Sure. This Looks Legit.

While my poor little pup is all curled up next to me on one of his four beds, recovering from a very traumatic week...


I am regressing back to my undergrad days: Listening to Bob Dylan, drinking cold coffee on a Sunday night and avoiding my homework by any and all means possible. Yep, you read that right, homework.

As I type, I'm working on a Master of Fine Arts degree in poetry via the low-residency program at Ashland University. No, it's not like the University of Phoenix. It's a for-serious university with a legit campus, whose MFA program is designed for people with lives outside of school. But this isn't an infomercial for higher education (I'm not Suzanne Summers and it's unlikely that this blog will give you tighter buns and thighs. Unlikely, not impossible).

Right now, I should be finishing the last of five poems that are due tomorrow. Instead, I'm looking up old YouTube videos of Bob Dylan/Joan Baez duets. I wanted to watch a movie (like Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind or Edward Scissorhands or another in my collection of films that feature a sad, strange male protagonist who meets a cute, quirky girl with ridiculous hair, and an improbable romance blooms. The recipe is obvious, I know, but it's like chocolate chip cookies: The cookie-to-dough ratio is predictable for the most part, and you're not at all surprised when they're good, but they're still good.) I digress...

So I wanted to watch a movie... but I think at some point late last night my professor must have broken into my house, sabotaged my old DVD player, took the last cold Vitamin Water from the fridge and stole away into the night. There's really no other logical explanation.

What my professor failed to account for was the depth of my procrastination. Can't watch a movie? Minor setback. No cold Vitamin Water? That's just going to make it worse.

So I've moved on to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young -- and a Tofutti Cutie (38 grams of dairy-free frozen chocolate goodness), which is like vegan crack. Upon further reflection, I guess regular crack is technically vegan. However, I advocate Tofutti Cuties. Not crack.

I had a point...ah yes. Poetry.
Whenever I'm working on my poems, at least 15% of the writing process on average is spent selecting the proper inspiration music.

I think that's why I'm struggling like the U.S. gymnastics team at the Beijing Olympics (what? too soon?). I just can't find my proverbial footing in my iTunes library tonight and the right music is key to being able to write the right poems.

Music is what first inspired me to start writing, and it's been an essential element in the equation ever since. I started off with horrible, horrible song lyrics when I was in grade school (seriously, if I let you read them, you'd pray to be stricken illiterate.) So after the aural onslaught that were my song lyrics, I moved on to short stories, fiction and finally found my niche in poetry.

And here I am now, cold coffee and all, waiting for inspiration to strike. But if you're waiting for lighting to strike you on its own, you could be waiting awhile. So maybe I should just get on with it and tie a key to a kite, B Franklin style...

Oh my god. That rhymed. I need to stop before someone gets hurt.

Change Your Tune (and your socks)

While the Democratic National Convention doesn't bring the same kind of excitement as Warped Tour or the summer olympics (maybe if the politicians all wore sparkly gymnastic outfits or crowd-surfed after their speeches), I will admit I've been watching it for at least a little while every night. (And not just for the reason that I watch the Miss America pageant, which is to hopefully see at least three contests totally wipe out on the steps.)

Yawn-inducing as it may be, this is history, people. Last night, Barack Obama--the first African-American candidate to be nominated for president by a major political party--gave his acceptance speech on the 45th anniversary of Martin Luther King's "I Have A Dream" speech. While this would have given me goosebumps if I wasn't convinced the "coincidence" was entirely contrived, it's still pretty awesome.

I'm not going to use this forum to shamelessly propagate my own personal opinions and write things like, "Vote For Change." Nope, I'm not going to say that, I'm instead only going to say that change is inevitable. We can either choose how we are going to change, or we can sit on the sidelines (like Brady Quinn for three quarters of last night's exhibition game against the Bears, completely ridiculous coaching decision) and let someone change things for us. Truly, this isn't about politics or presidential candidates at all, it's about what changes us and how we change ourselves.

A wise poet once said that the personal is always political. No matter what we say or do, it reflects the social truths of our time. If I were to write about how I can't buy a new CD because I have to spend way too much money on gas to get to work, that says something about the social climate and where I fit into it. So I'm not telling you what to think, I'm telling you to tell yourself. Elections aren't about candidates, they are about voters. 

And maybe that's just idealism talking. But as sometimes cynical and jaded as artists and musicians can be, if it weren't for a little idealism they'd never put pen to paper, music to tape or brush to canvas. Every time a musician creates a new song, they offer something entirely new to the world that forever changes the landscape (for better or worse). Artists create change every day. They change the scene, they change the sound and they change their listeners. I think all of us could easily rattle off a list of bands and songs that either marked moments of change for us or entirely changed us all together.

Speaking of change, Obama really needs to have a chat with the DNC about their musical choices for this convention. Sheryl Crow? Melissa Etheridge? If McCain's going to call Obama a "rock star" candidate, at least get some serious rock to back him up.

More Bite Than Bark

I'm Jennifer and I'm the brand-spankin'-new copy editor here at AP. When you're ready to come to terms with your serial abuse of the Oxford comma, call me. We can cry together. I also fully expect that you will point out the typos in my blogs just because you are that adorable.

Continuing with the spirit of introductions, here is an abridged history of my musical life. I would make a montage, complete with era-appropriate music, but that would take a lot of time, effort, skill and tragic pop-punk (I have two of those four things in my pockets, you can guess which ones). So here goes...

In my illustrious musical career, I have attempted (and failed) to play: the piano, the flute, the guitar, the bassoon, the xylophone, the marimba, the chimes, and the guitar again (and again).

Musical fortitude (or lack thereof) aside, I had a great albeit sheltered childhood. Growing up, my best friend's dad owned a club that always seemed to be playing host to our favorite or flavor-of-the-week bands. Awesome, right? So did I meet Weezer? Did Our Lady Peace sign my forehead? No. They did however sign a poster that said, "To Jennifer--Wish you were here." It was one of many.

In my pre-CDR middle school years, I spent many evenings on my bedroom floor with my finger above the "record" button on my tape player, ready to pounce as soon as a good song started to play on the radio ("C'mon, Better Than Ezra...").

The best set I've ever seen was Flogging Molly on the 2004 Vans Warped Tour. The fact that I was nearly hallucinating from heat exhaustion and sunburned to the point that I was unrecognizable only made it that much better.

In the too-trendy-for-my-own-good little boys' T-shirt that cost me all of 25 cents at the second-hand store, I was not too proud to be one of about three people watching Hit The Lights play the parking lot at my college's homecoming picnic (in 2003, 2004 maybe? Something like that.). And so my love affair with HTL began. It was--and to the best of my knowledge, still is--a largely one-sided affair, but those always make for the best songs anyway.

It is also very important that I take this time to introduce you to my little monster, Jack. Though his dashing good looks deceive you, he is a Chihuahua.

I found Jack (or Jack found me) about a year ago, when my fiance and I were about to go eat lunch at this Mexican restaurant (seriously) only to find the restaurant wasn't open yet. Since we had time to kill, we went over to this puppy store nearby. Now let me clarify something before we go any further: I do not in any circumstances condone buying animals at shops as if they were cereal or sparkplugs. It is a cruel, inhumane practice and I still feel guilty for supporting it. My rationale with buying Jack was this this particular shop only bought their puppies from local breeders and they only sold puppies and puppy supplies.

So there he was with those big, brown eyes and I was helpless to resist. I took him home the next day...

Posts Are Coming Soon!

Hang in there.