Friday, March 31, 2006

Don't Bogart that Crate, My Friend.

It all started with a milk crate my Dad brought home from work one day.

I didn't know it then, but the contents of that crate would change my life.
My whole life.
And I appreciate it more than I can even explain to you.

I'm not sure why it made it's way to our home.
That milk crate.
Maybe it was just luck.
I vaguely recall something
about someone's son
getting into some trouble and alleged story shortened,
his Dad was getting rid of his albums for punishment.

I didn't realize just how torturous of a punishment that was....
for this mysterious troubled teenager, that I never met.

Until I fell in love with his albums.

Yes sir, that was a whole milk crate full of punishment.
Poor guy.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank him for whatever he did to tip the music gods in my favor.
Up until that day, my favorite albums were Shawn Cassidy, Barry Manilow and I Love Monsters, by Ronco.
A sad state of affairs, to say the least.

You know, back then I always imagined he got caught smoking a "joint".
Guessed that might have been the.... you know.... trouble.
I had heard about weed and grass and joints on After School Specials.

Getting caught with such things could surely lead to L.P. interruptus.
It was decided in my imaginative young brain that must have been exactly that scenario.
Of what went down that fateful day.
Of course, immediatley, the fact that these albums now belonged to a real life druggie made them beyond magical to me.

You see, I have always been really good at creating my own fantasic realities, based on mere threads of truth.

So, it was with great excitement that I peered into the red preforated cube, bearing the image of a smiling cow.
I could see it was full and quite heavy as my Dad put it on the floor next to our huge stereo-cabinet.
I got down on my knees and squatted to see what stoned teenagers were living their lives to.

My life changed that very moment.
Replaying that scene in my mind makes me want to cry tears of happiness.

WIth each flip of a colorful cardboard sleeve, I was becoming more educated.
More stylish.
More aware.
And definitely more rock and roll.

I can still remember how they smelled.
They smelled like experience.
And make-out basements.
And older brothers.
And dairy.

I had a hard time deciding which one to play first.
but went with Pablo Cruise.
Nice little introduction, kind of soft core. I liked the palm tree, I think, is why I chose it.
A few songs I could get into, but nothing could've prepared me for what was next:

Farewell to Kings, by Rush.

I often wonder, if someone was playing close attention to me during that exact moment, or had filmed me with a special camera as I listened to Rush for the first time,
if they could have actually seen childish images of Kermit, Easy Reader and The Sunshine Family leaving my brain and floating off to never ever land being replaced with madrigals including and dragons, unicorns, crumbing castles and other worlds.

I was mesmerized by the album cover and the scary puppet king it featured.
Geddy Lee's voice sent a creepy and shiver straight to my marrow.
I would crave it for years and still do sometimes.

Each album was better than the next...I could hardly contain my excitement each time a laid a big shiny black disk down.

Toys in the Attic by Aerosmith was pure sex to me the first time I heard it.
It was gritty and hard and his voice. Oh! His voice!
Steven Tyler was my first heart wrenching crush.
He made the Village People poster on my bedroom wall seem downright silly.
That poster came down in the weeks following my new obsession.

If I wasn't at school or riding my bike I was found laying on the living room carpet, with my head as close to the upholstered rust orange speakers as comfortably possible. Hours were spent sucking on my pigtail ends and soaking in album after album, reading the lyrics and the "special thanks to" sections and wishing I had pants like that.

I can't remember how many albums there actually were,
but just for memory's sake I'm going to try and list a few here:

Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon 1973
The Eagles, Hotel California 1976
Pablo Cruise,A Place in the Sun 1977
Foghat, Fool for the City 1975
Rush, Farewell to Kings 1977
Aerosmith, Toys in the Attic 1975
Aerosmith, Draw the Line 1977
Billy Joel, The Stranger 1977
Reo Speedwagon,You Can Tune a Piano, but you Can't Tuna Fish 1978
Ted Nugent, Cat Scratch Fever 1977
Joe Walsh, But Seriously Folks. 1978

I know there were more...

But yes, it was a summer that changed my life.
As a 10 year old, I was grateful for a glimpse into what it was going to be like to be a teenager.
As an adult I am grateful for the the deep love of music I now have and the imagination it inspires in me daily.

So thanks to the rockers of the 70's...
And thanks to my Dad for taking the effort to bring the crate home to us.
And most of all thanks to the teenage stoner largely responsible for assembling a music collection that made me what I am today.
Rock on, dude.
Rock on.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Chat with God.

Yep, that one.
If you dare...he's kind of a smart ass!
(seems like a him from chatting, anyway.)
CLICK HERE to have all your questions answered, once and for all.

Special thanks to Kieran for the link.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

You Are an Artist!

Check out Mr. Picasso Head
What a neat sure and check out the gallery, too.
Here's mine: just for fun.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Interconnectedness and the Logic of Disconnecting

I hate to talk about things that upset people.
However, I want to share something with you.
Something Lori Lyn and Jill and Brooke and I all seem to have on our minds lately.

Oh boy.... Here goes....

I want to talk about factory farming.


The only reason I am sharing this with you today, is because I feel we have become very far removed from where our food comes from and therefore, it may be beneficial to have a little reality check every once in a while.
People, there is some bad stuff happening on those farms and we are getting sick from it.

It also occurred to me that many people live in cities these days where they never actually get an opportunity to see a pig, cow or a chicken, up close and personal.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, this arrangement makes it super easy for one to disconnect from what one is eating.
Perhaps, the connection has been completely lost.
The connection that the shiny pink shrink-wrapped globs on pastel styrofoam trays being bought at the supermarket were once part of an animal.
And likely an animal that had a miserable life in a factory setting.

Before I go too much further, I would also like to say, if you eat meat I do not have a problem with that.
None whatsoever.
In fact, I have had seafood five times this year and even had a McDonald's Cheeseburger Happy Meal the day Lilly got sick.
My problem is not with meat eaters. It is with factory farms. Let's not confuse the two.
I am posting this entry in hopes of helping us all make more informed decisions when purchasing meat.

Also, I have decided it is perfectly okay to express my personal opinions on my own blog.
Isn't that what these things are about, for the most part?

It is alarming to me that so much information about the meat processing industry is easily available to us, yet we do nothing as a whole to make things better.
The "farming" practices (the term "farming" being very loosely applied) keep getting more and more gruesome and we turn a blind eye and just keep on eating.

Simply put; factory farmed meat is so unhealthy for us I cannot believe it is legal to sell it.
It is full of chemicals, hormones, disease, sadness, fear and denial.

Why is our grand nation in such an unhealthy decline?
Come on now.
It is really that hard to find a viable answer?
Could it be what we are eating?
Could it be that those pink globs we ravenously consume,
in mass quantity,
are only a sickly shadow of that smiling beast on the packaging?

And why so many senseless acts of violence on the news every night?
Could it be that repeated consumption of tortured souls makes us miserable?
Consuming sickly mistreated animals might be a bad idea.
You know, for our physical and mental health.

The same mental health that needs calling upon when acknowledging the undeniable and necessary interconnectedness that binds all living things and makes us human.
Supposedly intelligent even.

It is the above mentioned interconnectedness that keeps me from delving too deeply.
Once you start uncovering the intimate details of factory farming the tendrils of blame start smacking outward like whips.
One is very likely to smack me.
I know this. I'm trying to tread lightly.
I do not claim to be living any better or any more righteously than anyone else.
I have several faults.
I also happen to have several opinions...
And a easily stoked sense of urgency.
And a big mouth.
And a blog.

So it is here we find ourselves today,
with me going on about the evils of factory farming.

Me, who has eaten gigantic quantities of meat in my three and a half decades on this planet.

You see, though...
That's just it. Things done changed.
Traditional farming has now become alternative farming.
It's just crazy. The craziness is what I'm getting to...

Now would be a good time to watch a short film.
And yes, that would be Mr. Alec Baldwin breaking it down for you.

Take it or leave it... Believe it or not.
It's all up to you.

You know, I really didn't want to post this so soon after my anti-fur post,
because I am really a "live and let live" kinda gal.
But I started writing this January 1st, as part of my new year's resolution to go totally meat free,
but now I'm ready to let it go.
Release it to blog land and start focusing on more fun things like music and french kissing and cute t-shirts.

Personally, Mark and I have been "almost-vegetarians" for about 6 years.
Coincidentally, the almost-vegetarianism began when we moved into historic and beautiful Butchertown in Louisville, where one final inner-city slaughterhouse still operates.

The vibe as you pass this old brick building is oppressive.
Needless to say, it didn't take long living in Butchertown to get kinda weirded out by meat and how we are in the modern practice of obtaining it.

While living next to the slaughterhouse,
I witnessed with my own eyes the way pigs are not-so-very-kindly prodded off a truck while being screamed at by men and women with long sticks.
I've heard pigs scream and squeal when entering the factory. No happy oinks are uttered.
It is not a happy place.

I've been at stop lights numerous times, behind jam-packed silver transport trucks.
Dozens of haunting eyes looking directly into mine. So damn sad, tragic and unnecessary.
They know exactly what is going down.
The know this ain't no field trip to the city.

I have even tried to ignore that slaughterhouse smell of shit and blood, as it hangs in the air there, on hot summer nights,
Tried to disconnect from what was in the very air I was breathing.
Sometimes, with some real effort I could dig around in my brain and find the part of my logic that still allowed me to go to Genny's Diner and order bacon.

Although, it has never tasted very good after living downtown.
Living downtown forced me to reconnect. I didn't want to.
It is so much easier to live in denial.

Recently while visiting our Butchertown condo, Mark and I witnesses and escaped pig running down Muhammad Ali Boulevard.
It was an awful sight.
We were very upset be seeing such a thing and followed the animal while trying to figure out what we could do to save him.
Afterall, at this point, after escaping the menacing humans with sticks, didn't he deserve to have a happy ending?
He was navigating the sidewalks and busy traffic better than most tourists and he was running as fast as he could to just get the hell away.
Unfortunately, "away" was too far.
Within minutes, a local man-child police officer with a buzz cut and an itch to use his gun on something besides hay bales and Pabst Blue Ribbon cans arrived with his lights a-twirlin'.

We knew it was over.
The pig knew it was over.
I would have had the pig jump into the car if I could have.
Driven him to an animal sanctuary and wished him well.

I'm sure the cop shot the pig but I couldn't bear to watch.
I begged Mark to just drive away.
The pig was just trying to survive, as well all would.
We were witnessing the final moments.
His last chance to just go somewhere and be a freaking pig.
Like he was born to be.

The logic to disconnect is a peculiar thing.
It think it goes against everything that we inheritently are, but is it necessary or our hearts would be full of pity and heart break and there would be no room for joy and laughter and inspiration.

So strange... I knew the connection well as I kid and it was much harder to deny.

I particularly remember the day my family helped slaughtered the hogs on my Aunt and Uncle's farm in Lawrenceburg, Ky. Although I was upset that we had just killed a rather interesting member of the farm,
a member that I had watched in total wide-eyed city girl amazement on a regular basis several times before.
I knew even then, at a young age, that it was just part of farm life. If you wanted to eat meat you had to kill an animal.
Meat does not grow on trees.
Pretty darn simple.

I did manage to find comfort in the fact that, at least, that particular pig had been fed well.
Consuming not only his feed, but all of our leftovers from delicious Sunday meals and other kitchen scraps.
He had been cared for by 4 people who treated him well and patted him respectfully on his fat hairy hide.
He felt the seasons change and had maybe even enjoyed his life on the farm.

I think that pig tasted good, too.
You know the main reason?

I believe it was because we were all connected to it in some sort of sacred way.
We were thankful for the pig and quite aware of what he had sacrificed for us.

I suppose my Uncle had the strongest connection to that soul.
He had built such a relationship with the pig that it came right up to him when he called for it that snowy day.
Very calmly and without hesitation my Uncle silently raised his long gun and shot the animal one time,
point blank, right between the eyes.

It was almost ceremonial.
Everyone was reverent even the children.
There was no torture or disrespect towards the source of that year's contents of the deep freezer.
Every time we pulled an odd shaped piece of frosty wax papered meat from the back porch, we thought about that pig. We fully understood the connection.

Today, I know very few folks that actually wring the necks of chickens for a cup of chicken soup.
I don't believe I could do it.
However, I appreciate such a thing in a meat eating sort of scenario.
I appreciate when one is acutely aware of their meal and it's origins.

Even the hunters of Western Kentucky which I used to have such disdain for, have made me reevaluate my relationship to the food I eat. The fact that these hunters get out in the woods to kill their food, and the fact that their food got to romp around in the wild for a while makes me respect the process, at least more than I used to. They use just about every inch of that animal, and when they are done harvesting what they can for food, they hang it's head on the wall.

It is with these folks in mind, in fact, that I have been trying to make a deal with myself...
The deal is: If I can't kill it, I can't eat it.
Which would leave me nothing but a plate full of mosquitoes, fleas and ticks.
Suddenly that tray of roasted asparagus seems like a feast.

And while I know that wishing we could get back to the days where we connected with the animals is an impossible idea.
I wish we could, at the very minimum, take a look at what we have going on these days because I will boldly venture
to say there is nothing sacred, ceremonial or reverent about factory farming....

Furthermore, there is nothing healthy about eating a tortured, disfigured, mentally disabled, chemically bloated and disrespected anything.

Honestly, I could care less if you eat meat or not. This is not about eating meat.
This is about respecting animals.

At the very least it would be nice if we could treat these animals a little betterwhile they are alive.
Let them have a little happiness. Some sunshine maybe. Some fresh air wouldn't hurt.

And I'm guessing a little kindness might make them taste better, too.
If you're into that sort of thing.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Sneak Peek Samples

More Devo 2.0
No apologies. I love it. Reminds me of growing up and rockin' with Zoom but much, much cooler.

Saturday, March 18, 2006

Big changes about my head.

Guess what, Mom?
Those awful dreadlocks?
Red sweater, red wall.
Dreads before
Halfway out...going, going...
Lookie...they're gone!
Dreads no more....
Guess who's back?
Plain old me.
Plain old me again..
Happy (very early) Mother's Day!

Friday, March 17, 2006

Whatever floats your boat...

Happy St. Patrick's lots of Chinese food?

Like black pearls.

Mike Vance was his name and we were in school together.
He probably wouldn't remember me if you ran into him today,
but I remember him well...Well enough that I even mentioned him at dinner recently with friends.

Mike was kind of a big buy, not big like fat, but big as in manly and muscle-y.
He looked like he was 35 and we all looked like we were 12. Which is how old we were, for the most part. Afterall, we were in 7th grade.

He reminded me of Tarzan back then, with his exotic, long feathered black hair that he swung from his eyes when people talked to him.
He walked cocksure and swaggery through the little locker-lined halls.
He shone like a star, like a celebrity and I had never seen anything like him.
He was a man. Not a man like our teachers and fathers.
He was different. dangerous and rebellious.
Yes, the real deal at 13 years old, and quite something at our rural milk toast middle school.

All the boys I knew back then were still carrying Hot Wheels in their book bags and crying to their Mamas when things got heavy. Their side parted hair, khakis and white sneakers were pre-schoolish at best.
I had never been even slightly amused, let alone hypnotized by these childhood playmates of mine.

Mike was a whole different story.
He wore white undershirts and jeans to school. His shoes were dirty.
He didn't carry a book bag and he had a pretty girlfriend with long strawberry blonde hair and a comb in her back jeans pocket.
I saw her one time outside after school.
Her name was Regina, I think, and she was a freshman in high school. She kissed him on the lips as she greeted him that afternoon. That was risky business back then.
It happened right in front of the teachers that were loading the busses. Nothing happened, they just rolled their eyes if I remember correctly. I think the teachers gave him quite a bit of space.
Maybe out of respect, maybe out of fear.
Maybe because he actually was 35.

One day, Mike came to school with a whole necklace of perfectly placed hickeys from Regina. She was surely marking her territory from afar, making sure all of us little knock kneed Holly Hobbie lovers would steer clear of her man.
Wanted to make sure no one slipped him a "check the box" note in math class.

That wasn't going to be a problem, though.
While there was no denying that he was attractive and mysterious, I believe he scared the hell out of us girls. We were way too inexperienced to have been his girlfriend. I had given myself a hickey on the inside of my upper arm at a slumber party once, but couldn't fathom having the skill to procure a hickey necklace with such precision as he was accustomed to. Much less I could never get out of Mom's sight long enough to do so. Our relationship could never work.

I still remember that infamous necklace like it was yesterday.
It simply blew my young mind.

In fact, even today, every time I see a hickey on our check out girl at the local gas station I think of Mike and Regina.
I picture the necklace and marvel at the boldness of it and the apparent lack of adult supervision involved.
Lined up perfectly, big to little.
Front to back, similar to a gigantic string of black pearls in size gradation, and just as dark.
They were purplish-black on his tanned skin.
I'm quite certain she had to have actually consumed a small part of his blood in completing her suckled masterpiece.

Looking back, this was probably the first time sex entered my mind from within myself.
Not from a dirty picture drawn in someone's spiral notebook or a dirty joke with a punch line I didn't understand.
This was something in my gut.
Thinking about sucking on his big beefy neck made me feel weird.
It wasn't something I would be trying in the near future, but it did get my mind off of Barbie's for pretty much the rest of my life.
However, my personal studies in the science of hickeys would have to be postponed.
Yes, I would have to wait until the pimply pencil-necked geeks that at hung with were also, beefy enough to work with.
Come to find out it would take years.

So, I just put this idea on my shelf of things-to-do-one-day and there it has remained.
Rather neglected, actually.
Funny, now that I am an adult and there is absolutely no threat of grounding
for giving or receiving hickeys, it sadly seems to have lost it's sex appeal.

So it would happen, at dinner the other night, when I brought out my "learn to make a hickey necklace"
from the shelf and dusted it off to show everyone, it just didn't seem like such a great idea anymore.
Seemed kinda impractical, actually.
How very sad and what a dirty trick Mother Nature has play on me once again.
It seems quite common to realize, when one is finally able to do the sorts of things one used to dream of, without getting in trouble, the magic is gone.
**poof** Just like that.

This is the end of that story.

However, a side note of interest for you.
You see, I have decided I'm not giving up so easily.
I refuse to throw away an idea that intrigues me so, still to this day.
It's gross and wonderful and I am thinking it might be really interesting to put together a whole art show of hickey art.
You know, photographs of people with hickeys today, and stories of hickeys from days gone by.
I will call it "This Show Sucks".
In fact, I have just registered:

Stay tuned!

Tuesday, March 14, 2006


Awesome gift wrap. Maybe I can wrap my Betty bike in it when I give it to myself that one fine day.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

Fingers crossed.

If'n we ever sell our home here in Paducah, I want to put a teeny bit of money aside and splurge on THIS with one of THESE.

Then I'm gonna, ride, ride, ride all over town!

Just in case your are curious, I like the red Betty, style #3 with the leopard pattern seat....

Saturday, March 11, 2006


Congratulations Roxy!
Congratulations Roxy!,
originally uploaded by Anessa.
Congrats to my niece dog, Roxy, on completing six weeks of obedience training. What a good, good girl!

Still Whippin' It after all these Years!

Really can't imagine what this sounds like,
and I am not nearly the fan that Mark is,
but I can't help but love these guys .
Besides the fact that I think they are brillant,
I'm very excited about generating a whole new fan base for these fellas and introducing youngsters to their undeniable creativity and sheer, amazing bizarreness.

I mean, ch-ch-ch-ch-check it out...
(that last line is supposed to be sung in your best Fergie voice)
Here they are back in the day:
This is DEVO

Here's a peek at the new album:
Devo 2.0
Yep, it's a child of 12---she's the new lead singer!

And here's a review I read this morning in the Courier Journal of Louisville:

Album Review
By Paul Curry
Special to The Courier-Journal

"When Disney (!) announced that the original members of Devo were re-forming to re-record their classic hits and write new songs with a bunch of kids, the collective global eye-roll registered 4.5 on the Richter scale. This could be one of the worst ideas ever! To say that it is merely dubious misses the point.

But this is Devo. Rhymes with pogo. Short for "devolution," the concept, postulated by lead singer Mark Mothersbaugh and his pals in the late 1970s, that human culture had passed its peak and had entered its inexorable decline. If it didn't reek of truth at that time, there can be little argument that we are now in freefall. DEVO!

This package has many things going for it. First, the classic songs, played by the original band, will satisfy the old fans' appetite for nostalgia. Will they be disappointed by a softened approach? Mmmm, could be. But then there's the new lead singer, Nicole Stoehr, 12, who's a perfect fit for the material in the post-Avril/Annie world of pop. She's got good pipes and a perfect balance of detachment and passion for songs such as "Whip It."

But wait, there's more! New songs! "The Good Thing" revisits concerns originally examined in songs such as "Freedom of Choice" and "Beautiful World." And "Big Mess" suggests that, while each of us is looking for love, we are all hiding the same secret. The revolution of truth continues!

But that's not all! The set comes with a DVD featuring the all-kid band pantomiming the entire album in the studio with a retro mix of animation and frenetic camera movement. Young Stoehr really pops out of the tube here, a fact that should bother almost everyone — she's 12! And, as if that weren't enough, there are interviews with Mothersbaugh and his original songwriting partner, Gerald Casale. A real history lesson for old fans and new. All for the price of a single CD. It's a no-brainer.

Making music is no longer simply the last resort for lonely losers who are driven to express themselves. It's a calculated career choice with an industry of financial and psychological professionals available to provide support in order to avoid Elvis-style burn-out. "DEV2.0" is the most excellent proof that the industry can still squeeze out something relevant, even if it seems as if the bosses don't know what the workers are getting away with.

And so strange I should read this today, because for some unknown reason I was googling Mark Mothersbaugh just a few weeks ago, only to find out the wonderful news that he is responsible for several fun movie scores AND that he's quite a visual well, which I'm sure comes as no big surprise.

Quite exciting, isn't it?
I knew you'd think so, too.

Friday, March 10, 2006


frog or horse

Just Because.


Is that a nude baby John Tesh?

Since it is the weekend, I wanted to leave you with something a little more light-hearted than my last post.
So, it is with great swiftness I recommend that you give a little clicky-poo here and start smiling again.

Thanks to Kieran for sharing it on his blog first.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

This Cannot Be Happening.

Ms. Cruella: My, what a lovely fur wrap you are wearing!

Miss Ingnoretta: Why, thank you! It is imported Beagle pup trimmed with Calico house cat. Isn't it lovely?

Ms. Cruella: Yes, is simply to die for!

Miss Ignoretta: Ha ha, you are wickedly humorous--they did die for it! After all, it is much too challenging to wear them when they are squirming.

Both: Laughter....Muah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha...

Would you believe this scenario is actually possible?
Well, hold on to your tom cat hat... It is not that far fetched of a conversation, really.

As if you need one more reason not to wear fur,
listen to this:
Apparently China has been labeling their exported fur incorrectly for some time now and have been successfully selling dog and cat fur to clothing manufacturers all over the world.

You know those fuzzy little ear muffs you saw at the Mall?
There's a decent chance that's Morris the cat.
Yes, Morris.

The fur trim on your hooded jacket?
Looks an awful lot like Spot?
Boy, I hate to break it to you.... It might be Spot.

I had heard a buzz about such things a few years ago when the little sleeping fur cats being sold at Kirkland's turned out to be made of real cat. People freaked and they were pulled from the shelves.
Since then I just kind of shut it out of my mind, tried not to think about such things and hoped someone would take care of the situation.
Um.... that didn't happen.
Actually, the Chinese dog and cat fur trade is quite well these days and in full operation.

You may be thinking, "Oh, come now...No way...It just can't be true. Anessa is surely exaggerating once again"
Sadly, that is not the case. I will exaggerate many things, but this is shocking enough on it's own.
It is beyond disturbing and I don't believe I could make it any more so even with a lot of effort.

This is just a glimpse of what I am talking about.
That is a fricking Golden Retriever, is it not? Holy Mother of God, bless that poor dog's soul.

Now is a good time to pause, get a tissue and then read this article. If you still can't believe what you are reading, there is also a video on that page. I should warn you, though, it is not for the faint of heart. It is painful to watch.
In fact, I have not been able to think of anything else since I watched it. Maybe it is because I love my animals so much...but it has been hard to shake.

Here is an address if you want to write a letter to the Chinese ambassador and tell him how you feel about this sad practice:
His Excellency Zhou Wenzhong
Ambassador of the People's Republic of China
Embassy of the People's Republic of China
2300 Connecticut Ave. N.W.
Washington, DC 20008
202-328-2582 (fax)

I think the best thing though, is to simply not wear's even easier than writing a letter.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Chicago! Chicago!

The View from Our Room
Hancock BuildingThe Happy Couple
The Drake HotelDSC00082

Monday, March 06, 2006

Tagged for 5 Things..

These are the rules.

1. Thank the person that tagged you. Thank you, Teenage Bamm Bamm.

2. List 5 random/strange/weird things about you. (See below.)

3. Tag 5 other people.

Hmmmm....okay, this seems easy enough.
The first five things that pop into my head are:

1. Every single time I see a dead animal on the side of the highway, I say a little prayer in hopes of resting it's soul and I always get a cold chill. I cannot kill 97% of bugs because I do not think just because they are small it hurts them any less. The occasional mosquito, flea or tick may meet it demise by my hands, but not without very good reason first. I (or my furry children) must be under direct siege of said parasitic insect to warrant killing.

2. On a happier note, I love the dandelions and wild violets in my yard. They make me quite happy when they start popping up in the spring and I think yards full of perfect grass are uninteresting and a little snobbish. Quite pointless, really.

3. I believe if you can imagine yourself doing something..... Visually, in your mind, you are already halfway to making it become a reality. This is one of the main guidelines of my life's philosophy.

4. Whenever I spend more than $50.00 on a piece of clothing, I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach......Unless it is a pretty hat or a pair of earrings.

5. If I was to die tomorrow, I feel I have lived a wonderful and meaningful life....And although I have made some bad choices in my life occasionally, I regret nothing. Except maybe a few haircuts....

Now, instead of tagging anyone in particular, just participate if you want and put a link to your 5 Things Post in the comment box.

I would like to encourage you to play along, however....
It's way more fun that way, you know.

I'm Published!

I am ever so happy to present to you my first illustration for a magazine.
My First Magazine Job!
Thanks to Bret for the hook-up....I can't wait to do another!
I feel positively famous....Wow.

Marimba Ponies Rock it on OUT!

I want to be a Marimba Pony!
Do you think if I put on a red beret, I could sneak in on the fun?

Thanks to The Fretful Porpentine, who shared it on his blog first.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Depressed? Shy?

Sent from My Dad.....
Thanks for sharing, this is very good:

Depressed? Shy?

Do you have feelings of inadequacy? Do you suffer from shyness?
Do you sometimes wish you were more assertive?

If you answered yes to any of these questions, ask your doctor or pharmacist about Tequila. Tequila is the safe, natural way to feel better and more confident about yourself and your actions. Tequila(r) can help ease you out of your shyness and let you tell the world that you're ready and willing to do just about anything. You will notice the benefits of Tequila almost immediately, and with a regimen of regular doses you can overcome any obstacles that prevent you from living the life you want to live.

Shyness and awkwardness will be a thing of the past, and you will discover many talents you never knew you had. Stop hiding and start living, with Tequila.

Tequila may not be right for everyone. Women who are pregnant or nursing should not use Tequila. However, women who wouldn't mind nursing or becoming pregnant are encouraged to try it. Side effects may include dizziness, nausea, vomiting, incarceration, erotic lustfulness, loss of motor control, loss of clothing, loss of money, loss of virginity, delusions of grandeur, table dancing, headache, dehydration, dry mouth, and a desire to sing Karaoke and play all-night rounds of Strip Poker, Truth Or Dare, and Naked Twister.

Tequila. Leave Shyness Behind.
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