Ramblings of no consequence
4.14.2005
Memory
I was thinking today about graduation, which was approaching this time last year. I thought about how proud I was of myself, and yet how disappointed in myself I was due to my half-hearted schoolwork. I also thought about the juxtaposition of students who were exiting college. The hardcore "I'M GRADUATING!" kids who took umpteen pictures with as many family members. Those who were just glad to move on to the next phase, and walked the walk mainly because their parents wanted them to. The drug-addled pre-meds, frantically planning their summers before medical school. Party animals and seventh-year seniors, finally moving on to the real world and (hopefully) financial independence. Then, of course, there were the overachievers, who got to walk down on the floor with the professors and display their achievement finery.
I sat up in the stands with the commonfolk, the plain blackness of our cap and gowns paling in comparison to the gleaming display of honors graduates down below. I surveyed the stream of students entering the basketball stadium, one by one searching for their relatives and friends in the audience. I remember one particular friend, who wasn't a friend anymore. How small she looked with the medals draped around her, swamping her in their dignified academic glory. She always walked with her shoulders slouched, which drove me nuts. There, slumped beneath her prestige, she marched to her seat.
It's funny. Those awards, piled upon each other as the prestige gets greater, mean less in the long run than anything. Especially when you consider how great experiencing the dirty, hard bullshit of life in general actually is.
Just a thought.
I was thinking today about graduation, which was approaching this time last year. I thought about how proud I was of myself, and yet how disappointed in myself I was due to my half-hearted schoolwork. I also thought about the juxtaposition of students who were exiting college. The hardcore "I'M GRADUATING!" kids who took umpteen pictures with as many family members. Those who were just glad to move on to the next phase, and walked the walk mainly because their parents wanted them to. The drug-addled pre-meds, frantically planning their summers before medical school. Party animals and seventh-year seniors, finally moving on to the real world and (hopefully) financial independence. Then, of course, there were the overachievers, who got to walk down on the floor with the professors and display their achievement finery.
I sat up in the stands with the commonfolk, the plain blackness of our cap and gowns paling in comparison to the gleaming display of honors graduates down below. I surveyed the stream of students entering the basketball stadium, one by one searching for their relatives and friends in the audience. I remember one particular friend, who wasn't a friend anymore. How small she looked with the medals draped around her, swamping her in their dignified academic glory. She always walked with her shoulders slouched, which drove me nuts. There, slumped beneath her prestige, she marched to her seat.
It's funny. Those awards, piled upon each other as the prestige gets greater, mean less in the long run than anything. Especially when you consider how great experiencing the dirty, hard bullshit of life in general actually is.
Just a thought.
12.10.2004
At Leila's request, I give you:
Love on the Living Room Floor
The last year has brought me to new heights (and depths) of my existence. Now, I'm not going to wax eloquently on about my experiences, how much I've learned, how life has changed, etc. Because it has. It's just not important, given the much more interesting scope of sexual exploits and drinking stories.
I am a fan of the Chimes, a local restaurant which features tons of beer, and greasy Louisiana favorites. It's also a watering hole for the many and varied hotties who lurk the streets of neighboring Baton Rouge suburbs, such as: Denham Springs, Gonzales, Baker/Zachary, and of course, Donaldsonville. Donaldsonville is home to a wide range of what hoity-toity Baton Rougeans call "white trash." That is, they bring their children to rated R movies and let them scream, while the better-educated shoot them dirty looks and talk about them behind their backs.
Donaldsonville also happens to be home to a very attractive guy with an accent I usually find significantly unattractive: the other-side-of-the-river accent. That is, from "dahn neh in da ba-yoos" of Iberville parish and beyond. But oh, this one. He said my name "Don-yeelll" one time and I was a goner. I had had roughly four pints of Newcastle at this time, and was feeling the hormones surging through my bloodstream. The girl I was with, who is an absolutely horrendous drunk, was shouting out sentences which all began with "pussy" and ended with another sip of her beer and a drunk laugh. I was ready to take it to the house, so to speak. So after continuing a conversation rife with inane innuendoes and references to subtle things like "handcuffs," I grabbed Drunky, latched on to the Hottie, who grabbed his friend who was wearing a Mickey Mouse t-shirt (ack) and we took it to Drunky's apartment.
After an awkward trip to the Circle K for protective devices, during which I tried to grab hold of some semblance of clarity, we made it back to her place. Next thing I know, I am wading through the blurry haze of my inebriation, fighting with this guy for 'on top' privileges, and we're crashing into EVERYTHING. Drunky and Mickey Mouse had gone to God knows where, and there I was, half out of my skirt with my arm through the coffee table, holding him down with the other one. I remember an R. Kelly cd was playing, of all things. It was kind of hot, the fighting and R. Kelly music. Finally, we resolved what the hell we were doing, and somehow, I became lodged beneath one of Drunky's armchairs with carpet burns all over my elbows and my ass. Fodder for great memories, provided I could remember it, right? I grew tired, very tired of being rammed into the floor, so I simply kicked him off, straightened myself up with as much dignity as I could muster, having been rammed beneath a chair, and told him to leave. I had gotten mine, he got his, what more could there be?
Two months of phone calls, because I had unwittingly given him my phone number.
Love on the Living Room Floor
The last year has brought me to new heights (and depths) of my existence. Now, I'm not going to wax eloquently on about my experiences, how much I've learned, how life has changed, etc. Because it has. It's just not important, given the much more interesting scope of sexual exploits and drinking stories.
I am a fan of the Chimes, a local restaurant which features tons of beer, and greasy Louisiana favorites. It's also a watering hole for the many and varied hotties who lurk the streets of neighboring Baton Rouge suburbs, such as: Denham Springs, Gonzales, Baker/Zachary, and of course, Donaldsonville. Donaldsonville is home to a wide range of what hoity-toity Baton Rougeans call "white trash." That is, they bring their children to rated R movies and let them scream, while the better-educated shoot them dirty looks and talk about them behind their backs.
Donaldsonville also happens to be home to a very attractive guy with an accent I usually find significantly unattractive: the other-side-of-the-river accent. That is, from "dahn neh in da ba-yoos" of Iberville parish and beyond. But oh, this one. He said my name "Don-yeelll" one time and I was a goner. I had had roughly four pints of Newcastle at this time, and was feeling the hormones surging through my bloodstream. The girl I was with, who is an absolutely horrendous drunk, was shouting out sentences which all began with "pussy" and ended with another sip of her beer and a drunk laugh. I was ready to take it to the house, so to speak. So after continuing a conversation rife with inane innuendoes and references to subtle things like "handcuffs," I grabbed Drunky, latched on to the Hottie, who grabbed his friend who was wearing a Mickey Mouse t-shirt (ack) and we took it to Drunky's apartment.
After an awkward trip to the Circle K for protective devices, during which I tried to grab hold of some semblance of clarity, we made it back to her place. Next thing I know, I am wading through the blurry haze of my inebriation, fighting with this guy for 'on top' privileges, and we're crashing into EVERYTHING. Drunky and Mickey Mouse had gone to God knows where, and there I was, half out of my skirt with my arm through the coffee table, holding him down with the other one. I remember an R. Kelly cd was playing, of all things. It was kind of hot, the fighting and R. Kelly music. Finally, we resolved what the hell we were doing, and somehow, I became lodged beneath one of Drunky's armchairs with carpet burns all over my elbows and my ass. Fodder for great memories, provided I could remember it, right? I grew tired, very tired of being rammed into the floor, so I simply kicked him off, straightened myself up with as much dignity as I could muster, having been rammed beneath a chair, and told him to leave. I had gotten mine, he got his, what more could there be?
Two months of phone calls, because I had unwittingly given him my phone number.
6.01.2004
So Here I Am...
back again.
I've been thinking a lot about things. Why we do what we do. What is the point of each nuance of our daily lives. You know, typical college-kid-angst shit.
But I'm not a college kid anymore.
This thought settled in as I joked at work about not having any money. "I'm just a poor college kid, you know me." A co-worker shot back, "You're not a college kid anymore, graduate." That's a scary thought. I can no longer use school as the excuse for why I can't attend things, can't talk, can't stay and chat with the family. It would seem, my friends, that I've become a grown up. Weird. Shiver, shiver.
The reality is, of course, that I'm as big of a baby as I ever was. However, I actually have a little bit of money put away and I have plans, sort of. I shan't be attending medical school for two years, in case you were wondering. Not because of Teach for America, but because it didn't work out. You like that? "Didn't work out."
But I'm not bitter at all. As I pushed and shoved myself to finish projects (all late) and pay fees (late as well) and even complete the mindless shit involved with student organizations, I realized: I am in no shape to be attending medical school. No shape at all. While I have come to know myself in a big way over the past year or so, I am still very, very immature--lazier than anything. If I can't bring myself to do simple undergraduate papers, how on earth am I going to complete the massive amounts of studying associated with becoming a doctor? I can't. Not now, not at this point in my life.
So for the next little while, I am... free. Refreshingly free, in fact. I'm going to work a lot, build up my savings, and blow it all on an enormous trip next year. I'm planning months of backpacking, and a road trip or two. It's going to be on. I've already put away a sizeable portion, so the dream will become a reality. My parents are very upset about my not going to medical school next year, but fuck it. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can depend on your parents to raise you, but not to help you grow. They've raised me, so now it's time to grow. I'm not scared, just... excited. My whole LIFE is in front of me, and I have no idea where it's going to take me.
back again.
I've been thinking a lot about things. Why we do what we do. What is the point of each nuance of our daily lives. You know, typical college-kid-angst shit.
But I'm not a college kid anymore.
This thought settled in as I joked at work about not having any money. "I'm just a poor college kid, you know me." A co-worker shot back, "You're not a college kid anymore, graduate." That's a scary thought. I can no longer use school as the excuse for why I can't attend things, can't talk, can't stay and chat with the family. It would seem, my friends, that I've become a grown up. Weird. Shiver, shiver.
The reality is, of course, that I'm as big of a baby as I ever was. However, I actually have a little bit of money put away and I have plans, sort of. I shan't be attending medical school for two years, in case you were wondering. Not because of Teach for America, but because it didn't work out. You like that? "Didn't work out."
But I'm not bitter at all. As I pushed and shoved myself to finish projects (all late) and pay fees (late as well) and even complete the mindless shit involved with student organizations, I realized: I am in no shape to be attending medical school. No shape at all. While I have come to know myself in a big way over the past year or so, I am still very, very immature--lazier than anything. If I can't bring myself to do simple undergraduate papers, how on earth am I going to complete the massive amounts of studying associated with becoming a doctor? I can't. Not now, not at this point in my life.
So for the next little while, I am... free. Refreshingly free, in fact. I'm going to work a lot, build up my savings, and blow it all on an enormous trip next year. I'm planning months of backpacking, and a road trip or two. It's going to be on. I've already put away a sizeable portion, so the dream will become a reality. My parents are very upset about my not going to medical school next year, but fuck it. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can depend on your parents to raise you, but not to help you grow. They've raised me, so now it's time to grow. I'm not scared, just... excited. My whole LIFE is in front of me, and I have no idea where it's going to take me.
4.26.2004
Drankin'
Well, folks, it's the home stretch of the semester, and it seems that all I do when I'm not working is sleep or drink. No surprise there, I suppose.
I've just embarked on the Around the World beer-drinking marathon at the Chimes. This is a big, fat excuse to spend at least 30 bucks on any given day eating and drinking vast amounts of food and alcohol. It's a deal, you gotta drink 60 beers from 20 different countries in 90 days. Then, you get your own VIP table in the restaurant. Well, not really. You get a t-shirt. Which is cool. And you get your name on the hallowed plaques that line the walls of the Chimes. I'm pretty excited. Today, I started in Germany: Ayinger Celebrator (good), Ludwig Weiss (good, but got the name wrong. Strange, kind of like beer-y cough syrup), and ventured into Canada and got some Labatt's Blue (I think I spelled that wrong, too. But it was my favorite of the day.) I tanked up on those three beers, ate some cheese fries and a blackened salmon sammich, and dragged my ass to work.
Now, I don't get drunk from this amount of alcohol. My tolerance has increased significantly, thanks to bartending. However, three big beers on a dreadfully hot and humid day is enough to make any girl want to go lay down on the grass and fall blissfully asleep. But no, I went to work, where I did routine tasks for a few hours and raced home to take a nap.
And oh, what a nap it was.
Well, folks, it's the home stretch of the semester, and it seems that all I do when I'm not working is sleep or drink. No surprise there, I suppose.
I've just embarked on the Around the World beer-drinking marathon at the Chimes. This is a big, fat excuse to spend at least 30 bucks on any given day eating and drinking vast amounts of food and alcohol. It's a deal, you gotta drink 60 beers from 20 different countries in 90 days. Then, you get your own VIP table in the restaurant. Well, not really. You get a t-shirt. Which is cool. And you get your name on the hallowed plaques that line the walls of the Chimes. I'm pretty excited. Today, I started in Germany: Ayinger Celebrator (good), Ludwig Weiss (good, but got the name wrong. Strange, kind of like beer-y cough syrup), and ventured into Canada and got some Labatt's Blue (I think I spelled that wrong, too. But it was my favorite of the day.) I tanked up on those three beers, ate some cheese fries and a blackened salmon sammich, and dragged my ass to work.
Now, I don't get drunk from this amount of alcohol. My tolerance has increased significantly, thanks to bartending. However, three big beers on a dreadfully hot and humid day is enough to make any girl want to go lay down on the grass and fall blissfully asleep. But no, I went to work, where I did routine tasks for a few hours and raced home to take a nap.
And oh, what a nap it was.
4.23.2004
I Know It's Been Awhile, But...
I've been working a LOT. Forgive me. I'll update soon.
In the Meantime, I Give You: Norah
Like a flower
Waiting to bloom
Like a lightbulb
In a dark room
I'm just sitting here waiting for you
To come on home and turn me on
Like the desert waiting for the rain
Like a school kid waiting for the spring
Im just sitting here waiting for you
To come on home and turn me on
My poor heart
It's been so dark
Since you've been gone
After all you're the one who turns me off
You're the only one who can turn me back on
My hi-fi is waiting for a new tune
My glass is waiting for some fresh ice cubes
I'm just sitting here waiting for you
To come on home and turn me on
I've been working a LOT. Forgive me. I'll update soon.
In the Meantime, I Give You: Norah
Like a flower
Waiting to bloom
Like a lightbulb
In a dark room
I'm just sitting here waiting for you
To come on home and turn me on
Like the desert waiting for the rain
Like a school kid waiting for the spring
Im just sitting here waiting for you
To come on home and turn me on
My poor heart
It's been so dark
Since you've been gone
After all you're the one who turns me off
You're the only one who can turn me back on
My hi-fi is waiting for a new tune
My glass is waiting for some fresh ice cubes
I'm just sitting here waiting for you
To come on home and turn me on
4.18.2004
Give It Up For Lil' Kim...
Got my eye on the guy in the wool-wrench coat
don't he know Queen Bee got the ill deep throat?
Lemme show you
what it's all about,
how I make a Sprite can disappear in my mouth...
Got my eye on the guy in the wool-wrench coat
don't he know Queen Bee got the ill deep throat?
Lemme show you
what it's all about,
how I make a Sprite can disappear in my mouth...
4.17.2004
Bartenders = Doctors
I've been thinking a long time about what's the most equivalent career to medicine in terms of communication with people, etc. I used to think it was education, you know, teaching students reflects teaching patients, etc.
Now, however, my view has changed considerably. After a long night of listening to people bewail their various situations, I realized that my listening to them, giving them alcohol to assuage their emotions, and subsequent "making sure they're ok" most resembles medicine.
And another thing. I've met so many different people who go to bars. There are, of course, the drunks, who go purely for the sake of drinking themselves into oblivion off of the cheapest alcohol possible, and thereby spending their mortgage checks in the process. Then, there are the hoes, who desperately survey the room for any sign of single male action (or even not-so-single male action) so that their violent self-consciousness can be tempered by the quasi-suave machinations of male admiration. Let's not forget the good ol' boys, who chortle and grunt their ways through several Miller Lites while watching various sports games on various sports tv's. The couples, who come in to "get away from it all," only to either a) stare uncomfortably at the walls and each other, or b) begin arguing vehemently about their children or some moot point, or c) have a decent conversation and tip VERY well. The Single Guys are always interesting, as I try to gauge how often their eyes veer toward the cleavage of myself (when I muster it up) and the other Single Gals in the room. They tend to cluster and talk about "man stuff." The Single Girls (not to be confused with the hoes) tend to have the most fun, as they chat unconcernedly while the Single Guys strain their necks trying to see if they are indeed Single Girls, or hoes. My personal favorite, however, is the Cheese Factor.
We all know the Cheese Factor, and are well aware of their presence, as they inhabit every bar in every city to some extent, and are desperately seeking something in life. Their primary objective is to let everyone know that they are HOT, and they don't give a damn how they show it. It could be obnoxious come-ons to various girls or guys. An ill-advised fake Louis Vuitton bag, or a sad representation of a Kenneth Cole button down, with not enough buttoned down. This group provides both a distraction and an amusement for the surrounding crowd. They're the most fun to watch, with their self-assurance overflowing and bad tips in abundance. Theirs are the most interesting shoot-downs.
It's amazing how society groups itself into cliques no matter what situation exists. As much as I hate categorizing myself, I realize that I inevitably fall into some classification, either mentioned here or not, when I step out into public. What group do you think YOU belong to?
I've been thinking a long time about what's the most equivalent career to medicine in terms of communication with people, etc. I used to think it was education, you know, teaching students reflects teaching patients, etc.
Now, however, my view has changed considerably. After a long night of listening to people bewail their various situations, I realized that my listening to them, giving them alcohol to assuage their emotions, and subsequent "making sure they're ok" most resembles medicine.
And another thing. I've met so many different people who go to bars. There are, of course, the drunks, who go purely for the sake of drinking themselves into oblivion off of the cheapest alcohol possible, and thereby spending their mortgage checks in the process. Then, there are the hoes, who desperately survey the room for any sign of single male action (or even not-so-single male action) so that their violent self-consciousness can be tempered by the quasi-suave machinations of male admiration. Let's not forget the good ol' boys, who chortle and grunt their ways through several Miller Lites while watching various sports games on various sports tv's. The couples, who come in to "get away from it all," only to either a) stare uncomfortably at the walls and each other, or b) begin arguing vehemently about their children or some moot point, or c) have a decent conversation and tip VERY well. The Single Guys are always interesting, as I try to gauge how often their eyes veer toward the cleavage of myself (when I muster it up) and the other Single Gals in the room. They tend to cluster and talk about "man stuff." The Single Girls (not to be confused with the hoes) tend to have the most fun, as they chat unconcernedly while the Single Guys strain their necks trying to see if they are indeed Single Girls, or hoes. My personal favorite, however, is the Cheese Factor.
We all know the Cheese Factor, and are well aware of their presence, as they inhabit every bar in every city to some extent, and are desperately seeking something in life. Their primary objective is to let everyone know that they are HOT, and they don't give a damn how they show it. It could be obnoxious come-ons to various girls or guys. An ill-advised fake Louis Vuitton bag, or a sad representation of a Kenneth Cole button down, with not enough buttoned down. This group provides both a distraction and an amusement for the surrounding crowd. They're the most fun to watch, with their self-assurance overflowing and bad tips in abundance. Theirs are the most interesting shoot-downs.
It's amazing how society groups itself into cliques no matter what situation exists. As much as I hate categorizing myself, I realize that I inevitably fall into some classification, either mentioned here or not, when I step out into public. What group do you think YOU belong to?
