Me(TSO + Live Concerts) = Eternal, Undying Devotion

Okay. I knew Trans-Siberian Orchestra was amazing. I knew I loved them. I knew that nothing could lessen my love for them.

But I didn't know I could love them more.


HOT. dang. I will say this once: If you ever get the chance to see TSO live and do not take it, your life is not worth living. And now this video will give you a taste as to why.



Yes. Lasers, smoke, snow, hovering stages, flames, and more. You think I'm exagerating - I'm not. Remember, these people got Tia to write a post longer than 9 words.

Was it the crazy Asian violinist doing the splits as he played Tchaikovsky that made this show? Or maybe the 6'3" Puerto Rican growling out jazzy tunes like his voice had it's own, black soul? Or could it be the tiny blonde who looked like she should go country, but belted arias instead?

I don't know what it was, but to say the very, very least - it was awesome. And they're starting a spring tour!


*beam*

Pi

My new goal in life is to have a child on 3-14-15.

The One Where Tia Goes off Her Rocker

>I’ve decided that I’m going to start writing fictional accounts of things I would do any given day if I didn’t have the personality traits, morals, or inclinations I do. With no money or job (and little chance I'll get one) I gotta fill the hours somehow *grin*<

Today: Wandering Bohemian Spirit

The freeway was hotter today, it seemed. It tended to do that – shimmer and swirl and swoon you when you least expected it. It is Nevada. No excuse for it to welcome foreign clouds for a renegade native. You’d think it’d have some sympathy for a former occupant, but clearly any sort of departure was viewed as desertion, even the unwilling kind.

Desert heat is deceptive; it beats on your head even as it glistens ethereal and changeable in front of your very eyes. How many things hit you like that? Forcefully telling you what it is while daring you to ignore its stark truth for a more desirable image. I’ve blinded myself like that often enough.

“Glory!” I plucked my shirt off my sweating chest in vain imitation of a fan. At least I was still sweating – I wouldn’t think of what to resort to when I ran out of water and, thereafter, sweat. That might force me to break The Rules, and so far I hadn’t had to even question them. But when choosing between life and Rules, the choice seemed laughable – especially when those rules were made to keep me alive.

Oh, The Rules. I even capitalize them like that in my mind, and it somehow comes out in my tone. They aren’t nearly as foreboding as they sound, all official and such. Grammar. Always important. S’what I get from reading too much and growing up with English majors.

Seriously though, “The Rules” were just a set of no-no’s I set down before I started this whole crazy, bohemian traveling thing. They were meant to keep me safe and semi-honorable.

Rule No. 1: No walking in sight of a freeway when possible. Especially at night.

Rule No. 2: No sleeping in abandoned buildings – unless it’s raining and you can find an unseen corner to curl up in (this meant a hidden nook in the ceiling, an unreachable attic, or a covered bit of roof)

Rule No. 3: No sleeping at ground level whenever given the choice (a rope and some mad climbing skills meant I could almost always find a tree to kip off in. Sure, my quality of sleep suffered, but I stayed safer that way.)

Rule No. 4: No junk food while traveling from one city to the next (it pays to be healthy when you have no set home)

Rule No. 5: No rides with anyone I’ve known less than 3 months. No hitch-hiking.

Rule No. 6: No using transient bishops or homeless shelters unless I was desperate.

That last was so I wouldn’t take aid from someone else who really needed it – it was my choice/fault that I was out here, so I would take care of myself as far as I could and then beseech others. Right then, though, I might’ve had to beg a ride if I started getting heat stroke. No dying was an unspoken rule. And it was getting hotter and hotter.

Off to the west some clouds lurked over a scattered blast of shot-gun hills. Weak, cumulus clouds huddled over them, probably too tired and dry to make contact with any earth further away. I wondered if a dance would entice them over to partially block the searing sun, if not (oh, goodness, please) to rain. The thought brought a grin to my face, as I imagined little 7 year-olds on their summer trip to CA peering out of air-conditioned cars at the crazy blonde dancing maniacally as they zoomed by, already covering more ground than she had in the past day. Well, I’d have certainly enjoy seeing that when I was that age. Then again, I was always a bit different, hence why I was hiking across Nevada to California in the summer heat.

Tia the Wanting

Today at work I was relatively productive, barring one small infraction where I was checking out WikiHow - one of the coolest Wikis out there. Anyways, I was going to look up how to survive a kidnapping, since Hilary (girl from office)was going off about all these tricks people will use and what you're supposed to do and whatnot. But I didn't quite make it there since on the first page it had "How to Survive a Long Fall".

*shudder*

Of course I was drawn in by it, since I am morbidly curious about anything height related. And it proved to be a very informative - if at times creepy - read. Like, did you know that you bounce? And that your best bet when falling off of skyscraper scaffolds and such is to aim for either glass or cars? Or that it takes 6-10 seconds to fall 1000 feet? I'll post the url so y'all can be thoroughly dissuaded from any future plans to go skydiving.

http://www.wikihow.com/Survive-a-Long-Fall


Oh, and the title?

So, Tae and I were in the living room last night, sitting, disaffected, collegiate, and we're talking about titles - you know, like Catherine the Great, or Vlad the Impaler. And I'm like, "Hey, Tae, wouldn't that be the coolest thing?" or something like that. Tae's all, hm, yeah that's nice, roomie. I continue. "If I ever went into politics, I'd tell everyone it was to get one of those. Tia the Terrible...Tia the Thoughtful..."

"Tia the Wanting."

*beatific grin*

Needless to say, Tae's full of genius, and we will now refer to Tia at the appropriate (or inappropriate, I"m not picky) moment as Tia...the Wanting.

Wasting Time I Don't Have (Because Life's Just Too Tiresome Sometimes)

Tia needs…
1. Tia’s parent
2. To be rapidly managed
3. GE Healthcare-Product Technology-Stroke
4. Glasses…
5. …now about chemo
6. Some tanks
7. A wadgie (???)
8. A new home
9. Bigger global profile
10. A boy


Fun, little internet game - google " needs" and take the first ten results. Pretty introspective, if you take it seriously. Like, I do need to be rapidly managed, I certainly wouldn't mind a boy, and some tanks might round it all out. As for a wadgie, well - who doesn't need one of those?

Because Who Really Sleeps on Christmas Eve?

I just found this and had a good laugh! I figured that maybe you guys were ignoring the normal convention of, you know, sleep and might need something to waste your night away with.

------

That was it. Cameron had to go. Damn the world to hell and back, but there was no way he was staying. He had done it.

He insulted David Lee.

When it was Axel, I could take it. Meatloaf? Yeah, okay, apart from his mad musical genius, he’s just plain weird. But, damn it, when you mess with Van Halen, you mess with me.

You could tell that none of the hellfire and damnation deathrays I was sending were getting through that shaggy, thick-headed skull. He just continued to push the grocery cart, past the couscous and long-grain brown rice, oblivious to my glares and the rock gods he’d just insulted serenading us in the background. I mentally boiled him in the Chef Boyardee I was standing next to as he turned, wondering where the list (me) went. And stopped, innocent, blue eyes questioning.

“Is something wrong?”

Is something wrong?? After six months of cheap, nickelcade dates and midnight discussions (ok, make-out sessions), he asks me if something is wrong?

Oh, he’s gone.

“Cameron,” I said in my calm, cool, negotiator voice, “I think that maybe we need to take stock of our relationship. You know, take a step back, have a look…assess things.”

“Next to the Spaghettios?”

I coolly examined the ruddy cheeked Chef Boyardee on the can I now had in my hand. His forced smile irritated me far more than it should; I like ravioli.

“Assess? We’re not a factory line-up, Jaqueline.” He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow, those blue eyes smugly meeting mine, savoring my full name on his full lips. Seeing my inner demon roaring towards him through my boiling eyes, he changed his stance, one hand on the cart, the other languidly resting on his hip, utterly relaxed. Except for those blasted, blue eyes; they burned with newfound pleasure. David Lee Roth sang on, unrepentant about his “hots” for teacher.

I’d pluck those eyes out for David Lee if it was the last thing I did in this mortal life.

“Cameron….”I started, gripping poor, forgotten Chef in my hand.

“Jac-que-line .” He sent back.

And that’s when I chucked Chef’s smiling face at his head.

--------------
“You threw a can of Spaghettios at his head!?” Carla, my best friend for, like, life asked. Again. See, I’ve known Carla since 8th grade; we sat by each other in art. It was the whole, if-we-don’t-team-up-we’ll-be-socially-scarred-for-life-by-the-freaks-around-us. And, no, I’m not being judgmental or stuck up or something. Two of the guys at our table slipped a roofie into our 20something choir teacher’s coffee in high school. Charming fellows. Yeah. Survival was paramount.

“Ravioli. It was Chef Boyardee…” I stared at the swirling, psychedelic dots on her tablecloth, tracing them with my finger. Poor Chef. He didn’t deserve such a cruel fate.

“Hey!” Carla snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Chef, Mickey D, who cares? Point is, you are dang lucky that store owner only kicked you out instead of calling the psychoward to take you away.” She watched me switch to jabbing the small, orange dots. “Something which, quite frankly, I would’ve done. Who throws a can of soup at their boyfriend in the middle of Smith’s? Even if he is a sadistic bastard?”

I glance up, irritated, hands stopping their pointless, inward course. She’s staring down at me, eyebrows through the ceiling. She needs to pluck.

Twilight Spoof

So, I was really excited to hear that Stephenie Meyer had sold the movie rights to her book (twice, actually). I thought, well, it's such a popular book, they can't do a half-baked job on it. Then....the trailer came out. Don't get me wrong, I thought they did a great job picking Bella and Edward, visually at least. And Edward's voice, oh, Edward's voice - so good. But ask me if I'm excited about the movie now. Yeah. Not really. I mean, I'll see it (of course I'll see it - I'm going to see HMS3 and I don't even remotely like HSM), but I've pretty much decided it won't be as good as I want it to be. Besides, in the grand tradition of movies-based-off-of-books, the book is generally better - pretty much 98.5% of the time (Pride & Prejudice being the only exception I can think of now(yay for making up statistics!)).

Anyways, I say this to preface the awesomeness that follows - a spoof trailer that my sister sent me that is pretty much fabulous. It's a goldmine of one-liners, I sweat (or I swear, but let's just be nice and say I do neither).

I miss Brit.

I miss Brittany. It's so strange - we haven't seen each other for a year, but it doesn't seem that long. I don't feel like we haven't talked for months. Maybe it's the dreams.

I have a dream about Brittany about once every two months or so. Not one with her, about her - she's always a main character. I'm guessing this stems from our kind of falling out. Except there really wasn't any falling out. More like a fading out. I was tired, too tired to think of anything but me (and that not even well), so I couldn't even be there for her or even just with her. And it surprises me how sad I am about that. I miss her like the dickens. I'm kind of a jerk. *sigh*

That's what I get, I guess. I wonder how many relationships I've screwed up by just ignoring them? Ugh, I won't think about it. Too many are coming to mind.

All the Single Ladies Have It, and All the Single Boys Want It.

WARNING (AND THIS IS ACTUALLY A WARNING): The following is my two-hour feminist speal spawning from a Beyonce video. And, no, it's not like you've already assumed it is. But, yes, it is slightly incoherent, and you might learn some strange things about me. As if there weren't enough already. Oh, well, no turning back now *muwahahahahahahah!* PS I don't know why the rest of this won't turn blue. Blogger Hates Me.

Lately – lately being last night and today – I’ve been really into this new music video by Beyonce. It is basically, as Kym would put it, porn. Three gorgeous black women in all their bootylicious glory, wearing skin-tight leotards, gyrating and grinding to every male fantasy out there. But, if we ignore men and their blatant weakness for the “weaker” sex (which everyone does anyways nowadays), it’s really quite an interesting, um, view.

First of all, let’s ask why I find this so fascinating. It’s not because of the song (though it does have a catchy beat), it’s not because of the scantily clad women (we have established that that effect is generally male-appreciated), and it’s not because I’m a huge fan of Beyonce’s. What I first noticed, aside from the leotards, was the dancing. And because of said leotards, the emphasis the dancing gave to their muscles. It’s a fact – I like muscles. Not in any creepy fetish-y way. I just think they are beautiful, especially in motion. To me, the human body is God’s finest piece; a sculpture that’s never completely stationary, always moving, always breathing, always living. Only death can take away that beauty, and only then for a bit.

Point is, their dancing fascinates me. Their muscles reaching and contracting, stopping movement cold in a second – in layman’s terms, it’s wicked awesome. But this was only the tip of the iceberg. Being so interested in the dancing led to other observations – I liked their bodies. Once again, not trying to be freakalicious here, and, no, I’m not being redundant. I liked seeing these full-bodied women, definitely in good shape (more than can be said for yours truly at the moment) who’s bodies and attitudes unequivocally declared, “I am Woman. Don’t need to roar to tell that.”

This impressed me because all my life I’ve struggled (ish) with the idea of femininity. Now, I know that true femininity is defined by tenderness and the capacity to nurture, but I can’t help but be drawn into the world’s ever-enticing tendency to judge by appearance, and sometimes it’s just hard to see my own femininity. And it’s not just me. When I mention my feelings of sexual (gender) ambiguity to friends, they comment that they don’t internally sense themselves as female either. It’s a fact we know – we know we’re women – but I don’t think we all really acknowledge it. I see aspects of my personality that seem far more masculine than feminine and some that (sadly) no self-respecting male would admit to having either. And in a world where everything feels black and white sometimes, that’s pretty confusing.

But I digress. I liked seeing these women own their bodies and handle them well, like they could move their own piano without breaking the legs – and probably do it in some killer heels, too. Acknowledging this brought on new questions though. What gave them their sense of femininity if it wasn’t a sense of delicacy?

This led to a quick pass through a very obvious train of thought – they’re womanly because they’re sexy, how could I possibly think that?, do I think my only alternate route to womanhood is through sex appeal? Can I be white and own my body like that? And more shallow musings that we all have but don't like to admit.

Let’s say we were only able to display our womanly charms in two ways – by casting our role as either the weaker or the wilier sex. If that were the case, and knowing BYU for its ensign of chastity, which of the two do you think most female students here would choose? The weaker or – for p.c.’s sake – the more delicate role, of course. This is a natural response to our religious upbringing. And it is, I feel, in large part out of respect for our boys – I feel their plight, even if I don’t understand it.

It may very well be that these paradoxical views of women came from the desire to create one’s female identity clashing with the struggle to respect and appease man’s perspective as well. Tons and tons of psychological research has been done on this subject, I’m sure, since it comes from the never-ending confusion that is the male-female relationship. One obvious example that comes to mind (and, Kym, don’t slay me, I’ll look it up later, this isn’t a paper for a journal, these are just my random thoughts which don’t generally include psychoanalytic theories etc, etc) is Freud’s Oedipus Complex, as interpreted by Jung. As a society, we see the opposite sex not only as lovers, but as fathers and mothers, family members, coworkers, friends, etcetera, etcetera. It’s no wonder we sometimes get confused by how we’re supposed to treat them!

This is where a lot of feminists get really pissed at guys, and, honestly, I can kind of see where they’re coming from. This overt-awareness of their own sexuality feels like it inhibits our self-expression or demeans us when they are distracted by our “femininity” and not taking us seriously. Yes, we like being attractive, and if we didn’t like sex, rape would have been legitimized from the get-go if anyone wanted the species to last past one generation. But we don’t want you staring at our chests when we’re discussing quantum theory. There is a time and place, buddy.

However, man alone did not create those binding views of woman, and as long as they don’t run free with it, we need to be more obliging in helpinf them see us as sentient, not just sexual, beings. So, they are not to blame, initially, for their carnality.

But thousands of years of being human and screwing up as only humans can has ingrained these stereotypical notions of femininity into our heads. And because so much of it is because of the male’s inability to, as a whole, acknowledge the sexual female as nurturing and intelligent as well, we tend to blame our limited choices on them. We can either be the mother or the whore. Anything else and we’re just not feminine enough.

I don’t know if any of this is making sense. It's all pretty circular, but hopefully some grains of thought come out comprehensible. It's hard to churn all my 19 years of not-learning-much into a philosophical discussion, especially when the other end of the wire is my own ignorance and a silent (for now) internet audience.

I hope I’m not coming off as jaded either. I’m not bitter with the men of the world, not for any crime they didn’t commit themselves, I’m just bitter with the result of the world’s ignorance and conceit. Ignorance and conceit that has been piling up, building pressure for thousands of years. Pressure that is now firmly thrust on my very broad, very female shoulders. It’s hard to find good femininity in such a scarce market, but that scarcity makes it necessary to grab whatever’s available, however flawed and unfit it may be. Until I find a better place to shop, a place that has weight-lifting, baked-goods, shot-gun shooting, and little black dresses, I’ll just have to live with this ill-fitting, insecure society.

Post-Mentally-Exhausted-Script: Here's the video, if you want to see the cause of my maunderings. It will probably seem inadequate compared to the train of thought it provoked, but what can I say?

Half-Past Awesome

Muse is mana to my little, emo soul.

So I Need to Be Canadian, Eh?

I keep wondering if I should start writing on more practical matters in my blog. I come across so many interesting blogs when I'm looking up stuff, just random people throughout the universe blogging away their lives. They all seem to make their blogs strangely informative and useful, whereas I just blather on and on about myself since no one can tell me to shut up. I don't know the age to someone's favorite, obscure band member, I don't have that awesome painting by that random Arabic-Seattlite (though based on my frantic searchings, no one else does either), and I can't tell you how to make kimchi or rice balls or what fashion faux pas Cory Kennedy has dove into lately. My blog has no meaning!

So, after a good five minutes of thought, I've concocted a general stereotype for these blog.Masters. Here is a summary of my thoughts:

Strangely enough, the blogverse contains a large amount of Canadians. They're from all over the Great Maple Leaf (man, what a sad nickname) but their parents are never actually from Canada. Still, they're very proud to raise a hand to the good ol' red and white. Hm. Step 1 to Becoming a blog.Master: Become Canadian.

So, these Canadians (eh?) are generally around their mid-twenties and all seem to have some sort of food fetish - be it baking or eating out, they always take pictures of their food (do they not feed you in Canada!?!). They also love awesome things like languages, books, and Asian pop culture. Minus the food-pics bit, I'm basically one of them. Oh, and being Canadian.

Not that in their blogs they're ever actually in Canada. They always seem to travel, visiting wickedly awesome places like France, UAE, Korea, Hong Kong, etc, etc. Then they write about how they've been skiing in the desert or eaten live octupus. Step 2 to Becoming a Great Blogger: Eat an octopus ALIVE!!!! *lightening flashes*

To sum up (because I have to go to class now), I guess what I have to do to attract large amount of blog-stalkers is: 1. start taking pictures of what I gustate 2. travel to absurdly cool places 3. eat live sea creatures and 4. emigrate to Canadia (yes, Canadia - do you have a problem with that?). Then and only then can I call myself a true Blog.Master. She bangs.

Say Hello to my Little Friend!

So! The obsession with Korea holds, and today's awesome new discovery is *drumroll* - Michelle!

Now, before you ditch me and go back to your mind-numbing internet pursuits, let me explain. Michelle is a girl I met today, as I was leaving the IC (International Cinema). We'd both just seen 'Afterlife' this, odd, little Japanese flick and as I was practically running away from all possibility of socialization, she snagged me and asked me what the heck was up with that movie. This little discussion turned into a 45 minute chat about pretty much anything and everything and got me so exci-

*pause*

A strange swell of music just graced my ears, and by the time I realized that no, that synthesizer is not in my head, it was gone. Odd.

*un-pause*

-ted I had to check myself from launching into an hour-long interrogation about her culture. Some things did slip out, but I managed to keep a relatively sane appearance and now have her number and a promise to watch anime with her sometime (AND she loves anime! So good!). I swear, my night is made.


Oh, and Kym - she referred me to this one site (mysoju.com) that has a glorious plethera of Asian dramas and movies. Soooo, basically I'll never sleep or be productive again. Yessssssss........

KOREAN DRAMAS DRIVE ME CRAZY!!!!!!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
STUPID, CLOSED-MOUTHED SUN-WOO! IDIOTIC REPRESSED YOUNG-HEE!!!!


UGH!

Taste Sweet Love

My pinky hurts like a mo-fo. Mere.

So, this weekend I rediscovered my love for Asian dramas (specifically Korean ones) when I found Baek Seol Gong Ju/Snow White/Taste Sweet Love. A kitschy little show, it's about a strong, slightly odd girl who is in love with her best friend of 8 years, but who just won't notice her like that. The twist is that he asks her to let his brother stay there a couple of days since his return from Japan, but little does he know they already met there - and had an interesting encounter of their own.

Anyways, it all comes down to the fact that I've watched 5 episodes, which comes to 5 hours, and there has been little to no plot progression. Mind you, I have 11 episodes to go, but still. I mean, come on.

What finally got to me (besides the fact that she's been pining for Jin-woo this whole time when Sun-woo is clearly the one to go for) is when they brought in another character, this whining, pain-in-the-butt Japanese girl. And this is where the Korean appeal went straight over my head.

Let me clarify. This show is weird. The women act weird (loud, annoying, over-exagerated, push-overs, etc), the friends are all mooches, and there are so many social no-no's (I don't care what culture you live in) that I'm cringing every other second!

Now, all of this isn't a complete turn-off if you look at it in the right light. I find it fascinating. I love listening to them speak, I love watching them address each other, and I LOVE how wonderfully clean it is. While keeping the romance.

But when they brought in Minaki? She cried like a 3-year-old in their hall until they let her in. Not the type of crying that feels you with compassion, no - the type that fills you with irrational anger. I had to mute the sound because I was this close to chucking my lab top across the room. And I don't want to wake Kym up (who is currently laughing in her sleep, bytheway).

Ugh, my brain.

Another oddity was the emphasis on good-looks. Our main character, Young-Hee, was caught up in the crisis of whether or not to get plastic surgery to improve her chances with Jin-Woo. And the character, although dressed very oddly, is really pretty. In fact, when I saw a picture of the actor before I watched the show, I was surprised at how quirky she could be - she looked too cute to be quirky.

It might be the PMS or the late night or the peanut butter cookies talking, but after a while I couldn't take this gorgeous Korean girl putting herself down, even for pretend. Throw in an extremely obnoxious Japanese chick, and I was surfing the web for hanboks faster than you could say 좋습니다.

Bleh. Well, I guess I'll stop ranting about silly things - as a disclaimer-after-the-fact, I really do like this drama, I'm just frustrating with it. I'll keep watching. But not till I sleep for 6 hours, wake up, work, study, hate school, grocery shop, act friendly at FHE, and collapse into bed at 10. Where I'll watch it till I hate it, and start the vicious cycle all over. *sigh* Quel horror....



Credit for the montage goes to Meagan Louie, linguistics lover, baking extraordinaire, avid reader, and fellow k-drama addict. May she keeping on rocking her awesomely chosen world.

Le Colegio Du Monos Locos

I am here! I am here, I am here, I am here!

Well. Things are progressing pretty nicely here at the Y. I have not stolen Daniel's cleaver and gone on a shanking spree across campus yet (and if you're thinking 'It's impossible to shank someone with a cleaver!' I urge you to think again, my friend). Still, class hasn't started yet, so there's still time.

Man, I have so much awesome music right now! Gym Class Heroes, We The Kings, Cobra Starship, and, yes, Rebelution. I have like 5 different favorite songs; I've never had that many favorites at a time. Gotta love Warped Tour....

And I'm obsessed with the video for 'Bring it (Snakes on a Plane)'! My desire to eat the lead singer to The Academy is... has not waned the least. I only hope I can find someone in my sphere of living that is that attractive to me. And is attracted to me. And has ambition and passion. And works hard. And does the dishes. And is perfect.

I know he seems impossible, but I will find him! I seriously don't want to just settle with someone. And I know myself well enough to believe I won't. But I can't help but hope for this amazing guy to come and sweep me off my feet! There's gotta be someone really spectacular (for me, at least) out there. I just need to work on myself so I won't be "settlee" either. In the meantime, I'll just stare at William Brecker's beautiful neck...makes me feel vampiric just thinking about it *grin*.

Anyways, my bipolar day (every day here is bipolar) is ending on a bright note since we discovered that we can leech off someone's internet! Which I am using to write this and apply for jobs, making me much less stressed. Hallelujah!

Well, off to more serious job hunting. I leave you all to another day. Au revoir!

P.S. B, he's not wearing knee-high boots in the video - that's just a kerchief or something tied around his knee. Still, very hot boots.

P.P.S. I'm still deciding whether I want to be social or not - Kym and I tried it a bit Sunday and it got me the attentions of a certain parkour enthusiast, Mike. I've promised to go parkour with him sometime, and I hope that his interest is purely parkour-oriented, as I am not feeling very dateable at the moment. Unless William Brecker decide to quit the band and go to BYU. And move in across the way. Then I'd have to rethink my avoidance of males *grin*.

Warpin' the World, One Tour at a Time

WARNING: THIS POST IS EXTREMELY LONG AND MAY CAUSE IMPATIENCE, BLOOD CLOTS, CRINGING, PREGNANCY, OR BRAIN FAILURE. NEVER READ TIA'S BLOG WITHOUT FULL REALIZATION OF THE TIME WASTED THAT YOU COULD BE USING TO SAVE WHALES AND SOYBEANS.

5:41 PM Sunday, August 10, 2008

Yesterday was great. 50 bands, gorgeous canyon view, (12:39 AM Tuesday, August 12, 2008) kindly mosh girls, vineyard streaking…the list goes on and on. Sooooo awesome.

Suffice it to say, Saturday we went to see Warped Tour at The Gorge. Which is Gorgeous. Interestingly enough, I was actually very reluctant to go. All week I’d been hemming and hahing, pretty sure it’d be a total bust like every other concert I’ve been to. Not to mention I knew the massive amounts of partying that would be going on at such an event – a fact made true by all the pot I smelled that day. Smelly, skunky pot.

But back to the story! The day started out bueno with a home-cooked breakfast and about 20 trips between B’s and my house. It got even better when we got lost and stopped by a port-o-potty for B, and I brilliantly suggested we run unencumbered by worldly fetters down the scenic grapevines. Aka, we streaked. It was brilliant, it was exhilarating, and it was just plain embarrassing when I was finally free of those cotton panties. Not to mention slightly uncomfortable with those small bugs trapped between my bosom and bra. Note: when stripping self of clothes, be sure to throw them above ant-infested areas. Still, very exhilarating.

Having officially decided the trip was then worth it even if The Gorge was wiped out by alien invaders before we got to see Ludo...we pressed on. A short drive and a couple of confused directions later (as well as a discovery of said ant’s departing gift) we were back on track.

This is where Tia starts whining, because Tia doesn’t really feel like being around swearing, smoking, drinking, half-naked people all day. And our arrival at the entrance proved I would have to deal with just that. An hour and a half of miserable grossness ensued, the highlight of which was a girl throwing up on the people behind me, and soon I was almost throwing my ticket at whoever would take it. What stopped me, and I’m actually pretty serious, was that I didn’t have my own car to drive back and would have left NiNi and B stranded if I’d stolen his.

Happily (and kind of sadly), we got in, I got over the drugs, swearing, and nakedness, and Warped Tour turned out to be ze bomb! It was like a giant carnival, but with music everywhere, as if someone’s iPod had become a living creature and we all wandered around the songs we wanted. Ludo was fantastic, which cemented my love for them, and so was the crazy band of smiling Japanese girls after them. My favorite image of that day has to be seeing a red-dyed Mohawk-sporting punk moshing to these cute little Asian girls playing Caribbean music on their trumpets and trombones. So classy. So Warped Tour.

We all ran amok and gained some sense of stability by 4 when all of us (B, Me, Hilde, Niners, Ross and Vince) actually met up by the giant schedule board and decided what bands we would see. Five minutes of waiting for Mandy, whom we hadn’t seen all day, and we left. It may sound harsh, but none of us really expected her to be there (though ironically she texted me at 4:10 wondering where we were). We all went to see Rising Against, which Vince wanted to see, and I broke Hilde and NiNi in to their first real mosh pit. Which in turn broke both Hilde’s and Vince’s flip-flops and my new glasses. It just goes to show that this horror (which really was horrible) couldn’t even ruin my day, it was that good.

It did however dampen my spirits enough to skip Katy Perry (she was bad apparently, oh well!) and stake out our spot with Branden. And by stake out I mean lay in the sun cuddling our bags as theft prevention. This goodness led to wonderfulness as NiNi and Hilde both began to massage my calf and head (respectively) and I seriously felt the best part of the day just lying there surrounded by B’s snores, Hilde’s hands, NiNi’s nails, Vince’s camera snapping, and Ross’s stoic silence. C’est bliss.

This is when the cuddling broke out and our calm serenity gave way to mad puppy piling. I say ‘puppy’ because we were more like that than any other creature, poking and prodding each other into place until we’re all comfortable. Until about 5 minutes later and we all have to do it again. I swear, it’s impressive how we manage to get into this tangled mass of limbs and actually stay comfortable. At one point, Hilde, NiNi, Vince, and I actually had our heads hooked together like Lincoln Logs. No joke – we’ve got a picture to prove it.

This pretty much made up the pattern for the rest of the night – cuddle, mosh, cuddle, mosh. Quite possibly the strangest combination ever, but, hey, it worked. By the time we’d left the venue, Branden’s face matched his shirt (he wore pink as a signal to every gay man there), Hilde was wearing my tennies as I dazed along in socks, and everyone had everyone else’s crap. It was fabulous. We all just kept repeating “Today was great. Today was awesome. Today was really great!” and so on. Not even their tent falling over could break the spell (though Vince did not like the choco muffin theivage – muffin whore *grin*). ‘Course, NiNi, B, and I just went home, so a wet, sagging tent wasn’t exactly stopping us from a good night’s sleep!

Suffice it to say, it rocked. We acted crazy, but not too much, we made some awesome memories (I will always love Hilde’s face when that guy whacked her chest with a stamp that said, “STREAKER” *laughs uncontrollably*), and we made a good new friend. I wish I could say we made two, but I’m afraid Ross failed in every way Vince succeeded. *sigh* Oh well, I don’t blame him. We’re not your average group. And I don’t mind that some people think our group of friends is a cult. Streaking with fellow cult members is fun *grin*.

Oh, Sinner Man, Where You Gonna Run To?

I have to be one of the least creative people on the planet. I come to my blogs, think of a title, can't think of a title, and just type whatever phrase (generally accompanied by music) pops into my head. And, alas, you all are the luckless recipients of my madness.

Suzie Homewrecker

Man, life is chaotic right now. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to get it together in time for fall, but I know that if I don't, it will suck even more than last year. My friends are insane, and NOT HELPING *grumblegrumble*. You know who you are, even if you don't read my blog. Ugh, my ulcer.

I keep finding myself thinking about slowing pulling money out of my account and running away to Greece before anyone knew any better. And then I find myself slowly pulling my hair out, wondering whether life would be any better there (though I'm almost certain it would - give me a foreign country and no language skills over life any day).

I don't mean to mope. But every time I read everyone elses blogs I wonder if I'm the only one not loving life like crazy right now, and it makes me feel even more dejected. I suppose it could be blamed on the fact that most of your families read your blogs. I wouldn't talk like this if I knew my mom would read it.

Bleh. Just bleh. Anyone who read my posts would think I was the saddest thing. But I only ever feel like writing when I'm feeling pathetic. Bleh.

On a good note, I did win a free ticket to Warped Tour and two backstage passes. All for handing over a pint or so of my oh-so-positive blood. Tres cool. However, the excitement is slightly dimmed by thoughts of camping over - I may skip out on that. Whatev.

Sing to me, Preacehr Man!

Okay, so today's patient of interest is a 6some year-old clergyman with a wife 7 years older than him, an extensive knowledge of music (he majored in it), and a tryout for the New York Metropolitan Opera in 1969.

SO COOL. I meet the neatest people in this office.

Evil Genius Secretaries and Octagenarian Race Cars

If I ever get old (heaven forbid) and can only get around using one of those "Jazz Chair 2000!"s, I'd race small children down the massive aisles of CostCo, from the massive 52" Panasonics all the way to the cream-cheese frosting cakes. Their parents would be so pleased to find exhausted, nap-ready toddlers, that they'd buy me a big batch of CostCo muffins right then and there. Then I'd take my warm chocolate chip muffin (which I'd heated in the sampler's microwave), buzz on down to the nearest college dorm - mad-dogging drivers the whole way - and promptly race college freshman down their vomit-stained halls to burn off my high blood-sugar (cause, you know, I'm diabetic - I just don't care), until I finally run into a wall and have to flee the crime scene.

Now, I didn't necessarily see a wrinkled octagenarian zooming past my door with a panting 6-year-old in tow, but I do see a fairly large number of "Jazz Chair 2000"s and what-not. And looking at their slightly deadened faces as they peter along, I can't help but think of all the madness you could do with those things! I mean, they're named things like "Quickie S-525" and "Pride Quantum Blast HD" and what not. And when they're not mimicking sexual innuendos ("Quickie S-525"? Come on.), they're trying to sound like Quiditch broomsticks. So if you ask me, they're just begging to be taken out for a good time, not to mention once you reach that age and level of morbidity, you can pretty much do anything you want.

I love my job.

I am, if you haven't deduced, currently at my site of employment, wiling away the hours before I rush home into the arms of my beloved sis. Yep. Shae's coming, for all that don't know, and she will be staying for a month! Yay! Happyhappyjoyjoy. This is indeed and eventful time, what with Willy's wedding, my birthday, and Shae/Tori's visit (don't know when Tori's planning on coming up, but now certain it should be when Shae's here).

WARNING: These next two paragraphs are meant for Kym, and therefore hold little merit for anyone else. But if you want to waste your time, why not?

So. KYM!!!! HOW ARE YOU!?!?!?!?!?!?!? There's my little shout out to you, Kimberly Dear. I keep having dreams now where we're living in the dorms again (which have magically transformed into my room and Hilde's dorm combined) and you're introducing me to your FABulous new friends, which are just FABulous and think I'm just FABulous as well. I hope your spring/summer is doing freaking awesome and I'm glad I can at least keep up with the basics through blogs (I miss you, Kym, I really do). Running into your mom is quite funny, actually, because every time I do I remind her that you're not there (or so she says). I think I may have to turn mission impossible every time I see her and duck and roll behind tables and what-not so as not to cause undue grief. Should be interesting.

U nysekf (Haha, I just typed that without looking at the screen OR the keyboard. Mad skills.) Ahem, I myself am doing quite dandy. I'm storing up on motivation and home-goodness so hopefully I won't be quite as much of a witch in the fall. But I give you full permission to burn me (you don't even have to check and see if I float first) if I am. I'm quite interested in meeting our new roomies, and I think I'll just scare the crap out of them at first so it just gets better as we go. If they know how freaky I am than at least they won't be surprised when they see it.

Anyways! I might start an emailing campaign to keep in touch witchu, Kimbo, because blogs are so impersonal and you know how much I hate cell phones. Feel free to email back or simply bask in the erratic goodness that is my writing. All ist gut.

My lunch hour (which should technically be a half-hour, but I'm answering the phones as I type, so I'm letting that extra half-hour slide) is almost up and I have to turn back into professional, loveable Tia, then I get to rush home to my crippled mom, preggo bird sister, and crazed beast-for-a-pet. Oh, what fun will then ensue. Cheerio, beautifuls!

Hong Kong Garden

You know what has a great soundtrack? Marie Antoinette. You know what's a gorgeous movie? Marie Antoinette. You what I've seen three times in the last two days? Marie Antoinette.

I love Kirsten Dunst. She really is such a great actress - I love the zest for life that she brings out in Marie Antoinette's character. Even better, she doesn't play the same person every time. She actually changes acting style and mood for each film. She can't be typecast.

Well, off that vein. Now onto the only other thing I do (besides watch 'Marie Antoinette') - work. I've discovered some less than pleasant aspects of adults in my last couple of weeks working at the clinic. One being that they're basically teenagers who've just learned to suppress everything good about being young.

Of courses that's an exaggeration, but it does fit my feelings about certain doctors I work with. I've learned through not-at-all-subtle hints that one of my doctors basically hates the other. He accuses him of stealing, criticizes his patient relations, gets ticked if he leaves a cover off a piece of equipment, etc. But he doesn't tell any of this to him - he tells it to me. Me!.....gossipy wench...

And what's even worse, I get along with said-accused doctor. It's a type of ease we'd never have had if we were the same age, but since I'm half his age, we can be perfectly comfortable teasing each other. But the point is, since I'm so friendly with hated-doctor (sorry, I don't want to use names - Kym might know these guys and I don't want to be gossipy. I just want to rant) and hating-doctor hired me, he looks at me like I've betrayed him sometimes! And he keeps checking to make sure I don't favor the other doctor when I schedule appointments. It's to the point where I don't even want to schedule anyone for hated-doctor in front of hating-doctor. Hideous.

Bleh. That said, I do rather enjoy my job (though not more than I enjoy getting off and coming home). I have learned something, even if it paints me as a selfish b - I could never keep a steady office job. Not if I only had myself to feed - I'd hate it. If I do happen to live alone for any period of time, supporting myself, I'm going to do random, interesting jobs that you've never heard of. Or at least something that's outdoors. Maybe I will just fly away to Greece and lead tourists on Burfel hunts around Naxos.

Dang, I hate being responsible. I know I sound immature and whiney, but it really does feel like it's tying you down. Like you can't really experience this world when you're stuck keeping a house/car/etc. Maybe I should just run amok across the world, get it out of my system. Heaven knows this is probably my last chance.

Mere. Bleh.


PS The title is one of the songs on the soundtrack - supreme. Fabuloso. Bellemisimo. Etceterasio.

PPS Oh, so one funny thing that happened at work (besides talking with this guy named Angel in very sad Spanish (don't look Sra. Janke, just don't)) today was I got insulted by an automated insurance menu. I was calling up to verify as usual and I got an automated program that used vocal cues instead of a regular, ol' button mashing one. Clue: I hate these. They always wig out if they hear a noise in the background and people stare at me when I'm talking to one because I'm being very articulate.

Anyways, so I'm talking to this carbon-copy of a human being, and it's the end of the day, and it's not taking me anywhere I want to go. So, I start whining at it and moaning the option I want. And it keeps saying "Dental? Yes?" "Associates? Yes?" "Medical? Yes?" and all I freaking want is Vision! Yes! So finally I start singing the words to it, messing with the inflections because by now I'm just trying to eke some sort of pleasure from this phone call, and it goes "Mental Health? Yes?"

Well, at that I burst out laughing and promptly hung up on that insulting b-word. Then I hummed away happily as I messed with all of hating-doctor's files. *grin* J/k.