Twenty Minute Tuesday

The beginning of the end occurred last week while I was out of town. Old Navy opened their doors for business on State Street in the sacred grounds of the former Earthling Bookstore. Not only that, but it's across the street from the Santa Barbara Museum of Art. When I first heard the news of yet another chain store opening downtown, I threw up a little bit. Then I wept openly. And then I vowed never, ever to spend one penny in that gawd awful establishment.

It's really not that I'm opposed to Old Navy, specifically. Certainly, I've been known to hunt it down in some far away mall and delight in the bags of affordable undies and t-shirts that come home with me. But see, this particular location has crossed some serious boundaries that only worsens the current Camarillo-ization of our beloved downtown Santa Barbara, and it's simply not alright for this kind of activity to continue!

While perusing the onslaught of chain stores down there (Urban Outfitters, Cost Plus, Border's, etc...I mean you) can be fun, it's just not very a unique experience. These are the kinds of places one can find in just about any ol' strip or box mall type of place. I always thought Santa Barbara was the cool, off the beaten path, go see stuff that's not found right off the freeway kind of a shopping town. Some might argue that, hey, we've also got hip new stores like Juicy Couture, Mac, and Betsy Johnson. But, come on! These are shopping reasons to go Los Angeles, San Francisco or frigging New York City!

For me, downtown Santa Barbara has always been about the people watching and thrift/antique/mom & pop store shopping. It seems like we can hardly even do that any more seeing as all the real thrift stores have been chased away and there remains only one antique store and perhaps one or two privately/locally operated stores (sumbody, I mean you!).

I've mentioned the new Old Navy location to a few former Santa Barbara residents, and -- thank gawd -- they reacted with the proper, expected level of horrification. They sympathized with us because it's not like avoiding this store is going to be exactly easy...it's literally 2 blocks from my home and en route to just about everywhere I walk in a day. The husband saw the store on opening day last week and was sad to report that it was packed out the door, down the sidewalk.

This begs the question: What the f*** is wrong with everyone around here? WHY are we condoning this sort of behavior? Is this really what we want for our city? Who decides this crap in the first place? Besides, it's not like it's a Target or anything!

Seriously, though, I have to ask a simple favor from everyone I know. Please. Do not fall victim to the siren call of $2 flip-flops because the price of selling your soul like this is far, far too steep. If you want to sleep better at night knowing you've done your small part to defend the integrity of your town, then join the husband and me in boycotting the Old Navy store on State Street. You know you want to!

Dream Sabatoge

Sleep is like a daily reboot for the soul...it's just that, not every reboot works the first time you try it.

The other morning, I woke up from a dream in a clammy, gasping sweat. There are many inexplicable aspects of the dream I can no longer bring to the surface for examination -- probably for the best. But, I do remember sitting around the picnic bench at my folks' place, crying hysterically because the world just broke the optimistic spirit of yet another loved one. My mom was there, trying to understand and console me. When I woke up, the misery was fresh and real, lingering and disorienting.

The next night, I dreamt I was sitting at the same picnic bench with my mom. This time, we were laughing at a video I was showing to her. It was some footage of the senior citizen residence where I'd been visiting that day (in the dream). Apparently, I was leading a group of about ten white-haired ladies in a sort of salsa soul-train. We were having a helluva good time and the last part of the video showed me dancing circles around a lady while my pants fell to my ankles. Of course, I was so engrossed in my funny dance that I didn't notice where my pants went, revealing an awesome pair of saggy underpants. My mom and I were just about hysterical with laughter and were sure this video would be a hit on the internet. That morning, I woke up laughing out loud and the good mood lasted throughout the day. Now, that is more like it.

Upon a little reflection, I think I've divined the lesson to be found from these two nights of dreams: Do not, under any circumstances, dare to dream when you are so sick that your nasal passages are not free and clear. Trust me, you'll only regret it if you do.

Thank Gawd for Bosom Friends

Just home from a whirlwind trip to Seattle to visit some of my bestest, oldest -- and quite different from each other -- friends. I was rotten with a serious head cold the entire time but still had an incredibly beautiful time.

Even though this trip included fabulous meals, another Ben Harper show, and a glorious sick-day in bed marathoning the first season of my new favorite show (Ugly Betty...yay!), my favorite part has to be the gift I was given by each of my ladies in the form of a hand-written card. Their words are messages of appreciation for my friendship, which brought us to tears in seconds.

This actually isn't terribly unusual. We've never been the types to avoid sharing our feelings of love for one another. But, timing is everything. It means more than I know how to express right now that you each recognized me in the way that you did. You help me believe that I am actually achieving a decent level of success in being the person I strive to be, despite the crazy of it all. Thank you, my two friends, for all you have offered, as well, as our lives cross over and run parallel and screech in different directions.

Music Makes the World Go 'Round

Had something of a magical, musical weekend. We gathered a couple of good friends together on Friday and braved our way down to Los Angeles via the Pacific Coast Highway (good call Susie!) Then landed in the scary, but being revitalized, downtown theater district and a little place called The Orpheum. Online research reveals that this place first opened in 1926 and spent a good, long time as home for vaudeville acts. Recently, it's been restored to its original glory, and how. The theater itself is simply gorgeous and filled with all the Art Deco, incredible architectural details you'd ever want (you might catch glimpse of it on a random beer ad where some boys try to sneak in some suds to the opera). The only icky part was how shockingly close together the rows of seats are. Our row included a whole string of us at least six feet tall or more, boy were we thankful for the stand-up and shake yer booty portions of the evening!

Ben Harper & the Innocent Criminals were the main attraction, of course. Once again, they started promptly at 9pm and proceeded to blow the minds of all 2,000 in the sold out audience. For the last several years, I've been good and spoiled when it comes to concert going...meaning I prefer to be as close as possible to the action (it's addictive, I tell you, once you've been up front, nothing else will ever do!). For this show, I managed to score some 5th row center spots, not too shabby. I like being up close enough to check out how the band interacts with each other during the show; for some reason, I think it's fun to watch for if/when they mess up and how they handle with it. This time, they were having some sort of technical issues with Ben's amp as well as the odd forgotten lyric -- a rarity, but likely due to the set list of rarely played song -- and one near false start because he couldn't find the tempo. They're only human, after all! (they recovered well on all accounts, of course)

I'd been on a sort of emotional bummer the week or two leading up to the show. Two days prior, I came across their version of Hoochie Coochie Man, which they were first trying out on this tour. The crunchy, Delta blues song with Ben's deeply sincere delivery pretty much catapulted me out of my silly mood by reminding me of the spirit lifting, life altering power of music (*mental note: don't freakin' ever forget that again*). So, on Friday, when Ben sat down with an electric slide in his lap and busted out with the first lick of that song, my eyes blurred with the happy tears and my arms involuntarily shot into the air, ass grooving in my seat. Something changed for me this show, too. I found myself being one of the first people to stand up and dance (where normally I wait patiently until everyone else around me has risen first). Sometimes the music just takes over the body and you get lost in the moment and it's fabulous.

Every single time I see this band live, I'm reminded that my favorite part about them is the sincere level of appreciation they show towards their audience. For the last few years, they've been closing the show with the six of them in a row -- arm in arm -- spending several minutes actually making eye contact with as many faces in the crowd as possible, giving us their personal, silent thanks. Ben gives verbal acknowledgment that their audience is on this diverse, removed-from-the-mainstream musical journey with them and we play the vital role in their being able to do what they do in the first place.

This is the reason their fans keep coming back for more. It's why so many of us consider a Ben Harper & the Innocent Criminals show to be more than the phenomenal concert that it is, but also a validating shared experience, a sort of emotional/spiritual cleansing. Truly, I don't even want to imagine the kind of grump I'd be in this life without my yearly fix...or two or three.

Cats Are People,Too

Kizzy is really making an effort to transition from the skittery, invisible cat she's been playing at for so long to the cuddling, aloof-within-reasonable-limits pet cat I always knew she wanted to be. Our current evening ritual consists of her following me to bed and cautiously working her way from my ankles to my hands, which she often starts before I've even gotten settled under the blankets. For reasons I'll never understand, she begins at the feet, then rubs her way along my leg, back and forth several times before allowing my fingers within a grasping distance. Eventually, the path grows smaller and she moves across my lap, back and forth, while accepting some brief pets from me - but only with one hand, if I dare try a double-handed scritch all bets are off.

What I love the most, though, is how she is clumsy with this routine, there's no sign of a graceful feline whatsoever. Somehow, she manages to trip herself up while simply walking along the blanket. When she gets adventurous and dares a hop up onto my lap, she does it with too much gusto and has to teeter on my thigh to catch her balance. Repeatedly, she misses her mark and ends up headbutting into the side of my hand and casually recovers by walking back towards my feet, as though she meant to do it that way all along.

Silly as it is, this level of interaction with her person is massive progress for Kizzy, and it hasn't been an easy for her to get to this point. What she's going through seems to be exactly how it goes for a person when they're giving something new a try. At first, we stumble along, and, with the encourangment of our friends, we have to push through the painful bits in order to build up our stamina before whatever it is we're trying starts to feel natural and reasonable.

A hike last Sunday nearly ended me. There I was -- escaped from the downtown fog, surrounded by the views and smells and sounds that our hills have to offer - just wheezing away and pausing and kneeling my way through the entire trail. I wanted to give up and never go on a hike again, but my friend did her job well and encouraged me to keep going, that I was doing great, that it's only going to get easier. Of course, she was right.

For these seven years, I've been that person for Kizzy. Keeping the faith that she'll get there eventually. Patting myself on the back for staying so patient and steadfastly encouraging her to keep on trying. But, I wonder, now, if Kizzy is really the patient one in this scenario. Maybe she's the one who has had to be willing to forgive herself for not being able to fulfill her person's expectations from the very beginning. Maybe all this progress I think I've made is really Kizzy's triumph, not mine. Maybe she's got more to teach me than she's been letting on.

One Man's Trash?

There's been a set of pigeon wings on the ground in front of the building where I work for going on two weeks. After the third day, I stopped worrying about what happened to the rest of the bird and started wondering why the hell someone hadn't gotten rid of them because that sure as shit wasn't going to be my job. By about a week into it, I was actually looking forward to seeing the wings in their spot each morning as I made my way to the desk job. I'm not really sure why, either, because normally I'm not all that into pieces of animal carcass. Maybe it appealed to my teensy weensy appreciation for the macabre...can't really be sure.

Yesterday, a plastic fork appeared on top of the wings. I had to stop and stare for a moment because it sure looked like that fork was placed there with intention. It made me laugh a little, but its presence definitely altered my relationship with the wings. Now we had a third party involved and I wasn't so sure the fork was properly respectful. This sucked for me because, clearly, it was going to have to be my job to do away with the wings lest someone else mistake them for a place to stack their trash. But I figured that task could put that off for one more day.

This morning, though, I was let off the hook. When I checked for my friends...er, the wings...in their usual place, they had disappeared. All that remains now is the blasted fork. I'm not going to get caught up on why someone would take away the wings and not the fork because that could lead down too many icky paths. Still, I can't stop thinking about what these last two weeks with the wings might mean. Even though I'll probably have let it go by tomorrow, I need those wings to have meaning for reasons that I can't quite nail down.

All in the Details

Interesting what our little minds hold on to as meaningful. There's a shirt I sleep in sometimes. It's a men's long-sleeve cotton t-shirt...orange with a wide, blue stripe down each arm and one across the chest. For as long as I live, I shall refuse to put this shirt into the yard sale box because of it's incredibly significance. This is the shirt the husband wore the night I first noticed him, on the night he dropped his beer at the Joyce and I looked up from my spot at the pool table and there he was...puddle of beer at his feet, hands still in front of him in the shape of the glass, and making eye contact with me, eyebrows high on his forehead as if to say, "Ummm, did I do that...?"

That was the night I stopped letting anyone but the future-husband have a bite from my candy necklace. Ha! Believe it or not, I'm being literal about the candy necklace and not attempting some perverse metaphor. Really!

Anyway, back to the orange shirt. Could it be that within this seemingly minor detail lies the root of our love? Would I have even noticed him in the way that I did had he been wearing, say, the green version of the very same shirt? Well, probably, since it was actually the charming way he recovered from the spilled beer moment and how he managed to end the evening with me chasing him into the parking lot for the goodbye candy necklace bite that truly reeled me in to his life forever. And it's all of those things I think of when the minor-detail-orange-shirt works its way to the top of the comfy clothes drawer.