I like accents of all kinds. They make language interesting. And I'm always slightly jealous of people who have accents. For some reason, I never developed one. The standard response from people when I tell them I grew up in Texas is: "Funny, you don't have an accent." And I explain it by saying that while my dad's family are New York Italians who say "Yous" (as in "you all"), and my mom's family are Midwesterner's who drink "pop" (pronounced "pap") and who show wonderment or exasperation with an "Oh, Geez", we moved when I was quite young to a neighborhood in Houston where just about everybody was from someplace else. So there was really no strong accent influence on me. Sure, I had a heavy dosage of East Texas twang administered to me on a daily basis. Sure just about everybody I met said "ya'll" and pronounced Houston, "Youston," without the H. But these rituals of dialect were never something I joined in on. For some reason, it never wore off on me. I guess it's because my nearest friends and family were all from someplace else and spoke plain old boring English. Now, as an adult, I feel a little cheated.

Being in Maryland and DC has made accents much more of a novelty to me. You just don't hear them everyday. There is really no DC accent, probably because it truly is a town where most everybody is from somewhere else and is on their way to somewhere else. There is a Maryland accent, but it's subtle. They do a thing where they draw out their long O's. It's not something you recognize immediately, but the longer you're here, you begin to notice it. Anyway, because of the lack of a strong regional accent, I am always surprised when I go to other areas of the states now and find that—wow—everyday people really do talk like this here! It's not just something you hear on TV or the radio. It's an actual thing. I know, it sounds stupid to think this way. I mean, of course they do. But it really takes a few minutes to sink in. I've even experienced this when I go back to Texas, where I spent most of my life, and where I shouldn't really be surprised by such a thing. And I really felt it this past week while I was up in New Jersey. I had to stop myself from asking people to repeat things just because I loved the way they said it. I'm sorry, could you just tell me that story one more time, please. And this time really emphasize the "fugetaboutit" part.

I love the New Jersey accent. To my ears, it's pretty much the same as a New York accent. I guess if I were from the area, maybe I would notice subtle differences between the two—the same way I can tell when people are from East Texas or West Texas. Or the same way an English person might notice whether somebody is from London or Liverpool. A lot of people from the Northeast simply hear a Southern accent and think, that person's from The South. But when you grow up in The South, you really hear Texas Twang vs. Arkansas Drawl. Tennessee Mountain vs Georgia Old South. It's all very fascinating to me how dialect plays a part in identity.

C's family are French-Canadian on one side and English on the other. Depending on who she's with she can change accents like pairs of shoes. I can't do French Canadian very well, but I can sort of pull off "Ontario Hoser," only because I grew up worshiping Bob and Doug McKenzie. And of course, because I spent so many years in the lone-star state, I can do a passable Texan. I can almost pull off a Michigan-style Midwestern if you give me some time. But I can't do New York to save my life. And that really distresses me because it should be part of my genetic make-up. Maybe when we move to New Jersey that'll change.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Language 

In hotels, you find yourself reading USA Today. Because it's there. Anyway, from this article: "The sad thing is, it's easier to get behind the wheel of a taxi than it is to write something other people want to read." You can substitute "get behind the wheel of a taxi" with just about anything.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Writing 

I don't often see movies that I feel like mentioning here. But last night C and I rented Conversations with Other Women, and I had to jot down a few words about it. First off, I would highly recommend it, and not just because I have this thing for Helena Bonham Carter that I could only (politely) describe as "indecent." The script was great and both Carter and Aaron Eckhart delivered compelling, irresistible performances. They had an on-screen chemistry which felt real and intimate. So much so that you almost felt a little dirty watching them. (But in a good way.) I do have one warning about the film: the director, Hans Canosa, employs this split-screen effect throughout the entire thing, which I found kind of distracting at first. But it did grow on me as the film went on, and I can see now how it even helped reinforce the themes of the story.

Conversations also had a great soundtrack. Of course, any movie with a Rilo Kiley song in it (Ripchord) will automatically score high marks in my book. But I was also pleasantly surprised by the other songs, which were all from Quelqu'un m'a dit by Carla Bruni. Bruni is an independently-wealthy, Italian supermodel turned singer, and — after reading her bio — I have to admit I really didn't want to like her music. But I do. A lot. I downloaded the album right after we finished watching the movie and have listened to it several times this afternoon. All the songs are in French, and I only understand a few words here and there. But I don't mind. The songs are catchy in any language. And this might be shallow of me, but when an Italian supermodel with a velvety, smokey voice is singing to me en Français (And she is singing to me, isn't she?) it really doesn't matter what she's saying.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Movies  Music 

When I drove by Camden Yards late last night on my way back from DC I thought I could sense something bloody had just occurred. 30 runs. Wow.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  BMore  Sports 

Articles like this depress me. If you listen to the cynicism, it's pretty hard to plod on. But if you don't read stuff like this, if you aren't at least a little bit cynical yourself, then it makes you out of touch with reality, overly idealistic. Either way, writing about writing is usually pretty useless stuff.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Writing 

Dallas last week is now a whirl of memories, all good. Even the heat felt nice. It was a proper heat. The kind that bakes your ankles. The kind that causes instant sweat on the brow and lower back. It's not the kind of heat you can hide from. It's the kind you face head-on. When you leave your house or car or office it's just you and it. And you let it fall over and envelope you because to resist is to go around feeling defeated. To resist is to be angry. And so you accept and embrace it. The heat. The sweat. You accept all of it. And I did. And it was good.

Days spent at my old office, hashing out project specs. Barbecue and Tex-Mex for lunch, sending my now yankee stomach into a fitful tossing and turning. Catching up with work-mates. An environment strangely familiar and yet long ago and distant.

Birthday dinners for my mom, who is approaching another landmark date, several decades to the north of 34. Which is the age I'm fast approaching. Stories of her father. Who I never knew. Born in 1898. Died a year before I was born. I'm becoming increasingly fascinated by him. By the man he was. Because maybe there are clues there, in the stories my mom can tell. Clues about who I am. So I search for the clues in her words. And in her photos, which are kept in a plain-white department-store gift box. An afternoon spent scanning many of them onto hard-drive, because I needed to.

Beers with Jeff and the Farmers late into the night under a rumbling, electric sky. Here, I am amazed by a man-room the size of a three-car garage. The time is comfortable. Unassuming. Real. Stories of bears, some that were and some that might have been. Adventures in a candy cane.

Meals with dad, who is now — for the first time since 1973 — completely an 'empty nester.' His youngest at grad school in Atlanta. His oldest moving wildly around the northeast in search of roots. Like C and I, he is selling his house. But he is contracting, not expanding. It's a time of change and decision. He has thoughts of moving out to Maryland.

And right now, back in Baltimore, in our house that is finally free of dust and paint fumes, on a day that no A/C is needed because it's in the low 70's, I find my personal undertow pulling back to Texas. Because — despite the heat — things hurt less there.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Friends  Family  Dallas 

I can sympathize with these people. I have to admit, I like me a little Dolly too, from time to time. I used to blast The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas soundtrack in my room. This probably sounds worse than it was. I think my mom was slightly embarrassed (and guilt-ridden) that her nine-year-old son knew the lyrics to "A Lil' Ol' Pissant Country Place." But it was a great song. And I never really processed just how 'raunchy' the subject matter was. I think the thing I found to be the most 'dirty' in the entire soundtrack was the word 'Pissant.' I finally saw the play years later in Dallas. Not the same without Dolly and Burt.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Music  Neighbors 

Me (entering car): Hey, baby!

Kisses. We drive away.

C (sniffing in my general direction): I smell . . .

Me: What?

C: Mustard.

Me: (Blank stare.)

C: Or hotdogs, maybe?

Me: (Head shaking in wonderment.)

C: Have you had something with mustard on it?

Me: I had a turkey sandwich with mustard on it . . . five hours ago.

And, just for the record, I had brushed my teeth since then. And washed my hands. I know a man shouldn't make comments like this about his wife, but sometimes C exhibits characteristics that resemble a Beagle. Which is to say, C's got a sensitive nose. She would make a great sommelier.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Cath 

Last week, I left my ATM card in the machine while making a deposit. The envelope went in. The receipt was printed. I took it and walked away. The next morning, I happened to check my account online and was surprised to find four withdrawals pending for a total of $650. Delayed understanding and frantic confusion ensued. A few hairs were pulled. Some teeth were gnashed. A quick check of my wallet and I was able to put 2 and 2 together pretty quickly. The times on the withdrawals were directly following the deposit I had made, which means somebody had walked up to the ATM right after I walked away and stole $650 from my account, in four deliberate transactions. I'm getting over it now, which is part of the reason I'm able to write about it. But last week I was a wreck. As in, completely deflated. As in heap of jello quivering on the floor. That kind of wreck. It wasn't pretty. Funny how you can go along, just skirting the line between wellness and complete nervous breakdown. Holding it together, just barely. Tossing around in your mind work projects, recent moves, pending moves, things to do. A jumble of lists. And you think you're just beginning to get some grasp on them. And then something like this happens and just sets you over the edge. Part of the problem is I tend to blame myself for these kinds of situations. And you know it's not a huge leap to make. I mean, I was the sharp cookie who left the freakin' card in the machine ready to happily feed green bills to anybody who asked. But still. Now that I've gained some perspective on the matter, I'm realizing that in order for that to have actually happened there needed to be just the right sort of unethical asshole on the scene ready to take advantage of the situation. To that unethical asshole, I've got this to say, "They have cameras in all those ATMs, Einstein. Somewhere there's a police report with your photo on it."

And to Bank of America, I have this to say: "Thanks for being really, really nice about this whole thing. For real." (For once, I'm not being sarcastic.)

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Blond 

I've long felt that the market was wide open for a "Web 2.0" social networking site for book-lovers. For a while there has been this. But it just wasn't quite there. Now, there's Shelfari. And these guys get it. If I were slightly a lot more entrepreneurial, this is exactly what I would have started working on a year ago. Oh well. Now, I can safely mark that off my "pipe dream" list. This could do for reading what last.fm did for listening. If you're into books, sign up, go to my shelf, add me to your friends.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Books 

I wish they all could be funny. Or at least heart-warming. That would be nice. But that's just not how it happens these days. Today, I've got nothing. And yesterday. And the day before that. And for weeks and weeks, actually. But nothing isn't really an accurate description. There's a lot. I've got a lot of stuff floating around. It's just . . .

This hole I'm in. How did I get here, anyway? It seems like I just woke up one morning and realized that - wow, man - I'm really down in this thing. Ankle deep in the mud. And I must admit, I'm heavy bored. The cool, sighing earth all around. Even the hole is bored. Bored with me being bored. Bored with me being trapped . . . somewhat. Stuck . . . sort of. Contained enough to make it hard to move. Free enough to still move around like a normal human being. I've got food and water down here, which appear magically at regular intervals. A little cave for shelter. All of this - all of this crap keeps me comfortable.

But what to do about the tread? What to do about these bumps and dents. I can run my hand along the walls down here and I know where each and every last one begins and ends. I can anticipate them. And it's tedious. And it's trite. And it's exhausting. I'm too young for this. Aren't I? And, yet, I'm too old to go on thinking they'll just go away on their own.

And the hard thing isn't the escape. The hard thing is deciding which escape to use. There's this ladder, for instance. Shiny. Never been used. There's the rope over here, with little knots tied off to make it easier to ascend. Somebody even left me a freakin' jet-pack. I mean, come on. There are these little gifts all around me. All of these, these options. And they're all a way out of this thing. They're all a way up there. Which is a place I can't see. An unknown. Even scarier than the damn hole. And maybe I don't want to escape, after all. Because there's just too many choices. For so long, escape has been the idea of that ladder. The idea of that rope. The idea of the jet-pack.

And why should I do anything of any real substance anyway when there are these posts to write? One after the other, in reverse chronology. Ordered so that a reading forwards is actually backwards - revealing a strange reverse progression. Every day there's a new ending, which for newcomers winds up being the beginning. And to put all of this shit down - for what? To make me feel better? To make the Internets more populated with stuff to read? Like it needs it. Like it even wants it. Aren't these posts — these riffs — part of what keeps me stuck here?

And I can't believe I'm about to go off on this tangent, because — holy crap — it's completely off-topic, and I'm warning you, it's not entirely clear where this is going. But if you care to follow, it's actually quite emblematic of the kind of twists and turns my brain makes these days. So here goes: What happened to Gwen Stefani, anyway? Because I'm watching music videos the other day on Yahoo! or YouTube, or one of those online video worlds that are now making up for the void MTV and VH1 used to fill — you know, "multi-tasking," which is a way of saying, "trying to keep from going crazy while working alone in my house all day" — and I see her writhing around in bed with the white silk sheets and the singing about staying up til 4 am, crying about something. And I'm squinting at this through a film of confusion, thinking, when did this happen? When did "Gwen" become this delicate, doe-eyed, mass-produced pop star churning out catchy, but safe, radio-friendly hits? Still hot, mind you. But not in that edgy, tough-girl, ska-punk, outrageous, platform-shoe, plaid-pant, tank-top-slash-athletic-bra wearing, neon-attitude sort of way. Her hotness is now a warm simmer — a classy, polished, fashion-model kind of hot. My god, have I been asleep since 1996? Is this what being married to Gavin Rossdale does to a person? Having a one-year old son — does it lead to this? Surely not for most people. But this is Gwen, after all. And now she's wearing night-gowns and bathrobes and business suits in her videos . . . grown-up clothes. Looking completely her age and shit. Well, almost. And all I can think about is Spiderwebs, and Just a Girl, and Excuse Me, Mister. And maybe she'll pop out of those serious clothes and start acting crazy again, maybe she'll let out one of her trademark trills — that thing she does with her voice where . . . oh, probably not.

And don't get me wrong, this Gwen is still great. The song is catchy, and actually I kind of like it in a guilty way. But it's just not that "No Doubt" sort of sound that sparks a fire. But the sad reality is that the "No-Doubt Gwen" is probably gone. She's been replaced in the market by Lily Allens and Amy Winehouses. Which is not to compare her past sound with either of theirs, and certainly not to compare her image. It's just, these are the fresh, the new, the young tough-sounding female pop singers of 2007. And nobody is apologizing that "Gwen" is no longer one of them, least of all her. Because it's healthy. It's a good thing. For her. And for us. Because the last thing I'd want to do is go on some rant about her "selling out," or "man, she was so much better when" or "she's just not staying true to her sound," as if she - as if anybody - had some sort of obligation to always remain the same. People who make those sorts of complaints are really only crying over their own condition. Of aging. Of loss. Of being stuck.

So I say, good for her. For changing. For evolving her image and her sound. For escaping herself. I don't necessarily want the old Gwen Stefani back. I'm just acknowledging that I sort of miss her. And isn't that strange? To miss somebody you don't really even know? But what I really miss isn't her at all. What I really miss is myself. Because, more than anything, the loss of her is the loss of me. And it's probably time for a little re-invention of my own.

But maybe that was a poor parallel. Because comparing something like this to pop stardom now seems really weird and misplaced. I've got no excuse other than to say, I need an editor.

Or maybe I just need out of this hole. I think it's time I use the jet pack.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Chewing