Writers Block

Some of you may have wondered “where is she?”  The windows of wending.wordpress.com seemed to be boarded up these past three months.  At first, it appeared I had taken an extended Christmas vacation, understandable.  Perhaps I was busy working on the New Years resolutions.  Losing weight. Organizing my files. Filing my taxes early.  Perfectly explainable.

 

Then months past.  The “Gone Fishing” sign on the door was collecting cob webs.  Graffiti began to pepper the paint peeling walls. 

 

I would like to say that I had been captured by Somali pirates, awaiting ransom.  I reconnected with my high school boyfriend and realized I have been living a lie as a sushi-loving, married to a rock star wine maker, Obamacrat, mother of three beautiful children.  I was forced to assume a new identity under the witness protection program and now blogging as a Latino man by night as I run a youth hostel in Borneo by day. 

 

But in truth?  I lost my muse. I would sit down to write a post and it would go something like this:

 

“Kids say the darn-dest things.”

 

Or

 

“Ever wonder where those little lint bunnies come from?  Me neither.”

 

See?  You should be PAYING me not to blog.  You should be begging me not to pollute the blogosphere.

 

So, as my colleagues – Hemmingway, Salinger, Dickens, Morrison, Plath, Hurston, Twain – knew all too well, writers block can be debilitating.  One day you and your muse are smoking along, the next: nada.  The adjectives have dried up.  The similes have vanished.  The anecdotes disappear.  You consider writing a sequel to Fun with Dick and Jane. See Dick run.  See Jane run. Run Jane, run.

 

But today is a new day.  Today is the day I channel the tenacious spirit of Scarlett O’Hare crossed with the prose of Garcia Marquez.  Today is the day I write the great American blog post.  No pressure.  No worries.  Just me and my muse writing a few pithy paragraphs of humorous, poignant, full-circle observations that every sentient being must read before dying.  Easy peasey.  Walk in the park.

 

Here it goes…

 

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

 

Perhaps a bit too much attitude.  And what if my Mom reads it? A little too honest.

 

All this happened, more or less.  

 

Strike that, either it happened or it didn’t, right?  Too James Frey-ish.

 

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buenda was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.   

 

Kinda depressing.  Really, where could a story go with an opening like that?  No one would read it.

 

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom…

 

Catchy, but how can it be the best AND the worst of times.  I think I would have to pick one. 

 

It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York. 

 

Draws the reader in, but I’ve only been to NY once.  Do people really want to hear about the Rosenberg’s in 2009?  Perhaps something more current.

 

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.  

 

Whoa – don’t know where that came from.  Who knew I could write about military maneuvers.

 

Call me Ishmael. 

 

I’m imagining a whale coming into play. I don’t know.  Might be short on dialogue – a guy and a whale.

 

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.  

 

Yeah.  That’s it.  Romantic.  Family-appropriate.  Something for all ages.  Lacking controversy. Ohhhh – this is gonna be good.

 

I don’t think it’s too soon to say:  I’m back!

 

 

 

More Obama-Mania (like you needed that?)

Most days I try to keep my feet on the ground, after all I hale from the Midwest and we are a stoic bunch not prone to emotional outbursts.  Today I need to gush.  I need to brag unabashedly like a teenager who just slept with a Jonas Brother (oh that’s right, they are chaste) well, then _____________ (fill in name of favorite teen obsession). 

 

BARACK OBAMA.  Mr. President.  President Elect.  Mr. Rock Star.  I watched 60 Minutes last night, thanks to TiVo, and I am once again BLOWN AWAY. 

 

Steve Kroft asked Barack to comment on what being the first African American elected to the White House meant.  Without flinching, without throwing his shoulders back and puffing up his chest, he reflected on what this accomplishment meant to older AA’s like his mother-in-law.  He talked about what it might symbolize for all people of color.  He didn’t own it.  He didn’t bask in it.  He didn’t diminish it.  It just was.  It was OUR win.  OUR night.  OUR victory.  People voted for his vision.  His skin color was just the icing on the cake for the whole country.  We as a nation decided that anyone could be president, not he.

 

Then Kroft asked Michelle what she whispered to Barack when they took the stage on November 4.  She said “Wow, look at all these people.”  Screaming, crying, elated people.  Once again, Barack said he was humbled and taken aback by so many people who wanted and needed change.  Not HIS people.  Not HIS night.  Not HIS moment. 

 

The truth is that Obama’s humility, humbleness, reverence, respect, and vision are really just the perfect delivery mechanism to his real gold: Frickin’  INTELLIGENCE.  Really frickin’ amazing intelligence with a big-ass serving of CURIOSITY to keep it growing.  I know, crazy.  Who would have thought you should be as smart as a rocket scientist (with social adeptness) to be president?  Turns out, to ready himself for the job, Mr. President is reading about FDR’s first 100 days and Lincoln’s Presidency.  I couldn’t help but wonder how Sarah Palin would answer “what are you reading now?”  if she were in Obama’s shoes (shudder to think).  Danielle Steel novels?

 

My President wants to stretch.  He wants to absorb new information.  He is the manager, the CEO who listens to the masses, consults the smartest people he can find, and then makes a hard decision without patronizing or apologizing.  He LEADS.  He makes mistakes.  He takes calculated risks.  He is our steady hand at the wheel of a ship that is caught in a perfect storm.  Who knows if he will find a port, but I think he’s our best bet.

 

And did I tell you how FRICKIN’ SMART he is?

 

Lest you think I have gone completely Obama-Crazy:  Here is a video from the onion parodying people like me. 

http://www.theonion.com/content/video/obama_win_causes_obsessive?utm_source=embedded_video”>Obama

 

The Ending to a Story

There is a lot to be thankful for this season, but for some reason the universe keeps tapping me on the shoulder to remind me that life is tenuous, precious and fleeting.  Actually, it’s my Mom who keeps calling to alert me of death and destruction in my home state of Minnesota.  But we mustn’t shoot the messenger.  I am reminded that for many, the holidays are a difficult time, because their tribes are down by one.  Death seems to come at the most inconvenient times.

 

Yesterday we said goodbye to my dear Minnesota childhood neighbor Bob.  His son Steve is my oldest friend and was kind enough to play groomsman at my wedding.  We were born a mere 6 weeks apart and wiled away most days pretending to drive to the Dairy Queen in my Dad’s white VW Bug.  Having a few pounds to spare, Steve and I dreamed big. When we were ten Steve moved away when his parents, Bob and Margaret, built their dream home in an open field 5 miles away because our neighborhood, comprised of eight houses and surrounded by corn fields, was too crowded for them.  Really just exchanging one wind-swept frozen tundra for another, except the first at least offered enough neighborhood kids to play softball.  But who am I to judge Bob and Margaret’s dreams.

 

Bob and Margaret were high school sweethearts who sported an incredible sense of humor.  If you do the math, B and M at the ripe age of 18 had Irish quadruplets – a child every 9-12 months, for four years running.  I believe this demands a sense of humor; thank God they had it in spades. 

 

Like most of my Midwest contemporaries, Bob, Margaret and Steve are easy-going, nose-to-the-grindstone, stoic folk.  They do not talk about religion or politics in mixed company, or any type of company for that matter.  Such matters are very personal.  In fact, I remember when dear friend Steve came out of the political closet and embraced Rush Limbaugh like a Dilly Bar.  I asked what his parents thought and he said he thought they were on the other side of the political spectrum from him (thank you, Jesus), but in fact, they had never discussed politics…ever.  You can imagine the stark contrast between Steve’s young, fun-loving yet emotionally stoic, devout Catholic parents and the liberal, Unitarian, nothing-like-a-good-debate about existential angst over hand-crafted espresso neighbors.  Not to mention we must have asked the question “And how did that make you feel?” at least three times a day.  Yeah – we were freaks.  Bob and Margaret were just normal and fun.

 

So when I called Margaret yesterday to extend my condolences I did so with hesitation.  After all, I am not a cousin or close relative.  I have not spoken to Steve for over a year.  Surely they are busy making funeral arrangements and a quiet note with a fruit basket sent within the next month will suffice.  But in my heart I knew I had to call. I lost my Dad to pancreatic cancer eight years ago and Bob, Margaret and Steve made a heart-felt appearance at his funeral.

 

I was expecting (hoping) a concerned aunt might answer the phone, but Margaret picked up and there we were… on the precipice of grief…her and Bob, icons of my youth, me the girl next door.  I worried I was intruding on the most intimate of moments…a mere 12 hours after her husband of 49 years had died.  I took a deep breath and said with cracked voice “Margaret, I am soooo sorry.”  And Margaret graciously reminded me that faced with profound loss we are given the opportunity to touch each others hearts in ways we are never given access to in our day to day. 

 

With great clarity and focus, Margaret wasted no time in telling me “her story.”  The story of Bob dying in her arms, how difficult it was, how his body just gave out, how he looked so peaceful.  Never do you feel so alive, so sad, so connected to God and others than at the door of death.    Today adrenalin was flowing, awareness was acute, and there was no time but the present.  This was her story.  This was Bob and Margaret’s story.  It had a brilliant beginning, a long middle, and now she knew how it would end.  It was sad, it was beautiful, it was truthful, it was spiritual, it was sad, and it just was.  In profound moments of death and birth, these are the stories, waiting on the edge of our lips for a caring soul to come along and just listen.  It is our chance to tell the world the significance of one person’s life.  As a listener, tell me you are not afraid of the truth, because this is my story and it was just written.  Let me give the story life, so I remember it is real, that it will be alright, that someone for-went picking up their dry cleaning today to call and tell me they cared.  

 

And once again, I was reminded that these raw moments are gifts and if I am so honored to be asked to listen, I will listen.  I will cry.  I will pat hands and just say “I am sooo sorry.”  In this instance, flowers and fruit baskets are important gestures, but “being there” is irreplaceable.  Sometimes you just have to be brave and take a front seat, if you’re lucky enough to be asked to sit down and hear the story.

 

 

 

 

Post-Birth Obsession

Let’s get this straight.  I was not always in love with my TV.  When we had children I imagined we would all-of-a-sudden take up crocheting, play wooden board games and send the kids to Waldorf in lieu of TV.  Well, as parents we know things don’t often pan out as we imagine. 

 

What surprised me is how fast all the ideals went out the window.  The baby was barely out of the birth canal and I was in search of a serious fix from the box.  I didn’t just want to be entertained.  I NEEDED to be entertained.  I INSISTED on being entertained.  Nova? No way.  Masterpiece Theater? Pass.  I signed up for hours of …get this…TLC’s A Baby Story.  This is a reality show that tells the same story over and over.  Really.  The couples change every show, but as far as I’m concerned the producers could just use the same couple for every show and just change a few details – like rename them.  They could even use the same footage and the same baby. 

 

Here’s the fascinating storyline:  Couple decide to have baby (ohh), couple conceives (ahh), couple paints nursery and folds baby clothes together (wooo), couple goes to hospital (hurry), doctors and nurses talk as if no one has given birth before and  patient is going to die. particular if mom is over 40 (oh-no!).  Now you will never guess the ending.  Really.  Now get this.  They have the baby (yah!).  Yep.  Healthy bloody, varnix covered, screaming, red baby.  And then I watch the next episode.  Couple decide to have baby, couple conceives…yep, same story.  Different couple.  Blah, blah, blah. 

 

And you know what’s the wackiest part?  I just loved this show. I too had had a baby (hours ago).  I too drove to the hospital.  I too felt the contractions.  I experienced the elation.  And I wanted to see it again, and again, and again and again. 

 

My PBS watching Mom watched me watch A Baby Story over and over again.  And she could do nothing but roll her eyes and read the New Yorker, hoping she could lead by example.  My mom gave birth in the time of saddle-block anesthesia where you were numbed from the waist down for days.  You were so drugged, giving birth was an out-of-body experience.  A necessary evil in her book.

 

For me childbirth was my Olympic performance.  I wanted to nail the landing.  I wanted the judges to post perfect  “10’s” and the audience to go wild.  I imagined the nurses would say things like “Wow.  I can’t believe how strong you are, are you sure you don’t want that epidural?”  And I would barely be breaking a sweat as I politely explained that I was dedicated to a non-medicated birth.  I wanted to be the poster Earth Mother having-spiritual-experience-while-giving-birth-naturally.  The reality? Not so much.

 

So watching A Baby Story turned into my post-birth therapy session.  I loved the anticipation of their pregnancy.  I heaved sympathetically through each of their contractions.  I cried tears of joy & pain when the baby came out.  And this went on for 3 months.  Three months of giving birth vicariously!

 

Luckily, that was a passing phase.  Eight years later I have moved on.  I have reclaimed my intellect.  Ok, so last week I was watching John and Kate Plus 8.  It’s so funny.  You see they have eight kids under seven.  When they were potty training the 6 multiples – now that’s intelligent TV.  Riveting.

 

 

Decorum

When I picked up my six-year-old from school he asked “Are you older or younger than my teacher?” 

Me:  “Well, I don’t know.” 

 

This prompted a discussion about why you don’t ask an adult, particularly female, her age.  Very confusing for a six-year-old who thinks eight-year-olds are rock stars, kindergarteners are “little babies” (apparently the greatest insult uttered on any elementary school playground) , and anyone over 20 is really old (translated: about to die any minute). 

 

So no surprise that our briefing about “don’t ask someone their age” didn’t get through to his little cerebral cortex. 

 

And no surprise when I picked him up from school yesterday he could not wait to tell me about his fact finding mission.

El:  “Mommy, I asked my teacher how old she is and YOU’RE RIGHT.  She’s younger than you.” 

Me: “Well, how old is she?”

El: “She’s 42 and I guessed her age!”

Me: “Really?  You guessed 42 exactly?”

El: (sounding a bit deflated) “Well, it wasn’t my first guess I think it was my 6^th or 7^th guess.”

Me: (with a mix of alarm and concern) “6 or 7 guesses?”

El:  “I asked her how old she was and she told me to guess.”

Me: “Was your first guess high or low?” (Regretting that I never armed El with one more important piece of advice: Always aim low).

El “Oh, I went high.  I started at 49.”

Me:  “Then what did you guess?

El:  “Then 48, 47, 46…and then I got to 42.   And I was RIGHT.”

                                   

So much for teaching decorum.

 

 

Blah, blah, blogging

The Dynamic Duo of Mark and Kristen, my creative writer friends from way back when, gifted this blog to me for my last birthday.  When I moved from San Francisco to the small hamlet of Napa five years ago I had great plans of marching into the Napa Register with a portfolio of dazzling musings about a city mom of two going country.   No doubt the quips would be hysterical and too pithy, too smart, too too for any features editor to pass up. Never mind I had never written much of anything but a Holiday Newsletter. 

 

My inflated sense of self soon shrunk and writers block set in. In place of a creative outlet I decided to take a page from Van Gogh’s book of Artist Angst and spend the next 5 years talking about all the writing I would be doing….just as soon as the creative spirit moved me.  Any day now, just as soon as I clean this sink with a toothbrush.  Then enter Mark and Kristen with their capes to set up my blog, thus removing all technical obstacles in my way.  In other words: “Stop your kvetching, Shelley. Just write!”

 

So I am new to the blogging world.  I certainly have read many talented friends blogs (see links to right) and even commented on their posts, but I was never on the receiving end of the comments until now.  Apparently when you are brave enough to stick your neck out – picture of a golden retriever hanging his nozzle out of a Porsche on the autobahn comes to mind – and write where your passions lie (say No on 8), you may be a bit surprised that not everyone agrees with you or even appreciates your oh-so-intelligent insight.  This comes in the form of “comments.”

 

I guess the “series of tubes called the internets”, as cultural giant Senator Ted Stevens says, is open to everyone.  Even people who do not share my values, ideas, beliefs, etc.  Go figure. Why didn’t someone warn me?  When discussing what is appropriate and safe to post and not post online, dear friend Mark reminded me that anything you post in cyberspace you should be comfortable telling your grandmother and airing on CNN. 

 

The problem is I tend to over share.  I am the kind of person that when asked about my son’s birth I am more than happy to supply ALL the details.  “….and then this wooosh of water came…”  Put it this way, when I tell a story I can see the thought bubble above friend’s heads that say “TMI.”  To add to my dilemma, I married a lovely, sweet man who is so private he surely missed his calling as a CIA undercover agent.  My eight-year-old knows my maniacal need to process and share so well, upon hearing that “mommy was writing online” he immediately gave me a very detailed list of topics I am NOT allowed to write about (i.e. ANYTHING that has happened to him from birth to the present). 

 

Blogging ethics is a subject many people in this universe know all too well.  Dooce author, Heather Armstrong, found her calling as full-time blogger when her employer fired her for writing about her work and co-workers (albeit anonymously). 

 

Then there is the reaction of family and friends.  My dear friend Kate said “who would put your diary online for everyone to see?!” before I told her I blogged.  Seems many over 35 are private bunches who have little time for cyberspace.  My mom said “Blog?  What’s that?”  Ok, she’s 83.  But she’s a hip 83 that knows her way around an email account, scanner and fax.  (what I really enjoy is when she shouts writes  in my comments section “Shelley – This is your mother…” which is followed by a compliment that is Pulitzer worthy or  “I don’t understand this.  Guess I’m of a different generation.”)

 

What is the lesson I have learned in my short month, 3 posts, of blogging?  If your thinned skin and you want to please everyone you should stick to writing about babies, puppies and rainbows in your Holiday Newsletter.  But really, would that be very interesting?

 

So here it goes… I won’t write about co-workers or my work. I will try my best to keep my friends and families most embarrassing moments off the screen and I will hope that all friends and foes will be open to the “conversation” and exchange of ideas.  If you know you hate my politics stay clear of those posts.  Maybe my musings about parenthood and forty-somethings will connect.   But I think we should keep it interesting, or why bother? 

 

The words of wisdom I try to keep in mind these days: “Well-behaved women rarely make history.”

 

 

Audaciously Hopeful

“I always felt like an American.  I finally felt like I can put my suitcase down.”

– Whoopi Goldberg

 

I’ve been trying to put into words the feelings of elation, relief, and hope and, yes, even sadness at 8:03 p.m. on November 4^th, 2008 when Barack Obama was declared the President Elect of the United States of America. 

 

In the two days since the clouds parted, golden rays of sun shone through and school children raised their voices in song, I cannot tell you how many men I have heard say “I almost cried.”

 

 Almost cried?  Almost?  Almost?! For the record, I wept like a baby.  Those feelings of elation, relief, hope and sadness?  All streaming down my face. 

 

I have supported Barack Obama’s candidacy from the beginning, much to the chagrin of my 83-year-old Hillary supporter mom (don’t worry she got over it and voted true to her Democratic roots).  His audacity of hope made me audacious enough to hope.  His unflappable, confident being with an ounce of humility made me believe he could go the distance.  His heritage and race made me excited at the possibility of a new perspective and making history. 

 

But his race did not define his campaign.  Barack rarely talked about his race .  He only talked about race when it was evident Rev. Wright was not going away.  So he talked abut race.  Correction:  He eloquently talked about race.  He summed up past, present and future fears, obstacles, and wounds created by race in America in 500 words or less, and received an A+.  My McCain worshipping brother-in-law identifies Obama’s speech on race the pivotal turning point in his political allegiance.  And then Barack woke up the next day and went back to campaigning as a multi-cultural man who had a lot of hope. 

 

So when Barack Obama was declared President Elect minutes after the California polls closed, just to make us Californians feel sort of significant, I was broadsided by the Black journalists and commentators – Democrat and Republican alike – welling up.  Weeping.  Talking about how their mothers and fathers never thought they would see the day.  Talking about how THEY never thought they would see the day.  Talking about Lincoln and the emancipation proclamation, Rosa Parks and the bus, MLK and his dreams.  Talking about the similar feelings they had when we elected an Irish Catholic in 1962.  Talking about the voters rights act of 1965.  Talking about the message of possibility THIS momentous occasion in history sends to their children. Sends to all children.  Black men can be anything.  They can be President of the United States, one of the most powerful countries in the world.  Take that racism!

 

And that’s when I began to weep.  Weep in that ugly, I can’t talk, I’m beside myself way.  My tears of elation were for healthcare, the economy, and organized communities of hope across the country.  But my tears of sadness were for the years of oppression, racism, and division our country has endured.  Tears of apology, and yes, guilt, no matter how useless, for the tears I saw pour from black peoples faces across America and throughout the world. 

 

For a half hour this win seemed to be only about race.  A win for equality, for unity, for the audacity of hope.  Senator McCain’s acceptance speech underscored this so beautifully by taking in the historic moment with us.  The moment was not lost on Senator McCain, even in his darkest hour.

 

Then Barack Obama took the stage as the President Elect and gave a proud, yet somber acceptance speech.  He looked to the long road ahead.  He paid thanks to his campaign staff and family.  He talked about hope again.  Maybe he meant hope for black people, but more likely hope for all, for this is Barack Obama, the transformational leader, the community organizer.  We were reminded once again that this was not about race to Barack Obama, though that may be the icing on the cake for the rest of us.  Once again it’s about the audacity of hope.  Now let’s get down to business.

 

 

 

Proposition 8

I wrote this Letter to the Editor to my small town newspaper.  This was my response to the amazing numbers of “Yes on 8″ signs that sprung up in my neighborhood seemingly overnight a few weeks back. 

If you don’t live in California, Proposition 8 bans same sex marriage.  The California Supreme Court ruled that same sex marriage was legal in June 2008.  Prop 8 hopes to overturn this.  Here is my letter:

Dear Editor:

 

Ideally Proposition 8 is a logical decision.  Either you support or oppose equal rights for all.  But I want to acknowledge – perhaps fool hardily, because I may be driven out of town on the next wine train – the passion that Proposition 8 is stirring in California and in our own small community. 

 

The emotions and fears are evident when friends ask me:  “I don’t mind gays, but what do you tell your kids?  Would you want your kids to see that?”

 

I can only imagine my own relatives in the deep south in the 1960’s saying similar things about the imagine of my husband and I, two individuals who decided to build a marriage and a family based on values of respect and love.  You see, I was born in 1964 in a small mid-western town.  This same year my husband was playing in a sandbox half a world away.  Because we are from different races, it was against the law for us to marry until the Supreme Court ruled in favor of interracial marriage in 1967 in Loving vs. Virginia.  I feel fortunate to live during a time in history when I can choose who I want to marry and a part of a country that is inclusive and accepting.  Our friends, children, and grandchildren should not have to wait decades or even years to obtain the same rights or a message of inclusivity.

 

What do I tell my kids?  I have three kids under 8 and what I tell them is when people are old enough to make smart decisions they choose who they want to marry.  Hopefully, they choose someone who respects and loves them.  And if they choose to have a family the respect and love is handed down to the next generation.  Respect and Love.  That’s what I hopefully model for my children. 

 

I don’t want to alarm anyone, but gay families are part of our community, some out, some with a foot still stuck in a few hangers in the closet (I don’t blame them).  No proposition will put your fear to rest or push whole families into an already crowded closet.  Just as the states attempts to abolish interracial marriage would not have kept thousands of mixed-race couples from being together. These laws only harm individuals and families but they do not stop them from being formed.

 

I have two kids in the public school system and I have never heard my child talk about “today during our lesson on marriage.”  As parents, the ball is in our court.  It is our choice to educate our kids about our values – whatever they may be.  But by all means, do not deny hard-working, loving families the same rights to tax benefits, hospital visitation, etc. as you enjoy.  This hurts our community.  I ask you to support families in our community by voting for equal rights for all.  Because all families deserve the same rights and privileges.  NO ON 8. 

 

Shelley

 

How did I get here?

Today I heard my husband in the other room lecturing the kids about clogged toilets and the importance of using toilet paper conservatively.  Of course I immediately identified this as 1) a family bonding experience, 2) an important teachable moment.  I shuffled my fuzzy slippers into the room to show my parental solidarity.  Poised like June Clever in pearls (and holey sweats) I added: “That’s right boys.  Your dad makes an important point.  Now how many squares should you use?”

 

Seems to me that one day you are looking longingly into your boyfriends eyes over a mean and sexy cheese course at Gary Danko, and the next, you share a name, three children and a passion for free-flowing toilets. One day you’re dancing on the bar at Julie’s Supper Club and the next devising your unified front regarding screen time and violin practice.  Sexy lingerie move over for Costco flannel paints with elastic waste band (and that’s the day time wear).  Brain cells devoted to the etymology of words and Camus, move over for the memorization of Goodnight Moon and Pat the Bunny.  One day: Oakland Coliseum catching The Dead. Next: The Wiggles.

 

If my life were a movie David Bryne would walk into my living room singing “you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife.  And you may ask yourself…  how did I get here?!”  Exactly how I feel.