Behind the times

I have entered the 21st century, folks. Finally.

Horatio came and set up DirecTV in my tiny studio today. What does it really mean? No more does it have to be a minor holiday for a Law & Order Marathon! Nope! I can now watch it seven days a week and even two at a time. Now that's living.

And after, chances are, a 12 year break from watching MTV, now I see that there are no longer such things as music videos. Who knew?!?

Waiting

I've already mentioned my all too frequent use of cabs in the city. I know. Geez, Anne, get with the program...GO GREEN already! But it's freezing out, people! And sometimes, well, I'm just running late. Excuses, excuses. But I have to say, it's really nice finding that, at 3:32 in the morning, my cabdriver has waited to be sure I got into my building safe before speeding off into the night.

I know this city is shockingly safer than it has been. And my fare tonight was less than 5 bucks. And, yes, I gave the driver a decent tip. But it's rare that anyone look out for you, walk you home, safeguard that you are where you're supposed to be. Not that that's always a bad thing. Sometimes it's wonderful that no one knows where you live. Sometimes you prefer that certain people didn't know where you live. It's just that in those moments when people you know you'll never see again exhibit such care...in those moments you realize that there is no real difference between any of us.

I flashed a peace sign once I realized he had waited to be sure I got in the door. That was the best I could do. I know it was lame, especially compared to how I felt. Chivalry is not dead. At least not for this man. Thanks, whoever you are. With the smallest kindness, you kindled hope in me.

First things...wait...what was I saying?

Do you know what's wrong with writing first drafts on a computer? You lose. Train of thought. Original idea. The point.

Lately I've been trying to write on the computer only. Or perhaps it's more that I haven't been writing enough in a journal or notebook. Hence, the scarcity of entries.

I was just inspired by a funny story, started to type it out on the computer, and as of this moment have no idea what the point is.

Is it aging? Or just a flaw in my usual process and habit?

By the way, keep in mind, I'm younger than most of you (except my cousin Heather--hope you still check in!!) who read this. Pick your battles.

P.M.S.

I know, I know. If you're not a woman (and even we cower at the thought), who wants to hear about that?? I bring it up, nonetheless, only to make an official proposal for a new definition of the anagram. My initials, ACS, stand not only for my full name but also for the American Cancer Society as well as the city's Administration of Children's Services. Great, right? Well, here's my theory.

In this day and age, it seems more appropriate that P.M.S. stand for "prescribe me something." Not exactly glamorous, in fact vernacular and an imperative to boot, this explanation of those initials seems far more indicative of our current climate. Besides, premenstrual syndrome is passe, now that there's a pill for it.

On the one hand, we have our naturalists. I call them grassroots folks, those who eat mostly grass and roots, who enjoy a back-to-nature lifestyle. Many eat only organic, raw foods and base that decision on personal health and global philosophy. If I understand at all, the notion is that we don't have to kill to eat. At the same time, any of these followers I've met also relies upon vitamins, herbs and/or supplements to gain nutrients necessary to achieving personal health. So it would it seem that something is missing.

On the other hand, we have the medicinalists. Quick fixers, I like to call them, also known affectionately as pill poppers, they enjoy remedying whatever may ail them with the latest prescription. I can understand the mentality. If this thing fixes the problem and makes me feel better, why not take it?

But here's what's interesting to me. Is any of us under control of herself? Is there something missing or wrong with each of us that needs be fixed, remedied? Whether on one side of the spectrum or the other, or hiding out in the middle somewhere, does each of us harbor a void? And can it be filled with herbs, aromatherapy, heroin, zoloft?

Ok, ok, ok. Maybe I should make it "pickle me something." Everything's good pickled.

89

Happy birthday, Grandma Ruth! I think you would've been 89 today. Anyway, we all miss you and hope you're looking out!

Gobble, gobble, gobble...shot!?!

Thanks for giving me...a martini?!?

Worried was I that Thanksgiving would be a solo event this year. Not so much because I didn't have anywhere to go, but more that I didn't feel that I'd be much fun wherever I went. Something's amiss in Miss Anne's world. More later on that...

So Heather texted me at 6 am this morning, in a sticky situation, that she'd be bailing on the family festivities. Could she be my partner in crime in wreaking holiday madness?

Quite last minute we found a spot with turkey, Brussel sprouts and pumpkin pie. Oh, and did I mention liquor?

Happy Thanksgiginv!!

Tag, you're it?

New York is an animal, a creature built by those able, often required to live atop one another. A metropolis of the cramped, an island of sardines. Yet somehow each of us remains anonymous. At most, you see those you wish to see in your own neighborhood. But as you trek through the city, eyes and ears open, the strangers, buildings, parks of your every day life start to seep into your world. Some become your friends. Others your enemies.

Graffiti artists, commissioned painters, hacks, classically trained violinists, panhandlers, Mexican mariachis...some days you encounter each of them trying to make it. Working the subway. The streets. The C-Towns.

For a while now, "Chef Pants" has been inching into my realm. I'm sure my friend Tony objects to even the mention of the name. Whether sprayed on a restaurant awning, a UPS truck, a mailbox, even your own apartment building (as pictured), Chef Pants has struck the city. All things considered, chef pants themselves aren't the most attractive or flattering attire one could don. They remind of MC Hammer and his ridiculous dances from back in the day. In all honesty, I can't figure out why one would choose that as a tag. And as it turns out, Chef Pants is a girl. A friend of a friend knows her. Maybe she's a chef. From the way she tags things, I surmise she's left-handed.

And then there's AnaPeru, PeruAna. She writes her name and country and then the reverse on top of each other with a Sharpie. I've seen her tag on restaurant furniture, sidewalks, flowerpots. A girl from Peru named Ana. And of course, a female Peruvian is called a Peruana. It's clever. Isn't it also technically vandalism?

I understand the desire to make one's mark on this Earth but am curious whether this method is effective or counter-productive. If you're found out, you're anonymity gone, does anything change? Do people respect that you've become a household name from writing your chosen name all over the city? Does it make you an artist? Or just a nuisance? I applaud expression. And all things considered, am writing right now because of it. Who am I to knock it?

And here's one of the latest posters to have gone up in the neighborhood. Is it art? Political commentary? Original? Abraham Lincoln and Barack Obama. Now, there's a project.

GO-BAMA!

I spent last evening with friends and countrymen and women at a local bar called Drop Off Service (it used to be a laudromat). They have a huge screen that extends along one wall for your viewing pleasure, and last night showed the election results in all their glory. A packed house, I brought cookies for Pete and Amanda, favorite bartender folk. What goes better with beer than cookies?!? They were neutral, may I add, white, milk and dark chocolate chips, with nuts (in honor of Palin, of course). HA! Just kidding...all the way around.

The evening resembled a rock concert more than any election night I've seen. Given that this is New York and the East Village, nary a soul in the place was a McCain supporter, or would admit to it. During his concession speech, there were even a few unnecessary boos. At the sight of Obama, the crowd enthusiastic almost to the point of madness filmed the speech from their cameras and cell phones, spanning the crowd in between shots of whiskey. It seemed a little cockamamie, filming Obama on a t.v. screen. Filming the filming? At the close of his speech, the crowd broke into a rally of "Yes, we cans" and "yes, we dids" along with the hordes of supporters on screen.

What a moment in history, the people in the city are decidedly more optimistic. On the streets, people have been greeting each other with smiles, even an occasional exchange of words. In a city where you mind your business, this election seems to have brought a feeling of hope, of acceptance. Rekindled in many is the belief that this country is governed by the people, for the people.

While we have yet to see what will become of the Obamas and this presidency, that one person, one family can inspire so many and in such a short period of time indicates how serious the need for such inspiration had become.

HB, Big D!

My older brother David turns 35 today. How is it that we just keep aging?

I will forever remember him a buzz-headed twelve year-old mowing the yards of everyone in the neighborhood.

Thirty-five? Woah. It's just wild.

Happy birthday, D! Love you!

Shoulda had some spinach

I fear I have turned into some kind of prima donna.

I ordered delivery from Clinton Street Baking Company, the first experience I would have with a fairly well-renowned local spot. Let's say I was, well, stoked to have me some Southern-style fried chicken. And it is a rare thing for me. Growing up, I was never a fried chicken fan. KFC? Church's? Mrs. Winner's? No thanks.

Anyway, this fried chicken comes with jalapeño cornbread and some honey. Ok, ok. Sounds good. But upon arrival, I was less than pleased. Granted anything via delivery, unless it's soup, is rarely as good as in house. Still, there was no actual corn in the cornbread. And the batter for the fried chicken, well, it tasted like Rice Krispies. Hmph. I only like my snap, crackle and pop with milk.

But here's the real prima donna part. I expected the chicken to be boneless. They sent a thigh, a breast, a wing and a drumstick. I was really hoping for chicken breasts so I didn't have to go ripping into bones. I wanted fried chicken that you eat with a fork. What is that about??

All things considered, for $16 excluding the tax and delivery guy tip, I could've gotten a whole bucket at Popeye's, plus mashed potatoes, and fed four! If only the Popeye's on 1st hadn't closed 6 months back...

What a hoot!

Ok, people. Get ready for this one! Last night I went to a hootnanny (is that how you spell it?). And yes, in New York City. I know, I know. Who'da thunk?

My co-worker's boyfriend, a Louisiana native and talented Broadway actor and musician, organizes these things every few months. Side note: my co-worker's pretty talented, too! And, man, is a hoot fun. Banjo-picking, accordions, an upright bass, you name it, it was played. In the back of a hopping Hell's Kitchen Irish pub gathered musicians, kids, dancers and bluegrass enthusiasts for an evening of live music. A Led Zeppelin cover, on to an Irish folk song, and even a special request made just for me. My girl Sherry asked them to play "Rocky Top." I felt pretty silly. I can only imagine how many times they've been asked to play that number. But, holy mackerel, is that song fast! The woman on the fiddle got a workout from that song alone.

Sherry and I have an inside joke about Rocky Top, silly stuff. But it took me back to the good ole days of clogging in Georgia. Yes, people. I grew up clogging. HA! Can't you just picture me at age three in that outfit...ruffles and bloomers and hardly a skirt! Oh the horror...

Hey, was that a kazoo??

Support

A mention of current US politics seems no longer unavoidable these days. On the subway, on Facebook, in the media, this election seems to represent much more than the last few in the hearts and minds of people in the States and even many abroad. I have watched the two Presidential debates, like many of you, and I will vote.

A few days ago, this latest frenzy landed on my block. Chico painted a huge mural, almost half a city block long. The main message urges people to vote period. Interesting though, Obama is depicted with people carrying signs that read, "yes we can!" in English and Spanish, an American flag behind him. Meanwhile, McCain is on the left, arms wrapped around the globe, flanked by a soldier, backed by the night sky. One could argue that these are depictions of the priorities of both. But to me, it seems obvious who Chico wishes to endorse. Obama triumphant, smiling, McCain almost stricken.

Regardless, I am thankful that this type of expression is still commissioned in the neighborhood.

Green-ville

This morning my Dad and I visited a building in Battery Park City known as "America's first environmentally responsible residential tower." We viewed the basement first, how the building recycles its water (sewage and all). My Dad and his colleague filled a bucket at a sampling spout but I couldn't muster the gall to take a sip.

We headed up to the roof after that--a view that must lend gorgeous sunsets over the Hudson. And into a model apartment, the floors made of recyclables, the lights also energy-saving, all the materials in the apartment are environmentally friendly, green. For a new building, I don't know why any company, municipality wouldn't go this route. Retro-fitting prewar buildings in the city, however, seems a far more daunting task.

Once outside, we walked through the all-organic garden and grounds. It's a beautiful community. A one-bedroom starts at about $3500. Lately, I've worried that the paint chipping in my apartment may be lead-based and hazardous. Wouldn't it be great if green could become the default?

Avenue Q & the joint

My Dad's here for a night and a day. What a fun guy.

Last night we went to Avenue Q. Has anyone heard about it? It won a Tony a few years back. Well, it's puppets. Which I knew. Actors walk the puppets around--puppeteers--speaking on behalf of the puppet characters. At first it's hard to concentrate on a puppet. You end up just watching the actor. But minutes in, without your acknowledgment or any notice, your focus has already shifted to the puppet. And, in certain instances, they make sarcastic jokes, poke fun at current events, politicians. There is even a love scene.

While people doing it can be uncomfortable enough to have to view with your father at your side, puppets going at it is somehow worse. The impression being that puppets teach you how to read, play jacks, make you laugh. They exist in a child's world. In your childhood. So it's more excruciating, shocking, almost offensive to watch them engage in a little sexual healing. Right next to your Dad. Oh well. This is New York City. And anything goes.

Before the show we went to Burger Joint. This is the closest I can get you to the place. It's tucked in a tiny room in the lobby of Le Parker Meridien. We snuck in the side door to go better unnoticed. The only sign for the joint is a glowing neon burger hidden down a hallway. Once inside, you'd never know you were in a hotel. Bar stools, graffiti on the walls. I order "the works" and a beer. We perched on bar stools and ate elbow to elbow in the packed, wood-paneled room. Pretty delicious. And authentic.

To sleep is to dream

I awoke this morning to something new. A chill in the air that made me want to stay put. To snuggle into the covers and relax. To wrap up in a cocoon. A feeling of comfort and excitement for what the winter is to hold. Having such little winter in Atlanta, I fell in love with New York's the first I spent here. And today, it was a rekindling of that New York City spirit. Anything is possible, your dreams all possible.

On a plane

Have I mentioned that I love traveling? It doesn't matter where, just take me away. I've been looking back on photos I've taken and think I'm going to do an airplane series. Maybe in Japan?? Turns out I take more photos in flight than on the ground. And maybe, just maybe it'll be interesting for people other than me.

Random notes from Playa del Carmen

We are staying at a resort, all-inclusive, quite nice for my usual standards for travel housing, amenities. And here are a few tidbits from the first few days.

1. There are ashtrays on the toilet paper roll holders just in case you have to use both hands.
2. Take a gypsy cab from the airport and pay half price.
3. Never take the elevators. That's where the mosquitoes lay in wait.
4. Enano is the word midget in Spanish.

More later.

More travel

We touched down in the Cancun airport today, headed south to Playa del Carmen. In a taxi cab, our driver asked if we wanted to stop at the 7-11 for some beer. Ha. As though that were even a question. And how funny. Who'd have expected a 7-11 on the side of the road?

I love traveling. It doesn't matter where, when. Just absorb me in something new and different.

Viva Mexico!

I got home tonight from Atlanta, the week long Florida beach trip, only to turn around tomorrow at 6 am and head out for Mexico. The Sarge and I are headed for a 5-day all inclusive Mexican getaway.

I am excited to get to speak Spanish full-time again, and to talk to people from other places. Here's to a safe flight and good times.

MARTA

Here I am at the East Lake MARTA station, retracing steps I took last 9 years ago, maybe even 10. From this station to work to school, usually reading, Native Son is the last book I remember finishing on the MARTA.

It's such a drastically different landscape than that of the NYC subway. The trains are free of grafitti. There are t.v. screens you can tune into in 2 languages. Candler Park Station. Inman Park-Reynoldstown.

I am headed to the airport back to New York. On a Sunday at 2 pm the station is empty. Inside, the car is half full. Elevated the whole way until Five Points downtown, you pass the dichotomy of abandoned buildings facing brand new loft apartments. Kudzu and freight cars. The historic cemetery, Grady hospital. What a flashback to the past.

PoFolks!

How I had forgotten about PoFolks. In the car driving through Alabama headed back to Atlanta, a commercial came on the radio, "for a bucket of chicken...just come on down to Po' Folks!" I almost fell over.

So, I'd always thought that PoFolks stood for poor folks. We used to eat there when I was a kid, over twenty years ago now. I never thought it was because we were poor, just that they had home-style country cooking good for families with kids.

There are only 10 locations anymore in Alabama and Florida mostly, although there used to be many more. I'm guessing the po part of the name became stigmatic and bad for business at least in Atlanta. Maybe things don't change quite so quickly in Alabama.

Let the games begin...

I awoke to a rowdier bunch than usual this morning. Apparently, our annual beach Miller Lite marathon has been upped to an Olympic-level competition.

On my first cup of coffee, Nancy, Burt and Beth were on round three of planter's punch. It wasn't even 10 am yet. With the news from the day before and an impending viewing and funeral, the crew had gotten an early start on letting loose.

Joining the game late, I threw my hat in the ring with screwdrivers. By about 1 pm I was screwdriven. And DQed. Put to bed at 2:30 in the afternoon, I made several attempts to re-rally, one including topless sunbathing. Oh the horror. I wonder if they'll make that an event in London 2012.

I awoke to a dark sky and personal haziness. Nancy had taken the gold medal. Burt and Rebecca rounded out the medal contention. I am getting old. What a cheap date I have become. God bless it.

John Belk

We found out today that my friends' cousin, nephew died yesterday in a car crash. Our yearly beach trip interrupted by the worst of the worst--tragedy. John Belk was driving over to a friend's for dinner before going to work, was struck head-on and died. He is survived by his wife and two children. The occupants of the other car fled the scene but have since been captured.

While I did not know him, I have seen how his family has been affected by this and, in his memory, would like to say to those I love who continue to read this, "Love you. Be safe."

Family and friends

So back to another annual family vacation. For the past few years I have joined the Bockmans for a week or so of sun, fun and relaxation on the Emerald Coast, Florida panhandle. I have been adopted of a sort, the baby in yet another family. Three sisters, me the surrogate fourth, Mama and Daddy Bockman, as well as another couple Burt and Nancy, we stay in a big house, cook, laugh and enjoy for a week each year. In this photo is the house we will be in next year.

While being together with people you love may be the most important thing in life, being together in such a beautiful place makes it so much nicer. The more of the world I see, the more I appreciate this little neck of the woods. The sand is like snow, nature preserved. This year we may fall in the path of hurricane season but hopefully all will fair well.

Hygiene

I went to the dentist today, yeehaw! I fear going to a dentist in New York. There are so many up here and an equal number of horror stories. And perhaps silly, but I prefer to go to the same dentist I've had since I've had teeth, Dr. Granade. It's almost to the point that I make a trip back to Atlanta first and foremost to go to the dentist!

His two sons and my brothers are the same age and grew up together. Ever since I was a kid, going to the dentist meant going to visit with friends. And to this day, it still feels that way. So many of us out there dread the six month mark, having to crawl back into the chair, but not me. Granted, I have no cavities (knock wood), so I'm sure that helps. But also, I got to catch up today with the whole crew. It never ceases to shock me how the time passes, how each of us grows up and matures.

Of all the jobs out there, the one I think I would enjoy least is that of a dental hygienist. Digging in people's mouths, I simply could not hang. I'm glad other people take on that path, most likely a thankless job.

If anyone in the ATL needs a great dentist, look up Dr. James A. Granade, Granade & Sanders in Tucker. How's that for a thirty year plus referral!

Airport bars

It's 11:11 am and Ruben at the Fox Sky Box bar in Laguardia airport asks me what I'd like. I order a white Russian. It seems like a good breakfast drink. There's milk, coffee (liquer). And, well, vodka. He responds, "Single? Or Double." It seems only the first part of his response was a question. Wow. Am I that obvious? Or maybe it's not me at all, I keep telling myself. Just airport bars.

Am I wrong or don't you meet the most interesting people in airport bars? The premise clear. I'm here for the moment, want to discuss the world? The parts of it you know, the parts I know. How about politics? What's the vibe in Minneapolis? What about Phoenix? You're able to share anything you want. Organic and free.

So something lovely just happened in that airport bar. I'm not going to say another word about it for fear that I may jinx it. But, people, say a little prayer for Anne!

Keep it real

Somehow it all still doesn't seem real. I'm talking to my girlfriend Rebecca who lives in Atlanta and her cell rings. She answers, "Hey, girl. I'm talking to my girl in New York. Can I call you back?" The girl in New York is me. Even still sometimes I have to pinch myself.

Growth

And...I'm in a hospital. Alla the sudden. It took 30 minutes to find a parking spot. Sad to see, business is good. I'm out on The Island, aka Mutant Island. My girl's girl is having a baby. Her first. She's been in the hospital for 10 hours or so and it looks like it's gone be awhile. I'm in the main lobby and I'm uncomfortable. It's cold. Antiseptic.

The security guard told me I can't drink my coffee in the lobby. So now I'm outside sitting in the grass. And I'm the only one. It's so much prettier out here. I wonder if you could build a hospital like a greenhouse. Granted, you want to keep certain things from growing, but sunshine? It just seems necessary. And health-promoting. I know, I know, Mom. Only with sunblock.

Best of luck to the Mom-to-be!

What's in a day?

Many of you may know, many may not, but it's my birthday. Today.

I'm 32 years old today. And I'm not celebrating. Well, I'm celebrating being alive and being happy. But not my birthday. I've had 32 of these so far and, really, I'm just not feeling it this year.

In the past, birthdays have been whole day events, even month-long festivals of Anne. But this year, I'm keeping it low-pro.

So here's to all of you. Happy day, world. And happy birthday Laura Leathers!

Taxi!

Maybe everyone in the world hails a cab everyday. Or at least once a week. Maybe not. Either way, it's a way of life for me in New York. And there are rules. And karma. If you cut in front of someone for a cab, which I've done, it shall be done unto you. You may even find yourself pulled from one. Thankfully, I have yet to have been.

And there are quite a few out there, granted, not when it's raining. When I first moved to the city, living uptown, Kennedy Car Service was on my block. And so began my love affair with the Lincoln Town Car taxi. The only drawback, that darned rear-view mirror, and the frequency of the driver's eyes in it.

These days, I'm for the straight sedan. The old cop car yellow cab. Worn seats that have seen more than you could imagine. You can put your feet up in the window and lounge. That's my kind. I'm not a fan of the Jeep Cherokee newbies, unless entertaining a group. I think they're hybrids, but certainly have the greenest drivers. You'd think the newest cars would go to those with the most time on the job, but not the case.

And then there's the mini-van. Oh so not a fan. What does a girl have to do for a dial on the side of the captain's chair? I swear, you end up crunched at a 45° angle the whole ride. Craft-o-taxi gone all wrong.

The only I have yet to experience, are new Nissans, I think...will keep you posted.

With all this talk of reducing your carbon footprint, I gotta let up on my taxi thing. I love not having a car but don't mind been driven around from time to time. And I'll say, some of the most interesting conversations in life happen in a cab ride home.

ABCs

Psychology Today has revolutionized the way I view my life yet again. An article called "Plan B Lovers" got me today. The notion is that each of us, married, single, gay straight, female, male has a potential back-up lover. It starts with interest in another person and goes beyond friendship, though isn't necessarily sexual, and incorporates mutual fascination and flirting. The relationship exists just in case the Plan A relationship falls apart. So that there's a safety.

Now, I'm single. But I'm wondering what the majority of married people would think about this? Is it considered cheating if consciously or subconsciously, even unconsciously, HA!, you build an eject button lover into your life? Or is it just common sense? Is it fatalistic or pessimistic? Or simply pragmatic?

For me...I'm left wondering, what if all you have are Plan Bs? Or Cs?!?

Omenha

First things first. When I went to type out the title on this entry, I wrote "Omaho." HA! Freudian?

According to Marta, one of Tony's co-workers, Omaha is beef, drinking and corn-huskers. I can dig it. I like all three.

Tony and I were talking yesterday about how it's important to free yourself of nasty or dangerous people. Those who strive to threaten or torment. Who needs that? Who wants to live scared? To be pure in intention and honest in action.

And then this morning, we walked out to the car. Headed to the airport to get me back to the city, we noticed that the passenger-side door of his car had been smashed.

See, there is this one guy in Omaha, let's call him Nemo (mind you, that's omen backward). So Nemo likes the guy Tony's been dating. A lot, apparently. And seeing the smashed window this morning, Tony jumped to the conclusion that it was intentional and a threat from this guy. Not cool. So we go back to the apartment to tell his brother, who in turn calls their mom. And the cops. Great.

Turns out, a majority of cars in their apartment complex have been broken into while in the building lot. So I guess this man exists as a warning himself. And Tony is taking him as such.

The power of selection. It's simply a matter of knowing which beef to eat, beverage to drink and corn to husk.

Heart

Sometimes in life I feel like things happen for me. As though certain things in this life were meant. In specific. For me. Maybe I'm an egoist? But there I was. Screaming my head off, with the majority of Nebraska (well, those who weren't at the Dave Matthews concert that night...or out cow-tipping...heh, heh) for Heart to do an encore.

Have you listened to Heart lately, people? Fine. Maybe not the coolest-looking group in the world, but, hell, that woman can sing!

So, they come out and did an encore of 3 songs. The Who's Love Reign O'er Me (I blame Mark Ross from the Young Singers of Callanwolde for my Who obsession from age 10 to maybe 25...), their own Crazy on You, and Led Zeppelin's Going to California. I almost cried. It was just beautiful. Music is amazing.

And as I look around, I'm the only person singing. With all my heart. Overjoyed. And probably a bit overwhelming...at least for Nebraska. But then again, we went with Sidney, Tony's sixteen year-old cousin, featured...need I say more?

Summer in the city

I love New York in the summer. Undergarments matter none whatsoever. You can wear a backless dress with the tackiest bra you have jutting out the back. Or a wifebeater with nothing on under it except your nipples. Anything goes. And the fellas, too. No shirt, no shoes, no skivvies? No problem. And people may look. But nobody really cares. People just seem to let people be. I guess it's a luxury, when you really think about it. This country. Freedom.

And lightning bugs! They're all over the place.

Thoughts & eavesdropping

Who buys fruit from a stand on the corner of 79th and 2nd Avenue? Or 14th and 3rd? How many cars, buses, trucks, how much exhaust can one peach suffer and still taste good?

Since when did the bicycle lane grow to include kids on crotch rocket Suzukis weaving in and out at 60 miles per hour? Yikes.

I think that if I drove a cab in the city, I'd be the angriest woman alive.

This ten year-old kid walking by me in the park just said to his friend, "Man, you know it's true. Girls who are ugly now, grow up pretty. Girls who are pretty now, turn out ugly." Funny.

OMG, OMA!

There is nothing better than getting a call from a friend screaming into the phone from excitement, words coming at you so fast, you're clueless what you've just been told. The requisite pause, and response, "WHAT?!?"

And as you struggle to listen to the same thing repeated a tiny bit slower, you realize that "concert...oh my god...tickets...ohmygood ohmygod ohmygod...Heart, Cheap Trick and Journey...July 22nd....AAAAHHH!" NICE!

As many of you may know, I love to sing. It was one thing for which I was mocked a fair amount of my life. That, and my toes. But I've come to love both. And am more than happy to share them! Especially the voice thing. I've got some stuff down, Led Zeppelin, Blind Faith, Cyndi Lauper. You know, classics. But those women from Heart? That's some hard stuff to pull off. Trust.

So I'm going to visit Tony in Omaha, and we're going to the concert. I can't wait to see him. Or the new Journey front man. We'll see if he can rival Steve Perry...and I'm hoping to channel the voice of Ann Wilson. For the rest of my life. Wish me luck!

Zoo

I spent the day at the Bronx Zoo with the town crier. Wednesday is donation day. All excited at first, once in the zoo, I couldn't help but wish that I'd been taking photos of creatures in their natural environments. Wishing I could see them triumphant, delicate, wild, real. I know, I'd end up with a tiger gnawing on my leg.

What is a zoo? A microcosm of the world built in the middle of a city. Somehow it seems so unnatural, unnecessary. I guess for smaller creatures it doesn't seem so unjust. But those that roam over plains, and those that migrate. I'm conflicted.

And yet still, here I am, leaning over the railing, peering up to see the two-toed sloth. In awe as the snowy owl makes a 360 with his head. Touched as a peacock with her newborn chicks passes. Waxy tree frogs, camels, a lion and lioness. And lemurs! There is a Madagascar exhibit full of various lemurs. A glimpse of a different life. What would it be like if these were the animals in your daily life?

The Delta Skyfari (aside: is there anything out there anymore without corporate sponsorship?) takes you up above the zoo. In the air, the city seems so far away. The skyscrapers barely discernible. A thin layer of gray haze lurking above steel, asphalt, exhaust. I guess, it's its own zoo. Hopefully, the animals are far enough away from that glorious chaos.

Pine nut, pistachio nut, macadamia nut...

So can we talk about Plumpy'nut? No, I'm not joking. Have you heard about this product? I've obviously been in the dark about this one. Anderson Cooper did a spot on it that I saw recently. It's single-serving peanut butter based paste that is curing scores of children who were suffering from malnutrition. Worldwide.

As I watched the special, a doctor from Doctors Without Borders made mention of wasted life. How the deaths of children in developing countries have been nothing more than wasted life. Maybe 8 months lived, then dying from malnutrition before a first birthday. The report's statistics showed that in any given family, 1 child in 5 would die from malnutrition. No memories established, no feeling, no real growth or learning. No chance.

Enter peanut butter. I just searched my blog to see how many times I've mentioned it and when and where. Turns out 5, now anyway. Personally, I've loved the stuff since childhood, so I can understand. I couldn't eat it with jelly on a sandwich because the jelly always made the bread look bruised. But that's just me. Really, it makes sense. All you need is a spoon. But in single-serving packages, not even that. With all the pharmaceutical warnings, food-borne mishaps, hell, toy recalls we are lucky to receive day-to-day, I hope this product works and proves a viable solution.

There were quite a few comments made about Anderson Cooper's report on CBS News that may also be of interest, from personal histories to opinions.

Right now

Does anybody else have plum crazy stuff happen to her? Or him? Me...things tend to coincide. Like I'll be talking about someone to whom I haven't spoken in years who suddenly appears right before mine eyes. Or I'll mention something in passing, then turn and see an advertisement of that very thing passing me by on a bus. It's not supersicion, it's reiteration.

Maybe I'm crazy but I take these coincidences to heart and figure, "Wow. I am supposed to be in this moment. Right now." And it's comforting. An affirmation from the world, or perhaps simply coincidence for you realists. But me? Call me naive, but I choose to believe.

Wonderful

Ok, ok, ok. Hold your horses for a second.

Two nights ago Heather and I were talking about music theater. Not really my thing, used to think it was lame, but have now grown to love it. Live, anyway. And I have this idea I'm not going to publish because I still hope to do it, but it involves musical theater and the one, the only, Stevie Wonder.

So. The conversation moves to us visiting Heather's friend Marika in Canada, where Stevie Wonder is rumored to be headlining a jazz festival. So I figure...well, maybe he's on tour. Turns out, I was right. And tonight, people, a dream of mine was fulfilled. Stevie Wonder. Live. On the beach (pretty much). A torrential downpour complete with crackling lighting gave way to a brilliant, full moon that rose over Stevie Wonder.

What a human being. Joy and humility. Jokes. He's so smooth. I was the only person up dancing for Golden Lady, but whatever. This man shares his life with you while on stage. Gracious. Funky. What a blessing. An inspiration. What a voice. From singing "I Just Called to Say I love You" with the winner of a local radio contest and a on-stage dance competition to a duet with his daughter and the first live performance of a new song, Stevie Wonder indeed lives up to his name. I'm thankful to have seen him perform songs all of us know by heart.

Seen at Tompkins

On my bike on the way to lunch with Heather at Westville, I encountered a man pushing a piano through the park. An upright atop two dollies, he was recruiting unloading help from locals. Strange. Piano in the park. I circled the group a few times. Stranger, I realized that I knew the kid. Two more circles, perplexed at who this redheaded piano man could be, I figured that I should mind my own business. I looked a bit like a shark on the hunt, as it were.

Westville has these frozen mint lemonades. Damn refreshing. And the Cobb salad...nice!

So on my way back through the park, the redhead had been joined by a drummer. They were performing. I walked up, snagged a CD and told him I knew him, but couldn't figure out how. He calls himself The Crazy Piano Guy. He told me I looked familiar, too, but neither of us could resolve it. In my mind he's on a bicycle with one of those bike hats flipped up in the front. Anybody know this kid??

A little pink book

I've learned recently that I am that girl. I am every girl. Who thinks she's in love with a man who just really isn't that into her. Yes, folks. The Sarge gave me the book, He's Just Not That Into You, for our Saturday beach excursion. Her mom gave it to her because of an especially agonizing few months with respect to dating, love, men. I've read 100 pages of it. In about an hour. Talk about a beach book.

The Sarge thought this book might traumatize me. But, on the contrary, I feel free. Missed opportunities, excuses, rules and all that crap, I no longer have to worry about any of it. It's simple. We do things for those we love. We act on behalf of them, support them, we help solve their crises. We delight in and depend on those we love. That's what matters most. And that's what I have to give. And what I want back. Along with a lot of laughter...and vacations!

And a happy one to Clarice, aka Roni!

Sugar and spice and all that's nice

In life we all go through phases. Sometimes thrilled with our lives, sometimes bummed about our jobs, sometimes jilted, elated, distracted...you get the picture. Lately, I haven't been feeling myself. I'm working, but not enough. And not stuff I adore. I want to travel but am here at least through the summer. Surely, it'll all work out. But to help the process along, I just picked up Spezie, a scent I first fell in love with in Florence. Italy is the ultimate place to fall in love. Whether with a person (which I did), city (as well), even aroma (last but not least).

Maybe it's me, but smells and scents trigger the most vivid visions and memories. And thank heavens for Lorenzo Villoresi. Perfumeries aren't the most common occurrence here in New York, much less the States, from what I've seen. Sephora and the department stores seem to mass market fragrances from the latest crop of celebrities who have decided to bottle themselves. But Lorenzo, this cat is a perfumer. And it is an art. His are the kind of smells that, once on, you actually want to spend the day inhaling yourself. And so does everyone else. Delicate, yet primordial. In a time when I have been feeling like I need a V8, Lorenzo to the rescue! If only computers were scratch and sniff.

And happy birthday, Keri! And, you, too, Gwen and family!

Thank you, T-Bone!

I got on the A train, the blue line that runs up the west side of the city, headed in the wrong direction today. I wasn't paying attention and was out of my usual routine. I never take that line anymore. It's a nice thing about New York. You can venture a new path, or rediscover an old one every day.

I'm headed to see Allison Kraus and Robert Plant in concert at the Garden. Let the summer of music begin!

So the blend of bluegrass and rock n' roll these two combine to create is genius. Kraus' voice is angelic and yet haunting. Plant's unmistakable sound...these two together, it's just monumental. Magnetic. Magic. Battle of Evermore seems to have been written however many years ago just for the two of them to perform. I saw an interview with them and T-Bone Burnett who played with them tonight. He's their producer and intimated that he'd brought them together in hopes of pushing both out of their comfort zones. What a brilliant idea. It inspires me to hop out of mine. I'm signing up for voice lessons.

Happy birthday, Rebecca! Love you!

What and the city?

I went to see Sex and the City with Heather two days ago. I thought it was going to be all fun, fashion and sassiness in the city. Turns out it's about love. With all the aforementioned thrown into the mix. It was devastating for me, this movie. I came home, sent Heather out for 40s and hair dye and started cutting my hair. Nothing major, no platinum or shaved parts. It is a little rock n roll. I like it. I tigress, I mean, digress...

Two days later and I'm still wondering, in the land of opportunity where anything's possible, what's my New York dream? How is this whole thing going to work out? And is there really true love out there for everyone? It's funny how the impression of New York and New Yorkers is that we're all living the glamorous life. And that your dreams come true. And don't get me wrong, I live it up. And you forget how much you do in a day-in-the-life here. But there's something to be said for a simple, quiet life. But, for me, nope. Not yet, anyway!

FYI, I got cast as Samantha in my group of friends. I know, Mom. I know.

Keep it moving

Lately, a girlfriend of mine who lives in Switzerland asked, "Who is this Tony?!?" And it occurred to me that perhaps I should do a few introductions and maybe even updates.

Tony, aka Anthony, and I met in college at Georgia State in Atlanta. The first time we met, he asked if he could cheat off of me. HA! And I told him no. We've been friends ever since, maybe 11 years now. We've lived in different cities, sometimes the same one, and wreak our fair share of havoc together. He is currently moving to San Francisco via Omaha...

Next, the person who comments most on this blog, Sockmonkee, aka Rebecca, I also met in the ATL, well, technically Decatur. We met because of this guy; he's not really a part of either of our lives but thank God he brought us together. Rebecca is my encouragement and the most understanding human being I know. She can also argue all sides of a situation unlike me. She's also the one who will be most upset that I put her name, photo, etc up here. Heh, heh. I've vacationed with her family for a few years now as well, and hope to again this year.

Then there's the Sarge, aka Keri. God bless her, she's had a rough few months lately. But she just moved into a fabulous one bedroom in Innwood. A place to call home. And I'm hoping to help decorate! And more than one room! Knowles is on the left in this photo, too. She just moved to Queens.

And then there's Heathen, aka Heather. She's staying with me for the summer. We used to live together uptown when I first moved to the city. Between the Sarge and the Heathen, this summer is shaping up for some good fun. Heather has coined it "The summer of music," while Keri's calling it "Single Summer '08." Combine the two and I'm in...Prosecco, anyone?

Triple play

Does anyone else ever want to destroy the television? And especially when those triple play commercials come on? The one with reggaeton background music, some bald dude rapping on a couch, girls with umbrellas and one poor sap dressed up as an alligator, in which they're all telling you why you should sign up. It's awful. And brilliant. The number to call, 877-393-4448, is ingrained in my memory, but hopefully not for life. There is a new ad running, thank the sweet Lord. Swing music, I think. Somehow much easier to forget.

Keep in mind, I have yet to call for the service. I haven't had cable for years. And even when I did, I can't remember the last time I paid for it! And these days, who needs it? I watch Thirteen, the city's public station. And other than that, everything else you might want to watch is available on the internet anyway.

And so I wonder, could it possible that the television is becoming obsolete? I remember the first t.v. we had. It had antennae and a knob to turn to channels U through 13. And my friend Tony left me his tellie after his move to San Fran, via Iowa. So I had to get rid of mine. It's from my parents' basement. I remember watching MTV on that thing, when MTV was new. The 24 year-old who helped me move it admitted that he'd never seen a t.v. as old. I think it may have been older than him!

Wait a minute. Doesn't a triple play mean you're out??

Another scene at Tompkins

A dude with his boombox just walked by a group of teenage girls. David Bowie's Fame blasting, the girls clapped and cheered to the rhythm. Nice. Music is universal.

Shhh, it's a secret

I've been tutoring this kid who doesn't know how to read so well. His name is Monty. He's 15, lives in the neighborhood, got in some trouble in recent months, is now being monitored completely and got assigned a tutor. Me. Today I got word that he was removed from his family and the city by ACS (Administration for Children's Services, and also my initials, weird) and placed somewhere in Pennsylvania. And I'm happy for him. This city is hard to grow up in. At the same time, I'm going to miss working with him.

Does anyone about Post Secret? It's a compilation of postcards sent to a PO Box. All of the postcards are secrets revealed anonymously, like, "I wish I was the other twin." Well, anyway, I checked out one of the books and he and I were supposed to send ours. Maybe he'll send one anyway wherever he ends up.

I'm not sure yet what I'm going to put on mine.

Scene in Tompkins

I just watched a street kid get loaded into an ambulance. Junkie pretty much. No response. Even after the EMT stuck him with a needle and smacked his face to wake him up. The guy next to me took photos but they made him put it away. Seemed like we should leave the guy with some dignity, even if he didn't have much for himself.

Ciao, Florida!

Headed back to New York, a quick "thanks!" to Heather's dad for putting us up at his apartment for the last five days. He's a cool dad. Even though I was totally embarrassed one morning, walking in on him butt necked on the toilet, we all managed to have a good time together.The view off of his balcony reminds me of Georgia, pine trees, magnolias, only with I'm guessing more water, and chances are, alligators.

And a fond farewell to our Mitsubishi Eclispe convertible, oh how we'll miss you! I love a convertible. Back in the day, I grew up driving a bright yellow, 1974 Volkswagen Super-Beetle I'd named Sonny. Man, oh, man, I loved that car. I remember learning to pull up the hill of Hilo Court in that stick shift. My dad used to let me drive after soccer practice. He taught me how to drive in the VW, and in Old Blue, a 1976 Cutlass Supreme my folks bought from my Nana. The Cutlass got stolen. It was a indeed a smooth ride. As for the Beetle, I wrecked it, sure enough. Like most things I love, I loved it to pieces.

Live

Last night the Black Crowes played. I had a cassette tape of them back in the day, the album Shake Yo' Money Maker. I think I was in the 8th grade. I heard once that the music you identify with most, you heard at or before age 15. In that sense, anything post teenage years may be of your liking but will not have the same effect as would anything from your formative years. I can identify. The Black Crowes are in there for me. Along with Led Zeppelin, Stevie Wonder, Cyndi Lauper, Whitney Houston, Nirvana added to a strange blend of bluegrass, classical and heavy metal.

There's nothing better than live music. And getting to see a group perform live whose music has touched your heart. The Crowes played several songs that took me right back to Leafmore Creek pool and crushes on lifeguards. To July thunderstorms and evening cookouts. To lying in front of the t.v. on the floor watching the Braves on TBS.
My friend Emily McMahan was in love with the lead guitarist, Rich Robinson. And 18 years later, he's still looking good.

Tonight, Morris Day & the Time closed out the festival, best known for his hit Jungle Love, "O-E-O-E-O-E," followed by a fireworks extravaganza.

Work done

While on the plane down here, I remember thinking and even whispering, "My lord, Heather. I have never been on a plane with this many old people in my life." Wheelchairs, canes, walkers, looks like it's true. A whole lot of New Yorkers retire in Florida.

The flip-side to the retirement communities and in equal numbers are the plastic surgery recreated. Another Florida phenomenon. Young, trendy husbands buy wives face-lifts, boob jobs, tummy tucks. What?!? Were I married and my husband bought me any of that, I think I'd be insulted. It's a status symbol of some sort. And the men, too. They spend the same dollar for dollar at the cosmetic surgeon, hair salon, the car dealership. And I'm sure on manicures and waxing, too. What a trip!

But in all honesty, the most interesting is when the two collide: the plastic surgery recreated retiree. Joan Rivers is not alone. For me, though, there's just something normal about aging. I know, I know. I'm in my early thirties. What do I have to complain about? And, hell, who knows? Maybe one day I'll join the masses. But don't get me wrong, I already look forward to retiring! And yet I fear my career has yet to begin...

Happy 26th today, Heather!

Sunfest

Another cool aspect of this vacation is Sunfest. A five day music festival on the water, in combination with live music and Florida sun, I'm not sure what could make me happier! Last night we listened to a little Sheryl Crow, not my favorite but, hey. We grooved to George Clinton before that, though, and, man, they still funk it up! His lead guitarist opened the show in a diaper, nice! The cast of characters is truly a riot. He's got "Bid Daddy" on trumpet and 2 dudes who come out on stage to battle in pimp wear, one a James Brown fanatic, the other just a no-name pimp. No sure who won this round, but my vote goes to Big Daddy.

Away again

I am at the beach with my friend Heather. Her birthday is in a few days so we thought, "VACATION!" Here in West Palm, Florida, the sand is the color of my mom's hair of a few years ago. A lovely salt and pepper, a mix of rocks and shells, the sand, mind you, not Mom's hair. The sand is coarse much easier to brush of the skin than that of the Emerald Coast or St. Maarten. The color is darker and richer and still beautiful.

We are at Blowing Rocks nature preserve. A bird sanctuary and sea turtle breeding haven, porous rocks line the beach. From a distance they look like turtles themselves but up close more like sponges. As the tide rises and hits the rocks, water shoots through the pores in mini geysers. The ebb and flow of the water the ocean's heartbeat, slow and rhythmic, I am at ease.

Food on wheels

In New York City, the world is your kitchen. We eat on the train, in the park, in cabs, on the street, not to mention in restaurants. And you are never alone at it. We are a city of spazzes. Eating, talking, walking, scoping.

As we speak, or I write, anyway, I am eating a cranberry scone on the R train and drinking a coffee from the Mud truck. Portable food stands are essential to the NYC experience. Water dog vendors, halal food, coffee trucks, random meats on portable grills, any food desire and on any block is granted here. Can you imagine wheeling your job down the block to set up shop on the corner?

Freebies

Today my mom flies back to Singapore. We met at her hotel for snacks on the Hilton Executive circuit and wow, did we almost get mowed down by by a swarm of older women. A spread of fruits, cheeses, you know, finger foods buffet style with a cash bar, the way these folks attacked, you'd have thought that they hadn't eaten all day. Neither of us could pinpoint where they were from, but my mom had to retreat when they refreshed the fruit platter. Dag, people! On a New York budget, I guess free is free.

Safe flight, Mom. All 18 hours of it.

Moo Moo Moo Moo

My mom got in to the city tonight, a two-day conclusion in the city before her trek back to Singapore. We had a bite to eat and then saw Gypsy, starring Patti LuPone. Hot diggity, she is a hit in my book. I've loved her since Life Goes On, that show that had the kid Corky in it...remember? Anyway, Patti does a great job, no surprise. I've never seen this show before and don't have any other actress to which to compare her, but I had a blast. I laughed. I was captivated, touched, laughing...out loud. There is this scene with a cow on stage. Hilarious!

At other moments, Miss Patti sent chills down my arms and legs. Now, that's rare. While I neither have the training to judge this type of work, nor do I have the Broadway bug exactly, I did grow up singing in a choir, at times with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and Chorus, and even abroad. And I love singing. In a church, in the bathroom, even just rockin' out in the car! What a wonderful show and inspiring performance.

The self

I claimed myself as a writer on my tax return this year. I wonder if that's accurate. Do you have to make money at something in order for it to be your "occupation"? I don't think so. You are what you love. Anyway, I'm hoping that the more I claim myself something, the more viable it shall become!

A kid named Sean came into the restaurant today. He had worked there a short while, years ago; I remembered his face. He came in to confess that he'd stolen money every shift he worked, an estimated total of a grand. His parents passed away this year, one right after the other, and he said that losing them had spurred him to take stock of his life. Part of his realizations involved righting the wrongs he'd done. In his hand he'd brought $1500 which he gave to the owner with deepest apologies. So obviously nervous and ashamed, he shook through the entire conversation. I wanted to touch him, show him some kind of comfort but didn't interject. It wasn't my place. And in New York, you mind your business.

This morning, as well, a co-worker came directly to work from court in tears. She's spent the last 2 two and a half years fighting for full custody and adoption rights for an adorable two year-old who's lived with her since day 29 of life. The unstable biological mother has popped in and out of the process, one month asking for rights, the next few missing court dates. Today was the last of it. The judge put an end to any further objectives from the bio mom's lawyer and severed visitation rights. My friend had just hired an expensive, super savvy attorney, and for a pretty penny. But after having read the file, the new lawyer called my friend to agree to take the case pro bono. She admitted that she'd never seen a case quite like this one.

So the owner comes up on her way out to lunch and says she's going to blow the $1500 on her 50th birthday celebration at the end of this month. I told her that it seemed a pretty serious karmic moment, that maybe she should do something good at least with a part of the money. She talked about donating to the ashram she attends. Me, I mentioned the two-year old who'll now have a chance in life. Turns out, the owner gave the newly official mom-to-be a large chunk of the money for her new official daughter-to-be. It's a day for good things. On a day so dreaded, taxes due, money wasted or gained, it's nice to see evidence of what really makes each of us human.

Fantasy

I'm on the 6 train, never ride it. I went to visit a friend uptown but he wasn't there. So there are four people, three guys and a girl, sitting across from me in the car. The guys are wearing masks backward. It looks like they were playing some fantasy game like Sumo Samurai or something. The guys have long nails, long hair, facial hair. They're wearing white and black only, maybe one has on a cape. The girl is licking a lollipop. One of the guy's hands on her knees and I realize that in this life there's someone for everyone.

The Brooklyn Museum

The Brooklyn Musem is a blend of classic and modern. Even from first encounter does the museum juxtapose new upon old. An immense columned structure, the prior museum, is fronted with a crescent, glass atrium covering what one can only imagine was a huge grand staircase.

Upon further exploration, there is a reflection pool at one end and a rainbow of cement and green grass extendin zen serenity out into the city block. Yet, names chiseled above gargoyles on the old structure read Aristotle, Socrates, Mohamed.

Once inside, the atrium partners traditional stone sculptures with the fiberglass of Murikami. Age-old myths of pegases and men contrasting today's fiction of anime.

I visited the museum once before, for a graffiti exhibit in 2006. But the special exhibition of Takashi Murakami inspired my friends and me to visit today. His first pieces in the atrium are huge fiberglass installations of fictional bubble-like characters. Jelly-fish figures of all colors, one on top of the other, equally innocent and yet psychedelic. Up into the exhibit, the opening is a five-story cylindrical expanse. On display, three figures, all the same woman. The first she is upright, all curves with a tiny waist, huge hair, painted all sorts of colors. In a outfit ready for battle, she is a comic book warrior. In the next, her body parts contorted like a Transformer, she is changing into something. The third, she is a jet. Her female parts the nose of the fighter, her legs tucked underneath, her hair the wings, her are feet pointed at the back, the tail. Honestly, I'd never thought about my body as a fighter jet until right then. Fully multi-media, there is also a showing of Murakami's film work, coupled in one short film with Kanye West, as well as his bag designs for Louis Vuitton. He is the epitome of art in commerce. Or commerce in art.

We also visited a feminist exhibit and Japanese prints. In the feminist exhibition, a huge dining room was erected, the artist's impressions of the place settings famous women would have, Georgia O'Keefe, for example. Ironic. A feminist artist using such a home ec display to represent her celebration of and homage to women. The table is a huge triangle, too. There is no head of the table.

I loved the Japanese prints most of all. The sketch feeling, yet the work is so intricate and rich in color. Of all the art I've seen today, these may be my most favorite, or most near to my heart. They inspire the notion of romance, a life of tranquility, enjoyment, struggle, fighting for love and honor, and even still beauty.

6 to 4

Happy birthday, Dad! Here's to 64!

"Into the earth they go, the lovely, the wise."

We buried Granddaddy today. He was covered with an American flag, which they folded and passed to my Nana. From what everyone has said, he would have wanted the service simple, respectful.

My aunt and uncle, Roxane and Ed, renovated Granddaddy's and Nana's house a few years back and it's so welcoming. I sat on the back deck and watched the sun set behind the house out into the mountains. While Lynchburg may not be the place for me, I can certainly see how it could be for another.

The rents

On a lighter night, I finally got to meet my cousin Heather's son, Tyler. How adorable is he. Here, you judge.

How could you not love that face?

I got to ride in the back with him chilling in his car seat. What fun. And what an accomplishment, raising a son. I asked my cousin what it's like. She said, "I can't even remember what it was like without him." Cool. Parenthood. Family.

Recognized

So I got one of those calls tonight that you never want to receive. My mom, from Singapore. Her dad just passed. Granddaddy, Wyatt Edward Woody. May he rest in peace.

The last time I saw him was at my aunt Roxane's funeral 2 years ago. We spoke briefly, re-introductions. He had Alzheimer's and went in and out of memories. The last thing he said to me, in the last conversation we had, well, he remembered me. He asked me how New York was and my Aunt Pat's jaw dropped, at least, according to my mom. He hadn't shown signs of being too alert that day and, with all the people coming and going to pay respects for Roxane, it was understandable. But somehow he remembered me. I was touched. And surprised. And looking back now I'm overjoyed for such a moment.

What's next?

I met a kid at 7A last night who also loves traveling. He'd just gotten back from Central America and is working to save cash to take off and not come back. We're all over the world, aren't we? It's funny, though, what a privilege it is. I can go anywhere. Lots of people can't even leave their own cities.

His name is Greg. He just plugged my iPod into the system and is having a field day with my old school funk and grooves. Nice. A little Eazy E. He said it just made his night. God, I love it when you know you're supposed to be exactly where you are. These are the breaks.

Lately, I've been thinking about traveling the US. I haven't seen that much here in depth. I traveled across the country when in college but it was for speed not pleasure. I think I prefer pleasure over speed in general. HA! Something like a phenomenon.

I've also been considering Cuba. I worry that the bubble will be burst soon enough and it would be great to see it before that happens. In my mind, it still seems untouched, pure.

T - L = me

I came across the February issue of Travel + Leisure today and snagged it for the train ride home. Upon first glance, I was delighted at the find, hoping for hidden treasure. What did I find? Rubies and emeralds and diamonds, oh my! While I am the travel type, the leisure type I apparently am not. There were adventures listed galore, driving Argentina's lake district, the wonders of India, even mini write-ups of the 20 best places in the world to visit. Excellent! But upon further inspection, several of the rates started at $1095 per night. Cough, cough. Let me clear my throat.

Further reading caused more heartbreak. Since traveling last year in particular, I've hoped to continue expanding my knowledge and experience of and with this planet and its inhabitants, whether domestic or international. This magazine just helped me glimpse all of which I'll never be able to afford, even did I require a jacuzzi bath and bidet in all my bathrooms while traveling. And what's worse, I thought of all the people I have met, whether domestic or international, who can barely feed their families with what they make week to week, and I wonder. Are those who can afford this leisure happy? Are they happier than those who cannot? Are the haves really better off? And isn't it all relative? To many I am a have. And yet reading that magazine, I see myself as a have not much at all. Ultimately, I can't help but think. Is the catered life that much more worth living?

Perfectionist

Back on the plane, headed for the cold of New York, I am sad that I didn't stay in St. Maarten. How easy is it to just stay somewhere a little longer? Seems like it wouldn't be so hard.

I just read an article about perfectionism and how it's induced in your life. I cried through the entire thing. The main notion is that those who are perfectionists live in fear of sharing that which they continue to perfect for fear of being deemed failures. That they will never truly succeed because they will never let themselves grow, change and fail. I am amazed at how much this article hits home with me. I've never thought of myself as a perfectionist. Then I look a bit closer. It took a five month vacation for me to grow comfortable with and explore writing every day. And it took being apart from everyone I love to share those thoughts. As much as blogs are deemed whatever they are deemed, this one is an accomplishment for me.

Success is following your heart. And sharing it. I hope anyone reading this will choose to see me for my successes.

Except or accept

St. Maarten is beautiful, the land reminiscent of Peru in colors and landscape, only on a microcosmic scale. The same style of peaks in the hills, green crumbles of mountains. But the beaches are the epitome of Caribbean. And suddenly I am back on the island of Margarita ten years ago. Or in Colombia last year.

The people remind me of Cartagena, too. And I wonder about the notion of light versus dark. It seems that the people working are darker, those vacationing lighter. Can it be globally that lighter indicates some sort of ease or favor? The States has its issues. In South America, there exists a class issue or maybe just a distinction between indigenous people and those from European descent. Perhaps I am merely a victim of my own time. Perhaps I just need to travel more. And probably to Africa. And yet, we all covet what we don't have. Who hasn't wished something had been different? Curly hair, blue eyes, skinnier, better rhythm, taller. I guess it's all about self-acceptance, dark, light, skinny, short.

On a lighter note, all puns aside, here's to Tony and his self-acceptance and confidence in sharing himself with the world. In his birthday suit on his 30th birthday today! Ole!

Debauchaneer

So from nakedness and joy and Carib beers, the night moved into Keri, Sara and Tony getting provoked into a fight by some older gentleman's security guard at our favorite, the Buccaneer Bar. Keri took a few photos of our group's antics, which were still tame at this point anyway, and this guy got on her like chili on a dog. Who knew the man was a celebrity?? And who cared? I remember Willem Dafoe walking past me on the upper east side one St. Patty's day. I stood agog, struck, and watched him pass as if in slow motion. But he's the only celebrity who's ever gotten me. And maybe Bono. Anyway, the "security" got in Keri's face and ordered her to give him her camera. Just not gonna happen, buddy.

AnneMarie and I joined the fun after the incident (Keri and AnneMarie are the two in the picture) and quickly reached code level orange. After a few drinks and tons more photos, we headed into town and to Sopranos piano bar. The performer that night had a red guitar-shaped instrument equipped with piano keys instead of strings and struts. I think I had one in the third grade. So the guy came out from behind the piano to rock out on this instrument to a little Def Leppard, then some Van Halen. Had any of the Sopranos been there that night, he would have ended up being taken for a ride, most likely ending with a brand new pair of cement shoes.

Back to the Buccaneer, the real debauchery began. And it ended for Tony & me at noon the next day. One of the many moments that made all of it worthwhile was the sunrise on the beach that morning.

St. Maarten

So, here's the deal. My friend Keri's best friend Sara got a sweet condo in St. Maarten for the week. So Keri invited me. Hell, yes! Now Tony turns 30 this week as well, and I haven't been at his last four, say, birthday parties, so I asked if Tony could join. So that makes us four, and then Sara's girlfriend AnneMarie is, of course, a part of the original plan. So that makes us five total.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love vacations?!? Well, traveling period makes me happy. So we touched down yesterday in St. Maarten and it started out an adventure. Tony & I had no info on where the group was staying, no idea the name of the place or whose name in which the reservation had been placed, no cell service and really no clue where we were or should be going. But we figured, "Hey, we're in St. Maarten and it's warm and beautiful! Who really needs a place to stay when you can sleep on the beach?!?"

We ended up finding the gang, grabbing some dinner and gambling at the resort's casino into the night. A friendly neighbor at the blackjack table kept passing me chips, helping out the newbie. I love cards, but have never been into gambling or casinos. I occasionally play the lottery. Funny thing is, I think I'm the only one in the group who netted any money from the casino.

So today, Keri, Tony & I hit Mullet Bay. Not known for mullets that I saw, we made it infamous for a bit of nude sunbathing. A first for me, it's quite liberating sunbathing topless. Now, don't judge, people! We all have to remember to spice up our lives however we can from time to time. We laughed, swam, drank Carib (the island's local beer) and enjoyed the company. Keri kept an an eye out for her dream man to cruise up in his yacht and throw down the rope ladder for her.

God bless the Caribbean. The water is the most gorgeous thing in the world.

Guilt is like pleather. Man-made, unnatural, never cool, and all too often unflattering not to mention self-restrictive. And did I mention never appropriate for the beach?!?

Aflight again

Looking down at the water over JFK, we have lift off. I feel like an alien, or more in awe of this earth. There is a comfort associated with this planet and walking it day by day that makes you more nostalgic for it as you see it disappear underneath you.

Lines of beaches cut the water like blood vessels, only the reverse of human coloring. In this instance the solid sand bars the color of human skin reach out into the liquid blue of the ocean, a body all its own. And then a vessel--a sea vessel, the only speck for miles apart from tiny waves breaking and breaking upon themselves. They are the stars of the sea, an ocean of white dwarfs. As we ascend into the clouds, mere stepping stones seem to separate us, continent to continent.

St. Maarten, here we come!

9

Happy birthday, Mom! Love you.

Home

My friend Heather is in town for a few days. And what a lovely friend is she. We used to live together, with Tony as the third in our triumvirate, in a palacial Washington Heights three-bedroom when I first moved to the city. She is on her way to visit family in Florida, and to see her new niece for the first time ever. How exciting are new editions in families!

One thing that has changed in my life since I quit working 7 days a week, post traveling South America, friends stay with me in my tiny studio much more than ever before. And while my quarters may not be much, they seem to suffice, sometimes even for four! It makes me happy to know that what I do have can be shared. And even at times with as many as four adults, with little to no fighting. It's nice to see that home really is where your heart is.

Onion Square

When I was a kid, we usually went to Wendy's for our fast food fix. I think it was because of the Frosty. My friend the Sarge has never eaten a Wendy's burger because, in her mind, hamburgers are always supposed to be round. I, on the other hand, quite enjoyed my hamburgers square. Anyway, in good old Atlanta, GA, the one near Northlake mall had formica tables covered in old-timey newspaper. A century-old learning experience. Ads for those bicycles with one huge wheel in the front and a tiny one at the back, a woman in lace up boots and a heel-length dress, all-buttoned up to the neck, atop the bike.

My brother David and I got into an argument over the word union in one of the articles. I thought it was pronounced onion and spent the entire meal trying to convince him I was right. I was maybe 6 or 7, with hardly any words in my vocab arsenal. Funny to think I was already convincing people that I was right even at that age. Needless to say, I was mistaken. Anyhoo, here's an aerial shot of Union Square, the heart of downtown traffic in the city. I've learned to admit when I'm wrong...that progress, right?