There are old issues of the Kentucky Kernel littering the floor space underneath my bed, dating back to at least the first week of October. I haven't had the initiative to put them in the box I'm keeping newspapers in. In addition to action figures, Yu-Gi-Oh! cards and DVDs, I collect newspapers. There's something about reading printed word that does something for me that digital words don't. Also, it's never bad to have pieces of history at your disposal - you never know when that article during Sex Week at UK involving men in high heels is going to come in handy.
Hip-hop music saturates the environment I'm currently writing in. I've chosen to drown it out with a mix of Eli Young Band, Tim McGraw and LFO. Nothing combats generic rap lyrics that don't make any sense like unrelated pop lyrics that don't make any sense. "I'll steal your honey like I stole your bike!" How can you not love that?
I need to get stuff finished. I'm blogging instead of writing up a half-page assignment for journalism, a two-page journal entry for Geography and Gender and two proof problems for Logic. None of these things are difficult, yet here I am procrastinating.
Part of it has to with me still having ample time to complete each one. The journalism assignment is due Monday and the G&G entry is due Tuesday. The Logic problems were assigned for Friday. I'll do those tomorrow night. Thursday night has become Logic night.
The Geography and Gender assignment will be worked on over the weekend. This will be the only calm weekend in my foreseeable future, so I need to get as much completed as I can. Kyle's visiting family in Cincinnati and I'll have the room to myself. Erin's going to an Anime convention in Fort Mitchell, Kentucky, so there'll be no one to distract me (unfortunately) from my work.
Heath and Curtis are coming down next weekend - not going to work any then.
Same goes for the weekend after that, when I'll be celebrating my birthday by visiting my family and going to a Daughtry/Theory of a Deadman/Cavo concert with Heath and Curtis.
Thanksgiving happens soon, as well.
This is going to be the busiest November in recent memory. It's fantastic though.
It's great having stuff to do, having people to do things with, having each day welcome you with opportunities to broaden your mind and explore the world.
The greatest thing I've learned so far while at college wasn't from a textbook. It's that appreciating every moment you're in is essential. It's that clearing your mind of any expectations and going along for the ride can be enlightening.
It's that you can go from having a scarce amount of people to converse with to wearing a dragon mask and making friends in a matter of minutes.
It's that walking at 3 o'clock in the morning in the midst of thirty-degree temperatures can result in you being an adopted uncle.
It's that having a broken printer is one of the best things that could have ever happened to you.
It's seizing every moment and holding on as long you can - forever, preferably.
¡JAM!
Joshua Aaron Moore
10/13/2009
Tripbase.com Short Story
Before the Big Easy
I’ll confess that I didn’t wake up last Friday expecting to book reservations for a hotel in New Orleans, Louisiana for next week. But, when you’re a college sophomore with extra cash and a girlfriend who wants to spend the first Christmas you share together somewhere memorable, the word expectations might as well not exist in your vernacular. Luckily, my mom’s boyfriend turned me onto this website, Tripbase.com, which enables a person to locate a perfect vacation destination and plan based on interest sliders and income factors. We’ll see if New Orleans is as ideal for my lady and I as you claim, Tripbase.
I’m in it for the Hornets game on the 23rd. They’re hosting Golden State that night. I foresee a high-scoring affair, a Chris Paul triple double, and her asking me why Stephen Jackson got ejected – because he will be – resulting in an explanation that the refs decided he intentionally elbowed David West in the groin, a flagrant two foul by NBA standards. I don’t know why she’ll ask either; she‘ll only be there because I wanted to be there and doesn’t really care about what’s going on. By the time we’re heading out of “The Hive”, she won’t know the difference between a technical and a turnover. That’s fine, because we’ve been together for three months and I still can’t tell the difference between most of her knitting needles.
“She” is Erin: A lover of yarn, a baker of cookies, and a worker of the cash register at Blazer Café. She’s in it for the ample knitting time 14 hours worth of driving will provide her, and just to get away from our old Kentucky home. We’re spending New Years Eve at her parent’s place in Independence and she’s determined to have that blanket she promised her mom for Christmas finished by the time we cross back over into Kentucky from Tennessee. Heaven help me if she doesn’t.
At least I won’t have to worry about getting pulled over for speeding. If I go even a mile over any of the posted speed limits she’ll claim I’m trying to sabotage her project. Her mother and I may not get along as much as I’d like, but I wouldn’t go as far to try to ruin her Christmas present. Although, the fact she persistently insists that I’m going to “take her little baby down to New Orleans and get her drunk and knocked up, then abandon her for a Mardis Gras whore” does make the notion of accidently hitting potholes in the road to break one of Erin’s needles on the way back awfully tantalizing.
If I were going to abandon her for anyone, it certainly wouldn’t be for a “Mardis Gras whore” – too high a risk of catching something. Mardis Gras doesn’t happen until February, anyway.
I wouldn’t abandon her, though. She’s without a doubt the greatest thing that’s happened to me since I moved to Lexington to attend the University of Kentucky (though I’ll put it out there that Tolly Ho’s “Super Ho” cheeseburger is definitely a close second). After watching her from afar for several weeks in the comic book class we shared the fall semester of our freshman year, I worked up the nerve to speak to her. Minor chit-chat transformed into daily conversation. Daily conversation transformed into smiles on our faces when we were around each other. Smiles on our faces transformed into “Let’s watch ‘The Big Bang Theory’ all day long and order Chinese take-out.” “The Big Bang Theory” and Chinese take-out transformed into a kiss so soft that the pillows at the foot of her bed were envious.
I wouldn’t even think about abandoning a kiss that soft, especially when I’m going to need it like the desert needs rain if the Hornets lose to the Warriors that night.
Ah, who am I kidding? I’ll need it just as bad if they win, too.
After the Big Easy
To simplify it for the masses who wouldn’t understand a long and drawn out explanation about the intricate process behind the selection method the site uses to determine a vacation destination, Tripbase’s Destination Finder is awesome. I’ll admit I had my doubts about the site, but they were all cast away after mine and Erin’s excellent week in New Orleans. That’s even including the fact that New Orleans got decimated by Golden State. Who would have guessed Chris Paul would go down with a twisted ankle in the first quarter?
Stephen Jackson did get ejected that night, still. Some predictions are just too easy to make. It’s a shame he punched his own teammate, though. Poor little Stephen Curry. I’m willing to bet the Warriors will do now what they should have done in the pre-season – trade his ass.
After the Hornets game, we had two other spots we for sure had to hit during our week long stay. The New Orleans Museum of Art and Bourbon Street.
The New Orleans Museum of Art was Erin’s idea, but it sure was worth the 16 dollars total it cost us. She thought it was enlightening. I did too, but my enlightenment primarily involved the breasts of 400 year old females. Looking at naked women and not feeling dirty afterwards is always worth the sticker price.
However, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – boobs are easily one of the straight man’s most lofty goals, and the effort he puts into seeing them is more often than not directly related to the quality of the boobs in question. 8 dollar museum boobs are, unfortunately, no exception to this rule.
I actually expressed my “boob theory” to a museum operator then proceeded to get into a complex discussion about the human body, artistic integrity, and whether or not Playboy was expressive of both in unison. Erin’s embarrassment due to the conversation and the employee’s compassionate stance against the magazine’s “perversion of the human form”, as he put it, led me to believe the argument wasn’t going to end well, so we left the museum abruptly soon thereafter. I got hell over it that whole day. Lobster dinner on the coast that evening made up for it, of course.
As for Bourbon Street, we traversed nearly every inch of it during our final day in the city before we left for Independence., Kentucky. Neither of us drinks alcohol, so by hanging around in a place with one of the finest collection of bars, we were as obscure as an on-duty prostitute at an ice cream social. The only difference between the prostitute and us is that she gets to eat ice cream and could potentially gain monetarily from her venture if she’s discreet enough about it.
We managed to enjoy the French-labeled road without a single drop of liquor painting our tongues, though the environment surrounding a harem of bars probably tainted our breaths slightly with alcohol anyway. We walked up and down the street several times, stopping to take in the soothing melodies produced by jazz musicians whom we gave several of our dollar bills, to observe the historical buildings that looked out of place amongst the liquor stores, and to purchase souvenirs at a gift shop that claimed it was the best in New Orleans. Whether it was truly better than the one that had a similar sign hanging on its door about two blocks away isn’t something I could confirm for you. We topped the evening off with dinner at a 24-hour grill whose burgers definitely are in contention for the best in the world, at least by the standards of these taste buds – so no lying on their part.
The ride home was pothole free, which was good news for the blanket. I looked for them, I swear. It got finished before we even crossed over into Alabama, so much of Erin’s time on the way home was spent sleeping in the passenger seat with her bangs shielding her eyelids. I listened to country music turned down low as I fought against the night and its yawn-bringing. I’d check on her every few minutes to make sure the twangs coming from the speakers weren’t waking her. She hates country music, and waking up to it probably wouldn’t be high on her list of pleasant experiences. After a while of worrying about forcing her out of dream world, I turned the radio off and listened to the stars and her slow, soft breaths.
I stopped at a rest area at the Kentucky-Tennessee border to piss and reinvigorate myself before the final three or so hours of driving that were required to get to Independence. After I left the rest room I started to put quarters into a pop machine when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“I already bought you one.”
It was Erin, awoken from her slumber and standing in front of me in her black wool coat that wasn’t doing her much good in the December wind after having been in a heated vehicle for over 10 hours. She was holding a bottle of Mountain Dew in her left hand.
“How did you know what I wanted?” I queried jokingly. I took a swig of the soda and smiled at her, teeth showing.
“Do I have Mountain Dew mouth yet?”
“I’m not sure. I need a closer look.”
She stood on her toes and leaned up to kiss me. We both smiled and made our way back to the car. It didn’t take her long after we got back on the highway for her to pass out again.
And so I was left once more with the stars and her breaths. The same stars that would have painted the night sky anywhere we could have went. The same breaths I would have wanted to hear regardless of the destination.
I’ll confess that I didn’t wake up last Friday expecting to book reservations for a hotel in New Orleans, Louisiana for next week. But, when you’re a college sophomore with extra cash and a girlfriend who wants to spend the first Christmas you share together somewhere memorable, the word expectations might as well not exist in your vernacular. Luckily, my mom’s boyfriend turned me onto this website, Tripbase.com, which enables a person to locate a perfect vacation destination and plan based on interest sliders and income factors. We’ll see if New Orleans is as ideal for my lady and I as you claim, Tripbase.
I’m in it for the Hornets game on the 23rd. They’re hosting Golden State that night. I foresee a high-scoring affair, a Chris Paul triple double, and her asking me why Stephen Jackson got ejected – because he will be – resulting in an explanation that the refs decided he intentionally elbowed David West in the groin, a flagrant two foul by NBA standards. I don’t know why she’ll ask either; she‘ll only be there because I wanted to be there and doesn’t really care about what’s going on. By the time we’re heading out of “The Hive”, she won’t know the difference between a technical and a turnover. That’s fine, because we’ve been together for three months and I still can’t tell the difference between most of her knitting needles.
“She” is Erin: A lover of yarn, a baker of cookies, and a worker of the cash register at Blazer Café. She’s in it for the ample knitting time 14 hours worth of driving will provide her, and just to get away from our old Kentucky home. We’re spending New Years Eve at her parent’s place in Independence and she’s determined to have that blanket she promised her mom for Christmas finished by the time we cross back over into Kentucky from Tennessee. Heaven help me if she doesn’t.
At least I won’t have to worry about getting pulled over for speeding. If I go even a mile over any of the posted speed limits she’ll claim I’m trying to sabotage her project. Her mother and I may not get along as much as I’d like, but I wouldn’t go as far to try to ruin her Christmas present. Although, the fact she persistently insists that I’m going to “take her little baby down to New Orleans and get her drunk and knocked up, then abandon her for a Mardis Gras whore” does make the notion of accidently hitting potholes in the road to break one of Erin’s needles on the way back awfully tantalizing.
If I were going to abandon her for anyone, it certainly wouldn’t be for a “Mardis Gras whore” – too high a risk of catching something. Mardis Gras doesn’t happen until February, anyway.
I wouldn’t abandon her, though. She’s without a doubt the greatest thing that’s happened to me since I moved to Lexington to attend the University of Kentucky (though I’ll put it out there that Tolly Ho’s “Super Ho” cheeseburger is definitely a close second). After watching her from afar for several weeks in the comic book class we shared the fall semester of our freshman year, I worked up the nerve to speak to her. Minor chit-chat transformed into daily conversation. Daily conversation transformed into smiles on our faces when we were around each other. Smiles on our faces transformed into “Let’s watch ‘The Big Bang Theory’ all day long and order Chinese take-out.” “The Big Bang Theory” and Chinese take-out transformed into a kiss so soft that the pillows at the foot of her bed were envious.
I wouldn’t even think about abandoning a kiss that soft, especially when I’m going to need it like the desert needs rain if the Hornets lose to the Warriors that night.
Ah, who am I kidding? I’ll need it just as bad if they win, too.
After the Big Easy
To simplify it for the masses who wouldn’t understand a long and drawn out explanation about the intricate process behind the selection method the site uses to determine a vacation destination, Tripbase’s Destination Finder is awesome. I’ll admit I had my doubts about the site, but they were all cast away after mine and Erin’s excellent week in New Orleans. That’s even including the fact that New Orleans got decimated by Golden State. Who would have guessed Chris Paul would go down with a twisted ankle in the first quarter?
Stephen Jackson did get ejected that night, still. Some predictions are just too easy to make. It’s a shame he punched his own teammate, though. Poor little Stephen Curry. I’m willing to bet the Warriors will do now what they should have done in the pre-season – trade his ass.
After the Hornets game, we had two other spots we for sure had to hit during our week long stay. The New Orleans Museum of Art and Bourbon Street.
The New Orleans Museum of Art was Erin’s idea, but it sure was worth the 16 dollars total it cost us. She thought it was enlightening. I did too, but my enlightenment primarily involved the breasts of 400 year old females. Looking at naked women and not feeling dirty afterwards is always worth the sticker price.
However, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – boobs are easily one of the straight man’s most lofty goals, and the effort he puts into seeing them is more often than not directly related to the quality of the boobs in question. 8 dollar museum boobs are, unfortunately, no exception to this rule.
I actually expressed my “boob theory” to a museum operator then proceeded to get into a complex discussion about the human body, artistic integrity, and whether or not Playboy was expressive of both in unison. Erin’s embarrassment due to the conversation and the employee’s compassionate stance against the magazine’s “perversion of the human form”, as he put it, led me to believe the argument wasn’t going to end well, so we left the museum abruptly soon thereafter. I got hell over it that whole day. Lobster dinner on the coast that evening made up for it, of course.
As for Bourbon Street, we traversed nearly every inch of it during our final day in the city before we left for Independence., Kentucky. Neither of us drinks alcohol, so by hanging around in a place with one of the finest collection of bars, we were as obscure as an on-duty prostitute at an ice cream social. The only difference between the prostitute and us is that she gets to eat ice cream and could potentially gain monetarily from her venture if she’s discreet enough about it.
We managed to enjoy the French-labeled road without a single drop of liquor painting our tongues, though the environment surrounding a harem of bars probably tainted our breaths slightly with alcohol anyway. We walked up and down the street several times, stopping to take in the soothing melodies produced by jazz musicians whom we gave several of our dollar bills, to observe the historical buildings that looked out of place amongst the liquor stores, and to purchase souvenirs at a gift shop that claimed it was the best in New Orleans. Whether it was truly better than the one that had a similar sign hanging on its door about two blocks away isn’t something I could confirm for you. We topped the evening off with dinner at a 24-hour grill whose burgers definitely are in contention for the best in the world, at least by the standards of these taste buds – so no lying on their part.
The ride home was pothole free, which was good news for the blanket. I looked for them, I swear. It got finished before we even crossed over into Alabama, so much of Erin’s time on the way home was spent sleeping in the passenger seat with her bangs shielding her eyelids. I listened to country music turned down low as I fought against the night and its yawn-bringing. I’d check on her every few minutes to make sure the twangs coming from the speakers weren’t waking her. She hates country music, and waking up to it probably wouldn’t be high on her list of pleasant experiences. After a while of worrying about forcing her out of dream world, I turned the radio off and listened to the stars and her slow, soft breaths.
I stopped at a rest area at the Kentucky-Tennessee border to piss and reinvigorate myself before the final three or so hours of driving that were required to get to Independence. After I left the rest room I started to put quarters into a pop machine when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“I already bought you one.”
It was Erin, awoken from her slumber and standing in front of me in her black wool coat that wasn’t doing her much good in the December wind after having been in a heated vehicle for over 10 hours. She was holding a bottle of Mountain Dew in her left hand.
“How did you know what I wanted?” I queried jokingly. I took a swig of the soda and smiled at her, teeth showing.
“Do I have Mountain Dew mouth yet?”
“I’m not sure. I need a closer look.”
She stood on her toes and leaned up to kiss me. We both smiled and made our way back to the car. It didn’t take her long after we got back on the highway for her to pass out again.
And so I was left once more with the stars and her breaths. The same stars that would have painted the night sky anywhere we could have went. The same breaths I would have wanted to hear regardless of the destination.
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