OTTER VISION QUEST

Streets of Fire- Generation X Disco, Part 3

2011-10-22T01:21:00.000-07:00

On my way to Brighton today to see one of my dearest friends tie the knot with her sweetie. Brighton reminds me so much of my beloved Santa Cruz. This song just seemed like a good sound track- it always brings back the excitement of going to the 'west side' of town - which was so much edgier, cooler and more trendy than east side where I grew up. Kind of like England seemed so much more awe inspiring before I Moved here!
Here's to you, my Alix! Congrats!
PS- this tune is from an '80s film I can not believe I have not seen! Eddie and the Cruisers! Anyone, anyone?

Glory Days- Generation X Disco, Part 2!

2011-10-21T00:33:00.000-07:00

I remember listening to the Bruce Springsteen album, 'Born in the USA' when it came out. I thought that the video for 'Dancing in the Dark' was a 'real' concert, with an excited fan being plucked from the crowd- not actress Courtney Cox. Oh, sweet naivete!

Now, living in a different country, and being about two decades older, the songs, videos and context of the album have a totally different meaning. I listen to "Glory Days" and feel like I have turned into that narrator, posing and contemplating moments long gone. I showed my students the 'Born in the USA' video in class the other week. I felt strangely patriotic, as well as horrified at the images that are put out as being what is American. Before, I only saw THE BOSS in his hobo chic of natty hanky around his neck, and lovely head band. Clarence Clemens, the fab sax player, has some hot clap along moves in the 'Dancing in the Dark' video- he was the definition of '80s cool. Now, 20 years on, he has passed away- just like the 'Glory Days.'

I know this album so well, it is hard to discern at this point what was a 'hit' and what is an album track, but a jam none the less. The amazing song 'I'm Going Down' has been on repeat in my ipod- the desperation, hope and longing. These themes never grow old.

Generation X Disco, Part 1

2011-10-19T07:46:00.001-07:00

I have been so bad about blogging lately. I have been teaching a lot, going all around England as my lecturing demands. That said, I want to start a regular feature here: The Generation X Disco. Gems that others may have forgotten, I believe are overlooked, or simply songs that I would love to blast and jam out to Molly Ringwald style somewhere other than my living room, preferably with a strobe light.

Today's Disco features The Hooters. The fact that this video has drive-in theaters in it almost brings me to tears. In high school, I would go with my friends, sneaking some kids in the trunk of the car, drink shoulder tapped generic beer, sit on lawn chairs and watch the movie. I most remember going to see Die Hard with a bunch of my Santa Cruz High friends in this matter. Oh, youth!

I present to you: Generation X Disco, Part 1! Check back often for other lost beauties.

It's what everyone thinks...

2011-09-13T02:53:00.000-07:00

Everyone thinks that the movies, music and overall pop culture they grew up with IS THE BEST. I am only making this broad, sweeping statement, based on a survey group of three- my two parents and myself. Growing up, My parents were always "WHAT IS THIS "rap crap" that you keep playing?" I remember playing MC Hammer, Rob Base and Red Head King Pin over the family stereo, to the dismay of the parental units.

My parents fed me a steady diet of classic and "AM" rock growing up. Still to this day, I hear "Brandy, You'Re A Fine Girl," and I have massive flashbacks to 41st Avenue in Santa Cruz, riding my bike to Kong's Market before hitting in the beach.

My mom especially was very into taking me to teen movies of the 1980s. I swear, it was THE GREATEST time for flicks. What other decade brought such a diverse selection of teen greats (Valley Girl, Pretty In Pick, flipping LESS THAN ZERO!?!?!) rad dance and street gems (Breakin') and, AND gore!?!?
Now that I am older, I find myself dissing and snorting at the "new stuff" that my students like. It seems so soulless compared to a good jam by Erasure (just revisited The Innocents album- BRILLIANT!!), a Kate Bush delight or English Beat.
Now I know how my dad felt, as he did is "shaking fists" dance around our living room to Jim Morrison.

"the portion sizes are SOOOO big"

2011-09-06T09:21:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, my brother in law Arno made his first trip to San Francisco from his native South Africa. After a 49 hour trip consisting of little sleep, diarrhea inducing airline food, and stop overs at every major continent on the globe, we decided that the best way to show him we were excited to have him in our lovely city was to stop in immediately at two American institutions: In N Out Burger and Krispy Kreme. Poor Arno did not get to go back to the apartment, sleep, shower and have a wholesome meal. There would be none of that. No. Important things first. Animal style, please.
At our first stop, In N Out, Christiaan and I each ordered our "normal" meal: A burger served "animal style," ala extra onions, a milkshake and a french fry - for each of us. Upon arrival of the food, we both immediately tucked in, cramming fries and meat down our throats. Arno just sat there, in utter shock, looking at the platter of grub in front of him. We asked him if he was ok. He just shook his head, dumbfounded. He looked at me, then slowly at Christiaan, eyes running up and down our bodies. He then rested his glance on the All American meal laid out before him, and proclaimed: "The portion size is so big here." This indigment seemed to be not just for the meal itself, but an accusing guilt of the already eaten "portions" that Christiaan and I were carrying around our asses and guts.
This did not stop us, NO. We immediately proceeded from IN N OUT to da Kreme, where we procurred a dozen "hot" glazed donuts and a dozen assorted specialty pastries. Again, Arno was baffled by the sheer container size. To Christiaan and I, it was just another day of eatin' in the good ole red white and blue.
I am often shocked that people here, in my new adopted home of London, are NOT huge. The portion sizes are much much smaller- an actual "dinner plate" instead of a scooner of Cheesecake Factory sized servings. But the main foods here are beer and spuds. Why are they not huge?
I can tell you now- the British do not have the taste for culinary invention via deep frying that runs in the ancient blood lines of us Yanks. Not only have we deep fried a twinkie, oreos and Kool- Aid, as I recently blogged about. No, we go longer, wider, THERE IS NO PARTING US FROM THE FAT FRYER!
Today three items crossed my desk, which I had to again commend the US of Yay for inventing: First, the deep fried BUTTER BALLS:

Because we DO NOT STOP UNTIL WE GET ENOUGH, the culinary wizards of some state fair or another went further, faster, BIGGER this year. Yes, I present to you THE DEEP FRIED BUTTER STICK!

Lastly, I have been fascinated since my arrival here in the Big Smoke that the flavor of "bubble gum" seems to be omnipresent. Again, though, the US WILL NOT COME IN SECOND! Hence, the DEEP FRIED BUBBLE GUM BALL:

Rules of the Pool

2011-09-02T07:01:00.000-07:00

Back in the day, I used to swim up to 10,000 yards A DAY. That is over six miles in the pool.
Today, I barely could dog paddle my way through a 1650. Part of me laments my stupidly spent 20s and 30s, living la vida beer and booze, not exercising to my potential and letting myself go on the free fall of adulthood.
But the "break" if you can call a 19 year hiatus from the pool only allows for me to really appreciate how fabulous the pool is. I am weightless. There is no "BING! BING!" of e-mails, no text messages, no deadlines glaring at me angrily - should should should. Only the lapping of the water next to my ears, the black line on the bottom of the pool my only focus.
It is amazing that I still flip turn without thinking, breath to the side automatically and still get annoyed with bad pool etiquette- old dude in front of me, I am touching your toes with every stroke. Let me pass you, for all that is good and holy!
The magic of being in chlorine, salt water or even a bath, if that is all that is available, still seems like a miracle cure all. Even though the Brits, in all of their quirky glory, seem to have built a majority of their pools to the peculiar length of 33 1/3 yards. Let me know when you see a 33 1/3 yd free style event.

How could that be.....

2011-08-31T08:30:00.000-07:00

I was walking the dog this morning through a park near our house. I had on my "house" uniform of hooded sweat shirt, flip flops and cut-offs. I will wear this outfit in allegiance to my Santa Cruz roots until it is snowing.

The grass was wet under my toes. I was immediately brought back to going to parks near my house growing up, and being caught by the sprinkler systems- or trying to get under the water's range on a hot day:

That immediately brought up the ULTIMATE in grade school treat- my mom buying me and my siblings a Fun Fountain. It was always "Fun" for about the first 5 minutes, then we would do our best to jump through the spray, knock the clown's hat off, before becoming bored, and begging our parents to just take us to the beach.

Maybe it is because I have lived in cities and towns near the beach for the last 16 years, but I do not see kids scooting about under sprinklers, clown or otherwise. Now in London, I do not think they even have such devices here- no one has a front yard as such, usually just a small patch of cement with some scraggly plants, if anything. I do hope that somewhere, some kid is getting their rocks off jumping about a lawn. It is shocking how long it has been since that kid was me, even though it seems so vivid in my mind. How does that happen?

U S Yay!

2011-08-31T00:20:00.000-07:00

This morning I was going through my google alerts related to my thesis. One jumped out at me, and I immediately clicked on it. The thesis related information was ok- announcing Jon Stewart and the living members of Nirvana getting together to celebrate 20 years of Nevermind (how is that possible!?!?). What caught me on the same page the ad for the "double triple oreo taste test." WHAT!?!?!

Yes, three cookies and two layers of filling- one the classic white (what flavor IS THAT!?!?!) one chocolate. BLESS YOU!
Then, my eyes laid upon another delight that I have missed, the new cupcake-esque trend sweeping my native land- DEEP FRIED KOOL AID!!

I feel so left behind!

I love that my homeland is so over the top. First, with the heart stopping Oreo- I mean, COME ON do we NEED all of that?
Then our love for deep frying- and that fact that many of the Kool Aid balls are touted as being vegan. Like I am going to be worried about animal products as I nosh down on a day glo ball of artificial colors and flavors.
Oh, America! Here's to you in all your gluttoness glory, your Luther Burgers (yes, a hamburger placed between a Krispy Creme donut) and all of your extra large, Man Vs. Food portion sizes.

Notting Hill Carnival: Community or Cultural Tourism?

2011-08-30T05:10:00.000-07:00

Since I have known my beau, he has been raving about Notting Hill Street Carnival. He described it as a huge street party, lots of reggae music and goat curry- basically, my idea of purgatory. I do not like reggae music- I know, its a sin being from Santa Cruz, California- more like I DO NOT LIKE white trustafarians who seem to populate reggae events.

So we made a deal- I would go with him to Knotting Hell (I have such an open mind!) if he would accompany me to Virgina Wolf's house AND the Jane Austen Home in Winchester (two outings which I am sure he finds equally stomach turning).
On the day of the event, I was overwhelmed with seeing actual, live, in your face sound systems.

However, what troubled me was the seeming cultural tourism of the crowd. Notting Hill is the same 'hood populated by Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts in the film with the same name. It is a mix of council flats and extremely expensive and manicured properties. This contrast raged throughout the carnival- white hipsters seemed to be trying on commodified blackness for the day, as they noshed on jerk chicken and uncomfortably grooved to dread-locked MCs. My boyfriend pointed out how many different people were attending the event, and what a great example of communities coming together under the mantel of music. I agree on this hypothesis- or at least its veneer. As I scratched a bit deeper, it seemed the black folk were doing most of the serving while the predominantly white revelers drank, drugged and took a walk on the exotic side of mechanized blackness. I wanted to take a cross section of the audience, and ask them what the yellow, black, green and red that they adorned themselves with meant - besides a watered down, commodified image. In light of the recent violence and riots in London, I wondered aloud how many of the carnival's visitors actually would think about the plight of those who lived in the area invaded for the weekend, those lacking the £250 designer jeans and carefully tatooed exterior. The piles of trash littering the street seemed an apt parallel to the group putting on the event- thrown to the side until they could again be of use to the greater populace.
Cameras clicked everywhere, as people attempted to document the partying. The most distriburbing amatuer paparazzi was an asian guy in zipping around the crowd on roller blades, openly snapping pics. This summed up the day for me- the voyeristic snap shot into "how the other side lives," to be taken home as a trinket of red, green, yellow and black.

Yeah for Dracula!

2011-08-24T08:22:00.000-07:00

This week's historical travel: Whitby!!

I never read Dracula as a kid. I was too busy catching up with Super Fudge and Fourth Grade Nothings, Ramona and Beezus, to give a hoot about "classic" books.

So as an adult, as in a YEAR ago, I picked up Dracula for the first time.

Now, I am NOT a book snob- I will sit in the library at the University I teach at and openly, PROUDLY read from the Twilight books. So I can admit here that when I purchased Dracula, I also picked up a copy of Shelley's Frankenstein. On three separate occasions, I poured a glass of wine, lay in the tub, and tried to become absorbed in Frankenstein. It just could not hold my attention. I put it back on the shelf, and picked up Dracula, fearing that this, too, would be a bitter disappointment (or maybe my attention span had really shrunk to miniature proportions).

Dracula ROCKED! It was a page turner! I could not put it down, and finished it in about a day. Since then, I have been OBSESSED with going to Whitby, the main location for the book.

I finally coerced my dear friends Pat and Trevor to fulfill my literary nerd fantasy this past week.

The Abbey, where Dracula first prays upon Lucy, looks EXACTLY as Stoker describes it. Towering, looming against the horizon.

The Graveyard- Can you not see "Thriller Part 2" being shot here!?!?

One of the best parts of the trip was going to the Dracula Museum. Yes, such a place exists! You pay your cash, then enter into a pitch black haunted house-like extravaganza. Imagine Chuckie Cheese animatronics gone goth! You could barely see where you were going. I was alone, and completley disoriented. About half way through, I seriously was scared, thinking THIS WAS A REALLY SHIT IDEA. At the very end, right before you exit Dracula's "tomb," an actor runs up behind you. I almost peed my pants. Totally worth the three quid admission, if for nothing else than the shock at the end.

Of course, a trip to Whitby would not be a trip without fish and chips. We went to Magpie's, a spot that fish expert Rick Stein has coined "the best fish and chips in the UK." There was a half an hour que in the take away line! By the time we got our meal, our little band of travelers could barely speak, we were so hungry. Honestly, Magpie's was ok, but NOT the best. I am still saying the Fish Shack in Southwold holds that honor. If you are going to pay £60 for a meal (yes, that was the cost for three fish and chip meals, NO BOOZE!!!), wait for a long ass time, etc., it had better be divine! I would personally pass on Magpie's and instead go to a take away, then stroll along the docks.

Overall verdict on Whitby: A bit "everyday like Sunday," as in a seaside town they forgot to shut down. Worth a day trip if you are a goth / literary nerd / NEED to be near a beach like me. I am happy that I did not force my beau James to come with me for a weekend- I do not think there would have more to do than an afternoon would allow for. Come if you are in the Yorkshire area, or just can not stop obsessing about vampire ground zero.

Next trip: James forces me to go to Nottinghill Carnival- in exchange for taking me to Winchester to see Jane Austen's house.

Kiss The Bottle

2011-07-26T05:40:00.000-07:00

My boyfriend walked into my office. "Did you hear about what happened in Norway? It is all over the radio."

We turned on the television to hear about the massacre. As horrific as it was, it sadly seemed strangely familiar: 9/11, Columbine. Dates and places created as our own rhetorical short-hand to encompass horror. Like so many other images, the often repeated phrases become just that: mediatized commodities.

Just 24 hours later, we sat on the same couch in the same room. The news was on again. This evening, Norway had been eclipsed by the death of Amy Winehouse for lead story. We sat and listened, horror struck. In some weird way, as the next morning's newspapers screamed out from the headlines, "AMY DEAD!" above all else, THIS "event" seemed MORE REAL, MORE DEVASTATING, MORE tangible than far away Norway. The media framed her passing as an equal tragedy, if not greater, than the events in Norway- Winehouse's sharing or pushing the hell of Norway from the cover.

Now there are tribute and after tribute, proclaiming that Winehouse was "the voice of a generation," a "role model" and a "trailblazer." Her albums are set to be on the top of the charts (again), in a parallel to Michael Jackson's post-mortem assent of rabid new "fans."

It may appear blasphemous to contradict these accolades with Winehouse's recent passings. But it seems eery that such a grand separation of person from music, human from commodity, has already occurred, less than a week after her death. I was a Amy Winehouse (music) fan. I remember the first time I heard Frank. It was after school one day in San Francisco. My dear friend Dom, who always knows about everything right before it breaks, the uber-"early adapter," told me that I had to come to his car, and hear this "new Jewish chick from Britain." He played me a couple songs from the album. I loved her voice and her style, but the record did not "stick" with me. I got out, and forgot all about Amy Winehouse.

A couple years later, I sat in the living room of my cousin's house in England. It was Christmas. We played cards and drank every night. My cousin had just picked up the Kaiser Chiefs Unemployment, and a record by a girl named Amy Winehouse. We listened to those two albums over and over again for the entirety of my trip- two weeks of "No, no, no." I went back to California with my own copy of the album, feeling almost as cool as Dom had been a couple years ago. Back to Black had not broken in the States yet, so I seemed cutting edge to have the songstress pumping for all who would hear.

In the following year, I was set to see Winehouse twice- once at a friends club in San Francisco and another time in Texas. She was already becoming a caricature of her own work by that time- at the first gig, falling over wasted, demanding shots of tequila. The second time, she was too much of a mess to appear, and cancelled the date. Amy Winehouse the fucked-up rock star had arrived.

The "rolling 24 hour cycle coverage" as my mentor John Hutnyk points out, transforms both the horror in Norway and Winehouse into an "event" to be witnessed. As he says,

" the acknowledgement of death here is not death as such, but 'death' in quotation marks, death as commodity, death as yet another experience you can go have. Even the deaths in Norway merge into this commodification via industrial news production... no compassion, only staged 'compassion' - behind which you know there are technicians, crew, director and sound man all just doing a job. Fascination, but more like the movie Crash than actually watching a crash."

After seeing all the coverage, I went down to Camden Square. The media had reported "hundreds of fans," "numerous vigils" and "countless tributes."

Upon arrival, I realized that there were "hundreds" of people- mostly media types, circling the Square like vultures: some had microphones, and chased down fans for yet another "interview," while others stood holding the equipment, poised for "action." A row of reporters lined the Square, frantically tapping away on laptops and phones:

People milled around- looking, watching, waiting. Waiting to be interviewed, waiting for their friends to arrive - I heard several people screech into cell phones, "I am at the Amy Winehouse thing. There are tons of news cameras- come down!' Watching other people "reacting" to the "scene-" because that is what it was. It was a little too manicured, a little to set up, a little too cliche. How many of these people were really Winehouse fans? And how many simply came to "watch" the spectacle, live entertainment?

It made me feel sad- sad for all of us for creating this hunger for macabre, which seems removed in so many ways from any actual feeling. It is easier, safer, to live through our consumption than experience, to grasp onto a cliche than question the meaning or the message behind it- and celebrate this cliche, no matter how false:

We should have ask ourselves, as we sit down for our evening dose of news, what are we watching?

Instead of asking in retrospect, "Who could have saved Amy?" and looking to point the proverbial finger, we should do some self-reflection on our own habits of consuming: booze, alcohol, and, most of all, the media.

So, Amy, this one goes out to you.

An ode to Rod

2011-07-09T07:56:00.000-07:00

I often joke that my parents 'farmed' me out to work as soon as I could hold a shovel in my hand for yard work. In all honesty, my first 'real' job that I had to attend with any regularity was as a babysitter for my mom's best friends two kids. It was during the summer between 7th and 8th grade. I had not kissed a boy yet, I worshipped Cyndi Lauper and I thought George Michael was straight. It was a great time.

My 'job' was about 3 miles away from my house, so I had to ride my bike through the dusty roads of East side Santa Cruz to get to the house where the kids lived. In those says, there were empty lots of land. There was not a sidewalk or curb, so I had to be somewhat vigilant while 'sharing' the road with cars. This meant blasting INXS "Kick" in my tape walkman at full volume as I pedaled towards the gig. We did not know about helmets, drunk drivers or correct "turn signals." I did know how to perfectly ride without any hands so I could adhere to my morning breakfast during that summer- eggrolls and diet coke, a combo I picked up from the only corner store en route - Kong's Market. The eggrolls were stored in a plastic tupperware container next to the cash register. That seemed perfectly safe and sanitary- why waste the time walking to and from a refrigerator?

The kids lived two blocks away from the beach. We would usually spend the morning at their house, playing whatever game they were into, then hit the waves around noon. I say 'hit the waves' - the kids were 8 and 7, and each had their own boogie board.

Around this time, the kids cousin came to stay with them. He looked exactly like tennis star Boris Becker, who had just made a splash at Wimbledon. He was about 15 years old, smoked pot, and seemed very sophisticated.

He brought a load of records with him. During his stay, we listened constantly to Rod Stewart's "Camouflage." I still hear "Infatuation" and think of the "cousin."

This summer marked the beginning of my life long obsessions: Kong's Market and their shady eggrolls- and my amoure for Rod Stewart.

Rod to me is THE personification of '80s chic- check him out in his video for the aforementioned "Infatuation." How many men actually will admit to being totally besotted with someone, to the point of stalking them? BLESS HIM!

It does not hurt that Rod has a swimming pool theme and a Boardwalk-esque Merry Go Round in the video.

Moving back to "Tonight I'm Yours," one of Rod's many valentines to one night stands- it takes a strong man to dress entirely in pink, including visor, and still look smoking. During my DJ career, I would blast this song, twenty years after it was first recorded, and eye the crowd for my own conquest du jour. Rod was my soundtrack and inspiration. The video, shot with a vaseline-d lens, perfectly captures that excitement of going on the hunt for the evenings booty. It also is three minutes illustrating the fantasy and fun that seems so lost in today's music economy.

You can harsh on me, and dismiss what I am saying- "Rod WAS important, ROD WAS HOT, now he is some old fart doing covers in Vegas."

But do we not all fear getting old(er) and being irrelevant? I listen to my students speak- and the loop between hip and forgotten, cool and passe- the time frame is smaller and less apologetic for being ageist than ever before. Students in their early 20s GREW UP listening to the bands I worked with- and were not born when the bands I like(d) were in existence. Many of them are mainly if not only interested in electronic music of various ilks. I bring this up because that is an entirely different world with a (mostly) anonymous, faceless producer of music. Music is created and consumed in this new music economy in a totally different manner.

I can rhapsodize about "how it was" while appreciating how it is. But will the students of today have a Rod to guide them? A touchstone for key moments, whether they be uncomfortable adolescence, more uncomfortable city dwelling 20s/30s or happier current life? Rod's newest incarnation is only a twist on what he has always been- a survivor, a fighter, a fucking stud. Show me his equivalent in the newest batch from Ibiza. As one of my students said with disgust as he looked through my music collection the other day, 'Rod Stewart always pops up." And to me, that is not a bad thing.

On the Plane to My Grandma's Funeral

2011-06-08T08:05:00.000-07:00

June 6, 2011

I write about graveyards. I crave the cemetery. Here, cell phones do not ring, the ping ping of new e-mails does not pull, pull, tug, tug at me. Here it is always the same, no matter where I am amongst the dead. Crumbled stones of the long forgotten, the once loved. Fresh flowers, some dead and composting, some weather beaten and faded plastic caricatures of nature. The swaying of the grass, the swish swish of the soft breeze through trees- for there are always trees- the life affirming bright twittering of an anonymous bird- this is life in this place where life is but a memory for a few- those who come to recall and remember, those who partake in the ritual- or those, like me, who need the stillness. For life is defined by motion and doing, as death is defined by this endless, breathless, dusty, forever and ever, nothing.

When I think of my grandma, that I will never see her again, that she will be among the nothing, it makes me breathless. When her husband, my grandfather died, it changed my life. I saw that death is always next to me. I realized I had to look at my fear and I realized that today is the time to DO. The day grandpa died, I was driving home. Sobbing, sobbing, swerving all over the road, along highway one. It is a two lane road with no shoulder. I finally pulled over, and just started screaming, alone in my car. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!!! NO! NO! NO!” I pounded the steering wheel over and over again. Why?

I went into free fall, I started drinking too much, doing too many drugs. It hurt too bad. I listened to Joy Division all the time. I remember one night being totally fucked up at a club, dancing right by the speakers, and “Novelty” came on. I just closed my eyes, and bawled. How could the best person who had taught me so much be gone, and gone forever?

And now my gran is gone too. I wish I could know for sure that she is ok. I understand now why religion exists. Because it hurts too bad to think that she is just no more, to think that this magical person, my confidante, someone who believed in me, who understood me better than pretty much anyone I have ever known (hell, she has known me my entire life!)- she will never be around to cheer me on, to read me one of her poems, to inspire me by regaling me with tales of her own high jinks. She gave me advice on everything from boys to school to travel. I remember so clearly coming home from trips to the beach as a little girl- grandma having a cup of coffee, me with my hot chocolate, a treat I never got at home. It was those moments growing up that made me feel special. She always made the person she was with feel that they were the center of the world- or at least she made me feel that way. I will always remember those times, looking through the junk drawer in her kitchen as she made dinner, digging for rubber bands (which seemed especially cool since they were at grandma’s house) or eating granola at her house out of the glass dispenser- it seemed so exotic.

Grandma always cheered me on, encouraging me to do sports, always coming to my swim meets, and being equally proud of my scholarly achievements. She made me believe I could do and be anything.

I write about graveyards. I do not want to think that will be the only way I can ever visit my grandma again. She was too wonderful, too inspiring, too much of a firecracker to be put in the ground and forgotten. She will live on- through my writing, through my stories, hopefully in every stroke of good things I do. If I can make a difference for one person, it will only be reflecting the lessons that Grandma taught me- to never give up hope, to keep pushing forward, and, in her own words, to always celebrate being “bodacious.” I will always love and cherish you, Grandma. I will strive to make you proud.

I want to go home...I don't want to stay

2011-01-29T06:01:00.000-08:00

I currently live by the train tracks. It is so perfect for me, me the girl who still feels like Molly Ringwald, er, Andie in Pretty in Pink. Pretty in Pink, the movie where John Hughes (RIP!) pummels the viewer over the head with a two ton sledge hammer in the establishing shot that Molly / Andie lives on the WRONG SIDE. She is NOT THE CHOSEN, as the train, the trash collector and the street sweeper inch by her house.
No wonder this is my favorite movie of all time.
I now am Andie, my abode situated by the tracks. I hear people going places, as I lie in my bed, wearing two to three hoodies, trying to conserve energy and student loan money by not turning on the heater.
Still in the wrong place.

I want to go home.

But where is home?

There is no home.

I listen to the music of my youth, old Oingo Boingo records, cracked tapes held together by shriveled pieces of scotch tape. In reality, those tapes are up in my best friend's attic. I actually listen to the re-mastered, re-mixed MP3s of the songs I enjoyed in my childhood, around bonfires, generic BEER, and virginal kisses. The cassettes would sound like shit, but I like thinking about them. De La Soul, Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me, the first Violent Femmes album. I have become my parents- 'what happened to the GOOD ARTISTS and REAL HEROES?'
My aspirations are as re-mastered and re-evaluated, edited and researched as the songs I discovered then. We could do and be anything.

I look out the window onto the grey street. This is not my place, I feel no attachment. Where is that place? Is it simply a memory, of hopes and dreams, aspirations and unrealized, ideas and possibilities? Are we just always grasping towards the unreachable?

Oh Santa Cruz, You seem so far away.

Thanksgiving and the Case of the Dutch Donut

2010-11-24T23:44:00.000-08:00

Everything you see completely depends on where you are standing in the world. DUH. I know this is SO OBVIOUS.

However.

Today is Thanksgiving at home.

What is home for me?

I do not have an address in the States that is really mine. The childhood house I grew up in is long sold and has new occupants.
When I go back to the States, I miss things here in England. When I am here in England, I just want to be looking up at the crystal blue skies of California, kicking back with my god daughter and best friends.

Home is just a place in my head that does not exist- I have come to the conclusion. It is a "Santa Cruz," the place that I grew up, that has been mythologized by me. A place of organic fruits and vegetables, recycling, good coffee, good waves, beaches, and wide sidewalks. It is inhabited by my friends from childhood. They are all grown up now with their own families, dispersed throughout the globe, dandelion fluffs taken sail and distributed. But in my Santa Cruz, we are always taunt, tan and ready.

So on a day like today, a freezing, cold, dark day here in London, I think of THAT place. Today is not a special day HERE.

At home, in MY Santa Cruz, all of the people I love are going to bed now, getting ready for Thanksgiving.

I wish I could be there with them.

Even though a couple years ago, I would have been wishing to be here, writing, reading and getting lectures ready for a hall of hundreds of students.

It is all about where you stand.

When I close my eyes, I can be in the wood paneled rooms- Leslie, my sister, her first house with her now-husband in Alameda. Eating one amazing course after another, especially the bacon laced appetizers.

When I close my eyes, I can be in the wood paneled rooms- of the lifeguard shack in Santa Cruz, where I had my first job.

Today, I am belly white, flabby, and cold. But I am still ready. Always ready.

I just got back from Amsterdam. I had to sample every bit of "cuisine" that was offered- most of it was deep fried- MY kind of place, HOLLA!

At one buzzing stand, there were piles of freshly baked pastries filled with creme. I immediately waddled over, and pointed- YES YES, give me one! OINK OINK!

I bit into the confection, expecting to have buttery lightness greet my mouth.

Instead, the layers were thick, dense and chewy.

They tasted good- it was just a consistency that I was not expecting.

I turned my eyes over my shoulder, wanting to give MAD SHADE to the creators of this thick disaster, to see a huge line clamouring for MORE MORE cement pastries!

I had another bite, and a chat with my long suffering partner.

I have been inculturated to LOVE "American" style pastry- the feathery consistency that melts upon entry into the gob.

ANYTHING ELSE, I see as a slap against all that is lard loving!

If is it not "American" style, IT MUST SUCK AND BE WRONG!

If it does not fit into my small little world, into the tiny little place that I can see, then it is BAD.

That Dutch donut really taught me a lot- or maybe it was the fact that we had just been to a "cafe" called COFFEE SHOP REEFER.

Happy T-DAY, People. Go spread some white man disease!

Last in the Line

2010-09-24T00:32:00.000-07:00

I always felt like a bad mother to my dolls. I did not have that many growing up. I remember asking for one doll, the horrific "Whoopsie," who was hard, not loveable at all. Santa brought it to me one Christmas. By December 26th, her sneezing sound was already annoying me, and I was back to playing with Legos, Lincoln Logs and pogo-sticking (clearly a pre-cursor to my future love of ska and punk).

Why would you bring this into your home?

The only time I really had any interaction with the dolls that had been given to me was on Christmas eve, when I would make sure they were all tucked in- to the bunk beds my grandfather had made me- located, perfectly for my maternal instincts, in the closet.

As I have gotten older, I have actually become madder, angrier and more frustrated with the social lattice that seems to be a mandatory way of life. GET MARRIED (or you will be talked about as "the selfish one). HAVE A FAMILY (in every traditional sense). I have new respect for my parents who gave me a wide variety of choices in determining who and what I wanted to be- I never even thought that there was a "glass" ceiling until I entered college, and I just assumed everyone thought Gloria Steinem was a goddess.

Which is why I literally feel my heart start to literally pump with rage on a daily basis. I can not find many (less than 10!!) books written about women in punk. Sure, there are the dozens of "Madonna" studies (bless) and the biographies of "women in rock (which are few, by the way, and still not cutting to the core- WHY ARE WE "missing?"). I did a search yesterday at my own University, the supposed "art" college in England- using the terms "Punk + Women" - and revealed a STARTLING ZERO in matches.

So many people I meet, my "peers" in academics, bow to Judith Butler, saying to me, "If someone CAN NOT understand Butler, they DO NOT DESERVE BUTLER." Yes, this was an actual sentiment in a PhD seminar last year.

What happened to the idea of women standing TOGETHER?!?!

In a world of make-over shows, re-hashed and re-cycled looks from past decades (Lady Gaga anyone?) and regurgitated fakeness (even coke is out!), I feel like Nina Power in her book, One Dimensional Women, "Where have all the interesting women gone? IF the contemporary portrayal of womankind were to be believed, contemporary female achievement would culminate in the ownership of expensive handbags, a vibrator, a job, a flat and a man- probably in that order."

Feminism has been twisted into WHATEVER the "user" wants to make of "it," whether it is, as Power reports, " the latest deals in lifestyle improvement, from the bedroom to the boardroom, from guilt-free fucking to the innocent hop-skip all the way to the shopping mall- I don’t diet so its ok! I’m not deluded! I can buy what I like!"

I feel like so many people around me have "bought" into this "new" strangled version of "feminism." In the re-cycling of the past, can NO ONE, or at least a FEW people, question, stand up, and see that we as women are in a crisis?

As a card carrying member of Generation X, I still believe in DEFINING who I am by my life decisions. I constantly have people say to me how much they admire me for doing something "different" (e.g., leaving a prestigious job for academics, moving to another country), and they "wished" they could do it. Here is the issue:

YOU CAN DO IT.

As Power says, "Whatever happened to those dreams of living differently?"

Why suddenly are MY people, those that turned their noses up and shat upon the unfulfilled utopian ether of the hippie idealism- why are we NO BETTER? Power continues, " …….the family turns ever inward upon itself (‘now we’ve finally managed to save up for a mortgage, how about we schedule a child around 2010?’)…”

What does this have to do with not being able to find any books about punk / new wave women in the library?

Music is my religion. Imagine going to a church without a bible

Amen.

DARE ME

2010-07-16T06:46:00.000-07:00

A couple weeks ago, I had two of my friends come over for a slumber party. When I lived in the States, people always threatened to have slumber parties, but overall, this sounded like a heinous idea to me, to be bluntly honest. I am a 38 year old woman, who has, unfortunately, tasted the life of 500 thread count sheets, freshly grinded coffee beaned brew and sausage made from piggy that were squalling 48 hours ago. I can’t go back to throwing down a mildewing sleeping bag on a carpet and braiding hair. Yes, I am an evil cow.
So my two girls came over. I have been feeling rather blue. I had the very rude awakening to the amount of debt that I was sinking into to be in the UK. More than a doctor, more than a lawyer, more than I will probably ever make in my life. I missed my family, I missed the freehanded pouring of gin at my favorite bars in the Mission District in the San Francisco, and I missed dancing to coked fueled DJed music South of Market. Why had I chased this silliness? Why couldn’t I just dull my senses to that itch in my mind, my deepest corners of my self, that there is SOMETHING ELSE TO DO but stay where I have been my whole life, BE LIKE EVERYONE ELSE AROUND ME? It seems like EVERYONE I KNOW wants to bust out, or talks about it…..but most people just keep on truckin’, without taking the leap of faith. This is why- the mounting zeroes of what I will owe…..
I realized, as we drank a THIRD bottle of pink tinted booze, that life is NOT about the green. We laughed about all the silly peccadilloes about being in a PhD program- and all of our triumphs and dumbness that had occurred over our first year. I lay on my rather unvacuumed carpet, and was so excited to have these ladies in my life. I could not imagine a life without them now. It was worth so much more, these experiences, than the safety of San Francisco.
I read in a crap women’s magazine this morning that only 20% of people are happy in their jobs. The rest, NO MATTER WHAT THEY ARE DOING, are planning an ESCAPE ROUTE. That is so hideous. That is NOT A WAY TO LIVE LIFE!
I walked to the train today. I am going to Liverpool to meet with some folks about the Institute of Popular Music, about a project documenting the concerts at the O2 Arena. Then off to Macclesfield to chat with the Towne Council about a Joy Division festival. THEN off to hang out with my fantastic boyfriend. Lastly, going to see my cousins for two days of swimming.
THIS IS MY LIFE.

I never dared to dream, to think, to IMAGINE that this was even an option, to have THIS LIFE.
I think back to two years ago, when my cousin (who I am going swimming with on Sunday and Monday) looked me straight in the eyes. We were sitting in a pub in Hitchin, where she lives. My cousin is only a year older than me, and about 6 inches shorter, but I completely look up to her, and hang on her very word. She is one of my best friends, and I love her to tiny bits.
I had been laid off for the third time in as many years. I was fat, lonely, frustrated and felt like nothing was ever going to work out.
I was wah wahing- about WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?
She just grabbed her cider, took a drag at her pint, and said, “Just move here If you hate it, you did it. Now figure out a way to make it happen, and stop talking about it.”
I love you, Becks.
Give me a mildewing sleeping bag any day.
I will never be the 20%.

PS- The Pointer Sisters RULE

Money Can't Buy It

2010-07-15T03:48:00.000-07:00

My boyfriend is a lover of the radio. I take this for growing up in a totally different culture than me- a culture that actually has good music on a regular basis coming out over the airwaves. My cousin (also English) is the same- she often has the dial turned up.

Since I do not have a tv, I often have the radio on now in my flat when I am writing, as a background noise, to keep me company. My honey has tuned the station to a talk show that changes hosts every couple hours.

One topic that is constantly brought up is education. WHO SHOULD PAY FOR IT? WHO DESERVES IT? WHAT TOPICS ARE STUDIED?

I do mean to use all caps. People get WORKED UP.

I have listened to several broadcasts where the DJ and callers BASHED the purpose of media and communications as a course. I completely think that if someone wants a CAREER in the media world, they should get an internship. However, the STUDY of this could not be MORE important in our world that is DOMINATED by media. How do you understand the culture you want to enter without a background?

Today, the topic was if there should be a tax on education, based upon how you much you earn post-degree. Many callers were phoning in, saying that it is irresponsible to take out big loans to study English literature and history- that schools should focus on accounting and computer science.
I can not imagine a more horrific idea of education. That would turn the university into a farm- a farm in the sense of veal-fattening, tiny corral without any knowledge exchange, growth opportunity or ability to grow or evolve as a human. University is about so much more than a pure dump of information from teacher to student. In a lot of ways, it takes massive balls to say FUCK YES, I am GOING TO BE AN ENGLISH MAJOR! The world is NOT CRYING OUT for MORE people that can recite Bronte! But if you are THAT passionate about it, THAT IS WHAT THE WOLRD NEEDS!
Nothing has charmed me MORE, been MORE inspiring to me than a well-rounded, EXCITED, interesting person. There are a million people out there who know IT. I have met fewer and fewer who are brave enough, and value this aspect of life- the area of art, literature (I am NOT TALKING ABOUT CRAP TWILIGHT SWILL!), what "socialism" actually is- let alone education. A veteran of several dot.com start-ups, and having worked and met many very nice people that know their way around the "world of the computer" far better than I ever can, what happens when they leave the coding, and have to interact with ideas that are not in the "0"s and "1"s? To move seamlessly between the universes of Steinem and Plath, to be able to know WHO ANDY WARHOL IS- am I asking too much? These are the icons that modern day living bases so much on, yet fewer and fewer people seem to register who these people are- it's all about the short sighted goal of dosh. I say short sighted because the 15-minutes of fame Warhol predicted we would all have has already come and gone, as Facebook and YouTube move from new to mundane; a majority of people I encounter, UNLESS THEY ARE ENGLISH MAJORS, DO NOT KNOW WHO STEINEM AND PLATH ARE, or their marks in history. At the end of the day, I almost feel as if people calling in to bash us that study "the useless things" really are just jealous that they have lost their own lust for life. If we never look back, if we never look at where we tread TODAY, if we only glamorize the green, what legacy will we leave?

How much is enough?

2010-07-05T00:58:00.000-07:00

I have a load of different google alerts tailored to my thesis on Joy Division- this way, I do not miss a single possible item on the band that may apply to fandom, tributes, etc.

This little bit came through today, from Yahoo! answers: "where can I buy these Joy Division stockings?"

WHAT!?!!?

I immediately went to the link...

Click below to see for yourself...

http://jezebel.com/5578255/love-will-tear-us-apart-again-stockings

Duck Meatballs

2010-06-30T01:28:00.000-07:00

I e-mailed one of my favorite professors, Dr. B., from my MA years the other day. She was my academic touch stone. I remember her regaling me with stories about how she had her moment of "YES!," that getting her PhD was the thing she wanted to do. She was not some 21 year old, Mom-and-Dad-are-paying-for-everything little girl. She was a grown ass woman, with kids, a good career already under her belt, a divorce, and plenty of life experience. She had the gumption to make the PhD work, no matter what she had to do. I seem to remember her saying she even sold lemonade at some random stand to make extra cheddar during her schooling process (but I could totally be making that up- "duck meatballing," as my best friend Leslie calls it, but that is another story).*

I had a key to her office when I was her teaching assistant. I had just suffered horrific break up with a VERY short lived relationship. The guy in question also was a lecturer and teaching assistant- and had a office two doors down from Dr. B's. I would lay on her couch, grading papers, sobbing about my love gone awry, and anticipate his foot falls on the ratty San Francisco State University hallways. I would hysterically wah-wah to Dr. B. about how I would NEVER find love. She always made me feel better. Again, perhaps I am duck meat-balling, but I recall her telling me that during her PhD years, she had to live at home with her parents. She would lay prone on the carpet of their house, bawling her eyes out about how crap the love life was (but again, this may be the meatball of duck).

These tales always made me feel so much better.

I saw how things had worked out for Dr. B. Through the crap jobs, the time spent on the rug, and other side bars of non-glamour, she had prevailed. She is now a tenured Professor at San Francisco State.

Dr. B. is incredibly stylish. She has amazing red highlighted hair, always has cool boots and clothes, and great taste in pretty much everything. (she is also a swimmer- BONUS!). She even got re-married to an established professor, the tre' chic Dr. Fred. Whenever I had doubts about where I was going, I would think about the stories Dr. B. had told me. She had "made it through." I knew I could, too. Sometimes you just have to jump.

So I put my head down BLINDERS on, and came to London.
Yes, I have had many times of wah-wahing, my own lemonade standing.
But amazing AMAZING things have happened. I have gone to conferences, met Joy Division fans from all over the world, and had time to work on a project that I never thought would ever see the light of day- and am getting attention for it- PEOPLE LIKE IT!

Best of all, I met an incredible man who I am deeply in love with.

HOWEVER.

I signed a shit load of student loans to get to Goldsmiths. As anyone who is not a trustafarian knows, school is STUPID expensive. If you are a foreign student, especially from the US, you get it every which way - the George W. Bush years have NOT been forgotten. My first year, yes, people, MY FIRST YEAR at Goldsmiths, with the exchange rate, cost a lovely- SIT DOWN, WAIT FOR IT- $59,000!!!!! I could not really look at that number or think about it until now- when I am being asked to sign my life away for a second year (I have three years in total).

Now, let us back up for a minute- I ALSO have a fun $36,000 in debt from my MA.

Yes, I am almost $100,000 in debt from EDUCATION!

I wish I could say I was alone- I am not.

I have talked to numerous of my friends who are in the SAME BOAT.
What do I do?
I have been sleepless for nights, weeks now, contemplating this.
I have SCOURED websites looking for scholarships.
Because I am over 25, AND AMERICAN, NADA.
Do I quit? I am getting some amazing traction on my work- it is what I want to do more than anything- but at what price?
WHAT IS THE PRICE OF FOLLOWING YOUR DREAM?
WHAT IS THE PRICE OF GOING HOME AND WONDERING WHAT IF!?!?!?
I can not go part-time- NO, NONE OF THAT FOR THE INTERNATIONAL STUDENT!
My boyfriend has been incredibly supportive, running through every scenario possible.
So I have been sleepless.
I just wish that number, that huge amount of money, was a duck meatball, instead of totally, 100% true.
Maybe I should just call it a day, and open my own lemonade stand.

*DUCK MEATBALL: My best friend / sister Leslie has coined the term "duck meatball," for when I do not completely remember a story, or, perhaps "spice up" a tale to make it more funny. The origins are from a visit of Leslie's amazing mother, Mrs. D. Mrs. D is a fantastic, elegant lady from the south / east coast, if you can imagine that combo of accent and mannerisms. We were talking about diets. Mrs. D. was like, "You should try the South Beach diet, Jen. They have these DELICIOUS DUCK MEATBALLS. They are very easy to make, Jen." She then showed me the recipe. Considering that "cooking" for me is putting a bag of microwave popcorn in for 3 minutes, the notion of making anything with the word "duck" in it was as foreign as being shipped off the Thailand without a translator, not to mention having to use an oven and deal with more than one ingredient at a time. Leslie claims that there was NO "duck meatball" incident, and that the recipe exists solely in my mind. SURE.

This Must Be The Place

2010-06-24T12:33:00.000-07:00

Do you ever feel a complete feeling of gnawing panic? It's not a wave. It's not that feeling like YOU WILL crap your pants any second if a toilet is not found within the next 10 seconds.
Not, this is the feeling that something is wrong. Like you left the stove on at home, or shit, like SHIT is building, and IT WILL BE BAD. But you are not QUITE sure.
It's just enough of an ominous crap feeling to make you feel anxious and unsettled and lame, and cast a dark shadow of gloom over what would be a relaxing, well paced day. The sun going behind a fucked up rain cloud. Sunny with a large chance of shit storm.
But nothing bad happens, life rolls on, so the anxiety builds.
Welcome, people. Welcome to my life.
Everything is going great.
I have a fabulous boyfriend. I have friends. I am living somewhere that I never dreamed I would have the opportunity to explore.
Yet I just have this negative pull, TUG! TUG! TUG! on my skirt every moment.
It makes me rush through all of my To Dos, trying to get to the next thing, squash as much as I can into every day.
I worry about money constantly- the HUGE amount of debt I am getting in to in order to be here.
What the fuck I will do when I leave here.
How much money I am spending / not spending at any given day. What a wet blanket.
I have been getting over run with e-mails from "interns of the past."
They are almost worse than boyfriends of the past. These interns are all at high paying, high flying jobs- the old me.
I called James in tears- where did I go wrong? Did I trim my wings? Did I make a wrong turn? I am eating rice for dinner with soy sauce, I am so poor at the moment. WELCOME TO GRAD SCHOOL!

I hate being negative.

Most days, I just want to be at Leslie's house, with her daughter, my god daughter, the Poparoo, hanging out BBQing. I do not miss San Francisco at all. I just miss the security of being around people that love me, that I love. I would give almost anything to hear the Poparoo say my name. I wonder what have I sacrificed- I know I made the right decision coming here. But what should happen next? I wish I knew.
I am not scared of staying. I am scared of making the wrong choice. I am scared of missing more of the Poparoo's life. I am scared of stupid, daily things that I miss so badly- like a wide range of pickles in the grocery store, daily calls with Leslie re-enacting Yentl into the phone with each other, having a swim team that I love in Alameda. These are small things- but sometimes, life adds up to a lot of small things. My love for my family is the biggest thing in my life, and I am missing the daily small things that life with them provides.

When I think of the nine months I have lived in England, it is comprised of many such small moments. And all of those add up to more than I could have ever thought I would accomplish.

I remember being on the phone to my friend Lin for hours trying to figure out if I should come to school here or not. Once I decided to do it, I just went for it, no looking back. I want to have that feeling of commitment again. The only thing I feel that sure about is the people I love. I wish I could love myself enough right now to have the answers.
I would kill to be at the Boardwalk eating a corndog or at Steamers contemplating this instead......

Anywhere, U.K.A.

2010-05-28T05:40:00.000-07:00

I took my boyfriend's dog for a two hour "cardio blast" this morning. No one says that here. It is funny, as I now have my skater boyfriend using the expression.

We walked along the water.

Water always reminds me of home.

I came back to his apartment.

I had an e-mail from my University, asking for me to take a survey about my experiences during my first year at Goldsmiths. By taking the survey, I would be entered into a drawing for a £1000 cash jackpot.

I filled out the survey.

Most of the questions had to do with my level of "satisfaction" with my "university" experience.

I took a shower, and thought about my answers to the survey, my "experiences" over the last months since I have been here as the water poured over my head- a proper English shower, one of zero water pressure and varying temperature.

I have had the best time of my life since I have been in England. Not because it has necessarily the "funnest" or I have done a million new things, like going to this or that fancy restaurant or club.

It has been the greatest FOR ME as I have been FORCED to grow, evolve and take charge of my life- without the safety net of my family here, or my past reputation. I am a NO ONE in England. There is nothing more humbling in the universe than to have all of your physical possessions stripped from you, your "place" in society ripped out from under you, and a large majority of the people who love you not accessible at the drop of a hat.

I had to stand by myself. I can not remember EVER doing this- maybe when I first left my undergraduate years.

I look at all the things I get to do on a daily basis, the friends I have met and the experiences I have had- are they because I live in England, or because I was just ready to change?

I e-mail often with someone who has been in idol of mine since I was 13 years old. E-MAIL. I could do that anywhere. But he is English, and I have met him in the flesh, something that I would not have gotten to do if I was still in California.

And my boyfriend? He has broken everything I thought my life would be- I had truly given up on ever finding a partner, outside of my stuffed llama that I have had since 6th grade.

But Goldsmiths, well GOLDSMITHS, outside of my supervisor, who is my rock, my inspiration- I am going deeply into debt for the 'services' they offer- a badly stocked library, zero financial support and (to my disgust!) NO POOL!

As I showered, I missed Logo's. Logo's is the most amazing used bookstore in the universe, and it happens to be in my hometown of Santa Cruz, California. I have yet to find any good used, independent bookstores here in the UK.

I missed the Perg, my favorite cafe in the Cruz. Give me wanna be intellectuals, greasy Interpol hair, fighting over the importance of Marx in the 21st Century as they smoke cigarettes in their $250 distressed denim!

But I also wanted to go back to the yuppie / alterna-ass filled cafs in the Mission District of SF- I just wanted to go somewhere to get Wi-Fi and coffee!

They only have Starbuck's near my mans house. And chain bookstores. And TONY FUCKING ROMA'S!
My boyfriend, who is English, used to go to TGIF's, as he thought it was "like an American bar." Oh, honey.

I could be anywhere in the USA. But I am not. I am paying a shit load for the non-existent services of Goldsmiths.

Anywhere, U.K.A.

Maybe home is where your head is.

Money Can't Buy It

2010-05-14T04:03:00.000-07:00

After eight months, I just took a slight exhale.

I printed out that last page of my first year of PhD work.

I have been working especially insanely hard the last three weeks- hard as in getting up at 6:30am and working on the project all day, taking "breaks" to pee. I really know how to treat myself, right?

I put the printer away.

I got up from my "nest," the couch / table / hard drive / Pringle crumbed area of my living room, and looked around.

"Ceremony" by New Order from the Marie Antoinette sound track was playing. I have purchased Substance at least 10 times, on cassette, vinyl and CD. This song still makes me feel like anything is possible.

I remember seeing the movie with Leslie in the theater. Going with Linny to see Bow Wow Wow with my friend Adrian on drums right after the film came out, dancing drunkenly around.

I just took a second. FUCK. I LIVE IN MOTHER FUCKING ENGLAND.

I have wanted to be HERE since I was at Live Oak elementary.

I am in my own apartment, totally decorated as if Andy Warhol, Manchester and a surf shop had a love child.

I have one of my idols on my panel for my first year review here, and I worship my supervisor.

I have an incredible boyfriend.

I want to just roll around in this feeling.

Haunted by You

2010-04-14T09:29:00.000-07:00

You heard it here- I am actually dating someone amazing. IT IS TRUE!
All of the times of me moaning, crying, smoking, drinking myself into oblivion, blasting the Smiths at top volume as "Put Your Name Here" loser of the week broke my heart, well, I finally hit boyfriend gold.

I remember ten years ago or so, I was casually dating someone. As part of the "this is not going to go anywhere" speech, he told me that love is like a line- we all have our turn at the front, our moment in the proverbial sun. We just have to wait, be patient and keep moving forward until it is our "turn." FUCK THAT. I am always the girl who hates cliches, then seems to live them. The "it's going to happen when you're least expecting it..." OR, try this one out, WHEN YOU MOVE OUT OF SAN FRANCISCO!

As anyone who has suffered through a lifetime (38 years! THIRTY EIGHT MO-FO YEARS, PEOPLE!) of:
1. broke ass musicians who's only ambition is to fuck my other cute friends
2. alcoholic, unemployed users who's only ambition is to get me to buy them booze
3. sexually confused, androgynous wanna be British yanks, who's only ambitious is to pretend they are in Long Pigs, have never left the continental USA and believe that by dying their hair black, shopping at Diesel and hoovering cocaine whenever offered they are as chic as Brett Anderson of Suede, circa 2000 (PS- he wasn't that cool then gents!!).
4. Stoners, who's only ambition is to be the real life Brad Pitt from True Romance

I am STRUGGLING to not be a FREAK SHOW (party of one! OtterVision!) now that I am dating a sane, sexy, EMPLOYED, smart,, motivated man who can cook, sew, knows a shit load about music and is amazing in bed.

I find all of my bad habits rearing their hideous ugly heads- I have had a lifetime of eating disorders, which have been totally under control since I have been in the UK. Suddenly, it is like a Robert Downey crack pipe beckoning me to fuck myself up. Like my life is going great, so jump back on the bad shit. SABOTAGE YOURSELF!

Today, after having a morning of "backslide," in bulimia speak, I was feeling low. I always knew that my problems and ailments would not "leave" just because I Physically moved. But I thought I had "this" under control.

I literally lay on my dusty floor, feeling like such a fucking loser. How could my honey even love me now, if he saw me like this? It is almost like I want him to see the ugliest part of me, DO YOU LOVE ME NOOOWWWW??!?!

I found a scrap of paper with some scribbling I had done on the train weeks back. My honey gave me a small notebook to fit in my purse with a handy pen, so I could write whenever it struck me, and I could have everything altogether. This must have been from before we were together. The paper reads:

"Today I am remembering. Is that not the rupture- are we not always in a sea of rupture, a large murky jello, a constant "bout" of rupture, trying to make our way through the present, reaching forward, grappling for the past, the blue sky, the clouds, edged with purple. I wanted to step back to...6 years ago. How could it be that long ago? later, after work We went back to my office. I pushed you down in the chair. I wanted to get caught. We would have changed the world. I just had given up. Long lights walking down needle strew sidewalks...."

Sometimes looking back is the only way to move on.

Got Boobs and Hips? Sucks to be YOU!

2010-04-10T01:23:00.001-07:00

I can never remember a time when I was coolio with my height or my weight. As a kid, I was always the tallest- sometimes even towering over the boys. In class pictures, I stood in the back row, posing like the tomboy I was (am?):
(guess which one I am? Who else was sassy enough to INSIST on ONLY wearing ALL PURPLE every day of the week!!!). The other chicks in the back row where two years older than moi, as I was in a kindergarten through second grade class- yes, even as a mini-me, I was a up-start- with bad posture.

As I got older, the weight started being an issue, too. It wasn't that I was fat, or a "pleasantly plump" kid- it's just that I wanted to be skin and bones, like my sister. People would stop her on the street, and ask if she was an albino Ethiopian, as she was so emaciated, you could almost see the food moving through her pale body. I had no real idea of clothing sizes, as my mother was a master seamstress, and made all of our garments from scratch at home (oh, blasted childhood! I would KILL! KILL! KILL!!! for such luxury now!!!).

I went on my first diet in 7th grade, beginning my lifetime voyage into HATING my body. Since then, I have successfully yo-yoed up and down the scale, the familiar tale of woe, living on an apple (only) a day at a size eight and boozing it up, binging on numerous $7 candy bars from five star hotels around the United States, as I sobbed over my crap love life, teetering on size 20 jeans. I feel your pain, Oprah.

About a year and a half ago, I said FUCK YOU to dieting. My god daughter, "Poparoo," had just been born. I thought about all the times I had said I hated my body, had literally been SUICIDAL because I had eaten this or that. I have destroyed my body in so many ways, all over what? I made the decision to truly set a good example for Poparoo. If I wanted to eat an entire bag of Doritos, so be it. If I wanted to walk half way across San Francisco, I would do it- and try NOT to obsess over the calories burned. The weird thing is, I have dropped three sizes since I started doing this. Yes, I still grub down hard- I have been at my cousins here in Hitchin this past week, and have certainly astounded myself at the sheer buckets of chow I can put away when writing- but SO WHAT. I want to be healthy, not obsessed. I want Poparoo and other girls I come into contact with to see food as fun, exercise as fun and their bodies as beautiful, no matter what size.

I started swimming again, every day. Not for losing weight reasons, but because I LOVED the water. It was one of the best things I have ever done. I also coached a swim team of age group swimmers, which had a lot of little girls, ranging from six to eighteen years old. It let me be a living example of what I was trying to become- I was able to be in a swim suit, NOT be skinny, and show them my self confidence.

However, one of my huge problems in finding clothes are my boobs. Ladies with the girls, can you feel me? I can not find a button up shirt to save my life. If I get a medium, or even a large most of the time, the front gapes open with every little step I take (any time I can drop some Bobby Brown watch out!, I will....). Extra Large? I am gang bangin', as the tent like sides fall straight from my chest, making me appear as if I am going to cap someone (bandanna not included).

My other woe is my broad shoulders / back from the swimming. While this fitness has kept the poundage at bay, and, until I am naked, creates, at least in my clouded imagination, the appearance of some athetlic prowess, when finding clothes, I am often left with zippers that won't close. Hence, I must go up, up, up in size- to- see above- VATO LAND!

This had made the eye of a good tailor my dear friend.

In the US, the "average" size is supposedly a size 14. This means that me, at a size 12, can go into pretty much any store, go to a rack, and get whatever I want. As most stores stock up to a 16, I can go up and down, to accommodate my various "issues."

I was BITCH SLAPPED two days ago here in the UK.

I was actually at a charity shop, buying items for my new Mary Tyler Moore-style apartment.

I saw the CUTEST skirt- size 16. I was like, DUDE THIS WILL BE HUGE ON ME. In my mind, I am a TINY size 12!

I slink into the dressing room, garment in hand.

THE SKIRT IS SO FORM FITTING, the CIRCULATION IS ALMOST CUT OFF!

I panic, and call my friend Crispy.

She informs me that IF you are OVER a size 12 in the UK, you have to shop at the matron stores. OMG. Suddenly, I have transformed into a 50 year old woman with two kids away at college, a mortgage and a cat. WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

Where will I shop?

Help!

For a moment, I was disgusted and horrified with myself- had I suddenly transformed into a massive Jaba?

Would I be cutting holes in sheets to stick my arms and head through, trying to find a slinky belt to sass-a-fy the look?

I was reminded by my boyfriend that "american" sizing was a totally different ball game (no wonder I had been losing weight since I had been here!), and to not worry.

I went in to my girlfriends vintage shop, and suddenly re-gained my stride. I found some beautiful pieces, and was reminded that it is not the label on the garment, it is how it makes you feel. I love my boobs, my rolls and every scar on my body. Every one tells a story that is only about me. I don't mind my size, as long as I am healthy. I am amazed at all the things I can do, including eat two entire bags of Doritos in less than 48 hours. CHAMPION!

Burn It All Down

2010-03-29T09:59:00.000-07:00

For N.C.

I have been thinking a lot the last 24 hours about the time I lived in Berkeley. The people I met there. There were intense relationships, the kind you have when you are learning about the world, first have the ability to legally get into bars and buy cigarettes, when you are not hung over after a long night of drinking, and the world still seems like it can be taken by storm- by you.

I had a gentleman friend named Gore. He was half Brazilian, half Californian. He played water polo for Cal, and was a lifeguard with me at the pool in Berkeley one summer. Gore's parents were happy that he was studying to be an engineer. He was completely gorgeous: tan, sparkling blue eyes, and thick brown hair, with an obsession of talking philosophy and politics. I was smitten.

The first night we hung out, he made me dinner while dressed in a wife beater, playing Chet Baker on an old inherited record player in a time of CDs. We smoked cloves after we ate, and drank cheap Chianti, the kind that comes in the bottle with the straw bottom.

Gore took me to North Beach for the first time, before the Dot.Com invasion, when there were still Italian Americans, hints of Kerouac and Ginsberg still hanging in the air. We had espressos, bought used books, listened to jazz at an open air cafe. I wanted desperately to be a writer, to be a rebel. I wanted to be the aborted love child of Gloria Steinem and Hunter S. Thompson. I didn't know this- but Gore did. He saw through by obsession with all things Morrissey, my pretention for wearing doc martens ONLY, and quoting Riot GRRLL lyrics at every possibility. He was my friend, first and foremost. It was very hard for me to believe that some one so cool, so good looking and so smart would like ME.

One night, at 3am, Gore appeared at my rented room, unannounced. This was before cell phones or internet, and pay phones were few. He was shivering and damp. He told me that he had taken an half a bottle of sleeping pills, gone on to the school campus, and passed out on a bench. He had somehow awakened, and made his way to me.

He stayed with me all night, then insisted on going back to his apartment the next morning, before I was fully conscious to the new day.

It was the last time I saw or talked to him.

Today, I was running through Nunhead. The rain was covering me with a fine layer of moisture, reminding me of the time that Leslie and I decided to get spray tanned. This, time, though, I did not have my Dotsonian security blanket.

I was completely alone. I found myself singing out loud, and dancing down the paths. I truly felt my arms and legs. I ran as fast as I could go, I wanted to FEEL. And I thought of Gore.

I watched the water drip from the plants, remembering him shivering in my young arms. The moss clinging to the green monuments not different from the bench he fell asleep on.

I want to build my monument in the hearts, the minds, to bear and evolve- not to mold and muster and decay. I never want to anyone to long for that which was not.

I love the blind statues reaching towards the skies- is that not what we are all always doing, at least in our most spontatnous and inspired moments?

Gore, I hope that you are still out there, my dearest, running at full speed, seeing the beauty in all that could be and is. Days like today make me realize it is the people like you that helped me understand it is sometimes the small things, the little gestures, that can make the world so amazing and gorgeous. Thank you.

17 Days

2010-03-29T05:11:00.000-07:00

I had been on this really fun date. I have been on a dating marathon since I have been in London. I never thought I would say this, and Stacy, if you are reading this, I am sorry, yes, I am saying this, I am sick of boys. I am tired of saying, "Yeah, um, I have a younger brother and sister, but my REAL family, well, they are Les, Linny, Chris and Gary...yeah, I worked in the MOOOO-SICK- Business. Yes, I have met Rico Suave..." Oh, SIGH. It is so boring, I just want to throw up on myself listening to my droning voice.

I started just being outrageous, just for my own entertainment. Telling these guys that I knew I had nothing in common with upon site about "man" -zilians, dildos and my love for pickles. Why not? I had to keep myself amused.

And there must be a training school for awkward kissing in London. Like they send these poor boys to the Hugh Grant bumbling cute English gentleman school.

So I finally have a great date. He is everything I see myself with- shaggy Jarvis hair, hates religion- we spent a good 15 minutes bashing Mother Teresa- long, lanky limbs, Ian Curtis-style trench coat. Sexy, sexy, sexy. We are drinking gin and tonics. Yes. At last.

I get on a bus, it is dark, I am buzzed, from the booze and from a great night out with a hot guy, at last! No pubic hair stories brought up, though we did talk about cum as as substitute for glue.

I get off the bus at the wrong stop.

It is drizzling. Gray, grim, cold rain, and I dont have a hood- cuteness always comes first.

It is St. Patrick's day. Fucked up revelers are stumbling home.

A tall black guy is walking towards me. I ask him, "Where is Vesta St?"

He asks me if I am by myself, revealing three gold teeth. It reminds me of my sweet baby friend Anyi, who I always told to take OUT the grill, it made him look trashy. Yes, and I am lost, I tell him. You shouldn't be walking around here by yourself at night, he tells me.

Where do you live? he asks

On Barriedale.

I will walk you home.

He tells me his name is Alex, but his "street" name is Crow. I will call you Alexander, I tell him.
He works as a volunteer at a youth camp for kids with disabilities. We talk about swimming and running.
He walks me all the way to my house, making sure I get to the door safely.
I give him a hug, and he slinks back into the night.
Bye, Alexander.

I grew up around almost entirely white people. Sometimes I find I go out of my way to confront my socialized fear of "other" people, a terror that I don't want to have. I probably put myself in dangerous positions because of this. I always think of my friend Beau that I worked with at the Gap in Berkeley. I would argue with him, IT DOESNT MATTER WHAT COLOR YOU ARE! How naive I was. Jenny, watch how people look at us when we walk down the street together. See how YOU act when you are by yourself, and a black guy walks towards you.
I scoffed at him.
But then I looked. I noticed my own actions and reactions. Where did these come from? Where did I "learn" to be "scared?"
I was white, and could hide any intentions of "badness" behind my blond hair and pale skin. Beau would get pulled over all the time for being. When I stared this in the face, I was so angry. And there was NOTHING I could do to change it.

Beau and I sat on the roof of my house in Berkeley one night, smoking pot and looking out over the low hanging fog bank to San Francisco. He had on a polo shirt and well-tailored jeans. I had on a polyester dress and a garter belt. I wanted to be different so badly, achingly rebellious. How trite.

So here I am, sitting in my room in London, living on Top Ramen. I gave up fighting for a long time, wallowing in a mire of booze and sarcasm to mask how disappointed I was with humanity. After that summer with Beau, I just numbed myself to the injustices of the world. Since I moved here, though, something is changing in me. I really want to make a difference, one person, one action at a time. With or without polyester.

Oh, and that date? Well, that is another story for another time.....

Baby You Drove My Car

2010-03-10T07:43:00.000-08:00

March 20, 2010

Dear Corey Haim:

Today, as I sit here at a desk in the PhD office at Goldsmiths in London, I hear about your death. I almost started crying. I don't actually shed a tear- not because I do not know you, and I think celebrity is lame over all- but because I am so drugged up on my own anti-depressants- to repress my own feelings- crying is rare for me.

I understand that we all hide. Societal pressures us that things like fame, money and celebrity are "good." But when "everyone remembers your name," it can be a very lonely place indeed. The desire to shelter from the storm- the rain of thoughts inside your own head, the tormenting ideas of what could, should or would have been- how can you hold those at bay, shut them out?

I have found myself in that Valley Girl (the movie) state, of staggering, fucked up, many times: home, out of a room after doing 'something' stupid. Always to hurt myself- but the goal is always the same- to shut out that storm. Then it rages back triple time.

Corey, I remember seeing you in The Lost Boys. It was the best movie ever. My beloved home town on the big screen. One of my all time favorite scenes is you in the tub with your dog- "My Brother Is A Vampire!" How many times did you want to go back to being that kid? I think we all want to go back. Sometimes, I want to return there, too.

Then of course, the underrated Dream A Little Dream. I was probably stoned, too, when I saw it, as I thought your acting as the silly side kick was brilliant. Three cheers for acid wash!

But your tour de force (well, let's be real- LOST BOYS is like the best movie EVER!!) Was LICENSE TO DRIVE. You want to get your license so you can get a date with Heather Graham. Who wouldn't want that? She is a total fox, I agree.

In childhood, I always had a thing for Feldman, I admit. You were always too pretty, too perfect.

But in adulthood, it was you who I championed. Corey Feldman wanted to bust out of his "teen" persona. I never got why he was not like YES I AM A FROG BROTHER!! (LOST BOYS) and just rock it forever. You, though- you had that storm. It ruled your life. You let it drown you.

As kids, we all wanted to date you, know you, be you. We were you- not that cool, kinda an outsider (I mean, who admits to having soap bubble hair as a teen?). As an adult, you were our worse nightmare of what could go wrong.

Corey, I had your back. I am your fan. I have always been, and I will always be.

Here's to you, my dearest Corey. I am so sad that your life was hard. Ever time I feel my own storm rising, I will try to remember you, stake raised, howling, "DIE BLOOD SUCKER!" and realize that I can not let my own fear destroy me.

Love and rest in peace, sweet baby.

Jump, MONKEY!

2010-03-07T04:27:00.000-08:00

I have spent the morning doing menial crap to keep me afloat in my PhD program. Attempting to get ahold of a random store in White Chapel that has cheap DVD tapes for my research project, only to be greeted with the GRATING endless ringing of the phone- they actually take days off in retail here in England! HOW DARE THEY! And in the vain grasp at straws to get myself even further in debt, oh, how I LOVE the black hole of doom of the money pit, the quicksand of ether, I tried to fill out my FAFSA this morning, only to have repeated "ERROR" messages flash at me. I am TRYING to get massively screwed here, people. PLEASE HELP ME!

On that note, I love how since I have moved an ocean away, the boys of the US of Yay just can not get enough of this good thing. I get e-mails constantly from randoms of the past..."how could I have let you get away?" "What went wrong between us?" "Why, Jen, why? You inspire me so...." My dating life was clearly foreshadowed by Pat Benatar, in her mega-true "Battlefield" shake down. Hmm...what went wrong? Where can I begin?

1. You: leaving my birthday party with another girl, after puking on me and my new bday frock, and calling one of my best friends a "China man"
2. You: wearing sweat pants (elastic bottoms at ankles) with clogs on our date
3. You: acting shocked on our fourth date that I was tall and blond, and framing this like it was a bad thing
4. You: saying that we cant move in together because I remind you of someone from Junior High school who pooped in their pants during a class outing to a museum.

Gents: Do not call me on Skype, then IM other friends and talk on your cell phone at the same time. THREE THUMBS DOWN.

I was talking to my dear friend Stephen the other day. We were talking about roommates, but the same holds true for many things. My tolerance for stupidity, ignorance and plain bad manners has come to an all time low. It is like we (me, roommates, boys, my fellow pedastrians, who, while we are walking on the tube platforms, SUDDENLY stop in the flow of traffic, to examine the roof of the building) need to be aware of others. I just wish I had a huge "EJECT" button, like in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, to say adios to these rank bad eggs. REJECTION! I love the image of all these freaks just being blasted from this galactic ship, power boosted, strapped in, flying literally by the seat of their pants, in a void filled with other foul, clueless globs.

I am now off to go for a walk and then to the library. In the words of early Billy Joel, Get it right the first time- that's the main thing.

I will see you on the other side- I may talk with food in my mouth, but at least I will apologize for it.

You really are such a boar.....

2010-02-07T04:53:00.000-08:00

Yes, I mean the animal.

As a somewhat single girl, I am so so so tired, so EXHAUSTED, of the endless endless articles, telling me to settle, that my entire existence is BASED UPON HAVING A BOYFRIEND. I have dated soooo many dudes, and let me tell y'all, I am usually happiest when I am on my own, doing my own thing- a dude is the lovely cherry on the Jen sundae, not the fucking cake base, if you get my drift. If a dude is what makes you, you are in for some sure-fire problems that NO MAN can fix.
YET, the message being pumped at us 24/7 is you are a HUGE FUCK UP if you are not hooked up with a penis AT ALL TIMES!

I just now was on-line looking, about to do work on research for my thesis. And what assaults my eyes? "Dating Advice: 7 Mistakes Single Women Make." What is basically a publicity pitch for the hideously titled book Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough, the author, who should be lynched, in my humble mind, states that we (the collective women kind), think that we "are entitled," and that we have "unlimited options." WHO IS THIS CUNT, AND WHERE CAN I GO BEAT SOME SENSE INTO HER!?!?!? She must be a mormon.....

DID THE FEMINIST MOVEMENT NOT HAPPEN!?!?!?
She derides us ladies with taste for "being judgemental." GOD FORBID WE HAVE AN OPINION!!

I will fucking explode, implode and SMACK A BITCH UP if I have to hear again how my entire purpose on this fucking earth is to have a fucking boyfriend, get married and have kids.

WORD TO EVERYONE OUT THERE: THERE ARE A LOT OF PEOPLE TO DATE.

THERE ARE SO MANY PEOPLE TO MEET.

THERE ARE COUNTLESS EXPERIENCES TO HAVE.

I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE KIDS.

I DO NOT WANT TO GET MARRIED [AGAIN].

YES I MEAN TO USE CAPS.

Even this morning, after a gentleman friend left, I was confronted with someone saying, "He seems WAY TOO YOUNG FOR YOU."
I hate to be cliche, but do people say such things again and again when dudes date chicks who are several years younger?

What?

To everyone: or, should I SAY: you whore bitch who is on the front page of yahoo, the person who affronted me with a very un-Aaliyah like comment, and everyone who immediately judges mine, their, and everyone else's worth on if and who they are married / paired up with- WAKE UP. Get out of your Little House on the Prairie, patriarchal ways. THINK about what you are saying and doing.

GLORIA I AM STILL WITH YOU, FOREVER.

I ain't no sheep.

"

Heart of Glass playlist by Otter Vision

2010-02-06T11:01:00.000-08:00

Heart of Glass playlist by Otter Vision

Tyra says.....

2010-01-26T06:27:00.000-08:00

I have had insomnia now for several weeks.

I wake up at 3am and eyes are wide wide open.

I stare out the window at the tree in our neighbors backyard. Please give me the answers.

I am not usually pondering anything except HOW will I get to my goals. And where will I get the strength. And what will come next. And what if I am not appreciating THIS moment to the utmost.

SO I end up being sleep deprived, crappy at everything I do, and stressed.

Today I basically took the advice I heard on America's Next Top Model, from my my favorite tranny, Tyra Banks.

I just fucking lost it and cried it out.
And cried and cried and cried.
All the what, where and hows of the possibilites are not going to get me anywhere.

I put on my Santa Cruz hoodie. Let me find the strength in my 831 love.

Just because it is not spoonfed to you.....

2010-01-23T07:54:00.000-08:00

People will ask you, as a generic question, "Who is your favorite actor?"

I have stayed true for the past decade plus.

It is without doubt: Joaquin Phoenix.

Ok, now I would be LYING if I did not say that he had a slight advantage on my heart because his brother was My BELOVED River Phoenix. I STILL believe that River Phoenix was the best actor of Generation X. He would have blown Johnny Depp and Matt Dillion out of the water. He was not brat pack, he was not "trying" to be edgy by getting tattooed with some lamer flavor of the month goth wanna be actress's name on his arm (see Depp's "Winonna forever" ink."

He was just naturally a fucking strange bird who did his own thing. He was a vegetarian before it was "hip" in Hollywood circles. He played gay before Jake and Heath.

He ruled, basically. Plus he was in movies like JIMMY REARDON, which pretty much explains why I always date scamps. I LOVE YOU RIVER!!

When River died, it left this huge abyss of shit actors. Sure, there are the moments of brilliance (the aforemetioned loves of Jake and Heath, etc). But no ONE person has the flavor of River. Who else would appear on Donahue talking about Global Warming????

Then Joaquin, formerly "Leaf," started coming on.

Though he doesn't often rally around causes like Riv, good ole Joaq still holds the key to my heart.

He made me sob in that trashy movie Return to Paradise, where he was hung for accidently being at the wrong place at the wrong time with Anne Heche and Vince Vaughn.

I quote him 24/7 from both his role in Hotel Rwanda as an American reporter and from Signs, where he made me laugh my ass off about alien invasion.

I love him because he isnt all beef caked out. He sometimes is a chubber. He is just FUCKING JOAQUIN PHOENIX. And I love him for that. You just want to hang out, shoot the shit, and play records with him.

So when Joaquin was on Letterman last year, I went ape shit. I FUCKING LOVED IT. Had he lost his mind? Was it great acting? What ever it was, it was different, quirky.....and AWESOME. It made the viewer think. Letterman pitched the generic questions to Phoenix, and he............didn't play ball. I......LOVE........YOU.......JOAQUIN!!!

Because of this, the media and public went crazy. It is an INSANE thought that one doesnt "play by the rules."

Today, I see the media now praising and excited by Joaquin's "return." A Horrific public service announcement, featuring some shit band member that I have never heard of, Miley Cyrus and......Joaquin.

What is more uncomfortable?

Whoever the Executive director for this NPO is: Bad script, bad timing, just bad bad bad.

To Joaquin: You rule, and are amazing no matter what. Hey, when will you be in London next?

Between Something and Nothing

2010-01-08T22:12:00.000-08:00

I am currently in that hideous limbo dance of jet lag. My best friend Gary claims to 'never, ever' get jet lag. LIAR! There is no way.

I am horrendously afflicted. I can not sleep on planes. The last two times I even snoozed, I was rudely awoken after about 3 minutes of sleep to my own rattling snores and drool dribbling down my front. I wouldn't give a hoot, except that the only time I am ever freaked out to fly seems to be when I am awakened from this glamourous state. I have that moment of 'where the fuck am I?' and, and that moment, I am completely terrified. So I don't sleep on planes. I get to my destination, then spend the next three or so days feeling stuck between night and day, like some strange vampire that desperately wants to see the sun, looking haggard and drained, zombified during the waking hours, bright eyed and ready to rock during the 3am hour (but not awake enough to do anything like answer e-mails, read for school- only conscious enough to do important things like catch up in cycle 13 of America's Next Top Model).

So here I am, about to embark on a fourth episode of ANTM. I am totally horrified- this season is ONLY for short midgets, those under 5'7". WHY is EVERYTHING taken from the tall? It is already so hard to find dresses and skirts long enough to cover my ass and not have me look like a street walker, shirts and sweaters that actually go to my wrists- now the low level are coming into the one place that us amazon weirdos have left, modeling? Oh, Tyra, you tranny from hell, what gives?

So I glanced out my window here in London. I opened the glass, and let the 30 degree in. This time last week I was in 65 degree San Francisco, running the streets of the Mission District, harassing random guys in tight jeans, and paying $12 for drinks. And now I am here.

People keep asking me, "How was your trip home?"

My trip home showed me how much I have changed. Everything is different for ME. I see that there are so many possibilities out in the world- I have a whole new set of people that I did not know the last time I was in San Francisco, the last time I was at my favorite sushi place. Last time, last time. I heard from and saw a lot of the people that had filled my life when I lived in San Francisco. It wasn't the main players, the family of mine. It was the boys that I had obsessed over, the ones I had dated, the bars that I had made out with so-and-so, the streets I had walked down. They were all still there. But that person that I had been was gone. What would I be if I had not left?

I just looked out the window 48 hours ago to the sparkling Ocean Beach, watching surfers and wanting to never leave. A week ago, I was in my beloved Santa Cruz, walking down the sand, where I had gone on dates as a teen ager, cried at the death of a friend in my 20's, celebrated triumphs. Now I see the piles of snow and ice in my backyard here in London. One place made me, and one places will make me.

Souled Out

2009-12-12T04:47:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite series of books growing up was the Ramona Quimby saga. As a child, I completely identified with the main character, Ramona. She was always getting into pickles, always seemed to be misunderstood by her parents, teachers and friends. Oh, Ramona, the pathos!

As an adult, however, it is Ramona's pet, Picky-Picky, that I seem to be identifying with the most. Picky-picky was the families cat, earning his name by refusing to eat almost any brand of kitty chow, only letting certain people pet him and generally being a hard to deal with bitch. This behavior sounds very familiar...as I look in the mirror, I give to you.....Jennifer Otter, the human incarnation of PICKY-PICKY!!

Example A: I went shopping yesterday with my roommate. I could feel my nose turning higher and higher up at each shop. Maybe it is the literal decades of thrifting, when a quality item can be had for a song (after, of course, digging for hours, and catching scabies from the filth- but that aside!), or the fact that family member(s) have worked in the past years for the Gap family- which, say what you want about this bland chain of yuppiedom, does have good quality basics (and a nice underwire bra for big boobs, ladies!)- I CAN NOT STAND cheap material, bad craftman ship and poorly made garments. My PhD student budget does not go with my taste and oh-so-sophisticated pallet. Yes, you are reading this from the girl who thinks it is perfectly perfect to wear an expensive Betsey Johnson coat with a Run DMC t-shirt. But it almost made me cry to see all these sheep just lining up to buy YET ANOTHER Bea Arthur style (DONE POORLY, may I add, I LOVE YOU BEA, RIP!!) tunic done badly over leggings tucked into fucking boots. LADIES- HAVE A FUCKING BRAIN!
I sadly left empty handed.
I have totally selected my look for 2010- Valley of the Dolls with a touch of the beach, of course! I saw the video for "I want money" and decided to totally copy the peach lips as well. Except, of course, I will only wear adidas with all outfits. Sorry boys, My girly-ness stops at the ankles....
Which brings me to boys.
At the urging of one of my old students, I am on these dating sites. They have turned me even more PICKY-PICKY. I kind of think they are extremely evil. They are like catalogs of people. Since one of my family members is an art director for a big fashion house in the States, I know how catalogs can be re-touched, posed and air brushed, so the real item is barely visible. These sites make me feel that way- what is the "real?"
My favorite boyfriend of all time had a freckle on his face that was really cute. It was one of the things I loved most about his face. This one freckle. A stupid web site, which asks such lame and generic, puke-inducing questions as, 'What do you want in a soul mate?" is not going to capture a freckle.

Some might say....

2009-12-07T04:30:00.000-08:00

I wish I could take my best friend Leslie and make a clone of her. That way, she could be with me all the time. Also, I would want to sell her to other people. I mean that in the best way. Her advice is better than that of any therapist, life coach, mother or doctor I have ever received.

Leslie is a strong advocate of being on a schedule.

I must be on a schedule. When I am not on a schedule, I flounder about like a jelly fish in a sea of warm water.

Yep, just bobbing about (classic, this video was taken at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, a place that me, Gary and Lin all LOVE!!). Today is the perfect perfect example.
One of our roommates got home around 1am last night. The walls and doors of our house are as thin as tissue paper. Also, whoever measured the doors seemed to be off by about 2 centimeters, so the doors drag and make a loud moaning sound when opened and closed.

Roommate stomped a partner-less flamenco dance back and forth outside my door, to and from the bathroom, for over 45minutes. I am not sure if she had a facialist with her that she had picked up on the streets of New Cross at that hour, and was getting some kind of late night extractions- all I know is her fiesta of noise woke me out of a daze of reading an over due library book, Kant's Lectures of Ethics. I could not go back to sleep until around 3am. I heard her whimsical snores through the walls, and cursed the day she was born, as I read thirty pages and retained nothing.

This morning, the alarm went off at 7:30am. It was still dark, and it was raining. There was not a chance in hell I was getting up.

I hit snooze.

Suddenly, it was 11am. What the fuck?

11am until now was spent returning e-mails, looking up a documentary on YouTube and talking to my roommate about imported peanut butter.

Leslie face flashes: "You need a schedule." "Don't play ball in the house." Oh, my Dotsonian, why are you not here?

Now it is almost 1pm. Um, is it not environmentally conscious of me to stay in my pajamas all day?

Oh, my Leslie D. clones would make Millions!
Screw those hamster toys every one is picking up- You would want a Leslie too, believe me!

11 more days until I am back with you, my dearest!
And there are no balls in this house.

I'm Not Saying.....

2009-12-05T07:03:00.000-08:00

I totally despise people, like, well, like my ex. They are always the VICTIM to their past, no matter how far removed they are from it. I'm not saying that the past can't really fuck you up. I am only stating that sometimes we need to put our big girl pants on and MOVE ON. Let me explain:

He's not REALLY my ex, he is someone I dated off and on for a seeming eternity (don't we all have those lurking about?). Everything would come back to a horrible trauma that had happened to him as a young child. Mind you, it WAS a horrible trauma. But, it was like, here is the hustle: we would be trying to figure out where to go eat. I would be saying, "I kinda feel like Mexican. I am DYING for an unending chip basket, I mean, I just want to eat my body weight in greasy fried bits and slosh down bottomless margaritas- what about you?" And somehow, he would turn this into, "My therapist says Mexican food will make me have flashbacks to my trauma." OOOOKKKK...how about Chinese? "NO! There was an Asian person five houses down near where the "incident" in question happened forty years ago to me." Eating was a hassle with this guy.

So was going to the movies- no, Zombie flicks, too violent- romantic comedies- too much pressure, reminded him of commitment issues having to do with trauma- animation- the bright colors- too much vividness.

Conversation about books- one of my favorite topics- almost always somehow turned to HIS favorite topic- being in counseling. No matter WHAT the book was about, it always related back to him being fucked up. Example: I was going to cook us Valentine's Day dinner. He told me he had purchased a vegetarian cookbook to help out. Great! What is the text called? "A Survivor's Guide to Cooking Healthy." Fuck me. Even roasting some organic produce centered around his recovery.

All that said, I am THE WORST at letting my dark past, or, as they say on the television show DEXTER, my own "dark passenger" ride massive shot gun with me. I was so disturbed by this dude's "recovery" process because it was so in my face. I like to think that I am SO OK. I am JENNIFER FUCKING OTTER, PEOPLE. I have NO FEAR. I am TOUGHY.

I love to tell people that I have been going to therapy since I can remember. It is true. I remember going to see therapists, sitting with them, having them tell me to let the things my parents say to me "whistle by like the wind," all the California therapy speak of "if you had a magic wand to change things, what would you do?"

Well, there is NO magic wand. There is only the here and now. I tell myself again and again every time I want to hesitate. And that MAKES me push forward.

But then I have those moments when I am stuck, oh so stuck. I need the penny to be put on my stylus. Back in the old days, that is what we would do to get the fucking record out of the rut. Since the tapes of all the doubts, all those 18 years of doubt that have been programmed into my head just play over and over again. I don't understand why I can't just reach into my head and rip out those tapes. Its funny, young kids, kids I am friends with, they probably cant even imagine what a tape looks like, what FILM looks like, what a big pile of messy tape and film pulled out in a pile would be.

I understand what my old beau wanted to do. He did not want to pull out his tape. He wanted to erase it, re-program it, smooth it out into a beautiful picture. I just want to start all over. Moving to London let me do that. But then the fucking dark passenger pops up, the memories, lurking like a hideous shadow that won't go away. The skipping record that won't move on. It is so unfair.

Most of the time, I don't get stuck. But then those moments, those dark, dark moments, I wish I could cling to my SURVIVOR books, I want that wand. To take away the times that were just so horrible. My mom telling me that she wanted to kill herself, and nothing I would do and no one I would ever would BE ENOUGH, I WOULD NEVER BE ENOUGH, NEVER BE enough for her. If you can't save your own mother, be enough for your parents, who in the world will accept you?

I had just been to see Morrissey, and caught part of his shirt. It was right after he had performed, "Seasick, Yet Still Docked." Some whore bitch had bit my hand trying to get the shirt away from me. I had ended up with just a cuff, but a cuff with a button. I slept with that cuff for weeks afterwards, rubbed the button against my cheek, carried it around in my pocket. Years later, I had the shirt framed, with a big poster of Moz, and the ticket stub, commemorating my big evening out.

My mother had unburdened herself. I begged and begged her to not hurt herself. I had promised to be a "good girl," told her I would drop out of school and be with her every day, if she wanted. I was 21 years old. I would give up everything for her. She was everything to me.

It is the last time I ever remember my mother holding me in her arms. She kept telling me that everything would be ok. But nothing would ever be ok.

I sold the framed shirt and poster before I moved to England. The past is behind me, and I don't need to hold onto to trivial tokens of the past, so I thought.

It is over a decade later, and I lie in my bed here in London. It is cold and rainy outside. Months and months will go by, and I won't think about this incident. When I do, I just feel sad for her.

Then, just sometimes, I will slip, and the tape will get stuck in that dark place. The darkness is the default setting. It is safer to fail, in some strange way. And I understand why we cling to darkness. It is as my mom used to say, I always grab despair from the jaws of victory. I need to find a new tape......a need to shake my dark passenger. We hate in others what we see in ourselves. Oh, I am so cliche.

Oh, You DIRTY BIRDS!

2009-12-02T06:35:00.000-08:00

WARNING- This blog entry is NOT for the weak of stomach or heart. Key words that may come up in a search include: 'Rag,' 'oh, you DIRTY BIRD!,' 'MEN-STROOO-A-TION,' 'The Monthly Bill,' 'Aunt Flo,' 'Code Red,' or, GOD DAMN IT, I am bleeding!'

Ok, now that we got that out of the way.....I HATE being on the Rag. I have all the stereotypical traits of one who is riding the red horse- I get totally bitchy and irritated. I hate everyone who does not agree with my agenda to life. If you do not like Joy Division, Augusten Borroughs, chocolate and swimming, you should get away from me as quickly as your sausage legs can carry you. Also, I do and will eat 160 pounds (my body weight!) in chocolate and macaroni salad.

I get raging, huge, hard zits, the kind that colonize an entire side of your face into a throbbing mass of angry pain- the kind of zits that do not pop, simply refuse to do anything but pulsate with each beat of your heart, grow larger with each intake of breath, and glow redder than Rudolph's fucking nose.

The cramps- do not EVEN get me started. Gentlemen- I can only think it is like being kicked / punched repeatedly in the junk-except we have to walk around, act like nothing is wrong- oh no, I am just in extreme pain, I cant bend over and go "HOLY FUCK THIS SUCKS ASS!!!!"

The blotation- did I just inhale a salt lick overnight?

I fucking hate being on the Rag. IT REALLY SUCKS.

What sucks the most, though, besides the fact that this joy comes EVERY GOD DAMN MONTH, is the grossness that is OTHER CHICKS NOT DEALING WITH THEIR FUCKING RAG-NESS.

LADIES- WHETHER YOU ARE IN A PUBLIC TOILET, or, yes, OR IN A SHARED LIVING ENVIRONMENT- PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF HUMANITY, TAKE CARE OF YOUR EQUIPMENT!

I once was cat sitting during a summer in my undergraduate years. I had moved into a fraternity house in Berkeley (a tale in itself) for the bargain price of $100, sharing a room with another chick for the three month duration. We thought it was totally acceptable at the time to live on futons laid on cement floors with drains in the middle- high flying! The brothers that had stayed around for the summer were growing pot upstairs. I would get home from work, and get completely stoned, listening to "Pretty Fly for a White Guy" and various Sonic Youth records, looking over the fog-addled San Francisco, before crashing on my twin, paper thin mattress, which I had pulled from the trash the previous semester. Oh, blissful youth!

A friend had offered me the seemingly queen's ransom of $25 to watch her cat for a week. I could not refuse, although my roommate protested on grounds of allergy. I pretended to not be aware of her condition when taking the gig, only contemplating the big payoff. I was thoughtful enough to keep Kitty primarily upstairs, listening to the Offspring, and inhaling Mary Jane in the evenings with me. Everyone was happy for the first 5 days of my 'watch.'

On day 6, things took a bloody turn. Literally. Kitty and I had returned from our evening of indie Rock upstairs in cannabis central- I hummed "My Friend Goo." I let Kitty inside my shared room, and went out to Telegraph Avenue, in search of some deep fried paper, or other concoction to soothe my drug-riddled brain.

I returned an hour later.

Kitty was rolling on my absent roommates bed, amidst bits of red and white cotton fluff, which she was alternately eating and making a bathe of. I trudged over to her side of the room, trying to figure out what was going on. My mind was not moving fast, having just consumed three beers and four butter milk bars. Kitty was covered with the remains of a sanitary pad, a pad that my lovely, cat dander allergic roommate had left, rolled up in a dirty T-shirt on her bed. Kitty had transformed this vile pairing of goods into a strange avante garde nest/ snack, having shredded both pad and T-shirt into a pound of white, pink, red and green (the color of the now-destroyed T) bits, and was rolling around / munching on her new hovel, proud of the handiwork.

Ladies- T-shirts are not trash vestibules, a lesson I learned while stoned, drunk and having the Offspring stuck in my head. Please, give a hoot. Don't be a Dirty Bird.

Another Lonely Christmas

2009-12-02T05:33:00.000-08:00

Yes, this about you.
And you, and you and you.
Do THEY know its Christmas?

When I first saw that video, oh, all of those celebrities, linking hands and singing, adult hood seemed like a never-never land. Boy George with his techno color hair, Jody Watley's seemingly co-ordinated hot magenta lipstick. They seemed so sophisticated and alien.

I would NEVER grow up. I did not think I would ever make it to high school, let alone, college- I would surely never make it to Simon LeBon's poufy haired majestic-ness, as he clasped the earphones around his neck in the video. Being 21 seemed as unlikely as being blasted off into space.

Yet here I sit, in my in my lovely 30s. How did I get this old? I don't often think about the passing of time. When I do, I generally am amazed at how things that seem like they just occurred are now ten years in the past, some of my best friends were born in the 80s, long after The Smiths broke up, Ian Curtis had already killed himself, and Three's Company had been cancelled. How can I relate to someone who has no idea who Mr. Roper or Re-Run are?

How did I get to be from "another," "Older" Generation?" Am I outdated, out-moded? Am I struggling to hold onto my cool, my youth, my ideals? What are those ethos, or do they just wither on the proverbial vine with the bell toll of 30?

I am currently a swim coach, amongst the many other hats I wear right now. While I was in ear shot recently, one of the swimmers started complaining about turning 21, and how old that was. In England, LEGAL drinking age is 18, so the cache of 21 is non-existant here. Other girls concurred with her, the ancient, one-foot in the graveness of the approaching birthday. Remembering that Grandma Jen (me) was nearby, one of the group turned to me, and said, 'No offense, Jen. By the time we are YOUR age, we will have four kids, be married and have a great career.'

A small part of me died, yet I too, thought at 25, hell, 30, that I would be married to an exotic, tall, rich, well-endowed James Dean / Ian Curtis hybrid who worshipped me, have two beautiful, well-behaved children, be living La Vida Loca, with various homes around the world.

Well, to quote Bridget Fonda in Singles, here I am, thirty-something- living La Vida- a single motherfucker, in a brokedown palace, slug infested, moldy house in New Cross, London, eating Top Ramen, sharing my house with three other students. It rains, I am poor as fuck. I own nothing. I will have more student debt when I leave than I will ever be able to pay off. Sometimes things dont go the way you expect. But that is life-

I have had the chance, the CHANCES, to have the four kids. Every time, I feel trapped. Trapped by the lack of mobility. By what could be. By what I COULD BE. I have ALWAYS wanted to live in England. Ever since I was a little girl, and I got "A Child's Illustrated Pride and Prejudice" as a gift. The watercolor illustrations of Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy hinted at a world that was somehow darker, grimier and yet more, well, REAL than sunny California. I wanted to BE a part of that world. I wanted to crawl into Lizzy Bennett's head, I wanted to write those letters to Mr. Darcy, wanted to BE her. I wanted to walk those streets, BE the footfalls, on the cobbled roads, where so many had tread before. ONE KID? FOUR KIDS? Weight, weight, ANCHORS. My $4000 couch in San Francisco was enough of an anchor, and the up keep on that was simply polishing and "oiling."

So here I am, In London. In less than three months I have: met Bernard Sumner, Peter Hook, John Robb, Ed Blarney, Mark E. Smith, Kevin Cummins, Paul Morley.....people I only read about in books....and more amazing friends that are really what make the world go around. I have had more opportunites with my work than I would ever think possible. It is so weird, IMPOSSIBLE to think that if I had stayed in San Francisco, I would have never met any of these people, and NONE of THIS would have happened.

I went one a date two nights ago. I have dated so many people, and known so many different kinds of guys, I have now become incredibly picky. My mother used to rail against this. She had a friend growing up who DARED to not get married until she was, GULP, 37! (THE NERVE!). My mother used to say, "Well, you just pick, pick, PICK! as you get older- you just can't AFFORD to do that! WHO WANTS TO BE LIKE HER?," meaning her friend, as if being "PICKY" was a BAD THING. I look back at my mother's decades of unhappiness and surely endless laundry list of lost opportunites and disappointments, and I see the opposite- how can one afford to NOT be "Picky?" I will be NOTHING BUT PICKY. I cant afford to be BUT PICKY.

I have dated: rich, poor, famous, homeless, ugly, gorgeous, short, tall. At the end of the day, I want someone who is my best friend. I Love My Best Friends. It took me years and years to find them. I had to go through lots and lots of people to get them. They are the most beautiful people I know. So I will get there with the guy. And I will be PICKY, Diane Otter.

I went on a date the other night. Long story short- the gentleman is perfect for me. Tall, gorgeous, funny, British, old enough (born in the 70s, can you believe it!?!?) smart, pop culturally savvy, sarcastic, bitchy....really?

We went and had drinks. It was one of those nights, though it was a date, it was so fun just hanging out and talking. I just wanted to know more about this person. He was so interesting. I never think about how different I am because I am from California. It was pretty obvious, though. He was just so- BRITISH.

I knew he had just gotten out of a relationship. He tells me that it was a....wait for it...TEN YEAR RELATIONSHIP. TEN YEARS! My memory does not even go back ten months, let alone TEN YEARS! He has only been single for three months.

I told him that I would still be on the floor, chain smoking for affect, drinking off-label whiskey, listening to The Smiths, quoting Dorothy Parker, and waiting for the Ghost of Miss Havisham to come and inhabit my body. I counseled him to go and fuck as many 21 year olds as he could find. Sorry, all my beloved 21 year old friends. He said that he had already done that- and it was boring. Who was this guy? What quality!

We kissed. It was kind of awkward. I don't know if it was me. Everything school wise is like I am in some sort of weird, delusional fairy tale. Everything I could never even hope to happen is coming true- like what I would not even hope to THINK. I have a supervisor at school that I adore, admire and look up to, who supports me and inspires me. I have been meeting incredible people, those who have adorned my walls and my imagination since I was in junior high school. I am LIVING IN LONDON! I am making so many new and incredible friends. So many nights, I walk home from school or swim practice. I just look up to the sky- I wish I could talk to my best friend Leslie and tell her how much I love her, and to all my other people I love so much and who have inspired me for all the years- (in my mind, I am thinking of Lara P, Lee D, Marsha J, Vanessa, to name a few). I just keep looking at the big dark sky, and can't believe this is my life. It is so full of passion and beauty.
And that kiss was not that. It was not warm or passionate. It was tentative and nervous.
Maybe I have not "first kissed" someone in a long time. is that how it is? Or is this more a friend? I dont know anymore.
London can be a cold place. It is icy. There can be a fog which clings and wraps. But that kind of weather reminds me of my beloved Santa Cruz. I find it soothing.
I felt myself pulling away before I even said good bye.
Is this because I have been through *this* so many times before? I dont want to be disppointed before *it* can even begin?
As my friend Lin and I always say, "WOW THAT CART IS SOOO FAR AHEAD OF ANY HORSE."
We made plans to hang out again in a week.
I had done it! I had gone out on a great date with an awesome guy!
But today, I get this:

I'm really sorry, but I'm gonna have to bail on next weekend. I had a
lot of fun on Monday - you're super cool and really cute. But you're
also pretty fucking perceptive and you completely called me on the fact
that while I wander round all day telling myself I'm ok, emotionally I'm
basically still the walking wounded. I really shouldn't be going on
dates right now - especially not dates with people I actually like.

Sorry, I know I'm really lame. You're really cool so I hope we can stay
in touch.

Sigh.

Back to square one.
He did not proclaim love for No Jacket Required.
I need to stick to my guns on that filter.

Faster Than Light

2009-11-15T06:02:00.000-08:00

I do not know when I started loving grave yards. I do know that I have always been "interested" in death.

I remember reading every juvenile fiction book our library had on the topic. My favorite was a book called, Beat The Turtle Drum. The book centers around two sisters: the cool tomboy, Joss, and the older sister, who is not graced with the social elegance of the younger sibling. Joss falls from a tree and dies. The remaining sister has to come to terms with the death.

I could not wrap my mind around the idea that someone would be fighting over my Barbie town house one day (a battle royale my own sibling and I had on a regular basis- and the damn elevator barely worked!) and the next they would be gone.

After After School Specials butchered my beloved Drum, I moved onto a "lighter" topic for an 8 year old reader- the holocaust, naturally.

Maybe it was a '70s thing, but there was an abundance of literature written about kid survivors of World War II. I would read them over and over again, then look in the card catalog for more. I remember reading one in particular, Alan and Naomi, about a French refugee by Myron Levy. It left me sobbing. I asked my mother, "How could this happen?"

In high school, I had a friend die. Other kids were laughing and joking about it- I guess it was their way of coping. I still think about him. What could have been.

I watched my Grandfather die. The man who used to throw me over his shoulders and run down the sandy beach. The force behind me loving the ocean so very much. The strongest person I have ever known. And I wished for him to die. I could hear him gasping for air. I just wanted IT to be over- for me, for him. How could this be happening? Seeing him, but NOT him, take those last, shallow, labored, tired breaths. Then nothing. I still think about him. Every day. Some people from "the city" came and took away "the body" in a zippered black bag, just as I have seen so many times before on television and movies. Like all those times seeing performed was a rehearsal. I watched. Then my Grandfather was transformed into but an object, to be "moved."

I went for a run today in a grave yard. I noticed that many of the stones had that the person had "fallen asleep" on the day of death. Like they would just suddenly arise, make a coffee, iron a short and pop onto the tube. Who was this terminology for and why?

On one side of the grave yard was an organic garden; on the other was a football field. People were planting winter vegetables and kids were having a tournament. Life was bordering the death.

I read recently a quote about loving death. I do love death. Death sits beside me every day. Death frees me. Death allows me to have zero fear. Because death is always there, pushing me to DO life.

Who is death for? And who is this life for?

Duran Duran blasted in my ipod as I ran. Faster Than Light. I had just sat by my Grandfather's side. I had just pulled to the side of the road in Moss Landing, crying and screaming and begging for this NOT TO BE REAL.

And here I was surrounded by stillness. Forever and ever asleep.

It just passes and rushes- this life.

Faster faster faster. That was seven, eight years ago. So many moments of love, pain, heart break. How could this happen?

No fear.

Last year, I was sitting with Les and Eric. She was pregnant with G. And I was wondering and wishing. Now I am DOING.

Thank you, Death.

More Lonely Than Alone

2009-11-01T15:23:00.000-08:00

I wish I could tell you that I am having a miserable time, that I miss San Francisco and the States horribly.

I want to report that I am seeing things and meeting people that I never could have dreamed of.

The truth of this whole adventure, this crazy moving so far away from all and everyone that I love, from pretty much every microbe that has any meaning to me- has been to see that I can stand on my own.

This seems to obvious.

I realize though, how four people in my life have instilled in me so much strength, love, resiliance and, well, just plain old balls to the wall attitude, that I can with stand pretty much anything. Vanessa, Chris, Leslie and Gary- thank you.

I have never been more alone in my life.

There is not a soul here, so far away across the world, for me to turn to. Some days, most days, EVERY FUCKING DAY, every moment of every day, I want to turn to you guys, and tell you something, comment, call, bust out a joke that only one of you would understand or get.

This is the longest I have gone in over ten years without hearing Leslie's voice. I keep referring to my "roommate." That would be Gary. It will always be Gary.

Leslie's voice is with me every step of every day. As I run up the escalter steps to swim practice, challenge the theory ladden 23 year old with zero real world experience in my course, as I close my door and put my head back to yet another book. Yes, Jen, you can do this. I know you can. It is Leslie, it is Gary, is is Chris. Is is the hours of Vanessa and I listening to The Smiths for hours in the dark drunkenly, smoking bad clove cigarettes in the undergrad years. It is all those moments, days, weeks, hours, hours hours hours when I never thought I could do it.

I am so lonely for you all, I miss you all so very much. Everything I am is because of you. All I do is for you.

I wish you could be here with me to see all I get to see. I want you to have my eyes, my ears. But all I can do is say thank you and I love you.

The Journey Begins.....

2009-09-10T04:55:00.000-07:00

I was waiting at Heathrow for my beloved cousin Becky to pick me up. I was ready to start my adventures in England, and OFFICIALLY SAY ADIUE to San Francisco completely.

It had been a long flight from SFO. I had little regrets leaving San Francisco. The Bay Bridge was closed the weekend I left, forcing me to take BART, the underground rail system in the Bay Area, to get in to the city to do last minute chores. My seat mate was a perfect summation of my ghastly feelings towards San Francisco. The older lass somehow was a walking cloud of what can only be described of a stagnant, pugnent stew of fermented dog shit and garlic. This elixir of a woman, so pointedly a symbol for my own negativity towards the place I had lived in for over ten years, sat directly across from me, as I journeyed from Oakland to San Francisco.

The insult of dating broke assholes, being laid off three times in three years and having a unique character a thesis advisor (these are only some of adventures I endured while in the 415) was only intensified when, upon landing in Heathrow, I discovered that the SFO airport security had searched my luggage and stolen, yes STOLEN, not one, BUT TWO rings that my best friend Christiaan had bought for me, one ESPECIALLY for this trip to England, my eye of the TIGER RING. MOTHER FUCKING SAN FRANCISCO. COULD YOU JUST STOP KICKING ME IN THE PROVERBIAL BALLS?!?

Oh, beloved Tiger, come back to me, child!

So I was dying to see my comforting cousin, the one who I look up to so much (even though she is like 5 feet tall, and only a year or so older than me).

I began talking to the lady sitting next to me. She was also American, and probably about 55 years old. She had that beaten down, never-busted-out, my life has passed me by vibe. She kept telling me how lucky I was, and how jealous she was of me. Next to her was another guy, wearing super cute sunglasses. I complimented him on his shades. He and I started chatting.

It turned out that he was the drummer for an A-list artist. He was waiting for his wife and infant son to arrive. He had, sadly, recently, experienced some deaths in his family.

He was the most down to earth, amazing guy.

He told me that four years ago, he had left his native London, and moved to the States to be with his now wife. He had been promised tons of drumming work by various people upon arrival. Of course, when he actually got to Los Angeles, all of the said opportunites were dead ends. His visa was in a holding pattern, and he could not work anywhere. He was flat broke, in a new relationship and in a pickle.

Now, he is in a great gig, with a top artist.

He showed me how you have to "step out," as he referred to it, to make a dream happen. He reaffirmed how important it is to follow your passion, and tell the people you love how important they are to you when you have the chance.

He was the perfect person for me to meet at the perfect time. I gave him a huge hug, went outside to see my cousin pulling up. Here I go......

The Alchemist

2009-09-08T07:10:00.000-07:00

I had never heard the term “alchemist” until my best friend Leslie gave me the book of the same title. We were both in what we now refer to as our “high swinging dot.com days.” This era covers her actual working for a said dot.com start up doing PR and making enough cash to think it was acceptable to have business meetings with her partner while having Brazilian bikini waxes. Simultaneously, I was in my record executive days, throwing down $350 for throw pillows, and seeing absolutely nothing unusual with this.

If you have never read The Alchemist, it is the story of a boy with a dream. Yep, that is a whole mouthful of your own barf you are tasting. But as cringe inducing as that may seem, it actually is an awesome story. This kid literally wakes up under a tree, a tree in the village he has grown up in, after a fitful night of seeing in his sleep a vision of treasure. He goes around the world to pursue this vision, facing much adversity, losing his way, being flat broke, his original mission completely faded many moments over.

At the end of the story, he comes back to his village, back to the tree where he had the dream in the first place. He digs under the tree. There, he finds the treasure. He was only ABLE to find it, though, with all he learned from his adventure.

Sometimes, you have to go around the world, have many experiences, meet tons of people, be tested, to appreciate the beauty and have the tools to make the most of your origins, to make your dreams come to fruition.

It was over ten years ago that Les first gave me The Alchemist. I have come so far since then.

Les took me back to Santa Cruz 48 hours before I was to leave for England. SANTA CRUZ is my own beautiful dream, my own tree to dig under. I have to still go around the world, and face more adventures, hold tight to my vision, though, and make it come true.

As we drove down Highway 1 from Alameda, I thought of all the other times I had been down this road. When I first had graduated from college, and all I wanted was a small apartment in San Francisco, a simple job waiting tables, so that I could support my little internship at MCA Records, and follow my ambitions of working in the music business. Everyone told me that goal was impossible. Yet, I loved music more than anything, and a career working around it every day was all I dreamed of- all I wanted. The gorgeous Highway 1:

The times I have been at Interscope, and tried to separate the crazy times with huge rock stars on the road, tried to figure that out how that part of my persona fit in with the kid who used to have her mum sew all of her clothes, and did not have a driver's license until she was 18.

Leslie and I drove through Davenport, CA. Davenport is a very small beach town 14 miles outside of my own small beach town of Santa Cruz. I remembered how one of my guy friends and I thought it would be so cool to go there in high school, to get out of Santa Cruz. When both of us FINALLY had our driver's licenses, we went there, and had clam chowder. How edgy we envisioned ourselves! Oh, Davenport!

I remember pulling over on the side of the road once, in my mid-20s, after taking a boyfriend down to the 'Cruz. Bringing people to my home town is revealing the 'real" me. He had claimed to have a good time. We pulled over onto the shoulder for me to reward him for accepting me....Les and I zoomed by the spot of the crime. I have now come to completely accept myself, no beau necessary. I remember driving home to Santa Cruz hysterical after the same "gentleman" broke my heart, having not slept or eaten in two weeks. Only the beach could soothe me, one wave after another, my breathes synchronizing with the crashes onto the sand as I bobbed in the frigid water.

Leslie and I rolled onto West Cliff Drive. My beloved, beautiful, most favorite place in the entire universe. Everything I work for is aimed at being able to live on West Cliff Drive. I took a video of Leslie and I cruising the "strip." I want to desperately have a book release party on my redwood deck at my fabulous pad on West Cliff, serve wine from a box and blast "Back In The High Life" by Steve Winwood." (although "While You See A Chance" is currently my Winwood JAM!!) Hopefully, this little snippet from home will keep me warm when I am shivering in Britain wondering what the hell I am doing so far away from my 831 Lost Boys love.

We went to meet my best friend from childhood at the Boardwalk. He had a hook up for some free wristbands, an indulgence that I had not partaken in since about age 13. We put 40 minutes worth of change into the meters, and speed walked to the Pirate Ship to meet him.

After waiting an hour, my old chum finally materialized. I love him dearly, as he symbolizes all that is good and fabulous about being a swimmer brat in the 1980s. He is probably the only person I know who still wears his clothes from high school and looks gorgeous in them. He cruised into the 'Walks operation office and procured the passes- Les and I were very impressed. Back in the day, I would not take my all-access Boardwalk pass off for weeks. They were a treat that I rarely was granted. It has now been 4 days since the stickies paper was placed on my wrist, and I will rock it until it falls off, old school style.

I, of course, wanted to spend the ENTIRE day at the Boardwalk, regressing to being about 11 years old, when I NEVER had the chance to have the FULL DAY ability to go on as MANY rides as I wanted. It is kind of like the ice cream pig out party that you COULD win for magazine sales in junior high- almost within reach, but always unattainable. HERE I WAS, my last days in the States, WITH THE LITERAL GOLDEN TICKET ENCIRCLING MY WRIST!!

Sadly, time was NOT on my side, so I only was able to go on a handful of rides. I immediately went on something called the "Double Shot" which threw you into the air. I got a "shot" of some man I did not know putting his hands between my legs.....>as well as being thrown up into the air, and attaining a 360 view of the beach. What a "double" treat!

I dragged Leslie onto the Merry-Go-Round. I just can't say no to the Horse, I am sorry. I immediately retreat to my 5 year old self, picking out which Stead I will Mount as I wait patiently for my turn.

I basically pushed some kiddie off the white majestic beast I wanted for my ride on this day- hey, I am MOVING ACROSS THE WORLD, BITCHES!

I then go to my teen self, and turn to my inner Kiefer Sutherland, as he struts about the carousel in the amazing aforementioned Lost Boys. "Thou Shalt Not Kill."

Oh, Kief, how I love thee!!
If you have never been on the horsies at the 'Walk, let me just explain this detail: there is a light up clown face on one end of ride with a hole in its mouth. As you spin around, you can grab metal rings from a dispenser to throw into the mouth. If you make it in, the whole clown lights up. In all my years coming to the Boardwalk, I have NEVER taken a ring. But on this occasion, I "borrowed" a ring from the carosel. It is my little totem of Santa Cruz, a bit of home to bring me back to my place that I love more than any other. I want the magic of the Boardwalk to carry with me across the sea.

Next up was the legendary Giant Dipper, the entirely wood roller coaster. I could go on the rickety coast at least 50 times in a row. I have been going on this mountainous range for over thirty years- I know every twist and turn by heart, and love it to every splintery bit. Les had never been on the 'Dip, so to see her experience it for the first time was a thrill.

The best was saved for last, though. THE CAVE TRAIN. An antiquated animontroic, neon, stoner paradise, best summed up by sucking down a huge blunt and blasting "Fly Like An Eagle" by Steve Miller while on acid.

I would KILL to have been in on the planning meetings for this ride- "OK, PEOPLE- WE HAVE A BEACH SIDE AMUSEMENT PARK- WHAT COULD MAKE MORE SENSE?!?!?! CAVE PEOPLE! NEON! MANGY GRIZZLY BEARS!! EXECUTE! CHOP CHOP!!!!" I fucking love it. I reminds me of being a little kid and being scared (????), of being a teenager, and having boys do the old "reach around" the shoulder move, and, now, of being an adult, and trying to show my friends the magic of cave people ballroom dancing.

After three hours, Leslie and I realized that not only did we FOR SURE have multiple tickets on our car, but we had probably missed the lunch hour at our favorite sushi restaurant. We frantically called the fish bar. They kindly agreed to stay open for us- IF we shook a tail feather, and some how made the 15 minute drive in 5 minutes. I sprinted like an extra in Chariots of Fire back to the auto, only to find ZERO tickets! Blessed day!

Les and I shoved enough raw sea food to start a bait shop.

On a Saki high, we took pictures of downtown Crapitola, and walked down memory lane, screaming 'WINWOOD!!!" out the window to passing tourists. Les snapped some pics of Mr. Toots, the random cafe where, in high school, I thought I was tre' edgy to order a latte. We slowly cruised by Zelda's, where, after a friends funeral, we had gotten shit faced, and I had vowed to change my life. That was seven years ago. FUCK YES.

A trip to the Cruz is not complete without a visit to Kong's Market. We used to go to Kong's before going to the beach as kids to chow on their egg rolls. I can not even tell anymore if the rolls are good or not- they are just from KONG'S so they fucking RULE!

I have now convinced Les that they rule, too, or at least she pretends she thinks so. We went in, got a bunch, and ended up talking to Mr. Kong! Screw the "real" celebs I know- Mr. KONG, PEOPLE, MR. FLIPPING KONG!! What a send off! I got a super sweet Kong's t-shirt that I will wear everywhere I go. Mr. K told us that people know about his famous egg rolls all over the world. When pressed to disclose what countries, he told us, "Poland...and Poland...." Well, Mr. K, I will help you on diversifying to at least one more country!

Our last stop on this tour de force was Natural Bridges Beach. I dove immediately in. The sun was blazing down. I cut threw the waves, under the water, feeling the different layers: warm, colder, deeper. The kelp at my finger. The ocean just reached all around me. I lay there, repeating over and over again, the wish to create, to inspire, to become successful, so I can have my house on West Cliff, so I can light the way for all of my friends and family, so I can show that dreaming and believing CAN make IT happen. Please please please please. Here I am, at the place I have been so many times before. I remember being at this same beach as a kid, with the boy that brought me the Boardwalk passes. We sat under blankets in the summer fog at night, talking about wishes and dreams. I came here by myself after my grandma died. After my boyfriend broke up with me. Please please please. Every time, this place had showed me that I had the strength to make my goals come true. The sun and the water and the salt pushed me up. I closed my eyes and wished to hold this feeling of assurance to me forever.

I scooped a bag of sand from the beach.

As we pulled out of Santa Cruz, I bawled and bawled, and listened to "Goodbye" by the Sundays. It was like a melting, gorgeous snowy day. No, no, beauty, don't leave me. But to get to the glorious spring, I must move forward. Santa Cruz, you are not that far away. I will come back to you, better, stronger and brighter than before, I promise. I have to return your ring and your sand. I love you always.

An Alchemist, by the way, is someone practices the mysteries of life. Don't we all want to be Alchemists?

Disconnected

2009-09-03T06:53:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was the celebration of three big firsts for me: I saw my first 3D movie; I went to the cinema by myself; AND I decided to really stop questioning MY set of morals and values.

My first real memory of WANTING to see something in 3D was Valley Girl (like, the BEST MOVIE EVER!!!). In one scene, Nic Cage dons a pair of the glasses as he tries to win his fave Valley chic Julie back. I was intrigued. If it was cool enough for "Randy" to wear, I wanted to be in on the action.

Movies and travel always seemed like something one should share with another person. I remember when I first started traveling by myself. I was 21 years old, I had my first expense account and business cards. I kept expecting "someone," perhaps the same people that keep your permanent record ("this will go down on your permanent record....."), security, "the man," I do not know who, to stop me, to be like, "You are TOOO YOUNG, YOU ARE ALONE, YOU ARE JENNIFER OTTER- You can't be traveling alone!" As I started going cross country, renting cars, driving in unfamiliar terrains on a daily basis, checking into hotels, arranging flights, I got more confident. Yet the movie just seemed like ground that could not be broken. I love having a partner in crime to discuss events that happened- its a big part of the whole movie experience for me.

So I only have now TWO DAYS until I leave for the UK. And being the fanatic of horror movies that I am, I HAD to see Final Destination 3D and District 9. Everyone I know had already seen the movies, or had less than zero interest. So I scheduled myself a double bill. I got myself a huge popcorn WITH butter (something I never do!), helped myself to an equally outrageous diet Dr. Pepper (which I will miss so desperately when I am not in Alameda anymore- side note- when I first got my period, my mum took me to see the Breakfast Club in celebration of this momentous occasion. As an original member of the card carrying carob and wheat germ movement, we were NEVER allowed to drink such things. On this celebratory event, I was allowed a small Dr. P- so the strange delightful mix of cherry and prune juice, as one of my old friends once pontificated, is like the juice of the Gods to me- but I way digress). It felt so lavish. I immediately was brought back to being in the Del Mar theater in the 1980s, my small Dr. P in my hand.

.
First I saw Final Destination 3D, where I was allowed to borrow some cool plastic 3D glasses. I adored the movie, since it was just fun, and did not require any thinking at all. Call it my over used brain, but I totally understand the main character's dilemma of if this, then this. There is something I gruesomely adored about blood, guts and various body parts coming at me via the special effects. My life is being completely torn apart and changed- yet I feel so calm and excited about it. I could be a totally spazzed out mess of guts and tears- I have been to get this place of tranquility. As I sat there, hand coated in enough butter to baste five Thanksgiving turkeys, I felt nothing but pride of how far I had come emotionally to be about to make this huge change and be totally prepared.

Next up was District 9. Spoiler alert- if you want to see this movie, don't read on. Aliens land in South Africa; they are immediately put into horrible townships and given the derogatory name of "prawns." The main character who is sent by the government to move them to an even shittier township gets accidentally splashed with alien juice while doing a aforementioned government enforced eviction. He then begins a transformation into one of the "prawns," which causes the very people (e.g., his boss, the "man," all of the forces that are supposed to keep us "safe") to turn on him, and use him as a scientific experiment. In comes the mallet of morals and values: xenophobia, racism, segregation, and WHO IS PROTECTING US, and WHAT ARE "they" protecting?

District 9 is based on a REAL PLACE and real incidents- District 6 in South Africa. Maybe its because I am a total school nerd, but I actually think about all of the above issues all the time. I thought District 9 was like a mallet to the head- think about your values, young one! I wanted to have it edited down- decide- do you want to be a rad horror movie (e.g., in the Aliens way?) - or do you want to send a message to middle, brain dead America, who mindlessly just consume? I so wished that I had someone to see it with.

Maybe it is because my best friend in the universe IS South African, and I talk to him about what is was like to grow up there. Maybe it is because I have never understood apartheid, how such a thing could exist. I even listened to South African music as a kid, and tortured my poor college roommate with Johnny Clegg and Savuka:

So I get home and begin "chatting" with a gentleman caller about the movie. He starts going off about how he did not see any of the messages or (banging, crashing over the skull) nuisances that I did. His response was that he thought it was an "awesome, gory, action movie." Did we see the same film?

He then went into how amazing Disneyland was. I personally despise Disney. If you examine the business model of Disney, it is all about exporting their ideas world wide- shutting OUT differences and multi-cultural ism. This has been copied and repeated ad naseum by fast food chains, Starbuck's, etc. I asked this lad if he had read Fast Food Nation, a book that lays all of this out with FACTS. He said it had "bored him." I used to just ignore such things about people, think it was me who was fucked up, over thinking, over analyzing. But now: we are a nation asleep at the wheel. Not even asleep- there is not a soul driving. Not even a hideous rat. WAKE UP. ZERO change will occur with this attitude. I want a beautiful world for my sweet baby god daughter to be in. Even for those people who think a vile rodent is a symbol for creative genius. Maybe District 9's macchete was NOT enough for the zombified masses. If only we all could see the world in 3D.

One thing Leads To Another

2009-09-02T11:40:00.000-07:00

I like to think that I am an always changing, evolving, learning creature. I recently went to visit my grandma. She is one of the most inspiring people I have ever had the honor to meet. She is 90 years old. She is a poet laureate, has won many awards for her writing. She has been a staunch enviromentlist her entire life (WAY before it was "cool" and all Urban Outfitter-ish to "give a hoot"). She has been hosting Sierra Club meetings and benefits at her house in Carmel since I can remember. My first memory is running naked into the ocean near her house- I was 3.

She is still writing, and in the midst of publishing a book of her work on her own press company. I recently went to visit her. She is very excited about my impending move to England. She just had to be moved into an assisted living facility, since she is gravely ill, which breaks my heart. As my dad said, it may be the last time I get to see her.

She told me a story about when I was a baby. It made me realize that one part of me seems to be an integral part of who I am- the never ending fascination of the world. Here is my Gram, talking about me as an infant:

I hope I never lose my wonder and excitement of the beauty and splendor of the world in which I breath.

My Grandpa, my Gram's husband, was very ill. When he was in the hospital, before his death, he looked into my eyes, and he told me, "Jenny, there are so many things I want to do, and I will never be able to." We both knew that this was true. He was in the last stages of cancer, the final moments before his rational thinking and clear thoughts would be taken away from him. I never want to have that moment, that regret of all the things I wanted to do. I want to inspire and be inspired on a daily basis.

My god daughter ate her first "real" food the other day. It reminded me of how even the seemingly smallest things can be momentous occasions. Just as I was fascinated by seeing the bright colors my Gram spoke of, little G was thrilled at holding her spoon for the first time, and sitting in her "big girl chair." It is each of these small moments, whether it be with a believed elder who has shown me the way, or with my sweet baby god daughter, that makes me push harder to make sure I never am lying somewhere with wishes unfulfilled.

ONE MONTH

2009-08-06T11:54:00.000-07:00

Wow. I have one month exactly until I leave. I can not believe it.

The weirdest part is that people I have looked up to my entire life are telling me that they are admiring ME.

To me, I am the freak. ANYONE could do what I am doing. But could they?

Back to EBAYING.

More later.

the one word is

2009-08-05T20:50:00.000-07:00

Anxiety. I promised myself I would write every day. I am anxious as hell. Not much to say. Some douche flaked on coming to look at my car. I am thankful that I did not get a ticket today when I was massively late getting back to my coche. BORING BORING BORING. If I was not swimming, I would be drinking myself into a stupor. More fun stuff to say later, PROMISE.

Positive Vibrations

2009-08-04T21:44:00.000-07:00

While I am constantly amazed at how foul my fellow humans can be, literally oblivious to anyone else but themselves, as they throw their trash out the car window or, as I will never forget, ash their dirty ass cigarettes on to the clean beaches, talk on the phone, stopping traffic for miles, moments of beautiful gestures make up for the zombies who surround me, seemingly careless to what they eat, see, listen to, oblivious to what ripple affect their actions, consuming or lack of care has on anyone or anything else.

Today I went to the grocery store to buy one item for my roommates. ONE ITEM. I was stuck as third in a line, behind two people with large baskets over flowing with items. The sweet lady in front of me said, "Hey, why don't you go in front of me?" It totally made my day. She was observant and thoughtful. AWESOME! I told her, "You rule. Thank you so much!" I then was second and stuck behind an obsese chick, who seemed the picture of America- red, white and YAY t-shirt from Old Gravy, cake, cookies and chips. Totally in her own world, not noticing that I had one sole item. I did not expect to have her offer to have me go ahead of her, but I was curious if she would see that I had been bumped- if she was paying attention....and NO. I am sure that she would go home, watch some Maury, and not question anything.

I then went home, and saw that I had received an e-mail from a lady that had bought some hand painted martini glasses from me. They were originally very expensive, but in my all out liquidation, I had sold them on ebay for $5. She noted in her e-mail that she felt horrible that she had paid so little for such a beautiful set of glasses, and, since my handle on da 'bay is "starving student," she was sending an additional $35 as a thank you for doing a great packing job! I had NEVER heard of such a thing! I immediately sent HER a grateful thank you e-mail for such a thoughtful recognition, telling her how I am selling everything, and that every penny is appreciated. She THEN responded with a simple request: all the thanks she wanted was a picture of me in the UK. She said that once when she was in a bind, some one she did not know had given her some money, and she was now pushing it forward. I was so shocked!

Later, I was back on Paypal, looking for an address to send another item I had sold. The martini glass woman had posted an additional $200 to my account! SO AWESOME! Good people and good things DO happen.

Structure

2009-08-03T20:43:00.000-07:00

I promised myself I would write every day of August, even if it was utter nonsense. Today I have nothing truly remarkable to share, except that I could not sleep last night. My mind was spinning with what I should be writing, all the things I had to do before I left for England, why the hell I am going to England, the what ifs, the possibilities (why do these always fall into the negative? why can't I ever think, wow maybe something wonderful and incredible happen to me?). At the end of all the bad, ugly, black thoughts, though, I have the unending, magnetic NEED to BE in England. My time here in the States is over. I simply MUST be there. I wish I could explain it better than that.

I am going to try creating a structure to what I write from now on, so that I can officially begin my story of how I got from swimmer surfer brat in Santa Cruz to music exec to grad student to swim coach to about to leave for this strange adventure. It is the working class Eat Pray Love for real people.

Rewind and Flip It

2009-08-02T18:36:00.000-07:00

I was recently talking to a well-known musician friend. He has had a successful career that has now spanned over 20 years- he started in his band when he was a teenager. Like most kids (people?), "rock star" sounded like a pretty cool job to aspire to for adulthood.

Fast forward- now we are in our thirties. He still tours, gets stopped constantly with people asking him, "Hey, aren't you...." and has freaking groupies. He told me, "Jen, I just kinda wish I could be at home, being a suburban person." Then he sighed. The 17 year old aspiration of what and who he would be does not match up quite right with where his head is now.

I wonder what would have happened if I had stuck with my four teen aspirations, and seen them to the end: replacing Judge Wapner on The People's Court, marrying Ricky (NOT Rick) Schroeder, being a dermatologist (since I have always loved popping, picking and poking, mine or ANY zits- why not make mad cash at the same time???) or being an Olympic gold medal swimmer.

My first memory in life is of being at the private beach near my grandparent's house in Carmel, stripping off all my clothes, and running into the sea. I was approximately three. If there was water around, I HAD to be in it. Pool, river, ocean- I loved the silence, the speed, the freedom. If we were sailing or kayaking, I wanted to jump out of the boat and be IN the water, not on top of it. My biggest disappointment growing up was that I had not born into this life as a mermaid. I saw the movie Splash repeatedly, and Daryl Hannah was my idol.

I often say, going to the Olympics is the one true dream that I fell flat on. Ricky S. became a freaky super Christian (but not before starring in a made for TV movie that seemingly only me and my college roommate saw- the Ricker is a serial killer, and dons a light denim jacket lined with fluffy wool the entire two hours- this fashion no-no has now been re-named "the Ricker jacket" after this forgotten gem of TV trash). After the original classic Court, there was a proliferation of court TV shows- I would NEVER want to be just one of the bunch- being the best and brightest is my name of the game. The dermatologist plan? I despise chemistry, which is a major component, sadly, in the medical field. Leaving swimming.

After I trained myself silly (try 6-7 hours of practice A DAY, people) at the height of my teen swimming career, I became burned out and hopeless. I did not have the times I wanted, so I quit. I was tired of not being like "normal" high school kids (read: what I saw in movies- going to football games, having a life outside of swim meets on weekends). I wanted college to be a party bonanza, not held back and restrained within the strict boundaries of being an elite athlete. So I threw myself into another sport, which I got to turn pro at: partying, drinking and the indie music scene.

Yet it always stung watching the Olympics, to think what would have happened if I had stuck with it.

As my career in the music business took off, I completely cut myself off from the water. It was almost as if I had to cut off that part of me that had not succeeded. I had to leave behind who I had been: a Santa Cruz, lower middle class, always feeling like they don't quite fit in, beach swimmer rat, to metamorphis into a cool, fashion forward music exec. At the height of my career at Interscope, I felt more lonely than I ever had in my entire life. I had no idea who truly loved me for me- who was I, even, anymore?

When I tell people that know me from my long music business history that I am now swim coaching, and swimming 5+ days a week, they are shocked. What happened to the outrageous, flashy Jen Otter?

It was strange how I even started swim coaching this past summer, but it was THE life changing experience. It made me realize that it takes more than a Ricker jacket to erode away who I truly am. Getting back in the pool was getting back to me. I feel so lucky that I am not trapped being who I was 20, 20, 5, ONE year ago. Which is probably a big victory after all.

Return of the Mack / Balls to the Wall

2009-08-01T14:52:00.000-07:00

I am so so ashamed- it has been MONTHS since I have written about my journey, my "vision quest." SOOO much has happened, and I need to get all of my devoted friends, fans and followers up to date. I like to call today, August 1st, my "Return of the Mack," after the fantastic song by Mark Morrison:

Mark Morrison - Return Of The Mack

I am back, people.

I have been balls to the proverbial wall in following my dream, or, as I like to call it, my GOAL of moving to England and getting a PhD. It has been the most scary, traumatic and terrifying thing I have ever done in my life. I have now sold everything I own, with the exception of 8 boxes of CDs, hand bags and jackets I already sent to the UK (which customs took in to their "care-" they thought that I was trying to start my own import / export record business- it must have been all the out of print Phil Collins 7"s that tipped them off). I also have 20 "banker boxes" of CDs, some music plaques and assorted sundries in my best friend Leslie's garage. Everything else- furniture, bed, music business crap from almost twenty years of my career- GONE GONE GONE. Tomorrow I begin the process of selling my car. I have literally stripped away every THING of who I was- I am now just ME. The very barest ME. I am so flipping naked and scared.

I moved into Leslie and her husband Eric's house a little over a month ago. They offered so amazingly to let me live here rent and board FREE, until I moved to England. It has been wonderful, but it was also strange moving away from my other best friend, Gary, who has been my roomie for over 10 years. I have never lived with someone or somewhere for so long in my life, outside of my childhood home. This is real. I AM doing this.

All of my friends are buying homes, married, having kids. And I am moving across the world, unsure, a vague plan of who and what I want to be.

I recently saw "Knowing" with Nicolas Cage (he was so hot in Valley Girl....and then what happened? side bar, sorry). Spoiler alert- don't read any more if you want to see the flick-

Anyway, at the end of the movie, the earth is facing impending destruction. Aliens come to take NC's kid away to a safe place- but they can't take NC. Only his kid can go. He watches as the kid walks towards the light, alone. The camera moves back and forth, from the kids point of view, in the light, but broken away from his father; and from Nic C.'s eyes- his kid is gone, but safe.

I have to move towards my light, alone. No one can go with me- that is the scariest part of all.

Man, I wish things were easy breezy sometimes, we could throw on the Plimsouls, some hot age appropriate punker would tell me I am "dazzling," and we could all call it a day.

There are no Lions in SF

2008-12-30T17:46:00.000-08:00

I was on a date recently. The gentleman caller had a tattoo that he told me represented "All beautiful things die." I thought about this for a long time. I made fun of how macabre and Fall Out Boy it was.

A couple weeks later, the same guy and I were talking about where we were going with our lives. We started talking about where our "hanging out" was going. He seemed frustrated that I could not promise that it would not be perfect.

Today I went to sell some books. I sold a guide to Northern Soul that my last boyfriend gave me last year for Christmas. Our Christmas together was very romantic. I had thought about him many times in the weeks leading up to this holiday. I had tried to sell the guide on several past occasions, wanting to rid myself of the ex and all vestiges of him. But no one would take it- it was as if I was stuck with my feelings, my memories, to stew and brew and brood over him for longer. This afternoon was different. The girl at the bookstore saw the guide, and was so excited by it. She took the book, and started asking me all kinds of questions about it. I chatted with her at length about my love affair with Manchester, and about how I am applying to their PhD program in Cultural Studies and Creative Writing.

Just then, as I was getting ready to go, another guy walked in. He was breathing hard, as he had clearly walked several blocks with his arms filled with books to sell himself. He smiled at me, and then said, "I can't help but over hear, I teach at Stanford in the Cultural Studies department." He then started asking me all of these questions about Manchester, who I was going to study with, etc. He wanted to get my e-mail address, and read my work.

I have ALWAYS wanted to go to Stanford, ever since I was a swimmer brat. We used to have water polo games there and weekend long swim meets. It has been my dream. Here is a professor wanting to read MY WORK! What the!?!?

Then, though, when he heard who was interested in me at U of Manchester, he was very impressed. He said that his department is very over hyped, and that going to England is perfect for what I want to do.

For the first time, I did not want to go to Stanford. In fact, it sounded rather unappealing, uptight and just stifling. I was unbelievably flattered by his attentions, and totally stoked about being done, FINALLY, with my thesis, and ready to start applying full throttle for my programs.

I was astounded at how much my aspirations had changed since just two years ago, when I was DYING to go to Stanford. How is it possible? Am I that different of a person? I was so fascinated by that concept.

I walked out of the bookstore, lighter, without the ex's book. I do not miss him even a tiny bit for the first time in over a year.

I then journeyed to Cliff House, and went for a run near the Sutro Baths. I have been by that area a million times, but never actually gotten out of my car and walked near it from THAT PERSPECTIVE. That is life- it is all about changing your view, your way of looking at things, your angle.

The fog was rolling in and around the trails. At moments, it was crystal clear, and I knew exactly where I would be in 2 minutes. Other times, I would not have visibility for a foot in front of me. The mist was rolling off the sea, on my left, off the trees and grass on the right. Some leaves were dead and dying, squirrels tripping in front of me. And it was all beautiful. I was my gentleman friend's tattoo- yet, beauty is forever, to me. It reminded me of being a little girl with my grandparents, walking with them to the beach, the smell of licorice in the air from the wild anis being crushed under our feet, of my English 'family,' in the moors of Northern England, the atmospheric mist writhing around graves and sheep. God, that is LOVE. That is beauty! That is LIFE. I wish I could promise him, myself, all that I love that everything will work out perfect. But I change, what and who we are changes. I could anticipate what was next on my trail, I could plan. But I just had to breath in and enjoy THIS MOMENT, that professor who dropped in to THAT BOOKSTORE telling me IT WOULD WORK OUT, I was ON THE RIGHT PATH. Oh, England, I miss you. I miss you, Grandparents. It is those moments, moments, moments.

I came out on the other end of the trail near the Legion of Honour. Now I am a member; my first time, I was accompanied by my friend Marie. I could not believe such a beautiful place existed in San Francisco. I ran all around the building, taking it in from all angles. The lions in the front of the building reminiscent of those at Trafalgar Square in London, one of my most beloved spots in the universe, Joan of Arc stretching in marble sword to the sky. String this second with that, wear them together.

One area of the trail had blue flags where seedlings had been planted. From afar, they looked like brilliant flowers. My dad used to be fond of telling me that the year I was born had the most blue wild flowers he had ever seen. I have heard this story many times. From afar, I pretended the flags were flowers. And they were gorgeous.

Let the Old Dream Die

2008-12-17T13:15:00.000-08:00

I had a crush on the same person from kindergarten until my junior year in high school. It's totally true. I grew up in a small beach town, where it is actually possible to know people that whole time. Its so weird to even think about now. I have traveled all over the place, dated tons of people, but I never forgot about that ONE DUDE who I NEVER got to go out with. Yeah, I threw his ball in the girls bathroom a zillion times in third grade. I think I even sent him an anonymous "carnation-a-gram" once or twice in junior high school. I don't think I ever told him I liked him. It was just like one of those totally Molly Ringwald sad things- I was just like, "OMG, YOU ARE SEX ON LEGS" from like a football field away. I wish I could say that we were best friends, and that I pined away for him from the confines of our bff-ness. But I was not even that cool- I was just like that totally pathetic nerd who is thinking that dude is SOOOOO HOTTTT and OUT OF THEIR LEAGUE from afar.

So I have typed this person's name into various social networking sites over the years. He never is on any of them.

Then, the other day, the dream came true.

He came up as "someone I may know" on one of my many much visited sites.

I did a Roger Rabbit-esque dance move in the middle of the cafe where I was sitting. This was my moment.

I added him. I waited, checking back, checking back....had I been accepted?

It had been a week, and I STILL HAD NOT BEEN ACCEPTED. WTF!?!?! Flashbacks of seeing him in junior high, dancing with other girls during "Time After Time" were flashing back, in a total panic inflicting way. I was not pleased.

FINALLY, I got the e-mail- ACCEPTED! SUCCESS AT LAST!

Wow. Time had not treated my old chum well. Security guard in Prunevale? Huh? I thought for sure he would be a lawyer? Doctor? How about a Marine Biologist? That would be totes hot......What up with the middle age spread? HONEY! Prunevale?

Dreaming is free......
I guess I did not grow up to be the President of the United States, as I once told my Nonny I would be...well, not yet......

DAY 45: Get Dancy

2008-12-15T12:37:00.000-08:00

For Ms. Ame, for always asking about it

So I have been pretty blue blue blue. I am not used to having TIME. It is SO NOT ME. I am used to being BUSY BUSY BUSY. Suddenly I find myself writing "Lists of Thing to Do" that have REALLY stupid things on them, just so I get a feeling of self importance- I mean, do I REALLY need to write "shave legs" on a list?

I keep thinking that this bottom of the unemployment and Gen X cliche-ness has truly come- that the rebound / bounce back, the "return of the mack," as I call it, is on the way. Then these awesome little adventures keep happening.

Take a week ago- me and and a friend got very very shit faced at a certain expensive eatery. I so easily lapse back into my "The Fabulous Life of Jennifer Otter." I forget that I am an unemployed writer, fighting bums for cans. This fucking yuppie ass couple, I swear, they had fallen from the pages of Bright Lights, Big City, were sitting next to us. Where do these people come from? Why do they exist? I always wonder- when you wear the pleated front khakis, do you purposely WANT to look like an uptight douche? All those cookie cutter fucks, inside, I know they secretly WANT to not be scared to just bust out and say what ever they want. Or at least I hope they do. If they are as brainless and sheep like as they seem, I have mucho fear. Anyway, they had the unfortunate situation to sit next to the two fucked up people, me and my friend, who were drinking straight from $100 bottles of booze, calling our rock star friends and howling like wolves. Oops. I think I dropped and did push ups in the middle of the restaurant too. Got to keep fit some how.

I applied for 40 jobs last week. I had my old pal from high school tell me that I should take ANY job that is offered to me. I totally thought so, too, as I sat at the buzzin' EDD, that would be the UNEMPLOYMENT OFFICE, for all y'all uninitiated kids out there. It was like the most happenin' spot that I had been in for a long ass time- really, it was as packed as a London club. But it was more the set up for a bad Eddie Murphy joke, circa 1983. There were 5 trannies, 3 random black dudes, and 3 loud jewish guys in there. Oh, yeah, and ME. I was just like, um, THIS IS WHAT MY LIFE HAS COME TO. A year ago, I was pulling down almost six figures. Now, I am surrounded by six people with dicks and boobs. AWESOME. I'm Lovin' it.

I then went to the library, to get a magazine for my never ending thesis. I realized that I had used up all of my change on el BARTO. I had lost my ATM card during the above drunken black out, and hence, had no more money anyway until the next lovely unemployment check graced my mail box. So I had to sit in the library and TYPE, yes TYPE, 8 pages of a magazine article, while surrounded by my new homeless friends on the library computers. I felt like my near future was staring me in the face. Here I am, the ex- exec, one step from Celebrity Rehab myself. Nice. How did it come to this? Literally, not two dimes to rub together.

Last night, I just had enough. It seemed every way I tried to get a passport to the UK has been discontinued for the year 2009. I am so frustrated. I just want to get back there with my UK family, and DO IT. I am so burned out on stupid SF. I started hyperventilating, and crying. I have always been able to find a way out of whatever challenge or heinous situation I have been in. I keep getting reject e-mails from people about jobs I am applying for. I have worked my ass off in my career, for WHAT? To hang with homeless? I wonder if they were music execs at one time too. A lot of good all those platinum records I have stored at my parents house is doing me now.

Today, I went on a long ass workout. It was sunny for the first time in days. I was listening to a mix that I made the last days I was in the UK with my cousins. I don't know why, but I just thought of all of my friends and family there who I love. I just felt better. I just hope I can remember being next to the dude who was literally vogueing while I was frantically typing my article last week while I was in the library, and laugh about it- some day in the future, when I am blasting my Steve Winwood from my West Cliff Drive Chateau.

Day 9: Take Another Little Piece of My Heart

2008-11-08T15:41:00.000-08:00

I am tired.
I know, I know. I am unemployed.
I have NEVER been truly unemployed for any length of time- the most was one week, a year and a half ago.
As Leslie points out, I have only been really "looking" for a job for a week, and already have two interviews.
But I am shocked as to what I have NOT been called back on.
Example: I did NOT get called back on being a swimming teacher, at TWO different places. That is right, not one, but TWO places. I even have a post from one pool which claims that applicants need "No experience!"
As someone who, as a teenager, has had to pull a non-swimmer unconscious from the bottom of a pool and administer CPR, it fills me with extreme fear that freaks and fools who may not know how to swim nor have any skills are being picked over MOI.
Or maybe its simply my own bitterness at being demoted (the opposite of "pro-moted") from having assistant(s) to begging people to let me babysit their kiddies and walk their dogs- basically, for my own survival and my stupid bleeding heart "art" I am forced to junior high era gigs. No wonder I just looked to see if my neighbor from that era on Lotman Drive (my childhood road) was on Facebook to commiserate with.
Oh, how I have sunk in less than three months! I was watching "Intervention," when they show a person who is totally devastated by meth use- I was like, is that going to be, totally jaws sunk in from unemployment?
I need to stop whining- I am just sick of writing these letters of why my "skills and expertise are a perfect fit" for a job that I don't really want. I really know what I want- I feel like I am onto something- just how do I get there?
My cousins, my friends and assorted others randoms have their hopes of riches pinned on me- not sure how. I guess I have sold them on the "Oprah of indie rock" idea pretty well. Cousin Alfie even hit me up the other day to change her "Jen GEts Rich List" from boob implants to a min-cooper- thanks girl. Money comes, money goes. I have paid for $1000 dinners more times than I want to think, and now I fighting homeless people for 1 cent cans. Ready for the "coming" again, if you know what I mean.

Stop Drinking the Kool Aid

2008-11-05T11:24:00.000-08:00

So I have been trying my hardest to be positive, "YEAH SAN FRANCISCO!!!" since I have been back. I mean, I live in a GREAT PLACE, right? I keep beating myself up for not doing cartwheels down my block for having an address here.

But we San Franciscans TALK OURSELVES INTO THINKING THIS.

If you don't think this, and you live here, please, allow me to give you three lovely examples.

Proposition 8 WAS PASSED LAST NIGHT. Yes, that is right. In case you do not know what that is, Proposition 8 forbids gay people to get married. It claims that THE ONLY marriage is between ONE MAN AND ONE WOMAN.

Even if you hate gay people, you think they are disgusting, amoral, vile, etc etc....what are they doing to you?

Did you ASK to be straight?

As a straight person, I did not go to my parents, 'GOD,' the store of sexuality or any other person and place and go "Um, I choose STRAIGHT!" Come on, why would you WANT to have less rights, be prosecuted, taunted and fucked with your whole life? Logically? And what are gay people doing to you, gay basher? How are they hurting you on a daily basis? How is loving and committing to another person BAD? What about the separation of Church and State? Oh yeah, I forgot, we did away with that in 1954, when we inserted "God" into our Pledge of Allegiance.

So I cruise down to Fremont with my roommate yesterday to a polling place to show support for No on Prop 8. People are shouting out the window "Yes on 8." Some total asshole old cracker white straight man comes up to me and is like "HOW DARE YOU COME OUTSIDE HERE AND TRY TO INTIMIDATE PEOPLE LIKE THIS? YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF!! HOW DARE YOU!!! YOU DISGUST ME!" Now, there were Yes on 8 people- he said NOTHING to them! Does he NOT see HE has EVERYTHING- he is white, straight, clearly feeling superior and privilged enough that he can come up and get in my face- if you think that I am just aping a stereotype, think about it for a moment- why is everyone so excited about having a HALF black president FOR THE FIRST TIME? If Obama was WHITE, would the press be like, "YEAH! ANOTHER WHITEY!!!" Anyway, this particular man's harrassment of me went on and on- why are people so scared of what they may not know?

Here in San Francisco, people act like EVERYONE thinks EXACTLY LIKE THEM- but they DON'T. Fremont is 30 minutes away- welcome to the REAL WORLD. Get out of your bubble, SF. I am so tired of people acting like their shite don't stank, like dressing their kids in organic cotton and driving the newest hybrid is THE way to be cool, I mean eco-friendly. Have you heard of vintage? Used cars that already exist? No, because cool, and being cool and 'next step,' calling that Phil Collins Cd in your collection your 'guilty pleasure' instead of a 'CD I actually like,' THAT IS SAN FRANCISCO.

Before I left here, I decided to finally dump this dead beat boy that I had been dating on and off for a year. One of my old students was like, GO ON THIS NEW DATING SITE. Ok. So I tried it in the UK- there is a branch there and here in SF. In the UK, 9 out of the 10 dudes I messaged hit me back, were funny and engaging. Rad! I am actually pals with all of them now.

I get home, I am like I will break my gloom and doom, I will make some new friends. Same profile, same pictures, same sort of e-mails. TWENTY FOUR E-MAILS sent out......how many responses? WAIT FOR IT......ZERO. That is dating here. The dregs of society. Everyone is too cool, looking for the newest, the best, instead of just being like, hey this is who I am!

I wanted to fucking GO OFF on these people yesterday, to be like HOW DARE YOU!!! I so fiercely, violently love my family, many of whom this directly affects- fuck, to me, it AFFECTS US ALL- it is all about equality, fear and social wrongs. The results of Prop 8 are a great example of how we (SF, California) LIKE to see ourselves (open-minded, fun, easy going) VS. WHO WE ARE (scared, homophobic, not confident in our own identities). Like my dating experiences in the UK- those dudes were so upfront with THIS IS WHO I AM- I was almost blown away. If San Franciscans, Californians, had that attitude, we would all be a much happier place. And getting laid more. Break out the No Jacket Required, FAST!

DAY FIVE: I ain't down with OPP

2008-11-04T09:45:00.000-08:00

So two of my best friends came over last night. To call Leslie a "friend" is really not correct- she is truly my family, since the family I was born into I am lucky if I talk to once a year- they are what is psychologically known as "loco." Leslie and Lin cruise in last night, carrying pizza, of course from the new cool place that features only all organic, solar grown ingredients, wheat less crusts, and cheese that will help you lose weight, recycled boxes, etc etc, blah blah, any and everything that can be "eco-good," this spot has. I grew up in Santa Cruz, bitches- I have had a compost pile my entire life, and have been carrying cans in my backpack so I won't have to toss them in the trash can since birth. Get with the program, fools! Anyway, every hipster in the universe had told us how great this spot was. As we ripped into the grub, I was like um, give me the grease. Fuck you hippies. Here is why.

Let's Bill and Ted for a moment: I was born in 1972. The beach town I wandered the streets of was filled with organic produce shops, dream catchers, patchouli, chicks without bras and hairy arm pits. These folks did not have any cash. They did not eat apples filled with worms because they thought it was 'cool,' or because all their other minicooper pals toting their kids in their overpriced organic cotton "Ramones" one-pieces told them it was the "right thing" to do. No, these were REAL hippies- left over from the 60s, when revolution seemed real and power to the people actually was applicable, not some trustafarian rebellion (more on this later). At the time, I did not think one way or the other- it was just what was around me. After I went away to University, and I met numerous, too many to count, fools who had grown up rolling around in dough, got a car for their 16th birthday, THEN became "enlightened" to the Grateful Dead (including one memorable bloke who, when I gave him a carefully crafted mix tape of indie rock, returned it, TAPED OVER, with Dead songs), pot and drum circles when let into the 'real' world. Their way of saying 'fuck you' to their parents and 'the man,' whoever she / he was, usually included being fucked up on said pot, being holier than thou about "nature," and participating in shit like Earth Day, a once a year 'festival' (if a 'festival' can be defined as one day) where participants hacky-sacked, drum circled and smoked pot- basically the same shit they did usually. Needless to say, I never went to these events, choosing to walk by and sneer, muttering, "Fuckers, I grew up in SANTA CRUZ. That's OG, bitches."

So that leads me to my conversation last night, the pizza and the hippies. We started talking about a restaurant here in San Francisco, which is truly a cult, not an eating establishment. Workers at the place must be banned from shaving / bathing for at least a week before coming to their shifts. All of the food is "raw," meaning not heated- yes, it is served cold, for the "plants sake." It is all named "I am...," as in "I am happy..," and the servers will say things to you like," Today, our gratitude prayer is being grateful for the grass that a dog has fecal material on outside. What are you grateful for?" I went there once with a dear pal from New York. When the server came around with this ridiculous "prayer," my pal looked at her in horror, astounded. I wanted to say, "YOU should be grateful that I am not punching you in the face!"

I just don't get it- the hippies I meet are almost ALL from rich families, the aforementioned trustafarians, aka not having to worry about the old cashola. They look and act like YOU are the enemy if you are not down with camping naked, or going to a hot tub where you have to yank some one else's pubic hairs out before getting in- the aforementioned OPP (other people's pubic hairs). DISGUSTING.

Now, let's draw some lines in the sand. Trust-a-hippie, let me lay down the law: I have been composting, recycling, smoking pot, listening to fucking Bob Marley since before most of your pretentious asses were born. So listen here: If we all did the RIGHT THING, that is recycled, were humane, good to other people, non-preachy, AND took our pubes with us, the whole world would be so much cooler. So listen, trust-a-hippie, stop using all your dough buying designer pot, start using it to protect the beach, protect some women at a shelter or help a kid with his / her education, and stop giving me and my pals that blank look of "what is wrong with YOU?" when we dont want to use your communal, clothing optional kitchen.

And the pizza place- well, I am totally down with supporting organic, recycling, etc- but I am a proponent of flavor, bottom line.

I am grateful for my friends, my hands and my heart- and the fact that I have yet to beat up a hippie.

DAY TWO: Remember that story about....

2008-11-01T11:49:00.000-07:00

So now I am in phase two of my rise. I had my initial panic yesterday. I cried. I had panicked phone calls placed to my best friend Leslie. I lay on the carpet of my apartment crying to my long suffering roommate. I had drinks bought for me by said roommate, who insisted that I leave the house last night, instead of staying at home on Halloween.

I am in 'PHOENIX' mode now- what and how can I get to the next step? That next step would be ability to pay the bills.

Does anyone else remember that old story about the woman with the beautiful hair? One Christmas, she cuts it all off to sell in order to finance buying her husband a chain to hang his pocket watch from. Her husband spots some gorgeous combs, and, unknown to his wife, pawns the watch to get the combs. That story always made me sad. They both end up with stuff they can't use and feel kind of crappy in the end. Yet the moral of the story is supposed to be uplifting- oh, look how they sacrificed for love! Love will conquer all! It is no wonder that I am such a long suffering sap who always does (or tries to do) the 'right' thing, then ends up bald, hanging on a useless chain. I feel like letting my heart lead me in such manner as the above couple has gotten me where I am today- both for the good (the most wonderful, loving, incredible set of friends anyone could ask for; an incredible resume) and the bad (student debt, zero cash). I don't want to be in that place any longer. I want the hair to put the combs into, and the hot guy to show them off to.

I went around my room, and pulled out every book that I do not NEED. I put everyone of them up on Amazon.com, including one that is worth $300 (!!!!!). Say a prayer. A bunch of other crap went up on Ebay.

I then called and e-mailed a load of pals, begging for any leads on consulting, toilet scrubbing, DJing, prostitution (two birds, one stone- or, to be more graphic bird in hand better than one in bush?!?), ANYTHING to get some coin coming in the door. From this, I have three possible leads.

Today I spent a hunk of the morning trolling the graveyard of Craig's List AGAIN. I actually found about 6 jobs that sound possible, and will be crafting my opus of why they should hire me this afternoon. Followed by another beseeching group e-mail to key movers and shakers, begging for any sort of employment.

On the boy front- guys are weird and gross. Hmm, do I have a bad attitude or something? I was telling Leslie, guys are still e-mailing me from the UK, but anyone that I e-mail on the various dating sites here, NO ONE e-mails me back. I feel like I am in the Janice Dickinson modeling agency, and my 'look' is just not 'working' here or something. When I went out with Gary last night, it was icky- guys would just stare at me. Its like have some balls and just talk to me, you fool. I know I am hot, and you are clearly a hot MESS. If I don't get out of here soon, there will be cobwebs below.

DAY ONE: There is no place like the bottom......

2008-10-31T13:42:00.000-07:00

For those of you that kindly read my 'It's Bitchin In Hitchin' blog, and wondered what the conclusion was, the beginning of this blog will sum it up for you.

My days in England were, in total, a time of extreme self reflection, coming to terms with the fact that I am addicted to outside stimulus of being connected, via the internet, my cell phone, ON DEMAND TV, etc etc, so that I won't have to connect with MYSELF, my fears, my problems. My six weeks abroad were like twenty years of therapy, distilled into time mostly spent with a Cocker Spaniel mix, drinking beers with my beloved and much admired cousins Becky and Alfie, and, strangely, at McDonald's, of all repulsive venues, trying to post blogs about the characters I met and experiences I had. I had a lot of times I will not ever forget- not necessarily for any other reason that they proved how amazing, loving and generous the human spirit can be, amidst all the crap of daily living.

To tie up some loose ends: the last week I was there, I met with a gentleman who was interested in possibly creating a place for me at his company. I had to put together a proposal for him with what I would do and how much it would cost. It was a great meeting, and I came away very excited. Last week, he e-mailed me, saying that he would get back to me 'soon' with some thoughts. I just left him another friendly reminder yesterday, quoting everybody's fave, Simple Minds, asking him to "not forget about me." I have not heard anything yet- I am praying and crossing every finger and toe.

If you read about the dude Tom that I met outside a club but did not exchange information with, we re-connected before I left the UK. Long story short, the weekend before I left, my girl Brenda and I went to a pub near Tom's house. Brenda took my cell phone, which had pics of T on it, and showed it to the pub manager, and was like, "DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN!?!?" The manager did, and called Tom. He came on down to the bar, and we chatted and made out. He informed me that he was a 'male slut,' and 'not good at relationships.' Um, dude, I JUST MET YOU! We have been e-mailing pretty much every day since I have been home, and I am coming to the very fast conclusion that we have NOTHING in common except that we think the other is hot. Oh, the crushing disappointment of real life! He has promised to send some naked pictures of himself, so at Gary (my roommate) has something to look forward to.

The biggest news, the HUGE HUGE HUGE NEWS: I turned in the rough draft of my thesis! The head of my department told me that he thinks when I am done it could be a commercial hit (with a LOAD of WORK!) and that I should apply for PhD programs. So that is what I am going to do. It totally is perfect, since I came to the crashing revelation in the UK that I want to write full time, and teach.

So here I am in San Francisco. I was supposed to be working at my friends new salon that she is opening as a receptionist, while I finished my thesis. I was there three days, and there was literally nothing to do. For six hours one of the days, I actually sat and watched newly painted walls dry. Today she called me, and told me that it would not work out, she is so stressed out about money herself, she can't have an employee. So here I am: I have a grand total of $187 in my checking account. I have been applying like a banshee to every conceivable gig on Craigs List, Hot Jobs, etc., but no one is hitting me back. If I go get a gig working at, say the Gap, 40 hours / week will still be less or at least about the same as the unemployment, and I wont be working on the thesis, which I HAVE TO FUCKING ROCK HARD ASAP to apply for schools (I am applying to U of Manchester and Goldsmiths in the UK, natch). So here I am, the girl that used to be fabulous, dirt poor. I know its only transitional, but how much more hardship can one person take? Gary just reminded me that I am now 'paying' for my time in England. Thanks, rooms.

I am TRYING to have a good attitude. Trying hard. BUT I FUCKING HATE THIS PLACE. First off, let's just chat about the job situation. I am a fucking rock star. You want marketing? I am your girl. You want teaching? HELLO. I am down to do WHATEVER to pay the bills, I mean, I will be your receptionist, your stock girl, whatever makes sense (under the table). I saw a bunch of places were hiring for swimming instructors- I taught swimming for 8 years and have been a competitive swimmer forever. I did not get called back for not one, but TWO different swimming teacher positions, one which specifically listed that you DID NOT NEED ANY EXPERIENCE AS A SWIMMER!!!!! When I was in the UK and applying for stuff, I ACTUALLY HAD PEOPLE WANTING TO MEET WITH ME! Wow, how CRAZY!! Jobs! And people WANTING ME! Who would have thunk that!?!?!

(Taken in the Mission District in SF- right next to a homeless crack user, probably my soon to be occupation).

And um, the guys here??? I throw a HUGE FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU- I wish that both my hands were middle fingers. They are the rudest, vilest creatures I have ever encountered. No wonder my self esteem is in tatters when it comes to men! It is no surprise that I am excited to date homeless, unbathed moochers when I am here. They either dont look at you at all, or act as if you stink when you walk by. I have asked so many cute, adorable girls, especially working the last couple days at my friends salon, and they all say the same thing about dating here- it is hideous!!! I need to get out of this poison pit! I am on all of these dating sites, and it makes it even worse and weirder. I have ZERO money, so I cant leave the house. I would say that at least I can pray that the pizza man is hot, but I dont have the dollars to order out. Maybe there will be a hot dude at the beach when I go work out. I am going as a girl who has not had sex in several months for Halloween. RAD!

So I am at the bottom. Let's all see where it goes from here.