As a thanksgiving blessing I awoke to count the many events this year that gave an arch of learning curve, the sheer comet like sheen of it all became my writing prompt for today. It’s a small wonder that these things that touch us, make an impression with all of the noise of the world can indeed reach us somehow. It’s no small thing to be able to grasp them emotionally and ponder the wonder of why, honoring that luck was involved.

Friendships that weather the storms of life, the bigger appeal of escape when emotional headwinds deem to great to stand up to, is the inner peace we seek always within us? Do we really need some outside validation that all is right with the world?

Pondering these writing prompts on a day sometimes filled with angst around family dissension and political strife, I like to think back to immortalize moments that still take my breath away.  The thanksgiving day hike near a locally famous rock formation, where once we reached the top of the moon like surface I was given a ring, as symbolic gesture of a grander sweep of emotion that never seemed to gain traction.

Another memory, a San Francisco day of thanksgiving with the table set for 25 guests. I was at the helm cooking, greeting and mothering my toddlers as food and conversation filled the day.

There’s the invite last year to a friends’ table. Her husband an amazing force of creative made a beautiful meal. It was nice to be included in the inner sanctum of another clans’ tradition and to feel included as well as well fed.

Lucky for these memories lingering and reminding me of all that I’m thankful for.

My how time flies when life gets lived and years peel past. I like the idea of lurking into my past as a voyeuristic leap ala George Jetson. It's full throttle 2018, nipping at the heels of December 2019.

So it's a dust off, a pencil eraser to some of the rough spots. I like the bigger globe of where I've been. More delicious? Where I'm headed.. So this leap back into my Urban Firefly persona needs a rounding of the edges and a widening of country exposure and heartland locavore.

Best to see the landscape for what it is- and share so with that... drum roll loop keeps a pace of TahhhDahh.

I'll be using this as my journal, a birds eye of #fabulousfennville and the Great Lakes region as I explore the landscape of who and why. What's not to like?    Stay Tuned......

What's Not To Love: A New Chapter.

Book Shop Santa Cruz                    Blind Date With A Book

This is just about the sweetest promotion I've run across. The concept of buying a book without judging the cover makes me continue to believe in true love accented with leaps of faith.  To see merit in optimism by default isn't a bad fall back position.

Seeking Valentine gift-books gave an excuse to peruse the Book Shop.
Brown Paper.  Falling for the don't judge a book by the cover cause' ya can't see it rational of being non rational. The Blind Date with a book=pure brilliance.  Wrapped in brown paper, selected and wrapped by Book shop Santa Cruz staff. It's gotta be a slam dunk. Thank you, you creative geniuses.. I'm so pleased you are the orbit I travel in.

My old habit of buying books for the valentine's in my life harken to my days spent in Barcelona where April 23rd is celebrated as St.Jordi's Day books and flowers ala a male female exchange with the sentiment of love attached. Street vendors line the Barcelona neighborhoods along Passeig de Gràcia peddling books of poems, Catalan verse, fiction and everything else in between.
 Sadly the Capitola Book Cafe went under this week. Years of mismanaged ineptitude, brought a once great brand to it's knees. The death kneel began as garage sale items hawked next to best sellers- ebooks and kindles aside, true love in the indie anything world seems tough to shake unless you really f*#@ it up. Perhaps the once great brand will renew one day, it's my optimist heart on my sleeve time of year.

Life Tastes Better With A True Compass

Ahh..the winds of change. A welcome and soothing Psyche booster. Almost as good as yoga on the beach. What's the wind and why is it so timely you ask in a soft voice?

 It's the self actualization of a very simple perhaps universally held view- artists and creative types really do have more fun. Duh, certainly circumspect for the ADD crowd (yes, I resemble that finely tuned group of nanoattention span seekers of shiny shiny) and that is part and parcel why the art world offers a more well-versed version of fun.

For those of us in good company- you know who you are. The winds of change that sweep away the stiffy partners, the spouses of a certain socially challenged, chino wearing, spreadsheet evangelist-of sorts who can never seem to fully enjoy the lifestyle so diligently divergent from the norm that they must toll for ungodly hours to drink from the chalice of Sand Hill Road..

The list of you can't do, would'nt look right, falls right onto that UN-holy to drive the BMW laden with subversive messages aimed at a certain axis of evil.  My prattle is that the true axis of evil is the length that it took me to break away from the hydroponically- enhanced koolaid drinking cycle. My panache for Pinot has waned.

To save myself emotionally I needed to throw all that was controlling under the bus. That and the help of the paranoid camera hiding, email peeking -sneaking, cell-phone lurking presence that came along under the pretense of "needing to know."

Technology again comes to the rescue...this time in the form of tracking the dog. Just in time for the holiday shopping season! You too can track your canines' every pee stop to perhaps just the ones' your under surveillance spouse may jog in the a.m.  This is the best gift for the truly paranoid. Or extra loving canine person in your world. I would be remiss to not point out the true marketing opportunity for those that seek to know all, while doing all, for the sake of the color inside the lines folks that we all know and loath.

So as I lie awake breathing in a fresh breath of newly unmonitored breath, I must thank technology. But I also must thank the artistic company of community that has brightened by life. You have shown me how to be true to myself artistically and creatively.  And for that I thank you.

New Venue, Same Vibe

http://artdujour-santacruz.blogspot.com/

A new venture and create vibe for the Santa Cruz set.

Ticket vs Text

My old habit of ignoring parking tickets has made my new year resolution list. Gone are the days of easy breezy ignoring those pesky reminders that you owe $30 dollars to the municipal fairy god mother of fill in the blank city or town. The beauty of technology is that they know where you live and work. The Denver boot is liable to make it's way to a front tire upon which it shall rest until the fines and penalties are paid in full. I've worn out my luck with the parking gods. These days, it's better to be safe and pay the meter vs. karmic kisses from the parking gods lest they feel fickle.

Enter stage left- the ability to pay for a spot on the street voila! via my iPhone. Groovy is as groovy does, and this my friends is the next best thing to 'free' valet parking...yeah ya gotta pay... no digging, scratching around for that elusive quarter that rattles around every where except where ya need it- when it comes time to feed the meter. My sandy-toed little city- Santa Cruz has got to be the unsung hero, at least when it comes to smart government. Parkmobile and a phone is your super power to pay for your street parking sans digging for coins. Thank-you city council members, you made my day today! As I rock star parked next to Jamba on Pac ave for my bright-eyed blueberry with whey protein this morning, I was greeted with a small sticker placed meter-side with the announcement of the ability to pay for parking via my phone. Finally- government making my little life a little bit easier.

Many may sneer, as they contemplate the mundane routine of street parking. For the non-bourgeois (and we know who we are) this new technology makes the day a bit smoother, a tiny bit less frantic. Text messages sent from parkmobile will be the civilized love note alerting me of my status before it runs out.

Remember, it's the little things that make life easier. The app, btw...it's free. Thank-you city of Santa Cruz.

The ole adage from many a sage: If it's not broken.. should be tattooed upon the foreheads of the powers that be at The Gap.

This week the crusty company tried to re invent itself. The A-ha moment came when the company finally realized it could only really change the look of khakis from ugly to uglier, then back to original ugly all with the help of a zillion dollar marketing campaign. The brilliant brains behind the brand this week unveiled something that makes the clothing look event more exciting, a new logo.
No surprise, the re design was met with the same enthusiasm one might experience pawing through the sales rack. Sales have flat lined, send in the khaki and white coated ER staff looks like the paddles are needed to resuscitate.
The stock was once a shining star on the NASDAQ. Sad to say my proxy vote faded along with my appetite for shopping at the ever morgue like environ a long time ago. Maybe it was the irritating way the bright shiny pony tailed followed me around re folding sweaters.  Once a great source for jeans, company sales numbers faded and the stock dropped after that last brilliant re-design: Denim the death rattle for Gap. Forgot to mention it's signature white shirts are still available. Too much excitement for you and your wardrobe?

I've got an idea, sell tea. Why you ask? Parent namesake The Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company is currently trading at three bucks and change.  Khakis are no longer the draw perhaps selling Tea could be the much needed breath. Otherwise there's always a way to re invent khaki: adult diapers covers, matching oxygen canister covers, wheel chair and Prius seat covers.

It's gotta be better than what's currently on the sale rack.

The World Could Use More

The clock tics toward November 4th. Meg Whitman must do her own dishes now that it's come to light that keeping indentured servants runs afoul to her current campaign strategy. While Ms. Whitman is enjoying her Palmolive moment let's take a moment to contemplate the local template.

In many ways living in a new zip code every few years affords me the opportunity to re tune my internal radar and reassess my own political compass. My true North has come closer to center than I ever imagined possible. I suppose I shall blame that upon the current quagmire of the state of CA but also federally the political malaise runes deep on both sides.

What's a girl to do?

Leaving the his and her Bentley crowd of Los Gatos, landing in the northern hemishere of Labatt's swillin maple leaf flag wavers where long held assumptions faded along with my memories of California sunshine. Toronto has a shiny urbane surface with all it's left wing leaning health care, gun shy non-moose hunters and non deadbolt securing hockey fans. Maybe this change of latitude would offer a shiny new socialist bent but alas the only plus was the fast track lane for the globally elusive swine flu shot. Not really worth the cold northern latitude and lack of sun but one could wear mink, which is always a plus.

Fast forward to my current zip code. Why do my Green Party roots feel rather republican..gasp. How can that be?  A pro-business stance and fiscally conservative pessimism in the current quagmire. Local theater aka the SC city council locally gets a bitch slap from the University Ivory tower crowd if even a whiff of non-compassion is spread around concerning the local homeless and ever growing transient population. The mer whisper surrounding capitalist concerns from locally owned business is met with politically cool contempt.

Maybe the Ivory tower crowd believes that the local sales tax base is simply fairy dust.

While I can't wrap my brain around the entirety of the macro that is my Olympic sport of choice to bemoan, may I offer up a sweet micro morsel of hope and compassion. Yes- two wrapped in a delicious package both savory and sweet.

Free empathy.

Yep- free. As in gratis, no charge. How is this gonna help the world you wonder? It's the little things that count and on a truly micro level the best hope is to be found on a Saturday afternoon at a small table usually set up in front of The Gap on Pacific Ave in downtown Santa Cruz. When I initially walked by and looked at the tiny table, the gentleman focused upon the woman in the chair in front of him. I noticed the tiny artistically printed sign no larger that a Cliff Bar that read Free Empathy.  I needed to turn upon my heels to backtrack and check that I did not mistake the true task of the seated smile. Sure enough. As I walked by again I was offered a seat. Human nature is funny when confronted with something not considered everyday. My first thought as I glanced around- Is Alan Funt hiding inside the Gap store with a camera..not sure if it was a prank or perhaps just uncomfortable thinking on my part. An introduction was followed by a seated deep breath. A calming voice noted how nice it was to see me today and if there was anything he might help with.

Remebering that small film loop of classic Peanuts comic strip. Lucy at the advice booth caddishly awaiting Charlie Brown. Thankfully Bar Lowenberg is as far from a Lucy type character as one could ever find. Sitting on the receiving end of such a gracious and free service felt divine. 
We discussed what brought me to Pac Ave (taking candid pics of people) and how my bike ride led me to park and explore the street on such a balmy Saturday eve.
Sharing with my empathy filled friend just how beautiful it was to find him here. Sparking a hope that this free empathy idea could sweep the globe, benefiting mankind with well intentioned good will. This is the real fairy dust.

The over scheduled, over subscribed crowd that resembles most of us these days could really glean a simple understanding by simply sitting down..

Look for Mr. Lowenburg on Pac Ave next time you find yourself there and do the world a favor, sit down. You won't be sorry.

Why I Opt Out

I'm not one to believe in conspiracy theories. I do believe in keeping a confidence however and like letter writing this art of conversation seems to be on the same extinction list as the drive-in theater.

Privacy is formed from the root privy. To be privy to information. The etymology of the word privacy is suggestive. As always, I have been driven by this need to know. Call it morbid curiosity to tease out the idea of meaning. Not just words but in life too. Can never be too clear on context.

Selective is another word with an interesting root. The self selecting group of social media users of facebook has seemingly morphed from just a handful of Stanford knobs to 500 M strong at last count.

Do you all know something I don't.

I remember what a big deal it was when deep throat, the top secret source for Woodward and Bernstein was sought out. Thirty years later, when the source was reveled it felt like a let down. I can only imagine that affect of lost mystique upon those close to the saga.

The song clouds in my coffee  was an ode to a mystery man of such large ego. Really Carly- an auction, for the answer?  Did we really need to know?

It's this need to know that I find so puzzling. Why have we become a nation of need to know-ers?

Is it the reconnect that is so attractive in the minds' eye or simply the idea? I have zero interest in seeking out everyone I have ever known. I have done a decent job of keeping up with those I truly care about and  make effort to see them at least quarterly..unless something really obscene blocks that effort (18+ hour flights are my personal cut off.) So why this inane drive to "friend" people? Are we so lame, so over subscribed, over scheduled, over looked that we must distill our caring and concern down to something as impersonal as a web connection.

Differentiation between person/thing seems now non-existent. Products are now part of the party. The comfort of my fave ice cream brand can now play a role in my social psyche.

Talk about the network of socially maladjusted.

Friendships with Coke, Sara Lee, and  Ruffles have nothing on my semi secret 3 a.m. rondevue with Ben and Jerry - a menage a tois where I am the sole recipient of unmentionable deliciousness and here I draw the line. I don't need to be friends with chunky monkey. Discretion please.

Maybe my years of working in media, sitting in focus groups (I've sat on both sides of the mirror, thank you) have me questioning motives. Is all this reaching out, with little effort or reasoning an indicator of our overly scheduled lives? Wanting an escape. But too lazy to make any real effort, like cook a meal or open a decent Zin. 

Data mining and aggregator sites will continue to become more sophisticated. Why? because that data of all our habits, clicks, pics whether personal or professional can glean a great deal. Big companies will continue to pimp for such privilege, unless of course they don't need to.

Think friend with benefits.

This weekend while attending a real live cocktail party I was approached by an acquaintance that I truly was happy to reconnect with.  We chatted with sweaty glasses of Pinot Gris in perfectly manicured Mano y Mano while the bugs buzzed in the back ground and the moon rose over the manicures backyard. It was the quintessential reconnect. Great conversation, with a pitch perfect evening to enjoy the company of others. The first words she purred "why had I not kept in touch on face book?" which I answered I don't use facebook. I imagined smoke pouring from my ears as neural brain synopsis secretly smoldered contemplating all we had once had in common.

I tried to be as polite as I could but my not so recessive genetic opinionated tic called the whole facebook idea a thankless mind fuck. Adding that I saw it as a seemingly sad way to spend ones' time. Also I added that something so widely discussed like the minutia of life as fodder for fostering friendship seemed stupid. But that's just me.  Oops, I guess my foot in mouth disease makes for uncomfortable cocktail chatter.

Rhetorically using facebook is no different than using a rewards cards from retailer's like Longs, or Safeway.  After all- retailers can't possibly offer me anything without knowing a bit about me. Yet time and time again based upon a complex cocktail of details, buying habits and marketing juju they seemingly guesstimate what I might like. This is where the facebook mania helps big brother.

Conspiracy theory, No.  Creepy?  Yes, but if you don't care/don't share/lack good judgement the stakes are a bit higher than receiving instant print coupons for a competitors' shampoo. Why does this logic not hold any sway over the 500M "friends" that exist today?  Lemmings don't use logic suppose it's safe to say, nor do they find it creepy.

Bumper Crop: Creative Energy

The current state of the local public school system is dire. Crowded class rooms, thin budgets, severely reduced staff. My new Tuesday routine is really an eye opening experience. Lots of energetic wiggling and foot tapping. Think puppies, but bigger and more wiggly. With 31 kids in a classroom, finding a quiet moment to think is a luxury.
Last Tuesday was the first writers workshop by Gault school 5th graders and a few topics for this first writing exercise of the new school year yielded wildly creative and poignant topics, bounced around pin-ball style. Written into free form topic, an innovative new product was produced, pure creative genius resulted in paragraphs about knitting hamster hair sweaters,  a grandfathers' death in El Salvador, and the love of beach volleyball. All topics written into personal journals.

The true highlight in this mix of the newly journal-ized,  a single suggested word scribbled down by a sweet faced cherub of a boy was the prime his pump needed. Watching the contemplative faces try on for size, sentences flowing from mostly overly sharpened nubs of pencils. The moment of recognizing. The beauty of thought transformed.

Magic.

A moment of quiet. It was as if thought clouds formed Ala cartoon style, floating free form with wild creative abandon.

Public school? Yep.. Make lemon-aid outta lemons.

On a day where baby steps are measured in smugged charcoal verbs the success of the moment tastes even sweeter when you have the nay Sayers turning scribbled pages of prose to hurriedly finish before the Tibetan bell reminds them the exercise is ending.

I've had the honor of working with private school kids as well children attending ESL classes in SF. Desire to achieve, desire to become, desire to fit in, learn, blend, or even become invisible know no class boundaries. This is where adults enter. Our job? To believe. Believe that good always wins, that the curious will dig deeper, and that the band -aids and kisses will self multiple and cover all those who seek to achieve but stumble skinning knees along the way. With 31 kids in a classroom, we could all find an hour a week and ply the system with what we bring to the the process because this  means that magic can happen

If the spark of creative genius can be lit and kept as a flame it serves us all well to find the embers burning. They burn in the brightest manner possible: youth illuminates the sheer inquisitive nature of sweet, unadulterated childhood. We shall caress the idea or image of success for those too damaged, too scared, or just unjustly kept from the opportunity be due to what ever injustice.

Who else is going to step up? The schools need an influx of magic. Think of it as the magic of volunteering meets need. Unadulterated. 100 proof.

  Currently no other place will give you these dividends. BTW, advance thanks to those you you who know of what I speak. Namaste.

Yabba-Dabba- Yuck

Of the eleven species of Rubus in California, Himalaya blackberry has grown its spiny web of industrial strength pricks to trap people like me-Or anyone that decides to belly up to mother natures' Jamba counter and eat as many blackberries as physically possible without succumbing to the beating bird wings of the neighborhood crows and sparrows as they fight beak and nail to save the bounty of berries for their own. Zen is a word that comes to mind when one can focus upon picking berries.  Repetitive and poke free if careful, a soupy greyscale backdrop of sea salty harbor air that could pass for airbrushed acrylic hides the sun. A quality Andrew Wyeth like in tonal charcoal shades. Optimistic caffeine fueled flowery metaphors aside it's simply fog but I can't help feel that I am a part of a living landscape in portraiture.

Are crows and sparrows truly birds of prey? These local berry eating birds make the panhandlers look meek...are these birds annoying? Yes, dangerous? Not so much.

I am feeling much more neighborly to my feathered friends than what seems to be sauntering toward me.

This morning I resemble a PMS possessed-picker. Greedy and Moody, equal parts sans make-up... not pretty. A foodie simply wanting to eat these lovely little berries baked into scones, washed down with a cup of Earl Gray. While "zen"ned out in the fog, along comes neighbor Fred, also referred to as Foreclosure Fred or my personal fave Fucked Fred. Not Feeling the love for this dead on Fred Flintstone. (Trade the stone wheeled dune buggy for an Escalade, you've nailed the character.) He's talking at me how these blackberries are simply weeds dirty and invasive. My zen state evaporates into the thick fog as swiftly as the pesky sparrows.

I think about the word invasive.  The word rolls around in my brain thinking of how invasive his sub-species seems to me, so combative and anti- Santa Cruz. The bombastic being that inhabits my brain chooses the NVC route and I simply say " Better to be picked than to be deposited ala colorful- rainbow coalition style upon your beloved SUV and left to bake in the hot hot sun."
Simultaneously my brain in tandem mode whispers : "I personally prefer to see them shat onto your pearlized-creamcicle steroid- ed ghetto mobile."

Maybe this is a sort of superpower that I alone possess because I believe the birds have heard this secret whisper of a thought. My imagination ponders a sort of feathered tour de force. Flocking together, planning, plotting to overthrow Fred. I smile a secret deliciously overt smile. I wish my other super power was flight because I would certainly join along in solidarity.

Fire sale properties are rare (at the moment) in my adopted hood. My wee slice of ocean nirvana may be the only piece  zip code being sprayed with chemicals automatically billed-biweekly to that big credit card in the sky.

Bankruptcy court will need to track down Chem-lawn and square up. Good luck driving' that truck down Seabright Ave. If you think for a second Fred contemplates chemical run-off into the harbor below, rest assured. He sleeps well
Back to the task at hand. No harm really. It's not like I was using live kittens or something less useful in scouring for these little fruits in their thorny hell. My zen state leaves momentarily as I swear and lick my wounds thinking this is the reason Germans' refer to these razor wrapped morsels as fruit of the forest.  My Scone Jones born of this more dark purple than black berry seemed implausible at this point. An easier bike ride is a 5min delay in almost-instant gratification waiting for me at  The Buttery.

My berry bucket is brimming with berries now, and these birds are not simply hungry--they harbor a real issue with this Karl Rove meets Fred Flintstone character. It's so odd in my tie-died cul du sac of ocean tranquility to have a Fox News Fear Based Philosophy session with the midget minded.

In this moment it's crystal clear:  Retaliation is the only option for the philosophically aligned feathered friends.

The preaching nature of Foreclosure Fred conjures up a funny visual as he shakes his bobble-like head in anger. Apparently the financial problems he has created for himself are not sufficiently complex enough and now these blackberry bushes are his target for flaming rage.

Flambe' works better with fresh figs and prosciutto as I drift off to ponder my lunch plans in my state of renewed zen.

The Book Was Better

Under the influence of idealism and poetry, I ponied up my inner cowboy boot wearin' bohemian and headed off into the sunset Saturday night in search of nostalgia and tie-dye ...
At age 70, the anointed one began his Monterey Fairgrounds show with a full on band rendition of everybody must get stoned.. as if they needed permission. Seems like a gimme, with the crowd I had imagined.

The sad truth: permission was indeed necessary, the crowd in attendance sat as stone straight as Canadians. Canadians at any public event really. Straight bunch.. No contact highs' for this mixed age crowd..unless of course they were lucky enough to sit down wind from me.

No singing. No dancing,
Carousing? Not a chance... No flowers in the hair. Was this the crowd that made the sixties so fucking groovy? I have to believe that the crowd in attendance stumbled into the wrong venue. Not a hippy-dippy-feel-the-love modality instead think Denny's dinner before 5 crowd.

Fly on the wall was not my desired station. When the band strode out and picked up their own guitars. Each member sporting polished willie wonka-alikeness. His Bobness wore a straw bola hat that seemed a little too fussy in a Nantucket way. Guess he has a NYC sensibility ala the Hampton's summer.  Guess he forgot about Northern Cali fog and dampness. A vintage era wool cap might have been a better fit. Certainly would have been a bit more authentic feeling.

One of my favorite Dylan songs came from his last album. Things have changed,. Saturday's version sang with a polished back beat and stage wrap spoke volumes of what has indeed changed from his days of kicking around the village, simply playing with a guitar, harmonica and adoring fans.
It's like the lame tee shirt's sold in tourist traps announcing all i got was this lousy tee shirt. My tee shirt moniker from my experience would have read,  I saw Bob Dylan and all I got was a lousy contact high

Things have very much changed.

Pray upon the Prey

A summer checked out, off grid, with many book laden memories.  Very happy gave way to sad as I learned that one of my favorite writers and past crushes has been diagnosed with cancer.  The favored atheist part didn't fit in so seamlessly in the last sentence. Who else would throw stones at Mother Theresa? Adoration ballsy genius. The recent best seller Hitch-22 was a marvelously witty read. I enjoyed the Audible version of the book which was deliciously devoured as mental foreplay. .. Nothing like a little pillow talk or listen, more accurately as I drifted off to sleep

The articulately debonair Christopher Hitchens is under going treatment for esophageal cancer that has spread to his lymph nodes. Certainly not a great diagnosis in the scheme of fair odds. Life is what we make of it. A recent Atlantic Monthly interview says he shall continue on with writing and reading until he can't anymore. Brave and smart..

 On the atheist bent, and a perfect compliment: The little book of Atheist Spirituality by the french cuffed Parisian Andre Comte-Sponville. A refreshingly candid look at dogmatic transcendence and the masses that embrace religion as the warm sweater that shields one from all of lifes' pain. Add a cigarette if the mass is french

If only it were so easy..we would all be sporting hand knit full-body cozies. Cashmere for me please. Itchy wool for the Republicans.

Whenever I learn of ill health plaguing a friend or in this case favored author, I don't think about what's to come, only what's been given; so much to journalism, to politics, to the fine art of writing all tied neatly with a reverence and style unparalleled to anyone currently of the now and wow genre.

Hitchens was scheduled to talk about his book back in June, of course I was angry to find a postponed sign at the Commonwealth Club in SF on the eve of the event, I was hoping to saunter off and enjoy a cocktail or two with him, but alas it was not meant to be. My boo-hoo moment of morose knowing now the reasons behind the missed engagement feels very self indulgent, and not in a good way.

I will not pray for Mr.Hitchens.  I do not believe that will help his condition. A possible answer to his plight:  toast better living through technology.  I would be remiss if I did not remind him that he is a bon-vivant of such stature few if any will be able to follow. Let death be his muse and tease him. If the voice of unadulterated street smarts and swagga' with a sharp pencil must be silenced I would seek to remind him that his literary works will live on. Hopefully he shall too, the world would be too dull without him.

Welcome 2 My World

(8:30 a.m) Big Coffee gulp. A rush to pull myself together. Gasp... what the f@%k... is this a gray eye lash? What's next, my perfectly matched shoes won't match my bag, yes you know a bad euphemism when you see one.Always fun to see pubic hair color compared with shoes in print, no- but eyelashes.

Let's get back to where my focus lies. It's bad enough to resemble a shrew sans mascara but this, eyelash of gray- I say no way!  This is too much. When the fairest of all from afar dripping from his a.m. shower asks "when is this gray hair mania gonna end?' To which I reply, " when I take my final nap...in the dirt."

Welcome to my world and maybe yours too? At least as a non member of the Y chromosome group. Those F'ing Y's, just seem to magically become more distinguished with each gray sprouted. Anywhere.

The global cosmetic industry is now hovering around $60B.. to cater solely to my needs?
I'm in good company. NOT comforting. In the least bit.  

P.G Wodehouse concluded that the guillotine is the only cure for gray hair.   Comforting.

But why this manic management around aging? I surely can't be the only one fighting it tooth and nail (bleached and manicured thank you) The well is deep when one yells into it- the echo that returns- well, it's not what any of us want to hear. There is no magic fountain of youth. Poor ponce Del Leon. Most likely would've benefited from a squirt of Rogain, genital waxing, an obligatory trim to the lively Breshnev'brows (why don't men notice when the eyebrows go wacky and start reaching around to the back of the head, odd no?)

The truth is gray hair is inevitable. Research (yes, I 've done a bit) shows that we will all gray. Some sooner than others. Premature grayness can strike some in the early 20's. So I guess I should be happy wearing 45 years viola  internal alarm clock decides it's time. Come on bio-tech... let's fight a real threat to life. Either that or move to Rio.

Beauty isn’t just big business in Brazil — it’s HUGE!  $28 billion huge. Brazil’s beauty market is now the third largest on the planet (behind the U.S. and Japan) and despite a sluggish global economy it’s also one of the world’s fastest growing, at a 14% compounded rate from 2004-2009...
 Go ahead you Iowa and Nebraska beeknickbeauties, have another burger. Brazilian babes are having those beautiful buns buffed to perfection. Just when you thought it could not get any better.

Botox and Juviderm are fairly new and give youth a foot up. Ask yourself now: wanna resemble your nutty aunt with the placid forehead?

Feel this is simply a small price to pay for staving off the inevitable?  Not so much......

A few days ago that uber glam gurl, Zsa Zsa Gabor took a spill and broke her hip. At 93 she looks 50'ish... wide eyed and smoothed by facial fillers and who knows what else. The bright eyed look made me wonder if the overly stretched taughtness allows her to close her eyes and sleep. Research fleshed out that as we age the need to sleep lessens. Yes, Ms. Gabor is the extreme version of good chemistry gone bad. Suppose my true self shines. Wondering: when she came tumbling from bed what was she watching on the telly....porn. Nope..... Jeopardy!

Wink , wink Alex Trebec. She'd love to wink dahling..but a bit tight. kisses.

Snoozy Summer Slacker Style

Yes... I know I know... An entire month has vaporized as I look at my writing of rough draft posts..meaning: I write, but only for myself and only to realize that an entire month has gone by without a single snarky post.

Yes an Anniversary of sorts.. but not one I care to celebrate.

Slacker gurl self loath abounds, so off of that mind numbing exercise and off to greener mental pastures. Slather on a little more SPF 70.

This summer seems as unstructured as a lincoln log structure yet complex enough that one can mentally expand upon where-what-who to frolic with but that takes planning and plotting.

I think we all know the straight story ...it takes far too much time and energy to plan.

The current plan this summer? The plan is to make a plan and stick with it.

The Beach Boardwalk Friday scene is all our myopic planning can muster.  Beach ball bouncy happy and sun drenched, we sandy critters lounge with high SPF coverage and little else as we await the evening concert to kick start the weekend. Kick start is the correct verb here as the summer with it's frenetic energy can overwhelm even the most travel/party/beach savvy of the bunch.  My only wish for these frenetically fabulous evenings???  A bit more time to actually enjoy the scene as it truly is a quintessentially Santa Cruzian scene.

Which means no plastic boobs bobbing about, no high heels as they are sooo sand unfriendly, no attitude because it's Santa Cruz... and the best part>>>? A short beach walk home from the festivities.

Thursday evenings are a muddy drone of over amped sound from across the harbour. We seek out the best the beach scene has to offer and throw the Thursday eve scene to the out of town riffraff.

If live music is your thing, look no further than some sand in your plans http://www.beachboardwalk.com/concerts/

Summer Bummer

An unlikely place within my grey matter beckons me to question if this really is a good idea?. . .Organized summer commitments that is, like summer school. But for every negative, crybaby why-me whinge as of late I must at least smile at the karmic reality recently sun-kissed upon my freckled forehead.

Just when you think ya have the summer (or life for that matter) figured out something flies in the face of fun, frolic, and full-on favored existence.

The current fly in the gin & tonic?  Summer school. The dreaded sound of those two words.
As kids we feared the threat. As parents we fear the commitment. Speaking for myself- apropos to nothing it's consistent with my lack of stay-on-track. Speaking theoretically summer should be a time for goof off hang time accompanied with a high SPF at least when one has children or free time at hand or both.

I do commit. Sun screen rituals need to be followed. Vain, fair haired and sun sensitive bitch that I am, but the morning hurry scurry continues. How's that for Karma: just when the nice weather and calls from beach seeking friends return in tandem..damn it.

What's a irresponsible person to do? Organize.

Not my life, that's sooo un-summer. Car pool. Carpool Carma Come save us from all things commitment, I mean commuter laden, (except southbound US Open traffic on Hwy1..fuck'.)

So it is, a wee bit of positive karmic lint left in my bellybutton to finagle such a feat for those of you who have the inside skinny this is no small gift. Summer drama aside, the sand is warm and the UV rays off the charts.

Northwest swell' been a bit too sloppy for any serious surfboard/boggieboard/wakeboard fun. So let's sing my latest song:"when in doubt parse it out, there's no need to hover when you can find cover... from friends. Large vehicle drivin friends. VehicularVengence has no place in this sacred summer space, seek out large vehicles acquaintance or summer school parent . Carpool to Chartwell. Carpool to Chartwell. Foe is friend as well as neighbor and let us remember that five kids can't be crammed into a convertible mini, even when utilizing the trunk space as a time out place." It's time to go! Heve Ho, let's go..oh good I don't drive today-hooray! It's Carpool Carma Carpool Carmaaaaa. "


My new summer survival sonnet is sung in B-flat and best chased by a beachside beer (best enjoyed on those non-driving days.)
I need to work on that last verse, or turn that into the chorus. Bob Dylan could twist it for me, but why bother him...he's hopefully enjoying his summer. Do the same won't you?

Dante's Inferno: My idea of a Playdate

The simple act of writing a simple letter of apology to a dear friend has turned into the drama-rama of my year
(or at least right up there with that other bone-head thing I keep f'ing up, but I digress.)

A couple of summers ago I had a very drunk, very irish, very- wait I am repeating myself here... I spit out some nasty-ass words in a very venomous way (man can I spew) to a friend(s) who meant the world too me.

Fast forward to two Full years later, and I have yet to make a proper Mea Culpa. Until five fabulous min ago.

Hooray for procrastination. Hooray for Guilt, and Therapy, and a glass of Vino Verde.   A hugely hopeful moon this evening that is blindingly beautiful over the Pacific Ocean at this very moment.

So I suppose the best gift (If she accepts the apology letter that I've just licked the stamp for to that far flung zipcode in the east.)

Please note:  a mental cost-investment breakdown. Thanks for letting me share.

THERAPY $  10,920.00
one year of weekly sessions - (not including the double sessions when I was super loquacious) Working towards the goal of mending an important relationship with a girl friend.    I.E. writing letter stating the above mentioned drama-rama.

WINE/LIQUOR  $ 1000.00
This amount is small...yes. yes. I know..You're thinking liar liar pants on fire- but wait.  I gave up drinking as a "sport" in December 09/Jan..2010. I personally liked myself better as the witty, dancing drunk, with her lovely red locks in the lou...but alas that is for another pissy post so stay tuned as I envision a post paired with PMS and a fine zinfandel.

Kleenex $ 100.00
Cry baby tendencies aside, I still buy the good stuff, that leaves a soothing yet healing trace of aloe on my sniffling boo-hooing wet-nosed moments of the past. ( A quick sneak to pander to friends and kind strangers- you know who you are, patient and detail seeking subway token taker in the Toronto subway who listened and said just write it girll.. Accolades to my home team Olympic medal winners in the pitty-party Olympics. A stellar list of mental giants with P.H.d's in un-fucking up things that are fucked beyond belief, this includes my tolerant hairstylist, Robo, Colleen, and Rob.)  Gold baby... Pure Gold.

Writing the Mea Culpa letter $ PRICELESS.
Mea Culpa letter scrawled in my chicken scratch to the very fabu-lous Hillary Steinau (upon the very paper stock that I scold my kids for using) is simply priceless.



H
Fang Island Baby, August.  I propose a summit meeting of epic proportions and maybe a little arm wrestling ( 'cause you can and will kick my ass.) that's what I love about those Mainers.

Food Porn

What's not to like about this evening's dinner entree of reduced fat Ruffles potato chips and a bar of Scharffenberger dark chocolate? C'mon people, work with me here, unconventional works for dinner. Works very well indeed. Wash down dinner with a glass of French rose (because California Pinot based Rose' is just too damn sweet to wash down a nice potato chip of reduced fat and salt. )

The great part of being adult like is the ability to reason with ones' self that the reduced fat of the salty will underscore the antioxidants of the Scharffenberger.  To reduce dinner to such a mundane route requires a complete lack of planning. For a foodie, this lack of planning is really like rehab. Breaking the well planned route i.e. contemplating what might be a dinner option typically takes place after I have my coffee in the morning.  Lunch is typically a non sequitur, although pleasant surprises do indeed take place during mid day. Just not lately.

Friends just returned from a trip to Korea. In true foodie travel fashion, the mpeg video snippets are all of food. Travel should almost always be about the food experiences and the photo ops (typically of food, farmers markets or an edible delight.) These friends also jetted in for a visit to Shanghai once(pic @left) and although I thought the visit was to spend time with me, it was really about finding the best bowl of noodles (which we did indeed find as they were being made.) Jetting to exotic locals to "see" friends took on a very different meaning. Code for, you better get a handle on what's to eat in the 'hood because it's a real drag to disappoint a jet lagged lover of food.

A sort of food porn really, because the tease begins with the markets, prep and plating moving on to that final climax we all seek: enjoying the long sought after meal. My only question of course: where was the HD feature when one really needs it.
On the flip side, others may only experience a meal as a move along.
Glad I don't dine on that side of the table.

Time To Wean The 'Tween

The lay of the land has shifted when it comes to learning about the birds and bees. Gone are the days of stealing away to the garage with your dad's dog eared issues of Playboy. The G rated National Geographic always a giggle inducing page turner for the 4th grade and under crowd has been long over shadowed by the Internet.

When it comes to parental controls Apple has done a fine job, Thank-You Steve Jobs. Even the itouch gives you the ability to play stalag 13 quite literally as a parent. Initially I was against the lock-down And while I waved my ACLU card my tween aged consumers consumed media as if the itunes store were a colossal brain candy store.  I felt bad limiting my childrens' web exposure to pedestrian sites, knowing full well that curiosity can strike and the magic wand in reality is google.

Yesterday my rose colored glasses were smashed by a pair of size 5 Vans' as the reality took shape, it was just as I had been warned. Guess it takes one to know one, but when my uber IT muffin lectured the evils of unlimited bandwidth I could not would not listen. The beauty of the FireFox history is a savant like memory for key words. I was reading an Ipad history cache that reminded me of a Penthouse Forum column or a shopping list for a pervert (or in my case, a ten year old boy.)

Boobs, Pussy, Sex, Fuck, Fucking and the list goes on in that narrow vein of genre. As one can only imagine thousands of pages came back. Maybe this is where the idea of Santa and Magic cross over to reward the resourceful elementary school aged. Yes Virginia there Is a Santa and he likes to be spanked by a red-head sporting thigh high boots.

My parental tumble into the sexual abyss came long before I expected. I figured I had a few more years to parse the inevitable.. The stumble comes with the ipad. No flash ability means no club penguin, but no parental controls means that club penguin is no longer the fave stay for the after school elementary crowd. Think boobs.  Really big boobs.

Innocence is fleeting or in our case it's flown the coop, along with unlimited bandwidth.

Ride The Bling

Depending upon where one is in the Bay Area, one thing is certain bicycle enthusiasts are a different breed-At least in zip codes south of San Francisco, and north of Santa Cruz.  A recent bike dodge on Sandhill road would have left a brightly colored smudge upon my hood. It made me think about the recent trend of expensive bike enthusiasts peddling while angry, or with an anti-auto agenda.

 Don't peddle angry is the thought that typically radiates from my brain. An encounter from one's comfy car makes these colorful angst ridden riders offer up a game of vehicular chicken. Rhetorically one's brain says: enjoy the ride, in reality it's seems to be a reason to rumble with whatever crosses paths with these spandex wrappers of corporate logos.

Gotta admit that nothing can showcase the package like spandex bike shorts.

The detached aura of spandex clad bikers made me think about what riding a bike means to different people. Menlo park and Shallow Alto rider's seem to covet the expensive bike as bling where as Santa Cruz cycling seems nirvana like for true bike riding enthusiasts where cars share the road respectfully. Bikes are less of a wealth statement and more of transportation. In a place where funky is a statement, it's tough to even make it on to the radar screen with so much fantabulous funkyness.

This weekend IS different as those spandex packages make their way over the rivers, through the big basin woods and into sleepy Santa Cruz. Even that one ball wonder (you know the live strong one of yellow spandex fame) will grace our sun burnished beaches as locals glimpse the greatness of  sherbet colored swirls of testosterone  and platform toe shoes.

Ooh la la- bike seat envy from the cheap seats.