Right Around The Corner

Of Course Bigfoot Twitters.... And I Forgive Him

2009-05-30T22:33:00.002-06:00

And he just loves to be followed!

La Joie d'Avril

2009-04-02T17:18:00.006-07:00

Clickety, click, click, clack.

Clackity, clack, clack, click.

If This Post Offends Your Moral Value....

2009-03-23T15:06:00.002-07:00

I confess: I like a good Ponzi Scheme. As you might imagine, I have followed the Bernie Madoff case with great interest. Who trusted him? Why? Other high- rollers liked him and he was difficult to access -- must be good!

So when I heard that a series of rage filled emails and letters addressed to Madoff's judge were going to be made public, I sought them out with, yes, glee.

Oh, how I was rewarded! I don't want to spoil the surprise, so I'll just advise you to scroll to page 36 and you can giggle along with me.

Just Click This Link

2009-03-13T13:25:00.004-07:00

And Keep Clicking.

Are your speakers turned on?

This is art.

************************************************************************

Introduction to Liliana Porter's Rehearsal

For her first web-based artwork, Liliana Porter presents Rehearsal, a choir of seven yellow toy chicks singing "La donna è mobile" from Giuseppe Verdi's 1851 opera Rigoletto. The viewer can click on each chick to see a close up and hear a "solo" - one of seven variations on the familiar canzone including a march, a tango, a version with a panhellenic guitar, and a 1907 recording by Enrico Caruso. The music was composed and performed by Sylvia Meyer, with whom Porter has long collaborated on her video projects.

An inherent disconnect runs through the music and image of Rehearsal on every level. The image of chicks standing attentively in choir formation is absurd, yet they stand with such seriousness and apparent focus that one feels compelled to hear them out. The song's intrinsic incongruity lies in the fact that the music is comical and light-hearted, yet the lyrics are spiteful:
Woman is flighty,
Like a feather in the wind,
She changes her voice - and her mind.
Always sweet,
Pretty face,
In tears or in laughter, - she is always lying.
The Duke of Mantua, a cold-hearted male character who is himself quite fickle, sings this at the tragic moment in the opera when Rigoletto discovers his daughter was killed by the assassin he had hired to kill the Duke.

At first glance the combination of image and music feels fitting: the humorous, catchy tune matched to cute, fluffy metaphors of innocence has a playful feel. But knowing the lyrics or the song's operatic context suggests something different. Moreover, the chick's lack of obvious gender lends them an apparent neutrality, leaving one to ponder whether they are lamenting the opposite gender or disparaging their own. Despite the negative lyrics and context of deceit and betrayal, it is hard to be anything but amused with such gentle performers.

The chicks come from a vast collection of figurines and knick knacks that Porter has carefully gathered over years, objects from mass culture that include religious and political figures (saints, choir boys, Che, Mao). Women, men, children, animals and cartoon characters, they are made of materials including plastic, wood, wax, porcelain, and in this case, feathers. Some are solid statuettes, others have wind up components and play musical instruments, still others are utilitarian, whether used for shaking salt and pepper, cushioning pins, or holding pencils. Of her selection process Porter says, "I am interested in their having eyes that look." 1

Porter, who was born in Argentina but moved to New York in the 1960s, focused for many years on questioning the boundary between reality and it representation, but that concern was superseded by what Ines Katzenstein calls the artist's "technical intuition": "Porter sensed that after a certain degree of social evolution of technology, the idea that there is something real and something virtual, the surprise and magic of producing connections between these planes, would cease to be meaningful." 2

Shifting her focus to her collection of figurines in the early 1990s, the artist began to present them with masterful simplicity: shooting them against monochromatic backgrounds devoid of any contextual reference; moving past distinctions between representation and reality to examine the fiction inherent in the objects themselves, and in our attempts to understand them.

Fellow artist Ana Tiscornia describes Porter's visual articulations of her concerns as a process that "looks very much like a philosophical exercise that she carries on without desperation, with a sense of humor and a calming spirit towards the viewer. Because just as she makes patent uncertainty and the resulting angst, she manages to convey her faith that 'the explanation is there.'" 3

Writing of the influence of literature on Porter's work, curator and critic Gerardo Mosquera remarked, "Liliana Porter is the great illustrator of the Chinese encyclopedia," referencing the Argentinean writer Jorge Louis Borges' celebrated example intended to demonstrate that all attempts at classification of the universe are either arbitrary or conjectural. For him, "Porter's art has to do with an awareness of the unknown and of the impossibility of knowing. In colloquial Spanish we say that something 'is Chinese' when we don't understand it, as English people say, 'It's all Greek to me,' connecting the remote cultural otherness with our own ignorance. The classification belongs to a taxonomy of the not knowing instead of knowing." 4 Porter's penchant for illuminating "not knowing" is evident in works like the drawing of the rabbit gazing at us from a piece of paper, completely unaware of the rock whose trajectory will take it straight to its head. Or, in those photographs where she juxtaposes figurines to suggest fascinating conversations that we can imagine but never know. Or, in a video of adorable chicks singing a catchy Italian tune.

Porter's artworks are like artifacts of play, reminding adults of the satisfaction of having control over subjects that stand in for ourselves. Whether in photography, video, painting, sculpture, collage, or a combination of the above, her casts appear throughout her oeuvre in scenes as diverse as the figures themselves. Sometimes they are in peril, other times amorous, mournful, outraged, coy, or courageous, pulling the viewer in with a hook of empathy or intrigue.

Sara Tucker

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[1] Ana Tiscornia. "A Rabbit That Escapes: Interview with Liliana Porter," in Liliana Porter. Fotographía Y Ficción, (Buenos Aires: Centro Cultural Recoleta 2004). P211.
[2] Inés Katzenstein. "Liliana Porter. Photography and Fiction," in Liliana Porter. Fotographía Y Ficción, (Buenos Aires: Centro Cultural Recoleta 2004). P201.
[3] Ana Tiscornia, op. cit, P209.
[4] Gerardo Mosquero. "Liliana Porter: Shaking Hands with Mickey," reprinted in Liliana Porter. Fotographía Y Ficción, (Buenos Aires: Centro Cultural Recoleta 2004). P247.

And then there was Facebook....

2009-03-10T17:54:00.003-07:00

Why don't I know this 'Craig?'

I miss posted fliers.

A Calming Of The Waters

2009-02-16T20:51:00.002-07:00

I believe that posting here should only be a pleasurable activity. In that spirit, I bring to you this recently discovered delight:

The Random Buddha

Simply refresh your way to serenity. It is less drying to the skin than soaking in Palmolive.

How To Predict If A Cumbia Album Will Be Fabulous

2008-12-31T12:50:00.002-07:00

According to Joey Burns, who plays lead guitar on 'Cumbia Lupita' in the above clip, if a picture of an ass is on the cover of said cumbia cd and it clearly belongs to a very shapely woman, the album will be fantastic. After watching Tucson's newest mambo kings, Sergio Mendoza y Su Orkestra open for Calexico on Monday, I have to believe that this is the truth. I'm going to use this criteria in all future purchase assessments of cumbia cds -- foolproof!

Notes on the Season

2008-12-23T13:10:00.004-07:00

From a recent entry in my commonplace book:

I just finished reading David Sedaris' When You Are Engulfed In Flames. The final chapter of the book details his attempt to stop smoking. He decides to accomplish this feat by taking a three month trip to Japan. While there, he encounters Engrish.

"On an apron picturing a dog asleep in a basket: 'I'm glad I caught you today. Enjoy Mama.'

On decorative paper bags a person might put a gift in: 'When I think about the life in my own way I need gentle conversations.'"

During this often trying time of year, I wish everyone gentle conversations in their own lives. Io, Saturnalia, y'all.

I'm Still Waiting on that Saturnalia Album

2008-12-14T21:19:00.006-07:00

Erran Baron Cohen is a genius:

My Own Radio Station, Circa 1993

2008-12-11T16:41:00.009-07:00

I have a time capsule box of cassettes in my garage, waiting patiently atop the deep fryer and the My Little Pony Dream House, hoping that I will soon rediscover them. At the moment, I don't have any way to listen to them, since the cassette player component of my stereo died some years ago. In all of my efforts to create a minimalist, monastic living space, I feel as though it would be prudent to give them away. And yet, I can't bring myself to dispose of them. Instead, I'm inviting you to have a brief look into the tupperware tomb containing the music I used to love, which practically defined a period of my life. It's going to be a great grungy stroll down high school memory lane. I'm as excited about it as you are! Shall we?

Suede - The Drowners:

What does the writing along that guy's spine mean? I feel as though I'm missing a hidden message in this video.

Screaming Trees - Julie Paradise

Sure, everyone remembers 'Nearly Lost You' from Singles, one of the best movies ever, but nobody has ever heard of this one. Except me, of course.

The Lemonheads - Into Your Arms

I can't believe I used to have a crush on Evan Dando. Sheesh.

Blind Melon - Change

I used to listen to this song in the middle of the night and just know that Shannon Hoon really understood me. Too bad he died of a heroin overdose.

Belly - Feed the Tree

I still have no idea what the heck this song is about. But I do know all of this and more.

Mary's Danish - Underwater

When they came to Tucson, I managed to somehow win tickets and con my mother into allowing me to go. Combat boots never looked as great as they did with my granny dress that night. I am actually about as cool now as I thought I was then. Which isn't saying much.

Rocket From The Crypt - French Guy

The best RFTC album ever is Paint as a Fragrance. I defy anyone to name a better one.

Primus - Jerry Was A Race Car Driver

I saw them play this, live, at Lollapalooza. Yeah. Remember that? I still have the t-shirt. It may be grunge style 7,000 sizes too large, but I still have it.

Ok, one more:

Paul Westerberg - Dyslexic Heart

This couldn't be a complete stroll without something from Singles. Which I have on VHS and DVD. Just in case I get a VCR again, you know, one day. They're coming back, I can feel it.

Rugby: So Much Better Than Football

2008-12-01T21:20:00.016-07:00

The All-Blacks vs England Game: November 30, 2008

When someone mentions sports, my eyes tend to immediately glaze over and I start searching out the nearest exit. I have no interest in statistics, players, games, crazy fandom, (ok, I am, admittedly, intrigued by the odd breed of the Super Fan, but I digress) records, fantasy anything, and, worst of all, I hate sports bars. With a passion. All that noise. The chest banging grunting. The cheap beer and the chicken wings. Ugh. I would rather spend an afternoon in the dentist's chair than have to suffer through even fifteen minutes of sitting in a sports bar. This says a lot, since my dentist has gag-inducing smelly rubber gloves, the mere sight of which triggers a whole body production of bile and other nasty secretions. I hate the dentist. I have a cavity that I refuse to have filled, so much do I despise his gloves.

Two weekends ago, I was, in a moment of intoxication induced pliancy, convinced that I should not only agree to willingly go to a sports bar, but then sit there and watch a sporting event. For more than three minutes. And, oh, be excited about that. So much so that I should even wear something special for this event. It never takes much convincing from anyone to get me to dress up, so I agreed.

My defenses had been horrendously compromised due to my consumption of multiple bottles of beer combined with a painfully extended stomach full of jilebi. I couldn't refuse. All plans for the future sound like genius ideas when it happens around a roaring bonfire and I am blissfully sated through sugar and alcohol. Gah. It felt like a calculated set-up. I am nothing if not a woman of my word, however, which is how I found myself wearing a black shirt and driving to the World Sports Grille on Sunday afternoon.

I walked into this bar and began to wonder what it was, exactly, that I had agreed to do. There were hundreds of large screen televisions everywhere around which were situated groups of jersey wearing, semi-intoxicated lugheads. Men and women, screaming and yelling at these televisions, their faces greasy from fried food and their hands dripping with ranch dressing. A high pitched squealing whine began, right behind my left eyeball. My right eye started to twitch. I had serious doubts that I could survive the afternoon, let alone the next ten minutes. Mike, my kiwi buddy, jumped up and gave me a hug, 'Oh, this is going to be an awesome game! You'll be so glad you came!' I smiled, trying to ignore the drilling that was trying to escape out of my brain and through my eye. His wife winked at me.

We sat down in front of a giant screen television. The station was changed and the game was already underway. Mike was incredibly disappointed, telling us that we had missed the haka. I was also highly disappointed -- this had been one of the main reasons I had decided to attend! Luckily, several haka highlights were shown throughout the game.

The first few minutes of the game were rather uninteresting. I spent a lot of time quizzing the waiter on the beers that he had on tap and examining the menu. After the first points of the game were scored, however, I was hooked. Mils Muliaina grinned as he sailed across the goal line in a successful try, as though he had practiced his score smile in the mirror. I laughed -- seeing that was one hundred times inherently better than a touchdown victory dance! The game continued from there to be a bloodbath, with the All Blacks winning 32-6. WOO!

After paying the bill, Mike asked me what I thought of the game. 'I loved it! When is the next one? Can we watch it here?'

He smiled sadly at me,' That was the last game of the season. They won't play again until June.'

I'll just have to become a haka buff in the meantime, I guess.

New Zealand vs. Tonga:

New Zealand vs. South Africa:

Ireland seems to like to taunt the All Blacks. Most famously, they edge closer and closer to the All Blacks as they do their opening haka:

Just this year, Ireland's Munster team decided to attempt to preempt the All Blacks' haka by performing a truncated version of their own:

They didn't appear to be particularly intimidated. Or really, to even notice.

My favorite haka performance (though, admittedly, I've only been paying attention to rugby for a very short time) comes from the World Cup Game of New Zealand against France in 2007. France had Chabal on their team, a famous barbarian of a rugby player. Even me, with my limited knowledge and interest in sports, had heard of this guy. He is a living ghost of Gaul, playing rubgy instead of slaying Romans -- a modern day Vercingetorix!

Vercingetorix:

Chabal:

It takes very little imagination to think of Chabal out on the battlefield, stealing babies:

In watching this haka, Chabal gives the All Blacks the fiery eyeball, but does seem mildly impressed with their showmanship.

It wasn't enough though -- France still won that game. As impressed as I am with the All Blacks, France will always be my team. Sheesh. I have a team? Can Sundays spent watching NASCAR be far behind?

Serait-ce possible alors?

2008-11-20T14:37:00.010-07:00

I have what some may call a, erm, fascination with Carla Bruni. She is, yes, the First Lady of France. How she became as such was a whole other story and scandal unto itself, one which I will not discuss at the moment. The important thing is that she is currently on a tour supporting her third cd. No longer a World Dominating Super Model, she is out doing her own thing, despite whatever clucking way the Old World Biddies in Black may be condoning her behavior. In a recent interview, she discussed the idea that yes, she was out touring, singing songs and continuing to pursue her own interests because she did have a life before she married Sarkozy.

"At the beginning, I got worried that people might take it wrong, because they are not used to it. Usually first ladies have been supporting their husbands," Bruni explained.

"I thought that maybe for a woman nowadays, you know, it's important to have a job and to keep it," she added.

How shocking that the First Lady of a country is standing up for her right to continue to be whom she is, without apology! I would guess that this is likely what attracted Sarkozy to her in the first place, the fact that she has a sense of who she is and is proud of that. I am optimistically choosing to see this as part of a new wave of women who are able to define who they are instead of buckling under the assumed pressures of how a woman should behave while in a very public position with a choke hold expectation of Victorian Era propriety. I hope that Michelle Obama follows suit. As excited as I am that Barack Obama will soon be the president, I am even more thrilled by the idea that Michelle Obama, an obviously intelligent and, ok, I'll say it, fierce! woman, will also be in the White House.

Laura Bush, as a role model, took us backward in time, by behaving as though her proper role was the Historian of the White House Linen Closet. I have found it to be so frustrating that she espouses the ideal view of a presidential wife as one who should demure to the assumptions that are assigned to her role. Bah. Do a photo shoot. Express yourself. Otherwise, what kind of role model, really, are we supporting?

But back to Carla. Oooh la la.

All Souls Procession 2008: Officially More Fun Than My Birthday

2008-11-10T14:45:00.041-07:00

This year's parade was fantastic. Even though it rained, was cold (a bone chilling 60 degrees!!) , and I became separated from my friends for the finale, this year's procession was the best.one.yet.

I began my costume preparations a month ago, though, to be truthful, throughout the year I am on the lookout for the two epic dresses that would comprise my dream costume -- either the Tooth Fairy or a mermaid. Though both would be appropriately dead.

I have tried on more than 100 dresses that could be possible Tooth Fairy contenders. The closest one was a ridiculous wedding dress that, even used, was more than $100. I love the parade and I live for dressing up, but I simply cannot, in good frugal conscience, allow myself to spend $100 on a dress that I will likely only wear once. Although, yes, I will confess that had the dress been absolutely perfect and I did, without a doubt, look exactly like the Tooth Fairy that I have in my imagination, I probably would have bought it. A great costume is worth it. Luckily for my wallet, however, I have not yet found that dress. Yet.

This evening's preparations began about 3:00 pm, which was at least two entire hours before I even needed to leave my house and drive downtown. I felt so ahead of myself that I was certain that I would have extra time -- perhaps even enough to stop for tacos en route to the parade. Little else is more amusing than eating tacos dressed as a dead butterfly. As with most fun times, it is all in the unlikeliness of the context.

The self congratulations started much too soon. I immediately encountered a problem with getting my very tall wig firmly on to my head. Over the course of the last four weeks, my head has grown, apparently. So large, in fact, that short of shaving off all of my hair, a possibility that I considered and finally had to reject, there was just no way that I could fit my loomingly large head into the very small net of the wig. After yelling, shrieking, deep breathing, and a beer, my head did make it, part way, into the wig.

The wig debacle created several unsightly patches in my otherwise flawlessly white skeletal makeup, prompting further shrieking, bargaining with a higher authority, and another beer. Face repaired, it was time to go, with nary a moment for a roadside taco -- two hours passed in an instant.

The drive to the parade is similar to an appetizer. I got all of the adoring attention but in smaller, bite-sized bursts. Drivers passing on the right would whip their necks around in an immediate double take. While stopped at any light, surrounding cars would point and alert their passengers to the oddly dressed creature in the next lane. There were some moments when I considered skipping the procession altogether in favor of driving around Tucson, surprising drivers. Again, I find such joy in context.

After parking the car and joining hundreds of other skeletons on their way to meet up with their brethren, I began to worry anew about the state of my precariously perched wig. The wind did little to ease my concerns, even though I would put my head into the oncoming gusts in much the same way I imagined an annoyed horse or a cow must do. I managed to walk a mere three blocks before the wig came off completely. I carried it for the rest of the parade, it limply resting in my arms like an elderly chinchilla.

If I tell you nothing else of the parade, know this: more people took my photo and complimented me on my costume this year than in any other preceding year. It is a good thing I don't have to put that wig on again; it will never fit on my head now.

Moi, Je Suis Une Aventurière

2008-11-05T17:40:00.002-07:00

Je sais bien que vous voulez la chanter:

Prostré dans une citadelle de l’occident
Tu rêves d’un nouveau départ
De girafes et d’éléphants
D’éléphants

Eliminer les toxines qui t’emprisonnent
Transcender le sodium
Qui régit tes synapses
Tes synapses

Je ferai le tour de la Terre
Le tour de la mer
Je suis un aventurier
Je ferai le tour de la Terre
Le tour de la mer
Je suis un aventurier né

As-tu pensé à couper l’eau et le gaz
As-tu bien fermé à clé
Tu commences un peu à stresser
à stresser

Aaaah la honte, il a les foies
Aaah la honte, la poule mouillée
Même pas cap’ de s’en aller
Aaaah la honte !

Je ferai le tour de la Terre
Le tour de la mer
Je suis un aventurier
Je ferai le tour de la Terre
Le tour de la mer
A cheval sur un poney
Je ferai le tour de la Terre
Le tour de la mer
En scaphandre hélitreuillé
Je ferai le tour de la Terre
Le tour de la mer
Avec Opodo point com
Car la note la plus longue de la Terre, la voilàààààààà

Les Belugas de Montréal
Les Gekkos de Bamako
Les Cobras de Mexico
Les Dragons du Komodo
Les Nasiks de New Dehli
Les Nasiks de l’Elysée

Les babouins de Tokyo
Les babouins de la place Beauvau

La Joie du Temps Libre

2008-10-30T17:45:00.036-07:00

Je suis fatiguée aujourd’hui mais c’est pour une très bonne raison ! J’ai bien complété un projet d’art ce matin à six heures. J’ai eu l’im - pression que je ne le finirais jamais parce que j’ai passé plus de huit semaines sur cette sculpture. Mais comment je me suis éclatée avec le résultat! Ce n’est pas assez souvent, ces jours, que je fais de l’art seulement pour moi-même.

Je crée des sculptures avec plusieurs matières mais typiquement, j’emploie des fragments de verre, du plâtre et des photos. Je suis connue, à Paris, pour mon style moderne et vivant et j’ai vendu plus de trente sculptures. En général, je vends mes œuvres aux collecteurs.

Ils me connaissent et ils me téléphonent deux ou trois fois chaque année pour me demander s’il y a un nouveau bébé dans mon atelier.

Je fais mes sculptures dans mon appartement. Il est l’endroit où j’habite et où je travaille. Je l’ai choisi parce qu’il est très grand, le 6^e étage entier de l’immeuble. C’est parfait pour moi, parce que je ne suis pas obligé de m’habiller si je n’ai pas envie de le faire. Je peux passer toute la nuit avec mes sculptures si je veux et ça ne dérange personne.

Il y a des jours quand je me pince parce que ma vie est vraiment comme un rêve. Mais non, ma vie est exactement comme je l’ai imaginée. C’est possible que si on a des espoirs, on puisse les réaliser.

Ce n’était pas toujours comme ça.

J’ai toujours aimé créer l’art mais je n’ai jamais cru q’un jour, il y aurait les gens qui voudraient les acheter. Depuis que j’ai eu l’age de 18 ans, j’ai travaillé dans un café pendant la journée pour payer les factures et pendant la nuit, j’ai fait de l’art dans mon tout-petit appartement. J’ai détesté cette vie, mais c’était nécessaire pour cinq ans.

Quand j’avais 23 ans, j’ai été invitée à participer dans une exposition de la sculpture dans une petite galerie de voisinage. Le propreitaire de la galerie a souvent mangé dans le café ou je travaillais et, de temps en temps, on a parlé de ma ‘vraie’ vie. J’ai connu beaucoup d’artistes et ensemble, on a organisé des fêtes où nous nous montrions nos pièces.

Un jour, j'ai pris mon courage à deux mains et je l’y ai invité et après ça, c’est un conte de fées! Il a adoré mes sculptures et il m’a offert une place dans sa galerie pour trois de mes pièces. Pendant la première, une dame d’un certain age les a vue.

Elle a achète tous les trois dans un seul coup, et voilà, le lendemain, j’ai quitte mon boulot. Je suis devenue artiste, peintre et sculptrice. Simplement comme ça.

Finding My Spot

2008-10-19T17:06:00.005-06:00

This is Xena. Not Xena the Warrior Princess, but Zena Snowflake. Sometimes, lovingly, she is also known as The Sausage. Her favorite activities include riding the dryer and making bold and vigorous attempts at scratching the couch. She always appears to be incredibly self satisfied after what seems to be at least 25 solid minutes of this activity. I let her do it; she doesn't have any claws.

She doesn't seem to realize that, though.

Before I write a full personal ad for this cat, who, really, has little interest in boy cats, I'll admit that I envy Xena's existence at times. She lives an extremely cushy life, doing whatever she feels like doing, whenever she feels like doing it. She seems generally content, nary an existential crisis has clouded her day. I believe this is because she has found her spot in life. She never needs to mentally prepare herself to take a nap in the sun. She doesn't ever procrastinate on any of her various cat tasks -- she simply gets them finished in her own good time and enjoys herself in the process.

She has become my mentor. I've been following her around, taking notes. Asking questions. It is obvious that she appreciates the fact that I have finally come to my senses and noticed her for the sage that she is. I'm certain that at some point in the very near future, I'll be required to compensate her in some way for her instructional services. Good thing tuna was on sale this week at the grocery store; I stocked up.

What I want to know from her is how to maintain this easy come easy go approach to life. Why is it that I need an entire week off to simply arrive in the brain space where my mental faucet will bring water immediately once turned? An entire week to get to this place where I can sit, do, plot, plan, make, create, write, photo, zibzabberydoo on demand, at will!, and tomorrow, I have to return to work. How do I keep the faucet at this level of preparedness?

Ugh. It is the Return To Work Malaise.

Xena just yawns. Stretches. Rolls over. Looks at me. I guess enlightenment will not be happening today.

Bienvenue, Ségolène

2008-10-18T18:32:00.047-06:00

De temps en temps, je publie des histoires d'une femme qui habite dans un monde parallèle. Ces contes merveilleux se passent à Paris ou cette dame habite en ce moment. J’ai crée cette série, au début, pour un cours de français que j’ai suivi. Á la fin, je ne suis pas prête à la laisser tomber. Donc, voila, on commence avec le premier chapitre.

Le Premier Jour

J’ai décidé d’écrire un journal intime puis que j’ai récemment déménagé dans un nouvel apparte - ment. Je m’appelle Ségolène Legrand et j’ai 45 ans mais tous mes amis pensent que je suis beaucoup plus jeune que ça. Peut-être que c’est parce que je ne fais pas les choses comme les autres femmes qui ont le même âge.

J’ai une vie assez intéressante comme je suis une artiste qui adore les nuites blanches. Je fais la peinture et aussi la sculpture mais c’est très difficile pour moi de les faire pendant la journée. Bien, voilà, c’est pour cette raison que je ne dors pas comme une femme typique. Je passe presque toute la nuit avec mes idées et mes travaux.

De temps en temps, j’invite mes amis chez moi pour l’inspiration. Ce n’est pas ma faute si les soirées ne commencent pas avant minuit – c’est la vie d’une artiste, n’est pas ?

Je pense que j’ai un style propre et assez joli. Mes cheveux sont longs, très longs, juste à ma taille. Ils sont presque toujours tressés parce que c’est plus simple de l’avoir comme ça. Ils sont noirs, très noirs, la couleur de la nuit sans les étoiles ou d’un grand piano de concert. J’ai des yeux verts, très verts, la couleur de graminée ou la mer sur les îles tropiques. Je suis assez grande, comme mon nom de famille, presque 1.6 mètres.

Je ne porte pas souvent mes chaussures, mais quand je les ai portés, je préfère les escarpins avec les hauts talons.

Presque toujours, je porte une tunique avec des caleçons. J’adore, aussi, les chapeaux. J’ai une collection de presque 500 chapeaux parce que ma meilleure amie est modiste. Elle fait les beaux chapeaux spécialement pour moi et tous que j’en ai sont originaux. Je ne me maquille pas beaucoup, mais j’utilise un crayon du contour pour mes yeux. J’aime, aussi, des rouges à lèvres éclatantes.

J’habite toute seule dans mon nouvel appartement, en fait, pas exactement toute seule. J’adore les oiseaux inséparables; j’ai cinq paires de ces créatures mignonnes. J’espère que mes voisins vont les adorer comme je les adore, mais sinon, c’est dommage. Elles sont comme mes enfants et c’est vrai, je parle avec mes oiseaux parce qu’elles aiment la conversation.

Je n’ai pas un mari ni un fiancé et ça marche bien pour moi. Je peux manger ce que je veux quand je veux et je fais ce que je veux quand je veux. Je me suis presque marié avec quelqu’un il y a dix ans, mais j’ai changé d’avis et je crois que c’était la meilleure décision de ma vie. En ce moment, je sors souvent avec un homme qui j’aime beaucoup. En fait, j’ai trois hommes qui j’aime beaucoup, et j’imagine qu’un jour je vais peut-être obliger d’en choisir.

Mais pas encore.

Sculpture Tuesday

2008-10-14T17:36:00.006-06:00

While I am traveling, I tend to spend most of my time actually traveling. The proof of the trip comes later, as memories. I've been thinking, lately, about some stunning sculptures that I saw over the summer. In June, I spent a long afternoon in the National Archeology Museum of Athens. Yes, Athens, Greece.

As someone who never tires of the magic of sculpture, this place delighted me. Sculpture is bold. The curator of this portion of the museum understood that the lifelikeness of these pieces would be best appreciated against the stark contrast of color. Since I haven't been feeling particularly lifelike in recent days, I've been in search of sources of delight. I find myself returning to these photos and that afternoon and am the happier for it. Who says that most travel photos are never seen again?

Unappreciated Philosopher

2008-10-09T17:35:00.012-06:00

It is high time we explore the genius that is Timbaland. I know, you're probably wondering why it so imperatively needs to happen at this precise moment. Is understanding Timbaland going to help us to solve our current Apocalyptic Financial Meltdown of Doom? Probably not. Has Timbaland created a new source of alternative fuel, the details of which are to be found in one of his collaborations with another Very Powerful Pop Star? Clearly. Will combing through his lyrical stylings help undecided voters to finally make up their minds in this very critical US election? Well, I won't rule that out just yet. It will definitely entertain me for the next 15 minutes, and, really, that is the only rationale that I need.

It is useful to realize that for our analysis, we will only be examining songs where Timbaland is featured. While this great philosopher has made some of his own music, his best pearls don't seem to be found there.

Consider the following:

I'm out a time and all I got is 4 minutes. Jicka Jicka. FOUR MINUTES!

JICKA JICKA!

Break down.

JICKA JICKA!

Listen for that in this song:

But wait, some of his more infleuntial sounds are in this video:

It's been a long time, we shouldn't of left you, without a dope beat to step to.
Breecka Breecka, baby girl, UH!

BREECKA BREECKA!

I suppose what it really boils down to is this: I like Timbaland's little nonsensical noises. They make me laugh. I wish I could hire him to walk around with me, all day long, and when I would give him the special signal, he would make one of those sounds. It would be punctuated by that eye rolling thing that he does.

That gets me every time. Jicka Jicka. Baby girl, UH!

Today's Forecast

2008-10-08T11:29:00.005-06:00

The Tractor Speaks

I don’t like this grasshopper body.
I’m constant, I tremble, others use me,
a slave of the land. I tear open and lay flat.
Through me runs a shaft of painful, serene
transmission. It’s hard to drag
a cow to its grave. I’ve already injured
a leg. I hate the weight of the trailer.
Five years and I still don’t understand these
grimy parts that turn inside me.
At least the power shovel roars
(I love her). Scrap iron makes me shudder.

© 1978, António Osório
© Translation: 2008, Richard Zenith

Magnificent Moments of the Mundane

2008-10-07T20:59:00.029-06:00

On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, I walk, in the early morning, from the corner of 4th Avenue and University to the Education Building on the U of A campus. If you come out and watch as I perform this amazing activity (I manage to do it without an Ipod!) -- I'll tell you all about the thoughts with which I entertained myself as I drove down I-10 en route to putting my car in the same parking place that seems to always be available, as though it were expecting me.

If you prefer, I'll narrate the route for you, as we stroll. I might be wearing shoes. Maybe not. You'll likely be impressed with the black leatheriness of my feet. Maybe not. You may suggest that the application of a belt sander will be the only way to return my soles to a state more closely resembling humanity. I likely will tell you that I prefer my feet to remain as hooves, able to successfully traverse any terrain.

You may remove your shoes, just to show off your own perfectly manicured toes and heels, in an attempt to convince me of the merits of your argument. I'll praise their beauty but quietly feel sorry for their softness. You would never be able to walk from the front door of my house to the mailbox without third degree burns, let alone walk barefoot along 15 downtown blocks because you have a blister; you would suffer the pain of your shoes instead. You'd have to. Nope, I'll shake my head to myself, this person, they may never be able to fully live here, with their fancy city feet. All the same, though, we can still walk together, in a grand demonstration of bi-partisanship: the rough heeled hand-in-hand with the genteel heeled.

Perhaps you have to go to work and can't walk with me on these mornings. Maybe you live far, far away, and walking with me would cost several hundred dollars to arrange. You just don't have the money to do it right now, but, how you wish you did. Perhaps you've walked with me before, but never at this particular time or along this particular route and you.just.know that it would be worth it, but, sadly, you just can't this time.

For you, wisher and hoper, I have created the.almost.like.being.here.experience. It will be as though you are here, walking with me. Well, almost.

We'll meet here:

I'll be waiting for you inside Epic Cafe. I'll have already ordered a slice of pie and a medium coffee. It won't be fancy, just plain coffee: lots of half and half and a fistful of sugar since I like it crunchy. You'll probably order a muffin. Maybe a scone. Pie, for you, is just not a breakfast food.

Muffin in hand, you'll look around. Where is she? Oh, over there, by the window. Come on over, I saved you a place.

I'll be watching the sidewalk sitters, who meet on the southwest corner of 4th Avenue every day. I'll tell you all about them. The pirate guy who always wears a bandanna on his head, tied over his right ear, in just such a way that his golden hoop earring is showcased. You'll ask about that circus tattooed ladywoman in the prairie dress. Everyone seems to know her! Is she famous? I'll smile at you and nod. Yes, she is dating Metalhead, that man who is wearing a hat made from hundreds of soda pop tabs, who is also out there. He never sits; he prefers to stand by his bicycle while he drinks his chai tea. You'll wonder how I know his hot beverage preferences and I'll wink at you, 'Everyone knows Metalhead only drinks chai.'

'I feel like a regular here!' You'll proclaim, as you tidy up the last of the crumbs on the table. 'Metalhead likes chai! I know that now!' You'll stand, excited to walk. We'll leave and you'll wave to the sidewalk sitters. They'll cheer and wave back. You'll feel so accepted.

We point ourselves east. You begin to notice the many cats that appear on the sidewalk. You wonder how I know so many of their names. I wouldn't want to ruin that magic for you, so I'll just shrug as you ohh and ahh. All part of the tour. No extra charge.

We'll pass Time Market. There'll be hipsters on the patio. They'll be pretending to read Henry James or Herman Melville or David Eggers novels, making an obvious point of not noticing us. They'll be drinking Naked Juice or peeling hard boiled eggs. They might be blogging on their laptops or going old skool, using a legal pad and a fountain pen to take down their painfully bored observations. You'll admire their cowboy shirts and their 100 % natural hemp messenger bags as we pass by.

The next few blocks are the most beautiful, lined by tremendous craftsmen homes, their porches overflowing with flowering pots and old mesquite trees.

It is in looking into these tucked away porches that I invent the best stories for you. You'll interrupt me and ask, 'Is that a row boat in that front yard?' And, is that a bathtub? With claw feet?' We are quiet now, as we walk slowly. You are curious about what you would find in their back yards. I can see that you are realizing the reason I take this walk has little to do with efficiency or frugality and more with the sense of this place. The dragging pepper tree branches faintly drawing lines on the sidewalk, the aging stucco crumbling from these homes, their corners hidden in shadow, the sagging clothesline holding a single sock-- can this really be in the middle of a city, in the middle of a desert? This isn't how you had imagined it. It is better.

Once we cross Euclid Avenue, you are no longer impressed. This is a cultivated place of commercialism that has nothing to do with the walk. I see you glance over your shoulder, hoping we will return to the lapse that was behind us. How was it possible to move through four blocks in such a few minutes but for the slowness of it?

We have started something now, haven't we? A routine. I see that you'll be walking with me three times each week. We won't talk the next times. Though I do wonder: what happened to your shoes?

Greensleeves: My Favorite Song

2008-10-02T22:29:00.023-06:00

I attended one of the best concerts of my entire life this evening, though no famous rock bands were on the stage. Just a bunch of 7th and 8th grade kids, dressed in hep cat hats and shades, playing jazz in a way that made me want to pick up the old flugelhorn again and do my best Chuck Mangione.

Yeah, I said Chuck Mangione. I was certainly the only high school girl I ever met who even knew about this guy, let alone considered herself a fan. A big fan. Chuck, though, he was just the beginning, the gateway musician who introduced me to the chops of Clifford Brown:

Oh, I wanted to play like that guy. But only if I could have Dizzy Gillespie's horn. And his crazy cheeks.

Don't even get me started on Buddy Rich. That guy's style opened the door to my future in the drumline, wherein I found a.whole.new.level of geekdom.

Or, wow, when I heard Louis Armstrong for the first time? Swoon. Double Swoon. I actually cried when I found out that he had died a full five years before I was born, which meant that I would never have the chance to see him play live.

I've never heard another trumpeter play in such a way where the great time that they were obviously having actually came through the bell of their horn.

In junior high, we generally played the standards. Songs that everyone knew. Everyone. Even my grandpa, who seemed to know every song ever performed by Gene Autry but claimed that music died with him, would hum along in recognition as I would practice every night.

While I was first chair of the trumpet section, I was introduced to the single greatest piece of music ever written (or so I thought at the time): Stars and Stripes Forever. How did Sousa know how to do that? I connected Sousa the man to Sousa the musician and asked my parents to buy for me not only his entire discography for my birthday, but his biography, too, because I needed to know. I loved the way that I felt as I played those notes that he had written. Connected to the universe in a way that was heady and new and quite addicting. It was as though that music wasn't just processed by my ears -- my entire body felt those notes. I wanted more.

Playing music in junior high band made me wonder, for the first time, why most music that I heard on the radio didn't make me feel that way. Yet *that* music was often the impetus that prompted most kids to join school band -- they had big dreams that one day they would be able to play music like that. I wanted no part of it. Real music wasn't the synthesized junk food of the 1980's; it was to be found in the older compositions. The ones that most of my classmates, outside of the small circle of knowing hep cats in band, had never heard. Or if they had, found to be boring. Music for old people and nerds, they would say.

There was a moment, during this concert, in which I knew that the kids on stage were experiencing the exact same feeling of discovery. As some of the crowd so rudely got up to leave mid-performance, a quick game plan discussion was prompted between the students and the director about cutting out one or two songs. Several of the students excitedly stood their ground, 'But we HAVE to play 'A Train,' Sir, we.have.to!'

And, triumphantly, they played on.

Interior Volume in Cubic Feet: 111.5

2008-09-20T13:33:00.025-06:00

I spend a lot of time in my car. Every day, I drive many miles, alone. Some people might find this to be tedious; perhaps they hate spending time trapped in their car. They see traffic as something through which they must suffer. Me, though, I love to drive. The time I have in my car is a gift. Bring on the 195 car freight train -- I'm happy to wait. Two lanes merging into one? Go right ahead, please, I'm waving you in! I see my car as an extension of who I am and one of the most powerful catalysts that furthers my thoughts. I understand the freedom of possibility that a long stretch of road offers, the I.could.go.anywhereness. of it. I have found nothing else in life that promises such delight and so consistently delivers.

I believe that we are all connected by roads, no matter how geography may appear to separate us. You, in Chicago, you aren't that far from here. I've driven that way; it's right around the corner. You, in Vancouver, you're as close as the on-ramp at Cortaro and I-10. It might be a few days before we see each other, but I'm almost there. Even you, in Shanghai. There may be a big puddle between us, but between here and the airport is a road that keeps us feeling close.

I fall in love in my car. With music, with the future of me, with the landscape, with the stories that I hear on NPR, with a particular thought that starts to loop around my mind as I drive. The time that I spend, hand on the wheel, or just as often, knee, looks like this album cover. Released just last week, Calexico has made a soundtrack for driving in Tucson. I am that girl on the cover, driving ever forward, down the road. Just look:

In discussing this new album, Joey Burns talked about the loneliness that pervades Downtown Tucson and his desire to capture that in these songs. It isn't just there, where loneliness lives. It stems from the way that the bleached sky of this town makes me feel alone. Or the way that those mannequin heads sit in the Wig-O-Rama storefront window, their hair so precisely arranged in alien colors. Or in the passenger seats of the cars driven by those individual people, slowly cruising down Congress on their way to some other place. Malaise is always portrayed by gray cloudy mornings, wet and cold, the shell of a person in their raincoat, head tucked away from the rain, clomping forward. That is not loneliness or solitude. Not really. Loneliness, as desert rats know, lives under the unrelenting heat of the sun. It is the light that cracks the dirt and fades this world to shades of au. Mauve. Taupe.

There is more to it, though. Consider the sunset:

It has a profound distance to it. The sky feels very far away from my feet in the wash, which, in turn makes me feel like the very small speck that I am. It is in trying to understand this vastness that I love long roads, time alone, melting adobe buildings, punishing sun and geographical distance. This is what it means to drive in my car.

I'm Voting For Real Change

2008-09-16T19:01:00.002-06:00

And so can you!

Procrastinating Keeps Me Very Busy

2008-09-13T15:06:00.005-06:00

Many things are becoming clear to me now:

I Came In Here For A Story

2008-09-12T16:05:00.029-06:00

I have a job. It isn't a job that I like, really. It doesn't fulfill me. Luckily, I do not expect it to. What I actually do (or am paid to do) and where I find the fun in my work day are two separate issues.

I have an office. In my office, I have a collection of things that I like. They are not at all related to my job; I just like them. My coworkers find these things fascinating and will often stop by, just to look at them. They pick them up, bringing them close to their eyes, turning them over and over in their hands. 'Where do you find these things?' They always wonder. I can tell that they want to ask if they can keep this thing that they have in their hands. They never do, though. Because as adults, we are trained not to ask those kinds of questions.

People also come into my office to ask me to tell them a story. I guess I am that person at work who thinks about the world and then will make a joke about it. Or, at the very least, a Lake Wobegon observation. Most of the time, the only person who laughs at these jokes is me. I don't mind admitting that I think that I am the most entertaining person I know; I feel sorry for other people who have not yet realized this fact.

Today is a particularly boring day, one in which I have a reduced amount of energy due to reasons that, themselves, are tedious. I find myself waiting for something interesting to happen. As is often the case, nothing does. So, I'm forced to imagine myself stuck in a ditch, with nothing to do, and many hours in which my only source of amusement will have to be self-generated.

A coworker stands in my doorway. 'Isn't today just so painfully boring?' She asks. 'I know that you have been thinking about something. Just don't tell me that story about the tree trunks again.'

She was alluding to a story I'd told her several months ago about some rather shapely tree trunks that I had noticed while driving down a particularly well manicured street. I had rhapsodized about these trunks on more than one occasion. Apparently, she was not as enamored with sexy tree trunks as I was.

'How about a song?' I offered. Not just any song. One about the bald/hairy pattern of Russian leaders. 'This entertained me all day yesterday!' I told her. ALL.DAY! But NPR didn't stop there. No, they then decided to wrangle up a pig farmer with a tube of Ruby Red lipstick, and send him out into a field. It was a fantastic day to be in the car, even if I was bereft of my cd book.

She continued to look at me expectantly. Apparently, I was still on the hook.

Much to her likely chagrin, I can always talk about how much I love to take photos of older people. For some reason, I am emboldened to do this only while I travel. I began to show her some of these photos, telling her the way that I had sneakily snapped the picture without them noticing me.

In Rome:

In Athens:

On Mt. Pilatus:

In Burano:

In the harbor, on the Island of Capri:

In the lagoon of Venice:

In Murano:

In Lucerne:

In Las Vegas:

In Ski Valley, on Mt. Lemmon:

Rocking Oktoberfest:

Making sauerkraut:

After her eyes started to water, I sent her on her way. She just thought she wanted to hear a story.

Robots In The Family

2008-09-03T18:53:00.015-06:00

It's now official. My mom is part robot. This device is her super fantastic new knee -- just installed today! She wasn't amused when I suggested that she should consider participating in the Miss America Pageant, since they now accept participants with, gasp, scars. I did get a tiny smile when I congratulated her for winning six months worth of free ballroom dancing lessons, though she did ask me how much I had paid for that and whether or not the gift certificate was non-refundable. I asked her if they had taken any x-rays of her cool new robotic parts to which she merely rolled her eyes and then pretended to fall asleep. Hopefully it will look awesome, like this:

I bet that she will be very excited to see the motivational poster that I made, which includes all of the activities that she can now do with her brand new body part:

Though this is frowned upon:

This would be perfectly acceptable:

And:

And probably even this:

She could even start a new hobby:

But this position is not allowed:

She is going to be pretty bummed out when she discovers that she won't be able to do this:

Or this:

I'll wait to tell her until she is freshly doped up again, in about 2.5 hours.

Since she has another knee that may, someday, need a similar operation, and she loves to save money, I'm going to learn how to do it myself. I even have the anesthesia issue resolved:

As cool as robot parts are, there is one other thing that I wish she would consider:

Get well soon, Mom!

Good Work, Karl!

2008-08-27T13:50:00.009-06:00

A great big congratulations to Karl, my lime tree, for producing his very first lime, ever! It is just a baby now, but in a few short months, it will be ready to debut as enhancement to a bottle of Caguama beer. Hopefully my grape vines see this as encouragement and will start working more fruitfully toward production. Fantastic job, Karl! I knew you could do it!

Call Me, Italian Spiderman

2008-08-22T12:49:00.003-06:00

Cinematic genius!

And if that isn't enough -- the theme song!

I love today.

Take That, Papa Schluempfe

2008-08-18T10:39:00.006-06:00

Assassination of The Jerk: The Sequel

2008-08-15T10:53:00.019-06:00

When the alarm went off this morning, I was fairly certain that this was just going to be another day on the hamster wheel. My day was probably going to look like this:

Though I'm not certain things have improved, per se, they are certainly starting to change:

In fact, since I have called the exterminator, a crushing admission of defeat, frankly, I'm kind of hoping for this to happen once he arrives:

See, I've been playing hide and seek with a rodent. This game started last summer, when I noticed a tarantula hole along one of the walls in the back yard. I was thrilled! Tarantulas are not only cool, but they are also awesome. Some might even say, well, super awesome. Their holes look like this:

Tarantulas, in all their glory, look like this:

Since I am such a friend to nature, I decided to pour a tiny bit of water into the hole to see if the tarantula would pop out. I had no intention of actually killing the spider; I merely wanted a good look at it. One cannot give a tarantula a suitable name unless one has actually personally seen the individual in question. I began making a mental list of possible tarantula names. Tula. Tim. Trevor. Tina. Tristram Shandy. I slowly started to add water to the hole, excited to be naming the first tarantula ever to be seen in my back yard.

When a rodent bolted out and ran across my foot, however, I screamed and started to worry about hantavirus. After concluding that I was having trouble breathing not because I was in the last stages of drowning in my own lung fluids but because I was panicking, I turned the hose on full blast and created a cement-like tomb of the hole. The dirt in my back yard is chemically the same as most concretes; to activate it and make sidewalks, only water is required. Not useful when cultivating a garden. Very useful when entombing a rodent.

Of course, this was merely a laughable obstacle in the life of The Jerk, which is how I started to refer to the rodent. My mother began calling for daily updates about my dealings with The Jerk, so often did I worry about the looming threat of death from hantavirus. She would reassure me that short of putting my face into the hole of the rodent, stirring it up and then breathing deeply, it was unlikely that I would contract hantavirus. It was a good effort on her part, but I really never believed her. Ask anyone. It was clear to me that the mouse had to go or I would die a painful death brought on not by scurvy, which had been my dream disease, but hantavirus. Ick.

Anyway, The Jerk, thinking that he was Jason Bourne, started to move his holes around the back yard. He dug a hole underneath a flower pot. Instant entombment via garden hose. Next, a new hole under the wood pile. Not only did this give me good reason to have a bonfire and eliminate his little nest, entombment via bleach was the obvious next step in the war.

After a few weeks of obsessive perimeter checking at all hours of the day and night, hopes that that I had finally killed The Jerk started to grow -- the yard had remained hole free. Until I found a new hole, in the front yard, prompting the Poison Battle of 2007. Nothing was out of bounds in this war: nail polish remover, Avon's Skin So Soft, Comet, Ajax, laundry soap, shaving cream, oven cleaner, Windex, kerosene, human urine, old paint, toilet cleaner, dishwasher soap, paint thinner. Finally, he either gave up and moved away, or died. Either way, I won.

As of a few days ago, I had been telling the story of my epic victory to anyone who would listen. And then I noticed the new hole, right underneath the faucet next to the garage. The Jerk had returned.

I was ready -- lye went into his hole, followed by water followed by heavy destruction of the hole via shovel. I was cautiously optimistic that this would be the end of him.

How I underestimated this new soldier.

The Jerk moved into the backyard, digging a hole next to the sliding glass door, in full view of all of my cats. Who, by the way, received an immediate reduction in pay for not bringing this transgression to my attention. I brought out two trays of tempting poison pellets, certain that The Jerk could not refuse the heady ambrosial smell. He responded by digging another hole underneath one of the trays.

This morning, I poured an entire gallon of bleach into both holes and then smashed all of the surrounding dirt into a compact mass. Within twenty minutes, The Jerk had redug another hole, mere centimeters from the last one. It is clear that this new version of the The Jerk is a Cylon. He has downloaded all of his knowledge into a new, super powerful rodent body, and just.won't.die. I think that he knows that I have both choco-mint cookies in the pantry as well as a can of cherry pie filling and he is determined to have his share.

So here I am. Waiting for the exterminator. My pride punched full of holes. My morale causing my head to hang in shame. Perhaps, though, this is actually a sign of a strong general. Maybe I just need fresh troops. Yes -- this thing will end. I will again be victorious, soon planting a spike with The Jerk's corpse dangling in the wind, as a warning to other rebel Cylon rodents. I will defeat him.

Note: Check out the fantastic art of Graham Roumieu, who has clearly also done battle with rodents. My money says that he won, too.

An Apology To My Next Door Neighbor

2008-08-13T09:22:00.017-06:00

It has become too boorishly tiresome to complain -- at heart, I am a rare visitor to the Land of Frustration and Anger. I much prefer a good solution; it makes moving on that much more satisfying and simple. When that doesn't work, I can always turn up the volume on Ignore.

Lately, and by that, I mean the last, oh, two and a half years, I've not been able to let go of the fact that I work with someone whom I find deeply frustrating. While I realize it is not at all her fault; everyone happens to have a Work Place Nemesis and she is mine, something has to be done. No more complaining. No more whining. No more! I just can't stand listening to myself on this topic any more.

Last night, I was inspired. I just need An Angry Mix CD. It was obvious, really. Sure, George can soothe my feathers after even the most trying of days, but a loud-angry-guitar-screaming-angst-festival is better suited to this particular purpose. It was just so obvious I couldn't see it. I'll modestly say it is some of my best work to date -- really, since the days of cassette tapes and late night Test Department Shows on KLPX with Susie Dunn. Yeah, That.Good.

It is so fantastic that, after giving it a trial listen at 1:00 am, I couldn't sleep for another two hours. Heck, I could go into war after listening to this. Or at least jump into the ring with a WWF fake wrestler. Probably be able to shoo away a Jehovah Witness who rings my doorbell on an early Saturday morning -- even if she looked just like my Nana. Workplace Nonsense? Hi-yah!

Track List of Doom:

Queens of the Stone Age - You Think I Ain't Worth A Dollar But I Feel Like A Millionaire
Linkin Park - Faint
Fugazi - Merchandise
Pearl Jam - Go
Limp Bizkit - Break Stuff
And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead... - Caterwaul
Live - Lakini's Juice
Alice in Chains - Would?
Beastie Boys - Sabotage
Clipse - When The Last Time
Rage Against The Machine - Know Your Enemy
Ludacris- Stand Up
The Prodigy - Poison
The Gossip - Fire With Fire
Fiona Apple - Fast As You Can
Gogol Bordello - Dogs Were Barking
Kings of Leon - On Call
Ben Folds - Rockin' The Suburbs

Just in case you wanted to make one for yourself.

New Year, New Obsession

2008-08-06T11:26:00.008-06:00

I'm fairly certain that I am in the middle of birthing a brand new obsession. Scurvy, evil eyes, the perfect piece of cherry pie -- y'all are going to have to ride in the back seat for a spell. I'm welcoming Big Foot and Yeti into the front seat.

I have to admit, I've been wondering about a mysterious sound that I'll occasionally hear in the middle of the night, which seems to come from the back yard. I used to think it was just the army of ants who have sworn a blood oath against me, staging a new formation in their tiny theater of war. It has become increasingly clear, however, that I have no conclusive evidence to support this assertion. However, as I do have a window, a home computer set up next to said window, a digital camera, and, since I regularly stop at Target as part of my daily sacraments, I can easily buy a microphone -- the analysis is set to begin soon!

If it is what I think it could be:

I no longer have to do anything more to 'advance' my current career. The new course will be obvious -- like Brian Epstein, I'll ride the coattails of this new super group to fame, fortune, and, what's another 'f' word that will work here? Yes -- federalism. No. Fourierism! Yes! Fame, Fortune and Fourierism!

Until then, I have a yeti to shave.

I'll Take a Rain Check

2008-08-05T10:31:00.007-06:00

It is that time again. Pencils. Paper. Long lines at Target. Crazed suburban stay-at-home moms dueling to the death over the last $1.49 stapler on the rack, their children learning a valuable lesson in elbowing and dagger eyeballs. Lurking motorcycle cops, seemingly cloned overnight. The random seasonal 'college' furniture display in the grocery store, which, really, who actually buys a room-sized rug from Fry's? "Let's see, eggs, milk, rum, toilet paper, ohhh! A room-sized rug! In grey and red! With a 1/16th inch pile. For only $60! I know it wasn't really on my list, but it is such a great deal!' Setting the alarm clock every night -- then checking it 2,000 times to make certain that it is set to the radio station that I like, the one that plays classical music, not classic rock. Going to bed at a reasonable hour.

I'm not ready.

It is only Tuesday, Day Two of the New School Year, and I am just not ready. I want a rebate coupon on my summer. Can't I have just another week? There is just so much I meant to do!

I suppose it does make logical sense, though, to end the summer at this point. Heck, even George Michael has returned to Europe for the final three shows of his concert tour. But still. I haven't yet done it all. I have a few more items on my list.

What about the rest of my Europe Trip photos? Some of them still need to be uploaded to Costco's Photo Center. It isn't just that, though. They have to be printed so that I can collate them into their proper albums. I was going to select the best ones and frame them. I even bought the frames. On Sale! I can't possibly return to work with that looming over my head!

And, my bookcase! I was going to sell my entire collection of Psychology Books. I had finally come to terms with the idea that my collection of Classical Therapeutic Literature was never going to actually have a starring role in the background of a therapist's office in a film version of The Sopranos, even though I happen to know of a therapist who was able to rent her books to a movie studio to provide just such authenticity. I get it, Universe, most film production crews don't know or care about the fact that I have a well-rounded bookcase with such super-stars as Rollo May and Piaget, covering topics pertinent to the entire human life span. I was going to figure out a way to sell them all, though. Oh no, returning to work with that task still on the agenda does not bode well. I'll come home from work, and there they will be, staring at me. Making me feel guilty for keeping them trapped on the shelf, where I no longer feel impressed with their titles and classic binding. They could have a home with some other person. Someone more enthusiastic and appreciative. Instead, they are stuck here, gathering dust, feeling unloved. A bad omen, indeed.

I never spent an entire day on the couch, reading a book, dirty dishes gathering around me.

Or baking a batch of cookies from a new recipe that was both healthy and delicious.

Or deep-frying egg rolls that I had made from scratch. I just never got to do that this summer.

Or getting a massage. I had sworn up and down and all around the town that this was the summer I was going to get a weekly massage -- because I'm worth it, don'tchaknow?

Or do 30 Days of Pilates. My abs are only going to go downhill from here -- in fact, I think my posture is starting to suffer. Am I growing shorter? Great -- I'm starting a new school year and I'm shorter. Perfect.

What about organizing the garage? Well, maybe next year, I guess. That one I can, in good faith, let go. I hadn't really believed myself when I promised to do that. Plus, I was crossing my fingers, so I'm pretty certain that doesn't count. Right?

And my blog! I have all of these great stories about my fantastic adventures from this summer. Are they anywhere on this blog? Nope. Not even a photo. For all anybody knows, I made a tent out of blankets and camped under my dining room table all summer.

Did I say one week? I need nine. Nine weeks. At least.

Make-a-Wish Foundation -- You're Off the Hook!

2008-03-24T17:43:00.017-07:00

OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD!

This is the best Monday ever. EVER, ever! Ever, in the entire history of ever.

I just found out that I no longer have to get leukemia in order to access the Make-A-Wish Foundation to just see George Michael in concert. He is actually going to be touring the United States and Canada this very summer.

Back to breathing in and out of the paper sack.

George Micheal. My dream man since I was nine years old.

I.can't.hardly.believe.it.

I'm thinking about going on tour with him... ok, maybe not *with* him, per se. Not actually in his plane or tour bus or hover craft, though I am certainly not opposed to that. (Call me, George Michael's people, I am a great road tripper! I know all of the best places to stop for pie and flea circuses!)

No, I was thinking I would follow him from city to city and blog about it. I do have the entire summer off. It could be the Best Road Trip Of All Time (TM) -- a quiet yet oddly extroverted when-placed-in-the-proper-circumstances girl, following the best singer in the universe as he traverses North America. The possibilities of hilarity are endless. I could stop in a ghost town, meet some local folk, toodle through a used bookstore, glam myself up for the night, and then be in the front row, cheering! The next day, back on the road, after a slice of coconut cream pie at the local diner, my giant coffee tankard overflowing, my camera battery freshly charged. My Pontiac Vibe ever ready and eager to transport me to the next venue. Ohhh, it could be magical.

Note to John Mayer -- I'm sorry, John. We've had a great run. I loved your first tour through Mesa. I was impressed both times in Tucson. I personally booed that idiot who threw a water bottle at your head and was ready to chase them down through the crowd of supportive boyfriends who bought your concert tickets for their swooning girlfriends and amputate their blasphemous arms. I own all of your cd's and never once illegally downloaded so much as an mp3 of your music. I'd even decided to look past that time that you decided to date Jessica Simpson. I didn't understand it at the time, but now I get it. She's blond and enthusiastic. I get it, really. George and I, though, we go way back. He was there for me that first time that one of my jerk childhood friends made fun of my shoes. He cheered me up when I was stood up. He and Aretha made the most fantastic song about optimism that I have yet to hear -- I know and believe that the valley is low, and nothing stopped me. I'm sure you can understand.

Come, let's look at some photos:

And why not? Some very excellent videos:

I guess every singer from the 80's had to experiment with rapping:

Fast Love:

Flawless:

Too Funky:

I'm Your Man:

Edge of Heaven:

Freedom:

Praying For Time:

These Are The Days of Our Lives:

Somebody to Love:

Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me -- Just ignore that other guy.

Monkey

The sunglasses and shorts crack me up every time: Club Tropicana

The very best television commercial that you have likely never seen:

Foux de fa fa!

2008-01-21T17:11:00.001-07:00

I'm a little obsessed:

Foux de fa fa!

I should be studying Algerian politics, the latest updates on Arizona Standards of Education and cooking an apple crumble pie. Mais, non.

Voila -- le conversation a la parc!

Just Me and My Clone

2008-01-15T15:52:00.001-07:00

I've been thinking about cloning.

I've always said that I would be the happiest girl in the world if I could just have a clone of myself made. I would send her off to do the things that I find distasteful.

She could have lab work done and get her cholesterol tested. She could throw up on the phlebotomist's shoes and have the dentist tell her that it is all in her mind, this terrible fear of needles that she has. She would probably really like to return 100 phone messages. Washing the dishes is just as fun as finding that the back of her pants have been covered in cat hair for most of the day. This clone, she likes to wear all of the clothes that I should wear but I am too lazy to iron. Not only would she press them, she would use the fancy linen water, making them smell like Egypt in the Spring time.

My clone, she never procrastinates. She always pays all of her bills on time, especially the electric bill, and knows exactly which movie will be arriving from Netflix before they even send out a reminder email. I know my clone would have a green thumb and will be able to finally answer the question of why the marigolds on the right side of the yard have grown so much faster and taller than the marigolds on the left side of the garden. She will even know how to make perfect tarts! She would never buy lemon filling -- she would make it herself, using the juice of snow lemons from a tree that she cultivated from a tiny clipping that she brought back from a tiny hilltop village in Spain.

I would bring my clone along to parties and she would tell charming stories about my foibles. I probably wouldn't like that very much and might not invite her along the next time. She would begin to resent me, but wouldn't say anything about it. She might open a new credit card at K-Mart and secretly begin purchasing little things from Martha Stewart's Home line. It would be unlikely that I would notice at first -- that Martha Stewart, she makes some lovely blue tea-towels. This would irritate my clone, and she would buy new tires and home appliances. She would check the mail before I had a chance to, pulling out the credit card bill. She would hide it, along with the past due notices. Suddenly, I would have a terrible credit score and my kitchen accessories would be repossessed by the bank. My clone would glare at me as I realized that she was ruining my life.

I would have no choice. I would have to eat her.

At least the FDA agrees with me.

Cue The Spooky Vineyard Music

2007-11-24T21:23:00.001-07:00

I'm amused by the idea that the scary, scrawny, writhing guy with a spinal tattoo of a huge scorpion who famously sang: 'Learn to swim, I'll see you down in Arizona bay....' is now the proud owner of Caduceus Wines in Northern Arizona. I'm generally not the star-struck kind, but there is a certain roadside attraction quality to the idea of this place. It is all the more appealing considering one of his bottles is called 'Chupacabra,' or goat sucker. If the wine has anything in common with that craziness, well, it might just be good. Or at least quite red.

Forty Six and Two

Cold And Ugly

Aenima

What next? Rob Zombie is going to open an upscale Hollywood Baby Boutique for newly expectant starlets such as Nicole Richey and Christina Aguilera? Rachel Ray will design a new line of household goods for Emo Kids? This just might work.

Jive Turkey

2007-11-20T17:33:00.000-07:00

One day until Thanksgiving.

I like this holiday. No presents. Nothing too churchy. Just family and friends and a pair of really big pants and the goal of being prone on the floor, so full that the only noise possible is this one:

Gluuuuhhh.

I'm in charge of the yams this year. This is exciting, since I am a Super Yam Fan. In years past, all manner of yam atrocities have been committed - marshmallows, nuts, pineapple, apples, brown sugar, corn, lemons, coconut, orange zest, raisins. Not this year. Nope, I'm making Baptist Lady Yam Pie. It will be so fantastic that I am thinking about making some right.this.moment.

In other news, I've been talking like a robot from the 70's today. I've noticed that using a fake accent (this robot is from Ukraine) makes me feel more creative. I've been looking for a link that properly illustrates exactly how one could replicate this sound, but to no avail. Instead, I got sidetracked and listened to a series of Neko Case songs.

Hold On, Hold On

That Teenage Feeling

Which made me think about the Ditty Bops:

Wishful Thinking

Which made me think of Mike Doughty:

27 Jennifers

Which made me think about that surfer who recently explained the way the world works, but charmingly couched in 'Whoa Dude' Speak:

Just goes to show you that sleeping in a yurt really is the way to go.

Which then made me remember that I've been meaning to listen to the absolute best Andrew Bird song that I like so much, which, in turn, always makes me think of Anita Blake, Vampire Slayer:

Fake Palindromes

This, friends, is exactly the way that my mind works.

The Third Best Day of the Year

2007-11-05T15:57:00.000-07:00

All Souls Procession 2007

I look forward to this event all.year.long. It fulfills some of the key elements of any great fantasy: Walking in a parade, waving to onlookers as though I am the Queen of Holland, wearing a fantastic costume for which I already had the belly dancer's coin belt, feeling both famous and anonymous at the same time, and being amongst my kin -- those who find it completely reasonable to dress in costume and walk down the street for several miles and then go out to dinner on the other side of town.

Oh -- you want to see photos? Above, we have the lighting of the urn. Filled with prayers, hopes, wishes and messages to the dead, this is the reason for the parade. All 10,000 of us walked behind it, some more jingly jangly than others. Of course, it was the grand finale, but I'm just so proud of this photo. Brassai, anyone?

Media from the event -- the videos and slide shows capture the grander scheme of things. One cannot simultaneously participate and photograph 10,000 people. I tried.

One of the best quotes from the Procession: 'Yeah -- the bellydancers always slow things down. It doesn't matter how many times we wait for them to catch up, they just can't help it. This year, several groups from Vegas flew in for the event. We recruited extra volunteers to keep them moving." Dang those slow bellydancers.

Le singe est sur la branche

2007-10-21T00:36:00.001-06:00

While working on a Power Point Presentation for one of my classes, I got a little distracted. Don't tell anyone, but my middle name is Procrastination.

While we're on the topic of PPP's, as they are known in the more erudite circles, I have to say they do nothing for me. I can recall sitting in an undergraduate class watching slide after slide of whistling and beeping material wishing that I had a hearing aide with a dead battery. It wasn't the case, of course. Somehow, my education has not been enhanced by the introduction of fancy slides. One day, though, all students will be unable to learn unless the material comes directly from a computer. It is true -- I learned it in teacher school this week. Me and my graphic black board fantasies are doomed.

Yet, I digress. The real issue is the video that I found that prompted this post. My friends, I give you:

Eddie Izzard Speaks French

And yes, I am the President of Burundi.

I Hear You

2007-10-17T14:32:00.000-06:00

There are just some days when I want all of my time for me. ME. I don't have any charitable feelings available for anyone, no desire to do any sort of mindless work for my classes, nothing. All I have, on days such as this, is the willingness to give in to the call of my own muse. She comes on the wind, ringing the chimes and blasting day old blossoms from the bushes. Most days, I fight her off. Shoo her away with my 'I'll do it laters' and wine drinking and reading of other people's books. I piddle hours away in my garden, artfully clipping vines Mr. Miyagi style and stalking ants. I spend too much time online, giving away travel advice or looking up dirty Latin phrases that keep me giggling for hours. Nerd that I am.

Catullus Poems 30-45

Martial Book III .69-76

Today, though, I am in the hidey-hole. Writing up a tornado. Making myself ignore the million other things that natter in my ear, whip at my back, grind away at the peace that comes from sitting and making. Oh no, I won't clean out the closet today. I refuse to feel badly about that one wall that needs some touch-up paint. I am ignoring the bags of potting soil that are creating an eye sore and likely a safe haven for the dump truck sized mouse that has taken up residence in the back yard. Today, fingers of distraction, you are being left to pester someone else.

This is for my own good.

2007-10-01T21:11:00.000-06:00

After staring at my computer screen for what seems like 100 million years, I've noticed it helps to make a sound like this: BLEGGGGHHHHARRGHHHGRRR.

At least, that is the sound that I am making quite often these days, since I started my online classes. Anyone who tells you that it is so much more convenient to take a class online than to spend the time in an actual classroom has absolutely no idea what they are talking about. Sure, it eliminates having to listen to the insipid comments of intellectually inferior classmates, saves me the trouble of hypnotically observing their bizarre simian fidget behavior throughout class and I won't have notebooks filled with the number of times the lecturer says certain words, like 'um' or 'gee' or 'amputation.' Ok, yes, I can sit at my computer in my underwear if I feel like it. I can post my required three comments on the discussion board drunk -- Word will catch all of my spelling and grammatical mistakes. I can click through posts that are meaningless or misspelled or clearly written by Gulag inmates sharing only a stick and one finger between them, with no obvious understanding of the English language. I know. Really. And yes, I did willingly sign up for this exercise in irritation. I even paid money to be in these classes.

Gadzooks. It has become clear to me that the intelligent life forms who are out there are not in any of my classes. I'm getting another beer.

Whiskers on Kittens

2007-09-06T15:34:00.002-06:00

Dear Universe,

I realize that I was more than snarky for most of yesterday. I feel repentant. Sort of.

Don't take away any more of my brownie points -- I know you already know my transgressions. I list them at my own peril.

Yes, I complained about my neighbor's dogs, retelling the story about the time that a door to door exterminator rang the bell and I asked if, as part of their new customer special, they could include dogs in the package that sent my ants and spiders to arthropod heaven. I gleefully laughed about it all over again.

I whined about the stupid things that people I know are doing, right this minute.

I did impressions of some of my work mates. Mean impressions, that, upon reflection, probably did not illuminate their better sides. I suppose that even though they share most of their DNA with monkeys does not actually mean that they are monkeys.

While I did have a beer in my hand by 3:45 pm, and it may have been my second beer of the afternoon, I am not entirely certain that this warrants apology. I leave it to you, universe, to decide that. In my own defense, though, I did go to work extra early yesterday and studies show that getting out of bed early can be detrimental to one's health. I'm just sayin'. Maybe my heart was hurting.

After listening to several hours of Rage Against the Machine, eating 2.3 panninis, crunching up 4 pounds of ice with my teeth and doing some therapeutic vacuuming, I've come up with a list of things that I both like and appreciate. Which, according to my calculations, should just about right the balance of foul stinking negativity that I ash clouded into the world yesterday.

Toaster Pastries - Filled with cheesy goodness and pre-packaged with tiny tubes of frosting, they guarantee a good start to a happier day. Eat two for best results.

Cherry Pie Filling - Need I say more?

Hurricane Leftovers - Sure, big storms with scary names like Dean and Henriette make ruin in their paths. You would too, if saddled with names like Henriette and Dean. Once they work out all that wrath upon the coast and reach Arizona, they are mild mannered little pussy cats, with hearts made of gooey chocolate chip cookies and rain that caresses, not catastrophizes.

The Hardiness of Mint - It survives the boot camp that is my backyard and thrives. Chewed on by ants? No problem. Infested with aphids? Pshaw! Too much sun? So? Not enough water? Who cares. Still delicious in mojitos? But of course.

$4.99 six packs of beer at Trader Joe's AND $3.00 bottles of Chilean wine - Why yes, I do have good taste in cheap alcohol. You aren't the first to say so. Tee-hee. Hic.

The funky imported Asian tea aisle - I didn't know I needed Lotus Placenta Tea. But I did.

Jilebi -- After six beers and a backyard bonfire, shouting the guttural pronunciation of this pan fried donut is only made better when attempting to spell it. In an accent. Loudly.

An inside joke about fermented tiger penis - You know who you are.

The flowing ink from a fountain pen - Even better if it ends in a feather.

Wind chimes made out of bottlecaps - What they lack in noise they make up in the awesome fact that each one topped a beer that I drank.

Many other things, too. Make your own list.

Under Cover Exterminator

2007-08-27T20:40:00.000-06:00

The ants have started to recognize me; one attempted to eat his way through my chest and into my heart. He didn't live to tell the tale, but I did. I've taken to wearing a fake mustache and large hat to fool them. If this continues, I will be forced to use gasoline. Really, can't we settle this like adults?

Conquering the World from the 2nd Street Garage

2007-08-23T13:35:00.000-06:00

I have a special place in my heart for the U of A campus -- I know which buildings are left open all night, what time the sprinklers are switched on, the best place in the library to have a picnic, and even the cheapest secret DIY meal available in the entire Student Union. In case you need it: that little Mexican cantina sells bundles of warm flour tortillas, two for fifty cents. You'll feel the heavy Thanksgiving satisfaction after eating that paper swathed packet of glue, though for some reason, it doesn't appear on any food pyramid.

I can tell you about the best bench spot to appreciate the beauty of Fall, an event that is difficult to see in Tucson, since most trees don't ever lose their leaves. I can take you to a hidden courtyard with a tiny fountain, a tremendous rose bush and the rhum-rhum-rhum of air conditioners that sound just like high tide against the stone cliffs of Encinitas.

I've stood in line to change my schedule, agreed to sign over portions of my paychecks for the next 50 years, bought iced coffee, been the first one into the old Cellar to snag the best wooden booth with the only table that doesn't wobble when written upon. I've watched skaters grind against those ridiculous brass statues, couples kiss inside of empty flower pots and Brazilian students start a pick up game of soccer frisbee at 3:00 in the morning. I've been celebritized by hearing Li Young Li read poems from The City In Which I Love You and giddy when Jimmy Santiago Baca gave me his autograph. This love song goes on longer than In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida so I'll spare you the refrain.

Here is the thing that absolutely gets me every time I put one foot in front of the other on this campus --- I instantly turn back into that student in love with the world. My being fills with lines of poetry, all banging around in my head, hammering to escape through my eyeballs. I adopt the collegiate stroll, know things that you don't know and take the stairs. I want to stay up late and I need an espresso. My pens write more smoothly and I start adding letters after my name. In my never ending quest to figure out the point, maybe it is somewhere on campus, pulling my compass needle toward Speedway and Mountain. I'm making Valentines for my perpetual student.

I guess this means I'm a student again?

2007-08-22T17:47:00.000-06:00

I just took the writing assessment and blasted it out of the park. Earned the highest score possible...the recommendation of the local community college? Take Writing 101. Does this mean that all of those years in grad school were for naught? Am I really only capable of beginning analysis of The Red Pony and Romeo and Juliet? I feel an existential crisis coming on. Good thing I am on the verge of going back to school -- angst and being a student seem to go hand in hand. I'm firing up the coffee pot, sharpening my pencils, practicing my condescending comebacks and eye rolling. I think I might just be ready. *Sigh*.

The End of Days, Tiny Tiny End of Days

2007-08-21T16:10:00.000-06:00

I've heard them laughing at me for several weeks, those crafty ants that live in my backyard. I've had enough of their insouciance; The Ant Annihilation has begun.

Traveling with the Shambling Zombies

2007-08-16T13:12:00.000-06:00

While trying to choose the perfect book on cd for your next road/camping trip, consider carefully the ramifications of listening to survival tales from the Zombie Apocalypse. I was just too cavalier, standing there in the relative safety of the public library, deliberating between cute anecdotes about the hijinks of the new family puppy versus the pseudo-documentary of the 10 year global aftermath of a zombie viral infection. I thought to myself, 'It is just *fiction* and who really believes in zombies, anyway?' This was going to be the last road/camping trip of my official summer vacation and I was feeling cynical, tough, even, well, brazen. No G rated puppy stories for this girl, no, I had to pick the zombies.

The fantastic thing about listening to a book on cd while on a road trip is that after a few hours of uninterrupted play, I really start to believe that I am in the story. I am actually surprised to find that the rest of the world is going on as usual when I stop to fill my gas tank or bolster myself with an ice cream cone. Why aren't the gas station attendants more concerned about standing around in the open air, easy potential targets of a zombie attack? How can those drive- through windows be left open, without any protective bars? Hasn't anyone noticed that abandoned car in the parking lot, the one that could be filled with a zombie family, still locked in the vehicle because they turned undead while they were driving and can't figure out how to unlatch their seatbelts? What about that huge truck filled with cattle, just one big all-zombies-can-eat-buffet of beef, rolling down the freeway? Was I the only one concerned about the safety of South Eastern Arizona? This place was the Shangri-La destination for zombies everywhere and I was driving through Ground Zero, unarmed!

The further I drove, the longer I listened, the more critical it became that I take a mental inventory of the contents of my own car. Could I down a charging zombie with a good swing of my camp stove? Did I pack the sharp knife in the food box, or just that wimpy steak knife? Could I decapitate a zombie with my tent stakes? Just how long was the jack that was tucked underneath all of that gear and why was I so stupidly unprepared to leave it in the least inaccessible place in the car? As I plotted my protection from certain zombie doom, I reminded myself that I could blame no one else for this looming disaster -- if only I would have chosen that cd about the puppy. As I longed for the hilarity of chewed shoes and yellow puddles hidden behind a half consumed couch, I turned west, starting the 30 mile drive toward the campground.

Even though the forecast called for monsoon rain for the duration of my camping trip, I was unprepared for the wall of zombie hiding fog that hung ahead. Covering Mt. Graham like a clammy clothesline sheet, I pushed through it at a NASCAR speed of 25 miles per hour. Zombies might shamble but I was confident that I could certainly out drive them. My car swirled up the switchbacks, low lights reflecting through the fog. The zombie apocalypse had finally reached the woods and even the hardiest of self sufficient mountain men were finding themselves falling prey to the ever forward marching infected masses. Park rangers were interviewed about forest safety precautions for campers as I went to my happy place and imagined flowers, the smell of baking brownies and fluffy baby ducks. I could have turned the cd off, instead listening to the wind in the trees or the rumble of thunder off in the distance, but I had to know what was going to happen next, if anyone would survive this disaster.

I found my peace of mind in the voice of Alan Alda, who played Arthur Sinclair, the man charged with organizing the Zombie War Recovery Effort. If anyone could calmly organize former music industry executives, rehab recovered starlets and a crew of maids and construction workers into eradicating the Zombie Plague from the world, it was Alda. He spoke of reconstruction efforts, of self reliance, of the creation of Lobotomizers and I was soothed. I knew that I would be safe on the mountain, with Alan in charge.

I pulled into the campground and set up my tent before the sky unzipped and rain muddied my world. I rolled out my sleeping bag, snacked on pretzels and reassured myself that zombies didn't like the rain and were too clumsy to attack through the sucking sludge of the mud. Just in case, it didn't hurt to have my tire iron inside the tent.

Spring Fevah! Oooh - wooo -woo....

2007-04-05T11:55:00.000-06:00

I've been out flexing my travel muscles. Mostly the ones that are in my hulking camera hand -- my right index finger is so powerful, it can capture 30 images in under a minute. Watch out, photo shooters, I'm back and I have a full tank of gas.

Here is the thing about visiting somewhere new -- it feels as though I am the very first person to ever be there, to stalk through the strange graveyard, climb the fence covered in rusting pots and pans, wonder at the cactus covered in fading Christmas balls. Filled with pride, adventure, joy, giddiness, I find my legs growing longer and my pace quickening as each new sight unfolds before my ever growing eyeballs. I am invincible on the road, a tornado force of curiosity, Indiana Jones with a stomach full of grubs. No statue is too far off the road, no sign too ridiculous, no historical marker left unread. This huge world is the filling of my Pop Tart and the sun has hung itself above the road, pointing me forward.

La Soledad

2007-03-19T19:30:00.001-07:00

Music has an altogether different sound in the dark. It takes on a swirl, a viscosity, a gentle scrape of the teeth along the primitive parts of the ear. My stomach feels it, in a way that reminds me of other nights, when I was a passenger. Not being in charge, for me, is liberating. There is a freedom that comes from just allowing the yes to happen, to seeing what will unfold and trusting that somehow it.will.workout.

Whether I hum it to myself or it brings goosebumps to the backs of my knees with the drowning volume, music is always with me, breathing the soundtrack to my life. There is a song, lately, that I only allow myself once every week. It reminds me of an evening, some months ago -- one of those nights that was deliciously unpredictable. Driving through downtown on to some predetermined *event*, I was surprised. I had joked and giggled and laughed and pinched all the day long and at once, in the moment that the street lights faded to on and the twilight melted into the sidewalks, the piano. I felt my eyes widen as I instantly fell into love. Whatever else happened that night, that song would come up in later nights, twisting me with the memory. I could describe what I wore, the perfume, the way that there were no parking spots to be had until the moment that the song ended. I could tell of the way I recalled the frustration of not remembering the name of it, the composer, nothing but the way I had felt that night.

The important thing is how I know that song, tonight. How it plays and I drive into the dark, just a little too fast along that one curve. The way that I wonder about what happens next.

The First Day

2007-03-17T16:32:00.001-07:00

Last day of The Show from Zefrank.com. I watched every day -- looked forward to it being the first thing that I would do after I returned home from the Lobotomy Factory. I'd unlock the door, get a big glass of ice water, and crunch my way through his thoughtfulness for 3 - 5 minutes.

I never met him. Didn't have some kind of personal connection to the guy. Just liked the idea that someone out there was thinking about the world. Concerned with the prosperity of creativity. Encouraging other people to make things, to be silly, to play. I appreciate the idea that this is a beginning, the leaping off point, for other people to take up the yoke of doing.

So here it is. I'm doing.