Butterbeer Latte Kind of Night.

If you haven't seen the awesome butterbeer latte recipe that's been making the rounds (or even if you have), let me direct you to the post that started it all, Molly Hayden Rogers' very own recipe.  (I hope this link works...blogging via mobile can be tricky.)

I bought butter (ok, not "butter," it's Heart Smart Light Spread w/ flax) for the 1st time in months just so I could try it.

And it.

Is.

SCRUMPTULESCENT.

Today's Groupon...

...is $40 for a $100 colonic treatment.  Yesterday's was a dinner for two offer for a Thai restaurant.

I don't think that bodes well for the restaurant.

Seeing Beirut in just a coupla' hours!

These two lovebirds are going to see Beirut live at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles tonight.  Our first concert together--and our favorite band, to boot?  WONDERFUL!  Thank you D, for the tickets (and for being the love of my life).

Storytelling.

Telling a story--orally recounting events which have a beginning, middle, and end--often proves difficult to me.  I tend to digress, to veer, to start to make other connections.  What once was a straight line from point A to point B becomes as elaborate a mental topography as those Family Circus panels, where we'd follow the weaving, zigzagged dashed lines of Billy's journey to the store.  I begin at point A and wander away, crossing back only to find I'm spinning the opposite way before finally regaining the initial trajectory and finding myself at point B.

Sometimes, I never do get back on track to point B.  And so it remains out there in the ether of lost thoughts.  Waiting.

Process over product.  This is something I keep finding myself aiming at in the past two assignments written for my "History and Research Methods in Rhetoric and Composition" course.  The notion of process--HOW we write, how we compose text (whether it is written or spoken text)--versus the notion of product--the text itself, the work of literature or the speech.  I find process to be infinitely more intriguing that product.  This is true for me in virtually all fields, not just rhet/comp. 

I think this preference given to process is what gets me lost on my way to point B so often. 

Ancient History.

If, for any reason, you want a glimpse into the inner-workings of my public psyche pre-2007, feel free to check out THIS OLD BLOG RIGHT HERE.  I think I'll occasionally revisit it myself and post some "on this day in 200X" posts.  Just for funsies.

I agree, Mr. X.

This is a small fraction of the reason of why I don't read newspapers.  I so often distrust them, regardless of the particular newspaper, or author's political situation.  THEY'RE ALL TRYING TO MAKE US FIGHT ONE ANOTHER SO WE WILL BUY THEIR STUFF INSTEAD OF SOMEONE ELSE'S.

EVERYONE.

ALL OF THEM.

.....even you...

Happy Anniversary to these two.

Happy 19th Anniversary to the President and the First Lady, Barack and Michelle Obama.  You guys do this whole "being in love" thing right.

Air Conditioning.

For no real reason, I get a little grossed out by how often my neighbor uses his air conditioning.  There is the nicest breeze right now and it's only 73° out.  Open your windows, man!  Let the outside in!

New smile for Tae Hoon!

A new smile for Tae Hoon!  The old one had an invalid link :(

Morning, 9.21.11

I'll tell you the story of this morning now, while it is still fairly fresh:

This morning I was walking to the busstop and I passed a crazy person.  He was a man in his mid-to-late 50's, wearing denim overalls.  As I got closer to him, I realized he was talking to himself. Passing him, I heard him say "God bless America.  God bless Donald Trump.  God bless Tiger Woods.  They know how to get their shit." At this point, I said quietly, "God bless crazy people."  I am not sure if he heard this, or was responding to it, but as the distance between us slowly widened, he raised his voice to make sure I heard all he said--and it began to seem directed at me, instead of just into the space.  "God bless 'em.  God bless the lesbians, they like to lay down with 14 year old girls.  God bless the Bay Area, they let the perverts walk the streets.  God bless the Bay Area, full of queers..."  On and on, relentlessly, as the distance increased.  At one point, I thought I'd lost him.  I wanted to cry.  I was exhausted physically/mentally, and this barrage of text was exhausting me emotionally/spiritually.  I breathed.  I focused on the blue of the sky.  I did not cry.  

At the crosswalk just before the transit center, waiting for the light to change, I felt a person inches from my left shoulder, and heard a woman's voice say, "It's your hair."  I turned and saw a vagrant woman, shorter than me by a few inches, eyes aligned with mine.  She said "I thought you had bruises on your neck, but it was just your curls."  I put my hand on her shoulder and said "I won't let anyone bruise me."  We smiled at each other.  The light changed, the group of us waiting crossed.  Peripherally, I noticed the overalls man.  He was momentarily silent, it seemed, but as the group crossed, he started in on his litany again.  

But this time, I couldn't really hear it, and it wasn't touching me.  That woman's concern -- thinking that I may have been bruised, and seemingly grateful that I was unharmed -- it protected me and helped me let go of his anger.  It was never mine to take on in the first place.  I got on the bus, knowing instinctively that he was going to get on as well, and so I sat next to a young female student, so that he could not sit next to me.  Sure enough, overalls man got on the bus, still muttering his mixed blessings.  I got my headphones in just before he sat in the seat behind me, and Beirut filled my ears, rather than his voice.  When I got to my office, I discovered that beautiful "My Favorite Memory" video and this time I did cry -- but they were tears of gratitude and joy, not the tears of frustration and exhaustion I nearly cried earlier.  I was at peace.  Peace.  It's a gift we get to give ourselves.