The problem with seeing a children's movie in the theater

...is that there are children in the theater. And they talk and scream. And can't follow the plot. And kick the seats. And have to go to the bathroom. Twice.

Ah-mend, not ahl-mend.

I suppose the main thing I've taken away from reading grammar books during the summer doldrums at work is that I am mispronouncing everything. My learned facade reveals a bumpkin at heart as soon as I open my mouth.

For example, I pronounce the "l" in "almond," which is wrong. I say CAR-i-be-inn instead of Carib-BE-in. I've said "nuk-u-lar" enough times to be the president already. I call window treatments "drapes" sometimes instead of "curtains," which, according to the articles cited in Garner's Modern American Usage, is indicative of someone using overly formal words to sound upper class when she's not. Huh.

I am fascinated by language. It's a living, breathing thing that's always changing, and it's interesting to learn how people approach it as a science and an art. Like, at what point do you legitimize how people actually speak and use words, and at what point do you correct them and insist they stick to the rules? (Case in point: starting that sentence with "like": is it just me trying to write like I talk--like a Valley Girl, apparently--or should I always strive for proper usage?)

Yeah, it's 10:30 on a Friday night and I'm thinking about language. Jealous? I thought so.

You're going to need more butter. And a larger bib.

I heard this on NPR yesterday and have been haunted ever since:

Scientists don’t know the lifespan of lobsters, but apparently they’ve concluded that lobsters don’t really age: they don’t slow down or lose their appetites or grow crotchety when teenage arthropods throw clam shells at their houses. They just eat and molt their shells as they grow bigger. And if they avoid parasites and the insidious lobster trap, they can keep growing unabated. So, the scientist in the interview said, it’s not without the realm of possibility that somewhere on the ocean floor, there could be 100- or 200-pound lobsters. It's not likely, but it's not impossible. As someone who is skeeved out by animals that grow to inappropriate sizes (see catfish, Hogzilla, etc.), the very thought of this sends chills down my spine.

I don’t want to live in a world where I could be cleft in two by a giant lobster claw.

Word Association

Paris Hilton: go away. I can't muster the energy to care.
Ann Coulter: go away forever. And sew your mouth shut while you're at it.
So You Think You Can Dance?: be on every night forever.
Soda: limiting myself to two a week. Not as hard as I thought it would be.
Grammar: underrated by the general public (sadly).
Reading grammar books for eight hours a day: overrated.
Leaking roof: here we go again.
Sleepwalking: pretty much over that phase (only lasted 13 years).
Deafness: closing in fast; where can I get a hearing horn?
Old Navy flag T-shirts: just don't. Including on the 4th of July.
The Great Gatsby: read it once a year.
State of Florida: no thanks.
Sangria margarita from Trudy's: yes please.
Keith Sweat's song "Twisted": modern classic.
Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon: slow going.
Texting: sometimes.
Rain: forecasted until sometime in 2009, seems like.
Boardgames: it's embarrassing how much I suck at Scrabble.
Bono: if it's good enough for him, it's good enough for me.

The best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.

Got into a debate at work today over whether the gambler in Kenny Rogers's song dies at the end. Of course he does; otherwise, the song has no poignancy. The gambler imparts his life wisdom and then merely goes to sleep? No. Dies in his sleep, leaving him time enough to count his money now that the metaphorical dealin' is done? I believe so.

The lyrics speak for themselves:

And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.

So when he'd finished speakin', he turned back towards the window,
Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep.
And somewhere in the darkness the gambler, he broke even.
But in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.

You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's done.

Kenny: back me up. I love your chicken.

J.K.: Don't kill off the Weasley twins!

There are only two things I'm afraid of in this world*: the polar ice caps completely melting away, and someone ruining the next Harry Potter book for me before I can read to the end.

*Well...also human-size catfish, geese, and komodo dragons, but "two things" has a better ring to it.

Next, on A Very Special Episode of Blossom...

I think I have an "O Captain! My Captain!" complex. Much in the way that repeated viewings of Grease as a child led me to believe all problems can be solved with singing and group choreography, seeing Dead Poet's Society early in my post-secondary educational tenure led me to believe that all interactions with children and/or students should be inspirational and life-changing. While I should have been disabused of this notion after teaching 12 weeks at a local business college (where I did have one student tell me my class inspired him to start writing poetry; but I also had about three students that probably wanted to shiv me in the parking lot), I was not.

Because I've had people in my life--aside from my own parents--who have had a tremendous impact on me. I have always hoped I could make a similar impact on someone else someday (preferably an entire classroom of people, who would stand on their desks and call out "O Captain! My Captain!" to me as I'm being escorted away because of my maverick teaching style. Plus, it's a poem about Abraham Lincoln, and don't he and I belong in an analogy together?).

I have visions of grandeur, but my heart is in the right place.

This weekend was my first official outing with my Little Sister. I tend to fancy myself as being good with kids--I've got three younger siblings, have been babysitting since I was 10, and am auntie-extraordinaire to my 6-year-old niece and various children of friends. My Little Sis is 8 (she'll be 9 on Tuesday), which is the age I requested because I thought I would have good relating skills to that age group. Like, I know who Hannah Montana is. Stuff like that.

We went to the park (actually, two parks: the first one, by Deep Eddy pool, didn't offer a lot of equipment to play on). And then I accidentally took her to a dog park, only to find out that she's deathly afraid of dogs. Oops.

And it was suddenly like: what do 8-year-olds like to do? Is the park too babyish? Is she having fun? I tell you, I was all thumbs. I was disappointed in myself for planning such a poor outing. I felt like I didn't have enough (or the right) plan Bs.

So, when I was driving her home, I asked, "Fun or not fun?" I was expecting a non-committal "fun," or maybe a long pause followed by "eh." But instead she yelled, "Fun!" With an exclamation point! And I realized: I am overthinking this. I need perspective. The point is to spend time together, not orchestrate bells and whistles and grandiose activities every week.

It is me who will be standing on my desk shouting "O Captain! My Captain!" before this is all over.

My Saturday morning routine.

Since turning 30, I seem to have lost the ability to sleep in on weekends. It's kinda like how your grandma is up, dressed, and ready to go by 6:30 a.m. I somehow feel I should be saddened by this turn of events, but it's actually led to a whole new routine that I have come to look forward to. This is what getting old is like.

After George Michael (the cat, not the singer-songwriter) gently bites me awake around 7:30 (and by "gently" I mean "savagely, with the intent to disfigure"), I check my various internet enterprises and then I make myself a cup of coffee. How did I go almost 30.5 years without realizing a cup of coffee in the morning is possibly the greatest thing in the world? Anyway. Then I sit down to a couple I Love Lucy reruns.

I do, you know. Love Lucy. I love the sharpness of Ricky's suits, I love that Fred's pants are so high that his tie tucks into them, I love that Lucy says "wondaful," I love that a fake nose and wig--possibly a facial mole--can make you unrecognizable to your own spouse. And of course, the gentle misogyny and playful threats of violence (oh how the audience laughs when Lucy says, "I'll be holding the baby when I tell him; he wouldn't hit a woman with a baby!"). I'm not facile enough to think the Cold War years were "the good old days," but I cannot resist the world that this show creates.

Then George Michael draws more blood, and I go upstairs to take a shower.

One shot, one beer, and a kiss before I go.

Ryan Adams, July 14, Paramount Theater. I must.

I have no problem doing most things alone--going to movies, out for dinner, moving to strange towns, etc.--but I find that solo concert attendance is a toughy for me. Kind of the last frontier. I've been to two: Pete Yorn and Ryan Adams. (Pete Yorn's first record--I feel the need to specify that.) You might think that going to a show alone would be easier than the rest, because music is essentially a personal thing, and it's not like you can talk to someone the whole time anyway. But music is also a shared experience, and that's the whole point of going to a concert (and also why I hate serenades, but that's a story for another day): turning to someone between songs and saying "I can't believe he played this one live!" and speculating what might song might be next. Because I mostly think, if you can't share it (et voila: this blog), it isn't real.

Ryan Adams's music makes me feel like there is always someone lonelier than me. There is strange comfort in that. His music makes me want to get in a bar fight and then make out with a stranger. It makes me want to be a farmer that has lost everything. It makes me want to move to New York and sit on a rooftop and think about my regrets. It makes me want to dance on a dance floor with lighting just like that one barn dance scene in Hope Floats. You know the one; don't pretend.

And I defy you to name a better song than "Come Pick Me Up." And he did play it the last time I saw him. And it was outstanding.

Somehow this is turning into a thesis on why Ryan Adams is worth going to alone. Eh, let's go with it. He is, I think, even though he can be a bit precious and somewhat diva-esque. I don't want to go by myself, really, but I don't know anyone who even kinda likes him, let alone Loves (with a capital L) him like I do (shamelessly, but not fanatically). Who wouldn't laugh if I teared up. Who would feel the same way I would if he played "Dance All Night" or "Sweet Carolina." But I won't not go for that reason, either.

The key is to look like you're just waiting for someone else to show. Maybe they are late. Maybe they can't find parking. Don't worry; they'll be there.

Any minute now.

My former so-called bacchant life.

I moved to Memphis eight years ago. At the time, it was new and adventurous and so radically different from the towns I grew up in that I couldn't help but fall in love. It felt like I had cut myself out of the ropes that had been binding me in California. Driving across the country on I-40 with my Saturn sedan stacked full, I remember thinking, I have literally no idea what's around the next corner. Those moments in life are exceedingly rare and somewhat heart-stopping.

I stayed for three years. They were three of the best years of my life. I was writing. I was taking literature classes. I was going out. I was friends with wonderfully smart people. I didn't work (unless you can call teaching 1 class a semester and putting in 10 hours a week at the literary journal "working"). I loved my life and I loved who I was. But I always knew I would never stay there. Maybe that's what let me love it so much.

So last Friday afternoon, I rented a car in Little Rock and drove the two hours into Memphis. It was my first visit back since moving five years ago. I tried to prime my nostalgia by playing Whiskeytown--which, for better or worse, was largely the soundtrack of my time in Memphis--but it didn't quite fit. I knew before I even saw the city rising on the horizon that I wasn't wishing I could go back in time. That was surprising, because I was sure I would feel that way.

On Friday night I met up four of my dearest friends from grad school. I haven't seen one of them in five years; it's been four since I've seen the others. Since then, Jerome has published a novel, Scott and Ashley got married and have a daughter, and Sarah has three children under the age of three. We live in Massachusetts, Alabama, Texas, and Memphis. But as it is with good friends, it felt like we had been apart no longer than a week. We met at the bar in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel. The Peabody Hotel is renowned for the ducks that live in the lobby fountain. It's the fanciest hotel in Memphis, and there are ducks that live in the fountain. This is the kind of city Memphis is. I don't even know what I mean by that statement, but I know it's 100% true. Every day at 5:00, they roll out a red carpet and herd the ducks into an elevator, where they go up to their rooftop fountain and nest for the night.

From the Peabody, we went across the street to Automatic Slim's. We shared some Thai-spiced calamari and 3 spring rolls. We might have made a mistake by not eating more.

On foot over to the new Madison Hotel and its rooftop bar overlooking the Hernando DeSoto Bridge (the one that makes an "M") and the Mississippi, which I could stare at forever.

Final bar of the night via the street car. Ernestine & Hazel's was a turn-of-the-century general store, then it was a brothel, and it is now a bar. The original paint and plaster are still hanging on--barely. The original claw-foot tub is still in the bathroom, but don't look in there. It's dirty. The lighting is low, bare bulbs with barely 20 watts. Beer only. We had one of the upstairs rooms to ourselves. Back in the day we were all living off $800/mo stipends, so any money we had went to drinks. And we were beautiful and in our early 20s and there was no future beyond the next drink. But now, all of us over 30, that many drinks takes a toll, even though we can finally afford them. Luckily, we could take the street car home. Drunk 30-somethings are not as cute as they seem at the time, I bet.

The next day I had to myself. I drove around all my old haunts, and once again, expected to be teary-eyed and nostalgic. But I wasn't. The mystery and newness that I used to feel about living in Memphis had given way to a kind of low-grade shock: the city is a little rough. Mostly it feels like it has a tired spirit: sunburned, sitting on the banks of the Big Muddy, weary to the bone, just trying to survive.

The duplex that I lived in for two years, the one without a proper shower and that only cost $275 a month, has been restored to a single-family home. It's an adorable little craftsman-style cottage. You literally can't go home again.

That afternoon I went for a walk down S. Main, which is experiencing a rebirth similar to South Congress in Austin. Ten years ago you would have been knifed walking down that street; today it's all cuteness and boutiques and coffee shops. But the turn-of-the-century brick architecture remains: sure, it's all high-ceilinged lofts and American Apparel stores, but it's not as obtrusive as a lot of new development in Austin. Whatever its faults, Memphis has managed to maintain its vernacular architecture--that's something to be applauded.

On Saturday night we went to Ashley's father's house for dinner and drinks. It was the very definition of Southern entertaining: whatever you think might fit under that idea, it was there. Dinner at 10:30, boy-girl-boy seating, roses and tulips and peonies, candles, china, crystal, silver, a centerpiece with gilded seashells. Art on the walls. Low lighting. Just magnificent. But at the same time, so comfortable and relaxed. It is a great gift to be reminded of how much you love your friends. And to know it's mutual. It is one of life's joys to feel like someone really knows you. And I haven't laughed like that in a long time.

So I was surprised that after it all, I teared up a little as I pulled onto the DeSoto Bridge and watched in my rearview as downtown disappeared on the far side of the Mississippi. I think I was sad because I knew I wouldn't be back, and I knew I didn't need to go back. This weekend was closure on something I didn't even know was still open. But: nostalgia without longing; memories without regrets. Somehow, those 48 little hours in Memphis this weekend was a like giant validation for everything that's come in my life since. That feels pretty big.

Rooms by Day or Night

Memphis, TN