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.

Fruity Philosophy

A few weeks ago, my pal, Jennifer, left me a contemplative voice mail that I haven't been able to forget. She'd purchased a bag of apricots and while the majority of them were unfit for eating, two or three of the little orange buggers were perfectly beyond delicious. "Was it worth buying the whole bag of shitty apricots just to experience the joy of those exquisite few?" she asked my answering machine. It had no answers for her, only rude beeps, so she hung up.

Jen's Bag O'Fruit inquiry launched me in to deep contemplation. In one way or another, I've been asking myself that same question over and over again with regards to my recent romantic drama. Was it worth the current heartache plus a lifetime of never knowing what really happened just to be ridiculously over-the-moon in love for just those four short months? Was experiencing the drastic beauty of all that daily correspondence worth today's crushing weight of silence? Was the act of taking the Big Dive more important than the fact that there was not even one goddamn drop of water in the pool?

I believe that what passes for the modern sage (Hallmark, Oprah, Citibank, Dr. Phil) might reiterate the trite belief that 'it is better having loved and lost than never having loved at all.' Of course, none of these folks/corporate entities moved across country just so they could live a mile from their ex, I'm sure.

Naturally, the question goes far beyond matters of a broken heart. Was it worth my concussion to learn how to snowboard? No. Was hosting a giant ravenous worm in my hip worth three months camping in Africa? Yes. Was it worth getting thrown in jail for public indecency back in the '80s? Um, not sure - I can't remember.

But the current question remains: Was my effort to move to Denver worth the pain of having the love I moved here for evaporate almost immediately? It seems much too early to tell but I suppose I should look on the bright side:

Apricots are in season.

Caffeinated KISS and Darwin's Dead Pet

When folks ask me why I don't write fiction, I can only respond, "What, the real world isn't weird enough for you?" Truly, is there a pressing need to make stuff up? I respectfully submit two very recent examples:

Exhibit A: Desperately holding on to the last remaining shreds of their fame and/or dignity, the members of the 70s rock band, KISS, have opened up a themed coffee house. That's right, you heard me. Yesterday, in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina (?), desperate, aging rockers Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons were on hand for the ribbon cutting and expressed high hopes for their new venture.

According to Paul Stanley, "The KISS Coffeehouse is our way of providing everyone with the buzz of great, quality treats and coffee filled with enough sugar and caffeine to get the party started, and keep it going!"

This from a band second only to the Beatles in gold records and the only thing that remains is quality fucking treats?!? FYI: These include Demon Dark Roast, French Kiss Vanilla and their specially trademarked, Rockuccino!

Swear to god, I'll make a special trip, fly out to SC and order twelve of everything if these guys will only put their make-up back on. I never did forgive them for that.

Exhibit B: Long mistaken for a guy, Harriet the Tortoise took it all in stride during her 176 years. Believed to have been taken from the Galapagos Islands by Charles Darwin in 1835, Harriet finally passed on this week. She was said to be one of the oldest living creatures on the planet and at 330-pounds was fetchingly full-figured. Little known fact: (Sprightly and fiercely competitive in her youth, Harriet was also the inspiration for the famous 'Tortoise and the Hare' fable.)

Er ... okay, I made that last part up but this only proves that I could never make a good Tom Wolfe, Stephen King or even a worthy Jayson Blair.