I remember it well. I was in eighth grade, ruler of the proverbial middle school roost. There were few perks however, for no matter how many pizza parties we were given, we all still had braces and frizzy hair. Although, we were allowed more frequent field trips, one of which included a trip to the movies to see the educational Russell Crowe flick, "Master and Commander."

In truth, I don't recall much from the film except for lots of sea water and Paul Bettany playing the cello like a guitar in the end. What I remember most is the events preceding it. You see, on this day, we were given the opportunity to "dress down," which, for all intents and purposes meant being freed from the khaki confines of middle school uniforms. It was liberating, however our prudish social studies teacher limited our freedoms to a "hoodie" (this was her feeble attempt at pre-pubescent vernacular) and jeans.

So what did I wear? A "hoodie" and jeans. This wasn't any just any hoodie, though. Made with black cotton, with ribbed, glittered and striped cuffs and a black satin lined hood, this jacket was absolutely lush. It had just enough grit and jagged embroidery to fit my "tough girl" facade (after all, I did listen to Good Charlotte and Avenged Sevenfold), and I felt fantastic. I still do when I wear it. It was a zip-up hoodie, so of course I chose to showcase some more angsty personality with a hot pink "Beauty School Dropout" tee. My jeans were a recent purchase from the thirteen year old girl's boutique of choice--Wet Seal. Light, frayed, and of course skin tight. I walked into school, tie-dyed LL Bean backpack in tow, overconfident and overdone.

It made no matter, though. Our class went through the typical morning routine, studying world capitols and reciting mnemonic devices in hopes of remembering some stupid battle, and then homeroom announcements. As we were standing for the pledge, all eyes begrudgingly gazing at the red white and blue, and consequently the asbestos covered ceiling tiles, my teacher's eyes locked with mine. And, from across the classroom, she growled, "I'm disappointed in you, Cox."

In an instant, I blinked my mascara covered eyelashes, and they became stuck. One too many coats, I suppose. I began rubbing at them incessantly, and soon after resembled a hooded raccoon. Why did she single me out like that, I wondered. I was dressed no differently than anyone else. I hadn't done anything wrong. Once I managed to pry each of my eyelashes apart, I looked back to her. And, as usual, all I received was the slitty sneer.

She pulled me aside as we divided into bus teams, and told me that she had once wanted to play the Kool Gurl, the Rebel, the Smart Ass, but she said she knew that I wasn't that. She said that she was disappointed, then, that a girl who once won geography and spelling bees would feel the need to wear dark clothing and skating shoes with wild laces. She didn't like my attitude, she said. Boys may like that here, but they aren't the type that you should get to know in that way.

I had nothing to say, of course. I knew she was right, but I was too proud to admit it. I rolled my eyes and replied with a curt "well, thanks for the insight," and then forced a smile and laughed back to my Converse clad circle of friends. I was too scared to turn my head back around. "What did she want," they asked. I said nothing, and then muttered under my breath that she was just a bitch. No matter how many times I said that, though, it didn't become easier to say. I picked at her appearance, easy things--like belittling her choice in ill-fitting denim, mocking her generic tennis shoes, but that just made me feel worse.

And in the theater, while I could see the glassy eyes of my classmates transfixed on Russell Crowe's seamanship, I could only focus on the way my teacher pulled me aside, tried to talk to me, and I essentially just spat in her face. She wanted to help me, but the only thing that sank in was the veritable poison I expelled with my venomous tongue. She had nothing to do with me the rest of the year; I finished out my final and languid term with unremarkable grades. At graduation, I received nothing but a hollow pat on the back.

It happens often, though. You know, reaching out a blind hand and vulnerable palm only to be slapped in return. Dipping your small foot into a raging river only to have it ravaged by a school of piranhas. Maybe that's a bit extreme, but the point remains: disappointment stings.

To a certain extent, I feel like we're so scared of disappointment that we ball our fists so tightly and shove them into our pockets so deeply that they become numb to everything. We sell or we're spent. But at the end of the day, nothing is scarier or darker than making that final trek home, looking into your rear view mirror and not being afraid of what you will see, but rather what you won't. Nothing is worse than nothing.

Commentary: Fashion, Blood, and Tears

People often tell me that fashion is perhaps the most vacuous of all art forms. And, despite the "here and now" garb I may occasionally don, I would agree. Even at its most haute and avant garde, its general purpose is to aesthetically please a specific and often shallow audience. Granted, there are certain designers who have changed the way we look at things, be it Coco Chanel's innovative, "less frills, more form" take on femininity, Christian Dior's indulgent and extravagant gowns giving hope and excitement to the many humdrum women post World War II, or even American Apparel's efforts to make social and environmental responsibility chic and fashion forward.

But to me, the reason why fashion is something we should respect and acknowledge is, well, an obvious one. Simply put, it is one of the most tangible vestiges of a generation and its ideals. To study fashion and its form is to study history and a particular culture at a given point in time. That's why when the recent Helmut Lang display was taken down from the windows at Barney's New York, I was quite displeased.

A brief history on Helmut Lang (ie a brief synopsis on what I google-gleaned): the brand itself is a creation of the Austrian designer of the same name in the 1980's. His whole style is (or was, he no longer designs) a streamlined and minimalistic take on suits for men and women. Personally, I find his approach a bit too stark and androgynous (as I write this I am wearing a pleated paisley skirt and ballet flats), but an interesting thing about him is that he doesn't have a menswear fashion show, or a womens fashion show, but rather a singular show that features both mens' and womens' garments. That is becoming a more common practice, but it was a novelty in the 90's when the brand was at its peak. That ideal, that men and women can essentially wear the same thing and be both beautiful and handsome is much more innovative and progressive than even the most deconstructed and sleek pantsuit.

So, while other designers worked hard on making women more feminine, more sexually pleasing, more dainty and submissive, and making men more, well, virile, Lang was bridging the gap between the two. And recently, the gap was made so small that it made quite a few fashion savvy individuals nervous.

In Lang's new campaign, so aptly called "Dressed to Kill," the window displays at Barney's featured several broken down female mannequins in long black dresses practicing self defense. The line of good taste was apparently drawn with the inclusion of imitation blood and weaponry, and the violent display was stripped from the windows in a few hours.

Now, I understand that violence is not something you promote or condone in any form, especially in the form of something that is to be sold. I understand that Barney's didn't want to be known for promoting any semblance of bloodshed, I really do. However, it seems to me a bit odd that many risque and promiscuous displays, some showcasing women in veritable negligees under the guise of evening gowns, have been deemed quite apropos throughout the years.

Why is it wrong, then, that a modern and strong woman protects herself against an assailant, yet a scantily clad strumpet arching her back to look like a sleek feline creature is OK? Shouldn't the the act of taking down the display be more disturbing than the display itself?

Taken as a work of art, it is important to note the mannequin's shape and form. The head to toe black connotes power, although the raised foot and haggard arms and back indicate some form of struggle, which gives the black a new meaning: mourning. The display itself is brilliant, then, for it is the manifestation of a modern woman's struggle finding power and defending herself (albeit unsuccessfully) against the many neasayers who try to usurp said power from her. And only to perpetuate this dark and woven social commentary, fashion bigwigs decided to remove this display from the eyes of the general public in fear of lower net sales.

Today is July 23, 2009, and currently Hillary Clinton, Secretary of State, is engaged in a South Asian tour, and Nancy Pelosi is the first female Speaker of the House. Women are in the workforce now more than ever, and, like Helmut Lang suggests, we wear pants. Why is it, then, that a plastic woman in a window is still not allowed to play the role of "fighter?"

"He's Just Not That Into You...No, Really. He Couldn't Be Less Into You If He Tried."

Maybe spinsters have it right. Maybe the cat ladies aren't weird; maybe we're the weird ones. You know, the ones who move around mindlessly like gas molecules, hoping to bump into their perfect match, connect, and make something solid? Yes, our frail feline friends will always reek of cat piss, but perhaps we can learn something from them, something that transcends even the most putrid of odors.

So, in a moment of utter cynicism and misandry, I channeled my inner cat lady. We'll call her Gail. With her perpetually bewildered expression and flyaway hair, one would think she recently came out of a monsoon. But the truth of the matter is that she did not recently undergo the throes of an exotic storm system; she is just single (sometimes I wonder if there is even a difference), wild, and the proud parent of five calico cats. I asked Gail what her thoughts on the male sex were...she wasn't too kind.

I began by telling her about my work situation, that a girl who started a month ago was already having "steamy make out sessions" in the break room with a coworker. I told Gail that I had been working at the same place for three years now, and while women at the front would tell me what a nice smile I had, or how friendly or pretty I was, the only person who I would ever encounter in the break room was one of the older women doing inventory on gourmet sauces. Not that I wanted a steamy make out session, I said. I just wondered why that was always the case.

"Well," Gail said very matter of factly, "did this girl have big jugs and light hair?"

I thought about it, and nodded my head.

I then told Gail about my friend who had very recently been played by a boy. He told her he loved her, came to her house, kissed her, cuddled with her, and then...dropped her. And in the next few days, kissed another girl with whom I work.

She asked me the same question, and again, I nodded.

"Well there you go," she petted her cat on the forehead, then closed her eyes, smiling silently. "Boys love girls with boobs and especially girls with boobs and blonde hair. Blonder than yours, of course."

I talked to Gail for some time, until my nostrils were inflamed and couldn't handle the stench of canned tuna, mothballs and urine any longer. In that time, Gail gave me several not-so-kind words of advice on how to improve my chances with the XY population:

1. Be willing to be insane. Gail told me that people who date are crazy and stupid, because all men are out for one thing, and once they get it, your wrinkles become less soft, and imperfections become more pronounced. We're like toilet paper to them, essentially. They see us: pure, soft, and white, and they want us for their own. Then they make a mess, and use us to fix it. In the process, they get all of their shit (she laughed at this) on us, and then realize we're not as pretty anymore--as if it is our fault. Then, they toss us in the toilet, and watch us spiral down into the drain. And then, a few hours later, when they make another mess, they reach for another equally appealing two-ply sheet. Only to shit on that as well.

Gail said that insanity is doing the same thing more than once and expecting a different outcome. Spiraling down a porcelain drain is inevitable, I suppose. But no matter how few sheets are left on the roll of toilet paper, I suppose we all have that naive notion that we'll fare differently, and that we won't go into the sewer and become soggy playthings for rats. I know I do. Gail would call me a stupid girl.

2. Be bland. Men, Gail said, don't like the loud girl. They don't like the girl who can play the xylophone with her feet, or the girl who knows the anatomy of arachnids. They don't even really like the sporty girl who can chop 60 logs in one minute. They like the plain girl. The "nice" girl. "Nice," Gail said, is the adjective men and women give to those who induce yawns. They don't pose a threat, they will let you have the lime light, and you guessed it, they aren't neurotic.

I told Gail about my laugh, and how it's high pitched bordering on shrill. She told me to fix that, or read about the Holocaust. Either way, she said, I wouldn't be laughing, and therefore would appeal more to men. But, she said, I needed to make sure not to regale to Him my findings in my readings, or I would appear to be learned, or even worse...ethnic. "Talk to him about the Jews," sneered Gail, "and your nose grows exponentially in his eyes. Don't do it."

3. Be a Caricature. "Be the ultimate female," Gail grinned as she stroked her tabby cat, "and you will have men kissing the tops of your feet." I laughed awkwardly. "Make sure they're pedicured, though. No one likes to kiss a cow's hoof."

I asked her what she meant by the Ultimate Female.

"You know," she said, "the damsel. The girl who needs, who wraps herself around her knight. The one who wants to be rescued. I'm talkin' doe eyes, here. Dresses, soft hair, a beaming smile, yet an even more striking frown. Dainty. Men like a waif, after all. Why would a man want to save a hippo, and furthermore, how could he?"

I asked about the days where you don't feel like getting gussied up, and how she knew all of this was true. She cackled. "Look at me," Gail laughed, "I don't powder my nose, and I wash my hair once a week. I eat two sprinkled donuts every morning and my thighs are as thick, rough and uneven as a dirt road. And who do I have? These cats. I'm all the proof you need."



I was rather disheartened by that final comment. I admired the wild streaks of grey genius in her hair, the bold and unafraid wrinkles lining her face. But at the same time, I couldn't help but sense the tiniest shred of loneliness in her watery blue eyes. Yes, she had her cats and her donuts. But I felt like at one point in time, she had more. She thought she was that one sheet of toilet paper that wouldn't be used, I guess...but something had happened and she was flushed, never to find her way out of the gutter.

And I guess that's the difference between Gail and me. She was flushed once, and decided to forever cling to the sides of the dirty pipes in hopes of never having to stare upwards again, never having to see the cold eyes of a future love growing further and further away as she became more submerged. And then there's me. Yes, I've been flushed. I've been made dizzy and cross eyed by the whirlpool, but I know that eventually the water will slow, and I'll be able to focus once more. I'm not going to be the girl Gail described. I'm going to continue reading about mythology and epic poems, I'm going to laugh loudly, and put my hair up when I feel like it, naively hoping that one day someone will come along, see the oddly printed piece of paper, and tuck it into their pocket forever. Maybe it's silly, but sometimes it's all we have.

Musing: Art vs. Jan & Marla

Allow me a moment to toot my own proverbial horn. I can spot a Paul Gauguin painting from a mile away, I know the difference between Manet and Monet (besides the first vowel, you clever kids), and I know that black is a very difficult color with which to paint. Granted, these are all Impressionists (well, Gauguin is post-impressionism if we're going to split hairs), but I don't credit such knowledge to myself, but rather to my elementary school Art teacher, Mrs. Biesack.

Mrs. Biesack exposed our malleable minds to various artistic greats at quite the young age. Each class, we would sit at the dirty and worn tables and listen to her talk about pieces that changed her life. Her bathroom pass was a large plastic ear (she said it belonged to Vincent Van Gogh), but none of us ever used it; we were too entranced by the motions her thin hands made as she discussed Georgia O'Keeffe. She had the skull of her family cow, Bess, nailed to the wall dressed in flowers and a hat, like she was going to church. Only later did I learn that it too was an homage to O'Keeffe's "Cow's Skull." And, before I knew it, I recognized the names, styles, and inspirations of all the artists of the impressionistic art form. My mom always likes to remind me of the time we went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art when I was eight, and I dragged her round the impressionism wing, pointing out Pissarro, and correcting her when she thought a Renoir was a Seurat. "No, Mom," I, the precocious tot, said, "Seurat was into pointillism. Degas did the ballerinas."

One of Mrs. Biesack's favorite activities for us was to drop a shoebox full of supplies onto our table, and say "Create." The boxes were full of various accoutrements: buttons, broken brooches, et cetera. There were typical items as well: charcoal, pastels, chalk, pencils, but never markers. Those were too easy to attach and make into swords. We would all work, messing up our clothes and dirtying our fingernails, always looking over our shoulders, hoping for her to acknowledge our projects. I remember being transfixed by her skirt and the sound it would make as it lightly skimmed the paint splotched tiles. I always knew she was close by that sound, so I never had to look up. Every Tuesday and Thursday, we lived for the moment when her warm and calloused hand would touch our shoulder, and the whimsical sound her beaded earrings made when she nodded her head in approval. Me especially. Mrs. Biesack inspired me, so I worked hard in that class, and that work would eventually manifest itself in some of my "paintings" (glue and chalk jungle scenes, to be specific) being shown at local art galleries, and an eventual taking to a pottery wheel.

While I've lost that artistic eye in a sense, I've never lost my respect for it. That's why it nearly killed me today when I saw several fanny pack clad women at the Chicago Institute of Art strut up to a Rembrandt, point their acrylic nails to it, and say, "that's cool." And then walk to, I don't know, a Gaudi and say "Jan, look at this one, it's not very cute." And then discuss what they want for lunch. "I don't know," Jan would say, "I had that danish for breakfast, why don't we get some chicken caesar salad for lunch." Marla would respond, "Yeah, well let's just get outta here. All these pictures just look the same."

It's that response that puts me over the edge. I'm not a charlatan; I'm not going to pretend to know everything there is to know about art, because I don't. An example? Modern art. I don't get it. I look at a modern artist's work, say Cy Twombly, and don't understand its message necessarily, and find it challenging. In some cases, I find it so challenging that I throw my hands in the air and call it "stupid," and belittle it to some kind of meditation on a Rorschach test, but that's nothing more than a cry of ignorance. While I don't understand some of modern art's merit, art is art: the work and thought process that go into it deserve respect.

To be truthful, I highly doubt that El Greco painted "La Agoria en el Jardin" to be "cute," so please, don't deem it so. I doubt that Lucio Fontana practiced spatialism in hopes of coordinating with your Charter Club bedspread, so please, don't say it does. And, while I don't necessarily see the allure in an Asian ceramic, I'm not going to say, "Oh, I saw something like that at Pier 1 the other day." Well actually, I did say that, but only in mocking the innumerable Jans and Marlas that waddled around the Asian Art wing, talking about their favorite salad dressings for Mandarin Orange chicken salad.

The thing about art is that it isn't difficult to understand, it's not black and white, and it's not only for the elite. It's not for some thin mouthed, white haired wine connoisseur who enjoys Marcel Proust almost as much as he does his brioche and smoked gruyere spread; art is for everyone, even Jan and Marla. Mrs. Biesack taught me that. You're not stupid for not seeing Voltaire's bust in Dali's "The Slave Market" first, it's all about perspective. Art can and should be for everyone; all it requires is a little, yet big, thought.

Musing: Leaking Roofs, Early Flights, & Piss Poor Metabolism

There are few things worse than the incessant yet mercurial drop drop dropdropdrops of rain that manage to weave a wet path from the roof into the ceiling and then into the metal pot you've placed beneath the hole in hopes of collecting them. Maybe it's Morse code. No, that's so 20th century. I swear, each drop is like a bullet working its way closer and closer into my brain.

In short, I hate waking up early. Especially when I can't sleep. It's 4 am. My thoughts are as disjointed and staccato as the leak in my roof. That was recently patched, by the way. Great job, Jim.

Leaving for Chicago this morning, and I feel puffy and paunchy. Maybe it was the black beans. If that's the case, I'd love to grow a large enough stalk so I can climb up to the storm clouds and push them away from the roof of my house. Unfortunately, the bloating of my stomach is probably salt and water retention, and not a mythical beanstalk. Actually, I didn't eat dinner yesterday. What's going on, body? Is my metabolism already slowing to the pace of molasses going uphill in the month of January? Eventually freezing and breaking off, leaving me perpetually porky? Thanks to my beaded pillows, my face resembles a porcelain putty gone awry. My mother wakes in curlers and I wake in smeared mascara and a grimace.

Whydidn'tyoucomeandsaygoodmorning, she shrieks. Each syllable pecks and claws at my slightly bloodshot eyes until my irises dissolve and I'm stuck with light brown goop throughout my entire eyes. Just kidding, but that would be a great surreal painting. No, Mom, I don't live on a farm, so please stop being a rooster. The paper cut on my thumb is red and throbbing at the same speed as my leaking roof. Thanks, calm and oh so refreshing drops of renewal. Thanks for hammering a liquid nail into my head so I will have a piercing and pulsating headache all fucking day. No clarity, just clanging. As always. Morning, world! It's your bloated sunbeam, Savannah!

No, I am not a morning person. I'm throwing on a shirt. The hair is going up today. Limiting salt intake. And remember, if you're hungry, something is going right.

I'll probably edit this later.

Musing: Weeds and Family

"My garden is full of weeds," said my uncle.

If a child considers it paying homage to a recently deceased grandfather by having his bust tattooed onto a bicep or pectoral, while continuing to do the thing that ultimately killed him, then yes. Your garden is full of weeds.

If a child considers life only something that can be documented, highlighted, and exaggerated through social networking sites, and views her body as means of making friends, then yes. Your garden is full of weeds.

If a child considers yelling, crying, and hitting the only way of "negotiation," then yes. Your garden is full of weeds.

If your wife is a pathetic porcine plop who considers it acceptable to yell, manipulate, and berate, then yes. Your garden is full of weeds.

"It's too bad," I said. "Dandelions seemed like so much fun to play with some odd years ago, didn't they?"

Commentary: Top Ten Song Picks for Summer

As the end of summer draws nigh, I've begun to ask myself, "Self, what are some songs that scream summer to you?" And then I thought, you know, I've never mentioned my musical preferences here before, and I might as well start now. When it's Summer, which is before Winter, which is when I turn into a black sweater wearing, black coffee drinking shut-in whose idea of an upbeat song is anything from Kid A.

So, without further ado, I give you my top ten tracks for summer. There is no ranking of best to worst because I'm too indecisive.

1. Matt & Kim's "Daylight"
Few things lift my spirits like a bright honky tonk piano intro and sophomoric lyrics. One day toward the beginning of the summer, I fell down a flight of stairs and bruised my knees...and ego. I turned this song on, and felt better almost immediately. No, the black and bloody spots didn't leave for some time, but my painful memory of the shin-boarding incident did. And really, what more can you ask from a song?

2. MGMT's "Time To Pretend" EP Version I have to be honest; the first time I had the pleasure of hearing this song, I was sleuthing the MySpace profile of a certain Nathan Followill, drummer of a certain sexy and scrumptious band called Kings of Leon. "Time To Pretend" was his profile song, but it was the Oracular Spectacular version. And while I appreciate that version, the EP one seems more honest and...human. The fuzzy synthesizers and bouncy beat transport me to a bubbling and fizzing party. Lots of lights and laughter. And of course booze and drugs. And come on, the lyrics "I'm feeling rough/I'm feeling raw/I'm in the prime of my life" epitomize the adolescent mindset. Perfect summer song, but more raw thanks to less production time.
3. N.A.S.A.'s "Gifted" featuring Kanye West, Lykke Li & Santigold
N.A.S.A.'s release of their latest album, "The Spirit Of Apollo" was a real treat. Featuring appearances by the Wu Tang Clan to Karen O to David Byrne to even, yes, Tom Waits, the duo knows how to mix even the most odd of ingredients together and create a succulent success. In "Gifted," Kanye and Santigold's ample egos complement eachother perfectly to create a fun and danceable summer party mix staple. And Lykke Li adds that necessary sugary sweetness to counter the spiciness of said hip hop stars. Even when wearing my retainers and large rainbow scrunchie at night, I play this song and I am the coolest, hippest girl in the world.
4. Devendra Banhart's "Chinese Children"OK, another honest moment. I have no clue what the fuck this song is about. And to be blunt, I don't think he does either. To be even more blunt, Banhart was probably smoking one when he wrote this song. The lyrics are weird, Devendra is weird, but the effortlessly cool guitar riffs and shuffles fit a summertime barbecue like no other. And it goes without saying that the Robert Plant-esque croon and cadence is nothing short of sexy.

5. King's Of Leon's "California Waiting"Any of you who know me knew that this one was inevitable. Followill ferocity aside, this is a summer hit from the very beginning of the song. Cowbell plus drunken drawls counting off the solid beat are two necessary summer elements. And any song that alludes to Tommy James & the Shondells gets an A in my book. The crescendo that occurs at 2:16 is chill inducing, and invariably ends in me shrieking every time they play this live. The screaming and libido-heavy sense of urgency in the last ten seconds of the song is pure rock & roll. I can feel his throat growing sore, I can see the beads of sweat gather and then fall off his forehead as he frantically strums the final sixteenth notes. This song is an experience. This song is sex. Now roll your windows down, and turn it up.
6. New Order's "Temptation"It's hard for me to know where to start with this. I'll always have a soft spot for this song as it was in the 90's classic, "Singles." Moreover, the new wave beat is contagious and may be even more effective than Zoloft. Major keys, a pulsating synthesizer and sappy and romantic lyrics would make even Edgar Allan Poe write poems about butterflies and happy sultry summer afternoons. If he were alive, obviously. This song begs for some major choreography. Get dancing, boys and girls.

7. The White Stripes' "You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You're Told)"Few artists pack the punch that Jack and Meg White do, and I highly doubt that any ever will. Heavy handed and full of a bluesy bravado, Jack relays a rather mean message (perhaps to former flame Renee Zellweger), but we don't notice. Why? A confident major key, and heavy down beat powerchords. Oh, and 3:10. White delivers a real tour de force with his guitar, slicing into and tearing the pretty and poppy melody he created to shreds without a care in the world. Now that's what I call a nihilist. Great guitar, great vocals, and an antique organ make this a top summer choice.


8. Grand Duchy's "Fort Wayne"While I'm not necessarily the biggest fan of Frank Black's voice, I absolutely love this album. From the album "Petit Fours," a project he has made with his lovely French wife, this song zips up long summer days in a suitcase and lets you take it wherever you please. Black's long and wailing guitar and vocals wind up and down and all around like the breeze of a hot summer day, and his wife's ethereal voice transports you to Heaven, or at least France. They're close enough, anyway. The bridge around 1:57 is done entirely in French, and you can see the sun shining down on the Seine. Want to spend the summer in Europe, but you're on a budget? Get this song.


9. The Cure's "Just Like Heaven"I never really understood how such a seemingly bleak man like Robert Smith could write such a whimsical and upbeat song. I mean, he looks like a creation of Tim Burton's imagination. Anyway, the delicate yet playful piano to a pop beat makes me want to run into a field of wildflowers and catch dragonflies all day long. Hopefully with someone who looooves me, too.

10. Modest Mouse's "3rd Planet"I feel like anything I say to describe this song will only be a disservice to it. Moon & Antarctica. Fall in love, go outside, get grass stains on your pants and dirt beneath your fingernails and live in only the most saturated of colors. Do it, now. If I had to pick the ultimate song of summer, it would be this.

Komentery: Da Devolution of Wordz

After a careful perusing of the white and soulless CD racks at the local corporate music store with my cousin, I came to the disconsolate conclusion that the world will end in 2012 like the Mayans predicted. And to be honest, if the ill spelled names of certain "artists" of the rap/hip hop section are any semblance of a cultural indicator, Judgment Day cannot come soon enough.

I cannot begin to tell you how many hideously botched nouns of the English language were showcased in these cellophane wrapped cases. The man above is the hip hop sensation known as "Z-ro." Close to him was the youthful "Yung Berg," and close to him was the rather ursine "Rapper Big Pooh," and close to him was "The Playaz Circle." Curious as to the caliber of song titles (I was looking for a good chuckle, they seem to have a lot of phun with phonetics), I found several klever monikers, like:

"Tru Feelingz"

"First 2 Rize"

"Shelta From Da Storm"

and "That'Z My Name"

I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised (and grateful) to see the inclusion of the apostrophe in the last song title. My cousin was a bit embarrassed of me, though. He wanted to buy the newest Ludacris CD. It was $14, and he only had $12. He had a hissy fit (though not that much of one) when I told the cashier the immense amount of guilt I had for contributing to the erosion of his brain by chipping in those final two dollars and some odd change. "Sa-va-nuhhhh," he sighed. "Do you always have to be so white?"


And I suppose if caring about silly things like grammar, competency, and language as a whole constitute as being "so white," then yes. Yes, I always have to be "so white." Although, to be completely candid, I know just as many white people whose vernacular seeps even below the dismal ranks of the rap superstarz listed above.

In truth, it breaks my logophilic heart to have to witness the degradation of words with each hit that makes it to the top of ClearChannel Top 100 lists. I understand that language evolves with society, but this is no evolution. If anything, we are hearkening back to our ancestors' tongue. Not the ones that lived in quaint European homes, but the ones that lived in caves. The ones that picked their toenails, and then, with the same hand, picked at their teeth. People speak via text now, and their definition of a deep read is some sort of sci-fi teen paperback. I'm curious to see when it is that we begin to speak in low, gutteral utterances, and beat our chests to prove our strength and agility, taunting others with objects, and then tackling those we dislike. Oh, wait. That's professional football.

I suppose more than anything, I'm just sad. Sad that my literary greats don't stand a chance to the autotuned and slanged voices of the future. Sad that a master like James Joyce will merely be regarded as "so white," and therefore cast aside as "boring." Sad that when we become so scientifically civilized, we become more barbaric. I naively assumed that there would be a positive correlation between the two, but as usual, I am wrong.

Oh well, there really is nothing I can do about it except wait. Let them have their money, grillz, and nEt $p33k; hopefully they'll go first on the day of the apocalypse. In the meantime, I will remain so white, so boring, and so uncool, and swaddle myself in words.

Commentary: FDA Approved Suicide

Not to beat a dead horse, but Michael Jackson didn't die by smoking a fat and juicy blunt. Actually, no one dies by doing that. People die (and by "people" I mean approximately 200,000 Americans annually) by abusing prescription drugs. If there is anything to learn from MJ's death--besides the traumatic effects of child abuse, the perils of plastic surgery, and that calling a theme park "home" isn't exactly financially prudent, it's this: we are addicts.

Taking a cue from Jackson himself, it is most assuredly time to look at ourselves in the mirror. We are a nation of over-medicated and overly indulgent individuals. No, you don't have a headache because you're dehydrated, it's because you have a migraine--maybe something worse. Let's get you some Advil, sweetie. You have a bad day, so you hit the Prozac, not the park. Children who don't focus in class aren't just eating too much sugary shit in the morning, they have ADD. Or maybe they're stuck in the genital stage of development--they need to see a shrink. Immediately. Before they turn into some kind of serial killer, or something.

But oh no, what are you going to give your little Johnny on that fateful day when he comes home smelling like weed? Isn't there some pill for that, to, you know, make him stop doing that, Doctor? Does he smoke it because he has some kind of oral fixation, sir? Should I up his visits to his psychotherapist?


Personally, I don't generally condone drug use at all. A drug is a drug. Granted, I will take an aspirin if my headache doesn't go away, but only after I've had water, after I've taken a nap, and after I've stretched and breathed deeply. Please, spare me the scientology and/or homeopathic associations (I think both are bona fide quacks), but I find that the mind itself can act as a better remedy than acetaminophen. As for marijuana, I don't care one way or the other about the drug itself; it's not the most efficacious way for me to alleviate stress, and generally speaking, I don't enjoy the feeling of internal burning. But facts are facts. It's not habit forming, and a whopping zero people have died from complications whilst smoking it. I understand that it is generally recognized as a "gateway drug," however one hit is most assuredly not going to kill you, let alone leave you passed out on the tiles of the bathroom floor with crusty puke remnants on the collar of your shirt. If at all, that would occur soon after eating the umpteenth White Castle slider that generally follows the act of getting high.

So, yes, I know several people who have expanded their midsections due to smoking weed, but none who have died, none who have wasted away to nothingness, both financially and physically, thanks to an expensive and deadly habit. Why is something that invariably expands waistbands illegal, but something that kills and destroys lives legal and highly attainable?

Drug Lobbyists. Pharmaceutical companies spend over $20 billion promoting their drugs to hundreds of thousands of physicians each year, in hopes of having their product happily placed in the medicine cabinets of pill popping proletarians across the nation. And it works. Unfortunately, the marijuana industry in the United States is not nearly as highfalutin, their equivalent of a lobbyist is generally a twentysomething male looking to make some money on the side. There are no special interests, and it goes without saying that there is no political leverage with weed.

Historically speaking, the act of placing weed in a veritable Pandora's Box began long ago to cease the influx and influence of, you guessed it: immigrants and minorities. When coming to the grand ole US of A, many Mexicans brought cannibis with them. And many black jazz musicians, upon moving to the cities in the mass urban movement that occured early in the 20th century, used marijuana regularly as well. And, in hopes of slowing the spinning of America's proverbial melting pot (no pun intended), Harry Anslinger, head of the Bureau of Narcotics, capitalized on the motif of race and fear by releasing the following statements about weed:

"There are 100,000 total marijuana smokers in the US, and most are Negroes, Hispanics, Filipinos, and entertainers. Their Satanic music, jazz, and swing, result from marijuana use. This marijuana causes white women to seek sexual relations with Negroes, entertainers, and any others."

"Reefer makes darkies think they're as good as white men."

"Marijuana leads to pacifism and communist brainwashing."


So what do we have now, just shy of 100 years following these statements? No, we're not communists, and we sure aren't pacifists. A white girl can listen to Clive Davis and smoke a blunt, with little to no change in her oxytocin levels. None of Anslinger's predictions came true. But now, we get our kicks and brainwashing from things that are perfectly legal. Oh, and we have a booming and illegal drug industry that is spreading faster than wildfire.

Sure, there were a lot of eerie things about Michael Jackson. The skin, the face, the penchant for prepubescent boys. But perhaps the eeriest facet to his being was that this man, this icon, heralded by many as the king of pop, pained and eventually killed himself in hopes of relieving it. And it was all FDA approved.

Age

You know a scary thought? Ourselves in 50 years.

The other afternoon, I was at work and an older man came in with his equally elderly wife. Time's inevitable hash marks were abundant on both of their faces. I knew something was wrong with him when he stopped for a few moments too long in the automatic doorway, causing the receipts on the counter to flutter about aimlessly like gulls on a beach. I looked to the source of the wind, and saw the man, hunched over, staring at me, and glub-glub-glubbing like a fish. I said hello, he said nothing. Although, he did smile...and I must say, it reminded me of a gondola. Thin, wide, and upturned. Unsure of how to respond, I returned a modest grin and went about my business.

After approximately 20 minutes of meandering, the old couple arrived at the counter, ready to check out. It was relatively unremarkable, until I finished ringing them up. He stayed for a moment too long, and then pushed a basket full of cookies to me. The woman laughed nervously and looked to me for understanding. I played the neanderthal-esque cashier and continued smiling. He pushed the basket closer to me, this time with a more aggravated expression. The corners of his lips began to turn down, no longer resembling his erstwhile grin. Hoping to keep things lighthearted, I laughed nervously, asking if he was going to be able to eat all of those. His wife began to pull at his jacket. Lifting his frail and spotted hand into the air, he shooed her. She pulled again. "You can't have those," she said, "it's time to go." He began to shake his head, and she tugged once more.

Like an earthquake, I could feel it before I actually saw its effects. He slammed his fist onto the steel counter, causing receipts to fly once again. I could see the blood flee from his hands until his once pink fist was completely white. "Goddamnit," he spewed, "I'll go when I please!" The man tore at her paper thin wrists and shoved her aside. And in that moment, I saw Time make five more hash marks on her face.

"I'm so sorry," I muttered. I had no idea what to do.

Like a dog, she slowly followed her master, tail tucked under her floor length skirt. I watched them as the doors shut. She shook her head in shame. "You embarrassed me," she cried. He said nothing, but stood there, stoic and stunted. She pressed her recently bruised hands to her face, and then placed one on the nape of his neck, the other to his forearm, and they began walking.

I would have continued to watch, but was interrupted by a gaggle of girls asking for job applications.

I assumed the man suffered from Alzheimer's or Dementia and was in the throes of a rather violent bout with it. And then I wondered, who would I rather be? The old man who wakes every morning to a sagging and decrepit body, not realizing who he is, or what that sallow skin even represents? Or the haggard woman who is reminded daily of her age? Which is worse: blindness or sight?

But, I suppose it ultimately doesn't matter how we go into the night, for it will always be dark.

Musing: Eskimos, Igloos, & Independence Day

Why, why, why is it that on Independence Day I'm thinking about love? Perhaps it's the dreary weather, reminding me of, oh, I don't know, anything the Bronte sisters would write. Bad weather brings out the romantic in me, what can I say. All I know is that I'm not thinking of how happy I am to be American.

Last night, I dreamed about Eskimos and their homes made of ice. In my dream, I built one, and then in Spring, when I heard the first drop drop drops of the melting ice tap my dark suede boots, I cried. Not necessarily because my boots would soon become completely madefied, but because the walls in which I had lived and loved for so long would soon melt away into a blinding and bloodless snow. There would be no mark of where I had stayed, and no tangible memories. Years later, I would not be able to return to my home, look at a particularly shiny pane of a window and say, "Ah yes, that's from the time when a baseball went through the window." My memories of that home would be about as solid and permanent as its foundation come summertime, slowly being evaporated by the frigid sun.

I recall being frightened in my dream, but I realized soon that this was just something I simply had to accept. The notion of "home" and its effect on the individual has been prominent throughout man's existence, therefore its opposite, the lack of a home, has been protuberant as well. Yet, for thousands of years, the Eskimos continued to build their homes made of frozen water only to be left drenched and cold in its wraith like remnants come springtime.

End of the dream. It left me wondering, then, why? Why spend hours upon hours building something so finite? Why risk the hypothermia, the runny noses, the red cheeks and numb fingertips on something that just won't last? It all seemed rather futile to me.

And then it occurred to me, they do it just because. Because that's what their parents have done, that's what their parents before them have done, and so on and so forth. Because that's who they are. The Eskimos are fully aware of the fact that their beloved homes will turn to a transparent puddle, and eventually return to the sky, but they do it anyway.

I feel like that's a lot like love, really. We know that it doesn't last in its most ideal form, obviously, but we get so caught up in its eventual disintegration that we lose sight of it in its most solid state, no matter how transparent it may appear. Some are so weary of seeing their sad reflection in those cold and inevitable pools that they don't bother with love to begin with. No one wants to be left feeling numb.

But for me, I'm more afraid of forgetting, and of having my warm memories snatched into the sky, leaving me shivering without a sign of shelter. I begin to resent time and how it melts away at everything I treasure. And then I realize that it's all elemental and cyclical. Love may melt, condense, and evaporate, becoming indiscernible amongst the world around us, but that's only because it is all around us, and always will be. The Eskimos continue to make their homes made of ice without fear, because they know they can never truly lose them, for water cannot be destroyed. Funny how we view them as silly, even though their homes are made of material that transcends a definite shape and form.

They build, block by block, until they are absolutely numb. They build some more until their diamond is complete. It stands strong for some time, shining brilliantly, but eventually begins to lose its lustre, fading slowly into the snowy earth. But they are not afraid, for the puddle still sparkles as brightly as the house once did. And at night, when the puddle no longer remains, they look to the sky, and see the stars shining like jewels in the inky night, much like the puddle did, and much like their home, though faint, once did. And then the snow begins to trickle down like a string of broken pearls from the starry sky, and they are ready to build a home once more.

Musing: Masks, Speeches, & Math Tests

Looked through the old computer today, found my campaign speech for freshman class vice president. How the hell did I win?

"Hi. My name is Savannah Cox, and I am running to be Vice President of our Freshman class.

I guess I should start out by telling you a bit about myself and what qualities I have that can earn your vote to help to lead our class.

While I may not have the neatest handwriting, or have the best scores on a math test, I can say that I always do my best to help out others and stand up for what I believe is important. What WE believe is important. Of course, I can’t just tell all of you how I will make lunch time last for an hour, or how WE will never have homework, because that can’t happen. However, if you elect me, I can promise you that I will represent you very well and do the best I can to help solve the problems that can come up in the life of a freshman.

I think that it is important for a vice president to be able to lead, but it is also important to listen. I think that I can do just that. You see, I truly think that everyone matters, and has something meaningful to say. If you choose me for your vice president, I can guarantee you that I will listen to all of your problems, requests, whatever! And channel them out to others and find a way to get that problem or request solved or at least be listened to. It may seem impossible, but I have found that I never give up, and I would be honored to serve you well.

Essentially, we are Ballard High School’s future. And if you elect me, I can tell you right now the future will be bright!

Thank you for listening, and I hope you vote for me!"

I remember asking my mom for advice on how to write a winning speech, and she told me to channel Bill Clinton. I don't know who I channeled, but it certainly wasn't my own voice. I wore makeup that day. Maybe that's why I won, or why everyone wins.

I would have hated me in high school.