Australia Day Shenanigans in Hollywood

You know how some nights, the stars are aligned and there’s this... energy in the air? It's palpable. You know when everyone is just in sync, up for anything, all wanting to have a really good time all at exactly the same time? Last night was like that. Everyone wanted to party hardy and everyone did.

I was drunker than I’ve been since I was 19 and I'm really not quite sure how I got that drunk. I was drunk out of my mind, completely out of control and dancing like I’ve never danced before. And I was not the only one. There were 100 plus of us. The tiny bar and patio at Crane's were bursting at their American seams with singing and dancing Australians. Sadly, we forgot the camera so we have no visual evidence of this which - as it turns out - is very fortunate indeed.

Favourite moments from the night:

1. The Take Home Chef telling me after I sang, that I’d been great. FYI ladies, the Take Home Chef was alone, I'm pretty sure straight, and very handsome. And he cooks. Sigh.

2. Watching the husband, Matt Ellis not only dance (very, very rare) but get down, whilst singing along, at the top of his lungs… “The first black First Lady, yeah!" So you can better visualize this...



3. Singing the Australian National Anthem drunk (but apparently well I was later told).

From Australia Day Hollywood

Thanks for the photos Karen & Jansi. What's the point of having a fancy camera if I can't remember to bring it with me? Click on the image above to view the whole album.

4. Adopting new pets, the hilarious and totally adorable Swedish triplets.

5. One of the Swedish triplets (all in the band Snake of Eden – yes, you read right. They really are too much) jumping up on stage during Matt's cranking set. He pulled out his blues harp and jammed to "Hey Mister", much to the crowds' delight. "Thank you Michael Monroe," Matt announced at the end. You might note a resemblence to those fellow Scandanavians, Finnish band from the 80s...

6. Dancing and shouting along, squished up together (who doesn’t want to be squished up against the Take Home Chef & Holly Valance?) to Andy Clockwise’s rendition of “Great Southern Land”. And ladies, Andy Clockwise is now officially single.

Such a great night of GREAT, Aussie music with sets by Aya Larkin, Carla Werner and D Henry Fenton in addition to Andy Clockwise & Matt Ellis. So here's hoping your Australia Day was as wonderful as ours out here in Hollywood, California!

The Great Southern Roadtrip 2008

From The Great Southern Roadtrip 2008

PLEASE CLICK ON IMAGE TO VIEW WHOLE ALBUM.

Some Christmas Cheer

Last night friends were kind enough to have me along to hear a number of stories read by various actors at a little cabaret club in Hollwyood. An organization called, Word Theatre have been producing the series in Los Angeles, New York and London. This - the fifth installment - was a holiday-season collection. Here are some of my favourites from the night. Thanks Patrick, Jane, Cherry & Paul for sharing a great night of stories with me!

How Come Christmas
by Roark Bradford
Read most entertainingly and energetically by Nelsan Ellis.

You see, one time hit was a little baby bawned name' de Poor Little Jesus, but didn't nobody know dat was his name yit.Dey knew he was a powerful smart and powerful purty little baby, but dey didn't know his name was de Poor Little Jesus. So, 'cause he was so smart and so purty, ev'ybody thought he was gonter grow up and be de kaing. So quick as dat news got spread around, ev'ybody jest about bust to git on de good side er de baby, 'cause dey figure efn dey start soon enough he'd grow up likin' 'em and not chop dey haids off.

So old Moses went over and give him a hund'ed dollars in gold. And old Methuselah went over and give him a diamond ring. And old Peter give him a fine white silk robe. And ev'ybody was runnin' in wid fine presents so de Poor Little Jesus wouldn't grow up and chop de haids off.

Ev'ybody but old Sandy Claus. Old Sandy Claus was kinder old and didn't git around much, and he didn't hyar de news dat de Poor Little Jesus was gonter grow up and be da kaing. So him and de old lady was settin' back by de fire one night, toastin' dey shins and tawkin' about dis and dat, when old Miz Sandy Claus up and remark, she say, "Sandy, I hyars Miss Mary got a brand new baby over at her house."

"Is dat a fack?" says Sandy Claus. "Well, well, hit's a mighty cold night to do anything like dat, ain't hit? But on de yuther hand, he'll be a heaper pleasure and fun for her next summer I reckon."

So de tawk went on, and finally old Sandy Claus remark dat hit was powerful lonesome around de house since all er de chilluns growed up and married off.

"Dey all married well," say Miz Sandy Claus, "and so I say, 'Good ruddance.' You ain't never had to git up and cyore day colic and mend dey clothes, so you gittin' lonesome. Me, I love 'em all, but I'm glad dey's married and doin' well."

So de tawk run on like dat for a while, and den old Sandy Claus got up and got his hat. "I b'lieve", he say, "I'll drap over and see how dat baby's gittin' along. I ain't seed no chillun in so long I'm pyore hongry to lean my eyes up agin a baby."

"You ain't goin' out on a night like did, is you?" say Miz Sandy Claus .
"Sho I'm goin' out on a night like dis," say Sandy Claus. "I', pyore cravin' to see some chilluns."

"But hit's snowin' and goin' on," say Miz Sandy Claus. "You know your phthisic been devlin' you, anyhow and you'll git de chawley mawbuses sloppin' around in dis weather."

"No mind de tawk," say Sandy Claus. "Git me my umbrella and my overshoes. And you better git me a little somethin' to take along for a cradle gift, too, I reckon."

"You know hit ain't nothin' in the house for no cradle gift," say Miz Sandy Claus.

"Git somethin'," say Sandy Claus. "You got to give a new baby somethin' or else you get bad luck. Get me one er dem big red apples outn de kitchen." "What kind er cradle gift is an apple?" say Miz Sandy Claus "Don't you reckon dat baby git all de apples he want?"

"Git me de apple," say Sandy Claus. "Hit ain't much, one way you look at hit. But f'm de way dat baby gonter look at de apple hit'll be a heap."

So Sandy Claus got de apple and he lit out.

Well, when he got to Miss Mary's house ev'ybody was standin' around givin' de Poor Little Jesus presents. Fine presents. Made outn gold and silver and diamonds and silk, and all like dat. Dey had de presents stacked around dat baby so high you couldn't hardly see over 'em. So when ev'ybody seed old Sandy Claus come in dey looked to see what he brang. An when dey seed he didn't brang nothin' but a red
apple, dey all laughed.

"Quick as dat boy grows up and gits to be de kaing," dey told him, "he gonter chop yo'haid off."

"No mind dat," say Sandy Claus. "Y'all jest stand back." And so he went up to de crib and he pushed away a handful er gold and silver and diamonds and stuff, and handed de Poor Little Jesus dat red apple. "Hyar, son," he say, "take dis old apple. See how she shines?" And de Poor Little Jesus reached up and grabbed dat apple in bofe hands, and laughed jest as brash as you please!

Den Sandy Claus took and tickled him under de chin wid his before finger, and say, " Goodly-goodly-goodly." And de Poor Little Jesus laughed some more and he reached up and grabbed a fist full er old Sandy Claus' whiskers, and him and old Sandy Claus went round and round!

So about that time, up stepped de Lawd. "I swear, old Sandy Claus," say de Lawd. "Betwix dat apple and dem whiskers, de Poor Little Jesus ain't had so much fun since he be bawn."

So Sandy Claus stepped back and bowed low and give de Lawd hy-dy, and say, "I didn't know ev'ybody was chiv-areein', or else I'd a stayed home. I didn't had nothin' much to bring dis time, 'cause you see how hit's been dis year. De dry weather and debull weevils got mighty nigh all de cotton, and de old lady been kind er puny--."

"Dat's all right, Sady," say de Lawd. "Gold and silver have I a heap of. But verily you sho do know how to handle yo'se'f around de chilluns."

"Well, Lawd," say Sandy Claus, "I dont know much about chilluns. Me and de old lady raised up fou'teen. But she done most er de work. Me, I jest likes 'em and I manages to git along wid 'em."

"You sho do git along wid 'em good." say de Lawd. "Hit's easy to do what you likes to do," say Sandy Claus.

"Well," say de Lawd, "hit might be somethin' in dat too. But de trouble wid my world
is, hit ain't enough people which likes to do de right thing. But you likes to do wid chilluns, and dat's what I needs. So stand still and shet yo' eyes whilst I passes a miracle on you."

So Sandy Claus stood still and shet his eyes, and de Lawd r'ared back and passed a miracle on him and say, "Old Sandy Claus, live forever and make my chilluns happy."

So Sandy Claus opened his eyes and say, "Thank you kindly, Lawd. But do I got to keep 'em happy all de time? Dat's a purty big job. Hit'd be a heap er fun, but still and at de same time--."

"Yeah, I knows about chilluns, too," say de Lawd, "Chilluns got to fret and git in devilment ev'y now and den and git a whuppin' f'm dey maw, or else dey skin won't get loose so's dey kin grow. But you jest keep yo' eyes on 'em and make 'em all happy about once a year. How's dat?"

"Dat's fine," say Sandy Claus. "Hit'll be a heap er fun, too. What time er de year you speck I better make 'em happy, Lawd?"

"Christmas suit me," say de Lawd, "efn hit's all o.k. wid you."

"Hit's jest about right for me," say old Sandy Claus.

So ev'y since dat day and time old Sandy Claus been clawin' de chilluns on Christmas, and dat's on de same day dat de Poor Little Jesus got bawned. 'Cause dat's de way de Lawd runs things.

O' cou'se de Lawd knowed hit wa'n't gonter be long before de Poor Little Jesus growed up and got to be a man. And when he done dat, all de grown fo'ks had him so's dey c'd moan they sins away and lay they burdens down on him, and git happy in they hearts. De Lawd made Jesus for de grown fo'ks. But de Lawd know de chilluns got to have some fun too, so dat's how come hit's Sandy Claus and Christmas an all.

A Chaparral Christmas
by O. Henry
Read brilliantly and without missing a beat by John Heard.

The original cause of the trouble was about twenty years in growing.At the end of that time it was worth it.

Had you lived anywhere within fifty miles of Sun- down Ranch you would have heard of it. It possessed a quantity of jet-black hair, a pair of extremely frank, deep-brown eyes and a laugh that rippled across the prairie like the sound of a hidden brook. The name of it was Rosita McMullen; and she was the daughter of old man McMullen of the Sundown Sheep Ranch.

There came riding on red roan steeds -- or, to be more explicit, on a paint and a flea-bitten sorrel -- two wooers. One was Madison Lane, and the other was the Frio Kid, But at that time they did not call him the Frio Kid, for he had not earned the honours of special nomenclature- His name was simply Johnny McRoy.

It must not be supposed that these two were the sum of the agreeable Rosita's admirers. The bronchos of a dozen others champed their bits at the long hitching rack of the Sundown Ranch. Many were the sheeps'- eves that were cast in those savannas that did not belong. to the flocks of Dan McMullen. But of all the cavaliers, Madison Lane and Johnny MeRoy galloped far ahead, wherefore they are to be chronicled.

Madison Lane, a young cattleman from the Nueces country, won the race. He and Rosita were married one Christmas day. Armed, hilarious, vociferous, mag- nanimous, the cowmen and the sheepmen, laying aside their hereditary hatred, joined forces to celebrate the occasion.

Sundown Ranch was sonorous with the cracking of jokes and sixshooters, the shine of buckles and bright eyes, the outspoken congratulations of the herders of kine.

But while the wedding feast was at its liveliest there descended upon it Johnny MeRoy, bitten by jealousy, like one possessed.

"I'll give you a Christmas present," he yelled, shrilly, at the door, with his .45 in his hand. Even then he had some reputation as an offhand shot.

His first bullet cut a neat underbit in Madison Lane's right ear. The barrel of his gun moved an inch. The next shot would have been the bride's had not Carson, a sheepman, possessed a mind with triggers somewhat well oiled and in repair. The guns of the wedding party had been hung, in their belts, upon nails in the wall when they sat at table, as a concession to good taste. But Carson, with great promptness, hurled his plate of roast venison and frijoles at McRoy, spoiling his aim. The second bullet, then, only shattered the white petals of a Spanish dagger flower suspended two feet above Rosita's head.

The guests spurned their chairs and jumped for their weapons. It was considered an improper act to shoot the bride and groom at a wedding. In about six seconds there were twenty or so bullets due to be whizzing in the direction of Mr. McRoy.

"I'll shoot better next time," yelled Johnny; "and there'll be a next time." He backed rapidly out the door.

Carson, the sheepman, spurred on to attempt further exploits by the success of his plate-throwing, was first to reach the door. McRoy's bullet from the darkness laid him low.

The cattlemen then swept out upon him, calling for vengeance, for, while the slaughter of a sheepman has not always lacked condonement, it was a decided mis- demeanour in this instance. Carson was innocent; he was no accomplice at the matrimonial proceedings; nor had any one heard him quote the line "Christmas comes but once a year" to the guests.

But the sortie failed in its vengeance. McRoy was on his horse and away, shouting back curses and threats as he galloped into the concealing chaparral.

That night was the birthnight of the Frio Kid. He became the "bad man" of that portion of the State. The rejection of his suit by Miss McMullen turned him to a dangerous man. When officers went after him for the shooting of Carson, he killed two of them, and entered upon the life of an outlaw. He became a marvellous shot with either hand. He would turn up in towns and settlements, raise a quarrel at the slightest opportunity, pick off his man and laugh at the officers of the law. He was so cool, so deadly, so rapid, so inhumanly blood- thirsty that none but faint attempts were ever made to capture him. When he was at last shot and killed by a little one-armed Mexican who was nearly dead himself from fright, the Frio Kid had the deaths of eighteen men on his head. About half of these were killed in fair duels depending upon the quickness of the draw. The other half were men whom be assassinated from absolute wantonness and cruelty.

Many tales are told along the border of his impudent courage and daring. But he was not one of the breed of desperadoes who have seasons of generosity and even of softness. They say he never had mercy on the object of his anger. Yet at this and every Christmastide it is well to give each one credit, if it can be done, for what- ever speck of good he may have possessed. If the Frio Kid ever did a kindly act or felt a throb of generosity in his heart it was once at such a time and season, and this is the way it happened.

One who has been crossed in love should never breathe the odour from the blossoms of the ratama tree. It stirs the memory to a dangerous degree.

One December in the Frio country there was a ratama tree in full bloom, for the winter had been as warm as springtime. That way rode the Frio Kid and his satellite aW co-murderer, Mexican Frank. The kid reined in his mustang, and sat in his saddle, thoughtful and grim, with dangerously narrowing eyes. The rich, sweet scent touched him somewhere beneath his ice and iron.

"I don't know what I've been thinking about, Mex," he remarked in his usual mild drawl, "to have forgot all about a Christmas present I got to give. I'm going to ride over to-morrow night and shoot Madison Lane in his own house. He got my girl -- Rosita would have had me if he hadn't cut into the game. I wonder why I happened to overlook it up to now?"

"Ah, shucks, Kid," said Mexican, "don't talk foolish- ness. You know you can't get within a mile of Mad Lane's house to-morrow night. I see old man Allen day before yesterday, and he says Mad is going to have Christmas doings at his house. You remember how you shot up the festivities when Mad was married, and about the threats you made? Don't you suppose Mad Lane'll kind of keep his eye open for a certain Mr. Kid? You plumb make me tired, Kid, with such remarks."

"I'm going," repeated the Frio Kid, without heat, "to go to Madison Lane's Christmas doings, and kill him. I ought to have done it a long time ago. Why, Mex, just two weeks ago I dreamed me and Rosita was married instead of her and him; and we was living in a house, and I could see her smiling at me, and -- oh! h--l, Mex, he got her; and I'll get him -- yes, sir, on Christmas Eve he got her, and then's when I'll get him."

"There's other ways of committing suicide," advised Mexican. "Why don't you go and surrender to the sheriff?"

"I'll get him," said the Kid.

Christmas Eve fell as balmy as April. Perhaps there was a hint of far-away frostiness in the air, but it tingles like seltzer, perfumed faintly with late prairie blossoms and the mesquite grass.

When night came the five or six rooms of the ranch- house were brightly lit. In one room was a Christmas tree, for the Lanes had a boy of three, and a dozen or more guests were expected from the nearer ranches.

At nightfall Madison Lane called aside Jim Belcher and three other cowboys employed on his ranch.

"Now, boys," said Lane, "keep your eyes open. Walk around the house and watch the road well. All of you know the 'Frio Kid,' as they call him now, and if you see him, open fire on him without asking any questions. I'm not afraid of his coming around, but Rosita is. She's been afraid he'd come in on us every Christmas since we were married."

The guests had arrived in buckboards and on horseback, and were making themselves comfortable inside.

The evening went along pleasantly. The guests enjoyed and praised Rosita's excellent supper, and after- ward the men scattered in groups about the rooms or on the broad "gallery," smoking and chatting.

The Christmas tree, of course, delighted the youngsters, and above all were they pleased when Santa Claus himself in magnificent white beard and furs appeared and began to distribute the toys.

"It's my papa," announced Billy Sampson, aged six. "I've seen him wear 'em before."

Berkly, a sheepman, an old friend of Lane, stopped Rosita as she was passing by him on the gallery, where he was sitting smoking.

"Well, Mrs. Lane," said he, "I suppose by this Christ- mas you've gotten over being afraid of that fellow McRoy, haven't you? Madison and I have talked about it, you know."

"Very nearly," said Rosita, smiling, "but I am still nervous sometimes. I shall never forget that awful time when he came so near to killing us."

"He's the most cold-hearted villain in the world," said Berkly. "The citizens all along the border ought to turn out and hunt him down like a wolf."

"He has committed awful crimes," said Rosita, but -- I -- don't -- know. I think there is a spot of good somewhere in everybody. He was not always bad -- that I know."

Rosita turned into the hallway between the rooms. Santa Claus, in muffling whiskers and furs, was just coming through.

"I heard what you said through the window, Mrs. Lane," he said. "I was just going down in my pocket for a Christmas present for your husband. But I've left one for you, instead. It's in the room to your right."

"Oh, thank you, kind Santa Claus," said Rosita, brightly.

Rosita went into the room, while Santa Claus stepped into the cooler air of the yard.

She found no one in the room but Madison.

"Where is my present that Santa said he left for me in here?" she asked.

"Haven't seen anything in the way of a present," said her husband, laughing, "unless he could have meant me."

The next day Gabriel Radd, the foreman of the X 0 Ranch, dropped into the post-office at Loma Alta.

"Well, the Frio Kid's got his dose of lead at last," he remarked to the postmaster.

"That so? How'd it happen?"

"One of old Sanchez's Mexican sheep herders did it! -- think of it! the Frio Kid killed bv a sheep herder! The Greaser saw him riding along past his camp about twelve o'clock last night, and was so skeered that he up with a Winchester and let him have it. Funniest part of it was that the Kid was dressed all up with white Angora- skin whiskers and a regular Santy Claus rig-out from head to foot. Think of the Frio Kid playing Santy!"

Reginald's Christmas Revels
by Saki (aka H.H. Munro)
Read with perfect, comic interpretation, an authentic, English accent and a bouncy and rollicking stride by Sean Maguire.

They say (said Reginald) that there's nothing sadder than victory except defeat. If you've ever stayed with dull people during what is alleged to be the festive season, you can probably revise that saying. I shall never forget putting in a Christmas at the Babwolds'. Mrs. Babwold is some relation of my father's--a sort of to-be-left-till- called-for cousin--and that was considered sufficient reason for my having to accept her invitation at about the sixth time of asking; though why the sins of the father should be visited by the children--you won't find any notepaper in that drawer; that's where I keep old menus and first-night programmes.

Mrs. Babwold wears a rather solemn personality, and has never been known to smile, even when saying disagreeable things to her friends or making out the Stores list. She takes her pleasures sadly. A state elephant at a Durbar gives one a very similar impression. Her husband gardens in all weathers. When a man goes out in the pouring rain to brush caterpillars off rose-trees, I generally imagine his life indoors leaves something to be desired; anyway, it must be very unsettling for the caterpillars.

Of course there were other people there. There was a Major Somebody who had shot things in Lapland, or somewhere of that sort; I forget what they were, but it wasn't for want of reminding. We had them cold with every meal almost, and he was continually giving us details of what they measured from tip to tip, as though he thought we were going to make them warm under-things for the winter. I used to listen to him with a rapt attention that I thought rather suited me, and then one day I quite modestly gave the dimensions of an okapi I had shot in the Lincolnshire fens. The Major turned a beautiful Tyrian scarlet (I remember thinking at the time that I should like my bathroom hung in that colour), and I think that at that moment he almost found it in his heart to dislike me. Mrs. Babwold put on a first-aid-to-the-injured expression, and asked him why he didn't publish a book of his sporting reminiscences; it would be so interesting. She didn't remember till afterwards that he had given her two fat volumes on the subject, with his portrait and autograph as a frontispiece and an appendix on the habits of the Arctic mussel.

It was in the evening that we cast aside the cares and distractions of the day and really lived. Cards were thought to be too frivolous and empty a way of passing the time, so most of them played what they called a book game. You went out into the hall--to get an inspiration, I suppose--then you came in again with a muffler tied round your neck and looked silly, and the others were supposed to guess that you were "Wee MacGreegor." I held out against the inanity as long as I decently could, but at last, in a lapse of good-nature, I consented to masquerade as a book, only I warned them that it would take some time to carry out. They waited for the best part of forty minutes, while I went and played wineglass skittles with the page-boy in the pantry; you play it with a champagne cork, you know, and the one who knocks down the most glasses without breaking them wins. I won, with four unbroken out of seven; I think William suffered from over- anxiousness. They were rather mad in the drawing-room at my not having come back, and they weren't a bit pacified when I told them afterwards that I was "At the end of the passage."

"I never did like Kipling," was Mrs. Babwold's comment, when the situation dawned upon her. "I couldn't see anything clever in Earthworms out of Tuscany--or is that by Darwin?"

Of course these games are very educational, but, personally, I prefer bridge.

On Christmas evening we were supposed to be specially festive in the Old English fashion. The hall was horribly draughty, but it seemed to be the proper place to revel in, and it was decorated with Japanese fans and Chinese lanterns, which gave it a very Old English effect. A young lady with a confidential voice favoured us with a long recitation about a little girl who died or did something equally hackneyed, and then the Major gave us a graphic account of a struggle he had with a wounded bear. I privately wished that the bears would win sometimes on these occasions; at least they wouldn't go vapouring about it afterwards. Before we had time to recover our spirits, we were indulged with some thought-reading by a young man whom one knew instinctively had a good mother and an indifferent tailor--the sort of young man who talks unflaggingly through the thickest soup, and smooths his hair dubiously as though he thought it might hit back. The thought-reading was rather a success; he announced that the hostess was thinking about poetry, and she admitted that her mind was dwelling on one of Austin's odes. Which was near enough. I fancy she had been really wondering whether a scrag-end of mutton and some cold plum-pudding would do for the kitchen dinner next day. As a crowning dissipation, they all sat down to play progressive halma, with milk-chocolate for prizes. I've been carefully brought up, and I don't like to play games of skill for milk-chocolate, so I invented a headache and retired from the scene. I had been preceded a few minutes earlier by Miss Langshan-Smith, a rather formidable lady, who always got up at some uncomfortable hour in the morning, and gave you the impression that she had been in communication with most of the European Governments before breakfast. There was a paper pinned on her door with a signed request that she might be called particularly early on the morrow. Such an opportunity does not come twice in a lifetime. I covered up everything except the signature with another notice, to the effect that before these words should meet the eye she would have ended a misspent life, was sorry for the trouble she was giving, and would like a military funeral. A few minutes later I violently exploded an air- filled paper bag on the landing, and gave a stage moan that could have been heard in the cellars. Then I pursued my original intention and went to bed. The noise those people made in forcing open the good lady's door was positively indecorous; she resisted gallantly, but I believe they searched her for bullets for about a quarter of an hour, as if she had been an historic battlefield.

I hate travelling on Boxing Day, but one must occasionally do things that one dislikes.

Angels & Planets: Please Click to Enlarge

The City of Angles, the Moon, Jupiter & Venus. Sunday, the sky seemed to smile over much of planet Earth. Visible the world over was an unusual superposition of our Moon and the planets Venus and Jupiter. Pictures taken at the right time show a crescent Moon that appears to be a smile when paired with the planetary conjunction of seemingly nearby Jupiter and Venus. Pictured above is the scene as it appeared from Mt. Wilson Observatory overlooking Los Angeles, California, USA after sunset on 2008 November 30. Highest in the sky and farthest in the distance is the planet Jupiter. Significantly closer and visible to Jupiter's lower left is Venus, appearing through Earth's atmospheric clouds as unusually blue. On the far right, above the horizon, is our Moon, in a waxing crescent phase. Thin clouds illuminated by the Moon appear unusually orange. Sprawling across the bottom of the image are the hills of Los Angeles, many covered by a thin haze, while LA skyscrapers are visible on the far left. The conjunction of Venus and Jupiter will continue to be visible toward the west after sunset during much of this month. Hours after the taking of this image, however, the Moon approached the distant duo, briefly eclipsed Venus, and then moved on. by Dave Jurasevich (from Mt. Wilson Observatory)

P.E.R.S.P.E.C.T.I.V.O

The First Thanksgiving Chez Ellis

From Click on image to view album 24.

Harry Gurerra

Harry Gurerra is an arsehole. He makes me say things I really do not mean and worse, makes me see things in ways in which they usually would not appear to me. He makes me stand in the middle of an isle in Trader Joe’s supermarket and call my husband to say, virtually sobbing, “Why am I here? I don’t remember what we’re doing this week. What do I need to buy? What do you want to eat? I hate shopping. Why can‘t you do the shopping sometimes?!” Just like that, out of nowhere.

At 10 o’clock this morning I was already three chocolate bars in and my boss - who has the terrible misfortune during these times to sit opposite me - had to quietly endure my ever-growing-sad, long face. A dead giveaway when I am in the grip of Harry Gurerra is my appalling attire. The same boss will shake his head knowingly when I sit myself at my desk. I am usually dressed in a nightie under which I’ve been considerate enough to pull up some jeans or yoga pants. I am often still wearing my slippers and have - as I’ve shuffled out my front door - swathed myself in the most expensive jacket or cardigan I own in order to disguise everything else. I never do my hair or apply any make up, ever.

I’m perpetually surprised that Harry Gurerra hasn’t gotten me divorced or fired.

When I finally got home after this day of misery and torment, cramps and bloating (convinced with all my being that people had been pointing at my car as I'd driven by screaming, “Look, my God do you see that?! There’s a whale driving that car!!”), I found my husband quietly folding all the laundry. This made me cry some more. He had appeared to have already put away all the dishes too. He moved toward me taking the shopping and putting it on the table and let me fall into his arms. He held me very tightly and said, “Baby, it’s okay. You just lie down on the couch with a blanket, watch some Gossip Girl and eat some pot pie.”

“Gossip Girl isn’t on tonight,” I had sniffed.

“Well just some good, bad teli then. I can make you some tea. You know this will pass. Harry has just given you the blues, that‘s all Baby.”

Harry! It was my husband who invented this euphemism for menstruation in the first place. My mother is from Papua New Guinea and my three older sisters were all born there and all speak Tok Pisin as well as a little of the language of my mother’s village, Motu . In Motu, a woman’s menstrual cycle is called “hua-gorere”. “Hua” can mean - depending on context - “moon” or “monthly” and “gorere” means “sick”. So it’s called “moon-sick” or “monthly-sick”.

In my family, the women have always referred to this time of the month as “hua-gorere” (pronounced hoo-rare-gore-rare-rare). My nosy husband, once having deciphered the code, was never able to pronounce these Motu words correctly and eventually, came to refer to them as a him - Harry Gurerra, the arsehole. It stuck.

“Love of mine some day you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark

No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark”

Oh for the love of God, NOT that song, PLEASE!!! Beverly Hills 90210’s music supervisor has it in for me. Here come those tears again…

Damn you Harry! Damn you to hell!! Now where are those chocolate chip cookies?!

Out from Under the Bed

Forty-two year old Australian artist Patricia Piccinini is at it again – building her freak monsters.

In 2003 she represented Australia at the Venice Biennale where - no doubt - she freaked everyone out with her monster-morph sculptures in a series called “The Family”. Born in Sierra Leone, migrating with her parents to Australia at the age of seven, Patricia began her studies at Canberra University (in our little-know country’s capital – for good reason) in disciplines worlds away from her current occupation. Starting with a degree in economics, she went on to a fine art degree majoring in drawing.

Older Works
Recent Works



Particularly concerned with bioethics, biotechnologies and the environment, Patricia works with various fabricators to execute her bizarre, life-like (and life-size), mutative works. For her latest exhibition, Related Individuals which opened last night at Sydney's Oxley9 Gallery, she collaborated with the Make Up Effects Group. Some of the creatures sport hair clippings and hand-me-downs from her three year old son, Hector. One of her grey-haired creature’s hairdos was courtesy of a yak (human grey hair apparently difficult to come by - although no one told my head that).

This article was off-topic I admit, but I wanted to see what you all think. I’ll keep you posted on when Patricia will be bringing her monsters to America. She does that.

The Right to Love

My love and I are married. This is our choice. This is what works for us. We should not have the right however to impose our lifestyle choice on others anymore than any government should have the right to deny the lifestyle choice of consenting adults. We all have the right to love whomever we please. Marriage is a civil right, an equal right for all plain and simple.

My husband and I are not the only ones who think so and we were proud to march hand in hand with many others to voice our belief that everyone deserves the right to express their love in the same way that we have been able, if they so wish.

Here's what went down in Santa Monica last night:


Still need convicing?

This Saturday, November 15th is the national rally. PLEASE get out and get involved. You can locate the rally information for your city here.

Please sign the petiton to overturn Prop 8 here.

Further, if you want to boycot businesses associated with the passing of Prop 8, here is a list. I did not fact check this list myself personally, but if any of these businesses effect you, I suggest you check them out.

Herbalife
El Pollo Loco (over 51 stores; plus the CEO contributed big bucks to pass Prop 8)
Merrill Lynch
Cisco Systems (big time Contributors)
Intel Taco Bell
Kroger foods (Ralph's and Albertsons)
American Express
NPS Pharmaceuticals
Priceline.com
Black and Decker
Hollywood Entertainment( Hollywood Video)
Jet Blue
Dell Computer
K-BIG FM radio Los Angeles
La Quinta Properties (t-a Quinta hotels)
Iomega Host Marriott (Marriott hotels and resorts)
Denny's (4 stores)
Wachovia Securities
A-1 Self Storage (40 locations in California)
Deloitte & Touche - Accounting Firm, Walnut, CA
Cristopher K. Thompson - Real Estate Agent (Encino)
U-Rent, Inc. of Camarillo
Novell
Sky West Airlines
NuSkin
Affiliated computer services
Oil States International
AES corp.
Oakley
Avista corp.
Phelps Dodge Corp.
Cadence Design
Ryder Systems (Ryder Trucks)
Corvis
Central Pacific Bank
Swift Transportation
1-80O-Contacts
Cornerstone Realty Income Trust Inc.
Cygnus Inc.
Tropical Sportswear
Diebold
Williams Companies Inc.
Zions Securities Corp
Dionex
Downey Savings and Loan
AgReserves lnc. (agriculture)
EarthShell
Sunrider Int'l.
Franklin Covey
Latham and Watkins
Hillenbrand Industries
Huntsman Chemical
Headwaters Inc.
Bain Capital
Spectra
Azul
JP Realty
Deloitte Touche
Key Corp.
Zions Securities Corp.
Knight Transportation
Bonneville comm.
K-Swiss lnc.
Telefonica Brasil
Apx Alarm
Micrel Semiconductor
Micro General
Merit Medical Systems
Monaco Coach
Microsemi Corp.
Myriad Genetics

The Little Things

There are many, AMAZING photo-essays flying around the internet that walk us through the incredible journey to this great moment in history. The moment in history when a young, black man with an unusual name, the son of an African immigrant, raised by a single, white mother became the 44th President of the United States of America. But here are my favorites. For me it has always been and will always be about the little things. I believe that it’s in the smallest of details that you see the greatness in a man.

I loved that he cleaned up after himself before leaving an ice cream shop in Wapello, Iowa. He didn't have to. The event was over and the press had left. He is used to taking care of things himself and I think this is one of the qualities that makes Obama different from so many other political candidates I've encountered. Nov. 7, 2007. Callie Shell for Time .
These two boys waited as a long line of adults greeted Senator Obama before a rally on Martin Luther King Day in Columbia, S.C. They never took their eyes off of him. Their grandmother told me, "Our young men have waited a long time to have someone to look up to, to make them believe Dr. King's words can be true for them." Jan. 21, 2008. Callie Shell for Time .Waiting: Obama listens from a back stairwell as he is introduced in Muscatine, Iowa. It was his second or third speech of the day. Unlike many of the politicians I have photographed in the past, I find it is easy to get a photograph of Obama alone. He lets his staff do their jobs and not fuss over him. Nov. 7, 2007. Callie Shell for Time .Two staffers had just passed this site and done two pull-ups. Not to be outdone, Obama did three with ease, dropped and walked out to make a speech. Missoula, Mont., 4/5/2008. Callie Shell for Time .While Obama goes over his speech in his head, Michelle and their daughters, Malia and Sasha, check him over. Several minutes later he walked out to announce he was running for President of the United States. Springfield, Ill., 2/10/2007. Callie Shell for Time .It was primary morning in New Hampshire. Barack and Michelle Obama had been campaigning separately all week. In the first few months of 2008 their private time seemed to consist of a few crossover moments in back hallways before rallies. This moment was rare and you could tell they just loved being able to sit together. Jan. 8, 2008. Callie Shell for Time .The Obama family on their campaign bus before a Fourth of July picnic in Butte, Mont., 7/4/2008. They are watching a Fourth of July celebration while the crowd arrives at their own event. Callie Shell for Time .Asleep somewhere between Derry and Salem, N.H., 1/6/2008. With three rallies down and two more to go, Obama catches a quick nap on his campaign bus as it headed for Salem. I once asked him when we were traveling through Illinois and he was about to fall asleep, if he cared if I took a picture. He said I was fine photographing him until his jaw dropped. This night his jaw dropped after I took three frames. Callie Shell for Time .
Senator Obama was doing press interviews by telephone in a holding room between events. Sometime later as he was getting ready to begin his event, he asked me if I was photographing his shoes. When I said yes, he told me that he had already had them resoled once since he entered the race a year earlier. Providence, R.I., 3/1/2008. Callie Shell for Time .

The Loudest Voice I Personally Knew this Election: Carol Gronner's Story

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

It's the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen, by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different, that their voices could be that difference.

It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled. Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals or a collection of red states and blue states.

We are, and always will be, the United States of America."

That was how PRESIDENT ELECT BARACK OBAMA (!!!) began his historical victory speech last night ... and that is how I too shall begin, as I DID have my doubts and my fears, but I also had my hopes and my dreams - and last night, November 4th, 2008, Hope beat Fear.

It's been four long years since Barack Obama burst into my life, when I heard him speak at the 2004 Democratic Convention. I have not wavered an instant since then in thinking (and being pretty vocal about), "THAT is who I want as my President". Twenty four hours ago, it finally happened ... and I'm still an elated, happily crying mess of joy.

I am only one of 63+ Million American voters who made this day happen. There are as many inspiring stories, and am proud to have my own to share when I'm an old woman looking back on this monumental day.

After being SO inspired by hearing Senator Obama speak at the '04 Convention, I looked him up online. I donated a couple of bucks, as a thank you for giving me chills. (I still have the 2005 email response, thanking ME!) I read his books, growing more impressed. I started talking to my friends and relatives about this guy from Illinois, who talked about America like I remembered THINKING about America as a kid, but had lost in the last very dark eight years. I knew (or was told) that it was probably "too soon" for him to run, but I've always had big dreams. I kept hoping.

Buzz grew, speculation whirled ... and then early in 2007, Obama announced his candidacy for President. I was on board immediately. Interestingly, my thoughts and feelings are still pretty far to the left of Obama's ... but it didn't matter so much, because underneath it all was and is my desire for the States of America to truly be UNITED - and I saw this unique man as interested in that unity above all else.

So began the blog writing, the emails to friends who'd never heard of the guy (and probably weren't that interested at the time), the squeezing into rallies, the phone banking (and getting hung up on), the donating every chance I could, and the constant chatter, trying to get people to listen. It was interesting and challenging, trying to get people involved, when while most of my friends think along the same lines as myself, many are more radical and don't trust any politician. Or they liked Hillary. Or they didn't think Obama had a chance.

I was scoffed at - "Yeah, good luck with that, Carol. America isn't ready for a Black President". I was told that my letters of support for Obama were "Hate Mail" by an old friend. I traveled abroad and had to defend my hopes for a new America to people that had given up on us, and really now saw us (the Government, not the people, I hoped) as the Evil Empire. As I was beginning to myself.

But then it caught on. Volunteer meetings ran out of chairs. People stood for HOURS to get into rallies. People stopped hanging up, and instead volunteered their OWN time. Obama's fundraising went through the roof. Everyone started PAYING ATTENTION! Feeling the same HOPE that I felt.

And then the Iowa Caucuses happened last January. I vividly remember sitting in the car, listening to NPR, fascinated at the process, needing to go inside to a dinner, but unable to tear my ears from the radio. When the news came that Iowa, among the whitest of states, gave their voices - loudly and proudly - to Barack Obama, and gave him his first victory of the Primary Season, I put my head on the steering wheel and cried. Happy, hopeful, anything is now possible tears of joy!

Iowa opened the flood gates, and started the bandwagon. Songs were written, art was made, shirts were worn, and a strong coalition of hope and possibility was formed. It became more a movement than a campaign. EVERYONE felt the darkness of the past eight years, and we all shared the same desire to move in a positive direction. That is, everyone but the opposing factions, who did everything in their power to squash the momentum, to no lasting effect. Sometimes I think things had to get so bad in this country in order for us to wake up and finally come together to DO SOMETHING about it. It's very Star Wars, when you think about it.

It's been a long, LOOOOONG journey since then, full of emotional ups and downs, scandals and wretched tactics from Obama's opponents - but he never wavered in his grace, wisdom and calm. Because of that, neither did we.

The work intensified, making MORE phone calls, talking about it more in everyday life, writing about it constantly, traveling to former Red State Nevada (which WE WON!) to knock on doors, and making more phone calls. Honestly, the "Community Organizing" which was mocked by Republicans, is exactly what did them in. That, and a transcendent candidate named Barack Hussein Obama, whom we truly believed in.

Yesterday dawned (not that I slept) sunny, the most beautiful day possible, and I took that as a good omen, though the knot in my stomach told me not to trust it. I had a text message from a friend/neighbor before 7 a.m. that our polling place had a line of 250+ waiting to vote. That news prompted my first sob of the day ... surely all those people weren't waiting in lines like that to vote Republican again?! I turned on the morning news and saw that those lines were happening all across the country ... It was happening! People were using their voices!

But as a friend pointed out, "we've been bitch-slapped the past two elections", so I held down my growing excitement, terrified of being ruined again. In all frankness, I think I've been in somewhat of a depression ever since Kerry lost to Bush. Not that I held any of the same high hopes in that election, but just that anyone could POSSIBLY have voted in that other direction TWICE. I think the whole planet may have shared in that depression - unless they were profiting from the war and terrible economy in some way.

When it was my turn to get in line, my excitement grew. I couldn't stop talking to strangers in line about what a great day it was (my brother Paul said, "I think you might be electioneering"), and they all agreed. When it was time to punch the hole for Obama/Biden - I had more tears. When I walked out with my "I Voted" sticker on, the whole long line smiled. I allowed myself the tiniest glimmer of hope - again.

I ran from phone calls to computer screens to MSNBC and back around - all day. One pundit would boost you up, only to have another give you a gut punch. This went on all day long. I couldn't eat. I paced. My friend and fellow long-time Obama supporter, Jenny said, "Here, take a chill" - and handed me a glass of champagne to calm the nerves. (It didn't work, but it was delightful).

Finally, having passed up the big parties around town to focus (and rock back and forth) in relative calm, it was time to gather around the television and await the returns. I wondered if my drinking champagne was a premature curse. I hoped that my taking the garbage out that morning symbolically meant the Washington trash was about to get thrown out (everything had much deeper - and possibly sillier - meaning yesterday). Still ... I dared to hope.

It started to look good .. but then Chuck Todd said that it was the original projected map, and no surprises had happened yet, so people should "cool their heels, it could be a long night". UGH! You started to see people arriving in Chicago's Grant Park - nothing but smiling faces of all colors and ages - rushing to get a good spot. Obama would take one state, but then McCain would take another. Then they called Pennsylvania for Obama, and I choked up again - no McCain upset - hope! Then a bunch more, and then - Minnesota, my home state - WON! I danced and hugged and another cork popped. But nothing could be taken for granted until the last polls closed on the West Coast - where we were. Sitting on the very edge of my seat, I watched as the time clock clicked down the seconds to our 8 p.m. poll closing. I was aware of nothing else around me but that clock.

When it hit 8:00, I heard nothing. I just looked at the state percentages, saw California go for Obama, then it switched to say "United States" and the percentage, and then the word PRESIDENT under Obama's name. I literally fell to my knees, then leaped up into a World Series worthy huddle of victory, friendship, relief and pure, unadulterated JOY! Tears streamed down my cheeks and I cried like you did as a kid, shaking and quivering ... SCREAMING! WE DID IT! In lulls while we took breaths, you could hear the same happening in pockets all around outside. VICTORY! DING DONG, THE WITCH IS DEAD!!! AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL! WOW!!!!! THANK YOU!!!!! AMAZING GRACE!!

We calmed down long enough to watch the incredible scene unfold in Chicago. A crazy wind whipped up suddenly outside (it was seriously crazy, making it very hard not to make "Winds Of Change" jokes, or think of the ghosts who we hoped would somehow be able to see this wondrous event) as we heard Obama give the victory speech that not only inspired us, but also called us to action. Because this is just the beginning, people. We have WORK to do. We have had great, great damage inflicted on us as a people, and as a nation, (and inflicted it upon many other people and nations, I'd regretfully add) and change is not going to happen overnight. We know this. We accept this. We SHALL overcome! So just for today, let's get back to the celebration!

We had sent out the word to all friends to meet in the parking lot of The Brig, a local bar, to join us on a victory bike ride. People we didn't even know were there waiting with our friends, as we rode up around the corner, screaming and ringing our bells. EVERY car that drove by was honking, with people hanging out the windows screaming. As our large group took over the street with our bikes, blue star balloons streaming behind us, EVERYONE we passed screamed along with us. I've never ever seen anything like it, and tears streamed down my cheeks to meet my gigantic smile. I hadn't felt that pride of country in a long time, maybe since I was a tiny kid at the Bicentennial ... or maybe the Miracle On Ice ... and so it made perfect sense that we celebrated like kids last night.

YES WE DID! YES WE DID! YES WE DID! YES WE DID!

After that, it's all a blur of happy mayhem. But when I woke up today, it was not a dream, rather, it was the FULFILLMENT of a dream! The headlines shouted triumphantly, and photos of people celebrating around the world nearly brought me to my knees again. It made me feel almost exactly as profound as 9/11, only in the exact opposite way - ELATED, as opposed to devastated. The whole world rallied around us again ... this time in joyful celebration! I can barely see through my now-welling-again eyes to type further, as I've wanted so, so badly to feel this way again about my beloved country, and now I, WE, can.

I think today of Madelyn Dunham, Barack Obama's Grandmother, who died ONE day before her Grandson became President. I think of Obama's parents, who never lived to know of their son's transformation of a nation. I think of Martin Luther King, Jr, who died so that yesterday we DID judge a man not by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character. I think of Bob Marley, who sang "Get Up, Stand Up" ... which we DID yesterday, to join together and CREATE CHANGE and say NO MORE! But most importantly, I think of all of us. We who are still here, who created and saw this wonderful day happen in history, but who can now also be here to back it all up in the days and years ahead.

One day, one party, one man ... can do NOTHING to change the world beyond the initial celebration. We must now ALL come together to live up to our best ideals, and really, to save the world. Things would have been drastically, ruinously, different had things gone the other way last night ... and I think we all know that. No matter who you voted for, there is no way you can be against the outpouring of joy and unity that happened last night in The United States of America, and around the globe. This is our time to lead again, by GOOD example. To truly live UNITED, as one people, and one nation ... we cannot forget that THAT is why we were founded as a New World, not to be split down the middle by things that really don't matter so much in the end. Taxes, abortion, etc .. those things that divide us aren't the things that made us great. It was the idea of a true Democracy, and that all people are created equal. What made me cry and shout in triumph last night wasn't that my guy won ... it was that we as a people SHOWED that our Democracy DOES work, that we ARE all created equal, and that America really IS beautiful. That out of many, we are truly one.

Last spring I stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in the exact spot where Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his "I Have A Dream" speech, after a day spent at the Walter Reed War Veterans Hospital, and choked up to think of how far we had gone astray since Lincoln's day, and thought we had maybe failed for good. Next January, a million people will again fill that same space, and know that they helped make a national dream come true.

Let us continue that line of work, dream-making. Let's give all kids the dream of college. All families the dream of affordable/free health care. All workers the dream of jobs. All economies the dream of thriving. All eco-systems the dream of surviving. All nations the dream of peace.

Why not dream? Last night, we as a WORLD, learned that anything is possible.

-Carol Gronner

En-Visage

Click on it to enlarge.

President-Elect Barack Obama's Victory Speech

I bow deeply to you America, in making the fine choice to take your country back. Power to the people! The future is now in YOUR hands. Let the hangover from the parties subside and the dust settle, then it's time to roll your sleeves up and get involved in putting your country back together. He needs each and every one of you to help turn things around.

I am truly honored to be able to be here for this historic moment in time.

Here's to you America the Great!



Remarks of Senator Barack Obama
Announcement for President
Saturday, February 10th, 2007
Springfield, IL

PRESIDENT-ELECT BARACK OBAMA: If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

It’s the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen; by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the very first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different; that their voice could be that difference.

It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled - Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of Red States and Blue States: we are, and always will be, the United States of America.

It’s the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.

It’s been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America.

I just received a very gracious call from Senator McCain. He fought long and hard in this campaign, and hes fought even longer and harder for the country he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine, and we are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader. I congratulate him and Governor Palin for all they have achieved, and I look forward to working with them to renew this nations promise in the months ahead.

I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on that train home to Delaware, the Vice President-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.

I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last sixteen years, the rock of our family and the love of my life, our nations next First Lady, Michelle Obama. Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that’s coming with us to the White House. And while she’s no longer with us, I know my grandmother is watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight, and know that my debt to them is beyond measure.

To my campaign manager David Plouffe, my chief strategist David Axelrod, and the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics - you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you’ve sacrificed to get it done.

But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to - it belongs to you.

I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didnt start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington - it began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston.

It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give five dollars and ten dollars and twenty dollars to this cause. It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generations apathy; who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep; from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on the doors of perfect strangers; from the millions of Americans who volunteered, and organized, and proved that more than two centuries later, a government of the people, by the people and for the people has not perished from this Earth. This is your victory.

I know you didn’t do this just to win an election and I know you didn’t do it for me. You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime - two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century. Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us. There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after their children fall asleep and wonder how they’ll make the mortgage, or pay their doctors bills, or save enough for college. There is new energy to harness and new jobs to be created; new schools to build and threats to meet and alliances to repair.

The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even one term, but America - I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you - we as a people will get there.

There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who wont agree with every decision or policy I make as President, and we know that government cant solve every problem. But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And above all, I will ask you join in the work of remaking this nation the only way its been done in America for two-hundred and twenty-one years - block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.

What began twenty-one months ago in the depths of winter must not end on this autumn night. This victory alone is not the change we seek - it is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you.

So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other. Let us remember that if this financial crisis taught us anything, its that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers - in this country, we rise or fall as one nation; as one people.

Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long. Let us remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House - a party founded on the values of self-reliance, individual liberty, and national unity. Those are values we all share, and while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress. As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, We are not enemies, but friends, though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn - I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your President too.

And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world - our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand. To those who would tear this world down - we will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security - we support you. And to all those who have wondered if Americas beacon still burns as bright - tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from our the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope.

For that is the true genius of America - that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.

This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that’s on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. Shes a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing - Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn’t vote for two reasons - because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

And tonight, I think about all that shes seen throughout her century in America - the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we cant, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.

At a time when women’s voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs and a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.

When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.

She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that We Shall Overcome. Yes we can.

A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.

America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves - if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?

This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time - to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth - that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we cant, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:

Yes We Can. Thank you, God bless you, and may God Bless the United States of America.

You Can Vote However You Like

These are - by far - the coolest school kids I have ever seen. Offering a breath of fresh air, here are some super fly students from the Ron Clark Academy in Atlanta, reminding you all of the incredible freedom you are blessed with, in being able to vote without fear of retribution. PLEASE drop what you're doing and go out and vote next Tuesday. If these children are representative of the future of your country, things are looking up America!



Obama on the left
McCain on the right
We can talk politics all night
And you can vote however you like
You can vote however you like, yeah

Democratic left
Republican right
November 4th we decide
And you can vote however you like
You can vote however you like, yeah

(McCain supporters)
McCain’s the best candidate
With Palin as his running mate
They’ll fight for gun rights, pro life,
The conservative right
Our future is bright
Better economy in site
And all the world will feel our military might

(Obama supporters)
But McCain and Bush are real close right
They vote alike and keep it tight
Obama’s new, he’s younger too
The Middle Class he will help you
He’ll bring a change, he’s got the brains
McCain and Bush are just the same
You are to blame, Iraq’s a shame
Four more years would be insane

Lower your Taxes - you know Obama Won’t
PROTECT THE LOWER CLASS - You know McCain won’t!
Have enough experience - you know that they don’t
STOP GLOBAL WARMING - you know that you won’t

I want Obama
FORGET OBAMA
Stick with McCain and you’re going to have some drama
We need it
HE’LL BRING IT
He’ll be it
YOU’LL SEE IT
We’ll do it
GET TO IT
Let’s move it
DO IT!

Obama on the left
McCain on the right
We can talk politics all night
And you can vote however you like
You can vote however you like, yeah

Democratic left
Republican right
November 4th we decide
And you can vote however you like, I said
You can vote however you like, yeah

I’m talking big pipe lines, and low gas prices
Below $2.00 that would be nice

But to do it right we gotta start today
Finding renewable ways that are here to stay

I want Obama
FORGET OBAMA,
Stick wit McCain you gone have some drama
MORE WAR IN IRAQ
Iran he will attack
CAN’T BRING OUR TROOPS BACK
We gotta vote Barack!

Obama on the left
McCain on the right
We can talk politics all night
And you can vote however you like, I said
You can vote however you like, yeah

Democratic left
Republican right
November 4th we decide
And you can vote however you like, I said
You can vote however you like, yeah

Sighting

7:30pm Tuesday 14th October
Venice CA 90291

Perhaps they suffer delusions of diminutiveness or perhaps they’re plain stupid. But I’d probably bank my money on them being in possession of one phat attitude and a whole lot of spunk. If you were a nocturnal creature the size of an English bulldog whose very nature was to be covert and stay out of harm’s and humans' way, you’d think that neighborhood raids would be strategically planned for the dead of night.

I’m talking about raccoons. I won’t call them the colloquial as that is a derogatory and highly offensive term for a black person back home in Australia. I LOVE these raccoon creatures (très exotic to me, like a kangaroo would be to my non-Australian readers) and have been lucky enough to experience three Venice sightings in just as many years.

Last night, from my open front door I heard a vigorous rustling of the tree out front and went to investigate. Stopping in my tracks on my front porch at 7:30pm (a high-activity period for my street with cars returning home from work and the same workers walking dogs and jogging) three fat, furry, bandit-faced critters stood lined up like ducks in a row, staring at me but 8 feet away on the sidewalk. And they were huge. H-U-G-E.

Then, to the plodding and exuberant "Baby Elephant Walk” soundtrack in my head, all three single file and completely conspicuous, waddled, hobbled and shuffled across and up and back and forth and down the street. Investigating every garbage bin, tree, fence line, car and porch in their path from every angle. They made a completely humorous trio, totally unfazed by my presence.

With the extended tales I have heard from a couple of woods-dwelling friends from Vancouver who hand-raised and kept an orphaned, baby raccoon for the term of his natural life, I understand that it is not wise to have one. But I want one. I really, really want one. Share your tales of raccoon encounters; I’d love to hear more!

Photo Blog - High Desert Hootenanny

From Click on Image to View Album 23.

About two and a half hours east of Los Angeles, nestled in the High Desert hills surrounding the Yucca Valley, lies the strange, little legacy of an era of western films, Pioneertown. Built by some Hollywood investors as a set in 1946, the township's solitary, main street has provided the setting for The Cisco Kid and Buffalo Bill Jr to name a couple.

Many of the original buildings remain in ghostly Pioneertown, with a collection of colorful characters inhabiting the tiny town either as full-time residents or as nearby residents who run businesses from there. The scattering of buildings on the edge of the majestic but martian-like, Joshua Tree National Park - while giving the impression of having stepped back in time - smack of the hokiness of a theme town surviving on the dime of sidetracked road trippers.

But in among all the shoot-'em-up, wild, wild west re-enactments and other such tourist lures, is a place that - while maintaining the general, thematic look of the rest of the town - has what appears to be a whole lotta heart. Pappy and Harriet’s Pioneertown Palace is a honky tonk serving up good, ol’, Tex-Mex fare (including mesquite barbeque), a range of brews in Mason jars and more than a few fantastic gigs.

Originally a gas station (with the façade used as a Cantina set), Harriet’s mother and father bought the building in 1972. They established a biker, burrito bar that endured the scorching desert heat and winter snow for ten long years. Wanting to keep it in the family, they passed it on to Harriet who - along with her husband, Claude “Pappy” Allen - opened Pappy & Harriet’s Pioneertown Palace in 1982. Performers themselves with a great love for music, Pappy & Harriet kept the musical acts rolling on in.

Owned now by two cousins from NYC, the musical tradition of Pappy & Harriet’s continues to provide a dream setting for music lovers today with a cute indoor stage, a décor of distressed timber, rustic mingled with kitsch knick-knacks and Christmas lights, and an open-air, dirt-floor stage which has been traversed by everyone from Wanda Jackson and Calexico to Robert Plant, Michelle Shocked and Gram Rabbit. With a diverse, relaxed and unpretentious crowd, Pappy & Harriet’s is a rollicking stopover for a refreshing brew, good food and great live music.

This past weekend, we loaded up the bus full of Venetians and camping gear and hit Highway 10 east to Pappy & Harriet’s, for the 2nd annual Clean Air & Clear Stars festival. With three stages and some thirty acts over three days, I got to dance as if in a trance to the Black Angels, sway with my husband to the beautiful acoustic rhythms of Black Rebel Motor Cycle Club and stomp and jump and clap the house down to Restavrant. All under the dark, starry skies of the high desert we danced. Hipsters coddled in blankets, cowboys wrapped in woolen jackets, bikers swathed in prison tattoos and children suited in faux-fur and mounted on their daddy’s shoulders, swayed and twirled in the ice-cold, night air under a waning moon.

Between it all, I managed pulled-pork and coleslaw, apple pie with cream, cups of tea and the warmth of someone’s violin by a fire. And then I laid me down to sleep in the perfect warmth of my luxurious swag, letting the silhouettes of the Joshua Trees dance on as I counted the shooting stars until I could count no more.

And So a Great World Leader Is Born

by Frank Schaeffer
The Huffington Post

Great presidents are made great by horrible circumstances combined with character, temperament and intelligence. Like firemen, cops, doctors or soldiers, presidents need a crisis to shine.

Obama is one of the most intelligent presidential aspirants to ever step forward in American history. The likes of his intellectual capabilities have not been surpassed in public life since the Founding Fathers put pen to paper. His personal character is also solid gold. Take heart, America: we have the leader for our times.

I say this as a white, former life-long Republican. I say this as the proud father of a Marine. I say this as just another American watching his pension evaporate along with the stock market! I speak as someone who knows it's time to forget party loyalty, ideology and pride and put the country first. I say this as someone happy to be called a fool for going out on a limb and declaring that, 1) Obama will win, and 2) he is going to be amongst the greatest of American presidents.

Obama is our last best chance. He's worth laying it all on the line for.

This is a man who in the age of greed took the high road of community service. This is the good father and husband. This is the humble servant. This is the patient teacher. This is the scholar statesman. This is the man of deep Christian faith.

Good stories about Obama abound; from his personal relationship with his Secret Service agents (he invites them into his home to watch sports, and shoots hoops with them) to the story about how, more than twenty years ago, while standing in the check-in line at an airport, Obama paid a $100 baggage surcharge for a stranger who was broke and stuck. (Obama was virtually penniless himself in those days.) Years later after he became a senator, that stranger recognized Obama's picture and wrote to him to thank him. She received a kindly note back from the senator. (The story only surfaced because the person, who lives in Norway, told a local newspaper after Obama ran for the presidency. The paper published a photograph of this lady proudly displaying Senator Obama's letter.)

Where many leaders are two-faced; publicly kindly but privately feared and/or hated by people closest to them, Obama is consistent in the way he treats people, consistently kind and personally humble. He lives by the code that those who lead must serve. He believes that. He lives it. He lived it long before he was in the public eye.

Obama puts service ahead of ideology. He also knows that to win politically you need to be tough. He can be. He has been. This is a man who does what works, rather than scoring ideological points. In other words he is the quintessential non-ideological pragmatic American. He will (thank God!) disappoint ideologues and purists of the left and the right.

Obama has a reservoir of personal physical courage that is unmatched in presidential history. Why unmatched? Because as the first black contender for the presidency who will win, Obama, and all the rest of us, know that he is in great physical danger from the seemingly unlimited reserve of unhinged racial hatred, and just plain unhinged ignorant hatred, that swirls in the bowels of our wounded and sinful country. By stepping forward to lead, Obama has literally put his life on the line for all of us in a way no white candidate ever has had to do. (And we all know how dangerous the presidency has been even for white presidents.)

Nice stories or even unparalleled courage isn't the only point. The greater point about Obama is that the midst of our worldwide financial meltdown, an expanding (and losing) war in Afghanistan, trying to extricate our country from a wrong and stupidly mistaken ruinously expensive war in Iraq, our mounting and crushing national debt, awaiting the next (and inevitable) al Qaeda attack on our homeland, watching our schools decline to Third World levels of incompetence, facing a general loss of confidence in the government that has been exacerbated by the Republicans doing all they can to undermine our government's capabilities and programs... President Obama will take on the leadership of our country at a make or break time of historic proportions. He faces not one but dozens of crisis, each big enough to define any presidency in better times.

As luck, fate or divine grace would have it (depending on one's personal theology) Obama is blessedly, dare I say uniquely, well-suited to our dire circumstances. Obama is a person with hands-on community service experience, deep connections to top economic advisers from the renowned University of Chicago where he taught law, and a middle-class background that gives him an abiding knowledgeable empathy with the rest of us. As the son of a single mother, who has worked his way up with merit and brains, recipient of top-notch academic scholarships, the peer-selected editor of the Harvard Law Review and, in three giant political steps to state office, national office and now the presidency, Obama clearly has the wit and drive to lead.

Obama is the sober voice of reason at a time of unreason. He is the fellow keeping his head while all around him are panicking. He is the healing presence at a time of national division and strife. He is also new enough to the political process so that he doesn't suffer from the terminally jaded cynicism, the seen-it-all-before syndrome afflicting most politicians in Washington. In that regard we Americans lucked out. It's as if having despaired of our political process we picked a name from the phone book to lead us and that person turned out to be a very man we needed.

Obama brings a healing and uplifting spiritual quality to our politics at the very time when our worst enemy is fear. For eight years we've been ruled by a stunted fear-filled mediocrity of a little liar who has expanded his power on the basis of creating fear in others. Fearless Obama is the cure. He speaks a litany of hope rather than a litany of terror.

As we have watched Obama respond in a quiet reasoned manner to crisis after crisis, in both the way he has responded after being attacked and lied about in the 2008 campaign season, to his reasoned response to our multiplying national crises, what we see is the spirit of a trusted family doctor with a great bedside manner. Obama is perfectly suited to hold our hand and lead us through some very tough times. The word panic is not in the Obama dictionary.

America is fighting its "Armageddon" in one fearful heart at a time. A brilliant leader with the mild manner of an old-time matter-of-fact country doctor soothing a frightened child is just what we need. The fact that our "doctor" is a black man leading a hitherto white-ruled nation out of the mess of its own making is all the sweeter and raises the Obama story to that of moral allegory.

Obama brings a moral clarity to his leadership reserved for those who have had to work for everything they've gotten and had to do twice as well as the person standing next to them because of the color of their skin. His experience of succeeding in spite of his color, social background and prejudice could have been embittering or one that fostered a spiritual rebirth of forgiveness and enlightenment. Obama radiates the calm inner peace of the spirit of forgiveness.

Speaking as a believing Christian I see the hand of a merciful God in Obama's candidacy. The biblical metaphors abound. The stone the builder rejected is become the cornerstone... the last shall be first... he that would gain his life must first lose it... the meek shall inherit the earth...

For my secular friends I'll allow that we may have just been extraordinarily lucky! Either way America wins.

Only a brilliant man, with the spirit of a preacher and the humble heart of a kindly family doctor can lead us now. We are afraid, out of ideas, and worst of all out of hope. Obama is the cure. And we Americans have it in us to rise to the occasion. We will. We're about to enter one of the most frightening periods of American history. Our country has rarely faced more uncertainty. This is the time for greatness. We have a great leader. We must be a great people backing him, fighting for him, sacrificing for a cause greater than ourselves.

A hundred years from now Obama's portrait will be placed next to that of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and Franklin Roosevelt. Long before that we'll be telling our children and grandchildren that we stepped out in faith and voted for a young black man who stood up and led our country back from the brink of an abyss. We'll tell them about the power of love, faith and hope. We'll tell them about the power of creativity combined with humility and intellectual brilliance. We'll tell them that President Obama gave us the gift of regaining our faith in our country. We'll tell them that we all stood up and pitched in and won the day. We'll tell them that President Obama restored our standing in the world. We'll tell them that by the time he left office our schools were on the mend, our economy booming, that we'd become a nation filled with green energy alternatives and were leading the world away from dependence on carbon-based destruction. We'll tell them that because of President Obama's example and leadership the integrity of the family was restored, divorce rates went down, more fathers took responsibility for their children, and abortion rates fell dramatically as women, families and children were cared for through compassionate social programs that worked. We'll tell them about how the gap closed between the middle class and the super rich, how we won health care for all, how crime rates fell, how bad wars were brought to an honorable conclusion. We'll tell them that when we were attacked again by al Qaeda, how reason prevailed and the response was smart, tough, measured and effective, and our civil rights were protected even in times of crisis...

We'll tell them that we were part of the inexplicably blessed miracle that happened to our country those many years ago in 2008 when a young black man was sent by God, fate or luck to save our country. We'll tell them that it's good to live in America where anything is possible. Yes we will.

Frank Schaeffer is the author of CRAZY FOR GOD-How I Grew Up As One Of The Elect, Helped Found The Religious Right, And Lived To Take All (Or Almost All) Of It Back. Now in paperback.

Great presidents are made great by horrible circumstances combined with character, temperament and intelligence. Like firemen, cops, doctors or soldiers, presidents need a crisis to shine.

Obama is one of the most intelligent presidential aspirants to ever step forward in American history. The likes of his intellectual capabilities have not been surpassed in public life since the Founding Fathers put pen to paper. His personal character is also solid gold. Take heart, America: we have the leader for our times.

I say this as a white, former life-long Republican. I say this as the proud father of a Marine. I say this as just another American watching his pension evaporate along with the stock market! I speak as someone who knows it's time to forget party loyalty, ideology and pride and put the country first. I say this as someone happy to be called a fool for going out on a limb and declaring that, 1) Obama will win, and 2) he is going to be amongst the greatest of American presidents.

Obama is our last best chance. He's worth laying it all on the line for.

This is a man who in the age of greed took the high road of community service. This is the good father and husband. This is the humble servant. This is the patient teacher. This is the scholar statesman. This is the man of deep Christian faith.

Good stories about Obama abound; from his personal relationship with his Secret Service agents (he invites them into his home to watch sports, and shoots hoops with them) to the story about how, more than twenty years ago, while standing in the check-in line at an airport, Obama paid a $100 baggage surcharge for a stranger who was broke and stuck. (Obama was virtually penniless himself in those days.) Years later after he became a senator, that stranger recognized Obama's picture and wrote to him to thank him. She received a kindly note back from the senator. (The story only surfaced because the person, who lives in Norway, told a local newspaper after Obama ran for the presidency. The paper published a photograph of this lady proudly displaying Senator Obama's letter.)

Where many leaders are two-faced; publicly kindly but privately feared and/or hated by people closest to them, Obama is consistent in the way he treats people, consistently kind and personally humble. He lives by the code that those who lead must serve. He believes that. He lives it. He lived it long before he was in the public eye.

Obama puts service ahead of ideology. He also knows that to win politically you need to be tough. He can be. He has been. This is a man who does what works, rather than scoring ideological points. In other words he is the quintessential non-ideological pragmatic American. He will (thank God!) disappoint ideologues and purists of the left and the right.

Obama has a reservoir of personal physical courage that is unmatched in presidential history. Why unmatched? Because as the first black contender for the presidency who will win, Obama, and all the rest of us, know that he is in great physical danger from the seemingly unlimited reserve of unhinged racial hatred, and just plain unhinged ignorant hatred, that swirls in the bowels of our wounded and sinful country. By stepping forward to lead, Obama has literally put his life on the line for all of us in a way no white candidate ever has had to do. (And we all know how dangerous the presidency has been even for white presidents.)

Nice stories or even unparalleled courage isn't the only point. The greater point about Obama is that the midst of our worldwide financial meltdown, an expanding (and losing) war in Afghanistan, trying to extricate our country from a wrong and stupidly mistaken ruinously expensive war in Iraq, our mounting and crushing national debt, awaiting the next (and inevitable) al Qaeda attack on our homeland, watching our schools decline to Third World levels of incompetence, facing a general loss of confidence in the government that has been exacerbated by the Republicans doing all they can to undermine our government's capabilities and programs... President Obama will take on the leadership of our country at a make or break time of historic proportions. He faces not one but dozens of crisis, each big enough to define any presidency in better times.

As luck, fate or divine grace would have it (depending on one's personal theology) Obama is blessedly, dare I say uniquely, well-suited to our dire circumstances. Obama is a person with hands-on community service experience, deep connections to top economic advisers from the renowned University of Chicago where he taught law, and a middle-class background that gives him an abiding knowledgeable empathy with the rest of us. As the son of a single mother, who has worked his way up with merit and brains, recipient of top-notch academic scholarships, the peer-selected editor of the Harvard Law Review and, in three giant political steps to state office, national office and now the presidency, Obama clearly has the wit and drive to lead.

Obama is the sober voice of reason at a time of unreason. He is the fellow keeping his head while all around him are panicking. He is the healing presence at a time of national division and strife. He is also new enough to the political process so that he doesn't suffer from the terminally jaded cynicism, the seen-it-all-before syndrome afflicting most politicians in Washington. In that regard we Americans lucked out. It's as if having despaired of our political process we picked a name from the phone book to lead us and that person turned out to be a very man we needed.

Obama brings a healing and uplifting spiritual quality to our politics at the very time when our worst enemy is fear. For eight years we've been ruled by a stunted fear-filled mediocrity of a little liar who has expanded his power on the basis of creating fear in others. Fearless Obama is the cure. He speaks a litany of hope rather than a litany of terror.

As we have watched Obama respond in a quiet reasoned manner to crisis after crisis, in both the way he has responded after being attacked and lied about in the 2008 campaign season, to his reasoned response to our multiplying national crises, what we see is the spirit of a trusted family doctor with a great bedside manner. Obama is perfectly suited to hold our hand and lead us through some very tough times. The word panic is not in the Obama dictionary.

America is fighting its "Armageddon" in one fearful heart at a time. A brilliant leader with the mild manner of an old-time matter-of-fact country doctor soothing a frightened child is just what we need. The fact that our "doctor" is a black man leading a hitherto white-ruled nation out of the mess of its own making is all the sweeter and raises the Obama story to that of moral allegory.

Obama brings a moral clarity to his leadership reserved for those who have had to work for everything they've gotten and had to do twice as well as the person standing next to them because of the color of their skin. His experience of succeeding in spite of his color, social background and prejudice could have been embittering or one that fostered a spiritual rebirth of forgiveness and enlightenment. Obama radiates the calm inner peace of the spirit of forgiveness.

Speaking as a believing Christian I see the hand of a merciful God in Obama's candidacy. The biblical metaphors abound. The stone the builder rejected is become the cornerstone... the last shall be first... he that would gain his life must first lose it... the meek shall inherit the earth...

For my secular friends I'll allow that we may have just been extraordinarily lucky! Either way America wins.

Only a brilliant man, with the spirit of a preacher and the humble heart of a kindly family doctor can lead us now. We are afraid, out of ideas, and worst of all out of hope. Obama is the cure. And we Americans have it in us to rise to the occasion. We will. We're about to enter one of the most frightening periods of American history. Our country has rarely faced more uncertainty. This is the time for greatness. We have a great leader. We must be a great people backing him, fighting for him, sacrificing for a cause greater than ourselves.

A hundred years from now Obama's portrait will be placed next to that of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and Franklin Roosevelt. Long before that we'll be telling our children and grandchildren that we stepped out in faith and voted for a young black man who stood up and led our country back from the brink of an abyss. We'll tell them about the power of love, faith and hope. We'll tell them about the power of creativity combined with humility and intellectual brilliance. We'll tell them that President Obama gave us the gift of regaining our faith in our country. We'll tell them that we all stood up and pitched in and won the day. We'll tell them that President Obama restored our standing in the world. We'll tell them that by the time he left office our schools were on the mend, our economy booming, that we'd become a nation filled with green energy alternatives and were leading the world away from dependence on carbon-based destruction. We'll tell them that because of President Obama's example and leadership the integrity of the family was restored, divorce rates went down, more fathers took responsibility for their children, and abortion rates fell dramatically as women, families and children were cared for through compassionate social programs that worked. We'll tell them about how the gap closed between the middle class and the super rich, how we won health care for all, how crime rates fell, how bad wars were brought to an honorable conclusion. We'll tell them that when we were attacked again by al Qaeda, how reason prevailed and the response was smart, tough, measured and effective, and our civil rights were protected even in times of crisis...

We'll tell them that we were part of the inexplicably blessed miracle that happened to our country those many years ago in 2008 when a young black man was sent by God, fate or luck to save our country. We'll tell them that it's good to live in America where anything is possible. Yes we will.

And the World Watches...

by Jonathan Freedland
The Guardian (UK)

'If Sarah Palin defies the conventional wisdom that says elections are determined by the top of the ticket, and somehow wins this for McCain, what will be the reaction? Yes, blue-state America will go into mourning once again, feeling estranged in its own country. A generation of young Americans - who back Obama in big numbers - will turn cynical, concluding that politics doesn't work after all. And, most depressing, many African-Americans will decide that if even Barack Obama with all his conspicuous gifts could not win, then no black man can ever be elected president.

But what of the rest of the world? This is the reaction I fear most. For Obama has stirred an excitement around the globe unmatched by any American politician in living memory. Polling in Germany , France , Britain and Russia shows that Obama would win by whopping majorities, with the pattern repeated in Africa, Asia, the Middle East and Latin America. IfNovember 4 were a global ballot, Obama would win it handsomely. If the free world could choose its leader, it would be Barack Obama.

The crowd of 200,000 that rallied to hear him in Berlin in July did so not only because of his charisma, but also because they know he, like the majority of the world's population, opposed the Iraq war. McCain supported it, peddling the lie that Saddam was linked to 9/11.

Non-Americans sense that Obama will not ride roughshod over the international system but will treat alliances and global institutions seriously: McCain wants to bypass the United Nations in favour of a US-friendly League of Democracies. McCain might talk a good game on climate change, but a repeated floor chant at the Republican convention was 'Drill, baby, drill!', as if the solution to global warming were not a radical rethink of the US's entire energy system but more offshore oil rigs.

If Americans choose McCain, they will be turning their back on the rest of the world, choosing to show us four more years of the Bush-Cheney finger. And I predict a deeply unpleasant shift.

Until now, anti-Americanism has been exaggerated and much misunderstood: outside a leftist hardcore, it has mostly been anti-Bushism, opposition to this specific administration. But if McCain wins in November, that might well change.

Suddenly Europeans and others will conclude that their dispute is with not only one ruling clique, but Americans themselves. For it will have been the American people, not the politicians, who will have passed up a once-in-a-generation chance for a fresh start - a fresh start the world is yearning for.

And the manner of that decision will matter, too. If it is deemed to have been about race - that Obama was rejected because of his colour - the world's verdict will be harsh. In that circumstance, Slate's Jacob Weisberg wrote recently ,international opinion would conclude that 'the United States had its day, but in the end couldn't put its own self-interest ahead of its crazy irrationality over race'.

Even if it's not ethnic prejudice, but some other aspect of the culture wars, that proves decisive, the point still holds. For America to make a decision as grave as this one - while the planet boils and with the US fighting two wars - on the trivial basis that a hockey mom is likable and seems down to earth, would be to convey a lack of seriousness, a fleeing from reality, that does indeed suggest a nation in, to quote Weisberg, 'historical decline'. Let's not forget, McCain's campaign manager boasts that this election is 'not about the issues.'

Of course I know that even to mention Obama's support around the world is to hurt him. Incredibly, that large Berlin crowd damaged Obama at home, branding him the 'candidate of Europe' and making him seem less of a patriotic American. But what does that say about today's America, that the world's esteem is now unwanted? If Americans reject Obama, they will be sending the clearest possible message to the rest of us - and, make no mistake, we shall hear it.'

Photo Blog - Tucson Arizona

From Click on image to view Album 22.

CLICK ON IMAGE TO VIEW ALBUM 22.

I’ve lost my husband to the desert. It’s true. We have desert in Australia too, but why he is so in love with the desert here in the USA remains a mystery.

Maybe it is that here in the southern parts of Arizona, there is a monsoon season. Flying across the desert on the long, lonely highway in the darkness we hurtled toward the fantastical display of an electrical storm, cracks of lightening shocking the night sky first blue, then pink, then red. The long, stiflingly hot days roll into afternoon thunder storms and brief, heavy downpours – just like my days growing up in Queensland, Australia. The angry clouds empty their grey, bloated bellies – filled with Mexican waters, picked up on their journey up the Baja Peninsula – over southern Arizona. The nights are balmy and sexy.

Or maybe it’s that in this part of the desert, thousands of cacti stand over 15 feet tall, like sentinels guarding desert treasures. The only place where the Saguaro naturally reproduces, the Senora Desert resounds with abundant life under a cotton-candy decorated, vibrant-blue sky.

Then again, maybe it’s the music on offer or inspiration for it. Bands like the very awesome Calexico and Neko Case call Tucson home. Perhaps the desert revealed its secrets to them too. Maybe this is how they translate its vibrations into magical music that embodies the spirit of the part wild, Wild West, part bohemian, part quiet, part riotous population who dance to the beat of their own drum across the arid abyss.

Maybe it’s one or all of these things that draw those with vision to it. Blink and you could miss it. Not have your right mind on, you might see just a barren, podunk town. Come seeking and you will find inspiration and kind, creative people quietly going about living.

Photo Blog - Our Little Californian Bungalow

From Click on image to view Album 21.

CLICK ON THE IMAGE TO VIEW THE ENTIRE ALBUM OF OUR LITTLE BUNGALOW.

Father Figure

“Daddy!” I gasped, as I pulled over to the curb yesterday morning and turned the radio up.

“Morgan Freeman and a companion were in a serious car accident on Sunday night, August 3rd, 100 miles South of Memphis in Tallahatchie County, Mississippi. Although he is in a serious condition and the jaws of life were used to extract him from the wreckage, it is said that he is not facing anything life threatening. His female passenger is said to have suffered minor injuries,” said the radio reporter.

Greatly relieved, I pulled out into the traffic and continued on my way to work. Morgan Freeman is not my father. But he reminds me – in a disturbingly vivid way - of my father. At fourteen years of age when I first laid eyes on him “Driving Miss Daisy”, I was instantly struck with affection for him. This affection has grown even more rapidly than his career.

Morgan Freeman’s character goes down in a movie, I’m baying for blood. Someone wrongs him, I want justice of an intensity that even the screenwriter couldn’t have predicted in an audience reaction. And God forbid he’s injured or dies! I am howling inconsolably on the floor, streams of tears, snot and spit criss-crossing freely down my face. Before I watch a movie with Morgan Freeman in it, I have to seriously consider his role and weigh up how emotionally damaging it will be for me. This Daddy’s-little-girl barely copes otherwise.

So it was with panic that I heard the news of his car accident yesterday morning. According to a CNN.com report, The Associated Press released that Mississippi Highway Patrol spokesman Sgt. Ben Williams said, that Freeman was driving a 1997 Nissan Maxima belonging to his passenger, Demaris Meyer of Memphis, when the car left a rural highway and flipped several times shortly before midnight Sunday.

"There's no indication that either alcohol or drugs were involved," Williams said. Nursing a broken arm, elbow and shoulder injuries, CNN’s sources reported him to be in good spirits, even joking with work paramedic crew as they tended to him.

Born in Memphis and raised for some of his childhood in Mississippi, Morgan Freeman - along with a business partner Bill Luckett – bought a juke joint in the small town of Clarksdale, Mississippi and opened their venture, “Ground Zero”. This year, they opened a second Ground Zero juke joint in Memphis.

I have long suspected I will have a great affinity with the South and have wanted for many years, to take the drive from Los Angeles to New Orleans. Finally, my husband and I will make that journey at Christmas. Over this period, my husband’s birthday falls. He is a musician and I a music lover so we added Clarksdale, Mississippi to the agenda. It might be a small town but Calrksdale is the cradle of Delta Blues (the forefather of rock n’ roll as we know it today) and is added to the list of many making a blues pilgrimage.

And so it is on my husband’s birthday that we have allocated a trip to the Delta Blues Museum, dinner & drinks at Ground Zero juke joint (only later to discover it is Morgan Freeman’s) and a late-night visit to the Crossroads (now a brightly lit junction on a sealed, rural highway - not the dirt road, under the moonlight where legend claims Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil to play badass blues guitar somewhere back in the 1930s). We will endeavor not to repeat Mr. Freeman’s action-blockbuster performance of last Sunday night.

Clarksdale was the home of Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Nate Dogg, Same Cooke & Ike Turner to name a few and was the lazy, humid, summer home of Tennessee Williams. I have assigned more than a little romance to the grit, soul, tough times and rich, musical history of the region and am already taken by the poetry it has conjured in my heart. So it was with a certain understanding that I read an excerpt from a 2005 CNN interview with Morgan Freeman where he said that returning to the area was, "one of the smartest moves I've made in life.

"My aim in life when I graduated from high school was to get out of Mississippi," he said. "I started coming back in about 1979, because my parents moved back, which I couldn't understand. What in the world would make you come back here? It took me about 20 years to figure that out."

And it is perhaps this wisdom that keeps him – current incident, PR commitments and press junkets aside –and others in his industry and of his caliber out of the flash bulbs of the paparazzi.

I work in a facility where I encounter many celebrities. You can rest assured that it is always the young, trashy, Hollywood kiddies who arrive to their appointments with multiple town cars in tow, armies of concert-like security, diva demands and all the pomp and fanfare of a mediaeval King. And you can rest assured that it was from one car, with one companion that a very composed Mr. Morgan Freeman slid peacefully and unassumingly into the building. In fact, if it weren’t for his impeccably groomed and distinguished appearance, his quiet yet purposeful stride, imposing frame and then that voice - politely enquiring which studio he was in - you wouldn’t have known he’d arrived. And with a flash of that mischievous and winning smile, words failed me.

And so Mr. Freeman Sir, if I had only found the words that day, I would have liked to have said, “It is such a privilege to meet you Sir. Your work is tremendous. You remind me very much of my father and that is the highest compliment I can give you.”

Broowaha: June's Featured Contributor

Taken From: Broowaha: Citizen Newspaper Network
Interviewer: Digidave

She has won our hearts and minds. An interview with our old school Broowaha contributor V. Find out what makes her tick, what she thinks of the Broo and if she will marry me. Yes, I proposed.

You describe yourself as an Australian living in "Amorica", how does this influence your writing?

When I first moved to the USA 3yrs ago, I also discovered blogging. Blogging was the most efficient way to give all my friends and family a window into my world while living so far away. Back home I would drop by a friend’s house unannounced for a late morning cup of tea or an afternoon glass of wine whereby we’d sit at that window and while the time away. I miss these exchanges and I have found these again somewhat in the Broowaha community. I tossed around the idea of what to call my first blog for no more than a few minutes when “Living in Amorica” burst forth into my consciousness.

“Amorica” is the title of the 3rd album by the Black Crowes, released in 1994. The album’s cover depicted a woman’s crotch in an American flag bikini that revealed wayward pubic hair. This image was taken from a 1976 United States Bicentennial issue of Hustler magazine. The album cover caused some controversy which resulted in the record company releasing an alternative cover that blacked out the offending area.

While this album doesn’t go down in history as one of my favorites or anything (and the fact that I just spelled that word “favorites” as opposed to “favourites” is a telling sign of the influence that the USA has had on my writing), its title and ensuing brouhaha (ha ha) did do well at representing my early ideas about America.

Here we have the sex, drugs n’ rock n’ roll history of a band who obviously sold enough in the mainstream arena for the album “Amorica”, to climb the Billboard Charts to an 11th position on one hand. Then we have on the other hand, a large enough sector of the public finding an image of pubic hair so grossly offensive, that there is a call to censor it. I guess the contradiction fascinated me; the decidedly overt and garish brand of sexiness of Americans versus their puritanical insistence of the censorship of what seems so inoffensively natural to me. So too there were the three little letters “M-O-R” jammed in the middle which generally summed up modern American culture in my mind.

So how has my writing – which I will define here as my blog and my Broowaha citizen journalism efforts – been influenced by being an Australian living in America?

Well, the very idea that you’d want to “share” and the confidence in the assumption that strangers would even be at all interested in anything you had to say, is decidedly American to me. Had I not moved to America, I can be pretty sure that I would never have even considered such an endeavor (again that I didn’t spell that “endeavour” is indeed a telling influence) for at least another five years, when finally Australia’s masses would catch up to such modern tawdriness.

I love this world. It has not only given me the opportunity of a stage for the fruits of my favored pass time, but it has actually taught me to be a better writer by giving me an astute audience of talented and interested peers/ critics and a desire to do better for them. Despite all the wonderful things I love about my country, Australia very much so has quite the culture of negativity (just google “Tall Poppy Syndrome”). Most compliments are backhanded, criticism vicious and encouragement often scant and mumbled. You’ve got to be tough and I wouldn’t have been tough enough to try this back home. Any of my writing successes I will owe to the late Mother O (my high school English teacher) and to this culture of Amorica that helped me find my voice while discovering – to my delight- that while I was right about many ideas that I had about America, I was also so very wrong.

If memory serves - you live in Venice CA. How has that been? Are there any untold stories in your neighborhood that you still intend to write about, but just haven't gotten around to yet?

Venice is most certainly where I’m at. I wouldn’t live anywhere else in Los Angeles. Untold stories you ask? Where do I start?

I am currently wondering how many high teas it might take before I could feel comfortable asking my ninety year old next door neighbor if she is in fact Dorothy Darling the burlesque dancer of 1940s, Angeleno, underground fame.

I wonder what keeps Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols tied to his life in a walk-street, multi-million dollar, Venice bungalow while constantly slagging off the leftist demographic among which he resides. It couldn’t be the surf. Or maybe it could – he did grow up in England after all. Or maybe it’s just being punk for the sake of being punk.

I constantly invent reasons why Robert Graham (the Sculptor & Mr. Angelica Huston) was given the singular honor in a community high in incidence of artists, of unveiling one of his works - a very ordinary bust sculpture – in the prime and highly visible location of the Venice circle at Windward Ave, without some kind of vote or input from locals. I’d like to know the real answer to that.

Venice will never run out of stories and I love a good story.

What is your favorite story you ever wrote for the Broo?

It has got such a dumbass, ridiculously long title, but I think my favorite is “Riding Along in My Automobile, No Baby beside Me at the Wheel”. It is a subject close to my heart and I feel like I earned the right to the indulgence of my poetic ramblings (like I tend toward) because I put in the hard work of a bunch of research.

In the time you've been part of Broowaha, how have you grown as a writer or interviewer? Maybe you can tell us about your first article/ your most recent article.

When I first stumbled upon Broowaha, I didn’t actually know what it was entirely, but I thought it was the step I needed to take in putting myself out there in the public arena. I didn’t put much thought into either the future of the Broowaha itself or my future within it or anything much at all really. I just thought, “Maybe if I throw this little diary-like blog entry I’ve got here up (that would be my little ditty 'Department Stores are Stealing Time') and see what people think of it, I’ll know if my boyfriend is just being kind when he says, ‘you’re a really good writer Babe.’”

What Broowaha has done for me is that it has kept me writing much more regularly than I ever have in my life which in turn has greatly assisted me in honing my skills. It has also given me the opportunity to have a reasonably large body of work available to criticism and opinion in the public arena. This too has helped me view my work more objectively and prompted me to strive to better myself. Writing and submitting so frequently has made me realize (that’d be “realise” without American influence on my writing) is that I do have a voice when I write. There is an identifiable me for better or worse. I like that.

As an interviewer, I think I suck. I like to watch people and do every day things with them and let them tell me things when they’re ready. I don’t like to ask too many questions. In my own life, this means that it can often take years for truly close friendships to develop. In journalist world, clearly it wouldn’t meet any newspaper’s deadline.

But while I have grown as a writer since contributing to the Broowaha, so too the Broowaha has grown as a citizen journalism network and it has been a privilege to watch this happen.

If you could write about anyone or any situation, what would it be?

I don’t know. It’s like a World Press Awards, award winning photojournalist friend’s quote, “If you see the perfect picture, then you’ve missed it.” With me, if I think about something too long and turn it over in my head too many times, I stomp the natural story out of it. I’ll know my next subject when I feel it coming.

What artist (musician, author, painter etc) inspires you?

All of them for being so brave. All of them for daring to believe that beauty can change the world. All of them for understanding that life is joyless without art.

Of our topics (city life, night life, culture, sports, etc) what is your favorite? Is there a reason why you tend to write/read more articles in that section?

City Living - I’ve certainly given a few strokes of the keyboard over to this section. “Living” I know. “City” I know. Write what you know.

Night Life – Sometimes I have an interesting enough tale to write about but I think I’ll leave this section to the kids.

Culture – This I think is my favorite section. I was born of two cultures and raised in another. It’s all around me and us and fascinates me greatly. And then there’s “the arts” n’ stuff which I dig of course.

World – My other favorite. The world around us is one of my greatest loves.

Politics – I’ll leave that to the ones smarter than me.

Gossip – I don’t give a S*+! (unless it’s El G’s humorous venting after another wasted night at another pointless, Hollywood establishment).

Science & Technology – I am grateful that folks are working away to find a cure for cancer and I love my laptop “Sweet Pea”, but that’s about all I know about that.

Sports – ¿Qué?

Opinion – We all have those!

Travel – What? There’s no “Travel” section? Why not?

Will you marry me?

What is it with you Broowaha men?! I might marry you Dave. It depends on a few things,

1. Which Dave you really are on the red couch…

2. How many passports our union could proffer.

3. Whether or not you’d pay for the divorce to my current husband.

Photo Blog - Cowboy Country

From Click on image to view Album 20.

We traveled nearly 1000 miles (about 1,601 kilometers) in a meandering, long-weekend journey to the northern rim of the Grand Canyon on a mini-America tour. A fitting excursion we think for the holiday that commemorates America’s 1776 Declaration of Independence from Great Britain.

Leaving the state of California behind us and heading East out to Las Vegas – this bedazzled zone of the desert clocking 105 degrees Fahrenheit (around 40 degrees Celsius) at 10:30 at night – we pushed on an hour or so further east to the small, poor man’s Vegas, the township of “Mesquite”. We pulled in at midnight to the “Virgin River Valley Casino” after roadside spotting a mountain lion or two.

We woke at 8:30am to a blazing desert sun. Unable to see the environment due to a night arrival, the morning revealed a “virgin” river – one that had clearly never experienced water. The blistering heat was almost unbearable with the white earth and white, mountainous rock bouncing the light and the heat in all directions. This sort of thing could make a person crazy if exposed too long.

Taking refuge in the air-conditioned casino, it appeared that many were kick starting America Day with a few turns at the slot-machines. Who knew what time of day or night it was? The environment was set at gambler’s temperature and light. Through the blinking, twinkling, high-pitched sirens, low-pitched sirens and dizzying electronic cheers, perforated only by the mechanical jingle of change, we made our way to the $6.99 breakfast buffet.

It was here over hash-browns-from-a-box, fridge-flavored eggs and piles of cardboard-like bacon that I saw my first Polynesian family (I’ve seen the odd individual) since living in Los Angeles. Having joined six tables together to accommodate a large (in every way) party, they made me miss my family. I deducted that my sighting must be a result of the fact that we were on the side of Highway 15 which takes you north into Salt Lake City, Utah. Compared to Los Angeles’ 0.16% Pacific Islander population, SLC can claim a 1.9% Pacific Islander population - the Mormon thing no doubt.

Immediately next to our table, a fifty-something, Caucasian, American couple, dressed up like Hawaiian tourists were munching away on their fake foods, riveted to the Keno screens when we overheard the woman speak. “I don’t like all this fancy, gourmet cheese. I just like American cheese. Just gimme American cheese,” she said.

The Polynesian family’s (who I could tell from their curious, returned glances had identified the islander in me as I had in them) oversized, make-shift table wasn’t vacant for long after they left. A Native American family as big in number as the last, soon filled the spot. I’d never seen a Native American family either and I can report that they are most definitely reminiscent of my Maori mob. Having observed both these large families enjoying a meal on this American holiday together, I definitely felt homesick.

I found myself over-sentimentally acknowledging Grandpa with his dark brown, leather-worn face, craggy as the desert rocks. His cowboy hat tipped on his thick, clean-cut, dark grey and white hair, his well-pressed pants, striped, red button-down shirt, shiny boots and silver and turquoise bolo tie and belt buckle showed a man of pride. Dressed in his bests for a big day out with all generations of his family, he escorted his equally desert-worn wife with her long, grey braids in a simple shift dress and cardigan (also adorned with some beautiful turquoise jewelry) to the buffet.

Stocking up the car with pallets of water, we hit the road again, heading for the Nevada/ Arizona state line. The big empty of Arizona made me think of my girlfriend Antonia and one of her favorite films, Emir Kusturica’s “Arizona Dream”. So I called her at home in Rome, Italy and we chatted our way across the great expanses until I lost her somewhere in Utah (I wasn’t driving).

Somewhere over the state line in Utah we came to the ticky-tacky town of St. George, home of Dixie State College. Although we’d never heard of Dixie State College, you’d be blind, deaf or illiterate to miss this information. While Australian Universities may be able to boast an internationally competitive level of education, we cannot compete with American college facilities. The football field and its bleachers at Dixie State may as well have been the size of the SCG (Sydney Cricket Ground). These bizarrely perfect, cookie-cutter housing estates seemed to have tapped into water sources somewhere to create these lush, garden-of-Eden oases in the Devil’s lair of relentlessly hot, rocky Martian-land.

We continued our ascent across Utah and back into Arizona to reach the 8000 feet elevation of the northern rim of the Grand Canyon. But not before passing through some of the prettiest country I have had the privilege to see since living in America. We took the long way around and journeyed through Zion National Park , Utah and surrounding little towns. We made the right choice. Utah is simply breathtaking. It is phenomenally beautiful.

I’m sure many travelers not from America are impressed firstly by the sheer size of everything. America is big. But while the size of spaces is impressive, as an Australian, I am already familiar with vast, wide-open, untouched spaces. It’s so much more than that. Hand carved by the Gods, the natural structures are epic. And oh what colors Mother Earth has chosen to paint this corner of the house!

Vermillion rocks, coral-pink sand dunes, green lagoons like teardrops fallen onto red earth, babbling brooks and creeks cutting through clay where the kids raft in tyres while their small, home-towns dress up for that night’s big 4th of July bash. A montage of America whizzed by through the windscreen and we paused every now and then to stretch our legs and sample some pie.

Back in Arizona and at a much higher and cooler elevation (10 degrees Fahrenheit cooler than the southern rim and with a greener vegetation of meadow and forest) it became apparent that we were in Cowboy country. The southern rim of the Grand Canyon is where 90% of all visitors to the canyon trek. It is for this reason we chose to view the canyon from North Rim. “High, wide, lonesome country,” is what cowboys called the Arizona Strip. Highway 89 is the only connecting corridor between the communities of northern Arizona and southern Utah with the only road bridge over the Colorado River in 600 miles. The northern rim has only a short season which lends to its mystery and isolation. It is completely closed, snowed under during the long winters.

Below North Rim is Roaring Springs which provides all the water to both the North & South Rims. Only 10% of all water from the springs is actually used between both rims, the rest flowing from Bright Angel Creek, emptying into the Colorado River. The water is pumped up to the North Rim by two, electric, piston engines. This is the greatest height water is pumped anywhere in the world. The water is then piped across to the South Rim.

You can hike from the North Rim to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon in a recommended 3 days and two nights. It is only 25 miles apart as the crow flies, but it is the severity of the terrain and climate that will slow you down. It is 220 miles and 5hrs to get from the North Rim to South Rim by car.

The Australian Aborigines follow “songlines” or "dream tracks" across the outback. These are markings left by the totemic spirits believed to have dreamed us into existence. These markings are woven into songs that are handed down through generations and can be used for navigational purposes as they guide you across the landscape. In a smilar way the Kaibab Paiute Tribe - whose 5000 odd ancestors roamed these expanses seasonally - learned the songs of each rock and tree for instance. John Wesley Powell who mapped the area with Paiute guides in 1871 said of the Paiute, “They cannot describe a country to you, but they can tell you all the details of a route.”

We were attracted by the promise of a quiet, peaceful commune with this majestic, natural wonder, carved out by the Colorado River and so we checked in at the only lodgings in the region, (if not camping – and camping was full so book early), the Grand Canyon Lodge . The lodge was declared a National Historic Landmark in 1987.

Ascending through the Sound-of-Music-like meadows of the Kaibab National forest, the air became fresher and cooler. Rain was in the air and the idea of weather delighted us, the two weatherless City-of-Angels-dwellers. Finally reaching the very end of Highway 67 – any further and we’d plummet into the depths of the large, gaping gorge in the earth that we were there to see – we were greeted by a road blockade. Fourth of July fever had hit this remote community.

Truckloads of young firemen, delivery-van loads of lodge staff, golf carts of grounds men and cowboys and cowgirls on mules were embroiled in both a 4th of July parade and water fight. On one hand showering Mardis Gras beads on excited children and tourists and on the other, spraying them and each other with streams and buckets of water. Sirens were blearing and children were whooping and giggling at the decorated water bombs on wheels. It was a fun scene and we hid behind trees taking photos and dodging jet streams of water.

With limited time on our hands over a long weekend, we opted to take a half day mule ride as a means to descend into the Canyon. This was a good choice as it turned out, as a head cold combined with the altitude left me pretty short of breath. Even the mildest of exertions took their toll while we were up there. Somehow Matt and I were assigned a duo of mules, Lesley and Bill. Where Lesley and I led, Bill and Matt followed. Where Lesley took a piss, Bill did too. While they traversed frighteningly close to the edge of deep-plunging cliffs, it was easy to trust these sure-footed creatures. They knew these trails like the backs of their hooves. These beautiful, hardworking, sweet creatures escorted us both on a journey we shall not soon forget, down into one of the most beautiful sights on earth.

At a rest stop, I was lying on a rock under the shade of a tree, looking back up at the canyon walls, listening to the conversation of two cowboys nearby. Their accents were thick and Southern (but form which part I am not yet versed enough to tell). Their speech was lazy and as honey-like as the heat down there and I thought to myself, “Damn, that is just one GREAT accent!” No sooner had the thought left my head when I heard Levi (our cowboy guide) say, “Oh yeah, he rides one of ‘em Australian saddles right?”

To which the other replied, “Sho’ does.”

“Does he got one of ‘em cool Australian accents too?”

To which the other replied, “Sho’ does.”

Levi helped me up onto my Mule and I said, “Thank you!”

And in that accent he quietly replied, “Yes Ma’am.” This reminded me of a poem I read back at the sign-in desk for the mule ride. Stuck between a table and its glass top was a scrap of paper cut out from a magazine that read…

GOD GAVE US COWBOYS

God gave us cowboys for a lot of good reasons
So we could appreciate rainclouds and seasons

God gave us cowboys so we wouldn’t forget
that there’s no harm in hard work, no shame in sweat.

God gave us cowboys so we’d know what to do
with horses and guitars and leather and boots.

God gave us Cowboys so we could see
that in a pinch you can make it on coffee and beans.

God gave us Cowboys so we’d understand
that you’re signing a contract when you shake a man’s hand.

God gave us Cowboys but only a few
so if you’re lucky and meet one, well that’s God blessing you.

So happy 4th of July y'all!!

Photo Blog - Committed

Should he be or is he? Look what happens when you marry one of those passionate musician types. I had nothin' to do with it but couldn't be more flattered. I love my husband.

From Click on image to view album 19.

CLICK ON IMAGE TO VIEW ALBUM 19.

Photo Blog - Playing with Fire: One Night in Venice

From Click on image to view album 17.

CLICK ON IMAGE TO VIEW ALBUM 17.

Photo Blog - The Union of The Rabbit & The Ox

From Click on image to view album 16.

CLICK ON IMAGE TO VIEW ALBUM 16.

Stumpjump Saturday, 23rd February 2008

It was late one beautiful, spring afternoon in October, 2004. The sheep were lambing, the Canola in bloom and together Matt, Vavine and close friends cleared the fallen branches and logs in a paddock, as was their designated farm chore for the afternoon.

It was at dusk, atop a granite boulder, the sun setting over Big Sky Country that he proposed to her. When he slipped that ring onto her grubby, earth-covered finger it was surely not the way Tiffany intended. But Matt knew that his intentions would be understood. And so it was in that paddock at Stumpjump, Australia they made their promise with each other.

So it was in the spirit of a Stumpjump engagement, that they happily tied the knot among their friends and loved ones, in a Stumpjump wedding. A ceremony in the bush, a church built of nature, under an outback sun, a picnic under the stars, the Union of the Rabbit and the Ox was a rollicking, bohemian celebration that marks the beginning of a joyous and auspicious life together.

Matt and his parents Ann Ellis and Frank Ellis
Vavine and her parents Flora and Ranga Tahapehi
thank with all their hearts...

Donald, Julie and Amelia McFarlane for generously hosting the Union of the Rabbit and the Ox on their beautiful, family property and contributing enormously of their time and efforts for a wedding beyond anyone's imaginings.

Without Amelia McFarlane’s exceptional organisational skills, her dedication, localised knowledge and quite simply love, this wedding could not have happened.

Julie McFarlane we adore you and thank you for all the incredible flower arranging and the Bride’s stunning garland and bouquet.

Donald McFarlane we love you and are ever thankful for your fine MC skills. No one could have done it better.

We are deeply humbled by Leon and Margie Aorangi and Billy, William and George Tahapehi for representing Vavine's ancestors both present and passed in beautiful Maori ceremony.

To our ring bearers Georgia Beard and Xavier Moir, our flower girl Maddison Boyd and our witnesses Amelia McFarlane and Flicc Walsh, we are eternally grateful.

So too we thank Nathan Miller, Greg Roods & Emma Brasier for so dedicatedly capturing moments on film. Thanks to the many other friends who sent us all their images, some of which you see here.

Many thanks also to Nathan Miller, Helen Odlin, Tamlin, Jon Howell, Michael Rix and Lorna Gearon for the music that made our world go around.

Sincere thanks to Daniel Wallace for the art that somehow made the trees even prettier. And oh that altar!

Many more thanks to Jeanny & John Boyd for those fabulous Rabbit and OX cheese boards and Nathan Miller again for the specially invented, wedding brunch sausages that went down a treat with the Bloody Maries and sunshine!

To Simon Duff and Shaun Dudley for lighting up the bush like a fairytale - the fairytale that it was (and Belle for her paramount input on bulb colours) we bow down in thankfulness.

To all the friends and family who carried poles, climbed trees, picked up sticks, tied knots, drove trucks and carted crates… we are forever grateful. The time spent with you all in set up and tear down was as meaningful for us as the wedding itself.

So here’s to The Rabbit & The Ox and the begging of the rest of their happy life together …

I Am Sorry

While this could be seen as lacking in relevance to my American readers, I beg to differ. We are after all, citizens of the world. So too, Americans and Australians alike are currently living in times of serious change and, I believe living in an atmosphere of hope.

On the 3rd of December, 2007 Australia changed government. Our 25th and second longest serving Prime Minister, the Liberal Party’s John Howard was succeeded by Labor’s Kevin Rudd after 11 years of service. For 11 years, this minion of George Bush has succeeded at stripping my country of most things I believed in. It was not just for love and adventure that I left my country 2 years ago.

For those of you who do not know, a dark cloud hangs over Australia’s past (and that we were settled as a penal colony is not that cloud) – a period that was not mentioned in Australian History Studies at my private girls’ school. This dark period pertains to what is known as ‘The Stolen Generation (or Generations)’ – addressed somewhat in the film ‘Rabbit Proof Fence’ which was released here in the USA.

The Stolen Generation is a term used to describe the Australian Aboriginal and Torres Straight Islander children, of full or mixed descent who were removed from their families by Australian Government agencies and church missions, under various state acts of parliament, denying the rights of parents and making all Aboriginal children wards of the state, between approximately 1869 and 1969. Yes, that was 1969 you read. The policy typically involved the removal of children into internment camps, orphanages and other institutions. The Stolen Generation has received significant public attention in Australia following the publication in 1997 of 'Bringing Them Home: Report of the National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from Their Families'.

According to the 'Bringing Them Home Report', at least 100,000 children were removed from their parents, and the figure may be substantially higher (the report notes that formal records of removals were very poorly kept.) What that translates to today, is that literally every, single Aboriginal family has a connection to this removal policy. Not a single family has been unaffected by the forcible removal of their children and successive policies of ‘assimilation’. This was also a period that saw many aboriginal women raped and kept as sex slaves.

Eleven years after the Human Rights Commission said the Federal Parliament should apologize to Indigenous Australians, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd will this afternoon say sorry. Only two months into a new government – with the previous, Howard government persisting in declining to acknowledge reconciliation efforts - I am here to witness something that I and millions of other Australians have marched and petitioned for, for a decade.

This is a momentous day in Australian history. My children will learn about this day in Australian History Studies and while I am not proud of what happened in our past, I am happy that they will learn about it and hope that this knowledge will encourage compassion and comprehension.

Hundreds of thousands of Aboriginal and non-aboriginal Australians have trekked from all over our vast country and descended upon Canberra (our Capitol Hill) along with all living former Prime Ministers (except John Howard who declined to be there), to be present for the long-awaited formal apology that will be given at 9am, Australian, Eastern Daylight time or 2pm Pacific Standard Time in Los Angeles. Cities across the country are holding public gatherings where the apology can be viewed live on erected screens in a spirit of solidarity.

A condensed article, space and time do not permit to cover all aspects of this long debated, controversial decision but I will quote a young woman belonging to an ‘I Am Sorry’ Facebook group who left the very simple and very true comment, “When our meal is delivered cold, when a cash machine is out of order or when someone bumps into us on the street, we expect an apology. This does not mean that we necessarily expect compensation. When a friend’s loved one passes away, we say sorry because we can empathize, this does not mean that a relative of mine actually killed them. These are acts of common decency.”

Today I believe, is the very first step in the long road to reconciliation and once again, I feel hope about my country’s future.

The exact wording of the National Apology that Prime Minister Kevin Rudd will deliver is as follows (released yesterday):

"Today we honor the Indigenous peoples of this land, the oldest continuing cultures in human history.

We reflect on their past mistreatment.

We reflect in particular on the mistreatment of those who were stolen generations - this blemished chapter in our nation's history.

The time has now come for the nation to turn a new page in Australia's history by righting the wrongs of the past and so moving forward with confidence to the future.

We apologize for the laws and policies of successive Parliaments and governments that have inflicted profound grief, suffering and loss on these our fellow Australians.

We apologize especially for the removal of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their families, their communities and their country.

For the pain, suffering and hurt of these stolen generations, their descendants and for their families left behind, we say sorry.

To the mothers and the fathers, the brothers and the sisters, for the breaking up of families and communities, we say sorry.

And for the indignity and degradation thus inflicted on a proud people and a proud culture, we say sorry.

We the Parliament of Australia respectfully request that this apology be received in the spirit in which it is offered as part of the healing of the nation.

For the future we take heart; resolving that this new page in the history of our great continent can now be written.

We today take this first step by acknowledging the past and laying claim to a future that embraces all Australians.

A future where this Parliament resolves that the injustices of the past must never, never happen again.

A future where we harness the determination of all Australians, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, to close the gap that lies between us in life expectancy, educational achievement and economic opportunity.

A future where we embrace the possibility of new solutions to enduring problems where old approaches have failed.
A future based on mutual respect, mutual resolve and mutual responsibility.

A future where all Australians, whatever their origins, are truly equal partners, with equal opportunities and with an equal stake in shaping the next chapter in the history of this great country, Australia."

You can stream the Formal Apology live and read more information here.

Hungry Hollywood

Like God knows how many other women in La La Land, I’m starving – and it’s self-inflicted.

The bizarre maple syrup potion I’ve been swigging on all day instead of eating food seems to be mostly working its magic and keeping the hunger at bay. But the overwhelming smell of my fiance’s carne burrito is giving me the illusion of hunger. It’s an illusion so strong, that it is taking all of my character not to launch myself at him in a violent attack to retrieve even the tiniest morsel of succulent steak.

I work with models. All day freakishly tall, thin and beautiful women surround me and I have been around it for years. To date, it hasn’t been of any detriment to my own self-esteem and for that I am thankful. Being constantly surrounded by such relentless, physical superiority can send some in my industry into a bitter and twisted place of tremendous insecurity and gross, negative body image. But that’s not me. I’m surely not overweight in anyone’s eyes (except perhaps my own once a month for a couple of days but I could be forgiven as it usually comes accompanied by pajama pants, a lot of weeping, a chocolate smeared face and an inability to see reason in anything).

So why then am I starving myself? I am starving myself because I feel a shift. It’s time for a change. I’m no spring chicken anymore. I’ve quit smoking (again) and I’m off the booze for a while. It makes sense at this juncture in my life to attempt some kind of detoxification program; it has been a long time coming. It also doesn’t hurt that as a byproduct, I might lose some lumpiness in time for my wedding (my chosen gown fits like a second skin and it’s making me nervous – it appears that some body-consciousness has rubbed off).

Despite never having involved myself in dieting or really any form of restraint or self-discipline over any earthly pleasures, this world is something I do know one or two things about. You don’t spend years working in an environment where regularly clients disappear on mysterious and spontaneous vacations only to return 2 bra cup sizes larger, or a handful of inches smaller around the hips or with decidedly pregnant lips where used to reside thin lines, without learning what goes into all of that.

Dieting, detoxification and rehabilitation are all the rage in this game and in particular in Hollywood in this game. Although there are many options of ways to detoxify or lose weight, I chose the most extreme, the Master Cleanse. I am a Scorpio. Extremes are my turf. Saturday night I was dancing on tabletops, swigging directly out of a bottle of tequila, chain-smoking a Tijuana fiesta away (really). Today, I am imbibing nothing but a quart of salt water when I wake and a couple of liters of some strange elixir throughout the day. So is this dangerous? Probably. Is it irresponsible? Maybe a little. But I figured if Whole Foods West Hollywood could dedicate a whole display to this diet/ detox and Beyonce could whip her booty into shape for Dreamgirls after 10 days of this kind of hell and no one has died – then I could give it a go.

Over the past few years I have heard endless tales about the Master Cleanse (also known as the Lemonade Diet). The most searched Recipe on Google for 2007 it is no longer simply the realm of weird, west coast raw foodists, yogis and starlets on a mission. I know nutritionists who slam it heavily and yogis who practice regularly, models who abide by it, quacks who endorse it and people whose opinion I genuinely trust who sing its highest praise. The best thing to do I felt was to find out for myself.

Developed in the 40s by natural healer, peddler of cancer cures and nudist, Stanley Burroughs, he finally published a book on it dispensing advice and the recipe in 1976. If his background isn’t questionable enough, the book itself smacks of cheap, holistic-bookstore, mumbo jumbo, is poorly written, full of typos, terribly phrased and appears to have no basis whatsoever in science. But somehow, all this was not enough to deter me.

I know people who have taken the Master Cleanse for as little as 5 days up to as long as 40 days, but 10 seem to be the preferred. I went with the common choice of 10 days. In addition to alleged detoxification attributes claiming that all bodily toxins and mucus are purged from the large intestine (toilet time is greatly increased), the Master Cleanse is said to improve mental acuity, brighten the eyes and skin and result in a loss of anywhere between 5 and 20 pounds and cure a plethora of ailments. I know those who’ve gotten sick from it, those for whom it made no difference and an ever-growing number who swear by it and do it annually. Now at day 3, I myself am not yet convinced.

Commencing the day with the salt-water flush has been truly grotesque. I’m no baby about such things, but drinking a quart of that saline solution each morning usually takes me one, begrudging, nauseating hour to complete followed immediately by what one actually would describe as a ‘flush’. Every morning I get the feeling that to have contracted Delhi Belly would have been kinder – at least I’d have gotten to eat first.

I wake early to prepare all my liters of liquid nutrients (Grade B, dark maple syrup, lemon juice, cayenne pepper and spring water) – my only sustenance throughout the course of this masochistic venture. This way I am equipped to self-administer my meal substitute all day at work and all night at home (because of course there’s no way you’re going outside of your house and into a world filled with the temptation of food come sundown). In the evenings I have a natural, herbal laxative tea and the excitement and anticipation over that aromatic cup is incomprehensible. I think about that cup of tea most of the day.

It’s a very mean thing to do to yourself the Master Cleanse. It’s also totally bizarre. Prior to this experiment, I had never gone a day without a meal. Not a day. At the writing of this article, I am 77 hours without food (I don’t own scales so I can’t tell you if I’m lighter, but I feel much lighter). As much as I feel perfectly energetic, not really hungry - whenever the hunger pains should rear their head, a bang on the old syrup bottle instantly quashes any tummy rumbles – and feel bright and in good health, I am struggling substantially with denying myself the joys and rituals of eating. It appears that quitting eating is 2000 times harder than quitting smoking.

It appears that I - the keep-it-real little Australian - have fallen hook, line and sinker for Hollywood – well at least for ten days. Whether or not I’ll be tap dancing to my car an hour earlier than need be for work is yet to be seen. Whether or not my skin will take on a pretty glow, my big-enough-eyes grow even wider and whiter, my waistline come to rival the youngest model’s and the word ‘hamburger’ vanish from my vocabulary, only time will tell.

Photo Blog - Mi Despedida de Soltera Tijuana

From Despedida de Soltera Tijuana

CLICK ON IMAGE TO VIEW ALBUM 15.

This weekend was my kind of informal Despedida de Soltera, or in English, "Bachalorette/ Hen's". A great time was had by all my wonderful amigas who who were able to join me on a mission to find the perfect, black boots in Mexico for my wedding. Gretchen so kindly put us all up in her beautiful, downtown San Diego loft where we finally ended up at 4am. But after a great meal at Tijuana's “La Diferencia” - which I highly recommend - it was the 2 hour set by our amigos, “Los Musicos de Jose” at Alfredo Gutierrez's downtown Tijuana gallery that made the night. View their latest music video by talented band member Elias Herrera Zacarias below:

Photo Blog - A Little Radio X-Mas

From A Little Radio Christmas

CLICK ON IMAGE TO VIEW ALBUM 14.

Our favorite on-line radio station (and radio station period) “Little Radio”, was transformed into a winter wonderland as “The Henry Clay People", “The Rosewood Thieves" and “Dead Meadow " tore up the stage.

Photo Blog - One Night in Silverlake

From Nic's Last Supper

CLICKO IN IMAGE TO VIEW ABLUM 13.

Portrait of a Thanksgiving Border Crossing

8pm, Saturday Nov 24.

At San Ysidro, Southern California, the US Intestate 5 from San Diego crosses into Mexico at Tijuana. This is the busiest, land-boarder crossing in the world with 55,000 plus vehicles making the journey each day. Today, I am in one of those 55,000 that all appear to be crossing into the USA at once. I have just eaten three of the five Churros that I bought from the lady hawking them car window, to car window and the line hasn’t budged an inch. I even alighted my car, opened the trunk and rummaged around in search of my laptop to kill time by writing this article.

I have been here, staring at the rear end of the Volvo in front of me for one hour. In the dark, vendors stroll the car lanes between vehicles, selling their wares. I have thus far resisted cups of Champurrado, toffee apples, tiny guitars, maracas, corn on the cob, not one but two cute puppies, a hideous, ceramic, glitter-splattered, ‘Last Supper’ wall-sculpture - that my Mother would actually die for come to think of it - and listened extensively to news-radio coverage about how Malibu is burning down (again).

I’ve crossed this boarder on foot a handful of times but this time – as the very notion of a northern Baja road trip requires – we took my car. I’m supposing that the time I’m doing trapped in my Scion bubble, is the price I have to pay for the absolute delight that was mine in cruising over the boarder into Mexico three days ago, without so much as a decrease in velocity.

Although I believe it mandatory if you are an Angeleno - at least once - to deal with the smack-in-the-head experience of negotiating transport, food, accommodation or anything else (whether or not you speak Spanish) in Centro Tijuana, this time it was not for me. I’ve been in the thick of it all – while not being able to habla Espagnol – enough times to have earned the privilege of watching TJ pass me by from the window of my car.

We’ve advanced four car-lengths at this point and the vehicle fumes and the general stench of open trash permeate my space every time I dare to roll my window down. A boy wants to wash my window. If I give in, it’ll be the third time it has been washed today. The porcelain baby Jesus and kitsch Virgin de Guadalupe statue appear more and more attractive with each vendor’s loop about the line of cars. The lady in the car next to me bought that distasteful, ‘Last Supper’ wall sculpture. Boredom and frustration appear to be wearing everyone down, clouding judgment.

People are trying to jump the line, high tailing it in the emergency lane and trying to cut back in. the police are rounding them up and escorting them back to the end of the line. I’ve given away the last of my small change to children and men selling chocolate (no matter which country, the chocolate men always find me). This is how it is at the busiest border crossing in the world and still, the actual border is nowhere in sight.


9:05pm, Saturday Nov 24.

We’re heading back from a Thanksgiving weekend south of the boarder where we kept the sea port of Ensenda as home base and got lost on long day trips/ hikes over to the Sea of Cortez, National Parks in the Sierra Juarez and mountain roads around Guadalupe Valley (wine country) up to Tecate (yes, where the beer is from).

I can confidently say that I prefer what I call ‘our side’ of Mexico. My Fiancé and I lived for a time in the Yucatan on the east coast of Mexico. It is wilder on the east coast with virtually untouched, seaside villages, Maya ruins and the sophistication of the colonial, European-flavored capital of Merida. Thus far it remains much less developed (with the exception of Cancun), less affected by tourism and less influenced by the cultures of Northern America than the west coast in particular.

Baja is not without its magnificence however. No amount of development could exorcise all the grandeur from the land. In so far as Baja California (the Northern section) goes, the sierra Juarez reverberates with a subtle kind of beauty and a vital ecosystem that hums beneath the carpet of cacti. Over the rolling mountains and craggy ridges, rocks and boulders are scattered like sprinkles across cake icing. The hot, white sand bears the tell-tale prints of two, four and no-footed local residents who have deserted and the stillness and loneliness of it all wraps you up in quiet. Everywhere you look, even when the red sun is not setting and the white moon not rising, is a painting.


9:45pm Saturday Nov 24.

We are finally hitting the border crossing epicenter – a town unto itself. There are large screens blaring cheap commercials, billboards mounted on billboards. It’s a city come alive with ice-cream carts, Churros trolleys and more vendors than ever, weaving in and out of the cars. Neon lights flash, traffic is moving and it’s as if we’ve all stepped out of a fog into a bright, artificial sun.

I have my windows down and even the smell has changed (for the better). I can make out the distant music of a typical, Mexican Polka and the pretty tinkle of a vendor’s glass ornaments striking each other in the rhythm of his stride. I can see an American flag flying furiously in the wind.

A fellow at my window – I can safely say is high - is giving us a story about needing to catch a bus and something about a wife and child waiting for him. He switches to English after coming to terms with the fact that I don’t speak Spanish. Everywhere I go (Mexico & the US) people think I am latina. They are always completely confused and then astonished when I say I do not speak Spanish (yet). His English is perfect. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I don’t have any more money. This line has exhausted my wallet and my Finace’s patience. Jesus looks down at me from his giant, wooden cross that hovers above my windshield before continuing on to the next car. I wonder how much he costs?

We pass the building where I was detained for a good 2 hours over a discrepancy with my visa when last I crossed here on foot. Sniffer dogs are approaching our car. Four officers have surrounded the vehicle two in front of ours and a young woman with a large amount of dreadlocks has stepped out and is being hand cuffed. As she is led away, the dogs are going berserk and the officers high-five each other.

And there it is, ‘United States Boarder Inspection Station’.


10:30pm Saturday Nov 24.

Customs Officer: Goodevening.

My Fiance hands over our passports.

Customs Officer: Got anything to declare?

My Fiance: No, nothing.

Customs Officer: Australians? You have visas? You have Visa Waiver, you don’t need a visa right?

My Fiance: Yeah, we do. We live in LA. They’re our work visas.

Customs Officer: Oh yeah, if you’re working then …

My Fiance: Busy night. Is it always like this?

Customs Officer: Oh yeah, always.

Me: All the time? Is there any time it isn’t?

Customs Officer: Only like 12am until 2am. The best you can do is have a couple of drinks and just hang out.

Have a couple of drinks? I’m not so sure that that’s sound advice, but I’d advise bringing your laptop and a power pack. Three and a half hours and 1200 words later, I am back on American soil without detainment or incident and with an article. For this, I am thankful.

Photo Blog - Betting with Bukowski

From Betting with Bukowski - At the Track, Fall 1952

CLICK ON IMAGE TO VIEW ALBUM 12.

For Hilary and I our 29th and 32nd birthdays respectively, we threw a bash at Hollywood Park Raceway - an homage to ol' Chuck Bukowski (always drinking and always betting). All dressed up, 'At the Track, Fall 1952' we rang in our new years with the thunder of horses' hooves, the smell of whiskey, the biggest cake ever and the thrill of a win.

Here's to nothing but good luck in this, the year I've looked forward to living since I was 13!

Photos courtesy of: Hilary Craven, Erin McCarthy, Sara Sranovsky & Paul Gronner.

You Say "Dim Sum" I Say "Yum Cha" - Let's Call the Whole Thing Off

It was long ago decided, that when I die, I will be going to a great big yum cha in the sky. The bed will be king size, the sheets 1500tc, white, Egyptian cotton and the carts on wheels will circle my bed, laden with an array of all my favorite foods. I will never get full and there will never be crumbs in the bed.

“What ARE you talking about?” you ask. I am talking about the Chinese custom of sharing a late morning-tea meal (usually between 11 & 1), sipping tea (yum cha) while dining on small, snack-like morsels (dim sum). This Chinese ritual is often enjoyed weekly by a large group of family and friends and is a cherished way to spend time chatting and catching up with the family. In Australia, we call it Yum Cha. Here, you call it Dim Sum. But whatever you call it, it can be eaten wherever in the world Chinese people can be found.

Seated at large, round tables, everyone shares the dishes that are selected – by way of pointing – from trolleys piled high with piping-hot, metal & bamboo steamers. These wheeled carts crisscross the restaurant, back and forth from the kitchen. Each table is provided with a card that lists the foods and prices in Chinese script. This card is stamped with a tiny smiley face by the trolley server each time you select a steamer. The smiley faces in the mysterious boxes are added at the end of the meal and the price calculated. If you can’t read Mandarin/ Cantonese, then you’ll just have to trust them, but I’ve never paid over $20 for Yum Cha no matter how much I’ve eaten or how many Tsing Tsao beers I’ve consumed.

Now, I am not being bias I can assure you, and at the risk of falling out of favor with my American readers, I have to say that I have had great difficulty with Chinese food since arriving in Los Angeles. Quite simply, it’s not really Chinese food. I have now come to realize, after eating my way through Chinatowns on both coasts of America (yes, including San Francisco), there is such a thing in the world as, ‘American Chinese’. And can someone please explain to me why you are supplied with a dinner plate rather than a small bowl when dining in a Chinese restaurant here? Has no one ever noticed that chopsticks are not designed to work with a flat surface? Has anyone ever seen anyone in China eating out of anything other than a bowl for that matter?

My fiancé was raised in Hong Kong and many of my Papua New Guinean relatives are married to Chinese. It is a staple food for both of us and we have both been suffering greatly without Chinese food. The word on the street I’d heard was that Monterey Park was where one needed to go to find the better Chinese food in Los Angeles. So Saturday morning, I finally went. This Venetian took an excursion to the Far East for yum cha and it was worth it.

Everything about this restaurant was warm and familiar as I was transported back home. There was a wait, before ridiculously cold air-conditioning invited me into a loud, clanking, heaving, several-hundred-capacity restaurant. This was a ‘nice’ place I deduced by the presence of white table cloths, glass bricks and airport carpet. They are the same all over the world the ‘nice’ places. In the lower-end yum cha places, vinyl table cloths, bare neon bulbs and plastic colanders piled with Bak Choy (as waiters hunch over them separating leaves) at a back table is the standard from San Francisco to Shanghai to Sydney. The host was gruff and grunted and pointed as he led us to our table. The trolley ladies were surly and the drinks guy had to be asked four times to get me soy sauce and chopped chili. Yes, everything was as it should be and I was happy. Now if only the food could follow through.

I ordered Bo Lay tea (a test and my favorite - no one has had it at any place I’ve been to in LA so far) and was met with a chipper look from the waiter who, smiling, proceeded to ask, “How you know Bo Lay?” They had it. Things were looking good. For $20 (exactly) I have to say that overall, the food resembled some of the closest to Chinese, Chinese food I’ve eaten in America. Usual yum cha rules apply. Get there at 11am and no wait. Queues can get long. Get there after 1:30pm, selection has diminished and freshness cannot be guaranteed.

This is only one on the list of restaurants I intend to try in the district, and I would be delighted to field more recommendations. I would give it a 3 star rating if it were in Sydney, but being in Los Angeles, I give it 5 stars.

Ocean Star Seafood Restaurant
145 N. Atlantic Blvd, #201-203
Monterey Park CA 91754
T 626 308 2128

My Mother was the most amazing cook. Growing up in my house, we dined on Malay and Indonesian, Singaporean and Chinese and Polynesian styled foods … this was the influence of our cultural heritage and geography. And all my life as a child and then teenager, I just wanted to be like everyone else and fit in to white Australia. I did not want to come home to an after school snack of the usual, hot, BBQ Pork Buns, cooled sugar cane sticks and coconut water. I wanted fish sticks and ketchup and potato chips. I believed that if I ate these foods, somehow, it would make me more Australian. I realize now, it would have just made me fat.

I'd give anything for one of my Mother's BBQ Pork Buns right now.

The Bob Log Blog

Standing there inside the lava lamp that is Spaceland Silverlake’s dance floor, I tried to calm the anxiety of my own brand of claustrophobia - the kind that has nothing to do with a constriction of physical space and everything to do with a constriction of my freedom of movement. Hungry and wanting to duck out for some quick grub, I was coolly told by the doorman that there was a policy of ‘No Ins & Outs.’ If I wanted to see Bob Log III, I was stuck here among the sparkling, gold and blue circus curtains and years’ worth of spilled liquor.

So there I was, stuck between two sets, starving. The opening act, Los Duggan - a barrage of melodic cussing, growling and grunting - were a brilliantly funny mélange of hillbilly metal. A drummer, a guitarist (on steel and banjo), a lead singer called, ‘Whisky’ on washtub bass and a fellow that looked like he’d taken leave of ‘Korn’ and decided to join a bluegrass band, bringing his Flying V with him.

We were all here for Bob Log III, but it was the inbetween stages of both food and musical famine that I was now experiencing.

Some young, hipster popsters going by the name of The Growlers were setting up on stage as a gaggle of teenage girls (all seemingly styled by the same hand and fashioned by the same sculptor – suspiciously a very uniform 5 feet tall, tiny waisted with cutie booties) looked on expectantly. If I were A & R from a major, I’d have them signed up in five minutes with a starring track in whatever OC-come-One-Tree-Hill-come-the-Hills-come-Entourage gag is la Mode. Perfectly marketable; good looking each and every one, lead singer studied up on his Morrison moves and definite and catchy tunes, it was the Doors gone Raga meets Cold Play, complete with a team of tiny, teenage go-go dancers. Ka-ching! Shit, I’ve gone and made them sound more remarkable than they actually were and alas, there was already a mark against them in my book because they were not Restaurant (who were supposed to be playing that slot).

As the set pressed on, the tiny dancers go-goed away, oblivious to the heckling bikeys (not bikers) from Bakersfield, mock slam-dancing down the back and fuelled by whiskey and the popster bands’ announcement that they hailed from Orange County.

Soon the pop-relief was over, the kiddies cleared and the motley crowd charged the front for one man band (guitar, kick drum – sometimes kicked with a girl perched on each knee, drum machines etc. etc.)/ Performance artist/ bad ass blues guitarist, Bob Log III. Other than out of necessity due to space, I’ve never seen an LA crowd get so close to a stage. The mandatory, empty force-field down front ignored and not a single Angelino standing cross-armed all, ‘Impress me. Go on, I dare you.’

So how do you describe a dude, identity obscured, wearing a motorcycle helmet kitted out with distorted mikes and a front-zipped, bedazzled, polyester jump-suit, singing songs with such titles as, ‘Boob Scotch?’ Hailing from Tucson, Arizona this high-energy act would need no bells and whistles for his excellent musicianship, but he brought them anyway – and what a riot, what a hoot, what sheer excellence. With a rapier wit, he shot down hecklers (I have no idea why people were heckling), humored us all, urged nudity and debauchery, basked in a sea of scotch and beer filled glasses (donated by well-meaning fans) and talked dirty. Banter doesn’t get better.

A drunken lady did a jump-stumble-jump-stumble-shuffle-tumble number next to me, her husband egging her on, urging her up on stage at Bob’s request for someone to put their boob in his scotch. Fortunately when audience gaze fell upon me (I was right up front) it was clearly apparent that I would need to entirely disrobe in order to reveal a boob. No matter anyway, Drunk Lady kindly donated her right breast to the cause and a boob flavored scotch was happily imbibed with Bob declaring, ‘Fuck I’m good! How am I gonna top that?!’

The crowd cheered and to my left I spied two of the five or so guitarist from the kiddy OC band, mouths agape, faces a mixture of reverence and repulsion. People got doused in scotch and jostled about, Bob Log III performance virgins like myself squealed in delight and those in the know shouted requests and declarations of love.

For the finale, a cutesy ray of sunshine bounced through the crowd, her Elvis Costello/Michael Madsen look-a-like boyfriend in tow, showering whoever was in her path with liquor. A cross between Daisy Duke and Elly May Clampett, complete with red, gingham, tiny shirt, denim skirt and cowgirl boots, her bleach-blonde hair asunder screamed the house down. OC boys and bikeys alike reeled as she jumped, whooped, hollered and forcefully shoved anyone in her path, enticing everyone to play.

Some might call it crass, I’d call it art. Whatever you want to call it, you can’t say it ain’t somethin’! My only regret is that I didn’t put my boob in his scotch.

Photo Blog - Sequoia Dreaming

From Sequoia Dreaming

CLICK ON IMAGE TO VIEW ALBUM 11.

Sadly, today I did not see any bears, but I did see the world's largest, living thing. General Sherman - my new friend - is 2,700 years old. Maybe, if I'm lucky, my life will equate to a sprig on a twig of that Sequoia tree one day.

A newly licensed driver, I took my first roadtrip to Sequoia National Park in the southern Sierra Nevada, east of Visalia, California. It was established in 1890 as the second U.S. national park after Yellowstone, and spans 404,051 acres (1,635 km).

The park is most famous for its giant Sequoia trees (although it is also home to about 40 other species) - including the General Sherman tree, the largest tree on Earth in terms of wood volume. General Sherman grows in the Giant Forest, which contains five out of the ten largest trees in the world. There is even a fallen Sequoia that you can drive a car right through.

It's picture-book country and I swear the trees were talking to me. I cannot even imagine how anyone could ever have chopped a single one of these down. It must've felt like murder.

Photos: Courtesy of Erin McCarthy

Angelenos in the Sun

Clink, slap, clink, slap, clink, clink, clink, slap, slap, slap, slap, clink. It's like a far-off kinder garden class indulging in a free percussion period. But this cacophony of rope slapping hollow metal and the dull squeak of the slacking and tensing of tethers between wooden boat and wooden slip, is as welcome as the radiant sun.

I am sailing on a boat with no name and this fact bothers me more than it should. As we motor out of the marina, the open sea looks ominous despite a confident sun. Suddenly we have company. Three sea kayaks sidle up along side us before dropping back to trail closely in our wake. It seems that they are taking advantage of some kind of nautical physics that's lost on me, but that provides ease of passage for the kayaks - like wheeling your bicycle over the sand in someone else's tracks.

When time to cut the motor presents itself, the kayakers peel off and I watch them continue on determinedly in that focused, athletic way so alien to me. We are sailing. As we exit the Marina between the artificial, rocky headlands the pungent, acidic and foul odor of the feces of hundreds of thousands of sea birds explodes in the air. I wonder if all those Marina del Rey, high-rise developments suffer stray wafts of this offensive odor when the wind gets up? I wonder too if - as is the way of the wallet - residents of these developments will have the birds moved along? Probably.

We pass a fellow standing upright on a surfboard of sorts that resembles a kind of serving platter. He's not surfing though, he's paddling, with a paddle. What is he doing? Really? Where's he going? Or is this an exercise in fun? He's close to the bird-infested rocky crops and I wonder if he will be mistaken for a hunk of stone and find himself lathered in bird doo doo or better still, if a sea lion will mistake him for a hot sea lioness, I'd just spotted one nearby doing seal yoga - 'The Upward Belly.'

Not too far along, I hear the unmistakable, absurd barking of a spin instructor. For the love of God! I have to be plagued by the personal trainer set not only on Abbot Kinney Blvd, but now out at sea?! I was mistaken. It was a high-school, girls' rowing team in training. The giggles, the reprimands, the camaraderie ... memories of girls' school come flooding back.

The Marina is a hive of activity as we hit the open waters. Boats are bobbing and then thrashing about as the wind picks up. Looking back east toward the shore, Venice looks so uncharacteristically quiet. It's such a clear afternoon, not a smudge on the skyline and I swear I can see the actual color of the leaves on the trees in the far-off mountains. The houses on the boardwalk flash blindingly, reflecting important, encrypted messages for us sea-folk. Venice is trying to tell us something in the hundreds of color-coded beach towels arranged cryptically on the sand. If only I were smart enough to understand.

We are under a mile off the beach, when using the Venice Pier as a ruler to guesstimate. I wonder how long it would take me to swim to shore if we sank? A lot longer than the two dolphins I saw doing their synchronized swimming thing in tandem, poking fun at my lack of personal fins as they passed me by. It's time to turn around and the Captain puts me in charge of steering. I'm promptly fired as we come about nearly without a crew member. Oops. I love sailing, but I never said I could do it very well.

When life's a beach in Venice, it really is a beach. Now get up! Come out of your cave. Put the computer away. Look at this weather! It's time to play!

Life's Not Always a Beach in Venice

I gaze beyond the blazing bonfire at the blackest night-skies all around me. The air is heavy, hot and wet. I'm holding my breath, terrified. A woman lurches forward toward me, hands outstretched, teeth gnashing, eyes bulging, her skin a rich chocolate, glistening under beads of sweat. In a white, grubby, linen dress, her thick, woolly hair is secured by a scarf of the same fabric. Her body lurches with spasms and she begins to chant. I can't understand anything she's saying, it doesn't seem to make sense. Just as I am about to burst from a lack of oxygen, I wake ...

Sitting bolt upright in my bed, covered in sweat, it's the dead of night and all is quiet. I blink and then it starts again. The chanting. But I am awake. It's near. I can hear her right under my open, first-floor window. I'm no expert on accents from that region of the world, but she has the thickest accent that I place as perhaps being Jamaican. She rambles the ramblings of the mad but it's a song. It's a spell. "Ah tohld heim na ceiggarates. Ah tohld heim na ceiggarates. He leaved me. He leaved me" she sing/ cries. It's utterly disturbing and sends chills through me, as if she's trying to conjure this man's spirit.

If you live at Venice Beach, maybe you know her too. She can be spotted sometimes at 1am as if sleepwalking down the middle of Main St near the Circle, casting her spell. That accent and the sing-songy inflections of her chant, cut through any other sounds around. You can hear her coming in the dead of night and her heartache rocks me to the core.

Every day when I say, 'Good morning,' to Virgil Wolf, manning his post at the Bank of America ATM at the Circle, he tells me I smell lovely (he's blind). Every other day, the old drunk duo who work the corner of Main & Horizon outside the liquor store, tell me I look beautiful and smart and bid me a good day's work. But this lady, she's different. When I hear the eerie chant growing louder, I duck for cover and place my hands over my ears while trying to sing a happy tune.

Like Lola the showgirl, I don't want to be sitting there with feathers in my hair waiting for twenty years for my dead love to come back to me. Like the Caribbean-black-magic lady, I don't want to be wandering the streets lamenting the loss of my love. This woman reminds me that there is a breaking point for everyone. What great mysteries they are - the human mind and the human heart.

Slip Into Summer

High among the tree tops I am drifting off to sleep in my thatched-roof bungalow, seemingly afloat in the emerald darkness of the Gulf of Siam. Bare, on top of a white, cotton sheet, my skin generates too much heat - the by-product of over sunning during the course of a day’s snorkeling and diving. Laying there, eyes closed, I hear the rustle of a warm light breeze in the palm trees, a breeze that continues through the fly screen wall and seems to scrape over my suddenly over-sensitive skin. All my senses are heightened, my skin alert to a thousand sensations. There’s something so sultry about summer and something impossibly sexy about the dream-like languor of tropical, humid heat.

It is easy to be swept away in the care-free romance of the lifestyle of an international Dive Master. I have known quite a few in my time who have turned a hobby into a way of life. One such fellow is a Hungarian Marine Biologist whose love for traveling, love for the sea and love for diving conspired to keep him out of a sensible career in a science lab and rendered him capable of nothing more than a gypsy’s existence.

I’ve heard tales of a contra deal teaching a young Bedouin to dive in Egypt’s Red Sea in exchange for a survival course – several days on a stallion across the desert, cooking Bedouin dishes in the sand on an open fire. Stories of dangerous diving in Israel, stints in the majestic Great Barrier Reef, lucrative cash runs in the Bahamas, dolphins in the Gulf of Thailand and close shaves with Australian sharks.

Young, working divers find that their jobs fund extensive traveling, often being based in beautiful and exotic locales in every corner of the globe. Although the wage is often meager, their accommodation and meals are usually taken care of while they are based in hotel resort locations. Predominantly geographically isolated, divers don’t have anything to spend their money on either. And most importantly, they get to do the thing they love most all day or all night long.

The beaches of Southern California might be a million miles away from the azure waters of the Mediterranean, and not quite the temperature of the tepid Caribbean waters but there is a diving culture here that is alive and well.

Whoever would have thought that Hollywood would cater to such a culture? But www.hollywoodivers.com and www.havensreef.com provide courses, from basic certification for fun, up to instructor’s level through several certification agencies PADI, NAUI and TDI. These schools also offer trips and there are myriad organizations that conduct tours to explore such things as wrecks and great Kelp beds off Catalina Island, to diving with Sea Lions off Santa Barbara Island. So here comes an Angelino summer an there’s an octopus’ garden to be explored right here in the City of Angels.

But that balmy night in Thailand, high above my perfectly white beach, I could hear the beautiful, romantic music of the very shy Burmese staff who - once in the safety of their staff bungalows at night - opened up like flowers to the sun with dreamy guitar and sweet, sweet voices. I couldn't understand what they were singing, but I'm sure much of it was about love. As I drifted off to sleep, flavored in salt and sand, I dreamed of adventures below the high seas.

The Visa Hustle

If you are an American who has had the misfortune to find yourself in the company of a group of expatriates and other foreigners embroiled in the task of migrating, you will no doubt have been exposed to long and tedious discussions about visas. No matter what topic our conversation commences with, you can be certain that, before too long, a smart segue into Visaworld ensues, and with good reason.

My fiancé and I have spent thousands obtaining our current visas and we are not alone. Once you have committed to trying to make a life here, you are simultaneously surrendering your fate to the hands of visa brokers, i.e. immigration lawyers and all that that implicates. It is a financially and emotionally exhausting roller coaster ride. And like a roller coaster, once you’ve done your first upside down 360, you’re too far in for anyone to stop the ride.

You find yourself rekindling long expired relationships in order to extract glowing reviews to contribute to the decade-long paper trail that will lead you down the path to candidacy as a worthwhile contributor to American society. It is the first duty of any nation to care for its citizens. It is only fair that you should have to prove yourself of more exceptional skill than a local who could be enjoying the benefits of your job instead of you. Not only do you have to prove your exceptional skills or talents, but so too, you have to account for every decision that led you choose this life and how this life could benefit you when you go home. You have to go home.

At 9am on the first morning of the ride, things can look rosy and you’re led to believe that you’ll have your visa in no time. By two o’clock that afternoon, it looks like things have taken a wrong turn and you’ll have to leave the country and a lover in a few days. You cry, declare undying love for one another and swear that you can wait for each other, no matter what it takes. By 10:45am the following day, your visa broker has brokered you a new deal with a new ‘umbrella company’ and lo and behold, you’re back in the game. By 5:50pm that same day, you find yourself buying a flight to Canada for a visa run only to find, after paying for the cheapest ticket you could get your hands on (translates also to not flexible and not refundable) in fact, with the newly brokered deal, they specify that you must go back to your country of origin not Canada.

Now you’ve got a $550 credit to go to Toronto via Minnesota, anytime you like within the next twelve months but that cannot be deducted from the $1,500 you now have to spend to go back to Australia. And maybe, when you get to the U.S. embassy in Australia, you might get that asshole public servant who had a tremendous fight with his Australian wife that morning and hates all Australians and thus, you find a man that has vengefully sought out the one loop hole to deny you entry back into America. I was lucky. I did not get him this time.

'Hello Soul Suckers*, can I help you?' I say. There is a long, deep sigh at the other end of the phone and then, with a pause of the same time measure, the deep, weary voice of a man who is most likely gay finally responds, 'Oh could you just stop with the fake English accent? It doesn’t make you smarter or more sophisticated no matter what anyone tells you.'

This was the first client phone call I took, on the first day of my first job in La La Land. You would probably be right in assuming that this is to be expected in Los Angeles in the fashion game, but this kind of self-importance, bitterness, megalomania and outright rudeness, knows no geographical boundaries I am sad to report.

I have known many Brandts (name changed because I am superstitious enough to fear the unknown and I worry that two hundred blog readers psychically uttering his name, may awaken the beast from who I have not heard for several days) in my years in this industry both here and abroad. It is however an anonymous vocation that we share Brandt and I, so it was an unexpected horror when I actually got to see a picture of Brandt recently. He apparently did a ‘Playgirl’ centerfold back in the 70’s, replete with coiffed and gleaming, ape-like, body hair and a handlebar moustache. Much about his toxic character content instantly made sense.

I spent a lot of time that first day with my very expensive visa pasted neatly into my passport, reflecting on the cumulative decisions that brought me to this place. I was prompted from my reflection when my boss – who was on the phone – put her client on hold and shouted out across the room, ‘Hey, what’s Mongolia?’ Speechless, I watched this terrible scene unfold as a co-worker – also on the phone (as we usually are) – put her client on hold and, exasperated, rolled her eyes at the heavens and responded, ‘It’s a country, in Africa!’ For the months following, I have tried very hard to pretend that this is not my life.

But here I am a visa holder, a slave to my master. I have no qualms about leaving a supposedly ‘good’ job behind for one much more menial. I’d be washing dishes in a diner tomorrow if only I could get a visa to do that. Such is my predicament and I am not alone.

When feeling this defeated, it is easy to fall prey to the temptation of going under the radar and joining the hundreds of thousands of others picking fruit and manning cigarette stands in toilets. Many of my kind – not running from inhumane circumstances in their Motherland, war or famine – have done it.

I find myself considering the ten thousand dollar going rate to marry someone for a Green Card. I start to wonder how much I could earn as a sex phone operator with the charm of my ‘fake’ English accent. I wonder how long it would take them to find me if I dyed my hair Thai-hooker blond and headed south down Mexico way… then I snap myself out of it.

It took six months to get that fucking Social Security number with far too many visits, sitting waiting for hours next to that stinky and actually leery junky in that bleak, grey room that smacked of a public-healthcare, mental facility. Not to mention the six months where I routinely had Saturday morning breakfast at the bank, hoping that this Saturday would be different to all the others and that, after a forty-five minute wait followed by a teller’s thirty-minute questionnaire, I would be told that my Social Security number was now cleared ‘in the system’ and I could go ahead and open a bank account and stop keeping my money under the bed (the single one in someone's garden shed that my fiancé and I were renting for cash, until we were 'legitimate' enough to apply for the lease of a real apartment).

It’s tough following the rules but, like a roller coaster, the giddy satisfaction of it all once you step of the ride is exhilarating. Shaking it up opens up a world of new possibilities, and a little ‘perspectivo’ as the gringos say down Mexico way.

*Yeah right! I need my visa. Like I'm going to tell you where I work.