wisdom.

... you were created perfectly by yo' momma at conception. And all you need in life to be truly happy is to not watch "Ishtar", drink a good hot cup of cocoa, eat your favorite sandwich, preferably tuna, some confidence and love for thyself.


-- kerry fenster, one of my very most favoritest people

shock and awe.

i don't know what's worse - that you hurt me or that you didn't do it by accident.

you weren't the friend i thought you were.



where did I go wrong? I lost a friend
somewhere along in the bitterness
and I would have stayed up with you all night
had I known how to save a life

and maybe in five or ten we'll meet again
and straighten this whole thing out,
maybe when honesty need not be feared
in the twilight of you and me,
and this is your distance,
this is my game face
and there's really no way to reach me
because I'm already gone.

but what's mine is still yours to give or take,
what's mine is yours to make your own.

and what's sick is that I'll always love you.

Resolutions and Pie-Crust Promises

1. Make time to let my friends know how much they mean to me.

2. Worry less.

3. Work more.

4. Lose the gut and tone up the booty.

5. Spend more time with my family.

6. Write more real letters instead of emails.

7. Write more often, and better.

8. Help Greg quit smoking.

9. Keep my promises.

10. Tell you I love you.

Take this job and shove it.

Have you ever had a job that made you want to throw yourself off a building? Have you ever gone to work and emerged from your office 8 hours later, drained and numb, feeling like you lost about 5 IQ points throughout the workday? Or felt more like an enslaved rower in the belly of a boat, being whipped and tortured by a fat, smelly man in Viking wear than a public relations consultant?

You have?

Good, I'm not alone....

The family tree. I think 90% of the ornaments are something us kids made in kindergarten.  

The next three are ones I took in the field by our house on Christmas evening. 

 

 

Spy Court Judge Quits In Protest

I have a new hero .

How I Spent My Thanksgiving Vacation.

The subway pulled into the station, the windows changing from black to a wide scene of white and green tile. It came to a stop with a hiss and the everpresent g-g flat bell, singing over the warbling voice of the conductor. "This is Greenpoint Avenue, Nassau Avenue next, stand clear the closing doors, please."

I stepped off gingerly, taking slow, careful breaths, simultaneously nauseated and comforted by the smell of stale piss and stagnant water in the trenches of the tracks. The cold air from the street couldn’t stop me from sweating as I climbed out of the station and onto the sidewalk. I blinked into the sun for a moment before opening my eyes.

There was the Polonaise, the McDonald’s, the Catholic church. Christina’s Restaurant and the fruit market. Men in cherry-pickers were hoisting Christmas decorations onto lampposts and shouting to each other in Polish. I heard them even after I turned the corner onto Manhattan Avenue, following it north, past the dentist’s office, the liquor store.

As I headed towards India Street, I made mental notes of the businesses. There’s the beauty shop where I got a manicure the day of commencement." "There’s the market where I went foodshopping on September 11th. They had the radio on." "There’s the wine shop where Sean and I would buy Romanian pinot noir."

I got to India Street, but couldn’t steel my stomach enough to turn right. I headed further on Manhattan, to my old laundromat. The old Hispanic woman and her daughter with Downs Syndrome were still holding court over the top loaders and rusty carts. The mother looked right through me, but the young woman gave me her usual knowing smile, the one that said, "It may have been awhile but I know you’re up to something." I smiled back before walking out onto the street, back to the shady corner of India and Manhattan. I took a deep breath and started walking slowly towards my old apartment.

It was a familiar route, as was the sinking feeling in my stomach. I continued to make mental notes of the locations. "That’s the building that was being remodeled. It turned out nice." "There’s the parking lot where I tried to slit my wrists, hiding behind a Jetta." "There’s the building where the woman who caught me lived."

"There’s my building."

And there it was, tall, beige, with a brick stoop and front door painted a thick shade of shit brown. The shutterless windows. The flat roof. "The plainer the building, the more secrets inside," I thought.

I looked up at the third-story windows, the ones on the right-hand side. I kept making my matter-of-fact mental notes to keep from breaking down. "There are the windows to the living room where Sean would hit me. Behind that wall is where he would lecture me about what a stupid, horrible person I was. That’s the wall he would throw me against. Those are the windows I would look out to make sure no one saw."

I caught a dusky glimpse of my reflection in the window of a parked station wagon. A bit fuller in the face – "probably because I’m able to keep food down now" – and with a slight collection of lines under my eyes. I looked almost haggard, frowning, remembering the pain. I tried smiling. Years lifted.

I wasn’t the dewy collegiate fitness model with the superstar actor boyfriend. Not anymore. The dewy was long gone. The fitness was gone as well, months of living on the road having taken its toll. But I was happy. So much happier than when I was such naive arm candy for the superstar boyfriend, secretly violent, who was definitely gone.

But Sean haunted every nook of that block. He was in the chain-link fence he punched me into on the corner. Staring out the window of the apartment neither of us had been in for four years.
Hiding on the roof of our building where we had filmed funny movies, and watched the Towers burn. Staring up, into the sun, I swore I could see him glaring down at me. "How can I make you go away?" I asked his ghost, that ghost I had wrestled with all this time, the ghost that had sabotaged every relationship since then using my mind and my mouth.

It was simple. I looked up at that window, at the ugly specter of my past. Then I looked back at my reflection. And smiled.

And he was gone.

BRING OUT THE GIMP!!!!

Portrait of the Artist As a Young Cripple:



Well, it looks like I wouldn't have been able to leave this coming Wednesday anyway, considering I sprained my ankle at work on Saturday like a complete clumsy idiot!

This guy left his cost hanging off the back of his chair on the floor and my right foot went up the sleeve. I rolled on my ankle as I fell and sprained it. Now I'm on crutches and I can't drive.

How fitting, no?

What gets me is that the guy didn't say he was sorry, or even look at me, because I think he was afraid I might sue him. He just straight bailed. But that's silly, because accidents happen and I would never sue for something that is nobody's fault.

What gets me even more is, before bailing, he didn't even move the coat and another one of the waiters got his foot caught in the sleeve too! Um, duh!

But my brother says I did it just in time to look like Tiny Tim for Christmas, so GOD BLESS US, EVERY ONE!!!

Okay, WOW, I was WASTED when I wrote that last post...

But it's all true. I'm going to wait a little longer, spend what might be my brother's last Christmas at home with my family, and leave for the Western leg of my trip in the spring.

Trust me, I'm not exactly happy about it, but c'est la vie.

Please accept this funny picture of a monkey in lieu of some interesting story:

Please don't judge me...

... because as I write this I have tears down my cheek....


Dear Reader Who Wants To Read A Travel Narrative,


This isn't easy.

I want so badly to be able to give you the stories you'd like to read. I want more than anything to be able to travel around and know them inside out so you can too.

But it is with an unfortunate, yet sentimental, heart that I let you down for the time being.

I am actually not going to make it to New Mexico for Christmas this year. It's not because I'm scared or broke. Those emotions I can deal with.

This is because my brother got his boot camp schedule for the Marines, and there is a distinct possibility that he might not be home for Christmas next year, or ever again.

My parents want me there for Christmas this year in case Kevin is never around for another one.

I don't like the thought...... but it's the only one in the world that could convince me to stay another 3 months....






Dear reader, will you forgive me if I wait until early spring to go back on the road?

Trust me, it will probably be harder for me than you... but what will mean so much is to know that you still support me...

I'm so sorry to keep you waiting.......



Please stay with me. Do you know how hard it is to support oneself this day and age, much less on the road?

Can't days just be longer?

I have to admit, I'm less excited to go back on the road this time around. And what I lack in excitement I make up for in anxiety. Almost fear.

I feel so rushed! Last time, I had about a week with nothing to do except prepare. Not only that, but I had the weather on my side. Now, I feel like I'm heading off into some barren and harsh place with no time to get in the mindset of leaving, almost like I'm being thrown into the winter desert with nothing but a sweatshirt and a pack of Ramen noodles.

ONLY 10 MORE DAYS....

TIL I'M BACK ON THE ROAD AGAIN!!!!

NEW MEXICO FOR CHRISTMAS, THEN THE CANYON AND CALIFORNIA.

STAY TUNED, THIS WILL BE A TRAVEL JOURNAL AGAIN IN NO TIME!!!


WOOOOO-HOOOOOOOO!!!!!

mycrack.

Okay, I finally caved and set up a myspace page, which I now check incessantly. I'd like to thank Jim, Greg and Sarah for forcing my latest addiction on me.

And by "thank" I mean "blame".


AND THIS DOESN'T MEAN YOU CAN'T READ THIS BLOG ANYMORE!!! THIS IS STILL MY MAIN PAGE. THE MYSPACE IS ONLY TO FIND OLD FRIENDS AND LISTEN TO MY BOYFRIEND'S MUSIC!!!!!

SO DON'T STOP COMING HERE.

OKAY?

www.myspace.com/spangledangel

you should so totally friend me.

gregory.....

The beauty in love is the fear of losing it.

That's why my heart hurts when Greg hits a certain note or strums a certain chord or I remember that I'll be gone in two weeks.

Ummmm.... hello?

In honor of Pearl Harbor Day, which everyone else seems to have forgotten, I'm re-posting this piece from last March. It's called "Joe." I've gotten a lot of good feedback on it, and maybe people who've just picked up reading this blog will like it too.

God bless the men and women who died that day. Let's try not to forget.




Joe.


There's a greasy spoon in my town that is so greasy hardly anybody eats there. I get a lot of funny looks when I tell people it's one of my favorite restaurants in town. But it's prime real-estate for people-watching, and I always seem to meet some local yokel or wayfaring stranger when I'm there. I stopped in the other morning on my way home from the Del Cid's house. I was craving two eggs and dry rye toast like only Walt could make it, and I was glad I got there before his 2 am - 10 am shift was up. Seeing me walk up to the door, Cheryl already had my coffee waiting on the counter by the time I sat down at my favorite stool.

"Where's your newspaper, hon?"
"Eh, I try not to read the news on Saturdays. Why depress myself on my one morning off? I've got Hampton Sides today", pulling a battered copy of "Americana" from my bulging purse. (Speaking of which, has any other woman noticed that she feels compelled to fit as many things in her purse as humanly possible? I swear I feel like Mary Poppins sometimes, but I digress. More on this later...)

The book I had that morning was a collection of interviews with various Americans of note or non-note, all done by Hampton Sides, a magazine contributor. After spending all night watching bad Spanish soap operas, I was in the mood to hear stories about real life. Apparently, I went to the right place.

I was deep into building my egg-and-toast tower and holding the book open with my elbow and the edge of my coffee saucer when I noticed a man watching me at the other end of the lunch counter. He was very old, hunched over, with a sprinkling of peach fuzz on his head, and he was smiling at me. Now, ordinarily, when I see an old man smiling at me from afar, it's not in a friendly fashion and I try to ignore it. But there was nothing malicious or lecherous about this man; his eyes were kind and his face was sweet.

"You're reading!", he said, brightly stating the obvious. This caught me off guard and I giggled.
"Uh, yeah. Yes, I am.", not bothering to hide my amusement.
"You know, not many people do that nowadays." He was right, and his being right made me a little sad.
"You said it. But do you read?"
"Oh, I read just about anything that comes out. I snap 'em up faster then they can put 'em on the shelf!".
This made me laugh again, and I was glad for it. I liked this man.
"What's your name?", I asked him.
"Joe Craven." As he answered, he shifted a few stool closer to me.

We chatted about our favorite books and authors, and eventually it came out that I was working on a book of my own. I told Joe about it and he smiled, saying, "I'm sitting next to a regular Dorothy Parker!". The comparison made me blush. As I looked down to hide my embarrassment, he turned to look out the window. As he did so, I noticed his huge belt buckle, framed by the sides of his windbreaker, stretching from his lap almost to his chest.

Now, growing up in a semi-hick town, as I did, I learned never to make fun of belt buckles - better yet, don't even bring up the subject of belt buckles, because the minute you make fun of one will be the minute the wearer will tell you it's a steel memorial to their grandfather, or Dale Earnhart, or something. I've gotten in the habit of ignoring them, because I think they teeter on the edge ridiculousness as an accessory. (Then again, this is coming from a girl who has red and white strapped stiletto heels with huge beaded flowers on them, so I have no room to talk.) But I looked closely at this one, because it caught my eye. I noticed the words, "Blue and Gray" on it, surrounded by stars, and I figured it was Civil War memorabilia. But as he turned to flag down Cheryl, I saw the letters, "29th Infantry" on it as well. Judging from his age, I figured he had to have fought in World War II. It was then that I asked to see the buckle. When he turned to me and hooked his thumbs behind it, I asked him if he had been in the Army. His blue eyes grew quiet, suddenly shy.

"Yeah", he croaked, "the 29th." Then he muttered under his breath, as if embarrassed, "D-Day."
I felt my face change. "You were at D-Day?"
"Yeah, yeah, I was", he said, with a nervous tap on the counter.
Knowing what little I know about the battle, I didn't want to press for details. So instead I gave him that "please keep talking?" that is necessary to perfect.

He told me the story of a young man he had met in the same diner a few days before, a soldier in fatigues. It turned out this soldier was currently serving in the 29th Infantry division, just as Joe had, and was returning from a second tour in Iraq. They talked about wars both old and new, where they had fought, what equipment they used during battle, and found they shared a love of biscuits and gravy. Then the young man said his goodbyes, paid his check, and left. Later on, when Joe asked for his check, Cheryl placed it in front of him on the counter, saying, "That soldier wrote you a note, hon." The total was crossed out, and scribbled across the top were the words, "Paid on Omaha Beach."

"Yeah," he said quietly, as he finished recounting the story. "People who have been there know what it's like." He stared at his hands as he said this, and I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Our eyes met, and we smiled.

"Well, " he stammered, getting up to leave. "I'd like to read your book someday. I hope I get the chance."
"I hope you do, too", I said. "Would you mind if you're in it?"
He blushed the color of the Sweet and Low packets. "Awwwww, I don't have anything interesting to tell you."
With that, he waved goodbye and walked out the door.

He could not have been more wrong.

I wasn't meant to be a desk monkey, I wasn't meant to be a desk monkey.....

... I keep telling myself that.

The company I used to work for just went public. It debuted this morning on NASDAQ at $9/share. It should get up to the $20 range soon. I gave up my stock options when I left. I can't help feeling sick to my stomach when I think about that money I could have had. I could provide for a family, have a nest egg, maybe even pay off my student loans.

But that's the devil talking again.

I gave it up for a dream, for love. Not romantic love, but love of life. I can't think of a better reason to give up thousands of dollars. And hopefully I can keep that in mind when the devil says I'll be poor forever. Poor and happy is okay with me.

CHECK THIS OUT!!!

www.riordanonline.com

hot guy + nice person + FANTASTIC MUSIC = Greg Riordan.

Sign up for the email list today! You can also get booking information, hear mP3's and get show dates!

The Champ, uh, I mean, The Pope!

Now, I'm not one to judge a casting director, and given the 5 minutes of this I actually saw, John Voight was actually pretty decent in the role, but I couldn't help laughing for 2 reasons:

1. When I look at this, I don't think of the Pope. I think of John Voight playing dress up. I also picture a giant anaconda sneaking through the halls of the Vatican, ready to swallow him whole.

2. The movie opens on the May 15, 1981, the day the Pope was shot. And the whole scene could have benefitted immensely from a child-size Ricky Schroeder popping out of the crowd, crying, "Come on, Pope! Get up, Pope, get up!"

Yeah... my mind works in blasphemysterious ways....

Dear Death Cab For Cutie,

Thank you for making my workday bearable. If it weren't for you and a crappy pair of Phillips headphones, I would be forced to listen to the background noise of Creepy Guy yelling at the temps for leaving the copy machine on "zoom" and trying to engage me on Intelligent Design theory before I've had my coffee. Also, it's fun to listen to "Crooked Teeth" and make believe the girl next to me is bopping to that rather than 3-6 Mafia like she is.

But I wish there was something you could do about this carpal tunnel.

Love,
Jessica

Lunch Break.

Lunch is only an hour, but the guitar shop is only four blocks from the office. I was holding a $700 Takamine, $600 more than mine. I was hiding in the back room, my arms wrapped around it like a child guarding a favorite toy. I’m decent at best, certainly not a pro, but I relax my fingers by plucking strings in between stroking a keyboard.

A tall, older black man strolled in a parka and some khakis. I was looking forward to being alone, if only to avoid accosting people with my mediocrity, but he had no intentions of leaving. But his eyes were kind and he wasted no time in listening with a polite smile while I tripped through Damien Rice. He grabbed an Ovation off the wall and played a little lead, crouching down on a bass cabinet.

"That’s some good soul you’re playin’," he said. "Otis Reddin’."
"Nah, actually it’s a singer/songwriter. But thank you. You gave it a nice lead-in."
"Aw, I’m a bass man myself, I play bass. But I’m on a break from work."
"Yeah, I hear that. Where do you work?"
"I race motorcycles."
I laughed, thinking it a joke. He didn’t laugh with me. He was for real. I quieted down.

He rubbed his jaw as he elaborated, which was coated in a thin layer of white whiskers, as though his chin had been dipped in milk. "I like the speed. Keeps me young. That and the music."
"How long have you been playing?"
"About 35 years now. I’m sponsored by a couple comp’nies."
I was confused. "For bike racing?"
"Naw! For bass! I’m a union bassist. I played with Earth, Wind and Fire, Sly and the Family Stone."

I was dealing with a pro. I drank in the sound as he breezed through a few more licks on the acoustic, watching his smile flicker and tighten as he played faster and faster. I clumsily tried to follow, playing little rhythm chords as he worked the neck of his Ovation. When his fingers slowed, I went in for the kill. "What’s your favorite show you’ve ever played, your favorite memory?"

He looked past me, at a spot on the wall, suddenly wistful. His smile relaxed and deepened; his voice seemed to come from a far away, as though the words started from the core of him and softened on the long journey out. As he spoke, I could see the memory movie flashing before his eyes, the colors and movement. "Aw, man.... that would have to be... 1974. Before I started playin’ for Sly. Sly and the Family Stone didn’t show up for a gig, so our band got to open for" – he emphasized each word with an excited, high-pitched staccato – "Gladys! Knight! And the Pips!" He leaned back and rubbed his whiskered chin again, with wide eyes, as though he still couldn’t believe it, thirty years later. "And it was the truth! The crowd was so big.... and the sound was just.... aw, man! That was the best show.... with Gladys. Knight. Aw... man!"

He came out of the trance, looking back at me. I was watching his face like a first-grader at story time, and his cocoa skin grew a reddish tint. "That was my favorite show."
I blushed too, knowing I was witness to something very special. Very small, passing, even, but very special. The kind of exchange you’d miss if you blinked.

I had to get back to work. I struggled to let go of the guitar, and the sweet vibe that had filled the room. "Thank you. For the lead-in," I said, but we both knew I was thanking him for much more. "It was nice talking to you."
"Aw, sure, sugar! Maybe I’ll see you in here again!"
"I hope so."

I never got his name, but I almost didn’t need it, certainly not to remember him by.

Wax on, Mr. Miyagi, wax on....

Conversation with My Friend Max

Me: (referencing Pres. Bush's AIDS speech) "... and then he said, "I encourage the use of condemns"!

Max: "It's too bad his dad didn't use one, he could have saved the world."

Let's All Be Thankful For Term Limits

12:05 pm, College Park, MD

Listening to NPR news, I heard a snippet of Pres. Bush's latest speech, given this morning from the White House - because god forbid he acutally attend an event in Africa - regarding World AIDS Day, in which he urges African couples to practice abstinence and stay faithful in marriage - which would be admirable advice were it not for the fact that it doesn't matter how faithful or abstinent you stay when your village is being plundered by guerilla militants who believe the cure for their own AIDS is to rape a virgin - and then Mr. Bush preached the use of condoms --

which he pronounced, "condemns".

If anyone needs the Heimleich after choking on the irony, I'll be over here.