I hate titles

Titles are what I've always been horrible with, and I judge things by them prematurely all the time and miss out.  So there, I hate titles.

I've been in London with my boyfriend and his parents since early Monday morning.  His brother lives here with his wife and cute baby.  We have some time to kill before mass, so here is probably a very long-winded reflective itinerary.

Sunday we flew out of Atlanta.  In the hopes that my status as an ultra light sleeper would be threatened, I brought Melatonin and a positive attitude.  To zero surprise, I was awake for the entire nine hour flight, occasionally rolling eyes with the only other guy awake a few seats away.  When we landed, it was about 7 am and I discovered just how disgustingly low the bar is for public restrooms here.  While we walked through the groggy Monday morning airport, Bryan and I noticed a gorgeous mother with her two kids.  The young boy and girl were being so good and very quiet, keeping up with their mother's fast pace.  The mother was so rude though!  She kept snapping at them for minor infractions, such as veering too far left or sliding a hand down the railing.  I complimented the little girl on her cute boots, and we talked about what Santa was hopefully bringing her while we waited for our luggage.

Luggage achieved, we jumped on a train into London.  Still shivering, I watched the quaint neighborhoods wake up for the busy week to come.  There was snow everywhere, making it the best way to shake hands with such an iconic city.  Truly amazing is the history of this place.  (I guess that's a pretty lame thing to say, but I'll accept my role as the typical American in this instance.)  The hotel where we are is cool, very minimalist style, which is apparently very London modern.  Imagine the W without all the pizazz.  We're in an apartment-style room, containing 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms (only 1 with a shower) a kitchen, and a living room, which is where Bryan's bed is.

We napped for a few hours before Bryan's sister-in-law and niece came over and we went to eat.  I was shocked and SO excited that I found something good to eat since I'm so picky.  It was FREEZING outside.  We walked around a bit, and I almost walked out in front of a few cars.

Tuesday, Bryan and I went on an all-day tour through the city.  Of all the places we saw, St. Paul's Cathedral was my favorite spot.  I'm such a nerd for churches anyway, but where Princess Di and Charles said there vows...wow.  I guess getting married in a place built by Henry VIII has its omens, but it was magnificent.  Tuesday night, we met Bryan's dad, brother, and sister-in-law and went pub-hopping.  Drinking in a 500 year old room is definitely an experience.  I probably stuck out like a sore thumb, nearly spilling my drinks several times after long gazes around the rooms.  (Being here has made me very aware of the fact that I am a bad open-mouth breather...I look stunned all the time.  Why hasn't anyone ever told me this?)  That night I ate sausage and mash, which is breakfast sausage in the States and mashed potatoes and gravy.  Bryan's mom has been keeping the fridge stocked with fruit and brie, so I've been fed well.

aaaand now we're going to mass.  Apparently I'm more long-winded than I thought. 

Merry Christmas!

Londontown

This is my first of a couple posts today, hopefully.  A few things:

1.  I'm shocked that I haven't been hit by a car yet while in London
2.  The British do not value tv, free wifi, or fast Internet
3.  There is maybe one power outlet per room here, and the lights are dim
4.  Amazingly, I've been eating really well
5.  Nobody looks better in a wool coat than Bryan
6.  My name is more appreciated here
7.  I could never live anywhere that gets this cold.  Ever.
8.  SANTA IS COMING TONIGHT
9.  British kids are definitely the cutest, most well-dressed kids
10.  I'm about to load Mumford and Sons' discography onto my iPod

the point

whatever love you can get and give, whatever happiness you can filch or provide,

every temporary measure of grace,

whatever works

my last long post

This is my last long post.  I get it.  I'm bad at blog manners.  This is my end of the semester wrap up.  Final thoughts:

Perhaps the most intriguing theory I've learned this semester is that of reclaiming names.  This phenomenon strikes me most because it leaves no category of people outside its realm.  From “bitches” to “rednecks” to the detestable N word, name reclamation has profoundly reached a widespread population.

Over the past century, women have made leaps and bounds in the ways of, well, everything but peeing upright.  Little girls everywhere hum “Anything you can do, I can do better.”  Gone are the days when women went to the offices of their “Mad Men” bosses to refill their vodkas and light their cigarettes all day.  Rather, today yields a very different scene when it comes to positions of women in office.  Men, being the symbols of ego, have seemingly given labels to the power-hungry, multi-faceted, big-breasted super humans in the running for their jobs.  This explanation paints a very different picture of “bitch” than perceived in a work called “Bitch Manifesto.”  Nonetheless, these women who have taken on many characteristics of men, are not rejecting their insulting stigma.  They are owning it, and even running with it.  It is not uncommon to hear a group of females in a pub addressed (and claimed) by another peer as her “bitches.”

“Call a dog a cat for so long and he’ll start to meow.”  This phrase applies to the reclamation of words.  Fifteen years ago, a “bitch” was perhaps the most despicable thing one could insult a woman.  Now, the term is seemingly empowering to a woman, giving her justification for her actions and the confidence to behave in an “anything but ladylike” manner.  The women on MTV’s “Jersey Shore” not only address one another by “bitch,” but also by far worse names involving their personal levels of promiscuity, like “whore” and several derivatives of such.  But the women of Da Shore do not deny these insults, and in fact give life to the name-calling.  “He bought me drinks all night…of course I slept wit him,” is just one of the shocking quotes “J Woww” is recorded saying in the second season.  It isn't just women though; name reclamation stretches from the female sex to the rural areas of the United States.

Behold, a doublewide trailer covered in overgrown weeds, hidden in the mossy cloak of oak trees in the backwoods of Eutaw, Alabama (pronounced like "Utah").  The poorly planned rock driveway employs an old truck, which savors a garbage bag as the passenger’s window.  The lawn that is dead grass and crushed cans of Tab somehow houses a mutt attached to six feet of chain and an empty cereal bowl.  Beyond this plot lies the trailer, in all its weather-battered glory, only complete with a Rebel flag, older than the structure it is strewn upon.  Behold, this is God’s country.  The heartland.  Within the confines of this trailer does not sleep a southern gentleman, no, but a redneck.

You might be a redneck if…you pictured your grandparents’ home in the previous paragraph…if before Blue Collar Comedy, you took offense to the term “redneck.”  Before the days of Jeff Foxworthy and the gang, country folk lacked a concrete reference to embody themselves.  They didn't see humor in their way of life.  They blissfully saw racism, a flirty relationship with poverty, and Billy Rae Cyrus’s video for “Achey Breaky Heart” too many times.  Oh and they were still pissed off about the war.  (The war their “people” fought over one hundred-fifty years ago.)  With the unveiling of Blue Collar Comedy, suddenly the stigma of being a redneck became IT, and people began to celebrate those ideals and traditions for which they had been criticized for so long.  They were no longer embarrassed of their old trucks and doublewides and in fact, celebrated the extreme.

The men of Blue Collar Comedy did a segment on the most recent edition of their tour in which old photographs of their upbringings were projected while they did their comic banter.  As the slideshow progressed, one might have inquired, “Is that real?!  That can’t be real.  Those people are in our country?”  This reaction from the American population only loaded more ammo into the gun that was Southern pride, and rednecks everywhere were not only changing their screennames to include the word, but also answering these questions confidently with, “Yes Ma’am, we’ve been here and we’re not goin’ anywhere.  Git-r-done.”

On the opposite end of the spectrum is the most fascinating realm of study we have covered, in my opinion.  Perhaps my interest in this topic is deeply rooted in my childhood, spent in New Orleans, which remains one of the most invisibly segregated places in America.  (I am unsure of the quality “invisible segregation” brings to the table, but what I mean is that there are clearly defined lines between black neighborhoods and white neighborhoods.)  I grew up in a non-racist home, but sadly I was not naïve when it came to the meaning and impact the N word has.  My mother always told us never to use the word, no matter what, ever.  She said there was never any reason for it and that she wished that it would simply go away.  Now at the age of twenty, I wish the same.  But it isn’t white people I hear saying it most, but actually black people.

In the beginnings of the Civil Rights Movement, one major push was to change the common reference of an African-American person from “negro” to “black,” from “ghetto” to “community.”  With the help of symbolic realignment, protestors may actively change the definitions of the movements they are, well, moving.  It seems however, that after much advancement and progress black people have made, some are now reclaiming the N word, just as women claim “bitch” and rural dwellers claim “redneck.”  I often hear young black classmates of mine greet one another with this word, and even in rare cases, refer to people of their own race as such.  This is an awful reflection upon our society.  And I’m not playing the role of sad oppressed white girl.  I have definitely heard the word used by members of my own race, in far worse contexts than where “dude” or “man” could have been substituted. 

I guess my main thought is that if everyone stopped using this disgusting piece of American diction, it would eventually cease to exist, at least in common conversation.  My wish is that we can someday achieve this word as a relic only to be remembered in history.  

Just like Paris Hilton’s “that’s hot.”

S Club 7, Bob Dylan, and Eric Clapton

Which of those doesn't go?  Trick question.  They all flow nicely on my "finals 12/10 volume II" playlist.  But that's, like, my opinion man.  Unfortunately I'm studying for finals in Gorgas instead of watching The Big Lebowski.

While I sit here and study for my business communication final, it's hard not to observe, judge, and make up stories about the people at my table.  Right now it's the only thing getting me through the various theories of globalization...

Directly across from me is the adorable pledge, who since last week has been upgraded to freshman, but will remain "pledge" in my depiction of the table.  He's wearing a swap t-shirt, black North Face, Mountain khakis (ah love those), and a Masters hat.  Anxiously studying for mass com, he keeps ignoring texts on his Blackberry, and has become increasingly exasperated as they keep coming.  After each rapid response, he places the Blackberry behind his closed Dell very purposefully.  He's really cute, and I feel so badly for him that this relentless person keeps bugging him.  He's studying the principles of talk radio, people!  He's apologized the last two times for his text buzzing the entire table.  Forgiven, Mountain khakis.

Diagonal from me, next to Pledge, is a very friendly Indian grad student named Ruhal.  He asked me about which mp3 player I preferred, and we chatted for a second before I turned my computer towards him and made him watch a funny YouTube video.  He liked my name.  People who like my name are fine with me.  A little while later he asked me to help him pick out a suit.  I talked him out of buying a blue jacket and black pants, and he went with a nice black suit.  (He just now Facebook friend-requested me.)

Seated, actually, plopped next to Ruhal is maybe the most quintessential archetype female student at Alabama.  She's dominating more than her fair share of the table with markers, high lighters (yes, both), notecards, sticky notes, an iPhone 4, an iTouch (because you need both) two bottles of Smart Water, a pack of gum with wrappers around it, and her hot pink Mac.  She's been working tirelessly on biology, which I respect...there's a reason I'm in liberal arts.  Her pearly blonde hair is in the classic Tutwiler side-pony, creating a sort of fountain look atop her head.  She's tanned and primped, wearing more make-up than I wore to prom, and is probably in the beginning stages of TMJ as she chews her fifth piece of Wint-O-Green gum.  Despite her flawless face of make-up and teased fountain hair, she "didn't care!!" about what she looked like coming to the library today, which she tells us by wearing her multiple hundred dollar pink Juicy tracksuit and, yep you guessed it, Uggs, girl!!!  Not only is this biologist looking at TMJ, but also some serious neck problems: she's bent and twisted and crossed in her chair, keeping her head cocked a mere 3 inches from the table.

Across from her is maybe me, in the form of a super heady, kind of dirty, definitely pissed off philosophy student.  She's basically next to me, and apparently forgot her headphones because she. is. mad.  Every half minute, she'll jolt away from philosophy as if a siren has just alarmed.  She's also judging everyone at our table, including me.  When I got here a few hours ago and unpacked, she watched me with the same ferocity as those people who watch their cars get towed.  Feeling awkward, I stupidly asked if anyone was sitting where I was unpacking, even though the spot was totally devoid of any human remains.  She glared at me for a while before whipping back, "Um, obviously not."  (I wish she was chewing sunflower seeds, it would just really add to the scene.  That or dipping.)  Ever since, I've caught her staring at me with the disdain of, well yeah, her I guess since she hates me.

I made my playlist in accordance with the fact that she was watching me do it, which is why I added S Club 7.  AIN'T NO PARTY LIKE AN S CLUB PAR-TAY!

Day 2

Today I guess an explanation would be fitting.

Since the primitive stages of blogging, I've been intrigued in the activities of seemingly dull people put into words.  In middle school, I religiously followed the Xanga of a bad-girl classmate who wrote about her daily fights with her parents, stolen alcohol, and the boys who snuck in through her basement.  It was the first time I had full access to what should have been someone's private diary, and she had no idea I was reading along.  Through the years, I kept track of a few other peer bloggers, yet the motivation to create my own never manifested.  I never thought my life was interesting, or that anyone else would find it interesting.

Now that blogging has become a fixture of news and a catalyst for fashion, comedy, and all things media, I guess I should get into it.  I read that blogging has become the best way to put work out there everyday.  Now that I've decided that I definitely want to write for a living, this will be good practice.

My goal is to write about things applicable to the day, applicable to real life, applicable to more people than just me.  I want people to connect with my writing, with me as a person, and with my ideas, hopefully.  And hopefully my blog will not be the stuff of trivial routine or pointless ranting. The mission statement I will one day write contains those stipulations.

I chose the title "Life is a Carnival" because of The Band's song.

You can walk on the water, drown in the sand
You can fly off a mountaintop if anybody can
Run away, run away--it's the restless age
Look away, look away--you can turn the page
Hey, buddy, would you like to buy a watch real cheap
Here on the street
I got six on each arm and two more round my feet
Life is a carnival--believe it or not

Plus literally every other symbolic song was taken.  I guess bloggers are deep...

Until tomorrow,

Kingsley

(I'll work on a better sign-off since I can't throw a pencil at the camera.)

Typical 1st Post

Today I delivered my first public speech in public to the public.  I was nervous and it was cheesy.  Surprisingly I loved every second of my six minute deliverance before a small crowd of my classmates and their very good friends.  I wrote the speech before class, and here it is:

Dearly beloveds, we are gathered here today to celebrate the holy matrimony of two wonderful things, kept separate by the holier than thou city of Tuscaloosa.  If anyone has any reason why students and alcohol should not be united on Sundays, please put down your drink and exit the premises.  Go back to the glory days when the Bear still ran things, when a Miller Hi-Life was the only remedy needed for relaxation, when Mama and Daddy were still footing the bill.  In the South, God and football govern all.  They share the same faithful day.  Well in Tuscaloosa, the Man thinks that this day should be a dry one, a dull one, a SAD one.  To my fellow classmates, my fellow party-goers, my fellow drinkers of all things sugary and cheap, I welcome.  We are the leaders of tomorrow, voices of tomorrow, well what about today?  What about Sunday?  Do they think we lack the maturity, the control, THE RESPECT?  This is the South!  Respect is taught to us before the color blue!  And how tasty those blue Miller Lite aluminums are!  How thrilling the moment when the mountains on those Coors Lites turn blue!  Well we as students are tired of being blue on Sundays.  We’re craving a change, and it’s going to start with a Sunday afternoon party on the steps of City Hall!

How many times have you, yes YOU underage chuggernaut with the fake ID, how many times have you woken up on a Sunday morning, gone through your homework schedule mentally, and realized that your Sunday is school-free?  And how many times, upon coming to this magnificent conclusion, has your mind killed your no-study buzz with the information that your fridge is empty, your keggerator dry, and your damn roommate left your bottle of wine sitting on the counter all night?  Come on!  You still had two solid inches of three-dollar wine!  You don’t care that it tasted like goat urine!  So, you then move to the decision that your Sunday Funday will be spent, depending on your sex, either watching Lifetime movies all day whilst constantly hitting the refresh button on your Facebook page scanning all the highlights from the weekend, or it will be spent first turning over and going back to sleep before gorging yourself with Mugshots, and spending the rest of the day watching football and playing Call of Duty interchangeably.  COME ON!  You could be spending the day far more productively, you could be meeting new people and networking for jobs and internships and shit for your resume that, let’s face it, could use some more shit.  Alcohol IS the social lubricant!  Who knows, if you attended a casual afternoon delightly brewed with a keg and a few friends, you might end up talking to Joe Somebody, who happens to be really cute, whose dad is the man in charge of whatever it is that you’re trying to break into!  Instead of spending the day sweating out your own beverages from the last three nights, you could be enjoying yourself with friends and new contacts, in the cozy confines of a friend’s backyard or at the Bear Trap.  (Just another reason to open alcohol sales for Sunday…Bear Trap has the best, most underrated food ever.  They have lettuce wraps people!)  This brings me to my next point.

When’s the last time you saw your favorite band?  THINK!  Is your favorite band Fly By Radio?  Didn’t think so.  You probably had to travel for your concert.  You know why?  "‘Cause all my bitches love me."  Kidding.  But seriously, most concerts are on Sunday nights.  And who wants to attend a dry concert?  In all honesty, who wants to attend a concert at the Dixie at all…OH WAIT!  They’re building us a HUGE amphitheatre for BIG concerts!  RIGHT HERE IN TUSCALOOSA!  If we had alcohol sales on Sunday, there would be more concerts, restaurants, and hotels here!  Do your parents bitch about staying at the Capstone whenever they come see you and buy you five of everything at Target?  Mine do!  One time my mom checked in to her room to find that someone had JUST shaved over the sink!  GROSS!  I bet your parents would come hook you up with groceries and fresh new sneaks more often if they could stay at a Hilton.  But they can’t!  Because Hilton stocks their minifridges.  Standard.  And they won’t come unless we sell alcohol on Sundays.  Guess I’ll never get the chance to be Paris Hilton’s new BFF.  BUT IT GETS WORSE!  How many of you salivated when I said “lettuce wraps?”  Yeah, you’ve been to PF Chang’s, have you not?  Only the best, well, we’re not really sure which kind of Asian sensation food they’re channeling, but we do know we love it all.  Especially the lettuce wraps.  And who’s tired of craving good Italian food without having to go downtown and pay twelve bucks for mediocre macaroni?  Give me back my Macaroni Grille!  Olive Garden?  Schmolive Garden.  Even if they grew gold at the Olive Garden, I still wouldn’t eat their bland food and microwaved breadsticks.  I don’t care if they ARE endless.  Same deal though, guys – these quality restaurants will never come to Tuscaloosa because they depend on alcohol sales for their quotas.

Thirdly, the people of Tuscaloosa say that Sunday is God’s day.  Well, assuming the role of super sensitive, extremely typical GIRL, I am very offended by this as I am Catholic, and part of our mass is receiving the blood of Christ, in the form of wine.  So there.  I’m offended.

WHO IS WITH ME?  Without Sunday alcohol sales, we students are more inclined to sit around and play Black Ops all day, or worse, get sucked in to watching Charlie St. Cloud amidst tears from a roommate who CLEARLY will not get a next-day text-back from that guy she totally slept with last night…AND without Sunday alcohol sales, we are being deprived of great hair-free-sink hotels and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, LETTUCE WRAPS from PF Chang’s!  Good stuff.  Plus, are they really going after the Catholics, AGAIN?  COME ON THAT WAS SO 200 YEARS AGO.  So without further adieu, I’d like to announce the prolonged engagement of Sunday alchohol sales and Tuscaloosa circa 1958 for the year 2011.  Thanks.  Thanks a lot.  So refill your drinks, tuck in that beer belly, and let’s second-line all the way to City Hall.  Cheers.