Well, folks, it's been kind of a shitty few days...

Without going into all the gory, whiny-ass details, here are the bullet points:

* It rained, my bedroom flooded, and this will very likely be a huge fucking pain in my ass sometime in the near future.

* My fabu custom boots from Australia? Took a month to get here, didn't fit and smelled funny. Sending them back for another pair. Thin veneer of high hopes over a gaping pit of black fury and bitterness. Yay!

* I'm a fucking jackass who managed to bump a cement column in a parking garage while returning a carshare vehicle, scratching the passenger door all to fuck. No word yet on the damages, but goodbye to a couple hundred bucks minimum, I'm sure. (Hilariously, earlier that day I made a crack about hitting some doofus because my damage waiver was only $500. I should learn to shut the fuck up.)

There are some very good things I'm working on to counteract the steaming pile of shit outlined above...but it's all still in diaphonous process, as compared to the very here-and-now certainty of suckitude that's been parading through my life as if I invited it. Which, you know, on some cosmic level I'm sure I did, karma being what it is. Although, not for nothing, but whose cornflakes did I piss in?!

Meanwhile, here's a little public service message from me to you, jerkoff assfaces of the world: the phrase "sorry if you took it the wrong way" may *seem* like it's some kind of apology (what with the starting with the word "sorry" and all), but in fact, it's not. It's a nonpology. It actually conveys the message: "You're an oversensitive whinyass booby who can't take a joke. You oughtta lighten up and realize that the only reason you're pissed off is because you don't even know what's good for you. Which *I* clearly do, so do what I tell you, bitch!" Yeah, stop saying that, unless you like hearing me say "fuck off."

In other news, I may be making a surprise flying trip to Boston for work, sometime in the next couple weeks - not certain yet, but it could happen (regardless of whether I want it to or not). And that goes along with the fact that here I am, still at the office at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday. Fuck me, I'm going home.

Home again and sickly.

While I was off frolicking with pagans in the hinterland, I managed to catch myself some cooties, and I'm now nursing a pretty fierce illness of impressive proportions. I am trying to figure out what the gift of this experience is, but fuck that. I'm sick, I'm cranky, and I have no interest or ability in putting this in some kind of "big picture" perspective. I can't see any of that enlightened bullshit at the moment, because I am coughing and congested and my nose looks like a lump of loosely cohered hamburger some fast-moving passerby threw in the vicinity of my face.

Do I seem bitter? Yeah, I totally am.

I expect thoughtfulness sans vitriol may return when my immune system comes off strike. Which, for the sake of my remaining sick days, should be very soon. Please, gods.

Amtrak rocks.

Attention, Democratic Presidential Nominee (whoever you wind up being!):

When you're sitting in the White House, contemplating how to pull out of Iraq and stop worldwide starvation and genocide...here's something to keep in mind when it comes to domestic policy. Nothing takes the sting out of crap gas prices like cheap train tickets....especially if the rail system is maintained well enough to get people from origin to destination in an efficient, timely manner.

A big part of my car-free, green lifestyle has been riding Amtrak as much as possible, when travelling outside the Chicago area. I've taken it to New York, St. Louis, and various destinations in Michigan. I have plans to someday hop the City of New Orleans (will I take my guitar and sing a Steve Goodman cover? you betcha!) and even do the rail vacay to Glacier National Park.

I love Amtrak, dear Democratic Nominee, and I know it's not properly funded. But doing so would be good for the environment, good for people's pocketbooks, and good for public opinion of the U.S. worldwide. Let's stop pandering to automakers, and start making rail service a real alternative form of transport!

Thanks bunches,
Tari
Loyal Amtrak Rider, car free since March 2001

Rambling on the road.

Cleveland again today, but tonight I sleep in my own bed. Thank goodness. Much as I've enjoyed the hotel loveliness, there's only so much swank this white trash girl can handle. I mean, really, I know I seem all sophisticated and metropolitan, and my manners are impeccable when I want to trot them out...but I would just as soon spend the evening naked on my couch, watching action movies and swilling tequila as get gussed up and go out "fine dining." You know, to pick a hypothetical.


Meanwhile, can I share with you how much fun it is to sit in a conference room for three days, basically with my thumb up my ass doing nothing, when I could be in the office actually accomplishing something productive....yeah, it's not really any fun. The chairs are not particularly comfy, nore ergonomic for those who had the unfortunate luck to be born over 5'5" tall. On the other hand, the table is leather-topped, which appeals to my tactile nature - however, I can't spend too much time rubbing the table, or everyone else here will think I'm crazy.


Yesterday's massage has already worn off. My neck feels like it's composed primarily of ill-matched clock gears lubed up with a bucket of beach sand. Yeah, isn't that a nice mental picture?


Now imagine how that feels.


Anyway.


Is it wrong to hope for the end of the year already? I just dont' feel like I'm going to have any free time before then, and frankly - I'm tired of not having any free time.


You know, I say that like I am busy every second of every day - and I am actually fairly busy most of the time...but I still have time to chill out, catch on occassional movie, sit with my guitar in my living room and twiddle with chords and words until something like a song comes out...it just feels like I don't have enough.
A few months back, I felt like I didn't have enough going on. Now I feel like I have too much. Feast or famine, ain't it? Whyever is it so hard to find some middle damned ground??
Blargh. I think too much.


But then, considering this, that shouldn't be all that surprising.

I don't care what they say, Cleveland doesn't rock.

Bleh.


Cleveland is still sucking. On the other hand, if I was at home, I wouldn't have had a nice, long sauna followed by room service and a very nice glass of a very nice wine while lounging around in a plushy-plush bathrobe and watching "Ghostbusters."


Well, it was that or "Fear Factor" or dish out $10 to catch some pay per view, none of which really appealed to me.


Le sigh. Yeah, rough decisions I'm making here, huh?


I miss my cat, and my friends, and my bed, and my apartment, and having my entire wardrobe to choose from, and Chicago in general. I miss my guitar.


This entry is pointless and whiny.

When you're blessed, you pass it on.

So, Cleveland.


Let's talk about my flight to Cleveland, the injustice of bad weather, the horror of other people's scary feet, and how I am *NEVER* flying American Fucking Airlines ever again.


First off, the sucky rain-drenched weather in Chicago delayed all kinds of flights, meaning everything was pushed back about two hours. So, I rushed from the Sunday afternoon show with the band straight to the airport, leaving my guitar in the hands of our bass player because I didn't have enough time to go home first...only to find out that I *did* have enough time to go home first, and it would've been more productive and entertaining than sitting on my ass in the airport.


Although, it was fun to pull out my mini-Tarot deck and get more funny looks than the streaky blond-haired chick who was traveling with her dog.


So, yeah, I get on the plane (finally!), ducking my head the entire way (apparently the ceiling is a mere six feet high on that particular piece of crap jet; since in my boots I'm about 6'1", I ducked...talk about suckage), get to my seat, stow my laptop in the overhead, shoehorn my ass into the miniature seat, shove my feet and carry-on under the seat in front of me so they could all fuse into a cramp-inducing pile of ouch-ness....and then we taxi for takeoff, whereon the jackass in front of me decides it would be good to recline for said takeoff. So, he got my knees in the middle of his back and basically had his head in my lap for the entire flight. Boy, good thing I'm not claustrophobic. Oh, wait, I am!


In flight, the lady across from me takes off her shoes and puts her feet up on the empty aisle seat beside her. Her feet are SCARY. She has the worst bunion I've ever seen, band-aids on several toes for who knows what reason, calluses that made *me* afraid (and considering the callus-covered feet I'm sporting, that says a great deal)....I spent the whole time admiring her chutzpah for having the ovaries to take off her shoes in public. I wouldn't have.


When we finally landed, I unfolded myself from the sardine can - I mean, airplane, and strolled into Cleveland's lovely (read: horrific and blech-inducing) airport at 12:30 at night. Gone were my hopes to take a lovely tour of the city via Cleveland's crack train system, as the last train was leaving at one, and the train that would take me to my hotel had already stopped running. However, I thought, I could grab the train downtown and take a cab from there, thereby saving a few bucks and also doing a bit of looking around.


No sooner did I put this plan in motion than Divine Providence took over. At the transit station in the airport, the very helpful counter guy asked me where I wanted to go when I asked him what I needed for a one way ride (there were kiosks to buy day passes and week passes, but no one way tokens or anything). I told him the suburb-ish part of town I was headed for, and he said that the train wasn't going to be running my way. I told him I knew, but figured I could save a few bucks by going downtown to catch a cab. He laughed and nodded that I was right. I paid my fare, got on the train - the last one of the evening.


About ten minutes later, when the counter guy came back with the train operator, he offered me a ride to the hotel. He said it was his way, anyway, and I could save myself a thirty dollar cab ride, not to mention it would be faster.


I know, I know, alarm bells should've been going off - how creepy was this guy for offering a total stranger - a chick travelling alone - a ride to her hotel??


I dunno what it was, but my gut said to trust the guy. So I did. I smilingly accepted his offer, I got in his minivan, and I listened to Kurt Franklin with him on the highway as he drove me to my hotel, talking about his wife and his comic book collection and his sojourn in Florida and the week he spent in Charlotte, NC on the charity of strangers. "I'm blessed," he kept saying, "and when you blessed, you pass it on."


I offered him a few bucks for gas when we got to the hotel, but he refused. I did, however, give him my card and tell him if he ever needed anything in Chicago to call me.


When I got in the hotel, I literally told the concierge my name and he handed me a room key.


At 1:30 a.m., I went to my hotel room and dropped my bags and took off my coat and sat on the bed grinning like an idiot for ten minutes.


Talk about being blessed.

Happy belated Halloween!

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking....where in the hell has this girl been? Why has she not typed a peep (??) in days?


Well, I winged my happy ass down South for Halloween. And it was good. Nay, let me say....it was goooooooood.


All right, details will take me too long, and I have ass to bust back inthe office which will prevent my going into the level of detail I would normally reserve for this sort of thing...so, highlights:


* number of alcoholic beverages consumed: 1 (I know, what the hell?)

* number of hot asses tapped: 1

* number of kick-ass Ren Faires visited: 1

* number of costumes donned at said Ren Faire: 0

* number of times my hand was kissed by various be-costumed rennies: lost count

* number of rickshaw rides taken after kilt-clad persuasion was applied: 1

* number of times said kilt-clad rickshaw dude copped a feel under the guise of giving me a hug: 2

* number of torture chambers toured: 1

*number of whip-cracking stage acts watched: 2

* number of whips viewed, neither in torture chamber nor whip-cracking stage act: 1

* number of horribly painful sunburns sustained: 1 (and that was enough)

* number of freaky dreams wherein ex-fling beats the living shit out of me: 1

* number of freaky dreams wherein I plot to murder Ed Harris, playing the role of a different ex-fling, somehow involving chihuahua cheese and tortillas: 1

* number of times wondered what the fuck I ate before I went to bed: too many to count

* number of good times had: countless


It was a really good weekend, and I've got the sunburn/afterglow to prove it.


One thing that was really surreal was the whole being-back-in-Atlanta thing - which is odd, because I was there for maybe a grand total of 24 hours...maybe. It was just strange. Made me all philosophic and stuff, thinking about all the experiences I had there, and how much I left behind to come here. Made me think about whether leaving was the right thing.


Two and a half years ago, I left a city I didn't particularly love (feels so suburban, traffic sucks majorly), a man I might've if I'd given either of us a chance, some of the first true friends of my life, creative opportunities I was just beginning to explore, and a community I was just beginning to become a part of...all to fly one-way to spend St Patrick's Day homeless in Chicago with my dog.


Last night, I left Atlanta to fly back to a late-night rehearsal at my kick-ass apartment with my band for our impending debut as the house band for a local Shakespeare company's new production, to check my calendar about booking myself for a three day palm-reading gig in three weeks, to a community I am loving and friends I am also loving, to a life that is evolving slowly into what I want it to be...


Maybe for the first time in my life, I felt like I was flying home.

Mondays suck.

So, the trip to MD was actually much better than expected. I had dinner (with the business folk of course) at this lovely, if pricey, restaurant across from the naval academy with great views of all the chi-chi boats and some of the really gorgeous buildings in Annapolis. On my free night, I hitched a cab down and wandered around the historic district and the Academy, and wowzers. Very nice stuff. Stepped into this sort of divey joint not far from the water - can't remember the name (oh, the liquor was a-flowing, 'cause hell yeah I'll drink alone) but I think it was vaguely Irish. Food was good, service was nice, and I think I knocked back a bottle of some chardonnay or other, possibly two. I wasn't paying attention.


It was a good time, though. Remember that much.


The flight back from BWI was less than stellar - due to some mechanical problem, they'd cancelled an earlier flight, and so my getting ot the airport six hours early meant I spent six hours twiddling my thumbs instead of getting to the top of the standby list and going home early. I did, however, discover a little shop in the airport that did chair massages...and so I felt pretty good by the time I got on the plane. Though the masseur did suggest I quit lugging around a briefcase and laptop on the same shoulder and I told him if he could miraculously make my balance better, I'd be happy to.


The weekend was not too bad. I stumbled across some information that shook me up a little on the emotional front, reminding me yet again that people are liars and assholes and most of them suck and I shouldn't take it personally.


But you know, I can't help but take it personally when people personally treat me like shit. I mean, I just really don't understand why people feel so compelled to lie about everything. I don't lie. I may not volunteer the truth, but if I tell you something, it's the truth. If I don't feel comfortable sharing the truth, I say so and keep it to myself. And I think this is the best way to operate - people always know where they stand with me. They don't have to wonder. And this means that any relationship with me is based on reality, on real emotion and sentiment and regard and affection.


And then there's the rest of the fucked up planet, that seems to thrive on creating bullshit, on putting together a fictional account of themselves for the purpose of what....protection? Deception? Malice? Ignorance? Fear? I dont' even know and can't begin to understand. For all my issues, for all my difficulty in trusting people and in acknowledging my own emotions (I have reffrered to myself as a cold bitch on more than one occasion, and I believe it to be a description only so far from the truth)...I have never felt it necessary or advisable or helpful to lie about that kind of thing. Lies never benefit anyone. Never.


But people do it anyway. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. And then people like me feel betrayed and humiliated and sad, because we believed the lies. We bought the bullshit. We played the fool, and I don't care if everybody does sometimes, that doesn't make it right.


Okay, now that I've worked myself up into a bitter froth...there's the rest of the weekend.


I signed up for a Tarot class, which I'm very excited about. I played the coffeehouse Saturday, which was a great deal of fun. I met a really wonderful guy, a fellow musican who has about ten or fifteen years in the biz on me...who was kind enough to listen to me gripe for hours on end, which I appreciated. I wrote a couple songs. I got a manicure and pedicure, because I'm girlie like that.


All told, not a bad weekend.


Then, today at lunch, I got caught in the rain, which sounds like more fun thatn it actually was. The hair got all frizzed and wavy and defied my meticulously straightened and curled under styling...stupid rain. Mondays suck.

Abroad.

Annapolis is a gorgeous place. A little chi-chi for my white trash blood, but still...the water is beautifulo, the boats are beautiful, the Academy is beautiful, and there's this pseudo-historic/tourist-y shopping area that's pretty neat. They have bricked streets and lovely architecture, and it's just generally a pretty interesting place. It reminds me of Southampton crossed with Savannah. That will only make sense to people who have been both places, but trust me, it's a nice comparison.


Sidenote: I hate typing on a laptop while wearing the faux nails. My fingers are a half inch longer than I am used to, and the keyboard is an inch smaller. The backspace is getting lots of use right now.


I'm actually sort of enjoying this trip...it's been very calm and peaceful, or at least since I got here, it has. The flight from Chicago was a bitch - delayed ON THE RUNWAY almost two hours, got in very late here, and spent yesterday trying not to fall asleep in all my meetings. Luckily, I hit the bed when I got back to the hotel last night and slept like the dead for almost seven hours, which I haven't done in I don't know how long. It was blissful. I didn't even wake up for the crazy thunderstorms that passed over the area last night...heard them described on the local news in the morning, and was amazed.


It's interesting being out east for business...the biggest thing I notice is that every time I make one of these trips, we always talk about 9-11. Sure, most of us in the industry knew people or are somehow involved, plus I can't even begin to explain how that event effected the insurance industry across the board, but even now, almost two years past, we hash it out, we talk about the horror and the fear and the atrocity.


Typically, we follow that conversation with a heated discussion about how stupid our president is.
Man, I miss my guitar!