Win A Free iPod!!!

I asked off from my normal job today in order to be an Rockwell Automation Siren. Gotta mix things up, you know? $20/hr to stand around at this Automation Trade Show all day in the Convention Center of the Opryland Hotel with 6 other girls in yellow t-shirts and skirts. Our mission: encourage all the wide-eyed, wandering info tech (IT) guys (and a few girls) from ALL OVER THE WORLD to step up to our thickly carpeted, giant, plasma touch-screen littered, house music thumping display booth and help them sign up to win an iPod touch. To register, they each endured a 30 second "Factory Talk" presentation, typed in their cell number on one of the giant touch screens and we texted them throughout the day with chances to "win amazing prizes".

Now for those of you like me who are like "Automation Trade Show? Is that like... cars? Or robots? Or what?" Sort of. It's a trade show for manufacturers and IT people who own, run, design and work in plants, factories and all that jazz. Factory Talk is a line of software to help regulate/monitor/program the machines that put stuff together.

So this show was huge. Like several thousand people in attendance. You should have seen the cafeteria. I can't imagine catering something like that. Makes me tired just thinking about it! There were people from everywhere stopping by our booth. (I say booth-- it was a huge area, just slightly smaller than 1/2 a basketball court.) I talked to people from Venezuela, Bolivia, India, Denmark, England, Switzerland, Canada, China, Australia, France, Belgium, Germany, not to mention people from ALL over the US. It was insane.

It was a long day (I had to leave the house at 6:35 AM. My motivation? Chikin Biskit.) and I didn't make it home till almost 6PM, but it was easy and pretty entertaining. I do it again tomorrow. And I'm supposed to carry my phone on me all day so please feel free to write me lots of fun facebook messages so I'm not bored out of my mind all day...

Japanese. Burmese. Spanish. And Christmas.

So i've been watching-- well more like, checking in on-- THIS all day. I can't stop. They're adorable. The feisty little instigator/bully in the lime green collar Val and I have christened Chewy. He's like a little furry tank. Although Ol Yeller (Little Baby Yeller?) has some fight in him as well. Pretty positive they're Akitas? Which makes one of them Evita... but I haven't paid close enough attention to decide who.

Also, for the few hours I've been out of the house today, I've been bombarded by Christmas. It's like 55 degrees outside. I can't get behind it.

But I must say, that while I was walking through Target, I did pass through the Christmas ornaments and I started thinking about my misfit tree... and I got sort of excited. :) I think I'll write a whole post about that at some point. I gotta take some pictures first though.

Oh and-- guess what I did last night? I helped my buddy Omar transport some Burmese refugees back to Nashville from their job at a Tyson Chicken factory in Shelbyville, TN (which is an hour away). It was kind of amazing. Omar works for an organization called World Relief that helps place/reunite refugees in TN. So it was me and him in the front seat of this red Windstar minivan, driving through a rainstorm with 8 Burmese guys in green rubber boots smashed into the backseats. They didn't really speak English, so they just talked amongst themselves while Omar and I traded stories and talked about music and politics and NPR and world news and God and revolutions. Yes, me. I talked about politics and NPR. Crazy, right? But I actually really enjoyed it. And the Burmese were really sweet and very grateful for the ride. It was an adventure and an evening well-spent. :)

Tonight? Trabiendo.

Peace!

Naked Is Not The Answer.

So I'm watching Oprah's "Clean Up Your Messy House Tour". I'm a sucker for makeovers-- people, houses, cars, it doesn't really matter. I always get sucked in.

Looking at all the crap in people's closets makes me think though...

Do you know how packed most Goodwill stores and thrift stores are? Don't get me wrong, donating is awesome, but where does it all go? Where has it all gone all these years? When you consider to vast quantities of clothes and shoes being produced all over the world? There should not be any naked people ANYWHERE.

I mean, forget about what's in style, what's trendy-- have you ever thought about just the sheer amount of clothes in the world? Places like Kohl's and Sam's and Wal-Mart and K-Mart and Target carry gobs of mass-produced, relatively low-quality clothing. Not to mention all the mall stores like Gap and Abercrombie and Express and Osh-Kosh and Dillards and American Eagle and Wet Seal and Charlotte Russe that have more crap in their clearance racks than they do on the sales floor. Ever wonder what happens to all that crap when it leaves the store? I mean AFTER it leaves TJ Maxx and Marshall's? Where does all that stuff go? Is it sold or given away? Why are there still naked people? Why are there sweatshops?! That's another post.

And in addition to all our regular people clothes, there are still gobs and gobs of designer clothes piling up in the closets of the rich and famous! Garments that get worn once or twice and then junked because they aren't in style? But we feel bad throwing things away or we have emotional attachment to things... so we just build bigger closets!!!

Point: There are too many clothes. Why do we keep making so many?

I know that there are some styles of things that a LOT of people want. But something needs to change. I mean... aren't we always strving to be (or at least appear) unique anyway?

Why don't manufacturers just set an alotted quantity of each style, based on whatever purchasing numbers they have. Once they're out? They're out. You really want another one? $1000.00. Or get over it. Something like that.

Also don't release 57 styles of shirt in the same color all at once. Spread them out-- we don't need that many choices! We have a hard enough time deciding as it is! Then, not only do manufacturers not have to work as hard coming up with 4 dozen designs to release every 2 months, but consumers are purchasing pieces that are a little more original, instead 40 girls showing up in the same $39.99 dress. People might even step up and start buying things off the sales floor because they know it won't make it to a clearance rack! Appeal to America's competative spirit!

(Even though I realize that this would get out of hand and most likely result in dept. store rioting.)

We should just... make less.

It all ends up in the garbage eventually anyway.

Why do we think we need so much?

Transitions

Summer nights and fall mornings have the same effect on me.

Summer nights are when the unapologetic burn of the day finally gives way to clouds and shadow. The tyrannical warm air lingers, but inescapably charmed by the gentle coolness of the evening, grudgingly shifts to share the space. Nights of bright summer constellations, warm breezes and cricket symphonies create a lush oasis for lonely hearts fresh out of a winter solstice. Nights like that drive you desire touch, to seek company, even just a hand to hold, as nobody should trek through such beauty unaccompanied.

Fall mornings are the same.

They offer the bright clarity of summer with the crisp nose of winter. That whiff of chilliness starts you thinking about hoodie sweatshirts and Friday night football. You realized that Starbucks has purchased their weight in Pumpkin Spice syrup and you know that Christmas will be here before you can blink again. There's enough of a chill in the first few hours of daytime that you don't want to get out of bed, and certainly don't want to leave the house. When it's slightly cold, you wish it was colder, and that you had no place to be. You wish that your only appointments were with a book and a cup of cocoa, and even them, not till early afternoon. Most of all, you wish that the most fantastic creature God ever created was in bed next to you, really believing that you look perfect when you wake up in the morning, wanting to do nothing but be beside you until you both of you feel like getting out of bed.

At least that's what I wish.

Where I Stand.

Psalm 146

1 Praise the LORD. ^[a]

Praise the LORD, O my soul.

2 I will praise the LORD all my life;
I will sing praise to my God as long as I live.

3 Do not put your trust in princes,
in mortal men, who cannot save.

4 When their spirit departs, they return to the ground;
on that very day their plans come to nothing.

5 Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob,
whose hope is in the LORD his God,

6 the Maker of heaven and earth,
the sea, and everything in them—
the LORD, who remains faithful forever.

7 He upholds the cause of the oppressed
and gives food to the hungry.
The LORD sets prisoners free,

8 the LORD gives sight to the blind,
the LORD lifts up those who are bowed down,
the LORD loves the righteous.

9 The LORD watches over the alien
and sustains the fatherless and the widow,
but he frustrates the ways of the wicked.

10 The LORD reigns forever,
your God, O Zion, for all generations.
Praise the LORD.

The LORD. Still the only One worthy of our hope, our adoration, our praise.

***

My heartfelt congratulations to President-Elect Obama.

My prayers for him, his family and for our country as a whole will continue daily.

Seven Things I've Never Written About

1. In our old house, our beta fish, Boca, got used to sitting in the window all day long. He was perched there for over a year. And apparently, he loved it. But now that we're in our new place, his bowl is near the kitchen on our granite bar, all the way across the room from the nearest window. And now he wants to die. Seriously. He's been laying on his side on the glass beads at the bottom of his vase. It's pathetic. My friend Lauren told me that betas do that when they're cold. I moved him to the windowsill behind the couch today and he was happy and swimmy all day. Then the sun went down. He's back on the counter, all mopey and suicidal. We don't know what to do, except... leave him on the windowsill behind the couch??? Weird fish.

2. I've decided to try and connect my 7 things*. So... I did not listen to "cool music" when I was growing up. I wasn't really allowed to. I used to sneak and listen to KISS FM on my walkman when I woke up in the morning. Because of this, I did not really know ANYTHING about Radiohead until last year. It's not like they're my "#1 LA fave rave" but they are nice and moody sometimes and I've heard they're phenomenal in concert and I'm happy to not be ignorant of them anymore.

3. I love quoting lines from movies. A lot of times I'll do it even when nobody gets it. I taught my mother this game and she's actually become quite good at it. Once, she left the sink on in my bathroom and flooded the countertop but I forgave her immediately because she flipped a coin into my hands and said "Sorry bout the mess."

4. I am a huge Star Wars fan, but I do not own all six movies. In fact, I only own ONE on dvd. (And I have the 20th anniversary re-release of the original trilogy on VHS. In the gold Vader box.)  For the longest time, they were just too expensive. And then when the prequels were released, I figured I'd wait for the newfangled,  special-feature ridden set of six to come out. (And I think they're actually selling that now... as two sets? At Target? Maybe?) The past few years, if I feel like watching the movies when they aren't on tv, I borrow them from someone. I continue in this manner because I'm utterly convinced that my future husband already owns the movies. It would be pretty absurd if I married someone who didn't. It's a running joke now, but if you've known me for any grand length of time, this makes sense to you. In fact, you've probably heard me say it.

5. Lately, I'm pretty stressed out by the high numbers of engaged and married and pregnant people on my facebook list. It makes me feel like there's something wrong with me or like I'm running behind or something. I know that's not true on either count. Those people are just on a totally different track than I am right now. And most of the time I'm okay with that. But every now and then I find myself pausing to watch their race and wondering furiously... (furious like intense, not angry.)

6. Things that make me angry include: slow drivers, cigarette smoke in my face/lungs, drug abuse, child abuse, losing things, when people get so calloused that they're content to laugh at things that aren't funny, blinking lights in a room where I'm trying to sleep, Hummers, racism, "religious people", gum stuck to plates, cold dirty water, skanks who throw themselves at guys, parents who try to be bffs with their kids instead of parenting them, The Hills and other reality shows about rich people and most popular hip-hop music of the past 3 years.

7. I've lived in Nashville for three years this June. Annnnd I'm still figuring out what I'm supposed to be doing. Crazy. But I figure as long as I figure it out in 5 years, I'm okay.

Though it would be nice to begin my second quarter of life with some direction...

Dani tagged me. I tag Joey, Brandi and Annie.

* If you totally lost me in the first few connections: Weird Fish is on the Radiohead album "In Rainbows". "#1 LA fave rave" is a That Thing You Do! reference, and "Sorry bout the mess." is a Han Solo line from Episode 4.

Truth To Power

This ficticious newspaper article is the "prologue" of the graphic novel "The Dark Knight Returns". I like it so much, I wish it was real and I had written it for the Daily Planet myself. :) Enjoy!

---

TRUTH TO POWER
by James Olson

There's this little saloon you'll find up and running and packed with patrons before most of us are ready for our morning coffee.

The joint's two subway levels beneath the streets of downtown Metropolis.

Step out at the Schuster stop on the southbound side, take two lefts, walk maybe fifteen feet and you're right on top of it.

But you could just as easily walk right past it and never know it was there.

There's no sign up. Not even a door. Just a dark hallway that looks like a good place for a murder.

Take a breath. Follow the cigarette stink and the bluesy jukebox sounds inside.

It's a tolerable little gin mill. Get there before the morning rush and you're likely to find a stool.

Your first clue that something is wrong about the place is the bartender. You'll never forget his face. He's a hulk of a guy who's seen way too much. A broken man with laser-red eyes. His forehead's a fractured cantilever, an avalanche waiting to happen. His skin's gone a little gray from its natural chartreuse.

He's got a voice like Coke bottles getting ground up under a door.

His name is Jones.

He says he's from Mars.

And nobody tells him he's nuts, not one of these sad, old barflies. It's not that they're scared of him, either.

They've seen and done things that are supposed to be impossible.

They're not the kind to out-and-out brag about being able to bench-press cars or run faster than a speeding bullet of jump up into the air and stay there. Nah. Not these guys.

These guys, they've got nothing to prove. Been there. Done that.

Except for old "Snapper" always at the same stool at the end, living up to his nickname, snapping his fingers in time to the music and rattling on and on about mighty powers, globe-spanning adventures, nefarious world conquerors, you name it.

He never stops snapping his damn fingers. And he never stops sucking back the sauce and jabbering about the old days. The glory days.

The "Golden Age" he calls it.
The age of heroes.

And all the other old farts, they grunt and nod and grumble at each other, swapping old jokes they've swapped a thousand times. Even fat, beet-red old "Penguin" chirps out a curse or two before bursting into tears.

Then they get talking. And if you've got half a brain, you listen.

They talk about amazing adventures, sounding like a bunch of retired car mechanics the whole time.

They talk about a Man of Steel. An Amazon Princess.

But they never talk about the mean one. The cruel one. The one who couldn't fly or bend steel in his bare hands. The one who scared the crap out of everybody and laughed at all the rest of us for being the envious cowards we were.

No, they never talk about him. Say his name and watch Dibny's face sag so bad his jaw hits the bar.

Not a man among them wants to hear about Batman.

Was he quietly assassinated? Or did he just decide we weren't worth the grief? The question hangs in the air for a moment or two, then Jones springs for a round for everybody and himself.

They get talking again. About the old days. The glory days.

They remember.

They were right there. In the thick of it.

Back then.

It wasn't so long ago.

We had heroes.

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