34%.

Therapy is for pussies. Get me some Busch beer, bitch! Oh yeah, and happy new year.

I am 34% White Trash.

The white trash in your blood will not keep you from becoming a doctor or a lawyer, but it will keep you from a good haircut and any sort of fashion sense. Every now and then your white trash traits sneak out, like drinking beer from the bottle at a restaurant.

Take the
White Trash Test
@ FualiDotCom

Koyaanisqatsi.

(Life out of balance.) I saw this film a loooong time ago on PBS really late at night. I missed the title, so I had no idea what I was watching. But I couldn't turn it off. The imagery was hypnotic, fast against slow, nature against industry, rebirth against destruction. Combined with the repetitive dirges of Philip Glass, I was hooked, and by the end, I am embarrassed to say, my eyes were red from not blinking and um, yes, crying. It was one of the most powerful films I'd ever seen, well, except for Monty Python and the Holy Grail, but that's another story.

There was a feeling that I touched when I finished watching the film. It was a feeling of clarity, of knowing the unknowable, an abstraction of wholeness. Don't get me wrong, this isn't the answer to the question of life (so run right out! and grab your copy today!). Sometimes, whatever you call it, the planets align in such a way that you see a path before you, and there is a feeling from within that the path is the true path.

Now before you accuse me of getting all hippie on your ass, know that I don't sit around and watch art films and write poetry and wear hemp clothing. I would MUCH rather watch Office Space than see this film again. In fact, I have seen Koyaanisqatsi a few times shortly after that first night, to recapture what I had felt, but it was then that I had realized that these moments of truth are fleeting. They happen at different points in life, and I was never able to deliberately recreate them myself. The significance of this film was that it was the first moment of clarity I ever had. And drug-free at that. Subsequent moments came with various other inductions, such as the Buena Vista Social Club CD, 9/11, and most recently, US1 north of San Francisco.

Though raised Catholic, I haven't been to church since I was married. Before that, since I was (again) married. Before that, who knows. I don't believe in the hypocrisies of the Church (love thy fellow neighbors! except the protestants! women can't be priests! but they can donate $$ just as well as men! if you have enough money, any marriage can be annulled! never mind what God originally planned. and nevermind the serious perversions by sexually stifled men.). I believe in the goodness that the Church teaches, such as patience, love, and all that. I truly do. But I can practice that on my own. And I don't need to pray to some magical man in the clouds to do it.

Anyway, what I'm saying is, spirituality comes from within. It has different levels. We mostly operate on a low level of spirituality. Heck, just driving around on Route 17 in Paramus, NJ should easily confirm this. There are moments, however, such as my first viewing of Koyaanisqatsi, when we find a higher level of spirituality and therefore, happiness. To discover one's place in life, or at least find an impression of one's place in life, is to discover a true happiness.

I have recently discovered this path again, and I have this feeling. This elation is not like other happinesses, like the happiness of getting the toy you wanted for christmas, or the perfect haircut, or other material joys. It is so much more than all of this. It is ecstasy. Like ribbons of laughter floating down your spine. Spring tree flowers swirling at your feet. A love that is returned to you in spadefuls. The light from within. It is love. A love of all things.

Now, to get on that path that I found...

I'm just crazy 'bout horses.

My hair is falling out. I'm getting hives. And my skin has some bad-ass acne. Welcome to the holidays! I have to bake cookies (not that i mind this), I have to wrap about 40 thousand presents. I'm giving up on even attempting to decorate my apartment. I have to somehow assure my mother that I still love her, despite blowing her off for her Christmas eve dinner. I have to go to my husband's this year. What a RIOT. Seriously.

In another marvellously pleasant world, I live by myself, have a little tree that smells deliciously piney (decorated with little lights and sparkly hanging things), have Nat King Cole's "Christas Song" playing, or maybe Vince Guaraldi's "Charlie Brown Christmas." Or some Ella Fitzgerald?? Undecided. I have some cinnamon tea brewing, not to drink, but to smell. I have all the lights out, except for the christmas lights, which glow brightly in oranges and reds and blues and greens, casting all sorts of tree-shadows on the walls and ceiling. I sit on the floor and unwrap ONE gift I bought for MYSELF (wow! a donation to Doctors Without Borders! how on earth did you KNOW?).. and then I pop open a bottle of chilled champagne that cost in the area of $50 and thoroughly enjoy the sounds of other people not being there. Ahhhh. Peace.

So, these days, it seems the closest I can get to this feeling is shuffling off to Starbucks, where they have been raging with the Christmas music since last month and have a delightful selection of holiday coffees and such. I have been a slave to the egg nog latte since a boy I know recommended it a few weeks back. Mmmmm. It is here, actually, that I started to feel the Christmas spirit, and found myself smiling with the holidays in mind for the first time this year.

So yesterday, I pulled out the Christmas tunes selection and began to play them. I was able to focus on work for the first time in weeks. The tightness in my chest went away. I didn't need to take any Exedrine for the headache that usually starts two hours after I get up in the morning. And I was smiling. By golly I was. Thank you Ella. Thank you Vince. Thank you Nat. Did you know what magic you would be recording?

Ahhhh. Nostalgia.

Like 30.

Ok, so going back to school has been a trip. There is some show I saw an ad for recently. "College Ladies" maybe? I forget the name, but I remember the word "Ladies" or "Girls" or something being in it. The premise, so it seems, is that a couple of ladies find their husbands in compromising situations and decide to leave them and get their own lives together, sans husbands. I'm sure the American Family Association will have a field day with this one. So these ladies, I'm assuming they are in need of such higher education, go back to college. Dorm and everything. Of course I couldn't help but identify with this situation, me being a lady myself. Not the dorm part of course. But the rest of it. My social experience at school has been limited to older students like me. There aren't many of us, but we find each other and cling like honey. I mean, how many looong discussions about the existence of "God" can you have? Really. And the age difference really IS an issue. I was talking to this one guy about how I *finally* saw "Quadrophenia" recently, and he was like, "Quadra--huh?" I nearly fell off my chair. I really don't mean this as snobbery.. I don't. But what the hell? I suppose Power Rangers would have been more germane to our discussion of socially representational films. Anyway, I think that was the first honest moment I had where I thought to myself, "jeepers, I am so much older than these kids!"

Because I am older, I tend to compensate by acting totally immature. This suits me just fine, since acting immature is way more fun anyhow. I figure that if I LOOK a certain age(L), but ACT a certain other age(A), my perceived age(P) will fall somewhere in between. This can be represented by the formula: (L+A)/2<=P. Using this formula, my perceived age is still in my 20's, which is great. So because my (L) and (A) ages are so polarized, many people do muster the gumption to ask my real age.

The last time I was honest about the answer was last year. The shocked response threw me a little. I mean, I've had some surprised responses before.. which WERE nice.. like, thanks man. My skin care regiment IS very complicated and I work hard at it. (Ignoring all the late nights out and drinking and not enough sleep and all that.) But thanks for noticing!

Now, it's just a huge pain in the ass to sit there and smile, while thinking, I am SO much f-ing older than you. And yes it sucks. And yes I'm in school. And yes it's harder to pull all-nighters. And yes yes yes. But thank you still.

So to avoid this, I have now recently adopted the vague approach. I don't want to completely LIE. I'll probably tap that keg in about ten years. So today, I got the question. I replied the rehearsed answer, "Like, 30." The gal who asked, a gem like me, asked. "30? Or 'Like, 30'?" HA. I love this girl. Of course, I replied "Like, 30." Turns out, she is "like, 30" too. Sweet honey.

Cherry.

The proverbial blog cherry has been popped. I am now a whore. I didn't even pass the "I can't believe I did that" stage, or the "maybe i really DO like chicks" stage, or the "I'm a born-again virgin" stage. No sir. I went straight to whore. No kissing. No gum-licking. Just straight-up dope letter-pounding. So where am I? I am in New Jersey. New Jersey rocks. And i do mean that in the most literal of ways. All my friends are rock stars. From New Jersey. So, I just came back from the most amazing trip. My best friends' band played out in California, two nights in San Francisco and one night in LA. I went out to join them as a little-known superhero called "Merch Girl." This IS a secret identity, so don't blow my cover, jackass. If i find out it was you, I'll charge you $40 for a $7 t-shirt.

San Francisco: OMFG. How can people ever stay indoors?? If i lived there, i would be running around naked everywhere like a child, albeit one with a great pedicure and Chanel sunglasses. I managed to find a little time to myself, so my well-guarded alter-ego, "Geek," thoroughly enjoyed a most spectacular drive north of San Francisco to Stinson Beach. Stinson Beach is infested with sharks. I know this because there was a huge sign that said so. There were a couple of surfers out there in the 10 foot swells, so I stuck around to see if one of them would get a leg bitten off or somthing. No luck. I took some photos instead. I'll attach them as soon as I figure out how.

Ooops would you look at the time. I have yet another "holiday" party to go to... You know, just thinking.. holiday parties are to drunks what Halloween is to Jersey girls who like to dress reeeally slutty.