Happy Allan McLaren Day!

Gather round, children, time for a story:

Sometime in the early 80s, my best friend, Lisa, and I were walking the halls of Bancroft Jr. High in Long Beach, California. It must have been the end of February because we were discussing the recent Presidents Day holiday, which seemed too elitist for our tastes. "Seems like there should be a day for people that aren't presidents," Lisa said.

"Yeah, like a day that celebrates the guy that has no desire to be president," I undoubtedly concurred. "A day for the average Joe, y'know? The world needs those guys too."

"Maybe we should start one … ?" she said, eyes wide. Lisa was, once again, ready to co-hatch outrageous plans with me, which is why I love her so.

"Hey .. yeah!"

And we were off. Immediately, we began formulating the outline of the campaign messages and the all-important 'Celebrating the Everyman' gist of our new holiday. Still, we needed a face, a name, a figurehead … somebody to stand up for our new cause. We wanted the guy that just happily exists in life, does his thing, and is perfectly harmless – the guy that merely goes to school/work, does his chores and doesn't spark headlines, bad or good. We needed to pin down the uncelebrated fellow that makes up the bulk of society - the guy that everyone likes but no one really notices.

Lisa and I spotted him at the same time. He was a smallish kid, same age as us (15-ish) and we didn't know his name. He had blonde bushy surfer-kid hair, shy eyes and an infectious sweet smile. We'd never noticed him before which made him ideal. Looking back now, I realized we may have come on a bit strong initially but he played along. After briefly introducing ourselves without revealing our true mission, we conducted the interview on-the-spot:

Belong to any clubs? "Nope."
Play on any sports teams? "No way."
Girlfriend? "Um, not right now."
Grades? "C average."
Home life? "Just normal stuff – my parents are okay, I guess."
Get in to trouble? "No, I try to lay low."
And finally, name? "Allan McLaren."

Lisa's eyes lit up at this, since she was the creative ad agency person and I'm more of the big mouth PR type. The phonetics needed to be ideal to result in a winning slogan. She tried it out, "Hmmmmm. AllanMcLaren AllanMcLaren AllanMcLaren. Yes, yes … YES! That will work perfectly!"

We each squealed, kissed him on the cheek and then ran off, yelling back at Allan, "Thank you!" and maybe even "Get ready!"

In the next few weeks, we created banners, posters, buttons and possibly t-shirts that prepared the student body for the big day, which we'd picked randomly as March 26^th – the world's first annual Allan McLaren Day.

Because we were those busybody types that ran everything, we managed to get this in the student newspaper, the school calendar, the daily announcements and, most importantly, on the lips of every student. Anticipation was high. Allan was confused but just kept smiling.

When the big day finally came, I recall sitting in typing class (ha!) and watching the very prim and proper teacher, Mrs. Howard, instruct us on the day's lesson. On her print blouse was a button pin that clearly read: "Have you hugged your Allan McLaren today?" This was victory.

In high school, the tradition continued and Allan became a minor celebrity. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Not only was Allan game for all the attention, but he was consistently appreciative and smiled even more.

Years later, at the 10-year high school reunion, I ran into Allan and he was so excited. He introduced his lovely wife, Kristina, and told her the whole story. He then went on to tell us how we had inadvertently changed his entire school experience. Apparently, he'd show up at parties and people would cheer: "Allan McLaren has arrived!" He noted, with some irony, that the football guys who "would otherwise beat me up" had decided that Allan was the coolest dude ever and was to be revered and protected like a king.

Even several years after graduation, Allan was in a grocery store writing a check when the cashier saw his name: "Allan McLaren? I know that name! Aren't you famous or something?"

Decades later, I was living in San Francisco and received a card in the mail. It was an elaborate beautifully self-designed sentiment from Lisa, dated March 26, 2003, with the words: "Celebrating 20 years of the average man … wishing you the very best Allan McLaren Day!"

So, now, I pass along this tradition to ya'll. Buy the Average Joe a drink tonight, would ya? Whether he knows it or not, it's his special day.

No Big Deal

On this rainy Saturday, I'm piddling around my apartment, cleaning rooms filing papers and generally trying not to think about my father, who was driven this morning from Biloxi, Mississippi to Houston, Texas … in an ambulance. And yes, the entire state of Louisiana is lodged in between there somewhere.

I'm told it's nothing urgent, they are just checking on the stent that was put in his heart a few years ago. Still, it's a "procedure" and I'm never comfortable with that. For the record let me state that I am completely and 100 percent against this whole parental mortality thing. Intellectually, I get that we are all temporary bits of squawking meat on the same conveyor belt, heading for the same hole in the ground, but emotionally, I cannot swallow it when it comes to my co-founders.

The fact is, if everything goes according to schedule, we will all see our parents die and for many of my friends, this natural process has already begun. This is taken with the perspective that no parent should ever have to watch their own child leave Earth before they do; even as a non-parent, this is a pain I cannot imagine. My stepmother watched her beautiful daughter die of breast cancer at 37 and how she managed to say goodbye, I'll never know.

These rambling paranoid thoughts are quite premature as my 73-year-old father is, otherwise, the jolly, bouncy picture of senior health. Beyond a noticeable addiction to Dairy Queen Blizzards and cheap cigars, he walks a few miles every night, plays golf and dutifully obeys his doctors. The man retired at age 48 and has been happily entertaining himself ever since, mostly by driving his motor home (which he lives in) wherever he damn well pleases. Bob "King of the Road" Clisby laughs easily, has endless patience and is a friend to all. He raised us with the lesson that "you are just as good as the movie star and no better than the trash man." His cell phone's message greeting kinda says it all:

"Wonderful day! I woke up this morning and I'm still alive and I think that's just great! I hope your day is going as good as mine. Bye-bye!"

True to his "everything is an adventure!" perspective, my Dad actually looked forward to the ambulance ride. "Should be fun!" he said last night and then scoffed at my request for the ambulance drivers' DMV records.

A few minutes ago, I spoke to him and sure enough, he fully enjoyed his medical road trip. The two drivers (one had an IQ of 175, apparently) were chatty and quite happy to play tour guide to Curious Bob. It's so admirable - the man has fun no matter where he goes or what situation he finds himself in. As he told me just a few minutes ago, "Oh, I'm doing just fine, punkin - I'm happier'n spit here." (For some reason, saliva often makes its way into his statements. This one was a shorthand version of his usual, "I'm so happy, I could spit!")

So, let the rain fall, I say. He'll be fine. I'll be fine. Our spit will be happy and eventually, we will all be dead and the cycle will continue … just like it is supposed to.

Home is Everywhere

Back home in Denver, after a week or so at SXSW and I'm just now rested up. I love that event but damn, it's exhausting. At the end of the day, you fall into your bed, completely spent, worrying about what other Amazing Thing is going on at that exact moment, what perspective-changing item that you are missing. Sometimes, it feels like an organized, public Burning Man without all the dusty penises, glittered boobs and bottled water. You get so immersed in this concentrated batch of amazingly focused artists – writers, filmmakers, musicians, producers, even the average attending fan - that just keeping an rigid, open-pored attention span kicks your ass. Also, experiencing one amazing conversation after another can be enlightening but ferociously taxing. Even the chit-chat.

For instance, I met a guy under a tree at Brush Park named Keith. He was working the festival, serving beer at his company's promotional tent. I learned about his niece, an independent-minded 30-year-old woman who happens to be blind and deaf. She lives in his house but basically runs the place. I told him that he was a great uncle to give her a home. "Oh, no. She doesn't need me at all," he said, laughing, "I make her live with me to make myself feel better. I don't want to have to worry about her." But she does all the cooking and insists on going to the grocery store – alone – every Saturday. He had to train himself not to move things, as in, anything.

"If I use the salt and don’t put it back in the same exact spot, she'll get mad," he says. "It's the same reason we don't have much furniture in the house. Too much clutter and it's dangerous. Things have to be organized, every thing has a place."

Immediately, I thought to myself: "Hmmm. Sounds like a good documentary." After so many days of this, one starts to view the entire world - at that point, a seemingly endless sea of unmade films - through the eye of a camera lens.

But it's great to be back in my Denver cave and sleep in my own raggedy bed. The weather has suddenly turned into sunny spring days and the city's parks are full. I put air in my bike tires and ventured out to Washington Park myself yesterday to lie in the grass, snuggle up with scattered goose turds, and finish an intense book that HDW lent me. Dogs of every breed and folks of every creed, all moving forward in some kind of fashion. Kind of like being in Golden Gate Park on Sundays except no roller disco or ethnic parades/political protests. Lovely, just lovely.

Still, I must admit to a certain Austin tug at my heart this past week. Can't help it, I feel something when I'm there and it must show for every year, I get mistaken for a local by locals. It happened blatantly twice this year. One time, I was standing in line for (surprise!) a film and started talking to the woman in front of me. When she assumed that I lived in Austin, I corrected her. She looked confused. "Hmmm, that's weird, "she said, "You seem to have such an Austin vibe about you." Oof.

Also, this past week, I stayed with two beautiful new friends, Tiffany and Michael, who provided my own free SXSW resting cave. Tiffany is becoming a certified healer of the spiritual kind and god knows I'll take any and all kinds of help. We had a two-hour session and I'm not sure what happened but I think some rusty doors were opened. There may not be anything much behind them except maybe some old Esquires and neglected ant farm but sometimes it's good to clean house.

Meanwhile, Michael is a foodie, like me. We went out to a fancy dinner at Gumbo's in Round Rock and talked it up. We're talking crawfish, broiled shrimp, asparagus and tabasco-mashed potatoes, fresh bread, tomoto salad and divine red wine followed by Lousiana Bread Pudding and port wine. FUCKING YUM. He insisted the waiter was hitting on me, though I'm not so good at noticing these things. Now I'm now thinking of taking Michael with me everywhere - god knows what else I'm missing.

Still, when T&M asked me to stay another day to enjoy a birthday party they were hosting (Michael tortured me with the elaborate menu he would be preparing - I tried to ignore him but the words "fresh fish", "fennel" and "champagne sauce" managed to get through), I couldn't bring myself to oblige. I love Austin but I was worn out and ached for the place where I actually collect my mail.

When the plane zeroed in for a Denver landing, I looked out the window and smiled. "My mountains!" God, I suddenly couldn't wait to get home to my lil' place, my cheap guitar and my zany batch of new buddies. Once in the door, I was so happy that I laid on the floor and did carpet angels, with my cat mashing her head into my armpit.

And the tug-o-war continues …

SXSW: Musical Surprises

The music portion of SXSW has begun here in Austin, which means a sudden influx of musicians, producers, managers, roadies, groupies and just plain ol' music fans. It is also Spring Break for University of Texas so that boulevard of debauchery, 6th Street, now blocked off to car traffic, is officially on a bender. Everyone is either a hipster or a student or Me.

Yesterday - or was it the day before? - I saw five films and fittingly, three had to do with music:

The day began with "Companeras", a documentary about Mariachi Reyna de Los Angeles, the world's first all-female mariachi band. (Anything regarding LadyFirsts, I'm all over it.) Going against the "man's world" of mariachi, these young musicians elbow their way into their own unique space, juggling their art, jobs, school, husbands and children all the while. In one scene, a 16-year-old band member sings an ancient Mexican love song, "Albur de Amore" and despite never having been in love herself, her rendition left me misty-eyed and speechless. I want the CDs and yes, I want the outfits.

The next was a two-hour doc classic, "Let's Get Lost" about famed jazz singer/trumpeter, Chet Baker. I'd only vaguely heard of Baker - my jazz knowledge is fairly limited to the big names. Apparently, this film was a classic; released in 1989, it included interviews during the final year of Baker's life. The director, Bruce Weber, was there for the screening, which always makes it a special occasion. Seems Baker was a phenomenal talent but, unfortunately, he was also a drug addict and a thoughtless asshole. Sometimes you see these blazing phenomenons get crushed under the weight of their own gift. Sad.

Finally, I attended the World Premiere of "Dirty Country" probably one of my favorite films so far this year. Meet Larry Pierce, a regular Joe who lives in a small Indiana town, works at a factory, has been married for 24 years and is the father of two children. Larry also has a hobby, he plays guitar and writes songs ... dirty songs, really dirty songs ... unbelievably filthy songs. Song with titles like "Porking You is Always On My Mind", "Will You Swallow My Cum?" and "Sleep Right Next to Your Pussy."

So, Larry has been playing these songs to the delight of his friends and family (including his wife and mother) for years, performing in his garage since it makes the local bar crowd uncomfortable. He records under the Laughing Hyena record label which sells them at truck stops across the nation. This has been going on for about a dozen years and Larry has put out about 14 albums.

Meanwhile, a rock band out of Colorado Springs, CO named Itis, has been covering Larry's songs for years. They idolize Larry and can't quite believe he's real. The documentary is about bringing Larry and Itis together to perform and the result is beyond fun. Hard to believe but despite the film being set to songs like "Every Time I Shit" and "Worthless Cunt", this is one of the sweeter documentaries I have seen in a long time. First of all, despite the dirty lyrics, Larry is one of the kindest and humblest people you will ever meet. He adores his wife and when interviewed, she insists he is a gentle, romantic soul and their steady love is quite evident.

After the screening - once the entire audience was firmly enamored of Larry - the directors got up and announced there would a party down the street with free beer - we were all invited! Furthermore, Larry and Itis would be perfoming, making their Texas debut. Of course, I had planned on going straight home - I was dead dog tired - but how could I possibly pass this up???

I got a chance to chat with both Larry and his wife. (Sandy? Sally? I can't remember.) Both were sweet as pie and Larry was very gracious to everyone. I approached him at the beginning, "Hey, Larry, do you have any CDs for sale?" He said he did, grabbed my hand and we went off looking. The boxes hadn't been opened yet so I was thrilled to make the first post-doc purchases.

Later, when Larry was formally introduced to the load roar his new fans, he high-fived me on his way to the stage. I was THRILLED. When he launched into the crowd pleasing, "Good Hard Fuckin'", you saw a hard working man finally getting his due. Larry was positively beside himself - it was a long way from his Indiana garage. I looked over at his wife who was positively beaming with love. My friend leaned over and said to her, "Bet you didn't know you'd married a rock star!" She just smiled and then started dancing.

Larry Pierce makes everyone happy.

SXSW: Heroes Everywhere

Once again, I am completely inspired by the intense focus and dedication of the people around me, no matter the intention.

The photo at left shows two of the stars of "Confessions of a Superhero" hanging out in the press room. The film documents the people who take it upon themselves to dress up as superheroes for the delight of Hollywood tourists. Apparently, they begin to take on the characters in a serious way and ultimately have to deal with identity crisis. I'm screening this tonight - should be interesting.

Of course, at right is legendary news anchor, Dan Rather. While I was always more of a Tom Brokaw gal, Fang has enlightened me to the hokey ways of Rather - so human and brimming with great intent - the man has my respect. He spoke yesterday and the one hour was, quite frankly, too short. He talked about the dangers of a journalist getting too cozy with their sources, "You get so close that you become part of the problem." He had a ton of great quotes but my favorite: "I've never really liked the term 'investigative reporting', it seems redundant to me."

My first screening of the day was "Audience of One", a documentary about an evangelical minister who sees his first film at age 40 ("The Lion King" of all things) and receives a message from God to build a movie studio and make biblical films. It's a hard film to watch because the guy has no clue whatsoever yet he drags his entire congregation (First Pentecostal Church in San Francisco) along with him. They travel to Italy with no shot list and no idea how to load film. They burn through thousands of dollars and, at the end of it all, end up with two shots. To my surprise, the preacher dude showed up to the screening after watching an audience of mostly filmmakers laugh at his misguided naivete. When asked in the Q&A how it felt to watch this documentary, he said, "It felt like watching yourself go to the toilet." Still, he talked on about how he was not swayed but realized he just had to learn more. Said he woke up one day and thought, "Wow, look at me. I'm a fat, white, cracker preacher. How can I do something extreme and think outside the box?" He wanted to change, to do something different in his ministry and for that, the man has my respect, even though I think he is nuts.

I then attended a panel: "Do You Blog on the First Date?" It included bunch of romance and sex columnists (i.e., Carrie Bradshaw) who blog about their personal lives as a paid profession - all women, of course. I went because as an amateur blogger, I was curious to see how they dealt with it as a job. Bottom line, they have mixed feelings but it certainly seemed to wreak havoc with their personal lives. I certainly didn't blame the men in their lives who felt weird about it. One woman said that when she starts dating a guy, she tells him what she does for a living with this caveat: "I won't blog about you until you dump me and then you are fair game." Oh, wow ... that'll get him in the mood, fer sure. Then someone else asked, "What about if you dump him?" And she said: "Same thing." Which led to another question: "Do you take notes as the relationship is going along to post later when he's out of your life?" She admitted that she did. Ugh. I'm no Princess of Blogger Piety here but that seems a bit sordid to me. It made me quite happy not to be a pro-blogger, on this topic, at least. My romantic life has enough challenges as it is.

"Knocked Up" - The latest film from Judd Apatow, starring Seth Rogen ("Freaks and Geeks" and "40-Year-Old Virgin") and Katherine Heigl ("Grey's Anatomy") about two opposites who spend a drunken night together and part ways, until she finds out she is pregnant. Admittedly, I only went to see this film because I know this will get distributed widely (coming out in June) and I need those films for the listeners of the radio show - the entire reason I am here. ("Movie Magazine International" on 90.3FM KUSF-FM out of San Francisco but broadcast nationally.) The film is so hysterically funny and yet rather poignant. Ben (Rogen) is an unemployed stoner who hangs out with a gang of equally unambitious gents while Allison Heigl) is on the TV entertainment fast track. When a fetus starts growing between them, they decide to try and make it work and awkward hilarity ensues. The real treat was watching Rogen and Paul Rudd, who plays Allison's brother-in-law, Pete, connect comedically. Some things never change.

"Smiley Face": At last! The world's first stoner movie told from an entirely female perspective! Oh, how long we stoner gals have waited for this. Anna Faris is Jane F., an out of work actress who accidentally ingests her roommate's pot-laced cupcakes on top of already being very stoned and she tries go about her day and make things right again. (This actually happened to me in college, when I accidentally ate a roommate's pot brownie and then went to work driving a limo on New Year's Eve on one of the foggiest nights in Los Angeles. FUCKING SCARY.) The film is so authentic - especially for any stoner who has had long extended inner conversations.

An apology: While I had every intention of attending the screening of "What Would Jesus Buy?" I actually made a geographical miscalculation and ended up in the wrong theatre. When the lights dimmed and sub-titles popped up, I realized my mistake but since I'd already ordered my french fries and was snuggled in, I opted to stay for "Exiled" a Hong Kong action flick that was actually quite enjoyable, very Sergio Leone and with a great mix of violent grit and silly brotherly behavior. A shoot 'em up flick that I probably would have not seen otherwise, such is the inevitable magic of SXSW.

I tried to go to a midnight screening last night of "Kenny" a loving portrait of a porta-potty cleaner in Australia who dispenses wisdom and insight at every turn. His philosophy: "Everybody poops," seems like something thatI could relate to. However, a torrential thunder/lightening storm damped my mood, as did my inability to locate the correct theatre on the map.

We'll give it another try today ...

SXSW: Blogs and Docs

Sorry but I’ve got to get this out of the way … Last year at SXSW, I was woozy with new-found outta-the-blue-sky Love. I was smitten beyond belief with a man who proved pivotal in my life – my U-Haul ended up in Denver instead of Austin, as I’d originally planned. Though I lovelovelove my new home in Denver, admittedly, I feel a tug here – right down to my Lone Star ring and cowgirl boots. Urf.

My hosts this year came out of friendships formed at last year’s festival. A beautiful, incredible couple who recently moved from Manhattan – their spacious Round Rock home stands in large contrast to their tiny New York flat.

Anyway, enough about me – let’s get on with it …

I sit here now, awaiting the SXSW Interactive Festival’s opening remarks by Kathy Sierra, a really smart woman I’ve never heard of. The place is packed and she’s going to talk about “creating passionate users” which I don’t understand. However, I think attending the keynotes is crucial – these folks are on the schedule for a reason, I figure. There are people sitting on the floor and there are two spillover rooms that will broadcast her words over speakers so whatever she has to say must bed worth hearing.

This morning, I attended my first documentary – the first of many this week. “A Hard Road Home” focused on the mission of Exodus, a non-profit organization made up of ex-cons who help other recently released felons find their meaningful role in society and above all, avoid a return to a life behind bars. The director, Macky Alston, spoke prior to the film’s screening and nervously stated that we were the film’s first audience, “So go easy on us.”

The film illustrated the incredible love that the Exodus ‘family’ offers to one another, even when they stumble and fall back into bad habits. Julio Medina, the leader of Exodus, a respected family man who had spent most of his 20s behind bars for drug trafficking, is a father figure to many who have lost their way. One is Griffick, a young hood who wants to turn his life around. His transformation – especially when he first dons an interview suit and works on his language patterns – is so heartwarming, you can’t help but root for him. After the film, the filmmakers plus Julio and Griffick, showed up to answer questions. This was the first time they had seen the film as well and they received a massive standing ovation. They were tickled pink. (Mackey shot 100 hours over eight months – a question I always ask so I can grasp the amount of editing work that goes into such a project – down to 73 minutes.)

The photo shows a random appearance on the streets of Austin by the stars of “What Would Jesus Buy?” a film I have yet to see – it screens on Sunday evening. At the helm, Reverend Billy followed by The Stop Shopping Gospel Choir. Apparently, this focuses on how consumerism has swallowed up the Xmas holiday. Looking forward to that!

By the way, I’m typing this in the plush press room (God Bless press passes!) beneath a giant poster of The Governator for a film called “Running With Arnold.” Hope I get to see that – I notice there are a ton more films this year that focus on the political process. Perfect to get me in the mood for the Democratic Convention in Denver next year.

Finally, another photo shows a gal in a typical state of organized disarray. At SXSW, we are bombarded with so much STUFF – schedules, film catalogues, panel descriptions, promotional crap, magazine, flyers, party invitations and on and on and on. On top of all that, everyone is blogging about it, taking photos or documenting the experience in some capacity. It’s madness I tell you … MADNESS!

Anyway, I asked if I could take her photo to demonstrate what most of us look like in between films/panels and whatnot and she gamely agreed, “As long as you link to my site!” Such a typical SXSW response. She turned out to be Liza Sabater of CultureKitchen.com and told me she was going to be on a panel, “The Digital Enthnorati” about minority engagement on the web. “Um, can white people come too?” I asked. Turns out, we can.

Finally, I’m about to check out the interactive trade show since I am UP TO HERE with the limits of Blogger. I'm appreciative of getting me started and all but hell’s bells, I need me a new format, something more photo-essay-ish and sound-file friendly. As Truman pointed out, sometimes writing is just typing.

An Unfamiliar Feeling

As previously mentioned, my taste in women is superb and my ladyfriend standards, incredibly high. Many agree that I have a noticeable talent for selecting only the cream-of-the-crop females to be in my life. While I recognize tendencies amongst some women to be competitive with one another, I always marvel at my opposing urge to protect them.

Most of the time, these bad ass ladies don't need my protection but I like to stand guard at all times just the same. The offense could be anything - bad bosses, neglectful boyfriends, rude waiters or an accidental splashing of mud but in a society that often lacks chivalry, I try to fill a gap somehow. Hear me now - my allegiance to the sisterhood is strong.

Which is why I find it so alarming that I would like to beat the highlights out of conservative supermouth, Ann Coulter. I'm not sure which upsets me more, that she exists and is famous or that she – a woman! – inspires within me such a violent reaction. More specifically, a longing desire to run her over with a Hummer and then set them both aflame. (This fantasy also involves me simultaneously smoking a giant spliff and wearing nothing but an American flag but that's for my therapist to ponder.) This is the kind of reaction that Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity could only dream about fearing from me.

Honestly, I could snap that spindly bitch in half in 10 seconds flat only to be dragged away in whistling "Yankee Doodle Dandy" and consider my life completely fulfilled.

Y'see what I mean? This ugly side of me gets stirred up every time she spits out something particularly vulgar, such as her recent usage of the word "faggot" to describe John Edwards. (Mind you, this is in no defense of Edwards, who promptly used the ensuring media frenzy to his fundraising advantage.) Honestly, I can't help myself when it comes that hateful skanky witch, I just go ballistic. It's not healthy. She makes me want to grow my nails long specifically to claw her eyes out when normally a cat fight is my personal idea of hell. I recently told a friend, "If we ever get in a fight, I would just apologize and give in immediately, whether I was right or not. I don't like fighting with women."

Could it be that I am confused within myself because I hold the female gender is such high regard and this hair-flipping cunt-face is not worthy to own ovaries? It is not because we disagree, there are women in my life who are conservatives, staunch Republicans, born-again Christians, dedicated Catholics and a bunch of other things that I reject or can't relate to but that never gets in the way of me loving them. We may argue or debate but I never feel a desire to chop all their hair off and stuff it into their mouths until they suffocate. Nor do I entertain fantasies of kidnapping them and dressing them up in a Las Vegas showgirl costume and dropping them inside Mecca during hajj. I'm just not that kind of girl - I support slumber parties , giggling and clothing exchanges. So why instead do I imaagine AC's slow death by a thousand-State-Department-press-release-paper-cuts-followed-by-a-
pineapple-juice-bath? Otherwise, I'm quite loving. No, really.

Oh, dear. I just realized that I may, indeed, need to seek counseling for this. While my hatred for Dick Cheney is widely known (still gunning for my own FBI folder), I try to refrain from wishing him stone cold dead. Mind you, I have certainly wished painful ass boils on his physical being but nothing life threatening. I feel like it may not be good karma, no matter how much that scheming motherfucker deserves it.

This loathesome whore, however, is a different story. Not only do I envision a time when the world is blissfully Ann Coulter-free, I also imagine the long process of her painful demise. Perhaps a public bleacher set up and maybe some high-grade explosives? Some tar and feathers just to get the party started?

See, now what is THAT? Oh, how the bile rises within me whenever her pond scum-self reappears. My ugliness ends up matching hers and then, we are left with zero, are we not?

On the world/political stage, men will be dicks - that's just what they do. They start wars, they build bombs, the become dictators, they proliferate stupidity, etc. (Personally, however, I still think they are swell and couldn't live without them.) Within the Congress, the Senate and any other legislature throughout the world, plenty of folks - both male and female – make bad decision, the wrong choices, say hurtful things. Ladies such as Karen Hughes, Condi Rice and even Laura "The First Fembot" Bush draw my ire, make me roll my eyes, piss me off and so on but I would NEVER wish these women any harm. Furthermore, I have some begrudging respect for what each one does even though it is about 180 degrees from where I stand.

Ann, however, serves no purpose other than to spew ugliness, flip her idiot head and pretend she's Sharon Stone in "Basic Instinct." Quite frankly, my own anger towards another woman scares me half to death but she makes Barbara Bush, the biggest Mama Bear Bitch to ever open her mouth, seem downright cuddly.

I can only conclude that Ann is not only NOT a female but, in fact, not human at all. She is made up of twigs, stretched leather, a bad wig and dentures all enhanced by a 45nm processing chip that is programmed to simulate human behavior. (Has anyone checked her birth certificate? Does it say "Birthplace: Fourth Rock from the Sun"?)

So … stay with me now … the words and movements of this crazy ugly alien and/or robot are controlled remotely by an evil scientist who wants to take over the world or start WWIII or some crazy shit like that … and he sits at a desk in a New Mexico underground compound eating Hot Pockets and Red Bull …and laughing to himself about easy it is to stir the pot of normally level-headed folks and make them turn on each other. In the movie version, he would undoubtedly be played by Dennis Hopper.

Whew. Okay, I'm going to buy into this for the good of womankind. Let's hope it sticks. Speaking of sticking, I could always invest in this … I've got a box of pins around here somewhere …

Next Stop: American Idol

Against my better judgment, I committed karaoke last night. I met up with some folks at Armida's and really just wanted to retrieve my hat and gloves from a friend who had them. Still, I'm a sucker for peer pressure and a beckoning stage so I knew it was simply a matter of time. To access my courage, I ordered the biggest beer they could carry; I had to lift it with two hands – perfect! Then I ordered some beef tamales and began perusing their overwhelmingly comprehensive song catalogue.

There were a handful of talented folks present who could honestly go pro – including one Stevie Nicks-looking chick who actually sounds better than Stevie does now - but more importantly, there many more who were just plain awful. These people instantly become my heroes. Within each terrible, off-key voice was a quiet urging: "Look at me! I have no musical skills whatsoever! You've got nothing to lose! Tra-la-friggin'-la!" I loved them all.

But none as much as the tall cowboy guy who brought up a stuffed dog (for support?) and a tambourine supplement. I can't even recall what the songs were since he was determined to make them his own. He also incorporated some fancy dance moves and as I watched (trust me, it was better than listening) his long leather denim-ed legs attempt fancy choreography, I felt a strange mixture of admiration and disgust. Kinda like how I felt when Hunter S. Thompson offed himself.

The guy was clearly a freak and so naturally, we became instant friends. He offered his business card and "The Sicilian Clown" has no less than five aliases (though he introduced himself as "Randy") and professes to be a comedian ("Professional Smart Ass!"), singer, percussionist, dancer, actor, promoter and "Wise Guy." To the left of all this info was some random clip art of a teddy bear with hearts. Bonkers? Pretty much. However, I prefer to regard him as an eccentric individualist since sanity is highly over-rated and painfully common.

At one point, three young girls got up and did a Vanilla Ice rap, which caused me to comment: "There's something strange about watching three white girls impersonate a white guy who impersonates black guys." But hey, that's just me.

As for my singing debut, I eventually decided on Barry Manilow's "Copacabana" since it appeared lively party music inspired the entire room sing along and would thus drown out my flat, cracked voice. (It was between that and Donna Summers' "Bad Girls.") However, this plan backfired when I quickly realized that there were not nearly enough gay men in the room for this strategy to work – no one really knew the song!

Ever the quick-thinking stage hog, I opted to make it a physical comedy routine when telling the sad, sad story of Lola, the showgirl, who ended as a lonely old woman wearing her aged cha-cha feathers in a bar and marinating herself to death. Funny stuff, huh? I tried to leave my audience with a very clear warning: "DON'T … fall in love!" I think Lola learned a lesson for all of us, truly.

When I got back to the table, my new friends assured me I had "stage presence" which may have been a nice way of saying that perhaps a tambourine would've helped ... ?

A Quick Pick-Me Up

Not sure why but I am feeling kinda blue, icky or just plain bored, this ad is like fizzy water on my brain and perks me right up. Delightful. It sure in the hell wouldn't play in Kansas ...

Any one else feel the same?

Life.com

I've got the Internet on the brain today and the news is only feeding my fixation. It all started yesterday, when I was reading an annual report from Gartner (industry analysts) called "Emerging Tech Trends Analysis." (I had to put down the porn and everything.) Mind you, it's for work so I skimmed over most of it but stopped cold when I got to this part:

"By 2010, 70% of the population in developed nations will spend 10 times longer per day interacting with people in the e-world than in the physical one."

Of course, my first thought was, "Whoa. I'm gonna have to blog about this."

I also recently read another article that teaches parents about cyber-bullies and how to deal with them. It offered some chilling examples – emails and IMs that reveal the usual cruelty of adolescents combined with the safety of anonymity – as well as these enlightening stats:

• 90% of middle school students have had their feelings hurt online
• 75% have visited a Web site bashing another student
• 40% have had their password(s) stolen and changed by a bully who then locked them out of their own account and then sent communication posing as them (WTF?)
• Just 15% of parents know what cyber bullying is

Besides making me really happy not to be a teenager circa 2007, it drives home the former stat in a big way. The Web offers a voice and sometimes, real power to reach out and touch people, or metaphorically and emotionally bash them in the head. Previously, it was just the bigger kids v. smaller kids, rich v. poor; fat v. thin, pretty v. not-so-much but the Internet is the great equalizer – like pooping and death. Basically, if you can punch a keyboard, you're in the game.

THEN, today's news brought this fresh humdinger. Seems an Egyptian blogger was convicted and sentenced to four years in prison for insulting Islam, the Prophet Muhammad and Egypt's president, "sending a chill through fellow Internet writers who fear a government crackdown." Hmmm, well, so much for anonymity. Makes me feel pretty damn lucky that I can post things like "Dick Cheney is a Scrotum-Less Toad" or "The National Disgrace Continues" without being thrown in the brig. At least not yet … though I'd be disappointed if there wasn't a file on me somewhere.

This brings up another point. When I get together with my blogger buddies, we often discuss the decision to use our own name v. using a nickname or a made up one. It never occurred to me to make one up because my ego is the size of Texas and if I accidentally made a clever turn of phrase on Post #87, dammit, I would like Heather Clisby to have full credit.

On the other hand, there are several bizarre stories in me that could never, ever be posted here because a) my family reads this b) I represent large corporations and would like avoid job loss and subsequent litigation, and finally, c) I'm considering running on the Obama ticket, just to fuck with Hillary. Shmeder recently pondered this dual-existence when she accidentally outed herself to her sister, wondering, "How could anyone who knows me not know?" I guess I see it as two worlds co-existing in a parallel universe with very few bridges across and even fewer canoes.

Recently, I got a call from a friend who is a fast-talker. She went on and on about her life and I loved it because I miss her so. At one point she stopped to breathe and said, "I'm sorry, I should ask about your life but I read your blog so I kind of feel up to date. ANYWAY, so back to me … " Charming as hell.

One my very, very favorite bloggers, "Confessions of a Pioneer Woman" recently pulled out a fan letter which describes this one-sided feeling perfectly:

"Dear Ree,
After months of reading your blog on a daily basis, with the exception of maybe a few days my internet was down, I decided it was time to send you an email. First and foremost, it has been nice getting to know you through your writings, photos, and bodily functions. It almost seems as if we saw each other at Albertson's one day and decided to start emailing. But soon after we met I was in a disfiguring accident and fell into a vegetative state. You continued to email me daily even though I was now the “vegetable boy” and could not communicate back to you. The doctors reported that staying in contact with friends and family was important to my recovery so you set up this elaborate website to communicate your daily activities to me. They (the hospital nursing staff) mounted a laptop directly above my head and every time they would play a burp or juice-bag episode they noticed that my thumbs would move.
John"

I can only hope that ClizBiz will someday make somebody's thumbs move in the same disturbing way.

In the meantime, I am gearing up to attend SXSW again this year, March 9-17. DO expect daily reports, same as last year. However, this time I've opted to only focus on the film and interactive portion of the festival. (Frankly, Austin offers great music year-round – too many damn people in the way at SXSW-Music Fest.)

Check out some of the panels for blogging and whatnot, including a keynote by Dan Rather. (Fang, eat your heart out!) I'm especially interested in "Do You Blog on the First Date?" which will discuss the ethics of airing personal details of one's life, which often includes juicy bits on other people. Also, there's another one called, "The Rise of the Blogebrity", which I think Howard should be sitting in on, with his rising fame and all.

Thinking about all this, I recall a comment that Kath, who lives way, way out near DIA, once made. "Hey man, I practically live in Kansas. My whole world is online – the Internet is my connection to the outside world." Too true. Working from my little Denver apartment and looking to buy a home, I now realize I can live anywhere – as long as I can get online. I just hope I don't forget how to talk.

Mississippi Unplugged

Back home again, snug in my Denver home/office existence but I'm still stubbornly clinging to the serenity of the past week. I hadn't had a real vacation in so long, I'd forgotten its value – eagerly following the daily trail of fun and whimsy and NO WORK.

Nearly every morning, I was awoken by the sweet urgings of my three-year-old nephew, Robbie, who was sent down below – where they keep the edgier aunties – to get me on my feet. It often went something like this:

Robbie (softly): "Aunt Hedder, you got to wake up."
Me: "Zzzzmph? Heeeeeey. Zzzzzz. Heeeey, sweeepee, wazzup?"
Robbiereferring to my butterfly eye pillow): "They told me not to be ascared of your mask."
Me: "Howzat? Mmmmmgoodforyoupunkin. Zzzzzzzz."
Robbie: "Aunt Hedder. Your da last one."

And so on. By the end of the week, he got more forceful, pulling back covers, rocking my immense form and pulling me out of the sack by the appedages. Honestly, it was the sweetest alarm clock I've ever had and I'm missing it immensely.

Other highlights include:

Ripping it up on Friday night with my sisters, Julie and MaryAnn, at Mosaic, a tapas bar in downtown Ocean Springs with belly dancers, hot Latin men and yes, hookahs. So much dancing, drinking and enlightening those around us – include a batch of lovely Air Force cadets – to the joys of inhaling fruit-flavored smoke. Hard to believe we were in Mississippi.

Heading out for a day of fishing (or in my case, photographing) on the open waters of the Gulf. Captain Robert went way, way out and tied us up to a triple oil rig, a massive structure that awakened some bizarre longings in me. (I get that way around large amounts of steel – you should have seen me trying to contain myself touring a Navy ship. It wasn't the sailors, trust me.) Anyway, the Cap'n, his first mate, Ricky, and sister Julie put eight or so lines in the water. My brother pulled in a beautiful Red Fish which he was immensely proud of - see above. (It was, in fact, the only time my modest brother said: "Heather, take a picture of me!"

Sadly, the Fish Feds soon came along and made him throw it back. Seems we'd traveled so far from land that we ended up in Federal waters where the Reds are an illegal catch. (After Chef Paul Prudhomme had caused a sensation in the early 80s with his Blackened Red Fish, there was a feeding frenzy so now they are protected.) The Fed was actually quite nice about it as he could have easily confiscated the boat and fined Captain Robert $5,000. Still, when my brother asked politely if he could not fish at all in FedWaters the officer guessed, "Well, not unless you're the President or something … " which caused me to launch into a tirade, "Don't even get me started on that guy …. !" Julie quickly stepped in to calm me – a skill she picked up being married to Kris, a fellow patriot also known for political tirades. After we watched the Feds motor off and watch the silvery gleam of the fish float away, my brother mumbled, "Well, at least we got a photo of it" to which I replied, "Can we go back to the State of Mississippi now?"

Went through a box full of old family photos with my father. He would tell me who it was, where it was taken and guess at the year and I would scrawl this info on the back. "Well, I'll be damned, that's me with my first hunting rifle … And this here is your great-grandparents, Joe and Gertie Pease, probably in South Dakota … and look! Your grandmother as a young girl, just look at that bathing suit – ha!" Delightful but it also made me painfully aware that time keeps marching on, ready or not.

When I began to learn the guitar, I stated very clearly that my goal was to play well enough to impress drunk people; congratulations to me, I have reached that point. The first night, the Sisters and I got completely blotto and I broke the instrument. With drunk folks, two chords are all you really need, though I did have a special song I'd rehearsed. I played "Jambalaya" by Hank Williams in honor of MaryAnn, the fiery redhead who married my brother and brought this new Southern experience into my life. Although I really fucked it up, she didn't care. She started bawling and insisted on video taping the performance again. I'm hoping she was drunk enough to have left the lens cap on.

Drinking perfectly made-up high class cocktails created by Julie, the world's most skilled home bartender. I remember something with lemons, limes, ice, Cointreau, tequila all served in a chilled martini glass.

Getting my baggage 24 hours after my arrival, after it had enjoyed untold adventures in Nashville - Robbie became obsessed with this and would mention it randomly throughout the week. One conversation:

Robbie: "That man delivered your bag so you can change clothes."
Heather: "That's right! So now I don't have to wear Aunt Julie's underwear."
Robbie (sternly correcting me): "Girls don't wear underwear!"
Heather: "Um, really? Who you been hanging out with, Robbie?"
Robbie: "Girls wear panties."
Heather: "Ahhhhhhh … yes, of course."

The whole week led up to a day/evening at The Farm, yet another extension of the Clisby Empire out in the Mississippi woods. RMAC has enough acreage to hold a barn, a cooking shed and lots of toys with wheels – tractors, trucks and best of all, the coolest little dune buggy that goes over EVERYTHING. Robert had cleared enough trails – and sand pits for burning out – that there were plenty of places to rip around. They invited up some friends (who brought their ATVs) and we ate crawfish, drank beer, shot rifles, played horseshoes, barbecued sausage and just hung out. Later, we made a beautiful campfire and told ghost stories. The half-moon was gorgeous and I picked at my guitar. It was a beautiful, perfect night and I felt immensely grateful.

Vacation's over but that lucky feeling remains. Gotta find a way to keep it with me always.

Bloated Wednesday

I've learned a few things since my vacation began. Recovering from Fat Tuesday requires – at the very least – 10 hours of shut eye, several teeth brushings and a Diet Coke or two. (A full confession might also be in order, either to someone named "Father" or "Officer.") Beads, I've discovered, are the key to complete happiness, especially when thrown from decorated floats that cruise along the Mississippi Gulf Coast and caught with the free hand not clutching beer. These very same beads can also inflict pain if one is unprepared. My three-year-old nephew, Robbie, got beaned pretty good and went home with bead-shaped welts on his neck.

Hanging with the family crew this week for a much-needed unplug, I couldn't be happier, or drunker, if you want to be exact. I got very lucky with landing the tribe that I did – they are a funny, life-loving gang. My brother, Robert, and his wife, MaryAnn (collectively RMAC) are once again, hosting and being generous with food, booze, love and laughter. Despite airline delays and lost baggage, I didn't hold back on my first Fat Tuesday.

Also here for the revelry is my stepsister, Julie, a vivacious brunette (pictured above) who approaches life with the same lust and gratitude that's become the family trademark. She's an expert fisherwoman and the best non-professional bartender I know. This is Julie's first visit since The Wedding of RMAC in May 2002 and she had never met Robbie until now. The child is blessed with a number of aunties but Julie and I strive to be The Bad Influence Auntie Twins. So far, so good.

In the afternoon, we attended the Biloxi Mardi Gras parade and the town had a bit more celebrate this year. Though they had suffered a terrible, unimaginable blow from Katrina, nothing – and I mean, NOTHING – gets in the way of Mardi Gras. Empty cement foundations still support FEMA trailers where awe-inspiring mansions once stood but no one was thinking about that. Marching bands, silly hats, beads, booze and celebration – this is all that matters right now.

Later in the evening, we hopped over to catch the Gulfport parade. Shorter but equally fun with better quality stuff. I even managed to score a beautiful stuffed Mardi Gras jester doll. Beads, schmeads! I was done after that. Though there were cops and crowd control, we all marveled at how such a thing could never, ever happen in California. If it did, alcohol would not be allowed, there would be no parking and has-been celebrities would proliferate the scene. Ick.

Heading home in some amazingly dense traffic, we were forced to stop so my brother could take the longest roadside piss of his life. His eyes had turned yellow when our journey first began and he may have pushed his luck too far. Once the release came, the joy of relief nearly caused him to break into song. "Nothing personal, honey," he said to his wife, "but that may have been the best orgasm ever."

This morning, Julie and I awoke and took stock of the destruction. I'd eaten many bright colored things that I don't recall (just King Cake, hopefully) and the cocktails never stopped flowing. Worst of all, we'd stupidly smoked about eight million cigarettes.

"I sound like an old bar hag, Julie," I growled. "At least you sound sexy, like Jennifer Tilly or Demi Moore."

"No, no," she said. "I sound like the Friday Night Women Who Call For Vicodin." Julie's husband is a dentist (his name is Dr. Brain!) who occasionally receives random calls from desperate ladies who are loathe to face the weekend unmedicated. They beg and plead and play up one urgency or another but Dr. Brain is inpenetrable.

Still recovering, we behaved most of today and have just returned from a lovely bayou boat trip to The Shed for the most delicious BBQ dinner I've ever had. On the trip there, dusk was fading in to night and the water, smooth as glass, mirrored the trees exactly. We sped along, sipping our gin and tonics and looked forward to the pulled pork and potato salad. The trip home was a bit chilly but equally beautiful. A delicate sliver of moon lit up the sky and the Mullets – "The Happiest Fish in the World" – lept all around us. MAC, perched on the bow like a Viking queen, lit a safe path home with her industrial strength flashlight. I looked at my brother and he grinned, "This is my life!" A lucky man, indeed.

Tomorrow: New Orleans!

Also, three-year-olds are very quotable - who knew?:

"Now I don't stink anymore!" –Robbie, celebrating post diaper-change

"I have a gun!" – Robbie, pointing the American flag at me

Julie (singing on the boat): "I wanna be a cowboy, baby!"
Robbie (joining in, guessing at the chorus): "All night wong!"

Angels Do Exist - You Just Have To Make Them

Don't ever get the idea that my favorite underdog state, North Dakota, has no creative ambition. Please note that thousands of dedicated NoDak appendages flapped yesterday to break the record for the most snow angels ever made at one time.

They only had to break Michigan's record of 3,784 but more than 8,900 Dakotans, including a 99-year-old lady, gamely plopped their ass down in the cold snow for a chance to prove their collective angelic worth.

Ever on the defense of NoDak's dull reputation, Edna Arvidson, 84, of Bismark, pointed out, "People think there is nothing going on up here." Well, I think this chilly stunt should certainly put that perception on ice for awhile ...

Out of Office

Beep!

Hi! You've reach the voice mail of Heather. I'm not here right now because starting right this very second, I'm on vacation. You heard me. The quitting time whistle is blowing and I'm yabba-dabba doin'.

For the next week or so, I'm climbing out of the corporate salt mines and trading it all in for a much-needed Whiskey Dew/gumbo transfusion on the Mississippi bayou with the family tribe. I realize that my recreational plans may cause some inconvenience to your status meeting and derail a few deadlines so I promise to check messages sporadically, if I remember ... maybe.

However, if this is a bona-fide white collar emergency, dial 9-1-1 and tell them you got a coupon off the internet, so they need to make it there in five minutes or less or its free. Our lawyers will back you up.

If you do manage to reach me, I apologize in advance for my slurring. No, I'll be fine, I'll just be ... y'know, tired, that's all. Also, ignore the screaming in the background ... that'll just be a healthy batch of joyful children, I'm sure. Plus a few (ahem) other types. Should you attempt to conference me in, I will be busily engaged in one of three things - drinking, fishing, practicing guitar, drinking or laughing.

Hmmm, looks like my math skills took off early.

Well, it should be a quiet business period anyway. This week kicks off Chinese New Year, launches Carnaval and wraps up Mardi Gras. With me gone on top of that, the media might have to actually start reporting on the Anna Nicole Smith case that we haven't heard much about. As my primo, Mat, commented, this very evening: "Yes, when great powers - Brazil, China and Heather - close down, the global economy grinds to a halt."

Meantime, go ahead and set up something for us on Outlook and send along an agenda. I'll download the data and create some action items for us to brainstorm when I return to civilization.

Have a nice day!

Now, get me the fuck outta here ....

Beep!

I Get Lucky Sometimes

Once again, I'm in San Francisco and the morning's USA Today reminds me it is Valentine's Day. Some years, the occasion mocks me while other times, I celebrate. Sure, sure, we all agree this is just one big ad campaign designed to sell cards, candy and jewelry but there is no denying its impact. I mean, we've managed to forget that DeBeers, the diamond company, invented the engagement ring and now accept it as a standard tradition.

Truth is, this celebrated Love Day hasn't bothered me for years because I was lucky enough to enjoy three completely perfect V-Days in my life. Honestly, they were so expertly crafted and manfully executed that I cannot imagine them ever being topped. I am still running on the fumes of their success and plan to for years, no problem.

#1: I was 14 and in love with Ricky, center (#56) for the Lakewood Lancers football team. He'd been my buddy in pre-school and we were drawn together once again. His friend, Willie, fancied my pal, Diane, so it became a double date. Each boy had written a poem professing their undying dedication to us and taken it to some woman, who then wrote out each sonnet on fancy paper. They brought us candy, flowers and took us to a romantic double feature at the Paradise Theatre: "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" and "Scanners" – an entertainment bargain as tickets were 99 cents each. Looking back now, Diane and I realize that the boys were 'practicing' on us – this was their first V-Day effort and they were not about to get it wrong. Ricky and I eventually went to the 9^th grade prom together and then, the senior prom. Since he'd invested several years in our friendship and relationship, I made sure he was The First.

#2: In the late 90s, I moved to San Franciscoand soon fell in love with a darling man whom I nicknamed Tarzan. Several days prior, he pointed out that V-Day was nearly upon us. I wondered aloud if there was something I should do to prepare. His response: "You don't do anything. I'm the man, I do everything." How hot is that? VERY.

Tarzan showed up the morning of with red tulips, a gift poster from the Henry Miller Library in Big Sur and the makings for a scrumptious French Toast and champagne breakfast for me AND my roommate. He then told me to pack for the next two days and would not tell me where we were going. Heading south on Highway 1, we finally arrived at the Tickle Pink Inn, which sounds like a tacky place where the beds vibrate for small change but it was, in fact, a gorgeous B&B in Carmel-by-the-Sea overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

My jaw dropped upon seeing our plush room and with its amazing deck view. I believe I cried and said, "No one's ever done this for me before" to which he replied, "Well, they should have." We sat in front of the fireplace, drank wine and talked. There was a fancy dinner and some blissful lovemaking. The next day, we went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I felt like the Pink Princess of the Palace. Tarzan earned an awful lot of points with this effot and we remain good friends to this day.

#3: I was dating a wildly romantic fellow who had helped a friend move to New Orleans. He'd driven the U-Haul and was now staying in a 100-year-old mansion – friend of a friend and all that. I missed him terribly so I planned a trip to come visit, not consciously realizing the date – February 14^th. Always a dashing figure, he met me at Louis Armstrong Airport with red roses and wearing his usual long, dark coat and black derby. What a sight he was! So handsome – I couldn't believe he was waiting there for me.

We returned to the mansion where he cooked up a fine Louisiana meal – crab pastry, collard greens, and hush puppies – truly fabulous. We dined on the expansive porch and listened to the beads of Mardi gras revelers clink up and down the street. Later, we went to the Maple Leaf with the gang and caught a kick-ass brass/rock band that brought down the house. We danced and drank and generally celebrated life above ground in that decadent New Orleans way.

Eventually, we returned to the mansion where a number of us all made out together. I know, this doesn't sound romantic but he and I were in a very active sexual stage and exploring stuff together. It was HOT. When I boarded the plane on Sunday, I felt like the entire weekend was written all over my face and my naughty smirk was betraying me right and left. I saw a nun on the plane and kept my head down.

Sure, I'm working on living in the Present and all that but days like today, it feels good to look back and rehash the red velvet efforts of such wonderful men. Though things didn't "work out" in the usual sense with a picture perfect wedding and a 50th anniversary party, I am still so grateful that we crossed paths. Roses die and candy gets eaten but I can survive an awfully long time on these frozen memories of Love.

From the Front Lines of Love

Once again, my engines are revved up and I'm back in the race - just in time for the big V-Day. I'm dating up a storm here in Denver which is both delightful and painful. Even the fish I throw back, I feel for. They are trying hard – sometimes too hard – in an effort to locate a suitable companion. Who can blame them? It's like one long game of musical chairs and I always seem to be at the bar getting a refill when the music stops. And so I remain standing.

First off, I can't say enough how GREAT it is to work with a level playing field here in Colorado. The C-Man Buffet offers a wide variety of worthy dudes to investigate. I'd recently corresponded with an editor at 5280, complimenting them on the recent Love Issue. She wrote back, offering good wishes on my journey:

"While the 'Menver' theory doesn't hold in terms of numbers, in terms of educated, fit available, non-25-year-old guys, it does. Hope you find it fertile ground here!"

Indeed. I've got two balls (technically, four, I guess) in the air at the moment so I must be giving off a whiff of something. One is a fellow I met just last Sunday at a superbowl party. Last night was our first date and already, he's planned how we will spend our lives together. At 6'5", he's a big dude and I like 'em big but I learned long ago that Big Men actually come in a variety of sizes.

Already, it's going a bit fast for me so I may have to put on the brakes and possibly, change my phone number. He married at 20, divorced last April and has already decided I will be the New Woman. He's thinking about buying a five-bedroom house in Estes Park – perhaps, he wondered aloud ON OUR FIRST DATE, I could live there with him? I'm confident he hasn't the faintest idea who he is dealing with nor is he terribly interested. If MonkMan taught me anything, it was to think twice before tossing aside my own life plans for some starry-eyed fool entranced by an idealized version of me.

Furthermore, he has a 14-year-old daughter which terrifies me to no end. That was me, you see, dealing with a father busily upgrading to a new wife model. Vexing and quite damaging to a young girl on the brink of womanhood, I can assure you. After Big Dude left my apartment, I suddenly burst into sobs, missing a love I left behind in San Francisco. (Every time I hear that fucking Tony Bennett song, I want to break a window.) The comfort of the familiar, the devil you know and so on.

Thankfully, there is another fellow on the horizon more my speed. Plus, his existence adheres to my new policy which is: "Proactive, not Reactive." In other words, instead of just liking whoever likes me, I must take a more involved approach and carefully scan for red flags instead of making bed spreads out of them. Pick them out, y'see, and for the love of all that is holy and righteous, pay attention! Most ladies do this naturally; I have to leave post-it notes.

I picked this fellow out in a bar some weeks ago. He looked around my age (very important) and had a handsome, open face. I began a conversation and it flowed quite easily, mostly on the all-important topic of music. He eventually earned big, big, big points for uttering the following sentences:

"Yeah, I heard about them on KCRW, there's a show called 'Morning Becomes Eclectic' have you heard of it?"

"I HATE Disney."

"I'm not really a morning person, I hate waking up."

"My family is confused about my life because I'm not married.'What exactly do you DO with your time?' they want to know."

"I play bass."

I then asked for his phone number on the spot, putting it immediately into my cell phone and eventually made the first call. This is unprecedented Heather behavior. Quite simply, I prefer to be pursued, not the other way around. This may explain why I also find male strippers very, very unsettling. "I am the sex object, not you! Now get down off that stage and rub my feet like a real man."

After our first date, he called me later to make sure I'd made it home safely and bid me good night. That's whatcha call class, people! He said he'd call the following week but didn't hear a peep until last night, when he called as I sat waiting for Bachelor #1 who was two hours late! Bachelor #2 had lost his phone (my number along with it), apologized all over the place and was quickly redeemed. He's got plans for us to check out some music or the new exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art.

In the words of my mother: We shall see.

Why I Blog

I blame St. Howard, who has challenged a few of us bloggers to explain ourselves. Apparently, he was already tackling this question himself but it naturally came up in conversation the other night at HDW's birthday festivus, pictured at left. His query today posed a simple: "Why blog?" Here is what I came up with:

Not Old Yet: A few summers back, our office had us a batch of brilliant interns – all girls – who gave a terrific presentation on a new trend called "blogs." At the time, this was still a fairly fresh medium for the generalized adult human and it was just barely starting to show up in the business world. One of the interns, Maria, was eventually hired and has since become my friend and young, plucky sidekick - the Gabrielle to my Xena, minus all the heavy lezbo tension. She assured me that setting up a blog was the easiest thing to do and all the cool kids were doing it. That was enough for me. So, on August 9, 2005, with the catchy headline, "Hear That? It's My Blog Cherry Popping!" ClizBiz was born. (When I recently lamented to Maria that I feel old and out-dated with modern technology, she said: "Yeah, but the blogging saves you." Whew!)

The Writing Gym: I quickly realized that the new toy could help me reverse a dangerous habit. I had recently written a cover story for the Santa Barbara Independent about Monty Roberts, "the horse whisperer", and it was excruciating to create. After years of corporate work, my prose taken on a horrible Velveeta texture with perky sentences and clipped, guarded descriptions; my own writing style had gone weak from lack of use. Used to being a hired hand for multi-national corporations, the Heather voice had become weak and distant. Zoinks! The blog became a place where I could just go and work out, "a place to bench press 10-lb. verbs or outrun dangling participles." What a delightful idea - writing for no one but myself without assignment or deadline, a playground of sorts. As I'd restated on my 100^th post on 1/17/06:

"This blog is more like throwing personal jewelry into a black ocean - not only do I never know if the trinkets will hit bottom, be swallowed by a fish or be discovered by some wayward explorer, it is actually not even the point. The goal is getting my fingers around something internal, articulating it as a thought and flinging it outward - letting it go whether the world cares or not."

Self-Challenge: As Howard's friend, Lorne, pointed out recently, the pressure to think of something relevant and/or witty to say can be self-defeating. Every writer wants to believe they offer a unique voice to the world and some days, I am one of those cursed warriors. Other days, it's all I can do not to fling my cell phone into a snow bank and suck my thumb in the corner. Like most bloggers, I've got a folder of great post ideas that are somewhat evergreen – bits and pieces I grab from the news. Occasionally, I force it out (and it shows) but most posts these days feel pretty dang natural. Some come roaring out of me like a post-feast belch, others start with a small seed, germinate, sprout, grow and bloom over several days after much pondering, looking up to the sky, stroking my long beard and so on.

Ego (Legacy): There is a distinct sensation that writing comes naturally to me and for this, I am grateful. (If I could sing well, I'd never shut up so just be glad I got the quieter of the gifts.) Still, it is hard to keep the ravenous ego monster at bay and I lose this battle often. I had recently gotten down on myself after a few posts where I received very little feedback. I tried not to take it personal ("Um, Heather, people have lives, you know?") but failed.

Furthermore, I also receive weekly reports telling me how many visitors, page views, etc. the site receives. Readership has been a healthy three-digit number for months but all of sudden, it was down to two. Could I blame the new version of Blogger? I sure as hell did! Truth be told, I was mad at myself for losing sight of the original point. Bad, bad, bad Heather. Writing for a specific audience reaction is not the goal here; self-editing is the enemy. I am now forbidden to read these reports.

Nevertheless, I moped for several days about this and finally got my blog groove back when a colleague told me that a quiet, mild-mannered fellow in our office had become a regular reader. I hardly know the guy and yet he found something entertaining. Why anyone - let alone an acquaintance - would choose my little world over The New York Times or YouTube at any given moment is amazing to me. I remain unquestionably thrilled by this and have been riding high ever since. Also, I think my family – who read only on occasion – may find these posts endlesslessly fascinating immediately following my death in a bizarre gardening accident.

Fantasy: My dream job has always been newspaper columnist, a job I actually held for brief time. I wrote about food and restaurants for my hometown paper but ultimately, I resist sticking to one topic. I mean, I hate Dick Cheney with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns 24/7 but I only get the urge to mention once in awhile, otherwise, it's boring. I could never be a political columnist for this reason. I get distracted too easily …oh, look! A butterfly ….

Community: Strangely, this last one only just now occurred to me. When I got dumped on my ass upon arrival in Denver, I was so, so alone. The blog was my only outlet and ultimately, it became the major conduit for most of my Denver social life. Not only have I met the coolest people (all stemming from the amazing Kath) but it has become a ready-made support network that I never expected. Words of encouragement, topics for discussion and some damn funny writing - all to be shared - makes me feel like I am a part of something. The first time I met HDW, I believe I may have kissed her because a) she actually is really, really HOT and b) because after reading her wickedly funny posts, I'd already decided we would be friends. The topic was not up for debate. Same thing with Howard. (In fact, I feel compelled to post this photo of my two fellow bloggers, who are hilarious in person as well. Photo credit: The Amazing Kath.)

... and just like that, another long-winded post is born!