AliBlog

Flat Tires

(Got any good flat tire stories? Devra told hers, which can't be beat, over on Sarah's goon squad blog, so now I'm telling one of mine here.)

On the weekend Jeromy turned 30, I threw him a party, bought him a 9mm hand gun and flew his brother Andy in to visit. In that same weekend - before we even made it to Saturday night for the party - Jeromy re-enlisted Beaker into the Air Force, and then we all moved Jen and Carey, plus their belongings, from Sedona to Tucson (where we were living at the time).

(Boy how we could fill a weekend before we had kids. Unbelievable. I think we even had dinner with Scott and Bridgette on Sunday night of that same weekend, not to mention that we cleaned up quite a mess from the party.)

(Okay, carrying on. I'm trying to tell a flat tire story here, you know ...)

To accomplish the move, we first drove to Phoenix where we stopped to borrow Uncle Jimmie's covered horse trailer. Inside Jimmie's back paddock, we hitched up the trailer, examined the tires, then traveled on to Sedona.

Do you want all the details? There are a lot of details. In Sedona we stayed at Mii amo Resort, where Jen had been working. I'd recommend it. The place is magical. She scored us a room and a massage for helping with the move. Of course, Jeromy doesn't care for massages, so I got the massage. Even though he and Andy did all the work. While I sat by the pool the next day. Did I mention it was Jeromy's birthday? And I'm getting pampered while he maneuvers horse trailers around the narrow roads of the resort and backing the whole contraption into the narrow, embanked parking lot of Jen and Carey's apartment building? But, hey. He got a hand gun from his wife for his birthday. He still talks about that today. Plus, he was completely surprised about his brother being in town. He was happy.

To recap: Jeromy was happy. I was relaxed. Andy was up for anything as usual. And Jen and Carey were excited to be moving to Tucson.

So everything gets loaded in to the horse trailer and we make it on to the highway, heading south in the 110-degree heat for the deserts and mountains of Tucson. Jen and Carey and their pets are traveling behind us in separate cars.

Within an hour, the horse trailer blows a tire. Fllptpt. We pull over and realize we have a spare but no lug wrench. And no pen. Jeromy's scrambling around for something to write with so he can notify passers-by that we need a lug wrench. Always resourceful, I whip out my lip stick, grab my address book and write, "NEED LUG WRENCH" on one lined page and hang it in the window. (You're looking at true Girl Scout material here, remember.)

Help arrives immediately. A family of immigrant workers pulls over to lend us their lug wrench. We thank them graciously, they refuse payment, and we head to the next rest stop to buy a new tire and a lug wrench. We replace the spare, store the lug wrench for future use and take off again.

Back on the highway, we make it through Phoenix before another tire blows. Fllptpt. This time Jen catches up with us and waits with Andy while Jeromy and I borrow her Jeep and drive it to the next exit to buy another tire. Carey heads on to Tucson in her car to make it there in time for an appointment.

On the way to the tire shop, Jeromy and I joke about the situation.

"Yep, the rubber's thin on those tires," we say.

"Yep, it's pretty hot out here today."

"I bet it's 200 degrees down there on the highway where the rubber hits the road," we surmise.

"And I bet we're carrying two tons of furniture back there. All that weight pressing those tires into the steaming blacktop. Man, those old tires must be melting right off the treads."

(You could cue some music here. I feel like we're at the point in the plot development where they'd play some music. A little country, a little comedy and a little bit of the blues while Jen and Andy and Jen's dog Buddy wait for us alongside the highway.)

Seriously, who else do you know who blows two tires in one road trip? And still makes it home in time for his 30th birthday party? Only the man who's coined the term, "Successful Breakdown." At this point, we had successfully broken down twice in a matter of hours. After a long wait at the tire store, Jeromy and I return with the new tire, he and Andy replace the old one, we all shuffle back to our own vehicles and merge again in to the highway traffic.

Would you think I was lying if I told you we made it within 20 miles of Tucson when the third tire blew? Fllptpt. It's not a lie. Again, we successfully maneuvered our way to an empty rest stop, waited for Jen and the dog to arrive in the Jeep and made plans for replacing the third tire.

It wasn't a hard decision. We decided to buy two tires and replace the fourth and only remaining tire on the trailer that hadn't already blown. This time Jeromy and Andy took off in the Jeep while Jen and I stayed behind with the dog and waited for the tires. We talked about karma. We tried to make phone calls. We laughed at the absurdity of the situation. We guessed that this wasn't the way Andy had expected to spend his weekend in Tucson.

But we made it to Tucson. We threw a party. We celebrated 30 years of successful breakdowns. We celebrated with visitors from out of town, with old friends from the military, with new friends we met that night for the very first time, and finally with childhood friends we'd reconnected with by moving them into town on a half-day road trip with three successful breakdowns. 

(the party)

We Were Trying to Remember All the Concerts We've Attended

(In no particular order. Also not spell-checked or fact-checked.)

• Barbara Mandrell
• Lionel Ritchie
• Sheila E
• Cyndi Lauper
• Anne Murray
• Oakridge Brothers
• Iron Maiden
• Aerosmith
• Motley Crue
• Def Leppard
• Grateful Dead
• Phish
• Soundgarden
• Black Crowes
• Lollapalooza 1 & 3 (Jane's Addiction, Nine Inch Nails, Siouxsie & the Banshees, Ice T, Primus, Alice in Chains, Arrested Development, etc.)
• Social Distortion
• Merle Haggard
• Sheryl Crowe
• Keller Williams
• Concrete Blonde
• H.O.R.D.E. Festival 2 (Lenny Kravitz, Peter Gabriel, etc.)
• Sting
• Michelle Shocked
• Indigo Girls
• Ben Folds Five
• Emmy Lou Harris
• Lyle Lovett
• Big Head Todd and the Monsters
• Atheneum
• Jane's Addiction
• Guns N Roses
• Ritchie Haven
• Cowboy Mouth
• Ralph Stanley
• Ricky Skaggs
• Lillity Fair 1 & 2 (Sarah McLachlan, Fiona Apple, Joan Osbourne, Natalie Merchant, etc.)
• Over the Rhine
• Santana
• Macy Gray
• Eagles
• Soul Asylum
• Europe
• Great High Mountain Tour (Alison Kraus, Ollabelle, etc.)
• Saigon Kick
• Sade
• India Arie
• Ozzy
• Tesla
• Kathy Mattea
• REM
• Pink Floyd
• Hostile Amish
• Voodoo Birds
• Ecoustic Hooka

Some of these were attended only by me and some were attended only by Jeromy. Most of them we attended together.

Our favorites? Patty Loveless, Cowboy Mouth, Ricky Skaggs, Social Distortion and Grateful Dead. All for completely different reasons.

Our least favorites? Sheryl Crowe and Ben Folds Five. They're the only two performers I've liked less (way less) instead more after seeing them perform live.

Pick one and I'll see tell you the story.

My e-Mail Memory Machine

What's in your e-mail memory machine? Here's a few memories pulled from my outbox over the last week.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

So bring your good times, and your laughter too. We gonna celebrate your party with you.

Remember those bulky tape recorders that everyone had back then in the early 80s? We used to hold those recorders up to our clock radios and record songs as they played on the scratchy FM frequencies. Then we would take our bulky tape players to school and play them during free time or recess and dance, dance, dance. I always thought I was so cool for listening to that song. I sensed those guys really knew what it meant to have a good time, and I had a fuzzy idea that their idea of a good time was something I was way too young to understand. Yet somehow I felt connected to those grown up good times through the energy of the song.

It's time to come together. It's up to you. What's your pleasure? Everyone around the world, Come On!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

OHHHH, that rabbit. My memory is vague - but I do remember being broken-hearted enough when the rabbit died to demand a funeral. According to my mom, however, we lost steam for the burial. We were very into the planning of the whole thing & the hoopla leading up to the event but when it came time to dig the hole and place the boxed bunny into the ground our moms were the only ones left to shed a tear for the poor little guy.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He was the one who drove a turquoise, low-rider, convertible Toyota pickup with only the Y and the O in TOYOTA painted pink on the tail gate. I remember riding through the brick streets of Athens in the front seat with the top down and talking to him about his history as an artist. That was in 1994.

Far, Far Away

I wonder how far Robey thinks the distance is to his school. I asked him once when we were talking about Grandpa Buddy being far, far away.

-Is the cottage in Michigan far, far away?

-Yes.

-Is Uncle Beau's house far, far away?

-Yes.

-Is your school far, far away?

-No.

It's about a 15-minute drive down one main road and a few side roads. On the way there, Robey points out the landmarks he knows. There's the dirt movers, he says. There's my eye doctor. Mom, that's where we bought my pants. Look, there's my dentist! He gets excited about the dentist, but he's confused about the eye doctor. He thinks the Presbyterian Church across from the medical building is the eye doctor's office, and I can't convince him otherwise.

He's mapping out his world on that drive to school and back everyday while I map out my past.

I think of all the things that I could point out to him from my past. Look, there's the field where some friends and I got lost when we were ten. There's the wooded lot where we drank beer in high school. There's the new bike path they built when I was in college ...

Past all of those things, we also pass the road I lived on when I was Robey's age.

The house I live in today with my husband and my two boys is the same house that my parent's built and moved us to when I was five. So we drive that distance everyday: from my home of residence and also the home I grew up in to the home of my earliest childhood memories.

You see what I'm saying when I talk about far, far away?

In 1978 when my parent's moved us from one school district to the next, the distance to me was great. They were moving us away from the neighbor boy with the bike called Big Blue, away from the purple hydrangeas blooming in the side yard and away from the blacktopped street that stained my shorts with tar in the summer.

As an adult, I've moved from Ohio to Mississippi, from North Carolina to Arizona, from Illinois to Ohio, and a dozen other moves in between. But let me tell you, the distance from there to where I am today is not nearly as great as the distance we moved when I was a kid.

I'm not saying I was traumatized. Not at all. I'm just saying the distance of a move - any move - is large in a child's mind. What matters is that the things we moved to when I was five far outweighed the things we left behind. We moved to the country, to open fields, to damp creek beds and doting grandparents right next door. We moved to a better school district, to land with roots and to the place I still call home. These are the same things we moved Robey to when we decided to move back to Ohio.

This house and the land that surrounds it is the place my parent's called home. It's the place my grandparent's called home. I hope it's the place my children will always call home.

I woke up this morning in this home with the season's first snow covering the ground and thought to myself, "I love to look out these windows and see the snow in November. I love the warmth of this house when there's snow on the ground in the morning." We have such high ceilings here, and I've been feeling a chill all week long. But this morning? This house was warm.

Robey calls our home the red house. I've asked him if he remembers the house we lived in before we moved here, the house in Illinois that he lived in until he was 18 months old. He doesn't. And you know he doesn't remember the house in Tucson where we lived for six weeks when he was first born. We have photos of those places and memories there, and we sometimes miss their walls and roads and neighbors. Occasionally we think about what might have happened if we'd stayed there, if we hadn't moved back to Ohio. But those houses. They were far, far away.

They were far, far away from family. Far, far away from here.

Here is where we belong. This place. This place right here is home.

The Foosball Chronicles

Do you own a piece of furniture that tells the story of your marriage or the story of movement in your life? Let me tell you about our foosball table. I "won" it ten years ago from a radio station in Biloxi, Mississippi.

At the time I was doing temp work for a local manufacturer. In the engineering office where I spent my days we often listened to the local alternative music station, which featured a daily contest called The Trading Block. Every weekday around noon the DJs placed an item on the trading block and listeners called in to offer a trade. The first caller to offer a fair trade - at the DJ's discretion - was awarded the day's item. The trades continued by placing the new item acquired in the trade on to the trading block the next day.

On this particular day, the radio station was auctioning off a foosball table. I called immediately and offered two dorm-sized refrigerators in trade. They accepted without hesitation and joked that the prizes kept getting better! Soon they'd be placing cars on the trading block! (Which reminds me, have you read the story of the red paper clip?).

The next day Jeromy drove down to the station to pick up our prize, and we became the proud owners of a classic, regulation-sized foosball table. It lived in our spare room for the next six months alongside another newly acquired item - a kegerator*.

Have I mentioned our lifestyle in Mississippi? It wasn't what I was expecting after graduating from college, becoming an "Air Force wife" and entering into the work force myself. You see, Jeromy was in tech school with a squadron full of 18 and 19 year olds. He was the only married Airman and therefore the only one of the bunch with permission to live outside the on-base dormitories. By default, our apartment became the weekend hangout for more than a dozen enlisted men in training. We went through at least one keg per weekend. We cooked a lot of bacon and egg breakfasts. We narrowly escaped all kinds of trouble with the authorities.

Since we were lacking a guest bed and since all our friends were more than happy to pass out on couches, chairs and beer-stained rugs, the spare bedroom was the perfect spot for a foosball table. Jeromy, Kim, Mike, Stacey, Pat and others all learned to play a good game of foosball on this table, and we all improved our skills every weekend.

Within a few months, however, we headed to North Carolina for Jeromy's first permanent duty assignment. When our moving truck arrived, the guys in his new squadron were there to help us unload. To this day, Charlie and Joe will tell you that they knew - as soon as they helped unload the foosball table and the kegerator - that we would all get along just fine.

In North Carolina we had a three bedroom house. We bought a new bedroom set, put our old bed in the second bedroom and turned the third bedroom into an office. Since we had room in the kitchen for a small table, the foosball table was displayed prominently in our dining room. This was years before Joey and Chandler would do the same with their foosball table on Friends.

We played the table hard in North Carolina, getting schooled weekly by Charlie who learned to play from the foosball pros while stationed in Germany. After a few years in North Carolina, however, we acquired a used dining room table from friends and a used Mazda 626* from family. Now, we had no room for the foosball table, and we had a car that badly needed tires. The details are foggy, but somehow, through a series of Jeromy-style trades, we agreed to give Beau the foosball table for a new set of tires.

But how do you get a foosball table to Ohio in a Mazda 626? You strap it to the roof, of course. Jeromy designed a brace and platform that fit snugly into the open sun roof, attached the base to the upside-down foosball table, strapped everything down - and we were on our way. Half way to Ohio, however, in the mountains of West Virginia, we hit a rain storm. The platform began collecting water, and small drops started creeping into the car from the sunroof. For Jeromy, it was Chinese torture. Here he is transversing his way through the narrow, winding mountain roads with zero visibility when he starts getting pinged on the head by rain drops at completely random intervals. We tried unsuccessfully to block the leak with stray towels and other leak-blocking devices, but nothing worked. Finally, Jeromy hit his limit, looked around and said, "Don't we have an umbrella in here?"

Can't you picture it? You see two crazy kids motoring through the mountains in a rusted Mazda. You can't help but notice an upturned table of some sort strapped to the top of their car, so you look in at the driver to get a better view - when you notice the passenger is nonchalantly holding ... an umbrella ... over the driver's head? WTF?!!! I can't tell you how hard we laughed.

Eventually, the foosball table made it to Ohio unharmed, where it lived with Beau for a number of years in Columbus. In the meantime, we moved to Arizona, then to Illinois, started a family along the way - and definitely didn't have room for a foosball table in our new homes.

We'll leave it to Beau to fill in the details of the table's life in Columbus (which I'm sure are just as colorful), but suffice it to say that Beau moved to Texas for a few years and decided not to take the foosball table along on another cross-country journey. Instead, it found a home in the basement of doom, where it has been collecting dust for years.

That is until recently. Last week, I saw a notice in our church newsletter that the youth group was looking for a foosball table. We've been wondering how to properly donate the table for months, so I called right away. I wasn't about to let someone else donate their table before I donated mine. I am on a mission to clean up that basement, after all. The youth leaders accepted the table donation gladly, eagerly. They couldn't believe someone had a foosball table to donate, especially a nice, solid wooden table with all its pieces and parts intact, which mostly just needed cleaned and oiled - and it would be ready to go.

On Thursday Jeromy and I loaded the table into his box truck* and he delivered it to the church. Friday after the high school football game, the church welcomed 30 youth who - from what I'm told - spent most of the night taking turns on the foosball table. They probably enjoyed it more than we ever did in Mississippi or North Carolina. And the best part? Before we know it, Robey and Moe will be in the youth group too, and they'll be challenging their friends to games on that very same foosball table. How's that for a full circle?

*These items all have stories too. Stories of unpaid debts, successful breakdowns, incestial trades and unbelievable coincidences. Remind me someday to tell them as well.

Remembering 9/11

We were living on a military base in Tucson, Arizona. Jeromy was in Biloxi, Mississippi for training, so I was home alone with our dog. Around 7am Jeromy's friend and co-worker Greg called and told me that someone had flown a plane into a building in New York City. I immediately went to the computer to read the latest news. I don't know when it became clear to me that people were crashing planes into buildings intentionally, but it wasn't an instant realization.

I called Jeromy to check on him. I probably called my mom. I watched TV all day long. But after that first day, I couldn't watch anymore. I had to get out and see friends, walk the dog, work. Anything.

Days went by without me hearing from anyone else in Jeromy's squadron. I think Greg called a few more times to check on me as a friend, and Jeromy called everyday. But there weren't any official communications coming through for those of us whose spouses were TDY. Then one morning three or four days after the attacks, I received an official call from a Sgt in the squadron telling me to go outside and remove the standard name and rank letters that hung above our front door.

I took the dog outside with me, stood on a chair and began removing the letters one by one. I slid out a 2, an L and a T - then started to get nervous. Why was I doing this? Were terrorists targeting on-base housing according to rank? Were satellite images of my front door being pulled up on someone's computer screen? Were evil-doers driving the streets of my neighborhood right now looking for officer housing? I pulled out the remaining letters quickly, left the chair on the stoop, rushed inside with the dog, then went through the house and locked every door. 

I remember feeling sullen for weeks and sitting outside at Beaker and Richelle's house as usual, minus the standard laughter and hi-jinx. I remember thinking that things were going to be different, that the light-heartedness of our lives was over. That this period of innocence was lost. That the fun and carefree lifestyles we'd led, even in the military, would now be as foreign as the Gatsby lifestyle had been to Nick.

But I was wrong, and sometimes I think that's a shame. We were drinking and laughing, camping and riding, partying and celebrating birthdays again within months. It was too easy. I worry still that it's too easy. That we slid back into our freedom like you slide back into a favorite pair of jeans. It's this innocent comfort, this easy return to life as we know it that now makes intelligence officials say, "We're going to need another 9/11."

I heard that quote recently on the Discovery channel, and it chilled me to the bone. It made me feel like I was back on that military base sliding letters out from the silver tray above my front door. B (I'm getting spooked) - O (am I being watched?) - L (am I safe?) - E (why am I out here doing this alone?) - N (last one, then ... I ... can .. go ... back ... inside .... and lockallthedoors).

Where were you? What do you remember?

Alilicious, Mommylicious Me

The Queen of Spain is hosting a photo contest that accepts entries in the following categories:

• Mommylicious
• Mommyfabulous
• Yummy Mummy
• Housewife
• Fertile
• CountRock

The prizes - from her new 'store' - can be found if you follow the links.

Since I'm not especially fertile, fabulous or yummy, and I'm not a housewife or a rocker, I'm entering under the mommylicious category, which doesn't seem like a perfect fit either, but - hey, it's fun to reminisce about my pregnancy with Robey now that a second one is on the way.

Here's the 'before Robey' photo of my belly. I think I was actually about 10 weeks along here, but I was in much better shape to start out with back then. This time around, I'm sure I was actually popping out a bit at 10 weeks ... but I've yet to take a picture of my belly this time around.

Here I am at 7 months, on my 30th birthday, which we spent in Northern Arizona - in Flagstaff, Wilcox and (you guessed it) at the Grand Canyon.

This is the biggest belly photo that I have, from 39 weeks. Notice that my belly button is non-existent. It never popped out but flattened out altogether instead. My mom pointed this out to me in amusement when I sent her the photo at the time. I, however, was not amused. At the time, nothing about my body amused me anymore at all.

Jeromy and I attended a friend's wedding the same night this photo was taken, and many of the guests, whom I'd met a few weeks earlier at the bridal shower, were shocked at how much I'd grown in just 14 days.

And finally, this is one of my favorite photos of all time, taken the day of Robey's birth. It's also the most Mommylicious of the bunch if you ask me.

To view the other entrants, read the comments on this post at the queen's blog. Good luck to all the other fertile, fabulous and yummy mommys who aren't afraid to show the world their pregnant bellies.

A Flashback from Mich

In an attempt to keep Alison putzing down memory lane, further continue the “it was one of those parties” mantra, and send my cousin to OU with the right information, I (Mich) have contributed this post to AliBlog.

It was one of those pall smarties where ...

... Boone’s Farm Wine had been purchased at the Stop-N-Cop with a fake I.D. and smuggled up the side stairwell of what was then an all-girls freshman residence hall. (Can’t you just hear the echoing sound of clinking bottles and 18-year-old giggles?)

... Rush, Black Sabbath, Jane’s Addiction, and Simon & Garfunkel were played at full blast.

... Sharon, Jen, and I were busted by the androgynous R.A. whom we had nicknamed the HE-SHE and forced, as punishment, to attend an alcohol abuse seminar. Alison wasn’t there and escaped unscathed.

... Jeromy visited from Columbus State and had to relieve his abnormally small bladder by peeing out the fourth floor window, as no boys were allowed in the dorm after a certain hour.

... Alison and I decided we’d start our own literary magazine and invited a gang of pretentious artsy-fartsy types into the dorm room once a week to read and discuss poetry.

... the two-topping Papa John’s pizza cost $7.99, the bread sticks were free, and not having to eat at the dining hall was priceless.

A pall smarty is a small party in Ohio University’s Jefferson Hall room 440, circa 1991-1992. And, in case you don’t know, pall smarties happened nearly every day. This was the beginning of a great friendship among the four of us, not to mention the beginning of what was arguably the best five years of our lives.

Our room, one of only two quads in Jefferson, was absolutely gigantic by dorm room standards. Accommodations included two bunk beds, four desks, a couch, a mini-fridge, a card table, and (as you can see) plenty of room for pall smarty guests. Our linoleum floor was cushioned by a custom-made pink area rug with the letters OU in the middle, thanks to Jeromy’s brother Andy. Three windows faced East Green. The center window was arched and rose nearly eight feet tall.

There was no e-mail (what’s email?) nor cell phones (you mean a car phone?). We had no cable tv, because we had no tv at all. But we were never, ever, bored.

Now, over ten years later, my second cousin Casey is going to OU. I’ve told her grandmother (my Aunt Beth) all about this room, and Casey is going to do her best to live there too. Good luck, Casey! I hear that Jeff Hall is a co-ed dorm now, which is a whole different story (a.k.a. Sophomore Year and the Big Couch After-hours).

The Cool Chronicles: 7th Grade

October 19, 1985:
Willie broke up with me. Because he didn't want to end up cheating on me. I still like him.

December 31, 1985:
I had a bunch of friends spend the night for New Years. Went to Betsy's party first 7-11.

January 1, 1986:
I hate Willie. I just realized how totally conceited he is.

January 6, 1986:
Back to school! I had an excelelnt day. I crossed out Willie on everything. But we lost the basketball game 23-24. Refs NO good!!! Some kid mooned us twice. Queer.

Promapalooza! It's Here! It's Here!

These days, when the kids go to the prom, they wear strapless designer dresses - sleek and stylish, elegant and clean. I've seen them looking all grown up and bejeweled at local restaurants. Their dresses are much classier than the gaudy, shimmering bridesmaid knock-offs worn to prom in my day.

Surely, today's styles will be more forgiving than the prom fashions of the late 80s and early 90s. I can't imagine a more unforgiving time style-wise than the years I attended high school. To prove my point, I give you exhibits A and B as part of the blogosphere's first ever Promapalooza.

Exhibit A: Prom 1990. Black lace over pink taffeta. High waist line with eye-catching bow. Shortened hemline to expose legs. Big hair swept to one side.

Exhibit B: Prom 1991. Black and gold lamé over black satin. Pleated cap sleeves of gold and black. Straight skirt with lamé half-skirt covering. Brilliant gold heels. Imitation gold jewelry. Hair in partial up-do.

The dress in Exhibit A really was a bridesmaid leftover. For years, we bought all my formal dresses at this little, country dress shop that sold bridesmaid dresses at clearance prices. Exhibit B was the only dress I ever picked out of a catalog and ordered at full price. I was so proud of it. I thought it was the epitome of class.

As for the hair, the partial up-do worked so well that I wore it again for my wedding day five years later (ee-gad). And just this weekend - honest to God - Jeromy asked, "Are you ever going to get a perm again?" He liked my hair in Exhibit A! He thought I was rawkin and sexy. Of course, I thought he was sexy too with his bolo tie and shoulder pads and short suit jacket. Mmmm-hmmmm we were a pair.

Want more promapalooza? Check out:

• Ellen's sexy, sequined mini.
• Sarah's Rock n Roll boyfriends.
• Bridgette's Gone with the Wind hoop skirt (posted on Sarah's blog).
• BIYF's hot pink dress shirt (click through to Flickr to see the photos).
• Erin's Mystic Pizza imitation.
• Ms.Mama's bi-level haircut.
• Xta's tanned skin.
• Ritch's long, feathered hair (posted on Sarah's blog).
• Tammy's limo dream (posted on Sarah's blog).
• Becky's sweeping shawl.
• Hillary's revealing neckline.
• Running 2Ks clasped-hand photo pose.
• April's sleek, black dress.

And there's more to come. I'll be updating this list throughout the day. Then - tomorrow you can come back to AliBlog and cast your vote for "best" hair and "best" dress. The winner gets ... all the glory and bragging rights that come with winning the blogdom's first ever Promapalooza. Oh yeah!

(Thanks to Sarah for scanning my photos. Since I don't have a functioning scanner, I couldn't provide images of Marcy and Beau and Jen as well. Maybe next year ...)

The Cool Chronicles: 6th Grade

December 27, 1984:
Went to Florida to visit Bockeneks.

January 6, 1985:
We just got back from Florida. Visited Bockeneks. Went to Disney (dumb), swam, had fun, don't have a tan though.

January 17, 1985:
No school! yeah!

January 18, 1985:
I got sick. Went to the clinic, but they wouldn't do anything except excuse me from gym.

January 19, 1985:
I still have a tiny headache, but I'm not telling anyone and I'm going to the basketball game anyway.

April 27, 1985:
Walked Walk America. 18 miles or 30 kilometers. I went all the way.

February 8, 1985:
Scott and I won a trophy for tying in math olympics. We got our yearbooks.

April 15, 1985:
I got it!

May 30, 1985:
Mom went to hospital to get her gall blader taken out.

June 2, 1985:
Mom got home from the hospital. She's fine.

June 3, 1985:
Last day of school. Lost softball game to Stylesetters 20-5.

June 7, 1985:
Lost softball game to Amvets, 8-6. Jody last batter, bases loaded, boom! Sam catches it.

June 9, 1985:
Spent the night at Marcys last night. Whitney there with Kristy. Had fun!!!!

June 16, 1985:
Had father's day picnic with Grandma and Grandpa and Garvers. Went to Marcys afterward and spent the night.

June 17, 1985:
Went to see Marcy at swim team. Am having Michelle spend the night.

July 19, 1985:
I think I'm gonna get my eye operated on so it won't cross.

August 3, 1985:
Known for awhile, just forgot to tell ya, but I'm getting surgery on my eye on Aug. 15. Glasses only for reading.

The Cool Chronicles: 5th Grade

August 30, 1983:
Dear Diary, Today was the first day of fifth grade and I got Mr. Semen. He's nice but he's queer. I have every class with Lisa!

October 12, 1983:
Sorry I haven't written for awhile but I don't have a very exciting life. I'm working on a project in S.S. Tonight I'm trying to write a poem. Well gotta go. Bye!

October 13, 1983:
Dear Diary, Today was a good day. I kicked a home run in gym while we were playing kick ball.

October 14, 1983:
D.D., We had pizza night at the Bockeneks. Sarah and I just jumped up and down on the bed and watched TV.

October 15, 1983:
D.D., Sarah spent the night last night and we played school & little people.

February 14, 1984:
Happy Valentine's Day!

February 22, 1984:
Scott's mad at me because just for fun Lisa and I have been taking Scott's wallet out of his pocket. He thought of it as a game at first too but now he's really mad.

May 4, 1984:
Dear Diary, The Bockeneks are moving to Florida. I'm really going to miss them.

May 5, 1984:
D.D., Beau just got done running the 5k race. He didn't place but Janine did. I got to see Parker. She's really cute.

August 8, 1984:
Dear D, Bockeneks moved. BOO HOO.

The Cool Chronicles: 4th Grade

October 29, 1982:
Dear Diary, Today is our Halloween party. Clumsy wore a captain kangaroo hat. I wore a mask but dropped it in a puddle. What a laugh!

March 31, 1983:
Dear Diary, I spent the night at Lauries and we played secretary most the time but we also played jump rope.

Feb. 3, 1983:
Dear Diary, Andy F. said, "That is good," to me about my art project.

Feb. 7, 1983:
Dear Diary, We played capture the flag in gym, and I pulled Brett over.

April 1, 1983:
Dear Diary, I went to Amy's today and saw home movies. Her mom's boyfriend came and they smooched the whole time.

April 2, 1983:
Dear Diary, I went to Sarahs today and her grandma died this morning so Sarah just got back from there and has to go back.

April 3, 1983:
Dear Diary, Today was a good Easter. Beau got Night Rider and I got slacks. We went to Grandmas and brought the Atari.

April 5, 1983:
Dear Diary, This will be a long one so get ready. Well, here goes. I'm not sure what's the matter, but something is wrong with Kathy. She thinks she owns Vicki and says Vicki is hanging around the wrong people and Vicki can't like Rachel and now tells Amy not to like Vicki.

April 8, 1983:
Dear Diary, Today I went to Janeens and stayed up to 5:30 and got up at 8:30.

April 15, 1983:
Dear Diary, We went to cosi and I had a lot of fun and Tricia is my partner.

April 21, 1983:
Dear Diary, Today was kind of boring but Robin's being dumb like always and Kathys acting up again.

May 13, 1983:
Dear Diary, Some Friday the 13. I had a wonderful day.

May 17, 1983:
Dear Diary, Today we started chasing Jeff.

May 18, 1983:
Dear Diary, I think I'm in like with Jeff and now he has Denise with him and whenever we get near Denise she will trip us or something and now we told Jeff we quit because of Denise.

May 20, 1983:
Dear Diary, I had a real scare tonight because there was a piece of tape on me and I thought it was a bat.

May 21, 1983:
Dear Diary, I got very scared again because the wagon handle had about 3 slugs on it and I grabbed and smushed. I screamed.

August 7, 1983:
Dear Diary, I just went to overnight G.S. camp and met a real nice girl Cathy.

August 8, 1983:
Dear Diary, Today I stuck a frog down my counselor's shirt and lost my free swim for two days. Ha ha!

August 14, 1983:
Dear Diary, I just got back from girl scout camp and I'm glad to see my family and friends.

August 16, 1983:
Dear Diary, Amy spent the night at my house and I made my hair kinky.

August 17, 1983:
Dear Diary, I went to Amy's tonight and luckily her mom's boyfriend wasn't there this time.

August 21, 1983:
Dear Diary, The Bockeneks got back from N.C. today.

August 22, 1983:
Dear Diary, Sarah just got a preppy gator book for the TIF club and she put a lot in it. And I got my ears pierced.

The Cool Chronicles: 3rd Grade

Feb. 10, 1982:
Dear Diary, Today is the first day Scott sat with me on the bus.

Feb. 21, 1982:
Dear Diary, Today the boys started spying on me and my friends.

March 21, 1982:
Dear Diary, Today it started. Ever since today, these boys have been telling me that Kevin F. wanted to go with me.

The Cool Chronicles: Intro

When I was in fourth grade, I remember thinking to myself in an epiphany that I hadn't really been cool in second grade at all. Nor had I been cool in the third grade when I thought that Rubik's cubes and jump ropes were cool.

But right at that moment, in fourth grade, I thought I was on my way to being truly cool. I thought coolness would begin in fifth grade when I would attend middle school with seventh and eighth graders and climb the stairs between English and math classes.

Such was the self-introspection of a girl consumed with being cool. And yet, if you look at the photos (Sarah posted the photo above on her blog today and prompted this whole post), you can see that I was probably doomed to uncoolness right from the start.

I suppose I had bit of a run with the boys in the seventh and eighth grades thanks to puberty and eye surgery. Oh, and I broke a few rules and had some good times in high school and college. But the truth is, I've always been a nerdy, bookish girl who's a bit too obsessed with being upright and honest to be truly be cool.

As further proof of my uncoolness, I'm dedicating the next few posts to the diary entries that chronicled my innermost thoughts during those "cool" years. Stay tuned. I guarantee that the shallowness and the obsessiveness over the "cool" boys will make you want to slit your wrists with a No. 2 pencil.

[UPDATE: Here's the entries from third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh grades.]

Remembering Biloxi

The images of Katrina's destruction are hard to process. I feel so helpless and angry and unjustly removed from the tragedy. And yet these photos of Southern Mississippi have hit me hard. I've walked these flooded beaches, driven these crumbled highways, and even lived in one of the many now-flattened neighborhoods.

Mississippi was hard on me. I was just married, a recent college grad and expecting a new and improved grown-up life. My expectations were completely unrealistic, and the transition was humbling. I took a temporary job as a secretary at a manufacturing plant that produced mammoth-sized winches and other heavy deck equipment for large ships and barges. I worked in the office with the draftsmen and design engineers but befriended many of the hard-working men downstairs on the plant floor. Welders, builders and machinists, they worked with their hands and told great stories about growing up on the Gulf Coast.

Richard is the one I remember most. He was a shy, quiet man in his 50s who lived alone with his mother. He bought gifts for all the girls during the holidays and kept everyone up-to-date on his mother's health. He walked slow in his overalls and work boots and had permanent grease stains on his hands. His sincere kindness was a type of innocence you rarely see in someone outside of their teens.

I lost touch with everyone from that Mississippi plant soon after moving away. I forget many of their names but remember their faces. And it is their faces - especially the rough innocence of Richard's face - that is the face of this tragedy for me. I have been praying for each of them this past week, remembering as many names and faces as I can and hoping that their families are safe, their homes are undamaged and their lives are not lost. They are my perspective, my horizon, my diorama of Hurricane Katrina. And more than anything, they represent hope.

The Hostel Incident

In the summer of 1994, Sami was visiting from Finland with a return flight home scheduled out of Newark International Airport. Sami, Mich and I made plans to drive to the airport a few days early, park our car in long-term parking and take a train to NYC so we could spend a few days walking around the city.

I think we were all of 21 at the time, which sounds so young in hindsight. What were our parents thinking, sending us out into the belly of the world like that? Yes, TECHNICALLY, we were adults, but we were young and naive and very green - and don't think those city slickers couldn't smell it on us. We were bossed around by some of the more aggressive panhandlers and even intimidated by a band of rough-edged teenagers who were slinging burgers and fries at a fast food joint in New Jersey.

But I digress. My point here is to tell the story of the night we found a strange man in Mich's bed and laughed ourselves into a fit of lunacy.

We made reservations at a youth hostel on Long Island and checked in early to make our beds and unload our luggage before heading out on our first stroll around the city as tourists. In case you've never been to one, I'll explain that youth hostels offer pared down sleeping accommodations. For a fairly low rate, you get an empty mattress in a bare room with a community toilet down the hall - and that's it.

The room we checked into had two sets of bunk beds, so we each picked a mattress and made our beds with the pillows, sheets and blankets we had brought from home. I remember specifically that Mich covered hers lovingly with a pink and green wool blanket that she had used a few years earlier in our dorm room as well.

With three beds claimed, that left one empty bed in case the hostel staff decided to assign someone else to our room. Possible but - we figured - unlikely since there were already three of us in this room, and so many other rooms to fill. (Did I mention we were naive?)

So we headed out to see the Museum of Modern Art, the Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, the Apollo Theater, Central Park, Times Square and so much more - which all seems very overwhelming to me now but at the time I didn't feel like we were taking in ENOUGH.

After a full day of site-seeing, we arrived back at the hostel eager to jump into our pre-made beds, sleep peacefully through the night and wake up to see more sites in the morning.

When we unlocked the door to our room, however, we saw immediately that a strange, young man was sleeping with his head on Mich's pillow and his body tucked neatly under her pink wool blanket. So we, of course, turned right around, tripped over each other as we left the room and began giggling furiously before we could even close the door.

"What were we going to do?" we asked ourselves in between fits of laughter. We caught our breath, doubled over, looked at each other in amazement and asked again, "What were we going to do about the strange man in Mich's bed!"

Had the other bed been decked out with anything but a cold, bare mattress, Mich might have decided to give up her bed for the night. But our roommate hadn't made the fourth bed. He had somehow assumed that the hostel staff had provided three mismatched sets of bedding, left the fourth mattress bare, and given him free reign to decide which of the made beds looked the most comfortable.

We pictured him as a short-haired, dark-skinned Goldilocks bouncing himself on each of our beds, inspecting the covers and finally concluding which bed was just right. "I choose the pink blanket," we imagined him saying, "Of course!"

After a few more waves of laughter, we composed ourselves slightly, walked back in and nudged our roommate awake. "So sorry," we said, "But you're in her bed."

He stared and adjusted his eyes to the room's dim light.

"That's her blanket," we said, pointing and nodding. "She brought it from home. The pillow and the sheets too. She made the bed."

Then he tried talking to us in some form of Arabic while we all kept pointing to our own beds, smiling slightly and trying to make sense of the situation. And suddenly we were hysterical again. Or - I should say - Mich and I were hysterical.

At this point, Sami became serious and decided as the other male and the other international traveler in the room that he should work things out with the stranger while Mich and I returned to the hall in our continued state of hysteria. I mean, we couldn't stop giggling. We were tired and loopy and traveling in a strange city, trying to talk someone out of a bed that he perceived to be his own - all in a language he didn't understand. It was side-splitting.

Somehow, through a peculiar blend of Finnish, Arabic and beginner English, Sami and the stranger figured out how to communicate at a level that landed us all back in our own beds and tucked in for the night.

I think we were still laughing as we fell asleep ...

Funny, though - I have no recollection of what happened to that stranger. Did he sleep on the bare mattress? Did he rent some sheets from the hostel? Or did he demand a new room - someplace far, far away from those giddy, giggly Midwestern girls? I want to say that he was still there when we fell asleep but wasn't when we woke up ... but I really can't say for sure.

Funny Ha Ha

Not long after I published my blogflogger interview, I wrote a comment on True Ancestor's blog that said:

It's hard not to over-analyze these things once you see them in print. Since posting my interview, I've remembered at least half a dozen actual funny moments that would have been much better to write about than the non-list I provided in my answer.

At the time, I thought maybe I'd take a week and write about all the truly funny moments I could remember. They kept coming to me in flashes:

• The evening we found a strange man in Mich's bed in a hostel in NYC.
• The time we watched our friends in two separate jeeps narrowly avoid a collision around the hairpin turns of Mt. Jeez.
• Another time that we were pulled over by the police on Mt. Jeez in one of those jeeps - Jeromy and I acting all serious and polite and "yes sir, no sir" in the front seat and trying to keep straight faces while Jen sat in the back whimpering about her fear of getting arrested while wearing boxer shorts instead of women's panties for underwear.
• The time in Mississippi when the cops showed up at our apartment ready to arrest two of our friends for accidentally spraying mace into the drive thru window of a Taco Bell (they found it in our glove box and honestly thought it was air freshener).
• The time in NC when Jeromy inadvertently threw a dart at Rick and it landed dead in the center of his jeans, sticking in the folds of denim right in front of his zipper.
• The night of the infamous 40-gallon vodka lemonade party in Athens where we lost Jeromy in a townie bar, watched Nice Nikki attempt to carry Big Dean on her back and then watched Speedy or some other crazy partier (I can't remember who) body slide across the kitchen and rip a hole clean through the wall that led to the bathroom where I was inconveniently emptying my bladder at the time.

Oh, there are so, so, so many more.

But the reason I mention this today is because Sarah has just written about one on her blog - a moment of hilarity from girl scout camp that took place more than 20 years ago. She woke up thinking she was blind, and I laughed so hard. She - on the other hand - probably laughed harder than I did earlier in that same week when I got busted on the first day of camp for putting a frog down the shirt of the meanest camp counselor (note to ten-year-old girls: if you're going to pull a prank like this, wait until the 3rd or 4th day of camp, after you've felt out the counselor's personalities and you know which ones can take a joke).

p.s. Are you laughing yet? Is any of this funny to anyone but me? What funny moments do you remember from our collective pasts?

More Notes on Nicknames

Two things have me thinking about nicknames. One is Sarah's comment about Marce-Monkey and the second is the over-abundence of Jens in my life.

When I first started mentioning Jen P (now K) on this site, I was calling her JP, because I didn't want to confuse people with all these different Jens. But then she started commenting as jen, so I started calling her Jen and that's where I've left it. But there is also Jen T from college, Jen S and Jen H from high school, Jen R who's a cousin-in-law and many, many more. Jen S also comments here sometimes and so does Jen T. And Jen H has said that she might start commenting too, but so far she's still silent.

Anyway, I know who they all are. But do you? Should we insist on nicknames for all these Jens? I'm sure they've been plagued by this all their lives. We used to call Jen P by her last name, and we've also called her Penny Bucket, Psyche and - of course - JP. I still call Jen S by her maiden name and probably always will. Jen H goes by Navar at work, which sounds very exotic. I once sat by a pool at the resort where she worked in Sedona, AZ and listened to a client of hers talk about Navar this and Navar that for hours. For a minute, I thought she was famous. I don't remember any nicknames for Jen T but that seems odd - surely we had some. And I haven't known Jen R long enough to learn her nicknames, but I'm willing to bet she has a few good ones.

Now - as for Marce-monkey. That took me back. I suddenly remembered a flood of ridiculous nicknames that Sarah and I made up in elementary school. The list - to me anyway - is hilarious:

• Marcy - Marce Monkey
• Sarah - Big Tif
• Me - Middle Tif
• Lisa - Li'l Tif
• Chris - Mr. Schrofsky
• Andy - Lazy
• Brett - Daddy Bax
• Scott - Uncle Gotty
• Jason - Uncle JayJay
• Doug - Uncel Dougest
• Dominic - Buffalo Chips
• Mrs. F - OM (and there was a dance that went along with the name for this substitute teacher)

Can you remember any others? What are your favorite nicknames?

Jive Skate

My mother likes to tell the story of the day I learned to jive skate.

If you grew up in the late 70s, you'll likely remember a few Saturday afternoons spent skating around the roller rink in those homely beige rental skates that looked and smelled like high-top bowling shoes on wheels. The laces were always broken, and the screws for the wheels (remember there were four of them back then - one in each corner of the shoe) often poked up through the inside soul of the skates to cause these tremendous blisters that lasted for weeks. Do you remember all those things: The beige skates? The broken laces? The endless blisters of your youth?

And do you remember the carefree freedom of the skating rink? You could skate with your mother for awhile and then skate off with your friends for hours, stopping in the bathroom to hear the older girls talk about their dates, rolling over to the snack bar to order a suicide pop, then bumping through the practice rink to teach yourself how to skate backwards.

If you remember these things, you'll also recall hearing the announcer's voice bellow the theme for the next few songs over the PA system: COUPLE SKATE. ALL SKATE. BACKWARDS SKATE. Can you hear that? Now listen as he says, JIVE SKATE, and watch as the rink fills with a cast of extras from the TV show Fame. They're wearing white leotards, colorful leg warmers and their very own custom-fitted skates. They're dancing around the rink to the rhythm of funky jive music. They're gliding, swaying, playing leap frog even. And they are so cool.

So imagine your mother's surprise when she looks up and sees her pig-tailed, five-year-old daughter skating around the outside edge of this Motown scene as quickly as her skinny little legs will let her.

That was me.

When the JIVE SKATE ended, my mom and her friend Darlene - barely concealing their laughter - approached and asked what had possibly compelled me to take part in the JIVE SKATE.

"I watched for the first song," I said, "and realized they were mostly just going real fast. I can skate fast, so I joined them."

Sometimes that's how I feel when I comment on other blogs. I read for awhile and realize they're mostly just talking, so I join in. Even though I'm not as experienced or as intrepid or as witty, I feel like skating, so I do. And sometimes those jive skaters are just putting up with me. But every once in awhile - and I rarely know when - they may turn their heads and say, "Hey. Did you see that skinny girl with the pig tails? Maybe she has a few moves after all."

Summer, Defined

What location, sensation, sight, sound or smell defines summertime for you?

For me it's the gentle drifting towards the shore on a raft in the middle of Lake Michigan with my eyes closed and my mind even further adrift. I had forgotten how much I love the soft nudge of the waves as each swish and glide lulls me further into myself and strengthens my resolve not to open my eyes.

I stop counting after the first few waves and start daydreaming. I sing songs to myself, imagine conversations with friends, say small prayers for the future, and forget all about the hot summertime sun and the work left waiting for me at home. When I do finally return to my senses and open my eyes, I'm surprised and excited to discover the lengths my raft and I have traveled.

The waves will take you far if you let them before you must either paddle yourself back to where you started or take the full ride to the shore and walk back in the sand ready to do it all over again.

Michigan is summertime: The soft sun. The gentle waves. The sandy dunes. The clean, chilly water. The near empty beach. The family stories. The slow, carefree drifting toward the shore.

I had forgotten why, as a child, summer was always my favorite season. But now, thanks to the waves on Lake Michigan, I remember.

Basement Treasures Campaign

Cinderella's humdrum lyrics for Nobody's Fool are stuck in my head this morning, and it's all Sarah's fault.

I was digging around in the basement again last night and reading old letters addressed to me during high school and college. In one of them, Sarah was describing her first few guitar lessons and how she was 'trying' to play Nobody's Fool. In another, she mentions a crush she has on some boy in some band and says, "You really would love him too. He's weird like us." (For existing proof of how weird she still is, see her blog entry for today titled I know we're not the only ones).

Back when Sarah first moved from Ohio to Florida, we made promises to keep in touch through letters and phone calls, and -- to this day -- we've followed through. But even then, at 12, I knew I'd miss the daily conversations we shared. The simple one-liners. The easy going back and forth between two friends with so many shared jokes.

It sounded ridiculous and never came to fruition, but I remember suggesting that in addition to writing standard, full-length letters we should also keep an ongoing conversation in print -- a single letter wherein I would ask a question, send it to her and wait for her response plus a follow up questions on the same piece of paper. It would be a serial letter of sorts that moved back and forth between us as a long-distance conversation in print.

This, of course, was long before e-mail, blogging, text messaging and every other form of online communication.

Today, along with many others, I'm mourning the death of the full-length, hand-written letter. Yet, along with so many fellow bloggers, I treasure this new medium as one that reinvigorates the process of writing about our personal lives in a public space.

But reading these old letters makes me wonder how different it must be for kids these days (I'm only 32, so I find it comical to type that phrase).

Before we headed off to college, Mich and I typed our new, shared address on slips of paper and handed them out to nearly everyone we knew. Friends, family, random acquaintances -- everyone was boldly accosted for letters over the next nine months. Then, during our first week at school, we sent form letters to dozens of friends in a desperate plea for more and more mail.

For our efforts, we received hundreds of multi-paged, hand-written notes addressed to us at 440 Jefferson Hall. We looked forward to each piece of mail as a brief reminder of home, and we treasured the letters from friends away at other universities whose stories of drunken weekends, dorm room life and college stress were the same around the country.

I don't think we would have received the same depth of satisfaction from e-mails or on-screen chats with friends. That would have been too easy. For someone to write a three-to-four page letter, seal it in an envelope and place it in the mail means they have to put some thought and effort into their relationship with you. They have to spend at least an hour thinking of you and what parts of their life you might like to read.

In revisiting these old letters, I've come up with a plan to rekindle old friendships and to pay respect to the dying art of the hand-written letter.

I plan to package up piles of forgotten letters and return them to the original senders. For the writer, I hope, it will be an unexpected form of self-discovery. For me, it may mean a renewed correspondence with an old friend.

Plus, selfishly, it will help me unload some of these basement treasures that I just can't bring myself to burn. I'll call it the Basement Treasures Campaign, and I'll start it this week.

If you have old letters in your basements, attics or closets, feel free to join the campaign. It's completely unorganized and truly self-paced. And (perhaps the best part), there are no boastful ribbons or colorful plastic wrist bands to wear.

Instead, it's a private campaign between you and those people who -- at some point in your life -- felt you were worthy of a stack of a personal, hand-written notes. It may seem frivolous, but to me it's something worth campaigning for.  (Then again, I may be Nobody's Fool.)

Opening Day

All this hoopla surrounding The Sith leads me to ask:

What was the last movie you saw (intentionally or not) on opening day?

For me, I think it was Pulp Fiction. Before that, The Doors.

In watching The Doors, nothing could have lived up to my expectations. I was one of those star-struck teens who'd been reading Jim Morrison's poetry and obsessing over The Doors' lyrics for years before the film came out.

I had already read No One Here Gets Out Alive and Wonderland Avenue, and I'm sure I carried my copy of Wilderness with me from class to class for most of my sophomore year. (God only knows why. It contains, perhaps, 50 short and mostly uninspired poems that any fool could consume in a couple of days). But, alas, my own tie-dyed visions of Jim and Pamela in all their drug-induced glory had been established. The big screen couldn't match what I'd already dreamed up in my adolescent mind.

With Pulp Fiction, however, Quentin Tarantino dreamed up things I'd never imagined in my white-bread, middle-class world. And it was hilarious. I still giggle in anticipation of the movie's best lines.

"Sorry baby but I had to crash that Honda."

Screening Pulp Fiction on a college campus with the bitter smell of smoke hanging in the air was perhaps the only time I've felt I was witnessing -- on the spot -- something new and different in the world of film. Much like the rush you get at a good concert, I felt like I was part of it, and I was enthralled.

I realize now, that it's this same feeling (minus that bitter smell, perhaps) that has created so many lifelong Star Wars fans among my peers.

That, and The Force, dude. It's with us.

Supply of Pink Flamingos Meets Demand for Beer-Chugging Profs

I think this man taught me about elasticity and aggregate demand. Yes, the one chugging cheap beer from the pink flamingo. And I signed up for his macro class the following semester, because he did such a good job teaching the micro stuff. Only at OU, kids. Only at OU.

As for my own Palmerfest stories ... we'll have to save them for another day. They are long and varied and include a few drunken escapades that might be best kept off the Intenet and out of print.

(hat tip to Stan for the POST article)