I Love Fred

Who is Fred, you ask? Fred is channel 44 on XM satellite radio and he rocks my world.

My friend Becca loves Fred so much that she wants to marry him. I love him, but I really just want to give him a little cuddle and a kiss.

The station is described as "classic alternative", otherwise known as the Soundtrack of Kay's Youth. It's the music of my high school and early college years.

In one listen you can go from Joe Jackson to New Order, XTC, Talking Heads, the English Beat, the Jam, Blondie, Human League (well beyond their hit "(Keep Feeling) Satisfaction") and much, much, much more. Most of what they play never got radio attention. But it got my attention.

Everytime I listen to Fred I'm taken back to some great memories of New Wave Night at Thirsty's (it's a sports bar now), dancing at The Grove (Denver's only 3.2 gay bar, back in the day) or at Pogo's in Boulder.

When I was 18, Denver still had "3.2 bars". These were bars that sold only 3.2% beer, not 6%. You could get in at 18 and it was the perfect solution for those of us who weren't yet 21 but wanted to dance. And we danced a lot. Later, when we were "legal", the party moved to Tracks or Rock Island (Oh! The toast room! Come, eat toast!)

Our weekends were filled going to any of these clubs--Pat, Jeff, David, Steven, Steve, Greg, Sean, Ann, and me--spent hours on the dance floor. Then, hot, sweaty, and exhausted, we'd go to Muddy Waters of the Platte coffeehouse nursing cups of strong coffee until the wee small hours. Muddy's closed at 4am on weekends and it was the perfect place to go when the 3.2 bars closed at midnight and you didn't have anywhere else to go and you certainly didn't want to go home. It was filled with smoke; mostly that of clove cigarettes or pot, and a thoroughly eclectic clientele.

The first time Greg (who thought his parents were aliens trying to brainwash him....) and Sean took me there, after seeing Gary Newman at the Rainbow Music Hall, I didn't know what to make of it but I knew I was in love. Muddy's closed in the late 80s as the neighborhood started to become gentrified and as Fourbucks started to take over the world, acting as if they invented coffee house culture. Hardly. This was the real deal.

Fred also takes me back to Pat's "music closet". He cleared out all of his clothes from his bedroom's walk-in closet, replacing them with his stereo (pre-CD, doncha know) and pillows. We spent hours in there listening to albums and extended dance remix over-sized singles by Ultravox, Spandau Ballet, early U2, and bands I can't even recall. Good times. Good times.

The soundtrack of these years is captured on Fred. I nearly drove off the road when I discovered it soon after we got XM. And Nigel loves it, too. He'll email me things like, "Heaven 17! They're playing "Geisha Boys & Temple Girls"!" It's the soundtrack of his youth, too, and we're both digging the hell out of it. I love Fred. And I love a man in a uniform.

A Memorial Day Rant

Today is officially Memorial Day, but it's commemorated on the closest Monday, which was yesterday.

Yesterday in Iraq, more than 40 people lost their lives, but there were four people in particular that caught my attention. Two have been getting a lot of press coverage, along with their colleague who was seriously injured. CBS cameraman Paul Douglas and soundman James Brolan were two of the dead and CBS reporter Kimberly Dozier is seriously injured.

The other two dead are footnotes. They are both as of yet "unnamed". One was an American soldier, presumably with the 4th Brigade Combat Team, 4th Infantry Division that the CBS crew was traveling with and the other was an Iraqi interpreter.

Did you know this? I didn't know this until a brief mention last night on MSNBC's Countdown. The other two news reports I'd watched that evening did not mention the deaths of the soldier or the interpreter, nor did any of the online articles I'd seen. Disgraceful.

Memorial Day is not a day to commemorate dead journalists. Don't get me wrong, any death in this ill-conceived war is wrong, but the misplaced focus on the journalists is self-serving and yet another example of how out of touch the American mainstream media is. They are so caught up in themselves (witness the departure of Katie Couric for another shining example) that they seem to lose the real and important stories.

I suppose it's sort of a "man bites dog" type of story. We expect soldiers to die but we do not expect journalists to die. I get that, but we cannot lose sight of the fact that Douglas and Brolan were not the only casualties yesterday.

I've spent 30 minutes trying to find the names of the two other men who died--in vain (both their deaths and my search....) They are merely footnotes in every single story I found online. The only reason I learned that their names have not been released was because of a story in the Seattle Times, yet there are dozens upon dozens of stories about the CBS crew.

So today, on Memorial Day, take a moment to remember those who have made ultimate sacrifices in this war--2691 coalition dead, an estimated 38,000 Iraqi dead, and 18,184 Americans injured (sources: CNN and www.iraqbodycount.org). And think about two men—an American soldier and an Iraqi translator--who died on Monday.

Where It's At

Sometimes you get working so hard and wrapped up in your own family and dramas and life that you forget to have fun. But you've gotta have fun.

Last night we hosted the first BBQ of summer. It was awesome. There were only about a dozen of us, which was just perfect. Last summer we hosted the 40/10 birthday/anniversary extravaganza for about 100, so we didn't anything that massive or requiring that amount of work. Just something intimate and simple.

Guests ranged from my friend Pat, who I've known since high school, to our newest friends Pete and MJ that Nigel met through work. Some guests were book industry friends, one was an "imaginary friend" turned "real life" friend, and one was 8 month old Jed who just hung out on his blanket and played with his toy telephone. It was just a great time all the way around.

The real fun started when someone (::cough::) decided it would be a good idea to mix vodka and thawed Otter Pops, as if she were sixteen again. And it was a good idea, that is, until the vodka ran out and we had to move to gin. Damn those Colorado liquor laws that won't let you buy booze on Sunday!

So, in honor of summertime, good friends, and good times, I give you my recipe for Otter Shots.

You'll need a martini shaker and ice, plus thawed Otter Pops and the alcohol of your choice. Put some ice in the shaker, and use two shots of alcohol for every Pop. Shake, strain, and enjoy!

The best combos are Strawberry Short Kook and vodka or Louie Bloo Raspberry and gin. Pancho Punch and gin was okay--you get a lot more of the juniper off the gin, but the others were the top vote-getters of the evening.

The best part of the evening (aside from getting the news that the next door neighbors are being kicked out... See "Rules Help Us Control the Fun.) was near the end. There were just six of us left, and Derek pulled everyone back outside to look at the dusk sky. It was the most beautiful azure blue you can imagine, with just one small puffy white cloud passing through. We stood outside and talked about how much we love where we live, with the cool summer evenings and the magnificent afternoon thunderstorms. It was one of those "great Ahhhhhh" moments. Life is good.

Well, pardon me. My kitchen is covered in the blood of 1000 Otters and must be cleaned up. Happy summer.

Books, Glorious Books

A conversation with my friend Karen got me thinking about my favorite books. Here is a list (today's list, that is) of some of the most important books in my life. I'm not entirely sure if they're my "favorites" or the ones that have had the greatest impact on my life, or what, but it's a list of those works that I hold closely, that have been immenselly entertaining, and that helped shape who I am in one way or another. Exciting, hunh?

I give you, in no particular order, the list.

1. New York Trilogy by Paul Auster. Auster is one of my most favorite writers of all time. He loves to play with words and realities and he's awfully good at it. Leviathan is a good place to start with him but the New York Trilogy is his master work.

2. Biko by Donald Woods and In the Spirit of Crazy Horse by Peter Matthiessen. These books go together. Both drive home the terribly frightening lesson that it all can go so horribly wrong just by virtue of your race, your politics, where you were born, and where you live. They are striking and important works and you'll never look at life or governments the same way again.

3. The All-of-a-Kind Family series by Sidney Taylor. I still read these delightful books every few years. They're the story of a Jewish immigrant family in New York in the early 1900s. I yearned to be one of the sisters (specifically Charlotte) and always felt jealous as a Jewish kid growing up in a predominanetly gentile suburb and school, that my experience with Judaism couldn't be more like theirs. If you love children's books and historical fiction, these are for you. Taylor wove together touching stories, creating a loving picture of life at the time and Judaism. And if you're not Jewish, you'll learn a lot.

4. Stories That Could Be True by William Stafford. One of my prized possessions in life is a signed first edition of this now out-of-print book. Stafford was one of my favorite poets and I was lucky to meet him and share a drink with him about 15 years ago. I treasure that memory. He was a Westerner who wrote on regional themes but much, much more. Reading his poetry is like drinking a long, cool drink of water.

5. Deborah, Golda, and Me: Being Female and Jewish in America by Letty Cottin Pogrebin. I haven't read this book in a few years but each time I have read it, it's knocked me off my feet. Pogrebin was a founding editor of Ms. magazine and someone who had abandoned Judaism for many years. This book is her story about how she was able to reconcile her feminism and her Judaism and embrace the two together.

6. The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger. Sure, it's the cliched entry but it's a marvelous book. I still read this one about once a year or so and while I feel old now reading it, I get something new from it each time. It is the quintessential "coming of age" story and it withstands the test of time. Franny and Zoey still knocks my socks off, too, but Catcher in the Rye remains #1. Another of my prized possessions is my dad's paperback copy.

7. The Second Treatise of Government by John Locke and The Social Contract by Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Everyone who knows me knows that I'm a political junkie and I especially love political theory. These two works are where it's at. Locke and Rousseau's writings were critical in the development of the American political system and Jefferson, et al, would not have been able to build the magnificent system of government we have today if not for these philosophers who came before them. And if you think their works aren't relevant today, I recommend reading both. The concepts that governement is to serve the people and that we have human rights and dignity are more important now than at any other time in recent history.

(For the Locke book I linked to a volume that combines his first and second treatises--both are important but the second is the critical one.)

8. Immortality by Milan Kundera. Given my love of Paul Auster, it should be no surprise that I love Kundera, too. He is best known for The Unbearable Lightness of Being, but I like this book more. In his lyrical and nonlinear style, it is the story of Goethe, his wife, and his friend Bettina, interwoven with a modern-day story of three Parisians. It's a thinking book and it takes some work and patience, but it is beautiful and well-worth the journey.

9. Anagrams by Lorrie Moore. Another author who is a master of wordplay and shifting realities. Moore is known mostly for her short stories but it's her novels I like best.

10. The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje. Yeah, Naveen Andrews is in the movie but it sucked. The book, however, is stunning. It took me several tries to get into it but it was worth every effort. Far and away, this is one of the finest novels of the last 25 years. Another one I'll put in that category is AS Byatt's Possession: A Romance. Again, I had several false starts (and again, the book is much better than the movie) but the payoff was worth it. Not only does she create two different and beautiful stories of the four primary main characters, but she writes loads of terrible romantic poetry that makes you laugh throughout this otherwise serious book.

11. Candyfreak: A Journey Through the Chocolate Underbelly of America by Steve Almond. I learned that it's okay to embrace and celebrate my inner candyfreak. Almond's website is also great fun--he's a fantastic writer. Bon appetite!

(And a note to any books and authors I left off--it was not intentional and I promise I'll get to you!)

Rules Help Us Control the Fun, Part 1

No, seriously, they do.

I'm a bit of an etiquette geek. I collect books on the topic and I read anything I can get my hands on. I'm fascinated by how people behave, how people are supposed to be behave, and how that has changed over time.

Many complain that etiquette is "restricting" or that they don't subscribe to "all that" because it's perceived as being uptight or snooty. On the contrary, etiquette is liberating because it gives us guidelines about how to behave or respond, particularly in tricky or difficult situations. Besides, it's really nothing more than good manners.

And we all like good manners, right?

We've got trouble right now with our next door neighbors, who are affectionately (::cough::) known as the Deltas. You know, from Animal House? These are an updated, more stoned version of the Deltas, but they act like they live in a college frat house just the same. And again last night there was another party, complete with shrieking drunken girl in the front yard (it always seems to be a different one), and culminating with beer cans and cigarette butts all over our front yard and four crushed plants in our garden this morning.

You know, that's just not cool. What happened to being neighborly?

The funny (or sad, take your pick) thing is, these aren't kids--these are three guys in their early 30s. Three guys who don't seem to understand how you treat your neighbors and their things. We've tried talking to them. We've tried talking to their landlords. Now, the next stop will be talking to the police each and every time there is a noisy party going on.

Please don't think I'm the crazy old lady neighbor who yells at "those rotten kids!" every time they close a door or turn on a radio--that's not it at all. I'm all about the party and having friends in, but there are neighborly ways to do it and not-so-neighborly ways to do it. And when you have a shared wall....

So, this morning I delivered all of their trash to their front porch and Bruce Springsteen and I shared a little 6:30am jam session. Oh, I know that wasn't the neighborly thing to do, but when I saw four crushed plants in my yard this morning, it became war. And truthfully, it was all I could do not to bang on their door until someone answered. Alas, that would not have been at all polite.

I wonder what Miss Manners would say?

(For anyone interested in a hip, entertaining view of the dos and don'ts of polite society, check out the now-defunct Etiquette Grrls. They're not maintaining the Web site anymore but the archive is a treasure trove of information and laughs. )

Hola

I am home. I was hoping to return with some great words of wisdom or insight, maybe some funny stories, but alas I returned home with only aching feet. Granted, there were some funny stories but most of them don't seem as funny now out of context and my best one--about my husband and Thai prostitutes--is really best told over drinks. Though I suppose I'll post it here at some point.

It was a great show--it almost always is. I got lots of good business done (it's not all just parties and bars, you know) and caught up with so many people. One of the greatest pleasures for me is the one-on-one dinners and I got two of those. It's lovely to spend a few uninterrupted hours with old friends, catching up on life.

Oh, for good measure there were a few parties in there as well and a whole lot of gin. I think the gin makes you forget your feet don't hurt, or they ease the pain temporarily, until you detox. Holy cow, my feet.

I saw nothing of Washington except for a lot of Metro stations (they're very nice and clean and don't smell of stale urine!) and I could see the Capitol building twice a day as I walked to and from my hotel. Oh, and their lovely convention center, too. I saw a fair amount of that.

The highlight of the trip was a visit to National Public Radio where Jessica and I got to watch them do Weekend Edition Saturday live. That was a cool experience. Sarah Beyer Kelly is one of their producers and directors and someone I've worked with a lot in the last year. She invited us, and we actually got to sit in the control room while they did the show live.

It's incredible to see how it all comes together--a lot is pre-recorded (some of it three minutes before air) and it was interesting to see that the musical "buttons" are sometimes selected while a story is being done live. We didn't get to meet Scott Simon, as he was on assignment in New Orleans, so Linda Wortheimer hosted. Watching them do the show is like watching Mystery Science Theater 3000, with the laughing and smart comments that go on behind-the-scenes. It was so cool to see them pull the show together--with one story they didn't think would happen until just moments before it was to air--and how much they all seem to love their jobs.

This is the show we heard live.

This weekend is always a reminder of how much I love my job and how lucky I am to be in the book industry with so many creative, smart, and wonderful people. Now if only one of them would rub my feet.

(Oh, and for those of you wondering--they did work the word "monkey" into the show. I like to think they did it for me....)

Hello, I Must Be Going

I leave tomorrow before the sun comes up, so I will leave you with a story before I go.

A few weeks ago, I was out at DIA to catch a flight. Lord know where I was going--it all becomes a blur sometimes. I hadn't stopped to get cash before I left, so I hit an ATM in the main terminal. Nothing. Tried it again. Nothing. Hmmm, the machine must be down.

Dashed off to another one. Same thing.

And another.

I hit four different ATMs in the terminal before I had to run to catch my flight. I got to my concourse and decided to try one last time. Then I thought maybe I should double check my PIN, just to make sure, and lo and behold, I'd been typing in a PIN that wasn't even close to being right.

I hope the man who followed me to four different ATMs got his money....

I'll be back early next week and I'm sure I'll have loads of tales of the bizarre and unbelievable. Oh, and if Scott Simon happens to use the word "monkey" in this week's Weekend Edition Saturday show, that's because of me. I'll explain later.

Until then, good night and good luck.

Madness, Madness, They Call it Madness

30,000 "industry professionals", nearly 8000 book buyers, 2000 exhibits in 300,000, four 16 hour days. Sound like heaven on earth? Sound like one of the rings of hell? Nah, that's BookExpo America, where I'm headed in just a few days.

This is the largest book industry gathering in the country, but not the world. I'm not sure which is the largest, but it might be the Frankfurt Book Fair that boasts 7000+ exhibitors and 285,000 visitors over three days (Frankfurt is open to the general public; BEA is not.)

To some, it might sound like heaven but I guess after nearly 20 years, I'm a bit jaded. Oh, it's got its fun bits. Back in the day, we used to hit the parties until 4am--and there are some amazing parties.

The big deal is always to score a PGW party ticket. They're hard to come by and their parties are always the place to see and be seen. I don't hit that one anymore (I'm old. I'm tired.) but the best one was at House of Blues in Chicago where Morphine played for about 500 of us. I think the most bizzare party I ever attended was for Danielle Steele at the Beverly Hilton. We were required to stand in line, to meet Her Royal Highness, in order to get into the party. Once you were in, it was the most over-the-top thing--you can't even imagine. Hell, it was Danielle Steele. I'm guessing you can imagine.

Now, I'm more interested in the smaller parties and dinners with friends. This is one of two times a year where you get to see the people you only get to see once or twice a year..

It's a hard show and a long weekend. If you've never played the role of a "booth babe", you don't know what you're missing. You're in business dress on concrete floor for at least nine hours and then it's time for dinners and parties. You collapse into bed at an hour that you never see at home, get up in the morning and do it all over again. Each morning is a little foggier and a little more painful than the one before it.

And you see some truly odd things. There was the year our booth was next to Heidi Fleiss's--you know, the Hollywood Madame? She had an entourage of ::cough:: colorful women with her and they delighted and puzzled BEA attendees all weekend long. There are the poor people who have to dress up like book characters (I met the Pokey Little Puppy once!) or those that chose to dress up in some odd costume that is supposed to have something to do with their book but mostly it just makes them look like a goon. I always sorta feel sorry for those people but then I remind myself that they did it to themselves (it's mostly the self-published authors from what I've seen.)

Last year in New York there were a lot of Sopranos-related sightings--Steve Schirripa out promoting his cookbook, Edie Falco hosting a party for a family member, Peter Bogdanovich and Frankie Valli doing somethin'.. Sopranos everywhere. Sometimes you wonder if you're eyes aren't playing tricks on you, as there is something curious at nearly every turn. This year it will be lots of DC political types--one of my colleagues is doing events with both Gary Hart and George McGovern, so I would imagine the politicos will be plentiful.

BEA exists in a parallel universe. For four days you live and breathe books. Well, books and booze. Time sort of stands still. You don't hear much news from the outside world (except when Ronald Reagan died a few years ago--that was big news.) You generally don't talk to your family (unless they happen to be with you and then you get to hear all about their fabulous day of sight-seeing when you finally meet up back in your hotel room at some ungodly hour.)

I've really got a love-hate thing with this trip. It's hard, hard work and exhausting, but it's a lot of fun, too. It's great to see friends and colleagues, to be immersed wholly in books and the world of books, to have fabulous meals, and to meet and see people you'd never get to otherwise.

So, put on your drinking shoes and I'll see you in DC.

Late Night TV

In our house, "watching TV" is a term used to describe what our cats (yes, there are four of them) do in open windows. They are so mesmerized by the happenings outside--things invisible to the human eye--that they will sit for hours on end, fixated. Thank goodness they can't reach the Doritos.

Last night was the first night we've been able to sleep with the bedroom window open. It was glorious. The only problem was that the head of our bed sits flush with the window. We had a very busy night of cats running back and forth across our heads, watching late night TV all night.

If you didn't catch it, Al Gore was on Saturday Night Live last night. You can watch the opening here: Live From New York. Pretty darn hysterical and well-worth watching.

My Fifteen Minutes

Would it be possible for your "fifteen minutes of fame" to happen while you're not watching?

When we were in London, I was interviewed by BBC World for a television program called Code Breakers, a two-part special about Microsoft's dominance in software and the rise of freeware and open-source software. Cool. Like I know a lot about these topics...

I looked particularly awful that day and the cameraman kept having to re-shoot because my Gortex jacket was rustling. I didn't think to take it off until the interview was over. I stammered and kept losing words. It was a top-notch performance and I'm sure the reporter was pleased she selected me out of the other dozens of people in the Internet cafe.

The first part of the program aired (allegedly) this week on the 10th but I can't find anyone who gets BBC World (not World Service) so I have no clue if I made the cut or not. What if the interview with me was so fabulous and so insightful that I gained fame and popularity throughout the Commonwealth and I never knew it? I could be a cult figure in Canada or the Caymans, or Australia, even.

Part two airs on 5/17, so if I'm on and I'm wonderful, someone please let me know.

Qwest's Spirit of Service--Finally

Anyone who has missed my rant about Denver-based Qwest is lucky. I’m a long-time hater of the company, legendary for their indifferent customer service, culminating in one special day a few years ago when I spent the better part of nine hours on the phone speaking with 11 different people about a problem I didn’t even know was a problem. At 4:00 in the afternoon, “Customer service rep” number 12 said, “Can you tell me what happened?” I took a deep breath, paused, said, “No, actually, I can’t.” I hung up the phone and burst into tears.

But I digress.

This time, Qwest got something right. Something big. They are the only major telephone company to refuse the National Security Agency’s request for customer phone records, citing concerns about customer privacy. When they asked if this request shouldn’t be coming by way of the FISA court, they were told “no”. They requested a letter of authorization from the US Attorney’s office and were told “no”. In turn, they told the NSA “no” and were warned that they could be risking future classified contracts. (source: Jonathan Turley, George Washington School of Law on MSNBC’s Countdown, 5/12/06.)

Verizon, Bell South, and AT&T all complied. So, you are asking, why is this really a problem? It’s a problem on a number of fronts.

First, it’s a violation of your First Amendment right to privacy. Who you call when is your business and not anyone else’s. Secondly, it’s a violation of your Fourth Amendment right—the right against “unreasonable search and seizure.” These records are being taken without your permission. There is little difference between this and the NSA showing up at your front door to start looking through your files.

But I haven’t done anything wrong; I’ve got nothing to hide, you might be thinking. The vast majority of us don’t. The NSA has tens of millions of customer records now. Do they honestly believe that as much as 2/3 of the population of this country is somehow related to or affiliated with Al Qaeda? Seriously? That would be the only potentially justifiable reason for such a sweeping collection of these records. Come on, is anyone being fooled by this?

I was a student of politics and also Soviet history. I don’t feel it is unreasonable at this stage to say that what is going on in this country right now, under the guise of making us “safe from the terrorists” smacks of Soviet-style governing. There are clear threats to, at a minimum, our First and Fourth Amendment rights—rights guaranteed by our Constitution, yet little is being done about it.

Bush, et al, are modern-day Raskalnikovs—they break the law because they think they're above the law. By simply stating that they haven't done anything wrong does not make it true. What they are doing is illegal. As Dana Milbank of the Washington Post stated, "The President is not his own judge and jury." No, he is not. We are. The Congress is. The Supreme Court is.

So, had enough yet? What can you do about it? Several things. First, quit sitting back and taking it. The revolution begins now, motherfuckers. (Thanks, Mags.)

Senators Arlen Spector and Patrick Leahy have promised Congressional hearings on this matter. Make that happen. Write and call your elected representatives—House and Senate, on both sides of the aisle—and demand this happen. Write your local papers. Write to Qwest and thank them. Write to Verizon, Bell South, and AT&T expressing your anger. Change your phone service. Participate in the class action lawsuits that are in the works against these three companies. Read. Educate yourself, take to the streets, vote in November. All of these things matter—they really do.

As Jonathan Turley said on Countdown last night, he knows of “no law that allows this type of operation.” What is being done here is illegal and must be stopped. Those involved (including President Bush) must be held accountable. Please, sit down and write a letter or two this weekend. I will be.

And (this is something I never thought I’d say), thank you Joe Nacchio.

Some of My Favorite Words

bloviate
pepper
dalliance
French
posh
glovebox
silver
bollocks
Nashville
verso
magpie
esprit
koshka
Punjab
Sangiovese
brilliant
balalaika
cardamom
braise

Those Were the Days of Miracle and Wonder

On a late spring Friday in 1991, Amanda and I were driving along I-25 just north of Denver on our way to lunch. I'd just graduated from the University of Colorado and Amanda and I had just moved into separate apartments after several years of being roommates. We were tired , restless, and looking for something interesting to do. And we were listening to Paul Simon's "Graceland".

I don't know how it happened, exactly, but one of us must have said to the other, "You know, I've always wanted to see Graceland" and the other must have replied, "Hey, me too...."

Within three hours, we were on I-70 heading east bound out of Denver. We had a stack of cassette tapes (including Graceland, of course), a stash of Diet Pepsi and Camel Lights, and our credit cards. We bought a map along the way.

Saturday morning, after driving around lost in Kansas City, we made a phone call (in part, to get directions) and surprised Grandma and Jake for breakfast. A few hours later, we stopped in on my aunt and uncle in St. Louis.

Sunday morning, we were off again. We drove through Illinois (the Land of Lincoln!) and into Kentucky, where we made a brief stop for BBQ (try the BBQ; trust me.) It got dark but we were getting closer to Memphis. Then the rain started. It poured rain, absolutely torrential rain. But we had Elvis Presley's Golden Hits in the cassette player. All was right with the world.

Money was tight so we looked for the first cheap motel we could find. $15 bucks a night on the periphery of Memphis--sold! This place was like something out of a David Lynch film and when the shouting and door pounding started sometime after midnight, we just prayed they didn't know we were occupying room 4.

Monday morning arrived--and not a minute too soon--and we were out the door of the No-Tell Motel, and the first in line for the 9am tour of Graceland! It was everything we'd dreamed it would be, in all its tacky, kitschy glory. What struck us most was the Jungle Room. Every house should have a Jungle Room.

Ahhhhhh. There just aren't enough words to describe it all.

After our tour, we stopped in at one of the many Elvis gift shops in the area to stock up on unnecessary plastic items, and then it was time to decide on our next move. New Orleans! I'd been there once before a few years earlier, and we were close (it's all relative), so what the hell?

Back into my little Civic hatchback, and we were southbound. We made a straight shot down Highway 98 through Mississippi and that evening we were on Bourbon Street, drinking Hurricanes, and toasting ourselves for a trip well conceived and executed. We spent a few days eating up New Orleans (literally and figuratively...) and met all sorts of characters along the way, including a bartender in our hotel who was convinced Amanda would be getting married in New Orleans. She still hasn't, but it is still a possibility.

I miss those day but both of our lives have changed. We both have mortgages and significant others, limited vacation time and less patience for sitting in a hot car for 10 hours at a stretch. You know how it goes. But we do have great memories of this trip and the other road trips we did together, including our lunch date in Taos, a two week trip to see as many Paul Bunyons as we could throughout the Pacific Northwest, and the midnight drive to Dallas that lead to meeting Nigel.... But those are stories perhaps for another time.

For reasons I cannot explain
There's some part of me wants to see
Graceland
And I may be obliged to defend
Every love, every ending
Or maybe there's no obligations now
Maybe I've a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland....

Goin’ Down to London

I woke up with Goin’ Down to London, the most-excellent song by Joe Jackson, in my head this morning. It made sense, because that’s where I was last night—London.

I have unusual and vivid dreams, and have as long as I can remember. I can tell you what people were wearing, eating, doing, saying. Why, just the other night, Bruce Springsteen and I were getting ready to give a presentation to a group of self-published authors. Well, when we weren’t cuddling, that is.

One really cool thing about these dreams is that a lot of the time, I travel. I go to New York quite a bit, and I used to go to Grand Cayman on a regular basis—you have to get there by swimming and it’s a surprisingly easy trip. I also go to England a fair amount. Now, these aren’t exactly the New York, Grand Cayman, or England you know. They’re the New York, Grand Cayman, and England of my dreams. They’re familiar, but just slightly off. In New York, all of the trains are way up high—near the top floors of the tallest buildings. In Grand Cayman, like I said, you have to swim to get there, but I’m not a swimmer and I find it very easy.

England is really cool—especially the candy store in London. It’s in Heathrow Airport and it looks like something out of Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter stories. It’s in the basement (didn’t know Heathrow had a basement, did you?) and it’s got every sort of candy imaginable. Funny, but I always find myself there or trying to get there in my England dreams.

Last night I was in Trafalgar Square, looking for the candy store (strange—I know it’s in the airport!) and I was walking in high-heeled shoes that made me slip. My friend Paul was helping me—how or why Paul was in London, I don’t know. And then we were stopping for scones in a school canteen. These were disappointingly small scones, but we ate them and left. I kept walking and walking (I don’t know were Paul had run off to), looking for the candy store but I never found it. I wasn’t disappointed because I kept seeing all sorts of other wonderful London sites along the way—some real and some not. Plus, the flowers are really beautiful right now.

I Want Candy: Part One

Here is a list of some of my favorite American candy.

5 Star Chocolate Bars
From Lake Champlain Chocolates, these are da bomb. The peanut are the best, but I wouldn’t pass up any of them. This is serious chocolate and shouldn’t be wasted on people who like Hershey bars.

Stephany’s Denver Mints
Stephany’s, a Denver tradition, recently went out of business. Their chocolate was nothing to write home about—it was waxy and too sweet, but their signature Denver Mints rocked. Think Andes Mint. They reminded me of my grandfather who always wanted them when he came to town.

Three Musketeers
I love the creamy, light chocolate and they sorta make you think you’re eating something healthy. Well, not really.

Mounds
Sometimes you feel like a nut. The bars are too small, but full of coconutty goodness.

York Peppermint Patty
The chocolate snaps when you break it and then inside is wonderful mint. They’re very good crumbled on vanilla ice cream.

Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups
You got chocolate in my peanut butter! You got peanut butter in my chocolate! This is nature’s perfect food. A pack of two is at least one cup too few. The originals are the best, though the white chocolate peanut butter eggs aren’t half bad when you’re in need of serious sugar.

Chocolate-covered almonds
A good source of calcium and protein. Need I say more?

Jolly Ranchers
The grape candies and fire sticks were the best but I haven’t seen them in ages. Another classic bites the dust? When we were kids, there was a house we always hit on Halloween. The guy was an exec at Jolly Rancher and rumor has it that they would fill a pillow case with JRs if you wanted them to.

Red Swedish fish
They’re red! They’re Swedish! They’re fish! Plus, they stick in your teeth. How can you go wrong with that?

Poetry Man

I was driving home a bit ago and surfing XM channels, when I hit Phoebe Snow's Poetry Man.

Mark (Opening Day, 4/2/06) was a huge Phoebe Snow fan and turned me on to her. Even though the song is about a very different relationship to the one we had, hearing her always makes me think of him.

With the first few notes I got sad and my eyes welled up, but then something struck me that actually make me burst out laughing--the memory of Mark's unique shit-eating grin--the one he would give you when he knew he wasn't really pulling one over on you but was hoping he might be. There was something so endearing about that grin and I hope the memory of it never becomes blurred from too much handling.

Talk to me some more
You don't have to go
You're the poetry man
You make things all right...

I Am Middle Aged: Part Deux

So yesterday, I'm in indie favorite Twist & Shout buying a gift certificate and purusing CDs (Score! Tom Waits' Blue Valentine used!) I am paying, when I notice a counter dump announcing that it's the street date for the new Pearl Jam CD. That's not so interesting, but what gets my attention is a quote praising the band or the CD or whatever.

I have the dump (it was small) in my hand and I'm reading. Stopped dead in my tracks when I see, "Blah blah blah and etc. etc. etc." by John Doe and then parenthetically "of X". Does ANYONE not know that John Doe is "of X"? How could that be?

The cashier notices my scrunched up nose and puzzled expression, and in complete disbelief I say, "Seriously, there are people who don't know John Doe?" Pause. "Have I gotten that old?"

With a gentle laugh and a subtle nod, he reinforced it. Yes, I have gotten that old.

(He did make me feel better though when he said, "Kids today. You'd be surprised how much of it they don't know.")

Nate

The Red Sox beat the Yankees last night in their first match-up of the year. Nate would have loved it--it was a helluva game. I wrote this last autumn, nearly one year after Nate died.

Jimmy Dugan didn’t know what he was talking about.

Just in case you’re not a baseball movie junkie, Jimmy Dugan was Tom Hanks’ character in A League of Their Own—the new manager of the all-girls Rockford Peaches team. The one who said those immortal words, “There’s no crying in baseball.” Sorry, Jimmy, there’s plenty of crying in baseball, and I’m not talking about that 9^th inning we-never-saw-that-one-coming loss. There are a lot of tears in baseball, especially at this time of the year.

Baseball used to make me happy. The memories of a cool spring Opening Day, the crack of a bat, walking into the park at the home plate entrance, standing at the top of the stairs for just a moment to take it all in—the requisite ritual for my friends and me, no matter which ballpark we walk into. The warm summer evenings, beer, peanuts, the cheering crowds. Charge! Then, the thrill of the playoffs. Oooh yeah, that was the best time of all. I loved baseball and everything about it.

Now, baseball makes me sad.

I got to see my favorite team win the Series last year, but Nate didn’t. Nate was my nephew and this is his story. He always told it best.

Before all of this, I didn’t know Nate well. Our family had been estranged. The last time we’d spent any significant time together was more than 10 years earlier where our conversations tended to focus on how funny it was to say things like “goose poop”. He was a funny kid.

When Nate was just 19 his headaches got so bad he couldn’t stand to have overhead lights on. He came home from the University of Colorado, where he’d just started his sophomore year. He came home to go to the Emergency Department at University Hospital.

The doctor who took care of him that night, Dr. Dana Jennings, feared the worst. His neurological exam had been abnormal and while she continued to check him out and wait for some tests to come back, she tried to figure out what to say to this kid who was scared and hurting. Dana is the kind of doctor who cares about more than just the medical problem and she became a friend to Nate.

During their conversation, Nate commented that he wished there were a TV in the room. When Dana asked why, Nate told her it was because the Boston Red Sox were playing. Dana mentioned that she had a friend on the team and Nate perked up. Who, he wanted to know? Even though his pain was evident in his voice, there was also excitement. A friendship—actually several friendships—were born that evening.

Dana’s friend was Kevin Millar, the Red Sox first baseman, and one of Nate’s favorites. Nate requested a baseball story and Dana told him of Kevin’s early days as a player while they waited for the MRI results. When the worst was confirmed—a mass on his brain (and soon after, a diagnosis of stage four leukemia)—Dana contacted Kevin. Over the course of months, Nate and Kevin became friends. They kept in touch by email and Kevin sent Nate Red Sox shirts, and a signed picture (that Nate kept by his bedside). As their friendship grew, Nate went through rounds of chemotherapy, a stem cell transplant in the winter, and long, long days of recovery. Kevin always encouraged Nate to keep fighting—a hero encouraging another hero.

In June last year, while Nate was in remission, one of his greatest dreams came true. The Red Sox came to Denver to play the Rockies. Nate was going to meet one of his heros. Nate and Dana went to a game; they ate hotdogs and drank beer. Nate met Kevin Millar and the picture of their meeting is one of my favorites. Nate was on Cloud 9. His friendship with Kevin gave him immeasurable joy.

Two months later, Nate’s health took a bad turn. August came and Nate relapsed, returning to the hospital where doctors performed a second stem cell transplant. The Red Sox continued to give Nate a reason to cheer—they were headed towards the playoffs. Though sick as a dog, Nate had them on TV at every opportunity. While Nate grew increasingly sicker, the Red Sox advanced. The excitement and tension were palatable.

I mentioned earlier that our family had been estranged. With Nate’s illness, the rift lost its significance. I was getting to know my nephew again. But what does a 40 year old woman say to a 20 year old kid? “Goose poop,” while extremely funny to a ten-year old, doesn’t make for good conversation when that ten-year old is now 20, a Columbine survivor, and coping with a medical crisis. What do you talk about all those hours in the hospital?

Baseball. You talk about baseball. I was a longtime Sox fan, we both adored the sport, and we spent hours talking about it, strategizing and making predictions. We talked about our favorite baseball movies, players, and games. Baseball made us both happy.

In early October, Nate was rushed to ICU with pneumonia. He was so sick. We all took turns spending time with him. He was surrounded by family, a maze of cords and machines, and a growing group of high school and college friends waiting for news. He was not breathing on his own, but was relying on a ventilator. Doctors warned that it was time to plan for the worst; Nate was not expected to make it. The leukemia was too aggressive and he was too weak to fight. The day they removed his tubes, we all braced ourselves. I walked into his eerily quiet ICU room 30 minutes later and he was sitting up in bed—weak but awake—and his first question for me was, “Did they win?” It was all I could do to keep from crying to see Nate alive and conscious—and yes, of course they’d won!

Those next few days were a nightmarish blur. Nate was told his prognosis—he had wondered why there were so many friends and family around—and decided that even if he had a 5% chance to fight, he would. There was talk about Do Not Resuscitate orders and other things no 20 year old (or their parents) should ever have to face. Nate was brave and faced these decisions head-on. I knew before that he was my hero but every moment he fought reinforced it.

In the meantime, the Red Sox and the Yankees were facing off in the last round of the playoffs. Nate was moved to a room with a TV and nearly all the talk—when it wasn’t about leukemia and treatments, and pills, and tests—was about baseball. Nate’s best friend, one of the strongest and loyal people I’ve ever met, was a die-hard Cardinals fan. The time Aaron showed up in his childhood Cardinal’s jacket, now about four sizes too small, was pretty funny by all accounts.

Then the phone call came. It was just before Game 6; Kevin Millar called and left a voicemail for Nate saying that he was walking in to Yankee Stadium and that the next time they would talk, it would be as the Red Sox were walking into the World Series. He told Nate they were going to win it for him. And they did.

Nate was so sick, so incredibly sick, and that phone call sent him soaring. He told everyone who walked into the room, some people more than once, I think. He couldn’t believe that Kevin—his friend—Kevin Millar, the Red Sox first baseman, had called him and that they were going to win it for him. That day, those few wonderful hours, are among my favorite memories of Nate. Though he was weak, and the leukemia was winning, this gave him so much joy. One of the last times I saw him was the day after the Sox clinched their World Series spot. I walked into his room as a doctor was finishing a biopsy. Nate was drugged up and laying on one side. As I walked in, he rolled over with a big grin said, “Heeeeeey! They won!” They sure did.

The last time I saw him was on a Saturday afternoon. He didn’t feel well and was trying to sleep. I was in a hurry to get out of town on a business trip and left so he could rest and I could pack. My last message to Nate after a quick “See you later, sweetie” as he fought to stay awake, was a big “GO SOX!” on the message board he could read from his bed.

Nate only got to see two of the Sox’s World Series games before he died, on his 21^st birthday on October 26, 2004. Nate went into a coma the day before, quietly and peacefully, and never awoke.

Kevin Millar, by taking time to make a phone call and be a friend, did so much for my nephew. He gave him joy and hope at a time when both were in short supply. He made not just one person happy, but dozens. Even lifelong Cardinals fans started rooting for the Red Sox (if even just for one game) when they heard the story.

No crying in baseball? I don’t think so, Jimmy Dugan. The playoffs are sad for me this year (and even sadder now that the Red Sox have been eliminated). Who am I kidding? They’re really sad. I miss talking about it with Nate. I still gather memorable plays to talk about with him (Can you believe Damon grounded to Cano!? Why’d the let Cora bat while Olerud sat on the bench?) On Sunday, for the first time in a long time, I thought, “I should go to the hospital and watch the game with Nate today” and then I remembered.

Yeah, there is crying in baseball. Anyone who tells you otherwise didn’t know Nate. They don’t know the story of Nate and his friend Kevin Millar and what happened the year the Red Sox won the World Series and the world lost Nate.

Buying Into the Administration's Narrative

Call me crazy, but aside from a mention on NPR and a nanosecond on Headline News, nothing was mentioned about Stephen Colbert's presentation at Saturday night's White House Correspondents Dinner. Hmmmm, maybe it didn't actually happen and C-SPAN is just making shit up again? I guess that if it had actually happened, Matt and Katie would have told us about it this morning, no?

Here's a great piece on how the mainstream media ignored this newsworthy event: Chris Durang on HuffPo

And here's another piece from another blog, Blog Critics. Curiously, if you search Google News, nothing of any note (at least nothing from the mainstream media, that is), comes up.

Also, here's a fun one--Thank You, Stephen Colbert.

Hey, look, there's a shiny thing!