L.A., San Diego, Fiona Apple, and Home.

California is a queer place - in a way, it has turned its back on the world, and looks into the void Pacific.... It's sort of crazy-sensible.  Just the moment: hardly as far ahead as carpe diem.  ~D.H. Lawrence

I just had a great little mini-vacation in California. Los Angeles was fun, sunny, and relaxing... and I hope I never see it again. San Diego, on the other hand, was as perfect as I've always imagined. Highlights include the weather (duh,) beach puppies, and Fiona Apple.

Last month, my friend asked me if I'd like to come along for her work trip to L.A.. She wanted company at night and she knows that I'm happy to entertain myself on my own during the day. So, last Wednesday, we met at LAX and headed for the JW Marriott in downtown Los Angeles. 

This hotel is pretty new and it is attached to the Ritz Carlton. That first morning, I was at the concierge asking about transportation options when a huge rush of security came through the lobby and blocked me from taking a single step. As I stood still in a sea of intimidating men, I heard cheers and clapping before President Felipe Calderon of Mexico strolled by. So, that was my big celebrity sighting of the day, I guess. Anyway, we weren't on the Ritz side, but if that side is fit for a President, the JW Marriott was fit for me. (The Best Western would've worked, too. I don't care.) Sadly, I do not know much (anything) about the President of Mexico, so the only person I could think of as he hurried through the lobby was Esteban Reyes, the fictional mayor of Tijuana on Weeds.

After we checked in and were settled, we walked to the convention center so that Jen could figure out where she needed to work the following day. We went out for dinner with some of her coworkers at a wine bar in downtown L.A. called Cork. She has some really nice coworkers... it was nice to see coworkers who were not filled with venomous hate for one another. 

Day Two. Santa Monica, Hollywood, and Marilyn's Crypt Keeper

For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

On Thursday morning, Jen left for work and I made my way to Santa Monica. 

I just wandered, like I do, on the boardwalk, towards the pier where men who were wrinkled from years in the sun, cast their fishing lines into the great, blue Pacific. I love some of the photos that I took, but there needs to be a way to capture the whole sensory experience. The air smelled salty, the gentle breeze was tousling my hair, and I felt like my thirsty pores were drinking the vitamin D straight from the sun's teat. (Someone owes me $5 for using that word in my blog.)

I left the pier and did a little bit of shopping on the Third Street Promenade before I went back to the hotel to meet Jen for her only free night of the week. 

Since our trip was a short one and neither of us wanted to rent a car, we decided to really own our tourist-selves and do a hop-on-hop-off double decker bus tour of Los Angeles. My giant camera hung from my neck and I rocked a pair of sensible shoes. I know. And I don't care. 

The tour started at Grauman's Chinese Theatre. We had a few minutes to spare, so we found a couple of handprints that we recognized, took a photo or two, and then got on the bus. 

We were lucky to do this on Thursday night because it was absolutely the best weather that we had the whole time. We saw some of the well-known clubs, restaurants, shopping districts, and beautiful residential neighborhoods. (I didn't want to do the celebrity house tours because that seems creepy and I also don't care to see how the other half (or top 1%) lives. We did see the streets of 90210 though, and... ugh. Whatever. In my best Christian Bale, Gooooood for youuuuuuu with your silver fire hydrants. I would have only been impressed if Dylan McKay stopped his black Porsche convertible in front of my tour bus and asked me to the 1993 prom at Beverly Hills High.

In front of Bijou on Rodeo Drive. We were trying to see if the men taking photos were paparazzi or just dudes who were into this car.

So, the whole notion of Beverly Hills just makes me kind of ill, but I did appreciate another affluent neighborhood. I don't know enough about architecture, but after a ride through Hancock Park, I have decided that I'd like to learn more about the different house styles and their origins.

The last stop on our bus trip was the Pierce Brothers Memorial Park in Westwood. Jen has always loved Marilyn Monroe so when we saw this destination on the yellow line, we made it our priority to get there. When we arrived, we made a beeline for Marilyn's crypt. Hers is pretty easy to find among the walls of beige because in the last fifty years, women have left their lipstick kisses on her slab. Since marble is porous, the stone absorbed the lipstick and is now pink.

What is with all of the kisses on the slab to the left of Marilyn? One day, Hugh Hefner will forever rest beside his first Playboy centerfold.

“The nicest thing for me is sleep, then at least I can dream.” 

I imagine some of those lipstick kisses belong to aspiring Bunnies paying their premature respects for Hef. I did not kiss either of those skanky slabs. The man on top of Marilyn, is apparently face-down, for all of eternity, or until his wife finally sells the crypt. (She put it on Ebay and sold the crypt for $4.9 million, but the sale fell through.)

We knew that the cemetery would close at dusk, and anyway, I'm not a fan of walking over the dead in the dark, so even though we knew that there many more notable crypts and tombstones to see, we decided to do a quick lap around the small cemetery and head out. "Let's see if we can find Donna Reed and Truman Capote and then we'll go," I said. At that moment, a man appeared from out of nowhere. He asked if he would like for him to show us around. Even though we later confirmed that we both thought, "he's going to kill us and bury us and no one will ever know," we politely accepted his offer. 

This mysterious man became our personal graveyard guide. He knew where everyone was! Even after the sun set, he was walking us through the cemetery, telling us stories about the actors, writers, and musicians who were lying beneath us. He showed us the unmarked graves of Roy Orbison, Frank Zappa, and George C. Scott. He showed us where Michael Jackson is rumored to be buried, in a private garden enclave where there are just the right number of plots to potentially bury the Jackson family. Since his dear friend Elizabeth is rumored to be in an unmarked crypt near her parents in this cemetery, it seems likely that Michael would be buried there, too. We were kind of getting chills.

The graveyard guide told us that he worked for a film production company in the tall building behind the cemetery. He was definitely very knowledgeable and a great storyteller. We were wondering if he was really an employee at the cemetery, but when we Googled him from our hotel room that night, it seemed he really was some guy who worked for a certain production company. We also kind of wondered if he was possibly a ghost. Go ahead and laugh, but this guy was otherworldly. Jen and I wonder if he is always trolling the cemetery for women to impress with his charm and encyclopedic knowledge. Thanks, mystery man, for showing us around. Also, for not killing us.

Day Three - San Diego

Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again, we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life. ~ Jack Kerouac 


On Thursday morning, I woke up super early to catch an early train to San Diego. For the same cost as a taxi ride from downtown L.A. to Hollywood, I took the Amtrak from L.A. to San Diego. This three hour ride started with the sights of industrial Los Angeles. I just kept my nose in my book until the halfway point where the industrial sights ended and the southern California beach paradise began. As much as I wanted to read this fantastic book, (The Brothers K,) I couldn't pull my eyes away from the window. I am forever in love with the ocean.

The first thing that I did when I arrived in San Diego, was I left San Diego. I took an $8 ferry to Coronado Island. It was a grey morning but the closer I inched towards the island, the harder the sun tried to shine. I did not have a map on me, but since I had no place to be, I got lost. I didn't look on a map to find the beach or the famous hotel. Instead, I just walked. And walked, and walked, and walked. I went through the residential area of Coronado, up and down the streets, admiring the houses that I'm sure I could never afford, but were not so over-the-top as the mansions from the night before.

I kept walking until I found myself at the beach. I thought about how far away I was from home. I imagined myself on a map and thought about how my life is so small in this world. The spells of insurmountable sadness that I struggle with from time to time, (like the week I had before this trip,) seemed consolingly insignificant. This is why I travel. I slept so well every night that I was away because I was mentally and physically exhausted from walking all day long, taking in the sights, getting lost, finding my way back to familiar terrain, all while thinking about life, expectations, and happiness. I need to challenge my brain and I need to move my body. Since I do neither of those things at my job, I am not content during a typical week. Wandering and wondering to the point of exhaustion was bliss.

I shared these insights with a couple of friends and had to laugh at myself. Why can't I just go on vacation and STOP thinking for a little while? Why do I have to correlate meaningful insights to every damn thing that I do?! Annoying.

Alright, so in the interest of moving on, I took a ride on a tourist trolley with a bunch of irreverent senior citizens, back to San Diego by way of the Coronado Bridge.

Coronado Bridge in the art style of Dr. Seuss

I hopped off of the trolley at Balboa Park. Holy bejeezus, the weather is perfect in San Diego. I walked through a couple of the museums, the botanical park, and just relished the sunshine. Knowing that it was humid and either overcast or raining back at home, made the San Diego sun that much sweeter. I am evil.

So, even though I am not generally a fan of captivity, I know that the San Diego Zoo is supposed to be pretty special. I did not have time for this massive zoo so I will have to make a point to return, probably with Matt, maybe when we have a little bambino to bring along.

I couldn't leave San Diego without going to the beach. I know that Mission Beach is like the Goldilocks of the SD beaches. La Jolla is a bit hoity-toity for my taste, Ocean Beach is kind of sleazy, but Mission Beach is just right. So, why did I choose to go to Ocean Beach?

Ocean Beach is home to the first big dog beach. A couple of years ago, I stumbled upon the blog, "A Dog's Beach." This site became one of those bookmarked sites to visit when I needed a break from the monotony of the job. Two years ago, I wrote a guest post on Jen's blog about my first puppy love, Molly. I definitely thought of my Molly bear as I watched these puppies at play.

Does it get any better than grand epiphanies, brilliant weather, and puppies? My day in San Diego will be high in the ranks of the best days I've ever lived.

Day Four - 

Do not follow where the path may lead. go instead where there is no path and leave a trail. 

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

or

I still only travel by foot And by foot it's a slow climb. But I'm good at being uncomfortable, so I can't stop changing all of the time. 

~ Fiona Apple

On my last full day in Los Angeles, I was not really feeling great. When I returned from San Diego, I went to my room to freshen up a bit and then headed for the hotel bar. I met with Jen, a coworker, and a friend for some drinks. The next morning, hungover, I decided to go to Venice beach. This was a mistake. The loud music pumping from the boardwalk shops, the people trying to hand me their CD's, or call me into their shops, it was all a bit overwhelming. I just wanted to get out of there. I walked from Venice to Santa Monica, enjoying the kids biking in the lane to my right, and fun volleyball games in the sand to my left. After the beach, I was feeling a little better so I went to the observatory, (terribly smoggy so not the best day for it,) and took a short hike through the canyons. I took a taxi back to the hotel and hung out by the pool for a couple of hours.

I was going to go to Jen's event that evening but she was unable to get a ticket for me. I really didn't mind though. I was going to just relax, get a headstart on packing, and maybe even go to bed early. I had enough of Los Angeles. Sure, everyday was beautiful and fun, but L.A. is not the town for me. (New York, you're still number one.) The weather may be ideal, but the traffic, the cost of transportation, and the sprawliness made L.A. seem like an unbearable place to live.

Before I left for L.A., I checked the calendar at the Largo theater. Not sure which night would work the best, I decided to pass on going to a show, even though a friend of mine told me it was a must-see venue. On Saturday night, as I scrolled through Twitter, I decided to see who was playing that night. In just a few hours, Fiona Apple and Jon Brion would play.

How did I miss this? It was announced only a few days before and it sold out. Suddenly, I was so bummed. I tweeted my disappointment but resigned myself to a night of take out and SNL. My friend Sheila urged me to just go. Go! Maybe someone will be there selling their ticket. Well, it didn't work out quite that way, but in the end, I was in!

In this tiny theater that seats about 200 people, I watched the incredible Fiona Apple/Jon Brion show, including guest appearances by Margaret Cho and Sara and Sean Watkins. Incredible ending to my time in Los Angeles.

Day Five

... every stranger's face I see reminds me that I long to be, homeward bound.

~ Paul Simon

I was as happy to go home as I was to leave it a few days before. That is the beauty of stepping outside of your life for a little while. After a few days away, my flattened, old pillow felt perfectly used and comfortable. My smelly dog, well she still smells, but when she knocked me down on the sofa and started licking my face like she thought she'd never see me again, it was a nice reminder that she likes having me around. (This also happens when I return from the mailbox, though.)

Finally, it was nice to see Matt. With our opposite work schedules, we don't really see each other as much as I would like, but I missed not crossing paths with my ship in the night. I'm happy to spend this weekend at home, enjoying the cooler weather, watching football at home, and appreciating my family in this suburban space that I'm always plotting to escape. It feels good to want to be there.

Rhett Miller @ World Cafe Live At The Queen and Rams Head On Stage.

What's up, everyone? I'm just sitting here listening to this awesome mix-tape that Rhett Miller gave me the other night.* No big deal.

*Fine. He didn't make me a mix tape, but he signed my iPhone case so that it looks like he did. I am no longer taking phone calls because the Sharpie is already rubbing off of the rubbery material. Write me a letter if you need me. I'll be brooding to the imaginary mix of 80's music on my Walkman.

This past weekend, I had another double dose of my favorite singer/songwriter, with a Friday night show in Delaware and a Saturday afternoon show in Annapolis. Dave drove with me to Delaware where we met with my friend Angie. I'm glad that we have the new World Cafe to meet for cool shows in Wilmington, kind of a middle point between us. What the hell else would we do in Wilmington? To be fair, it does look like they're making an effort to bring more culture to the area. When Angie and I met last April for Ingrid Michaelson, we went to this cute tapas place beforehand, so we suggested the same place to meet for pre-show dinner and drinks with my Pittsburgh pals, George and Marie.

I am so embarrassing. So, I order a glass of syrah. The waitress corrects me while confirming my order. "The SHyrah?" Uh, sure. After she leaves, George assures me that both are correct... it's just the way Aussie's pronounce it, but they're from the same grape. A few minutes later, I ordered an Jardinera flatbread. Normally, I order with relative confidence that I'm pronouncing things the right way, but this time, I knew I messed up. I pronounced the J in Jardinera like some redneck from Anne Arundel County, Maryland. I'm corrected again. "The Y-e-Hardinera?" Yeah, lady. That. 

A little while later, I replay the scene out loud... "Can I please have the Syrah?... The SHyrah?!" "Yeah, and the JARdiNERa?!" Everyone is laughing... except for my ninja waitress, silently serving my wine behind me. I am such an ass, but I just laughed it off and hoped that she didn't shpit in my shyrah.

Anyway, moving on the shows.

People ask if I like a solo show or an Old 97's show better. I love both, but there is something special about Rhett standing alone on that stage with just a guitar. At an Old 97's show, I am usually a little tipsy and singing at the top of my lungs. I'm not thinking so much about why I love these songs, but just enjoying them as they come to life. Depending on the venue, a solo show can be quite different. At Ram's Head, we were all seated , still singing along, but quietly. In this kind of setting, I am more attentive to the lyrics. At a solo show, I might cry. 

I requested two songs for the Annapolis show. Knowing that he puts a lot of thought into his setlist, it was a real treat to hear both.
The first song that I requested was Weightless. This is one that I've been stuck on lately. I love that he can take the line "I'm so sick and tired of fighting," a sentiment most people can relate to at some point, and turn it into something so beautiful. Also, I kind of laugh through my tears at the line, "up there [in heaven] we'll never fight at all."  Oh sure, we'll get along - after we die.

My second request was my favorite song that is not a Rhett Miller/Old 97's song. California Stars, one of the Woody Guthrie songs recorded several years ago on the the album Mermaid Avenue by Billy Bragg and Wilco, is the soundtrack to my daydreams of how life could have been had I stayed in California. I recently learned that Rhett would play this song during his shows at Largo in L.A. He shared that the Old 97's were originally intended for the collaboration, but there were some passport issues that got in the way. Luckily, everyone can hear Rhett's version of this song on an album of covers that he will be releasing in a couple of months.

In addition to the cover album, he is recording a new solo album, due out in the spring. He introduced the crowd to a new song called Picture This. He sings about a couple with two young children, making time for each other and savoring sweet moments in their chaotic lives. My table was in tears as he sang, "I'm tired, but not too tired for you." My. Goodness.

After the show, a few of us went to the new Red, Red Wine bar on Main Street. (Fab. Definitely going back.) We were crying for the second time over the lyrics, this time over roars of laughter as we altered the lyrics. "I'm tired, but I'm especially tired of you!"

Coming Up, the last two shows before the concert ticket moratorium of 2011:

Brandi Carlile & Ray LaMontagne
Social Distortion & Foo Fighters

Stairway to Seven Turnovers.

I have to thank @BMoreBirdsNest for the hashtag turned blog post title.

Football season started last Sunday in pretty much the most magnificent fashion any Baltimore fan could wish for: a home game, dominating our rivals, the Pittsburgh Steelers.

My crappy high school football team wore black and gold and it was easy to imagine that the outcome would have been the same had the Ravens faced the 1996 Northeast Eagles. 

I know that we have a long road ahead, but it would have been demoralizing to start the season with a loss to the Squeelers. I admit, I was nervous at first. Even when the Ravens are ahead, I try to reserve my glee for the end of the game because the Steelers have a tendency to turn up the heat in the final quarter. This was not the case last Sunday.

Seven turnovers?! Seven! I was gasping everytime Ben's ball landed in the arms of Ed Reed. You do know he's a Raven, right Ben? Watching Ray Rice run all over that tired old Pittsburgh D (107 yards!) was just a thing of beauty. Our offensive line was on fire and with real protection, Flacco had the time to evaluate the field and throw beautiful passes to completion. Some said that Ben's terrible performance may have been the result of the "marriage curse," but Flacco was also married during the off-season. Maybe it's the rapey-karma curse, instead. What goes around comes around, and in this case, it was in the form of a big, bad Terrell Suggs taking Ben's ass down with three beautiful sacks, (that sounds gross,) and 2 forced fumbles.  

We will face off again with our rivals in Pittsburgh, and I expect that our victory will fuel their desire to actually show up next time. For now, it's time to focus on the forthcoming game against the Titans, and the ultimate goal of February football.

9/11. Ten Years Later.

I

My grandmother lived in Denville, New Jersey. When my military family was stationed in either Maryland or Virginia, we would trek north on I-95 to visit her and the rest of our extended family on my dad's side. Like most kids, my brother and I would be fighting in the backseat, poking each other in the ribs, sticking our hands inches from the other's face while saying, "I'm not touching you!" and constantly asking our parents, "are we there yet?" While the fighting and the poking and the not touching continued until we arrived at my grandmother's home, the "are we there yet" questions stopped when we could see the New York City skyline, just before heading west on 280. Standing tall above the rest of the buildings, were the twin towers. Knowing we weren't too far from Grandma's hugs, copious amounts of Italian food, and her charming pug puppy, new questions arose. 

"Dad?" I remember asking when I was about six or seven years old. "Is the tower with the antenna a boy?"

I still have questions when I reach that particular point on the NJ Turnpike. I see the Empire State building in the distance and I see the absence of the towers. I wonder what it must have been like for some kid, traveling to school or to Grandma's house in the backseat of her parent's car, looking at the NYC skyline, watching the attacks. 

II

On September 11, 2001, I was getting ready for class. It was my first semester back in school after a few years of working/partying full time. At the age of 23, I was ready to get serious about college. I remember wearing a pair of black pants and a lavender button down shirt. It was the beginning of the semester. I was serious. The Today Show was on while I applied makeup and curled my hair. I remember Matt Lauer interrupting an interview to announce that one of the towers had been hit by a plane. I continued to watch, horrified, as the second tower was hit. Although I was terrified and confused about what was happening, I had to leave for school. 

The weather in Pasadena, Maryland was September perfection, but the news that I was listening to on the car radio was an unbelievable nightmare. What was going on? I reluctantly parked my car and ran to class. Without any idea that we would soon be sending our soldiers to fight endless wars, we were writing essays about a short story by Ernest Hemingway called, "Soldier's Home." In this short story, a man returns from war with a broken spirit that is only made worse by the lack of support that he finds at home. 86 years after Hemingway wrote this text, ten years after I wrote an essay about that text, the United States Army would report a record number of suicides. 

That day, class began with the instructor talking about the World Trade Center attacks. Before we could transition away from frightening current events and get to work on our essays, the Pentagon was attacked. There was an announcement over the PA that the college was going to close. We were told to go home. I tried to call my boyfriend. I tried to call my parents. I would see them soon. We were all safe, away from NY and DC, but I wanted to hear their voices. The phone lines were jammed. I drove home, listening to the news on the radio and crying. Who did this? Why? What is going to happen next? 

I stopped by Matt's house and we watched the news for a little bit. "Is that...? Are those people?!" Matt cried out as men and women trapped in the top floors of the towers chose immediate death over suffering. We were crying. We were holding our breath for what would happen next. Matt had to go to work. It felt weird, for some parts of the world to go on,while all of this was happening. I went home. There was an HVAC guy there, fixing my parent's air conditioning unit. How is anyone doing anything besides watching the news? I talked to my parents for a moment, and then retreated to my bedroom to call my friend. She was worried about her mother who worked in DC. Since cell phones were inaccessible, she had no idea if her mother was okay. She did not work at the Pentagon, but nothing made sense at the time. We were both in our childhood bedrooms, talking on the phone to one another, watching the news together, crying silently as we watched the first tower collapse. 

Posting this essay as a reminder to myself of what we were studying when all of this happened.

A Soldier's Search For Home

September 2001

     After a soldier experiences war, he needs the comfort of his home. To realize this solace, he must know that his family, friends, and God appreciate his honorable sacrifice. If this support is not found, the soldier must seek a new home, for he cannot support himself while surrounded by the rejection of those who are supposed to love him. In Ernest Hemingway's short story "Soldier's Home," Harold Krebs must leave his so-called home before his unrecognized heroism, disheartening relationships with his parents, and lost faith in God destroy him more than the war. 

     One reason Harold Krebs must leave his home is the lack of recognition for his military heroism. During the first World War, young men had the option of enlisting in the military to voluntarily fight for freedom, or shake in their boots until they are called upon. Krebs enlists in the Marine Corps in 1917 and serves two years in Germany. Krebs is heroism defined; however, "[by] the time Krebs returned to his hometown in Oklahoma the greeting of heroes was over." No one acknowledges that he had volunteered for the hell he went through. Instead, "men from the town who had been drafted had all been welcomed elaborately on their return." Without validation from the home he fought for, Krebs' spirit is destroyed. He must move on.

     In addition to validation, Harold Krebs years for his parents' support, but they do not realize their son's desperate need. His father, especially, is absent. Mr. Krebs communicates to Harold through Mrs. Krebs. "Your father is worried," she says for her husband, while discussing Harold's lack of ambition. Meanwhile, Mrs. Krebs compares him to other boys his age who are getting on with their lives. "Charley Simmons, who is just your age, has a good job and is going to be married," she informs him. With no concept of her son's significance in the war, she adds, "boys like Charley Simmons are on their way to being really a credit to the community." This rejection of Harold's credible role in the war could damage the pride he has every right to feel. Harold must leave his unsupportive parents behind. 

     Finally, lost faith in God creates discomfort in the place Harold calls. "home." During the World War, Harold's innocent, God-fearing mind is raped by the horrible images he witnesses. His traditional, Methodist upbringing cannot salvage his diminishing faith. Harold returns home to a complacent lifestyle; "[in] the evening he practiced the clarinet, strolled downtown, read, and went to bed." Encouraging Harold to get a job, Mrs. Krebs says, "there can be no idle hands in His Kingdom" and he replies, "I'm not in His Kingdom." After witnessing war, Krebs can no longer believe in God. He must move away from the place that taught him false beliefs. 

     At a time when Harold Krebs should have been comforted and hailed for the horror he faced in the name of America, he finds instead a weak support system that is clueless to the help and insensitive to the honor that he needs. Harold Krebs returns from war only to find new battles against recovery at home. When friend, family, and faith fail to offer the postwar support he needs to make him comfortable, he realizes his home is not what it should be. Harold Krebs must move forward, in his case to Kansas City, to move on.

III

What I was doing that day isn't important, but the day changed me, as I'm sure it did most people. September 11th had a significant impact on what I would study and what I would become passionate about. Before September 11th, I was... you are not going to believe this, a registered Republican. 1996 was an election year and my senior year of high school. We had an assembly one day where we could register to vote. My interests at the time were boys, prom dresses, and other boys. My dad, a Baptist and an Army veteran, is a Republican, so I decided to register as a Republican, too. 

After 9/11, I started to pay attention to politics. I did not fully understand the decisions that the President was making at the time, but I still had faith that our elected leaders had the best interests of the nation at heart. "Fighting a war on terror," seemed impossible, but I did not want to admit that at the time. 

I found this essay, dated November 29, 2001, from that same English class where I learned about the Pentagon attack. I know that we focused on many things in that class. I remember reading Barbara Kingsolver's The Bean Trees and Anne Tyler's The Accidental Tourist, and writing an essay about Kevin Smith's film, Chasing Amy. But still, we talked and wrote about September 11 throughout the semester. We were asked to write an essay about life before and after 9/11. Reading this essay tonight, I see that I was naive and also heavily influenced by my patriotic father, but questions were starting to form in my mind about the government and the world. I feel like this paper, even with the sense of nationalism that has since disappeared, marks the burgeoning of my interest in politics, and my shift towards a proudly liberal stance. 

The Cost Of Freedom

November 29, 2001

     Before September 11, 2001, Americans had a lot to worry about. Some wondered how they were going to lose those last ten pounds, while others questioned their job fulfillment. While the Eastern Hemisphere of the world lived their lives despite the fear of car bombs or land mines, we stressed over the latest details of the Gary Condit scandal. On September 11th, 2001, Americans woke up to a new nation. Petty worries disintegrated with the debris of the collapsed World Trade Center, as new, real fears were instilled into each of America's citizens. It seemed as if our country were invincible and the terrorists took advantage of our oblivion. With a better sense of the reality of terror, Americans need to sacrifice their arrogance and intolerance in an effort to win the war against terrorism. 

     In order to defeat the terrorists, Americans must surrender their arrogance. Prior to September 11, some Americans had a smug sense of assurance that nothing too terrible could or would ever happen here. Despite the former attempts to blow up the Trade Center almost ten years ago, Americans turned their eyes away from the blatant threat of Osama Bin Laden. Instead of fearing the possibility that there could be evil people who envy the power of a great nation, Americans feared the possibility that St. John's Wort may not be good for them after all. We must let go of superficial worries and recognize what is important in life. It is imperative to hold onto the strength and love that united the nation after the tragic events. Pride must not be confused with arrogance. America is a great country and we should feel proud to live in a free nation. Arrogance is the notion that America is so great, that there is no need to keep its guard up. If America is to survive the war on terrorism, it is up to Americans to surrender their arrogance and appreciate the value and uncertainty of life. 

     Another important sacrifice Americans must make in the effort to win the war against terrorism is to abolish hate and intolerance. After the attacks, a horrible emergence of racism appeared against Americans of Middle Eastern descent. Small children feared going to school because they did not want to be mocked, blamed, or worse, in reaction to the terrorist attacks. Holy mosques were the targets of thugs who were unable to separate the threat of fanatical terrorists from innocent people who share the same skin tone.  Arab Americans have become stigmatized. Unfortunately, this intolerance is not new in America. Only half a century ago, after WWII, Japanese Americans were ostracized and held in camps. More tragic than the lack of novelty in this hatred is that these lessons from history are repeatedly ignored. Of course, not everyone in this nation is intolerant of others; however, unless a stand is taken for victims of bigotry, everyone is guilty of oppression. We must let go of ignorance and remember that "United We Stand, Divided We Fall." 

The horror of September 11th will remain embedded in the darkness of the nation's consciousness, as Americans learn to navigate "life after 9/11" versus the superficiality of "life before September 11th." 

IV

I wasn't sure how I was going to observe this date. Earlier this evening, Matt was flipping through the channels. We would pause on one of the many programs about 9/11. Even though it was tough to watch, we wanted to hear from the people who survived, or about their loved ones who did not. We want to acknowledge their existence on this earth. They weren't just one of 3000+ people, and we want to know as much about these people as we can. We listened to the stories of people who called their loved ones one last time from the top floors of the World Trade Center, or the stories of the brave passengers on Flight 93. What I never need to see again are the images of 9/11. Those images will live in my memory for the rest of my life. Matt put college football on for the rest of the night. We do not need to be reminded to never forget. 

Why Can't I Make A Mistake?

A Mistake from 1999's When the Pawn...

(Annoying that it has to be viewed on YouTube, but please click and listen!)

I've been on this intense 90's kick lately. I recently watched all of My So Called Life... There was a scene where Rayanne was on a bender to the tune Fall Down by Toad The Wet Sprocket which led me to create a massive 90's playlist that has been on repeat for the last couple of weeks. Fiona Apple's 1999 album,  When the Pawn... is included on this playlist, and yesterday, I was treated to A Mistake; the iPod cosmos way of waving my good morals in my face, taunting me with all of my delightfully wicked ideas that will never come to fruition. 

I'm gonna make a mistake

I'm gonna do it on purpose

I'm gonna waste my time

Cause I'm full as a tick

And I'm scratching at the surface

And what I find is mine

I can think of many things that I'd like to do, but I'm far too worried about the consequences. Sometimes, I am so jealous of people who can barrel through life and worry about destruction later. Or never. I don't want to hurt anyone and I don't want anyone to be disappointed with me. And therefore, I do not take chances. 

And the fact is I had fun

Fumbling around

All the advice I shunned

And I ran where they told me not to run

But I sure had fun

I know I can succeed at an average existence, but maybe falling on my face or risking a little bit of an unpleasant aftermath in exchange for an exhilarating experience would be better than constantly daydreaming about living life differently. Some of these fantasies are very selfish and I know I will never love or loathe myself enough to dip my toe in the pool of indulgence.

So I'm gonna fuck it up again

I'm gonna do another detour

Unpave my path

And if you wanna make sense

Whatcha looking at me for?

I'm no good at math

And when I find my way back

The fact is I just may stay

Or I may not

I've acquired quite a taste

For a well-made mistake

I wanna make a mistake

Why can't I make a mistake?

Others are pretty innocuous, really, but I can't get past the judgement or the fear of failure. There are so many expectations that sully the joys of Carpe Diem'ing. I don't want to go on some anarchist frenzy, although, I'm willing to bet that once I experience life uninhibited, my spirit would soar irretrievably from my immobile reality. Maybe that is what I am afraid of. 

I'm always doing what I think I should

Almost always doing everybody good

Why ?

Do I wanna do right?

*Oh, shit. Navel-gazing introspective self has reared her ugly head again. There's just no escaping her. Damn it.*

Recycling is fun.

Dear ladies who are too shy to go to an adult toy store. It turns out, if you accidentally put your not-dishwasher-safe water bottle into the dishwasher, it will turn into this. 

You're welcome.