Off to NoDak

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

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

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

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

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

See ya on the road!

WANTED: Trusty Sidekick

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

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

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

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

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

MC Sidekick, working hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hoo boy. This only made me miss Maria more.

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

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

Now taking applications.

The Hump Dance

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

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

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

Enjoy!

TEDxMileHigh

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

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

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

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

Some of my favorites:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Houseguest #2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I couldn't help but think of how many hundreds of flights I had taken over the years, how many airports I had maneuvered - security lines, baggage claims, ticket counters and terminal cafes. I ended up writing a long email to her with as many travel tips as I could think of ("Signs are your best friends in an airport - stay aware. They keep you on track.") before her trip. When I picked her up at DIA she announced triumphantly, "I made it!" 
 
Jen's visit was great, I dragged her ass all over town and even made her 'work' as a volunteer at Swallow Hill. (We got to see Cracker do an acoustic show for free - awesome.) Country Road Cafe, Root Down, Buckhorn Exchange, Red Rocks, Morrison, Kirkland Museum, Farmer's Market, Mile-High Church, homecooked meals and a private screening of our favorite stoner classic: "Sooper Troopers."

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

Houseguest #1

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

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

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

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

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

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

Garbage is Magic

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

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

Welcome to the Denver Urban Gardens' Master Composter Program.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo credit: The Green Life

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

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

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

A Small-Minded Town

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

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

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

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

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

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


"Do you know why I pulled you over?" 

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

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

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

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


"MA'AM, ARE YOU ARGUING WITH ME?" 


"Wha...? No!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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


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

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

A trap, indeed.

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

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



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


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

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

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

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

--Wikipedia entry on Mountain View, Colorado

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friends: Old, New and Found

Skyler plays at Box Canyon in Yorba Linda.

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

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

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

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

Some things never change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monster Truck FAIL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Night Skiing

Photo by Brian J. Gibson.

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

View from our balcony.

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

That's right, Night Skiing, baby!

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

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

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

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

Photo compliments of SkiRebel.com.

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

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

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

1. Skiing/Snowboarding
2. Denver Broncos
3. Outdoor Adventures: hiking, biking, mountain climbing, etc. 
4. Religion
5. Skiing/Snowboarding

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

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

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

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

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

Starting From Scratch

Resume t-shirt compliments of Popgadget.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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