Kid Dreams
There are two things that I always wanted to learn how to do when I was a kid and never did. These are two very important life skills that I never mastered.

1. That two fingers in the mouth piercing whistle.
2. Throwing food in the air and catching it my mouth.

The whistle is epic. You can hear it down the block. While you cringe when standing next to the guy at a Giants game, you secretly admire his ability to show his approval to the entire section. All you can do is clap and give a lame "woo hoo." You tried as a kid. You really did. All you ended up with was wet fingers and dry mouth. You asked friends. They did their best to give you lessons. And you never learned. Now you really have no need for the skill. You don't often hail taxis. You don't go to sporting events often enough. And your friends are rarely drunken enough to wander off so you need to call them home. But still...

Now, the food through thing. I've tried popcorn. I've tried peanuts. I've tried M & Ms. I popcorn seemed like the smart first choice as I'm not likely to break a tooth, or my glasses, when I miss. But I just don't have the coordination necessary to throw and catch. I've never managed that sleek, seal-like move when you casually toss a morsel up in the air and catch it your mouth with a satisfying crunch. I have never successfully every done this, and I still try occasionally. I'm sure if I ever did if it would go right down my throat and someone would have to call the EMTs. But, from time to time, I'll toss up a peanut and then, 10 seconds later, pick it up off the floor at it bounced off my nose.

Oh well, it's good to have dreams.

Photo of the day: Inside the Green Box

Is a mystery...

Photo of the day: Remnants of a Catholic Education

Rosary beads. Interesting objects, if I can separate their appearance from their function -- which isn't easy.

Once Upon a Time
I just watched a (to me at least) wonderful documentary called Every Little Step, about casting the revival of A Chorus Line.

The original came out in 1976. I was in high school and didn’t care about anything but being on Broadway. When this show came out I memorized the original cast album before it ever toured to San Francisco and dreamed of winning a Tony Award one day.

A Chorus Line was powerfully influential on my life. It was the first glimpse I had into what was really required to make it on Broadway. Although I was an actor, not a dancer, I bought the script and poured over it. It took away (in a good way) my illusions about moving to New York and having the town welcome me with a golden key and a contract.

Up until then I hadn’t really thought about what I might be facing. I knew I was a good actor. (Trust me, I was.) But A Chorus Line made me realize that wasn’t enough. I had to be tough. I had to be prepared for rejection. I had to accept the fact that for every “yes” there would be a hundred “no’s.”

I went on to study acting in college but eventually gave up because my ego just wasn’t strong enough for the constant rejection. For me the hard part was that I typically wasn’t turned down for my acting skills, but because I’m not beautiful. The reason I know this is because I heard it – over and over.

Acting is a hard profession. And a blunt one. Casting directors will come out and say things like “have you ever considered getting a nose job?” Or “You’re not physically right for the lead, how about the plain looking best friend?” In the past I overheard conversations about me that admitted I gave the best reading of the night, but I just wasn’t pretty. Um...ouch.

After years of this I gave up. Never having had much confidence about my looks, I found that my insecurities were stronger than my desire and stopped acting. Plus I got tired of being the dorky best friend. I wanted leads. But it began to sink in that nobody was ever going to cast me as Beatrice or Hedda Gabler.

Honestly, I have no regrets. I had a great time. Did some crazy things in my youth. And am very happy I never moved to New York to wait tables and get bitter. I love my life here with Husband and my wonderful friends. None of this would have happened if I did what I planned to do when I was 16. And I wouldn't trade what I have now for a mantel full of Tony's.

But watching this documentary brought back a lot of memories of my time in the theatre. The friends I made and, sadly, lost (being an actor in the 80s in San Francisco meant you had a lot of gay friends and, therefore, got hit hard by the AIDS epidemic). The roles that I learned, loved and still, oddly enough, remember dialog from.

In watching Every Little Step I saw who we all used to be. Young and idealistic. Still believing in anything. Living on ramen and hope. Working for no pay on crappy shows for the sheer joy of being on stage. Doing workshops. Going on auditions. Writing plays with your friends when there were no good roles. Working two jobs then putting in a full night at the theatre, getting off work at midnight and having pancakes at an all night diner before getting three hours of sleep to do it all over again. Putting on scenes in cramped studio apartments and falling in love, at least for the moment, with whomever you were co-starring with.

It was wonderful to see these young, hopeful, confident faces in the film. Kids with the kind of courage I couldn’t find. And to remember, for a short time in my life, I was an actor.

Photo of the day: Red

Sometimes I take photos of things just because I like the color. This, obviously, is one of those things.

A Busy Day in the Backyard

The sunshine has brought the neighborhood cats out in force. Well, the sun and the food I leave out for them.

Photo of the day: Grief

I may have posted her before, but she's too beautiful not to revisit and she was on my mind today.

Who's on First?
I've noticed something with the couples that Husband and I are friends with and I'm wondering if it's universal.

When refer to them by name I always list first the one that I knew first. For example, I worked with Mary and then met her husband Jack. We've become friends but it's always "Mary and Jack" never "Jack and Mary.' For Tom and Joyce, it's the other way around. I knew Tom from way back then met Joyce when they started dating and will always be, in my mind, Tom and Joyce.

Is it me or do other people to the same thing? I've noticed my family will often say "Husband and Decca" are here when we show up to things -- and they definitely met me first so they go the other way around. But most of our friends will introduce us based on who they met first. Do you that that experience?

Also, do you have a set side of the bed. Husband and truly have our own sides (although sometimes we're pushed into the middle due to CIpher, the world's most amazing cat, screw you if you don't agree tm). But when we go to bed he heads for the left and I for the right. But I know of at least one couple that doesn't have set sides. Whoever goes to sleep first picks a side and sleep there. How can they do that? I feel positively disoriented when I sleep on Husband's slide. Nothing's in the right place. The clock it too far away and the pillow is too firm. I can't imagine us ever being a "pick any side"couple. I have to have my side.

Or am I jut a freak?

Easier than Hard
Occasionally while on cat duty someone will stop to chat and will ask about volunteering. I am often asked if it's hard to do. They'll say something like "I'm an animal lover and couldn't be around all these cats in cages."

Which sometimes makes sense, but mostly doesn't.

Yes, on the one hand being an animal lover it's hard to be around the kitties and know that they don't yet have forever homes. It can be difficult to see those sweet faces, peering out hopefully, desperate for a little attention.

But on the other hand, if I don't do it, who will? I don't mean that in a "it's up to me" kind of way but you know what I mean.

These animals need the love and attention. And if everyone said "it's too hard" then they'd never get what they need. I feel like you can't let the occasionally difficulty of wanting to give them all homes get in the way of doing what needs to be done.

I do get attached and have favorites. And I fall in love every day. I still think of some of my special cats who have found homes and that'll I'll never see again. And when I'm there, looking at all those sweet, hopeful faces, it can sometimes make me sad. It's hard to leave at the end of the day because there's always one more cat who needs a tummy rub, a catnip toy, some quiet talk. But the positive so outweighs the negative that every sad tug at the heart is worth it.

If you are at all considering volunteering but are afraid it would be too hard, I urge you to put the animals first. It can be hard. But if you don't do it, who will?

Sleepless
You must excuse my spelling errors at 4:20 am. Insomnia, like bad religion, had a known debilitating effect upon one's grammar.

So here I am, sleepless once more. Cat had a nice wind round and it now napping it off with Husband. I, however, am watching old movies until the sun rises and wondering if this how people took up drinking brandy.

It's also the time of night when the impossible miseries creep in:

Because I'm not working and we're living just on Husband's salary we'll end up broke, living in a fallen-down Airstream trailer at the edge of the Mojoave Desert when we're older because we have no place else to go; We'll be that old couple pulling soda cans out of dumpsters so we can afford ramen at the Qwikk-E-Mart at Twentynine Palms.

Forrest will leave me for a blond for a trust fund and who somehow belongs to the Marsalas family and I shall be alone with a cat and a resume I haven't used in years.

The quality of cat food will gradually die off and Cipher will start cheating on me with a family that can afford tuna every night.

People I used to manage will point me put to their children as an example of never quitting a job unless you've got something else lined up.

I shall start stealing kibble from the shelter cats as my afternoon snack.

Man, I'm a mess at 4:30, aren't I?

Photo of the day: Riding the Rails

I don't now, but I always wanted to buy up the the railroads. Perhaps it something to do with my parents meting while both working at Southern Pacific Railroad when they met. So I guess I have a reason to be greateful.

Photo of the day: Flowers in the Sun

We have sun today! Not much, with clouds scudding across all day, but enough so tha the flowers have perked up.

I have been trying to pictures of these daisies every since I moved her, and have never been able to get the color right. I give up. It's too saturated but that's always the color they turn out to be. They are this rich, vivid purple that just doesn't seem real. But they are real.I mean I can photoshop bad, but the color is real on this one.

Photo of the day: The World in Sepia

We've had more than our fair share of rain lately. Someone the other day said, optimistically "it could be worse, you could live somewhere where there's five feet of snow." True. But most people who live where there's five feet of snow expect there to be five feet of snow. They don't wake up saying "it's April, it should be warm" and then get all disappointed when it's not. They know better. But me? I'm spoiled. It's April, dammit, I want my sunshine!

Scenes from Silver Creek: The Night Chopin Came to Town

One night when I was about 12 or so, the family went to Johnnie’s restaurant for some occasion or other. I think it might have been my grandmother’s birthday. It was a typical night at Johnnie’s. Huge platters of antipasto and tons of garlic bread spread across the table, with Johnnie himself joining us for a glass of red.

There was an old upright piano in the corner of the main dining room, and when he was feeling expansive, or the place was quiet enough that he wasn’t table hopping, Johnnie would sit down and play one of the three songs he new. That’s Amore, Finucli Finucla, and Some Enchanted Evening. That was his entire repertoire. He once told me he practiced them over and over until he was perfect, and never learned anything else. Occasionally his eldest son, Dante, would take over and play one of his two songs, oddly enough Hound Dog or Alley Cat. Oh yeah, Johnnie could also sorta kinda play the Major General song from Pirates of Penzance but he could only play it so slow it was unrecognizable and vaguely depressing

There was a stranger at Johnnie’s that night. I don’t mean that in a Dodge City, unknown man walks into a saloon and everyone stops talking kind of way. Silver Creek wasn’t that small that you’d ordinarily notice someone new. But he was at the next table and Johnnie, being naturally gregarious, stopped to chat and we overheard the fact that he was just driving through town on his way to San Diego. Johnnie asked him what his business was and the man replied that he was a musician.

Like most Italians, Johnnie loved music. And being a professional musician was second only to being a priest in the hierarchy of Johnnie’s estimation. So he naturally exclaimed over the newcomer and started asking more questions. What instrument? What kind of music? Did he know Sinatra?

When the man had biographed himself to Johnnie’s satisfaction and proclaimed himself a pianist, Johnnie naturally invited the man to play should he feel so inclined. The man laughed, said something non-committal and modest, and turned his attention to the mushroom lasagna.

After the man had finished his complementary scoop of vanilla ice cream in a frosty sliver cup he quietly got up and crossed the room.

I distinctly recall that at the moment he began to play my brother Peter was telling an incredibly boring story about being an alter boy. I don’t know why I remember this as all of my brother’s stories were (and still are) duller than rust – but I have a clear recollection of him mercifully shutting up when the music started. I know now that it was Chopin’s Waltz in D Flat Major. On a road trip once where all we could get was a classical station, the waltz came on the air and I screamed "that's the song!" so loudly that my friend Sean almost hit a stop sign.

I’d never really heard classical music before, my parents taste running exclusively to 1940s big band tunes. But even I at the age with my untrained ear, and my amazingly dull brother Peter knew that something amazing was going on. That dented old upright had never sounded so much like Carnegie Hall. Johnnie, who had been in the kitchen, darted out as if the place was on fire. You could hear forks being dropped onto plates and conversations slowing dying until all you could hear was Mrs. Silas telling the story of how she broke her arm in Denver for the 20th time. (I mean I'd heard the story 20 times, not that she broke her arm in Denver 20 times.). Anyway, the man played as if playing for royalty instead of entertaining a houseful of white trash, garlic-scented people. And, oddly enough, the houseful of white trash, garlic-scented people appreciated it. We sat wrapped in a cloud of the most beautiful music ever heard in Silver Creek. It put Johnnie’s That’s Amore to shame.

As the last notes faded away the entire place burst into applause. The man ducked his head – half recognition, half shyness. Then without a word, he got up from the piano.

Johnnie rushed over and, in a show of Italian exuberance, pulled the man into a fierce hug. The musician hugged him back with a show of good grace and then walked to his table for the check. Of course Johnnie beat him there and tore it up. The two men exchanged a few words and then he was gone.

My father stopped Johnnie as he made his way back to the kitchen and asked him if he knew who the pianist was. Johnnie said he’d asked the stranger who replied that his name was Michael Crocker.

I have never heard that name since and always wondered who he was and why was it a musician of such talent wasn’t famous.

Every time I hear Chopin I think I smell garlic.

Photo of the day: Thunderbird

Our next-door neighbor dotes on his classic muscle car. He is constantly tinkering with it and only occasionally starts it up. It wakes up with a huge roar that has been known to scare the cat. Men.

The Reddest of the Red

This deceptively sweet face belongs to Camille (name has been changed to protect the innocent....although she's not). Camille is a red cat and she lives up to her name. Her problem is that she wasn't socialized much as a kitten and so she's very unhappy about being handled. The poor thing gets scared when you get close and she shows it by biting, swatting, and hissing. Working with her is an exercise in patience and caution and I definitely got a lesson today.

I was asked to work with her today because I've had some success in getting along with her. But today was not a good day. As soon as I opened her cage door she arched her back and gave out with a hiss you could have heard in Cleveland. I stood and talked to her quietly, telling her all about Easter dinner at my mom's and the plot of the book that I'm reading. Slowly I moved my hand closer and with each half inch she'd hiss again. I was wearing gloves, knowing from past experience that she has sharp claws and sharper teeth. Eventually I got within attack distance and she let me know that was close enough by taking a swipe at me.

After a few more minutes of talking, I laid my hand on her back and got a full-on Exorcist sound. If I didn't know better, I'd swear her head turned all the way around too. But she stayed there, ears flat, looking miserable, but not trying to eat me, which was a positive sign. She let me pet her back for a few minutes but obviously was hating it. I felt like stinky Aunt Maud trying to hug some reluctant kid. Camille was making a low, mid-throat growl and was so unhappy that I began to feel guilty. All I was doing was stroking her back, but her reaction made me feel like I was putting her on the rack.

Working with cats is a lesson in patience, something I've never really had. It's teaching me quite a lot, but it's not easy. Try standing on a hard floor for 20 minutes, petting an unhappy cat, talking quiet nonsense and hoping said cat doesn't decide to amputate your hand. It's harder than it sounds.

I wish I could say that Camille and I had a breakthrough, but we didn't. Eventually I ended the visit because a group of Brownies came in on a tour to get their looking at kitties badge and the noise and commotion freaked Camille out even more than she already was. I didn't want to stress her any more so I ended the visit.

I have decided that Camille is my new project. I am hoping to eventually get her to accept me. If I work with her a little every day perhaps I can even, one day, approach her without gloves. In the meantime, though, I'm just going to admire her photograph. She may be the reddest of the reds, but she's damned cute, isn't she?

Photo of the day: In a Corinthian Mood

Feeling all Classical.

Photo of the day: Older Than Dirt

I found this fossil in a nearby neighborhood, just lying in the dirt next to the sidewalk. I have no clue where it came from, but I have always loved it.

Photo of the day: Moon Rock

OK, it's not a moon rock. But it could be! Couldn't it?

Photo of the day: Hazardous to Your Health

I have a feeling that what was originally in this bottle would be illegal today. Some lovely patent medicine with opium is my hope.

Out of my Depth
I have a cousin who I particularly dislike. He's sexist, conservative, narrow-minded and very, very Christian. We meet as rarely as possible but I had agreed to Easter dinner with my family before I knew he was going to be there.

And I realized in my daily life I have very little to do with people who would start Easter dinner by raising his hands and saying "He is risen!."

And you know what, I like it better that way.

A Left-Handed Freemason from Dover
Have you read the Sherlock Holmes stories? I have. I've also seen all the wonderful Jeremy Brett versions on PBS. And I have come to the conclusion that I will never be observant enough to be a detective.

Sherlock Holmes could walk into a room, look at a man for 10-seconds, and declare quite definitively that he was in the presence of a retired doctor from Scotland whose wife had recently died and who had once served in India, probably on the North-West Frontier.

I can look at someone for 10-seconds and tell you whether that person was male or female. And that's about it.

How often do we look at the people around us? Not our friends, I mean we'll notice when they get a new haircut or new glasses. But when someone walks into the cafe where you're dining or you're standing in line at the grocery store, do you look around you and try to figure out who these people are?

I do. I suck at it, but it's fun. Perhaps it's the writer in me, but I love to create stories about the people I come across in my day. Unlike Sherlock I don't have the knack of correctly accessing who they are but I do have a lovely time inventing them in my head. I don't notice the small details that can give me the near-sighted musician who lives in a house without electricity. Partially because I don't want to stare and partially because I don't want to be right -- I want to amuse myself.

So I decide that the guy with the large parcel at the post office is a photographer sending proofs to his publisher in London, or the woman reading People as she waits for her yogurt and fruit to be rung up is, in fact, the mistress of a rich guy and she's heading home to her paid-for apartment to wait for Mr. Rich to stop by.

I tend to give people far more interesting lives than they probably live. I cast people as artists and political asylum-seekers. Ex-hippies and former CIA analysts. Former Russian ballerinas and aspiring French chefs. In reality they are students and harried moms, software designers and high school teachers. Auto mechanics and retail clerks. So maybe I'm doing them a favor by coloring their lives with mystery, romance, and excitement. And wouldn't they be amused to know that the woman with the glasses and the shopping cart full of cat food was looking at them and deciding they were former Navy fighter pilots?

So no, I'll never be good at telling the police they're looking for a woman with a limp and an Italian accent. But I can still make my time at the bank more interesting by trying to figure out which one is cheating on their spouse.

Photo of the day: The Little Blue Bunny Makes an Uphill Climb on Easter

The little blue bunny lives on one of our bookshelves, protecting Agatha Christie from invaders. But he came down long enough to pose for me. Happy Easter, everyone.

Scenes from Silver Creek: The Great Hallelujah Egg Hunt

For a small town, Silver Creek sure was sanctified. In addition to mom’s church (St. Edith’s Episcopal), and dad’s church (Our Lady of Angels) we also had the Calvary Lutheran Church, the Church of Christ, and the Ebenezer Baptist Church.

EBC was the closest we had to a holy-roller church and it was founded and run by one of our town’s most eccentric families, the Washingtons. Here’s the picture, two extremely devout Baptists (the gloriously named Hallelujah Washington and his wife, Esther Pride-Washington) have eight extremely devout children, all of whom were given monikers that suggest all were recently-freed slaves:

Bethesda Monday and her twin brother Ezra Monday
Gideon Tuesday
Unity Wednesday
Ezekiel Thursday
Glory Friday
Shenandoah Saturday
Jubilee Sunday

None of the family was, in fact, freed slaves. They were a crop of skinny white kids with skinny white parents who really wished they had been born black so they could have a “real” Baptist church.

The Reverend Hallelujah wanted, above all things, to preach fire and brimstone sermons. He was hindered in this achievement by the possession of a damp-matches and pudding voice. Seriously tone deaf, his desire to be a great religious orator was further hampered by his tendency to put the emphasis on the wrong words in his sermon, thereby often making “the” more important than the word “savior.” He often spoke at city council meetings and other public gatherings and I never lost the urge to giggle when he’d say something like “we’d like TO commend the football team for their great win ON Friday against the Auburn WildCATS.”

I always believed that the eight Washington kids had a hard time living up to their names. I mean it can’t be easy in the modern world to be named Jubilee. But they loved their parents and were there every Sunday to help get the church ready for services. Bethesda and Glory were great at arranging flowers. Ezra and Gideon alternated playing the organ and leading the choir. Ezekiel, who was naturally outgoing, would stand on the sidewalk inviting people in. And both Shenandoah and Jubilee were ordained ministers. The one chore that all the Washington kids balked at, and that was sitting next to Miss Rose Hylam, a vinegary old virgin with a venomous tongue. A termagant with the mixed scent of self-righteousness and rosewater. Miss Rose was the kind of woman who would tell you things "for your own good" that never did you any good. But she was quite rich and the EBC’s most generous benefactor. In her opinion, her copious donations to the church entitled her to her very own Washington at every service, helping her out of her seat, finding the right page in the hymnal, and escorting her down to the social room for punch when the service was over. And, in a mixture of Christian kindness and practicality, the Reverend made sure she always had one of his children there are her personal church-going minion. It was not an enjoyable duty so the kids made sure it was fairly split up with each taking his or her own turn as the sacrificial lamb.

Reverend Hallelujah was a sweet, friendly man who genuinely seemed to like people and was honestly proud to be of service to the community. Although he was not the Martin Luther King type of minister he dreamed of being, he was nevertheless a good man who practiced what he preached. He helped the poor. He forgave the sinners. He went out at midnight to hold hands with hospital patients and got up at dawn to drive the senior club on road trips. He was also he driving force behind the Ecumenical Brotherhood, sort of a Lions Club for Christ where he’d get the priests and ministers of all the local churches to come together for various citywide programs. They would, for example, put together an all-choir sing-along at Christmas time and held annual Forth of July parties at which each church would have a booth where you could buy things that were bad for your teeth and know the money would be going to a good cause.

One year Reverend Hal had the idea to put together an Easter Egg Hunt in Grover Park. All the local churches agreed to take part and mother’s groups all over the county spent days filling brightly colored plastic eggs with candy and small toys. The idea was that all churches would hold Easter services at the same time on Easter Sunday and then the families would gather in the park to let the little ones find the prizes.

Unfortunately for Reverend Hal, and everyone else concerned, Easter weekend coincided with “Senior Prank Week” where high-school seniors at Silver Creek High were expected to play properly harmless practical jokes on the entire town. Things like covering the fire station with toilet paper or putting a fore sale sign in front of city hall.

The year of Hallelujah’s great egg hunt year the seniors waited until late Saturday night when all the plastic eggs had been hidden and then they raided Grover Park. Like the Grinch, they took all the toys and candy. Unlike the Grinch, though, they replaced the surprises with surprises of their own and let the entire town converge on the park, all innocent, on Easter morning.

The first hint that something was wrong was when four-year old Emmy Jeevers found a lovely bright pink plastic egg with a condom inside. “Oooh,” she declared happily, “I got a balloon!”

Other children opened their eggs to find bottle caps, band-aids, walnuts (in shell) and dice. Personally, I thought the dice was a nice touch. The only candy left relatively intact were the marshmallow Peeps, all of whom were in breeding position in proximity with other Peeps.

The more conservative of the town were livid, starting with my ever-self righteous and entirely humorless Aunt Camilla. How dare these high school bullies take away the innocent fun of the children eagerly hoping to find chocolate bunnies amid the wild daisies of Grover Park?

But, oddly enough, the Reverend Hal thought it was hilarious. He laughed and laughed. And when I, along with the other seniors, showed signs of coming off of some serious sugar highs (hey, we had to do something with all that candy) he congratulated us on the prank and then ordered us to rectify the situation while he took the children to a corner of the park for story time.

We quickly pooled our resources and ran hell-for-leather down to Walgreen’s where we pretty much bought out their stock. One frantic hour later the children of Silver Creek were let loose again and got their bunnies, their malted milk balls and more virginal Peeps.

As additional punishment, the seniors had to wash every church bus in town. Hallelujah supervised us and when we were done, took us all to EBC where we were each presented with plastic eggs, each containing a “chore slip” from a local business. I, along with three others, got roped into painting all the picnic tables in Grover park. My friend Sean spent an afternoon building shelves for Jeever’s Hardware. And Bethesda and Ezra Washington, whose inspired idea it was, got the worst punishment of all. They both got Miss Rose duty for the next six months.

Photo of the day: Snow in Philadelphia

It may be Easter weekend, but apparently it's snowing in Philly. At least in my little version of it.

20 Things I've Learned From Watching Movies

1. No matter where you live. No matter what culture you're from. No matter what you're making for dinner. If you go grocery shopping you will come home with a baguette.

2. Never accept a dare that involves a graveyard, a haunted house, or a prom. Always say "no" when anyone begins a sentence with "Hey, why don't we...?"

3. No Broadway musical ever depicted will actually fit in a Broadway theatre. Oh yes, and apparently all choreography in Broadway musicals is meant to be seen from directly above the state.

4. Blood comes out of the body in slow motion.

5. If you burst into song and dance in the middle of the street, nobody will notice.

6. Children of ministers always end up crazy.

7. People can do nothing but bicker for two hours and then declare endless love in the last minutes. Alternately people will have one conversation and fall madly in love and spend the next two hours going through hell for someone they only knew for 15 minutes.

8. Any group of American soldiers in WWII had to include one wise-cracking Italian guy from Brooklyn or the Bronx, and one kid named "Jimmy."

9. If you were a kid named "Jimmy" in WWII your life expectancy was approximately 92 minutes.

10. Never, ever, dig up a mummy. Apparently mummification worked very well because they're all still alive.

11. Life was sexier when we didn't know smoking and drinking were bad for you.

12. America would have lost every war ever fought if it weren't for John Wayne.

13. Before 1950 everyone in America was white with the exception of Pullman porters and Charlie Chan.

14. The miraculous conception of every baby born before 1960 was done in separate beds.

15. Your family didn't officially count as "eccentric" unless Mishca Auer was in residence.

16. Gangsters love their mothers.

17. The only good thing to come out of Nazism is that Hollywood will never want for evil villains.

18. The middle ages were the zenith of cleanliness.

19. A "dame" will always be cooler than a "broad" and a "broad" will always be cooler than a "bitch."

20. Rule number one in The Astronauts' Guide to Getting Along with Aliens is "kill it."

Photo of the day: Stanford Art

This rather suggestive set of curves is, in fact, a sculpture of birds that stands by the Stanford Business School. I love the lines and the sexiness of it. I wish I could remember the artist but I took this over a year ago. I really must take more photos, I haven't had a good shoot since beach day.

Scenes from Silver Creek: My First Love

My first love and I were brought together through a combination of my father, Walter Cronkite, and Time magazine.

Sadly, like all the classic love affairs it ended in tragedy on January 27, 1967 when astronauts Roger Chaffee, Gus Grissom, and Ed White were killed in a fire during a test of Apollo 1. You see, I was going to grow up and marry Roger Chaffee.

I didn’t care that he was already married and I was seven. All I knew was that he was handsome and he was an astronaut. That meant he was brave, strong, smart, and being married to him would mean I would get to ride in a parade. For some reason when I was seven my big ambition was to ride in a parade. Obviously I had no career in mind because parade riding is not, as far as I know, a legitimate occupation. I was apparently a dull child. Odd too, because when it came to crushes, all I seemed to fall for was older men. Cary Grant. Gregory Peck and, my real love, Roger Chaffee.

Our love affair started when my father brought home a magazine with big color photos of the Apollo astronauts inside. My family, like most American families in the 60s was space-mad. Anything related to NASA was major news. Dad was obsessed with the space program and insisted on watching every newscast he could, every documentary shown, and every interview with anyone even remotely related to the space race.

Our coffee table was covered with the smiling, handsome, white bread faces of John Glenn and Wally Schirra. And as an impressionable young girl, with a total absence of hot men in town, I developed a wicked crush on Roger Chaffee. I was also vaguely confused because for some reason I thought we were related. This did not, strangely enough, affect our engagement. But because there were photos of him around I got the idea he was some distant, attractive, clean-cut uncle. And I’m not sure why I fixated on him as opposed to one of the other astronauts, but he was definitely the one I picked out.

To this day I still think he was wonderfully handsome. But back then I also thought he magic. Space flight as a concept was mysterious to me. Not because I was too young to understand science. But because I was too young to get what all the fuss was about.

Growing up on a diet of quirky sci-fi flicks (my brothers were addicted) I thought space travel was a given. We’d already been to Mars, hadn’t we? And wasn’t space full of amphibious monsters and cheesy special effects? What was so exciting about the prospect of going to the moon? I’d thought we’d already been there, so I just didn’t get why everyone was so excited and why it was the topic of conversation all over the world. (OK, all over Silver Creek – but back then Silver Creek was the world.)

I thought maybe everyone was in love with Roger Chaffee and that’s why the world was talking. Wow, look at this handsome man who will soon marry one of our own, going to the moon for the 800th time and fighting amphibious monsters with his bare hands. What a guy.

I didn’t understand “dead” then. My only real experience with loss was with pets or people I was not going to grow up and marry. I’d recently buried Badger, an asthmatic hamster who got a cigar-box coffin and a teary, off-key rendition of My Country ‘Tis of Thee. (Don’t ask why.) But losing my fiancée was rough.

I remember my dad turning on the TV and Walter breaking the news. Dad was stunned. Mom said a prayer. Everyone was quiet except for me asking “what? What?” And not getting an answer. Eventually dad told me, gravely, that there had been an accident and some of the astronauts had died. I asked if Roger was OK. (I figured since we were going to get married it was OK to call him “Roger” and not Mr. Chaffee.) And dad told me he was dead.

Mom had to explain dead. “Like Badger,” she said. And I pictured my handsome hero in a huge cigar box with me singing My Country ‘Tis of Thee. I think I cried. I cried harder when I asked if I could go to the funeral and mom said no. I asked if he was going to be buried in Silver Creek and got another no.

The next day I took the photo of Roger I had stolen from one of my father’s copies of Life, rolled it up in an old paper towel roll, and buried it next to Badger.

I didn’t sing anything. But I did swear I’d never fall in love. And I never did.

Until Sean Connery.

Photo of the day: Pink

For a while we thought we were getting some Spring. We had a few days of sunshine and warm weather. Nice enough to open the windows and let the fresh air in. But the rain rolled in last night and continued today. Tomorrow is supposed to be cold and gray as well. So I turned to a photo of last season's roses, to remind me that soon we will have more sunshine.

A Little Knowledge
Husband turned 40 yesterday. I turned 49 in December. Yup, 49. I'm going to be 50 on my next birthday and just typing that gives me the heebie-jeebies. And yet, not.

My beloved best friend died of AIDS in his 30s and I remember his saying wistfully that he wished some day he could turn 50. Sadly, he didn't. So I will for him. Proudly. When I hear people complain about getting older I cannot help but think that it's far better than the alternative.

Husband's turning 40 has got me thinking. In some ways it gave me a bit of the blues, but in another it made me feel...content.

When I was younger, the word "content" would have made me gag. What an awful thing to be! And yet as I've gotten older and have finally gotten to know myself better I have come to appreciate the wonders of being content. I suppose when I was in my 20s the concept would have been interchangeable with the word "settling," but now I find it a wonderful state of mind.

I love my life. My wonderful husband and my adorable cat. I love my work at the shelter and the fact that I am lucky enough to be able to spend my time doing something worthwhile. I love my cozy home and my amazing friends. I love the feeling of utter bliss when I'm curled up in the world's most comfiest bed with the man I love and the cat who drives me crazy.

And I love not being 20. Dealing with horrible first dates and existential angst. Am I pretty enough? Am I smart enough? Am I too smart? Will I ever stop dating losers and meet a guy with good oral hygiene and a sense of humor? Will I ever make enough money to afford both rent and food in the same month?

Now I know who I am. Mostly. I still surprise myself. I still learn things. I'm not perfect and I know it. It's OK, as long as I don't stop trying to get better. I've learned to cut myself enough slack to find peace, but not enough that I let things slide. (OK, maybe I slide too much -- but I'm working on it.)

And I'm sorry to get all dull and philosophic. But hey, as I've said before, this place is all about me.

Photo of the day: Land

A little grass. A lot of sand. A beautiful day in California.

Old Friends
I've been in a weird mood lately and have turned for comfort to old friends. By that I mean old, favorite books. I find something wonderfully peaceful about reading books I know practically by heart. At the moment I am happily curled into Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers.

Old books are lovely. Especially when they fall open to a familiar, beloved page. When you have the blues there's nothing quite like letting a book fall open naturally and saying "oh yes, this is the part where they have dinner." Or "how wonderful, here's that beautiful passage about truth."

There are some books that I have truly enjoyed, loved even, but have no desire to read again. And yet others that I can read once a year and still enjoy. I wonder why that is? What makes one novel so repeatable and another a one-time only event? What makes it more curious is when there are some books by an author that I can reread and others I cannot. For instance, I love Jane Austen and can pick up Pride and Prejudice or Northanger Abbey and happily lose myself for hours. Emma, on the other hand, I cannot.

There are nights like tonight, when the rain kicks up and the wind moans down the street. When I'm vaguely discontented that I haven't done enough to save the world or disappointed in myself for not exercising more or eating more spinach. When my back is sore and my feet are cold. And yet when there are old friends, like Dorothy L. Sayers, the world is warmer and I am happier.

Photo of the day: Happy Birthday Husband

And thanks for being my best friend. I'm so proud to be married to you. You make every day better.

Photo of the day: Stacks

Who says vinyl is dead? It's not at KZSU.

Photo of the day: A Meerkat Indeed

From the ZF Zoo, who could resist?

The Over Dramatic World of LMN
Do you get The Lifetime Movie Network? We do. I've never watched it. But it shows up in our schedule listing and I always read the titles? Why? Because they're hilarious. Because you can tell by reading them that you don't want to see them. And because they all sound exactly alike. Let's see. Child abduction. Addiction. Double-lives. Cheating. You know, your average Wednesday. When taken en masse the effect is absolutely hilarious. Here's a sample of just the next few days:

Live Once, Die Twice
No Brother of Mine
A Face to Die For
My Nanny's Secret
Shattered Hearts
Doing Time on Maple Drive
Baby for Sale
A Kidnapping in the Family
Little Girl Lost
Gone in a Heartbeat
When He Didn't Come Home
Point Last Seen
The Man Next Door
My Husband's Secret
A Daughter's Conviction
Sins of the Mother
Where Are My Children?
Prison of Secrets
Abducted: A Father's Love

Honestly, can't you predict the plot of every film just by the title? And don't they just make you want to reach for the "off" button? For some reason, I find this so funny. I think my favorite is When He Didn't Come Home...wow, intense human drama.

Photo of the day: Packing Your Trunk

My ugly elephant lamp. I seriously love ugly elephant.

Hello, I'm Rude

Rudeness seems to be an epidemic in modern society. Sometimes I just shrug it off. Other times it annoys me.

I find there are degrees of rudeness. For example, today I stopped for a few seconds to hold the door for a man who was walking out of a store behind me. He saw I held the door, walked right past me, and said nothing. Not a "thank you" nothing. Just walked past as if he expected no less than for people to hold doors for him. Ass.

Then there was the old woman I saw who dropped a few things on the floor of the store. Two able-bodied young men actually walked over her items and continued on. I, well trained by my parents, stopped to help. She thanked me nicely and we moved on.

Is it a matter of training? Of generations? My parents instilled in me manners and courtesy. I still send thank-you notes when people do me favors, give me presents, or invite me to dinner. I say "please" and 'thank you." I notice the people around me and take the time to the right thing. And yet other people are totally oblivious. They talk on their cell phone and completely disregard the poor clerk ringing up their order or the hard-working waitress who brings their food. Not even a nod to acknowledge that another human is providing them with a service.

Today at the shelter a woman was on her cell phone and talking so loudly that I could hear her conversation from the next room. I know all about her relationship with her boyfriend. The shopping expedition she had with her sister-in-law. The fact that her boss has taken up golf and wants her to cover for him when he takes off early in the afternoon. While talking loudly is more inconsiderate than rude, it's still an indication that this woman, for some reason, thinks her life and her desires are more important that anyone else's. She actually asked me a question while still on her cell phone and then interrupted me while I was answering to talk to the person on the other end of the call. How nice? Carrying on two conversations at once. Don't I feel special?

I have no children. Never had a desire. I have the maternal instincts of a preying mantis. But if I were a parent I would definitely insist on teaching my kids manners. Teaching them right from wrong. How to behave in public and how to treat other people. Today child from hell was running around the store and ran right into me. No apologies, nothing. And mom saw this. Mom didn't apologize either. Here's Damian nearly knocking me over and there's no acknowledgement that he inconvenienced me. When I was a kid that would have been totally unacceptable behavior. And I would have known that.

Perhaps I should have said something to mom. But I didn't want to be rude.

Photo of the day: The Shell Game

There was a surprising lack of shells on the beach when I did my photo shoot a few weeks back. This and a broken one were the only ones I saw. Lots of seaweed. Some interesting driftwood. An old beer can (which I picked up) but all the shells were hiding.

I saw parents with a small kid running around. I like to think the kid found them all.

I Love I Love Lucy

You may disagree, but in my opinion I Love Lucy was the funniest sitcom ever. I've seen every episode probably a dozen times and yet I still laugh out loud at some episodes.

It's hard to pick a favorite, although I do like the series when she and Rickey are in Hollywood and she does all sorts of crazy things to meet the movie stars. Breaks into Richard Widmark's house. Hits William Holden in the face with a pie. And, of course, steals John Wayne's footprints. Stars were insanely gracious to long-suffering Ricky and his crazy wife and nobody had her arrested or committed. Nice of them.

Some of those episodes were wonderful, especially the one where she mirrors Harpo Marx. Classic!

The two biggest laughs of the series for me comes in two different episodes. The first is when they're living in the country and it's the famous "tango" episode. For a variety of reasons too complex to relate, Lucy has her shirt loaded with two dozen raw eggs. She and Ricky rehearse a tango and at the dramatic end of the dance, the eggs smash. It's genius. The look on RIcky's face when his wife "explodes." The reaction from Lucy at being a drippy, messy wreck. Every time I see that episode, even though I know it's going to happen, I laugh.

The other favorite moment is from a more obscure episode where Ricky takes Lucy hunting. She enlists Ethel to help her fool Ricky into thinking that Lucy is an experienced outdoorswoman. Ethel buys a bunch of fish and gives them to Lucy who pretend to catch them. But the big laugh comes the next day when they go duck hunting. Ethel hide up a tree. Lucky "spots the duck" and fires. And down comes the bird. Ricky picks it up -- and it's already plucked, fresh from the butcher. It's a huge laugh and one that had but Husband and i in stitches the last time we saw it.

So many of the classic series hold up well. Barney Miller is still brilliant. Some of the old Dick Van Dyke shows still deliver laughs. The Newhart Show, M*A*S*H, and The Mary Tyler Moore Show can still be funny. But the only one that never fails to make me laugh is Lucy.

Maybe I'm turning into one of those cranky old women (even though I'm still under 50) but the newer comedies just don't make me laugh. Of the past few years, only Friends had scripts that were literate and funny and didn't seem to revolve entirely around who was sleeping with whom.

I know there are some good ones out there, but if left up to me to choose between something where the plot is described as "a case of mistaken identity leads Heather to suspect her new boyfriend may be her long-lost brother" or I Love Lucy, there's really no choice.

Photo of the day: Ten Pennies. Ten Years

Ten years ago today Husband and I had our first date. We celebrate this anniversary rather than the date on which we married (in 2003) because March 25, 2000 was the day we fell in love with each other. Yeah, it happened that quickly.

The story is we had our first date two weeks before our first date. After a couple of conflicting schedules, we'd finally arranged our first official date: to go see Femi Kuti in San Francisco with some friends. But Husband decided (bless him) that he didn't want to wait two weeks to see me, so he came down to the radio station.

I was doing an early Saturday morning show and rarely had visitors. And then in walks Husband. "Hey, what are you doing here?" I asked. He mentioned something about music work. We chatted. My show finished. He asked me if I wanted to go get some coffee. That was at about 9 am. And at about 2 am we said goodnight after some serious necking in my car.

That morning I woke up alone and not really looking and that night I went to sleep in love with this amazing man who was funny and smart, creative and interesting, caring, compassionate, generous and, icing on the cake, a great kisser. And to this day I still get butterflies in my stomach when he kisses me.

So each of these pennies represents a year together. Bright, lucky, simple little objects -- like my life with my beloved Husband.

Photo of the day: Cat Mat

I have this lovely bulky yarn which I crochet into cat mats. These are placemat-sized creations that are put into shoe boxes and then given to the cats at the shelter so they have a cozy place to sleep. These are the only things I know how to crochet because the cats don't care that the edges are uneven and the whole thing, rather than rectangular, ends up looking like an outline of Rhode Island.

What's In a Name?

I am fascinated by names. Personally I've never liked my first name. Too common. When I was in Catholic School there were only 25 or 30 kids in the class and four of us girls had the same name. I guess it was popular the year I was born. On the other hand, I'm glad I didn't get some weird, way-out name like Sapphire or LaTonda.

I am particularly interested in last names and I love how nearly every day I hear of a last name that I've never come across before. I was watching a documentary about Chinese history and they spoke to an archeologist whose last name was Marshover. Not too esoteric perhaps, but a name I've never heard.

New (to me) last names always make me wonder about their origin. Did this man's ancestors live over a marsh or something? I mean some names are obvious. The "profession" ones, for instance. Baker. Cook. Wheelwright. But then you get one that seem like just a melodious collection of syllables. Hartsmede. Callio. Ashlyn. Many, I'm sure, are place names. Some are derived from a non-English language. But each in its own way is interesting.

Another thing that I find interesting is how names go in and out of fashion and how, in some cases, you can guess the age of the person merely by knowing their first name. I don't believe any female under the age of 70 is named Bertha or Gertrude. Nor any man younger than 50 named Adolph (unless his parents are white supremacists, in which case I don't want to know him). And yet names always seem to come around again. Flower names are again popular with girls. Rose, Lily, Daisy. And yet for a while I knew of no babies named after anything botanical, unless it was of the hippie generation and it was something wild like Orchid or Poplar. For a while it seemed every girl had to have a "creative" name like Madison or Dakota. Then the classic names came around again: Jane, Anne, Hannah. In my grandmother's generation there were several branches on the family tree with names like Lucy. Then nothing for about 40 years, and now Lucy is back.

Some names never seem to leave the map. There are a respectable number of Elizabeths or James in every generation. And then every generation grows its own. Were there any Ashtons in the 19th century? Or anyone in World War I whose name was Heath? And I'm sorry to any Cody reading this, but your name sounds like it should belong to a big dog with a bandana around its neck.

Many parents draw their inspiration from fiction. I read an article today that said Atticus was becoming quite a popular name for boys and I know someone with a daughter named Scout. Jane Austen heroines are also quite common now; lots of Emmas and Charlottes. I suppose there are worse sources for names (anybody who names their child after a retail establishment should be sterilized. Tiffany? Macys?) but if your inspiration is a romance novel, your child will definitely need therapy. (Over the years I've met a Caressa, a Jakeman and two birds: Raven and Falcon.) Honestly, how do you face the world with a name like Caressa? Are you predestined to become a pole dancer?

There are some names that I find downright ugly. With apologies to anyone named Dorcas, I think it's a horrible name. Yes, I know it's biblical, but it's just so unappealing -- a growl and a hiss. And in some cases I find names unappealing because they are tainted by someone unpleasant. I once knew a horrible girl named Christine, a perfectly respectable name and yet I dislike it because I disliked her so intensely.

But then again, I'm shallow and judgemental.

Photo of the day: Any Guesses?


It's not self-evident at first glance. But these are a stack of pipe cleaners. I buy them in bulk to use as cat toys at the shelter, but I thought they also made an interesting shot when I sucked out the color and amped up the textures.

Scenes from Silver Creek: Flash Gordon

Everyone who filed through Silver Creek High eventually sat in a class taught by William Gordon. Called “Flash” by everyone who knew him, though not to his face, Flash was your stereotypical math teacher with an abstracted look on his face and a head of hair always in need of cutting.

He was a tall, gangly man whose shorts always seeded too short and whose ties always seemed too wide. He also had a good right arm, which he’d use to lob chalkboard erasers onto the head of any student caught talking in class. I suppose today it would be assault or child abuse, but back then it was jut part of life. Walking down the science hallway with a headful of chalk dust was almost a badge on honor because everyone knew Flash had caught you.

Flash and his wife, Helen, were parishioners at Our Lady of Angels, so we often saw them on Sunday mornings. He had a very special wide tie that he reserved for services and holydays, it had crucifixions all over it. I thought it was the most morbid article of clothing I had ever seen. I used to wonder, if Christ came back, what he would make of all these people with symbols of his execution lying around. People wearing crosses around their necks, stuck onto the back of their cars. Seems kind of cruel, you know. ‘Welcome back, remember what happened last time?”

We’d often end up sitting near Flash and his wife and it was always something of an ordeal because of the hymns. Flash had an enthusiastic, though unreliable voice. He’d boom his way through the songs he knew by heart and la-la his way through the rest. This resulted in sudden bursts of noise so the hymns wound sound “la-la-la-la GLORY ON HIGH la-la-la LIKE AN EAGLE la-la FOREVER…” This had the unfortunate effect of giving most people around him a bad case of giggles.

Every month Sliver Creek High School had an afternoon assembly. The whole school would gather grudgingly into the gym, sneakers squeaking across the basketball floor, and file into the bleachers to wait for that month’s useless information.

The sophomore cheerleaders bake sale raised $210 for Polynesia. The Drama department production of South Pacific was in dire need of sailors as the entire navy consisted of two awkward Freshmen and Vikram, our Indian exchange student who was to shy to sing the word “dame.” The only good thing about these assemblies (aside from getting me out of gym class) was the feature known as “Meet Your Teacher.” This was the brainchild of our Vice Principal, Lewis Hall who decided it would make student-teacher relations better if students learned something unexpected about the faculty. And it was, in practice.

We’d learned, for example, that Mrs. Favero. from the Home Ec department was 247th in line for the British throne. She was more than a bit coy about the mechanics of it, but I gathered it was the result of some ancestress having an affair with the illegitimate son of the illegitimate daughter of Henry VII. Our principal, Edward Christienssen told of his adventures onboard the Andrea Doria the night it had its great accident, complete with sound-effects and an overwrought poem about "the great lady dipping her brow unto the gray water." And hippie English teacher Mr. Carpenter told us about traveling from Seattle to Death Valley in a van with Ken Kesey and Alan Ginsburg. Unfortunately he couldn’t relate to us any of the details because I gather it was all sex- and drug-related and while the administration wanted us to meet our teachers, they didn’t want us to get quite that personal.

When it was Flash’s turn to take the podium he started by setting up clipboards covered in blueprints. Then he cleared his throat, fiddled with his fat tie, and began talking about how he’d always had an interest in architecture and also had a fascination for all things Classical.

The result was one of the oddest hobbies I’d ever heard of: designing ancient temples. It was the “designing” part that was fascinating. Because he wouldn’t just recreate existing ones, like making detailed drawings of the Parthenon. No, he would take what the ancients had done and then get all weird and make something new. Not just new buildings, but a whole new Olympian pantheon. For example, the Temple of Athena at McDonald’s. This featured Corinthian columns flanking ample parking, complete with a drive-through portico with acanthus leaves and a frieze featuring Mayor McCheese in a toga. The Banktheon was a Bank of America in a round Classical design with a sunken vault and a colossal statue of “Altus Caponus.” (Because, of course, every bank wants a statue of Al Capone in the lobby.) And then there was the Driveoseum, a classic Greek amphitheatre that was a drive-in and included a refreshment stand known as the “Popcornia.”

All of this was delivered with not a hint of how freakishly weird it was. There was no sense of whimsy behind it, no indication that he was aware this hobby was strange and his creations were frivolous and rather wonderful. I was both surprised at this hidden streak of creativity and amused that he was so un-amused. Nobody had the nerve to laugh, we all just sat there as if he were showing us designs for something serious and we had to be suitably respectful.

I have to admit that out of all the Meet Your Teacher assemblies, Flash’s presentation was the one that surprised me the most. The following month Miss Haber from the science department told us how her family kept pet skunks when she was a kid. Yawn.

Photo of the day: Last Year's Residents

In anticipation of the upcoming kitten nursery I pulled out this cutie from last year's residents. We'll be opening next month and I cannot wait! Kitten duty is the highlight of the week -- I'm alway surprised there aren't hoards of people rushing the shelter saying "Yes, we want to feed baby kittens!" Of course that enthusiasm fades away when they realize they'll have to teach the aforementioned kittens how to poop. But trust me, it's all worth it.

Photo of the day: The Water Goes This Way

I love the little current running down the stream towards the ocean.

Photo of the day: Beyond This Point

There be dragons.

Or at least sea otters.

You Can Only Do it for the Love
I can't believe we had our first meeting for the next season's kitten nursery last night. It seems like we only just closed down from last year.

We're aiming for an early May opening and will go through September; even October if there are still kittens in need.

Last night was for us old hands, so there wasn't anything in the way of training. Just a few new policies to go over and a chance to pick out our preferred shifts. Three shifts a day breakfast 8-10, lunch 1-3. and dinner 5-7. Seven days a week. Last summer I did two regular shifts and picked up a third along the way, plus doing my cat shifts on the days when I wasn't at the nursery. This year I hope to work with some of my favorite people from last year -- at least we all requested the same shift, so I'm hoping it'll be the fun crew again.

And then I went back today for a regular cat session. Someone today asks me why I do it? Why give us so much of my days and work so had for absolutely no money. I had to, in all honesty, respond that this is the best paying job I've ever had. When I left Apple I was making over $1k a year to do nothing all that important. And yeah, I could buy socks before they all developed holes and had dreams one day of a new car (mine is 10 years old with 185,000 miles on it). And yes, my all time big dream of all dreams, owning my own house.

But what I'm doing now is more important that that. I can find a good used car. I can rent. I can shop at K Mart rather than Macy's (although I'll still insist Husband shops at Macy's). But I can't give up the fact that i am doing something good. I made a conscitious decision to turn in the 6-figure salary in favor of the buy your own catnip and band-aids brigade. And I don't regret a minute of it. There may be times when I feel guilty when Husband has to get up early or work late to make a deadline and I feel like I'm not pulling the weight in our relationship. But then he smiles at me and tells me how proud he is that I'm taking care of critters and all's right with the world again. (I am the luclkiest woman on the planet!)

Sure I'd love a car I can count on. And yes, more than anything, I was to own a house where I can paint the walls whatever color I chose and where I can't be asked to move on 30 days notice. But more than that, I want to take care of the animals. I want to be there when they learn they can trust people, when they find that one and true person who wants to take them home. I want to get the shy cat to curl into my lap and I want the agressitve cat to play with me without claws out and with no trauma getting hin back into the cage.

I honestly believe that working with animals is what I was born to do. Now if I could only find someone to help me pay my rent and I'll be a full-butt-wiggle happy camper.

Photo of the day: Cipher on Patrol

The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree (tm) on duty checking out the back yard to make sure none of those feral cats invade her domain.

Never fear, Cipher's on the case!

Photo of the day:Make a Wish and Blow

Send all the little dandelion tendrils on their way and your wish will come true. Provided that your wish wasn't for a field of dandelion.

The Wearing of the Green
When I was a senior in high school I was in the marching band. I played the flag. You know those spangle-clad girls you see twirling flags at the Thanksgiving Day Parade? Yeah, I was one of them. Go figure.

Our band was quite a big thing. We went to, and won, state competitions and marched in a lot of big-time parades. Before my time the band from our high school played at the Kennedy inauguration. But my year we didn't do much except compete, do a few local events, and march in the San Francisco St. Patrick's Day Parade.

I suppose it was appropriate, as our uniforms were green. The flag girl uniforms were short leotard-y things, green spangles with white fringe. They were hideous, in retrospect. No. Not in retrospect. They were hideous back then too. And so uncomfortable. With them we wore white knee-high boots which made us all look like little hookers. Ah, those were the days.

For the SF parade we joined with dozens of other local bands and hundreds of floats, plus every pipe band in the universe, to march down Market Street under a typically gray San Francisco Day. The streets were lined with thousands of revelers, most of them drunk out of their gourds, happy for an excuse to be snockered at 11 am on a Sunday.

Most of the spectators were wearing green and there was a huge business in green cardboard top hats with gold shamrocks on them. There were adorable troops of red-headed Irish children step-dancing their way down the financial district. And a float from the local Irish-American Cultural Center that was tossing out green mardi gras beads. I can't tell you how many of those things I stepped on.

We discovered that the grates covering Market Street had squares the exact same size as the heels on our hooker boots and several of us got stuck along the parade route. We had to pull each other out and then dash to catch up to the rest of the band. Andy Landucci passed out in front of the Bank of America because he was hungover from Jessie Madell's 17th birthday party the night before and was dragged off the parade route by a cop and some guy in a McDonald's uniform. We were at the back of the band and had a hard time staying in step because the float behind us, playing a tinny version of McNamarra's Band, was louder than our own band in front of us. We heard McNamarra's Band 17 times during the course of the day. I hate McNamarra's Band. The float was from a local Irish pub named "Brennan's" and the guys on the float downed their first pint of Guinness at dawn and were well and truly cooked by the time the parade kicked off. Thoughtfully they had designed their float with a fake bar, with real stout. They kept up the drinking. One guy kept yelling inventive come-ons to us girls at the back. Another guy jumped off the float and started a fight with some hapless tourist who, unfortunately for him was wearing orange.

In keeping with the Irish theme, our band played Barry Manilow's Copa and the theme to the movie Rocky. Apparently we didn't know how to play McNamarra's Band.

Photo of the day: Traces of Fire

Traces of fire against these rocks bring to mind beach parties from high school. Beer bought with a fake ID and then lots of skinny dipping and playing on the beach on a warm summer night. A ritual from high school. You had to have attended at least one of our beach parties. In retrospect, quite innocent. Some pot, maybe, but nothing more than that and alcohol and we always had sober drivers. Some great music, great friends, and a chance to get away from the folks for a while and just be teenagers again.

I lived for those nights when I could leave who my family thought I was behind and then go out with my real friends and laugh and get goofy, try stupid things, have fun. I celebrate those memories and credit them for helping me realize there was life outside of what my family were presenting me on their road map. I tore up that map. And I still don't know where I'm going. Loving every minute of it.

Photo of the day: A River Runs Through It...And Around A Stump

Oh, so that's where the Pacific Ocean gets all her water.

Scenes from Silver Creek: Wyatt Earp and Columbo

I suppose most towns are proud of their famous sons and daughters. Or eager to claim some brush with glory by proclaiming that George Washington slept there. Silver Creek was no exception….well, with one exception.

Silver Creek has absolutely no claim to any famous citizen or visitor.

The closest the town had ever come to a famous citizen is Andrew Kilpatrick. He right after high school to become an actor. He had one credit: he was a corpse on an episode of Columbo. I suppose his drive to be an actor wasn’t very strong because after six whole months of hard slogging in Hollywood, he got a job as a salesman at a Ford dealership in Orange County and ended his acting career. (Although he did appear in a few ads for the dealership and “Salesman Sal, your car-buying pal!”)

And as for George Washington passing through, well the only even remotely famous person to ever pass through Silver Creek was Wyatt Earp. And everyone knows he never actually visited town – it was just a PR ploy cooked up by the city council to give a little cache to our annual “Founder’s Days” events.

What prompted the deception was the fact that one of Silver Creek’s first families was named Earp. Absolutely no relation as the family never failed to point out – though I could never quite decide if they made that admission with pride at not being related to an such a character or disappointment at not having such a black sheep on the family tree. (If one can have sheep on a tree.)

But when it became obvious that nobody cared about Founder’s Days, the city council decided to add a little spice to the proceedings by claiming that Wyatt Earp had spent time in Sliver Creek in 1880, the year before the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. According to the adventurously titled pamphlet “Wyatt Earp in Silver Creek,” the lawman was convalescing from a gunshot wound at the home of his Aunt and Uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Lyman Earp.

But having him lying around in bed eating Aunt Agnes’ peach cobbler wasn’t enough and the pamphlet was three pages long so….

“By July of 1880 Earp was well enough to leave the comfort and care of the family homestead and throw himself into Silver Creek society. It was on the evening of July 17th that Earp single-handedly foiled a dastardly crime….”

Where to begin? Well, first off in 1880 Earp was living in Tombstone. The non-existent “family homestead” would have been the Earp house, a one-story ranch home built in 1892. Silver Creek never had much society. And I’m not even going to touch the phrase “dastardly crime.”

According to the increasingly hysterical pamphlet, a gang of masked robbers burst into the home of Mr. and Mrs. Preston Mears while a party was being held in honor of the visitor. Silver Creek’s finest citizens were being robbed at gunpoint when Wyatt Earp (who had conveniently been out of the room when the miscreants broke in) came flying through a window, guns blazing in both hands. He took down four robbers and finished the evening by dancing the Virginia Reel with the Mears’ lovely young daughter, Camellia.

Phrases such as “Earp’s cool lawman’s mind chilled at the thought of the beautiful Miss Camellia being misused by such ruffians” were matched in their stupidity only by the revelation that Earp was, apparently, such an expert shot that not one of the villains was killed. Earp managed to disarm each, but fired no mortal shot, so that every man was brought to a fair trial. (I guess whoever wrote this preposterous tale decided that having four men killed at a party would rather put a crimp on any further Virginia Reeling.)

One of the great things about Silver Creek is that everyone knew it was a lie, and everyone went along with it. Not in a “we believe this story” kind of way but in a “this is such a ridiculous idea that we’re going to have fun with it” fashion. The first Founder’s Day events after the creation of the Gospel According to Wyatt Earp included an old west costume party and a peach cobbler contest, in honor o Aunt Agnes Earp.

The following year proved even more exciting with a reenactment of The Great Crime, complete with Silver Creek police officer Dan Hartley jumping through a window at the Kiwanis hall and firing blanks towards the four “ruffians.”

And since then, it has only grown. There are mock shoot-outs on the street, in a battle rivaled only by the O.K. Corral itself. There is a cowboy poetry slam and a bluegrass music festival. There is even a dance that concludes with the Virginia Reel.

And one time I danced the Virginia Reel with Andrew Kilpatrick. Before he became a corpse on Columbo.

Photo of the day: 137744

Why is machinery so photogenic?

Photo of the day; See? Weed!

I turned this into black and white because dead and dying seaweed isn't too lovely a color. It's all about the texture anyway.