Real de Catorce

Sorry didn't get a picture, so busy looking at things and tasting things and smelling things, and butchering the Spanish language. Real de Catorce is a very magical feeling city. I think some of the magical quality comes from how hard you have to work to get there. Long drive through a desolate desert, then up into huge mountains, then more desert, then a 10-mile cobble stone road - not exaggerating, ten miles - then a tunnel that looks like it was built by hand by miners, (think Disneyland-quality imitation) so narrow cars can fit only one-wide (so you have to wait for a guy on a radio to tell you it's OK to go), then you're there. Windy cobble stone streets and sleeping placess stacked high. It's like Mont St. Michel, but Mexican. High in the mountains, completely isolated, filled with artisans, and the light is unwordly.

Alan is climbing that gigantic rock in the background. I'm here at our camp drinking a Tecate and eating a guava I got at a farmers market down the road. It's 75 degrees. Lots of freaky extreme sports people here. Very friendly locals - I got offered rides many times on the long walk back from town. Lots of roosters everywhere. Sorry the picture is sideways - tricky sending messages and pictures from the cell phone.

over the border and on to crazy shit

Austin was all kinds of fun and a perfect place to hide out from the holidays. Tomorrow, early, we head south for Monterrey. Just outside of Monterrey is Potrero Chico, one of the top ten places to rock-climb. Due to the holidays, not much demand for rock-climbing lessons, so Alan was able to arrange one-on-one instruction. He'll spend the day hanging from rocks while I'll walk all around the beginner trails. My back is well and I want to keep it that way for the whole vacation. I'll try to catch a good action-shot of him doing something crazy for the Blog. Happy new year everyone!

Everything is bigger in Texas, even the Playwright Center's cat. For anyone who remembers readings at the PWC before they remodeled, you probably wondered what ever happened to that adorable cat Tigger. He used to wander around the room during readings, often hopping onto an actor's lap during the most dramatic moments of the play. Well, here he is living with playwright Colin Denby Swanson in Austin, TX. He's grown Texas-sized, and now his hame is Orson Welles.

I wonder if he misses all that drama.

just exactly what we were hoping for

Wow, this is a big country, especially when you try to leave it heading south from Minnesota. We're still in the U.S., now hiding out from the holidays with friend Colin in Austin, Texas.

Last night she showed us a bit of the town, starting with delicious Tex Mex food. Two kinds of tamales and tacos al pastor ... mmmm.

Then we went to a club expecting to hear Omar and the Wailers. Before the pleasure of Omar, a big man with a very deep voice who works a big Fender like it's an amazing little toy, the stage was taken over by a bunch of locals and visitors, all musician friends of Terry Allen. I don't know all of their names, but I think I probably should have, judging by their talent and the crowd's reverence. We did recognize Joe Ely. Yeah, really. And a Dixie Chick was spotted in the crowd.

Favorite song by Joe Ely was "Deportee" and favorite song of the night was when they all got on stage for "Not Fade Away" which transitioned to "Who Do You Love?" and back again to that great Buddy Holly tune. And Omar was great too. Finally I realized I was kinda sleeping while still bouncing my head to the Wailers' beat, and we called it a night.

Wow, that was so exactly what we were hoping Austin would be like, but how often does it actually work that way? Happy holidays everyone.

Crawfish massacre on the banks of the Bayou Teche.

Cypremort Point, our first beach, in Southern Louisiana.

Michael and Eric, our fabulous hosts in New Orleans.

This is Ozzy. We're drinking in his favorite bar.

crawfish, beignets, and bulldogs

Made it to New Orleans, warm at last. It's 70 degrees here, but a bit breezy and it looks like rain. Got in last night, settled down with Michael and Eric, our kind hosts. Then wandered off to the quarter, had some dinner - crawfish and tasso alfredo for me, jambalaya for Alan. Some drinks. Some more drinks. Ended the evening at a late-night coffee shop so Alan could finish an article for the Rake. I just sat there and read a book by Faulkner I picked up on the road. The sandwich board outside asked, "Have you ever had a hot white russian?" Well, now I have. A late-night coffee shop with wireless, liquor, and ash trays. Yeah, New Orleans makes me feel cozy with my vices.

Today, we're wandering the quarter some more. Beignets for breakfast. A glass of wine in a neighborhood pub for lunch. Finally parked the car last night and walked here today. After driving for a whole week, it's nice to walk a bit. In New Orleans, actually, we saunter, slowly. Good place to slow down and get the travelling meander rhythm going.

Dogs in all the bars and restaurants here. Makes us miss Future. Bill says that when asked if he misses us, Future said, "Didn't they just leave?" Yeah, he's too cool.

When we first arrived, first thing we did, you know, to get our bearings, was stop in a nice gay bar called Good Friends. Michael, the bartender, had just arrived in New Orleans three weeks ago, and got a job there a few days later. Help Wanted signs everywhere. Lots of jobs. Hmm, Future would like it here. So fun to fantasize while on the road.

We'll be here through Friday, then back on the road toward Austin.

Big, slobbery, adorable bull dog in the corner here, barking a bit. Two framed pictures of his adorable, sloppy mug hang over either side of the bar, one with a birthday hat sliding down the front of his crabby face. Oh yeah, I'm gonna have to go pet him. Gotta go ...

Birmingham, AL. Alans brother, Marty, and his family. Beautiful house in beautiful Alabama. Yeah, beautiful Alabama. Seriously, lots of trees, very green. OK, lots of churches too, kinda scary. But really nice to hang out with Marty, Amy, Annie Rose and Maddison for a night. Never expected to visit Birmingham, but now I can say I did.

Lexington, KY. Malcolm and his guitar ... and his cell phone.

Had a great visit with Jamie, Aimee, Kevin, Malcolm and Duane. The Malcolm Palmer Band is making two albums, and we got to drop by the studio and get a super cool sneak preview of a few of the songs. They sound freakin' awesome.

Not just any hot dog, not just any Chicago hot dog, but an authentic Vienna hot dog AT the factory. Leaving Chicago today. Lexington, Kentucky next.

Chicago

Alan and his new nephew, Robbie Benjamin Berks.


Turns out, Alan's brother and sister-in-law, Paul and Amy, make perfect babies. The first one, Aliza, has been perfect for three years. But it could have been a fluke. The second one, born just a couple weeks ago, is perfect too. So, not a fluke. More like a trend, the perfect babies.

Nice to check in with family before hitting the road. Tonight we're celebrating Ciso's birthday a little early. Tomorrow, a Chanukah party at his parents' place.

We weren't sure where we were going to go after Chicago, determined to delay the decision until we were on the road and in the on-the-road state of mind. A few hours out of Minneapolis, we spun the iPod dial to an album by Malcolm Palmer. Alan remembered that Malcolm was in Kentucky recording an album. Hmmm. Pulled out the atlas. We were thinking New Orleans would be a nice place to hang out some time on the way. On a map where the whole U.S. fits on one page, Kentucky is totally on the way there. So it's Lexington next to hang out with friends Malcolm, Jamie and Aimee. Then probably New Orleans and a quick visit to Michael Martin who produced "Verbatim Verboten" in Minneapolis and kindly put a bunch of us up last spring for Jazz Fest.

Just as cold here as in Minneapolis, but Kentucky should be warmer. Yay.

In case anybody is wondering, yeah, this is as fun as I thought it would be. Haven't gotten out of the country yet, or even anywhere we haven't been yet. But it was good the moment we got out of town. Freedom tastes good.

goodbye for the 12th time

saw a bunch of friends last night at rik reppe's santa man. i felt kinda silly hugging them all goodbye again. since i already hugged them goodbye at trivia night on tuesday. and at a little party last weekend where we stuffed ourselves with the most fabulous baked goods ever. and at various shows and bars over the last couple months. and at the end of the fringe. i guess this slow leaving is a nice excuse to hug people a lot.

there was a line in rik's show last night where he was talking about katrina victims and what they lost, "think of the most mundane possession you have ... think of the most expensive thing you own ... think of the most meaningful thing you own ...." we've just spent the last two months getting our pile of things down pretty small. so it was no stretch at all for me to conjure up these items as rik suggested i think of them.

my keyboard, where i've spent a lot of hours over the last year learning to play and discovering musical muscles in my head and musical meaning in the world, popped into my head. maybe because at that very moment it was shivering in the backseat of my car, awaiting transfer to its temporary new home with the brilliant jake. i'm so happy it's going to get used by a musician while i'm gone instead of sitting out the winter in yuri's basement. of course, it will no longer think i'm the best player in the world after its time with jake. (oh, sniff, i'm thinking of that naive little rose in the little prince).

we've been shedding our stuff in layers. starting with big stuff that yielded money and meant hardly anything to us: the house, bbq, lawn mower, the furniture, tv. more meaningful and useful, but not necessary for a while: extra clothes, shoes, dishes. more meaningful, but good to share: music, art. favorites that we were maybe too attached to for our own good: the globe, the purple couch.

two days ago we sold one of the cars, leaving us just the fat, old subaru for cruising central american highways. and today there is a big empty spot in our temporary bedroom where my keyboard has been. tomorrow, the last of the books go to the used bookstore and back to the library. on monday, the winter clothes, my laptop, our stereo, and all our little piles of paper go to yuri's basement. and on tuesday afternoon, future goes to bill's house. sniff, sniff. i wonder if future will no longer think we are the most fabulous walkers, petters, and treat-givers in the world.

this whole process forces a ranking, and we're down to what i care about most. future gets dropped off last. and alan comes with. and i'm glad i got to hug so many people goodbye a couple extra times.

on the other hand

1,200 homeless Minnesotans had a better day in our city yesterday.

baseball and books

Good news! The new stadium project won't be slowed down by the usual Met Council oversight or any silly environmental impact considerations. Most city projects get bogged down in that stuff, but since there's nothing controversial about this project nor any long-term impact on our city or downtown to worry about, this one gets fast-tracked. I'm sure all the folks who stand to make a buttload of money on it, will be make very good community-minded decision on their own.

And with the stadium coming that much faster, I guess it's not such a big deal that Minneapolis can't scrape up the money to keep three libraries from closing. I mean what do kids need books for when they can watch baseball? Sure, in the neighborhoods losing their libraries, most of the kids can't afford a ticket to the game, but at least when they go back to loitering on the streets, it won't be anywhere baseball lovers will have to see them.

Minneapolis, you make me sad.

submersion

Vivid dreams lately, lots of them, every night. OK, I suppose there are always lots of them, but lately they stick with me through that slow first half of the day. Probably because the first halves of days are slower now, which I like, a lot. Anyway, the common element, which doesn't surprise me, is water. Mmmm, water. These parched Minnesota winters always make me crave submersion. Just for fun, a sampling:

tide's moving out quickly. bubbles at the water's edge. they shine a hundred reflections of a fat moon behind me. i smell her warm, salty breath as she swells, careens in at me, then traipses off. and again. and again, running farther from me each time. my dream ocean, she always teases me. i chase her, want to dance. i'm laughing, i'm sighing. i want her wet, silky embrace, but all she wants is a game of footsy, toe to toe, laughing and sighing from a distance.

one, two, three, breathe, one, two, three, breathe. rhythm, strength, balance, glide. stroking across the surface, too fast to look for treasures in the sand below. forearm brushes left ear, head snaps to the right, mouth clears surface, lungs fill with air, stroke, exhale, stroke, exhale, stroke, exhale, breathe other side. lunge forward as thumb brushes thigh, glide as arm swings tightly overhead. strong back, no pain anywhere. the speed, exhilaration and perfection of a flying dream, but more real because the resistance of the water is so true. hours and hours of perfect breathing.

my favorite, no breathing at all. that other universe without gravity, without air, without a memory of ever having, wanting, needing either one. very blue, dark sometimes, light sometimes, dappled too. perfectly quiet but not frighteningly silent. i roll into a ball, fall backward, spin forward, kick off, straighten out, then twist into a moving corkscrew, seeing the sun up there go by as i stretch out on my back and keep gliding forever.

very blue sky. i'm trying to remember which crayon color that is, when a burp on the water's surface gets my eye looking for that fish and i see i'm very close to the edge, perched on a jagged little rock. the water is Caribbean green and glowing with mystery. what's down there? something strange, wait, there, no there, the light keeps moving and shadows keep redrawing the thing, if it's even a thing and not a Rorschach made of sandy trenches. it's a book. that magically old fairy tale book i read a thousand times until i loaned it to someone who didn't give it back and never saw it again. god i hated that lesson. there it is, how did it get down there? no, it's just a pile of rocks. not rocks, jewels. no, just rocks. wait, it's those rocks. the rocks i collected for three years and kept in two shoe boxes in the garage. for studying. to be a geologist. until mom threw them out when we moved. told her not to. there they are. no, it's a shark, a dead shark, now it's gone, but there's its tooth. that one i found in a cliff in newport bay. 8 million years old and i found it and my teacher borrowed it after show-and-tell so she could show the other classes and then the next day and the next day and the next day told me she couldn't find it. bitch. there it is. no, it's a red bicycle, the one i gave to my neighbor to bring to her nephew in mexico. but it's all rusty now. now it's a big computer, mutated in a dr. seuss kind of way. it's all the computers i've ever touched, patched and taped together into a monster computer. and it perches on a ragged stand made out of my carpal tunnel arm braces. oh, creepy, creepy, there are faces down there now, people, lots of people, and they all want me to come in and talk to them or listen to them. they're lonely. some are excited. but they all want my attention. it's hot out here and i feel suddenly self-conscious standing out here by myself with no explanation for what i'm doing here. i should jump in the water so i'm doing something to explain why i'm here. but i don't know what's in there, whatever it is, it's old and i don't want to touch it. i walk, barefoot, over more jagged rocks, looking for an empty, clear tidepool to dip my feet in.

my eyes are closed and i refuse to open them. sun's so bright, it's like my eyes are open anyway. i smell sunscreen and frut juice and salt, salt, salt, and seaweed and plastic toys. my body is rocking and i feel firm styrofoam under my shoulder blades. i must be on my boogie board and it must be a calm ocean today. kids are laughing far away. my face and my shoulders are hot and my dangling feet are cool. my eyelids are glowing orange. i won't open them. i'd rather be surprised by a big wave or a visiting dolphin.

... Just a sampling. Yeah, I guess I miss the ocean. Thank god for dreaming.

Seriously, we really are leaving

It's been one more complication after another. Meanwhile, the weather is getting colder, and we keep bumping into friends who say, "You're still here? When are you leaving?" And we try to smile when we say, "We don't know." People are beginning to look at us doubtfully. It's embarrassing.

The final complication involved plane tickets and departure dates. Well, we've had it. We are leaving, and we no longer care that much where we go or how we get there. December 12th, that's when we are leaving. By Subaru station wagon, that's how we are getting there.

South is where we are going. OK, a little East first. Chicago. New Orleans. Austin. Albuquerque. San Diego. Mexico. Guatemala, El Salvador, Costa Rica, Panama. Then North. Nicaragua. Honduras. Belize. Maybe Cuba? Back up on the east side. Florida? The U.S. south? New York. Montreal. Some, none, or all of the above.

Going south. December 12th. That's the plan. A-little-while-later is the planned return date. See ya then.

Barron's on the Bus

I used to ride the 14 bus line. Today, from our new digs in North Minneapolis, I rode the 19. Two women behind me compared notes on how to pottie train a two-year old and the cost of Pampers. Then one of them asked the other if she was still working at Wal-Mart.

You still working at Wal-Mart?

Fuck no. I dumped that sorry-ass job, told them bitches to kiss my ass.

I thought you liked it there.

They changed their attendance policy. If I gotta take my kid to the doctor, even I got a letter from the doctor, that’s a god damn unexcused absence.

What?

Yeah, no shit. They be like, “we don’t care you got kids, you can’t be calling in sick just because they sick.”

Man. That’s crap.

Yeah. Crap alright. I’ll tell you crap. They be like I gotta schedule my sits.

Your what?

Like if I need to sit down for a minute, I gotta schedule that in.

Your breaks?

No, like if I sit down, they gotta fuckin’ know my ass is sittin’ down in advance.

Like what's yo' ass's schedule? Man. You used to like it there.

Yeah but then they didn’t treat us like shit. Like now, I know a lot of Moms quittin. Fuckin’ welfare’s better than that. I mean I like to work, you know, get the hell away from that kid, he’s two and half, he is into shit, I mean fucking into everything, makin’ me crazy, like I could just drop his ass in Chicago or something, but you know what I’m sayin’, I’d rather work. But not if they treat me like I’m a piece of shit, like they can’t trust me or like I don’t have a fuckin’ life, like I’m so fuckin’ desperate they can abuse my shit.

I heard they got rid of the lay-away.

Tha’s right. Yeah, I don’t know about other places, but if you got something on lay-away in Minneapolis, you better get your ass over they by November 18 or it’s gone.

Why they do that?

They say it’s like people using it too much like a bank account. No shit I’m thinking, if I had a fucking bank account full of money, would I need god damn law-away? Thing is, you know, used to be if I need to buy something I see at Target, I can’t afford it just yet, but I really need it, I just go to Wal-Mart. So Wal-Mart get all this business from Target. So now I guess we’re all going to K-Mart. Who gonna get all that business now? Fucking K-Mart ‘cause you know I don’t give a shit where I buy their cheap-ass shit.

So where you gonna work?

My sister start her own business a couple years ago. She made $400,000 last year. No shit. She needs help, I’m gonna be her partner. I can bring my kid to work, nobody talking to me about when my ass can sit down, and I’ll make more money anyway. See what these bitches don’t get is I work real fuckin’ hard, and I’m not stupid, and I’m not screwin’ anybody. So fuck that, I’ll go work hard for my sister.

Yeah.

Then my stop was up. Hmm. I used to get my business news and analysis in the paper. Who knew I could just ride the bus?

Cast adrift

Closed on the house. Happy, happy, happy, happy, so happy.
See me clap my hands. See me jump up and down. See me laugh.
I see open water and big waves.

what we own now

Lists, lists, lists, scattered behind me in a long trail. Lousy memory, too much to do. Eventually, if I get my way, I'll stop needing them for a bit. But meanwhile, nasty habits die hard. Here are my current lists:

Take to the thrift shop:

• Three tall lamps, all leaning at funny angles
• Shoes, two pairs pretty but hurt my feet, one pair very practical for snow, but more snow than I ever walk through anymore, and one pair just ugggly. What was I thinking when I bought any of these?
• Two office chairs

Sell or leave behind for house-buyers:

• BBQ
• Lawn mower
  

Throw away:

• A lot of broken outdoor furniture
• A rug that Future chewed on and barfed on a couple times
• Old, uncomfortable mattress that hurts my back, hate that fucking mattress
• Frame that mattress sits on, part of the problem too
• Broken sewing machine
  

Put in storage:

• Two dishes, two bowls, two pots, wok, French press coffee maker, silverware, spatula, carrot peeler, chopstick set, rice cooker, can opener, wine opener, wine corker
  
• The rug that Future didn't barf on
• Stereo amplifier, DVD player
• Sewing kit
• Alan's cute painting of naked girl that I think is hot too
• Futon couch, three little pillows
  
• Tool kit, Makita, little handy saw
• Little writing desk
• Three boxes of clothes
• Five boxes of files
• Art I just can't part with
• My bicycle

Bring with us to temporary crib:

• Two sets of sheets, two towels, bedspread, four pillows
  
• Traveling clothes and just a few winter clothes to get us through November, three pairs of traveling shoes, three pairs of winter shoes
  
• Camping stuff
• Two laptops, two briefcases, two crates of current paperwork
• Spanish language books, South America travel books
• Travel stuff - passport, vaccination paperwork, drugs of all kinds, sunscreen, mosquito repellant
• Purse and all that crap that goes in a purse
• CDs of favorite music
• Keyboard and table to put it on
• Future's food, bowls, toys, treats, leashes, poo-bags, travel water bowl
• Future

Do:

• Finish off this bottle of sake I'm drinking right now
  
• A half-dozen different contract gigs between me and Alan to make money for trip
• Get travel medical insurance
• Buy plane tickets to whatever city in South America on whatever date is cheapest
• Book accommodations for Carnaval in Brazil
• Sell one of the cars
• Confirm a temporary home for Future
• Pick a date to leave
• Close on house
• Read South America travel books
• Vote
  
• Stop making lists
• Leave
  

Those are the shortest lists I've had in a long time. We actually like the house a tiny bit better now that it's empty.

I've already waxed rhapsodic about being jobless, but I'm going to wax a little more. Because I'm still discovering more. Hey guess, what? I do voices. Funny voices with funny accents, for no reason at all. I'm funny. And I have crazy, million-dollar ideas. And crazy, laugh-at-midnight ideas. And crazy, what-the-hell-did-I-just-say ideas. All the time now. Must have before too, but I forgot. The creative brain needs a lot of room to breathe, or it just becomes a machine.

Alan came home from a party tonight and said, "Rich people are wierd. They're all looking for something, but they have no life to leverage." I have no idea what that means, but it sounds vaguely profound to me at the moment, as I leverage what matters to me and jettison what doesn't.

I feel OK about what we own. Less stuff. More ideas.

P.S. Go see Bug at Pillsbury House Theatre. Exceptional performances, great script, fantastic directing, hell of a show. The whole audience squirmed visibly. And they just kept shaking their heads after it was over like people who had been in a really big earthquake together. Disturbing, moving, haunting, thought-provoking, alive-making and disorienting in that really fabulous way that only theater can be.

A cup of tea

Had many many friends pass through over the weekend and buy our stuff. Some found things they were truly excited about. Some, I suspect, just found something as an excuse to support our travels. Aw gee. That was nice. Really nice. All choked up nice. It was a long weekend with many hugs, and we happily own much less stuff now. Liberating as hell to purge the stuff. Especially when traded for hugs.

Went to make a pot of tea the day after and discovered we don't have a teapot anymore. That was funny. And perfectly fine. Don't really need a teapot. Didn't really need hardly any of that stuff that we sold over the weekend. If I have tea one cup at a time, I can enjoy making each cup.

Found the perfect home for so many treasures: the Audrey Hepburn coat, the purple couch, the art made by great local artists, the Montreal scarf, even my old flute.

So now we are wandering around a house filled with leftover junk piled up on every flat surface. Spent much of the day posting things on Craig's List. OK, maybe I'm the last to discover it, but Craig's List has become the most fabulous thing ever. We've already sold many things to many strangers. I guess it's just like when strangers come to your garage sale, but somehow with all the tentative emails along the way, it's very odd.

Next weekend we move to temporary digs, and Alan has been on the phone beginning to work out dates for plane tickets. We close on the house October 26th. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease let us close on the house. Because we are so ready to. And we don't have any stuff anymore. Or jobs.

Oh wait, I haven't posted in a while, so I haven't even mentioned how fucking fabulous it is not having a job. So this is what life is like? I nearly forgot! I don't ever want to have a job again! OK, probably I will, but jesus, this is really really great. I might not ever want to have a truly FULL time job again. What happened to all the leisure time we were all going to get with the increased efficiency computers made? We got soooo screwed. I've only worked harder and harder. Seems like everyone else has too. Maybe this country wouldn't have its collective head up its collective ass if people worked a little less and remembered how important a blue sky, healthy citizens, connected communities, and well-fed neighbors are. Or if everyone got full nights of sleep. Or did anything they do just a little slower and more thoughtfully.

I'm going to go make some tea, slowly, in a cup. Because the teapot is gone.

love love love

From my current favorite band, The Mountain Goats:

king saul fell on his sword when it all went wrong,
and joseph's brothers sold him down the river for a song,
and sonny liston rubbed some tiger balm into his glove.
some things you do for money and some you do for love love love.

raskolnikov felt sick but he couldn't say why
when he saw his face reflected in his victim's twinkling eye.
some things you'll do for money and some you'll do for fun,
but the things you do for love are going to come back to you one by one.

Small crowd at Thirst last night.

1) Joseph Scrimshaw, Stephen B. Young, Phil Callen, Caroline Poole (behind the pole) in Joseph Scrimshaw's serial. 2) Charles Frasier in Alan Berks's airport monologue. 3) Ron Menzel and Christina Baldwin in Kim Burke's noirish musical.

Probably not enough money in the kitty to pay the talent there that night, obviously they're doing it for love, not money. Living in a place and time characterized by mad obsession with oil and comfort, I wish more people would do beautiful, silly stuff for love.

a little troll named fate

A friend gave me a card recently that said, "Ever notice that 'what the hell' is always the right decision?" Yeah. I noticed. I'm a fucking practitioner. Ask all the coworkers, neighbors, friends, lovers, pubs, schools, coffee shops I've left behind. Nah, I'm not going there with this post.

But yes, I got no problem leaping. Comes easy. Comes natural. Almost a fetish for me. It's often a choice between claustrophobia and adventure. Duh, not a hard choice. But I gotta say, and I say this in a conspiratorial whisper, all the adventures have been good. Not just good, uhm, dare I admit, charmed?

Very few regrets. Lots of great memories. It's all been pretty easy. So far. How long can a roll like this go on?

A breeze came through, turned me on that string the universe dangles us all from, and look, a whole new panorama. We sold our house the same week I finished up at the Fringe, the same week some paying work came through, the same week some short-term places to stay were kindly offered. Now that's all just too good.

We dared to be cheerful about it, even a bit giddy and liberated, and I warned Alan, "Don't tempt fate." He said he thought I didn't believe in fate. And I clarified, not the destiny kind of fate, no, but a little troll creature named fate, yes. with a pock-marked face and a bulbous nose, who is easily tempted by hubris and exacts revenge by fucking up your pretty sky.

But here's the good news. My back went out again. Full spasm. Slept on the floor last night, pinned down by lots of blankets and a cat who is somehow getting fat on Lite food. Haven't taken one of my magic opiates yet because without insurance now I'm rationing. And I think I've caught a very wicked cold.

It's maybe the most gorgeous day of the year and I'm holding down the couch with kleenex and moans. So there, you little troll, we're even, OK? So keep your creepy fat fingers off my sky, will ya?

Dangling

I hated Saul Bellow's "Dangling Man" when I first read it because it was uncomfortably familiar. At the time, it made me alternately bored and anxious. Today I am dangling like Bellow's somewhat pathetic anti-hero Joseph. Waiting, waiting, waiting, no forward motion. Never been any good at that anyway. Compound that with a little PMS and a malaria medication with a side effect of depression. Oh yeah.

I guess I love that book now, because all these years after reading it, that quietly terrifying place it took me is surprising still a vivid memory. Recognizing it makes me know it passes and it is not really even special or noteworthy. It just passes.

It's a state of drowning in the freedom I asked for, of living ridiculously trapped in the doom of imagining the worst possibilities.

Floating. Dangling. Just a matter of perception. Hopefully the wind turns me to face a different sky and it starts feeling like floating again.

guerilla marketing for the monkey

If you missed this during Fringe, I highly recommend it. I did see it, and I'm going to see it again. From the fabulous Allegra Lingo ...

A Heap of Broken Images
Thursday, September 14th 9 pm
Center for Independent Artists 4137 Bloomington Ave S, Mpls

more info

Fringe button gets you a $2 discount.

floatin'

Today I'm getting pre-travel vaccinations. Alan says they will make my arms hurt for several days. That sounds like a wonderful way to stay constantly aware that we will be leaving soon. Mmm.

Today is Robin's first day at the Fringe. (She's my replacement at the Fringe.) I'm thinking she should sit at my desk so that it will start being her desk, and I'll just sit in the corner with my laptop. Yeah. That sounds good. One foot out the door.

Just got back from a week off spent relearning what I do with spare time and starting to try on the new suit of joblessness. Very unfamiliar this feeling: floating without mission, affiliation, title, do-list, board of directors. It is both exhilarating and disorienting. I'm teetering between excitement and panic.

Went camping last week along a river. Watched leaves float precariously along unpredictable currents. So lovely. So full of possiblity.

Grand plans on a distant horizon

So in answer to the question of whether we had good enough karma, whether we had done enough good deeds, is, well, the family that wanted to buy our house has changed their minds. Their inspector told them the same things we told them, but suddenly it seems to have occurred to them that it's an old house. Wish they'd thought of that before we took it off the market and told prospective buyers it was sold. Feels like there's more to the story than that, but they're looking for the contingency that gets them out of their purchase agreement.

They seemed like such nice people, and they seemed in love with the house, and their dog played with our dog, and we imagined such a happy life for them here. I walked around in a funk all day after I got the news.

South America feels far away again, and I'm heading into the marathon part of the Fringe. Tired, sore, stressed out, and behind on my laundry ... again. Getting too old for this.

In better news, my favorite solo performer and dear friend, Rik, done made a great show last night. I'm biased because I directed the show, and three of my favorite people perform it. But still, it rocked. Rik did Glorious Noise, a show about the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival and a quest for a song, at the Fringe last year. It was a good show. Then Katrina hit, which forever changed how anyone thinks of New Orleans.

Rik played pied piper to a little posse of Minnesotans at this year's Jazz Fest, including myself. Found myself walkin' slow, talkin' slow, eatin' crawfish, tappin' my feet in a soulful kinda way, and absolutely in love with the place and the people. When Rik and I started rehearsing his rewritten version of the show, updated to include stories after the storm, I wondered how I could have directed the show before without having eaten Crawfish Monica and been to the Church of Music that is the Jazz Festival.

Anyway, he did the show a week ago, and it didn't click. Good show, and the musicians, they always rock. Good stories. But the whole show, as a journey, just didn't click. Rik knew it, we knew it. But with weekly performances through July, and both Rik and I busy getting ready for Fringe, hard to imagine doing anything about it.

Rik went up north with his girl and jumped in cold water. I had insomnia and sent him a long-ass email telling him it had to be truthful and personal - the latter being his best-ducked form of storytelling.

And then, insanely, he rewrote the whole damn thing. We rehearsed once, and the new version was honest, personal, much darker. Last night he performed the new version. The musicians had one rehearsal, Jake was sick, Allegra's been plenty busy writing her Fringe show, having just popped in off the wait list. Nothing much more terrifying for a performer than performing a whole new script with only one rehearsal, except maybe playing himself telling actual stories from a horrifying and personal experience.

Ten minutes in, I knew he had them. That thing he loves where he knows he can take them with him anywhere. And he took them all the way there. Yeah, like that. I couldn't have been more proud. Made me remember just how much I love art that is a big, brave leap into the sky.

Watching that show with a big silly grin on my face, I forgot all about that house thing. Later, lying awake, with yet more insomnia, I remembered the karmic philosophy that has gotten me cheerfully this far. Which is: fuck karma, fuck grand plans on a distant horizon. Grand plans are the stuff of dreams, sure, but the details belong in the head, not the heart. So I'm happily back on track with my lifelong habit of keeping my heart in the here and now, grabbing the happiness that's right in front of my face, and savoring the hell out of it.

Wow, that sounded kinda Buddhist except for all the swearing. Think I'll take the dog for a walk. It sure is a beautiful day.

Happy birthday Eben!

To the coolest brother anyone could hope for, the best roadtrip partner, the bravest laugher in the theater, the most honest and kind-hearted person I know, my little brother who I guess I'll admit is taller than me.

Please send voodoo

The plan is to run away. Really away. Like people do when they're 23 years old. No home, no jobs, no possessions, no stuff. OK, not quite like we're 23, because well, we're not, and because mostly it's running to, not from. But here's the big difference. We've got more of everything - home, jobs, stuff. Easy enough to quit. Took me two years, but otherwise, yeah, easy enough to quit a job. Easy enough to get people to take our stuff. But we own a house, or rather, there's this big brick thing and a bank that own us.

The domino trail toward escape goes something like this. Before we can go, we need money. Before we can save money, we have to sell the house. Before we can sell the house, we have to find someone who wants to buy it. Before someone will buy it we have to put it up for sale. Before we can put it up for sale, we have to make it pretty. To make it pretty we have to fix things, paint things, put in a fence. Before we can do that we have to go to the hardware store. Before we can go to the hardware store we have to make a list. Why does it always start with a bloody list?

So we've been working our way through the list and yesterday we checked off a big-ass bullet point. We signed a purchase agreement on the house. For our asking price. Too good to be true. There have been so many conversations I didn't really listen to that began with, "so we fell out of escrow ...." I should have listened more closely. I don't know how often that happens.

Is it like one of those urban myths that get repeated so often, the stats get exaggerated? Or is it like miscarriages - so taboo we don't know it happens to everyone all the time?

Despite our best efforts to remain jaded and skeptical, we're pretty fucking excited. If this thing happens that sounds like tumbling out of the back of a fast-moving convertible, we'll be damned depressed. I keep waiting for the phone to ring and Alan checks his email obsessively. I wonder if we'll sustain this kind of suspense for 30 days.

So I'm feeling pretty superstitious. I knock on wood surfaces every time I tell anyone. Hell I'm knocking on my desk right now for putting this in a blog. Wood just doesn't seem good enough though. I'm starting to think about what I would do with a chicken foot. We've got the wishbone from last year's Thanksgiving party, but we're trying to decide at what point we use that up.

What if it's a karma thing? Do we have enough karma built up? Have I been good? And kind? Oh geez, I've got to start helping the elderly and the drunks get on the bus. Better yet, the drunken elderly. Gotta go, good deeds to be done!

Race riots and bus rides

The 14 bus picks up ethnicities in layers, especially outside of rush hours. I love this bus. Yes, I'm much less likely to feel threatened or shocked on the 6, but on the 14, I see a nice representative sample of the people who are Minneapolis and it makes me feel more like I live here.

I suppose there are people who ride other buses, or don't ride buses, and imagine that Minneapolis is pretty white; pretty much like them. And they might have to use their imagination or their stereotypes to visualize how the other folks live. I love the little surprises I get every day watching people living the way they do as they go places. Moms, teenagers, workers, crazies, all kinds, doing their shit their own way while simultaneously sharing close quarters with other kinds doing their shit their way.

On the 14 there are people who talk loudly to strangers, and strangers who answer back, and heated debates about all kinds of controversial issues. If someone talks loudly to a stranger on the 6 everyone gets a little nervous and purses their lips at the stranger. Nobody answers back.

Today, a woman with a Latino accent was holding forth on AIDS. She didn't seem to have a particular point to make except that she knew a lot of people who knew people who caught AIDS from prostitutes or women who brought it with them from various East African countries. She worried about kids being born with it. She worried about her kids catching it. She spoke in a sing-song slang that made her sound not-so-educated, but most of what she was saying was pretty educated. Except maybe the part where she talked about disinfecting her kids so they didn't catch AIDS.

Then a really loud guy who sounded Native kicked into a conspiracy-theory rant about how it wasn't monkeys that started AIDS but our C.I.A. About three other voices quietly threw out a mantra of, "Yeah." But then he added that it was the C.I.A. trying to wipe out Muslim terrorists. A black woman yelled, "You fuckin' idiot, the C.I.A. wasn't even thinking about Muslim terrorists yet when AIDS started." Then an obnoxious white voice yelled louder, "It's niggers."

"What?" The Latino woman was incredulous. The black woman added, "What? It sounded like you just said something about niggers."

"Niggers. It's the fuckin' niggers from Africa."

"You didn't just say nigger on this bus, bitch."

"I don't mean black people. I mean these God damned Africans. The Somalis and Nigerians and shit."

Suddenly lots of people were yelling all different things, and all my white ears could hear was the word "nigger" over and over again in many accents. I couldn't see the people behind me, and I didn't look back. Nobody in front of me looked back. But a number of brown male shoulders stiffened and a lot of African heads cocked.

I'm sitting here waiting for my happy little rainbow commute to turn into a race riot when the bus driver, an old black man with a fabulously deep and authoritative voice gets on the microphone and says, "Alright, alright children, that's enough with the name-callin' back there."

And everyone clears their throat and mumbles and chills.

The bus pulls over for someone's stop and the Latino woman gets off saying, "See you tomorrow." Several voices, no longer yelling, "Yeah, have a nice night."

A new voice in the back says, "Did you hear about that kid who got shot in North Minneapolis?" And civility returns.

I don't like people yelling on my bus. And I hate the n-word. But that freaky conversation scared me a lot less than the paranoid rage I see in the eyes of an SUV driver when an immigrant driver moves too slowly for the morning fuck-you commute.

I wish everyone would ride the 14 bus, just once in a while.

Specialists suck

I’ve come to a revelatory observation about the people in my world. I’ve got an odd collection of friends - so odd, I’ve often wondered what they have in common. and I think I’ve just figured it out. All my friends are generalists. As opposed to specialists. This insight came from being rather ungratefully used by a batch of specialists recently.

Specialists are people who make it their life’s work to be the best at one thing. For generalists, experience and variety are a way of life. Generalists get a bad rap sometimes. Jack of all trades, master of none. Ambitionless. Unfocused. Juvenile. Dilettante. Dabbler. Specialists get to be prodigies, wunderkinds, experts, craftsmen.

It all sounds rather admirable, but here’s the thing. Specialists, by definition, have to focus on just one thing. This makes them narrow-minded. That’s pretty dull and annoying to be around. Generalists like lots of things. This makes them much funner to talk to and much more useful in a pinch.

Specialists define success by being the best. Only a few can be the best. So specialists must be competitive, elitist and narcissistic in order to succeed. And yeah, that’s annoying too. Generalists usually succeed by cooperation, not competition. So generalists are much better playmates.

Being the best is a rather subjective thing. It’s often measured and defined by those in the craft with power. So in order to succeed, specialists must become ass-kissers, star-fuckers, politicians and users. Not much fun. Generalists chase experience more than recognition, so they get to just be themselves. They get to be honest, candid, open. Yeah, I like that better.

Specialists, in their desperation to master their craft, become slave to both the craft and the politics of that craft’s measures of success. Generalists are motivated by experience of all kind so their identity isn’t slave to one measure of success. In fact, experience makes them happier than success. Experience is easier to come by than success so they are free from the rules of the game. Free people are healthier people.

When a bunch of specialists get together and form a group, one where their only motivation for cooperation is mutual ambition and narcissism, the competitiveness and hypocrisy in the room are palpable, and it just smells bad. Generalists get together and more is possible. Experience and variety blend into insight. Things pop. “Aha!” moments happen.

Specialists tend to come from a privileged background since such a background lends individuals more opportunities like education, free time, and awareness of the possibilities. This only increases the likelihood of snobbery, ignorance, elitism and callousness in these people. Generalists are often self-made and therefore more reliable. Generalists tend to have spent some time with the rest of the rabble and as a result, are more compassionate, aware and humble. So they’re more likely to actually be aware of other people’s feelings and to actually give a shit.

Generalists make better party guests, trivia contest players, friends, lovers and allies. They’re not better people, just better to be around. They have more to share and more motivation to share.

An important distinction. I’m not talking about amateur vs. professional here. In fact, I know more generalists who get paid for what they do because they have more skills and more flexibility to offer. I’m also not talking about talent. Specialists have more craft, yes. But talent, well, that’s something else. When specialists don’t have talent, they must create smoke and mirrors - elusive definitions of talent that can’t be grasped by those outside the club, and nepotism to control the club’s membership. Specialists need clubs to remind everyone the emperor has nice clothes. Generalists shun clubs. I like that.

It’s funny, I used to forgive the obnoxious qualities of some specialists if they had talent, as though talent excuses all. But I think I’m over that now. I think fuck specialists, I like generalists better.

Do I sound bitter? Well, yeah, still sore from that encounter I mentioned. But I take comfort in knowing that specialists get their just rewards because they are both bored and boring at parties. And they miss the best things in this world. And in the event of a cataclysmic event that puts them on a desert island scenario they’ll be totally useless.

Officially intermediate

That's Max, the most fabulous piano teacher ever. Wednesday at 9:30 a.m. is one of my favorite times of the week. That's my weekly piano lesson. Always wanted to play the piano. A while back, an old friend in retirement used his time off to follow his old dream of learning the piano. Just weeks into his lessons he told me, "Don't wait."

Max used to work with me at the Fringe, and then started teaching piano again. Seemed like a fine way to stay in touch, so I signed up. It's been eight months, but we took one month off. So really seven months of practicing, and today Max says I'm an intermediate student now.

Tonight I had a beer at Tracey's Bar where it turns out my friend Avye works. Avye is soooo smart and sooo talented. And she thinks she wasted her time in school getting a degree in theater and photography because it turns out there's so much moooore she wants to do. She and her boyfriend fantasize about building a raft made of junk, and floating down the Mississippi River. Note to self, all the junk we have left when we're ready to leave the country - if it floats, I'm giving it to Avye.

I know how she feels. She's 24 and I'm 38 and my 15 years on her don't make me feel any further down my list of ambitions. I mean yeah, I've done a lot of things, but the brain muscles that I use to learn new songs on the piano ... well, they're at the infantile stage of development.

So if something as commonplace to some as playing music can feel so brand, shiny new, imagine how much else is out there.

This is Allegra. Allegra considers it a "pipe dream" to do my job. But Allegra is going to play sax with Buckets and Tap Shoes in Finland. Fucking Finland. Yeah, she's cool. Waaaaaay beyond intermediate on the sax. Learning the Fringe, and working towards total mobile monkey world domination on the arts scene (sorry, that's an inside joke, sort of.)

Lots of things I'm advanced at, but so many things I'm pre-beginner about. Like didn't-even-know-that-existed ignorant. Did you know there's a New Orleans band - a family - called The Flying Neutrinos that build rafts and float around the world picking up orphans? Yeah, me neither. It's a big, wide world. And I'm a little tired of specialized and advanced. I want intermediate everything.

So Bob, the guy who started learning piano at 62 years old after a surprising heart attack said, "Don't wait."

Walkin' shoes

Having resisted the rare urge to share personal flotsam with the WWW (Whole Wide World) thus far, recently realized a Blog would save on postcards once we go nomadic. So here I am. Y'all scootch your flotsam over and make room for mine.

The For Sale sign just went up in front of the Powderhorn Palace, so this weekend feels like the beginning - puttin' on the walkin' shoes, looking out over the horizon, thinkin' about gettin' started. Leavin' off the g's at the end of words as I get into a moseyin' kinda mindset.

So yeah, it's official, the house is up for sale. Anyone want an adorable brick Victorian house by a park in Minneapolis? It's the perfect house if you don't find the ownership of a house to be like slow death from suffocation.

The next party theme will be Don't Bring Gifts, Take Our Stuff. Matthew's got dibs on the purple couch. Trista and Dean have their eye on the dining room table. Rik's claimed the BBQ and thinkin' 'bout the lawn mower too. All the rest's fair game.

The walking shoes don't actually go on the feet until October, but this weekend the distant horizon is in my mind's eye and I could swear I smell salt water.

Wow, you can put pictures up here

Just discovered the picture upload function. Bear with me while I play with the new buttons and knobs here. Neato.

Not a lot of photos on the home computer, but pictures are so much funner than words, I'll put up what I've got. This is going to make me use my nifty digital camera more.

Starting with those I love ... Here's Alan, my husband. Handsome, isn't he? I took this picture of him a couple hours before we got married. That's my favorite shirt he's wearing. Not my favorite shirt. His shirt that is my favorite. If he wore one of my shirts for our wedding, that would be just wierd.


This is our dog, Future. He eats many unexpected things. Paper, pens, sticks, litter, dead animals, remote controls, cell phones, rocks, bones. He doesn't just chew these things, he swallows them. I don't really understand how his digestive system works.

But he's very cute. And after seven weeks of obedience training, he lays down on command, and he's putting our cat's head in his mouth much less often now.

This is a man feeding pigeons near Notre Dame in Paris. Many years ago I visited Paris with my friends Rodney, Jason and Greg. We didn't see a lot of the sites because we kept staying out until six in the morning dancing in gay bars and sleeping so late everything was closed. We showed up at the Louvre 20 minutes before closing and had to jog by Mona Lisa and the David statue. Yeah, lame American fags, that's what we were.


This is an herb garden I built once. I had help from friends Michael, Mary and Clifford. Mostly Clifford - he chopped down the trees to make the logs that made the border that kept the garden in. This was when I first moved to Minnesota and lived on Mary's big ranch. After growing things in pots my whole life in CA, I went a little crazy with all this space. Planted a buttload of herbs and didn't know what to do at harvest time. Invented herb jellies and made about 500 jars. Now I'm a city kid again and that sounds sort of excessive.


This is a frog taking a nap in a Lily. I want his life.

Help us leave the country!

Home For Sale: 3325 17th Ave S, Minneapolis
Price: $233,000
Call For Appointment: 612-423-6335

Bright sunny brick Victorian, diagonal hardwood floors, master bedroom with vaulted ceiling and skylights, walk-in closet, kitchen remodel, window seat, ceiling fans, large yard enclosed, lilac bower, perennials, porches front and back, exposed interior brick throughout, 3 blocks from park, great schools, 3-car garage, 3 bedrooms, 1 bathroom.