the magic box

A little before my birthday, my oldest brother Noah told me he'd been working on a design for a tee shirt for me. He said it was a little crude, but he thought it would be right up my alley.

He was right.


In case you can't read it, the caption says: "Ask me about my magic box." The note that Noah sent with the shirt said:

I worked on this for a while, I hope you like it. I know you typically appreciate V humor, so I thought you might like this. Happy Birthday!

And appreciate it, I did -- I wore it to work today, where no one even flinched, because way weirder shit than this happens there about every other minute.

I love the shirt, because it's funny (and indeed right smack in the center of my alley), but also because it showcases my brother's artwork. He's extremely talented, and I'm proud to have his work here on my blog (he crafted my beautiful logo) and wear it on my tee, too.


cheers,
elizabeth

singing the (tiger) blues

To borrow a phrase from a friend, today in Memphis was the day the music died.

We are the birthplace of the blues. We bleed blue. And today, we sang the blues over the loss of our beloved basketball coach of nine years, John Calipari. Standing on the precipice of what most predicted would be our hands-down year to snag that coveted national championship, he walked. Not only did he walk, he walked to the winningest men's NCAA basketball team in history. And walking with him will likely be the bulk of his No. 1 recruiting class and a handful of seasoned Memphis players.

For those who don't follow college basketball, a few days after the Tigers' unfortunately early eviction from this year's NCAA tournament the buzz started that Calipari would be offered the coaching position at the University of Kentucky, replacing the freshly fired Billy Gillespie. We were not at all surprised, because the buzz is a familiar one. We've heard the post-tournament talk for several years now, speculations of job offers from a laundry list of schools who would love to have Calipari work his magic on their programs. But the buzz was still growing Sunday night, and by Monday morning much of the local media seemed ready to call it in favor of Kentucky.

But nothing was official yet. We waited, hoping for a long-shot, half-court miracle, until early this evening when the news became final. Calipari is no longer our coach.

Plenty of sports columnists and commentators have said in the past 24 hours that we shouldn't be surprised. It's just a job, they said. Like your job, or my job. Sometimes a better offer comes along. And maybe that would be true. Maybe that would be an easy pill to swallow were it not for this town. And this team. And the fact that John Calipari seemed to get us, in a way few outsiders can. After last year's NCAA tournament, when we were seconds away from being national champions, as Memphians welcomed the team back at the airport, he said: "It's different in Memphis." And we all knew exactly what he meant.

He had given us a reason to lift our chins. A reason to be proud of our hometown. A reason to smile at each other in the grocery store on a Saturday while we were loading up on beer and chips. A reason to come together in a city riddled with violent crime, poverty, hate.

Now, I can't help but feel like I've been lied to. Betrayed. Like I was in a relationship with someone for nine years and it turns out they were in it for totally different reasons. Turns out, there is no loyalty. Only ego.

Some feel inclined to wish Calipari good luck, to thank him for "a good run." But I'm not prepared to do that. I feel angry and hurt. I hope he lives to regret his decision, and if he lasts long enough at UK, I hope we get strong enough, soon enough to beat him at his own game. With or without him, we'll get there again.

I only hope that Memphians don't lose the spirit, the way Calipari's leadership made them feel about our Tigers, and about our city. He said this morning that Memphis will be okay without him. And he's right about that -- it may not be next year, or even two years from now. But we will turn this around. We'll take our title. And when we do, I have a feeling it's going to taste that much sweeter.

cheers,
elizabeth

a lifeguard for the dating pool

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about what it is exactly I'm looking for in a man. Partly because it's spring and nothing makes the hormones rage like the arrival of the equinox, and partly because my biological clock gets pretty loud sometimes and is lately becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. I know, I'm only 24, but work with me here -- your typical southern biological clock starts ticking at least four to five years earlier than in the rest of the country.

All this thinking has lead me to a few conclusions, the most pivotal of which being that I do not believe the man I am looking for exists in the north. Wild generalizations, I know. But the men I've met here have tended to offer the qualities I need in a very mutually exclusive way. If he likes the same types of music and tends to have the same strong interest in the arts, he probably doesn't also watch college sports or laugh at fart jokes. And if he does like college sports and laugh at fart jokes, he's probably from New Jersey.

In the south, you can find this rare breed of man. He is intelligent and educated. He likes good music. He's witty. He enjoys sports. He likes to keep up with the news. Now you do encounter something down there that you really don't get up here -- it's what I like to call the Easter Sunday Drinker phenomenon, based on an incident that took place some years ago in a bar in Nashville. I was out with my friend David and his roommate Kate at a dive near their apartment, and I was being chatted up by this very cute guy. It was after midnight on a very particular Saturday night in spring, and thus was officially Easter Sunday. I don't recall exactly how it happened, but at some point the conversation turned and it became evident that I was talking to a very religious person. You can imagine my surprise, considering that we were both half-drunk in a bar in the wee morning hours of Easter Sunday, at hearing him opine for a good few minutes on Jesus and share various cliched metaphors like "what if someone ran in front of a bus for you?", etc. It wasn't until he said something about his little spermazoas being "precious lives" that I made a run for it, but ever since then I have pointed to him as the unfortunate land mine of life in the south -- you never know when you're going to run into a perfectly cute, smart guy in a bar and have him drunkenly ask you to come to church with him.

But it's a land mine I've overstepped before, and it's one I could dodge again if necessary. The point is that up here -- at least to date -- I have yet to meet or hear of a man who really encompassed all those necessary attributes. But I've never been one to give up. I've got a laundry list of dating adventures to begin checking off, and the first one on the table is speed dating.

If you're not familiar with speed dating, it's a somewhat recent development in the lives of busy, urban professionals who simply have too much to do to chat someone up at a bar. Instead they need to be placed in a controlled environment with other people they know are both a.) single and b.) of the same sexual orientation, mingle with them for just long enough to get that crucial first impression down, and then neatly submit their feelings on each potential suitor to a web site which will electronically match the singles from there.

If it all sounds a little weird, it probably will be. And that's why I'm going to do it, and blog about all of it here. Depending on how the speed dating goes, I'll also be exploring the world of internet dating (again, lest I forget the internet dating fiasco of 2004 in which I had the pleasure of meeting Donny Drug User and Scotty McStares-At-Your-Chest-Alots). It's all for your entertainment, and to perhaps prove my little theory about northern men completely wrong. I have my doubts, but we shall see.

Stay tuned!

cheers,
elizabeth

opening night

reasons to love new york, no. 8

Every once in a while when I get on the subway, I walk into a car where the air feels cool and crisp, and somehow smells the way the way subway rides used to smell back in 2006, during the summer I spent living in Union Square and interning at a magazine. For that short trip, I breathe in deeply and remember what it felt like when there were so many reasons to love New York that there wasn't any point in listing them, and certainly not time enough to blog about them.


cheers,
elizabeth

thursday soundbites, no. 7

This photo was taken by one of our photographers at the Tuesday night Bloc Party/Longwave gig that I covered for The Tripwire. I have to note this because, a.) my camera doesn't make stuff that looks like that and b.) she was in the photographers' pit and I was safely one level above, thanks to the Gods of the All Access Pass, sitting on a bar stool perched at the railing of the mezzanine.

Bloc Party is an English indie-rock band who (ironically) I discovered through my very American friend Adrienne just after I'd moved to England. I don't quite know what happened the first time I listened to their music, but something clicked and an instant relationship was forged. I listened to Weekend In The City and Silent Alarm on an unending loop every time I pressed play on my iPod. For at least a month or two it was my daily soundtrack for every train ride, every bus ride, every walk through campus, every trip to the library.

I'm going to post one of my favorite BP tracks for you below in case you are one of the few, the unlucky, those-who've-never-rocked-out-to-Bloc-Party. But moreover, I want to offer up my recommendation of Bloc Party as one as of the best live acts I've ever seen.

Certainly Tuesday's gig was a quasi-religious experience for me. Without going into all the introspective gushing that I know you don't care about (and keeping my once-per-month limit on that type of stuff in mind), Bloc Party was one of those bands whose record found me at exactly the right moment -- as a result, most of the songs are strongly tied to the things I did, how I lived and the way I felt about life and about myself those first few months in London.

But even after I got over the holy-shit factor -- that I was sitting in the velvet-roped-off area, with an incredible view of the entire band, listening to one of my favorite bands -- there was a whole 'nother holy shit factor coming. These guys are the consummate live musicians. If there is anything I dislike about what I do, it's going to a concert to watch a group of musicians stand static on a stage and play their songs exactly the way they sound on the album. If I wanted to hear that, I would've stayed home and played the album, and Christ knows that would've been the preferable choice because at least then I wouldn't have had to wear pants.

The guys of Bloc Party seem to share this idea, and they ripped apart the stage, tore open their own songs and riffs and melodies and had there been the possibility of tearing the roof off the mother, I don't doubt they would've done that, too. You can check out my review of the show here, but it can't begin to do justice to what I witnessed Tuesday night. You've gotta see this for yourself.

Bloc Party - "Banquet" Live in Belgium, 2007


Bloc Party - "Hunting For Witches" Live at Glastonbury



cheers,
elizabeth

idol worship

I've always been one of those people who mentally plans what they're going to say when they meet someone famous. I decided before I went to Los Angeles for spring break my freshman year of college to visit my dear friend Peter that if I did, in fact, encounter a famous person, I would tell them I was their No. 1 fan no matter who it was. Even if I loathed them. Rush Limbaugh? Love your show! Paris Hilton? You're hot! Now autograph something and pose in this picture so all my friends will know I touched you.

But when it comes to people I truly, genuinely admire, I've always had at least a rough outline -- talking points, if you will -- of the things I'd want to say if and when that glorious day ever arrived.

Turns out, the glorious day was Tuesday, and if I'd ever thought about what I would say for one second you would have never known it since I managed to sound like someone out on a weekend pass from the funny farm. I guess me "preparing" to meet a famous person is like me "preparing" for a tornado -- when the storm hits, no amount of preparation will prevent the inevitable slew of swear words that will escape my mouth or decrease the chances of me soiling myself.

I should probably back up here. Tuesday evening I ventured way downtown to Barnes and Noble in Tribeca to attend a reading/book signing by Heather Armstrong, notable Bartlett High School grad and world famous proprietor of the web's most popular personal blog, Dooce.com. I've been reading Dooce since 2003, and though I can't pinpoint when I decided I wanted to be like Heather when I grew up, I can tell you that her writing and her success have been the singular most important influence on my blogging philosophy, and my belief in blogging as a writer's platform.

I look up to her for a plethora of reasons, the foremost of which that she is one of the most naturally witty writers I've ever come across. Of course, it also doesn't hurt that she's from Memphis, and that whenever she posts videos I can hear her accent peeking out from behind her education in the exact same way mine does from time to time. So when I headed downtown Tuesday night for the reading -- and to purchase and have signed a copy of her memoir, It Sucked And I Cried: How I Had A Baby, A Breakdown And A Much Needed Margarita -- I had a mental game plan but was also prepared for it to fly straight out the window like a wad of gum on the freeway.

The pressure was on Tuesday night, because immediately after the signing I had to head straight back uptown to a gig I was covering for The Tripwire (an experience I'll post about soon), and I knew I didn't have much time. I had to be out of the building by no later than 7:45, and the reading didn't start until a few minutes past 7. Worried I wouldn't be able to hang around to get my book signed, I had to come with an on-the-fly plan B.

My initial Plan B had something to do with crowd surfing and punching an old lady to get to the front of the line, but it became a genuinely on-the-fly situation when the reading was followed by a Q and A that I had not seen coming. This was it. This was my chance to say the things I wanted to say, just in case I didn't have another chance. There were two biggies I had to work into the question: 1.) being from Memphis and 2.) having the same alma mater.

Now, I didn't want to be that douche who says, "Hey, I'm from Memphis. How do you feel about animal testing?" I was not trying to hometown-drop. So like any good little nerd, when presented with a Q&A I sent my brain into mental acrobatics to come up with a good question that made the tie-in. I must also mention here that I earnestly do not believe I have ever once asked a question during a Q&A that I actually just had. Like floating in my head, just waiting to be asked. Something I actually wanted to know. Instead, I am an overachiever and asked questions for brownie points.

Anywho. With about three more questions to go, Heather called on me. My heart was racing. I told her I was from Memphis, and that I graduated from Bartlett. Her eyes got a little wide, and she asked what year. Knowing she'd left BHS in 1993, I felt a little silly telling her I graduated in 2003. She laughed good naturedly and said I was just a babe. I asked her then how a girl from Bartlett, Tennessee deals with/processes the notion that she's now a national opinion leader on motherhood, that women from across the country look to her for advice and thoughts and humor and see her as a friend, but also an expert. It was a great question, and even though I blacked out a little bit during her answer from sheer adrenaline, I do recall her saying something about not having been back to Memphis in five years or so, and me shouting out something about how she could stay with me. And then somewhere, my name showed up on a "persons of interest" list in a law enforcement database.

In the end, I was able to surreptitiously skip a few lines (with the blessings of the very lovely women sitting around me) to make sure I could get my book signed before I had to run. And I did, in fact, leave the building at exactly 7:45, at which time I called my mother panting like a jogger on meth-amphetamines to excitedly recount the entire story.

But of course, before I could do all that, I had to actually meet her. I had to stand in front of her table while she signed my book, bringing about the very moment I had been mentally prepping for all this time. With the most important information already in the open thanks to the Q&A, I was free to enter into an easy conversation with Heather about Memphis, or BHS, or how much she wants to be my friend and read my blog. You will all be shocked and utterly beside yourselves to learn that this is not, in fact, how it went down.

Because what really happened is I took one step in front of that table (while the Barnes and Noble lady gave me the stink eye because she totally knew I played cutsies with her precious line system) and had an honest to god out-of-body experience. I stood there while she signed my book, totally mute. She said something about Bartlett, and about how much it must've changed since she left. "What's that place like now, anyway?" she asked.

"Ooooooh, you know," I squeaked. "It's Memphis."

And then it was over. Another person's book needed to be signed, and I had to go. And as I floated above myself and watched this entire idiotic scene play out, I could her my inner voice screaming, "Say something intelligent you stupid bitch!"

For a person whose blog I have been reading for almost six years, whose videos I have watched and child I have seen grow up, whose dogs' names I know and husband's favorite shoes I loathe, it is deeply disturbing to me that I could not put together a coherent thought when finally meeting face to face. I shudder to think what I will do when I finally meet Ben Folds, or christ on a bike, Bob Dylan. I don't think you can conduct an interview with someone when you've just peed yourself.

It's a shame I wasn't more eloquent, but it was an experience I will cherish nonetheless. And who knows, maybe soon when this blog starts growing to the heights of Dooce-worthy, I'll meet her again and sound less like an idiot. Or maybe next time I'll just have a stiff drink first.


cheers,
elizabeth

by the fireflies' light

Just about every day since I moved here, I have stumbled upon some factoid about the north that boggles the mind, and leaves me asking that age old question: What the hell? Like the time I told you that apparently they don't eat biscuits up here. Now if that doesn't make you say what the hell, I don't know what will.

Anyway. Up until I moved to New York in October, I really hadn't ever lived outside the south. I grew up in Memphis, went to school in Kentucky, and sure, I traveled all over -- but I think there are a whole boat load of things you will never realize are unique to yourself or your culture until you actually live outside it. I don't really count my time spent in England in this discussion, because any oddity I noticed about myself there could easily and instantly be written off as an American thing, rather than specifically a southern thing.

So since living here in Yankee-land, the we-don't-eat-biscuits moments have been plentiful, and none less shocking than the one before. I think every time I have one, I unconsciously assume it'll be the last. It's as if I'm thinking, well, that's just about the craziest shit I ever heard so there must not be anything else any weirder these people do/say/have/don't have than that right there.

And then, of course, that assumption is promptly overturned. Repeatedly.

Tonight at work we were chatting about southern-isms and southern culture in the midst of our dialing, and the gal sitting next to me (originally from Michigan) shared that as a child she'd taken a road trip with her family to Alabama, where she remembers seeing fireflies for the very first time. I have said it before with many other things, but y'all, I must reiterate: I'm just not sure I want to go somewhere where they don't have fireflies.

Thinking about catching fireflies in our backyard, chasing after their intermittent glow at dusk, just as the crickets and cicadas were beginning their uproarious night-time symphonies, makes me think of everything that was good and right and pure and perfect about my childhood. The fireflies themselves -- especially the ones who met their maker in a glass mason jar with holes poked in the lid sitting atop my brothers' dresser -- are a synecdoche for growing up in the south. Until you've run barefoot through a yard to catch that elusive light, held it in your cupped hands and peeked through cracked fingers, only to release it and catch another, there is something fundamental about a southern upbringing you may never understand.

I do my best to impart what understanding I can in these conversations, though, and while I may not be able to replicate in words the essence of my entire childhood, I am usually able to bring people up to speed fairly quickly on a few key things. Like grits, for example. The co-worker I was chatting to about all this said, "Well, I don't mind grits, they just don't really have any flavor."

I said, "Flavor!? You gotta put butter in that stuff, baby. Didn't you know that's the whole point?"

At that moment I knew I had just written a book in one sentence, and I shall call it: Southern Cooking Made Simple, by P. Elizabeth Cawein.

cheers,
elizabeth

a typical evening in nyc

9:30 p.m.: Get stuck behind large crowd of senior citizens trying to figure out how to swipe a metro card while 1 train is rolling into the station.

9:37 p.m.: Get cornered by not one, but two homeless people who are surprisingly intoxicated for being so in need of your help this evening, ma'am, one of whom insists he just wants to ask you a question.

9:38 p.m.: Sidestep puddle of fresh urine.

9:38:02 p.m.: Realize that it was human urine.

9:52 p.m.: Fall asleep on train to Jersey City, sandwiched between homeless guy with distinct odor and woman with perfume overdose situation.

10:12 p.m.: Guy stops in front of the bodega at Summit and Mercer to say, "Whatchu doin' mami?"


cheers,
elizabeth

the importance of a good pair of drawers

There's this saying. I want to tell you it's a southern saying, but that's mostly because I've only ever heard it said in the south, and by southern women. But that's not to say people in Connecticut don't say it, too, so I really can't give you the definitive regional origin right this minute.

Anyway. The saying goes something like, always make sure you have on clean underwear (and in this case I think we can take clean to also mean not the ones with the hole in the crotch) because you never know when you're going to be in a car accident. Translation: if you get into a car accident and they have to pry you out with the jaws of life and cut your clothes off to get to your heinous wounds and you have on ratty, day-old panties, just what is that going to say about you?

I guess the other reason I think this is a southern saying is because where else in the country, really, would anyone be concerned with what the hell your panties looked like if you were lying on a stretcher having your jeans sliced off by a paramedic? Only in the south, people. Of course, I think there's also a preventative aspect to the whole idea, like if you wear dirty drawers you're just asking to have your car wreck into a ravine.

Anywho. I think it wasn't until I was in college that I really started believing in the power of a good pair of underwear. And not just to prevent automobile incidents. My sophomore year, my sorority sister Jessica and I took a trip to Paducah to go shopping. While we were there, I took advantage of the old five-for-twenty panty deal at Victoria's Secret -- which is now the five-for-twenty-FIVE deal, it must be noted -- and that following week hand selected one of my new pairs of underwear for my interview for the Miss Murray State University pageant. I got into the pageant that night, and ever since then I have referred to that pair of underwear as my lucky drawers.

They got me Miss Congeniality in the actual Miss MSU pageant, they got me on Homecoming Court and they got me the Jane Hall Panhellenic Scholarship Award. They gave me many excellent performances in The Vagina Monologues, and got me through my Honors Thesis defense. And though these days they are getting a bit on the asking-for-a-car-accident side, they gave me a strong (if ridiculous) belief in the power of the right pair of panties.

Today, when my Memphis Tigers played their first NCAA tournament game, I had on Tiger-blue underwear. For their next game on Saturday, I'll probably switch it up and go with gray. God knows I have plenty to choose from, since today I counted my underwear and found that I own a total of 71 pairs. I know. Trust me, I know.

Anyone else believe in lucky underwear, or lucky charms of any sort? Or are me and my 71 pairs on our own in this one?

cheers,
elizabeth

thursday soundbites, no. 6

In honor of March Madness and the first of the NCAA tournament basketball games (including my Memphis Tigers vs. Cal Northridge, tipping off in a mere 12 minutes), I'm giving some love to my hometown in this week's Soundbite.

These guys to the left are called Jump Back Jake, and I came across them a few weeks ago when their debut album Brooklyn Hustle/Memphis Muscle came across my desk at The Tripwire to catalog and upload.

The interesting thing about these guys -- in terms of this being a little tribute to Memphis music -- is that the band's frontman and namesake (Jake Rabinbach) doesn't actually come from Memphis. In fact, he was living in Brooklyn before moving to Memphis and forming Jump Back Jake, or at least the incarnation we presently know.

They've recorded at the legendary Ardent Studios and they're playing at SXSW this week, where I am pretty sure everyone in the free world is aside from me and the mouse in my apartment. Check out "Say A Prayer" below -- it's one of their slower, blusier jams. Check out their MySpace for more.

Jump Back Jake - "Say A Prayer"




cheers,
elizabeth

two dozen

As of Sunday, I've officially been on the planet for 24 years. And though there are certainly many things from my younger years that I miss -- college, England, sorority life, living at home, being able to buy a pitcher of beer for $6 -- I have decided that I am only looking forward to growing older.

Every age in my life thus far has held its own new adventures, surprises and changes. Though some have been better than others, each one has been dynamic, never static, and always an educational experience one way or another. I am looking forward to 24 for those very reasons, with the hopes that this year will be as rich with opportunity as the years before it have been, and then some.

I never want to be one of those people who dreads growing older. I think old age will suit me very well, mostly because the older you get the more you're entitled to boss people around and always be right. Besides, I think it'll be a long, long time before I even begin to feel old. As long as I can go out on my birthday and get all my drinks paid for by boys I just met -- and I think I'll still be pulling it off at 50 -- I will feel as young as the born-on date on my Budweiser.

The photo of Holly and me was taken at Cafe Wha? in the West Village near Washington Square. They have a killer house band who play everything from Motown to Radiohead to the Talking Heads, and of course, every southern sorority girl's necessary party song: "Don't Stop Believin'."

happy birthday to me,
elizabeth

reasons to love new york, no. 7

My best friend Holly's been in town to celebrate the arrival of my 24th year this weekend, so (as you might have noticed) the blogging has been on a brief hiatus. As she heads home tonight, we'll be back to your regularly scheduled programming.

If you've ever been to the John Lennon memorial in Central Park, you've seen the Imagine marble mosaic in the ground at the corner of the park known in his memory as Strawberry Fields. You may also have seen that mosaic covered in an assortment of flowers, fruit and other decorations, as I have many times. On Friday when Holly and I ventured up to 72nd Street and Central Park West to go admire the memorial, we met a man named Gary, who calls himself the mayor of Strawberry Fields. We were pretty tickled by Gary, and after we heard him give pretty much the exact same speech to three groups of tourists, we decided to take his advice and go home and look him up on YouTube.

When we did, we found out that Gary is a homeless man, who maybe does not have all of his sensibilities completely in tact. But we loved him anyway, and you can hear his standard speech below.





cheers,
elizabeth

thursday soundbites, no. 5

Today my editor sent me this video of a band called Middle Distance Runner, and asked me to watch it and see if I thought it was post-worthy for our TripwireTV spotlight of the day.

Since I am easily excited by things like claymation, I was instantly hooked and started working on the post for the site. But then I realized that, actually, the music was really good, too. Really good. In doing a little research to write up the bit, I found that not only did they perform at CMJ this past year, they were among the favorites of one of our writers. I love "The Unbeliever," but I recommend heading to the band's MySpace page and checking out "The Wrong Hole."

Middle Distance Runner - "The Unbeliever"

Middle Distance Runner "The Unbeliever" from maxwell sorensen on Vimeo.


cheers,
elizabeth

dear sir: kindly vacate the hole behind the refrigerator

Often when I write about the characteristics of southern women, I find myself faced with diametrically opposing traits -- I've chalked this up in several posts to the mysterious duality of southern women. But today it occurred to me that, while I do wholeheartedly believe in said duality, I also think once in a while it is important to draw the distinction between things girls from the South say or do, and things country girls say or do.

I was deep in thought pondering this line in the sand this morning round about 5:30 (so deep, in fact, that I was dead asleep) when I was awakened by a tiny little clicky scratchy noise coming from the floor just beside my bed. I rolled over and turned on my lamp only to see a tiny mouse skidding across the floor into the opposite corner behind a bookshelf. At this point, I was wide awake, and since I'd already begun the job just a teensy bit right there in my room I decided to go and have a perfunctory early morning tinkle. On the way, I tossed out the orange peels that had been the source of the little mouse's delight, left there foolishly by yours truly the night before.

I got back into bed, turned off the light and tried to calm my racing heart down a bit so I could get back to sleep, but I hadn't been under the covers for two seconds before I heard his little scratching across the floor again. I flew out of bed, flipped on the light and I swear to you and Allah that little MF-er stared me straight in the face for had to be a solid minute. Or maybe just a second, things always move in slow motion in high-stress situations. You understand.

Then I saw a sight I shall never forget. That fat little mouse flattened his body near about to the thickness of a sheet of copy paper and slid underneath my door like I was Maxwell Smart and he was Agent 99.

After I got over the shock of that, I laid back down once again and revisited my earlier inner monologue on the different traits of Southern women and country women. And by that, of course, I mean that I fell right asleep and probably snored, but the point is this -- country women can deal with creepy crawlies and bugs and furry four legged rodent-types. Southern women do not.

I don't know what it is about that mouse that makes me want to jump onto a chair, point, scream and piddle a little bit down my leg, I honestly don't. As a kid, my brothers raised and bred mice and they were the cutest little things that ever lived, except of course for the fact that they were owned by teenage boys and were thus named delightful things like "Pestilence," "Plague" and "Fear." And also the fact that sometimes they inner bred and we would have mice babies in the morning and no mice babies in the afternoon. Ah, mother nature.

So now here we are with this mouse, and I being innately Southern and my roommate being very much not country, are left trying to determine how to handle this situation. I personally would choose a strongly worded letter with a polite first request to vacate the premises, with promise of a stern second notice. I have heard that mice do not respond well to this, so we'll probably seek other avenues. I just know this. We can set a mouse trap. I'll even put the cheese or the peanut butter or whatever on it and set it. But I have one simple question for you.

Who the hell is going to take care of that dead mouse? Because it sure as the day I was born is not going to be me, and I'm pretty sure my daddy is nowhere near here.

I suspect this is the reason they invented marriage.


cheers,
elizabeth

reasons to love new york, no. 6

On 33rd St., smack dab in between a four-story Old Navy with mannequins of toddlers in pink hoodies in the front window and a Sbarro, sits The Peep House. There's an adult bookstore off just about every remote highway exit on I-40 in Tennessee, but at least if you go in those, there's a pretty good chance you'll be able to keep that information under wraps.

But if you're planning on going in The Peep House, rest assured: people will see you. Including at least two families with small children in Sbarro and an assorted grouping of genital-free mannequins in capri pants and polos.


cheers,
elizabeth

words to live by

Leap, and the net will appear.

Quite without realizing it, I've long lived my life by this maxim. I have always enjoyed jumping into new situations, traveling to foreign places, venturing where I don't know a soul, counting on the fact that I will meet people, I will make friends, I'll figure it out and will likely have a fairly marvelous time in the process.

Indeed, the net has always appeared. But today as I sat on the train, heading uptown to go to the Philharmonic for my usual Saturday shift on what happens to be the most incredibly beautiful day we've had in many, many months, surrounded by throngs of 20-somethings decked out in green heading to the Hoboken St. Paddy's Parade (and pub crawl), I couldn't help looking around, wondering where the hell that net's gotten off to.

I definitely feel a bit daft for complaining about things like my lack of a job that "fulfills my soul" when one in 10 Americans doesn't have a job at all. I am painfully aware of all the things for which I should be thankful, including the fact that I have a job, and a family and friends and my health and a comfortable supply of ketchup. (Picked up a 24-oz. bottle of Hunt's for 99 cents at the Montgomery Food Mart yesterday and felt a small tear trickle down my cheek. It was beautiful.)

But despite being extremely thankful for what I have, I can't help wishing that what I'm lacking -- that proverbial net, and all it entails -- would hurry up and appear. I've been living in this city since October, and I still lack a "real" job (translation: one that pays me to do what I'm qualified to do) or any real social group, mostly because I don't have money to go out and do things. See the first item of lacking for explanation.

I'm ready to fall into the comfort of the net. I'm ready to have a job I enjoy going to, and one I enjoy going to Monday through Friday, so that I can be one of those 20-somethings in green getting ready to drink beer and revel in a holiday that's still two weeks off. And I am beginning to wonder, as I have never done before mid-leap, so to speak, if the net will ever appear for me, here in New York.

It's a strange question to find myself asking, mostly because for as long as my little pea brain can recall, I have known I wanted to live in New York and work for a magazine. But now? Not so positive. I know I want a job that will allow me to travel, perhaps even to live a transcontinental life. I know I want to write. I know I want the freedom to take time off, to have adventures, to seek new experiences. And I'm starting to realize that maybe all these things aren't going to happen for me here.

It's frightening, and yet simultaneously exciting, to think that all the things I once knew to be absolute and unwavering may, in fact, be totally up in the air and completely flexible. I was the person who declared a major as an incoming freshman and never changed it. I remember saying to people who were still waffling between majors and minors in their third and fourth semesters, "You should feel lucky! That indecision is also the opportunity to do anything. The freedom is exciting!" It was easy, of course, to say that to them when I knew precisely the direction in which I was headed. Now that I'm not so sure anymore, I can imagine what they must've been thinking about my sage wisdom -- easy for you to say -- because it's the same thing I think when my happily employed (at magazines, no less) friends try to give me the same advice.

At the very least all these jumbles of thoughts and questions have basically guaranteed that this blog, for as far into the future as I can see, will continue to be about travels, adventures and generally figuring shit out, because I think my life will be full of all three of those things for a long time coming.

But enough with the sappy, introspective shit. I promise that I will keep that stuff to a once-a-month maximum, because god knows you prefer to read this blog when it's funny and about me wetting my pants in Cardiff, Wales, or the Internet Dating Fiasco of 2004 (both stories coming soon). I'm off to enjoy what's left of this incredible day, with a cup of tea and the view of the New York skyline.

cheers,
elizabeth

thursday soundbites, no. 4

I discovered these guys the other day through an assignment for The Tripwire. They're a French foursome called Phoenix, and they've got an album coming out in May (called Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, the follow-up to 2006's It's Never Been Like That) and plans to tour the states this summer.

I admittedly know virtually nothing about Phoenix, other than the bits I gleaned from my research for the short piece I did (which frankly probably included a look through Wikipedia), but I fell in love instantly with their first single from WAP, "1901."

We featured the mp3, and in the accompanying blurb I wrote this about the song:

It’s bright, filled with layer after layer of sound and rhythm guitar that we would marry if such unions were legal. With info out today on the band’s upcoming release Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, we only hope the rest of the album is as solid as “1901.”

Phoenix - "1901"


cheers,
elizabeth

hometown glory

If you've been anywhere near a weather channel or a newspaper in the past two days, you probably know that New York has had the biggest heap of snow dropped on it basically since the beginning of recorded history. Coincidentally, in semi-related news, it is colder than a well-digger's ass up in this piece. Today with the wind chill, it felt like 2 degrees. In the middle of the afternoon. In direct sunlight.

So for the past two nights, during my usual on-the-way-home-from-the-train-station phone call, it was too cold to have my hands outside my pockets, or my face too far from my scarf. So I made use of a technique I like to call Ghetto Bluetooth. For those of you who would like to try Ghetto Bluetooth at home, it's simple -- just tuck your phone far enough under your ear muff that it's held to the side of your face, stick your hands in your pockets and catch it with your chin if it slips out.

But then, this evening, from the (relative) warmth of my living room, getting ready to pull for Memphian Lil Rounds on American Idol, I realized that perhaps the title Ghetto Bluetooth is a bit of a misnomer -- at least in my illustrious hometown. Because in your basic ghetto in Memphis, you will see the actual bluetooth. You will see it in the ear of a woman, say, driving her Escalade into her driveway, maybe getting ready to settle in and pull for Lil Rounds on American Idol. (On her flat screen TV.) And it'll still be in her ear when she leaves her house the next day to go downtown for food stamps, and when she comes home to find part of her roof caved in and her storm door being used as a sled by neighborhood kids in a vacant lot.

I know you're smart. You've got at least a sixth grade reading level to have made it this far in the post. I don't have to explain to you why that whole preceeding paragraph is such an unfortunate daily occurance in Memphis. We don't need to talk about priorities, right? Not again, at least? Okay. Good.

But for every person like her, I think there's probably also one like Lil Rounds. She's got everything: personal tragedy, the struggle to overcome and a big gospel voice that just kills some Aretha Franklin. If you don't watch American Idol -- or alternately, don't care -- she's singing for her supper on tonight's episode, and she is a Memphian, born and bred. I pretty much don't need a whole lot more of a reason to pull for just about anybody at just about anything.

So I'm pulling for Lil. Because she's from Memphis, but also because in so many ways she is above it. Case in point? Simon Cowell called her classy on national television. Classy? Memphis? Same sentence? Pardon?

I'm off to pull for her, and for Memphis.

cheers,
elizabeth