Driving Ellen, Part 3

Back in Ellen’s loving arms, Kris and I geared up for a few days of camping and parks and no showers. It was late afternoon when we reached Joshua Tree National Park. Taking the advice of the slightly frazzled woman at the visitor’s center, we set up camp at Jumbo Rocks. The site was beautiful with lots of, as expected, large rocks. There we sat, watching the sun set behind the mountains. The miles of Joshua trees were bathed in shades of purples, pinks and yellows. The desert air, excruciatingly hot by day, was at a perfect temperature. Kris and I turned to each other with a look that said, “You’re a great friend and all. Glad we’re here. But it’d be nice if you were a hot guy because then we could just do it right here and now.” Then millions of flies surrounded us putting an end to our various jumbo rock fantasies. We quickly set up our tent, which was a task that, by this point, we could accomplish within minutes. In an effort to escape the attack of the flies, we decided to go on a short hike before dinner. The Joshua Trees all looked like people standing in various positions. I took advantage of a Kodak moment involving Kris mirroring the stance of the cheerleader tree, with her invisible pompoms in hand and left leg kicked in the air. Keys Point was a particularly scenic spot; the smog from L.A. made the sky an incredible hazy blue color. As we marveled at the beauty of pollution, a little man, with a thick German accent, asked us if we were trekking. “Uh…yeah, we’re trekking.”

“Walking is the same thing as trekking, right Kris?” I asked, after leaving our German friend.”

“Guess so.” We trekked on, passed by a coyote that was sauntering down the dirt road full of purpose, as if following directions. Jackrabbits also ran among us. Fortunately, we failed to come into contact with any kangaroo rats. The park brochure provided a picture of these creatures and a happy little blurb insinuating that we should look forward to greeting such nasty looking rodents. As we ate dinner under a sky full of bright stars, another coyote strolled right by us. We exchanged hellos, cleaned up, parted the wall of flies surrounding the tent, and went to bed. I slept like a baby. The next morning’s one and a half mile ascent to the top of Ryan Mountain was fairly steep, but worth it. Not only for the amazing aerial view of the park, but for the opportunity to watch a guy run around trying to take the perfect lizard picture. Lizards can move fast, and do when being chased by an overly eager amateur photographer.

L.A. was new to me. I looked forward to exploring the city of fame and fortune, but had a feeling that I may find it to be a pretentious hellhole. Turns outs I eat that showy shit right up. One may think it’s easy to get to Hollywood since it is written in gigantic bright white letters on the side of a mountain. Well that one clearly is not being guided by Ellen. She may know her way around a k.d. lang concert, but getting to Hollywood was not so easy. After driving in many circles, squares and hexagons, we finally came upon the Walk of Fame. “Wow Kris…lookie there. Betty Grable’s name on the sidewalk,” I said as I stepped over the wad of pink gum covering the Y.

“Yeah, and there’s Will Rogers. Wait a minute, who the hell is Will Rogers?” Kris said in way that indicated she didn’t care what the answer was. Conveniently, I didn’t know the answer.

We continued to walk, and read aloud as if the other was suddenly illiterate. “Bob Hope!” “Look…there’s one for Tom Hanks.” Busy staring at the ground soaking in the glamour of Hollywood, I bumped into someone. I looked up and said excuse me to the homeless woman with the shopping cart standing in front of me. Thinking about the paradox of that moment was likely to make my brain ooze out my ears, so I just went the way of ignorance being bliss and continued my announcements, “ Ooh…Charo!”

Dodging traffic while standing in the middle of the street, Kris took the traditional Hollywood sign picture. The time had come for a walk down Rodeo Drive. It was a parade of tall, emaciated women, with Kate Spade bags, and stiletto heels, carrying twice their weight in shopping bags. I’m sure Julia Roberts has God pump in the clear blue skies and the warm air with just the right hint of cool breeze. Driving down celebrity row would have been better had we a clue whose homes we were driving by. Kris and I got smoothies at Jamba Juice, complete with the shots of energy and bee pollen and all that other California flare. We drove to the biggest mansion in Beverly Hills, passing the big pink hotel featured on the cover of The Eagles “Hotel California” album. That was just the kind of useless crap that I was looking for. The biggest mansion was indeed really big.

The traffic in L.A. is just wrong. I’m no stranger to city traffic, but sitting in the car, with twelve lanes of cars around me and endless lines of cars on the roads overhead, made me just a wee bit homicidal. Sometime during the twenty mile drive that took two hours, I thought about how there must be a correlation between rush hour traffic on the L.A. freeway, and the amount of drug overdoses I see on “True Hollywood Story.” With the help of deep cleansing breaths, we safely reached my friend Andrew’s house in Torrance. Andrew, his girlfriend Lisa, Kris and I had a relaxing dinner at the Redondo Beach Brewing Company. Still overly fascinated by all things entertainment, I bombarded Lisa with questions about her job as a television scriptwriter. Lisa’s energy and knack for writing wacky science fiction scripts, seemed to be a great balance with Andrew, the very levelheaded aeronautical engineer. It was fun to see an old friend and get a snapshot of where life’s roads have taken him.

Friday was Baywatch day. Kristen and I were going to Hermosa Beach to soak up the sun and do some intense people watching. I went for a run along the path that lined the beach, and passed all sorts of characters. It was a lesson in stereotypes having a basis in reality. Young women looking like they had just finished up taping “College Girls Gone Wild” roller bladed by in their itsy bitsy, teeny weenie, leather bikinis. Each pair of fake hooters was appreciated by a different meathead, coming straight from getting his chest hair waxed. Then I had the pleasure of jogging by the apartment that Donna and Kelly lived in on 90210. I stared in the window and remembered that special moment when Donna, dressed in lacey weirdness, surrounded by a zillion candles, finally remembered that she was born to be a slut and threw away her virginity like it was a gram of saturated fat. Could this day get any better?

Apparently it could. It took a lot of walking around the town of Torrance, before Kris and I decided to settle on Soup Plantation. Another appropriate title for Soup Plantation might be, “Come Turn Into A Senior Citizen In Just Three Seconds Flat.” All you can eat for just $7.99. But wait, they have a triple A discount! Make that, $7.49! Caught up in the frenzy of bargain food, we rushed around the aisles and loaded our plates with salads, soups, meat and pasta as if this was the last supper. Dessert would have to wait for round two. As we sat, shoveling the array of mismatching foods in our mouths, an employee came around with baskets of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. We attacked her with praise and grabbed a few cookies. “Holy shit…I love this place!” Kris yelled. Finally, we gave in to our complete lack of hunger, and slowly, with sweat beading on our brows, walked back to Andrew’s and nursed our indigestion.

What’s a road trip without getting really lost at least once? Probably very relaxing, but I wouldn’t know. Finding Big Sur was about as easy as finding a good piece of pizza anywhere west of New York. A few of the necessary roads were closed because of some pesky fire or something. We suddenly found ourselves driving through a military base, and the road we were on ended abruptly. A soldier approached the car, and said smoothly, “Can I help you ladies with something?”

“Geez, look what two weeks without Neutrogena foaming face wash has done to my combination skin!” I thought, as I stared at myself in his mirrored sunglasses.

Kristen, apparently not as vain, got to the heart of the matter, “We’re trying to get to Big Sur, but it seems like all the roads we need are closed.” Luckily Kristen was listening to the directions, because after obsessing about my pubescent facial issues, I thought about how this guy’s shiny black hair, olive skin and sparkly white teeth made him look like the heartthrob in a Disney cartoon. It turned out that the suave soldier was not aware that the road at the opposite side of the base was also closed. Frustrated, tired and now really lost, we stopped at a campsite, with the hopes that there may be someone there with a clue. Sounds of conversation and cooking whispered from the distance. We followed our ears and came upon a couple, preparing dinner at their site. We asked them for directions, and the man was very eager to help us. He pulled out his laptop, fired up his map program, punched in the information of where we needed to go, and hit enter. An unreadable map, involving thousands of little crisscrossing lines, appeared. This gentleman was very excited by the results and described in his English accent, exactly where we needed to go in a way that made absolutely no sense. Meanwhile, his girlfriend, bearing a striking resemblance to Rosanne Barr in looks, personality and tone of voice, continued to set up for dinner and make wisecracks about how he was going to get us more lost. Rosanne, while brushing crumbs off her black Harley t-shirt, took the liberty to translate her beau’s confusing ramblings into succinct sensible directions. Thanking them profusely, we agreed that we would take their advice and stop in Lucia for dinner. With a spring in our step, and confidence that the Brit and Rosanne knew what they were talking about, we got back in the car. However, as Tom Arnold can attest, Rosanne is not to be trusted. Their directions led to an all new closed off road. In case the giant orange “Do Not Enter” signs weren’t enough, two soldiers stood in the road waving their arms to ensure that we would stop. One of the soldiers approached the car, and we exasperatingly asked, “How do we get to Big Sur?”

He, matching our level of enthusiasm, said, “You’ll go straight and then you’ll go the mission….I think.”

“Holy Mother of God, get me off this damn base.” I said to myself. To him, I said, “You think or you know?” What’s the worst that could happen? He doesn’t like my attitude and shoots me with that big ass gun he’s got slung over his body? At least the road to hell is not closed off. Soldier man rambled on something that mentioned Yuma. Kristen told him that we had driven past Yuma when we went to Flagstaff. Well, apparently Yuma was this guy’s Nirvana. He immediately changed his tune. “Oh Flagstaff! I was in the army there! Route 40 and 17!” I suddenly had a change of heart about this fellow. There was something about his extreme excitement for southwestern highways that I found endearing.

“Yeah, Route 40! We drove right down that road!” I said enthusiastically.

He then gave us the same exact directions as before, but this time with energy, confidence and a big smile. We were off…a man that drove on Route 40 AND 17 would not lead us astray! After about twenty minutes, we drove up to a closed off road. Who was there to greet us but Disney’s answer to Erik Estrada. “Hey ladies, you’re back…” he said in a way that made my skin crawl.

“Holy fucking shit,” I said. “How the hell do we get to friggin Big Sur?” We promptly ignored everything he had to say, turned around and drove up to the base church. Maybe God knows how to get to Big Sur. As it turned out, the guy on his way into mass did. By 8pm, we were there.

Andrew Molera State Park is a camping free for all. We drove through the sea of cars and eventually found a parking spot along the highway. We paid our $1 each and followed the trail to the camping area, with our headlamps leading the way. It seemed we were walking the path to Woodstock. In front of us were rows and rows of tents. The smell of soyburgers barbecuing filled the air. Tons of people and their dogs skipped around in a pot-induced oblivion. Unfortunately it was fairly dark, making people watching difficult. We set up the tent somewhere in the center of Hippieville and bummed a lighter off the guys next to us. One said, “Sure man”, probably totally stoked that we were going to ask them to toke up with us. But I just needed to light the camping stove. We ate our lentil soup and crackers and called it a night. I laid in my sleeping bag listening to a group of dorky guys quoting “Best in Show”, “The Simpsons” and occasionally singing “Can You Picture That?” from the Muppet Movie. The lighter lenders were putting together their lists of top five Saturday Night Live actors. And yet another guy was hacking up various organs. The sweet melodies of these burnt out trust funders lulled me to sleep. In the morning, I zipped open the tent door and was staring directly at a thin woman with long wispy hair, doing yoga. California. Breakfast was being served on the side of Route 1, right in front of the car. As we enjoyed our oatmeal and banana we realized that there were guys asleep in the car parked right next to Ellen. It was just another morning on the shoulder of the Pacific Coast Highway.

Big Sur Campground was our first stop for the day. The slightly attractive ranger, donning the bat tattoo on his arm, gave us some input on where to go. We took his suggestion to hike Pfeiffer Falls, Oak Grove and Valley View. The schizophrenic weather kept things interesting; it was windy, cloudy and cool one minute and then almost immediately the sky cleared up and the temperature rose 20 degrees. Following those brief hikes, we made our way into the Nature Center, At the front of the small building sat a sixty-something man with a long gray ponytail. As we were so used to doing by this point, we asked him for suggestions on hiking. He pulled out his folder of maps and said, showing his toothless mouth, “Ya know Murphy? Whatever ya need is at the bottom? Well…Murphy and I go way back.”

This was a refreshing change from the directionally challenged folks at the military base. Not only did this guy’s maps make sense, but he explained things in a way we could understand. He offered a variety of options and practically demanded that we check out Partington Cove, which is a “ver-TEE-cul” short hike but worth it for the view of the ocean. We thanked him and left him to continue opening his credit card offers. “Whenever my own bank sends me an offer I send it back to the Department of Confusion. I sometimes get an interesting response back!” he said laughingly, as we walked out the door.

Partington Cove was as vertical as we had been warned and very beautiful. The trails in Julia Pfeiffer State Park had a bit of everything, mountains, wildflowers, waterfalls, and a short tunnel to creep through that stepped out to an incredible view of the Pacific. After hike-o-rama, we drove along the scenic coastal highway behind a snail’s-paced Winnebago, and eventually arrived in Carmel-By-The-Sea. The overly expensive shops were fun to wander around in for a while but hunger pangs took precedence. We set up our traveling kitchen on a log at the beach, and enjoyed our dinner-by-the-sea.

(Soft) Rock Around The Shop

The other night I was heading to the train after work and was overcome by hunger pangs. I stopped into the nearest Wallgreen’s and grabbed a granola bar. A “Nuts over Chocolate” Luna bar to be exact. While at the counter, foraging around my bag for my wallet, a knock-you-on-your-ass stink swept passed me. I quickly handed over my two bucks and waited, impatiently, for my change, unable to concentrate on anything but the stench. I could feel it seeping into my soul.

As I was racing towards the door, I passed three people covering their faces with their hands. A woman stopped me in my tracks and said, “Do you smell that?!?”

“Yes, I do!” I managed to utter while trying to hold my breath.

“It smells like…” She paused, and looked up, trying to determine the perfect metaphor for the odor. She looked back at me, and said with confidence, “POOP!”

“That pretty sums it up,” I told her while gritting my teeth, trying to keep from gagging. “Have a great night!” I yelled as I pushed myself through the revolving door as quickly as possible, wondering how in hell anyone was managing to stay in the store.

The smell of the stale humid downtown Chicago air was a welcome change. I unwrapped the granola bar and took a bite. Let’s just say I wasn’t feeling all that nuts over chocolate.

The next day the time came for a mid-afternoon snack, but I couldn’t bear to go into that Wallgreen’s. Lucky for me, I work downtown in a major city, so that means there’s a CVS a block away from the Wallgreen's. Yay for excess! As soon as I stepped in, I knew I made the right decision. The Carpenter’s “We’ve Only Just Begun” was filling the aisles. And my heart. I’m not exactly sure what it is about wandering through stores that make soft rock the best music ever, but I can’t get enough of it. When Karen picked up the tempo and busted out, “Sharing horizons that are new to us!” I wanted to clear off a shelf of circus peanuts, stand on it, raise my arms in the air and accompany her at the top of my lungs. This magical moment led me to stop and reflect on other great soft rock while shopping memories. A Dollar Store outing that involved England Dan and John Ford Coley’s hit “Really Love to See You Tonight.” A stop at Kohl's with a sing-along to Carly Simon’s “Comin Around Again.” And countless Jewel trips accompanied by the likes of Billy Joel, Lionel Ritchie, Carole King and, for when they’re really ready to rock out, ELO.

To quote North Jersey's Light FM station, when it comes to the soundtrack for shopping, I like to be "caught somewhere between a rock and a soft place."

Driving Ellen, Part 2

The next morning we rose with the sun and were off to White Sands National Monument by 8am. Because of missile testing in the area, the park would not open until 3pm. Perhaps we should’ve been concerned by the fact that missiles were being fired off in the vicinity, but we were just annoyed that we had to find a way to kill five hours in the desert. Our first attempt at wasting away the minutes was to drive down the road to Alamogordo and shop in the White Sands Mall. That trip turned out to be surprisingly successful. It was there, specifically in the Beall’s department store restroom, that Kris and I were able to shit for the first time in three days. Friends who travel together, crap together.

Finally we were allowed to enter the park, and it turned out to be worth the wait. White Sands was like nothing I had ever seen. I was standing in the desert in the end of July, surrounded by miles of white sand and huge dunes with not a drop of water nearby. Bunches of children and adults slid down the gigantic dunes on sleds. Kris and I took a break from wandering up and down dunes and marveling at the vastness of our surroundings, to write friends’ names in the sand. We snapped some pictures of our sand art and later sent them out as postcards. The right combination of heat exhaustion and blinding sun reflected off miles of white sand breeds kindergarten level creativity.

The Indigo Lizard is the best craft store in the world. I’m not sure if it was the sign with the giant purple lizard, the sunflowers blooming outside, or the clean, fresh-smelling southwestern air. Whatever the reasons, we were in love with the place and hadn’t even gone in yet. When we did eventually go in, a Native American guy emerged from the back room, and greeted us with a smile and a mellow “welcome.” Move over Brian the park ranger; here comes the Indigo Lizard owner guy. Kris and I were lost in his peaceful eyes as he talked about his family and the various artwork that his store featured. It suddenly seemed that my life would not be complete without a handmade ceramic coffee mug with a painting of a coyote on it. After settling on a clay business card holder, a frog cookie cutter, a few picture frames and a necklace, we took our new friend’s advice and went to check out the petroglyphs of Three Rivers, New Mexico, which were just a few miles away. That Indigo Lizard owner guy was as wise as I suspected. It was fun weaving through the rocks, searching for those with symbols, shapes, animals or people drawn on them. There were picnic tables just whispering for us to come sit. So we relaxed for a while, and ate our chicken and teribroci burritos.

The drive to the Three Rivers Park campsite involved some maneuvering around wandering, very slow-moving cows. I felt like we drove onto the cover of a religious greeting card. To our left the Tuscaloosa Basin was covered by a blue sky and puffy white clouds, in front of us there were stripes of pink and orange overhead, and on the right the Sacramento Mountains were topped with a gray and ominous sky. Our campsite featured a giant tree with a log swing. They do things right in Three Rivers, New Mexico.

Next stop: Albuquerque, New Mexico: Home of the perfect strawberry smoothie. It was the second summer in a row that Kris and I were in Albuquerque and the second time we got those strawberry smoothies. Delicious. Aside from that, our stay in Albuquerque consisted of a stop in the in Old Town area where we shopped in the crafty southwestern stores, none of them reaching the standard set by “The Indigo Lizard.”

The subsequent portion of our trip involved a stay at a friend's house in Flagstaff, Arizona. After five days of camping, we would get to sleep indoors. Kris and I showed up at Tom’s townhouse tired, hungry and not used to interacting with anyone but each other. Kristen became instant friends with Tom when they had met in Missoula a few years earlier. Tom is just that type of guy. He is who is he from the moment you are introduced. And who is he is one of the funniest people I know. First of all, there’s the voice. One of those voices where listening to him deliver a eulogy may send me into fits of laughter. Then there’s the one of five boys from Iowa, dorky, quick-witted, sarcastic, smart and often very twisted sense of humor. There’s also the prescription Oakley glasses with the beige cotton strap. And last but not least is his optimistic outlook on life accompanied by an endless amount of energy and a love affair with the Grand Canyon that borders on obsession. So, staying at Tom’s was sure to be a good time.

Soon after we settled into Tom’s spacious home filled with plants, southwestern artwork, and a vast amount of techno CDs, Kris and I listened to the array of options Tom had considered for our stay. This involved the use of a variety of maps as reference points. “Whatever ya think, Tom. We’ll do anything,” Kristen said.

“Okay…there’s a great little hike near Lake Havisou. The trail weaves through old growth trees, and then comes upon little lake, and then there’s a tunnel that we’d need to get through…” He paused, took a swig from his bottle of Fat Tire Ale and seemed to be thinking hard. “We’d figure something out. There’s a tricky spot, but it’d be nuthin for you guys.” Tom loved that line. He was all about the positive reinforcement. It was that sort of attitude that made us scramble over massive boulders to get to the bottom of the Grand Canyon the previous summer.

Kristen and I looked at each other laughing a nervous, “we’re going to drown in Lake Havisou” laugh and I said, “It’s your call, Tom. We trust your judgment.” I wasn’t sure if I was being honest or not, but to give him credit, we had been on these wacky adventures before and lived to tell the tales. Even when I slammed my head on a rock in the lava tube last summer, Tom was there to take off his t-shirt, put some icicles in there, sop up the blood that almost made Kristen pass out and then call me Massive Headwound Mary for the next few days.

Just as suspected, Tom came up with a detailed plan for the following day. We were going to climb to Humphrey Peak in the San Francisco Mountain range, the highest point in the state of Arizona. As we were getting ready to leave, Tom’s roommate Frank said, “You guys are going to Humphrey? Rainy season could start any day now. If you’re at the top and a storm comes, you’re screwed.”

“You’re a wuss, Frank. It’s not gonna rain. There’s nothing to worry about.” Tom said slightly reassuringly. It turned out that Tom was right. It was an excellent hike. It took a few hours to trek up the to the 12,633 foot point, but with the help of walking sticks, Cliff bars and conversations about queefing, we made it. We approached the top where the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and there were flies everywhere. We quickly captured the moment on film and began the descent. We had learned from experience that a full day of physical effort is best followed by a bazookie. The bazookie at Oregano’s restaurant may very well be the best thing about Flagstaff. A giant chocolate chip cookie, fresh from the oven, topped with vanilla ice cream. We sat around the small table, attacking the bazookie from all angles, drank our beers, laughed about old and new memories shared among us, and celebrated the fact that enjoying the little things in life was nuthin for us guys.

The next day began, as did each day in Flagstaff, with the sounds of Frank’s monster yawns. More hiking awaited us. Tom, Kris and I squished into the front of Tom’s pick-up and drove over to the local breakfast place so Tom could refill his old filthy mug with some of Flagstaff’s very strong coffee. Then we headed south to Cape Verde, with our heads bopping along to the tunes of Fat Boy Slim all the way there. We stepped out of the car and into the sauna that was the West Clear Creek trail. When it came to sweat production, I was fairly certain that I set a new world record. But, as the name of the trail suggested, there was a creek which, following some confusion and disorientation, we finally discovered. The cool water refreshed us as we waded with the fish. Sitting on the rocks, we enjoyed our sandwiches and allowed the sun to quickly bake off any drop of moisture left on our bodies.

While Kristen slaved away at Tom’s computer trying to beat the deadline for her grad school application, Tom and I soaked up some culture at the Museum of Northern Arizona. The Native American photography exhibit caused me to reconsider my social work career and think about becoming a photographer for National Geographic. Then museum head began to set in. Museum head is the point, while wandering through a museum, at which I am physically unable to retain any more information, no matter how important or interesting it may be. I must escape the premises immediately and do something of no cultural relevance whatsoever. Our trip to Andy’s was just what the doctor ordered.

From the moment we got to Flagstaff, Tom insisted on the fact that we meet his friend Andy because he was funny without knowing it. That is a brand of funny that I always appreciate, so when Tom spotted Andy’s car in his driveway, I was happy to stop in. After a few minutes of knocking loudly on the door, it opened and there stood a 27 year old man, with his short dark brown hair shooting out in various directions, wearing a blue and white striped seersucker robe. “Hey Tom!” he said with a smile. He immediately turned to me and introduced himself. “Hey, I’m Andy! You must be either Mary or Kristen.” Despite his frazzled appearance, this fellow seemed to be on top of things.

“Wow, you’re good. I’m Mary. Great to meet you, Andy.” I said while trying to contain my giggles.

Tom, after getting his laughter under control, said, “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Oh, I stayed home from work today. I got really dizzy before...like I had a few weeks ago. I feel a little better now though,” Andy said, just then realizing that he wasn’t dressed for guests. “Have a seat on the porch. I’ll go change and be right out.”

Andy came out a few minutes later, now sporting a much more traditional black t-shirt and soccer shorts, with a tray of food in hand. On the tray were slices of bread and a seaweed-like substance. “You guys gotta try this stuff. I got it at the Hopi reservation this past weekend.” After knowing Andy for approximately three minutes, it was clear that he had a thing for the Hopis. Andy had spent many a weekend on the Hopi reservation and was anxious to share his love of the Hopi people and their traditions with the world. We snacked on the seaweed and bread, and listened attentively to Andy’s stories from the reservation.

We left Andy’s, picked up Kris, and geared up for an afternoon of folfing. Since I suck at frisbee and golf, it was no surprise that I really sucked at folfing. Regardless of my high level of inexpertise, it was nice to be outside and throw a big disc in the woods and run after it. Kris, Tom and went out for extremely satisfying burritos that night, and then decided that it was time for Kristen to meet Andy. We had no idea what we were in for. The vertigo was back. This time when we knocked on the door there was no response, so Tom opened it a few inches and screamed, “Andy...ya home?”

“I’m back here,” said a quiet, quivering voice from the far side of the apartment. Before venturing to the back room, we all looked at each other and laughed, not knowing why. We made our way through Andy’s just moved into apartment, with the piles of picture frames and books lining the living room, and found him laying on his bed, back to the crazy hair, robe look that he had worn earlier. “Nice to meet you, Kristen…” he said slowly with his right hand over his eyes, squeezing on his temples. “Sorry…I don’t think I can get up.”

“Don’t worry about it. Are you okay? Can we get you anything?”, Kris replied.

“Uh….no. Thanks. Well…I talked to the doctor and have an appointment for tomorrow. I don’t know if I should take the pills they gave me that I’m only supposed to take when it gets really bad.” If greeting strangers while wearing a seersucker robe isn’t bad, than please Lord, don’t show me bad.

“Hey Andy, if you die, can I have your toaster oven?” Tom asked.

With a miniscule smile coming over his face, Andy gripped tighter on to his forehead, and said, “Tom….don’t make me laugh….it hurts….” Tom was the Ferris to Andy’s Cameron.

As the three of us tried to be helpful and throw out suggestions on what may make him feel better, Andy turned his head down, pointed in the opposite direction and shouted, “I got an idea!” We waited with baited breath. “A smoothie!” That we could handle. As we discussed the smoothie possibilities, Andy said, “Nah…forget the smoothie.” Kristen and I scanned the contents of his kitchen to see what we could put together in the way of vertigo remedies. Meanwhile, Tom continued providing obnoxiously entertaining commentary. Andy called the grocery store and asked with exasperation in his voice, “What kind of soups do you have?” There was some silence. “I said, what kinds of soups do you have!” More silence. “No, I don’t want tomato!” What other kind? You must have another kind…” he pleaded. “How about mashed potatoes?”

This poor man was begging a Safeway employee for mashed potatoes; we needed to take matters into our own non-shaky hands. Just than Andy got in his famous head down, pointed finger stance and shouted, “I got an idea!” This time we waited but the breath was not as baited. We were too busy laughing. “Two bananas….” He paused while holding up two fingers. “Strawberries…” He was listing the ingredients for a smoothie. We made the executive decision to go to the store and get instant mashed potatoes and smoothie fixings. As we were walking out, we could hear Andy yelling, “You throw in two bananas, some yogurt, strawberries…” Andy paused as if trying to remember the rest. “What am I saying, you guys know how to make a fuckin smoothie!” We got back from the grocery store to find Andy in the same position we left him. Minutes later, Tom handed him a bowl of mashed potatoes. “Uh…can you give me a straw for this?” Andy asked. Tom nearly passed out from the laughter.

“I don’t think you have any straws, Andy,” I said. “How about we just put it in a glass?” Except, because he just moved in, things were not in the traditional places and none of us could locate any glasses. So Andy sipped his mashed potatoes from a measuring cup. Tom came into the kitchen and said, “Hey you guys, remember Andy? That was fun when he was alive.”

“Tom! I told you not to make me laugh…” Andy said, as if on his last breath. “Guys, come in here.” I thought maybe he needed help drinking his potatoes or something. It turned out that Andy was not going to let any amount of vertigo prevent him from sharing his love of the Hopis. Staggering over to his bookshelf, with one hand continuing the vice grip on his head, Andy reached up and pulled down some wooden figures. Hopi dolls. They were nice and very well crafted, but none of us could get past the surreal nature of the situation enough to appropriately appreciate this display. Soon after Hopi show and tell, we said our goodbyes and feel betters, leaving Andy in a seemingly better state than we found him. Perhaps it was evil that we all got such a hardy laugh from Andy’s misfortune, but someone had to laugh. As Andy had proven a few times in the short time I’d known him, he had no idea how funny he was.

We went back to Tom’s, popped in the soundtrack to “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou” and wound down with a game of Rummicub. The following day, Kris, Tom and I hiked Red Mountain and Slate Mountain, which were both easy hikes. That was because Kris and I ignored Tom’s request to scale some boulders and just stuck to the main trail. That night Tom invited some friends over for a barbecue. Andy braved the bumpy ride to his house and was in much better spirits than the day before. We all gathered in the backyard and had a gourmet feast. Kristen and I ended our stay in Flagstaff, sitting among Frank’s beautiful garden with an old friend and a bunch of new ones, watching the sunset and laughing until we all felt like we had a touch of vertigo.

Walking the Walk

What do Entenmann’s Cinnamon Filbert Ring and the movie After the Wedding have in common? They’re Danish and I recommend them.

I discovered something amazing this weekend. Walking. Have you heard of this stuff? Not only is it considered a form of exercise, it can get you from one place to the other. Pretty cool. I’m completely sick of running. I’m not sure how I can be sick of it since I haven’t done much of it recently, but the last couple times I’ve attempted it, I was completely bored. And my legs hurt. It came to me out of nowhere- Say, I can try walking! I am actually not a complete stranger to walking. From kindergarten through my senior year of high school, I was a “walker”, as opposed to the coveted role of “busser.” Fields trips were all the more exciting, because not only did I get to enjoy the adventure of sitting on the puke green pleather seats of the school bus, there was the added bonus (by bonus I mean intense stress) of finding the right person to sit next to.

On Saturday, I walked from my apartment in Lincoln Square to Andersonville. Like the song from the seasonal cartoon classic, Santa Claus is Comin to Town, advises, if you just put one foot in front of the other, soon you’ll be walkin out the door!

Aside from being enraged at the sight of Krazy Cuts, (It is not klever, kute, or kwaint to spell the name of your business incorrectly. And if you’re going to be kweer enough to spell Crazy Krazy then why not just go balls out and spell Cuts Kuts? Clearly, the only response to such insanity is blind rage), it was a lovely afternoon. And my legs were tired when I got home! Just like what happens when I exercise!

Today I went to meet a friend to see a movie at Clark and Diversey. That’s about 3 ½ miles from my apartment. Guess how I got there. That’s right- the ‘ol legaroos. The walk started out on the wrong foot, so to speak, with the discovery that my ipod is dead. Most unfortunate is the realization that getting a new ipod is not near the top of my budget’s priority list right now. So, entertaining myself with the voices in my head, it is!

I’m not exactly a pro at this walking stuff yet, because I severely misjudged how long it would take me to get to the theater. What began as a relaxing brisk walk on a sunny day, turned into a sweaty try-out for the speedwalking Olympics. My heart rate shot up at a record rate, not necessarily because of the physical exertion, but because being late stresses me out beyond belief. With each hurried step, I obsessed a little more on why I didn’t leave earlier, and how rude it is to make someone wait.

I eventually got there, and about thirty seconds into the movie, my tardiness was the least of my worries. More pressing on my stress agenda is the realization that human life is gearing up for extinction. Huge bummer. Go see The 11th Hour.

Side note on Leonardo DiCaprio (the producer and narrator of the 11th Hour): Leo is one of those people that I’d like to dislike because he just seems too cool and too smart and too talented and too hot, but I really like him because it appears that he’s doing all the right things with his talent and fame. Plus he holds a special place in my movie-viewing heart, for his role in my favorite movie ever, (at least for today), What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. But back to the flick at hand.

Just when I was utterly terrified about our species impending self-induced doom, out came the solutions. Along with providing the cold hard facts about climate change and the technology available to get ourselves out of this mess, the movie (I was going to say film, but I can’t do it without feeling ridiculously pretentious) makes the connection between how we, the human race, feel inside and how we are expressing that in our world. It may sound like hippy BS, but I think it’s, well, right on. Totally tube, even. While governments need to step up and legislate clean energy solutions right quick, all of us need to step up and deal with our addiction to consumption. Even though the f-word (film) gave a number of practical solutions for governments, corporations, designers, and the average schmoe, I was still feeling slightly overwhelmed trying to comprehend how in the h-e-double hockey sticks we’re all gonna change our thinking and prevent our species’ demise. I find some solace in wacky ‘ol Edward Abbey’s take on the subject:

Do not burn yourselves out. Be as I am-- a reluctant enthusiast ... a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it's still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much; I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound men and women with their hearts in a safe deposit box, and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this; you will outlive the bastards.

Thanks, Ed. I’ll walk to that.

Driving Ellen

In the summer of 2001 my friend Kristen and I took a six week road trip around the US. Soon afterwards, I wrote a long, very long, essay about our trip. Here's part one.

"Brandon Walsh or David Silver?"

"Hmm…definitely David Silver. I couldn’t get past Brandon’s wall of hair gel," Kris said, with one hand on the wheel and the other flailing around the back seat hoping to sit a snack.

"Yeah, I’d have to agree. And David Silver was hot in those later episodes." I reached back and grabbed the container of chocolate covered soy nuts, bit on the corner of the plastic packaging and ripped it open with my teeth.

And so it began. Another marathon session of "Who Would You Rather?" Pick any two people- friends, celebrities, former professors, cartoon characters, and choose who you’d rather sleep with. Endless amounts of fun and perfect for the long car trip.

“Oh…my…god…” Kris gasped. "The chocolate soy nuts. Delicious. Trader Joe’s has done it again. The guy at the gas station or that kid who used to play Neil Young songs at the Old Post in Missoula?"

We were off to a great start. A rousing car game in the works, a variety of healthy and not-so-healthy snacks within reach, and the Dixie Chicks girl power anthem, "Wide Open Spaces" on the radio. With six weeks of open calendar ahead and a car full of camping gear, maps, food and an official crapload of cds, we were ready for anything this country had to offer.

Kass and Jim were there to watch us depart from Philly just an hour before. Kass and Jim being Kris’ parents. Us being Kris, Ellen and me. Ellen being my beautiful, trustworthy, brimming with earthy character, shiny blue Subaru Outback Sport. Ellen was named by my friend Bob, who after one ride got the feeling that my car was of the lesbian persuasion. That feeling was most likely due to the fact that, at the time of his decision, Martina Navritolova was a spokeswoman for Subaru. Whatever the reason, the name Ellen immediately fit her like a pair of baggy Levis and army boots. I could practically smell the CK One cologne wafting from her air vents.

It only made sense that Kristen and I decided to spend a month and a half together. Since we first met, eight years earlier, she and I had been living parallel lives. It began with college at St. Joe’s, then a year of the Jesuit Volunteer Corps in Missoula, Montana, followed by a move back in with our parents. Now I had grad school behind me and Kris was two months away from its beginning. I was getting ready to pick up my life in Boston and magically create a new one in San Francisco. The time was right for us to follow one of our commandments- thou shall not transition from one phase of life to the next without a road trip in between.

Tired from about six hours of driving, we decided to make our first stop Hungry Mother State Park in Marian, Virginia. Although it was late, we saw lights on in the park office, so we thought it best to go check in. The jolly woman behind the counter giggled as she greeted us with a southern hello. After a few minutes of chatting, she said, “When you first pulled up, I was worried because I thought you may’ve been robbers.” Laughing, she reached into the depths of the front pocket of her baggy acid washed jeans and removed a huge wad of cash. We all shared a nice, "Ha, ha, isn’t this fun that we’re not all involved in a robbery" moment, and exchanged goodnight pleasantries.

After weaving Ellen through the maze of camping spots, we found our very own little space of dirt and set up the tent for the first of many tent setting up experiences. Kris insisted on having her sleeping bag near the door, perhaps so she could be the first to escape in the event of an approaching bear. Either that or because she gets up to pee somewhere in the vicinity of 32 times a night. After the kids screaming "cock-a-doodle-doo" finally shut up, the cool summer evening breeze helped sleep come quickly.

The next day we arrived in Nashville, and I, for one, was ready to see Tim McGraw dancing in the streets singing about the love that did him wrong. No such luck. The highlight of Nashville, if I may be so bold as to call it a highlight, was the Parthenon of the South. I am not certain who the mentally deranged fool was that decided to build a replica, to size, of the Parthenon in Nashville, Tennessee. But I do know that it is very humid there in July and I just wanted a smoothie. Kris and I parked the car, walked through the field of dead brown grass and stood in front of the southern Parthenon. We snapped the obligatory picture and wandered over to the swing set nearby. I’m sure it was much like the swing sets in Athens. It was at that swing set that we established our southern accents, which would take at least a week to lose. "I’ma blow up that pitchur and git me a noz frame from the Wallmart and put it on my mantelpiece." The heat was getting to us already.

The obvious follow up to Nashville is Memphis. Flipping through the pages of our trusty Let’s Go America 1998 we managed to locate Beale Street where all the coolness supposedly happens. Arriving a little too early for that bluesy nightlife that Memphis boasts, Kris and I settled on a generic pub and enjoyed a couple microbrews. On our way back to the car, we were suddenly paralyzed by the sounds of a woman screaming. Across the street, on the sidewalk, lay a woman, yelling, "Somebody help me! There’s so much blood!" With a closer look, I realized that the entire front of her white shirt was now crimson. Just as I took out my cell phone to call 911, a police car pulled up in front of the woman. We had no idea what happened, but from my experience as a regular viewer of E.R., I am guessing she was stabbed. We continued our walk back to the car, feeling disturbed and slightly nauseous.

That night’s sleep was less than pleasant. It sounded like there was a plague of cicadas surrounding our tent. Total cacophony to use an SAT word. Total freakish pain in the ass to use reality. Between the thought of zillions of cicadas eating away at my flesh and flashbacks to the bloody woman on Beale Street, I was having a difficult time getting to sleep. After lying amidst the deafening screams of the cicadas for what seemed like days, I finally dozed off, only to be awakened at 4am. The cicadas were now being accompanied by the sound of raindrops. Without much discussion, Kris and I got up and methodically put the rain fly on the tent. It was a good thing we did, because it began pouring a few minutes later.

When morning came, braving the elements, we put on our rain gear, fired up the camping stove, heated up some water and mixed in the little baggies of Quaker oatmeal. That, along with a banana shared between the two of us, became the daily breakfast. With full bellies and just a few hours of sleep between us, we were on our way. We got in the car and I put on the Paul Simon cd for inspiration. We were going to Graceland.

The line at Graceland was filled with a bevy of eager travelers from around the globe. Ah...America...an entire industry built on the memory of an overweight gyrating musician with a pompadour. While in line, Kris and I both managed to locate our student ID cards; both with the lamination peeling off and pictures of us with the same haircuts we were currently sporting. Thankfully there’s no date on those student ID cards, because I’m planning on using it for the next few decades or so. Students got a discount at Graceland, because learning about the king of rock and roll is clearly an educational experience. And apparently going to Graceland is somehow related to towing your car, because there’s also a discount for AAA members. The first rule of traveling is: Before spending so much as a penny, ask the cashier if you can get a triple A discount. This includes restaurants, strip clubs, coffee shops and gumball machines. Triple A encourages expenditures of any kind. We happily paid our $12 each, reduced from $25, and entered yet another line. This one was for the shuttle that would drive us to the actual mansion. It’s amazing what that place does to you. I had never in my life given so much as a crap about Elvis, but I couldn’t wait to step foot in his home. The chipper Graceland employees with their bright matching outfits snap mandatory pictures of each group in line for the shuttle. I know this because some poor old man did not want his picture taken, but the happy hound dogs insisted on it.

"But I’m not going to buy it," the man pleaded.

"Well," said the cheerful employee with the caked on make-up and the curling iron curls, "at Graceland, we take pictures of everyone!" and snapped a photo as he was walking away, looking confused.

The shuttle ride included a litany of Elvis info oozing from the loudspeakers. The van pulled up to the mansion and, like good little fans, we trailed onto the sidewalk proclaiming the appropriate amount of oohs and ahs. However, mine were fake. This is a mansion? Please. Have these people never watched MTV Cribs? Stankamonia has a bigger house than this Elvis character. Our shuttle group obediently followed the directions to approach the front of the mansion. It was there that we were greeted by Jeremy. He was young, effeminate and less than enthused to meet us. Jeremy immediately began his memorized speech, which put Al Gore’s lack of charisma to shame. "Welcome to Graceland. The mansion is on 13.8 acres of property..." Jeremy said in a monotone while staring off into space. His speech droned on for a few minutes. Then, it happened. Jeremy paused for a second. He took his left hand and beginning at the top of his head, slowly, with the use of extreme pressure, ran it down his face, causing his eyelids to stretch out and his nose to come close to removal. This was not your everyday "There’s a bug on my face" or "I’ve got an itch" facial wipe. It was more of an "I am so entirely sick of this place and these idiotic people and dear Lord, release me from this surreal hell in which I am forced to live" self-imposed facial attack. Then his eyes resumed their gaze at the sun and he continued on, "Please do not take flash photography inside the mansion..."

We finally entered the mansion, and were permitted to wander through and, after swearing on the life of our grandparents that we would not, under any circumstance, take flash photography, we were allowed to stand in the hallway and stare into the roped off rooms. Each room was decorated with complete seventies flare. Lots of furry furniture in shades of orange, yellow and brown, carpeted walls and monkeys. I wasn’t aware of Elvis’ thing for monkeys but he had a variety of them in different mediums- ceramic, wood and glass. Thank God these precious relics were not being ruined with the flashes of death harboring within my disposable camera. After leaving the final room, which featured a variety of Elvis’ shimmery, glitzy, mostly one-piece outfits, we all gathered outside to stare at the grave of the King. I was disappointed that there were no sobbing Elvis impersonators in the mix. Next to Elvis’ grave lay the grave of his twin brother. Talk about being overshadowed by your sibling. I had no idea Elvis had a twin. And now that I knew, I really didn’t care. So we left Graceland.

Arkansas didn’t seem to have much that interested us. Neither did Texas, for that matter. So Texarkana, the town that blends Texas and Arkansas, was passed by without so much as a stop for gas. Texas did redeem itself with Possum Kingdom State Park, however. Summer in Texas is hot as shit. Shit on fire, that is. But the scenic lake that the campsites bordered created a breeze that made breathing an occasional option. We woke up before the humidity and, in an attempt to prevent severe car ass from settling in, went for a jog around the park. Then we geared up for our first National Monument of the trip, Carlsbad Caverns.

There was a lightning storm in Carlsbad earlier that day, causing the park safety nuts to close some of the paths, but; they let us in "the big room." They could’ve gone so far as to call it "the really really big" room. Stalactites and stalagmites filled the room, and after learning at least five times, I still can’t remember what the difference between them is. I felt like I was on the set of Goonies, creeping through a cavern with my little inquisitive pal by my side. Right after Kris and I finished mocking how what they called "The Cross" didn’t really look like a cross, we both spotted a rock that strongly resembled Jesus Christ. Who knew he’d been living in a cavern in New Mexico.

Upon completion of our tour through the big room, we purchased the necessary postcards at the gift shop, griped about our mutual inability to take a crap and waited for the much publicized "Evening Bat Program." We didn’t want to wander too far from the bat cave so we cooked up dinner in the parking lot. On the menu for the night was our new invention called, "Teribroci" which includes teriyaki rice, chickpeas, carrots and broccoli. Sitting on the curb, we savored every tasty bite.

"Hey Kris, what kind of deodorant does a cactus use?"

"I don’t know, Mare. What kind?"

"Arid extra dry. I just made that up."

That was followed by the proper appreciation of my quick Ziggy-style wit and the decision to take a stroll through the park. After a few minutes of silence, Kris blurted out, as if following up on something I had just said, "And I didn’t even know my father’s feet would grow." My eyebrows rose in a "what the hell are you talking about” fashion, and Kristen immediately erupted in laughter. Then I joined her. First, because it’s just funny when a grown woman is having trouble standing up, and second, because I thought about what she had just said. After piecing together whatever I could catch through Kristen’s hardy guffaws, it was revealed to me that during the previous ten minutes in which I was reflecting on the beauty of the wildflowers and the meaning of life, Kristen was having a conversation with herself about a pair of sneakers that her father never wore.

The moment we had been waiting for was fast approaching. After finally recovering from the Jim Kennedy sneaker incident, we anxiously took our seats on one of the benches in the bat cave amphitheater. Out came Brian, the park ranger, dressed in his matching khaki canvas shirt and pants. We were immediately engrossed in Brian’s bat talk. This may have had something to do with the fact that since we left Philly, Brian, even with his Ranger Rick hat, was the first thing we laid eyes on that came close to an attractive man in our age range. Brian graciously fielded a host of ridiculous bat-related questions from overly eager children and loud talking elderly men. I had the pleasure of sitting next to one such loud-talker, who was duded up in a beige jumpsuit featuring an American flag on the chest. Brian described in his signature dreamy way how, very soon, over 300,000 bats would fly out of the bat cave as they do at dusk each night, in search of food and then return to their dark, dank home in the morning. Brian finished up his talk and we all stared at the opening of the cave with anticipation. And then, just as our main man had promised, the flight of the bats began. It started with a few black dots in the sky near the cave. People in the front rows began shuffling in their seats and murmuring. Then, within a minute, tons of bats were flooding out of the cave. The sky was a black cloud of bats. I was both disgusted and completely fascinated. Those hungry little buggers flew out in droves for what seemed like an hour. Brian, like our pal Jeremy, had instructed us not to take flash photography, but it made much more sense to me in this context. Besides, I’d do whatever Brian asked me to.

That night, huddled inside our portable home that we set up at the Brantley Lake "primitive site," Kristen and I laughed until our faces hurt. Thank God I found a friend who was as amused as I was when it came to topics like park employee facial assaults and parental footwear.

A Journey Through Emails Past

I've been deleting and sorting through old emails and have come across many a gem that really have no point but I can't bear to delete them. Example of an email I can't bring myself to delete:

Steve Erwin is dead. I'm crying crocodile tears.

Here's something I wrote in an email to a friend after I volunteered at a Special Olympics bowling tournament.

The Special Olympics bowling tournament was amazing. I have a lot of new friends and I've never high-fived so much in my life. I was assigned to two lanes of guys that were way better bowlers than me and they didn't need my help. We're talking scores hovering around 200. The conversation was hilarious, as were the victory jumps and cheers. My favorite moment of the day... Marcel (kind of looked like Erkyl) got a silver medal. He looked bummed out and I asked why. "Why did Ronnie have to get gold?" I was annoyed because Marcel's mom was like an obnoxious little league parent. He'd knocked down 8 pins and not get the spare and instead of cheering for him, she'd say with exasperation in her voice, "Oh, it's okay. Just shake it off." What the hell? I gave Marcel a pep talk about how well he did and how he should be proud of himself because there's only one silver medalist and I went on and on. He was quiet with his head down and I thought he was just irritated and tired of hearing me talk. He raised his hand and with his head still down, said very matter of factly, "Put it there, Mary. Put it there." So, I, of course, put it there.

Another good moment was when Maria and Nick were having a very frank discussion about how Maria may've snorted her aspirin instead of swallowing it. She couldn't remember what happened with her aspirin.

Nick: "Well, did you have it in your hand by your mouth and you just inhaled a deep breah and it just went in?"

Maria: "Yeah, maybe that is what I did. You could be right."

Nick: "It seems like that's what could've happened. You probably took a deep breath like this..." (demonstrates deep breath).

Maria and Nick nodded their heads in agreement and walked back to their respective seats. Mystery solved.

Barack and Mr. Twitchy

Tonight I went to a volunteer info session at Obama Headquarters in downtown Chicago. I went in being very picky about what I'd do, and I left saying something along the lines of , "I'll do whatever you need" and then signing up for "Camp Obama", which is two days of training to be a lead volunteer. Those tricksters got me with an old people story. That ALWAYS does it. A college student was making phone calls to Iowans to find out if they were planning to attend a caucus. A 90 year old war vet, with no health insurance, said that he wants to support Obama but he has no way of getting to the caucus. After talking to this man for a while, the girl offered to go pick him up and take him to the caucus herself. Babs immediately was singing in my head, "People....people who need people...." Corny stories like that just get me every time.

The main focus of the campaign is getting Obama to win those pesky Iowa caucuses. I had never, until tonight, gotten a detailed report on what exactly happens during those things. As far as I can tell Iowa is stuck in one of those PBS reality shows about Olden Timey Days. People have to show up to a meeting and get in the corner of the room representing the candidate they support. Really? And if that isn't wacky enough, everyone can then try to convince each other to vote for their candidate using whatever tactic they feel is necessary. Including baked goods. For realsies? Are they wearing George Washington wigs? I signed up to "help" at the caucuses just because I need to see this madness in action.

I've worked a lot with volunteers in my jobs and have run many a volunteer training. Because of this, I always enjoy being on the other side of such events. There's inevitably a wacky person or two, very excited to dominate all the conversations, and it's the staff person's job to be overly polite and not say, "Just cause we don't pay you, doesn't mean we can't kick you out." Tonight's training included a woman who answered her cell phone and carried on a fairly loud conversation not once, but twice. In addition to that entertainment, volunteer trainings usually provide an opportunity to see some lovely Non Sequitur Theater. Example from this evening:

Obama Staffer: Ok, so does anyone have questions about any of the logistics regarding office hours or signing up to volunteer?

Volunteer in back row: (yells) Yeah! I gotta question! Why are people sayin that Senator Obama has no experience?!!?

Totally unrelated- on the train ride home tonight, a guy sat down next to me and said hello. I said hello to him. At first I was thinking, "I'm not in the mood for chit chat with a stranger." I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that he was a bit twitchy, so I thought, "Oh good, he's either mentally ill or on drugs. At least if he chats, it'll be kinda entertaining." Then I realized that I need help. But that's too much to think about right now, so back to Mr. Twitchy. A few minutes later, he said hello again. It was something like, "Hey...uh....hello!" I smiled and said, "Hello there, again!" A few minutes later he gave me the 'ol "Hi. Hello." I decided to mix it right up and I said, "Hi. How ya doing, tonight?" He was not ready for that curve ball. He said, "How am I doin? How am I doin?! I'm doin good!" And then he started giggling uncontrollably. That made me laugh. So we laughed for at least a minute and then it was my stop. I said "Excuse me- this is my stop." He immediately stopped laughing and said, "Oh sorry" and then got up and let me get by.

And that is the story of how Mr. Twitchy unexpectedly made my day.

The Secret Life of Quantum Physicists

Many years ago I worked at a shelter for abused women and their children. Five year old Frankie was my favorite resident. His glasses, poker straight bangs, and all business attitude were a winning combination. Frankie wanted a job at the shelter so a co-worker and I named him the Emergency Sleepover Advocate. We sat him down and reviewed his job duties. He paused for a minute and said, "I was hoping for something where I look through files." But he took the job, and reported downstairs every morning where he gave us a review of what happened since we last saw him, and checked in for any new assignments. One day he told me that he had a secret. I leaned in, ready for whatever insider information Frankie had to share. He looked around to make sure no one could hear him, and whispered in my ear, "Hemoglobin." Hemoglobin was the secret.

Last night I watched the movie, "The Secret." It claims to have the secret, but I didn't hear hemoglobin mentioned at all. As if that wasn't bad enough, "the secret" is no secret. The "secret" in this movie is: the power of positive thinking. Or, take an obvious concept and call it a secret so people feel like they're on the inside and will pay for the books and movies and then you become rich off a really basic idea.

Plus, it was right up their with Marlee Matlin's Tour de Force, "What the @#$!@ are we thinking?" when it comes to quality film making (and dorky quantum physicists). I'm pretty sure my grade school vision screening had a bigger budget. (The apple, Mrs. Peters, is, like it has been since my brother was in grade school 10 years ago, on the freaking table).

My main gripe with the movie and the entire concept is that all of their examples are for material things. If you wish for a big house, you'll get it! Wish for a bike? You'll get it! Lame. It's one thing to visualize what you want and have positive thoughts so you can stay focused and seize opportunities that will lead to your goals. It's another to, as they suggest, tell the universe what you want, "like you're choosing from a catalog," and expect that it will just show up on your doorstep.

I have one whispered word for these idiots. Hemoglobin.