Telluride Or Bust

My Life As a Raccoon

2008-09-13T23:57:00.000-07:00

"You are a part of history, and don't ever forget it!" - Dawn Hampton

For 16 years I mocked the spirit of Labor Day. I defiantly took on the role of Uber-Geek Worker and reveled in that which is the Telluride Film Festival.

This year, however, I celebrated Labor Day weekend with dance - a LOT of dance. Dancing from morning until the wee hours of the next morning, punctuated by meals and naps by the pool. It verged on Lindy Hop Heaven.

A few years ago my friends Jenny & Mariah went to Swing Out New Hampshire and their descriptions of the camp elicted Instant Envy & Longing. Other dancers I met confirmed my suspicion - that there was something else fun & unique going on during Labor Day Weekend. The Quest was on!

It started with the super-easy process of signing up online. A few emails with director Mark Kapner, a couple of payments, and I was a bona fide SOHN camper. I had no idea what a treat Mark would be in person. I wish I had half his personality and ability to remain calm! He was instrumental in bringing a great sense of humor and inclusiveness to the camp. (And he leads a great campfire sing-a-long!)

Kudos also go to Mark for creating a space where the beginner dancers - "The Bluebirds" - are treated like royalty. It doesn't happen often enough.

Audra drove me from Boston to Camp Wicosuta and got to experience a brief part of the weekend first hand. I'd been to a couple of Girl Scout camps as a kid, but they were never as fun as this! I'd only been at SONH about 5 minutes before my favorite question was asked: "Would you like steak or lobster for dinner?" YES!!! Definitely my kind of place. (My 2nd favorite question - "Would you like to dance?" - was asked plenty of times, too.)

After the Big Question, 2 "gorillas" escorted Audra & me to my cabin and helped us unload the large boxes I had shipped out for the occasion. Our very own sherpas. Excellent! And just to add a touch of intrigue, all the Gorillas (guys who worked for the camp) went by codenames. Quickdraw. Hollywood. Wolfman. Smokey. The Colonel. Quite a crew.

I should probably elaborate on the notion of "my cabin." It would be more appropriate to say they escorted me to a bunk bed in the cabin I shared with 15 other women. With 4 showers (tiny, tiny showers) and 4 toilets (thank god they were of the flushing variety). And spiders. And every morning at 8am (regardless of whether or not you'd been dancing until 7am) "Revelry" pealed out from loudspeakers hidden throughout the camp. This truly was "Meatballs" for adults. Crazy adults obsessed with dancing.

So... The Dancing. Was great. Five nights of live bands, four days of lessons, and still there was time to go to the lake, or go to the pool, or play tennis, or sleep late. The teachers were fabulous. Steven Mitchell & Virginie Jensen are a staple and world-class (FYI, they'll be teaching in Denver in October.) Manu & Gina, and Skye & Frieda - young, hip, energetic. But I'm definitely going to have to pick favorites and single out Joel & Alison Plys from San Diego and Alana Hock from Canada. Wow! They were the whole package.

And the talent wasn't restricted to the campers. The Gorillas took the floor a couple of times to show us a thing or two! If I tried to kick my legs as high as Quickdraw kicked his, I would seriously hurt myself. They had some good moves!

Thursday night we were treated to a solo act by Dawn Hampton. Dawn is an amazing, inspirational 80-year old whose love of dance is infectious. I consider myself lucky every time I'm in her presence.

Saturday night we had a cabaret. And I can honestly say I don't remember the last time I laughed so hard. For 3 hours. Everyone's talent obviously didn't stop at the dance floor. I wish I could adequately describe the feeling of a whole room singing Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" - in harmony - or the triumph of Joel Plys' 10-Armpit-Farts-In-a-Row, or the sheer genius of a song devoted to Japanese food, or hearing Mark's "Bellybutton" song for the first time, or seeing the 6'4" Colonel in a Tigger costume. You just had to be there.

So I didn't go through all this just to make you jealous and rub it in about how great a time I had. I did it to let you know that if you are interested in swing dancing, whether you're an absolute beginner or a seasoned professional, you should seriously consider spending next Labor Day weekend at Swing Out New Hampshire. You will get quality instruction, you'll have a bed to sleep in, you'll be feed 3 meals a day, you'll meet great people, you'll hang out with gorillas, and you will dance 'til you limp.

This weekend I've been enjoying the rapidly diminishing warmth of the sun at Blues & Brews, marveling at the fresh dusting of snow on the mountains every morning, and looking forward to off-season starting on Monday. And although I still have all these great memories & ideas & dance steps from SONH stirring around in my brain, what comes through loudest is,

"Dang, that was fun!"

Culture Shock

2008-05-16T14:32:00.000-07:00

Although I’ve been in Norwood approximately one-fifth of the time I lived in Southern California, it seems I have adjusted to rural living quite easily. Transitioning back into an urban life, even if only for a day or two, appears more painfully difficult. Take for instance my recent trip to Grand Junction (pop. 42,000).

My first weird moment occurred in the Montrose (pop. 16,000) Taco Bell. When I lived in Los Angeles (pop. 9,948,000), I used to eat at Taco Bell about three times a week. Now that I live one and a half hour’s drive from the nearest fast food restaurant, I consider it to be a Road Trippin’ Treat. [As a funny(?) side note, the previous time I stopped at Taco Bell they were out of tacos. Very disappointing.] Normally I go through the drive-thru because I’m always in a hurry and fast food joints are not known for their ambiance. This time, however, the lure of a public commode was too much to resist, so I went inside.

I felt like the Brother From Another Planet. I found myself unsure of how to navigate the human loading chute, trying to figure out what the cashiers wanted from me, and what the graphics on the menu board represented. I was impressed to learn they finally started carrying guacamole. It was such an odd feeling. I wondered if the uranium mining was getting to me after all.

My next weirdo moment happened in the supermarket in Grand Junction. I used to be an expert supermarket shopper. The markets in So Cal have club cards and they double the value of coupons, so I would wait until the item had a special “club” price, then use a coupon to purchase it. I almost always ended up saving at least fifty percent of my grocery tab, sometimes as much as seventy-five percent. I also ended up buying a lot of crap just because there was a coupon for it.

Now walking into a supermarket makes me dizzy. Our local markets are much smaller and in general offer a bare minimum. Need a bar of soap? There are five to choose from. How about a frozen CPK pizza? We’ve got a grand total of three. But in the SUPERmarket, all of my choices have been super-sized. There are fifty varieties of crackers, one hundred different yogurts, and an unending aisle of soda.

“What could be more liberating than Freedom of Choice?” I thought as I gazed wide-eyed at the shampoo display. (Citre Shine or Garnier? Suave or Vidal Sassoon? Dry hair or colored hair or straight hair? More body? More shine? Less frizz?) Five minutes later I was still trying to sort out my needs and my coupons. I didn’t even have the advantage of having my mind pre-determined by advertisers because a.) I TiVo, hence I fast-forward through commercials, b.) there are no billboards within one hundred miles of my house, and c.) our newspapers advertise real estate, not mass consumer goods.

When my “quick stop for five essential items” re-emerged into the sunlight one hour and ninety dollars later, the true cost of the excursion began to dawn on me. My so-called “Freedom of Choice” was a thief of Time. While I was debating the merits of Pepperidge Farm versus Keebler, I could have been enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee, or been absorbed in my John Irving novel, or not been rushing to get to my next stop.

Later that night an acquaintance from Los Angeles expressed shock at the statement, “There’s no supermarket where I live.” Imagine that—a town in America without a super store. How cutting edge! How unique! How wonderful.

Impossible Dreams? Not here.

2008-01-01T22:48:00.000-08:00

In memory of Ruth Marion Engeman Alt
1920 - 2007

There was some concern a few years back from those who were witness to my hectic lifestyle in the city that I would find myself bored in such a small town. That I wouldn't have a lot to do. Knowing Telluride as I do, I brushed aside their worries with a shake of my head.

And now, trying to settle down for an hour to survey the past year, I can honestly say to all the concerned: You were sooooo wrong.

It's been 10 months since I wrote a blog--not because I didn't have anything to say, but because the days went rushing past me at ever-increasing speeds. Even the "off-seasons" which are supposed to be times of rest & rejuvenation seemed to not exist for me.

While I'm exploding the "Nothing To Do In A Small Town" myth, I'd also like to disintegrate the "Small Town Lack Of Accomplishment" myth. This town is amazing. San Miguel County in particular--and southwestern Colorado in general--is filled with an astounding collection of artists & writers & activists & community-oriented people. They selflessly give the gift of belief--the belief that anything can be accomplished here. It's the Old West ideal in its living, breathing form.

Every year Telluride has one of the most successful AIDS benefits in the state. This year, the community (and lots of friends) raised $25 million in the ongoing effort to secure a beautiful, symbolic piece of land as open space. This year, a couple of people contributed a lot of time, money, and sweat equity to open a beautiful performing arts space in Norwood. This year I was in my 1st tap dance recital in 30 years. (It redefined the word "terrifying" for me.)

My personal greatest accomplishment of not only this past year, but of any year, was the creation of Swing Camp Telluride. When I started taking dance classes in 2001 I had no idea it would be such a large part of my future. I only knew that as soon as I stepped into the Stevens' sisters classes in Pasadena, I loved it. With the closest swing dancing a 7 hour drive away, I resigned myself to the fact that my dancing days ended when I moved to Norwood. I was sure I would never hear anyone in Telluride mention the lindy hop.

But then I met my friend Sandy who had danced in San Francisco, and instantly my lindy hop world doubled. And the formation of a swing dance camp just as suddenly went from an impossibility to a probability. Sandy & I attended an event and there were 3 lindy hopping couples from the area. Our numbers had quadrupled in 1 night. The clincher was a community grant that I received to help finance the camp. At that point I was forced to make it happen.

The swing camp was blessed on many levels--the grant from CCAASE, the enormous help & support of my family and friends, the assistance of 3 great teachers I had met on a cruise in 2004 (Catrine Ljunggren, Elliott Donnelley, & Calle Johansson), and Chad, a friend/DJ from Phoenix.

I'll never forget looking into the first lindy hop class that Catrine & Elliott were teaching. There were at least 10 couples swing dancing and laughing in the Sheridan Opera House--a sight I truly never expected to see.

I realized with the passing away of my grandmother in October that without a doubt I got my love of dance from her. Every time I visited them, she & my grandfather would end up dancing. It didn't matter if they were wearing housecoats & swimsuits in their living room or if they were dressed to the nines at a wedding. If there was a moment for dancing, my grandma took advantage of it. I know a few of my aunts got the dancing bug from her, and I'm pretty sure my cousins Heidi & Elke have it as well.

As I prepare for the 2nd Swing Camp Telluride this March, I don't know if it will take me "far" in life, but that's not the point of it. The camp is a way for me to share my love of swing dancing with the community I love. Every single person who had even a miniscule part in helping make it happen gets unending thanks for helping me realize a dream.

Thank you Everyone. Thank you CCAASE & TCAH. Thanks Grandma!

May we all lindy on throughout 2008 and beyond! Happy New Year!!!

10 THINGS I LEARNED IN 2007:

1.) "All-weather" tires are NOT snow tires

2.) Snow tires are very important

3.) I will drive 7 hours just to go to a dance

4.) Friends in Denver are a great thing

5.) Dogs can act like teenagers, too (let's hope that phase passes quickly...)

6.) Smokey Robinson can still bring down the house

7.) Tap dancing is difficult

8.) "Deck the Halls" is easy to hate if you use it as the ringtone on your work phone

9.) There is a handsome, young, single man in Norwood! (But he's not single anymore...)

10.) No one could pull off a pink bunny suit like Grandma

My Very Bad Day

2007-02-25T01:00:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, when this blog was just getting its legs, I wrote that sometimes you have to write about the bad along with the good. (See February 2005) But I haven't done that, have I? No--I've led you to believe that I live an absolutely idyllic life in a perfect little mountain town. That the biggest problems are naughty sheep and markets that close at 8pm. Birds are always chirping, flowers are always blooming, dwarfs are always singing. Yadda yadda yadda.

But sometimes, 24 hours can't seem to pass quickly enough. Sometimes you question your judgment. Sometimes Mercury is in retrograde.

Take Wednesday, for example. It started like any other Wednesday--I slept through 3 alarms while the cats held me captive with their warm purring bodies, I took Joe for a too-short walk, then headed into town for my 3rd day of double shifts. I was counting on a quiet night at the restaurant and getting home at a reasonable hour (i.e., before midnight).

But all that changed when a small blonde woman walked into the bar half an hour before closing. Before she even took a sip of her beer she started weeping and I thought, This Can't Be Good. When my co-worker asked (rather bluntly, I'll admit) why she was crying and she started cussing him out I thought, Oh Yeah. This Is Going To Be Bad.

The cursing escalated in a Tourette's-like fashion to the point where we had to kick her out. While my co-worker hustled her out of the restaurant, I called the police so she would have a good, safe place to spend the night. When I got outside she was on the ground so I walked over and said, "Are you all right?" At which point she got up, called me a number of highly impolite names, and then shoved me in the chest. Hard. And then I thought, That Crazy Bitch Just Pushed Me!

Now you all know that I'm a peace-loving little liberal and the restaurant where I work doesn't usually attract Crazy Ladies, so I am not used to dealing with this kind of situation. Confrontation doesn't suit me. And I had a feeling that if I said one more thing to this fool she was going to punch me. So I walked away (the cops arrived to find my co-worker sitting on her back, trying to restrain her), saved a couple of teeth in the process, and tried to shake it off. I called a few friends (who were an enormous help in cheering me up--thank you!) and arrived home at the tender hour of 2am.

When I walked in the house I did the 1st thing I always do--go into the laundry room to feed the cats. But that night--that Wednesday night/Thursday morning--as soon as I entered the laundry room I thought, Something Is Wrong. Because normally my slippers don't squelch. And the 1/4 inch of water on the floor confirmed that Something, Indeed, Was Very Wrong. Namely, my water heater had decided it didn't want to be part of my household any longer. Since the water seemed to staying at a pretty steady level on my floor, I decided I would deal with it in the morning.

Cut to 6 hours later: I woke up and started making phone calls. Turns out only 1 company will come out to Norwood, and the place where they purchase their water heaters from isn't open until Monday, so maybe they'll be out Tuesday. (Remember, this is still Thursday.) Ok, fine, whatever. (I mean, it's not like I live at the ends of the earth. It's close to the ends of the earth, but there are people here. There are dwellings. There are things that need to be fixed. Does it really have to be that difficult?)

Meanwhile, I mopped the floor, but every time I looked in the laundry room it was filled with water again. Because unbeknownst to me, water heaters continue to refill even if their electricity is shut off. (Thanks for the info, Dad!) And to make matters worse, the shut-off valve to the heater was stuck. So about 7:30pm on Thursday I called my dad and explained that I don't know what's going on and then he explained to me that I'm going to have to shut off my main water valve. It should be easy. It should be the pipe coming out of the wall with the shut-off valve in your crawl space. You mean the dirt-floored crawl space that I've been pushing all the spilt water into all day? Yes, that one.

But, of course, when I went beneath the house all the pipes were covered with insulation and I couldn't tell one thing from another. Finally, after searching the outside of the house & making phone calls & carefully running my hands along all the pipes I found what I was sure must be the valve. I slowly and carefully peeled away the insulation . . .

and suddenly ice cold water was spraying directly into my face with the force of a garden hose at full blast. My immediate thought was, I Don't Think This Is Supposed To Happen. Followed by--not for the first time, mind you--This Is Bad. This Is Very, Very Bad. You never realize how much water is flowing through the pipes of your house until its relentlessly smacking you in the face.

Desperately I tried to figure out a way to make the gushing water stop, but each time I did anything I knocked the pipe and water hit me in the face again. I was freaking out, so I did the only thing that came to mind--ran up the ladder into the laundry room, called my parents (who are 2,000 miles away, just so you know), and started yelling, "I have an emergency! I have an emergency! Water everywhere! I don't know what to do!" and then I ran back into the crawl space and tried again to find the valve with water hitting me in the face and the phone glued to my ear. Obviously, I'm not the one who's going to stay calm & focused in an emergency situation.

After what seemed like a lifetime (but was really only 5 minutes) I managed to turn the water off. The pipe was so rusted that a mere touch had caused it to completely snap. I stood there in the crawl space, dripping from head to toe, ankle-deep in mud, saying, "Yuck," over and over again into the phone. Not my proudest moment. It was 8:30pm Thursday, exactly 24 hours since that Crazy Lady walked into my bar. The only water left in my house was what was on me and the floor. Let me tell you, when you suddenly only have 1 flush left in your toilet you use it wisely. (Have you heard of the $4.00 flush? It's when you either a.) have to buy a jug of water in Telluride to fill your toilet tank one time or b.) go to the coffee shop and flush their toilet in exchange for a fancy drink.)

Things haven't improved since Thursday. I got a cold from being doused with water on a winter's night, and no one can come to Norwood to fix my plumbing until "Maybe Monday." (You know that calendar, right? Maybe Monday, Til Tuesday, What About Wednesday, We'll Try Thursday, and We Don't Work Friday.) And did you know that snow evaporates more than it melts? So much for refilling my toilet tanks on the cheap.

But I've decided to blame all my misfortune on Al Gore. You see, Wednesday afternoon I thought, I Haven't Had Anything To Write A Blog About In A While. And if it hadn't been for Al Gore inventing the internet, there would be no such thing as blogs, and I wouldn't be trolling for fodder for my reading public. Damn you, Al!

And that, my friends, was My Very Bad Day.

I'll Be Loving You Always

2006-12-25T13:21:00.000-08:00

My intention was to write this entry 4 months ago, just after the Telluride Film Festival. Time is a funny thing. I'm torn between disbelief that 4 months have already gone by and this strange sense of nostalgia the festival carries with it, making it seem like it's been years since my weekend in the Sheridan Opera House and confirming my notion that the festival exists in its own little time-space continuum where sleep is overrated and Film is King.

Every year the film fest comes & goes like a lightning bolt. The town transforms overnight, with banners, celebrities, huge tents, staff and passholders seeming to appear out of this thin air. Five days later everything's packed for next year, the tourists have gone to hibernate until the winter season, and the staff has returned to their former lives in faraway cities. Nary a hint that what seemed all-consuming only a week before has even occurred, let alone been executed with the utmost success.

This past Labor Day weekend, for the 15th year in a row, I found myself ensconced in the Sheridan Opera House from just after dawn 'til well past dusk every day of the long weekend. This is by no means a lament, but rather a declaration of love. She's an old girl--nearly as old as film itself. In 7 years she'll be 100. And like Norma Desmond from Sunset Boulevard you can still see traces of undeniable glamour under her stage make-up. Some of the greatest performers from all areas of entertainment have graced her stage, and they have complimented each other well.

I first entered the Opera House just a week after I turned 21, and we've been together ever since. It's my longest-running love affair. There's nothing to match the thrill of the "official" opening of each film festival. The tiny theatre nearly bursts with the excitement it holds--people literally buzzing with happiness, nervousness, and anticipation of what the entire weekend holds in store.

And I've seen some things there. Chuck Jones would tell me dirty jokes before the films started. Clint Eastwood shook my hand in the middle of the Opera House. Peter O'Toole arrived for his tribute dressed to the nines--tailored suit complete with vest & long-handled cigarette holder--and charmed everybody. Roger Ebert gleefully asked a bystander to take his picture with Louis Malle, Wallace Shaun, & Andre Gregory--less than a year before Malle's death. I watched Tim Roth try to form a coherent sentence before an early morning screening, and had Greg Kinnear enthusiastically introduce himself to me. I'll never forget seeing the expression on John Ritter's face as he walked in for the premiere of Sling Blade and said, "Oh my gosh! It's so beautiful!" I've heard Peter Bogdanovich relate personal stories of Orson Welles, Cary Grant, & John Ford with the humor of a professional impressionist. And I've always been greeted with a hug by Ken Burns & Peter Sellars, and a Hershey's kiss from Annette Insdorf.

I've seen many, many films in the Opera House but one of the most memorable has always been Lonesome. It's a simple story of two people finding each other, and when it was shown at the film fest in 1994 the Alloy Orchestra helped bring the silent film to life. I was amazed to see it on the schedule again this year--it was something I feared I'd never see again--and it helped give me a sense of personal history of my time with the festival.

I've seen the festival grow exponentially in size and scope. I've seen numerous theatre spaces created and deconstructed. I've met & worked with so many wonderful people that I love seeing every year, but am sad I only get to see them once a year.

After 15 years, I've been thinking about taking a year off to dance in the wilderness of New Hampshire. It's a hard decision for me to make. On the one hand, it's supposed to be a really amazing dance camp & of course it only happens once year--on Labor Day weekend. On the other hand, I can't really wrap my brain around being any place other than Telluride for Labor Day. Besides the fact that I would greatly miss seeing my friends, I can't help but wonder, if I spend the weekend elsewhere, will I still be consumed by thoughts of the festival? At 6pm on Friday night will I be thinking, "Is the Green Room ready? Has the masking been set? Are we clear on all the cues? Is the oleo going to crash on the guest's head? Is the sound ok? Is everyone in place?" instead of "Who's this cute guy I'm dancing with?" Will I be wondering if anyone's gotten Annette her hot chocolate and popcorn with butter instead of concentrating on keeping the beat? Will next year be the year Matt Dillon's finally given a tribute & I'll miss my one chance to meet him?

Hard to say. Even harder to decide. Usually what ends up happening is that in October I'll start thinking, "Maybe I'll try something new next Labor Day," and by May I'm thinking, "Why would I possibly want to spend Labor Day someplace else?" It's only December(!), so I have a little time to make up my mind. Whatever the outcome, my feelings about the Opera House will never change. No matter where my feet are that weekend, my heart will always be stage left.

I'm still reeling that so many months have passed so quickly. My pup is growing into a young dog, and he's getting better every day. My skis are being tuned up in anticipation of plowing through the thick snow. And I had a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner at my friend Sandy's house. We didn't say our individual "thanks" at the table, which is probably a good thing because by the time I got done with mine the turkey would have been cold.

So as I'm typing away on this stunningly beautiful Christmas day, nerdishly listening to my larger-than-any-sane-person-would-have Christmas CD colletion, I would like to take this moment to share some of my gratefulness. First & foremost, to my wonderful friends & family--thanks for all the emails, cards, phone calls, gifts, & encouragement. I'm grateful for my home, my pets, and the beautiful mountains I see everyday. I'm so thankful to have good jobs working for good people. I'm grateful to be part of a community that cares, and that generously supports the arts. And I'm especially thankful that every day I'm able to say, "I love my life." I hope you can all say the same.

Love to all, and to all a good night!

I'll be loving you, Always,
With a love that's true, Always.
Not for just an hour,
Not for just a day,
Not for just a year,
But Always.

--Irving Berlin, from Lonesome

Mow Against the Grain

2006-07-20T15:36:00.000-07:00

Well, friends, it's hard to believe that my First Norwood Anniversary has come and gone. Some days it feels like I've been here a month, other days it feels like I've been here half my life.

There was a lot of hullabaloo on my anniversary weekend--so much so that I forgot to take note of it. My parents, sister, and brother-in-law were here to help spruce up Rancho Deluxe a little, and my friend Stacey came out for a visit from L.A.

Stacey mentioned how scared she had been for me last year, when it seemed like I was completely uprooting my life to go live in a tiny town without a good job lined up and far from my friends. She was able to see for herself that everything worked out ok.

I was finally able to do a bit of reflecting on the past year as I was mowing my new backyard with my new Honda lawnmower around the deck housing my new propane grill. (I think having a house to take care of brings out the inner-Hank Hill in me. Of course, Hank's lucky enough to have a riding mower. I'm stuck pushing mine. Did I mention that I don't believe I've ever had to push a lawnmower before? It's amazing how much bigger the yard seems as soon as I pull the mower out.) I have to say, I think my lawnmower helps separate the men from the boys--there are those who really admire it, and then there are those who glance at it curiously & hope they won't be asked to touch it.

And to be perfectly honest, I was feeling a bit glum because I had just been unceremoniously dumped by a fellow I was dating. Although our courtship was very short-lived, it was one that I felt had great potential. (Of course, we all know I've been wrong about that before.) But a night or two after the realization that this guy wasn't going to be calling me again, I had a dream in which every friend of mine in Telluride came up to me & hugged me. I could palpibly feel myself being soothed by their collective good will as I slept. And when I awoke I realized that I had been gifted a vision of truth--that no single person can emotionally hurt me because there's a wonderful majority that embraces me just as I am.

I still can't believe I've accomplished so much in 1 year, when it seemed like I was getting very little accomplished in L.A. Much to my surprise (and delight) I actually achieved 4 major goals within 12 months: I found a great job (I mean 3), I made more time for myself (even with the 3 jobs!), I bought a house, and I have a bunch of great friends looking out for me.

I'm even hangin' with a new man already. He's got soft red hair, big brown eyes, and a cute little backside that just won't quit. And he cries when I leave him. I'd like to introduce you all to Joe--
I had a strange feeling I'd meet someone special as soon as I bought my house. I just didn't realize he'd have 4 legs! (And that I would have to engage in potty-training...)

Hank Hill says you should "mow against the grain" for a better lawn. I have no idea how to determine the "grain" of a lawn. I only know how to mow against the grain of normality for a better life. Maybe I should make one of my goals for next year to find a man who not only admires my lawnmower, but would find great pleasure in taking it for a spin around my yard every weekend. Let him figure out which way the grain goes!

In the meantime, I'll just keep repeating my profoundly true motto from last year: Life Is Good.

Welcome to Rancho Deluxe!

2006-05-25T10:48:00.000-07:00

In Memory of John G. Bellai

"You could walk out of the house, but you always returned home."
--Witold Rybczynski, Home

The people in my family tend to be a sedentary group. My parents bought their house in 1981. My maternal grandparents have called their place in South Carolina home since about 1973. My paternal grandparents were in their house since time immemorial. My cousins and I have been the most mobile of our families, but considering that I lived in the same Los Angeles apartment for nearly 12 years & most of my cousins have had their houses longer than that, it's not really saying much. So you can imagine my surprise to find myself re-packing after being in the now infamous Big Pink for less than a year.

But today I bought a house. I'm still not sure how it feels to say that. It does induce a bit of nausea and "crazy-spinning-head" syndrome, but in a mostly good way. I think. (It probably has something to do with the realization that I'm going to have to remain constantly gainfully employed for the next 30 years.) I mean, I know I said I wanted to buy a house within a year or two, but who knew that I'd actually DO it?!? We all know how impossible this would have been in L.A.

When I first started looking for a place to buy a few months ago (instigated by the sighting of a "Little Pink" house for sale), I thought it would make for a great series of blogs. But it turns out that this has all happened so quickly there was no time for a series. In fact, I first stepped inside my new home less than 2 months ago. My friend Brandt was helping me check some places out and the moment we pulled up he said, "Hmm. Very 'Rancho Deluxe.'" And so a new home was named. And bid on. And counter-offered on. And bought & sold in less than 7 weeks. Sheer insanity as only I know how to do, because my first thought was, "It's perfect."

In the midst of all the negotiating and fretting, my grandfather passed away & it gave me the opportunity to reflect on what a home really means. It's strange to think that I will probably never see my grandparents' house again. My dad and aunt grew up in that house, and my family spent nearly every Thanksgiving & Christmas there. It's the neighborhood my sister & I went trick-or-treating in.
My cousins were always there for the holidays, too, and that's what my memories gravitate toward. I remember playing duck-duck-goose with them on the front lawn & picking cherries off the tree in the backyard. My cousins taught me the only card games I know (War, Go Fish, & Slapjack) in my grandparents' living room. One of my school friends lived right down the street, as did my great aunt Ginny. And I remember my grandfather's ancient green Ford truck sitting in front of the house, complete with its perpetual "Old Car" scent of oil and sunburnt vinyl seats, & their dog Fred waddling around on the grass.

My maternal grandparents also had a wonderful house in New Jersey that I will never see again. It was a renovated coach house for a mansion--a building that once stored carriages, stabled horses, and housed valets. It was a mile into the woods--the end of the line--and the 6-bedroom structure with a gymnasium and outdoor pool at one point or another sheltered 3 generations of my family. My aunt & uncle converted the stables into an apartment. It was the setting of numerous birthday parties & a clambake or two. One time we found a secret room behind a closet, & when I was ready to have my own room at 6 years old, all I had to do was pick from among the 4 empty ones across the hall & shuffle my stuff over. I still remember my mother catching me mid-move & asking incredulously, "What are you doing???" My reply: "I'm moving out." (Moving was much easier then.) It was absolutely heartbreaking to learn that something I had such strong ties to was razed by the current owners, to be replaced by a garage for their car collection.

The architectural theorist Witold Rybcynski wrote, "'Inhabiting' does not only mean living within. It means occupying--infusing a particular site with our presence, and not only our activities & physical possessions, but also with our aspirations & dreams. We live in a house, and in the process we make it alive." I know whoever purchases my grandfather's house will not realize or care about the dreams and the breadth of life that dwelled there, just as the couple who bought the coach house didn't. It feels sad, but it is, after all, just another cycle of life. That's what memories are for.

I'm guilty of the same thing in regards to Big Pink & Rancho Deluxe. My sentiments are completely independent of what the houses & former tenants experienced before I arrived. Lest anyone doubt it, rest assured that I will miss Big Pink. Houses rarely come with the type of character that Pink has honed to a perfection(?) over the last hundred years. I couldn't even start packing until I knew who was moving in after me. But when I discovered a new species of insector gigantus in my bathroom the other night that not even the cats would mess with, I knew I'd made the right decision.

And while Rancho Deluxe may not be as grand as the six-bedroom coach house my mom grew up in, or as classic as the three-bedroom home my dad grew up in, hopefully one day it, too, will know generations of stories.

"The ideal home is one in which the family may be most completely sheltered to develop in love, graciousness and individuality, and which is at the same time most accessible to friends, toward whom hospitality is as unconscious and spontaneous as it is abundant."
--Charles Keeler, The Simple Home

Friends and Family, you're always welcome at Rancho Deluxe.

It's snowing! ... Why am I outside?

2006-03-30T14:19:00.000-08:00

When I decided to move from L.A. to Colorado, I knew I would have to sacrifice a few things, namely dancing and 90 degree Februarys. Quite frankly, I had no idea how I would handle my first full-length winter in 15 years. My first approach to the situation was to move here in the summer, thus giving myself a few months to work up to coldness. I figured if I attempted to move here in the fall, winter would be too much of a shock to my system and I'd want to turn right around.

However, I've surprised even myself this time. Despite my trepidation about cold weather and my love of all places tropical, I've actually enjoyed this "new" season and have handled it quite cheerily. Granted it's been a very mild winter with little snow, but a baby step is still a step. And against all possible odds, chances are you might even find me out and about on a snowy day.

Why? Why would I do such a thing? Snow's something to be best admired from the inside looking out. It's what you hope will close schools and work. It's wet & cold & you have to be protected against it & shovel it.

But let me ask you this... have you ever gone skiing?

I thought that I would go skiing maybe once or twice this year. (I've been 9 times.) I thought I would be the only person in Telluride without my own skis. (What do you think ebay's for?) I didn't get too excited about the annual Ski Swap. (Wait until next year!) I thought I would save my money for better pursuits. (Not a chance.)

It all began on Christmas Day... I had planned on sleeping in, sitting around in my pj's, and watching movies. It was a good plan. I was very happy about it. Then a friend of mine convinced me to go skiing with him Christmas morning. Not at noon, or anything reasonable like that, but as soon as the lifts opened at 9am. I spent about an hour of that morning muttering to myself, "What am I doing up this early? Why am I outside? How am I supposed to get my foot into this stupid boot?" Then I hit the slopes.

I went down that bunny hill probably 15 times and didn't fall once, and my interest in skiing was instantly rekindled. I'd skiied some in high school, but only 2 or 3 times since then, and dang, was it fun! I went every chance I got this year and did a pretty good job of keeping my skis attached to my feet. My friends took me up and gave me pointers and helped me down the intermediate slopes. When Rob Corddry & Ed Helms were here for the Comedy Fest, I even understood the jokes they made about the ski runs. I feel like a true Telluride local.

I still have a lot of improving to do, though. For one thing, I need to work on cutting down my preparation time. By the time I get the snow pants, hat, gloves, mittens, scarf, sunscreen, goggles, boots, and skis on, I'm exhausted. I can barely make it to the chair lift let alone contemplate skiing for the next 3 hours.

And I kinda wish I had a big sign to wear on my back that says, "Beginner." That way the folks coming down the hill behind me at 50 miles an hour would know that I'm prone to erratic turning, using up the entire width of the slope, and falling without provocation. Come to think of it, I should probably wear one on the front of me, too, so the people I'm heading toward know to get out of the way.

So I'm beginning to look at snow as a "good" thing. It's nice here--we haven't gotten any full-on blizzards this year like they get in the east. It's more like the snowfall that you see in Christmas movies: quiet, gentle, and beautiful. And it makes people around here smile from ear-to-ear. (For you L.A. folks, imagine the freeway on a Monday morning with NO traffic--it's that kind of smile.) And now I can smile right along with them....

Top of See Forever:

Bobbie, Bo, me, & Jim

Luci & me

L - O - V - E

2006-02-01T10:33:00.000-08:00

This can't be love
Because I feel so well!
No sobs, no sorrows, no sighs.
This can't be love,
I get no dizzy spells.
My head is not in the skies.
My heart does not stand still,
Just hear it beat!
This is too sweet
To be love!
-Rodgers & Hart

Valentine's Day is just around the corner, and for single folks it can be the most wretched holiday of the year. All the flowers & stuffed animals with hearts & giant sappy cards & boxes of chocolate & jewelry--all meant for everybody but you. Even the hardware store is showcasing Valentine presents. As Snoopy would say,

The longer you're single, the more you come to appreciate your friends & family and start celebrating them on V-Day. They're usually more deserving of the attention then a boyfriend or girlfriend, and it helps you walk past the shop windows without feeling queasy.

This year's going to be different for me, though, because I'm in love. You heard me: love love love love love. There's a bounce in my step, there's a smile on my face, there's a warm, mushy feeling in my heart. I can feel myself glowing. And if you pass by me on the street, you might just hear me say, "I love you," out loud to... nobody.

That's right, I've finally cracked. I wander the streets of Telluride and Norwood muttering to myself. Actually, it turns out that I'm saying, "I love you," to the mountains & sky & trees & river. I'm in love with a place--this place. I want to twirl around on the mountaintop like Maria Von Trapp.
I want to blow kisses at the peaks. I want to hug the bear who ran in front of my car, even though it scared the crap out of me. I want to lavish treats on the elk who pooped on my lawn, even though it forced me to do some shoveling.

I sound like I've crossed over the reality line into Broadway Musical Nirvana, don't I? Unbelievably saccharin, isn't it? Well, you know what? I don't care because I'm in L-O-V-E. So just suck it up and join me in celebrating this Valentine's Day by loving a mountain or a beach or lake or a cluster of stars or a grove of trees or a rock. You may be surprised at how good it makes you feel!

Love is...
...ice skating with a bright blue sky above you
...seeing the entire Milky Way twinkling
...considering 10 cars to be a "traffic jam"
...never knowing what you're going to hear next on the radio
...watching snow fall gently outside your window
...pro-skier friends sticking by you on the easy trails
...garland twining up the street lamps at Christmas time
...strangers who say "hello" with a genuine smile
...wading through snow in your brand new black & pink snow boots
...a sun-drenched bench on Main Street
...New Year's Eve in front of the Courthouse
...a top-notch library with late hours, cool events, and great staff
...leaving your car and home unlocked without anxiety
...no fast food for 50 miles
...local business proprietors who invite you to spend Christmas with their family
...an office kitty (even if she does have bad breath)
...folks who help you push your car out of the snow
...nothing but independent bookstores and coffee shops
...good neighbors
...Young People's Theater
...friendly dogs on every block
...bus rides that only cost $1 and make special stops for you
...a crystal-clear winding river
...a small town that raises more money for AIDS Education than most major cities
...big pink houses
...alpenglow
...Bear Creek Falls
...some of the world's best musicians playing in your town park
...a big porch with a rocking chair
...red cliffs covered with green pines and white snow
...watching movies at The Nugget

(Sound of Music "photo" courtesy of Jim Williams)

Hangin' with da Homies (And Other Holiday Treats)

2005-12-23T16:42:00.000-08:00

Christmas day will
Always be,
Just as long as
We have we!

-"How The Grinch Stole Christmas"

You know your life has changed when snow boots & long underwear are at the top of your Christmas list, as opposed to the "I Didn't Ask For Them & Now I Have To Look Thrilled To Have Them" list. And you know your life's changed when you can't wait until Christmas to open said items and immediately start trying them all on. And you know your life's changed when people describe the 40 degree weather as "balmy"... and you agree.

Yes, winter has landed in Norwood. Our very first snow lasted 18 hours--quite a magnificent show. All the lights are strung on the houses. Telluride's lights are beautifully subtle--a virtual Winter Wonderland. Quite a change from the garish displays of Hollywood and the Third Street Promenade. And as quickly as the winter has come, so have "The Holidays." Every year it's a devilishly fast time of baking, buying, wrapping, and visiting. This year is no different, with the exception of the cold, wet, white stuff outside the window and under my feet. I'm sad, though, because I have to retire my beloved Converse sneakers for the winter. (Good thing I just got snowboots!)

Dancing lured me back to Los Angeles the weekend before Thanksgiving for 3 crazy days. There literally weren't enough hours in the day to see everybody. The hardest thing about being in L.A. was sitting in traffic. The 2nd hardest thing was realizing how much I miss my girlfriends. Not that I don't miss my male friends (because I do), and not that I don't have great female friends here (because I do), but there ain't nothin' like single, thirty-something ladies to hang with. I love 'em, and I wish I could pack up every one of them and move them out here with me.

After running through L.A. at triple-step speed, it was off to New Jersey for a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat with the family. (And I had another Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat with friends when I got back to Norwood. Ummmm... turkey... )I dragged my mom all over NYC for a day--first to Harlem for a Malcolm X exhibit at the Schomberg, then to the Met for an amazing Van Gogh exhibit, and finally to Carnegie Hall to see Arlo Guthrie. (It's the 40th anniversary of "Alice's Restaurant," you know!)

Now, we all know that I'm the only person crazy enough to drive a Christmas tree across 400 miles of wind-blown desert.

Yes... I did.

The extra time it took to get home from Flagstaff due to the added 50 pound drag on my car--plus the hour it took just to get the tree in its stand--gave me plenty of time to re-think the option I had chosen. I started making a list of questions I should have probably asked myself before I bought the tree, such as:

1.) How heavy is it?(Meaning: will I be able to lift it by myself when I get home?)
2.) How wide is my door?
3.) How high is my ceiling?
4.) Will it fit in my tree stand?
5.) Was it really worth it to buy the cheap tree stand?
6.) Will my tree-inflicted wounds heal by Christmas?
7.) Am I too old for this shit? (Answer: Not nearly)
8.) Where are my ex-boyfriends when I really need them?
9.) Is it acceptable to go to bed with pine tar in your hair & needles in your ears?
10.) When do the artificial trees go on sale?
11.) How many spare vacuum bags do I have?
12.) Do I really need a fresh pine scent in my home?
13.) What will be the pet-to-tree water ratio?
14.) Is the Hanukkah Bush a better, safer alternative?
15.) After 35 consecutive years of viewing, why have I not learned Charlie Brown's lesson that the smallest, scrawniest tree is the best? (Also it's 40th Anniversary!)

Despite all the drama of the tree this year, I do have to say that it looks marvelous in the bay window of my living room. Now if I could only find that 1 bulb that made half a strand of lights go out...

In closing, I'd like to wish you all a Merry Christmas & Happy Hanukkah and thank you not only for the love and support you've given me this year in particular, but throughout the years.

Girlfriends, this is for you:

On every page, you will know how much I love you.
In every line, you will see how much I care.
With every word, we will grow a little closer,
Even though we both know I can't be there.
That's why I'm writing it down...
It's for you, and for me,
And the whole wide world to read...
Writing it down.
--Uncle Kracker, "Writing It Down"

Ma Vie En Rose

2005-10-29T13:13:00.000-07:00

Yeah, color me pink. In fact, this time of year you can color me blue, white, yellow, and green, too.

Fall is astounding here, if short-lived. (Only about 6 weeks in Telluride!) A virtual sensory overload. You know the first day of fall instinctively. You feel a difference in the air--a certain crispness, even if the temperature is the same as the day before. You feel the change on your skin and in your lungs. And coupled with that is the unnameable, yet unmistakeable, smell of leaves falling.

In the fall, the air here is an unbelievable blue. Unhampered by heat or pollution, it's just pure, solid, deep, breath-taking, unreal. People have looked at my photos and asked, "Is the sky really that blue?" Yes, Virginia, it is. No need for lens filters or Photoshop here.

Underneath this striking expanse of blue are the snow-capped mountains, the bright green pine trees, and the "quaking" aspen, which manage to change their leaves from green to chartruese to gold in less than 2 weeks. Unlike the east coast where the leaves change to a variety of colors, here almost everything turns bright gold. When the wind blows through them, they flutter to the ground like golden confetti. [On a side note, did you know that aspens clone themselves?]

These stunning colors shine not only in Telluride. Every morning the sun hits Norwood just right, and the meadows sprinkled with sheep, cows, and horses turn a luminous wheaty-gold color. The weekends were so beautiful this past month that I started taking bike rides around Norwood. (It's flatter than Telluride, so I can get farther.) Just me, my 35-year old knees, and my 22-year old Sears Free Spirit 10-speed. The landscape reminds me of where I grew up in New Jersey, except for the mountains and canyons.

One day I was walking my bike up a hill and eventually noticed that an elk with huge antlers had been quietly watching me from no more than 10 feet away. He was so still he could have been a statue. I was surprised, to say the least. You never know what you're going to run into out here.

And then, of course, there's Pink. She sits stoicly on Main Street, once imposing, now fading. She can be a cranky old lady sometimes (but who wouldn't at 112 years?). Anything I try to do in that house takes 2-3 times longer than it should, including hanging pictures and getting the TV set up. And it's amusing to me how I'm now drawn instinctively to a color that I spent at least 25 years shunning. I suddenly seem to have found myself with pink bags, shoes, shirts, pajamas, rooms--you name it, I probably have it in pink.

But it's the November now and life is taking a turn. As I walked under the light-gray snowing skies the other day, everything seemed muted. The dusting of snow on the pines turned them a blueish hue, and the now leafless aspens are just large, dull brown patches covering the hillsides. The golden leaves covering the ground are turning brown with rot. And I realized that the showy display of Fall is not just happenstance. It's an bold slap in the face to make you sit up and really take notice of its beauty--burn it into your brain so the memory of it can carry you through the dreary days of off-season, until the snow arrives in full force to dazzle our socks off. One Last Hurrah, you might say.

I'm still hoping for a few more nice bicycling days in Norwood. Even on the main highway there's very little traffic, and I always end up riding further than I plan. It provides a great space for contemplation and time to simply see. And after every ride when I return to Big Pink tired, yet exhilarated, I come to the same conclusion -- I need a softer bike seat.

A little poem...

PINK (in brief)

Peeling paint.
Broken steps.
Spider webs.

Musty smell.
Soulless kitchen.
Dark root cellar.

Rough dirty walls.
Cock-eyed doorways.
Windows swelled shut.

You are so beautiful to me.

Weathering the Weather

2005-09-24T15:53:00.000-07:00

It rained all night
The day I left--
The weather it was dry.
The sun so hot
I froze to death.
Susannah, don't you cry.
-"Old Susannah" folk song, Stephen Foster

"If you don't like the weather in Colorado, wait 15 minutes."
-ancient Chinese proverb

The first time I ever came to Telluride I thought, "Colorado. Mountains. Cold." And while the wool socks and sweatshirts were perfect for the cool evenings, I was sweltering during the 85 degree days.

The second time I came to Telluride I thought, "Colorado. 9,000 feet closer to the sun. Hot." Needless to say, my suitcase of t-shirts and shorts was hardly sufficient for the windy, rainy afternoons and 40 degree nights. My one sweatshirt & 2 pairs of jeans got a lot of wear that weekend.

Since then, whenever anyone asks me what to pack for Telluride, I just say, "Everything." T-shirts & sneakers for the early afternoon, raincoat & boots for the late afternoon, sweaters, jacket, long underwear, hat, scarf, & mittens for the nights. A typical summer day is high 80s, low 40s, and afternoon showers. And let's not forget a chance of snow. Now do you still wonder why I had to pack the car full just to spend 2 weeks here? Pack everything.

I see more weather in a single day here than you would see in 5 years in Southern California. For instance, here was the weather for Sept. 21, 2005 (the 1st day of fall, no less):

4am: severe storm with thunder so loud it sounded like it was in my backyard
7am: 60 degrees (i.e., warm), overcast skies
10am: downpour, chilly
noon: sunny & warm
12:30pm: downpour, chilly, snow suddenly appears on mountaintops
5:30pm: sunny & warm
6pm: sunny & raining, moderate temp., rainbow sighting
7pm: sunny, no rain, very cold
9pm: thunder so loud you can hear it in the movie theatre, no rain
10pm: amazing lightning that causes frequent momentary blindness, no rain
10:30pm: downpour
10:40pm: dry road, warm (55 degrees)

In grammar school they told us the song "Old Susannah" was a "nonsense" song. My teachers had obviously never been to Telluride. It makes perfect sense to me now--I've lived it.

I'm rapidly becoming acclimated, though. I have an umbrella stashed in all strategic places (work, home, car). The other night I got home about 11pm and was ecstatic because it was 55 degrees--warm enough to open my bedroom window again. If it hit 55 degrees in L.A., I'd turn on the heat and pull out an extra blanket.

And one of the most enjoyable aspects of the frequently changing weather is a plethora of rainbows. It is not uncommon for it to be pouring at one end of this small valley & have sunny blue skies at the other end. A few weeks ago I saw something that not only had I never seen before, but never even thought to look for--a "moonbow." I was driving home at night, it was raining, and the full moon was out. And then there it was--a pale blue arch across the sky. Simply astounding.

No matter how much you know about the science of light, it cannot detract from the total miracle and wonder of rainbows. Every single one is perfectly beautiful. Every one fills you with delight. Here people stop for 5 or 10 minutes in the middle of the sidewalk to enjoy a rainbow, even if they've seen a hundred of them. Even if they have to stand in the rain. They do the same thing when the alpenglow turns the mountains purple. Everyone just stops where they are to catch a fleeting glimpse of beauty, whether they've been here 10 years or a day.

Dorothy sang about finding someplace better over the rainbow, but here the best place is under it.

2-32-14: The History of a Momentous Decision

2005-09-10T15:31:00.000-07:00

I spent my Month Two Telluride Anniversary in a blur of light and darkness as the 32nd Telluride Film Festival came & went, as it does every Labor Day weekend. But this past weekend was not just my 2nd month celebration--it was also my 14th anniversary of setting foot here.

Once upon a time I was quite young & in college when a friend came up to me at a party and said, "Cindy, go to the Telluride Film Festival with me!" "The what?" was my response. Followed by: "I don't have the time or money to go to some podunk [I actually used that word] town in Colorado with you." Chris then explained to me about the student program, where all you had to do was write an essay & get a professor to sign off on it to get a pass. I was still skeptical, but at some point the mind reasoned, "What have I got to lose?"

I wrote my essay (on The Outsiders), I sent in my application, & I was accepted into the 18th Telluride Film Festival Student Symposium! (It's a mouthful, I know.) In the process of making my travel & housing (read "camping") arrangements, I learned that my friend never got around to sending in his app. So not only was I going somewhere I never had any intention of going, but I was going alone.

On August 29, 1991, I set foot on Colorado ground for the first time in my life. I had just turned 21. I flew into Durango, which was the smallest airport I had ever seen. In seeking the baggage claim area, I walked right out the other side of the building. I went back in & finally saw that it was just a belt coming out of the wall. There might as well have been powered by hamsters on treadmills. And I waited there for 2 hours. I was starting to get uneasy, wondering if my shuttle to Telluride would ever show up.

When the film fest shuttle finally did arrive, my name wasn't on the passenger list. Luckily, everyone was willing to squish & make room for me and my ragtag camping gear. (I think they could sense that I was about to have a tearful breakdown.) And it was starting to rain. Rain is an omen.

Our minivan driver was so excited to see her old staff friends that as we were leaving the airport she took a curve too fast and came horrifyingly close to plowing into a street sign. My unease gave way to fear.

Then about 10 minutes outside of Durango (keep in mind it's a 2.5 hour trip) the driver--still excited about her friends--failed to notice a HUGE rock in the road and blew a tire running over it. We were in the middle of nowhere, populated only by a creepy "Psycho"-esque motel called Chips, and that's where we remained for the next 2 hours while someone went into town for a new tire. Chip's had the best Cream of Broccoli EVER. But I was beginning to feel my trip was ill-fated.

By the time I finally got to Telluride that night it was pitch black and I was in no mood to set up camp. I stayed at the Oak Street Inn, with no sense of what I'd walked into.

I didn't know it at the time, but the next morning's sunrise changed my life. I spent the weekend watching films, hiking, eating at the Floradora, and making new friends. As I was being driven back to the airport, I distinctly remember gazing out the window & saying to myself, "I'll be back. I don't know how or when, but it's got to happen." My heart already missed Telluride.

I have now spent 15 consecutive Labor Days here, and then some. I still love seeing my friends pile into town by the busload. And I'm still very sad when they all have to go back home after an impossibly long but too short weekend. But at least this year I won't have to be sad that I'm leaving, too.

Anatomy of a Month

2005-08-15T17:20:00.000-07:00

So there I was on the anniversary of my first month in Colorado sitting in Town Park, basking in the occasional sun, drinking a beer, listening to some of the world's best jazz musicians, and thinking, "This is how life should be." I remember thinking that at the Jackson Browne concert in the park 3 weeks ago. I remember thinking that 4 weeks ago when I went on a hike with the Nature Conservancy and was sitting on top of a mountain eating my lunch, listening to the overflowing waterfalls, and gazing across a field of alpine flowers. And I remember thinking that 5 weeks ago, when after driving for 10 straight hours, I passed the "Welcome To Colorado" sign.

What a feeling to be constantly reminded that life is good, rather than constantly wondering where the good parts went. Even as it was raining that weekend there was joy in sitting under my umbrella with 500 other people. When it started pouring in the middle of her set, vocalist Lizz Wright asked, "So what do all you mountain people do when it starts raining on your concert? Do you keep singing?" A resounding "Yes!" went up from the soggy field. That would have never happened in L.A.--everyone would have been bitchy and miserable.

I'll admit that panic started to slowly seep in on Day 15 when I still hadn't secured a full-time job. And then there was Day 16 when I ran over my cell phone, effectively turning it into recycling material. And Day 17, when I realized my home phone was disconnected and there was smoke billowing down the road from the wildfire that was only 5 miles away.

But on Day 21 I was offered a great job, which I jumped at. And on Day 30 I was offered an even better job, which I couldn't possibly refuse. So it's been an interesting month. I've made some new friends and I've upset some people, but I believe in the end it will all work out for the best. (And I'd like to give a huge thanks to Jim Bedford and Luci Reeve for doing so much to help me get settled and employed!)

What's interesting is this "Quality-of-Life Upgrade" has nothing to do with working less, but with the prevailing attitude of Telluride. I still have 2 jobs, which is not unusual in this town. But while people are willing to work hard here, it is with the understanding that there must be time to play. People move to Telluride because they love these mountains and all they have to offer--both in the winter & summer. If you want to be part of a rat race, you can do it someplace else. There's really no point in working so hard to stay here if you can't take a few hours every week to really appreciate what lured you here in the first place.

Working for the Telluride Jazz Celebration has been a blessing for me this month. Not only did my staff pass allow me to enjoy 2 beautiful (if stormy) days in the park, but it got me into the Jackson Browne concert, which I was dying to go to. And the 2 beers I had at the concert forced me to conquer my fear of Port-a-Potties. Baby steps.

Next on the agenda: going into the root cellar... alone.

"Are you in earnest? Then seize this very minute. Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Only engage and then the mind grows healed; only begin, and then the goal will be completed."
--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The Little Things

2005-07-22T16:33:00.000-07:00

When I moved back to the country I knew I would have to deal with wildlife. I expect birds, rabbits, porcupines, skunks, deer, elk, and bear all to cross my path at some point. What I was not prepared to deal with were the little things--the bugs.

I can handle a lot of unsightly creatures--snakes, rodents, BMWs--but I can't do bugs. Man, do they gross me out and they always have. The single most torturous moment of high school was having to do an insect collection for biology class. I tried to get out of it. I tried to explain to Mr. Webb that it was physically impossible for me to complete the assignment and could I please do something else, but he was deaf to my pleas. (He may actually have been deaf, period.)

God bless my parents. The night before the project was due they were piecing together parts of dead crickets and capturing moths out of the front porch lights because just looking at the creatures made me want to throw up, let alone having to touch them. That was one raggedy insect collection.

Now I know there are people out there who will want to say, "Insects are an important part of the cycle of life," and "They'll be around long after mankind has been extinguished," and "We're all God's creatures." Save your breath. I don't care. And I don't care about distinguishing between insects and arachnids. They're ugly and I hate them all.

Yet, I'm not a bug squisher either. For one thing, I don't want ugly bug guts all over my shoes, floors, or walls. For another thing, I don't have the heart of a squisher (unless it's a cockroach--they're the ugliest of them all). I know they didn't ask to be born & I know they can't help being grotesque. Nobody can. So usually I turn my back & pretend I didn't see them & hope they had the good sense to realize what a lucky break they got & leave the premises.

I only make 2 exceptions to my Bug Rule--butterflies (as long as I don't look at them too closely, and definitely NOT moths) & ladybugs. Ladybugs are the only insect I will voluntarily let touch me. I don't know why--I guess I just like their little red wings.

When I got to Big Pink there were bugs EVERYWHERE--and not a butterfly or ladybug among them. There were dead flies on the windowsills, ancient cobwebs all over the house, and hundreds of moths. My first week here I saw 5 different types of spiders. It was like I had been selected for the Home Edition of Wild Kingdom.

I killed so many earwigs that at one point I literally said to myself, "If I see one more earwig I'm going to scream." The next night I came home late and thought it strange that my porch looked like it was moving. Turned out there were at least 50 earwigs there, reveling in the basil plants I had set out. I didn't scream, but I wanted to. I was so enraged that I wanted to jump up & down & smash them all. But then I just felt totally defeated & meekly stepped over them and tried desperately to erase the sight of them from my mind.

I feel like this is my epic battle, and I'm determined to win. If I have to hose down my house every Sunday, I will. If I have to invest in Raid stock, I will. It's the Battle of Big Pink, and heaven help any 6+ -legged creature that crosses my threshold, because I'm sending the cats after them!

10 Feet & 19 Hours: Misconceptions & Miscalculations About Moving

2005-07-11T16:21:00.000-07:00

Having never undertaken a move of this scale before, you can understand that I was bound to make a few mistakes and miscalculations...

1. I have an average amount of items for someone of my age, income, and social status.
OK, so we all know this is just flat-out denial. Luckily I have 2 very intelligent & generous parents who took one look at my piles of boxes & ordered a bigger truck (even though it cost over twice as much).

2. There's not much difference between 15 feet and 25 feet.
The difference is: a nightstand, 3 tables, 1 queen size bed, 20 rolled posters, 2 scratching posts, 2 sewing machines, 4 kitchen chairs, 6 cases of water, 1 couch, & 20 small boxes.

3. Your pets love you unconditionally.
My cats tried to give me the benefit of the doubt for the first 3 hours of the drive. Then they just gave me the stinkeye.

4. Cats don't care where they go as long as they're with you.
I no longer believe this. Sophie literally stayed under the covers for 4 days and is just now checking out a few things around the house. (Grace only stayed under the covers for 2 days.)

5. Time is universal.
Q: If a Toyota Corolla with 2 cats is traveling at 80mph & a 25' moving van is traveling at 65mph, at what point does the Corolla's driver realize that her parents won't make the trip in the 14 hours she averages?
A: Utah

6. Strength of emotional attachment to a place is directly proportional to number of years residing there.
Panorama City sucks. On the other hand, I fell in love with Big Pink before I ever laid eyes on her. Go Pink!

7. My house will be sparkling clean & ready for my arrival.
That was actually more of a hope than an expectation. In reality, the place hadn't been touched in many months (years, in some spots) & someone had broken one of the porch steps. On a scale of 1 to 10, the gross-out factor was a solid 7. I'm thinking of nominating my mom for sainthood for cleaning the bathroom floor & the kitchen. My dad, meanwhile, made sure I remained a mortal by fixing the woodstove that had been put together wrong, supplying fresh air by releasing my painted windows, & checking the root cellar for any evidence of the Worm Lady.

8. I'll feel like a True Blue Coloradan as soon as I get there.
I didn't cry the entire trip until I crossed the Colorado State Line. It's definitely where I'm supposed to be at this moment, but I feel like an imposter. A Californian in Coloradan's clothing. Right now I feel like I won't be a true Coloradan until I know everyone in Norwood & at least 1/2 of Telluride. (And until my local number works!) That my take a while...

9. It will be good for me to not have to go to work right away.
You know, most people learn to enjoy unemployment. Not me. If I don't have a steady job to go to, I panic. Don't get me wrong--I'm busy. I've got a ton of cleaning, painting, and unpacking to do. But I need to be steady on someone else's payroll or I'll go crazy.

10. I'm an independent spirit & won't be lonely.
When I said good-bye to my folks at the airport, that was the lonliest I'd felt in a long time. Being cut off from the world due to lack of phone and internet service doesn't help, but I'm going to work on meeting 1 new person a day. And I've always got my chocolate cake lady to say "hi" to (except on weekends & holidays).

I can never thank my mom & dad, Jenny, Carolina, & Phil enough for helping load and unload the MegaVan. There's NO way I could have done it without you.

Love you all and miss you!!!

p.s. Fourth of July was a blast! Check out the pictures below!

Men Without Rhythm:
(That's Norman Schwarzkopf in the khaki, judging the parade.)

Belles of Popcorn Alley (featuring my new manager, Luci!):

The cover of a magazine,
nothing but a paper dream
Just another fantasy for sale
Telling me what I need,
what I should do
Who I should be
That stuff don't matter to me at all

The sky is blue and
the sun is shining
I feel like a bum
with a pocket full of diamonds
I'm free as a bird
and my spirit's flyin'
And that's enough to keep me
Smilin'

Guru man on my TV set
Selling the secrets to happiness
1-800-Change your life today
Dreams I've got my own
I ain't looking for
a yellow brick road
I'm just gonna go
my own way.

--"Smilin'," Tim McGraw

Chaos, Panic & Disorder

2005-06-23T14:19:00.000-07:00

"Chaos, panic, disorder... my work here is done."
So the saying goes, but so far only the 1st part of the statement is applicable to my life at this moment. I have 8 days left, and about 38 items left on my "Things To Do" list (none of which, by the way, include packing). I feel like a whirling dervish of insanity, which is actually a good thing because it makes what's waiting for me look that much better--a quiet house, a town that actually sleeps at night, green grass, no traffic.

I did manage to knock a couple of things off my "Things To Do Before I Leave L.A." list. Two weeks ago I went to the Magic Castle with my friends Stacey, Ken, and Bryan. The magicians (and the company!) were great that night. My favorite magicians were Gregory Wilson & Shawn McMaster. I was even an assistant for Shawn! A big thanks to Steve Moyer for helping make such a wonderful night possible!

Frankie Manning, 6/11/05

Shout 'n' Feel It

I also participated in my 1st Southern California-based swing camp--Swing Camp Pasadena. 91-year old Frankie Manning came by to teach some fancy moves, and there was a fabulous Swedish troupe--Shout 'n' Feel It--who put on at least 2 shows that weekend. (You can see some of their amazing performances here.) I danced from Friday night through Sunday night, and I was exhausted! But it was worth every minute!

And last Monday Jenny took me to Disneyland!!! We spent the day in California Adventure Park, which I had never seen, and hit the classics at night: Haunted Mansion, Pirates of the Caribbean, Indiana Jones, and the Jungle Cruise. The 50th Anniversary fireworks show was fantastic! And we had an incredible dinner at the Napa Rose restaurant in the Grand Californian Hotel.

On a much sadder note, my friend (& mechanic) Ryan Ito passed away suddenly at the too-tender age of 55. (You can find him listed in my very 1st blog under things I love about L.A.) He was a great guy--unbelievably hard-working & honest, with a great sense of humor & compassion. I'm so glad I got to tell him just last month about a disagreement my friend Fred and I were having over whose mechanic was best. Turns out we were both talking about Ryan. I'm really going to miss him.

This is going to be my last blog before I move. There's a total crunch on time right now, so once I get to Colorado I'll be able to reminisce more fully on my good friends, my good-bye dinner, and my last dance.

Onward and upward!

Learning To Soar (Part II)

2005-06-06T17:57:00.000-07:00

A soul in tension that's learning to fly
Condition grounded but determined to try
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I
...
There's no sensation to compare with this
Suspended animation, A state of bliss
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I
--Pink Floyd

"Rock back right. Step straight forward left. Left hand grabs his right shoulder. Swing your legs up. Don't collapse your arm! When you come over his head make sure you spot the ground. Land with both feet." Congratulations! You've just completed a helicopter.

The general rule of thumb is that as you get older you tend to settle down, stay more firmly rooted in place, and learn to see risk as "danger" as opposed to "adventure." But there are some who never stop wanting to fly. We can't wait to ride the latest, fastest roller coaster and we envy trapeze artists and astronauts. Earth is OK, but space is where it's really at.

Most dancers are pretty content to stay on the ground because the right partner can make you feel as weightless as a cloud. But there is a level of swing dancing known as "aerials" where the dancers strive for that atmospheric realm. You can usually catch a few aerials in the big dance numbers in films--a girl being thrown in the air or somersaulting around her partner's waist or diving through his legs--but you don't see it too often on the dance floor anymore.

After 3 years of dance lessons, I was itching to take the plunge. When I heard that a local dancer was looking for a new aerials partner, I figured it must be fate. I went to my 1st aerials class with some trepidation, not really knowing what I had gotten myself into this time. The teachers--Kim Clever & David Frutos--didn't seem too concerned about my being a total newbie and suggested I try a helicopter my first time out. Trying to sound cool and collected I said, "Sounds good. What's that?" "It's just a flip over his head."

*Zoinks!* A flip over his head?!? Were they crazy?!? Did they see how tall he was?!? I'm sure I told them I was a beginner! Well, the good news is that Kim & David are professionals and they were able to break down the move for me easily & almost painlessly. And the other good news is that within 45 minutes I was soaring through the air, attached only remotely to the ground through Herb.

Have you ever gotten on a swing after the age of 25 and jumped off mid-air? If so, you'll know exactly how I felt when I first went airborne. As a kid it seems so natural to fly, but as an adult your stomach lurches and your old-lady brain tells your body that it shouldn't be there, and then the body panics and scrambles to find it's way back to the ground--all within the space of 3 seconds. It literally feels like the moment when Wile E. Coyote realizes he's stepped off the cliff. I do believe my 1st & only mid-flight word was, "Whoa!"

But I survived it and I loved it, so I keep going back for more. The next mornings are usually the worst--the sore limbs and bruises. I just keep reminding myself that Herb's got it worse than me. He's the one who's got to do all the heavy lifting and take my body slams standing still. And while I wish there was time to learn every aerial ever invented, I am quite grateful for this small opportunity I've been given to fly. I try to remember to spot the ground but I always hope it will take it's time meeting me, because how often do you really get to soar?

What's In a Word: Bravery For Ordinary Folks

2005-05-26T17:56:00.000-07:00

I tend to think of bravery on an epic scale--Oskar Schindler rescuing 900 Jews from Nazi-infested Europe, 4 young African-Americans sitting down at a "white" lunch counter in North Carolina in 1960, or the Tibetan monks and civilians attempting to defend their religion against an invading Chinese army. So I've been very surprised to find people applying that adjective to me. When I talk to people about my move, they invariably say, "You're so brave to be doing this." I never know how to react to this statement because to me there is no fear involved, ergo no bravery to be summoned. To me it's just the right thing to do. I feel like somehow I must be irresponsibly misleading people if they think I'm brave--I have done nothing extraordinary to deserve such a high honor.
"Fearless, 1973"

The next thing people say is, "I could never move somewhere all by myself." So this, perhaps, is the real demon of human existence--people are scared of making life changes without the crutch of another. Separation terrifies them.

I understand attachment. I get emotionally attached to people and animals at the drop of a hat, but I've never been one to not do something simply because no one else wanted to. If I had spent my life waiting for someone to join me, I would have never gone to France when I was in high school, or to San Diego for college, or shown up in Telluride in 1991 for the film festival. What wonderful people and places I would have missed!
"Fearless in France, 1987"

So to those of you who think I'm brave, I humbly thank you, but I feel the praise is misplaced. Please believe that you have just as much access to that strength as I do. It's just a matter of following your heart.

I'm in Telluride right now and things have been going well for me this week. I secured a great place to live--3 bedroom, 1 bath, backyard, big kitchen, and 2 living rooms! There's more than enough room for me, my 2 cats, 2000 books, and as many beloved friends and family members as possible. (And visitors will definitely help take the lonely sting out of the bravery!) I also started learning film projection (something I've wanted to learn for years) in preparation for one of my new jobs at the esteemed Nugget Theatre.

And I was so happy when I got my Colorado plates the other day that I just wanted to walk around town showing them to everybody. (And don't think I didn't!) I feel like a life I've dreamed of living for 15 years is finally blooming. I wouldn't call it a consequence of being brave, just a lot of good fortune.
"Fearless in Telluride, 1993"

Topanga Canyon, May 10, 2005

2005-05-10T12:20:00.000-07:00

It snakes and twists
In its own natural rhythm
Antithetic to speed

It starts low
Then goes high
And meets the sea

It is my guilty pleasure
on days I don’t mind
Being late

Not as spectacular
as Malibu Canyon
but it shines with its own
Enchanting Beauty

Home to Froggy’s and Viggo,
a Santa Fe boxcar,
Hidden Treasures,
and the last remaining hippies

Radio waves cannot pierce
the thick canyon walls,
leaving the singing
To the birds

The wet winter
Has turned the red rocks
Wooly
With a hundred shades of green

Spots of purple and yellow
A little orange
Ending in the endless blue
of the Pacific.

It leaves you with
A Choice:

South to the center of capitalism, a return to “mankind”

or

North to the beautiful coves of Ventura, calling the free spirit.

Starting From Scratch

2005-04-22T12:31:00.000-07:00

It’s been a couple of weeks since my last blog because I’ve been feverishly working on my first piece of furniture. In January I started taking a woodworking class, and the pressure to get a piece built in 10 weeks has been intense, but it’s done. Not great, but not too shabby for my first foray into fine furniture-making.

I get gently teased on a regular basis for my consuming penchant for class-taking. Besides eight years of college and dance classes, in the last 2 or 3 years I’ve also taken classes on sewing, painting, drawing, gardening, and crocheting. It’s been nice living in a city where all of these skills are taught at the community colleges and specialty stores. I still feel like there’s so much more for me to learn, but there is no time or money to take even one more class here.

Part of this obsession can be blamed on my inherent desire to want to learn how to do everything. But there is a slightly darker edge to my class-taking, which I blame on Ray Bradbury. In 2002 Fahrenheit 451 was chosen as Los Angeles’ “One Book, One City” program selection. Having never read this classic tome, the free copy the local library provided me was good incentive for delving into it. Most people know that it is a futuristic story about the evils of book-burning and intolerance without even having to read it, but it hit home in a much harder way for me.

Fahrenheit 451 is about a society that has become so reliant on technology to control every aspect of its existence, that mankind has no idea how to function without it. When the protagonist is discovered to be hiding illegal books, he must flee the city and he finds himself in a land completely foreign to him—the countryside. I started thinking, “What if something happened and we had to resort to living as they did in the 1800s? What if we had to become completely self-reliant?” I know that sounds a bit apocalyptic, but it’s not really a far-fetched question.

As a society, we have become completely reliant on major corporations to provide all of our needs. They provide our clothing, shelter, food, transportation, wages, and energy. Within the last 50 years we have lost our knowledge of how to take care of ourselves. Should something happen—should there be a full-blown energy crisis or mainframe meltdown—people in so-called “undeveloped” countries will be far more likely to survive a crisis then anyone here in the States. As I see it, they are actually ahead of the learning curve, while we are so far behind we don’t even know there’s learning to be done.

The corporations know this, and they are taking us for a ride. They are not people—they’re entities, and they’re greedy and ruthless and oh-so-willing to take advantage of our child-like dependence on them. There is no such thing as appealing to a corporation’s “morality” or “heart.” I highly recommend renting The Corporation. You’ll get a good look at how corporations behave and it might just scare you. Enron is the most notorious example, but it’s just the tip of the iceberg.

The big pink elephant in the room, however, is oil. We love oil, and I’m just as guilty of it as anybody. We love going anywhere we please, anytime we want. But at $2.50/gallon, I’ve started planning my errands and driving routes more carefully. I’ve already decided that my next car will be a hybrid. And it’s not just the United States that’s burning through oil—China and India are slurping it up, too.

Then there’s the fact that oil does not exist in just liquid form. Plastic is made from petroleum. Think you can get through a day without using plastic? Not a chance. Your phone, your computer, your food packaging, your drink bottles, your furniture, your wire coverings, your prescription and shampoo bottles, your toothbrush, your remote control, your car interior, your pens, your CD cases are all made from plastic. Just recently San Francisco proposed a 17¢ charge for each bag that consumers request from supermarkets. I totally support that. I don’t know what to do about plastic. I try to only get paper bags (or no bags) from stores, and I try to reuse plastic cups and containers, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

While I ponder the plastic dilemma, at least I’ve learned how to make my own clothes and furniture and grow my own food. I hope using those skills never has to become a necessity, but at least I’ve got a jumpstart on them if it does. And what I’d like to ask of you, on this day dedicated to celebrating the Earth, is to take a look at Kelpie Wilson’s article “The Green Dream Is Alive.” He’s got a great list of small things we can do to help out both the Earth and ourselves, and a list of website links for more detailed information. And maybe, just maybe, there'll be a class for me in Telluride on how to make snow angels.

Learning To Soar (Part I)

2005-03-29T14:58:00.000-08:00

Back in 2001 I met a fellow at one of my various places of employment named Jeffrey. Everyone talked about what a great dancer Jeffrey was, and Jeffrey is a fabulous dancer. Apparently somewhere around the age of 40 Jeffrey decided to take dance lessons, and a star was born. At the time I met him, he was dancing, on average, 5 to 6 nights a week.

Despite my extreme lack of athletic ability, I was interested in learning how to dance myself. On Jeffrey’s recommendation I started taking salsa lessons at L.A. Dance Experience in Westwood. I enjoyed it, but after a few months I was very eager to try out swing dancing. Although he had never been himself, Jeffrey said the Pasadena Ballroom Dance Association had good word-of-mouth. So I packed up my dance shoes and trekked out there.

Did you know that there is a higher plane of existence right here on this earth? Did you know that there’s a gymnasium in Southern California where no one is judged on looks or weight or fashion sense or social standing or net income? Did you know that there’s a direct connection between your feet, your heart, and your smile?

Friends, let me be the first to testify that dancing is one of the greatest joys of life. The adrenaline rush you get from dancing is so pure and exhilarating that it can just rocket your soul right into space, do a couple of orbits around the solar system, and still leave you with enough energy to do The Shim-Sham at the end of a fifteen-hour day. Simply put, thanks to Jeffrey I stumbled across something that makes me extremely happy.

PBDA was founded in 1983 by sisters Erin and Tami Stevens, and currently they teach classes in various dance six days a week, have a ballroom dance once a month, and swing dances with live bands every Saturday night. I have never met two people who look happier in their employment than Erin and Tami. I have never seen them without smiles on their faces. I have never heard them raise their voice or disparage anyone, and their warm attitudes are an inspiration at the end of every long sixty-hour work week.

The dancers at PBDA are also quite remarkable. What I particularly like is that no one is there to become a competitive dancer. They’re just there to learn how to dance and to enjoy it, free of pressure or bias. I have met so many great people at PBDA, of every background and ability, and they are the ones who keep me coming back week after week. I love when I walk into a dance and see everybody there. They’re dancing and laughing and I barely get a chance to sit down all night and it’s the most amazing thing in the world. (God, why couldn’t high school dances have been like that?!?) I love when they compliment my dancing, even when I step on their toes. I love watching Tami dance with her husband Scott. I love that no matter how rotten a day I’ve had, no matter how tired or down I am, dancing makes all that disappear in a split second. It’s the most unadulterated, undemanding, unrivaled joy I’ve ever known.

I met my friend Jenny at PBDA, and I swear she must be my lucky star. She’s one of the most generous people I’ve ever met. Last year she, our friend Mariah, and I went on a swing dancing cruise to the Caribbean, and she was a large part of making that happen. It was a fantastic trip—we met dancers from all over the world and celebrated the 90th(!) birthday of Frankie Manning, one of the pioneers of the lindyhop. (You can see some pictures of the cruise at flickr.com or through Jenny’s site.)

I especially admire the men in my classes. Every girl on this planet knows what it’s like to try and get a guy to dance. The begging and cajoling and the fake tears, only to find yourself dancing with your girlfriends to “I Will Survive” at every wedding (because they couldn’t get their boyfriends to dance, either). Yet here are these fellows, every week, who have overcome every male hang-up about dancing and are having a great time. One of my favorite dance partners swears that he used to be so clutzy that he once got kicked out of a step-aerobics class for being a hazard to others. But thanks to dance lessons, he’s now able to cut a mighty fine rug.

The “lead” is not an easy job. First the male must overcome his paralyzing fear of looking foolish just to join the class. Then not only must he learn the steps, but he must also learn how to communicate the moves to his partner, assess her abilities, and formulate a dance pattern—all in a matter of seconds. I can talk on the phone, check email, do laundry, and cook dinner at the same time, but I couldn’t lead a dance to save my life. But here’s the really astounding thing: even when I can’t contain my clumsiness any longer, when I’m all twisted legs and flying elbows and dead weight, they still ask me to dance again. That’s a real man for you.

“Thank the stars there’s a day
each week to tuck in

the grief, lift your pearls, and
stride brush stride

quick-quick with a
heel-ball-toe. Smooth

as Nat King Cole’s
slow satin smile,

easy as taking
one day at a time:

one man and
one woman,

rib to rib,
with no heartbreak in sight—

just the sweep of Paradise
and the space of a song

to count all the wonders in it.”

--Rita Dove, “Fox Trot Fridays” from American Smooth

You Can Take the Girl Out of the Country...

2005-03-17T15:43:00.000-08:00

…but you can’t take the country out of the girl. I don’t know how long ago it was—maybe 2 or 3 years ago—I was scanning through radio channels when I came upon a song that made me put a permanent halt on the scanner. It was The Dixie Chicks belting out "Long Time Gone"—a song about a small-town girl who goes to the city to be a star, only to find that she prefers the country life. I had heard of The Dixie Chicks but I’d never heard any of their songs, and this chance encounter was quite a revelation to me. I was raised on Oldies and Classic Rock and spent my high school years (and beyond) listening to ‘80s pop, but I had always turned my nose up at country music. I remember making faces at my dad’s Garth Brooks’ CDs—now I own 5.

After hearing “Long Time Gone,” I found myself often turning back to KZLA to try and catch it again. Eventually I just stopped changing the channel all together. Despite my initial skepticism, it seems country music is well-suited to my current disposition. For one thing, today’s country sounds similar to pop music, so it’s not as big a stretch for me as it might have been 15 years ago, especially with artists such as Keith Urban, Shania Twain, Tim McGraw, and Phil Vassar. Country music is keeping a steady pace in record sales alongside rock music, and in the last couple of years there have been an increasing amount of rock stars putting in some country time. Kid Rock(!) is putting more country on his albums, and he’s appeared at the last 2 KZLA Country Music Bashes. On his latest CD Jimmy Buffett has duets with Clint Black, Kenny Chesney, Alan Jackson, George Strait, and Martina McBride. Tim McGraw is featured on the song "Over and Over" by R&B artist Nelly. Big & Rich and the Muzik Mafia perform an electic and energizing blend of rock, rap, and country. And what rock star hasn’t done a duet with Willie Nelson? (A few of the ones who have: Keith Richards, Rob Thomas and Matchbox 20, Sheryl Crow, Jon Bon Jovi, Al Green, and Jerry Lee Lewis.)

The other aspect of country music that I find even more appealing is it’s predilection to focus on a simpler way of life. I wouldn’t say it precipitated my move to Colorado (I’d been thinking about that for about 15 years), but it did seem to make the need to leave more earnest and pressing. It made me homesick for a pace and appreciation of life that isn’t manic, or filled with millions of cars and strangers and mechanical noises and pollutants and view-obstructing buildings. I know that life in Colorado will not be as pristine as my childhood, but it’s closer to it than L.A. is. Country music—most especially The Dixie Chicks and Tim McGraw—echo my desires for a better, less capitalist-driven, more fulfilling way of life. The music both takes me back and inspires me to move forward.

The Many Moods of Moving

2005-03-07T16:45:00.000-08:00

...But maybe the hawk was time in the sky,
gliding clockwise, counting the days, weeks,
years of diminished tomorrows and dawning
recognition that this summit and sky
and those far peaks aren't now but forever.
--Charlie Langdon, "Thanksgiving Over Santa Fe," from The Dandelion Vote

Imagine this: You're in the shower, making an attempt at a few moments of peace before you start the day, when you realize you only have 16 more weeks left at home. Then the math kicks into high gear--that means you only have 16 more dances! That means only 30 more shifts at the bookstore! That means only 16 more weeks to see friends! So you start crying.

Imagine this: You call every truck rental place you can find to get a decent rate on a moving van, but the best you can do is $1,400. (Or, in layman's terms, one month's salary to drive oneself 900 miles.) You only have 16 weeks to come up with this obscene amount of money. Say hello to anxiety-induced heart palpitations.

Imagine this: You're a dyed-in-the-wool Jersey Girl who can't go shopping for at least 16 weeks because every spare and un-spare dime has to go toward "The Move." Appropriate emotional response: crankiness.

Imagine this: You're out and about, enjoying a beautiful Southern California day in February, when you almost get mowed down crossing a street because the driver couldn't be bothered to stop before turning the corner. And let's say this is easily the hundredth time it's happened in 10 years. So you think, "Hallelujah! Only 16 more weeks to spend around these farging iceholes!"

Imagine this: There's a friend you've been trying to get a hold of for 2 months, but to no avail. And then you think, "What if I don't get a chance to see him/her before I move?" And then the crying starts again.

Welcome to my emotionally-wrecked roller coaster ride of the near future. If you see me crying, don't worry about it. Just come back in 15 minutes. If I'm cursing a blue streak, take it as a celebration of my impending change of venue. If I leave a message on your voicemail, please call me back. I only have 16 more weeks to see you.

I'm feeling a bit disjointed and rushed these days. I have lists coming out my ears--things to do, things to get, things to accomplish, places to go, people to see--and my lists are driving me crazy. But I've got to have them, because I seem to have the concentration skills of a goldfish lately. Most of the items cost money, and that seems to be in shorter supply than ever these days, which adds to the anxiety. And the lists keep getting longer and longer, with very little being crossed off.

Last week my TV Guide horoscope said I will meet somebody new. Meet somebody new?!? Who has time for that?!? There are books to be packed, cats to be vaccinated, utilities to be canceled, insurance companies to be researched, dances to go to, a car to be tuned-up and registered, taxes to do, woodworking classes and art exhibits to go to, and blogs to write. Somebody New is going to have to meet me in Colorado... (I'll be there in 16 weeks!)

"The Gates" in Full Color

2005-03-02T12:35:00.000-08:00

If anyone is interested in ordering enlargements, please email me. You can also see some more images at flickr.com.

A Treatise on The Gates

2005-02-25T10:37:00.000-08:00

I went to NY and NJ last week to visit family and to see Christo's latest art project, "The Gates." After flying all Tuesday night, I arrived in Newark at 6am Wed., where my mom met me and we went straight into the city to meet Audra for breakfast at the Westway Diner (supposedly the inspiration for the diner in Seinfeld). Then we walked to Central Park and the Frick Museum, where my friends Matt and Miyan met us at different points. After lunch at Patsy's Pizzeria (where they make a mighty fine pepperoni pizza!) we walked through the park a little more until it started to rain, thus signaling a return to New Jersey.

I must say, The Gates were beautiful. At first sight they're almost shocking, and in different sections, with varying light and wind, they're downright breathtaking. I especially liked areas where there were thick groves of trees, but you could see little bits of orange through the branches--almost like a game of hide and seek. I was only supposed to spend 1/2 a day in NY, but I felt like I needed to see more and begged my folks to take me back in before my flight home so I could see the northern section of the park.

The Gates has gotten a lot of press--perhaps more so than any other Christo project. There seem to be two questions that keep getting asked repeatedly about the piece, which I must admit, irk me to no end. The first question I keep hearing is, "Was it really worth spending $20 million on?" To people who declare that $20 million could have been put to better use, I have this to say: Oh, how short our collective memory is! I believe it was less than 2 months ago that $40 million was spent for parties on one day for a bunch of fat cats who brag about trampling over the common people, and the city had to foot the bill for the security ($17 million) and the federal government has to reimburse the city for the parade stands ($3 million). (Get your calculators out, folks, that's $60 million.)

What is flowing through Central Park for 16 days is a monumental--yet egalitarian--transcendentally beautiful gift to Everyman. The City of New York and the People of New York did not pay a dime for this project, and the rewards are theirs to reap. Even the proceeds from the sale of memorabilia is being donated to an organization called Nuture New York's Nature. (I think my parents contributed about $125 to New York's economy the 2 days I was there.) If one million people go to see The Gates, that's basically a $20 gift of art from Christo and Jeanne-Claude to each person.

Which brings me to the 2nd question(s) that bugs me: Is it art?/How can it be art if it has no meaning? First of all, at what point did we turn a corner in which art must have a meaning? Or is "meaning" supposed to be proportional to size? (i.e., the larger a piece is, the more mandatory it must be to represent something tangible) When I look at still lifes--paintings of vases and flowers and such--I don't ask myself, "What does it mean?" Maybe I should, but I don't. I evaluate the painting on color, light, composition, and execution. Why is it imperative that 7,500 swatches of saffron fabric must "mean something" but 500 dabs of pale yellow cadmium on a Monet painting get off scot-free?

When I evaluate "The Gates" as I would a still life, here is what I come up with:
Color: a beautiful, joyous orange hue that adds much-needed vitality to the grey, dull colorings of NYC in winter
Light: ever-changing with the sunlight, at times they are incandescent--they spendidly reflect both shadows and warmth
Composition: meticulously spaced throughout the park, in some areas (especially near Belvedere Castle) the effect is not as strong as it could be, but in others it's stunning
Execution: A+, professional, sturdy, respectful of its environment, easily maintained, top-grade materials

I bristle when I hear people ask if it's art, because I can't see it any other way. How can something so beautiful not be art? If Christo and Jeanne-Claude say it's art, why question them? But then I have to remind myself that people asked that same question of Van Gogh, Chagall, Picasso, Duchamp, Boccioni, Rothko, Warhol, Pollock, etc., so they are in good company.

To me, The Gates represent a dream of epic proportions. It took Christo & Jeanne-Claude 26 years to finally realize their dream--an amazing dedication of time and money--so that people might have something beautiful to look at, together, for a little while in one of the drabbest months of the year, in a city full of disconnected people. I can too-readily imagine how dull Central Park will look for the rest of the winter once they come down on Tuesday.

Thanks to my parents for everything (especially the plane ticket, the pizzas, the Dunkin' Donuts, and the subs). Thanks to my family and friends for making time to see me during my short visit. And thanks to Christo and Jeanne-Claude for creating a little bit of beauty. (I'll post my pictures next week!)

The Boredom Quotient: A Meditation On Time Spent vs. Time Lived

2005-02-14T14:06:00.000-08:00

The #1 question people have asked me about my move is, "Aren't you going to be bored out there?" Those who know me know I spend every waking moment working, dancing, or taking various art and sewing classes, so it's an entirely understandable question. But my stock answer is, "No-siree-bob!"
One of the more appealing aspects of Telluride is that for a town of its size, there is a lot to do. For instance, I'm really looking forward to taking advantage of the new ice skating rink by learning how to figure skate. I'm also hoping to get involved with the radio station--KOTO--and learn how to dj. What station in L.A. would let me do that???
To satisfy my dance and art class cravings, there's the Telluride Dance Academy and the Ah Haa School of the Arts. There's also a thriving local theatre scene, including an annual playwriting festival.
And did I mention the unlimited hiking, biking, skiing, and horseback riding? My goals include hiking the Sneffels highline and Lizard Head Pass.
I must admit, too, that at this point I view the limitation of events as a blessing. I'm absolutely craving more free time to paint and write. In a city you can easily find something to do every night of the week, which isn't at all conducive to finding quality "alone time."

But aside from all the activities, one of the most important things Telluride and Norwood has to offer is a chance to participate in a community. The sheer number of items in a city can be overwhelming--the number of people, cars, neighborhoods, restaurants, museums, bars, organizations, apartment buildings, shops, etc., etc., etc. It's neverending. An individual faces the danger of being drowned in this mass volume, which in turn could lead to feelings of uselessness or helplessness. How can one little person of limited resources and contacts possibly make an impact in a city of millions? It's a daunting task.

However, in a small town it is very possible for one person to positively affect a relatively large number of people by doing something as easy as volunteering for a benefit. For instance, if I donate $25 to the Norwood Public Library, I am potentially affecting 450 people. If I donate the same amount to the L.A. Public Library how many will benefit? Maybe 1 or 2. It's wonderful and inspiring to dream grandiose dreams, but sometimes their execution is not possible in a place of limitless options, because that's where everybody goes. Sometimes the solution is to scale down in order to make your dreams more viable.

One of my favorite contemporary writers, William Rivers Pitt, wrote an article this week titled One For All in which he states, "Each of us holds the life and well-being of our neighbors in our hands. We can choose to lift each other up, or we can shrug and decide it isn’t our problem. If we are indeed a community, if we are indeed good, we can make the choice to do that lifting." He was commenting on the proposed Social Security changes, but it applies in every sense. In the city--in this city--there are communities, but there is not community. There are groups organized around common interests or areas, but there is no unification, the connections feel slight. It's very easy to not connect at all.

But in Norwood I will have to be part of the community. It's much too small a town to live in a state of complete disconnection. I will be moving into their territory, and I will be expected to reach out to my neighbors if I want to be welcomed. (And, believe me, it's much too tiny to be unwelcome!) So the choice I'm making is between living a smaller life for a greater overall benefit, or continuing an existence in a place where mass suffocates individuality and (ironically) breeds alienation. I know that I will have to forego some of my extracurricular activities, but I'm hoping to gain much more in their place.

The Bad with The Good

2005-02-04T10:33:00.000-08:00

When uprooting your life as you know it and finding the courage to start anew, you want to believe only the best about wherever you're going next. It's not just a desire, it's an absolute necessity to paint the sunniest side of the picture and to share that sunny vision with your friends and family.
So what should you do when something less than desirable about your newly adopted location is made known to you? Your first instinct is to not tell anybody about it. It only gives your friends fodder to add to their "Don't Go" chant. It may plant a nagging seed of worry in your plans. Moving's hard enough--you don't need to add even a pinch of doubt to it.
And so, I thought I was just going to bury the news. Pretend I didn't hear anything. But then I realized that, in fairness to this particular blog, it should be posted here. Because after all, this is supposed to be about "Trials and Tribulations," not "The Supreme Happiness Of Living In a Teeny Tiny Western Town."
Both of these news items appeared in The Norwood Post this week. The first one is minorly disturbing, but with a comic edge which qualifies it as a "quirk" of backwoods life. The second is just undeniably, blatantly, scarily wrong.

1.) "Norwood Resident Released On $60,000 Bond": One of my soon-to-be-new neighbors had a gun that he really, really liked: a 9 mm P89DC Ruger with special grips. “A beautiful gun,” he said. (Red light #1: Probably everybody in Norwood will own at least one gun, except me.) Some co-workers stopped by his house one day, bringing along 2 shady characters with them, and the gun disappeared. Despite admonitions from his buddies at the local bar The Hitchin' Post (Red light #2: This is where I'm bound to meet my future husband), he decided to pursue the thieves himself, and when he found them there was a confrontation. (Go figure.) Here's where it gets good--a play-by-play of what the man was thinking when he saw the thief with a gun in his hand: "Newman said he wasn’t about to get shot with his own gun, which was loaded with Black Talon bullets, bullets so deadly they have recently been banned. Newman knew what those bullets would do to human flesh, so he pulled his .44 caliber Ruger Redhawk revolver." (Red light #3: Logic may not preceed action when guns are involved.) Then there's a whole 'nother incident which is too long to relate, but which ends up getting the "victim" arrested. And so here's the kicker to the whole story, which I just love: "In the eight years he’s lived in the area, James Newman said he has never locked his doors. He felt safe for two main reasons: because he lives in a quiet, law-abiding place; and because he if anybody tried to break into his house, they’d have to face down his Super Blackhawk .44 or his Remington rifle.
But after Sunday, the police searched his home and took all his guns, and the run-in shattered his sense of security. Now he locks his front door, his back door, and even his gate. 'I’m worried, damn right I’m worried,' said Newman. 'I’m left defenseless. If these felonies go through, I won’t be able to hunt anymore.'"
Yeah, I'm worried about him not being able to "hunt" anymore, too.

from a site called Firearms Tactical, here's 2 rules that Newman probably should have followed to keep out of jail:
4. DISPLAY YOUR GUN, GO TO JAIL. Expect to be arrested by police at gunpoint, and be charged with a crime anytime your concealed handgun is seen by another citizen in public, regardless of how unintentional or innocent or justified the situation might seem. Choose a method of carry that reliably keeps your gun hidden from public view at all times. Before you expose your gun in public, ask yourself: "Is this worth going to jail for?" (I don't think James asked himself this question.)

5. DON’T LET YOUR EMOTIONS GET THE BEST OF YOU. If, despite your best efforts to the contrary, you do get into some kind of heated dispute with another person while you’re armed, never mention, imply or exhibit your gun for the purpose of intimidation or one-upmanship. You’ll simply make a bad situation worse -- for yourself (see rule #4). (Again, James, you might want to reread your "concealed weapons" rules.)

2.) "Parents Censor High School Literature and Are Allowed To Burn Books They Find Offensive": A teacher at Norwood High assigned the novel "Bless Me, Ultima" by Rudolfo Anaya. The book is about a young man learning to bridge cultural gaps and questioning his religion. Some parents said it was full of profanity and pagan references. "The parents approached the superintendent and asked that they be able to burn the books instead of the school janitor destroying them. Conder granted them their request, as he has the right to dispose of them."
At first I thought this was a joke. I kept checking my calendar to make sure it wasn't April 1st already. But no, this is horrifyingly true. What fucking century are you living in, people??? Did you ENJOY the Nazi regime??? Are these your fucking morals??? Don't promote MULTI-CULTURALISM or FREEDOM OF RELIGION??? Jesus Fucking Christ!!! (Please excuse my language.)

Kudos to the students of Norwood High for protesting their parents' idiocy. Here's another article about it in the Rocky Mountain News. (Upon closer investigation, it's been revealed that only 3 people are actually responsible for this atrocity--John & Rhonda Oliver, and the superintendent, Bob Conder. It looks like the majority of the town is going to rally against the censorship. Whew! Another funny sidebar--it's one of the 9 novels recommended by Laura Bush. That's a hoot!)

The true irony: The very next story was lauding the local librarian for keeping the library up and running for 25 years.

"Making a Break For Freedom"

2005-02-01T11:59:00.000-08:00

I came across this piece in the Telluride Daily Planet the other week. Writer David Feela tells the story of a normally complacent horse suddenly freeing himself from his confines, even though it means going through barbed wire.

Feela writes, "As [the owner] led the horse out, I suddenly knew how such a placid animal could have behaved so rashly, charging a barbed wire fence. The last time it happened to me, I wound up in western Colorado. But I was pulling a trailer packed with a few hundred necessities. I unpacked them all [and] took a deep breath of the clear Western air.... I'd like to think that that horse and me are some kind of kin--patient, yet yearning for the unbridled life. We make our halfhearted breaks for freedom, searching for a slightly different perspective of that same old mountain."

I'll be joining them in their search in just 5 short months.

Meanwhile, here's a picture of my newly adopted "hometown," Norwood, CO.

Live From Telluride

2005-01-26T09:24:00.000-08:00

Oh, it was chilly yesterday morning--20 degrees at 9am. I had to scrape ice off my windshield for the first time in years. (Good thing I saved that scraper!) But once the morning chill burned off, the days here were beautiful. The thermometer said 50 degrees, but it felt like 65. Therefore, no jackets required until about 5pm. Ben Kerr at Koto Radio called it the "January Thaw"--spring-like conditions that tease and cajole until winter comes back with a vengeance in February. I'm enjoying it. I went to Norwood, CO (the actual location of my future home) on Tuesday and the La Sal and San Miguel Mountains looked beautiful.
Later on I hung out with my friend Dan at his pizza place--Brown Dog Pizza. Ummm, pizza.

Yesterday I did some more hanging out with good friends. Chris and I had lunch (thanks Chris!) and then checked out the spanking new indoor ice skating rink. So much fun!
Then Bo and I had dinner at one of my favorite restaurants--The Cosmopolitan (thanks Bo!)--before heading to the Nugget to see The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. There was a full moon this week, which lit up the mountains as well as the sun does during the day. I hate to pack up and go so soon, but it looks like it's going to snow. Besides, I'll be back.

And, of course, thanks always to Jim Bedford and Luci Reeve for providing warm shelter!

Must-Have Road Trip CD's

2005-01-25T16:11:00.000-08:00

Can't drive more than 2 hours without these:
1.) Green Day--Nimrod
2.) Sheryl Crow--C'mon, C'mon
3.) Jackson Browne--Running On Empty and The Pretender
4.) Brian Setzer Orchestra--The Dirty Boogie
5.) The Eagles--Greatest Hits Vol. 2 and Hotel California
6.) Dean Martin--Greatest Hits
7.) The Wallflowers--Bringing Down the Horse
8.) Pure '70s
9.) Matchbox 20--More Than You Think You Are and Mad Season
10.) John Mellencamp--Lonesome Jubilee
11.) Billy Joel--Glass Houses
12.) Clay Pigeons soundtrack
13.) Moulin Rouge soundtrack
14.) Arlo Guthrie--Hobo's Lullaby
15.) Sleepless In Seattle soundtrack
16.) Tim McGraw--Tim McGraw + The Dancehall Doctors
17.) Girls Rule--a little compilation I put together of some of my favorite female rock vocalists

Eye of the Beholder

2005-01-24T14:38:00.000-08:00

I never thought I'd see anything beautiful in Needles, CA, but I've been set straight. I got to Needles around 7am yesterday morning on my drive out to Telluride, so the sun had only been up for about 1/2 an hour. It was 50 degrees, there was a light dusting of frost, the sky was clear and cool, and the mountains were crisply outlined. On the north side of the highway the valley was filled with a low-sitting layer of fluffy white fog. Just awesome.

I almost always drive to Colorado and back (in 14 years I think I've flown in 3 times). Friends and family always seem more concerned about my taking on the 16 hour drive than I am (thanks for caring!!!), because I get a lot of enjoyment out of the journey. But I have to admit, when I got up at 2am on Sunday morning my first thought was, "Do I really have to drive all the way to Colorado today?" I did, and once the sun came up I couldn't have been happier. To fly is to miss the sunrise on a desert mountain range, the fog in the valley, the rock formations at Holy Moses Wash, the Painted Desert, the elephant-foot looking columns at Tonalea, and the green highway signs counting down the miles to each town. How can you surpass the pleasure of driving through places with names like Disappointment Valley, Teec Nos Pos, Mexican Water, and Paradox Valley? And one will never be able to comprehend the breathtaking majesty of Monument Valley from the air.

The best book I've read so far on appreciating the western landscape is Edward Abbey's Desert Solitaire. If you can find a copy, give it a read.

The drive yesterday was just great. The weather was gorgeous--it was 60 degrees in Monument Valley--and the skies were pristinely clear. At some points I could see 4 different mountain ranges in front of me. If you're ever in Seligman, AZ, stop in at the Historic Route 66 General Store. The guy who runs it is really nice (his parents live in Cortez, CO) and they have some great Route 66 postcards. (Mom & Dad--yours is in the mail!)

Thanks to the Dixie Chicks, Jackson Browne, The Eagles, Brian Setzer, Tim McGraw, Sheryl Crow, Dean Martin, Willie Nelson, and many others for keeping me company on my long trips. Fine traveling companions, indeed.

The Countdown

2005-01-18T14:00:00.000-08:00

Days Remaining in L.A.: 164

The warm Santa Ana winds started blowing on Sunday night--ahh, winter!

For some, 5 months may seem like a long time, but I know it will fly by and there're still so many things I'd like to do before I head for the hills. With limited time and limited funds, it's going to be difficult to accomplish everything I'd like, but I'm going to give it my best shot.

Things still to do in Los Angeles:
1.) go to Sequoia National Forest and Yosemite National Park (17 years in California and I've never seen a redwood or Half Dome. That's pathetic.)
2.) learn to ride a motorcycle (see my friend Jeffrey's article about it on his ezine The-Vu)
3.) go to Swing Camp Catalina, put on by PBDA
4.) go to Disneyland with my friend Jenny
5.) eat at Campanile (I hear it's one of the best restaurants in town)
6.) see Esa-Pekka Salonen conduct the L.A. Philharmonic
7.) go to the Magic Castle one more time
(if anyone can get a pass for me, please email me!)
8.) take a good look at the ocean as often as I can

9.) find a publisher for my children's story
10.) I have about 20 pictures that need to be framed
11.) take Sewing 1C at the Sewing Arts Center
12.) visit the Huntington Gardens and Library
13.) go to Hollywood Forever
14.) go to the Natural History Museum
15.) see the poppies in Antelope Valley in bloom

Looking At Telluride

2005-01-12T19:25:00.000-08:00

view from Society Turn

view from east end of town

It's About That Time...

2005-01-12T14:04:00.000-08:00

After nearly 18 years in Southern California, it's time to move on. I've decided to relocate myself to a small mountain town that I've been visiting, working in, and occassionally living in for about 13 years now. What's not to love about SoCal, you ask? How about the traffic, a lot of the people, and the high cost of living. I'm not alone in this exodus--most of my closest friends have already gotten out. I'm just "The Next To Go."

I'm intending this blog to mainly be about the experience of moving from a city to a rural town, but first I would just like to state that there are many wonderful things about L.A. Almost 3 years ago I made a list of the things that I really love about Los Angeles (in no particular order).

1.) Bob's Big Boy in Burbank
2.) The Hollywood Bowl
3.) the ocean
4.) The Derby & The Dresden
5.) Pasadena Ballroom Dance Association
6.) within driving distance of Mexico
7.) the weather
8.) The Magic Castle
9.) Grauman's Chinese Theatre & the Cinerama Dome
10.) open 24 hours
11.) Los Angeles County Museum of Art
12.) Central Library
13.) Sunset Boulevard
14.) Don Antonio's
15.) Landmark Theatres
16.) C&O Trattoria
17.) Canter's Deli
18.) ImagExperts (photo lab)
19.) Topanga Canyon, Las Virgenes, and Kanaan Rd.
20.) Magic Mountain
21.) Record Surplus
22.) the jacarandas
23.) the community colleges
24.) my dentist, Dr. Shawaf
25.) my mechanic, Ryan Ito
26.) my framer, Steve Levine, and his cat Sixx
27.) eucalyptus trees
28.) Hennessey & Ingalls
29.) The Sewing Arts Center
30.) the elevator for Encounters at LAX
31.) my friends

If you're ever in town, you should check out some of these people & places.

Special thanks to Matt for helping me set up this Blog, and to James for the idea!