The Great Flashlight of Judgement

Tonight is the high school dance.  The younger division students get together and touch each other in ways that would make their parents embarrassed.  And the residence life staff gets to supervise.  Woo.  Hoo. Last night I was kicking people off the dock, as seems to be nightly requirement, and the people in question happened to be on my staff.  Losers.  Anyway, I kicked on my flashlight and talked sternly to them, and one of them said, “Man, that flashlight is full of so much judgement.”  Thus was born The Great Flashlight of Judgement. Also, I heard last night that there is some clandestine activity up the mountain at one residence.  And I hate to be the Fun Police.  I hate it.  But I’m so good at it.  Especially when the rule-breakers are so dumb, and I carry a totem as powerful as The Flashlight. I heard another story today about a young couple who were feeling rather amorous and decided to take advantage of a) their downtime and b) their car.  And they didn’t know my buddy was sitting in his car next to them listening to his stereo.  And he felt so uncomfortable he wouldn’t get out of his car.  So he took a nap.  Later in the evening I saw the couple in their car, waiting to pick up some people to go to town, and it happened: I judged them.  I looked down at The Flashlight in my right hand and I felt powerful. At the end of the camper dance the residence life staff will do a sweep of campus for high schoolers, as...

So These Two Dislexic Guys Walk Into a Bra…

I was at a party with Miss M the other night and someone’s children were sitting around telling jokes.  Most of them were puns of some sort, but you know, I think those kids were the most sober people at the party, so everything was funny. The lovely Miss M and I went out to the surrounding countryside of Asheville to visit her friends at this party, and it was really in the middle of the hills.  They had a good chunk of land with a huge garden, several sheds, chickens, and even goats.  We did a tour of the goat pen and chicken coop and heard stories about the sex lives of various critters.  Especially “Lil Wayne” the billy goat.  Apparently the female goat doesn’t want anything to do with him despite his rather impressive, um, billy.  Actually, pretty much everyone in attendance laughed in surprise at the proportions of Lil Wayne’s manbag.  I thought to myself that I’d believe them to be udders, if only male goats had udders.  Our host then patted the girl-goat on the haunches and sweetly announced that she would be dinner if she didn’t make some babies. While there I met a few more friends and one of them is a horn player who plays with the community band.  She indicated that the band is pretty good for a community band, and I should come.  I think I’ll check it out this fall when I get a place to live. Speaking of which, my search for an apartment has begun in earnest.  I’ve been answering ads on craigslist and checked out a...

Fabric and Seam

Every morning the sun pushes its face into the sky while the mist slides its fingers reluctantly up the hills.  And on those mornings the running shoes that spend most of their time under my bed are on my feet and pushing me through the retreating mist.  And then the real show happens. The running is great, and the scenery catches in my heart, but it is ritual that hems together the fabric of my day.  And the ritual that knits it all together is coffee.  The water boils while I shower off from the run, and then the grounds steep while I pack my backpack. By this point in the morning, I’m awake and alert, and running my hands over my hand made coffee mug is part of the ritual: it matte green and chunky, made by my own hands so it fits like a part of me.  Pouring it full releases a cloud of fragrant steam and a satisfying whisper of liquid hitting ceramic. I usually step outside with my bag and my coffee and survey the land before taking a sip.  Almost as if prolonging the wait makes the coffee taste better.  Maybe it does. The new beans I ground this day are mellow and smoky, a contrast to the tart acidic stuff I bought last time.  The mellow dark flavor forces me to slow down and consider the drink for a second.  And slowing down to experience sensations is a healthy thing to do.  Even if I’ve had thousands of cups of coffee (I have), I try to pause and consider each...

Emotional Constipation

It took a little while to decide to take this job, but now that I have I feel so much lighter.  And that’s despite the stuff I put into my body at the cafeteria. Take THAT, lower intestine. I really do feel better though, and even the mashed up concoction of refried beans, “spanish rice” and “mexicorn” tasted pretty good after a liberal dose of hot sauce.  I chased it down with a glass of water and a lemon bar.  This ain’t gourmet. Now that I’ve accepted a job, it removes so many question marks, except with regards to the cafeteria, and I can get down to the business of moving in.  At least emotionally.  I’ve been waiting and working things out in my head for the last few days, but really I’ve been chewing on this problem since before I moved to BMC for the summer.  Maybe even before I went back to grad school.  Shrug. But one thing that I’m really excited about now, and I’ll allow myself to get excited about, is finding a place to live that has a good kitchen.  I’m so excited about cooking my own food again.  I miss the taste of...

Oh, Lonely Forlorn Blog

I haven’t been blogging as regularly as I want to.  And that’s too bad, because I like it.  And it’s also too bad, because if you read this hot mess, you like it too. Speaking of hot mess, I was offered a job a couple days ago.  I’m going to accept it, but they low-balled on the salary and I’ve been trying to get them to meet me at a little higher number.  I’ve also been furiously writing cover letters and applying for other jobs.  A job I’ve been jonesing for for about two years finally opened, just about the time I shouldn’t want it anymore- you know, when I have an offer for a real job.  So after smacking my head against the wall for a bit I finally figured out what I’m going to do: take the real job. I’m still not 100% on that decision, but I’m going to do it.  I can’t worry about it after it’s done, and I don’t think I really have a bad decision.  Indecision is more painful than choosing a more complicated path. So, now that I’ve decided to accept the job (by the way, I didn’t sleep at all last night because my brain was worrying this stupid issue to death), I have a feeling I’ll be back to blogging more.  At the very least, I know I’ll be writing one less cover letter per day.  In some cases four less cover letters per day.  That leaves more time to write entertaining blog posts for you dear reader. How I suffer for my art.  And my art is mostly...