A Century Later in Shaky Town

Back in the old days - let's say spring 2001 - the biggest threats to America were a terrorist attack, a major hurricane disabling the Gulf Coast and a catastrophic earthquake in the Bay Area. As of today, 2006, it's two down and one to go.

Living amidst all the earthquake centennial hoopla and press coverage, a San Francisco citizen can easily become paranoid. You get an eerie sense that the nation is watching The City closely, waiting for a violent tectonic tantrum so that television programming can hurry up and get back to what it was immediately post-Katrina – horrifically real, tragically entertaining and brimming with good ol' fashioned anarchy.

After the long-awaited shake-up, all that's needed is a somber word from Brian Williams, maybe a heartfelt tear-up from Anderson Cooper, and out comes the popcorn and beer. Americans will hastily gather in their living rooms, ready to 'tsk-tsk' our unfortunate situation and mutter to one another, "Those poor people" and "I could never live there. I'll take blizzards/tsunamis/floods/hurricanes/locusts any day but not that."

In red states, there'll undoubtedly be a lot of talk about how we deserved it – Sodom this, Gomorrah that, etc. And while the rainbows of a gay pride flag will not protect human flesh any more than the stars of a Confederate flag did, Mama Nature has very little interest in human politics. When She stretches, yawns and/or farts, we're all at Her mercy. As I heard recollections today, one old woman said: “Rich or poor, we all shook the same.”

And so, like any civic-minded insomniac, I headed downtown in the dead of night to join in the commemoration of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. At nearly 3:00 a.m., the corner of Third and Market was abuzz with activity - folks in period costume, cops in their finery, network anchors getting make-upped, fireman and firewomen practicing ladder pulls and everything lit up expectantly. The porta potties were lined up, the JumboTron was getting fired up and the news vans all propped up their erect satellites – ready for action.

Arriving early has its advantages; I simply picked out my spot and watched as police barricades were set up around me, keeping the commoners at bay. I live by the rule: If you look like you belong, eventually, you will. Consequently, I ended up sitting in special seats reserved for families of 1906 survivors. I mean really, aren't we all just one big family of survivors?

Beyond the celebration of San Francisco itself, it was great to see an occasion where the arrival of really, really old people brought the biggest cheers. These folks came in beautifully restored antique cars and were greeted like royalty. Out came the walkers and sloooowly up the ramp they went - the oldest at 109. There were a dozen survivors in all and some could hardly remember what day it is, let alone what happened a century ago.

Individually, they were interviewed by our beloved mayor, Gavin Newsom, and every year, the old ladies flirt shamelessly. Norma Norwood, known as The Earthquake Baby at 100 years of age, was conceived in a tent in Golden Gate Park, after her family was displaced after the disaster. Norma evidently inherited her parent’s randy nature and let Gavin know she'd be happy to keep him warm, if duty calls. Norma also offered stories about her childhood and how she was raised by prostitutes. “Norma, I could talk to you all day,” cooed His Honorable Hunkiness.

In various speeches, there was talk of Hurricane Katrina and how San Francisco can be an example to New Orleans (no mention of Mississippi, dammit.) No matter how devastating a blow, a strong and passionate citizenry can bring a city to its feet again and thrive in a way it couldn't before. It is well known that pre-earthquake and fire, San Francisco was an opium-dependent, red-light town – violent and greedy on its best day. You simply did not come to town unarmed for fear of getting Shanghai-ed. Suffice to say, there was no tourism.

The City came to be rebuilt stronger and more confident than before the quake. (And yes, we blamed the authorities for not doing enough back then too.) As I watched the wreath being placed on Lotta’s Fountain by Fire Chief Joanna (a tough Irish chick with five boys) and our Police Chief (a tiny Asian woman named Heather) I was down right vuhklempt. At the time of the 1906 quake, 5:12 a.m., there was a moment of silence and then slowly, one by one, sirens rang out from all corners of The City.

People cheered to our survival and the determination of our ancestral city dwellers. The swelling crowd was led in a rowdy rendition of “San Francisco” – no one seemed to know any verses, just the refrain, “Open up those Golden Gates!” I was bursting with love for my city, especially as I prepare to leave it.

Then someone came to the podium announced that the bars were now open. It was 6:00 a.m. and we were all still alive.

A Burned-Out Fried-Day Rant

Today at work, I read a report on the technology lifestyle of "tweens" (ages 9-14 year-olds) and came across the following sentence: "Watching TV in the car is primed for primetime."

While I understand that DVD players have been implemented in vehicles for fear that a child not be digitally stimulated at all times, I have to wonder what happened to simply looking out the window? After all, that's where life is actually happening. When did this stop becoming good enough? Do I sound like I'm 93? Did I mention that I had to walk to school uphill, both ways, in the snow? With no GPS? And no soundtrack?

With every minute of every day filled with the expectation of being connected, does any daydreaming get done? My pal, Jennifer, comments: "I think you should learn to be bored as a kid." I doubt this wired generation will understand what this means but I do think they are going to sport some incredibly muscular thumbs from texting non-stop. Eventually, they will start. To speak. The same way. That they. Like, instant message. In short. Choppy. Sentences. Perhaps, newborns will soon start to disembark from the Mothership already sporting iPods, Blackberries and Bluetooths - just charge 'em up and send 'em off.

Okay, maybe its living in San Francisco, a town teeming with hipsters, that is skewing my perspective. Still, there is something unsettling about walking into a coffee house and looking at everyone sitting silently, staring into their laptops and surfing the Craigslist dating section in hopes of maybe, possibly meeting the cute girl or boy currently sitting across the room.

During the dotcom heyday, when the town was swarming with overpaid post-grads from Boston, the cell phone was in full bloom. MUNI was teeming with incessant gabbers who openly discussed their one-night-stands from the previous evening, gave out their credit card numbers to order from JCrew.com (I shit you not) and wantonly discussed proprietary company strategies as if they were merely going over baseball stats. I marveled at their naked ignorance and wondered when they would either go home or shut up.

Eventually, the pretend money dried up, the foosball tables were auctioned on eBay and the kids went back home to live with their parents. We had our city back. It was quiet again. A little too quiet, actually. Now, everyone exists in their silent worlds - plugged into little white boxes, texting manifestos, and checking email on their phones.

Guess it's ironic, me getting so worked up about technology on my blog. Still, I have to wonder if being so connected all the time to another thing, another person, another place keeps us from living in the moment, drinking in the details of the present and just plain old looking out the window.

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's . . . Love?

Okay, time to fess up.

Any regular reader of this space - and you could probably all fit into my bathroom - may have noticed that the posts have been less frequent lately. It just so happens I have an excellent reason for that, the best excuse I could possibly hope for.

I've fallen in love.

Not the kind of love that grows over time, after many dates and then, one day, dawns on you. No, this is more like walking down the street minding your own business when suddenly a chiseled caped hero flies down from the sky, lands in front of you, shoots powerful laser beams out of his perfect blue eyeballs and then whisks you away with him, up into the sky. You think about saying something appropriate like, "Hi, my name is ______" but instead you just mumble something about the incredible view. The air gets thinner. You are not used to being this high up. You pass out.

When you wake up, he's still there and now you are addicted to the laser beams. Resistance is futile.

Mere days later, you find yourself standing in a forest watching him kiss your fingers. Suddenly, your airtight plans for a new life in Austin, Texas seem irrelevant. You've spent maybe 15 hours with this incredible Man and when he asks you to move to Denver - a place you've never been - you can only ask, "Colorado. That's one of the square ones, right?" Happily, willingly, you agree it’s the best idea in the world and then you remember the date:

It’s April Fool’s Day.

It may just prove be my smartest decision yet.

Confucius Say Wrong Bus

It happened again this morning and every time, it just breaks my heart.

I board the Yuppie Express which looks amazingly like the regular slow bus. Really, to tell the difference one would have to be an expert in symbols or, at the very least, speak English. Hence, the problem.

I saw her immediately, an old Chinese woman hunched over her Cantonese-language newspaper, oblivious to the fact that nearly everyone on the bus was dressed for success and not the vegetable markets of Chinatown. Plenty of iPods and Wall Street Journals and not a pink plastic bag in sight.

Immediately, I wanted to warn her, to tell her then that she was about to a make a significant transportational mistake. But doing so would be what some would call 'racial profiling' or assuming that because she is an old Chinese lady, she is going to Chinatown and not some high rise office building downtown.

So I kept to my novel and waited for the inevitable distress to come, as it always does.

Sure enough, after several blocks with no stops and the bus sliding straight down into the cement jungle, she looked up. Her face began to twist in confusion and alarm settled across her brow. She searched faces on the packed bus and realized that we were strangers. As a whole, we had felt it coming because we'd seen it so often before.

At this point, one of two things happen: There is frantic caterwauling in her native tongue or there is quiet whimpering, a resignation to her fate. (It is always a woman, never a man.) This morning, it was whimpering and it touched my heart. I decided to bring out my best Chinese and explain to her the obvious.

"Ba see. Mmm-hoy. Tong yun fow," I said. This bus does not go to Chinatown. After many episodes of this sad little scenario, I'd finally asked a Chinese friend to teach me this one phrase. It has come in handy before and again, today.

She was grateful someone spoke her language and looked to me for more information. Sadly, I only knew the one phrase and just kept repeating it. Once the bus finally came to a rest at Montgomery and Sansome, I steered her petite frame in the right direction and sent her off in the rain. Poor thing.

I realized then that I need to learn a new phrase: "Please, tell your friends."

The South Dakota Problem

Raging ignorance fully exposed by Mr. Nicholas Wind.

Couldn't have cursed it better myself . . . .

Looking Back - Part I

First in a series of brief rampages about our American identity:

In an effort to fill huge gaps in my (public school) education, I try to steadily self-educate in American History, without regard for chronology.

For example, I am currently winding up Katharine Graham's amazing biography, "A Personal History" which gives a chilling play-by-play to the Watergate scandal that brought down Nixon in the 1970s.

At the time, of course, no one knew the depth of what was happening and what effects it would have on us as a nation. The break-in scandal, and the resulting cover-up, essentially kicked off an unprecedented public distruct of our government that persists to this day; I believe we can trace the roots of today's apathy back to this specific era.

Reading the auto-biography of my favorite president, Teddy Roosevelt, helped me understand our strange belief that America is the world's policeman. Oh, how it hurt to realize it but Teddy was the guy who created and pushed this idea through. That's just 100 years ago, people. Still, Teddy was the last President who actually had led an army into battle on horseback and kicked major ass. For this, TR has my undying love. (This and his high regard for North Dakota.)

Nevertheless, I thought about civilizations past and how they saw themselves in the same universal role and what a sobering morning they all had. Spain used to rule the world, fer chrissakes. Greece too. Meanwhile, Arabs invented arithmetic. Where were we?

We are teenagers and Spring Break is almost over. We all get our time at the podium before we can no longer hold up the pose. As India and China spend more and more time at the gym pumping iron, we think about ordering another pizza. Sooner or later, they are going to kick our fat, lazy ass and the fault of our downfall will belong to no one but us. As we fall behind in education, health, manufacturing and resources, we whine about traffic, fret over tile patterns for the new kitchen and wonder why our children are getting adult onset diabetes at the ages of nine.

It reminds me of a scene in "The Sorpranos" when Tony and his thugs try to intimidate an Hasidic Jew who exhibits no fear at all. They need his fear to get valuable information and therefore, can't kill him. They grow impatient. The Jew begins lecturing them on the perils of obtaining power through fear. Tony can't stand it anymore and just begins beating the shit out of him. Finally, in between slugs, the Jew says, "Look at the Romans, they used to have it all. Where are the Romans now?"

Being Tony, he responds, "You're fucking looking at 'em" and slugs the guy into unconsciousness.

I think that pretty much says it all.

Back to the Real World

The entire 10 days at SXSW, I actively avoided news headlines. I guess I thought that if I left them alone long enough, perhaps First Frat Boy would get a labotomy and bring our boys home or at the very least, Vice would accidentally shoot Rumsy and Condi would have to fire them all.

But no, things are still shitty. And what's worse, the First Monkey is becoming more manic by the minute. Even lifelong Republicans are scraping 'W' bumper stickers off their Hummers. It's uncomfortable to watch; this public unraveling is giving Tom Cruise some serious competition in the Wacko department.

My pal, Fang, posted a particularly brilliant rant on the topic: "A couple appearances ago, his first audience questioner asked him straight-on if he thought what was brewing up in the middle east was the coming of Armageddon as spelled out in the Book of Revelations. If you caught his answer, you will believe a white man can dance!"

Meanwhile, all the anger the First Idiot hath wrought is really paying off for box offices abroad. That's right. Movies in places like Egypt and Turkey have lately depicted Americans on-screen as bullies, rapists and mindless killers - imagine that! Audiences are eating it up like giant tub of buttered Dükkah. In all fairness, these studios should really give Bush & Co. a cut of the profits - global paranoia as a marketing plan! Brilliant! Let's see Bruckheimer do better. Meanwhile, ya'll might want to tuck away that passport for awhile.


Sooo, how about that Mount Rushmore?

SXSW: New Orleans in Austin

Yesterday was the final day of SXSW and I spoke with my longtime hero, Harry Shearer. God, I’m going to miss living like this.

It was at a panel entitled, “New Orleans Music After Katrina” which Shearer hosted. (For those of you who have never heard of Harry, that’s his magic. He’s got his hands in everything – does numerous voices for ‘The Simpson’s; has a national radio show on KCRW, “Le Show”; was a cast member on “Saturday Night Live”;a former columnist for The Los Angeles Times, was the bass player in Spinal Tap, has published numerous political satire books, is the voice for TVLand, shows up randomly in movies – the list is endless.) Shearer lives in New Orleans and is also president of Courgette Records.

As any reader of this blog knows, Katrina recovery and the well being of the South is of great concern to me. Combine this topic with the preservation of music and then throw Harry into the mix . . . it was the first panel I put on my schedule, let’s put it that way. I sat front row center.

He assembled an impressive panel that included, left to right in the photo:

Jan Ramsey, Publisher of Offbeat Magazine, a local publication held in high regard by the New Orleans music community:
“Music is the lifeblood of our cultural; it is so important.”
“What about teaching the history of our musical culture in the schools? Why can’t academia get involved? How is the younger generation going to carry these traditions on?”

Scott Aiges, Director of the Louisiana Music Export Coalition (worked formerly with the Mayor’s office as a liaison to the music community):
“The government in New Orleans has a long history of not caring about the music community. When I worked in the Mayor’s Office and cuts needed to be made, my job was the first to go.”
“We finally got some new tax credits going – we had some for the film community and now have something called the Sound Investor Tax Credit, giving tax breaks for people who choose to record in New Orleans. This money goes back to the infrastructure.”

Cyrill Neville, musician with the Neville Brothers:
“New Orleans is the microcosm for what is going on in the country right now.”
“Here in Austin, I am being treated with respect, something I never got in New Orleans. The Austin Music Commission actually does stuff for me. On February 5th here in Austin, they declared it ‘Cyrill Neville Day’ - amazing. Since I’ve been here, I’ve written five tunes about everything that’s happened.”
“New Orleans has it down to a science – cutting off our nose to spite our face.”

Harry Shearer: “I remember everyone saying that if you tried to call the Red Cross for help, it was always busy. If you tried to call the Red Cross to donate money, they always picked up.”

Alan Toussaint, incredibly eloquent musician and songwriter (just recorded an album with Elvis Costello and U2):
“I think it’s wonderful that Katrina has been such a booking agent.”
“We operate on a different strut. The people that would turn the city into a Disneyland – it wouldn’t even gel with their spinal cord.”
“In New Orleans, we’ll find something that doesn’t work and do it over and over again.”
“Some of us have to settle for a little less to live in New Orleans.”
“I don’t talk about going back to New Orleans because I’m never leaving. When everyone is gone, I will be the last man that remains.”

Keith Spara, reporter for the New Orleans Times-Picayune (one of 10 reporters who ‘stayed behind’ specifically to cover Katrina.):
“A day or two after Katrina hit, some of us from the newsroom went to the now-infamous Wal-Mart and we saw a cop walking out with an armload of DVDs. That’s when we knew the rules had changed.”
“Austin could learn a lot from New Orleans in terms of how the music is packaged. You’ve got a live music stage at the airport, you’ve got a slogan, ‘Live Music Capital’ – it’s a very clear that this town cares about music and has invested in the industry.”

Everyone agreed there was one charity directly helping the music community in NO: MusicCares. Give a little if you can.

Finally, I had to approach Harry post-panel and gush a bit. I asked him what he lost in the hurricane. “We only lost a fridge,” he said, sheepishly.

I told him I missed his column in the LA Times Magazine, ‘Man Bites Town’ and he said, “I think you are the only one.” I then asked about his amazing powers of invisible fame:

HC: “I always tell people that if I was a celebrity, I would be stealth like Harry Shearer because he can do whatever he wants and nobody bothers him.”
HS: “Well, I don’t get to do whatever I want.”
HC: “It sure seems like it.”
HS: “But, sure, I know what you are saying.”
HC: “I mean, you can buy your own cereal and deodorant, right?”
HS: “Absolutely. In fact, it reminds of a story. I was talking to Jim Carrey and he was saying how he’d love to just go out and play pool in a bar sometime but he couldn’t. He said, ‘Mind you, I could have a pool table delivered to my house in 45 minutes but it’s not the same.’”
HC: “Yeah, I would think that for a comedian, it’s very important to be out in the world, amongst people, observing and being part of society.”
HS: “Absolutely. For any artist, really, it’s vital.”

So there ya have it. This time tomorrow, I’ll be stuck in a cubicle wondering if I’d imagined it all. Thank heavens for this blog – I’ll need some evidence that SXSW ever happened.

Expect whining and pining with more Austin photos to come.

SXSW: A Conversation with k.d. lang

Yesterday, I spoke with k.d. lang. Yup. Just another day here at SXSW.

She’s wonderful, adorable, hilarious, smart and all the other things you would imagine of a major talent. She spoke of her musical collaborations, including Roy Orbison and Tony Bennett, her coming out and the danger of hype. She was raised in a classical music family, studied piano and had absolutely zero knowledge or interest in country music. On her 21st birthday, she was given two Patsy Cline records, heard ‘Stop the World’ and was blown away.

She joined the punk/performance art scene in Edmonton, which resulted in a 12-hour rendition of open-heart surgery. “There were pickled beets, carrots and lots of marijuana involved,” she said. In the early days, she had no money to start her music career so she turned to another form of art to pay the bills, painting. Ultimately, she was able to trade several of her paintings for studio time.

lang created a punk/country persona. In fact, though she was playing country music, she was booked in all the same venues as the punk bands. For some strange reason, she was selected by the Canadian government to represent their country at the World’s Fair in Obuku, Japan. The locals didn’t know what to make of her. “There was some gender confusion there. ‘Is it a girl that looks like a boy? Or is it a feminine-looking boy?’ I was like a car accident, they wanted to look away but couldn’t,” lang said. “It was so much fun.”

Oddly enough, she managed to appear on David Letterman before getting signed but things took off fast. Under her breath, she half-jokingly said, “Well, ‘Ingénue’ was only a hit record because I came out . . ..” and the interview chided her: “Oh yeah, going for that lesbian dollar!”

When the inevitable fame and hype descended, lang assumed she was ready. “I thought I had my defenses up,” she said. It was after performing at some Fabulous People benefit that it hit her. “The place was packed with the beautiful people – the Cindy Crawfords, the Naomi Campbells – and I thought I was fabulous too. Then, I realized, they weren’t even listening to me! I went home and thought, ‘I can’t believe it, I got sucked in!’”

It was an epiphany that made her step back and take stock. “The realization came quick but the remedy took a long time – like any addiction.”

Regarding her ‘coming out’: “Surprisingly, I thought I was out the whole time. I came out to my family at age 13.” In fact, she comes from “a very gay family.” She has four sisters, only one of whom is straight. “And I think my dad is gay too. I’m telling you, I am Brokeback Mountain.”

This led me to stand up and confront her. It went something like this:

HC: You’re incredible – sorry just had to get that out of the way.
KD: I appreciate that.
HC: Okay, here’s the deal: My father is in love with you and-
KD: He’s gay.
HC: It’s very confusing to him. I actually had to sit him down and explain that you only like girls . . .
KD: Hey, I’m open to new experiences, new possibilities.
HC: I’m sure he’d be happy to hear that. Anyway, he’s from South Dakota and-
KD: Hmm, that’s means we’re probably related so that deal’s off.
HC: Basically, we ended up having a dialogue about homosexuality that probably would not have opened up if not for you and your music. I know that maybe it wasn’t your intention when you started your career but-
KD: Actually, that was exactly my intention and let me tell you why.

She then got very quiet and put her hands together in prayer-mode to collect herself. The room was silent and I stood there, wondering what I had triggered. She looked me straight in the eye and proceeded to give a beautiful speech about how she specifically targeted ‘middle-of-the-road’ culture. “A butch lesbian doing duets with Tony Bennett? What’s this all about?” She purposely went after the mainstream to create a stir and get people talking. It was an example of how art can change truly help the world by changing people’s minds. "Art can often do more good than protesting," she said.

It was such an inspiring speech that when she finished, you could hear a pin drop and she got a standing ovation. She suddenly felt very dorky, blushed deeply and started clapping too. Then, she looked at me again and said, “Thanks for asking that question. I’m sorry it didn’t work out between your dad and I.”

I think my SXSW experienced peaked right there. In fact, I felt so satisfied, I slept in this morning, right through ‘The Pretenders’ panel I was supposed to go to.

Some additional k.d. quotes:

“Everyone’s a closet something.”

“Minnie Pearl was mindblowing. A truly incredible human being – people just don’t know.”

“Roy (Orbison) was like a tree – so solid and rooted in who he was.”

“A lot of the work is done in listening.”

“Hanging out with Tony Bennett is like getting an intravenous education.”

“I had unbridled tenacity.”

“Alberta is the Texas of Canada.”

“’Calling All Angels’ (with Jane Siberry) is the best song I ever recorded.”


As for tonight, I had to make a painful decision between three of my heroes – all playing at once: Ramblin’ Jack Elliott vs. Harry Shearer vs. Roseanne Cash. Ladies first - Ms. Cash wins.

SXSW: Let The Music Begin

Yo!

Today officially kicks-off the music portion of the SXSW which means I'll need to double my caffeine intake.

As an ideal crossover from film to music, I screened the Beastie Boys concert film, "Aweseome! I Fuckin' Shot That!" The title refers to the random rookie film crew the boys put together to document their concert at Madison Square Gardens. Through their website, they found 50 ticket holders who were given video cameras and asked to shoot the experience from their seats all around the arena.

So damn fun! Mixed with professional camera work and some fancy moves thrown in, the grainy amateur footage really takes you to the concert. Let's face, we'd be in the cheap seats anyway and dance just as much. The Q&A afterward was pretty crazy. Audience members gushed over them without really asking much. I felt almost like an anti-fan for actually posing a question. (I wanted to know where they got they idea for the film and Adam Yauch explained that he'd heard about a kid that had filmed an entire concert with his phone. He saw the result on the internet and loved the feeling.)

Yeah, the Boys are terrific but absolutely nothing compares to Neil Young. Introducing Young this morning for the keynote, SXSW founder Louis Black, said: "We weren't nervous about asking Dylan or Springsteen to come and address but Neil Young . . . ?" Neil was interviewed along with Jonathan Demme about their new concert film, "Heart of Gold."

I realized that Young is mankind's Grandfather, the same term Native Americans use to describe God. Listening to him speak so casually and openly was an incredible way to start my day. Some of my favorite quotes:

"Accessing creativity - it's like approaching a wild animal in a hole. If you try too hard, it's gonna get away."

"I'm proudest of my work when it comes really fast."

"It's so great to be in the same room with people who have dedicated their lives to their art."

"You can't be who you were and you can't be who you're gonna be."

"Commitments are one of the worst things for musicians."

"People want to know why you don't make your most famous album over and over again. Because it's death, that's why."

"I just turned down a promoter who wanted to do a tour called, 'Neil Young's Greatest Hits.' Oh boy, that was it, they were done."

"If you're terrified, you're on the right track."

After reading a USA Today story about how Young is "ripping off his fans" by not playing his most popular hits, Young was elated:

"I thought, 'Hey, I'm really on to something here.'"


More to come - will see kd lang speak this afternoon but first I must try to finish my breakfast that I started five hours ago . . .

SXSW: Help! I'm Drowning In Cinema

I’m writing this from behind the U.S. Postal Service desk at the Austin Convention Center. I’ve hijacked their booth since they are gone and people keep asking me for stamps. I told the last person, “I’m sorry but that program has been cut.” I’m also giving directions to foreigners which is terrific fun.

I knew I’d be overwhelmed at SXSW but geezus . . . I’m averaging four films a day which leaves very little time for writing, sleeping and/or eating – almost none for blogging. There are hundreds of films premiering at SXSW spread across nine days and seven theaters and I’ve only seen 15 plus two shorts. The best part of this festival is being part of a film’s first audience. Several screenings, I’ve been sitting directly in front of or behind the filmmakers and been able to watch and listen to their reactions seeing their work on the big screen. Fascinating stuff.

Also, every single film screening is followed by a lively Q&A session with the cast and crew of the film - I am getting very spoiled by this. Every single time, I feel compelled to ask a question - my curiosity cannot resist the temptation and runs rampant. Next time I go see a regular movie, I’ll be sitting there, staring at the usher, waiting for Scarlett Johansen to show up and obediently answer all my questions.

“Fired”: A film by struggling actress, Annabelle Gurwitch, who was fired from a New York play by her hero, Woody Allen; he told her she looked ‘retarded.’ While licking her wounds, she started gathering tales of people getting fired –factory workers, office workers, healthcare workers, tollbooth collectors and yes, some show biz folks. The film deftly humanizes what is otherwise, a very common humiliating ordeal. In the end, we all realize, they did us a big favor. And, as one woman explained, “Pain plus time equals comedy.”

“OilCrash”: Bottom line, we are running out of oil and it will change our society in ways we cannot even imagine. The future looks Amish, folks. The film is, by far, the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen on film. It not only made me want to sell my car, but check the air in my bike tires as well. Best/worst of all, the film is chock full of oil experts who tell the truth knowing it will put them out of business – oil tycoons in Texas, energy advisers to George W. Bush, big oil geologists. When those in the biz can’t deny it any longer, you know we’re screwed.

“SummerCamp!”: After screening “OilCrash” I sought out the emotional antidote and found it in this delightful documentary that follows a bunch of youngsters as they attend a three-week summer camp in Illinois. Whether or not you have memories of camp, you’ve been a kid and this charming film will take you back there with all the insecurities and all the joy. Though it reveals the inevitable homesickness and difficulties of trying to fit in, “SummerCamp!” is by far, the funniest thing I’ve seen here at SXSW. A sincere gem.

“The Life of Reilly”: You may remember Charles Nelson Reilly as the funny guy on 70s game shows. No, he’s not dead but people always assume he is, which propelled him to do a stage performance of his life. Not only did the show receive rave reviews but he performed it over 400 times in five years. The film documents the final show and there is no way to overstate this: It is BRILLIANT. Though Reilly is one of the world’s busiest actors and widely revered as a dramatic instructor, few know this. Be prepared; Reilly will blow your mind with his talent.


Tomorrow, I will write up a three-minute report on SXSW, record it on my computer, make it into an MP3 and email it to my producer in San Francisco. It will broadcast on the air Wednesday evening and be available on the Internet the following Friday.

Man, I love technology.

SXSW: Lunch With A Stranger and Four Films

Yesterday's theme was money: Having a lot of it, having none of it and having it on credit.

I awoke in opulent luxury – the photo at left is of my toilet. I’m staying at the home of family friends, Doug and Karen, two very warm, generous people that happen to be loaded, at least by my frugal standards. The house I'm in has four bathrooms and a couple of TVs the size of my aparment. They had a $40,000 pool put in, for the dogs, Chance and Charlie. Every detail of the home's decor is done with delicate care and thought and nothing here comes from Target, I can assure you.

So, I drive into town, park the car and begin the search for food. So many choices but none seems to fit what I crave. Also, I'm in a hurry and have a panel to attend. A heavyset woman with sad eyes approaches me on the street and pleads for me to buy her lunch. She insists she does not want my money but just a sandwich and knows a cheap place to get one. I hesitated. As a San Franciscan I am thick-skinned to the various homeless pleas I hear every day but something about her intrigued me. “Please,” she implored, “I’m an ex-band wife.”

There but for the grace O’God . . .

The woman recommended a nearby place called Marisco’s, good food, and cheap prices. She seemed hesitant when we entered the restaurant – should she sit? Was I going to get her something to go? I grabbed us a table and we shared lunch.

Her name was Angel. A native Texan, she turns 35 today though she looks much older. She wasn’t always down on her luck, in fact, she grew up in a gated community called Woodside and describes her own youth as a “well-protected bubble.” In fact, she spent her girlhood training to become an Olympic ice skater and only listened to Christian music, unaware of crime, alcohol, politics or any other difficulties.

This all came crashing down at the age of 17 1/2 when everything was taken away. Though her mother worked for the FBI, she was behind in paying taxes and overnight, they had nothing. (Her father died when she was 3.) It was a slippery slope from there. Bad men, bad choices, bad habits led her to a world of nothing. She had five children (the latest one supposedly a month ago, which she immediately gave up for adoption) but doesn’t know where any of them are.

As we ate our rice and beans, she said, “I know you are spending money and all and I appreciate it,” she said, fiddling with her fork nervously, “but what I really appreciate is the company.”

Ironically, I had to leave to attend a screening of "Maxed Out" by James Scurlock (no website that I can find yet,) a "portrait of an America drowning in debt." It is hard to convey here how important this film is - the statistics and personal illustrations are simply overwhelming. He reveals the predatory strategies of the credit card biz and what extreme ends people go to, to pay for the American dream. Amazing facts revealed:

>Last year, more Americans declared bankruptcy than graduated from college, divorced or got cancer.
>The average American has 12 credit cards and a debt of roughly $10,000.
>Every US household owes $88,000 as their share of the national debt - an increase of $9,000 since the film went into production two years ago.

During the Q&A, I got up and announced that come Wednesday, I would finally be debt-free. The cast and the audience cheered. Afterwards, I went up to hug the woman in the film, Janne, whose 19-year-old son hung himself after getting in over his head with debt. She cried, it was intense. The film made me want to go live in a cabin I build myself and eat off the land. Anyone wanna come?

Other films I saw:

"Al Franken: God Spoke": Documentary goes with Al on his book tour and through the painful 2004 election. Includes a great fight with Anne Coulter and reveals Al in his most vulnerable and funny angles. A must-see for FrankenFans.

"Danny Roane: First-Time Director": Written, directed and starring Andy Dick as has-been sitcom actor who decides to jump behind the camera and document his descent into alcholism. Funny in spots but gets tiresome quickly. I enjoyed the Q&A more when I got to meet my heroine from MAD TV, Mo Collins! Compared to her, Andy is an annoying gnat.

"This Film Is Not Yet Rated": Right up there with "Maxed Out," this film MUST be seen by everyone that loves film. Kirby Dick (that's right back-to-back Dick directors) puts his balls on the line to investigate the secret members of the MPAA ratings board. Literally, he hires a private dick (sorry, last time) to delve into Jack Valenti's private party that doles out the Gs, the PG-13s, the Rs and the dreaded NC-17s. As Dick himself asks incredulous, "What is this, 'Star Chamber?'" A very chilling film.

Honestly, this film deserves more commentary but I'm already late for a long day of sitting on my butt and absorbing. I'll try add more links later but all these films can be found at www.sxsw.com.

A final tidbit: I forgot to mention that when I was racing to get to the screening of "A Prarie Home Companion" on Friday night, I jokingly asked the driver to drop me off on the red carpet. Sure enough, he screeched so close to the action that John C. Reilly, who was giving an interview, actually stepped back in alarm. When I got out, all the cameras swung around to see the celeb popping out. Instead, they got me, frumpy, wrinkled and carrying too many bags.

SXSW: Lost And Somewhat Forgotten

For once, my timing was perfect. I landed in Austin, got my baggage, snagged the rental car, fought through traffic, parked on a dirt lot (only $5!) got all my badges, checked in the press counter and plopped in my theatre seat for my first screening at "South by Southwest" - just six minutes before it began.

For me, it was the ideal film to kick off SXSW. Called "The Last Western," it's a documentary about Pioneertown, California, a town built by Hollywood as a set for movie Westerns and then abandoned. The film looks at the fringe-dwelling residents who now inhabit this middle-of-nowhere town. As described in an earlier post, I have an intense pull towards this area and have pondered moving to the nearby town of 29 Palms quite seriously.

So, it was strange to watch a film where I knew most of the characters, been to the places, knew the history and felt the atmosphere described. I'd also been exchanging emails with the director, Chris Deaux, about a man I'd met years earlier who should have been included in this.

It was summer 2001, the afternoon prior to my best friend's wedding. The bridal party was getting pedicures and manicures in Lakewood, California. We'd all finished and were heading to our cars in the parking lot. Someone asked to see Lisa's wedding dress and as she was pulling it out of the trunk, a slow car came around us. No one paid much attention but something made me strike up a conversation with the driver, an old man with a small dog. He wanted to pull over and show me something and it seemed rather urgent.

His name was Shorty Creswell and he introduced me to his small, faithful terrier, Sooner. He opened the trunk and brought out one scrapbook after another, all detailing his life in Pioneertown in the '50 and '60s. He played the scraggly-bearded town drunk, the misfit, the petty thief and spent much of his career being tossed out of saloons and killed in gunfights. He loved every minute of it and clearly, he found life rather dull since then.

He couldn't stop talking and told us (my pal, Diane, was now fascinated as well) about the old days. He and his partner-in-crime, Cactus Kate, went through one adventure after another. "But she died long ago," he said sadly.

Chris and I are trying to get in touch with Shorty so he can come see the film. If you get a chance, please check it out. It's a rare, forgotten slice of California history and it shouldn't have to live in someone's trunk.

Soon to be Over-Stimulated

Just to let all three of you know, I'll be reporting from the road all next week and I couldn't be more pleased. I'm covering the film festival portion of "South by Southwest" for my regular radio gig, "Movie Magazine International." It'll be my first SXSW and already, I'm overwhelmed.

I'll be in screening rooms all day long as the Texas sun blazes outside. By the end of it, I'll look like a pasty mole but gloriously happy to at least feel like a real reporter again.

Speaking of which, I just turned in yet another article to the Nob Hill Gazette. Lord knows, this is not my crowd ("An Attitude, Not An Address") what with all the old money types, Baroness This and Esquire that. Still, I love them because they always call and give me random assignments, indeed, the closest I've come to my dream job. The story I just submitted was on the history of bridal/baby showers. (Turns out we can blame the Dutch for that too.)

Anyway, off I go to fumble my way through the dark. I hope to post frequently with photos.

And Speaking Of Going Backwards . . . .

They found an entire family in Turkey that walks on all fours and it has the scientists all in a dither. They are calling it a "unique insight into human evolution."

I wonder how this is going to play in Kansas.

Going Backwards in Ruby Slippers

Already we've seen South Dakota vote to ban abortion and last I heard Mississippi was considering the same thing. Then there's Kansas.

Ah, Kansas. Home of intelligent design, www.godhatesfags.com and other colorful ideas. Columnist Ellen Goodman of the Boston Globe (I'd link ya but it costs $$) recently reminded me how stupidity still reigns in Dorothy's home state.

Along with 11 other foolhardy states, Kansas law deems it illegal for anyone under the age of 16 to have sex, even if both 15-year-olds are into it. (Ironically, 13-year-olds can legally marry in Kansas, just as long as they don't enjoy the wedding night too much.)

As a rabid pro-lifer and all-around meddlesome asshole, state Attorney General Phill Kline decided to go literal with this and announced that all doctors, educators, counselors and healthcare workers must report all underage sexual activity to the state.

As Goodman explained:

"The Kline Theory goes something like this: If sexual activity between teens is illegal, there's no such thing as consensual sex, and thus every act is harmful. These acts, by the way, include 'any lewd fondling or touching of the person . . . with the intent to arouse or satisfy the sexual desires.' In short, healthcare workers have to rat on 15-year-old sexual criminals who are lustily and mutually 'abusing' each other in the back seat of a Toyota."

Because this is America, the healthcare workers sued. Finally, a case I can get excited about! When lawyer Bonnie Scott Jones of the Center for Reporductive Rights put Kline on the stand, some pretty strange exchanges occurred:

BSJ: "Is anything beyond kissing acceptable? For example, is oral sex performed by a boy a reportable crime?"
PK: "Yes."
BSJ: "What about oral sex performed by a girl?"
PK: "I'm not certain."

For Kline, blow jobs are more of a grey area, apparently.

Oh, yeah. It gets better. Next up, Dr. Elizabeth Shadigian, major proponent of the abortion-gives-you-breast-cancer campaign. On the stand, she stated her belief that teenage girls are always the victim because there's "a power differential between a boy and a girl. When girls have sex, they aren't doing, they have been done to."

As Goodman writes, "Frankly, I hadn't heard this argument since the late Andrea Dworkin maintained that all intercourse was rape. Radical feminism meets the
radical right in the Puritan revival."

This hits on a point that I've wrangled with modern-day feminists about, the knee-jerk jump to victimization. This should be the last resort used only when one is truly the victim of rape or assualt. Anything else, it's just plain whining. It is unproductive and unbecoming. There is a tiresome puritanical streak running through our gender's best and brightest and in the most extreme case, it looks like . . . well, it looks like Kansas.

A Snippet Of My Day

I just got off the phone with the producer for "The G. Gordon Liddy Show." He was furiously packing for his trip to Iraq and had to put me on speaker phone. I gently reminded him to bring duct tape. There was some dead air where laughter should've been but I was only re-offering the advice given by our own lovable Tom Ridge.

Again, not funny.

Confession: I only made the awkward joke because I am jealous that he is going where the action is and I am but a mere phone monkey.

The National Disgrace Continues

Just when you think the First Monkey can't possibly be more publicly revealed as the naked emperor he truly is, we get more evidence. Yes, I'm talking about yet another example of Katrina buffoonery as revealed by the AP.

Never questioning, never worrying - I mean, the man was on vacation for godsakes! What could be expected of him? Sure, God may have told him that he was chosen to be President but maybe he and God weren't as close lately, otherwise, He would not keep sending these pesky natural challenges to fog up George's work life. Perhaps they got into an argument and God is miffed? George probably said the wrong thing - that is his specialty.

Y'know, despite all the mountain biking and jogging, George really seems more of an indoor kinda guy. Things make sense indoors and there's more likely to be other human types to explain things so he doesn't have to ask even one single question just to be sure. Why bother being sure when there are other people who do that so much better?

The photo here was taken along the Gulf Coast in Mississippi over the holidays. I would bet a leaking FEMA trailer that these appliances are still hanging in the wind. As I mentioned, it is like this everywhere, for miles and miles and miles. Yes, I know that New Orleans is getting a lot more press these days but remember, this is much bigger area than a city. I'm talking about a region.

Federal disaster declarations blanketed 90,000 square miles of the United States, an area almost as large as the United Kingdom! Causing $72 billion in damages, this is the costliest cyclone of all time and, at last count, 1,420 were confirmed dead.

Between the unneccessary war in Iraq and the pointless loss of life in the South, George's legacy will be the spilled blood of these Americans. He has now killed far more of my fellow countrymen than Osama bin Laden ever did.

The only thing that comforts me is knowing that this will be his presidential legacy and his raving, murderous, incredibly infantile ego will be remembered as accurately as possible. I may regret this post tomorrow but tonight, I am filled with a deep rage and a loathing that is not found burrowed deep within me, rather, it sits there on the shelf, every day, as I hang my head in shame that my country I love so much is being led by an ignorant man-child with no sense of our place in the world.

I can't think of what pains me more - the knowledge that we have he and Dick "Buckshot" Cheney for three more years or that hurricane season is coming in four months and we still haven't cleaned up after the last one. Either way, there is more disaster to come.

Mobile Dysfunction

I just read the alarming fact that 15 percent of Americans have interrupted sex to answer their cell phones.

Um. I'm not sure where to start with this. I would like to know the gender break down of this statistic. I would imagine it would be mostly women since men have a more limited (ahem) window of opportunity for live-action monkey antics but who knows? You get a guy who is a workaholic bond trader or a Hollywood agent and he could reach for that thing in one sweaty Pavlovian swipe.

Which also makes me wonder what the occupations of these folks are? Unless you are a heart surgeon or for that matter, a sickly patient nervously awaiting a liver donor, I'm not sure I see the urgency.

Along these same wireless lines, I would like to share a golden nugget that my colleague* shared with me today. She returned yesterday from Spain and was groggy by 8 p.m. When her cell phone rang and she saw it was her ex-ex-boyfriend from years ago, she hesitated, but answered, "Hello?" She got no greeting in return but did hear voices.

She soon realized it was the sound of two people having sex and then, she recognized her ex's voice. And then, the nugget: The girl says: "Oh, that's okay. You're just tired. I understand. It happens sometimes."

See, now you would never get this kind of betrayal from a land line.


*a fine upstanding Christian from Indiana who turns red at the mere thought of telling a fib.

Me, You, Others

Sitting here, rotting away in Corporate America, chewing antacids to appease my rebellious stomach, I feel compelled to goof off and share my trivial thoughts.

Every morning, I ride the bus to work and never tire of this commute. Someone else does the driving and worries about parking. I am not obligated to speak to anyone or make eye contact, though I occasionally do. The only social rule? To give up my seat to an elderly or pregnant person. Mainly, all I do is read.

Once deposited downtown, I head to the office at Second and Folsom Streets through a flurry of urban activity. On the way, I see city workers, bike messengers, bankers, caterers, tourists, cabbies, art students, mailmen, street vendors and professionals of all stripes. Observing this human zoo is one of the best parts of living in a large city - such a variety of life teeming in one big cauldron.

Mornings like today, when I am obsessed with the details of my life (Where will I go? What will I do? Etc.,) I find it a great comfort to hide behind my dark sunglasses and instead, study my fellow drones as they make their way through the hive. Such stories in these faces!

I see a young Irishman with a backpack walking towards BART, smoking with one hand, reading a travel guide in the other. He looks free and pleased with himself.

A power-suited woman passes me, a cell phone clamped to her blonde head. Her face is twisted in a panic and I hear her plead, "Well, I sent the email on Friday, I don't know how-"

A crazy-ass black dude walks behind me talking to someone (or perhaps, no one) about some unforgettable gams: "Her legs were crazy! Crazy, I'm telling you, the last time I saw legs like that, they were on my grandmother's dining room table!"

As I near the CNET building, I pick up nerd small talk as tech wizards compare high scores on various gaming platforms, as hunters would compare kills in the wild.

As I do every morning, I pass the same elegant entrepreneur in a brown top hat as he wheels his portable shoeshine business (complete with theater seats) down towards Market. At night, he'll roll it back, where both he and it live, under the freeway.

And on it goes. Quittin' time, same thing in reverse. Just yesterday, as I was walking home along Market, I thought to myself, "Gosh, I love this town, such a contented life here." At that very moment, a homeless guy covered completely in grime attacked a public pay phone with much screaming and violence. Hard to explain but he was somehow trying to violate the machine with parts of itself all the while delivering enraged expletives to a citenzry that, for the most part, ignored him.

Though I may not be the first to observe we are all living in our own separate realities, I am certainly the first in my universe to notice. Oh, how I sometimes wish that life were a comic book and thought balloons existed. Instead, I rely on body language, facial expressions and one-side cell phone conversations to put the puzzle pieces together.

Project deadlines, money worries, sweet reflections on the previous evening's lovemaking - all these thoughts I pick up from my fellow city dwellers. For a moment, it comforts me, knowing we all have our hang-ups, our dreams, our fears and a life filled mostly with minutia.

It never fails to help me face another day.

The Lure of Elsewhere

Coming to you wireless from the Beatnik Café in Joshua Tree, my very favorite place on Earth. It is my final wish that when my fleshy shell goes stiff, I am to be toasted and lightly sprinkled from some mesa in Joshua Tree . . . . which is illegal, which is perfect. As long as my ashes don’t float down to Palm Springs, I’ll be happy – I don’t want to have to spend eternity on some unnatural golf course trampled upon by vacationing Hollywood execs.

Indeed, J-Tree is where I will spend my final days and every time I come here, I wonder why I don’t move sooner. Between Pappy & Harriet’s , the Beatnik Café, The Sun Runner and the Desert Institute, I could be quite content. Funky characters abound, observatories and recording studios aplenty and the desert itself – I could be happy here and stay close to Mama Iva. Then, I remember that I’m already moving to Austin or Mississippi or New Orleans or Wyoming or Whatever and then I ask myself “What the hell is your problem, Self? Why can’t you sit still, fer chrissakes?”

Clearly, it is change that I crave; a new adventure and a fresh place. Little pockets of people that I would meet, a like-minded community I could infiltrate and a host of eclectic hubs that would show me underground secrets.

Why the wanderlust? I have always marveled at rich people with homes in Italy, New York, Paris - how do they know where home is? Still, given my druthers and a Google bank account, I would happily have homes in Joshua Tree, Austin, San Francisco and Mississippi. Oh my yes, I could do this quite easily.

So then, the question is, how do I make a lot of money? How do I arrange my life so that I do not have to wear a nametag or spend my days in a cubicle? Will this blog lead me to fame, fortune and high-speed wi-fi wherever I roam? Furthermore, why didn’t I pack my Magic 8-Ball for wobbly moments just like this?

I had a dream last night that my life was about giving speeches. I love the idea but don’t I need to have survived some intense national tragedy or have my name associated with Oprah’s Book club to do that? My needs are basic – horses to ride, cheese to eat, wine to drink and, of course, the Internet. What else is there?

I like talking . . . maybe I could become a monologist and pattern my life after Spaulding Grey minus the suicidal ferry rides. God, I feel like George Constanza, “What about baseball? I like baseball. Maybe I could manage a baseball team . . . .”

Feedback? Thoughts? The ClizBiz Suggestion Box is now open.

And If Cheney Doesn't Shoot You, They'll Just Ignore You To Death

Ah, the post-Katrina 'Where the hell were you?' mess rages on as New Orleans holds a jazz funeral for itself. As you can see, the ugly bathtub ring that encircles the majority of the city is not going to be scrubbed off anytime soon. Sure, Mardi Gras will go on, as will JazzFest but how comfortable is everyone going to feel come hurricane season? What fabulous new surprises will Mother Nature (whom we've been raping since we got here) have in store for us this time around?

Katrina left more than 1,300 people dead in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama, hundreds of thousands homeless and tens of billions of dollars worth of damage and guess who seems the most pissed off about it? A Republican senator from Maine.

That's right, the daughter of two mayors, who has probably never dealt with hurricane threats in her life, is there, front and center, asking the tough questions. I'm talking about Senator Susan Collins and though nasal nose Lieberman is in there with her (he asked Chertoff, incredulous: "How did you go to sleep that night?") it's Collins who is winning me over.

In any case, a 520-page Katrina report on the inaction of the government, top to bottom, states:

"The preparation for and response to Hurricane Katrina should disturb all Americans. Passivity did the most damage. The failure of initiative cost lives, prolonged suffering, and left all Americans justifiably concerned our government is no better prepared to protect its people than it was before 9/11, even if we are."

So, there you have it. Buy your duct tape, shop at Safeway (cuz it's safe!) and plan your day around government-issued orange alerts, see how far that gets you. All this fever about WMDs and what kills us in the end?

At this point, it looks like a combination of wind, water, cartoons and Tweety Bird sniffles.

Sleep tight!

Killer Vice

While it's all very amusing that little DickieVice has gone and gifted a Texan lawyer with a faceful o'buckshot, the story, much like a true kill, it starting to rot and stink. Unless, the fellow dies - and I am certainly hoping he does not - it's just another keystone cops episode in this administration and it's making me nostalgic.

Remember Ford falling down all those stairs? Or cracks in sidewalks or whatever? It didn't take much. Who can forget Bush Sr. puking in the lap of some foreign dignitary? That's gotta be my favorite. However, I do love Bush Jr. nearly choking to death on a pretzel - it would have been a fitting end for such a monkey of a man.

Because the Veep is actually Montgomery Burns, it's juicy good fun. If this were, say, Ronald Reagan, we'd already have a great one-liner making the rounds, probably something about somebody forgetting to duck. Bob Dole would've given us a real zinger, but no such luck here. We are dealing with a colorless, humorless man whose approval rating clods along at 24 percent and let's face it, Oops-Gate 2006 is just another incredibly easy reason to hate him.

Most of all, we still haven't heard from the one guy who has the most to say about the VP's quail hunting accident: Danforth Quayle himself. Okay, so the man can't spell 'potato' but at least he didn't drag us into unneccessary wars with exaggerations of our impending doom.

A New Job For Francis

Tomorrow, they will bury one of the coolest guys I ever met. He happened to be the father of my college roommate, Laurianna, but I like to think we were friends on our own terms.

When I see the hypocrisy and hatred done in the name of Christianity and the Catholic Church, I get very angry and try instead to think about those who live their lives by the original ideals - love, acceptance, humor and, most of all, a healthy exchange of ideas.

A handful of faces inevitably come to mind and Francis "Fran" Roman has always been one of them, along with his wife of 47 years, Lenora. Laurianna and I had always joked that her parents clearly had access to that heavenly direct line, The Red Phone - something that was brought out only in times of life or death.

Rewarded for his life of spiritual dedication, he was honored with a painless death, free of sickness and disease. Far from it - the man had undoubtedly gone running the day before or lifted weights in the gym on his final day on Earth. A citizen of Barstow, California, Fran was famous for running in ridiculous heat. "Sure, it was 114 degrees," he'd reason, "but it was 117 degress the day before and that's just way too hot."

The last time I saw him, in the spring of 2005, it affected me deeply. Laurianna was marrying Jim in Albuquerque and I was a bridesmaid. Though there were some cute boys paying me some attention, honestly, I preferred spending time with Lenora and Fran. We discussed politics of the day, the war in Iraq and the deep divide that was tearing the country apart. I could have talked with him for hours and never ceased learning. He had a gentle, soothing voice that made you feel respected, worthy . . . heard.

Fond of him as I was, he receives full blame for my spiritual breakdown that arrived with horrible timing. I knew Fran would be conducting the wedding service, as he was a deacon in the Church, but I certainly didn't see the Bible-based TKO that was headed straight for me.

Of course, he gave a riveting sermon, talking to us - as I'd praised him later - rather than preaching at us. Then came time for the Euchrist and he suggested to those attending that if they were not Catholic and simply wanted a blessing, to cross their arms against their chests. As I am highly suspicious of priests and their ilk, I already knew in my heart that I wanted very much a blessing - specifically because it was from Fran, a man who I admired and trusted. Other than Johnny Cash, there is no other man whom I would expose my spiritual side to in such a vulnerable way.

Because I stood nearest to the bride, he came to me first and I crossed my arms. As I bowed, he placed his hand on my head and spoke the blessing. Something weird began happening to my insides. Then, I raised my head, Fran looked straight into my eyes and spoke with conviction: "God loves you very much." Somewhere in my soul, a door, long rusted shut, creaked open, a draft came through and the tears came. And came. And came. And came.

He'd already moved on to others but I could not stop crying. Honestly, I sort of started to freak out, as did the 7-year-old flower girl next to me, who became increasingly concerned. Thankfully, it did not come with wracking gutteral sobs but holy cow, must my meltdowns always be in a public forums? I could just imagine what the guests must be thinking:

"So what's happening with that bridesmaid? She's kinda losing it up there."
"I dunno. Maybe she's just really close with the bride . . . ?"

My makeup long washed away, I began to worry about the amount of snot to be dealt with - an inordinately large amount. Also, what a failure as a bridesmaid. Laurianna wasn't asking for much, just walk down the gol'dern aisle, hold the pretty flowers and don't tip over - is that too much to ask? Oh yeah, and try not to drown yourself while you're at it.

Desperately, I looked around for a tissue and saw one clean white square held in the hand of Lenora, the bride's mother, who clearly had her self together. I creeped up to her and asked politely if I could have her tissue. Okay, so maybe I grabbed it and ran but it was all for the bride, I tell you.

Thankfully, the entire Roman family remained blissfully unaware of my spiritual meltdown but it affects me still. Even recalling it, my eyes fill up with tears. Fran spent his life teaching others, spreading the word and opening rusted doors. It was more than a calling for him, it was a joy. It's also pretty clear to anyone who knew Fran that he's got a new job now.

Answering the Red Phone.

Cheers, Ladies!

I just watched the Pittsburgh Steelers win the Superbowl and I must reflect.

The Superbowl and I are peers. Over the years, when people ask my age, I have occasionally given the smart-ass retort: "I'm as old as the SuperBowl." Therefore, I always watch the game with interest, as it is a cultural time capsule of progress/digress that fits precisely within my lifetime. (Indeed, the Janet Jackson half-time incident marked a dark, ridiculous and, indeed, pierced time in my own life.)

This year, with the recent feminst blog debate going 'round, I couldn't help but notice a few less obvious victories that don't end with large jewelry and quickly switched logo-encrusted baseball caps.

First off, they opened the game with a moment of silence for "two fallen heroes of this country,": Rosa Parks and Coretta Scott King. Um, can we stop and celebrate that for a moment? Two women! Of color, even! Honored, at the Superbowl! The biggest American celebration of testosterone - other than war - that this country is capable of having and they are honoring these ladies.

Again, when they sang the national anthem, it was Aaron Neville (who seems like he'd had a stroke, bless his heart) and . . . Aretha Franklin, who belted it out in her Detroit hometown. The cameras flashed on various intense players and those who looked heartfelt. At one point, they showed Condi Rice in the crowd, beaming like I never knew she was capable of. I mean, if W. himself had performed a private strip tease on her birthday, she could not have visibly been any happier.

Furthermore, I have to point out that the ABC network had only two reporters down on the field to cover the action - chicks! Both of em! Smart ones too! They knew their shit! Neither one blonde or busty! Real vocabularies and everything!

So, yes, I am drinking champagne (which explains all the !!!) and on this Sunday afternoon, I am celebrating the fact that on the weekend of Betty Fridan's passing, some very subtle strides have been made and goddammit, that makes me proud.

And I'm saving my final toast for the cheerleaders who have been there all along.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Where Does This Horse Go?

I'm at the precipice of a new era and am more worried than energized: What am I going to do with my life? Do I follow one of my career dreams (newspaper job, documentaries, photographer, oral history projects) and be poor or continue sucking on the corporate teat and possibly obtain a house/horse/child someday? I think I know the answer and yes, I like Ramen just fine but the question has been keeping me up nights lately.

I was discussing this quandary with my horse pal, Erika, this evening when suddenly I remembered to tell her about a dream I had a few weeks ago. I was on some UC Davis-type campus and saw a horse who had clearly escaped from the Equestrian Center - he was naked and looked like a kid that had jumped out of the bathtub - wheeeee! Naturally, I had a halter with me (doesn't everyone?) and quickly caught him, a big chestnut-colored fella.

With my new friend in tow, we embarked on one of those epic surreal journeys that only the subconscious (and perhaps Lewis Carroll) can create. Agreeable and sporting, he followed me everywhere - we hopped on floating wood chips, up and down stairs, through closets and even broke up a make-out party, all in an effort to bring him home. I also specifically recall bringing him down a ramshackle wooden hallway that seemed to get smaller the farther we went. He just put his head down, trying to fit. In reality, a tight space like that would not be accepted by any horse I know, at all.

Eventually, my horse teacher, John, came along and joined the effort but the dream ended with no conclusion. When I awoke, I was steeped it that powerful yet serene feeling you get from having a 1,000+ pound animal follow your lead. The internal residue of this sensation stayed with me throughout the day, to my great comfort.

After I described all this to Erika, she immediately remarked, "It's just like what you were talking about with your life and career - trying to find a home for this huge part of your life, asking yourself, 'Where does this horse go?'" A-ha!

This is exactly why I keep people in my life who are smarter than me, so they can figure stuff like this out. Anyway, as I continue to drag my future prospects around on a rope, if anyone knows of a comfy Heather-sized stall with good clean hay, I'd be much obliged.

Ladies in Red

One of my favorite Female Guideposts, LMB, is one of the few level-headed, clear-minded, modern-day femininists that actually lets me be myself, instead of like her. Same but different, a philosophy that is somewhat radical in the world of feminism which is why I let her read the fem-blogs for me - so I don't have to.

She's observed that many of the fem-blogs she reads are overtly angry and questions the productivity of it. Her reaction hit on the exact reason why the majority of feminist blogs bore me to death, they are excessively whiny with little room for humor. I love discussions of history, culture, politics and so on but the ongoing "patriarchal society" blahbety-blah is just a big yawner.

There's so much useless ranting that I simply find little value. Also, I've got plenty of anger fatigue already, just in general, as a citizen of Planet Earth so I really don't need to specialize. Perhaps I'm an oddity.

I mean, I tried to read Ms. magazine and I've tried to break it off with Esquire, but neither efforts truly take. I even wrote for and am a faithful subscriber to BUST and BITCH and find those publications highly worthwhile.

At this point in my life, I'm ready to take blame for everything that is not right with my life - no one else. I feel they should do the same.

I'm currently reading "What's Next? - Women Redefining Their Dreams in the Prime of Life" - my pal, Betsey, gave it go me. Though most of it relates back to one's faith (whoops! keep meaning to get one!) I'm finding some of the essay interviews with famous women very enlightening.

Just this morning I read the words of Susan Molinari, former Congresswoman and CBS anchor, author, wife/mother and now, teacher of politics at the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard University, talks about the feminist reaction to her leaving Congress when she was the highest ranking woman in the House:

"There are incredible changes in all our lives. Sometimes we need to stop and ask, 'Do we really know where we are going?' We need to take time to celebrate. And give ourselves a break. Now that we have clout, it won't mean a thing if we don't have a sense of self-respect. People said to me, 'How could she do this to us?' They said, 'You set us back!' We've got to stop eating our own. We need to get self-respect and respect the choices of others."

Amen, sister.

So Many Countries, So Little Time

Hey, I found this cool link via Pete via Leslie via some New York stripper's blog.

It's a trip to see one's global trail. So, these are the 29 countries I've been to. Hmph. Coulda sworn I've seen more than that . . . seems I have only seen 12% of this world. I better get packing.

That's the trouble with the Earth - the more places you see, the more you realize the places you haven't seen.

The Future

Growing up with earthquakes, I was well aware that the earth was a living, breathy hunk of burning love - crunchy on the outside, chewy on the inside. As we continue to plunder the earth for black, drippy dinosaur bones, it's getting pretty obvious that we will run out of oil well before we are ready. I'd really like to be dead by then because folks are going to FREAK.

In the meantime, I grabbed this snapshot of the future, once again, along the Mississippi Gulf Coast, south of Highway 90. It was creepy and comforting at the same time. While MaryAnn idled nearby in the SUV, I surveyed what was left and couldn't help but think about bicycles making a comeback. Personally, however, I'd prefer horseback.

Fun with Conflicting Advertising

James Hampton, one of the ClizBiz Inner Sanctum, sent me this photo today. He'd told me about it before and passes it nearly every day coming/going from lunch, somewhere along the Emeryville-Oakland border.

At last, he pulled over and his pal, Jameel Din, snapped it to share. Even better, it decorates one side of a restaurant called, The Great Wall of China.

There are so many strange harbingers here, not sure where to start . . . .

Oh, by the way, none of this is true . . .

What is the deal lately with all these non-fiction writers and supposed journalists who make shit up and announce it as truth? Are these the laziest sumsabitches that ever walked the earth? Why can't they just pick a genre and fucking go with it? Fiction or non-fiction? Paper or plastic? Chevy or Ford? PC or Mac? These aren't difficult questions, people.

Today, Oprah gave an on-air tongue lashing to James Frey, the tool whose supposed biography, "A Million Little Pieces," turned out to be partially made up. Egg was on the media queen's face after she'd chosen the how-I-beat-drugs memoir for her book club last year, which sparked a huge surge in sales.

It'd be weird if this were the first time but it seems to be happening all over the place lately. Locally, we discoverd that the enigmatic author JT Leroy not only made everything up but actually, never even existed. Even Dave Eggers and Michael Chabon were fooled.

It may be less despicable when the lies appear in a non-historical book but when the darkness moves to the newsroom, my feelings of anger rise up and suddenly, I want to do horrible violent things to the offenders.

Specifically, I would enjoy throwing big, sharp, glass objects at those ungrateful dogs, Jayson Blair and Stephen Glass. I'm so pleased that both of their subsquent tell-all books, "Burning Down My Master's House" and "The Fabulist" were met with abysmal sales, despite all the media attention. For once, the masses did not let me down.

May they all gather and rot at The Black Table, telling made up stories to one another until the Big Editor in the sky comes down with Her red pen, crossing them out forever.

Okay, I need to calm down but the truth is, it hurts. It hurts me personally because that stupid motherfucker Blair had the most kick ass job in the entire world working for the biggest, baddest paper in the country and he just took a shit on it. Everything, all the amazing history of the paper, the journalists that came before him - black, white, green, whatever - he just spat right in their faces.

And now here I am, looking for a journalism job, begging for a paper or magazine to let me in the door. Give me a desk. Send me out in the field. Let me bring my camera. Please, for the love of God, give me a deadline. Idiots like this make it harder for me and for every writer or journalist who has worked their ass off, followed the straight line, respected the reader and never, ever been noticed.

Finally, at long last, I must ask the question: Is real life not weird enough???? I'm sorry but every attempt I've made at creating fiction has been excrutiating. Beyond the fact that I do not have this amazing gift, I always shrug my shoulders in defeat when I realize I could not possibly create from scratch anything more disturbing, joyful and bizarre than what the real world provides.

Anyone read the papers??? The story about the seven adopted kids who died in a school bus and when the grandfather heard, he keeled over dead? The smuggling tunnels that run under the U.S.-Mexico border? Female hostages held by terrorists? New planets? Disney buys Pixar??? This is bizarre stuff, people, and this is just today so what is the problem? Seriously.

My favorite tidbit that never went anywhere: The WWII Japanese fighter pilot who struck up a peacemaking correspondence with a man he once tried to kill. Then, he finally got the chance to come to America and meet his penpal. Just as he shook the man's hand, he dropped dead on the spot. I read this in a two-paragraph obituary in the LA Times about 10 years ago and I only remember it because I thought it the cruelest dose of karma.

See? See how there is stuff everywhere???

Whew! Okedokee, gonna pour me a little drinkipoo before I end up throwing the cat . . .

Remnants of a Former Glory

Along Highway 90 in South Mississippi, there once stood inspiring mansions with proud white columns and regal roofs. Spanish moss hung down in the yard and meticulously living rooms displayed gilded frames of long dead war heroes and their delicate Southern belles. The dining halls displayed patterned bone china settings, passed down through the generations, while oak cabinets showed off impressive collections of delicate antique crystal. Chandeliers hung, music played and fireplaces crackled, welcoming locals and visitors alike.

This is what they look like now.

Feminism in a Nap-Based Society

It's post-lunch here in Corporate America and, as usual, I'm craving that nap that never comes. Sure, there's the one time back in December '04 that I slept off a few late-night martinis behind my file drawer (George Constanza would've been so impressed!) but as a rule, corporate-approved naps are mere daydreams.

Across the pond, however, a different scenario is playing out; Spain's famously easygoing siesta is burdening working moms. Seems the daily "enforced idleness," a holdover from their formerly agrarian society, is not meshing so well with modern careers. Bosses are clinging to the siesta, which keeps workers at the office longer, which means less time for kids to be with their parents. The government passed a "quality of life" law but it has yet to take hold. The article declares, "Anti-siesta campaigners say what's needed is a feminist-led revolution."

Perhaps we can ship all the anti-burlesque femininsts over to Spain? I'm sure they could make some fabulous progress stamping out those pesky nationally-induced naps.

ClizBiz - Now With Photos!

I've just picked up 12 rolls of film (remember those?) taken during my Gulf Coast Post-Katrina Devastation Tour. I don't want to overwhelm ya'll with gobs of 'em but every once in awhile, I'd like to share.

Because it is Sunday, I'm kicking it off with a sad shot of a downtown church in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi. This house of worship and the faith of the congregants will surely survive - not so sure about the building's proud peak. The sign leaning against it says: "Do Not Remove Steeple."

More to come . . .

Begging for (a) Change

Today kicks off the first official Job Search Effort. The last time I actively looked for a job, it was 1997 and I'd just moved to San Francisco after a year abroad, free-wheeling and fancy-free. I thought I'd simply take The City by storm but instead I had to take a job at the antiseptic restaurant chain, California Pizza Kitchen, an experience I now lovingly refer to as "Hitler Youth Camp."

It was there that I had a very public meltdown. Though I'd been a waitress dozens of times before, company policy demanded I attend their six-week Waitress School to properly absorb the CPK philosophy while demonstrating ample enthusiasm for suggestive selling. While 'enrolled' in the 'school,' I would earn my wages as a busboy.

One night, sometime around midnight, I was filthy, tired and cleaning toilets in the men's room, when a wave of self pity overtook me. Here I was, a 31-year-old college graduate, a world traveller in this new sophisticated town and the best I could come up with was this? Scrubbing porcelain and hoping for measly tips? I was only grateful my parents couldn't see me. Oh, the tears! It was a mighty low point and honestly,I couldn't go lower. Or so I thought.

Finally, I left the restaurant around 1:00 a.m. and was approached, as always, by a homeless guy, begging for change. I shook my head emphatically, "Man, I am the wrong woman on the wrong night to be asking this question . . . sorry."

I sat down at the bus stop and began the lonely (and slightly dangerous) 20-minute wait for my ride home. Again, he asked for change and, when I again refused, he harrassed me further. I mostly ignored him, though I remember thinking to myself, "Why can't he clean a toilet? I've been doing it all night!"

However, when he uttered the words, "It's because I'm black, isn't it?" something inside my worn-out brain just snapped. I began screaming at him, hateful words in an angry rage - things I can't even remember; it was an out-of-body explosion of frustration. Alarmed, he backed away from me and then, he began to walk away. Apparently, I wasn't finished making my point so I started following him. Taking my words like daggers to the back, he began to run. So I ran too, still shrieking my blood red monologue through the streets of my new town.

It must have been quite a sight. A screaming blonde white girl, born and raised in the suburbs, chasing a freaked out black homeless dude, up and down the Tenderloin in the wee hours. I finally caught site of myself in a store window and stopped dead in my tracks. He, wisely, kept going.

Panting and mildly nasueous, I looked up in time to see my bus go past me. I'd missed my ride. Then, it began to rain.


I'm hoping this time around, I'll have better luck.

Evidence That This Century Won't Be Like The Last

Tonight, I learned that my father, Bob, a Republican cowboy character from South Dakota has a very deep admiration for Queen Latifah, a serious crush on Jennifer Lopez and has started watching "The View."

Um . . . I'm not sure where to start here but I think this might be Progress.

He understands that Queen may have had another career before she became an actress but he has no idea what it is. I try to explain "rap" and her place in its history but he has just one question, "Rap. Is that music?"

As for his beloved J-Lo, he's not sure about all the fuss over her famous butt, he likes her face. Other than "Galaxy Quest" (a movie we watch together annually,) his favorites movies are "The Wedding Planner" and "Maid in Manhattan." When his wife, Shirley, told him that Ms. Lopez has a singing career as well, he couldn't believe it. I then added that her showbiz career started as a dancer and he gasped, "Boy, what a talent!"

Meanwhile, the latest knowledge he's gleaned from the View gals have something to do with asexuals who have organized. My father, a lusty individual if ever there was one, marveled over these people who had no interest in sex. Furthermore, he tried to understand why they would want to get together and have people know about their strange condition. I offer that maybe they can offer one another support or maybe to create a safe atmosphere where no passes will be made. Or maybe they just want their own clubhouse.

"Hmmmm. I s'pose."

Parents. You do the best you can and try to protect them but inevitably they eat a bowl of that wild pop culture stew and the questions start. They hear things on the golf course, pick up a phrase here and there at the Early Bird dinners and the next thing you know, they've joined the Snoop Dogg fan club.

Boobs, boobs, boobs!

Yesterday morning, as I was leaving for my mammogram appointment, my cousin Ryan gamely called out, "Have a smashing time!"

Yes, nothing like having your tits mechanically stamped flat from every angle to really kick off the day. I asked the woman who was maneuvering my world-class orbs into position how many of these she did every day. She said, "About 50."

That means this angel deals with about 100 boobs per day. To the average male, this sounds like a dream job but the only real advantage would be to see boobs in their infinite variety. Before me, a towering black lesbian - after me, two old ladies - one a skinny, little white haired character, the other a big, fat Russian. No two boobs are the same, not even on the same gal. (My nickname used to be "Lefty.")

Other than Gustav Klimpt's classic painting, "The Three Ages of Woman", you rarely see an old woman's breasts shown anywhere. In fact, when the average person tries to buy a poster or print of Klimpt's depiction, the old woman is almost always cropped out of the picture showing just the first two ages of woman, the smooth youthful ones.

I've always had a love/hate relationship with my own boobs. They arrived like gangbusters in the 5th grade, just as my parent's divorce was beginning. I tried to hide them but I didn't fool everyone. I believe my teacher, Mrs. Merrill finally sent a note home, something to effect of, "This girl needs a bra." I don't remember ever wearing A-cups, I began at B.

Suddenly, all my boy buddies started treating me differently and acting silly around me. Though my body raced ahead, my insides were still a kid. I could see jealousy in the faces of girls and goofy lust in the faces of boys and it was all happening against my will.

In Jr. High and High School, they made me feel fat, of course. Nevertheless, I still didn't comprehend their power. I started to get a sense of it one Halloween evening, dressed up as a mouse. I'd borrowed a black leotard from a friend and the only one she had was backless so I went braless. Standing on the sidelines cheering the football team (yes, I was a dumb blonde cheerleader,) I heard a plaintive yell: "WILL YOU MARRY ME?!? PLEASE? WILL YOU MARRY ME? MOUSE GIRL?"

On and on he went, looking quite genuinely pained and pathetic. I didn't know him but we were about the same age and it looked like he might cry at any moment. My friends thought it was hilarious and I almost felt bad for him without knowing why. Finally, one of his friends came along, politely apologized to me and gingerly peeled him off the fence that separated us. The young man's own hormones had turned on him, rendering him helpless and I (we?) only added to his torture. I mean, I was jumping up and down, fer chrissakes.

By the time the 80s rolled around, I had not only made peace with them but they often paid the bar tab, merely by existing. More recently, I have kept them hidden, taking them out only for special occasions, leading them to be named "The Good China" by The Devil-ettes.

Perhaps when I move to a warmer climate they will experience a rennaissance. I suppose they deserve it - in fact, we all do.

Let The Transformation Begin

I'm listening to Merle proudly wail "Okie from Muskogee" and pondering my iminent metamorphosis from pot-smoking hippie chick to whiskey-drinking redneck chick. I'm certainly not afraid, if anything, it is long overdue.

Yes, it's official. I plan to move my life from this beautiful bayside paradise to the state capitol of Texas. Why? That could take many blogs to explain but suffice to say, it's just time.

I love San Francisco with all my heart - hell, I may even leave it here but it's a transition town, not for me to put down roots. It's been described as a beautiful, captivating lover, an expensive mistress that you try to break up with because you can't afford her then she flashes that stunning smile and your knees go weak. You end up staying, throwing cash at her feet, even though you know she is not the type of woman to marry, that she is not someone you could settle down with. And so it goes.

Meanwhile, Austin has been calling to me with its pervasive live music, green chilies-in-everything philosophy and Mexican shorthair bats living under the Congress Street bridge peeling out every summer night in great black ribbons with the town cheering them on. This is the town that gave us Willie Nelson, Molly Ivins and Jimmie Dale Gilmore. It is the current home of Sandra Bullock, which kinda proves my point, as she is the only movie star I can relate to. She married a biker dude from Long Beach, fer chrissakes.

There are other beguiling Texan features but mostly, I just need a change of scenery. Sure, it's gonna be hot or rather FUCKING HOT, especially after nine years of wearing wool scarves in August; it's going to be quite a shock. Still, it will be cool to have distinct seasons, that will be a first for me. Living in SoCal is like having variations on the same 75 degree day and here, it's just moist, always.

Expect some nostalgic, weepy, freaked out blogs in the next couple months. I have no job, nowhere to live, not even a map of the town but everyone speaks English, more or less, so I figure how hard can it be?

Okay, so I'm not a ballerina . . .

I've hit 40 and already it's time to start dating Ben Gay. My recent horse incident has hurt my back more than I have been willing to admit. Apparently, I'm on some sort of program where I get to know various body parts individually and intimately via numerous accidents and acts of buffoonery.

Once we hit 25 or so, the body begins breaking down, some days more than others. I am starting to feel my physical limitations and that can only be good news for the whiskey industry.

Perspective From Home

It's amazing how quickly my eyes adapted to seeing smashed buildings and houses cracked wide open like eggs. Walking to the bus this morning, I marveled at everything on my street - intact and apparently sturdy. I now know better.

Wood, metal, concrete - the materials that house our lives always seemed so solid. Still, they are no match for air and water, two elements that when rousted, match the fury of a woman wronged.

I was impressed with the spirit of Southerners in the face of an impossible mess. Some of my favorite quotes included the optimism of a man named Kenny who recalled optimistically, "Well, my house wasn't too far from where it originally was."

Another favorite came from MaryAnn as we observed the open half of a home in Gulfport. "Well, they needed to redecorate anyway . . . I mean, look at that wallpaper!"

Also, in the face of such hard times, the appearance of Xmas decorations, even in the mud. I will post photos once I figure out how to do that. I took 12 rolls as it was hard to stop and impossible to capture.

Well, I'm off to the emergency room, once again. My back is in excrutiating pain. Perhaps I should start picking up my mail there?