me, I often wonder how that happened.

• I think Tamara and I talked about this the last time we hung out, but what is it about unmarked white vans that totally creep me out? Yeesh.

• I was reading through some of my archives, and it occurs to me that I miss my old life. I mean, I'm happy with my life as it is now, but how comfortable it was to throw around words like "my boyfriend" and "Mufreesboro." I post a lot more pictures than I used to, which I think is an improvemenet, but overall I feel like maybe my blog is way more boring than it used to be.

• However, I feel much wiser than I did then.

• Though I still feel appropriately clueless and naive.

• MEN, you confuse me. All of you!

• I have been looking at Shauna's photos and I swear they make me a little more fertile upon every view. Pea is such a cutie.

• I am adding things to the sidebar. The uber-perceptive will notice.

• The family decided not to come up this weekend for the farm show at the Cook Convention Center. Some pre-pubescent boys (who have broken into my great-grandmother's house as well as Phil's great-grandmother's house, which sits on the historic registry) are terrorizing Saltillo with serial break-ins, and my folks are kind of leery about leaing the house overnight. So this means I'll be Saltillo-bound on Sunday, as I owe my dad a birthday present.

• The plan is to go see Black Snake Moan Monday night and decide for myself if it's shit or art, or some sort of hybrid.

Midnight madness*

I just took the first of the last three sips of this glass of Italian skunkwine (can someone translate my mixed terminology, please?) and I caught a glimpse of an avalanche of sediment tumbling from the little reservoir atop the glass's stem. Ew.

Today I spent the day looking at pictures of dead dogs. Believe it or not, it's a project I'm working on at work. And it's pretty sad. Pit bulls bred for meanness in the inner-city, where quarters are tight, and the havoc those dogs can wreak on a community. Apparently there's a whole subculture of pit-bull worship/exploitation I've not been privy to. Rap videos apparently feature pit bulls fighting, and tattoo parlors around Memphis stain patrons' skin with likenesses of pit bulls at an alarming rate: Dozens of times more than German shepherds or poodles or any other breed.

The local animal authorities are pretty much in the business of euthanizing pit bulls; the city has a no-keep policy at the shelters. Three days and no owner to claim you? A dose of potassium chloride (I imagine; maybe not) and a trip to the incinerator later, and we're on to catching the other six pups in your litter who are probably roaming around town, snapping at people.

Brutal stuff. My eyes got a little prickly while reading the story.

I hope my design can do the whole package justice (dumb and fruity as that sounds).

If all goes according to plan (meaning my first round of ideas don't suck so thoroughly that I am ordered back to the drawing board), this thing should print and ship with the March 4 edition.

But, of course, I'm afraid that what I've offered up to my art director falls short of what she was looking for. I spent an entire day immersed in this story and its imagery, and still I feel like I have managed to completely miss the mark with my approach at presenting the story.

But maybe I haven't missed entirely. Maybe I'm right on the mark, or close.

You just never know. That's the excitement/anxiety that comes with a "creative" job. The success of everything you do depends on the opinions of other people. Nothing is objective. I can put things on a page that make me happy and reference, even slightly, things in my life that make me smile, but other people might never get those visual references and jokes. So you just hope that you at least construct a solid foundation of elements that harmonize and, at some gut level, make sense. I'm not sure I can explain it any better because that's the extent to which I understand design. As much as I like to believe I can plan for a design, there is always that impulsive part of it that comes from a particular day's very specific breath.

*The only reason I'm posting this is because I'm teaching myself (finally!) how to use iMovie, and it's taking longer than I figured to transfer files. And I can't just sit and wait; I have to be MOVING AT ALL TIMES. And that means BLOGGING WHILE BORED, the worst kind of blogging there is, period.

Reason No. 465 why drunkblogging is a bad idea

This afternoon I was in the shower, nursing a dull headache (no doubt inspired by the fact that from about 6 p.m. until 2 a.m., the only liquid I ingested was extremely fermented), when it occurred to me that I had possibly bought a Justin Timberlake song off of iTunes the night before. And, sure enough, now I see that "Rock Your Body" is part of my digital collection.

WTF?

I'll never get that time back

I just spent, like, an hour on MySpace.

And what have I gained?

Herpes, probably.

Two years

Finally, it feels like home.

Er, "home."

I'm not sure when I'll ever find home again. The real one.