CNN Online has a rather timely "article" on what to do when you are mutual friends with a couple that breaks up and you find yourself stuck in the middle. I'm going to go ahead and dissect some of the text of this article and bring it up to 2008 standards:

Whether you offer a sympathetic ear, provide a shoulder to cry on or drag a despondent buddy out for an evening on the town, to let them use your cab driver, sell them sleeping pills or buy them eight tequila shots, your responsibilities civic duties are pretty clear when a friend goes through a breakup: Listen, Only refer to the ex as a spineless bastard, lend support, talk her out of 2 AM drunk dials and when it's time, help your friend pick up the pieces slash his tires and move on.

If you're friends with the couple:

• If both parties seek to confide in you, just listen. be sure to pretend to be trustworthy and report every detail to the person you've secretly allied yourself with. To remain impartial, it's all right to listen to each person's story, but minimize conversations about encourage getting dirt on the ex if you can.

• Set There are no boundaries. If you're asked to pass messages between the two parties, "consider offering to let the other one know about the efforts to contact him or her, but not pass along specific details," "gladly volunteer and then conspire to publicly embarrass the dirtbag," Mean Rachel Savoy suggests.

If you're half of the breakup couple:

• To avoid putting mutual friends in an awkward position, talk to your ex about how to handle the situation. work to steal away all of his friends and their spouses one by one. "That way, as the couple, you are providing the lead to your friends," he no longer has any friends and will always be alone, who also are ensuring the asshole is likely to be confused or feel a sense of loss," says Savoy. Mean Rachel. "It's called 'giving him a taste of his own medicine.'"

• Avoid talking badly about your ex to mutual friends. Tell anyone who will listen about the shitbag. Save the trash talk for family members, strangers in bars, the person on the airplane next to you, cab drivers, the burrito maker at Chipotle, your third grade science teacher, your blog readers, and close friends you had before the relationship started. your life became a tragic cliché.

And when all else fails, send a Some-e-card.


Cheers!

$2, the consummate ray of sunshine that he is, and the only person other than Keith Olbermann who can make me feel depressed about political statistics, is lobbying for Al Gore to endorse Barack Obama before Super Tuesday.

This somewhat peppy, exclamation mark-riddled statement that follows sums it up:

After Sen. Kennedy, Rep. Patrick Kennedy and Caroline Kennedy's powerful endorsement of Obama, the next significant endorsement would be our former Vice President Gore! Please contact his office today and encourage him to endorse before February 5th!

His office address is as follows:

Vice President Al Gore
2100 West End Avenue, Suite 620
Nashville, TN 37203
615-327-2227
info@carthagegroup.com

Please feel free to copy and paste the following letter as your template when writing Al Gore:

Dear Vice President Gore,

I am writing to you in the hope that your influence can inspire other Americans to make the right decision on Super Tuesday.

We are a nation in need of progress. Our desire for change can only be hindered by repeating the same doomed mistakes over and over. Barack Obama is the only candidate who can win in the General Election and subsequently unite the country. Unification is needed in order to actually see the changes Americans so desperately want. A candidate like Hillary Clinton may win the General Election but would only continue to polarize the men and women of the House & Senate. If a progressive nation is what we want, we will never have it if we continue to elect establishment candidates who will stunt America's advancement.

After Sen. Ted Kennedy, Rep. Patrick Kennedy and Caroline Kennedy's powerful endorsements of Barack Obama, the next significant endorsement would be from you!

Please let this letter serve as my request for you to endorse Barack Obama before February 5th.

Kind regards,

[YOUR NAME]

---

In other news, I got to speak some Spanish when I was phone banking tonight. I really should brush up on (and by "brush up on" I mean "learn for the first time ever") my political Spanish -- does anyone other than Mr. Google know the word for "incumbent" en español?

OMG W
LARGAS*
U R SO 2001
WMD'S R MIA
4,396 KIA N OIF & OEF
TTFN&F**
TIME 2 GTFOOO***
F U

---

*LARGAS = Like Americans really give a sh*t
**TTFN&F= Ta-ta for now & forever
***GTFOOO= Get the f*ck out of office

My first piano recital. What more needs to be said.



Thank you Mopdog for filming this video and being so prompt with the turnaround.

Watch Obama's stirring victory speech from an overwhelming comeback win in South Carolina last night.

He's really come a long way in his public speaking since last year when he came through Austin.

The piano recital was a success! How do I define success?

A) I didn't faint.
B) I didn't put my hands down on the wrong keys to start playing the song (piano suicide).
C) I forced my knees to shake instead of my hands.

On a whole, I found the piano recital experience not nearly as bad as competing on horses. Without the competitive aspect it's more enjoyable and you also don't have the x-factor of pea-brained horses involved.

Ca$h/"Mopdog"(as she will now be referred to on my blog) made a video of the whole thing which we will get up on teh intrawebs ASAP.

A BIG THANK YOU to everyone who made it out to my recital! It meant a lot to me to see such a, dare I say, entourage of people show up (I think the final headcount was 19, thanks to Granny's late-breaking announcement that she would be in attendance). I really appreciate you all taking time out of your Saturday afternoon to drive out to North Austin and watch some choppy renditions of Alouette played by 8 year olds. I felt a bit ridiculous with so many people there, but at the same time, I highly doubt any of those 8 year olds made an evite and wrote about it on their blogs. So really it was just another success story of online social networking. For those of you who were also there in spirit, thank you for your support as well.

This quarter-life venture into a new hobby has really been fulfilling for me. It is better than any therapy session and/or drunken stupor has to offer. When I come home from work, I make a beeline for my piano. I hear songs on the radio and wonder how to play them on the piano. My aunt Stella reminded me that learning the piano was one of my New Year's resolutions for 2007 (along with "Learning to cook" which...ahem...we won't mention). I am glad that despite the fact that it took me more than half the year to get it going, I managed to follow-through. And if nothing else is worth remembering from the last fifteen months of my life, I will be happy to look back and think, "Oh yeah. That was when I decided to start playing the piano."

Now I have to go to sleep -- I am block walking tomorrow for LJD. At 11 AM. For some reason 11 AM on a Sunday always seems late when I'm agreeing to it at 8 PM on a Wednesday night.

Thank you again, everyone!!

So I've spent most of tonight alternating between quiet freak-outs and angry "why the hell did I let anyone talk me into this" moments.

But there's no backing out now and no matter how much I was hoping I would come down with some sort of cold this week, it just didn't happen. So the show must go on!

According to teh interwebs, I'm supposed to sit on my hands before I go on to keep them from shaking. Sounds like one helluva good idea.

---

Chivalry is not dead people! This evening, the cashier at ZEN said "Know what? Your drink is on me tonight." And what gem did I lay on him in return?

"Thanks. Do I look that depressed?"

He actually gave me a once over -- you know, up and down -- and said "No...I'm just feeling generous." Uh-huh. I've heard that sort of faint, hesitant "No..." before. Thank you, Mr. ZEN Cashier for making me feel even more pathetic on a Friday night than I already did.

Then I sat down by myself to eat my California roll, said what I like to call the Captain Asshat Prayer (it goes something like "Fuck you Shitbag, I hope you are still scouring your house for your favorite fleece pullover that I sent to Tokyo in the bottom of a dog crate") and drank my wonderful, free drink.

I don't think I could have less in common with Larry Joe Doherty, the candidate I have been volunteering for lately.

I'm twenty three. He's...old. I have been suffering through cedar fever seasons in Austin since birth while LJD's been out breathing deeply in the Lost Pines. He practices law while I practice the art of dragging myself to work every day in the hopes that someone brings breakfast tacos. He's running for public office while I merely complain publicly on my blog.

So people inevitably ask me why I am volunteering. And I have one answer: I'm pissed off.

And perhaps that is the only thing I have in common with Larry Joe. I think at a certain point in the cycle of anger -- and I'm talking deep, intense anger that forced me to stop watching the news for the entire year of 2007 -- you begin to look around at everyone and wonder what the hell kind of kool-aid they are drinking. It is the kind of anger that forces your friends to say to you "Go back into your bubble, it'll be okay" and for as much as you hate it, you swallow that pill. You follow the crowd and hope for the best and meanwhile that anger just festers and rots.

Why are we still cruising along in our lives as if everything is okay? Why have we not taken to rioting in the streets? We create policy and write letters and make requests for bipartisanship like bleating sheep on their way to slaughter.

Larry Joe Doherty is not the slick politician that his website wants you to think he is. He's not going to sell you the concept of change. He's not going to smile at you and kiss your baby and tell you about the audacity of hope. Why? Because Larry Joe Doherty is angry.

Apparently the definition of progressive means something still these days. But not to me. If progressives are the people I elected in 2006, then they haven't done a single thing progressive since then. Election night in November 2006 was like a sugar rush -- I couldn't sleep that night and wrote a sappy post recalling similarity between the feeling I got when Clinton was first elected and the night we -- the progressive, Democratic majority -- took back the House & Senate. These people were going to make things different. They were going to bring the man I loved back from Iraq. They were going to create a better environment. They were going to make health care more affordable.

And from November 2006 until now, do you want to know what happened? Nothing.

So I came crashing down from my sugar high to a very angry place. And when I landed, I saw someone who was as angry as me. I saw Larry Joe Doherty.

I'll say it: I think both of the primary candidates have the desire to change things for the better. But what is desire without something to drive it forward? I'm done picking the steady, smooth candidate. I want roaring outrage not cautious acquiescence. Fearless truth not careful rhetoric. Anger instead of submission. I want to know that no matter what, something is going to get done.

That's progressive.

On Monday night, in a moment inspired by Once and brought to you by my sponsor and favorite back medicine Lyrica, I penned a little tune. I decided to film it last night and, in the name of full disclosure, post it here for the world to see. I may not be a triple threat, but it is hard to be a good singer and ridiculously good at blogging.

So focus on the lyrics. (And yes, that is Chubby Charles singing the background vocals). What to you guys think? Top 40 bound?



Lyrics for the type-A in you:

BALLAD OF THE IVORY CAT

There's a place called the Ivory Cat
Where we would go a few months back
To hear the piano and the drummer
And found there an endless summer.

It wasn't the place to see and be seen
But it was home for me
We'd all lock arms and sing through the evening
To Billy Joel and Don't Stop Believing

CHORUS: I won't stop believing, I won't stop believing...

Joe the drummer and piano player Dave
Would smile at us when we'd cheer and wave
Sometimes at close I'd go up where the stage was
And play Chopsticks while they counted their wages

Kenny Luna was the owner
We always thought he was such a loner
He'd play Piano Man and stare into the crowd
He was silently thinking while he was screaming out loud.

CHORUS

A few months ago we were told
The IRS had forced the Cat to close
Now Dave & Joe play gigs where they can
And Kenny Luna lives on as the piano man...

CHORUS

While other politicians were busy exploiting MLK Day as a way of soliciting funds, it seems Larry Joe Doherty has been working on other more meaningful issues. Below is an open letter from LJD to current Congressman Mike McCaul asking him to support Texas families and vote to override Bush's veto of SCHIP. You can read his letter on his campaign website here.

Oh wait, nevermind. We'll just move the whole bus stop.

In a classic case of our Gub'ner being as worthless as an empty bottle of Vidal Sassoon, there has been talk in Austin lately of moving a bus stop away from the front of the Capitol, which also happens to be one of the busiest bus stops in Austin. The Gub'ner attempted to make this happen under the guise of homeland security which we all know is where all wonderful loopholes come from (such as our disregard of Posse Comitatus, post-Katrina in 2005, just to give an example).

Lest we lower our carbon footprint anymore, Gub'ner Perry would like us to remember that he only needs two things for his survival: a terrorist-free, pristine residence and leave-in conditioner. Since he has currently been displaced to West Austin while they repair his downtown hacienda, I suppose he's gotten bored and decided to start making random security "improvements" and move the terrorists out.

And by "terrorists" the Gub means "the derelicts cluttering up his front lawn."

Hey. That Texas governor seems to know his stuff. Let's elect him for president someday. And then, after he backs us up into a corner on a global scale, feed us a military shit sandwich and then asks us if we'd like to have dessert in Iran--and this is where it gets really good guys, I hope you're paying attention--let's reelect him!

---

In semi-related news, $2 has set up the online store for the Bush Retirement Party in January 2009. As the official PR coordinator, I am obligated by law to tell you about it. I kid. But, if you are interested in purchasing gear (I mean, haven't you always wanted a tie with a Dubya caricature on it?) then you should go check out the store here. While you're at it, why not pick up a bumper sticker and slap it on your tax return.

make custom gifts at Zazzle

I am avoiding writing something too depressing tonight, so instead I am going to write about something completely different!

As a kid, I always had this obsession with Colorado. I had this concept of it being verdant and beautiful (which I still think was a pretty accurate impression) and the kind of place where people could gallop around in forests on horseback on their way to town (not so accurate). When I was 11 years old, I was bothering my dad when I was bored one Saturday afternoon. He stopped reading, looked up at me and said "Do you want to go to the mountains?" like some parents would say "Do you want to go to the movies?" I said "Yes!" and he said "Okay" and I said "Okay!"

So my dad said "Go pack us some clothes and let's go." I didn't believe him but figured that pretending I was going to the mountains was better than nothing. So I packed up a shirt and some clothes and then also packed my dad a bag. I came out and my dad said "Did you pack underwear for me?" I was like "Um...one second." So I ran back and got him underwear and took the bags to his truck. My dad said "Did you leave your mom and sister a note?" I said "No, what should I write?" And he said "Just tell them where we're going." So I went and wrote on Lisa Frank horse stationery (you know the kind -- the one with the mare and foals with the butterflies? Yeah.):

Dear Mom & Grace -- gone to the mountains! Love Rachel & Dad.

He'd just gotten a new Dodge Ram 1500, the very first year that they redid the model. It was sweet truck for its time. Also it happened to be Labor Day weekend, which is also my dad's birthday weekend (Sept. 4). Historically in TX it is one of the hottest most humid weekends of the year and this weekend was no different. It was about 106 degrees as we drove north on I-35 up through Round Rock.

I still didn't believe him that we were actually going somewhere until we hit Dallas. My dad is famous for these shenanigans (one year he pulled my sister and I out of school to go to the "dentist" and we ended up at Celebration Station which was like a mini-theme park). The funny thing about my dad is that my sister and I always thought he was trying to abduct us whenever he did these things...I have no idea why because he was never anything but loving towards us --but we always had zero faith in humans (thanks, mom) and we would always stare out the window blinking back tears thinking we were being abducted and imagining ourselves on milk cartons.

So I knew we were going somewhere, but started to wonder if I was being abducted. This time I figured I was really screwed since my sister wasn't even with me. I kept asking "Are we really going to the mountains?" and he kept insisting that we were. As we drove he asked me where I wanted to go see the mountains. I told him I thought Colorado Springs would be best -- I had no knowledge of the city other than that it sounded pretty and it was in Colorado.

So we took the most backwards route to Colorado anyone has ever taken, up through the panhandle of Texas. Along the way, we got pulled over twice for speeding. Both times the State Troopers asked my dad about his new truck. "How ya' like yer new Ram?" One of them gave him a ticket ad one gave him a warning. My dad to this day insists he was never speeding and that they just wanted to check out the inside of the new truck. I still insist that they should have questioned why a man was headed out of Texas with an 11 year-old girl.

We drove until it got dark and were still in Texas. We stopped for the night in a town called Plainview, Texas. It is basically between nowhere and nowhere, north of Lubbock and has a population of about 22,000. I just remember it smelling like feed lots wherever we went. We got into the hotel and I did what every red-blooded Texan girl under the age of 15 does -- I went swimming. I was always checking out the pool at any hotel we stayed at, as the pool is the first and foremost reflection of a hotel's standard of quality.

When I came back from swimming, my dad said "Do you want to call mom & Grace?" It was at this moment that I stopped worrying about him abducting me, because surely abductors wouldn't let you call home and go swimming. So I picked up the telephone and my dad stopped me. "Wait wait wait. You know what you should say?" I laughed when he told me and so I called home.

My mom answered the phone. "Hello?"
"Hi mom! It's Rachel!"
"Hi Rachel." Not impressed.
"Did you see my note?"
"Yes...you and your dad went to the mountains?" Still not impressed.
"Yeah! Can you see us?"
"What?" Distracted.
"Can you see us?"
"No..." Not impressed.
"Well that's funny 'cause we're in PLAIN VIEW! AHHAAHAH"
My mom was not amused.

Onward we drove the next day to Colorado and eventually got to Colorado Springs at dusk. It was as beautiful as I'd ever imagined; even the Popeye's we stopped at seemed glamorous. These were the first mountains I'd ever really seen, other than a trip through Utah that I couldn't really remember because we went when I was 8 and I had altitude sickness the whole time so I spent the trip curled up in a ball puking.

Luckily this time I felt okay and we ended up somewhere at the base of Pike's Peak in Manitou Springs. We checked into a small motel and I immediately went for a swim. This pool was not that fancy but won bonus points for the scenic mountains in the background as I paddled around. My dad eventually joined me in the pool and then it started to get chilly. I kept remarking on how weird it was that it was so cool in the middle of the summer in Colorado. We went walking around in town at some street fair and I scoured the shops for Mexican Jumping Beans (which I would look for on every road trip but somehow they'd always be "out of season"). The following day, we took a tram to the summit of Pike's Peak. While I was on the tram, an elderly couple struck up a conversation with me because they saw I had a horse necklace on. They said that their daughter loved horses and used to be a riding teacher in Austin, Texas. Turned out it was my old riding instructor from when I was nine. Pike's Peak was beautiful and the weather was perfect.

On our way back to Texas, we took a much more direct route. We got pulled over for speeding again but got away with a warning. When we finally made it back down through West Texas, it started to get hot but we just kept turning up the AC so we never noticed the temperature shift. All of a sudden we passed a bank and it had a huge electronic sign saying it was 109
degrees out. In disbelief I rolled down my window and sure enough, it was like an oven. I looked at my dad, said "Well I guess we're back in Texas" and rolled my window back up.

And that is the story of my trip to Colorado with my dad. It happens to also be of my favorite childhood memories.

---

Update. This morning I received my dad's take on this event via email. My comments are in italics:

My mom forced one of her NetFlix DVDs upon me at the beginning of January, an indie flick called Once. She told me that I would like it because it has people playing the piano in it and and beautiful music. I looked up the Once website when she was first telling me about the movie, where it's described as an "Irish modern day musical." I'm by no means a musical fan and usually find Irish films incredibly depressing (everyone always looks like they're covered in soot and one crop of potatoes away from dying).

This weekend has already been swarming with uber-emotion for me, given that 1CD is now making its triumphant return. It's just about the worst feeling in the world to be out "celebrating" with these girls and at the same time, not really celebrating at all.

So tonight I decided to take it easy, throw a load of jeans in the wash, and watch Once.

An hour and twenty five minutes later, as I sat sobbing on my couch, I couldn't help but marvel at what an incredible film it is, while at the same time how it really isn't a movie at all. The supposed plot is a Irish man, "Guy," who earns extra cash by playing popular guitar covers on the street, and writes lonesome ballads about a girl who cheated on him and broke his heart at night. Meanwhile, a "Girl" (she never has a name) walks up to hear him playing one of the ballads at night and asks why he never plays those songs during the day for people to hear. They form a sort of friendship when she finds out he also repairs vacuum cleaners and she has a broken vacuum. She also reveals that she is conveniently a pianist, and they start making music together.
The genius of the movie is that rather than hiring actors who can sort of sing, they hired musicians who could sort of act. The man who plays Guy is actually Glen Hansard, a singer-songwriter they initially asked to write songs for the movie. After he wrote his songs, the director John Carney (who used to play in Hansard's band) realized that Hansard should just play the main role as if he was recording these songs in the movie.
Supposedly 60 percent of the movie is actually original music -- long, gritty scenes shot in music stores with just a piano and a guitar. The rest of the movie is a little bit of improv mixed with a general plot shell. I am tempted to put up a clip from the scene when they first play together, but it would ruin the moment if you were actually to watch the movie.

Beautiful music with heartbreaking lyrics. A simple, sad story that doesn't seem like a plot but more like life itself. See it.

A former high school acquaintance of mine, Sean Carasso, and someone I reconnected with randomly when I participated in Displace Me, has been traveling through Africa writing about his experiences with various NGOs. I feel somewhat compelled to repost his entry today because...well, what the hell else can I do?
To subscribe to Sean's blog, go to: http://groups.google.com/group/seanblog/

---

Falling Whistles

As I'm writing you, the sun is setting just over the lake that is
central to Goma. My computer screen is blurry and unclear. I cannot
help the weeping that clouds my vision and falls on my keys.

Bob Dylan said something along the lines of "People tell me it's a
sin. To hold so much pain and hurt within."
I suppose I'm wondering if they were right.

We originally planned to spend the day tracking down the rebel leader
NKunda. We had arranged an armed escort to take us into his
territory. However after speaking with a Congolese military
journalist who had just returned from that area, we decided to
postpone the trip. He said the upcoming Peace Conference had
infuriated the rebels and they had gone mad with drugs. He told us it
didn't matter who guarded us, the sight of our white skin would enrage
them and they would fire everywhere. "Another day, but not this day"
was his advice. We thought it prudent to take note.

So instead, we caught back up with the 5 boys that had just escaped
rebel armies. Busco, Bahati, Serungendo, Claude and Sadiki. We found
them in a filthy cell at a military encampment called Titu. It's
essentially a holding prison. The boys had been forced to spend the
entire night standing up straight. None of them were over 15 years
old. None had ever chosen to fight. Yet they were being treated as
enemies of the state.

Yesterday each of them was giving praise to God for their rescue from
the rebel army. Now they were wondering if the national army was any
different.

It's a common problem here in Congo. There is more sexual violence
here than anywhere in the world, but no signs that any one of numerous
armies are any better or worse than another. All the soldiers rape.
All the soldiers pillage. All the people suffer. There is no refuge.
Not the victim-side-of-a-gun anyway.

As we dug further, we discovered that the boys hadn't eaten in 48
hours and had been beaten all night long. The soldiers forced them to
blow up their cheeks and then they would punch them in. These boys,
who have already been through a deep kind of hell, were trembling with
fear.

We went and bought them food, clothing, shoes, soap and a toothbrush.
Those bare materials that grant us all small dignity. They fell on
the gifts like wolves, smiling, laughing and praising God. The bones
of their ribs showed through their rags as they ate. The bananas in
their hands were the first non-rotten food they had eaten since they
had seen their families.

While we waited for the UN – who had promised to pick them up – we
interviewed them one by one. Each had been abducted. Plucked from
their homes, schools or farms. Each had been tied up and beaten.
Each had been forced to kill.

Sadiki had been dropped in a hole, deep in the ground. Nearly 300
boys were forced into the ditch for 20 hours of the day. They sat and
slept in their own excrement. Slowly, they awaited the other 4 hours
of the day when they found themselves tortured and trained to fire a
gun. Only to be dropped again into their own filth.

Many of us have heard the stories of child-soldiers. Invisible
Children and stories such as A Long Way Gone have been groundbreaking
in granting us glimpses into their lives.

But here's where the Congo story gets really disturbing. The boys
captured by NKunda who are not big enough to hold a gun are given a
whistle and put on the front lines of each battle. Their sole duty is
to make enough noise to scare the enemy and then to receive – with
their bodies - the first round of bullets. Lines of boys fall as
nothing more than a temporary barricade.

Those who try to flee are shot at from behind. The soldiers call it
"encouragement" to be brave. Without a gun to protect themselves, the
smallest boys are placed between the crossfire of two armies - forces
that fought for reasons far beyond their ability to understand. With
falling whistles, their only choice is to feign death or face it.

Busco's the oldest of 8 children. Many times he watched that number
dwindle to some soldiers petty fire. His only wish is to go back to
his farm, because he's sure his parents need his help to raise the
family. For quite some time, they have believed him dead.

As the day went on, we all grew quite worried that the UN wouldn't
come to pick them up. Their hands and eyes betrayed their dread at
staying another night, standing among these merciless guards.

We started making some calls only to discover that the UN had passed
responsibility of the children to Unicef, who had then been turned
away at the prison 4 times. The soldiers wanted the children to stay
for another night of entertainment and weren't prepared to have them
released.

It took some frantic politicking with our newfound connections, but
finally both the Unicef and the UN trucks were admitted inside the
compound. We quickly loaded the boys into the trucks as the soldiers
prepared to block our exit. Halfway through the camp they demanded
the truck stop and empty out. Again, politicking and protesting with
all the American-authoritarian-aristoc

---

To subscribe to Sean's blog, please go to http://groups.google.com/group/seanblog/ or SeanCarasso.com.

How do you say "this sucks" in German?

That is all.

Me: Yo

Not drinking for the first fiscal quarter means I have a much better recall on weekend events. Here are some of my favorite quotes from the weekend:

Gingy: Rachel. Go back up to him. It doesn't get any weirder than it already is.

Marc Katz: If I had known how beautiful you were, I would have gotten out of bed last night to come back to talk to you.
Me: Um...thanks.

Cash: He put a chink in my armor!

The Bachelor: It's good to see you.
Me: Good to see you too.
The Bachelor: As I fondle your hand...
Me: Don't you have any new tricks yet?

Kenny Luna: I dedicate song to those two over there. We'll call them the hotties.
Cash (to me): Thanks. Is the song titled, "I'm Sorry For Always Being a Jackass To You, Never Comping Any Of Your Drinks And Now You're My Only Fans?"
Me: Shh! I think it's "New York State of Mind."
Two Potential Transvestites Sitting Next To Us: Wait, if they're the hotties, what does that make us?
Cash (to me): Two forty six year olds sitting in a piano bar.
Me: Shh! I think they're transvestites.

III: It's cold, I hope you have a jacket or something.
Me: I actually don't. I've been ordered not to wear a jacket by Cash. She calls it...well, she told me to "nut up."
III: "Nut up?"
Me: Yes. Apparently in Colorado, wearing a jacket is a sign of weakness.
III: Well that makes sense, but shouldn't it be something more feminine like "ovary up?"

That were it not for deadlines, I don't think I would ever write anything.

Or at least, not anything other than this blog fodder.

Street parking on West 6th: Zero dollars.

Nine and a half glasses of water at Meow & 219: Zero dollars.

Driving everyone home because all I drank was water: Zero dollars.

Sitting down with Kenny Luna and finally getting closure on the closure of the IC: Priceless.

I am always telling Ca$h that she looks like the dog at the pound from Lady & the Tramp in all of her pictures.

Finally I had a photo worthy of comparison. Vote now! Let your voice be heard.

This week in Texas politics, a local blogger announced that Larry Joe Doherty, who is running in the democratic primary for CD-10 against Dan Grant, has a finance chair named Jim McIngvale who held a fundraiser for Republican Mitt Romney in December. This caused a flurry of debate over on Burnt Orange Report, mainly with people vehemently opposed to a finance chair helping raise money for a Republican campaign. However this quickly segued into an argument about Larry Joe Doherty's ability to win the "money race" against Republican incumbent Mike McCaul.

Most of you have been reading my blog long enough to know that I am nothing if not two things: anti-Republican anything and, more recently, 100% behind Doherty as a candidate for the Texas house after seeing him speak in November. Oh -- and an avid fan of piano bars.

But not all of you knew me when I was pursuing my equestrian career and constantly fighting an uphill battle of having the drive and passion but not the funding to provide me with one of the key essentials to establish myself in the arena -- the horse. The hundreds of thousands of dollars it takes to support the demands of riding and showing competitively were never available to me. For most of my life, I saw this as a hindrance to my progress and, ultimately, to my goal of riding horses for a living.

But I never stopped trying. I cried and bled and slugged through mud and got stomped on and flipped over on and I never stopped wanting it. Eventually, one day, there I was. I was leading a horse who cost a quarter of a million dollars out to the arena, stepping up, and swinging my leg over. But this time was different: I was being paid to put my foot in the stirrup.

I realized through those trials, through my successes and failures, that my drive in riding was never hindered by my lack of money. My progress might have stalled but I never once stopped plowing forward. I had an idea in my mind of whom I wanted to be, and whether I'd had millions or pennies, I would have tried everything in my power to attain those goals. I created the change.

In the horse race of politics, there is no difference. A candidate decides to run in a race and spends the rest of the election season convincing people why he is running and how he can change things for the better. Some have more money than others. Some produce TV commercials and some hand out fliers on street corners. Some might even do both. But when it comes time to step into a voting booth, I'd like to think that voters bet on the horse who doesn't just promise change but embodies it.

And in Larry Joe, that's what I saw. I saw someone as fed up as me and someone who wasn't afraid to say it. That difference is worth more than gold itself.

Those of you who have been reading my blog since the start will know that I am always going on and on about Jody Williams, 1997 Peace Prize laureate for her work with the Interational Campaign to Ban Landmines (ICBL).
Well, it never hurts to put up this quote again:

With everyone on the bandwagon to Changetown, USA I can't help but think of Jody Williams. There's a female president I could get behind.

Change is possible, we just have to care enough to create it. My resolution for this year is to continue to live by Jody Williams' philosophy and to really dedicate myself to creating and influencing change.

If you want to read more about Jody Williams, click on the "Jody Williams" tag at the bottom of this post.

Why? Because it means that I get to see James Carville and Dr. Laura on Larry King Live all on the same night.

Thank you 8 pound baby Jesus!

Dear "Tom,"

I don't know if you are a real or fictional person (similar to the elusive MySpace "Tom") but:

An entire round dedicated to college football bowls?

Seriously?

Mother Eagan's isn't exactly the Friday Night Lights crowd. If we wanted sports trivia, we'd go to Hooter's.

Seriously. Stick with sports questions like "how many people are the ice on an Olympic curling team?" (4) and "What sport is featured in Hemmingway's novel Death in the Afternoon" (bull fighting).

Otherwise, you're going to lose more supporters than Romney in a swing state.

Thanks,

MeanRachel
Team member - "There's No Crying in Caucuses!"
Previously"And you will know us by our Trail of Lights..."

Well the evite is now out for the piano recital on the 26th. If for some reason you didn't get it, and actually want to go (or you don't want to go, you just want to state your affiliation on the evite, which is usually my favorite part of evites), let me know and I'll email it to you.
Operations have ramped up. So much so that my pinky fingers hurt.

---

Meanwhile what kind of coach text messages you this:
"How long do you really think you can keep from drinking alcohol?"

Just kidding, McD! You of all people should know that if I can drag myself out of bed at 5:00 AM for six months straight, I can lay off the juice, no sweat. Now as for that Master Cleanse thing...not so much. Not a big fan of the saltwater/lemon juice combo.

Today I felt like I might be getting sick so I decided to take it easy and basically didn't do anything other than watch the entire TBS line up of movies, which included:

Keeping the Faith
Something to Talk About (how I managed to miss a mega-motion picture involving horses all these years, I have no idea)
The Wedding Planner (I scheduled my afternoon nap through most of this)

The nadir of my day was The Wedding Date, a incredibly bad, incredibly unrealistic movie involving Deborah Messing's character taking a male escort to some wedding in London. Nevertheless I found it somewhat engrossing, so when my sister called at 9:38 PM, I didn't answer my phone.

After her one phone call, I get a text message saying my sister had sent me a picture text message. I can't see photo text messages on my baby computer phone (its one downfall) so I figure I'll look at it later.

A few minutes ago I got online and was like "Oh, maybe I'll look at that picture Grace sent me" thinking it was a picture of the New England countryside covered in snow or something (as she is often wont to do).

Well imagine my surprise when this is what pops up on the screen:


So I immediately call my sister and say "I assume by this PHOTO TEXT MESSAGE that you are engaged?!" and she barely has a chance to say "Yes" before I launch in with "Maybe this kind of thing warrants more than ONE PHONE CALL THAT I DON'T ANSWER before you TEXT MESSAGE me?!" Grace has the gonads to say "Didn't I call you twice?"

No, Gossip Girl, you did not.

"Well what were you doing that was so important that you didn't answer?"
"Grace, I was watching The Wedding Date."
"Oh, that's sad."

Yes, Gossip Girl, it is.

Nevertheless, I am happy to welcome another Grace & Arthur pairing to the family (believe it or not, those were my dad's parents' names). Now it seems the only logical thing to do is to proceed with the following (in this order):

1) Start drinking again.
2) Immediately cease all TBS movie-watching.
3) Peruse classifieds for my "wedding date."

What's your Brazillian soccer name? You know you want to find out. Share them in the comments section, I'm curious!

But carrying paper grocery bags up three flights of stairs, one by one, is a huge shackle.

Yes, folks, that's your blog entry for today on BoringRachel.com.

And said the ultimate cynic to her readers, "This is worth watching." Ready the trailer, lower the hitch -- people, I'm on the bandwagon.



You've come a long way from this day back in February, Barack.

Obama won the Iowa caucus on the D side with 38%. Huckabee got 34% of the R's. I went to take in the action at Schultz's tonight with $2 and despite him calling me a dreamkiller (it's actually called a "realist"), I am glad Obama won.

Although I do have to say that I probably shouldn't have said to $2, seconds after CNN predicted Obama to be the winner, amongst the cheering Obama fans of Travis county,"You're going to let yourself get excited about that?"

Wah-wah-wah. Nothing surer than disappointment, guys. That's the Mean Rachel prediction. I should change my slogan to something like --

Mean Rachel.com: Unimpressed with the political system since November 6, 2006.

Dear Mean Rachel version '07,

First of all, you seriously need to get to an ENT specialist and have your ear infection checked out. Like, yesterday. There is only so much Nyquil and wine can do.

Stop watching the news. It doesn't matter anyway in the end.

NaNoWriMo might just be one of those once in a NaNonceinaLifetime experiences only achievable in 2005, so stop signing up for it every year and not writing a single word except to complain.

Take Gus for another walk around Town Lake. Remember unconditional love.

Tony Snow resigns so screw him.

Go to the Ivory Cat every chance you get. Punch Kenny Luna. And stop trying to win the free drink.

The best thing you purchase this year will be boot camp and piano lessons.

A tequila shot on a Thursday is a bad idea. Two tequila shots on a Thursday is a worse idea. A bet made on a Thursday when you wager a bottle of Patron that you will be up at 5 AM the next day is the worst idea you've had in 23 years.

Speaking of bets, leave the blackjack table at Bellagio when the man from Turkey comes back to deal. You can thank me for that $150 later.

There is no such thing as "nothing crazy" when you go out with Gingy. Plan accordingly.

Never go to free events on Auditorium Shores, no matter how much people try to convince you otherwise.

Hold on to Memorial Day weekend. Four girls never had it so good during such a shitty time in your lives. Take the lumps.

Moving absolutely sucks but there's no way to avoid it. That's the only good thing about it.

Just man up and buy a new dryer rather than trying to fix your old one repeatedly.

Get Shah's last name or cab number so you don't have to wonder if he got deported.

Sometimes you have to just hang up the phone. And that's okay.

"Dismiss whatever insults your soul," is the most profound sentence you will read all year. Thank you, Whitman.

Don't speed on Highway 71 for chrissake.

You'll absolutely wear the musical hoodie again.

Some people you're only supposed to run into every 5 years.

At 2 AM, a pair of heels will hurt your feet no matter what. Try not to be marching on a long-distance trek from one side of downtown to the other at that time.

One less vodka soda is a good general rule of thumb.

Don't assume everyone is lying to you. Most people are. But some aren't.

Chubby Charles refuses to go outside for the entire year, gains a lot of weight, and becomes more of a throw pillow.

You survive 2007, which is probably more accurately put as "2007 survived you." There were some ups, some serious ups, some downs and some serious downs.

But such is the life of a celebrity blogger in the making.

Peace,

Mean Rachel version '08

Through the powers that be at American Airlines, I made it back to Austin five minutes early. Despite the fact that their was a weird old man sitting next to me rummaging through a bag of fruits and nuts the entire plane ride, I racked out with my earplugs and sleeping mask. Before I knew it, I was back home.
Last night was eventful, which is to say I think we drank 3 bottles of champagne between the two of us, all before midnight, and I'm now just tentatively awaiting the inevitable cold that will ensue from traveling.

Pictures are up on just about every site you can think of. Meanwhile I'm going to hit the hay. I only am writing this entry because someone is forcing me to do Blog365 where you blog every day in 2008. Not like it's going to be too much of a stretch, as I have over 400 posts for 2007. But this surely will help with the blogfame quest, so I'm signing up.

Hapy Happy New Year everyone!

They say you should give credit where credit is due. Well, I owe a huge amount of credit to the following people because without them, life wouldn't mean anything.

AJ "I Don't Want This Night To End," Cashmoney, E-Dub & Tall Rachel: The four best things to come out of the war in Iraq. I'd entrust these girls with my life, but not an open bottle of Malibu. They're also the four girls most likely to get me evicted/break a beer bottle over Captain Asshat's head/serenade me loudly in public/swim in the ocean at 4 AM/visit a truck stop/laugh hysterically at 3 AM with me. I love them all dearly, even more than I love Billy Joel. They have subsequently dispersed around the world but we will always remember the music; we'll always have Port Aransas; we'll never lose Your Love.


$2: Met at a holiday party in 2006, when I accused him of being an elitist. He quickly put me in my place by telling me that he was a Democrat. Avidly enjoys politics and the Democratic party, dislikes The Bachelor and Republicans. Spends his time looking at numbers and polls and attempting to explain this minutiae to me. Missed his calling as a political consultant but was smart and picked something that only requires him to work 1.5 hours a day. My best political cohort who also owes me big-time for a VIP tickets snub. Also the mastermind behind my Obama plates.


Chubby Charles/C-Lo: Token cat. Her name is technically Charlie (named after the call sign of my dad's first Cessna, "Charlie Papa") but I started calling her Chubby Charles when the vet told me she was in fact a girl. I found her skinny and starving on the side of the road in 2002. Now she is a fat white furball who likes party hats, her party collar that has hot pink feathers on it and pizza. She has been incorporated into radio morning shows under her radio alias Bojangles and drinking games (everyone drinks when Chubby Charles comes into the room). Historically-speaking, a random male neighbor will have an affinity for her.

Gingy: For a long time, I actually thought Gingy's real name was Gingy. I blame this on being awake prior to 10 AM and running long distances. Now I just call her Gingy all the time anyway, as does she and most of her friends. She is the other pea in my edamame pod, has a cunning wit and is one of the few people who can hold her alcohol better than me (or at least is equivalent at pretending she can). The first time we ever went out to dinner together, we drank ourselves literally out of the restaurant and failed to actually eat any dinner. She enjoys Sex & the City (SATC), vegetarian cooking and being brazilliantly hilarious. Our favorite phrase is "Nothing crazy!" because...well...when we get together, there's no such thing.


Geo/Dad: My dad. I inherited his entrepreneurial spirit and determination. Sadly his math and technical skills skipped over me. He signs all of his emails, cards and letters "Geo." I never thought this was weird until someone pointed it out to me. He has a flight school & a video game amusement company. And no sons. Irony! My dad was best known as being the person who took me on a bunch of wonderful trips when I was a kid, while I was simultaneously convinced he was kidnapping me every time.


Goldie: My older sister (by 2 years). Was excited when I was born because she was going to get a companion to play CandyLand with. She quickly experienced what would be the first in a series of disappointments in me when she learned I have always detested board games. Will become a doctor in May and currently lives in New England being all New England-y with her fiancee, Art. If you get her laughing hard enough, she'll pee in her pants. This is basically my only goal whenever I am with her (life-to-date, I've succeeded 3 times).

Kiwi/Mom: My mom. Although we didn't get along when I was a kid very well, I have realized as I've gotten older how much I am actually like her. I get my cynicism and wit from her. She put "The Road Less Traveled" in front of me one summer afternoon when I was 11 years old and said "Study this." I don't think she realized at the time how literally I would follow her request. She is also credited with getting me my best friend, the late Gus. An avid gardener, my mom is also a wonderful artist and designer. She makes everything she touches more beautiful.


The Madwoman: I met The Madwoman during my brief but well-intentioned stint in Chem II AP (what the hell was I thinking?) during my third and final, glorious year of high school. But it was actually our English teacher, D->, who put us together at the same table (yes, Eng IV AP at our high school still used tables). The Madwoman took me under her wing, so to speak, and we commiserated throughout the doldrums of our 5th period class. The Madwoman borrows her alias from Jane Eyre, which we studied extensively together, and ironically enough, turned into the basis of her thesis when getting her Master's at H-to-the-arvard. The biggest fan of my literary pursuits, The Madwoman once honored me by asking to use a poem I wrote for an analysis in one of her classes at Stanford. She now lives across the pond, having expatriated herself and her cat to London, but nevertheless remains a constant influence in my writing; the faraway green light, always there, reminding me that ships at a distance have every man's dreams on board, Romantics were a bore, and when in doubt: go with your instincts.

M: Current roommate. We have been "a couple" since 2005! M is the longest relationship I've ever had. We argue over how to hyphenate our last names, and she keeps insisting it should be alphabetical. M is my personal stylist and make up artist. I borrow her clothes way too often and she tolerates it quite well. If it weren't for M, I would probably not have any clothes other than t-shirts. She is also the godmother of Chubby Charles should something happen to me.


MRhe: Fellow blogger who lives in Boston. Met through a friend. You can read more about him on his blog, ChezMRhe. We have mutual interests that include: Joe the Drummer, Bear Grylls and hot cocoa. One time we decided to each ghostwrite a blog entry for one another and post them at the exact same time, thinking that people would actually notice. No one did. But we thought it was as funny as hell. My favorite entries of his are the ones he writes about his Sunday morning breakfast-and-paper routine on drizzly New England days.

Shirikins/Shirioke/Shiriously/The Wife: Former roommate. She changed my life drastically. She taught me how to drink, how to open a wine bottle, how to apply eye make up, how to cure a hangover, how to set two alarms and how to say the word "Gorgonzola." She is not my other half -- she helped me find my other half. I proposed to her -- engagement ring and all -- on The Strip in Las Vegas once and no one even looked our way. If we still lived in the same town, we'd be famous by now.