Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!

Flying in the face of my earlier post, I have declared today (Sunday) Mojito Madness. If you have a vague idea of where I live, or how to contact me, and it's before midnight, you get mojitos. It's that simple!
If you need me, I'll be squeezing limes.

Edit: We're taking this show on the road. Mid-town Drive-In Ghosts of Pirates and Pirate Ghosts Mojito fest.

Define Pause

I was all set to recap this past week in all it's glorious excess and discovery, but my horoscope is eerily spot-on and I think my brain ceased normal function somewhere around Friday morning.


Aquarius (January 20-February 19)
This week should be pretty CRUNCHALICIOUS, Aquarius. You know, crisp and delectable, chewy and pleasing to your inner four-year-old--like a breakfast cereal with three different sweet tastes packed into puff balls that softly explode in your mouth. The only potential problem is that you could keep wolfing down the treats without any regard for how the experience might make you feel later. I suggest that you enjoy the feast slowly, pausing every now and then to monitor whether you're close to being excessively stimulated or over-satiated.

I was close to being excessively stimulated by Wednesday. This will teach me to wait until Saturday to pick up the Metropulse.

Easier to read if you click on it.

Draw Your Own Parallels

I've tried to avoid linking to Salon since I let my subscription lapse. Whenever I get the nerve to look through the archives on this site, the links are always broken and I have no clue what I was talking about, and that pretty much defeats the purpose of this here blog. Plus there's the "watch this ad" thing, which is annoying to send people to, even if it is worthwhile.
However.
I've been falling steadily in love with Anthony Bourdain. No Reservations on the Travel Channel is just good television. And he just happened to be in Lebanon when the shit began to go down. I remember hearing a quote from him in the first few days, a flip comment about how great the Mojitos at his hotel were.
So while this article doesn't necessarily delve into the depths of the mechanism behind what's happening over there, it does a really good job of making one want to find out. It's a painful reminder of how quickly things can go to hell in a town on it's way back up.
It's worth the ad.

"I'm Too Much With Myself....

..I wanna be someone else."

11 am. Blew off work spectacularly today. First No Call/No Show. Ever. Sitting on the couch in my kimono, eating crushed pineapple from the can. Still wearing makeup from last night, though definitely not in its original configuration. The television is on, but mostly I'm staring off into space.
Goddamn I love The Lemonheads. I've been playing It's A Shame About Ray in my car for about a week, no end in sight. Evan Dando's vocals fall at the low end of my range, Juliana Hatfield's the high. I can't not sing along.

We have to laugh
To look at each other
We have to laugh
'Cause we're not alone
As the cars fly up King Street
It's enough to startle us
It's enough to startle us
I love
My drug buddy

I've been given an overload of food for thought. Back to that.
Also, Magnum, P.I. is on.

The Company Store For The Modern Age

This is intriguing to the part of me which has spent a few moments here and there pondering the implications of both artificial intelligence and distributed computing. I'm sure this isn't the first experiment of it's kind, but it's the first I've had any experience with that seeks to actually integrate us into the machine, and compensate for it. Sorta.
The part of me which already feels exploited by the internets is terrified of what this could mean down the road. We already have people in the third world playing World of Warcraft 18 hours a day for pennies. Of course, we have plenty here who do the same for free. I feel compelled to stare at this screen a good portion of the time I spend at home, why shouldn't I be sorting colors for Amazon for a couple of credits? This is where the discussion begins.
Still another part wonders what Neal Stephenson would say, and why he didn't express it clearly in a 1000 page tome ten years ago.

Wisdom On The Bathroom Wall

Here's my extended take on the situation involving Market Square at the moment. I don't care if you're murdering babies, as long as you are enthusiastically supporting the art and culture in your community. This, from my humble observations is precisely what the Wests are all about. I don't know them, but I know what they've done for this town. I desperately want to believe my edumacated friends when they say there's a snowball's chance in hell the businesses will be dismantled if they're seized. BUT....

Sitting in Preservation Pub last night, my thoughts kept drifting back to the Mercury Theatre, mainly because if you look hard enough with the right kind of eyes, you can still see some of it in the Pub today. I loved "the Merc" when I was a confused high school theatre geek and all the older guys I hung out with went there. I spent almost every Sunday night there, even though most of the time we just sat outside because even though women got in free that night, the guys I was with were too poor to pay the cover. When we did get in, I'd play foosball and steal sips of beer, and dance to Blondie's "Heart of Glass." That was all I needed at the time. I was so sad when it closed down.

Imagine my surprise then, when several years later I went to the still ghost-town like Market Square with some friends to "this great new place" and I was about 3/4 of the way into my beer when I realized where I was. I was at the Mercury. It was all earth toned, and the beer selection way better, and instead of a punk band there was some chick with a guitar and a long flowy skirt. But the bones were there. It was disconcerting how much a place could change, but I loved the new incarnation. It was just what I wanted in a bar at the time.

Now, whenever I go to the Pub (rarely) I'm put off by how loud or crowded it is. I've reached that stodgy age where, while I still love live music, more often I just want to have a few drinks and actually hear what my friends are saying. Lame, I know.

So, maybe it's time for the place to undergo another change. Who knows what it could be next? Maybe I'm destined to hang out in that space for the rest of my life, each new phase I enter concurrent with it's newest incarnation. In an effort to be positive, this is what I've come up with.

But, knowing my luck, Connor Concepts will get it and turn it into yet another damn Aubrey's.

On a related note, I was not in love with the new menu at Oodles. Bruce Bogartz is in the kitchen now, and he seemed nonplussed by all the happenings. He said he's planning to open the place for Brunch in August without so much a hint of reservation.

As for The Grotto. Well. If you can't say anything nice....

Regardless of the outcome, I hope the Wests come out alright. They seem like good people. The only crime I find them guilty of is trying to make this town a better place. I'd hate to see them punished for that.

Flotsam

Sunday at the movies. I haven't read A Scanner Darkly, which may have been my first mistake. My interest with Keanu Reeves peaked (not to be confused with piqued) with the line "I know kung-fu." As much as I loved seeing Robert Downey Jr. go after Woody Harrelson with a hammer, I get the feeling they weren't doing much acting. Winona Ryder is merely a no-talent ass clown (I will never be able to thank Office Space enough for that phrase).
As much as it pains me to say it, Rotoscope can't even save this one. The scramble suits were fun, I guess. Maybe I was just f-ing tired from staying out late all night and working all day, but I actually fell asleep at one point. Thom Yorke had his sticky little fingers all over the soundtrack though, so it wasn't a complete wash. In fact, almost worth it just for that.

Wendel offered to play the wedding gratis. I'm thinking of starting a band composed of all my talented friends. So far I've got Wendel in charge and Hanrahan on Ukelele. Auditions will be held. TBA.

I read the News-Sentinel while slapping together sandwiches at work this morning. All I can say is Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamn. Anyone want to go to Oodles while we still can? In lieu of burger night? Perhaps?

Readin': Never Mind the Pollacks w/Neal Pollack

Again With The Picking On Preservation

Well, just as I was falling in love with the city, the Internal Revenue Service's Criminal Investigation division, the U.S. Department of Treasury, and the Drug Enforcement Agency went and raided the hell out of Preservation Pub, Oodles, and Earth to Old City this morning. Would I be surprised if some tiny fraction of the rejuvenation of market square and subsequent neighborhood renewal had benefitted from a little "conspiracy to distribute marijuana" and whatever the hell else the Wests and accomplice have been accused of?
Not really.
Would I be offended?
Of course not.
I'm a big fan of "by all means necessary" when it comes to urban renewal. Now if only we could get the Mafia in on opening that downtown liquor store.
That said, I have no idea if any of the accusations hold any merit, or what is specifically involved. I just know it ain't right.

What I'd like to know is when the design cops are going to raid "the grotto" (sincere apologies to H'caust, O and anyone else who might not find it as hideous as I do).
(Shakes fist at the heavens) When will real justice be served?


At least I have this to keep my spirits aroused. Very, very aroused, owing to Sr. Bernal. Yummmy.

You should definitely spend some quality time with Knoxville520. You know, if you're into that sort of thing.

You Wicked Little Town

As I bid adieu to a few Craft Center friends who were kind enough to let me put them on the guest list for the preview of Hedwig and the Angry Inch last night, one who I would not see again this year imparted a few words of wisdom, "I'm sure we'll see each other again. The world is small, and the glass world is even smaller."
I've been in and out of the Knoxville area all my life, and since I've been back in Knoxville this time around I have had the opportunity to refelct on just how small my world can be at times. I've been running into people from my distant and recent past with increasing regularity, and I get the feeling that won't slow down once our show opens tonight. When I was younger, this would have been a major complaint, a railing against this crippling vortex of insularity. I used to be of the mind that staying here was an admission of mediocrity, as good as giving up.
Now, however, in my advanced age I find it comforting and inspiring that the many of the same personalities I looked up to back in the proverbial day are still there, still fighting to make Knoxville the town we all know it can be. And more and more it looks as though they are succeeding. The Knoxville of my youth was not a place where on any given Wednesday night I had to choose between Wendel Werner at a swanky tapas place and Sara Schwabe at a swanky downtown bar with an impressive wine list and a damn fine mojito. When I look at the people who have been here all along I can't help but feel like a quitter for believing I would ever find what I was looking for anywhere without putting a hand or four into making it happen. That's one of those things they don't teach you in school.
As long as I can remember I've wanted out of here, and even as I'm putting into action both short and long-term plans to leave for the umpteenth time, I'm left wondering if that is really the answer. At what point do you take responsiblity? This town has never felt as much like home as it has in these latter days.
I have no creative finish for this one, so I'll just link to the guy who got me on this fucking sentimental tangent.
creative title of blog

Also, if there's any hope for you you'll buy things from Meagan.

Surname in Two Syllables

I've put this one off long enough, I think. Here it is.

On June 17, 2006 Matt and I headed off to King Tut's to celebrate our one measley year as an official couple. I don't know if it was the animatronic deer on the wall singing "Friends in Low Places", Mo's rubber chicken to-go gag, or the apron with exposed breasts Mo put on Matt, but we looked at each other over "#1 Greek Salad Knoxville, Tennessee" and we knew. We took turns asking the question, we stayed in our chairs. There was champagne. I picked out the ring a week later.
We're getting married in 465 days. Give or take.

I know word travels pretty fast, but there might be someone out there in blogland who hasn't heard just yet. So there you go. If I failed to tell you to your face, or your voice, or at least your personal e-mail, I apologize. Telling three sets of parents individually almost did me in, but now that's done, and no one cried or threatened disownership. I'd say everyone was quite pleased.
So onto the the planning. We're working on some radical ideas so hold onto your asses.

And yes, my feelings on feminism and equal rights aside, I will be dropping my last name like it's hot. Every girl dreams about her wedding day, I dream about the day my last name will no longer evoke male genitalia in the plural. Fo' real.

Also congrats to Tolsun, who bagged himself a real nice girl with excellent taste in blog templates. They will beat us to the aisle by quite a bit.