White Hot Mess

An Evening with Sir Paul

2009-09-24T12:36:00.001-07:00

Having recently been blessed with the opportunity to stand in the presence of a living legend, I found myself compelled to write about it and capture the memory! I think the story can best be told from the point of how the tickets came to be in the first place …

Larry mentioned in July that Paul McCartney was coming to Dallas in August on his summer tour, and he was considering getting tickets. He was a fan on Paul’s website, and alerted of the ability to purchase tickets in advance. He knew they would be expensive, but the waning opportunities to see this him seemed to supersede the cost. He was also graduating with his MBA, so the tickets would have been a great present to himself. AND a great chance to see the brand new Cowboys Stadium, before a football game had ever been played there.

As luck would have it, some identity thief had gotten a hold of his debit card and he had his bank cancel the card and reissue a different number. It was during this period of time that the tickets went on sale. He knew that if he wanted a shot at getting them, he would have to use his corporate card, and didn’t want to bother with having to ask for permission, or explain the exorbitant charge before he had a chance to pay it back.

So, he told me that he decided against it, and I was disappointed for him. I have always been a Beatles fan - who hasn’t? But I haven’t made much of a point to follow Sir Paul’s post-fab 4 solo efforts. Larry on the other hand, had. I reasoned with him that if he was truly a fan, he would kick himself for not going for it and reminded him that this may be his last opportunity to see a Beatle. There have been rampant rumors that this would be a leg of Paul’s final tour, after all.

Then one morning in early August, we were at his apartment getting ready to go out to breakfast. I was in the bathroom examining my pores or something when he called, "Hey come over here and check out this letter I got." He handed me an envelope containing two tickets to the show! How cute is that?! It's like something my dad would do. I love surprises, but for one reason or another, it doesn’t happen very often. I was so excited that he actually got the tickets, I didn't even pay enough attention enough to notice that the seats were in the fifth row!!!

We coordinated the day very carefully, making sure to eat dinner nice and early and factor in plenty of time for traffic. On this particular night, in addition to regular the rush hour and concert traffic, there was a Ranger’s game going on right next door at the same time – the makings of a “perfect storm”, and the first time the City of Arlington would have to test out such a double-header scenario.

We left early and traffic wasn't bad at all, and we got there earlier than we expected. The only downfall of the evening was having to wait out in the blazing heat a little longer than we anticipated because their sound checks ran long, and our assigned entrance was on the sunny side. Not the most pleasant of experiences, but completely overlookable in the grand scheme of things.

The new stadium is gargantuan and pretty on the outside, but aside from the slew of slick looking suites and HUGE LCD jumbotron inside, it looked just like any ol' stadium (apparently there are all these swanky little areas the regular public can't access unless they pay more than their ticket price, but it wasn't an issue that night).

After a brief 40-minute set by opening band The Script, the packed stadium was a buzz with anticipation. To help fill the space between bands while the stage crew did their thing, two large digital screens flanking the stage began streaming an elaborate animated collage of Beatles photos, newspaper headlines, videos, cartoons and other graphics.

When Paul and his band finally came out, they simply walked out on stage. There was no cloud of smoke, no fancy mechanisms lowering or raising him onto the stage. They didn’t even kill the house lights. They all just walked out on stage, waved to the audience and began playing.

Drive My Car

Jet

Only Mama Knows

Flaming Pie

Got to Get You Into My Life

Let Me Roll It

Foxy Lady

Highway

The Long and Winding Road

My Love

Blackbird

Here Today

Dance Tonight

Calico Skies

It’s So Easy

Mrs Vanderbilt

Eleanor Rigby

Sing the Changes

Band on the Run

Back in the USSR

I’m Down

Something

I’ve Got a Feeling

Paperback Writer

A Day in the Life

Give Peace a Chance

Let it Be

Live and Let Die

Hey Jude

Lady Madonna

I Saw Her Standing There

Yesterday

Helter Skelter

Get Back

Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band/The End

He played for three hours and we were honestly stunned at his energy, from guitar to mandolin, to piano and back and forth. Two encores, great mix of old Beatles, Wings, and solo Paul. He indulged us with stories of his also legendary friends: John, George (to whom he dedicated a lovely version of Something, that he played on a mandolin George had given him), Jimi Hendrix (as he went into Foxy Lady), and Buddy Holly. Since we're in Texas and Buddy was born in Lubbock, they played a version of It’s so easy, just for us. Dedicating My Love to “all the lovers out there - you know who you are,” as he told us how he wrote the song for Linda. It was one of my more favorite and touching moments of the night.

Before he played Here Today, he indulged us by sharing the heartfelt motivation for having written the song. He told us that he wrote it after John died, because unfortunately when you lose someone, you don’t always get the opportunity to tell them everything you want to.

Right along side it, when he told the story behind one of my favorite songs, Blackbird, and followed up with a moving acoustic version. He said it was the 60s, and he knew what a racially difficult time it was in America. He wrote the song thinking of the potential trials of a young black girl.

When he played Hey Jude, the end of the song elapsed into elongated rounds of “na-na-na-na’s”, where he let the audience sing along in various segments (men, women, balconies, etc.)

The most exciting moment must have been during Live and Let Die. There we were singing along, completely unsuspecting and in the groove of the song, when sudden blasts of fire and pyrotechnics erupted from the stage. Needless to say, we felt like our faces were sunburned from the fitth row!

The main body of the show ended on an energetic note, with a stream of upbeat songs flowing one into the other. It was at the end of the first encore when Paul graced us with Larry’s favorite song, Yesterday, during another quiet acoustic moment. The second encore was fast-paced and closed the show with a bang before we knew what hit us. But we did what we could to completely soak in the entire experience, not wanting to let go of a single moment.

Though it was late, and a work night, when we got home, we laid in bed for more than an hour just recalling impressions from the night. We hadn’t wanted it to end, and were both sad the following day that it was over. You know how it is when you look forward to something so much, and then it’s gone? Luckily, I am documentarian supreme! And I feel so lucky and blessed to have lived the experience. It was A-MAZ-ING! It was once in a lifetime.

A note of thanks

2009-07-12T11:29:00.000-07:00

Goodbye Michael!

Thank you for all your joyous gifts.

It's true, I haven't thought much of you in the last 2 decades, but the flood of music arising with your death transcends me back to my childhood, when I had the biggest crush on you, and always kissed the poster of Thriller I hung on my door.

Be at peace knowing you have left the world more than a lifetime of music for which we have made the soundtrack to our lives, and we'll never forget you!

Mama love the Neiko - ALWAYS!

2009-01-29T19:52:00.000-08:00

Daytime TV plagues my unemployment, even though I realize it's completely within my control not to watch it. And it was Fran Drescher on the Bonnie Hunt Show, of all people and all things, that inspired me in my little anniversary thoughts on Neiko.

They were talking about how painful it is to lose a pet, and how they question their own sanity when it comes time to bring another into their home and lives. Fran wondered why God made it so that our little companions' lives are so much shorter than ours. How can we keep doing this to ourselves, to continually have pets and endure the inevitable same. Over the passing of a dog she adored, she said that she realized she was never going to stop missing and loving him, and maybe that is one of the intended lessons: that there is supposed to be love after love. (Of course this translates to romantic relationships too.) So when it was time for her, she went out and got a little puppy that "said nothing about yesterday and everything about today and tomorrow." That really spoke to me.

Who knew that behind one of the most famously abrasive voices in pop culture is a woman with such a spiritually evolved outlook that she would reach me with her thoughts on this topic? Certainly not me.

Since I can't justify spending the money on body art while I'm out of work, I'm designing a tattoo tribute to my Neiko. I'll get it done when the time is right.

My adventures with Flat Stanley (to be read as through you're about 6)

2008-03-12T19:35:00.000-07:00

When Flat Stanley came to visit me, I was busy packing to move from Seattle, Washington to Dallas, Texas! I was driving in my car the whole way, so I was happy to have him along for the ride!

I brought him along with me on my last day at work in Seattle, when my desk was all cleaned out and I was ready to go! We celebrated with friends and munched on delicious chocolate cupcakes!

Here’s Flat Stanley waving hello and goodbye to the Space Needle from my apartment!

We started out on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, but driving was slow with all the other cars out on the road with us. We only got as far as Portland, Oregon that night, about 3 hours south of Seattle.

But the next day we made good time, and before we knew it we were in …

CALIFORNIA!

We decided it was time to have some fun so we visited the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose. It’s a strange old house with 160 rooms (some were never finished), staircases that went straight up to the ceiling, and 2,000 doors, some of them on the second and third floors lead to the outside! Yikes, watch your step!

In the gift shop, there was a Zelda fortune telling machine, so we got a fortune – “Life is so busy for you. No time for rest. Too much to do.” – and that was very true!
And of course we got our photo taken in the photo booth!

Then it was back in the car and down the beautiful California coast – just like in the movies!

In Arizona, we stopped for a bite to eat on the historic Route 66, which goes through 8 of the United States (Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California).

Then before we knew it we were in Texas!

We stopped to see the tallest cross in the world – it must have been the biggest thing in the tiny town of Groom. Everything really is bigger in Texas!

Driving through the skinny part of Texas (we call it the panhandle) doesn’t take long and right on the other side of the eastern border is Oklahoma!

We stopped to visit with my parents (Haley’s great aunt and uncle) …

… and we went to a ladies’ basketball game at the University of Oklahoma, where my dad teaches science.
Flat Stanley liked the halftime show the best!

On the next day we crossed back into a state we had visited before … Texas!

Since the Texas panhandle sticks up on the west side, we drove through it twice!

Then at long last … .my new HOME in Dallas!

Flat Stanley and my cat Seuss became fast friends!

Before I sent him on his merry way, I showed Flat Stanley Reunion Tower, a building on the Dallas skyline. The globe lights up at night and you can eat at the panoramic restaurant at the top that slowly rotates so you can see the view in every direction while you eat!

Flat Stanley and I saw amazing and beautiful things along our 3,000 mile journey all the way from Washington State: snow-capped mountains, Sequoia trees as tall as the eye could see, the balmy Pacific Ocean along Highway 1 on the California coast, surfers and sea lions, cows and sheep, vistas, mesas, buttes, valleys, bluffs, and desert! We drove over rivers and ponds and washes and streams, the big Colorado River, the Little Colorado River! We drove by a Hidden Valley Ranch - I didn’t know that such a place existed! Oh and we also raced with a train and won! We saw signs to watch for rocks and deer and elk, and ice and something that looked like wild boar! We drove from Seattle through Tacoma, Portland, Salem, Eugene, Medford, Eureka, Ukiah, Monterey, Carmel, Cambria, Bakersfield, Barstow, Needles, Kingman, Flagstaff, Gallup, Amarillo, Norman, Tecumseh, Denton, Lewisville and finally Dallas – just to name a few! Flat Stanley was an excellent traveling companion, and I hope he had as much fun as I did! Thank you Haley for letting me take him on the road!

Mama love the Neiko

2008-01-29T21:40:00.000-08:00

Sweet boy, I can hardly compose myself enough to write anything about you now at this moment on the day I had to let you go, but I will say this: I am a mess and miss you terribly already! I want some kind of assurance that you are warm and happy and joyful, and that I made the right decision. But for now I just feel extreme sorrow and acute pain and a HUGE void that not Seuss or anyone else could possibly fill. Ever.
I do have the most wonderful friends. They let me talk and cry and they cried with me. They know better than to think I could even try to contain myself and I love them for that.
I feel numb. In the middle of this move. I have to keep going, whether I want to or not. Whether I think I'm strong enough or not. And now I have to do it without you. I'm just devastated and my only solace could arise from knowing that you aren't suffering. You have been the most amazing companion to me, during a third of my life. You were with me four times as long as any guy, and through friendships I broke off long ago. I think even though it all happened pretty fast, that you had suffered enough.I just love you to the very end, and imagine that you are free.

Coming soon to a torso near me ...

2008-01-21T18:05:00.000-08:00

Well, coming soon to my torso!

... which will have to do until I can get my hands on this:

They appear to be in high demand at the moment for some reason. (I am of course being sarcastic. Brett Favre rocks and is awesome.)

Douglas does Dallas (and mom and I tag along)

2008-01-20T18:20:00.000-08:00

Best Christmas Ever!

2008-01-14T21:02:00.000-08:00

Who had the very best Christmas a person could ask for?

And met mom and dad at an adorably adorned airport to find freshly fallen snow on the ground?

And had lunch at our family’s traditional east coast diner chain, with the greatest desserts we’ve been gobbling up for as long as I can remember?

And drove from one quiet little New England town to another, amidst the rolling hills, snow drifts and chapels with tall steeples and wreaths on the double doors?

And had a cozy Christmas Eve with dad’s side of the family, while the lot of us were packed into grandma’s house, ate a decadent meal and indulged in Christmas treats and rounds of gifts? (… reveling at how everyone had grown?)

And walked around the corner from grandma’s house, the same one where she raised all of her 5 children, to Christmas Eve mass at the very same tiny chapel where mom had once sat as a small child while her grandmother had calmed her during mass by playing with her fingers as she stared up at the mural on the ceiling?

And peacefully slept later that night on the couch to the gurgling sounds of dad and grandma just feet away?

And drove to have dinner with mom’s side of the family for much of the same on Christmas day?

And was tickled and touched by the sound of my cousin’s little girl when she called me Cioci Karen?
And spent quality time catching up with another cousin, god sister and best friend?

And had great and sometimes silly midnight talks just about every night?

And spent the day with her great aunt as we poured over boxes and boxes of family photos and gathered family history?

And spent the day decompressing with at my cousin’s house playing games with her kids, and snuggling under a marshmallow comforter on the couch in the afternoon watching videos of the sweetest kindergarten Christmas pageant?

And even as a bonus got to spend an evening in my cousin's "man cave" playing Wii for the first time!

And had a spontaneous late night of bonding with my aunt, uncle and cousin as my aunt recalled tearfully at times incidents of her youth while cousin and I captivity listened until 3 a.m.

And spent another quiet day at her grandma’s house as we branched out the fraternal family tree?

And laughed a lot?

And cried some too?

But mostly just felt rich and extremely grateful?

Well, it’s no surprise. That would be me that’s who. And my greatest gifts were not the kind that are paid for or piled up, but only seen as smiles or heard as laughter and conversation. It could never have been scripted, just desired from the depths of my heart.

I had the perfect Christmas! I could only wish the same litany of joy to anyone who should happen to read this.

Conversation with Tom

2007-10-14T20:12:00.000-07:00

I love it when these things happen. I was out at lunch with 3 girlfriend/co-workers at the Dahlia Lounge. If you're from here, you know that it's one of the Tom Douglas joints, which we tend to favor for special occasions. On this particular instance, we were honoring Cass, the newest member of our group, who had also just had a birthday!

So there we are eating and chatting, enjoying every little bit, when Ali spotted Tom walking around by the kitchen. My immediate thought was how cool it was that: he's that kind of boss, who makes casual appearances and doesn't shy away from the lunch or dinner rush times. He is, after all, a local celebrity.

As it turns out, Cass has a background in cooking for a 4-star hotel. So, I was proud of her for not missing the opportunity to approach him as a fan. She later said that normally she wouldn't have the gumption, but since it was her birthday, she made the exception. He told her he would swing by our table in a bit, which he did with one of his cookbooks and a marker in hand. He was very down-to-earth, approachable and engaging. Rachel admirably mentioned that she has thought of opening a restaurant. "Why don't you?" he challenged, to which she replied "fear". He proceeded to lend some valuable insight as to legitimate concerns for those serious about it, but said that the reason should not be out of fear alone.

But I love that he called her on it, and gave some thought-provoking advice. He could have just said, "Really? That’s great. Well, good luck with that". He shared some stories, gave us background on the names of his restaurants, and mentioned that he was looking for a place to open a French restaurant. I’m sure we’ll all be there to check it out when he does!

As though I wasn’t already a fan of his food, I actually liked the guy in person. He turned our special occasion lunch into an experience, and I appreciated that for Cass. She made the whole thing happen in the first place!

Just go see it!

2007-08-26T22:04:00.001-07:00

There are no words to express how amazing this show is, so I can just say this:

IT'S BRILLIANT!
IT'S SPOT ON!
And forget laugh-out-loud funny...
IT'S INCESSENTLY SIDE-SPLITTINGLY UPROARIOUSLY HILARIOUS!
JUST GO SEE IT!

Seriously, Seattle was blessed enough to host the world premiere and we loved it. When it comes to your town, just go see it. If it doesn't, then you're just going to have to do yourself a favor and make the trip to Broadway. It's more than worth it!

Tripping Daisy - I am an Elastic Firecracker

2007-08-19T13:37:00.000-07:00

Damn, this album! We were all huge Daisy fans in school, and this album is by far my favorite regardless of what iteration of the band was producing the music (they morphed into the now Polyphonic Spree). They were so much fun to see live! They played all over Texas, even in our little college town, to the friendliest mosh pits you ever did see! When I think of seeing them live, I think of their earlier album, Bill. If you could pair joyfulness and laughter and smiling with rockin' out and turn it into a tangible thing, that thing is Tripping Daisy, and more specifically, the album Bill.

Firecracker reminds me most of the early summer '96. School had just let out and my three girlfriends and I turned to the open road for freedom. We were dying to get away from work and the boys and be one with nature for a while. We drove all the way to essentially 12 miles outside of Roswell, New Mexico and camped at the extraordinarily remote Bottomless Lakes State Park. I hope this park is still around and that it's remained as unspoiled as it was back then, because I would love to go back someday.

We had picnics at our campsite with the soundtrack playing out on my ubiquitous portable CD player, watched some of the most gorgeous sunsets, collectively feared the veritable wind storms in our tent at night, toured Carlsbad Caverns, bonded with bats, swam in waterfalls, and laughed until our sides hurt. We basically had the time of our lives being out there with each other, and away from our grueling realities. Track 9: Step Behind is the song that triggered all this today.

GO ME! I FINALLY DID IT!

2007-08-15T21:04:00.000-07:00

On August 14, it was exactly one year ago that I quit smoking! I smoked for roughly 15 years. Of course I tried to quit many times before now, so many times in fact that I lost count ages ago. My most successful previous attempt lasted about 10 months. It's incredible how easy it is to justify going back to it. I finally realized that there are always going to be life crises, it is always going to be something, but it would just have to happen while I abused some other vice.

I can't remember a time I wasn't attracted to it. I remember living in Germany when I was 14. Smoking is utterly ubiquitous in Europe, and after a while it started to seep into my youthful impressionability. I will never forget this particular occasion where we were staying at a quaint little hotel somewhere. Being the not-so-morning person I was, my parents were ready for breakfast before me, so I was to go downstairs to join them when I was ready. I left the room and walked to the elevator where there was a cigarette innocuously sitting lit in a standing metal smoking urn. Its owner appeared to have taken one drag and left it in the ashtray to catch the elevator. No one else was around, and the air surounding the cigarette was so still that the trail of smoke it let off rose in a steady stream above it as it burned. I must have stared at it for the longest time, contemplating whether or not to take a drag. It was extremely tempting, but ultimately I didn't do it.

I wasn't as strong the next time. When I was 15, I had a friend who would smoke out of her bedroom window at home. When I spent the night with her once, I tried it too. We'd stand in front of the mirror with our Capris watching ourselves take drags. I didn't know what the hell I was doing at that point, I wasn't inhaling, and we were smoking Capris for God's sake! But it's just the idea what I was beginning to fall victim to its intrigue.

But the other side of my fascination was repulsion. I would always join the crusade against all bodily toxins during the drug awareness weeks every year in elementary school. And by the time Becky and I were friends in high school, even though it was years after I had first tried a cigarette, I was still disgusted when I found out she smoked. Eventually though, I was dabbling with it more and more.

I didn't enhale for a while. I don't think I realized I wasn't doing it right. I used to take a drag and shoot it straight through my nose like a dragon and everyone would crack up and ask me how I did it, not realizing themselves that I wasn't inhaling. But by the time Bec and I were roommates our freshman year in college, I was a full-blown smoker.

Over the years, I probably entertained all (reasonable, non-surgical) quit-assist methods available. In the end, I managed to go cold turkey. The difference this time was that I didn’t plan it out and self-sabotage as I had in the past. I didn’t choose a day to quit and smoke like a fiend every second up to that point. There was less thinking about it. I was just doing it.

On a run-of-the-mill Monday night, I smoked my last cigarette. Where normally this would incite anxiety and panic, this time as never before, I had the simple, somewhat zenny thought, “Well, maybe I just don’t buy another pack tomorrow,” and that was that.

Because it’s so easy to fall back off the wagon, even after you think you’re in the clear, I wouldn’t congratulate myself. I kept track of my progress quietly, especially until I had surpassed the previously notable 10 month mark. But it wasn’t until I made it through the whole year that I felt I had finally won and could now pat myself on the back. And in the end, there was much more rejoicing than there was coughing and that's the whole point after all!

Mom used to say that when we would go out shopping and got separated by our own interests, she could find me by my cough. I remember thinking that I wished she could find me by my laugh. So now, I have a full-blown boisterously obnoxious body-cackle where there used to be hacking.

Matthew Sweet - Girlfriend

2007-08-02T12:23:00.000-07:00

It was after my first year of college, and I was home for the summer, out in the backyard swimming in the pool, lying in the sun. We had the stereo connected to a speaker system so anything we chose to play could be heard thoughout the entire house or just in certain areas. I routinely played whatever I wanted and isolated the sound in the back yard (because of course my parents didn't want to hear it, whatever it was). I find that some music tends to be seasonal, and that has everything to do with how I remember living this album: at home in Denton during the summer, when I was 19, lying in the sun. The track Girlfriend, especially, is my musical equivalent of sunshine. It lifts my spirits to this very day and beyond!

tucks head, shields eyes from world with hand

2007-01-10T12:44:00.000-08:00

Okay, the Pacific Northwest rocks. Seattle in particular. When Beck sang about "Where it's at", I'm pretty sure he was talking about here.

There is little reason I would ever be embarrassed to say I live here. But one occasion would be when we have inclement weather. Don't get me wrong: I know we've had frequent bouts of unusual weather for this area. But it's how we handle it, or don't, that has me rolling my eyes at us along with the rest of whomever.

One weather website even termed this latest storm a "polar invasion". Polar invasion? Are you fucking kidding me? Wait. Can you hear that? It's the sound of everyone back east, in the mid-west and Canada rolling on the floor, kicking their legs up in the air, slapping their knees, laughing their asses off at their melodramatic counterparts on the west coast. And I right along with them. (I admittedly say this with a grain of bitterness as I live and work in Seattle proper, where we never see weather as dramatic as the outlying suburbs. And I walk to work: there are never any snow days for Karen!)

So, when Betsey, Mexi (Erica) and I got together for Ladies' Night, we decided to commemorate the occasion by dedicating a beverage. With the help of Michael at Ruth's Chris, we invented the "Polar Invasion-tini" (because everything sounds better with "tini" after it). Sorry, I can't divulge the recipe, but I can tell you it was delicious! I will give you this much: it involves Godiva liquor. If you've not had Godiva liquor yet in your life, then you missed the day in school where they told you that you should. If you want to try a Polar Invasion-tini, I'm sure we can work out something about for the royalties!

The game we probably shouldn't have won

2007-01-10T12:33:00.000-08:00

I had made an appointment to get my hair foiled long before the contest came up (See "We came. We saw. WE WON!!"). I thought about rescheduling it, but decided to have it all! Of course, I didn't know at the time that I would be in the chair for over four hours!! I was sitting there, trapped in my idle time, listing meticulously all I had to do when I got home, before I headed downtown. Emily and I arranged to meet at the office so we could decide what props to take with. Alta and her hubby were running late, so we were just going to meet them at the game instead of having drinks beforehand.

We got up to the 300 level and were in line for beer during the national anthem. I decided to double-fist it so I wouldn't have to leave my seat again, and we got up to our seats for the kickoff. The seats were in the nose-bleeds, but they were the best seats I've had to a game there. We were right on the 50, didn't have to climb at a right angle and get vertigo to get to them, and could actually read the jersey numbers. Bonus!

To be honest, most of the game was scary, sloppy and disappointing. But that didn't keep us from screaming like people possessed from the get-go, and if anything, encouraged it! Qwest Field is #1 in the NFL for drawing penalties on the opposing offense. We were proud to join the 12th Man in causing two false starts that night. The crowd noise was thunderous!

True to the Seahawks nature, the game came down to the last couple of minutes of the fourth quarter. (Later, someone would remark to me that I was lucky I didn't leave early. But he couldn't have been watching this game – I had no idea what he was talking about. NO ONE left early!) Dallas had the ball at the 2-minute warning and were making their way down the field. Seattle defense was in the process of holding them back from a first down on the 1 when the judges ruled to move the chains. Thank the saints for Holmgren's review and the subsequent overturn! Something similar happened at the Superbowl last year and the call stood, so we were preparing ourselves for the worse. They brought in the field goal unit, and then Romo fumbled the ball! It was unbelievable. He picked up the ball and ran left to no man's-land and we thought for sure we were screwed. There was no one defending that side of the end zone. Then Jordan Babineaux leapt from no where, grabbed Romo's right ankle from behind, kept him from scoring AND from a first down. THEN, on his way down, Romo fumbled and Seattle recovered it. Qwest erupted in a deafening sound none of us will soon forget!

What an opportunity to be able to see this game live! It was hands down the most fun I've ever had at a live football game.

Of course, we know these extremely LUCKY, unpredictable series of events could never happen twice. So, we're going to have to actually be prepared this weekend in Chicago. I'm hoping that the combination of the destiny and luck most people are echoing around the city this week, and the supreme beating we took in Chicago earlier in the season will be enough to bring home the V. So, in the meantime, we're all crossing our fingers, and toes, and hairs, and eyes …

GO HAWKS!!!

We came. We saw. WE WON!!!

2007-01-05T18:10:00.000-08:00

Our firm held a contest today for tickets to the Seahawks Wild Card playoff game versus the Dallas Cowboys tomorrow here at Qwest Field. My friend Emily first alerted me to this opportunity, so we worked together on the effort and vowed that if one of us won, we would take the other.

And so it came to be.

Today was awesome! It turned out that we had an entire design team working for us: one of them designed the 12th man rings and belts, another blade cut the SEA FENCE signage out of foam core, another one yet helped us apply the tattoos when it was crunch time, and ideas were free flowing out the yin-yang! I borrowed my boss' official Seahawks hard hat that was given to him back when our firm designed their training facility years ago. So around mid-day, it went from "yeah, this is fun. It would be really cool to win", to "OH IT'S ON. WE ARE SOOOO WINNING!!" And I'm happy to report that we each won a ticket (along with Alta who won for "best conceptual design"), and will be present and accounted for tomorrow at 5p.m. Whether the Hawks go on in the playoffs or not, Emily and I had the BEST time working with everyone today. It truly was a team effort, and we felt the love from everyone!

Ghosts of Christmas Past: Hawaii '05

2006-12-25T11:39:00.000-08:00

December 25, 2005
Waikiki Beach Honolulu, HI

I didn't sleep well on the cot, mainly because it's difficult to regulate temperature in these rooms. I was tossing and turning all night. So, when mom and dad went for a walk, I just slept in and was happy to do so.

When they came back and I started groaning to life, mom produced "what Santa left outside the door. I mean, he always knows where to find everyone."

She's too funny: a battery operated blinky light stocking with a picture of Santa surfing in a Hawaiian shirt. It was mainly filled with items from her purse and Crabtree & Evelyn toiletries, left daily by housekeeping. But the thought was all there!

Mom and I spent the afternoon at the beach and dad was elusively elsewhere. I had sent and received text messages to all my people and we were trying to reach the family. Mom and I had some good chats under the sun, while I mainly felt that I was battling for her to have the slightest inkling of my perspective.

We moved over to the pool bar for tropical drinks, called dad to join us, and we talked to the fam.

We had time before dinner, to do a little shopping which turned out to be a peaceful and cathartic hour where I walked the grounds listening to reflective music and feeling quiet. I had success with the excursion, having had a good idea of what I was looking for. By the time I got back, it was just about time for dinner. I was still feeling quiet so I went ahead downstairs. We were eating the Christmas buffet in the Rainbow Lanai and requested one of the seats by the water on the perimeter, and we got our wish! It was a lovely meal and evening.

THE Shoes

2006-12-20T14:21:00.000-08:00

I’m hard pressed to find words befitting of Drew's Christmas gift to me, but here is my best attempt.

Stuart Weitzman calls their paten-leather spike-toe pump "Sensual"; the color "Red Quasar". But I think it's back to the drawing board for their namers because that description lies horrifically flat, and falls far short of their captivating quality. They are the physical incarnate of sexy. These are shoes that you would shop separately to find clothes striking enough to match, instead of the other way around. They are, in fact, arrestingly stunning. They should accompany a warning not to look directly at them. Non-suspecting victims may easily fall prey to the many hypnotizing layers of depth in their surface sheen.

It's difficult for me to break away from the pretentious tone of this piece, but it's the only way for me to verbally justify the most amazing pair of shoes I have ever owned.

Inasmuch as the shoes are incredible, I'm easily just as moved by the gesture. He had them for months, having responded to my strong reaction when I first noticed them on a co-worker one day in the fall. Aside from all else, I truly love being surprised! It's rare that someone can pull it off. I can't help it, but I pay attention. Finally I have someone in my life who does, too.

Schlemmy, remember how after you got your fabulous shoes at Furla, we talked about how we should just sit around some night and admire our amazing shoes? Well, it's a date!

Hmmm ... what would I look like as a mutant?

2006-12-14T11:20:00.000-08:00

That's right. I didn't say ideally beautiful and that's what I meant! I wish everyone in the entire world, or at least this country of utterly skewed ideals, could see this clip.

GO DOVE!!!

Trees up. Trees down.

2006-12-12T09:40:00.000-08:00

Christmas trees going back up at Sea-Tac

Do you feel the love this warm and snuggly holiday season? Well, maybe if you're a gentile in the Pacific Northwest, but not so much if you're a Jew.

Rabbi Elazar Bogomilsky went to the Port of Seattle to see that an 8-foot menorah be included with the decorations at SeaTac International airport, and threatened with a suit. I agree that the suit is taking it too far, but I honestly believe the story would have turned out the same if he had merely made an informal request. One 8-foot menorah to the probably countless Christmas trees: I just don't understand the problem. Yes, it does bring up the issue of political correctness, but that’s just the way it is in this day and age. And after all, it is an international airport.

So, instead of granting his wish, they take down all the Christmas decorations. How does this solve a single thing? By trying not to insult anyone, the Port managed to insult everyone.

To add insult to injury, hate mail has been pouring in to Jewish federations across the country. Hate mail. Happy fucking Chanukah. The Rabbi withdraw his suit, and up go the Christmas trees, and just the Christmas trees, again. Apparently, the Port has made plans to speak with the Rabbi on plans for decorations for next year. But in the meantime, the only decorative representation remaining honors the Christians, and Seattle is the laughing stock of the country.

I'm so embarrassed. Actually, I don't know what I am more: embarrassed or mortified. Why didn't you narrow-minded, self-righteous, arrogant idiots just give the man his menorah? After all, giving: isn't that what the season is all about? Great. Way to represent!

Christmas in Seattle

2006-12-01T17:27:00.000-08:00

Because if we're serious about two things here in this town, it's coffee and recycling. So, why not just be efficient and combine the two?!

En-CHAN-ted

2006-11-29T23:18:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, November 28: Cat Power @ the Showbox

I first heard about Cat Power through a co-worker. All we ever talk about is music, and I love that. He has unusual taste and every time without fail, he mentions someone I've never heard of before and I end up a huge fan. I have to interview him routinely: "So, what are you listening to these days?" Pen and paper in hand, I’m ready to research whatever he says. When you turn me on to stuff like Cat Power, you earn a few points in the opinion department!

I love seeing shows at the Showbox. I think it's quite possibly the perfect music venue. I don't mean to compare it to the likes of an opera hall or dramatic theatre, where there is a utilization of visual and acoustical enhancement out of the Box's league. I mean that it's perfect for an intimate performance. Given the circular orientation of the main floor, it's difficult to find a bad spot, and you're never too far from the stage.

I've been quietly but madly anticipating this show since I bought the ticket a couple of months ago. It's been nice to have the lead time to bone up, as I did with The Greatest, lots of YouTube clips and articles. Drew got to see them at the Gypsy Tea Room in Dallas back in September. I haven't been there myself, but it sounds like an equally ideal setting for such an intimate show, and he raved and raved about them.

Since they didn't have an opener, I got there in time for a couple of bevs and to get a good spot by the stage. Right around the time I was getting antsy, members of the The Memphis Rhythm Band started to trickle in and take their places: drums, bass, rhythm guitar, sax, trumpet, cello, piano/organ and two back-up singers, the first of whom was a beautiful, voluptuous black woman who lent her rich velvety voice to the gospel tone. (There are fewer things I love more than the deep rolling vibrato, earth-shattering lows, and elongated, climaxing highs of a gospel woman’s voice. Spinal chills. Every. Time. I can’t tell you how close I’ve come to joining a gospel church just to hear them sing.) They warmed up the audience with a couple of instrumental jams, and made their introductions (which were none too shabby with inclusions like blues great Teenie Hodges).

At this point, I’m thinking, "Man, this is great for her image!" Everyone in the audience was anticipating her arrival, anxious to witness whatever the night would bring, which could be anything! I've heard enough stories about her stage fright and performance inconsistency that my curiosity was peaked. And there was even the allegedly bad night at the Showbox about three years ago, to add to the dramatic element. But the interesting thing I've gathered through the hearsay of other fans is that even if it's an off night for Cat Power, it still beats a lot of other bands on a good night, and if they had it to decide again, they wouldn't change a thing. They would choose the bad show again. That's intriguing to me. It's very telling of character.

And character she had in spades.

Out she crept to The Greatest. I had an inkling they would choose that to open and was thrilled to finally hear it live. It’s a song that I can, and do, listen to over and over and over again. I play it in the car and try to emulate the rich, smoky texture of her voice that is so painfully expressive.

Then came Living Proof, No. 1 & 2 on the album, and my two favorite songs. Living Proof is upbeat where The Greatest (song) is piano-ballad melancholy, and in the transition between the two, she humored us with her adorable chicken-dance shuffle-y move that made everyone cheer.

Where is my love? was so quiet, so beautiful, no one made a sound. With just her and piano, the audience and I hung on her every note like we were waiting for our next breath. She had a way of stretching each note and the distance between to such a point that we were practically breathless with anticipation. Teenie came to the mic at the end of the song; they put their arms around each other and sang. She took out a lighter and held it up to more cheering, delicately blew out the flame, kissed Teenie and they hugged sweetly.

The band left the stage, and she took a seat and played a song on the guitar. Unfortunately, she felt like she had to barf, as she said repeatedly. She said, “If I barf, just look the other way.” She would occasionally throw her head over and hold it in her hands, hair falling before her. The band returned and they played a fraction of a song until she just couldn’t do it anymore.

They vamped for a bit, but it didn’t look like she would return. So, exhausted from the previous night’s activities, I left. I got what I needed. I know that I will be back to see *Chan Marshall, a.k.a. Cat Power, again and again.

From the video clips I’d seen on YouTube, I gathered an idea of her stage presence, but lost no joy from that in seeing it live for the first time. She continually tugged on her jeans and complained how she bought the wrong size. Outside of her deep and searching soulfulness, her actions are bubbly, light, elvin, and refreshingly down to earth. Her exchanges with each band member were soft, loving and utterly reverent. In her music is longing without sadness, joy in darkness, and ease on the ears and heart.

*I’m aware that she pronounces Chan like Shawn, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for word play (in the title)!

Can team spirit really keep you warm?

2006-11-28T13:12:00.000-08:00

Well no, not really. But drinking mulled wine and jumping all over the place like the village idiot helps. So does siphoning body heat from the most adorable sweater-clad Italian greyhound stuffed inside your jacket.

(What started out as way more but ended up as) six brave friends and I bore the random blizzard in Seattle last night to tailgate the impending Snow Bowl 2006. Green Bay was here for Monday Night Football; in a rare twist, it was actually colder here! During the first half of the game, it seemed that Green Bay was right at home with our unusual conditions, but luckily we turned it around for the V.

A couple of us left work and planned to hop on a bus, but once we saw the parking lot that was First Avenue, we decided to hoof it the entire way instead. In the middle of our journey, we started to get pelted with little tiny balls of ice smashing sideways into our faces. But the traveling circus that is Monday Night Football was here, we could feel the electricity in the air, and weren’t going to let a little precipitation deter us. After all, it was still kind of like rain. Just a little … pointier.

Of course, the best option would have been to be at the actual game, but everyone knows how hard it is to get tickets when your team is doing well. Naturally, there were scalpers too, but I wasn’t quite willing to part with my first born. So, a desirable alternative might have also been to go somewhere cozy and watch the game! We opted out the cozy in favor of grasping at a piece of the action, had at least intended to watch, but as it turned out, didn’t have an adapter for the TV we brought along. So, we ended up all crowded around the cracked driver’s side window of my friend’s Explorer trying to follow the play calls. It might have also helped if the commentators didn’t suck.

In the end, team spirit only kept us warm enough to make it to half time, which conveniently for us was around the time the Seahawks started to kick some ass. A couple went to a bar near the stadium. A couple went home to their HD, and I too was able to watch the more enjoyable half in the comforts of home.

So, the next time you find yourself rooting for the home team during a snowstorm, you may want to consider this recipe for mulled wine:

1 bottle Gallo Hearty Burgundy Wine (the big size, aka: magnum. Ask for it by name!)
1/2 cup Christian Brothers brandy
1/4 cup sugar, or to taste
2 tbsp Market Spice mulling spices

Simmer, don't boil, for about 15 minutes. Can be made in a blizzard on the side burner of a propane grill in the alley behind a Starbucks if necessary.

I love this game!

2006-10-31T20:18:00.000-08:00

I love football. NFL football, that is. I say this somewhat apologetically, I suppose, mostly because of what it’s become in recent years. And it took me long enough to arrive at this conclusion, which surprised me at first, though it’s been in my life forever.

I fondly remember my dad watching football when I was a kid. Though I never really watched it with him, and was more or less annoyed by it at the time, the sound of a game on from the next room, or elsewhere in the house, is incredibly distinctive and comforting to me as an adult. It brings me a Warm & Fuzzy feeling because of my Ward & June Clever upbringing. Two sister friends of mine also have strong feelings when recalling their father watching football (from the next room), but they were grounded all the time, so hearing football just reminds them of that.

I’m fascinated at how the recollections of a similar occurrence can incite such opposite reactions from different people.

I grew up in Texas, and into a band geek who twirled her flag during high school football halftimes. I understand every bit of Friday Night Lights, regardless of the fact that I wasn’t a football player. All it really takes to understand that setting is having lived in a town in Texas with any remote amount of exposure to the game itself. You didn’t have to look very hard for it: it was omnipresent. It was simply built into the culture.

By the time I went to college, the Cowboys were on the brink of what would be their dynasty era of the nineties. The friends I made at school were no strangers to football either. At that point, with their help, it reached a new level for me. I had never actually followed the game before. I didn’t need to. Even in high school when I was in the thick of it all, I was always otherwise entertained. And no one had ever been able to explain it to me and make it stick. It was there, many moons ago, in my sophomore year in college, that my obsession began.

We were at a game at our home field Homer Bryce Stadium, which must have been an occasion in and of itself because we hardly ever did that. I asked someone in the group to break down the rules for me. My friend Jen piped up, “Well basically, you have four chances to go ten yards”, and something inside my head went “DING”. The guy behind me said he had never heard it explained so well. To this day, when I have the rare opportunity to enlighten others on the subject, I use this explanation, and it will traditionally provoke the same response.

Instead of getting involved with our college team, we went right to the pros. After all, I don’t think we were beaming with loud Texas pride having to root for a team called the Lumberjacks. “Axe’em Jax!” No, I don’t think so. But Texas is a sport-obsessed state, and I think it’s safe to assume football tops the list. We went to school between Dallas and Houston, which made most of our college population a fan of either the Cowboys or the Oilers (when they were still based in Houston, of course). To say the two were rival teams is a staggering understatement. They were the most in-your-face, finger-pointin’, mud-slingin’, shit-talkin’ packs in the bunch, right up there with the Eagles, Giants, Redskins, and Steelers. They hated each other. And that made it interesting.

I will always remember watching football in the dorms with what comprised the usual slew of us, namely my friend, Syd, one of the two perma-grounded sisters mentioned above. Her dad was a long-time Cowboys fan, and hence so was she. It was hilarious how she used to scream at that damn TV. She knew no mercy. “Go, go, GO! Break his legs!!!” It used to confuse the guys how this seemingly innocent female (albeit strong-willed and boisterous) person could be so brutal. After a while, “break his legs” may as well have become her middle name.

Years have gone by, but I’m still a full-fledged addict. The problem with that is that I don’t live in Texas anymore, so it’s not quite as fun. Granted, of course there are football fans in Washington State, not to mention an NFL team in Seattle, but there seems to be far more choice here to grab one’s attention. There are also the University of Washington Huskies, whose arch rivals are also a Washington team, and action that tends to purloin top billing in this town.

I think the high point of my football-lovin’ experience, at least in the trivia sense, came a few years back in my office pool. There were about twenty people involved. On most weekends, the winner would be decided by Sunday evening, but the closest weeks would go to Monday night. On one such occasion, it came down to me and one other guy. I ended up taking the pot. It wasn't that much, but it had nothing to do with the money. It was all about the pride. I’m just a girl, and I just kicked all your asses!

Best Dave Ever

2006-10-22T16:45:00.000-07:00

Labor Day weekend
September 2, 2006
Dave Matthews Band @ the Gorge Amphitheatre
George, WA

It was beautiful, the temperature was perfect, the sky was bluer than blue, and it was a great day for a road trip! Traffic wasn't even that bad, which is a rare bonus. Making the trip with Drew for the first time called my attention to some of the aspects of the trip that I've almost stopped noticing: how the air cools when crossing over the Cascades, how everything is so lush and green, the indescribable freshness in the air. We drove the whole way with the windows down and the sunroof open. My hair (newly chopped) was gleefully flying all over the place. And I was singing my heart out.

When we got there, we headed right to the cocktail garden and promptly did tequila shots and downed a couple beers. We were content sitting on the lawn in there while the opening band (O.A.R.) performed on the main stage.

Right after sunset, we headed out to the grounds. This time, a first for me, we headed to the seated section right down in front. Section A, Row 17, Seats 3 and 4: they were great! No obstructed view as feared. As velvety night filled the sky, the zillion stars were alight and the air was indelibly arid with bliss. The backdrop of the Columbia River gorge has got to be one of the world’s most perfect natural amphitheatres. It’s one of the band’s favorite venues to play, and another reason I feel so lucky for the opportunity to come delve into it each summer.

I took diligent notes throughout the show, so I would have a record of the entire set from beginning to encore. That, and being there with Dave-virgin Drew, made me aware of the fact that I was able to identify most every song within the first beat or two.

I’ve seen The Dave Matthews Band roughly ten times over the past ten years, though I've admittedly lost count. On every single prior occasion, I was just happy to be there at all, and sat contentedly in the grass, far from the stage. Drew has higher standards. He said, "If you have to use binoculars to see who you're going to see, then you're sitting too far away." He gave me that experience this year, to not need binoculars. He wanted me to SEE Dave. And saw him I did. As never before. With his adorable dancy steps, with his wife and twin daughters hanging out off to the side of the stage. Now how can I possibly go back to the lawn after this?

It’s not unusual for me to get weepy during a DMB show, so I think the notable thing about it this time around was the sheer number of times it happened. It’s embarrassing enough to admit, so I’ll save the detail. Suffice it to say I was moved on many levels that day.

The drive back was just what I needed to cap off the wonderful day. Drew slept during the bulk of it as I belted out tunes form Under the Table and Crash. I had all kinds of things working for me: the brisk air, the red bull, and mostly the electricity of the music coursing through my body, shocking my soul…

Don't you just love September?

2006-09-18T19:04:00.000-07:00

I really love the summer, so I almost feel guilty for how much I love the fall, too. Indian summers are typical in Seattle, and this year was no exception. The entire long month of August, especially every weekend, was perfect: lots of sunshine and a light, arid sea breeze. It’s a great summer here when we’re actually worried about the lack of rainfall. I seem to forget from one year to the next how brown the evergreen state can get. But the temperature seemed to dip no lower than the mid 70s and peak no higher than the 80s. We could not have asked for a better summer, just that it last a bit longer.

As though on cue, the weather shifted ever so slightly after Labor Day. The air smelled different, felt different, and the winds began to change. Wispy clouds painted a little thicker texture on the canvas of the sky, and there were sunsets of a southwestern palette here in the northwest. In July, the sun would set at nearly ten. Now, less than two months later, the evening comes two hours earlier.

It’s interesting that the fall, a symbolic death of summer, and the coming of winter, is also somewhat culturally synonymous with rebirth: new school year, football season, hunting season, even network television line up. Though I am without my own school year for which to prepare, and without children to prepare for theirs, I miss the clothes shopping and all the new school supplies. Some old habits die hard. I wish I could still justify getting myself a new box of 64 Crayolas every year.

So instead, I join the office football pool, sample new TV series, transition from sandals to boots, and trade mojitos for spiked apple cider. It will be soon enough that the skies are thick with gray, the days will end before work, and I’ll be walking home in the dark. But for now, I just enjoy September as I try not to slip on the leaves scattered on the sidewallk when I’m walking downhill.

Where were you five years ago today?

2006-09-11T21:09:00.000-07:00

It was a Tuesday in Seattle. I was at Elija’s. I got up and hopped in the shower: business as usual. He didn’t work the same schedule as me, but sometimes he would wake up and flip through the channels and find MASH or some early morning movie. As I turned off the water in the shower, I could hear that the same was true on this particular day, and thought nothing of it.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, I could see one tower of the World Trade Center on fire through the reflection in the mirror. But it didn’t register. Elija thought he was watching Die Hard or something, until of course he saw the same thing on every channel. It was early in the morning on the west coast, and it took us a few moments to come to grips. I would think it would take anyone time to come to this reality, no matter what time of day. As he filled me in, explaining that we had no idea what was happening at that point, and my eyes were fixed on the screen, the second plane hit the second tower. I made some kind of sound, and my knees buckled beneath me. I will never forget that very moment. That moment when that plane didn’t come out on the other side, and we knew this wasn’t an accident.

I didn’t go to work that day - I called in numb. I didn’t do much of anything but stare expectantly at the TV and cry, grieving in much the same way I imagined was the rest of the country. We didn’t leave the house except to walk across the street for Subway around 3:30 p.m. and to the convenient store for beer. I was perfectly content that day to continue watching the raw, piercing, tragic news, and do so with the assistance of a mind-numbing elixir.

Curiosity may not have killed the cat, but it did give me a good story

2006-08-21T19:16:00.000-07:00

I don't have (human) children, but I do have two very curious cats. So, I have to childproof the kitchen cabinets. That the cabinet doors have little magnets on them and they snap shut does nothing to deter them. I've been using rubber bands for the job (since I would rather not have to go through the trouble of installing actual child-proofing until I have ... children), but the problem with that system is that the elasticity of the rubber band does degrade eventually, and they break.

Case and Point: Monday, August 21, 2006, 6:30 a.m.

In my typical early-morning shuffle, I reached up to the cabinet over the refrigerator, removed the rubber band from the pair of doors, pulled down the cat food and filled their bowl. When I went to return the bag and reattach the rubber band, it snapped in my fingers. I promptly made a note and just as promptly forgot to replace it before I walked out the door.

Now, my cats know that I keep their food in the cabinet above the refrigerator. Normally, this would be enough to have them up there, sniffing around in no time. So today must have been an extra special experience, because in addition to the omnipresent cat food, I’m also stashing a huge paper bag (the kind with handles) filled with stale crackers for the birds. I believe the rest speaks for itself.

This is what I came home to:

Rainy-day Etiquette: A Battle of Wills

2006-08-14T20:29:00.000-07:00

In this somewhat timeless passage from Kundera’s Unbearable Lightness of Being, I find myself particularly relating to the description of the blatant disregard of street etiquette (not unlike the behavior I spoke of in a previous piece):

It was drizzling. As people rushed along, they began opening umbrellas over their heads, and all at once the streets were crowded, too. Arched umbrella roofs collided with one another. The men were courteous, and when passing Tereza they held their umbrellas high over their heads and gave her room to go by. But the women would not yield; each looked straight ahead, waiting for the other woman to acknowledge her inferiority and step aside. The meeting of the umbrellas was a test of strength. At first Tereza gave way, but when she realized her courtesy was not being reciprocated, she started clutching her umbrella like the other women and ramming it forcefully against the oncoming umbrellas. No one ever said “Sorry”. For the most part no one said anything, though once or twice she did hear a “Fat cow!” or “Fuck you!”

Tereza is in Europe, circa 1970. I’m in Seattle 2006. The only real differences are that here and now, people are talking self-importantly into their cell phones, and the men are just as rude.

Vegan Cheese

2006-08-11T20:31:00.000-07:00

Drew was visiting from Dallas over Memorial Day weekend. We were walking downtown from my Capitol Hill neighborhood, and we passed a local pizza joint that had just opened up (west of Machiavelli, the clandestine Italian place boasting many local accolades). There was a sandwich board on the sidewalk out front with a little fluorescent orange paper sign taped to it that read “vegan cheese”. Drew took one look at it and said, “Vegan cheese? That seems contradictory to me.”

I can completely understand this. He lives in Texas, where just about everything is meat with a side of meat. So, I appealed to him, “N-no, you have to remember that cheese comes from other animals besides the cow. Think outside the “dairy” box. You’re in the land of to-furkey and soy-sages."

I dedicate this piece to my lovely friend, Malia, who gets my dry sense of humor, and whose laughter is joyously infectious!

The Week of Summer Shows Part I: Thievery Corporation @ The Moore Theatre

2006-08-11T17:11:00.000-07:00

OK, Thievery was the bohemian shit! I was seeing them for the first time. It was very, very hot, like insane sexy! There were a ton of instruments on stage with rotating artists to play them: bongos, tom toms, sax, sitar, trumpet, guitar, bass, two DJ tables, keyboards, electronic drums, and multiple lyricists singing multiple languages. There were anywhere from five to twenty people on stage at any given time. Above the stage were three large LCD screens streaming fluid visuals that went along with the music so well they were like an additional instrument: a James Bond-esque female silhouette, trailing cigarette smoke, spirals of color.

The music and stage presence of this group were definitely the high points of my evening, which is the way it should be, I suppose. But the negatives were big ones.

The low points began with the layout of the Moore Theatre, which I was also experiencing from the inside for the first time. The building is architecturally noteworthy, and of historical significance in Seattle. Having first opened its doors in 1907, it's the city's oldest entertainment venue. But the interior is an acoustical nightmare, especially from my vantage point in the second balcony. I was actually sitting higher than the highest point of the domed ceiling. I sat forward in my chair for the duration of the show, needing to take an active part in being able to understand the music. It's so flowy in nature, so by the time it reached my point of the building, it was like mud: very pretty, but thick and drippy mud!

The second problem with my physical location had to do with the other patrons sitting in my row. Actually, I use the term "sitting" loosely. I was parked in the aisle seat, quietly, unassumingly, and to myself. I didn't go to the show alone, but was separated from the others, who were also not necessarily together. The hoard of veritable children in my row was horrific, and went in and out of the row at least a thousand times! To say they were disruptive is a staggering understatement. It was a true testament to my character that I didn't go ballistic on them. Though to them I now say, "May you endure the likes of yourself at your next concert-going experience. You deserve nothing less!" I'm sure this is my karma for doing the same when I was a kid.

If I was to choose a favorite song, it would have to be Lebanese Blonde. Aside from the exotic sound of the song featuring the alluring sitar, it actually induces a feeling of being stoned, pulling the listener into a sleepy spell. "Lebanese blonde" is also a slang term for hash, so this is completely appropriate. It is one of the most sensual songs I can think of. And I just adore the sitar, and am thrilled whenever it makes a mysterious appearance in pop music.

It was a captivating, hypnotic show and I would see Thievery Corporation again in a heartbeat. Just remind me never to see them, or anyone else for that matter, at the Moore Theatre.

The Week of Summer Shows Part II: Pink Martini with Bird York @ the Chateau St. Michelle winery

2006-07-27T11:03:00.000-07:00

It was really hot all day long, and a bitch commute to the vineyards. We ended up leaving a little later than originally planned because we just weren't moving fast enough in the heat of the afternoon. But we were thrilled that it was just the six of us gals on an inadvertent ladies' night excursion!

We had to park and take a shuttle bus to the grounds, which was about the last thing we wanted to do. But we got in the long cattle-call of a line and awaited our chariot.

When we finally got out there, the sun was behind the hills and it was cooling off. The Spirit of Washington dinner train ran by every once in a while, and there were hot air balloons drifting across the sky. It was perfect timing.

We had so much amazing food and wine out there that it was actually funny. Leave it to us to materialize such a montage of tasty and healthy treats. Betsey even brought a bottle of champagne from her wedding! Lori was excited to bring her picnic basket complete with the classic gingham lining. She also brought square paper plates with a pink stripe around the edges to go with the colorful paisley-patterned napkins. I mean, you just can't get any more coordinated than that! Of course, it's not surprising to me that it turned out this way. After all, some of these gals are so adorably domestic. We spent the time prior to the show chatting and munching to our little hearts' content.

Bird York did a brief opener. They're an eclectic group with a female vocalist, and are somewhere in the range of electronic folk music: the perfect warm up for the headliner.

Good talk continued as we sat on the blankets on the grass. We had morphed into two groups of three and were huddled together, chattering over the music, thumbing through magazines. We were drinking St. Michelle's chardonnay and Riesling as well as the wedding champagne. Betsey even did a little sketch of me that I couldn’t resist!

Pink Martini soon took the stage. They actually make great background music to the girl talk unfolding before us. They are so fun, full and varied, an orchestra really, with brass, piano, cello, more strings, and even a harp. They are warm, welcoming, and bubbly with a multi-lingual and multi-cultural flare. The nice thing about seeing a band only two and a half albums old is recognizing lots of the music in their playlist: Bolero, Let's Never Stop Falling in Love, Donde Estes Yolanda, Lilly, Clementine, Andalucia, etc.

When I lived in Dallas, I loved seeing shows at what was then the Starplex Amplitheatre, a huge outdoor arena with a sprawling lawn. These grounds reminded me of a smaller version of that. This venue is mainly for an adult contemporary crowd, which is nice not to have to deal with some of the things as an all-age show, like the infuriating kids climbing in and out of the row and all over me every five seconds at Thievery Corp.

After the show, we did as instructed by the shuttle driver on the way out, and we got in line for our respective shuttle. But when we got there, the line was so long, the people so stinky, and the evening was so arid and breezy that we opted against it and walked back instead.

All was going swimmingly until we deviated off the main path, and jutted down a little hill to follow the unlit train tracks that would take us to where our cars were parked. It was a total Stand By Me moment, and I couldn’t help asking, "Hey, you guys want to see a dead body?" We walked along, gauging our footing by staring squarely down at the wooden planks illuminated by the light the moon.

Once we reached the building by the cars, we left the tracks to cross a small "creek". It was hard enough for us to maintain balance after polishing off several bottles of alcohol among the six of us, much more so with lots of gear in our hand, maneuvering in the dark! Two of us were particularly unlucky.

Most of the others had gotten safely across when Lindsey and I stepped directly into the bottom of the calf-deep, muddy, swamp water, rich with "mitochondrial bacteria" among other things. When we lifted up our feet, we each did so adorning one less shoe! The tall, dead, prickly grass didn't really help the matter of balance either. I was able to fish around and find my shoe, not that I'm even sure if I can ever wear them again. But poor Lindsey couldn't find hers. Soon, Betsey and I were crouched around her, and Brigid came over with a key light. What were the other two doing? Well, Lori and Erica hung back snapping pictures. Before we had a chance to see them, Lori guessed that at least some of them were “nothing but a bunch of asses in the air”. Sadly, she was right.

I mentioned that if only I had a stick to hold onto, I'd get in and find her shoe. I was convinced that it was sucked to the very bottom, as mine was. Brigid found a good sturdy stake, so in I went. Amidst showering praise of my dedication and friendship, I scaled the bottom of the muddy ditch with my toes. Lindsey and Betsey did the same with their hands. To no avail and Lindsey's dismay, we never found her shoe. She and I walked back to the car barefooted, and spent the rest of the weekend scouring our feet and hands.

Once we hit the road, all was well. Aside from the swamp smell engrained in Lindsey's skirt, there was cool and arid air, starry skies, great music and a serendipitous evening of female bonding. Though Latin lounge is not the kind of music men (at least our friends) typically favor, it was still not an intended girls' night out. I guess it wasn’t until the evening was upon us that we realized it was kind of a no-boys-allowed situation.

On the wild side: Life of a pedestrian commuter

2006-07-25T11:39:00.000-07:00

For the last five years, I have walked to and from work everyday. During most of this time, I was without a car in general. I did miss having that convenience for running errands and taking the spontaneous road trip, but aside from that, walking to commute has been a pleasant departure from traffic, road rage, outrageous parking fees, and the skyrocketing gas prices of late.

My walks have become as precious to me as early-morning solitude: I have a chance to arrange my racing thoughts while I take in simultaneous fresh air and exercise. And if there’s one thing I like, it’s multi-tasking!

But lately I’ve noticed that road rage has found me again, just on the other end of the spectrum. Most drivers I encounter in the city are infuriatingly unaware of their surroundings in general, and palpably self-absorbed, which means of course that I have to factor in an awareness level for myself and everyone else. Since I am always walking with headphones on and sometimes after dark, I’m hyperaware as it is. Anything additional is frustrating and burdensome.

The worst is the intersection of Denny & Olive. In the mornings, I’m going downhill on Olive, the same direction as all the cars eager to turn right onto Denny, a major artery to the highway. In that case, we’re starting out on the same side of the street, the cars are turning right-on-red and have to stop for pedestrians when the light turns green. So, I understand that it must be a backward concept for them, especially when there seems to be some kind of kinetic reaction at work: one car turns, so does the next and the next as though they’re blindly pulling each other along. That the light be green or red is merely incidental. Needless to say, I never step foot into the street without an assertive backward glance over my left shoulder, like a territorial pissing to the driver screeching the car to a halt: “Stop right there. It’s our turn and we’re going!”

Unfortunately, the same intersection is almost worse in the afternoon when I’m heading home. Naturally, there is heavier pedestrian traffic heading back up the hill than going downtown, just as the opposite is true in the morning. So when the cars turning right-on-red get the green light, chances are there are no walkers to keep them from continuing to turn. That is, until we get to that side of the street. The tricky thing is the blind kinetics I mentioned earlier: each car just going and going like falling dominoes with little regard for anything else. When all of a sudden, there’s a person on top of them in the crosswalk. A collision is narrowly escaped. I’ve almost gotten plowed in this very spot more times than I can count or remember.

Have I mentioned that my biggest pet peeve is people who aren’t aware of their surroundings? Somehow it elevates from just peevish when I find my life in perpetual danger.

Amidst the bounty of stupid, ignorant drivers, is a smattering of good old-fashioned pricks: the cab drivers who crawl so far up your ass as you’re when you’re in the crosswalk that you can taste the exhaust fumes; The USPS truck that actually revved his engine at me last week. The United States Postal Service, ladies and gentlemen…

At the end of the day, I’m still happier to be walking. It's gotten to be kind of addictive. When I do drive, I hope to bring to the road a little more appreciation for the fellow pedestrian, and a little more patience in general (in my constant attempt to be as zen as possible).

Oh yeah, and I know this is unrelated, but if you’re one of those bikers who ride in the middle of the street when there’s also an available bike lane and sidewalk, just get the hell out of the way.

Unearthing the Treasure of Aberdeen

2006-07-11T23:45:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, one of my dearest friends from Dallas came up to Seattle for a visit. We go way back, went to school together in Texas more than a decade ago, but had been out of touch for several years until recently.

Since it would be his first time in the Pacific Northwest, I had mentioned some typical activities suited to virgin visitors that might interest him: the obvious stuff but not ultra-touristy. I asked him if there was anything on his mind that I hadn’t brought up. He said, “Well, I would never dream of boring you with this, but I always told myself that I would make the trip to Aberdeen and go on the Kurt Cobain tour.”

This didn’t surprise me a bit. After all, though I hadn’t thought about it in years, Drew had loved Nirvana. Not that I didn’t also at least appreciate them at the time. I was in awe of them, but it was nothing compared to him. All things punk considered, if Kurt and Drew had known one another, they’d likely have been friends. I doubt the same would have been true had I known him. I say this without remorse or regret, just as a matter of fact.

We were in college in the early 90s, when it was all playing out in the first place, and I could all but assume the fascination was still there because it was that genuine. What did surprise me was the impression it would all leave on me.

So, I wouldn’t take no for an answer. After all, this was his trip to Seattle, and something that he had wanted to do for a long, long time. He never missed an opportunity to tell me how much he appreciated what I was doing, and I thought nothing of it. But didn’t really see it as a choice: this was something I had to do for my friend. The next day at work, I did some research online, which wasn’t hard. I came across the Aberdeen Museum of History webpage, with a link dedicated to a Kurt Cobain walking tour, complete with addresses and photos of each site. Perfect. I printed out the webpage and mapped out all of the locations.

Many of our conversations just prior to his trip up to Seattle centralized around the topic of Nirvana. He mentioned Michael Azzerad’s book, Come As You Are, which had originally been printed at the end of 1993, prior to Kurt’s death. (The subsequent version contains the final chapter, chronicling the last year of his life.) Drew said that he thought I should read it. I agreed. There wasn’t much time, about a week, before the drive to Aberdeen, and I knew it would be a huge challenge for me, a very slow reader, to get through the roughly three hundred fifty page book in that amount of time. But I feared that if I read it later, I wouldn’t have any of the background while we were there, save patient explanations from Drew, and by the time I got around to reading it, I might not even remember what the hell I saw when I was there.

The obsession began. I bought the book the following day, sacrificed everything else in my life except work (which just became a supreme inconvenience), and dove right in. To sweeten the deal, I was thrilled and lucky to have the infinite world of downloadable music at my fingertips, and began looking for all of the rare and unreleased tracks I could find. I would walk the mile each way to work and back digesting all sorts of related material through my iPod, everything from Fecal Matter demos and covers, to The Melvins with Kurt, Kurt and Courtney, acoustic cuts, radio show visits, B-sides, and unreleased live recordings of all things Nirvana. There were times I was completely transcended back to when it was all unfolding, what was happening in my life at that time. Others, I was overwhelmed by the fact that this music was born here in this atmosphere, this climate, and these specific circumstances. I felt privileged by my own circumstances of living here now, and being able to experience it all in that light for the first time. I think in a sense mourning Kurt Cobain and studying Nirvana in Washington State is the same as, say, mourning Stevie Ray Vaughan in Texas. It’s an unspoken understanding. It takes just hearing the music to know.

The day we drove to Aberdeen was actually two days later than we had originally planned. In the end, the day could not have been more serendipitous: accommodating gray sky and all.

The drive down surprised us both, and that’s coming from someone who has lived in Washington State for almost eight years, and someone who has been limited by his imagination. What we had both anticipated as being a wasteland was actually endlessly rolling and lush. Forsythia grew rampantly on both sides of the highway for most of the trek. Flowers would make two more significant appearances later on in the day.

When we drove over the bridge into town, our first impression was, “Wow, this isn’t bad!” I think we both expected the dregs of small town life to hit us at the onset. Straight ahead of us was Whiskah Blvd, which was thrilling in and of itself for anyone who understands the history involved. It seemed to be the “main street” in town, and was adorably cliche, lined with mom & pop storefronts and hanging flower boxes. But it wasn’t until we deviated just a block or so from that path that we realized just what we were dealing with. We had merely to peel back the single layer that was the shiny surface to reveal the true rickety nature of Aberdeen.

Each of the stops we made throughout town (with the exception of the Novoselic’s up on the hill) were about the same: small-town, meager, humble, on the verge of both mobility and dilapidation. First on the list was Kurt’s childhood home, which I think was the most fascinating to me. When we drove up, my heart was racing with the anticipation of discovery. Almost the kind of discovery that you’re not even supposed to make, as though you’re about to read a sibling’s journal or something. It was a tiny house with brown painted siding, a dirty, screened-in mud porch, and brightly colored but ravenously unkempt flowers growing from the trim by the front door. I don’t know why it struck me so: perhaps the candy-coated optimism of the flowers disguising the dark dysfunction of Kurt’s tainted youth, or that someone who would become a transcendent musical icon hailed from such a seemingly tiny and insignificant place.

The afternoon wore on, and soon the last thing we had to do was find the bridge where Kurt had sought refuge from home. By going on instinct alone, we felt that it wouldn’t be one of the big industrial bridges that lead in and out of town. Knowing what we did about the storyline, it didn’t seem to fit. Drew pulled out some of the information we had printed for the trip, and read something that pointed us in the right direction. We parked on the closest residential street and walked up the hill to the bridge. What we saw at the top of the hill was kind of lovely, with daffodils blooming wildly in a neighbor’s yard across the river, and lots of tall green grass. It was toward the outskirts of town, and a little quieter than it is the closer to Whiskah you get. I was taking some pictures of the bridge itself, when Drew called out from underneath it, “You don’t happen to have a marker do you?” I looked at him quizzically and he smiled, “Just come here.”

It was like finding the honey pot, unearthing the hidden treasure. A phantasm of graffitied messages of all types and colors stood before us. Their common thread, unlike any graffiti I’d ever seen, was love and empathy:

“Welcome to Cobain Bridge”

“We miss you Kurt”

“Thanks for all you have done for me”

“I need an easy friend”

“Kurt you took me away to where I always want to be…love your in utero goddess."

We wandered around silently and in awe, taking it all in. When we spoke, it was with a museum-like reverence. I knew I had a purple marker in the car, so we went back to get it. We took a moment to leave our own mark, and left. This was a most befitting final stop.

In talking about the trip since then, we have both reflected on it a lot. It left similar impressions for both of us, and offered individual perspectives as well. Drew grew up in a small town that reminded him a lot of Aberdeen, and being there has resurrected some of the claustrophobia that he felt as a child. Though I never lived in an Aberdeen, most of my family did, so I understand what a small town is, and being there was both unsettlingly familiar and oddly comforting to me. Whether that familiarity came from everything that I read in the book, and merely absorbing the spirit of it all, or it was something more inherent to the nature of life in a small town in general, I’m not sure but it was probably some of both, as it tends to be.

I managed to finish all but two chapters of Come As you Are, and that’s not counting the subsequently printed final chapter. I have found myself unable to finish the book, and have since begun another one in a desperate attempt to prolong the living and perpetuating story in my mind. But I think it was best said in post-pilgrimage conversations between Drew and I:

Me: Nirvana propels me to heights of joy and energy as well! Certainly not just the feeling of encapsulated angst, or even pleasurable anger, stickin’-it-to-the-man kind of thing, as it used to be. All new stuff that I’m getting this time around. This is the reason why I can’t finish the book: I didn’t have the information the first time around that I do now; and knowing what I know, what I didn’t understand then, makes the story much sadder than I anticipated.

Drew: This never ceases to fascinate me!

Me: Think of it this way: I never knew Nirvana before they were suddenly huge. I didn’t understand the background, or the message. I thought destroying their instruments after a set meant a disrespect for the medium and their fans in general, and not just the corporate big-wigs they were fighting for the distribution of their message against. I thought they were just a bunch of … punk ASSES! I didn’t know or want to understand that Kurt Cobain changed forever at the age of 8, or that he was constantly in pain, or that empathy seemed to situationally evade him throughout his life or whenever he sought it, or anything that Nirvana went through with Sub Pop and Bleach, or that they had such a hard time with finding a permanent drummer, and all the reasons that went into that. In general, I feel very ashamed to have embodied the very idea of how easy and how wrong it is to make snap judgments.

Drew: It's OK, honey. You may be Pisces, but you're still human. A really outstanding one, but a human. Not a thing wrong with that. Back to the subject, this does help me understand. It still fascinates me. I'm really glad that you've come to have this understanding of a band that I've always felt this way about. I do hope someday you'll finish the book, and that that won't mean an ending for you.

Me: This is the part I need help with.

Drew: Do you mean that if you finish the book, you'll have some closure, that'll end it for you or something?

Me: I mean that I’m thinking of it too much like finishing the book would be the definitive ending. And I don’t want that to be the case. It makes me sad.

Drew: In that case, I don't want you to finish the book. Dammit, where's my copy of In Utero?!
~~~~~~~~~~
Me: I wanted to clarify one thing from yesterday’s email. I said that I will feel like it’s all over when I finish the book. But actually, that of course is not the case! There is still new information for me out there, and always the immeasurable possibility that the old material will be redefined to me over and over again, as I evolve in life.

Drew: This is what has happened for me. The thing is, I've been a fan for a long time, understanding certain things about the music (partly implicitly "getting it", partly learning some of the specifics by reading about them) and the history all this time. But what fascinated me was seeing how you have become so immersed in this, coming to understand and feel what I felt, that you got me completely on board your journey. I've seen in you the magic and mystery of it all unfolding in a way that I guess reminds me of falling in love with Nirvana for the first time myself.

Me: This is half what I meant anyway …

Drew: I've been able to see them and hear them again through virgin senses. I guess that's just me empathizing with you, and also empathizing with you having to go through, in a way, something I went through twelve years ago--the finality of Kurt's death.

Me: Yes, exactly.

Drew: Nirvana's music meant so much to me, and saved me, and spoke to me and for me.

Me: I remember all of that fondly, I mean how it affected you.

Drew: …facing the prospect of No New Nirvana Albums Ever was heartbreaking for me. It was more, I thought, than I could bear. I of course, did not know what you already do: the way the story ends. I guess I shared your feeling of fear of the end, too, and wanted to negate Kurt's death, that terrible loss, along with you by not facing it.

Me: You were very accommodating in that way. Being distracted with visiting his hometown and walking through the steps of his LIFE, it was easy to do.

Drew: I was willing to let you have something--oh shit, I'm getting misty here! -that I never got to: a Nirvana story that never has to end.

Me: I would like very much to adjust my thinking this way. I believe is possible!

Drew: Your emotion and your love were…

Me: …ARE…

Drew: …so strong, I didn't want to take that from you, the way it was from me.

Me: You haven’t and won’t – no worries there, but thank you for this gesture. I appreciate this advantage over your experience, and am very empathetic to it.

Drew: But "you know, you're right," (*wink*) it's not an end.

Me: No!

Drew: I had to come to terms with no more new Nirvana ever a long time ago, but part of that was learning that just because there's no new music doesn't mean there's no music.

Me: I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Drew: The music will always be with us.

Me: As old favorites, or new revelations. Always.

Drew: That's his gift to us. The music will grow and change with you, as it has for me. The book, too, in time, will come to hold new keys to new (and old) doors, also as it has for me--through you. And for that, I say thank you.

Me: Your sentiments echo my thoughts, and I am truly touched, by all of this. I think it’s just about the best side effect ever. I’m getting a little misty myself taking all of this in…

Drew: We'll always have the music, and we're always going to have Aberdeen. Remember your message you wrote under the bridge? There is a persistence to the love we give when the feeling is strong enough--your message will be there for Kurt, just as his message will be there for us. These messages of peace, love, and empathy go on. They go on, because they are stronger than those of hate.

Me: A practically tearful thank you. Well done. Well said. And to that I will add something that I have had enough time to believe. This, what I’m experiencing now, and everything yet to be revealed to me, is permanent. Once a person makes their way to my most upper echelon of reverence, they never come down. Ever. (Crap, okay this actually is making me cry!) That’s for my forever.

Early to Rise?

2006-07-02T22:04:00.000-07:00

I’ve always considered myself a nocturnal person. I don’t know if that comes from some kind of fascination with the kinds of things that typically happen at night, or just that I really like sleeping and the morning eternally comes too early for my taste. I think it’s safe to say it’s a combination.

When I started school, I somehow knew without knowing that the further I advanced in my college career, the earlier I would have to schedule my classes. There were always plenty of options for the 100-levels, but sure enough, they dwindled significantly by my senior year. I still don’t know why they couldn’t have offered a 10a.m. instead of an 8, but whatever.

So, because I had this random foresight into the inner workings of university life, I spoiled myself fervently while I could. My parents would tease me about this, and chuckle at my reasoning. My mom insisted that I would grow out of this one day, that she had been the same when she was my age. And I would chuckle right back at her, convinced that delighting to get up early was simply not part of the fabric of my existence.

And so it was. I enjoyed blissful ignorance up to my 30th birthday. Most would consider this adult life, and I became even more convinced that I would never change. Then, one Saturday morning, it happened. And once is all it takes to change something, even as deeply engrained as this.

It happened around 9a.m. A time that would never shock an early bird, but an hour of the day (a weekend day) that I never had any desire to know.

A batch of intrusive thoughts began to disturb me from my peaceful repose. They mainly took the form of, “Hmm, what do I have to do today? Do I need any groceries? How’s the laundry looking?” But they persisted to no end.

Initially, I was put off by the extremely menial nature of these thoughts, that they would be the very ideas to rouse me from my precious sleep. But this is how it all began.

Now, it’s not that this transition happened overnight. I didn’t immediately embrace the seemingly forced nature of this lifestyle shift, and spring energetically from my bed as soon as I awoke each and every free morning. On the contrary, it was met with a great resistance. But it did start to happen with a bit more ease, and eventually, will.

And it was only then that I began to embrace the underrated contentment that is morning solitude.

Perhaps the most priceless aspect of these morning hours is the fact that it’s outside of the confines of generally accepted social behavior to call anyone. (I say this with the caveat that I’m sure this is relative to same age groups.) So, that tends to leave one with an active mind, a rested body, and some free time: a sublimely rare and gorgeous combination!

While I was more reluctant to acknowledge the value of these early menial thoughts, I can’t deny the feeling of liberation and accomplishment when all of my weekend “have-to’s” are behind me by noon on Saturday.

Then, there are other mornings where I would be awake with no real agenda. These are the best-case scenarios: quiet time all to myself, without having to share it with any pesky chores or obligations. There’s a potent optimism to this time of the day. It simply hasn’t been around long enough yet for anything or anyone to spoil.

My parents live two times zones ahead of me. When they would call me on the weekends in their early afternoon, my dad would only be half-kidding when he would say, “You just get up?” When I would tell him that I’d been up since 9, he’d then say, “So, you’re getting up early in your old age,” to which I begrudgingly concur. Damnit all, I can’t deny it any longer. I just have to wonder how much worse it will get in the next twenty years or so …

Welcome

2006-06-24T17:48:00.000-07:00

I think about everything. Too much, too often at times: it’s definitely arguable. But I am indelibly fascinated with human nature, society, and the world at large. My gears tend to grind when something has fallen far short of my expectations. True to the form of the very human nature that intrigues me, it seems to be endlessly easier to communicate thoughts of anger or disgust than it is to capture the joy of a pleasant surprise, or something that makes you laugh hysterically.

That said, I’m still a person who has a profound appreciation for the little things, and a pesky habit of seeking out the silver lining. And while I’m also someone who is disappointed far more often than not, I welcome the rare instances when my lofty expectations can be humbled by the beauty of a moment that sends them packing. But whatever the case, I muse on the topic of life.

It's all part of the white hot mess behind my eyes.