ClizBiz

Exciting Times, Indeed

2012-01-31T14:36:00.000-08:00

Oh, how this job calls to me.

While I spend timer-clocked hours digging away in the boring-but-lucrative technology salt mines, my soul craves the crazy adventure that would undoubtedly pay just enough to scrape by. And despite the endless forms of communication that now exists, I still miss the small town community newspaper, the last bastion of Old Journalism.

I've got a feeling that I'll likely end up at the same place I began, and that'd be just fine.

An Honest Post

2012-01-25T23:15:00.000-08:00

Last Thursday, my friend, Kate, came over so I could share my teensy bit of tech knowledge with her. Counting Kate Armstrong as a friend isn't just like meeting somebody nice, it's like discovering plutonium. Very. Powerful. Stuff.

Kate is a force of nature and amidst all her declarations of power and intentions for 2012, she asked if I would like to join her "Dream Team."

"What's that?" I asked.

"It's people sharing their dreams and holding each other accountable for the tiny goals leading up to the realization of that dream," she explained, eyes wide with excitement.

"Um, okay." It seemed easier than signing up for Team in Training, that's for sure.

"So, in one week, what tiny thing are you going to accomplish toward your dream?"

"Uhhh..."

"C'mon, WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO?"

"Well, I haven't written an honest blog post in months."

"Do that then. You have one week."

So, here it is, on deadline eve. I've struggled with sharing in this space for a number of reasons. Mainly, because I've created this self-branding problem where I'm fairly visible on the web and yet, for all my self-promotion, my innards have suddenly turned shy and serious. Also, despite all the amazing things I experience, I have never felt more boring.

Truth is, change is afoot in 2012. Big stuff. Scary stuff. Changes that would be hard to explain without a blog, so I've vowed to come clean. My life is wonderful but it also includes pain. I tried getting pregnant last year and it didn't take so motherhood still eludes me.

To compound this ache, there are no animals in my charge. With the exception of Kirk's handsome cat, Boudreaux, and the neighbor's dog, Matisse, I am beast-less, which saddens me deeply. I am responsible for not a single being in this world, save myself. Freedom and loneliness - two sides of the same independent coin.

Perhaps this is my mid-life crisis?

Certainly, there is a predictable experience of asking myself, 'Just what have you accomplished? What good are you? Do you even have anything worthwhile to say?' For months, I have harbored serious doubts about the latter question.

So, this is the state of things. One of my part-time gigs has me reading others' blog posts day after day. Let me tell you, there's a lot of nonsensical rambling out there (similar to this post) but there's also a tremendous amount of well-written insight, brave admissions and hilarious storytelling.

And it's about time I rejoined the party.

Wild Animal Sanctuary

2012-01-17T23:36:00.000-08:00

Back in late October, Laura, Kirk and I went to the Wild Animal Sanctuary east of Denver. Way out on the flat prairie, a kind soul named Pat Craig corralled 720 acres and the non-profit now hosts nearly 300 wild animals, including lions, tigers, bears, leopards, mountain lions and wolves. After months of promising myself to go, I finally made it.

At the information hut, I read a ton about every wild animal out there but do I remember anything? Nope. However, there is one thing that stuck in my head: Mountain Lions are the largest feline that purrs. There's your Large Kitty Trivia of the week.

Naturally, I took many a photo but there's only so much you can shoot of a cat-from-above.

I liked these two - they frantically paced in unison the entire time. I wonder what made them so nervous?

It was hard to tell how much of that large acreage was actually being used but the happy volunteers excitedly told us about plans to expand. Animal sanctuaries, as necessary as they may be, are sad places. Unlike zoos, circuses or marine mammal parks, these animals are done 'working.' Nearly every animal has a similar story about either escaping abuse, neglect or at the very least, no knowledge of their wild birthright whatsoever. Places like this one take a ton of space, lots of people who care and a boat load of cash to keep them running.

This is Eddy the Black leopard. He had his own show on Animal Planet, "Growing Up Black Leopard." Fortunately, he was born at the sanctuary and grew up literally in the Craig home with tons of love and care. He's a lucky boy.

We saw a few bears and wolves too.

And, on our way out, a single camel with a bunch of livestock - horses, cows and sheep, I'm guessing? Perhaps it was the herbivore section.

'Twas a beautiful day. I'm grateful for places like this.

Conquering Red Rocks

2011-10-25T15:52:00.000-07:00

I attended a recent comedy show here in Denver where the touring headliner made a joke about how people don't like to walk anymore. Dead silence. Crickets chirped. He looked puzzled and did not understand why the joke fell flat.

He'd failed to grasp a basic Colorado philosophy: All forms of outside movement are taken very seriously. Not only do we walk with great zeal, we hike, run, cycle, ski, board and climb. For this, I am forever grateful to the Centennial State because without significant peer pressure, I am quite the lazy ass.

The above photo was taken last Sunday from an entrance ramp at Red Rocks Amphitheater - THE best place to see a concert on the planet, or even a classic film. It also happens to be the very same place where folks go hiking and conduct grueling exercise regimes.

Although one can certainly park at the top and walk down, the great majority of locals tend to park at the bottom and hoof it up. I once heard a KBCO DJ scoff when he'd heard a visitor complain: "Hey, if you can't make it, you don't deserve to be at Red Rocks." They are not kidding. (Seriously, they have suggested exercise routines posted on their website.)

So, when guests visit, we inevitably end up at RR, where they 'oooh' and 'aaaah' and point to the tiny Denver prairie-opolis in the distance. It's not just the intense reds and pinks of the rocks, it's the entire natural grandeur of the place. (We think the rocks resemble melted Neopolitan ice cream or super stripey bacon.)

Even performers gush. When Tom Petty launched his Mojo tour last summer, he chose Red Rocks and thankfully, we were there too. Lyle Lovett makes no bones about RR being his favorite venue and plays every summer. Then there's Steve Martin during his comedy tour, who, after coming out on stage, looked around and deadpanned: "What a shithole. I'm gonna have to fire my manager."

And I don't think I need to even mention U2. (After Pollstar magazine awarded Red Rocks Best Small Outdoor Venue for the 11th time, they finally just gave up and renamed it The Red Rocks Award while permanently removing RR from the running.)

Anyhoo, when my dad visited in August, we took him to Red Rocks and we watched people work out there - running the bleachers, upside down push ups, stair climbing - you name it. It all looked painful to me until I saw a woman jogging back and forth, working up the venue, one row at a time. 'Hey,' I thought, 'I could probably pull that off sometime.'

So, this past weekend, I did! Took me about 40 minutes but I heard Rocky music at the end, even though I forgot my headphones. This ended up being a blessing as I would have missed a beautiful song by some girl down on the stage in a cowboy hat and jeans. Her voice was angelic and the acoustics were perfect. Less angelic but equally adorable was the old guy who followed with a crusty rendition of 'King of the Road.'

From the ground, post-run.

Meanwhile, every time I passed someone sitting on the bench, I'd ask, "Encouraging words?" This elicited some funny responses, such as:

"Um...It's nice and cool at the top!"
"Only 90 more rows to go!"
"Whoever is chasing you, you've lost them."
"If you stop, you'll have to do my homework."
"Great job! Way to go!"

SweaterGod, I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest so many times but once I got the rhythym, I knew I would not be stopping for anything. Eventually, I conquered 69 really long rows at 6,400-ft. elevation and I felt like a Colorado milestone had been reached.

(No matter that Kirk flew up and down the venue three times - two stairs at a time - with enough leftover time to take a fucking nap - he's a freak of nature, so it does not count.)

I can't wait to do it again.

Tragedy Hits Home

2011-10-13T15:45:00.000-07:00

Photo: Brian Wilkins via Flickr.

So, what's another random shooting from yet another armed enraged man, right? Mass killings such as the one that happened yesterday in Seal Beach, California, have become much too common but this one, this one hit much too close.

When Kirk told me about a shooting in Seal Beach, it made me nervous. I grew up in the very next town, Long Beach, and Seal Beach was one of our many beachy teenage hangouts. My memories there are endless - getting ice cream from Grandma's on the corner, flirting with the lifeguards, bikini shopping along Main Street and happy hours too numerous to count.

Seal Beach Pier

Seal Beach always felt like an old-fashioned, gen-u-ine small town squished between the insanity of LA and shallowness of The OC. A place where flip-flops and Hawaiian shirts were always in fashion, year-round. It was a place where you could always find fish tacos, Irish beer and beach shells for sale. It was one of the few beaches along PCH that had a playground on the sand. People that are from there, stay there, and people that move there....well, they're just plain lucky.

The population count from the 2000 census was 24,157. In 2010, it was 24,168 - 11 more people. And I'm pretty sure I know at least three of those. Not a lot of big changes happen there, which is the crux of the Seal Beach charm. It's nickname? "Mayberry by the Sea."

Sadly, thanks to an angry, deranged ex-husband, Seal Beach became a place of mass murder when Scott Dekraai busted in to a hair salon and killed eight people, including his ex-wife, Michelle Fournier - a girl I knew from high school. It's a sign of modern times that my high school annuals, once kept purely for nostalgia, have now become a reference tool for Facebook invitations and shooting victims.

Michelle Fournier, pictured at left, with Christy Wilson.

But it gets worse. I quickly discovered that Christy Wilson also perished in this horrible event. I didn't know Christy personally but heard so much about her through my close friend, Debbie, who shared many memories with her. Debbie's daughter, Hannah, was also quite fond of Christy and posted this photo of she and Christy together on her Facebook, taken when Hannah was much younger:

Shortly after this, I get an email from my friend, Susie, who informed me that her friend, Laura Webb, also died in the shooting. Laura's mother, Hattie Stretz, was the lone survivor and is currently in the hospital. Hattie was in a chair, getting her hair done while visiting her daughter, when the shooting took place.

There is a candlelight vigil tonight and I so wish I could be there to honor the dead, including the innocence lost in this tiny seaside town. The OC Register is publishing the entire victim list tomorrow and it makes me nervous. As Susie wisely observed in her email today:

"We may have moved away but we come from a village."

I'm keeping so many people in my heart and prayers tonight and in the days going forward, including every single citizen of Seal Beach, California. But mostly, for Michelle's 7-year-old son. Evidently, this gruesome insanity was sparked by a custody battle and the irony is, now that little boy has no parents at all.

Lakeside: Old School Amusement

2011-09-26T17:01:00.000-07:00

Saturday night, Kirk and I walked - yes, walked! - from our house to Lakeside Amusement Park, a step back in time for sure. Since we live precisely on the grounds of old Elitch Gardens, we recently had visited the relocated-downtown Elitch Gardens and found it crowded, expensive, disorganized and pretty much soulless. Being so close to Lakeside, we felt obligated to visit this vintage gem on its' last weekend this year.

After walking through our beautiful neighborhood, we showed up around 6 p.m., just in time to catch an amazing sunset. Riding a crazy roller coaster and catching a gorgeous lakeside sunset is an experience I highly recommend.

After paying the outrageous entrance fee of $2.50 (!), we skipped the coupons-per-ride set up and got the ride-everything-anytime wrist bands for around $19 each. Compare this to the $43 ticket price at Elitch and it makes your head spin. (I believe Disneyland is up to $80...?)

Established in 1908, Lakeside is currently owned by Rhoda Krasner, a delightful old woman whose father, Ben, had purchased the park in 1930. Immediately, he began art deco facelift which remains to this day. Sure, the park could use some loving repairs and a few new light bulbs but in a way, the natural decay is part of Lakeside's charm. A Yelp review from Kelly T. sums it up nicely:

"If Lakeside were a man, he would be one of those old guys that hangs out in Winchell's Donut Shop drinking 50 cent coffee and eating a bear claw while reminiscing about better times with his old poker buddies. He still smokes a cigar every day. He still believes that a martini with lunch is perfectly acceptable. And, goddammit, he WILL have butter on his potatoes, not some awful oily margarine."

Our favorite ride was definitely the Cyclone roller coaster, a wooden ride that does not do anything fancy except go very, very fast. A real bone rattler. Second was the Lakeside Train that circles Lake Rhoda - so delightful! Especially after dark when all the neon reflects off the water.

Our least favorite was The Spider, which I'd convinced Kirk into trying and well, we both regretted it. Later, while visiting the bathroom, I helped a poor woman wipe barf off her pants from riding the same evil monster. Poor lady, I think she might have been on a date too.

When time came for dinner, we (okay, Kirk) paid $12 whole dollars, for both of us. (2 slices of pizza and 2 sodas.) I can't imagine getting away with that at Disneyland. Also, Lakeside allows, and even encourages, people to bring their own food and have a picnic there on-site. Can you imagine a Six Flags' letting people come in with coolers? With the economy in such turmoil, places like Lakeside make it possible for families to have fun without spending a fortune.

On top of this, every employee we spoke to was polite and charming even though one can assume they are not making high dollar. (Although Admissions Guy could probably use more focus but no harm done.) Mostly teens, sure, but not surly - no eye-rolling or mumbling, which was nice.

And the kicker? I think the longest we waited in line was 5 minutes. Although, my stomach did get permanently flipped by this damn thing:

Kirk was smart and stayed off it. Wish I had too. Still, I managed to keep everything down and recovered on the ferris wheel. It was a beautiful night and I felt lucky to have this old beauty in my city and in my 'hood.

Long live Lakeside!

Primo Visits

2011-09-19T15:57:00.000-07:00

This weekend, my travel buddy, Mat Small, trekked out to Denver for a visit. He's one of many who have made connections at DIA but never emerged from the terminal. At long last, he explored Denver with my help and an old friendship was re-strengthened.

Mat is my Primo, Portugese for "cousin." Years ago, as we traveled through Brazil together, we kept being mistaken for spouses or siblings - neither of which described our platonic relationship. We settled for cousins and forever being Primo & Prima to one another.

Aside from seeing Denver, Mat was on a mission: To convince me to join him next May on a 12- day journey to the country of Georgia, a small nation bordering Russia, Turkey, Armenia, Azerbaijan and the Black Sea. He showed videos. He drew maps. He bragged about their wines and their status as the world's first Christian nation. He even cajoled my friend, Inna - who originally hails from Kazakhstan - to back him up. No luck there.

Still, I'm intrigued. Mostly due to the fact that Mat is a relentless researcher on exotic locals that bring the most bang for the buck. I tease him about his obsessions with world currencies but as his travel partner, it certainly pays off. In fact, Mat usually researches absolutely everything and I just show up. My part of the deal involves photographing the hell out of the entire experience. All in all, a fair exchange.

So come May, who knows? I may be slurping Georgian wine....

Mama Iva Visits

2011-07-20T14:16:00.000-07:00

At nearby Sloan's Lake.

Though we are required to love our mothers, I am fortunate in that I also like my mother as a true friend. She is sweet, generous, laughs easily and is generally low maintenance. She does not hold expectations of me nor does she try to tell me what to do. Even though we are very different people, we instead celebrate our commonalities. Best of all? She is smart enough to never turn down offer of a cocktail.

In our living room.

Mama Iva, however, is no passive granny figure. Though she is 78-going-on-60, she chooses to work 40 hours a week as a secretary for an industrial tire company. There, she is universally loved and she returns that love by providing a bevvy of snacks to an all-male sales team every week. I was actually present the day her boss told her, "No matter how old you are, you have a job here. I mean, we'll just build you a ramp if we have to." Having a place to go M-F, 8-5, and be appreciated - it means the world to her.

Mama Iva's decision to remain in the workforce was prescient, as the economy tanked and Medicare and Medicaid have come under the knife, she remains solidly self-sufficient with regards to income and healthcare. Plus, my mother is someone with an active brain. She knows what is going on in the world and does not like to be left out; she was taking computer classes in the 80s.

In fact, a few months back we were sitting in her living room when she leaned over and said to me sweetly: "Will you teach me how to text?" Oh, the joy! She's got an older phone so it's not as handy as my iPhone but she gets it done and fully grasps the medium. She's even texting me photos now.

Mama Iva and Kirk at Red Rocks.

Recently, I convinced her to spare 48 hrs. for a quick visit to Denver. She had not seen my new place ("The Commune" as the family refers to it) so it was fun to show her my life, such as it is. We fed her from our garden, drove her up through the mountains and generally made her comfortable. I even got to send her home with food - I love a good table turn!

At one point during her stay, she asked me: "Will you give me a tutorial on Facebook?" WOULD I?!?! It was during this I gave her some sage advice: "Don't bother with all the privacy settings. The only filter you need to be concerned about is the one at the very beginning when people try to friend you. If the name doesn't conjure a familiar face, a shared memory or a warm fuzzy, just ignore it. Period." I hope she takes this to heart instead of worrying about hurting people's feelings. (This is how we are different.)

He's molting so cut him some fashion slack, okay?

As an animal lover, I was so pleased that Mama Iva got to see some wildlife while here in Colorado. Coming down from the Guanella Pass into Georgetown, we turned a corner and voila! An entire herd of mountain goats. She loved that and the adorable town of Georgetown too.

I hated to see her go but she's got a full life to get back to - a full-time job, a social life (she's membership chairman of Young At Heart Singles), a big house and several pieces of property to maintain. Still, I miss her and wish one of us lived closer. I'd sure love the chance to feed her more often.

The Urban Forager

2011-06-28T12:25:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, one of my friends from the Master Composter group - a pack of loving dirtbags, if ever there was one - invited me over to her place for some "urban foraging." Now, this was no ordinary social call, this was an opportunity NOT to be missed.

My friend is Kate Armstrong, known 'round these parts as The Urban Forager and keeper of infinite knowledge on all plant life. (Our local NPR station recently did a story on her which you can listen to here.) Kate is one of those women that is a sheer force of nature with a multitude of identities and past lives to pull from. Mother of five grown children and grandmother to several, she is tenacious, funny and passionate about healthy food. I'd like to be Kate when I grow up.

When I arrived at Kate's house, another fellow composter was there too, Nina Faust, a lean, gorgeous blonde who runs her own catering company. For the next couple of hours, we all discussed edible weeds, organic gardening, the evils of GMOs and the proven benefits of talking encourgingly to one's plants. (Vindicated at last!) But mostly, we trolled the alley ways and sidewalk cracks of Denver in search of our lunch as Kate educated us along the way.

This is sorrel, I believe.

We certainly didn't have to go very far to find yummy edibles forcing their way up through the concrete. Kate showed us the difference between sorrel, dock, marrow and dandelion. She explained how to tell where evil pesticides had already been sprayed - a circle of brown death.

At some point, a friendly grey alley cat joined us as we worked our way around Kate's neighborhood. When Nina asked, with some concern, "What about dog and cat pee?"

Kate just shrugged, "You're going to wash everything anyway, besides it is still less harmful than all the pesticides from produce at the store." Too true.

Then, we went back to Kate's and made a gorgeous yummy salad from our green bounty, mixed in with some garden lettuce, tomatoes and parmesan too. It was unbelievably delicious - it tasted so clean, so pure and like nothing I'd ever eaten before.

Made me think about all these people going hungry, resorting to junk food and dealing with a multitude of health problems, when the best stuff is right under our feet, for free.

The Neighborhood Concert

2011-06-18T11:15:00.000-07:00

A couple months back, my friend, Terri Jo, and I realized we had twin passions: Music, and making things happen. We also realized that we had a perfectly good gazebo in our neighborhood that wasn't being used...complete with a power outlet. And so, the first Highland Gardens Community Concert was born.

I had whipped up a flyer and TJ plastered it all around our 'hood. She posted on websites and informed all her music students and their families. I posted the info here at Heartstone and sent out emails. TJ also put up the flyer up and down Tennyson - a nearby street with shopping and restaurants.

Last Sunday, in the late afternoon, we made it happen - ready or not. When 4 p.m. finally rolled around, we were set up but had very few actual audience members: A small family of three and a delightful woman named Helen, who had walkered her way over from the nearby senior living facility. "It was in the monthly newsletter so I thought, 'Why not?'" she said, gamely.

Eventually people came in dribs and drabs, with kids, blankets and snacks, and we put our best show forward. I was the MC and (I'm told) my humor was appreciated. Terri Jo sang and played the guitar - she sounds like an angel, I tell ya. She also brought small musical instruments to distribute to all the kids so they could clang and bang their way along to the music.

Next up was Andy Ard, TJ's friend, who played some old timey- tunes with guitar and harmonica. (I caught Helen singing along from a bench near the stage.) I'm always impressed when musicians strap on those portable harmonica players and huff, play and sing altogether. I mean, are they even human?

Then came the comedians. Steve Loukas (The Denver Wigs), Emily March and Kat Atwell (All of the Above) generously donated their time to make the funny. (I jumped in too but I'm kinda rusty.) We tried to involve the kids as much as possible and they just ate it up. Children are such natural comedians, without all those silly social barriers that keep adults in the comedic closet, they just go for it.

This kid in front - I think his name is Sirus - was especially funny.

My pal, Camille Brightsmith, was up next. She played guitar and blew us all away with her powerful voice. At this point, I paused and felt some gratitude for having such talented friends. It sure makes putting a show together much easier.

We closed the show with an all-cast performance of "Angel From Montgomery." It was supposed to be just me on the guitar singing with them as back-up but lost my nerve at the last second. I am still getting my musical performance legs under me and I sure didn't feel like following TJ, Andy and Camille - that's not a comparative competition I would win. I also meant to do some storytelling but we ran out of time.

It all had a touch of Mayberry with a big dose of "Hee-Haw." We plan to do it all over again on July 24th. We'll make a few big changes next time, such as including some mandolin and sidewalk chalk.

Carnegie Hall, here we come.

New Friends: Helen, me and Jerri.

Earth: Leave Already!

2011-06-10T15:13:00.000-07:00

Nothing personal, but I've often said that the human race is really nothing more than a virulent rash on planet Earth and it must really be itching to get rid of us. After all, we only take, take, take and rarely, if ever, give anything back. Planting a few trees here and there is nice but when you're essentially raping rain forests to obtain palm oil for your candy bar or some other modern, temporary comfort, it doesn't really balance out.

So, you can imagine my smugness when not one - but two - trusted news sources shouted in agreement during the same week.

First, Thomas Friedman of The New York Times let us know plaintively that "The Earth is Full." He opens with a peek into the future:

"You really do have to wonder whether a few years from now we’ll look back at the first decade of the 21st century — when food prices spiked, energy prices soared, world population surged, tornadoes plowed through cities, floods and droughts set records, populations were displaced and governments were threatened by the confluence of it all — and ask ourselves: What were we thinking? How did we not panic when the evidence was so obvious that we’d crossed some growth/climate/natural resource/population redlines all at once."

Seems that the human population is, according to Global Footprint Network, using up natural resources significantly faster than can they be replenished. Thus, we are 'eating into the future.' Mankind is using about 1.5 Earths - which poses a problem since we only have the one.

Friedman goes on to quote Paul Gilding, the veteran Australian environmentalist-entrepreneur and author of “The Great Disruption: Why the Climate Crisis Will Bring On the End of Shopping and the Birth of a New World”, on why we choose to ignore those giant red flags:

"The only answer can be denial. When you are surrounded by something so big that requires you to change everything about the way you think and see the world, then denial is the natural response. But the longer we wait, the bigger the response required.”

And then, The Onion, (which is supposed to be satirical but is often more accurate than CNN) screamed the headline: "Planet Earth Doesn't Know How To Make It Any Clearer It Wants Everyone To Leave." An excerpt:

"Following a recent series of disastrous floods along the Mississippi River and destructive tornadoes across much of the United States—as well as a year of even deadlier natural catastrophes all over the world—the Earth said its options for strongly implying that it no longer wants human beings living on it have basically been exhausted.

"At this point, I think I've stated my wishes quite loudly and clearly," the Earth's statement to all of humanity read in part. "I haven't exactly been subtle about it, you realize. I have literally tried to drown you, crush you, starve you, dehydrate you, pump you full of diseases, and suck your homes and families into swirling vortexes of death. Honestly, what more is it going to take for you people to get the message?"

I hear the message but I fear that humans are not unlike the tenacious, icky cockroach. Earth may just have to get a really big piece of canvas and tent the whole damn thing.

Where I've Been

2011-06-08T15:01:00.000-07:00

Visited Countries Map from TravelBlog

Some awfully big chunks missing in there - no bueno. Entire continents still unexplored! Thankfully, I'm still young and my passport, current. Foreign airports are calling to me....

Bean Bounty

2011-06-07T15:22:00.000-07:00

Good thing we drove to NoDak because we made quite a haul. Brent had kindly put together a 'home box' filled with goodies grown or sourced directly from the farm. But, when he took it to the local post office, he discovered the cost of sending a 50-75 lbs. box to Colorado was a bit too spendy.

Thankfully, he waited for our visit and we came home with the following:

5 lbs. of flour (from North Dakota Mill, where Brent sells the wheat)
4 lbs. of sugar (from Crystal Sugar, where Brent sells the sugar beets)
6 lbs. Navy beans
Three 6 lb. bags of Pinto beans
10 lbs. of corn grain
10 lbs. of soybeans
Two 10 lb. bags of wheat grain
Plus, his mother's cast iron skillet, taken straight from the stove of his boarded up childhood home, also on the farm. (See below.)

That's 73 pounds of food - in very raw form - that I am now challenged in dealing with. While I've sent out the call far and wide for a grain grinder, I've jumped on the beans. Pinto, specifically. Boudreaux helped me go through them and pick out the bad ones - very few of those.

Then, I soaked those babies overnight and whipped us up some Pinto Beans with Vegetables and Red Wine, compliments of the Vegetarian Times Cookbook. Very savory and quite filling. Plus, who doesn't love cooking with wine and mushrooms?

Great! Only 72.5 pounds to go ....

Seriously, it feels incredible to be eating food from our land, created by someone I know and consider family. Wish I could say the goods are GMO-free but the system (meaning Monsanto and the Feds) have pretty much hog-tied the small farmer so he does not have a choice.

For now.

Back from NoDak

2011-06-01T15:28:00.000-07:00

After 2,100 miles of driving through unspeakably beautiful and alarmingly remote scenery, we have returned from our quick trip to North Dakota - two days of driving, two days of farmland exploration and another two days driving home. Worth it? Without question.

It was great fun to show this secret world of mine to Kirk, who agreed that he had never seen anything like it. He marveled at the beautiful fields, the massive super-manly machinery and how quickly one gets used to driving 85 mph all day long without ever seeing another car. "Didn't I tell you it was like going to the moon?" I asked, alluding to NoDak's unparalleled remoteness. He agreed that it was precisely a different world altogether.

Going forward, I aim to visit our family farm every spring and fall - for planting and harvesting, when possible. While I'm a small time backyard gardener and devout composter, this is a whole different thing. The business of growing food - the same food you buy in the grocery store - is a high stakes, multi-variable annual gamble with nature that only the heartiest of souls can play. Those fools in Vegas have no idea what a long shot truly is. Rolling the dice? Ha! Easy. Planting seeds, followed by weeks of praying, followed by lots of physical labor, followed by more praying? That's a real longshot.

Unfortunately, the region has had a very late, wet spring along with some unbelievable flooding. While some farmers have already planted, many a tractor sits waiting for the fields to dry before the real work can begin. Timing is everything in farming, and planting when the ground is too wet can result in sticky dirt clods that won't hold a seedling or it may result in rotted seeds. Right now, there's a lot of hand wringing and calendar watching going on - they need hot, sunny weather, ASAP.

However, this scenario also meant that our farmer, Brent, was available to drive us around, answer all my silly questions (Brent: "The Northern Lights are up." Me: "Which direction?") and serve as the world's best NoDak tour guide. Kirk and I both got to drive massive tractors which was an incredible thrill.

I think one was a 600 horsepower 4WD number but Kirk could spew the exact stats. So many tractors are automated these days and learning about that was amazing too.

Beyond the auto-steer (to insure straight lines in the fields), each tractor is outfitted with a computer system that measures things like moisture density, spacing, yield histories and complete per-acre profiles. This is all due to GPS, which has revolutionized the way a farmer manages his fields.

Computer generated drainage patterns in Brent's fields.

Brent also took me to a super dinky, adorable cemetery where lo! my maternal great-grandparents were buried. Located mere feet from the Canadian border, we had fun with some (ahem) unplanned international travel.

Brent stands in the U.S. while I photograph him from Canada.

Another favorite was trying to climb a mountain of corn in a massive grain bin. "Over here, Heather," said Brent mischievously, while holding a cocktail. "This is area where climbing is the easiest." Furiously, I pawed and grasped my way through the grain and nearly drowned in corn while getting absolutely nowhere. Hearing Brent and Kirk laughing uproariously, I knew I'd been had. Never did make it to the top but Kirk and I were finding corn in our underwear, socks and suitcases for days.

My foot, sticking up through a mountain of corn

Part of me wishes NoDak were closer so I could go there more often. Then again, if it were closer, it would just be Utah or Nebraska and not NoDak, a place so full of hardscrabble history and stoic characters, it feels like time travel.

Off to NoDak

2011-05-26T15:43:00.000-07:00

In the morning, we hit the road for a looooooooong-ass drive to North Dakota - 965 miles. It'll be hard to compete with all the bikinis and beer bongs that always flock there for holiday weekends but maybe the recent tornadoes will keep tourists away. It was pretty close but we managed to score a room at the party-all-night-long lodge: The Forestwood Inn.

Going to check in our farm and Brent, seen here below with me a few years ago. He's the steady guy who farms the land. His father, Perry, worked for my grandfather, Wilbur, so he's like family.

The recent floods (the farm sits near the Red River) and late spring rains have caused some sleepless nights for local farmers. If it's too wet to plant, the farmers can't get seed in the ground and if they plant past a certain date, they are not covered by crop insurance. Tricky business.

Meanwhile, stayed up far too late last night reading this Vanity Fair article on the extremely evil chemical company, Monsanto. And then I read that 26% of Americans believe they've ever eaten genetically-modified foods before .... hoo boy!

I'm going to try to be there for the harvest in the fall as well. In my ongoing quest to learn more about my food - where it comes from and exactly how many toxins are in it - I figured it was best to start with our own farm. Poor Brent - he's going to get peppered with questions.....

See ya on the road!

WANTED: Trusty Sidekick

2011-05-23T17:19:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday was the birthday of Maria Cubeta, who has requested that I please "update the blog already." Granted, this space has been horribly neglected as of late. What can I say? Life happens to me at an alarming rate - hard to keep up with myself sometimes.

Nevertheless, Maria is the devious one who inspired this blog back in August 2005 - holy crap, nearly SIX years ago! - so she gets whatever she wants in this space.

Back in the day of my corporate adventures, Maria was my steady co-pilot. I liked to use the term, "assistant" because I've always wanted one of those and it made me feel important, but Maria swiftly rejected it. "A-hem. I prefer the term, 'sidekick'," she said, and so it stuck. She is 17 years younger only by chronological happenstance but intellectually and emotionally, she is decades older than I, a fact she respectfully keeps to herself.

My trusty co-pilot at Miramar Marine Base, making sure we don't fall out of the sky.

Together, we ran a global account dealing in venture capital and we both became smitten with the eternal optimism of that world. On more than one occasion, we ran the media aspect of an annual Big Event and although we'd request separate hotel rooms, some tech snafu always forced us to be roommates. Instead of complaining, we opted to brand it College Dorm Life 2.0 and immediately trashed said rooms. It was in one of these rooms that poor Maria endured my whimpering and groaning through a near-fatal crush on an eyebrow-endowed reporter. "Oh my god, Heather, JUST CALL HIM ALREADY!" (I did as told but am still in recovery.)

MC Sidekick, working hard.

Still, I like to think I showed the girl a good time, y'know? My ego imagines I taught her a thing or two about the importance of fun while working. For example, 'Preparedness is very important, as are cocktails. Include both in your account strategy.' Or 'Remove shoes and work outside, whenever possible.' Er...actually, I think she may have taught me that one.

My favorite shared memory occurred at the same Big Event and so many times I've wished it'd been captured on video, ideally, to be played in slo-mo. MC Hammer was speaking onstage before 600 or so suited CEOs and international execs on the topic of tech investing. (Strange but relevant, sort of.) Most of the audience members were riveted by this odd intersection of celebrity and venture capital - except maybe for this guy:

He'd just arrived in San Francisco from Italy - horribly jet lagged.

Anyhoo, at the conclusion of his talk, Hammer asked the question that we'd hoped for, which was: "Now, who is ready to DANCE?" Before the jaw of every starched-collared exec could fully drop, Maria and I literally flew out of our chairs and headed straight for the stage. We left phones, purses and strategic notes behind, pumping elbows for maximum speed; we simply could not get there fast enough.

For awhile, it was just Hammer and his two back-up dancers, me and Maria, before he implored others to join: "C'mon! This jam is for everybody!" Eventually, it turned into a full-blown dance party which ultimately lasted until 2:30 a.m., MC Hammer (who is actually a super nice guy named Stanley) was still giving private dance lessons to myself and two colleagues at the Clift Hotel's Redwood Room, at which point, the staff kindly encouraged us to leave already.

By that time, Maria had disappeared and I had a hunch as to her whereabouts. There was an Important Client, one of six or seven, that we were supposed to be supporting and doing all that we could to make them happy. Our job description included, 'Be charming to these people at all costs.' Okay, I'm paraphrasing but it sums up our assignment.

Instead, Maria would fiercely debate this one fellow - a senior exec several tax brackets above us both - on the cozy topic of politics. He, a Republican, and she, not. More than once, I sat at their table, watch them pound drinks and argue, sometimes loudly, all the while wondering how long it would be before he'd storm out angrily and we'd lose the business. Not only did this never happen but she now runs the account and they still argue politics to this day.

Yes, it was Maria who would conjure up documents I thought I'd lost, put together crucial contact lists, answer me with a simple facial expression or review my attempt at putting together a 'professional uniform' with quiet shake of the head. My point is this: Good sidekicks are hard to find.

I spoke to a former colleague just yesterday who complained about this very thing. "I'm having trouble finding an assistant who is - how do I say this delicately? - smart enough," she said. She then shared several examples, including one who would create Word file documents with 27-word names. "Lots of them can cut and paste, but I'm finding very few can synthesize information and think for themselves."

Hoo boy. This only made me miss Maria more.

But MC Sidekick has moved onward and upward and it is high time I manifest another sidekick. Someone who can see the potential of my crazy ass ideas, who can remind me when to care about something and who can match my drinking abilities, ounce for happy hour ounce. This special someone would also share my shoe size (7), have an updated passport and have very low cash flow needs. Someone who is up for a good time and down with random adventures. Preferably someone like Darren at Kramerica Industries?

Dining on quail at San Francisco's Legion of Honor. Just a sampling of the exciting life that could be yours!

Now taking applications.

The Hump Dance

2011-04-27T14:30:00.000-07:00

Home sick today trying to deal with all the many, many things I've said "Yes!" to, I realize I'm about 30 posts behind in this space. To placate ya'll, please enjoy Boudreaux's rendition of The Hump Dance.

At least once a day, possibly more, he picks up a blanket or, in this case, a scarf in his mouth and does this erotic dance in circles. Dude goes into a sex trance as he rotates and his kitty brain travels to somewhere much more sexy than our living room. Yes, he's been fixed and is definitely a virgin so it's a bit sad. Kirk gets freaked out by it - I find it fascinating.

I taped this while doing yoga, ironically, the "cat pose."

Enjoy!

TEDxMileHigh

2011-04-18T17:09:00.000-07:00

I recently gave up seven hours of my life to attend TEDxMileHigh, the first official unofficial TED event within my reach. The actual TED is held in my hometown of Long Beach, California (so cruel!) but they only invite world-renowned brainiacs with an extra $6,000 and I do not fit into that narrow category....yet.

If you are unfamiliar with TED, you must change that immediately. TED is an acronym for technology, entertainment and design and it exists as a forum for people with fascinating stories, insights and ideas about the world. Each presenter has about 20 minutes to tell their incredibly profound story or make their case for change.

Thankfully, all the talks are featured online so us poor dullards can enjoy them as well. I used to be in the habit of watching one a day and need to pick that up again. I randomly chose this talk by Caroline Casey yesterday and was left speechless, clutching a tissue. (StoryCorps has a similar affect on me.)

The TEDxMileHigh line-up was pretty good (15 speakers, two talented musicians and two mind-blowing poets) although it felt like a couple of motivational commencement speeches found their way into the program. But for the most part, I was inspired. Every speaker on the program seemingly had some connection to Colorado, either by birth, education or work and the theme was "Inspired Citizenship."

Some of my favorites:

Libby Birky, Co-Founder, SAME Cafe, a donation-only restaurant: She spoke about food justice and recognizing the homeless as worthwhile human beings, each with their own story. ("Beware the everyday brutality of the averted gaze.")

Governor John Hickenlooper: The Looper! He spoke about the need for positivity in communication and the harsh realities of the political machine, about how the dire budget realities have forced some welcome compromise. ("We don't have the luxury to tear each other apart.") He also told a great shark joke and asked us to go out and teach a child to read. We were so happy he stopped by.

Bernard Amadei, Professor of Civil Engineering, CU Boulder & Founder of Engineers Without Borders: Despite a thick French accent, his passion was crystal clear. He ran around the stage, bursting with enthusiasm and ideas - it was astounding. He talked about "technology for the soul" and how 90% of Africa lives in the dark. ("You know what you get what you have no electricity? BABIES. Lots and lots of them.")

Robyn O'Brien, Author, The Unhealthy Truth: My friend, Val, had sent me a link to her TED talk the previous week and I was floored. When she walked onstage in Denver, I was stoked to hear it again. She's been called "food's Erin Brokovich" and if you eat food and have kids or organs that you are fond of, you really REALLY need to watch this.

Theo Wilson ("Lucifury") & Bobby Lefebre, Poetry Slam Artists: Incredible. Articulate. Inspiring. Somebody made a smart decision to include them...BRAVO!

Hunter Lovins, President and Founder, the Natural Capitalism Solutions (NCS), Professor of Sustainable Management, Bainbridge Graduate Institute: This woman is what they call, "scary smart" and other speakers that day referenced her work time and time again.

Nathaniel Rateliff, Musician: Wonderful. A cross between Kris Kristofferson and M. Ward.

Allen Lim, Director of Sports Science, Team RadioShack: If anyone is obsessed with cycling, it's Allen. After he managed to turn his passion into a career, he found he no longer had time for cycling, only travel. He took us along on his journey to live the mantra: "Just ride." Beautiful and clever.

Many thanks to the organizers, volunteers and the other local brainiacs who showed up. I'm looking forward to more and also, presenting myself someday.

Houseguest #2

2011-04-08T12:53:00.000-07:00

Meet Jennifer Santillo. I met her the summer after 9th grade and we've been friends ever since. Though there was a 15-year gap in there (I lost her in MarriedLand for awhile), we've reunited in previous years and I'm so glad.

Jen's going through some major life changes right now, so I invited her to our beautiful home in the The Village for some down-home debauchery and a guided tour of my life. Because I am so far from family and old friends, I've discovered something I desperately need right now: a witness.

Jen's welcome home sign for me in 1985. Our apartment was "freezing" - probably 55 degrees.

I have always been the one to visit others. Without husband, kids, home or traditional job to keep me grounded, I happily jumped on planes to learn the life details of others. I enjoy it, especially getting to know my friend's kids. (Maybe I'm biased but my girlfriends make the best mothers.) But sometimes it feels odd, like I'm an enigma of my own design as the details of my life remain unknown to others.

When I moved out on my own, at age 19, I moved in with Jennifer and another friend, Sharon. It was 1985 and together, we pretended we were grown up women but really we were just little girls playing dress up. In fact, Jenny and Sharon often complained that I did not tease my hair enough or wear enough make-up; I was their 'project.'

Me and Jen in our first apartment, partying hard, circa 1986.

Together we had numerous adventures, including one of my favorites: Jen and Sharon complained that I had not contributed any furniture to the living room. So, we went to Builders Emporium and bought a cheap build-it-yourself wall unit. We tried putting it together but failed miserably. So, Sharon called the police, naturally.

When they came to the door asking, "Ma'am, is there a problem?", Sharon didn't miss a beat. She handed one a hammer and the other a screwdriver and stated, "Yes! We can't figure out how to build this thing!" Not only did they stay to put it together (crime-wise, it was a boring neighborhood) but they posed for some hilarious photos which I MUST find someday.

So, I'm well aware that my life and the lives of most of my friends took very different paths but this became quite real to me when Jen confessed that her trip to Denver would mark the first time flying alone in her entire life. I was so stunned - speechless, even. I still find it hard to get my mind around.

I couldn't help but think of how many hundreds of flights I had taken over the years, how many airports I had maneuvered - security lines, baggage claims, ticket counters and terminal cafes. I ended up writing a long email to her with as many travel tips as I could think of ("Signs are your best friends in an airport - stay aware. They keep you on track.") before her trip. When I picked her up at DIA she announced triumphantly, "I made it!"

Jen's visit was great, I dragged her ass all over town and even made her 'work' as a volunteer at Swallow Hill. (We got to see Cracker do an acoustic show for free - awesome.) Country Road Cafe, Root Down, Buckhorn Exchange, Red Rocks, Morrison, Kirkland Museum, Farmer's Market, Mile-High Church, homecooked meals and a private screening of our favorite stoner classic: "Sooper Troopers."

And lots and lots of talking, hugging, crying and laughing. It was great catching up.

Houseguest #1

2011-03-29T21:04:00.000-07:00

Meet Murray. He's a nine-year-old black Lab who is staying with us until April 3rd. I'm in love with him, which is why his human parents thought of me first when they planned their cruise vacation.

Getting a dog of our own is impossible due to landlord request so I have to make due with the stolen snippets of puppy energy I get from strangers in the park or on the street.

Murray and I go everywhere together now - to the coffee shop, to breakfast, to the airport - everywhere. It's delicious to have a loving, if not slobbering face looking up at me no matter what is going on.

With Murray as my ticket, I've been going to Dog Park, which is like a big playground for canines. There, humans stand around either checking their emails or throwing slobbery tennis balls while their dog frantically runs around sniffing butts and generally celebrating their off-leash status. It's amazingly easy to make a dog happy and their communications with one another are so simple, I'm envious.

When I first let him run free, Murray ran immediately into a pack of four other black Labs and I thought I'd lost track of him. But Murray is a loyal pup and he checks in on me every few minutes without prompting so there's no chance of that. I felt like a proud mama. "Murray is the most handsome dog here, BY FAR," I kept thinking to myself.

Thinking about turning over Murray next week makes me tear up. I don't want him to leave. Even our black cat, Boudreaux, has gotten used to him, I think.

Garbage is Magic

2011-03-22T10:34:00.000-07:00

Every Monday evening for several weeks now, I sit in a classroom above Whole Foods - just above the gourmet cheeses and seductive foodstuffs - and revel in the beauty of decaying garbage.

The classroom is filled with my fellow no-waste nerds and led by the wise and inspiring instructor, Judy Elliott. There, we sit on the edge of our wooden seats, enraptured at the prospect of turning smelly food scraps and garden waste into beautiful soil, "Black Gold." We learn about nematodes, the carbs/nitrogen balance and the many ways we can help Mama Nature do what She is going to do anyway, just a bit faster.

Welcome to the Denver Urban Gardens' Master Composter Program.

I'm only a month or so into the 10-week course but it will technically last throughout the year and beyond, first as a student and then sometime in April or May, as a community presenter. I'm new to composting but it has always appealed to my fear-of-waste mentality.

Ask any relation, friend or co-worker, I am a fanatic about thoughtless waste, which is overwhelming in this country. Over 50% of the food produced in this country gets thrown away - mostly from imperfect (looks-wise) produce, grocery store expirees and restaurant/home leftovers. Meanwhile, 99% of things that Americans buy get thrown away within six months. MAKES ME CRAZY. And even though the "The Story of Stuff" video is old news in WebLand, it's still the most enlightening 20 minutes you'll ever spend.

Kirk has noted on several occasions how little trash we generate in this household - maybe a bag every three weeks or so. I'm fiercely adamant about recycling anything that possibly can be and now with the composting, our rubbage has dwindled even further. Also, I buy very little processed food, mostly produce, so that makes a big difference. Yes, I'm one of those people.

We were given a massive notebook made of recycled cardboard and it must weigh five pounds. With chapter names like, "Building Your Masterpiece of Decomposition: Getting Down and Dirty", "The Food Web of the Compost Mound" and "Vermicomposting: Worms to the Rescue!", it has everything I need to know.

And each class is unique. Last night, the VP of Metech Recycling gave a horrifying presentation on e-waste (computers, phones, iPods, etc.) and next week, we will be starting a compost pile in the classroom, with (non-food) waste we'll bring in. Later in the program, we'll be taking road trips to local recycling plants and landfills for extensive tours. It's like we are being trained as a No-Waste Army to then go out and battle this horrific problem. This is a military movement I can definitely get behind.

Meanwhile, I've accidentally become co-Captain of the Heartstone Garden Village compost, along with my neighbor, Brett. (My other neighbor, Will, gave up the post one day when he found an Army boot and a block of Velveeta in the compost pile.) With spring's arrival, we are doing more and more with it but I'm getting in the habit of turning it weekly, knowing when to mix in leaves and other carbs (chopped up garden waste, sawdust, corn husks, etc.) and when to step back and let it "cook." We have to police it a bit, make sure that it doesn't become a garbage dumping ground, which means digging through an entire neighborhood's worth of trash.

Photo credit: The Green Life

Seeing what people eat is pretty fascinating - lots of fruit, eggs, cabbage and winter root veggies. Rarely are they chopped up, which is preferable for composting, so I take a flat spade and destroy them. Pulverizing a huge beet with a giant tool until its purple guts are everywhere? Incredibly satisfying.

I've pulled out many bits of plastic, that evil material that will eventually lead us to play out the film, 'Wall-E.' (I'd go on but my pal, Beth, has this topic brilliantly covered.) Note that it would take 450 years for that disposable diaper to decompose. And that styrofoam? Never. It will always be here.

Whoops, near-rant averted. So, anyhoo, I'm sticking to my 2011 motto which is, "I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm doing it."

A Small-Minded Town

2011-03-09T12:50:00.000-08:00

Though small towns cannot offer a variety of cultures, cuisine or resident diversity, they certainly have their charms. Tiny burgs offer a times-past scenario where everyone knows everybody, the fire department is all-volunteer and people exchange baked goods. Instead one of those folksy villages, I recently stumbled across a small town full of small minds and have been regretting it ever since, as I will in months to come.

It was mid-January of this year, and I was driving home late from a volunteer shift at the National Western Stock Show. I was pondering my recent job loss and the financial challenges that came with it. As I exited I-70 onto Sheridan, heading south, I passed two cop cars on two side streets, both clearly spring-loaded and ready for action. Though I was alone, I said aloud: "That looks like a trap."

Next thing I know, red cherry lights moved in right behind me, siren blaring. I tried to move over into the curb lane but two cars were already there. I waited for them to drive ahead and moved over; the cop car sped ahead.

Seconds later, another cop car appeared in the same fashion and practically kissed my bumper. So I pulled over as far as I could, into a King Soopers parking light. He followed me. The entire scenario happened in less than one minute.

I put my hands on the steering wheel, as a standard courtesy to the officer, so he knows I'm no trouble despite my black cowboy hat. Nevertheless, he stood away from the vehicle, shined a flashlight in my face and said firmly, "License and registration, ma'am."

As I collected the documents, I said, "I'm totally confused."

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"I have no idea. I don't think I was speeding and there were no stop signs."

Now, there are a ton of good-hearted police officers in the world and, in fact, I have two Wonderful Cop stories I like to tell over and over, but I could already sense that Officer Dickhead would not be making it into my stash of feelgood lore. Not sure if it was the voice volume, patronizing behavior or the bully tactics - perhaps all three.

As instructed, I handed him the license, registration and insurance card. "Ma'am, this insurance ID card is expired." (It's true, by two whole weeks.)

"Oh, well the policy has not. I'm sure they've sent me the new card last month and I haven't put it in here yet. But you can check, the policy is in good standing."

"MA'AM, ARE YOU ARGUING WITH ME?"

"Wha...? No!"

"BECAUSE THIS CARD IS EXPIRED WHICH MAKES IT ILLEGAL. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? IT'S THE LAW."

(Officer Dickhead was now addressing me in all caps.)

He then explained that although he could write me up for the expired ID card, he was merely going to write me up for obstructing an emergency vehicle. Apparently, I had not moved out of the way fast enough. When I explained the blocked lane scenario, he went back to his vehicle, called the driver of the first cop car to confirm his suspicions. OD then returned to inform me that I was, in fact, guilty. He wrote up the ticket (I was now crying, thinking about the cost) and I could show up on the designated date, dispute the ticket and take it to trial.

"Trial?! Are you kidding me? What is going on????"

OD handed me the ticket and left. I sat in my car, stunned, finally grasping full meaning of the term, "hoodwinked."

At home, I noted that the ticket came from the city of Mountain View. Huh? I thought I was in Denver - wasn't I three blocks from home? A few weeks later, the city of Mountain View sent me a letter saying I could plead guilty, pay the fine now ($140) and accept a 2-point penalty instead of 4. Instead, I scribbled the court date in my calendar, knowing I had done nothing wrong. For the love of God, I am a child of Los Angeles and a former professional driver, I understand the road.

Weeks later, I arrive at the town's tiny courthouse. There are three cops standing outside, including the jackass who ticketed me. They check my letter to make sure I am qualified to enter. Clearly, it is Court Day in Mountain View because when we enter the room, it is filled with people equally perplexed as I.

I approached the desk and speak with the court clerk, a nice woman named Molly. I express my desire to tell my side of the story, to contest the charges and in a sing-song voice she will use all day long, Molly gently advises against it.

"Frankly speaking, you would not speak to the judge today but you would register your contest. Then, if wanted to get representation and take this to trial ... "

There's that word again! Holy christ. How did I become a criminal so quickly? I felt like I was trapped in a Tom T. Hall song.

"Or you could take the plea and pay your fine today." Here she used a tone of voice that clearly said, 'Trust me, honey, this is the better deal. We do this all day long.'

I wasn't ready to give up just yet. "But you don't understand, I disagree vehemently with the ticket. I'd like to speak to a judge and contest this."

"Frankly dear, I suggest you take some time to think about it."

I looked around and saw Mountain View's entire police force - all six of 'em - crammed into the hallway. They were glaring in several directions and they all exuded this horrible sense of unearned entitlement.

A trap, indeed.

With a sick feeling of surrender, I eventually wrote those motherfuckers a check with commentary in the notes section: "Donation." When handing my savings money over to the clerk lady, I noticed she had a map behind her. I asked her, "Just how big is Mountain View anyway? Is it here on your map?"

She cheerily pointed it out to me, all 12 square blocks of it. (That's .1 square miles.) Proudly she relayed the town's history. "We were incorporated in 1904 and we still have all the old books. They're quite interesting to read. There was one complaint in the early 1900s about a cow trespassing on their neighbors lawn!" She thought it was the quaintest fucking thing ever. I wanted to smack her.

"And you've never had the urge to incorporate into Denver or Wheatridge?"

"No, we have considered it but we prefer to have our own town."

So, I left that double-wide courthouse with some begrudging respect for the little town. I mean, who doesn't love a David & Goliath story? The tale of a small but mighty entity resisting big, modern-day forces that are robbing us of our Amirrrrican values?

Those seeds of warm fuzzy lasted until I went home and Googled the shit out of Mountain View. I then discovered that the sweet little town has quite a dubious reputation, and none of it very sweet at all. Far as I can tell, the town keeps its police force employed not to serve and protect, but to grift. Mountain View isn't a town, it's a hungry aggressive spider, snagging flies as they pass by. (Some might argue it's actually a frog, with a very long tongue.)

"With its land area of only 12 square blocks, Mountain View has a tiny retail sales tax base from which to raise revenue and relies primarily on traffic tickets to pay its police and municipal employees."
--Wikipedia entry on Mountain View, Colorado

Evidently, the town called an emergency meeting on March 2, 2009 to get input on its tenuous future. All 529 residents received a letter explaining that Mountain View faced a growing debt crisis, with a budget shortfall between $6-8,000 dollars a month. Evidently, the town's six police officers had been paid late "three times in the last two months, 40 percent of the town's businesses have closed" and that it petitioned the Attorney General of Colorado to use DEA seizure money to pay police department salaries. That request was declined in May 2009.

"Even though Mountain View is small, its police department is aggressive in traffic enforcement. In the last 2½ years, they've issued approximately 7,200 tickets, according to assistant town attorney Hilary Mogue Graham."
--Colorado Bureau of Investigations

Further digging uncovered several court cases against the city of Mountain View for issuing excessive and questionable traffic citations, both in and out of their jurisdiction. Still, in a beautifully scented irony, a new industry might just end up saving the town:

"Recent monetary problems in Mountain View led some residents to consider disbanding the town (incorporated in 1904 I believe) and joining Wheat Ridge or ….GASP…Denver. However, the new medical marijuana industry has changed things for tiny Mountain View. A new MMJ clinic, called the Berekely MMJ Shop, or something like that, is now located in this municipality. Now Mountain View has more than an Arby’s and its police force to add to the city’s coffers."
--Shaun Snow, DenverUrbanism

Here we have a tiny town so desperate to retain its futile independence in the middle of a metropolitan area that it survives by issuing questionable traffic tickets, selling bad food and medical marijuana. Actually, I'm fine with the Arby's and the dispensary but those bullies in black don't just police on passing motorists, they prey.

I wouldn't mind so much if the fine was a one shot deal but now I'm faced with a two-point loss on my driving record and a certain increase in my monthly car insurance bill. The town of Mountain View gives nothing to world - it only takes. Is this something to be proud of?

These days, when I drive on Sheridan, I observe the traffic around me cruise to a stiff, united speed of exactly 35 mph during the two-blocks it passes through the police state of Mountain View - between 41st and 43rd. Once traffic gets beyond this area, it resumes its normal differentiated flow. Creepy.

When I have relayed this story to my friends and neighbors, they are shocked and wary. I have yet to find one native Coloradoan who has heard of this lame-ass municipality.

So, congratulations to the wee minds of Mountain View, Colorado with your civic income based on entrapment, bullying and fear. I hope tourism isn't part of the plan to save your sorry asses. Here's hoping you dissolve quickly.

Friends: Old, New and Found

2011-02-28T15:21:00.000-08:00

Skyler plays at Box Canyon in Yorba Linda.

This is my 700th post so I'm going to postpone the sad story I was going to tell and instead celebrate my recent visit with friends. Kirk and I vacationed in Southern California last week where I reconnected with grown women I knew as little girls. Now, they all have little-ish ones of their own and the cycle begins anew.

Here's Lisa's little girl, Skyler, learning to ride a bike without training wheels - an historical day:

And Kath's daughter, Emma "The Mighty Gumdrop" Teager dressed as John Hancock for a school project:

I can't wait to see Kath's son Devin play in the World Cup. Seriously, the kid's got talent. After a wonderful visit with The Teagers, we cruised down the gorgeous 241 Highway and visited with a girl I met in kindergarten, Chrissie Adams. Our friend Lisa Ground came over and the reminiscing began:

Some things never change.

Then, Kirk had to attend a work-related event in West Hollywood, so I made Diane come along to keep me company at the bar:

Later on, Susie joined us and regaled us with stories from The Wild 90s. Seems so long ago now.

Eventually, we made our way up to Santa Barbara, where I reconnected with Michelle and Chrissie, two sisters who have been my friends since we were 8 or so:

I also got to meet Michelle's new beau, Steve, who is lovely:

And Chrissie's friend, Tammy Sue, who was featured in one of my favorite shots from the trip:

Anyone who knows me knows that when it comes to collectibles, I prefer high quality humans.

Animals too. I don't know this guy but we saw him at a rest stop outside Ojai and I couldn't resist. I called the dog "Sweet Pea" - as I do most animals - only to discover it was her actual name.

Turns out we were friends too - just hadn't met before.

Monster Truck FAIL

2011-02-15T10:41:00.000-08:00

I enjoy film festivals and science seminars as much as the next girl but now and then, something from the redneck category has its place. So, Kirk purchased tickets for the Monster Truck Rally at the Pepsi Center because we thought it'd be a HOOT.

We'd both experienced monster truck shows before so we knew what to expect. I had gone with my father in Seattle years ago and I'll never forget watching a giant truck literally bite the spoiler off a Porsche Turbo. In my high-octane brain, I'm sure it represented one class system sticking it to the other; I found it deeply satisfying.

But things have changed and entertainment standards have been significantly lowered. The show began at 2 p.m. and for the next 45 minutes, we sat in our seats, stupified. One by one, excessively obese trucks made their slow entrance into the seemingly tiny dirt stage and one at a time, performed one single trick - driving over a line of cars until the fat body pointed high, exposing the truck's undersides. It was somewhat interesting the first 10 times but those giant axles all start to look the same after awhile.

There was no racing. No speed. No dirt flying. Instead, we were directed to the TV screens above to watch an endless stream of commercials, ads for sponsored crap being sold within the walls of the Pepsi Center. We couldn't believe it. "Um, did we leave our beautiful home to come here and watch TV?" I finally said. Kirk just gaped, incredulous.

Every time the engines would rev, we'd say, "Okay, for sure now, they are going to do something exciting." Nope, just noise. Not one speck of dirt would besmirch those perfect paint jobs - it was shameful.

In a sad attempt to make the "sport" seem legitimate, a mystifying point system was added but never explained. Even worse, the drivers would get out of their trucks to be interviewed by some ESPN wanna-be. The drivers were asked about their feelings, their trucks, their feelings about their trucks. Oh, it was awful.

At one point, a slick silver motorcycle thing came out with flames shooting out of it. "COOL!" we thought. It then did one slow lap around the dirt. The driver then got off and held up his arms to the crowd, which roared in approval. I refused. "Wait, why are we clapping? Because he didn't fall off? I don't get it."

More commercials. Then, some guy in orange board shorts stood in the dirt and started dancing badly and singing horribly. I couldn't believe my eyes and ears. It was the same facility where I saw the Dalai Lama speak and I can assure you that watching an old man sit in a chair was about 8.5 million times more exciting that what I was watching that day.

Kirk and I looked around at the other attendees, thinking surely they would be upset as well but they just looked like drooling zombies, content with commercials, mind-numbing chatter and idle trucks too fat to do anything at all except nearly tip over. I commented out loud, "I just can't believe it" and the young guy next to me chimed in, "I know, isn't this great?!" It was all so symbolic of where we are as a country - fat and dumbed-down. Try as I might, I just couldn't ignore it.

Let's face it, one-third of Americans are obese - that's 102 million people. Our physical activity and couch passivity have created a society plagued with diabetes and heart conditions. Meanwhile, our student test scores drop as we regularly get our asses kicked by China and India in manufacturing. Watching those giant behemoths do the same stupid thing over and over and over again while the crowd roared their approval between commercials, made me depressed. Holy shit, aren't things supposed to improve over time and not get worse?

Finally, we could take it no more and got up to leave, amazed that others were not following. As I walked to the ladies room, intermission was announced. "Intermission from what?" I wondered aloud. Kirk was beyond upset. I asked him how much he paid for the tickets. "Too much," he said, shaking his head. "I will never tell. Never, ever, ever."

The deflating experience did give me a new appreciation for the rodeo, which delivers constant dangerous action at a constant pace. The only 'commercials' we are forced to watch is the occasional pretty horsewoman riding a handsome steed while holding a sponsor flag - harder than it looks, trust me. And maybe 10 seconds each? Seems a small price to pay for the variety of events and the seamless production value.

So yeah, Kirk and I feel completely duped and we won't be making the same mistake again. It's another reminder that bigger and slower is not better. Not ever.

Night Skiing

2011-02-11T12:39:00.000-08:00

Photo by Brian J. Gibson.

Before this weekend's memories overtake the previous weekend, I need to share this feeling. Sometime last year, my pal, Camille, bid on a weekend ski condo package in Keystone to benefit the Center for Native Ecosystems. Being a generous soul, Camille opted to share her bounty with me, Kirk and another lovely couple, Mike and Michelle.

View from our balcony.

I'd never been to Keystone but our condo was literally at the bottom of the slopes. We pretty much walked out the front door and got in the lift line - amazing. Though we didn't hit the slopes until 10:30 a.m. (we partied a wee bit the night before), we still had the entire day ahead because the slopes do not close until 8 p.m.

That's right, Night Skiing, baby!

The last time I had skied at night was in the 80s, which means I recall no details, only that it was surreal. Still, my 11:30, by legs were killing me and I didn't think I could last.

We stopped for lunch and persevered through a ground blizzard until about 2:30 p.m., when Kirk left the slopes out of concern for his right knee, which he'd hurt in the past. I opted to remain for a few more runs - didn't want to waste the pricey lift ticket and the beautiful, if not moody, Colorado day.

And so, up and down I went, sticking to blues/greens, for I have nothing to prove and need my body for future adventures. To my surprise, my legs stopped hurting and I was starting to hit my groove. Again and again, I'd ski down the mountain with the thought, "This will be my last run." Again and again, I'd say to myself, "Wellllll, maybe just one more."

This went on and on, until about 4:30 p.m. when the night lights came on and I remembered the Night Skiing. Holy cow, I can't leave now! And so, I skied for another two hours on nearly empty slopes and it was the most fun I've had in much too long.

Photo compliments of SkiRebel.com.

With what felt like the entire mountain all to myself, I skied from one pail green spotlight to another, whizzing and turning like a skier who - for that day anyway - knew what she was doing. (Somehow, I never did fall.) It was glorious - I did NOT want to stop.

Riding up in the pitch-dark gondola with other skiers, we couldn't believe our luck:
"Isn't this great!"
"The snow is perfect!"
"There's nobody here!"
"I'm not even that cold, are you?"

Understand that there are a few things that captivate Coloradoans. After nearly five years here, I feel comfortable listing the Top 5:

Skiing/Snowboarding
Denver Broncos
Outdoor Adventures: hiking, biking, mountain climbing, etc.
Religion
Skiing/Snowboarding

Oh, I love skiing, don't get me wrong but the long drive and ensuing traffic, the cost (Keystone full day lift ticket, including night skiing: $97), the gear (I have my own but many have to rent), the effort to get all the gear on and the day-long exertion all makes one ask: Is this even worth it?

As I whooshed down those slopes on Saturday night, the answer was a resounding YES! Because nobody was around, I felt comfortable yelling at the top of my lungs things like, "WHEEEEE!" and "GOD BLESS COLORADO!" Why don't I do this more often? The experience was exhilarating. Traveling in the dark at high speed, propelled only by the laws of gravity and your own body? Nothing beats it.

Eventually, I started to worry that my pals back at the condo were holding up dinner on my account. When I finally decided to call it a day, I came limping 'home' to a roomful of friends cheering my stamina.

Getting those boots off was like giving birth, I tell ya, it felt like they'd been welded to my skin, but a cold Corona and a hot tub in the snow were my rewards. Oh, that and the feeling that I had just had my best day of skiing in my life.

As for the state-wide skiing obsession, I think I get it now. Big thanks to Camille and Kirk for making it happen.

Starting From Scratch

2011-02-01T11:22:00.000-08:00

Resume t-shirt compliments of Popgadget.

As positive as I feel about 2011, it has begun with a job hunt. I had received the distressing news just a few days before Christmas that my main client was going under and my services would no longer be needed.

So after a few weeks of denial, I've finally dug up my ancient resume. After blowing off a substantial layer of dust, I tweaked it a bit, updated the entries and sent it to a couple of close friends. Feedback included everything from "Make your name bigger" to "This needs to be completely redone."

It was then I realized I had not used a resume since 2000, just after the dotcom boom. And even then, just barely.

Back then, I was laid off in the first wave of employee bloodletting that soon took over the Bay Area like a pink slip tsunami. Because the 'crash' had not yet sunk in, I did not panic. Instead, I simply updated a few paragraphs, posted my resume on a new site called Monster.com and ran off to Burning Man. When I came back, I had a job.

Flash forward eleven years and much has changed. When I recently posted an ironic question on Facebook, "Do they still send out resumes on fancy paper?" I was being facetious. Most folks did not get the joke and kindly informed me that they "send them out on email now." Who knew? (Still waiting impatiently for that sarcasm font....)

So thanks to my scary-smart pal, Gins, I am now tasked with digging deep into my past, listing every media source that held my by-line, every amazing event I coordinated, every bizarre volunteer gig, and most importantly, every big name client that I ever handled. I dug through file cabinets, magazines, newspapers, videotapes, radio sound files and photographs. Turns out, I've done a lot.

After 30 years of working, my experiences vary from handling Fortune 500 execs to putting on exotic $100K Hollywood parties. Of course, it also includes hanging out with super charming cows, publishing front page photos, orchestrating media for Snoop Dogg and exploring Phyllis Diller's wig room...interviewing rock musicians and photographing cowboys...putting on film festivals and launching factories...creating improv comedy benefit shows and reviewing restaurants and films....being a limousine chauffeur and photographing the Kentucky Derby....et-friggin'-cetera.

I don't mean to brag but Gins has informed me that this is exactly the time to brag. And it turns out that while I'm a superb promoter for other entities, I am less skilled at promoting myself. I was raised by Midwesterners, after all. Despite my giant ego, I can usually get it to stop just short of being obnoxious. (I said, usually.)

My brother is the same way. Despite his hard-to-ignore good looks, he has never let a single one of the million compliments actually sink in, which is why he's also charming as well. It's a great trick and one I've learned well from. Know all the incredible facts about yourself but try not to actually believe them.

So now I am tasked with trying to summarize my entire 'life's work', as it were, into something I can spit out in a sentence or two. How to explain it all? The question remains: What is it exactly that I do?

Unexpected Beauty

2011-01-25T10:58:00.000-08:00

My favorite kind of deliberate beauty is the kind that has no point, like an architectural flourish on a government building, an old lady dressed up for the grocery store or an elaborately decorated dumpster. Since I've been feeling cheesy-corny lately, I'll just say it: It gives me hope.

I'm a news junkie, always have been. Though my habit is not at its peak level of a few years ago (NPR every morning, followed by two actual newspapers, 10 magazine subscriptions and countless online sources), my habit is to take in gobs of information. This has not helped my feelings toward the human race as a species. (We cause an awful lot of damage.) My writing gig at BlogHer, covering animals and wildlife, has only intensified these feelings.

So, when I see humans do something completely spontaneous and wonderful, I cling to it. I read about it, read it again, write about it, spread the link and try to throw it into conversations. Y'see, I've finally learned to use my communication skills for good instead of evil. Humans, fumbling hairless meatballs that we are, need all the good press we can handle.

Thus, I am sharing these awwww-inspiring photos from downtown Denver, where a massive construction project next to Union Station has been underway for quite some time. Naturally, a chain link fence surrounds the plot - just a typical urban site.

Until a few ladies came along and attacked the fence with some crochet hooks. The result is a 'flower garden' that decorates an otherwise drab scene. Better yet, it is located on a walkway that leads to a viewing platform that leads to shops, restaurants, biking trails and a skate park.

Evidently, the Denver Office of Cultural Affairs reached out to a group called the Ladies Fancywork Society and requested their handiwork. In all, 30 12-foot panels are covered with their happy creations of flowers, bugs and plants. That somebody somewhere in that bureaucratic machine actually thought this up and made it happen, makes the yarn garden even more amazing. I notice that others have added their own creations to the fence; art begets art.

Sometimes no reason is the best reason of all.

Playing Cowgirl

2011-01-19T15:59:00.000-08:00

We all get one trip through the tunnel of life (that we can remember, some say) and that has always been my biggest challenge. Trouble is, I want to do so many things, see so many places and take on an endless array of personas that I worry I won't accomplish them all. I get older and the list gets longer; my rustic math skills tells me things may get left undone. URGH.

And yes, bored people confuse me.

But here in Colorado, my inner Cowgirl has so many outlets to run free. I can mosey on down to the Silver Quarter Acres Barn near my house and let Noodle run free. I can get horse poop in the grooves of my tires or wear my cowboy hat without raising an eyebrow.

Best of all, I get to be a volunteer for the annual National Western Stock Show that's been happening every January for the past 105 years.

I had a wonderful childhood, don't get me wrong. In fact, I consider myself somewhat spoiled. Our family was constantly loading into the motorhome to explore the Southern California mountains, desert and beaches. But part of me wishes I had been a 4H kid, the kind that knows how to deal with cows and sheep, chickens and pigs, y'know?

So, I now play catch-up at places like NWSS where I like to pretend that my knowledge about Longhorns exceeds my knowledge of celebrities. Not so deep down, I am your basic actress who has simply learned to play a role.

In a recent conversation at NWSS, I confessed my suburban LA upbringing to a fellow volunteer. She looked me up and down and said, "Well, at least you look the part."

And if there's one thing I learned from my SoCal past is that this is all that really matters. Perception is reality.

INVALID LOYALTY

2011-01-07T11:51:00.000-08:00

Photo compliments of GasPumpGirls.

This phrase blinked at me the other day as I attempted to buy gas. Evidently, I had swiped the wrong card and the gas pump's mechanized payment system was in serious doubt about our relationship.

The thing is, the gas pump has every right to be concerned. I have been seeing other gas pumps for awhile now. Some because they smell better and some just for convenience. And yes, I'll admit, some just because they are cheaper. I'm not sure what is wrong with me but I feel no guilt. I mean, it's not like we ever discussed exclusivity in our relationship, y'know?

And the more I think about it, the more I resent having to defend my methods in meeting my own needs. Sometimes the void of my empty gas tank cries out for attention long past the 10 p.m. closing time of my primary pump. I need more.

And what of the other cars I see pulling in and out all day long? Are they being held to the same standards of loyalty as I? Exclusive my ass. I hear the scuttlebutt and that nozzle has likely been in tanks you only hear about on Jerry Springer.

Hmph.

Bringing Out The Big Guns in 2011

2011-01-01T16:33:00.000-08:00

Though I am partial to Chinese New Year (which begins Feb. 3rd this Year of the Rabbit), there's nothing quite like a brand new calendar to make the future seem limitless.

Naturally, I've got lots of New Year's Resolutions ("Spend more time outside", "Play more music", etc.) but with my life being officially half over (I plan to make it to 90+), it's time to get serious and take a few things off the 'Long-Term Dream' shelf and bring them out into the light. My manifesting skills are mighty, loaded guns really, so I just need to sharpen my aim.

My 2011 mantra, found aboard the USS Alabama.

My holiday in Mississippi was lovely, as usual. The above photo was taken on the USS Alabama, which is docked in Mobile Bay, Alabama. Dad and I scampered all over the WWII battleship to celebrate my other birthday - the day I was adopted - on December 27th.

Though Dad is a bit stooped these days, he flew around that ship like the young Navy man he once was. He'd specialized in underwater demolition and was trained as a Navy SEAL before they had a name for it.

Because he worked on so many covert operations during the Korean conflict, he was barred from obtaining a passport for many years for honest-to-God fear from the U.S. government that he would be kidnapped and tortured for information. I only recently found this out.

Then, there was the small matter of being abandoned on a reef for three days with two other Frogmen and surviving on fish and kelp - another incident he casually mentioned just in the past year.

So, it was wonderful to follow Dad around that ship and watch all his Navy memories rise to the surface. I heard story after story - good friends, rough conditions, practical jokes, scratchy blankets and tight bunks. People were simply made tougher back then, no doubt about it.

Dad comes from a generation that didn't waste a lot of time walking around feeling entitled or whining about what they didn't have. Self-focus was not a standard way of passing the time, as it is today.

Which leads me to an abrupt explanation of why my postings here have slowed a bit. (Actually, not sure if anyone is still there. Tap, tap... Is this thing on?)

Like any good blogger, I'm a blazing narcissist but I've also grown a bit tired of the online existence. God knows I feel compelled to write up my experiences and still think I'd make a damn find talk show host, but the ME schtick has worn a bit thin. I crave more face to face conversations and real-life connections. Hence, the co-habitation and co-housing situation that I now find myself in; real life beats virtual life every time.

Goal for 2011: Do more, ponder less and full steam ahead.

Just Ask

2010-12-20T21:01:00.000-08:00

Strange phenomena going on over here. Seems that nearly everything I ask The Universe for lately not only arrives in my life but tends to come out of nowhere, often dropping from the sky. Case in point: Despite the very frustrating Southern California-style 'winter' we are having here in Denver, I specifically requested snow for my birthday last Friday and Ta Da!

I was indulged by the Snow Gods and by 3 p.m. it was all gone. Now we're back to sunny 60 degree days. Blech.

Meanwhile, Kirk and I have pondered what to do with the massive blank wall in our dining area. "I see a big ass chalkboard there," I said. "For ideating and shit."

"You mean, like a big white board?"

"No! A CHALK board - the sound, the smell, the sound. All of it. The whole childhood tactile experience."

"Okay. I'm on it."

So Kirk, resourceful as ever, went online and found us a 4' x 8' chalkboard for FREE from a wee church in Castle Rock. In fact, as we loaded it into the back of my truck, the church guy asked, "I have another one - want that one too?" (Um, no, one is enough.) Our fabulous new chalkboard was a big hit at our recent Festivus party:

Also, while we were picking up the chalkboard, we came across an incredible situation that I could not walk away from. Perusing The Barn across from the church, I discovered a beautiful leather chair with a horse head stitched in the back. When I looked upon it, I could only thing one thing: MINE.

Then, I realized it came with a matching sleeper sofa - both from the 1940s. Then I saw the price $249! Which included both pieces plus an end table and coffee table.

Talking with Larry, The Barn owner, he explained that the set had just arrived the day before. It was brought in by the family that had originally purchased it when it was new. As a goodwill gesture, Larry knocked the price down and I walked away with all four pieces for a clean $200.

SCORE!

Finally, my other birthday request to obtain some horse slobber on my person. I visited my pal, Noodle, and when he saw me turn the corner, he did two straight-up leaps (cats are not the only animals who can project vertically), one buck and a loud fart. All together, that's a very big horse compliment.

It's not so much me that he was excited about but he knew I came bearing carrots and that I'd be turning him out so he could let off even more steam. After removing his blanket and giant rubber donut thingy that supporting his sore ankle, we headed for the big arena. Barely in the gate and VROOM! He took off, halter and all. He zoomed around, bucking and farting, until he finally came to me to remove the halter.

After he'd worked off some aggression, rolled a couple of times and searched all my pockets for extra carrots, I shot this quick video.

I think 45 is starting out on the right hoof....

I'm 45 Today!

2010-12-17T13:02:00.000-08:00

Maybe at some point I'll be one of those people that turns 29 over and over again in denial of their true age, but I doubt it. Every year has come with its own challenges, blessing and revelations and I'm grateful for each one.

Bring it on, 45! I am ready.

Neighbors and The 'Hood

2010-12-14T15:38:00.000-08:00

Now that my ankle has finally healed and we are experiencing an LA version of December, I've resumed my running schedule. Just the other day, I ran around nearby Sloan's Lake - while wearing shorts - and watched the heavens dump snow on the Rocky Mountains. This is Colorado, a bi-polar state with a flat prairie alongside a massive mountain range, where hippies and rednecks collide and the weather has no allegiance to the calendar.

My new run tops out at 2.72 miles, a tad longer than my previous run around Wash Park, 2.59 miles. Every M-W-F, I untangle myself from cords and head south for 10 blocks, gingerly avoid massive goose turds and take in the big sky.

I've already earned one supporter, an old man who gives me a thumbs up when I pass him. While Sloan's Lake Park is flat and brown this time of year, with very few trees (Wash Park was always green and lush), the entire Western landscape presents the indomitable Rocky Mountain range. Its craggy, powerful profile provides enough inspiration to keep me chugging onward, grateful not to be a pioneer woman in a covered wagon.


Photo by Mark Fitzgerald.

And amongst my many new neighbors, there is Will. He is tall, friendly, interesting and has not led an average life, which I appreciate. When he was about four years old, his parents decided it would be an excellent time to pull he and his brother out of school and take them sailing around the world for the next two years. "I spent my sixth birthday in Tahiti," he told me. Naturally, we are now buddies.

Will comes to my door and says things like, "Do you want to go on a leaf gathering mission?" or "Do you want to go turn over some compost?" Last week, he rang the bell and asked, "Do you want some Green Drink?" Um, some what?

Will, his lovely wife, Stephanie, and their sweet daughter, Thea, all have strict nutritional needs so they are always coming up with creative ways to get the good stuff without all the crap that most of us ingest without a thought. Hence, the Green Drink.

I watched Will cram some green apples, spinach, celery, parsley, cucumbers and something else green I'm forgetting (frogs?) into a blender and frappe the hell out of everything. The result was a bright green earthy elixir about the consistency of a fruity grass milkshake. It wasn't half bad and my body sure appreciated it. The day I gulped down the Green Drink, I felt like I could run twice around the lake.

Ah, lessons from the neighbors. It's nice.

Healthy Kidneys For Everyone!

2010-12-09T13:44:00.000-08:00

I just spoke to my friend, Heidi (pictured here in her natural state), who is in the hospital after blazing through her kidney transplant yesterday. I'm told the pink is back in her cheeks and she is even walking through the halls - an amazing response to a tricky operation.

This means the end of dialysis for Heidi, which is the best news ever. Through her, I have discovered what an incredibly difficult way of life that is - cramping one's style is the very least of it. Heidi is a vibrant woman who loves travel, adventure, books and meaty conversations. I love her dearly and am so lifted by this wonderful turn of events.

Heidi was one of several dialysis patients who received a kidney thorough a 'donor chain' of patients and donors. It's kind of complicated but it allows for multiple people to receive a healthy kidney that matches their blood type. So, she's on the same hospital floor with several kindred spirits who all face a new life.

If you haven't thanked your kidneys lately for the great job they are doing, now is a good time.

My New Workout Program

2010-12-02T19:40:00.000-08:00

Actually, I've been doing these 'nephew leg lifts' for several years now. But with seven-year-old Robbie at 60 pounds - and my ass getting older and weaker every year - I figured it was time to document them.

It was sure a lot easier when he was three.

SoCal for Thanksgiving

2010-11-22T22:53:00.000-08:00

As much as I hate leaving the Village just as we are settling in, it's time to head back to the LBC to breath in great gulps of brown air and spend time with the Family. We'll eat too much, play board games, eat more, watch movies, make sandwiches and ask mom the same question: "Where is the lid for this Tupperware?"

MaryAnn tries to make a match at 2:00 a.m.

We'll also head up to the family cabin, Chez Clisby, the weekend after. Last year, we were treated to gobs of snow and we're hoping for the same this year. I mean, who doesn't love sledding, cocktails and a crackling fire? Not to mention a little something extra in one's suitcase? Like a sweet nephew, perhaps?

Village Life

2010-11-17T11:14:00.000-08:00

No matter how many boxes get unpacked, there are always more staring at you, demanding attention. And the trouble with living on three levels is that you can make the main level look perfectly organized in the high hopes that no one ever goes up or down - then, all would be revealed.

Now, I've had a ton of questions - emails, IMs, FB notes and yes, even phone calls - curious about the co-housing life. Therefore, I'll provide as many details here as I can. I'm going to adamantly avoid naming the place here (though I can send you to the website if you contact me privately) and also, photos of individuals without their permission. I am anxious to share but equally concerned about upsetting those with privacy concerns; it's not how you make new friends.

Our front porch.

Bottom line? I love it here. So does Kirk. Last Friday, we attended a small 'Welcome Kirk & Heather' party from our fellow building dwellers. (The homes are broken up into building pods, about six dwellings in each.) Lots of food and wine, with each person giving a brief synopsis of their lives and how they came to co-housing. Lovely, lovely people.

We've started attending the community meals, which are held twice a week and always optional. If you are vegetarian or have concerns about allergies, you just mark a specific box on the sign-up sheet. Each meal costs you about $4 and you are billed at the end of the month, along with your co-housing fees, which begin at $140 per household.

The main room of the Community House, where we have our meals and the occasional poker game with the mailman.

So far, the meals have been yummy. Last week was pizza, salad and ice cream. Mine had about seven layers of veggies and it was more than enough. Each person is encouraged to join a cooking team, which we have done. Kirk's team, Team #4, will cook this Sunday, and my team, Team #3, will be on deck December 8. Tonight, I think White Chicken Chili is on the menu.

A quilt depicting the Village hangs in the Community House's Music Room.

Another great thing about this life is the immediate access one has to a large group of helpful neighbors via the Yahoo Group. Minutes ago, I sent out a plea for a cat sitter over Thanksgiving. It took maybe 90 seconds to receive a positive reply. DONE. (Still getting volunteers, actually.) Need a key for the wood shop? Ask the group. DONE. Curious about newspaper delivery? DONE. For an online dweller like me, it's heavenly.

Community chores to be done - a list for all of us.

Weather Tangent: We got our first snow in the village this week! It was so nice to wake up to an adorable Village covered in snow. It went from this:

To this:

The western view from our bedroom window.

And in true Denver fashion, was completely melted the next day. WAH.

A New Reality

2010-11-08T17:22:00.000-08:00

Unless you are still living with your parents, then you know how much moving sucks. Every time, I swear I'm going to pay other people to do it for me and then I get cheap and end up lugging all my crap myself. Exhausting, painful, dusty.

So, on my last day on Milwaukee Street, I hung out with my super cool neighbors, Graham and Andrew, whom I'll miss terribly:

And Bodi Cat, who would saunter into my place and take naps on my bed:

And, of course, the aforementioned Eliot (Graham's little girl), who is pictured here, playing with Bodi Cat:

Just for kicks, I also accidentally packed my car keys into one of hundreds of brown boxes so had to call AAA, who kindly sent out not one - but two - locksmiths to rescue me. The following day, my key was found. FAIL.

After the professional move-out cleaners had left (they had proclaimed it "dirtier than normal" which, I've decided, would make an excellent epitaph for me), I carried down the final final final box and BAM! Down I went in the crunchy fall leaves and sprained my right ankle, which I have done many times before. I ended up with a bright purple bruise around the back of my foot - quite bizarre.

Kirk and I then sped over to our new digs and quickly got me set up on the porch with a bowl of candy and a whiskey cocktail. We did not want to miss all the community kids parading their costumes. With my swollen foot propped up, Kirk decided to tap into my endless accessories and 'dressed' me up for Halloween. I was helpless to his fashion whims and ended up with a cowboy hat and leather fringe jacket.

My buddy, Noodle. His barn is only 10 minutes away now - yay!

Trouble was, not a single kid could figure out what my 'costume' was because - I finally figured out later - we live in COLORADO. My 'costume' is not a costume here, it's just a regular outfit. Shit, I saw a guy with spurs on the other day at the gas station and I own pair myself now.

So, with the sucky reality of moving behind me and endless brown boxes staring me in the face, I'm finally getting settled in my new place, a co-housing community in North Denver. My partner in this wild experiment in living, Kirk, is hyper-efficient, easygoing and rather cheerful so I'll have to step my game a bit - a good challenge for me.

Co-housing is an organized community that shares in some meals, chores and other activities of life. It's like a cleaned up commune without the drugs or group sex. (Although I might suggest it at the next meeting.) Kirk and I had long discussed the appeal of living this way and had our names on several waiting lists in Colorado.

But together we manifested a true fluke of an opportunity and ended up sliding into this decade-old community, renting a 4-bedroom, 3.5 bath home for one year minimum. Located in a hip, funky part of Denver that was once home to a zoo and the old Elitch Gardens, an amusement park now relocated downtown, it's a very deliberate, thoughtful place. There are about 75 inhabitants (including 32 kids) and everyone has their own living space. All the homes are painted in bright primary colors - red, blue, green and yellow. (Ours is blue.)

Citizens include single folks, traditional families, retirees, solo parents and couples living in sin, like us! There are always kids running around and various dogs and cats too. I love it. All the houses face inward, like circled wagons. We had our first visitor on Saturday. Laura, who I know from my San Francisco days, walked the five blocks from her place to mine and gasped at the overwhelming cuteness. "It's like living in a Disney Village!" she said. It's true.

The community's vision statement:

"Our vision is to live creatively in supportive and sustainable relationships with each other, the neighborhood, and the environment."

Yesterday was our first Work Day, which they have every two months. Henriette, a sweet, older lady that is the current president, told me this morning that it was the best turnout they've had in years. Heading into the Community House, one sees a giant list of tasks to be done that day. Kirk immediately pounced on the "Organize the wood shop" and had a glorious time putting everything where it should be, running to the local hardware store for parts and so on.

Since we are enjoying freakishly warm weather for November (alas, snow is expected this week), I was determined to stay outside. So, I helped Howard clean up his yard, played with Ginger the dog, helped a shirtless, tattoed guy named Joe clean up leaves in the archery area and attacked the composting area with Brett, who was grateful for the help.

Already, the neighbors have organized a 'Welcome' party for us and a little girl named Thea gave me a candle. It's starting to feel like home.

Lots more info and photos to come.

So Long, Cave

2010-10-30T00:50:00.000-07:00

For the past 4.5 years, this has essentially been my office view - the golden spire of nearby DU set against often-white capped Rocky Mountains. Not bad, eh?

And then, of course, there's the garden ...

Despite being right up against a major interstate (I-25), I have found so much peace here. I realized tonight that I'm completely ensconced in an area deep in prayer; nearby Iliff School of Theology, the huge seminary down the street, and all the usual desperate praying that goes on at the very nearby University of Denver. ("Please God, help me pass this final!", "Please God, help me get laid!", "Please God, I'll never drink again!", etc.)

In any case, something has made me feel incredibly safe here and I could happily stay a contented troll living anonymously alongside a giant river of humanity, but change is calling. I've spent many an evening in my cave being self-indulgent and puttering around in my head - writing, yoga, music, movies. It was here I first experienced being 'snowed in' and all I can say is, I am all for it.

Most of all, I'm going to miss Eliot, the adorable 5-year-old girl who lives beneath me:

She lives with her dad, Graham, a nice young man who takes fatherhood quite seriously. I can often hear him singing to her at night and I'll miss hearing her giggles come up through the water heater. Sigh. Hopefully, there will be other children in my life soon.

On my final night in the cave, I am filled with gratitude. Though my first couple of months were rocky, it proved to be a very soft landing.

Hi-Fi v. Wi-Fi

2010-10-27T23:09:00.000-07:00

It's fascinating to me that as Americans become fatter, our technology slims down. So much of our communication and entertainment in previous decades has come from bulky, brown items and now they come in tiny slivers of silver and black. Anyone remember when the television was part of a 'console' that made it look like a sleek piece of furniture?

Though my livelihood depends on the latest technologies, though I am completely reliant on my iPhone and MacBook Pro, though I worked at technology Ground Zero, Macromedia (Adobe), in San Francisco before, during and after the dot com frenzy, though I am a WIRED subscriber and a paid blogger .... I am also crazy about old technology.

First thing every morning, I fire up an ancient Packard-Bell Hi-Fi AM/FM Phonograph Stereo Console unit to get my daily NPR dose. When the dear old lady who lived below, Esther, was finally moved into an Alzheimer's Home, they had me come down and take anything I wanted. I laid my eyes on this beauty (circa 1950s?) and it was LOVE.

The sound is incredible - note that the entire bottom half is hiding several speakers. I also love to play my many, many vinyl records on this baby. It's what she was made for. Do you know what doesn't sound incredible? This:

Though my father's heart was in the right place when he gifted me with this multi-tasking stereo, it sucks deeply. Designed to play CDs, LPs, cassettes and the radio, it only performs about 40% of those tasks. No doubt it was Made in China and while its old-timey face is meant to pull my nostalgia cord, all it does is hold up plants and piss me off. In the donation pile it goes. Cheap, fake efforts are no replacement for the real thing.

Confession: For the last decade or so, I have been dutifully bending to my favorite yoga video of all time: Ali MacGraw Yoga Mind & Body. Filmed in New Mexico's ethereal White Sands National Park with a rich soundtrack by Dead Can Dance and led by Yoga Master Erich Shiffmann, it is stunning. It literally birthed my lifelong yoga practice (for myself and others) and I never, ever tire of it. All this from a $15 videotape.

That's right, video tape. We're talking VHS, baby. Sure, I bought the DVD version but it's simply not up to snuff. And while I have gone through several DVD players since the technology arrived, my VHS player is a friggin' soldier that refuses to die. Technically, it was a 'gift' from Bob, an old boyfriend who bought it along with a television as he was tired of visiting me and having no entertainment technology available. This was perhaps 1993.

So, at least once or twice a week, I fire up the old gal - the crunchy noises she makes to start, stop, forward and rewind do sound ancient - and we do yoga together. For reasons that may be ridiculous, I have no intention of getting rid of the Signature 2000 or her dutiful partner, this giant, boxy television:

And yes, that is Jethro from the Beverly Hillbillies.

(Which reminds me that our family used to have a tiny b/w TV in the kitchen. Mom kept it for years and I adored it. One day in front of my brother and I, she discussed getting rid of it. I protested loudly: "You can't get rid of it - it only plays the Andy Griffith Show! It's like magic!" She laughed while my brother turned it on and sure enough, "Aunt Bee, have you seen Opey?" My brother freaked out and my mother stopped laughing. She did get rid of it, saying it gave her the "creeps.")

So, here's the funny thing. Shortly after moving into my Milwaukee Street Cave, nearly 4.5 years ago, I somehow lost the remote control for the old style TV. Happily, this led to more in-depth guitar practice for one is no longer expected to constantly get up to change channels and/or endure commerials. I mean, it's 2010, fer chrissakes.

Unhappily, this has led to a horrible twitchy finger when I finally do get a remote in my grubby mitts. Visiting family or staying a private hotel room, I simply go nuts. I'm in such complete control that I am totally out of control. My fingers become infected with ADHD and I get drunk with power. Not pretty.

So, what to do with all these funky old technology? Use it as decoration, like I do now with this old rotary?

Maybe I'm more like my mother than I realized. The woman still plays 8-track tapes and every time I hear that click over sound, I chuckle to myself. I must have listened to Boston's first album and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers Damn the Torpedoes eight gazillion times through this technology. Which reminds me, does anyone remember Tom Petty's tongue-in-cheek technology commentary on Full Moon Fever? Against a background of of barnyard noises near the beginning of Track 6, we hear Tom politely explain:

"Hello, CD listeners. We've come to the point in this album where those listening on cassette, or records, will have to stand up, or sit down, and turn over the record. Or tape. In fairness to those listeners, we'll now take a few seconds before we begin side two. [pause] Thank you. Here's side two."

And what of my sub-woofer and giant speakers when all I need is my laptop and the two small speakers that accompany it? My many other VHS tapes from days gone by? My boxes upon boxes upon boxes and photo albums full of negatives and print photos? All my cassettes, especially those beloved mixed tapes?

I'm only 44 and already my entire life is museum-ready.

Me Want Chickens

2010-10-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

Although I am excited about moving to a co-housing community, it also means I have to put off my dream of having chickens for at least a year, unless I can convince them ...

In the meantime, we went on a Chicken Coop Tour in and around the Denver area. (Many thanks to Denver Urban Homesteading who organized the tour and the DUH's insane-in-a-good-way, James Bertini, who enjoys breaking the law as much as he loves being a lawyer.) We met so many beautiful birds and enthusiastic owners - it was inspiring. We also discovered how many different ways there are to house these fabulous feathered souls.

Some coops were just tiny dog houses and some were hi-tech pre-fab coops - not cheep - ha! In some backyards, the birds ran wildly around the backyard, taking dirt baths, foraging through garbage or whatever. While others had the corner of the garden perfectly spotless for the chickens and everything was obsessively organized.

My favorite might be James and Irina Bertini's old camper, formerly a favorite homeless hangout, now refashioned into a chicken hangout. Here's the back door:

And the inside:

And the whole kit and caboodle, which also includes a pen for geese:

But everywhere we went, we found giggling kids who delighted in all things chicken. Besides all the fresh eggs - which are so much better than what you buy in the store - it's great for kids to know exactly where their food is coming from. Hell, it's better for adults too.

Ah, someday ....

The Dog Stays

2010-10-18T16:10:00.000-07:00

Though I like to think my animal spirit is a horse - strong, fast, sexy - truth is, I'm more like a snail - ravenous, pesty and sloooooow. I'm simply not good with change, I'm either wildly impulsive or near-stagnant, not much middle ground.

And so, the dreaded move from my beloved Milwaukee Street Cave has begun. (Anyone need a feather boa?) Moving is one of those modern necessary tasks that nobody loves. I was speaking to my mother about it the other day and she moaned, "Oh, I HATE moving!" Mind you, the woman has not moved since the early 1960s. After all these decades, the memory is still fresh in her mind.

Sifting through life's so-called treasures, one item at a time, presents the black and white question: Keep or throw? Donate or pack? Some good comes of this skin shedding, of course. When I moved from San Francisco to Colorado, I loaded up the guitar my father had bought me at Costco, asking myself, "Why do I have this? I can't play it. Why keep it?" Driving the instrument across the country actually guilted me into taking lessons and for that, I'm grateful.

But this story is about the glass dog.

When I lived in San Francisco, I used to find random cool stuff near the trash can. (A very common scenario in the transient Bay Area, actually.) One day, I came down and saw this delicate glass dog sitting next to the bin. What to do? I can't walk away from an adorable animal, even a fake one, so I picked him up. I meant to donate him to Pets Unlimited before I left but he ended up getting mistakenly packed away by one of my friends.

When I arrived in Colorado and found myself quite suddenly alone (not the original plan at all), I had the luxury of time to really go through my stuff and donate even more crap to the Salvation Army on Colfax. Every Saturday for several weeks, I'd do a big drop off; the staff even learned my name and would say, "See ya next week!"

One of these days, I loaded up a bunch of clothes, books and whatnot and put the glass dog in the front seat, finally ready to pass him along. When I arrived, I unloaded all the goods, got my receipt and got back in the truck. Suddenly, I was struck by an intense feeling of loneliness and an overwhelming sadness over my situation. I burst into tears, moaning, "What am I doing here? I have no friends! I'm totally alone! WAH!" If you are a human being, than you know the feeling.

I must have sat there for a full 10 minutes with my head in my hands, dripping tears on the steering wheel, when I finally opened my eyes and saw the glass dog, sitting next to me, staring plaintively. I'd forgotten to unload him and sad as it is to admit, that glass dog was my only friend on earth at that moment. I was beyond grateful.

Laughing through red, swollen eyes and a snot-clogged face, I just shook my head and put the truck in drive: "C'mon, buddy. Let's go home."

A Dragon of Fear Has Been Slain

2010-10-14T13:59:00.000-07:00

Last night, for the first time ever, I went to an open mic and performed music on stage. By myself. Willingly. In front of real live humans and everything.

I met up with my pals, Steve and Daniel, at Swallow Hill, probably the best atmosphere in the world for this kind of experiment. (Steve also performed and he was so funny and delightful.) Each performer was not only super talented but they all had their own songs! Good Lord. I'm going to have to find out where crappier musicians play if I think about doing this again.

Anyway, I made it up on stage and the host asked about my gear. "I don't have a guitar or anything. I'll be singing a capella," I said. His eyes got real big.

Since comedy is my one useful skill in the world, I tried to charm the audience with humor. "Yeah, I thought we were going to a comedy open mic (this is actually true) so I'm not really prepared but I already put lipstick on and brushed my hair so I thought I should do something..."

And that's when I belted out a Beck-inspired version of Hank Williams' "Lonesome Whistle." I did okay. It certainly sounded better in the ladies room a few minutes earlier but still not as good as my empty living room. But hey, nobody died. And they clapped. Best of all, when I got offstage, the host said:

"The only thing scarier to me than performing a song with no musical accompaniment is doing comedy. You, my dear, must have very thick skin."

Hopefully, it will grow thicker and I can get more performances under my belt. These days, my mantra is: "I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it."

Boo to Columbus Day

2010-10-11T16:13:00.000-07:00

This is not a formal protest, just the registration of a lifelong annoyance and Man-o-man! This holiday really pisses me off.

I remember as clear as day, sitting on a wooden chair in school (2nd grade? 3rd grade?) and the teacher talking about how in 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue and 'discovered' America. Having already studied Native Americans, this threw me for a loop. I raised my hand asking how can somebody get credit for discovering a land that already had people?

Had Eddie Izzard been my teacher (FANTASY!) he may have responded: "With the cunning use of flags." And he would have been absolutely correct.

Sadly, Mr. Izzard was not teaching at Mark Twain Elementary in the 1970s so I was undoubtedly given another explanation about how the Spanish explorer 'discovered' a place he thought was Asia (thus providing the nickname 'Indians' to the local residents) and claiming it for Queen Isabella I. In other words, a land is not discovered until hordes of white people arrive and set up 11,000 Starbucks.

It's one of those traditional American school subjects that I could never get my head around. Much like the day we were taught about slavery in the U.S. ("What do you mean 'buy people,' you can't BUY people!" I drove my teachers nuts on this.)

While I realize that CC's trip meant the opening of the land for trade and development to the Western world, it certainly meant the slaughter of so many native tribes and I'm not sure that's worth celebrating.

Seems silly to honor a navigator who got lost. Count me out.

New Horizons

2010-10-07T12:47:00.000-07:00

No, I'm not moving to a retirement home, but I am moving into some pretty scary territory: Co-habitation with a member of the opposite sex.
Now, I realize I'm a bit of an anomaly. Most folks fear snakes, public speaking and/or nudity, jumping out of airplanes - that sort of thing. I'm totally fine with any of those. Spiders too. Swear to Yoda - put a snake in one hand, a spider in the other, make me give a speech, rip off my clothes and shove out an airplane and I'd call it a good day.

It's the double 'M's' that freak me out: Marriage & Mortgage, those time-honored trappings of adulthood. I feel pretty silly about these hang-ups (okay, maybe not the mortgage thing anymore) especially since they are such common milestones in our society.

So I've arrived at a point in my life where the idea of standing still has become scarier than moving forward - no matter how many reservations and fears I may harbor. Good news is, I hyper-ventilate a lot less than I used to while pondering them. Also, the hives no longer appear. Progress, right? I mean, people do it EVERY DAY, right? Sheesh.

My partner in this endeavor is a very, very, very brave and completely insane man whom you may or may not know but for privacy/SEO sake, let's just call him Kirk. He's one of my best friends and steady supporters and I like to think I am the same for him. Kirk has been through a lot in the last few years, processing big changes and looking after the needs of others. The time has come for Kirk to learn how to become a Selfish Motherfucker.

I can teach him this.

Meanwhile, I've been, as my mother might say, "lollygagging" though life with numerous sessions of "fiddlefarting around" and my selfish ways must now cease. Kirk can teach me this.

Y'see, when a person has lived on their own for so many years, they get used to having their own way about pretty much everything but the problem is ....... Um, actually. There is no problem. Living alone is friggin' awesome.

Oh! Unless you choke and die alone in your apartment and nobody finds your body for weeks. I always forget about that one.

Nevertheless, ClizBiz craves personal growth - ready or not. Truth is, I've been quietly seeking this unique living situation (more on that later) and it has been seeking me. And so here we are. Which is why the boxes are coming out of storage and the daily emotional highs/lows that come with imminent change have commenced.

Please pray for Kirk.

Final Tally on Smile Train Donations

2010-09-24T14:55:00.000-07:00

My generous comedian friends backstage at the Saturday night show.

It's been a month since our Smile Train comedy improv benefit shows and I just now sent off the final check package to New York; the happy delay was caused by the fact that donations continued, despite the shows being over. Ultimately, we raised $2,150.44!

It tops the amount raised last year and is enough to fix 8.5 kids! This makes my heart sing like you cannot believe. Smile Train also has a matching program going on right now (thanks to some wealthy benefactor) so there's a chance it will end up being three times that amount, which would be fantastic.

There's just no way this would have happened without the tireless efforts of Steve Loukas, my comedy husband. (In the photo's center, in the wig braids.) He is the driving force behind so many of the important details and I would never want to do this without him. Steve and I were freshman members of the Rodents of Unusual Size (who also donated their funny bones to the shows) and he's now is the brilliant leader of The Denver Wigs. (They brought down the house the other night, btw, you should absolutely check 'em out.)

I'm also especially grateful to Monkey's Uncle, who donated their considerable comedic talents, and Intentionally Left Blank, another fabulous group (and freakishly good looking I might add) who put on a wonderful show. (Again, Steve made all that happen - I just stood around, being charmed by them.)

Also, thanks to Bess Chachas who skillfully handled all the sound and lights for the Saturday night shows. And, of course, to Dave and Bob, co-owners of the Avenue Theater, who generously donated a huge portion of their sales to the cause. Plus, they are just super sweet guys in general.

Finally, big thanks to all the donors who put money towards such a wonderful cause. (Big thanks to Reid Kirkpatrick who donated $300 and even got his employer to donate $100 more - amazing.) I really appreciate all the hard-earned money you gave up but not as much as the kids do. Thanks to ya'll, they'll be smiling forever.

I'm Not Here Right Now - Please Leave A Message

2010-09-20T10:58:00.000-07:00

Photo by Reid Kirkpatrick

Here's me dancing in a disco fog at the incredibly fun Wild Ivories last Friday night. The image from the dueling piano bar aptly explains my mental whereabouts lately. I'm happily reclining on a cloud of serious disconnection. Not sure if it's age or just fatigue with the world and all its problems but I'm skating dangerously close to apathy - not like me at all.

Goodbye to Buffy

2010-09-01T18:10:00.000-07:00


My heroes, compliments of TheQuarterBin

Sometime in late 2002, I found myself in the back seat of a San Francisco cab, with a boy I very much wanted to kiss. As the car sped along with the city's twinkling lights whizzing by, he turned to me and whispered somewhat plaintively:

"Please ... please .... PLEASE tell me that you're into 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer."

Because I wanted his lips on mine, I lied outright: "Of course. I love it!"

And we kissed.

In truth, I hadn't seen a single episode and the whole romance tumbled down soon after but the moment always nagged me. What was so important about a stupidly-named television show? How could it possibly be an obstruction to making out? And who was this Buffy chick anyhow? Surely she couldn't be that amazing.

Oh, how wrong I was. In April of 2008, I finally got around to seeing what all the fuss was about. Buffy the Vampire Slayer:Season 1, Episode 1, was put into my DVD player and the journey began. To try and recreate the feverish anticipation of the original viewers when it aired on the WB, and then UPN, back in the day (1997-2003), I viewed one episode at a time, one disc at a time, while alternating on my Netflix queue with films.

Last night, with great sadness, the DVD player spit out the final disc and I groaned aloud. A seven-year show, 144 brilliant episodes, and it was all over for me, seven years after its actual demise but still, I mourn. I cannot begin to describe how much I will miss these characters and even the writers, directors and producers, as I obsessively watched every commentary and extra that was available. Thank god for the mad genius that is Joss Whedon, who has given popular culture such an amazing heroine.

As TV writing goes, it doesn't get any better; there is simply no fat or fluff to be found. I kept waiting for the show to lag, for the characters to become predictable, for the entire premise to fail. Instead, every episode was like a rung on a ladder and you found yourself going deeper and deeper into the world of Sunnydale and all the demon residents of the Hellmouth. The amount of action and comedy packed into one hour (not to mention some real tear-jerkers) was relentless. A typical exchange:

Buffy: So, what you been up to?
Amy: I've been a rat for three years.
Buffy: Oh, right.
Amy: You?
Buffy: Dead.
Amy: Yeah, I heard. Bummer.

And then there's Spike. Good lord, he's just pure walking sex. Truly. (Angel? Oh, please. No contest.) I get quickly turned on hearing even a few notes from a Billy Idol song based solely on the resemblance, which, as we all know, is a look that Spike had first. Of course, Spike also had a way of delivering truth that could be counted on, and even that was hot. My favorite Spike speech:

"You're not friends. You'll never be friends. You'll be in love till it kills you both. You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other until it makes you quiver, but you'll never be friends. Love isn't brains, children, it's blood -- blood screaming inside you to work its will. I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it."

--Spike, speaking to Buffy and Angel, in Season 3

Or maybe it was this one, said in exasperation to Willow during Season 4. He was tied to a chair but he'd finally had enough of her white American guilt at the Thanksgiving table:

"You won. All right? You came in, and you killed them and you took their land. That's what conquering nations do. It's what Caesar did, and he's not going around saying, 'I came, I conquered, I felt really bad about it."

Arrrrgh. I could go on and on about each character but to love Buffy is to understand why Joss made it in the first place. He created Buffy to redeem every helpless female victim that has ever been portrayed in film, television, opera, novel or comic book. Buffy is the anti-victim and, as a result, the show is the most entertaining version of feminism that has ever snuck past you.

Also, it should be said that it was the first show I can think of that portrayed lesbian love in a normal, non-porny way. Willow's discovery ("I think I'm a little gay.") was just another layer of growth in her ongoing evolution - from pigtails to the most powerful woman in the universe. Best of all, it made perfect sense.

[SPOILER ALERT] In the final moments of the last show, Willow induces magic to bring out the inner slayer in every capable woman in the world. (Turns out the world will need it, since there's a Hellmouth under Cleveland too, Giles casually informs us.)

Watching it again with Joss commenting, I learned that the final scene that was shot - the last shot of the last show of the last season - was a wordless frame showing a battered woman in a dingy trailer, about to be struck by her abusive husband. Now suddenly infused with slayer strength, she stands up to him and the look in her eye says that things are going to be very, very different from now on.

And that, my friends, is what makes Buffy so special. Also, Sarah Michelle Gellar, who played Buffy so perfectly reminded me of my best friend, Lisa, who is also blonde, beautiful and super strong.

And finally, to that boy, wherever he is .... Joe, I finally understand. And you were absolutely right.

Bravo!!!!

Compliments of Manny the Movie Guy

Mr. Magic Thumb

2010-08-30T17:05:00.000-07:00

Recently, I found myself in a delightful place called the Belly Up, a tiny bar in Aspen which regularly features high quality (and sometimes, big name) live music. Reid and I were there to check out Asleep At The Wheel, those Grammy-winning Kings (and one Queen) of Texas Swing. I'd seen them before at my fave music fest, Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, but it was a gas to seem them up close.

Naturally, the dance floor was jumping and there was one shy-looking fellow who stood practically on the stage lip, moving around like crazy. So, I tapped him on the shoulder.

"You wanna dance?" I shouted over the music.

For a minute, I thought he might reject me. He looked a little scared, but then quickly smiled. "Okay," he said warily, "but I really don't know what I'm doing...."

And we were off.

Clearly, the fellow was being modest because he had great control and spun me all over that floor. I'm pretty sure I yelled "WHEEEEEEEE!" a couple of times. However, it wasn't long before I realized that the hand he was using to conduct the spins - his right - felt ... different. It felt extra smooth and, well, it was missing a few fingers.

As in, ALL OF THEM.

That's right, this shy little man magically spun me - and several other gals - around that floor using ONE BAD ASS THUMB. Reid said we looked amazing and encouraged me to dance with him again. "He looks so happy when he's dancing!" he said.

What a wonderful reminder that it's better to focus on what you have than what you don't. Dancerman, wherever you are - two thumbs up!

Katrina Anniversary

2010-08-27T15:58:00.000-07:00

Mary Mahoney's in Biloxi, MS - note the water line marker behind the bar.

With all the big five-year remembrances going on around Hurricane Katrina, I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring. I posted about it almost obsessively back then, even though my blog was just weeks old.

My brother, Robert, had moved his family to the Mississippi Gulf Coast just TWO MONTHS prior and then gone missing during the storm. (I gave a plaintive, weepy radio interview on KABC-AM which I still can't listen to without bursting into tears.) Nothing like having your loved ones at the center of a major natural disaster to keep you interested.

Creative feeding spots were a common site post-Katrina.

Though I don't live in the South, a great number of people and animals that I love reside there and so, a part of my heart does too. The native souls are warm, generous and tougher than you can imagine. They are also creative, resourceful and know how to enjoy the day without too much fret about tomorrow. I'm here to remind ya'll that Mississippians gave us the blues, jazz, rock-n-roll and Barq's Root Beer. The Teddy Bear and William Faulkner. Parker Posey and Jimmy Buffett. Tennessee Williams and Brett Favre. Morgan Freeman and John Grisham.

Oprah and Elvis.

Need I go on?

Anyway, I was reviewing my post-Katrina flickr page the other day and there are some haunting pics there. Surely, it was a tough time but luckily, the people are tougher.

The Community Garden

2010-08-24T12:18:00.000-07:00

It's odd that I had zero interest in gardening until I moved from one of the most fertile states to one of the most arid. The main factor was probably space, something I never really had in California but in Colorado, there's room to stretch out.

About four years ago, I noticed things being dug up and moved around in my backyard rental. I remarked to the building manager that it was a shame since I was planning to grow my own vegetables. To my great delight, the landlord (a super cool lady named Amy) heard about my lament and immediately incorporated a raised bed - just for me! - into the new plans. The garden was such a success that earlier this year, Amy added two more raised beds for my neighbors and voila! The Milwaukee Street Garden was born.

Our garden when first planted, May 22nd.

Growing food together has really intensified the fun factor and enlivened our neighborly bond. We exchange observations about plant behavior and share laments about slow growth. And, like most gardeners, we want more bees!

Naturally, we look after one another's "babies." With all the traveling I do, this has been a blessing. I tell them when I am going out of town so they know to water mine when they water their own plots.

Of course, we also share the bounty. The general rule is: No direct harvesting. If anyone has extra to share, it goes on the picnic table and then it is first-come, first-serve. My nuclear bomb-sized zukes always find a happy home and I scored some yellow cucumbers the other day that I did not have to grow myself.

My plot, sometime in July.

Our collective roster of veggies and herbs include: yellow zukes, regular zukes, Japanese eggplant, cucumber, beets, basil, rosemary, lettuce, spinach, peas, cilantro, sunflower, mint, chives, bell pepper, jalapeno, parsley, thyme, New Mexico peppers, cinnamon basil, onions, squash and several varieties of tomatoes. I have not purchased fresh produce from a store in over a month. (On top of this, we also have Concord Grapes, which ripen in the fall, and an apple tree in the front yard.)

Eliot

Our backyard has now become a friendly meeting place for the entire building. One recent evening, I was out checking my tomatoes and chatting with Graham, who looked up at his sunflowers, wondering when he should harvest. He took a big, yellow head down and explained the process to his adorable five-year-old daughter, Eliot, who squealed in delight. Karin watered her tremendous pumpkins while her son, Ewan, ran around the yard chasing Bodi the cat. My studly neighbor duo, Chris and Tim, cooked up some chicken wings on the grill and we exchanged sports jokes. I doled out bite-sized pear tomatoes, bright yellow, to the kids and they gobbled 'em up with big juicy smiles.

My visiting friend, Kristin, came down the stairs looked upon the scene and said to me, "Wow. You've got a good thing going on here."

The Exploding Garden, on 8/24/10.

Indeed I do!

Growing your own food and feeding oneself is beyond liberating and it requires very little effort. Turns out, the seeds know exactly what to do. (Must be that whole 'nature' thing I keep hearing about.) For a few gloriously delicious months, I don't pay to eat tasteless, mass-produced produce from from Guam or Mexico. When the season ends and I am forced to once again purchase a cardboard tomato, I feel like crying.

In the meantime, I celebrate.

Smile Train Shows This Weekend

2010-08-20T11:48:00.000-07:00

Yup, it's that time of year again. Thanks to my co-coordinator, Steve Loukas, and the pure naked decency of four - count 'em - FOUR improv groups, we are able to put on three comedy improv shows this weekend - all benefits go to Smile Train.

Nobody knows why but 1 in 700 children is born with a cleft lip and/or palate, like little Shiva here - at left. (See her post-surgery photo below.) For reasons unknown, there seems to be more of these children in poor countries. Perhaps something in the water? Generally, the family reacts with sadness and horror, often abandoning the child by the side of the road and taking it as a curse upon them. Can you imagine?

When it happens in this country, it's a fairly easy fix. Not so in rural sections of places like Africa, India and China. Smile Train has fixed 618,000 of these kids so far by training the local doctors and putting 100% of all donations toward surgeries. Fixing one child permanently costs $250 and takes 45 minutes.

The average age of the Smile Train patient is 6 six years old - old enough to know something is wrong with them, as many no longer attend school because of the taunts.

As many of you know, I grew up having multiple facial surgeries and it was no picnic. However, thanks to the luck of my Western birth, the steadfast love my family and friends, it seems like a distant memory - like it all happened to someone else. Still, I feel much gratitude - hence, this annual fundraiser.

If you are in Colorado and near the Denver area this weekend, please come to our shows! Tickets are $15 and can be purchased in advance from the links below.

Friday @ 7:30 - featuring The Rodents of Unusual Size and Monkey's Uncle!
Saturday @ 6 - featuring Intentionally Left Blank and The Denver Wigs!
Saturday @ 8- featuring The Denver Wigs!

If you can't make the shows but would still like to donate, please go here. NO AMOUNT TOO SMALL. Even $25 pays for sutures for one surgery. Last year we fixed EIGHT kids and made them whole again. I visited the Smile Train offices in New York recently and was informed that so far, Smile Train has fixed 618,000 children which translates to a lot more smiling going on in this beat-up world.

To watch the trailer for 'Smile Pinki', the Academy Award-winning documentary on one girl's journey on Smile Train, go here.

(All photos borrowed from SmileTrain.)

Gulf Coast Recovery Video: Make It Count

2010-08-11T11:24:00.000-07:00

I'm still digesting all the amazing conversations and experiences of BlogHer '10 but a personal highlight was seeing some of my Gulf Coast photos included in the Make It Count video shown at the show's kick-off. In honor BlogHer's 2010 Voices of the Year Gala and Art Auction (curated by Kirtsy), they asked Katherine Center to make a short movie honoring the auction's intent to help clean up the Gulf Oil spill in the Gulf.

The entire video is lovely and I love the narrated thoughts that accompany the images, particularly the advice: "Pay attention." My photos begin at :51 and are featured mostly through to the end.

NEW YORK

2010-08-09T21:51:00.000-07:00

I've just returned home after spending the last week in New York for BlogHer '10 and it was a super crunchy Big Apple time had by all. I arrived a couple days early just to soak up the greatest city in the world before all the bloggy madness began. As much as I love the outdoors, this girl needs a dose of NYC every once in awhile; just to marvel in its relentless third-rail energy and take in some big city culture.

My eensy Pod room.

I checked into my favorite NYC hotel, The Pod, (where I always obtain deep sleep in my tiny pod room) with big, big plans for myself - MOMA, Natural History Museum, Statue of Liberty, Museum of the City of New York, International Center for Photography, Museum of Radio & Television - but none of these happened.

Instead, I ended up wandering dreamily every day into Central Park to eat my lunch and indulge in luxuriant reading and people watching. It got to the point where people asked me for directions - "Where is Strawberry Fields?" being the most popular question. Thrilled to be mistaken for a local, I was only too happy to help.

New York city is just one big fucking miracle. Don't even get me started on the elaborate NYC subway system - an engineering feat that my tiny brain can barely grasp.

It's hard to imagine that Europeans bought this island in 1626 for $24 worth of beads from the Lenape tribe, who were living there at the time. That's about $1,000 in modern currency, which might buy you a dirty curb at today's real estate prices, nothing more.

Much as I was drawn to Central Park during the day, Times Square would pull me in at night, like a zombie drug. With a large portion shut down to car traffic, the area is a meeting spot for every kind of human you can think of. One night I sat on the phone for hours with an old friend while a creepy Latino stood nearby, insisting I take his compliments. "You are beautiful. I SAID 'You are beautiful!'"

A few nights later, I was there with my friend, Beth, and we came upon two guys playing an oud, a pear-shaped instrument that sounds like a sitar. It's used in Middle Eastern music, has no frets and a long white 'pick.' It has a bent back neck and looks like it may have derived from the lute.

We sat and listened for awhile to the beautiful music while some young blonde girl babbled in my ear about wanting to be an actress. She decided that she loved me and I decided she was a druggie loon. Still, it was a lovely encounter with an exotic instrument, and where else would I learn about it other than Times Square? Saved me a trip to Qatar, that's for sure.

And then, of course, there's Broadway.

When I arrived on Tuesday night, I hurriedly checked into The Pod and started sprinting toward the St. James Theater on 44th. My pal, Laurie, had gamely offered to buy us half-price tickets to 'American Idiot' (Green Day's musical) and all I had to do was get my butt there before curtain. But, my feet were too slow and the cabs weren't moving so in the end, I jumped on a pedi-cab and watched my driver go toe-to-bumper with very large tour buses; he would not be intimidated. Also, he spoke little English and had legs made of lightening.

In the end, pedi-boy pulled up to the theater just as the line moved into the building - huzzah! What an entrance! I then sprang for a quick beer for Laurie and a Jameson on the rocks for me, at which time the bartender kindly provided me with a sippy cup for my cocktail so I could enjoy it during the show. I adore how much my alcohol needs are looked after in Gotham. In fact, I brought said sippy cup home so that I may relive my satisfaction again and again.

The show itself kicked ass, as expected. The cast of about 20 young, energetic talents of all shapes and sizes made 'American Idiot' feel like some leathered up version of 'Glee' but with newer songs and more electric guitar. The set was high and the walls were embedded with televisions, allowing for much commentary on the media. Kudos to Green Day and the cast for executing one damn fine rock opera.

Also, Beth and I managed to escape the confines of the New York Hilton for a few hours to visit a local comedy club, Ha! The comedians were all men, all funny but a bit lazy - meaning they relied too much on swearing, poop and sex jokes. First up was Kevin Brown, who plays Dot Com on the hit show, '30 Rock.' Kevin was big, he was funny but most of all, he was CUTE. Beth and I developed permanent crushes on the spot.

On our way home, we stumbled across an amazing site: At 3:30 in the morning, a line of people nearly half a block long all waiting for "the best halal in the city", as one fellow informed us. Evidently, they open at 7:30 p.m. and stay open until 4:00 a.m.

The food, mostly lamb, smelled HEAVENLY. Beth and I (she a vegetarian, me - always trying) were both very tempted by the incredible aromas and the enthusiastic eaters. This truck has a loyal local following and consistently shows up as one of the best street food vendors in the city. Located at the corner of 53rd and 6th Ave. - make sure you check it out on your next NYC visit.

Although it was great to come home to Colorado amidst an exciting lightening storm and a flooded kitchen (don't ask), I gotta say, I miss the Big Apple already.

GOD BLESS NEW YORK.

Bon Voyage, Larry!

2010-07-30T10:22:00.000-07:00

Ballsy Larry at my 43rd birthday party, with help from Howard the Tongue and Tami Bonos on French-Fry Penis.

It's always hard when cool, funny people leave one's sphere. Such is the case with Larry Epstein. I've known him for years now as a fellow comedian and a key member of one of Denver's funniest comedy improv troupes, Monkey's Uncle.

What with his fancy PhD and all, he's scored an important job in Boston (Harvard, specifically) to help some troubled kids deal with that nasty bitch called Life. Honestly, I can't think of a better guy to have on their side.

The Monkey's had a kick-ass show earlier this week to send Larry on his way. So glad I was there to celebrate.

You will be missed, Dr. Larry!

Garden of the Gods

2010-07-28T15:38:00.000-07:00

After living so close to Garden of the Gods for four years and yet, never actually seeing it, I finally got to investigate for myself. Oh, and it's fuss-worthy, I can assure you. GoG is 3,300 acres of jaw-dropping beauty located within the city of Colorado Springs. The park offers tons of hiking trails, bike lanes and an endless amount of immense orange boulders, ideal for scrambling over - all totally free.

Reid had made arrangements to stay at Glen Eyrie, a genuine American castle (if there is such a thing) built in 1871 by General William Jackson Palmer, the founder of Colorado Springs. Conveniently located next door to GoG, Glen Eyrie is Tudor gem, boasting 67 rooms and 24 fireplaces. It is also - we couldn't help but notice - THE perfect place for a haunting.

Our redonkulously huge room, The Castle Suite.

Now on the National Register of Historic Places, Palmer had Glen Eyrie built to comfort his wife, Mary, who'd been homesick for her native England. Glen Eyrie was purchased in 1953 by The Navigators, a Christian ministry that regularly hosts conferences and seminars on-site. (Nice of them to let heathens stay there too.) The grounds were lush and filled with giggling children and super mellow Bighorn Sheep. We found a herd of 16, with their famous Joan River 'dos, just chillaxing. Incredible.

Glen Eyrie

We spent the weekend 'ooohing' and 'aaaahing' over the castle's majestic grounds and the stunning GoG next door. The whole area is like one big geologic porn palace. Honestly. Not sure why but the landscape consistently reminded me of food. It had nothing to do with cravings or hunger, it just seemed that food was always the best description.

Exhibit A: "Petrified Bacon"

I also had another one: "Spilled Root Beer Float." Once Reid understood where I was coming from, he offered up his own example: "Chocolate cake with melted strawberry ice cream."

Bighorn Sheep at Glen Eyrie: Are they cool or what?

Other than oogling the scenery and shopping/eating/drinking in Old Colorado City, we noted two things. First, there was something very Twilight Zone going on all weekend with regards to signs and directions. It felt similar to being trapped in the Gaelic section of Ireland (true story) with everybody advising you to take mysterious Trail 14, although never meeting anyone who had actually done so themselves. The situation was repeated on car and on foot ("Um, what are we dong in Manitou Springs?") and we began to wonder what mystical GPS-related hex had been put upon us.

Pottery store in Old Colorado City

Second, I had perceived Colorado Springs as a bastion of white conservatism and unyielding Christianity. It is, after all, the home base for the evangelical Christian group, Focus on the Family, whose website currently offers helpful marriage survival tips: "When a spouse struggles with homosexuality." Good Lord, do they think it's like having a migraine or something?

Hiding you from what?

Colorado Springs is also home to the U.S. Air Force Academy. I only saw it from miles away but that sucker is ha-yuuuuuuuge. We also spotted some serious Sky Cops during our visit, which is just fine by me.

ANYHOO, the fact that we were lodging at a Christian compound only confirmed my perception. But then, something else happened too. First I noticed that in addition to those attending the conference at Glen Eyrie, there were other regular guests, two of them bi-racial couples. Not a big deal but still surprised to see it. (I have to wonder if Reid & I had been a gay couple, how that would have gone down.)

Bighorn Sheep were all over the grounds at Glen Eyrie.

Then, on Saturday evening, Reid and I ventured 'downtown' to the strip of bars and restaurants along Tejon Street. There, we saw all kinds of people, all races - many of them dressed up and partying down.

We made the smartest decision ever by setting up camp at Jack Quinn's Irish Pub, which provided an ideal outdoor spot for people watching, a super friendly waitress who sounded exactly like Paula Poundstone, yummy fish & chips, and one of the best bands I've heard in a long time - Big Paddy. It's just two guys that play there every Saturday night but the place was rollicking. There were even big, hairy dudes in kilts doing traditional Scottish jigs. FUN. Of course, the Jameson on the rocks helped too.

Note the hairy meatballs in the pock marks - hidden by God, of course.

Then there was the couple who made me rethink everything I'd heard about Colorado Springs. One half of the couple was a tall, tough looking cowgirl in full Western get-up. The cowboy hat, vest, jeans and boots didn't appear to be a costume, it looked like what she wore every day. Her girlfriend was much shorter and rounder, with deep black skin, bright pink hair and some crazy outfit straight from a New York runway. Anyone looking at them could see they were in love and honestly? Nobody (except me) looked at them twice. This was not the Colorado Springs I was expecting.

Guess there's room for Goddesses there too. Who knew?

See more photos from my trip here.

At Long Last ... Vindication

2010-07-23T13:34:00.000-07:00

"In the past, you rented if you didn't make enough money. You rented if you weren't ambitious. You rented if you weren't sort of smart enough. But as it turns out, as we look in recent years, renting turned out to be a pretty smart thing to do."

--Nicolas Retsinas, director of Harvard's Joint Center for Housing Studie, as told to NPR

Yup.

Over the River

2010-07-19T16:23:00.000-07:00

Several months ago, I signed up to attend a public meeting with Christo, the world-famous artist whose large-scale outdoor installations ("The Gates" in New York, "The Umbrellas" in Japan and California, "Surrounded Islands" in Florida) brought he and his late partner/wife, Jean-Claude, much acclaim.

"Jean-Claude is with me always."
--Christo, on the recent death of his lifelong artistic partner and wife, Jean-Claude (They were born on the same date: June 13, 1935.)

(Photo Credit: Richard Lacayo)

A few months goes by and I receive an email reminder to get my butt downtown, pronto. So I hopped on my bike and arrived at the Seawell Grand Ballroom, sweaty but curious, about what brought Christo to Denver.

Turns out, his next big project - in the works for over a decade now - will likely take place in south-central Colorado. Called "Over the River", it will consist of 5.9 miles of silvery fabric suspended over the Arkansas River along a 40-mile stretch between Salida and Cañon City. The temporary exhibit is slated for two weeks in summer 2013. And yes, it will be high enough from the river (15-18 feet) that folks can float under it. Very cool.

The room was packed with other curious citizens and leaders in the Colorado arts/business community, including Don Marostica, the head of the Economic Development Office. (I'd worked with him before on a previous project - nice fellow and a real friend to the arts.)

Christo, a delicate gentleman with Bulgarian roots and a shock of white frizzy hair, could not have been more gracious and open. He gave a detailed slide presentation that offered full explanations on his personal life, how projects are created and financed, the full blueprint of the OTR project and details on the many, many, many meetings he must attend with governmental agencies to secure all the proper permits. (At one meeting, Christo, Jean-Claude and their team are seated across from tie-wearing representatives from 11 different U.S. agencies.)

Thankfully, standing microphones were set up for a Q&A session. Of course, I had to get my big mouth in there and began my question with this: "First of all, I just want to say how happy I am you are in Colorado." Much to my surprise, this set off a wild burst of applause and people thanked me later. (I only found it odd because two scheduled speakers had basically said the same thing; perhaps I was speaking for the 'little people'?) Christo's humbled response to my comment was a low bow with his hands pressed together, a very Dalai Lama move.

I can't remember that initial question but when I got greedy and returned for a second question, Christo laughed at me: "You again???" I simply wanted to know if, with all these large-scale global projects, it made him see the world differently - like one big canvas.

Also, was he setting his sights on the moon? He chuckled in his response: "Funny you should mention it. Jean-Claude was once asked that question and she said we would create a space project once other people are more established there."

The public meeting lasted over two hours and I'm so glad I went. Not only will OTR will bring increased tourism to the region and global focus to Colorado but it's a real community-builder. Before even getting started on this project, Christo went to the small towns along the river and made his proposal to the residents, disclosing every detail. "Without the support of the local communities, the project would not exist," he said simply. "This should be a celebration, not an intrusion."

At the event's closing, Christo's local lawyer got up and explained how we can help. With the environmental impact statement now submitted, Christo and Team were asking us to speak out in support of OTR by attending public meetings and commenting online. They have made it very, very easy - just go here.

Despite being mobbed by fans after the event, I ended up riding the escalator with the charming artist. I told him I couldn't wait to float under OTR and I'd hoped we hadn't overwhelmed him. "Not at all," he said, "I appreciate the support and thank you for your questions."

With that, I hopped on my bike and rode home along Cherry Creek, thrilled all over again to be in Colorado where strange things sometimes happen - like internationally famous artists bowing to sweaty citizens.

Gold In My Forest

2010-07-16T15:49:00.000-07:00

On this week's visit to San Francisco (pang! pang! pang!), a friend took me for a drive through the Presidio, a sacred forest that was my personal backyard for nine years. He wanted to show me the many changes that had taken place since I'd left four years ago. Mainly, he wanted me to see the complete upgrade of Rob Campground, once the site of our famous "Camping in the City" parties, which I'd co-hosted with my roomie, Michelle.

This was in 1997-98, shortly after the Army had handed over the 1,480-acre piece of land to the National Park Service. Until then, the Presidio had been a fortified military base for 219 years and the NPS didn't start changes until the last seven years or so. I'd smugly hike through its woodsy terrain every day after work while the SF masses thronged to Muir Woods or Golden Gate Park. And other than the occasional sign warning me about buried mustard gas, I loved every inch of my secret forest. (Ironically, it was there I made the decision to move to Colorado.)

Our 'Camping' parties were held at a scruffy site with a few BBQs and a log-encircled fire pit. Located less than a mile from our city apartment, we encouraged people to show up in cabs, with Starbucks and pizzas, just to get as much mileage out of the joke as we could. People would come in straight from business meetings in the city, delighting in the escape, and stay to sing songs and explore old Army forts.

In addition to a fabulous ocean view, the NPS generously provided firewood. They also informed M & I that we were pioneers - among the very first citizen campers on the site. They talked to us on the phone and sent us surveys, desperately wanting our feedback.

These days, Rob Campground is a full-service site, complete with cement walkways, helpful map signs and fancy showers. I hardly recognized it. I was happy for the kids who were running around that day but sad to see so much concrete where dirt once thrived. Still, I felt a certain pride knowing that my friends and I had essentially broke ground there.

Then, on the drive back, something grand caught my eye. "What is that????" I desperately wanted to know and made the car's driver seek it out. I was drawn to it like a monkey to a black obelisk. At first I thought it was natural but then it looked too ... purposeful.

I photographed the hell out of it until I could flag down an NPS dude who could provide an explanation. And then he said those magical words: "Have you ever heard of Andy Goldsworthy?"

!!!!!!!

Here's the thing. Not only have I heard of Mr. Goldsworthy - a world renowned environmental artist - but for many years, I would give Andy Goldsworthy books as wedding gifts. This is a man who goes into nature and creates mind-numbing works of art using no tools and no other materials than what he finds there. I am NUTS for his work. NPS dude said he called it "Spire" although I prefer my friend's title: "Log Rocket."

And here, right before me, was a gen-u-ine Goldsworthy in my beloved forest. I couldn't believe it. Only my magical forest could provide me with such a perfect welcome home. Best part? No cement walkways.

No Rest

2010-07-12T11:28:00.000-07:00

I returned home from Mississippi Saturday evening - just long enough to unpack and then pack again for my business trip to San Francisco tomorrow. Good Lord, who do I think I am? This is one of the many reasons that "Up In The Air" hit a little too close to home.

This photo is from a very remote rest stop somewhere in New Mexico. I love the odd democracy in the anonymous survey and the generalized use of "We." With a baked brain, I stood there a bit too long wondering, "Do they mean me? Am I a 'We?'"

Also, please enjoy one of my favorite photos from the recent family visit to Mississippi. As usual, it includes my sister-in-law, MaryAnn, who is pure love and hilarity. Here, she is entertaining us on July 4th at the Biloxi Yacht Club saltwater pool with her harrowing account of a recent boat excursion gone awry.

While women and children were trapped on Horn Island overnight with little provisions, the men (including my brother) battled a storm and could not reach them. Circling the island and battling fierce winds, my brother even had to cut his anchor - always a last resort.

In the photo, she is reenacting her down-on-the-knees prayer to save her family: "Our Father....!"

In the end, they were spared but came away with one hell of a tale.

July 4th in Mississippi

2010-07-05T17:16:00.000-07:00

When my Dad picked me up in New Orleans on Friday, we got in the car and I had to laugh at his post-it reminder on the dash: "BOOZE STORE." A major priority here in the Deep South.

I've never been here in the summer and sure, it's hot, but my body is loving the moisture. My hair, my skin, my eyes - they're all drinking it up. It's just nice to not feel my skin pulled tightly for once.

Lots and lots of stuff fun activities on the water - got my ass dragged around on an innertube this morning - humbling. The fireworks last night were unbelievable. We watched 'em from the boat, where we could see the shows from Gulfport, Biloxi and Ocean Springs - and that was beyond the 'works being shot by the locals. I can't believe how many thousands of dollars were spent by so-called amateurs just for our entertainment. My brother was right, it did resemble Bagdhad - minus all the killing.

We also went to a great crab & shrimp boil party, put on by some Cajun friends. Here's a great shot of MaryAnn showing Reid how to get the most meat out of a crab:

I'm glad to say that the massive oil spill hasn't affected Mississippi too much yet, but there have been some - what my Dad calls - "globulets" wash ashore. I'll be digging into this in the days ahead but right now, I'm just enjoying the holiday from head to toes.

A Southwestern Brain Wash

2010-06-30T11:16:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how much a road trip to a beautiful place can clear your head. After a relaxing weekend lounging in natural hot springs in a tiny New Mexico town, I feel rejuvenated. My mind was so sharp and focused yesterday - let's hope it stays around for awhile, at least before I leave for the Gulf Coast on Friday.

My travel buddy, Primo, and I stayed in the tiny town of Jemez Springs, population 320. Everyone was so friendly and welcoming, it took no time at all to get to know all the characters. We stayed at the sweet and clean Jemez Mountain Inn and the owners, Paul and Luanna, made the place feel like one big house. Paul even let me peruse their liquor stash and make my own cocktail, right in his own kitchen.

One evening, Paul says to me, "C'mon, go get Mat. We're all going to Raymond's house." So, Paul, Luanna, me and Mat all piled into Luanna's car and off we went. Raymond turned out to be the amazingly talented artist, Raymond Sandoval, who greeted us with open arms.

Mat and I couldn't believe our luck. First of all, Raymond's house is a gorgeous adobe that Raymond made himself. Even in the bathroom ceiling is a beautiful scene of twigs and logs. Everything in the place - Raymond's art especially - was jaw dropping. Crawling plants, crystal chandeliers and comfy couches - all amazing.

Born and raised in Jemez Springs, Raymond had gone to art school in Philadelphia, and was there when the community tore down the nation's very first all-black Elk's Lodge. The treasures he got from that excavation - including a floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror - add the perfect baroque touch. Meeting Raymond was a real highlight for both of us and yes, we both left with purchased art. It was hard to resist!

And then there was the amazing open skies and natural hot springs every ten feet or so. Some were fancy, like the Giggling Springs next door, which included a nice lady who brought us homemade lemonade or fruit smoothies whenever we put up the 'Drink, Please!' flag, as instructed.

There was also San Antonio Springs, a clothing-optional (yay!) springs that is hard to get to - double yay! Located high up in the mountains, the 5.5 mile road is impossible without a 4WD and thankfully, I had one handy. (What's the point of owning a tough vehicle if you're not going to star in a car commercial once in awhile, right?)

After a very bouncy drive, you then cross a river (next to the remnants of a bridge) and hike up a ways. Several stacked pools - the top one being the hottest - were available. With a view of those craggy pink mountains and lots of great company, it was pure heaven. (Although Mat was admonished for being part of a nude party, totally harshing his mellow.)

Earlier that day, we got caught in a fluke hail storm right in the middle of Valles Caldera. Thankfully, we were already heading to the teensy visitor center and it was there we took up shelter. With plenty of maps, books and helpful local guides (including one named Jim Trout), we made the best of it, although it squashed our hiking plans pretty good.

We got caught in another random hail storm as we were leaving on Monday. The weather changes were fairly normal to me, thanks to my Colorado training, but Mat couldn't get over how dramatically things can go from 94 degrees and sunny to 54 degrees and white.

Neither of us wanted to leave, we were so relaxed and content. I chirped and smile the whole way home. I can't wait to go back and continue my crush on New Mexico.

More photos from my trip can be found here.

Road Trip!

2010-06-25T08:07:00.000-07:00

This morning, I'm off on a road trip. Just 7-ish hours from now, I'll be hanging with my old college roomie, Laurianna, a bad-ass firefighter who lives in Albuquerque with her two sons, Wyatt & Jack. (I've never met Jack so this will be exciting and Wyatt is 11 now! Sheesh!)

Then, tomorrow morning, I'll pick up my traveling buddy, Mat, from the airport and we'll head to Jemez Springs, a tiny town built around the area's natural hot springs. I am so excited a for new change of scenery here in the beautiful Southwest.

See you on the road! I'll be the one with bugs in my teeth.

Me & Ramblin' Jack

2010-06-21T15:47:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, I was able to apply the Golden Horseshoe and worm my way up next to a living legend: Ramblin' Jack Elliott. I could hardly believe it.

The only thing difficult about it was trying to impress people with this meeting - nobody (except Fang, of course) knows who he is, which is a dadgum tragedy. Hence, this post.

Talk about re-inventing yourself, he began life in the summer of 1931 as Elliot Charles Adnopoz, a Jew born in Brooklyn - hardly the Western troubadour he is today. After seeing a few rodeos at Madison Square Gardens, little Elliot was entranced by the Western characters and iconography. As he grew older, his father pressured him to follow in his footsteps and become a surgeon. Instead, Elliot ran off at 15 and joined Col. Jim Eskew's Rodeo, the only rodeo east of the Mississippi.

Three months later, his parents tracked him down and brought him back to New York but it was too late, Elliot had already glimpsed his future after watching a singing cowboy/rodeo clown. So, he began teaching himself guitar and performing in the streets for cash. He'd take some lessons from his buddy, Woody Guthrie, and a character soon began to take shape.

After touring Europe and recording albums, he came to America as a folk star. Arlo Guthrie, Woody's son, had lost his father at a young age and ended up learning his father's songs and performing style from Jack. Meanwhile, there was a new kid named Robert Zimmerman hanging around Jack who couldn't get enough - wanting to learn his songs, his style and possibly the concept of changing his entire persona. I've got one song, recorded live, where you hear Jack tell an audience, "And here comes Bobby Dylan and his new harmonica holder ..."

In fact, Jack is often described as the link between Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan - a key role in the history of American music. (There was even a rumor going around that Dylan was Jack's son, not just his apprentice.)

In addition to Guthrie and Dylan, Jack also hung out with Jack Kerouac and got high with James Dean. That he also became a good friend to Johnny Cash was inevitable.

Here's Jack in 1969 performing on Cash's show although his best appearance on that show was in 1971 with Norman Blake and Randy Scruggs performing 'Muleskinner Blues.' (The note he begins holding at 4:13 is legendary.)

Also, Ramblin' Jack's nickname did not come from his penchant for wandering the globe but for the countless stories he relates before answering the simplest of questions. Odetta claimed that it was her mother who gave him the name, remarking, "Oh Jack Elliott, yeah, he can sure ramble on!" It's still true, Jack remains master of the tangent.

"Nobody - and I mean nobody - has covered more ground and made more friends and sung more songs than Rambling Jack."

--Johnny Cash

The first time I saw Jack perform was in Austin, during SXSW, at St. David's Episcopal Church. He shared the bill with a few others, including Jolie Holland and Billy Bragg. When Jolie tried to perform solo, she was struck by what I can only guess was severe stage fright. She choked up and could hardly speak. Oh, it was awful to witness.

Ramblin' Jack quickly came to her rescue and comforted here right there in front of us all; I'll never forget it. "There, there, darlin', it happens to all of us. How about we sing a song together?" The audience burst into applause, relieved for a solution. Billy came out too and their collective performance was one of the highlights of the festival.

Flash forward to a few weeks ago, when Ramblin' Jack visited my favorite Denver music spot, Swallow Hill. As a volunteer in the main hall, I was helping folks find their seats. All of a sudden, I hear a cowboy twang aimed right at me: "You look like a woman who can get things done." It is indeed an old cowboy - ten gallon hat, boots, giant belt buckle - the whole deal.

"I am that woman," I said. "What do you need?"

He then handed me the biggest silver belt buckle I'd ever seen and said, "I want you to put this on the stool. It's for Jack and I want him to see it when he comes onstage." Cowboy was a champion horse breeder and one of his horses - a horse that Jack had admired - had recently won it.

I did as told and sure enough, when Jack came onstage, he 'ooohed' and 'aaaahed' over the shiny belt buckle. "I don't know where this came from but I sure thank you for the gift," he said and everyone turned to look at me.

At 79, Jack is getting on in years but he still delivers with rambling stories and old yodeling cowboy picking. As the show drew to a close, I vowed to deliver a kiss and get a photo. And with the usual folk music backstage security (a long curtain and a guy asleep on a folding chair), I easily worked my way into the green room.

Curiously, when I first entered, Jack had just turned to a tall man, plaintively asking, "What that a good performance? Or was it just okay? Just tell me." (Just goes to show you, that no matter how many people call you 'legend', you're still only as good as your last performance.)

As the only woman in the room (and the only one under 50), Jack and his gang all turned to look at me. I came with no strategy and figured honesty might just work. "I'm here to deliver a kiss to Jack and to get a photo!"

Jack's eyes widened and he held out his arms: "Oh, boy! It's been a long time since I had a groupie!" Everyone laughed. We got a couple of photos and chatted about life in the Bay Area, where he lives. ("I never go into The City anymore, they only serve you white wine there.")

Sigh. They just don't make Jewish cowboys like Jack anymore.

Perspective

2010-06-14T14:14:00.000-07:00

For a gadget that also does a gazillion other things, the iPhone takes pretty good photos. I don't mind the lack of flash since I tend to avoid it anyway but I do miss the far-reaching power of the lens. Sure, I'll carry my giant digital Canon SLR around for special occasions but I have a blast with my little 'glass baby.'

I shot this sometime last week in my own living room. My life seriously lacks horses these days so I have to make due with this wee bronze stallion who resides on my end table. Though he looms large in the photos, he actually measures 6" x 6"; I 'rescued' it from the family museum in North Dakota, meaning my Grandpa Wilbur bought it somewhere along the way. I dig the silhouette effect going on here, especially with the dark storm clouds brewing in the background.

Makes me want to tack up and ride.

So Little, So Late

2010-06-11T14:55:00.000-07:00

When I finally spit out a rant here, you can be sure it's been simmering on the stove awhile. (In this case, 11 years, ever since a detailed report on the Boston scandal lived on my desk in the late 90s.) I apologize in advance for offending loved ones who are Catholic. This has nothing to do with your personal faith, only crimes advanced at the main office, as it were.

So, the Catholic Church. Wow. Where to begin? Where will it end? The decades and yes, centuries of ignorance and willful abuse - all done in the name of God - makes my skin burn with white hot rage. If I could shave my head and rip up a photo of the Holy See Not on SNL, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

Today, the news broke that the Pope has finally gotten to the bottom of his to-do list and offered an apology for all the thousands of lives destroyed worldwide from ongoing sex scandals. Timely as usual. (Reminiscent of when The Church finally vindicated the astronomy studies of Galileo - who died in 1642 - in 1992.)

Confession: Priests have given me the heebie-jeebies my entire life. I could never pinpoint why but these days, I've got a pretty good idea. If I got on a crowded bus and had a choice between sitting next to a priest or a big, black gangster dude, I'd take droopy pants over the collar every time.

The only Catholic person in a leadership position I ever trusted was Fran, one of the coolest holy guys ever to walk the Earth. I still talk to him sometimes and I wish he was here to help me understand this mess. If guys like Fran were running the show, The Church would not have sunk to the oozy tarpits of lies and deception, where it currently resides. When the media offers interactive maps (like the Boston Globe did here, highlighting districts with abusing priests), you know things are bad.

Last year in Phoenix, The Church excommunicated a hospital administrating nun for approving a life-saving abortion. Doctors agreed that the woman - also the mother of four children - would likely die of pulmonary hypertention if the pregnancy were to continue. No matter, Sister Margaret McBride was out her ass after decades of service.

Now, this is the same Church that artfully moved pedophile priest from one diocese to another to protect its own sanctimonious reputation. The Church - you know the one that preaches family values? - ended up being comprised largely of either child fuckers or those that protect them. Let's put it this way, when I tried to get my arms around the expanse of this situation, I got a Wikipedia entry entitled:

Roman Catholic Sex Abuse Cases By Country

This cancer within the Church is so pervasive, so deeply rooted, that it has to be broken down by entire nations. And yet, time and time again, backs were turned to the problem. The Church that bans birth control, disallows women leaders and molests thousands of children, wants you to live by their rules. The Catholic Church is like the Enron of religions and they are losing numbers fast. Say what you want about extreme Islam, but they do not abuse children.

And let's not forget how much money is spent trying to clean up this mess. Dioceses and their insurers paid $104 million in settlements, attorneys' fees and other abuse-related costs in 2009 and $376 million in 2008. All told, the scandal's price tag for settlements and other costs has risen to more than $2.7 billion, according to estimates, and these numbers apply to the U.S. only. Something to think about when that plate comes around....

As a non-Catholic, I can't seem to engage anyone of this faith in a realistic discussion. I get responses like, "Well, plenty of religions have the same problem." Really? Which ones? Honestly, I'd like to know.

"Well, the problem is limited to certain areas." Correct, that area being Earth.

"Well, not all priests are guilty of this." Agreed, although they are part of the same fraternity that allowed this atmosphere to grow and fester.

And then there's SNAP, the Survivors Network of those Abuse by Priests. A NETWORK, PEOPLE. They've been around for 22 years and have more than 9,000 members. The fact that they even exist, that they host conferences and have handy Abuse Trackers, makes me ill.

Just to put the cherry on top of this evil sundae, there's also now a website for Italian women who have sexual relations with priests. Celibacy in the Church - what a sham. And why? What does it prove? That people who claim not to have sex are somehow closer to God? I don't buy it. After all, isn't He the one who made the parts fit together so nicely?

I can't help but recall a time when I traveled through the Australian outback for three days with a young Catholic Irishman. He was a virgin (because the Church said no sex before marriage) and was deeply conflicted about it. He was also an alcoholic and had mysterious open sores all over his skin. Over the long hours of driving through a bright orange desert, we had many talks about this imposed celibacy issue and I recall saying one thing that gave him pause:

"Nature - your body - always has the last word. It doesn't care about plans or rules or anything like that. Think about when you get the flu and how much work or fun you miss out on because the virus needs to have its way with you. It has no concern for your schedule or what another human has told you. None whatsoever."

He was quiet for a long time after this and I still think about that poor, confused young man. Now, I'm not saying getting laid would've cleared up his head and skin (although it works for me), but other than being told "No!", he had zero guidance from his Church on how to maneuver the real world.

Honestly, I'd love to hear something - anything - from Catholics who are really angry about this post or have some helpful insight. The most excellent pro-Catholic essay I've read so far is from Elizabeth Scalia: "On Good Friday, Why I Remain Catholic."

Don't get me wrong, I'm seething like an angry wet cat but ultimately, what I wish for is healing for all involved. Even those creepy guys in black.

Beware the Rear View

2010-06-04T13:44:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine was recently seated at a wedding, minding her own business, when a 'Fashion Don't' suddenly struck. Camera poised, she waited for the nuptial show to begin when she looked directly ahead and saw this:

Yessiree, that there is what we call a Weave Gone Bad. Poor girl has no idea. Let this be a lesson, ladies. When fastenin' foreign crap to yer 'do, remember to check out the back view....lest you end up in some body's blog.

Legends on the Rocks

2010-06-03T11:02:00.000-07:00

Tuesday evening, Reid and I headed up to beautiful Red Rocks to catch the kick-off of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers' summer Mojo tour. After a tailgate picnic dinner with an unbelievable view of rolling green hills and pink-red rock formations - plus a whole lot of happy drunk people - we made the trek to our seats: Row 23, dead center.

You know the show is going to kick ass when Joe Cocker is the opening act. Now 66 (that's rock star years, so he's actually more like 84), Joe can deliver the back-arching-fire-breathing goods with his eyes closed, which they mostly were. While his voice had that scratchy pain thing going on even in his youth, there's something about age that brings a new integrity to his voice - it has grown richer with decades of seasoning.

We couldn't help but note that Joe has basically evolved into an old black man - the highest ranking a singer can achieve, possibly second only to an old black woman. The folks sitting next to us had the same thought. "He looks and moves like a white Fred Sanford," said Friendly Neighbor Guy.

Joe's performance of (one of) his signature songs, "With a Little Help From My Friends", was a personal favorite. With the crowd singing and swaying, it felt like an old-world spiritual. Funny how the images of songs evolve and change as you stumble through this life.

Joe also performed "Unchain My Heart", "Feelin' Alright" and a cover of The Beatles' "Come Together," which he recorded in 2007. Joe is also a Colorado resident, in the wee mountain town of Crawford, and occasionally has garage sales that he announces on the radio. He downed an awful lot of water during his performance and never spoke or acknowledged the crowd once, which was kind of a bummer.

Then, Petty and his Heartbreakers hit the stage and my heart soared, ready to be broken. The only time I've seen Tom perform was during a Johnny Cash show at the House of Blues in LA. Cash casually mentioned that his friend Tom was going to come out and help with backup guitar, if that was okay with us. Petty stepped out sheepishly and did just that - never sang or anything - just there for his back-up gig.

Not on this night! Tom was front and center with his steady partner-in-brilliance, guitarist Mike Campbell, and all the other freakishly talented musicians, including one guy, Scott Thurston, who just had a giant wooden stand that held about 20 harmonicas and a bunch of other instruments; he played each one effortlessly.

Petty is a living legend at this point in his decades-long career and I'm so glad to see him the credit he's due. And you know what? I think he is too. In stark contrast to Cocker, Petty was overflowing with gratitude. He thanked us profusely after each and every song, almost gushing: "Thank you so much! It really means a lot. Thank you!" and so on. It was refreshing and made us cheer louder.

Though my favorite Petty song was not played ("American Girl"), there were plenty of others I could belt out loud, especially "Breakdown" and "Refugee." (Song list at left.) No worries, I knew he had 34 years worth of songs to choose from and a new album to promote - I was just damn happy to be there.

Again, I was impressed with how 'there' he was for the audience. Halfway through the set, he talked about their new album, Mojo, after an eight-year Heartbreakers hiatus and could he play some new stuff for us? We half-clapped, half-groaned and he laughed a little then said, "Just a few songs then after that it will be wall-to-wall hits, I PROMISE." We clapped our end of the agreement and the show blistered on. (And yes, the new stuff kicks ass, especially 'Runnin' Man's Bible.'

The thing about Petty is, he clearly remembers what it's like to be a fan and that counts for a lot. I think it's called integrity and I don't care how many Top 40 stations play his music, it comes through. Petty songs are sneaky like that.

I think the best song of the night was 'Learnin' to Fly' mostly because he let the crowd take over the chorus and it was LOUD. It was energizing be part of such focused collective energy, especially when the words are about fucking up in life and giving it another go, an experience most of us think is exclusive to our lives.

I'm learning to fly, but I ain't got wings
Coming down, is the hardest thing

My friend, Kathleen - an avid music fan herself - told me once that whenever she hears a Petty song, she thinks of me. It's one of my favorite compliments of all time, right up there with the time my friend, Marjike, was driving through Germany, heard Johnny Cash on the radio and called me immediately; it warms my heart just to picture it.

Big thanks to Reid and all the music gods that lined up for this amazing show. What a great way to launch summer in Colorado.

For more awesome photos from the opening night show, go straight to the source.

(Image Credits: Joe Cocker by Cory Morse/The Muskegon Chronicle; All Petty photos from TomPetty.com)

Gratitude for the Brave

2010-05-31T12:05:00.000-07:00

This is my father as a young boy in South Dakota. He was, and is, fiercely patriotic - never discussed during my childhood but implicitly inferred.

Our family explored America in a motorhome called The Voyager. On the back window was just one sticker with an illustration of the American flag and a brief statement: 'Love It Or Leave It.' It made sense to me then, as it does today, which is why I live here.

My father grew up to be a dedicated Navy man, dismantling underwater mines and specializing in explosives. He has often said, "The Navy made a MAN outta me." It also made him the world's tidiest bed maker.

A few years ago, Dad was visiting me here in Denver and I took him to The Fort, a very special place in Morrison. More than just a fancy restaurant, it is also the home of the Tesoro Culture Center, which celebrates Western culture and traditions by keeping them alive in the present day.

As we ate our amazing meal of buffalo and elk chop, an older gentleman employed by The Fort wandered through the restaurant playing an Indian flute, which provided the ideal soundtrack for such a place. The musician came by our table and he and my Dad got to talking. Turns out, they had both served in the Korean War. (The man was in the Army.)

Now, intellectually I had known this, but Dad had never really discussed it with me on an emotional level. As true to his generation, he was very stoic and matter-of-fact about such matters. He did his duty and what's done is done - period.

But suddenly, is in his conversation with this man, I watched my father soften on the topic and he was sharing things I had never heard before. In witnessing the exchange, I kept quiet as a mouse. And then, the musician said to my father:

"I'm going to play something now - I don't play it very often because it makes me sad - but it's a grieving song the Lakota play for fallen warriors. I'm going to play it in honor of our brothers who died in Korea."

His flute suddenly took on a haunting tone quite different from the lighter songs he'd been playing around the restaurant. I couldn't help but note the significance of choosing a song from the Lakota tribe as they are primarily from the Black Hills of South Dakota where my father was born. His grandfather, Adam, even spoke some Lakota.

As the man played, I thought I saw some moisture around his eyes, which were closed, but it was nothing compared to my father, who was openly weeping. Clearly, he'd been carrying that special grief for his fallen brothers around inside him but rarely let it surface.

As the song concluded, my father thanked the man, who said, "No, thank YOU, brother." They shook hands roughly, a bit longer than normal, and the musician went back to his strolling.

My father wiped his face dry with the linen napkin and seemed overwhelmed by his sudden emotion. "Sorry, honey, I just ...don't .... I don't know, I wasn't expecting..." I assured him it was a perfectly natural reaction to such an emotional song and we returned to our dinner. He talked about other things but every once in awhile, he'd get quiet and shake his head, still in disbelief over what to him was a public outburst.

On the drive home, he blurted: "I'm so embarrassed. I don't normally cry like that in public." (I'd only seen him cry once before, when I was 12 and and he told me that he and my mother were divorcing.) I spent the rest of drive home assuring him that, for gosh sakes, I am his daughter and if you can't cry in front of family than where? (Well, if you're me, than the answer would be anywhere and everywhere.)

He was mostly surprised that he still felt that strongly and deeply about the men he'd served with, what they had fought for and the bond that had formed. "I just haven't thought about them in years," he said, "And yet, when he was playing, it was .... like it was yesterday."

Today is for the honorable fallen, and all the tears - expected and unexpected - that carry them down the river.

Slimming Down...Musically

2010-05-28T16:13:00.000-07:00

In an effort to reduce the ridiculous amount of CDs in my possession, I recently came up with a system. Grab 5 CDs a day from my carefully alphabetized arrangement and burn them all into iTunes. Then, extract one for The Box, slated for parts unknown. My collection has now been reduced by one-fifth ... victory!

I took a load yesterday to SecondSpin, a nearby music story that buys/sell CDs, DVDs, albums, whatever ya got. Of the 30+ CDs I brought, they only bought 12. Hmph. If I want this kind of snobbery rejection, I'll go to Buffalo Exhange, thanksverymuch!

Anyhoo, I ultimately opted for store credit instead of cash ('cause you get more $$ and I'm a greedy junkie for more music) and walked away with a 3-disc set: "Led Zeppelin: Remasters" - HELL YES. I'm trying to fill in the embarrassing gaps in my music collection with contains plenty of obscure genuises but lacks some key classics, including Rolling Stones and Beatles. I know, I know - I don't know how it happened either.

Hanging with the girls last night at Angela's new pad, I presented my rejects, which seems so quaint now in a digitized world. To my great delight, each girl walked away with a musical treat. Angela got some Stevie Ray Vaughan ("The Sky is Crying"), Carley got a bootleg copy of a live performance of Stevie Ray Vaughan with Buddy Guy and Amy ended up with Red Hot Chili Peppers classic, "What Hits?!?"

Nice to have the music live on. Now, what should I do with all these cassettes?

Coco Rocks the House

2010-05-25T19:34:00.000-07:00

I'm a tad tardy in offering this review although it's never too late to state emphatically that Conan O'Brien is an American treasure. Reid won a couple of tix to catch his official 'Legally Prohibited From Being Funny on Television Tour', which stopped in Denver a few weeks ago.

Of all the American job losses that occurred in the last year, Coco's has to be the most public. That nasty tangle with NBC that pushed him out of his dream job on The Tonight Show left a bad taste in my mouth. I've always liked Jay Leno (even met him twice) but I won't watch the show anymore as long as he is hosting. Talk about a dick move, unbelievable.

So, Conan took his comedy to the only place where it is still (temporarily) legal to do so - the stage. He brought his full brass band (sans Max Weinberg), sidekick Andy Richter and a bunch of other characters we've come to know and love.

Not only was the two-hour show incredibly tight and funny but Team Coco bent over backwards to localize the performance, something I'm sure they are doing at each one of the 30 stops. They shot some crappy commercial for Pete's Kitchen, a local diner that serves bad food to grateful drunk people. Conan also complained loudly about the giant blue horse that greeted him at DIA - a source of much local controversy.

Conan's open wound from his loss of the most coveted job in comedy (sorry, kids, it's not the money) makes for ideal comedic fodder. We watched a hilarious video of Conan the days that followed the controvesy with a full beard, on the floor - surrounded by pizza boxes and beer bottles. A child comes up and sniffs him: "Mommy! Daddy smells like pee!" Then, a giant red rotary phone rings and Conan answers: "Go on tour? Sure!" He rips off the beard and the fat suit, gets on the treadmill and begins his tour training. All for us!

The deal that was ultimately struck with NBC literally prohibits (for a time) Conan from performing comedy on television, radio or the Internet. The only thing he had left was Twitter (he follows just one person, a girl named Sarah he chose at random). Anyway, he spent ZERO money on advertising/marketing to announce the tour. Instead, he sent out one tweet that directed people to his site to buy tix and that was it. Here it is:

"Hey Internet: I'm headed to your town on a half-assed comedy and music tour. I repeat: It's half-assed."

The show was fantastic - not a bit of fat on it. Half comedy, half music, some stand-up performances and a lovely unannounced drop in from The Fray! There were even giant beach balls made to look like Conan thrown into the crowd. One of my favorite lines, "You guys are so smug about your altitude here..."Mr. O'Brien, we've got oxygen back here if you need it.' I DON'T NEED THE OXYGEN TANK, THANKS."

It's so true!

The opening act was Reggie Watts, probably one of the most unusual performers I have ever seen. His afro is MASSIVE. Seriously. The whole show - and for several days after - Reid kept saying, "I want that hair. I want that hair." Reggie does improvisational comedy with hip-hop and when he began, I couldn't even understand him. By the time he left the stage, I was on my feet, cheering him. Reggie was so brilliant, so unique. He is definitely not your run-of-the-mill comedian which makes him the perfect mind-bending opener for Conan's tour.

Best of all, our brains were buzzing for days. I think Conan being released from network television is the best thing that could have happened to him. When he came onstage at the Ellie Caulkins Opera House, the audience roared their support. "Wow, Denver! You are LOUD," he said. (Of course, he'd played to Boulder the previous night, where everyone was stoned and subdued.) Denver gave him some big love and he gave it right back.

Best of luck to Conan and Friends. I expect serious comedic success at TBS.

(Top Image Credit: The very brilliant Sir Mike of Mitchell. Not sure about the horse but the bottom is from my iPhone.)

Unnecessary Discontent

2010-05-21T13:12:00.000-07:00

Please enjoy this most hilarious photo of my friend, Hannah Lawler, who is now a poised 13-year-old. However, here she is as an exhausted, over-stimulated child on Xmas Day. It has to be one of the funniest child photos I've ever seen and it sums up my mood as of late.

It also helps me step back and see that - like young Hannah - I am surrounded by riches, despite my frustrations.

I just woke up - in my own bed, finally! - from an 11-hour sleep and feel like a new woman. Maybe all Hannah and I needed was a good nap.

Nope, Not Dead

2010-05-13T14:01:00.000-07:00

I have horribly neglected this space and it's hard to pinpoint why. I've been in a funk lately - experiencing a restless rootlessness and an unshakable homesickness. At first, I thought it was just my regular personality but I think it is something deeper.

Anyway, I won't go on about it because I can already hear Fang's review,"BORING!"

My Amazing Friends

2010-04-22T12:34:00.000-07:00

Okay, sure, I've had a few Forrest Gump moments with famous folks but really, my actual friends are pretty famous and amazing in their own right. I've already bragged enough about Michael but here's a couple of others I haven't mentioned:

Heidi Nye: Knowing Heidi is to meet someone from another world - a better world - where there is endless light, love, adventure and honesty. We met in the late 80s in the CSULB journalism program. Heidi has faced a number of medical challenges over the years but the kidney dialysis has really tested her strength.

She recently went to New York to be a subject of an HBO documentary on the plight of those needing kidney donors when - whoops! A fence she was leaning on gave way and she broke her hip. (Dialysis makes your bones quite brittle.) Then, while in the hospital, she broke it again! When I called Heidi to see how she was faring, her response was true journalist: "Well, at least it makes for more interesting filmmaking...."

Here is Heidi's story in the New York Daily News. She even looks glamorous in her hospital gown! (Photo by Taggart.)

Andy Isaacson: I met Andy years ago when we were both cubicle rats in San Francisco. He's since gone on to live the life that everyone else dreams about. He basically travels around the world, writing and photographing his journeys for the rest of us to enjoy. (He's skilled at both, of course.) His latest adventure is worth sharing, as it involves peanut butter.

As Andy explains in a recent issue of AFAR: "I once invented a dessert sushi, in Laos. It was made of bananas, peanut butter, sticky rice, sesame seeds, and honey. My then-girlfriend Lauren and I created it spontaneously one December afternoon in 2002, while dining on the deck of a restaurant in Muang Ngoi, a rural fishing village on the Nam Ou River in northern Laos. Scores of backpackers lay up in Muang Ngoi, so we called it the Falang Roll, using the Lao word for “foreigner.” The owners indulged us by providing the ingredients, and we promised them that the roll would be a sensation. They added it to their menu."

Seven years later, the Falang Roll caught on and is now offered as standard fare to those traveling through Laos. When he saw it referenced in a Lonely Planet guidebook as something that now included 'veggies', he packed up his bags and headed back to the same village to protect his culinary legacy. It's quite a story and Andy's photos are, as always, exquisite.

Everybody collects something. Me? I collect amazing people - they're entertaining and require no storage.