You gotta fight, for your right

I completely forgot to mention:
Keg Party. My house. This Saturday.

Hope you ain't got no plans. If you do, I suggest you break 'em. Eric somehow convinced TTU to let him have a projector for a week, so we'll be watching Rockers among other things projected on the back wall of my house. Everyone is invited, I'd suggest a tent if you intend to stay over, there are a few couches, and some floor space in the house and you're welcome to it, first come first served. If it's nice out, I may even do the tent thing. Anyhoo, it'll be just loads of fun. I'm buying tiki torches!
We haven't decided on the particular brand of keg as yet, but rest assured it won't be miller lite.
Lemme know if'n you want to come, and I'll hook you up on the particulars.

Your Gal's got Doodley-Squat

So, I've been trying to post this since Sunday morning, but I've had serious difficulty. If you're reading this, I've finally succeeded.
Go see A Dirty Shame. No. Really.
But maybe get a little buzz on first. It was just what I needed after fielding 9 hours of dumbass questions from John Q. Fannypack in the blazing sun at the TACA fair. In a miracle of timing, we managed to eat a sushi dinner, snag tickets at the Belcourt, and slid into our seats, beer in hand as the lights were dimming. The rest was a blur of laughing so hard we almost passed out.
I've gotten some great pictures in the last few days, but I have yet to find an acceptable way of displaying them to the world. Working on it.

Big ups to Holly for her latest theatrical triumph. And big ups to you, whoever you are, for doing whatever it is you do. Have a good week, kids.

And check this out.

And Pow, I Got Illuminated

Welcome back to the emotional rollercoaster. You keep going back through the line, so I assume you're getting something out of it.
I still couldn't shake the funk today, math test was not the way I wanted to wake up, thanks to Rhys for distracting (carrying) me through chemistry. Work was...work. I spent a good portion of the day walking the line between catatonia and breakdown.
Afterward, however, that tiny voice that knows what's up said 'take the long(er) way home' and I veered onto highway 83 without so much as anticipating it. Suddenly I found myself coasting the undulating black line that separates the expansive yellowing fields from the still-green cow pastures, with a great song blaring, the window down, and my hair all over my face. It occurred to me in that moment shit happens, but there will always be this. People come and go, that pain is inevitable, but Friday afternoon is forever, and there will always be the long way home.

I know, I'm a crackhead.

Also, it's Ryan's birthday, so wish him a great one if you're so inclined.

94th Post! Woohoo!

I've been posting quite a bit because I'm getting dangerously close to that 100 mark, and I just want to get it over with. My earlier post still stands, but six hours in the hot shop did much to lift my mood. I have pictures to prove it, but it's too late to deal with that now. So here's something fun I picked up....

Things that are QUITE difficult to say when you are drunk...

1. Innovative
2. Preliminary
3. Proliferation
4. Worcestershire

Things that are VERY difficult to say when you are drunk...

1. Specificity
2. Antidisestablishmentarianism
3. Loquacious
4. Transubstantiate

Things that are downright IMPOSSIBLE to say when you are drunk...

1. Thanks, but I don’t want to sleep with you.
2. Nope, no more booze for me
3. Sorry, but you’re not really my type
4. Thank you, but I won’t make any attempt to dance, I have no coordination
5. Where is the nearest toilet? I refuse to vomit in the street
6. Oh, I just couldn’t - no one wants to hear me sing
7. I insist, I can remove my own bra

Titles are overrated anyway

The next time you catch me gloating about how good life is, smack me with something large and blunt. I should know by now that's just asking for it.
I've been listening to "Sea Change" by Beck on indefinite repeat for the last few days, that should give the appropriate impression of my current state. Needless to say, all is not quiet on the homefront.
Plus, my grandmother had emergency surgery about a week ago and hasn't fully succeeded in waking up, even though they're not sedating her in any way. That does not make us feel good.
I have yet to lose a member of my family, which, considering it's size and complexity, is quite amazing after a quarter of a century, if you ask me. I'm worried, because when it rains, it generally pours, and I think I just felt a drop.
I cut out of Art History early today, we had a visiting artist slide lecture/gallery talk and I just couldn't take being in the dark with my thoughts for that long. Now I'm off on an attempt to enjoy a few minutes of sunshine before I slave in the hot shop all night. Love to everyone.

No Time for the Old In-Out, Love, Just Here to Read the Meter

Why am I not surprised?
Also, my new favorite NPR moments go a little like the one I heard this morning:

G.W.: My opponent said yesterday that the world would be better off with Saddam still in power and that's just wrong.
Steve Inskeep: What Kerry actually said was, "Saddam deserves his own place in hell, but the world is not necessarily safer with him in captivity."

If only this type of reporting were the rule, rather than the exception.

Chromaphobic

I saw the most bizarre thing this morning. I was still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and I had just made it to the end of the street when my jaw dropped and I cursed myself for not having a camera. Since I did not, even my best attempt at describing the vehicle that passed by will fail miserably. It had monster truck tires, but where one might expect to see a monster truck attached to said tires, there were metal scaffolds (for lack of a better word) which, about 10 feet up, terminated in a tiny cab that somewhat resembled a Delorian? And there were these giant arm-like apertures...I'm at a loss. It reminded me of the cover of my copy of The Cyberiad (even more so the first illustration contained therein, but Amazon won't let me link directly to it). I have no clue what it was doing in my tiny little hamlet, unfortunately, I only got a glimpse because it turned the opposite way on HWY 70. But it made my day, nonetheless.
So I've been smiling to myself all day, and finding much to be amused at. Like, for example, yesterday I was using an oxy-propane torch to melt lead for casting into a stone wheel, and today I had wait 20 minutes to get checked out on my bunsen burner set-up before the Lab TA would light it for me.
I also love that my cat pets me, except I've gotta figure out how to get her to stop using her claws when doing so. It's mad cute though.
I love the marver.
I love the bizarro friendship Anna Rockanova Dynomite and my roommate, Rush, have going on. She's 22, he's 32, she's straight, he's gay, she's rambunctious, he's placid, and they call each other by such terms of endearment as "dickweed" "cocksucker" and "skank ho." Yet every night, when I come home she's over here hanging out with him. It's the sweetest relationship I've ever come across.
Above all, after a beautiful weekend spent indoors cleaning, organizing, and arranging, my house is now configured and almost ready to party. I can surf the internet from the bathroom, control the stereo from the couch, and print from my bed, all with my sexy-ass ibook and zero wires.
Life is sweet.
And I'm thinking the party is a week from Saturday.

"Ain't nothin' special 'bout that belt. I bought that belt for 89 cents at the Piggly Wiggly."

I realize my last post made little sense to anyone, but I'm updating it nonetheless. I arrived for work in my professor's dungeon of an office around noon on Friday. Walking through campus, I thought everything appeared to be normal, there were droves of 6th graders trolling around (our outreach program brings them in on Fridays for workshops), everyone was running around, doing their thing. It was a beautiful, clear day, but as I moved toward the studio, I felt queasy. It was too peaceful, I began to worry at the eerie quiet. Since the furnace usually runs 24-7-365, the deafening roar it, and it's accompanying ventillation system, produces gets taken for granted. Until it's not there...
Sure enough, I arrived in a silent, darkened hot shop. There was a smattering of very worried-looking people pacing around the silent, barely glowing furnace. Curt looked pissed, Ethan looked as if he'd been hit by a truck. Apparently Ethan got everything running around 2 a.m., only to have it go out for no apparent reason several times afterward. That does not bode well for the semester, or our budget. Three hours, some serious stress (mainly on the refractory), a new peeper, and everything appeared to be working. Let's keep our fingers crossed. I have a slot this afternoon. The glass will be for shit, but I get the feeling I won't be putting anything away, so no biggie.
I won't be putting anything away because Curt has forbidden us from making objects for awhile. This has pissed off several people in the class, but I know him well enough by now to know what he's up to. He sees we've become slaves to the object, the finished piece, and have thrown the process out the window. For Curt, it is all about the process. I hate to admit, but it is freeing, focusing how to arrive at the finished product, rather than seeing only the product itself. When you pull a piece out of the annealer, it's never as good as you thought it was when you put it away. It laughs at you, with it's lumpy lip, wonky shoulders, and blown-out bottom.
So, for a few weeks, I will be focusing on the process, picking out the parts that suck, and running them into the ground. It will be boring, frustrating, and infuriating at times, but when I revisit "the object," I will do so as the master, rather than the slave.
Or so I tell myself to keep going.

And now for that proverb by Basho:
"Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise; seek what they sought."

Will it Float?

I began composing an 'Ode to a Craft Town Storm' during my assist slots this evening, throwing in a hefty dose of 'Zen and the Art of Turning Pole' for good measure. I even had an appropriate proverb to get the ball rolling.
Until it all went black.
And black was immediately replaced by flame.
I used to find power outages somewhat romantic, what with the candles, and the quiet...
Now, when the power goes out, I sigh as I race to put out the inferno that is shooting out the glory hole, shut off all the breakers, and pray silently that it will come back on in a few minutes. The first few hours are actually quite fun. You basically just frax up the furnace, and entertain yourself using only your mind, the people around you, and a flashlight or two. This usually devolves quickly into chaos. The beat boxing started early, and the freestyling followed shortly thereafter. Sean put on the "space suit" and did the robot while composing a nasty beat, highlights were Ethan's rhyme about Mac and Cheese that went for several minutes, and Anderson's high-pitched rap about "who ate the chili dog and left that shit in the sink." Then, there was the pipe cooler origami boat race, complete with simulated stormy weather. We actually tried to sing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" in a round, and Sean did headstands on the marver. Had a little dance party until, finally, the water fights broke out. Sopping wet, we sat around and cracked on each other for another hour or so.
At the two hour mark, the power had not returned, and that is where the party ended. Letting the furnace cool off too much could cause the refractory to crack and explode, along with the glass inside. This is a situation you avoid at all costs. Ethan began putting together the venturi burner, but after some serious difficulty in removing the burner head, we gave up and went for the door. The rest is just boring technical jargon and fire, but what worries me is the furnace not re-lighting after most of the power was restored. The safety system is oldish, and operates on a very delicate sensor (we call it the purple peeper) bulb-type apparatus. When I finally cut out, the sensor appeared to be working, because it was audibly clicking when we torched it, but it would not turn on the gas. I don't envy Ethan's position at this point, being that several things could be wrong, and he gets to find out by process of elimination.
The storm was amazing, but I am too tired to ruminate further.

Don't You Know There Ain't No Devil, That's Just God When He's Drunk

First chemlab today. My professor is a nutjob, but she's my kind of nutjob. Makes me wish I had her for lecture. Within five minutes she admitted to being "cynical, sarcastic, and neurotic." Then she suggested playing with mercury was, "quite fun. Lethal, but quite fun." She yells at the idiots in my class a lot, and that makes me happy, because they deserve it. My partner is a real winner on the other hand. Can't have everything, I guess. I don't think he's talked to many girls in his life, but I'll draw him out of his shell. Sample conversation:
Me: Hi! I'm Cara.
Him: Justin.
Me: Nice to meet you, Justin. Where ya from?
Him: Here.
ME: Here? Like Earth? The U.S.? Tennessee?
Him: Cookeville.
Me: Oh...well...so....how 'bout that meniscus....

I'm going to see Ben Folds tomorrow night in Nashville. And you're not. Unless you are, and then I'll see you there.

From Beneath You It Devours

The thermometer at my bench yesterday only read 104 in Fahrenheit degrees, it's officially fall. I'm waiting anxiously for the day when it drops below 95. My assistant's flight was cancelled, so I worked by myself, which is similar in concept to masturbation, except not nearly as fun or satisfying. Speaking of which, I think the reason glassblowing terminology sounds so sexual is because the two acts are practically mutually exclusive, and you end up with a whole bunch of sweaty, exhausted, sexually-frustrated people coming up with terms like "jackline" and "glory hole."
On a marginally related subject, I am awash in turmoil of a different ilk. All cliches of the tortured artist aside, I seem to experience gross malfunction when things are going really well, and have become quite adept at throwing wrenches in my own plans. I suppose it keeps life interesting, or at the very least heightens my sense of accomplishment when I'm still standing at the end of every week. At some point, I think this self-destruction may have to come to a head, and I sometimes I lie awake at night, dreading that time may be sooner than I think.
Angst- it's not just for teenagers anymore...
Eh, qui sa? There can be no change without conflict. Change is supposedly good, right? So I'm doing alright.
My math professor said "Mmmm-kay" about 15 times today.

Indulge Me

I have been celebrating my new, in-home internet connection by spending entirely too much time on it. For instance, I actually sunk so low as google myself today. I learned some amazing things:
1) There are way more people with my name than I ever would have imagined.
2) The other me's are making me look like a slacker (not that it's difficult).
Some of the highlights, I:

• performed a "Hazard Assesment of the Insecticide Diazinon to Aquatic Organisms in the Sacramento-San Joaqin River System" in 1994
• got my Bachelor of Science in Marketing and Economics from the University of Southern Indiana
  
• helped my big sister move into her dorm at the University of North Texas
  
• took a road trip on Route 66 with Yukon girl scout troop 71 in 2003
• made the Somersworth Middle School Honor Roll for the 2nd quarter 2003-04
• served as school nurse at Godwin Middle School
• was Cadet 1st Lieutenant in Army ROTC at Clemson
• married Phillip Gomez in Ohio in March 2004
• volunteered my services as a graphic designer to the Columbus Ohio House Rabbit Association
• am a member of the Epsilon Chi chapter of Kappa Delta at Baylor

I was also killed by a drunk driver in 1998.

I got a lot of hits for rowing sites, for obvious reasons (cox) but I also discovered I am a rowing club in Great Britain, Coast Amateur Rowing Association (C.A.R.A.). Even better, I'm a gay bowling club in Washington, D.C.

My only question-why did I have to google myself to find this?

One more.
And I'm spent.

Gung-Ho Geek-Out

I think I had somewhat of an epiphany in the hot shop today. Can one have a physical epiphany? I hesitate to use the term zone, but something in that neighborhood would suffice. The rhythm I thought I'd lost forever rushed back ten-fold somewhere after my first gather, and by the time I hit the bench, I was on it. Felt like sex after a long drought, though that may be a little extreme.
I was so caught up in the moment, I burned the palm of my hand. It felt awesome.
Now, don't you worry your pretty little head, I wouldn't be typing if it were serious. I'm just breaking in the ol' hands again, they got all mushy and soft over the summer. Not unlike the rest of me. I was so jazzed, I actually coldworked an entire piece. For the hell of it. Who am I, and what have I done with myself?
Can I ride this wave until final crit? Things have been entirely too ducky thus far. I feel the shadow of the other shoe hanging over my left shoulder. When it drops, will I even know what hit me?

Scatter my ashes over the fjords.

I also got my color order today....let the games begin.

Alstublieft, kunt u me vertellen of de duivel hier woont?

The tobacco harvest is once again upon us in Smithville. The farmers work their way through the fields during the day, and burn off the harvested areas at night. The air is redolent with burning tobacco. If cigarettes had the same fragrance as that, I would still be a smoker. It’s delicious, as though an entire field of robber barons were enjoying fine cubans in my backyard. Because, if I have failed to mention, I have a tobacco field in my backyard. Ah, the rural life....
Hope everyone had a marvelous Labor Day. I, myself, cleaned the house, and blew a little glass. What a holiday. You know what happens when you stop blowing glass for three months? It ain’t like riding a bicycle, that's for sure. I. am. so. screwed.
Every time I come to the fine arts building, I pass by wall of pictures from the music sorority over the years, and there, at the top of 1972, is my face. Okay, so it's my mother's face, but it serves as that ever-present reminder that I owe my very existence to the theater department, here. How else would an engineer and a music major have ever found each other, much less agreed to procreate? Thanks, theater, for bringing geeks of all walks of life together in darkened rooms.
And to think I never thought much of Kitty Kelly before.
Have a fantastic day, people.

Listening to: Someone slaughtering Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring on a piano down the hall.

Title-Excuse me, can you tell me if Satan lives here?

At Least They Laid Off the Achy-Breaky Heart

I keep forgetting, I have 6 more gmail invites if anyone still wants one.
Adam's house has been officially warmed, methinks. You can fit a ton of people into a huge apartment, who knew? I enjoyed the second-best view ever (nothing will ever beat the year Randy and I watched from the train bridge) of the Boomsday festivities hanging out of Adam's bathroom window. Looking down on the quivering mass of humanity by the riverfront, I felt privileged, even bourgeois, if you will. I watched most of the show wide-eyed, with an ear-to-ear grin, with the exception of the patriotic bit, when I just felt "Sad to be an American" while the crowd at the riverfront enthusiastically sang along.
It upsets me that I can't feel proud to be an American. I can't find words to express how much I'd like to, but as I watched the crowd pump their fists in the air, I actually cried a little bit. I thought about the explosions and lights overhead, thought what it must be like to live in a country that sort of thing brings destruction instead of delight, and what it must be like to deal with it all the time for years. I felt responsible, and angry at all the people who don't. Like the 500,000+ in front of me. It was overwhelming.
Then I scolded myself for trying to ruin the moment. And thanked whatever force was responsible for puttng me here, in this place and time, and tried to enjoy the rest of the show.
Afterwards, I celebrated my Americanism by getting trashed, and mounting a party-wide campaign against Adam's balls. If anything makes me feel "Proud to be an American", it's Adam, mingling around his own party, a drink in one hand, and his nuts in the other. Love you, man.
Love you all.

Not All Tacos Have Cheese in Them

Did anyone get the number of that truck?
One down, thirteen to go. The rundown:
Rush is the best roommate ever...apologies to former roommates...we lost a lot of the old guard, but we have plenty of new faces, and I'm feeling uncharacteristically positive....I discovered there's another Oak Ridge alumnus among us this semester...there has been a sudden and mysterious surge in iBook lust among my colleagues...EVERYONE (and their brother) moved off campus this year...my faith in marriage (and relationships in general) took (yet another) serious blow with the engagement of the most unlikely couple and the pre-first-year-anniversary dissolution of the one marriage I thought couldn't fail...and Anna Rockanova Dynomite and I invented a new religion over coffee today.
All hail The Villain!

I leave for two weeks and they put up a Starbucks. Typical.

By the way, you should know I've had a change of heart. Sure, I've been harboring an unspeakable rage for the last four years, but those adorable (not to mention witty as shit) Bush twins really put a fresh face on a party I thought had lost it's appeal to my twenty-something demographic-ness. And I thought the Republicans showed great tolerance in letting someone so diametrically opposed to their agenda as Zell Miller take the stand to preach his democratic values to the crowds. Now that's fair and balanced. I'm ashamed to say I missed the acceptance speech of our great leader, but I just closed my eyes and envisioned a colourized version of a Hitler rally, and I felt like I was there. So I'm here to anounce I am placing my vote in the capable hands of God W. Bush.
Why should the ignorant, gullible, and filthy rich have all the fun?

Junior Recital, next semester, everyone's coming, or the diva will come get you.

I always wondered how my friends at other schools took so many hours. Now, you know I'm no overachiever, but taking the minimum twelve (or thirteen for this semester) has always kicked my ass, and I couldn't figure out why. Until today, eating my lunch in my car on the way to Cookeville for the fourth time this week, when I realized I'm taking five hours of driving to class. And my four blowslots this semester, which should count as labs, that's another twelve hours. So, really I'm taking 30 hours, not including workstudy, homework, and some semblance of a life. So there.
I don't get this "hour" bullshit anyway. My studio classes meet for six hours a week, but only count as three. What is that? Does Wednesday not count?
The beauty of the fine arts building on campus is that it's mostly a music building...there are two "art" studios in the whole four story affair. So when I'm sitting in the lobby waiting for Art History to start, I get to listen in on the music student's conversations. I've noticed they sound a lot like Theater people, but not as pretty. In fact, I'm sitting across from TTU Music Department's Holly, only so not as pretty :)
But she sure can talk fast.
I miss people who aren't my classmates. Because my classmates, as a general rule with few exceptions, are bitches.
Sigh...at least I get to work in the hot shop for six hours tonight. Too bad it's for someone else.
Love and kisses.

They Keep it Hot in Those Little Boxes

Has anyone been attempting to watch the RNC? I had the gall to believe I could stomach it, until I discovered I posessed nothing in the way of gall compared to those 9/11 exploiting fuckers. I mean, GOD HORATIO DAMN! Sure, I expected the parade of victims, the excessive use of the word "evil" but I assumed they'd spread them over the week so as to not be so OBVIOUS. But no, these goons used the damned date as a backdrop. Utterly shameful. Or shameless. Can it be both?
And of course, my favorite quote from the night, "If you are not with us, you are with the terrorists." We've heard versions of this, but never phrased quite so appallingly. After that, I turned it off. I will be following the rest of the convention coverage with The Daily Show. Which is as it should be.
Picking blowslots (pause for snickers) today. Wish me luck, I'll need it if I'm going to have any semblance of a weekend for the next 13 weeks. I also need assistant blessings, as I am one short, but I'm confident I'll snag someone decent. I hope. Okay, confident is a strong word.

I'm thinking of buying a copy of "Trekkies" so everytime I feel like a loser I can watch it and feel hideously cool.

It's a beautiful day here at the Tennessee Technological High School, er, University. By the end of the week, 70% of the freshmen girls will have dumped the boyfriend they left at home for their new "soul mate" (for the next three months, anyway), parking will have freed up as half the student body will have stopped attending class, and I will be past due for a good drunkfest. Hope to see you Saturday.