O.K.
This didn't work. I thought moving my writing to blogger.com would be a better way to reach out. I think 6 people might look at this, so I'm going home to Porch Talk. It just makes more sense.
see you at:
Porch Talk
Monday, February 23, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
irony
This morning I grumbled about my weight. I've weighed the same amount for 3 years, and no matter what I do, I can't lose that last 8 pounds. Sheryl assured me that I look firm, and not fat at all. I grumbled some more about my gut. It won't go away. No matter how much I starve myself, it won't go away. And I just don't have the time to exercise more than I already do each day.
Starve is the irony.
This afternoon, I took a barrel of groceries to the local food pantry. I want to be happy eating less while I'm donating food to those who want to eat more.
You would think the impact of hunger would be enough to whip me into shape and knock off that stubborn 8 pounds. It doesn't.
I suppose guilt is a poor motivator. Bottom line, I'd like to be healthier. I'd like everyone to be healthier; even if that means everyone gets 3 nutritious meals a day. That they are not overweight due to poor nutrition. That given a choice, they can afford a well balanced meal as easily as they can afford a #1 from McDonald's. That they not be so exhausted from working two jobs that they can take a walk in the evenings, if they want to.
Wouldn't that be nice?
Starve is the irony.
This afternoon, I took a barrel of groceries to the local food pantry. I want to be happy eating less while I'm donating food to those who want to eat more.
You would think the impact of hunger would be enough to whip me into shape and knock off that stubborn 8 pounds. It doesn't.
I suppose guilt is a poor motivator. Bottom line, I'd like to be healthier. I'd like everyone to be healthier; even if that means everyone gets 3 nutritious meals a day. That they are not overweight due to poor nutrition. That given a choice, they can afford a well balanced meal as easily as they can afford a #1 from McDonald's. That they not be so exhausted from working two jobs that they can take a walk in the evenings, if they want to.
Wouldn't that be nice?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Why I support the second amendment
It's been a historic day, indeed. I am elated, to say the least. So thankful. Of course, the crazy cowboys around here are already inventing scare tactics regarding their right to bear arms. They are convinced, for no good reason, our new President will take away that right. I've come to believe that they're just too stupid and short sighted to think of an intelligent reason to oppose a president.
That said, I will admit that I hope I never lose my right to own a sawed-off 410 shotgun.
That's what I have.
I've never killed anything with it.
I tried to shoot a snake once and missed; which is damn hard to do with a shotgun, but I did. I'm glad I missed because that was back when my citification was still prevalent and I didn't know the difference between a common water snake and a cottonmouth. I tried to kill a harmless animal! And quite frankly, as long as the poisonous ones don't pose a threat - and they rarely do for mindful landowners- I'm not shooting at them either.
So why do I have this gun?
My daddy was a state trooper. Girls like me have guns. Our daddy's expect it of us... in case someone breaks in during the night. Our daddy's prefer to give us shotguns, "because EVERYBODY knows the sound a shotgun when it's cocked!" Theory being that the very sound of that ubiquitous "click" will send any intruder running for his life. Even girls can shoot your ass with a round of rat shot.
So why, at 44, do I STILL have this gun?
It's a disciplinary tool for dogs who won't come in at night because they're barking their screechy little heads off at things that are much meaner than them. Namely coyotes who are yipping out a translation that goes like this: "Come on, you little Quixote! Come a little closer. I need a stupid little snack!" At times I can't hear myself think from the barking and howling and general canine version of "No! Your mama!" Therefore, over the years (about once a year) I snap and run grab that little 410 and one shell. I run outside screaming, "EVERYBODY SHUT. UP!!!" ...and i load, cock and fire.
The sound is singular, loud and forever an echo through the countryside. That's the gun sound. The dog and coyote sound is the fast moving patter of paws in whichever direction they think they'll find cover. Coyotes run for the creek. Dogs run for the front door.
Once I used this tactic in the middle of the night on the Cairns. It was their first shotgun experience. Upon firing, Mairn took off like a missile in the wrong direction. Then like a ghost in the night, she whooshed by us and was on the couch in a flash. I swear, it was a blur like Superman on the move.
Cairns are smart. They record every detail of the process of getting gun, getting one shell, clicking open the barrel to load, clicking barrel shut, cocking, and firing.
Tonight, Marley (the male Cairn) was on a high pitched barking crusade somewhere in the middle of the hayfield. He refused to come in. "Let's get a treat" didn't even work. Folks. I'm tired. I was not in the mood to do this little game, so I went upstairs and got my gun. I flipped on the deck lights, walked out the front door, calling the dog, and he ran further into the night. I went to the edge of the deck and called him. I know he saw that gun, because he scurried to the other side of the guest house and sat really still. He'd bark maybe once or twice. I walked back around onto the front porch. He looked at me. He made like he was not coming inside. I clicked open the barrel of the gun.
He came inside.
That was it.
I followed him in, and everybody else had their little doggie heads lowered. It was solidarity in submission to Christy.
And all I had to do was load the gun.
If I ever lose my right to this little snake charmer of a weapon, I'm sending 6 dogs to Washington. Whoever sponsors the bill to recend the Second Amendment will be gifted to Cairn Terriers.
That said, I will admit that I hope I never lose my right to own a sawed-off 410 shotgun.
That's what I have.
I've never killed anything with it.
I tried to shoot a snake once and missed; which is damn hard to do with a shotgun, but I did. I'm glad I missed because that was back when my citification was still prevalent and I didn't know the difference between a common water snake and a cottonmouth. I tried to kill a harmless animal! And quite frankly, as long as the poisonous ones don't pose a threat - and they rarely do for mindful landowners- I'm not shooting at them either.
So why do I have this gun?
My daddy was a state trooper. Girls like me have guns. Our daddy's expect it of us... in case someone breaks in during the night. Our daddy's prefer to give us shotguns, "because EVERYBODY knows the sound a shotgun when it's cocked!" Theory being that the very sound of that ubiquitous "click" will send any intruder running for his life. Even girls can shoot your ass with a round of rat shot.
So why, at 44, do I STILL have this gun?
It's a disciplinary tool for dogs who won't come in at night because they're barking their screechy little heads off at things that are much meaner than them. Namely coyotes who are yipping out a translation that goes like this: "Come on, you little Quixote! Come a little closer. I need a stupid little snack!" At times I can't hear myself think from the barking and howling and general canine version of "No! Your mama!" Therefore, over the years (about once a year) I snap and run grab that little 410 and one shell. I run outside screaming, "EVERYBODY SHUT. UP!!!" ...and i load, cock and fire.
The sound is singular, loud and forever an echo through the countryside. That's the gun sound. The dog and coyote sound is the fast moving patter of paws in whichever direction they think they'll find cover. Coyotes run for the creek. Dogs run for the front door.
Once I used this tactic in the middle of the night on the Cairns. It was their first shotgun experience. Upon firing, Mairn took off like a missile in the wrong direction. Then like a ghost in the night, she whooshed by us and was on the couch in a flash. I swear, it was a blur like Superman on the move.
Cairns are smart. They record every detail of the process of getting gun, getting one shell, clicking open the barrel to load, clicking barrel shut, cocking, and firing.
Tonight, Marley (the male Cairn) was on a high pitched barking crusade somewhere in the middle of the hayfield. He refused to come in. "Let's get a treat" didn't even work. Folks. I'm tired. I was not in the mood to do this little game, so I went upstairs and got my gun. I flipped on the deck lights, walked out the front door, calling the dog, and he ran further into the night. I went to the edge of the deck and called him. I know he saw that gun, because he scurried to the other side of the guest house and sat really still. He'd bark maybe once or twice. I walked back around onto the front porch. He looked at me. He made like he was not coming inside. I clicked open the barrel of the gun.
He came inside.
That was it.
I followed him in, and everybody else had their little doggie heads lowered. It was solidarity in submission to Christy.
And all I had to do was load the gun.
If I ever lose my right to this little snake charmer of a weapon, I'm sending 6 dogs to Washington. Whoever sponsors the bill to recend the Second Amendment will be gifted to Cairn Terriers.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
la bomba
It's what I am tonight. beat. exhausted. bombed.
I have a stomach ache.
I ate too much at dinner.
I'm achy and tired from moving heavy furniture all day.
I didn't get a good night's sleep because Mairn (the tiny Cairn) went poo all over the floor last night. It took just long enough to clean up to get me good and awake. Then two bedmates (I won't say which two, but I will tell you they were different species) were snoring in discordant harmony, in a rhythm that just didn't do the lullaby thing for me.
So let's go back to Mairn and her poo. Early in the week, she had the atomic shits. Black, tarry and burned into the floor like acid. Her routine is to come down the stairs, and as if hitting the bottom step triggers an uncontrollable urge, she starts dropping little turdlets right there. They string along to the front door (which is closed), and then they trail through the kitchen to the kitchen door (which is closed), and then she backtracks to the front door and pees. It's sort of like Hansel and Gretel use poo to find their way through my house. It happens very quietly, so I don't discover it until I get up to go pee myself. I either smell it or I step right on one of the seven or so bombs she leaves from steps to door to door. Fortunately, I did not step in the atomic droppings. But I was late for work trying to clean them completely off the floor. The next day she was miserably constipated, so Sheryl decided to help her out a bit. This required some assistance by way of a little bathtub douche. What Sheryl discovered was that little poo poo pup was severly constipated from eating a massive amount of wild bird seed. By last night, the little poo trail was quite loud in its odor, so I had to get things properly cleaned before I could go back to bed.
Most people would make this little dog an outside dog. However, she is a Cairn Terrier. She can bark for four days without stopping. She weighs 12 pounds, so the pitch of her bark is akin to a mouse barking. High pitched and unstoppable. I would never sleep again if she lived outside. Terriers are also stubborn when it comes to house training. They just do what they want. As I recall, the evil Sunny bin Laden was hell to house train because it wasn't her idea. Sunny's a seven year old rat terrier mix, so she's got it down, but occasionally, when she's pissed at me or another dog, she pees out Niagra Falls on the kitchen floor. I don't need to tell you that we do not have carpet, rather wood floors coated in polyurethane, and we mop all the time.
Anyway, I'm really hoping "little bitty" has passed all that seed so I can get a solid night's sleep. In the meantime, I'll play it safe and wear my flip flops in lieu of house shoes.
Mairn, the tiny Cairn
I have a stomach ache.
I ate too much at dinner.
I'm achy and tired from moving heavy furniture all day.
I didn't get a good night's sleep because Mairn (the tiny Cairn) went poo all over the floor last night. It took just long enough to clean up to get me good and awake. Then two bedmates (I won't say which two, but I will tell you they were different species) were snoring in discordant harmony, in a rhythm that just didn't do the lullaby thing for me.
So let's go back to Mairn and her poo. Early in the week, she had the atomic shits. Black, tarry and burned into the floor like acid. Her routine is to come down the stairs, and as if hitting the bottom step triggers an uncontrollable urge, she starts dropping little turdlets right there. They string along to the front door (which is closed), and then they trail through the kitchen to the kitchen door (which is closed), and then she backtracks to the front door and pees. It's sort of like Hansel and Gretel use poo to find their way through my house. It happens very quietly, so I don't discover it until I get up to go pee myself. I either smell it or I step right on one of the seven or so bombs she leaves from steps to door to door. Fortunately, I did not step in the atomic droppings. But I was late for work trying to clean them completely off the floor. The next day she was miserably constipated, so Sheryl decided to help her out a bit. This required some assistance by way of a little bathtub douche. What Sheryl discovered was that little poo poo pup was severly constipated from eating a massive amount of wild bird seed. By last night, the little poo trail was quite loud in its odor, so I had to get things properly cleaned before I could go back to bed.
Most people would make this little dog an outside dog. However, she is a Cairn Terrier. She can bark for four days without stopping. She weighs 12 pounds, so the pitch of her bark is akin to a mouse barking. High pitched and unstoppable. I would never sleep again if she lived outside. Terriers are also stubborn when it comes to house training. They just do what they want. As I recall, the evil Sunny bin Laden was hell to house train because it wasn't her idea. Sunny's a seven year old rat terrier mix, so she's got it down, but occasionally, when she's pissed at me or another dog, she pees out Niagra Falls on the kitchen floor. I don't need to tell you that we do not have carpet, rather wood floors coated in polyurethane, and we mop all the time.
Anyway, I'm really hoping "little bitty" has passed all that seed so I can get a solid night's sleep. In the meantime, I'll play it safe and wear my flip flops in lieu of house shoes.
Mairn, the tiny Cairn
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The fear is setting in...
Yesterday, I succumbed to the fear of the failing economy. For the first time, I did not feel that my job was secure. The agency's CEO sent a message announcing that he had hired a COO who was the director of case management at a regional hospital before coming to work for Hospice Brazos Valley. That means she's a masters level licensed social worker. Secretly, I had always hoped that COO position would be mine.
Now I know that it will never be mine.
I'm where I'll always be for this organization - an outlander branch manager.
I work in an industry that is more and more requiring that it's employees have licenses. I don't have one. I'm not a social worker or a nurse. I'm not an LPC. I have a masters degree in English. For all practical purposes, my education is worthless to the hospice industry. I've proven myself as a very good hospice educator. I've proven that I am an excellent project manager. And I have very good HR skills. But no license.
My little pinhole of doom is further increased by the fact that I work for a non-profit. What that means is this: If the economy goes bust, and businesses and wealthy individuals make the wise decision to cut back on charity giving, my agency loses up to 35% of its income. The last thing we would want to do is decrease our care model. So licensed nurses and social workers would have job security. The non-licensed, higher paid folks, like me, would likely be the first to get the pink love letter.
Then what the fuck do I do?
Go back to selling eyeglasses?
Open up my old guitar case, find a platform and start singing folk songs for tips in the Boston subway?
Wait tables?
I won't be teaching. I'm not certified! I've never taught in an academic setting!
So here I am. Alternating between working myself up and calmly standing on the precipice while thinking, "it is what it is."
I haven't bought any new clothes in 6 months or more. I will be terribly embarrassed if I have a car wreck and the ER sees my underwear.
We've sidelined any trips or vacations.
I'm very focused on where and how I spend my money.
I canceled my perfectly good credit card because they upped my interest rate 5 points without a logical or acceptable explanation.
I'm cash only; not only because Bank of America pissed me off, but because it forces me to spend only what's in my wallet.
None of this frugal living is difficult. I'm not miserable. In fact, I'm happy and satisfied with my material life.
But I'm worried about the next year or two. The dominoes are still falling.
I'm becoming begrudgingly less resistant to the idea of chickens and goats...
Now I know that it will never be mine.
I'm where I'll always be for this organization - an outlander branch manager.
I work in an industry that is more and more requiring that it's employees have licenses. I don't have one. I'm not a social worker or a nurse. I'm not an LPC. I have a masters degree in English. For all practical purposes, my education is worthless to the hospice industry. I've proven myself as a very good hospice educator. I've proven that I am an excellent project manager. And I have very good HR skills. But no license.
My little pinhole of doom is further increased by the fact that I work for a non-profit. What that means is this: If the economy goes bust, and businesses and wealthy individuals make the wise decision to cut back on charity giving, my agency loses up to 35% of its income. The last thing we would want to do is decrease our care model. So licensed nurses and social workers would have job security. The non-licensed, higher paid folks, like me, would likely be the first to get the pink love letter.
Then what the fuck do I do?
Go back to selling eyeglasses?
Open up my old guitar case, find a platform and start singing folk songs for tips in the Boston subway?
Wait tables?
I won't be teaching. I'm not certified! I've never taught in an academic setting!
So here I am. Alternating between working myself up and calmly standing on the precipice while thinking, "it is what it is."
I haven't bought any new clothes in 6 months or more. I will be terribly embarrassed if I have a car wreck and the ER sees my underwear.
We've sidelined any trips or vacations.
I'm very focused on where and how I spend my money.
I canceled my perfectly good credit card because they upped my interest rate 5 points without a logical or acceptable explanation.
I'm cash only; not only because Bank of America pissed me off, but because it forces me to spend only what's in my wallet.
None of this frugal living is difficult. I'm not miserable. In fact, I'm happy and satisfied with my material life.
But I'm worried about the next year or two. The dominoes are still falling.
I'm becoming begrudgingly less resistant to the idea of chickens and goats...
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Mean people suck
How's that for an overdone title for this blog? Unfortunately the cliche is well supported around these parts. I mean, I don't know... Sometimes I think it's in the water. Some days - not all - folks in this town fall into a collective "mean" state. It's most noticeable at the grocery store. It was in effect this past Saturday.
I ran into the store to buy dog food, cat litter and a few things for the local food bank. It was a bit of a hassle getting around all the people cluttered up in the narrow aisles, but it is something I've just gotten used to, so it just isn't irritating anymore.
At least not for me.
Apparently others find it infuriating. My first encounter was a cowboy type and his wife who pulled out in front of me as I was walking past the frozen dinners. I smiled and he glared. I smiled bigger and said "hello!", and he glared harder... sort of squinty, "I could kill you with my eyes" mean. I started to say, "try Viagra asshole," but that would be a waste of a perfectly good evening, so I just went on about my business.
There were no bags of my brand of dog food on the dog food aisle, so just asked the checker to get me a bag off the front wall when I got to the checkout line. She was apologetic, but I told her it was really o.k. The bagger got it and asked if I needed help to my car. I said I didn't. In the meantime, an ansy old lady was wishing I'd hurry the hell up. This clued me into the fact that Saturday was a collective mean day for La Grange, so I just slowed my ass down and made her wait!
Again the bagger asked me if I needed help out. He was about 16. I said no again, and he said, "Yes! You do!" And then he mouthed to me, "I really need to get out of this place for a minute!" So I said, "Yes! I do need help out! Come on."
He said, "People are really bad today."
I said, "I noticed. They're being assholes." I threw this last line over my shoulder so the "hurry up" lady would hear me. (Oh, why the hell not? It was mean day in La Grange.)
So the kid told me all about his bad customer encounters of the day, and as teenage boys often do, he started to fantasize about ass-kickings that his invisible cousins in the parking lot would exact on any jerk who was mean to him. I said I hoped those cousins were looking out for me, too. He said, "Oh yeah. They are."
I said, "Good. I need it."
I got in my truck and left.
Unfortunately, the kid had to finish his shift.
I really hope those gansta cousins are for real and that they really are scaring the shit out of people who are ugly without cause.
Life's too short.
It's so much easier to be kind and make a friend; especially if he's got bad-ass cousins hiding in the parking lot watching out for us.
I ran into the store to buy dog food, cat litter and a few things for the local food bank. It was a bit of a hassle getting around all the people cluttered up in the narrow aisles, but it is something I've just gotten used to, so it just isn't irritating anymore.
At least not for me.
Apparently others find it infuriating. My first encounter was a cowboy type and his wife who pulled out in front of me as I was walking past the frozen dinners. I smiled and he glared. I smiled bigger and said "hello!", and he glared harder... sort of squinty, "I could kill you with my eyes" mean. I started to say, "try Viagra asshole," but that would be a waste of a perfectly good evening, so I just went on about my business.
There were no bags of my brand of dog food on the dog food aisle, so just asked the checker to get me a bag off the front wall when I got to the checkout line. She was apologetic, but I told her it was really o.k. The bagger got it and asked if I needed help to my car. I said I didn't. In the meantime, an ansy old lady was wishing I'd hurry the hell up. This clued me into the fact that Saturday was a collective mean day for La Grange, so I just slowed my ass down and made her wait!
Again the bagger asked me if I needed help out. He was about 16. I said no again, and he said, "Yes! You do!" And then he mouthed to me, "I really need to get out of this place for a minute!" So I said, "Yes! I do need help out! Come on."
He said, "People are really bad today."
I said, "I noticed. They're being assholes." I threw this last line over my shoulder so the "hurry up" lady would hear me. (Oh, why the hell not? It was mean day in La Grange.)
So the kid told me all about his bad customer encounters of the day, and as teenage boys often do, he started to fantasize about ass-kickings that his invisible cousins in the parking lot would exact on any jerk who was mean to him. I said I hoped those cousins were looking out for me, too. He said, "Oh yeah. They are."
I said, "Good. I need it."
I got in my truck and left.
Unfortunately, the kid had to finish his shift.
I really hope those gansta cousins are for real and that they really are scaring the shit out of people who are ugly without cause.
Life's too short.
It's so much easier to be kind and make a friend; especially if he's got bad-ass cousins hiding in the parking lot watching out for us.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Can you hear yourself?
I want to begin by saying that I truly believe everyone should express themselves. Whether they're good at it or not, expression (to me) is central to living. But seriously. Some folks don't know where to get off! I know I'm not a great singer. I know there are many out there with much more ability than me, and I understand that, and I am so glad I'm listening to them instead of myself up on that stage. I think I sometimes write a great song, but I don't think I do it consistently. Therefore, I put my energy into promoting those who are consistently good at it. I sometimes write a great essay or blog or satire, but not often enough to think I need to be published. I'd much rather put my energy into reading consistently good writing.
But what is up with people who can't recognize that they just don't got it??? People dripping in cliche whether writing songs or prose or whatever. People imitating the vocal stylings of the great singers because they're just SURE they sound like the next big thing. It's painful for me to experience. Mostly because I feel bad for the person. I mean, if it makes me nuts, I can walk away. But the delusion. Man. That's tough.
Now here's the real kicker. There are people who think those people who think they're good at their expression ARE good!!! They buy the shit! They gobble it up and make it profitable. All the while, there's some serious talent sitting all alone in a consumer corner.
As I browse the endless examples of personal expression available via websites, music players and blogs, I'm astounded at the anonymous genius that is out there. ...people who are quietly writing, singing and performing with the natural ease of a god given gift. If the party would just look over its shoulder, it would be astounded at what it's missing. Blogs are a great example of this quiet genius. With little effort, the armchair writer can share his day and thoughts, and as he does, he is creating some of the finest prose available for public reading. And usually, he isn't even aware of it. He's simply practicing his need to express. We who accidentally stumble onto his whispered writings are just so damned lucky.
Things like MySpace music players are a little different breed of expression. If someone takes the time and effort to upload previously recorded music onto a public site, there's a damn good chance they think their shit is pretty awesome, and there's some secret desire to be discovered by the masses and finally quit that day job. Unfortunately, effort rarely means the stuff is worth it. It is so hard to really hit the wow factor where songcraft is concerned for me. However, I know how far a good scene stealer can go. If one has the ability to gather as many friends in the flesh and blood as they do in cyberspace, and that person can get those friends to all show up at the same time, in the same bar, and buy a whole bunch of booze, then that someone sounds like JT to the music pundits. I don't know how many times I've thought, "I don't get it." Even so, thank god for the ubiquity of the internet so that folks like me who scratch their head at what is bizarrely popular can still stumble upon what is truly excellent forms of human expression.
Why did I write this? Well... I stumbled upon an aweful singer who was singing her fool heart out and trying her best to have that Etheridge edge and just not convincing me, but goddamit. It was screamingly apparent that she thought she did have it.
Sometimes the most uninspiring things have a way of becoming a treasured piece of irony.
But what is up with people who can't recognize that they just don't got it??? People dripping in cliche whether writing songs or prose or whatever. People imitating the vocal stylings of the great singers because they're just SURE they sound like the next big thing. It's painful for me to experience. Mostly because I feel bad for the person. I mean, if it makes me nuts, I can walk away. But the delusion. Man. That's tough.
Now here's the real kicker. There are people who think those people who think they're good at their expression ARE good!!! They buy the shit! They gobble it up and make it profitable. All the while, there's some serious talent sitting all alone in a consumer corner.
As I browse the endless examples of personal expression available via websites, music players and blogs, I'm astounded at the anonymous genius that is out there. ...people who are quietly writing, singing and performing with the natural ease of a god given gift. If the party would just look over its shoulder, it would be astounded at what it's missing. Blogs are a great example of this quiet genius. With little effort, the armchair writer can share his day and thoughts, and as he does, he is creating some of the finest prose available for public reading. And usually, he isn't even aware of it. He's simply practicing his need to express. We who accidentally stumble onto his whispered writings are just so damned lucky.
Things like MySpace music players are a little different breed of expression. If someone takes the time and effort to upload previously recorded music onto a public site, there's a damn good chance they think their shit is pretty awesome, and there's some secret desire to be discovered by the masses and finally quit that day job. Unfortunately, effort rarely means the stuff is worth it. It is so hard to really hit the wow factor where songcraft is concerned for me. However, I know how far a good scene stealer can go. If one has the ability to gather as many friends in the flesh and blood as they do in cyberspace, and that person can get those friends to all show up at the same time, in the same bar, and buy a whole bunch of booze, then that someone sounds like JT to the music pundits. I don't know how many times I've thought, "I don't get it." Even so, thank god for the ubiquity of the internet so that folks like me who scratch their head at what is bizarrely popular can still stumble upon what is truly excellent forms of human expression.
Why did I write this? Well... I stumbled upon an aweful singer who was singing her fool heart out and trying her best to have that Etheridge edge and just not convincing me, but goddamit. It was screamingly apparent that she thought she did have it.
Sometimes the most uninspiring things have a way of becoming a treasured piece of irony.
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