The Daughter Filter

My mom has always been that woman who made me dinner and put bandaids on my scratched knees.

My stepdad has always been that guy who surfed through the channels and teased the cat.

But every so often, my parents turn into people I don't know-- strangers. They take on different personalities and become alive.

This phenomenon takes place when they're with their friends. And it's the most interesting thing I've ever witnessed.

Recently, I spent a day with my mom, stepdad and a whole group of their buddies from years and eons ago. And Mom and Mike just came alive. They were, for lack of somethine more poetic to say, human.

Don't get me wrong, I've never thought they were horrible slime creatures from Lake Ray Hubbard. But there were subtle differences in their behavoir that only their kid could notice. They squinted their eyes and laughed with their whole bodies. They reminisced and revealed secrets of their childhoods. They danced and played and drank and made merry.

Actually, they acted like me and my crew.

It's really nice to know that you can still party and carry on when you're older. It really makes me look forward to the years ahead.

What's the deal with Miami?

CSI: Miami.
Top Chef: Miami
Miami Vice
Reno 911: Miami
The Real World: Miami
Dexter (takes place in Miami)
Nip/Tuck (took place in Miami, but it's now in Hollywood; they wised up)
And on and on the list could go. IMDB "Miami" if you really want more.

There seems to be this obsession with Miami. Apparently, Miami is a mecca for creativity and fun and culture and attractive people.

Apparently, everyone is blind and retarded and in dire need of a labotomy. If Miami is the mecca of anything, it's humidity, mosquitoes, fattening food, offensively horrible boob jobs and skin cancer.

I have to ask you lovers of Miami, have you been there? Have you been there sober? Do you have eyes?

I'll admit, I've only been there once. The thing that confuses me, though, is that I went in 2006. Miami seems to think that it's still 1986 (maybe 1992 but that depends on what dinged-to-hell convertible happened to be passing at the time).

The pastel-colored buildings were crumbling apart. And come to think of it, so were the palm trees. There were more huge branches on the ground than there were stones and grass. And someone forgot to tell the oh-so-trendy Miami that neon and Rude Dog stopped being cool when Saved by the Bell went off the air (the original, not New Class or College Years).

"But South Beach is the cool part of Miami," I've been told. Well, I spent some time there, too. And I'm not sold. It's the cool part of Miami if you're a ... You know? I spent five minutes trying to think of something witty and clever to put there. And it's just not going to happen today. Miami is so creepy to me, it has stunted my creativity.

"But the night life in Miami is better than everywhere! And you can drink until 5 AM!" You know why Miami let's people drink until 5 AM? So they can convince people to live there. I can't imagine going more than 2 days in that place sober.

"But the beach is right there!" You know what the ocean is full of? Fish shit and whale sperm. Enjoy your parasailing, folks.

In Miami's defense, I remained (mostly) in the touristy parts. Perhaps the neighborhoods are quieter, drier, safer and prettier.

Too bad I won't be going back to find out.

My CD collection is ruined.

My stereo played a song the other day.

I skipped the song. I skipped it as fast as I could. Because I can't listen to that song anymore. For you see, it's one of ours.

It was one of ours. Was.

That song doesn't belong to us anymore.

It belongs to two kids who were too in love with the concept of love. Two kids with immeasurable emotion and only an iota of common sense between them. Two kids that, although they no longer exist, will be linked forever by lyrics that a total stranger wrote.

Two kids that said their love was forever. And they were right. But love exists not as they thought- in their hearts and minds. No. Their love existed weaved between guitar strums and drum beats, between cheap sheets and between home towns.

And that love from long ago was now bursting from my present-day stereo. Because another song that I had no right to hear had started playing.

Skip. Another song.

Skip. Skip. Memories now flooded the air around me.

The entire CD was haunted.

I couldn't help but wonder if my stereo was deliberately torturing me. Trying to drown me as I flailed around in my mind. Good memories. Great memories. And tragic memories.

Memories that, thankfully, I am allowed to have even if the music never was mine to keep.

AK has inspired me.

So the super-awesome AK has inspired me.

AK takes a photo every day. Every single day AK shoots something, captures it and shares it with the world.

He does this every day.

Never misses a day.

Every day.

You can see that this amazes me.

Well, it's time for me to do something every day (in addition to the many things that I do every day in order to live: eat, breath, sleep).

I need to write every day. And not just for work or in an email. Every day in order to live, I need to pick up a pen and write. Or open my laptop and type. Or scribble on napkins. Or even type in this blog thing.

I have this talent, this skill. This ability to string words together. This hankering to spill my guts.

Tons of people have this. Most of them can't write. Perhaps I can't. But I'll try.

I'll try until I'm blue in the face.

So this is my promise to myself: I will write something every day.

It might be personal. It might be fictional. It might be silly or angry.

But you bet your ass that my itchy brain in conjunction with my eager fingers will put pen to paper (so to speak).

Thank you, AK., for the inspiration. Let's hope I can keep it up.