Mondays - Still Bad

Today's round of school shootings has me particularly perturbed. Mainly, because it is another reminder that I've grown a hard calloused heart and that what used to horrify my mind, shock my senses and bring nightmares to my nights, merely has me shaking my head, looking at my watch and wondering how long it will take for humans to just hurry on up and go extinct. Nothing personal, but I'm getting pretty damn tired of Us.

Kids, in general, are innocent. Amish kids are something even beyond that so today's mess is an especially disgusting act. These are folks who specifically and willfully reject a world of cars, cell phones and Paris Hilton. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Well, it also means they churn their own butter, grow their own food and build their own homes. In other words, the Amish life is not an easy one and most of us wouldn't last a day. Still, I think some of us look upon them with awe and a touch of envy. They exist in a place and time when things were simpler.

That is, until today.

When did school shootings begin? I see constant references to Columbine but only because it had the highest casualty rate. It certainly wasn't the first and apparently, not the last. Actually, in 1979, sixteen-year-old Brenda Spencer received a rifle for her birthday and used it to shoot kids at an elementary school near her San Diego home, wounding nine and killing two. When a reporter asked her later why she had done it, she replied: "I don't like Mondays. This livens up the day." (The Boomtown Rats jumped on this catchy phrase and made it their biggest hit.)

This is the earliest example I can find and yet, the main ingredients couldn't possibly appear less innocent and idyllic. A teenage girl in sunny San Diego trying out her Christmas gift - just something to spice up an otherwise droll day. The incident did not involve a confused boy obsessed with video games, or any feelings of social ostricization, no decades-old grudges to be squared away. Not unlike the spooky faceless terrorists we 'fight' abroad, we may have to start asking ourselves the same question that keeps popping up around Washington: Are we somehow unintentionally breeding these fuckers?

So, it may have all began with Brenda but the real question is: Where does it all end?

The silicon chip inside her head
Gets switched to overload.
And nobody's gonna go to school today,
She's going to make them stay at home.
And daddy doesn't understand it,
He always said she was as good as gold.
And he can see no reason
'Cause there are no reasons
What reason do you need to be shown?

Tell me why?
I don't like Mondays.
Tell me why?
I don't like Mondays.
Tell me why?
I don't like Mondays.
I want to shoot
The whole day down.

The telex machine is kept so clean
As it types to a waiting world.
And mother feels so shocked,
Father's world is rocked,
And their thoughts turn to
Their own little girl.
Sweet 16 ain't so peachy keen,
No, it ain't so neat to admit defeat.
They can see no reasons
'Cause there are no reasons
What reason do you need to be shown?

Tell me why?
I don't like Mondays.
Tell me why?
I don't like Mondays.
Tell me why?
I don't like Mondays.
I want to shoot
The whole day down.

All the playing's stopped in the playground now
She wants to play with her toys a while.
And school's out early and soon we'll be learning
And the lesson today is how to die.
And then the bullhorn crackles,
And the captain crackles,
With the problems and the how's and why's.
And he can see no reasons
'Cause there are no reasons
What reason do you need to die?

Tell me why?
I don't like Mondays.
Tell me why?
I don't like Mondays.
Tell me why?
I don't like Mondays.
I want to shoot
The whole day down.


Brenda was sentenced to prison for 25 years to life, currently being served at The California Institution for Women in Corona, California. She has been up for parole four times and has been turned down each time. Brenda will be eligible for parole again in 2009.

Let the Seasons Begin! - Autumn 2006

Growing up in Southern California, there were no seasons, only variations on a single 75-degree day. In L.A., the only true indicators of fall were found in the TV Guide. Who knew of changing leaves when there was Must-See-TV?

In San Francisco, you knew it was summer when the wool hat, scarf and gloves came out and we again remembered Mark Twain's famous quote: "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." While freezing my ass off waiting for the bus one morning, I recall reading about Georgia roads buckling in the unfathomable heat and internally noting the irony. Meanwhile, an exasperated woman also waiting nearby finally let loose to no one in particular, "My god, people, it's JULY!"

'Obviously, a new resident,' I recall thinking, noting that she had about eight layers on.

So, with great anticipation, I look forward to my first full year of complete seasons – the first ever in my life. Bring on the whole enchilada: the blasting heat of summer, the crisp golden colors of fall, the freezing snow of winter and the bountiful flowers of spring. The entire concept is strangely novel and I am ridiculously excited. At this point, I would easily pass up a celebrity sighting (it's shocking, they actually resemble real humans) for an overnight snow any old day.

My favorite season of all – autumn – has arrived in full force. My neighborhood (see photos) is exploding with vibrant colors that conveniently match my coloring. Any girl that came of age in the 80s had their colors done (I'm pretty sure it was government enforced, for awhile) and naturally, I was an Autumn. What some folks see as a time of death, I see as glorious opportunity for making soup, strolling through leaves and buying brown lipsticks. Let's not forget that there's some new TV shows to watch too. (Old habits die hard.)

To celebrate the first official day of autumn, my pal, Gins, and I headed to Rocky Mountain National Park to take in the changing Aspens and listen to the elk bulls do their annual bugling. Called "The Rut", it marks about 6-8 weeks of the elk mating season. During that time, they are everywhere – all over the park, in people's yards, walking down Main Street – something about being powerfully horny that makes the elk population less shy.

Watching these magnificent beasts arch back their great antlered-heads and screech to the world their incredible longing, we felt a tad invasive. As Gins joked, "Hi, um, we're here for the elk porn?" We did observe that, not unlike car alarms in human urban jungles, the bugling was entirely ignored by other elk but possibly served as a warning to the elk ladies that the evening's boisterous activities would resume once all the idiot pink humanoids left the park. As the ranger put it after one particularly fierce bugle, "He's saying, 'Get ready, baby. I'm coming for ya.'" (Sigh. Would that I were horny only once a year – certainly would simplify matters. In fact, I could also probably use a park ranger or some other official agent to supervise. Perhaps in the next life?)

Anyway, there's something about an entire season being so radically different than the one before it that offers promise. I sense that each cycle will bring fresh hope, a clean slate and a new chance to rectify the myriad fuck-ups from the previous cycle. Being reborn every three months could do wonders for my life and brings me back to a basic philosophy: Change is good.

Life in the Silver Lining

Famous for my romantic luck (all bad), I was stood up this weekend for my first official post-debacle Denver date, with a man we'll call V. 'Twas going to be lovely – a drive up into the mountains and a BBQ in the woods followed by some inevitable adult horseplay. Yay! Look at me! Moving forward, exploring the outdoors, making friends … I'm so goddamn healthy, I can hardly stand myself!

And then, nothing. No word. No phone call. No email. Just silence.

Imagine my delight on Monday when I learned that V had simply been thrown in jail. Y'see, I've got a knack for this kind of thing. If the Learning Annex offered seminars on "How to Avoid Serious Commitment by Picking the Wrong Men Over and Over Again" I could have a cottage industry on my hands. Truly, it's uncanny.

Like the time I went on a date only to watch him make out with another girl - all night. Or the time I was stood up because the guy's ex-girlfriend showed up with the 11-year-old daughter he'd never heard about. Or the guy who wined and dined me, swept me off my feet and then casually mentioned his wife. Oh, I've got a million of these – gems, all of 'em. (The photo above is just an ideal example - a lying Tom DeLay mixed with a drunken Nick Nolte, compliments of Fang. Anyway, I'm sure we've dated.)

I remember once fretting to a friend about this tired old topic and asking plaintively, "Why does God hate me so much?" and he shook his head in wonder, "I have no idea." Perhaps it is not too late to become a militant lesbian nun? Were it not for my flaming heterosexuality, I might consider it.

Discussing this latest beau-in-the-slammer disappoint with my steady pal, Gins, I marveled, half-laughing, at my own dysfunction. "It's like the normal healthy-man-attraction magnets that get put into a woman got loaded into me backwards, hence, the reverse effect," I whined. The conversation then fell into a typical pattern: "Well, just be glad that he wasn't in an accident" and "The bright side is that he didn't stand me up on purpose" and so on. I began to recognize this song, had heard it relentlessly from myself and others for decades now.

I observed to Gins that my life feels like one long series of coulda-been-worse-ifs, on-the-other-hands and just-be-glad-thats. Finally, in a moment of exasperated defeat, I screeched, "I'm fucking tired of looking on bright fucking side!" Soon, we were collecting all the sad sack glass-half-full phrases recently uttered about my love life until Gins (portraying me) said: "I feel like my life has been one long series of silver linings."

And there you have it.

Making the best of a bad situation has become a full-time job for me and for what it's worth, I'm good at it. As mentioned in a previous post, I'm falling down just as much as I always have, if not more, but I'm popping back up a lot faster. This forced optimism in the face of relentless failure seems to be strengthening me but what I'm in training for, god only knows.

Why, just the other day, my own TV friend, Calamity Jane, filthy and drunk, leaned wearily up against a wall and sighed: "Every fucking morning I have to figure out how to live my life all over again." Of course, she drinks more than I do and bathes much less so she's got her work cut out for her but I know the gist. It just seems like for all my experience in this area, I would have something to show for it – a few bitter divorces behind me, at the very least.

The scary thing is, the older I get, the less I seem to know, like I've got early stages of Romantic Alzheimer's and pretty soon I'll be punching my crushes on the arm and running from them on the playground.

Well, at the very least, there's always tomorrow.

A Tall Tree Falls in Texas

Though she was a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a teacher and a famous politician, to me, former Texas governor Anne Richards was simply a fabulous comedienne. With that shock of white hair and her unflappable ways, Ann was the kind of gal that made me feel good about being female. (Unlike Anne Coulter, who I fantasize about beating upon, all too often - she should be banished from the gender.)

Anne passed away yesterday at the age of 73, leaving a shining legacy of public service and salty one-liners. Her famous fear of a boring epitaph, "She kept a clean house," is no longer a concern as I note today nearly a thousand news articles from around the world singing her praises.

It was her famous quote regarding George H.W. Bush at the 1988 Democratic National Convention that launched her onto the national stage: "Poor George, he was born with a silver foot in his mouth." To his credit, he later sent her a silver charm shaped like a foot. Point being, it was hard not to love Ann, even when you fell into her crosshairs.

Last year while in Austin, I read a funny story about when Ann, as governor, was called on to address SXSW attendees namely, rock critics. She didn't know what to make of them. (Putting this link in now, I see that the SXSW folks have already posted the story I was about to tell - front and center.)

The day I become a serious AR fan was the day I happened to catch a radio interview with her. Some local San Francisco DJs had called her on a whim, apparently, and were shocked that they got her on the phone. They conducted a faux-serious interview, asking for her "views" on Texas chili, women's rights (in the home) and, of course, hairstyles.

She matched their playfulness, joke for joke, often at her own expense. Launching into a full description of her own famous 'do, she said it was, "like pure white spun sugar, like what you'd get at the county fair, carefully shellacked onto my skull. It's a corona, really, is what it is." Her delivery was masterfully deadpanned - I recall laughing uproariously in the car.

It would be nice to have more humor in politics, god knows we need it. I'm still mad that Bob Dole wasn't allowed to let his funny monkey out while on the campaign trail. I didn't find out about his legendary wit until after he'd lost and that's a shame. (Still wouldn't have voted for him but I sure would've hated him a whole lot less.)

On the dangerous mix of woman and humor, Ann pinned it down: "There's something a little scary about funny women. Well, they're threatening. There was a survey done one time where they asked women what they were most afraid of from men and their response was they were most afraid of being hit or beaten or hurt. They asked men what they were most afraid of from women, and they said being laughed at."

In an effort to keep up with the good 'ole boys in the early days of Texas politicking, Ann discovered (thanks to a family intervention) that she was an alcoholic. This hardly posed a bump in her soaring career. She dealt with the matter straight out, quit the hooch and moved on from there. As TIME wrote today: "But when the fog of booze cleared, Richards discovered that her wit was not fueled by whiskey. The twinkle in her eyes was there to stay."

As for her political life, of which much has been written, Ann was most proud of two actions that probably cost her re-election: She vetoed legislation that would have allowed people to carry concealed handguns and "cop-killer bullets." Also, she vetoed a bill that would have allowed the destruction of the environment over the Edwards Aquifer.

Ann's humor carried her well across the aisle and, barbs aside, she was noted for her bi-partisan friendships. Gov. Rick Perry, a Republican, recalled Ann as "one of the funniest human beings God ever placed on Earth." He also has a great story about working with her in the early days.

"Not too long after we were both elected (he as Texas Commissioner of Agriculture, she as governor), she had a hot line put in my office," said Sharp, who served two terms. "I couldn't get it to work, so went over and asked what was the deal. She said, 'It ain't your hot line, it's my hot line. It only works one way -- mine.'"

Rest in peace, Ann, if you can stand the quiet.

9-11 Rewound

I know, I know – what can be said about 9-11 that hasn't been said already? Usually, I skip all the national scab-picking that goes on this time of year and choose to remember the day sans media. Personally, the most appropriate anniversary of 9-11 was the first one in 2002, spent driving peacefully through North Dakota farmland while noting each field combine quietly flew an American flag. It seemed fitting – respectful, stoic and subdued, yet plowing on ahead.

This year, however, I awoke much too early and flipped on the TV, something I never do before 7:00 p.m. All the tributes, all the 'I-was-here-when-I-heard' stories and the all moments of silence marked this sad day of remembrance. Feeling myself getting sucked in by the vortex of pain, I forced myself to shut it off.

But, being that media monitoring is a large chunk of my job, I found myself on CNN.com throughout the work day. I noticed they were playing the coverage tape from that fateful Tuesday morning in 2001, exactly as it happened in real time. I couldn't resist.

I realize now why I had to see it. Being on the West Coast, by the time I had heard about the events, both towers were gone, the Pentagon was on fire and a soft, green meadow in Pennsylvania was already becoming famous. I'd never experienced the gradual dawning process of our national psyche that fateful day.

The images, of course, I'd seen a thousand times before but watching it 'live' with the anchors, reporters and witnesses describing, horrified, what they see before them – it shook me up. I had to admire the media – pretty much all of them – they tried best they could not to jump to conclusions lest they make dangerously false assumptions. There were several genuine blocks of silence as we all tried to process what we were seeing. At one point, an anchor blurted, "Look at that. Just look at it. You will never see a more frightening sight in your entire life."

As the north tower burned and we watched a second plane hit the south tower, an anchor sounded downright naïve when he asked the former head of the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) if there was a chance that faulty navigational instruments played a role. The NTSB guy, Ira something, was incredulous and forced to spell it out: "It's a perfectly clear day. No pilot needs to depend on their navigational equipment on a day like today, let alone two pilots. This was an intentional act."

It wasn't until 9:18 a.m., 16 minutes after the second plane hit, I note the first time I hear the word "terrorist" uttered – two minutes later our nation's air traffic was completely grounded for the first time in history. Just like that, we became a different country.

That is what sticks with me tonight. Our initial denial that something like this could really be happening, that there has to be some mistake, some mechanical breakdown somewhere, right? Surely, no humans could have a hand in such an epic slaughter? If so, who? And why? Watching that day's replay, I could tangibly sense the mass back-pedaling of denial and feel us rejecting this ugly new world in vain, "No! No! No! No!" We wanted no part of it.

From that point on, we learned handy words and phrases to explain the bleak new landscape based on fear and paranoia. Words like "homeland security" and "WMDs," "Mission Accomplished!" and "suicide bombers" suddenly became part of our daily vocabulary. Previously comforting autumn hues such as yellow, orange and red abruptly became raw, hyper, angry – the government's tool to keep the national fear on tap.

Air travel, once a luxury treat that one dressed up for, soon became a tedious invasive slog that one laboriously un-dressed for. What was right became wrong, what was up was now down. Nothing made sense, least of all, our leaders. We were advised to go shopping and buy duct tape – despite the fact that the hijackers brought the mighty America to its knees with a few box-cutters.

Tonight, I am saddened that we used to be so innocent, so recently. Mentally and emotionally, as a nation, we were raped – four times in one day. That kind of violence leaves a mark. I notice with the ease the word 'terrorist' falls off our tongues in daily conversation and when I hear Osama bin Laden being discussed by little old church ladies. I know it when I see a child being padded down at the airport or when I see a SWAT team on the evening news nervously blowing up an abandoned bag of burritos.

I realize that the world is now offically caught up in a holy war and that this conflict will not end tidily like the wars of our parents. This war will not have a formal surrender ceremony aboard a battleship and there will be no gruff handshakes or re-drawing of borders. This war will be something we have not yet imagined and, I fear, we will lose our innocence all over again.

When Office Gossip Fails

Over the years, I have tried in vain to be the subject of office gossip. As we all know, everybody who is anybody warrants whispers and raised eyebrows at the water cooler. I believe this with every fiber of my shriveled, blackened corporate heart.

In workplaces of yore, I have planted the "Holy cow, Heather's a lesbian!" seed – it seems the most plausible in my forever-single state - but it never took. Trying a different tack, I offered the, "Whoa! Heather sleeps around!" idea but all I got were yawns. (I guess that one's been done.)

Inspired by daytime television, I even submitted a wonderful story about infant me being found on the doorstep of a Satanic church and later surviving a shark attack while fleeing a low-budget Mexican drug cartel. All I got were a few questions from co-workers wondering if I got a deal on my airfare. 'Damn,' I thought, 'this is harder than it looks.'

Obviously, being fodder for the gossip mill comes easier to some. There are always those that inspire scandal with little effort. Every office has its Paris Hilton, some clueless and/or mean ho-bag that is forever providing the minions with hours of tawdry material. In fact, I've always viewed this person as providing a necessary bonding service to the rest – much like the coffee pot only with misplaced lingerie involved.

But beyond entertainment, I depend on office gossip to convey crucial information (though I believe the term en vogue is "leaks.") Again, I simply cannot find the onramp to this unique information highway, despite the omnipresent Internet. Honestly, I thought blogging would unclog this artery all by itself but again, no such luck.

When I left my San Francisco life, I was sent off with lots of warm wishes from friends, family and yes, colleagues. Spending 40 hours a week with a group of people tends to bond you – like school buddies only now we pay taxes and must wear matching outfits. All the ups and downs of life – the first dates, the break-ups, the new homes and new puppies, the lawsuits and the ill-fated forays into ocelot farming – it's all celebrated, mourned and pondered over together like soldiers stuck in the same foxhole.

So, when my Denver dreams with MonkMan all went up in a puff of incense, I posted it, talked about it, generally released the disappointment to the general public with the confidence that the story would be discussed or at least exchanged. I didn't think I needed to print up flyers a la Samantha Jones or anything but assumed the generic grapevine would function normally.

Imagine my surprise when a co-worker IMs me yesterday, September 8th, to ask about my relationship that dissolved in June. "How's the man????" she wanted to know. I was incredulous; this woman sits - every damn day! - mere inches from people who know the entire story and yet hears nothing. "You've got to be kidding me," I said aloud to the cat. "Don't any of those people get bored or seek chocolate? Is there no basic inter-cubicle mingling?"

You see, even my non-deliberate efforts to be discussed fall flat. When I pinged another co-worker about this (the very woman who inspired this blog) she did note that it seemed odd. "Perhaps you are the anti-gossip," she quipped.

She then went on to explain that some people are "talked about while others are not" and that I should see this situation for what it truly is: loyalty. Apparently, my colleagues tend to circle wagons around me, rather then publicize my failures. I'd been going about it all wrong, swimming upstream when I should've been floating down river, enjoying the view.

Even though I face the inevitable telling and re-telling of my sad sack love story over and over again, I am suddenly grateful for the ironclad friendships of my co-workers. Their instinctive silence now feels like the loudest form of support I could ever ask for.

Placeholder Post

While I have at least four solid posts simmering on my internal stove right now, god only knows when they will cooked enough to share - my muse is a flighty tramp.

In the meantime, just to keep ya'll entertained, I'm sharing this disturbing photo of the First Monkey and the First Fembot leisurely watching two pachyderms fuck. Perhaps George and Laura were in Africa to pick up some love tips? This might even be where George got the inspiration for his political philosophy: "One must screw the people to save the people ... hmmmm. Wow, I be brilliant!"

Either way, we're probably still paying for that trip.

(Trying to) Look Ahead

It's not easy going backwards. These days, I try very hard to stay in the moment. It's much too maddening to wring my hands over the past or fret about the future. And while I'm at it, who are these people who say they have no regrets? They must have major memory lapses, is all I can figure.

My recent visit to California brought all this to the forefront and left me rather blue-ish. Snug in my Denver apartment, it's quite easy to focus on the road ahead - anything is possible and, with the exception of my first eight days, there are no ghosts following me around, reminding me of wrong choices and youthful ignorance.

My mother's house in Long Beach, always a sanctuary in my life, made me ache with loneliness this time around. On my last visit in May, I was so goddamn happy I didn't even use the stairs, I just floated around in a rose-colored fog. My re-appearance so soon made me miss that gooey mess of a woman that was me, much more so than the cardboard cut-out man behind all that bliss. Not-so-deep down, I fear that when I told my sister-in-law, "If this isn't The One, then there isn't One" that I was right.

Our Lady of Yahoo

Speeding along on a balmy Silicon Valley night, a precise half-moon gazing down at my rental car, I caught an amazing sight on my way to the Santa Clara Hyatt. Mary, bigger than I'd ever seen her, done up in silver and lit up like ... well, like Madonna.

For some reason, it caught me off guard. Religion has always been a huge part of our culture but for some reason, I've been noting how it folds in with politics, music, cartoons, language - anything and everything, right down to the bible scriptures on the bottom of my In-n-Out soda cup.

I had to see her, say hello, take a photo. Ask her how she scored so much real estate just blocks from Intel and Oracle. Did Larry Ellison ever stop by? Craig Barrett come to share some jokes? I've no doubt that Meg Whitman has shared secrets - girls do that, y'know.

I pulled into the parking lot, nearly ran over a Chinese woman, who barely noticed me and headed to the scene. I waded through a throng of excited folks of Indian descent and passed a Latina as she was heading down the steps. I reached the base of the statue and was impressed with Mary's sheer size. In her silver steel robe, she looked cold yet exuded warmth; mind you, I only felt this through the very idea of her. Who doesn't have a soft spot for Mom? Mary is the ultimate example of the favorite Troup Leader - her door is permenantly open and there are always cupcakes and Kool-Aid. None on this night, however, just a ton of flowers.

It was then I noticed the huge building just behind her, the international headquarters of Yahoo! I was glad to see it, made the atmosphere seem joyful and celebratory. After all, this was a company started by two scruffy-looking boys who had more brains than money. Their success story, and others like them, is what makes SV such young, hopeful place. (I also find it incredibly dry, boring and sexless but I'm trying to be positive here, for Mary's sake.)

Just before I left, a small (perhaps only by comparison) Asian man climbed the steps to Mary's feet and bowed before her. Down on bended knee, he looked like he might propose. I kept my distance to allow him privacy but from my perch I could see clearly that he was speaking to her. Then, after sharing his deepest thoughts (fears? concerns?) Jerry Yang got back up, walked down the steps and said goodbye to his gorgeous heavy metal friend.


Okay, so maybe I am taking a leap of faith with that last assumption but isn't that what Mary's all about?

Old Home Week

Back in San Francisco this week on business. It's wonderful to see the loving, familiar faces of family and friends. Beautiful as San Francisco is, however, I feel no pangs of homesickness, especially when freezing my ass off in August. However, the fog finally lifted and brought me a beautiful day today. I strolled through The City in all her sparkling glory, counting the iPods and admiring the unique architecture.

Beyond actual human beings, however, the only things I miss about San Francisco are as follows:

The Presidio
Trader Joe's
In-n-Out
Hardly Strictly Bluegrass
Ridiculously steep hills
Foghorns

I also miss being 'downtown' amongst the hustle and bustle, moving through the throngs of city dwellers, eavesdropping on their conversations. I can't say I miss the bus, per se, but I do recall it fondly - my appreciation for public transportation runs deep. These days, isolated in the cushy home office, my version of commuter traffic now consists of tripping over my cat in the hallway. Gotta say, I love it. The cubicle life is not missed (with the exception of my co-workers, whom I adore) especially with my aversion to flourescent lighting.

Meanwhile, I could barely contain my pride with yesterday's announcement that Colorado is the leanest state in the nation. Ironic for me since most of my family lives in Mississippi, the fattest state in the nation. (I can't rub this in too much, however, since I am probably the chubbiest in the clan.) As a newcomer, I can attest to this 'lean state' business. I recall telling my mother, "I swear. Everyone is in shape here, even the big 'uns. I've only seen one fat person since I moved to Colorado and she zoomed past me up the trail."

One Year Later

Broken Levees, Broken Hearts

I dutifully stayed home these last two nights to watch Spike Lee's documentary, "When the Levees Broke" on HBO. In four heart-wrenching acts, Lee takes us through Hurricane Katrina on August 29, 2005 and its devastating effect on the Gulf Coast, primarily New Orleans.

As a Mississippian by proxy (a Clisby contingent lives on the coast), my first reaction was resentment that the film (like much of the media coverage) did not pay more attention to Mississippi, where the damage was extensive. However, once the film got underway, it was clear that Lee zeroed in one subtle detail in all this mess, something I always point out to folks: The damage to Mississippi resulted from a natural disaster – the damage to New Orleans was the fault of mankind, bureaucrats specifically. It only happened because our government turned its back on the entire scene. Period.

This is the underlying point of Lee's film: This national tragedy did not have to occur. Everyone knew this could happen. The President (we see videotape of him being briefed on August 28 by federal meteorologists.) FEMA. The Governor. The Mayor. The media. And, yes, even the citizens. It was the ‘inconvenient truth’ before Gore showed up to claim the phrase.

No one wanted to foot the bill for capable levees to be built and the Army Corps of Engineers (they and FEMA Director Michael Chertoff are the biggest villains here) are either alarmingly ignorant or modern-day charlatans. Both options chill my spine. This is the crew that is supposed to make our blind little American lives safer?!? It’s like having a gang of mean-spirited pyromaniac teenage boys take care of your cat while you’re on vacation - makes it hard to relax.

The abysmal failure of every level of government in our great hour of need was astounding. A lieutenant from the Corps is caught on film proclaiming that the levees were 17 feet deep and, “We don’t know why the levees failed.” Hmm, could it be because they were actually only 10 feet deep? Half-assed job from an agency that used to boast the world’s best engineering minds and now they are a bunch of lazy liars. Don’t worry though, they promise to get the levees “built back up to pre-Katrina standards.” Great! Will they also be handing out floaties?

I suffered no personal loss and yet the ripple effect of Katrina continues to vex me. Certainly, I feel shame about the pointless war my country stubbornly insists on fighting but this situation takes it to another level– it’s personal. I liken it to the embarrassment you might feel when your asshole husband picks a fight with the neighbors, compared to the sick sensation you’d get watching the same prick admit he forgot to pick up the kids from school - he was simply focused on other things. More of an overall, “Uh-oh”-type feeling, the kind that produces cold sweat.

Wisely, Lee stays out of the film entirely. You never see his face and only hear him in the background once or twice. He leaves the storytelling to the people that were there, lost loved ones, lost everything, are living in FEMA trailers, have scattered families and are just getting by, one day at a time. The best interviews are with key players during that time, including my favorite, the guy who told Cheney “Go fuck yourself!” on live television - twice. I love that guy. (Best part is, the guy's a scientist!)

We hear sad story after sad story and the images are beyond shocking. It’s just hard to get your mind around an entire government (ours, specifically) turning its back on citizens who were drowning and dying in a major urban city. Bush was on vacation and couldn’t be bothered to touch down on ravaged Gulf Coast soil until TWO FUCKING WEEKS LATER. Cheney was fly-fishing in Wyoming, of course. Condi was shoe shopping in Manhattan on Day Three. After that, she caught the Tony-award-winning musical, “Spamalot.” Omigod, such fun!

My anger is endless on this topic so I’ll try to calmly conclude this barbed rant. Bottom line: Please find a way to see this film. Hurricane Katrina is one of the defining moments in our nation’s history, for better or for worse. It will be studied and talked about for years to come but one thing is for sure, America will never, ever be the same.

Folks Festival - Rain or Shine

Yesterday, I had the wisdom to get up early and drive for an hour in the pouring rain to attend an outdoor music festival. Thankfully, the 16th annual Folks Festival in Lyons was worth every drop.

Being solo does have its advantages, especially when it comes to entertainment venues. Sure enough, I weaseled my soggy butt onto a choice sliver of muddy grass and made friends with the neighbors immediately – a group of about seven lesbians and one straight man named Gary. "I'm an island in a sea of ovum," he said.

I showed up during the set of Kathrin Shorr, a lovely Londoner who taught herself after finding an old guitar in her father's clock shop. As a struggling guitar student, I gotta hand it to her – I can barely get it out of the case by myself.

The next guy blew me away. Steve Seskin, a prolific songwriter, won me over with his first song, "Two-Paper Town" which talked about the lack of news choices and biased news reporting. The liner notes of his CD stated: "I'm disturbed by the notion that our country is starting to look all the same and that slowly but surely, the uniqueness of the different regions of this great land are disappearing." Gotta love Steve.

Elvis Perkins in Dearland came next. As the son of the late actor Anthony Perkins, the guy is a gifted poet. Sadly, Elvis also lost his mother on 9/11 (she was on the one of the planes) so he's got plenty of angst to pull from. He did just that but he also offered a few lively ditties, punched up by his band, one of whom happily beat on a drum strapped to his chest. "He was definitely the rebel in the high school marching band," Gary decided.

One of my favorite artists, Jane Siberry, was up next, except she now goes by the name of Issa. (I don't get it and apparently, am not supposed to.) She started off a bit too ethereal for the crowd, with recordings of birds, she did a spoken-word thing, talking about rivers and fairies and whatnot. "Yipes," said a neighboring lesbian. Eventually, she won everyone over with her quirky songs, admitted lack of rhythm and also the tidbit that she'd recently sold everything she owned except what she can carry. She's a unique Canadian jewel, that one.

In between all these sets, I walked around the festival and quickly got drunk on various flavors of mead (simply because there was no line) – black raspberry, boysenberry and sunshine/apricot. A darling young man named Quail (!) preached to me the wonders of wind power while I pondered why hemp clothing must always be so damn ugly.

I munched on sweet potato fries, wrote in my journal (it's been neglected since the blog was born) and read. Meanwhile, the rain came, went, came back and went away again. During one of the downpours, I snuck a cigarette under a tree with a woman who had just moved to Colorado from Utah. "It was time," she said. When she heard my story, she gave me her lighter for good luck.

One of my favorite musicians of all time, Guy Clark, came on next, accompanied by his talented friend, Verlyn Thompson. I love Guy and have seen him before but he seemed a bit weary this time, perhaps it was the altitude. (Most of the artists commented on it. Kris Kristofferson said: "Who took all the air?") Anyway, he played some favorites ("Old Friends," and "Homegrown Tomatoes")plus some tunes from his new album, "Workbench Songs." Fittingly, it began raining again during "Randall Knife," a song about his father's death. Oh, how I love that man - he's like 'Pa' on 'Bonanza' - you just feel safer when he's around.

Kathleen Edwards followed Guy and I'm not sure if it was her soothing voice or the mead but I passed out. I'm sure she's great but honestly, I can't confirm this.

I awoke to the roof-raising antics of The Waifs. Comprised of two Australian sisters and bunch of guys, this band rocked the house. One minute, it was a haunting solo acapella and the next, it sounded like some rock-roots circus had come to town. By far, they gave the best performance of the day. Impossible to sleep through, that's for sure.

At this point, the sun made a final appearance and really lit up the red cliffs and the bright green trees. Lordie, it was spectacular. Yet again, the reality of living in Colorado cheered me up immensely. Hearing one artist after another comment on the state's beauty made me so proud. Jane/Issa said, "If you live here, you are so lucky. You must feel different; your cells must look different. Please, go out in the world and spread this around. Go sit in train stations and such. Please."

Last but not least, Kris Kristofferson – the headliner of the day – made it out. I'd been forewarned about his onstage awkwardness by Fang and KK didn't stray from that. Though he is a phenomenal songwriter and his singing voice is full of gritty sincerity, his guitar playing is minimal, at best. At first, he wouldn't look at us or speak, except when abruptly ending his songs (each and every time) with a mumbled, "Thank you."

The audience found this charming, as did I. The Pilgrim is a legend and so obviously humbled by life circumstances, he is real. Gradually, after getting overwhelming love from the crowd, he began to relax and tell us stories - about being in the Army and then the National Guard, about being broke, about getting feedback from his kids. (His five-year-old son, "Um, dad, that's not a very good song.") So often he tips his hat to other musicians, citing them by name is a KK trait - Hank Williams and Roger Miller get the most love but Johnny and Willie show up too. (His song, "Wild American" is a perfect example of this.)

By the end of the evening, the crowd was on their feet. We had been there for 12 hours and now stood under the stars, wet and freezing, and hanging on every word of KK. I knew there was a barnstormer of a song coming, the words so clear and painful, that no one would be unaffected. Sure enough, "In the News" cut right to the bone and brought home the power of music – the reason we all showed up in the first place:

Read about the sorry the way he'd done somebody's daughter
Chained her to a heavy thing and threw her in the water
She sank into the darkness with their baby son inside her
A little piece of truth and beauty died

Burning the atmosphere and cutting down the trees,
The billion-dollar bombing of a nation on their knees
Anyone not marching to their tune, they call it treason
Everyone says God is on his side

See the lightening, hear the cries
Of the wounded in a world in holy war
Mortal thunder from the skies
Killing everything they say their fighting for

Broken babies, broken homes
Broken-hearted people dying every day
How'd this happen?
What went wrong?
Don't blame God, I swear to God, I heard him say:

Not in my name, not on my ground
I want nothing but the ending of the war
No more killing
Or it's over
And the mystery won't matter anymore

Broken dreamers, broken rules
Broken-hearted people just like me and you
We are children of the stars
Don't blame God, I swear to God, he's crying too

Not in my name, not on my ground
I want nothing but the ending of the war
No more killing or it's over
And the mystery won't matter anymore

Read about the sorry way he'd done somebody's daughter
Chained her to a heavy thing and threw her in the water
And she sank into the darkness with their baby son inside her
A little piece of truth and beauty died

An Early Christmas

Oh, the joy I receive when bad things happen to bad companies.

Andrew Young, an African-American civil rights leader, was hired by Wal-Mart to improve its public image and perhaps, keep the corporate nun company. Young's job was to, once again, help the obese entity with its tarnished public image.

For six months, Young has been traveling the nation, assuring everyone that WM cares about People Just Like You – as long as you are not Jewish, Arab or Korean, that is. (Insert smug squeal here.)

In an interview yesterday with an African-American newspaper, The Los Angeles Sentinel, Young stated distrust of small neighborhood market owners, you know the ones, those that are disappearing into the tire treads of a certain big box retailer we know? "(They've been) selling us stale bread and bad meat and wilted vegetables," Young huffed, setting the stage for puffing.

“You see those are the people who have been overcharging us,” he said of the mom-n-pop store owners, “and they sold out and moved to Florida. I think they’ve ripped off our communities enough. First it was Jews, then it was Koreans and now its Arabs.”

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!! Can we sing carols now???

Here's where Mr. Young, former mayor of Atlanta, gets to learn that being black does not disqualify you from being a bigoted fool. Nor does being a former representative to the United Nations, which Young was in a former life, before the accident.

Anywaaaay (interject sing-songy tone here,) less than an hour later, Young resigned as chairman of Working Families for Wal-Mart, a group created and financed by the company to trumpet its accomplishments. I guess Wal-Mart assumed that just because Young was black, he could play the trumpet …

What? Who said that?

101 Ways to Be an Asshole

I nearly choked on my toothpaste yesterday morning when I heard about Northwest Airlines new 'money-saving tips' offered to laid-off employees. Titled "101 Ways to Save Money," the list crosses so many lines of sensitivity and good taste, it's like a lap dance at a wake – before the flasks appear. As a public relations professional, I have to wonder if the Northwest pr team was unavailable, having all died in a team-building off-site gone awry or if they (now) just wish they were.

Helpful tips (set-ups are mine) include:

-Need a sparkly bobble? Get jewelry from pawn shops!
-Car break down? Snag car parts at junkyards!
-Drowning in bills? Take shorter showers!

The Eagan, Minn.-based carrier gave out 60 of the booklets before it began getting complaints, and it cut the list from remaining copies. Northwest, the fifth-largest U.S. airline, is reducing pay and benefits and shedding jobs as it trims labor spending by $1.4 billion annually to exit bankruptcy protection as soon as 2007. The job cuts include 1,000 machinists as well as members of other unions. The airline also is seeking $195 million in wage and benefit cuts from its flight attendants, who have said they will begin a series of unannounced, random work stoppages as soon as Aug. 25.

Any way you look at it, it's a sad story. Though it is happening all across the industry, I pay particular attention to Northwest because it is the only airline willing to fly me to North Dakota.

More sage advice:

-Generous but broke? Give homemade cards and gifts!
-Sick but broke? Ask Doc for free drug samples!
-Need to get laid? Borrow an employed friend's dress for a big night out!
-Kids have a birthday? Hand-me-downs – they won't know the difference!

This is my favorite tip as it requires no additional exaggerations:

"Don't be shy about pulling something you like out of the trash."

Mind you, I lived by this philosophy during my time in San Francisco, a town of wealthy transients. Hell, I furnished half my apartment with 'trash,' including the chair I currently sit in. However, I never thought I'd live to see the day when my scavenger tendencies would be backed by a major airline.

Clueless, beleaguered and broke, Northwest must take the ultimate blame for this embarrassment. However, there is another player in all this. The 165-page booklet was apparently created for Northwest by NEAS, an employee-assistance company based in Waukesha, Wis. According to them, NEAS is comprised of "...people who truly listen, who genuinely care, who are available at all times, and who know how to enhance the lives of employees and support the productivity and profitability of employers."

I admire their dedication in "being there at all times" – especially since a spokeswoman for NEAS referred all calls back to Northwest regarding this issue.

It's a (Early) Girl!

Saturday was an exciting day here at Clisby Gardens: I harvested my first edible item! Isn't it a beautiful red? Tomato Red, I think they call it over at the paint store. Marvel at its miraculous girth. Lust over its taut perfect skin. Admire its perfect green soul patch.

Go ahead, I'll give you a moment.

No matter that the blender in the photo is only four inches tall - I still consider this a miracle - mostly because it happened under my fidgety watch. Though I have explored online, read books and scanned gardening magazines, I find nothing to prove that misplaced maternal hovering helps foster plant growth. Well, I-be-damn, here's your proof! Okay, perhaps these daily Colorado rainstorms help some but clearly, divine intervention is at work here.

I'm feeling mighty powerful and self-sufficient from this accomplishment. Dirt, up until now, was something to be washed off, never dug into. Big, leafy new worlds are opening up for me with this new birth - worlds that welcome worms and produce brand new tomatoes.

Happy to be Blue in Denver

I have lived in Denver a mere 2.5 months and it wasn't until tonight that I began to feel like a local. Weeks ago, after reading a compelling feature in the Denver Post, I bought a single ticket to see Josh Blue at The Gothic Theatre on 8/11/06. He was voted favorite local comedian in a recent poll and I thought it would be cool – as a cheerleader of all things comedic – to support a talented Denver fellow making his dent in the world through laughter.

This was weeks ago. Meantime, JB managed to actually be the last comic standing on the NBC show, "Last Comic Standing" – declared just last Wednesday. Tonight was his first performance since grabbing that title.

Because of his 'standing,' they were filming a DVD of tonight's show and the atmosphere was celebratory. Josh looks like any other Colorado stoner and he is, but also, he is not. Josh has cerebral palsy (while I am merely drunk) and uses his jerky condition as fodder for his act. In fact, he declared a cure would surely ruin his life at this point, "Well, there goes my gig." The above photo shows Josh as a U.S. soccer team member in the Para-Olympics, not to be confused with the Special Olympics. "We play for medals, not hugs," Josh insists.

Ah, The Gothic Theatre. Ceilings painted sky-like, the venue is a Denver legend, despite its location in nearby Englewood. Known as the first theatre in the area to show talking pictures, it is a holy church of entertainment. A band plus a few other comics came out first to warm up the crowd ("Hippie Man" was an especially big hit) but it was Josh the crowd wanted. With all the hovering boom mikes and fancy cameras plus his recent win, the atmosphere in the room was sheer pride, absolute love. (Walking to the theatre from where I'd parked, I passed a small house just behind The Gothic - sprinklers were on and kids were jumping through them. In the window were pasted four large letters made from blue construction paper: J-O-S-H.)

Josh arrived with his shaggy blonde locks, his famous jiggy right arm and the crowd jumped to its feet, so wildly proud of his accomplishment – local boy makes good – great, even. It was at that moment I felt a small membrane of my world melt through. As I stood, clapping wildly for a comedian I had never seen, I felt like maybe Denver was a place I was going to know, would grow to care about, be proud of. I felt the first inklings of being a true citizen.

Sure, Josh was funny but that wasn't even the real point of the evening; Josh was HOME. There was so much affection in the room, it was practically squeezable. I have been an audience member many, many, many times and rarely have I felt that kind of emotion. The last time I recall such glee was when the White House blew up during a July 4 screening of 'Independence Day' – mind you, this was all pre 9/11, before such things were tinged with reality.

I left the theatre with a huge grin, and deliberately walked past the line for the next show, just so they could be assured that good times were ahead. I then stopped to notice an artfully lit-up church (a sure sign of God's love) across the street. I had passed it many times and always admired its steadfast steeple amongst the Burger Kings and Brakes Plus along Broadway. I was supernaturally drawn to it, in my Jack Daniels stupor. All the doors were locked, except one, which, turns out – was all I needed.

I entered the dark chapel and walked straight to the first pew. I plopped down next to an empty tithing basket and thought about the evening, about my life, about the world – both past and present. I felt small. I felt marinated. I thought about Josh. I thought about Israel. I thought about Lebanon. I thought about my ex-boyfriend – all of them. After 20 minutes or so of staring at the cross, taking in the silence of an empty urban church (I think it was Baptist, not that it matters,) I stood to announce: "God just isn't here." And I left.

I'm pretty sure, He was at The Gothic, waiting patiently for the next show.

A Very Small (Strange) Animal

As I have stated once before, who needs science fiction – or any fiction for that matter – when we've got creatures like this squishing around the planet? Meet the Piglet Squid, which is precisely what it looks like, minus the adorable jumper, though there is something reminiscent of Cameron Diaz in "Something About Mary," no?

And now, for some random Piglet hate-related trivia:

Tiny Pig Takes Heat: Piglet's character was originally omitted by Disney in the first Pooh film, "Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree" (1966). According to the film's director, Wolfgang Reitherman, Piglet had been replaced by Gopher, which Disney thought had a more "folksy, all-American, grass-roots image." But Disney relented to pressure, particularly from the British, who were familiar with the classic Milne books, and added Piglet back into the story.

Furthermore, on June 19th, 2006, it was reported in the New York Times that Winnie the Pooh had been taken off the air in Turkey by the state broadcaster TRT. The ban was due to the fact that Piglet is a pig, an animal considered unclean by muslims.

Many thanks to my pal, Trillwing, for consistently enlightening me on all things strange and creepy, such as elaborate sea spiders, feminism and doctoral dissertations.

Magical People

Despite my accurate impression of a two-toed sloth yesterday ("Hey, look 'Overboard' is on!) the weekend was productive, humanistically-speaking. I can't tell if it is my new and improved mindset paired with a clean social slate or the fact that Denver is just damn friendly, but I'm finding some high quality folks lately.

Friday evening,I met up with local writer, Nick Hartshorn, at My Brother's Bar downtown (jalapeno/cream cheese burgers, yum!) He published a book called "Catch." To research, Nick traveled along seven major highways throughout the U.S. with a stack of recording tapes, three baseball gloves (including a lefty) and one goal: To talk to anyone willing to play a game of catch with him. A review called it a "profound and an affectionate glimpse into the uniquely American summer twilight passion, a slow, sweet game of catch." Since then, Nick has covered nightlife for Denver's glossy lifestyle mag, 5280, and is getting ready to launch his own endeavor – more on that later.

Nick is everything one could want in a writing buddy – he knows the book publishing ropes, happily shares coupons for free cocktails and wears steel-toed boots, figuratively-speaking. He gave me a swift kick or two regarding my pie-in-the-sky writing project that I've been toying with but have done nothing about. I've dreams of writing a book about the changing American landscape, using North Dakota as a setting, and my take on it all. Think Bill Bryson style but with more caustic, political overtones.

Anyway, Nick gave me deadlines and refused my lame bullshit excuses. God bless him - his timing is impeccable. What's odd is that I often perform this service for other people – it's great how it gives the impression of stern self-discipline. (I'm such a fucking sham.) Color me thrilled to finally have my own Drill Instructor.

I then attended a reception for my favorite local artist, Adam Ambro. He uses Sharpies and colored pencils to draw old cars and trucks against newspaper classifieds. So simple – guess that's why I like it, combines many of my favorite white trashian elements. I'm gonna get me one – just can't decide yet … the caddy, the tractor or the old truck? Advice welcome.

Later, I dropped by the 3 Kings to attend the CD release party for The Nancy Drews. They celebrated the release of their first CD, "Fridge Full of Food" by happily rocking the house. Though I was to meet up with friends later, I initially arrived solo, fully planning to hide in the corner until Sarah or Karen arrived. (Karen, I must point out, looked extra hot that evening in her black halter dress with pink skull-and-crossbone accents. God, I need to get me some style ... )

Barely two steps into the joint, I was approached by a beautiful young woman named Carly who, apparently, knew me. "Come hang out with us!" and just like that, I was adopted by a lively bunch – Carly, Bliss, Heidi Sue, Neil and Ray. All of 'em except Ray hail from Mississippi which, of course, won me over immediately. We had meaty discussions of music, Halloween parties and spirituality. The appropriately-named Bliss is videographer/editor and has documented some very powerful sources in the spiritual world. Heidi Sue is an accomplished artist – the intense, colorful pieces (sort of wall reliefs) I saw at her apartment were unbelievable. Neil was simply a force of nature unto himself - he reminded me of a young Jim Carrey on cocaine. Together, we had a great time hurting ourselves long into the night.

Saturday night, I spent time with a yummy ex-Marine named Dan. As we sat on my front porch smoking various substances and drinking Maker's Mark, I tried not to stare at his beefy arms and instead focus on his Forrest Gump-esque tales of world events.

Dan was a Marine stationed in Beirut, Lebanon when the 1983 terrorist bombing occurred in the Marine barracks. "I just happened to be out on maneuvers that day," he said, shaking his head. In all, 241 American servicemen died, many of them friends of Dan. With the current Lebanon-Israel clusterfuck, Dan's emotions are being rubbed raw once again.

Flash forward six years and Dan is living in the Bay Area with wife and kids. Driving a delivery truck, he passes through the Bay Bridge toll booth and heads to San Francisco. He feels some bumping and jerking and wonders if his shocks need replacing. In his rear view mirror, he see cars pulling over, people getting out. Up ahead, he sees a car stopped and a man out, waving his arms wildly. "It's gone!" he was yelling, "The bridge is gone!"

Sure enough, Dan stopped, got out and a huge section of the span had fallen to the lower deck. Dan missed being part of that chunk by mere seconds. Later, Dan discovered that the bridge chunk had landed on a Volvo below, carrying twin babies, who survived, and their parents, who perished immediately.

Lessons learned/re-affirmed:
Don't be lame.
People are fascinating.
Life is short.

And also, a timely quote from yesterday's slob-fest:

"A writer writes." --repeated line from "Throw Momma From the Train."

It's So Fun Being Famous

Poor Mel Gibson. What's a drunken anti-Semite to do? (My favorite headline today: "Let's Talk About Healing, Mel Asks Jews" from The Australian.)

As Mad Max gets increasingly madder and the frenzy over TomKat's MIA baby grow, I have to pause once again, and thank Christ that my talents are small and few. Otherwise, I would be world famous and inevitably become the daily target of web spites like Go Fug Yourself.

'Fug' is defined by the site's creators, Heather and Jessica, as a contraction of "fantastically ugly." They ponder such things as the mysterious cave in Paula Abdul's chest, Hayden Christiensen dressing awful on purpose to squelch those gay rumors and then there's showbiz veteran Dyan Cannon and her apparent cluelessness on the effects of flash bulbs. That's all fine and dandy but what is truly fun here is the writing - so wicked, so funny, I could've roamed the archives for days. For anyone, like myself, who is allowed to buy People at the airport where no one will seem them, this will be a new playground for ya.

I love that on the far left column of the site, they include proper media endorsements ("Hilarious bitches." --Defamer, "Visciously funny duo." -Hollywood Reporter) alongside actual hate mail from readers ("Your shriveled little hearts must be made of tar." -A reader, "Were you fat in high school? You probably still are." -A reader.)

Less joyful is the accurately named site, The Superficial, which presents a world of unnatural scrutiny on the beautiful people, where actual circles are drawn around celebrity pimples. Consider choice headlines such as "Anna Nicole Smith has no friends," "Brandon Davis' grandma is a liar" and, my favorite, "Lindsay Lohan doesn't like being called fire crotch." Check out their self-explanation:

"The Superficial is a brutally honest look at society and its obsession with the superficial. It is not satire. It is not social commentary. It is the voice of our society at its worst. It is first impressions without sense of social obligation. It is the truth of our generation. It is ugly racism. It is jealousy. It is honest.

Just kidding. Our goal is to make fun of as many people as possible."

So, why am I finding all this refreshing? I guess I'm celebrating the fact that other than the 3-5 people who actually read this blog, the world fails to note my romantic blunders (sounds more cuddly than 'epic failures,' doesn't it?) or the acreage of cellulite quickly grabbing real estate on my thighs or the fact that I just henna-ed my hair and accidentally dyed half of my forehead orange.

Yes, indeed. Times like these, it pays to be a lowly nobody.

Inner Redneck Wars

Lately, I have observed the following: When surrounded by hard-core hippies, I feel like a redneck. When shoulder-to-shoulder with hard-core rednecks, I feel like a hippie. I'm a spy in my own country.

Exhibit A: Last summer, I visited a childhood friend on her ranch in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. She hosted a huge BBQ and invited many friends, a large proportion of them being Secret Service agents for VP Darth Cheney. Seems he needs a federal entourage when he goes fishing and hunting in the area. So, there I am, wearing my boots and my cowgirl hat and by all appearances, I am one of them. They start talking shop – where Dick hunts, his favorite fishing spot, his daily habits, etc. I nod, laugh, drink beer and think to myself, 'Wow, if they only knew the depth of my hatred for this man. Just one quick background check and these stories would cease.'

Occasionally, I take a step back and see that I'm a walking (and often napping) contradiction. I am a sucker for all things steeped in Western culture – cowboys, horses, Native Americans, cacti, guns, campfires, leather, dirt and most country music that does NOT come out of Nashville. (Honestly, I could not pick Tim McGraw/Faith Hill out of a line-up – all I know is that they seem to be King and Queen of the McCountry Prom – light years away from Willie, Johnny, Merle and Ramblin' Jack.) Years ago, a staunch New Yorker I dated once told me, "You seem very … very … Western." Coming from a life-long Manhattan-ite, it sounded derisive but I now believe he was observing something so obvious, I hadn't yet recognized it.

I pondered this last Saturday morning while listening to Red Red Meat sing "Redneck Inside of Me." I then reached for the Emmylou shrine atop the TV and grabbed my cowgirl hat, once again. I was heading north to Cheyenne, Wyoming to attend one of the nation's oldest and most beloved rodeos, Frontier Days, known as 'the Daddy of 'em all' or more simply, as 'the Daddy.' I was so excited, like a five-year-old on Christmas morning.

Walking through the dusty parking lot, we passed trucks and SUVs sporting telltale bumper stickers: 'Bush/Cheney '04,' 'W,' 'United We Stand', 'These Colors Don't Run' and lots of magnetic yellow 'We Support Our Troops' ribbon decals – the most hypocritical of all. They always seem to be plastered on the biggest gas guzzlers as if to say, "My car runs jist great on yer blood, thanks, ya'll! Keep it coming, that'll git 'er done!"

Okay, this is what I'm getting at. As much as I love to consume the 'redneck' culture, I cannot stomach the politics, not even a little. On the other hand, I abhor liberal whinings that have given the Bushies power to begin with. Watching the calf roping event at the rodeo, a friend commented that she felt sorry for the cow. I felt compelled to point out that she possessed no such sympathy when hungrily downing beef brisket 20 minutes prior. This is what is annoying about liberals – caring only when convenient.

Anyone who knows me well knows of my longstanding crush on Teddy Roosevelt (that's me with a look-a-like at the SASS 'End of Trails.') The Edmund Morris biographies fueled the fire but of course, it was that famous quote, "I never would have been President had it not been for my experiences in North Dakota," that truly won me over. Of course, the lively TR action figure given to me by my equally grumpy pal, Fang, keeps the daily love alive. Let's put it this way, when I joined the burlesque dance troupe, The Devil-ettes, and needed to pick a character name, there was no question … The Rough Rider. ("Oh, you mean like the condom?" the girls asked, hopefully.)

TR is responsible for a big chunk of my American pride; he represents an era when leaders said what they meant, meant what they said and didn't pander to anyone – not even the American public. No matter that he was born in New York, TR is my favorite cowboy and harkens to a time not only when the nation's leaders had experience on the battlefield but they had good aim. They did not do coke and blow off their military obligations, nor did they mistake their best friends for quail. The lying pansies currently running the country and stewing the cauldron of WWIII make me bitter about the timing of my own birth.

Sadly, I've come no closer to answering my own question here and the self-inquiries only mount: How can I love cowboys and loathe the drawling Texan in office? How can I admire the confident, kick-ass attitude of the West and find shame in America's international behavior? How can I long for a fancy revolver while crying over violence on the battlefield? How can I long to jump into the cast of "Deadwood" all the while knowing the era was pure hell for women? Certainly, I am not the only one of my kind. At the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park, I recall taking great comfort in watching country singer John Prine angrily state in his own twang, "Let me be clear: This man does NOT speak for all Texans." This, of course, was many years before any Dixie Chick made a peep.

As a global traveler, I am always aware how young my country is – like a young Marine, pumped up and ready to kick some ass, unaware that thousands of civilizations have come and gone, conquered, been conquered and risen again before we were even born. No clue and worse, no interest. Who cares if the Arabs invented math, fer chrissakes, let's kick some ass!!!!!

I feel this familiar rage rise within me at the rodeo when I come across a massive U.S. Army recruitment stand, snug between the Budweiser Clydesdales and the Harley Davidson exhibit. Folks are standing in line and I see a girl, perhaps 12, filling out a form, giving her address to receive info about how best to serve her country. I have to approach the stand and just take in the smell of what it must be like not to care, not to wonder why we are at war, not to question the insecure minds of men who have never faced opposition, let alone battle.

I just stood there, trying to get a sense of what was going through their minds as they willingly handed over their futures to the whims of madmen. I fantasized about defacing the sign: "Needed! Fresh Meat! We're quickly running through our nation's best and brightest but you'll do!" One of the recruiters caught my stink eye and saw immediately, I wasn't going to be filling out any forms that day. He glared at me and I glared back. For once, despite my boots and hat, my cover was blown.

Perhaps that is my problem – wanting all the icons of my Western dream without the nightmare it creates. Perhaps I'll adopt a new policy: Less anger, more buckskin.

Location, Location, Location

"Unlucky in love? Stop beating yourself up -- and think about moving. Maybe to Denver. After all, it is the best city for singles." --Forbes, 7/26/06


Oh, the irony! That I should alter my plans to move from San Francisco (#4) to Austin, TX (#8) to instead join up with Prince Charmless in the Mile High City, apparently, the nation's Number One hotspot for losers . . . er, I mean, singles.

Perhaps that was the Divine's plan all along? Perhaps our tragic love affair was merely a vehicle for something more satisfying - not unlike iceberg lettuce, which provides a healthy front in transporting bleu cheese dressing to one's mouth.

I recall my father's reaction to the demise of my new relationship. Mind you, this was a man who took the train down from Seattle, helped me load the U-Haul, drove it across several states and un-loaded the same U-Haul, all the while patiently listening to me expand dreamily on my adorable future. Calmly toking on his cigar, he said simply: "Yeah, I didn't think that would last too long. He sleeps on plywood – what could he know about settling down? Frankly, I don't care how the hell you got to Denver, I'm just glad you're there." (Dad was not a fan of the Austin plan, it seems.) Good old Dad – he de-dramatized the entire episode in one paternal puff.

So, I have to admit, I am tickled to death to be here. For one thing, Denver is cool without the pressure of being hip. San Francisco always pulsated with the expectation that you would be kicked outside city limits for any of the following transgressions:
• Not wearing enough black
• Not owning or having intimate knowledge of your iPod
• Not having a bevy of dotcom stories detailing bizarre corporate excess
• Not belonging to a band/burlesque troupe
• Not sporting the X quota of tattoos

Because of its unique geography, Denver offers a mix of two worlds – much like Chicago, which combines the big city feel of New York but is filled with down-to-earth Midwesterners, resulting in its own welcoming vibe. Denver is where the Great Plains end and the Rocky Mountains begin so despite what the Arch of St. Louis claims, I believe Denver is the true Gateway to the West. From what I've deduced thus far, Denver feels like a city that works hard and plays even harder – similar to Seattle. Obesity is the crime here and I have yet to see any perpetrators.

One thing is for sure, it is easier to meet people here – everyone is friendly, even when they don't have to be. When I brought my bike into the neighborhood gas station, the manager was very helpful, making sure I knew where the air hose (free, of course) was and how it worked. For God's sake, my bicycle and me - we are the enemy, are we not?

Recently, I stopped to check the air in my bike tires and a carload of teenagers approached me. My LA instincts prepared me for random violence or at the very best, a solid geefing (an old urban tradition – squirting an unsuspecting citizen with a fire extinguisher) but they only stopped to ask, "Is everything okay? Do you need any help?" I was stunned. Here in Denver, apparently, they only have drive-by courtesies.

Between the singles hiking group, the blogging community, Craigslist and my own neighborhood (I've got a crush on my downstairs neighbor, Neil) I've got a veritable buffet of social options. Last night I met up with a fellow for cocktails; tonight I'm attending a play downtown with Sherry; tomorrow, I head to Cheyenne for the Frontier Days "Daddy of 'em All" rodeo with friends Sarah and Liz; Sunday? I can't decide between hiking with the gang, the Bluegrass Festival in Lyons or checking out the guitar gathering at Copper Mountain.

Next week, I meet up with a successful local writer who is going to let me buy him beer so I can pick his nimble brain. Later in the week, I'll swing by the 3 Kings on Broadway to check out a CD release party for the Nancy Drews, fronted by a new friend, James. So you see, I manage to keep busy, all the while practicing chord changes on my fancy Costco gee-tar. Steel strings = ouch.

While I can't confirm the Forbes ranking in absolute just yet, I can say with a lighter heart and tanned shoulders that Denver – for me right now – is definitely where I should be. Which is so handy, since I already signed a lease …

You Must Be This Tall

As humans, most of us know that unique type of heartache borne of rejection. Kinda like placing your hand flat on a heated iron - HOLEE PHUC! Good to be alive, is it not?!?

Indeed, this bracing pain is often followed by an unfortunate aftermath which includes a desperate search for something to fill that … er, void. It's a dangerous spot to be in and it has me feeling reckless: I'm in rebound mode.

So, I guess it's no surprise that while ingesting my daily required intake of technology news, my whacked inclinations took me down a dark, throbbing path. Swear to the Dolly Lama, I was on the company clock, dutifully reading my Wired News, when I stumbled across this sentence: "The Cone weighs less than a pound, is about 7.5 inches in diameter at the base, and includes an orgasm button for emergencies."

Hey, I got your emergency right here, pal.

Reporter Regina Lynn covers the fun part of technology – clever inventions concerned with delivering earth-shattering, sheet-ripping, real-life, not-faking-it-like-the-last-time orgasms. Mind you, she whines about covering the Sex Toy Expo - that all the multi-dongs and five-way vibrators didn't offer much new and interesting to her office/boudoir world. I should have such assignments, particularly in my delicate emotional state when I am at my most deserving.

Honestly, I feel like Jill Clayburgh in 1978's "An Unmarried Woman" (yes, I know I'm dating myself but dammit, someone has to) in this awkward attempt to start over. It's like cleaning the garage … where to begin?

Craigslist, of course. As previously mentioned, I have leaned on CL much in recent days. As I see it, beyond my fabulous local homegirl gang (Kath, Karen, Jami – that's you!) there also exists a world of Denver men out there just waiting for me to barge into their little lives and make them rethink a rule or two of physics. And so, after perusing numerous ads, answering a few here and there, I decided to kick it up a notch and post my own.

Trolling for guidance, I first reviewed a number of postings from competing bimbii and noticed a repeated mistake – too much, too soon. (Mind you, this is not in the "casual encounters" category where the standing theme is "anyone will do, preferably right now.") Gals were sharing their long romantic histories along with even longer requests of male attributes they would prefer, from follicle/thread counts to shoe size.

Not sure how it was working for them but I do know that men are simple – not stupid by any means – just less complicated. Let's face it, if women ran our political system, we would have 27 parties to choose from. (I happen to think it would foster some major improvements. Then again, I believe we should have as many choices for elected evil as we do for cereal, but that's a blog for another day … )

Hence, I focused on my most basic of needs: Before the summer ends, I must scream my lungs out while mounting a ferocious roller coaster - the bigger, the better. I merely want a companion in this goal – someone who would not only share my enthusiasm but who could screech just as loud and possibly even cry. In short, I sought a season ticket holder to Elitch Gardens, Denver's downtown amusement park. It taunts me every time I drive by with its fancy loops and bold tracks – it simply must be conquered. More importantly, I need an opportunity to scream in public without getting arrested.

Well, I posted in early July and received over 40 responses ... and still counting. It's all a bit overwhelming. A handful or so got deleted, along with their zealous graphics (the metaphor proved much too tempting for some) but it seems I may have to hire an professional admin just to sort through all the sane fellows and file them according to yell-ability.

Hmmmm, perhaps I could find a cheap one on Craigslist ... ?

Salvation on Aisle 105

God, I love to see a mighty giant flounder in its own stew of filth. Seems that obese empire, Wal-Mart, has been flailing about and it's all I can do to make some popcorn, stir a cocktail and twitter my toes with glee.

With documentaries ("Wal-Mart: The High Cost of Low Prices") and consumer groups (WakeUpWal-Mart.com) actively hating them, the retail giant is also facing strong civic resistance from coastal communities to arrival of their boxy girth. Not only do they face heaps of lawsuits regarding overtime pay, they also are the subject of the nation's largest class-action lawsuit alleging sexual discrimination on behalf of 1.5 million women.

Yes, you read me right: One million and a half. So, imagine a group the size of Philadelphia made up entirely of enraged women and you've got a clear picture.

So, that smug yellow smiley-faced bastard? A dude, apparently. (WM also faces a lawsuit from a French company who trademarked that logo years ago but I'm sure they will crush this claim. I mean, come on, Wal-Mart beaten by the French? Fuggettaboutit.)

Despite their desperate strategies, the organization of their 'PR situation room' and their market-driven efforts to join up with environmental organizations, their sins in the eyes of many remain unforgivable. And so, much like our own political scene, the grabby hand of religion has crossed that bridge of commerce and joined forces with the underworld: Wal-Mart has hired a nun.

Or rather, ex-nun. But really, it's a habit that's hard to break, is it not? Harriet Hentges, 65, will soon face critics of Mal-Wart's policies around employee treatment, environmental issues and inventory sourcing. I'm sure she'll put a folksy human face on all the ugliness in no time at all and it will be like one big ice cream fucking social.

A seasoned colleague based in New York told me that in his work as a public relations expert, he once met with a representative from Wal-Mart – one of their many lawyers – and the meeting was unforgettable. "He was the creepiest, scaliest person I'd ever been around. He was wearing a very expensive suit – he definitely did not buy it at Wal-Mart – and had the deepest fake tan I'd ever seen. All that was missing was a large fin out his back. After the meeting, I instinctively ran to wash my hands."

You can just hear the conversation at the marketing meeting: "Hmmmm, oily sharks don't play well in those liberal enclaves . . . I know! We'll appeal to their annoying sense of decency! We'll get all Mother Theresa on their ass!"

Ms. Hentges resume alone reveals that Wal-Mart knows what time it is (their dwindling stock price notwithstanding.) This is a woman of God who has worked in war-torn regions in the Middle East as the VP of the United States Institute of Peace. (Wait? We have our name next to the word 'Peace' somewhere????) Ironically, this group is funded by Congress, the same group funding wars in these same regions. Sure seems like a conflict but I'm sure God has The Answer …

Hentges is also former Executive Director of the League of Women Voters. Well, this should certainly help when putting those mouthy 1.5M bitches in their place.

Honestly, best of luck to Harriet in her new mission. Though she may have faced the terrors of war and the darkness of Satan, this is a different beast altogether. She's going to need more than a crucifix, a shopping cart and a list of key messages – she's going to need a miracle.

Now then, bow your heads: Let us pray – for Harriet's sake - that the Lord is not more of a Target fan.

Strummin' For (Inner) Peace

After years of buying other people's albums/cassettes/CDs/MP3s, decades of attending concerts and even a career slice of writing about music, I finally took my first guitar lesson yesterday. I intend to attack this challenge with laser-beam focus ... mainly because I now have much too much time alone and in the Land of ClizBiz, this is a dangerous thing.

My blues-guitar-playing neighbor, Neil, tipped me off to a wonderful place called Swallow Hill - half concert venue, half music school. Beyond the teachers, it is almost entirely run by volunteers and the place feels more like a community center or an old-fashioned town hall than any place you go to see jams. I caught the very charming musical/bicycling duo, The Ditty Bops, last Friday and the whole place felt like one big musical hug. I had to be a part of it.

I'm starting at the beginning, "Guitar For People Who Haven't a Clue" or something like that, from now through August. And so, in the middle of a crazy Wednesday work day, I grabbed the guitar my father bought me at Costco and escaped for an hour. On my way there, I listened, as always, to my favorite radio station, KCUV-FM. Once again, they were blowing me away with their creative playlist - Tom Waits, Golden Smog, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, The Pretenders, Tom Petty, Splt Enz, Warren Zevon and, as a treat, a long-forgotten Elvis Presley tune, "Once is Enough."

As I pulled onto the dirt (!) parking lot of Swallow Hill, 'The V' put on an old Woody Guthrie tune. Now, I ask you, when is the last time commercial radio played Woody Guthrie?!? I couldn't believe it. I took it very seriously, like some sort of guitar omen, and obediently sat in my truck until Woody finished. Mind you, I have no illusions of Emmylou grandeur but it felt like a blessing of my decision.

Truth is, this is a tough summer, one of the hardest of my life. Though friends and family may call/email offering words of love and support (which I so appreciate,) ultimately, it is my responsibility to make sure I don't slide into the dark abyss of pain and self-loathing. I've been there and not only is it horribly unpleasant but it takes up precious time, something I've become freshly aware of in my 40th year.

The last time I got shoved off a similar cliff (February 2002,) I remember slightly panicking, feeling the ground underneath me becoming slippery and unstable, like emotional quicksand. I had to act fast. I went down a long list of things I could do to make myself feel better (Get drunk? Ride a bike? Call a friend? See a movie? Get high? Buy clothes? Get drunk?) and none of them clicked as a solution. By sheer process of elimination (Knit a sweater? Give birth? Bake a pie?) I arrived at "Get on a horse?" Bingo!

Oddly enough, that was the exact answer and it kicked off a very late pre-pubscent-esque pony phase that has yet to die. Those animals helped pulled me out of the muck and I'm determined not to slide back in and have all our hard work go to waste.

Perhaps this new safety net of frets and strings will be another lifeline for me. Though I am not the accomplished horsewoman I'd like to be and I doubt I'd ever be welcome in a band, I am becoming a master of self-preservation.

This Man's Army

From the morning headlines, two stories jumped out at me:

First, fresh new charges that even more American soldiers are facing charges of murder and rape of Iraqi civilians. These horrific acts make the antics at Abu Garib seem almost playful. That heinous mouth-breather, Pfc. Steven Green, was brought in last week as the chief instigator in this crime, specifically, the slaughter of an Iraqi man, woman and child and the rape of a 14-year-old girl from the same family. They killed her too, of course. The fact that Green was shown in handcuffs wearing a Johnny Cash t-shirt only made it more painful to watch.

Meanwhile ... seems the Army has surpassed their recruitment numbers for fiscal 2006 thus far! The top brass are ever so pleased since the securement of expendable young flesh was frightfully low in 2005. How did they do it? What's their magical secret? Apparently, the big brass in khaki took a page right out of the modern dating handbook: If you're getting desperate, for god's sake, lower your standards.

For one thing, the Army raised the maximum enlistment age to 42, which is so progressive really, so anti-ageist. Seems that those who grew up on Van Halen and Tears for Fears bleed just as easily as those who have never known life without a remote control.

With one margin widened, the Army just went for it - reaching lower and lower into the humanity bucket. Since the 80s, the Department of Defense has declared that no more than 2% of incoming recruits may score below 30 out of 99 on the Army's aptitude test. Last September, the Pentagon raised the limit to 4%. Let's be clear - this means dumber soldiers. A Rand Corp. study in 2005 (commissioned by Rumsfeld, no less) found that higher scoring recruits produced better results on the battlefield. Thank god for these studies or we'd have trouble noting the obvious...

But wait, there's more.

Snagging warm, willing bodies at last, the Army became drunk with diminishing their own qualifiers. They began accepting more recruits that require 'moral waivers' because of misdemeanor offenses. Through April, 15.5% of recruits required some kind of excuse for these offenses, drug/alcohol incidents or medical problems, compared with 12% for 2004.

So, there ya have it - the secret to the Army's 'success' and how it is panning out in the field. One thing is for sure, the recruits of today certainly do not lack balls. Tom Mahnken, a professor at Johns Hopkins University's School of Advanced International Studies in DC was recently quoted: "These are people who are signing up and going in with their eyes wide open about the fact that they will be sent to war."


God help us all.
.

Independence?

The last few days celebrating our nation's independence have been chock full of love, plants, irony and plenty of thunder/lightening. My mother (affectionately known as "Mama Iva") came for a visit - my first house guest. (That's her, flirting with my favorite lothario, Mario Barmosca.)

Let's face it. Mom came to make sure I was okay and not marinating in my own Juices of Sorrow with a few bottles of whiskey thrown in for flavor. I guess one is never too old to need Mommy. So much for independence.

I decided to make good use of her visit to kick off The Gardening Era. That's right, I intend to sprout a green thumb or at least a couple of tomatoes. Growing up in the beach culture of Southern California and then ripening on the urban hipster streets of San Francisco left little time for getting to know the soil. Sure, we've got a family farm in North Dakota (cue Americana music here) that produces sugar beets, soybeans and whatnot but personally, I don't know a lick about conjuring edible and/or pretty things from the earth.

We began by visiting the Denver Botanical Gardens, just down the street from me. Known as one of the country's best, it was an intimidating launch into my new hobby. We left there inspired and immediately went out and bought me a tomato plant, gardening tools and potting soil. After all my hovering and care, if that thing ever produces anything I can legally put into a salad, my culinary independence will then begin.

Apropos to the national holiday, I also received a pair of heartwarming calls from Lady Liberty herself, Valerie Liberty. (She was my partner-in-crime from those halcyon days of the DotComBoom - her Macromedia business card read: "Queen of the Wild Frontier.") Her message was threefold: "I'm thinking about you, I'm thinking about our country and I'm thinking you need a copy of Neil Young's latest album, "Living With War" so I've sent you an iTunes gift certificate."

Lady Liberty then waxed poetic on the freedoms that we, as American women, currently possess and how we can't afford to take them for granted, especially during this awfully divided time in our history. We discussed the recent elections in Kuwait, marking the first time women in that country have ever been allowed to vote. Not so alarming when one considers that a mere 113 years ago, Colorado women were finally granted their right to vote. Historically speaking, that is practically last Tuesday.

Ever the loyal friend/messaging expert, Liberty managed to weave in my recent 'adventure' with the current state of feminism and today's autonomy-enabling technology and make it all seem like there is, in fact, a finely sharpened point to it all. "At what other time in history, would you have been able to pick up and move across country by yourself, continue your work wherever you went and now consider, if you like, moving again to wherever the hell you feel like moving to?" she asked flatly.

I loved what she was saying and admit I liked the imagery. She's right, of course, save for the fact that my father (a man) helped me move and that I moved here for someone I thought was a man, though I was sorely mistaken. Not very feminist of me. Still, her take on my life held in the context of democracy and broadband make me feel more empowered, less pathetic ... almost swashbuckling. Once again, all I need is a horse to complete this picture.

Angry as I am at our current administration, I am eternally grateful for the atmosphere that was built so I can have the freedom to make grand mistakes, pick myself up and start over again. This, I have always felt, is the true basis of friendship. Though I may feel differently once I get a hold of Neil's latest angry melodies, for today, I am good friends with America thanks to Lady Liberty, a little tomato plant and, of course, Mom.