The New Year, holiday travels, etcetera, so on and so forth

So everything that I've seen of the Midwest pretty much sucks, but Chicago is super awesome but it is definitely not awesome during those long winter months.

Ellen, Odie and I traveled to Chi-town for the holidays to hang out with her family and were welcomed by sub-zero temperatures, soul-chilling wind and frozen shit everywhere.

No...you don't understand how cold it was.

While attending the sold-out Bears-Packers game (yes...despite the -12 windchill and 20 mph winds, Soldier Field was packed out) my beer froze in my glitten (glove-mitten hybrid). Even with 8 layers of clothes, a wool scarf, a dumbass flannel cap ala Randy Quaid from National Lampoon's glory days I was forced to hang out in the men's room for warmth. Not my proudest moment, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do and I knew deep down that the egregious amount of clothing I was rocking would give me a fighting chance at preventing any funny business from transpiring in the restroom, and even if it did, I'm fairly certain I wouldn't feel anything.

I'm not bashing Chicago, and I will admit that I had a blast but I will definitely travel there in the summer next time.
After spending a wonderful Christmas holiday in the Windy City, we hit the trail that was formerly known as dusty but is now known as treacherous and icy.

Four and a half hours after leaving Ellen's familial estate during a "heatwave" (it was a balmy 38 degrees) we were still attempting to traverse the Southside. Icy Roads + Rain + Fog + dumbass drivers = headaches all around and precious moments of your life that you will never get back.

After this debacle, we hit Indiana and things went from worse to worser than anyone could imagine (I realize poor grammar is an unorthodox method of illustrating a point, but I feel it is necessary to do so. Especially when one is discussing events that occur in Indiana. I will leave you with my thoughts regarding the matter: FUCK INDIANA!

A leisurely 800 mile drive and 14 hours later, we arrived in Maryland at my brother's abode for some much-needed rest.
Ellicot City is nestled between Baltimore and our nation's capital; thirty minutes in either direction.
They also have a brewery there with dollar beer specials on Sunday and Monday nights.
We arrived on Saturday and just took it easy after our long drive. But there was much rejoicing on Sunday night.

Maybe too much rejoicing.

Monday was going to be our big day in D.C. but most of it was spent lounging at the apt.
When we finally made it to D.C. it was after 4 p.m., but we still made it to the National Mall (not a retail outlet but the location of most of the free museums and not far from the Washington Monument, Lincoln and WWII Memorials, you get the picture).

2300 miles later we arrived back in the ATL and haven't done much other than going to see Hot Water Music on NYE (which was fantabulous!). It's nice to be back in the land of iceless roads and sweet tea and I'm looking forward to the New Year.

The New Year traditionally brings resolutions that people set and never have the time or gumption to realize, so I'm gonna skip all of that and just ramble on for a bit.

I still don't know what I wanna be when I grow up and I'm still okay with that. That being said, I'm starting to get a better idea of what I would like to do and I have a confession to make.

I am in the process of applying to start my Master's in Library and Information Science next fall. Yes, dear reader, that means that yours truly has aspirations of becoming a librarian. The ultimate game plan is to pursue a Ph. D in Music History/Musicology and become a Music Librarian but in the meantime, I would be perfectly content being paid to be a bookworm.

So it's been a minute...

And I'm not so sure that I'm not the only reading this anymore, but here goes nothing.
I have decided to become a statistic and retire from teaching after three years for reasons that should be blatantly obvious for anyone with even a mild interest in public education.
I have finally moved to the big city to pursue music and writing opportunities. Employment's still a bit iffy, but I've got some solid prospects. All in all, this is the best decision I've made in a long time.
I'm reconnecting with a lot of old friends and making new ones.
Still playing in two bands, may start a few more, who knows.
Trying to stay busy and creative.
Got another tattoo a few days ago. I'm well on my way to becoming a full blown weirdo and loving every minute of it.
Finally dating a girl that's not bat shit crazy and loving every minute of it as well. Insert luvvy duvvy fluffy adjectives to describe how awesome she is, b/c she is.
That's all for now.
May have sweet tat pics soon.

My random life

So we threw a party at my house last night.
It was good times until two cops showed up at my house last night around 1:30 am.
They brought a steamer pack of Krystal's hamburgers.
Let the good times roll motherfucker.

Sometimes I feel like my life is a TV show, which is why I don't watch cable.
I don't think my life would be important enough or have the required amount of mass appeal to make one of the major networks, but I think it could definitely make UPN and maybe PAX if I didn't cuss so much.

Now I must take care of some business that directly pertains to the aforementioned Krystal's hamburgers.

Have a blessed day.

If Franklin had won

One of our founding fathers, Ben Franklin, woke up one day (not sure if it was before or after being struck by lightning) and decided that the turkey should be our national bird.
I'm glad he lost that argument.
But as I sit here in sheer exhaustion, I wonder, what would have happened if Franklin had won the argument?

Just think, we could be giving thanks by eating Bald Eagle with family and friends.
American Outfitters T-shirts would be drastically different. I'm not so sure a turkey, super-imposed on a rebel flag with God Bless the USA emblazoned in sweet lightning bolts, would look tough or patriotic. In fact, if I were I betting man, I'd put my money on the idea that you would most certainly have a Sams Club-sized can of whoopass opened on your lily-white ass during Race Weekend.
There would be lots of Turkey flash in all of the tattoo parlors across our great land. Nothing says freedom like a jailhouse turkey tat.
Quarters would have turkeys on the back. I think this would make it much more difficult to prevent children from swallowing their church offering...and covering their lunch money in gravy.
Bikers would have sweet turkey patches on the backs of their leather jackets. That would actually be pretty badass.
A club sandwich would consist of Bacon, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and Bald Eagle.
The President would pardon a Bald Eagle every Thanksgiving.
Fancy flagpoles would have a graceful brass Turkey at the top.
Our great halls of justice, courthouses, and various government structures would be ornately decorated with birds that look like they have an empty ballsack dangling from their beaks.
Dick Cheney would shoot his close friends in the face on Bald Eagle hunting excursions.

Today, I give thanks for many things, but most importantly, that the founding father that graces the cover of our hundred dollar bill lost his bid for our national bird.

It is all about you, Benjamin, just not your taste in feathered friends.

I realize I'm a day or two late and many dollars short, but Veteran's Day was Sunday. I'm not going Toby Keith on everyone, just take a moment to think about what that means. Thank your friends and family for what they've done (or are continuing to do), despite any polarizing political views one may hold towards the current administration and/or the current conflict overseas.
Do it...
or I'll grow a mullet and stick a boot in your ass.

Long time, no see/read

Yeah...no internet over the summer and the nation's future has been keeping me pretty busy lately.
Teaching at the alma mater is a bit surreal at times.
I started my day yesterday morning w/ a parent conference that was monitored by the same assistant principal that used to suspend me when I was a student. I'm still not sure how to deal with that.

I'll get the train back on the tracks with a piece that I wrote about my experiences at Dragon Con.
and this is only half of the weekend:

Growing up, I was the kid that collected baseball cards, not Magic cards and comic books. I’m not passing judgment; I’m simply stating facts. Dear reader, you may ask why in the name of sweet plastic Jesus are you telling me this? After all, we’ve just met, and who really gives a crap about my childhood.
I did not and still do not diddly about comic books, sci-fi, role-playing games and all of the things that provide the gloriously geeky foundation for the beloved Dragon-Con.
Why would a schmuck like myself go to this convention?
Take a moment to answer the following questions:
Do you like costumes?
Large crowds?
Strange and interesting people?
Spam?
Erik Estrada?
Star Wars?
Do you find yourself sitting at the mall while your wife/husband/kid/boyfriend/manservant/girlfriend/sweet hot bitch wanders aimlessly through the soulless conglomerate of terrorism-defeating merchants of useless bullshit observing the consumers in their natural habitat?
One might say that human beings have the highest level of intelligence and that ability, armed with our sweetass opposable thumbs, make us the superior beings of the planet. While the jury is still out on our alleged superiority, we are definitely some entertaining beings and with Dragon Con, the proof is in the pudding.
Just imagine 100,000 homo-sapiens all gussied up in anything ranging from a drunkass Pooh Bear to a full platoon of Storm Troopers.
It’s like the airport around the holidays with badass costumes, without the hassle of security, and you get to drink.
The ultimate goal and my mantra for the weekend: No labor on Labor Day. I strongly feel that it is my civic duty adhere to all National Holidays and celebrate them accordingly, and Labor Day would be no different.

Saturday:

Get to the ATL and find a fucking parking garage downtown, which was an adventure in and of itself. This year, my peeps and I did it up right and got a room at the Westin, right in the middle of the action. Much to my delight, I discovered that DC ’07 wasn’t the only weirdo sheriff in town. There was some sort of militant lesbian convention and the National Clogging Championship was going down. So much to do, so little time.

I feel the need to inform my audience of an awesome game that my cohorts and I firmly believe will replace trivia night at the Taco Mac. It will be referred to as “Conventionspotting.” It’s like Trainspotting w/o the heroin and dead babies. Actually there are more differences, and I’ve just realized that the only similarity is that both form a compound word with “spotting” in the rear. Spotting in the rear is nasty. Throw your shitty skivvies away chirrun. So here are the rules:

Only one “spotting” per floor (there are a few exemptions that will be explained). The idea is to keep moving, not get hammered drunk in the corner of a convention center. The overarching idea is to promote awareness and prevent untimely pedestrian death.

If any of the following things are “spotted”(or “seen” if you wanna be a dick about it) then you make one of your companions drink:
1. Thigh highs
2. Non-regulation storm trooper e.g. Elvis Storm trooper
3. Muffin top (Fat girl with a hanging tummy)
4. Bitch who can beat me up (there was a separate convention full of ‘em.)
5. Fat chick w/ skinny guy or vice versa
6. Chain mail

If any of the following things are “spotted,” all bets are off. This is what we refer to as “no-limit spottings” (no relation to Master P’s next single “No-limit spottings: touch my doodee drawers” featuring R. Kelly):
1. Furries (EVERYBODY DRINKS on this one b/c people that dress up like animals and dry hump deserve some booze all around)
2. Mullets
3. Midgets dressed up like KISS

After setting up the best game ever, we were on our way.
I knew it was gonna be a good night when I witnessed the following: a jazz trio playing the Imperial Death March as the geeks strolled by in their best regalia.
I was stone cold sober at this point.
But it didn’t last long.

To Momma

The door slams as the dust settles. This is the calm before the storm.
Silence that is so powerful you can feel it; almost taste it. But it’s not the type of silence that is settling. Something inside of you tells you that the shit is about to hit the fan and you don’t want feces on your face, but you still want to sit in the front row. Your gut tells you to get the hell out but your feet refuse to comply.

“What do you two think you’re doing?
This kitchen’s a mess!
I’m sick and tired of telling you to clean up every…”

If I may be so bold, I’ve tuned out by this point. She could’ve had a premonition about the winning lottery numbers and been trying desperately to inform her male heirs of her discovery.
“Tonight’s winning lotto numbers are 33-55-48-19-55”
I was too busy being a seventeen-year-old punkass with cool hair and a big mouth. I was too cool to listen to my mother. That took effort, which is something that was in short supply during those precious teenage years.
Instead of listening carefully, I fired the first shot.

“Just because you had a bad day at work doesn’t mean you can come home yelling nonsense at us”

Keep in mind that there is also a stringy white boy with a two foot Mohawk sitting at the table munching happily on some Cheerios or Frosted Flakes, completely ignoring the glorious escapade that would compromise my freedom yet again.
I hope the cheeky fucker enjoyed his breakfast cereal.

“Ohh…and the kitchen is not a mess. There are two plates in the sink. Get over yourself”

And just like that, like a zit that never goes away and refuses to pop, the Battle of Cross Creek began…again.

The verbal exchange that followed is too jumbled and too far back to record. I’ll never make it as a stenographer and I’m cool with that. All I remember is something about car keys and the crescendo of foot stomps and guttural moans that followed. To an innocent bystander, it may have looked like they were possessed by some demon or feeling the Holy Spirit; in reality they were both possessed by their collective ability to build a mountain out of a molehill.

My Dad always used to say that my mother and I fought like guests on Jerry Springer because we were so much alike. That statement always caused a string of uncontrollable profanities to erupt from my throat like a post-binge drinking purge.
I’ve come to realize that he was right.

I’m blessed (sometimes cursed) to have her heavenly moss atop my fatass noggin. I have a huge forehead and the glorious tendrils help to conceal it.

I’m cursed with her temper, but I’ve learned to tame the savage beast. It rears its ugly head occasionally and I make an ass of myself, but that’s okay. I make an ass of myself in many other ways, none of which involve any of my mother’s character traits so I won’t bitch about it.

I inherited the carefree attitude and sense of humor that helps both of us weather the storm of life and I am forever indebted to her for that.

I sometimes employ her social skills, but never to the extent that she does. I don’t think its possible for me to ever take the pebble from her hand on that one. The Grasshopper concedes defeat, but I promise to keep trying.

To Momma:
Thanks for putting up with my bullshit. After enduring twenty-three hours of labor, you knew before I came into this world that I was gonna be handful and I appreciate the fact that you never abandoned me in shopping mall restroom or somewhere in the swamps of Jersey. I know it must’ve been tempting at times.
Happy Mother’s day.