Do they march or do they dance or does it matter that it's their own version, and some of both? Folks are flocking to New Orleans to celebrate an NFL Championship game that's being played in Miami, to celebrate amidst New Orleanians, amidst Carnival Parades, all black and gold on top of purple, green and gold, all King Cake as football food, "Who Dat? Say Who Dat? Say Who Dat say dey gone beat dem Saints?!" as Mardi Gras anthem, all so beautifully tangled.

Winning the game tomorrow matters, but it seems to me that getting there is the most important thing, that everything since the NFC Championship game has been a victory celebration. Gambit's Kevin Allman said it on The Blog of New Orleans, "a city holds its collective breath," and he's right. They're holding their breath. They've been holding their breath, marching forward with their heads down, determined. Regardless of what happens tomorrow, I think they've already won. Geaux Saints!

So check out the Carnival schedule here and watch the Uptown parades roll down St. Charles past Napoleon on ParadeCam from Fat Harry's, in honor of their previously scheduled celebration of life, or watch the video below (again, h/t Kevin Allman & Gambit). Tuesday, win or lose, the Saints will have their parade and a grateful city will get to say their thanks in person.

I guess the contents of a text message sent to Saints' linebacker Scott Fujita by his wife, Jaclyn, pretty much sums it up:  "The people of New Orleans love the Saints, not because they provide a distraction from their fall but because they are a reflection of their rise."

Follow #SB44 on Twitter or check out the NFL's blinding Super Bowl social media aggregator.

Peace, y'all, and Who Dat?!

I'm past due an aimless ramble, must be. The pace of everything is always so breathless that it's hard and almost scary to stop, to reflect, to write it down, to breathe. My job is sending me to Dreamweaver school tomorrow & Friday. I'm excited and grateful. I have all these websites that need to be built. How did that happen? They're coming at me from different directions and there are five needed yesterday and a couple more just a tad less urgently, so I've got to think this is something I'm supposed to do. Work has also bought the developers' version of WordPress Thesis , which is harder than it looked, even though I'm fairly comfortable in WordPress. I think I can manage it once I get it installed, but it's beginning to feel more like if I get it installed. I feel driven to do this, feel like I have to put my head down and work every night until I can build an elegant website, and it's Christmas!

And I made angels, for the first time in years. I used to make and sell them, before I went to work full time at our agency. I'd meant to last fall, brought a bag of Coleman porcelain home, but never got to it with Bel and Mama being sick and dying. I wish I had made angels with Bel and remembered to buy some bendy straws. So, I had a last minute burst of angel making Sunday and Monday nights. Some credit has to go to my friend, David, whose visit forced me to clean off the "dressing room" that had grown on Bel's bed, so he could sleep in it. I slapped the canvas covered slab of Corian (the cooktop cutout from when we re-did the kitchen, or was it the sink?) onto the bed and went to town with the year-old bag of clay. I made twenty-eight of them. We have to get them through the fire, and probably just a hotish bisque. I'd like to try to get a couple through a glaze fire, but they're very thin. Bisque is bleached-bone pretty, its unfinished nature beautifully representative of the subject, I think.

So, throughout this busyness I've had all that Rob Thomas music in my head, after seeing him perform twice during his current tour . Our brokenness continues to be a theme even beyond Matchbox Twenty's evolution, but much of his independent work is all about remembering that time is fleeting, life is short, and the ways we make each other feel each moment are what matters. It's good marching music, facing each task in their turn with joy and an effort to be fully present, resisting my natural inclination toward impatience. I didn't love Cradlesong the first time I listened to it, but I do now. It's been helpful to me. Wish me luck. It's getting to be embarrassing that I've tried this hard and long to learn Dreamweaver and gotten nowhere, and the angels still have to survive the fire that takes them from unthinkably fragile to what remains from past civilizations. And this weekend, I will buy and put up and decorate a Christmas tree. Life just rocks. Y'all rock too.

Having breakfast with Dangerblond at the IP Casino in Biloxi. If it's any indication, we're heading towards recovery because this place was packed last night. After a long and gloriously energetic concert by Rob Thomas and his band in the enviably cozy venue of Studio A, we took a longish midnight stroll through the casino and it was hopping, tables filled with hopefuls inexplicably drawn to the risk and thrill of betting to win. We stopped and spent $6 at one slot machine ($5 of it was Dangerblond's) and were treated to the unthrilling feeling of pouring money down a toilet and immediately agreed this gambling thing isn't for us, at least not this kind of gambling. There's just something intrinsically sad about casinos.

I'll have more to say about the show later, as I have a long drive ahead of me to think on it, but wanted to go ahead and get the setlist up. I think I have it right, although my little flip notebook system was imperfect and I'm not sure I didn't lose my place and maybe double back, a general tendency of mine, both actually and digitally, so something (Falling to Pieces?) might be out of place... and clearly my iPhone couldn't handle the sound. Please correct me if you see a setlist mistake and feel free to complain about the bad sound on the vid. I need better equipment. Donations welcome. For now, here's the show Rob Thomas and his band gave to those of us lucky enough to be in Studio A last night:

Leading marketing blogger, Michael Hyatt, asked yesterday, "Do You Make These 10 Mistakes When You Blog?" Well, this blogger doesn't make all ten of them, and nobody's going to accuse me of posting too often, but I certainly make most of them. Of course, Hyatt's article is based on the assumption that every blogger blogs for traffic, which isn't necessarily so. I started this blog because I wanted to scream from somewhere the things I couldn't say in real life. It was initially named "My Rants" and can still be found at myrants.blog-city.com, but it didn't take any time before readers showed up and started leaving comments, which quickly bloomed into conversations that quickly spread to their blogs, and, next thing I knew, I didn't feel right writing so publicly about the things I came here to write about, mostly the difficult people in my life, maybe difficult people in general, and sometimes the dangerous institutions they create when they gather in an organized fashion and continue to behave badly as a group.

So, a circle was formed. I felt lonely and isolated by close relationships with difficult people, some of whom have since died. I was driven to write, driven to publish those words, driven to have them be seen, but once I realized they were seen, once I found people who wanted to hear what I was saying, who commented with thoughtful understanding, I suddenly couldn't write about it, but didn't need to so much anymore because, in the course of seeking to be seen and heard, I was. By not looking for traffic, by writing what was in my heart, by fiercely protecting the avocation, I filled the void that drove me here. Now, I've been here so long and said so much and met so many wonderful online people, that I have this sexy little search machine and no clue what I want to do with it, no idea what's left that I need to say, 'cause I know that all I have to do to make it heard by many, is tag.

Of course, there are still difficult people and I still wish I could talk to them about it, but I know better. There will always be those so self-conscious they can't ever relax with or into another, those who deflect meaningful interaction by turning immediately to quick and focused anger out of a primal need to pretend there's such a thing as getting to control another, such a thing as winning a fight with one they claim to love. Vicious words negate pretenses of affection and aren't gone just because they're not being said at the moment. Once said, they can't just be left out there. I'm not suggesting that we should expect to live our lives without any anger, but anger without full acknowledgment of the pain we've caused, without genuine remorse expressed as long as it's necessary to assuage the hurt we leave behind, kills love. I promise. The regular recipient of anger, especially if they're in recovery from such behavior themselves, having finally chosen not to be that way any more even if it is how they were raised (which it most likely was if they're in a relationship with someone who interacts that way), is left with no choice except a deepening internal retreat, inevitably asking for nothing from the other, except away. 

So, it's my birthday, and I'm indulging myself. I'm going too long after posting too infrequently. I'm not focused on my brand. In fact, I'm not selling anything, but talking about me, me, me. I'm staking a claim on my little corner, building my place where I can talk about anything I damn well please and if you get ugly about it, I can toss your ass out of here, ranting. I'm indulging myself and repeating myself because I can, and to my loyal readers, my fine and honored internet friends who've heard this all before, please forgive me for needing to say it again and again:

Calling some feeling you have inside yourself love, doesn't make it love. If it's just about the feeling you have and doesn't manifest as a loving pattern of interaction driven by a generosity of spirit towards the other, then is doesn't matter what you call it, it isn't love, but rather a form of emotional masturbation, immature and self-indulgent. Unlike it's physical counterpart, it's gross. If your primary motivation isn't the other's genuine fulfillment, joy and happiness, then you don't love them. No one will ever win anything or convince another of their rectitude, by seeking to hurt through anger. This is just a fact. All that matters is reality, what actually happens between us when we interact. There's no one watching, no arbiter to judge our performances and declare a winner. In relationships, it's just the people, the family, the friends, whether they're parents and children, spouses, siblings, employers and employees. In relationships, the way people treat each other whether alone or when others are watching is all that matters, and when one person uses preemptive anger defensively, everyone loses. 100% of the time. Guaranteed.

A relationship in which one must hide one's reality, in which there is no safe way to resolve conflict, alleviate discomfort or facilitate intimacy, isn't a relationship at all; and when one person wants to pretend to be the loving sibling, parent, spouse, child or friend to the whole world while interacting hatefully in private or behind one's back, well, no amount of calling that love can make it be love. And it doesn't help to know that we all started as innocents, that people who use anger to deflect intimacy got that way because it was done to them, because it was done to many of us, and at some point we have to say we're adults and take responsibility for how we choose to be with others, at some point we have to choose to change, or else we all lose. Finally, it isn't loving to let someone we claim to love or at least to have tried to love, treat us that way because ultimately it damages the abuser more than it does the abused who's survived and moved on, and the last act of love we can give them is to withdraw, and take away their method of self abhorrence by harming others, finally refusing to be a part of their offense. Just because we embrace another's faults as geological, their broken places, the cracks in the rock, doesn't mean we should allow it to continue, participate.

I'm not exactly sure where that rant came from, 'cause I've had a wonderful Thanksgiving (and birthday) weekend and I hope you have too, but thanks for listening. Now there's a Thanksgiving post I haven't written about how the holiday needs a PR makeover and how we should drop the silly delusional Pilgrim romanticizing, especially given what came after, and focus on the National Holiday that Lincoln declared in an effort to bring healing to a war-scarred nation, because that's what it really is, or at least some ancient pagan harvest ritual, but I digress, as usual.

But now we'll return to our regularly scheduled programming, or the lack thereof. Oh, and there's going to be a test on this, every day.

Peace, y'all.

I remember when the words just tumbled out like music made by my heart, and the work was in keeping up with them, typing fast enough to catch the ideas before they slipped away, so there'd be something beautiful to come back to and clean up. It doesn't happen any more. Steeled to survive the difficulty of a workplace that doesn't quite fit and the disappointments of home, there's nothing to turn into words, no feelings, just silence and putting one foot in front of the other, the everyday price of settling for taking joy in the little things, finding pleasure within, or in spite of, compromise, seeking at least some nobility just for carrying on. The truth of it is just too painful, exposed to light, the wound, too sad. So many things are better, left unsaid.

Terminally cheerful, in spite of myself, I made some changes in the way it looks around here, just little things, a lighter background and new header, trying to find some inspiration. I might as well have something to look at even if I don't have something to say, and I chose a special picture, one I took from a bluff overlooking the Pacific just north of La Jolla, California, last August at a sister's son's wedding, a wedding done right, one filled with love so deep and strong and complex that it felt like magic, exactly twenty-eight years, to the hour, after ours.

Isn't that what weddings are supposed to be, the physical manifestation of the community, the webs of affection that surround the couple through time, providing cushion from the universe and at least some of life's difficulties, sustained by its joys? We gather to honor our parts in their pasts and mark our places in their futures, so the love we celebrate when we gather for weddings isn't just the bride's and the groom's, but that of all who love them, each embracing the other, celebrating their increase, celebrating the couple, greater than the sum of its parts.

It's hard to describe how much it moved me, these two beautiful young people, how comfortable it felt for us, his family, to be among her family, how welcoming they were. It was perfect, simple, elegant and genuine, family as sustenance, represented, micro and macro, and the poignant juxtaposition of our attempt so long ago, to the hour, redeemed, at least for me, by the presence of three beautiful adult sons. We gathered finally, on that Saturday, the first of August, after days and nights of celebration, as the sun began to slip behind the ocean, and the bride and groom were married. Then, still outside by the sea, we had drinks and dinner, and there were toasts, and with the light of day just gone, the couple took their first dance.

Then it stopped. The lights went up. The DJ started packing, and the guests began their good-byes, but the last-last song, played without the benefit of the sound system, explained the bags of lemon drops that served as our dinner table seat markers and was one of my all-time favorites, one my readers already know, one that sent The Yongest rushing to my side, and we stood and swayed and savored together, Izzy's Classic medley of "Over The Rainbow" and "Wonderful World". I cried.

The guests, including our large, exhausted, extended family, headed out the next day, by air and by road, tired and happy, filled and fueled by genuine, loving interaction, lifted forward by, well, each other. That's what we do, isn't it? We lift each other forward, nourish each other, take each others' sides, because that's what it means to love. Not everyone can do it, some don't even want to, never try, they're so badly broken, and nobody gets it right all the time, but for that one weekend last summer we celebrated the possibilities of choosing love, and it was very, very good.

Peace, y'all.

I love every chance to go to the Fabulous Fox Theater in Atlanta, from rainy Saturday afternoons of my childhood playing make believe with sisters and friends in its exotic spaces while we were supposed to be watching Doris Day and Rock Hudson elevate dysfunction, to stage plays and concerts and one silent film accompanied by orchestra. I've never had a bad time at The Fox.

The Youngest graciously accepted my invitation to come along, and we met up with some friends of his before the concert, first at their beautiful Ansley Park home and then at Livingston in the Georgian Terrace. It was great to see this iconic hotel's jawdroppingly beautiful transformation, even if I was sorry to miss Carolina Liar and the first part of One Republic. We don't get things just right every time, and the opportunity to get to know the friends I'd heard so much about was worth it.

Thomas opened with "Fire on the Mountain" and to a standing, singing audience's obvious adoration and quickly thanked everyone for choosing to be there, recognizing the value of time and resources spent, pledging to give everything he had to make the experience worth it. It sounded real and he lived up to it. Alternating between the keyboards and guitar reminds us he's the musician behind the sound, but we are there to hear him sing his words, words about beauty in our broken places, about our imperfect struggle to connect with others and ourselves, words about joy and pain.

There was a wonderful feature article by Erik Hedegaard in the August 6th issue of Rolling Stone, "Confessions of an Unapologetic Pop Star" subtitled, "How did Rob Thomas survive a violent redneck childhood to become one of the top songwriters of his generation?" It goes a long way towards explaining the angst and points out how unfairly he's been stereotyped. Unfortunately, they've removed the content from the online edition, so if you want to read it, I guess you'll have to go to the library. How weird is that?

He played a hearty seventeen song setlist of tunes from Something To Be and Cradlesong (plus Little Wonders), before his Matchbox Twenty bandmates, Paul Doucette, Kyle Cook and Brian Yale joined him on stage for two songs for the highly aroused crowd. Just as his words speak to the complexities and nuances of human being and interaction, his expansive relationships with his former bandmates teach by example. Rob Thomas and Matchbox Twenty are not mutually exclusive, and if one eclipses the other, neither is less for that. We should all embrace growth so magnanimously. It made me want to go listen to Paul Doucette's current work for The Break and Repair Method.

Thomas closed with a beautiful, haunting version of "Smooth", like I've never heard and that I couldn't find anywhere online, followed by "This is How a Heart Breaks", ending too abruptly. It felt like no encore, felt weird. I know now that the whole thing was an encore from the time MB20 came on stage, and that their arrival sort of interrupted what would have been the concert's end, so it just felt like no encore. Sometimes I'm easily confused. This did lead to an interesting conversation about encores in general, and what they mean, and whether or not this is something an audience earns or something to which an artist is obligated, but I digress (sort of).

Here's some homemade video from the Matchbox Twenty portion of the concert. The Youngest mentioned during the show that Thomas takes the red plaid shirt to a whole new level. I expect we'll see more vids of the show as time passes. From our seats towards the back there was a sea of cellphones held high all the way to the stage.

So, maybe Thomas isn't edgy or cool, but I don't really care. There are folks in this world for whom being cool is easy, who saunter through their days certain and secure, free of anxiety and self-doubt. Rob Thomas is for the rest of us.

*******************************************

I thank @brenyb from Twitter for convincing me not to sell the tickets, for linking the above video, for pointing out the Rolling Stone piece and providing a copy of it, sending me the set list, and helping me embrace my inner groupie geek. Maybe I'll do it again. Maybe next time I'll have better seats, take pictures, take notes and write a proper review. Maybe next time will be December 5th in Biloxi. You just never know.

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Update 10/22/09, since I'm rocking search I should put up the Setlist for Rob Thomas' show at The Fox 9/30/09:

• Fire on the Mountain
• Meltdown
• Real World 09
• Lonely No More
• Mockingbird
• Sunday Morning, New York Blue
• Street Corner Symphony
• Natural
• Getting Late
• Ever The Same
• Cradlesong
• Someday
• Little Wonders
• Falling To Pieces
• Gasoline
• Her Diamonds
• I am an Illusion
• Brightlights (with Matchbox Twenty)
• Disease (with Matchbox Twenty)
• Smooth
• This Is How A Heart Breaks

I bought tickets to see Rob Thomas at The Fox this Wednesday, September 30. It was an impulsive thing to do, on a Friday night in July, before what will hereinafter and forevermore be referred to as The Wedding (more on this, another time). I was hanging out on Twitter using TweetDeck, following folks who were tagging tweets with #Real Time or #Bill Maher, which I always look forward to watching, especially having just discovered that Rob Thomas was scheduled to do the show, except he was stuck, his flight delayed in New York, and he wasn't going to make the appearance he'd scheduled in a stop-over in Los Angeles as he headed off to tour, New Zealand, I think, or was it Australia?

Well, that was the small and embarrassingly late Ah Ha! moment: Rob Thomas is touring, with a new album out, so he could be coming to Atlanta. Blessed with the internet, which got me into this impulse buy opportunity in the first place, I discovered that was, in fact, the case, and that he was scheduled to play The Fabulous Fox, an extraordinary venue, so I did it.

Since then, I've wondered whether or not this whole thing is advisable. First of all, it's sold out so I can easily sell the tickets, which might even fund the replacement of the glass face of my beloved iPhone. It broke so surprisingly easily. The pain this shattered face brings me only serves to emphasize the inappropriate affection I've felt for this, well, device (it seems more like a person, really), from the moment I held it, also in July (big month for major purchases, it seems). Love in my pocket, a thing of beauty and function, enabling picture sharing on Facebook & Twitter with just a few touches and one click to take the picture, but I digress (remind me later, though, to tell you all about what my iPhone can do).

Now, I've seen some live music since the last time I saw Rob Thomas perform, on stage with Matchbox 20 at Chastain Amphitheater August 2, 1998 (Soul Asylum opened - I had to look it up), but, excluding small clubs and Jazzfest, that was the last real concert I attended, and it was fabulous, a legendary event (at least in our family), The Youngest & Middle Son's first concert. They were 10 & 13. I'm an old fan, from the beginning, and I love it all, but his first solo album, Something To Be is by far my favorite thing he's done, with or without Matchbox 20, one of those rare albums, a whole that's greater than the sum of its parts.

When I was tagged on Facebook for a meme called My Soundtrack, it directed, "Using song titles from only one artist, cleverly answer the following questions," I chose Rob/M20. Here's what I posted:

Are you male or female: "Problem Girl"

Describe yourself: "Unwell"

How do you feel about yourself: "Ever The Same "

Describe where you currently live: "Fallin' to Pieces "

If you could go anywhere, where would you go: "Back 2 Good"

Your best friend is: "All I Need "

Your favorite color is: "Black and White People"

You know that: "This is How a Heart Breaks"

What's the weather like: "Mad Season" (close 2nd: "Cold")

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called: "Bent "

What is life to you: "Something To Be"

What is the best advice you have to give:"How Far We've Come"

If you could change your name, what would it be: "My, My, My "

Your favorite food is: "Crutch"

In addition, a friend from New Orleans left the following comment on my post:

You know I saw a lot of bands when I worked at the House of Blues...and this guy Thomas was the biggest surprise I ever had. I really didn't like the music that much until I saw him perform. He blew me away.

So I guess I'm going to go. Despite the fact that I'm a total wuss & have to work on Thursday and don't normally do such things on work nights, at least not recently, not since I've been sick, and I'm exhausted just thinking of it, but you only live once, right?

I know. I'm pathetic, and I've been a very bad blogger (and not just because of my affection for stream of consciousness run on sentences). Sleep. Work. Eat. Okay, sometimes Twitter. Okay, sometimes go to New Orleans, and maybe the mountains, and, once recently, La Jolla, CA. More on that later. I promise.

Peace, y'all.

The Tide Rose in New Orleans last weekend, and I was still inspired by the NOLA Bloggers. The attendance was greater than previous years, the posters and t-shirts more beautiful, the keynote more riveting and the panels and parties, the participants and reparte, more wonderful than ever. Who thought that possible? The hard part about going to Rising Tide from out of town (and of insisting on driving) is that I don't get much chance to blog about it because I'm busy driving home in the immediate aftermath. That's also the worst thing about working the sign in table too. Live blogging is for those seated among the attendees (well, except perhaps for Liprap who maintained the RT Blog while also working the sign in and buy swag table with me *jealous raspberry at her mad skillz*), and Maitri killed it in this series of live posts. Killed it.

Harry Shearer's Keynote was excellent, and much of its content ended up published as a blog post at HuffPo. He came early and caught most of the Culture Panel (my fav) and stayed for a long time shaking hands, posing for pictures, signing books, talking, listening. The lunch by Cafe Reconcile was amazing (thanks, David). If you don't know what Cafe Reconcile's about, then this is the one link in this post to click. In addition to their noble purpose and good works, Reconcile produces fabulous food. White Beans and Shrimp, Crawfish Pasta, Greens, Cornbread... oh, my! The afternoon was the Politics Panel & we closed with the Sports Panel, playing to the worn out but die hard crowd.

Coming home late Sunday and straight to work Monday was rough, but there's no rest for these bloggers, and it's taken just about all the focus I can muster while also working full time (and work's been an intense dead run this week) to follow their creative bursts burning up the internet tubes with inspired and energetic plans for next year's event. It will be bigger and better than ever before and I'll be sharing specifics soon. We came away from Rising Tide pumped.

Harry Shearer: Comments at Rising Tide IV in New Orleans (22 Aug 2009) from Crystal Kile on Vimeo.

I came away from it all resolved to be a better blogger and with renewed devotion to New Orleans, more specifically, New Orleanians. I'm also increasingly convinced that self-censorship rooted in fear of what folks I know or work with or may one day know or work with will think if I speak my heart makes for bad blogging, the kind that's gone on here for too long. As we approach the coming 4th anniversary of New Orleans' flood that followed the landfall of Hurricane Katrina, the NOLA Blogosphere is full of eloquent posts about Rising Tide as well as the anniversary, but I'll direct you to Scout Prime's Farewell Post at First Draft: 

I am just an American who felt strongly about the necessity of this country to right the wrong that had been done to the Gulf Coast and in particular New Orleans. I believed and still do believe that it is a moral imperative and that in not doing so we, as a country, as a community, risk losing our soul. I would submit that as a society we lost our moral compass when bodies were allowed to remain in the streets of N.O. for days and weeks, or in homes for months and even a year in some cases, as the powers that be argued over who would foot the bill to recover the remains of the victims of the flooding of New Orleans. There is something very wrong when such a thing can occur in a great nation.

Read her post. Watch her videos. Take a few moments to think, as this anniversary approaches, about how we can be a better country, how we can find our national soul. We've come a long way, but we still have far to go.

Peace, out, y'all.

Update: I should have pointed out the Rising Tide Flickr Group. Those unflattering pics must be some other Sophmom.

This started as a comment on World Class New Orleans, to Mr. Clio's excellent post A Toxic Culture for the Heart (what I had to go through to get Facebook out of those links is a'whole'nother post). Writing in reference to South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford's infidelity scandal, one of his points is that we glorify "following our heart" and then punish those who do. I think often about the emotionally unhealthy nature of much of the music I listened to growing up, and its profound effects on me, especially in the context of the rest of popular and family cultures. Hours of "I'm Your Puppet" (just the best example, one of too many) over and over accompanied by melodramatic heart-bursting pining can't lead to anything good. It cost me a fortune, in more ways than one, to escape this way of being.

Perhaps I've over-corrected, driven by a love for my children that requires me to at least try to put them first as the best way of insuring my own happiness; and maybe I'm lying to myself by insisting that the notion of "true love" as a goal or priority is self-indulgent drivel, or more importantly, at least at my age, icky.

When I see someone like Sanford doing this kind of damage to those they claim to love and citing "falling in love" as an excuse, it's repulsive. They put their own grandiose gratification above the well-being of their families. Gross and immature, this seems worse to me than Bill Clinton or even Larry Craig just wanting to get a little on the side. I'm not advocating detached sexual dalliances, but somehow that seems more honest. There are lots of valid reasons to leave a marriage. Even the Catholic Church provides a way of escaping impossible union, and I think it's totally okay for someone who's fought the good fight, tried everything they could to make it work and come to the realization that it can't be done because no one can do it alone, to go and seek happiness with dignity; but, please, lose the drama.

Mr. Clio's description of cultural glorification of "searching for true love" as "bait-and-switch" is exactly right. What works in a novel or a movie becomes destructive in real life. We've been taught wrong. What we should be seeking is a quieter, more day to day, way of living love. It's just not as much fun to watch.

What I find most telling about the whole Sanford mess is that the people closest to him hung his ass out to dry. His family and staff just let him have it. His Lieutenant Governor called attention to his absence. His communications people had no safety net in place, no damage control deployed in his behalf. His wife, his former campaign manager, knew exactly what she was doing when she told the world she didn't have a clue where he'd gone. They must really hate this guy.

Rising Tide IV is scheduled for Saturday, August 22nd, once again at the Zeitgeist Multi-Disciplinary Arts Center. There will again be a meet and greet Friday night social gathering for food and drink and lively interaction. There are exciting new panel discussions planned and details will be emerging soon. Follow @risingtide on Twitter and check the Rising Tide blog for exciting details to come. Who's the keynote? The MC? What are the panel discussions? Where is the Friday night party? Tell me about the food! I can't wait.

I remember my first Rising Tide conference, the first Rising Tide conference. We gathered at a patched together New Orleans Yacht Club (not what it sounds like) and our view of the docks and Lake Pontchartrain beyond was a surreal depiction of why we had gathered. Where all the beautiful sailboats should have been, there were a few coming and going, but many more just masts, sticking up out of the water, sunk where Katrina's surge had left them. I remember driving straight from Atlanta, through a largely deserted Lakeview neighborhood and spending the first of many nights at Dangerblond's.

The keynote speakers at the first Rising Tide Conference were Robert Block and Chris Cooper, Wall Street Journal staff reporters who'd covered the hurricane and the flood that followed it in New Orleans and had just released their book Disaster: Hurricane Katrina and the Failure of Homeland Security. One of the things I remember Cooper saying when he sat in on the journalism panel in the afternoon, respectful of there being a place for citizen journalism, was his emphatic advice that we write about what we know. Quoting loosely, "If you're not an expert on Iraq and Iran, you shouldn't be writing about Iraq and Iran." It stuck with me, and I've tried to follow his advice.

Now, I don't know much about Iran and have no business writing about it. Seeing Twitter profile pictures turn to green to show solidarity with the protesters is moving, and so is seeing everyone's Twitter location turn to Tehran, Iran in hopes that it might make those actually tweeting from Iran harder for their government's censors to find. I've thought a lot about the NOLA Bloggers as I've watched the remarkable events in Iran unfold, brought to us by citizen journalists, via Facebook and YouTube, blogs and Twitter. When social structures break down as they did in the case of the flood in New Orleans and have again during the civil unrest in Iran, conventional paths of information flow disintegrate. As we watch the continuing evolution of Crisis Citizen Journalism allow information to flow out of Iran, I look forward to Rising Tide IV and again meeting with and listening to the New Orleans Bloggers who pioneered the art.

Since I've been sick, my already serious television problem has gotten completely out of control. Now, I've spent large portions part of my life not watching a lot of television. When I was single, I kept the television in the closet and brought it out for important events, usually sports. I was single for a pretty long time too, coming late to the marriage and babies stage. During the busy parenting years that followed those glorious twenties, television became a pleasant diversion in otherwise busy lives and something to share with the kids. I couldn't watch too much TV. There wasn't time for that.

I've been watching "24" since the first breathtaking fifteen minutes of the first "day". I've put up with all the even numbered seasons being pretty terrible, and this one started with such promise. Jack running into so much of the old gang, working independently of any authority, was great, and TONY was alive, working under deep cover for the bad guys, who as it turned out were bad guys we knew from earlier "days" with Jack. After all this time watching Jack Bauer and the folks from CTU become iconic (some might call it torture porn), when Tony went from dead to back and good under cover, to actually, never mind, bad, back to well somewhere between good and bad, they just lost me. All these seasons of devotion (I had the CTU phone ring on my cell for a while), but it was too much to take. The last three hours were near comical agony. I almost quit but didn't want to leave it so, well, unfinished. Bleh.

I haven't said much about being sick. It would have been easy to miss, since I've only mentioned it in a comment on Not Quite Dead Yet. I knew I shouldn't go countin' those chickens, and I know now I was feeling terrible for many, many months (years?) before I left the office and drove myself to the emergency room on May 5. They kept me for seven days. Not knowing when there's something wrong with me seems to be my broken place, but, hey, silver lining: all this "down" time to watch TV. I'm recovering at home, trying to get a chronic condition under control, working reduced hours and determined to take care of myself, despite my inclinations to the contrary. It's a thoroughly messy business, getting old, and I apologize to the forces of the universe for making such rash assumptions about being not quite dead yet. Seriously. I get it. Won't happen again. I swear.

Of course, watching television, even alone, is much more fun than it's ever been before. Live alone? Is your significant other way over somewhere else, scratching his manhood watching basketball or painting her toenails watching Desperate Housewives? No worries, because you can watch whatever you want with all the folks watching it "on Twitter". Only a few of the folks I follow on Twitter watch "24" or "Idol" and I'm pretty sure I'm alone in the crowd watching "Chuck" so I just search Twitter for the show and get a whole column of tweets of folks who I don't normally follow but have tagged their tweets with #showname (Example: "Jack needs an iPhone. I bet there's an app to counteract the bioweapon. #24"). Of course, all those Pacific Coasters whine to the crowd, "no spoilers!", but there's nothing I can do about that. As if. If you don't want to know how it ends, then don't read the East Coast tweets.

BUT I DIGRESS... what brought me here today to this post, though, is American Idol. I can't believe how much folks are still talking about it. Everybody's all up in arms about Kris Allen "upsetting" Adam Lambert on American Idol. Now AT&T is being accused by the New York Times of influencing the outcome of the final voting by "providing phones for free text-messaging services and lessons in casting blocks of votes." If this is true, it's quite serious. There are laws governing such things, and, well AT&T is big enough to know all about them. Tsk. Tsk. What were they thinking? All the indicators pointed to Adam winning, not just the judges' almost fawning praise, but the social media buzz, search activity, everything seemed to be pointing to the more colorful Adam as the winner.

I was a big fan of both Kris and Adam from very early in the competition. Forgetting for a moment the possibility that AT&T found the way to digitally stuff the ballot box, I think it comes down to trending. Kris was just good enough each week to stay in the competition, but he maintained a steady improving trend, peaking at the right time with his better than the original version of "Heartless". Adam, thought by some to be the most talented contestant to ever grace the Idol stage, peaked much earlier, with his brilliant "Mad World" (some might argue even before that with "Tracks of My Tears", after which Smokey Robinson himself led the standing ovation, visibly moved), but there was a backlash against Adam, even among his ardent supporters (and I was one) over what can only be characterized as gratuitous screaming as the season drew to a close. I voted for both Adam and Kris many times during the season. I believed that the "Judge's Save" rule was initiated because they were afraid Adam would be voted off before America noticed what they already knew they'd found. As long ago as April 4th, I tweeted: "The Big Question is, will the judges use their save for Kris even though it was put in the rules for Adam! #idol". I honestly went into the final totally unsure of which of these, my two favorite contestants all season, would get my votes. I waited over an hour after the show to decide, and it was a weak edge for Kris (weak, meaning I only voted five or six times), based on his greater need to win since Adam was destined for stardom anyway and the fact that Adam's rendition of Kara's regrettable composition was like fingernails on a chalkboard but Kris' only missed the mark, showing at least some possibilities (we'll see how that goes); but it's really much simpler than that. When Danny Gokey was voted off to leave just Adam & Kris, his voters swung to Kris, the other clean cut, middle America, Christian instead of the eyelined, ultra vamp showman, Adam. Seems kind of duh.

So, I wish them all well, and hold onto the remote between taking mountains of medicine, not at all sure what to do with it since there's nothing worth watching. We're in the dead zone between network season finales and the new cable seasons of Weeds, Dexter & Entourage. Read, write, rest and get better.

Peace, out, y'all

If it's irreverent or sacrilegious or superstitiously dangerous, I apologize in advance, but perhaps I've had enough of death recently to have earned the right to taunt it, certainly enough to want to taunt it, to find every opportunity I can to give mortality a great big raspberry, determined to find the most and the deepest and the widest possible life, for the little time I have left here. After all, no matter how long our lives, in the great scheme of things it's the blink of an eye. None of us is here for long. Now, the two or three of you who wander over here from time to time and see my Twitter updates in the right gutter, know I'm still standing, but I thought I'd bring you up to speed on one of the things we've got cooking, besides the spaghetti and meat sauce in the kitchen.

This phase of life is winding down. The youngest of my three sons is, by every definition, an adult. While they still need me on occasion and I love them more, not less, than I did the moments they came into the world; they needn't be the center of my universe any longer, or at least I need to work a little harder bringing some new focus into view so it's not so obvious. But, what? I've thoroughly enjoyed my time at the KnockingShitDownCo but can't help but look at remaining there indefinitely as something somehow self-indulgent. It's not that I would ever think of quitting without replacing the income or benefits, or would ever leave them in the lurch. That's not me, but it's time to develop a hobby that could be a job, and not just a labor of love, but one that has at least some small chance of buying a beach house one day. I'm not holding my breath, and this new venture probably isn't that, but I'm 100% sure that the KSDCo, no matter how cozy it's been, no matter how at home and loyal I've felt there, isn't ever going to do that, at least not for me.

A friend said to me recently (a blogger who will remain unlinked unless she tells me something different, because she doesn't discuss personal matters on her blog), suggested that when her only child, a daughter, goes off to college this coming fall, she will have to reinvent herself. I know that feeling. A major life purpose is completed. The jury is still out on success or failure, which can't be easily or quickly measured, but my boys are reared, and I can only hope I gave them what they'll need to be whole, fulfilled, loving adults. So far, it looks mostly good, but what to do with myself?

One of my favorite sayings (considering that I just now made it up) is when the going gets rough, register a domain and build a blog and a message board, so I registered NotQuiteDeadYet.net and notquitedeadyet.net/forum was born. Okay, so I can't build a message board to save my soul, but she who calls herself Hurricane Mom sure as heck can. Anyway, now that I've already gone long, I'll repeat what I said over there (even worse, I'll treat it like a quote when what it really is, is me, repeating myself):

Midlife and Beyond. We are made to live in the moment, and somehow few of us see this moment coming. We spend our lives looking at those much older than us as somehow obsolete, irrelevant, finished. Then we arrive here ourselves, our children raised and off to college, or even graduated, and we don’t feel obsolete, irrelevant, finished. In fact, we feel much younger than we really are, hopeful, excited, curious even.

If you wander over, please excuse our dust. This is the creation of three internet friends, planned almost entirely via Facebook mail. We're not web developers, so the navigation is awkward and the functionality has a long way to go, but we're persistent, and we'll get there. What we are is experts on empty nests and relearning how to cook for one or two, in navigating financial aid and feeding ourselves on what's left, on handling graduation weekends and middle of the night calls. Register and speak up if you're so inclined. I don't know what's going to happen next or how long next might be. None of us ever does. I just know I'm not ready to stop dreaming, not ready to quit trying something new, Not Quite Dead Yet.

Shhhh! It's quiet around here. Better not wake up the blogger. Wait, that's me. I'm awake (for the moment), just not having much to say. Work. Sleep. Eat. Run errands. Start it all over again. Winter has turned to spring. We had snow. Did you know? I rang in the New Year in New Orleans and went back again to not just attend my first Mardi Gras parade, but to actually march in it (thanks to Karen). (Note to self: best not to let Dangerblond dress me again.)

But without really disturbing my unscheduled blogging hiatus, I find that there's news needing telling, enough to get me to slip in here and whisper it. Please don't tell anyone.

Maitri and Loki are leaving New Orleans. Both have good reasons, but they'll leave big holes in the NOLA blogging community when they go. I hope to provide them some small inspiration. If I can be a NOLA blogger without ever having lived there, then they shouldn't have any problem carrying on as such, from afar. Still, the blogger gatherings won't be the same without them, so they'll need to visit often. I can't say it any better than Slate said it here. Farewell, dear friends. I'll look for you online.

Amidst the good-byes, there was a wedding. At long last Jeffrey, of Little Yellow Blog Fame and his long-time beloved Menkles made it official. As is the case with any NOLA blogger gathering, there are lots of pics online here and here (gotta click through some Mardi Gras Indians). I so wish I could have been there to walk the Second Line through the Quarter last Saturday night and see the newlyweds off. By now, they're happily honeymooning in France. Pictures to come, I'm sure.

Meanwhile, our fellow Blog-Citizen, John Sherk and his bride are finishing up their vacation in New Orleans. John's been a loyal reader and supporter during all this time of post-flood blogging about the unique circumstances of this special treasure, and now he's been blogging from New Orleans here and here.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the digital world, Time online is holding "elections" for its Top 100 of 2009. Nate Silver's in the running. Y'all likely know that I started following Nate when he was an anonymous Kos diarist, Poblano. Already a fan of his work at Baseball Prospectus (and an internet friend of his Dad's), it was nothing short of amazing watching Nate turn political polling upside down with his methods, forever changing the way polls are used, their results predicted. Here's where you can vote for Nate.

Finally, if you want a close up and personal view of Mount Redoubt's eruption, head on over to The Fool's Spit in the Ocean. Despite his unfitting screen name, he's a regular commenter here, who just happens to live across the little water from the erupting volcano. A man of few, but usually beautiful, words, he's armed with a camera and prone to picture taking walk abouts, hopefully not during ash falls. Fool, dear, take care of you and yours.

That's all for now. I wasn't here and we didn't have this little talk. Peace, out, y'all. Shhhh.

I'm nesting. It's been cold, and I've been going full speed for a while now. I didn't stop much after Bel & Mama died, but rather threw myself into the normalcy of workaday life, seeking the routine and the busyness, and wishing to give back to my employers who had so taken care of me as I helped to tend Bel and Mama. Even the weekends have been busy, though. New Year's Eve weekend spent in New Orleans (it was closer to a week, actually), and since then it's been one thing or another. There have been birthday dinners out. One weekend there were two.

I am happy to stay in, making soup for the first time since I can't remember when, in a gigantic motha' pot I found still boxed in Bel's closet. She must have bought it before she got too sick to go out. I'd like to think it might have been my Christmas present. Whether or not, thank you, Bel. The soup is wonderful and plenty.

I also enjoyed watching the lead up to Obama's inauguration, having missed most of the emotional impact of the election itself, otherwise engaged (see above). I can't help but smile watching the Inauguration Celebration, knowing that one of the last things Mama and Bel did was cast their absentee ballots for Barack Obama. I left Bel in the hospital to run home and get hers. I mailed it from the Grady Hospital post office. Before I did, she made me take a picture of it. I didn't ask why. She died a week later. They would have loved seeing this.

It's been a wonderful time in New Orleans. Last New Year here was rushed, a raucous celebration bookmarked by frantic driving, home to back home again in less than three days. This year has been more sanely paced and, therefore, relaxing.

I love how things get stuck in our personal vernacular. I can't link you to her post because her blog is no longer published, but I will forever think of the Psycho Therapist when I think of New Year because I read it when she wrote this:

The Bulgarian Master Omraam Mikhael Aivanhov said the first twelve days of January represent the whole year. January 1st stands for January. January 2nd stands for February. January 3rd stands for March and so on. By practicing loving kindness, openness and generosity while giving thoughtful attention to the significance of each day, you will thereby be consecrating the New Year.

This notion has gotten stuck in my personal vernacular, the complex connections between language, thoughts and feelings that can't be stopped from coming into my head when I hear certain words in combination. Of course, it's not meant to be taken literally, and might be easily carried too far by the obsessive among us, leading to unnecessary and uncomfortable foreboding in the event that something really rotten happens in the first twelve days of the new year. That's not the point though. An exercise that makes us stop to practice loving kindness, openness and generosity can't possibly be a bad thing, under any circumstances; and giving thoughtful attention to the significance of each day is perhaps life's single most important practice; because without thoughtful (and I would add, honest) attention to the significance of each day, we, well, miss our lives in our rush to the next thing, in our struggle to let go of the in-built need to be the one who gets to decide what that next thing is going to be.

I'm glad I could come here, to New Orleans, where celebrating life in the moment has been raised to high art. I rang in 2009 in the company of bloggers Dangerblond and Cousin Pat within a throng of New Orleanians surrounding a bonfire of Christmas trees on the neutral ground in the neighborhood they call Mid-City. On New Year's Day night, we added Alli to our little cadre and went to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button at the Prytania, the first single-screen theater I've been to in years. I'm glad I saw it because it was wonderful. I'm especially glad I saw it here, in New Orleans, to which it is a visual love letter. It also makes the same point that is made by the notion of consecrating each new year: life is fleeting, loss random and pervasive, and connection with each other, love, amidst a journey that is by definition solitary, is what lasts.

Sometime soon, this blog's Hit Counter will pass 1,000,000 (the first 100,000 were the hardest). My geekiness stops short of understanding the criteria through which Blog-City's fine management reaches that number, but I'll take it. Some things it's better not to know. My point is that I wouldn't trade it for the world, what I've gained in human relationship, that which lasts, from blogging. Without taking away from my beloved friends and family who've escorted and supported me to here, those still with us and those who have passed on or wandered away, this new dimension this late in life has been the most wonderful sort of surprise, as they would call it here, lagniappe. My only resolution for 2009 is to savor it all.

Happy New Year, y'all. Thank you so much for being here. To borrow a phrase that's also been forever changed in my previously mentioned personal vernacular by the previously mentioned movie, it was nice to have met you.

Well, it's been a heckuva year with some real kickers at the end, but we've arrived, some of us still standing, at this end of the year celebration of love. I think it's a message the value of which those of all beliefs can appreciate: this is how we are to love, as if we were the other. It's as if, after years of telling us we were to love each other, in exasperation, He just came down and showed us. Here, like this, I love you so much I will be you, experience your pain, your loss, suffer as and for you to example for you how you are to love each other. It's a message that transcends faith.

I've been a bad blogger since Mama and Bel passed, trying to take care of myself and my family. I'm satisfied. It hasn't been perfect, but, despite numerous difficulties, we have arrived at this day prepared to celebrate. We're not a family that has a sweet holiday, metaphorically speaking (it's pretty sweet literally - yum), but there will be practical gifts for everyone to open (gift cards involved, sorry to say). There will be spectacular food, and plenty of laughter. I've had a quiet morning cooking and finishing the wrapping to beautiful Christmas music on the television thanks to PBS. I stayed up wrapping and watched the Vatican Mass and the Pope's incredibly safe homily.

But now there is cooking to do. I've texted the boys to let them know it's time to get moving. There are great joys to having grown children who live close by in their own apartment. Now I want to wish each and every one of my wonderful friends, whether virtual or face to face, the Happiest Holidays ever! My plan is to spend New Year's weekend in New Orleans.

Peace be with each and every one of y'all.

Dangerblond tagged me. I've watched this meme burn like wildfire through the NOLA blogosphere thinking I'd escaped via the sympathy element, but the Dangerous One is heartless, or at least trying to tag me out of my exhausted self-pity. Here are The Rules:

1. Link to the person who tagged you.
2. Post The Rules on your blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
5. Let each person know they've been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

[Mercy, y'all. Is it just me or is this meme a lot of work!? Number 5, in particular, seems mucho time consuming, but I digress...]

Six Random Things About Me:

1. I sleep with a pillow between my knees and one foot outside of the covers.
2. If I could do anything in the world I wanted, it would be to explore mom and pop motels while they still exist and write about them.
3. I can't make up my mind between the mountains and the beach. When I'm in the mountains, I love the mountains the most. When I'm at the beach, I wonder what I was thinking when I thought it was the mountains. Whichever it is, it is not the city, where I am most of the time.
4. My undergraduate degree is in English. Simultaneously, I accidentally got a BA in History with Honors. I don't remember much of that.
5. I was born the third of four girls. When I was eleven years old, my mother married a man with three sons. I have three sons. This might be three random things, but, who's counting?
6. I like long trips in the car so much that every time I get on an interstate highway, I feel a very strong urge to just keep on driving.

I'm tagging Zen Wizard, Paula, John Sherck, D Cup, Virgotex and Schroeder. Some of you may have already 1) done this meme or 2) been tagged and are trying to ignore it. Realizing you don't need my permission to do so, I am granting it. Please feel free to ignore the tag.

Peace, y'all. Life goes on.

Update Bonus Random Thing About Me: Every now and again, like this year, my birthday falls on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.