THE BUZZ ABOUT BEES (By Robert Chapman)

Everyday I pull off of the interstate and park in my downtown parking lot right next to the bail bonds hut, as I like to call it. I turn off of State Street onto Court Street, and I dodge JPD cars as I try to find a parking spot. Everyday, this is my routine, this is my monotony, this is my repetition.

Everyday, I am greeted by a busy group that inspires me to bee more than average. They inspire me to bee focused and to beecome more. As corny as my misspellings are, I’m greeted by the downtown group of honeybees landing and collecting nectar from the wild flowers growing through the concrete cracks in the parking lot.

I guess they could be called the Hun-E Beez, since they’re downtown ghetto bees and probably already have a multi-million dollar signing deal with some hip-hop label.

I got to thinking today as it dawned on me that I haven’t written on the blog in far too long, these bees go to work early in the morning everyday – even when they don’t feel like it. Many people across the world get up early to go to work not to bring home the bacon, but simply to survive.

Our attitudes find their way drifting southward as we pull up to work, but only because we are blessed more than we know. Our blessings have caused our laziness. Our blessing are our downfall. Henry David Thoreau wrote while at Walden Pond that men live their lives in quiet desperation. He talked about the objects we own end up owning us. We dedicate our lives to acquiring stuff, as George Carlin puts it, and we buy houses so we can store our stuff.

What would happen if we dedicated our lives like the honeybee dedicates its life? If something prevents the honeybee from getting its job done, it fights. I know we don’t fight like that at our job, and most of the time it’s because we don’t care that much. But what about dedicating our lives to what we really stand for.

We should rethink our dedication in our faith, wherever your faith may lie in. We should rethink our dedication to our families, to our hobbies, to our friends, and to ourselves. Trust me, I know that you have a passion for you. I mean, we all love ourselves (or as my dad always jokingly says, “I love me some me!"), so why would we not want to better our situation?

Whatever that area of your life is that needs rededication (working on patience, making that deal at work that you KNOW you can make, losing weight, working out, or adjusting your attitude), go for it – or else the Hun-E Beez might be rollin' in and liftin' ya crib cuz you aint satisfied with diss! Peace out! (and that's the end of my rapping career).

ANOTHER LOHAN BLACKEYE (Associated Press)

SANTA MONICA, Calif. -- The troubled saga of Lindsay Lohan took another dangerous turn early Tuesday when police booked her for drunken driving and cocaine possession after a frightened woman dialed 911 to report being chased by Lohan's SUV.

Less than two weeks out of rehab, with another drunk driving case pending, Lohan had a blood-alcohol level of between .12 and .13 percent when police found her about 1:30 a.m., Sgt. Shane Talbot said.

Authorities had received a 911 call from the mother of Lohan's former personal assistant, said Officer Alex Padilla. The assistant had just quit hours before, he said.

"The mother was afraid," Padilla said. "She wasn't quite sure what was going on so she called the police saying she wanted to make sure everything was going to be OK."

The woman apparently didn't realize it was Lohan who was behind her, Padilla said.

Police said the woman drove her black Cadillac Escalade into the parking lot of Santa Monica's Civic Auditorium, about a block away from the Santa Monica Police Department, followed by Lohan driving a Denali sport utility vehicle. Authorities arrived and saw Lohan and the woman in "heated debate," Padilla said. Lohan and the woman each had two passengers in their vehicles, Padilla said.

After a field sobriety test, the 21-year-old movie star was booked on two misdemeanor charges of suspicion of driving under the influence and driving on a suspended license and two felony charges of possession of cocaine and transport of a narcotic, Talbot said.

During a pre-booking search, police found cocaine in one of Lohan's pants pockets, Talbot said.

Several hours later, Lohan was released on $25,000 bail.

A call to Lohan's publicist, Leslie Sloan Zelnik, and attorney, Blair Berk, were not immediately returned.

Padilla said he didn't know why Lohan was trying to catch the woman, whom he didn't name.

Last week, Lohan turned herself in to Beverly Hills police to face charges of driving under the influence in connection with a Memorial Day weekend hit-and-run crash.

Lohan lost control of her 2005 Mercedes SL-65 convertible and crashed into a curb and shrubs on Sunset Boulevard, police said.

Lohan's blood-alcohol level at the time of that crash was above the legal limit, authorities said, but they wouldn't disclose how high it was. She also faces a misdemeanor charge of hit and run in that case.

A court date was scheduled in that case for Aug. 24.

Lohan left Promises Malibu Alcohol and Drug Rehab Treatment Facility on July 13, after a stay of more than six weeks.

When she left, Zelnik said Lohan would voluntarily wear an alcohol-monitoring bracelet.

"In part she is wearing the bracelet so there are no questions about her sobriety if she chooses to go dancing or dining in a place where alcohol is served," Zelnik said in a statement at the time.

Padilla said he wasn't sure if Lohan was wearing it when she was stopped early Tuesday.

In January, Lohan also had checked into rehab for substance abuse treatment.

A MEMORY SWEETER AS IT AGES (By Jennifer Blakeslee)

Twenty five years ago today, I lost my Dad. I still haven’t figured out why the world keeps turning, since my world stopped on that day.

I visited with my parents during May, 1982, fresh from quitting my old, demanding job, and on the brink of going back to college for another degree. I hadn’t decided where my new education would take me, but I was sure it would be a better life than the one I had known. Since I wouldn’t be able to have prolonged visits in Clinton with the family, I stayed for a week before my summer classes started.

One day during that week, I decided to sand and paint Mom’s outdoor furniture. I knew it would be a lengthy task, but I had the time and knew how to do the job properly.
When Daddy came home from work that afternoon, he found me in the back yard, covered in dust and hot. He pulled up a lawn chair under the oak tree where I was working, and we talked for a while. His thoughts drifted to younger days, speaking of the times we shared when I was a child, and times he’d known as a bachelor. I loved to hear his stories, as I learned something new about him with each telling. There was a note of sadness in his voice as he told of my sisters and me growing up, and becoming independent women. I think, secretly, he always thought he could keep us as his little ones.

I remember asking him that afternoon, if there was anything that he wanted to do that he hadn’t done, if there was a place to visit that he hadn’t seen, if there was anything unfinished. He thought for a moment and said, “No, not really. I have everything I need.” My heart sank. I knew that the time was drawing near for us to lose him. You see, it seems that when we have no more dreams, nothing more to strive for, that God takes us to our heavenly home and makes more room on earth for the younger ones. At least, I’ve always thought about life that way.

Almost three months to the day, he died. He had been busily working in the yard until 4:00 that afternoon, in the hot July sun, and came inside to cool off and rest. Sitting in his recliner, he wasn’t feeling well, but figured he had “overdone it” outside. When Mom came home from work, she found him in the chair, not breathing. Even though the paramedics tried to revive him, it was not to be. God had spoken his name.

I got the message while in class that evening. My motions betrayed my insanity, as I arrived at Mom’s with all the appropriate clothing needed to bury my father. The next days were a blur, but we survived. We even managed to laugh while planning his funeral.

Those last days will always be part of me. I will never forget how I felt when I was told of his death, of the passing of my greatest fan, of the loss of the man who would never disappoint me, who would always love me unconditionally, who thought I was the smartest, prettiest, wittiest girl in the world. No wonder the memory just gets sweeter.

REMEMBER? MEMORIES! (By Robert Chapman)

As lunch pulled around today, I remembered that I had signed up to attend a meeting where author Daniel Wallace (author of Big Fish) talked to us about how he had come up with the ideas for all of his books, like his father being the inspiration for Big Fish along with Greek mythology. He talked about one book of his entitled The Watermelon King and how he had gotten the idea for that book.

He said that when he was around the age of nine he had passed through a town in North Carolina that claimed to be the strawberry capital of the world, which amazed him that a town he was in was actually the capital city of anything in the world.

One thing he talked about was the idea of memories and how they shape the view of our past and our future. I started to smile, but quickly had to stop so people around me didn’t get creeped out, because that is exactly what I have been talking about on Textured Observations.

He spoke of a story his 14 year old son swears is true, but Daniel knows really never happened. His son always tells others about the time his father left him in a supermarket. Daniel Wallace looked around the room and resembling a not-so-annoying Andy Dick replied, “That never happened, trust me.”

Isn’t odd how our own memories can lie to us, only we may never know that the real truth isn’t what is stuck in our minds. I know I mentioned the fact that growing up can alter a memory due to size, but this is a different truth altering section of memories. Some memories we might have might not have actually happened. Some memories might truly be a dream we had or a television show or movie we once saw that stuck in our subconscious as an event that occurred to us.

Tomorrow I’ll post a wonderful memory from my aunt, Jennifer Blakeslee. One that grows sweeter with time.

PIZZA HUT WAITRESS GETS $10K TIP (AP)

ANGOLA, Ind. (AP) -- Waitress Jessica Osborne is getting more than a good tip. She's getting $10,000 for her college education.

The 20-year-old waits tables at a Pizza Hut in northeast Indiana.

The money is from a mother and her two sons who are regular customers, but don't want to be named.

Osborne says she'd told the family how she had started college twice before, but had to quit because she didn't have the money. Osborne says the $10,000 gift made her cry so hard, she couldn't breathe. And she's having trouble getting people to believe her. Osborne says a co-worker thought she was lying.

THE DEAL OF PAIN (By Robert Chapman)

How many times do we avoid certain issues in life simply because they either hurt too much or leave us fealing angry? Too often we neglect to remember times in our past when the reflection in the mirror held the image of the truth, the image of hurt, pain, bitterness, and heartbreak.

Last night I went to watch the Morrison Heights Baptist Church senior high youth choir, and although that is a mouthful of letters and syllables, they did a great job presenting their message. One thing they did that caught my attention was talk about real life events in a way that seemed not to hold back any punches. One of the topics the drama touched on was dealing with an alcoholic parent who is nothing but negative.

This got me to thinking as I caught myself starting to feel a little uneasy with the subject. First of all, the fact that I was made uncomfortable is evidence to the fact that their message was strong and to the point. It created in me a need to examine my own life.

I noticed myself thinking to myself, “Self, isn’t this odd how you haven’t dealt with alcoholism in your family, but you still feel uneasy with such blatant talk and dramatic scenes?!”

Many people that I know have dealt with alcoholism or addiction in one form or another; whether it was an addiction that held onto them tightly or it was a family member or friend that it haunted.

What I’m trying to get at is the fact that “unpretty” topics such as addiction, divorce, or the death of someone we know and love, they all leave us in a state of confusion and uncomfortable depression.

For us who have dealt with any of this, and those of you who will, try not to shy away from a 20/20 episode or a Sunday school lesson that stirs uneasiness in your heart and your soul. Deal with it! If only for the reason to reflect on the subject and remember where you once were and where you are now.

It is easy and fun to remember that time when you were with your buddies goofing off or with your friends doing something fun. However, it is hard to think about those painful memories, but it is necessary for you to develop in to the man or woman you are to be.

FRIDAY BLURBS

Good late afternoon to all. Today is going to be blurb blog day!

Pat Fordice, the former First Lady of Mississippi, died earlier today. She has been fighting cancer for a while and has finally gone home. She will eternally be remember in this great state. Oh, and if you litter, her spirit will haunt you!

Saturday night is the Miss Mississippi finale for 2007. Tune in and you'll be able to see a parade of beauties sprouting about with a collective IQ of 17. With the joking aside, these 47 young ladies are looking for a chance to become Miss Mississippi and progress not only their careers but the careers of the Miss Mississippi programing board. Watch for 40 of them to sing, six of them to dance, and one to give a dramatic monologue (because she can't do either of the prior). My prediction: second runner up blondie, first runner up, dark headed girl, and the winner is . . . the wonderful people of the state of Mississippi

As we find ourselves in the middle of July, school is just around the corner. For many children, they will begin school for the first time while others will return to raise havoc with their old friends for one more school year. Teachers, beware.

This will be my first weekend at home after I've been married. The first weekend we were on the honeymoon, and last weekend we were in Perdido, Florida. Instead of relaxing I will be painting and watching baseball. Have a wonderful weekend!

A CRUISE DOWN MEMORY LANE (By Candy Anderson)

I could only wish that the first memory that came to my mind after reading your blog was about the fourth grade. At that age, one can attribute one’s mentality to the influences of age, immaturity, and stupidity.

It is when you find yourself a married mother of two that deferring to age and immaturity does not factor in quite as legitimately, thus leaving stupidity to be one’s only plea.

In June of (I’ll leave out the year), Ken and I chaperoned Parkway’s Senior Trip to the Bahamas. Mind you, we are talking carnival here. Not Carnival, but carnival. Upon arriving in Miami to board our vessel for our “Barefoot Cruise,” (registered trademark), I thought we were boarding a smaller boat that would take us to the bigger boat. The smaller boat was the bigger boat. Clue number 1. It was a 65-foot sailboat with Captain Ron at the helm. Not really Captain Ron, I think his name was Captain Mark. However, shortly after departing the midnight Miami shore, Captain Mark became Captain Ken, and Captain Mark became asleep. Second clue.

I could proceed from here, but your nerves couldn’t take it. I’ll leave out the parts about never locating a radio nor seeing even the first life vest the entire week. Neither will I bore you with the daily menus which were planned by and prepared by, you guessed it, the passengers. Don’t even venture to inquire as to exactly how many of us were on board, what the restroom facilities were like, nor what means of communication we had with the civilized world. A lot, limited, and none.

Recently, I told my friend Melanie about this trip. She laughed at most of what I said, doubting many of my details. Remembering that, somewhere, I had a copy of a fellow cruiser’s VHS tape which chronicled the cruise (and which I had never watched), I found it; we began to view it as I provided additional commentary.

The viewing didn’t seem to bother Mel nearly as much as it bothered me. After only about two minutes into the documentary, I thought to myself, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? YOU WERE AN IDIOT, AND YOU WERE AN IDIOT RESPONSIBLE FOR OTHER IDIOTS.”

It’s really bad when an adult remembers an adult event and concludes absolute stupidity.

On the day of my viewing with my friend, I panicked as I watched, even becoming a bit seasick thinking about all the “what if's?” Too many to enumerate here, but a few include storms, hurricanes, lost at sea, drug runners, drug felons, injuries from sharks, barracudas, piranhas (we saw, even swam in their midst), drowning, death, orphaned children (mine), and parental lawsuits from deceased seniors. All at once, I paused and thanked God that He protected and delivered all of us “dingies” that sailed on that dingy.

The only benefit of my stupidity was that I really did enjoy the adventure.
I’ll loan you the video if you want to watch it.

THE TRUTH OF MEMORY (By Robert Chapman)

When we tell stories to people, whether you are nearing old age, there already, or simply reminiscing to friends your own age, do we really tell the story as it occurred or do we tell of what and how we remember the event?

I firmly believe that the truth is something most of us can’t comprehend fully. We see facts and we witness the truth, but our memory and our personality and raising and influences of the like manipulate how we interpret the truth after we see it.

The summer of ’94 was the summer after my third grade year, my first school year in Clinton. When that summer arrived, my parents decided for me to meet new friends and for them to get settled in the new town that I would be sent to the YMCA day camp. I didn’t know a soul there when I arrived, but when I left, I knew everyone, ranging from kindergarteners to college kids working at the camp (like good ol’ Russ Wardlaw).

Each group had a HQ where we met up around 8:30 in the morning to take role and where we would also meet to eat lunch. Ours was on the swinging bridge in the middle of the playground. With the new friends I met, we would run wild around the enormous playground, forming our own little society with unwritten, unspoken rules. These simple understandings would form how we would grow up in the Arrow world, form ideas of who we were and who we were to become.

At the YMCA, I learned that you have to play soccer and baseball at Traceway to be accepted by friends. I learned that Adidas Sambas were the shoes to wear, but if you wore Adidas Gazelles, you were a touch above the rest. I learned that you have to have speed skates, your own speed skates, to be accepted at Funtime Skateland, as well as listen to the new radio station that all the cool kids listened to, Y101.

Being so young and impressionable, we all were subjected to the same introductory elements. We were introduced to legitimate rules and new freedoms. We were encouraged to solve our own squabbles and to question whether or not our arguments held merit.

The largest memory I have of the YMCA is the giant “inside” where we would go when it rained. The room was massive. Every child could fit in there and have room to play. Sure, it got pretty loud, but we didn’t care. We would play with our friends and have all the teachers around, even those we rarely saw because they were with the younger kids all day.

There in that huge building and room I learned how to perfect a spin-move in the game that dominated the camp, four-square. I could stay in the number four square longer than anyone my age. I gained notoriety from that game. There in that massive complex, I found my first crush, and seriously thought I had a shot with her. Angie Dees was, I thought, the prettiest thing I had ever seen. I got so shy around her. Today, my mother and my wife tease me about Angie Dees, especially when we see her parents at church.

The summer ended, the teachers went back to college, we progressed on to higher grades, but the four-square court was still there, the playground was there, too. The only thing that remained of that summer camp was the memory that was imprinted in our minds.

One day while I was sitting in a freshman-lit class, my instructor, Scott Morris (wonderful individual) said something to this degree: “To return to a memory is wonderful because you can see it reflected in your daily life. However, to return to the place where the memory was constructed could destroy the memory altogether.”

I returned to that playground. The playground equipment was gone, and the field seemed smaller. I walked into that building, too. The room was no longer enormous. It hadn’t changed size at all. In fact, it was still exactly the same. I had changed. I had grown. It was no longer a room full of entertainment and fun but instead it was a ghost of the past that revealed to me that a memory is a personal item. A memory is not necessarily truth, but it is part of my own truth, part of my makeup.

Tell your stories, tell your memories, but if given the opportunity to return to your memory, take a second thought to it. Remember that it might be the same, but you’re not the same. But, sometimes, do go back and witness the progression in your own life. If we didn’t grow and nothing changed, I’d be a funny looking 22 year old boy about to go into fourth grade, trying to make it to the big time league of four-square with a killer spin move that would leave you thinking, “What just happened!?” Instead, I’ll listen to your stories about your past, whether they are true or not, but only as long as they are true to you.

IS IT NAP TIME YET? (By Robert Chapman)

I can’t quite figure out which is more difficult, finding something to write about on a Friday or staying awake as the rain makes that “come on, sleep” sound in downtown Jackson.

I’m at my desk and I heard someone make a crack that “we are getting six weeks of rain in three days.” Rather than complaining that it is raining outside, I’m just glad that my yard is getting some water, and my water bill is getting a break.

After nearly two weeks of being married, Megan and I still like each other and we still talk kindly to each other. Get back to me with how long you think we can keep this up. I made dinner last night, and surprised Meg by making shrimp alfredo on angel hair pasta. Let’s just say I did good and earned brownie points by cleaning up the kitchen afterwards.

After we both get off of work, we are heading down to Perdido Key, Florida to enjoy some relaxation and sunshine. The only thing is we’re coming back Sunday and work starts bright and early on Monday morning. I’m longing for NEXT weekend.

My mother’s birthday is tomorrow, but we won’t be here to celebrate it with her. However, Meg and I are taking her out Monday night to her favorite Mexican restaurant, Margaritas. Happy 29th Birthday, Mom!!!

That’s the news from the Chapman Commossion. Have a great weekend!

OUT OF THE ORDINARY, INTO THE SAME OLD ROUTINE (By Robert Chapman)

Routine – just looking at the word creates a sense of fondness in each of us. We see the word “routine” and we instinctively think about our own routine. Each little routine is choreographed masterfully, leaving each step to be as beautiful as a ballerina gliding across the stage with beautiful violins lifting the angelic figure above the ground making it seem as if she is not controlled by Newton and his invention, gravity.

Routine – we’ve all be dictated by the beat of something-or-another, making us seem to not have choice to differentiate from the left or the right. Each beat has its own movement, and each one of us has our own beat.

Routine – if you look at each aspect of your own life, think about the fact that you are governed by routine. We have to make sure that we wake up to the wonderful sound of the alarm clock to start our morning routine. We brush our teeth (some of us, at least), we shower (once again, some of us), and we either find ourselves drowning in a cup of coffee or yelling at bubba-boy who can’t drive properly on our way to work.

We have a routine in which we follow during our cleaning sessions at where ever we might be. We have a routine we perform while we cook, while we travel, while we bathe, and even while we sleep (I face my left on my left side then flop over to my right side and drift to sleep . . . don’t get me started again about my OCD).

We complain about the routine, but when we travel and get out of our routine, we always say we can’t wait to get back into the “swing of things” which really means you miss your old routine.

Sometimes we have our routine stripped away from us. How do we cope with such violations? Some of us don’t have a choice but to follow a new routine. Come to think of it, having to follow a new routine is actually following the same old routine – the routine of life.

Try to recognize newness in your life, even when it seems as if the same-old-same-old is reoccurring over and over again (not to sound redundant and say thing same thing twice AND repeat myself – har har har).

True story: My senior year in high school I was complaining to everyone that nothing in my life was progressing and that everyday seemed exactly like the same. So, to express my boredom I wrote a poem entitled “Monotony.” It basically said that life never changes and nothing happens and nothing will. Now, remember, this is a true story. Later that day, I was walking to my Isuzu Rodeo in the Clinton High School parking lot where I saw something around the back that didn’t look right. My window is in a million pieces on the ground. I looked into the SUV and saw that my speakers and my guitar was gone; stolen!

I have often heard people say to be careful what you wish for, but I learned to be careful what I complain about. We often complain about everything; it’s in our routine, our nature.
Make it part of your routine to find the newness. If there isn’t any newness, don’t complain because I promise, it is there, you just have to find it. Maybe looking for something kind and nice is something that is new to your life, instead of finding the negative in it all. I only saw negative and I lost more happiness because of it.

If you want to, find a mirror and smile. I bet you have never really watched yourself smile in the last month. Smile and I promise the person in the mirror that smiles at you will make you smile . . . try to prove me wrong!

HONEYMOON PICTURES

I'm back from the honeymoon and life is kickin' off! Here are a few pictures from the honeymoon and I'll be posting this week. Don't forget, send me some of your stuff!!!
~Robert



This is us in front of our ship, "The Majesty of the Sea" in Nassau, Bahamas.


This is us in front of Earnest Hemingway's Key West home.


In Key West we found Mile Marker 0 . . . It is where US-1 begins.
At the Hemingway House, there were 48 cats and Meg found one of them.


This is me trying to give a thoughtful smile at the Hemingway House, but instead I just look exhausted (because we were).


I took Meg to her first pro-baseball game, Braves v. Marlins (or as she calls them, the fish).

You can ask Meg, her favorite part of the trip was the dinners and the shows. Here we are at one of the many shows on the boat.