Saphhous

Take this, Longhorn

Even if you hate Apple, it's necessary to watch the WWDC 2004 keynote. Some of this stuff is incredible, from Tiger to the new 30-inch, 4.1 million pixel cinema display. Amazing. I want Tiger. Now.

You asked for it

I woke up this morning very tired and very confused about what day it was. For about 15 minutes, I couldn't decide if it was Tuesday or Wednesday. After convincing myself it was Wednesday, and I was halfway through this awful week, I realized it wasn't. I was pretty depressed. To make myself feel better, I wore my favorite sandals. They're black with some strange bamboo substance under my feet, and most of that, and the sole underneath, has been worn away. I haven't worn them in a while; they felt foreign on my feet this morning. I wore them anyways.

Other things, in brief:

There are large differences in between Kentucky parties and those held in Boston. In Boston, you dress up nice, pre-game, leave, return late and wake up even later for brunch in the dining hall. In Kentucky, you dress way down, get to the party location without any of aforementioned pre-gaming, sit by bonfires and get muddy, crawl out of your tent by 10:30 a.m. and sit around outside some more. More on the party events later.

Another party this weekend, because it's Independence Day. I have mixed feelings about this holiday as well. Table that for later discussion.

My boy is super-rific and should get an award for it. That's all on that front.

Tiger is going to be super-cool.

I haven't seen F9/11 yet, but I want to. Same for Supersize Me. I do, however, already have my tickets for Spiderman 2.

Consider yourself updated.

Announcement

I'm reserving my right to be a total asshole from now until July 5. Just a warning. Some tips for staying on my good side for the next 10 days:

• Don't call and wake me up.


• Buy me Cheerwine (it's at IGA now!) and Junior Mints, and bring me tiger lillies (even if they're the ones from my backyard)


• If you work with me, tell me ahead of time what you need me to do. If not, expect me not to do it.


• Comment on my blog.

I'm the only person in the front office now, and my aunt goes on vacation next week. I'm going to work 43 hours next week, I think, depending on how fast I can write zips. Oh, plus I have a story next week, maybe, so that'll be fun to squeeze in.

Tomorrow is Friday. I'm going to a party that involves camping outside in tents. I'm excited. I need to go to bed early tonight so I'll be awake for it.

Right now it is almost completely silent in the office. It's wonderful. I'm here and so is Adam, but he's not hounding me; my aunt is in the back somewhere and the sales exec isn't here. (Which is kind of an issue for me.)

Okay, back to organizing myself so I'll know what needs to be done ...

Film.

I want to shoot a documentary. If anyone has a camera they want to loan me, that'd be terrific. More on this later.

My name.

Is it bad that, for many years, I've been plagued by my name? Not that it's a particularly bad name, but I often feel it's not fitting. However, I've never come up with anything better. And I'm fiercely proud of my family and our heritage, so I don't want to get rid of my last name. And I like my first name.

However, it looks miserably boring in print. I've been contemplating how to put my name in print for about three years now. At The Magnet, I was Tracyfaye Harris. That's fun, unique, looks strange ... but is way too country. At Snitch, and in most other places, it's back to Tracy F. Harris. Okay, but no punch, no character. It's plain, just like my brown hair was. Me: not so plain.

So I've concluded the best way to go is to just marry a guy with a good last name. How bad is that, really? My past two boyfriends had the same, boring last name. (I would have kept my own name in those cases.) Let's run through the surnames of a few of my recent relationships.

• Miller (two of them). Yuck.


• Playforth. Sounds weird. Looks okay, tho'.


• Cooper. I like that one. Looks good, sounds professional and smart.

That's enough, I think. My point has been made. Now, onto the present. The guy I'm currently seeing: Flaherty. Look at that. Tracy Flaherty.

So, in conclusion: E, will you marry me? Or at least give me permission to change my name to yours? Please? I'll buy you more Swedish Fish ...

Trade.

"Can I use your phone?"

"Yeah, of course," I say, pulling my phone out of my purse and handing it over.

He dials. One hand on the top of the steering wheel, baseball cap pulled down low, button-up shirt riffled by the wind.

"Hey man, you gone out there yet?" There's a pause. He says okay, hangs up the phone, hands it back and keeps driving as if the call was never made. Behind those eyes, though, it's clear he's doing some thinking. Some calculations.

We stop in town, by the pizza joint. A teenage boy, a farmhand-looking type with a beat-up pickup, walks up and asks why he doesn't buy his girl some ice cream. He laughs. The boy stops at his well-worn truck. "Hey, you got anything?"

"No, man, maybe later."

"How much later?"

"I dunno. At least a half-an-hour."

"Well, come back by here when you do."

"Alright man."

He disappears inside to use the restroom, chats at some friends, exits.

An hour passes. We're at his house. We hear the dogs bark outside. "That's going to be somebody for me," he says, standing up. Seconds later, he returns, with a guest. A very drunk guest. Our guest is babbling on about being "drunker'n shit," which is a country way of saying very, very inebriated. The guest, of course, is "looking." It's still a no-go, like it has been for days. The county is dried up. The guest, after tripping over a table and discussing laying carpet, leaves.

Minutes later, the phone rings. Same exact conversation. I could start answering these calls myself, I've heard the spiel so many times tonight.

"Maybe tonight, but it's getting late. It's 10:30 already. Hopefully tomorrow. I'll give you a call as soon as I have it."

He puts the phone back down on the floor, leaning into the dirty, dusty box fan on the weight bench which is placed, unused, in the exact center of the room. The uncovered bulbs overhead cast a ghastly glare on the painted walls, wallpapered halfway up with a child's sports print. The paint is stained with nicotine, the lights make it worse. I can feel it baking into the paint.

"There is money to be made, man," he yells out the door. "Everybody wants some, and they're all coming to me."

The county has essentially shut down. A foreigner to the area would likely miss the rampant underworld altogether, and some locals might too — if they close their eyes and pretend. Until the well dries up, it's hard to see how deep it is, though. Tonight, the well is flat-out empty, and there's no rain in sight. Everyone is crowded around the well, peering in. Some people are drinking the muddy trickle that's left, but most people are just waiting it out.

There is money to be made. That's not usually how the trade works here, but right now, it's a serious factor. First one to haul the water in is king.

Disclaimer: There are no names or places in this story because there aren't any. Welcome to Smalltown America.

Garfield

I try not to fall into the "Mondays suck" pit. I was feeling work-tastic this morning, ready to go early, had breakfast, get in the car, back halfway down the drive ... and my battery dies. So I start the car, no problem. I think, hey, it's kinda cold out, maybe the car's just grouchy. Then it dies when I stop at a light about 15 miles down the road. No problems since then, but I did give it a stern talking-to. (Think Memphis and the Shelby.)

Now I'm at work, and there are a bunch of complicated-to-fix corrections I need to make with this brochure that I wanted to be finished with days ago.

I am grouchy. Someone take me to lunch.

Grumpy, grumpy.

My aunt had the pleasure of firing the receptionist at Adam Matthew's yesterday. Things are looking a little crazy there — when I started, there were three of us in the front office. Anne Marie has now been fired, Nicole leaves Wednesday and I'm only there 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. Oh, and my aunt, the VP, goes on vacation the week after next. She told my grandma I'm going to be in charge. That sounds scary. My brain may explode.

I have press passes to White Chicks tonight (the new Wayans brothers movie). It should be pretty funny, I think. Still need to finish The Rundown. Thankfully, tomorrow's Friday. It's starting to feel like school again — I'm so busy with work that I yearn for the weekend. Really, really yearn. I need the sleep, I need the time out of the office (although I may be in both on Saturday, but I'm painting at Snitch), et cetera, et cetera.

If anyone is bored, read this chump's blog post about my favorite newspaper. And the Snitchlings said, "Back the fuck up."

Work work work work

For once, I'm not running amok around the front office of Adam Matthew's. I'm out of things to do at the moment, waiting on cakes so I can take pictures, but the only person who can find them for me is "busy," so I'm sitting idle. And Adam himself isn't here yet, so he hasn't bombarded me with things to do.

I got my next project: sales sheets for all the cheesecakes. A bigger task than one might think. I have to do sales sheets, fact sheets, labels and boxes — for about 25 cakes. Should be fun though. I'm going to be an InDesign wizard when this is over.

E decided he really wanted be to see the Chronicles of Riddick last night, so we went. I really, really liked it. He saw it a few days ago and enjoyed it, and figured I would like it too. He was right.

However, the theater was full of hooligans without any manners. They were incredibly obnoxious. It was not a good place for E and I to be — although dressed like the commoners, we're not really. We're punks with a preppy sugar coating, and around him my coating melts. (Take that however you want.) I look preppy, but on the inside ... well ... not so much. I'm just blending in with society — I'd rather just be unnoticed, which is a common feature of journalists. I want to blend in and not draw attention to myself. Yes, yes, I have an exhibitionist streak and am often doing things to draw attention to myself, but not always.

Anyways, the boss is in and he likes to badger me, so I'm out.

Happy Birthday MELISSA! (That's my sister. She's 17 today.)

Chipper.

Good morning! I'm not sick, I'm not tired ... it's a miracle. I was outside for a while last night, down by a creek, in the dark, listening to the rushing water, the frogs, the crickets, the absolute perfection of the moment.

I have to leave for work in five minutes, so I'll just put a quote here to end this brief entry: "I think God was thinking of me when he created you." (— E ) It was funny and sweet all at the same time — because it sounds backwards to me, but still a really cute thought.

7:12 a.m.

Oh, and ...

Dear Santa,
After going to the Muscle Car Nationals this weekend, I decided I want a 1970 HemiCuda for Christmas this year.
How are the reindeer, and how is Mrs. Claus? See you on Christmas.
Love,
tf
Post Scriptum: Here are two pictures of the '70 HemiCuda. You can see the big Hemi V8 in one picture.

Outside of car and under the hood.

2:21 p.m.

And ... go!

What's this? A blog entry! How rare. Man, working a ten hour workday is a little rough. The lack of sleep and additional stress is getting to me — oft times, when I'm pushing my body like I am now, I get sick. Like now. I've got a swollen lymph node, my throat is scratchy and my nose runny. Mom's bringing me home some orange juice right now — my favorite aphrodisiac.

I'm going out to do some underwear-and-skirt shopping today, whenever E is ready.

Oh, yeah, E. A long-time friend I hadn't seen in a while until he tracked me down last week. I've spent all my free time in the past week with him, including a lot of time I should have spent sleeping.

Hm. E on phone. Orange juice good. Gotta go, but I promise, promise, promise to write something soon. In the meantime, read A's blog, because he finally caved in and started one. (And was quickly addicted.)

What's on my plate this week: both jobs (at least 40 hours this week, probably more), finish a Web site, write two stories for Snitch, start on a story for JOE, working on my grain bin story, spend excessive amounts of time with E, maybe go to Florida this weekend.

Mmmmm ... cheesecake.

I spent my morning photographing cheesecakes. It was fun. I'm working on promotional materials — right now I'm designing a brochure for fundraising. It should be fun.

Now I'm at Snitch. Much to do. More later, when I have time to write.

Settling in.

The house is slowly but surely coming together. Most of the rooms are painted; we got the ugly brick linoleum-like wall covering out of the kitchen ...

Right now I'm sitting on the mini-sidewalk around the back of our house, connecting the cellar to the now-closed in (not by us, and not by the original homebuilder) back patio. The weather is cooling off, now that it's getting later in the day. I just retrieved my Nikon manual from the car and shot a few pictures; I need to go get some more film from inside.

I really missed my manual — sure, digitals are fun, but they're just not the same. I'd compromise by taking a digital SLR. Like a Nikon D1-x/h. That's a good compromise, right? I have three lenses for my manual, but one is kind of messed up and I don't know what's wrong with it. It's my favorite one, too. (Nippon 1: 1.8 85 mm) So I guess I'll have to look into getting that fixed.

Oh, and the good news. Tomorrow morning I'm going into Adam Matthew's Cheesecakes to "test out" my likely second job. I'll be doing graphics design work.

Voice.

"Who are you in this life?" a voice inside my head, not my own, asks me.

"Whoever I want to be," I reply philosophically. Ideas of myself in various careers flash through my mind as a series of fleeting thoughts.

"Do you want to return to your old life?" the voice wants to know.

I try to recall my former life. Nothing. "No." I reply, and continue splashing water on my soapy face.

The voice chuckles and turns to silence.

Life updates

Curtains: one more to hem and then sew on the tabs.

Painting: not started; now slated for Friday.

Job I: Snitch still rocks. Zip writing going well.

Job II: Still looking. No word from H-D yet; waiting till Monday to call them and to find other place to apply.

Move in: Satellite installed, phone/internet back on, closing out apartment this weekend.

Oh, and I started running again. I haven't ran in two years (since I last ran track). It's kind of tough. I've been running a half-mile every other day since Tuesday — I swore if the weather would drop below 80 degrees, I'd start running. Tuesday it was 73.

Many things.

Hectic week, not much time to write — I'm focused on work and on getting my room in our new house set up. So the past few days, in brief:

Monday, also known as Memorial Day: Work. Set up stuff in room, picked up paint samples and hounded my mother for not wanting color.

Tuesday: Work. Dropped off application at Harley-Davidson/Buell store. Bought fabric for curtains, won battle for color (mostly). My room: Mediterranean teal; dining room/kitchen: bright yellow; bathroom: bright but light purple. I let Mom pick her own color for her room. Bought said colors. Cut curtains and pinned the hems.

Today: Work, start hemming curtains, cut tabs, sew.

It has stormed every day since I've been back from Florida. And I mean storm. Like tornado warning, flooding storms. Crazy.

Also, it seems my muse was trapped somewhere in Florida and I rescued him/her/it. Ever since I left, I've been writing ... I wish I had to sit down and get cracking on my stories. Until then, it's poetry. None to post today; I feel a little bashful about recent ones. Maybe later.
Quick addition: The city should have the right to revoke all gun licenses for people living in city housing (aka the projects). No guns in the projects. Caught with one and you're in jail — a zero tolerance policy.