A Southwestern Brain Wash

It's amazing how much a road trip to a beautiful place can clear your head. After a relaxing weekend lounging in natural hot springs in a tiny New Mexico town, I feel rejuvenated. My mind was so sharp and focused yesterday - let's hope it stays around for awhile, at least before I leave for the Gulf Coast on Friday.

My travel buddy, Primo, and I stayed in the tiny town of Jemez Springs, population 320. Everyone was so friendly and welcoming, it took no time at all to get to know all the characters. We stayed at the sweet and clean Jemez Mountain Inn and the owners, Paul and Luanna, made the place feel like one big house. Paul even let me peruse their liquor stash and make my own cocktail, right in his own kitchen.

 

One evening, Paul says to me, "C'mon, go get Mat. We're all going to Raymond's house." So, Paul, Luanna, me and Mat all piled into Luanna's car and off we went. Raymond turned out to be the amazingly talented artist, Raymond Sandoval, who greeted us with open arms.

Mat and I couldn't believe our luck. First of all, Raymond's house is a gorgeous adobe that Raymond made himself. Even in the bathroom ceiling is a beautiful scene of twigs and logs. Everything in the place - Raymond's art especially - was jaw dropping. Crawling plants, crystal chandeliers and comfy couches - all amazing.

Born and raised in Jemez Springs, Raymond had gone to art school in Philadelphia, and was there when the community tore down the nation's very first all-black Elk's Lodge. The treasures he got from that excavation  - including a floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror - add the perfect baroque touch. Meeting Raymond was a real highlight for both of us and yes, we both left with purchased art. It was hard to resist!

And then there was the amazing open skies and natural hot springs every ten feet or so. Some were fancy, like the Giggling Springs next door, which included a nice lady who brought us homemade lemonade or fruit smoothies whenever we put up the 'Drink, Please!' flag, as instructed.

There was also San Antonio Springs, a clothing-optional (yay!) springs that is hard to get to - double yay! Located high up in the mountains, the 5.5 mile road is impossible without a 4WD and thankfully, I had one handy. (What's the point of owning a tough vehicle if you're not going to star in a car commercial once in awhile, right?)

After a very bouncy drive, you then cross a river (next to the remnants of a bridge) and hike up a ways. Several stacked pools - the top one being the hottest - were available. With a view of those craggy pink mountains and lots of great company, it was pure heaven. (Although Mat was admonished for being part of a nude party, totally harshing his mellow.)

Earlier that day, we got caught in a fluke hail storm right in the middle of Valles Caldera. Thankfully, we were already heading to the teensy visitor center and it was there we took up shelter. With plenty of maps, books and helpful local guides (including one named Jim Trout), we made the best of it, although it squashed our hiking plans pretty good.

We got caught in another random hail storm as we were leaving on Monday. The weather changes were fairly normal to me, thanks to my Colorado training, but Mat couldn't get over how dramatically things can go from 94 degrees and sunny to 54 degrees and white.

Neither of us wanted to leave, we were so relaxed and content. I chirped and smile the whole way home. I can't wait to go back and continue my crush on New Mexico.

 

More photos from my trip can be found here.

Road Trip!

 This morning, I'm off on a road trip. Just 7-ish hours from now, I'll be hanging with my old college roomie, Laurianna, a bad-ass firefighter who lives in Albuquerque with her two sons, Wyatt & Jack. (I've never met Jack so this will be exciting and Wyatt is 11 now! Sheesh!)

Then, tomorrow morning, I'll pick up my traveling buddy, Mat, from the airport and we'll head to Jemez Springs, a tiny town built around the area's natural hot springs. I am so excited a for new change of scenery here in the beautiful Southwest.

See you on the road! I'll be the one with bugs in my teeth. 

Me & Ramblin' Jack

A few weeks back, I was able to apply the Golden Horseshoe and worm my way up next to a living legend: Ramblin' Jack Elliott. I could hardly believe it.

The only thing difficult about it was trying to impress people with this meeting - nobody (except Fang, of course) knows who he is, which is a dadgum tragedy. Hence, this post.

Talk about re-inventing yourself, he began life in the summer of 1931 as Elliot Charles Adnopoz, a Jew born in Brooklyn - hardly the Western troubadour he is today. After seeing a few rodeos at Madison Square Gardens, little Elliot was entranced by the Western characters and iconography. As he grew older, his father pressured him to follow in his footsteps and become a surgeon. Instead, Elliot ran off at 15 and joined Col. Jim Eskew's Rodeo, the only rodeo east of the Mississippi.

Three months later, his parents tracked him down and brought him back to New York but it was too late, Elliot had already glimpsed his future after watching a singing cowboy/rodeo clown. So, he began teaching himself guitar and performing in the streets for cash. He'd take some lessons from his buddy, Woody Guthrie, and a character soon began to take shape.

After touring Europe and recording albums, he came to America as a folk star. Arlo Guthrie, Woody's son, had lost his father at a young age and ended up learning his father's songs and performing style from Jack. Meanwhile, there was a new kid named Robert Zimmerman hanging around Jack who couldn't get enough - wanting to learn his songs, his style and possibly the concept of changing his entire persona. I've got one song, recorded live, where you hear Jack tell an audience, "And here comes Bobby Dylan and his new harmonica holder ..." 

In fact, Jack is often described as the link between Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan - a key role in the history of American music. (There was even a rumor going around that Dylan was Jack's son, not just his apprentice.)

In addition to Guthrie and Dylan, Jack also hung out with Jack Kerouac and got high with James Dean. That he also became a good friend to Johnny Cash was inevitable.

Here's Jack in 1969 performing on Cash's show although his best appearance on that show was in 1971 with Norman Blake and Randy Scruggs performing 'Muleskinner Blues.' (The note he begins holding at 4:13 is legendary.)

Also, Ramblin' Jack's nickname did not come from his penchant for wandering the globe but for the countless stories he relates before answering the simplest of questions. Odetta claimed that it was her mother who gave him the name, remarking, "Oh Jack Elliott, yeah, he can sure ramble on!" It's still true, Jack remains master of the tangent.

"Nobody - and I mean nobody - has covered more ground and made more friends and sung more songs than Rambling Jack."

--Johnny Cash

The first time I saw Jack perform was in Austin, during SXSW, at St. David's Episcopal Church. He shared the bill with a few others, including Jolie Holland and Billy Bragg. When Jolie tried to perform solo, she was struck by what I can only guess was severe stage fright. She choked up and could hardly speak. Oh, it was awful to witness.

Ramblin' Jack quickly came to her rescue and comforted here right there in front of us all; I'll never forget it. "There, there, darlin', it happens to all of us. How about we sing a song together?" The audience burst into applause, relieved for a solution. Billy came out too and their collective performance was one of the highlights of the festival.

Flash forward to a few weeks ago, when Ramblin' Jack visited my favorite Denver music spot, Swallow Hill. As a volunteer in the main hall, I was helping folks find their seats. All of a sudden, I hear a cowboy twang aimed right at me: "You look like a woman who can get things done." It is indeed an old cowboy - ten gallon hat, boots, giant belt buckle - the whole deal.

"I am that woman," I said. "What do you need?"

He then handed me the biggest silver belt buckle I'd ever seen and said, "I want you to put this on the stool. It's for Jack and I want him to see it when he comes onstage." Cowboy was a champion horse breeder and one of his horses - a horse that Jack had admired - had recently won it.

I did as told and sure enough, when Jack came onstage, he 'ooohed' and 'aaaahed' over the shiny belt buckle. "I don't know where this came from but I sure thank you for the gift," he said and everyone turned to look at me.

At 79, Jack is getting on in years but he still delivers with rambling stories and old yodeling cowboy picking. As the show drew to a close, I vowed to deliver a kiss and get a photo. And with the usual folk music backstage security (a long curtain and a guy asleep on a folding chair), I easily worked my way into the green room.

Curiously, when I first entered, Jack had just turned to a tall man, plaintively asking, "What that a good performance? Or was it just okay? Just tell me." (Just goes to show you, that no matter how many people call you 'legend', you're still only as good as your last performance.)

As the only woman in the room (and the only one under 50), Jack and his gang all turned to look at me. I came with no strategy and figured honesty might just work. "I'm here to deliver a kiss to Jack and to get a photo!" 

Jack's eyes widened and he held out his arms: "Oh, boy! It's been a long time since I had a groupie!" Everyone laughed. We got a couple of photos and chatted about life in the Bay Area, where he lives. ("I never go into The City anymore, they only serve you white wine there.")

Sigh. They just don't make Jewish cowboys like Jack anymore. 

Perspective

For a gadget that also does a gazillion other things, the iPhone takes pretty good photos. I don't mind the lack of flash since I tend to avoid it anyway but I do miss the far-reaching power of the lens. Sure, I'll carry my giant digital Canon SLR around for special occasions but I have a blast with my little 'glass baby.'

I shot this sometime last week in my own living room. My life seriously lacks horses these days so I have to make due with this wee bronze stallion who resides on my end table. Though he looms large in the photos, he actually measures 6" x 6"; I 'rescued' it from the family museum in North Dakota, meaning my Grandpa Wilbur bought it somewhere along the way. I dig the silhouette effect going on here, especially with the dark storm clouds brewing in the background.

Makes me want to tack up and ride.

So Little, So Late

When I finally spit out a rant here, you can be sure it's been simmering on the stove awhile. (In this case, 11 years, ever since a detailed report on the Boston scandal lived on my desk in the late 90s.) I apologize in advance for offending loved ones who are Catholic. This has nothing to do with your personal faith, only crimes advanced at the main office, as it were.

So, the Catholic Church. Wow. Where to begin? Where will it end? The decades and yes, centuries of ignorance and willful abuse - all done in the name of God - makes my skin burn with white hot rage. If I could shave my head and rip up a photo of the Holy See Not on SNL, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

Today, the news broke that the Pope has finally gotten to the bottom of his to-do list and offered an apology for all the thousands of lives destroyed worldwide from ongoing sex scandals. Timely as usual. (Reminiscent of when The Church finally vindicated the astronomy studies of Galileo - who died in 1642 - in 1992.)

Confession: Priests have given me the heebie-jeebies my entire life. I could never pinpoint why but these days, I've got a pretty good idea. If I got on a crowded bus and had a choice between sitting next to a priest or a big, black gangster dude, I'd take droopy pants over the collar every time.

The only Catholic person in a leadership position I ever trusted was Fran, one of the coolest holy guys ever to walk the Earth. I still talk to him sometimes and I wish he was here to help me understand this mess. If guys like Fran were running the show, The Church would not have sunk to the oozy tarpits of lies and deception, where it currently resides. When the media offers interactive maps (like the Boston Globe did here, highlighting districts with abusing priests), you know things are bad.

Last year in Phoenix, The Church excommunicated a hospital administrating nun for approving a life-saving abortion. Doctors agreed that the woman - also the mother of four children - would likely die of pulmonary hypertention if the pregnancy were to continue. No matter, Sister Margaret McBride was out her ass after decades of service.

Now, this is the same Church that artfully moved pedophile priest from one diocese to another to protect its own sanctimonious reputation. The Church - you know the one that preaches family values? - ended up being comprised largely of either child fuckers or those that protect them. Let's put it this way, when I tried to get my arms around the expanse of this situation, I got a Wikipedia entry entitled:

Roman Catholic Sex Abuse Cases By Country

This cancer within the Church is so pervasive, so deeply rooted, that it has to be broken down by entire nations. And yet, time and time again, backs were turned to the problem. The Church that bans birth control, disallows women leaders and molests thousands of children, wants you to live by their rules. The Catholic Church is like the Enron of religions and they are losing numbers fast. Say what you want about extreme Islam, but they do not abuse children.

And let's not forget how much money is spent trying to clean up this mess. Dioceses and their insurers paid $104 million in settlements, attorneys' fees and other abuse-related costs in 2009 and $376 million in 2008. All told, the scandal's price tag for settlements and other costs has risen to more than $2.7 billion, according to estimates, and these numbers apply to the U.S. only. Something to think about when that plate comes around....

As a non-Catholic, I can't seem to engage anyone of this faith in a realistic discussion. I get responses like, "Well, plenty of religions have the same problem." Really? Which ones? Honestly, I'd like to know.

"Well, the problem is limited to certain areas." Correct, that area being Earth.

"Well, not all priests are guilty of this." Agreed, although they are part of the same fraternity that allowed this atmosphere to grow and fester. 

And then there's SNAP, the Survivors Network of those Abuse by Priests. A NETWORK, PEOPLE. They've been around for 22 years and have more than 9,000 members. The fact that they even exist, that they host conferences and have handy Abuse Trackers, makes me ill.

 

Just to put the cherry on top of this evil sundae, there's also now a website for Italian women who have sexual relations with priests. Celibacy in the Church - what a sham. And why? What does it prove? That people who claim not to have sex are somehow closer to God? I don't buy it. After all, isn't He the one who made the parts fit together so nicely?

I can't help but recall a time when I traveled through the Australian outback for three days with a young Catholic Irishman. He was a virgin (because the Church said no sex before marriage) and was deeply conflicted about it. He was also an alcoholic and had mysterious open sores all over his skin. Over the long hours of driving through a bright orange desert, we had many talks about this imposed celibacy issue and I recall saying one thing that gave him pause:

"Nature - your body - always has the last word. It doesn't care about plans or rules or anything like that. Think about when you get the flu and how much work or fun you miss out on because the virus needs to have its way with you. It has no concern for your schedule or what another human has told you. None whatsoever."

He was quiet for a long time after this and I still think about that poor, confused young man. Now, I'm not saying getting laid would've cleared up his head and skin (although it works for me), but other than being told "No!", he had zero guidance from his Church on how to maneuver the real world.

Honestly, I'd love to hear something - anything - from Catholics who are really angry about this post or have some helpful insight. The most excellent pro-Catholic essay I've read so far is from Elizabeth Scalia: "On Good Friday, Why I Remain Catholic."

Don't get me wrong, I'm seething like an angry wet cat but ultimately, what I wish for is healing for all involved. Even those creepy guys in black.

Beware the Rear View

A friend of mine was recently seated at a wedding, minding her own business, when a 'Fashion Don't' suddenly struck. Camera poised, she waited for the nuptial show to begin when she looked directly ahead and saw this:

Yessiree, that there is what we call a Weave Gone Bad. Poor girl has no idea. Let this be a lesson, ladies. When fastenin' foreign crap to yer 'do, remember to check out the back view....lest you end up in some body's blog.

Legends on the Rocks

Tuesday evening, Reid and I headed up to beautiful Red Rocks to catch the kick-off of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers' summer Mojo tour. After a tailgate picnic dinner with an unbelievable view of rolling green hills and pink-red rock formations - plus a whole lot of happy drunk people - we made the trek to our seats: Row 23, dead center.

You know the show is going to kick ass when Joe Cocker is the opening act. Now 66 (that's rock star years, so he's actually more like 84), Joe can deliver the back-arching-fire-breathing goods with his eyes closed, which they mostly were. While his voice had that scratchy pain thing going on even in his youth, there's something about age that brings a new integrity to his voice - it has grown richer with decades of seasoning.

We couldn't help but note that Joe has basically evolved into an old black man - the highest ranking a singer can achieve, possibly second only to an old black woman. The folks sitting next to us had the same thought. "He looks and moves like a white Fred Sanford," said Friendly Neighbor Guy.

Joe's performance of (one of) his signature songs, "With a Little Help From My Friends", was a personal favorite. With the crowd singing and swaying, it felt like an old-world spiritual. Funny how the images of songs evolve and change as you stumble through this life.

Joe also performed "Unchain My Heart", "Feelin' Alright" and a cover of The Beatles' "Come Together," which he recorded in 2007. Joe is also a Colorado resident, in the wee mountain town of Crawford, and occasionally has garage sales that he announces on the radio. He downed an awful lot of water during his performance and never spoke or acknowledged the crowd once, which was kind of a bummer.

Then, Petty and his Heartbreakers hit the stage and my heart soared, ready to be broken. The only time I've seen Tom perform was during a Johnny Cash show at the House of Blues in LA. Cash casually mentioned that his friend Tom was going to come out and help with backup guitar, if that was okay with us. Petty stepped out sheepishly and did just that - never sang or anything - just there for his back-up gig.

Not on this night! Tom was front and center with his steady partner-in-brilliance, guitarist Mike Campbell, and all the other freakishly talented musicians, including one guy, Scott Thurston, who just had a giant wooden stand that held about 20 harmonicas and a bunch of other instruments; he played each one effortlessly.

Petty is a living legend at this point in his decades-long career and I'm so glad to see him the credit he's due. And you know what? I think he is too. In stark contrast to Cocker, Petty was overflowing with gratitude. He thanked us profusely after each and every song, almost gushing: "Thank you so much! It really means a lot. Thank you!" and so on. It was refreshing and made us cheer louder.

Though my favorite Petty song was not played ("American Girl"), there were plenty of others I could belt out loud, especially "Breakdown" and "Refugee." (Song list at left.) No worries, I knew he had 34 years worth of songs to choose from and a new album to promote - I was just damn happy to be there.

Again, I was impressed with how 'there' he was for the audience. Halfway through the set, he talked about their new album, Mojo, after an eight-year Heartbreakers hiatus and could he play some new stuff for us? We half-clapped, half-groaned and he laughed a little then said, "Just a few songs then after that it will be wall-to-wall hits, I PROMISE." We clapped our end of the agreement and the show blistered on. (And yes, the new stuff kicks ass, especially 'Runnin' Man's Bible.'

The thing about Petty is, he clearly remembers what it's like to be a fan and that counts for a lot. I think it's called integrity and I don't care how many Top 40 stations play his music, it comes through. Petty songs are sneaky like that.

I think the best song of the night was 'Learnin' to Fly' mostly because he let the crowd take over the chorus and it was LOUD. It was energizing be part of such focused collective energy, especially when the words are about fucking up in life and giving it another go, an experience most of us think is exclusive to our lives.

I'm learning to fly, but I ain't got wings
Coming down, is the hardest thing

My friend, Kathleen - an avid music fan herself - told me once that whenever she hears a Petty song, she thinks of me. It's one of my favorite compliments of all time, right up there with the time my friend, Marjike, was driving through Germany, heard Johnny Cash on the radio and called me immediately; it warms my heart just to picture it.

Big thanks to Reid and all the music gods that lined up for this amazing show. What a great way to launch summer in Colorado.

For more awesome photos from the opening night show, go straight to the source.

(Image Credits: Joe Cocker by Cory Morse/The Muskegon Chronicle; All Petty photos from TomPetty.com)

Gratitude for the Brave

This is my father as a young boy in South Dakota. He was, and is, fiercely patriotic - never discussed during my childhood but implicitly inferred.

Our family explored America in a motorhome called The Voyager. On the back window was just one sticker with an illustration of the American flag and a brief statement: 'Love It Or Leave It.' It made sense to me then, as it does today, which is why I live here.

My father grew up to be a dedicated Navy man, dismantling underwater mines and specializing in explosives. He has often said, "The Navy made a MAN outta me." It also made him the world's tidiest bed maker.

A few years ago, Dad was visiting me here in Denver and I took him to The Fort, a very special place in Morrison. More than just a fancy restaurant, it is also the home of the Tesoro Culture Center, which celebrates Western culture and traditions by keeping them alive in the present day.

As we ate our amazing meal of buffalo and elk chop, an older gentleman employed by The Fort wandered through the restaurant playing an Indian flute, which provided the ideal soundtrack for such a place. The musician came by our table and he and my Dad got to talking. Turns out, they had both served in the Korean War. (The man was in the Army.)

Now, intellectually I had known this, but Dad had never really discussed it with me on an emotional level. As true to his generation, he was very stoic and matter-of-fact about such matters. He did his duty and what's done is done - period.

But suddenly, is in his conversation with this man, I watched my father soften on the topic and he was sharing things I had never heard before. In witnessing the exchange, I kept quiet as a mouse. And then, the musician said to my father:

"I'm going to play something now - I don't play it very often because it makes me sad - but it's a grieving song the Lakota play for fallen warriors. I'm going to play it in honor of our brothers who died in Korea."

His flute suddenly took on a haunting tone quite different from the lighter songs he'd been playing around the restaurant. I couldn't help but note the significance of choosing a song from the Lakota tribe as they are primarily from the Black Hills of South Dakota where my father was born. His grandfather, Adam, even spoke some Lakota.

As the man played, I thought I saw some moisture around his eyes, which were closed, but it was nothing compared to my father, who was openly weeping. Clearly, he'd been carrying that special grief for his fallen brothers around inside him but rarely let it surface.

As the song concluded, my father thanked the man, who said, "No, thank YOU, brother." They shook hands roughly, a bit longer than normal, and the musician went back to his strolling.

My father wiped his face dry with the linen napkin and seemed overwhelmed by his sudden emotion. "Sorry, honey, I just ...don't .... I don't know, I wasn't expecting..." I assured him it was a perfectly natural reaction to such an emotional song and we returned to our dinner.  He talked about other things but every once in awhile, he'd get quiet and shake his head, still in disbelief over what to him was a public outburst.

On the drive home, he blurted: "I'm so embarrassed. I don't normally cry like that in public." (I'd only seen him cry once before, when I was 12 and and he told me that he and my mother were divorcing.) I spent the rest of drive home assuring him that, for gosh sakes, I am his daughter and if you can't cry in front of family than where? (Well, if you're me, than the answer would be anywhere and everywhere.)

He was mostly surprised that he still felt that strongly and deeply about the men he'd served with, what they had fought for and the bond that had formed. "I just haven't thought about them in years," he said, "And yet, when he was playing, it was .... like it was yesterday."

 

Today is for the honorable fallen, and all the tears - expected and unexpected - that carry them down the river.

Slimming Down...Musically

In an effort to reduce the ridiculous amount of CDs in my possession, I recently came up with a system. Grab 5 CDs a day from my carefully alphabetized arrangement and burn them all into iTunes. Then, extract one for The Box, slated for parts unknown. My collection has now been reduced by one-fifth ... victory!

I took a load yesterday to SecondSpin, a nearby music story that buys/sell CDs, DVDs, albums, whatever ya got. Of the 30+ CDs I brought, they only bought 12. Hmph. If I want this kind of snobbery rejection, I'll go to Buffalo Exhange, thanksverymuch!

Anyhoo, I ultimately opted for store credit instead of cash ('cause you get more $$ and I'm a greedy junkie for more music) and walked away with a 3-disc set: "Led Zeppelin: Remasters" - HELL YES. I'm trying to fill in the embarrassing gaps in my music collection with contains plenty of obscure genuises but lacks some key classics, including Rolling Stones and Beatles. I know, I know - I don't know how it happened either.

Hanging with the girls last night at Angela's new pad, I presented my rejects, which seems so quaint now in a digitized world. To my great delight, each girl walked away with a musical treat. Angela got some Stevie Ray Vaughan ("The Sky is Crying"), Carley got a bootleg copy of a live performance of Stevie Ray Vaughan with Buddy Guy and Amy ended up with Red Hot Chili Peppers classic, "What Hits?!?"

Nice to have the music live on. Now, what should I do with all these cassettes?

Coco Rocks the House

I'm a tad tardy in offering this review although it's never too late to state emphatically that Conan O'Brien is an American treasure. Reid won a couple of tix to catch his official 'Legally Prohibited From Being Funny on Television Tour', which stopped in Denver a few weeks ago.

Of all the American job losses that occurred in the last year, Coco's has to be the most public. That nasty tangle with NBC that pushed him out of his dream job on The Tonight Show left a bad taste in my mouth. I've always liked Jay Leno (even met him twice) but I won't watch the show anymore as long as he is hosting. Talk about a dick move, unbelievable.

So, Conan took his comedy to the only place where it is still (temporarily) legal to do so - the stage. He brought his full brass band (sans Max Weinberg), sidekick Andy Richter and a bunch of other characters we've come to know and love.

Not only was the two-hour show incredibly tight and funny but Team Coco bent over backwards to localize the performance, something I'm sure they are doing at each one of the 30 stops. They shot some crappy commercial for Pete's Kitchen, a local diner that serves bad food to grateful drunk people. Conan also complained loudly about the giant blue horse that greeted him at DIA - a source of much local controversy.

Conan's open wound from his loss of the most coveted job in comedy (sorry, kids, it's not the money) makes for ideal comedic fodder. We watched a hilarious video of Conan the days that followed the controvesy with a full beard, on the floor - surrounded by pizza boxes and beer bottles. A child comes up and sniffs him: "Mommy! Daddy smells like pee!" Then, a giant red rotary phone rings and Conan answers: "Go on tour? Sure!" He rips off the beard and the fat suit, gets on the treadmill and begins his tour training. All for us!

The deal that was ultimately struck with NBC literally prohibits (for a time) Conan from performing comedy on television, radio or the Internet. The only thing he had left was Twitter (he follows just one person, a girl named Sarah he chose at random). Anyway, he spent ZERO money on advertising/marketing to announce the tour. Instead, he sent out one tweet that directed people to his site to buy tix and that was it. Here it is:

"Hey Internet: I'm headed to your town on a half-assed comedy and music tour. I repeat: It's half-assed."

The show was fantastic - not a bit of fat on it. Half comedy, half music, some stand-up performances and a lovely unannounced drop in from The Fray! There were even giant beach balls made to look like Conan thrown into the crowd. One of my favorite lines, "You guys are so smug about your altitude here..."Mr. O'Brien, we've got oxygen back here if you need it.' I DON'T NEED THE OXYGEN TANK, THANKS."

It's so true! 

The opening act was Reggie Watts, probably one of the most unusual performers I have ever seen. His afro is MASSIVE. Seriously. The whole show - and for several days after - Reid kept saying, "I want that hair. I want that hair." Reggie does improvisational comedy with hip-hop and when he began, I couldn't even understand him. By the time he left the stage, I was on my feet, cheering him. Reggie was so brilliant, so unique. He is definitely not your run-of-the-mill comedian which makes him the perfect mind-bending opener for Conan's tour.

Best of all, our brains were buzzing for days. I think Conan being released from network television is the best thing that could have happened to him. When he came onstage at the Ellie Caulkins Opera House, the audience roared their support. "Wow, Denver! You are LOUD," he said. (Of course, he'd played to Boulder the previous night, where everyone was stoned and subdued.) Denver gave him some big love and he gave it right back.

Best of luck to Conan and Friends. I expect serious comedic success at TBS.

(Top Image Credit: The very brilliant Sir Mike of Mitchell. Not sure about the horse but the bottom is from my iPhone.)

Unnecessary Discontent

Please enjoy this most hilarious photo of my friend, Hannah Lawler, who is now a poised 13-year-old. However, here she is as an exhausted, over-stimulated child on Xmas Day. It has to be one of the funniest child photos I've ever seen and it sums up my mood as of late.

It also helps me step back and see that - like young Hannah - I am surrounded by riches, despite my frustrations.

I just woke up - in my own bed, finally! - from an 11-hour sleep and feel like a new woman. Maybe all Hannah and I needed was a good nap.

Nope, Not Dead

I have horribly neglected this space and it's hard to pinpoint why. I've been in a funk lately - experiencing a restless rootlessness and an unshakable homesickness. At first, I thought it was just my regular personality but I think it is something deeper.

Anyway, I won't go on about it because I can already hear Fang's review,"BORING!"

My Amazing Friends

Okay, sure, I've had a few Forrest Gump moments with famous folks but really, my actual friends are pretty famous and amazing in their own right. I've already bragged enough about Michael but here's a couple of others I haven't mentioned:

Heidi Nye: Knowing Heidi is to meet someone from another world - a better world - where there is endless light, love, adventure and honesty. We met in the late 80s in the CSULB journalism program. Heidi has faced a number of medical challenges over the years but the kidney dialysis has really tested her strength.

She recently went to New York to be a subject of an HBO documentary on the plight of those needing kidney donors when - whoops! A fence she was leaning on gave way and she broke her hip. (Dialysis makes your bones quite brittle.) Then, while in the hospital, she broke it again! When I called Heidi to see how she was faring, her response was true journalist: "Well, at least it makes for more interesting filmmaking...."

Here is Heidi's story in the New York Daily News. She even looks glamorous in her hospital gown! (Photo by Taggart.)

Andy Isaacson: I met Andy years ago when we were both cubicle rats in San Francisco. He's since gone on to live the life that everyone else dreams about. He basically travels around the world, writing and photographing his journeys for the rest of us to enjoy. (He's skilled at both, of course.) His latest adventure is worth sharing, as it involves peanut butter.

As Andy explains in a recent issue of AFAR: "I once invented a dessert sushi, in Laos. It was made of bananas, peanut butter, sticky rice, sesame seeds, and honey. My then-girlfriend Lauren and I created it spontaneously one December afternoon in 2002, while dining on the deck of a restaurant in Muang Ngoi, a rural fishing village on the Nam Ou River in northern Laos. Scores of backpackers lay up in Muang Ngoi, so we called it the Falang Roll, using the Lao word for “foreigner.” The owners indulged us by providing the ingredients, and we promised them that the roll would be a sensation. They added it to their menu."

Seven years later, the Falang Roll caught on and is now offered as standard fare to those traveling through Laos. When he saw it referenced in a Lonely Planet guidebook as something that now included 'veggies', he packed up his bags and headed back to the same village to protect his culinary legacy. It's quite a story and Andy's photos are, as always, exquisite.

Everybody collects something. Me? I collect amazing people - they're entertaining and require no storage.

Adult Failure To Thrive

I have a habit of reading the obituaries of little-known-but-wildly-successful people. Every single one is alike a mini-movie as you picture the expanse of the person's life neatly summed up by two or three inches in a newspaper.

The other day I read the obit of H. Guyford Stever who led the rocket redesigns after the Challenger disaster. His life was amazing but his death puzzled me. Stever was 93 and died of "adult failure to thrive", an actual medical term with a dramatic, maudlin tone.

Stretched out on my blanket in the park, I made my iPhone look it up immediately:

"In elderly patients, failure to thrive describes a state of decline that is multi-factorial and may be caused by chronic concurrent diseases and functional impairments. Manifestations of this condition include weight loss, decreased appetite, poor nutrition, and inactivity."

What struck me about this was how generic this type of death is, especially in a culture where we demand detailed explanations for things as unwelcome as death. Essentially, this phrase is the more official version of "He just died from old age." Evidently, this isn't a term you can list in one's obit so they came up with this "failure to thrive" business.

Still, I feel like there's an important philosophy embedded in this phrase, or at the very least a solid alt-country song. Take heed: Failure to thrive results in death.

Music Extravaganza

The logic in my head went something like this: "If I'm going to see the new movie, 'The Runaways' about the first all-girl rock band in the 70s, I must go with a she-rocker." Makes sense, no?

And so I grabbed Camille, my mohawk-wearing rocker friend who writes a song a week, or something like that, over at BloginSong. She also sings with an 80s cover band called Mullet Over. They kick ass.

The movie was gritty, awkward and totally necessary. Sure, an all-female rock band seems like no big deal these days but back then, it was the craziest idea ever.

Kristen Stewart really nailed it in her portrayal of a young Joan Jett, that dark slump and black leather pout - it was all in place. Dakota Fanning was dreamy and fragile as Cherie Curie, the 15-year-old lead singer of The Runaways. It got me all nostalgic for 70s fashion and music but certainly not all the sexism that came with it.

Michael Shannon steals every scene he's in as that freaky visionary, Kim Fowler, who makes the girls world-famous. The movie's worth your money if you're a music nerd or at least a feminist. (I'm more music nerd than I am feminist but both sides were pretty pleased.)

But the music didn't end there. We ended up at Swallow Hill, now joined by Reid, and experienced additional greatness.

First there was The Dovekins, a funkalicious band described on their site as "Psychedelic/Western Swing/Bluegrass" which is about right. Laura Goldhammer, the headliner, is also in the band and plays a mean banjo. They felt like Squirrel Nut Zippers meets M Ward. Truly awesome.

Then, there was Widow's Bane - which was a spawn-of-Tom-Waits/zombie band that completely charmed me. The lead singer looked like he'd just stepped out of a Tim Burton movie but one song he sang (about death - surprise!) brought me to real tears. Well done, dead guy & friends! I hope they come through town again.

In a completely different room, my mind was blown by Palmer Divide, a local bluegrass band with phenomenal talent and lots of great jokes. As soon as I got there, the lead singer announced, "We're going to give this shirt to whoever can yell the loudest." I thought, 'Jeez, they might as well give it to me right now.' Sure enough, that shirt was mine but really, how hard is it to outscream a bunch of folkies?

We eventually left and ducked in to a nearby lounge, where lo and behold, another amazing band was playing: Tough Grooves. The leader was a Joan Jett look-alike who could not only rock the drums but she sounded an awful lot like Janis Joplin. We chatted during the band break about our favorite female singers and we all agreed that we'd love to be Chrissie Hynde for a day.

Sometimes, good things happen when you leave the house ...

Market Street - 1906

My brother, Robert, sent me this wonderful video today and it is mesmerizing. It's a seven-minute (or so) film reel shot in San Francisco just four days before the 1906 earthquake. Thankfully, it was immediately shipped to New York for processing, hence its survival.

You have to see the unbelievably randomness of the traffic - clearly, there were very few, if any, rules of the road. No traffic lights yet either. Streetcars, buses, automobiles, horses, bicycles, buggies, wagons, pedestrians - everybody just flows around at the same calm pace as the car heads directly for the beautiful Ferry Building, which still stands today.

Oh, it gave me such a homesick pang for my City by the Bay! They even used a song I used to listen to all the time when I lived there, "La Femme D'Argent" by Air.

Big thanks to David Kiehn with the Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum who painstakingly figured out exactly when it was shot. He studied New York trade papers (announcing the film), noted wet streets from recent heavy rainfall and studied shadows indicating time of year comparing them to weather conditions on historical record. He even studied car registrations, ultimately figuring out who owned them and when the plates were issued. Talk about diligence.

Viewing it full screen is best. It's the closest to time travel you'll ever get.

My Vodka Breakfast with Jim Marshall

Late Wednesday night, I received word that iconic music photographer Jim Marshall had passed away at the age of 74 and I felt a pang of regret. For months now, his latest book, 'TRUST', has been sitting in my office, sent to me by the publisher - a reminder to schedule the follow-up interview that I never followed up on.

I first met Jim Marshall on the second day of 2004. A few weeks prior, I'd suddenly become obsessed with his famous 'flipping the bird' photograph of Johnny Cash at the San Quentin sound check in 1969. I must have a poster of it, I decided.

And so, I began trolling the interwebs and - what luck! - came upon the phone number of the photographer, Jim Marshall, who lived right in my very town: San Francisco. What are the odds? In a moment of ballsy idiocy (with occurs with some frequency in my life), I impulsively picked up the phone and dialed the number.

As the phone rang and rang (he had no answering machine), Jim's career bio popped up on my screen - his massive, beyond-impressive resume that included so many legendary subjects - Jimi Hendrix, Miles Davis, Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, The Grateful Dead, John Coltrane, The Rolling Stones, Leonard Cohen - that my wee brain nearly popped. You know that shot of Jimi Hendrix setting his guitar on fire? Yeah, Jim took that.

Jim Marshall has shot more than 500 album covers and his work resides in the Smithsonian. Dennis Hopper's character in Apocalypse Now was based on Jim Marshall (photo at right). When The Beatles held their final concert at Candlestick Park in 1966, Jim was the only photographer allowed backstage. Holy crap - this was the guy who friggin' invented the All-Access pass!

"Hello?", said the gravelly voice.

Dear God, was I really going to ask this legendary artist for a fucking poster? Was I that much of a flaming idiot? What in God's name have I done?!

"Hi. Is this Jim Marshall?" I managed to squeak out.

"Yeah!" he barked.

And then it dawned on me that I might just have an out. At the time I was doing film reviews and interviewing actors and directors for a local radio show, "Movie Magazine International" on KUSF-FM, 90.3.

"I'm calling to see if you'd be interested in doing a radio interview for a local station here in San Francisco...?" It was a made-up lie but at least it was better than my original question.

"Sure. When?"

And so, I managed to not make an ass of myself and arranged to meet Jim at his Castro apartment a few days later. I never did mention the poster.

I arrived just before 11:00 a.m. and knocked his door that was covered in "Jim Marshall for Mayor" stickers (he'd made a few unsuccessful attempts) and a scruffy man answered the door. Jim looked like he'd just gotten out of bed and I came to learn that he pretty much always looked like that. "Do you like vodka?" he asked.

"Um, I'm more of a whiskey girl but really, Jim, I've already had breakfast so ..."

"Debbie! Um, I mean, Lisa!" Jim always had a young girl working for him who ran his life. An exasperated girl appeared in the room with a distinct 'What now?' look on her face. "Can you go to the store and get us some vodka?"

"You've already got three bottles in the kitchen," she said.

"Oh, good! Bring us some." So she did - no ice, no mixer - nothing like straight vodka before noon.

Jim took a gulp and stated. "I'm actually not much of a drinker. I like cocaine. I just keep it around for company."

Clearly, I was in the presence of Greatness, and from another era, no less.

So, I began arranging my gear for our interview - laptop, microphone, small digital camera and my large film camera. "You got too many toys," he growled.

That day, Jim's living room was filled with black-and-white prints, all being sorted and organized for his book, 'Proof.' Marilyn Monroe, Steve McQueen, Mel Torme, Michael Douglas - each one a masterpiece.

We chatted and he let me snap a few shots although he was very shy and wouldn't look at me. As someone who is more comfortable behind the camera than in front, I totally understood.

The interview (which can be heard here) began in a classic fashion. I made a comment about being Annie Leibovitz calling him "THE rock-and-roll photographer" and his graveled response: "I don't shoot rocks! I shoot people! Ansel Adams shoots rocks!"

I asked him about the Cash photo ... big mistake. Jim launched into a full-scale rant: "Arggh! I HATE that photo! I wish I'd never taken it. More than any other, that shot has cost me so much money and grief. So many people have stolen that image and used it for all kinds of things. My lawyers can't chase them down fast enough. Do you know that you can even buy cheap posters of that shot?" he looked at me, incredulous.

Wisely, I repressed the urge to say, "Where?" and instead chose the words, "That's terrible!"

We had fun, for sure. At some point, he mentioned that another interviewer from the local NPR station, KQED, was coming over so I began to pack up my 'toys.' "Oh, well thanks so much for your time, I-"

"No! You don't have to leave. Hang out, it'll be fun!" he said. Alrighty, then.

And so, I hung out on Jim's couch, going through his amazing prints, while the lovely Elizabeth Pepin showed up with her toys. The three of us had a lovely time together and I really never wanted to leave.

Turns out, I didn't have to. After Elizabeth left, I said, "Well, this has been great, Jim, but I should be going ..."

"Really? But 'Law & Order' is on!" he said, somewhat pleading.

And so, there I was, watching TV with Jim Marshall, the godfather of music photography and all I can think about is that he used to do drugs with Janis Joplin, sleep in Johnny Cash's house and went to Jimi Hendrix's funeral with Miles Davis. But now, evidently, he's into vodka and L&O. I should have pumped him for more stories but I got the sense he just wanted to relax and hang out.

Eventually, I left - some six hours later - but we hung out a couple more times after that. Jim, as many of his friends will attest, was somewhat unpredictable in mood. He could be cuddly like a bear, like the day I met him, or irascible like a dragon.

One time I showed up at his doorstep and rang the bell. He literally poked one eye past the door - his hair sticking wildly up. "Hey Jim, I was in the neighbor-" SLAM! A week later, he'd take me to lunch like it never happened. Jim was a bit of a Jekyll/Hyde character but overall, pretty lovable.

I recall mentioning to one pro photographer that I'd been to Jim's house. "Well, that's odd," he said, looking me over and holding up my arm, "You don't seem to have any permanent scars."

As the years went by, I'd taken up the habit of calling Jim on his birthday, February 2. I never did it to remind him of who I was (for it was not something to be counted on) but because he was always so delighted by it. He just loved it that someone remembered the date. One year, I caught hell for missing the year prior: "I waited but you never called!" he yelled, in that famous gravel voice.

Jim was one-of-a-kind photographic master and a powerful witness to so much cultural history, I can't hardly believe my luck in having spent time with someone of his experience and talent. The only silver lining in all this: I guess this means I can finally stop feeling guilty about having that big Cash poster in my office.

RIP Jim Marshall, you lucky bastard. Next time I get my hands on some vodka, you'll get a fine toast.

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.