tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-152724572024-03-13T12:16:58.101-07:00 CLIZBIZFarmer Snowbird Hanging in My HometownHeather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.comBlogger725125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-46710134173139204282017-01-14T16:57:00.001-08:002017-01-14T16:57:33.338-08:00Army of Comedians: Ready to Launch!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>“May you live in
interesting times” goes an old curse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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And so they are, and here we are. </div>
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What to do? Join a march? Live in denial? Move to Norway? (The
Canada Plan is so passé.) </div>
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Though my preferred candidate did not win on November 8<sup>th</sup>,
I cannot exist in fear and anger - an unproductive and toxic state. But pondering
the next four years, I know that, at minimum, we’re going to need an Army of
Comedians – people that listen hard, think critically and take communicative
risks. Crucial to our societal health are those that observe and hold up a lens
with no filter. </div>
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In President Obama’s farewell speech this week, he quoted
Atticus Finch, the lawyer from “To Kill a Mockingbird”:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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“You never really understand a person until you consider
things from his point of view – until you climb into his skin and walk around
in it.” </div>
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Last summer, I was co-running a day camp for kids teaching
comedy, music and writing. “Make bold character choices,” I told them, “take
that rare opportunity to become someone radically different.” </div>
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Ethan, a talented kid, wrestled with the concept. “Don’t you
ever get tired of being a 10-year-old boy?” I asked him. </div>
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He pondered, and then brightened. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I
do!” </div>
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“So then, be a 90-year-old Chinese lady or 30-year-old
Italian truck driver for a few minutes,” I said. “Go on a tour of their heads,
their lives, their concerns. Take a break from being Ethan and just be someone else.”
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His face lit up and moments later, Ethan became Igor, a
Russian hairdresser (and occasional hit man) complete with heavy accent and a
preference for up-dos and Kalishnikovs, thus conquering the lesson. The moment
felt like an important breakthrough with value far beyond comedy itself - like planting wee seeds of future empathy. </div>
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In the coming years, I will channel my energy into the next
generation. I’m launching a new business, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/armyofcomedians/">Army of Comedians</a>, which consists of
me as a mobile improv teacher. <b>That’s right, I come to you.</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b> </b> </span>Got a Boy Scout meeting, slumber party or other
kid gathering where ‘entertainment’ is needed? Consider exposing the kidlets to improvisational games, scene-building and character work. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
comedic naturals, they eat it up. </div>
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I will also offer improv workshops to adults, ideal for
those inevitable team-building workplace events. Learning to think on your
feet, trust your gut and just plain ol' <i>pretend </i>can break down walls you didn’t
even know existed. Plus, belly laughs are inevitable and crazy good for you. <br />
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Additionally, I will expand my Listening Workshops for
adults as well. As I travel this country, I see us in our cozy
bubbles with little or no understanding of opposing thought. Add to this the ‘cell
phone zombie’ factor and we’ve got a world with diminishing face-to-face
interaction and even less attention span. </div>
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When I think about where we are as a nation – half
distraught and incredulous, and the other half excited and vindicated - I
realize we’ve become strangers. We need to talk to one another, off-line. We
must put the phones down, look someone in the eye and listen to another life. </div>
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We need to put ourselves aside and walk around in it. </div>
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****</div>
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For more information about Army of Comedians or a Listening
Workshop, please drop me an email (clizbiz at gmail dot com) or contact me through the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/armyofcomedians/">AoC Facebook page</a>. </div>
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Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-86573392102953304722015-06-10T21:56:00.001-07:002015-06-10T21:56:40.837-07:00Woman In a Suitcase*<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"So, where do you live?" <br /><br />It's a simple question, really, a standard get-to-know-you inquiry, but I am flummoxed every time. 'Good question,' I think, 'Nowhere? Everywhere? Anywhere?' <br /><br />A friend once described me as "the girl without a home" but I think the opposite is true. I'm not so much home-less as I am home-ful. These past few years, I have lived in my <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/">North Dakota farm trailer</a> while also playing houseguest in Colorado, New Mexico, Mississippi, Minnesota, Arizona, Oregon and most especially, Southern California. My license plate is from North Dakota, my mail goes to Long Beach and my cell's area code is all Denver, baby. <br /><br />And so, the question remains: Where do I live?<br />
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Usually, one's residence is tied to a job. Here again, there is no
simple answer. I have not worked in an office since May 2006, right
about the time I gave up the land line and the television. Since then,
it's just been me and my MacBook Pro, my beat up iPhone 4S (also my
wi-fi-hotspot) and Netflix. In this way, all my professional and
cultural needs are met without fuss. I have at least one client who
assumes I work from a fancy office in San Francisco (Why correct them?)
and another who occasionally asks, "What time zone are you in?"
Otherwise, no one needs to know that I have conducted eight-person
conference calls with tractors rolling by my trailer window. The
Internet came along just in time. <br /><br />But again, this extreme mobility can prove challenging. Recently, I was asked by a media release outlet, "Where is your agency located?" <br /><br />Turns out, "In my head." was not an adequate response. I tried again. "You know, the agency moves with me. It goes where I go. On my laptop. Whatever. I mean, it's 2015, I can't be the first person who lives like this." <br /><br />Silence. <br /><br />"Fine. Los Angeles, then, if that helps." <br /><br />"Yes, it does," said the woman, shaking her head out there, somewhere.<br />
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And so, as I face down the smoking hot barrel of 50 (December!), I am getting signs it's time to slow pace, pick a spot, settle down and be An Adult. I long for my own kitchen, a yard to mess with and a doggie of my very own. Most of all, I badly want to repay all those hosts who opened up their guest rooms, offering fresh towels and keys to their front door. But the Universe has a sick sense of humor, so the biggest sign of all? <br /><br />My suitcase zipper broke. <br /><br />***<br /><br />*Anyone pick up this reference? </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-27807940016582036052014-05-13T16:22:00.001-07:002014-05-13T16:22:50.997-07:00Gone Farmin'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where the fun never ends. </td></tr>
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My season of unrestrained urban-beach-y fun has come to a seasonal close as I trade in my lipstick for chapstick, flip-flops for work boots and gritty smog for deep black soil. Time to change hats, hit the road and return to the farm. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My NM family</td></tr>
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I type this from my 'home' in Albuquerque, where I park myself for several days each year to visit with my sister-friend, Laurianna, and bond with her two lovely boys, Wyatt (14) and Jack (6), my godson. (Also, Molly and Tess, their two Labs who sleep next to me in the living room. Tess is a snoring expert.) I am grateful for this beautiful spot in the desert where I can recharge for a few days and prepare my body and mind for the time zone changes.<br />
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Every winter, I fall more in love with my beautiful hometown of Long Beach and all the magic of Southern California. Sure, there are way too many people there (10M+ in LA County) but there's a reason for that, it is spectacularly beautiful and blessed place with plenty of freeways to explore.<br />
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And the culture? Exciting, innovative, nonstop. The talent pool here is relentlessly mind-bending - I bump into creative geniuses all the time. I joined a friendly, helpful writer's group in Belmont Shore and a bluegrass jam group in Recreation Park because I'm here, I'm greedy and I can. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Music in the park - amateurs welcome </td></tr>
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Culinary choices? Anything and everything - fresh, local, amazing and every ethnic cuisine you could possibly imagine. Whatever your indulgence - fish tacos on the beach, sushi in the desert, Indian food at 7200 ft. - can be had in one day. Oh, how I will miss the delicious mosaic of this LA bounty!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, sushi, how I love thee!</td></tr>
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And don't forget outdoor recreation. Of course, I ran, ran, ran but I also went paddleboarding with my buddy, Deb, rode my bike along the beach path and even joined a gang of very lively seniors for pool volleyball. It was awesome and hilarious - like re-living <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s9BSsIX2j7M">"Cocooon"</a> every week. Never a dull<br />
moment. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paddleboarding with Debbie</td></tr>
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Of course, everything has a flip side and seductive variety means quadruple the hassle. The biggest readjustments I always have switching my city-to-country gears is issues of community trust and car-related anxieties. Did I lock it? Where-o-where am I going to park it? Holy Moses, how much is it per hour? Wait, is tomorrow street sweeping? Is this a neighborhood where <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/2013/11/robbed.html">junkies are going to mess with my stuff?</a> <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reminders at my Lakewood YMCA</td></tr>
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There is an entire layer of Parking/Crime Anxiety that dissolves
the moment I cross the North Dakota border and I so cherish that feeling. To quote a NoDak friend: "House key? I haven't seen my house key in six years." <br />
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(Side tangent: About a month ago, I messed up and left my car in line for the street sweeping meter maid. That familiar mechanical <i>swissssssh</i> woke me with a terrible start - I FORGOT! I raced outside in my PJs and saw the 'maid' - a dude, actually - already writing me up. I knocked furiously on his window, which he generously drew down and I sputtered a monologue of sheer desperation straight at his face: "...but I've been so good...three years without a ticket!....and this ONE TIME...and I, a farmer of modest means .... and oh, PLEASE!" Or something like that. He sat silent for a moment, then handed me a blank envelope, looked around to see if anyone saw and said quietly, "Just take this and don't say anything. DO NOT HUG ME. Just take the envelope and let me drive away." I did exactly as instructed but I was so grateful, I had to do something so I saluted him. He rolled up his window, looked at me, laughed, shook his head and drove away. Whew! That was a close one.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scientologists have done nothing to address crime or the drought - just sayin'</td></tr>
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This season, the drought weighed heavily on the Californian mind, a concept foreign to flood-weary NoDak. As a result, I noted a number of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xeriscaping">xeriscaped</a> lawns. To address the water shortage, Long Beach<a href="http://www.lblawntogarden.com/"> will pay a homeowner</a> $5 for every square foot of useless lawn that is ripped up and replaced with a drought-resistant landscape. Lawns have never made sense to me - you put all this money and effort into growing something that you never walk on or use, only to cut it down the moment it grows. Waste. Of. Water. <br />
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Also, I see a renewed interest in home vegetable gardens among friends and acquaintances. I think folks are really catching on to the health and economic benefits plus that liberating, self-reliant aspect which is a big turn-on for many of us.<br />
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A few times this season, I volunteered my knowledge, labor and enthusiasm to garden causes. I was a consultant to the Dominguez Rancho in their plans for a Children's Garden. Though I had to leave before they broke ground, I spent several afternoons at this oasis of green surrounded by the industrial greys of shipping, trucking and railroads. Heavenly.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Site of the new Childrens Garden at the Rancho</td></tr>
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I also put some time in at <a href="http://lagreengrounds.org/">LA Green Grounds</a>, a wonderful non-profit that tackles the urban food deserts of the inner city by planting gardens at schools, empty lots and front yards. Recently, we planted a front yard garden for a couple in South Central who wanted to set an example for the neighborhood. Brilliant ideas - like seeds - start small and grow quickly in fertile soil.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4S8Ecag4OuU/U3KnDLFZVoI/AAAAAAAAH9c/QpDpIjv4dSQ/s1600/IMG_5808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4S8Ecag4OuU/U3KnDLFZVoI/AAAAAAAAH9c/QpDpIjv4dSQ/s1600/IMG_5808.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I hope to get some planting done around Memorial Day Weekend but we'll just see what Mama Nature has planned. She's the boss of me now... the Queen will have to wait.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xcLuqgsHtbE/U3KmgIRP8VI/AAAAAAAAH9U/SO_0J7zBoeE/s1600/IMG_1334.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xcLuqgsHtbE/U3KmgIRP8VI/AAAAAAAAH9U/SO_0J7zBoeE/s1600/IMG_1334.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Queen Mary and her devoted subject</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
To be continued on my other blog, <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/">Second Chance Ranch.</a> </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-80182193810972825072014-03-07T16:37:00.002-08:002014-03-08T13:47:52.828-08:00When The Man Lets You Down<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><b>“Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.”
</b></i></div>
<b><i></i></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a man who introduced himself so many times, I expected
to know him better. Robert Hilburn’s deep dive into “The Life” of my biggest
hero left me reeling with an unwelcome enlightenment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d heard the beloved Man in Black was, at the
very least, a terrible driver but that’s the least of it.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-191kczhTsVM/Uxpj8iJ6UCI/AAAAAAAAH3E/OPGd73A-REY/s1600/index.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-191kczhTsVM/Uxpj8iJ6UCI/AAAAAAAAH3E/OPGd73A-REY/s1600/index.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.latimes.com/books/jacketcopy/la-ca-jc-robert-hilburn-20131027,0,1784502.story#ixzz2vKJ4FR7a">Author Robert Hilburn and the cover of, "Johnny Cash: The Life." (Christopher Morris; Little, Brown and Company)</a></td></tr>
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That the book - all 638 pages of it - landed mysteriously on
my doorstep sans note or sender ID seemed fitting. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew the book contained unsavory details and
looked forward to the experience like a dog facing a bath. Eventually, the surprise
gift was traced to my old buddy, Pete, my musical mentor since 1991. “I can’t
believe you even had to ask!” he huffed. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">If you haven’t read
the book and plan to, please don’t read any further - there will likely be
spoilers and I mean that in the truest sense. </b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Johnny Cash was, for myself and millions, a man of truth,
integrity and love. Fiercely independent, he cut his own path in the American
music world where country, folk, rock, blues and gospel each took turns,
claiming him as their own. Throughout his wildly prolific career (roughly
1954-2003), Johnny Cash issued 96 albums, toured the world constantly,
performing for millions, and collected numerous awards, including seven Grammys
and the National Medal of Arts. </div>
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<br /></div>
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A dedicated student of the Bible, Cash’s spiritual life was
carefully cultivated and celebrated musically; he was a devout Christian who took
great joy in discussing gospel. Johnny Cash was also a family man, father to
five children and a loving husband to his wife, June Carter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He saw the good in people and often spoke up the silent – the Native Americans, the drug addicts and, of course, prison
inmates. Cash was dearly loved and revered by millions and to this day, remains
a beloved American icon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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He was also kind of an asshole.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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It pains me to type this but the evidence is overwhelming.
Knowing now in great detail the MANY times he disappointed and hurt those he
loved, I can only come to this thorny conclusion. Certainly, much of his bad
behavior and thoughtless transgressions could be traced directly to his pill
problem, which consumed his life like a ravenous wildfire. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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And speaking of fire, there was that time (June 1965) when
Cash – high as a kite - carelessly burned 508 acres of the Los Padres National
Forest, driving off 49 endangered California condors from their refuge. “I
don’t care about your damn yellow buzzards,” he snarled in court. The
government sued him and he eventually had to pay $82,000. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Later, his mother, Carrie, asked about the incident, and
Cash blamed his nephew, Damon, for leaving him to die. In reality, Damon not
only saved Cash’s life but was forced to hit him with a tree branch to do so,
raving maniac that he was. Years later, Cash sent a limo for Damon to see him
in concert. Damon sent the chauffeur back with a message for his famous uncle:
“FUCK YOU.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ideLLoUwBYg/UxpidI-gqQI/AAAAAAAAH2s/Xe_Vex1WhiM/s1600/johnny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ideLLoUwBYg/UxpidI-gqQI/AAAAAAAAH2s/Xe_Vex1WhiM/s1600/johnny.jpg" height="200" width="145" /></a></div>
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John R. Cash was imperfect and nobody knew this more than
the man himself. The speed triggered so many awful scenarios but the twin-headed
monster was his immense grief over his brother Jack’s death and the crushing
weight of being Johnny Cash whom the world looked up to and admired. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I do not blame Mr. Hilburn for delivering these revelations.
As a longtime reader of the Los Angeles Times, his work is both familiar and
widely respected. That he worked so closely with the Cash family and received
their blessing to write a warts-and-all final word on the Man in Black reveals
that this was not a mission he took lightly. His exhaustive interest in Cash
obviously drove him toward the truth, as the Man himself would have it. </div>
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<br /></div>
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These terrible insights also come to me just as key male
figures in my own life have fallen from pedestals. It is confounding and
painful, one of those bitter-tasting adulthood realities. Historical facts have
come to light, new behaviors developed and an overall awareness that my
youthful perceptions must be updated whether I like it or not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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As with so many basic life lessons, I’ve arrived late to their
obviousness. Hold on, people we look up to sometimes let us down? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get outta here! Emotionally, I’m a late bloomer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(This means, of course, that I too must come up short in the
eyes of others. What? No! YES. Love is knowing someone and loving them anyway -
a policy I would certainly like employed in my direction, please.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IxJIw6pwzms/UxpjId5gazI/AAAAAAAAH24/UWu1HjNnMdA/s1600/JohnnyandJune.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IxJIw6pwzms/UxpjId5gazI/AAAAAAAAH24/UWu1HjNnMdA/s1600/JohnnyandJune.jpg" height="200" width="157" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, such facts as they are, have no affect on my
admiration for Cash. I checked with my heart and all that gooey love is still
there, levels normal. In fact, this one-sided feeling of ‘closeness' has only intensified. Though I've already thought of him as my favorite uncle for years, occasionally forgetting he was actually famous, this icon is quite real to me now - less legend, more
man. Not a bad position. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Truth, is, vice-less people give me the heebies. Food,
sex, drugs, shopping, booze or adrenalin – everybody turns to something,
healthy or not. It was society’s supreme stroke of luck that Cash turned his
darkness inside out in moving songs for the world to embrace.<br />
<br />
For this son of Arkansas, it
was always the music that saved him, along with God and love, and it's his music that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OkDJt5GutqA">continues to save us</a> in return.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
For an insightful review - from the 'fellow junkie' perspective - of this book, please check out <a href="http://fangsforum.blogspot.com/2014/03/when-man-goes-to-town.html">Fang's Forum</a>. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-9658156586246856902014-02-18T21:29:00.002-08:002014-02-19T10:12:31.670-08:00One Angry Organ<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Worth it? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We don't know our own bodies until large parts of it rebel. <br />
<br />
Such was the case last Sunday. I was in Del Mar, just north of San Diego, running the inaugural <a href="http://www.cal1020.com/">UT-California 10/20 race</a> - 10 miles, 20 bands. Weather-wise, it was a perfect day - heavy fog which slowly burned off to a cozy cloud cover, out of the direct sun. The track wound through the Del Mar Fairgrounds, past empty horse stables and along Pacific Coast Highway, through Solana Beach with a turnaround in Encinitas. As promised, we enjoyed a different live band at nearly every mile marker as we took in the quaint shops, the San Elijo Lagoon and the rolling waves of the Pacific Ocean. Lovely. <br />
<br />
Visually, that is. Physically, it was tough. Though I'd recently run as far as 5 miles in my desert training, I was not prepared for double that distance. My running coach and friend, Jaime, (who has a foot injury) had come along for support with her sister, Lisa, (who drove) and Lisa's daughter, Andrea. My pick-up time in Long Beach was 4:45 a.m.; the race began at 7:30 a.m. My attitude was pure zen. "I'll just do my best," I said. <br />
<br />
I am no athlete, my body is more writer-shaped. I have zero competitive drive on the physical front; my ego lies somewhere in the arts. Tell me I am slow and uncoordinated (the truth, as such), and I will shrug. Tell me that I lack wit or intelligence and I will eviscerate you with my sharp tongue. Hence, my simple goal was to beat the garbage sweeper and to not die. In that sense, I 'won' the race at 2:30 hrs. <br />
<br />
I ran most of the distance, about 7 miles, before switching to a walk/run approach. I had begun my menstrual cycle the day before and thought nothing of its effect on my performance. Other than keeping giant horsepills of ibuprofen on my person (600 mg. each), I made no allowances. About Mile 8, my uterus began to complain, so I downed a pill, with one of the many cups of water and/or Gatorade offered by volunteers. Mile 9 brought no change, so I took another. I had now taken 2400 mg. of ibuprofen since waking at 4:15 a.m., which, based on previous experience, should have done the trick. Turns out, I had still had a few things to learn about body chemistry. <br />
<br />
Crossing the Finish Line was joyous, except that I was now in significant pain. Reuniting with my crew, I took in their congratulations, weakly showed off my new medal ("1/3 of a pound!") and quickly found a porta-potty, where I began to moan aloud. I then found a wood palette and laid across that, while my friends stood over me, concerned. Next, I tried - unsuccessfully - to throw up, while my friends stood nearby, more concerned. We made our way over to the beer garden to watch the award ceremony where, instead, I laid in a garden bed, behind a sign. The abdominal pain intensified and I had to marvel at how violent just one organ can be - she was REALLY expressing herself. I then moved indoors, laid in the corner of a large conference room and tried to die in peace, like an old wounded she-bear.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iSEcUsAo21A/UwQ9mzlAT5I/AAAAAAAAH1A/AwPNyHsuHhA/s1600/there-are-no-jobs-in-my-uterus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iSEcUsAo21A/UwQ9mzlAT5I/AAAAAAAAH1A/AwPNyHsuHhA/s1600/there-are-no-jobs-in-my-uterus.jpg" height="221" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Physical pain is a form of transport and the most evil of meditational states. When a body is in searing pain, nothing else matters - not how you look, not the argument you had last night, not your financial status, not your social standing - nothing. All that matters is that your body is very angry and, like all acts of Nature, has no regard for your petty human concerns. Pain is the power of Right Fucking N-OW. <br />
<br />
The first thing to go is ego. Initially, I was terribly embarrassed that my friends were seeing me writhing around in public so soon after witnessing my so-called victory. Quickly, I nearly forgot they were there. The second thing to go is sight; when the pain is so bad, we tend to shut our eyes. I did this. Not happening, not happening, not happening. <br />
<br />
Next to go is hearing. Though I faintly heard exclamations all around me, "Heather! Are you okay?", "Lady, what's wrong?" and "Someone call the paramedics!", I could barely respond. I have 36 years of menstrual cramp experience but this…this was like birthing an enraged demon. If a red-eyed baby gargoyle had popped out, I would have been relieved - at least there would be evidence. <br />
<br />
Next thing I know, an army of cute paramedic dudes are asking me things like, "What is your name?" and "Where are you?" and "What year is it?" And the big one: "On a scale of 1 to 10, ma'am, what pain level are you experiencing?"<br />
<br />
"9!" I barked. <br />
<br />
"Is there any chance you could be pregnant?" <br />
<br />
Oh god. I did the math. "Yes!" I heard a gasp, likely my own. Please Lordy of all Lords, don't let me have a miscarriage. Not like this. Not ever, in fact. <br />
<br />
Of course, the "Where do you live?" question throws me even when I am fully cognizant and pain-free so I'm not sure I ever answered that one. <br />
<br />
At this point, my moaning fills the cavernous room and I was vaguely aware of a crowd forming. They moved me to a chair though I was unable to fully sit up, the pain kept curling up my body like a pill bug. My face dropped down on to the arm of a paramedic. "That's….a….very….fancy….watch," I observed, between lava bursts of searing pain. It was too, some big silver Omega number with a burnt orange face. <br />
<br />
"Thanks! I got it for my birthday." My friends laughed at this exchange. <br />
<br />
As the pain escalated, I began to hyper-ventilate. Omega Man tells me they are going to set up an IV and I freak out further. He searches for a suitable vein but fails so he enlists the help of his co-worker. "Hey buddy, can you try her other arm?" <br />
<br />
Welcome to my personal nightmare. After 25+ facial surgeries growing up, I have a deep fear of needles, hence, no tattoos or heroin habits for me, thanks. There were some unfortunate blood-drawing incidents in my youth and young adulthood that left me crying or passed out and at least one nurse so traumatized, she left the profession. Even the words "Blood Drive" cause me to feel faint. So now, I'm writhing in pain on the floor after running 10 miles and I have two big men wrestling and slapping my twitching, rubber-tied arms trying to open my veins and my head is rolling side to side in protest. Evidently, (I was told later), I yelled, "Noooooo! Stop it!!! STOP IT!!" but it was all in…er, vain. This exact scenario was as close to sheer torture as I ever hope to get. <br />
<br />
After a hideous amount of time (5 minutes? 15? No idea.), somebody found a vein and the IV was in place. They brought a gurney and I must have protested because I recall the paramedic saying, "Trust me, lady. I've been doing this 20 years. You NEED a gurney." I handed my phone, sunglasses and the precious medal I'd earned all of 20 minutes ago over to Jaime. <br />
<br />
Loading me onto the ambulance, I made a warbly, weepy deal with Omega Man. "Okay, but NO LIGHTS. I'm not gonna die or anything." Even then, I knew I would live to screw up another day.<br />
<br />
"Okay. No lights." <br />
<br />
Once in the ambulance, the pain worsened and my breathing became more shallow. My hands and feet were numb and I was shivering so hard, my teeth were chattering. My cute paramedic (aren't they all?) was a dark-haired hero named Tirq, pronounced "Turk." Even as he fussed over me with tubes and machines, he asked my name again and again. I didn't know if he had a bad memory or if was trying to keep me in the moment. <br />
<br />
"So, here's what I think happened," he said. "Your body is dehydrated, low on electrolytes, which induces muscle cramping. Since you were already having menstrual cramps, it just escalated. Now the pain has a hold on you, it's put you into shock. One bad thing triggering another bad thing." <br />
<br />
"MMMMMMM-HMMMMMM," I moaned. <br />
<br />
Tirq then put me on oxygen and hooked me up to another fancy machine. <br />
<br />
"Okay, Heather, you are now breathing 37 times a minute. We need to cut that in half. That's why you are so cold and feeling numb." <br />
<br />
"Ohhhhh-kkkkkkk-aaaaaay," I chattered. <br />
<br />
"Take in a small breath and hold it for 20 seconds…..That's good, keep doing that," he said. <br />
<br />
After a long, painful ride, we arrived at Scripps Hospital in La Jolla, where my nephew, Robbie was born 10 years earlier. I was wheeled in and the sight of a rolling fluorescent hospital ceiling brought instant flashbacks. I was still in a netherworld of pain and could hear professionals discussing my factual person. I was no longer fun-loving Heather, I was a 48-year-old female of a certain height and weight who was experiencing severe cramping, dehydration and a mild state of shock. Pain or no pain, part of me felt sheepish that my diagnosis didn't sound more life threatening but holy shit, did it hurt. <br />
<br />
Initially, I was fussed over by doctors and nurses, all men, which normally would not be an issue but I was hoping for at least one woman who could sympathize. Eventually, a nurse named Elizabeth showed up with heated blankets and an even warmer smile. She also put some painkillers in my IV bag until eventually, the fog of pain lifted and I started to feel human. Lying there, wrapped up in those blankets, watching the emergency room staff run around, talking and laughing with one another, just going about their day jobs, I got that all-too-familiar recovery room feeling; there but not there. I thought about my mother and how I wished she were there like when I was a child and then I sobbed like a baby, while everyone bustled around me. I may have crossed a finish line but at that moment, I felt deeply, deeply beat. <br />
<br />
Eventually, my crew was allowed to visit me bedside and I cracked some weak jokes. I looked straight at Jaime and Lisa and commended them on their birthing of four children. "If the pain of childbirth was anything like that, I am deeply impressed," I said. They smiled and Lisa shrugged, "Eh. You forget about it." <br />
<br />
After an hour or so, I was allowed to leave. "See ya next year!" I said to the staff. Someone handed me my race bib and only then did I notice, it now featured a smear of my own blood, from a blood sugar test the paramedics had given me. I had to admit, it looked pretty bad ass. You hear the phrase "blood, sweat and tears" now and again but I know now the full depth and breadth of that term.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please note blood smear across the '9'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Texting later with my buddy, Laurianna, an EMT in Albuquerque, I learned an interesting fact. "Actually, you were dehydrated the day before the race. On your period, you need to drink twice as much for race-prep because you are losing fluids." How can I be this old and not know this? How is this possible? Why is this information not in <a href="http://www.runnersworld.com/">Runner's World</a> magazine?<br />
<br />
My next race is a <a href="http://www.lakewoodrun.com/">10K on March 8th</a>, menses and other vexed organs notwithstanding.
</div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-4472070875199527672014-02-04T17:32:00.001-08:002014-02-04T17:45:03.052-08:00A Dirty Angelena Reflects<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I awoke early at Susie's house in Central Los Angeles and strapped on my ravaged hiking boots. She generously handed me a huge glass of purple strength, a blackberry-banana-flax seed smoothie made that morning. I headed across town, just six miles to Crenshaw High School, to honor a man of peace, Martin Luther King, Jr. <br />
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On that day, January 20, I joined volunteers with <a href="http://lagreengrounds.org/">LA Green Grounds</a>,
among other groups, to help the school clean up their garden and prep it
for the 2014 growing season. The offering of my day seemed like the
purest way to participate in the National Day of Service on MLK's
birthday.<br />
<br />
But not all my intentions were pure, in fact, they were downright filthy. Over winter, I become restless and antsy for acts of gardening; not unlike a cell phone, directly plugging in to the earth is how I recharge. At long last, I was going to get dirt under my nails! <br />
<br />
The dig was informal and joyous. Several of us rehabilitated raised beds - we moved soil around, laid down mulch, soaked the layers, and pulled out any weed roots we found. 'Twas highly satisfying to get these beauties full and ready for seeds. I noted a group of young men water the hell out of one bed and I tried, in vain, to cease the soak. "That's way too wet, " I told them. "Soil should be like a wrung-out sponge, not mud." They ignored me. <br />
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Soon after, a mini-powerhouse woman showed up, full of spirit and knowledge, and was more persuasive. "Woah! What are you doing? No! Stop adding water! It's too wet!" They stopped immediately. Guess I need to work on my Persuasive Voice. (She explained later that she was a teacher for many years and had cultivated an effective voice of authority. "I get a lot done that way," she said.)<br />
<br />
This delightful woman turned out to be <a href="http://zev.lacounty.gov/news/environment/green/from-museum-gardener-seeds-of-change">Florence Nishida</a>, a Master Gardner who co-founded LA Green Grounds with my personal hero (and her former student), Ron Finley. She later taught some of us how to properly prune a fruit tree for a maximum quality fruit crop. She was a research fellow at the LA's <a href="http://www.nhm.org/site/">Natural History Museum</a> and now leads veggie garden workshops there on Sunday afternoons. So, now I have another hero.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Florence, sharing her pruning wisdom.</td></tr>
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Crenshaw High's garden sits on the school's corner lot, at 50th and 8th streets in Los Angeles. Long metal bars fence in the property though it is easy to see from the street. The surrounding neighborhood boasts small, tidy Craftsman-style homes circa 1950s and impossibly tall palm trees, lined up with military precision, that have become LA's landscape trademark. As I shoveled a pile of leaves and branches into a wheelbarrow, I saw two young boys ride by, sharing a bicycle. One hops off the handlebars, walks over and puts his face between the fence bars, taking in the whole garden scene. I shouted to him: "You guys want to come pick up a shovel and help us?" <br />
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To my astonishment and delight, he shouted back an emphatic, "Yes!" Both boys, maybe aged 9 or 10, immediately rode in to the garden and when I left hours later, they were still there, planting. I couldn't help but think of Ron Finley's simple epiphany during his famous TED talk: "When kids grow kale, kids eat kale." Could the solution to our health and nutritional challenges - especially for kids - really be as simple as getting kids to garden? Yes. Yes, it can.<br />
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Finley, a self-described "guerrilla gardener", grew tired of seeing his friends and neighbors ravaged by heart disease and diabetes, so he took action in the form of plants. Worried about "drive-bys <i>and </i>drive-thrus", he realized that urban food deserts were killing his people with poor nutritional choices, especially the children. His tireless efforts have resulted in a local movement to transform wasteful lawns, abandoned lots and (famously) <a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2011/aug/20/local/la-me-0821-lopez-garden-20110818">curb strips</a> into vibrant gardens where community involvement is the protest and fresh vegetables and better health are the rewards. No corporate sponsorship or government hand-out required, thanks very much. <br />
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My fellow volunteers included a former teacher at Crenshaw High (business) and a former student at the school. The alumna's name was Courtney and she is now a student at UC Santa Barbara, majoring in Political Science and minoring in Black Studies. While talking to this delightful young woman, I thought, 'She needs to meet that young man over there, Trustin, who is running this dig. They would make the cutest couple." And then I asked Courtney how she found out about the dig.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ah, young garden love! </td></tr>
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"Oh, my boyfriend over there is running it…" Yup. She was way ahead of me. How cute are they? (At left.) Trustin was teasing her during the photo, "This is my wife!" and she giggled and protested, "Oh my god, no! No! Girlfriend!" They were all smiles and love, the kind of people that instantly made me feel better about the future. <br />
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Then, in the middle of it all, <a href="http://www.lamayor.org/about">the mayor of Los Angeles, Eric Garcetti</a>, showed up. In crisp black dress pants and a pristine white button-down shirt, he was not dressed for the task. I couldn't resist ribbing him about it. <br />
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"Nice of you to drop by, Mayor, but next time, bring some gloves and an old t-shirt or something so you can help out."<br />
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His sheepish response seemed genuine. "I know! I just came from the MLK parade so this is what I was wearing. I would love to help. Really! My wife and I had a garden but we couldn't keep one during the campaign. I really loved it. My family always had a garden growing up. We grew tomatoes, lettuce, beans, peas, corn, peppers…."<br />
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Hizzoner kept listing vegetables until someone (likely a PR person) tugged at his crisp, white sleeve, and pointed to their watch. Then, Garcetti gave me an impressively firm handshake and thanked me for my time at the school. All the dirty volunteers were then carefully arranged for a group photo (see below) with the very clean civic leader and, after a few goodbye hugs, he was off to the next event.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm in the back row, second from left. (Image credit: Jake Camarena, LA GreenGrounds.)</td></tr>
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Since I don't live in Los Angeles full time, I didn't know much about Garcetti, other than his slight, handsome face greeting me upon arrival at LAX. After asking around, I discovered that the man was well liked. His last name is familiar to anyone who grew up here. (His father, Gil, was a former LA County DA, frequently quoted in the news.) Amazingly, Garcetti is also the city's first elected Jewish mayor and, at age 42, the youngest in more than a century. I liked him. <br />
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But the afternoon hours brought us the real celebrity. I was carrying plants when I overheard a woman exclaim, "You're the reason I'm here!" and I recognized Ron Finley immediately. A few of us girls gathered around him, gushing, and he seemed overwhelmed by the attention. I asked if I could take his picture and said, "As long as you don't say Ron Finley from LA Green Grounds." He explained that though the effort was something he'd helped start, he was heading up the <a href="http://ronfinley.com/?page_id=5">Ron Finley Project</a> and that's what he wanted to be linked to. "I hear a lot from people who say, 'I went to a Green Grounds dig but you weren't there. Why not?'" He can't make it to all the digs and didn't appreciate obligations put upon him. He worried aloud that people kept making the connection anyway and he wasn't sure why. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ron "Plant some shit!" Finley with his gardening groupies. </td></tr>
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"Well, you know your <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EzZzZ_qpZ4w">wildly successful TED talk</a> that a gazillion people have seen?," I explained. "It's got the link to Green Grounds next to your bio. That's how I found out about it and yes, it's why I'm here. But I didn't really expect you to be here. No offense, but it's not why I came." He laughed.<br />
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Post-dig, I returned to Susie's, enjoyed yet another excellent Oscar screener ("Nebraska", which made me homesick for the Midwest) and then chatted with Susie's friend and temporary roommate, Roseanne, a successful costume director for the film industry. Evidently, she'd just wrapped up production on a fresh batch of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F3vtfTSxwLs">Capital One commercials</a> with Alec Baldwin. In professional gratitude, Baldwin sent Roseanne one of those famously decadent foodie gift baskets and we three spent the evening drinking wine, discussing men and feasting on truffle cheese, dried fruits, salted almonds, dark chocolates, olives and the most amazing caramel I have ever put into my mouth. It all tasted like celebrity money - heavenly.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eVR6kx5FjQU/UvGRUk2PheI/AAAAAAAAH0c/BzWPnTKcxiA/s1600/IMG_5198.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eVR6kx5FjQU/UvGRUk2PheI/AAAAAAAAH0c/BzWPnTKcxiA/s1600/IMG_5198.jpg" height="200" width="151" /></a>I then drove back to Long Beach - 5 South, 10 West, 605 South - and luxuriated in zero traffic, just 29.2 miles of pure uninterrupted neon bliss under a glowing white bellied-moon. Fondly, I recalled my nights as a limousine chauffeur, back in college, when I ruled these freeways like Captain Cadillac over the high seas. Once rid of the night's batch of drunks, I cherished that drive back to the limo lot, usually around 2:30 or 3 a.m., when the bars closed. At that time, Los Angeles was velvet dark, fast and lovely and almost entirely mine. Certainly, it's when I love her best, when the commuters are sleeping or watching a screen at home. <br />
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In no time at all, I was back in Long Beach, my hometown. As the nightly helicopters chopped up the sky, I fell into bed, exhausted, and smiled - it was the most perfect LA day.</div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-23271461953870744432013-06-09T13:43:00.001-07:002013-06-09T14:21:25.359-07:00Protect, Serve...and Build<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Some 'good cop' stories should be shared.<br />
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Recently, my old friend, Kim, brought out two photos, circa 1985, that sparked memories of a story worth retelling, what with the photo evidence and all.<br />
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During that year, I was sharing an apartment - my first - with Sharon and Jenny. Though we were all 19 years old, they fancied themselves grown-up ladies who required things like wall decor, napkin rings and furniture. Frequently, I was informed that I did not, stylistically speaking, pull my weight around the house and I'd failed to contribute my fair share of bric-a-brac.<br />
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My apathy toward potted plants and scented candles infuriated them but they nagged consistently enough that I finally relented, "Just tell me what you want, fer chrissakes!"<br />
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A wall unit, for the living room, to hold the TVs, books, candles and such, they said. "We've already got one picked out at Builders Emporium. All you have to do is buy it." (Builders Emporium was the pre-cursor to Home Depot, for you young uns.) <br />
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"FINE," I said.<br />
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So, off we went to buy the damn thing. It came in a box, much to my surprise. "Assembly required" and all that. Sharon, having been on her own since age 15, laughed at my ignorance. "I have a screwdriver," she said, confidently, "and maybe even a hammer. We can do this." <br />
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We got that sumbitch home and despite our best efforts, found the assemblage beyond our teenage girl-comprehension. At various times, two of us would try, while the third would watch. At some point, we noticed a cop car out in front of the building, no doubt responding to the ongoing domestic disputes in the unit below us.<br />
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Sharon, a marvel of resourcefulness, announced: "We're going to get the cops to build this thing. Their job is to serve, right?"<br />
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"Mostly protect, I think," I said, "I'm pretty sure that building furniture isn't part of the job...." Still, I didn't want to totally shut down the idea since we weren't getting anywhere with this piece of junk wall unit that I paid $65 for and never wanted in the first place. Before I could think the ludicrous idea through any farther, Sharon was out the front door with Jenny in tow.<br />
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In about five minutes, the girls returned with Jerry and Russ, two of Long Beach's finest. Before the cops knew what was happening, Sharon and Jenny - talking rapidly at the same time with exaggerated exasperation - pointed to the disassembled wall unit on the floor while strategically placing a screwdriver in Jerry's hand and a hammer in Russ's. In all fairness, the men - honorable to a fault - really had little choice to help these pathetic damsels in their home decor-distress.<br />
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I be damned if those cops didn't put that crappy-to-begin-with piece of furniture together in 10 minutes flat. Naturally, we had to pose for photos, though Facebook was still decades away. We wanted to send them to Kim, our pal in the Air Force, stationed in Germany. (We'd send her letters detailing our adventures, which is why she still had the photos. )<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Russ, Sharon, Jenny and Jerry - in front of the finished wall unit.</td></tr>
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Following this adventure, Russ and Jerry would occasionally stop by to check on us - our neighborhood was part of their patrol. Once they even dropped by while we were watching "Hill Street Blues" so we made them cocoa.<br />
<br />
During this time, my brother, Rob, lived on the Peninsula down in Belmont Shore. He and his roommates would have the most outrageous parties and me, Jenny and Sharon were usually there too. During one party for my brother's birthday, the celebration became large enough that the cops showed up. We heard mumblings, "Oh man, it's over....Bummer, such a great party...Cops are here, shit..." and so on. We began to leave and then recognized Jerry and Russ in the squad car.<br />
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"Oh my god! Figures you guys would be here!" said Jerry. Naturally, we had an idea and amazingly, they agreed to it. As my brother remembers it, he's in the living room of his upstairs apartment, bemoaning the party's end when he suddenly hears three young woman singing, "Happy Birthday dear Rooooooob...!" over the squad car's loud speaker.<br />
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"It was one of the best birthday moments of my life," Rob says today. (Jerry and Russ did NOT shut the party down, though we toned it down out of gratitude.) <br />
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Many years later, I was waiting tables at The Pizza Place when I recognized Russ, having lunch in uniform with three other LB cops. I said, "Do you remember me? There were three of us and we made you build our wall unit...."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Russ, Jen (in boxers), Jerry and me. </td></tr>
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His eyes went big and he jumped up from the table, "OF COURSE! I tell everyone that story and no one ever believes me!" Then, he turned to his co-officers and said, "Guys! This is one of those crazy girls I was telling you about! Now do you believe me?!?" </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-67417703372706552992013-04-23T18:55:00.001-07:002013-04-23T18:55:15.210-07:00Hitting a Wall at High Speed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This week's epiphany: I have serious wanderlust issues.<br />
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The entire month of April, thus far, has been spent ambling up the coast and down spine of California, staying in 8 different households. Much as I love to hit the road, see my wonderful friends and catch up with my birth state, I have reached my limit. I am no longer the freewheeling hobo I once was. These days, the weight of my suitcase carries more than just dirty clothes, it carries a heavy question: Where is home?<br />
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Yesterday, my spirit cracked wide open as I pleaded with my mom to cancel our trip to the desert house. Mind you, 29 Palms/Joshua Tree is my favorite place on Earth and yet, the very idea of packing up one more time and driving Elsewhere just made me sob. I was tired like I'd never been before - tired in my bones, tired in my corneas, tired in my brain stem. <br />
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This is why people put roots down, so they can develop a sense of community, foster relationships and just Be whoever they are in that place. Country songs are full of broken, wandering types who never find this peace and this cannot be my fate; I won't have it. <br />
<br />
And I do feel somewhat better today, helped by a vigorous Chinese massage followed by some In-n-Out with mom. I'll have to travel again next week, just up to the SoCal mountains, but for the time being, I seek peace in an empty calendar and a silenced vehicle. I knew I'd reached my limit when I started to have thoughts like, 'I wonder what those silent meditation retreats are like? I should try one.' <br />
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My tendency to constantly move is a very sheer form of avoidance. Real Life will be dealt with when I'm home but when you have no home and are on the move like some fake wannabe rock star, Real Issues never get dealt with.<br />
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And this is where I find myself - nose scraping up against a rough, cold wall with no more room to budge. I need to stand still for awhile and say very little.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XL1HTPQCOio/UXc7Fu2PtBI/AAAAAAAAGno/QiouuofmISo/s1600/IMG_2594.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XL1HTPQCOio/UXc7Fu2PtBI/AAAAAAAAGno/QiouuofmISo/s320/IMG_2594.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I need to catch up with myself. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-20522994609912268562013-03-12T19:58:00.000-07:002013-03-13T11:43:11.987-07:00Strangers, My Favorite People<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last week, I was whisked away to Costa Rica on a work-related trip to visit farmers; it was heavenly. I learned a ton about sustainable farming, economic incentives and Costa Rican birds, bugs, food and culture, but I re-learned something else very valuable:<br />
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Strangers are my favorite people.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oxmrKC7KoNM/UT_f2TA5buI/AAAAAAAAGjU/WvO_TXLd3XA/s1600/IMG_1747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oxmrKC7KoNM/UT_f2TA5buI/AAAAAAAAGjU/WvO_TXLd3XA/s320/IMG_1747.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Scarlet with our Pina Coladas. Our friendship is 48 hrs. old here. </td></tr>
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Don't get me wrong. I love my family deeply and my friends are treasured and unique but there is something magical about meeting a stranger and realizing, within seconds, that you know them and that within minutes, your relationship - though embryonic - will grow to full term.<br />
<br />
There are those who fear people they have not met and loathe talking to someone new. <i>'These strangers, the nameless others, who are they? More importantly, who do they think they are? What makes them think they can enter my personal space with all their anonymous doings? I wish they would go away so I would not have to risk a conversation with a total stranger.' </i> <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BNCwKWuwvKk/UT_gWx6ZwPI/AAAAAAAAGjc/lr4VZVlxg2Q/s1600/IMG_2650.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BNCwKWuwvKk/UT_gWx6ZwPI/AAAAAAAAGjc/lr4VZVlxg2Q/s320/IMG_2650.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A father and his two sons we met in a bar one time in Denver. It was the oldest son's (far left) 21st birthday so Kirk and I gave him plenty of life advice. They were awesome. </td></tr>
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As a constant traveler and (now) perpetual houseguest, I find this outlook sad and ridiculous. I have lived in three states, visited 29 countries, held numerous jobs and generally cross paths with gobs of nameless folks and the success rate for them being quite nice and interesting is incredibly high, around 98%. Occasionally, my life intersects with a boring human or a rude asshole but very rarely, and when it does I simply walk away, cross the street or change seats, if possible. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rgRCMQ9pUEY/UT_h7PpW1rI/AAAAAAAAGjo/wBWwg5uVoQM/s1600/IMG_1137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rgRCMQ9pUEY/UT_h7PpW1rI/AAAAAAAAGjo/wBWwg5uVoQM/s200/IMG_1137.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Steve" in New Mexico - so smart and interesting.</td></tr>
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Travel only intensifies this philosophy due to how quickly informalities melt away. Last week's group (6 journalists, 3 Rainforest Alliance staff, 2 drivers) quickly became family-esque. There's something comfy about sharing your life report with a person who has no pre-conceived ideas or expectations about your role in the world. Since most of us were writers, articulation was constant. (I'm certain the drivers, Alonso and Mauricio, were relieved they did not speak English.)<br />
<br />
By week's end, we were giving romantic advice (especially to the one male writer in the group), career counseling and echoing back what we'd heard. (<i>"You keep mentioning how much you miss exercise, sounds like you need to make it a life priority."</i>) Someone even birthed the idea of us branding ourselves as one group so we could be taken on other media trips. (<i>"We're already broken in!"</i>) <br />
<br />
During the week, I confessed feelings I have been struggling to say aloud for years. After all, how would they know the difference? It's why I have no qualms about divulging my darkest secret to whomever may be seated next to me on an airplane. Because when the plane lands, they will head off into that swirl of humanity, never to be seen again. This is why fame looks so unappealing to me, because anonymity equals bliss. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-unQA2-NcNQA/UT_jcpseSVI/AAAAAAAAGj4/NsJqiNyg6r0/s1600/Salon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-unQA2-NcNQA/UT_jcpseSVI/AAAAAAAAGj4/NsJqiNyg6r0/s320/Salon.JPG" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">While in New York getting a pedicure, I had so much fun with these two. I was the only customer and we spent hours talking about culture differences, food and music. I introduced the young man to Johnny Cash and he was captivated. Success! </td></tr>
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<br />
I have realized this truth time and time again and am teased about my strong belief. Once, I whined to my friend, Rachel, about moving to Colorado and how I would not have any friends there, she offered no sympathy: <br />
<br />
<i>"Yeah. Those first 15 minutes are going to be pretty rough for ya..."</i> she said, rolling her eyes.<br />
<br />
Every person I meet is a potential friend with a very high success rate. Perhaps the friendship only lasts while airborne or bumping along on a bus or train but it is real, nonetheless. The spark of a connection is spontaneous, an organic miracle in human relations and it comes from halting amidst your own reality and truly seeing another person and recognizing their existence in this harried, fragmented world. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iNCT9lGr6Jc/UT_kl-gvnII/AAAAAAAAGkE/AmK5NomDnl8/s1600/IMG_5535.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iNCT9lGr6Jc/UT_kl-gvnII/AAAAAAAAGkE/AmK5NomDnl8/s320/IMG_5535.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Warren. I slept in his house and he gave me a tour of Pierre, SD. We met via <a href="https://www.couchsurfing.org/">couchsurfing</a>.</td></tr>
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One day, I found myself in Portland's airport, waiting at the gate. As per my usual, I was reaching for my gum. (I'm about to board a giant metal tube of humans, fresh breathe is a courtesy to my fellow passengers.) I found one last stick of Big Red - it was old and the foil was glued to the gum. With embarrassing precision and focus, I proceeded to painstakingly peel off the foil with my too-short fingernails. After all, I did have time to kill.<br />
<br />
After several minutes of this, an older African-American man in the row across from me finally shook his head said, <i>"Man, you sure do want that stick of gum! Mmm-mmm-mmm. Lordy, lordy."</i> I turned red, he laughed and then handed me a fresh piece. We laughed again, he teased me further and we giggled again whenever we made eye contact after that.<br />
<br />
The man was my friend, see? He stepped into my world, observed my life, teased me about my ridiculous ways and then, offered a better solution. This is what friends do, folks.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QZ3cFY5hwI4/UT_nExBPSgI/AAAAAAAAGkU/-GoP4-0po1U/s1600/CIMG1249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QZ3cFY5hwI4/UT_nExBPSgI/AAAAAAAAGkU/-GoP4-0po1U/s320/CIMG1249.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Met this little girl on a train to Chicago. I couldn't believe she was making potholders with a mini loom - EXACTLY what I used to do. So charming! </td></tr>
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<br />
I'm excited about the new friends I made on this trip, whether I see them again or not, I care about their well beings, their lives and the success of their dreams. And again, I've learned that travel isn't always about the outer scenery changing, it's about opening up and letting in a previously undiscovered friend.<br />
<br />
I know I am always the richer for it. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-37410532761411082162013-02-23T11:57:00.000-08:002013-02-23T11:57:04.214-08:00The Gentle Barn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dXpUfQLUyhI/URxCxtz9uTI/AAAAAAAAGeM/hr3nty3IWxI/s1600/IMG_5920.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dXpUfQLUyhI/URxCxtz9uTI/AAAAAAAAGeM/hr3nty3IWxI/s320/IMG_5920.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buttercup and Susan</td></tr>
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Occasionally, aspects of my life become way overdue. Case in point, getting together with my friend, Susan, who I had not seen in 10.5 years, and visiting <a href="http://www.gentlebarn.org/">The Gentle Barn</a>, a sanctuary for abused farm animals and a healing place for at-risk kids. Recently, I knocked both of 'em out in 24 hours. </div>
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The last time Susan and I had seen one another was at the wedding of a mutual friend (whom we both adore) and once we started talking, it became evident that large chunks of life can happen in a decade: <i> </i></div>
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<i>"Wait, you lived in San Francisco? Really? How long?"</i></div>
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<i>"You lived in Colorado? When?" </i></div>
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<i>"What do you mean you're a farmer? How does that work?"</i> </div>
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Luckily, Susan is the same beautiful, smart girl I remember and I'm so pleased she came along on my visit to GB, conveniently located just up Interstate 5 from her place in Eagle Rock.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_TzZ0YzvZhw/URxJYi7DU0I/AAAAAAAAGe0/86PGILxsq9E/s1600/IMG_5850.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_TzZ0YzvZhw/URxJYi7DU0I/AAAAAAAAGe0/86PGILxsq9E/s320/IMG_5850.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vegan the bull, relaxing in the sun. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eBmzR16s2Qs/URxJv5TXoyI/AAAAAAAAGe8/Zs4dV0Mjsnw/s1600/IMG_5851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eBmzR16s2Qs/URxJv5TXoyI/AAAAAAAAGe8/Zs4dV0Mjsnw/s320/IMG_5851.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His horns were removed as a baby in a sloppy, cruel way so they've come back deformed. Luckily, the horns are hollow and flexible, not cutting in to his head. It would cause more problems to remove them now so they remain. </td></tr>
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For all the richness of my life, it has big, gaping holes in it and many of them are animal-sized. It actually hurts my heart that I have no animal relationships right now, one of my lifestyle sacrifices, I suppose. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3fzyXx_-_14/USkdQki869I/AAAAAAAAGh8/ovqPGbEM7pQ/s1600/IMG_5903.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3fzyXx_-_14/USkdQki869I/AAAAAAAAGh8/ovqPGbEM7pQ/s320/IMG_5903.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, spending an afternoon after so many loving and deserving animals, well, it did me a lot of good. From the Gentle Barn website: </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>The over 160
farm animals that reside at The Gentle Barn have all been rescued from severe
abuse, neglect, abandonment or worse. They have been rehabilitated with
traditional and non-traditional medicine, top quality nutrition, and countless
hours in the arms of our staff and volunteers. They have regained their trust
in humankind by realizing that they are now loved, and their abuse is over.
Because of their ongoing physical and psychological needs, they can't be
adopted and are given sanctuary with us for the rest of their lives.</i></blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h4G6iFn-deU/URxH9Op1yII/AAAAAAAAGes/5B4Im3B0rh0/s1600/IMG_5858.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h4G6iFn-deU/URxH9Op1yII/AAAAAAAAGes/5B4Im3B0rh0/s320/IMG_5858.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Madonna, with her wee fans</td></tr>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>We are home to horses, donkeys,
cows, pigs, sheep, goats, turkeys, chickens, llamas, dogs, and cats. We believe
that everyone deserves a chance at life, regardless if they are blind,
crippled, deformed, sick, wounded, or just old. </i><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pkCCUSfsqp0/USkeDqCVSuI/AAAAAAAAGiM/3UpDjtiMFzE/s1600/IMG_5915.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pkCCUSfsqp0/USkeDqCVSuI/AAAAAAAAGiM/3UpDjtiMFzE/s200/IMG_5915.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<i>
</i><i>Because the animals at The Gentle
Barn have experienced abuse and severe neglect, their treatment and
rehabilitation is extremely expensive and can take a long time. But it is worth
it to see them smile again, to watch their eyes light up, to feel them cuddle
in your lap, and to see them play with new life and new hope.</i><br />
<br />
<i>
Once
rehabilitated, the animals become ambassadors, teaching children about the
magic and grace of these precious beings.</i></blockquote>
The founder, Ellie Laks, gives presentations every hour every Sunday about how the sanctuary got started, how it runs and how guests might make the most of their visit. As a child, she would rescue every needy animal she could find and her heartbreak when her parents would get rid of them, saying, <i>"When you're grown up, you can have as many animals as you want."</i><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6KleWUXSAb4/USkdj4jC4jI/AAAAAAAAGiE/rXu6cnskPfE/s1600/IMG_5865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6KleWUXSAb4/USkdj4jC4jI/AAAAAAAAGiE/rXu6cnskPfE/s320/IMG_5865.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<i> </i><br />
There were llamas, goats, sheep, enormous pigs, chickens, roosters, turkeys, horses, cows, bulls and donkeys - the whole barnyard was there. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VfXACKcL8zQ/URxQ08fGE8I/AAAAAAAAGfU/rZWA2wnscow/s1600/IMG_5899.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VfXACKcL8zQ/URxQ08fGE8I/AAAAAAAAGfU/rZWA2wnscow/s320/IMG_5899.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Then, there was this guy, - a teenage boy with the most tender way about him, it was striking. He sat on the cement, in the barnyard, for what seemed like hours, his entire attention focused on Claire, an abused turkey who had been rescued just three days before Thanksgiving. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hhnCWuCBuc4/USkZHWdmDbI/AAAAAAAAGg8/yoeZ1n0HhXE/s1600/IMG_5872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hhnCWuCBuc4/USkZHWdmDbI/AAAAAAAAGg8/yoeZ1n0HhXE/s320/IMG_5872.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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He kept telling her how beautiful she was and she buried her face in his chest, cooing. He did not seem to be a volunteer or a staff member, just a visitor like myself. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--qR2_agk7kg/USkZYw2j5sI/AAAAAAAAGhE/lGC_yzspHR4/s1600/IMG_5888.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--qR2_agk7kg/USkZYw2j5sI/AAAAAAAAGhE/lGC_yzspHR4/s320/IMG_5888.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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As people strolled around them, checking out the pigs, chickens and other turkeys, they stayed focused on one another. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JBbBD08jyWw/USkavUZm8dI/AAAAAAAAGhU/FrPEG6B-kws/s1600/IMG_5894.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JBbBD08jyWw/USkavUZm8dI/AAAAAAAAGhU/FrPEG6B-kws/s320/IMG_5894.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Finally, I asked a volunteer about Claire's story and she shook her head. <i>"Really, it's quite amazing - a big day for Claire. She's been here since November but this is the first time I've ever seen her 'accept' affection from anyone. It's a big breakthrough for her." </i></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CrkYl36bKzw/USkZ2z1rM-I/AAAAAAAAGhM/yrGl0d_wStY/s1600/IMG_5883.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CrkYl36bKzw/USkZ2z1rM-I/AAAAAAAAGhM/yrGl0d_wStY/s320/IMG_5883.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I took a zillion photos of them because I couldn't get over how much I could FEEL the unconditional love that can pass between an animal and human, both of whom need so badly to give and receive affection. I get misty-eyed just looking at these and remembering how gentle he was and how pleased she was to be under his gaze. </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6-ZPUmzr6xw/USkbaT5CSTI/AAAAAAAAGhc/Q_CD9FcQ6dc/s1600/IMG_5871.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6-ZPUmzr6xw/USkbaT5CSTI/AAAAAAAAGhc/Q_CD9FcQ6dc/s320/IMG_5871.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Okay, I may have some issues but this is the most romantic thing I've ever seen, like what marketers want you to feel on Valentine's Day.<br />
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And then, just when I already couldn't believe it, an amazing thing happened..<br />
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<br />
She let him rub under her wings! Folks, it's official, we have a serious case of BOY-on-TURKEY love! </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-56530038793459884812013-02-08T11:03:00.000-08:002013-02-08T19:18:32.491-08:00Above<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6KttAKGJiA/URVKA5EGBNI/AAAAAAAAGds/zBF3gmxke7s/s1600/231458851_04cc4868e1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d6KttAKGJiA/URVKA5EGBNI/AAAAAAAAGds/zBF3gmxke7s/s320/231458851_04cc4868e1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image credit:<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/skunks/"> skunks</a></td></tr>
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Every night, there are helicopters, swirling overhead nervously seeking, watching, hovering.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, all yesterday and today, <a href="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/lanow/2013/02/dorner-no-new-signs-of-ex-cop-as-officials-vow-to-keep-searching.html">an intense manhunt is afoot</a>. A violent man, bitter about his firing from the LAPD several years ago, is on a murderous rampage, already killing three people, including a cop and a young engaged couple, all in the name of revenge. Last I heard, they were chasing him through the mountains. <br />
<br />
Here in Southern California, I hear about killings every single day; I'd forgotten about the region's pervasive homicide. Part of our lore, I suppose. I can't help but compare it to the quiet life in North Dakota and really, it comes down to math. <br />
<br />
Turns out, murder rates in California and North Dakota are actually quite similar, thanks to massive population growth in North Dakota's oil fields on the western side. Per 100,000 people, just .5 people were murdered in NoDak in 2008; in 2011, it was 3.5. In California in 2011, it was 4.8 - a vast improvement from 1996, where the murder rate was 9.1.<br />
<br />
All day long, the LA media screams, "Murder! Murder! Murder!" because there are 38 million+ people living in the Golden State, compared to 700,000 in NoDak. More people means more beings that kill and die, simple as that.<br />
<br />
And being Los Angeles, the media is constantly pining and frothing for new gore and the
monster must be fed. The button-downed culture of the Midwest keeps a
check on sensationalism. Here in LA, there are no buttons, all the
shirts are wide open - off, even. <br />
<br />
There's also an inherent wildness
about the place - all these races and cultures swirling together in one
hot soup, plus all the traffic. All the desperate people who have come here to live out a dream and find reality instead. People live - and die - here in big
sweeping gestures. It's grand, and sad. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, life goes on. Should I run today? Oh, look it's raining. I need to get some money from the ATM for Debbie's birthday party at the Gaslamp bar this evening. It's 80s Night, so there may some foul neon-colored shots that must be consumed as Flock of Seagulls or Tears For Fears plays in the background. Do I have any hairspray? <br />
<br />
The real question is, would I rather have a sky full of buzzy, ominous helicopters or low-flying crop dusters raining pesticides? <br />
<br />
How about kites? Anyone fly those anymore?<br />
<br />
*** <br />
<br />
<i>After posting this, I went downstairs for lunch and found this in the newspaper's op-ed section: <a href="http://www.dailynews.com/news/ci_22544749/dianne-feinstein-barbara-boxer-and-adam-schiff-helicopters">"Helicopters Buzzing LA County Must Be Regulated"</a>, about a proposal written by Dianne Feinstein, Barbara Boxer and Adam Schiff. </i></div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-44553110009363746792013-02-04T18:45:00.003-08:002013-02-04T18:45:30.344-08:00My Second Race <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnX5xRMu7KI/URBp9MbskQI/AAAAAAAAGc8/oXo0onejIMk/s1600/IMG_1562.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XnX5xRMu7KI/URBp9MbskQI/AAAAAAAAGc8/oXo0onejIMk/s320/IMG_1562.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"OMG, I'm so happy it's over." </td></tr>
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With all that goes on in my life and in my head, I have no idea why running is the only topic that's covered here lately. Though I am only just beginning to refer to myself as a "runner", it has come to signify so many things for me, not the least of which is a big, fat metaphor = running from aging.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eqYfd8iG2bs/URBtV3kR3vI/AAAAAAAAGdE/_UPxSTymIKs/s1600/IMG_1558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eqYfd8iG2bs/URBtV3kR3vI/AAAAAAAAGdE/_UPxSTymIKs/s200/IMG_1558.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with Jaime</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
ANYWAY, I completed the <a href="http://www.runsurfcity.com/">Surf City Half-Marathon</a> yesterday in Huntington Beach, California, along with my pal and running coach, Jaime. They shut down a big chunk of Pacific Coast Highway and about 20,000 of us gave it our best shot. The day was gorgeous, although because there were so many of us, they released us in waves so nobody would get trampled. As a result, we didn't get running until at least 8:30 a.m. so we ran in some heat, which I hate.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, the scenery was - as the surfer bros might say - EPIC. Crashing waves on the left, snow-capped mountains on the right, along with palms trees and a wetlands preserve with heaps of beautiful birds. While there weren't as many cheering roadside volunteers on this race, there were plenty of school kids handing out water and running in to the crowd to distribute much-needed high fives.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing, in the Mississippi race, I hit a wall at 9 miles but kept going, never once stopping to walk. On this race, I hit a wall at 11 miles but stopped briefly to drink some water. After that, I slid into a run/walk/run situation that slowed me down considerably. My hips were complaining, my feet were whining and it felt like I was turning the key on a motor that would rev but never catch. <i>Rrrr-rrr-rrr-rrrrr... </i><br />
<br />
I completed the Mississsippi race in 3:02 and this one in 3:07, just 5 minutes slower. I'm blaming the heat, the later start and maybe - just maybe! - I wasn't prepared as much mentally for this one; complacency is thine enemy. Still, I'm proud to say that I am still without injury or so much as a blister, so there's that. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uPPT6hA6TPU/URBuVR5IgkI/AAAAAAAAGdM/1vbj1_HFr6U/s1600/IMG_1557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uPPT6hA6TPU/URBuVR5IgkI/AAAAAAAAGdM/1vbj1_HFr6U/s320/IMG_1557.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Jaime in HB after picking up bibs. </td></tr>
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Still, this one was close to home and running the race with someone more experienced, whom I have known and liked for many years, made it extra special. After the run, we peeled off our shoes and hobbled across the sand (Aaaaaaaah! A sand massage!) and stuck those hot puppies in the Pacific Ocean - glorious. <br />
<br />
Truth be told, this race kicked my ass. Methinks I'll stick to some 'maintenance running' and break from training mode for awhile. That is, until I get the itch to race again, which I just know will come again...<br />
<br /></div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-60738047247759856212013-01-08T21:49:00.000-08:002013-01-08T21:49:44.159-08:00My First Race<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QfQlAO5arQ8/UOzgmuQT7NI/AAAAAAAAGZQ/6ZmvbIB8hSQ/s1600/IMG_1447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QfQlAO5arQ8/UOzgmuQT7NI/AAAAAAAAGZQ/6ZmvbIB8hSQ/s320/IMG_1447.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post-race, I am wobbly but standing.</td></tr>
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Unbelievable. I'm 47 and still learning things about myself. Likely, the day one becomes predictable to themselves is the day they become OLD. <br />
<br />
Last Saturday, I completed my first race (the <a href="http://www.msbluesmarathon.com/">Mississippi Blues Half-Marathon</a>) and again, it's not something I ever pictured myself doing. People who run and race for fun? 'Batshit crazy' was my previous opinion. In fact, it still is my opinion, I'm just proud to be one of the batshitters now. Makes me wonder...<br />
<br />
Just how many more I-would-never-do-that things do I have in my future?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZsO_u45qHl4/UOz2WY1cVBI/AAAAAAAAGZo/gT62Whl-gmM/s1600/IMG_1440.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZsO_u45qHl4/UOz2WY1cVBI/AAAAAAAAGZo/gT62Whl-gmM/s200/IMG_1440.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shirley's volunteer garb</td></tr>
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My stepmother, Shirley, graciously offered to drive me three hours north to Jackson ("hotter than a pepper sprout") to act as my one-woman cheerleading squad. Truly, it helps to have someone yelling your name at the finish line, no doubt about that. She also signed up to volunteer so she had actual responsibilities like helping people store their gear and handing out water. Pretty swell of her, really. <br />
<br />
I am good at many things in this life but getting up early is not one of them. Yet, somehow, I was so pumped and excited that I awoke at 5 a.m. and jumped out of bed. Dressed and ready for breakfast in 3 minutes, I headed down to the hotel's breakfast room (which catered to race participants) expecting to be late. I was the only person there.<br />
<br />
Down at the starting line, I was nervous and jabbering to anyone, <i>"It's my first race!"</i> It was early and cold - the exact opposite of a cozy warm bed. It all went down in front of the capitol building and I heard Jackson's mayor welcome everyone to the race. Then, somebody played the national anthem on electric guitar and we were off, with helicopters buzzing overhead. It was thrilling! <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dS5RiuW0VoI/UOz6OJeBf5I/AAAAAAAAGaA/ci7W6Os4Eis/s1600/IMG_1437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dS5RiuW0VoI/UOz6OJeBf5I/AAAAAAAAGaA/ci7W6Os4Eis/s320/IMG_1437.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fellow runner at the Expo, night before. </td></tr>
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Running in a herd like that was amazing, it felt like a river of humanity, many parts of one. I resisted the urge to run faster than normal because I'd received so much advice about taking off too fast at the start and ruining one's pace. Certainly, it hurt my ego to let so many folks pass me but in the end, I'm glad I kept my own pace.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lGr8LX-_L0Q/UOz7oBWHzLI/AAAAAAAAGaY/uBvFJPLlB4A/s1600/IMG_1446_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lGr8LX-_L0Q/UOz7oBWHzLI/AAAAAAAAGaY/uBvFJPLlB4A/s200/IMG_1446_2.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Done!</td></tr>
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And the hills! Lordy, I didn't train for those. I heard a woman behind me huff: <i>"I've lived in Jackson all my life and I've never noticed the hills until today."</i> More than once, I thought about stopping, especially after the 10th mile, but I never did, not once. My time (3:02) was leisurely, I suppose, but still 30 minutes less than what I predicted. Often, I felt like a sack of potatoes drowning in molasses going backwards, but miraculously, I kept putting one foot in front of the other. 'Twas a miracle. <br />
<br />
And I learned interesting things about my body in the process. Even though I got up early to eat breakfast to (ahem) move things along in the bathroom, there were several moments during the race that I became concerned. At one point, I thought, "Wow. I hope I don't crap my pants. That would be embarrassing." Then, I turn the corner, and a kid is holding a big sign that reads: "DON'T CRAP YOUR PANTS."<br />
<br />
Then, about the 11th mile, the woman next to me whined, <i>"All I can think about is the bathroom."</i><br />
<br />
<i>"Me too!"</i> said I.<br />
<br />
A man ran past us and said, <i>"DON'T EVEN TALK ABOUT IT." </i><br />
<br />
So, evidently, it is a common race problem faced by all runners, not just me. Whew!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pdGp0xv3ahE/UOz-L8lZexI/AAAAAAAAGaw/gHyeglJErwE/s1600/IMG_1448.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pdGp0xv3ahE/UOz-L8lZexI/AAAAAAAAGaw/gHyeglJErwE/s320/IMG_1448.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post-race entertainment</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At several points along the race, there were blues bands, gospel singers, preachers and lone guitar pickers. This is, after all, Mississippi. My favorite was the blues band under the freeway overpass - it echoed for miles and felt like a carnival. I loved all the incredibly supportive volunteers and the hilarious signs too. My favorite: <i>"RUN, YA'LL!" </i><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OXSVhgYKpAc/UO0AXuqrsDI/AAAAAAAAGbM/8pIQd_DBQ0s/s1600/IMG_1442.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OXSVhgYKpAc/UO0AXuqrsDI/AAAAAAAAGbM/8pIQd_DBQ0s/s320/IMG_1442.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The medal - a gee-tar!</td></tr>
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More than once, I requested a high five from one of the many volunteers along the way. One guy - a tall handsome, black dude - said, "Gimme a double!", smacked both my hands and clapped me on the back, thus, giving me a boost of much needed energy. I'm telling you, those people were angels to me and everyone in that race. I wanted to take them all home. I especially loved all the folks who shamelessly lied about the hills, <i>"This is the last one, ya'll! I swear!" </i><br />
<br />
Once I'd crossed the finish line, my speaking abilities disappeared. I was not overcome with emotion, just intense fatigue. It's like my tongue was too big for my head and I'd had quaaludes for lunch. My body had been working so hard on going forward without tipping over that all other functions were put on hold. Fascinating stuff.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_ft0HfEaP5I/UO0A0tk1GuI/AAAAAAAAGbg/WsbCo_VNSV4/s1600/IMG_1456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_ft0HfEaP5I/UO0A0tk1GuI/AAAAAAAAGbg/WsbCo_VNSV4/s320/IMG_1456.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm in there somewhere. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Pre-race, I read a wonderful training guide, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Marathon-Ultimate-Training-Programs-Marathons/dp/1609612248">Marathon by Hal Higdon</a>, which offered an exact training schedule for newbies like me. I also recruited my pal, Jaime, to be my running coach, whether she wanted the job or not. I also asked every person I'd ever met to offer advice and got lots of excellent tips, but in the end, it was my nephew, Robbie, who gave the best advice.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HHcO8vz0ZeQ/UOz_DCRyk4I/AAAAAAAAGbA/yge5DzkQ1SU/s1600/IMG_1460.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HHcO8vz0ZeQ/UOz_DCRyk4I/AAAAAAAAGbA/yge5DzkQ1SU/s200/IMG_1460.jpg" width="166" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Phoenix</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Minutes before Shirley picked me up for the drive to Jackson, Robbie and I were playing with the dogs, Phoenix and Scooter. Phoenix is a German Shorthaired Pointer who lives to run. <i>"Just pretend you're Phoenix and think about much she can't wait to run every day!"</i> Robbie said. More than once during the race, I envisioned Phoenix's joyful stride and her ecstasy in being free and the image pushed me forward, again and again, right on over that finish line.<br />
<br />
Next race: <a href="http://www.runsurfcity.com/">Surf City Half-Marathon</a> in Huntington Beach on February 3rd. Ocean view and even better, it's flat. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-65905742632224661862012-12-31T15:45:00.001-08:002013-01-02T15:36:04.512-08:00Running Forward<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bpGbhPIRG_Q/UOIX9ZlFcJI/AAAAAAAAGXE/v-Nb6o5v5Ak/s1600/IMG_1385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bpGbhPIRG_Q/UOIX9ZlFcJI/AAAAAAAAGXE/v-Nb6o5v5Ak/s320/IMG_1385.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of my Mississippi Gulf Coast run, along the I-90 Bridge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
On this last day of 2012, I ponder life ahead as I run, run, run from my regrets. Sure, all the breezy, cool people claim to have none but I'm more of a tortured, awkward soul. (A friend once observed, <i>"The thing is, you can actually pass for normal."</i>) Anyway, these days I run, and man-o-man, it <b>helps. </b><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--0SHLSmFuPE/UOIcXzLY9WI/AAAAAAAAGXc/ZAc80H0lTMY/s1600/IMG_0788.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--0SHLSmFuPE/UOIcXzLY9WI/AAAAAAAAGXc/ZAc80H0lTMY/s200/IMG_0788.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Denver's Washington Park</td></tr>
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People who jogged willingly used to mystify me. Watching their skinny bodies float by in a glowing sweat, I'd mock while secretly marveling at their lone resolve to best themselves. I'd wonder about their motivational source, knowing that mine would likely have to be a threat of violence. They look fit, of course, but there was something more in their faces - contentment? Satisfaction? I could never be sure but there had to be tremendous focus, another envious state - I constantly battle and seek its productive qualities. <br />
<br />
And then, one day, Colorado - <a href="http://clizbiz.blogspot.com/2008/06/never-say-never.html">as she has done so many times before</a> - grabbed hold of my fleshy person and made me do a thing I'd never imagined doing: run. (She did this before with musical instruments and again, with church-going.) Next thing I knew, I was attempting a jog around Denver's Wash Park on a dewy morning without a shred of confidence. I felt like an awkward bag of molasses and heaved like a heavy smoker - I was neither.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z8iKpbcNd5o/UOIha7N-OhI/AAAAAAAAGX0/Qujoh7boDkk/s1600/IMG_4742.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z8iKpbcNd5o/UOIha7N-OhI/AAAAAAAAGX0/Qujoh7boDkk/s320/IMG_4742.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Along my North Dakota run. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And, of course, there was That Woman who ran effortlessly past me, blond ponytail swinging with confidence. She pushed a stroller - with triplets - and held two Golden Retrievers on a leash while orchestrating a party over her cell phone: <i>"I was thinking we'd start with some light <span class="st">hors d'<wbr></wbr>oeuvres </span>and fruit...." </i><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tRA9PY3m834/UOIh6mh5QWI/AAAAAAAAGX8/3H0XX4YsZD0/s1600/IMG_2676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tRA9PY3m834/UOIh6mh5QWI/AAAAAAAAGX8/3H0XX4YsZD0/s200/IMG_2676.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Long Beach path</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She haunts me still. As do the two old ladies who passed me, while walking. <br />
<br />
Nevertheless, I've come a long way since that first run and this Saturday, I'll be attempting my first <a href="http://www.msbluesmarathon.com/">half-marathon in Jackson, Mississippi</a>. What's worse, I've foolishly agreed to run the <a href="http://www.lamarathon.com/">LA Marathon</a> in March. Other than accidentally getting swooped up in the annual <a href="http://www.facebook.com/LongBeachTurkeyTrot">Turkey Trot</a> on the beach Thanksgiving Day, I’ve never actually ran in a race before. But I have now been cheered on by strangers (and high-fived by a guy in a turkey suit) so color me addicted. <br />
<br />
In between, I've enjoyed beautiful runs - remote back country roads in North Dakota to bustling beach paths in Long Beach to <a href="http://clizbiz.blogspot.com/2011/10/conquering-red-rocks.html">Colorado's Red Rocks</a> - and I'm always impressed how much peace it brings.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vTae5qYH9U4/UOTD6MVR35I/AAAAAAAAGYw/gK9rlYfamMY/s1600/IMG_5321.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vTae5qYH9U4/UOTD6MVR35I/AAAAAAAAGYw/gK9rlYfamMY/s200/IMG_5321.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NoDak</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Running has become more than exercise to me, it's become an act of gratitude for my body and where it can take me. Surely, it's meditational, for there is always a point when I am locked into my groove, firmly ensconced in my comfy still-slowish pace, and I forget what my body is up to and my mind runs free.<br />
<br />
I even bought special running shoes from an honest woman named Mary at Runner’s High. She knew her shoes. When I asked Mary about her own running habits, she said quietly, <i>“Oh, it’s been awhile but I hope to get back to it.”</i> It was then I noticed her left leg, which was beyond swollen, it was actually about three times larger than the other leg. I don’t know what that condition is called but it can’t be comfortable. And then work in a running store? Oi. <br />
<br />
The holidays are a tough time for me - something to get through - and the literal act of moving forward presents a sliver of peace - running toward the future, leaving my past in the dust. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sGaiGauYDuU/UOIi36f6KlI/AAAAAAAAGYI/bxR_S6Rn9ok/s1600/IMG_1386.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sGaiGauYDuU/UOIi36f6KlI/AAAAAAAAGYI/bxR_S6Rn9ok/s320/IMG_1386.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ocean Springs beach path</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-3532957230058739402012-12-02T23:50:00.000-08:002012-12-02T23:50:08.965-08:00Here Now<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VP6s8r57Dvk/ULxQRi3HpjI/AAAAAAAAGR4/5hjj2ExIUwM/s1600/IMG_1218.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VP6s8r57Dvk/ULxQRi3HpjI/AAAAAAAAGR4/5hjj2ExIUwM/s320/IMG_1218.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note the new plates!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
With the Mae Flower stuffed into a neighbor’s barn and my pick-up packed haphazardly with worldly goods, I left <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/">Second Chance Ranch</a> on October 23rd. In the duration, I’ve been on the road, visiting loved ones, making new friends and exploring America. For myriad reasons, I’ve been unable to fully unpack my pick-up since that day. Living out of a suitcase, I grab things on an as-needed basis. <br /><br />Yesterday - just five weeks and four days since making hard guesses at what I might need until spring - I finally discovered what I brought other than my ice cream maker and glitter boots. Mostly dresses, fancy shoes and lots of hangers, plus bags of dry beans, wheat and canned tomatoes; it’s like Beverly Hillbillies minus the oil riches.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PHuCXG-buSo/ULxRqINkXTI/AAAAAAAAGSA/oo4tKD6vWS0/s1600/IMG_3274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PHuCXG-buSo/ULxRqINkXTI/AAAAAAAAGSA/oo4tKD6vWS0/s320/IMG_3274.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glitter boots, back on the farm</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
All this travel has allowed for ample time to ponder my life - its uniqueness, its riskiness, its loneliness and joys. There is so much that runs smoothly in my world and I’m certainly blessed with immense luck (“The Golden Horseshoe”) but it also includes nags of doubt and snags of fear - though entirely in my head, still quite real. <br /><br />Truth is, I’m 47 and all I have is time and (potential) garlic.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vzBWwGPfoYA/ULxUL4Y0d1I/AAAAAAAAGSY/5WkKTWdz66o/s1600/IMG_0877.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vzBWwGPfoYA/ULxUL4Y0d1I/AAAAAAAAGSY/5WkKTWdz66o/s200/IMG_0877.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evelyn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Back in early October, Evelyn and I planted five rows of optimistic bulbs into the ground - another season, another lifetime ago, it seems. Back then, I was filthy every day, exhausted every night and living an inspired, albeit remote, life. Today, I am clean, well-rested, actively social and culturally engaged - a direct 180. I adore the duality of my life, although many find it hard to understand, particularly banks and anyone who needs my 'permanent' address. (I never thought that, "Where do you live?" would ever be such a stumper question.)<br /><br />These days, I listen to sheriff helicopters not crop dusters. I switch my pick-up (locked, no keys inside) from curb to curb to avoid a ridiculous street sweeping ticket. I am still inspired by my vision but missing physical exertion. I am actively taking great comfort in the presence of beloved friends who make me giggle like a child and, of course, I am eating too much ‘holiday’ food. <br /><br />The last 24 hours provide a telling snapshot of my current life:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rS1Iza_JbiE/ULxY2RCa7CI/AAAAAAAAGS4/CTOIqJA2Cf4/s1600/IMG_2384.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rS1Iza_JbiE/ULxY2RCa7CI/AAAAAAAAGS4/CTOIqJA2Cf4/s200/IMG_2384.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
I hopped on a freeway to attend sleepover with a beloved bunch of women I’ve known since girlhood, hosted by my dearest friend, Lisa. Under a drizzly Orange County sky, we ate Mexican food, drank wine, soaked in a hot tub, drank more wine and laughed into the night. This morning, we ate egg burritos, indulged in celebrity gossip, sang ‘California Dreamin’ and picked oranges from the backyard tree. Then we hugged goodbye, and hopped on our respective freeways after making additional concrete social plans. With decades of shared memories, such friendships feed my soul, reminding me why I am in Southern California for the winter; it's not just about avoiding blizzards, it's about recharging my social battery. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HwsWUDnmVkk/ULxV8zY2U5I/AAAAAAAAGSg/NP1-IBOHYa4/s1600/HermosaSunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HwsWUDnmVkk/ULxV8zY2U5I/AAAAAAAAGSg/NP1-IBOHYa4/s320/HermosaSunset.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
As I told my mother recently, <i>“If I’ve learned anything this summer, it’s how to celebrate where you are and not pine for someplace else - a waste of time.”</i> I see this philosophy as an extension of the familiar song lyric, <i>“If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”</i> For god sakes, wherever you find yourself, be <i>there</i>. <br /><br />Nevertheless, when jogging along the beach these days, I see the Pacific Ocean, the Queen Mary, endless happy LBC faces...and rows and rows of perfectly ripe garlic. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K0yBPgljARs/ULxXrD8gRmI/AAAAAAAAGSo/4o1Hg_uf5xw/s1600/IMG_5526.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-K0yBPgljARs/ULxXrD8gRmI/AAAAAAAAGSo/4o1Hg_uf5xw/s320/IMG_5526.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-59790493622837745202012-11-15T11:27:00.000-08:002012-11-15T11:27:55.990-08:00A Former Beach Bunny Returns<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oTMAV4ol4O4/UKU8hr-6nLI/AAAAAAAAGP8/2UYx04PhU88/s1600/LongBeach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="123" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oTMAV4ol4O4/UKU8hr-6nLI/AAAAAAAAGP8/2UYx04PhU88/s320/LongBeach.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shoreline Village</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Just three weeks and two days after leaving <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/">the farm</a>, I find myself living in my hometown of Long Beach, California. With the exception of a 3-week stay in Mississippi over the Xmas/New Year's holidays, I will be living here for the duration of winter. As my brother helpfully pointed out this morning, I am probably one of the younger Snowbirds flying around these days. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Qq25_-BIWgI/UKU9LAfLKtI/AAAAAAAAGQE/EEn6sUM74ZQ/s1600/QueenMary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Qq25_-BIWgI/UKU9LAfLKtI/AAAAAAAAGQE/EEn6sUM74ZQ/s320/QueenMary.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">God Bless the Queen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The reality of this has not yet hit me but I keep thinking, 'I haven't lived in Southern California since before the Internet.' This fact succinctly illustrates just how long it has been since I left behind Beach Bunny Heather and also, just how much has changed since February 1997, when I moved to San Francisco. (And yes, I realize the Internet existed then but it was not yet the norm - nobody I knew had an email address or cell phone.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aTgRF9giEc0/UKU9ml52AeI/AAAAAAAAGQQ/EOMYEQ7yClc/s1600/CSULB2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aTgRF9giEc0/UKU9ml52AeI/AAAAAAAAGQQ/EOMYEQ7yClc/s320/CSULB2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">CSULB, my alma mater</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Last night I slept in my childhood bedroom - both comforting and disarming. Naturally, the brain starts to wonder, 'Have I accomplished anything since I lived in this room?' For many people, a return to the hometown means confronting ghosts, resurrecting long-dead memories and a confrontation with one's advancing age. I am no different, despite my hometown being a sunny, suburban ocean-side burg.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AlQkhAky2I8/UKU-Kr31R0I/AAAAAAAAGQY/RvKM4zwqOCU/s1600/Naples.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AlQkhAky2I8/UKU-Kr31R0I/AAAAAAAAGQY/RvKM4zwqOCU/s320/Naples.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Naples</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I aim to create new memories here and I've plenty of incredible friends here to help, some even within jogging distance. And all that culture I missed over the summer in North Dakota? I'm going to gorge myself on concerts, screenings, plays, stand-up, improv and anything else that Los Angeles cooks up.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hXFAMs9CLXE/UKVADWGkfJI/AAAAAAAAGQg/QLdccZjyiF4/s1600/IMG_2664.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hXFAMs9CLXE/UKVADWGkfJI/AAAAAAAAGQg/QLdccZjyiF4/s320/IMG_2664.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Wiltern Theater - many memories here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, in addition to pondering what to plant in spring and how to pay for all my crazy dreams, I'll be the one jogging on the beach, marveling at the weather and mentally making peace with all kind of ghosts. </div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-86684278161803218292012-10-21T17:10:00.002-07:002012-10-22T13:04:35.746-07:00My First Vote: George McGovern<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://a.abcnews.com/images/US/ap_george_mcgovern_2_jt_121021_wg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://a.abcnews.com/images/US/ap_george_mcgovern_2_jt_121021_wg.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bob Daugherty/Associated Press</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I heard that <a href="http://www.npr.org/2012/10/21/163342166/mcgoverns-life-leaves-more-than-a-lost-presidency">George McGovern died today</a>, I felt a tug of nostalgia. In 1972, I was a first grader in Mrs. Hove's class at Mark Twain Elementary in Long Beach, California. Mrs. Hove was a delightful teacher who truly relished her job. She had the brilliant idea to host a mock election - amidst the national one - so her students could learn about the inner-workings of democracy.<br />
<br />
As I recall, we learned as much about each presidential candidate - Richard Nixon and George McGovern - as our seven-year-old brains could handle. Then, she asked us to write down who we would like to see as President of the United States. I recall really weighing the decision, probably longer than necessary. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I have no memory of which candidate actually won Mrs. Hove's election but as I understand, the rest of the students quickly moved on to a craft project. Meanwhile, two of her students were busy in the corner, having a heated debate about the merits and demerits of the two candidates. Evidently, I was a staunch McGovern supporter while little Timmy Hawkins was a Nixon guy, all the way.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Hove's plan to enlighten her students work almost too well on me and Timmy. I think we even continued the debate on the playground and a bit after school. I was sure I was right and so was he; no one was budging. <br />
<br />
Then, I went home and told my mother about the day's events, including my heated argument with a young Mr. Hawkins. Then, I asked her who she and daddy voted for. "Nixon," she said. (I found out years later, dad had even worked on his campaign.) I immediately burst into tears, thinking I had betrayed my family. I voted for the wrong man! My mother assured me that I did not have to vote like them, that we were all individuals and that was one of the great things about democracy. <br />
<br />
*** <br />
<br />
Flash forward to 1987 and I am working toward my journalism degree at Cal State Long Beach. It's the first day of classes and my World Religions teacher is taking roll. He calls my name and I respond in the affirmative. He then says, <i>"Tim Hawkins?"</i> and a deep voice right behind me says, <i>"Here."</i><br />
<br />
Though I hadn't spoken to this person in 15 years, I swing around immediately and hiss, <i>"I WAS RIGHT ABOUT NIXON!" </i><br />
<br />
He covers his face and mumbles, <i>"Oh, I was hoping you wouldn't remember!"</i> We laughed hard then and every time we saw each other after that. Tim was a great guy, despite his bad taste in politicians. <br />
<br />
RIP George McGovern. You inspired this former first grader to care just a little bit more and I am forever grateful. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-64980048916863028072012-08-21T13:15:00.001-07:002012-08-21T21:40:33.707-07:00My Memories of Phyllis Diller<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Before a wave of texts, calls and emails informed me of <a href="http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/gossip/la-et-mg-phyllis-diller-dead-20120820,0,2936460.story">Phyllis Diller's passing yesterday</a>,
there was an omen that morning. As I often do when showering, cleaning,
cooking or, in this case, packing a suitcase, I play iTunes on shuffle.
With 7,500 sound files, it's the only way to hear them all.<br />
<br />
I was packing for home, leaving Denver after co-producing seven comedy improv shows to benefit <a href="http://support.smiletrain.org/site/TR?pxfid=2030&pg=fund&fr_id=1040">Smile Train</a>, a cleft charity. From the other room, I heard Phyllis repeat my name. <i>"Heather. Well, that is about the prettiest name. I just love that name Heather."</i>
I smiled, recalling the memory of the recorded radio interview I'd done
with her years before. She was so gracious and I was so nervous but the
interview had gone well. I'd forgotten the sound file was in my iTunes
library.<br />
<br />
I'd heard the interview a dozen times since so I went and
hit the forward button, taking me to the next random selection, "There
Is a Light That Never Goes Out" by The Smiths.<br />
<br />
***<br />
Some
weekday afternoon, around the turn of this century, I found myself on
24th floor conference room in downtown San Francisco. The bay view was
indescribably beautiful, though the meeting was excruciatingly dull.
Instead of taking notes, as expected, I instead made a list of things to
do prior to death - the term "bucket list" had not yet become common.
Somewhere on there, in between "Write a book" and "Gallop a horse across
the Golden Gate Bridge" was "Meet Phyllis Diller."<br />
<br />
<img alt="Phyllis Diller and Heather Clisby" src="https://www.blogher.com/files/MeandPhyllishero.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /><br />
<div align="center">
<i><br /> </i></div>
To
me, Phyllis was the ultimate comedy pioneer, someone I had long admired
not just for her steady, successful career but for the way she
approached the craft, with razor-sharp precision. And let's face it,
comedy has long been a world dominated by men. Today, less so. (Yay!)<br />
<br />
My
life has always included a comedic compartment, whether as a performer
(some LA stand-up but mostly improv), a humor writer or rabidly
appreciative audience member. I grew up memorizing the albums of Bill
Cosby, Steve Martin, Bob Newhart, Richard Pryor, George Carlin and Robin
Williams. In fact, I still collect classic comedy LPs and in a grand
gift from the Universe, got to embrace Bob Newhart on a plane with his
express permission. I am a true comedy nerd. (Come October, I'm driving
six hours to see Louis C.K. in Minneapolis - insane.)<br />
<br />
Around the time of the fateful Boring Meeting, I was occasionally writing for the still-new <a href="http://www.bust.com/">BUST</a> magazine, and in a fit of confidence, pitched them a profile on Phyllis. The editor, Debbie Stoller,
(who is rad) flipped over the idea and insisted we include a photo
shoot as well. Beyond Phyllis's famous over-the-top laugh (<i>"I came out of the womb like that,"</i>
she'd told me), the bulk of her act was based on her so-called ungainly
looks. This, I discovered, was a deliberate strategy to appear more
vulnerable, non-sexual and more clownish - a key to her self-deprecating
act. (<i>"The only tragedy is that Phyllis Diller was the last from an era that insisted a woman had to look funny in order to be funny,"</i> tweeted Joan Rivers yesterday.)<br />
<br />
And so, writing about Phyllis wasn't enough, she must be photographed too. We agreed to meet …. at her house.<br />
<br />
In
one long deafening squeal, I packed for LA, grabbed my vintage copy of
her 1961 live album, "Laughs" for an autograph, and prepared to meet my
idol, which can be a tricky thing. What if the object of one's
admiration is not what's imagined? What if they are rude? Uncaring?
Indifferent? Worst of all, what if she wasn't funny? I had been
disappointed by false celebrity before and was wary. Sure, she was
charming on the phone for 20 minutes but hell, even I can do that.<br />
<br />
For
30+ years, Phyllis lived in the same Brentwood home in West LA. She
called the area "Murderer's Alley" for her infamous neighbor, OJ
Simpson. (<i>"What a nightmare that was. We were trapped."</i>) The
home is spectacular, tasteful without being ostentatious. Her office
walls are covered with head shots of famous comedians and friends, all
of them fans. (Richard Lewis' inscription summed them all up: <i>"I adore you!"</i>)<br />
<br />
Phyllis
had named her living room The Hope Salon and a full oil portrait of her
friend and mentor, Bob Hope, was lit up next to the grand piano. The
entry hall had a giant oil painting of an empty stage with a lonely microphone and a spotlight, signed by the artist herself, Ms. Diller.<br />
<br />
Phyllis
Diller was much more beautiful in person than I'd expected. With all
that plastic surgery, I was prepared for a disturbing image, like seeing
Meg Ryan at a distance. Not at all. <i>"The trick with the surgeries is knowing when to stop,"</i> she told me. <i>"I once had the best plastic surgeon and then he up and died on me ... the NERVE!"</i>
Phyllis looked wonderful - an attractive older woman but not at all
plastic. At some point, I mentioned my own very-different experience
with plastic surgery as a child and young adult (25 surgeries) and she
was fascinated, asking me questions and listening with real concern.<br />
<br />
That
was another striking surprise about Phyllis, her impeccable manners and
her incredibly sharp mind. Nothing escaped her - politics, social
issues, geographies, the arts - and like any lifelong student, she was
never bored. While talking in her living room, Phyllis became distracted
by her cat, Miss Kitty, chasing a fly.<i> "Oh, look! She gonna get it! Look at her!"</i> she squealed. <i>"Now then, where was I?"</i> Meanwhile, I'm thinking, 'God, I love this woman.'<br />
<br />
Phyllis
lived very much in the moment, as along as that moment was stimulating.
She once told her friend, the comedian/magician, Penn Jillette, <i>"If I try something new and I'm not good at it, I get bored and quit. There are too many other things to master."</i>
Somewhat famously, Phyllis did not suffer fools - she could be curt and
impatient. She was also famous for never, ever giving an encore
performance, no matter how frantically the audience clapped. <i>"When I leave the stage, that's it. I don't come back,"</i> she said.<br />
<br />
At some point during that visit, I'd made the mistake of complaining about my age - I was 36. <i>"HA!"</i> she blurted, and then came up and poked me in the chest with every word: <i>"I hadn't even been on stage yet when I was your age!"</i> And then again for good measure, another sharp poke, <i>"HA!"</i><br />
<br />
More
than anything, her pointy point made me realize how long this life could be, how
much I could get done. I can still feel her finger poking in to my chest
and it pushes me forward to do scary, productive, fun-for-fun's-sake
things.<br />
<br />
This is a woman who, after birthing six children (three of them
preceded her in death), became the world's first female stand-up comic.
She was 37 years old when she climbed up on stage at The Purple Onion in
San Francisco on March 7, 1955. Her husband, Sherwood, battled
depression and couldn't keep a job so it was up to Phyllis to support the family. (He was, however, hot in the sack, she confided.)<br />
<br />
I asked Phyllis if she knew she would become famous. She sighed and, for once, was quite serious, <i>"Yeah, I knew."</i>
Diller is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records for delivering
12 punch lines per minute - a record that still stands today. Watching
her act or listening to her old comedy albums is like witnessing
lighting - it's so quick, so natural, so powerful. It lights up the room
in one bright flash after another. Her son, Perry, once observed, <i>"Mom rides the audience like a jockey rides a horse."</i><br />
<br />
As
if this weren't enough, Phyllis also became an accomplished concert
pianist, performing with over 100 symphonies across the US. Her
arthritis kept her from playing the later years so she turned to
painting. She'd produced some greeting cards and even sent me a batch.
While the photographers were setting up the equipment in her living room
for the shoot, I asked if I could see her artist's studio. She turned
to her housekeeper, Dottie, and said excitedly, <i>"Take her upstairs. Show her the wig room too!"</i> I had my camera and Phyllis Diller was giving me the run of the place; it was like a dream come true.<br />
<br />
Her
youngest kid, Perry, was a wild teenager and former heavy metal drummer
and he'd wallpapered his bedroom in black-and-white tiger stripes.
After he moved out and become a banker, Phyllis turned the room into
storage for all her wigs and show costumes. I nearly fainted. I snapped a
few photos (they are somewhere here on the farm, I swear) and moved on
to her artist's studio, which included several paintings in the works.<br />
<br />
Also in the studio was one of the most valuable things I have ever laid eyes on - a big wooden, square file cabinet (like the ones in libraries) with
long drawers holding endless 3"x 5" cards. Each card had a Phyllis joke
on it (she wrote all her own stuff) and they were organized by topic!
There were thousands of cards in there, it was quite astonishing. In the
coming years, I would worry about that collection and urge her to get
it into a museum. Finally, she told me it had a reserved spot in the
Smithsonian, thank God.<br />
<br />
As I came down the stairs, she looked up, <i>"Well, whattya think?"</i> I shook my head, <i>"I think that there are about 30 very average people walking around right now - you've hogged enough talent for all of them."</i> She laughed her famous laugh and enjoyed that theory very much.<br />
<br />
I
cannot begin to describe how much fun it was to be able to make someone
like Phyllis Diller laugh. Of course, I couldn't resist trying. I had
memorized bits of that 1961 album and performed them back to her - man,
she loved that. She just roared. And honestly? I don't think it was my
performance, she was admiring the genius of her own writing. When I
reenacted her bit about aging, (<i>"A woman hits 40 going 90 miles an hour and BOY, that's a crack up..."</i>) she laughed loudly and said, <i>"God, that's brilliant!"</i><br />
<br />
But
my favorite secret fact about Phyllis was that she was a big-time
foodie and simply reveled in cooking. When touring, she'd bring all her
own food, cookware and hot plate and make gourmet dinners for her staff
after each show. She talked about how careful she was in peeling
tomatoes for a specific recipe, <i>"I'm a classicist, you see."</i><br />
<br />
During
one phone conversation, she mentioned to me that she was about to go to
the market. (She no longer drove herself though she would occasionally
take out her 1927 Mercedes Excaliber Phaeton complete with gangster
headlights and a horn that played "Bridge on the River Kwai.") I asked
what she was going to buy so she excitedly grabbed her shopping list and
read it off to me. In addition to the usual meats and vegetables, the
list included three flavors of Jello-O. <i>"I LOVE Jell-O,"</i> she declared.<br />
<br />
So,
when her birthday rolled around that year, my father urged me to send
her a giant box filled with Jell-O packages. She sent me a long
thank-you note (Phyllis is quite the formal corresponder) <i>"I laughed so hard! Thanks for giving me a gift I could really use."</i><br />
<br />
After
that, I was on her Christmas card list, which was an annual delight.
Her penmanship was exquisite, though I could see the lines getting
shakier as the years went by.<br />
<br />
When I last spoke to her, it was
post-martini time - she had one every night. Her secretary initially
apologized to me in mousy chirps, <i>"I'm sorry but Ms. Diller doesn't talk to anyone after 8:30 p.m. ... "</i> and then Phyllis jumped on another phone line and shouted enthusiastically, <i>"Heather, DARLING! You KNOW that come June, I think I'll be running out of my Jell-O stash so .... "</i> I took the hint and sent her another big box that year for her birthday in July.<br />
<br />
I
could spend hours reminiscing about Phyllis, what she meant to me, to
women and the world of comedy. I'm so honored to have met her and walked
the earth at the same time. There's a spot in my heart - and my chest -
that carries the mark of her influence. As Morrissey declared with
foresight, hers is a light that will never go out.<br />
<br />
Rest in peace, Phyllis. I hope they have canes full of gin in heaven, and tell Bob we all said hello.<br />
<br />
~ <br />
<br />
Check out my 2006 review of the little-seen documentary on Phyllis's stand up career, <a href="http://www.shoestring.org/mmi_revs/goodnightwelove-hc-219439909.html">"Goodnight, We Love You." </a><br />
<br />
<i>This was cross-posted on <a href="http://blogher.com/">BlogHer.com</a>. </i></div>
Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-91824881131326378802012-05-29T15:16:00.002-07:002012-05-31T22:02:33.314-07:00The Man, Revealed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-32BIMSCqC6Y/T8UwCeUrf_I/AAAAAAAAENY/7CrLE9ToDXs/s1600/IMG_2415.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-32BIMSCqC6Y/T8UwCeUrf_I/AAAAAAAAENY/7CrLE9ToDXs/s400/IMG_2415.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The handsome man in this photo is known in this space as "Kirk", which is not his real name. He has been my boyfriend, partner, best friend, spirit guide, roommate and head cheerleader (a term he might reject as "un-manly") for nearly four years now. This post (written with his express permission) is to celebrate his amazingness but first, let me explain the two big reasons why I use a fake name and why I rarely mention him online.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OJ1qOrO-Qgk/T8VEFBCmkJI/AAAAAAAAEN0/rCN1tQlxCw8/s1600/IMG_2314.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OJ1qOrO-Qgk/T8VEFBCmkJI/AAAAAAAAEN0/rCN1tQlxCw8/s200/IMG_2314.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kirk and I, working at Grant Farms.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Reason #1:</b><br />
Kirk works in an industry that requires the utmost discretion. Not only does his position demand that he respect the privacy of his employers but it also requires him to keep a low profile, both online and in Real Life. In the world of Google searches and SEO tag words, it's best that his cyber footprint be kept to a bare minimum. This could be a problem is your gal is a mouthy blogger who puts your name in print without much thought.<br />
<br />
Let's put it this way, when one of his employers found out he was dating a blogger, the man's face went white. Despite Kirk's assurances that there were no risks, he could tell the very idea made his boss nervous. Truth is, when his current (or future) employers Google Kirk's real name, very little should surface. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-26BhqB6xW1Y/T8VEsupS-nI/AAAAAAAAEN8/ghsog9IgadY/s1600/IMG_1533.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-26BhqB6xW1Y/T8VEsupS-nI/AAAAAAAAEN8/ghsog9IgadY/s200/IMG_1533.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanksgiving at Mama Iva's.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Reason #2: </b><br />
As some may recall, my landing here in Colorado was fraught with romantic turbulence. I had no local friends yet and no real outlet for venting (I was too embarrassed to call most of my friends), so I let it all hang out on my blog. Sure, I felt better but after the dust had settled, I realized that it would likely be one of the last times I would publicly write about my love life online, especially the dramatic parts. <br />
<br />
I've been to enough blogging conferences and seminars to know that oversharing this part of one's life is an unhealthy policy. My personal life is more important to me than the urge to share it; it is something better left to real world margaritas, old friends and phone calls with Mama Iva. Out of respect for the person I am dating, I choose to keep the relationship mostly private. Of course, if there are big headlines, such as an impending marriage, I would certainly celebrate that here but anything other than that, is kept backstage.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hYcpwHJfzik/T8VFw7bROrI/AAAAAAAAEOE/mG26tlZFbbw/s1600/MeReid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hYcpwHJfzik/T8VFw7bROrI/AAAAAAAAEOE/mG26tlZFbbw/s320/MeReid.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But back to Kirk. Although it means I am not going to be in his day-to-day life (and may not see him until fall), his endless love and support for <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/">my organic farming project</a> is blowing my mind. I am slowly starting to understand what true love really is because I am seeing it in action when he helps me pack up my stuff, when he goes with me to rent the U-Haul, when he offers up his own new address knowing that I have yet to get a NoDak PO Box. <br />
<br />
He truly gets what I am trying to do in North Dakota and fully understands why it is somewhat urgent. Kirk is the only non-Clisby person in my life to have seen our family's land in North Dakota, so he knows everything about this vision for SCRANCH. <b>In fact, it was he who thought up the project name, a shortened acronym for <a href="http://secondchanceranch.blogspot.com/">Second Chance Ranch</a>.</b> Sheer genius!<br />
<br />
When I first met him at My Brother's Bar, Kirk was having tough times - end of a job, end of a marriage, a new President he didn't like. When I first asked him how things were going, he responded, <i>"Shitty!"</i> The raw honesty made me laugh. 'This man,' I thought to myself, 'will never lie to me.' <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-45txmH0L1fc/T8VG9qEdlDI/AAAAAAAAEOM/Vry2VSurRaY/s1600/IMG_0575.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-45txmH0L1fc/T8VG9qEdlDI/AAAAAAAAEOM/Vry2VSurRaY/s320/IMG_0575.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With Murry, my canine boyfriend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'd overheard him talk about a Mile-Hi Church, a place I was quite curious about. He said he'd just started going and he could pick me up next week, if I didn't want to go alone.<br />
<br />
And that was that.<br />
<br />
Together, we'd listen to the weekly message of spiritual awareness and self-improvement and then we'd get some coffee and tea and discuss the teachings. In this way, we became spiritual partners, a place to check in and monitor our own progress.<br />
<br />
Along the way we became a couple and it was he who got a hilarious front row seat to my house-wifey domestication makeover when we moved into <a href="http://www.hearthstonecohousing.com/">Hearthstone</a>, our beloved co-housing community. (Before Kirk, I had never lived with a beau before - true story.)<br />
<br />
Other than sharing a home and experiencing co-housing together, our domestic goal was an exchange of important life skills: He was going to teach me about sharing my daily life and being more emotionally connected to another person while I was going to teach Kirk - a man much too used to being on alert and serving others - to become a selfish motherfucker and chill the fuck out. While I had to be herbally medicated to buy new curtains at JC Penney, he only needed more vintage bowling shirts and porkpie hats to get the drift. <br />
<br />
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Kirk certainly accomplished his goal because he has taught me more than I can ever say about the amazing depths of selfless love and unconditional friendship. I think I finally understand what "we" means in the truest sense. And I have to confess to (ultimately) really digging the domestic thing, especially the cooking part. I really got into making dinner every night and once, I even brought him a beer while he was watching football and I was wearing an apron. The most amazing part? I LOVED IT! <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I have only been half successful. He tucks his shirts in less and less and is more apt to just relax and read on the couch then when I first found him. He tells me stories about his legendary anger and rage but I have only seen the guy that smiles all the time, laughs easily and is nice to everyone. The only Kirk I know is the one that is kind to animals, buys champagne for anything (<i>"It's Conan's first night on TBS!"</i>) and is the father of two beautiful people who love him, J and M.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SEoYa-lMlNM/T8VIaEcFR8I/AAAAAAAAEOc/IUhVmYJbDFM/s1600/IMG_2263.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SEoYa-lMlNM/T8VIaEcFR8I/AAAAAAAAEOc/IUhVmYJbDFM/s320/IMG_2263.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love these people. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But Kirk will never be a selfish person who only thinks of himself, it's just not his nature. He is the guy that can fix anything and is happy to do so. He's the guy who will offer you the bigger piece first, the one that offers to lend money, the one that will help you move. There was that one time that Kirk attempted asshole behavior - his strategy? He willfully opted to NOT come home with fresh cut flowers. (I failed to notice, rendering his attempt unsuccessful.)<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my godson, Jack. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I must also point out how much laughter we shared. There was a tremendous amount of giggling that went on and I appreciated what a grateful audience he was, not only for my random life stories (that I'm sure I repeated) but also when I insisted that his life was incomplete without a viewing of, for example, all nine episodes of the live action version of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Tick_%282001_TV_series%29">The Tick</a>. What a trooper. <br />
<br />
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<br />
I wanted to write this post because all too often, the nice guys of this world are not celebrated. I wanted to make it very clear - and deliberately public - how very lucky I am to have my life intersect with such a quality person. Kirk created a fertile atmosphere where my dreams could grow and for that, I am eternally grateful. <br />
<br />
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<br /></div>Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-50738838359376897812012-05-14T16:52:00.000-07:002012-05-14T16:52:30.456-07:00Hotel California<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Lately, I'd say in the last 46 or so years, I've been feeling incredibly <i>held</i>, as if carried around in the palm of a mostly-loving King Kong. There are glaring voids but for the most part, I feel like my life is just one crowd surfing scenario after another. Case in point: Saturday evening.<br />
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At this time every year, I head to my home state, California, to celebrate Mother's Day with Mama Iva and celebrate Chick Cabin Weekend. Kirk, who is somehow managing to be even more amazing during all this change, gives me a no-muss, no-fuss ride to the airport. I make my way to the gate, where I am greeted by my pal, Gins, a friend from San Francisco who just so happens to be on the same flight. This we discovered earlier by a random, "How r u?" text session that morning. What are the odds?<br />
<br />
Despite our fellow row mate being super hot, Gins and I mostly ignored him and chatted our heads off on the flight - sharing recent adventures, updating on mutual friends and family and tackling Big Life Questions while munching on snack size peanuts. (I took a photo of her at LAX but alas, it was not approved for publication.)<br />
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Less than a minute after hugging Gins' parental units at the curb, my longtime pal, Susie, whisks me away into the madness of LA. We reunite back at her place with Zen Lisa, who is waiting for us in her car, which doubles as a backstage changing room and urban tank. We head to <a href="http://www.witzendlive.com/">WitzEnd</a> in Venice, where we scarf down an embarrassing amount of food (hey, it was free with the Groupon) and enjoy three awesome musical acts - <a href="http://www.myspace.com/thenovelists">The Novelists</a>, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/bothegirl">Bo The Girl</a> and <a href="http://tyl3rconti.com/">Tyler Conti</a> - a man with a voice, a guitar and enough sex appeal to kill an elephant. (His mom was there too, so we thanked her for his existence.)<br />
<br />
Susie had to get up early the next morning, so we left early-ish, and headed back to her place. There were more indulgences, conversation and laughter. Then, Lisa takes me to a 24-hour spa in Koreatown because...hey, it's a Groupon! Called <a href="http://www.wispausa.com/">WiSpa</a>, as described by <a href="http://la.racked.com/archives/2012/02/02/hardcore_spa_fans_flock_to_this_24hour_koreatown_gem.php">Racked LA</a>, <i>"<b>Wi Spa</b> is not for novices. It's for die-hard spa-goers that know
their way around a traditional Korean bathhouse and aren't afraid of a
little nudity. Okay, a lot of nudity." </i><br />
<br />
As far as I was concerned, there wasn't <i>enough</i> nudity but then again, I was born with a lack of modesty. In fact, I sometimes forget that nudity is still not accepted as normal behavior; it's the same as me constantly forgetting that pot it still illegal. (Ridiculous.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wiltern Theater, one my favorite old haunts.</td></tr>
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Most of the signs are in Korean and English but we still needed additional explanations. There's a women-only floor (nudity, yay!), men-only floor (the same, I assume) a co-ed floor (spa-issued shorts and t-shirt only) and a rooftop lounge. Did I mention this spa is open 24-hours a day, seven days a week? I guess they also offer salt scrubs, massages and other services but we were there just to explore the general spa facilities. <br />
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Walking out to the general area with heated floor tiles, we see men, women and children relaxing all over the place in that beautiful unselfconscious way that only non-Midwesterners can. WiSpa has a series of special sauna rooms and the first we tried was the Salt Sauna Room, which is filled entirely with smooth, hot salt chunks, although I thought it was Rose Quartz. It is incredibly beautiful, like a wee pink church where everyone lays down to pray.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The respiratory system is purified, circulation improves, the immune
system is strengthened, and muscles are relaxed. In addition,
halotherapy (salt therapy) is healing for skin conditions."</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
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Honestly, I didn't want to leave this room but your body can only handle so much heat. They recommend only 10-20 in each room. So, we took a break and next, we tried the Jade Room: <i>"
The powerfully hot <span class="justify">JADE ROOM</span> eases
muscle tension, helps with arthritis, and is known to lower the cerebral
temperature. The sodium and minerals within the walls of Jade Spa also
help in the balancing of hormones. In Asian culture, Jade has long been
revered for its healing properties and in aiding stress relief."</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo doesn't do the beauty of these rocks justice. I could have stared at them for hours. </td></tr>
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Next, we jumped into the mysterious-looking Bulgama, "made mostly out of oak wood, sits at an impressive 231 degrees for
intense thermotherapy. As guests lie on the floor, heat helps to loosen
muscles, remove toxins and bacteria in the body, and reduce blood
pressure -- for an overall cleansing effect."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holy shit, this place was hot. </td></tr>
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Seriously, I could only stay in there less than 5 minutes - I never even moved away from the door. It was scary hot. Lisa took to it more than I did. We took a break after this before heading in to the Clay Sauna, another favorite of mine: <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"This natural mud stimulates the lymphatic system and assists in the heavy metal detoxification process."</td></tr>
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This photo doesn't explain what this room really is, which is a super hot room filled with billions of tiny red clay balls. Since you can't walk on them very well, there are wooden planks so you can access different areas. Also, there are wooden curved neck supporters and helpfully, a flat screen TV on the wall showing (what else?) a Korean cooking show, which gave me a deep craving for noodles I have yet to address. <br />
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After all this, I need an antidote to all that heat, which is why they have the Ice Sauna: <br />
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Ahhhhhh! They could have hung sides of beef in here and I would have punched them out of sheer gratitude.<br />
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So, after all this, we (finally!) got nekked and explored the womens' floor - hot HOT jacuzzis, cold dip pools, dry saunas, steam room and long rows of grooming stations - showers hoses, bowls, little plastic chairs and shampoo/conditioner/shower gel dispensers. We watched the Korean women all line up and busily groom their feet, their heads and their privates. Applying the when-in-Rome philosophy, I sat down and did the same. Lisa joined me, with some hesitance. <br />
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Ultimately, we left the spa around 1:30 a.m., more cleansed, detoxed and purified than I've ever been. We get in to the organized madness of Lisa's car and she puts on the very slow, very live version of 'Hotel California' as we head through downtown LA and off toward Long Beach.<br />
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Listening to this classic Golden State anthem, I count the palm trees, note the many helicopters and screaming cop cars and ponder the personal bonds of my home state. Mr. Henley is correct - I can never really leave, no matter where I go.<br />
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And again, I feel held. <br />
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<br /></div>Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-51148153516771034582012-05-02T20:33:00.000-07:002012-05-02T20:33:18.054-07:00The Launch of Second Chance Ranch<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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At 46, I’ve learned a few crucial things about myself. Evidently, I’m fond of thrusting my person into super scary scenarios, just to see if I can survive them, either physically or socially. And since I’m not yet dead or ostracized, this habit repeats itself. <br /><br />Which brings us to the next Big Life Challenge - the creation of Second Chance Ranch, also known as SCRANCH. <br />
<br />After at least 15 years of dragging my heels and daring myself to take me seriously, I’m going to spend a summer living on my family’s land in North Dakota. (That’s North, not South. No, not the one with Mt. Rushmore, the one above it.) I will still be making my living online, as I do now, as a writer, editor and communications contractor. In late October, I will head to less wintry parts of the nation, get a well-earned massage and plot the 2013 crop.<br />
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<br />The goal is to see if/how I can grow organic food while trying to understand the Big Ag all around me. I don’t expect to be wildly successful this first year, especially with such a late start, but I do expect to learn a lot while providing endless entertainment for the locals. I may try to sell food at the local Farmers Markets or in the western half of the state, which is going through a freakish population growth due to the oil boom. (Many hair-raising stories to come on that situation....) <br /><br />Honestly, I’ll be happy if I can just feed myself this first year. <br /><br />Truth is, there’s only so much you can learn from books, blogs and Michael Pollan articles, especially when reading them from the comfort of one’s urban couch. I want to understand the day-to-day, season-to-season challenges of the farmer, both organic and non. The only way to do that is be there in the thick of it and get really, really dirty. (On this recent trip, I learned the hands-on practice of automated cultivation and the windy politics of pesticide spraying - each one deserving of its own post.)<br />
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So, come June, I will pack up my worldly belongings (mostly photos, books, CDs and old concert t-shirts) and haul it all straight north. I’ll put everything in one of the many empty buildings we have and buy an affordable trailer in Grand Forks. There are a few houses on the property (including the house my mother grew up in) but they are quite unlivable, unless you are a raccoon.<br /><br />To clarify my insanity, I’ll be leaving behind my wonderful best friend and partner, Kirk, our huge, luxurious home, my favorite animals - Boudreaux (cat) and Matisse (dog), numerous friends, our beloved Hearthstone cohousing community and the stunningly beautiful state of Colorado to live in a remote trailer to battle heat, dirt, bugs, pesticides and loneliness. It’s a no-brainer, right?<br />
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<br />Lazy Apathetic Heather would not actively seek such discomforts but Crazy Impassioned Heather won the argument with a few key points:<br /><br /><b>Family:</b> I’m related to gobs of people up there, all quite likable and supportive. <br /><b>Food:</b> I have deep concerns and need some real-world answers. <br /><b>Land:</b> Lookie here, I got some! <br /><b>Animals:</b> Horses would be back in my life, big time. Also, chickens, goats, dogs and barn cats.<br /><b>Technology: </b>This would be impossible without the Internet. Let us give thanks. <br /><b>Mission:</b> Everyone needs a legacy and this could be mine. <br /><b>Creative Goals:</b> I will blog the hell out of this, write a book, and ultimately build a recording studio and outdoor cinema spot. <br /><b>Financial:</b> Since I would not be paying for rent, storage spaces, street sweeping tickets, Wall Street Journal deliveries, massages or concert tickets, money might be saved. <br />
<b>Emotional:</b> I have always felt a pull to this place for reasons I'm not yet able to articulate.<br />
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<br />Fears? I have a massive, stinkin’ heap of those as well. And I’ll battle those bastards, one at a time. <br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-71011453715127153562012-04-24T07:48:00.000-07:002012-04-24T07:48:13.375-07:00Northward Bound<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This morning, I head to North Dakota to see if the fantasy I have about living there for a summer and learning a thing or two about farming is viable. Where would I sleep? Where would I poop? And, most importantly, how would I access the Internet?<br />
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A girl still has to make a living, after all.<br />
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I come with a long list of questions and this trip is just about getting some answers. I'm sure the locals, most of whom I am related to, will have some questions of their own. </div>Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-90728464213594836072012-04-13T00:03:00.002-07:002012-06-08T20:41:22.621-07:00A Bay Area Visit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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People frequently comment on my penchant for travel. One friend flat out asked me on Facebook, <i>"Do you EVER stay home?"</i><br />
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It's true. I get on planes a lot. Always have. Not very green of me, really, but I've got a restless soul.<br />
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Sometime after I returned from LA in March, I drove to New Mexico (another post entirely) but once I got back, I made a long overdue visit to San Francisco, one of my home cities. It'd been a year and a half and I always pang for it. </div>
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I stayed with Ryan, my cousin/little brother, and his wonderful partner, Kealoha, in their beautiful new Bayview home. As one can imagine, buying a home in San Francisco in a mighty big financial achievement and their real estate timing was just about perfect. The area is currently going through a major overhaul - new restaurants, home makeovers and a shiny new UCSF campus down the street.<br />
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So, when one does look at the world in terms of airports, it's important to have 'outposts' in the world. These are places that feel like home because the people that live there and how they make you feel. R and K's home is one of these places for me. </div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hLiSoAcJaxs/T4e71iN-wqI/AAAAAAAAD28/u2Soi5ThUIY/s1600/IMG_2648.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hLiSoAcJaxs/T4e71iN-wqI/AAAAAAAAD28/u2Soi5ThUIY/s200/IMG_2648.jpg" width="150" /></a>While there, I managed to see some key folks, such as (Grown -Up) Grasshopper, Maria Cubeta. She - <a href="http://clizbiz.blogspot.com/2011/05/wanted-trusty-sidekick.html">my former sidekick </a>- is now a fancy PR exec at Intel, our former stomping grounds. So, where I used to use my security clearance to check her in to the shiny blue building, she now had to do the same for me. Oh, the poetry of passing that torch! I was bursting with pride and choked up in full <b>vaklempt</b>. </div>
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They grow up so fast, don't they? </div>
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I also got to visit with my former cube-mate, Jody Fox, one of the few colleagues who, like me, could pass for normal but, like me, is most assuredly not. When we united in our very real physical rejection of fluorescent lighting, they brought in the building super to disconnect those evil bulbs above our heads. There, happily, in 'Vampire Corner' we chatted away about pop culture as perky co-workers eyed us warily. We were so content there in the darkness, as much as one can be in the corporate salt mines. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Brides of Darkness.</td></tr>
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Anyhoo, she's just taken a new job and it was the perfect crossroads opportunity to drop in to her penthouse pad in West Oakland. Triple bonus, I got to see her delightful husband, Hugh, as well as her neighbor, Anne Stone, a modern-day Dorothy Parker if ever there was one. </div>
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I also drove down to Watsonville (!) to see my pal, Mark Dowdy, although I lack photographic evidence. Great to see him, although we definitely need to stop meeting up in the married-suburban homes of other people. Not conducive to volume or frivolity, our favorites. </div>
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On the way back up the peninsula, I dropped in on Valerie Liberty, one of my favorite souvenirs from the Dot Com Madness of the early century. We still laugh about the days when our company sent me, Val and Laura to LA for a week so we could investigate bars and restaurants for a $100K party we were planning in Hollywood. We rented a red Mustang convertible, they gave Val and Laura cell phones and me, a fashion account. Ah, those were the days! </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r8iFIub88A8/T4fNkIR11LI/AAAAAAAAD3g/btUU1zj1Jr0/s1600/IMG_2657.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r8iFIub88A8/T4fNkIR11LI/AAAAAAAAD3g/btUU1zj1Jr0/s200/IMG_2657.jpg" width="150" /></a>We played gobs of ukelele together and had a smashing time. She even popped some bubbly! Happily, I recorded it all on my Flip but sadly, I left it behind. Happily, she met me at SFO the following day to deliver it back. (Sheer moments after handing over my suitcase to the Southwest skycap, Val pulls up in some fancy black car and says, "Hop in!" She then places a box of smokey treats on my lap and we leave the airport behind.) </div>
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Anyway, though I have the camera, all the videos are now on Val's computer and not mine so I am missing a video in this post. </div>
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The morning of my last day, was sheer perfection. I got up early to get some work done so I could go with Kealoha to teach a yoga class at the <a href="http://www.integralyogasf.org/">Integral Yoga Center</a> on Delores. It's in one of those giant Victorian homes with flourishes in every direction. The class took place in the top floor temple and man-o-man, it was one of the best starts to any week I've ever had.<br />
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K is a very special person, one of my earthly spirit guides, in fact. If ever you can fit in a totally relaxing and centering activity (such as meditational yoga) before boarding a plane, I HIGHLY recommend it. I felt so very lucky to be there</div>
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I feel lucky a lot these days. </div>
</div>Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-75745831935070406052012-04-01T22:10:00.002-07:002012-04-01T22:10:51.538-07:00A Good Day at White Sands National Park, NM<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15272457.post-76767255952529478842012-03-23T08:12:00.001-07:002012-03-23T08:12:16.829-07:00A Cinematic Irony<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The other night, we sat down to watch what Kirk thought was 'Wrath of Khan' (<i>"Ricardo Montalban gets so mad! It's so great!"</i>) but instead, he had inadvertently chosen, '<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Name_Is_Khan">My Name Is Khan</a>", a Bollywood drama. Quite a difference.<br />
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It tells the story of Rizwan Khan, an Indian Muslim man with Asburger's Syndrome. He comes to the US and marries Mandira, an unspeakably beautiful Hindu hairdresser. Life is lovely until 9/11, then prejudice sets in. The family's surname causes Mandira's son, Sam, to be fatally victimized and Mandira blames her husband's surname for his death.<br />
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In a blind rage, she kicks him out. Rather innocently, he asks, <i>"When should I return?"</i> She screams that he should not return until she tells everyone, including the President of the United States, that his name is Khan and he is not a terrorist. He sets off to do just that. <br />
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Other than enduring some painfully exaggerated American stereotypes (including a big, black woman named "Mama Jenny" and a parade of mean, white guys in full redneck mode (in San Francisco, no less) and the notable exclusion of blonde woman) we enjoyed the film and appreciated the story it had to tell. <br />
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But I note it here because of two connections it has to recent events:<br />
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<b>Speaking Openly to Our Elected Officials</b>The U.S. Supreme Court will soon hear arguments in a case involving
<a href="http://www.npr.org/2012/03/21/148606249/confronting-the-vp-may-be-impolite-is-it-a-crime">the arrest of a Colorado man </a>who was thrown in jail after telling Vice
President Cheney in 2006 that the Bush administration's policies in Iraq
were "disgusting." Though he had only tapped the VP on the shoulder, he was put in handcuffs (in front of his 10-year-old son) 10 minutes later and taken to jail. His wife had to bail him out and the district attorney opted not to press charges...because he hadn't done anything except express his views to an elected official.<br />
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Khan faced a similar challenge when he tried to approach the President. And while one is a dramatization of a socially-challenged individual and the other is a real life incident, I couldn't help but compare them. Yes, I understand the safety of these people is the job of the secret service, so why do they disagree on what happened? And why was this man not arrested immediately? <br />
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<b>Hate Crimes in France</b><br />
That morning, I listened as NPR described the horrific scene in Toulouse, France, a lovely town I've actually visited. A extremist Muslim killed four people at a school. One scene described how he grabbed a little girl's hair, put a gun straight to her head and pulled the trigger without remorse. He's dead now but we know now he was allegedly avenging the deaths of Palestinian children and trying to incite more hatred.)<br />
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Despite their differences, leaders of Muslim and Jewish communities organized a march together, said one, <i>"It only makes sense if we do it together." </i>Said another, <i>"The gunman clearly is trying to make us hate one another. It will not work." </i><br />
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All this stuff was roiling around in my head while watching these heartfelt (and somewhat cheesey) film. Funny how life issues can gel into a theme sometimes. <br />
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<br /></div>Heather Clisbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11159325461476113920noreply@blogger.com0