Life is Relentless

So, this is the pile of blogger business (and non-business) cards that I acquired at BlogHer. I'm determined to go through each one and investigate these women and their sites. It's going to take a while.

And speaking of being overwhelmed ...

Check out this monster zucchini that came out of my garden a few weeks ago. Happy to say that I'm nearly done eating it. However, I have harvested two even-bigger monsters since then, both inexplicably yellow.

Even more frightening, there are about a dozen more right behind them, ready to burst with squash-like goodness ... Sooooooo, anyone like zucchini? I do late night porch drop-offs, just FYI.

BlogHer '07 Recap

Wow. What just happened? I arrived home from BlogHer ’07 last night and my brain feels like it has been through a wind tunnel of sorts. So much to absorb – my brain was completely rocked.

I've never seen so many powerful, brainy women (and a smattering of guys) in one place – about 800, I’m told. Each with their own laptop and most, with their own blog(s). I interacted with so many of them, each one more creative and articulate than the last. (More photos on Flickr.)

Craft mamas were EVERYWHERE. If there are dominating groups at BlogHer, it goes as follows: Mommy Bloggers, Food Bloggers and Craft Bloggers. I find this charming and hilarious - we basically still have the same interests (plus a few thousand more) as a 1950s housewife except now we've got tattoos, laptops, voices and, best of all, choices. Nice work, ladies. Keep those knitting needles sharp ...

Some favorite quotes:

"From now on, assume that everyone is press," Elisa, Lisa and Jory, founders of BlogHer, kicking off the conference

“Being passionate 24 hours a day is exhausting,” – Claire Blaustein from cookthink.com

“Keeping a blog is like having a child, it must be fed,” – Elizabeth Edwards, wife of Democratic Presidential candidate, John Edwards


“I like being a blog husband,” – John “Fletch” Fletcher

“Tell your boobs to quit staring at my eyes,” –t-shirt on man walking around Navy Pier

“I was naked … once,” –Liz Strauss, interjecting in a discussion on how quickly women disrobe in front of one another

“Don’t be scared of the Site Meter,” – Ree, "Confessions of a Pioneer Woman"

“It’s my world too!” – Elizabeth Edwards, responding to my "Thanks for attending" remark.

First Night: Infiltration

As predicted, I am overwhelmed by the collective power of BlogHer attendees. Some have been blogging as long as 10 years while others just started but have hit the ground running, already earning triple-digit readership. I shared a cab from O'Hare with the two ladies who just happened to be running the "Take Your Blog to the Next Level" panel - real techies - and they were amazing. One girl, Marilyn, has "4 or 5" blogs and tends to change the format on all of them ... monthly. Oh, she is also married and is raising two small children.

Fer chrissakes, what do these women eat for breakfast???? Sheesh.

Last night, I managed to elbow my way into a rib-eating feast with all the attending food bloggers. The place was Carson's, a legendary place known for their air-tight delivery of their famous ribs anywhere in the world. We'd followed one gal several blocks like a line of ducklings - what a payoff!

I was sitting next to my new best friend, Susan Voisin, who manages to be a fat-free vegan while living in Mississippi. She's my hero. (Susan ate a portobello burger.) The conversation topic was, as imagined, FOOD. There was also some dishy food blogger gossip but alas, I knew none of the characters.

Here's Elise Bauer, who is very famous in the food blogging world - something like 50,000 page view a day. She's getting a fashion update in preparation for her rib ravishing session. She led a session today and using tech tricks to increase traffic. She is brilliant, like everyone else here. I keep looking for the "Blog Success: How to Train Your Body To Eschew Sleep" panel session but no luck yet.

It's already starting to feel like SXSW - over-stimulating and highly educational. However, instead of celebrities and struggling rock stars roaming about, there are blog-ebrities (I met Pioneer Woman!) and not-so-struggling individualists who have something to say. I'm just trying to keep up ...

BlogHer Bound!

Tomorrow morning, I head to Chicago where I will meet up with thousands of other lady bloggers for the annual BlogHer Conference. These women are fierce and focused and I'm hoping it rubs off on me.

This is an interesting time to be alive. Bloggers everywhere are a creative intense bunch and they are changing the way we communicate, not to mention sparking the begrudging transformation of traditional media; the world is almost changing faster than it can process. Why, for example, is Word's spellcheck still unfamiliar with the word "blog" and all its incarnations? Get with the program, Bill, it's 2007.

I feel that blogging is so entrenched in our society that when I hear communications professionals say things like, "Yeah, I hear that blogging is the next big thing", I think, "Next? Where the hell have they have they been?" I must be too deeply into it, otherwise, I would not be so stunned when people ask to me to explain what it is.

As for the conference, I plan on being slightly intimidated by the collective power and talent. I still feel very far behind in this realm. Hopefully, I'll learn how to spruce up ClizBiz so that more than two people want to read it. The image of Scarecrow in "The Wizard of Oz" always comes to mind when I'm fumbling around with html or some other simple function: "Sigh. If I only had a brain."

Here's hoping I return to my blogging chair on Monday with some fresh inspiration and useful tech knowledge cuz right now I feel like a six-foot third grader who has been held back too many times.

Here's to the power of osmosis!

RIP: Tammy Faye

When I returned from my glorious weekend in Vail, I was saddened to hear about the passing of Tammy Faye. (Yeah, she's got a bunch of last names but really, how many Tammy Fayes' are there?)

I was actually surprised at my own response, "Oh, no!" In general, I loathe Christian TV evangelists who steal from their loyal congregants, women who wear too much make-up and phonies in general. So, why would I care if Tammy Faye walked the earth or not? Why did I not have the same reaction when I heard about the passing of Jerry Falwell: "Well, that took waaaaaay too long!"

There are two men I blame for my attitude reversal, Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato, directors of the documentary, "The Eyes of Tammy Faye." I Netflixed this film several months ago, specifically so I could laugh and gawk at this ridiculous woman. (FACT: I am an asshole.) Instead, I ended up with an unavoidable affection for the strong little lady who insisted on being herself, even as her world came crashing down while all of society mocked her.

Admittedly, I knew nothing about her past - that she and Jim (still creepy, after all these years) Bakker had been pioneers in Christian broadcasting, twice building empires from the ground up. I also did not realize what a large role Jerry Fucking Falwell and Pat "I Actually Work For Satan" Robertson played in the PTL scandal.

What struck me the most about the film was how her actions consistently matched her words. No one questions that she was the first among Christian celebrities to stand up and offer comfort to AIDS patients ... in 1985! That's really early, folks. Shockingly, other so-called Christians weren't as quick to embrace the mostly gay male victims of the mysterious new disease. When her own fans recoiled instead, she was openly disgusted:

"How sad that we as Christians, who are to be the salt of the earth, and we, who are supposed to be able to love everyone, are afraid so badly of an AIDS patient that we will not go up and put our arm around them and tell that that we care."

She was genuinely confused about their hesitation - after all, isn't this what Jesus would do? Watching her shake that fiery little fist on the air, I saw a real naivete that became more and more apparent throughout the film. I had been too busy judging her public persona and somewhat distracted by eighty layers of mascara. Turns out, Tammy Faye was no phony, she'd been this way all along and continued to be exactly who she was long after the world had dispensed of her.

I also began to see a LOT of Dolly Parton in Tammy Faye and let us not forget the gospel of Dolly: "You wouldn't believe how expensive it is to look this cheap."

I couldn't help myself - by the end of the film, I wanted to hug TF and take her to lunch. Despite the fact that she looks kinda freaky and has the voice of ... well, if cute bunnies got angry and could talk, this what they would sound like.

After some contemplation, I could pinpoint the source of my unexpected affection - she was a real Christian! Who knew? Sadly, I only know a handful of these folks, people who actually have their hearts open and love all mankind, y'know, like Jesus? Others who like to hide behind the Christian name meanwhile passing judgement upon others while spewing hatred and fear toward anyone who is different, those are the Christians who have claimed the airwaves, not to mention the White House. I detest them. Trouble is, they often use the same words, quote the same Bible and invite you to the same friendly BBQs. I am notoriously wary about these folks. As Johnny Cash sang, "You're so heavenly minded, you're no earthly good." Amen.

Tammy Faye was, ultimately, a good sport. Little known fact: The quickest way to Heather's heart is self-deprecation. When Tammy Faye started to re-emerge on the public scene, she appeared on The Drew Carey Show, playing the mother of character Mimi Bobek (Kathy Kinney, at right), also known for wearing excessive amounts of makeup. She then appeared on VH1's reality series, "The Surreal Life" in which Tammy Faye, Ron Jeremy, Vanilla Ice, Traci Bingham (who?), Erik Estrada and Trishelle Cannatella (WHO?!?) all lived together in LA.

Evidently, Tammy Faye forged close bonds with all her house mates, many of whom came to look up to her as a mother figure and a spiritual inspiration. She encouraged the household to "grant themselves permission to cast off the things that are holding them back, to forgive themselves and others, to be happy with themselves whoever they are, to persevere in the face of opposition, and to show each other unconditional love." Her speech moved the cast to tears; Bingham later confessed that it had been a "life-altering moment" for her.

At the end of the show, Tammy Faye said she thought of Vanilla Ice and Trishelle Cannatella as children and could relate to them deeply. Tammy Faye as Vanilla Ice's adopted mama? It doesn't get weirder than this, folks.

Point is, Tammy Faye, when all was said and done, walked the walk. Coming from a non-Christian (not quite anti- but often veeeeery close) such as myself, this speaks volumes. She made me realized I had judged her, the very behavior that I so detest in others. Who could have possibly guessed that Tammy Faye would end up teaching me such a lesson? I hope they give her lots of puppets, microphones and lash applicators in the clouds.

Rest in peace, TF.

Me in 10 Seconds

blogme2007

As instructed by BlogHer's great leader, Lisa Stone, I present tiny revealing shards of me-isms throughout the years:

ClizBiz, age 10:
"I don't see why I have to wear a shirt outside when I don't even have boobies yet."

ClizBiz, age 20:
"No, really, I'm very conservative. I only took half a hit of acid 'cause I had to drive home."

ClizBiz, age 30:
"I only fear two things in this life: Getting married and NOT getting married."

ClizBiz, age 40:
"And then which button do I press?"

Rodents Take the Stage TONIGHT!

For those of you based in the Centennial state and craving some live improv comedy, please come check out The Rodents of Unusual Size this evening for our monthly performance at the Avenue Theater at 417 E. 17th Avenue in downtown Denver.

Every show is mostly unscripted and therefore, entirely unique. Much of our brilliance is built on audience suggestions since our own brains are entirely overcrowded. Our last performance included live audience blogging - see Kath above, in action. (Photo credit goes to the talented John Hartkopp.) There was also a few mouse trap casualties and some surprise groping - all in a night's work ...

Show starts at 7:30 and $10 gets you in the door ... with a drink!

Happy Birthday, Phyllis!

Today marks the 90th birthday of one of America's greatest comedic treasures: Phyllis Diller. It is always scary to meet one's heroes - what if they are cold, colorless and disappointing? Thankfully, Phyllis is one of those celebrities that is every inch what you imagine and about 20 times more.

First off, she is much more beautiful in person than I'd expected. With all that plastic surgery, I was worried about getting close up and getting a scare like I do when I see Meg Ryan at a distance. Not at all. "The trick with the surgeries is knowing when to stop," she told me. "I once had the best plastic surgeon and then he up and died on me ... the NERVE!" Phyllis looks great - realistically an attractive older woman but not at all plastic.

Secondly, I quickly became aware how sharp her mind is. Nothing escapes her - politics, social issues, geographies, the arts - and she is never bored. While talking in her living room, Phyllis became distracted by her cat, Miss Kitty, chasing a fly. "Oh, look! She gonna get it! Look at her!" she squealed. "Now then, where was I?" Meanwhile, I'm thinking, 'God, I love this woman.' Phyllis lives very much in the moment and does not suffer fools.

I'd once made the mistake of complaining about my age in her presence when I was 36. "HA!" she blurted, and then came up and poked me in the chest with every word: "I hadn't even been on stage yet when I was your age!" And then again for good measure, "HA!" Made me realize how long life could be and how much I could get done and how I wish I had a quarter of her talent and as much ambition.

This is a woman who, after birthing five - FIVE - children, became the world's first female stand-up comic ... in 1955. She was 37 years old. Apparently, her husband, Sherwood, couldn't keep a job and it was the only way she could support the family. (He was, however, hot in the sack.)

I asked her once if she knew she would become famous. She sighed and, for once, was quite serious, "Yeah, I knew." Diller is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records for delivering 12 punch lines per minute - a record that still stands today. Watching her act or listening to her old comedy albums is like witnessing lighting - it's so quick, so natural, so powerful. It lights up the room in one bright flash after another.

On top of all this, Phyllis also became an accomplished concert pianist and has performed with over 100 symphonies across the U.S. Her arthritis keeps her from playing these days so now she paints, whenever she's not the voice of "Mother Tucker" on TV's "Family Guy" or making other appearances. She once let me photograph her famous "Wig Room" and take a look at her many, many paintings. As I came down the stairs, she looked up, "Well, whattya think?" I shook my head, "I think that there are about 30 very average people walking around right now - I think you've hogged enough talent for all of them." She laughed her famous laugh and enjoyed that theory very much.

Phyllis is also a big-time foodie and adores cooking. When touring, she'd bring all her own food, cookware and hot plate and make gourmet dinners for her staff after each show. During one conversation, I asked her what she liked to make. She excitedly grabbed her shopping list so she could list off preferred ingredients. On the list was three flavors of Jello-O. "I LOVE Jell-O," she declared.

So when her birthday rolled around that year, my father urged me to send her a giant box filled with Jell-O packages. She sent me a long thank-you note (Phyllis is quite the formal corresponder) "I laughed so hard! Thanks for giving me a gift I could really use."

When I last spoke to her earlier this year, it was post-martini time - she has one every night. Her secretary initially apologized to me in mousy chirps, "I'm sorry but Ms. Diller doesn't talk to anyone after 8:30 p.m. ... " and then I heard Phyllis grab the phone and shout enthusiastically, "Heather, DARLING! You KNOW that come June, I think I'll be running out of my stash so .... " I took the hint and sent her another big box yesterday.

Happy Birthday, Phyllis! Just walking the earth same time as you is a terrific honor.

Keeping Up

My blog fingers have been lazy lately. I guess they have been touching other things – guitar strings, horse reigns, books, car keys and if I get lucky, myself.

Saturday night, I attended a long-awaited House Destruction Party. Every Wednesday night, my fellow Rodents and I practice our improv chops in a completely empty house that Jeff owns. There’s no running water or furniture – the perfect blank canvas to regress.



Soon, the house is coming down to make way for a income-generating condo and we celebrated by attacking the house walls with racy commentary. There was the ‘Name the New Building!’ room and the Sexual Confessions Room. HDW has some great photos here, as does Kath. Never has communication at a party been so clear:



If you didn’t get a chance to read the Wall Street Journal’s gigantic piece on the 10th Blogiversary, please do. Interesting stuff, except what is cranky stuff-ass Tom Wolfe doing in there? If you missed it, let me know and I’ll make sure you get it.

Thinking about using public transportation? Biking? Walking? This image should cinch the deal for you. And remember, there are only so many dead dinosaurs to extract from our beloved blue marble. There is a common saying in Saudi Arabia right now:

"My grandfather rode a camel, my father rode a camel, I drive a Mercedes, my son drives a Land Rover, his son will drive a Land Rover, but his son will ride a camel."

In case that doesn't cheer you up, check out this story about how American publishers are protecting our nation's children from tiny cartoon boobies and half-millimeter-long penises. When I ponder this brazen idiocy or the Bushies 'total abstinence' program or the wasteful and delusional war on drugs, well ... it makes me reach for a cold compress .... and my passport. It also makes me want to draw genitalia in crayon and fax it to the White House while smoking a giant spliff but that's just me. Is there a graph for 'Heads Up Asses Per Capita?"

It does remind me of a brief conversation I once had with a woman outside a supermarket. She had some card table set up with flyers and whatnot and approached me with the dreaded clipboard and pen. Ready to save the world, she spoke in full perk:

"Hi! How are you today? Would you like to help us fight the war on drugs?"

Me, matching her cheerleader enthusiasm beat-for-beat:

"Oh, hey! Thanks so much but I actually use drugs! Good luck with that though!"

A Bonfire of Waste

Last night I returned from Seattle - visiting Dad and other tribe members. Until I get my photos and my adjectives together, here's some food for thought:

PARADE estimated that the current crop of presidential candidates (19, at last count) will spend approximately $1 billion in their frantic reach for the White House. The editors took a quick look at what else that money could buy:

* Treatment and prevention for more than 150 million cases of malaria in Africa
* Basic health insurance for 250,000 Americans
* More than 415 million school lunches for U.S. school children
* Nearly 6,700 new, fully armored Humvees for U.S. troops
* Hurricane relief for our compadres down south - foreign nations offered nearly $1B in aid post-Katrina

This perspective gave me the same queasy feeling I get after viewing crappy Hollywood schlock. You know the kind where the whole film reeks of half-assedness and the entire cast phones it in?

Inevitably, I torture myself with what could be accomplished on just the catering budget alone. "Thousands of dollars in bagels, fruit and sandwiches ... and for what?!?" I shake my head, disgusted by the waste of perfectly useful greenbacks.

Same shit, different venue.

A Queendom Comes Full Circle

At last, my reign has begun. Henceforth, I shall be known as Queen of the Fourplex.

It was Esther who moved out first. She lived on the first floor and I miss her the most. Her husband built the place I live in the 50s and she’d raised the family here. She has Alzheimer’s and now lives in a Home. She was smart and feisty and whenever I was out gardening, it was like “50 First Dates with Esther.” Something like, “Who are you? Where do you live? What are you doing in my garden?” And so on.

I truly enjoyed the “Who are you?” question. I had just moved in and my life was a blank slate. “That’s a very good, question, Esther,” I would say, “Who am I anyway? What exactly do I want? What kind of life? Hmmmmm.” This would piss Esther off even more and she’d stand over me, hands on her hips, waiting for a concrete answer. Then, she’d point out all the weeds I’d missed, “Well, whoever you are, you’re a crappy gardener.”

Then, Neal, the yummy musician/river guide just below me finally got fed up with the nasty neighbor next to him and moved in with his girlfriend, Emily. I’ll miss his rapid-fire laugh and the expert guitar riffs that came up through my water heater. I will not miss the fornication soundtrack. Talk about rubbing it in …

Finally, management kicked out Crazy Angie next door to me. She reeked of negative energy, lived in darkness and was obsessed with TV. She’d slam the door as you passed by, wouldn’t make eye contact and was afraid and/or against most everything. She called the city to complain about Neal’s “attack dog” – an old mushy yellow lab named Belle. She’d lived there since 1993 but they finally got her ass out last Saturday which means ….

IT’S ALL ME, BABY! As the worker dudes – a friendly guy named Tim and an 18-year-old helper named Mark – slowly fix up all the empty units, I’ve (temporarily) got the entire building, lot and expansive backyard to myself: The ClizBiz Queendom.

I could devise no better way to break in the castle than to invite some gal pals over for a healthy tradition called ‘Circle.’ Every season or so, a group of us ladies gather together to talk about our lives, speak some healing words of encouragement, eat, drink, smoke and get crafty. These wonderful women – mostly from Mississippi – roped me in last year when I needed it most. Once again, the Girlfriend Network saves my ass.

Inspired by the pressing urge to decorate my Sin Box - an old cigar box filled with candy, cigarettes, chocolate, illicit drugs and ex-boyfriend phone numbers - I decided we should make personalized boxes. Please note the masterful - mistressful? - work of Miss Amy Cobbs. Her artistry blew us all away.


The unstoppable One-Armed Carley didn't let her little running mishap get in the way of Art. She made a Saving for Costa Rica Box while wearing my Grandma Myrtle's apron, which I'd personally extracted from a rotting North Dakota farmhouse. Ah, the many exotic lives of an antique apron.

On the left here is the lovely Amy, who looked so delicate and summery in frilly white and pink. She claimed the muse wasn't with her, "Ya'll, I'm just not feeling it today. The creativity is just not comin'." Though we all loved her results, we generally agreed that The Muse is one fickle bitch.

Celine, to the right here, is somewhat known as a Master (again, Mistress?) of Manifestation. She showed up to a Circle at Carley's house one time and wowed us with sleek new car, which seemingly came from out of the blue. (I've heard she can also do this with $5,000 paintings.) When we asked her where the car came from, she responded: "I manifested it!" Either the girl has special powers or has some serious connections on the Black Market. Personally, I welcome either one.


At left is The Mighty Miss Bliss, who kindly helped me gather all the art supplies. "Girl, we got to go to Hobby Lobby!" she declared. Despite the mass acreage of flourescent lighting, I was floored by all the bits and pieces of yet unmade masterpieces - the place is teeming with promising elements of the future.

An apt description for my new exclusive space. Come on by and I'll let down the drawbridge - lots of cold beers in the fridge ...

Evidence of Southern Cuteness

This is my nephew, Robbie, and his cousin, Mary Eason. The level of cuteness is almost too much really and it is about to get worse. Behold:

I mean, the bow ... does it not induce nose-wrinkling and an urge to squish her? Mary has the distinguished title of being The Happiest Baby I Ever Met. That tune may change when she's 14 but for now, she is completely delighted with Everything. Her typical sing-song response, "Ooooooooooo!"

Robbie, meanwhile, cannot go anywhere without his cowboy hat. Exhibit A:


Children are cool. They're like miniature people only eight million times more lovable.


Also, just to prove that I am connected to said cuteness, here is me being loved by the women who birthed these angels. Robin Louise is to the left and she's a hoot. We don't have an official title (she's my sister-in-law's sister) so we just go with the term "Family." She monitors my progress in Southern traditions. Once, I accidentally became privy to a family secret and she patted by hand, "Lordie, you're a real Steel Magnolia now - keeping secrets!" It was like I'd moved up a belt color in karate or something, I was so jazzed.


The woman nuzzling my neck is my beloved sister-in-law, MaryAnn, a true pistol of a gal. I really got lucky here. My brother dated so many vacuous betties but, in the end, got smart and picked a fiery woman of substance. What a friggin' relief! I adore her.

"Miss the Mississippi and you ..... "

On the Road: New York

I’ve spent the last few days in The Big Apple and, as always, it is deliciously red and crunchy. Previously in this space, I have professed my undying love for this great American city and every visit brings more details.

While there, I lived at the Roger Smith Hotel, art-minded lodging on the corner of Lexington and 47th, two blocks from Grand Central. There is the Roger Smith Lab Gallery, an art space attached to the hotel, with unadorned plate glass windows on the street-exposed corner walls. It is "a high traffic, fast paced, converted 'storefront' that features conceptual work and provides a venue for experimental national and international artists and curators and their ideas." Fair enough.

Late one night, after returning home after joyfully roaming around Times Square, I glanced in and noted a live naked women in a bathtub, carefully ‘bathing’ in gobs of dirt. There were lit candles, various bits of nature and a grey-pony-tailed photographer, hopping around, snapping away. The doors were closed but there were no curtains. Even without sound, I could see that Dirt Lady was bossing him around – her fingers pointing, her gums flapping. She was evidently The Artist. A European guy and I discussed it. A typical Monday night.

(By next morning, someone with a pink-brown lipstick stick had scrawled across the window a long diatribe of why it sucked. "You are doing more harm than good with that hippie bullshit ... ")

Earlier that same evening, I caught the legendary Les Paul, Father of the Electric Guitar, at his usual Monday night gig on Broadway, at the Irridium. He was celebrating his 92nd birthday and I managed to deliver a personalized birthday kiss – what a treat!

The night also included a spontaneous award presentation by the American Music Harvest, by an avid music fan in a white dinner jacket. Les was amazing on his signature guitar, despite two fingers quieted from arthritis; I may have emerged with a new appreciation for jazz guitar. Paul's back-up band was predictably talented as well, particularly his pianist, John Colianni, who used to play for Mel Torme.

Best of all were the stories that Paul told from his wild party days in 1950s Hollywood. Apparently, Bing Crosby had called him one day at 6:30 a.m. to talk about recording a song at 7:00 a.m. “What?!?” Les had said, “I don’t even vomit until 8!”

Despite having arrived during Gay Pride Week (it tends to follow me wherever I go) I would again like to stress that New York is also a fantastic place for Straight Pride. The place is positively teeming with sexual tension. I understand it is difficult to date there but as a visitor, I just can’t see it, I only see opportunities. I was propositioned and/or hit on a total of five times in three days – the same number that can be applied to my nine years in San Francisco. (Denver is a happy medium.)

Much as I love Gotham, I can see that living there is Work. The muggy crowded subways, the throngs of people and the long stair climbs to your wildly expensive shoebox apartment could wear someone down. Just like some humans, I can love them best from a safe distance. Still, I was loathe to leave my ridiculously high bed - I felt like Princess and the Pea - and NYC in general. It is the center of the American Universe.

Thanks to the United Airlines computer glitch, my flight from La Guardia was delayed. Once aboard, I planned to sleep but instead became absolutely riveted by the inflight movie, "Breach", it's not my fault that Chris Cooper is colossally talented. The plane touched down hours late and the captain announced that the outside temperature was a lovely 97 degrees. I wormed my way into sharing a cab with two fine young men from Jersey and eventually made it to my house at 7:15 p.m. I arrived at the Avenue Theater at 7:25 p.m. And then, 10 minutes later, this happened.

I am EXHAUSTED.

Word is, Black Men Ski

Came across this little ditty today and found it worth passing along. It's done by a brilliant dude named Stew, a modern-day raconteur. He calls his stuff "Afro-baroque" and it is charming and biting, witty and profound. His band is called the Negro Problem and he's been hired to write TV commercial soundtracks, cartoon ballads, and "song portraits" commissioned by fans.

I've never been to Aspen nor have I ever been a black man in ski pants but as Your Rocky Mountain Correspondent, I feel obliged to pass along all things CO-related.

But mostly, Stew is just worth knowing about.

Allow me to brag for a moment ...

My good friend, Tony Dokoupil, wrote today's lead story on Newsweek.com. Some interesting legal troubles/free movie promotions for Michael Moore's new film which focuses on the broken American healthcare system, appropriately entitled, "Sicko."

I met Tony when he was an intern at my company a few years ago, just after his graduation from George Washington University, where he was the valedictorian and a star baseball player. For some odd reason, he decided that I was interesting enough to speak to. Meanwhile, all the women in the office - starved from a diet of each other and gay men - tried to figure out the best way to seduce the new Hot Young Thing.

Truth was, Tony just wanted to talk about writing and writers, words and books. I'd give him random assignments ("Give me 500 words on an emotion - any emotion. Have it on my desk by Monday morning.") so he could practice. It was a joy. His talent grew by leaps and bounds and well, he's arrived!

Anyway, I'm busting my pride seams today like a mother hen and had to squawk about it so ....

SQUAWK!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This Just In - Reaping and Sowing Sucks

Okay, enough is enough.

As a child of Los Angeles, I’m certainly no stranger to celebrity fascinations. I remember dropping off a note (pre-cell phone/Internet, kids!) to a journalist friend who was trapped at Camp OJ – the media shanty town that surrounded the LA County Courthouse during the OJ trial in 1995.

A big iron gate kept them penned in and lots of trapped, tired journalists milled about under the scaffolding, imprisoned by their own relentless assignment. The word “phalanx” was often used by the LA Times to describe them; a word which I still feel only applies specifically to this group. I recall an exhausted-looking man with a press badge reaching through the bars and half-jokingly grabbing my arm, “Tell my wife I love her!” They had lost touch with the Real World and it wasn’t funny anymore.

Furthermore, in the mid-80s and early 90s, I drove limos in LA and Hollywood to work my way through college. The rear view mirror revealed plenty. There were many, many nights of babysitting drunken entertainment executives and coked-up herds of bimbii, all searching for fame and recognition or at least some silky coattails to ride on. That’s what they were there for, to become one of the popular kids, or to at least break into ‘certain circles.’ Most of them ended up in porn.

Still, in observing the media frenzy surrounding Paris Hilton, I feel the need to break down what is behind it. Even she is mystified, though I fear it doesn’t take much to confound a girl who right up there with W. in trying to make pathetic ignorance seem cool. My favorite trick these days is to make light conversation by asking, “So, been keeping up on the Paris Hilton saga?” which elicits a solid, “No!” Then, a detailed discussion immediately ensues; the latest incarceration tidbits are exchanged. I tried this with my mother recently, “I heard that when the Sherriff’s department went to pick her up, she was planning a party!” she tsked-tsked. “Poor little rich girl is learning some lessons.”

I’ll admit, it was fun for awhile – nowhere near the Tom Cruise Media Meltdown ‘05, of course – but when I saw a photo of her really sobbing, I felt sick to my stomach. Did I feel sorry for her? Not really. I still envy Martha Stewart’s incarceration every time I look at my overloaded nightstand; oh, the reading I could get done! Also, I knew that Martha was and remains a major Bad Ass, a bootstraps kind of gal, and the experience would prove to be a minor speed bump and an inevitable best seller.

Miss Hilton is another story. She is an empty-headed twit whose only contribution to society has been an Internet sex tape, mocking nice people who live simply and paying the rent of thousands of paparazzi. This is the image she herself has created so why do I twinge when Sarah Silverman publicly mocks her? Furthermore, why did Sarah herself “feel dirty” when she did it? (Sorry guys, tried to link to the MTV Awards video and got this: "This video is no longer available due to a copyright claim by Viacom International Inc.")

It certainly isn’t empathy for the person itself. I’m glad this bobble-headed nitwit is getting her soul scrubbed down by a dirty cell. I mean, 45 days? That’s it?!? She ain’t no fucking Princess Bride worth rescuing, that’s for sure. Still, the public is almost savage in its joy for her situation. I think it’s because we LOVE a good come-uppance, especially when it happens to the stupid, the blonde, the young and the rich. (Sadly, this is the same reason that sexy blonde co-eds who disappear are covered more in the news than numerous darker-toned victims who have met a similar fate.)

To paraphrase an old proverb, PH has made her bed and now must lie in it – only it is harder and colder than she ever imagined. Admittedly, there is something soothing about the privileged getting cut down to size – taken to an ironic extreme, this is exactly how democracy is supposed to work. In a confused sob, Paris alluded to this herself in trying to deflect her previously beloved cameras to the Important Stuff, namely, the “men and women serving our country in Iraq.” Pushed to the edge, this was the first we’d heard that she cared about anyone but herself or had an inkling about the dirty, bloody struggles in the real world.

If I may venture yet another theory: This is about the great balloon pop. I learned this from my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Burhans, when whined to him about the latest dastardly dead of the evil Tommy Bootsma. “Kid,” he growled, “life isn’t fair. Get used to it.” I found out later that Mr. B was going through a bitter divorce and had plenty of life lessons to share. His cold deliverance of this useful fact stuck with me and boy, was he right. At the ripe old age of 26, Miss Hilton is finally learning this lesson in a grand, crazy-ass way and that is why we celebrate.

Welcome to the jungle, kiddo. It’ll prove to be the best thing that ever happened to your charmed little life.

The Annual Summer 'Do

Normally, I try to avoid posting pet photos - it is annoying, cloying and that is what CuteOverload is for.

However, my dark unruly beast, Simone, got the shave of her life this morning and I just had to share. (It's about to get very hot and she's made of thick black fur - that has to be uncomfortable.) I tried out a mobile pet grooming service because it seemed like the weirdest way for my best friend to get the most bizarre haircut; I was right.

Crystal, proprietor of Crystal's Clips, pulled up in her trailer this morning and whipped out the longest extension cord I've ever seen. Her throaty smokers' voice meant business, "Did you fill out the form I sent you?"

Poor Simone. Formally a fierce feral creature from the streets of Alameda and now a coddled lady of leisure, she was completely blindsided. However, she has not forgotten one filthy word her former street vocabulary. She sounded like a kitty sailor in an angry drunken fight. Imagine a string of guttural feline expletives, outbursts of fanged violence and a few desperate attempts at prison break and you'll get the full picture. (She was named for another fiery creature, Nina Simone, who most definitely would not have stood for such treatment.)

Eventually, the Lion Cut was complete. You might be asking, "Heather, what in god's name is the point of the furry booties and puff tail?" Answer: None. This aspect is for my entertainment only and yes, I would surely pull similar stunts if I had children.

Anyhoo, I now have half a cat and cannot stop laughing. Crystal added an orange bow and now The Mighty S looks like a decorated rat with a blob of naked hanging fat. Of course, now that the coiffing nightmare is over, the cats' sensual side is immensely pleased and she's rubbing on everything, purring all over the place. Happy to have survived, I'm sure.

However, I have noticed that she is avoiding mirrors. Also, I am refusing to let her outside today for fear that the other cats would kick her shaved lil' ass.

Cleaning House: "My Britney Moment"

I'm trying to get myself seriously organized, photographically speaking, and I've got huge amounts of useless shots that are best deleted. However, I'm giving each one a final bit of glory, no matter how unappealing they might be, hence:

Classy, eh? This was actually taken by my pal, Asa, when she and I were both drunk and dateless at the company holiday party several years ago. Somehow, it made it on to the group server and was enjoyed by all so this is not actually its public debut.

I've tried to make this as small as possible but I can assure you that all my lady bits were contained so don't bother enlarging. Worst of all, I'm pretty sure this was accompanied by an angry political rant to the tune of "Brick House."

Confession: I'm mostly posting this as insurance against any ridiculous soul-crushing political ambitions I may ever entertain; this unfortunate angle should probably nip it in the bud. However, I remain immensely proud of my choice in hosiery.

Happy Anniversary to Me!

Yesterday, I celebrated the first anniversary of my Denver move. I’m feeling big BIG love for the Centennial State these days. I’m not known for my clever decisions but coming here definitely makes the top five. And, as much as I have grumbled about him in previous posts, I gotta give credit to MonkMan for intersecting my life and introducing me to this beautiful place; Colorado simply wasn’t on my radar prior to our meeting.

So, last night, I threw myself a little shindig and must have had a good time for today, I’m a bit wobbly – grateful, but wobbly. My little treehouse of an apartment hosted pals from different factions of my life – my go-getter crew from Up The Creek, my fellow Rodents and some blogger pals, including my co-lieutenants, HDW and Kath. (Please note how HDW and I insist on hogging the lens, nearly suffocating dear Kath, who threw out the first life raft here in Denver, bless her cheery soul.)

Here's another with me, Dave and Amy - they'd asked me to pose with the huge wooden Fijian penis that surreptitiously resides in the living room. Sometimes, it makes men nervous though Dave seems quite confident. Hmmmmmm . . .

In preparing for the party, I suddenly became my mother in buying way too much food for a small affair and ending up with a ridiculous surplus. I may have to start a Party Closet like my mother’s (pictured here.) The thing is, if she had more empty closets – there would simply be more Party Closets. The woman already has 2.5 refrigerators and a large freezer full of frozen chicken wings and Swedish meatballs just waiting for the right occasion. When I finally purchased spray cheese late last week, I knew the transformation was complete.

Despite learning my chemistry lessons the hard way (who knew that lemon Jell-O shots and Lime Sherbet Rum Punch don't mix?) I began my second year in D-Town by planting my first vegetable garden. God only knows what will survive but I plan to nurture it and cheer it on best I can. If staring and hovering is what it needs from me than they should all be fine.

Finally, near the end of the day, I decided that enough was enough and treated myself to some emotional closure. I finally sent that gol' dern thank you note to MonkMan, letting him know my joy in living here. It had become a mantra of sorts for me, "Gonna send that fucker a thank you card!" I'd say whenever a new discovery presented itself. His warm response offered sincere gratitude and heartfelt apology. One door closes and another opens - and this one has a better view.

Going Deep in New Territory

The beauty I saw this weekend nearly made my head explode. Man, I am feeling SO SMART for moving to Colorado right about now, truly verging on smug.

I met up with Jim and Barbara, two total strangers, on Friday morning and by evening’s end, we were a family - specifically, a polygamist man with his two wives. Barbara had lived in Utah with Mormons so we decided to role play, convincing our happy hour waitress, at the very least. (I was Wife #2.) We dipped our bodies in the mineral baths of Glenwood Springs and downed margaritas before camping at Escalante, alongside the railroad tracks and a few hundred ant hills.

The four-day trip along the Gunnison River in Western Colorado (just south of Grand Junction) was precisely what I needed to kick off my ‘Summer of Exploration’ here in the Centennial State. There were 21 of us in all – most from my ‘Up The Creek’ gang plus three guides and eleven canoes. The agenda: paddling, camping, eating, drinking, hiking and laughing – total bliss.

Beyond the salmon, ribs and strawberry shortcake, I’m sure I also ate a ton of bugs because my jaw basically dropped on Friday and stayed that way through Monday. Massive canyon walls in deep old reds and lively oranges, all dusted with a thin black desert varnish, made me feel so small, so young, so temporary. The banks were lush with pesky purple Tamarisk, Buffalo grass, Russian olive trees and Cottonwoods. Little white tailed bunny rabbits hopped around and I felt like passing out from joy. “This place is truly touched by the gods,” said Barb.

Turns out, it’s been waaaay too long since I’d been camping – Burning Man 2001. As a result, I was so excited that the idea of sleeping seemed intrusive. The incredible moonlight and star-filled sky certainly didn’t help. Neither did the mighty locomotive that came storming through the canyon several times a day hauling coal. I friggin’ LOVE trains, they make me kinda bonkers with glee.

Late one night, while chewing the fat with our river guide, Jim, I noticed a dim white shadow on the canyon walls. It grew brighter and bigger and then, the delightful old world sound of moving steel. I lept off the overturned canoe and nearly pissed myself with anticipation. In that massive canyon cathedral, alongside the Gunnison River glistening in the moonlight, came that long Union Pacific train. What an unforgettable sight. I put my filthy feet in the sleeping bag that night and finally passed out with a huge grin on my face like an over-sugared toddler finally hitting a wall.

Come breakfast, I was the first one up – completely out of character for a lazy bones night owl like myself. Our afternoon hike revealed more Sergio Leone scenery, waterfall-laden grottos, ancient petroglyphs and yellow-and-blue neon lizards. We climbed rocks, gave ourselves river mud facials and drank rum and beer. We told stories, juggled and wore funny glasses. We showered under waterfalls and stretched out to dry on giant, warm boulders. Meanwhile, the guides marveled at our collective low-maintenance joy. According to them, some folks venture out on the river bringing their freaky demons with them while we’d managed to luck out with a nearly perfect group dynamic.

On the last night, some choice Robert Service poetry was read aloud by the fire. Jim read his classic “The Cremation of Sam McGee” and I read “The Men That Don’t Fit”, which pretty much describes every man I’ve ever loved.

As we launched our canoes for the final paddle home on Monday morning, Jim again took out the Service collection, “The Songs of Sourdough” and asked us to pick a spot in the canyon to contemplate while he read “The Call of the Wild” which left more than a few of us misty-eyed:

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God's sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,
The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
And learned to know the desert's little ways?
Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges,
Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?
Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies).
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?
Then hearken to the Wild -- it's wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
"Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?
Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders?
(You'll never hear it in the family pew).
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things --
Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.

They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,
They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching --
But can't you hear the Wild? -- it's calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling. . .let us go.