YOUR AD HERE
I'm interested in the stupidest stuff ever. Currently? My banner ads at the top of this page. For a long time the banner ads were music related, and that was cool by me. Choral music, Broadway sheet music. Ads I might have had a snowball's chance in hell of clicking on, albeit it in a moment of great weakness.
Now -- Now! Look at these ads Note: If my banner ads change before you read this, then please just take my word for it when I tell you this is what they say. Mmmmkay? Mmmmmkay.
1. Help Baby Sleep All Night! (Baby Will Sleep 8-10 Hrs at Night or Your Money Back. Just $4.95!)
2. Fussy Infant Won't Sleep? (Play this remarkable baby sleep music and watch her fall asleep)
All because I was bored at work on Friday and started pining for the Hamsters. Do you suppose if I write a lot about hamsters, my banner ads will become something small, brown and furry? If all of us bloggers pick a common rant, could we bend the banner ads to our will? The possibilities are endless.
Sign My Guestbook!
Saturday, November 15, 2003
YOUR AD HERE
I'm interested in the stupidest stuff ever. Currently? My banner ads at the top of this page. For a long time the banner ads were music related, and that was cool by me. Choral music, Broadway sheet music. Ads I might have had a snowball's chance in hell of clicking on, albeit it in a moment of great weakness.
Now -- Now! Look at these ads Note: If my banner ads change before you read this, then please just take my word for it when I tell you this is what they say. Mmmmkay? Mmmmmkay.
1. Help Baby Sleep All Night! (Baby Will Sleep 8-10 Hrs at Night or Your Money Back. Just $4.95!)
2. Fussy Infant Won't Sleep? (Play this remarkable baby sleep music and watch her fall asleep)
All because I was bored at work on Friday and started pining for the Hamsters. Do you suppose if I write a lot about hamsters, my banner ads will become something small, brown and furry? If all of us bloggers pick a common rant, could we bend the banner ads to our will? The possibilities are endless.
Sign My Guestbook!
I'm interested in the stupidest stuff ever. Currently? My banner ads at the top of this page. For a long time the banner ads were music related, and that was cool by me. Choral music, Broadway sheet music. Ads I might have had a snowball's chance in hell of clicking on, albeit it in a moment of great weakness.
Now -- Now! Look at these ads Note: If my banner ads change before you read this, then please just take my word for it when I tell you this is what they say. Mmmmkay? Mmmmmkay.
1. Help Baby Sleep All Night! (Baby Will Sleep 8-10 Hrs at Night or Your Money Back. Just $4.95!)
2. Fussy Infant Won't Sleep? (Play this remarkable baby sleep music and watch her fall asleep)
All because I was bored at work on Friday and started pining for the Hamsters. Do you suppose if I write a lot about hamsters, my banner ads will become something small, brown and furry? If all of us bloggers pick a common rant, could we bend the banner ads to our will? The possibilities are endless.
Sign My Guestbook!
GENE GENE THE DANCING MACHINE
How do I describe this?
Last night I went out with several cohorts to a local watering establishment. This is a treat for me, since going out to the bar requires both being awake and having a babysitter. Last night I was two-for-two so out I went for couple hours with UAT (Uber Auntie Tuna) and several compatriots from church. This particular bar isn't the most scenic in the world, nor is it in a particularly refined neighborhood. But we figured it would be ok for a couple hours. Go, drink, hear the band play a bit and leave early. And so, we did.
As we watched the band set up, I caught sight of a rather odd looking guy. He was a rather short (five foot at best) and probably in his late 50's or early 60's. He was also very well dressed: brown suit, shirt, tie, shiny brown shoes. But, he was wearing these black leather gloves with silver studs and crosses, and the fingers cut out. UAT declared they were driving gloves. I declared whatever -- his fashion struck me as creepy and didn't exactly go with the suit.
The band -- Root Doctor -- starts up. They are a really good Rhythm and Blues band. Just as they get going, guess who comes out onto the dance floor? Gene Gene the Dancing Machine! Who is he dancing with? Absolutely nobody! This lateral moon walking poor white man's shuffle version of Michael Jackson is just all over the place. And then BAM! He throws in an Epileptic seizure for dramatic dance floor effect.
You have to imagine the collective look on our faces. The ten of us are sitting there, staring at the dance floor, eyes bugging out, mouth wide open -- speechless. But with every SEIZURE! movement, we all look at each other....and bust a gut laughing. And then we go back to staring at him again. He was a dancing car wreck. You didn't want to watch, but it was impossible to look away.
And on and on it went. The second song starts, and a lone female ventures onto the dance floor. Wow! Is she brave? Is she stupid? What will she do? What will he do? All eyes are on the dance floor, and here comes Gene Gene the Dancing Machine...slide slide shuffle shuffle slide SIEZURE! shuffle shuffle and he does his five-foot tall best to dirty dance with a woman whose waist comes up to his armpits. So once he starts slide slide shuffle shuffle SEIZURing towards her, she makes her counter move dance dance walkaway walkaway walkaway dance dance to the other side of the dance floor. The peanut gallery goes wild. The band is great, but the entertainment is better.
We spent a lot of time amongst the ten of us discussing his style of dance. Now, I know that I have no business criticizing anybody's dance style. My best move can only be described as the sixth-grade clutch (slow dances only). But as we watch this guy...it seems so familiar. And then it hits me. He's doing Elaine's Seinfeld dance, which was described as "a full body dry heave set to music."
As promised, I left shortly thereafter. We spied Gene Gene The Dancing Machine walking to his car as we were leaving. I guessed he was out getting more SEIZURE medicine. As I found out this morning, it was a long slide slide shuffle shuffle slide SEIZURE! shuffle shuffle night for our hero.
Sign My Guestbook!
How do I describe this?
Last night I went out with several cohorts to a local watering establishment. This is a treat for me, since going out to the bar requires both being awake and having a babysitter. Last night I was two-for-two so out I went for couple hours with UAT (Uber Auntie Tuna) and several compatriots from church. This particular bar isn't the most scenic in the world, nor is it in a particularly refined neighborhood. But we figured it would be ok for a couple hours. Go, drink, hear the band play a bit and leave early. And so, we did.
As we watched the band set up, I caught sight of a rather odd looking guy. He was a rather short (five foot at best) and probably in his late 50's or early 60's. He was also very well dressed: brown suit, shirt, tie, shiny brown shoes. But, he was wearing these black leather gloves with silver studs and crosses, and the fingers cut out. UAT declared they were driving gloves. I declared whatever -- his fashion struck me as creepy and didn't exactly go with the suit.
The band -- Root Doctor -- starts up. They are a really good Rhythm and Blues band. Just as they get going, guess who comes out onto the dance floor? Gene Gene the Dancing Machine! Who is he dancing with? Absolutely nobody! This lateral moon walking poor white man's shuffle version of Michael Jackson is just all over the place. And then BAM! He throws in an Epileptic seizure for dramatic dance floor effect.
You have to imagine the collective look on our faces. The ten of us are sitting there, staring at the dance floor, eyes bugging out, mouth wide open -- speechless. But with every SEIZURE! movement, we all look at each other....and bust a gut laughing. And then we go back to staring at him again. He was a dancing car wreck. You didn't want to watch, but it was impossible to look away.
And on and on it went. The second song starts, and a lone female ventures onto the dance floor. Wow! Is she brave? Is she stupid? What will she do? What will he do? All eyes are on the dance floor, and here comes Gene Gene the Dancing Machine...slide slide shuffle shuffle slide SIEZURE! shuffle shuffle and he does his five-foot tall best to dirty dance with a woman whose waist comes up to his armpits. So once he starts slide slide shuffle shuffle SEIZURing towards her, she makes her counter move dance dance walkaway walkaway walkaway dance dance to the other side of the dance floor. The peanut gallery goes wild. The band is great, but the entertainment is better.
We spent a lot of time amongst the ten of us discussing his style of dance. Now, I know that I have no business criticizing anybody's dance style. My best move can only be described as the sixth-grade clutch (slow dances only). But as we watch this guy...it seems so familiar. And then it hits me. He's doing Elaine's Seinfeld dance, which was described as "a full body dry heave set to music."
As promised, I left shortly thereafter. We spied Gene Gene The Dancing Machine walking to his car as we were leaving. I guessed he was out getting more SEIZURE medicine. As I found out this morning, it was a long slide slide shuffle shuffle slide SEIZURE! shuffle shuffle night for our hero.
Sign My Guestbook!
GENE GENE THE DANCING MACHINE
How do I describe this?
Last night I went out with several cohorts to a local watering establishment. This is a treat for me, since going out to the bar requires both being awake and having a babysitter. Last night I was two-for-two so out I went for couple hours with UAT (Uber Auntie Tuna) and several compatriots from church. This particular bar isn't the most scenic in the world, nor is it in a particularly refined neighborhood. But we figured it would be ok for a couple hours. Go, drink, hear the band play a bit and leave early. And so, we did.
As we watched the band set up, I caught sight of a rather odd looking guy. He was a rather short (five foot at best) and probably in his late 50's or early 60's. He was also very well dressed: brown suit, shirt, tie, shiny brown shoes. But, he was wearing these black leather gloves with silver studs and crosses, and the fingers cut out. UAT declared they were driving gloves. I declared whatever -- his fashion struck me as creepy and didn't exactly go with the suit.
The band -- Root Doctor -- starts up. They are a really good Rhythm and Blues band. Just as they get going, guess who comes out onto the dance floor? Gene Gene the Dancing Machine! Who is he dancing with? Absolutely nobody! This lateral moon walking poor white man's shuffle version of Michael Jackson is just all over the place. And then BAM! He throws in an Epileptic seizure for dramatic dance floor effect.
You have to imagine the collective look on our faces. The ten of us are sitting there, staring at the dance floor, eyes bugging out, mouth wide open -- speechless. But with every SEIZURE! movement, we all look at each other....and bust a gut laughing. And then we go back to staring at him again. He was a dancing car wreck. You didn't want to watch, but it was impossible to look away.
And on and on it went. The second song starts, and a lone female ventures onto the dance floor. Wow! Is she brave? Is she stupid? What will she do? What will he do? All eyes are on the dance floor, and here comes Gene Gene the Dancing Machine...slide slide shuffle shuffle slide SIEZURE! shuffle shuffle and he does his five-foot tall best to dirty dance with a woman whose waist comes up to his armpits. So once he starts slide slide shuffle shuffle SEIZURing towards her, she makes her counter move dance dance walkaway walkaway walkaway dance dance to the other side of the dance floor. The peanut gallery goes wild. The band is great, but the entertainment is better.
We spent a lot of time amongst the ten of us discussing his style of dance. Now, I know that I have no business criticizing anybody's dance style. My best move can only be described as the sixth-grade clutch (slow dances only). But as we watch this guy...it seems so familiar. And then it hits me. He's doing Elaine's Seinfeld dance, which was described as "a full body dry heave set to music."
As promised, I left shortly thereafter. We spied Gene Gene The Dancing Machine walking to his car as we were leaving. I guessed he was out getting more SEIZURE medicine. As I found out this morning, it was a long slide slide shuffle shuffle slide SEIZURE! shuffle shuffle night for our hero.
Sign My Guestbook!
How do I describe this?
Last night I went out with several cohorts to a local watering establishment. This is a treat for me, since going out to the bar requires both being awake and having a babysitter. Last night I was two-for-two so out I went for couple hours with UAT (Uber Auntie Tuna) and several compatriots from church. This particular bar isn't the most scenic in the world, nor is it in a particularly refined neighborhood. But we figured it would be ok for a couple hours. Go, drink, hear the band play a bit and leave early. And so, we did.
As we watched the band set up, I caught sight of a rather odd looking guy. He was a rather short (five foot at best) and probably in his late 50's or early 60's. He was also very well dressed: brown suit, shirt, tie, shiny brown shoes. But, he was wearing these black leather gloves with silver studs and crosses, and the fingers cut out. UAT declared they were driving gloves. I declared whatever -- his fashion struck me as creepy and didn't exactly go with the suit.
The band -- Root Doctor -- starts up. They are a really good Rhythm and Blues band. Just as they get going, guess who comes out onto the dance floor? Gene Gene the Dancing Machine! Who is he dancing with? Absolutely nobody! This lateral moon walking poor white man's shuffle version of Michael Jackson is just all over the place. And then BAM! He throws in an Epileptic seizure for dramatic dance floor effect.
You have to imagine the collective look on our faces. The ten of us are sitting there, staring at the dance floor, eyes bugging out, mouth wide open -- speechless. But with every SEIZURE! movement, we all look at each other....and bust a gut laughing. And then we go back to staring at him again. He was a dancing car wreck. You didn't want to watch, but it was impossible to look away.
And on and on it went. The second song starts, and a lone female ventures onto the dance floor. Wow! Is she brave? Is she stupid? What will she do? What will he do? All eyes are on the dance floor, and here comes Gene Gene the Dancing Machine...slide slide shuffle shuffle slide SIEZURE! shuffle shuffle and he does his five-foot tall best to dirty dance with a woman whose waist comes up to his armpits. So once he starts slide slide shuffle shuffle SEIZURing towards her, she makes her counter move dance dance walkaway walkaway walkaway dance dance to the other side of the dance floor. The peanut gallery goes wild. The band is great, but the entertainment is better.
We spent a lot of time amongst the ten of us discussing his style of dance. Now, I know that I have no business criticizing anybody's dance style. My best move can only be described as the sixth-grade clutch (slow dances only). But as we watch this guy...it seems so familiar. And then it hits me. He's doing Elaine's Seinfeld dance, which was described as "a full body dry heave set to music."
As promised, I left shortly thereafter. We spied Gene Gene The Dancing Machine walking to his car as we were leaving. I guessed he was out getting more SEIZURE medicine. As I found out this morning, it was a long slide slide shuffle shuffle slide SEIZURE! shuffle shuffle night for our hero.
Sign My Guestbook!
Friday, November 14, 2003
HOW BORED IS BORED?
They're sleeping.
Still sleeping.
And still sleeping.
Sleeping still.
sigh. Those were the good old days, huh?
Sign My Guestbook!
They're sleeping.
Still sleeping.
And still sleeping.
Sleeping still.
sigh. Those were the good old days, huh?
Sign My Guestbook!
HOW BORED IS BORED?
They're sleeping.
Still sleeping.
And still sleeping.
Sleeping still.
sigh. Those were the good old days, huh?
Sign My Guestbook!
They're sleeping.
Still sleeping.
And still sleeping.
Sleeping still.
sigh. Those were the good old days, huh?
Sign My Guestbook!
A HAIKU
Silly college kid
changing schedule constantly.
More hours? Hell no.
Silly college kid
attempts end run to boss 2 --
must not know we talk.
Silly college kid
No doubt plans to ask boss 3 --
I talk to her too.
Silly college kid
If he asks me one more time,
I'll suggest Wendy's.
Sign My Guestbook!
Silly college kid
changing schedule constantly.
More hours? Hell no.
Silly college kid
attempts end run to boss 2 --
must not know we talk.
Silly college kid
No doubt plans to ask boss 3 --
I talk to her too.
Silly college kid
If he asks me one more time,
I'll suggest Wendy's.
Sign My Guestbook!
A HAIKU
Silly college kid
changing schedule constantly.
More hours? Hell no.
Silly college kid
attempts end run to boss 2 --
must not know we talk.
Silly college kid
No doubt plans to ask boss 3 --
I talk to her too.
Silly college kid
If he asks me one more time,
I'll suggest Wendy's.
Sign My Guestbook!
Silly college kid
changing schedule constantly.
More hours? Hell no.
Silly college kid
attempts end run to boss 2 --
must not know we talk.
Silly college kid
No doubt plans to ask boss 3 --
I talk to her too.
Silly college kid
If he asks me one more time,
I'll suggest Wendy's.
Sign My Guestbook!
VILE
I just got a Spam-o-gram to buy a carton of ciggies for some low, low price. With apologies to those of you who choose to smoke (and I say feel free, so long as I don't have to breathe it), I find this disgusting beyond words. If cigarette advertisements are not allowed in magazines and on television, why should they be floating around the internet? *cough* Bleah.
Sign My Guestbook!
I just got a Spam-o-gram to buy a carton of ciggies for some low, low price. With apologies to those of you who choose to smoke (and I say feel free, so long as I don't have to breathe it), I find this disgusting beyond words. If cigarette advertisements are not allowed in magazines and on television, why should they be floating around the internet? *cough* Bleah.
Sign My Guestbook!
VILE
I just got a Spam-o-gram to buy a carton of ciggies for some low, low price. With apologies to those of you who choose to smoke (and I say feel free, so long as I don't have to breathe it), I find this disgusting beyond words. If cigarette advertisements are not allowed in magazines and on television, why should they be floating around the internet? *cough* Bleah.
Sign My Guestbook!
I just got a Spam-o-gram to buy a carton of ciggies for some low, low price. With apologies to those of you who choose to smoke (and I say feel free, so long as I don't have to breathe it), I find this disgusting beyond words. If cigarette advertisements are not allowed in magazines and on television, why should they be floating around the internet? *cough* Bleah.
Sign My Guestbook!
ODE TO MY OFFICE
I love my office. I love my four walls. I love my door that closes tightly and even locks if I so desire. I love my windows that look over a large tree (now naked - bleh), the east wing of the library (ok, bricks are not so scenic) and circle drive. I love yelling "BOOM" when fender benders happen in the museum parking lot. I love it that my windows can open and I can import wonderfully illegal fresh air in an effort to vanquish nasty stale building air. I love my office even when the stadium across the river does sound checks on Friday at eardrum splitting levels. I love my office even the Carilonneur across the street plays the most inappropriate music conceivable for the out-of-tune bells (to whit: Misty, A Fiddler on the Roof medley and the Tuna Fight Song).
I hate my office. I hate my office because it is no bigger than a broom closet. I hate my office because when I leave it at 5pm, there is very little chance it will still look the same when I return the next morning. My office is the dumping ground for every problem imaginable -- and so it usually looks like a disaster area. Notes taped to my computer, junk on my chair, books and CDs everywhere. Barcodes, tape, staplers, critically important information on tiny 3 x 5 scrap cards, unbelievably stupid bits of drivel on huge pieces of dot-matrix fed paper where all the tiny holes catch on things. It's. A. Mess.
So once again, it's shovel out the office day. Find the biggest things to move out so I have some room to function. Although it may look scholarly to have an office with books piled to the heavens, I'm starting to fear an avalanche. Does my insurance cover death by Beethoven? I don't know.
Meanwhile, Babyfishfel asked in her Blog "What Kind of Librarian are You?" Several answers come to mind: "Overworked, underpaid, hassled, harried and drowning in a sea of paperwork" for starters. But if you truly want to walk in a librarian's shoes -- all the answers are HERE. Being a librarian and a Soprano, I'm thinking I must be the most intimidating person on the planet. It's a good thing.
And I am SO buying a T-shirt.
Sign My Guestbook!
I love my office. I love my four walls. I love my door that closes tightly and even locks if I so desire. I love my windows that look over a large tree (now naked - bleh), the east wing of the library (ok, bricks are not so scenic) and circle drive. I love yelling "BOOM" when fender benders happen in the museum parking lot. I love it that my windows can open and I can import wonderfully illegal fresh air in an effort to vanquish nasty stale building air. I love my office even when the stadium across the river does sound checks on Friday at eardrum splitting levels. I love my office even the Carilonneur across the street plays the most inappropriate music conceivable for the out-of-tune bells (to whit: Misty, A Fiddler on the Roof medley and the Tuna Fight Song).
I hate my office. I hate my office because it is no bigger than a broom closet. I hate my office because when I leave it at 5pm, there is very little chance it will still look the same when I return the next morning. My office is the dumping ground for every problem imaginable -- and so it usually looks like a disaster area. Notes taped to my computer, junk on my chair, books and CDs everywhere. Barcodes, tape, staplers, critically important information on tiny 3 x 5 scrap cards, unbelievably stupid bits of drivel on huge pieces of dot-matrix fed paper where all the tiny holes catch on things. It's. A. Mess.
So once again, it's shovel out the office day. Find the biggest things to move out so I have some room to function. Although it may look scholarly to have an office with books piled to the heavens, I'm starting to fear an avalanche. Does my insurance cover death by Beethoven? I don't know.
Meanwhile, Babyfishfel asked in her Blog "What Kind of Librarian are You?" Several answers come to mind: "Overworked, underpaid, hassled, harried and drowning in a sea of paperwork" for starters. But if you truly want to walk in a librarian's shoes -- all the answers are HERE. Being a librarian and a Soprano, I'm thinking I must be the most intimidating person on the planet. It's a good thing.
And I am SO buying a T-shirt.
Sign My Guestbook!
ODE TO MY OFFICE
I love my office. I love my four walls. I love my door that closes tightly and even locks if I so desire. I love my windows that look over a large tree (now naked - bleh), the east wing of the library (ok, bricks are not so scenic) and circle drive. I love yelling "BOOM" when fender benders happen in the museum parking lot. I love it that my windows can open and I can import wonderfully illegal fresh air in an effort to vanquish nasty stale building air. I love my office even when the stadium across the river does sound checks on Friday at eardrum splitting levels. I love my office even the Carilonneur across the street plays the most inappropriate music conceivable for the out-of-tune bells (to whit: Misty, A Fiddler on the Roof medley and the Tuna Fight Song).
I hate my office. I hate my office because it is no bigger than a broom closet. I hate my office because when I leave it at 5pm, there is very little chance it will still look the same when I return the next morning. My office is the dumping ground for every problem imaginable -- and so it usually looks like a disaster area. Notes taped to my computer, junk on my chair, books and CDs everywhere. Barcodes, tape, staplers, critically important information on tiny 3 x 5 scrap cards, unbelievably stupid bits of drivel on huge pieces of dot-matrix fed paper where all the tiny holes catch on things. It's. A. Mess.
So once again, it's shovel out the office day. Find the biggest things to move out so I have some room to function. Although it may look scholarly to have an office with books piled to the heavens, I'm starting to fear an avalanche. Does my insurance cover death by Beethoven? I don't know.
Meanwhile, Babyfishfel asked in her Blog "What Kind of Librarian are You?" Several answers come to mind: "Overworked, underpaid, hassled, harried and drowning in a sea of paperwork" for starters. But if you truly want to walk in a librarian's shoes -- all the answers are HERE. Being a librarian and a Soprano, I'm thinking I must be the most intimidating person on the planet. It's a good thing.
And I am SO buying a T-shirt.
Sign My Guestbook!
I love my office. I love my four walls. I love my door that closes tightly and even locks if I so desire. I love my windows that look over a large tree (now naked - bleh), the east wing of the library (ok, bricks are not so scenic) and circle drive. I love yelling "BOOM" when fender benders happen in the museum parking lot. I love it that my windows can open and I can import wonderfully illegal fresh air in an effort to vanquish nasty stale building air. I love my office even when the stadium across the river does sound checks on Friday at eardrum splitting levels. I love my office even the Carilonneur across the street plays the most inappropriate music conceivable for the out-of-tune bells (to whit: Misty, A Fiddler on the Roof medley and the Tuna Fight Song).
I hate my office. I hate my office because it is no bigger than a broom closet. I hate my office because when I leave it at 5pm, there is very little chance it will still look the same when I return the next morning. My office is the dumping ground for every problem imaginable -- and so it usually looks like a disaster area. Notes taped to my computer, junk on my chair, books and CDs everywhere. Barcodes, tape, staplers, critically important information on tiny 3 x 5 scrap cards, unbelievably stupid bits of drivel on huge pieces of dot-matrix fed paper where all the tiny holes catch on things. It's. A. Mess.
So once again, it's shovel out the office day. Find the biggest things to move out so I have some room to function. Although it may look scholarly to have an office with books piled to the heavens, I'm starting to fear an avalanche. Does my insurance cover death by Beethoven? I don't know.
Meanwhile, Babyfishfel asked in her Blog "What Kind of Librarian are You?" Several answers come to mind: "Overworked, underpaid, hassled, harried and drowning in a sea of paperwork" for starters. But if you truly want to walk in a librarian's shoes -- all the answers are HERE. Being a librarian and a Soprano, I'm thinking I must be the most intimidating person on the planet. It's a good thing.
And I am SO buying a T-shirt.
Sign My Guestbook!
Thursday, November 13, 2003
A MEMO
TO: COLLEGE VOICE STUDENTS
FROM: GREEN TUNA
I understand the end of the semester is looming ever closer. I understand the great pressures of a college student. I understand that you consider many things to be more important than attending your lessons or studio class. These include but are not limited to: birthdays, boyfriend's birthdays, Greek functions, study sessions, going to the Casino, sleeping, drinking and leaving town.
To the foolish tenor who offered the excuse: I was living in an alternate reality and was a half-hour off all day long... I don't buy it.
To the shockingly rude soprano who bluffed her way through her lesson and still has not a single piece memorized and acted as if she didn't care .... You will soon enough. And it won't be pretty.
My dear students. Remember your instructor can be your mentor, your inspiration, your ally and even your friend. But if you piss off, blow off or otherwise treat disrespectfully your voice teacher -- you have incurred the wrath of a being far worse than an instructor.
Fear the Soprano. She won't bite when provoked. Oh no. She waits for finals. She knows your weakness and she will require you to sing each and every one of them. And then she shall have her reward and her revenge shall be sweet.
Carry on.
Sign My Guestbook!
TO: COLLEGE VOICE STUDENTS
FROM: GREEN TUNA
I understand the end of the semester is looming ever closer. I understand the great pressures of a college student. I understand that you consider many things to be more important than attending your lessons or studio class. These include but are not limited to: birthdays, boyfriend's birthdays, Greek functions, study sessions, going to the Casino, sleeping, drinking and leaving town.
To the foolish tenor who offered the excuse: I was living in an alternate reality and was a half-hour off all day long... I don't buy it.
To the shockingly rude soprano who bluffed her way through her lesson and still has not a single piece memorized and acted as if she didn't care .... You will soon enough. And it won't be pretty.
My dear students. Remember your instructor can be your mentor, your inspiration, your ally and even your friend. But if you piss off, blow off or otherwise treat disrespectfully your voice teacher -- you have incurred the wrath of a being far worse than an instructor.
Fear the Soprano. She won't bite when provoked. Oh no. She waits for finals. She knows your weakness and she will require you to sing each and every one of them. And then she shall have her reward and her revenge shall be sweet.
Carry on.
Sign My Guestbook!
A MEMO
TO: COLLEGE VOICE STUDENTS
FROM: GREEN TUNA
I understand the end of the semester is looming ever closer. I understand the great pressures of a college student. I understand that you consider many things to be more important than attending your lessons or studio class. These include but are not limited to: birthdays, boyfriend's birthdays, Greek functions, study sessions, going to the Casino, sleeping, drinking and leaving town.
To the foolish tenor who offered the excuse: I was living in an alternate reality and was a half-hour off all day long... I don't buy it.
To the shockingly rude soprano who bluffed her way through her lesson and still has not a single piece memorized and acted as if she didn't care .... You will soon enough. And it won't be pretty.
My dear students. Remember your instructor can be your mentor, your inspiration, your ally and even your friend. But if you piss off, blow off or otherwise treat disrespectfully your voice teacher -- you have incurred the wrath of a being far worse than an instructor.
Fear the Soprano. She won't bite when provoked. Oh no. She waits for finals. She knows your weakness and she will require you to sing each and every one of them. And then she shall have her reward and her revenge shall be sweet.
Carry on.
Sign My Guestbook!
TO: COLLEGE VOICE STUDENTS
FROM: GREEN TUNA
I understand the end of the semester is looming ever closer. I understand the great pressures of a college student. I understand that you consider many things to be more important than attending your lessons or studio class. These include but are not limited to: birthdays, boyfriend's birthdays, Greek functions, study sessions, going to the Casino, sleeping, drinking and leaving town.
To the foolish tenor who offered the excuse: I was living in an alternate reality and was a half-hour off all day long... I don't buy it.
To the shockingly rude soprano who bluffed her way through her lesson and still has not a single piece memorized and acted as if she didn't care .... You will soon enough. And it won't be pretty.
My dear students. Remember your instructor can be your mentor, your inspiration, your ally and even your friend. But if you piss off, blow off or otherwise treat disrespectfully your voice teacher -- you have incurred the wrath of a being far worse than an instructor.
Fear the Soprano. She won't bite when provoked. Oh no. She waits for finals. She knows your weakness and she will require you to sing each and every one of them. And then she shall have her reward and her revenge shall be sweet.
Carry on.
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NORTH WINDS, BLOW
Holy wind, Batman! I've already done my arms workout for today. If I could have attached a sail to my car, I would have made it up north in fifteen minutes, flat. As it was I had to clutch the steering wheel with all my might, lest I end up in Ohio or something.
Meanwhile, LA? Six inches of rain AND eighteen inches of hail? First of all, thanks for the current event. Secondly, Yikes. Sucks to be you.
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Holy wind, Batman! I've already done my arms workout for today. If I could have attached a sail to my car, I would have made it up north in fifteen minutes, flat. As it was I had to clutch the steering wheel with all my might, lest I end up in Ohio or something.
Meanwhile, LA? Six inches of rain AND eighteen inches of hail? First of all, thanks for the current event. Secondly, Yikes. Sucks to be you.
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NORTH WINDS, BLOW
Holy wind, Batman! I've already done my arms workout for today. If I could have attached a sail to my car, I would have made it up north in fifteen minutes, flat. As it was I had to clutch the steering wheel with all my might, lest I end up in Ohio or something.
Meanwhile, LA? Six inches of rain AND eighteen inches of hail? First of all, thanks for the current event. Secondly, Yikes. Sucks to be you.
Sign My Guestbook!
Holy wind, Batman! I've already done my arms workout for today. If I could have attached a sail to my car, I would have made it up north in fifteen minutes, flat. As it was I had to clutch the steering wheel with all my might, lest I end up in Ohio or something.
Meanwhile, LA? Six inches of rain AND eighteen inches of hail? First of all, thanks for the current event. Secondly, Yikes. Sucks to be you.
Sign My Guestbook!
LOVE WILL SAVE THE DAY
Listen as your day unfolds,
Challenge what the future holds
Try and keep your head up to the sky....
TinyTuna knows this song. The PBS television station uses a portion of it as background music for a promo clip which features various kids shows. I think PBS is incredibly hip and cool. Arthur, Clifford, Elmo, Zoom Kids, Mr. Rogers.....
You gotta be
You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold, You gotta be wiser,
you gotta be hard, You gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger.....
As soon as the song comes on TV, she cranks the volume and start singing All I know is, love will save the day. How awesome is that? It's a great song. Feeling very cool and hip for once because hey, I own this CD, I decided to surprise her this weekend and I played it one day when we were in the car. Of course, she was ecstatic. The CD booklet had all the words in it, so in true TinyTuna fashion, we played it over and over and over again. Meanwhile, I offered silent thanks that this song was half as long as August's obsession The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Herald what your mother said,
Readin' the books your father read
Try to solve the puzzles in your own sweet time
This weekend as we are singing and driving around town, TinyTuna says, "I think this would make a good funeral song." Woah. What? "Really? What makes you say that?" I ask, trying to encourage additional conversation. TinyTuna says, "Well, I know that funerals are sad, and maybe this is bad to say, but.....well...but it is just that the words are really comforting." So now, I'm about ready to cry. "Wow." I say. "I think so too. What words do you like?" TinyTuna says, "Well, I like them all. I just like the words about love, and I think it would make people feel better when they are sad." Keep in mind, TinyTuna has never been to a funeral, and has known only one person well enough to "miss them" when they passed away. And here she is, talking about funerals and finding inspiration for people who are hurting. GramTuna and I exchange the silent look of "Sheesh, this kid can be scarily deep when she wants to be" and keep going about our day.
Yesterday, the news from my old neighborhoood went from bad to worse. The media reported that the man who turned himself in to the authorities and was arraigned was the victim's son. My younger brother's childhood friend. A kid from the neighborhood. I had hoped against hope this wasn't going to be the case. But it was. I turned off the radio, and hit the CD button, anxious to play whatever was in there.
You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm, You gotta stay together
All I know, all I know, love will save the day.
TinyTuna was right.
Lyrics from "Ya Gotta Be" (Des'ree -- I Ain't Movin' -Sony Records, 1994)
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Listen as your day unfolds,
Challenge what the future holds
Try and keep your head up to the sky....
TinyTuna knows this song. The PBS television station uses a portion of it as background music for a promo clip which features various kids shows. I think PBS is incredibly hip and cool. Arthur, Clifford, Elmo, Zoom Kids, Mr. Rogers.....
You gotta be
You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold, You gotta be wiser,
you gotta be hard, You gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger.....
As soon as the song comes on TV, she cranks the volume and start singing All I know is, love will save the day. How awesome is that? It's a great song. Feeling very cool and hip for once because hey, I own this CD, I decided to surprise her this weekend and I played it one day when we were in the car. Of course, she was ecstatic. The CD booklet had all the words in it, so in true TinyTuna fashion, we played it over and over and over again. Meanwhile, I offered silent thanks that this song was half as long as August's obsession The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Herald what your mother said,
Readin' the books your father read
Try to solve the puzzles in your own sweet time
This weekend as we are singing and driving around town, TinyTuna says, "I think this would make a good funeral song." Woah. What? "Really? What makes you say that?" I ask, trying to encourage additional conversation. TinyTuna says, "Well, I know that funerals are sad, and maybe this is bad to say, but.....well...but it is just that the words are really comforting." So now, I'm about ready to cry. "Wow." I say. "I think so too. What words do you like?" TinyTuna says, "Well, I like them all. I just like the words about love, and I think it would make people feel better when they are sad." Keep in mind, TinyTuna has never been to a funeral, and has known only one person well enough to "miss them" when they passed away. And here she is, talking about funerals and finding inspiration for people who are hurting. GramTuna and I exchange the silent look of "Sheesh, this kid can be scarily deep when she wants to be" and keep going about our day.
Yesterday, the news from my old neighborhoood went from bad to worse. The media reported that the man who turned himself in to the authorities and was arraigned was the victim's son. My younger brother's childhood friend. A kid from the neighborhood. I had hoped against hope this wasn't going to be the case. But it was. I turned off the radio, and hit the CD button, anxious to play whatever was in there.
You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm, You gotta stay together
All I know, all I know, love will save the day.
TinyTuna was right.
Lyrics from "Ya Gotta Be" (Des'ree -- I Ain't Movin' -Sony Records, 1994)
Sign My Guestbook!
LOVE WILL SAVE THE DAY
Listen as your day unfolds,
Challenge what the future holds
Try and keep your head up to the sky....
TinyTuna knows this song. The PBS television station uses a portion of it as background music for a promo clip which features various kids shows. I think PBS is incredibly hip and cool. Arthur, Clifford, Elmo, Zoom Kids, Mr. Rogers.....
You gotta be
You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold, You gotta be wiser,
you gotta be hard, You gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger.....
As soon as the song comes on TV, she cranks the volume and start singing All I know is, love will save the day. How awesome is that? It's a great song. Feeling very cool and hip for once because hey, I own this CD, I decided to surprise her this weekend and I played it one day when we were in the car. Of course, she was ecstatic. The CD booklet had all the words in it, so in true TinyTuna fashion, we played it over and over and over again. Meanwhile, I offered silent thanks that this song was half as long as August's obsession The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Herald what your mother said,
Readin' the books your father read
Try to solve the puzzles in your own sweet time
This weekend as we are singing and driving around town, TinyTuna says, "I think this would make a good funeral song." Woah. What? "Really? What makes you say that?" I ask, trying to encourage additional conversation. TinyTuna says, "Well, I know that funerals are sad, and maybe this is bad to say, but.....well...but it is just that the words are really comforting." So now, I'm about ready to cry. "Wow." I say. "I think so too. What words do you like?" TinyTuna says, "Well, I like them all. I just like the words about love, and I think it would make people feel better when they are sad." Keep in mind, TinyTuna has never been to a funeral, and has known only one person well enough to "miss them" when they passed away. And here she is, talking about funerals and finding inspiration for people who are hurting. GramTuna and I exchange the silent look of "Sheesh, this kid can be scarily deep when she wants to be" and keep going about our day.
Yesterday, the news from my old neighborhoood went from bad to worse. The media reported that the man who turned himself in to the authorities and was arraigned was the victim's son. My younger brother's childhood friend. A kid from the neighborhood. I had hoped against hope this wasn't going to be the case. But it was. I turned off the radio, and hit the CD button, anxious to play whatever was in there.
You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm, You gotta stay together
All I know, all I know, love will save the day.
TinyTuna was right.
Lyrics from "Ya Gotta Be" (Des'ree -- I Ain't Movin' -Sony Records, 1994)
Sign My Guestbook!
Listen as your day unfolds,
Challenge what the future holds
Try and keep your head up to the sky....
TinyTuna knows this song. The PBS television station uses a portion of it as background music for a promo clip which features various kids shows. I think PBS is incredibly hip and cool. Arthur, Clifford, Elmo, Zoom Kids, Mr. Rogers.....
You gotta be
You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold, You gotta be wiser,
you gotta be hard, You gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger.....
As soon as the song comes on TV, she cranks the volume and start singing All I know is, love will save the day. How awesome is that? It's a great song. Feeling very cool and hip for once because hey, I own this CD, I decided to surprise her this weekend and I played it one day when we were in the car. Of course, she was ecstatic. The CD booklet had all the words in it, so in true TinyTuna fashion, we played it over and over and over again. Meanwhile, I offered silent thanks that this song was half as long as August's obsession The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Herald what your mother said,
Readin' the books your father read
Try to solve the puzzles in your own sweet time
This weekend as we are singing and driving around town, TinyTuna says, "I think this would make a good funeral song." Woah. What? "Really? What makes you say that?" I ask, trying to encourage additional conversation. TinyTuna says, "Well, I know that funerals are sad, and maybe this is bad to say, but.....well...but it is just that the words are really comforting." So now, I'm about ready to cry. "Wow." I say. "I think so too. What words do you like?" TinyTuna says, "Well, I like them all. I just like the words about love, and I think it would make people feel better when they are sad." Keep in mind, TinyTuna has never been to a funeral, and has known only one person well enough to "miss them" when they passed away. And here she is, talking about funerals and finding inspiration for people who are hurting. GramTuna and I exchange the silent look of "Sheesh, this kid can be scarily deep when she wants to be" and keep going about our day.
Yesterday, the news from my old neighborhoood went from bad to worse. The media reported that the man who turned himself in to the authorities and was arraigned was the victim's son. My younger brother's childhood friend. A kid from the neighborhood. I had hoped against hope this wasn't going to be the case. But it was. I turned off the radio, and hit the CD button, anxious to play whatever was in there.
You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm, You gotta stay together
All I know, all I know, love will save the day.
TinyTuna was right.
Lyrics from "Ya Gotta Be" (Des'ree -- I Ain't Movin' -Sony Records, 1994)
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Wednesday, November 12, 2003
EXTRA, EXTRA
I grew up in a typical non-descript middle class neighborhood. Families were predominantly University Professors, public school teachers and GM execs. The south end of the neighborhood street was newer, and had a title -- Shaker Heights. The houses were bigger and they had sidewalks. The north end of the neighborhood street -- where I grew up -- was older. The houses were a little smaller, and we had neither sidewalks nor a title. We called ourselves "Shaker Flats", just for fun. The elementary school was a quick 5-minute walk away, so we had a built-in playground year-round. It was a neighborhood where you could ride your bike in the street, and hear your mom call you for dinner, even if you were playing in a yard six houses away. Families knew each other and kids played with each other. Of course, I didn't know it at the time, but looking back now, I can see how lucky I was to live there.
This morning the newspapers scream murder. In my neighborhood. On my street. I saw the house on the news. I remember the house, and I remember the family. The mother -- the victim -- was a highly regarded University Professor. Her son was a good friend of my younger brother. They lived in this quiet, nondescript neighborhood, where nothing ever happened except the daily ins and outs of life.
Because the University was so close to our house, I lived at home during my undergraduate years. It made the most financial sense, since I was footing the ole collegiate bill myself. Besides, I figured that since I grew up with three siblings, I didn't need to live in a dorm and learn how to share. So I lived at home, which was just fine with me. I lived on that quiet street from the age of eight until the age of twenty-two. The neighborhood saw me through elementary school plays, middle school dances, drivers ed, the prom, high school graduation, college and a college degree. It was a long time. After my mother sold the house, I didn't go back to the neighborhood very often, because when I did, it felt strange to me. Not because it had changed, but because it hadn't changed at all. The neighborhood was the same -- but I didn't live there anymore. I felt out of place. It was unsettling because I was now an outsider, looking in.
A couple of years back, a friend of mine moved back to mitten country. He moved back to my old neighborhood, and for awhile, he moved back into his family house, which happened to be two doors down from mine. We reconnected, and I had an opportunity to revisit the neighborhood again. Although it still seemed strange because it was so unchanged, this time, I didn't feel out of place. Instead of feeling sad and unsettled, I felt nostalgic. I could be there and appreciate the coziness of this neighborhood. The city itself had mushroomed over the decades, but this particular street somehow remained quiet and untouched. A modern-day Rip Van Winkle. It felt nice to be back.
Now the neighbors are in shock. The University is mourning the loss of a distinguished academician and colleague. My cozy neighborhood on my quiet street that was so non-descript, where nothing ever happened has now changed. And with that change came one of my saddest realizations. My neighborhood wasn't non-descript. It wasn't ordinary. It was special. It was safe. It was children and families and adults together. It was community. And now it has changed. Now it is just another ordinary street in another ordinary neighborhood in another ordinary city.
Where the papers scream murder.
Sign My Guestbook!
I grew up in a typical non-descript middle class neighborhood. Families were predominantly University Professors, public school teachers and GM execs. The south end of the neighborhood street was newer, and had a title -- Shaker Heights. The houses were bigger and they had sidewalks. The north end of the neighborhood street -- where I grew up -- was older. The houses were a little smaller, and we had neither sidewalks nor a title. We called ourselves "Shaker Flats", just for fun. The elementary school was a quick 5-minute walk away, so we had a built-in playground year-round. It was a neighborhood where you could ride your bike in the street, and hear your mom call you for dinner, even if you were playing in a yard six houses away. Families knew each other and kids played with each other. Of course, I didn't know it at the time, but looking back now, I can see how lucky I was to live there.
This morning the newspapers scream murder. In my neighborhood. On my street. I saw the house on the news. I remember the house, and I remember the family. The mother -- the victim -- was a highly regarded University Professor. Her son was a good friend of my younger brother. They lived in this quiet, nondescript neighborhood, where nothing ever happened except the daily ins and outs of life.
Because the University was so close to our house, I lived at home during my undergraduate years. It made the most financial sense, since I was footing the ole collegiate bill myself. Besides, I figured that since I grew up with three siblings, I didn't need to live in a dorm and learn how to share. So I lived at home, which was just fine with me. I lived on that quiet street from the age of eight until the age of twenty-two. The neighborhood saw me through elementary school plays, middle school dances, drivers ed, the prom, high school graduation, college and a college degree. It was a long time. After my mother sold the house, I didn't go back to the neighborhood very often, because when I did, it felt strange to me. Not because it had changed, but because it hadn't changed at all. The neighborhood was the same -- but I didn't live there anymore. I felt out of place. It was unsettling because I was now an outsider, looking in.
A couple of years back, a friend of mine moved back to mitten country. He moved back to my old neighborhood, and for awhile, he moved back into his family house, which happened to be two doors down from mine. We reconnected, and I had an opportunity to revisit the neighborhood again. Although it still seemed strange because it was so unchanged, this time, I didn't feel out of place. Instead of feeling sad and unsettled, I felt nostalgic. I could be there and appreciate the coziness of this neighborhood. The city itself had mushroomed over the decades, but this particular street somehow remained quiet and untouched. A modern-day Rip Van Winkle. It felt nice to be back.
Now the neighbors are in shock. The University is mourning the loss of a distinguished academician and colleague. My cozy neighborhood on my quiet street that was so non-descript, where nothing ever happened has now changed. And with that change came one of my saddest realizations. My neighborhood wasn't non-descript. It wasn't ordinary. It was special. It was safe. It was children and families and adults together. It was community. And now it has changed. Now it is just another ordinary street in another ordinary neighborhood in another ordinary city.
Where the papers scream murder.
Sign My Guestbook!
EXTRA, EXTRA
I grew up in a typical non-descript middle class neighborhood. Families were predominantly University Professors, public school teachers and GM execs. The south end of the neighborhood street was newer, and had a title -- Shaker Heights. The houses were bigger and they had sidewalks. The north end of the neighborhood street -- where I grew up -- was older. The houses were a little smaller, and we had neither sidewalks nor a title. We called ourselves "Shaker Flats", just for fun. The elementary school was a quick 5-minute walk away, so we had a built-in playground year-round. It was a neighborhood where you could ride your bike in the street, and hear your mom call you for dinner, even if you were playing in a yard six houses away. Families knew each other and kids played with each other. Of course, I didn't know it at the time, but looking back now, I can see how lucky I was to live there.
This morning the newspapers scream murder. In my neighborhood. On my street. I saw the house on the news. I remember the house, and I remember the family. The mother -- the victim -- was a highly regarded University Professor. Her son was a good friend of my younger brother. They lived in this quiet, nondescript neighborhood, where nothing ever happened except the daily ins and outs of life.
Because the University was so close to our house, I lived at home during my undergraduate years. It made the most financial sense, since I was footing the ole collegiate bill myself. Besides, I figured that since I grew up with three siblings, I didn't need to live in a dorm and learn how to share. So I lived at home, which was just fine with me. I lived on that quiet street from the age of eight until the age of twenty-two. The neighborhood saw me through elementary school plays, middle school dances, drivers ed, the prom, high school graduation, college and a college degree. It was a long time. After my mother sold the house, I didn't go back to the neighborhood very often, because when I did, it felt strange to me. Not because it had changed, but because it hadn't changed at all. The neighborhood was the same -- but I didn't live there anymore. I felt out of place. It was unsettling because I was now an outsider, looking in.
A couple of years back, a friend of mine moved back to mitten country. He moved back to my old neighborhood, and for awhile, he moved back into his family house, which happened to be two doors down from mine. We reconnected, and I had an opportunity to revisit the neighborhood again. Although it still seemed strange because it was so unchanged, this time, I didn't feel out of place. Instead of feeling sad and unsettled, I felt nostalgic. I could be there and appreciate the coziness of this neighborhood. The city itself had mushroomed over the decades, but this particular street somehow remained quiet and untouched. A modern-day Rip Van Winkle. It felt nice to be back.
Now the neighbors are in shock. The University is mourning the loss of a distinguished academician and colleague. My cozy neighborhood on my quiet street that was so non-descript, where nothing ever happened has now changed. And with that change came one of my saddest realizations. My neighborhood wasn't non-descript. It wasn't ordinary. It was special. It was safe. It was children and families and adults together. It was community. And now it has changed. Now it is just another ordinary street in another ordinary neighborhood in another ordinary city.
Where the papers scream murder.
Sign My Guestbook!
I grew up in a typical non-descript middle class neighborhood. Families were predominantly University Professors, public school teachers and GM execs. The south end of the neighborhood street was newer, and had a title -- Shaker Heights. The houses were bigger and they had sidewalks. The north end of the neighborhood street -- where I grew up -- was older. The houses were a little smaller, and we had neither sidewalks nor a title. We called ourselves "Shaker Flats", just for fun. The elementary school was a quick 5-minute walk away, so we had a built-in playground year-round. It was a neighborhood where you could ride your bike in the street, and hear your mom call you for dinner, even if you were playing in a yard six houses away. Families knew each other and kids played with each other. Of course, I didn't know it at the time, but looking back now, I can see how lucky I was to live there.
This morning the newspapers scream murder. In my neighborhood. On my street. I saw the house on the news. I remember the house, and I remember the family. The mother -- the victim -- was a highly regarded University Professor. Her son was a good friend of my younger brother. They lived in this quiet, nondescript neighborhood, where nothing ever happened except the daily ins and outs of life.
Because the University was so close to our house, I lived at home during my undergraduate years. It made the most financial sense, since I was footing the ole collegiate bill myself. Besides, I figured that since I grew up with three siblings, I didn't need to live in a dorm and learn how to share. So I lived at home, which was just fine with me. I lived on that quiet street from the age of eight until the age of twenty-two. The neighborhood saw me through elementary school plays, middle school dances, drivers ed, the prom, high school graduation, college and a college degree. It was a long time. After my mother sold the house, I didn't go back to the neighborhood very often, because when I did, it felt strange to me. Not because it had changed, but because it hadn't changed at all. The neighborhood was the same -- but I didn't live there anymore. I felt out of place. It was unsettling because I was now an outsider, looking in.
A couple of years back, a friend of mine moved back to mitten country. He moved back to my old neighborhood, and for awhile, he moved back into his family house, which happened to be two doors down from mine. We reconnected, and I had an opportunity to revisit the neighborhood again. Although it still seemed strange because it was so unchanged, this time, I didn't feel out of place. Instead of feeling sad and unsettled, I felt nostalgic. I could be there and appreciate the coziness of this neighborhood. The city itself had mushroomed over the decades, but this particular street somehow remained quiet and untouched. A modern-day Rip Van Winkle. It felt nice to be back.
Now the neighbors are in shock. The University is mourning the loss of a distinguished academician and colleague. My cozy neighborhood on my quiet street that was so non-descript, where nothing ever happened has now changed. And with that change came one of my saddest realizations. My neighborhood wasn't non-descript. It wasn't ordinary. It was special. It was safe. It was children and families and adults together. It was community. And now it has changed. Now it is just another ordinary street in another ordinary neighborhood in another ordinary city.
Where the papers scream murder.
Sign My Guestbook!
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