It just feels right.

"Okay, let me see you," he said, holding his little camcorder. We were in a gift shop, surrounded by children scurring around with glee and parents who looked frazzled but happy, all to a very familiar soundtrack which was piped in from the ceiling.

We were in Disneyland. Just for the weekend. And I had run into the gift shop (one of a thousand on Disney's Main Street) on a whim and scrambled to the floor-to-ceiling display of mickey mouse ears; the felt ones, the old-school kind.

I snatched a child-sized blue pair with their floppy plastic mouse ears and propped it jauntily on my head, stretching that cheap (and dangerous) little elastic band around my chin to secure it. My heart immediately swelled a half-size.

I looked up to find Jim pointing his tiny video camera at me, smiling with his eyes, sun pouring in the shop all around him like some sort of beam of happiness. He looked golden. I felt golden. The moment crystallized.

"Can you see how cute you look right now?" he said.

I looked around the store. No mirrors. Was that possible? Ah, well.

I patted my head with satisfaction and grinned back at him from the very center of my inner 5-year old self.

"No," I said, "But it just feels right."

Try not to panic, it's only heaven.

Heaven is totally overrated. It seems boring. Clouds, listening to people play the harp. It should be somewhere you can’t wait to go, like a luxury hotel. Maybe blue skies and soft music were enough to keep people in line in the 17th Century, but heave has to step it up a bit. They’re basically getting by because they only have to be better than Hell.

–Joel Stein, Columnist for The Los Angelas TimesRead his whole post here

My personal heaven? Lots of sun. Lots of water. Lawn everywhere -- a little long, but not unkempt. Popsicles. Footballs and frisbees and fishing off docks. And kissing.

And dogs. Many dogs. Maybe a dog to person ratio of, like 1:1. Have you ever noticed that usually dogs are a lot easier to be around than people or, say, cats? And sometimes more interesting.

Speaking of interesting, can somebody please explain to me what a jellyfish actually IS? Do they drift, or swim, or both? Do they hunt, or just run into their food, or both? And where does their food go? I've seen lots of jellyfish, but it appears to me they are all hungry, because I've never seen a jellyfish with a fish in its "stomach". Because I'd know. Because they're clear.

Also, while we're talking food and confusion, what is the nutritional value of a mushroom? As far as I can tell, their closest relative is dirt. Or maybe rocks. Or sponges. In any case, they're delicious.

My friend's aunt drinks non-alcoholic beer. Which is funny, because while I like the taste of beer, I also like the warm fuzzy feeling it gives your brain, right at the outer edges, kind of like when you're just about to fall asleep or orgasm. But my friend's aunt just drinks non-alcoholic beer because it reminds her she used to have orgasms, I think.

Speaking of things that are manufactured to impersonate good things but minus certain unsavory parts, why hasn't anyone come up with a non-tobacco and nicotine cigarette yet? For all the orally-fixated people of the world (me, for instance) that would be a delightful thing -- and unlike non-alcoholic beer, you would be getting the ultimate satisfaction of smoking (hand to mouth to hand to mouth) with none of the gross side-effects, including but not limited to stinkiness, wrinkliness, cancerousness, terrifyingly gutteral chronic cough and poorness due to ridiculously high tobacco taxes. (Not that I suffer from any of those afflictions, as I am not a smoker; I just think it's worth noting.)

Last night I was so anxious about having been on (lovely, relaxing) vacation and away from (interesting, fast-paced, exciting) work that I decided to throw a party, cook for 8 of my closest friends, and drink a bottle of red wine. Which was a good idea, up until the 3 a.m. panic attack, when I woke up and was so stressed out all I could do was reach stiffly for the blackberry next to my bed and breathe too fast (in and out, shiraz-flavored panting) while scrolling through the next four months on my outlook calendar frantically, the whole time convinced that I was going to drop dead of a heart attack at the tender age of twenty-something-too-young-to-die.

Panic attacks are interesting because when they strike they are stealthy, only waking you up from a dead sleep when you are already apparently in the grip of death, grim reaper with his gnarly hand on your heart, which is pounding out of your chest. Your limbs tingle, giant tears hang out in your eyes threatening to roll down each cheek. And my panic attacks, at least, are about nothing specific, but rather everything minute and inconsequential.

For example: My toilet is clogged, not flushing right. No big deal, need to plunge and draino again and that will probably fix it up, right? Right?

But if plunging and draino doesn't do it, what then?

What if I damaged the plumbing in the house and the pipes break and water goes through the second floor ceiling and down into the kitchen and they have to dig giant holes in my room to repair it and I get kicked out and my cat escapes or drowns in the runoff and my friends have nowhere for me to stay and I can't find another place to live and I get fired for missing work because I have to canoe through my house and then sick from the standing water and can't afford the medical bills and then my boyfriend leaves me for someone less quirky and confrontational and significantly less disasterous in every way and I am left with only that hooded sweatshirt I hate because it chokes me and my highschool yearbook and a guitar I still can't play, lying on my friend's parents' couch where I die alone and still unable to play "Blackbird"?

Panic attacks are about, you know, stuff like that.

And all you want is for somebody to tell you you're not going to die and maybe pet your head like when you were five years old and remind you that you're not alone, not at all alone, and not a crazy person, well maybe just a little.

But nobody's there, so instead, you picture the worst case scenario: you, dead.

And then it occurs to you that maybe, just maybe that might not be so bad. And then you have an idea: Distract yourself from your own unnamed panicky dread by picturing heaven. (Aaaah, and here is where this post starts to come together. Do you see it now? The genius? Thank you.)

And then, as fast as they came, the panicking and palpitation and panting are gone and you are waking up extra early later that morning and going to the gym to get the lingering panic out and then you're at work, all early-like, and things have changed since you were gone, but not that much, and people are glad to see you and your things are still in your office. Even the stapler and your plants, Spike and Henry.

And there are flowers on your desk. And a friend mailed you a book while you were gone. Both these things make you smile really big even though nobody is looking.

And someone tells you you're "glowing". Which is funny, because if a panic attack and 4 hours of sleep following a bottle of wine makes you glow, you think, you should be basically beaming most of the time.

...

I'm back, and while perhaps not entirely recovered from my vacation, I'm thankful for it almost without exception -- the only exception being the overflowing "in" box on my desk.

I'll get back atcha when I've had a bit more oxygen and maybe a little something to eat. In the meantime, welcome to a whole new week. Try not to panic.

You know what works for me? Picturing heaven, with the dogs and the lawn and the docks and the sunlight. And the kissing. Especially that. That's better than Hell and panicking, both.

Bare in Vegas

Before I even start this post, let me establish two things:

1) On principle alone, I hate Las Vegas -- the whole God-forsaken sequin-covered dayglow/nightglow, water-sucking, smoky, trashy, silicone-filled city.
2) I enjoyed the shit out of Vegas on my trip

Everything Vegas stands for is pretty much the opposite of me -- well, with the exception of virtually unconsumable volumes of alcohol. I don't own a closet full of "clubbing" clothes (much less a single club-appropriate -- read: nonexistant -- outfit), I don't care about Lindsey Lohan's 21st birthday party. Gold on ceilings just looks gaudy to me, and though I'll occasionally puff on a cigarette at 2 in the morning, I strongly dislike being places where everyone can do just that, indoors, all around you.

Plus, prostitution makes me sad, as do those terrible clear-soled stripper shoes all the women in Vegas (working or not) insist on wearing. What ARE those?

Oh, and it's like the hottest place on earth.

[I was going to say "in the universe", but there's the sun and all those stars, which I'm pretty sure are burning balls of gas, so I figured I had better keep it believable.]

And I'm a Seattleite.

But I prescribe to no motto if not "When in Rome...". And so I did Vegas. With gusto.

I packed my optimism, a few hundred bucks in cash, a pushup bra, 7 (seriously) pairs of heels, 5 (yep) pairs of jeans, and a few dresses. Oh, and my bikini and about forty pairs of earrings.

I stayed at the Mirage, and again in true Vegas style I went to the pool upon completion of my first workday there. It was 112 degrees outside, and pretty much everyone had the same idea as me: get wet, lay around half naked, get buzzed, then go out to eat and on the town. So the easily 1,000 occupancy pool and surrounding areas were packed. For about 5 minutes I considered squeezing in among the masses on some tiny crowded recliner, until I saw a sign. My salvation.

Bare.

Bare, for those of you unfamiliar, is an "adult" pool. I knew this because it said "Bare... adult lounge" on the sign. But, as I'm sure you can imagine, I had no idea what that meant.

All I could think was no kids allowed. No waterwings, maybe no teeny-boppers, even. I pictured a luxurious, quiet pool. Cushy loungers, a professional or maybe even high-roller crowd. I looked around once more at the loungers crowded with lithe 8-year olds, families and fraternity boys -- a shrill-voiced and splashy crowd -- and turned towards this "Bare" place.

I was in.

I took the road less traveled (all signs pointing to Bare lead to mysterious labrynth of paths, all under heavy palm-tree cover) and arrived, finally, at a red-carpeted, velvet-roped, bodyguarded entrance to Bare. It looked like an exclusive nightclub. I looked down at my strapless bikini, gold flipflops and oversized bag.

I felt underdressed. I wished I'd worn earrings.

"So," I said, coolly, keeping my sunglasses on lest the european man barring the door see my hesitancy, "What's this" (here I gestured casually to the general direction of "IN") "...all about?"

"Well," he said conspiratorially leaning in, "it's an adult pool."

Um, duh? I paused, waiting dumbly.

"Like a nightclub in the day," he continued. "European dress code."

"Europe--" I started to ask the world's stupidest question before realizing he meant "clothing optional".

"Aaah," I leaned back, nodding stupidly. I was so far in now that even though this whole "european" thing scared me a little, I couldn't back down.

"Forty bucks for guys, twenty for girls," he said, matter-of-fact. Then he tilted his head at me, sizing me up. "You by yourself?" he asked.

"Um, not really... yeah." I confessed.

"I'll take care of you, then. Go on in, free."

Now I really had to go in. I nodded, steeled myself, and pushed past the rope.

As I sauntered in, sunglasses still on, trying not to look around too much, I felt pretty effing risque. I was in VEGAS. ALONE. At an ADULT POOL. With a EUROPEAN DRESS CODE.

[In my head, all this was in caps, I assure you.]

I found a cushy lounger, leaned back, took out the blackberry and assessed the situation:

Many pools, some hot tubs. Many attractive waiters and waitresses. Many topless women, all with gargantuan breasts, a male companion and clearly tipsy.

The rest of the afternoon I worked on the tipsy part and the enjoying the sun part. I ultimately relaxed enough to remove my thumbs from my blackberry (I spent the first 30 minutes there, at least, texting play-by-plays of my observations from inside Bare to my companion who would be joining me in Vegas later that night, which had the double benefits of easing me into the scene and sexually frustrating him.)

The music pumped, the steam rolled off the hot tubs and settled on the pool, gorgeous staff rolled towels, propped chairs, lit cigarettes and delivered libation. Women grinded up against their men in the shallow pool. Men tried not to fall over while ordering many Budweiser Selects and groping their bouffant-haired, fake-breasted women all at the same time. It was so Vegas. And it was pretty entertaining.

A couple rich older men came by and introduced themselves as, essentially, rich older men, which was totally standard but also pretty entertaining. And I befriended two women to the right of me who left their kids and hubbies home and had come for some girl-time (and how!).

By the time it closed and I returned to my hotel room to shower, eat, see a show and gamble with a lovely tall man who flew in to spend the weekend with me (and says things like "hello, pretty girl" to me, unprovoked), I was a little tan, a little tipsy, and very impressed with my nerve... giddy, even, with the possibilities of Las Vegas.

While I didn't get married, I did gamble, and eat fabulous food, and see Ray Romano in the hotel twice, and drink $15 melon-colored cocktails composed primarily of Grey Goose, and wear ridiculously uncomfortable heels. And I hit on 12, and 13 and sometimes even 14 playing blackjack, even though it's unadvisable.

Because, well, when in Rome...

Two things

1. Last night was a long night. Dinner, wine, walk, skyline-gazing, a fresh rosemary-fight (don't ask), a late-night house intruder... the point is I woke up hung over and exhausted today. And smelling like rosemary. But again, not the point. The point is that I actually cleaned up pretty good, if I do say so myself, and thought I was keeping it together quite well. Until one of the founders of my company walked by and said in the sweetest east Indian accent -- I shit you not: "Are you doing something differently?" while gesturing to my face/head region. When I replied that no, in fact, everything was as it should be and nothing was different, he said "Hmmm. You look like you partied... a lot." Sheesh. Hold no punches, why don't you?

2. I will be in Las Vegas starting tomorrow morning and ending Monday night. There is a 25 percent chance I will get married there, a 50 percent chance I'll get sunburnt, a 75 percent chance I'll experience feelings of guilt after gambling and a 100 percent chance I'll get blitzed. Oh, I'm also working there. So none of the above (except the guilt) will be done on business hours. Which means there's also a 100 percent chance I'll come back and sleep for three days.

As always, I'm certain there will be stories, which of course I will share. Stay tuned, and have a great weekend!

Airport, "gay", and a weekend away

"Can we please get a drink before we get on the plane?" L beseeched.

"Um," I responded, in the middle of rifling through my carry-on for my contact solution -- a container of liquid definitely exceeding the allowed 4 oz which I'd almost certainly get confiscated in security, "Is there an alternative?"

It was Friday night, and L and I were in the airport, flying out for a weekend jaunt to another state to see a friend. L was ahead of me in the security line, loudly complaining about the sweatiness of her bare feet in her heels and how gross it was going to be to have to remove them and walk barefoot through the metal detector. I laughed and hoisted my bags onto the conveyor behind her.

"Oh, shit!" she wailed, causing me to look up from where I stood intently trying to remove my fourteen metal bracelets with one hand. "Was I supposed to keep my boarding pass out?"

As her bag dissappeared into the conveyor and with it her ID and boarding pass (which you were, in fact, supposed to hang on to as you passed through the metal detector), she flailed frantically, at one point almost reaching into the X ray machine to retrieve it before thinking better of it when I screeched "Don't! Radiation!" and passing through the detector without it.

It was all downhill from there. Ten minutes later, we were in an airport bar just outside our gate having two tall, cold beers and laughing when a very old man with only a few good teeth sat down next to us.

"Well, if it aint the girl with the sweaty feet," he drawled. He had apparently been in our security line. "How about if I buy you two a drink?"

We couldn't possibly, of course. But we did. A minute later, we were being talked into a shot of tequila each.

The moment the shots were down, a gentleman sitting to the left of us at the bar slid over a chair. Great, I thought, bearing down for an awkward come-on directed at L, who was sitting closest to our new friend. But then he opened his mouth.

"So girls," he lisped, "How is it you are having so much fun and you're not even on the plane yet?"

Instantly Brian was our new gay best friend ever. Not only did he save us from the strange toothless man, he was hilarious and thought we were about the most fun ever. We chitchatted about where we were going (we were going to the same place! on the same plane! let's have another round!) and what we'd do there, and whether wide-leg jeans were really coming back in style or not, and all in all we were really quite well behaved. Until...

"Seriously?" L said, incredulous to something Brian had ranted about. "That is so gay." (as in "lame" or "ridiculous").

For a moment, you could have heard fairy dust hit Brian's light brown suede loafers. I cringed and covered my ears, waiting for the tyrade and avoiding all eye contact. L froze the moment the word fell out of her mouth, wide-eyed. In her effort to be PC (a feat in itself, given our standard irreverence and the fact that we were now on probably our 30th ounce of beer and 3rd ounce of tequila, each), she had accidentally said the one word she was trying very very hard to not say. Gay.

And then: "Let's not use that word, dear... what do you say?"

Brian was an angel. And poor L had never been more thankful for the understanding of a gay man. In celebration of his coolness, another round.

By the time we got on the plane, we were-- "Tipsy?" Brian asked.

"More like blitzed," L replied.

The three of us sat together on the plane, talking relationships, mostly. Brian determined that my last relationship was "gay", while he and L exchanged tips on... well, nevermind. But I imagine for all around us it was a terribly interesting plane ride, to say the least.

The rest of the night included these highlights:

- Once at our friend's house, us girls continued the celebration, during which L fell face-first into a pile of full garbage bags in the garage, a position from which she struggled to recover but couldn't for some time, much to the amusement of myself and K, who flopped around on the ground laughing so hard we cried
- I was jumped, tied up and silly-stringed
- A quesadilla was, at one point, slid under a bathroom door

One key portion of the weekend which I failed to mention was that I had just come down with The Cold -- you know, the one that has taken most of the people around you out at least once this winter? Yeah. So during all these festivities, I sounded like one of Marge Simpson's sisters with a speech impediment thanks to the stuffy nose and sore throat. Delightful. Needless to say, Saturday was a little rough, but we managed to fit in lunch, some shopping, a comedy show, a lovely meal, and another night out on the town, where, after hopping myself up on decongestants and bud light, I saw my first mechanical bull (no, I did not ride said bull, being neither a cowgirl nor a hoochie mama).

Saturday night's other highlights included:

- Watching the apparently common phenomenon of two girls riding one mechanical bull at once, thinking this was both a) attractive and b) safe of which it turned out to be neither, of course.
- My girlfriend K chipping her tooth on a beer bottle after doing an ill-advised group toast at closing time, after which we called her "Lloyd", "Chippy" and "Snaggle"
- Cramming 7 people into a 5-seater van taxi, and being somewhat surprised when halfway through the ride, the driver decided he hated our guts and turned up his CD of Korean pop music (it's exactly as bad as it sounds) so we could no longer communicate with each other or hear ourselves think

The trip home was much like the trip away, if you replace the alcohol with huge cups of icewater. We rode back with Brian - a friendly and flamboyant coincidence - and again the contact solution was in the carryon, only this time they didn't catch it (about which I was very relieved, as the carryon was now also crammed with dirty underwear and socks and other random stuff, but also freaked out by, because, well, what if I were a terrorist?).

All in all, it was a good weekend, with good friends and one new gay best friend ever. And today, I'm paying for it big-time. I've got the sense that if I blow my nose once more, it will trigger a deadly pressure-explosion in my brain, but I just can't resist. Wish me luck...

Good night.

Lois and the Catholics: Danke Schon.

On the plains of the Palouse -- a great, flat stretch of grassland that covers Eastern Washington and Western North Idaho, over which the wind whips like it's Siberia in the winter and where the lentil grows plentifully, but tastes like hippie dog food -- I had many of the formative experiences of the 17th-23rd years of my life.

Yes, in Idaho I learned to drink, to (sorta) write, to "ice block", and to roll a joint. I also learned about the sound a VCR makes when you drop it from the window of an 11th floor dorm room, and about home-perms and friend-administered hilights (neither a good idea). I learned what happens to boys who shave their legs and pierce their tongues (homosexuality and a beagle) and what happens when they build 9-foot beer bongs (my friend pees her pants at a party and I punch a boy in the face).

And last weekend, I learned that delicious food and funny stories come from diners inside which hicks wrangle pancakes and scrambled eggs while staring down girls in heels with lattes in hand and boys with well-pressed shirts.

It was on our way home -- we decided to take the long way, detouring through Coeur d'Alene so we could see some family on the way back to Seattle. As we got a God-awful early start, we were on the road and nearly to our first family-members' home before roosters even started crowing. So we did (surprise!) what I wanted to do: stopped for coffee and food.

The coffee appeared in a semi-populated stretch of highway in the form of a roadside stand. Caffeine? Check. We pulled back out onto the road, happy with our nonfat sugar-free vanilla lattes warming our hands, and started looking for someplace to get breakfast.

We squinted, and drove, and drove and squinted some more before we realized we were in the middle of the country. Not the "country", like the "Cunt-ry". There weren't so much a bunch of sprawling farms as there were the occasional 1972 Chevy rusting alongside the road with a man swathed in plaid leaning against a holey silo.

"Hey -- what's that?"

"What?"

"That building..."

"Hmm..."

I squinted harder. I must get Lasix.

"Oh! Yeah! That looks like a diner!"

"I thought so."

"Can we go? Please? Pleeeaaasssee??"

"Yeah, sure."

I am persuasive, clearly.

My companion cranked the wheel, bouncing us into the gravely parking lot of "Lois". I think it was supposed to be "Lois' " (like, posessive), but it seemed the intricacies of the posessive form of the name were either unimportant to Lois or worn away by time. Either way, the building's name now appeared to be "Lois".

I clutched my latte, flug open the car door, and stepped under my friend's arm, and through the door into...

1952.

Once our eyes adjusted, we saw a row of farmers at the bar, drinking coffee and spitting tobacco into bronzed spittoons. There were a few women who didn't work there sitting in a booth next to the dingy yellow-curtained windows, discussing a 4-H steer show, and the politics around the events in the local chapter.

"gorrr innn..." I urged to my awestruck friend without moving my lips, nudging him in the side and smiling at our dining companions.

The other patrons lost interest in us a few minutes later, as we slid into our back corner booth. I pulled out the crossword and we started working on it, after deciding we'd both have one of the four things on the menu -- a scrambled egg and homemade toast.

"Okay. One across is five letters for 'a chapter in nove-"

"What can I get for you two? No coffee, I imagine?"

The waitress.

"Oh, no thanks," I said, "But we'll both have the 'little farmer' breakfast."

"You're going to have to slow down, honey," the waitress said, rolling her eyes and sitting down in the booth next to me. "That was two... what?"

"Little Farmers," I offered. "One scrambled, one over easy."

She proceeded to take our orders, and then tell us about her morning, particularly about the overflowing toilet (apparently this was a weekly thing, and caused her great inconvenience) and the 'ol gal' who was supposed to relieve her of the afternoon shift who just called in sick.

After she sidled away, the two of us resumed work on the crossword. Shortly, we were stumped by a clue for which the answer was clearly Danke Schon, but we didn't know how to spell the "schon" part.

As we were discussing, our waitress reappeared with our food (by the way, the best damn scrambled egg I've ever eaten -- and toast made of homemade bread like you wouldn't believe).

"What's the clue?" she asked.

We told her, and explained that we didn't know how to spell Danke Schon.

"Is it an 'e', or an 'a', or an 'o'?" I asked. "Neither of us knows."

"Ooh," she said. "I can't help you with that one." She leaned in conspiratorially, and whispered "There aren't any Jews here today."

As we looked at each other across the table incredulously, she straightened up and continued:

"In fact, you're presently surrounded by Irish Catholics." She paused, then finished with "Y'all enjoy your breakfast now."

Satisfied, she nodded as if for punctuation, and retreated to the kitchen, leaving us with the best damn breakfast west of the Missisippi, "5 across" unsolved, and a pretty funny story.

Oh, Idaho.

Awesome weekend in I-D-A-H-O, football, fans, etc.

I went back to Idaho last weekend to watch the UI vs. BSU game -- and what a game it was!

UI actually lead or were tied with BSU for the first three quarters. Of course, in the fourth, the wheels came off and BSU won, but still. For a college football game with an anticipated 30 point spread (and U of I anticipated to finish last in their division while BSU is ranked 18 in the nation), it must have been pretty discouraging for Boise State in the Kibbie Dome with 18,000 screaming UI fans standing in seats and packing up all the exit rows.

Fire hazard? Yes. But I'm pretty sure most of the UI alum wouldn't have cared if they died at that game.

They were already in heaven. Yes, the fans were frenzied spectacles in their own right.

Every garbage can within a three-mile radius of the stadium wasn't just full, it was overflowing with beer cans and keg cups. So much so, in fact, that fans had started to just pile their cans and cups in the general area of garbage bins, in some cases nearly burying the overflowing receptacles. I have a picture of this, and will post it here shortly. Watching people do this was completely bizarre. It was like all the out of control garbage didn't even phase them. They just put their can on top of the heap and tottered on, obliterated.

The old guys were great, too. Fifty-year-old alums wobbled around the stadium waving glittery gold and silver pom poms and yelling "GO VAAANDIEEES!!" like slightly retarded 7-year-olds.

And while I was standing waiting to scalp a ticket to the sold-out game, a chain of wasted sorority girls, holding hands and walking single file towards the dome stepped, one at a time, directly on one of my feet. After it happened the first time, I was stunned enough that I didn't move much, and then the remaining four girls all followed directly behind their leader, each stepping on the same foot in turn and not one of them noticing.

It was one of the best weekends I've had in a long time, truth be told. A great game, a happy reunion with a bunch of my old college cronies, a solid night out on the town, complete with dancing (yes! dancing!), a fishbowl of beer (a real fishbowl, full of beer, all to myself!) and general debauchery.

More coming soon...

Fanny feedback, and the angriest cities in America.

I got quite a few emails about the Fanny Pack Crisis America is facing at the hands of designers who have spent too much time doing coke and being ironic and flamboyant, and I thought I'd share a couple with you.

It seems I'm not the only one who's noticed this resurgence of fanny accessories. Jason wrote:

"There was a young woman that came in my work with a fanny pack, more of a hips sack, like makeup counter girls wear. We had a discussion about it. We determined that the fanny pack/hip sack only works if you are European. Just my input."

Okay, fair enough. European men can, after all, get away with riding on Vespas and carrying man bags while being straight, and european women can get away with not shaving their underarms, legs, or upper lips and smelling vaguely of cheese and patchouli. So I'll give you that, if only because they're doing so much else that's hideous that I can't bear to fight the fanny pack battle with all of Europe.

But how awkward was that conversation at your workplace, Jason? I mean, we're in AMERICA. And by the end of the conversation, you'd determined that the poor woman sporting the ugliest bag known to mankind better either take it off pronto or buy a plane ticket to Prague! Ouch.

The way you say "we had a discussion about it" makes me uncomfortable - like when my friend's father sat me down to have a discussion about sex -- when I was 19.

I have to say, I still tend to identify with Pat (of Texas -- land of ten-gallon hats and frat-dicks with striped polo shirts and spiky hair), though, who writes:

"um...fanny packs were NEVER really in. Like, I had one to carry my herd of carnivorous dinosaur toys in second grade."

Word, Pat. Fanny packs were purely utilitarian even before we had a sense of style. Pat rocked the pack to carry his plastic dinosaur toys, so when he got his ass kicked on the playground for bringing plastic dinosaur toys to school, he could run using both arms without risking dropping them.

He knew they weren't cool, but he carried it because when you get sat on everyday at lunch by Big Dan, the somewhat special kid who weighed 150 lbs at the age of 7, you knew you weren't going to be cool, so you might as well be practical.

Good luck with that, Pat. Rock on.
___________________________________

In other news, my buddy Dave sent me THIS , which you must check out. It's an article on MSN listing the top 150 angriest cities in America.

The most angry city? #1 goes to Orlando, Florida. In fact, Florida has 5 cities in the top 12, and isn't listed after that. So basically it's a pretty pissed off state, in general.
And you know what? I'm not surprised. All those fucking hurricaines and alligators in the ditches and the stifling, deadly humid heat, and the toll booths everywhere -- they'd piss me off, too. Add tourists and voter fraud/the recount (see angry mob, pictured at left), and you've got yourself a city built on rage and resentment.

Seattle comes in solidly in the middle of the pack, which I attribute to the fact that while we do have 4 solid months of gray drizzle, we are typically well-medicated (antidepressants do wonders to allay anger and depression) and quite fit as well as caffeinated. So it's all about balance, really.

Check it out. And enjoy the three-day weekend!! I'll be at Bumbershoot, watching Zero7, Kanye, Atmosphere, Speaker Speaker, Steve Miller Band, and my favorite group of all time: A Tribe Called Quest -- front row, probably sans shirt and three sheets to the wind. God, it's going to be epic. Will give you the full report upon my return (and after one full day of sobering up/hydrating).

Until then...

Pearl Jamming and a damn good weekend

It was a good weekend. I managed to cram 4 days of festivities into two whirlwind tours of fun. I'll keep it short, but here's the gist:

Spent all day Saturday on either the beach or a boat at L's cabin. On the beach, I read trashy magazines, threw around a football, and drank beers. On the boat, I watched wakeboarders ride, drank raspberry vodka from the bottle, listened to SoundGarden and pretty much felt like a badass. The company was good, the music was good, and it was that classic summer day you never want to end.

By the time we got the boat off the water, I was pretty sure it couldn't get better (remember, I was three sheets to the wind, in a swimsuit, in the sun, and no one had yet shat themselves). But then it did.

A couple of my friends and I were unexpectedly offered free tickets to the Pearl Jam show that evening by a new (generous) acquaintance. The concert was at the Gorge in George, Washington. Not only is this my favorite venue (for a number of reasons but mostly the aesthetic appeal of the place -- it's just breathtaking), but I was already pretty close, my friends are die-hard PJ fans, and the prefunking was done.

I was in, with three friends.

Now, it was hotter than two rats copulating in a tube sock at the Gorge. We're talking 89 degrees after the sun set. But I was so blissed out the whole time just to be there that I didn't even notice. It was good. Like, really good. Teenage Wasteland was a particular high point, as was Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town, of course. But you can download it here and see for yourself.

After the concert, we went back to the cabin where we crashed and then got up the following morning for an early drive home, during which I slept shamelessly the whole way, half draped over my helpless (but admirably patient) backseat companion (who doubled as a pillow).

Upon arriving home, I changed and went to the much-anticipated company picnic and -- surprise! -- had a great time. It was again a zillion and a half degrees, but at one point all the execs kids had a waterfight and somehow my CEO and I got involved, which was both fun and totally necessary to prevent me from actually melting right there in the park.

Immediately following the picnic, I got on a ferry and headed across the water to an island where a friend of mine recently moved and bought a boat. We killed three hours on the boat, and then went to a nearby restaraunt on a pier and ate our weight in seafood.

By the time I finally got on the ferry home, it was 11:30 and I was full, completely exhausted, and happy. You can't ask for much more than that.

Martinis in the desert on a school night

I am writing this, a few martinis in, from a hotel room in Phoenix. Like, Arizona. But I guess that is obvious.

I am supposed to, at this minute, be in Seattle. In bed.

(There are cactuses here! Or cacti, rather. The desert is a very scary place. Not to be confused with dessert, which is my favorite.)

Don't know if you saw it in the news, but D.C. basically turned into a giant underwater city this weekend. Which was perfectly timed, as I was there for work. Did you ever see Waterworld? Yeah, me either. But I feel like it must have been like D.C. There was so much rain it actually caused buses to float, cars to die, trains to cancel and planes to be grounded.

Mine was one of these planes.

But I didn't realize it until after schlepping my shit back and forth in the Dulles airport, nearly screaming at a couple America West employees, being frisked in security after standing in a half-mile long line, and then standing in a Subway line, where a woman who spoke no english made sandwiches as slow as humanly possible. And not only did she put each bit of shredded lettuce on the sandwiches one at an excruciating time, the sandwiches ended up all messy and sloppy and falling all over the place. I almost jumped over the counter at her.

Only after all this, (while in 88 degree weather in torrential downpoar and wearing heels, which I'd spent the weekend in, standing on the cement floor of a trade show), did I recieve the details of my delayed flight, which caused me to miss my connection in Phoenix, which caused me to sweat even more in my suit, possibly cripple myself in my heels, stand in yet another line, and then be told I'd be staying over in Phoenix until the next available flight, which is tomorrow.

So now I'm at the Hilton, and I've cancelled tomorrow's meetings, and I've changed out of the goddamn suit, and am now in a jean skirt and a tank top and flip flops like a local. And it's just fine. Fine fine fine. Sheryl Crow fine. Soon to be Jimmy Buffet fine. And then, maybe later, if someone gives me a stick and a smoke, John Daly fine.

Oh yes, I've been to the bar.

And I'm going back.

Cheers!

Goodbye Nessy, hello career

Well, this month I was supposed to be leaving for a 3-week trip to Europe, during which I would be watching World Cup games, drinking unhealthy amounts of German beer, searching for the Loch Ness Monster and generally engaging in ballyhoo across Western Europe.

Was supposed to be. Past tense. Because I'm now not. Because I took a new job, which I love, but which also necessitated the cancellation of said trip.

And now, in an ironic twist of fate, I will still be spending the month on and off planes -- for work. I just returned from business travel which had me in NY until yesterday morning, and am leaving again for NY on Tuesday, returning Thursday, just to leave again on SATURDAY for D.C. returning MONDAY. And so on.

It's been a whirlwind couple weeks, and doesn't look like it will be stopping anytime soon. But such is life. And frankly, though I can't say I don't feel a twinge of remorse every once in a while when I think about the debauchery that would have accompanied the Europe trip, I'm having a helluva time.

And a major perk is traveling first class (they serve breakfast! and alcohol! and endless coffee!) and staying in rad, cushy, couture hotels in major U.S. cities. If not for that, I mightn't be so positive about this development.

More is coming soon, but I must first get out from under the 400 emails I have to read and respond to since my return. Not counting yours, of course. :)

Near-death experiences in NY

Last weekend was my first trip to "the greatest city in the world" on pleasure. I went, on a whim really, to visit a friend. As I actually got to spend time in the city (which was bitter cold but gloriously sunny for this Seattlite and which we canvassed on foot for two days straight), I got a totally different look at it than ever before:

1. First and foremost, it reminded me that I am a small fish in a very, very big pond. There's something thrilling about feeling so incredibly tiny.

At home it's the opposite. After a few weeks in Seattle you can pretty much get a handle on the city. It's friendly, manageable. Everyone has the weather, coffee, the Mariners in common. Buses run regularly behind schedule and 50 percent on bio-fuel, but people mostly ride bikes or drive to the city from the suburbs just north or east. It's mild, in every sense of the word. Some crime, but not a lot. Some culture, but it's rarely shocking. A little attitude, a little sun, a little snow. Geeks. Technology. Coffee. Books. Drizzle. Seattle doesn't wear a lot of makeup, but is expressive: lots of water, lots of mountains, lots of green -- beautiful, smart, unpretentious. Easy to come home to. And you can get comfortable to the point where you can actually make yourself believe you have a handle on things -- even that you ARE somebody -- simply because you can usually pay rent, only get lost occasionally, have never been assaulted, and have stopped carrying an umbrella. In other words, big fish, small pond syndrome.

In New York, this was not the case. There, there was no question that no matter what I did or said or where I came from, the city was enormous, sharp, hungry and indifferent and that I was very, very small. Anonymous. Forgettable. This sounds really depressing, but it wasn't. It was actually inspiring to feel challenged and unspecial -- like I simultaneously had nothing and everything to prove to this place that hardly noticed me scurrying about open-mouthed on its patchwork of pavement. Whatever. This is getting obscure. The point is that it's, like, big and rad and stuff. Anyway...

2. New Yorkers are practiced at being unfazed by everything -- including certain death. You can tell which pedestrians are tourists and which are not because the tourists actually wait for the walk/don't walk signals to change. New Yorkers risk being crushed between two cars or turned into much flatter versions of their upright selves every two and a half minutes -- at every single crosswalk they meet -- dodging in and out of traffic and stepping in front of fast-moving, honking cars manned by pissed-off yuppies or non-english speaking cabbies as if invincable. Then, they actually yell and gesture at the cars who may at any moment kill them (and who have every right to be driving straight through a green light).

And the cab drivers! Being totally prone to terrible accidents and convinced I am destined to die tragically young behind the wheel, under the tires or in the backseat of a car (hey, I'm a classy girl. I meant riding as a passenger, you deviant), some of the cab rides were quite traumatic for me. I actually had to make a conscious effort not to totally spaz out/pass out/vomit in the company of my well-adjusted-New-York-transplant-companion. At one point I actually did squeak a bit and clutch at him in the cab in an attempt to brace myself for my own imminent death, but he just sort of laughed and rolled his eyes as if I were just being dramatic. We repeatedly experienced near-head-on collisions, and routinely braked so fast I would have flown directly out the front windshield, past the driver and into the arms of the jaywalking pedestrian we nearly hit had I not been clinging like a child to his arm. Both of these scenarios also failed to fluster him. Which explained his constant leading of me across intersections where I was sure to be pancaked: he had been desensitized to the fear of death.

3. New Yorkers can sniff out imposters, too, I found. Though I was always accompanied by New York (the person, not the city), I was still attacked every thirty seconds or so by a Louis Vuitton knockoff-slinging Chinese man or some greasy Italian dude standing outside a restaraunt he promised would be "a-nice-a-dinna for-a pretty girl". And I wasn't even carrying a camera or map or wearing an "I heart NY" t-shirt. But I was smiling. A lot. Maybe that was it. Even New York couldn't explain this. Then again, he IS a transplant. Maybe he doesn't have "it".

4. Either the acoustics of the city are remarkable, or it is the single noisiest place on earth. I'm a fan of noise. When I was little (by which I mean until I was about 13), my single favorite passtime other than faking my own death to make my little brother cry (more on this later), was sitting on the floor of our kitchen surrounded by kettles, pans and assorted cookware, which I pounded on like a miniature female John Bonham along to whatever rock and roll was on the radio.

So in New York, the constant racket at all hours of the morning (and night) appealed to me. The fact that it was in three different languages made it even better. But yes, at 5 through 8 in the morning when I was working on sleeping off all the drugs and alcohol (just kidding mom -- no drugs, seriously) it was slightly less charming than at 2 in the afternoon. And I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what would be worth honking and swearing at the top of your lungs about for 5 straight minutes, but I spent some time thinking about that while cursing the previous evening's beverages when it woke me every morning.

Also, garbage trucks came every single morning. Also at about 6 a.m. And they sounded like they were actually backing their trucks into the building I was sleeping in while a team of garbage men drug sheet metal up and down the sidewalk, occasionally bashing into parked cars and yelling. New York should consider recycling. Everyone would sleep a hell of a lot better. But I digress, and I think my Seattle roots are showing like Heather Locklear's brunette, so we'd better move on...

5. Saw RENT. [Had great seats, the show was amazing, yadda yadda, insert raving and details of fabulous show here.] Later that night, New York's roommate, (who had been somewhere drinking while we were show-watching, which was made evident by the fact that his eyes were almost entirely closed when he spoke) said, through a mouthful of Parliment filter, something to the effect of "Isn't that the one with that song that goes... uh... 'five hundred, twenty five thousand goddamn minutes' or sompthin' like that?'" while sorta swaying and half conducting with his right hand from a semi-reclined position on the couch.

Yes, yes it is.

So now, if you ask me when I'll be ready or how long something will take, my standard response is "five hundred goddamn thousand mother fucking minutes", and I'm not sick of it yet. Maybe when I mentally and emotionally graduate from junior high school, gratuitous swearing will be less entertaining. You think?

________________________________________

Look, I'm not going to run you through the whole experience, but let's just say it was a memorable weekend. I am typing this from Harborview Medical Center, however. You see, I had raging bronchitis and strep throat when I went (or maybe just a head cold) and the sub-zero temperatures and constant exposure to the elements have depleted my immune system to such an extent that I actually have to be quarantined. They say I can go soon, but will have to be entirely protected from the outside world until I make a full recovery -- and until then, I will have to roll around in one of those plastic inflatable globes like Bubble Boy. So it turns out the dangers of NY are not restricted to the traffic, cabs and extreme noise.

On the upside, I've never seen a frat-dick looking dude deliver a cheesy pickup line to a sniffling girl in a giant plastic bubble suit. Which means it looks like I'm temporarily spared the trials and tribulations of dating until I make a full recovery. So at least there's that.

Seattle to L.A. to Seattle: First class, ballers and Canadians.

This week I flew to L.A. and back for work. The way there with my client was delightful. First class. An endless supply of tiny little bottles of water. Gorgeous scones and strawberries on real plates. A coat rack. A perky little woman with sticks in her hair and blindingly white teeth who flirted with my client and largely ignored me, but relentlessly refilled our steaming coffee mugs.

The way back, we caught an early flight, as we got our work done early and wanted to dodge the nighttime Grammy traffic that we would likely have been caught up in had we stayed. The catch, though, was that we couldn't ride first class. That's right... we were to join the zoo in coach.

Hey, typically, I AM the zoo! I'm no high-maintenance traveler. But when you've flown first class less than eight hours earlier, there's something about the back of the proverbial bus that seems less than appealing. Perhaps it's that it IS less appealing.

I was seated two rows from the very back of the plane, which is a little scary in and of itself. Then, as the rest of the passengers began to file in and find their seats around me, I realized that I was to be squeezed in between two hurking seven-foot men. Turns out the entire USC basketball team would be flying, with me, back to Seattle. This is where I commenced to panic a bit. What if I had to pee? Would I have to straddle these incredible hulks to get out? What if there was turbulence and I started to spaz out and instinctively reached for a hand to hold? What if they spontaneously chest-bumped mid-flight and crushed me between their gigantic sternums?

Luckily, I somehow rationalized my way through my initial freakout, and began to cope with the fact that I'd clearly have to share my personal space for a few hours and there was nothing I could do about it. After this realization came and went, I relaxed and began to actually enjoy the traveling debacle. The "ballers", as it were, were relatively uninteresting. There was only a little leering, and though they spent a good amount of time yelling back and forth across the many rows between them, there was also only a little lewdness. Then, once we took off, one to my left fired up "The Godfather" on his laptop, and another put in "When Harry Met Sally" (no joke), and I spent the rest of the trip not working, as I'd planned, but alternately reading the lips of two distinctly different sets of fictional characters. A few times I giggled out loud at a Harry Met Sally Scene and had to quickly stifle it to hide the fact that I was watching out of the corner of my eye. It was a little embarrassing when I was found out, and the Harry Met Sally-watcher looked over at me as he angled his laptop a bit more away from me and towards him as if I was some creepy Peeping Tom (or maybe he was just embarrassed about his choice of film).

There were also some shrill Canadians on the plane. They were seated behind me, but I know there were three little girls and at least one adult female, based on their loud, rapid-fire conversation througout the flight, held primarily between two girls, who I am pretty sure were somewhere between 12 and 15 years of age. My favorite exchange between the two went as follows:

Little Canada One, pointing out the plane window to lights below: "Isabella! Is that New York, eh? Ohmigod, I think that's New York!! Isn't it?"
Little Canada Two: "Um, maybe!"
Please remember that we are en route between L.A. and Seattle... direct flight, no stop on the East effing Coast of the country.
LC One: "Isabella!! Would you rather be in America than in school, eh?"
LC Two: "Totally! America is soooo cooooool."

Let's take the scenic route, eh?

On Seattle

I.
It's as if I am visiting after being away far too long.
I had almost forgotten the feeling
of damp air on skin,
the sickly sweet smell of garbage and bum piss
in the alleys of downtown,
and the way spring doesn't come until June --
buds bursting into colorful crowns
yesterday nonexistant in the green,
now grinning and bobbing outside my window.

I had almost forgotten the contradiction of this place:
How it buzzes, steel and glass planted in wetland;
The reflections in tall, mirrored buildings
of slender trees tacking down squares of earth along gritty streets;
The reflections in wide, windowed buildings
of two people in one trenchcoat beneath a yellow bus sign, kissing;
The reflections in geometric wonders of buildings:
reverse images of brick buildings and black buildings
and of building itself.

I'd let the pierced blonde woman slip my mind:
glittering tragically in anger and rebellion
with her carefully dirty hair,
lounging always outside the coffee shop
with newsprint-blackened fingers
framed by the fog of a hot-tipped cigarette.

I had almost forgotten the noise:
The pregnant silence just before
a strong-armed man in rainboots throws his head back,
hands outstretched in an embrace with thick air
and belts "Fish! FII-IISH!"
in a gravely bass that makes me want to join him
in my own triumphant release;
And the cacaphony of buses, taxis and horse-drawn carts
jockying for position along First Avenue,
all hissing, honking and clopping.

And I am lucky to have been moved to remember
how in a day amongst
the raincoats
and streetlights
and brick buildings
and buses
it's possible to exist solely on this energy
and be satiated, somehow.

II.
Bumper to bumper,
we creep through the arteries of this city together.
Bonding in bored glances from lane to lane,
we flirt -- one metal pod to another --
at seven, eight, fourteen miles per hour.

III.
I finally peel away from the rush hour rest
and fly.

Brakes shriek as I careen around a corner,
reckless in my new freedom.
I pass the standing firemen,
all navy jumpsuits and square jaws,
at the station
with my windows cranked down and
The Doobie Brothers blaring from the one good speaker.

I sing through the sucker tucked in my cheek
just loud enough for them to notice,
though I don't know the words to this one.

The air screams in one window --
whipping my hair about my neck
pouring in my sleeves, around my ankles
then biting cheeks and dampening eyes --
before it bursts out another.

I watch it in the rearview
as it teases the litter in the street behind me;
I watch it grow smaller.

And I watch the dappled light,
filtered through the trees,
flying over my hood, windshield and me,
faster and faster:
an Appaloosa racing through the veins of this metropolis.

A visual tour of my trip through New Orleans, pre-Katrina

I was fortunate to see this incredible city before its most recent disaster. New Orleans is no stranger to forces of nature larger than, but parallel in passion to itself. It has survived fire and flood consistently over the years, one after the other.

You can click on each of my photos for a larger version, if you like. They're nothing special, but at least you get more detail when they're bigger.


I was most struck by the above-ground cemetaries in New Orleans. They are referred to as "cities of the dead" and are built this way because the water table is so hight that it makes traditional burial impossible - caskets would float to the surface of the earth, if buried.



Some tombs were better kept than others. This one held an old voodo witch - the city and the practice of voodo have long, intertwined histories. Tombs known to hold famous leaders in the practice were often covered by symbols in sets of three. "XXX", or three hatch marks, for example.



The tomb of multiple generations of an Italian family based in Louisianna.



According to the nuns, this convent survived the New Orleans fire because the nuns prayed that if God were to save it, they would celebrate Him and the miracle on the same day each year after. He did, and they do.



Everything at the convent was beautiful but I remember being struck by the impression it was all also trapped, locked or restrained somehow.



A breakdancer on a main thoroughfare. A sharp contrast to the careful restraint of the convent.



Before the hurricane, as after, New Orleans had a dark side and clearly struggled with her own demons. This is an apartment complex along the edge of the French Quarter. It was being lived in... I just missed capturing a woman and a child leaving the building.



A beignet (donuts without holes) maker at Cafe DuMond. He is inside, I am out. (notice the trees in the reflection.) Breakfast every morning was these, generously covered in powdered sugar, and Cafe au Lait.



The doors in New Orleans fascinated me - with the French, Spanish and Creole influence among others, the city's architecture, food, art and music had an eclectic feel.



Buildings along a street in the French Quarter. The street is Iberville, obviously. The color of the buildings is standard - N.O. is a colorful place...



...And full of artists. I caught this painter on her balcony. Wish I would have seen the finished product.

Greyhound, Seat 4C

So Erin at Poetic Acceptance gave me an assignment recently: to write a poem with the opening line:

"The clock runs in the shadows
as well as in the light"

Here is my attempt:



Greyhound, Seat 4C

The clock runs in the shadows
as well as in the light
but still she hides it
in her pocket.

Swallowed by the humm-thump of bus tires,
the pounding of her swollen heart
and raw, heaving ribcage,
she watches the blurry world

spin by with unnatural speed,
a palate of rust
and slate
in the dawn.

Dizzied, she fixes eyes to the horizon,
on that point where the dull, potholed highway
meets young lemon light,
and fingers the change in her palm --

enough for perhaps a few more transfers
and another cup of bitter coffee at the next stop,
last time so black
she couldn't see her reflection in the styrofoam cup.

Squeezing her eyes against the glare,
she leans her head to the vibrating window,
finally,
letting go.

A shudder shakes through her like a current
and a single salty orb slides from its swollen womb
to hang heavy
on long, damp lashes.

It slips onto velvety cheek,
waning as it purposefully rolls,
leaving part of itself -- a telltale trail--
behind.

But when it lands in one final rush,
pooled, glistening sorrow at the corner of her curved mouth,
it is much to familiar
and she much too weary

to notice it's flavor
like the sea on her tongue
or the man in 4D,
in awe of her,

offering his handkerchief.

Never ever ride the bus late at night.

Whoa... Were my self-esteem directly tied to the emails I recieve after each post, the last post would have sent me into a complete me-loving frenzy. I would, in fact, be under the impression that I'm only a lyric away from signing a record deal and riding off into the sunset in a tinted-windowed tour bus surviving only on my ability to write mediocre verses. Which would mean I definitely need to go shopping for a leather jumpsuit and an entire wardrobe of sequins.

In short, thank you for your kind words. And message recieved. More to come, as soon as I'm struck by incredible boredom/self pity/love at first sight.

::steps off soapbox::

You remember that magical bus story from when you were little? What's it called?

::googles::

Aaah. "The Magic Schoolbus". Remember it? And Ms. Frizzle taking the kids on these crazy magical bus rides through the galaxy or their intestines or the deep deep scary-glowing-fish-who-look-like-aliens sea? I sort of felt like I was on the grown up, cracked-out version on the bus home last night.

I stayed out late after work with a couple co-workers. Saw a foreign film. Ok, it was an action flick.

::shifty eye action, lip biting, finger twiddling::

FINE. It was "In Her Shoes". Whatever.

The point is, after the movie I had to hop on a bus to get home. The stop I needed to use was the one on 3rd street, just up from the market, in a sketchy retail part of town. Stores close, freaks and gangsters come out, and the transients go to bed in every doorway.

So I'm waiting at the bus, and this guy who smells like he's never wiped in his life keeps walking by me and referring to a "sweetie" (which I sincerely hope wasn't me) and scratching all over and licking his lips. The 10 minutes I spend waiting at the bus stop were some of the longest minutes ever. THEN, I get on the bus, open my book, and begin to plug those uncomfortable little I-Pod headphones into my head when I (well, everyone on the bus) notice there's the quintessential meth-head on the bus, scratching and talking exactly one million miles an hour to what appears to be herself. Well, at first that's what I thought, until a pair of very loud African American women near the front engaged her in an argument.

Turns out My Friend Meth was saying 3 things over and over: "I'm native american!" "I just can't believe how black you are!" and "look at black curly black ness I can't believe gurgle gurgle..." or something. Anyway, lots about the blackness of the black hair of these women with curly black hair and brown skin. Meanwhile, the two ladies seem to have completely forgotten that this woman is clearly under the influence of the demon of drugs, and decide they'll get upset about crazy's comments and start yelling and threatening her. Well, at this point, all book-reading is futile as I'm devising a survival plan should things get ugly. Namely duck under the significantly large man sitting next to me. While I'm busy having escape fantasies and pretending I'm invisible by averting my eyes and ocasionally squeezing them shut and counting to ten, the bus driver begins to yell at the already yelling ladies, only worsening the problem and causing everyone on the bus to increase the intensity of their practiced eye aversion.

THEN, as if we all weren't WAY uncomfortable enough, some stressed-out passenger just can't wait and LIGHTS A CIGARETTE AND PROCEEDS TO SLOWLY AND DELIBERATELY SMOKE IT ON THE BUS.

Well, this drives the bus driver (heh heh) nearly off his rocker -- which is a bad, bad thing, as he's driving the bus that is supposed to deliver my ass safely home.

Which is where I eventually wound up, after we pulled over on Hwy 99 and threw a couple passengers out.

So it was an eventful night. Tonight, I think I'll watch "Lost" and maybe even pop some popcorn if I'm feeling crazy. Or illegally download a Metallica song. Oooooh. I've really turned over a new, brave, live-life-on-the-edge leaf, haven't I?

Aaw fuck it. I was always a good girl. No amount of piercing, swearing and drinking will cure me of that. Hope you're not dissapointed.

Today's soundtrack -- funky latin and old jazz, sung new:
"Mariposa (en Havana)" by Si Se
"Waters of March" sung by Jane Monheit
"Reflejo de Luna" by Alacran
"Don't leave me now" by Amparanoia

Keep your warm buns to yourself, please.

I am a regular (twice daily) user of public transportation. Being in Seattle, I'm lucky that I've got access to a really good transit system (and one that runs partially on bio-diesel, no less).

I quite like the bus: it's regular, it's much much better than spending my life savings/beer money on gas that's so expensive it makes me hyperventilate, I don't have to park my bus, and my dog can ride with me. All these are good things.

But I have one major problem with riding the buses -- it's the invisible menace that has increasingly become a source of some anxiety for me each and every time I lower myself into one of the dozens of map-pattern upholstered buckets.

Warm seats.

I hate them. There's something so creepy and gross about sitting down on a bus in the morning and feeling the heat from someone else's ass radiate into your pants until your butt is, in a sense, being heated by the left-behind energy waste of some stranger's derrierre. Call me crazy, but it just seems dirty... if there's heat left behind, there must be germs. Same concept as smells.

If you can smell something, that means there are tiny particles of that something in the air that are going into your nose and mouth. So if your roommate is the chili-eating kind, DO NOT under any circumstances use the restroom within 30 minutes of their exit or you'll be ingesting whatever is left stinking the air up.

Same goes, I think, for hot seats on busses.

It's just that my butt-heat is personal, you know? And I don't need any of yours, thanks.