The Return of the Cowboy Roadie Metrosexual

I’m wrapping up my relationship with the Angry Man, typing away at Kaldi beside David LeBarron. Two former performance artists who I’ve dubbed “the Loud Sisters” are comparing notes on sleeping socks and Christmas gifts they expect to receive from their boyfriends. Mingus plays in the background. My coffee cup is full. All is well in the world. The little pink razor phone vibrates and I look down at the number. The (805) area code throws me. Who do I know in Santa Barbara? I debate answering it.

And then it dawns on me. It’s him. Almost two years since we met; a cool month after my first break-up with the Angry Man and the start of my first year out of the full time world. Weighing my options, I could let it go to voice mail and then delete the message. But more likely, I would let it go to voice mail and then listen to the message, save it, listen again and agonize whether or not to call him back.

I read somewhere that there are no mistakes, and it’s a good sentiment to keep in mind when I question my decisions.

I flip up the phone and answer in my professional voice. I hear him, almost a whisper, “Hey it’s me”. Which begs an intimacy that I struggle to keep in check. I take a long pause as if I’m trying to place the voice to name and pretend to stumble into a salutation that went sort of like: “Oh, wow. Hi”. I’m thinking, “I look great in these jeans”, meaning: “My life is awesome without you”.

I listen to him on the other end, somewhere between gigs with the Pop Star he’s teching for, asking about my writing, where I was, what the garden looked like, whether I was happy. And the truth is, things couldn't be better. What he doesn’t tell me, and truly, there’s no need because I know but it would be nice in a sort of adult kind of way, is that he’s married to his ex-fiancée, a 27 year old I imagine to be slim, blond and pregnant.

He strategically lets in little possessive pronouns like “We have a farm”. “We have three horses”. But then quickly adds, “…I haven’t been home in six months”. I don’t pursue it. Didn’t ask because I honestly, I really wanted to go there, but I’m trying something new: taking contrary action. I keep it light, signing off in a record five minutes, checking the minute counter on my phone just to be sure.

I saunter back into the coffee shop and plop down in David’s lap. “Guess who that was?” I coyly ask and he answers in one beat followed by “unhappy in his marriage so he’s checking in on you?” We giggle together like little girls. There is nothing quite as satisfying as Schadenfreude. Not the most spiritual approach, but hey, I am human.

And although I thought this exchange would be a minor barb, it turned out to be a prick, a hostile splinter I try to remove before infection sets in. The disclaimer on Schadenfreude is that it doesn’t last long. It takes about four weeks for the invader to work its way out. I wonder why, after all of this time, this man has the same effect on me.

My mind churns the milk and out comes butter, a smooth concoction I’ve created in which the C/R/M plays leading man in a most glamorous life, ski-bunny sexpot wife in tow, strumming his Alvarez guitar in front of a stone fireplace with the Sisters Mountains as fantastic back plate. Am I missing anything or does anyone want to add some sparkle to this fantasy?

I can rationalize that he’s crazy, can’t do a crossword, doesn’t like bacon, the Boss or Bob Dylan. And what about the whopper, a blinking neon sign beaming in my brain: “He’s Married! He's Married! He's Married!”

A few weeks ago, the NYT printed an article in the Style section by a woman who couldn’t shake a man out of her life, so she became a stalker. It was interesting, and I was thankful I never resorted to that. In fact, after the devastating news that he was reunited with his one true love, I could barely leave my bed. That and the fact that he lived almost 1000 miles away. Stalking was definitely not going to be a problem, but he wasn't one to be easily shed off.

Since the article offered no insights to the whys of attraction, I pored through the journals I kept over that year, and it’s a good thing that I’ve hung onto them. They remind me that I was supremely doubtful of this soft-spoken guitar playing monster truck driving sexy in his Levis boy/man. But as I read on, “He reached into the space between my rib cage and grabbed hold of my spine, shaking me to the core”.

For five weeks, I was his number one priority until a Thursday, when something switched in his head; something I imagine went like this: “Wellllll, she has called me three times, (referring to the ex), maybe I’ll give her a second chance. And on the way down to Long Beach, I can break up with Kat. That is a great idea.”

He seemed to have forgotten that just the day before we had purchased tickets for an upcoming trip together. And the Calvin & Hobbes books he had sent me along with the lilac candles and the Christmas card that said, “The greatest gift I got this year was the peace of heart you gave me”. Or the millions of text messages and emails that heralded sentiments like "When I'm with you, it feels like home".

I can imagine him, bombing down the 5 Freeway, spending the 12-hour drive repeatedly rehearsing what he was going to say. It seemed true enough because when I opened the door, he basically marched in the house, sat down on the sofa told me that she had called three times, and on the third he picked up the phone.

Then he asked me if I wanted him to leave.

If I wasn't so shocked, (and had a little gumption), I would have said "Yes" and slammed the door on his ass as he walked out, but instead, I was the one who left the house.

Not to worry - I’ve managed to separate the severed arm that hung onto my spinal cord and I’ve come to realized that some people are so manipulative and sick that they don’t fathom their behavior to be a whirlwind of destruction, hoping that the wreckage they’ve left behind will be cleaned up by someone else.

A friend of mine says these types of people have the ability to shine a klieg light of illumination on you and when you’re left in the dark, it’s really dark. And cold. It’s hard not to be attracted to that megawatt attention. It fulfills the hope that someone will saturate the corners that you can’t reach within yourself.

As I digest all of this, I click a link to an article a friend has sent me from Health Day Magazine entitled “Love is the Drug”. It seems that I have a predisposition. Now, it could be an unhealthy penchant for drama or it is no more than a bad chemical reaction. “Nothing a bit of methadone can’t cure,” he quips.

Well, thank God. At least I can self-medicate without whipping up a world of chaos sure to envelop myself, the C/R/M and the chick he’s married to. But perhaps, deep down, it is the drama that draws me in. Knowing that I have the power to part the curtains and share the stage with someone I imagine to have a much better life than me.

I suppose maturity is realizing that you are the starring role, sans the minor characters, and it is either going to be Oscar worthy or nominated for a Raspberry.

On the other hand, I leave you with Lynda Barry’s definition:

“Love is an exploding cigar we willingly smoke.”

The Last of the Angry Man

It’s Thanksgiving morning. While my mother and I chat away, detailing the outcome of the three pies I’ve baked with her cross-country assistance and the preparations of my Weber grilled turkey, she asks me if I’ve heard from the Angry Man.

I ponder the question. “Well”, I respond, “it is Thanksgiving. That’s usually the time we break up”.

Actually, (and you will be surprised and amazed… and maybe a little doubtful), my relationship with the Angry Man ended over two months ago, a feat I justly rewarded myself with by purchasing a new hat to commemorate the occasion.

To put it delicately, The Angry Man is indeed, angry. Some might say even “Very Angry”.

I had been repeatedly told this, and during the thirty-second tirade that ended it, I thought about why I stuck it out with this man instead of listening to good friends’ advice. My lame excuse is that I secretly harbored a fantasy that he was soul mate to Henry Fonda’s character in “On Golden Pond” but instead of being the nasty curmudgeon to everyone but worshipping me, he was, in fact, the nasty curmudgeon to everyone, including me.

This is going to sound crazy, but he was probably the most stable man I had dated. After all, I always knew what I was going to get. And most of the time, I could handle his mood swings. Our banter became an old Nichols/May routine, so perfected and broken in, we could have registered a patent. However, routines take a lot of energy and getting yourself psyched up for repartee meant to pacify one person, but leaving the other a little worse for wear can get tiresome.

The end of the game, the straw that broke the camel’s back, was over Woody Allen’s, “Play it Again, Sam”. I had fond memories of watching it with my parents as a kid and TiVo'd it for another go around. But for some reason, I couldn't get into the predictable, dated jokes. Personally, watching substandard Woody movies really makes me yearn for the best of him and I wistfully thought of “Radio Days", "Broadway Danny Rose”, and "Stardust Memories” to name a few as I switched the channel. I brought this up to Angry, thinking he might offer some thoughtful insight to Woody, as he usually does, instead receiving a riotous lecture that went something like this:

“I can’t believe you would say something like that to me! That movie is one of my favorites! It’s about being single and relationships and dating! Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me that "Annie Hall" is terrible, oh and what about “Manhattan", that’s a crappy movie! I can hear it now! Jesus, what is wrong with you! You say things like this just to piss me off!”

And my stunned response went something like this: “FUCK OFF!”

It’s pretty impossible to slam a cell phone, but I tried my best.

Somehow this film marked road’s end of a three-year on again, off again relationship. The scale tipped, and the delicate balance that weighed bad behavior against charm, wit and devotion had become overloaded.

So, with grace, dignity and a calmness voice even I was suprised to discover, I called his bluff over a plate of roast beef hash at the Pacific Dining Car on 6th Street remembering something Maya Angelou said during one of her Oprah appearances, “When people show you who they are, believe them.” My efforts to influence or perhaps even inspire him to alter his negative outlook on life, people and current events went in like a porterhouse steak and came out, well, like the cubed hash sitting in front of me.

And the naked truth is, while we sat facing each other in those oversized leather club chairs, I realized that love was no longer on the chopping block. When emotions reach that finality, there is no going back. The slate has been wiped clean and the rooms that you kept open to this potentiality are resealed, as if they never existed.

It was fitting that this rant should arise just as we had concluded negotiations for a reconciliation, which would include long-term settlement. His few, wonderful qualities I had sought in a mate would be hard to give up, including the mostly unused apartment in Tudor City and my plans for a bi-costal lifestyle, but I quickly recalled a few similar gems, highlights of his three-year bluster fest and felt instant relief that I had once again, dodged a bullet.

I didn’t set out to become one of those people who continually return to something that doesn't work. I either have magnets in my genetic makeup or I'd conjured up a potential, and dangerously seductive fantasy life with Angry, causing a blurred reality. Most likely it was the challenge that in my cloak of womanhood, I possessed superhuman powers; powers that would quench his enraged soul and allow me the right combination to dismantle the chain that kept his core compassion locked up.

Thinking on that, it is fitting that Woody would seal the deal. Maybe it’s because he is symbolic of failed relationships and unrealistic hopes for ones doomed to begin with.

So here it is, Thursday evening. As I lie in bed counting my gratitude list, I mark that I’m thankful that the week started off on a quiet note, that the ritual of slamming phones, frustrated tears and drama is finally over.

It’s 7:45 PM. I’ve fed 16 people, baked three pies and cooked a turkey on the grill. And I no longer love The Angry Man.

Wait? Wait for What?

IMG_0342.JPG
Originally uploaded by artthrobb.

Way back circa 1990, pop author Bret Easton Ellis penned a New York Sunday Times article titled “Generation X”, a moniker my age group had recently acquired as part of a Fortune 500 marketing campaign seeking to identify and target new consumers, precisely young adults whose teen years spanned the ‘80s. The piece claimed “X'ers” to be a bunch of spoiled boobs who tooled around on mountain bikes, recycled and contemplated getting a job, thus, the slacker profile was born and movies like “Reality Bites” were made.

Incensed at Ellis’s self-important opinion, I fired off a letter to the editor including his counterpart Jay McInerney in my rebuke. The duo had been dubbed the de facto voices of my generation, writing characters I didn’t identify with; rich, bloated white people who snorted cocaine and hung out at New York hotspots like Nell's. I certainly didn’t endorse them speaking on behalf of me or my friends, most of whom were holding down two jobs just to be able to live in Manhattan and pay back student loans. It wasn’t all work; we did have a great time; and while most are married with children, the debt moving from Fanny Mae to mortgages, these friends, from childhood, college and those I’ve met along the way, continue to actively vote, voice their opinions and participate in their community.

Enter John Mayer’s new single, “Waiting on the World to Change”, hitting the airwaves almost two decades later and stirring the gumbo pot of controversy from the Mayfield estate to members of his own age group. The song muses about his peers facing criticism about doing nothing, but since the world is so fucked up, they are paralyzed, and therefore waiting for the world to change when they will be old enough to take over. The lyrics struck a chord in me, and I felt compelled to act in response.

I’ll give John this, when the CBS Morning show correspondent told him that he was the voice of his generation, he shook his head. Apparently, according to a Boston Globe interview, he’s just the messenger.

"I don’t read it as depressing. It’s honest," says Mayer, who co-headlines a concert with Sheryl Crow at the Tweeter Center on Tuesday. "Why aren’t people marching in the streets? The song is supposed to kind of come off a little irresponsible. I’m sure some people will say it encourages not doing anything. I’m an observer, and sometimes that’s the most damning evidence. It’s not in my drive or my skill set to want to write a song telling people to wake up and change."

Which seems a little hypocritical considering that the music video features a graffiti artist spray-painting the words “WAKE UP!” on a New York City building.

And if Mayer were really an observer, he would note that there are people all over the world, including more than a few of his music industry contemporaries, actually doing something so that others' future won’t be so fucked up.

I thought about the AmeriCorps and Habitat for Humanity volunteers manning the trenches in St. Bernard's Parish/Camp Hope with an average age of 25. I didn’t think they would appreciate being lumped into a catchy tune about apathy, just like I didn’t like being lumped into an article about idleness.

Given the exorbitant amount of work they’ve undertaken coupled with the meager support they were getting from the outside world, one can’t help but stand in admiration at the enormous rebuilding effort they are determined to pull off. They are the light at the end of a long, long tunnel, taking charge of organizing and orienting the hundreds of volunteers that may come in any given day (the week before we arrived, there were 23, our week brought 350), supervising transportation, housing, meals, work loads, obtaining and keeping track of tools, and maintaining the sketchy power supply.

Even with their weary attitude, something Mayer sings about, these “Y’ers” are truly committed people, members of his generation without his means, doing something meaningful with their time, living their ideals. It takes a lot of gumption and perhaps a little insanity to forfeit hanging out with your friends and working towards a career; instead living with strangers in less than comfortable conditions and shoveling out other people’s crap for free, but these are the actions that plant the seeds to a thoughtful future.

It’s hard work, being an activist. High profilers like Al Gore, Neil Young, the Dixie Chicks, Bono, the Flaming Lips, even Marilyn Manson face scrutiny on a very public level for tirelessly working to reignite voters of all age groups into caring about the democracy we live in and the earth we inhabit.

With a swelling population fused to easily accessible information on a global scale, the negative can be overwhelming. I’m not blind to the general malaise shrouded over society, but in this winter of discontent, it’s a damn shame that a Top 40 song melodically lamenting your contemporaries as hopeless is being touted, words that counter a course of action, in fact, inspiring disaffection.

Someone once said “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem”. And then you get to write a pop song about it. I applaud Mayer for saying he is what he is, John Mayer.

But I’d love for him leave the 100 pairs of sneakers, 200 guitars and 150 watches he's amassed behind and follow the advice of Mahatma Gandhi: “You must be the change you want to see in the world.”

Think of the inspiration someone with his talent could create.


P.S. My friend Jon writes: “It’s too bad that people like Mayer & Ellis are celebrated for the kind of glib generalizations that brand whole generations of people as greedy or lazy. Every generation has it’s own slackers and it’s own heroes”.

So for your information and continued reading pleasure, I’ve included some links to a few of my cross-generational heroes. After all, as my brother Phil puts it, we’re all in this together:

Katherine Brengel, organizer of Peace Vigils

Deirdra Serego, co-leader of LA's District 30 chapter of the Peace Alliance Initiative

Leonardo DiCaprio, eco-activist.

Lisa Snyder, a lobbyist for affordable housing.

Mark Zupan, Paralympic Gold Medalist

Ed Norton, founder of GreenBuilding.Com

Nancy Dolan, who consistently gets on the phone encouraging people to vote.

Tom Morello and Serj Tankian, founders of Axis of Justice

Pearl Jam, longtime activists for the Surf Rider Foundation

Barak Obama

Dr. Julie Crosby, Producing Director of Women's Project, an off-Broadway institution for women playwrights and directors.

Medea Benjamin, founder of Code Pink

Bono, Founder of One

Members of The Actor's Gang who aren't afraid to produce politically charged theatre.

Bill Clinton, founder of Global Initiative

Neil Young

Gorbachev, founder of Global Green

My parents, who worked tirelessly for Equal Rights for all people.


I encourage you to add your own!

South Dakota: A Melancholy State of Mind

The results of a 7 year drought
Originally uploaded by beautykat.

There is no doubt about it. Ever since I liberated myself from the corporate grind, I have been on the road, whether it’s a cross-country journey or flying off to Berlin to see friends. So when I tell you that within two weeks of my NoLa, I found myself landing at the Rapid City Airport to join a group of strangers headed towards Eagle Butte, South Dakota, I know you’ll probably shake your head and say “When did Kat turn into Carmen San Diego?”

In February, I committed myself to two summer Habitat trips. Truth be told, it is hard to refuse Ronnie’s southern drawl and infectious energy. When he emailed me a list of builds he would be leading this year, I picked one and signed up. Since leaving Disney, I’ve participated in four builds and have recently joined a group traveling to Mongolia next July. There is something certain about starting a project with your bare hands, hitting hammer to nail, contributing to part of the sum. And to do this alongside a group of people who share the same purpose, whose energy has driven them to a remote town in a still remoter state with the ultimate gift of selflessness and thoughtful introspection, it’s a wonderful space to coexist in.

Words to describe central South Dakota don’t come easily. My friend Mark Miller eloquently cited this area of the United States in his last email to me “It's an austere landscape out there on the Great Plains, but it has its subtle charms.” I recalled an old Variety article about how the Dakotas were trying to boost film production, however, their chief problem was that most couldn’t place them geographically and the general assumption that it was always cold. In fact, my favorite building in New York, built in 1882, ended up being christened “The Dakota” because it was so far away from 14th Street, where the fashionable set was living at the time.

So much of nothingness surrounds our four-hour trek to Eagle Butte. A soft breeze proves to be constant, and with a seven-year drought in effect, can be maddening, gritty and unpleasant. Rolling, grassy hills, dried out lakebeds and kettle ponds pepper the roadways. Sunflowers woefully bend their necks away from the sun, as if in disgrace, their growth stunted due to lack of water and irrigation. Corn crops resemble broad leaf weeds. The effect leaves you feeling thirsty and helpless to their plight. A wide-open sky never peaks above pale blue.



Housing can be a bit of a surprise, so you prepare yourself for anything. You could be sleeping on a church floor, a cheap motel or as we were, in a rebuilt government house with non-opening windows and two bathrooms to share between 12 people. After a long day of building amidst constant wind and dust, we are dirty, sweaty. The rooms are crowded with bunks, there isn’t any space to move about, let alone relax. We collapse on our beds and wait our turn for the shower, hoping for hot water. At night, I try to shield my evening cigarette away from the wind and dirt that finds it way into my teeth.

The team spanned the age spectrum from 16 to 70 beginning with two teen-age Korean boys from Vancouver to an elderly go-getter from Iowa. That our Septuagenarian hails from Dubuque is a fact she reminds us of constantly as if all things flowed from Dubuque; pie tastes better, roads are smoother, the air sweeter. Her voice is a piercing soprano pitch, a trait that forces me to call upon all of my inner strength when I stumble out for coffee at 7:AM. When one of my roommates ambles by and whispers ‘shuddup” in my ear, I laugh right out loud. She is trying to contribute, but by day four, I have forcefully confiscated the keys to one of the rented Suburbans from her. Still, I do admire her. She is active, frequently traveling with elder hostels and habitat trips. And I sense that while Dubuque is home, it is probable that she is quite lonely there. Ironically, we also have an introverted exhibitionist in our midst as well.

There are four decades between the three women I share bunk space with starting at 19. We fumbled into the same, cramped room and in that tight space, I found kindred spirits. We make a list of our favorite books, music and movies and plan a trip to the Grand Canyon. We laugh a lot. And the last day, we cry.

I am reminded of Mark’s sentiment as we caravan back to Rapid City through a corner of the Badlands. There is peacefulness, which resonates here. Land, untouched as yet by the quagmire of homogenous development. Though the reservations struggle to maintain their meager population and economic growth, they also serve as protectors of a vast territory. There is profound bravery in this task. To be able to drive and drive … and drive... without a Chili’s on the horizon, just the earth, a landscape that is probably pretty much the way it was and always has been, is quite settling and I find myself to be grateful for the nothingness.

Eagle Butte may not have been exotic, but a sense of what life was like “On the Rez” affected me. Quiet. Bleak. Desolate. Dry. Poor. Despite the harsh elements, the people are kind, quick to laugh, ingrained with a sense of place, a feeling I lost when my parents sold the Sudbury house.

When I arrive home, my eye catches one of the many inspirational passages on my fridge. “Every year, go somewhere you’ve never been”. I add one of my own. Stay home for two weeks in a row.

Letter from South Dakota

Government Housing circa 1950
Originally uploaded by beautykat.

Almost two weeks following my New Orleans return, and thanks to very generous donors, I was able to join another Habitat build in South Dakota. One of the reasons I love volunteering for this organization is the opportunity for true cultural immersion and Eagle Butte was no exception. The experience opened my eyes to something completely unexpected.

Before arriving, the team leader suggested we read Ian Frazier’s On the Rez, his account of the Pine Ridge reservation, infamous for the battle of Wounded Knee in 1890 and the AIM/FBI occupation in 1973. Frazier is one my favorite contributors to The New Yorker, often chronicling ridiculous, factual accounts of say, the growing population of wild boars in red states. But On the Rez was quite different in tone, painfully human in fact. And while Eagle Butte sits on the Cheyenne River Reservation, due north of Pine Ridge, he seemed to channel the same place. Noting the numerous death markers sprouting from both the sides of Interstate 212, belatedly claiming “You Don’t Have to Die”; a warning against drinking and driving I began to keep a mental list of similarities which grew throughout the week.

When our caravan stopped at the locally owned DairyQueen, I picked up the Eagle Butte Newspaper and flipped through the pages, stopping at an op-ed column titled “Letting Go of the Past”. The simple editorial urged people to put resentments behind them, enjoy their lives and move forward. A bitty smirk escaped before I could reel it back in. I thought of South Dakota’s blighted history, the massacres at Wounded Knee, broken treaties in the name of gold leading to an ongoing dispute over the rightful ownership of the Black Hills, decades long in litigation. Huge expanses of the original Great Sioux Nation have long since been dispensed to share croppers and suburbs of Rapid City, resulting in its own little development bustle on the perimeter of Wal-Mart’s Super Store. In Eagle Butte, water continues to be diverted from the Cheyenne River in order to power southern states. We all can agree that the government owes Native Americans big time. And it’s my belief that the ambivalence reigning over the recent cropping up of Indian casinos belies a silent act of contrition; atonement for the brutal acts of departed kin.


According to the last census, Eagle Butte has a population of 700, of which 48% live below the poverty line, making it one of the poorest communities in the country. I probably saw about 17 people during the week, including the counter girls at DQ. There is no doubt about it, this is a corner of the world without much reason to visit, unless you happen to be one of the thousands of bikers that trek through every August on your way to Harley Week in Sturgis or a devout follower of the Lewis & Clark trail. A handful of cinderblock buildings line Main Street. Food choices are limited to cheese balls, fried chicken salads, hamburgers and the like. Cell service is very limited unless you catch a passing satellite, and email, if you find access, is good old dial up.

The Habitat affiliate is led by Jerry Farlee and the first thing he tells us is that although he is light skinned, he is Cheyenne Lakota Native American. He is very candid about his shortcomings and lack of perfect English, but his energy is brilliant and we find ourselves wanting to spend as much time with him as we can. He is pretty much single handedly keeping the Okiciyapi Tipi Habitat office afloat, in operation since the 1994 Jimmy Carter blitz build. Among his numerous activities, Jerry runs about 100 head of buffalo on his 33,000 acres on the Southeast corner of the reservation, about 45 minutes away from any of his neighbors. He is constantly invited to speaking engagements, operates a camp on his property encouraging people to embrace the earth and each other’s differences, works with at-risk teens by challenging them to participate in sweat lodge ceremonies with him, a sacred ritual that was outlawed up until 1978 when the Native American Freedom of Religion Act was passed. He is committed not only to being a leader in his community, but keeping the community together as well. When it comes to owning a decent house, Jerry tells us that while it is fairly easy to get a car loan, it is near impossible for Native Americans living on reservations to obtain mortgages on land that is not foreclosable, making organizations like Habitat extremely vital.

There is a different time frame on the Rez, but even with the late starts in the morning and the longish lunches, we managed to get an enormous amount of work done, sheet rocking 95% of one property, and completing finish work on another in Bear Creek. The houses are pretty simple in layout, but Jerry has added character here and there by raising the ceilings and designing built-ins. Tin roofs top Harley board siding in colors of purple, red, and tan. These are pretty three-bedroom homes, a definite upgrade from the shoddy 1940s government housing that surrounds it.

After our last day of toil, the group piled into rented Suburbans and drove into the grasslands towards Cherry Creek for their 117th Pow Wow. Kids ran about the circle throwing dirt at each other. Young men and still younger boys took the helm at big, beautiful hand crafted drums. An elder at the mic cracked jokes while puffing on his cigarette, George Burns Sioux style, encouraging everyone to sit down, line up, and get ready for the procession. The drums hit a steady beat and a beautiful parade of beaded and bedazzled women entered the circle, led by four veterans, acting as color guard for the tribal celebration. The Pow Wow was small and not very impressive, but I was moved that in this small, out of the way, hidden town of trailers and struggling farms, people laced up their intricately beaded boots, packed their drums and jingle dresses and headed out on a Friday night to honor their past, include their children in ancient traditions and perform historical dances and songs. But mostly, I was stunned by the presence of the four vets proudly wearing their uniforms and medals. I recall from On The Rez, the fierce patriotism among tribal nations. Wasn’t this the ultimate act of absolution? To serve a country that almost successfully annihilated an entire race?

Seeing those four men gave me pause; inspiring thoughtful introspection of the dead weight we carry around with us. I realized I was resentful on behalf of the Lakota I was working alongside. Embarrassed that my own ancestors hunted Indians and had forts in Iowa outposts named after them. I don’t even know exact details, it’s something whispered during family reunions when the maternal side gets together about every twelve years, but it’s been in my personal history for as long as I can remember. And while I am not personally responsible for those actions, perhaps I can make reparations of my own by volunteering my time and sharing this experience with you.


To view more photos from my trip,Click Here

Kitty Kat's New Car

kat-kar
Originally uploaded by beautykat.

In February, the Benz lost its transmission in the left turn lane at Victory and Alameda. It was a Saturday and I had just left my mechanic who informed me to sell the car right away. The knocking I had just reported hearing was something serious. I took this as a sign from God and sold the car to a retired couple who planned to convert my old friend into a bio-diesel sedan. I watched them tow it away. Aside from its failed transmission, the car was immaculate, my chariot for over five years. It had 300,000 miles on the odometer.

In June, I purchased the Element and took off across the country. Can you believe this is the first new car I have ever owned?

Initial Thoughts on St. Bernard's Parish

In the past twelve months since Katrina hit the coastal towns of Louisiana and Mississippi, news, photos and pleas for donations have inundated the airwaves creating a well-known moniker for one of the century’s most destructive storms. In its wake, several fund raising resources and grass roots orgs have sprung up in support; The Edge’s “Music Rising”, the Common Ground Collective, Dave Matthews, Harry Connick, Jr. & Branford Marsalis have been instrumental in the construction of Musician's Village, Bill Clinton & George H. Bush’s sprouting of a multi-million dollar Katrina Fund. Anderson Cooper even landed a Vanity Fair cover for his reporting of the crisis in New Orleans and Spike Lee’s four-part HBO documentary will air later this month.

Images of Oprah’s chartered helicopter circling the Superdome, while Gayle, on the ground, laments about staying at the 4 Seasons, are still fresh in my mind. And while my colleague Derek’s interpretation of Gayle sends me to floor with laughter, I can’t help but wonder if the actual state of things are tripping the light fantastic. Celebrity involvement has made the slow rebuilding efforts of Katrina wreckage seem, at least to me, out of proportion, bordering on the edge of what seems reasonable and even believable. However, although I had signed up with the Habitat NOLA office last year, it was Ellen DeGeneres’s impassioned plea during a guest spot on the Tonight Show that inspired me to pick a date and get my ass to New Orleans. In fact, I’ve never even watched her hit show, but the quiver in her voice as she relayed what she had seen moved me to action, so my sister and I set off in the new Element, heading south.

As we hit the I-59 towards Picayune, Mississippi, signs of Mother Nature’s wrath surrounded us as if a giant straddled the four-lane highway; arms outstretched and neatly halved the spindly pine trees bordering the route. From that moment, we were deadly aware of a force greater than ourselves.

A few days later, when asked whether I was taking lots of pictures, I had to think about why I had stopped snapping away. A 4 x 6 perspective cannot accurately depict the setting and, deep down, although the township of St. Bernard resembles a ghost town, it seemed disrespectful. Not even Ellen’s description could have prepared me for the wreckage and complete and utter devastation of this community. Neighborhood after neighborhood remains empty. Apartment buildings, stores, gated communities with their steel enclosures ripped open, telephone poles atilt and piles of debris, including cars, boats and appliances, line the sides of roads. Walk down the middle of any street and rarely will you encounter other people. Some houses that are due for demolition have graffiti like “Kiss My Ass Katrina and Levee Board” spray painted across the front of them. Closer to the delta, treetops entrap skeletal remains of mangled furniture and household items. It sounds bad. I’m here to tell you that it is bad.

One of Camp Hope’s frequent volunteers said that what we were looking at was 100% improvement from March. Imagining that, I found myself simultaneously depressed and overwhelmed. Described as one of Louisiana’s proudest and strongest communities, the Parish’s entrance sign declares “We’re Coming Back” but it’s hard to believe. Only 18% of the population has returned to the 27,000 homes that were damaged or destroyed by the storm. Equally disturbing was the lack of support from commercial entities with the money to rebuild. Wendy’s cement slab foundation sat vacant next to its nationally recognized red sign. Wal-Mart, McDonald’s and several local stores have stapled signs on boarded up windows, half-heartedly stating “We’ll Be Back”. It took seven full months after the water receded for Home Depot to open its doors. Grocery shopping is difficult and fast food trailers serving Po-Boys and ribs pull in and out every day. Car dealerships, curiously, are primed for business, stocked with new inventory. Transportation isn’t one of the three basic necessities, (food, clothing and shelter), but after seeing the pile of cars along side Route 46 on the other side of town, you understand that in order to get people back into their homes, they’ve got to be able to move around.

Residents who have relocated nearby or who live in FEMA trailers on their front lawns hurriedly try to salvage their houses in order for the deadline of August 29th, the anniversary of Katrina. I’m not exactly sure what this deadline means, either derelict homes will be bulldozed or the state will seize your property. Habitat for Humanity has taken on the enormous task of gutting to the framework approximately 7,000 residences that belong to the disabled and/or elderly. As of two weeks ago, 1,700 had been completed.

On most homes, the front door has been knocked down or removed. Furniture, having been afloat during the two weeks the parish was under water, has settled elsewhere in the house. As if to prove its point, a waterline permeates rooftops. Food has disintegrated in the cupboards and the refrigerator. You are warned multiple times at orientation to resist temptation and duct tape the fridge shut. There are hazards. We are advised to be on the lookout for rats, copperhead and rattlesnakes, brown recluse and black widow spiders lurking in dark, damp corners as well as shredded mirrors and hand grenades. Closets sprout black mold. The driveway and flooring is slick with muck; a combination of mud, silt and dust that literally cements to soles of your shoes and bottoms of your pants. The smell is vile; truly appalling; an odorous concoction of spoiled food, rotting wood, wet carpet and clothing. A full-face respirator mask was my constant companion.

Once a passage way is hollowed out and windows opened, you tread lightly through the darkness of this mess. You are now somehow the custodian of someone else’s things, trespassing with a sledgehammer. Furniture, Christmas decorations, official Louisiana Saints and Mardi Gras memorabilia, carefully collected by the owner, are now in your jurisdiction to be relegated to an enormous debris pile on the front yard or set aside, hidden from looters. It’s hard to know what a prized possession is or isn’t and after all, since it’s been sitting there for eleven months, I’d be lying if I said I spent a lot of time weighing the odds. Water and time have turned stuff into crap, easily shoveled away and it’s easy to adopt a Mad Max mentality. You begin to relish the sound of breaking glass as you return to the house with your wheelbarrow. Our original team leader listed our responsibilities with indifference. For him, it wasn’t about sifting through someone’s life; it was tearing walls down and smashing things apart and keeping an eye out for firearms ever present in these southern homes. Within two days of this intense work, bearing the brutal heat and humidity of Louisiana, focus is set on clearing out and moving onto the next one.

There is much to be done. (Click here for my slide show)

Everywhere, people ask us to send more volunteers down, to tell our friends about what we’ve seen, to spend our money because they need the business desperately. A resident gratefully told us; “Thank you for coming, it makes us feel like we’re part of America”. I was embarrassed that the feeling of being unprovided for in this country of wealth lingered on.

It’s not for lack of volunteers and private funds as listed above. I barely saw any government services in action with the exception of FEMA trailers, the likes of which families are exasperated at living in for so long, canned FEMA water (not a welcome sight at the Camp) and sporadic debris removal. I cannot begin to assess what process rebuilding this landmass would be; tune into the next blog for my opinion. I will say that I believe if this were a government priority, we would be looking one hell of an improvement.

What is clear in this quagmire of strategic planning boards and hoo hah is the enormous rebuilding effort, generously financed and compassionately completed by the people, including celebrities. Without their familiar faces keeping Katrina current, she would be just another name. Let’s face it. Most people don’t read the in-depth articles like Dan Baum’s Letter From New Orleans in this week’s New Yorker or Charles Mann's August 28th Fortune piece, but they do have time to scan a pop up blurb on AOL about
Matthew McConaughey’s charity eBay sale of his 'Vette or
Brad Pitt’s recent design sponsorship of a 12 Unit green Apartment building for the lower ninth ward. And if bidding on a ’71 Stingray spreads the word that communities remain in need, well I’m on board with that.

HELP & HOPE: St. Bernard Parish Recovery Project

As I was formulating my thoughts about my trip to St. Bernard's Parish, I wanted to share a video one of the volunteers produced. It truly explains what my sister and I were doing there. More to come... check this out.

M.I.A.?

Indeed, dedicated readers, I am still here! I have either been uninspired these past few months, up to my ears in movie premieres, or over inspired and have not been able to find the time or be willing to make the time to write about my adventures. However, I am committed and hope to complete the half-dozen half-finished blogs I've stored in my "In Progress" folder. Until then... cheers!

Fast or Phoenix?

Late last year, my friend Hope called sounding despondent and concerned about a potential sinus surgery. I suggested as a remedy my standard list of cleanses: the juice cleanse, the cayenne pepper/maple syrup cleanse and the mother of all cleanses, the bentonite clay cleanse. Let me tell you, if you can get through the first twenty-four hours, I guarantee by day three you’ll feel like a million bucks. I’m very big on cleansing; positive it will cure me of my sugar addiction. For example, last night I gobbled down two dark chocolate caramels and two thin mints for dinner, leaving me strangely satisfied but wide awake until 2:AM. A cleanse would do me good.

By the time 2005 rolled around, the fast was off, but we were headed for Phoenix. Every year, my girlfriends from high school plan a weekend get-away. In the past, we have been to Calistoga, Costanoa and Cape Cod. This year, Hope consulted 1000 Places to See Before You Die, and suggested Chicago, Dallas or, as a wild card, Phoenix. Chicago was vetoed because of dicey weather; Dallas ardently turned down by me. As a serial fiancée, I was once quasi-engaged to a Texan who just happened to fit the description of “writer/Cowboy fanatic/metrosexual” hailing from J.R.’s hometown. I reflected on New Year’s Eve 1998 when his mother winked at me and whispered that they had been out looking for engagement rings. We broke up in his little dirty Toyota truck on the way back to Los Angeles. No ring and no Dallas. Phoenix would do just fine.

We booked the trip in February. In early March, I had my last communication with the cowboy/roadie/metrosexual who was flinging himself in and out of my life like a towel on the wash line. It was then I learned he was going out on tour with a "SuperGroup" for the summer. Now, I’m not going to let this little piece of information go in and out of my brain so easily. No, I’m going to massage it to DEATH. So, you can imagine my heart palpitation as I read the tour schedule on the band’s website. The second date would be the Dodge Theatre in Phoenix, the same Friday I would be in Phoenix. I immediately began researching restaurants in the neighborhood, planning a wardrobe and dialogue to dupe my friends in to dining downtown where I would be sure to casually bump into Mr. C/R/M and then ignore him.

I couldn’t handle the pressure of this clandestine arrangement I had conjured up in my head. I confessed my complicated plotline to Hope, who seriously asked me if I could be trusted with a car. Listen readers, sometimes people just get under your skin and there’s nothing to be done. It like they take a piece of you of and you'll do anything to get it back; you know what I mean?

Three weeks later. I find myself driving away from the Phoenix Airport on 26th Street, which is, by they way, bordered by the nut house and a low security prison. “ConAir” came to mind. I noted that there were no "Beware of Hitchhiker signs posted anywhere. First impressions are everything.

After navigating the 101 Loop for the next two hours, I found Hope at "The Sanctuary", the only reason to make Phoenix a stop on your life’s travels. I pulled up in the Monte Carlo, handed the keys over to a hunky valet, floated inside and found myself quite at home. The Sanctuary is one of those other worldly spas self-described as a “boutique resort” complete with infinity pool, smooth cement walls, flooring and lime green accents everywhere; modern/desert/Japanese decor staffed by the best looking 20 something’s. It’s West Melrose but in Phoenix. Hope was glowing, having spent the past two days being buffed, waxed and pampered. I quivered: “Why are we leaving?” and tripped up to the reservation desk to inquire about availability. A double room for the three of us would be $549 a night. That sealed the deal. We jumped into our mid-size and headed off to “The Stay in Scottsdale”. “The Stay in Scottsdale” is like every other condo subdivision slapped together with some craft paste concocted from flour and water. The walls actually shook when you shut a door. Thankfully, we had an impenetrable gate to protect us.

Although Phoenix boasts over 200 golf courses and Arizona’s largest western-theme attraction – “Rawhide Wild West Town” where gunslingers roam the street and panhandlers hanker for gold, we did not partake. Instead, we spa'd. Parking ourselves poolside at “The Golden Door at Boulders”, we scanned the menu and decided on treatments. I was extremely tempted by the Native American healing rituals which promised to realign my energy, but after searching the grounds (even peaking inside a teepee), I did not find anyone who I believed fit the description of an actual medicine man. “The Boulders” was beautiful, but let me just set the scene with this. Our yoga instructor had a perfect set of store bought bazooms flanked by purple lip-gloss, matching acrylic fingernails and a puckered mouth that rivals Mick Jagger's. There it is – the porn star yoga instructor. There were no Native Americans at The Golden Door.

That night, determined to keep the toxins out of our body, Nancy prepared a vegan feast as Hope & I lamented about the expense accounts we forfeited for another life. We settled in to watch “Closer”. I can’t say it was a healthy balance to the meal. I left the movie to Hope & Nancy and went to clean up the kitchen.

Having replaced two garbage disposals myself, I should have known better, but I went right ahead and stuffed corn husks, broccoli stalks, artichoke leaves and everything else down the disposal, even using a wooden spoon to ensure everything got in. Seconds into my festival of shoving, shredded remnants began to vomit all over me. I was soaking wet while bits of salad greens bespeckled the kitchen. I reset the disposal, tried the handy Allen wrench to free up the blockage but neither worked. After several attempts with the plunger, we weighed either driving around Scottsdale in search of Drano or taking apart the plumbing. Determined, Hope, using her bare hands, pried loose the plastic pipes and got right down to the heart of the matter. I, handy girl galore, had heaved too much into the crappy 1/2 horsepower disposal. I was not paying attention. We shared a good laugh about our doggedness to fix the sink and by 1:AM, had cleaned up the mess, reconnected the pipes, tidied up the condo and packed our bags.

Oddly, while Phoenix was destination blah, I arrived home positively overjoyed. Something had happened during the Disposal Incident. I reflected on my actions, positive the universe was trying to tell me something. You can’t foist away feelings so aggressively. Oh, and by the way, that piece that you want back – let it go. It’s been expelled for a reason.

Indeed, there was no fasting, but we did manage to purge the plumbing.


**I don’t mean to be a downer about Phoenix. If you like homes the color of putty, a strip mall that encircles the city, and miles of Saguaro cacti reaching their arms to the sky as if to say “Don’t Shoot Me!”, Phoenix is your place. Last week, I asked Hope why she chose this desert metropolis, especially since I flipped through the same book and did not find Phoenix listed. Her reply: “Because it was warm and there were spas”. This was true. When I arrived back in LA, I did some research and found the following, which made that city quite attractive. I’m not going back there, but you might. And just in case, here is wonderful description:

"Phoenix, garnering praise as one of the world's top five golf destinations, ranks as the sixth-largest city in the United States, with nearly 1.3 million residents and a multitude of cultural and recreational activities. Among more than 200 courses in Arizona, more than 120 are in Greater Phoenix, leaving plenty of opportunity to play during some 300 days of annual sunshine. Outstanding museums, galleries, performing arts, fine dining, horseback riding and cowboy shoot-outs are part of the entertainment mix, and the climate makes outdoor activities from desert touring to hot-air ballooning, and water recreation a way of life. Phoenix also serves as a springboard for day-trips to other major Arizona magnets like the Grand Canyon and Sedona."

- Dedicated to Debbie, who was unable to join us this year.

Kat Tales of the City: Part I.

It’s St. Patrick’s Day in New York. I can’t say that I’ve ever been to the parade, but I can claim one St. Patty’s Day belly up at an Irish bar with my pals from college, The Pig N Whistle on 47th Street. I have, however, spent a lot of nights walking these streets and avenues tottering my way to the bat cave on 19th Street I rented. Tonight, after dinner with Vanessa at Shima Sushi on Second Avenue, I got to witness to the revelers tottering their way from bar to bar. To be sober in New York on March 17th is a whole different experience.

Insert any year here, location Manhattan. Drinking and making merry on these evenings that call for it, like tonight for instance, Halloween, or New Year’s Eve, the faces are different, but the actions remain the same. Girls cry, (I passed three on my way home, one sobbing into a cell phone, another to a gay friend about his lover’s bad behavior, and an Asian twenty-something blubbering in her native tongue. I couldn’t translate what she was so upset about, but I could keenly surmise that Cosmopolitans were the catalyst). A kid on a skateboard stopped to vomit between two parked cars. The streetlights were out at 10th & 2nd Avenue, and traffic was beginning to pile up, the two cops walking the beat more concerned about a group of college boys drinking 40s wrapped in brown paper. My brother and I spent one New Year’s Eve drinking beers out of paper bags, but we had straws. We knew the score. A lengthy line had gathered at 11:30 PM outside the infamous McSorley’s where, if memory serves me correct, you have to drink or get out. Your selection: beer or whiskey. Non-alcoholic beverages are not to be found unless you count the tap water from the tiny bathrooms in the back. Even when I was a regular bar hopper, I refused to cue up, preferring a good local place with a well-stocked jukebox and a bartender who knew me. This trait follows me. For example, all week long, I’ve been anticipating the Trader Joe’s opening on 14th Street, and tonight, the line for purchases wrapped completely through the store right out the front doors, an employee holding a sign with a large green clover announcing “Line Ends Here”. Discouraged, I left. Clearly, waiting is not my forte.

As I trotted Lily around the block for our last evening’s pee-mail, I wondered why people were shivering outside of McSorley’s so late. And I think, it must because they haven’t yet found someone to make merry with tonight, that stranger who you hope will hold the answers. Although the odds are long, there is always that expectation of something more. We hear those fairy tales of one-night stands turning into the love of one’s life. I know these stories intimately having friends happily married who have met this way. So we wait in the cold, biting wind, at an hour when “nothing good can happen” my mother would say, with the hope that Some One Wonderful will fall in love with us over a pint of Guinness. And we’ll totter home, happily ever after.

Inherit the Snap

gingergoo
Originally uploaded by beautykat.

There are certain traits that you take for granted you will inherit through the sheer brilliance of DNA; a great golf swing, the ability to whistle, perfect pitch, the simplicity of baking a ginger snap. My mother is not only a great cook but also a fantastic baker. Nobody can top her piecrust. Her mother was a great cook and baker, even making the household bread every week. Now, on the paternal side, my Nana’s culinary contribution was her fish croquets, added annually to the bounty of Christmas Eve dinner. Apparently not a baker, I must get my genes from her.

I don’t know how I got this bee in my bonnet, but for the past few years, I’ve have been trying to break the ginger snap code. Randomly, this question will pop in my head, I could be on the Sepulveda Pass, I could be flying from Newark to LAX, but it will come upon me, what makes a ginger snap snap? And why is this feat so difficult for me to accomplish?

My ginger snaps don’t snap. I follow the recipe, but they come out gingerbready, which, don’t get me wrong, is great, but it’s not a snap. A snap is like a slap on the ass, but in a good way. That thwap sound that you know is going to melt in your mouth. The soccer hottie I’m involved with now (save your questions for the comment section), spent his years following college as a baker in Northampton, Massachusetts. I explained my situation to him over iChat one afternoon while I was blending ingredients for “Cranberry Nut Bread”, another Grandma Sue favorite. He suggested using only yolks, but informed me that his specialty was carrot cake, cheesecake and his ability to knead two loaves of bread at the same time. He wasn’t a cookie man. I consulted the expert. My mother’s suggestion was to lower temperature for longer cooking. This information extrapolated after I begged for her secret. Her reply: “I don’t know, mine have always snapped”. Well, bully for her.

The other evening, I was at Trader Joe’s where I found myself in the check out line debating with the cashier over a canister of ginger snaps or chocolate chocolate chip cookies. Glaring at the ginger snaps, I relinquished the tin to Rafael and decided that this would be the night to tackle the ginger snaps again.

I did not heed the advice of the soccer hottie, but instead decided on a few secrets of mine own, like using one teaspoon of baking soda instead of two, adding double the amount of ginger and substituting King Arthur with gluten free flour. Then I heeded Mom’s advice and lowered the temp from 375 to 350. I waited. The result is what you see here. A glob of ginger goo. Not even that tasty as sometimes goo will be. My experiment ended up in the trash, and I pulled out the never fail good old oatmeal chocolate chip cookie recipe, another one passed down through the family. At least it’s not fish croquettes.

High School... 20 Years Later

It wasn’t as if the year 2005 escaped my notice for monumental rites of passage, the grand finale being my 20th High School reunion.

Since I flat out refused to attend my 10th, so averse was I to anything alumnus related, I had been dropped from the invite list. It wasn’t animosity, rather a “been there, done that and didn’t need to go back” feeling. I didn’t have a horrible teenage experience; on the contrary, it was pretty garden variety. Like most peoples’, life at Lincoln Sudbury began on two left feet, but I survived. There were a lot of good days and few bad ones. I skipped school and drove to Wingaersheek Beach, pulled pranks and fire alarms, had great friends, took all the classes I wanted and graduated in three years, racing to get through high school, so that I could race through college so that I could start my fabulous career. I barely had time for boyfriends. In fact, now that I think about it, I didn’t really even have boyfriends. O.K., I dated D***Mc for a few months my freshman year, but he barely got a kiss, our “relationship” consisting of a lot of sweaty handholding. The following year, I “went out” with Dickie C., a gymnast, Gemini and a senior. “Going out,” meant we sat on the hallway floors, talking about God and ESP. It seemed so sophisticated. He drove a beat up ’69 burgundy Firebird convertible. We’d turn the heat up and put the top down, winding through the back roads to White’s Pond, where we’d wade around in the moonlight, continuing our oh-so-serious conversations. This went on for about two months before he reconciled with his ex-girlfriend, a wispy actress from Lincoln. Tristan and Isolde was what he compared their love to. Our evening swims were anything but passionate, and I took the break up pretty well. I mean, there weren’t any historical make out sessions, just a lot of talk. (In the years that followed, however, he’d somehow track me down and we’d engage in long, late night phone philosophy about our connection and question if we belonged together. In 1991, he called to tell me he was in New York for a long weekend working as a carnie. He arrived at my Astoria apartment a few hours later, sold me long distance service and disappeared into the night. That was the last time I saw or heard from him).

The point is, love did not figure into my plan, and I handled the subject rather rationally, wise beyond my years. Didn’t I have all the time in the world for love? Why would I want to waste these valuable years on someone I know I’m going to leave for the Big Apple?

So although I can’t recall the impetus, I jumped at responding to the invitation my pal Suzanne forwarded and encouraged my girlfriends to join me. While they grumbled that I owed them, I took a long awaited opportunity to remind them of the silent treatment they invoked, forcing me into attending the Class of ‘83’s Senior Prom with a friend of their boyfriends. Awkward and resentful, I’m confident I ruined whatever high school fantasy he imagined about back seats and motel rooms, insisting that he take me home and spending exactly five minutes making out in my driveway before I was sure my mother would flick on and off the lights, our signal for me to get the hell out of the car and in the house.

But back to November 25, 2005. Location: the Crowne Plaza, Route 9 Framingham. It surprised me that class of ’85 hadn’t aged at all, and I thought, could this is the fountain of youth? Surrounded by people you grew up with, you could forever retain the same childlike countenance through their eyes. Everyone seemed genuinely happy; there was a buzz about the room, as if we were waiting to march down the hill to the football field in that late May afternoon of graduation. As the hours flew by, I hated for the evening to end, imagining myself joining the committee for the next reunion, and perhaps persuading them to plan a three-day retreat. I know, that sounds ridiculous, but I was caught up in a euphoric energy; brought on by the keen absence of high school insecurities, and wanted to stay put. I knew these people. Lincoln Sudbury Regional High School (or Drinking Drugsbury Reasonably High School as some liked to call it) was no different than any other. It could have been a scene right out of the iconic high school movies chronicling the 70s and 80s like Dazed and Confused or The Breakfast Club. We had the same Madonna look-a-likes, computer nerds, jocks, rats, (smokers clad in denim jackets) and motor heads populating the hallways. And with those stereotypes, some things don’t change. Not a few of our former cheerleaders had become classic suburban hard-bellied moms, MILFs if you will, donning tight designer jeans and revealing shirts, accessorized with an accordion packet of their progeny. A slide show projected, among other snapshots, our former class president’s virtual photo album of over-achievements. There he was hiking the Appalachian Trail, climbing Mount Everest, biking the Tour de France route, running the Boston Marathon, surfing in Tahiti. And there were a lot of family photographs. Most of the attendees were settled into a lifestyle I never had time for.

Much can happen in twenty years. Nobody knows the glorious triumphs, spectacular failures and tragedies we’ve lived over the past two decades, but that banquet room was a safe harbor. I felt a kinship to my fellow graduates. There is something important about these relationships, and perhaps it is the shared adolescent experience of surviving the roughest, toughest part of growing up, puberty, and we’ve made it. And by being in this presence, even years later, you reveal everything. The bond has stuck.

I’ve started keeping in touch with a few that I hadn’t seen since graduation. One of them reminded me that I ran around with a “tough crowd”. The fact that I was a real prude may surprise you. I was almost always the designated driver, dubbed “the Big V”. (Figure that one out yourself) and all around parent’s favorite. It was an exciting time. I’m always envious of kids flying the coop for college. It is an exquisite feeling, ankling the house for the first time when you are ready, really ready, to be on your own. I know parents must get squirrelly about their kids leaving the nest, but I hope for them to appreciate the independence and excitement their kids are experiencing. Mine weren’t worried about me at all. In fact, they began giving me luggage when I was sixteen, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to leave. I minded later when I found myself in a therapist’s office wondering why she was telling me I had abandonment issues. By 25, I was working twelve hour days and getting four hours of sleep, hitting bars and after bars, way up to my eyeballs in credit card debt and student loans, loving life but at the same time wondering why it was all so hard, wishing I didn’t have to have the worries. Did I want to be an adult way too fast? Is this why I find myself trying clothes on in the junior department, looking at my reflection, silently saying to myself, “Wow, I am almost 40. I can’t be wearing this Roxy jacket”.

As I walked in and out of conversations in that generic banquet room, Prince’s “1999” in the background with the Madonna girls on the dance floor, I was reminded of what I felt at 17. At the top of my game. Cocky. Smart. I was getting out of town and nothing could stop me. Here, in 2005, club soda in hand, I flit in and out of conversations and silently take in how people remembered me, like when I hit the road for NYC, I was going places. If only we could see ourselves as other people see us, harness that and keep for personal reflection when the going gets rough. Turning down an offer for a ride home from a former class mate and soccer hottie, I take my place as the designated driver and through the frosty night, I realize that I still am going places. I am at the top of my game again.

Reunion 2005
Originally uploaded by beautykat.