Kelly is as pretty as Kirsten Dunst. Her eyes are not weak at all. And all of her hair is not blond.

Strange Fruit

I defy you to watch a Ken Burns documentary and not cry. This week I tried to watch Jazz, the 10 hour series. I made it as far as the late 30's. By then Louis Armstrong had just arrived in Chicago. I began the series only intending to watch the episode about Billie Holiday. I quickly realized that I would have to start from the beginning to fully appreciate the Lady. To fully understand how she could be so heartbroken. Heartbroken in a way that only a jazz singer could be. If jazz were a tree, then it's roots would be deep and twisted, it's fruit would be bitter-sweet. The most successful artists had the greatest failures. They drowned in bottles or faded into shadows. Often they would just disappear into the deep blue of their own music. I only made it as far as the late 30's. Louis Armstrong was still blowing on second-hand trumpet and wearing borrowed tuxedos. He hadn't even met Billie Holiday yet. I defy you to watch an entire Ken Burns documentary. A person can only look at black and white photo's for so long. A person can only take so much heartbreak.

Restless Ear Syndrome

I can hear a dog howling a few blocks away. At this time of night, while I'm waiting for sleep to come, it sounds a little like the whurr of a police siren. At this time of night. After the crickets in the grass are silent. When the frogs in the forest lie still. When the birds in the trees have gone to where ever birds go at this time of night. I can hear a dog howling a few blocks away. It sounds a little like a man crying. The slow hands of the clock don't mean anything. When sleep hasn't come. At this time of night.

Madonna on the Rocks

This is dedicated to Amanda Westbrooke and everyone who is related to Amanda Westbrooke. To fans and suitors of Amanda Westbrooke. To people who watch public television, and patrons of community theatre. We are starstruck. We are children at her feet and clay in her hands. She is among the Daffodils. When we scorn her, she weeps like Mary. And so we give praise. She is your mother, and mine. Amanda Westbrooke. Holy vessel. Guardian of patrons of community theatre, and people who watch public television.

Damn

I have searched the pockets of every pair of pants that I own, and I cannot find a single piece of bubble-gum.

Pajamaralways

In the midst of a minor panic attack. The pile at my feet grows and grows and grows. I am cleaning out my closet. Reorganizing. Preparing to move to college. I've seen the television programs about pack-rats, people who pathologically hoard objects until their homes become unlivable. Houses strewn with garbage and the toys of grown children who have long-since moved out. Apartments packed with towers of newspapers spanning decades. The homeowner lies weeping in the fetal position as the producers of the show pack their possessions into garbage sacks and toss them in the dumpster. My walk-in closet is choked with my things. I pull my clothing from the dresser and find it increasingly difficult to part with things that I haven't worn in years. A wool poncho decorated with pictures of llamas, 12 hoodies, a black, polyester floor length dress, and several velour track suits that my mother passed down to me. I find that a good 40% of my wardrobe consists of pajamas. I don't wear pajamas. They make me itchy. Also I have no socks. I call a friend for emotional support. She suggests that I throw out things that I have borrowed from other people. I get rid of a pair of cowboy boots left for me by an aunt and the track suits. Even this gives me the cold sweats. I keep the pajamas.

City of Destiny

Tacoma: The Broom Capital of the World
Tacoma: City of 1000 fences
Tacoma: The Big Cupcake
Tacoma: The City With Broad Shoulders
Tacoma: The City That Never Naps
Tacoma: The City with No Past
Tacoma: America's Most Angular City