Bitches & hos welcome

According to rapper Big Daddy Kane, PIMPIN' AIN'T EASY, but Andrew and John make it look effortless.

Hosts of a recent party at Bubba's Sulky Lounge in Portland, Maine, these boys who normally come off as innocuous as a couple of fruit flies - if fruit flies wore Hawaiian shirts, Mexican guayaberas, and comfortable sneakers - were pimped out in unrivaled fashion.

I had no problem sitting at a table with a sign welcoming bitches and hos and not once did I feel my integrity compromised.

And I didn't even come close to busting out lyrics from 'Pimpin' Ain't Easy':

If the girlies want my tip they gotta pay a fee - 
I love bonin', and all my friends they will agree - 
that when it comes to pimpin' hoes - it ain't easy -

I wanted to tax that ass like the government!
 Well, it's Friday night, ain't a damn thing funny -
 Bitch better have my money -


YEAH. Maybe because John and Andrew really aren't pimps and while I may be a bitch from time to time, I'm really not a ho. Therefore, ha ha. Good party. Thanks guys.



A week later I got a voice mail from Cathy wherein she asked me, "Why aren't you calling me back, you dirty whore?" Only days before, I'd called someone a cheap whore just for finishing the last bottle of Riesling.

BECAUSE IT'S FUNNY TO CALL SOMEONE A WHORE WHEN YOU KNOW THEY'RE NOT A WHORE.

I met Cathy, Jane, Seema, and Chris in New York and the first thing they did was put a tiara on my head. "You get to wear the pretty princess tiara," Jane told me. "until you call someone a dirty whore and then you have to relinquish it to someone else."

Well, that tiara stayed firmly on my head all night, not because I didn't call anyone a dirty whore but because none of our arms had the inhuman strength to pass it around as often as the rule necessitated. In the next three days, we called each other dirty whores no less than, I don't know, SEVERAL THOUSAND times.

They developed a ranking system and told me that I was dirty whore #5 and here I actually did take offense.

"Number FIVE? Out of five?" I protested with indignation. "Hey, I get action!"

I remembered how Jocardo and I used to casually refer to people as crackwhores until we realized a few people we knew actually were into crack and/or whoring and the term suddenly sounded less funny and more sad.

Just like how if Seema stopped being a doctor, Cathy stopped being an economic developer, Chris stopped being a sailor, and Jane stopped being an energy conservationist and turned to prostitution, I would be sad and desperate. Just as sad and desperate as they would have to be to sell their bodies.

Photo credits: Matthew Sperling, Marisa Diaz

Our deadly classic

"Our Deadly Classic" might not be the best choice of words to describe the SPINACH artichoke dip, given that in the last two weeks 92 people have been hospitalized, several deaths are suspected, and 173 people have been sickened due to the E. Coli spinach outbreak.

I know that this Portland, Maine pub, Ri-Ra, wrote their menu long before three counties in California's Salinas Valley started sending contaminated spinach around the country and before 25 states reported infections.

But I'm just saying.

Giddy up

I just spent the last two days working with a Texan runner who had two responses to pretty much just about everything.

GIDDY UP and COOL-COOL.

Giddy up and/or cool-cool came up when a) I asked him to do something b) I thanked him for doing something c) We passed in the hall d) We made eye contact and e) through z) At the close of every exchange we shared. The only variation from this verbal two-step was the occasional, "You got it, girl".

By day two I honestly felt, when talking to him, that not only did I have it but that things really were cool.

I just wondered two things. 

1) Why hadn't he shot me any pistol-fingered chk-chks and
2) WHO SAYS THIS?

While I never got a chance to discuss number one with him, I did get some insight when a delivery guy brought us food for the buses at the end of the night. My runner said, "Hey man, thanks for separating the orders. We'll take the bags for the green bus first," and the delivery guy answered back, "Cool-cool."

Ah-ha! People in Grand Prairie, Texas say this.

A few days later I was downloading photos and I laughed when I saw the ones of Geoff with the oxygen tank that the mile-high city of Denver supplies backstage. The tanks are supposed to be for performers, in case they get light-headed before they have to go onstage. In the offices, though, they are in case we get slaphappy before the night is over. The look on Geoff's face, as he's pulling the gas mask off his mouth, is ridiculous. And I knew, even if Geoff didn't, what he was thinking: GIDDY UP.

Heaven on Earth cinnamon rolls

In Portland, Oregon, Dee Dee walked into the office, held out two cinnamon rolls and said, "Here, the truck drivers bought these for you."

One of the cinnamon rolls was a normal, regulation-sized cinnamon roll, the kind found in bakeries and Cinnabons across America. Dense, buttery, and sugary enough to make those inclined towards hypoglycemia, diabetes, or A.D.D. reach for the nearest needle or pill, but a regular old cinnamon roll nonetheless.

The sight of the OTHER cinnamon roll in Dee Dee's hands made me freeze, yelp "Oh my GOD!" and "Jesus!"

It was large, like as large as my computer or small dog. Fittingly, the cinnamon roll on steroids that made me gush religious came from a place called Heaven On Earth. According to their website, "Heaven On Earth began in 1974 as a small cafe along I-5 in Oregon. With only 10lbs of hamburger, sheer faith and determination, Christine Jackson began her incredible journey to success…her devote faith and love of Jesus is why she will tell you her business is so successful today."

Amen.

Later in the loading dock, I saw two truck drivers, Tommy and Ron.

"Were you guys responsible for that thing sitting on my desk?" I asked.

They smiled in a heavy-lidded doped-up sort of way that indicated they may have been coming out of a couple of considerable sugar comas.

I may have been imagining it but I think there was a slight slur to Tommy's voice, "What d'ya think of it?"

"I think it’s kind of fucked up. But I like it. Thank you."

Heaven On Earth Restaurant & Bakery is located in Southern Oregon along I-5, just north of Grants Pass at exit 86.

Rachel Zoe

West Hollywood, CA

I was flipping through the guest informant book at my Los Angeles hotel when I crashed headfirst into the article "Styling Stars: Clothes Encounters with Top Hollywood Stylist Rachel Zoe" by Vicki Jo Radovsky. I read about Zoe and about how far she's come from her job as fashion assistant at YM magazine 13 years ago. I read about how all four salespeople at Sergio Rossi on Rodeo Drive stood at attention, attentive to her every move, when she turned up searching for shoes for Nicole Richie. I made it through Zoe's italics. 

"I worship these!" ($1,400 black high-heeled suede boots with a jeweled flower at each ankle)

"These...are...beyond!" ($570 apricot metallic heels embellished with paillettes)

and, after the apricot metallic heels are found to be too big for Nicole's wee feet, "You can will it...I've made shoes fit."

Like someone who pokes a bruise to make sure it still hurts, I was ready to suffer though an account of Zoe staring down the pailletted heels, eyes narrowing in menace, when a pair in Nicole's size were found at another Rossi store and, crisis averted, Richie got up to leave, prompting a parting "Love you!" from Zoe.

Then the writer starts kissing ass big time, "Zoe, a tanned blond with perfectly tousled hair tumbling down her back, is in full-on L.A. tart-up mode."

I'm pretty sure that in LA being called a tart is a compliment.

Vicki Jo continues: she's bohemian chic, her black halter top is down-to-there - WHERE, VICKI JO, WHERE - a thick gold chain emphasizes barely-there size-0 hips, matte gold disc earrings tickle her shoulders, and her upper arm is as slim as a child's wrist. She's an ultra-lean styling machine.

Vicki Jo, Vicki Jo, VICKI MOTHERF'ING JO. I'm not 13-years-old and I'm not trying to pore over a Sweet Valley High or Judy Blume book, though you write as if I were. And if I were, that would mean I was still in those vulnerable teen years when self image is impressionable and eating disorders might still seem glamorous or worth it and YOU WOULD NOT BE HELPING.

I don't give a shit that Zoe doesn't have time to eat or take bathroom breaks during her workday. It must suck to be Zoe, all backed up with whatever crumbs she snuck into her starving barely-there body.

I do think it's kind of cool that Zoe has been able to collect vintage Halston, Chloe, Pucci and Yves Saint Laurent since she was 13. That's very fortunate. I'm not anti-style. I'd like to think that we all can, if we want, develop our own style to express ourselves. But that's not necessarily the same thing as fashion.

I'm not going to pretend that it didn't take me three weeks to pack for these three months that I'm living out of a suitcase. I will openly admit that I laid in bed for several nights imagining the perfect combination of shoes to bring. And I actually did lose sleep over the matter of how to best accomplish form AND function.

And I did almost break down when I thought I didn't have the right suitcase to hold my near-fait accompli. My mom suggested I look through the catalog of things to trade in for my credit card points and, not understanding that she meant there were suitcases to choose from, I shrieked, "I don't need a fucking toaster oven!"

Mom, sorry about that.

But I'm not exactly sympathetic to the glories of emaciation or tales of things gone awry during Zoe's long days, things like having to crawl under a model's gown to hold it straight for the photographer since it wasn't hanging right or dressing a red carpet client in sheer white right before a major rainstorm. As I'd say growing up in Ohio, "Big whoop."

Or even more horrific: her traveling so often between New York, London, and the Bahamas that she can't remember what coast she's on or remember to take a vacation for herself. The tears I shed are not tears for Zoe's hardships, they are tears for the people who look up to Zoe.

Says Zoe, "Even though (fashion) is trivial and superficial, I liken this job to being a doctor. You need patience, TLC and a high threshold to deal with so many types of personalities and give a hundred percent to all your clients. It definitely helps that I was a sociology/psychology major!"

I need a drink.

Wabasha Street Bridge

Yesterday I checked into a hotel in Minnesota, looked out my ninth floor window, and saw the bridge that brought back memories, many involving pain and exhaustion in below-freezing conditions. The bridge to West St. Paul AKA the Wabasha Street Bridge.

My second year in Minnesota, the year my inner strength crumbled and I really got tired of having frostbite, I rented an apartment in Minneapolis.

I worked at a halfway house in downtown St. Paul, ten miles away. I often stayed overnight in West St. Paul at my boyfriend's mom's house, just across the Mississippi River, in order to avoid the midnight bicycle ride home. After an eight-hour shift of doing rounds, switching out rolls of toilet paper, shooting pool, and listening to the stories of a hundred psychotic residents, I rode my mountain bike across this bridge.

The 1,200 feet of this bridge has one of those not so steep but everlasting grades that repeatedly kicked my ass. I would invent stories and strike deals with myself midway across this bridge in order to convince myself to keep pedaling and not topple to the side. I imagined myself weeping and pounding my fist into the pavement, just out of traffic's way. My stories were morbid and terrifying enough to shock more strength into me.

"Mom has cancer," I'd tell myself.

"If I keep going, she recovers. If I stop, it metastasizes."

Or, "Neill is drowning. If I get off this bike and walk, the boat leaves him in the middle of the lake and he has a seizure. If I ride faster, someone pulls him out and performs CPR."

Looking back, Jesus Christ, how sick. But my adrenaline kicked in at the thought of my family, my speed picked up as I "saved" them, and in the end, I not only made it back to the house in good time, but I got to be a hero.

1,089 pounds of pissed off swine

At the swine barn of the 150th Great Indiana State Fair, I saw the world's largest boar. According to the Indianapolis Star's August 10 Star Report, "The pig from Pulaski County put behind him any disappointment from last year's competition and was named the 2006 World's Largest Boar at the Indiana State Fair."

Question: the pig was disappointed? Is that how is works?

Big Papa weighed in at 1,089 pounds and beat his competition by three measly pounds to gain the title of World's Largest Boar and the enviable opportunity to laze around in a small pen atop pile of straw and be ogled by thousands of shuffling fairgoers.

I looked Big Papa in the eye and can report that while he might not be disappointed anymore by last year's crushing defeat, neither did he seem all that triumphant. Big Papa acted like a pig who is OVER IT. And, actually, quite pissed off when Leila took a flash photo of him.

"He's a good pig. He's very gentle, and he doesn't act like a boar, said Reed, Big Papa's owner. "Most boars are a little mean, and he's not like that, and he is also still able to move and get around good."

Leila brought out the boar in Big Papa because, for maybe the first time that afternoon - or week, or ever  - Big Papa found it in himself to do more than snooze, wiggle his tail, and lift a fat fleshy eyelid to check and see if he was still being treated like a circus freak. He bared his teeth, threw his head back, and produced a loud noise registering somewhere between an excited squeal and the last moments of asphyxia. Big Papa looked perturbed enough to almost do something as drastic as stand up.

I said almost.

This excitement in the swine barn did not, evidently, go unnoticed by state fair officials since the entire barn and surrounding area was shortly thereafter treated to a loudspeaker announcement requesting visitors to please not disturb the pigs by taking flash photos since it makes them mad. Sorry Big Papa.

Asleep with beer in hand

Matt took this photo moments before the Bud Light slipped from my fingers, I put the comforter on the seat next to me, burrowed my head under it, made a fort, and went to sleep on a pillow of two water bottles.

People in Alabama say HEY

Birmingham, Alabama

Our hotel is fifteen miles from downtown and connected to a mall. It is 97 degrees Fahrenheit outside and sunny as shit. According to the weather channel, there are fine particles in the air, presumably pollutants. I went shopping and in the mall was introduced to the Alabama HEY.

Macy's lingerie department:

"HEY Mabel!"
"HEY Barbara!"
"HEY Sally!"
"How's yer dad?"

Barbara rang up my purchase. I found out that her dad isn't doing well and she spent all night taking care of him. When I pulled out my wallet and counted change, Barbara stole a look inside my courier bag and took a break from saying hey to ask, "Are yew in the pen business?"

After flashing a blank expression, I looked down and realized that Barbara had seen the eighteen pens stashed in the front pocket of my bag.

"No, she just steals them from hotels," Jimmy said.

"I'm a COLLECTOR," I said.

"Better than matchbox cars, I guess," added Barbara.

Ten minutes later, I pushed my way through a family that was blocking the entrance to a store, mom in the middle of the doorway, calling out out at the top of her lungs,

"HEY!...HEY!...HEY DAY-AD!" (Dad)

And then, "Hold on a minute! I'm gonna go say HEY!"

Yeah, you are.

naked man oh five hundred hours

I'm getting better at the night routine after a show: Sleep for a few hours, wake up when the bus slows to exit ramp speed, and jump off to check everyone into the hotel.

Our check-in times range between 1 am and 6 am and I'm improving in speed, coherence, and mood. I often now manage to smile when I'm handing over the key packs and sometimes even wrestle out a "See you in the morning" or "Sleep well" for the Idols or band members.

I usually doze in the front lounge of the bus and have been told by more than one person that I'm a bit of a sleep contortionist. Well, if sleep contortionists fall asleep with glasses of wine in their hand and dribble it down the front of their shirts, then I agree.

I'm also supposedly capable of rolling myself up into a ball smaller than any nearly six-foot tall person should be able to. I remain that way, tiny and coiled, until I explode all over the lounge so that every available surface area - couch and floor - is covered by legs, all without breaking my sleep.

It's a REALLY good day when I get chatty with the front desk staff. Focus on more than being polite, shepherding the flock to their rooms, and keeping the glasses on my face from being cocked at an angle greater than thirty degrees? Yikes.

Recently, after a short two-hour drive, I arrived at the Marriott feeling good, perky even. The guy at the front desk, Avi, was very happy to have us there. VERY. Somewhere in the midst of his gleeful yammering, Avi mentioned that it was his last night working at the hotel.

"You should steal something," SOMEONE ELSE said.

This made me laugh louder than the situation warranted because it reminded me of the King Missile song Take Stuff From Work and that's what happens whenever I remember King Missile songs (Jesus Was Way Cool, Meditation is Boring, Detachable Penis).

Since Avi and I had broken the conversational ice, I asked him about his last day. Avi told me that he's worked for Marriott for eight years, that he LOVES Marriott, that he's witnessed several Marriott employees fall in love and get married, and reiterated how much true love goes into the Marriott business.

But it's not all love, it's stress, too, and Avi can't take it anymore. It's affecting his health. He's already had ulcers, colitis, and, unless my ears betrayed me, a COLOSTOMY BAG thanks to Marriott.

Avi ran in the back and brought out a large homemade poster that his colleagues had made for him, wishing him well in the future. I smiled and wished him luck, too, and then decided it was time to go to my room.

Last night's drive was five hours long. I woke at 4:45 am and found myself alone in the front lounge, splayed on the couch using a balled-up American flag blanket as pillow. During check-in, I was swift and tidy but somewhat humor-free. In short, I wasn't fucking around.

Twenty minutes later, I was ready to take the elevator upstairs. The bellmen were delivering bags and the drivers were milling about the sidewalk, smoking cigarettes. I was waiting for our last person, Jamecia, to disembark and was slumped in an armchair, holding her key in my hand.

Mid-slump, I glanced towards the elevators and saw a naked man striding out of the elevator. His nakedness could be referred to both as STARK and BUTT-ASS and it didn't appear to bother him at all. Naked man pumped his arms, flapped his junk, pushed his way through the revolving door, and walked right past Jamecia.

In her squinty-eyed fatigue she looked at naked man but looked too tired to process what was happening. She'd nearly brushed up against some stranger's glory. I, on the other hand, was suddenly alert and couldn't rip my eyes off his rear end the whole time it tromped its way across the loading area and took a left up the street.

When I turned back to the lobby, I saw everyone displaying the same expression of NO, HE DIDN'T. The hotel manager, the bellman, the security, and Jamecia were all stunned into silence until the manager goes, "Well, he didn't have a key so he's not getting back in."

I went over to Jamecia, dropped my hands on my knees and hung my head, laughing at the naked man.

She looked around and out at the street. She looked at me and the hotel workers and kept huffing out the same sound over and over, unable to complete the whole word WHAT - "Wh- Wh- Wh-" - and after awhile I was laughing only at her.

Then I went upstairs, went to sleep, and forgot about him until today when the first round of "your boyfriend" jokes started.

101 things to do before I die

According to the book 101 Things To Do Before You Die, we can thoughtfully and consciously improve our lives by making lists. Lists! I love lists! But, according to the book, rather than just micromanaging ourselves with grocery and chore lists regarding cottage cheese and dry cleaning, we can chart our wilder desires and greater goals with the help of this zingy little paperback. The macabre yet cute introduction offers the following framework: ATTEMPT. COMPLETE. EXPIRE. What to attempt is open to personal discretion though a list of examples are suggested.

Catch a fish with your bare hands while skinny dipping at midnight, cook it to your own perfected recipe on a fire you made without matches.

Hm. I'm pretty sure that's not going to be on my list.

Complete is all about tracking your lifetime achievements by filling in the book's easy-to-follow forms. And expire, of course, tackles dying and possible regrets and what ifs and should haves and how if you want to avoid feeling like shit on your deathbed you might want to get off your ass and focus. Like right now. Kelly Dearborn gave me this book a week ago as part of a care package consisting mostly of toys (plastic pirate figurines, bacon-scented air freshener, glow in the dark stars) with which to decorate my bunk on the tour bus.

The last time I saw Kelly before hitting the road was in New York. It was the last day of school for the New York public school system and Alex and his colleagues, all teaching fellows in Queens, met for pints of beer and free popcorn at a Brooklyn pub to celebrate another year of teaching. I showed up with Kelly and Sarah for the Guinness, the Brooklyn accents as thick as East River sludge, and to do some drunken shopping whereby we traipsed through Boerum Hill boutiques knocking over handwoven baskets full of expensive t-shirts and irritating shopkeepers. We left each other on the downtown corner and and promised to meet again when Idol pulls through Long Island.

Since I'm currently living out of a suitcase, it would be challenging to pack all the useful gear suggested by the 101 plan of life enhancement. I'm having a hard enough time writing or returning personal phone calls regularly so I think it's okay that I don't spend time right now trying to get my hands on a confessional booth, spray cans, poker chips, and a ski mask. Luckily a few of the other things are easier like a pen, a strong stomach, glue, some strangers, some friends, beer, a fearlessness of heights, a reckless spirit, a stick of chalk, a celebrity, a good imagination, a sense of humor, and fruit. I've had only a quick look at the suggested list of 101 things but am thrilled to announce that I can safely attest to completing at least five of them:

1. Design your own cocktail

The Austin: campari, soda, vodka, cranberry. Thanks to Shane and Sunny for participation and inspiration.

2. Leave a job you hate

I'm sorry Feminist Press but I had enough right about when all the backstabbing started.

3. Bungee jump

Thrilling, frightening, so surprised I didn't poop my pants. And I don't recommend parking lots in Las Vegas where they have to dangle you upside down after you jump and then pull you ALL THE WAY BACK UP to the top of the tower feet first. That was easily as bad or worse than the jump itself.

4. Leave your mark in graffiti

If you're going to be indignant and self-righteous and decide to graffiti for a cause in high school, you should probably make sure you know how to spell otherwise you end up looking a fool. Also, it dilutes your intended message. My early-90s causes were anti-fur animal rights and freedom of speech civil rights. The word I had a problem with was CENSORSHIP.

5. Meet your Idol

Ha.

Sorry about your erythema migrans

Sara, I'm sorry. When I was at your house and kept cracking jokes about you having Lyme Disease - "Is your Lyme Disease acting up?" and "Get off the couch, it's not like you have Lyme Disease!" - I NEVER thought you REALLY had Lyme Disease.

I thought that the rash on your leg was something other than the characteristic skin rash erythema migrans, transmitted to you by a blacklegged tick infected with the bacterium Borrelia burgdorferi. I never imagined that the headache and fatigue you felt was related to a condition that, if left untreated, could have spread to your joints, heart, and nervous system.

I just thought you were tired because you're a mother and four months pregnant and I hear that that's really tiring and a fairly good reason to lie on the couch in the middle of the day and fall asleep for hours. And I'm sorry that when we went to the basement to tear down cabinets and you asked for my help in working on the house you're remodeling, all I did was take photos and make MORE jokes about you having Lyme Disease and getting tetanus and then wandered in the other room to take photos of my feet.

I'm so glad that you went to another doctor to get a second opinion and caught the Lyme Disease before it caused any palsy or cognitive disorders and I want you to know that if I weren't with Idol right now, I'd be in your living room smoothing the covers over your shoulders and putting honey in your tea and buying do it yourself home improvement books.

Lisa London's hardcore posse

Yesterday I read Lisa London's blog and found that I made the list of her HARDCORE POSSE: BEST OF THE BEST. Woo!

Lisa is my former boss. We met shortly after I moved to New York and I answered her ad for a publishing internship at The Feminist Press.

Lisa returned my email and suggested that we meet to discuss the internship at Virgin Records in Union Square. Whoever arrived first was to go the Flaming Lips listening booth and put on track #4 from the Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots album.

"Wow," I thought to myself, "That's crazy. I like her already."

I showed up and this lady took the headphones off her ears, put them on mine, flashed a huge smile, and said, "Isn't it great?!"

I nodded and tried to look cool.

After spinning some yarn about how much energy and enthusiasm I'd devote to the internship, we were on. For the next two years, under Lisa's management, I appreciated a singularly killer mix of instruction, support, and hilarity.

"Lisa," I'd say after knocking on her office door, "Could we find something to meet about?"

Meaning: I'm all the way over in my own office and I miss you so maybe we could hang out and you don't mind if I put my feet up on your desk, do you?

Lisa introduced me to the Coney Island Polar Bear Club and convinced me do jumping jacks on the beach and then run into the water to freeze my tits off. We laughed until we choked over imitating Klaus, an elderly German member of the Polar Bear Club.

It wasn't the skin-stinging, head-splitting, bone-aching cold that eventually drove me out of the water, it was Klaus and his guttural voice sidling up to me in the water with:

"It's bettah thahn an ORRRGAAAHSM!"

Gotta go!

Lisa and I once had a competition to see who had the worst elementary school photo. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that we used to be IDENTICAL TWINS.

Duck Dodge

Last week I was drinking pints of beer at Leny's Tavern and catching up with my friend Jon. I had sprinted two blocks from Jane's house to the bar and abandoned Seema, our other high school friend in Seattle to celebrate Jane's graduation, with a wave of my hand and a slam of the screen door.

Around my fourth Bud Light, Chris Kelly showed up, plunked himself on the bar stool at my side, and invited me to the Duck Dodge.

"The what?"



Jon said I should definitely go. "It's great," he said, "a sailboat race around Lake Union." Piece of cake, lots of fun, etc.

The name Duck Dodge is taken from Race Rule 12: Never make a duck change its course. Several people now realize Rule 13 should be THINK CAREFULLY BEFORE LETTING ME JOIN YOUR CREW, but Jon (boat-maker who blithely sails to the South Pacific) and Chris (as boundlessly cheerful and plucky as a golden retriever puppy) assured me it was a superb idea.

Chris and I scooped up Seema and headed to the lake.

Navigating the creaking planks of the dock, I resisted the urge to walk with both arms extended for balance. I greeted the real sailors with raised palm and wide smile and hoped that bravado and a deep sense of inner confidence would mask my heavy buzz. Seema and I exchanged glances and lingered on the dock for a moment before awkwardly straddling the railing of the deck and thudding onto the other side.

Once aboard, Seema and I chose distinct coping mechanisms. Chris offered us each Pacificos and Seema nodded quickly and practically dove headfirst into the galley to find a bottle opener. I, on the other hand, shook my head and harbored suspicions that my pupils were, in fear, as dilated as a high schooler on an acid binge.

Seema and I attempted to lean against the sides of the cockpit and give off airs of casual ease. The fact that we didn't understand any of the sailor lingo being exchanged and were perpetually blocking someone and scooting out of the way with little "Sorry! Sorry!"s didn't help our skit.

Chris told us to just follow directions once the race got underway and I felt suddenly compelled to come clean to the others and announce that I not only have never raced but don't sail at all. I needed to know that no one was going to scream at me to tie a loop knot or a double loop bowline at a crucial point in the race. I needed the directions to be VERY CLEAR and in LANDLUBBER ENGLISH.

The others assured us we'd both just crouch mid-boat under the mainsail and scramble underneath the boom from side (port) to side (starboard) when ordered. They also said to take care not to knock our heads on the swinging boom and get concussions.

The Duck Dodge happens every week from mid-May through September. We showed up on Pajama Night but our entire crew forgot to wear their PJ's. Hopefully they won't be so neglectful on Prom Night and Pirate Night scheduled for later this summer.

Shortly after the start of the race, I learned several things. I learned that it is impossible to not know when it's time to dive underneath the boom to the other side. When the boat tacks and the angle of the deck shifts drastically, you don't need an order to GET YOUR ASS MOVING, regardless of the excessive bruising that you shall suffer later.

I learned to immediately start cursing our arch-rival, a red boat named Minor Threat, who won the race. I learned that sailing is super relaxing when you aren't sustaining a sudden gust of wind while rounding a buoy, losing control of the sails and rudder and nearly capsizing.

And I learned that the rest of the time you can pretty much hang over the side and listen to others read the water and announce oncoming winds, "Puff. Puff on." It's mildly amusing to imitate the real sailors by saying languorously to each other, "Puff on, Seema" and "Puff on, Jess" while trying to make yourself look as high as possible.



Thanks, Chris.

Chill-N

Since reporting on N's dramatic departure from Detroit and subsequent appearances in Ohio, I've received several comments and questions regarding N's current status:

1. Will I take N to other marquise to see if he makes friends with more letters?

2. Does N miss the Royal Oak Theater or does he yearn to see the world?

and my favorite:

3. "Wow. I had no idea N was so...how do you say?...laid back."

And so I feel obliged to reveal a couple of things.

N may have a little drinking problem. I'd like to think it has more to do with his new freedom rather than an innate desire to drink heavily and black out at family functions. Kind of like a sheltered college freshman who runs away from Provo, Utah and Brigham Young University and enrolls at UW-Madison and attends nightly keggers, I believe that eventually N will realize it's more fun to have a few cocktails and go to bed than spend hours hurling remnants of cheap beer into the toilet and wondering what happened between 2 and 4 am. I'm keeping an eye on the situation.

N has expressed NO DESIRE to go back to the Royal Oak or any other marquise, but he has hinted that a trip to the library might be nice. N felt limited by the theater, where he could only say so much, while the possibilities at a library are endless. As for his general demeanor: N is laid back to an unparalleled degree. He recently accompanied me to New York and took to the city with no complaints and even hung out on the stoop like a real Brooklynite.

Beavers the size of bears

I just read the inside of my Snapple lid and was treated to Real Fact #123: Beavers were once the size of bears.

I instantly felt that I should not be allowed to know this about beavers. This knowledge will make me act crazy.

Last week I was typing in my parents' basement office which was recently redone with a new super-shaggy carpet. I saw something in my peripheral vision and glanced over to see a large cockroach painstakingly climbing up and down the hillocks of fiber. He wasn't getting anywhere but he was trying very hard and so my heart went out to him at the same time that I wanted to smash his guts in.

I watched him for a minute to be sure that he was truly slow and incapable of pulling any fast ones like actual scurrying. Then I got the bright idea to take him outside. Since he'd only progressed an inch in five minutes I thought maybe he'd stand patiently on a manila folder while I carried him up the steps and out the door. When I slid the folder under his belly, however, he did a back flip back down to the carpet. I jumped and ran back to my desk.

The cockroach froze in place and I imagined he was thinking: She won't notice me if I JUST DON'T MOVE. The cockroach was most likely looking at me out of the corner of his eye, too, but of course I couldn't tell.

"Just don't walk towards me!" I said, pointing my index finger at him.

And he took a left. In my direction. So I went over, put a pillow on top of him, and smashed his guts in with my heel.

When I tried to resume writing I couldn't ignore the nagging suspicion that there was a huge, beagle-sized cockroach curled up on the floor at my feet. Or tapping my leg with his antennae. Or blinking a giant cockroach eye and waiting to make eye contact with me before avenging my mercenary act.

I sat cross-legged in the chair and shook my head several times quickly and ordered myself NOT TO GO DOWN THE ROAD I WAS ABOUT TO GO DOWN.

It is a road that I explored as a child after catching part of "Earth Vs. The Spider" on television.

The plot of this campy 1958 movie centers around a giant spider that lives in a cave and is discovered by a couple of teenagers who barely escape with their lives. I remember a girl shrieking and trying in vain to push a boulder towards a elephantine tarantula who keeps stretching its mutant legs out towards her.

Needless to say, I lost some sleep over this scene. The spider was at my bedroom door, opening the knob with its huge hairy leg, checking me out with eight gigantic eyes, crawling towards my bed to eat me, etc.

Now I recall the squirmy panic inspired by giant movie spiders and the fact that last week I wouldn't pick up the cockroach pillow for a whole day out of fear that a jumbo retaliation cockroach who was already mad at me was waiting underneath. Hopefully beavers are cute enough rodents that the idea of a bear-sized version who hasn't shuffled around for 10,000 years won't keep me up tonight.

das Reinheitsgebot? Yeah, you heard me.

The Bavarian Purity Law of 1516 is the oldest still-valid beverage law in the world. It allows only the use of malt, water, and hops for producing beer and its name in German is a mouthful - das Reinheitsgebot - as German names tend to be.

Why do people always say that Germans have no sense of humor? Just think about how much energy they must exert just to keep a straight face while saying half the shit on their minds using those silly words. I believe their sense of humor went underground long, long ago.

Mary Beth and Jeremy recently invited me to their house to discuss the Bavarian Purity Law and get drunk on the porch. Actually what MB said was:

"Hey Jess, we have some Hofbrau Maibock at home and it's 7.2% alcohol, do you wa-"

and I interrupted:

"What time?"

I showed up at the appointed time and within minutes was peering into the fridge, the fridge which proves that YES, WE ARE RELATED.

I didn't know anything about Hofbrau Maibock but it didn't take long to pick up on two things: 1) YUM and 2) I was on a fast track from sober to wasted.

By beer two I'd already hit wobbly and ventured to Jeremy, "Maybe I'm imagining it or maybe Bud Light has made me a wimp...but...DAMN."

He nodded sagely, "It's the Maibock."

Maibock is tapped in Munich's Hofbrauhaus in the last week of April for its yearly May debut. America's first authentic Hofbrauhaus is in Newport, KY and you can go there and drink Maibock in the bier garden while scarfing Bavarian food with the Cincinnati skyline as backdrop.

DOES IT GET BETTER THAN THAT? Well, maybe.

The Wiedemanns didn't necessarily die for my sins but they did get in a lot of trouble

Last weekend, after fetching N from the garden and preparing to leave the Hess-Schumacher home, I asked where I could buy beer in the neighborhood.

Hal told me there was a corner store three blocks away and added: 'We had a murder there last week.'

I nodded evenly and thought: SWEET. Hal told me that it was the store's first murder. It's not like THE spot to go get murdered or anything.

I drove to the store, ignored the cop car in the parking lot, ignored the kids hollering at each other, ignored the ramble-eyed man standing in the middle of the store muttering and cussing to no one in particular, and perused the beer fridge. And then I saw it. The beer of my youth.


The soft, glowy image I have of Wiedemann has everything to do with my personal associations with the brand and nothing to do with the piss-thin barely-beer taste of the brew. Which I care for deeply.

One month after graduating from high school I moved into a house with seven strangers. We were interns who officially rehabbed abandoned buildings for a low-income housing co-op and who unofficially cracked jokes, drank beer, and made merry.

It was kind of like a Real World series except that we were in the ghetto. And no one was filming. And our building may not have been up to code. We didn't have a tricked-out pad like MTV's Real Worlders. The building we lived in on 14th Street had A LOT of character, though. A SHITPILE OF CHARACTER.

We had three floors, giant windows, old fireplaces, a toilet that flushed, and an indefinite quantity of roaches which persisted in darting in and out of our belongings no matter how many times we bombed the house and left for three hours to let them stagger around, drunk on poisonous fumes, until collapsing and dying.

We had a hatch to the roof which we lifted by standing on the stove whose oven door was kept shut by a log propped against it. We had parties on the roof and slept on the roof in sleeping bags and once in a tent. We had an eight-track player and the Easy Rider soundtrack on vinyl. And we had a plastic Wiedemann sign hanging on the kitchen wall.

I was the youngest member of the household that first summer and one of the others asked me when I moved in if I liked beer. 'No,' I answered honestly. 'Oh, well, you can't be an intern then,' he said, 'Interns have to like beer.'

And so I made the necessary adjustment. I wasn't about to lose an opportunity to learn more about the city's grievous housing policies while gaining valuable community-organizing experience. I would learn to like beer.

George Wiedemann (b. 1833) came to America from Germany as a young man and founded his brewery in Newport, Kentucky, across the river from Cincinnati. By 1889, the Wiedemann Co. was not only in business but was kicking ass and, possibly, taking names.

George had two sons, George Jr. and Charles, and a grandson, Carl, who all took turns running the business.

They guys had some legal issues since they weren't exactly DOWN with Prohibition and faced tens of thousands of dollars in fines and impending jail time. Charles actually died while awaiting trial (NOT a happy time), so it was up to Carl to continue the family tradition of getting people drunk, regardless of that silly 18th Amendment.

With the passage of the 21st Amendment (1933), the Wiedemann Brewing Company was reopened.

When I was slurping down my first Wiedemann, it was made in Evansville, Indiana. It is now owned by the Pittsburgh Brewing Company and shipped to Louisville, Cincinnati, and southern Indiana. And though no longer local, it is a homeland institution I still honor with grave respect.

(Not unlike the regard I hold for the annual yell-off between Kentuckians and Ohioans before the Riverfest fireworks on Labor Day. Broadcast on the radio by WEBN's Eddie Fingers, several hundred thousand people scream on command and try to put the other state to shame. Best case scenario: standing on a deck overlooking the river with Wiedemann in one hand, bratwurst in the other, screaming my brains out. And beating Kentucky)

Last weekend, I took the six-pack of Wiedemann I bought from the corner store to my cousins' barbeque. I immediately went down to the basement where the menfolk were watching the horse races on television and handed a can to my uncle Paul.

'Wiedemann!' he said, 'I haven't had a Wiedemann in 20 years.'

What's N up to these days?

Since leaping from the Detroit marquise into my arms,
N has been in Ohio:



Keeping the crows away from the vegetables.



















Hiding from me in the jungle, I mean, Hal's garden.





Going to barbeques and getting drunk on Wiedemann beer with my cousin Mary Beth.

Utah scares me but it sure is pretty

I've been to Utah half a dozen times but each visit was short and less than 24 hours long. Recently I was in Salt Lake City for 11 hours, between Benise's Sacramento and Denver shows.

I was walking down a Salt Lake City street feeling unnerved by the cleanliness that I find somewhat unnatural and creepy, when I saw this sign and started thinking more about the Beehive State.

I know that Utahns got this moniker because their settlers, the Mormons, fled the Midwest, followed Brigham Young into the desert in 1847, and worked like busy little bees, displaying all of the industry and cooperation and toil typical of pioneers.

I know that Joseph Smith (1805-1844) founded The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints - AKA Mormons - in 1830 and that he's considered a major prophet by Mormons, right up there with Abraham and Moses.

Joseph's family back in Palmyra, NY were Christians who respected all denominations. In his teens, however, many of them converted to Presbytarianism, and for whatever reason this troubled Joseph to find one true Christian religion.

Instead of rebelling like most teens by withdrawing, smoking, and getting into moonshine, Joseph had VISIONS: From God, Jesus Christ, and the formerly unknown Angel Moroni. Revealed to Joseph was the location of golden tablets which told new histories of early American tribes and the Bible.

Well, it caused a stir.

Joseph's followers eventually moved from New York to Ohio, Missouri, and Illinois. And everywhere they went they pissed people off because they said their brand-new faith was the only valid religion and that the Book of Mormon was THE work of God, right up there with the Testaments.

Community relations were not helped when Joseph introduced the concept of polygamy and encouraged Mormon men to take more than one wife. In fact, it led to his being killed at the hands of an angry mob.

My childhood intro to the religion were the Mormon girls who lived on my street. They weren't allowed to drink soda, which didn't faze me since my mom didn't buy soda either, though for reasons related more to my sugar intake than salvation.

What did make an impression, however, was the Mormon girl telling the Catholic girl who trotted up the street everyday to St. Mary's in her plaid skirt that she wasn't going to heaven. Tears were shed, parental reassurances were given, and I thought the whole thing could have been avoided if we all went to Montessori school and learned from the lesbian ex-nuns to think for ourselves.

I actually own a Book of Mormon.

In an unlikely but true scenario, I once pounced happily on a group of Mormon missionaries when I was 18. I didn't care that they wanted to convert me, I didn't care that we didn't agree on anything except that soda isn't good for you. I was in Chile, I didn't speak Spanish, and I hadn't expressed a complete thought in way too long. So when Elder-This and Elder-That knocked on the door, I was uniquely amenable to shooting the theological shit and I talked and talked and talked to show my Chilean hosts and remind myself that I could do more than smile, nod, and say thank you.

I didn't give Mormons or Utah another thought until a friend, Anonymous, took a cross-country road trip and stopped in Salt Lake to buy drugs.

Anonymous told me that the crackhouse he went to was lovely and immaculate. Anonymous said he would have joyfully eaten off the floor of the spotless crackhouse. I imagine it as the IKEA model of crackhouses.

Having been to Salt Lake since, I'm not a bit surprised by Anonymous's well-lit and sparkling drug experience. I have watched what I assume were city employees spot-clean the rims of garbage cans on downtown streets with spray bottles of disinfectant.

The city gives off a STRONG WHIFF of sanitary tidiness. But I think it smells funny.





My favorite are the orange flags: LOOK LEFT AND RIGHT WHEN CROSSING. FOR ADDED VISIBILITY CARRY ORANGE FLAG ACROSS WITH YOU.

It's fun to take pictures of each other tromping across the street, waving orange flags at cars. It's a good joke. Especially when you're half drunk on sake.

It reminds me of Seattle, where jaywalking is a big no-no. I was once followed into a coffeeshop by two cops who informed me that they saw me crossing the street without using the crosswalk. They didn't give me a ticket, just a warning, and a friendly reminder that what I'd done was illegal and dangerous.









I found this reprimand by the Seattle police just as I found Salt Lake City's orange flags: hilarious. And irritating.

I think orange flags and friendly reminders are patronizing. They offend my sense of personal responsibility. I think the penalty for being dumb when crossing a street should be getting hit.

And if I think about it too much, WHICH I AM WONT TO DO, I will eventually leap from thinking about personal responsibility and crossing streets to thinking about personal responsibility and fundamental Mormonism.

Is it THAT different to say, "It's not my fault I got run over by a car! No one gave me an orange flag to wave around!" than "It's not my fault I'm raping a fifteen year old who didn't want to marry me! I need at least three wives to gain entry to the kingdom of heaven and I'm just obeying the will of the Lord!"

Hm?

I know that plural marriages were outlawed by the church in 1890 and that the so-called fundamentalists of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints are not even considered true followers by more mainstream Mormons. The fact remains, however, that the fundamentalists are numerous - there's an estimated 6,000 to 11,000 thousand members in the U.S., and powerful - they rule the border cities of Colorado City, AZ and Hildale, UT.

This is nothing compared to the populace of the regular old LDS church which exceeded 12 million in early 2004. But in terms of how many women they have BRUTALIZED, it is significant. Because plural marriage is no free-wheeling hippie lovefest. PLURAL MARRIAGE IS NO RAINBOW GATHERING.

A lot of boys in Colorado City/Hildale aren't psyched about it, either. The creaky, old, rheumy-eyed men tend to kick them out of the community, especially if they're hanging out with a teenage girl THEY want to fuck.

I mean, the old man has had his eye on his friend's daughter since she was like TEN, and she's finally getting tits and getting old enough to start having ten or fifteen kids, and some young punk thinks he can GIVE HER A RIDE HOME FROM SCHOOL?

If I were that boy and tossed out into a world I knew nothing about and cut off from everything and everyone I'd ever know, I'd probably do meth, too.

Men who do stay and enter the upper echelon of the community are still afraid. If they lose favor with the leader, they'll lose their homes and their wives and children will be reassigned to other men. Women are afraid for the same reason. And they're all quaking in their boots over disobeying the leader for fear that they'll lose salvation.

I know I'm a public school heathen who no amount of baptism, confirmation, and weekly CCD classes can save, but seriously: CAN SALVATION BE THAT GOOD?

It looks like the government is finally getting on the case. I hear that the current FLDS leader, Warren Jeffs, is being indicted on two felony charges related to underage marriages and that on May 6, the FBI announced that it had placed Jeffs on its Ten Most Wanted Fugitives list.

It is also alleged that Jeffs had warned members that LAUGHTER CAUSES THE SPIRIT OF GOD TO LEAK FROM THEIR BODIES.

Now that pisses me off.