Korea, cigarettes, and whale fins.

by Anne






I'm going to start this post with the conclusion, just so there's no confusion on it: I am absolutely a non-fan of confrontation. Yes, I like being able to yell my head off and voice my opinions, provided that there are minimal repercussions (i.e. I won't see them again, or they'll yell back, but that'll be the end of it... etc.), but, when that is not an option, I entirely shy away from it. Just the thought of confronting such a situation gets my heart rate up. 


Especially when I realize that my shirt is see-through.

Earlier this evening, I tried my hand shopping at a bigger store than the one I went to when I still lived at my old apartment (I just moved). The mission was a success - I got both my pantry and fridge stocked - but it took three times longer than usual, and I still didn't end up with the fancy trash bags I'm supposed to use. I may just haul my trash back to KNU and let them handle it... or take my garbage out in the middle of the night. But, the point of this paragraph is not to debate the morality of ignoring cultural norms when the culture makes it impossible to find the supplies to participate in said norms. The point of this paragraph is to express how exhausted I was when I finally made it home after my errands. It was quite a day - TESOL, then a trip to City Hall to turn in my Change of Address, then an attempt at finding a new bus route to school using the 1 Bus (which is a great deal closer to my apartment than the faithful 14) - no dice, btw - , then the E-Mart trip, putting me home around 8:30. I took care of the rabbit, started some chores, and finally sat down to dinner at (prepare to be horrified) 11:30. Somewhere in the middle of this, I changed into a pair of pajama shorts and an undershirt that my friend who used to live here left me.


It was around the time that I peeked out my front door to investigate the sounds of English coming from the hallway that I realized my shirt was very much see-through. Great. Glad I chose to wear a cute bra today. So, I talked to what turned out to be some other friends of mine for a bit, and then went back to bustling about the apartment, promptly forgetting the encounter.

That is, I forgot it until I had to run upstairs to Kris' apartment to fix something with our shared internet. He's not there right now, so I knew that wouldn't be an issue. What I wasn't expecting was to find Kris' neighbor, sulking in the stairwell, smoking his cigarette.

So, I came flying up the stairs, two at a time, until I saw him. I stopped, teetering on the edge of the top step. He stopped, one arm folded across his chest, the cigarette perched against his lip, as if he had been about to take a long drag. We made eye contact, and, in that second, I thought about the amount of time Kris has spent trying to catch this guy in the act of smoking in the hallway (right underneath the no smoking sign, mind you). I thought of Kris' determination to drive him out, bleaching the hallway, convinced that the smell would be too intense for him to stay. I thought of the mad dashes outside in the middle of conversations at just a wiff of smoke. I thought of all these things, then broke eye contact and ran away, slamming Kris' door behind me. It would have put some of Carrie Bradshaw's antics to shame.

And, true to form, I left Kris a note, explaining what had happened and apologizing for my lack of filling his shoes.

Confrontational situations: 2
Confrontations: 0


I don't know whether to label this as a win or a fail. So, I'm also not going to confront that, and label this one a wail... or a fin... or a whale fin. Yeah, that's it. A whale fin.

coffee, windex, and VeggieTales.

by Jesse

In order to earn my degree in music technology, I had to complete an internship. I wanted an internship in sound editing for film, so I applied to every studio in Nashville that had ever been involved with (or heard of) these things called Movies. 

Trillions of applications, phone calls, and interviews later, I ended up landing an internship at a studio that does the sounds and dialogue for VeggieTales.

VeggieTales!

So awesome, right?

Wrong. 

As it turns out, an internship at this studio was actually a cruel code for:

• filling my gas tank every other day (the internship was a 30 minute drive)
• working 8-9 hours after a full day of classes
• cleaning a hardwood floor with WINDEX??? on my hands and knees
• never even getting the opportunity to observe a real session in progress

Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed.

During my third week at this godforsaken place, my supervisor asked me to set out snacks and coffee for clients who would be doing an ADR (fancy name for VoiceOver) session that afternoon.

My subservient little intern self obeyed, and I dutifully got to work in the kitchen.

I'd just finished brewing the coffee when I heard a voice ask for some.

I hesitated for a moment: I knew this voice.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, that same voice said, "Remember kids: God made you special, and He loves you very much."

Bob the Tomato.

Holy cow.

I quickly turned around, expecting [of course] to see a very small red man.

Instead, I found myself face to face with a man who looked like he'd been dressed by a schizophrenic tourist: his dark brown hair was all slicked back and he was wearing cowboy boots and a Hawaiian shirt.

Even for someone who would be entertaining small children, this outfit didn't make sense.

I'd no sooner given Hawaiian-shirt-cowboy-boot-Bob his coffee when another man entered the room. He was a skinny older guy who kind of looked like Steve Jobs (RIP). He told Hawaiian-shirt-cowboy-boot-Bob that the producers were ready to start. 

And wouldn't you know it, as soon as the SJ lookalike opened his mouth, it was evident that he was the voice of Larry the Cucumber!

The narrators of my childhood morals were standing right in front of me.

[and were likely curious about this deaf/mute charity case of an intern.]

My eyes were bulging out of their sockets, my brain morphed into a bowl of cottage cheese, and my jaw had taken up residence on the floor.

I was so starstruck by their presence that all I had the wherewithal to do was smile and nod until they left the kitchen.

It took a while, but I eventually returned to normal: my eyes returned to their normal size, my brain turned back into a cluster of neurons, and my jaw overcame its temporary weakness to gravity.

I then busied myself with making their coffee and putting those nice jackets on the cups to protect their famous hands.

[maybe as a thank-you they'd offer to give me their autograph?]

I delivered their coffee with a creepy delirious grin on my face (think Salad Fingers), and was promptly dismissed by my supervisor.

Shocked and slightly embarrassed, I regained my composure and returned to my desk.

They eventually finished their session, and I was rendered speechless by their presence once again.

I walked them to the door, and they were nice and polite and wished me "a good afternoon".

And then 4 days later, I reached my 110 hour requirement for my internship credit and dropped that mutha like a hot potato.

BOOM.

insects, football, and salsa dancing.

Nashville, Tennessee has a plethora of wonderful free events taking place on any given day.
One of the places where local folk often find free events is a park near Vanderbilt's campus called Centennial Park.
It hosts festivals, outdoor movies, art/dance classes, and concerts, among many other things.

Centennial Park's most recognizable landmark is a to-scale replica of the iconic Parthenon in Athens, Greece.


That structure was the instigator of this story's adventure.


My roommate had a friend in town for the weekend who was a middle school history teacher. She found it interesting that we have a replica of the Parthenon in Nashville, so she suggested we head over to Centennial Park.

So we went to the park.
There were four of us in all, and we arrived just in time for free dance lessons.

We learned to salsa dance (along with dozens of retirees) for about 30 minutes, but quickly got bored and snuck out the back.


We meandered around the park, and as the sunlight began to fade, we realized that the Parthenon was lit up a bit brighter than usual.

Suddenly, we became insects around a light: we had no choice but to walk toward the shining Parthenon.

As we got closer, we heard music.

So we kept walking.

There was a barricade of police cars.

And we kept walking. Right through the barricade.

There was a huge tent with circular tables set up inside.

We kept walking.

We walked all the way up to the steps of the Parthenon, where a wedding reception was taking place.

Inspired by the salsa classes we'd just taken, we joined the people dancing at the reception.

As we were dancing, we took a good look at the overall demographic of the other people at the reception in hopes of figuring out whose wedding we were unexpectedly attending.

The only consistent theme of the wedding guests was that they all appeared to have plenty of money.

There was no rhyme or reason to their age, race, etc.

We continued our investigation: whose wedding were we at?

We noticed a photo slideshow just outside the tent with the tables, so we headed that direction.

Sure enough, we found a significant clue: one of the photos was of a guy (presumably the groom, who we hadn't been brave enough to interact with) wearing a Titans football uniform, and three women (probably his mom, sister, and now-wife) who were all wearing the same jersey with the number 23 on it.

I looked up the Titans' roster on my iPhone as we danced our way back to the reception area, and then googled biographical information about #23. Sure enough, Titans safety Donnie Nickey had recently proposed to his long-time girlfriend.

And I crashed their wedding.

Weddings: yet another free event found at Centennial Park.

duct tape, shake weights, and teddy bears.

by Trey

It was a rainy Wednesday in Music City, and some friends and I decided to temporarily forgo the protective normalcy of our college campus to buy some college essentials at the local Walmart.

[you know, Ramen noodles, Nerf guns, and the like.] 

We were making our way around the store, and I stopped in the paint section--as I always do--to look at the duct tape to see if they had come out with any new colors or designs that I could add to my collection. 

(Yes, I shamelessly collect duct tape, and I make things out of it. 104 rolls and counting, suckas!)

My friends were in various aisles around me during this time, when I went to find them.  We all met up around the lighting aisle, and went back to wandering the store.

Something happened in that lighting aisle, however. 

The cheap lamps and bulbs had mysteriously transformed us into four-year-olds, rather than the knowledge-thirsty collegiate academics we truly are.

This, friends, can get you into trouble. 

Touching items on the shelves, grabbing pillows, and making stupid jokes about useless products that were given the label “as seen on TV.”  

{i.e. the “Shake Weight.”  What. The. Heck.}

It was the Christmas season, so random carts had been left around the store filled with toys and other items for sale.  

As we were gallivanting around the store acting “less than our actual age” (and when I say “we,” I mostly just mean “I”), I saw one of those carts filled with random items, including a particularly black, soft, and fluffy-looking teddy bear.

I neared the cart, and reached out to touch this bear on its head. 

Suffice it to say, not everything is as it seems.  

The instant this teddy bear's head moved, I no longer saw a bear but instead, a very small Hispanic child, who had been innocently riding in his parents' shopping cart.

As my hand touched his head, his face turned toward mine, and I realized what I had just done.  

I screamed and quickly vacated the area, not looking anywhere but forward.

I'll never know if that child's parents saw me approach their boy as though he were a billy goat in a petting zoo.

And you know what? 

You have never lived in complete fear until you accidentally pet a stranger’s head, not knowing if that small stranger’s parents saw you.

And that was the time I pet a child at Walmart.

donuts, Xanga, and a band called The Elms.

When you're eighteen, 22-year-olds are very old, and they live the most fabulous lives imaginable.


During my freshman year of college, my best friend dated a boy named Jeff who was four years older than we were. He lived in a house with 4 roommates, all of whom were professional musicians.

In my eighteen-year-old brain,
professional musician = famous.

Obviously.


Throughout the course of their relationship, I spent an embarrassing amount of time hoping I'd get the coveted invite to hang out at Jeff's house with his rockstar roommates.


One night in late September, I received the phone call I'd been longing for:

For the first time ever, I'd been invited to go to Jeff's house.
From there, a small group of people would walk over to a donut shop, which served as a local watering hole of sorts.
[when you go to a private Christian school in a small town, you have to get creative about where you hang out.]

I finally had my chance: even if none of Jeff's roommates were home, I could truthfully brag that I'd been to their house!

Who cares if his "famous" roommates didn't know I exist? I'd still been to the house.

Instant street cred.

Well. I arrived at the house, and lo and behold, one of Jeff's roommates was home.
{Bonus points.}

This particular roommate played in a now-defunct Christian rock band called The Elms.
{Even better.}


Now, please hear me out: 
I understand that the words "Christian rock band" are synonymous with "tiny niche market."
But in my eighteen-year-old mind, "Christian rock band" meant "coolest and most important humans on the planet."
After all, they had a song on WOW2002.
It doesn't get much better than that.

When I say "rockstar", you say "HALLELUJAH":

"Rockstar!"

(HALLELUJAH!)

Somehow, I managed to squelch my internal freakout when I was introduced to this internationally acclaimed superstar, and I didn't even betray my underlying elation when I learned that he was coming to the donut shop with us.

So we went to the donut shop. There were four of us.
And I felt invincible. I was with someone of extreme importance.
I had to savor every moment: this was most certainly a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity!


Truth be told, he and I barely interacted that night, but nobody else had to know that: I'd gotten donuts with the guitarist from The Elms, and that was all that mattered.

So of course, I blogged about it.
On my Xanga.
Because it was 2005.


And oh, was it a glorious blog post!
Not only did I release every iota of giddiness that I'd suppressed while in mega-celeb Thom's presence, I also posted a photo of the band and labeled which one he was.

After all, there was no way my overenthusiasm would ever get back to him: he didn't have time to perform menial tasks like peruse the blogosphere; he was clearly consumed with celebrity things like hanging out with Usher or Avril Lavigne.

And that, my dear friends, was where I guessed wrong.

Not even 48 hours later, I had a post on my blog entry from señor guitar god himself, expressing that he'd enjoyed the post.



I was mortified.

I'd tried so hard to play it cool!
I hadn't let on that I even knew who his band was!
How could I ever become one of the cool kids who hung out with rockstars, if the rockstars themselves knew how overzealous I was about hanging out with them?!


I sheepishly responded to his comment, and he was completely gracious about it.
We commented back and forth on one another's Xangas for an hour or so.
He assuaged my paranoia of having come across as a superfan, and reassured me that he was just an average person who happened to make his living by making music.


And, in an interesting turn of events, we eventually became actual real friends.

Thank you Xanga.

lifeguards and groomless weddings.

I've been a professional pianist for over a decade now, and as a result, I've had some memorable piano-related experiences.

I've played a half-broken keyboard on a balcony in Haiti for a group of hut-dwelling onlookers below.
I've played for a wedding that included a snake as a bridesmaid.
I've played for an audience that included Roger Daltry from The Who.

But there's one wedding that takes the cake.



The bride was the daughter of missionaries to Haiti, and the groom was a career lifeguard from south Florida, so it only made sense that the wedding was held next to lifeguard stand #3 on Fort Lauderdale Beach.

I flew down to sunny south Florida the day before the wedding, and everything was set up as it should be: rows of chairs faced the ocean; a keyboard and sound system had been hooked up to a generator; music stands were placed strategically where readers and the officiant would be standing.

The time for the wedding came, and the guests had all been seated. I was playing prelude music, and everything was going quite smoothly.

Too smoothly.

I made eye contact with the groom, and he nodded. I started playing the song we'd agreed upon for the seating of the parents, and he began his journey down the aisle with his mom in tow.

And then he stopped, dead in his tracks.

About five rows from the back, both the groom and his mother were frozen in place.

Was he alright?

Was she alright?

Was I playing the wrong song?

What was going on?

The groom turned to his mom, said something, and then ran out into the ocean.

Well this was new.
We most certainly hadn't scripted an abrupt departure of one of the event's key people.
Where was he going? Was he coming back?


As I turned around to see what the groom was doing, I saw a man running toward him from the ocean with an unconscious little girl in his arms.

Of course. I should've guessed that the groom was saving a life.
That's typical wedding protocol, right?


We now had an audience who was expecting to be watching a wedding, but were suddenly watching a lifeguard rescue.


As the pianist for the wedding, what was I to do?

Was I supposed to keep playing as though everything was normal? (It clearly wasn't normal.)
Was I supposed to stop the music out of respect for the situation? (After all, ocean rescues don't typically have a soundtrack.)
Was I supposed to start playing the theme from Jaws?

I opted for choice A: I continued to play background music as a hundred people watched the groom act as a lifeguard in the midst of his own wedding.


Twenty minutes later, the groom returned to his wedding, and the rest of the day continued without a hitch. The little girl had simply slipped and fallen while playing in the ocean, and was unconscious, but otherwise fine.


And for the bride?
She was entirely unaware anything had happened.

the dangers of CMA week.

as told by Cameron



CMA week is insane here in Nashville. The city gets smacked with a deluge of cowboy-hat-wearing, boot-wearing, starstruck tourists hoping to bump into their favorite singers so they can objectify them by getting photos of or with them, as though they were a mere tourist attraction.

We locals, as a whole, aren't especially fond of this early summer bedlam, so we do our best to avoid the downtown area while the hullaballoo is going on.


This past June, I had the misfortune of being scheduled to work my retail job every single day of CMA week. Because the store is within walking distance of the Fan Fair, the store was perpetually packed with people sporting the most cliche cowboy apparel you can imagine.


Well. On the third day of CMA week, I was working at the cash register. There had been a long line the entire day, and we were all pretty tense because the store was so hectic.

A teenage girl came to my register, and I, making conversation, was asking about the dress she was buying.
She told me she would be wearing the dress to that night's CMA event.

[shocker. she'd probably pair it with some tacky cowboy boots and a pink cowboy hat, and her fellow fanfriends would gush about how "Nashville" she looked.]

I asked who was playing, and she said the only person she knew of for sure was Martina McBride.


I bristled when I heard that name: she'd been in the store a few weeks prior, and as legend has it, she was quite unkind to some of my coworkers. I had a lot of malice in my heart toward that woman.

This poor girl got an earful: I made sure she was aware of how mean I thought Martina McBride was, and used some choice words in describing her.

The girl politely smiled and listened to my lengthy rant, and then handed me her credit card to pay for her dress.


The name on the card was Martina McBride.


My stomach suddenly dropped into the seat of my pants, and the noisy store became a swirling blurry vortex of doom.

I looked at the girl with an expression of terror, and she silently nodded: Martina McBride was, indeed, her mother.




I managed to stammer an apology and a "have a good day" before I fled to the employee break room, and laugh-cried about the situation for the next 15 minutes.

I had to regain my composure to tend to the rest of the CMA folks who had infested the store. None of them had to know about this encounter.


But instead, I told the story to every single customer who went through my line.