Laying Down Track

A few days ago I finished This Is A Call, the unauthorized biography of Dave Grohl, written by Paul Brannigan.

It didn't offer much by way of new or enlightening information about Sir Davy Grolton—most of the best bits came from previous interviews and the documentary Back and Forth, filmed during the recording of 2011's Wasting Light—but it did offer a clear musical road map.  It's obvious that Brannigan is a music critic.  One who loves and admires Grohl, but who views Grohl's life through the increasingly analytical lens of the soundtrack.  Childhood is told by dissecting the set lists of Bad Brains and Teen Idle concerts.  Rise to stardom is told in the recording studio.  Emotions are interpreted through chord progressions.

This hyper-observation of Grohl's musical landscape extends to discussion of Foo Fighters albums.  Each album is treated to pages-long reviews of the track list, the critical reception, and most interestingly, the recording process.*  Lined up one right up against the other, it's clear to see the evolution of all Foo Fighters albums, the way that the band, and Grohl, forces change and growth.  Grohl himself stated in an interview with Brannigan, "It seems like every album we've made is a result of the one that came before it, or in response to it."  There's no complacency.

I couldn't help but think about that as I watched the trailer for the new HBO mini-series following the Foos, Sonic Highways.



In This Is A Call, Brannigan intensely spotlights each Foo Fighters album.  One was completely recorded by Grohl himself.  Another was in a major studio, while the next was in Grohl's basement.  This one was acoustic.  That one was laid down on tape.  For the new record, the Foo Fighters visited eight cities and eight studios, recording songs with guest artists to try to capture the beating musical heart of America, filtered through the amplification of a unique Foo Fighters sound.  Which is a beautiful idea, and a beautiful method for a band continuing to push against boundaries.

I find that remarkably admirable.  It's easy to excuse laziness, especially after experiencing success.  With his fame and wealth, it would be simple for Grohl to merely churn out some the same grunge-inspired rock album, mix it by the best producer the studio can buy, and call it good.  But Grohl pushes for more.  He isn't resting on creative laurels, he's using his good fortune to continue to challenge himself.  I don't know if I would do the same in that position.

It reminds me of a favorite quote from writer John McPhee: "Your last piece is never going to write your next one for you."

On the one hand, that can be an exhausting viewpoint.  It could be interpreted that nothing is ever going to be good enough, so why try, life is pain and struggle.

But on the other hand, how inspiring!  That even those at the top of their field are constantly striving to improve.  It means that there's some recourse for the rest of us.  No one is ever perfect, so KEEP TRYING.  Keep working, keep pushing, and keep improving.  There is no capstone.  There is no limit.  And there is nothing to hold you back.

*It's actually pretty telling that discussion of the 2002 album One by One covers over twenty pages, while Grohl's divorce from Jennifer Youngblood is introduced and concluded in one sentence.

Spiritus Animalia

"What's your spirit animal?"  This has become the latest iteration of a bonding question, something asked at parties or on OKCupid profiles.  It's the new "Hey baby, what's your sign?"  And strangely enough, the aesthetic of these question-askers has remained the same.  The same waifish physiques, mustaches, neckbeards, yellow-orange plaid shirts and medallions of the seventies.  I blame the hep hipsters desperate to be original and yet homage their super underground interests.  This is why we can't have nice things.

This question has popped up at more get-togethers (and even concerts) than I care to number (methodically, and requiring both hands and feet).  Inevitably someone brings up wolves.  Because naturally, they share a pack-like mentality and appetite for raw meat with these kindred spirits.  Otters are also really big right now.  I want to say something snarky about that, but serious talk.  Otters are just too cute.  I can't.  Here's the closest I can get: Um, yeah, you totally eat food off your stomach, don't you?*  Just like those otters, huh?

I'm usually hard-pressed for an answer when the spirit animal question comes up.  Quite frankly, I don't share commonalities with any animal.  Is there an animal that likes to burrow deep into a cocoon of warmth and watch others industriously working, while it eats bread and cheese and watches the latest season of Mad Men?  No?  I mean, a queen bee doesn't quite fit that bill (no Mad Men, plus royal jelly is no bread and cheese).  But thankfully, I've found some answers to throw out when asked this inane question.  They might not fit into the spirit of the thing, but I can think of no better examples of kinship than these, my top three Spirit Animals.

And we share an affinity for skulls!

3. Daria Morgendorffer

A quintessential product of the nineties, Daria's flat affect and killer apathy are everything I want to be in this world.  My theory about the nineties, and why I pine after them, are that everyone cared so much.  Feelings and angst were worn on tattered flannel sleeves, so when someone disconnected with the world it meant something.  It wasn't the childish irony of today, when everything is oh-so-amusing because nothing matters.  It was an actual stand against capitalism, or declining standards, or the machine.  If Daria existed in today's television landscape, she'd probably be Zooey Deschanel, the odd girl out thanks to floral prints, ukeleles, and quirky cartoon animal pictures.**  Airiness would be the unique factor.  But thankfully it is not a product of today, and Daria remains aloof through slightly twisted channels, through padded walls and Sick, Sad World.

This is a mere artistic representation.
Seemed less creepy than a glamour shot.

2. Glen Weldon

I'm slightly cheating with this one.  See, Glen Weldon—one of the hosts of Pop Culture Happy Hour, my favorite podcast—is not quite my spirit animal.  He's more the yin to my yang.  He represents the perfect complement to my own disposition, the ideal inversion of my own tastes and predilections.  But it's in such a perfect way that I have to pay him due.  Glen Weldon writes about books and comic books for the NPR website, and is the surly, distinctly unfeeling member of the PCHH crew.  We both like comics.  We both have a distaste for schmaltz.  But it translates in slightly different ways.

1. Glen is more likely, in his personal opinions, to have a pessimistic outlook on situations.  Definitely that glass half empty type.  I, on the other hand, harbor deep disdain for everyone and everything, but in my own secret soul I'm optimistic.  A little gentler.  Life is a terrible thing, but I think it's that way because we're capable of more.

2.  When it comes to comic fandom, Glen thrives on FUN.  Give him madcappery, wildness, abandon that can only come through the wacky world of  comics.  My comic leanings go towards grit. Somber.  Dark.  Those suck me in.

These are just a few examples of the yin-yang effect, but essentially when it comes to being the group member to embrace blanket hatred, sir Weldon and I could not be more similar.  Hate on, dude.

You can practically hear the evil laughter.

1. Louise Belcher

Yes, Tina Belcher is the popular break-out star of Fox's animated Bob's Burgers.  Which I cannot understand, because there's this character called Louise, and she's perfect. She's my everything.  I think that words might fail me at this moment, since I love her too much to adequately express it.  I am not exaggerating when I say she is the ultimate.  I don't even have to specify the ultimate what, because she's that good.  Louise knows who she is, she knows what she wants, and she demands control with immediate and exacting vengeance.  Yes, vengeance.  Making the best use of Kristen Schaal since ever, including her role as Flight of the Conchords fan Mel (the less said about her 30 Rock stint the better), Louise blends bravado and sheer capacity for terror in a cocktail of complete assurance.  Everyone knows that she's the real one in charge of the Belcher family.  She's sarcastic, she's savvy (no one can manipulate folks out of their money during an art crawl like Louise), and she doesn't buy into the idea that just because she is a little girl, she has to be one.  A sharp-as-nails child with the soul of a miserly old man, Louise rocks.  She's maniacal.  She's commanding.  She's my spirit animal.

*I do, though.  I really, really do.  There just comes an optimal slouch when watching TV, and the stomach becomes the ideal platform for that dish of nachos.

**Is it obvious I quit watching the New Girl after one season?

A Tale of Bags and Artistic Ownership

This is my bag.

The ratty glory!

I've had this purse since I turned sixteen.  It's been festooned with buttons for the past, oh, six years or so.*  The buttons have changed due to lost members of the fleet--a Watchman smiley face, several Andrew Bird pins, and most recently a gorgeously minimal B.P.R.D. button have been among the casualties.

One addition was from a month ago.  My dearest Mary had gone to see Yale Stewart, the creator of webcomic JL8, at a Brooklyn bookstore.  She picked up a couple button packs, and generously gave me a Batman one.  After all, it only makes sense.  I am the Batman girl.  I was delighted, and it immediately joined the clattering crew on my bag.  A couple weeks later, I ran into Yale at Boston Comic-Con and had a brief, awkward exchange about Superman. Life went on.

This morning, I read about Yale Stewart sending unsolicited "explicit photos" to female fans and women in the comics industry.**  It was disheartening, particularly hearing yet another story where comic fandom (that vast, faceless mass of apparently rampant testosterone) turned on the victims, doubting the already wounded.

Doubly so because of how much I enjoy JL8.  As much as I love Batman, I can't come out as a total DC fangirl.  For the most part I find the rest of the Justice League so painfully boring.  Ah, The Flash!  You run so fast!  How exciting!  Ah yes, Superman!  Such blue, so boy scout!  Ah, Wonder Woman!  The token chick!  Way to have those legs!  What wasted potential!

Image from here.

But JL8 handled that differently.  By showing these characters as children, all that purity and optimism made sense.  It resonated.  Superman became an admirable bastion of goodness, standing up for the bullied and protecting all classmates out of a sense of altruism, not obligation born of superior race.  Wonder Woman wasn't an empty figure head.  She became a feisty girl who could hold her own against her peers, and who knew it.  Suddenly, Diana became the girl every mother should want their daughter to be, imbued with confidence and assurance.  It was incredible what a slight change in setting and time did. The Justice League became an inspirational gang.

And then came this morning's news.  After reading several articles on the topic, including two apologies from Yale's own tumblr, I'm still not sure what to think.  Ii's a bit strange that this comes out right after artist Ulises Farinas issued some severe criticism about Yale's charity work.  But on the other hand, this behavior is reportedly common knowledge to those on the inside.  I'll leave it to the wiser, more connected people to comment on it.  For right now, I have to say that the dual apologies on his tumblr and the donation to RAINN, are about the best response you could hope for.  I mean, it would be better to not send the pictures in the first place, but at least the apology wasn't making him the wronged party.  It's the appropriate method of fessing up to wrongdoing and laying low.  Definitely the classiest way of dealing with a misdemeanor.

But I do condemn his actions, whether they are a misunderstandings like he claims, or if these behaviors are more widespread than the two women he acknowledges.  ~BARELY COHERENT RANT AHEAD~ OK, I understand that sexting or nude pics or whatever happens.  It's one of those things where I'm against it morally****, but not everyone abides by my own moral code, and I respect that.  There are those who feel powerful with exhibiting nudity, and who feel comfortable enough and have such ownership of their body that it isn't a big deal, and I respect the hell out of that.  But sending a picture in a sexting situation involves at least two people, and let's face it, the possible audience can be larger.  In my mind, it's something you have to be totally agreed upon.  There needs to be a level of trust between the two people, and I think that level is more difficult, nigh impossible, to reach in the courting stages of a relationship.  I think if there's any, and I mean any doubt as to how it will be received the photo shouldn't be sent.  Full stop.  No misunderstanding necessary.  ~RANT OVER~

While I was reading up on this scandal, I would periodically turn to Taylor and update him on the situation.  After reading through the apologies and sitting with it, Taylor had an interesting reaction.  He told me he felt a little guilty.  He felt guilty for hearing those apologies, and yet still strongly believing that this dude was a scumbag.  Taylor's read a bit of JL8.  He didn't love it like I did.  But he was so offended by the allegations that he immediately assumed that Yale was in the wrong.  Which shook Taylor up, because he felt like it was too quick for him to be so condemning of the harassment, and yet he was wholeheartedly anti-Yale.

To be honest, I was proud of Taylor.  My husband is the best feminist.  Thanks be for a career that forces acknowledgement and concern for the victims!  Taylor rocks.

My gut reaction was more muddled.  This might be shallow (my gut is telling me that it is, but my gut also wants cake, so whatever), but my first response was: "Can I still wear this guy's button on my bag?  How can I basically advertise the work of someone who doesn't respect women?"

Earlier this week, I was discussing Kanye with my pal Ricky.  To quote white girls everywhere, I truly cannot with Kanye.  Ricky thinks the man is a genius.  He's totally wrong, but that's not the point right now.  In defending Yeezy, he said "I don't expect my pop figures to be likable. I just want the art I love."

It was an interesting idea.  I often struggle with untangling the persona of the artist with the art produced.  Kanye's terrible image leaves me with too much distaste to ever objectively judge his music.  Same with a whole slew of musicians.  Taylor Swift, Bono.  My personal dislike keeps me from enjoying their output.

But on the other hand, I know that I would loathe Ernest Hemingway if I ever met him, and yet I find his novels and short stories among the more beautiful writings on this earth.  Most authors of weight require a severe disconnect between personal life and creative works.  If personal life required my approval, I could hardly read anything, and what a sad existence that would be.

But this isn't a dead author.  It's a man who is still present and active in the comics community.*****  And the role of women is already so tenuous and fraught in that world, that it's harder to permit any slight.

Which is all to say, tonight I'm left with a button and with a quandary.

*As a teenager, I was very ... clean cut is the word for it, I suppose.  I didn't put posters on the wall because I was nervous that they wouldn't look orderly enough, or that attempts at manufactured chaos would be a few inches away from true visual appeal.  I didn't color on my binders, and while I loved other people doodling on my arm, I wouldn't do it myself.  I had a difficult time ruining pristine things, and little confidence in my own artistic eye, so I refrained from any typical method of teenage expression.  This also reflected in my wardrobe, which until my senior year of high school comprised solely of flared jeans, pastel button-up shirts (to conceal the fat), and brown leather shoes.  And I wonder why I was an unhappy teen.

**Yes, this story is a couple days old, but I'm behind, OK?  You don't want to know how many old tabs are open on my computer and phone.  I mean, I heard something about a Batman vs. Superman movie?***  What up with that? 

***Note: joke.  Of course I know about and am already majorly conflicted, pitting my love of Batman against my hatred of Zack Snyder.  Who will triumph?

****The whole chaste, not-outside-of-marriage thing.  Within a marriage, I say knock yourself out!  But still not my bag.

*****Announced hiatus of JL8 aside.

One Year

Yesterday marked a year since I pointed my beat-up red Dodge Stratus eastward and left Seattle for Boston.

The last time I saw the
Space Needle

Taylor and I shipped out on a Monday morning.  It was overcast, and a haze accompanied us as we drove down Aurora, passing by the Space Needle, the Market, and my terrible nemesis of a Ferris Wheel before getting on the 90.  We wound through rain and mountains.  After a couple of hours, green gave way to desert and sunshine.  It was supposed to be an omen.  It was supposed to signal a similar turning point in my life, a symbolic gesture of leaving behind the cobwebs and clouds of our prior life and bursting into the bright hope of an adult future.  Real life, as it were.

Little did we know that those were the good times.  The salad days.

Boston might have seemed a warmer climate from afar, but up close it's soul felt chilled to the bone.

And yet, after a year of pain and misery, it has thawed.

Yesterday the sun shone.  It glinted off trees, leaves shimmering gold and green, sparkling in the light.  I walked down roads I knew.  Haunted areas that felt, if not like home, at least familiar.  I had my bearings.  I had my place.

My current path

Today that comfort was compounded by a beach trip, something that is interpreted quite differently on the East Coast.  This beach was no Seattle shore, made of small rocks and mud.  Instead, I welcomed warm white sand and blue waters.  Salt-smelling grass and rocky monoliths perfect for scrambling over. It was beautiful.  I talked with people.  I interacted with the world, this once-cold Boston world, and felt at peace.


When the time comes I will not be sad to leave this place.  But now, I can say I will miss it. At least I've got that.

Desperate Times

My last semester of grad school starts two weeks from today.

Image by Jillian Fleck, found here

This is terrifying.

I had a month-long break between my last two semesters, a blissful December-January hybrid where it was too cold to live, so I coped by roadtripping to DC, where the temperature was slightly less punishing.  The time in Boston during the break was spent wrapped in a several-blanket burrito, watching movies and trying to move as little as possible, curled on the couch while cold air seeped through the might-as-well-not-exist-for-all-the-good-they-do-protecting-against-the-elements windows.  

One thing notably missing from that list of activities?  Writing.

When I returned to school after a month-long hiatus, muscles that could churn out interviews and articles in one day had atrophied.  The thought of pitching story ideas made me freeze.  During the night, I would fitfully toss and stare at the ceiling, mentally listing all my assignments and all the reasons I was completely incapable of doing them.  Eventually the typing fingers stretched out a little, but it was still a tumultuous adjustment from my bright-eyed and bushy-tailed first semester, where I was so eager to write and read and think and do something that wasn't teaching.

At the start of this summer break, I had grand plans for all the writing I would do, the projects that would be completed and the headway that would be made with my writerly aspirations.  And where did this lead to, at this moment, two weeks before I head back into the abyss?

Yep.  I've written nothing.  

Just look at that selection!

In my defense, Amazon Prime has both Orphan Black and a new partnership with HBO, so prestige TV is at my fingertips.

I need to shock my system into writing again.  So I'm making this blog my two week boot camp.  Every day. Some writing. Maybe I'll dig through all those drafts that never got published.  Maybe I'll finally reveal the anxiously-awaited list of my spirit animals (spoiler--most if not all are cartoons of humans). Maybe it will get all surreal with stream of consciousness up in here.  And hopefully in two weeks I'll remember how this stuff gets done.

The D Word

No, not that D word.

Or that one either.  Geez.

Eagle-eyed readers may have noticed that in my last post, I never used the "depression" word.  I alluded to feeling depressed, but in all my bluster and openness I shied away from actually labeling myself as a person who suffers from depression.

Isn't that sort of silly?

The strangest thing is that I didn't avoid it out of any fear of stigma.  I'm not ashamed to have depression.  It gets a little more complicated than that.

Part the First:

I don't have the right to say I have depression.  Or at least that's what my brain keeps telling me.

In my life I've been privileged to have a lot of friends that are, to put it simply, better than me.  They are smarter, prettier, more talented.  It's as if I subconsciously decided to only befriend people that inspire me, maybe out of some hope that their wondrous abilities would rub off.  Among the raw geniuses I get to call friends are some of the best artists, musicians, writers and philosophers a person could find.  They are individuals who are constantly driven by their work.  While I have many interests and some skills, I don't have the near-compulsive productivity of these people.

But often, talent comes hand in hand with depression and anxiety.  And these people, many of whom have been my boon companions over the years, have struggled with these issues.  I've had a ringside seat to the ravages of these disorders, as I've witnessed people stronger than myself live with depression that has been longer and fiercer than my own paltry experiences.  When faced against those comparisons, it feels wrong to say I have depression.  It almost seems cheap.

It feels like I haven't earned the right to say I'm depressed.

Which is a load of malarkey.  Depression isn't a merit badge.  There's no quota.  It's not like you put in so many hours of lying on the couch feeling like human garbage before you can say you have depression.  It's a condition, with certain markers, not some test of endurance.

Would you like to buy some cookies?  They're baked with the proper level of tears, I swear!

This traces back to a bigger problem in society, this inability to give proper credence to our emotions.  Perhaps it's just my personal baggage, but at least to me there was always this sense of denying my emotions.  I had to be positive.  Or even if I was sad, there was someone who had it worse, so might as well just abandon that sadness and carry on.  Because clearly that's pretty easy and should totally happen.

Except it's not.  And the best way to sort through emotions is to identify them, and to not give them some dark, Voldemort-esque power by refusing to acknowledge their existence.  Emotional honesty is the only way to completely move forward, and sometimes saying you have depression is a part of that process.

But in this case, I'm going to continue to not use the term depression.  Mostly because...

Part the Second:

I don't think its accurate to say I have depression.

I know.  Psych!

Sorry, I don't have any pineapple for you.

In our sessions, my therapist—actually my psychiatrist, but I'm going to say therapist because that's the service I'm getting and because the medication side of things makes me nervous in this specific case—well, he doesn't use the term depression.  He calls my situation "tension," brought on by my over-extension of work/school projects and the ridiculous expectations I place on myself.  And when I think of the headaches, gut aches, and heartaches I've experienced these past few months, tension fits the bill.  It's a good descriptor for me right now.

Which isn't to say all that rambling about depression was a misdirect.  Everything I said I believe in wholeheartedly.  I want to stop giving into the negative connotations, or the comparisons, that keep me from being honest.  Depression has no statue of limitations, or whatever the opposite of that term is.   It doesn't have to age into a fine wine of pain.  It starts somewhere, and whether it's lasted three months or three decades it's alright to use the proper name.  Depression.  It's here.  It's an actual thing.  So just say it.

And as for everyone else?  Well, you know what they can do.

Bird Watching

Hi.

My name's Cat, and I've been pretty depressed lately.

I know.  SHOCKER!  It's not like it's been pretty easy to decipher that fact if you've been following my blog, or are friends with me on Facebook, or if you're one of those near-mythical "real life friends" (seriously, do such things exist anymore, or are they just relegated to icons between ads on Facebook?) (I kid, I kid, you know I love you, people I have actually interacted with in the physical world).

But I've been alluding to it as if it's over, or close to over.  You know, I'm "coming out of a funk."  Or, "the last few months have been hard, but it's getting better," or even the more cynical but no less silver lining-ed "it's tough now, but I still have so much good in my life."

Well, I lied.

I'm not coming out of it.  It's not getting better.  And yeah, there's good in my life, but that just makes this pervasive darkness even more oppressive.  Of course there's good in my life, so where do I get off feeling so crummy?  Seriously.  What an ungrateful little turd I am.  Man, I suck.

My life, as depicted by http://thankyoucorndog.tumblr.com/.

This comic describes my feelings.  When I talk to people about my sorrow, it turns into a laundry list of why I shouldn't be so sad.

"But Cat, you're so smart!"

"But Cat, look at all you're doing!  You're owning grad school!"

"But Cat, look at the opportunities you're getting!"

"But Cat, you have a loving husband and a really good life!"

"But Cat, there are so many people that love you!"

"But Cat, you are really so blessed!  Look at all you have!"

But, dear friends and family. But, while that is all true and well and good, but.  But that doesn't automatically make me happier.

If anything, it makes me worse.

Because those reminders and encouragements only add to the mental tally, and yes it is a constant tally, of things I'm doing wrong.  It becomes another failure.  That Cat, having all these lovely things and yet somehow, selfishly, brokenly, remaining depressed.

I'm trying to pull myself out of this mire.  I'm chasing that freaking bluebird of happiness with a titanium butterfly net, tricked out with rocket launchers and an army of drones in the handle.  And there are times when that lovely little creature will circle around my head, nearly landing on my shoulder but not quite there yet.  It's there on a sunny afternoon when I sit by the Charles and feel my skin tingle under the sun.  It's there when I dance to The Ballad of Mr. Steak with wild abandon during a Kishi Bashi concert, arms flailing underneath colored lights and layered sounds.  It's there while watching Veronica Mars and having good conversation with fine folk that give me hope in humanity and my place therein.

But for each time the bluebird almost lands, there are tenfold moments where it flies into a thorny hedge and refuses to budge.  These are the times where I stare into the void of a growing inbox of requests and freeze.  When my hands linger over a chapter to be edited, or a writer to be researched, or a TV show that I've watched and taken notes on and elucidated my thoughts in outline format, or even just the thought of moving that dang ol' dishrag off the counter and hanging it on the rack, and yet the next step halts.  

It's times like today, where I lie on the couch watching Party of Five* and eating Cheetos Puffs.  The cheese-spun cylinders make me feel marginally better, right before making me feel exponentially and inevitably worse.  You know how it is.  Curse you, sweet sweet snacks!

Today is extreme.  Usually it's just this heart-squeezing, gut-tearing feeling of misery and loneliness and failure that never really goes away.  

I keep telling myself that fessing up to it is better than gulping it down and pretending it's not there.  You know, saying outright that yep, I'm basically a champ at the whole self-loathing thing.  I recognize this and want to change, and like any good addict admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery.

And blast it all, I'm trying to recover.  I'm doing the exercises, eating the healthy foods**, seeing the therapist, making the happy lists.  Pushing myself to get out and socialize.  Forcing myself out of the solitary comfort zone my jerkbrain prescribes.  Doing all the maddening suggestions that well-meaning people give me when they try to help.  I mean, I still find myself crumpling on the ground almost every day, but I'm giving it the college try!  Happy face!  Attempts!

I'm still chasing the bird, but I'm running through quicksand, and for all the leverage I get I still am sliding down, sucked into the depths.

So what, right?  What now?  Why write this?  Why talk about this?

Because somehow, it's making me feel better.  Writing is a great way to figure things out.  It's why English teachers assign essays.  Well that, and the feeling of enjoyment we get from hearing the groans.  Sweet music to the ears! 

"The shortest distance between a human being and the truth is a story."  Anthony de Mello.

Right now, my story is sadness.  And anxiety.  And defeat.  And by writing about it, I hope to see the truth in this experience.  I want to be able to figure out what this means, to see patterns in my malaise.  If all goes well, these words will form a ladder to tug me out of the sand.  They will shape into wings where I can catch that damn bluebird in his own turf.

*What a truly terrible TV show, by the by.  Full House on steroids and with an over-inflated sense of importance.  And yet, there's something about Matthew Fox's hair on this show.  I can't look away.  I want to, believe me I want to, but every time I try stupid Jack is there with his stupid 90's mane waving in the non-existent breeze and whispering Caaaat.....loooook at meeee.....Caaaaat....

**Most of the time, all Cheetos cheats aside.