Colorful
you swim like you're on fire
live like your last day
drink like its water
there's no tomorrow
and you think no one can hear you
raise your hands to be called on
you know all the answers
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
You're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you dance like no one's watching
sing 'till the song ends
then you sing some more
and we can hardly believe it
words that flow from your mouth
drink like its water
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you're the most beautiful thing that i've seen
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you are an enigma walking
make no excuses for the way that you carry on
and we can hardly believe it
the words that flow from your mouth
drink like its water, hon
drink like its water
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you're the most beautiful thing that i've seen
you are so colorful
you are so beautiful
you are the most colorful thing that i've seen
Bus Ride
bus ride
then i'm corss-town
i take my seat
and watch the streets go by
traffic lights
then a left hand turn
i'm almost to the street where you live on
can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home... to my house
next block
that is my stop
i close my eyes visualize the day
three steps
two knocks on your door
the doorknob turns
my stomach burns to say
can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home... to my house
there's no wall
there's no ceiling shadow
i can finally show you
without a key without a door or window
to climb through can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home
can i take you home... to my house
Speak To Me
Dialogue communicate / wasted words circulate / catchy phrases inside joke / sitcom pilot simple folk / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / campaign slogan election year / fiction writer greatest fear / private letters instruction books / formulas ancient script / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / show me before you don't have a chance / shallow words will drown with water from / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / speak to me
- all lyrics by Rocco Deluca
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Snow Virgins, Board Lessons, and ERs
One of the things I am most grateful for in this life is that nearly every athletic pursuit I now enjoy as an adult I learned a long, long time ago. My mom tells me I was riding a little tricycle around my big sister’s kindergarten playground at the wee age of two-ish. My parents lied about my age to get me into T-ball and soccer earlier than the required age of five because I was apparently too annoyingly energetic to deal with (and also bigger than most other 4 year olds). And my dad, in his infinite wisdom, stuck my 8-year-old sister and 5-year-old self in skiing lessons for a week while the rest of the adults tackled the slopes together, child- and care-free.
My point is this: all of those sports are difficult, and take most people years to fully learn to the point of comfortably calling themselves intermediates instead of mere amateurs or beginners. This is why, when my best friend announced she was going to learn to snowboard on our vacation this year, I choked on a peanut and said a little prayer for her, and my sanity.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I doubt her ability to pick up a sport, or even her athletic prowess and/or drive to succeed. I choked because I remember all of the falling; the sore muscles; and the bruised legs, arms, and ass – the difference is that I went through that between the ages of 5 and 10 years old when everybody are just little rubber balls of energy, numb to pain and suffering from physical exertion and uncoordinated mistakes. My best friend, however, would be taking on these feats as a 27-year-old Gold’s Gym ellipser – two very different stages in life.
The trip started out with us missing our shuttle up to Vail (a good friend of mine lives there), but, amazingly, neither of us let that small kink deter or even dampen our excitement. We got up there the next morning and were on the slopes in plenty of time to get a full half-day of glorious spring snowboarding under our belts. Before I go on, I have to make the disclaimer that several people hip to the trials and tribulations of first-time snowboarding had expressed to Nate’ the urgent advice of taking lessons since it was her first time. She was fully on board… and then saw how much they cost and made the executive decision to wing it – to which I had no veto power. So, we get up the first lift on a gorgeous spring afternoon in Beav, I somehow talk her through getting off the lift (rather well, I might say, she didn’t even fall!), and Nate’ gets about 150 yards down the first catwalk to a green and calls it. Time of day 1’s death: oh-quick-thirty. In her defense, I do not claim to be a good snowboard instructor. If I was, I wouldn’t be working my current job in the middle of Texas – I’d be living the high-life traveling from resort to resort making a living off of being on the slopes all day. Anyway, I digress…
After that first day she wisely decided she needed to take a lesson, so she signed up for an all-day’er starting the following morning. She was completely excited to learn, undoubtedly because it was from an actual instructor and not her dippy best friend who was giving her such gold as, “uh, so, like turn your back foot when you start to feel like you’re gonna fall…” Glorious advice, if I do say so myself… ugh – thanks for not hating me, Rooms. Anyway, so she hauls off to lessons and I hit the hill by myself, which was actually kinda nice because I had all day to just get lost and go where ever I wanted. I got cranked by some douche-bag not looking where he was going sometime midday, so I decided to take a break and go check on how lessons were coming along… Only to be met with a gleaming smile as Nate’ held up her mangled arm and exclaimed, “I hurt myself snowboarding!” Greeaaat.
The most bad-ass part about it is that she finished the entire day’s lesson with a wrist the size of my thigh (okay, I flatter myself – even her swollen as hell wrist was smaller than my thunder thigh, but you get my point in exaggerating for emphasis). We finished our time up in Vail and decided to go to the Emergency Room once we got to my sister’s place – that’s where we found out it was broken.
So that trip to Colorado will always be an amazing story for Nate’ – first time in snow, first time snowboarding, fell and hurt her wrist wherein it swelled up so bad she got to spend all day clutching at and being clutched by a hot Australian snowboard instructor, and then went to the ER two days later only to find out she broke it. Rooms, you badass, you – thanks for the great story!
My point is this: all of those sports are difficult, and take most people years to fully learn to the point of comfortably calling themselves intermediates instead of mere amateurs or beginners. This is why, when my best friend announced she was going to learn to snowboard on our vacation this year, I choked on a peanut and said a little prayer for her, and my sanity.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I doubt her ability to pick up a sport, or even her athletic prowess and/or drive to succeed. I choked because I remember all of the falling; the sore muscles; and the bruised legs, arms, and ass – the difference is that I went through that between the ages of 5 and 10 years old when everybody are just little rubber balls of energy, numb to pain and suffering from physical exertion and uncoordinated mistakes. My best friend, however, would be taking on these feats as a 27-year-old Gold’s Gym ellipser – two very different stages in life.
The trip started out with us missing our shuttle up to Vail (a good friend of mine lives there), but, amazingly, neither of us let that small kink deter or even dampen our excitement. We got up there the next morning and were on the slopes in plenty of time to get a full half-day of glorious spring snowboarding under our belts. Before I go on, I have to make the disclaimer that several people hip to the trials and tribulations of first-time snowboarding had expressed to Nate’ the urgent advice of taking lessons since it was her first time. She was fully on board… and then saw how much they cost and made the executive decision to wing it – to which I had no veto power. So, we get up the first lift on a gorgeous spring afternoon in Beav, I somehow talk her through getting off the lift (rather well, I might say, she didn’t even fall!), and Nate’ gets about 150 yards down the first catwalk to a green and calls it. Time of day 1’s death: oh-quick-thirty. In her defense, I do not claim to be a good snowboard instructor. If I was, I wouldn’t be working my current job in the middle of Texas – I’d be living the high-life traveling from resort to resort making a living off of being on the slopes all day. Anyway, I digress…
After that first day she wisely decided she needed to take a lesson, so she signed up for an all-day’er starting the following morning. She was completely excited to learn, undoubtedly because it was from an actual instructor and not her dippy best friend who was giving her such gold as, “uh, so, like turn your back foot when you start to feel like you’re gonna fall…” Glorious advice, if I do say so myself… ugh – thanks for not hating me, Rooms. Anyway, so she hauls off to lessons and I hit the hill by myself, which was actually kinda nice because I had all day to just get lost and go where ever I wanted. I got cranked by some douche-bag not looking where he was going sometime midday, so I decided to take a break and go check on how lessons were coming along… Only to be met with a gleaming smile as Nate’ held up her mangled arm and exclaimed, “I hurt myself snowboarding!” Greeaaat.
The most bad-ass part about it is that she finished the entire day’s lesson with a wrist the size of my thigh (okay, I flatter myself – even her swollen as hell wrist was smaller than my thunder thigh, but you get my point in exaggerating for emphasis). We finished our time up in Vail and decided to go to the Emergency Room once we got to my sister’s place – that’s where we found out it was broken.
So that trip to Colorado will always be an amazing story for Nate’ – first time in snow, first time snowboarding, fell and hurt her wrist wherein it swelled up so bad she got to spend all day clutching at and being clutched by a hot Australian snowboard instructor, and then went to the ER two days later only to find out she broke it. Rooms, you badass, you – thanks for the great story!
Monday, April 9, 2007
No More Blonde Moments...
Well, who am I kidding. I’ll still have plenty of them – it’s just that now I’ll look like even more of a jackass because I don’t have the platinum locks to go with it. My mistakes and screw-ups won’t be things I can brush off with a cute little chuckle and wave towards my hair – that would just look ridiculous as a brunette. Yeah, I dyed my hair brown last week. I’m still getting used to it, but I’m pretty sure I really like it. The entire idea of me not being a blonde anymore is something I’ve been curious about for a long time – it’s just that I never took the thought seriously enough to actually go do something about it. It was more just flippant voicing in conversations every now and again about “I wonder what I’d look like with dark hair?” Until one day about two months ago when my best friend and I officially went on a mission to dye my hair dark brown.
We were trying to find fun things to do during a torrential downpour day, so we decided to go rifle through the magazine rack at a huge bookstore in town. I had already talked to Nate’ about wondering what it would look like and she would just shrug and say, “yeah? You should try it then.” But with no real commitment from my best friend I had awful visions of turning myself into Elvira - Mistress of the Dark and wasn’t about to actually do it. Then Nate’ saw a picture in GQ of Cameron Diaz in the sunshine on some island with dark brown hair strategically tousled about her face and eyes and our mission was clear. She looked hot, and the dark hair made her blue eyes totally stand out. So we decided to make it happen.
I made an appointment at a totally swanky salon in the middle of Dallas called Pompeo (didn’t know it was that swanky at the time, a friend of mine with awesome hair referred me) to get it done on my way out of town for vacation. The guy who did my hair was awesome, and I had so much fun picking out the color and watching the whole thing go down! I can’t imagine having to sit through that crap every 4-6 weeks though… ugh – how do those women who are constantly dying their hair do it? This is going to be fun for a while, but I know I’m going to get really tired really quick of having to schedule touch-up appointments.
Anyway, not even two hours after its done Nate’ and I are in the airport to fly out for vacation, and while stopped in the security line (I always get stopped, I have no clue what about me says possible threat to Homeland Security!, but whatever) some dude hit on me. It was hysterical. He wasn’t just some junkie off the street, either – he has four names and a freaking roman numeral! We were laughing about that for a good week. Flirty McFlirterson even gave me his card, and if you’re wondering – yes, I fully intend to email him. I was always told that blondes have more fun, but I think I could make a pretty strong case for staying a brunette! Thanks for talking me into it, Rooms!
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Club T.C.
Before I tell you this story, I have to tell you, trusted blog readers, that I am not at all ashamed about events that transpired throughout that evening.
I’m pretty sure it started back in college. Two great friends of mine love men above all else, and will boldly go where no other image-conscious college junior will go – like an N’Sync concert. They loved Justin Timberlake, but remember, this is pre-hot Justin – this is skinny, curly headed, looks like his voice might crack any moment Justin… but on his way up, I’ll give them that. Anyway, they went, they danced their asses off among screaming pre-teen girls, and they raved to all of us how great it was, completely unashamed (props, ladies).
So, back in like October when one of the duo (now my best friend) called me to tell me that Justin was going to be in Houston for the FutureSexLoveSounds tour in March and do I want to go with her and Chanell. Uh, yes! We basically tell Chanell to get all three tickets when she goes online to get hers. My Mistake #1. She waited online until the second tickets went on sale, and the ensuing conversation went like this:
Chanell: “I got the tickets; you guys owe me $115.”
(Dividing in my head I think, okay that’s not too bad)
Nate’: “okay, so what is that, $57.50 each?”
Chanell: (pauses) “no, $115 each…”
Me: “What the HELL!? Are we sitting on the damn stage?!”
Nate’: (laughing) “we’d better get sweated on!”
I say it like we were mad, but honestly after waiting like four months for the concert to arrive (we got our tickets kinda early) we were excited and sitting on the 4th row juuust to the left of center stage was pretty much worth our $115 each.
So Nate’ and I drove to Chanell’s house in Houston – the plan is get her, go eat, get to downtown H-town for the concert. So we greet and hug, say hi to the fam, and are out – we’re all in jeans, Tay and I have t-shirts on, I’m in my snazzy old school New Balance shoes, Tay’s in flip flops. Chanell’s in a button-up shirt, but she always wears those and she had like sketchers on. I think Chanell and Nate’ had a little eye makeup on, me? Makeup? Pssh! (These details will be important later.)
When we got to the Toyota Center we immediately recognized an amazing venue for people-watching. Nobody had been let in yet, so there were lines curving all the way around the damn building, with ALL sorts of people. The hilarious part about it was that the women were all dressed to the freaking nines to go to this concert. I mean, I didn’t know they made 4-inch stilettos, but apparently everybody there did. So we’re walking through the line in our tennies, jeans, and hoodies watching these sticks of women hobble around in heels they can’t walk in and freeze their asses off because their shirt basically covers their nipples and a strip of skin down their stomach – we were pretty sure we were going to a concert, not a nightclub. Hence the name, Club T.C. It was as if the women thought that by looking all “cute” (enter a multitude of appropriate adjectives: slutty, easy, trashy, etc) Justin would actually make eye contact, realize Cameron Diaz and Scarlett Johansson aren’t enough, pause the concert, and pick them out of the crowd to go backstage and start a life together. Hysterically tragic on their part.
Once we actually took our seats the people watching got even better. The only people in front of us were those who had paid to stand on the floor right by the stage and next to the bar. The concert was actually great, and really fun. What can I say? Justin Timberlake is a good performer. During the intermission, Timbaland came onstage and mixed for about 25 minutes, which is where it really turned into Club T.C. Everybody was dancing, all the clackers were bobbing as much as the stilettos would allow, trying to figure out how have rhythm while trying to clutch their uber-trendy, sequined purses (big enough to hold a tube of chapstick) and their alcoholic beverage at the same time.
And the three of us? We didn’t get sweated on, but we danced and sang our asses off in our Ts, tennies, and hoodies and left with our money’s worth.
I’m pretty sure it started back in college. Two great friends of mine love men above all else, and will boldly go where no other image-conscious college junior will go – like an N’Sync concert. They loved Justin Timberlake, but remember, this is pre-hot Justin – this is skinny, curly headed, looks like his voice might crack any moment Justin… but on his way up, I’ll give them that. Anyway, they went, they danced their asses off among screaming pre-teen girls, and they raved to all of us how great it was, completely unashamed (props, ladies).
So, back in like October when one of the duo (now my best friend) called me to tell me that Justin was going to be in Houston for the FutureSexLoveSounds tour in March and do I want to go with her and Chanell. Uh, yes! We basically tell Chanell to get all three tickets when she goes online to get hers. My Mistake #1. She waited online until the second tickets went on sale, and the ensuing conversation went like this:
Chanell: “I got the tickets; you guys owe me $115.”
(Dividing in my head I think, okay that’s not too bad)
Nate’: “okay, so what is that, $57.50 each?”
Chanell: (pauses) “no, $115 each…”
Me: “What the HELL!? Are we sitting on the damn stage?!”
Nate’: (laughing) “we’d better get sweated on!”
I say it like we were mad, but honestly after waiting like four months for the concert to arrive (we got our tickets kinda early) we were excited and sitting on the 4th row juuust to the left of center stage was pretty much worth our $115 each.
So Nate’ and I drove to Chanell’s house in Houston – the plan is get her, go eat, get to downtown H-town for the concert. So we greet and hug, say hi to the fam, and are out – we’re all in jeans, Tay and I have t-shirts on, I’m in my snazzy old school New Balance shoes, Tay’s in flip flops. Chanell’s in a button-up shirt, but she always wears those and she had like sketchers on. I think Chanell and Nate’ had a little eye makeup on, me? Makeup? Pssh! (These details will be important later.)
When we got to the Toyota Center we immediately recognized an amazing venue for people-watching. Nobody had been let in yet, so there were lines curving all the way around the damn building, with ALL sorts of people. The hilarious part about it was that the women were all dressed to the freaking nines to go to this concert. I mean, I didn’t know they made 4-inch stilettos, but apparently everybody there did. So we’re walking through the line in our tennies, jeans, and hoodies watching these sticks of women hobble around in heels they can’t walk in and freeze their asses off because their shirt basically covers their nipples and a strip of skin down their stomach – we were pretty sure we were going to a concert, not a nightclub. Hence the name, Club T.C. It was as if the women thought that by looking all “cute” (enter a multitude of appropriate adjectives: slutty, easy, trashy, etc) Justin would actually make eye contact, realize Cameron Diaz and Scarlett Johansson aren’t enough, pause the concert, and pick them out of the crowd to go backstage and start a life together. Hysterically tragic on their part.
Once we actually took our seats the people watching got even better. The only people in front of us were those who had paid to stand on the floor right by the stage and next to the bar. The concert was actually great, and really fun. What can I say? Justin Timberlake is a good performer. During the intermission, Timbaland came onstage and mixed for about 25 minutes, which is where it really turned into Club T.C. Everybody was dancing, all the clackers were bobbing as much as the stilettos would allow, trying to figure out how have rhythm while trying to clutch their uber-trendy, sequined purses (big enough to hold a tube of chapstick) and their alcoholic beverage at the same time.
And the three of us? We didn’t get sweated on, but we danced and sang our asses off in our Ts, tennies, and hoodies and left with our money’s worth.
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