Pink Allison

Well, for now, I'll post about Pink Allison on my personal blog. After a while, should things go well, I'll get something together specifically for Pink Allison.

So, what is a Pink Allison?

I've been asked this question a lot in varying forms. What does it mean? Where did it come from? For reasons beyond my understanding, I haven't just straight up and given the answer. Well, the time has come, and the answer is simple. Pink Allison is my skateboard. Was my skateboard. Like, years ago. Damn, I'm old....

Once upon a time, there was a teenage boy. As most teenage boys do, he rode a skateboard. Thrashed mad hard... whatever that means. He bought a deck. Being poor (and also not willing to go into debt for a Tony Hawk pro deck), he bought a basic deck. This deck was a nice shade of hot pink. Melt-the-skin-off-your-face hot pink. He loved it.
One day, out with his brother and friends, they ran into some members of the opposite sex. This teenage boy had the hots for one of them, and as conversation flowed, he came up with the brilliant idea to ask: "What's your name?" Thinking to sweeten the pot (for God knows why), he added: "I'll name my skateboard after you." (As you do.) And thus the name Pink Allison was born, the offspring of youthful lust, spontaneity, and lackluster imagination. The end.

The name stuck with me. Allison was forgotten, but Pink Allison was not. And through the years, it's grown from marking up skate decks with Sharpie designs to marking up ball caps and t-shirts to being this symbol of longing, of passion, of adventure, this idea of trying and being something more.

So, what does it mean? Any number of things. Take your pick. For me, it's just an expression of myself, the whole of me in a nutshell. It's a beautiful contradiction, an embrace of the past while jumping into the future. Come jump with me and follow along with Pink Allison.

You can find some shirts at with the old logo at www.cafepress.com/pinkallison. Buy one and save a panda. Those are two separate commands... :-)

America: As It Happens...

... I'm there.

A. The aisles are wide. Wider than I remember. And long, too. They go on for miles, it seems, shelves weighed down by product after product. It's like if Trial took a hefty swig of some super-soldier serum the result would be Walmart. To be fair to Walmart, though, the atmosphere isn't as stuffy and everything is neatly stacked, more or less. On the other hand, they are both full of Yankees/yankiis.

B. The one positive beyond all the other positives about Costco back in Kitakyushu is that it got me acclimated to the big warehouse feel. I walk into Sam's with my mom, and I'm not overwhelmed by the immensity. I am, however, underwhelmed by the pizza. I mean, the pizza at Costco was stupendous. Literally (in a non-literal sense) infusing my tastebuds with happiness beyond measure. It clogged my arteries in equal measure, but every good thing must have smidge of bad. I mean, seriously, if you haven't tasted Costco pizza--and I'm specifically talking to you Japan folks--go get some of that cheesy goodness. Do it. Now.

For everyone else (there's MasterCard... JOKES), I'll be damned if I find a better pineapple-and-anchovies pizza better than the one tossed and sauced at Cogan's in Norfolk. Can't beat it. Won't beat it. Just eat it. (I feel like a Ninja Turtle....)

C. Something happened in Japan. My dress style slowly changed. I don't know what it was or how it happened, but somehow, my jeans got skinnier and skinnier, and my shirts got tighter and tighter. Call it "turning Japanese." It's a style I bring back to the States. One a hipster might identify with. (Maybe I became a closet hipster during my time away.) It's not something you see in Rocky Mount, NC. Not really.

So, I'm standing in line with my friends to catch a showing of Hunger Games: Catching Fire, a good flick that I wholeheartedly recommend. I'm wearing the skinnies my brother gave me. They're those acid-wash, faded looking type. Too tight for him, he says. I've got my blue Vans high-tops on, and I'm sporting my customary hoodie because 1) it's customary and 2) it's damn cold outside. I overhear conversation (because I can do that now), catching a soundbite of the one behind me. "Honey, the style's changing these days," a woman's voice soothingly says to the man's ear. He's not having it. He harrumphs. I smile. I rock my skinnies.

D. IHOP. The meal size is humongous. No. It was humongous back in 2008 before I left. It's gargantuan now. I don't care. I devour. Because, dammit, late-night pancakes are my right as an American! Also, because they are extraordinarily delicious (and no one can convince me otherwise)!

E. You didn't watch much TV in Japan. You couldn't understand it, linguistically or culturally. So, being able to watch TV again is pretty awesome. You gobble every minute of television, soak it in and bathe in understanding. At first, the commercials are hilarious. You laugh at most of them. Then you see most of them again. "Well, okay, CM, I'll have another laugh." And you do. But as they replicate like Agent Smiths free of the code, as they assault your senses with not-so-subtle messages of consumerism, you realize you didn't really miss this. You flip on Netflix and watch Orange is the New Black 'cause Netflix is the new TV. Screw commercials!

F. Family came from Canada. They came from Florida, and they came from New York. They all came to Rocky Mount. The middle of nowhere, granted recognition and accessibility by virtue of I-95... and not much else. They came because it's where my family lives. They came because we wanted to spend time together, to pull in the scattered strands of extended family and, if only for a moment, reconnect. And we did. And I am thankful. Thankful for the catch-ups, the laughs, and the meals. Thankful for the opportunity to be with family once again on Thanksgiving Day. Kinda beats turkey from the Hilton. By something like a long shot.