No Need to Complicate

I'm sure that most people are sick of hearing "I'm Yours" on the radio. I'm sure that people switch off whenever the beginning chords start. I'm sure people think it's played out and 'what's the big deal?' and it was good the first time around, not the 50239487th.

I don't care.

I will never get enough of this song.

I've been a Mraz fan since I heard "The Remedy." It steadily grew with songs like "Geek in the Pink" and "Wordplay." But his most recent album, "We Sing. We Dance. We Steal Things." is my favorite, by far. And a lot of loyalists of Mr. Mraz detest the fans who were suddenly all about the hat-loving singer once they heard the upbeat, summer-appropriate notes of "I'm Yours." Personally, I'm not one of those people.

I've always respected Mraz, not only for his blatant honesty in his lyrics, but the sheer poetry of his words. He's one of the few talented song-writers still out there. Where most people are fulfilling the cookie-cutter mold of "Wahhhh life suuuucks .. Here's my soooong about ittttt. Wahhhh .." he takes the idea of heartbreak and turns it into something beautifully tragic. It's not a complaint about losing a loved one, losing a relationship, but rather an observation as someone outside of his own life, while still devastatingly involved.

With WSWDWST, though, it dove even deeper into the personal realm. With songs like "Love For A Child," we get to listen to his feelings about growing up in a broken home, riddled with divorce, celebrating separate holidays, and his struggle with reconciling it all. The first time I heard the song, I cried. I couldn't even make that up. The sad twangs of the guitar got to me initially, and then when the line, "They never checked to see my grades, what a fool I'd be to start complaining now" came out, tears flowed without hesitation. I'm not a child of divorce, but the family I once saw as forever together has been anything but - but don't get me wrong. I wouldn't trade my family situation for anything. I love every single person in my family more than I can say. I respect all of them for who they are and what they bring. But there's something deeply personal in Mraz's lyrics that I think everyone can relate to, in some way or another.

But the point of this post wasn't to give a way-too-late album review of WSWDWST. It was to talk about "I'm Yours." Where people switch off the radio, I turn the volume dial higher. I hear it just about every morning on my way to work, and if I don't naturally hear it on the radio, I put it on my iPod and listen to it. As soon as I hear that 5/7 slide, followed by the off-beat strumming, I smile. The sun's a little brighter. The day's already off to a great start.

It's one of those songs that you sing along to without even listening to it. But when you stop and actually hear the lyrics, you realize how beautiful the song really is. The words stay in time with its upbeat, reggae-like swagger. My favorite part is the last verse, though, after the short interlude.

I've been spending way too long checking my tongue in the mirror,
And bending over backwards just to try to see it clearer.
But my breath fogged up the glass,
So I drew a new face and I laughed.
I guess what I be saying is there ain't no better reason
To rid yourself of vanity and just go with the seasons.
It's what we aim to do;
Our name is our virtue.

It sums up everything. Don't take yourself too seriously. Go with the flow. Enjoy life without getting caught up in the ridiculous standards demanded by society. Be yourself. Laugh at yourself more often. Who you are is a gift to the world; don't waste it.

If you haven't already, go check out Mraz's blog. Every time you finish reading a post, you'll feel inspired to leave this world a better place than how you found it. One of my favorites is the post about the manicure set. The universe really is a wonderful thing.

- May (you make the life you lead YOURS).

PS. - After listening to something mellow, like "A Beautiful Mess" or "Love For A Child," listen to something insanely amazing, like "The Dynamo of Volition," which was written entirely around the one line (it was a challenge from someone Mraz works with/knows): "Driving off on a blind man's bike." The man's the miracle worker of music and lyrics.

Gay Pride in New York!

The subject line shouldn't be startling. If anything, it shouldn't even phase you. New York's been long known as a center for Gay Pride, and yesterday was no different! Yesterday was the annual Gay Pride Parade that extends down 5th Avenue down towards the West Village. It also marked the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall riots.

Here's a brief history lesson in case you aren't sure what Stonewall was. In 1969, people were feeling the love -- it was a decade of revolution, of free love, of expression, of drugs, of love beads, of sit-ins and getting tear gassed, of protests and demonstrations. In the Village, there was a place called the Stonewall Inn, known for being gay-friendly in a time when everything but homosexuality seemed to be all right. Police raids were more or less routine, but on June 28th, 1969, the gay and lesbian community fought back against the police raids. The following year, the Gay Pride Parade began in New York & Los Angeles to commemorate this act of justified rebellion. If you want to read the whole spiel, you can read all about it here.

So, yesterday was the 39th Gay Pride Parade in New York, and it gets more and more fabulouuuuus! every single year! One of my favorite things about this year is that Governor David Patterson marched in it -- he's already said that if the bill passes the Senate, he's going to sign it.

I wanted to head to the Parade myself, but having a dentist appointment at 8 AM, after which I couldn't feel the right side of my face, I came back home and fell asleep until the afternoon. Then made myself lunch and hung around until I went over to a friend's house and subsequently went on our usual trip to Starbucks. So. You know. I didn't actually get to the Parade, but my gay-loving side was there in spirit! That's what counts, right? The gay spirit? Or something?

Anyway .. have some pictures and TRY to tell me they're not fabulous!


Drag queens! I'm still on my mission to become BFFs with one. Any takers?


Rainbow balloons outside St. Patrick's


Work it, honey, work it!


Governor David Patterson! <3 He's so adorable!


I imagine them skipping through a meadow of daisies .. FABULOUS.

Pictures taken from here (Link to the Washington Post).

- May (you, at the end of the day, remember the love).

Kablam.

106 words

Typing Test

- May (you always challenge yourself).

Just Beat It! No, Not THAT, You Freak.

Look.

Let's be frank here, okay? (I suddenly have the urge to say, "And don't call me Shirley.") Michael Jackson was weird. As some comedian said, and I'm paraphrasing here, 'Only in America can a poor black guy turn into a rich white guy.' The guy obviously had issues. More issues than all the psychologists/psychiatrists/counselors could ever attempt to talk about. He grew up with an abusive father (come on, admit it - you've seen that Michael Jackson movie on VH1, more than once. Don't lie. I'm onto you). If I'm remembering correctly, his father used to talk about his nose and how wide, how "black" it was. It was something he used to harp on constantly as MJ was growing up, hence his obsession with making it small, petite, and virtually non-existent.

The guy was accused of being a pedophile. In case you have selective amnesia, though, the charges were dropped because the stories of the kid and his family were inconsistent. There was even a Law & Order: Special Victims Unit episode paralleling the story ('not based on actual events' my ass, Dick Wolf) where Shirley from Laverne & Shirley was actually poisoning her granddaughter and making her think she had cancer. They then fabricated a story about a famous pop singer who'd had charges of molestation/improper relations with children before, but it all ended up being a plot to get money from him.

So. I mean. I don't know. I'm not saying that MJ didn't do it (he fully admitted letting kids sleep in his bed), but if Dick Wolf, Elliot Stabler, and Olivia Benson are insinuating that people are money-hungry bastards who poison their grandkids to make a more convincing story, then .. you know. It makes you pause and think. Because Benson and Stabler don't lie. They just don't do it. Except when Benson's trying to protect her long-lost brother ..

Anyway, the point is - the guy had his issues. I think people really are money-hungry bastards who'll do just about anything to exploit someone else (is it that far-fetched? Think about the lawsuit-happy culture we all live in right now) .. I mean, it's like that person who sued McDonald's after she spilled her hot coffee in her lap and burned herself.

And won.

That's sick. You're an idiot who ordered hot coffee and were too stupid to put it in a cup holder and instead squeezed the cup between your thighs and oops! Surprise! Hot coffee lap. Deal with your own stupidity and own up to your mistakes.

All of that aside, MJ revolutionized music. He changed it forever.

I was adopted in 1988. MJ was at the early peak of his solo career. Thriller had come out in 1982 (it's the world's best-selling record, in case you weren't aware) and Bad had just come out the year before. My brother's cabbage patch doll was named Michael. My sister's doll was named Billie Jean (these names were given by my brother and sister, respectively). If you watch my arrival video, you can see Michael Jackson's "Bad" video on the TV behind me as I bounce around in my wheeling-chair-with-tray-attached thing, which I called my Boinga Boinga. Don't ask questions. Just keep reading.

The "Thriller" video still scares the shit out of me if I watch it by myself and at night. Because of that video, I sprint past cemeteries if I happen to be walking past one at night. The opening beats of the song immediately pop into my head, in addition to Vincent Price's creepy-as-hell voice over, as I imagine decomposing hands and limbs coming forth from the depths of the crypts and graves and mausoleums. But then I think to myself, "Even if that did happen, we just have to do a synchronized dance sequence with the werewolf hand march and we'll all be okay. They'll think I'm one of them and then I'll turn around as I leave with yellow eyes and fangs. Success!"

Everyone, I don't care who you are, has tried to Moonwalk. And probably fallen over/tripped/backed up into a wall/kicked a small child. Everyone, secretly or not, dances around to Billie Jean, The Way You Make Me Feel, Bad, Beat It, and/or Thriller. Everyone's at least tried to lean the Thriller dance in its entirety. And who didn't cry at the end of Free Willy when "Will You Be There" came on? Admit it! You bawled like a baby. As did everyone else in the theatre. GO FREE WILLY, GO!

Ahem.

His personal life aside, MJ was a staple in the music world. I grew up listening to him, even if it was after he'd made it big. I grew up watching his videos. Wanting to imitate his dance moves, only to realize that I couldn't ever Moonwalk the way he did. The man may have been on the creepy side of life, but my Social Work education has made me look at him for who he really was, despite public persona: the result of an abusive, abusive father, an unhealthy family system, and a child who was stripped of his chance of being a child in order to be a performer.

To quote Micky J himself, "It don't matter if you're black or white." His death is a loss for everyone.

Here's a link to one of my favorite MJ videos, "Black or White."

- May (you remember to listen to the music).

Nighttime Thoughts

Also posted in Pen & Paper Addicts

Fondness rode the swings over Tivoli and I was elated
Sincerity slipped another sunrise into watery eyes
Train stations spit citizens back onto the streets
And I am still not asleep
- J. Mraz, blog entry on 06/24.

i will always be this way.
i will always feel my skin tingle
and my lips curl
and my tongue dance
and my eyes glisten
as soon as the sun hides its in-need-of-Rogaine head
and i am surrounded by the cloak of the absence of light.

my body may protest and, indeed,
it often does.
fibrous muscles ache
and remind me of the casualties of the day:
a wrong twist in the swirling, rolling chair-turned-amusement-ride;
a purpled section of flesh after violent contact
with a desk or table that seemingly appeared out of nowhere;
7 hours of being resigned to the same
position, upright with knees at right angles.

by the time this hemisphere of the world
has long shut its eyes
and kissed its beloved children good night
and turned its shadowed back upon the growing light
that's slowly trickling over its shoulder,
i have just awoken from my daytime slumber.
my adventures have only just begun.
thoughts leap from my cluttered cranium,
wishing to explore the world they've heard so much about.

but i resign myself to becoming a follower
of trends,
though my individuality is none too happy with my
nightly battle and resulting decision.

slowly, i slide underneath my cotton and polyester cape
that's a few sizes too big for my small frame,
skin tingling,
lips curling,
tongue dancing,
eyes glistening,
lullabied by the melodies of the slumbering world.

- May (you wake up with life anew).

Owl City, Owl Mania

You know those moments when you hear a song, by chance, and for some reason, you can never scrape it off of the linoleum of your cranial cavity? You're not really sure how it got there, why it's there, or why it's made its habitat on your brain-floor, but what you know is that .. you don't mind. You like having more company in your already cluttered space. You decide that it should stay there, splat on the ground, next to other random bits of information, like "your favorite yoga pose is the Sage Pose, followed by anything that stretches your back" which looks like a miniature Buddha figurine that's gotten super-glued to the floor, or "you need to feed your cat before he gets angry and starts gnawing at your ankles," which looks like a can of cat food with a bright, red exclamation point above it. Or a fang stuck in the cover.

.. Wow, that was a long analogy for something simple. Sorry, folks. I think I'm getting cabin fever, being locked in this office from 9 - 5 every day. I'm also getting creepy vibes from whatever still inhabits this place (it used to be a psychiatric hospital) .. and they are not very friendly. You know that feeling of being unwanted? Of being scrutinized from some invisible pair of eyes? Of being sneered at behind your back? Yeah, I get that feeling here. And it's not because of the people I work with - they're awesome. They're friendly and I can't remember most of their names. It's something bigger, something .. stranger.

But I digress.

The point of this post was to talk about songs that get stuck in your head. As of late, it's been all of Owl City's songs. I found them through the miracle that is Pandora, and I've been addicted ever since. My favorites include, "Fuzzy Blue Lights," "I'll Meet You There," "The Saltwater Room," and "Captains and Cruise Ships."

If you want they according to mood:
Mellow/Sad: Fuzzy Blue Lights, The Saltwater Room
Upbeat/Kind of Reminds You Of Another Song From Someone: I'll Meet You There, Captains and Cruise Ships

Go here and listen to them. The four songs are scattered about my blip station, but seriously. Have a listen. Then buy their stuff on iTunes. You won't regret it, I promise.

- May (you live a life worthy of a soundtrack)

Meow Meow Purr Purr

Let me just say, for the record, I love my cat.

No, scratch that.

I love my cats. And my dog, the poor old man.

You know those weird people who go on and on and on about their pets? About how intuitive they are or how smart they are or how they 'have a sixth sense about ____!' or some other random tidbit of information? I sometimes fall into that category, but more or less, I laugh at my pets. Like they were a person.

For instance, my one cat, Teddy, is obese. Despite all attempts at helping him shed those kitty pounds, nothing seems to work. We've put him on Indoor Cat diets, put him food for non-active, yet still frisky, felines. Still, when he jumps from the back of the couch to the floor, he walks three steps and then realizes how tired he is and how much work he put into moving, and lays back down, belly sprawling onto the floor.

I couldn't even make this up.

Besides his weight problems (he's "big boned" and has a "thyroid condition"), he's missing one of his fangs. I think it's the left one. I remember finding a small tooth on the ground, but thought that maybe cats were like people - they lost their kitten teeth to make way for the cat teeth.

I was wrong.

There was never another tooth behind it to replace the one that I'd found tangled in the fibers of the carpet. He lost a tooth. I'm not sure how, but he lost one. But! His lack of left-fang provides me with endless entertainment. How? His lip gets stuck and so it looks like he's sneering. Or smelling a particularly pungent pile of crap. Or like an old guy whose mouth is a tad dry and didn't remember his dentures.

Case in point:



He looks remotely like Elvis. Something about his whiskers reminds me of the Jamie Hyneman walrus:



(Still cracks me up, by the way).

What was the point of this post? Oh, right .. those weird people who go on and on about their pets ..

Did I ever tell you about the time my blind, diabetic dog tried to hump my other cat? And she walked away? And he kept humping because he's blind?

- May (you find the humor in the small things)

Musings of a Bored Assistant

I've worked just about 3 full weeks, with the European interruption in between. I've gotten one pay check (score!). I've sent out about 500 emails, no exaggerations. I get to listen to Pandora all day, sing (quietly) along to songs I already know, and even do some chair-restricted dancing to "Shake It" from MetroStation.

All this aside, my mind still wanders.

And what does it wander to? Why, Europe, of course.

It was a week yesterday since I've returned to the US. A week since we all enjoyed a four-course meal consisting of salad (delicious), farfalle carbonara, a gigantic (in my case) slab of turkey with rosemary roasted potatoes, and tiramisu. A week since I bid farewell to the friends I'd made, separated by the different queues for the differing airlines in L. Da Vinci Airport. A week since I was caught amidst the Roman heat, wishing that I could take a dunk in the Fontana di Trevi or the fountain at La Piazza di Spagna. A week since I said goodbye to some of the best 16 days I've ever had.

And I'm trying not to be Debbie Downer/Negative Nancy about the whole thing. It's proving to be harder than I expected. But then again, I suppose I shouldn't be all that surprised considering the mood I found myself in after leaving London two years ago. It took a good year and a half to fully recover from 3 weeks of living there. God knows how long it will take for me to recover from this trip.

But. Okay. No more thinking along those lines. No more being upset about it.

Right. I need to get back into yoga. I haven't done it since I've gotten back, and my soul's feeling the repercussions. I did buy "The Zen Book," by Daniel Levin, though. I plan on reading through it whenever I feel the need for some positive inspiration. I also bought "Wreck This Journal," and plan to write in it as often as I possibly can. There's something missing in this online blog world - it's like the art of letter writing, just about extinct. I refuse to give it up. I'm going to keep writing letters and writing in journals! They'll never be obsolete or outdated.

Anyway .. back to the database and sending 500 more emails.

Is it the weekend yet?

- May (you find your inspiration).

Randoms.

Because boredom happens.


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Still on that European High

I just got back from Europe yesterday. I'm still struggling with the fact that my vacation is over, after months of planning and arranging details. But I'm keeping up with my life philosophy: rather than being sad about it being over, I'm revelling in the happiness that it happened at all. I got to see things so many people have never seen. I've experienced things no one else has experienced. I've eaten some of the most delicious Gelati on a hot, Roman day while walking towards the Trevi Fontana and La Piazza di Spagna. I've had authentic Italian pasta and pizza, and will NEVER forget how amazing it tasted and the way the flavors swirled on my tongue. I've walked in the same steps of an ancient people who were buried under layers of ash and pumice from Mount Vesuvius. I've walked their streets, been in their houses, seen their last moments the way they saw them. I've walked the same crosswalk that the Beatles walked. I've signed my name to the wall outside Abbey Road Studios. I've seen the Cliffs of Moher and learned about Faery Circles.

For the past 16 days, I've really, really lived.

And I've come back to some good horoscopes and guiding words from Rob Brezsny. One particular clip of his horoscope really struck me for some reason:

"A familiar stranger will hand you a Cracker Jack toy and whisper, 'Are we never going to see each other again? Or will we get married tomorrow?'"

I love the open-ended route that quote can take. We don't know what will happen. With the familiar stranger, will we marry tomorrow? Will we never see each other again? Will we speak again and reminisce about long-lost, vague times? Will we lead our separate lives with never a thought of one another?

I don't know. I don't know if I'll ever talk to the friends I made on the European trip ever again. I don't know if Anthony and Trisha will really journey down to Long Island to visit. I don't know if I'll remember people's names a year from now. I don't know if I'll see them ever again.

But for the 16 days they were in my life, I must say thank you -- you made it some of the most memorable that I've had in my 22 years. It doesn't matter if we get married tomorrow or never see each other again; we were in each other's lives, we shared laughs and stories and sights, and that's what I will take with me on this ridiculous journey called life. Thank you for adding to my story and for doing so willingly and so generously.

- May (you experience the world).