Fort Allen Park, Portland

Pine needles carpeting a ceiling made of three pine trees, their old homes that dropped them – set them free. Displaced drifters laying and looking longingly upward at their home. The salt in the wind is displaced - it used to be in the water. I breathe in the smell of sun, pine, dirt and sea. The rocks on the beach are displaced – they used to be part of a formation deep within the sea or high up on a mountain. A displaced seagull walks upon these rocks, not because he’s away from home, but because he’s home. And you can feel that way there too.

The smell of shit surprises me, makes me wonder if there is a port-a-potty nearby or if a displaced person without a home has used the park as their uninviting toilet. The seaweed sunbathing at the edge of the waves found a new home here at low tide, and is ready to be swept away, displaced but not forgotten, when the tide comes back to carry it away. This is where I feel most calm. Alone in a park, alone with the wind and the water and my wandering, haphazard thoughts. Each person in the park - a woman on a mat doing yoga with the bobbing boats as audience, a man jogging, an old couple making out, (yes, making out), and a young boy walking his enormous mastiff – each of them with thoughts whirling around their heads, each of them happy it’s Friday.

I count 54 boats tied to buoys, 54 boats with bright masts and lolling sterns, resting after long rides, or anticipating their next trip. A man in a Red Sox t-shirt rows towards land on his paint-chipped dinghy. The paddles dip and slide, dip, and slide across the waves, through the moving dark blue water. He paddles left a little and I see an old man in front of him, bending over the side of the boat to see what is below, how far down they’d be if they jumped in, his father probably. A musty, thick cloth lines the top of their small boat. Dad pulls out fishing gear while his son pulls in the boat, his hat backwards, his shoes topsiders. Dad takes his hat off and wipes his brow. He replaces his hat and takes a moment to consider the water. He’s happy to have spent the day with his son, happy that his son has told him that he’s going to propose to Amanda. Happy the sun is up, and his back’s not bothering him. His son backs up to latch the boat onto the hitch. Their shoes slide along the seaweed, but they’ve done this before. Back before the son went away, back before everything was moved around, displaced, changed. They drive away without a look back, leaving nothing but the waves to move forward and back, forward and back, glinting in the sun.

New York Loves Japan (Montreal)

We found Bob & Mariko's Bed & Breakfast the easy way. Google gave them to us without a blink. We had tried Priceline and Airbnb but found our wallets to thin and our expectations too high for both. Two hours before we planned to arrive, I found the website and the reviews were perfect, so Weston called. Bob's booming Bronx voice caught him off-guard, his tone seemed annoyed and crotchety.

"We have a room in the basement with a big bed but no windows." Weston whispered that to me and then told Bob he'd call back. We wouldn't be spending too much time in the room anyway, but his voice was extremely rude and so we called around some more with no luck. Bob & Mariko's it was. We grabbed a Dr. Pepper, tossed our bags in the car, and drove northwest into the setting sun. Literally. At one point Weston was wearing 3 pairs of sunglasses. Two hours later, we rolled up to the shady Park Slope-esque Rue Laval, and I saw a 70-year-old old man in a plaid shirt and a fedora sitting on the steps chatting with neighbors. Bob.

His voice was jarring at first, but he immediately morphed into a grandfather figure to me, his words slow and soothing, explaining that we should park on the other side of the road, that we're in the heart of dinner time, that they'll get you if you don't. His words all blended slowly together as he unlocked the bottom apartment door, asking if we got here alright, if the traffic was bad, and here's the corner where everyone looks at their computers, and breakfast is served between 9 and 10:15 and we have plenty of space and you have to stand on the bed to turn on the air conditioner and Mariko or myself will help get you all organized in the morning. He says he's like a Jewish grandmother (he sure sounded like one), he likes people, been doing this for 30 years. "Get yourselves a nice bottle of wine around the corner," he said, "they let you bring it into restaurants because of the province's ridiculous taxes on alcohol." He didn't dote or linger, just gave us the keys and told us to go have fun. After browsing the bookshelves in a corner nook of the basement, I was convinced that Bob and Mariko were lovers of the same sex, but you should never judge a book by his bookshelves, apparently.

The next morning, the creek and groan of the floorboards above our heads told us that it was time to make our way upstairs for breakfast. We were greeted at the top of the stairs by a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Mariko, a short, thin, John Lennon-bespectacled Japanese woman, which explained the bamboo and sumo theme in our guest room. I was way off. We were way off from the get go. Bob was hovering at the end of the breakfast table, a bit of jam dangling from his shaggy moustasche, getting everyone organized for the day - and invited us up to their apartment on the third floor to sign a few papers. After croissants, coffee, and a hard boiled egg, we climbed the winding stairs to Bob and Mariko's lair.

I was afraid it would smell like old people. I was afraid they would be smokers, or hoarders. But yet again I was wrong about Bob and Mariko. Their hardwood floors were clean and shined, their furniture sparse and practical. Bob had a typewriter balancing precariously on a pile of pillows in the bay window seat, along with the 1980's black and white television on mute. Their cat, Schwartz, slept quietly in a red sleigh on the floor. We sat on the couch and Bob told Weston where the market is, and what part of Mount Royal park there would be a drum concert. "There are a lot of alternative people there, you could go there to get a good contact high." His thick New York accent still didn't make sense to me in this posh French Canadian neighborhood, so we asked him how he got here. "I came on vacation 30 years ago and never left." I couldn't help but glance over at Mariko, smiling in the chair in the corner, pretending to read.

It goes without saying that if we had stayed anywhere else our experience in beautiful and strange Montreal would have been vastly different. We still would have tried on leather coats and cowboy boots at the vintage store down Rue St. Laurent, we would have bicycled too far past the old Olympic Stadium, and gotten caught int he rain on our way home. We would have still stumbled upon oddities like people in a vacant lot carving stones and people in wheelchairs watching children play in the park and drunk men stumbling into and out of fountains in the moonlight. But Bob and Mariko made the trip unexpectedly and extremely comfortable.

Musings (for Nick and Liz Metcalf)

If we zoom in close, right up close, we see two pairs of hands. Holding tight to one
another, tight to the life they’ve lived together, the work they’ve done to get here, the
prospects they have for one another. These hands have found each other, felt each
other’s skin, soft and rough, tan and pale, prepared for rings that will wrap around their
fingers.

Now zoom out and see the hands of the audience, clasping to one another or to
themselves, hands who know the work that love takes, the way it feels under our finger
tips. Hands ready for a rousing applause.

Now zoom in, and see two sets of eyes. Both blue, both deep and full of life. These eyes
locked many years ago, and were unable to resist one another’s gaze to this day. They’ve
seen all of the other’s beauty and generosity, as well as flaws and shortcomings. They’ve
watched each other grow.

If we zoom out, we see all of the eyes of their friends and families, watching a white
dress next to a grey suit, some of them wet with tears, all of them filled with happiness
and hope.

Now zoom in again, where we see two mouths, smiling at one another. Two mouths that
have shared the stories of their pasts and the anticipation of their futures, open wide and
laughing most of the time. Two mouths who have kissed, probably once or twice before
… and will kiss with promise and sanctity today in front of all of us.

Zoom out to over a hundred mouths, smiling and laughing along with them, quivering a
bit if crying, but happy and spread wide like the sky.

Now zoom back in, wayyyy in, to see beneath these fancy clothes and these layers of skin
and bone and muscle, two hearts. They are in sync now, bursting with excitement, ready
to spend the rest of their days in a happy, thumping dance, together.

Notice to Visitors : Henry Miller (Big Sur)

The undersigned wishes to inform all and sundry that he has long since left the Abode of Peace, that he no longer has any comfort or inspiration to offer, and that even the migratory birds avoid this spot. Prayers are offered up daily - without charge. The garden has been transformed into an open air Vespasienne. Look toward Nepenthe when you water the flowers. If you are seeking Truth travel a little farther south : you will find it at Ojai Chez Krishnamurti. Be kind to the children - they abide. For a metaphysical treat stop at the Big Sur Inn which is also a haven for stray cats and dogs. Life along the South Coast is just a bed of roses, with a few thorns and nettles interspersed. The life class meets every Monday regardless. Refreshments are served when demanded. Those interested in celestial navigation are advised to first obtain a rudimentary knowledge of integral calculus, phlebotomy, astral physics and related subjects. The use of liquor is strictly forbidden on interplanetary flights. When you come please be so kind as to check your neuroses and psychoses at the gate. Gossip may be exchanged during the wee hours of the morning when the gremlins have left. Please bear in mind that this is a small community and news travels fast. (Carrier pigeons are provided when necessary.) Fans and other obnoxious pests would do well to maintain silence. Questions relating to work-in-progress will be answered in stereotype fashion in the columns of the Big Sur Guide at the usual space rates. God is Love - and in the ultimate Love will prevail. Remember, man is the ruler, not Saturn! Let us do our best, even it if gets us nowhere. In the midst of darkness there is light. “I am the light of the world,” said Jesus. He said a mouthful. Light, more light!

Respectfully,

Henry Miller

Gabriel

An hour and a half train ride brought me to the rickety streets of Astoria each Monday and Friday for the last 6 months. Astoria is a neighborhood in Queens so jam-packed with different ethnicities that you can walk 8 blocks and hear 8 languages and eat 8 meals that all include a flat piece of bread but each are from different corners of the earth.

Lauren introduced me to Joanna about a year ago at a birthday party. Joanna came here 6 years ago from Buenos Aires, Argentina, to start a life for herself and her family. She came first, and became a speech pathologist at a charter school not far from where she lived. (This is where she met Lauren). Her father came at the same time, and got a job as well. Joanna is gorgeous, hard working, and loves her family more than life itself. Her mother and 13-year-old brother, Gabriel, stayed in Buenos Aires until a year ago, when she and her father had finally made enough money (and the proper paperwork) to bring the remaining two members of their family to America.

My charge was to tutor Gabriel on his homework and most importantly in preparation for the State Tests, which would happen in June. Gabriel is extremely intelligent, and was always kind to me even though I could tell he never wanted to be studying. He would rather be playing basketball with his friends, texting with his many lady friends, or listening to Lady Gaga. He is extremely good at math, and we talked about how the reason why is because it's a universal language. I remember loving teaching math to my kids in Thailand - they understood every word I said during those hours.

His mother is a beautiful, friendly Argentinean woman who smiles as she gives me a kiss on the cheek as I enter their cozy apartment, saying "how are you?" with a thick accent. She speaks only Spanish other than that, brings me coffee and always asks if I want sugar even though I never do. Pound cakes follow, or apple bread or strawberry short cake or one time even an enormous plate of home made pasta. When they all found out that I speak Spanish they got really excited, talked about it to one another for a while as I listened, understanding what they said. I think their excitement possibly shielded an underlying difficulty with the fact that they could not speak to one another so bluntly in Spanish while I was around.

Each Monday and Friday afternoon, Gabriel and I would sit at their dining room table, overlooked by an enormous painting of Jesus, working through math problems or typing out a book report. The back door was always open, what ever weather the day brought would join us at the table - bright sunlight, misty rain. I love doing Social Studies homework with him. We did questions on a chapter about the "Roaring 20's," and it was so interesting to explain to him who Babe Ruth was, and Hemingway, and what a flapper is. I take for granted all of the things I learned growing up just because I was an American. He confessed once that he loved when I came because I motivated him to finish things, that he wouldn't get them done as quickly if I wasn't there.

I said goodbye to Gabriel last week. He's finished with this year and will spend the summer with his mom in Argentina. What a life he has already lived. A childhood in Argentina. And an adulthood in New York City.

That Will Be $29.50

When I was young one of my dream jobs was to be a grocery store cashier. I'd stand in line at the Piggly Wiggly and watch as the gum-snapping 17 year old would "beep" each of our carefully chosen items through the scanner. I loved when the produce came along, because she'd have to type a long number into her keyboard, her purple eye shadow glinting in the fluorescent lights.

Yogurt - beep. Milk - beep. Apples - type type type. Honey Nut Cheerios - beep. Oranges - type type type. Cheddar - beep. Beer - beep. Carrots - type type type. Lunch meat - beep.

"That will be $29.50." I loved this part. My mom would hand her the cash, and she'd slide open the magical money drawer, perfectly organized with piles of green bills and compartments of coins. She'd flip up the little arm that held the bills down, add my mom's cash, and then slide out the change without even blinking, or realizing how cool her job was. I had a little experience with this part because I had played Monopoly with my brother a few times, and he let me be the banker. But this was the real deal! She had her own drawer!

"Would you like paper or plastic?" she'd say. I'd look up at my mom, who would always say "paper, please" but I didn't understand why until years later.

Now I go to the grocery store and watch the sad, bored girls slide my purchases across the scanner without looking me in the eye, fighting with their boyfriends via text underneath the counter, typing the wrong produce code into their computers, putting everything into plastic bags without asking. I still have the dream to be one of them someday, but for different reasons. I want to know what people are buying, how they are feeding their families, how much money they are spending on cheese, what the percentage of people who are bringing canvas bags is. I guess in some ways dreams never die.

Today is Paradise - Constant and Conquerable

She wore lace on her dress and in her hair, his smile was wide and their vows were proud. To stand next to a friend as she marries the one she loves is the highest honor, and to speak to them on a breezy June afternoon in the presence of loved ones is even higher. With a friend like Carrie, there are secrets hidden deep within our red right ankles and down under the quiet pillows of our friendship, and there are elaborate stories that only our imaginations can understand, so all I could say was this:

One way of knowing love is to furtively act with courage. To swim in all of it whenever something somewhere whispers it. And in those moments, vivid, beautiful hallucinations of strength and hope live for a moment in you. Heart and hands, sweat and dust. The songs, the processions, the banners. We shall explode in enormous love. We think of happy yesterday, we survive on it. Party if joyless, make love in the dim lamplight. Kissing life - thinking bigger, healthier, stronger, happier. Today is unchangeable and your heart is working, so roar and bleed and hope and drink gin like in the old days. Oh zigzagging, oh revolution, oh tiny sea. It feels like a kind of dance, it is oranges and lemons and not fright or pain – but peace – freedom – strength. The heart bangs – I.LOVE.YOU. It remembers everything, it smiles. Love is love – powerful and troubling. Love is virtuosity and singing, breathing fast, kneeling face-to-face, pleasant helplessness and communication. Zealous love, kaleidoscope love. Love love love love love love love – magenta, sun blazed ripe heart – pleasant tomorrow tenderness. Love – sweet summer air, happy melancholy – lips, cheeks, nose, eyes, cavernous mouth, naked calves and ankles, hands – a man and a woman and a spontaneous tomorrow. Alive with love. The most necessary and overwhelming task is to settle into bliss, to understand bodies and to progress as a united being. The world is explosive and arbitrary. It’s marvelous. Today is paradise – constant and conquerable. Party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party party. Relaxation and enthusiasm. Continuous possession of absolute truth. Concessions to and fro of fear and hatred. The love, the craving, the porcelain cheekbones, the poetry, the pain. The furious stream of blood and saliva, the humming and the laughing – elbows and eyelids – ears and weeping and confessions and sleep and silent breath. All of us sweat and pulse. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes, we exist, we grasp happiness, we realize the universes inside of love. You are beginning, I can see, to realize what that world will be like. Life will zip forward and snap you suddenly into character and after that it is all improvisation. The one certain thing is that love is without thought – it is a deep ocean, violent and calm. An extraordinary medley of you and you, of life, death, and of triumphant victory.

Two Songs for a Friday

The Park // Feist

Because sometimes we all need a reminder to slow down, a space where we can be quiet, a park to step across with green grass beneath us. Because we all question our reality and we all know deep down that what ever it is, no matter how crazy and inconceivable, it's ours.

Once and For All // The Bellville Outfit

This one goes out to everyone who has someone not close enough that you can reach out and squeeze them, but close enough that you won't let go. Over telephone wires and internet connections and texts and thoughts and dreams, we nail our hearts to the wall and hope for the best. It reminds me of a Decemberists' song called Yankee Bayonett, in which the last verse says it all.

A Quiet Church in Manhattan

We were fifteen minutes late to Tim's funeral. I had gotten there as quickly as possible. Elsa wanted an Icee after school, Julien didn't want to wear a button up shirt, and Anouk's hair needed braiding. We sprinted from classroom to schoolyard over sidewalks to bedroom wardrobes into the subway under the river and up into Chelsea. I had never been to a church service in Manhattan. Neither had the kids. We talked about staying quiet and calm during the service.

"Why?" they asked.

"Because there are going to be a lot of people there who are sad, and taking this time to remember your mommy and daddy's friend Tim."

"Why?" they asked.

"Because he passed away, and they are thinking about him and want to share stories about him and use this time together to do that."

There is a surrealness to entering a quiet, dark, spired building in the middle of a bright and boisterous New York City afternoon. Once you walk in the doors, the honking horns and the rushing crowds and the pretzel vendors and the graffiti walls immediately fade away behind you. We were fifteen minutes late, and Jamie, Emmanuelle and Landon were in the fifth row. I carried Elsa and held Julien's hand, and Anouk pursed her mouth shut and we walked quickly up towards the front of the church.

Their parents smiled at them as they sat down, their eyes wet but their confidence drawn. Never have I met two more intelligent, strong, or noble people than these two. Never would I have imagined becoming part of such a unique family when I moved to Brooklyn. Never will they be able to be replaced.

Journalists and friends of Tim spoke at the podium to the jam-packed, humid church. Sebastian Junger talked about how he was always the word guy and Tim was always the picture guy. They spoke about how Tim lived and how he died. They spoke mostly about war, about how Tim took every detail of it and found ways to show it to the world. They spoke about how the last decade, ever since 9/11, had been incredibly violent and devastating for journalists. Soldiers spoke of their relationships with him, how he became a brother to anyone he met, instantly. His girlfriend spoke about how Tim had taught her not only how to live, but how to love - fully and openly and without hesitation. His sister spoke with an elegant British accent about Christmas' in the past with her brother, how he always had a joke to tell and how friendly he was with everyone he met. She also mentioned the children sitting on either side of me and on my lap, how Tim adored them. Their eyes widened at the mention of their name. They were so quiet and wonderful throughout the entire service.

The more people spoke about him, the more it sank in how incredible this person really was. It felt strange being at the memorial service of someone I had never met. Through Emmanuelle and Jamie's stories I had put pieces together about him, but this solidified the man. As we stood in the church yard afterwards, Julien and Elsa chased a squirrel and Anouk held my hand. They hugged many friends, introduced me to their people, whose names I will forget but whose faces have left a mark... tearful and worn, but hopeful. These people have influence on the media, positive influence. And Tim's death will inspire them to continue on, to live with passion, and to love fully. How tragically beautiful it was to be there with them.

Two Songs for a Friday

All My Days // Alexi Murdoch

This song reminds me of a number of scattered chapters of my life. Days when I had nothing to worry about except what to wear to the Union for a concert, or whether I was going to be late to work to blend smoothies, or whether love would last. Every time I listen to Alexi, I am reminded that each chapter, each day has influence on the next, and that I should go about them calmly, one step at a time.

Calgary // Bon Iver

The first single to be released on YouTube from Bon Iver's new eponymous album, set to release in June. It's what we've all been waiting for since For Emma, Forever Ago. This time, he has climbed out of his cabin in the Northern Woods of Wisconsin, and bucked up a bit. This time, there are more smiles than tears heard in the lyrics. One of the comments under this video says "Porn, for the blind." I couldn't agree more. Get excited. Get very excited.

Showering Off the Fjords

After day 4 of our fjord hike through the northwestern curve of Norway, I finally took a hot shower. Never had I felt so relieved, so grateful for the invention of water falling slowly down our backs in cleansing. The water came from a spout on a hose in the basement of a red barn that sat on top of a hill overlooking a dark green forest that ran along the base of a towering black mountain dusted with snow. We had walked to that barn, up that hill, through that forest and over that mountain. Before the mountain was a lake, clear as glass, and on that lake was the cabin we had stayed at last night. This was the way of it. This was what we had done. We'd wake up each morning and eat bland oatmeal decorated in raisins, crystallized pineapple, nuts, granola, and cinnamon, and dark coffee. We'd stretch our legs and backs and pack our packs full to the brim with our food and clothes and hats and books and we'd set out onto the trail to walk our day away to the next place we would sleep.

I thought about these days, these trails, these hikes, the bright green moss and the trickling rivers, the crisp skies and the snow as I washed the four days off my skin. I thought of the way the sun had slanted its never-setting rays on the four of us - Seb first usually, then Robbi, then myself and then Weston. The order of our Lord of the Rings-style walking established itself a few days in, after we encountered our first snake. That way, Seb could spot them, Rob and I could scream bloody murder and run off the trail and then Weston could get excited and take a picture. We wound ourselves around copses of black alder and beech trees, enormous rock faces, enormous blue fingers of the fjord, and our conversation wound around through the delicious Norwegian air as well. I laughed in the shower as I realized how many topics you can cover when there are four intelligent, like-minded people spending minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day together, discussing - literally - everything. From the farms and people that Robbi and Seb have worked with this past year to each member of each of our families in detail to global warming to South Park to the Rally to Restore Sanity to Maine accents to Wisconsin Accents to Northern Norwegian accents...

I thought about our ability to withhold a conversation for four days straight, about the ease of the transitions, the lengthiness and the breathiness and the silences in between. I thought about each of our thoughts during the pauses - four individual bubbles above four heads, following the landscape, loving the beauty, contemplating what's next on the trail and what's next in our lives, remembering the trails that brought us here.

My Landscaper

It is still so new & all we see is the possibility of empty space, but that is not how it is in the landscape of the heart. There, there is no empty space & he still laughs & grapples with ideas & plans & nods wisely with each of us in turn. We are proud to know him. We are proud to call him dad.

*Compliments of Story People

Two Songs for a Friday

Carousel // Iron & Wine

This one goes out to Robbi Strandemo and Sebastian Corby, two Nordic-skiing, strawberry-farming, wood-chopping, utter-milking fjord-walkers who are returning to the United States of America tomorrow, after a year in Norway. Because, while going away is the most incredible thing to do with oneself, coming home trumps all. Cheers to skiing, farming, chopping and milking - and cheers to flying across the Atlantic Ocean, chasing the sun.

Teach Your Children // CSNY

For my daddio, who turned 60 today. He always says he's "approaching middle age." So true, so true. Thank you dad for teaching me so well. I love you.

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!

*An adaptation of the Footnote to HOWL by Allen Ginsberg*

The fjord is holy! The sky is holy! The feet are holy! The air is holy! The Kemps and rain and snow and whiskey holy!

Everything is holy! We are all four holy! The map is holy! Every day was an eternity! We were all angels!

The snake's as holy as the muckox!

The bearded smoking man is holy as we our souls are holy!

The backpack is holy the sleeping bag holy the voice is holy the conversations holy the podcast is holy!

Holy Weston Holy Sebastian Holy Robbi Holy Lisa Holy busdriver holy high schoolers holy the unknown souls written in logbooks and suffering animals beneath our feet holy the wizards and witches we spoke of!

Holy my father in the hospital! Holy the wombs of the women who bore us!

Holy the loud yodeling! Holy the trompings of ear-popping silence! Holy the like-minded air breathing hikers energy & muscle & thumbs!

Holy the solitudes of mountain tops and sea shores and white snow! Holy the cabins filled with comforts! Holy the raging rivers of clear cold water under moss!

Holy the lone thought! Holy the broad basis of friendship! Holy the ice cold bathings and pot bellied fires! Who walks Norway IS Norway!

Holy Oslo Holy Oppdal Holy Kristiansund & Aure Holy Tronheim Holy Eidsvoll Holy Boston Holy Milwaukee!

Holy shoes in motion holy motion in shoes the bringers of place the places they bring us north in love north in love north!

Holy the trees holy the swamps holy the blessed red screaming "T"'s holy the hard dreaming holy the never setting sun holy the toilet!

Holy laughter! Adventure! Innocence! Growth! Holy! Ours! Bodies! Suffering! Hot dogs!

Holy the neverending extra breathtaking mysterious wonder of the fjord!

Two Songs for a Friday

Hips Don't Lie // Shakira featuring Wyclef Jean

Trumpets are an enormous part of the Latin American music scene, as are the beats that follow throughout this song. Every time we heard the first trumpet diddy that is played in this song on the radio on the crazy Panamanian buses and in the pick-up trucks we rode in the back of and out on the hot, sweaty streets, we thought it was this song... but realized that it's just how ALL songs start there. These beats resonated through Lauren, Riki and I as our hips told the absolute truth throughout the Isthmus.

What's Love Got to Do With It // Tina Turner

We realized that in pretty much all ways, but especially music, Panama is just a little bit behind the times. Songs from the 80's and 90's blasted from small radios held by town locos and scratchy cab speakers through the dark Panama City nights. This one in particular got us going pretty hard. Because I don't ever really go back this far, and because everybody's Friday needs a little TINA.

The Stupendous Tedium of Adventure

I remembered early on in our journey through the southernmost Central American country the stupendous tedium of adventure. The balance of dread and surprise, the fact that endurance merits comfort, that the hair stank of ugliness eventually becomes beautiful, vivid, dreamlike. Sometimes it's the other way around, sometimes it happens erratically, like the score of a well matched basketball game. Bliss - 10, Horror - 8, then suddenly Bliss - 10, Horror - 22, and you feel like the players, all of them at once, running back and forth across the court, downtrodden with exhaustion, sweaty from brow to ankle, keeping up.

You stand in front of a park near the city center, waiting for a local bus, and the town loco decides to harrass you with his rye-stinking breath, strange white paint on his chin and forehead, a small radio blasting in his hands, dancing suggestively at you with dozens of onlookers laughing, not helping - egging, not shooing. The moment you see his backside, pants nearly all the way down, white underware soiled with brown, you gag and your companions do too, so you decide to hail a cab instead. Any price, just to get you out of there. The cabbie in turn, ends up playing Tina Turner's "What's Love Got To Do With It" and you all screame it out the windows and at each other, despising one loco local and loving another, as he asks you in Spanish what the lyrics of the song mean.

You endure an 8 hour midnight bus ride from the capitol city to the beach, wearing sandals and shorts, a tanktop and a book. You pretzel yourself in a way that is warmest, as the air conditioner pours icy pockets of deathly friged air onto your bare skin, rendering the idea of a full night's sleep (or any sleep at all) impossible. But the bus ride from a freezing hell brings you to a boat, then, which takes you to a remote island in the Pacific, where equator-hot sunlight dances across your face through the leaves of the mangroves and the palms, and you sleep among howler monkeys, preying mantus' and a salty breeze in a hammock, swinging happy and free.

You spend the morning in a touristy island town dodging haggling boatmen, trying to give you the "best deal" to go to the "best beach," trying to bring them down a few bucks and being laughed at by open mouths and toothy grins. You get through it though, and somehow, for a dollar and fifty cents, you are taken to an island far away from the rest of the foreigners, and you find yourself bathing in a clear, coral surrounded pool of Caribbean water, eating the mangoes that you found on your forest walk to paradise. You lay back in the water and take in the absolute blue of the sky, the rustling perfect green of the trees, and the warm glassiness of your worldly tub. And life is good.

You stand in line at a bus terminal in the middle of the country among dozens of people with skin darker than yours and you are plucked out of the crowd, taken to the newest and fastest moving bus, you step on with an embarrassment of luck, that you get special priority because you are white, that you're treated differently because they want to ensure foreigners contentment and comfort. You realize that what this actually means is that you'll have a nice, squashy seat that reclines and lulls you into a dreamy catnap, until the first stop an hour later and then you'll be moved to a little narrow hallway in the front of the bus, accompanied by a family of five - your legs taking on yogic shapes and your feet falling asleep under you. You realize that you are a stowaway, you are extra money to them, paying cargo, cattle. But the bus will eventually take you to a city that has an airport that has airplanes with wings that will fly you quietly and comfortably Home, where you will peel this adventure off like a big backpack off an aching back, like sunburned skin from a shiny shoulder, only to get ready to do it all over again.

Two (Car) Songs for a Friday

YouTube is no longer allowing me to embed... so links will have to suffice from here on. They're cleaner and crisper anyway, so I'm okay with it.

*Note: The following two songs are best sung/listened to in a moving vehicle.

These Words // Natasha Bedingfield

Scene: It's a balmy, sun drenched mid-July afternoon in 2005. Two girls glide between corn fields and cow fields on a spur-of-the-moment road trip to a cabin on a lake in Marquette, Wisconsin. They met recently, blending smoothies and sharing secrets about sex and forming every sentence into a title by George Orwell. There were no hesitations from the get-go. There was instant sisterhood. On this road trip, these words lifted out of their lungs in truth, for each other, for a long long time, even forever.

Five years later, one of the girls asked the other to be her bridesmaid. Tomorrow, they will celebrate freedom, insanity, vanity and the true exquisiteness of the words I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU!

Hurricane // Bob Dylan

Scene: A foggy late night in April, 2011, just south of Burlington, Vermont. A boy. A girl. A song, a test. The lyrics burst out of them like their hearts had been for 3 months previous. Every word came out like Maine maple syrup, passionate and precise. She loved that he knew it, he loved the way she sang. They discussed the fact that they were in the midst of a genius, a legend, a prophet. It seemed only appropriate as they had driven through Paterson earlier that day, and even more appropriate seeing as they had been screeching their tires away from the pigs of law.

Mice and Pigs : A Children's Story

One day, a little mouse was about to leave to pick up her mouse sister and her sister's new mouse husband at the big airport uptown.
Her friend chicken said, "You should use my little van."
"Okay," said the little mouse. "Thank you!"
She propped her nose up on the steering wheel and stretched her little feet as far as they would go to push on the gas and slam on the brakes, as she wove and weaved through the Big City traffic.
"Great to see you sister mouse!" the little mouse's sister said.
"I like your hip clothes, and your neighborhood!" the little mouse's sister's new mouse husband said.
They went to take the little van back to the nice chicken. On the way there, the mouse's sister noticed that there was a pig driving behind them, with his red and blue lights flashing bright and shiny on the shiny spring windshields.
The pig walked up to the little mouse's window on two of his dirty hoofs and he tapped his two front hoofs on it. The little mouse nervously rolled down the window and gave the pig her driving card and a slip of paper with a bunch of numbers and official words on it.
The pig tap-tap-tap'd back to his car on his hoofs, and came back what seemed like hours later. The three mice had been shaking and shivering in a fever of fear while they waited. "You shouldn't have turned left at that stoplight, little mouse," the pig spat, dirt crusting from his nostrils and crust dirtying his eyelids.
"Okay," said the little mouse, crying. She took the yellow piece of paper that had a large amount of dollars that she owed on it. They drove away.

A week later, the little mouse invited her mouse boyfriend to come to the Big City to play in the grass with her and eat cheese with her. They played in the grass and ate cheese and smiled into the sun. Then he invited her to come up to his home six hours north of the Big City. She said yes, and she was excited to drive with him through the mountains and fields.
The little mouse's boyfriend drove for a while, and they listened to boys playing banjos and British men reading books about wizards. Then, they stopped for gasoline and bad sandwiches and the little mouse began to drive the car.
"You're good at this," said the little mouse's boyfriend, impressed.
"Thank you," the little mouse said, smiling.
They drove into the dark and passed many cars and stars and felt warm and happy.
All of a sudden, the little mouse noticed that there were familiar red and blue lights shining in her rear-view mirror. She yelled out, and her mouse boyfriend gulped loudly.
"Was I going too fast?" the little mouse asked him, and he held her hand.
Two hoofs came out of nowhere and a big snout snotted all over the little mouse's driver-side window. She rolled it down slowly, tears welling up in her little black mouse eyes.
"Do you have any idea how fast you were going little mouse?" the pig said, green drool dripping from his lips.
"Not that fast, I don't think," said the little mouse, giving him her driving card and a slip of paper with a bunch of numbers and official words on it.
When the pig clippity clapped away on his dirty hoofs, she turned to her mouse boyfriend with tears streaming down her fluffy cheeks. He tried to say nice words to her but she just cried. He kept holding her hand. She let him do that.
Soon the pig came back from his big ugly SUV and the little mouse took the yellow piece of paper that had a large amount of dollars that she owed on it.
"Not again," she sighed, sniffing the tears back into herself.
"I'll drive," said the little mouse's boyfriend.
And he did.

Yellow Pen Adventures

There's something about a good pen that just makes you want to write. My skinny-tipped yellow pen has been a part of my life, made me want to write, since my first days standing in front of 32 Thai cherubs. A gift from one of their parents, proud of their king, telling me that everything that is yellow in their country is good, right, strong. The yellow pen followed me, tucked into the spiral wires of my traveling notebooks, clutched between my fingers and drawing out my experiences in letters to Robbi, Pat, Lindsay. I packed it for Brazil, wondering if its ink would last another four months worth of scribbling madness and recounting green leaf afternoons. It did. And so, when I settled my stagnant ass in a seat that I'm sure at least three other bored, battered souls have sat in, farting and adjusting their underware, I placed this yellow pen in a black wire cup next to the other pens that Scholastic had ordered me from Office Max. The standard Bic's stand up straight and proud, waiting for this ink to fade, for me to pick them up so they can do their duty with black, solid dignity. But this yellow pen lived through all of it, kept spreading blue. After my ass left that chair for good, I brought the little yellow pen home, placed it on my dresser. It still helps me with my cluttered thoughts and long lists and plans. It still keeps telling the pages what I'm thinking.

Two Songs for a Friday

Vibrant Thing // Q-Tip

Friday mornings are for gangstas... especially when you spend them with two fly Sconnies like my sister Colleen and her husband Gianni. I picked them up from Laguardia last night, and as we drove down the BQE through Queens and then down into Bed-Stuy, I had a warm fuzzy family feeling. It felt quite vibrant. Like a vibrant thing.

Empire State of Mind // Jay-Z & Alicia Keys

I'm always given a new perspective on the city when people come to visit. I look at the buildings from a slightly different angle than I do when I'm alone. I go on boats, to look at them from water, I climb to the top of them to see others from above, I appreciate them from an outsider's vantage. This is the song that I played on Christmas Eve for Coco & G, giving it to them as a hint of what was to come. And as we wave "one hand in the air for the big city" today, we'll likely also be singing this.

Three (Old) Songs for a Friday

*Note: This Friday's set of songs go out to my pops, who had a pile of dusty tapes in his red truck when I was growing up. They were well worn, and smelled like plastic and dirt. The constancy and repetition of albums like America's Greatest Hits, Abbey Road, Deja Vu, and Sunshine Superman, while at the time made me loopy, directly influenced the way I listen to music, and the way I now recognize what I like and what I don't like. I can hear my dad singing these songs loudly and playing guitar on the steering wheel or piano on the dashboard, all the while telling me to shift into 4th gear for him.

Both of these songs have particular sentimental value to me, mostly because they were the songs on repeat during my youth. Whenever I hear them, I can almost smell the fresh summery smells of mulch, Old Spice, and dust jumping up from the dash.

Sunshine Superman // Donovan

Rocky Raccoon // The Beatles

A Horse With No Name // America

Nimble Air

When spring came, after the hard winter, one could not get enough of the nimble air. Every morning I wakened with a fresh consciousness that winter was over. There were none of the signs of spring for which I used to watch in Virginia, no budding woods or blooming gardens. There was only - spring itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it everywhere: in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in the warm, high wind - rising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive and playful like a big puppy that pawed you and then lay down to be petted. If I had been tossed down blindfolded on that red prairie, I should have known that it was spring.

- Willa Cather, My Antonia

I took a long bike ride through Prospect Park today, the sun beating down my throat as I looked up at it, mouth agape, and glinting off my handlebars. I felt the same wistfulness and emotional swell that Jim describes here. Spring makes us instantly alive, young, and agile.

Two Songs for a Friday

Your Hand in Mine // Explosions in the Sky

This song, and this band, are somehow more uplifting to me than any other. There is a peaceful intensity to the music that hits me in all of my positive emotional corners. It reminds me of how it feels when you're sitting in an airplane, seat belt fastened, tray tables in their upright and locked position, electronic devices off, and all of a sudden, you begin to rise.

When Your Mind's Made Up // Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglova

A powerful song from a movie overflowing with decisions and indecisions. A series of moments during which one choice or another changes the path of everything that will ever happen. It matters not whether these changes are positive or negative, it just matters that they happen. Faced with some decisions regarding location and life change, I am hoping that my mind is made up soon, and that path I follow will be full of long piano outros and unbroken vacuum cleaners.

WEST in FEBRUARY : Vegas and the Last Leg

It seems as though Hannah and I have been channeling Hemingway, Kerouac, and Hunter S. throughout the majority of this trip. It was good to have a peaceful lunch with Grandper and Li in La Quinta. A little walk through their new home, lunch at the country club, and a debriefing on my life. I tried to help them understand that my life is legitimate, that I'm going to be okay, that my choices are solid and measured. Grandpa loved talking to Hannah, she loved listening to Li, and I was happy to eat a dank club sandwich. We had tea and Li's world famous cookies back at the house and Grandpa and I talked about Weston, "how tall is he?!?" and I showed him a video of Jackson, "How does that get to your phone?!?" I have a lovely mental picture of him standing in his sunny driveway, waving.

Our trip to Vegas was uneventful, I drove well until we spoke on the bluetooth phone thingydoo and I had to exit and stalled on an uphill. If heard by any religious entity, I'm sure my swearing would have sent me straight to hell. We came in with low expectation and left feeling nauseated and sad for humanity. After a few slots and a few drinks at MGM Grand and a couple too many death stares from a woman in a club, we resorted to fried chicken and pizza with some Saturday Night Live on the side in our hotel room. The Mariott (found on Priceline - the best discovery of the entire trip!) did give us the most comfortable bed I'd slept in for the last 8 nights.

On our final leg we tried to play all the best music from our travels : Mumford & Sons, the XX, Florence + the Machine, The National... I won't be able to listen to much else for a while, and I'll always think of towering redwoods and a thrashing blue Pacific when I do.

Two Songs for a Friday

I Was Young When I Left Home // Antony + Bryce Dessner

Not only do I need to call out to this lovely mix of tunes that you should all know about and download legally, but I also must call out to the fact that this is by far the best Dylan cover of all time. As most songs do, I wrestle with introspection with this song... thinking of my own leave taking, thinking of my own youth when that occurred, and remembering how and why that happened. With my home so abrasively and abruptly in the news as of late, my thoughts are there more and more consistently. There is always a back and forth when thinking about home, whether or not to be there or to make a home out in the wind.

Escape // Rupert Holmes

This one goes out to my good friends, Lindsay and Brandt Foster, who are drinking Pina Coladas in the warm Florida rain. We all like making love at midnight and planning our escapes, and the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne... so I hope they enjoy it for all of us. A beautiful couple in a beautiful place...

WEST in FEBRUARY : Los Angeles

Big Sur was extremely difficult to leave - its a quiet slice of heaven in the form of an Irish-looking coast. I drove the first length down to LA - smiling at my improvement with the stick - I made it through a number of winding constructions zones along the side of the mountains, almost falling into the sea. I even parked and reversed. Then I had a panic attack in San Luis Orozco and Hannah took over. Tyler was welcoming and happy as always, his apartment full of Wisconsin, beer, and cow paraphernalia. Weronika, who hadn't met him yet, took to him nicely. Though, as it seems, she does with everyone. I like that about her. We ate sushi and I tried to stay awake and social - which proved difficult with a girl named Grace who I sat across the table with. She had absolutely nothing to say and even less emotion to go with it. I hit my point in the trip that night, when I knew that some serious Lisa time was in order.

Woke up the next morning and ran through Tyler's manicured, green, and flat neighborhood and picked up some apples at a gas station. We had brunch at a 50's diner and talked about the situation in Wisconsin and in Libya because dad called with much to say about how our "MyFace" generation can help. The 826 Time Travel Mart was impressive and wonderful - the people were extremely friendly, and even let me go to the bathroom. I love this club I'm in... Then to the famous Amoeba Music just down the street to where the red carpet was being rolled out, the flashbulbs shined, and the whitestrips were being applied to teeth.

Sub City

A beautiful video that almost made me cry...

Sub City New York from sarah klein on Vimeo.

WEST in FEBRUARY : Big Sur

The drive down to Big Sur was one of the more beautiful drives I've ever experienced. Once we hit the ocean I couldn't keep my face off the window. We stopped at a California State Beach, touched the water with our toes, and did cartwheels in the sand. Hannah's been driving because neither Weronika or I are very skilled at the ol' manual driving game. A sunset and some giggly texts and calls to our respective vicarious followers brought us to the edge of paradise, with greens and blues that could kill. Our exclamations ricocheted between the closed windows so much that we had to open them, to let them out into the sea air. "Where is the road? Where is the sky?!?" Hannah yelled over the music at one point. We were turned away from two different establishments, most likely for our ramshackle appearances, but finally found room at an inn called Pinewood. A hike up to Buzzard's Roost left us breathless and happy. Redwoods, vast Pacificness, reciting "HOWL" at the top of our lungs, and naps in the sun.

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies!

gone down the American river!

Dreams! adorations! illumnations! religions!

the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifictions!

gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs!

Ten years' animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation!

down on the rocks of Time!

-A. Ginsberg

Our second night in Big Sur brought embarrassed cheeks and barefoot walks across parking lots. We followed a guy who seemed to know the town well, to a ramshackle bar with musicians and a Foosball table. A metal, pierced guy was playing guitar so I joined him - he tried to teach me bar chords and I retreated to playing Wagon Wheel while the girls sang along.

Two Songs for a Friday

You've Got the Love // Florence + the Machine

This one goes out to Hannah, who drove 3,000 + miles through snow and sand, over mountain and bridge with me, with all futures, pasts, and inhibitions thrown to the wind. We realized after the first few minutes that sometimes you just have to throw your hands up in the air, dance while you're sitting in a car, thrashing your hair with the music.

Transatlanticism // Death Cab for Cutie

Death Cab's debut on the Friday songlist! We sing this song across oceans and state borders and mountain ranges and phone lines. If you need someone so much closer, then I suggest ... come on!

WEST in FEBRUARY : San Francisco

The ladies we'll be staying with in Palo Alto are super nice, all doctors, all cute and trendy. Meghan is an artist at heart, it shows on the pieces that flood her walls. Casey lives in Anchorage, Alaska, and it took her a whole day of zig-zaggy travel to get here. Weronika, who practices in Memphis, walked up to me and hugged me as though we were already best friends, and it seemed to happen even quicker than that. She would be joining Hannah and I from here to Big Sur and Los Angeles, and I think we lucked out. She has so much jazz inside her it's bursting from her enormous peacock tattoo. I talked to Weston when we arrived and didn't tell him that I would be sending him a postcard from every city I stop in. I'm headed in to San Francisco now finally, on the Caltrain to meet Connor and Anders for dinner and drinks. Cannot wait to be in the city, but it's nice to have this quiet moment to breathe, listen to Ray, and stare out the window.

Connor made a delicious butterfly chicken with potatoes and carrots and Anders made an olive tampenade. I drank Sierra Nevadas at the kitchen table and kept the conversation going. Connor critiqued me as I washed the dishes, and I realized that some friendships never change. We took a shot of whiskey and went out in Lower Haight. We walked past a girl climbing out of a taxi with her friend and she could not walk - and it wasn't just because of her 6 inch heels. She had obviously had 18x the amount of whiskey that I had. I walked her towards the motel that her friend seemed to be headed towards, and she stopped to hold onto a car in the parking lot, and proceeded to urinate like a racehorse, right down on the pavement, standing up, and a good portion of it got on my shoe. I finally got her over to the door where her friend stood, and was offered $20 for my trouble. I should have taken it, if only to get my shoes cleaned. I fell asleep in a vent-induced-memory haze.

In the morning we walked to California Street down Clement, passed Asian grocery stories and I bought two fish for Mary Beth and David. I hugged them very hard because I was late and hopped on the California 1. A drive with Mary Beth to Sausalito over the coolest bridge on the planet - goosebumps galore, and brunch at the restaurant we always eat at overlooking the bay with its sailboats and it's sunny sea air. I decided I'd buy one of the houses on the hill here when I finally write the next Great American Novel. I told Mary Beth everything about my life between bites of eggs Benedict, and she said she has a good feeling about it all. I do too. Then we stopped at the Pirate Supply Store which greatly exceeded my expectations. I wanted to stay forever - and MB was proud to know me. I feel like part of a community with 826 and I think I might have to always live in a city that has one. Or open one wherever I go. Bought messages in a bottle and postcards from the Mighty Pacific and Pine Needle Scurvy Tea.

The Bubble Lounge was closed but that brought me to the best bar I've ever been to : Vesuvio. Squished right next to City Lights Bookstore, it had the perfect atmosphere, the perfect crowd, the perfect music - CCR and CSNY and all that jazz. I felt like there were conversations in this bar that would make things happen in the world. Kerouac drank here. Vonnegut drank here. I drank here.

Lucy and I met at City Lights and I bought a postcard. We ate at her favorite Chinese restaurant in North Beach, and a Chinese New Year parade came in - dragon, fireworks and all, and we sipped flower tea and caught up on the last 6 years of our lives. I had forgotten how much I like her. I had forgotten how much we have in common. Free spirits just like our parents. Artists, thinkers. Hannah told me that she thought that even if we weren't step-sisters, Lucy and I would definitely be good friends. She walked me down to the wharf after we said hi to Mossimo the cat - her read hair flowing under her black stocking cap. She's gorgeous, and so easy to talk to.

WEST in FEBRUARY : SLC - SF

Hannah and I did a running start hug in the Salt Lake City airport. "Wanna have a drink?' I had a wheat beer brewed in Utah called Epic, and we met up with Hannah's doctor buddy Rory, the Irish-Canadian sprightly man who taught me about "coding." (Pronouncing someone dead). Her apartment felt empty and quiet without boy and dog - their ghosts were still there, lingering. His shirts still in the closet, the dogs' hair still floating around on the wood floor. She woke up early for work, I slept comfortably with the humidifier humming next to me, happy to catch up on sleep.

Rory picked me up and took me to Lucky 13, a Harley-esque burger joint with amazing garlic fries and spicy mayo. We drank beers with another doctor, Lee, who seemed a bit down on the state of his life. He had just worked a 30 hour rotation. Ouch. Then Rory took me to the Mormon Disneyland - the towering scary temple and the tabernacle choir and a high rise that gave us an incredible view of the city - as an old woman with a mouth like Nonny's told us about the LDS church. Apparently you have to be "worthy" to be married in the church. You can't drink coffee or alcohol or smoke. You have to go through countless interviews to get in. No thanks!

The road trip had been uneventful up until Wendover, where we stopped for snacks at Smith's Supermarket full of freak shows, and said goodbye to the Utah border. As I was pulling out my notebook to write this, Hannah non-chalantly said, "we're getting pulled over." Of course I geeked out laughing because what else can you do? The officer appeared next to me, shining his flashlight at our laughing faces. He pulled Hannah out of the car and interrogated her to see if she had drugs, money or (me) in the vehicle. She laughed the whole way through. He was baffled by the idea of two Wisconsin girls in Nevada going to California. Believe it, son!

I didn't expect snow. I didn't expect white as I approached the California border (which I got us to after almost smashing the Jetta because of my poor stick handling). But alas, I found out that this is where Tahoe is, and there is snow. Lots of it. The Sierra Nevadas, like the beer. Yeah. The man at the road side convenient store told us that we wouldn't get through the pass without chains, so we went to my favorite place to stop while on a road trip : Walmart. I cringed at the bright lights and the low prices as Hannah calmed her dad down on the phone. We ended up staying the night right where we were, just outside of our destination state, in Reno, Nevada : Vegas' bastard son. A Motel 6 to be exact, the flashing neon lights blinking in our window. We woke up early and took showers with towels on the shower floor so we wouldn't get athletes foot. We successfully put the chains on the tires (yeah bitches!) and made our way through Donner Pass. California finally turned green and the rain fell as the silence did on us. We had made it.

WEST in FEBRUARY : Getting There

The Airtrain gave me a bit of a scare, after making me feel lucky and tricking me into thinking everything was starting off to a great start when the man hawking MTA cards told me it was free... but that meant I had to take the shuttle. A salt-and-pepper goateed man in a sweater vest sat next to a wiry, frustrated woman carrying a computer box, a few random bags, and a rolly suitcase. Their knees were shaking next to mine. They were stressed. Really stressed. The woman turned to me and told me her flight was at 1:25 and asked when was mine? "Same," I said, holding the left earbud of my headphones. I was listening to Bella Donna by the Avett Brothers, which seems to calm me down. Her piercing, blinking blue eyes screamed "help me!" and I tried to calm her down, telling her I do this all the time, assuring her that I'm always this late, and always make it. I feel weird telling people who are obviously older than me to chill out. Haven't they learned this in their many years of life? Haven't they figured out that everything is going to be just fine? I ran ahead of her because I knew we actually were cutting it close - and I wasn't about to wait and see if this woman made it. I gave the security guard my puppy dog eyes and he let me ahead of the other people in line for the shoes-off jackets-off dance. So here I was, plopped down in Row 6 of that bird, behind a screaming baby.

In Long Beach, my layover haven, the bar is exploding with people - misfits of all shapes and sizes. People drinking slowly and alone. People pretending they have things to do on their cell phones, or that they are extremely interested in what is happening in the Bulls - Sonics game, even though they are from Pittsburgh. I sidle up for a painfully expensive glass of pinot grigio, just to see what kind of conversation I could strike up. A man with a bright red beard who looked like Dave Camin sat to my right - he was the one I wanted stories from - he made a few witty comments into his pint glass and onto the screen of his solitaire game. An obese man next to me laughed when I peshaw'd my glass of wine, and then of course we all got into it about the Packers and Brett Favre. I like how easily people can talk to one another. Brian (fatty on my left) suggested I go and figure out my genealogy while in Salt Lake City - apparently those Mormons are very good at it. He used to be in business in Phili but then retired and started flying planes. I told him how cool I thought that was and I think he got pretty puffed up about that.

The man next to me on my 1.5 hour flight from Long Beach to Salt Lake City was out cold the minute he fastened his seat belt. He must have had a long week, or year, or he had taken a sleeping pill. I felt like I could have hugged the guy and he would have kept on snoring. I almost did, just to see what would happen. I smiled at his serenity, plugged in my earbuds, and settled into a Savage Love podcast. After a while, the flight attendant came around asking which delicious snack we each wanted. I always feel like I'm back in elementary school when this happens - just a bunch of people seated in quiet rows, staring straight ahead and being asked questions. But instead of "who was the first person to discover the Hudson river?" it becomes, "Would you like crunchies, munchies, cashews or cookies?" We're always excited to answer, always eager for our turn.

Turns out a dad sitting in the row in front of me was very eager for his turn. Or eager for something at least, but I'm still trying to figure out what. I remember being annoyed with him from the get-go. His two sons were strapped in beside him, futzing with the arm-rest remote controls. They had both cleverly selected Adult Swim and dad noticed right away. "Are you sure you should be watching that??" -I don't know, it's funny.- "Would your mom want you to watch that?? If I had headphones on to watch it would you feel comfortable with that?? What's it like in comparison to the Simpsons??" -It's better.- They went on forever so I droned it out and day dreamed about the tactics I would use to scare my kids out of ever becoming mature adults. How could I push them as far away as possible? Then the flight attendant came around with the snacks and I learned another way from daddio in the row in front of me. The guy had settled into a movie called The Fantastic Four while his two sons giggled to themselves as Meatwad mumbled words like "shit" and "sex." He neglected to take his headphones off as he answered the snack question. "COOKIES? SUNCHIPS? CASHEW NUTS? WHADDAYA WANT BOYS? THEY'VE GOT ALL SORTS OF THINGS!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. I swear to Jebus, the dead-asleep man next to me twitched immediately awake. He blinked into the dark abyss of the otherwise silent cabin, and must have been in somewhat of a fever dream because I think within this abrupt wake up call he began to perspire from the forehead. "WELL, MAKE A DECISION BOYS. WHAT'LL IT BE??" He was completely oblivious to the fact that his Fantastic Four headphones were still strapped to his scull and also that there were other human beings within 100 yards of him and his gaping mouth. His children finally selected the cookies and so did he, commenting on how great they were, until they were depleted from the bag, and until we were all thoroughly awake.

Four Songs for a Road Trip

VCR // The XX

A conversation between two lovers - on repeat in a carload of conversations down the Pacific Coast Highway.

Lovesong of the Buzzard // Iron & Wine

Big Sur offers a number of hikes, each culminating in a half mountain range / half Pacific view. The trail we chose was called Buzzard's Roost, on top of which we basked in the California sun, shouted Ginsberg to one another, and hummed this tune.

Slow Show // The National

No matter where you are, which coast you are looking out from, no matter how much you are laughing and how many moments you have with your traveling companions and the people you find along the way, there is always someone to hurry home to. Always someone to think about, as you're watching the waves crash on rocks, the windows down, the sun in your shades.

The Cave // Mumford & Sons

This trip has been encompassed by Mumford and his sons... we have each crawled out of our caves, opened ourselves to the vastness of the west, screaming this song into the wind.

What Not To Do

They had a few great laughs, a lot of delicious meals, a quiet Halloween. They'd moved somewhat slowly, but faster when she needed someone to take care of her when she fell of her bike and broke her elbow. She trusted him, and he trusted her, but his feelings grew too strong, like a balloon filled with too much jello. She'd spent the night at his apartment a few times, and he was gracious enough to clean his sheets for her, make her coffee in the morning, and they sat out on his porch in the sun. He bought her a toothbrush and placed it next to his. She wasn't used to this, she liked it but knew that it was too much all at once. She asked for space. She asked to have a little breathing room. He asked to be exclusive. She backed away further, slowly, like a kid backs away from a thought-to-be-ghost in the night. He thought the best way to test her, the best way to know, would be to make her think there was someone else. To trick her, like a mad hatter. He placed a toothbrush next to the one he had given her, between hers and his own.

She found it soon after, she saw it in the cabinet behind the mirror, closed the cabinet, and looked up into the mirror, her eyes wide. She considered herself, considered the thought of the toothbrush, and like James and Lily Potter he suddenly appeared in the mirror behind her. "Do you want to talk about it?" he smiled.

She couldn't get her shoes on, couldn't get down the stairs, out the door, down the quiet and dark avenue, to the A train, fast enough.

Two Songs for a Friday, Special Guest: Weston Shepherd

Ooh La La // The Faces with Rod Stewart

With contents having to do with the passage of time, the knowledge that comes along with that time, and the inevitability of a life jam-packed with experiences that build into something hopefully enviable. It's an oldie, but of course, a classic one for a Friday. Careful, though. It gets in your head.

Elias // Dispatch

This one goes out to those who rode around in a rusty white Pontiac with me in the begrudged and beautiful years of high school. This, among a few others, screamed from the aged speakers with an intensity that only hormonal late teenagers can feel. These lyrics flew freely, speeding down Mequon Road, towards grown-up-hood, loud and free.

2 Songs for a Friday

Nantes // Beirut

Compliments of a jazzy friend of mine, this song & video have made my week. Reminiscent of one of my favorite movies of all time, Amelie, this tune also screams the act of moving on. Getting out of something which will eventually be lost in the sea, and starting fresh. January is over, bitches!

Red Right Ankle // The Decemberists

In honor of their new album, although this is from a rather old one, here's a favorite from the wonderful, the talented, the prolific Decemberists. This song follows the life of a girl who has lived a life of discovery, of love and loss, of tattooed memories and twisted sheets. No particular reason for this one, other than the fact that it is absolutely beautiful.

Two Songs for a Friday

Tree by the River // Iron & Wine

Rarely do I have a song in my head for an entire week straight. Rarely does a song stick to my inner ears so immensely, so steadfastly, so much so that it plays in my sleep. I woke up each morning this week and sat with my guitar and hammered it out. The rest of I&W's new album, Kiss Each Other Clean is a little sax heavy for me, a little too synthesized, but this and a precious few others are keepers. Looking forward to seeing Sammy B and the rest of the gang at Radio City tomorrow night!

World Sick // Broken Social Scene

On a bit of a more up-beat note, this song has some sentimental value to me and it also just downright kicks ass. When discussing it's lyrics with a few fellow music-lovers, and lovers in general, I gathered that this song can probably be interpreted in a number of different ways. To me, it's about the opposite of homesickness. When you are worldsick, you desire adventure, you miss the world and all of its intricate wonders. Some call it an itch but I don't really like that term... I consider it more of a fix, in that no matter how far you go and no matter how many places you go to, there will always be more.

Cows Eating Hamburgers

Six of us stand there, poised and prepared for mayhem. We are told that it is 30 Fourth Graders from PS 29. Okay, that means rowdy, somewhat privileged, almost at the point where they are "too cool" but not quite. We hear them walk in the front door, their snow boots squeaking on the floor, their coats rustling as they squish in, shoulder to shoulder. Chris says hello, talks to them about the process, I take their "author photos" and Jamie and Kristin write their names on white tags. They file in, cheeks pink and eyes wandering around the back room of 826.

The Superhero Supply Store is only a front. The back room, were we will work our magic, is the real deal. Bookshelves line each brick wall with thousands of books that kids of all ages (even 35, 41, etc) will take in like oxygen, four computers sit ready for action, wooden tables and chairs wait to be vessels on which creativity will spawn. There is not only an aquarium but also a terrarium, not only a cubby for crayons, pencils, erasers, markers, buttons, string, paper... but there is one for invisible things like ideas, inklings, and dreams.

The kids settle into their chairs around a big projector where Chris now stands, his crazy hair curling upwards like a mad scientist. Laura types on a laptop that projects onto the screen, so the class can see their story unfold before their eyes.

"Okay, what's the first thing a story needs?" A beginning! A middle! An end! Emotion! Plot! Climax! Candy! Potatoes! War! Peace! Ideas flow from their mouths like drool, and Laura has a hard time keeping up. They begin to weave their story.

"Who will be our main character?" A flying cow! Bigfoot! Pig Man! Nacho Face!

"Okay, it's a flying cow. What is her name?" Bob! Violet! Laryngitis! Hamburger! Football! Bobette!

They decided on Bobette, and after much consideration, Bobette the flying cow, with the world's greatest superpower, (she could poop candy), wanted desperately to be on American Idol. The story has twists and turns with Chris conducting, the children (and the rest of us) laughing hysterically, and Nancy in the corner, illustrating.

Eventually the story becomes a book, the children solemnly writing their own endings and sketching covers. One kid raises his hand and asks, "can I draw a picture of Bobette the cow eating a hamburger for lunch?" Sure buddy, sure.

Their author photos get pasted to the back, their collective ideas stuffed within 10 pages, their chests puffed up because they have finished something great... together.

2 Songs For a Friday

Step By Step // New Kids on the Block

This one goes out to my sister, Colleen, who has turned 10 three times today. The only way I could think of to celebrate her birthday with her from afar is to post a song we used to make up dances to on the living room floor on Sunnycrest Drive, and up north in Rhinelander with the Camin sisters. I remember not really knowing what I was doing, or who these New Kids on the Block were, but I knew Colleen loved them, so I loved them too. Here's to my growth in taste of music! Happy Birthday!

Blindsided // Bon Iver

Because it is a good winter and because I haven't posted any of him yet, I share my favorite Bon Iver song. Also because as of late I have been blindsided, caught off guard when I wasn't looking, unprepared for something great that has come into my life.

He Respected Her Wishes

After the wedding, there was this blanket of fog that we were all left in. A proverbial wedding hangover, which has lasted over a week. I've talked to everyone in my family, Colleen and Gianni included, and we all have agreed that it went off without a hitch. I spoke with my dad on the way to the airport on Sunday night, and again on Wednesday afternoon. He agreed that the day was perfect, magical, enough to make a lifetime memory. The only thing that saddened him was a misunderstanding when it came to an omission in the speech he made.

Dad and I each had a big toast to perform at the wedding, and in our preparation for our toasts, we spoke them outloud in the comfort of the guest room at his house. We encircled ourselves with eachothers' words, and we both cried a bit in the process. Dad spoke highly of Colleen, of our family, of mom, and of his wife Patricia. He meticulously planned his speech, as I had, to include everything that he felt about the people who have contributed to Colleen's growth, and to the wedding (without making it an hour long). His speech was flawless, and I had to take a moment to gather myself before telling him so. One thing in particular that he was grappling with was a bit about his wife, Patricia. He had written about her at length, about her patience throughout the entire year of planning, about her talent when it came to creating the beautiful wedding invitations, about her support for him as the Father of the Bride. He eloquently portrayed the women in his life with a sophistication that I rarely hear from anybody in my life.

At the eleventh hour, Pat noticed the reduced, edited version he had written about her, and asked him to promise to remove that portion. She made him swear that she wouldn't be a part of it. Dad figured that the reason may have simply been that Pat did not want to seem as if she was competing for mom's time, or being compared to her in any way. Out of respect and compassion, he reluctantly removed all but her name.

The speech went off beautifully. He kept it together and there wasn't a dry eye in the room. Some might have noticed that his wife was not mentioned, but none of them knew the circumstances under which that was decided. I will remember those moments as he spoke so wonderfully in front of so many people, for the rest of my life, and I hope others will do him the honor of remembering the same.

2 Songs for a Friday

Winter Winds // Mumford & Sons

This song, in it's wintery goodness, is one of the most uplifting I've found for a dumpy January. It puts the season into perspective in a way that we all should remind ourselves of.:

And if your strife strikes at your sleep /Remember spring swaps snow for leaves / You'll be happy and wholesome again / When the city clears and sun ascends

70 Million // Hold Your Horses

I chose this second one as an homage to my step-sister, who alerted me to this not long ago. I rarely choose a song because of it's video, because frankly those are usually sub-par, but this video is kick ass. Just watch. Seriously. The song is pretty rad too. I believe they're French.

Mr. and Mrs. Giorgi

Colleen, the only way I could think of to share this evening with our beautiful mother, Christine Mattingly, is to read her a letter I wrote.

Dear Mom,

Colleen has grown into just the woman that you dreamed of when you had her. As you know, Colleen has always been the most caring of all of us, (sorry Paul). She always had your giving nature, and still does to this day. She was an angsty teen just like you, and the rest of us, she liked rap music and somehow at the same time country. She always had too many friends to count, and too many boys chasing after her to keep dad sane. (Even Gianni knows this). She graduated from the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee, and has become the best childcare giver in Southeast Wisconsin. You wouldn’t believe the way she puts her heart and her soul fully into every single thing she does. She reminds me of you more often than not. Time and time again, I hear people say she’s going to be a great mother.

Mom, Colleen has been my sister for 26 years, and my mother for 15, but she will be my best friend forever. She was there to tell me when it was time to start plucking my eyebrows, there to tell me what to wear to the prom, there to judge my boyfriends and of course to judge me too. You were probably aware of this but Colleen and I used to fight, a lot. Like, non-stop jabs and slamming doors and petty words went between us. I’d make fun of her for wearing makeup, watching Lifetime Movies, or moving her food around her plate and not eating it, and she’d retaliate by digging those nails into my wrists. Somewhere in our growth as women, that stopped, and I’d like to think that you had a part in that. We somehow became equals one day, out of the blue, I stopped yelling and she stopped stealing my clothes, and we started genuinely loving one another as individuals. We may outwardly seem like polar opposites, Colleen with the beauty and me with the… books… but inside, we are the same. We are your daughters, and it shows.

Mom, not long after she lost you, she found the man sitting next to her at this table. Gianni was her friend for a long time before he manned up to actually start dating her. Then he was her boyfriend for even longer, before popping the question. What took you so long Gianni? He’s a strapping Italian who gets along with the family as if it were his own – and from (point) Nonny to Jackson, we all love him dearly. He’s everything you could ask for in a guy for Colleen. He supports her in every sense of the word, he honors her, he … puts up with her … Most importantly, he makes her laugh. You would have absolutely loved him.

Colleen and Gianni got married today, mom. She looks astonishing, the sight of her in this white dress could stop someone’s heart, her makeup is perfect and her hair is just right. Yellow roses cover these tables for you, Mom, and we know how proud you are of Colleen today. You’ve given us such an incredible woman.

I’d like to toast to my sister Colleen, and her husband and my new brother, Gianni.

Midwestern Nice

I got off the airplane in Milwaukee from New York, shaking hands and exchanging phone numbers with a woman I had met on the plane from Portage. She wrote a book I like. We became friends. Without any pretences or any exchanges of past drug problems or ex husbands or strange obsessions, we just exchanged numbers, like that.

I go to a friends' parent's house. They pour me a glass of wine, they share a few stories. They give me a book. I walk out the door, warm and hopeful.

Men buy me drinks at bars. Because that's what they do.

My old boss from the coffee house gives me a tour of his new roastery. He demonstrates how the beans go from weird green grains to dark brown slices of heaven. He pours me a cup, sends me on my way, no charge.

A friend drives me home late at night after sharing a stack of old high school notes I had written, a stack of solid memories of who I once was, or who I still am, or something.

I watch the football game at my brother's house, and he feeds me, and I play on the floor with my nephew, and I feel the kind of love that I haven't felt in a long time. A love without words, a quiet one.

I find myself lost, and without cell phone service, in the middle of a snow-white Wisconsin farm town. A woman talks to me for a half hour about the Packers, and then tells me where to go.

I laugh on a porch with two friends, discussing how lucrative eBay can be, and we laugh our way through chocolate cake and tears.

I sleep in guest rooms and have clean towels, gifts on pillows and large back yards. Breakfasts on tables and hot tea and conversation. Bottles of shampoo and hugs farewell.

A woman knocks on my car window and asks if the glove on the ground next to me is mine.

I am fed, by the ton, meal after meal, helping after helping, cheese and gyros and spaghetti and double decker tacos and cheese and homemade pizza and burgers and cheese.

I'm offered the remote control, the blanket, the hair dryer, the front seat.

There's a niceness here that I won't find anywhere else. A bubble of sanity or insanity or both. A zone of comfort beyond material. A place to come back to and then leave again and then come back and then leave.