Filed under And the Kitchen Sink

Don’t say Pandora never did anything for you.

You don’t always get what you want out of life. Sometimes, that’s the dirty hand you’ve been dealt. But other times, that’s your fault.

I’m of the mindset that you can fix most anything you’ve broken, and that you can end most anything you’ve started. I won’t discount the fact that some life extractions are more surgical than others, but I believe what has been done to you (or what you’ve done to yourself) has a better shot at being undone if you just start pulling at the corners.

I’m a Libra. This is of virtually no consequence to most things, save that I fit a Libra profile generally well. And just like the scales that represent the celestial sign, I’m a weigher. Certain decisions can be agonizing for me, if I don’t reel in the process quickly. If sharpened senses fail to catch it, I can find myself debilitated by indecision, so much that I get horribly mired in the details, and up looks exactly the same as down.

Perspective is a beautiful state of mind, though. And some things really are that simple.

There was a time when I was neck-deep in a situation that seemed insurmountable. And unsurvivable. So what did I do? I wasted my energy wracking my brain with permutations and proposed solutions to a problem that seemingly couldn’t be solved.

And then I was cleaning my humble little palace one day, and this song popped up on Pandora.

And just like that, the answer was simply, unquestioningly, crystal clear.

And I didn’t live my life that way.

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I love you cheese. I love you monkeys.

Meat and potatoes.  Bread and butter.  Hollywood and Vine.  Abercrombie and Fitch.  Barnes and Noble.  Britney and white trash.  Brandi and coffee.  I, too, love two things so very, very much that they are inseparable in my mind, which makes them inseparable for all time.

One of these things is cheese.

I love you, cheese.

Cheese, how I love you.  You are the tastiest, most delicious, most glorious curdled coagulation ever invented.  You are delectable on sandwiches, in soups, on a salad, all alone, paired with wine, coupled with beer, as a meal, as a snack, as a treat, as dessert!  You are the reason that I will never, ever achieve veganism in this lifetime.  Because I am so in love with you, cheese.  You’re the one that I want.  Cheese, if you were a human being, we’d have almost nothing in common, but at least we’d have a good time together.  I mean that in a PG-sort of way, I swear.

I don’t have anything more to say about cheese, really.  I just thought you should know how I feel.

The other thing I love is monkeys.

You weally cute. Cute cutie cute!

Oh, hello there, lil’ monkey.  YOU WEALLY CUTE!

When I say “monkeys,” I really mean “primates.”  I only use those two words interchangeably because I have creative license to do so, and no one can stop me.

And no, it’s absolutely not okay that monkeys/chimpanzees/orangutans/gorillas/lemurs/tamarins are that cute.  In fact, it’s completely unfair.  The whole animal kingdom really should revolt, actually.  If I was an elephant, I’d throw a very hysterical fit immediately.  And stomp my big fat feet a whole lot.  If I was a giraffe, I wouldn’t even sign on to the next iteration of The Jungle Book unless the producers made sure that all members of the incredibly lovable primate population were excluded from the cast.  It’s not right.  How can one animal usurp so much wonderfulness in the world?  It’s completely, ridiculously biased.  And unjust.  And weally, weally cute.

Anyway, well, do you know that certain foods contain palm oil, and palm oil plantations actually contribute to the extinction of orangutans?  Yes, that is true.  It’s a crisis.  What’s even truer is that many of the foods that you will consume or distribute – particularly Halloween candies at this time of year, ahem -  contain this dastardly palm oil nonsense.  So educate yourself.  Don’t buy Halloween candies with palm oil in them.  Just don’t.  I said don’t.  There’s a lot of candy out there; you won’t miss a few cavities here and there, I promise.  This handy dandy list will help you chocolatize and sugarize the kiddos without snuffing out the most amazing animal that the jungle has to offer.

Okay, look. I’ll level with you.  If I’m ever going to cuddle with orangutans, you’re gonna have to work with me here.  You gotta make sure they stay alive long enough for me to get to Borneo or Sumatra, and that’s not going to happen right now.  Not unless National Geographic plucks me out of obscurity for my awesome journalism and photography prowess (hola, NatGeo, I’m waiting!).  Since my cellie hasn’t blown up with NatGeo on the other end yet, lay off the Three Musketeers and Dum Dums this Halloween, you dig?  Pull your weight in my quest to hug an orangutan.

Okay.  And that’s all I really have to say.  Aloha!

DISCLAIMER WHICH SHOULD’VE GONE AT THE BEGINNING OF THIS POST: This post is entirely incoherent, highly irrelevant to a whole lot of everything, and generally worth reading because it’s as ADD as you are.  Please read with caution.  Take your meds.  No other safeguards will be provided.  Carry on.

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If you don’t care, I don’t care either.

I'm a Barbie girl in a Barbie world!

I have no desire to explain where I’ve been since June.  In fact, if I did explain where I’ve been since June, then I think I should change the title of this blog from “I’m Awesome” (which is still entirely true, mind you) to “I’m Full of Awesome Excuses.”  Which is also technically true, since everything that comes out of my mouth, ends up on paper, or is posted to the web due to my creation is, summarily, really awesome.

Was I going somewhere with this?

I want to claim I was talking about how awesome I am, but I fear that would be erroneous.  I suppose I was talking about how I have absolutely nothing to say about not posting on this blog since June.  I could say things, I just don’t want to.  Right?  I can do that.  It’s my blog.  Seriously, who’s reading this blog anyway?  I mean, obviously I’m completely full of myself; that’s why I have a blog.  But no one is actually consuming this drivel.  Most of you get enough of my buffoonery in person.  Why would you want to devote your precious free time to swallowing mouthfuls of my…you know, my stuff?

Dammit.  You fucking love me.

I needed to throw in “fuck,” because this post was entirely too much.  Am I writing for a G-rated audience or what?  Fuck that.  And fuck this.  Fucking shit.  Fuck ‘em.  Fuck it.  Fuck it all!  Man.  That makes me feel so much fucking better.

I am still not sure what my point was.

Anyway, so, wow!  Is this blogging thing cool or what?  Yeah, fuck.  This shit’s hard.  Remember when I used to have nothing to do at work and I’d not-so-covertly blog all day about how terrible my job was?  Oh, and boys.  I also blogged about boys.  That part was better than the work part.  Most of you didn’t know me then.  But getting paid to blog was cool.  Not that that was in my job description.  Yeah right.  But that’s exactly what I did.  Is that what I do now?  I dunno.  Sorta.  Except it’s technically okay now.  Well, not blogging all day.  But fucking around on the Internet all day is.  Because now it’s like, a skill set and shit.  Just think – all that screwing around on MySpace and Blogger in the olden days actually helped land the gig I call “a living” now.  Man, life is great.

Is that last paragraph going to get me in trouble?

Why exactly am I writing like this?  Is it because I so desperately wanted to throw in the word “fuck” one more time for posterity?  Hahahaha, I said “fuck” again.  It’s like I’m fuckrolling you.

Dude, I’m so out of touch.  I don’t write enough anymore.  Wait a minute.  Yes, I do.  So now I have no excuse.

Fuck.

Fuckrolling 15, Fuck 0.

Shit. This is going to drive up traffic to my site, but for all the wrong reasons.  Ew.

I was going somewhere with this, wasn’t I?

Truthfully, I probably wasn’t.  Fuck.  I’m so irrelevant.  I should, like, something.  Yeah.  I’ll something sometime really soon.

Drugs?  What drugs?

I’m about to rip a man a new asshole.  No, wait, I hate that saying.

I’m about to dissect a man from the outside in.  Errr.  I’m not gonna do that either.  That’s kinda too Trent Reznor.  And is that even possible?  I do not want to fuck you like an animal in any way, shape, or form, however.

I swear these thoughts are all linked.  I promise.  They all make sense to someone that isn’t you.  Perhaps it’s me.  Perhaps not.

This entire post would be better in tweets.  Sigh.

Wherein I Pretend I Never Went Anywhere

San Francisco, you're all right.Listen, Russian spammers, I know I haven’t been posting a lot at all lately, but this blog is not defunct, so lay off the vodka binge for a second.

Yes, this is my feeble attempt to make yet another excuse for not posting.  Wait, have I made a genuine excuse before?  It doesn’t matter.

I’m so bored with my own excuses that I’m not even going to bother making any.  But I will make lists.  Because lists are nice, and everyone loves a good list, right?  Oh, and lists aren’t excuses.  They’re awesome.  Just like me.

Top 11 Reasons Why Fayza Hasn’t Been Blogging Here

  1. She’s scheming. Okay, that might be a given, but still, she’s definitely scheming.  And she doesn’t wanna tell you about it.  Na-na-na-boo-boo.
  2. She’s un-fattening herself. She’s been training for an adventure race with an adventure racing team.  It’s all very adventurous.  And frankly, she loves it and wishes it would take up even more of her time than it already does.  That isn’t sarcasm, actually.
  3. She’s a tool. She’s adopted a third-person-only method of addressing herself, but she’s not that smart, so it gets really confusing sometimes.
  4. She’s replaced I’m Awesome. with greener pastures. So, okay, not entirely true, but she is blogging over at the Houston Press (yes, a real, live, legitimate publication, can you believe it?) as its new social media columnist.
  5. She’s a slacker. She’s trying to pull her weight over on the Schipul blog.  Because she doesn’t work hard enough at Schipul as is.
  6. She buys into the hype ’cause Oprah told her to. She can’t blog from her BlackBerry very easily at all, but she can tweet from it (so she does that instead).  What a sheep.
  7. She sucks now. She misses being a real snaggletoothed jackoff, like she was on her old blog (which she will not reveal to you).
  8. She’s boring. She has nothing interesting to say.  Okay, this one’s a bold-faced, Arial-fonted lie.
  9. She wants you to miss her. What, something wrong with good ol’ fashioned beggin’ for attention?
  10. She’s been livin’ up life as a $30,000 millionaire. Jetsetting to San Francisco, like, every other weekend.  And you know it.
  11. She’s pretty sure this blog is all about her. And what a vain concept that is.

As if anything further needs to be said, well, I’m sayin’ it.  I’m going to stop taking this space on the interwebs so seriously and let my hair down.  All six inches of it.  And maybe go without underwear while wearing a skirt on a windy day, too.  Life’s too short to care so much, isn’t it?

I’m taking suggestions for making this blog more interesting (subject to my overarching veto, of course).  ‘Cause gawd only knows we need another blogger out there with absolutely nothing to say.

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So, um, yeah, how ’bout them Cardinals?

I'm bashful.Why, hello.  HELLO HI!

Okay, we have to talk about it.

Being the bashful blogger that I am, I awoke early with the specific intent that I was going to write a blogpost.  You know, seeing that I haven’t done that since December (I’m ducking your gunfire as we speak).  Err.  Okay, okay, you caught me; that’s a total lie.  I was rudely shaken from peaceful slumber by my feline companion’s mewing, which, when unanswered, graduated to howling, which devolved into sucking on my hair and kneading his claws into my head (yes, this behavior is quite regular for him). I decided to jostle myself into the real world by hoisting my laptop onto the bed, and almost immediately, he fell asleep next to me.  He’s been completely silent for about, oh, let’s say, an hour?  That’s about as long as I’ve been up, anyway.

Sucker.

So instead of dwelling on the fact that my waking hours are likely to completely suck based upon the fact that I haven’t had a restful night of sleep for about a week, I decided to turn lemons into lemonade (yum, lemonade sounds great right now!) and write (wouldn’t it be great if the expression was “turning milk into cheese”?  I think I like that one better; I’m going to use it from here on out).

Ahem.  Except, like, I can’t.

You see, my brain is broken.  I’m blaming Twitter.  ‘Cause there has to be something to blame, and it’s pretty much required to be some sort of social media that psychologists will argue is changing my traditional social behaviors for the worse.  I mean, I only think in brief, bite-sized, followable quips anymore!  Everything else worth saying is either retweetable, overheard, or a link to a website!  And it’s amazing that the limits on what I have to say are 140 characters or less!  I know, it’s a Christmas miracle!

Woof.

I’ll be the first to admit that I pretty much suck at this blogging thing.  I didn’t always suck, but now, I do suck.  Sure, I have topics to write about.  I mean, I returned from the fun-and-learning-filled time warp that was SXSWi on…um, was it yesterday?  No, no, never mind, it doesn’t matter.  The point is, I have plenty to say about that, but perhaps not the time to gather my thoughts.  Or perspective?  Errr, perhaps not the motivation to gather my thoughts.  Oh, oh, and I know, there’s always time for me to further litter the blogosphere with my ideas on social media!  Because there’s not enough out there already!

Why am I lying so much this morning?  Any constructive thoughts that need to be written about have been completely overtaken by thoughts of boys.  Particular boys, theoretical boys, unspecific boys, but there you have it – boys, boys, boys.  Hey 30, is that you a-knockin’ or what?

Crap.  This is going downhill fast.  And my boss is going to read this.  And he’s going to shake his head, and maybe his cheeks will turn a little red.  O HAI BOSSMAN!

The truth is, the tunnels leading in and out of my head are pointing in a million, cajillion, bazillion different directions right now (why does this feel like a cop-out email that I’ve written to my friends back in Ohio when I can’t make it to their baby showers?).  So, think of this as a placeholder.  No, no, actually, think of me as the cute, wholesome, strangely attentive frat boy that diligently kept supplying you beers at that kegger (you know the one), who graciously got you wasted and encouraged and supported your idea of dancing on the couches topless while making out with your sorority sister,  who offered his bed to you when you were too drunk to make it back to the dorms (with sheets that hadn’t been washed since his freshman year, and was he a fifth-year senior already?), and who left the house for “class” before you could even roll over to ask him where your socks and underwear landed.  You’ll tell everyone it was love.

Moral of the story?  I’m using you, dear readers.  I’m using you and this blogpost to get my blogging groove back.

Was it as good for you as it was for me?

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Awesome things? About me? Okay!

Photo taken by a Schipulite.

Photographer: A Schipulite

I generally try not to be a big ol’ buttface when it comes to being tagged for online memes, but actually, I’ve been a big ol’ buttface when it comes to being tagged for online memes.

Between Imelda tagging me back in – gasp! – November with a sixer, and Magsies tagging me at the beginning of the month with an eighter, well, I have squarely missed the window for a timely and polite in-kind reciprocation.  Damn me.

But what’s that saying the young folks use?  The one that validates being late?  Oh yes.  Better late than never! Word.

And so, without further ado, I present:

Six (to Eight?) Random & Awesome Things About Fayza

1. I never buy the first thing off the shelf. Never.  Ever.  I can’t even force myself to do it.  Trust me, I’ve tried.  I’ll immediately circle back around and replace the item on the shelf where I found it.  Then I’ll take the third one, which is now the second one (because, you see, the second one became the first one by virtue of me taking the formerly first one, and now the old second one is the new first one and is thus disqualified for purchase).  And, um, yeah.  I swear I’m not psychotic.

2. I wanted to be an interior designer, but my college career counselor talked me out of it.  I marched into my career counselor’s office early in my freshman year in college (and barely a semester into my Political Science major), and said, “I want to change my major.  To Interior Design.”  She skeptically peered down her glasses at me, ruminated for a bit, and proceeded to sling every reason in the book as to why that was a bad idea.  Perhaps it was; I settled for an International Relations and Spanish major instead.  But I’m not convinced of the truth of her words to this day.  You should see my apartment; I had promise, dude.  Even my mom, who wasn’t a proponent of the switch at the time, has since eaten her words.

3. I’m an All-Ohio actress and an All-Ohio cheerleader.  Err, well, I was in 1996.  The acting honors came from my performance as Emily Webb in Our Town at a one-act invitational competition at Ohio Northern University.  One of the supporting actors?  None other than Jonathan Bennett, perhaps better known as Aaron Samuels in a little movie you may’ve heard of before – Mean Girls.  The cheering accolade was awarded while at a statewide cheerleading camp at Muskingum College called – you guessed it – Cheer Ohio.

4. My most favorite book in the whole wide entire world is The Hundred Dresses. I read it when I was in second grade, and no book has taught me more about being a good person to everyone, no matter what.  Read it yourself; you’ll know why.

5.  I’m deathly claustrophobic. And I don’t mean that figuratively.  I’m not afraid of much, and I have few phobias, but tiny, tightly enclosed spaces?  Yup.  That’s probably the highest on the Holy Shit List.  I once voluntarily allowed someone to put me in a locker in high school (mostly because I could stand up completely straight while inside, and it was awesome), and the person didn’t let me out immediately.  I went out of my mind with hyperventiliation and hysteria – to the point where I couldn’t even vocalize my fears.  As a result, I live in Texas (where everything’s bigger, yeee-haw!) and I do not do those hamster tube slides at waterparks.  If the mafia ever wrongly fingers me and I’m buried alive, rest assured I won’t be once they realize the mistake and exhume me.

6.  I’m allergic to cats. Surprise, surprise, right, since I have one?  I know, but ’tis true.  Itchy, watery eyes, stuffy nose, the whole nine.  I know what an allergic reaction to cats feels like.  It must be my luck of the dander draw, ’cause his doesn’t (and never has) irritate me a bit.

7.  I don’t think I’ll ever get married. I certainly don’t.  Truthfully.  And not in a woe-is-me sort of way.  Not at all.  More like in a geez-I’m-difficult-and-pretty-inconsistent-plus-I-love-love-love-my-independence-a-whole-bunch-and-I-don’t-think-I-want-kids-so-why-bother-really sort of way.  I’m okay with that.  I know you don’t believe me.  But I am.

8.  That’s enough, Fayza, that’s enough. Eight’s too many for me.  I’m already drunk on myself.  I didn’t eat dinner (okay, that’s a lie) and I haven’t consumed enough water.  I’d better quit while I’m ahead.  I don’t wanna wake up with a Fayza hangover in the morning.

And now, you’re it!

  • Perky Boobs – If anyone can rattle off six (to eight?) random things that you really wanna read (and can never find the chutzpah to say yourself), lemme tell you, it’s her.
  • Maisnon – Always a first-class meme responder, but methinks it is time for some fresh new memesponses!
  • Dr. Miggy – I am a robot.  I would like to meet other robots.  Thank you!
  • Yasmine – The original rockstar.
  • Jun Loayza – Hey, his last name’s 80% of my first name (just gloss over the math), and he’s an Angeleno.  He’s already a winner, in my book.
  • David Kadavy - Yet another David that will not take part in this, I’m pretty sure.  But you can’t fault a girl for tryin’.
  • George Smith – ‘Cause, ooh, ooh, how exciting is it that friends from my past are movin’ up into the future?
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Don’t try to front; I know just (just) what you are.

Well, hello there.  Looky looky what we have here.  It’s my birthday, and I’ve got a wee morsel of snark-ready cuisine served up fresh on my plate.  A new Britney Spears video?  Could it get any better?  Oh, Birthday Gods, thank you ever so much.  This couldn’t be any day but my birthday.

So, Britney’s new video is called “Womanizer.”  It features a very attractive bloke going about his ordinary day, his scantily clad housewife cooking him eggs (strangely square in shape) while in his boxers, then cuts to him slaving away at the daily grind in the office, progressing into having a cigar-and-scotch lunch (um?) with his co-worker boys, transitioning into being chauffeured around in his Town Car, and then returning home at the end of a long day…of “womanizing.”  Or is he?

First of all, let’s begin with the basics.  It’s a good thing Britney can release a video that opens with her writhing around alone, oiled and naked, in a strategically lit sauna.  Because then we sorta forget that she can’t actually sing at all.  Those of us that don’t rely on our ears for hearing, that is.  Having her songs stand on their own, sans racy or controversial videos?  Oh, c’mon, silly.  We know that ain’t gonna happen.

Is anyone else confused as to what naked Britney in a sauna has to do with anything?  Anyone?  Okay, wanna hear my guess?  To distract people from actually listening to the song!  Once again, my theory harks back to the fact that…okay, okay, you already know her croonin’ chords are a joke.  Clever decoy there, producers.

But I’m still confused.  We’re talking about a “womanizer,” right?  A “player”?  A “manwhore”?  “Casanova”?  “Don Juan”?  “Skirt chaser”?  “Ladies Man“?  Right?  So, what part of “womanizing” do you see taking place in any of these screenshots?

Pardon the excessive hair flippage.  She’s merely avoiding the imminent “womanizing” by tossing her tresses ’round and ’round.  And ’round.

Oh, hey there, sauna.  What was your function again?  Gratuitous nude shots of Britney to distract the viewer from the fact that there’s absolutely no talent nor substance behind this “comeback effort” (or her entire career, for that matter)?  Oh, okay.  Carry on.

So, she suggestively struts her naughty bits to practically vex him into ending up between her legs throughout the video, and then he gets the beating of his life at the end.  Reality, were you going to make an appearance here, perhaps?

We have to talk.

According to Dictionary.com, a “womanizer” is defined as “a man who likes many women and has short sexual relationships with them.”  And further, “to womanize” means “to pursue women lecherously.”  Oh, ha, that’s funny, ’cause the only “lecherous pursuit” I see here is Britney rubbing all parts of her female genitalia on a man that probably would have left her alone, had she not suctioned her breasts to his palms at every free flick of the wrist.

Men, if every single woman, from your sassy secretary to the wild waitress to the lascivious limo driver, for example, were all actively attempting to grab your appendage and have porn star sex with you, um, under these conditions, wouldn’t you be labeled a “womanizer,” too?  While I’m sure many philandering gentleman have attempted to use that line of reasoning as a pithy excuse that their significant other did not buy, we all know that rarely happens to the average Joe Six-Pack.  Even if he looks like the fine young specimen in the video.  It don’t happen that way, Bubba.  You’ll notice, too, that Baby Faced Cutie (who actually has a name – Brandon Stoughton – imagine that!) hasn’t exactly done anything to entice, provoke, or chase her.  Unless looking has somehow been declared a crime in Britney’s futuristic harlot haven.  And isn’t the heart of “womanizing” the pursuit of women?

Perhaps I’m just dense.  I mean, scan the YouTube comments, and you’ll see nothing but the highest praise for the Return of America’s Top Pop Tart.  The bells are ringing with fervent glee, and chants of “BriTnEy iZ BACK!!!!!” echo from the rafters (in varying levels and amounts of capital letters and with differing degrees of punctuational emphasis, of course).  I even saw a comment (that I can’t seem to locate now) that touts this video as “empowering women in bad relationships.”  Whoa, seriously? So this video is going to, like, spawn a movement?  Because I think this video sorta hikes down the skirt of the women’s movement.  I suppose I’m simply not American enough to pull the leather corset over my eyes and enjoy this.

Errr, the pretty lil’ “womanizer” in the video is quite delectable, at the very least.  See?  There’s a little redblood in this American for you after all.

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Goodbye, old friend.

I’ll admit:  I haven’t caught a Dave Matthews Band show since 2003 (although some would argue that was way past their heyday, anyway).  I wouldn’t own their latest album if it wasn’t for a friend sending me the MP3s that he snagged gratis.  When any of the band’s songs sneak onto my iPod’s playlist, I cringe a little and try to decide whether to skip them or endure them.  Their familiar riffs and strums and hums and lyrics that I can recite in my sleep remind me of my crazed obsession with a band that embodied the very essence of mass appeal.

But at one defined moment in time, I truly, truly loved them.

I had never loved a band like I loved Dave Matthews Band, and I haven’t loved a band more than them since.  I saw them perform religiously every summer from 1999 through 2003.  I ordered every album via pre-sale.  I belonged to the fan club.  I participated wildly in the Usenet group, marking the first time that I’d ever met online people in an offline setting.  I hung their posters upon my wall in college…and in law school.  Most women buy clothes, shoes, or makeup with the little they have left over in student loan money.  I bought Dave Matthews Band tickets.  I drove all over the region where I lived in order to catch every single show they were playing in my area.  I followed their tour bus all the way from San Diego to Los Angeles at 2:00 a.m.  I waited in the freezing cold on numerous occasions just to get a glimpse of them at worst, and a picture or autograph at best (I never got either).  I ruthlessly pushed my way to the front row at Madison Square Garden just so I could watch Dave’s fingers fly over the fret.  Oh, and of course, I was most definitely on a first name basis with Dave Matthews.  To me, he was the perfect man.  Quirky, fascinating, well-traveled, intelligent, liberal, international – not to mention inexplicably handsome (in my eyes) – he could do no wrong by me.

I have been described as having admirable taste in music, “except for that neurotic stint with Dave Matthews Band.”  I endure the ridicule of my hysteria to this very day.  But I’m still not ashamed to admit that  Dave Matthews Band, for a significant period in my young(er) adult life, was everything to me.

I might be over it now.  I might have abandoned my blind adoration.  I might have moved on to bigger and more indie things.  But a little – yet significant – part of me died when I heard the news of founding member and saxophonist Leroi Moore’s untimely passing.  For something that formed such a huge part of my more youthful, more carefree life and fueled my passion for music, my heart is a little bit broken today.

A little part of me is gone.  Things will never be the same again.  Rest in peace, Leroi.

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Rumors. Substantiated.

A few days ago, there was a monumental Twitter declaration in Houston. Okay, okay, so it only held that magnitude for me, I’ll concede. It consisted of admirable amounts of wooooing and hooooing, claiming I’d been brainwashed into joining the Schipul team in Houston. To that I say, “Joining the Schipul team in Houston? Yes, yes, yes! Brainwashed? Hardly!”

I am incredibly excited and proud to stamp my virtual approval on the rumor that I am relocating – nay, returning – to Houston to become a Schipulite at Schipul – The Web Marketing Company. I formally accepted the offer on Monday, and ever since, my days have been a flurry of making sure all the parts of the puzzle fit together. Living accommodations, exit strategies, goodbyes, and packing up my worldly goods, for starters (including cursing myself for inexplicably growing my book collection in these few short months).

If you would’ve told me a year ago that, even after summarily abandoning it for San Francisco, my heart would still be lodged in the Bayou City, I might’ve poured a beer over your head. If I’d already had enough booze to make me feel that feisty, of course. Because at that point, such an accusation would’ve actually offended me (trust me, I wouldn’t let a good beer go to waste for nothing). But somehow, some way, in some sneaky little manner, Houston got a firm grip on me, from the inside out, and never quite released me from its loving hold. No matter how I kicked or thrashed.

So, in the prime of hurricane season, I’m fixin’ to head straight into the eye of the storm, and embark on what I expect and hope will be the best decision I have made to date.

Y’all, I’m a-comin’ home.

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