Four Years Into a Dream

In honor of my fourth anniversary in my very first dream home, here's a love letter I wrote in September 2005 right after moving in.

I'm in Love

I'm in love -- madly, passionately, deliriously –- with my new home. I’m dancing in my walk-in closet. I stare adoringly at my bathtub. I flirt with the walls and tease them with paint color samples. I sit in the center of each room, most of which are not at all set up yet, and blow smoke rings towards the ceiling. I open and close my liquor cabinet just to look, not to make a drink. I get choked up pulling up on the parking pad to notice her newly pressure-washed shingles. The dishwasher leaks, the washing machine breaks, and I just shake my head- she can still do no wrong. I sleep deeply each night and wake up to notice that birds have built a home right above my head.

In 2009 I've still got the love, but it has been colored by the realities of the challenges in making a relationship work. I roll my eyes as I think that this will be the third year in a row that I've had to repair my roof because Blossom the Possum moved in. And how having to replace three major appliances this year meant that doing the back splash in my kitchen gets put off till next year's tax return check.

But my god, do I love my Atlanta Sky Blue bedroom walls- they still make me feel like I am floating when I lie in my high bed. And my craft room has been the birthing place of more pieces than I ever dared to hope to create. Art actually fills my home of four years- my own and others as I've grown less and less intimidated to decorate the walls that are permanently mine. And hawks regularly visit. And as I watched robins pull worms from my freshly rained upon front lawn this morning, I heard in my head, All the World is Green.

It Felt Like What I Wanted

I wrote this piece during an exercise in a memoir writing class I took this year. Each week we would write vignettes based upon phrases offered by the teacher. In this case, the phrase wound up being the opening line.

It felt like what I wanted. The tang of sweat above his lip lingered on my tongue as he pulled away. My lips felt bruised from careless contact with his facial hair. "He probably only shaves like, once a week," I spoke with great authority to my girlfriends that evening.

It was the sort of midsummer's day that made you wish that you lived at the beach rather than in the suburbs. As the sun baked my shoulders I sucked down every last drop of the fountain cherry cokes we bought at the corner gas station, then crunched each piece of ice left.

I could taste the cherry coke on his breath, too. He was older, 16 to my 14 and I knew it was fate when I learned his birthday was four days after mine. He loped down the street next to me like he had a guitar slung across his back. His red hair was between stages - him wanting to grow it long, his mother wanting it cut. He was tall and thin but I could see the definition of his muscles as he grasped my elbow.

We sat under a maple tree on a stranger's lawn just blocks from the building where we both took ceramics. Each day prior to today I had meticulously chosen my outfit in anticipation of seeing him: babydoll dresses with leggings, always black but sometimes small flowers to be feminine. This day though after sleeping through the alarm I pulled on beat-up, cutoff jeans covered in bleach stains - the rock n' roll equivalent of tie dye - and sharpee drawings of Led Zeppelin symbols. Of course it was this day that he announced that we should leave class and go for a walk to escape the clammy room of clay.

As we strolled down the neighborhood streets he'd ask me questions and then laugh too hard at my answers. We would halt momentarily to allow the occasional breeze to tickle our skin and the leaves above. In one smooth move he sat down cross-legged. I followed suit and felt grass and tree roots under my legs. I couldn't take my eyes off of his freckles and his blue eyes.

He smiled as he kissed me. The butterflies that had been dusting my stomach walls lifted up through my lungs and out through my shoulder blades.

Years later I would see him at a show where his band was playing. He shined when he smiled as told his friends gathered at the bar "This is the girl who taught me to kiss." I rolled my eyes, nudged his shoulder and announced that I would buy the next round.

As I turned toward the bartender I smiled and closed my eyes for a second. He was the one who gave me what I longed for. My first kiss.

Written of course, for Mike.

Cans of Mango

One night in a fit of insomnia I got up and decided to reorganize the kitchen. I was moving the cans over to where the unused cabinet was, and was scrubbing out cabinets. I noticed two cans of mango were stacked on top of each other, the bottom one bulging and pushing the cabinet shelf down. After unsuccessfully trying to dislodge the two cans, I wrapped a towel around the cans, put a jump rope around them, stood around the corner, and pulled. The cans dislodged and the bulging can hit the fridge and exploded.

It hit the ceiling. It hit the walls. It hit the cabinets. It hit the ceiling fan. It hit the kitchen floor and part of the dining room floor. It hit the cat and my slippered feet. It hit every single food item from the cabinets out on the counters. Everything smelled like rotten mango.

I cleaned with bleach. I was frantic due to thoughts of botulism. Every urban legend I'd ever heard about food poisoning was filling my mind. Several hours later I'm fine, the cat is fine, we are all fine.

I learned that yes, a bacteria caused the can to bulge, but that botulism needs an environment less acidic than mango. I wish everyone's concerns could be on the level of mine. How lucky I am. How spoiled. How blessed.

I Can Finally Publish this Secret

Secrets are challenging. I love them, I adore juicy tidbits whispered only to me. But how I detest actually having to keep certain ones to myself! I get that playground chant in my head: “Secrets, secrets are no fun. Secrets, secrets hurt someone.” My lips seal easily with hurtful secrets; it’s the good news (or good gossip) that gives me problems.

I am in the midst of a beautiful secret as I fly 30,000 feet in the air towards Minneapolis. My eyes flit between the shadow of the plane floating on the tops of trees and the Atlanta skyline growing smaller. I’m always amazed how far away you can still see the glint or the Georgia State Capital’s gold dome.

My seatmate is subject to my urge to tell my secret. I surprise myself by exhibiting uncharacteristic plane-friendliness as opposed to keeping my eyes down and my thumbs punching out texts till I’m forced to turn off my phone. The poor man looked a little frightened when I joked about how we should all probably stop eating french-fries in response to the captain’s statement that we carrying unusually heavy cargo. He glued his eyes to his bible when I added, “Wait till the Sunday after Thanksgiving, Captain!”

Ok, I get it. Not everyone is excited as me that I am about to surprise one of my favorite people on earth with a visit in celebration of her birthday.(Why else would I journey somewhere that boasts a morning temperature of 7 degrees?) Michelle’s lovely husband Michael called me a couple weeks ago and asked if he could fly me out to surprise her – um yes! A series of cryptic emails with titles like “the eagle has landed” later – he also apparently has me listed under an Asian name in his phone- and I am on my way to see my dear friend and meet her new son for the very first time.

I love Minneapolis. Coincidentally, I visited Michelle on this same weekend one year ago; it was that weekend that she told me she was pregnant, 5 weeks along at that point. We had a marvelous time on our weekend defined by art, delicious food and great friends; the highlights included seeing the original painting “My Dress Hangs There” by Frida Kahlo, a heart-and-soul-warming dinner with Michael and Michelle at a cozy Greek restaurant, being an audience member of a taping of Prairie Home Companion and standing at the base of the Minneapolis’ magnificent sculpture, Spoonbridge and Cherry.

I have been daydreaming all day about what Michelle will say when she sees me. I simply cannot wait to tell this secret. I’m wondering if I can try to take a picture of that moment…

Spoonbridge and Cherry, Minneapolis Sculpture Gardens

First and Last and Always: the Sisters of Mercy in Atlanta

OMG y'all. I am typing this still mired in disbelief of what I saw tonight.

Tonight, at the Variety Playhouse in my hometown of now almost 9 years, I was just three people away from Andrew Eldritch, AKA the Sisters of Mercy. The last time I saw this man was in 1991, with Gang of Four, Public Enemy, and Warrior Soul at Poplar Creek in Chicago. This means that tonight, I was inches away y'all... normally not such a big deal because I usually don't engage in such star-fuckery... but this was the Sisters of Mercy.

This is a band that has been defined by it's elusiveness. And its not just cuz of their extremely impressive fog machine that put our Carnival of the Dead fog to shame. Can you imagine that it has been 17 years since I last was in their presence? When I last saw him Andrew Eldritch had long hair! (as opposed to tonight's shaved head.) I become a teenager instantly at the memories of less than an hour ago. They skillfully and instantly make me a drama queen.

I couldn't have been more delighted to have at my side my sister Kristi who was also indulging her goth inner-child. The show we saw tonight was grounded in their Floodland album, highlights including First and Last and Always, This Corrosion, Dominion/Mother Russia, and Lucretia, My Reflection. (My inner drama queen gasps as I type these sacred names)

Can I help it if the Sisters of Mercy, the quintessential goth band, makes me smile as much as the Grateful Dead does?

Absent the women's choir that is so present in the album version (and 1991 tour version) of their songs, tonight the audience sang along with the crucial parts. The harmonies and chants rang through. Y'all, I am way too cool to sing along with bands live, but for some godforsaken reason I relished the opportunity to do so with the Sisters. It felt perfect.

It was an amazing night- complete with Something Fast and even Vision Thing. Those of you out there that are similarly gushing know what I'm talking about. But perhaps even you haven't experienced it just three people away from the source. Be still my teenage heart!

Sisters

Reliving the old hairdying days of high school- only this time it was Special Effects instead of Manic Panic and I had the foresight to wear rubber gloves and so I wouldn't have to walk around for days with bright purple hands.

Cooking Makes Her Happy

This is a painting I did a couple years ago that lives in Ela's house now; she calls it a Kitchen Goddess. For me, I think it will always be called Cooking Makes Her Happy. It was a one-hour painting (more like one afternoon) that I did on a night like tonight: a night that I spend content and complete cooking in my home.



It's so funny how we lose track of the things that ground us the most when our pace is that of hummingbirds. Listening to the new Jenny Lewis and the old Yeah Yeah Yeahs records in my kitchen while making Potato Leek Soup and Baked Zucchini was more satisfying to me, just plain me, than anything else this week. I even had a theme that guided my recipe choices: my favorite herb, Herbes de Provence - a savory blend of rosemary, thyme, marjoram, basil, bay leaf and lavender that's used a lot in French and Irish recipes.

I stood in my usual spot to the right of the stove chopping, mixing, flavoring and tasting. I felt complete and peaceful and stopped moving for a few moments to make sure that the calm was real.

Some of my favorite memories of growing up are those simple, mundane evenings sitting down to dinner at my mother's kitchen table. She always lays out a spread, a main dish with sides that compliment and enhance it and each other. She approaches food preparation for us, her loved ones, effortlessly but with the coordination of a stylist. I have seen myself so many times in the mirror to the left of my seat of the dinner table, reflected as a mural with the ones I love most and the meals that nourished our bellies and hearts.

Rockin Like Dokken... with a little Poison too

About a week ago I saw the great hair metal band Poison in Atlanta- this is the third summer in a row that I have seen my Poison boys at Lakewood Amphitheater. Don't hate just cuz you're jealous, haters.

So I'm sad to say we missed Sebastian Bach - formerly of Skid Row of course - as the first warm up act. We did get to hear both I Remember You and Youth Gone Wild while walking up through the parking lot though. Don't you worry.

I couldn't have been more excited that the second warm up band was Dokken. Dokken who has but two songs that you might have heard once before: Dream Warriors and In My Dreams. Nevertheless, Dokken had no qualms about bragging repeatedly about their 27 year history of "rockin Atlanta". Apparently they are also living clean now- another fact they repeated throughout their 40 minute performance.

Seeing Dokken on stage was so funny - pretty much the only people standing in the whole place were those directly in front of the stage (we were on the lawn). It reminded me of when I saw L.A. Guns open for AC/DC - with cousin Laith and Amu Nabeel with his walkman - in 1991. We had the best seats I think I've ever had for a stadium show- like 9th row. I was obsessed with L.A. Guns- likely the only fan there. I had made a banner that said "Tracii Aligns the Planets" - hot pink spray paint on a white sheet. Guitarist Tracii Guns kept looking at me with confusion. It was there that I learned the classic rock n roll lesson that perhaps it isn't the best idea to put an inside joke with your high school girlfriends on a banner for a show.

Back to 2008. So there was this woman standing in front of us wearing red shorts and a purple and blue tiedye Dead shirt that knew every word to every Dokken song ever- amazing really. She was there with her teenage kids and a dude who appeared to be both one of her teenage kids' friends but also the mom's boyfriend. Yikes. She was hilarious though and definitely contributed to this being one of the classiest nights ever.

The highlight of Dokken's performance was the audience being repeatedly taunted by the band, including but not limited to such gems as "We could do something soft and mellow or we could do something loud, rockin and in your face!!" In my face indeed.

And then there was Poison. Dear, sweet Poison who have rocked my world since age 14 and have even made appearances in my dreams. Y'all know my love for these boys is never ending. And you know this current display of affection can only mean one thing- that my boys sorta sucked this time around:

1. I called every song before they played it because it was the exact same set as the last two years.

2. Bret's voice was hoarse, scratchy, totally effed up. Probably from doing 3 reality shows plus world tours at the same time over the last year.

3. Speaking of reality shows, they were clearly filming one because Bret had so many required lines that he repeated over and over. For example, if Atlanta had a dollar for every time Bret referenced "rocking Atlanta Georgia for the last 22 years," the city wouldn't have had to do those mass layoffs a couple months ago. If we had two dollars for every time he mentioned the show Rock of Love- or better yet, the new Rock of Love Tour Bus - Atlanta could build the Beltline. You get the picture.

4. They had to take a lot of breaks- like moments where just one member of the band was on stage while the others were backstage recuperating I guess. Bret did Every Rose by himself, C.C. did instrumentals of Amazing Grace (ok, so that was kinda awesome) and Georgia on My Mind. Rikki did a Grateful Dead-like Drumz/Space thing.

5. They played for barely an hour. They could hardly keep it together long enough for that short period of time and practically ran off stage.

6. Once again, the super pro-America junk before Something to Believe In. Yes, Bret, we know your former bodyguard was a traumatized Vietnam Vet who "fought a losing war on a foreign shore" and killed himself. What better reason do you need to realize that this War is shit and we need to bring the troops home now?!?

But all that said, I still love my boys and will always associate them with all things good and hairspray and spandex and fallen angels. And though this show was lackluster, I am grateful to them for once again timing their Atlanta stop for exactly when I needed some cheering up.

There's a whole after-the-show story that will have to be reserved for another time because it involves Bret Michaels' cell phone number and is on the level of mythology. And no one likes debunking myths so I'm gonna keep my mouth shut on that piece for now.

So you're not too disappointed, here's my crappy, shaky faraway footage of Poison doing their encore Talk Dirty to Me. It gets less shaky after the first few seconds I promise.

The Private Dancer Singers

I thought I might need to lighten things up around here and finding some old videos on my hard drive gave me some perfect material.

In December 2006 I took a month-long sabbatical from my work and spent it living, crafting and loving my family in Chicago. At the end, I had to drive back to Atlanta but wound up being sicky the day I was leaving. So my wonderful sister Reem and her BFF Sarah offered to drive me back to Atlanta from Chicago.

It should be known that Reem and Sarah are known for their musical endeavours. The early days included them making their own videos - lip synced and choreographed of course - to the Spice Girls' classic, Wannabe. They pulled it together a bit more later on with their band The Cover Girls, playing songs like the Sex Pistols Anarchy in the UK and the Misfits' Skulls, as arranged for piano and cello that is. But the pièce de résistance was their senior recital when they performed on piano and cello Guns N' Roses' November Rain and we all held up lighters and got a little weepy. If you want to laugh really hard, go read about Reem's recent experience with a GN'R cover band.

I laid in the backseat for hours, drinking tea and whimpering for 736 miles while being chauffeured by two of the loveliest, most hilarious, best friends that exist. It was the best home-going ever.

Some funny things happened while crossing the Tennessee border. Here is video documentation of one of them:

25 years later and I'm still Thrilled

A great surprise this weekend came in the form of a gift of my very own copy of the 25th Anniversary Edition of Michael Jackson's Thriller.

I love the remixes - Akon's Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' and Fergie singing along with Michael's old vocals on Beat It. But Will.i.am's PYT remix by far takes the sequined glove.

Listening to those old songs (the album got played four and a half times through just on Saturday) was wonderful. I remembered listening to the old record at the house in Skokie that my parents rented when we were so young. In our shared bedroom, Reem and I had a hott poster of Michael wearing the red zipper Beat It jacket on a neon purple background.

I had exactly the same experience this weekend that I had as a child when I felt terror creep through my body at the opening notes of Thriller and the sound of Vincent Price's voice. I shudder now thinking about it. I screamed for a while. And then when I realized that this special 25th Anniversary release included a bonus DVD featuring the Thriller video I screamed a whole lot more knowing that it must now live in my house.

Those scary cat-eye contacts that he wears at the end of the video are permanently branded in my brain and the zombie dance still makes me feel like running out of the room.

Different from the old days of listening to this album now is a new understand of some of the lyrics due to recent events. For example, I now have absolutely no doubt that Billie Jean, was in fact, not his Michael's lover. And the true story comes clear in that Michael was simply being Paul McCartney's wingman and indeed not interested in that doggone girl.

I absolutely still do get a choked up at his sweet soft vocals on Human Nature. Michael will never lose that for me. Even if he is more like one of our clients than the King of Pop these days.

What the Huck??

My sister blogged today about her experience listening to NPR this morning and hearing yet another doozie from Mike Huckabee. He said that the reason we need to "import" immigrants to fill all our jobs is most likely because we've aborted over a million "people" in the last 30 years, people that could have filled those jobs. In my head I imagine her choking on her coffee or perhaps turning off her radio in disgust and opting for some Pantera instead of the dismal news.

Rebecca was thinking along the same lines today and sent around a quote from an article called "What the Huck?" a April, 2007 interview with the Des Moines Register editorial board: "There are some forms of birth control that really are the destruction of a fertilized egg." One of the editors offered a follow-up question, "Should the government ban that sort of birth control?" Huckabee replied, "Yeah, I personally think there are better ways to deal with contraception than destroying a human life. So, again I'm going to say that I'm always going to make my position on the side of protecting human life."

I’m not just writing this to highlight his horrifying position on abortion, but to share what Huckabee was doing in Georgia today, which was speaking in strong favor of HR 536. This proposed Georgia law would ban not only abortion, but many forms of birth control including the Pill, the patch, the ring, IUD, etc. Yes, you read that right, ladies Every day last week one of HR 536’s sponsors would go to the well in the House to speak in its favor. And that's when I would have spat my coffee- if I drank coffee that is. Ok, so maybe I choked on my protein bar. And the crumbs went down the wrong way. And there was lots of coughing. You get it.

I have been on the Pill for years because without it, my menstrual pain is so severe that I struggle to stand, much less run around in heels on those hard-as-hell marble floors at the Capitol. It would be an understatement to say that I am deeply, urgently appalled and offended that this is a "legitimate" proposal to be considered this year.

I feel the outrage particularly today, the 35th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Today is a personal anniversary for me as well, the 15 year anniversary of my first leadership role in a political action. In high school in Chicago, I worked with a group called the Emergency Clinic Defense Coalition (ECDC- great acronym). We did clinic escorting, helping women seeking health care (from breast exams to birth control to abortions) to get inside the health clinic safely with as little harassment by anti-choicers as possible. The anti-choice activists were crazy, yelling things in the couple years following the Persian Gulf War like "You're killing our future troops!" Absurd.

In any case, I was 16 years old on January 22, 1993, the 2oth Anniversary of Roe. Parental consent and notification laws were rearing their ugly heads throughout the country, and the women at ECDC encouraged and supported me in stepping up into the role of being the Coalition's media spokesperson for the day, because I was one who would be most effected by these laws if they did indeed pass. I attribute much of where I am at and what I am doing with my life now to those women who took a chance on an odd, stripy haired girl with a vampire obsession.

It was such an awesome experience; I'll never forget sitting in the family room of my parents' home later that evening watching the TV coverage which my non-English-speaking grandfather. He had no idea what I was saying when my face came on the television, but his eye shone with pride nonetheless.

My 16 year old mind never entertained the thought that 15 years later reproductive freedom would be in dramatically worse shape. That a man making such inane statements would be a viable candidate for president-ok, maybe based on the last 8 years that doesn't surprise me so much. That we would be fighting a proposal from the radical right to take our medication away. Its heartbreaking and outrageous. Sick.

2007 in Photos

Taking a cue from Audacity, here is the 2007 review in photos.

January: The winter sky on the drive from Chicago back to Atlanta. I rode in the backseat and Reem and her BFF Sarah were my chauffeurs for the longest hitchhike in history.

February: Flying into Chicagoland

March: Springtime appears in Atlanta with the dogwoods blooming at Oakland Cemetery during my parents' visit.

April: The very first Blah Girl picture. Driving documentation begins.

May: Rain, wind, 800 cocktails, Irish music, kisses, bliss, 2 am in Savannah.

June: Spiderweb Houseleek on a trip with Dad to the Chicago Botanic Gardens.

June: Eek gets shaved and looks like an old man

July: Jamaican Sunset for Ela's birthday

July: Mica's Metalsome birthday

August: Troy Davis gets a Stay of Execution. We hold a press conference featuring exonorees Gary Drinkard, Darryl Hunt and survivor Jennifer Thomas Canino


September: Dad and I share another birthday party. Note the bite already taken out of the front of the delicious coconut cake.

October: Greatest Halloween party in Atlanta made perfect by the sister and brother plus 4 cousins.

November: Mom, Reem and I go back to Ireland.

December: Steve Bright argues Snyder v. Louisiana in the US Supreme Court. I marvel and choke back tears as he makes friends of Justices Scalia and Alito. One of the most amazing experiences of my life.

December: Christmas at the Hodi's with the Clan

Leaving me in pieces

There’s a moment from Christmas Eve that keeps replaying in my mind. It was late, almost 2 am, and my family was awake playing a game that Reem had gotten for us.

I had been laughing and enjoying the time with my most-loved, but I started feeling pretty terrible. Just the previous day, I had slipped on ice and cracked a bone in my elbow. I laid back on the floor, propping my head up on the edge of the couch. I stopped engaging in the game’s debate, simply tossing in my contribution on the table and laying back down.

We finished up the game. As they all started moving I found myself paralyzed and tears become pools in my eyes. I was in a lot of pain, generally frustrated, and codeine sickness was creeping through my belly. Words of concern came from my parents; support was abundant, but it just made the tears come faster. My dad helped me stand up and I tried pulling myself together to little avail.

It was that moment that my brother Emil turned back slightly from walking out of the room and expressed sympathy asking simply, “Oh, Sara! Do you need a hug?”

Feeling so vulnerable, I didn’t even meet his eyes. The moment passed quickly and when I didn’t respond he continued walking out.

It was exactly what I needed and wanted, not to mention an unusual expression of love from my brother. We just don’t usually connect like this.

A couple weeks later now, I replay it over and over in my mind. Instead of letting my eyes drop and tears fall on my pajamas, I look up into his eyes and allow myself to be enveloped by his 6’4” body. This time it’s his shirt that absorbs my tears.

Regressing

Green painted toenails, black glittery fingernails, purple streaks in my hair, a vampire book in my bag, and the iPod alternating between Concrete Blonde and Pigface… have I time warped back to high school? Yikes- “time warp” makes me think of Rocky Horror… maybe I should go see that sometime. Okay, don't let me.

Last Days of September

This was a lovely weekend- complete with almost no plans- other than of course the Amy Sedaris book signing on Friday and the Rilo Kiley show on Saturday. I’ll post words and picture about both of those very soon.

Thursday night I finally got a picture of this parking lot painting that I’ve wanted forever. It’s at Piedmont and Pine, across the street from the Task Force for the Homeless. I assume it was the Task Force that painted it. It reminds me of that Oscar Wilde quote.

I spent the weekend days hanging at my house, crafting, cleaning, writng, playing with pictures. I cleaned out my closet, resulting in:

• 3.5 bags of clothes, purses and shoes to give away on Freecycle
• ten hangers with suits and jackets also up for the taking
• 1 big box of t-shirts for altering into much cuter t-shirts (margarita and craft day at my house on Oct 14th ladies!!)
• 1 big "archive" box of sentimental clothes, meaning old handmade patchwork hippie dresses, rock n roll concert t-shirts, great thrift store finds, outfits I wore on days I remember well- all this stuff I haven’t worn in years but want to keep.
  

While I was sorting things into the archive box I kept thinking about how much I would have loved to have a box like this as a kid to play dress-up in. I do remember having a similar bag of my mother’s clothes that we wore for years for play, for Halloween, I think there may have even been a piece or two that made it into my goth-repertoire in high school. Like this black and gold scarf that was a part of every witch costume that came out of our home. God we loved that scarf.

Tonight I had Iftar dinner with Secret Agent Man and his cousin- both are fasting for Ramadan. Since the meal is to break the fast I wish they would just own up and call it “breakfast”.

And of course the cherry on top of the weekend was the finale of Rock of Love. The ending was the sort that I suppose would be satisfying to people who actually believe love can come from reality television. I was underwhelmed. Bored. My prediction is that on next week's reunion show Jes will anounce that she and Bret have "gone their separate ways but remain great friends." Bored!

However, this show did give us some great train-wrecks, trash, and reached new levels of slutacious-ness. I give Rock of Love two Reality TV awards for the show overall:

1. Best Ever Elimination Exit- Sammie Spades' hot as hell make-out session with Bret and leaves “with guns blazin’!”
2. Best Ever Final Line of a Series- After she gets eliminated, Heather leaving in the limo crying and slurring while cussing Bret out she’s all “And I have this asshole’s name tattooed on the back of my neck?!?” and the show ends…

AND LIGHTS!

Coming Home

Heading home to Chicago this afternoon for the weekend. I miss the City, the people, the Lake. I've been obsessing about Deep Dish Pizza, mmmmm.

I love Falltime in Chicago, even though I think its still a bit warm there now. I love the breeze.

These pictures are from a year ago, my September 2006 trip. This trip was also the one where I blinged out Reem's cast after she fell at Little River Canyon and we had to airlift her out. What a day! The bonus was that she got to have the most glam cast ever.

August 9th, 1995

In Memoriam ~Jerome John Garcia

August 1, 1942 - August 9, 1995
Such a long, long time to be gone, and a short time to be there

I left my heart in San Francisco...

I'm sitting in an internet cafe on Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. I walked down here on my own and retraced steps I've taken with my dad so many times through the fish markets, the salt water taffy shops, pored through buckets of seashells, and climbed the stairs down to the pier to see the sea lions. I even ate fried fish right bought from a street vendor- just like my dad would have bought. All of a sudden I feel very grown up doing this on my own.

Fear of Sharks

A few weeks ago while I was at my parents’ house in Chicago, Hank wrote to me about what he called “a beautiful experiment in parenthood.” He screened the movie Jaws to his two young sons.

He was careful to preface every scene with that was about to happen and how it was different from what real sharks will do. The boys even laughed at the girl being dragged around in the opening scene. The juvenile mind found its own. At the end, everyone was fairly entertained and agreed that no fish would ever do that in real life.

About an hour later, I find myself flipping through the channels and see slightly grainy footage of 70s-era teenagers hanging out on sailboats. I hear the telltale two notes that signal that Jaws is coming. For the first time, I don’t change the channel. I think of Zan & Jonah and remind myself that real fish don’t act like this. When Jaws emerges, I notice how his flesh looks like metal and his eyes are expressionless. He looks like, well, a robot, which I suppose is exactly what he’s always been. I don’t know how it could have taken me this long to recognize this. I watch the whole movie and find myself giggling at how silly the story is. I cheer and laugh out loud when the shark gets caught on the power line and explodes into ash.

In the following days and weeks, I find myself captivated with any and all images of sharks being shown. I watch a shark fishing show with my family and see how easily and brutally the fishermen take down huge beasts even while drinking Coors Lite. When they announce that a second whale shark at the Atlanta Aquarium died, I obsessively check the news stations for updated information on what happened. I feel my heart heavy for a couple days for the loss of this creature that I’ve never even seen. I watched a PBS program about the first great white shark to survive in captivity for an extended period of time at the Monterey Aquarium. She swam in an almost spooky way but was beautiful and graceful all the while.

I can’t help but ask myself “is that it?” Does this mean that a lifelong oppressive and irrational fear is gone? Will I be able to swim in the ocean without keeping my eyes on my toes and jumping if anything brushes up against my skin?

I keep thinking about the “skin” of Jaws in contrast to the tender, sleek flesh of the baby great white in Monterey. Both make me smile now. I look forward to more.