tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62316117398488064852024-03-13T05:54:20.430-07:00not the life you planned on but everything you needCinematic, Life-a-matic, Big Dreams & In BetweensUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-55392704755236302982015-03-21T12:40:00.000-07:002015-03-21T15:44:18.629-07:00Graffiti, Big Charity & The Sleeping Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I rolled out of bed fifteen kinds of disheveled and half-dressed. Slid on a trucker hat and punched through a tank top. I got about 1000 words down on the page (I never count, so I mostly know it was more than ten), and hit the road. The streets where pretty settled as I snapped pics of graffiti and the New Orleans Scooter Rally. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9027pUGEMKA/VQ26hZxzjQI/AAAAAAAAKA0/VpzOiWvppLM/s1600/image%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9027pUGEMKA/VQ26hZxzjQI/AAAAAAAAKA0/VpzOiWvppLM/s1600/image%5B1%5D.jpg" height="320" width="273" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Scooter Ride down Carrolton Ave.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Cutting through the various </span></div>
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<b>One Way</b></h2>
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streets, I saw Big Charity Hospital's weathered body hauntingly punctuating downtown. This is a place I've wanted to see ... needed to see. After watching the documentary <a href="http://www.bigcharityfilm.com/" target="_blank">Big Charity</a> (director Alexander John Glustrom) as part of the <a href="http://patoisfilmfest.org/" target="_blank">Patois Film Festival</a>, I really wanted to bare witness to the space that was destroyed not by Hurricane Katrina. Rather it was the victim of Disaster Capitalism. Which is a no bueno, so the film had hit me in all those places that make you outraged. As a non-New Orleanian though, I could only begin to imagine what the loss of one of America's most charitable hospitals was for this city. Especially for those who did not have the means to get health care anywhere else. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Charity's entry is gated and barb wired.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">When I was leaving, I ended up on the backside of the hospital. This is what I saw. </span><br />
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I pulled the car over because I didn't know if he was dead or alive. The only part of him that was moving was his windbreaker. It was beautiful and heartbreaking. Kind of like watching the plastic bag scene in the film <a href="https://youtu.be/Qssvnjj5Moo" target="_blank">American Beauty</a>. Only there were no screenwriters or actors or cameras writing this poetic moment for The Sleeping Man.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Part of any city life is a homeless population, and New Orleans has a sizable one. But this man (I assumed the male gender) was splayed along the sidewalk in a way I didn't often see. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">I wanted to approach him and see if he was okay. As okay as anyone is sleeping on a sidewalk in the 80 degree heat in a dark jacket. But there I was on the backside of the now defunct hospital of hope. There weren't a lot of people around. What if I startled him? The likelihood of him brandishing a weapon wasn't implausible. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">But I couldn't just drive on. It just felt wrong.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">So I sat there. I sat and waited. Waited for some part of him to move that wasn't just his windbreaker. After awhile, a guy walking on the opposite side of the street, took a few glances at The Sleeping Man. Curious but not enough to even pause. <br /><br />Then a curvy woman ambled along, saddling a duffle bag, and she crossed the street to avoid The Sleeping Man. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">But I waited.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Because if he didn't move, I'd have to call the police. Not because he was an eyesore. Because he was a human being lying in the middle of the sidewalk behind Big Charity and maybe he was hurt or stupid drunk or just lost inside. As someone who had been homeless, I got the lost part. Even if I never had to sleep on sidewalks in the middle of the morning.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Then --</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">His right leg slowly dragged to the side. His arms struggled to bend and extend. He was a 100 year old tree creaking right then. His body shifted in the slightest and had anyone been driving by, they wouldn't have noticed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">After a moment, I drove away. Thinking about The Sleeping Man and his story and Big Charity whose motto was:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Where Miracles Happen </span><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">And </span><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">The Unusual Occurred</span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">As I drove beneath the underpass, I saw shopping carts and overflowing garbage bags. I saw a lot of people down on their luck who had constructed makeshift housing beneath the hum of Interstate 10. Did they know The Sleeping Man?<br /><br />When I finally stepped into my four temporary walls with a roof, I kept thinking how relieved I was that The Sleeping Man moved. How he hadn't just died there with everyone walking by. And maybe I would never know his story, but I saw him. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">I didn't just drive on. </span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-7824980534101513042015-03-03T06:44:00.001-08:002015-03-03T12:40:02.386-08:00The Greatest Show On Earth<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"OMG! The Acro-Cats are in town!" said my friend Margaret Saturday afternoon.</blockquote>
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And with two exclamatory statements, began my ascent to the higher knowledge of the Greatest Show On Earth: The Amazing Acro-Cats also featuring The Rock-Cats. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not Actual Event Poster.</i></td></tr>
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If you are still on the curious, this circus minus a big top, features abandoned felines who are click-trained and treat rewarded to perform a version of daredevil tricks. The feisty, female cat dominated troupe can jump through hoops, zig and zag through elevated agility drills and even push a child's toy car.</div>
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And if you land the equivalent to nose bleed seats (I was in pre-nose bleed), no worries. You can watch the show displayed on a 45 inch television via the Cat-Cam.<br>
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Yes, there is such a thing, and why not?<br>
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These cuties are famous after all. Featured in both The Guinness Book of World Records for longest cat jump and Ripley's Believe It Or Not for <i>only </i>cat band in the world.<br>
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Now, I should mention not every member in The Rock-Cats is, well, a cat. Chicken, Cluck Norris, has a heavy heated peck on cymbal and tambourine.<br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cluck Norris, badass chicken percussionist.</i></td></tr>
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This amazing, good-time event is the result of animal activist Samantha Martin. She founded Acro-Cats in 2005, and they hit the road to travel the U.S. from Chicago in an RV early 2009.<br>
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When the RV hit the skids, a Kickstarter enabled this traveling troupe to acquire a plush ride.<br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Purrr-rifcate Front</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sassy Bus Side</i></td></tr>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rTuGMKw6GMk/VPW_iw3uhgI/AAAAAAAAJ_U/UZMFJEkr1CQ/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-03-02%2Bat%2B8.09.39%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rTuGMKw6GMk/VPW_iw3uhgI/AAAAAAAAJ_U/UZMFJEkr1CQ/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-03-02%2Bat%2B8.09.39%2BPM.png" height="204" width="320"></a></div>
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I know, right? Them wheels are s w e e t !<br>
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Now, it isn't all grilled chicken chunks and oven baked salmon for the cats plus other animal pals. This cause with paws pays it forward everywhere they go. Each performance contributes profits to local animal programs. Through the troupe's travel, Martin and gang have secured homes for over 140 cats.<br>
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Not too shabby. Meow if you love it!</div>
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Buffy, Oz, Winke and a host of other cats, mice, a groundhog and of course, Cluck Norris all perform around the star of the event, Tuna.<br>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CtQqInW8J2M/VPW-CEhqpcI/AAAAAAAAJ_I/jsi8yJSop4Q/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-03-03%2Bat%2B7.57.59%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CtQqInW8J2M/VPW-CEhqpcI/AAAAAAAAJ_I/jsi8yJSop4Q/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2015-03-03%2Bat%2B7.57.59%2BAM.png" height="320" width="316"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Cred: @mags504 </td></tr>
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Tuna is the founding member who will always give you more cowbell, ring the bell and high five, so long as you respect she is the grand gato of the show. And you can photo-op post show with the Tuna but are advised not to cuddle unless you wanna rumble. She's an independent woman and kinda a big deal. Not only is she the face of the show but Tuna is the star of the Student Emmy and Oscar Winning short film <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0406387/?ref_=nm_flmg_cldr_1" target="_blank">Zeke</a>. Where she channeled her inner maleness in the role of Zeke. </div>
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The Sunday crowd here in New Orleans was an almost sell-out. Kids and adults cheered on the acrobatics and circus fair tricks. We got the brief history of how each cat became part of the troupe. The stories are heartbreaking and heartwarming.<br>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I have never been a fan of the circus. Seeing animals made to perform for profit, it just felt wrong somehow. But this campy little troupe of underdogs (undercats if you fancy) that travels the U.S. and Canada promotes all the right kind of messages. So, I'm a fan for life as I'm sending a Tweet to Tuna right now.</span><br>
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Wanna catch a show or follow the cats on their Twitter accounts?<br>
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<a href="http://www.circuscats.com/">http://www.circuscats.com/</a><br>
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<a href="https://twitter.com/Tunathecat" target="_blank">@Tunathecat</a><br>
<a href="http://twitter.com/jaxacrocat/" target="_blank">@jaxacrocat</a><br>
<a href="https://twitter.com/bugglesdacat" target="_blank">@bugglesdacat</a><span id="goog_1138533401"></span><span id="goog_1138533402"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a><br>
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<a href="https://instagram.com/acrocats">https://instagram.com/acrocats</a><br>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tuna For President!</td></tr>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1Mid-City New Orleans29.978005 -90.098978tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-42378352366959681572015-02-24T13:15:00.006-08:002015-03-02T04:46:00.595-08:00A Fat Day, Selfies & Why All The Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is not my real hair.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">I just celebrated my first <a href="http://www.mardigrasneworleans.com/when-is-mardi-gras.html" target="_blank">Mardi Gras</a> last week. First thing to know. It was cold by New Orleans (NOLA) standards. Thank the Universe, Buddha, the Goddess whoever you will for encouraging mi amiga, Watson, for making sure I owned a jacket. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">So I </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">scored a lot of beads without lifting my shirt once and skipped the alcohol consumption because it’s not really my jam. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">And I had an <i>amazing</i> time because I snapped a series of selfies with random people and asked them what they loved most about the Mardi Gras experience. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AuHcXr-KxRY/VOzQ7vZSnAI/AAAAAAAAJ2g/C4Samn9Bgbo/s1600/IMG_8415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AuHcXr-KxRY/VOzQ7vZSnAI/AAAAAAAAJ2g/C4Samn9Bgbo/s1600/IMG_8415.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Everybody gettin' down on the streets </span><br>
<span style="font-size: small;">and havin' a good time together."</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xp84oSWx4JA/VOzSB5aZsUI/AAAAAAAAJ2s/UXSXutL93-c/s1600/IMG_8426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xp84oSWx4JA/VOzSB5aZsUI/AAAAAAAAJ2s/UXSXutL93-c/s1600/IMG_8426.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"This! This is it. This is that moment."</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QLTKgJvLg4Y/VOzSB-ZK5eI/AAAAAAAAJ2w/M9QU5Mf8_Wo/s1600/IMG_8427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QLTKgJvLg4Y/VOzSB-ZK5eI/AAAAAAAAJ2w/M9QU5Mf8_Wo/s1600/IMG_8427.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Costumes, creativity. Everything."</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f2Zhl95k3LM/VOzSCILsDTI/AAAAAAAAJ24/j3uueOaISt8/s1600/IMG_8428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f2Zhl95k3LM/VOzSCILsDTI/AAAAAAAAJ24/j3uueOaISt8/s1600/IMG_8428.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Look around you, man. This ..."</span><br>
<br>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><b>Bonus Pic 'cause dude's costumes is beast.</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PizT0AaPrzk/VOzSHsDthrI/AAAAAAAAJ3E/OfcgVCNji6A/s1600/IMG_8429.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PizT0AaPrzk/VOzSHsDthrI/AAAAAAAAJ3E/OfcgVCNji6A/s1600/IMG_8429.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Tvd8pnGlz8s/VOzsIpN1WyI/AAAAAAAAJ8s/zBSFlZ-GsuA/s1600/IMG_8425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Tvd8pnGlz8s/VOzsIpN1WyI/AAAAAAAAJ8s/zBSFlZ-GsuA/s1600/IMG_8425.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grand Budapest Hotel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TjmsyY0IDhQ/VOzspIQqXSI/AAAAAAAAJ80/XeWQs32-CBk/s1600/IMG_8626.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TjmsyY0IDhQ/VOzspIQqXSI/AAAAAAAAJ80/XeWQs32-CBk/s1600/IMG_8626.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Radio station bumper stickers.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P_piLWB4Q_A/VOzs5AFAxfI/AAAAAAAAJ88/mSV9gCo7Jzw/s1600/IMG_8802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P_piLWB4Q_A/VOzs5AFAxfI/AAAAAAAAJ88/mSV9gCo7Jzw/s1600/IMG_8802.JPG" height="240" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I only have an eye for you, baby.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mJmzKlmP8RY/VOzT_7XrVCI/AAAAAAAAJ3Q/2m6tBByqMiI/s1600/IMG_8435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mJmzKlmP8RY/VOzT_7XrVCI/AAAAAAAAJ3Q/2m6tBByqMiI/s1600/IMG_8435.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Community."</span></td></tr>
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<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aCkrze1hjQs/VOzbqg9qiWI/AAAAAAAAJ5g/zwe9cX2mJ8Q/s1600/IMG_8497.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aCkrze1hjQs/VOzbqg9qiWI/AAAAAAAAJ5g/zwe9cX2mJ8Q/s1600/IMG_8497.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Used car lots!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br></span>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br></span>
<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-frEaGxMeUDU/VOzbusHBlRI/AAAAAAAAJ6A/XxIvTSWuViQ/s1600/IMG_8515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-frEaGxMeUDU/VOzbusHBlRI/AAAAAAAAJ6A/XxIvTSWuViQ/s1600/IMG_8515.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">"OMG! All these crazy fucking people letting loose </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">for a day. </span><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">I love how everybody is celebrating life. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">You can feel it in the energy."</span></div>
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</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_hT6cGN8noY/VOzbAxZ_lQI/AAAAAAAAJ4Q/mfFq5oHP9RM/s1600/IMG_8455.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_hT6cGN8noY/VOzbAxZ_lQI/AAAAAAAAJ4Q/mfFq5oHP9RM/s1600/IMG_8455.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Unicorns or bust! </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rwT346wLA6M/VOzbDkh_LtI/AAAAAAAAJ4Y/FP5dleuakZE/s1600/IMG_8462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rwT346wLA6M/VOzbDkh_LtI/AAAAAAAAJ4Y/FP5dleuakZE/s1600/IMG_8462.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cards Against Humanity timeout.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-siUrM2Elv_g/VOzbF11sEiI/AAAAAAAAJ4g/nmvYRC2TIrI/s1600/IMG_8450.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-siUrM2Elv_g/VOzbF11sEiI/AAAAAAAAJ4g/nmvYRC2TIrI/s1600/IMG_8450.JPG" height="320" width="240"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sunset Jacket.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xQerIDPshtk/VOzbyDVzCiI/AAAAAAAAJ6Q/6A6Mq9o_EIw/s1600/IMG_8527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xQerIDPshtk/VOzbyDVzCiI/AAAAAAAAJ6Q/6A6Mq9o_EIw/s1600/IMG_8527.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"The glitter. These people all around me.<br>I love that I'm spending it in this community."</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yh0Flc3N8Es/VOzb6x-vvDI/AAAAAAAAJ64/ZwfDjR_Pyf0/s1600/IMG_8558.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Yh0Flc3N8Es/VOzb6x-vvDI/AAAAAAAAJ64/ZwfDjR_Pyf0/s1600/IMG_8558.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"It's really inspiring. How everyone is<br>doing their thing and not afraid of<br>doing it."</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fb-PctDOmYg/VOzcHd6phrI/AAAAAAAAJ7g/UfVoS1G_RAs/s1600/IMG_8569.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fb-PctDOmYg/VOzcHd6phrI/AAAAAAAAJ7g/UfVoS1G_RAs/s1600/IMG_8569.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Speaker system for street dancing.</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b5h4Nfj6NbM/VOzcN3QdMoI/AAAAAAAAJ7w/6dkGaSBdg_0/s1600/IMG_8587.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b5h4Nfj6NbM/VOzcN3QdMoI/AAAAAAAAJ7w/6dkGaSBdg_0/s1600/IMG_8587.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Random Cool Bike + Woman</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3KDa32P27bU/VOzcOVyfOiI/AAAAAAAAJ70/1vWl_gx4mnA/s1600/IMG_8593.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3KDa32P27bU/VOzcOVyfOiI/AAAAAAAAJ70/1vWl_gx4mnA/s1600/IMG_8593.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Bloody Mary topped with bacon, jalapeños<br>& cheese on a bun.</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-thRD3QgFqQk/VOzbMZsvLJI/AAAAAAAAJ48/28ASGI_fxew/s1600/IMG_8478.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-thRD3QgFqQk/VOzbMZsvLJI/AAAAAAAAJ48/28ASGI_fxew/s1600/IMG_8478.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"The craziness. You can do anything. <br>And Beads!!!"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h0W0x21xTuo/VOzbrGaq1DI/AAAAAAAAJ5o/kdcr-pI-Mjk/s1600/IMG_8500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h0W0x21xTuo/VOzbrGaq1DI/AAAAAAAAJ5o/kdcr-pI-Mjk/s1600/IMG_8500.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"The community & the costumes and the glitter." </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PLmZ8sN1wc8/VOzbwRYjWhI/AAAAAAAAJ6I/XWarpJhWQUw/s1600/IMG_8523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PLmZ8sN1wc8/VOzbwRYjWhI/AAAAAAAAJ6I/XWarpJhWQUw/s1600/IMG_8523.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Coming out and seeing all the costumes."</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p2fi_RoLO80/VOzn1wG-0HI/AAAAAAAAJ8g/59eSk4IEqq4/s1600/IMG_8842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p2fi_RoLO80/VOzn1wG-0HI/AAAAAAAAJ8g/59eSk4IEqq4/s1600/IMG_8842.JPG" height="240" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Street Art</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_HjW7cSreXw/VOznv_eHvXI/AAAAAAAAJ8Q/O9_FGcsPPmQ/s1600/IMG_8863.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_HjW7cSreXw/VOznv_eHvXI/AAAAAAAAJ8Q/O9_FGcsPPmQ/s1600/IMG_8863.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Puddle reflection.</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MTidz4ujC20/VOznyYKVJ_I/AAAAAAAAJ8Y/lBsxTkm4k_I/s1600/IMG_8834.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MTidz4ujC20/VOznyYKVJ_I/AAAAAAAAJ8Y/lBsxTkm4k_I/s1600/IMG_8834.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Sticker Art</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iTRad2DfVBw/VOzb7O7zC2I/AAAAAAAAJ68/TKaRi2AbmOM/s1600/IMG_8559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iTRad2DfVBw/VOzb7O7zC2I/AAAAAAAAJ68/TKaRi2AbmOM/s1600/IMG_8559.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Having ____ in the _______ of a dark ______." </span></td></tr>
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<br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SXhBZYBW51s/VOzb-eOjTOI/AAAAAAAAJ7I/AWFee5NrkUM/s1600/IMG_8563.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SXhBZYBW51s/VOzb-eOjTOI/AAAAAAAAJ7I/AWFee5NrkUM/s1600/IMG_8563.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"The soul. The jazz. The freeness. It's just a good vibe."</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-odhxr-1dEJY/VOzbG0ZVo1I/AAAAAAAAJ4o/mQxjfZi9_PU/s1600/IMG_8468.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-odhxr-1dEJY/VOzbG0ZVo1I/AAAAAAAAJ4o/mQxjfZi9_PU/s1600/IMG_8468.JPG" height="320" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Wait? What's the question?"</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica Neue, HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">And that's a few moments from the streets of New Orleans on Fat Tuesday 2015. Thanks for the memories.</span></span><br>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica Neue, HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br></span></span>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Mid-City New Orleans29.982252 -90.101858tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-7613615220854618262015-02-19T05:09:00.001-08:002015-03-03T07:15:28.439-08:00Sometimes You Miss ItSteve Perry sang it best,<i> "The road ain't no place to start a family," </i>and so goes the life of the accidental gypsy.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Corpus Christi, Texas. </div>
<div>
Pop. 300,000 +</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What to know about the big CC? One of the windiest cities in America, home to a gigantic warship, death place of Selena and a number two party spot for Spring Breakers. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And for me right now the place where I slept through the 5:15 A.M. alarm and have missed my flight back to New Orleans where I currently have a front room futon with my name on it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I never miss a flight. </div>
<div>
I never botch travel. </div>
<div>
It's kinda become my #2 best thing. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Universal intervention? Difficult to say, but it sure makes for a strange in what was to be an otherwise ordinary day. I'm still drop dead fool tired and not sure what method of transport will get me back to NOLA. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One thing is for sure. I'm not thumbing it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The view from the 7th floor Shoreline Drive hotel is snazzy. It overlooks the luscious possibilities of the Gulf of Mexico. Joggers on the jog. Birds on the perch. Empty white legless benches just waiting. And the water ... there it is just moving. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Breakfast taquitos are in my immediate future, and I've got a rental car until 4pm I think. That's long enough to consider the possibilities of the universe deep fried on a stick and crack out a few pages on a novel. It's long enough to maybe see my childhood friend Jody over a Texas Sized cup of Sweet Tea and reminance of when I useta steal his toys for two days, play with them and bring them back for another set. Sort of a community share program implemented by me, myself and the I. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What a weird kid I was ... what a weird adult I still am. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So maybe Steve Perry was right. About the road. But it is definitely a place to hear someone else's story and continue to write your own. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Peace, kindness and rock the word!</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Holiday Inn Corpus Christi Downtown Marina 707 North Shoreline Boulevard, Corpus Christi27.798307 -97.391677tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-17452492494501394072015-02-17T22:00:00.001-08:002015-02-18T03:54:43.050-08:00How We WinAuthor <a href="http://barrylyga.com/" target="_blank">Barry Lyga</a> gave a keynote at <a href="http://teacherweb.com/TX/KellerHighSchool/YAKFest/apt1.aspx" target="_blank">YAK Fest 2015</a> about how life is about failing. How we learn and grow from the very act of not succeeding. And for all Barry's success, the man has failed a lot.<br />
<br />
<div>
So often we are told to be the best. Number one at all costs. Perfection without rejection. Zero failure. But that is soooooo loaded. By whose standards are these? More often than not, they aren't our own and so plays that Song of the Year<br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #990000;">
"You + Failure = Bad"</span></h3>
<div>
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #990000;">And maybe it's some version of Iggy Azalea and/or Drake singin' in your head:</span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>Let me hear you</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>Hate on me</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>'Cause I suck at everything</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>Never get it right</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>Let me hear you h</i></span><i style="color: #990000;">ate on me</i><br />
<i style="color: #990000;"><br /></i>
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>'Cause I fail shit all the time ...</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>Everything I do ain't right</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>Why even try?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><i>I hate on me</i></span><br />
<br />
And we learn this degrading tune, making it out mantra. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
#thatissonobueno</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, I'm not suggesting failing out of school, failing to pay your phone bill or even failing to take personal responsibility for your actions is on the up and cool so you can "learn." That would be a negatory. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What I believe is that we get knocked down. Sometimes a little harder than expected or needed, but it is how we rise back up. How we stand in our self when back on our two badass feet that determines the "what's next."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yeah, I know. This is all a little woo-heavy. Humor me. It's a day in the week ending in "Y," and I am thinking on this because it has circled in conversation all around me lately. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<h3>
Fear. </h3>
</div>
<div>
<h2>
Failure. </h2>
</div>
<div>
How the Double F has so much power in grid locking us from taking reasonable risks. Like risks when writing, drawing, painting, slamming -- speaking our truth or passion through image. How this Double F keeps us from being heard. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What if I fail?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I say fail. Word!<br />
<br />
I dare you to fail. Fail with abandon and absolute unbridled you-missed-the-mark. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You will grow.<br />
<br />
Multiple award-winning author <a href="http://patzietlowmiller.com/" target="_blank">Pat Zietlow Miller</a> received 126 rejection letters before publishing her first book. 126! That's a whole lotta fail, but ask her if she didn't grow. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I tell my friends when they are afraid to ask someone for what they need, "What's the worst thing that can happen? They can say no, right? Well, if you don't ask, it's already a no."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We are so terrified to be made vulnerable and real and possibly be rejected. It keeps us from reaching our potential. Then we get all manifesty and scream the profane at some dude or dudette that cut us off on I-99. Or we self-deprecate when we feel vulnerable. Fear and the possibility of failure keeps us trapped. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
#asupernobueno</div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm an author, a filmmaker and artivist. I dream big and hard and live with a lot of passion, hope and creativity. It's not a perfect life, but as lives go I'm lucky. See, I get to excite and empower young people ... I have this precious opportunity to mirror back their best selves. And working with them mirrors to me things I never imagined I could do. But I have failed A LOT to get to this place. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Repeat the lyric: But I have failed A LOT to get to this place. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And I will fail again. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because in this epic result of human imperfection, I, like you, can't always get it right. But what I can do and what you can do is make that failure your teacher. Learn from it. Don't hit Repeat bad mantra song. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Write a new ending. One where you don't stop living your hope, truth and voice because you are afraid ...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To fail.<br />
<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Mid-City New Orleans29.982247 -90.101838tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-61623795594828084342015-02-14T03:42:00.001-08:002015-03-03T07:15:04.655-08:00Let's Be Honest ..<div>
<h4>
February <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">14, 2014</span>Love Day </h4>
</div>
I am terrible at the art of blogging. At this hour, 1:47 in the a.m. I am wiped out. Sleeping in an airport in baggy shorts and chill worthy temps teeters on the suckage. My meal consisted of a $1.50 bag of peanuts with the blare of CNN as white noise.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Haven't done this airport smash-crash since January 2014. That was Philly. Epic snow. On the lamb from the Polar Vortex, a soon to be failed relationship and the heartbreak of not having somewhere I could call home. Destination then: California.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's been over a year. So much has gone down. No doubt. Feature documentary completed. Sold fourth novel. Six weeks in Belgium. Played said documentary across America including the State Capitol of Texas via the Texas Book Festival. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've seen young people moved by the movie and I've seen adults moved. I've watched what is the beginning of the creative revolution. Including the nonprofit Never Counted Out. A foundation to bridge the gap between artist and youth on the fringe. A foundation functioning from the goal of access. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So yeah, I'm terrible at the art of said blogging and my goal in 2015 is that I will do better. But for all those of you wondering, I am out here -- doing for as many people as I can. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because I believe the life you change may be the life that changes another to achieve even a heighter sense of greatness. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, yes. Welcome to the creative revolution!</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport DFW Airport32.900852 -97.033073tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-20878490374162921122013-10-29T10:09:00.000-07:002015-02-14T03:47:59.843-08:00The Road Less Traveled ... Rocks!Time: 7:35 A.M. (Pacific)<div>Date: 2013<br>
Location: Red Bluff, CA<br>
Stop #1: Reach Program<br>
Student Type: Fighting To Survive<br>
<br>
After a few right turns and a left my escort and camera person for the day, Tom Watson, parks us outside the portable building that hosts the Reach Program. Like many of the programs I've visited since June 28th this is where the discontent, unwanted, misfits of the teen world take refuge, connect and respect their diverse landscape of ethnicity, age and sexuality. Reach kids earn a high school degree outside the confines of traditional education. No pep rallies, glee club or mandatory dress code. Here kids savor the flavor of showing and not hiding who they are.<br>
<br>
This is where the brave live.<br>
<br>
I fumble my camera and sound gear for the documentary I've been making since I started the Fat Angie book tour. This jaunt across America in rented cars, with donated books (hollar to you <a href="http://www.as-king.com/" target="_blank">A.S. King</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Quad-Carrie-Gordon-Watson/dp/1595141383/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1383062975&sr=8-2&keywords=cg+watson" target="_blank">C.G. Watson</a>, <a href="http://www.kathyerskine.com/Kathryn_Erskine/Home.html" target="_blank">Kathy Erskine</a>, <a href="http://megmedina.com/" target="_blank">Meg Medina</a>, <a href="http://sallyderby.com/" target="_blank">Sally Derby</a> & <a href="http://www.candlewick.com/" target="_blank">Candlewick Press</a>) and the generosity of friends of strangers who have given me a bed and plate of food still amazes me. I mention this loosely to the kids who have twisted around in their plastic seats. <br>
<br>
At the front of the room, I dymystify the GoPro camera by revealing the feed it sends to my iPhone. A few "that's cool" and "sweet" and I quickly assign kids to act as my film crew for the visit.<br>
<br>
"This is the part where you make me look good," I say to the crew. "Okay?"<br>
<br>
Chuckles spread. A few kids still take the temp on me. I'm down with that. I have to earn their trust.<br>
<br>
Tom rolls his camera, and the show is on.<br>
<br>
The show? Well, we're at Red Bluff, CA to change lives. Yes, that's exactly what I said. You see, these kids have been counted out more than they've been counted in. They are my chosen fringe-cringe kid community of change makers. <br>
<br>
"What did you know about me? Before I walked in?" I say.<br>
<br>
Eager Boy In An Oversized White Hoodie Whose Height Can't Catch Up With His Enthusiasm says, "Can I call you rockstar?"<br>
<br>
The kids laugh.<br>
<br>
"Yes!" I say with enthusiasm. "Just don't call me Ewe because that's a female sheep. Okay, I digress let's move on."<br>
<br>
I tell them how I wanted to be the drummer for KISS as a kid, win an Oscar and make it out of my small Texas town. How I came from a home harder than soft. How life as the underdog isn't the worst thing they've been handed.<br>
<br>
Most of all, I tell them that I believe in them.<br>
<br>
My teen camera crew moves in for a closer shot when I say, "What are you doing? On your classmates. They're clapping."<br><br>Laughter and the camera and mic swing that way.<br>
<br>
[insert image of kids clapping] <br>
<br>
We talk tough topics at the Reach Program. We talk about differences in and out of the room. We are brave in our rapport and don't pull punches (metaphorically speaking, of course). <br>
<br>
After a group icebreaker, I do my story magic trick. I "spit" a narrative on the spot with words they've generated. I want them to see that their words have potential.<br>
<br>
The potential to change, influence, entertain and heal.<br>
<br>
More clapping then I say, "Okay, what do you know about me now?"<br><br>I say this 1) to keep them engaged and 2) to demonstrate the development of a character in writing.<br>
<br>
Mr. Eager White Hoodie Whose Height Can't Keep Up says, "You're the tattooed rockstar Wexican."<br>
<br>
"Word!" I say.<br>
<br>
On tour stops, I always reveal I'm the whitest Mexican American in America. How my camoflage is a bonus and not a minus. Jokingly, I get him to repeat it for the camera. Stressing the importance of the new handle. <br>
<br>
A young lady shares my director for the day is a singer/musician. Cameras pan from me to her. "We're ready," I say.<br>
<br>
She hasn't tracked the "ready."<br>
<br>
"We're ready for you to sing."<br>
<br>
She accepts the challenge with a confidence I would never have for belting it in front of a class and a tattooed rockstar Wexican. <br>
<br>
[insert video]<br>
<br>
Now, who's the rockstar?<br>
<br>
I send my camera crew to their seats. It's time for everyone to rock the word on the solo. Fiction or nonfiction. It's their decide. I scribble a prompt on the dry erase board and send them to task.<br>
<br>
[insert images of writing]??<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
Over thirty-one states and through the inconceivable
kindness from strangers and friends, I am the tattooed rockstar Wexican
who writes YA lit and inspires the uninspired to harness their voice
through creativity. It's the kind of risk I never imagined I'd take.
Like Matt de la Pena says, "<br>
<br>
The tenatious kids at Reach have had hell handed to them in plate
fulls. But on that Monday morning they are there. In those seats.
Engaging, raging, listening and showing up. <br>
<br>
You gotta respect the human spirit!<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
restored my faith in possibility<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
Bands tour. In mini-vans, Scooby Doo vans or a lux bus if they've really made it.<br>
<br>
I'm not a band. I'm still a rockstar. Well, sorta.<br>
<br>
I
stuffed my life into a shared storage unit, rented a Ford Focus and
took to the road June 28th. For three months (yes, it went on slightly
longer), I would travel America and workshop with at-risk youth at no
cost to their programs.<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
The kids get code names based on what they're wearing and
sometimes affect. Today Mr. Orange sits in the back beside Ms. Smiley.<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
________<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
Time: 7:35 A.M. (Pacific)<br>
Location: Red Bluff, CA<br>
Stop #1: Reach Program<br>
Student Type: Fighting To Survive<br>
<br>
After
a few right turns and a left my escort and camera person for the day,
Tom Watson, parks us outside the portable building that hosts the Reach
Program. Like many of the programs I've visited since June 28th this is
where the discontent, unwanted, misfits of the teen world take refuge,
connect and respect their diverse landscape of ethnicity, age and
sexuality. Reach kids earn a high school degree outside the confines of
traditional education. No pep rallies, glee club or mandatory dress code. Here kids savor the flavor of showing and not hiding who they are.<br>
<br>
This is where the brave live.<br>
<br>
I
fumble my camera and sound gear for the documentary I've been making
since I started the Fat Angie book tour. This jaunt across America in
rented cars, with donated books (hollar to you <a href="http://www.as-king.com/" target="_blank">A.S. King</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Quad-Carrie-Gordon-Watson/dp/1595141383/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1383062975&sr=8-2&keywords=cg+watson" target="_blank">C.G. Watson</a>, <a href="http://www.kathyerskine.com/Kathryn_Erskine/Home.html" target="_blank">Kathy Erskine</a>, <a href="http://megmedina.com/" target="_blank">Meg Medina</a>, <a href="http://sallyderby.com/" target="_blank">Sally Derby</a> & <a href="http://www.candlewick.com/" target="_blank">Candlewick Press</a>)
and the generosity of friends of strangers who have given me a bed and
plate of food still amazes me. I mention this loosely to the kids who
have twisted around in their plastic seats. <br>
<br>
At the
front of the room, I dymystify the GoPro camera by revealing the feed it
sends to my iPhone. A few "that's cool" and "sweet" and I quickly
assign kids to act as my film crew for the visit.<br>
<br>
"This is the part where you make me look good," I say to the crew. "Okay?"<br>
<br>
Chuckles spread. A few kids still take the temp on me. I'm down with that. I have to earn their trust.<br>
<br>
Tom rolls his camera, and the show is on.<br>
<br>
The
show? Well, we're at Red Bluff, CA to change lives. Yes, that's exactly
what I said. You see, these kids have been counted out more than
they've been counted in. They are my chosen fringe-cringe kid community
of change makers. They're my heroes because the war wounds of life are
deeply imprinted on these kids, and they are still here.<br>
<br>
<br>
As
for this show I mention, it is the Fat Angie book tour At-Risk Summer.
It is where I travel across American and provide access to a creative
mentor to the kids who don't come out for signings and library events.<br>
<br>
"What did you know about me? Before I walked in?" I say.<br>
<br>
Eager By In an Oversized White Hoodie Whose Height Can't Catch Up With His Enthusiasm says, "That you're a rockstar."<br>
<br>
The kids laugh.<br>
<br>
"I mean, that's what I think you are."<br>
<br>
I
tell them how I wanted to be the drummer for KISS as a kid, win an
Oscar and make it out of my small Texas town. How I came from a home
harder than soft. How life as the underdog isn't the worst thing they've
been handed.<br>
<br>
Most of all, I tell them that I believe in them.<br>
<br>
My teen camera crew moves in for a closer shot when I say, "What are you doing? On your classmates. They're clapping."<br><br>Laughter and the camera and mic swing that way.<br>
<br>
We
talk tough topics at the Reach Program. We talk about the differences
in and out of the room. We are brave together in our rapport and don't
pull punches (metaphorically speaking). <br>
<br>
After a
group icebreaker, I do my story magic trick. I "spit" a narrative on the
spot with words they've generated. I want them to see that their words
have potential.<br>
<br>
The potential to change, influence, entertain and heal.<br>
<br>
More clapping then I say, "Okay, what do you know about me now?"<br><br>I say this 1) to keep them engaged and 2) to demonstrate the development of a character in writing.<br>
<br>
Mr. Eager White Hoodie Whose Height Can't Keep Up says, "You're the tattooed rockstar Wexican."<br>
<br>
On
the tour, I always reveal I'm the whitest Mexican American in America.
How my camoflage is a bonus and not a minus. Right then, that little-big
young man perfectly packaged my persona.<br>
<br>
Jokingly, I get him to repeat it for the camera. Stressing the importance of the new handle. <br>
<br>Soon after it is revealed that my director for the day is a musician, we pull the cameras back, and I say, "We're ready."<br>
<br>
She hasn't tracked it yet.<br>
<br>
"We're ready for you to sing."<br>
<br>
She
accepts the challenge with a confidence I would never have for belting
it in front of a class and a tattooed rockstar Wexican. <br>
<br>
[insert video]<br>
<br>
Now, who's the rockstar?<br>
<br>
I
send my camera crew back to their seats. It's time for everyone to rock
the word. Fiction or nonfiction. It's their decide. I scribble a prompt
on the dry erase board and send them to task.<br>
<br>
[insert images of writing]??<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
Over thirty-one states and through the inconceivable
kindness from strangers and friends, I am the tattooed rockstar Wexican
who writes YA lit and inspires the uninspired to harness their voice
through creativity. It's the kind of risk I never imagined I'd take.
Like Matt de la Pena says, "<br>
<br>
The tenatious kids at Reach have had hell handed to them in plate
fulls. But on that Monday morning they are there. In those seats.
Engaging, raging, listening and showing up. <br>
<br>
You gotta respect the human spirit!<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
restored my faith in possibility<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
Bands tour. In mini-vans, Scooby Doo vans or a lux bus if they've really made it.<br>
<br>
I'm not a band. I'm still a rockstar. Well, sorta.<br>
<br>
I
stuffed my life into a shared storage unit, rented a Ford Focus and
took to the road June 28th. For three months (yes, it went on slightly
longer), I would travel America and workshop with at-risk youth at no
cost to their programs.<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
The kids get code names based on what they're wearing and
sometimes affect. Today Mr. Orange sits in the back beside Ms. Smiley. <br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-3083599111677175762013-10-21T11:35:00.003-07:002013-10-22T10:29:46.631-07:00Wanna Know How To Save A Whale?<i>Stories From The Road</i><br />
October 21, 2013<br />
<br />
How do you save a whale? Well, the answer's complicated.<br />
<br />
I was in Richmond, Virginia October 17th as a Special Guest for the YALSA supported <a href="http://abwestrick.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/Teen13flyer.pdf" target="_blank">Teen '13</a>. Getting there was a "lions, tigers and bears, oh my" kinda moment. Just do the substitution of car crashes, construction and D.C. gridlock. I arrived, late, but made it. Did my three minutes of who I am, what I do and why you all are cool for listening to my three minutes.<br />
<br />
Here are some cool authors I met.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9p1Hd9U0Li8/UmVutjwgASI/AAAAAAAAJpY/2mroK-e7IBI/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+2.12.13+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9p1Hd9U0Li8/UmVutjwgASI/AAAAAAAAJpY/2mroK-e7IBI/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+2.12.13+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/meg.medina.10">https://www.facebook.com/meg.medina.10</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Later that night, I ate cold fried chicken with author Meg Medina (Latina Rockstar if you're sassy) at her cozy tree house of a home. Meg had offered me a spare bedroom for this <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fat-Angie-ebook/dp/B00BJPI77S/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=&qid=" target="_blank"><i>Fat Angie</i></a> At-Risk Summer book tour stop.<br />
<br />
I like spare bedrooms.<br />
<br />
Meg sat down at the breakfast bar and in all that is wonderful and direct about Meg said, "So tell me everything. How did you grow into this amazing person you are right now? You know, how did you choose this given where you started?"<br />
<br />
Mid-chew I blurted out the immediate Amanda Cunningham story (<a href="http://megmedina.com/2013/10/12/ee-charlton-trujillo-and-the-fat-angie-tour/" target="_blank">see Meg's blog here</a>), but it just felt off as an answer. I mean, yes, Amanda's death had a lot to do with me sitting down and cranking out <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prizefighter-en-Casa-e-E-Charlton-Trujillo/dp/0385733259/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1382379596&sr=1-1&keywords=prizefighter+en+mi+casa" target="_blank"><i>Prizefighter en Mi Casa</i></a>. But the who I am now. The person who came from a hard home and could've chose to quit but didn't. Instead I travel America and am coined as Wexican (whitest Mexican American), rockstar and hero by the kids I meet which has a lot to do with <i>Fat Angie</i>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ae2mmVJe68A/UmVbgHPeEjI/AAAAAAAAJoU/g-T8BpDxAHo/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.50.52+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ae2mmVJe68A/UmVbgHPeEjI/AAAAAAAAJoU/g-T8BpDxAHo/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.50.52+PM.png" width="133" /></a></div>
<br />
And <i>Fat Angie</i> has a lot to do with Linda.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1ZUNf6MT17A/UmVbr4OX0SI/AAAAAAAAJoc/YebcymQsxfA/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.06.43+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="257" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1ZUNf6MT17A/UmVbr4OX0SI/AAAAAAAAJoc/YebcymQsxfA/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.06.43+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Linda humors me on Cinco de Mayo, 2006</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I met Linda in July 2005. We both were on scholarship for the Highlights Chautaqua Writing Retreat. <i>Prizefighter</i> won the Delacorte Dell Yearling Award in November 2004, but I was super green to the roll with authors thing. After a fancy welcome dinner, I headed to my less than two star accommodations. Walking minus an umbrella in the pouring rain, I met Linda. Also minus an umbrella. <br />
<br />
Lacking a witty intro, I said, "So are you someone famous I should know?"<br />
<br />
She said, "I don't think so. Are you?"<br />
<br />
"I don't think so, but I think I just made an ass out of myself back there."<br />
<br />
"How come?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"Because I sat with a bunch of famous people who I just thought were people, but I think you're supposed to treat'em different."<br />
<br />
She held out her hand, "I'm Linda."<br />
<br />
"Eunice."<br />
<br />
And so it was. Linda and Eunice. The two odd balls of the retreat.<br />
<br />
Linda became more than my best friend. She became my family. We talked daily, and I shared everything with her. When I still resided in good 'ole Madison, WI and had to have surgery, she over nighted gormet frozen meals (minus GURD inducing red sauce) because I was alone.<br />
<br />
She tolerated the rough years of my grieving Amanda. Let's be clear. I was a mess. She guided me to other artist in the Cincinnati, Ohio area when I moved there. She read my writing and was an excellent editor for all things that are e.E. annoying. She got me, and in time, I got the her. She was in it for the long haul. To be honest, I didn't really think I deserved long haul.<br />
<br />
Linda worked professionally as a graphic designer and copy editor. Here are a few movie posters she did as favors for me.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o87B1Mt5VkE/UmVcLOXkyWI/AAAAAAAAJok/lYdnfK4hP6o/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.41.10+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o87B1Mt5VkE/UmVcLOXkyWI/AAAAAAAAJok/lYdnfK4hP6o/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.41.10+PM.png" width="208" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">film directed by Sara St. Martin-Lynne</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-czi4Hf7JCY8/UmVcU72ZdQI/AAAAAAAAJos/0ZxnJqVLIvo/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.12.53+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-czi4Hf7JCY8/UmVcU72ZdQI/AAAAAAAAJos/0ZxnJqVLIvo/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.12.53+PM.png" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">film directed by e.E.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
What her heart was invested in was writing for young people. I have never seen someone so determined to create for kids (<a href="http://swellbooks.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">See her blog</a>). When <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Maggies-Monkeys-Linda-Sanders-Wells/dp/B00EJ30QIU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1382375725&sr=8-1&keywords=maggie%27s+monkeys" target="_blank">Maggie's Monkeys</a> sold to Candlewick Press, I bought her a pink monkey at an airport. She proudly used it in her school visits and book appearances.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d9XRRhkMBkc/UmVcomYU2II/AAAAAAAAJo0/h94yd0TjhqQ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.40.32+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="188" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d9XRRhkMBkc/UmVcomYU2II/AAAAAAAAJo0/h94yd0TjhqQ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.40.32+PM.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
When I had surgery in Cincinnati in 2008 and was under for six hours, she was the first person in my room. When I thought I couldn't stay on the planet, she mirrored back my better truth. That's a gift in this world. No doubt, sincerely.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WmAvc3XRBPc/UmVcztSVxYI/AAAAAAAAJo8/MsvHrC0J-dk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.06.08+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WmAvc3XRBPc/UmVcztSVxYI/AAAAAAAAJo8/MsvHrC0J-dk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.06.08+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">quotepix.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My birthday rolled around (December 1st if you're sassy). I was in a creative slump. I wanted to ditch <i>Fat Angie</i> because my agent red inked the life out of it. Not really, but I was being a brat about it.<br />
<br />
I drop in at Linda's house, and she pulls out a large white shirt box from beneath her desk. I open the box, pull back the tissue paper and there it was. The hoodie of all hoddies. It was a navy blue beauty with a bulging bicep hornet staring back at me. It was the official logo from the <i>Fat Angie</i> draft.<br />
<br />
"You know I love hoodies," I said. "That's just plain dirty."<br />
<br />
She smiled and said, "Now finish the book. It's gonna change lives."<br />
<br />
"I duhno. You know? Andrea doesn't get it." <br />
<br />
"Finish it. It matters. And it is good or she wouldn't have bled all over it."<br />
<br />
I flipped the hoodie over, and Linda had left nothing to chance. On the back was the number forty-seven. For Fat Angie fans, you'll know why having her sister's basketball jersey number on the hoodie was an icing on the cake kinda moment. <br />
<br />
"If I ever sell it, I'm gonna dedicate it to you," I said. "You know that right?"<br />
<br />
"I don't need that." <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ImR3OJ6oNhs/UmVeO-_w1YI/AAAAAAAAJpE/dLAhiRqO8TE/s1600/IMG_6789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ImR3OJ6oNhs/UmVeO-_w1YI/AAAAAAAAJpE/dLAhiRqO8TE/s1600/IMG_6789.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoodie seen with <i>Fat Angie</i> Book Tour At-Risk Summer </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I finished a necessary revision of the book, and sent it to my then agent who is now managing editor and publisher at Egmont USA <a href="http://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/childrens/childrens-industry-news/article/55515-cascardi-joins-egmont-usa-law-to-leave-company.html" target="_blank">Andrea Cascardi</a>. In late January 2011, Linda discovered she had Cancer.<br />
<br />
First thought? I can't do this again. I can't lose another best friend.<br />
<br />
Of course, I'd make it about what I was losing. What about Linda? Possibly not seeing her daughter graduate high school. Leave her partner of twenty-plus years who had faced a near death Cancer experience a few months prior. Never see another Christmas or New Years? Never and more never and more -- stop!<br />
<br />
I had to stop. Stop what I had made about me and what she might lose.<br />
<br />
What you need to know is that I'm not good at the death gig. For a long time, I wasn't good at the showing up gig either. But you see, Linda's different. She's a stand-up gal if I've ever known one. She had so much room for my absolute weirdness. She had kindness. <br />
<br />
Bottom line: I knew I couldn't skip out.<br />
<br />
For once, I had to show up for Linda. I had to be there. And I didn't do it perfect, but I did it. I was there when it counted. I had the hard conversations. I wanted to understand not only what it meant to be dying but what it meant to live. <br />
<br />
Linda was the strongest, bravest and most stubborn person I have ever met. She held into the last days even when hospice came. She was going to beat her Cancer. Her mind riddled with tumors. Her body frail and thin. She was still Linda. But less than eight months after the diagnosis, Linda died.<br />
<br />
She died on October 21, 2011.<br />
It was approximately 6:00 pm.<br />
I was in her bedroom with her partner Howard and daughter Abbie when she exhaled.<br />
<br />
I promised that I wouldn't leave her ... that I would stay to the very end. She didn't think I would, but I did. I did because Linda had taught me how to show up. <br />
<br />
I did dedicate <i>Fat Angie</i> to Linda.<br />
I have had the hoodie on the Fat Angie book tour.<br />
I share her life, sarcastic humor and kindness with others daily.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4ru4V2-chp4/UmVe6C1HGdI/AAAAAAAAJpM/iAmLKht9R7s/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.45.56+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4ru4V2-chp4/UmVe6C1HGdI/AAAAAAAAJpM/iAmLKht9R7s/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.45.56+PM.png" width="319" /></a></div>
<br />
Today is October 21, 2011. For the astrology peeps, it is Mercury Retrograde. For others, it is the day Facebook fried out for a few hours. For a good friend in Texas, it is her birthday. For me, it is the day I remember the life of Linda Sanders-Wells. A woman who believed that one book could change lives. And from the trenches of this book tour, I can tell you she was right.<br />
<br />
So you wanna know how to save a whale. The answer's complicated. It really has nothing to do with this blog, and it kinda does. I trust you'll figure it out. Just know ...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;">There was a woman. Her name was Linda Sanders. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #9fc5e8;">She changed my life.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I love you, Linda. Shine on!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1PxjHkFM5GA/UmVY1PaDAyI/AAAAAAAAJoM/K2QUaB0z0Ms/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.39.17+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="314" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1PxjHkFM5GA/UmVY1PaDAyI/AAAAAAAAJoM/K2QUaB0z0Ms/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-21+at+12.39.17+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo by C.G. Watson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-77065797030254277522013-10-12T19:52:00.001-07:002013-10-13T05:32:15.217-07:00Survivor's Poem: Teen Student Jenni Truth<i>Stories From The Road</i><br />
October 12, 2013<br />
<br />
This blog isn't mine but Hers. Hers is a story in the slip stream of cast-away kids. The bullied. The shamed. The kids encouraged to vanish from the planet.<br />
<br />
She has tried.<br />
She has failed. <br />
I am grateful for this failure. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Because now she is a survivor and survivors who choose to live have stories. Stories that can motivate, educate and ignite the right to be heard. <br />
<br />
I met Her on a tour stop in California. She came to me after a workshop and asked for recommendations for books on surviving rape and abuse for a classmate who was reluctant to ask. She didn't ask for anything for herself. I made an effort to come back to the school with books that dealt with these tough issues along with copies of FAT ANGIE donated by Candlewick Press. She expressed her passion for writing poetry, and I encouraged her to connect with something when she was ready.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
She reached out via Facebook with the below message and poem this weekend. She said I could share her name, but I'm opting for a nickname. We'll call her Jenni Truth. Ms. Truth is a brave young woman who has seen more darkness than any young person should. But she is here. Alive. Showing up. <br />
<br />
She wants to be counted and empower others through her story. And I say rock the heck on!<br />
<br />
<i>Ms. Truth<span class="null"> said, "mind you everything i write comes from my past and im trying to help girls who have hard times with rape and suicide, so my
attempts stopped when i came to the school. now i wanna let everyone know
they're not alone and that anything can change and i cant make my past go
away but i know i can make my future better and thanks to u i wanna
make a book of poems that can help people through what i went through
and help them get stronger</span>."</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b>UNTITLED POEM</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
by Jenni Truth (nick name)<br />
<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A price paid </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Closed are my sunken eyes </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Tears gracefully crawl down my face </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I take another straight shot of whiskey </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As my head starts to race </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The cigarette is still burning </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And the sweet smoke tickles my nose </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My body is going numb </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I can no longer feel my toes </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I can see my black mascara tears </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As they fall onto my breast </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
There are scratches and dried blood </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Pretty purpled bruised decorate my chest </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My red lipstick smeared </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And my hair in knots </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I shove more pills in my mouth </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Chasing it with three more shots </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My body is beyond broken </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My mind completely lost </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A lesson with a price </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Myself an expressive cost </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He was to strong to heavy </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I couldn’t get him off of me </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
With his hand over my mouth </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I kept screaming to stop </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
His cold eyes just watched me </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As I fought hard and cried </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
He crushed my soul over and over again </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As he thrusted deeper inside </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The world slowly went dark </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
From the fight and pain </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I woke up bloody and dirty</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
From the sound of the rain </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Now the bottle is empty </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And the room spins </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I put a razor to my wrist </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And rip across my skin </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The blood paints the floor </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Everything is slowing down </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The darkness is back again </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And it’s now all around </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The cigarette still burns </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As the smoke does an exotic dance </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It moves so slow and graceful </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Putting me in a trance </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
There’s an empty whiskey bottle</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A cigarettes burning and a note </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The blood is coloring the white paper red </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Where “I’m sorry” is faintly wrote.<span class="null"></span><b class="_36"></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hLrwMaELK38/UloGHa3yPII/AAAAAAAAJnw/q4WrE62Dwsg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-12+at+10.31.21+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hLrwMaELK38/UloGHa3yPII/AAAAAAAAJnw/q4WrE62Dwsg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-12+at+10.31.21+PM.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.youmatter.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/">http://www.youmatter.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/</a></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
Suicide is not an option. If you're a young person reading this, YOU MATTER. This poem is about a time when Ms. Truth thought she didn't. She is a survivor and wants you to know someone has been there and come out the other side. <br />
<br />
It may sound lame but if you are thinking about suicide, call the hotline above. Visit their website to get an online chat. Reach out to a friend, family member, school counselor or a trusted teacher. Suicide is the real deal, and it's forever. <br />
<br />
No more body bags. <br />
<br />
You are never counted out! Live.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-36553554260912803522013-10-04T11:01:00.003-07:002013-10-21T12:01:18.587-07:00Why A.S. King Is My Long Lost Sister<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Some things are a given in life. Who you are, where you're from and that
you've embarrassed yourself at least once over a boy band. FYI, mine was
<a href="http://nkotb.com/splash" target="_blank">New Kids On The Block</a>.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5ZzRGZGK5oY/Uk7npi2CLvI/AAAAAAAAJlw/_X1-9BJhOtY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+12.06.33+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5ZzRGZGK5oY/Uk7npi2CLvI/AAAAAAAAJlw/_X1-9BJhOtY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+12.06.33+PM.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Work That Tough, NKOTB!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now when you're adopted, the details might be a little spotty. For example, I know that my mother's name is Virginia Trujillo. She lived in Corpus Christi, Texas in 1973 and my grandparents were definitely on the Catholic. <br />
<br />
But that's where the narrative hits a crash and burn for the most. The rest is deduction. <br />
<br />
For example, here's me in junior high.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PQDdDwM49Nc/Uk7rlme9AzI/AAAAAAAAJl4/8UjqidggRvE/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+12.23.07+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PQDdDwM49Nc/Uk7rlme9AzI/AAAAAAAAJl4/8UjqidggRvE/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+12.23.07+PM.png" height="320" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Band Trip To Aquarena Springs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Here's me now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y18bHC4MueI/Uk7tQtO47vI/AAAAAAAAJmE/IfM28dHI5iA/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+12.30.21+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y18bHC4MueI/Uk7tQtO47vI/AAAAAAAAJmE/IfM28dHI5iA/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+12.30.21+PM.png" height="237" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suspicious Of Her Glasses</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Not a whole lot has changed. I'm still the whitest Mexican American in America. The REACH kids in Red Bluff, CA adorned me with the nickname Wexican. Peace and love to them for one on the original scale! <br />
<br />
I also have a lot of those annoying attributes from childhood. I beat on desks and pretend I'm the drummer from Kiss (life long aspiration). I wear backwards ball caps. My friend California Sara refers to me as the female Kevin Smith. I got respect for the Smith (holla <i>Clerks</i> and <i>Red State</i>), and I guess I dress like him sometimes minus the beard and height challenge.<br />
<br />
The other thing is that I have a brother. See Kurt lived with my folks and me when I was in my senior year of high school. I had him imported, literally, from a group called<a href="http://www.yfuusa.org/?gclid=CPGu6efO_bkCFTMOOgodcWMAvg" target="_blank"> Youth For Understanding</a>. I thought I might land some 1980's teen comedy of a boyfriend. X-nay on that one. He comes off the plane from Belgium to Corpus Christi, Texas with his arms all wide and on the open and says, "Sister!"<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lr9MCw-HNxQ/Uk7uvBHht_I/AAAAAAAAJmQ/qi85S2rzXGU/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+12.26.20+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lr9MCw-HNxQ/Uk7uvBHht_I/AAAAAAAAJmQ/qi85S2rzXGU/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+12.26.20+PM.png" height="320" width="197" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kurt First Week In U.S.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Can I tell you how not into him I was. I selfishly battled for cool points with my beyond cool new brother and my friends. The battle was futile. He spoke seven languages, sang and danced like the thin Elvis and was smart extreme. Consequently, he could date any girl I'd thought about dating since I was twelve, but I couldn't come out in 1991 small-town South Texas. <br />
<br />
Kurt was my nemesis. Though when life hit the skids, and I ended up in a suicide watch think tank in May 1992, he was the only one who came to visit me. Not my adopted parents. Just Kurt. And even though I was a jerk supreme to him, he showed and was counted. Well sorta. I mean, I was 18 and hated the world then. <br />
<br />
Kurt is the only family I've ever had aside from my friends, and I am grateful to have this Build Your Own Family. Sorta like <a href="http://www.buildabear.com/" target="_blank">Build a Bear</a> without the awkward stuffing.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/b5clIMJ-xJo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Seriously, this video exists. </div>
<br />
<br />
Wait. So what does any of this have to do with multiple award-winning author (Michael Printz Honoree hollar!) <a href="http://www.as-king.com/" target="_blank">A.S. King</a>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hxAcWatuYFk/Uk7xci0dsuI/AAAAAAAAJmc/OfRGhxpPXVU/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+12.48.10+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hxAcWatuYFk/Uk7xci0dsuI/AAAAAAAAJmc/OfRGhxpPXVU/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+12.48.10+PM.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yup, Cool Author Headshot Thingy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well, I met with A.S. (Amy if you're sassy) in Pennsylvania to interview her for the FAT ANGIE book tour documentary <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1193651771/at-risk-summer-a-documentary-about-writing-and-you?ref=live" target="_blank">At-Risk Summer</a>. She opens the door and welcomes me to the chaos that is a new home, new central air and a laptop that has ants crawling on it. They're actually stickers but very much on the life like.<br />
<br />
We immediately connect with some colorful language, her having a tripod because mine is on a UPS truck somewhere and the fact that she is, by far, one of the coolest gals I have ever met. Seriously, you gotta know this woman.<br />
<br />
But I digress. So ... we do the interview (yes, video clip coming) and laugh and have game face and laugh again and make references to everything and nothing. As I like to say, not too shabby. <br />
<br />
I decide after sharing the best burger I have EVER eaten in all of America and many countries in Europe (see photo of delicious below)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eYAPQwCcTBM/Uk71FfBk4LI/AAAAAAAAJmo/EQLrIKg7VOk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+1.03.34+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eYAPQwCcTBM/Uk71FfBk4LI/AAAAAAAAJmo/EQLrIKg7VOk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+1.03.34+PM.png" height="320" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.abcbrew.com/brewpubs/lititz/">http://www.abcbrew.com/brewpubs/lititz/</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
that she is my long lost sister. Even though she has other siblings, I welcome her into my tribe. Remember I haven't formally told her this, so we'll all need to keep it on the down low. Don't want her to think I'm gonna go all <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0105414/" target="_blank">Single White Female</a> and dye my hair blonde (not comb it) and wear black long sleeve Tees all the time. Although I did go through a black wardrobe phase but that was way early 1990's. <br />
<br />
But again, I digress. Without further ado, here are my ... <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Top 10 Reasons A.S. King Is My Long Lost Sister</b></div>
<br />
10. We both should've been cast members of TV series <i>Freaks And Geeks</i>.<br />
9. We dig Blondie and The Knack, and it will keep us in a restaurant long after closing time.<br />
8. We both have stellar ink on our forearms.<br />
7. We both played some hard core hoop (<i>nuthin' but rim, kid</i>)!<br />
6. Our dark sense of humor can be matched by few, as Pete the waiter at <a href="http://www.abcbrew.com/brewpubs/lititz/" target="_blank">ABC Brewery</a> can attest.<br />
5. I can say, "Sh*! just got real in the Ford Focus," and she'll totally get it.<br />
4. We write raw, edgy and truth filled YA lit.<br />
3. We both get why Lynda Carter is the <u>only</u> Wonder Woman and the power of the Lasso of Truth.<br />
2. We both started writing to tell a story without the intention of being published because we had to write. <br />
1. We both get why life is hard, find humor in its darkness and embrace the possibility of empowering youth through art.<br />
<br />
We reluctantly share the CPA Award (<b>C</b>oolest <b>P</b>erson <b>A</b>live) via <a href="https://twitter.com/AS_King/status/385562221050605568" target="_blank">Twitter</a>, and I'm guessing real CPA's are super pissed. #lolcpaanger<br />
<br />
Ultimately, with all the lessons on this tour, I'm elated that I met an author who is tenacious, tender, tough and troublemaker extraordinaire. She reminded me like <a href="https://twitter.com/misscecil" target="_blank">Cecil Castellucci</a> did that is is okay to be all the edges that is your weird and powerful self. Thanks for the memories, A.S. King. Here's to your book release of <a href="http://www.as-king.com/html/reality_buy.php" target="_blank">Reality Boy</a> this October. And to the fact that this should've been the cast photo for <i>Freaks And Geeks</i>!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UJvWJX2ICm0/Uk7-0rz93sI/AAAAAAAAJm4/QPGUAWL4mQQ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+1.44.56+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UJvWJX2ICm0/Uk7-0rz93sI/AAAAAAAAJm4/QPGUAWL4mQQ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-04+at+1.44.56+PM.png" height="182" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://youtu.be/wdUCGiF-yaA">http://youtu.be/wdUCGiF-yaA</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-40683557097620473892013-09-18T22:38:00.002-07:002013-10-21T12:03:00.612-07:00Fair View High (Rock The Word)<b>Stories From The Road</b><br />
September 18, 2013<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CTpO7KPa8tE/UjsWtQWy8jI/AAAAAAAAJj0/Zsr5g9wEnAQ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-19+at+11.16.06+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CTpO7KPa8tE/UjsWtQWy8jI/AAAAAAAAJj0/Zsr5g9wEnAQ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-19+at+11.16.06+AM.png" height="140" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Falcons Soar!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The world is different at Fair View High. The kids there are a community or working toward one. There, the so-called couldn't-cut-it/high school rejects congregate to elevate each others connection to education ... to life. The focus isn't on cliques or sports or social standing. At least not by any measure I witnessed during my time there. It's about a human experience. An honest experience. It's about being real. Not to mention they get to use language, well, let's say with fluidity from time to time. <br />
<br />
And this is what you need to know right off the rip. My life is now changed from meeting these students.<br />
Yes, my life. And that's a selfish statement, but I'm down with some selfish given that I also changed some lives at Fair View High School.<br />
<br />
I had two periods of something like 65-75 kids in total. English classes. Kids who don't always like to write. Kids who don't choose to engage much. Kids who have been counted out.<br />
<br />
I said to the students, "I've been counted out more than I've been counted in. I get it. I get how that happens. I'm traveling America meeting with kids like you because I don't think you should be counted out. You matter. You have something to say. And that's what we're gonna do today."<br />
<br />
And we did!<br />
<br />
Wait.<br />
<br />
Moment of digression.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--DY2VNc3OzI/UjqLkf1CxKI/AAAAAAAAJjE/12hg-qgIczg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-19+at+1.28.20+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--DY2VNc3OzI/UjqLkf1CxKI/AAAAAAAAJjE/12hg-qgIczg/s200/Screen+Shot+2013-09-19+at+1.28.20+AM.png" height="171" title="orange hoodie" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not Actual Hoodie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
There's a kid in an orange hoodie, we'll call him Mr. Mic because he volunteered to help run Sound for me. And trust me, I needed the help. I'm down to a $147 dollars in my bank account and a few hundred on my credit card. A film crew is a luxury I can't afford, but documenting the process is non-negotiable. These stories have to be seen as well as heard. Especially if I have any hopes of this becoming something bigger.<br />
<br />
So back to Mr. Mic. The guy's terrific. Seriously. He's funny and
engaged and makes me sound good (wink on the latter). He's also got a story like all the kids at Fair View do. The not so cozy story. Inked into his right forearm is cursive, tattooed lettering. He recounts during our "get to know
you" moment how an English teacher at a traditional school reacted
when she saw the ink. You know, the book and cover judge thing. But Mr. Mic is solid, you know. I'm sure he's made his mistakes. But he's trying. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f7GrYjOGBCU/UjqNAyjpKwI/AAAAAAAAJjQ/0Lyv8H1kKfc/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-19+at+1.34.00+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f7GrYjOGBCU/UjqNAyjpKwI/AAAAAAAAJjQ/0Lyv8H1kKfc/s200/Screen+Shot+2013-09-19+at+1.34.00+AM.png" height="96" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not Mr. Mic's Actual Arm</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As for the class, we do an exercise/activity/word fun thingy on the dry erase board. It begins with a series of words. Words generated by the students. <u>Any</u> words. The idea is to <u>excite</u> them into creating writing as a community of storytellers. Words like these in black:<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WKE4_06c8fQ/Ujo6AQdeQiI/AAAAAAAAJiw/cYXQcArdV_w/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-18+at+7.39.31+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WKE4_06c8fQ/Ujo6AQdeQiI/AAAAAAAAJiw/cYXQcArdV_w/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-18+at+7.39.31+PM.png" height="320" width="104" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Screen Grab From Actual Clas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Then I take those words and "spit" them back with a narrative I spin on the spot.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/FeMLx5L-g6A?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>SELECT <u>1080P</u> from Quality Icon For Best Quality</b></div>
<br />
<br />
Without going to far into the logistics of what we do next, the educational components and so on, just know that by the end, we all rock the word!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2Eo14RFHZ9o/UjqNsKjHJ8I/AAAAAAAAJjY/v9_YJjCeasc/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-19+at+1.37.32+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2Eo14RFHZ9o/UjqNsKjHJ8I/AAAAAAAAJjY/v9_YJjCeasc/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-09-19+at+1.37.32+AM.png" height="176" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">credit to Shirley Maya</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The other thing I need you to get about these teens at Fair View High School is their vocabulary roars at college level. Their curiosity for knowledge is raw and rich and deep. They've got heart when life has most likely tried to stomp, kick and punch it the hell outta them.<br />
<br />
They are survivors learning how to live. <br />
<br />
They are the reason there is <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fat-Angie-E-Charlton-Trujillo/dp/0763661198" target="_blank">FAT ANGIE</a>. They are the reason for <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Feels-Like-Home-E-Charlton-Trujillo/dp/0440239494/ref=lh_ni_t?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=ANHFDOMMXXZUV" target="_blank">FEELS LIKE HOME</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Prizefighter-en-Casa-e-E-Charlton-Trujillo/dp/0440421179/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=1-2&qid=1379602667" target="_blank">PRIZEFIGHTER EN MI CASA</a>. They are the reason this tour continues.<br />
<br />
By the end of the first class, I throw up a prompt on the dry erase. I then tell them, "Writing is freedom. You can do anything -- be anything -- say anything on the page. You are not restricted to someone's idea of what you are/should/must be. You are free."<br />
<br />
Unlike traditional high school's, all of these kids take out paper and a pen or pencil.<br />
All of these kids try.<br />
So do I.<br />
<br />
A guy in the back of the room, we'll call him Mr. Quiet, catches my eye. He shapes into his over sized baggy white tee in the shoulders and finishes with starched khaki pants. The sparkle of his diamond ear rings catch a glint off the florescent lights. He's a Mexican American I knew growing up. Seen too much and not heard he was special enough. <br />
<br />
"Mr. Quiet," I say to him. "I think you have something to say today."<br />
<br />
It takes him a beat to realize he's Mr. Quiet.<br />
<br />
His eyes drop. His head shakes. I don't push it.<br />
<br />
"It's all good, no worries."<br />
<br />
I move toward another part of the classroom when I see a hand go up out of my peripheral. It's Mr. Quiet.<br />
<br />
"Yes?" I say.<br />
<br />
"I'll go. I'll read."<br />
<br />
His voice is soft not scary. There's a heart inside that baggy white tee. It's bigger than I can describe and that's kinda my job. Guess you have to see him on video to know.<br />
<br />
Mr. Mic and I make our way to the absolute back of the classroom. I set the camera in place and Mr. Mic kneels. Mr. Quiet works hard to read aloud. This is not his comfort zone, but he does it.<br />
<br />
When he's done, I grin and ask if I can shake his hand. He takes a moment to test the temperature on my offer and realizes I'm serious. I respect Mr. Quiet more than you know. The guy took a risk. He talked hard and let his voice be heard. And his classmates applauded and it was a fantastic day to be alive!<br />
<br />
Through out my time there, I engaged with a variety of races, gender (and gender identified), ages and backgrounds. They all have their own story that exceeds the time for this post. However, their personal stories and creative ones are distinct, necessary, moving and ever emerging.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qx7IjhwAObE/UjqP7cSfYsI/AAAAAAAAJjk/gtKEJFAtkwo/s1600/photo(48).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qx7IjhwAObE/UjqP7cSfYsI/AAAAAAAAJjk/gtKEJFAtkwo/s200/photo(48).JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
The world is a hard place for these kids. All of them. The transgendered kids or pregnant teens or social inept or incarcerated -- the misfits and rejects as it has been written. But I would tell you that these are the kids we should <i>never </i>count out. To believe in them, gives us an outside the box perspective of what the face of change can be. While they've got a lot stacked against them, they've got so much going for them.<br />
<br />
They are, after all, survivors learning to live. <br />
<br />
Thanks for the creativity, laughter and truth, Fair View High School. Your teachers love what you are and want to see you be your own version of your very best. Because you ABSOLUTELY matter!<br />
<br />
Stand up and be counted!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="https://ytimg.googleusercontent.com/vi/qZTv_VPQS4s/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="https://www.youtube.com/v/qZTv_VPQS4s?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/v/qZTv_VPQS4s?version=3&f=user_uploads&c=google-webdrive-0&app=youtube_gdata" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
YouTube Link of e.E. : <a href="http://youtu.be/qZTv_VPQS4s">http://youtu.be/qZTv_VPQS4s</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Should The Above Video Not Play</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-62123285141137320742013-09-16T11:04:00.000-07:002013-10-10T10:27:32.216-07:00inside the flight (or why i killed myself)<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><i><b>Stories From The Road</b></i><br />September 16, 2013<br /><b>** </b><a href="http://pinataproduction.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/Memo3.mp3" target="_blank">Click Here For Song/Poem Read By Author </a><b>**</b><br /><br />You wanna know what I am?<br />I'm the kid that flies through the air like Superman<br />Only I land<br />And it hurts<br /><br />Quick! </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Spin back. <br /><br />The shit in my head gets worse<br />Every day I went to school and didn't fit<br />And everyday my phone blew up with shit<br />All the things They told me to do<br />"Kill yourself -- die girl -- Yeah, that's you."<br /><br />And my mom did what she could<br />She told the principal too<br />And when nothin' changed like things don't<br />She pulled me outta that school <br />And said, "We're through."<br /><br />She took my phone and dumped that number </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">Gave me a new one <br />(She had the best of intentions you gotta remember)<br />She didn't want those girls in my face anymore<br />And I get it<br />I do, Mom.<br />You're doing your best, but this shit is raw.<br />It gets loud in my head<br />And dark in my heart<br />And sometimes I cut myself just to feel a spark.<br />And the doctors in the hospital tell me I'm smart</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">And they check me out, and I seem good</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">And maybe I thought I was too<br />But I go back to my <i>new</i> school<br />And download Apps on my <i>new</i> phone 'cause I wanna fit and belong.<br /><br />Just when I think it's all cool<br />The mean girls do what mean girls do.<br />And the problems elevate<br />And I don't know what to say<br />Because I know you been through a lot, Mom.<br />You changed me out of school and paid to get me hospitalized so I'd be fine<br />And you're right, life gets better<br />For everyone else but me and I'm sadder.<br />And I don't go to my teachers or my friends or the school counselor<br />Most of them are whack or just don't care</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;">And the noise rips apart my grey parts<br />The Apps on my phone keep blowing up<br />And the last year has been so damn hard<br />I retreat in myself and decide to call it all off!<br /><br />Just know as I climb this tower<br />I love you and you did your best, but I cower.<br />It's all so much and it didn't get better<br />Like they say in them ads to just wait and be patient<br />But that ain't effective and it makes me <br />c r a z y!<br /><br />So here I am like Superman<br />Crying <br />and calm<br />I wish it didn't have to happen<br />And I'm sorry I disappointed you, and I know this is gonna hurt <br />Please forgive me<br />But I don't matter.<br /><br />And soaring through the air<br />For a moment it's quiet, and I think I feel better ...<br />Wait!</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Garamond;"><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">I made a m</span><span style="font-size: small;">istake<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />** Thinking of you, <a href="http://nation.time.com/2013/09/12/bullied-12-year-old-florida-girl-commits-suicide/" target="_blank">Rebecca Ann Sedwick</a></span></span></span></span></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-82603923819670079072013-09-11T15:07:00.002-07:002013-09-12T15:35:41.081-07:00Sad Days, Long Nights & Graduation Day<b><i>Stories From The Road</i></b><br />
September 11, 2013<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/4K35PUYZJSw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
Things go wrong. The best friends you've ever had die. One tragically at 23. Driving, windshield, snap. The other? Quick, Cancer, cremation. <br />
<br />
People say what people say because silence is an uncomfortable filler. "They're in a better place ... God has His plan. They didn't suffer, I'm sure."<br />
<br />
These comments garner a nod and a half-hearted smile followed by an impulse to<br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
S C R E A M</h3>
<br />
I haven't yet.<br />
<br />
September 11, 2001. Both friends were still alive. The latter I hadn't even met yet. The first, Amanda, was an undergraduate class leader, brilliant academic and aside from me, the <u>whitest</u> looking Mexican at Ohio University. On the day in history not soon to become background noise, I was on the phone with my then girlfriend (let's call her <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000639/" target="_blank">Ally Sheedy</a>). Back then, a land line actually got used more than my <a href="http://0.tqn.com/d/cellphones/1/0/j/8/samsung_sch-3500.jpg" target="_blank">Sprint Samsung</a> flip phone with long black antennae.<br />
<br />
My girlfriend couldn't find her lipstick or rouge or something of significant make-up necessity. I flipped on the T.V. and there it was.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gdwRMNKH4oo/UjDtqaztI8I/AAAAAAAAJfg/ockdy7XxIKE/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-11+at+6.24.09+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="245" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gdwRMNKH4oo/UjDtqaztI8I/AAAAAAAAJfg/ockdy7XxIKE/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-09-11+at+6.24.09+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
"Turn on the T.V.," I said. "Some kind of weird is happening ..."<br />
<br />
The first tower had been hit.<br />
<br />
I got quiet.<br />
<br />
She continued to look for her make-up while complaining about her remote control.<br />
<br />
And then she saw what I saw and we saw that this was not some make-believe whatever. It wasn't an action film. This was real. Very, very, unspeakably happening.<br />
<br />
I drew my legs up on the Big Lots $399 green couch in my apartment above Premiere Video. I turned up the volume to a deafening proportion and for a moment Ally Sheedy didn't exist on the other end of the line.<br />
<br />
Billowing smoke.<br />
<br />
Fire.<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
C H A O S</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
We sat together alone watching the America as we knew it end. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
I spent most of the day channel surfing. All of the classes had been canceled at O.U. Police were cruising the empty streets. Airplanes, trains -- the transit of the US locked down. There was no way I was going to get to my girlfriend in Texas from Ohio anytime soon. To be honest, I had never been much for flying. After watching nearly eight hours of the Towers, the Pentagon and then the forced crash, getting in the air was the last thing I felt brave enough to do, and it wasn't an option.<br />
<br />
I popped a Tombstone pizza in the oven. Cracked open a can of Pepsi and thumbed through a text book on experimental film. But I couldn't get the shattering windows -- the smell of ash and --<br />
<br />
The apartment filled with smoke. I knocked over the Pepsi in route to the kitchen. I dropped the scorched pie on the floor. The charred remains scattered into divisible parts.<br />
<br />
After declaring the expected obscenities for such mindlessness, I munched on a combo of candy corns and celery. This was a terrible idea.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
It wasn't quite midnight when my girlfriend called back. She was worried about me. I asked her why and she said, "Because you don't deal well with bad things."<br />
<br />
I told her I needed to use the bathroom.<br />
<br />
We hung up.<br />
<br />
I stared into the darkness of my ceiling and my throat constricted.<br />
<br />
Don't panic, I thought.<br />
<br />
I paced the wooden floors of the hallway.<br />
<br />
Don't panic, I muttered.<br />
<br />
I eased onto the couch. The television in full marathon report of the day's events.<br />
<br />
Don't --<br />
<br />
The phone rang. It was my brother. He lived in Belgium and was checking in.<br />
<br />
"Are you okay?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"I wasn't in New York, Kurt."<br />
<br />
"Are you okay?" he said again.<br />
<br />
"I don't think I know what to do," I said. "There's just so much sadness."<br />
<br />
"Yeah," he said.<br />
<br />
I imagined him exhaling from a Lucky Strike though I thought he'd given up smoking in the last year.<br />
<br />
"Turn off the T.V.," he said.<br />
<br />
"Why would someone do this?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"I duhno."<br />
<br />
I turned off the television, brushed my teeth and crawled into bed. In that moment, I was afraid to go to sleep. Afraid to be awake. Mostly, I felt such an emptiness for everyone who was in that building that didn't make it out. And everyone who was waiting for them to make it out. I had no idea what to do with that.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
The death threats started almost immediately. Muslim students on campus were the target. Though they had not participated in the actions on 9/11, they were being treated as such. Amanda and I spoke (best friend who died in May 2003). She was distressed by the tension, the threats and fear. She organized a vigil and coordinated with the university and other organizations to thread together acceptance and not isolation. During the event, she spoke with elegance, tenacity and grace. She was kindness times pi.<br />
<br />
Later I told her how I wouldn't have thought to do a vigil. She said, "We do what we can when we can. You can, you know? Do."<br />
<br />
I shrugged my shoulders or looked away or something that was dismissive. My focus was to rule the world of cinema and climb the Hollywood sign doing it. And while I felt a massive pang of sadness, I had to stay on track. No distractions. <br />
<br />
"I know you care," she said.<br />
<br />
"It was wrong, you know? I can't get passed the wrong."<br />
<br />
Amanda got pulled into a series of other conversations, and I faded into the background of hushed chatter and teary eyed students. I climbed the stairs of <a href="http://www.capecentralhigh.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Lindley-Hall-02-27-2013_3077.jpg" target="_blank">Lindley Hall</a> (my grad film program building), and sat in the Editing Bay.<br />
<br />
Aside from a few mouse clicks, the place was quiet. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
I moved to New York City the following year two weeks before the anniversary. Alley Sheedy and I broke up over the summer, so I worked 24/7 to make myself indispensable at Killer Films. On the anniversary of the 9/11, military in fatigues shouldering machine guns patrolled the subways and Penn Station where I boarded Amtrak for the first time. I was in route to Washington, DC. There had hardly been anyone on the subway. The train car was empty. For a moment, I wondered if this was one of those b&w <a href="http://img.gawkerassets.com/img/18dxpkuy6sz2ejpg/ku-medium.jpg" target="_blank">Twilight Zone</a> episodes where I'm the only one left in the world.<br />
<br />
The conductor entered between cars, eyed my ticket and grinned.<br />
<br />
"Good day?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"I guess."<br />
<br />
Then he was gone.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-83tGcw89NPg/UjED7NHImxI/AAAAAAAAJf4/zo9_XiLc4HU/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-11+at+7.59.05+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-83tGcw89NPg/UjED7NHImxI/AAAAAAAAJf4/zo9_XiLc4HU/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-09-11+at+7.59.05+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
In 2003, Amanda was struck by a teenager who blazed through a stop sign. Her car swerved into another lane and she just ... flew.<br />
<br />
I'd later meet future best friend #2 in 2005, and she died of breast Cancer in 2011.<br />
<br />
And while the details of these events weigh heavy on the morbid, I'm no longer in that place of selfishness. I guess in the sad days and long nights after 9/11 and the loses in my life, I'm on the other side most days and grateful.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UKlkOoLbVS0/UjEDfQYmm3I/AAAAAAAAJfw/3MdSe9ScNfE/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-11+at+7.57.22+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UKlkOoLbVS0/UjEDfQYmm3I/AAAAAAAAJfw/3MdSe9ScNfE/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-09-11+at+7.57.22+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-83687484437227122042013-09-11T15:06:00.003-07:002014-04-12T15:02:41.920-07:00Gender Skewed & Drug Dealer Blues<b><i>Stories From The Road</i></b><br />
September 9, 2013<br />
<br />
<br />
Shuttle, bus, train.<br />
Bus, car,<br />
pillow.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5_ae9n2DKZU/UjfkaayUzcI/AAAAAAAAJhg/Bnf3BMDYPP8/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-17+at+1.08.01+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5_ae9n2DKZU/UjfkaayUzcI/AAAAAAAAJhg/Bnf3BMDYPP8/s200/Screen+Shot+2013-09-17+at+1.08.01+AM.png" height="144" width="200" /></a></div>
<h3>
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
Now The Story ...</h3>
<div style="text-align: left;">
We met in line to board the Amtrak bus in Los Angeles. He was wiry, buzz cut and could have been mistaken for a seventeen-year-old sweetheart if there wasn't something more distinct in his smirk. We're gonna call him Miguel because that is the name he gave me later for a fake ID his friend lifted. Miguel is Caucasian, smokes Marlboro Red and totes a soft dusty black gym-size duffel.</div>
<br />
"You look like somebody, man," he says, smoke unfurling from his lips. "I keep thinking it."<br />
<br />
The Hispanic guy between us thinks Miguel is talking to him but he quickly corrects, "Nah, nah. Not you, man. This guy."<br />
<br />
This guy is me by the way.<br />
<br />
This is not new occurrence. It's just the usual in a series of unfortunate gender bending events such as women who re-enter the bathroom to tell me I'm in the wrong one. There is the long standing, "Sir, Mr., Dude, Man" gender identifiers that follow me all black and cloud like. Raining on my androgynous female parade. <br />
<br />
So, what Miguel has done is not surprising to me though it is to those close to me in my life.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>"I don't know how people can't see you're a girl," says my friend Watson.</i></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i>I follow with a grin or a smirk or something that should resemble a smile and say, "My Dear Watson, I look like a man."</i><br />
<br />
<i>"Um, that would be no bueno on the man look, Trujillo."</i><br />
<br />
"Seriously, bro," and Miguel's voice snaps me out of my head and back to the Amtrak bus line. "You look like someone famous."<br />
<br />
The famous intrigues me, so I bite.<br />
<br />
"Yeah?" I say.<br />
<br />
"Oh, yeah, man," Miguel says. "You look like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andy_Milonakis" target="_blank">Andy Milonakis</a>."<br />
<br />
Okay, so someone just cued the crickets because I've got nothing for this comparison.<br />
<br />
"You don't know Milonakis? He cracks me and my homies UP!"<br />
<br />
The word "homies" sounds all kinds of wrong coming from Miguel.<br />
<br />
"Milonakis is the funniest guy ever," Miguel says. <br />
<br />
So, I not only look like a man but look like the funniest man ever? Hmm.<br />
<br />
"Seriously, bro," says Miguel, keeping his black duffel away from the underneath bus storage. "Look him up. You're him. His videos are funny as sh*t."<br />
<br />
Meet My Famous Twin (According to Miguel):<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NEMKhMfUZ9w/UjfopSj8hCI/AAAAAAAAJhw/MvcAdlOfS48/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-17+at+1.27.40+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NEMKhMfUZ9w/UjfopSj8hCI/AAAAAAAAJhw/MvcAdlOfS48/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-09-17+at+1.27.40+AM.png" height="320" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andy Milonakis</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7wMxs4kY_ow/UjfpdK9wBiI/AAAAAAAAJh0/uWKGQDswm54/s1600/photo(95).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7wMxs4kY_ow/UjfpdK9wBiI/AAAAAAAAJh0/uWKGQDswm54/s320/photo(95).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">e.E. Charlton-Trujillo, Amoeba Music</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MdXmgzw8_fI/UjfpwQ89t3I/AAAAAAAAJh8/SWUWrhq9qQ8/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-17+at+1.24.14+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MdXmgzw8_fI/UjfpwQ89t3I/AAAAAAAAJh8/SWUWrhq9qQ8/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-09-17+at+1.24.14+AM.png" height="160" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Andy with his glasses.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'm texting Josh Flowers to share I've been mistaken for someone famous. He quickly replies with a comeback that assures me I look like no one of notoriety.<br />
<br />
Miguel and I board the bus. There are two tables mid-way for computers to jack in. This is a luxury on a bus, and I sit across from a guy wearing a red shirt with white letters that reads:<br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="background-color: white;">I Serve One King</span> </span></span></h3>
<br />
He's a nice enough guy, and doesn't seem too interested in anything I'm doing with the coordination of my book bag. Ear buds in, a business call and I'm ready to get back to life on the road.<br />
<br />
"Andy ... !" I look to my left. Miguel. "Hey, bro."<br />
<br />
Miguel has two twenty-something young women doting on him. They too have mistaken me for a guy. When one of them flirts with me, I flash to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOarssJWHhI" target="_blank">Boys Don't Cry</a> and squirm awkwardly in my seat.<br />
<br />
<u><b>Dilemma #8,298.56</b></u>: Reveal I'm a woman, and end the whole Tom on the Foolery right then and there and hope not to get bashed or ... play along and be done with all this at the next stop.<br />
<br />
I option for Plan B.<br />
<br />
Always option for Plan A.<br />
<br />
After a few exchanges about music, I drift off to Miguel bragging about getting baked on a series of shrooms and pot at an amusement park somewhere near LA. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
I ask the attendant in Bakersfield, CA if the train to my right is the correct one.<br />
<br />
"Only one a day," he says.<br />
<br />
I apologize.<br />
<br />
"Wouldn't expect you to know that," his grin feels less warm the more I look at it.<br />
<br />
I hop on and drag my carry-on up the narrow stairway to the top car. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Minus Miguel + Flirting Twenty-Something = #smile</div>
<br />
The storage rack is full, so my luggage becomes my new imaginary body pillow in the seat beside me.<br />
<br />
Trust that this is a stretch of the imagination.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
As we pull away from the train station, the deafening sound of a child screetching bears down on my ear drums.<br />
<br />
This child has something to say ... to every single person on Earth.<br />
<br />
It just so happens I am in close proximity, and consequently could be deafened more quickly than some. A Hispanic older couple in front of me stretch their necks around, making eye contact with the mother. Let me tell you something. <br />
<br />
This. Does not. Faze her.<br />
<br />
She throws them a glance and continues to text on her phone while adjusting her bra.<br />
<br />
I know better than to do what the couple had just done. Getting up and finding another car seems viable as I attempt a conversation with someone on my cell. I ease up out of my seat when I hear, "Milonakis!"<br />
<br />
Miguel.<br />
<br />
"You pull up those videos yet?"<br />
<br />
"Uh, no," I reply. "My signal (yes, I was lying) is crap out here."<br />
<br />
"You should seriously watch one, Andy. They're hilarious. You going this way?"<br />
<br />
To exit seems futile. <br />
<br />
"Nah," I say. "I dropped my pen. That's all."<br />
<br />
Miguel grins and walks off, "Milonakis! Yeah ... !"<br />
<br />
For a few hours, my friends and girlfriend endure the on again off again sounds of the three-year-old girl. Might I add that she seemed pretty bored with nothing to even play with. I'd cry and scream too.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*** </div>
<br />
We arrive at our next stop to do our final change over by bus. I watch a woman in weightlifter pants that 1995 would envy wrestle with a series of bags and luggage while trying to smoke a cigarette. Her life seems much harder than mine. She looks worn out. In so many ways.<br />
<br />
I toss my carry-on beneath the bus and launch up the steps. The nauseating smell of perfume and cologne spikes a growing migraine. I have an aversion to such smells and make my t-shirt into a mock mask. An Asian couple stares at me which is on par for the course of making one's t-shirt into a mask.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
No sooner do I think we are moments from lurching forward do I hear, "ANDY!"<br />
<br />
Miguel.<br />
<br />
He slaps my shoulder in that "we're buddies" way, and I half-halfheartedly grin.<br />
<br />
"You watch one of those videos yet?" he asks.<br />
<br />
"Not yet," I say through my t-shirt mask.<br />
<br />
"Dude, you're being funny, man. The shirt."<br />
<br />
I'm really not trying to be funny but apparently I'm channeling Miguel's comic idol.<br />
<br />
"Dude, you should come sit back here," he says motioning to the back of the bus.<br />
<br />
"I'm good, thanks."<br />
<br />
The bus pulls away from the station. Chico, CA now seems to be in sight. A stop in Sacramento (known as The SAC), and we empty out a few seats. That's when Miguel comes up and gives me a "bro" slug in the arm.<br />
<br />
"Milonakis," he says."Dude, you should come sit back here man. Seriously."<br />
<br />
"I'm good, man," I say.<br />
<br />
The Asian couple has moved to the handicap seating in front of me. They look over their shoulders as Miguel rattles on with no sense of curbing his volume.<br />
<br />
"No worries, I'll come sit up here," he says.<br />
<br />
Miguel returns with his duffel and plops in the seat beside me. There's no escaping it. We're gonna have to interact which would be fine had I not pretended to be all "dude" the entire trip.<br />
<br />
What begins with a series of strained bromance conversation topics evolves quickly into Miguel sharing details that add up on the strange. How he had left Chico, CA the day before and was zipping back in less that twenty-four on the hours. He talks about expensive cars, getting blacked out and tormenting his friends who waste out by drawing penis and other unrefined images on their face. He recounts stories a little too seasoned for the average traveler.<br />
<br />
Miguel is a drug dealer.<br />
I am the new best friend, at least for the ride, of Miguel The Drug Dealer.<br />
This does not make for an easy ride.<br />
<br />
His cell phone begins to blow up with text messages and phone calls. All the while he grins that absolute mischievous grin. His eyes catch glints of the sunset as he tries to steady the flow of his rambling thoughts. Everything he shares is about humiliation, revenge or a cocktail of JD + Drugs. He raves about his destruction of people's things and says, "faggot and b*^ch" frequently. Miguel is playfully dangerous. <br />
<br />
He asks me direct questions: Who are you staying with? What's his name? All in the suggestion of maybe knowing him.<br />
<br />
After revealing a wad of cash loaded in hundred dollar bills, I decide to man it up.<br />
<br />
Man It Up is defined as: A moment by which e.E. dials up the masculine factor for self-preservation.<br />
<br />
And then I wimp it down a notch and text the person I'm dating.<br />
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
Call Now. Can't Explain. Call. Please</h4>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
</h4>
While waiting for the call, Miguel offers to share some of his "good times" that I suspect are in his bag. I pass with what has become a cross between Dumb and Dumber in the joke factor.<br />
<br />
"Dude, pull up Andy on your phone," he says.<br />
<br />
I oblige knowing I'm now only 45 miles from Chico, CA.<br />
<br />
The video is not high brow and that's being generous.<br />
<br />
"Turn it up, man," he says.<br />
<br />
"I think maybe that's not such a good idea, yo," I say and yes, I said "yo."<br />
<br />
He looks at me confused.<br />
<br />
"Like those people," I say referring to the Asian couple. "They're gonna get pissed."<br />
<br />
"Dude, they don't even speak English."<br />
<br />
The more I know about Miguel the more I wanna open up a can of feminist whoop-a*s. The truth is, I feel held hostage in a narrative I created.<br />
<br />
I'm Andy Milonkis' twin.<br />
I am a 23 year-old guy who lives in Los Angeles.<br />
I have a friend named Screwball with crazy eyes (thank you <a href="http://www.tomandlorenzo.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Orange+Is+The+New+Black+1.jpg" target="_blank">Orange Is The New Black</a>).<br />
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<br />
<br />
These are the things he knows about me.<br />
<br />
I am not a woman.<br />
I am not bi-sexual.<br />
I am not anyone real to him.<br />
<br />
The Asian couple look over their shoulder. I interpret it as uncomfortable, and suspect they think I'm as narrow as Miguel.<br />
<br />
I don't like that feeling.<br />
<br />
My language has all but gone monosyllabic. Fearing for the most part that Miguel might catch on that I'm in fact, not a guy and will go all "gay bash" on me. Remember, I don't really know what is in that black duffel, and it's become clear that he is at the very least running drugs.<br />
<br />
"I like you, Andy," he says.<br />
<br />
And under any other circumstance I might have liked Miguel liking me. Even if he thought I was a guy. But given the wealth of potential bad in all that should be good, I keep up the act. Especially given it has now gotten dark, the bus driver is not what I would call "in sync" and the only thing I've got going for me is a flat chest, a background in acting and an ability to spin a narrative on demand.<br />
<br />
My cell rings. It's the woman I'm dating. She assesses the situation in three questions over a period of 30 seconds. I text her between pauses to say:<br />
<br />
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Being on the phone with her slows down the energy of Miguel. It also doesn't make me feel like the epic loser that I had begun to feel like. You know, not confessing to the whole "I'm Just A Girl" and playing into the gender skew. I text my friend Watson who plans to pick me up. She's going to bring her husband Tom. This seems like some of the smartest thinking of the day.<br />
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<br />
When we arrive in Chico, CA, Miguel presses me for what part of town I'm staying in. I play it dumb which isn't difficult to believe since I've gone along with this whole charade.<br />
<br />
I say, "My friend's such an ass, yo."<br />
<br />
"How so, Andy?"<br />
<br />
Yes, I am now Andy.<br />
<br />
"He's sending his parents to pick me up. Sucks, man."<br />
<br />
"Yeah."<br />
<br />
Then like a tour guide Miguel points out places he's been fired from, places he's eaten "tasty melted grilled" something and the bars I'd really like.<br />
<br />
"The girls there are smokin', yo. Me and my homies are always pickin' up skanks there."<br />
<br />
Yes, he said homies again.<br />
Yes, he said skanks in reference to easy women.<br />
Yes, he is an ass.<br />
<br />
We pull up to the stop in Chico outside a boxcar diner. Miguel stands with cigarette lingering from between his lips. He holds out his hand, "Andy."<br />
<br />
I play along with this final action and do some form of semi-cool handshake.<br />
<br />
"Miguel," I say.<br />
<br />
He grins.<br />
<br />
"You're funny, Andy. Shit, man. See ya," Miguel steps off the bus and vanishes behind a stream of cars and college kids. I saddle my backpack and small sound bag. I'm off the bus for a mere second when Tom and Watson almost magically appear. Tom herds me away from the bus and the baggage being off loaded.<br />
<br />
"I gotta get my carry-on," I say.<br />
<br />
Tom makes the whole move like the President being taken into isolation. Maybe I shouldn't have been as colorful about my threatening bus passenger. Once Watson and I are at the car, Tom slips a can of mace in my hand and returns for my baggage.<br />
<br />
"You okay?" asks Watson.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I'm just ... it sucks being a guy," I say.<br />
<br />
"You mean when you're not?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I say.<br />
<br />
As we pull away from the bus, I'm in high spill-it mode and recount details that don't even make their way into this blog. Like the woman who tried to pick me up on the first bus ride. Or the conversation the guy in the<br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #cc0000;">I Serve One King</span></h3>
<br />
has with his father about the religious zealot he follows. Or about the grandmother who spent most of the bus ride to Sacramento shaming the hell out of her eleven year-old grand kid. And the habitual snorer, the shifty-eyed guy with homemade tattoos or even the woman who sat alone and she was clearly somewhere else with someone else who I think she needed quite desperately.<br />
<br />
And of course, I relay the play-by-play action of Miguel + Me. Two guys in route to Chico, CA from Los Angeles, CA only one of us wasn't a guy.<br />
<br />
I recall the story to Watson's kids.<br />
I recall the story to my girlfriend via FaceTime.<br />
I recall the story to my friend Margaret.<br />
<br />
And that night in the safety of Watson's son's borrowed bedroom, I recall the details just to myself. Reviewing the events, I remember Miguel's eyes. How something was missing there. I sat on the edge of the bed, knowing this wiry, buzz cut young man had the distinct potential to kill someone for fun on a smashed and blazed high. To be honest, he might stone sober. <br />
<br />
Why had I pretended to be someone that I wasn't?<br />
Preservation?<br />
Was it worth it?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-23257955394693001442013-09-04T09:53:00.002-07:002021-11-29T11:04:01.583-08:00War Within: The Young Should Survive<br />
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<br />
The news, in general, can be hard to ingest. Taglines, headlines, blurbs -- touting the torment and discourse of this person, that person, said foreign nation.<br />
<br />
It's all so chaotic. <br />
<br />
Today. Today a friend asked me if I'd heard about a ruling on gay marriage in Cincinnati, Ohio. I clicked through a few of my go-to online sites. Quickly, I did the skim-skim to get the gist of the precedent. But I gotta be honest, it was the sidebar story that stopped me still.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.cnn.com/2013/09/02/us/connecticut-teen-suicide/index.html?hpt=hp_t5" target="_blank">15-year-old Connecticut Boy Who Committed Suicide Was Bullied</a></div>
<br />
My stomach soured.<br />
<br />
I hunched over the computer.<br />
<br />
I felt sick.<br />
<br />
This is the thing that happens to me when I see a headline like this.<br />
<br />
<b>Note:</b> Not the best reaction for group settings such as dinner parties, concerts or other social gatherings. Consequently, I strive to keep news of such distress in check whenever possible because I fixate. I want to understand, and I want others to empower me to understand. <br />
<br />
Here's the thing. Kids die all the time.<br />
<br />
Plain. Simple.<br />
<br />
Reality.<br />
<br />
Most of them aren't the side bar story on CNN online. It doesn't make their loss any less significant. Those kids are still someone's someone, you know?<br />
<br />
Now I'm thinking about Bart Palosz. A kid I never met on my tour but drove through his state on the way to somewhere else. He's not just another story. He was flesh and bone and laughter and frustration ... he was someone's someone. Here's a young man who didn't have to die. Didn't <i>need</i> to die. His life had value beyond his 15-year-old imagination.<br />
<br />
But he was too tall.<br />
<br />
Spoke with too much of an accent.<br />
<br />
He wasn't vanilla enough.<br />
<br />
And yeah, he got bullied. <br />
<br />
What's the answer? You can't tell a kid who is being bullied to fight back. You can tell 'em they're okay -- that they're gonna be okay. But life at fifteen -- sixteen -- just being a teen is immediate. In a post Columbine world, the axis is just different than when I grew up.<br />
<br />
When I grew up, the school bully eventually met karma, and generally the good gals/guys won. Under the radar movies like Christian Slater's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/video/screenplay/vi3734831385/" target="_blank">PUMP UP THE VOLUME</a> made me feel like I could be a person of change. You know the plot. Awkward new kid who can't speak to girls finds his voice all <a href="http://www.amazon.com/How-Talk-Dirty-Influence-People/dp/0671751085" target="_blank">Lenny Bruce</a> style on a pirate radio station of his on creation.<br />
<br />
<b>Note: </b>Creating your own pirate radio station was harder than it would have seemed I quickly realized.<br />
<br />
There's this moment in the film where a teen called Mr. Serious mails correspondence to Slater's pirate radio station. When Slater's character (Mark Hunter) reaches out to the Mr. Serious via phone call, he makes too light of the situation. Only to soon realize that Mr. Serious is very serious about taking his life. Mark appeals to Mr. Serious. Saying how everything about Mark is phony and an illusion. That he truly gets it. Unfortunately, Mr. Serious takes his life.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slater's Mark Hunter grieves loss of Mr. Serious</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Relevance to the movie reveal above? Mark's character is devastated by the loss. He goes back on the radio and reveals via monologue how hard and hurtful, how unbelievably challenging it is to be a teen in the 1990's. He humanizes the struggle and stress and would rather kids scream at the top of their lungs before taking their lives. I guess I wish ...<br />
<br />
I wish Bart could have screamed.<br />
<br />
I wish he could have reached out to his good friend Izzy.<br />
<br />
Or Izzy's mom.<br />
<br />
Or his parents.<br />
<br />
Or someone -- anyone -- and just said, "I can't do this alone anymore."<br />
<br />
But that didn't happen, and I don't get to rewrite the ending of Bart's story like one my novels.<br />
<br />
So here we are once again. What's the answer? Are we even asking the right questions?<br />
<br />
I honestly don't know.<br />
<br />
What I do know. <br />
<br />
I can't sit on the sidelines or the bench or in the penalty box. I can't continue to click through headline after headline and hope someone somewhere will make it better. The better is in the showing up. Now more than ever, I know I gotta be a part of a different kind of headline. The one where the young survive.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-71090378785983737952013-09-02T16:04:00.001-07:002021-11-29T11:06:41.895-08:00Labor Day MusingsToday I ponder notions of romance, anti-romance, family, the weather in Belgium and all things close to the chest. Today I think about ...<br />
<br />
Well, me. <br />
<br />
Here's the thing, readers. Contrary to my so-called pseudo popular life, I'm actually a private person. I know, I know. Unbelievable. Let's remove the "un" from that word, and you've come upon me. I'm the techno geek who surfs quirky blogs, listens to underground music and whenever possible, excites over a new advancement in video and computer technology. I savor sitting in a room and writing for twelve hour days and finishing a novel in four weeks. I read magazines backwards, listen to the music of city sirens, water droplets and wind captured in full symphony, and I don't have a problem wearing a shirt that says:<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
I'm a spiritual person. I don't deny it. It is something I came to as the result of quality therapy, the books <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/life-lessons-elisabeth-kubler-ross/1100630825?ean=9780684870755" target="_blank">Life Lessons: Two Experts on Death and Dying</a> and <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/new-earth-eckhart-tolle/1100311164?ean=9780452289963" target="_blank">A New Earth</a>, watching the films <a href="http://youtu.be/QsS3cXGs2GQ" target="_blank">Peaceful Warrior </a>and <a href="http://youtu.be/3QlZ5O8_bGk" target="_blank">What The Bleep Do We Know?</a> and realizing that growing up with monsters doesn't mean you have to become one. I act in kindness, hope to do as little harm in the world as possible and fly out of bed to do a happy dance every morning when I wake up.<br />
<br />
<b>Note:</b> My non-morning friends find the latter behavior somewhat difficult to bare.<br />
<br />
I've been truly in love twice in my life. It isn't important with whom, but rather that I know the feeling and have had it reciprocated. Something my best friend who was killed in a car accident in 2003 never knew, and it still brings me such sadness. It has been a long and far haul from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Perks-Being-Wallflower-Stephen-Chbosky/dp/1451696191" target="_blank">The Perks of Being A Wallflower</a> Charlie kinda internal life I had during part of my teen years. I have been fortunate to survive a near death <a href="http://pinataproduction.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/09/253173_10150195481742379_5816810_n.jpg" target="_blank">car accident</a>, near death infection (<a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/cellulitis/DS00450" target="_blank">Cellulitis</a>) and near death pneumonia. <br />
<br />
<b>Note:</b> I'm way beyond the over on the whole near death thing. Living rocks!<br />
<br />
I've been homeless. I've been lost. I've been down the wrong road and now thank whatever power (s) that be for intervening with a friendship of a lifetime with <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Linda-Sanders-Wells/e/B001JSE3NC/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1378161833&sr=1-1-spell" target="_blank">Linda. S. Sanders</a>. I've stood in front of my adopted father and didn't cower when he told me to quit writing. Even throwing me into a wall wasn't gonna stop me from scribbling.<br />
<br />
I've been counted out more than once. I've been told to stop dreaming because you're never gonna make <u>X</u> happen. I've been pushed to the limit and rebounded.<br />
<br />
I do believe in possibility. <br />
<br />
I've traveled across America (literally this summer) and lived in <a href="http://www.geneeskundeinbelgie.nl/images/leuven2.jpg" target="_blank">Belgium</a> and had the best brother in the world who stuck it out through the "...the best of the times (and) the worst of times."<br />
<br />
I'm not afraid to say this thing called life is tough as tough can be and also say it can be better.<br />
<br />
It can be different.<br />
<br />
Knowing all these things about me one might think that I'm not a private person at all, but I am. About a lot of things. Things that I feel aren't relevant or just need to stay among the safety and kindness of friends because the are my only family. My chosen one.<br />
<br />
I don't want to wait for life to start. I think I spent a number of years in a holding pattern. Kind of like the plane in Boston, MA that kept us up in the air for 50 minutes because of weather below. Whether it was the conditions of my life or simply thinking that I did not deserve to be in a life worth dancing in the morning for, I choose "other" and waited.<br />
<br />
This summer has been about not waiting though. It has been about risks and chances -- immeasurable opportunities. I've faced some of my greatest fears head on and stood in front of room after room of young people asking them to be brave with me. In doing so, I feel immensely humbled and accomplished and alive. I've met with writers and filmmakers. I've sat with artist from all walks of life and taken those moments as opportunities to glean from their artistic and life experience. Of course, to laugh and celebrate a world of creativity with them as well.<br />
<br />
I am grateful for the people who continue to show up in my regular life (and I'm gonna name a few of them because that's what you do when you are humbled): <br /><br />
<a href="http://www.artbymags.com/2nd-page/paintings/" target="_blank">Margaret Coble</a> (artist/small business owner/writer)<br />
<a href="http://www.cainministry.org/givehelp.html" target="_blank">Karl Miller</a> (C.A.I.N board member/a father I'd been lucky to have had)<br />
<a href="http://www.cgwatson.com/" target="_blank">C.G. Watson</a> (writer/educator/)<br />
Shirley Klock (writer/official humanitarian)<br />
<a href="http://sallyderby.com/" target="_blank">Sally Derby</a> (writer/a mom I'd been lucky to have had)<br />
<a href="http://www.egmontusa.com/" target="_blank">Andrea Cascadi</a> (previous literary agent)<br />
and for a guy named Larry<br />
<br />
See, being on the road, it is one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. I'm about to do it again for nearly two months. I'm doing it because I believe that I can continue to make a difference. That I can change the world I live in and empower young people to begin to stand up and be heard. I don't have to want life to start anymore. It has started. Here and now. <br />
<br />
I ready to see what's next in life. To dream big, live full and not wait for life to start anymore.<br />
<br />
So here I go. Taking chances. With myself, with the teens I will continue to meet across America and the art I create!<br />
<br />
Not too shabby, huh?<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VtkLB9K11z0/UiUOdxMJrcI/AAAAAAAAJdY/gAcVCe17BbY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-09-02+at+6.16.24+PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VtkLB9K11z0/UiUOdxMJrcI/AAAAAAAAJdY/gAcVCe17BbY/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-09-02+at+6.16.24+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-14389343338865770392013-08-30T08:05:00.000-07:002013-09-28T12:13:20.868-07:00At-Risk Summer Tour Resumes!So August was a bit bumpy. Sickness. Work. Life stuff life. Now I'm ready to rock the road again and empower young people to harness their voice through word and/or image.<br />
<br />
Remember this is <u>self-funded</u> adventure along with limited Kickstarter support (I'm down to the self part and it's a little bleak). I'll be looking for places to stay in each city. Also, if you have suggestions for at-risk youth in a tour stop or nearby, kick me a message at: <a href="mailto:atrisksummer@gmail.com">atrisksummer@gmail.com</a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_528509433"><br /></a>
<b>Wanna Support This Creative Revolution</b>? Visit: <a href="http://about.me/atrisksummer">http://about.me/atrisksummer</a><br />
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<b>Tour Schedule:</b><br />
<br />
9/4 : LOS ANGELES, CA <br />
9/9 : SAN FRANCISCO, CA<br />
9/12 : CHICO, CA<br />
9/19 : NEW ORLEANS, LA<br />
9/23 : LA<br />
9/28 : PHILADELPHIA, PA<br />
<br />
10/1 : NORTH CAROLINA<br />
10/4 : PA<br />
10/5 : NJ<br />
10/8 : CHICAGO, IL<br />
10/10: MADISON, WI<br />
10/13 : TBA<br />
10/17 : DETROIT, MI<br />
10/23 : TEXAS Stops<br />
10/26 : Texas Book Festival (Austin)<br />
10/28 : <i>That's A Wrap</i><br />
<br />
<b>WHAT IS AT-RISK SUMMER & FAT ANGIE?</b><br />
Publishers Weekly Article: <a href="http://bit.ly/14aLGsS">http://bit.ly/14aLGsS</a><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-23587104836988842662013-08-29T16:12:00.000-07:002013-08-30T07:18:14.223-07:00in this momentthe (w)orld<br />
<br />
is so much with me that i wanna<br />
s c r e a m<br />
<br />
sometimes<br />
i do.<br />
<br />
the atrocities and reciprocities<br />
the f*+king media whirlpool spins it all<br />
sideways<br />
<br />
and my mind <span class="in"> </span><br />
<br />
e x p l o d e s .<br />
<br />
i just hold onto what i know and what i say to kids today<br />
"you're fine. you're okay."<br />
but they know that i know that<br />
they are at war.<br />
<br />
every single time they go to school<br />
they might get shot.<br />
they might get killed.<br />
they might not go home and play XBox or basketball<br />
because someone they know/don't know has a different idea.<br />
<br />
i demand they still believe.<br />
<br />
believe you me <br />
that they can make the world better.<br />
that they are why the world is better.<br />
that settling for a life that is half will never be full<br />
and full is being able to take risks<br />
dream big<br />
and not wear their heart behind bullet proof glass<br />
<br />
but i know i ask a lot.<br />
<br />
here is where i begin<br />
again<br />
"you are fine. you are okay."<br />
and i mean it to infinity and beyond<br />
and i know<br />
i know i can't make it better<br />
the bullying<br />
the bulls*it name calling<br />
the mom that can't hear or the father that<br />
can't see.<br />
i can't remove them<br />
from the sometime/all-the-time wasteland<br />
that they feel<br />
<br />
i . want . to . make ... life different<br />
<br />
so i walk in that room<br />
with Group Home kids<br />
teen moms<br />
LGBTQ youth<br />
or suburban middle class rejects<br />
and i don't pull out cue cards<br />
or preach some wickety-wack sermon<br />
(i leave that to the "experts")<br />
i am<br />
this : here.<br />
right now.<br />
here.<br />
<br />
and i say, "i believe in you. let's make it better now.<br />
in this moment. your words. your v o i c E!"<br />
<br />
we find our way.<br />
<br />
<i>"and in that moment, i swear we (are) infinite"</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://pinataproduction.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/charlton_trujilo_reads.mp3" target="_blank">CLICK TO HEAR AUTHOR READ POEM</a></h3>
<br />
freewrite/poem thing by<br />
e.E. Charlton-Trujillo<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<br />
* final line: <a href="http://perks-of-being-a-wallflower.com/" target="_blank">The Perks Of Being A Wallflower</a> by Stephen Chbosky<br />
<h3>
</h3>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-38957132980543798592013-08-29T16:07:00.000-07:002013-10-09T11:34:02.014-07:00Hannah Rockstar, South Hadley, MA & The Care Center<b>Stories From The Road</b><br />
July , 2013 <br />
**TBP (To Be Posted)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pLQt5VoCa7U/UlWhcH4z8GI/AAAAAAAAJng/ziWKrLooBs4/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-09+at+2.32.50+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pLQt5VoCa7U/UlWhcH4z8GI/AAAAAAAAJng/ziWKrLooBs4/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-10-09+at+2.32.50+PM.png" height="320" width="309" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click Link for NPR Style Radio Story by Annabelle Ford<br />
<br />
<a href="https://soundcloud.com/annabelleford-1/fat-angie-book-tour">https://soundcloud.com/annabelleford-1/fat-angie-book-tour</a><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-68460596600279761552013-08-29T16:03:00.005-07:002013-09-03T18:15:42.546-07:00Liam<i><b>Stories From The Road</b></i><br />
July , 2013 <br />
<a href="http://www.newavenues.org/" target="_blank">New Avenues For Youth</a>: Portland, OR<br />
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<br />
I showed up to Portland, Oregon primarily to do a signing at <a href="http://www.powells.com/locations/powells-city-of-books/" target="_blank">Powell's Bookstore</a>. Colleague <a href="http://ellyswartz.com/" target="_blank">Elly Swartz</a> connected me with <a href="http://www.newavenues.org/" target="_blank">New Avenues For Youth</a> while I was recovering from <a href="http://www.webmd.com/a-to-z-guides/altitude-sickness-topic-overview" target="_blank">altitude sickness</a> in Chico, CA. When I arrived, a member of the staff was very apologetic. Many of the kids had gone out for a recreation day. Something the program works to insert into an educational and career path program.<br />
<br />
"No worries," I said. "One is just as great as a dozen or so."<br />
<br />
And I said that having no idea how powerful the one could be.<br />
<br />
Liam is the name he writes by, so that's what we'll call him in this blog. He's had more hardship and struggle in 22 years than any one person should. Homelessness, addiction, abandonment, suicide attempts and a host of the horrible dose of misfortune. When I was his age, I had a life seasoned in a few of these descriptors and was mean as they come. I was pissed off at the world. I had zero time for compassion for others. I mean, what had they done to make my life easier, right? Liam though, isn't me at 22 years-old. This guy is a light.<br />
<br />
Liam is one man living one life, and it is extraordinary one. During the time that we spent together, I'm not sure who was inspiring who. Here's why.<br />
<br />
I entered the facility a bit scattered from traffic, hunger and sleep deprivation. We had, of course, driven from Chico, CA to Portland, OR only hours before I was supposed to be at New Avenues For Youth. We had, of course, been pulled over by a female officer near Ashland, OR, given a warning and stopped at one of the single most frightening rest rooms in America.<br />
<br />
Let's just say it had been a long one as nights go.<br />
<br />
And now I'm supposed to be "on" and "present" and "here" only I'm everywhere else. But then, there's Liam. He's the guy who is patient, soft spoken and full of l i g h t!<br />
<br />
I know, I'm on the light kick in this post. Just hang in with me. <br />
<br />
So I settled down and we started talking. Before long, it was like we'd known each other for years. Both of us had a succinct passion for words and poetry. He tells me how he is is writing a biography of his life in poetic form and restricting himself to four words per line. As a poet, I can tell you those words have to be specific and active or the whole thing will be a mauled version of <i>Humpty Dumpty</i>. Naturally, I'm curious as to how he sculpts such a history within extreme poetic restrictions.<br />
<br />
He reaches into this tattered brown backpack and emerges with a Moleskin that has a:<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
HELLO MY NAME IS </h4>
sticker with <b>Liam</b> printed in orange marker on the front.<br />
<br />
He slides it on the table, and it sits between us before I confirm that I can thumb through it. I sit closer to him and remove the cloth wrap holding it closed. <br />
<br />
Liam's word choice is specific. Precise and percussive. The kind where your heart breaks into pieces smaller and smaller per line. I delve into darkness, moments of light, torment, love, searching and a maelstrom of other tangible feelings. He carries the reader into the raw and uncut world of his childhood, teen years and evolution (it isn't finished, of course) into manhood.<br />
<br />
I am at a loss for articulate words. I mouth mostly sounds and "how did you do this here?" and feeling the jolt to put pen to page I hadn't felt most of the book tour. His words and energy make me want to spark up the ink and rip across the blankness of my notebook.<br />
<br />
And I told him so.<br />
<br />
And this guy, he smiles. Gosh, was it a humble thing to see.<br />
<br />
And we talked more and more.<br />
<br />
We shared our stories of being homeless, thoughts on addiction and coming to the other side. We talked about the America I'd seen in high compression and the one he knew from underpass to bus stop.<br />
<br />
We connected.<br />
<br />
We listened.<br />
<br />
We were exactly one hundred and ninety-nine percent there. <br />
<br />
After awhile, I asked if there was anything else he wanted to chat about or do. He said, "You wanna write?"<br />
<br />
And I lit up like Christmas on the Fourth of July. Heck yeah, I wanna write. Absolute!<br />
<br />
So there we went. Tearing down the page like there are no speed limits. Occasionally, we'd look up at one another and grin. We were high on words and creativity and that is the ultimate juice!<br />
<br />
Someone from the program came in and wanted to give me a tour of the facilities. So Liam and I said our good-byes but not before he showed me a poem. It had been published in New Voices For Youth. I wanted that book and his signature more than I had wanted John Updike's in my twenties. Instead he signed one of my FAT ANGIE postcards. Before he left, he handed me his writing.<br />
<br />
"I think you'll like it," he said.<br />
<br />
His grin infectious.<br />
<br />
"Thank you so much," I said to him.<br />
<br />
What I would later find out was that Liam was having the worst kinda craptastic day. Somehow in all of the noise of being on the streets and living with so little, he managed to make space for me. He wrote with me. He made me feel seen. He showed up.<br />
<br />
I don't know who gave who more inspiration that day. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe what matters is that two people with stories of hardship came together and connected, created stories and showed up.<br />
<br />
I thought about Liam a lot on the road to Cincinnati, Ohio and was elated to get a text from New Avenues for Youth. They'd shipped a copy of the book Liam's poem was in, and it was autographed by him. <br />
<br />Thanks, Liam. You changed my life.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-7107151858041858122013-08-29T16:03:00.002-07:002013-08-29T16:03:31.994-07:00What Happens In Route To Orgeon Gets A Blog<b>Stories From The Road</b><br />
July , 2013 <br />
**TBP Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-53326264283172181872013-08-29T15:59:00.002-07:002013-08-29T15:59:38.821-07:00Speed Limits, Buzzards & Reviews<b>Stories From The Road</b><br />
July , 2013 <br />
**TBP <br />
<br />
The WiFi was a bust at the Econo Lodge. I'd slept all of four hours. Woke up with a headache and my stomach was doing ten rounds with the spirit of Muhammad Ali. I kicked into my sneakers <br />
<br />
Someone gave me a Starbucks gift card even though I don't drink coffee. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-37324944338138841312013-08-29T10:24:00.000-07:002013-08-29T10:41:04.995-07:00Arizona Nostalgia<i><b>Stories From The Road</b></i><br />
July 9, 2013<br />
<br />
I came to Arizona in the mid-90's while attending undergrad at <a href="http://www.tamucc.edu/news/2013/07/072913%20At%20Risk%20Summer.html#.Uh60DLyE5LM" target="_blank">Texas A&M University-Corpus Christi</a>.<br />
<br />
First, let's talk obligatory exposition. <br />
<br />
I managed to bomb out of a number of other colleges (we'll discuss that in another post), and I finally found a mentor, <a href="http://www.tamucc.edu/profiles/apr09/profile_luna.html" target="_blank">J. Don Luna</a>, and a calling at A&M-CC. My calling was performance and writing. Don made me into an actress who reacted as opposed to acted. He taught me to be real on stage and in many ways life. Because of Don and the amaze-tastic Professor <a href="http://www.lonestar.edu/louis-katz-clayer.htm" target="_blank">Louis Katz</a>, I landed a role in a performance art piece titled <i>50 Foot Alice In Wonderland</i> that went live in Las Vegas, NV.<br />
<br />
Yes, here's where the story wraps around. After the performance in Vegas, I got to hop a bus to Arizona for the day. And once there, something inside shifted. <br />
<br />
I. Fell. Head and heels for the terrain. And the food, the smells and all things around that allowed me to dine in delight inside my little big self. In the years that have since passed, I've written stories, screenplays and had more than one post card from the state on my <i>Wall of Thought</i> (picture to come when I find one). It was a state that I grew to love and considered living in someday. <br />
<br />
You can imagine my immense disappointment when <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/ethnic-studies-book-ban-arizona-include-shakespeare-tempest-article-1.1007105" target="_blank">Tuscon Unified District in Arizona</a> began banning books featuring Mexican Americans as prominent characters. An argument that literature featuring minority exploration was oppressing Caucasian readers. <br />
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<object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://img.youtube.com/vi/ALNg_XgEXh8/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://youtube.googleapis.com/v/ALNg_XgEXh8&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://youtube.googleapis.com/v/ALNg_XgEXh8&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>
Here was my reaction at the time.<br />
<br />
Driving through Arizona in the here and now, I was reminded of my time working with J. Don Luna and the banning of books that included one of my contemporaries <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/19/education/racial-lens-used-to-cull-curriculum-in-arizona.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0" target="_blank">Matt De La Pena</a>. But I let myself drift along the stretches of asphalt highway and blazing waves of heat. I let myself swim in the beauty of saguaro and the mountain landscape -- the blue skies battling against swells of storms that stayed mostly to the side of us. <br />
<br />
A few hundred miles from Flagstaff, Arizona, we had already run through the CD's we bought in Louisiana for the sixth time. I love <a href="http://youtu.be/_mRFWQoXq4c" target="_blank">Bob Seger</a> and <a href="http://youtu.be/FJt7gNi3Nr4" target="_blank">Jay-Z</a> but we had been driving. <i>A lot.</i> And radio was a mix of Pop Favorites between drowning out into static and faint tent revival-like preaching. There were stops for gas and gum and occasionally the rest room toilets had been flushed. For whatever reason, the ride from Roswell, NM to Flagstaff, AZ felt a long and hard one. <br />
<br />
When we pulled into Flagstaff after 8 + hours, we tried to check-in to the Econo Lodge, but apparently there is more than one within a three mile radius. So ... we piled back into the car and through a series of wrong turns arrived at the right hotel.<br />
<br />
I threw a bunch of the gear and clothes and our magic twenty-two can cooler in the room and jetted for a dinner I was more than late-late for. I poured into the booth of a Tex-Mex restaurant. While I was finally sitting still, I felt myself still in motion, so there I went talking with next to zero pause. Ten minutes or so, I realized I hadn't stopped talking. Consequently, I just had to stop. Breathe. Stop.<br />
<br />
Between tortilla chips and excessively spicy salsa (acid reflux hates the spice), I got more centered and could be present in the conversation as opposed to the light speed rate we had been going all day. And I haven't decided yet as I type this from the confines of squeaky bed at the Econo Lodge, but maybe something really great will come of that dinner.<br />
<br />
I gotta get some sleep.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-47121237284346965752013-08-28T15:50:00.004-07:002013-08-28T16:28:03.521-07:00If The Aliens Don't Get You ... Fear The Frogs<i><b>Stories From The Road</b></i><br />
July 8, 2013<br />
<br />
We pulled into <a href="http://www.roswell-nm.gov/" target="_blank">Roswell, NM</a> last night. Three fourths tank of gas. Exhausted beyond immediate repair (see previous <a href="http://charltontrujillo.blogspot.com/2013/08/into-dark-and-no-gps.html" target="_blank">Post</a> for road trauma).<br />
<br />
Our greeting in the Little Green Peep's Town?<br />
<br />
Every. Hotel. BOOKED!<br />
<br />
Well, <i>almost</i> every hotel. The Super 8 with a strategically placed spaceship out front for gawking alien fan seekers had a single double room. The mighty Ford Focus rolled to a dusty stop, and my knees noticeably crackled on exit from the vehicle. As I approached the Main Office, a fellow guest opened the glass door and out hops ... <a href="http://www.nm.nrcs.usda.gov/photo-gallery/animals/nm-a0036.jpg" target="_blank">frogs</a>!<br />
<br />
Yes, it's beyond late-ish. I'm beyond melted from the running on empty gas fiasco. And now, I have touched down where frogs are leaping along as an eerie omen.<br />
<br />
I chalk it up to another day on the road and make my way inside. Careful not to slip on the water spotted floor. Not careful enough.<br />
<br />
"I'm cool," I say, in mid-slide.<br />
<br />
The clerk has an accent that makes me think India, but who knows. He's a nice enough guy. Smiles through awkward forced politeness. It's late. We're both tired. And there had just been frogs in the lobby (neither one of us acknowledges this formally).<br />
<br />
The room rate is all wrong for the one star stay, but I have to get out of the Ford Focus before I stretch my limits of sanity. The clerk and I smile once more. This last one more genuine.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br />
The hallway of the Super 8 is a graveyard of television consoles and cheap discount furniture. A murky haze seizes the air. A combination of cigarette smoke and mildew fuse with the green tint of cheap florescent lighting. I am apologetic to the camera person. What else can I say besides "sorry" and "this sucks" and "I'll pre-plan the next stop more carefully."<br />
<br />
Although we both know we'll end up in a dive like this sooner rather than later. The lip service acts as a needed filler after our day. <br />
<br />
Our room is spacious enough. So much so, that I suspect some of our furniture is decoration for the hall. I flop on the bed and imagine stars where there is bumpy ceiling. I imagine the smell of the Gulf of Mexico as opposed to moth balls and urine.<br />
<br />
I imagine that I'm not there but in a room full of kids, and we're writing about this as opposed to me living it for the remainder of the night. But I'm there. At the Super 8. In Roswell, NM. During the BIGGEST celebration of the year (<a href="http://www.ufofestivalroswell.com/" target="_blank">Roswell - a Great Place to Crash</a>) where all the hotels except one is booked. I pass out fully dressed and on top of the bed spread. It's probably better that way.<br />
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***</div>
<br />
I wake up to light pouring in from the mangled hotel room curtain. For a moment, I think I'm in Cincinnati, Ohio. The reality rushes in quickly, and I gather some spare change and the room key to search for a free Continental Breakfast.<br />
<br />
Children play on the hall furniture. Some version of aliens and cowboys (I mean, we are in Roswell). I jog down the tattered carpeted stairs and step into the Sunny Delight knock off juice bar. Coffee that I don't drink and suspect many of the other guests won't either. Everywhere is sugar and more sugar. I scrounge up a piece of wheat toast, a cup of H2O and Raisin Bran. They're out of milk, so I pour water over it.<br />
<br />
My camera person has emerged, and we're feeling the weight of travel but maintaining some level of poise. She has encouraged me to review the map and just as I do the T.V. announces a plane crash in San Francisco, CA.<br />
<br />
I'm no longer interested in the map as I watch the <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/world/video/2013/jul/07/san-francisco-plane-crash-video" target="_blank">accident</a> play out on CNN. Sleep deprived and protein defincient, I get lost in the smoke and charred fuselage. When my eyes fall off the television to the guests laughing, chatting and chewing on cheap pastries, I feel a swell of something thick in my throat. Aren't they seeing? Watching? Feeling?<br />
<br />
Something in me locks onto the guest who seem to have a defined disregard for the tragedy playing out in High Definition. Had tragedy become so ordinary? And while I knew the answer something was on recycle in my brain.<br />
<br />
That was someone's someone on that plane. In every seat.<br />
<br />
I look over my shoulder. The clerk who checked me in stands by a woman I decide is his wife. They're watching the T.V. The way someone watches something completely. The clerk looks at me and tries to smile, but the effort escapes the intention. It escapes mine as well and we have one of those brief, cinematic-like moments where we both feel wrung out from loss that becomes featured in Headline News or The New York Times. Wrung out that there is so much hurt in the world.<br />
<br />
And here I am in Roswell, NM in route to California to do my small way of plugging what would seem a Titanic like leak in the youth of America, I wonder what the hell am I doing? Am I serious about this endeavor? I got car issues and traffic issues and storm issues and um, yeah, death issues. Here I am surfing on <u>no</u> financial support from the publishing house because that's just the reality of things. Praying that the money raised on Kickstarter ($2,500 dollars short) will be enough to get me at least back to Cincinnati, Ohio. Hoping that my camera person in-training is getting at least half of the footage in focus, so I can show the importance of creative mentors in our communities and I AM taking a risk outside my comfort zone to infinity and beyond times pi. Because I honest believe with all that is within me that a creative mentor can generate impact -- that art saves. That the world can be better. And that maybe the Titanic sized leak can be soldered. <br />
<br />
My camera person asks if I'm okay. No, I think. I'm not okay. I'm awake and that's better than okay. That's got potential.<br />
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*** </div>
<br />
We schlep our belongings downstairs, check out at the front desk and once again, I play the packing the car Tetris game. As we pull out of Roswell, NM, I say a prayer for the people on Asiana Airlines flight 214. I extend kindness for those who survived and hope for those who lost someone. Hope that they can not simply survive but live in the wake of such loss. <br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6231611739848806485.post-79885262787001858402013-08-27T09:49:00.001-07:002013-08-28T15:59:56.962-07:00Into The Dark And No GPS<i><b>Stories From The Road</b></i><br />
July 7, 2013 <br />
<br />
The road to hell, I am now convinced, is paved with cracked iPhone/Android screens that have lost signal in the desolate no man's land of West Texas in route to New Mexico. <br />
<br />
<b>Commonly Known Fact (Unless You Are Me):</b> When you lose signal, you lose whatever social ap navigator you've so cleverly thought was your stairway to heaven.<br />
<br />
<b>Note:</b> You will find yourself in a predicament of life and possible fracking proportions. <br />
<br />
Pecos, Texas. The final frontier. Yes, I wrote that because it is the last stop for gas between Texas and Somewhere, New Mexico <u>X</u> miles away.<br />
<br />
We had no mace. We had no wasp spray. And it was likely we had no tire iron.<br />
<br />
So in the event of being stranded between nowhere and nowhere and with the stereotype of a burly trucker with a questionable dental plan and a fondness for fracking as our only rescue, I felt with absolute certainty that this was the moment of our demise.<br />
<br />
No one knew where we were. No one knew where we had planned to stay. We had no signal.<br />
<br />
Being the cool and calm cucumber that I am, I internally panicked. Each mile the gas gauge warned that we were coasting on borrowed time. Each mile was a mile of barren wasteland. A tribute to T.S. Elliot or a cleverly crafted Coen Brother's film moment. <br />
<br />
Darkness doused the landscape. Leaving structures for oil rigging called Christmas trees to spark the occasional distant light.<br />
<br />
We had gone from 78 miles of gas. To 46 miles. To 28 miles. To what the heck are we gonna do without gas miles. All the while, we began to pass pockets of lines of eighteen wheelers. Their metal bodies stretched along dirt roads. The lights pulsating. Engines purring.<br />
<br />
They were mostly like fed a healthy cargo of black gold.<br />
<br />
One of those truck drivers was surely going to be the end of us. It would most definitely fit the trajectory of our travel life.<br />
<br />
Then on the horizon lights punctuated the evening black. We literally, not dramatically, coasted into the first Loving, NM gas station with 6 miles of fuel in the tank.<br />
<br />
A sigh. A deep breath. Lesson most definitely learned. <br />
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