So.....

What's wrong with this picture?


Well, firstly, there's a lot of things right with it. Stubble, for starters. Hi-def tats. Biceps with promising shadows. A glimpse of red plaid boxer.

The thing I don't understand is why he's wearing his shirt - the one with his band's name on it - inside out. Some kind of old school humility? A frantic rush to the stage after some shirtless b-ball? An ironic fashion statement? No, wait, that's the pants.

I've had two original fashion thoughts in my 40-something years. Both were back in high school. One was using a wound up bandanna as a belt, which was kind of hard to pull off, given my waist. Difficult to pee, as well. Knots. Not made for lower body wear. The other was wearing my generic gray sweatshirt inside out.

And this was waaaaaaay before Flashdance.

Numbers Don't Lie

45 years old.

celebrating my 27th anniversary.

on my day job 23 years.

June 3rd, On Which I Become a Music Critic

The new Rancid record is out. I have it. I love it. That's probably disqualification #1. I'm a big fan of all things Armstrong. Disqualification #2. I don't know enough about music to 'judge' per se - I'm one of those if-I-like-it,it-must-be-good opinionistas. Disqualification #3.

In the punk rock realm, diversity is expected. Anticipated, even. Psychobilly? Punk! Argentine ska? Uber punk! As long as you stay diverse in the same way you were the day punk rock embraced you. Artists who poke holes in the spiky black leather boxes they were put in get labeled sellouts faster than Travis Barker whales on drums.

The most Rancid-esque quote on this record is their manifesto: I heard G. B. H. I made a decision. Punk rock is my religion. Obviously, they meant the Clash and clearly, they’ve soldiered on through the early stages of discipleship in which their fervent punk essence is sworn and declared (e.g. their 1993 debut), to seasoned apostles of, well, if not exactly peace, love & understanding, then unity, equality and brotherhood. It must get very boring trying to stay "punk" and be a human being. The decisions one must make. Is this Big Mac punk? Crest or Colgate? What would Johnny Rotten choose? Rimshot. Can one have some financial security, and still be punk? If an album is produced to the point where the lyrics are mostly decipherable, is it still punk? Rancid, weathering the tides of life just like the rest of us, have put quite a lot of thought into those kinds of questions and come to the conclusion that appearance is nothing. Attitude is everything. Let The Dominoes Fall is the next step in the evolution of punk: the transition from talking about how you don't give a f**k what other people think, a/k/a youthful bravado and/or paranoid chutzpah, to actually genuinely not giving a f**k, because you're secure enough in your vision and talent not to be threatened by the opinions of others. So, all you rigid obsessive-compulsives who are going to say Rancid ain't punk, Rancid sold out, Rancid ain't nothing but corporate shills, shut up already. You're wrong.

Here's why:

1) Boom-shacka-lacka-lacka-lacka-boom. Seriously, who else, outside of Sha Na Na, has the cajones to do this? Matt Freeman's feral growl threatens to annihilate with just one lacka anyone who snickers.

2) Mandolins. All over the freaking place. Banjo on the acoustic disc. Was that a dobro? Risks taken.

3) No leitmotif, no 'concept', no cause. If there is one singular message this album tries to send, it's that this is a place where everyone can belong.

The best parts of this record: the choruses, especially Lulu and New Orleans; the bounce - goshdarnit, you can actually dance to Up to No Good; Brandon Steineckert's talent and the way he's just been absorbed by the band - just, wow. Like an amoeba feeds. Or The Borg assimilate.

The worst parts: pronoun agreements. The English major in me balks at 'to all our friends, on this I swear' - it's a personal problem, yes; and the multitude of choices to purchase. The basic cd. The expanded cd with the acoustic cd and dvd. The super-expanded-deluxe cds/dvd/vinyl/kitchen sink version. Which would not bother me so much if all the tracks were available in one purchase. I don't like the iTunes special tracks. But at least, they didn't go the way of so many artists and release the cd. Then six months later, release the expanded version. And, just in time for Christmas, release the special outtake version. Thanks for that, guys.

Civilian Ways is getting a lot of love, as it should. But for my money, all $32.58 including shipping, the best song Rancid has done to date is New Orleans. The chorus is full of beautiful similes - I particularly love scar on her velvet face one - and the last verse of 'it rained all night in New Orleans' sung with some rough emotion well, that's just killer. The acoustic version brought a tear to my eye.

Hear for yourself.

Brand Spankin' New Rancid Video

Things to note: it's in COLOR; Tim smiles - heck, I think everybody smiles at least a little - and makes non-threatening eye contact; Brendan shouts out MLS. Too bad it's Real Salt Lake. (Joe Cannon is a Rancid fan, but somehow I don't think Brendan is his anonymous season-ticket-holding friend - my money's on Matt. He looks like a goalkeeper's kind of guy.)

That's Not My Name

Is it a crime to hike under an assumed name on federal lands? If so, this post is just a product of my imagination. I don't want Homeland Security putting me on some list of suspicious characters. Color un-coordinated characters, sure. But not *suspicious* characters.

It's not my fault my dad has terrible handwriting. And I'm not blaming the poor woman who attempted to decipher said handwriting and write out our name tags, but Sebbie Jerkins is not my name. Vim Jerkins is not my husband. I am left wondering who Perv Jerkins is, because he is no relation of mine although his name was on the guest list.
It amused the h-e-double toothpicks out of the rest of my family, however, and it worked right in with my plot to remain masked and anonymous at these GSMNP 75th anniversary gatherings.

Beautiful starting point - the Appalachian Highlands Science Learning Center over on the Cataloochee side of the park. Never had been there, never had heard of it. Driving up was like driving to Mt. LeConte or something equally surreal. Isolated isn't quite the word, but close. Serene. Secluded. Tranquil.

2.3 down McKee Branch, 3.2 down Big Fork Ridge, out at Cataloochee for some fabulous food and an elk program. Down was the operative word - my knees! my thighs! the blister that erupted on the back of my left heel hasn't quite healed yet. Yes, I've been a sloth all winter and it shows.

Wet and muddy, but it did not really rain on us. Saw some wildflowers and some salamanders, identified by the lovely and talented Ann Froschauer, the 75th anniversary coordinator (googled you, Ann, to be sure I spelled everything right!) That's a showy orchis there to the left, alongside my sister Mary Ann's hand. Was hoping to get up close and personal with an elk, but he was not cooperative.


And just for the record, that's not my name.

Doing MY part for Earth Day

That little blonde girl?


I brought her into this world eleven years ago today.


That erases ALL my carbon footprint, baby.


J/K.


She is kinda cute, though.


And, yes, I do realize this is kind of a repost.

Giving the people what they want

We do that.


This is the #1 photo visited here at My Mood Swings.


We don't understand it, but we do appreciate all you health conscious types stopping by.

Hope your Easter was a goodun...

Anybody besides me remember when you could go to Walmart and buy a real live chick for Easter?

A big shout out to my special peep CJ, who shares culture wherever she finds it.

This could be big

I mean, really really big.

Knoxville, that scruffy little city, might just be hosting some World Cup action come 2018 or 2022. Yes, I realize that's years - lifetimes, even - away, but hot damn, I hope it works out.

Gloom. Despair. And agony on me...

It's the middle of February.


I haven't posted since 2008.


I seem to have hit the wall.


I've been thinking for some time - hard as that may be to believe - that I need to revamp this blog somehow and make it about something. I've dedicated one or two posts (wink wink) to the lovely and talented Tim Armstrong. A few to the Mostest from Nacogdoches himself, Clint Dempsey. A whole bunch to various soccer matches around the globe. A lot to my family and pets. I've just lost the plot, folks. Don't know what to write about anymore. Now is the winter of our discontent. January sucked and February ain't done nothing to fix up on it. (I believe that is a bad grammar grand slam. Go, me. At least I can still do that). Everything is wrong. And I'm not quite sure how to fix it. The acrid stench of failure engulfs everything I touch lately, so for the next little while I just want to sit in the closet with a bag of Cheetos and a Jacqueline Susann novel and lick my wounds.

Well, actually it will probably be a Rancid album and something cold to drink.

Anyway, feel free to holla if you have any suggests.

Feel free to holla about anything at all.

Watching the Granddog, Day One

This is Davis.


He's 10 months old. He likes to sniff, chew, chase cats and rip stuffed animals to little tiny pieces.

He'll eat anything.

And he's living at my house for the next few weeks, while #1 son does his post-graduation See The World (or at least the western USA) trip, gets started in his new career and finds an apartment where he can keep this little feller, Jefferson Davis Jenkins. Mostly known as Davis.

I assume his name is meant to be ironic.

In a rather blatant attempt to jump on the Marley & Me bandwagon, I'll be posting about our adventures.

As you might've guessed, trying to write a poem a day during this crazy month proved impossible. Couldn't even manage a haiku once we got near graduation. I plan to pick that back up in January, so dear readers, you can look forward to another month of poems!!!


Yeah, try to hold that in a little. Your enthusiasm is dripping.

AFK

for a while, maybe.


Not that this is unusual for me, but I'm taking a sabbatical of sorts trying to kick start my dwindling creative process. In an effort just to get something going again in this old and tired brain, I am attempting to write a poem per day for the next 31 days. You can (if you like to watch train wrecks) find it over here. If you don't wanna, like the Terminator, I'll be baaaaaccccckkkkk.

I Love the Red Hot Chili Peppers

and I will die a happy woman should I ever get to see them live.


I've been caught up in Stadium Arcadium the last few days. Specifically, three songs from the Jupiter side: Dani California, Slow Cheetah and Wet Sand. And of those three, particularly Wet Sand. Two things I have gleaned about RHCP from the web over the last few days: 1) they really know how to write a chorus and 2) this song is perfect to 'die to.' Completely agree with the first and, while I will withhold judgment on the second until I am ready to die, I'm inclined to agree with that sentiment as well. God knows that I really tried - I think that's something we'll all be thinking in those final moments.

Anyway, that kind of got me thinking, as I listened to the song. The lyrics, like a lot of RHCP lyrics, sound really mystical and spiritually profound. I find myself believing in them, running my mental fingers over the complexities and profundities to be explored.


And then I run smack dab into 'you don't form in the wet sand, you don't form at all/you don't form in the wet sand - I do'. And what do I do with that? Wet sand? Form? You?

Fortunately, a fevered imagination will always overcome dull reality. Obviously, it's not literal. Well, not literal as in form equaling create. I see him (the sometimes handsome Anthony Kiedis, of course) walking on the beach, the sun setting, his feet at the water's edge. And the wet sand is a crystal ball of sorts where he's looking not just at his lovely footprints (that are quickly disappearing back into wet sand), but at his future, and whoever his 'you' is ain't gonna be there with him.

I can be deep, too.


The live version.

Cucumber Gap Loop - the Jenkins' Experience

Family hike #1 for 2008. Ok, most-of-the-family hike #1. Well, HALF-of-the-family hike #1, if you must be literal.

September 21, 2008.


Yes, I look like a man. And that's my favorite (and only) Nick Lowe tee (in a man's size large, coinkydinkly). My hand is on the Cucumber Gap trail sign, and it reads 2.9 miles to the Little River Trail. Our total mileage for the day was approximately 5.5 miles, and those are the last miles I will hike in those ragged out shoes!

I have a hard time letting go of favorite shoes.


So, it was a not-quite-summer, not-yet-fall kind of Sunday. My husband, being the optimist that he is, told me it would take us 'most of the day' to do this hike. And then he mentioned that this was the trail where a woman was mauled to death a few years ago. As if I wasn't already having enough trouble getting the kids in the van. Seriously, that little sign on the bottom there warns that there has been a lot of BEAR ACTIVITY in the area, a phrase more suited to a Great Smokies' bear jam perhaps.


So, we found a whistle, packed some sandwiches and headed out in the great outdoors. I was a little nervous, because this was my first time as a "hike leader" and I had never been on this trail and what if I missed the signs? Nothing to worry about, it turns out. Starting on the Little River Trail, we walked out of what's left of the Elkmont community alongside the Little River (I assume), a very gentle hike along an old road bed. At approximately 2.5 miles, the trail deadended and the Cucumber Gap trail (with great signage!) took off to the right up and over the mountain that shall not be named. I need a better map. This was a quieter hike (no babbly brook alongside), and a little harder walking. Nothing much to see except trees, until you pop out on the trail/road that is the Jakes Creek trail. Down, down, down the hill (so glad I plotted this loop the right way) and back through the upper remains of Elkmont, where they are (at last) doing some restoration work. The only wildlife we saw, with the exception of dead millipedes, were a few tiny snakes, maybe 4 inches long and dark gray with a white ring around their necks. Most were run over, but one was playing possum and we exchanged startlings.


A nice afternoon.


And then I went and walked 2 more miles with the husband!

Good News for Peace Queers!

Todd Snider's new ep, Peace Queer, is available as a free download here.


I've been listening to it quite a bit. It's got a little of everything: a toe tapper, a civil war ballad, some spoken word, an instrumental, a rocker. Best of all, it's full of Mr. Snider's signature good humor and intelligence.

I did not do this to change your mind about anything. I did this to ease my own mind about everything.

At least, go hence and read the Cokie Roberts bio for Peace Queer.


And anybody know how to snag that priceless photo?



is this thing working?


is this thing on?

Sad About Girls Signs

I know I live in a predominantly Republican county, in a predominantly Republican state. I *know* this. But as God is my witness, no matter how tempted I was (remember those "W The President" stickers? they enrage me), I have never resorted to vandalizing political signs. I gave some deep thought to doing something Christo-esque with them all during the last presidential election, but I let restraint be the better part of valor.

So how come all these Republican idjit punks keep messing with my boy Obama's signs? Some brave Democrat soul had put 2 up: one down by the voting machine warehouse where early voting is happening, one on the roadside near the dumpsters on Newport Highway. You'd think the warehouse one would be vandal proof, being almost in the center of town and on a very busy roadway. No. Someone, who obviously wants to prove the Deliverance stereotypes true, cut out the O. And the one down by the dumpsters? First another poster boy for modern dentistry put an "s" over the "b." You know, because he's a Muslim terrorist. That brave Democrat got his own can of spray paint and fixed that. So how does our poster boy react? He cuts out the center of the sign. There's a big gaping hole where Obama/Biden used to be. That kind of vandalism takes time. I'd say the chances of some person driving by and witnessing the deed were 50-50. Did anybody report it? No.

My fellow Sevier Countians, these cowardly acts of vandalism shame us all. I truly thought we could be tolerant of differing political views, at least in public. We don't have to agree with each other, we don't have to hold hands at the polls. But we do have to share the vistas and roadways and the aisles at Walmart. We're all in this together. I'd feel justified (by the Kindergarten Code, of course), in artfully re-decorating a few McCain-Palin signs. McPain, anyone? But I'm holding back. At least for now.

But like I tell the younguns, don't make me stop this car.

Asking the Age-Old Question

What's in it for me?


This blog, I mean.


Why do it?


Idiot that I am, I googled that question. And smarter and much more erudite bloggers answered much more succinctly than I could ever hope too. (And with a whole lot less parenthetical blathering). Smart reasons like '...participating in a world...which nobody owns, anybody can use, and anybody can improve.' Impassioned reasons like 'I want to write about things that make us feel human' or 'I blog because information is energy. I absorb it, maybe add to it and pass it on.' My personal fave: 'Because vanity plates are too restricting and Play Dough is no longer a viable option.'


But yeah, it's an ego thing. Self-expression is as necessary as breathing. I can't pretend to be political or journalistic. I can't even pretend to particularly care about politics or journalism, so take that, pundits! I'm not always sure what this blog is about. When I made those first tentative posts, I asked a handful - a literal handful - of folks I respected (and felt were not too well known for their "constructive" criticism!) to read it. One responded that he didn't like to read 'diary' blogs, and I thought, well, it's not my diary. But I guess it kind of is. My imagined diary, maybe. Like if I lived in a magazine, and all our beds were made. And it's about experiences that I hope sometimes at least touch on a common thread in a non-boring manner. Paraphrasing what one of those real bloggers said, it's the letter home I never have time to write.



Like Bob Marley said, this is my message to you.

One Fine Day

I had one.

Saturday.

August 23rd, to be exact.

On Friday, I daydreamed. Hallucinated? Perhaps. Anyway, for the first time this summer, I did not have to work on Saturday to get payroll done. And I was filled with a sense of possibility and exaltation. I visualized my Perfect Day. I would sleep a bit late, but not much because I wanted to get in my garden before it got hot. I would pick beans and clean up a bit and prepare for the next plantings. I would go to the library, and find some cool books about vegetables. I would go to Walmart and not overspend. I would fix a nice dinner, something I like (hamburgers) and not something I make because everybody else likes it (shrimp scampi). I would enjoy a few cold beers and a good soccer game. I would go to bed tired and fulfilled.


There's a song I can't remember (intentionally, I think) with a line about 'if I can see it, I can do it'.

I saw it, I did it.


Here's to the little things.

Vacation - all I ever wanted...

Today's Frolickin' Friday (TM pending) theme: vacation songs. I.E., songs you remember from vacations past, songs that make you want to be on vacation, songs that make you feel like you ARE on vacation, etc. See, it's SUMMER. And in the SUMMER, people go on vacation. And, just so it's on the public record, I want a vacation like the French do vacation. All of August, please.

So I wanted to make a suggestion or two (or twelve - the greater the number, the better chance of success) and I put my little thinking cap on for a stroll through the misty mists swirling over Memory Lane.

It's a wonder I'm not scarred for life - or, maybe, perhaps... I am - by the music I recall from summers/vacations. Driving through the beautiful Mississippi State campus (Dad's alma mater), I distinctly recall hearing Summer Breeze, that godawful Seals & Crofts song about the jasmine in one's miiiiiiihiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnd. I think I heard Saturday in the Park (yes, Chicago. the shame!) about a gazillion times the summer we arrived in Washington, D.C. And there was an Eagles tune that dominated the summer of '74 - one of the sappier, sad ones. Probably Best of My Love.

Then I heard the words 'road trip.' And I had my suggestion, my brilliant brilliant suggestion: Truckin', by the Grateful Dead.

No, *they* didn't play it. But I dialed it up on Napster, had a listen and took a good hard look at those 'other members like' recommendations. Time warp! I am 16 years old again, soaking up Neil Young's Harvest, which became the theme to the Summer of 1980, a/k/a the U. K. Invasion. (I'm sure, if I tried just a little harder, I could come up with a skin flick title involving the words 'debbie' and 'does', but we work hard here at My Mood Swings to maintain a certain level of decorum. Really.)


This is the first record I ever stole, the harbinger of all the illegal downloads to come. ;0

(j/k about the downloads, btw, my bffs FCC and RIAA.)

I stole it from my friend and neighbor Mike Moeller, while I was feeding his cat because he was away on ... you guessed it... vacation! And it came to have a lot of resonance for me. Not only because I was leaving the familiar and safe and comfortable for a strange land full of strangers with a strange English, but because there's a lot of lovely words and even lovelier truths within: You gotta tell your story, boy, you know the reason why; or I sing the song because I loved the man, I know that some of you don't understand; or the whole wispy dream that is Words (Between the Lines of Age).

So, thanks Steve and Jay. Even though you ignored my suggestion, even though you trashed my carefully selected personal musical totem, you managed to do me a favor. Ta mucho mucho, my brothers. And mangez la merde et mourez.

Obligatory Neil Young as Icon of Cool photoand I had a pair of boots just! like! those!

Long Time No Post

I guess I've been "on hiatus."

I'm back.

Not much has changed.



But I have.








I have always been environmentally aware, even if I didn't do much about it. I like to think that comes from growing up in national parks, with that protect and preserve mandate. My 8th grade science project was a working wastewater treatment plant. Recycling is important enough to me that I've been schlepping my steel cans and glass containers into Knoxville, because my own county had no recycling available, with the exception of newspaper bins. But I wasn't making a concerted effort really, just trying to keep from taking the trash out so often. It's been years since I brushed my teeth with the water running (probably since *I* started paying for it), but the only other water I conserved was the hot water I needed for showering.

Well, all that recently changed. First, our city fathers put out a magazine recycling bin. Then they took that away and put out a single freight-car style container for aluminum, steel, newspapers, plastics, junk mail and magazines. Wow! It's all supposed to be separated, but tossed into one bin. Yep, it's kind of a mess inside, but here's hoping it will remain. And, perhaps, be improved.

But, wait. There's more. It's like a switch has gone off in my head. I compost my vegetable and fruit scraps - and maggots are not necessarily bad things, just gross! I take Navy showers. I drive slower and as if I had an egg between my foot and the gas pedal. I take my own bags to the grocery store - well, mostly. But I have to have a few to tie up my recycles, right?


It's a new economy, folks.