Misadventures in the Dark

Trick or Tramp

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 19:08:56 -0600

All of my friends dress like hookers and chances are, yours do too. Halloween. It is the one day, .27% of the year (thanks to Michael R. for correcting my mathmatical blunder,) where it is acceptable to dress inappropriately and without apology. Exploitation is encouraged. Fishnet pantyhose adorn the legs of most females. Too much makeup is always juuuust right, while less (if you know what I mean,) is most definitely more. Conservative is redefined with candy-apple red lip stick, low cut corsets, plaid miniskirts, and the courage of a cougar. Yes friends, October 31^st is the one night we're allowed to pin a tail on the back of our black lingerie while telling everyone, “I’m a cat. Me-ow.”

My best friend Wes recently asked me, “When do I have to worry about my daughter wanting to dress like a prostitute? Is there an age range?” Allowing no time for thought I offer, “12 to 60. It’s innate. Women like to be somebody else just for one night. It starts early. It lasts a while.” Wes shakes his head and says, “NO! I’ll give you 16 to 39. Then your whoring days are done.” Of course, for some women, there is an assortment of roadblocks to include weight and age. As women, we are our own worst critic. Wes said, “I seriously wish some women would ask men for assistance before buying a costume. No sweetheart, at your age/weight/etc., you do not need to expose this/that/the other.” Gee, I wonder why we’re insecure!? I've been nearly every size on a ruler. There is insecurity on both sides. His next comment, “There are some costumes you wear while knowing your intent. In ‘regular clothes,’ you’re a five. When you’re wearing your school girl costume? You’re a five men want to ” I cleaned up Wes’ vulgarity. I’ll agree, we invite some it, but if we’re comfortable (whatever age, weight, etc.) we certainly shouldn’t have to ask a man’s permission. If I’m a size four at 41 (or 51 or 61,) and I feel okay, that’ll be all the permission I require.

With Jonivan, my pre-Halloween date. 10/30

Give Up the Ghost

Fri, 09 Oct 2009 17:47:04 -0600

In early ’07, when I frequented bars more regularly, I found myself finishing a beer alone as my friend had to leave hurriedly and unexpectedly. A man beside me, Alex, began to make small talk. Initially, I was someone abrasive and standoffish, making it clear I wasn’t interested in being “picked up.” He told me he was there to unwind before heading home, further telling me he had just returned from listening to an obscure band at a local bar. I was familiar with the band as Aware Records had sent me a copy of their album. Talking about music is a sure fire way to remove my guard. He asked me of my favorite album of all time and I stated, “Fat City by Shawn Colvin.” Most are unfamiliar with this particular album. (Side note #1: Shawn is well known for “Sunny Came Home,” which I think sucks. It’s a shame because Fat City is uh-mazing.) The stranger at the bar was not only familiar, but also a fan of the album. He recommended Brandi Carlile, an artist I was familiar with (even owned one of her albums,) though I was not impressed. Disappointed he asked me to listen to one of her newer songs, in his car. Stupidly, I joined him. I could’ve been cut up in little pieces. I’m smarter now. Fortunately, no little pieces to speak of, uh obviously.

The song he shared was “The Story.” It made the hair on my arms stand up. We exchanged numbers and I agreed to purchase the full album (the single was available already.) A few days later, Aware Records mailed me a copy of the entire album The Story days before it was available to the general public. (Side note #2: Aware is a subsidiary of Columbia Records. Aware is also John C. Mayer’s label. Years ago, I signed up as a “rep.” They send me albums and I provide honest feedback. If I love it, I spread the word. If I really love it, ahem, I blog about it. ) I called Alex to share the serendipitous coincidence (say those two words together seven times as fast as you can.) He said, “Listen to ‘Wasted.” While driving, song five, “Wasted,” played, forcing me to pull my car over to read the lyrics. (Side note #3: I’ve since shared this album with many and it is one of the few albums that appeals to everyone. Buy it. Thank me later.)

In the following weeks Alex and I spent a great deal of time together. Most conversations surrounded music. Most “dates” involved live music or sharing songs with one another in that “I-knooow-you’re-gonna-love-this-one” fashion. Alex is nearly 14 years older than me, however our musical tastes are completely parallel. Great music is timeless, ageless. He introduced me to Jonatha Brooke who does a killer rendition of Allan Parsons “Eye in the Sky.” I listened to it on repeat until I wore out the lasered grooves on the CD. I introduced him to John Mayer and Just Off Turner. He was my musical soul mate. Alex made me two “mixed tapes”- er CDs and I still find myself listening to them. Alex travels on a regular basis, allowing him to see many cities. As a result, he’s seen Brandi play a million times in a million different cities. He invited me to see her in Dallas. I scheduled time off work, had grown addicted to her album, and was really looking forward to seeing her live. The day before our Dallas (mis)adventure, Alex calls and disinvites me. He mentions reuniting with an ex-girlfriend while noting it as best we no longer keep in touch. True story.

Initially, I was upset because of him. Fortunately, the feeling was fleeting and I became upset at the lost opportunity to see Brandi. I received (still do) updates via email from a little bar, Newbies, in Memphis. It has a “Juanita’s” feel and many great artists have played there. I discover Brandi is playing there on a random week night. I encourage my friend Kelly to hop in the car and join me. She accepts the invite. I feared Alex would be there but decide to go anyway.

As I leaned against the stage in between songs (yes, I was inches away from the band,) I complimented Tim Hanseroth’s (guitarist) tattoo—the Auryn (like my name!) medallion from the Never Ending Story, my favorite childhood movie. Shockingly, Tim squats down and says, “Wow! No one ever knows the Auryn! That is awesome!” I talk with him a bit after the show and he introduces us to Brandi. She isn’t feeling well but I never would have known. Her voice was perfect and she was very kind, gracious. I asked of why she’s never played in Little Rock as the majority of her fans at the Memphis show are Little Rockers. She notes (after singing “Little Rock,”) “We’ve had trouble finding a venue.” I saw her last year at Robinson. Kelly and I joined her band mates for a few games of pool. Alex may have seen her live a million times but I’m betting he’s never played pool with the band. Eat your heart out.

Brandi Carlile and me post show at Newbie's in Memphis, Tennessee.

Josh Neumann (Cello.) Note the pool stick. Really friendly guy.

The "Auryn" from the Never Ending Story.

With Kelly. Toga Party. We always have fun.

Punch Out

Thu, 01 Oct 2009 18:45:26 -0600

Today, while visiting with Wes on my lunch break, I solicited his opinion of what my next blog topic should surround. I tossed out an array of scenario’s from my past while he quickly nodded in disagreement. He said, “These past events don’t really define who you are right now. You’re happy. Do you realize we’ve discussed nothing significant in the time you’ve been here? I think you should write of finding yourself happy.” And so, here I sit typing, taking his advice yet again.

In the last several days, I’ve found myself submerged in a calm I can’t explain despite my request for it in prayer. At the end of the day, I walk outside and there is still a sliver of light, the weather is perfect. I look forward to my evening walk with my dog. My shoulders and back feel as though they belong to a 29 year old rather than a 92 year old. I sit quietly on my porch, either alone or with an old friend, drinking cheap boxed wine. My roommates, Kelly and Audrey, join too. It’s nice to catch up with them. They both make me laugh. All of my bills are paid and my house is clean. My friend Mike meets me for cheese fries and a beer. He never goes out during the week, but I don’t have to coerce him. When asking if he’d join me, he responds quickly with “sure.” I enjoy his company. He and I formed a friendship after his friend broke my heart (years ago.) We laugh a bit, recalling the oddity of our friendship. He is the silver lining to that particular heartache. He reminds me, sometimes good can spawn from the bad. He may even take ballroom dance lessons with me. I am the hands down worst dancer in America, but I look forward to getting it wrong. I’m too afraid to jump out of a plane, but it's time I shake my fear of the Tango. And since it takes two…

I’ve leaned on my mother a ton. It’s the first time I’ve fully been vulnerable with her over a boy. It’s also the first time she’s greeted me with ears. She saves her clichés and offers what I really need, quiet. In ‘turn, I’ve opened myself up to her advice. Her wisdom has steered me right. Years ago, she did mention the following analogy originally coined by my cousin Aaron: “If you’re in a plane and it’s going down, punch out. Your parachute works. Employ it. If you don’t, you’re gonna die. The plane is going down, PUNCH OUT!” My family often speak using analogies if you haven’t noticed, but this is a good one to apply in any area of your life. If your love/work/friendship plane is afire and spiraling towards the ground, chose door #2. Select safety/happiness.

He is no longer my first thought when I awake. Sometimes, he does not even cross my mind until very late in the day. I revel in this break though. I deleted him as a Facebook friend because he hasn’t been a real life friend. It’s hard but I know it is best for me. Still, I’ll admit it; I wonder if he thinks of me. I wonder if he has regrets, if he’d take back some of his words…but it doesn’t consume me. We fill in the blanks, the time formerly spent together. The unfortunate thing about breakups, whatever the cause, is sometimes you lose a good friend too. It’s hard to shut it all off at once. It’s like going from 100mph to 0mph in one second. There is bound to be some pain. It usually hurts more the next day, but after time sets in, the pain dulls and eventually, the pain vanishes.

Happy I kept my words sweet even when I could’ve spit daggers. When sweet words were impossible, I chose silence. I’ve gained strength and integrity from keeping my mouth shut. My impulses challenged me and I beat them. Trust me, I wanted to “tag” every single picture of him with “douche bag.” In 15 months, you accumulate a ton of pictures so there would be a lot of tagging. I figured, his picture would pop up every time the word “douche bag” was googled. Ha. Then I realized, I loved, love this man, so instead I “untagged” every single picture. Since it’s out of my hands, I want him out of my head. Out of sight. Out of mind.

Sometimes, happiness is mistaken for boredom. I’ve been standing right smack in the middle of the bright side, confused by this foreign emotion. Happiness replaces the longing, the inspiration (sadness often fuels my writing,) the hollow. I’ve been reluctant to stand on the sunny side, apprehensive of the shadows around the corner. Taking time to recognize the delight. Finally October, my favorite month. And thank God… ‘cause September felt like a really long year.

Super-Gluing the Pieces.

Fri, 18 Sep 2009 18:09:01 -0600

I am super-gluing the pieces. Difficult but necessary. Leaving, or being left by, someone is more than disconnect. It’s removing pictures from frames, removing pictures from the refrigerator, removing photos from the wall by your desk. It’s hard to determine which is worse, seeing the former us staring back when we were “happy,” or the now empty holes begging for new memories that don’t exist yet.

The radio is a mutherfucker. Last Saturday, in efforts to live outside of my head while keeping busy, I went to get a manicure. I sat there quietly listening to the “love” station on satellite radio, each song a four minute ode to hurt, not love. “Love Takes Time,” by Mariah Carey, “How am I Supposed to Live Without You,” by Michael Bolton, and “Can’t Stay Away from You,” by Gloria Estefan played back to back. This last week has left me mostly driving in silence, but one evening I asked for a radio sign. The song that played next was “Hold Your Head High.” Wednesday evening I watched Entourage, one of my favorite shows, and the closing song was Marvin Gaye’s “Piece of Clay.” I don’t know why, but this song has affected me the most. I forgot how much I love that song.

I’ve forgotten a lot in the last fifteen months, longer really. I’ve neglected my own advice and allowed mediocre to be enough. Months ago, my best friend Wes said, “It’s like he’s been given a brand new Bentley that only needs tires. You’re the Bentley and he isn’t willing to put forth the effort for tires.” When I repeated this analogy, which I probably should’ve kept to myself, he retorted with (after snickering,) “If you’re a Bentley, I’m the Batmobile. I mean, you’re not high maintenance and Bentley’s are high maintenance. You’re more like a 350 Z.” Thanks. He went out of his way to say mean things, things he knew would hurt me, with the sole intent to hurt me. To quote Winona Ryder in Reality Bites, “That ain’t love much.” I’ve got to believe I’m worth loving. At the very least, I am worth tires.

I’ve been chasing a rainbow.

I’ve been hunting a unicorn.

I’ve been avoiding the literal writing on the wall. When the “unicorn” encouraged me to date others, I dated a kind man, Ben. My heart was elsewhere (Ben was gracious, understanding) and I severed ties as a result. Months later, Ben and I were able to be friendly. While at a local piano bar he wrote “Lauryn chose wrong” on the mirror. Later he said, “The man isn’t nice to you. He doesn’t appreciate you. He makes you sad. You deserve better and better is out there.” I just want a little peace in my head, peace in my heart. Each day, I’m granted a bit more. Maybe by clearing out the clutter, I’ve made room for the peace.

I considered blogging about the actual events versus how they’ve changed me, but I’d rather make a “hole” on the wall rather than framing the photo.

Years ago, my mother shared a sentiment she had shared with a man she loved. She said, “I’ve give you all 52 cards in my deck. You’ve given only 51—almost enough, but not enough to play the game.” She received 49 more than I received. See, he didn’t give me 51, he gave me two, only two… and he can have those jokers back. So much hurt morphed into anger and finally, the anger is morphing into indifference. Know when to try harder and when to walk away. I’m uncertain who coined this phrase, but it’s good advice. And...

Love Languages

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 18:10:59 -0600

There are a few things I love, made sweeter when grouped together. For example, I love the beach, a really good pina colada, and good music. When all three elements are present at once, it’s pretty darn tough to top. Nothing, however, beats quality time. I’d rather shop for cleaning supplies at Wal-Mart with someone I love than be on a tropical island, fruity drink in hand, with someone I don’t particularly care for.

Dr. Gary Chapman wrote The Five Love Languages, a book which embarrassingly, I’ve not read, though the concept is seemingly simple. It defines how we express our love and how we prefer others to express their love towards us. The five variances include: Words of Affirmation, Quality Time, Receiving Gifts, Acts of Service, and Physical Touch.

Click on the following link which will redirect you to a short questionnaire, (if interested in your love language):

http://www.afo.net/hftw-lovetest.asp

My Test Results:

Percent

Language

Score

23%

Words of Affirmation

40%

Quality Time

10%

Receiving Gifts

13%

Acts of Service

13%

Physical Touch

By the time I recognize this moment, this moment will be gone...

Thu, 20 Aug 2009 18:33:06 -0600

What you are about to read is your future…

The dynamics of who I am have not altered much since birth. My thinking patterns, general demeanor, and overall character has remained fairly consistent for as long as I can remember (dating back 29 years.) Where I’ve changed, grown lies in how I’ve embraced, rather than stifle, who I am. My “quirks,” which I once regarded as unusual, have proven to be quite common, “normal.”

Last week, after our captains meeting (kickball,) my friend John “Seed” and I opted to have a few beers at Crazee’s, a favorite local bar. While there, we caught up on the current events of our lives while a random thought altered the path of our conversation. I asked John if he ever thought of the present and its transformation into the past. I painted the following picture to illustrate my thought:

“Look at the sign on the wall. Look while knowing the moment you turn away, your present—this very moment of looking at the sign—will soon become your past. In mere seconds, when you redirect your eyes, this moment you’re in the middle of, will take new shape, transforming into your past.” Without a glazed over look, John vertically nodded in agreement as if, he too, had experienced this thought before. I recall doing this as a child, and now as an adult, I find myself quietly playing the same game.

John "Seed," Me, Chris: Post Kickball Game

Chris, Steven, and John "Seed:" Post kickball game.

I remember spitting my gum out of the window of a moving car and instantly feeling a momentary loss. This wad of gum, mangled with my teeth marks, saturated with my saliva and DNA, now lay resting miles behind me never to be seen again. Trust me, I know it sounds ridiculous and I assure the feeling was fleeting, but even before I set this piece of gum sailing out of the window, I harbored a moment of knowing I was chewing the past.

The Dumbest Words Ever Uttered... (a tribute)

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 19:30:25 -0600

“Sentimental music has this great way of taking you back somewhere at the same time it takes you forward, so you feel nostalgic and hopeful at the same time.” Nick Hornby (High Fidelity)

Thursday evening, June 25^th, I joined my friend Kelly (and two others who shall remain nameless to protect their reputation) at a local pub for dinner and a beer. Michael Jackson, the undisputable “King of Pop,” passed away earlier the same evening, inspiring conversation of his life. I believe I opened the can of worms by stating, “I can’t believe Michael Jackson died. He was a weirdo but I cannot think of another more influential, more iconic entertainer. Maybe Elvis?” One nameless friend (whom I’ll refer to as "Betty" from here on out,) chimes in with, “Glad he’s gone. I never liked him.” The other nameless friend (whom I’ll call "Fred,") agrees with "Betty,"stating,“Yep, one less pervert in the world.” Completely appalled, I am immediately defensive, “Yeah, okay, again he was a strange duck but he contributed a great deal… more than anyone I can think of… to pop music. He paved the way for a ton of artists. The man was an amazing entertainer. Elvis (whom I don’t care for) holds a candle, but name another.” Prepare and brace yourself, sit down even, for THE all-time stupidest of stupid retorts ever uttered in the history of wasted words: “Rascal Flatts.” Yes friends, my friend said Rascal Flatts were better, more influential, more revolutionary entertainers. She also included “Keith Urban.” Uh huh. A person cannot invent this kind of stupidity, and I am stupider (intended blunder) for having the conversation.

I’ll allow a moment for the laughter (and disbelief) to subside.

Meeting the Man of My Dreams...

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 10:29:45 -0600

Last Wednesday, my buddy Jeff hooked me up with tickets to see “The Who’s Tommy” at the Arkansas Repertory Theatre. He said, “I really think you’ll enjoy it. Great cast, high energy, good music.” What he failed to mention was the probable loss of concentration due to the overwhelming attraction to the lead character, Brian Hissong, who portrays the adult Tommy.

My friends, Ryan and Amanda, and I take our seats pre-show. I take a moment to scan the program and my eyes are immediately drawn to the profile of Brian. I whisper to Amanda while pointing at his photo, “This guy is hot. H-O-T, hot. Just a good picture?” Amanda had seen the show the week before. She leans over and says, “You have no idea. You’re gonna have trouble focusing on the show because he is so freaking perfect. He looks a little bit like Steven (my neighbor whom I’ve mentioned in previous blogs,) but… just wait, you’ll see.” The cast of “Tommy” is attractive in general, so I turn to Amanda and ask, “Is that him?” She chuckles and says, “Uh no. You won’t have to ask. Trust me, you’ll know.” She was right.

Brian Hissong.

Show Me the Money.

Fri, 12 Jun 2009 17:03:35 -0600

You’re walking down the street and you see a person drop a $50 dollar bill on the ground. What do you do? Notify the person? Watch as they walk away and then scoop up the cash?

OK, now you’re entering a business and you see a $50 dollar bill by a bush. What do you do? Report the money to the business manager? Pocket the money?

Both scenarios have recently been present for two of my friends. In the first case, my friend pocketed the money rather than notifying the stranger. This bothered me as I am certain I would have done the opposite. In the second case, my friend reported the money to the business manager. Again, I would have made a new home for the money in pocket of my favorite overpriced jeans.

Is this a test of human decency? A reflection of our greed? Does karma play a factor?

I consider the friend who pocketed the stranger’s cash to be decent and trustworthy. The same rings true for the friend who reported the money. I know I would’ve walked away with heavy shoulders and a cloud of guilt if I had taken the stranger's money. I would have manifested how the person would have missed the money. Did they have children? Can they barely pay for groceries? Was that fifty dollar bill supposed to last them for a week? On the other hand, this feeling would be absent if I were to take the stray money by the bush. Is it due to the lack of visual in not seeing the money fall to the ground…from a real person?

Typically, we remember the money we find versus the money we earn. I recall finding a twenty on the ground in the Memphis mall when I was a child. I promptly picked up the money and immediately purchased a cassette tape (yes, a cassette tape.) It was as though the money was burning a literal hole in my pocket. We also tend to remember the money lost. I once lost a significant amount of cash in a bar years ago. To this day, I wonder how it was spent, though I suspect it was spent right away on shots and Red Bull and vodka’s (Grey Goose versus the cheap stuff ‘cause you know, it’s “free” money.)

I’d be interested in the population’s response to the above scenarios.

Public Restroom Stall Selection

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 14:47:46 -0600

Years ago, my good friend Jeff posed the following question to several while soliciting response in efforts to compile a statistical report:

“When using a public restroom, which stall do you typically select and why?”

So, I thieved his idea and presented this question to several. The responses were hysterical while often inspiring new conversation.

I received 35 responses (26 female, 9 male.) Nine selected the first stall. Eleven selected middle stalls. Twelve selected the last stall. Three listed variables which prevented their selection to fit neatly into the first, middle, or last stall category. And on to the “why” portion of the show…

If Wishes Were Kisses...We�d All Have Mono

Mon, 11 May 2009 13:49:01 -0600

Last Monday evening, my friend January and I joined my buddy Ryan and two of his buddies at a local Mexican restaurant in honor of Cinco de Mayo. Ryan has recently relocated back to Little Rock from Los Angeles, so the gathering was also in honor of his return. When presenting Ryan with 20 questions surrounding his return, I asked if he was working yet. This question reminded me of Ryan knowing my boss. Ryan noted “Small world,” while further stating, “his wife walked in on my first kiss. I was twelve years old and already terrified and then I get busted.” Ryan dove further into the story, noting another person, John, who was ironically my first kiss. I said, “No way!! John was my first kiss! I was eleven, nearly twelve!” Most of us found the story quite comical, however, one of Ryan’s friends was taken aback, “Eleven? Twelve? Who is kissing at eleven and twelve!?” I bit my tongue while January chimed in, “seems like a pretty normal age. I was 14.” Ryan’s other less appalled friend chimed in with, “Well I am 25 and I have a ten year old so I’ll let you deduct accordingly.” Priceless. I was disgusted by the very obvious disgust the one friend showed over adolescent kisses.

What Happens in Chicago...

Thu, 30 Apr 2009 18:59:37 -0600

Tomorrow afternoon, I will be flying to Chicago on work related business. I haven’t been to Chicago since February of 2008. The detail below was written over a year ago, with recent edits.

In November of 2007, the formation of an unexpected friendship began. I have serviced a particular account at work for the last several years. In this time, friendships have spawned from professional relationships. One day I must have been feeling particularly feisty because normal work email exchanges of:

Self: Please review this proof.

Customer: Looks good. Carry on.

Self: Will do.

Turned into:

Self: Please review this proof.

Jeremy: Looks good. Carry on.

Self: My wayward son?

Jeremy: There'll be peace when…

And you see where this is going. This solitary email opened the door to a conversation of music—one of which led to discussion of guitar and our favorite songs… and movies… and then… myspace. OneRepublic served as a huge icebreaker we both purchased this album within days of each other. Several days and evenings of innocent emails of this nature eventually led to feeling comfortable enough to share our phone numbers. And my phone bill has never been the same…

They would do it for you...

Wed, 15 Apr 2009 18:12:56 -0600

I made a mistake last Sunday. I received fair warning. I was told, in explicit detail, to avoid watching the movie, Marley & Me. My love for animals is no secret and this movie stung a bit. Okay, stung a lot. Few movies have saddened me to the point of tears. Castaway, Pay it Forward, Patch Adams, Forrest Gump, Life is Beautiful and My Life as a House are among the few. You can be warned, you can be fully aware of the ending, but you cannot escape the waterfall of tears if you chose to make the same mistake.

My dog Rusty has been a huge part of my life, a giant part of my family, since I was nineteen. I’ve loved and cared for him a long time. He’s nearly entirely blind due to his cataracts, he moves much slower, and his once reddish hair has begun to gray. I know he, like every living thing, will not live forever. I know this fact, and yet, I cannot bear the thought. Marley & Me forced me to the future and I felt immediate heartbreak. I still do. I sat between Steven (who had already watched it once, glutton) and Audrey while crying, no sobbing, to the point of embarrassment. I cried until I was out tears. I cried enough to leave proof of crying, in the form of swollen and puffy circles under my eyes the next morning.

I have trouble watching the ASPCA commercials with Sarah McLachlan, I struggle inside the Arkansas Humane Society, and I get a little weepy on kickball Sunday’s because the Little Rock Animal Shelter can be seen when I drive into Interstate Park. Clearly, others share my opinion. Larry Betz, Founder of the Little Rock Kickball Association, and better known to fellow kickballers as “Poo” started the LRKA in memorial of friends he lost. The LRKA is one part fun and one part charity. This spring, our charity event benefits the animals. We (each LRKA team) will be donating food, toys, treats, flea treatment, bedding, etc. to the needy dogs, cats, puppies and kittens at the Little Rock Animal Shelter. All items will be taken to Interstate Park this Sunday, April 19^th. If you would like to reach out and help, but can’t bring yourself to walk through the door of the shelter like myself, I encourage you to come by this Sunday. Poo will be at the park between noon and 7pm. You can’t miss him. He cruises around via golf cart. Otherwise, monetary or aforementioned donations can be mailed to:

LRKA

c/o Larry Betz

1904 Berry Place Drive

Conway, Arkansas 72032

www.lrkickball.com

Each donation offers more time to an animal. More time to be adopted. Time is priceless.

Additionally, Scotty Adams, a kickballers for 10+ seasons, has organized “Craws for Paws,” benefitting the Humane Society for Pulaski County. The event will be held on Friday, April 24^th in the Rivermarket Paviliion from 7pm until midnight. Tickets can be purchased for $25 in advance or for $30 at the door. One ticket gets you unlimited crawfish, fixins, unlimited beer, live music, and a great time shared by other animal lovers, for a great cause. For tickets:

www.CrawsforPaws.com or call

501.690.6909 for more information.

Animals love unconditionally. They offer forgiveness without question. They sense our happiness, our sadness. If I could rescue every animal on death row, every animal in an abusive situation, every animal in need of a home…

…I WOULD.

The Psycho Shower Story.

Mon, 13 Apr 2009 14:17:44 -0600

Last Thursday evening, I stayed up ridiculously late with Steven. It isn’t uncommon for us to stay up watching movies or talking as we are both nocturnal, however, this particular night, we were awake later, or earlier, depending on how you want to look at it, than normal. Steven mentioned coming by Friday morning to insure I would be awake on time. I assured him it was unnecessary but he insisted. When we’ve stayed up far too late in the past, he’s made mention of this same gesture, though he has never followed through so I assumed this case would be the same.

I live with my sister Audrey, nearly 21 years old and my friend Kelly, ten years Audrey’s senior. The three of us have varied schedules. Audrey works during the evening, while Kelly leaves an hour before I awake. I make mention of this because Kelly and I make concerted effort not to rouse Audrey from slumber in the am hours. While I am able to sleep through considerable noise, Audrey is awakened by the slightest of sound.

I awoke Friday morning, groggy and tired after only a handful of hours of sleep. I entered my shower, as I do every morning, half asleep. My bathroom is attached to my bedroom and when both the bedroom and bathroom doors are shut, little can be heard on the other side of the doors. While rinsing the shampoo from my hair, I open my eyes to discover the 6 foot tall silhouette of a man through the frosted glass shower door. Initially paralyzed, I released a blood curdling, guttural yell which even alarmed and frightened Steven, the man behind the blurry shadow. Startled and exhausted, Steven stated through laughter, “I told you I was going to wake you up. Wow! Your scream scared me! Who else could it have been?! You had to have known it was me!” Obviously, I did not upon initially discovering the creepy “Norman Bates” like figure in my bathroom. I still owe him one for the near heart attack.

Oddly, Audrey did not hear a thing. I am not sure which is more unnerving, the incident itself or Audrey’s oblivion. She normally hears a pin drop, a feather fall, but she didn’t hear the sound of my voice at its highest pitch. Eek.

I can recall times in the past when I showered with one eye open, periodically pulling back the shower curtain to confirm I was the only one present. Perhaps my psyche has been tainted by too many scary movies, or maybe I opted to weigh on the side of caution. More perplexing, the “Psycho” shower scene has never been thought of in my current residence. I attribute this to the absence of a shower curtain. This is further proof worry and fear are often needless, but I’ll probably still lock my bathroom door. As a child, I always wondered if Jaws was going to appear in the swimming pool (I really did,) so perhaps I should also swim with my eyes open. I can just see Steven, swimming in the pool, shark fin atop his head. Duh-nah-duh-nah-duh-nah...Gosh, I'm probably giving him ideas. Maybe I should tell him I'm afraid of the Cinderella story. A girl can never have too many glass slippers.

I'm not sure who is more frightening in this photo...

Be a Fountain, Not a Drain

Thu, 09 Apr 2009 18:44:18 -0600

My mother once said, “Be a fountain, not a drain,” a phrase surely quoted before her though I cannot state by whom. She forgot to elaborate on what you should put out there. What you give flows like a circular stream, eventually it will find you again. I believe in karma and fully feel we get back what we give. I find there is truth to the principle “mind over matter.” If you expect the worst, the worst will often greet you and vice versa.

I’m not a bowl of cherries and sunshine. And sure, I have my bad days, but I don’t sauté in the bad with great frequency or regularity. I think there is a difference between being and thinking positively versus having a cheerful demeanor at all times. It’s easy to dwell in the negative. There will always be full moons with the capability to incite fights, but a full moon is not present every evening. Everyone can think of others who have it better, others who have it worse. Anyone can conjure old childhood memories or that which inspires anger, fear, sadness, bitterness. All of which is neither unique or worthy of reveling in to a point where present or future happiness is prevented. Those incapable of embracing the good, blessings, the ability to bite their tongue generally will receive limited sympathy from me. As a result, I find I surround myself with others who share this opinion.