This Is The Hook

It was late 1994 and I was twenty years old when Andy sent the album.

The first part of that year had been spent awakening to the idea that there was so very much more to my world than that which existed in and between those 650 miles on the road map kept in the glovebox of my $550 1982 Datsun B-210.

I want to say that I was happy before that awakening; I wasn't. I acted happy. By all accounts I looked it, too, to the people around me. I went through the motions; I laid plans and John over that foundation of blissful ignorance in my 650-mile-wide world. I love John still, in that way which we love those who shepherd us through our big changes. Today, mutual connections infinitely removed still carry whispers of his presence and life, but twelve years now for me he's absent. Living but not; I killed him dead, right on out of my life.

Unfortunate collateral damage, all my own.

But he was there then, John was, when I put together that 486 and plugged the 9600 baud modem into it. He was there when I started talking about the wonders of the Internet, and he was there as I made friends and formed relationships with people I would never meet.

Enter Andy.

It was 1994 and I was twenty years old when Andy sent Grant Lee Buffalo's Fuzzy across the country. A few weeks later I went out on the hunt for Mighty Joe Moon, and together those albums were the soundtrack of my revolution.

When I backed out of the wedding and packed up all the worldly goods of my (by then) twenty one years, those two albums played. When I turned and ran away as fast as the U-Haul would carry me across those 650 miles, they played. When I finally stopped to look back at the ruins in my wake, they played. When I packed up again (this time only what I could transport in four suitcases and two carry-ons) and moved to South Carolina, they played. Since 1994, whichever turn I take, those two albums have played. They go with me and have been with me and they remind me: I am.

I am the child who left the comfortable and struck out for the new. I am the young adult who was too afraid to stay and fight through the trouble. I am the fierce mother bear. I am the person who used to believe she was never good enough. I am the the product of a good hard look at my life. I am the thirtysomething woman climbing my peak. I am the adult who took the responsibility. I am the careful and the deliberate. I am the impulsive and the fickle. I am the grownup, on the outside. I am the shamelessly tender. All of these things and yet so many more, I am.

Today, those albums play.

Birthday Week

Sunday
I dyed my hair back to a close approximation of the natural color.

Monday
I turned 33 years old and had a rotten awful miserable day followed by a fanfreakintastic birthday luau. I defended my title as Guitar Hero champion, received sweet thoughtful gifts, laughed harder than I have in months, ate yummilicious Hoke-crafted chocolate cheesecake, and enjoyed the company of friends.

Tuesday
A long day at work, a trip to the grocery store, American Idol.

Wednesday
Billy Joel concert. I have to remember to pick up the tickets at willcall shortly after 5.

Thursday
Gillian Welch concert. Oh me oh my oh, look at Miss Ohio!

Friday
Work, kids, Tim. Rest.

Saturday
Nap.

The National Pork Board Hates Breasts

Jennifer over at The Lactivist received a ham-fisted Cease & Desist from the National Pork Board last week... because she had a cafe press shirt which read "The Other White Milk".

The best part of the C & D was this: "In addition, your use of this slogan also tarnishes the good reputation of the National Pork Board's mark in light of your apparent attempt to promote the use of breastmilk beyond merely for infant consumption, such as with the following slogans on your website in close proximity to the slogan "The Other White Milk." "Dairy Diva," "Nursing, Nature's Own Breast Enhancement," "Eat at Mom's, fast-fresh-from the breast," and "My Milk is the Breast."

But what about parody? Hello, world? Would anyone really be confused by such a shirt and believe that the pork industry was suddenly marketing milk?

"A review of trademark parody cases give us no bright line rules. Rather, they appear to be a barometer of both the presiding judge's sense of humor and sense of fairness. As Tom McCarthy puts it, "a non-infringing parody is merely amusing, not confusing."¹

Amazingly, the (oh, Christ, I hate this word and can't believe I'm about to use it) Blogosphere went up to eleven in response, and within hours a formal apology had been issued to Jennifer from Steve Murphy, pigco CEO.

Well played, interwebs. Well played.

¹Trademark Fair Use: An article by Baila H. Celedonia of Cowan, Liebowitz & Latman, P.C.

Good morning

It is straight up snowing outside, y'all¹. So while I'm sitting here waiting for the official school closing announcement (which, by the way, never came), I figure I better get to that Five Things Thing that Jim tagged me to do.

So, here are five things you may not know about me, and I also hereby suggest that the same task be undertaken by these five people: Justin, Jebb, Rachel, Carrie, Jennifer.

Five Things (you may not know about me)

1. I love my job. I totally, completely, absolutely, love my job. Maybe I'm just more aware of how lucky I am to be here, since it was so absolutely magnificently unutterably horrible to work for that other company before this one. Maybe that's why this one, in turn, feels like the very bestest workplace evar. I'm fine with that; the end result is that I like what I do, I admire and respect the people I work with, and I've cultivated a "what's best for the bidness" mindset. Most of the time.
   
2. I'm badonkadonky. Yes, that's right. I have a great big gigantic butt. According to Malav it's shrinking, but I think he's just spent too long looking at it and has lost all sense of spatial relation. If I happen to tell you to "kiss my ass", you better pack a lunch.
   
3. I'm supposed to go see Gillian Welch and David Rawlings later this month.
   
4. Just the mere suggestion that whatever dairy product I happen to be consuming might be sour (ie, as demonstrated by Tim, "that milkshake smells like rotten milk") is enough to prevent me from finishing it. Rotten milk GROSSES ME OUT.
   
5. I really need to pee.
   

1See what I just did, there? I totally just spoke Southese!