men make the world go round. right?

"We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and -- in spite of True Romance magazines -- we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely -- at least, not all the time -- but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness."
— Hunter S. Thompson (The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman 1955-67)

Bam. 

This quote is like whoa like whoa...like WHOA in my life right now. 

Hunter S. Thompson is pretty wicked. He wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. If you've seen or heard of it, you know what I'm talking about. 

But despite his uninhibited drug use, he makes an incredible point here. A slap in the face sort of point. Which I don't really need to dive into. I just wanted to share it with you.

Last night was one of those nights that makes up for those white knuckled foreigners that never tip. 

Although it wasn't nearly as busy at Sandybarland as we had anticipated due to it being Alumni Weekend, twas busy enough to get my head spinning a little bit. And I loved it. 

Highlights of said evening include but are not limited to encounters with these 4 1/2 men...

Captain Morgan Man...he'd slip onto the barstool all slow and steady pretending he wasn't 'intoxicated' and order a Captain Morgan and coke. Most people when ordering said beverage leave out the Morgan but not this mister. Every time he'd order, he'd pay with a $20 bill. And every time I'd give him change, he'd leave it all on the bar. That's about $13 bucks a round times 7 or so rounds and you got a tip that far outweighs what those silly foreign women should have left the other night. 

So thank you Captain Morgan. For making my evening. I don't even mind that I could barely see your eyes behind those plump rosy drunk cheeks.

Jimmy J...He's tall. One of those shmoozy sort of fellas, all nonchalant-like. He's a graphic artist that designs labels for everyone and everything in Santa Barbara. If you've been here, you've probably seen one of his stickers. One of his posters. One of his shirts. One of his hats. Jimmy J is omnipresent. As in, his shit is everywhereeeeee. And now it sits on my head. In the 4 1/2 months I've been slinging away at Sandbar, I've been yearning for a Sandy trucker hat. Well Jimmy J, the man, the myth, the legend, was in last night. I bought him a beer. He gave me a hat. It was the most momentous occasion.

So thank you Jimmy J for shitting on my head.

Curtis Lamb...His face hasn't changed a bit in the 16 years since I've seen him. He came to my well and before he even had a chance to order, I said "I know you! Where are you from?" His response, "Riverside." Of course. "What elementary school did you go to?" "Victoria." Of course. One of the plethora of, and by plethora I mean ten or more, graaaade schools I was so fortunate to attend. "Who was your third grade teacher?" "I don't remember." "Mrs. Wayland?" "No". Damn, I thought I'd nailed it. Turns out we were in Mrs. Love's second grade class together learning words like motivation, responsibility, perseverance, and initiative from a woman who couldn't possibly have ever frowned in her life. Her last name is Love, come on.

So thank you Curtis, for keeping that babyface of yours so that I might recognize you and then thanks again for sharing a very polite but rather empty "It's so nice to see you!" I appreciated it nevertheless.

NBA baby man and his little Asian friend...I'm convinced they were gay because they couldn't stop raving about each other, but they bought me a drink and kept gloating over how tall I was. The one who wasn't little nor Asian asked me how tall I was and from there wouldn't stop repeating his desires for NBA children. One can only assume he was inadvertently coming on to me. But then he proceeds to tell me to look at his friend's body and little Asian man lifts up his shirt.

So thank you fairly odd children, for providing the entertainment after the gogo dancer had gone home.

Yes, we have gogo dancers at Sandbar, and yes, she was dancing in my face for a majority of last night. 

Welcome. To the holiest of holies. It's the darkest hole you ever will see. 


Oh, and oh. em. gee. I almost forgot. I got to sit in the presence of David Sedaris for a couple hours last night. Yeah. AWESOME!

dandruff on your shoulders.

I've become a flake.

Not I'm becoming. I have become.

I am.

I've lost my sense of self worth somewhere in the last couple months and therefore it's become a matter of habit for me to bail on decisions I've made. I consistently hide behind this 'they won't miss me' mentality.

Self pity is a sin.

Pile it amidst the rest.

I have plans to go to a going away party potluck tonight for an old friend of mine who is embarking on a world traveling escapade. In the back of my mind I have plans to bail.

He won't miss me.

My perceptions of life are backwards these days. I shouldn't be thinking about people acknowledging the void that I will have left should I not show up for the plans I've made. I should care enough to follow through on the words I'm breathing into those plans.

And yet I don't.

So you can now refer to me as the flakiest flake there ever was.

Eventually it will get to me and I'll make a change. But right now, in this moment, I don't care.

Perhaps this is my subconscious ploy to destroy my conscious necessity to make said plans. But it would only be subconscious if I somehow forgot the plans, rather than making the decision to actually forego and flake on the plans. Well, I've been doing both these days. I never forget plans. Ever. That's why I've never carried a planner. Because I've been perfectly able to scribble them into my brain and follow through on them for the past couple decades. And now all of  a sudden, I am absent-minded.

I am growing. Changing. Flowering? Oh, here comes the budding young woman phase again. But wait, it seems I'm wilting, not so much flowering. Today has been a day of introspection and reflection.

There were tears.

I have changed. Morphed into something I don't want to be. I am ashamed and saddened at the fact.

I was once told that I can't truly experience Christ until I have hit rock bottom. As days go by I am beginning to believe this to be truth. For how could I truly appreciate the depth of Christ's love and sacrifice without having committed enough sins to feel the true shame. Yes, yes I was born into Sin. I know this. Freakin' Adam and Eve. But honestly I haven't tampered with sin like this before. I am learning. Growing. Changing. Forgive me for saying this, but honestly, I'm beginning to believe that everyone needs to take a walk into the darkness before they can truly absorb and reflect the light that God emits.

There will always be conflict. What will you do with it?

basted in bar juice.

I debated starting a blog entitled "PS. your bartender hates you," listing daily morsels of entertainment from the seedy Sandybarland. And then I discovered that there's an entire series of youtube videos with all of my hyper-aggravated scenarios acted out to perfection before I even had a chance to write them.

This one's my favorite...

followed closely by this one...

I worked a closing shift last night...which proved to be quite crippling for my 14 hours of baby-sitting today. (Side note...I also just picked up a weekly house-keeping gig...well hello there over-commitment, it's nice to see you again. Not) I am exhausted. And I was exhausted throughout my shift last night. 

I nearly went ballistic on this pair of foreign women last night. Foreigners never tip. Which I don't mind as much when they only buy one drink. But when they've been sitting at my well for 3 hours and have racked up $120 tab, I'd appreciate at least a couple bucks, if not several. These two particular women closed out their tab and proceeded to rudely request water from me for the next half hour or so after they had closed out. I mentioned these shenanigans to my manager. He proceeded to deny them anymore service. They were still sitting in front of my well though. So I had to ignore them, according to my manager's orders. This is not like me. I felt terrible. Then I finally did talk to the other friend, the one that hadn't been rudely demanding water and she turned the tables on me completely...proceeding to tell me that they weren't finished drinking, that they were going to tip me out when they left. How was I to know this? They closed out and left a big blank space where the tip is supposed to be. Closing out typically means you're done drinking. 

So then I proceed to buy them a round of drinks to atone for my neglect. And then they left. Without drinking the dranks. Slap in the face. Times two.

Yesterday was Big Wednesday at Sandbar, which is our live reggae night...so needless to say there were a lot of stoners out...so you would think the night would have been super chill and laid back, but no. I've never experienced such rude customers. Demanding. Over-bearing. Ruthless. I caught myself being blatantly rude in return. And then instant intense remorse set in. So I was entirely too conflicted last night and didn't get off until 3:30 in the morning...only to rise and shine again at 6am to babysit until 8 tonight. With this one hour window to blog right here.

I hope you've enjoyed this edition of "Your bartender hates you." Please go watch the rest of the series. I deal with these exact same scenarios daily. 

And then I was off to the next episode of The Babysitter's Club.

Good day.

mouse in a maze.

Latte art blows my mind.

It's a skill I never acquired in all of those three years that I worked at that one coffee shop in that one shopping center in Santa Barbara.

I'm sitting at that one coffee shop that used to be my favorite and has since become my new favorite even though it's not the same. It's better. I ranted about the chai last time but honestly the coffee here is ten times better now. And they do latte art. COME ONNN!! So awesome.

And every time I step through the doors, I'm inspired by the art on the walls.

Which leads me toooo...

I want to start painting. I could say I want to start painting more, but that would mean that I've actually been painting, and I haven't, so I'm gonna start. I think I might sign up for a summer art class at city college.

My living room is blank. One of my roommates moved out and took all of the decor with her, including her really awesome bug collection. So our living room is blank and it's depressing. Hence the urge to get my ass in gear, and start painting. Plus, art just makes me happy. Art by any medium. I need to start carrying my camera with me everywhere I go. And get a Costco membership to get pictures blown up to put on the wall.

I need to do a lot of things....like stop eating so much fried food, or maybe just stop attending happy hour. Like start training consistently for a marathon. Like pass my damn pour test at Sandbar so I don't have to use the jigger anymore (and no, that's not a slanderous term). Like start looking for a job as a personal trainer before my certification expires in August. Like vacuum up the insane amount of loose feathers from under my bed due to the hole in my down comforter. Like call all my friends from camp that I haven't talked to in ages. Like get a mentor and start going back to church. Like organize my itunes library because it's driving me insane. Like master the art of media management so I can clean up my computer, so that I can actually download final cut onto it, so then I can have a motive to buy a new memory card for my camera, so I can actually start pursuing video like I've been meaning to do since I left Oregon. Like get a hair cut. Like start cooking for myself so I can start tossing all that money that I spend on the afore-mentioned fried food, into my savings account for the the year long traveling escapades that I've just dreamed up with my friend Genna last night.

You get my drift. I'm not nearly as motivated and productive with life as I once was. And it's driving me nuts.

I am officially neurotic. Totally and completely. I have anxiety. Small things like dishes in the sink send me over the edge. I obsess over things like I never have before.

I have issues. And I'm learning how to cope. To over-ride them? Or expunge them. I'm not really certain.

All that to say, I've got some things to do.

So byeeee.

aliens and warlocks.

The greatest thing about listening to Katy Perry on blast in my room alone, is that Ke$ha is her alphabetic follow up. Trashy plastic mainstream pop. Yes please.

That song Extraterrestrial is absurd but I can't get enough of it.

It's Tuesday. Too legit Tuesday. Which means I'll be adorning my body in 90's attire and breakin' it down to scratched up versions of Third Eye Blind and Destiny's Child. Go DJ.

I've been thinking about Charlie Sheen a lot these days. I've watched his interview on Good Morning America several times, trying to gather my own conclusions about the poor fellow. I'm debating whether or not to theme my next promo night in his honor. His whole bi-winning Adonis DNA craze is pretty popular. People go nuts over him. We've made a joke of the poor soul, but I'm not sure I have any remorse.

I'm feeling really distracted right now. But I have to write nooowww because I won't have time the rest of the day. Boo hoo hoo.

Does Charlie Sheen really have tiger blood? Is he really a warlock? Bi-winning. Yes. Bi-polar. Certainly not.

I bought several tiny trophies that I'm going to make necklaces out of. "Exclusive WINNING medallions." I'm a good promoter. A really good promoter. I just don't know if night club promoting is my call in life...I do feel geared toward marketing and event promotions though. We'll see what happens. I'm done living in the future. One day at a time.

And today I have to go talk to my manager about my Charlie Sheen ideas.

Extraterrestrial just came on again.

Smiling big. I think it's the coffee but I'm feeling reeaallly good right now.

You're an alien. Your touch so foreign. It's supernatural. Extraterrestrial.

This is transcendental. On another level. Boy, you're my lucky star.

Kiss me. Ka-ka-kiss me. Infect me with your lovin'. Fill me with your poison.

Take me. Ta-ta-take me. Wanna be a victim. Ready for abduction.

You're an alien. Your touch so foreign. It's supernatural. Extraterrestrial.

I wonder if Drew Barrymore will make an appearance in the music video.

pigs and cows.

What is it with Americans and their infatuation with bacon?

I went to Denny's last night. Forgive my poor restaurant choice. It's a tradition amongst my friends from home.

We mob at least 8 deep when I come home to Riverside and we frequent the back corner booth near the window. We're typically loud and eat a lot of fried food, and we're always there after midnight, but we're not drunk, which I think is why they allow us to keep coming back. Although I did get caught walking out on my bill once, and they never put up a 'don't serve this customer' poster. I consider myself very fortunate.

Last night our party arrived in chunks. As each person arrived, the fan of menus spread out along the table.

We've officially entered a slaughterhouse as the table is now covered with bacon.

Apparently, the promotional for this time of life at Denny's is "Baconalia."

Yeah. What?

Baconalia is apparently the land of bacon, which is what we've entered upon unassumingly walking through what was once the door to Denny's. Baconalia has seven entrees packed plump full of bacon. There's even a giant "We put bacon on WHAT?!" all incredulous-like in the middle of the menu.

Yes, Denny has done it. I'm not certain what he was thinking when he made this decision, but I do know that super-sized America and their heaping portions of gluttonous curiosity will order it...juuuusssttt to see what it tastes like.

A bacon maple sundae. I suppose it's comparable to World Market's all the rage chocolate covered bacon, of which I still have not tampered with. But bacon and ice cream huh? No one at my table ordered it, although bacon did become the long-standing joke of the entire evening.

There was even bacon salt next to the sugar caddie and the ketchup.

Oh America. Oh bacon. What will we ever do with you and your escalating heart disease epidemic. Oh, here, I've got something that'll make you feel better. Some ice cream. Freckled with bacon bits.

I used to pride myself on the fact that I lived in California because it hadn't turned red yet on that really embarrassing map that is color coded according to the obesity level in each state. I'm guessing the whole of America is red now. We're doomed.

I'm gonna go eat my feelings and order a bacon maple sundae.

Or not.

wherefore art thou Jesus?

I woke up early this morning to go running (something I haven't been doing consistently, ohhh, since HIGH SCHOOL!) and discovered that not only did I fail to bring a pair of my plethora of running shoes, I don't even have a sports bra...

...you see what had happened was...

I had all of my laundry in a basket safely buckled up in the backseat of my car. Literally. I have a tall laundry basket and it likes to topple over, so I buckle it in. Well, I was planning on bringing my laundry home and there are several sports bras garbled up in that soiled mess. I pit stop in Ventura to swoop up my brother, only to have my lovely grandmother offer to do my laundry for me, as she tends to do.

So now I am void of said sports bras and the shoes, well I don't really know what happened there. Perhaps the fumes from the fake fire knocked someone off their rocker, or perhaps strapped them in it so they couldn't go running. I could just borrow shoes from psuedo-mom because believe it or not, we wear the same size, but that doesn't solve the bra issue. I would just borrow a sports bra but believe it or not, her dub D bras aren't gonna strap me down with comfort to run.

So needless to say, I will remain here in this bed, whimsically twiddling until it's time to hold hands and skip off to Easter Sunday Service.

I do a lot of this 'needless to say' and then I say whatever is so needless. What a walking conundrum. That's a good word, conundrum. You should use it often. Make it part of your vernacular. 'I'll say Bob...that peep show from the last blog presented me with quite the conundrum...I didn't know whether to laugh or scorn whoever posted that.'

I burned the conventional taste buds off my wicked tongue. I no longer taste right and wrong.

What a conundrum.

Here I go skipping. Tra la la.

welcome to the peep show.

I'm not sure there's anything funnier than the desperation experienced whilst feverishly trying to breach a language barrier.

Sense the sarcasm within my angst.

This morning we had an emergency at Sandbar. There was a fire. At least what we thought was a fire. I go to clock in at 8:43 for my 8:45am opening shift and mere seconds after I've stepped upon company time, smoke begins billowing out of the bar room ceiling. My manager Darren scampers over to the heating and cooling unit to switch off the heater, because something just isn't right here.

The heater is off but the smoke still billows mercilessly.

Darren is now scampering to the back of the building with thumbs tapping urgent text messages to our general manager Aron. Darren and Aron, frat brothers in college, turned restaurant and night club managers. What a pair.

After perusing the roof, Darren decides he needs a fire extinguisher. Here's where the comic relief enters the frenzied scene.

Our housekeeper/margarita mixer/handyman Herman, pronounced Air-mawn, speaks little English. And none of us white folk know how to ask where the fire extinguisher is. So Heather, one of our blonde beautiful servers makes a valiant attempt and acts out using one. Hysterical.

Her acting was successful, the extinguisher was found, the fire, that wasn't really a fire, was extinguished, and although I've contracted the black lung Pop, the whole debacle was pretty funny.

The whole kitchen crew is Mexican at Sandbar, rightfully so, considering we're a Mexican food restaurant. It would be pretty silly to have Welsh cloggers or Italian pizza flingers fiddling away back there. This wealth of spanish speaking employees provides for great entertainment when trying to communicate about food orders and such. I like to heckle them whenever I wind up in the walk-in cooler gathering tiskets and taskets for my green and yellow basket.

I once made the unfortunate mistake of telling one of the other bartenders about how I'd like to work in the kitchen at some point, just because I have so much fun haggling them back there. He then went on to tell me some of things the kitchen guys say about us girls. Naive little me. Since then I still heckle them, but no longer entertain the idea of subbing as a cook. They all know my name though. And every time I head into the kitchen to grab something for the bar, they all call out my name. I feel like a celebrity, or a piece of prized meat.

I laugh it off and scamper out as quickly as possible. Actually I don't scamper, I slide around amidst the slimy food residue, predominantly composed of bean lard and shredded chicken oil, desperately trying not to land on my ass in front of all these Spanish speaking fiends. I've been successful thus far.

I'm now home for Easter, sitting in my living room with the ambient sounds of Hannibal Lecter in the background, explaining why he has superglued a naked man to a chair. I am disturbed.

And moving on. Easter. With my family. So happy. Etching another notch in the tree of success for having blogged another consecutive day. Aside from this movie on the tv, life is good.

I want to sign off with something clever about the silence of the lambs...but I suppose that's sacrilegious..

..considering tomorrow is Easter and we are celebrating the resurrection of Jesus.

Instead I'll leave you with this...because it's totally not blasphemous at all...

...just a little immature and inappropriate.

Good night faithful readers. 

bar juice and butt messages.

I can tell whether or not I've worn a pair of jeans to work based on the smell that wafts up to my nostrils as I slip them on.

They're drenched in bar juice.

Bar juice is a pleasant blend of margarita mix, dirty dish water, fruit residue, beer, and other alcoholic substances. It coats my skin after every shift at Sandbar, and lingers within the fibers of my jeans. Bar juice has a very distinct smell and once I've worn a pair of clean jeans to work, it's safe to say they are barred from any and all public outings. No pun intended.

It's typical for me to wear my jeans about three to four times before I wash them. Four is about the maximum before I either have spilled something on them or they've got that unpleasant saggy "I've been worn too many times and need to be washed please, thanks." thing goin' on. And yes, I just personified my jeans. They talk.

I just got a new pair of jean shorts yesterday, jorts if you will, and I'm sort of obsessed with them because they fit sooo well. All my other shorts are about three years old and have had their fair share of summer wear. Even washing them doesn't reduce the sag. They're old and crochety. Time to retire them.

I went shopping at Victoria's Secret with my aunt yesterday. Let's just say I've been fighting the "budding young woman" phase of life for awhile now. The staples of my wardrobe consist of crew neck sweaters, jeans, and Vans. I buy cosmetics, bras, and underwear in bulk at Target. I've never been one to drop a hundo on Mac make-up and never once have I made a purchase at Victoria's Secret, aside from those smelly lotions once when I was like 12. I know. Laugh. So I walk in with my aunt in my jean shorts, high socks, Vans, and oversized hoodie, looking to buy bras and underwear, excuse me, panties. Oh, I hate that word. Panties. Just typing it makes me squirm. I feel like panties are what old women wear just before they hit the Depends stage of life.

But anyway, I ended up dropping not one, but two hundos at Vicky's, but I'm sort of obsessed with my purchases. Victoria bestowed her secret upon me and I'm hooked.

My aunt and I shared loads of laughs over the PINK section of the store where the, ahem, panties, had phrases like 'come visit soon', 'are we there yet?', and 'just visiting' emblazoned on the buttcheeks. Yes please, I'll take seven of those, one in every color of the rainbow. Not.

Anyway, all that to say, I have bras that not only make my boobs look good, but are beyond comfortable. So that's cool.

I just spent 20 minutes typing about bras and jeans. I'd say that's worth more than a few petals on the budding young woman flower. Ok, that was weird, but I rarely edit what I write so I'm leaving it.

Today was good. I'm off to watch Fight Club alone in my room on a Friday night. I suppose you can now pull those petals off the budding young woman flower.

I'm right back where I started. But I like it.

So there.

dates with trees.

I could make a 4/20 induced excuse for why I was unable to write yesterday...but that would be too silly.

So here are some other rather legitimate reasons for my lack of postage yesterday...

I was kidnapped by narcoleptic clowns who fell asleep juuuussst after they successfully tied me up with deflated balloon animals, and when I say successful, I mean, I was totally and completely incapacitated....no, no, that wasn't it.

I was assaulted by a hermaphroditic mime, which sent me into a fit of hysterics, and I therefore spent my day rocking in the corner trying to expunge the wicked images from my mind....ok, no, that definitely wasn't it.

A torrential downpour of amateur trapeze swingers fell on my head and knocked me out. I was unconscious for a remarkably accurate 24 hours. Ok, I suppose that wasn't it either.

Although a myriad of circus associated freak accidents did not keep me from writing, something did, for there's a day missing already in my daily web savvy journal.

I'm just going to meekly apologize and move on.

Excuses are for ninnies.

Here's a photo of my epic 90's attire...

...I know you've all been desperately waiting, biting your haggard nails in anticipation...

BAM!

And yes, that backwards cap has my name airbrushed on it. So very 90's. Right? I mean, I did purchase it from one of those kiosks at Six Flags Magic Mountain when I was 12, so you can't really get more authentic than that.

I'd also like to point out that the previous owner of this epic jacket had the surname McCauley. Just one letter off. Sweet destiny, thank you for doing that thing you do and introducing me to this magical find.

In other news, I went on a date with nature yesterday. It's a common misconception that nature is a woman, considering she's a mother, but who's to say there's not a separate entity entirely masculine in NATURE and therefore man enough to date me. There was a third party involved, a certain new best friend of mine named Cassie, so I could say I double-dated with nature yesterday, or was two-timed by nature, I haven't decided which,  but we've already made plans to meet again next week. Those trees really had their eyes on me. It must be something to do with my legs or maybe my solid (or not so solid) trunk. Needless to say, it was a most pleasurable experience all around. We went out for eight miles and although there was a counteractive decline for every incline in the conversation, we got along just fine. Hence the second date.

No, for reals though. The hike was exceptional. I felt like I was wandering through the pages of The Secret Garden. We walked through cloud forests with occasional sloppy wet kisses compliments of the dew covered branches. We had a few close encounters with giant butterflies and giant lizards. Yes, giant. And our trek back down the mountain was akin to that of evading demise inside a video game. Comical, thrilling, yet potentially fatal. We ran a race against the clock, and made it down without injury, thereby proving that we both have very strong ankles.

The outdoors awaken my soul. It feels good to climb out from the dark hole that is my current means of gainful employment. Good thing I've got that second date comin' up to look forward to.


I bid you adieu fair readers. Until tomorrow...

aerosol inducing jitters.

I just arrived at my favorite coffee shop in town, only to realize it's no longer my favorite coffee shop.

It was once called Jitters, still is, but not for much longer. Jitters. Great name for a coffee shop. I mean, caffeine tends to send you into that state that can really only be described as jittery. It's not convulsing. It's not shaking. Those little involuntary actions can't even be described as tremors. They're jitters. And that's one of the reasons I loved this spot so much.

Ok, yeah, the name was cool. But the chai was what kept me coming back. Dirty chai at that. Dirty Big Train Chai. Tasted like buttery goodness, with that espresso kick to get me fired up. And they had this blueberry cream cheese that knocked my socks right off. But no more.

<---Far superior, calorie stricken, throat coating chai.









<----Although it's from a cool place, not so cool, much less tasty chai.








This new place is soon to be known as Open Cup. Weird. There's no flavored cream cheese and they only sell Oregon Chai now...which don't get me wrong, I love Oregon. I even have my child-sized thrift store gem U of O hoodie on right now, but Oregon Chai is just too OREGON for me. It's not chalk full of sugar and fat, which is what I desperately desire when sitting down to write and be productive. Yes, I will eventually crash, and crash quite hard, but the jitters at Jitters were magical. I've always been productive in this place.

I think I can continue being productive, because I suppose the name and product offered isn't so much what gets my creative neurons firing, it's more like the environment. And yes, the vibe here has changed a bit, but it's still conducive to a juicy river of flowing creativity. So I'm pondering. Brewing up some new ideas for this silly life of mine.

I'm getting better at bartending, so that's cool. I feel comfortable back there. I've had several customers not only tell ME that I'm doing a great job, but they've gone so far as to tell my managers. I'm permeating this dark hole, slowly but surely, the light will win out. I have such hope.

Tonight is 90's night at Sandbar. I will be there in all my geometric glory. Loud colors careening off my body and into the ditches of nearby onlooker eye sockets. I found an epic, and when I say epic, I'm not just tossing it around like these dime store cheeseballs that WISH they had something to describe as epic, no, I found an exclusive one of a kind windbreaker, child size of course, that screams 90's in what can only be described as an epic way. An epic is heroic and grand in scale. Welcome to my life inside this jacket. You'll get a picture tomorrow. Don't you fret.

But for now, enjoy this 90's montage...

Nano pets. You had one. I had three. A series of four buttons gave you all the God like power and responsibility of caring for and potentially killing off a living, breathing virtual being. Scary huh? All that responsibility. Be careful. It's poop will pile up and it will die amidst mounds of its own excrement. This particular nano pet was apparently auctioned off to some chickeneaters. Weird. 

Jellies. Or Jelliez. Whichever way you choose to spell it, they're still not cool. Anymore. They used to be the coolest thing since plastic. Oh wait, they are plastic, which explains their sheer lack of comfort. But beauty is pain right. A passion for fashion comes hand in hand with patchy red skin, worn raw by one of the most unpleasant trends since the bulbous bouffant (all that hairspray had to have done some serious damage)

  

TRL in its prime. We've got here both Britney and Carson, when they were cute. I used to race home from 6th period sports in 7th grade, all sweaty and hungry for cheeto puffs and a pop, yearning for some Total Request Live. Those top ten music videos brought meaning to my life. I was cool by association. I had something to talk about with the kids at school. Oh. Em. Gee. Britney dropped from number 1 after 97 straight days. What is this world coming to? Oh Carson, you once had my tweenaged heart in the palm of your clammy hand. But then you sold out (or got fired) I'm not sure which, and then all those myriad of not so cool VJ's came in. And TRL just wasn't the same. Shame.

Scrunchies. These sassy over the top hairbands with their unnecessary amounts of fabric, are comparable to Kleenex and Band-Aids, in that their brand name actually became the universal name for all hairbands excessive in nature. All that to say, it's actually spelled Scunci, with an umlaut over the u. Umlauts are German and are comparable to Spanish accents, not accent as in dialect, accent as in emphasis on a particular syllable. So the way we have obliterated the name of this once popular fashion statement only proves accurate in the way this once popular fashion statement obliterated yearbook photos for an entire decade.

This photo screams 1996. I chose it for the puka shell necklaces but since have discovered other choice mementos of the 90's. Note the Nike visor and the Big Gulp.

                                 

We couldn't escape the 90's montage without a tribute to the show that has cost me countless exclamations of incredulity. "Has anyone ever called you Sabrina the Teenage Witch?" "OMG! You are soooooo original. I've actually NEVER heard that one before. Congratulations on your clever connection. I'm gonna go feed my creepy robotic talking cat now." Thank you Melissa Joan Hart, for hoisting me up onto this never-ending platform of Infamous.

This montage wouldn't be complete without a playlist of the top 90's jams. And no, I'm not going to google the top 100 songs of the 90's. Sandbar did that, and yeah, most of the songs are pretty wonderful and nostalgic, but there are some gems that slipped through the cracks of the Billboard charts.

So here's my own rendition...not in any particular order....

No Rain-Blind Melon           

Opera Singer-Cake           

Tubthumping-Chumbawamba           

Pinch Me-Barenaked Ladies           

Mr.Jones-Counting Crows

Dreams-The Cranberries                                   

Loser-Beck

Slide-Goo Goo Dolls           

When I Come Around-Green Day           

Gangsta's Paradise-Coolio           

California Love (Feat. Dr. Dre)-Tupac           

Gotta Be-Dezire           

I Like-Guy           

I Only Wanna Be With You-Hootie & The Blowfish           

Who Will Save Your Soul-Jewel           

Poison -Bell Biv DeVoe           

Fantasy-Mariah Carey           

Jumpin’, Jumpin’-Destiny's Child           

This is How We Do-Montell Jordan           

Waterfalls-TLC

Smells Like Teens Spirit-Nirvana           

Peaches-The Presidents of the United States of America           

Higher Ground-Red Hot Chili Peppers           

Walkin' On The Sun-Smash Mouth           

Cherub Rock-Smashing Pumpkins           

Smoke Two Joints-Sublime           

Tom's Diner-Susan Vega            

One of Us-Joan Osborne           

Jumper-Third Eye Blind                       

One-U2           

Bittersweet Symphony-The Verve           

Blister in the Sun-Violent Femmes           

One Headlight-The Wallflowers           

Wonderwall-Oasis            

I fully acknowledge my imperfections in that both of these montages don't completely encapsulate the majesty of the 90's, but due to my inability to fully manhandle this Blogger website, it has taken me far too long already to format and fit all of these beautious pictures and passages in an aesthetically pleasing blog for your pleasure. Feel free to comment and point out my flaws.

Today is another good day. Coffee makes me happy. Writing makes me happy. The 90's make me happy. I hope you exit out of this blog feeling happy as well.

middle ground.

I'm doing it. I'm really doing it. Gonna write everyday...until I don't.

So enjoy it while it lasts. I will too.

Twas a glorious weekend in Santa Barbara. Good times with friends, food, family, a few alpacas, some kettle corn, and a boot. There were a few encounters with severe sun damage...but don't even worry about that.

Here are some photos so you can feel like you were there..

This is a massive boot. In case you couldn't tell. It was once full of 190 ounces of a beer called Blonde. The trick is to drink with the toe down....or else. If you don't, a merciless tidal wave of booze will slap you upside the face. I'm not gonna compare it to the tsunami of Japan or anything, but you get my drift.

Toe down. Not to be confused with to' up, as in tore up from the floor up, which is the way we might have been feeling after drinking said boot. Ok, that's a lie. The whole experience was magical. It's an ongoing team event so the boot will be back.

This is my little brother...who's not so little anymore. According to this picture, I still like to pretend that he is.

Apparently, Madison is a levitating hobbit. A grumbly one at that.

F is for Friends who do stuff together.

Here, I am...trying to find the middle once again. It's all gonna be ok. It's springtime. I've got grace in my heart, and flowers in my hair. I'll twirl in circles shaking up the dust, because I am ok. Today. And today is all that matters.

anew.

oh hey.

here i am again.

i ran away and i'm back, momentarily.

itching to run away again.

this is my half full declaration, a promise to you, my dear reader, and to me, a soul that thrives on words written, a promise to write, and to write everyday.

so day one of this escapade includes a realization, an epiphany, a god smiting or sighting, if you will.

it's time to travel.

it's been too long since i've been out of this wretched money hungry self absorbed land of america.

the itch to sell it all is back.

and i'm ready to scratch.

sell it all and hit the wander button on this remote of mine.

we'll see how far i get.