And Now Back To Our Regularly Scheduled Fluff

After yesterday's epic blizzard that dumped a foot of snow in Denver, I went exploring today and came across these cheeky fellows. I spotted them from my stroll through Wash Park and crossed Downing traffic to reach them. SO FUN. Note the beer bottles for shoulder guards:

And the camera lenses for eyes, of course. Then there's the rake for a claw and a bike rim for a crown. As one guy explained, "We were inspired!"



"So, what's his name?" I asked.

"Oh, wow. That's right, we need a name," said one. "What do you think?"

"Maybe something manly and fierce, like Cyborg Bill?" said I.

"Yeah. Or maybe we could just call him Robert," said another.

They were especially proud of their latest idea, crafting another claw out of - get this - SNOW. They pointed it out and wanted to know what I thought. "Yessiree, that there snow claw is coming along nicely," said I, in my best friendly neighbor voice.

But I didn't tell them what I really thought, which is that I love how a big, fat snow dump brings the world to a halt and makes you sit still just long enough so you can launch yourself out into the next day like a caffeinated jack-in-the-box.

And I certainly didn't tell them that most of all, I love how snow brings out the insane trash artist in everyone.

Winds of Change

Today's signing of an historic health care bill has the country in pure tizzy mode. GOP lawyers are lining up to file suits, states are hurriedly enacting bans (all ineffectual) and members of congress are still wiping spit from their suits. Angry, angry, angry. Scared and confused, like a bunch of Ritalin kids playing musical chairs to Rage Against The Machine.

I have observed all the madness at arm's length - a distance that I willfully created after Obama won the election. For so many years, (eight, to be exact) I existed in a state of suspended rage. By the time George W. Bush won his second term, I had some impressive ulcers going. When visiting my Republican family members, I could only sit, apoplectic, and keep the cocktails flowing.

About two years into Bush's second term, my white-hot rage began to cool. I certainly didn't feel better about things (the term 'WMD's' still sets me off), but I could no longer sustain my heightened fury. I'd exhausted myself right into defeated, gray apathy and I was not alone. I recall a phrase being thrown around at the time: "Anger fatigue."

About six months before the election, I began to care again. And so, I joined the Obama campaign and went door to door, made phone calls and gave hours of my time to a man and his vision of an improved America that I believed in. I still believe in this vision, more so today than any other.

Although I celebrated when Obama won, I cringed just thinking of how we would soon discover that he was simply a man and not a superhero; a father (a smoker even!) and a basketball fan who was highly intelligent and yet, not an action figure. If there's anything we love to do here in America, it's build up our idols and rip them down once the party soundtrack runs out.

Even the day after, I began dreading the honeymoon's close. (Note my shot of Susan Sarandon and Dana Delaney purchasing their very own Obama Action Figure dolls at the Democratic National Convention here in Denver.) I recall saying aloud to the televised image of OB being adored: "Enjoy all the love while you can, Mr. President, before they all grow teeth and a taste for blood. Yours, specifically."

It was the same dread I felt immediately after 9-11, back when the world showered us with sympathy and love, and I knew that all those good vibrations soon be loaded into machine guns. Sure enough, we immediately began a new war that was more about paranoia, emotion and manly ego than it was about finding Osama Bin Laden. Despite 11 of the 19 highjackers coming from Saudi Arabia (our allies), we invaded a country that posed no threat to chase down an old man in a hole who had a warmer relationship with Donald Rumsfeld than he did with that other evil mastermind hiding in an Afghanistan cave.

Ugh. See? All that frothy bile, it's all still in there, lying dormant. But here's the thing. I hired this man, this Obama guy ('cause that's I how view voting) to do a job. Not just any job, the biggest fucking job the world has created during one of the worst global economic shitstorms mankind has ever seen. I trust him, I believe in him and god knows, I just enjoy having a POTUS who is smarter than I am and remain giddy about that part.

And so I turned my back on Obama, I had to. I silently bid him, "Good luck, pal!" and returned to my life that so badly needed tending. I looked away because I couldn't stand the petty complaining and because I trust him. At some point, I had to, otherwise there would be no going forward for me or the country that I so desperately love.

To those who complain that OB has not cured racism, fed the world, fixed the Middle East, outed all the gay soldiers, improved our education, fixed the housing/banks/auto/airline industries, thinned up all the fat kids or cleaned up the swampy mess that is the American economic system in 15 months, I say this: GIVE THE MAN A FUCKING CHANCE. I mean, what have you done today? This week? Last month?

It's easy to forget that during Ronald Reagan's first term, unemployment reached 11% and 50% of Americans disapproved of how The Great Communicator was doing the job we'd hired him to do. Think about it. Eventually, we recovered enough to reward ourselves with shoulder pads, big hair and DuranDuran.

I just can't believe that anyone believes the current healthcare system is working. I have been very lucky in this regard but when I hear story after story of good people who get sick then lose their jobs, their houses, their savings, I think, "When did the American Dream become the American Nightmare?"

When a friend's daughter, a hardworking young nursing student who also works full time, was denied health coverage because she had once been on anti-depressants, I was aghast. How are we supposed to grow and thrive, or even get back on our feet when the system works against us?

Again, I dread all the wrangling and whining that is sure to come but at least the man has written a prescription for a very sick country in active denial. Americans have become fat, lazy, over-medicated, under-educated and way too much cheap, plastic crap (Made in China!) stacked in our McMansions. And, for the first time in history, kids today face a shorter life span than their parents. Is this the paradise everyone is so worried about losing?

I've kept mum for awhile now but today, I turn around and applaud the man I hired. Good job, OB, but get those steel-toed boots on and keep that secret stash of smokes handy. Our progress isn't going to happen without a fight.

(Top photo by Reid Kirkpatrick.)

Life: A Success Story

Lawson, the charming fellow smiling above, moved on to the Next Big Thing one week ago today, just one month shy of his 97th birthday. He was the Paton family patriarch and a damn good one at that.

Although they were first cousins (their fathers were siblings) my mother considered Lawson the older brother she never had. When she was seven, she acted as ring bearer in his wedding. "I remember he carried me over a mud puddle, so I wouldn't get dirty," she said, smiling.

Thus, we booked ourselves immediate flights way, way up to the northeast corner of North Dakota, just a few miles shy of the Canadian border, to honor Lawson and say goodbye. Best of all was getting together with Paton family to tell stories about this adorable man who was such a life-loving character.

My favorite parts about Lawson were his famous smile, mischievous wink, emphatic hugs and fluffy, white hair - very Kramer-esque in its natural altitude. He was also a big fan of his own hair - present and past. Any and all visitors to Lawson's house would also be shown the contents of a small, white box which contained the thick, golden curls from the head of Boy Lawson. (Keeping curls was some strange Scottish custom - Mama Iva still has hers.) I seem to recall the curls were tied with a small, blue bow and I was never sure what to say but then again, what's to be said? The man knew his curls.

In fact, when we visited with Lawson's son, Roy, (one of Lawson's four kids) one of the first things he said was: "We've decided that the curls are going in the box with him," he said, "That way, we know exactly where they are."

Lawson was born on April 20, 1913 in rural Neche and lived in the area for the rest of his life. He married Jessie Sanders on November 10, 1940 and they were married for 66 years, until Jessie's death in 2006. Together they raised four kids - Luverne, Lyle and twins, Roy and Royce.

Though Lawson was a die-hard North Dakotan ("It's a pretty nice day," was his observation, no matter what the weather), he didn't exactly stay home all the time. In fact, He and Jessie visited us quite a few times in SoCal. During one Xmas gift unwrapping extravaganza, I recall that Lawson was only too happy to model my new wrap-around corduroy skirt. I thought he looked pretty cute in it.

Lawson and Jessie explored all 48 continental states in their trusty motor home but were always happy to get back to North Dakota. After all, Lawson had geraniums to look after...lots and lots of geraniums. He loved them so much and their blatant optimism reflected his personality to a 'T.'

(As I type this, I realize that I have a giant, happy geranium plant on my desk that I've coddled for about two years. I'll now think of Lawson every time I tend it or kiss its fuzzy leaves. Yes, I do this - not even kidding.)

Now, folks are made different in North Dakota. Not sure if it's the air or the dirt or what but they are just made better and therefore, last longer. Even though he was 96-years-old, Lawson was still able to pop down on one knee if need be. He daughter, Royce, told his about him wolfing down his dinner the night before his passing. Dude was sprightly. Even better, his brain not only contained the original set of marbles but a few more even; Lawson's memory was legendary.

Lawson was a huge help to my Grandpa Wilbur (his uncle) and helped run the Paton's Isle of Memories, the museum that Wilbur created honoring turn-of-the century rural life. When we donated much of the collection to the Icelandic State Park a few years ago, Lawson was again, right there the whole time.

The family all agreed that Lawson's demise does not qualify as a tragedy. His long, happy, fruitful life was something to be celebrated. And his quick, painless death after a joyous near-century here on Earth stands as the ultimate success. We should all be so lucky to score both.

Lawson Paton will be missed but I'm so, so glad our lives intersected. His life reminds me that our turn on this blue marble should be embraced and greeted with gusto, right up until our number is called. But more than anything, he taught me that I definitely ... DEFINITELY ... want my own golf cart. And more geraniums.

RIP Lawson.

Quick trip to NoDak

Anyone who knows me also knows full well my deep feelings for the state of North Dakota. For one thing, it gave me (and the world) Mama Iva (and many cousins that I love) but also because it is stark and beautiful remains a mystery for the majority of Americans.

Then there's the space. NoDak has one of the lowest population densities in the nation with just 9.3 people per square mile. There is so much parking, a San Franciscan's head might just explode with possibilities.

In comparison, Colorado has 46.9 people per square mile and California has 234.4. Let's put it this way, when you use your turn signal in NoDak, you end up feeling like an idiot - the chances of anyone actually being behind you are quite slim.

To honor the Paton family patriarch (Lawson Paton will get his own post), Mama Iva and I made a run for the Canadian border, to Pembina County, where all the family gathered. Though it was just 3 days/nights, it was enough to remind me to go back in September.


It wasn't freezing, maybe mid-30s, and no wind but there was still plenty of snow on the ground. During our stay a persistent dense fog hung in the air which created this unearthly, heavenly feel - ideal for a funeral, really.

In places where the snow did melt, it revealed coal black earth so fertile, it made me want to stuff some in my suitcase to replace our dry, sandy soil in Colorado. JEALOUS.

Amidst all our visiting, Mom and I swung into Neche, the tiny town (Pop. 437) where she was born. Picture it: February, 1933. My Grandma Myrtle, fully in labor, loaded herself into a horse-drawn sleigh and traveled to Aunt Edna's house, several miles away, to give birth. NoDak people do not flinch at such stories, as they are common. These people are true grit, quietly defined.

After some cousin-confirmations, we finally located the right house. I made her get out and stand in front, even though she no longer recognized the house. Even though my mother describes her childhood as lonely (she was an only child), I'm still quite envious that she rode her Shetland pony, Betsy, to school every day until she started attending school in Long Beach, about age 15. Can you imagine?

Every town worth its salt in NoDak has massive grain elevators, the skyscrapers of the prairie. (Water towers too.) The elevators also serve as meeting spots, like giant water coolers for farmers. In fact, Brent (the man who farms our land) first heard about Lawson's passing while waiting to unload some wheat at the elevator and texted me right away with the news, thus making me the new "source" for information - a new position!

I'm so glad we made the effort and endured the travel. North Dakota is like going to the moon - you always get the sense that you are somewhere the modern world and heaven. I can't wait to go back.

I Used To Live Here

Yup. Hermosa Beach, California (Pop. 18,500). Known as the blue-collar version of its fancy-schmancy neighbor, Manhattan Beach. Hermosa ("beautiful" in English) is mostly populated with the behind-the-scenes folks who really run LA's entertainment industry - set designers, stunt men, make-up artists, key grips, best boys and cameramen. They are famously unimpressed with the very famous, as they all have their own eyebrow-raising anecdotes about "actors" - usually spoken with some derision.

To the residents of Hermosa Beach, the only true celebrities worth true adulation are the very-impressive local volleyball players. On our recent trip to L.A., we stopped off in this adorable little seaside town, conveniently located half-way between LAX and Mama Iva's house in Long Beach. I wanted to show Reid the wee apartment that I once called home. Behold:



Even though it was Linda's apartment (my flight attendant friend), she was never there and let me share. I was unbelievably happy in this place. I remember coming home one day from one of my four jobs at the time (art model, car valet, music journalist, taxi dancer) and feeling like a dip in the ocean. I lived close enough to put on my suit and jog right down to the sea ... Paradise.

When I think about it now, I realize Hermosa Beach was the last place I ever lived in Southern California (before moving to San Francisco in Feb. 1997) and I'm so very glad my 31-year run ended on a high note.

So, Reid & I are strolling the Strand along with bicyclists and joggers, checking out all pretty beachfront houses and I'm explaining the local importance of volleyball. In fact, it is often referred to as the "Beach Volleyball Capital of the World." (Last year, Hermosa Beach was also named the "best place to live for the rich and single" by CNN Money.) Looking into one living room, I notice tangible evidence - a cluster of volleyballs sitting under the glass coffee table, just waiting to be fetched:

I just love it when clear evidence presents itself....

Now, usually when one visits the old haunts, one is pained by the inevitable changes. Sure, some things were different but nothing that hurt. I did note this fancy new Tsunami Hazard Zone sign that was most definitely NOT there during my residence. In fact, I doubt I even knew the word back then, let alone pronounce it properly. The 2004 Indonesian tsunami that killed over 230,000 people changed that for everyone.

As we reached the epicenter of the Strand, I turned the corner and my jaw dropped. The last block of Pier Avenue, just before the pier begins, had been filled in and turned into Pier Plaza - pedestrians and cafe tables only! What a fantastic new development. All those tanned bodies frolicking about on bikes and roller blades in mid-February made me thirsty for margaritas...so we got on that right away.

Pioneer Bowl

As I have stated oft-before, my favorite region on Earth is Joshua Tree and its environs, which includes one very special place. Just off Highway 62 heading into the hi-desert towns (Morongo Valley, Yucca Valley, Joshua Tree, Twentynine Palms) one would take a left, about four miles down a dusty, windy road until you land at Pioneertown.

Pioneertown is a real town, with real residents (Pop. 350), although it was once a film set for Western movies and television shows in the 40s and 50s. ("Cisco Kid" and "Judge Roy Bean" were filmed there.) I love this place more than I can express as it encompasses so many of my favorite things - the California desert, show business and Wild West iconography.

On our recent trip to LA, Reid, my mom and I headed to our place in Twentynine Palms, where I insisted on taking Reid to see the little town for hisself. I also wanted to introduce him to Pappy & Harriet's, my favorite honkey tonk in the entire world.

On this visit along Mane Street, I discovered Pioneer Bowl and JOYJOYJOYJOY! OMG, how could I have not known about this wonderful, magical place? I entered through a creeky wooden door and I swear, I heard country music angels singing in my ear, and then I realized it was Patsy Cline on the jukebox. HEAVEN.

Built in 1947 by A.E. Thompson, Pioneer Bowl is a six lane-site to behold. And talk about Western cred! Roy Rogers rolled out the first ball in 1949 and Gene Autry frequently taped his show at the Pioneer Bowl. The walls are covered in comical murals depicting behind-the-scene antics during tapings of Western pictures.

Before the installation of automatic pinsetting in the '50s, kids were hired as pinsetters, and according to the Morongo Basin Historical Society, Pioneer Bowl is one of the oldest bowling alleys in continuous use in California.

On your way to the bathroom, you pass through a room packed full of vintage pinball machines. I couldn't tell if they were playable or not but they were real beauties, remnants of time long gone.

It just kept getting better and better. Though our time was limited, we sat the bar to take it all in. The bartendress was a lovely, chatty woman who could not have been more excited about her place of employment. She happily shared all kinds of anecdotes and info about the place and pointed proudly to a large framed black-and-white photograph of Roy Roger's famous inaugural bowl.

"And you know he bowled a very decent 198 ... while wearing cowboy boots!" she laughed. "He was just one of those people who did well at everything, I guess."

Then, we noticed a big boxy television set circa 1970 that was playing an old Western movie. "You keep watching," she advised, "and you'll see Pioneer Bowl in many of the scenes." I thought our luck was golden but the TV is set up to play (on DVD) only films and TV shows that were filmed in Pioneertown. SO FUN.

Just down Mane Street, there was a group of fancy photographers roaming about. Because it was so chilly outside, they kept wandering in to get tea, coffee or hot chocolate. Each one had the same thing to say: "This place is a-friggin'-mazing."

I cannot express here in this space how much I want to have a party at Pioneer Bowl. Seriously. I don't know who would come but it would be worth it. Do you know how they keep score at Pioneer Bowl? With pencil and paper! The 'lounge' area is filled with vintage vinyl furniture, the kind you dream of finding in some backwoods vintage store. The entire place reeks of authenticity.

So, if I had a party at Pioneer Bowl, who would come? Maybe you?

Hollywood Lives

For the record, I highly recommend playing tourist in the place you grew up. Since Reid had never really experienced LA, I trotted him around everywhere - Griffith Park, Farmer's Market, Hollywood Blvd., Sunset Blvd., Beverly Hills, Santa Monica, Hermosa Beach, Manhattan Beach ... and so on.

He'd requested a brief stop at Grauman's Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. It seemed like the cheesiest touristy thing we could do but it ended up being a real highlight for me, the person who had driven past it so many times without ever stopping.

For one thing, all those footprints, handprints and scrawled-in-cement autographs? I hadn't realized that the great majority of them are from Old Hollywood. We're talking John Wayne, Joan Crawford, Clark Gable and Cary Grant. There's a smattering of newer folks, like Johnny Depp, but it's the Barrymores and the Pickfords who rule these hallowed grounds.

As a result, I experienced a giant, squishy pang of love for the place. Here were carloads - nay, busloads! - of modern-day tourists who probably hadn't heard of these stars of yesteryear. I heard one teenager say aloud: "Who is Bette Davis?"

!!!!

Honestly, I could have stayed there all day. Reid took a photo of me putting my hands into Carole Lombard's tiny handprints. Perfect fit. Since she was so glamorous, ballsy and funny, she's kinda my hero. (That's her at right.) That she was married to Clark Gable and died in a plane crash while on a USO tour during WWII only cements (ha!) her place in my heart.

My favorite Grauman's moment was watching a little boy gingerly put his hands into the tiny imprints of Shirley Temple. Did he know who she was? Had he ever seen her films or her tap dancing? Probably not. But in the simplest of ways, it was the seamless melding of two eras - no technology needed.

LA Bound

After all my recent Boulder immersion, I'm craving the shallow, smoggy world of Los Angeles where the women are easy and the men are armed ....

Okay, not really. But it sounds a lot cooler than, "I miss my mommy!" Y'see, it's Mama Iva's birthday on Saturday and I'd rather she spent it with me 'cause I'm thoughtful that way. We're also going to check in on the desert cabin, just to make sure nobody's living in it.

I'm also dragging Reid along for the ride. He passed through LA back in the 70s but really has no idea what it's about. It'll be fun to show him around. The man has got the world's best LA tour guide (me) and the world's best hostess (Mama Iva) making him the luckiest man ever to visit the Southland.

I sure hope all the smogs clears up by tomorrow ...

DiMe Spent

For several months now, I have been working to organize the Digital Media Convergence Symposium, also called DiMe. On Friday evening, it all came together and I'm so damn pleased.

Pictured above are some of the smartest folks I know - our panelists and moderator. I made them pose here just before the event kicked off. From left to right:

Michael Brown, Founder, Serac Adventure Films & Film School
David Rolfe, Partner and Director of Integrated Media, Crispin Porter + Bogusky
Aidan Chopra, Product Evangelist, Google SketchUp
Don Hahn, Producer, Disney ("Beauty & The Beast", "The Lion King")
Brian Robbins, Founder, Riptide Games
Krista Marks, General Manager, Kerpoof (Disney Interactive)
Jason Mendelson, Partner, Foundry Group
And our fabulous moderator, Robert Reich, Founder, OneRiot and the Boulder-Denver New Tech Meetup.

I could say an awful lot about this group but suffice to say, I am immensely proud to have worked with them. The audience was thrilled and we had to keep adding more chairs as people flowed in. The discussions around creative and technology were funny, invigorating and thought provoking. I got the biggest thrill of all watching panelists take notes during the panel. VICTORY!

Already looking forward to DiMe 2011 ...

Doggie Date

A couple of weeks ago (before my life was consumed with this), I had a wonderful date with a dog named Murray. He belongs to Chris and Beanie, two friends who live in Morrison. (Beanie is my horse teacher.)

I called up, nice and proper, and asked: "Can Murray come out to play?" I picked him up Saturday morning and off we went. Bless his doggie heart, he was so excited he sported a giant boner all the way back to Denver.

Reid came along and just like that, my two favorite Colorado boys were in one spot. Bliss! We took Murray for walks, played ball with him and introduced him to Beaudreaux, Reid's cat. (Murray could care less - he lives with two cats - but Bo was fascinated. Pretty hilarious.)

We also made a stop at Petco, where I bought Murray a massive $13 pork bone. He proceed to ignore said bone until Reid's teenage son and all his friends showed up. Something about the surge of testosterone in the room made Murray suddenly very interested in it.

Murray slept right next to me the whole night. It was pure heaven.

So, why write about my doggie date two weeks after the fact? Because I'm stressed out, hungover, tired and could sure use a doggie kiss right about now.

iTurd

BLORP!

That's the sound of one's iPhone dropping into the toilet, post-pee. I know now that is the worst sound in the modern world.

I was at Google in Boulder, being charmed by all the Google-y creativity and open-space joy that a place like that could offer. Seduced by a yummy yogurt drink made on-site, I sauntered past the climbing wall with my iPendage in my back pocket and headed for the ladies room. What can I say? I let down my guard, I was charmed ... I relaxed.

My flesh-and-blood appendage did not hesitate to reach into sunny yellow waters and retrieve the device. I sighed heavily and dried it off with a paper towel. (The shock did not set in for several hours.) In a fatal mistake, I attempted to turn it on and off. This, it turns out, is the kiss of death for water damage.

Helpful, sympathetic Googlers helped me plot the next move. "Oh nooooo! Go to the Apple store," they said. "They'll know what to do!" They looked up the address and guided me out the door" "Good luck!"

Apple - for all its sleek techy goodness - had only homespun advice for me. "Stick it in the fridge," said one Apple-ite. "Try a bowl of rice," said another. They guided me out the door with directions to King Sooper: "Good luck!"

I breezed into the store, grabbed the rice and did self-checkout all in total zombie mode - without speaking to anyone or eating any brains. I then headed to my next appointment at the Boulder Convention & Visitors Bureau. (I'd alerted them by email about The Tragedy.)

Kim met me with a sad face, like someone in my family had died. We stuck the phone in a bag of rice, in a bag, in the fridge and said a wee prayer. Then we got to our conference call-meeting where I played the role of "person in charge." Hoooo boy.

Post-meeting, I called up a skillful monk who works magic on this sort of thing. Even he was not encouraged. If the rice trick didn't work, he said, bring it in and he'll open it up for $60. "Good luck!" he said.

On the drive home, panic seeped into my guts. I slowly began to realize just how attached I was to this device, making me both resentful and fearful. Beyond the basic ability to call 911 should I need to, I was now screwed in all kinds of ways.

How can I check my email? Who might be texting me right now? Where is the picture of the frog? Or the cowboy video? Where is the nearest bar? How do I get there? The scenarios just piled up. I just put on a sad jazz station and made the lonely, helpless drive home.

Back in my office, I launched into FULL FRONTAL FREAKOUT. See, I'm putting together this little party next week and it's kind of crucial that I be, y'know, reachable. Jesus.

I didn't know what to do except send a few emails and read an endless thread of hapless fools who had done the exact same thing. I found some comfort and hilarity there.

My favorite was the guy who'd dropped the damn thing in a porta potty, reached in that ungodly mess and eventually coaxed it back to life. "The only problem now is," he told the group, "every time I make a call, it smells like poo."

Eventually, Reid came and saved me from myself and we got margaritas. The next morning - while the iPatient sat in a bowl of rice undisturbed - I made busy on email. By Friday night, I had come to grips with its loss and one cold hard fact:

That with everything that could be wrong in my life - my family, job, friends, money, health, freedom, hunger, pain, loneliness - this is not insurmountable, just expensive. At the end of the day, it's just a fucking phone.

Image Credit: iPhone in toilet by Hankish.

Tesla

With only 10 Tesla stores in the U.S., I was lucky to walk by the Boulder store on my way to a fancy shindig. I couldn't help but go in and get behind the wheel of these amazing electric cars. That's right, ELECTRIC.

With one charge, these babies can go up to 244 miles and do 0-60 in 3.9 seconds. Mind you, base price is $109,000 and just 53 have been sold in Colorado but MAN, these are sexy cars. Sitting in one is like being in a super-charged go-kart; all the controls are incredibly simple and it feels like you are two inches from the ground. I desperately want to drive one.

The Tesla's are not unlike the first televisions. In the beginning, they were outrageously priced and only the very wealthy could afford them. Now, there are 2.5 televisions in every American home.

Therefore, it's only a matter of time before it's MINE.

Serac's Free Film Festival

Monday night, my pals at Serac Adventure Film School are putting on their first student film festival at the Colorado Mountain Center in Golden. I may have helped a wee bit with this but the staff and the students do all the hard work.

These films were put together over the last week by a group of crazy filmmakers cross-country skiing through Colorado's backcountry. Led by Serac Founder Michael Brown and Serac Adventure Film School Head, Ryan Ross, these students quickly find out what they are made of and entertaining stories are naturally born.

Serac's free shindig starts at 7:00 p.m - hope all you Colorado folks can make it!

Also, I re-screen Michael's amazing 2003 documentary, "Farther Than The Eye Can See", over the weekend and was blown away all over again. Michael expertly captured the noble struggles of a blind man, Erik Weihenmayer, in climbing Mt. Everest while illustrating the persistent spirit of climbing in general. The cinematography is jaw-dropping and the emotions sock you in the heart; an unforgettable film...climbing experience not necessary.

Meanwhile, on Friday, I floated around the SIA Snow Show - moved to Denver after 37 years in Las Vegas. Lots of fashion and fancy energy bars but here's the best thing I found, an indoor demo of the latest fun way to hurt yourself - mountain boarding!:

The Rag Doll

Going through some papers, I just found this essay I wrote while riding the bus in San Francisco on November 6, 2002. I'm observing a bag lady who is so covered in rags that I never actually saw her face:

The woman is completely covered in tattered rags and torn clothing. Not one square inch of skin is visible to the outside world, even her eyes are hidden. How she sees enough to walk is somewhat of a mystery.

She scribbles notes on a stray news page - something about cab drivers. Bags and bundles of belongings follow her on her journeys throughout the city; I have come across her on nearly every bus line.

How do I know it is a woman? The frame that holds up this curious bit of obvious invisibility is so small, the wind might blow her away, like the trash she lugs around.

Where does she live? What must her house look like? Perhaps she's homeless. Yet there's something about her that seems proud, like she knows more than we do and must protect us from that knowledge.

Perhaps she's an alien. If one were of the scaly, green-skinned variety, and, say, trapped or left behind here on Earth, one would have to make due.

She just got off at Fillmore and Sacramento wearing tennis shoes. I get the sense that she's Chinese, maybe because I often see Chinese people wear air filter masks. Are they smart or just paranoid? I always wonder.

Mostly I think no one sees the Rag Doll but me.

God, I miss the bus.

(Photo: Liz Hafalia/SF Chronicle)

Mountain Man

Remember back when the new $20 bills came out? About six years or so ago? My job at the time had me in charge of the Seattle launch of these bills. (I was but one of a large team of folks doing this all over the country.)

Since it was a day of history, I thought it'd be cool to have an American hero buy the first latte with a snappy new Andy Hamilton, funky colors and all.

Luck led me to Jim Whittaker, the first American to summit Everest (on May 1, 1963). Not only was he game for my little media shindig but he showed up to the event on time, with his lovely wife, Diane Roberts, and was the happiest fellow ever. He cheerfully did whatever I asked of him - say a few words, whip out the new $20, buy a coffee, pose for photos, etc. - and did it amiably.

Now here's a fellow who not only was the first to plant the American flag at the summit - after having run out of oxygen - but he went on to do it 250 more times.
When President John F. Kennedy presented him with The Hubble Medal for the initial ascent (after his hometown, Seattle, threw him a parade), Jim famously uttered what has now become a bumper sticker philosophy:

"If you aren't living on the edge, you are taking up too much space."

Two years later, Kennedy's brother, Sen. Robert Kennedy, visited the Northwest and developed an interest in climbing Mount Kennedy, an unconquered Canadian peak named for his late brother.

"I said, 'Has he ever climbed before?' No. 'Does he know this peak has never been climbed before?' Yes, but he still wants to go...We stopped 50 feet below the summit and he walked up and became the first human being to stand there....That was a wonderful experience. It was one of those times when the tears freeze on the front of your parka. He was in better shape than some of the guys I had on Everest. I couldn't believe it."

--Jim Whittaker, on guiding Robert Kennedy to the first ascent of Mount Kennedy

Jim and Sen. Kennedy instantly became buddies and would take off on climbing, skiing and rafting trips together. Unfortunately, Jim was head of Kennedy's campaign in Washington when Kennedy was assassinated in 1968. Jim was a pallbearer at Kennedy's funeral.

"I'm telling you, he would have changed the planet," Jim has said in interviews. "That was a very tough time."

And if that weren't all enough for historical credentials, note that Jim was also the first full-time employee of Recreational Equipment, Inc., what we know now as REI. I've read that he was also its CEO for a time. Not shocking.

But after all these accomplishments and things he'd seen, you know what he talked to me about? His wife. He just kept bragging about her and her own climbing accomplishments. My brain has lost track of specifics but I recall hearing the phrase "the first woman to climb ..." quite a few times. He beamed at her and she gave a cute, "Aw, shucks" look. Totally endearing.

Anyway, I recently conducted some business at the Colorado Mountain Club in Golden. One of the lovely gals I'd met with happened to have one of Jim's boots from the original Everest ascent in 1963. (They were adding it to the Mountaineering Museum a floor below.)

That monster weighed at least 3-4 pounds, and that is without crampons. It was huge - I could have lost an arm in there. Here is my foot in comparison:

Literally and historically, those are some big ass shoes to fill.

My Refuge

When I feel overwhelmed, which is most of the time, I hightail it for the nearest patch of green, even if it is covered in ice. Washington Park, you are my quiet little sanctuary.

Stock Show Stuff

Meet Silverado Shadow, the biggest kid on the playground. At five years old, he weighs in at 1700 pounds. His horn span measures seven feet, tip to tip, and even though he looks like the biggest, baddest Longhorn you've ever seen, he's also a kind, gentle fellow who will eat from your hand.

He's just one of the many friends I make volunteering at the National Western Stock Show every year. This weekend, I spent my time helping out with the Wild West Show and we were encouraged to dress in costume. HEAVEN.

I still shake my head in wonder when I think about how I had to move east to really understand The West but it's so true.

As a nation, we look westward, always have. When you grow up in LA, you don't think toward any direction at all because you are already there, which gives you plenty of time to worry about your tan and sit in traffic.

And so, I must declare that there may not be any place so fervently Western in this country as the place where The West really began, right along the Continental Divide.

This year, I got to help with dragging a giant metal 'Ring of Fire' into the arena. Yup, it's a big metal hoop that was indeed set aflame so that a guy STANDING on TWO horses at full gallop could jump BOTH OF THEM through the flaming ring. Have I mentioned that horses hate fire?

You know what else they hate? Boredom.