kdiddy.org

I still have 3.5 hours left on this day to make my daily NaBloPoMo deadline!

I haven’t written until now and don’t have much to report because I was crazily busy at work today.

However, two items of note for this particular date:

Twenty years ago, the Berlin Wall came down.

I remember at the time not totally understanding what that meant, but I remember my mom calling me into the living room, telling me that I needed to come watch what was happening. I’ve never forgotten the collective expression of joy on the faces of the people. It’s really weird to think that my kid will never know of such a thing as West Germany and East Germany.

Also, 9 years ago, a handsome young man appeared at my door with a VHS copy of Pi rented from the Blockbuster across the street. Our plan was to watch the movie and hang out. We watched the movie. And hung out. And eventually made out. A lot.

The husband whined that I needed to pick either our relationship anniversary or our wedding anniversary because it’s hard for his man-brain to remember both. I picked the wedding anniversary, but didn’t realize that I was agreeing to not ever mention this anniversary. So I violate some terms. Any time I’ve mentioned it today, he’s barked, “Stop being celebratory!”

No.

You are still a little boy and we’ve only begun to really talk about all of the weird and wonderful things that there are to know in life. I think you’re doing an excellent job of understanding as best you can, though, and I think you realize that I only understand things a little bit better than you do.

We’ve also been talking a little bit about the bad things in life, about violence and poverty and things like that. These are even harder to understand and you can’t begin to imagine how nervous I am about being the person to explain them to you.

But it is my job, my duty, to do my best, to open the channels of dialog with you, to allow you to ask questions, to be honest about not having all of the answers, and to ask you questions to better understand your perspective on things.

One of the most puzzling aspects of humanity is gender and power and how people of different genders interact with each other. There are boys and there are girls and there are lots of people who are in between. Do you remember when we were talking about time and how I told you that it was something that humans created to help them make sense of the world? Gender is another one of those things. Boys and girls, at their core, are not fundamentally different creatures. But over many, many years, people sort of assigned roles and behaviors to both sexes. For better or worse, this also helped people to make sense of the world.

I will be perfectly honest with you: if I live to be 1,000 years old, I will never really understand gender. I’m a feminist, and there’s a lot about that that I don’t understand, either. I think you’ll find that, as you become a man, there are a lot of things that you won’t understand, either. And that’s okay.

But let’s agree on this: men and women, whatever their differences, are equal. Throughout history, and even today, people forget this. And when they do, things get very, very ugly.

A few days ago, a young girl went to a dance at her high school. And, like many high school kids, she took the opportunity to do something kind of taboo and drank alcohol with her friends.

What happened next was one of those truly awful things that I don’t know how to explain. My baby, some boys only a few years older than you hurt her very badly. Very badly. They did something called “rape.” Rape is when you have sex with someone even though they don’t want to or aren’t able to tell you whether or not they want to.

We’ve talked about sex a little, about how people have sex because they love each other or really like each other in certain ways or they want to make a baby. Sex is a good thing, a fun thing, a beautiful thing. It’s something that I know you will enjoy very much when you are older and ready to handle it.

Rape is a horrible thing. And what made this rape even more upsetting is that many people who knew this girl watched this happen to her. Many people who knew this girl, who sat next to her in class, decided to join in. Many people, who were perhaps this girl’s neighbors, took pictures. Many people could have stopped her from being hurt so badly.

None of them did.

It may seem silly to tell you that there are some things that you must never do. And perhaps the parents of those boys just assumed that they knew better. Or maybe their parents said some mean things about women that led them to believe that hurting girls is not that bad. Or maybe they heard some “logic” that some girls “ask for it.”

Son, you must never, NEVER, rape someone. It is never okay. If you are ever uncertain about whether or not the person you are with wants to have sex with you, you must stop. If you are ever in a situation like those boys were and you see someone being hurt in such a way, you must do what you can to make it stop. Even if you’re scared, even if it means that you’ll lose some friends.

You will hear a lot of, “Well, yeah, but…” conversations about these matters. You will hear a lot about what people should do to avoid being raped. These are certainly good pieces of advice. However, very rarely will you hear advice about what people can do to avoid being rapists.

As your mother, and as a woman, I am here to tell you that it is never okay to rape someone and I don’t care what the circumstances are. I don’t care if there’s a dark, unsafe area. I don’t care if there’s alcohol or drugs involved. I don’t care if there are skimpy clothes or suggestive dancing. I don’t even care if sex is already happening and someone changes their mind.

Just as I would tell you that you must never hit someone (unless, you know, there’s a dire need to do and we’ll discuss that, too), and that you must never kill someone, and that you must never treat someone poorly, you must never rape. Never.

I don’t know how these things happen, and I don’t know what was going through the minds of those boys that night, but I’m willing to bet that no one ever really told them that it was never okay to rape, that no one told them that it was never okay to stand by and watch someone be hurt so badly.

I am telling you that it’s not.

And for as long as I have words to share with you, I am always here to talk to you about it.

This morning, I was feeling good, and I was all set to write this post about how I’ve been working hard on my outlook on life and our prospects for not being over-educated and destitute. But then, my mood changed again to angrily sad and foot-stompy. It might have something to do with the rain, but I think that’s just how it’s going to be for awhile, until things have the slightest hint of being less precarious.

Seeing as how I’m so mercurial, I’m going to resort to my favorite and most immature coping mechanism: making fun of people.

So, we have a Snuggie. I think it’s awesome and I’ve publicly ranted AGAINST haters-of-Snuggies before. The husband’s grandmother gave it to him for Christmas last year and he has staunchly resisted it, since he is a hater. I just don’t get it. The thing is super warm and comfortable and I’m pretty sure that there is Ambien woven into the unnatural fibers because as soon as I put it on, I am OUT within five minutes. If you have insomnia, I highly recommend picking one up.

Anyway, the husband finally started using the Snuggie a few weeks ago…but only as a blanket. As in, he’s refusing to use the sleeves, which is the whole fucking point of the thing. This infuriates me, because I had been happily using the Snuggie to its full capacity for nearly a year and now this dude comes along and claims it and doesn’t even use it correctly. He just sits there, with his arms getting cold every time he wants to change the channel, mocking me with his blatant abuse of the Snuggie, while I tug at an inadequate, regular blanket.

I’m not sure that our marriage will weather this storm.

The other people that I want to make fun of are the pro-life cupcake folks.

Now, I think if you’ve been reading me for any length of time, you’ll know that I’m very pro-choice. And that includes respecting people who choose not to have abortions for whatever reason. And I think if you’ve ever talked to me about the matter, you’ll know that I have a characteristically snarky attitude about the “debate,” because I think it’s dumb.

Anyway, I recently encountered the pro-life cupcake people, who were, I think, an off-shoot of the group who organized National Pro-Life Cupcake Day. The official day for this event was October 9th, but the group notes that you can have such an event whenever.

And the premise is to hand out free cupcakes to people, noting that baked goods represent the 50,000,000 babies who were aborted and the birthday parties that those kids never had.

So. Okay, fine. Whatever.

However, I have some questions about the logic behind this event. If you’re going for some kind of shock factor, and according to these folks, the goal is for “the cake in their mouth will become dry and the moment will hopefully become quite somber,” are cupcakes really the best way to go about it? I mean, cupcakes are pretty good, even at their worst, and I kind of doubt that reminding people of the fact that abortion exists will turn them off of cupcakes forever. And if they do, isn’t that kind of unfair to cupcakes? I mean, why drag cupcakes into this debate? They never hurt anyone. And if a person is so turned off mid-cupcake and isn’t able to finish their cupcake, isn’t that just a lot of wasted food? Food that could be donated to hungry, existing kids?

Also, if you keep handing out cupcakes as long as people keep having abortions, I think you’re sort of…doing it wrong. Because, really, if I wasn’t pro-choice before, drawing the connection that abortion = free cupcakes would sure as hell push me over to that side.

Ah, well. Road to hell and all of that.

Anyway, if you need me, I’ll be sitting on my couch, not in a Snuggie, and making inappropriate jokes all weekend log.

So, it’s been a few days, eh? I had to hunker down and freak out and get over it and move on and take whatever steps that I could. We’ll be okay. I don’t know when and I don’t know exactly how, but we’ll be okay.

The latest thing that had me freaking out was my kid’s performance in school. Perhaps my already keyed-up self was having some perspective trouble, because now that I think about it, a few crummy test scores and shitty attitude toward homework isn’t really all that alarming. But we were REALLY worried/pissed that he kept screwing up basic addition problems and was not able to memorize a list of six Spanish words for the life of him.

I began to think that, on top of everything else that this year had thrown at us, problems with our kid and his learning were really uncalled for.

So I braced myself when we went in for a parent-teacher conference today, only to hear things like, “Outstanding…advanced…gifted.” (I feel the need to stress that I am so NOT a status whore when it comes to things like gifted programs for kids. If the baby can do some extra stuff that interests him, I am happy. I do not think that he is now pre-disposed for “success” and/or better than any other kid.)

Of COURSE he doesn’t always want to do homework or put any serious effort into it. Of COURSE he’s cranky about getting up early. Of COURSE he would rather play than work on arithmetic. He’s a kid. He’s a good kid. And our only mistake as parents was not giving him enough credit.

I know what it is. I know why he doesn’t want to work on homework (besides the fact that homework universally sucks) and why he seems all gibberish and wiggles when we’re home. This morning as we were getting ready, he wanted me to play trains with him and when I said no, we needed to be leaving soon, he asked his dad if he wanted to look at his Egypt book with him. Why does he ask to do these things at 8 a.m? Is he doing that on purpose so that he can say that, technically, his parents never did anything fun with him, even though he timed his requests with the morning rush? Because the morning rush to him is just the start of another long day. Another day where the only time that we see him is when we’re tired from work and worrying about our future. We’re his favorite people and we’re no longer any fun to be around so he tries to push those days away.

I can’t not work and I don’t feel guilty about working (at least not all the time). I enjoy having a career. And the kid still needs to go to school and do homework. These aren’t negotiable. But I guess I need to remind myself to stop waiting for life to get easier because all signs point to “not gonna happen.”

We watched Raising Arizona the other night, just because I had a craving for it and I think my subconscious was trying to tell me something. I always forget about how lovely the end of that movie is and I really needed to hear this:

All parents are strong and wise and capable and all children are happy and beloved.

Semi-dark days at the moment. While managing to dodge most of the ill effects of the crippled economy over the past year, our little family finds ourselves staring it in the face. It is definitely Goliath and we are definitely David.

We’re still afloat for now, but both of our student loans are coming due. Mine is due now because I chose to take only one class this semester, hoping to maintain some sanity that is so hard to find when I take two classes.

Trying to find jobs when there are simply none to be had is incredibly demoralizing. We keep feeling embarrassed and remorseful for taking the risk of getting degrees, which, I know, is a shitty attitude to have.

I’m pushing my feelings of indignation aside (we did everything that we were supposed to do. we worked hard. we sacrificed. we put in a lot of extra effort. we fucking bootstrapped, for god’s sake. and because some flunkie MBAs had their frat brothers hook them up with jobs, the economy is wheezing along and despite having three excellent degrees between us, we struggle.), for they help no one and only serve to give me some much-needed outbursts from time to time.

No one owes me a thing.

I am alive. The food that I ate today was nourishing and delicious. My family, both the members that I have blood ties to and the people that I choose to call my family, is amazing and full of love. I am not alone. I will wake up again tomorrow and fight and serve another day.

I call this postpourri. Get it? Potpourri but in blog post form? And, yes, Tyler Durden, being clever is working out for me just fine.

Anyway, I wrote on MamaPop yesterday about the Sundance Channel’s mini-documentary-series Brick City. Part 3 of 5 aired last night. I think I’m a little too cynical to be really inspired by the efforts of Mayor Cory Booker. I mean, good on him for giving a shit and all. I think I’ve just lost faith in politicians having any higher callings than their own professional ambitions to propel them to action. And even then their “actions” are lukewarm and tentative and serve bullshit. *coughcoughObamacough* But I’m really, really drawn in by Jayda and Creep. I guess it’s the parenting aspect. Seeing those two just in it and trying so hard to be good people and struggling with the fact that they’re bringing new people into this questionable world hits me pretty hard.

Onto the lighter stuff. If you’ve spent any time around me, you’ve probably heard me whine about my kitchen. It’s small, though that’s not the main problem. There are three doorways, plus two covered-up doorway things. One was the servants’ entrance and the other I think might have housed shelves at one point. Plus, there’s a covered-up fireplace. The result is the most inefficient use of space ever. The previous owner’s home improvement skills were lacking at best and so his solution when it came time to update the kitchen back in nineteen-seventy-hell or whenever this perversion of home improvement went down was this crap:

That little slab on the right is the extent of my counter space. I do nearly all prep work on the stove and it’s only by sheer luck that I haven’t cut off a finger while chopping on a rickety cutting board perched on one of the burners. If you stop by for dinner, it’s likely that you’ll hear, “Just gonna chop this carrot. *chopchopchop* AUUGHHH OH JESUS. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Okay. Whew, they’re all still there. EVERYTHING’S FINE!”

Obviously, redoing the kitchen into something resembling reasonable, much less the gourmet pr0n version that I now want after working in this hell hole for 3 years, will require a LOT of money. And if there’s a perfect antonym to our personal finances, “a lot” would be it.

So, since I’m usually trying to make dinner here after a long work/school day, I’m often flustered and pissy and saying many disrespectful things about the kitchen’s mother. This results in some odd placements of items on my part and some questionable uses of space. Some are benign (“Why is the fucking muffin pan in the microwave?”) and some are more serious. The top of my stove houses the tea kettle, a lunch box or two, and my cast iron skillet and grill pan. (I was keeping those last two in the oven but always, without fail, forgot that they were in there and would preheat the motherfucker and in case you didn’t know, cast iron cookware gets hellaciously hot and even oven mitts are barely a match.)

Sometimes, the cast iron skillet becomes a temporary storage space. Like, for instance, about a month ago I needed some place to set a tomato and a new bag of brown sugar and a mixing bowl. Into the skillet went the tomato and the brown sugar and on top of them went the mixing bowl. And there they remained, forgotten, until last night.

I’m not sure what made me look in there, but I’m sure you won’t be surprised that I was confronted with rotten tomato ooze that was causing weird reactions in the skillet and coating the bag of brown sugar. And a smell that was somewhere between garbage juice and the Allegheny River that one time that my dad, the dog, and I went for an ill-advised swim and my mom wouldn’t let us near the house for the better part of a day.

I recoiled and in doing so knocked over a cup of chocolate milk and a cup of vegetable juice (that’s what goes for balanced nutrition in our house) that the baby had left on the stove. I then spent the next hour transferring the brown sugar to a new bag and attempting to rid the skillet of the smell so that we don’t have Cornbread with Garbage Juice the next time that we have chili. FML.

At the bus stop the other day, the baby hit me with yet another of his non-sequitur questions: “Are people in Antartica upside down?” Certainly, this a pretty typical question for someone his age and appropriately adorable. However, we sort of got into it.

“No. Well, there are only a few people in Antartica. They’re scientists doing research. But they’re not in Antartica hanging from the ceiling. They’re standing up just like we are. The earth is round and gravity keeps everything on the ground. There’s no real up or down or left or right in space, you know?”

“Yes, there is.”

“No, not really. Directions like up and down and left and right are things that people made up so that they can make sense of the world. But in space, where earth is, everything is going in every direction. Kind of.”

“What?”

“Well, scientists are pretty sure that that universe began because of a big bang, that there was this, like, ball of energy and matter and one day it exploded sending stuff in every possible direction and those bits and pieces sometimes bumped into each other and blended and became new planets and galaxies and stuff.”

“Like how Saturn’s moon exploded and formed its rings?”

“Yeah, kind of like that.”

“Do you think you could ice skate on Saturn’s rings?”

“Well, no. I mean, besides the fact that it’s, you know, Saturn, remember how on that show we watched they explained that even though Saturn’s rings look solid, they’re actually lots of bits and pieces of rock and dust?”

“Oh, yeah!”

“It’s like…there was this artist, Monet. And his paintings, if you’re far away, look like water lillies and people relaxing in the park. But if you get up close you can see all of the little dots and strokes and when you look at his paintings really closely they don’t make sense. And like the cells that make up your body, too.”

“Not my skin, though.”

“Your skin, too! Your skin is made up of tiny cells that clump together and cover your body. It’s called perspective.”

“I know about perspective!”

“You do?”

“Yeah!”

“Good.”

I swear to god we had this conversation and only stopped because the school bus came. It was especially timely because I really, really need some perspective right now. Not the “there are billions of people who have it way worse than me” kind. I have that in spades. I need the “I’m looking at my 30-year-old self from a few years in the future and laughing at her because why didn’t she realize that everything was going to be just fine?” I would like that perspective in bulk, please.

Yes, I am in the weeds, to use a term from my waitressing days. Lots of stuff going on at work, I’m doing some after hours stuff for the project I’m working on for class (I will tell you more about that later, because it’s really interesting), three freelance writing things are due, and I’m still vomiting pop culture all over MamaPop and shiny baubles on WeCovet. Also, I have hazy memories of having a baby and marrying a guy at some point in the past few years, but I might just be delirious.

Also, the G20 will be here next week and I’m getting, like, secondhand stress from it. The baby has off of school and it looks like I will be off Thursday due to my work building being on super lockdown. I may also take off Friday just because I know the commute will be hellacious. And as much as I respect the freedom to assembly and whatnot and most likely agree with the stances of many of the protesters, I would much rather watch that unfold on TV and not, you know, 10 feet away from me. Tear gas makes my hair frizz n’at.

Because of all of this, my misanthropy gland has been pulsing overtime and I’m currently much more irritated with everyone ever and their dumb fucking thoughts and actions than I usually am. Which is to say, just fuck off already. But in a nice way.

So, first of all, regarding this post, thank you all so, so much for commenting and lending your support and understanding. I was literally overwhelmed by all of the people who came out to offer a comment, letting me know that, while crazy, I am not alone.

Still doing Weight Watchers, though a sort of loose version. I adapt it as I need to. I’m slowly losing weight and things feel different this time. I attribute that mostly to my new-found fervor with regard to healthier food. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m pretty frightened by the food industry in the U.S. and all of the icky governmental circle jerks that contribute to it.

So, this time around, going the easy route by stuffing my freezer with Lean Cuisine wasn’t really an option. In fact, since giving up Diet Dr. Pepper, I’ve pretty much done away with all “light” foods. That is, I don’t really buy light versions of foods. I don’t buy diet bread or light or fat-free salad dressings or light butter or skim milk or fat-free cheese or freakish 100-calorie desserts. None of that. (However, I do buy low-fat organic yogurt. Full disclosure, n’at.) I want Food. This has taken some effort on my part because I could eat more if I bought such things, but I just no longer see the point of sustaining myself on edible food-like things, which will inevitably become tiresome.

I’m eating a little less during the day so that I can eat a regular dinner with the dudes. That’s the major change that I’ve made. And you know what? It’s working really well. Mentally, I’m in a much better space. I’ve noticed that I feel satisfied/full much easier. On days when I indulge a little, I feel uncomfortably full and I think for awhile that became my normal “full” feeling. There were a lot of emotions involved, ya know? I would eat past that point for any number of reasons, stress being the main one.

I still genuinely love cooking and baking and, most of all, eating. I’m amassing an insane collection of favorite recipes and even more recipes that I want to try. I just today signed up at Evernote to work on a system of organizing recipes from all of the food blogs that I read because I want to try all of them. (Evernote, by the way, is pretty cool. I don’t know, for my purposes, if it’s a huge departure from the organizing/tagging features on Google Reader, but it’s still very nice.)

I also wanted to touch on a few points that were raised in the post mentioned above. I do not hate my body or the way it is shaped. I used to and believe me the way that I feel about myself now is so much healthier than the way I felt about it for a long, long time. And I kind of feel like I do accept my body and that my desire to lose weight, while certainly tied up in the bullshit that I’ve been dealing with for nearly all of my life, actually comes from a good place, if that makes any sense.

Anyway, I think there’s like…stuff going on in the world besides my ass vigilance. But here’s a (dark, crappy, phone) picture of my cat being forced to wear a babushka.

I’ve been taking the bus to and from work. The driver that I’ve had in the morning likes to get on the PA as we cross the Smithfield Street Bridge into town and say, “Good mornin’ ladies and gentlemen. We’re abaht ta enter bee-YOO-tee-full dahntahn Pittsburgh.”

It never fails to make me smile.

I am super busy this week at work and my class (last one EVER!) starts today. However, I’ve recruited a few fabulous people to provide some content. Look for that over the next few days.

Love yinz. And have a bee-YOO-tee-full day.

So, through a weird twist of events, I’m attending BlogHer in July and I figure since I’m going to a blogging conference, I should probably do some of that there blogging that I’ve heard so much about. (Aside: I’m obviously going through some pretty serious writer’s block and I’m trying not to freak out about it but…I’m freaking out about it.)

We were in Detroit over the long weekend for the DEMF (Detroit’s Electronic Music Festival for you squares). This was my sixth annual trip there and, as usual, there were many hijinks and good times and a few episodes of drama.

We drove there somewhat early on Thursday with our friends Adam and Carleton. We talked a lot about Pittsburgh and the state of music there currently (nutshell: fucking grim).

When we got to Detroit, our first stop was Archer Record Pressing. Adam had to pick up the latest release from Technoir and the husband was picking up the first release on the label that he recently started, Love What You Feel. The record is by a guy who goes by the name of Disco Nihilist and do you like how I don’t write here regularly for months and then I pop up with this entry about records and Technoirs and disco nihilists? You love me.

Anyway, Archer was a really REALLY neat place. We were too late in the day to see any actual records being pressed but the guy that owns/runs the place gave us a tour and a brief explanation of how records come to be.

That’s the husband checking out one of the records. It may not look like it, but I could tell that he was really excited to finally be holding it in his hands. He had worked really hard on it and it was something that’s he’s been wanting to do forever, so it was cool to capture this moment.

We stopped at this place, Simpson’s Records, which Carleton told us about. It’s been in business for over 40 years. Detroit has a TON of independent businesses. Because it’s so spread out and public transit isn’t very good, these businesses operate in markets/neighborhoods that consist of people of very limited means that need to attend to all of their shopping within walking distance (at least, this is what I could gather just from observing). So, these small businesses usually double or triple up their services. Simpson’s sells gospel records, candy and snacks, and you can get your taxes done there. We also passed a barbershop/barbecue restaurant, which sounds gross but I can assure you that the barbecue was outside, away from flying hair.

Carleton is from the Detroit area, so we drove him to his house before making our way to our motel. His mom is currently kicking cancer’s ass and she and I talked about my dad’s recent struggle. Then I made a cancer joke and I think, uh, it might have been too soon because she just kind of looked at me and I felt like the world’s largest jackass.

After we were settled in our room, we went in search of a place to watch the Penguin game. Weirdly enough, Hockeytown was closed. I don’t know what kind of managerial genius you have to be to decide to be closed during the Stanley Cup playoffs. But I had checked the PG’s list of Steeler bars and already had a back-up place that was likely to be Pittsburgh-friendly. I didn’t see any Steelers paraphernalia there and the bar itself was pretty butt, but they were showing the game and they were nice enough to turn off the Stevie Ray Vaughn garbage that they were blasting so that we could hear what was going on.

Friday was full of record shopping at Melodies and Memories and picking up various characters as they arrived in the city. Frank flew in from NYC, Kenny took the train from Ireland (not really), and another friend…we’ll call him Hot Mess, flew in from Atlanta. Incidentally, the husband had described Kenny to me as his Irish doppelganger and that turned out to be a creepily accurate description. Lookit:

Kenny, by the way, was rarely without a drink in his hand the whole weekend and never appeared to be the slightest bit intoxicated. He’s kind of my hero, especially considering my poor performance later on that evening, which we’ll get to in a bit.

We met up with other various members of the Pittsburgh/Pittsburgh-friendly crew for dinner at some touristy but semi-decent Tex-Mex place in Greektown and then started to prepare for our first night out on the town.

Since we had some time to kill we drove around Detroit for awhile, checking out various parts of the city that we’d never seen despite all of our trips there. You probably know that things in Detroit are not great. We saw a lot of heartbreaking poverty and so much evidence of the glittering Seventh City that Detroit used to be. The population is now around 800,000 which is roughly four times the size of Pittsburgh. So it still seems huge to me. But when you see all of the abandoned buildings, you realize that at some point not that long ago, all of those huge buildings were needed to house and employ all of the residents. And now they just sit there, neglected and unnecessary. It really hit me just how many people left, out of fear or necessity.

We also saw some of the most gorgeous mansions sitting on the most pristine lawns, just a few steps away from burned out houses, which are the playgrounds for children whose parents may or may not be watching over them.

Remnants of wealth and a healthy middle class represent the entire life cycle of capitalism in one city block. It’s heartbreaking and beautiful, because out of this, nothing is left but life and survival and tears and thoughts and joy. And as the festival always teaches us, wonderful music is born from that pain and joy.

Later, Hot Mess showed up at our room wearing a Corona tshirt and swimming trunks and bearing a bottle of cheap champagne. He was soon followed by Kent, our buddy who we hadn’t seen in two years!

The “official” kick-off parties weren’t really tickling our fancies but the husband had heard about a house music night at a club not terribly far from where we were staying. I was already kind of tired before we went out, so Kenny and I went to the party store two doors down where I procured some vodka and Red Bull. The elixir was effective…perhaps too effective. See, the vodka gets you drunk (read: rowdy), while the Red Bull wakes you up (read: hyper). Rowdy and hyper. Really not a good combination.

Since it’s getting late in the day and this post is shaping up to be rather epic, I’m going to slap a “To be continued…” here. But, here’s a preview:

My new photography technique is unstoppable.