I don't know your brother...

but I'm pretty sure that mine's bad-ass-er.

That's him. Right there - holding the bass.



His name is Miles. He's 17. He plays in a band. (Called Steam Train Murphy - I could link their website, but it's even more abandoned by its creators than my own. They write songs about Gandhi and Star Wars, and have some latin-inspired tribute to all the really white white men out there.) The girls think he's hot. The boys are jealous of his mad skills. He's the coolest kid around.

But, wait! What's this? Is my sweet little brother also playing the mandolin?



Totally kick-ass.

If I were tech-savvy, I could include sound bytes. I don't know how to do that. He sings, too. Like Italian aria type songs. Not with his band. They're eclectic - but not quite that eclectic.

And because he really is a cool guy, he's sort of going to hate me for making an online shrine to him. But I can't contain my adoration. I just can't.

By the way, I have another brother, too. His name is Cliff. He's freaking awesome. And also a musician. He usually declines to be photographed. His personality is a little...ummm...darker.

What would happen if...

I posted something to my blog? Would anyone notice? I'm pretty sure every reader, even the most devoted, of the Melodious Accord has given it up for good. I, in fact, had completely given up on it, as well. Recently someone asked me for my blog address, and my response was, "I don't know. Melody.com?" Honestly, I can't remember what it is. Even now. As I'm typing. I have no idea what the address for my poor, abandoned, cob-webbed little website is. I can only get to it from other people's blogs.

It seems like any post worth its salt includes a photo of some sort, so I googled 'abandoned'. This came up. Do you think it's how my blog feels? Dark and lonely and quietly artistic?



And yet, someone must check, because I get complaints about my absence. Few and far between, and becoming fainter by the day, but there are complaints out there, I promise.

The problem is this: What am I supposed to write about? I don't live in Scotland anymore. I'm not embarking on escapades in faraway lands on a regular basis. I don't even have a current stock of cute children photographs to post. So, what is there? Work? My strange and infinitely complicated dating/pseudo-dating adventures? My new knitting hobby? No one wants to read about those things.

Which brings me to: nothing. That's what I have to write about. But you know something, I think I can make that work for me. Lots of people I know do it. And here's the secret: Even back in the days when the Melodious Accord was wildly popular and maybe even one of the best blogs of all time, I was really always writing about nothing, anyway. Think about that, folks.

So, if nothing is what you want, then nothing is what you're going to get. Maybe.

Plastic Bags Are Not Toys

Now's my chance to offer some sort of excuse for why I haven't blogged in so long that probably no one even remembers that I have a blog. But I won't bore you, or myself, with any of that.

As for this picture: this time it was my fault. Hydroplaning and airbags and raised insurance premiums and some whimpering on my part, followed up with the sweet blessing of painkillers, were all involved.

But seriously, as if being without my car for another month was not punishment enough, it now appears that the mechanics are actually attempting to suffocate my car. What did I ever do to them? What one person has ever given them so much business? They should be thanking me.



I will pay anyone ten dollars* who can explain to me why this could possibly be necessary.

*Of course, i'm lying.

The Age-Old Question: Does Art Create Beauty, or Does Beauty Create Art?

Genius comes in all shapes and forms, it cannot be denied. I've always believed that my brother Miles is something of a genius; he's really clever, he's hilarious, he plays quite a lot of instruments, he sings, his tree-climbing skills are unparalleled (and a little freaky), he makes people happy. Everyone loves him. But I never knew he had this in him. No, this came as somewhat of a surprise.

To preface, I walked into his room this evening with the intention of asking about the progress of his English paper, and found him feverishly huddled over something on his desk, vehemently shouting, 'No Melody, don't come in! You can't see it!" and after a deep breath, "I'll show you when it's finished, I promise." Assuming that maybe he was etching something profane into the surface of his desk, or preparing to set something alight, I shrugged and left.

A few minutes passed, and then he came bursting forth from his room like some sort of mad scientist, and beckoned me to view his creation.

"Behold...a toenail demon!" was the cry that met me as I bent over his desk. What was I to do: Gasp? Recoil in horror? Or acknowledge it for the truly unique and glorious creation that it was? (All three?)



When questioned about his creative process, the artist had the following to say concerning his masterpiece:
"It just came to me."
and
"Man, those things are really hard to make."

And then, within a very few and fleetingly sweet moments, it had been destroyed. The attempt to preserve his work (involving a strip of packing tape), ironically, proved to be the cause of its demise.

Ah, the transient nature of art.

Aside: When questioned about the progress of a certain English paper, the artist had little, in fact, nothing, to say at all.

My Calling?

I want to share a story with you; here's the story: Once there was a girl, and this girl had some convictions, and then this girl created a website dedicated to said convictions, and then I saw the website, and it changed my life, as it affirmed the deepest desires of my heart. Happily ever after, at last.


Don't neglect to read the tips. I find tips #6, #9, and #10 most compelling.

P.S. Infinite thanks to Trina for pointing me in the right direction.

Good Housekeeping

Today at the doctor's office, I overheard the following conversation involving a doctor, a nurse, and some mysterious person called Homer...

Homer: I'm through with marriage. After being married five times, I've had enough.
Doctor: Five wives?
Homer: That's right. I've had five great housekeepers. (this followed by quite a hearty chuckle)
Doctor: Housekeepers?
Homer: That's right; they all knew how to keep a clean house, I can tell you that.
Nurse: Homer, that is so tacky.
Homer: It's not tacky. I'm just telling the truth; that's what I do.

I think we can all guess why his marriage are many and short-lived. I'm thankful that there was a curtain drawn between us while he was holding his discourse on the virtue of a wife of noble character, as I was fully incapable of preventing my face from contorting in disgust.

The Vindication of Mr. T

There may be something wrong with my car.






What do you think?

Don't worry, she's almost totally healed now. It was rough-going for a while there, but she comes home on Friday. We can all breathe a sigh of relief.

It's now been nearly a month since that kid rammed into the back of me at an intersection and forced me under the car in front of me. The general concensus is that this guy sort of sucks. But I've done some hard thinking, and I'm starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, this guy (whom I'll hereafter refer to as Mr. T, as his last name actually does begin with T, and I think it's funny) hasn't actually done anything to merit such an unfavorable reception. I mean, what, really, makes Mr. T so"guilty"? Let's review the facts in a standard attack and defense style, shall we? (Is there a standard 'attack and defense' style? I have noooo idea.)


Attack: Mr T concealed the truth about the accident to the owners of the car, who happened to be his girlfriend's parents.
Defense: Well, you've got to impress the folks. Give him a break.

Attack: He hasn't returned anyone's phone calls regarding the accident, whether it be his own insurance agent, or someone from enemy forces, so that no one even knew that the car belonged to said girlfriend's parents for about ten days, and in turn, no action was taken on the part of the liable party to provide Ms. Barker with a rental car.
Defense: I heard that his phone isn't picking up voicemails properly. You should take it up with Verizon.

Attack: An insurance agent actually did attempt to contact him at his place of business, however, Mr. T hung up the phone immediately upon realizing who was on the other end of the line.
Defense: It is very unprofessional to contact someone at work. Mr. T was simply demonstrating his dedication to the Bus Boy Code of Conduct outlined in the Macaroni Grill Employee Handbook.

Attack: Well then, returning to the scene of the crime, Mr. T could have provided pertinent information, such as: who owned the car and perhaps a phone number for his girlfriend. Had that been done, this whole process might have been more expeditious. However, he claimed not to know or have access to his girlfriend's number at the time.
Defense: You can't really expect guys to remember phone numbers. Everyone knows that.

Attack: Okay, well there are strong suspicions that Mr. T secretly had the car fixed before anyone saw it to make it appear as if the accident was much less serious.
Defense: Ahem. You can't prove that.

Attack: Finally, Mr. T himself was quoted at the scene thus: "It was totally my fault" and "
Hey, I hit you, it's my fault." However, his statement, recorded some three weeks after the accident, reads more like this: "Man, I don't know how my car could have done that much damage. I wasn't going very fast. She must have, ummm, hit the other guy first, and I hit her after. Or, both accidents happened at the same time. It's not my fault." This statement consequently led his insurance company to conclude that the accident was caused by Ms. Barker's failure to control her speed (even though she was stopped when the whole thing happened) and she will, therefore, never ever ever be provided with a rental car ever.
Defense: I give up. He's a moron.

Well, maybe he does merit the unfavorable reception. Maybe he merits a lawsuit. Maybe he's going to get one.

Insecurities

Does my blog look less pink to you?

Some People Are Appallingly Stupid

I was sitting on the plane, flipping idly through People magazine when I stumbled across the following, in Mail Bag:

"I want to wish the best to Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. They've made me believe in love again. Those smiling faces and their happiness will always make me a fan of both actors."
-Christianne Zamprogne
Weymouth, Mass.

They've made me believe in love again??!?!!?

Please, Christianne, if you're out there and, by some miraculous twist of fate, are actually reading this, please, please, please tell me that you're being ironic, or have at least confused Tom and Katie with any other couple in Hollywood whose romance carries even the tiniest ounce of credibility.

Also, I happen to be watching the Real World as I'm typing this, and may I note that Rachel just said, "Usually with my past boyfriends it's been kissing first, then sex, then going out to dinner, then becoming boyfriend and girlfriend."

Hmmm.

On another note, I discovered that I totally do heart New York, and I want to move there.

Maybe I will...

A Typical Day in the Life of...

Okay, so the other night I was driving my mom's mini-van (because some guy rear-ended me last week and sent me sailing into the car in front of me, and the Corolla is currently in critical condition, suffering unaided on some impound lot on Burleson Rd. because aforementioned guy's insurance have yet to begin their investigation) with my friend Matt, and I got pulled over by a cop.

When I saw the familiar lights flashing in the rearview mirror, I had a couple of thoughts:
1) there's no way I was speeding - I'm driving a mini-van, it's not even possible
2) man, I hate cops so much. all they ever do is give me tickets and falsely arrest me. they are all out to get me. I hate them.

So, I pulled into the nearby Whataburger parking lot, and awaited my fate. As the policeman approached my car I rolled down my window and, well, why don't I just write out our dialogue, as I'm so fond of doing:

Me: Hi (reminding myself not to be mean to the cop, because look at what happened last time)

Cop: You're lights aren't on. (in a friendly manner, actually)

Me: Really? I went to high school with you.

Cop (called James): Really?

Me: Yeah. We were in the same English class; it's Melody.

James: Oh, I remember you (with a smirk on his face. why the smirk?)

(And I think, 'you better remember me, I used to do your homework for you')

James: So, you're lights aren't on.

Me: Yeah, it's probably because I'm driving my mom's mini-van and I must not know how to turn the lights on.

James: Okay, well just flip this switch here. (he flips a switch, lights come on)

Me: Thanks. (thinking, 'he's so helpful, not like a real cop at all')

James: No problem. Can I see your driver's license so that I can issue you a warning? We're not allowed to give verbal warnings anymore. (I should say that this whole time there is another, scary, quite unfriendly looking cop standing on the other side of the car, just sort of staring in at me and Matt, I assume to make sure the girl in the Chrysler Town & Country is not dangerous, and that everything goes according to procedure.)

So, I hand him my driver's license.

James: That's your credit card. I don't need that.

Me: Right. (I hand him my real driver's license.)

And, pretty much, that's the story. He wrote me a warning, and then we parted ways.

Why did I hand him my debit card? I mean, I'm not a stupid person, though the fact that things like this happen to me on a regular basis really is not working in my favor.

Oh crap, I hope my parents don't read this. I maybe should have told them this story already.

Okay, well I'm off to New York in the morning. Pray I don't do anything too foolish.