All animals really do perform a mating dance, even human animals.

Take tonight for example:

I was at the LCR (Middkids think McCullough but fain-cier, MBHS girls think lead-out after party, everyone else just read on). Anyhow, the theme of this night was "Now That's What I Call the 90s!" So of course the Backstreet Boys' "Everybody (Backstreet's Back" comes on... seriously, it's LCR's duty to paly that song. Well I'm a-dancin'-dancin'-dancin' as I tend to do, and this jean-jacket clad fella behind me suddenly leans over between me & Vicky. At first I think he's talking to some people on the dance floor and thrusting himself between us to do so -- which is weird enough -- but then I realize that he's totally hitting on us. The Brits call this being "on the pull," which essentially means that you wanna get some before the night's out. So this guy is trying to pull one or both of us by leaning in between us and shaking his shoulders -- what is that about? Then I realized, he's doing his mating dance! (Just very badly.)

We've all seen a display like this at one time or another. Some guy tries to hock his goods on you, and uh-uh, you're not havin' it. Well tonight was a banner night for unwanted goods.

Briefly before that, Vicky & I are standing, chatting, checking out the crowd -- all that good stuff -- and this kid (a fresher, no doubt) comes up and throws his arm around Vicky. Soon enough both of us realize that this kid does not know us... but would like to. So that's his particular mating dance.

Then there was the Chicken Man, my personal favorite. Oh, the word chicken still makes me swoon hours later! I see this bloak at the union pub while I'm getting myself yet another drink, and he's quite a cutie. Soon I realize that he's strategically sitting across the bar from me (and I use the word strategically on purpose because it makes me feel special). When we go to check Vicky's coat, who is there? Why the Chicken Man, of course. And then again getting 2 more drinks (both for me -- yay!). You may be thinking, "Why is he the Chicken Man?" Well, my friends, if you had seen this chap dancing, you'd know why for sure. While he mating-danced his little heart out, all I could do was stand and stare (and yes, laugh uncontrollably), enraptured by his verve. So you see, it works this mating dance of which I speak!

But alas, all stories must end somewhere, and my end is truly a grave one. I go to share the Chicken Man love with a vivacious acquaintance Fin (from Finland) and his unassuming pal Pete (who apparently speaks English, just specifically not to me and Vicky), and the Chicken Man decided to move. Perhaps he felt his mating dance had been rejected and went home to cry into his pillow. But I'll never know because the Man has vanished from my life like a phantom in the night. Only the memory of his lithe, gyrating figure remains, and that too will soon be gone.

Mix Tape for the Moment

1.) Ryan Gosling - Put Me in the Car (go to Fun Stuff, then wavs)
2.) Soul Miner's Daughter - That Man They Call Diablo
3.) David Gray - Wisdom
4.) Prodigy - Voodoo People (Chemical Brothers Remix)
5.) Ed Harcourt - Beneath the Heart of Darkness
6.) Badly Drawn Boy - The Shining
7.) Sarah McLachlan - Full of Grace
8.) White Stripes - Fell in Love with a Girl
9.) Kelly Clarkson - Think Twice
10.) Naked Boys Singing - Nothin' But the Radio On
11.) Plumb - Damaged
Bonus Track
Cardigans - My Favourite Game

Also available at Kazaa.

Call Me Bipolar Barba

Well, kids, there are many topics on hand for discussion today as I have been diligently writing down my thoughts for blogs all week ... but writing them down and blogging them aren't exactly the same, now are they? So, now that is the Bi(n)g Bang Blog to end them all. Here we go!

Roman Numeral 1
I have been a wacko this week! It's been a veritable rollercoaster. At one point I really just wanted to go to sleep until I liked myself again. Let's back up and explain why...
Subsection A
Went to Beth Orton on Wednesday. Was very excited, not really for Beth herself because I only know one song and think her voice is bad. Well, the concert was standing-room-only (or however you hyphenate that), and I was smooth sailing during the opening act (P.S. Trumpet player = hot). However, by the time Beth got around to her 5th encore (seriously), I was about to cry. I didn't realize the effect that my boobs and bad posture could have on my poor vertebrae. And that damn woman just kept a-singin' her songs, none of which I knew at all. So, long-story-short, when my friends asked me how I liked it, I freaked out (against my better judgment) and gave my real opinion. Which leads me to
Subsection B
I was reading in one of my Candace Bushnell books last night (I think it's masochistic how I feel that I must finish this book that gives me a really bleak view of my future in NYC, but whatevs...), and the character was saying how people just want to hear bullshit. They want to be affirmed either about themselves or what they're interested in, even if it's completely untrue. I've been feeling a lot this way lately, myself. It's not pretty when you realize that you should just shut your mouth and go with the flow. (And by the by, the character is a schizophrenic... but I continue to relate to her. Her closest friend is a gay man, tush.)

Roman Numeral 2
I've realized that Carrie Bradshaw/Michael Patrick King really is right: timing is everything. On Tuesday I woke up ridiculously late and did not do anything until I had a movie screening at 8:30. Literally, I don't even think I left my room. Yet after the movie when I was at the Union Bar, I received about 5 text messages in 20 minutes. It's insanity how you can be completely un-booked for 23 hours and 45 minutes of the day, but in those 15 occupied minutes, you're juggling, multi-tasking, whatever you want to call it. Essentially we (Americans, especially) do 37 things at a time in pursuit of this whole concept of "free time", but what we don't realize is that we're wasting it by cutting up our productivity by difusing our concentration.
I'll get off my soapbox now.

Roman Numeral 3
I am desperate. On Tuesday I accosted three random men and asked them on tips to snag myself a feller. As guys tend to do, they avoided specifics. But apparently I'm really "smart", and that should do the trick. Well that's nice. Do I have a good personality, too?
Anyhow, I've decided I just need to resign myself to the fact that God is calling me to join the nunnery. And I also need to stop talking about men. There is nothing more depressing than thinking constantly about yourself. Kierkegaard knew it, and I do, too, but I persist in analyzing myself. I want to think this is a girl thing, but is it really? Do guys do this? (For proof of how much we girls think about ourselves -- specifically "sexually" -- go to the Virgin Manifesto.) There's a reason that Carrie Bradshaw is a Carrie, not a Carl and that all the college sex columnists are female. Maybe men just don't think about it this much.
In a sidenote, I've discovered that my walks to and from campus are very contemplative times, and, thus, I need to find a way to distract myself and avoid that introspection as quickly as possible.

Roman Numeral 4
Last but certainly not least: Friends are beautiful, wonderful things (some would call them people, but I'll stick with "things"). Think about it: Who else would listen to me bitch and moan about the same 3 topics for years at a time (and commiserate with me)? Sure, friends don't have to wake up to you in the morning and kiss your morning-breath mouth, but you don't have to do that for them. Yet, at the end of the day, this is someone who enjoys spending time with you even though they know you (in this case you = me).
I have been forgetting lately how important my friends are and how much they can transform your day. I've been stuck in this single-girl-on-the-go mode ever since I was in New York this summer. I haven't been in the company of a large group of friends for a long time, and the fierce independence I've been developing is taking its toll.
So I am making the declaration right now to anyone who is reading this: You are a friend of mine. Know that you are loved despite my hesitance/forgetfulness in reminding you and my self-absorption, and I appreciate the fact that you've stuck with me in one way or another despite the fact that I frequently am a psychopath. Yay for you.

So friends... lovahs... readers, I'll end on this maudlin note because sometimes that's appropriate. Have a good weekend!

Call Me Bipolar Barba

Well, kids, there are many topics on hand for discussion today as I have been diligently writing down my thoughts for blogs all week ... but writing them down and blogging them aren't exactly the same, now are they? So, now that is the Bi(n)g Bang Blog to end them all. Here we go!

Roman Numeral 1
I have been a wacko this week! It's been a veritable rollercoaster. At one point I really just wanted to go to sleep until I liked myself again. Let's back up and explain why...
Subsection A
Went to Beth Orton on Wednesday. Was very excited, not really for Beth herself because I only know one song and think her voice is bad. Well, the concert was standing-room-only (or however you hyphenate that), and I was smooth sailing during the opening act (P.S. Trumpet player =d hot). However, by the time Beth got around to her 5th encore (seriously), I was about to cry. I didn't realize the effect that my boobs and bad posture could have on my poor vertebrae. And that damn woman just kept a-singin' her songs, none of which I knew at all. So, long-story-short, when my friends asked me how I liked it, I freaked out (against my better judgment) and gave my real opinion. Which leads me to
Subsection B
I was reading in one of my Candace Bushnell books last night (I think it's masochistic how I feel that I must finish this book that gives me a really bleak view of my future in NYC, but whatevs...), and the character was saying how people just want to hear bullshit. They want to be affirmed either about themselves or what they're interested in, even if it's completely untrue. I've been feeling a lot this way lately, myself. It's not pretty when you realize that you should just shut your mouth and go with the flow. (And by the by, the character is a shizophrenic... but I continue to relate to her. Her closest friend is a gay man, tush.)

Roman Numeral 2
I've realized that Carrie Bradshaw/Michael Patrick King really is right: timing is everything. On Tuesday I woke up ridiculously late and did not do anything until I had a movie screening at 8:30. Literally, I don't even think I left my room. Yet after the movie when I was at the Union Bar, I received about 5 text messages in 20 minutes. It's insanity how you can be completely un-booked for 23 hours and 45 minutes of the day, but in those 15 occupied minutes, you're juggling, multi-tasking, whatever you want to call it. Essentially we (Americans, especially) do 37 things at a time in pursuit of this whole concept of "free time", but what we don't realize is that we're wasting it by cutting up our productivity by difusing our concentration.
I'll get off my soapbox now.

Roman Numeral 3
I am desperate. On Tuesday I accosted three random men and asked them on tips to snag myself a feller. As guys tend to do, they avoided specifics. But apparently I'm really "smart", and that should do the trick. Well that's nice. Do I have a good personality, too?
Anyhow, I've decided I just need to resign myself to the fact that God is calling me to join the nunnery. And I also need to stop talking about men. There is nothing more depressing than thinking constantly about yourself. Kierkegaard new it, and I do, too, but I persist in analyzing myself. I want to think this is a girl thing, but is it really? Do guys do this? (For proof of how much we girls think about ourselves -- specifically "sexually" -- go to the Virgin Manifesto.) There's a reason that Carrie Bradshaw is a Carrie, not a Carl and that all the college sex columnists are female. Maybe men just don't think about it this much.
In a sidenote, I've discovered that my walks to and from campus are very contemplative times, and, thus, I need to find a way to distract myself and avoid that introspection as quickly as possible.

Roman Numeral 4
Last but certainly not least: Friends are beautiful, wonderful things (some would call them people, but I'll stick with "things"). Think about it: Who else would listen to me bitch and moan about the same 3 topics for years at a time (and commiserate with me)? Sure, friends don't have to wake up to you in the morning and kiss your morning-breath mouth, but you don't have to do that for them. Yet, at the end of the day, this is someone who enjoys spending time with you even though they know you (in this case you = me).
I have been forgetting lately how important my friends are and how much they can transform your day. I've been stuck in this single-girl-on-the-go mode ever since I was in New York this summer. I haven't been in the company of a large group of friends for a long time, and the fierce independence I've been developing is taking its toll.
So I am making the declaration right now to anyone who is reading this: You are a friend of mine. Know that you are loved despite my hesitance/forgetfulness in reminding you and my self-absorption, and I appreciate the fact that you've stuck with me in one way or another despite the fact that I frequently am a psychopath. Yay for you.

So friends... lovahs... readers, I'll end on this maudlin note because sometimes that's appropriate. Have a good weekend!

A little something for my B'ham Girls:
Birmingham Barbie Glam
(thanks to Lauren Salter)

Just in time for the Christmas shopping season ... There are some new additions to the Barbie line based on the Birmingham Metro Area:

Homewood/Vestavia Hills Barbie
This pretentious bitch Barbie is only sold at Brookwood Village, she comes with Kenneth Cole 4 inch clunky shoes (actual size), an assortment of real Kate Spade handbags, a take-out box from Stignani's and a mini BMW convertible. Options include the Southside Nightclub Barbie which comes with a mini 9mm handgun and a Ray Lewis knife.

Bessemer Barbie
This thick Barbie comes with 4-inch long airbrushed curved nails, a blonde hair weave, excessive gold jewelry and caps, bling-bling, and is also available with the 'Lil Kim SUV with automatic weapons. Miniature Lisa "Left-Eye" Lopes house burning lighter set sold separately.

Mountain Brook Barbie (that's me!)
This Barbie runs her own women's clothing and accessories store in Crestline VIllage... as a hobby. She graduated from the University of Alabama and was married the next day. Careful with this one, she ceases to function when she finally finds out that Dr. Ken has been boinking one of his surgical assistants since she had her first baby. Comes with set of 20 credit cards and full prescription of Zanex.

Down 280 Barbie
This trendy homemaker Barbie is available with the mini-SUV or mini-minivan vehicles, gets lost easily, and has no fulltime occupation or secondary education. Available and usually confused at any overpriced, low-quality specialty stores in Brook Highland. Also available to have discrete affairs with Ken's friends and coworkers. Traffic jamming' cell phone sold separately.

Shelby County (Pelham) Barbie
This special white-trash model comes in Wrangler jeans that are 2 sizes too small, a NASCAR shirt, big hair, a
mini Coors Light in the can, a Hank Jr. CD set, can spit over 5 feet, and she can kick Ken's ass when she's drunk. A mini pickup is also available with Rebel flag bumper stickers and gun rack.

Crestwood Barbie
This model features Ken in a sequined cocktail dress, breast implants, press-on nails, and a really really bad wig. Details include a to-go cup from The Quest, a rainbow scarf, and a CD box set featuring Judy Garland, Britney Spears and assorted big show tunes.

Five-Points Barbie
This Barbie model features non-functional 10-inch platforms, over 12 body piercings, 14 tattoos, a purple-green hair
color, smells like an athlete, has no occupation, and is waiting on the curb at the fountain for the Homewood Barbie to return and pick her up.

Downtown Loft Barbie
This Barbie was previously a Trailer Trash Barbie, but was recently displaced by a new 25 to 30-year old Barbie that is actually a $80K/year Yuppie masquerading as a down/out artsy Barbie. Comes with a full black wardrobe from second hand stores.

More is More

Okay, before I start, I would like to quote from another blog, whose writer I will not name (but some of you will know if you've been gaze-ing lately). -- "I feel like a Chinese middle school student. I've been straddling this very slippery middle ground between college student extraordinaire and adult." What the hell?

Also, my latest musical recommendation (having been ever-present in my life in the past few weeks) is jazz maven Nina Simone. She's amazing on so many levels.

And now to the business at hand...

I think it would be beautiful to be alluring just by being me. Imagine that. What if you could enthrall and attract people just by being you. Based on the frequency of when they saw you and didn't, how much you naturally said (without planning, scheming, plotting, what-have-you) and how much you didn't, another person (hopefully of the opposite sex) would just want to spend time with you, drink you in, adore you, watch you, love you... you get the point.

Most of you are thinking, "Yeah, well, that's how people start relationships," but you have to remember that I wouldn't know about that. I want to. I'd love for it to be as simple as being me. I really would.

But now we come to the heading of this little blog... most people say less is more. Less is definite less, and more is definitely too much sometimes, but they both have their virtues. However, I would really like to be able to embrace less. Flash back to 7th grade when my English teacher Kathy Lawrence talked about writing essays, about how she would always write and write and write thinking that if she just said a whole lot, she'd get the right point across somewhere in there. Flash forward 6 years to my freshman roommate in college, Katie Bristow, saying, "You think so much into things!"

More is definitely one of my biggest sins. Maybe if I just think out every possible angle, scheme, oufit or makeup selection, I'll stumble upon the right one and things can roll back to one, be simple again. Hasn't worked yet. So this is me wanting things to be simple again.

(I even have a chance to put this into action as I sub-edit a Sex & the City review for my journalism class. This is certainly a neat and tidy wallop from life telling me to simplify, now isn't it?)

Here are a few words from John Mayer that I think express a little bit what I'm saying...

our love was comfortable and so broken in
she's perfect
so flawless
or so they say

she thinks I can't see the smile that she's faking
and poses for pictures that aren't being taken
I loved you
grey sweatpants
no makeup
so perfect

our love was comfortable and so broken in
she's perfect
so flawless
I'm not impressed
I want you back