We get by. Drug the pain and pass the time. We got needs. We've got better things to see. We believe. In promises we'd never keep. We get by. Drug the pain and pass the time.

What a friggen beautiful day. The surf is strong and the smell of the saltwater is sweet. The only thing belying the winter season is the hint of a chill in the air. I have a pretty fantastic view out of my wall of windows. I can almost see the ocean. I only have to walk out to the street and look right.

There's something about the fall and winter here. Something that really strikes a chord with me. Life feels meatier. Maybe it's the shades of the sky or the time of reflection that hangs on us at the end of a year. I wonder if I would feel different were I in Australia where winter is during our summer months. One of these days I'm going to find out. The cozing up feeling, good friends huddled in tiny bars, thick coats and frozen cheeks. It's quite possibly my favorite time of year.

It's the season of the singles. Spring cleaning has arrived a season early. A handful of friends are getting divorced. A handful have ended their relationships, some for the second time. Welcome to the club, boys. Pull up a pint and let's talk. Misguided hope. Hope can be a dirt, dirty bastard. I love Shawshank but sometimes I really want to do away with the whole notion. I've never been good at hiding my feelings. Heart, sleeve, together 4 Eva. Not good. Over some ice cold Hefs my two most recent breakee's and I talked of love and life and music and madness. One a singer/songwriter, the other his drummer. Half the band is on the prowl, ladies. Watch yo step.

So bored and full of apathy today. I just don't care. And what's more, I don't want to care. I just want to go somewhere and read and think and figure things out. I feel it almost impossible to care about this shit today. I don't care about depositing checks or cameras today. And I sure as hell don't want to answer the phone. I just want to be left alone and do my own thing. God damn it all. At least I have wall size plate glass windows and a door to look out of. A beacon of hope. Damn, these days drag on forever...

The music just keeps on rolling along

Pain. The pain in my head. I don't want to take more vicodin because it's making me sick. But it's the only thing that's helping the pain.

I find it funny that old Scooby Doo episodes have a laugh track. And it's after almost every line the characters say. It's just not that funny, man. And I dig me some Scoob.

Burnt popcorn is depressing.

The Dennonites are invading D-land tomorrow. I was supposed to go but my surgery was rescheduled. Boo. I know they'll have a great time. It may even rain which equals even more fun because all the kids go home. I went once in the rain. We were kings. I was really looking forward to going. I haven't seen all the updates they've made to Pirates. And I really wanted to check out the pirate shops and have a mint julep in the French Quarter. The Haunted House still scares me. And it was going to be fun to be there with a big group of friends. Possibly drunk. Goddamn the timing. Sometimes it feels like the world is against me.

Shades played Wildcat tonight. I haven't been to the shitty kitty in ages. Same surgery/world against me situation. Not that I've never seen them play but they hardly play at all and there is no live music in this town or Santa Barbara so when a show comes up it's a rare treat and one I like to participate in. And they're my boys. I like to be social. A lot. And it's a tough thing to do in this bullshit of a town/area. So I mourn the loss of a good night of live music. Woe is me. "Whoa". Joey? Keanu? Hmmmm.

Where's my damn remote control? I liked that game show. They should bring that back. You know Ken Ober needs a job. Was Collin Quinn ever funny?

Bravo is obsessed with Blow. Dude. I like the movie too, but could you lay off playing it back to back to back to back? Is it national Blow month or something? Blow appreciation day? Did I miss something because I was too whacked out on drugs? Damn.

I need another pill. Now.

I stood and swayed in my bedroom for minutes. Lazily scratching at my satin PJ pants. You know what I am? Decidedly unhungry. I think I ate twice today. Food is so unappetizing. I wish I had a king-sized bed in my backyard I could lay on during the day. It's so nice out and I don't want to be in my room anymore. I can't breathe in any other part of the house. I love my parents.

I want to go back to Vegas. I want to live in Vegas. I want to roam from casino to casino, drinking and eating and seeing shows and just never stop. I think that would be a hell of a time. I could live like that. For a long time I figure.

My Nano is dangerously close to full.

I should be sleeping. The sport of champeens.

I'm over dramatic. And overly sensitive. That's a molotov cocktail. Not nearly as tasty as an Irish Car Bomb, but just as entertaining.

There's only one man I call Baby. And he'll never know I call him that.

I want to find a Pollock at a thrift store. A first edition "Slaughterhouse Five" at a yard sale. Not my favorite artist or my favorite book. A Waterhouse and "Cats Cradle" would be my holy grails. Among them, anyway.

I need to go to a museum. When was the last time I was at one? I think it was my 27th birthday. In Phoenix. There was a Frida Kahlo exhibit. I hear there is a Dhali exhibit at the LACMA. I have still not been to The Getty. I went to the J. Paul Getty Museum when it was still at his mansion on the cliffs in Malibu. It was fantastic. I've been to The Met, Musee d'Orsay, Rodin, The Tate, I stood outside of The Louvre... I've stood in one room with a Van Gough, Rodin, Monet, Picaso, and Rembrandt and I think my head almost exploded. I love standing infront of a painting knowing that the artist stood right where I am, looking at it just as I am now. See how they held their brush, how they laid the paint on the canvas. Or to pull up some grass next to The Thinker and blush like a voyeur at The Kiss. Running through The Tate I skidded to a halt in front of one of my favorite paintings I didn't even know was there. The Lady of Shalott. It was huge and I had to sit down and soak her in. Simply magnificent. And on the other side of the museum was The Rosetta Stone. THE Rosetta Stone. Holy buddha christ. Drool. HAD to have my picture taken with THAT. I live in a town of nothing but art galleries but I have a hankering for a good museum fling. A notch down from pretension or the height of it? Or D, none of the above. Black patent leather heals, a long black coat, a feathered fan, dripping emeralds, French twist, smoldering behind dark glasses...such over dramatic hilarity would be so fantastic. The pomp. The circumstance.

I need a man who can put on a suit and look good. Work it. Own it. Enjoy it. Sophistication is sexy, boys. Class, Character, Style. Sweating like a dirty bastard and rolling through the mud is sexy, too. I enjoy that as well. But I find few men can really do a suit justice, pull it off with panache. Reckless courage is irresistible.

It's the end of the world as we know it. It's the end of the world as we know it. It's the end of the world as we know it. And I feel fine.

So much more to do...

And it cuts like a knife

Wednesday was one of the longest days of my life. The emotional exhaustion really gave the physical a run for its money.

They scheduled my surgery for 1:30 in the afternoon. Not cool. I was expecting 8am, get it done and over with. But no, I wouldn't be that lucky. I couldn't eat anything after midnight and could only drink 8oz of water. Awesome. Food is for poor people anyway. I started the day off in a zone. A serious, impending doom zone. I got dressed and looked in the mirror knowing I wouldn't look in the mirror again at the same face. Pushed those thoughts away. Both of my parents drove with me down to UCLA. Neither one of them know how to drive let alone how to drive in LA. I want to kill them both before we even leave. I praise the mystical powers that be for my iPod and just turn the volume up. And without being able to stifle them, tears steam down my face. I am shuddering with sobs. I am terrified of this surgery. Bad memories from the first time I had a surgery like this have scarred me. Being awake while they cut on your face is, contrary to popular belief, not fun. Hearing everything the doctors are saying and doing, feeling blood dripping down the side of your face, these are bad things. I could not get past these thoughts and the immobilizing fear of them happening again. The music washed over me with a perfect numbness that ebbed and flowed with each song. A part of me, thankfully, shut down.

We got to UCLA an hour and a half early. LA. Traffic. You never know. They check me in, I've got my wristbands, I'm in line for the ride. The nurses see I am in a funk and they reassure me that my doctor is fantastic and that everything is going to be fine. They are sweet and make me laugh and distract me for a while. But I keep coming back to ground zero. It's 1:30 and I am called into the pre-op room. Wow, this is really happening. Was this all a dream I kept expecting to wake up from? I get dressed down and the nurse sets up my IV in the bend of my arm. My least favorite place. Rad. One try, I thank her for that. And I ball uncontrollably. My left arm plastered tensely to my side, Kleenex clutched to my face, I sit there waiting in this horrible state of vulnerability for an hour and a half before I am taken into the operating room. Nothing but complicated memories of all kinds pinballing through my mind that I can't turn off. I mutter the strains of Green Day's "Macy's Day Parade", the last song I heard on my iPod. I try to think of a more upbeat song but the melancholy tone just fits, and it's all that's holding me together at this point.

They finally come to get me at 3pm and wheel me into the operating room. The anesthesiologist and I go over the drugs and how it's all going to work and he's a good man. He was my man for my last surgery and he remembers me. I explain to him that I need as much drugs as is safe. I don't want to hear anything, I don't want to feel anything, I don't want to be aware of anything that is going on. I tell him my first surgery was just awful and how terrified I am of a repeat performance and he assures me he will take good care of me. I meet the other nurses, sign one more form, and am asked a zillion different times for my full name and birthday. That's how they make sure you are you. Behind the din I heard music coming from the actual operating room and I realized it was the Counting Crows. J., I thought of you and Martin and smiled. The slightest sense of security trickled in. They wheeled me into the very cold operation room and started getting machines hooked up. There were a lot of people in this little room. "Is there any chance you're pregnant, Niki?" "Don't rub it in, doc." The Gin Blossoms filter through the radio and I just laugh. They're going to give me the drugs now and I just break down. This is it. Now I have to let go. I have never been so scared in my life.

They did a good job of keeping me under. I have scattered memories of consciousness. I think I was trying to sing at some point. I did say "Ouch" at least twice to which they said they would give me more medicine. I felt a clipping. Dull. Like wire clippers. I felt threads like fine gold wires. They pushed something dark over my eye and under my eye lid. That was unpleasant. I think I heard the heart monitor start to race. I remember them telling me it was all over and me saying "thank God".

I've been eating my 500mg vicodin like Smarties and lying in bed. Beanbag chairs also make suitable pillows. I've got three tiny incisions along my eyebrow and an incision along the crease of my eyelid. I cried heartily at my first look in the mirror. The fear has not yet left me. The left half of my head has this dull ache radiating with these sharp stabs. I can't close my eye and I have this fun goop I have to cream in there and on my incisions. Ever try to sleep with one eye open? Like Metallica suggests? It's less than easy, bordering on the difficult. I find a makeshift patch and 1000mg of vicodin do the trick for me. Send your favorite way to The Red Mail Box on Rice Rd. All submissions become our property and will not be returned. Void where prohibited. Not valid in Vermont. Or Oxnard because it's lame.

Stay tuned for drug induced observations and musings. I am sore from laying here. But I find that this much vicodin plus walking around equals barfy. So we keep moving to a minimum at this point. FeeshMoch dances in his bowl. Mr. Bun keeps me company and gets tangled in the sheets. The vice tightens on my head. Grody pictures may follow. We thank you for your support.

How to Kill a Ninja

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IR68W56DCBU

This is my favorite Ask a Ninja question. If you've never been to http://www.askaninja.com/ then you just haven't lived. And you may die after going there now. Be adventurous, people.

How to be, or just look like, a Ninja

Stuck on the floor

In my bean bag chair with my knee propped up because it's swollen to the point of bursting. Awww yeah. I decided to take a full force running crash into a sneaky pumpkin hiding in the last row of corn three Fridays ago working the Boccail's Haunted Hayride. The things I do to entertain the masses. Everything was fine until this last Friday night when I went out and got my groove on to Shades of Day at Wine Lovers. Then it all got worse Saturday night when the more intense grooving got on. Now this whole "walking" thing has become a drag.

Boo!
*throws popcorn*
Boo!!

I waltzed myself into the ER tonight to check things out. I found my entire leg swollen today. Totes awes. I had my knee x-rayed and thank God there is nothing torn. I couldn't begin to wrap my brain around another knee surgery, another surgery of any kind, especially to my good knee. I am out of knees. The tendon running along the outside of my leg got banged up pretty good. I didn't think I could take any good drugs because they would make me bruise worse and for longer after my eyelid surgery next week. But come to find out, Vicodin and steroids aren't on my list. Sue-pah Sweet.
And I think they just kicked in.
Float with me.

Third Eye

Ahhhh, UCLA in the fall. I don't even know what that means. I don't have much of a frame of reference to make a sentimental statement like that. But I was back down there yesterday, this time to meet with a plastic surgeon about fixing my eye lid. Now, I'm not an easy, normal case where I just have droopy old man's eye lids and want a lift. I'm rocking a sweet disease that's pretty much never going to stop rocking ME. That complicates things. The doc told me he could do a procedure on my eye lid that would lift it but that he couldn't make it look just like my right eye. AKA normal. There was talk of a few small incisions and using my eyebrow muscle as it's stronger than my eye lid muscles and before I knew it I had an appointment for Nov. 2nd. I'm sitting in a daze with the woman who is schedualing my appointment and I'm absently yet frantically scratching the back of my neck and trying my damnest to hold back my tears. I don't know just why I was so upset. Why I am STILL so upset. I'm scared and I'm anxious. I feel like God DAMN, didn't I just have this dealt with?! But I didn't. And this surgery will be another one I get to be awake for. Joy. I feel like I should feel like this isn't a big deal, I've done this before and that first eye lid surgery was way more complicated than this one will be, and I'll be fine, and that I should be glad there is something they can do for me. But I don't feel that way. I just feel scared and anxious and terrified to my bones that I will wake up looking worse than I already do. I know, I know. "Niki, I don't even notice your eye!" Liars. No, I'm sure there are people who don't. I am, unfortunately, not one of them. Then again, it's my face. And I want my 15 year old face back. And I'm never going to get it back. And that makes me unbelievably, uncontrolably upset.I don't want to be laid out on the couch for another week, unable to go anywhere and in pain and black and blue and awesome looking. It's such an emotional toll and I've been tapped enough in that department over my eye this year. I'm wandering around the eye institute, crying behind my sunglasses, on the phone with my dad who feels a thousand pounds of guilt over me having this problem, trying to tell him what the doctor said and trying to understand why I'm so upset and trying to grasp the fact that I am going to have to have this surgery again in a few years and have that eyeball surgery again in a few years and that this isn't going away....helpless. Small. Scared. Alone.And the bright yellow drops they put in my eyes to take their pressure are streaming down my face and out my nose. I was a sight to behold. I'm tired. And I'm terrified. And I can't seem to get settled inside or stop the tears. Damn it all.

Hollywood Halloween Premier

Mitch works at The Inn and one of his co-workers in the pub, Nick, is good friends with Malcolm McDowell. He comes in and drinks and golfs all the time. He gave Nick two tickets to the premier of Halloween at Grauman's Chinese on Thursday night. Mitch couldn't go so he told Nick that he had this great friend who was fun and loved the Halloween movies. That's me. Awww. It's nice to be loved.
Kelly McDowell told Nick we should be there at 6:15 at the latest. And so we were. There were blockades already set up on both sides of Hollywood Blvd. to hold back the watching crowds. We stood in a line briefly until we heard a security guard barking for people who needed will call. That was us. I felt a little important moving past these throngs of spectators to get our tickets. I saw the thicket of photographers clustered in front of the theater where the old box office used to be. Red velvet rope lined the sidewalks. Lots of people around us talking about their latest projects and who they were working with, and on, and it was all so pretentious. I found it a laughable attempt at attention. If you're trying to impress me people, you have failed. I don't care.
Tickets in hand, we proceeded up the sidewalk to the front of the theatre. And there was the red carpet. And there I was walking on the red carpet at Grauman's Chinese Theater. The photographers barely glanced at me and I didn't care. I was on the damn red carpet. Head held high and walking slowly to savor it all. I had on my black, red and white polka dotted dress with my wide black belt, black satin and sequin clutch, and black patent leather, four inch heels. Said heels found a niche in the signatures in the cement beneath the carpet and almost brought me to my knees. That would have been not good, to say the least. It was such a shit-eating grin experience for me. I hope there are many more to come.
Complimentary soda and popcorn awaited us inside at the concession counter. Assigned seating per our tickets, and I am so glad. I was not looking forward to fighting people for good seats. There isn't a bad seat at the Grauman's Chinese. We were on the upper left side. The movie didn't start until about 8:15 and the McDowells didn't show until about 8:05. So much for getting their early. I saw a woman directing an older couple to the side door of the theatre where they could get the best shot of their son, Rob Zombie, doing his press interviews. Such a sweet couple.
Tons of people simply wandered up and down the theater aisles trying to be seen. There was no reason for these women to be making this pointless trek back and forth. And there was no reason for the guy behind me to be standing the entire hour and a half before the movie started except he was trying to be seen. It was so laughably ridiculous. Then I saw a man in a white linen suit and white fedora walking up the aisle to the lobby. Recognition slowly dawned on me as he walked across the theater. My eyes grew wide. Holy hell. It's Mickey Dolenz. My favorite Monkee, a major influence on my sense of humor, and a target for my young affections. I started jumping up and down in my seat. This little troll doll woman, with the most bizarre hair I have seen in a long time, said, "Are you a big Halloween fan?" I said, "I'm a big Mickey Dolenz fan." She said, "Oh, he plays the gun store owner in the movie." "Oh", I said. If she was trying to impress me with her prior knowledge of the movie then she had failed. I don't care who you are or who you think you are stop trying to impress me and everyone else around you. Damn, I was in a mood about that, man. Still am. Pretension in Hollywood? The hell, you say.
The producers got on the mic at the front of the theater to say a few words and thank a few people. Rob Zombie got up there and told the story of calling John Carpenter to tell him he was remaking his movie. He said that John said, "And? What do I care?" Rob told him he just wanted to let him know and that John said, "Ok. Go for it. Have fun." That's good stuff right there. I really think Carpenter is over the whole Halloween thing, and has been for some time now. When Malcolm and his wife arrived he was in the most jovial of moods. He gave Rob a huge hug and was hugging all of his friends. I recognized his two older children Lily and Charlie. They grew up in Ojai and I've seen them around town a lot. She looks just like her mother, Mary Steenburgen, only with blonde hair, and he looks JUST like his father. Spitting image.
The movie was fantastic. And I was skeptical because I love the original. This remake combined the original and its sequel into one cohesive story line. As long as there was a lot of blood and gore and death I was going to be ok with this movie. I was not disappointed. It starts out with Michael Meyer as a ten year old with a glimpse into his very effed up family life. The child was already disturbed but the way his family treated him and each other did not help him become more normal. I really felt sorry for the kid. Then the killings began. Oh sweet, sweet, bloody killings. Cut to 15 years later and we pick up where the original Halloween started, with a 15 year old Laurie Strode. Now, I know the story so it was no shocker to me that she was the baby sister of Michael. So that psychological effect was lost on me. But a lot of the dialog was the same, and worked really well. The killings happened a lot faster than in the original but were still meaty and not just throw aways. And there were a few bonus killings in there, too. Score. Malcolm McDowell played the psychiatrist and he did a bang up job. The doc from Deadwood played the town sheriff. Rad. The movie went beyond the originals final words to an extended and official ending that was beautiful. There was a cohesive and full follow through of the storyline from beginning to end with a deeper understanding of Michael's disturbances and his love for his little sister, the only family member who never screwed him over. The only pure love he felt he knew. I don't want to give away the good details of the movie I just want to say that everyone should go see this flick because it is a good, solid story and is very entertaining.
After the movie we made our way back inside the theater so Nick could say hello to Malcolm and his wife. he introduced me to them both and we shook hands. They were delightfully wonderful. I've seen Malcolm around Ojai tons and even sold him tennis balls when I worked at The Raquet Club. It was nice to get a formal introduction. Malcolm was so jazzed to see Nick. He gave him a huge hug and a slap on the back and thanked him heartily for coming. His wife Kelly was just darling. We were just a group of people talking. It was very cool.
The tickets to the premier came with two tickets to the after party at The Geisha Room a few blocks down the Blvd. All the paparazzi were behind barricades and we just sauntered up to the entrance and flashed our tickets and were told, "Oh, right this way". The place was jam packed. Tons of stick thin women whom I wanted to feed hamburgers to. We made our way to the bar and ordered a beer, a shot of Patron, and a rum and coke. We waited for the bartender to give us a total and he said those magic words you long to hear, "It's tip only." That means free booze, people. Five dollar tip for three drinks. Dig on THAT. And then there was the sushi. Sushi buffet as far as the eye could see. It was everywhere. And there were servers walking around with platters of shrimp skewers and sushi and delicious madness. Oh, I was in heaven. We made our way up to the second level where we noticed a VIP room with a short wait to get in. So we got in. And there in the middle of the throng was Mr. Mickey Dolenz. My heart skipped a beat. I shook his hand and told him what a big fan I was and that I credited him for my sense of humor and that he was my favorite Monkee. He smiled and thanked me. I also told him his part in the movie was my favorite. We laughed. His four page scene had been cut to a mere two lines. That's how it goes in H-wood. Oh, I was sailing on a high after that. Another dream encounter come true.
I saw the little boy and girl who were being babysat in the movie, the 7 ft tall man who played Michael as an adult, Rob Zombie holding court in a corner of the VIP room, a lot of the other characters, and the brunette who played the neighbor girl on Roseanne who was one of the lucky victims in the movie, and the sheriff's daughter. I never saw the other two main actresses probably because they looked just like all the other rail thin women in the place. The after party was just as I had expected it to be. People only talked to people they already knew. No new friends were made by anyone this night. Everyone stood around looking over their shoulders for someone important. It's all such a show. And the movie itself was an interesting event. Here is this big Hollywood movie premier that felt like 5 guys from high school got together and made a film and invited their friends to come watch it. It was almost cheesy. Especially the way the audience laughed and cheered when each actor first made their appearance on screen. It made me realize these people were no more special than anyone in the world. They just happen to have the spotlight on them. That's it. I know a ton of supremely talented individuals who simply don't have the spot light on them. These famous people just happen to find favor with the right people in charge of this whole shebang called the entertainment business. Nothing more. Because there are a shit-ton of shitty actors out there who have careers because someone with the power latched on to them. This is why independent film got started. Just people taking matters and power into their own hands. And yet the bloody fight for fame and recognition and a wicked paycheck is never ending in Tinsel Town. I really don't want to play that game. Can one make it without doing so? It's about luck and who you know. You can work your ass off for years and never "make it" because you're just not what they're looking for. Or you can walk in and in a week have a starring role on a sitcom. You're what they're looking for or you're not. It's that simple. They don't care where you trained or who you know if you can give them what they're looking for. And if you DO know someone then all the better because then you don't even have to have talent to get the job. It's a fantastic business. The thoughts keep swirling in my head. Risk it all for the possible fabulous prizes or keep a bit of everything and keep on trucking and see where it takes me? I have strong pulls in both directions. And for now, the internal struggle continues.
It was a fantastic time and I hope I get to attend more of these shindigs. Free alcohol, food, rad movies, celebrities, childhood idols, red carpets and spotlights, took much for parking, and being easily the heaviest woman in the room. It was one Long Island Ice tea of a night. And all I have to say to those women is this: mine are real.

Lakeside Shindig

I made a not well-worn enough trip to the land of Nascar and Coors Lite known as Paso Robles this weekend to partake in a big shindig for my Aunt Jeanne's 60th birthday. My cousin Ryan took me and our cousin Jason out on Lake Nacimiento for some sweet Seadoo action. I haven't been on one of those badboys in friggen years. It took me a while to get back into the game but when I did it was on like Donkey Kong. We rode all over that lake; Jason decked out in his Viking helment and Ryan smashing big waves into me every chance he got. Motorcycles on the water. What an invention. We had some Shiner before we left and some Sam Adams Lite when we ran into some of Ryan's acquaintances out on the lake. It had to have been the lone good beer amongst all that Coors. Saints be praised.
Lake culture is not unlike hotrod or dirt bike culture. In fact, the only difference I can think of is it's on the water, and might involve less clothing. Kids on suped-up boats, bumping rap music and drinking Coors Lite. I shuddered internally. Whatever, literally, floats your boat. More for you, man.
The birthday party was at this outdoor pavillian where we set up the tons of food and cocktails, and mardi gras beads on all the tables. The band set up, the wine was uncorked and the punch bowl was flowing. And this wasn't just any wine. Oh no. This was my very own cousin's very own winery, Nacimiento Cellars. We drank the shit out of at least 5 bottles of wine. And some champagne. Mmmmmm....champagne. We all danced like fools and ate like kings. Then we went back to the house and opened another bottle and kept going. It was wonderful to hang out with some of my cousins. I never have. I don't imagine that all 26 of us will ever be in the same place at the same time. But having Jodie, Alisha, Ryan, and Jason there was fantastic. We'll definetly being doing this more often. I can't wait to see the pictures.
Sunday morning was fried eggs, toast, and the crispest hashbrowns you ever did see before we headed back out on the lake for more shennanegins. Zooming around the lake, bouncing off the waves, once you've remembered how to ride, is too much fun. I've only ever ridden on the ocean. Let me tell you about choppy. At least on the lake you don't have to worry about sharks or the like. It really does make all the difference.
We spent the afternoon napping and sleeping off our hangovers and Ryan's raging headache. The 3 hour drive home turned into at least a 4 hour trek, having to deal with the traffic from the last day of the Paso state fair, the last day of Fiesta in Santa Barabara, and the on going Ventura fair. This helped complicate the already shitty Sunday night traffic through Santa Barbara. But it was all worth it. I am still so sore. Good christ. And I think one more good night of sleep should have me all caught up on the madness from this weekend. The age of road trips is reborn. Pack accordingly

Gettin' It On

Walk This Way

Walking sticks are rad. I've had one for years and years. I found it out on a walk somewhere. I wish I could remember just where. Could have been the hills behind my house at the time, could have been along the creek in Libbey Park. It's got a perfect handle crook and a nice little kick back near the bottom. My dad sanded and stained it a dark brown ages ago. It's been sitting in the corner of my room. Hell, I even took it to Arizona with me and never used it. Shocking. I took a lot of things with me I never used. Just dragging junk from place to place. Pretty silly, really.

I caught an episode of Clean House the other night where they went to the messiest house in America. It was a big 4 bedroom, two bath house with a huge basement. It took 5 huge, flatbed truck dumpsters to haul out the trash from this place. And the amount of shit they ended up keeping in storage in the basement amazed even them. Nicey had a little smack down with the family on the day of the garage sale. The family members kept dragging things they insisted on keeping over to a specific tent, and it was an obscene amount of junk. She told them if she saw them take one more thing over there that Clean House would pack everything up and leave. These people had a real sickness about their things and the hording of them. And they all blamed another family member for the state the house had gotten in.

Now, I'm a packrat with issues letting things go, but I am a far cry from the atrocities of these people, thank God. It made me feel better about my stuff and yet really motivated me to go through my crap. If it hadn't been 2 in the morning and I hadn't had to get up at 7 to go to UCLA, then I would have had at it. I keep things far after their expiration date, as it were. It's one thing to hold on to something that is meaningful for a while, and it's another to hold on to it forever. For instance I hung on to my prom corsages for far too long. It was important for me to hold on to them for a certain amount of time, but then they became relics and something I just automatically passed over when I went through my things. Sometimes it's difficult to separate the object from the memories attached to them. You can have the memories without having to have the objects. I think of what I would do or how I would feel if there was a fire and I lost everything. I would still have the memories and I could live without all of this stuff.

Backpacking through Europe really taught me how little I needed to be happy. I remember being in our hostel in Loch Ness and all I had was my journal, my CD player, my backpack and a change of clothes. And that's all I needed. I didn't miss anything that was back in my room at home. And when I look through all the things I didn't take to Arizona with me, things that sat here for three and a half years, I'm guessing I probably don't need them. Doesn't make it much easier to let go of. Not at first, at least. Out with the old, in with the new, as they say. All of these old things, their significance faded, the feelings they represented recessed…I think they can go now.

I've felt stunted, stagnant, held back. Perhaps if I clean all of this crap out I'll feel better. That was my point about the walking stick. Here is this thing I have held on to forever. If I'm going to hold on to it I should use it! So I busted it out, slapped on my Nano tuned up to the 6th Harry Potter book so I can reacquaint myself with the story before I pick up my reserved copy of the last book tonight at midnight, and headed up the sidewalk for a stroll. The click of the stick on the cement in rhythmic 4/4 timing proved quite useful to keeping my pace up. I took my usual path around the 'hood.

Use the things you have. Get rid of the crap you don't. Seems pretty simple to me. I didn't say easy.

Buddah Belly

I went back to Belly Dancing tonight. And boy was it ever sweet.

This lovely young woman by the name of Haley found me on My Space and asked me if I'd like to join a Belly Dancing Troupe and mentioned that she taught classes in The Nard and Camarillo. I said Hells Yeah! I told her I used to take classes at Ventura Community College. I picked it up so quickly that the instructor pulled me up front to help teach the class. Flattering to say the least. Haley told me I should sign up for the intermediate class. Score.

I caught the very end of the beginners class which was quite full. I started stacking up my dance memories. The intermediate class was me and four wonderful older women. I tied on my bright yellow hip scarf and started to build a slight sense of unsureness. It's been almost ten years since I've Belly Danced. Will I remember everything? Maybe I should have started out in the beginners class to brush up. Lord, I hope I don't make a fool of myself.

As we warmed up and started doing some basic moves it all came flooding back to me. Thank God for muscle memory. I was also reminded of how incredibly out of shape I am and how easily I get winded and how very little time I can spend standing with one leg bent. The climb back to athleticism begins.

About 15 minutes into class Haley asked me where I had danced before and I told her at VC. We discovered that we had danced together there. As I was driving to class the thought crossed my mind that her name was familiar and that she might have been in my class back in the day. Too funny how these things work out. Now she's teaching me.

There were parts that I felt went too fast for me. I would have liked to have the dance broken down into bits and then stitched together. I'm still warming up and remembering my groove and I'm sure it will get easier to catch on. I'm also going to go to the beginners class which is right before mine so I can brush up and take things a bit slower and get my technique back in perfect working order.

Belly Dancing is incredibly fun. It's challenging where Ballet was flat out hard. I'd say Belly Dancing is either 40/60 challenging/fun or 50/50. Ballet was 80/20 hard/enjoyable. It's so fluid and beautiful, sensual and mesmerizing. Keeping your arms flowing while your hips shake, swiveling your top half while the bottom remains motionless. All the while sweating like a mongrel dog. Dude.

Haley had a trunk full of hip scarves for sale. And low and behold there was a leopard print one with fantastic gold coins and beads. I think I might have to own one. Or two so I can wear the second as a top. So, so fabulous and so, so me. They go for $45 each, a sweet deal considering the detail put into them.

If anyone would like to contribute to my Leopard Print Belly Dance Hip Scarf Fund, feel free to PayPal your hard earned dubloons to bloodybess.rackham@yahoo.com =)

There's an opportunity to perform at the 12th Annual Multicultural Festival in Oxnard in October and it would be kickass to have an actual costume to rock it with. I promise pictures!

We thank you for your support.

Winnahs!

I was in Ojai's 4th of July parade with Shades of Day and we won awards!!
Chorgy bought an ice cream truck off Craigs List and we hitched a trailer to the back of it to tow Richard the drummer on. The rest of the boys donned wireless guitars and bass and all dressed as ice cream men. The ladies got dolled up in pigtails with big lollipops and danced along the parade route with the band as they played Ice Cream Man ala Van Halen. Jason and Katie were our King and Queen Pretty in their red, white and blue finery.




We won First Place for Band on Float and the Theme Award for our Zippy Dippy Rock 'n' Roll. The theme was 4th of July: Through a Childs Eyes. Yeah, we nailed that!

And I landed a sweet picture of myself on the newspapers website

It was hot, sweaty, and rad. Finally recognition for all of our hard work! =)

Venice with a Vengence

I spent Presidents Day weekend in a hotel room on the boardwalk in Venice Beach. I decided late that Friday afternoon that I needed to get the hell OUT and Venice has always been my kind of people. Beach + freaks + art + introspection + ferris wheels was just what I needed. The walls of my life were closing in on me and I ran before they could collapse.
I booked a room at The Cadillac Hotel where Charlie Chaplin once lived. I didn't realize it was on the boardwalk. I thought I'd be within walking distance but didn't know that walk was 20 feet. The lobby was a dusty 80s magazine cover with mosaic tiled creatures running across the floors and a glorified dumbwaiter for an elevator. My room was nondescript with two twin beds, a TV, and an unnecessarily large bathroom. The windows were screenless and had I reached my hand out one I could have touched the apartment complex view. The mirror above the sink was one foot by one foot and luckily right at my face level. I peered into the apartment complex windows wondering what it was like to call Venice home.
Saturday evening was spent in Hollywood with Caleb, partaking of some fab Italian food and wine and a strip mall theatre presentation of Romeo and Juliet, co-starring our friend Rick. They set the play in the south and the prologue was delivered by a bartender with a southern drawl. The bar and two black boxes were the only set in this tiny black box theatre. The southern location and accents really made me feel like I was there, that these really were two feuding families and a group of friends. The mother was cut out and the nurse was played by a black woman who spoke with a creole accent. Mercrutio, as always, stole the show. The Shakespearian words just poured right off his moonshined tongue, he was so at ease up there. Sadly, the leads were completely unbelievable. I didn't buy for a second that they were in love. Words came out of mouths, bodies were embraced, but the feelings, the passion, were locked somewhere far, far away, Perhaps in the nightclub downstairs. We drained the last of our convenience store bottle of wine and congratulated the cast on their performance as we headed off to more food and debauchery
Caleb and Rick and I spent the night hopefully lamenting the business of acting and commercials, agents, rent, improv, commitment, time, money, creativity, and making the waitress laugh. We ate fried plantains and cheese steak and beer. Where is it all going, what does it mean, how long are we going to do this, what's going to happen to us, will we ever get there and where is "there"? Where does it end? Does it? We snaked back through the streets of Santa Monica to Venice with a case of misery in a can and a wet behind the ears Green Day squeaking on the iPod.
Sunday morning was breakfast burritos on the beach and bus rides. The vendors and the sun and the tourists were out in full bloom. From stem to stern the boardwalk is sectioned off into numbered lots for vendors to stake out. There had to have been 7 different tarot readers and psychics, tumbling and fire breathing performance artists, the man with the upright piano, the hippie girl happily crocheting beanies for sale, the sand sculpturist carving an alligator in ridiculous detail, the would-be artists with their mixed media plywood paintings, the homeless burnouts with huge signs asking for weed, the glittering Day of the Dead skulls, the impromptu jam session musicians, and the professional artists with their credit card machines for easy access of purchase. Runners and rollerbladers, impossibly tiny dogs in sweaters, every fifth person you see carrying a massive camera with tripod looking for that perfect location, and not one sunglassless face.
I walked for miles and miles back and forth on that boardwalk. I had a peach chai latte at Sean's Cafe in Gingerbread Court, the former apartment complex rumored to have been owned by Charlie Chaplin, that now houses tiny shops overflowing with beautiful clothes. I took a nap in front of my open window on my feather pillow in the dancing ocean breeze. Back to Sean's Cafe for a cheeseburger and fries and a Diet Coke As Large As All Mankind. It's the only way I order them. I sat at a bistro table and eavesdropped on the staff and their friendships wondering what kind of people they meet every day. So many thoughts cartwheeling through my mind...about life and destiny, commitment and ambition, desire and passion, art and creativity, fate and blank notebooks. Possibilities. Choices. Acceptance. Limitations. Paths. Hope. Relinquishing. I see now how they came to be called The Doors on this beach. The perception blazed through that crack left by the setting sun.
Another trip up the dumbwaiter to my room to change and pack my purse for a trek. Trusty flip flops in place and iPod tuned up, I set off for that glittering wheel in the distance: the Santa Monica Pier. I don't know how far it was...at least a mile, maybe more. The air was warm, the path was lit and soon the wooden planks lifted me up off the beach. I had never been on the pier, sad to say. I didn't know it was a full blown carnival with games and rides and hot dogs. Buzzers and bells and kids and stuffed animals. Ice cream and souvenir stands, California name plates and your name on a grain of rice. Roger Clyne, you're always with me. I picked up an abalone shell and silver ring, and a funnel cake swimming in strawberries. One ticket for the ferris wheel where I shared a ride with a sweet 12 year old girl from East LA. High above the ocean and into the starless sky, over the screaming roller coaster and the glow of Santa Monica. With a deeply increasing ache in my ankles I headed back, past the swing sets full of laughing teenagers, along the rarely quiet and deserted pathways, to the fire escape on my second floor for late night phone calls.
Monday morning found me nearly crippled from the pain in my ankles and feet. I had to pass on the recommendation of a fabulous omelette house and opt for the crawling distance of the Fig Tree Cafe. Eggs over medium, homefries, sausage and fantastic spiced applesauce. I hobbled over to a patch of grass between the boardwalk and the beach and scribbled the midmorning away. By noon the shops started opening up. I choked back the pain and wandered up Gingerbread Court to the shop at the top that had a skirt I decided I had to have. Alas, they were closed. On the way back down, at the shop at the bottom was a top that went with the skirt perfectly. I went up and down that court about 5 times waiting and hoping that shop would open, with the other shop owners squinting at me with suspicious eyes. Just as I was about to retire the quest the shop owner decided it was a good day to make some money and I gladly handed over mine. The gauzy, lime green and pink flower confection was mine. One matching pink tank top later I was a complete outfit richer.
My tank sufficiently full of Venice mojo, it was time to mozy on up the coast back home. Out of the cramped hotel parking lot, slinking along the one way streets, gliding down the main drag to the queen of the highways, The PCH. Rolling along the ocean past the coveted neighborhoods, dream houses and landmarks. Surfers derobing roadside - a sweeter traffic hazard there never was. I pulled into Malibu Seafood round about sunset for some mahi mahi and a view I've come to the conclusion I can't live without. Home is where your heart is and mine is full of salt water and sand. I drank in that slow burn over the horizon as the highway veered away from the shore, and slowly sipped it on the winding road back home. Things are much brighter on this side of the door.