I'm My Own Nightmare

Last Saturday night, I dressed up like a crazy disco ho-bag ('tis the season) to join other Halloween revelers for a rare night on the town. I met up with new pal, Karen, at the home of her friend, Doug. He lives in an adorable loft and was hosting some pre-festivity cocktails before everyone ran off to their various parties and events.

Doug was serving a classic drink (circa 1930s) called, "The Sidecar," a delightful concoction he used to make for his great aunt - despite the persistent rumor that he made them for his grandmother. I loved them! A little brandy, a little Cointreau and the perfect amount of lemon juice all dressed up in a sugared rim. Yum.

By the time, we got to the Breckenridge Brewery for their annual canned food-raiser "Brimstone Boogie," I was happily smashed. It was great to be out amongst my fellow Denver-ites; I don't see them nearly enough and miss them terribly.

With everyone in full costume, conversations happened easily. An entire herd of folks came as various emoticons and there was a Catholic priest who was there, very drunk and trying to get as much flesh in his hands as possible - all for the character, I'm sure. (He should have also had a tithing plate and a nervous buddy nearby dressed as a lawyer.) Doug was dressed as a 'chick magnet' with those marshmallow Peeps Velcro-ed all over him. I can vaguely remember a friendly guy dressed as Duffman buying me more drinks, not that I needed them.

At some point, I regressed into an old habit: Storing all my stuff behind the band's amplifier. I swear, I've been doing this since the 80s and even in to the 90s when I was writing about bands for a living. Never had a problem. Keeps me from being weighted down, y'know?

At some other point, I go to my special secret hiding spot and can't find my stuff. I begin frantically searching the entire club but find nothing. Incredulous to my bad luck, I somehow end up in sitting next to soda tanks 'backstage,' bawling my head off and taking inventory of my loss: Cell phone, eyeglasses, house keys, driver's license, ATM card, fancy red velvet gloves, gum, $22 and a small container of silver glitter. Oh yes, and two coats - one to match my wild disco outfit and the other black velvet with red fake fur collars for the neck and wrists. (The coat is so coveted amongst friends that it is actually listed in my Will.)

Thankfully, a kind soul and BB staff member named Doug took pity, fetched me water, helped me look for my stuff and generally worried about my well being. Eventually, we had to give up and he inquired how I was going to get home and what my plan was. At that moment, I realized how alone I was in this new city, which kick-started a new round of tears.

Karen had already gone home and I was left with little choice. I had to approach poor Doug, who I'd only met hours earlier, and ask if I could crash at his place. I had no money, no house key, no coats, no money, no eyesight and, at this stage, very little self respect. Gentleman that he is, Doug agreed.

I slept badly, running over various tragic scenarios in my head - my bank account cleared out, my apartment cleared out, my cat murdered, my car stolen ... my glitter used up. Gak! Up by 7 a.m., I waited patiently for the sun to rise so I could start my horrible day. Thankfully, Doug had a stack of Playboys, fun stuff that I rarely get to peruse. (Question: Since when did full-grown women devolve away from public hair? Brrrrrr.)

I called my petsitter, Mark, who has an extra key, and asked if he could meet me at my house to let me in. I called the brewery and left a pathetic pleading message with my home number. Then, I waited for poor innocent Doug to awaken so I could then hit him up for the $20 it would take to get me out of his life ASAP. He finally arose around 9 a.m. and quickly handed over the cab fare.

All through this, I realize I'm bummed about having lost my 'things' but actually feel much sadder about the idea that one of my fellow revelers robbed me blind. This would leave an indelible black mark on Denver's spot-free record; this incident would mar our relationship while still in its crucial beginning. I mean, if I can amp-stash my stuff for decades in the seedy clubs of Hollywood, Los Angeles and San Francisco without incident - what does that say about Denver? I didn't want to think about it.

I did the feaux Walk of Shame, running into Doug's elderly neighbor in the hallway wearing red glitter boots and not much else, and caught a cab home. Petsitter Mark met me at the door handing over several keys - he'd had extras made on the way over, out of concern. (Now, that's the Denver I love!)

My home phone tells me I have seven voice mail messages, several are from the brewery telling me that they found my stuff, tucked away in a very odd place. (This is when I remember another old habit: Doubting my original hiding spot with each passing cocktail and re-hiding it over and over until ... well, until this happens.)

But here is the fun part: My voice mail included two messages - an amused one from my father, "Hey, honey! Heard you were out drinking last night and lost all your stuff! Way to go!" and a frantic one from my mother, "HEATHER, WHERE ARE YOU??? PLEASE CALL ME! I HOPE NOTHING HAS HAPPENED TO YOU!!!" (This was supplemented by a similar email I later found from her in ALL CAPS.)

Apparently, the staff at the Breckenridge Brewery was so concerned about my well being that they called my parents ... at 2 in the morning. Never mind that I am 40 and legally responsible for myself. Let's even overlook the fact that I partly moved to Colorado so no one would know what the fuck I was up to but let's ask the only question that needs to be asked here: What the hell?

Truth be told, I found the BB's behavior pretty damn adorable. Of course, if I were 25, that calling-the-parents thing definitely would've enraged me. Still, not only did I have my stuff back but my faith was restored in Denver. I tried to imagine a nightclub staff in LA or even San Francisco giving a shit about a drunken weepy loser and I just can't picture it, which makes me fall in love with Denver all over again.

Thus, I'll probably go out again tonight. Happy Halloween!

Work, Work, Work

Employment. A necessary evil. I've never met anyone who didn't need it. I fully comprehend that it pays for my life – my apartment, my food, my heating bill, my car, my clothes, my concert tickets. I'll even admit I have it better than most, working from home. I do not deal with a lengthy commute, applying make-up or matching my socks.

My parents represent extreme ends of the employment perspective. My father, age 72, has been retired since age 48. He just travels around the country in his motor home and is pretty much the most relaxed, happy guy you'll ever meet. He worked his butt off as a young man, did well for himself, lost a bunch on various wives, and then organized his life so he'd never work again. When you call his cell phone, his voice message says: "Wonderful day! I woke up this morning and I'm still alive and I think that's just great! Hope your day is going as good as mine! Bye-bye!"

My mother grew up as an only child on a North Dakota farm where she dreamed of working as an office secretary, a job she still keeps and loves. She is 73 and puts in a 40-hour work week with great dedication. It is not just a job in which she excels; it is a large part of who she is. She is a Professional, an old-school secretary that every modern-day executive pines for. Not only is she smart and highly efficient, she enjoys the atmosphere of a structured workplace. I recall her disapproval when I worked at Macromedia and told her I had a big slide behind my desk that went down to a lower floor. This was something more suitable for a playground, she scoffed, not an office.

I remember witnessing her boss say to her that she could work there as long she wanted to. "Even if you're 100," he said. "We'll just build little ramps for the wheelchair." This is great job security but it makes her children nervous – she might just take him up on it. Then again, she says if she quits, she'll afraid she'll rot to death and I believe her, because she believes it.

Trying to pitch her on the idea of retiring (always a failing effort) I suggested she could travel or even … perhaps do volunteer work? She was adorably indignant: "Forget it! If I’m working, I'm getting paid!" I have to admit, I love this part of her that refuses to be some doddering old granny that stays home and bakes pies. She is very much a modern woman and always will be. When the internet boom happened, mom didn't miss a step – she doesn't want to be left behind. We communicate regularly through email while my father brags he's never even touched one. "I'm almost dead. Why bother?" he reasons.

Though I am, in many ways, carefree like my father, aspects of my mother pop up. I still can't bring myself to call in sick unless I am near death. Still, my job does not define me. Hell, I’m not even sure what it is I do for a living. Something to do with the media and technology, the rest is fuzzy. It is very far from the globe-trotting journalist that I always wanted to be and that makes me so sad.

I ponder this because I've just returned home from a particularly stressful business trip and now I'm also expected to work over the weekend. I am asking myself, is this the life I want? Does my job help anyone at all? Make the world a better place? Make me tons of money? The answer is: Sometimes, somewhat, no and no.

As I left the San Francisco office yesterday for the airport, I stopped to gas up the rental car. A man with a squeegee stood at the pump and I groaned at the sight of him. 'I am so not in the mood for this,' I thought. I got out of the car and he asked if I wanted my oil checked, my tires checked, the windows washed, anything at all. I politely declined, telling him it was a rental car and I was about to return it. He nodded and backed away.

As I pumped my gas, I thought about the irony of the situation. I'm told there was a time in the 50s when crisp young men in white suits would perform all these services for free and now, it's up to the enterprising homeless. The man approached me again and said, "You know, I really don't mean to harass anyone. I'm just trying to make a living by helping a little." He was apologizing, for some reason, and I told him I understood.

I returned the nozzle, put the cap back on and, on impulse, reached into my wallet and grabbed a $10 bill. I gave it to him and said, "We all have hard jobs, don't we?" He was amazed and 'God blessed me' many times, something that never hurts for an overworked heathen like me.

Raped Planets and Crunched Scrotums

One of my favorite bloggers, St. Howard, pointed out today that Mother Nature, as a utility company, is about to go bankrupt, eventually leaving us cold/hot, thirsty and gasping for air. There's just too damn many of us and by 'us' I mean greedy Westerners who definitely want fries with that.

As house guests go, the human race is the drunken uncle who came for a weekend visit 20 years ago, refuses to leave, drinks all the booze, eats all the food, hits on your daughter and crashes the car. We are a nasty infestation of mites on the epidermis of the planet and it shouldn't be much longer before She shivers us off like a wet dog wringing itself dry from a bath. I can almost feel the Earth moaning to its GP, "Can I get something for this? Lotion? Ointment? Seriously, I'll even take back the dinosaurs. They were ugly but at least they only took what they needed."

I've noticed that the 'year of reckoning' everyone likes to throw around, 2050, is also used by the global warming folks. Apparently, this is the year the shit hits the fan and the hens come home to roost. If you come looking for me then, I will be the drunk old lady on the porch laughing and crying and saying 'I told you so.'

Furthermore, it looks like cell phones and anti-depressants decrease male sperm. (Guess this puts a halt to the launch plan of the Xanax Flipped Out phone or the marketing frenzy for Prozac Happy Tones – downloadable ringtones available at all mental health centers near you.) I guess all those neurotic investment bankers and hyper-stressed lawyers will suffer a dearth of seed while the happy so-called disconnected fellows will have plenty of mouths to feed. (Hey, did I just accidentally write a modern-day poem? Holy shit, some days, I've got talent shooting in every direction … )

Mainly, I wanted to point out this story so that I could highlight this quote...from a scientist:

"It's these guys that hang out in smoky bars, stressed and crunched up on their scrotum talking on the phone."

So, let this be a lesson to you boys, no crunching of the scrotum. And ladies, no twisting of the vagina, especially when you're on the phone, just to be safe.

Finally, after all this dreariness, here's one thing about the future I look forward to, even if it does combine YouTube genius with corporate marketing, I'll still be there – drunk and on the porch, laughing/crying, just for practice.

I (Heart) New York!

It's really just that simple. Every fall, I get the urge (among others) to visit Gotham and grab onto that magical third rail of energy that is unlike any other. I am here now and I am not disappointed.

Believe it or not, I do not need to party heavily and go 'clubbing to get this satisfaction. I feel it just walking down the street or even riding the subway – where I wear a ridiculous grin like some tourist goonball. The New York City subway system is one of the great feats of mankind, right up there with Egyptian pyramids and Velcro - truly mind-boggling. Add to this the random live performances of the cello, steel drums, flamenco guitar and the human rivers that ceaselessly flow and you've got one teeming civic miracle.

Despite the widespread assertion that New Yorkers are gruff and grumpy, the reality is that this is probably one of the friendliest cities on earth. There is something about being all packed in together that makes them approachable. I find it very easy to make eye contact and exchange pleasantries here – of course, with my silly grin, the locals probably think I'm mentally unstable. On Friday, I struggled with getting my luggage up the subway stairs, a polite man offered to carry them up for me. "There ya go. Have a great weekend," he said smiling, before he disappeared into the crowd.

Magical experiences never fail to occur here in the Big Apple. Earlier this week, I quietly escaped from my company's Park Avenue HQ to get my hair done. While looking for the address, I came upon a small sign that read: "Theodore Roosevelt Birthplace. National Historic Site. Victorian Museum and Brownstone. Open to the Public." My jaw dropped and I may have emitted a sudden squeal. What unbelievably good luck!

If I have not mentioned it before, let me do so right now – I am a HUGE TR fan. I quickly ran inside to double confirm the facts and found two bored park rangers who found my babbling enthusiasm mildly amusing. I returned the next day to take a tour - just me and a bunch of students. (When the park ranger mentioned that TR would go skinny dipping in the Potomac, one girl asked where that was. "Washington DC" said the ranger, to which she replied, "Yeah, I'm just not that good at geometry.")

Of course, the tour wasn't exactly Graceland, but I was incredibly thrilled to have stumbled upon such a significant landmark amidst the busy hive of Manhattan. I was also happy to let the rangers know about the TR action-figure doll I keep in my office. "He's very flexible," I bragged. They seemed genuinely jealous and I am half-considering sending one to them for Xmas. I could probably even write it off on my taxes as a 'government donation.'

Mind you, if I lived in New York, it would probably kick my wimpy Californian ass - I am happy to love it from a distance. (I'm counting on Colorado to toughen me up.) Nevertheless, whenever I am here, I feel incredibly alive and powerfully drawn into the present moment, something I strive for always. New York City is one of the great, beating hearts of my country and (all 9/11 sympathies aside) it never fails to evoke a great swells of patriotism in my heart. Just by existing, it showcases Americans at their very best.

I've been pondering all this over the last few days, culiminating in a single observation. "This place," I thought to myself as I passed a smiling Fed Ex man on 5th Avenue, "can never be killed."

Let It Snow!

Today's post was supposed to be about our population hitting the 300 million mark. (I mean, where is everyone supposed to park?) But then it started snowing and all my worldly focus seemed to melt.

Once again, I must point out that I am from California where things like this don't happen willy-nilly. There, such things only occur at far-away ski resorts (often with the help of machines) or on Hollywood sets, where 'snow' is made of salt and Styrofoam. California cities know of no such phenomenon, hence my child-like wonderment.

In fact, I never even saw snow until I was about 9. I think we were in Idaho or Montana, someplace far. My dad pulled over The Voyager, our beloved motorhome, and I ran outside to frolic in the weird, fluffy white stuff. I was in shorts and a tank top and it was awhile before I realized, "Hey man, this stuff is COLD." Seriously, this aspect of snow had never really occurred to me. This is where I am coming from.

Once the magical wintry flakes began falling this afternoon, I nearly leapt out of my chair. I even took Simone, my cat, outside and she was thoroughly disgusted by the situation. Mind you, she is entirely black and may have taken personal offense at the world suddenly going all-white (see accompanying photo for heat-seeking kitty-kat).

Holy cow, I had to celebrate with somebody. I IM'd some fellow Californians and got suitable responses like, "Yay! How exciting! Can you go outside?" "Run outside and make a snow angel!!!" and "Wow! Are you going to make a snowman???"

When I IM'd a friend in New York, I received a muted, "um, awesome." Guess my East Coast pal, a Boston native and former resident of Illinois, is over the whole freezing-ass cold reality of winter.

So, I called my mother at work. Raised in North Dakota, she merely laughed at me. This is a woman who still buys food in bulk - despite living alone in a beach town - based on a childhood fear of being snowed in for months on end.

Yes, I'm weather idiot but y'see, I can't help it. As previously stated, seasons are a magical mystery that I am just now beginning to unwrap. My brother is the same way – we both get extremely excited about thunder and lightning and our eyes light up with every boom, crack and flash. And yes, there is often giggling and a few squeals of delight.

Mind you, I may be an idiot but my brother is just plumb crazy. Living on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi, he refused to evacuate for Hurricane Katrina because he wanted to "experience the storm." What's even crazier is that I probably would have done the same. The Clisbys: We're not terribly bright but we are easily entertained.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with a yet-unmade snow angel …

'D' for Done

After loading up my proverbial pen with scathing venom (I get it in bulk!) to rant about our ongoing national ignorance, I realized that some photos screech louder words.

In case you cannot make out the details clearly, let me explain. This is a Diebold van undoubtedly gearing up for the November election. Diebold is a company that makes questionable voting systems and they are well known for their shady ethics. ("We won't rest!" is their motto.)

For example, days after the 2004 Presidential election, Diebold agreed to pay $2.6 million to settle a lawsuit filed by the State of California alleging that they had sold shoddy voting equipment. In December 2005, Diebold's CEO Wally O'Dell resigned following reports that the company was facing securities fraud litigation surrounding charges of insider trading.

Then, just recently in May, a registered lobbyist for Diebold Election Systems contributed the individual maximum of $10,000 to the election campaign of Republican Ohio Secretary of State Kenneth Blackwell - whose office approved Diebold's selection as a vendor and negotiated the price of its machines for county election boards. Getting a firm grasp of the slime factor here?

In fact, there are many folks who believe that Diebold can be blamed for W's second term, including my pal, Tamburlaine, who consistently refers to the First Monkey as "Diebold George." If you give yourself about 30 seconds to think about this, you will quickly understand why there are bands out there called Rage Against the Machine.

A Denver pal sent this to me, taken right in here in my new home state - though, really, it could be anywhere. Please note the "Bush/Cheney '04" sticker brazenly demonstrating what happens when you mix rigged voting systems with open bias.

Must be another sticker below we can't see: "Don't Think and Drive."

Denver Has Arrived

For those in the first two rows, you may have noted the major themes currently running here at ClizBiz:

• Bush & Co. are a pack of raving idiot monkeys actively dismantling our country.
• My disastrous love life – perhaps my butterfly net has a hole?
• My budding relationship with Denver – the honeymoon continues.

Today's post will touch on the latter.

My Denver Crush inevitably peaks when I'm bicycling along Cherry Creek, whizzing towards downtown, and marveling at how this lovely bit of nature has been contained and preened for my enjoyment. This was the case yesterday – a golden, perfect Autumn Saturday - as I headed downtown for the much-anticipated opening of the Denver Art Museum's new wing, The Frederick C. Hamilton Building.

Designed by the now-famous architect, Daniel Libeskind, the new building has been in the making since 1999. (Libeskind is the same genius who designed the Jewish Museum in Berlin and has been named Master Planner for the future of Ground Zero.) The Hamilton wing is striking, to say the least. At first glance, it appears to be several angry ships all caught in a traffic jam, trying to go in opposite directions. With its titanium angles jutting into the sky and its bold silver presence, it seems to say: "I am here and I am important: I house and protect art."

Everyone was there for this pivotal community event. So many folks milling around, gaping at the modernist sight – such a clear contrast to the stately Capitol building a few yards away. Truly, it was a festival atmosphere – music in the air, people posing for photographs, kids playing on sculptures and dance performances on stage. Indeed, any time a city gets a new jewel in their crown, it is cause for celebration. An event like this seems to confirm to its citizenry: "Yes, you are worth it."

Folks happily stood in line for free tickets with their babies, dogs and grandmas. (The museum was open free to the public for the first 35 hours straight.) Walking around, I could see the joy on people's faces – it was a complete and unrestrained civic pride. Better yet, I felt it on my own face.

Later that evening, I attended a Harvest Moon party and 'the DAM' (Denver Art Museum) was on everybody's lips. Everyone, it seemed, had tickets for ungodly hours – the free tickets included 'appointment' times to stagger the crowds. Some folks had an extra ticket for me, so at 1:00 a.m., off we went. (Still used to San Francisco, I suggested we leave at midnight so we could find parking. I was certifiably mocked. We left at 12:15 and were parked by 12:30. Still getting used to this whole …y'know … 'space' thing.)

At night, the new building is even more epic, particularly under a full Harvest Moon and especially when your new friends have encouraged you to imbibe as much herbage as possible. Unfortunately, I hadn't planned for the adventure and was stuck in a pair of painful high heels but again, I was recreationally medicated so I strived for the out-of-body thing.

The place is immense and the insides somewhat resemble the outside with stark white walls at great, dramatic angles. Again, people everywhere, really and truly, enjoying the place. The collection was mind-boggling – so many artists I actually knew! Degas, deKooning and an entire exhibit of my favorite Western artist, Charles Marion Russell.

Innocently rounding a corner, my gang and I came across a massive black and white photograph* – amazingly crisp and clear – of my hometown! I was completely flabbergasted and tried to sputter out its significance while pointing to my mother's house in Long Beach, California. Still, I don't think anyone but me fully absorbed the odd coincidence – as it should be, I suppose.

I then felt compelled to stand by the photograph (which must have measured something like 5' x 7 ') and explain to total strangers that no, this was not Colorado, this was my hometown. It was a weird moment of my first civic love making an impressive and abrupt reappearance during my current metro-courtship as if to remind me, "Yes, I'm sure it is very nice here but don't forget where you came from or Snoop Dogg and the ghost of Sublime will never forgive you." (Duly noted – special kisses go out to the LBC.)

Having no pre-conceived ideas or judgments about Denver, there is little opportunity for disappointment. Still, I am picking up on a tangible feeling that this great Western city is really coming into its own. It warms the dried-up cockles of my heart to know that my timing – in at least one area of my life – is impeccable.

*For anyone remotely interested in seeing this photograph, check out Page 28 of this document:

http://www.denverartmuseum.org/files/File/2005annualreport.pdf

Dick Cheney is a Scrotum-less Toad

Gosh. Today has been a hyper-productive day. Odd too since I slept horribly last night. Perhaps I should make a habit of it.

I got so many errands accomplished that I'm even feeling multi-taskable in my political anger. That's right, I'm pissed in several directions today, instead of my usual one-global-gripe-at-a-time.

Let's take stock:

Fang sent me this mind-boggling headline first thing so I had suitable warning. Otherwise, I may have barfed up my Cheerios had I stumbled across it on my own:

"Bush: Democrats shouldn't be trusted to run Congress"

I've got a zillion zany comebacks for that but really, it's kind of an all-in-one joke wrapped in a headline. Not much needs to be done here, especially when surrounded by headlines about Republican sex scandals, Iran/N. Korea nuclear plans, the terrorist training camp we created in Iraq and Condi swearing on her fully-intact hymen that she does not recall receiving any warnings pre-9/11.

More rage came when the Republicans took the only natural tack they know and blamed the Democrats for Mark Foley's touchy feely Instant Messenger ways. Foley, desperate to hide, took a tip from Hollywood – he checked in to rehab. Next thing you know, he'll be hosting Saturday Night Live.

This one, however, takes the cake, this is the Wile E. Coyote Acme TNT that exploded in my face, covering my day with black soot. With all the other hijinks, this may not make national news, I read it in the Denver Post, so let me enlighten thee:

Back in June, Steven Howards, (from Golden, CO) was vacationing with his family in Beaver Creek when he spotted Cheney in an outdoor mall shaking hands and posing for photos. Seizing opportunity, Howards and his son walked over and told Cheney that his policies in Iraq are "reprehensible." Howards then left the scene, walking his son to his piano lessons, only to then be apprehended by the Secret Service, handcuffed and arrested for assault.

Yes, this is what is has come to, folks. A sniveling worm of a man who takes his paycheck from yours, mine and Mr. Howard's – a feckless coward who lives in public housing – cannot be spoken to in the light of day, in front of God and the Hot-Dog-on-a-Stick girls, without having the ballsy citizen strong-armed into submission. Red-staters, take a hard look - this is your country now. Feel safe?

The fun part is, Howards is suing the SS officer who arrested him, stating: "It's such a blatant attempt to suppress a right to free speech. Such a traumatic event for my son, I couldn't just let it pass." Three cheers for Howard!

God, I can't wait until Dickless Cheney no longer has taxpayer goombas to keep him from getting jumped on the playground. That fat fuck better watch his back next quail season.

Well, my work here is done ... G'night everyone!

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.