Hitting Send

When I think back to my decision to take a semester off from college to backpack across Europe by myself I must call it a premeditated impulsive choice (yes, I know this is an oxymoron). The desire to return to Holland had been building in me for a long time, coupled with an intense longing to see more of the Northern European countries. This came to light when a friend told me he had cancer and all he wanted to do was study as much as he could. I thought to myself, “If I had cancer, all I would want to do is go to Europe.” Which immediately led me to, “Why do I have to be dying to go to Europe?” I made a split second decision not to return to college as planned, but to take time off to travel. After all, if not now, when?

I would use my mom’s house in Mendocino as my interim base camp between my college dorm life and my backpacking trip. Prior to this relocation, I sent out a number of resumes with cover letters explaining that I would be in Mendocino for a specific time period and was looking for a job utilizing my skill set. Considering that it was a small, economically depressed area, I was blessed to be offered a position working for a local Inn/Restaurant as their Hostess. Not exactly what I had in mind for myself, but I would have to take what I could get.

Once I and my few belongings were safely resituated at mom’s house, it was time to get to work; after all, I had no money saved and a trip to pay for! I donned the pre-requisite black skirt and white top and anxiously went to my new Hostess job. This was when fate intervened on my behalf. The sole bookkeeper for the Inn/Restaurant had seen my resume and knew potential when she saw it, as I had a great deal of office and customer service experience. She set her sites on making me her new assistant. I was asked to return the following morning to meet with her and the business owners. Needless to say, they decided to hire me as bookkeeping assistant, despite a lack of prior experience in the field. In fact, I think my high school math teachers would have had a good chuckle at this!

The bookkeeper immediately set out teaching me every aspect of what her job entailed. She began with tallying restaurant totals, emptying the safes, and organizing deposits, but soon moved to what would become my new misery: spreadsheets. Ugh! I hated them immediately! First of all, they were dreadfully large and awkward. Secondly, making numbers total across *and* down was just not my forte at all. And yes, if you’re wondering, we were doing all of this by hand and on paper at the time. I needed motivation to help me get through this headachy torment and keep me focused upon the ultimate European goal. Besides, my friends were all saying something akin to, “You have an open-ended ticket and no money?! How are you going to pay for the trip??”

In my heart, I knew I was doing the right thing, so I stayed focused upon the dream. I found every picture I could of European countryside, trains, villages, and any other images that I found inspiring and pasted them all together on a poster board which I then hung above my desk at work. I would take breaks from my spreadsheet to gaze up at it longingly, transporting myself into this future, and allowing myself to experience what being there would actually feel like.

A few weeks before I was to leave for my trip, the bookkeeper quit without notice, leaving me the sole bookkeeper in charge. Hahaha! I somehow stumbled upon the fact that she hadn’t done a backup of computer files in almost a year! So I purchased computer disks with this goal in mind. Inside the box of disks was a scratch-off ticket which I scratched off only to discover a losing ticket. In addition, they were the wrong disks. Without any rational thought, I proceeded to open the second box of disks. You know? The ones which should be getting returned to the store! I scratched off the ticket and stared in disbelief at the three matching totals. I reread the directions which clearly stated that if you match three like amounts, you win that amount. Heart pounding in my chest, I counted and recounted zeros. Ohhh my God/Goddess!!! I had just won $10,000.00!!! My bosses were kind enough to allow me to keep this, and I reciprocated by not only returning the money for both boxes of disks, but also buying them each a case of their favorite fine wines. After all, I now had the money I needed for my trip and then some!

There is presently a great deal of attention going into the concept of creating one’s own reality. Whether you call it “Law of Attraction”, programming the subconscious mind, or simply setting goals; it’s all the same thing. It begins with setting the intention, stating the goals you wish to accomplish. It’s helpful to then look at what it will realistically take to achieve these goals. But, in my personal experience, it is focusing on that end result and feeling what it feels like to already have it that aids in the process of attaining what you want. What do you want most in life? Focus upon it, see it, feel it, dream it, and it can be yours.

The story of my tomatoes begins with my composting, because without that rich soil, the tomatoes never would have been the same. I began composting because I wanted to cut back on what was going into our landfills, choosing to recycle what I could back into the earth from which it came. As a bonus, I knew that the dirt would contribute to a lovely, healthy garden. Sounds great, right? However a slight problem emerged when, after composting on the sloping hillside behind my house for a little over a year, I decided to move. Ugh! Lose all of that wonderful dirt for which I had so lovingly cared? Unless, there was a way to…take it with me?

I was moving to a new house with my best friend from high school and her husband, who had just arrived in California from South Africa. The night before our move, I said, “I’m taking my compost with me!” You can imagine how this went over. Being the chivalrous type, the South African husband volunteered to assist me. Now, I must mention that I was determined and would have dug up the dirt entirely on my own had he not generously done so for me. So…okay, it’s dark out and I’ve got this poor guy shoveling compost into trash bags. I helped! I held the flashlight and held bags open. We dragged these heavy bags of dirt into a van and drove them across the entire county to their new home. Do I have great friends or what?

With my compost transported, I moved on to the next order of business: preparing the earth for planting. I had two plots with which to work, and it was fortunate that I began in blessed denial of just how much work it was actually going to entail. You see, there were ridiculously large, dead bulbs deep within my new canvas beds. And I, in my overzealous and blissful ignorance, decided to dig them all up. I did, too! Then I happily added the transported compost dirt; which I just knew was going to contribute to the growth of whatever I planted.

But what to plant? I headed for the nursery to have a look around. When I saw the baby tomato plants, I just knew. For some inexplicable reason, I had always wanted to grow tomatoes. Which is really odd…because I didn’t actually like to eat them. And when the nursery attendant told me they would do well in my sunny yard, I was even more convinced that it was meant to be. I was going to grow tomatoes! In true form, I purchased what I would eventually learn was far too many for one gardener and her little garden.

Fortunately, I was careful to follow recommendations on how to space out the plants. At this point, I admittedly had no concept of just how big these little plants could, and would, actually get. I was clued in when told of the size of the metal stands I needed to put around them to provide them with support and protection. But that would not be enough to keep them protected from my beloved Golden Lab/Australian Shepard, Lucy. No. For that I was going to need a fence.

After finding a supply store in the phonebook, I hopped in my red truck and headed off for fencing supplies. Let me tell ya’, they don’t see many women at the building supply store I went to. The looks I got asking for five-foot heavy duty chicken wire fencing and staples with which to secure it! They stood and watched as I dragged it to my truck, and I’m positive I heard chuckles as I drove away. But I wasn’t going to be stopped now! I would do whatever it took for my tomatoes. I drove home, and I put up that fencing.

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All I had to do now was water them, provide them with structural support occasionally by tying up branches, and then stand back and watch them grow. And grow they did! They grew tall, strong, proud and very, very abundantly. I soon had countless, red, vine-ripened, organic tomatoes. WOW! They were spectacular! And so delicious I had never tasted anything like them before. But, OMG, what to do with all of these tomatoes! After all, my freezer could only hold so much homemade sauce. The answer was clear. I was going to share my harvest. First, I gave them to family and friends. When I still had more than I could contend with, I decided to share with my neighbors too! So, all summer long I walked around my cul-de-sac with baskets of my precious gems, handing them out to all who wanted them. They were greatly appreciated and helped solidify my neighborhood connections. A win-win ending to a prosperous bounty.

When people hear that I grew up in Amsterdam, they seem to be filled with certain images of what that may have looked like. In certain ways, their images are indeed correct. Pot and pot smokers? Check and check. Prostitution and prostitutes out in the open? Yes, and yes. But these are not the images brought to mind when I reflect back on my upbringing. I remember a different Amsterdam.

I remember canals interwoven into the infrastructure, and the quaint, picturesque bridges connecting the city cobblestone streets. Grachten, which means canals in Dutch, are waterways that run in a horseshoe shape and criss-cross throughout the city itself. Traveling these canals by boat is a relaxing experience, and a lovely way to see the city, especially at night when many of the houses and bridges themselves are lit up. Very enchanting and romantic indeed!

I spent a short time actually living on a houseboat on the canals. I have two memories of this time. The first is that my guinea pig, Rose, whom I adoringly carried around everywhere with me in a bag over my shoulder, was allowed to run free on the houseboat. My second memory is that I feared falling into the canal, stemming from my lack of swimming skills. I admit that despite this dreaded fear of toppling in and drowning, my love and fascination for these canals would lead me to their edge, where I would precariously perch on their banks to peer into them. Ahhh, yes, an adventurous spirit from a very young age!

Many summer days were spent in the largest city park, Vondelpark, which is popular with both tourists and locals alike. Designed as an English landscape, the park has vistas, ponds, and pathways to create an illusion of a natural area. There is a statue of Dutch poet Joost van den Vondel, for whom the park was named, the cast iron music dome, and six playgrounds for children. I recall many hours spent on both the playgrounds and the vast lawns that stretch across the park. I also have memories of the musicians performing free concerts. But what I remember most vividly are the many Krishna devotees, in their orangey-shaded robes and shaved heads, dancing about, banging tambourines and singing, “Hari Krishna, Krishna, Krishna…” Ohh, yes. I remember the song all of these years later!

There are so many beautiful buildings, museums, churches and squares in Amsterdam. My love for the Dutch architecture is divided between some of its most famous structures, like the famous Rijksmuseum, Centraal Station, or the Oude Kerk, a famous church with a Gothic-renaissance style octagon bell tower, and the Dam Square with its hundreds of resident pigeons. One of my favorite photos of myself as a child was taken in Dam Square, and depicts a small girl with pigtails surrounded and covered with pigeons. I must also mention the beautiful, neo-renaissance building, Stadsschouwburg (say that three times fast!), where I attended many fine performances with my mother, including a performance by Rudolf Nureyev! But I also love the architecture in general. Amsterdam has managed to efficiently pack many people into its small city by building narrowly and upward. This came to be when, in its formative years, property owners paid taxes based upon the width of their structures. The buildings are so narrow, the stairs so skinny, steep and sometimes winding, they had to build hooks into the tops of buildings in order to lift furniture up and in through windows. I have many memories of walking beneath a piece of furniture being hoisted to its new home and hoping it wouldn’t fall, squishing me!

I would be remiss if I didn’t share images of the colorful and fragrant flower mart spread out for blocks, with far more than the tulips for which the Netherlands is known. The Bloemenmarkt (Dutch for Flowermarket), is the only floating flower mart in the world, as the flower stalls stand on permanently moored barges and houseboats along the Singel canal. Hundreds of flower merchants sell every imaginable variety of plants, flowers, seeds, cacti and bulbs from all over the world from these floating shops. How cool is that? While I guarantee it to be a floral playground for adults, as a child it was a magical dreamland of color and scent.

And speaking of fragrant, all I need do is walk into a produce shop to be transported back in time. And I’ve tried to recreate this years later in the states by visiting Farmer’s Markets, which, as wonderful as they are, just aren’t the same. Something about that fresh produce brought indoors? I’ve yet to figure it out.

I’ve often heard that Holland has more bicycles than people, and more bikes per capita than any other European country. The typical Amsterdam street, bar those canal-side lanes that are only about thirteen feet wide, has a bicycle lane on each side (usually red or yellow). Bike racks can be found all over the city, often filled to capacity. You’ll find bikes securely latched on to all kinds of odd fixtures; anything cemented to the ground or bolted to a building is fair game. My bike growing up was yellow, and I loved it dearly. I learned a love of cycling which, sadly, seems to have been lost to this vast wasteland of cars and freeways in which I now reside. Unless…do you suppose the stationary bike I ride 3-4 times a week counts??

Well, I do hope that I’ve been able to give you a different perspective on the Amsterdam I know and love! That’s a taste of the international view through my lens. More to come I assure you.

I have had a love and appreciation for body art since I was young. I remember being fascinated by the henna and permanent tattoos I saw on foreigners passing through my mom’s place of business in Amsterdam when I was a young child. It all seemed so exotic to have these multicolored pieces of artwork displayed across various body parts.

When I got my first tattoo I was 19 years old. I attended University and resided on campus. Despite wanting a tattoo really badly, I wasn’t sure I was ready to be the first female in our large circle of friends to get one. That changed one night at a party when I, perhaps a touch toasted, declared my intent to brand my backside. My hottie gay neighbor was the one who turned my declaration into a dare, which was all the incentive I needed to fulfill my desire.

The next day, worse for the wear, I was still going through with this “dare”. My three roommates drove me to the closest big town and my first tattoo artist, a Hell’s Angel named Bubba. I may have drunk a fifth of vodka on the way. You know? For the pain. This is a very bad idea, by the way, because alcohol intensifies the pain and increases bleeding. It’s illegal, too. Additionally, the alcohol only added to my need for reassurance. It was Bubba’s “Old Lady”, who tried to comfort me with these words, “First time? Don’t worry! You’re gonna love ‘em and you’ll end up keep gettin’ ‘em ‘til you look like me!” I stared down at all of the tattoos on her arms and tits. I was not comforted.

When it was time to get my tattoo, Bubba stared through me, and said in a deep voice, “Drop your pants and bend over.” My roommates tightly held my legs to keep me from moving. And that was how I ended up with a small, slightly crooked heart on my ass. (Didn’t know this was a cautionary tale, did ya? Pick your artist carefully, boys and girls!)

My second tattoo was done on a bunk bed in an unofficial youth hostel in Amsterdam. (And yes, I know how bad that sounds! It gets worse.) I can’t remember the name of the artist, but he was traveling from….ummmm…well, it was a Spanish-speaking country. I remember because he spoke no English. Yes. Inconceivably, we actually planned the tattoo out using my high school Spanish. I was having him fix my heart and add a dove and two stars to it. Okay, I may have been a little stoned…I’m not saying…but it was Amsterdam. What am I saying? It was Amsterdam and I was stoned off my ass. And I wouldn’t recommend it at all, because it amplifies pain like a… The only place we could find an electrical outlet to use was next to the bunk beds upstairs. A fellow traveler from South Africa held my hips for me. I was told that my screams carried down the five flights of stairs into the hostel activity room below. Then, ignoring my warnings that it was permanent, the South African proceeded to get a pot leaf tattooed on his ankle. (Dude! Would love to know how that worked out for ya!)

It wasn’t until five years later that I was ready for my third tattoo. I am hesitant to admit that up until the night before, my intention was to get a pink flamingo on my ankle. (Don’t hold it against me. I didn’t. Thank God I got something much cooler.) I was stopped from this poor choice by very vivid dreams. One was that a female tattoo artist screwed up my tattoo. The second was that I was supposed to get my power animal tattooed on my hip.

The next day, my fantastic girlfriend drove me across the Golden Gate Bridge to a tattoo shop in San Francisco. The only available artist was a female. Of course I freaked out (because of the dream the previous night, duh) and left the shop, and called another tattoo parlor. I asked the guy who answered the phone if he could take me now if I came in. “Yeah. Where do you want me to take you?” he answered in a ridiculously sexy voice. I had found my third tattoo artist, the incomparable and incredibly sexy Paco.

Upon arriving at the shop, I scanned the walls for the perfect version of what I was looking for, but it wasn’t there. When I told Paco what I was seeking, he said he had just seen a picture in a children’s magazine that would be perfect. (A children’s magazine? I couldn’t picture Paco with a kid’s rag in hand, but I suppose inspiration can come from anywhere.) Sure enough, the picture in the magazine was perfect, and he freehanded my piece from the photograph.

We went into the back room so I could take off my pants (I know! Again?) and lie down. For three and a half hours Paco tattooed a gorgeous tiger across my hip. I think it took so long because of all of the colors and detail. I’m sure the fact that some innocent flirting was occurring helped slow the process down a touch. And this I do recommend. To have the person placing permanent artwork on your body while mutual lusting is occurring is definitely something to experience.

Will I add to this limited collection? Absolutely! There is plenty more ink in my future. A friend of mine led me to an incredibly talented artist he found on myspace whom I would consider using. If that sounds sketchy, it’s not. There are many legitimate, wonderful tattoo artists on myspace. But when I do get my next tat, I promise to write about it!

I love tattoos. I love looking at the artwork, but I especially enjoy learning about the symbolism behind why someone was compelled to place a particular piece permanently on his or her body. Tattoos have served as rites of passage, marks of status and rank, symbols of religious and spiritual devotion, decorations for bravery, sexual lures and marks of fertility, pledges of love, punishment, amulets and talismans, protection, and as the marks of outcasts, slaves, convicts and political prisoners. The symbolism and impact of tattoos varies in different places and cultures. The art of tattooing goes back in time as far as the oldest European mummy found. The iceman, discovered around the border between Italy and Austria, dates back to between 3350-3100 B.C.E. and had 57 carbon tattoos on his low back, behind his left knee and on his right ankle. Isn’t that fascinating?

It’s also been reported that when Columbus arrived here, most of the natives were inked. They most commonly used burned ash, placing it under the skin. It was a process so painful that tats were considered a badge of honor and thus the more one had, the braver one was considered. A decline occurred when Christians attempted to convert aboriginal and indigenous people to Western religious and cultural practices that considered tattooing to be a “pagan” or “heathen” activity.

While I appreciate the artistic expression of something like sleeves (full arms), I find a few strategically placed tattoos far more appealing. But like everything in life, I think moderation is key. Besides, it isn’t just the artwork itself that I love, but the ink standing out against the flesh. If I notice that you have them, I’m going to want to know what they’re of, what they symbolize, translate to (if they’re characters), and any other info you’re willing to share with me about them.

I love that people are getting wings! Dusty of Angel City Tattoo Parlor did this:

I’m a sucker for the hint of a tattoo peeking from beneath a shirt sleeve. I am so compelled to know what lies beneath the fabric. And really, what’s wrong with that? But how to find out without looking like a total weirdo stalker chick? Let’s face it; unless you have a legitimate reason for talking to the person, it’s not gonna happen. Perhaps that’s why I’m getting pretty clever at beginning conversations with strangers, which just happen to lead into, “I hope this doesn’t sound too invasive, but I’m really curious about that tattoo!”

At the video store recently I managed to both get really great rental advice and find out about another patron’s tattoo. In fact, when the clerk couldn’t recommend any videos, said patron valiantly stepped in to offer his advice. I didn’t even know about the tattoo yet. But once I zeroed in on it, I took leave of all reason and propriety. Before I could stop myself I had reached up and pushed back his shirt sleeve to reveal his inked bicep. Even the ultra liberal, California girl that I am wasn’t prepared for what I saw. It was a naked woman! Hmmmm. I’m all for the human form in its natural state, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about it displayed in this style. I needed to know why he had gotten it to decide. His uncreative answer left much to be desired. He actually told me that he had seen it on the wall at the tattoo shop and didn’t know what else to get. Dude! They’re permanent! Shame. He was really nice and the movies he recommended were quite good.

The next time I pulled off this little caper, (and yes, there was actually a “next time” and I’m actually copping to it) was at a store where I occasionally shop. I had been crushing on this super cutie guy for awhile and there was definitely a mutual flirtation between us. Of course I noticed that he had characters tattooed onto his wrist and wondered what they stood for and how they might unlock the mystery to this hunky guy with the smoldering gaze. One day I brazenly approached Mr. Cutie and ran my red-laquered nail across his branding and asked him what they meant. After a few “ummmm’s” which left me wondering if he in fact knew the answer to this question, he told me that it was Sanskrit for “Demon”. I seriously questioned my hearing and incredulously asked, “Demon?” Surely he was joking! But he embarrassedly admitted that, yes, I had in fact heard him correctly. I considered myself fairly warned and subsequently lost my crush.

Here’s another tattoo by Dusty that I love:

I could easily go on and on about tattoos and the cool designs I’ve seen, but I’ll wrap it up for you by giving you a few statistics I find interesting. Tattoos are currently most popular in America, Europe and Japan. An online poll taken in 2003 estimated that 16% of people in the U.S. have at least one tattoo. They are also more frequently seen in the gay community, in the age bracket of 25-29, with thirty-something’s coming in a close second. Not surprisingly, they are more common on the West Coast (US) and on Democrats. They’re more frequently seen on men by the narrow margin of 16% to 15%. The most popular designs that I see are tribal, characters, stars and skulls, but Dusty of Angel City Tattoo Parlor in Studio City, CA tells me that flowers are the current most popular design. Thank you for the pictures Dusty! I actually have a couple of stars myself, but I’ll tell you the highly entertaining stories about my ink in my next post.

Music has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. My memories are tangled and intertwined with certain songs or albums. For me, it can set a tone, mimic and amplify my emotions, or set a backdrop. It can lull me into a relaxed state, or it can energize me faster than any cup of coffee. It cradles and comforts me when nobody else understands, or it lifts my spirit and inspires dance. From rousing anthemic celebrations to moving ballads that conjure lost love and dissipated dreams, music expresses what cannot be put into words, yet cannot remain silent. I have said many times that “life deserves a soundtrack”. And I have my quiet, contemplative, meditative side too. But otherwise, everything is better set to music. Preferably loud enough to really *feel*, as my ex, (Mr.” Is that loud enough for ya?”) would attest.

During the Holidays, I reminisced with my mother about the albums I heard growing up in Amsterdam. The album I remember the most was guessed by mom without pause. “Stevie Wonder!” she immediately blurted out. I nodded my head and we laughed as we came up with a few others. Bob Marley had to have been a close second, followed by Cat Stevens and Led Zeppelin. Wasn’t Pink Floyd there, too? There were more, but you get the idea, right? I think I grew up on some great albums! There was also a great deal of live folk being played around me.

I became a rocker at a young age. I remember being very effected when my girlfriend turned me on to “Synchronicity” by the Police. It spoke to me in a different way than music had before, and inspired me to explore different genres as well. It also seemed to be the predecessor to my desire for some politics interspersed in my tunes.

I have listened to various cultures of music: I grooved to reggae; drifted to classic rock; bouncy-shuffle-danced, new waved and punked my way through the 80’s; raved the techno spots; played with rap and hip hop; rocked, head-banged, and even moshed. I’ve line-danced, polka’ed, and been a season ticket holder to the San Francisco Opera. But the next turning point came when I listened to the Cure while staying in Holland. Let’s say I may have had a higher acceptance of their music at the time. Their influence has stayed with me to this day.

By the early to mid-90’s I was full-fledged into alternative rock. By this time I had already fallen hard for my all-time favorite band, U2. I obsessively replayed Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Green Day, Rage Against the Machine, Smashing Pumpkins, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Stone Temple Pilots, Soundgarden, Bad Religion, Filter, Offspring, Beck, Chemical Brothers, Garbage and many, many others. My friends and I were in attendance at numerous concerts and bar/club performances of what were mostly up-and-coming artists and bands. I still remember when I first heard the Foo Fighters, who are still in my (beloved) top five list. May I say that they just get better all the time? Not over-produced, but with clean instrumentals and stripped down lyrics.

The bands I am currently listening to the most are predominantly alternative. I still love U2, the Cure, Depeche Mode (That’s been a long love affair!), Zeppelin, and I’ve stayed with my favorites of the 90’s bands. I’ll turn to rock bands like Aerosmith (who are amazing live), The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Santana, and some others that might surprise you. I’ve also maintained an appreciation for a little reggae. I forget how long I’ve adored Coldplay, Radiohead, System of a Down, The Verve, Nine Inch Nails, Weezer and Audioslave, but my adoration obviously outlasted a couple of the bands. I’ve added to that a long list including bands like Linkin Park, Incubus, Muse, The Killers, The White Stripes (how do two people rock so hard?), Tool, Evanescence, Queens of the Stone Age (love the superman tat), The Bravery, Hot, Hot Heat, My Chemical Romance (who I thought were too bubblegum for me when I first saw them, but brought me around with The Black Parade), Death Cab for Cutie, Snow Patrol, Interpol, Silversun Pickups, Feist, Arctic Monkeys, Mars Volta (live), Franz Ferdinand, Wolfmother, Army of Me, Plain White T’s, and many others that I feel guilty for leaving out. Sometimes there’s a marked departure and I’ll listen to 50 Cent, Kanye West (Don’t act like I never told ya!), Justin Timberlake, and of course, the talented Mr. Robin Thicke. Or I’ll get into John Mayer, Corinne Bailey Rae, Jack Johnson. Sometimes I’ll listen to classical. The more shocking reveal is that I really like Songs About Jane by Maroon 5 (Hey, Adam, I hear you do yoga… ;-)).

I’ve been very fortunate to be able to attend many concerts that introduced me to new stuff I otherwise wouldn’t have discovered. Sometimes a friend will pass something along. I love being ahead of the game on hot new music, and swear I listen to lots that I haven’t mentioned. If you share my taste in music, or know of something I would enjoy, write and tell me what I must pick up. I’m looking forward to hearing my soundtrack progress.

“Dude! You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” I said to the shiny, black Mercedes that had just brazenly cut me off. When I heard this statement come out of my mouth, I realized that my vocabulary had gone to shit. Perhaps it was to be expected. After all, I do live in the same county that had inspired Valley Girl and the language that evolved from it. “Like, Oh My God!” The original OMG? Also popular was the saying, “Gag me with a spoon.” And thank you God that you don’t hear that one anymore. I live in the land where heirheads and celebriwreaks reign supreme and dominate the media. They’re rich, so surely their education can be counted upon to make them vocal role models. “That’s H@#!” (Ohh, right. And you even copyrighted it so I can’t use it here).

I’ve always found it humorous when people say they don’t have an accent. Of course you do! We all do. Every region’s dialect has its own nuances and inflections. Some, like the Southern drawl or a crisp English accent, are more obvious. Others, such as those in the Midwest, tend to be more subtle and difficult to define. I definitely came to adapt not only the California speech patterns, but the lingo as well. Now I’m not saying that all of my verbal abuse came from California, but, perhaps I should let you be the judge.

As a well-educated, intelligent, and generally articulate person, I am embarrassed to admit that I not only use far too much slang, but that the most overused word has to be “dude”. I can control it! I would never refer that way to my mother, or anybody else with whom I was carrying on a respectable rapport. But with my friends, particularly those of the male persuasion, I can say it a lot. And I know it’s not becoming. I’m working on it. Isn’t admitting I have a problem the first step?

Check it. Nah… I don’t usually use that one. I’m more likely to say, check this out. And I like, totally love to add an “a” to the ends of words too. I shoulda, coulda, woulda, sorta, kinda, gotta stop that habit too. ‘Cause it sucks big time. Dontcha think? BTW- you should totally check out my writing program trying to help me correct the errors of my ways right now!

Dudes! I’m totally gonna blow your mind and admit to my other nasty little habit; my love for the ‘f’ word. What do you mean you’re not surprised? Ohh, right. I fuckin’ used it in the first sentence, didn’t I? As a word, I find that it can stand alone nicely, but it also provides just the right emphasis when used with other expressions. Totally friggin’ awesome just doesn’t have the same panache as totally fuckin’ rad. Or is it totally fuckin’ killer? Although I do like freakin’ awesome. What the fuck?…Right?

I promise that I’m a respectful and loving person, so I would only tell someone to “shut up” if it were in a context that assured me that the person knew I was joking. And this is where I would not advise the ‘f’ word, because I hate hearing people say, “Shut the fuck up,” even if they do preface it with “dude”. What I do like to use and hear others say are “It’s all good”, “no worries” and “nice”. They have such sweet connotations. Sweet! As in, “Dude! That’s totally sweet!” And although it too stands alone nicely, a “dude” on the front is even more fun. Admit it!

You’re trippin’ by now, right? You’ve seen my photo and you’re shocked and just a little tripped out. I feel you! Although I rarely dig it. Sometimes I’m down with it. But more often than not I’m into it. Either way things are definitely cool. And that’s so hot. Because if it doesn’t suck, then it probably blows. But not chunks, ‘cause that’s nasty. And I’m so not fuckin’ around. No shit. Damn baby! You rock! Hell no??? Fuck yeah, man! Don’t hate, you know you love it!…and will I clean up my act soon? Nah…Fuck that! Later dudes…I’m out!

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon and I was enjoying coffee at a local Starbuck’s with an acquaintance when he brought up an interesting point. He asked how I was able to spend weekday time with so many of my friends. “Don’t they have jobs?” he wanted to know. And they do have jobs, just not in the conventional sense. They’re also hard working, usually putting in more hours than the usual 9-5 job would require. My friends are mostly artists, usually making good use of the slash career. Or they’re creating their own businesses. Either way, most are their own bosses. All are following their passions. And I’m proud of them for it.

Many in this town take a critical view of the aspiring actors/ writers/ directors/ musicians and others considered wannabes. I personally love to surround myself with creative people and I appreciate those who aren’t afraid to be an original, especially when they are following their dream. There is no other person like you. We are all originals. It’s important to act like one, and to have the courage to think like one. My friends personify this beautifully.

I understand that in a city like Los Angeles it gets a little cliché to meet yet another person with a screenplay. The vast majority of the people I know have at least one. Or they’re creating the next big television series, reality show, or hit record. They’ve almost certainly worked on sets in some capacity. It was recently estimated that the industry generates $30 billion a year for the county of Los Angeles. We live amongst numerous studios from which the majority of our entertainment comes and many here depend upon this to at least make a living, if not fulfill their calling. (Writers: I love and support you all. I’m hoping for a speedy, satisfying conclusion to your strike.)

Fortunately I have not become jaded and I can genuinely give my complete support to those close to me. As long as they have the courage to believe in their dreams and pursue them, I will give of my time and energy to helping them achieve their goals. After all, isn’t that what friends are for? And in return, I can say with gratitude in my heart, they are there for me as well.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the connections in the industry, nor a magic wand to wave in order to propel anyone’s career into stardom. So how do I help them? I care, believe in their goals, and I show up for them. We stay in contact: talk on the phone, text, email, and message. I enjoy listening to tales of who forgot their lines in rehearsal, crazy on-location shoots, or what stunt the drummer pulled off this time when he actually showed up. I also get to watch/ listen to the medium they’ve acted in/ performed on/ directed/ produced/designed/painted/sculpted. I find having creative-types in my life to be quite entertaining on various levels. How can one not enjoy those with a passionate nature? And yes, as was recently pointed out to me, we also find time for mid-week get-togethers.

I am incredibly grateful to spend an occasional weekday afternoon with my girlfriend the soon-to-be-famous actress. We also keep in close contact by phone, text, and (oddly) message more than email. I look forward to hearing about her latest endeavors. She may have just been to a mad-house audition, a desirable call-back, or had a challenging read-through and I want to know how it went. Once she’s gotten the part, I am excited to hear the latest dramas from the set and the all-night shoot it took her four cups of coffee to get through with the obsessive director’s incessant retakes. She’s an amazing person, for whose friendship I am very grateful, and it’s a pleasure to support her aspirations. It helps that I know that she’s talented. In return, she’s very supportive of me as well. And with texting, we can be there for each other in a timely fashion despite varying, busy schedules. For example, I can send her well wishes before her shoots/ performances to remind her, “Good luck 2nite! UR gonna b gr8!” She sends me texts such as, “I loved your blog!” How fun is that?

As long as those in my life believe in themselves and know that they’re doing what they love, I’ll back their endeavors. I’m hoping to encourage anyone out there reading this as well. One of the primary responsibilities in life is to be true to yourself, accomplishing what you are called to do- your unique and special vocation. We are meant to do what makes us happy and what draws upon our natural gifts and talents. This country allows us the freedom to dream big, follow our hearts, and fulfill the purpose for which we were created. What do you want to accomplish? Dream it. Be it. Do it.