• Drank iced tea with Peter at the Grove, and got a tour of his new BMW.
• Ran into rocker Samantha on Fillmore, discussed sending sketches of my heArtwork for her tattoo design to an illustrator. Briefly discussed the Pirate she’s dating.
• Dined on a home-cooked organic meal at Jorge’s new loft apartment in SOMA. Ate the most extravagently sweet tomato ever from the farmer's market. Wore new champaigne cami and broke in painful but beautiful BCBG shoes. Discussed an exciting new project.
• Mani/Pedi at Lavande. Tried to eavesdrop on gossip in Taiwanese. Was able to make out "Brad Pitt."
• Lunched with Jim at a charming hole in the wall Mediterarrean Café. Drove around in my new wheels.
• Saw my estethician Tricia, and got an update on her lovelife with a state prision guard.
• Ran into spring “fadeout” Justin at Peets in Pacific Heights. Managed a smile and wink while apologetically rushing off to therapy.
• Broke up with my therapist without saying, "Really, it's not you. It's me."
• Saw my hospital crush, Dr. Could-be-Gay and realized after the fact that "hospital gown" just isn't my color.
• Beat the rush hour at Trader Joe’s and bought Apple Struedel. (a Kalle and Paolo favorite!)
• Contacted Lucinda Williams peeps about upcoming tour art. Informed Lu that my eyelashes are real, and Christian Dior makes them look so irresistibly fake.
• Parked illegally under a crane in downtown San Francisco just long enough to catch up with my old roommate, Katy who broke away from blueprints or floor plans to see me.
• Found pictures of last marathon and was reminded by Renee of my now-gone Madonna arms. (Ate another piece of struedel.)
• Partied through happy hour on Polk Street in Russian Hill. Heard the familiar ringing of the Hyde cable car and was not even a little bit nostalgic.
• Was offered a piece of chocolate by my dentist, and told me he couldn’t make any money off me because my teeth are *perfect*
• Washed my car and was greeted by Renee's neighbor. (Call him, Renee. He's single.)
• Arrived for my coffee at Ritual and was greeted with: “Where have you been! We’ve been just worried sick!”
• Accidentally dropped a sleeping pill in my printer, and now it literally will not power on.
I made it to my new apartment in San Diego. It's huge. I crashed with a friend in The O.C. last night. We had a blast. I had never been there before: land of gated communities, botox, palm trees and streets that look like a moving Mercedes Benz showroom.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Travels through Washington
I packed up my bug spray and sunscreen, and took my last cold shower. I said my goodbyes, collected my scribbled up manuscripts, and promised to write as I drove the 15 mph speed limit, top down, out of Port Townsend Centrum writer's camp. I did not want to leave. I could have lived on that cot, using a bathroom that smelled of mold, if it meant I could wake up to my laptop and a desk overlooking the Pacific.
At the ferry dock, I was scolded by the Sheriff for having almost-expired tabs. Not knowing if the DMV had sent the tabs to San Francisco, Iowa or Washington, I shrugged and offered him half my sandwich. He smiled and offered me a warning.
I was the last car the orange-vested ferry workers shoved on the boat. Blonde in a California convertible-they hated me already, rolling their eyes as I struggled to fit into the half millimeter space they were directing me. I squeezed between a RV called "Expedition" with every cheesy retirement bumper sticker you can imagine, and a minivan with a license plate that said "gotrealestate?" and either a trampoline of midgets, or an eight year old birthday party going on inside.
The ferry started to pull away, with half my car's ass hanging on to the dock. I yanked on the parking brake, and pushed over a hippie biker accidentally with my car door. "Hey!" I yelled at the Orange Vest ferry lady, who was waving her arms like an air traffic controller. "My car can't swim!"
"Oh, that," she said eyeing the back of my car and calling another Orange Vest over. "Set your parking brake. We'll just throw this net around the back."
"And these blocks under your tires," Orange Vest guy said.
My car seemed to be stable, and I was quickly distracted by the view pulling out of Port Townsend. I went up to the upper deck, wondering how I could have seen this before-the midnight blue water and mountains, historic buildings, cliffs and sailboats- and never really have seen it.
I drove off the ferry onto Whidbey Island to visit my Aunt Julieann and Uncle Pete in Oak Harbor. I drove on Highway 20, through farmlands along the water and past hidden trailer park cultures that fixate in my writing. Everything seems bigger and older to me. The evergreens and hills, the antique stores and farmhouses. Or maybe it's possible that this is now visible since I've lived in places like Brooklyn, San Francisco, Colorado...where these things exist only in fiction, and aren't nearly as beautiful.
At the ferry dock, I was scolded by the Sheriff for having almost-expired tabs. Not knowing if the DMV had sent the tabs to San Francisco, Iowa or Washington, I shrugged and offered him half my sandwich. He smiled and offered me a warning.
I was the last car the orange-vested ferry workers shoved on the boat. Blonde in a California convertible-they hated me already, rolling their eyes as I struggled to fit into the half millimeter space they were directing me. I squeezed between a RV called "Expedition" with every cheesy retirement bumper sticker you can imagine, and a minivan with a license plate that said "gotrealestate?" and either a trampoline of midgets, or an eight year old birthday party going on inside.
The ferry started to pull away, with half my car's ass hanging on to the dock. I yanked on the parking brake, and pushed over a hippie biker accidentally with my car door. "Hey!" I yelled at the Orange Vest ferry lady, who was waving her arms like an air traffic controller. "My car can't swim!"
"Oh, that," she said eyeing the back of my car and calling another Orange Vest over. "Set your parking brake. We'll just throw this net around the back."
"And these blocks under your tires," Orange Vest guy said.
My car seemed to be stable, and I was quickly distracted by the view pulling out of Port Townsend. I went up to the upper deck, wondering how I could have seen this before-the midnight blue water and mountains, historic buildings, cliffs and sailboats- and never really have seen it.
I drove off the ferry onto Whidbey Island to visit my Aunt Julieann and Uncle Pete in Oak Harbor. I drove on Highway 20, through farmlands along the water and past hidden trailer park cultures that fixate in my writing. Everything seems bigger and older to me. The evergreens and hills, the antique stores and farmhouses. Or maybe it's possible that this is now visible since I've lived in places like Brooklyn, San Francisco, Colorado...where these things exist only in fiction, and aren't nearly as beautiful.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Flashback: Port Townsend, Washington
I was eight the first time I saw Port Townsend, Washington. My Dad had an old Dodge van that could sit all four of us in the front. It wasn't a looker, and took some McGyvering to get to run. Its demise, little did we know, was shocking and ironic. It started fire while we were visiting a family grave. That's right-she died in a cemetery.
One of the first places we went in that baby blue eyesore was the Ferry to Port Townsend, Washington. It was a tiny town, with weird little shops that sold dusty things and postcards. A few years later, our middle school band showed up for a parade. I was dressed in blue and white, marching like I was practicing for a career and wailing out sour notes from my clarinet with a broken reed. I have pictures from the ferry with Michelle, Jolyne, and my hairsprayed bangs. There was barely enough room in the picture for my bangs and anyone else.
When I was sixteen, I had a Ford Escort that I named Gutless Wonder. I was a dishwasher at a Chinese Restaurant for $3.65 an hour. I was doing poorly (okay, flunking) algebra, geometry, Spanish...and was put in classes with stoners and other delinquents. These classes had names like "Plants and People." We hung out in a greenhouse and grew...plants. The stoners seemed to have a green thumb.
I had one Creative Writing class, and I wrote poetry and short stories. One day the principal came looking for me. I avoided him for days. When he finally tracked me down, he said I won first place in state for poetry-a poem I turned in last minute, untyped, on a crumbled up piece of notebook paper. I didn't sign it, but he recognized my handwriting. He asked if I would read it in two assemblies. I said I would think about it. He said if I read it I would get the prize money. Considering the prize money was a weeks worth of scraping Chow Mein off family style dishes, I asked him which day. I didn't want to skip.
That gig led to graduation, homecoming, and prom poems and became the school poet. I cringe to think what these poems said, but they all seemed very important at the time. My creative writing teacher (Carl Steiner) told me I was chosen to attend Centrum's Creativity Camp in Port Townsend for high school students. It was official. I was green-lighted to skip an entire week of real school to hang out with real poets on the beach.
I drove my Gutless Wonder to Fort Worden State Park in Port Townsend. My car was choking a bit and drooling oil all over the road, but running, and it made it to the massive, woodsy, white-housed park. I was mentored by some great writers and met other creative weirdos like myself. That was a turning point. That's when I decided to give up horticulture and dishwashing and go to college.
So here I am, in Port Townsend again. Sixteen years later in the same place I was when I was sixteen. I rolled up in my newish convertible that purred with my cowboy hat and Chanels. "You look like a romance writer!" an overly-enthusiastic man with an Oregon baseball cap said.
"Thank you, I think," I said. He backpedalled a bit, but I wasn't really paying attention. It was too surreal being there, at my old camp on the beach. Where I discovered Throwing Muses (favorite song, "Not Too Soon"), didn't inhale, had minor crushes on boys and major wardrobe issues involving stonewash. It's where I lost my reputation and found my voice.
It's changed. Classical music plays in the bathrooms, they have a fancy cafe in a renovated Commons area. Even though they have a School of Rock here, I have yet to see a minor smoking out a room window, or pierced-up kids wearing all black getting all their hate out their scribbled up journals. I found my old cabin and am going to see if our graffiti is still there, and the poems we tucked in the walls, above my bunk bed.
I did see a girl that looked familiar to me, and I to her. She came here when she was 16, too. Her time here also encouraged her to go into a writing career and pursue creative writing.
"I'm sure we knew each other, I just don't recognize you," I told her. I clutched my handbag and I squinted through my Chanels.
She stood, shirt tucked in with hair that looked expensive. "I looked like a different person then," she said.
Maybe, I thought, this woman and I were unrecognizable because we looked different. But mostly, I realized, we were unrecognizable because, we were the lucky ones who were shown a different path and now, gratefully, we were.
One of the first places we went in that baby blue eyesore was the Ferry to Port Townsend, Washington. It was a tiny town, with weird little shops that sold dusty things and postcards. A few years later, our middle school band showed up for a parade. I was dressed in blue and white, marching like I was practicing for a career and wailing out sour notes from my clarinet with a broken reed. I have pictures from the ferry with Michelle, Jolyne, and my hairsprayed bangs. There was barely enough room in the picture for my bangs and anyone else.
When I was sixteen, I had a Ford Escort that I named Gutless Wonder. I was a dishwasher at a Chinese Restaurant for $3.65 an hour. I was doing poorly (okay, flunking) algebra, geometry, Spanish...and was put in classes with stoners and other delinquents. These classes had names like "Plants and People." We hung out in a greenhouse and grew...plants. The stoners seemed to have a green thumb.
I had one Creative Writing class, and I wrote poetry and short stories. One day the principal came looking for me. I avoided him for days. When he finally tracked me down, he said I won first place in state for poetry-a poem I turned in last minute, untyped, on a crumbled up piece of notebook paper. I didn't sign it, but he recognized my handwriting. He asked if I would read it in two assemblies. I said I would think about it. He said if I read it I would get the prize money. Considering the prize money was a weeks worth of scraping Chow Mein off family style dishes, I asked him which day. I didn't want to skip.
That gig led to graduation, homecoming, and prom poems and became the school poet. I cringe to think what these poems said, but they all seemed very important at the time. My creative writing teacher (Carl Steiner) told me I was chosen to attend Centrum's Creativity Camp in Port Townsend for high school students. It was official. I was green-lighted to skip an entire week of real school to hang out with real poets on the beach.
I drove my Gutless Wonder to Fort Worden State Park in Port Townsend. My car was choking a bit and drooling oil all over the road, but running, and it made it to the massive, woodsy, white-housed park. I was mentored by some great writers and met other creative weirdos like myself. That was a turning point. That's when I decided to give up horticulture and dishwashing and go to college.
So here I am, in Port Townsend again. Sixteen years later in the same place I was when I was sixteen. I rolled up in my newish convertible that purred with my cowboy hat and Chanels. "You look like a romance writer!" an overly-enthusiastic man with an Oregon baseball cap said.
"Thank you, I think," I said. He backpedalled a bit, but I wasn't really paying attention. It was too surreal being there, at my old camp on the beach. Where I discovered Throwing Muses (favorite song, "Not Too Soon"), didn't inhale, had minor crushes on boys and major wardrobe issues involving stonewash. It's where I lost my reputation and found my voice.
It's changed. Classical music plays in the bathrooms, they have a fancy cafe in a renovated Commons area. Even though they have a School of Rock here, I have yet to see a minor smoking out a room window, or pierced-up kids wearing all black getting all their hate out their scribbled up journals. I found my old cabin and am going to see if our graffiti is still there, and the poems we tucked in the walls, above my bunk bed.
I did see a girl that looked familiar to me, and I to her. She came here when she was 16, too. Her time here also encouraged her to go into a writing career and pursue creative writing.
"I'm sure we knew each other, I just don't recognize you," I told her. I clutched my handbag and I squinted through my Chanels.
She stood, shirt tucked in with hair that looked expensive. "I looked like a different person then," she said.
Maybe, I thought, this woman and I were unrecognizable because we looked different. But mostly, I realized, we were unrecognizable because, we were the lucky ones who were shown a different path and now, gratefully, we were.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Creative Writing Cross-Country Tour
I've rocked out in a convertible for over 5,000 miles (with and without a radio). I've gotten the peace sign from helmetless packs of Hells Angels, two farmers on rusted-out tractors, and a little girl hanging out of a minivan. I've seen corn fields, horse trailers full of pooping chickens, and fifteen cent toll booths. I've seen red mountains, blue mountains, green mountains, and mountains made of nothing but dirt. I crossed the Mississippi River to Arcade Fire and got nauteus at the Spam Museum. I tasted Amish cheese while trying to make conversation (not the chattiest folks), and ate tens of fast food salads in towns that were experimenting with their health nut side.
I survived the Vegas-like billboards of South Dakota. Some favorites: Dick's Auto "Something like New!", Reptile Museum, Don't do METH (spray painted in a succession of messages along with METH KILLS, Don't let METH hook you (with a spray-painted fishing hook), Corn-ceptual Art, fifty or so WALL DRUG signs (yes I stopped in Wall, South Dakota because by then it was like God made my car exit). Another billboard about a Cowboy Orchestra topped my list. I listened to a lot of music, and sang to things I won't admit even exist in my iPod collection. I heard a line in a Dar Williams song (my college roommate and I listened to her in college) "There's something I've finally faced-I finally think I've come from some place." It's from Road Buddy. I don't know what it means to her, but I know what it means to me.
While I've been absent from all of you-my friends and family-my life has changed. In the way you remember a good birthday party, your first car, or the night you got your first kiss. (Which I'm still waiting for in case you're reading, Dad.) I spent focused time with my writing, and completed the first five chapters of my novel. I also fine-tuned my collection of essays, which are also called "It's Just the Anti-Depressant Talking." They include about fifteen essays and short stories about my family, laundry day, the ex-file, fourth of july, and various highlights of my past working history, including road construction, bartending, working as an artist and advertising copywriter. I received encouragement from writers, professors and authors who mentored me through the difficult patches in my work and whose advice taught me great things about my craft.
So now that I have turned up (I write to you from Seattle, Washington) and you haven't seen me on the backside of milk cartons, I want to give you the rich details of the summer that has so radically changed me. I don't know where to start, but I'll let my enthusiasm take the lead.
If I start with my month of creative bliss in Iowa City, I could tell you that I discovered the writing mecca of America. Is it the publishing capitol of the universe like New York City, San Francisco, or Denver (yes, Denver!)...no. Is it brimming with crowded sidewalks, homeless, twenty neighborhoods with their own personality and fifty things to do every night with the hail of a cab...no. I couldn't figure out exactly why I fell so completely in love with Iowa City until I got a phone call from my friend Todd. He was high off a Jay-Z and Beyonce meeting and responded, upon hearing he had reached me in the Midwest, "Isn't there, like, nothing to do out there?" Which is exactly why I'm getting so much done. It's a monastery for writers. There are no distractions. It is beautiful, friendly, embracing of new people.
As most of you know, I was granted a fellowship to hang with Iowa Writer's in Iowa City. I didn't realize, until I arrived, that most students only came for a week or weekend. My grant paid for three full weeks and two weekend courses. I drank this in, certain I was thirsty for this since I attended Centrum in Port Townsend as a sixteen year old. In high school, I was the school poet, and somewhere between the lure of the New York City advertising world and their one-bedroom rents, I went into advertising. Essentially making the greater society feel inadequate by dictating the what they wanted to hear, eat, see, drive, drink, wear, and do. The creative briefs fought my sensibilites, and sometimes to get through I told myself: It's just what I do, not who I am. It's only a job.
But, in advertising, you have no life, so what you do morphs into who you are. Those products talk to you in your sleep, offering you more creative ways to make them the most popular box on the shelf. Although there are a great many things I learned, and love about advertising, I am fortunate to have chosen the artist's path out. Since clearing the mind-space, I have more room and time for what I love: writing and art. Real writing, not junk mail or billboards or TV commercials that ruin the meanings of beautiful songs.
While in Iowa City, I got deep into my characters, and their lives, instead of my own. I was exposed to people who were serious writers, and took me serious in my pursuits. But it wasn't all punching out the pages. I discovered my new favorite flavor of ice cream (Hello Dolly @ Whitey's), that wide open spaces make me somewhat claustrophobic (if something happened, without a metropolis, what would happen?), and probably most fun, my Camp Crush, Adam from Indiana.
Adam and I were inseparable in Iowa City, at our elevenses lectures (lectures @ 11am by authors and professors), lunches, readings, and all of the events. We drove around in my convertible, read our new work (he's works in poetry and creative non-fiction), hung out on big round hay bails in fields-until seemingly drunk farmers with flashlights came running us off.
After completing in Iowa City, I had just over a week between my next writing scholarship, at Centrum Writer's Conference in Port Townsend, Washington. So I visited Indiana and we went to Chicago, taking the L to Wrigley Field to see the Cubs vs. The White Sox, a cross-town rivalry. The convertible got caught in some unexpected rain, which created a frenzied panic for us, and anyone watching.
At the game, I saw serious fans write out scores, beer men yelling and throwing silver cans into the crowd. I watched fans openly shit-talk the other teams and near fist fights errupt. It was like having great seats to a baseball game AND boxing match.
On the way home, we stopped at a Fireworks Warehouse, which was set up like a neighborhood grocery store. Adam and I filled up our basket (yes, basket) with fountian fireworks, ladyfingers, bottle rockets, and the bigger stuff, like Wide Open, and a 12 mortar blast. Some of the fireworks had names like Kentucky Kaboom and Tenessee TNT. A favorite: Big Mutha Trucka. I was too afraid of that one to be curious about what it did. We blasted our bottlerockets (from the convertible) before setting them off in Adam's friend's yard. We blew up miniature model cars, blowing off doors, hoods and the windows out one M-80 at a time, with the precision and seriousness of scientists conducting an experiment that would cure cancer.
After I left my San Francisco heart in Indiana, headed through Illinois, Wisconsin, South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, and finally Washington. My radio went out in Spokane, Washington, exhausted from the radio interceptions from conservative christian preachers, my obsessive songlist on repeat, and no doubt, my awful singing voice. I've also travelled this summer through California, Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska and Iowa.
I can't wait to return to Iowa City. It's my top M.F.A creative writing choice. I have to remind myself: It's statistically more difficult to get accepted into the Iowa Writer's Workshop than Harvard Medical School. A piece of information that only makes me want to work harder for the acceptance letter when it arrives...depending on where I'm living, and if they can find me, that is.
I arrived in Bellingham, Washington yesterday around nine in the morning. I was jetlagged from fast food and time zone changes. I gave my Dad and sister a hug, and headed straight for my old room to crash. I never thought a twin bed with a separated bunk bed frame and flower sheets could be so comfortable.
I start my scholarship in Port Townsend, Washington (off the strait of Juan de Fuca) tomorrow afternoon. I'm visiting my cousins (Rachel and Josh) tonight and staying with Josh's family in Bainbridge Island. Then I'll be boarding the ferry and heading off to my next creative writing adventure. Stay tuned.
I survived the Vegas-like billboards of South Dakota. Some favorites: Dick's Auto "Something like New!", Reptile Museum, Don't do METH (spray painted in a succession of messages along with METH KILLS, Don't let METH hook you (with a spray-painted fishing hook), Corn-ceptual Art, fifty or so WALL DRUG signs (yes I stopped in Wall, South Dakota because by then it was like God made my car exit). Another billboard about a Cowboy Orchestra topped my list. I listened to a lot of music, and sang to things I won't admit even exist in my iPod collection. I heard a line in a Dar Williams song (my college roommate and I listened to her in college) "There's something I've finally faced-I finally think I've come from some place." It's from Road Buddy. I don't know what it means to her, but I know what it means to me.
While I've been absent from all of you-my friends and family-my life has changed. In the way you remember a good birthday party, your first car, or the night you got your first kiss. (Which I'm still waiting for in case you're reading, Dad.) I spent focused time with my writing, and completed the first five chapters of my novel. I also fine-tuned my collection of essays, which are also called "It's Just the Anti-Depressant Talking." They include about fifteen essays and short stories about my family, laundry day, the ex-file, fourth of july, and various highlights of my past working history, including road construction, bartending, working as an artist and advertising copywriter. I received encouragement from writers, professors and authors who mentored me through the difficult patches in my work and whose advice taught me great things about my craft.
So now that I have turned up (I write to you from Seattle, Washington) and you haven't seen me on the backside of milk cartons, I want to give you the rich details of the summer that has so radically changed me. I don't know where to start, but I'll let my enthusiasm take the lead.
If I start with my month of creative bliss in Iowa City, I could tell you that I discovered the writing mecca of America. Is it the publishing capitol of the universe like New York City, San Francisco, or Denver (yes, Denver!)...no. Is it brimming with crowded sidewalks, homeless, twenty neighborhoods with their own personality and fifty things to do every night with the hail of a cab...no. I couldn't figure out exactly why I fell so completely in love with Iowa City until I got a phone call from my friend Todd. He was high off a Jay-Z and Beyonce meeting and responded, upon hearing he had reached me in the Midwest, "Isn't there, like, nothing to do out there?" Which is exactly why I'm getting so much done. It's a monastery for writers. There are no distractions. It is beautiful, friendly, embracing of new people.
As most of you know, I was granted a fellowship to hang with Iowa Writer's in Iowa City. I didn't realize, until I arrived, that most students only came for a week or weekend. My grant paid for three full weeks and two weekend courses. I drank this in, certain I was thirsty for this since I attended Centrum in Port Townsend as a sixteen year old. In high school, I was the school poet, and somewhere between the lure of the New York City advertising world and their one-bedroom rents, I went into advertising. Essentially making the greater society feel inadequate by dictating the what they wanted to hear, eat, see, drive, drink, wear, and do. The creative briefs fought my sensibilites, and sometimes to get through I told myself: It's just what I do, not who I am. It's only a job.
But, in advertising, you have no life, so what you do morphs into who you are. Those products talk to you in your sleep, offering you more creative ways to make them the most popular box on the shelf. Although there are a great many things I learned, and love about advertising, I am fortunate to have chosen the artist's path out. Since clearing the mind-space, I have more room and time for what I love: writing and art. Real writing, not junk mail or billboards or TV commercials that ruin the meanings of beautiful songs.
While in Iowa City, I got deep into my characters, and their lives, instead of my own. I was exposed to people who were serious writers, and took me serious in my pursuits. But it wasn't all punching out the pages. I discovered my new favorite flavor of ice cream (Hello Dolly @ Whitey's), that wide open spaces make me somewhat claustrophobic (if something happened, without a metropolis, what would happen?), and probably most fun, my Camp Crush, Adam from Indiana.
Adam and I were inseparable in Iowa City, at our elevenses lectures (lectures @ 11am by authors and professors), lunches, readings, and all of the events. We drove around in my convertible, read our new work (he's works in poetry and creative non-fiction), hung out on big round hay bails in fields-until seemingly drunk farmers with flashlights came running us off.
After completing in Iowa City, I had just over a week between my next writing scholarship, at Centrum Writer's Conference in Port Townsend, Washington. So I visited Indiana and we went to Chicago, taking the L to Wrigley Field to see the Cubs vs. The White Sox, a cross-town rivalry. The convertible got caught in some unexpected rain, which created a frenzied panic for us, and anyone watching.
At the game, I saw serious fans write out scores, beer men yelling and throwing silver cans into the crowd. I watched fans openly shit-talk the other teams and near fist fights errupt. It was like having great seats to a baseball game AND boxing match.
On the way home, we stopped at a Fireworks Warehouse, which was set up like a neighborhood grocery store. Adam and I filled up our basket (yes, basket) with fountian fireworks, ladyfingers, bottle rockets, and the bigger stuff, like Wide Open, and a 12 mortar blast. Some of the fireworks had names like Kentucky Kaboom and Tenessee TNT. A favorite: Big Mutha Trucka. I was too afraid of that one to be curious about what it did. We blasted our bottlerockets (from the convertible) before setting them off in Adam's friend's yard. We blew up miniature model cars, blowing off doors, hoods and the windows out one M-80 at a time, with the precision and seriousness of scientists conducting an experiment that would cure cancer.
After I left my San Francisco heart in Indiana, headed through Illinois, Wisconsin, South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, and finally Washington. My radio went out in Spokane, Washington, exhausted from the radio interceptions from conservative christian preachers, my obsessive songlist on repeat, and no doubt, my awful singing voice. I've also travelled this summer through California, Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, Nebraska and Iowa.
I can't wait to return to Iowa City. It's my top M.F.A creative writing choice. I have to remind myself: It's statistically more difficult to get accepted into the Iowa Writer's Workshop than Harvard Medical School. A piece of information that only makes me want to work harder for the acceptance letter when it arrives...depending on where I'm living, and if they can find me, that is.
I arrived in Bellingham, Washington yesterday around nine in the morning. I was jetlagged from fast food and time zone changes. I gave my Dad and sister a hug, and headed straight for my old room to crash. I never thought a twin bed with a separated bunk bed frame and flower sheets could be so comfortable.
I start my scholarship in Port Townsend, Washington (off the strait of Juan de Fuca) tomorrow afternoon. I'm visiting my cousins (Rachel and Josh) tonight and staying with Josh's family in Bainbridge Island. Then I'll be boarding the ferry and heading off to my next creative writing adventure. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
If This Had Been An Actual Emergency
Didn't you wonder, growing up, why the "Emergency Broadcasting System" would cut in on Sally Jessy Raphael, or while you were rocking out to a Tiffany song on your FM stereo? I mean, if you did that sort of thing? The obnoxious squelching always made me think someone at the station was sending out morse code for a hostage situation. But in every case, a man's voice would break in, reassuringly, "This has been a test of the Emergency Broadcasting System. If this had been an actual emergency, it would have been followed by instuctions....blah blah blah..." By then I was on to my next ADD kid adventure.
But today, on my second day in Iowa City, I was not equipped for an actual emergency. It all started last night around 3:30am. It started raining hard, and thundering so much it was like a strobe light and discotecque in my bedroom. The popcorn-snapping lightening began to whip around my attic house, and I started to get, well, scared.
My emergency plan: REMI. I called my sister at 1:30am her time. She always answers when I call. I've count on her like a hotline. "Yes?" she answered. We don't bother with the pleasantries of hello. We know to cut to the chase after midnight. "What's the matter?"
"Are you up?" I said.
"Oh yeah," she said. "I was just laying in bed, with my eyes closed, waiting for your call." Did I mention she's a funny one?
The lightening snapped all around. I kept saying, "That! Did you hear that?" She didn't. I had a hard time believing that people in Florida could hear a pin drop in Alaska but my sister couldn't hear ARMAGGEDON outside my window.
Then, after keeping her on the line for about fifteen minutes, she could hear the storm and I got my redemption. "Oh my God! Are people on the streets? What is going on?" But no one was on the street. No lights were on. Everyone was tucked in their homes, and it appeared I was the only one having a freak out. "Maybe you should get in your car and go to the hospital. Everyone's probably at the hospital," my Hospital Administrator sister said. I was not about to become a part of an Iowa City ER episode.
At around 5am we got off the phone and I crashed out, convinced that 6-6-6 had arrived and it was best to sleep through as much of it as possible.
Today, I drove to the grocery store and it was closed "due to unpredictable weather." The cafe was closed down, and everywhere was grey and dark, streets emptied out. I turned off my iPod and turned on the AM radio. "This is like War of the Worlds, Man! I can see the tornado from my house heading east!" said a guy who sounded like he just set down his bong and taken a break from listening to his classic rock cassette tapes to call in. "Now sir, please," the radio host said, "No need to scare the children."
Exactly. Those children don't need any more scaring.
I watched people exit out of businesses and houses, looking up at the sky, pointing. People were on cell phones and loading into cars. Half the sky was greyish black, the other half forming into quick cylinder clouds. "If you are outside, you need to get your Storm Plan in action," the radio host said. "I repeat, the tornado is headed east, 7 miles from Iowa City. Begin your Storm Plan!" Now, I'm a girl who gets my teeth cleaned every six months. I pay my parking tickets on time. I buy warranties to products that already have lifetime guarantees. Who said anything about getting a Storm Plan? Officially paniced and at the mercy of Mother Nature, I called my Father.
Surely my Dad, a Weather Channel Junkie, would know about the tornado. He could tell me the size and location, and its impact. My father watches the Weather Channel like teenagers watch TRL. I rushed to my house, grabbed the cat, and headed into the basement. I listened to the radio, which talked about counties that didn't correspond with cities, confusing me even further.
My Dad stayed on the phone with me for a little while. Just enough for me to keep my mind off the fact that the world was about to end, and I was going to be found in a concrete basement with someone else's dirty laundry. He was on the phone with me for about fifteen minutes. He later told Remi he talked to me for an hour. "Well, fifteen minutes IS an hour in Dad Time," I told her.
A little while later, the radio host cheerfully announced that all was clear and normal programming, Dr. Phil and One Life to Live, would resume. He apologized for everyone who missed their soap opera. I was kind of in shock. That was it. The rain stopped. The sun came out. 6-6-6 had it's moment. If having a dress rehearsal for the end of the world has an up side, you could say, that I now officially have a Storm Plan.
But today, on my second day in Iowa City, I was not equipped for an actual emergency. It all started last night around 3:30am. It started raining hard, and thundering so much it was like a strobe light and discotecque in my bedroom. The popcorn-snapping lightening began to whip around my attic house, and I started to get, well, scared.
My emergency plan: REMI. I called my sister at 1:30am her time. She always answers when I call. I've count on her like a hotline. "Yes?" she answered. We don't bother with the pleasantries of hello. We know to cut to the chase after midnight. "What's the matter?"
"Are you up?" I said.
"Oh yeah," she said. "I was just laying in bed, with my eyes closed, waiting for your call." Did I mention she's a funny one?
The lightening snapped all around. I kept saying, "That! Did you hear that?" She didn't. I had a hard time believing that people in Florida could hear a pin drop in Alaska but my sister couldn't hear ARMAGGEDON outside my window.
Then, after keeping her on the line for about fifteen minutes, she could hear the storm and I got my redemption. "Oh my God! Are people on the streets? What is going on?" But no one was on the street. No lights were on. Everyone was tucked in their homes, and it appeared I was the only one having a freak out. "Maybe you should get in your car and go to the hospital. Everyone's probably at the hospital," my Hospital Administrator sister said. I was not about to become a part of an Iowa City ER episode.
At around 5am we got off the phone and I crashed out, convinced that 6-6-6 had arrived and it was best to sleep through as much of it as possible.
Today, I drove to the grocery store and it was closed "due to unpredictable weather." The cafe was closed down, and everywhere was grey and dark, streets emptied out. I turned off my iPod and turned on the AM radio. "This is like War of the Worlds, Man! I can see the tornado from my house heading east!" said a guy who sounded like he just set down his bong and taken a break from listening to his classic rock cassette tapes to call in. "Now sir, please," the radio host said, "No need to scare the children."
Exactly. Those children don't need any more scaring.
I watched people exit out of businesses and houses, looking up at the sky, pointing. People were on cell phones and loading into cars. Half the sky was greyish black, the other half forming into quick cylinder clouds. "If you are outside, you need to get your Storm Plan in action," the radio host said. "I repeat, the tornado is headed east, 7 miles from Iowa City. Begin your Storm Plan!" Now, I'm a girl who gets my teeth cleaned every six months. I pay my parking tickets on time. I buy warranties to products that already have lifetime guarantees. Who said anything about getting a Storm Plan? Officially paniced and at the mercy of Mother Nature, I called my Father.
Surely my Dad, a Weather Channel Junkie, would know about the tornado. He could tell me the size and location, and its impact. My father watches the Weather Channel like teenagers watch TRL. I rushed to my house, grabbed the cat, and headed into the basement. I listened to the radio, which talked about counties that didn't correspond with cities, confusing me even further.
My Dad stayed on the phone with me for a little while. Just enough for me to keep my mind off the fact that the world was about to end, and I was going to be found in a concrete basement with someone else's dirty laundry. He was on the phone with me for about fifteen minutes. He later told Remi he talked to me for an hour. "Well, fifteen minutes IS an hour in Dad Time," I told her.
A little while later, the radio host cheerfully announced that all was clear and normal programming, Dr. Phil and One Life to Live, would resume. He apologized for everyone who missed their soap opera. I was kind of in shock. That was it. The rain stopped. The sun came out. 6-6-6 had it's moment. If having a dress rehearsal for the end of the world has an up side, you could say, that I now officially have a Storm Plan.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Iowa City Road Trip
I packed up my convertible: one carry-on suitcase, a hair dryer and my laptop. Traveling Europe taught me the virtues of traveling light. I drove through Nevada, testing the cruise control and turbo engine. Somewhere between rocking out to my new iPod playlists and working through new story ideas in my head, I neglected to check the gas gauge.
It hit E, and I thought, No big. I'll just stop at the next exit.
Next exits can be 40-140 miles apart, so that wasn't a solution. Still, I was calm. Until I saw the big black and white sign.
PRISION AREA. HITCH-HIKING PROHIBITED.
I. am. so. dead.
My mind raced and the little orange gas light came on. I imagined myself, out of cell phone range, inside my convertible on the side of the road. The silver-toothed jailbird with cowboy boots would stroll up to the side of my car. Locked doors mean nothing inside of a cloth-roof convertible. Of course, Jailbird would have a box cutter, or a swiss army knife-because that's what he would have used to dig the hole to escape prision. (Think Shawshank Redemption.) And that's what he'd use to McGyver open my cloth convertible top. The rest? Well, the rest would be all over 48 Hours Investigates. Or 20/20. I would become the next Holloway girl except not a highschool grad, and not in Aruba, and not be last seen drunk dancing in a club. Ok, so nothing like that Hollaway girl.
Instead, my car chokes upon a wreck. A big wreck. Involving a U-Haul truck and a big farm trailer. While the two families get out to access the damage, and look at their lives scattered all over the road, two cop cars zoom in front of me, Dukes of Hazard style. A cop with a tan state outfit hiding a bullet-proof vest moves toward my car. "You need to get back on the Intersate and go back two miles," he tells me. Maybe he's the killer, I think in a Steven King kinda way. Maybe it's all a conspiracy.
"I won't make it," I yell out my window, pointing at my dash. He leans inside my car, flashing his light with authority. It creeps me out. Mostly because he has a gun. I suppose cops on dark nights just inherently give off a creepy vibe. Like Ani diFranco phrased in God's Country, "He's gonna put his two cents in cos he's got a gun, but I'm gonna put in three cos history owes me one." That means nothing to a girl out of gas on the side of the road, but it's all I could think of when faced eye-level with that stupid gun.
"Pull over," he instructs, "It's gonna be awhile." I begin to turn the wheel. "Yeah, sorry," I start to ramble,"I'm just one of those retards you read about who doesn't check the gauge. I just got this car, so I guess I wasn't paying attention." He looks at me, disgusted, like he's offended by my use of the offhanded use of the word 'retard.' Like he's got a brother hanging out in a closet at home like the dude in Desperate Housewives. His eyes narrow as though he's calculating a way in his brain to rationalize a legal way to give me a ticket for reckless use of the word retard. I turn on my hazards and smile. "I'm just gonna, you know, obey and all. You go ahead and deal with those accident victims." He isn't listening to me anymore, lucky for me. I roll up the window, call myself stupid, and wait for the aforementioned fictional Jailbird to come and take myself out of my misery.
An hour passes and I'm back on the road. Of course, the officer can't let the moment pass without saying, "I hope you've learned your lesson, young lady!" I sit up and say, "Oh, I have!" Later, I think how moronic that was. He was all of twenty-five years old, and it's not like he followed me to the station and payed for my gas.
Nebraska was like a bad, depressing dream. People smoking in your face. Nothing with any nutritional value to eat-anywhere. Pro Bush-Cheney signs. I couldn't travel through this state fast enough. I packed a small cooler of food from San Francisco (Trader Joes) that was nearly gone. I stopped in a store and asked if they had any fruit. They handed me some fruit rollups. They said, "If you want breakfast, we got donuts." I said, "No thanks, but I guess I'll take a scone." The lady who wears bangs, not because they've just made a comeback, but because that's her "look" says, "What's a scone?"
My iPod reception converter kept getting interupted by preacher broadcasts declaring that the satan was coming to claim the secular world. It was amusing. Another highlight was stopping at a pizza place in Lincoln and overhearing two farmer couples talking about their favorite soap operas. The two men continued the conversation while their wives went to get their soft drinks. "That Victor really put Jack in his place!" Farmer #1 told Farmer #2. "Ain't that the truth. Ya just don't mess with Victor Newman! He's got all the money in town." Farmer #2 said. You have to understand, they are talking about fictional characters, and a fictional "town", Genoa City. I know, because my sister, Remi and I used to watch the Young and the Restless as kids. Being a Y&R fan is something that never leaves you. The show moves so slowly, that although I haven't seen it in about ten years, I can vouch for the fact that Farmer #2 is right: Ya just don't mess with Victor Newman!
I got back on the road and tapped into a whole library of unheard songs on my iPod library. My friend Peter listens to entire albums, whereas I compile playlists. Since I had hours ahead, I randomly selected songs, without looking, and played them. It was so much fun! There's no other way I could ever listen to a string of Courtney Love, followed by Billie Holiday, Lyrics Born, L7, Galvanize, Frank Sinatra and Jeff Buckley. I am the absolute worst singer you can imagine, but my fellow truckers didn't seem to mind. I even got an encore honk every once in awhile.
I arrived in Iowa City late Sunday. I found my new apartment effortlessly. It reminds me of my apartment in Eugene. Although it was 2am, I considered calling my college roommate Amy. But what would I say? The walls are red! We studied from these same books! This kitchen is Barbie-sized! Maybe her husband would answer, and they'd be alarmed and think it was an emergency of some sort. You just can't call your girlfriend at 2am anymore when she's married. I mean, you probably could, but it's kind of not the same.
The best part is there's this really cool cat. That's a big deal to me after living for years in apartments with no pet rules. It's just so great to have this living creature hanging out. I left Louis (the cat) this morning to explore my new little city. I called Remi this morning and tried to describe what it looked like here, how I feel like I'm exactly where I should be.
Taking the chance to come to Iowa City to work on Creative Writing is right. I know it, in my bones. It seems right for me in the way that Italy's language and large jewerly, colorful scarves and leather handbags felt like I had found an entire culture that got me. Maybe I came here to experience what Ani diFranco summed up: "I guess I came out here to see some stuff for myself, I mean, why leave the telling up to everybody else?" It's hard to describe, being here. It's the closest thing to a calling I could imagine.
It hit E, and I thought, No big. I'll just stop at the next exit.
Next exits can be 40-140 miles apart, so that wasn't a solution. Still, I was calm. Until I saw the big black and white sign.
PRISION AREA. HITCH-HIKING PROHIBITED.
I. am. so. dead.
My mind raced and the little orange gas light came on. I imagined myself, out of cell phone range, inside my convertible on the side of the road. The silver-toothed jailbird with cowboy boots would stroll up to the side of my car. Locked doors mean nothing inside of a cloth-roof convertible. Of course, Jailbird would have a box cutter, or a swiss army knife-because that's what he would have used to dig the hole to escape prision. (Think Shawshank Redemption.) And that's what he'd use to McGyver open my cloth convertible top. The rest? Well, the rest would be all over 48 Hours Investigates. Or 20/20. I would become the next Holloway girl except not a highschool grad, and not in Aruba, and not be last seen drunk dancing in a club. Ok, so nothing like that Hollaway girl.
Instead, my car chokes upon a wreck. A big wreck. Involving a U-Haul truck and a big farm trailer. While the two families get out to access the damage, and look at their lives scattered all over the road, two cop cars zoom in front of me, Dukes of Hazard style. A cop with a tan state outfit hiding a bullet-proof vest moves toward my car. "You need to get back on the Intersate and go back two miles," he tells me. Maybe he's the killer, I think in a Steven King kinda way. Maybe it's all a conspiracy.
"I won't make it," I yell out my window, pointing at my dash. He leans inside my car, flashing his light with authority. It creeps me out. Mostly because he has a gun. I suppose cops on dark nights just inherently give off a creepy vibe. Like Ani diFranco phrased in God's Country, "He's gonna put his two cents in cos he's got a gun, but I'm gonna put in three cos history owes me one." That means nothing to a girl out of gas on the side of the road, but it's all I could think of when faced eye-level with that stupid gun.
"Pull over," he instructs, "It's gonna be awhile." I begin to turn the wheel. "Yeah, sorry," I start to ramble,"I'm just one of those retards you read about who doesn't check the gauge. I just got this car, so I guess I wasn't paying attention." He looks at me, disgusted, like he's offended by my use of the offhanded use of the word 'retard.' Like he's got a brother hanging out in a closet at home like the dude in Desperate Housewives. His eyes narrow as though he's calculating a way in his brain to rationalize a legal way to give me a ticket for reckless use of the word retard. I turn on my hazards and smile. "I'm just gonna, you know, obey and all. You go ahead and deal with those accident victims." He isn't listening to me anymore, lucky for me. I roll up the window, call myself stupid, and wait for the aforementioned fictional Jailbird to come and take myself out of my misery.
An hour passes and I'm back on the road. Of course, the officer can't let the moment pass without saying, "I hope you've learned your lesson, young lady!" I sit up and say, "Oh, I have!" Later, I think how moronic that was. He was all of twenty-five years old, and it's not like he followed me to the station and payed for my gas.
Nebraska was like a bad, depressing dream. People smoking in your face. Nothing with any nutritional value to eat-anywhere. Pro Bush-Cheney signs. I couldn't travel through this state fast enough. I packed a small cooler of food from San Francisco (Trader Joes) that was nearly gone. I stopped in a store and asked if they had any fruit. They handed me some fruit rollups. They said, "If you want breakfast, we got donuts." I said, "No thanks, but I guess I'll take a scone." The lady who wears bangs, not because they've just made a comeback, but because that's her "look" says, "What's a scone?"
My iPod reception converter kept getting interupted by preacher broadcasts declaring that the satan was coming to claim the secular world. It was amusing. Another highlight was stopping at a pizza place in Lincoln and overhearing two farmer couples talking about their favorite soap operas. The two men continued the conversation while their wives went to get their soft drinks. "That Victor really put Jack in his place!" Farmer #1 told Farmer #2. "Ain't that the truth. Ya just don't mess with Victor Newman! He's got all the money in town." Farmer #2 said. You have to understand, they are talking about fictional characters, and a fictional "town", Genoa City. I know, because my sister, Remi and I used to watch the Young and the Restless as kids. Being a Y&R fan is something that never leaves you. The show moves so slowly, that although I haven't seen it in about ten years, I can vouch for the fact that Farmer #2 is right: Ya just don't mess with Victor Newman!
I got back on the road and tapped into a whole library of unheard songs on my iPod library. My friend Peter listens to entire albums, whereas I compile playlists. Since I had hours ahead, I randomly selected songs, without looking, and played them. It was so much fun! There's no other way I could ever listen to a string of Courtney Love, followed by Billie Holiday, Lyrics Born, L7, Galvanize, Frank Sinatra and Jeff Buckley. I am the absolute worst singer you can imagine, but my fellow truckers didn't seem to mind. I even got an encore honk every once in awhile.
I arrived in Iowa City late Sunday. I found my new apartment effortlessly. It reminds me of my apartment in Eugene. Although it was 2am, I considered calling my college roommate Amy. But what would I say? The walls are red! We studied from these same books! This kitchen is Barbie-sized! Maybe her husband would answer, and they'd be alarmed and think it was an emergency of some sort. You just can't call your girlfriend at 2am anymore when she's married. I mean, you probably could, but it's kind of not the same.
The best part is there's this really cool cat. That's a big deal to me after living for years in apartments with no pet rules. It's just so great to have this living creature hanging out. I left Louis (the cat) this morning to explore my new little city. I called Remi this morning and tried to describe what it looked like here, how I feel like I'm exactly where I should be.
Taking the chance to come to Iowa City to work on Creative Writing is right. I know it, in my bones. It seems right for me in the way that Italy's language and large jewerly, colorful scarves and leather handbags felt like I had found an entire culture that got me. Maybe I came here to experience what Ani diFranco summed up: "I guess I came out here to see some stuff for myself, I mean, why leave the telling up to everybody else?" It's hard to describe, being here. It's the closest thing to a calling I could imagine.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Awkward Social Buzzkillz
My life has been full of man missed signals. Last week, a guy chatted me up about sucky San Francisco landlords and good Italian leather shoes. I was so enamoured by his Crest-Whitestrips smile and charisma, I failed to catch on that he was sort of gay. Well, all gay, actually.
My big clue? He dropped the "P" bomb: Partner. Or the extra nail in the coffin: Life Partner.
More recently, at my Birthday Bash, Suzanne and I sat next to a more attractive version of an Eddie Vedder lookalike. Seriously, flannel and all. We all had a very animated Seattle Conversation. Good times, good times. Until I notice a very angry woman coming closer. And closer, until she takes the barstool sandwiched between us. She's not so into the Seattle Conversation, and lets Suzanne and I know by dividing us with her back to us. He got in what sounded like some kind of "trouble."
My streak of niave assumption started a couple of months ago while listening to Tim Easton in concert. He opened up for Lucinda Williams at the Luther Vandross Amphetheatre in Santa Rosa. Girls just sort of assume that rockstars are perpetually single. Some girl in the audience yelled, asking if he was single. He skirted the issue in a skillful PR way until he later redeemed himself by singing a song and dedicated it to a girl. It was sweet, sort of sad, and well, not an anonymous song for Old Yeller in the audience.
While hanging out backstage, I met Tim's girlfriend, who was a doll. We drank Absolut Mandarin and Tonics and talked about traveling and art. The sound guy for Lucinda and Neil Young was telling interesting stories about "the ranch." I was glad to see Lucinda and Doug (Pettibone) again, but I remember being especially self-conscious to give him a ride in my "truck." I had rented a car and Enterprise hooked me up with an enormous, gigantric Ford F-250. Since I grew up on a farm and all, I thought I could roll with it. My ego was a little daintier.
Maybe having a dedicated song is one of those things every girl wants and doesn't know she wants until she sees someone else get it. (Like Cabbage Patch Kids in 1984?) This Time Last Year (see post) National Bestselling Author played the guitar and sang to me when I was pretending not to be sick, for what that's worth. But my first song, "inspired" by yours truly, debuted at Hotel Utah by Paris King and his Band. I didn't know what to expect, Paris having never been a love interest, but I was completely thrilled. It was upbeat and happy, without any tones of regret. My heart skipped a half beat of happiness, making all of the social buzzkills of the past week bearable.
***By the way, Tim is playing tonight at Cafe du Nord, $10 at the door, part of a several-city tour. Rock on, Tim!***
My big clue? He dropped the "P" bomb: Partner. Or the extra nail in the coffin: Life Partner.
More recently, at my Birthday Bash, Suzanne and I sat next to a more attractive version of an Eddie Vedder lookalike. Seriously, flannel and all. We all had a very animated Seattle Conversation. Good times, good times. Until I notice a very angry woman coming closer. And closer, until she takes the barstool sandwiched between us. She's not so into the Seattle Conversation, and lets Suzanne and I know by dividing us with her back to us. He got in what sounded like some kind of "trouble."
My streak of niave assumption started a couple of months ago while listening to Tim Easton in concert. He opened up for Lucinda Williams at the Luther Vandross Amphetheatre in Santa Rosa. Girls just sort of assume that rockstars are perpetually single. Some girl in the audience yelled, asking if he was single. He skirted the issue in a skillful PR way until he later redeemed himself by singing a song and dedicated it to a girl. It was sweet, sort of sad, and well, not an anonymous song for Old Yeller in the audience.
While hanging out backstage, I met Tim's girlfriend, who was a doll. We drank Absolut Mandarin and Tonics and talked about traveling and art. The sound guy for Lucinda and Neil Young was telling interesting stories about "the ranch." I was glad to see Lucinda and Doug (Pettibone) again, but I remember being especially self-conscious to give him a ride in my "truck." I had rented a car and Enterprise hooked me up with an enormous, gigantric Ford F-250. Since I grew up on a farm and all, I thought I could roll with it. My ego was a little daintier.
Maybe having a dedicated song is one of those things every girl wants and doesn't know she wants until she sees someone else get it. (Like Cabbage Patch Kids in 1984?) This Time Last Year (see post) National Bestselling Author played the guitar and sang to me when I was pretending not to be sick, for what that's worth. But my first song, "inspired" by yours truly, debuted at Hotel Utah by Paris King and his Band. I didn't know what to expect, Paris having never been a love interest, but I was completely thrilled. It was upbeat and happy, without any tones of regret. My heart skipped a half beat of happiness, making all of the social buzzkills of the past week bearable.
***By the way, Tim is playing tonight at Cafe du Nord, $10 at the door, part of a several-city tour. Rock on, Tim!***
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Party is Monday, May 22
Forgot to mention in the last post, Jaynel's Legends Birthday Bash is
Monday, May 22 starts around 8pm - band goes on a little later, they're still ironing out the details.
See you there!
Monday, May 22 starts around 8pm - band goes on a little later, they're still ironing out the details.
See you there!
Friday, May 19, 2006
Jaynel's Legends Birthday Bash @ Hotel Utah!
WWOD? What Would Oprah Do? It's a question I ask myself when I'm especially introspective.
If it was Oprah's birthday, she'd throw a party- a big party, sparing no expense. So what the hell. Only the highest-class diviest bar for my friends!
So if you're reading this, aren't psycho, an obsessed ex, and live in the greater Bay Area, consider yourself invited to one of the hottest parties of the year, a soiree I'm callling "Jaynel's Legends Birthday Bash." Paris King's band is going to rock the house, you might remember them from my "Vertigo" reveal art party last June, when the cops enjoyed the music so much they joined the party. (It's all in how you interpret the report.)
So just TIVO Oprah's dealio. This is the real thing. And since I'm headed to Iowa City for the creative writing gig, if you're inclined to read a little ditty, or share a favorite San Francisco memory up onstage with friends, then bring it. This is a party we're gonna custom design ourselves.
Details are still getting worked out, but here's the basics:
Hotel Utah
a Creative Celebration featuring Paris King and his Band
500 4th St. /Cross is Bryant
San Francisco, CA
starts at 9ish
$5 at the door
www.thehotelutahsaloon.com
If it was Oprah's birthday, she'd throw a party- a big party, sparing no expense. So what the hell. Only the highest-class diviest bar for my friends!
So if you're reading this, aren't psycho, an obsessed ex, and live in the greater Bay Area, consider yourself invited to one of the hottest parties of the year, a soiree I'm callling "Jaynel's Legends Birthday Bash." Paris King's band is going to rock the house, you might remember them from my "Vertigo" reveal art party last June, when the cops enjoyed the music so much they joined the party. (It's all in how you interpret the report.)
So just TIVO Oprah's dealio. This is the real thing. And since I'm headed to Iowa City for the creative writing gig, if you're inclined to read a little ditty, or share a favorite San Francisco memory up onstage with friends, then bring it. This is a party we're gonna custom design ourselves.
Details are still getting worked out, but here's the basics:
Hotel Utah
a Creative Celebration featuring Paris King and his Band
500 4th St. /Cross is Bryant
San Francisco, CA
starts at 9ish
$5 at the door
www.thehotelutahsaloon.com
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Everything's A Dollar: The Legend of 99cent Gas Prices
I'm thinking differently these days. Like a guy with a car he really cares about. I don't think I've ever owned a car that I love before and I've become protective. This car is beautiful. I'm thinking about stuff like premium gas and Armour-All.
My first car was the hand-me-down family car, a 1973 maroon Monte Carlo, and it was old even then. But I prefer to use the term "classic." The guys in high school loved this car. They wanted to jack it up and trick it out. But when you're sixteen and trying to grow out a bad perm, the last thing you want is to become the school's Classic Car Collector.
My next car was a white Ford Escort with red interior. It was cute, and took something like eight dollars to fill the tank. My sister also had a white Ford Escort with red interior. Our cars were exactly a year apart, just like us. It was like unwrapping a Christmas gift two seconds after Remi did, and realizing we both got pajamas! We were like twins.
Remi and I were discussing gas prices and we were talking like a couple of old ladies. "Do you remember when gas down by Grandpa's house was 99 cents a gallon?" I said. "Well it was 97 cents a gallon when I was a senior. I'd use my lunch money. I can't imagine what kids today are doing." she said.
And there it was. The phrase: Kids today.
"We are the kids today!" I protested. She laughed. And laughed.
I couldn't get her laughter out of my head. It haunted me. Could 31 really be the next phase? I started getting paranoid. As I drove around in my convertible, contemplating how good life is- scholarships around every corner, a new book nearly completed, a new tour deal in the works- I stopped to fill up. I left the pump in my car and let it go- 20,25,30,35,40 dollars...ridiculous. Across the pump, a sixteen year old guy was carefully watching the numbers. He was filling up his Monte Carlo, maroon like my old one, and from the early eighties. He concentrated on the dollars climbing up at lightening speed. His friends laughed at him. "Shut up!" he yelled at them.
His pump hit $5.11. "Damn!" he put the pump back, clutching a five dollar bill. His friends, squirelly and loud, screamed with laughter. He walked toward the little man in the box who sold cigarettes. I wondered how he hadn't paid yet. "Hey," I yelled. "You dropped a quarter."
"Nah, ain't mine, but thanks" he said.
"Take it. Must be yours because it was by your car," I insisted.
It clicked for him and I handed him the quarter. "Hey, thanks," he said, smiling. "That things is a gas-hog."
"I know, I used to have one. Older than yours."
"Older than that?! For real?!"
"Yeah," I said, feeling a little nostaglic. "It was a classic."
My first car was the hand-me-down family car, a 1973 maroon Monte Carlo, and it was old even then. But I prefer to use the term "classic." The guys in high school loved this car. They wanted to jack it up and trick it out. But when you're sixteen and trying to grow out a bad perm, the last thing you want is to become the school's Classic Car Collector.
My next car was a white Ford Escort with red interior. It was cute, and took something like eight dollars to fill the tank. My sister also had a white Ford Escort with red interior. Our cars were exactly a year apart, just like us. It was like unwrapping a Christmas gift two seconds after Remi did, and realizing we both got pajamas! We were like twins.
Remi and I were discussing gas prices and we were talking like a couple of old ladies. "Do you remember when gas down by Grandpa's house was 99 cents a gallon?" I said. "Well it was 97 cents a gallon when I was a senior. I'd use my lunch money. I can't imagine what kids today are doing." she said.
And there it was. The phrase: Kids today.
"We are the kids today!" I protested. She laughed. And laughed.
I couldn't get her laughter out of my head. It haunted me. Could 31 really be the next phase? I started getting paranoid. As I drove around in my convertible, contemplating how good life is- scholarships around every corner, a new book nearly completed, a new tour deal in the works- I stopped to fill up. I left the pump in my car and let it go- 20,25,30,35,40 dollars...ridiculous. Across the pump, a sixteen year old guy was carefully watching the numbers. He was filling up his Monte Carlo, maroon like my old one, and from the early eighties. He concentrated on the dollars climbing up at lightening speed. His friends laughed at him. "Shut up!" he yelled at them.
His pump hit $5.11. "Damn!" he put the pump back, clutching a five dollar bill. His friends, squirelly and loud, screamed with laughter. He walked toward the little man in the box who sold cigarettes. I wondered how he hadn't paid yet. "Hey," I yelled. "You dropped a quarter."
"Nah, ain't mine, but thanks" he said.
"Take it. Must be yours because it was by your car," I insisted.
It clicked for him and I handed him the quarter. "Hey, thanks," he said, smiling. "That things is a gas-hog."
"I know, I used to have one. Older than yours."
"Older than that?! For real?!"
"Yeah," I said, feeling a little nostaglic. "It was a classic."
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Iowa Summer Writing Program
New word on the street.
My summer adventures begin in Iowa City at the famed University of Iowa's Summer Writing Program, where I'm dedicating the entire month of June to creative fiction. And some memoir writing, which these days, thanks to author James Frey, has become creative fiction. A UI Creative Writing MFA student traveling on fellowship to Cuba is subletting her "writer's attic" apartment to me, complete...with...washer and dryer! For transportation, I'll probably be cruising in the convertible -I completely mean for that to sound as cheesy as it does- but there's a possibility I'll just bike around Iowa City. I have no idea what that looks like, but it sounds romantic as hell. I'm already jealous for my life next month.
I wasn't expecting to go to Iowa City, but a pricetag of scholarship doesn't hurt. Iowa City isn't the sort of boyfriend you turn down to the prom. You lose the weight, you make the dress from hand me down rayon if you have to, or pick a daisy from the neighbor's flowerbed, but you get your ass there and you shake it with the best of them. And that's exactly what I intend to do.
Did I mention the apartment has a washer and dryer?
My summer adventures begin in Iowa City at the famed University of Iowa's Summer Writing Program, where I'm dedicating the entire month of June to creative fiction. And some memoir writing, which these days, thanks to author James Frey, has become creative fiction. A UI Creative Writing MFA student traveling on fellowship to Cuba is subletting her "writer's attic" apartment to me, complete...with...washer and dryer! For transportation, I'll probably be cruising in the convertible -I completely mean for that to sound as cheesy as it does- but there's a possibility I'll just bike around Iowa City. I have no idea what that looks like, but it sounds romantic as hell. I'm already jealous for my life next month.
I wasn't expecting to go to Iowa City, but a pricetag of scholarship doesn't hurt. Iowa City isn't the sort of boyfriend you turn down to the prom. You lose the weight, you make the dress from hand me down rayon if you have to, or pick a daisy from the neighbor's flowerbed, but you get your ass there and you shake it with the best of them. And that's exactly what I intend to do.
Did I mention the apartment has a washer and dryer?
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Birthday Convertible!
I'm not one of those people who says, "Don't make a fuss over my birthday" or "PLEASE, no gifts!" You'll never hear me say, "Oh, my birthday was last week, but it's no big deal..." Maybe it's because my birthday falls during springtime and reminds me of fresh-mowed lawns and the end of school, that I believe, second to the Fourth of July, my birthday merits at least three weeks of celebration.
To get a jumpstart, I'm celebrating my 32nd birthday nearly a month early. I just bought a new (to me) convertible. I'm so proud of myself for navigating the frightening waters of dealerships and all things mechanical. In case you ever need help buying a car, I actually consider myself an expert on the research end: Kelley Blue Book, Carfax, Autotrader, CraigsList and even ebay motors. (Yes, they really do sell everything.)
It took weeks, but hen I saw my car, like an adoptive parent, I just knew she was mine. Even though the premium sound, six CD changer was a plus, I really only need one CD to start. I think the Beastie Boys know how to throw a good initiation if anyone can.
To get a jumpstart, I'm celebrating my 32nd birthday nearly a month early. I just bought a new (to me) convertible. I'm so proud of myself for navigating the frightening waters of dealerships and all things mechanical. In case you ever need help buying a car, I actually consider myself an expert on the research end: Kelley Blue Book, Carfax, Autotrader, CraigsList and even ebay motors. (Yes, they really do sell everything.)
It took weeks, but hen I saw my car, like an adoptive parent, I just knew she was mine. Even though the premium sound, six CD changer was a plus, I really only need one CD to start. I think the Beastie Boys know how to throw a good initiation if anyone can.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
My Urban Tribe and Missed Connection
I ruined my month-long run with Veganism this weekend. I had a cheeseburger. I drank alcohol. I had a glass of milk. (In a White Russian-two birds with one stone!) But as they say, it's all fun and games until someone loses an eye. Or in my case, feel like my hands are going numb. Time to jump back on the wheatcrack.
Thursday night didn't turn out to be open mic night at Dalva afterall (sorry for the false advertising). After some friends and I went to Dalva, we were hanging out at Kilowatt, and later, at Mecca. I ran into this really great guy I unsuccessfully did the fadeout with a few months back. More proof that game always comes around to bite you just when you aren't paying attention, thinking you'll pass go and collect two hundred bucks. It was good to see him and he invited me to his party the next night at Medjool. I found myself saying that I'd try to make it. Knowing full well that Fridays are my treatment days. And Friday nights I can't really go out.
Without disclosing all of the details and reindeer games of the weekend, the highlights were: drinking girl drinks with Suzanne at Mecca, laughing about the dot com-ing of age with Jim at Kilowatt, and tipping the bartender at Dalva with other people's money- a very clever technique I've developed. Another highlight was catching up with Kevin after his comedy show (and hearing the joke about me and my fear of the Incredible Hulk). From Swig-a Marina bar in the heart of the Tenderloin-we watched what I can only describe as Homeless American Idol perform in Union Square. We closed down the tourist spot Lefty O'Doul's and found ourselves singing (well, at least humming with no shame) to Queensryte as tourists from Midwestern states rocked out. Awesome.
One of the friends I was hanging out with this weekend sent me an email pointing out that I was someone's Missed Connection on Craigslist...This random admiration was like getting a unexpected valentine in the mail. It said:
blonde girl reading out loud at the Kilowatt - m4w - 29(mission district)
"You were there early in the evening, sitting up by the dartboards, reading something out loud for your friends. And you were very beautiful."
I was reading a magazine submission about Gen X. I was facing a May 1 deadline, and punched it out after about an hour. Deadlines create the best work sometimes.
Sunday, after sleeping in, a friend and I went out to the beach. It was totally stressful. Kids. Screaming. Everyone staking out their piece of land, iPods on full blast in their ears drowning out any serenity of the ocean. It was like wearing a bathing suit at rock concert. So we jetted and drove around. Ah, nothing like a little artificial A/C, new car smell and a bottlenecked scenic route to put one in nature.
Best of all, I later found the car I hope to buy. It's perfect! I don't want to jinx it, so I'll just wait until the paperwork goes through to make the big announcement.
Thursday night didn't turn out to be open mic night at Dalva afterall (sorry for the false advertising). After some friends and I went to Dalva, we were hanging out at Kilowatt, and later, at Mecca. I ran into this really great guy I unsuccessfully did the fadeout with a few months back. More proof that game always comes around to bite you just when you aren't paying attention, thinking you'll pass go and collect two hundred bucks. It was good to see him and he invited me to his party the next night at Medjool. I found myself saying that I'd try to make it. Knowing full well that Fridays are my treatment days. And Friday nights I can't really go out.
Without disclosing all of the details and reindeer games of the weekend, the highlights were: drinking girl drinks with Suzanne at Mecca, laughing about the dot com-ing of age with Jim at Kilowatt, and tipping the bartender at Dalva with other people's money- a very clever technique I've developed. Another highlight was catching up with Kevin after his comedy show (and hearing the joke about me and my fear of the Incredible Hulk). From Swig-a Marina bar in the heart of the Tenderloin-we watched what I can only describe as Homeless American Idol perform in Union Square. We closed down the tourist spot Lefty O'Doul's and found ourselves singing (well, at least humming with no shame) to Queensryte as tourists from Midwestern states rocked out. Awesome.
One of the friends I was hanging out with this weekend sent me an email pointing out that I was someone's Missed Connection on Craigslist...This random admiration was like getting a unexpected valentine in the mail. It said:
blonde girl reading out loud at the Kilowatt - m4w - 29(mission district)
"You were there early in the evening, sitting up by the dartboards, reading something out loud for your friends. And you were very beautiful."
I was reading a magazine submission about Gen X. I was facing a May 1 deadline, and punched it out after about an hour. Deadlines create the best work sometimes.
Sunday, after sleeping in, a friend and I went out to the beach. It was totally stressful. Kids. Screaming. Everyone staking out their piece of land, iPods on full blast in their ears drowning out any serenity of the ocean. It was like wearing a bathing suit at rock concert. So we jetted and drove around. Ah, nothing like a little artificial A/C, new car smell and a bottlenecked scenic route to put one in nature.
Best of all, I later found the car I hope to buy. It's perfect! I don't want to jinx it, so I'll just wait until the paperwork goes through to make the big announcement.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Tonight @ DALVA
Several friends and I are headed to Dalva on 16th and Mission tonight. There's a possibility I'll read from my recent work to The Sun Magazine. Since I'm also of the MTV Generation, it would rock if I could simultaneously read to the Sia video "Breathe Me" of HBO Six Feet Under fame.
Look forward to seeing you there!
Dalva 7 - 9 PM, Free, Open Mike with Feature, 2nd and 4th Thrusdays of the month
3121 16th St., San Francisco, 415 252-7740, Wheelchair Access.
Look forward to seeing you there!
Dalva 7 - 9 PM, Free, Open Mike with Feature, 2nd and 4th Thrusdays of the month
3121 16th St., San Francisco, 415 252-7740, Wheelchair Access.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Boot Camp and Jury Duty
We survived. Sitting in the car with pre-Boot Camp jitters, I had the ignition going for a quick get-away. But when I saw that our "drill sargeant" looked more like Skipper Barbie than Jillian from the Biggest Loser, I lined up.
It was intense. I'm not coordinated, and jumping jacks? Forget it. I've decided running, under force or threat is key to a healthy fitness plan. Afterwards, for a treat, I went for my two shots of Wheatgrass as Erica ran across the street to Starbucks.
In other news, I'm moving out on June 1st of my prime Russian Hill apartment. It's a great place with an even better roommate. If Katy decides to keep the lease and stay until December, you'll get first grabs. I've decided to focus exclusively on my health and creative pursuits this summer. I have several fellowship, scholarship and residency opportunities that have fell into my lap. They will allow me to work side-by-side with published authors and other like-minded creative writers to focus on completing my novel by the end of September. Ambitiously speaking.
I'm completely on fire after a meeting this morning with Julie, who is the artistic vision and business force behind the "Inspiration Stones" you've seen everywhere. We're teaming up to work on a project with UCSF and CPMC medical center. We're pitching the possibility of creating healing artwork to display in all Bay Area labs in the Greater Bay Area. Getting bloodwork is stressful enough, and there's nothing comforting to look at. We've set out to change that.
It's also worth noting that I was a rejected juror yesterday. Fortunately, I sat next to a cool, funny guy who got me and sometimes probably just laughed anyhow. (Flattery will get you everywhere!) Even though I know his name, he somehow sticks in my memory as Juror #12. Which trumps Foreman.
It was intense. I'm not coordinated, and jumping jacks? Forget it. I've decided running, under force or threat is key to a healthy fitness plan. Afterwards, for a treat, I went for my two shots of Wheatgrass as Erica ran across the street to Starbucks.
In other news, I'm moving out on June 1st of my prime Russian Hill apartment. It's a great place with an even better roommate. If Katy decides to keep the lease and stay until December, you'll get first grabs. I've decided to focus exclusively on my health and creative pursuits this summer. I have several fellowship, scholarship and residency opportunities that have fell into my lap. They will allow me to work side-by-side with published authors and other like-minded creative writers to focus on completing my novel by the end of September. Ambitiously speaking.
I'm completely on fire after a meeting this morning with Julie, who is the artistic vision and business force behind the "Inspiration Stones" you've seen everywhere. We're teaming up to work on a project with UCSF and CPMC medical center. We're pitching the possibility of creating healing artwork to display in all Bay Area labs in the Greater Bay Area. Getting bloodwork is stressful enough, and there's nothing comforting to look at. We've set out to change that.
It's also worth noting that I was a rejected juror yesterday. Fortunately, I sat next to a cool, funny guy who got me and sometimes probably just laughed anyhow. (Flattery will get you everywhere!) Even though I know his name, he somehow sticks in my memory as Juror #12. Which trumps Foreman.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
All the Details That Didn't Make It To The Confessional
One of my new favorite girlfiends, Erica and I have been celebrating our last weekend of freedom. Starting tomorrow at 7am, we report at Golden Gate Park for Boot Camp. Boot Camp sounded like a fine idea last month, before I took on raw food, no alcohol and all things...bland.
We started our weekend a day early- Thursday- at Tongue and Groove on Van Ness. The band, Leopold and His Fiction was fantastic and the place was packed. Afterwards, Daniel and Ben, of LAHF and I talked about their last gig at the Fillmore. Erica was two shots and three beers to the wind, and I was chatty and speaking very clearly with college-age spelling bee words- thanks to my bottle of, purified water. Great- and greater that the bouncer bum-rushed the bar, threw a lemon at the solo drunk bartender and bought it for me. Nothing like a sober damsel in distress.
I took a cab five blocks, thanks to a new pair of heels that only accessorize well with clear liquids of the water variety and not vodka. Home, I fell into my bed and crashed before I could take off my favorite bracelet. It left a mark the next morning. On my face.
Friday I had dinner with Dana at Whole Foods. She's on an all meat diet, and I'm on a no meat diet. So we just stare at each other's food and pretend we're perfectly satiated with what we're eating. I ran into my old spin instructor, Mike, and I had all of these thoughts about how he must think I'm a slacker for not showing up for class, or I've gotten fat, or my hair looks...whatev. But I overheard him tell his friend, "that girl is so nice" and that made my day.
Later, I met up with Erica, Peter, Peter's brother Josh and his new girlfriend. Jared was playing solo somewhere between the city and the ocean in the Richmond and we invented ourselves a parking spot for the occasion. Unfortunately, Fridays are my treatment days, and a half hour into his set, I had to go home and sleep. But I had one of Jared's new songs stuck in my head and that made passing out in pain all the easier.
Saturday was wasted getting my hair blonde. It takes three hours with aluminum wrapped around my head. The aluminum doesn't look as bad as the heavy metal sounds in the salon with red walls. It's a hip place in the Lower Haight I hate. I return for Lisa, who mixes a perfect blonde, and knows me in chronological order, according to boyfriend, job, apartment, illness, travel and diet. It's worth pretending I'm hip, to hate the salon, and keep my stylist.
After a shot of wheatgrass, some spirulina and new blonde highlights I went to the beach with Erica and her dog, Crackerjack. I call her dog Sweetpea, and she still answers. If I had a dog, I'd name her Happy. That's what I was thinking about while I was talking about one of my exes, walking on the beach, with a backdrop of the beautiful Golden Gate Bridge.
Erica and I met up with my girlfriend Julie and her friend Jessica at Saffron, a fashion show in the Mission. It was a wine and cheese event with lots of clothes sizes 0-4. I ran into the designer from Minnie Wilde, and we talked Veganism. She showed me her new leather handbag and we decided it was so beautiful, it was worth the compromised morals it took her to buy it. We headed over to Ti Couz for salads and sat outside it was such a beautiful night. After seeing Julie and Jessica off on BART, Erica and I went bar-hopping for a bathroom. I had to pee. The line at Delirium was nine women long, and we got kicked out of Hamburger Kelly's for not buying a three dollar bottle of water just to use the pisser. Hello? What do you think got us on a hunt for a bathroom in the first place?
We ended up in the no-line, bitchily-butch-bartended Cama. No line, and about four super hot straight guys. Super hot straight guy told me he belonged to a European boy band ten years ago, and was now moving on. He had a face that looked like he once modeled. For Sears. Underwear section. But that now he could just as easily model for the picture that goes next to the houses he'll be selling once he gets his real estate license.
Fortunately, he moved on, to Veneer-Tooth Tanorexic lady and that just left the other Super hot straight guy, who bought Erica and I a drink. That's right, I had a martinilicious drink called Pillow Talk. If I'm gonna fall off the wagon, I want to land on a drink that has a pillow and some talk involved. We met a comedian doorman who claimed to have written 80% of the 90's hit Swingers, and was a skate rat with Jason Lee, back in the day. He also had an orange scarf, which he said he knitted himself. Uh, hey guy, some hobbies are best kept to yourself.
The weekend ended with some shopping, writing and making some soup involving asparagus which eventually was best served to the compost pile. So the next time you need soil for your garden, stop on by.
Maybe I should take on knitting scarves. For Boot Camp survivors.
We started our weekend a day early- Thursday- at Tongue and Groove on Van Ness. The band, Leopold and His Fiction was fantastic and the place was packed. Afterwards, Daniel and Ben, of LAHF and I talked about their last gig at the Fillmore. Erica was two shots and three beers to the wind, and I was chatty and speaking very clearly with college-age spelling bee words- thanks to my bottle of, purified water. Great- and greater that the bouncer bum-rushed the bar, threw a lemon at the solo drunk bartender and bought it for me. Nothing like a sober damsel in distress.
I took a cab five blocks, thanks to a new pair of heels that only accessorize well with clear liquids of the water variety and not vodka. Home, I fell into my bed and crashed before I could take off my favorite bracelet. It left a mark the next morning. On my face.
Friday I had dinner with Dana at Whole Foods. She's on an all meat diet, and I'm on a no meat diet. So we just stare at each other's food and pretend we're perfectly satiated with what we're eating. I ran into my old spin instructor, Mike, and I had all of these thoughts about how he must think I'm a slacker for not showing up for class, or I've gotten fat, or my hair looks...whatev. But I overheard him tell his friend, "that girl is so nice" and that made my day.
Later, I met up with Erica, Peter, Peter's brother Josh and his new girlfriend. Jared was playing solo somewhere between the city and the ocean in the Richmond and we invented ourselves a parking spot for the occasion. Unfortunately, Fridays are my treatment days, and a half hour into his set, I had to go home and sleep. But I had one of Jared's new songs stuck in my head and that made passing out in pain all the easier.
Saturday was wasted getting my hair blonde. It takes three hours with aluminum wrapped around my head. The aluminum doesn't look as bad as the heavy metal sounds in the salon with red walls. It's a hip place in the Lower Haight I hate. I return for Lisa, who mixes a perfect blonde, and knows me in chronological order, according to boyfriend, job, apartment, illness, travel and diet. It's worth pretending I'm hip, to hate the salon, and keep my stylist.
After a shot of wheatgrass, some spirulina and new blonde highlights I went to the beach with Erica and her dog, Crackerjack. I call her dog Sweetpea, and she still answers. If I had a dog, I'd name her Happy. That's what I was thinking about while I was talking about one of my exes, walking on the beach, with a backdrop of the beautiful Golden Gate Bridge.
Erica and I met up with my girlfriend Julie and her friend Jessica at Saffron, a fashion show in the Mission. It was a wine and cheese event with lots of clothes sizes 0-4. I ran into the designer from Minnie Wilde, and we talked Veganism. She showed me her new leather handbag and we decided it was so beautiful, it was worth the compromised morals it took her to buy it. We headed over to Ti Couz for salads and sat outside it was such a beautiful night. After seeing Julie and Jessica off on BART, Erica and I went bar-hopping for a bathroom. I had to pee. The line at Delirium was nine women long, and we got kicked out of Hamburger Kelly's for not buying a three dollar bottle of water just to use the pisser. Hello? What do you think got us on a hunt for a bathroom in the first place?
We ended up in the no-line, bitchily-butch-bartended Cama. No line, and about four super hot straight guys. Super hot straight guy told me he belonged to a European boy band ten years ago, and was now moving on. He had a face that looked like he once modeled. For Sears. Underwear section. But that now he could just as easily model for the picture that goes next to the houses he'll be selling once he gets his real estate license.
Fortunately, he moved on, to Veneer-Tooth Tanorexic lady and that just left the other Super hot straight guy, who bought Erica and I a drink. That's right, I had a martinilicious drink called Pillow Talk. If I'm gonna fall off the wagon, I want to land on a drink that has a pillow and some talk involved. We met a comedian doorman who claimed to have written 80% of the 90's hit Swingers, and was a skate rat with Jason Lee, back in the day. He also had an orange scarf, which he said he knitted himself. Uh, hey guy, some hobbies are best kept to yourself.
The weekend ended with some shopping, writing and making some soup involving asparagus which eventually was best served to the compost pile. So the next time you need soil for your garden, stop on by.
Maybe I should take on knitting scarves. For Boot Camp survivors.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
In other Zip Codes
My rockstar girlfriend Samantha (of One Way Bliss) turned me on to Leopold and His Fiction, and I just got word they're playing a "little" gig at Tongue and Groove on Van Ness and Union- tonight, Thursday. Come out. And play nice with the Marina spillovers. They think they're slumming it. Poor dears.
Jared Griffin is playing acoustic rock (think Rhett Miller) Friday at Cafe Bazar on California between 21st and 22nd. He's like a hot musical hybrid of John Mayer and Bob Dylan. That's right, I said Dylan, and you will too if you can airlift yourself away from the TIVO and come out. Show starts at 7pm, so you can get dinner after or whatever... I'm just the event planner, not the cruise director.
If all else fails. There's always beer. The other food group.
Jared Griffin is playing acoustic rock (think Rhett Miller) Friday at Cafe Bazar on California between 21st and 22nd. He's like a hot musical hybrid of John Mayer and Bob Dylan. That's right, I said Dylan, and you will too if you can airlift yourself away from the TIVO and come out. Show starts at 7pm, so you can get dinner after or whatever... I'm just the event planner, not the cruise director.
If all else fails. There's always beer. The other food group.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Easter Minus the Ham
I'm back in San Francisco. It's raining and I'm sunburned. San Diego's parting gift. That and my walnut-sized stomach, which prevents me from eating anything larger than a pea. Don't get me wrong, I feel great off diet coke, coffee, and all things processed.
But this is gonna take everything I've got. Cause truth be told, I just want a cheeseburger.
But this is gonna take everything I've got. Cause truth be told, I just want a cheeseburger.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
I Jumped the Fence
I've escaped. I'm literally hiding out in the corner of a Starbucks as I type in my weak state. This place is hard core. It's 30% "spa" and 70% "food is all in your head." I thought I'd come here, get some sun, clear my head, try out some new vegetables and maybe my health would improve. Instead, I've signed up for serious detox off of coffee, diet coke, all saccharine, processed foods, white flour, sugar, wheat, red meat, chicken and whatever else sounds, looks, or resembles food.
I never thought my body would have a reaction to coming off all that junk! I'm on Day 5, and I've been sleeping entire days, seriously cranky, and shaky. I dream about cheeseburgers to the point I worry that I've eaten one. I called my Dad after the second day, and he was completely supportive, jokingly saying he'd send me a snickers bar. Strangely as the days go by, food like that just seems like plastic.
It's hard to say now, because I am so horribly homesick, that this is probably good for me. I'm learning more than anyone should ever want to know about their digestive system, raw food, vegetarianism, etc, too weak to go into it, etc. I've calmed down enough to try yoga. Maybe because I'm not hyped up on caffiene.
I will say that I'm sleeping better, and my joints feel like they're working through something. They go through being completely numb and stiff to being totally mobile. I get excited sometimes when I think that raw-fooding may be a cure! And I think I'm closer to running again!
I don't know when I'll get a chance to "take a long walk" and check in again. Send me your good thoughts. It's taking all of my mental strength and willpower to live through this.
I never thought my body would have a reaction to coming off all that junk! I'm on Day 5, and I've been sleeping entire days, seriously cranky, and shaky. I dream about cheeseburgers to the point I worry that I've eaten one. I called my Dad after the second day, and he was completely supportive, jokingly saying he'd send me a snickers bar. Strangely as the days go by, food like that just seems like plastic.
It's hard to say now, because I am so horribly homesick, that this is probably good for me. I'm learning more than anyone should ever want to know about their digestive system, raw food, vegetarianism, etc, too weak to go into it, etc. I've calmed down enough to try yoga. Maybe because I'm not hyped up on caffiene.
I will say that I'm sleeping better, and my joints feel like they're working through something. They go through being completely numb and stiff to being totally mobile. I get excited sometimes when I think that raw-fooding may be a cure! And I think I'm closer to running again!
I don't know when I'll get a chance to "take a long walk" and check in again. Send me your good thoughts. It's taking all of my mental strength and willpower to live through this.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
My Last Diet Coke
This morning, seven friends and I gathered at Cafe Gratitude. (http://www.withthecurrent.com/cafe.html)
With entrees like "I Am Abundant" and "I Am Open-Hearted" I knew that I could really embrace raw fooding. That was, until the little scoops of "cat food" arrived, garnished with sesame chips. With my three week Raw Food Retreat less than 24 hours away, all I could think was, "Is it too late to back out?"
It suddenly hit me all of the things I would be giving up: diet coke, ice cream, reese's pieces, bread. I'm doing this-21 days of total detox from all the foods I love-in hope of greater health. I want to be healthy, without pain and someday able to run as I once did. I never thought that ditching diet coke and growing wheatgrass could offer me that.
The plane leaves at noon and I'm getting cold feet. But, the love and support of each of my friends gives me strength. Thank you Samantha for the juicer. And Dana, thank you for the "natural" valium drops for the plane and organic health magazine. And to Suzanne, Kim and Leland, Renee, Katy and Doug- thanks for braving raw food to cheerlead me into my next adventure!
So I'm packing my yoga pants and drinking my last diet coke. I know nothing rewarding ever came easy. With a leap of faith and the safety net of terrific friends, I know in my heart, "I Am Grateful."
With entrees like "I Am Abundant" and "I Am Open-Hearted" I knew that I could really embrace raw fooding. That was, until the little scoops of "cat food" arrived, garnished with sesame chips. With my three week Raw Food Retreat less than 24 hours away, all I could think was, "Is it too late to back out?"
It suddenly hit me all of the things I would be giving up: diet coke, ice cream, reese's pieces, bread. I'm doing this-21 days of total detox from all the foods I love-in hope of greater health. I want to be healthy, without pain and someday able to run as I once did. I never thought that ditching diet coke and growing wheatgrass could offer me that.
The plane leaves at noon and I'm getting cold feet. But, the love and support of each of my friends gives me strength. Thank you Samantha for the juicer. And Dana, thank you for the "natural" valium drops for the plane and organic health magazine. And to Suzanne, Kim and Leland, Renee, Katy and Doug- thanks for braving raw food to cheerlead me into my next adventure!
So I'm packing my yoga pants and drinking my last diet coke. I know nothing rewarding ever came easy. With a leap of faith and the safety net of terrific friends, I know in my heart, "I Am Grateful."
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