finding my voice

Phlebotomy plebe

2010-01-26T14:56:00.000-08:00

I owe this blog post to Laura the Nervous Intern.

I haven't been feeling much like writing lately. December and January were difficult months. I'm still healing from my breakup with Monte and reeling from the realities of living in a strange place. My friend Rebecca has kindly allowed me the use of her home for a couple of months until I get back on my feet, and that's been a blessing. But frankly, living alone in an unfamiliar place has not a been barrel of laughs. I've been feeling kind of lonely and removed from my life, and I haven't really wanted to write about it.

Stress set in a few weeks back and I was laid low with a bad illness. It felt like strep, or tonsillitis. With no health insurance, I turned to the Glide clinic for care. They put me on a slew of meds and fixed me right up. I was impressed that the nurse practitioner spent more time with me than any doctor ever has. And then for good measure she sent me to the hospital for a full lab work-up. "Just to be thorough," she said.

So today I went to the hospital to get my blood drawn. I'd been fasting since the night before, but then I overslept, so by the time I arrived at the lab it was late in the morning and I was getting hungry.

I checked in at the front desk. "Hi Errin," said a cheerful man in scrubs, locating my name with the merest glance at my forms. "Have you fasted for 12 hours today?"

"Yes," I said.

"Great. And do you mind having a student take your blood?"

"Nope."

"All right. Have a seat and someone will be with you in a few minutes." He gestured toward the chairs.

It was about twenty minutes before someone called my name, but I was occupied with my book and not perturbed. As a matter of fact, I didn't mind waiting, because I'd been doing the math and realized that it had really been more like ten and a half hours since I'd last eaten. I was hoping it didn't matter too much, but I figured it couldn't hurt to wait out the clock a bit.

People kept checking in at the front desk. "Do you mind having a student take your blood today?" I heard more than once. Nobody seemed to mind. I thought it was nice that we were all willing to help the students learn. It didn't make me nervous or anything. It was just a simple blood draw.

"Is there an Errin here?" came a low, timid voice. I raised my hand halfway and gathered up my things.

"Hi there," I said as I followed the woman down the hallway. She ushered me into a room.

"Hi," she said in a hushed monotone. "Um, have a seat." I took off my jacket and sat down. I noticed her name tag said Laura.

Another woman (another student phlebotomist I assumed) entered and greeted me as well. She and Laura conferred for a moment about what time they would each take their break.

"So, I think it's been more like eleven hours since I last ate," I told them. "Is that going to matter?"

For an instant they both froze. Laura looked at me with big round eyes and said in her odd voice, "That depends. Do you get queasy around blood?"

Hmm. "Probably," I said. "But I'm not going to watch."

She stared at me. "Do you have a problem with needles?" she asked.

"Well, sure," I said. "Doesn't everybody?"

"I sure do," said the other student, and laughed.

"I don't," said Laura emphatically.

I was starting to get a weird vibe from Laura.

"Anyway, it's more like eight to twelve hours," said the other student and she waved away my concerns. I watched as she took a juice box and a granola bar from a cabinet, dropped them into a labeled paper bag and then walked out of the room. There was a stack of paper bags on the counter beside me. I peeked at the label:

Phlebotomist who served you today is _______.

In our continuous efforts to provide you with Quality 5 Star Service, we acknowledge that you have been required to fast for these laboratory tests. If you have no other procedures that require you to be fasting, please enjoy this snack we have enclosed for your benefit.

I thought that was a nice touch.

Laura seemed unsure of what to do first. She picked up a few vials then put them down. "I'm an intern," she said abruptly. "I have to tell you that."

"O-okay," I said, in what I hoped was an assuring tone of voice. She seemed a little nervous. I adopted a pose of unconcern in hopes that she might draw from my well of calmness.

It didn't seem to work though. She pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and I knew right away that I was in trouble.

When doctors on TV pull on their rubber gloves they do so with one decisive snap. Putting on the gloves is second nature. It's not something you should have to think about.

But Laura was thinking way too hard about her gloves. She slipped her hand in halfway and then wiggled her fingers to try and shake the thing down to her wrist. When that didn't work she gave a series of half-hearted tugs, then pulled awkwardly around each finger until she finally shimmied her digits into place.

My heart sank. My physical discomfort was in direct proportion to her manual dexterity and the woman couldn't put on a pair of rubber gloves.

"Okay. Lay your arm on the table," she instructed, and I did. She tied a rubber strip above my elbow. It was WAY too tight. I lost the feeling in my hand almost immediately.

"Ow, that kinda hurts," I said.

"Oh, sorry," she said, pulling it off. "Was that too tight?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Sorry. Sometimes we can pull your sleeve down like this," she said, pulling my sleeve down, "and tie it over the fabric so that the rubber doesn't pinch your skin." It sounded as though she were quoting directly from a recent lesson and my unease started to grow. Still, I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, so I smiled at her and said, "That's better."

"Okay. Um...okay." She was looking around the room, for clues, it seemed. I could almost see her reciting the order of operations in her head.

"Now I'm going to look for a vein. Make a fist." I balled up my hand. She inspected my arm closely.

"No, make a fist like this," she said, demonstrating. I released my hand, then made a fist exactly as I'd done it the first time. "Yeah, that's better," she said.

She leaned low over my arm and poked experimentally at the crook of my elbow. Poke. Poke. She looked at my hand. "Did you stop making a fist?"

"No," I said.

"Oh. Okay." Poke. Poke. She took my arm between her hands and turned it slightly. I felt a tremor in my arm and looked down at it.

Holy shit. Laura's hands were visibly shaking. We seemed to become aware of it at the same time, and she pressed harder on my arm to smother the trembling.

"Oh, there's one," she said, and her voice sounded weirdly high. She pointed at a vein that seemed to be out of the poking zone. It was closer to my forearm than the crook of my elbow.

"All the way over there?" I asked doubtfully.

"Sure," she said. "That should work." She let go of my arm, immediately lost the vein and started poking at me again.

At that point I started looking around for a supervisor.

"I'm just going to, um..." Laura said, losing her train of thought as she fumbled around in the drawers for supplies. "I'm going to...um..." She consulted my paperwork two, then three times.

I watched her with mounting alarm as she set up four vials on the counter. "You're filling four vials?" I asked her.

She squinted at my paperwork again. "Uh, yeah. You've got a lot of tests."

Oh my God. This woman was going to try to pull four vials of blood from what even I could tell was a non-participating vein. With shaking hands! Was I really going to let her do this?

She pulled out an alcohol swab and swished it tentatively over my skin. Her look of concentration was intense. I opened my mouth, feeling the words rush up from my gut. Wait, I was going to tell her. Wait just a minute.

But I didn't say anything. Because honestly, the blog post was already writing itself in my head, and I kinda wanted to see what would happen.

Laura discarded the alcohol swab and patted the spot uncertainly with a cotton ball. Then she prepped the needle. I watched her attach it to a vial and prepared to avert my eyes.

She swooped down on me. "Don't watch," she said fiercely.

Don't worry, I thought. I trained my eyes on the ceiling.

"You're going to feel a little pinch," she said. But I braced myself as though I was about to be stabbed.

To Laura's credit, it really was only a little pinch. I concentrated on the ceiling and breathed deeply in and out. It's not the needle prick that disturbs me so much as the perceived sensation of blood leaving my body. It's an odd thing, but sometimes I think prolonged discomfort bothers me a lot more than actual pain.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Laura shake her head back and forth.

That couldn't be good.

But she made decisive movements with her hands and I thought I sensed her switching the vials, so I focused on my breathing and let her do her thing.

A moment later, another shake of the head. And under her breath I thought I heard her say, "Oh no."

My neck muscles tensed but I was afraid to look. I felt a sudden pressure in the crook of my elbow. "Hold this," Laura commanded with more authority in her voice than I'd heard so far, and I chanced a glance down to see her pressing a cotton ball to my skin. I put my finger on it, and thus relieved she took a big step back from me.

"I didn't get it," she said, looking me square in the eye. "I'm only allowed to try once. If I don't get the blood I can't try a second time." This seemed like an eminently sensible policy to me, and I nodded. "I'm going to have to get a phlebotomist."

There was a curious confidence in her manner now that the deed was done, and failed. Maybe it was a touch of defiance? Hell, I wasn't judging. I was just happy that this woman wasn't going to stick any more needles in me.

"I'm going to get a phlebotomist," she said again and swept out of the room to the right. A second later she bumbled back in and exited again from the door on the left.

While she was gone, I lifted the cotton ball on my arm to take a peek at her work. There was a neat little hole in my skin. It was nowhere near the vein.

A moment later the phlebotomist bustled in, all competence and swift movement. Laura slunk in behind her. "Hello," said the phlebotomist, snapping on her gloves with authority.

Instantly I relaxed. Now that's how you do it, I thought with relief.

"How about we try the other arm, yeah?" she asked as she wound bright green tape around my minuscule wound. I laid my left arm on the table.

The phlebotomist ignored the vials that Laura had so precariously perched in the little vial holder. She flicked a glance at my paperwork and pulled four new vials from the cabinet, then swabbed my skin and prepped the needle with admirable speed and certainty. I looked up at the ceiling again and felt the pinch in my arm. I breathed in and out.

Seconds later she was done. "Hold this," she instructed, and I pressed another cotton ball to my skin. I looked down at the counter and saw four full vials of blood. My God, the woman was good. Four vials of blood in what couldn't have been more than twenty seconds.

She wrapped my left arm in bright green tape. I thought a Band-Aid would have sufficed, but I wasn't going to complain. The needle part was over, and I wasn't spouting blood all over the walls, which was good enough for me.

"All set," said the phlebotomist. She swept up my samples and left, not even glancing at Laura, who had shrunk into the corner. I struggled back into my jacket, with arms that now wouldn't bend at the elbows, thanks to all the green tape.

Laura said, "I'm sorry about before."

"That's okay," I said. It wasn't, really, but at least I'd only been stuck twice and not treated like a human pincushion. It could have been much worse.

Laura was blocking the door, looking glum. I wanted to take her out for coffee and discuss her career options. I wondered if you can get fired from phlebotomy school.

Suddenly she brightened. "Would you like some apple juice and a granola bar?" she asked me hopefully.

"Um, okay. Sure."

Laura reached for a paper bag and snapped it open with authority. She dropped a juice box and a granola bar inside, then folded over the top of the bag with precision. She beamed as she passed it to me with hands that did not shake.

And I wondered if maybe there wasn't a career for Laura in Food Service.

I smiled and thanked her, and as I left the hospital all I could think was: I am going to write about that lady.

I came straight to this coffee shop to jot down the story. I'm still wearing the bright green tape. I haven't had an urge to write like this in months.

And so I'll say it again:

I owe this blog post to Laura the Nervous Intern.

I'm not back yet...

2010-01-23T16:37:00.000-08:00

...but this Craigslist ad I found today is just too good not to be shared:

tanned legs and feet

Date: 2010-01-20, 3:39AM PST
Reply to: gigs-xxxxxxxxxx@craigslist.org

I'm looking for a blond that has tanned legs and feet. I understand that there are spray and rub on tans but my client wants a natural tan. You must have nice legs and feet. This will focus and legs and feet. It will also involve rabbits and possibly a large lizard down at your feet so you must be comfortable with that. Please submit a picture of you legs and feet without polish to xxxxxxxx@hotmail.com. The pay is $50/hr there is a one hour min.

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Compensation: $50./hr

That really kind of made my day.

OK, I'm going back into hiding now. I will likely emerge soon.

Radio silence

2009-12-07T13:26:00.000-08:00

Dear Internet,

Since my last post my grandmother has died, my relationship has ended and my life has turned upside-down. I need to find a new place to live and a job ASAP. This languid year of 'living the dream' has come to an abrupt end and I'll be on hiatus from my creative endeavors until I resuscitate my life.

I'm okay and everything will be fine, but I'm going offline for a little bit.

Happy Holidays and I'll see you in the New Year.

30 days hath November

2009-11-01T19:12:00.000-08:00

For the last year or more I've been toying with the idea of creating an album of lullabies. I very much like the idea of conception albums, those that carry a theme or tell a story through the words of their songs. A lullaby album seemed like something that I would do eventually, after I put out my first CD and established the kind of artist I'm going to be.

Well, I've decided to reverse the order of those events. For one thing, I'm still pretty unclear about the kind of artist I'm going to be. A dozen or more people asked me, in the days preceding my recent gig, "What kind of music do you perform?" I didn't know what to tell them. I finally started responding, "Come to my show and then tell me afterward what kind of music you think I perform, because I really don't know." Even my dad, after much deliberation, couldn't come up with a genre in which to stick me. Granted, those songs were born of collaboration, and influenced as much by Vernon as they were by me; they may not represent the type of music that I'll create on my own. But even so, I think they proved tough to categorize.

Now, trying to ride the wave of momentum that our show produced, I still don't know what the hell I'm doing. I do know that I need to write more, and I'm open to all ideas that fall in my lap. Vernon and I will certainly keep collaborating, and we're planning to record some of the tunes that we just debuted. But I'd also like to begin a project of my own, something that has a theme. A theme will keep me focused, and an end date will keep me motivated. And given the 39 friends in my life who've become (or will become) new parents this year, the lullaby theme seems entirely appropriate.

So for my November writing project, I'm going to write an album of lullabies. Fifteen lullabies, to be precise. I'll aim to keep them simple, so that recording them won't prove impossible.

Fifteen lullabies in thirty days. That should be doable.

Right?

Shooting for a grand total of 2 posts in October

2009-10-29T15:45:00.000-07:00

Hello.

Remember me? It's okay if you don't. I haven't been here much lately.

See, first I was preparing like mad for my big show. And then, I was resting like crazy from my big show. I was thoroughly exhausted. I had to turn my brain off completely, as it turns out. Honestly. I haven't had a creative thought in 2 weeks.

But I'm resurfacing now. And what do you know? It looks like autumn.

The show went wonderfully. Better than I'd expected. And I had far more fun than I expected, too, especially given that my stress-o-meter was at an all time high in the days preceding the gig.

You know what I learned? I liked talking to the audience. I was nervous that I wouldn't know what to say, and I'd had no time to prepare any notes. But when it came time to talk about the songs, or introduce the band, it came very naturally to me. I really enjoyed those parts of the show.

I also learned that performing my own music (well, our shared music) is so gratifying. It really feels different, singing your own songs. They weren't all winners. But each of them meant something to me, and singing the words that I wrote myself felt pretty damn good. It was also incredible to get feedback on the songs themselves, not just the performance. That was a first, and it inspired me to go out and write some more.

I do love to write. You'd never know it, given how often I've been posting lately, but it is one of my favorite things to do. November 1st marks the beginning of NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. The goal is to write an entire novel - 50 thousand words - in one month. I first learned about NaNo last year, when my friend Katie participated. I was fascinated by the process and the idea behind it, which is: just write. Don't worry about whether it's good, just get it out. So many of us would-be novelists remain would-be novelists until the day we die. Crank one out, care more for quantity and less for quality, and get that first novel monkey off your back. Then go back later and figure out if you wrote anything worthwhile. Or if maybe you've got a better second novel hiding behind that crappy first novel.

I love this idea. And I've been thinking of participating ever since last year. I've even been getting kind of excited about it, except for this one problem that I have: I don't have any ideas.

I told you, I haven't had a creative thought in several weeks. And I've been OK with that; obviously my brain's needed a rest, but it does rather pose a problem at the advent of novel-writing season.

Plus, I've got other things to do. I do need to get some writing done, but it should be songwriting, and blog writing. As much as I want to write a novel - and I do; I always have - I think it might have to wait until next year. Right now, I'm a bit preoccupied.

Or I will be, as soon as my brain comes back from hiatus.

Still, I do love a challenge, and obviously an impetus to write couldn't hurt, so I'm going to claim November as my own writing month. Perhaps I'll write a blog post every day. Perhaps I'll write 30 songs, one for every day of the month. I don't know yet. But by Saturday I'll have figured out just how I intend to claim November. I'll let you know what I decide.

Then on Sunday, I'll start.

Nerves

2009-10-12T09:47:00.001-07:00

I've come to the conclusion that deciding to be a singer means that I spend half my life feeling low because I've got no upcoming gigs, and the other half trying not to vomit because I do.

"Come to my show!" I implore people as I pass out postcards, send out email blasts, accost strangers on the street. "You should come to my show!"

but maybe you shouldn't come to my show

says a little voice in the back of my head.

"I hope you'll come to my show!" I tell friends and acquaintances, smiling brightly and trying to ignore that little voice that's saying

maybe you shouldn't come, I'm not sure we're ready

"It's going to be great!" Big smile! Big smile!

I feel a little schizophrenic.

"That's always the way it is," said Vernon when I admitted my nerves to him. "You never feel ready," agreed Leah, after I confided my worries.

"It's going to be great," they both told me, emphatically.

I trust my friends. And I trust myself. And after yesterday's rehearsal with part of the band, I do feel an awful lot calmer. It's absolutely amazing how the addition of a guitar and some drums can suddenly make your tangle of lyrics and melody sound like a song. And a good song, at that!

But still, there's so much to do! Incredible: the months and months of work that go into a single tune, and then you have one chance to sing it, and it's over in 4 minutes. Months of creation, compromise, arrangement, argument, re-arrangement and approval, distilled into 4 minutes, and relying completely on your single-shot delivery. It's scary.

"That's always the way it is," Vernon said again. "You're always advertising a show you don't feel completely comfortable with. But it will come together. It always does." He clasped me on the shoulder.

"It's going to be a really good show," he said earnestly.

A huge sigh escaped me; a moment's relief stole into my body with the next breath. I returned his smile.

"Yes it is," I said.

And it is.

So, come to my show! You should come to my show!

maybe you shouldn't come to my show

Shut up. No, you should totally come. It's going to be great.

In session

2009-09-25T14:11:00.000-07:00

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Music is going lo-tech. Any schmoe with a laptop can record a demo these days. Case in point:

After fooling around with a broken microphone for half an hour, we finally decided to sing directly into the computer. Vernon insisted that I had to lean right over the mic pad for my voice to pick up.

But I'm starting to think he was screwing with me.

After several back-breaking takes, we finally cranked out a few passable rehearsal tracks. Passable in the sense that they are complete. Because I will tell you something, it is not easy to sing well bent over double like that. But it's actually a bit of an ab workout.

I'm thinking next time I might lie on my back on the floor and hold the laptop directly over my face. Might as well get some arm work in.

31

2009-09-23T19:26:00.000-07:00

I keep a list of important things that happen in my life, categorized by year, so that when I get old and start forgetting the order of events (or questioning whether they actually happened) I can consult it.

Tomorrow I turn 32, and I'm already forgetting stuff. So you see, this list comes in handy.

The list is entitled These Things Happened the Year I Was... and it only goes back to my 22nd year, because I've forgotten everything that happened before then. Apparently I didn't get started early enough.

It's been a difficult year, but it's also been wonderful, and in large part, the difficulties paved the way for the wonderful stuff. So many of my blessings this year came on the heels of what first appeared to be bad news. So I'm grateful for all of it, and I want to take a moment tonight to reflect on all that's happened in this 31st year of my life.

I've come up with a list of 31 things.

These Things Happened the Year I Was 31:

I worked the phone banks for No on Proposition 8
I biked through Slovenia and Northeastern Italy
I spent a week in Venice with my mom
I got laid off from my job
I recorded a BevMo holiday commercial (singing the "BevMo-lujah Chorus" behind dancing, animated corkscrews)
I witnessed the inauguration of President Barack Obama from Berkeley's Sproul Plaza, with 10,000 other hopeful Americans
I ran my first gig, putting together a small choir for a private service
I ran my first half-marathon
I started belly dancing
I received a piece of hate mail (sent to me mistakenly and intended for somebody else)
I became a songwriter (inspired, in part, by the aforementioned hate mail...which, come to think of it, may have been intended for me after all, cosmically-speaking)
I launched my website
I became a hula hoop teacher
I ran my first marathon
I ate more cupcakes than was probably good for me
I had multiple studio sessions, recording background vocals for several local musicians
I reconnected with many long-lost friends
I sang in front of The Shirelles at Glide
I was backstage with Michelle Obama at the National Conference for Volunteering and Service
I sang at my cousin's wedding
I spoon-fed my grandmother in the Emergency Room
I celebrated 8 years with Monte
I initiated an impromptu online fundraiser to help my friend Siobhan raise more than $2,000 for her nonprofit, OneMama
I started learning guitar
I got my first astrological reading
I became online friends with my childhood hero, LeVar Burton
I recorded a CD with the Glide Ensemble
I knitted 4 baby blankets
I counted 35 pregnant friends
I ate my first turkey sandwich in almost 4 years, then decided to remain a vegetarian (I also ate a bowl of meaty chili, but that was an $8 mistake)
I saw my first opera, sitting on the field at AT&T park

It's been a good year.

I wonder what 32 has in store for me?

The Big Gig

2009-09-22T21:37:00.000-07:00

(Click on the photo to buy tickets.)

Singer/songwriters Vernon Bush and Errin Marie come together to debut a whole body of new music that will touch your heart and move your feet! Join them for an afternoon celebration of song!

Also featuring:
Zoe Ellis & Leah Tysse / vocals
Brian Hill / guitars
Spence Murray / bass
Ricky Carter / percussion

Sunday, October 18, 2009
4:30 PM
The Jazz School
2087 Addison Street, Berkeley, CA
Tickets: (510) 845-5373 / $18 general, $15 student
www.jazzschool.com

The Jazz School is a small-ish venue, so get your tickets early!

Where has September gone?

2009-09-17T18:38:00.000-07:00

Just a minute ago it was September 1st. What happened?

I actually have to thumb through my datebook to see where the damn month went.

Ah, yes. Well, there were the bi-weekly rehearsals leading up to last Sunday's Glide Ensemble concert. Those took up a lot of time. Then there were several hours of paperwork and orientations to begin my part-time job teaching hooping at the YMCA. Not to mention the hours of planning and teaching itself. There were my weekly guitar lessons and daily practice, my double-shifts at the belly dance studio, the SRO volunteer meeting to kick off the new marathon season, the last session of my writing group, and my dance classes. Oh - and my songwriting sessions with Vernon!

Those songwriting sessions have kicked into high gear now, because Vernon and I are having a show on October 18th at the Berkeley Jazz School. (Stay tuned for a fancy flier next week.) We're going to be performing mostly original songs that we've been collaborating on all summer. This will be the first time that anything I've written will be performed anywhere, so I'm very excited. Way to debut, right - with not just one original tune, but ten? Yikes!

Despite my nerves, I think it's going to be a great event. We're super pleased to have the esteemed Leah Tysse and Zoe Ellis on background vocals, as well as a stellar little band, and that makes this a show, folks. Like I said, stay tuned for a fancy flier next week, but until then, mark your calendars: Sunday, October 18th, 4:30 PM.

In other performance news, I'll be guest-singing (is that a phrase?) next Friday night at The Purple Onion. My good friend Danny Creed will be performing his stylistic sounds (as well as telling some hilarious stories), and he's graciously asked me to sing a couple of numbers. We'll be accompanied by the talented David Austin on piano, and there will also be a guest appearance by singer/songwriter Liz Clee. That's next Friday, September 25th at 8:00 PM. Call for reservations at (415) 217-8400. There is a $10 cover for this event.

Danny actually has a fancy flier for this gig, but as he is firmly of the old-school, I didn't even bother to ask if he could send me a digital copy. I'm not even going to tell you the lengths he goes to to read my blog on his Web-TV/computer-substitute-thingy. You'll just have to imagine him, leaning up against a piano, looking dapper in all black with a crisp white tie.

The Glide Ensemble's Wings of Song Concert/Live CD Recording was a big hit! We performed a slew of new tunes and the audience feedback was great. I was the only soloist who got to sing her song twice - an ambulance went wailing by during my first performance and ruined the recording, so we did it a second time! You can pre-order your copy of the new CD on Glide's website. The concert was also filmed, and I think they might be releasing a DVD as well.

If you missed this Glide event and you're anxious to catch the next one, you should join us on November 12th for Glide's annual holiday festival. This year is Cecil Williams' 45th anniversary at Glide, and we're hosting a special event at the San Francisco Opera House. From the 'Hood to the House, a benefit for Mo's Kitchen and Glide's programs, will feature Dr. Maya Angelou, the Alonzo King LINES Ballet, the San Francisco Opera Adler Fellows, the Glide Ensemble and Change Band, and various other special guests (I've heard some big names being bandied about). There will be a reception immediately following the event. Get your tickets early; this show is bound to sell out.

You can always keep an eye on my upcoming performances in the Latest News section of my website.

I hope to see you at one or more of these shows!

Well done, friend

2009-09-01T11:02:00.000-07:00

I should make it clear that I've been kidding around about Mike Gladis. He's an old friend, one of those guys that I'll love to the end of my days, and I'm proud of his success. It's true that we used to wander around New York and ponder our distant futures, but I never doubted that he'd make it.* His breakthrough is a testament to how hard he's worked these past many years, and he fully deserves every moment of these good times.

Well done, friend.

*(Despite the fact that our high school English teacher used to declare, at the end of her rope, "Michael, you're going to wind up making sandwiches for the military!")

Celebrity SUCCESS-ability!

2009-08-31T22:36:00.000-07:00

It worked! IT WORKED! LeVar Burton is following me on Twitter!

Wait, stop. If you don't know what I'm talking about, go no further until you read this post.

It's been two weeks since I wrote that entry, and I was starting to give up on the idea of hearing back from LeVar Burton or Wil Wheaton. But then Wil Wheaton tweeted this:

New post on my blog: the spambots on twitter are completely out of control.

I went to his blog and read all about how a recent change in functionality was making it impossible for him to locate his direct messages, because vicious, pornographic spambots were filling his @mentions tab with graphic invitations to do naked-type things. Because of his celebrity and his large number of followers, he was receiving an avalanche of bogus mentions and couldn't possibly sift through them to find my tiny friend request.

Aha! I thought. I'm still in with a chance! I wrote a comment on his blog post:

errin marie said...

Damn. Looks like I picked the wrong time to try and contact you via twitter. It was my first @anybody message and I was very excited about it. I'm glad I saw your tweet.

Anyway, I wrote a blog post about how I would like to be friends with you (and LeVar Burton). And then I sent you a tweet, ensuring you that I am not a crazy person.

It was not my intention to out myself as a supernerd here, but oh well. If you read my blog and decide you'd like to be digital friends, well, that would just be the coolest.

http://errinmarie.blogspot.com/2009/08/celebrity-accessibility.html

Sincerely,
Errin Marie

Unfortunately, my post was not very timely. Some fifty other people had already responded to his entry two days earlier, when he'd actually written it. You've got to be quick in this new digital age, folks.

So I waited a few days, thinking I might try again, but trying to be aware of that fine line between persistent, possible new friend, and annoying, possibly dangerous stranger.

And then Wil Wheaton's dog died. And he was wrecked by it. His blog post saddened me so thoroughly, I decided not to even write a comment below it. I didn't think some stranger's inadequate condolences could help him with his grief, so I just quietly doffed my hat to his sadness. I decided not to bother him anymore with what now seemed like a silly request for friendship.

I'd always thought I stood a better chance of hearing back from Wil Wheaton, as opposed to LeVar Burton, because of his online omnipresence and his interaction with fans via the blog. So when I realized that I'd probably not hear from Wil, I sadly gave up the idea of hearing from LeVar as well.

'Celebrity accessibility' is a joke, I said to myself, even in this digital age. I'm no closer to reaching my childhood hero than I was 25 years ago. The thought depressed me.

But then my buddy George sent me a tweet:

Hey Errin!! "Reading Rainbow is going off the air today after 26 years." Maybe NOW LeVar will have time to write you! ;)

Ha. I doubted it, but it certainly was coincidental timing.

My friend Heidi B. posted a link on Facebook to an NPR article about the end of the much-loved series:

The show's run is ending, Grant explains, because no one — not the station, not PBS, not the Corporation for Public Broadcasting — will put up the several hundred thousand dollars needed to renew the show's broadcast rights.

Grant says the funding crunch is partially to blame, but the decision to end Reading Rainbow can also be traced to a shift in the philosophy of educational television programming. The change started with the Department of Education under the Bush administration, he explains, which wanted to see a much heavier focus on the basic tools of reading — like phonics and spelling.

Grant says that PBS, CPB and the Department of Education put significant funding toward programming that would teach kids how to read — but that's not what Reading Rainbow was trying to do.

"Reading Rainbow taught kids why to read," Grant says. "You know, the love of reading — [the show] encouraged kids to pick up a book and to read."

Linda Simensky, vice president for children's programming at PBS, says that when Reading Rainbow was developed in the early 1980s, it was an era when the question was: "How do we get kids to read books?"

Since then, she explains, research has shown that teaching the mechanics of reading should be the network's priority.

I posted a comment on Heidi's link:

I found that explanation kind of weak. They realized that it's better to teach kids HOW to read instead of WHY to read, and so they cut funding to one of the most popular, long-standing children's shows of all time? Don't say it wasn't an effective method of teaching literacy - I learned to love reading largely because of LeVar Burton, and every book I've picked up since those days is because he taught me to look for the adventure inside. Stupid Bush administration.

Sorry, my politics are showing. Anyway, a few days later LeVar himself posted a link to the same NPR story on Twitter. And then today - TODAY, folks, he tweeted:

Tell me... What is your favorite episode of Reading Rainbow? #ReadingRainbow

Oh my. Oh my, oh my.

I wasn't entirely sure what the #ReadingRainbow tag meant. I scrolled through Twitter's FAQ section, trying to figure out how to interpret the # symbol, but I couldn't find any text that addressed it. I figured it was just some way of signifying a topic of conversation.

Quickly I wrote back:

@levarburton, you can read about my fav episode here: http://bit.ly/CUil4 . #ReadingRainbow

Oh! I was newly excited! Maybe this #ReadingRainbow tag would allow LeVar to find my message! I bet it was a direct link to all tweets concerning Reading Rainbow, and would bypass any nudie spambot traffic. Experimentally, I clicked on the #ReadingRainbow portion of the message, to see if I was right.

Oh crap. I was right, all right, but a bunch of people had already responded. I kept clicking at the bottom of the screen to dredge up more messages. Good Lord. It looked like this post had already generated hundreds of responses, and he'd only written it 26 minutes ago!

I sighed in frustration. Then I tweeted:

Man, I don't think I have a shot with LeVar Burton. He tweeted, 'What was your fav episode of Rdng Rainbow?' About a zillion folks replied!

I shook my head sadly in defeat. And as I closed the lid on my laptop, I closed the lid on my dream as well.

Ah. It had been a long shot anyway.

I ate some lunch. I had some soup and toast. Took a shower. Got ready to leave the house for my desk shift at the belly dance studio.

Moments before leaving, I was missing my cell phone. I scoured the living room for it before remembering that I'd never unplugged it that morning. It was still charging beside my bed.

Oops. I'd had it silenced all day. It flashed at me as I unplugged it: 2 TEXT MESSAGES.

Uh oh. I hoped nobody had been trying to reach me urgently. I plopped down on the bed and scrolled through my texts.

1/2: Direct from levarburton: I thought you had learned by now how silly it is to abandon your dreams. I am now following you so that we can keep in touch!

I started. I jumped off my bed, heart racing; my hand flew to my chest. The second text message read:

2/2: Direct from levarburton: BTW I LOVED your blog. 2 days well spent. You're a good writer!

Holy crap! Holy crap, HOLY CRAP!

But wait, this can't be real, I thought. I bet it's a prank. Yeah, you know, it's probably George, just trying to wind me up. Don't get excited.*

But my heart was beating like mad. I ran to my computer and pulled up my Twitter page. With shaking hands I clicked on my Followers tab.

HOLY CRAP!

It wasn't a prank! It was the real LeVar Burton! He was following me on Twitter!

LEVAR BURTON IS FOLLOWING ME ON TWITTER!

I ran in a circle. I picked things up; I put them down. I punched the sky in jubilation. I cut an honest-to-God caper. And then I realized I was going to be late for work. I grabbed my things and ran out the door.

Who to tell? Why, everybody of course! But who to tell first? I scrambled through my purse for my phone and dialed Monte as I walked my bike up the street.

"Baby! Baby guess what?" I babbled. "LeVar Burton is following me on Twitter! Honest to God. I left my cell phone on silence all day and just now I checked it and it said I had two new messages and I thought uh oh, I hope they're not important and they were from LeVar Burton! And I thought it was George pulling one over on me but it wasn't, it was honestly LeVar Burton and now he's following me on Twitter and I wanted to tell you first but now I have to go because I am late for work and also I have to call my Dad, I love you, buh-bye."

"Dad! Dad, guess what? LeVar Burton is following me on Twitter! Honest to God. Did you read my blog? Dad, you've got to keep up with my blog, there's lots happening, there's much going on and I can't be expected to keep you up to date all the time. Anyway, go read my blog post - no, not right now Dad, I have to go - but just, read it, okay, and then you'll know what's going on. But anyway, LeVar Burton sent me a message and he said 'Don't you know by now how silly it is to abandon your dreams?' and he READ MY BLOG, Dad, and he said I was a GOOD WRITER - no, I don't have time to explain all this to Aunt Barbara now, but go read the blog and it's all in there, I gotta go, I'm late, I just had to tell you this, I love you, buh-bye."

Then I raced up the street to the belly dance studio.

"LeVar Burton is following me on Twitter!" I announced to the owner, Samar, when I reached the studio. She looked at me blankly.

"LeVar Burton," I explained. "From Reading Rainbow." And the story tumbled out once more.

"Oh my God, that's incredible!" she shrieked. And then I shrieked a little, and she shrieked again, and then we wrung our hands in a terribly girlie fashion, and it was all wonderfully exciting, to have someone to shriek with over my truly amazing news.

I couldn't wait to check all the clients into the first class, so that I could turn my attention to my blog. I greeted everyone with an extra-bright smile, and ushered them quickly (but politely) into the studio. I was absolutely bursting to tweet my news.

Samar got ready to start her class. She stuck her head out the studio door and said to me, "Hey, what's that guy's name again?"

"LeVar Burton!" I exclaimed. "You know, Reading Rainbow, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Roots: The Saga of an American Family?"

"Right!" she said brightly. "Woo hoo!" She gave me a double thumbs-up and then shut the door.

Ah, well. I admired her enthusiasm, at least.

And for the past four hours I've been trying to write this post. But it's been an awfully busy night here at the studio and people keep needing things from me. Plus, the music is ear-splittingly loud, which I normally don't mind, but it doesn't do much for my concentration.

Oh, damn. The last class is letting out and it's time for me to close up. I'll have to post this entry when I get home.

Hang in there, world! I know you're desperate to know, and shortly I'll be able to tell you:

LEVAR BURTON IS FOLLOWING ME ON TWITTER!

So suck on that, Mike Gladis! Ha HA!

*Yo George, I'm sorry for thinking you'd do me like that.

When the moon is in the 7th house

2009-08-31T14:09:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I had my astrological chart done and it was a fascinating experience. My friend Linda Rose is an Astro-Therapist and Coach, and she had suggested that I come in for a session after I revealed to her some problems I'd been having relating to a close family member.

I was slightly hesitant. It wasn't that I was a disbeliever of astrology, more that I was not an active believer. My friends Giada and Morgan* are rather serious about it, and they often check in with some astrology website before making big decisions, but after that website steered me wrong a few times I decided that it was bunk. I take an interest in the whole nature vs. nurture debate, but I didn't lend much credence to the idea that the position of the planets at the moment of my birth had any impact on who I turned out to be.

Well, I'm going to have to re-think that.

Linda Rose met me at her front door with a hug, a glass of water, and folder. Inside the folder was my chart, my family member's chart, and a symbol key. "Did you bring a tape recorder?" she asked me. "Some people find it hard to absorb all this information in one sitting; you'll probably want to hear it again later. If you don't have one, I can record this on cassette for you."

I actually did have a little tape recorder on me, and I'm so glad I brought it. Because what she laid down for me was more than a mouthful, a seriously intense session that has given me a lot to think about.

Much of it is too personal to share here, but I'll give you the crux. She pointed at my chart, a wheel sectioned into twelve wedges, like slices of pie. Each wedge was called a 'house', she informed me. "You see your fourth house?" She pointed at it. It was packed with symbols, or planets, I guess. "This house symbolizes family and home life. Do you see how many planets you have clustered there? More so than anywhere else on your chart. This indicates that home and family are very, very important to you."

She unearthed my family member's chart and placed it right beside mine. "Look," she said, plunking her finger down squarely in his fourth house.

"There's nothing there," I said.

"That's right," she told me. "Family is simply not that important to him. He genuinely doesn't understand your need to know him, to be close to him. He doesn't have that need within himself."

I was quiet for a moment, letting that sink in.

"Wow," I said sadly. "That...that really sucks."

She looked at me kindly. "It doesn't mean that he'll never take an interest in you," she said. "But honestly, as long as you make it known that you're always there for him, he probably won't change. Try disappearing for awhile. He's the kind of person who seeks relationships that are slightly punitive. If you're a little bit mean to him, he might take more of an interest in you."

I turned that around in my head, trying to figure out if I could do it. Or if I even wanted a relationship that was won by subterfuge.

As though reading my mind, Linda Rose grinned and said, "It's a little devious. But look. I had a relationship like that with one of my family members. For years she had no interest in me, and finally I reached a place, completely organically, where I just stopped caring. I stopped trying with her. And almost right away, she came back into my life." She leaned forward and tapped the piece of paper again. "She had a chart very much like this one here."

I stared at his chart, not really seeing it. "I don't know," I told her. "It might be too late for me then."

Linda Rose shrugged. "It might. But look, as adults we're often capable of building bridges over old relationships, and appreciating one another in new ways. He's not a fully mature person yet. Give him some time. Meanwhile, you go off and keep living your life. You've got the better chart, you know," she said, eyeing me.

"I do?"

"Sure. Look at this." Again, she gestured to the two pieces of paper laying side by side. "Even just glancing at them, not knowing anything about how to read these symbols, you can see that your chart has a greater balance. Look how his planets are all clustered to one side." I could see what she meant. Although many of my planets were congregated in the fourth house, I also had an even sprinkling throughout the rest of my chart.

"You've done an admirable job of building a solid base to your personal life," she told me. "You've figured out early what's important to you - what you need in your life, not just what you want, which are often not the same thing - and you've gone about pursuing those things, which is smart. So when your success comes (and I believe that it will likely come, as you've been successful in all your past lives) you'll know how to handle it. It won't topple you, because you'll already know what's important to you. And you might look around and discover, eh, this isn't all it's cracked up to be."

I was examining my hands, but listening hard. I could scarcely have asked for a more accurate description of who I wanted to be. It felt like a benediction.

"It's nice to hear you say that," I said, looking up to meet her eyes. "Because at this stage in my life, all my friends are getting married, having children, buying homes... And when I compare my life to theirs, which I've been doing a lot of lately, I seem to come up short. I know that I shouldn't compare, but I can't help it. And those are the societal measuring sticks, you know? You never hear someone say, 'You've done a great job building up a base for your personal life'. Even though I feel like it's true, that's not something that gets noticed. All I see is that I don't have a house, I don't have kids, I don't have a job..."

Linda Rose waved her hand impatiently. "Everyone is unemployed right now," she said. "But your career is not your life. It's an important part of life to some people, yes, but it is not the whole of life. You may have success," she repeated, leaning toward me, "but it won't be the most important thing in your life. Your home life, your family life, your personal relationships, are what give you the most joy. So keep building those things!" she said. "And spend money on those things. Don't feel bad about it. You want a house. In fact, I'd say that buying a home will be one of the biggest moments in your life."

I wondered if I should tell her how much time I spend fantasizing about my dream home.

"Make your home into the place that you want it to be. You're meant to work out of your home, too," she said, "just like me." She started gathering papers, shuffling them into a pile. "Look, Errin, people are saying that this recession is almost over, that the bad times are coming to an end. I hate to tell you, but the bad time is just beginning. It's going to be here for awhile. So you have to live your life. You can't wait. Live your life now, and pursue those things that you need. That's the way to find satisfaction and peace." She snapped the papers smartly and put them back in the folder, then handed it to me.

"You're on the right path," she said.

It's been a few days since my reading, and I'm still digesting all that she told me. I have a feeling it will take me awhile to fully process it, and I'm going to have to go back and listen to that recording. But the idea, or the gift, that I'm left with, is this brand new way of looking at myself.

Is it because she told me exactly what I wanted to hear? I wondered. But no, she also told me some stuff that I didn't want to hear. I just didn't write much about it here.

I think I feel stronger. And more confident in myself, in whatever inner guide has been leading me down the right path all this time. To hear my life's needs articulated was kind of a revelation, and to be encouraged to pursue those needs, to actually be told that my job is to satisfy those needs, is slightly shocking. I mean, I've always been of the belief that we need to make ourselves happy in order to do our best work in the world, but rarely are we encouraged to do it. And, as Linda Rose pointed out multiple times in the course of my reading, so many people have confused what they want with what they need. A lot of us are walking the wrong path.

One thing that I do know for sure is that I have a brand new respect for astrology. And if you're curious about your own life path, I highly recommend Linda Rose. You can email her at rose@lindaroseastrology.com. She does telephone readings, too.

So go, follow your moon, not your sun! Or wait, follow your North Node, that's the one. Or maybe it's the South Node. Crap. I don't remember.

Well, go follow something, but consult a professional before you do it.

*Names were changed in a previous post.

Live in concert!

2009-08-26T23:54:00.001-07:00

I should have posted this earlier, but:

The Glide Ensemble is having a concert and tickets are selling out fast!

Wings of Song, a Spiritual Flight with the Glide Ensemble will take place in the Glide Sanctuary on September 13th at 5:00 PM. We'll be debuting lots of new music, which sounds even more fabulous on our brand new, state-of-the-art sound system! Also, the concert will be recorded for our upcoming Wings of Song CD, which you can pre-order through the Glide website.

And, ahem, I have a solo. A new one!

All proceeds to go toward funding Glide's 87 programs. Glide feeds the hungry 3 meals a day, 365 days a year, and offers assistance of all kinds to the community, from free medical care to free yoga.

This concert really is selling out fast - I learned today that there are only 65 seats left. So go to www.glide.org and get your tickets today!

Hurry!

Celebrity accessibility

2009-08-18T22:48:00.000-07:00

When I was in junior high, my friend Karly had a crush on Wil Wheaton. It was a pretty severe crush, bordering on obsession. I'm not saying that she was a stalker or anything, but at one point she did send herself flowers and address the card: To Karly, love Wil.

(It was not her proudest moment and 18 years later I'm still cringing for her. So I've taken the liberty of changing Karly's name here.)

Despite the fact that it rendered her slightly pathetic at times, I was a cheerleader for Karly's die-hard love, if only because she never doubted, not for one moment, that she would meet Wil Wheaton someday. And with the conviction of a besotted teenage girl, she knew that upon meeting him he would fall hopelessly in love with her. I had my doubts about that second part, but I still supported her. I admired her sheer force of will.

Now, these were the days before Twitter and Facebook and even email, and making direct contact with a celebrity was a virtually impossible thing to do, especially for a teenager from Connecticut. We didn't know then how much the world would change in just a few short years.

But Karly was not to be deterred. Late in our high school career she finally tracked Wil down at a Star Trek convention. Thankfully, after 6 years her furious ardor had dimmed to the level of a minor crush. She got his autograph and had her photo taken with him and she was satisfied.

But my admiration for her was renewed. Damned if that girl didn't get what she wanted, even if she had to wait a couple of years.

I myself had only a passing interest in Wil at the time. My father was a big fan of Star Trek: The Next Generation, and we spent more dinner hours than I'd like to recall eating off our laps in front of that show. It drove my mother crazy that we used the kitchen table more for storage than for family meals, and it drove my brother and I crazy because we had no interest in Star Trek. But any time the show was on, my father insisted that we watch it. Sometimes he would fall asleep in front of the TV and my brother or I would sneak the remote control out of his hand and change the channel. No matter how deeply my dad was snoring he would snap awake and proclaim dangerously, "I was watching that."

So I got to know the crew of the Starship Enterprise quite well. Wil Wheaton's Wesley Crusher became one of my favorite characters, in part because he was the only teenager on the show, and partly because of my appreciation for Karly and her steadfast devotion. Later on I saw Stand By Me, and by then I had to concede that Wil Wheaton was pretty cool.

A decade and a half later, someone referred me to wilwheaton.net. It was the first blog I ever saw, and I was amazed. It's like an online journal, I mused. I was struck by what a funny, regular guy Wil was. And what really surprised me were the conversations that sprung up in the blog's comments section. Fans would respond to Wil's posts, and quite often he would write back. How the world changes! I marveled. 15 years ago Karly would have sold a kidney to get in touch with Wil Wheaton, and now she could just post a comment on his blog and he would see it. And he might even write back!

So Wil Wheaton goes down in my mind's history as the first celebrity to really make himself accessible to his fans. And I quite admire him for it.

My other favorite crew member on the Starship Enterprise was Commander Geordi La Forge, played by LeVar Burton.

I have adored LeVar Burton since I was a preschooler. Reading Rainbow was my all-time favorite television show, and do you know, I don't think I've enjoyed a program so much since then. Before I could even tell time, I had a sixth sense that allowed me to abandon my play and rush inside moments before it came on the air. LeVar Burton took me into aquariums, costume shops, bakeries, pet shows and a hundred other worlds, and instilled in me a love of books that will never fade.

I wrote only two fan letters in my entire childhood, and the first one was to him*. It was written in crayon.

Sadly, I never mailed it. I think I had the idea that because my dad worked in television he'd be able to get my letter to LeVar (after all, he'd had no trouble passing my messages to Santa Claus). But Dad didn't know where to mail it either. I'm not sure what happened to that letter.

Oddly enough, it was years before I learned that LeVar Burton's first claim to fame was his role as Kunta Kinte in the TV miniseries Roots.

Growing up, we had a hard cover copy of Roots on the bookshelf in our living room. But who didn't? I developed a theory that every couple who had a child in the late seventies received a free copy of Roots when they left the hospital. All my friends' parents had a copy, but none of us knew what the book was about. I thought it was a dusty old tome about tracing your genealogy, which was my father's pet project.

But our copy of Roots was special. Inside the front cover the author Alex Haley wrote this inscription to my father:

October 6, 1976

Matthew, my brother, Kunta Kinte's family wishes the very best to you and your family!

Sincerely, Alex Haley

That was two weeks shy of a year before I was born. My father was producing a show called People Are Talking and Alex Haley was a guest. Roots had just come out and nobody knew anything about it yet.

I don't remember what convinced me to actually read the book. I think my father gave it to me for my birthday or for Christmas one year. He passed it on with such reverence, but at the time I was a little miffed that my present was something that had been sitting on our family's bookshelf my entire life.

But then I read the book, and lost myself to it. It became one of my all-time favorites. In the years since I have re-read it (or parts of it) dozens of times, but I have never been able to re-read the section where Kunta comes over on the slave ship. It was all I could do to read it once; I fought back nausea and tears the entire time.

Today, of course, I know what a treasure that book is. It holds a place of honor on my living room bookshelf now.

In 1977 the Roots TV miniseries hit the air and the greater American public became familiar with Alex Haley's story. But that was still months before I was born. I myself did not become aware of the miniseries until after I'd read the novel and subsequently studied the differences between the book and the series in an African American Literature course in college.

I was amazed to learn that LeVar Burton had portrayed Kunta Kinte on the screen. It seemed like I'd been bumping into that man my entire life, and he was still telling me wonderful stories. Butterflies-in-the-sky, boldly-going-where-no-one-has-gone-before kinds of stories.

Fast forward to the (nearly) current day. "Have you heard about this thing called Twitter?" my friend Katie asked me excitedly last year. "You can follow your friends through text messages and find out what they're doing all day!"

I didn't want to tell Katie how dumb that sounded. I couldn't foresee ever being interested in such a silly waste of time.

Katie, I formally and publicly apologize.

Of course, I'm a constant tweeter these days. I love sending out tiny highlights from my day to whomever may be reading. The challenge to be witty and informative in 140 characters is one that I just can't resist.

All the same, I keep my list of Twitter friends well-pruned. I only follow a small group of people, and among that group are only two celebrities: LeVar Burton and Wil Wheaton.

That was kind of a coincidence, to tell you the truth. Their names popped up on the right-hand side of my screen and I realized that I wanted to know what they were up to.

"I'm surprised you don't follow more celebrities on Twitter," remarked Monte, "since you love that kind of thing." He was referring to my collection of US Weekly magazines.

I shrugged. "Just because they're famous doesn't mean they're clever. I don't want to know what all those people are doing all day long."

"Is Wil Wheaties clever?" asked Monte.

"Wil Wheaton. Well, half the time he writes from the perspective of his cat. And the other half the time I can't really understand what he's saying. It's some kind of geek speak, I think. His wife seems pretty funny though.

"But that's not the point. The point is, I admire the dude for his normalcy, for making his celebrity so accessible. Did I ever tell you about my friend Karly?"

He listened gamely as I regaled him with the tale. "And LeVar Burton," I continued, "well...he was just my childhood hero. And he was Kunta friggin' Kinte, for God's sake." Monte blinked at me uncomprehendingly. "Oh, read Roots," I beseeched him. "And then we can watch the miniseries together and discuss the differences. It's only 12 hours long! We could do that in a weekend!" I called to his retreating form.

I was thinking about celebrity accessibility the other day as I walked home from dance class. I remembered that crayoned letter that I'd written to LeVar Burton. I wished I still had it; I wondered what it said. It's such a shame that I was never able to send it to him.

And it came to me, in a flash, that I could write to him again, today! In fact, I could send him a tweet! I could still let him know how much the stories he's chosen to tell with his career have meant to me.

And - hang on a minute - yes! Yes! Thanks to YouTube I can even show him my all-time favorite episode of Reading Rainbow, the one about teamwork, with the song that I'm still singing some 25 years later:

Oh my goodness, I'm going to do it, I thought. I'm going to tweet LeVar Burton and send him my fan letter.

But before I got the chance, that very afternoon in fact, I checked Twitter and read LeVar's latest post:

At The Soup doing another spot with the cast of Mad Men.

Say what now?

If you read my last blog entry you'll know that my old friend Mike has a role on Mad Men. He plays Paul Kinsey. Was LeVar Burton going to appear in a spot with Mike?

I logged onto Facebook. And sure enough, Mike's entire family had posted the clip:

"Holy shit," I said aloud.

Monte came up behind me. "Whoa, that's Gladis!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah," I said, disbelieving. "And that's LeVar Burton."

Monte studied the screen. "Which one?" he asked.

"The black guy!" I exploded. "Jesus - I'm going to make you sit down and watch an entire season of Star Trek.

"Damn that Mike," I said, shaking my head. "First he refuses to come to the junior prom with me, and now he's on TV, palling around with my childhood hero."

"Like, 16 years later," Monte calculated.

"Whatever," I sulked. "He probably never even watched Reading Rainbow. I'll bet he doesn't know the 'Teamwork' song."

"Don't be a pill," Monte admonished me.

"Sorry. I'm just jealous."

"Wait a minute. So Mike does a movie with Harrison Ford and Liam Neeson and that doesn't bother you, but you're jealous of a 30-second spot with LeVar Burton?"

"Did you not watch the 'Teamwork' clip?" I asked him.

Onscreen LeVar declared, "I'm LeVar Burton! I can do anything!"

"Yes you can, LeVar Burton," I murmured. "Yes you can."

I stood up abruptly. "I'm going to write a blog post," I said decisively. "And then I'm going to tweet it to LeVar Burton and Wil Wheaton. I'm going to test this theory of celebrity accessibility."

"Maybe Mike would introduce you," offered Monte.

"He, um, won't return my emails," I said, looking at the ground.

"So what, are you just going to ask these guys if they want to be your friends?" Monte questioned.

"Pretty much, yeah."

He clapped me on the shoulder. "Go for it, babe."

And so I have spent the last two days crafting this blog post.

All this to say:

Dear Wil Wheaton & LeVar Burton,

Would you like to be friends with me?

Sincerely,
Errin Marie

I hope they write back.

* The second fan letter was to Mariah Carey. I told her I wanted to be a singer like her when I grew up, and asked her if she was half black, like me.

The new Thirtysomething

2009-08-14T20:37:00.000-07:00

You ever wonder what women in their thirties talk about?

From: Giada
Subject: Wow
To: Errin, Heidi, Morgan

I don’t know what is going on with the world lately, but I had a totally ridiculous weekend and I am still trying to come to terms with it. I spent the whole weekend with my college friend Sara, who has one daughter and is due again in January. We visited our friend Catlin who already has two kids. Then we had lunch with my parents yesterday, and all my mom wanted to talk about was grandkids and Sara’s new little one. I was completely bombarded with baby/pregnancy talk, and I think it finally sent me over the deep end last night. I am seriously wondering if I live in the current century, or if it is still the 1950’s and that is the true measure of a woman’s worth: whether she has a family, and how many kids does she want?

I don’t mean to be insensitive to my friends, but really! I felt so outside of the conversation, I was starting to wonder if they could even conceive of the idea that maybe that was not the only type of existence that one might want at age thirty-something… It made me just want to rebel against the whole thing. I have resurrected my idea of moving into a warehouse and turning it into a painting studio. All the baby talk was stifling to say the least.

Do I sound totally ridiculous? Part of the problem is that I think that I am supposed to want that life, but now I am wondering if I have just been brainwashed.

(No offense meant, Heidi!)

Not to mention that work is unsatisfying right now, and I just don’t seem to have enough creative energy left at the end of the day to paint. I’m not sure if that is an excuse though, or if it is the brainwashing.

Signed,
Confused and Uninspired

From: Heidi
Subject: RE: Wow
To: Errin, Giada, Morgan

No offense taken.

I just got back from dropping Leo and Patrick off at the airport. They are off to Maine for 3 weeks. I got a little teary eyed, but I stopped myself from crying by thinking about my 3 weeks of freedom.

I’m so sorry if any of you are feeling baby pressure. If that is a role you are ready for, then it really is wonderful. You guys would all be amazing parents and I think any kids you may have in the future would be irresistibly lovable! Yes, it is a wonderful experience, but I do believe that my life could be just as satisfying and fulfilling without ever being a parent. Maybe that's why I'm such a good candidate for surrogacy - I don't get too attached. (Well, that and the fact that I have such easy pregnancies.)

Regardless, I love you guys for who you are today and how you impact my life in a positive way, not for who you may become in the future.

Thank you for accepting me, and Leo, with open arms, despite the fact that I'm the only mom (and to an 8-yr-old, no less!). You never made me feel like I was different. You are all perfect just the way you are – no babies (or even husbands) needed!

Signed,
Knocked up with Someone Else's Kid

From: Errin
Subject: RE: RE: Wow
To: Giada, Heidi, Morgan

My mother would say that our problem is that we all need to find rich men to marry, so that we may live lives of leisure, be they child-full or child-free. I think she's only partially kidding.

Anyway Giada, I think converting a warehouse into a painting studio is an awesome idea. You should totally look into that, and later on, if you discover you haven't been brainwashed after all, you can clear a little corner for a baby. I hear they don't take up much space.

I made the mistake today of Googling my friend Mike, who's on that TV show Mad Men. (Anybody seen it?) Well, I didn't realize he'd become such a big deal. Dimly I'd understood that a character role on a popular television series is a fairly big career move, but being that I don't have cable, I haven't kept up with the show. And when all these articles and photos popped up on my screen I was mildly shocked. The guy's had a photo spread in Playboy's Style Section, for heaven's sake! And all thoughts of babies just flew out of my head as I thought to myself, "God, I've got to get going on my career. Like, NOW."

Mike and I used to walk around New York City and ponder the distant future, wherein he was an eminent actor and I was a successful singer. Now he's broken out and I'm just broke.

I bought a secondhand guitar yesterday. I was determined to master it and launch myself as a singer-songwriter. I spent today staring at the guitar, too overwhelmed by it to actually pick it up. Yeah. These career plans are skyrocketing.

Signed,
Not Famous and Childless to Boot

From: Morgan
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Wow
To: Errin, Giada, Heidi

Giada, I love your warehouse studio idea. You should go for it. The world needs more of your art in it.

Errin, don't get discouraged. You have the talent, and now you have the guitar! You'll get there.

So I went house hunting this past weekend. It was my second time going out with a realtor. The first time I took Justin, which seemed like a good idea in the moment, but was probably not.

There was a cute little house that I had my eye on and we went to take a look at it. But when we got there, the realtor couldn't open the door. She jiggled the key in the lock for several minutes but it just wouldn't budge. We considered going through the doggy door but eventually opted against it. So we left that neighborhood and went to look at some other houses, none of which I liked quite as much. Some weren't even in my price range.

I found out today that another couple made a bid on the house, and I was surprised by how disappointed I felt. I wonder if they went through the doggy door? If they did, they probably deserve it more than me.

In other news, two of my closest work friends are leaving this month, which has hit me hard. And Justin's sister and her kids are coming to stay with us this weekend, which, I must admit, doesn't thrill me. I've only met her a couple of times and she wasn't super receptive to me. I guess I brought this on myself, but it still feels like life is particularly tough lately.

Signed,
House Hunting in Utah, of All Places

From: Giada
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Wow
To: Errin, Heidi, Morgan

Okay! Well then, the search is on for a live/work space!

Signed,
Stuff It, Baby-Makers

From: Errin
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Wow
To: Giada, Heidi, Morgan

Morg, I just want to point out that your Facebook status update yesterday said how much you were enjoying life in Utah. Not to undermine what you just said about life being tough, but just to remind you that life can seem really tough one day and be really great the next day. So just hang in there till tomorrow and there might be a shift!

Unless of course you want to ditch it all and come back to California, which seems like an entirely sensible decision to me. : )

Regarding Justin's sister, I think you just have to embrace the awkwardness. Just be your usual open and sunny self, and if she treats you strangely, give her a big smile and hit her with a statement like, "Guess I'm not going to marry your brother after all! Funny how life turns out, isn't it?"

She's not going to be your sister-in-law and you don't have to be friends. But she does have to be gracious and appreciative when she's staying in your home. Don't hesitate to remind her of that, if she forgets.

This might be a good opportunity (after they leave) to re-visit the topic of your living situation with Justin. He might see the merits of having his own space after such a crowded weekend.

Signed,
Not to Be Blunt, But it's Time to Kick That Man Off Your Couch

From: Morgan
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Wow
To: Errin, Giada, Heidi

Yeah, well, I went for a really great bike ride yesterday, which is why I was so upbeat. I guess I was trying to focus on the positive.

I know that I need to move out. I get that, but our current situation has been working, for the most part. Sometimes I enjoy it and it's reassuring, but other times it's hard and very confusing.

Giada, have you made any headway finding a live/work space?

Signed,
I Don't Really Want to Talk About It

From: Giada
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Wow
To: Errin, Heidi, Morgan

Not really. But I think I'm looking more as an exercise than because I really want to move. It just feels good to consider my options.

I'm thinking about going off the pill. It is giving me weird brown spots on my skin and I think that it kills my desire to paint. Am I playing with fire here? I haven't talked to Curran about it, but I've brought it up in the past and he never seemed too worried.

Or maybe it's just my dumb job that's sucking the creativity out of me.

Signed,
I Was So Happy Not to Get Laid Off But Now I'm Having Second Thoughts

From: Errin
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Wow
To: Giada, Heidi, Morgan

Do you really think the pill has something to do with your lack of desire to paint? I've never heard a claim like that before, but I find it really interesting. Does it make you feel lax in other ways?

I've been on the pill for so long, I'm not sure if it's affecting me in any way (other than the way it's supposed to). I'd probably just consider it a personality trait after 14 years. Jeez, I hope I can still have kids. 14 years is a long time to be on medication.

I do remember when I first started taking the pill - I was on an emotional roller coaster for a solid month. I felt completely out of control. After a few weeks my mood stabilized, but it's a large part of the reason why I haven't messed with my prescription since. I never want to go through that again.

It's kind of funny how you have a new-found fear of babies after having wanted to start a family for awhile, and now you're considering going off the pill. Maybe, deep down, you do want kids soon and your subconscious is acting for you! I'm only kidding, but it is an interesting thought.

Signed,
Who Do I Sue if it Turns Out I'm Infertile?

From: Heidi
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Wow
To: Errin, Giada, Morgan

I hate the pill! I realize that it has been very effective in limiting my number of offspring, but it really does have a negative impact on me. I always feel much better when I'm off it.

I switched pills a few years back and had an awful reaction - I was unbelievably moody and just plain mean-spirited, and I couldn't stand myself. My doctor wanted me to wait it out, but I stopped taking the pill and switched doctors. When I went to my new doctor to discuss other birth control options, I was shocked to learn that I was pregnant with Leo! That was not a conversation I had planned on having!

Since then, I have found pills that have fewer side effects. However, my life is always better off the pill - in fact, that was a big perk for doing the surrogacy!

Giada, you should know that I have only been off the pill twice, and both times I wound up pregnant within a month! Granted, the second time was for the surrogacy and the intent was to get pregnant, but still. I have come to realize that it really is the best birth control method for me, despite the negative side effects. It's a hard decision - I'm sure you'll do what's best for you.

Signed,
No Fertility Problems Here

From: Giada
Subject: I'm changing the subject
To: Errin, Heidi, Morgan

In truth, I think the answer is a little bit of Errin's message and a little bit of yours, Heidi. I do want kids, and not really deep down either; the desire is closer to the surface. I think my problem was more with my friend Sara's attitude. She acted like there wasn't any other option, and I realized that it is hard for me to relate to her right now, because I don't have kids. And what if I don't ever have them? Would we stop being friends? It just makes me sad that she doesn't seem to understand that a person could want something else.

You're right, Heidi - I would probably get pregnant right after I stopped taking the pill. I am pretty sure that I would feel more creative though, because I have experimented with it before. But then I would be pregnant and probably have no energy, let alone the time to paint. OK, maybe now is not quite the right time to go off the pill. But I am looking forward to the right time!

Signed,
The Brown Spots Look Like Freckles, Right?

From: Heidi
Subject: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Errin, Giada, Morgan

Now is probably not the best time for me to be talking to you. I just started my second trimester and I feel amazing!Tons of energy, lots of motivation. Honestly, if I could be 3 - 4 months pregnant all the time, I would!

I have another artistic friend who was tremendously inspired by her pregnancy and birth - although, I must say that becoming a mom has changed her a lot. I do find it hard to relate to her at times. That may sound strange, considering that I am a mom too, but we seem to have very different parenting styles and priorities. I guess my point is that even if you do have kids, you may discover that you and Sara are still drifting apart.

Signed,
One of Those Annoyingly Perky Pregnant People

From: Morgan
Subject: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Errin, Giada, Heidi

Heid, I'm glad you're feeling so great, but I have a friend who's also in her second trimester and she's been just miserable throughout her entire pregnancy. I keep telling her how amazed I am at the differences between your two experiences. She asked me to pass this along:

From: Morgan's Friend
Subject: FW: Please send this to your friend too
To: Morgan

I am 4.5 months pregnant now, well beyond the point where I'm supposed to stop feeling sick. I'm still really sick. Really, really sick. I throw up at least twice a day. I estimate that I've thrown up approximately 211 times since I got pregnant, including this morning.

Everybody says that it will get easier, and it has. I used to throw up five times a day.

Don't get me wrong. I am happy I'm having a baby. I think of my little girl every day. I sing to her and rub my belly and tell her that I love her. But it is not easy. It is the hardest thing I've ever done. (I've done three Ironmans, one with a torn Achilles. I've done one 100-mile mountain bike race without training. I've recovered from a bike wreck that smashed my face and left me without feeling in my cheek for more than two years. I have survived the deaths of my beloved stepfather and my best friend. I know what hard is.)

I also know that I will be happy to have just one baby, because I sure as hell am not going through this again. Ever.

Signed,
Puking in Park City

From: Errin
Subject: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Giada, Heidi, Morgan

All I've got to say to that is: Damn.

From: Heidi
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Errin, Giada, Morgan

Wow! No wonder some people look at me like I am a saint for carrying someone else's child. Honestly, if pregnancy was at all challenging for me, I would never have considered being a surrogate.

Morg, I cannot believe all that your friend has to deal with. That’s awful. I'm a little embarrassed now for gloating about how wonderful I feel. (Although, I really do feel fantastic!) Don’t get me wrong, I am dreading that last month of pregnancy – it is no fun at all, but it doesn't last that long. (Remind me I said all this when I complain about being miserable at 8-and-a-half months pregnant).

Honestly, my biggest problem with this pregnancy is explaining to everybody that I won't be keeping the baby.

Signed,
Just the Incubator

From: Giada
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Errin, Heidi, Morgan

I can see how that would be a challenge. I guess some people will have a problem understanding your decision. But Patrick and Leo are okay with it, right? And they're the most important people.

How did your boss take the news?

Signed,
Slightly in Awe of You

From: Heidi
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Errin, Giada, Morgan

My boss is fine with it. I ran it past her before I got pregnant, and she was remarkably cool about it. But because I'm so visible at my job, and because I work with kids and parents, I know I'm going to get a lot of questions about the pregnancy. And some people will certainly not understand my decision. My boss actually suggested that we make an FAQ poster and hang it above my desk so that I don't have to keep explaining myself.

Patrick and Leo have been very understanding. Leo was a little bummed out at first not to be getting a sibling, but after we talked about how babies cry all the time and need so much attention, he sort of lost interest. And Patrick has been great. Very respectful, very "your body, your choice".

The person who's having the most trouble with it so far is my mom. For one thing, she's upset that she's not going to have another grandchild, but she's also not-so-okay with the fact that I'm doing this for a gay male couple. And the interesting thing is, it's not so much because they're gay, but it's because they're two men. She really believes that a baby needs a mother.

I was surprised and a little sad to learn that she felt that way.

From: Errin
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Giada, Heidi, Morgan

I'm glad your boss is so cool with this. Although, if you think about it, it's probably the ideal situation for an employer. You're getting outside insurance and you don't need maternity leave. Jackpot.

I'm sorry about your mom though. Have you explained to her your reasons for doing this?

By the way, what exactly are your reasons for doing this?

Signed,
Just Curious

From: Heidi
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Errin, Giada, Morgan

It's pretty simple. I never really intended to have kids, but then Leo came along and he's been such a joy to me, such an amazing part of my life. And my pregnancy was so easy, it almost felt like I'd cheated, you know? So many women have fertility problems or difficult pregnancies, and I had neither. Plus, my mom needed fertility assistance to conceive Morgan and I, and I grew up with an awareness that I wouldn't be alive without medical intervention.

Then a year or two ago Morgan and I were talking about babies and biological clocks, and she mentioned that she was worried that she might not be able to have a kid when her chance rolled around. And I just said, "I'll be your surrogate." I said it without really thinking it through, but I've been thinking about it ever since, and I realized that I really wanted to do it. Not for her, necessarily (although I'll still be your surrogate if you need me, Morg), but for somebody who couldn't have kids of their own. Like a gay male couple!

I know some people will think I'm doing it for the money - and don't get me wrong, the compensation is nice - but that's not why. It just feels like something meaningful that I can do, something important to me.

Signed,
Funny Where Life Will Lead You

From: Errin
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Giada, Heidi, Morgan

That's pretty incredible, Heidi. And whether you intended to or not, I bet you're going to teach a lot people about selflessness and tolerance as you go through this experience. I'm very proud of you!

Morgan, how do you feel about the whole thing?

Signed,
She Asked Delicately

From: Morgan
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Errin, Giada, Heidi

I guess I felt a little wistful at first, knowing that I wasn't going to be an aunt again. I mean, it is a little strange watching your sister go through a pregnancy and knowing that there won't be a baby at the end. (Well, there will be - just not for our family.) But it's something that Heidi really wants to do, and I respect that.

I do think it's too bad that she can't bike the Tour de Cure with me this year though.

Signed,
I Can Get Over the Baby Thing, But I'm Kind of Pissed That I Lost My Riding Partner

From: Giada
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Errin, Heidi, Morgan

I'm proud of you too, Heidi!

This is a very interesting email chain we have going on here. It should be a book or a film. You can't make this stuff up.

Signed,
Do You Think Drew Barrymore Would Play Me in the Movie?

From: Errin
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Giada, Heidi, Morgan

Or a TV series. The new Thirtysomething.

You know Giada, I never saw the resemblance between you and Drew Barrymore until you brought it up, but now it's undeniable. I bet she would play you. She would probably also hang out with us and we would become great friends. I see it all happening.

Signed,
I Want Halle Berry to Play Me

From: Morgan
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Errin, Giada, Heidi

Who would play me and Heidi? Don't say the Olsen twins.

Signed,
I Can't Think of Any Other Hollywood Twins

From: Giada
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: I'm changing the subject
To: Errin, Heidi, Morgan

How about Katherine Heigl in split-screen? You know, Parent Trap style?

Signed,
Ha, The Olsen Twins

From: Errin
Subject: But seriously
To: Giada, Heidi, Morgan

That could work!

In all seriousness though, we do have some pretty interesting story lines happening here: pregnancy, relationships, career, home-ownership... Would you guys mind if I blogged about it? I'd probably use some stuff verbatim, right out of our emails. But I'd change your names if you'd like.

Of course, some people might figure out it's you, Heidi, when I mention the whole surrogacy thing.

It's just a thought. I won't do it if anybody's less than comfortable with it.

Signed,
I'll Make You Famous

From: Morgan
Subject: RE: But seriously
To: Errin, Giada, Heidi

I'm okay with it, I think - I don't see why I shouldn't be. Happy writing!

From: Giada
Subject: RE: RE: But seriously
To: Errin, Heidi, Morgan

I don't mind. Take it away! I don't care if you use my real name or make up a name for me.

From: Heidi
Subject: RE: RE: RE: But seriously
To: Errin, Giada, Morgan

Feel free to blog about me. Like Giada said, I don't care if you use my real name or create a fabulous fake one.

From: Errin
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: But seriously
To: Giada, Heidi, Morgan

It might get kind of personal. I'm probably going to include all that stuff about the pill.

From: Giada
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: But seriously
To: Errin, Heidi, Morgan

Oh. Maybe you should change our names then.

From: Morgan
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: But seriously
To: Errin, Giada, Heidi

Hmm. Yeah, maybe you should.

From: Errin
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: But seriously
To: Giada, Heidi, Morgan

Consider it done.

Imaginating

2009-08-12T00:18:00.000-07:00

In the lovely neighborhood a few blocks away from my own less-lovely neighborhood, there is a lovely dress shop that sells custom gowns. It is flanked by a bakery and a chocolatier, and on the same block you'll find a small produce market, a flower stand, a coffee shop and a chic little tavern.

I love to walk down this street. I love it in the mornings, when the line for fresh-drip coffee winds around the block and the surplus of customers sit on plastic crates along the sidewalk. I love it in the afternoons when the scent of cookies wafts out the bakery door and little kids are queuing for gelato in the chocolate shop. I love it in the evenings when the open windows of the tavern invite passersby to engage in the dinnertime clamor. And every time I walk down this street, I love to look in the windows of the dress shop and see what the mannequins are wearing. Sometimes I'll stop and stare at the shop window for several minutes, admiring the cut or color of a certain dress. I never go inside, but I always appreciate the window display.

Today when I walked by the shop, the windows were covered in brown paper. A big orange sign was plastered in the center window. The sign said simply:

WE QUIT.

We quit. What a sad (albeit witty) way to call an end to a business. And it struck me what those two words were saying: We have tried to keep this dream of ours alive, but in the current economy, etc., etc. It's not a new story. Several other storefronts in the neighborhood have posted lengthier versions on their own blacked-out windows. It's not a good time for the small business owner.

"I haven't seen a FOR SALE sign in their window," commented Monte when I told him that the store was closing.

"That's because there wasn't one. Literally, it was there yesterday and gone when I walked by today. The sign said 75% OFF, but the windows were covered and the door was locked. It didn't look like they had any stock left to sell."

Monte shook his head. "I wonder what will take its place."

"We should open a store," I said jokingly. "It's great real estate, lots of foot traffic."

"Pff. Are you kidding? I would never open a retail shop. It's a dead industry."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean the future is in e-tail. You can get anything you want online. Think about all the costs associated with a brick and mortar business: rent, taxes, product surplus. It's not worth the investment anymore."

I frowned. "But what will happen to neighborhoods?" I asked.

Monte shrugged. "Restaurants, I guess."

"Restaurants alone do not make a neighborhood." I stared into space for a few moments, thinking.

"Hey," I said to Monte. "If you could open a store and you didn't have to worry about overhead costs or turning a profit, what would you sell?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean, if you could run a store that was MONTE'S STORE and sell only things that mattered to you, what would you sell? And they don't have to be things that make sense together. Just things that you love. What would they be?"

"I think you've asked me this before," he said.

"I may have."

He pondered the question for a minute. "I would sell pictures," he stated.

"Pictures? Like photography equipment?"

"No, not equipment. Just pictures."

I grinned. That was exactly what I was talking about: not the things that sell, but the things you love.

"And golf clubs," he added.

I laughed. "Of course."

"What would you sell?" he turned the question back to me.

"What would I sell?" I mused.

Yarn. I would sell yarn. Big colorful balls of it, fluffy skeins piled high in baskets, hand-dyed loops hanging from the wall.

And books. Secondhand books, the kind that have been loved many times over before you find them, and smell of age, with well-worn, oft-thumbed pages. My store would be filled with couches and over-stuffed chairs, and customers could sit and read, or knit, for hours.

And there would be a juice bar, with a counter like you'd find in an olde soda shop, where you could buy green smoothies or fruity concoctions. Or coffee. Because even though I don't drink the stuff I do love the way it smells.

"Hula hoops?" asked Monte, breaking into my reverie.

Yes, hula hoops. And there would be a dance space attached to the shop, with beautiful hardwood floors and a high ceiling. One wall would be mirrored and another wall would be exposed brick, studded with pillar candles on small mantelshelves. I'd have yoga and dance classes all day long.

And I would sell fresh fruit and vegetables, and other farmers market wares. Local honey, freshly baked bread, beautiful flowers. There would be a space, too, for musicians to play as people shopped or browsed.

And just like Monte's store, I would have pictures on the wall. Pictures for show, pictures for sale: beautiful color shots of scenery, stark black and white portraits. And paintings, too. I would showcase my friends' art. I have some very talented friends.

I gave a happy little sigh thinking about ERRIN'S STORE and all the things that I love. What ambiance. Maybe one day, if I ever strike it rich and don't have to worry about turning a profit, I will open a store that exists only for the purpose of serving these pleasures. A place for people who enjoy these same things that I love.

I wouldn't sell dresses. But I would put a mannequin in the window, and I would change her outfit every week. A little eye candy for the people who never come inside but always appreciate the window display.

What would you sell in your store?

Making a miracle

2009-08-06T17:12:00.000-07:00

OneMama needs our help!

I got this message from Siobhan this morning:

I feel like a bit of a failure. I have failed to raise the money I need to get everything for the clinic to see us through for the next 6 months. I am short $2,000.

It takes about $9,000 to $10,000 every 6 months to get all the birthing supplies and medicines, medical supplies, malaria tests and treatments, and then pay logistical and legal fees. Since so many NGOs are closing down now, our clinic is seeing an increase in people and we are not equipped. $2,000 will supply the bare minimum to get us through until January.

I know God will provide. It is just hard sometimes to know where to push and where to be still in God's will. I know I can't do it all, but it's not always that simple when people's lives are at risk.

In case you're not yet familiar with her work, my friend Siobhan is the founder of OneMama, a non-profit organization dedicated to bringing resources and awareness to the plight of women in impoverished, rural communities. She has begun this noble work with a pilot program in Uganda, and has opened a birthing clinic where women can go to have their babies in safe and clean conditions, as well as receive pre-natal and post-natal care.

I strongly urge you to check out OneMama's website and learn more about the movement that Siobhan has begun in Uganda. It is wholly inspiring. So it hurt my heart a little today to see her message that she feels like a failure.

$2,000 is not that much money. Not when it's split amongst many people.

Can you donate $5 to OneMama today? Go to www.onemama.org/give and click on Direct Donations to help Siobhan keep her clinic open.

I'm asking people to give just $5 because it's a small sum of money that, multiplied by a few hundred people, can make a huge difference. If you're moved to give more, please do. And please, help me spread the word. Link your Facebook or Twitter account to this post, or to OneMama's website. Tell your friends. This is a very achievable goal, and we can make a miracle happen for a woman who's making miracles happen for women everywhere.

Thank you for your help!

Summer

2009-08-04T21:18:00.000-07:00

Today the sun was out when I woke up. Yes, I woke up a little late, but that's not the point. The point is that the sun was out. It was actually going to be a proper summer day.

I don't tend to miss the summer all the much, living here in the Bay Area. I mean, I don't miss those hot, humid days that are particular to the East Coast. I don't miss mosquitoes or the smell of freshly cut grass (which will send me into spasms of allergies), or the hell that is seasonal bathing-suit shopping. I never fared well in hot weather. But I do miss those warm summer nights, the kind where you can head out in your shorts and tank top and not have to worry about catching a chill. I do miss the way a scorching day relaxes into a balmy evening, the gathering of a neighborhood crowd at the local ice cream shop, the sight of people lounging on their front stoops. Brooklyn was a great place to while away a summer evening, I'm remembering.

But lately I've also been missing those summer days, because for all our pleasant Bay temperatures, the sun has not been a consistent visitor this season. It can be shocking to note the date, to realize that August has come, summer is nearing its end, and we've scarcely had a taste of it.

So when I woke up this morning it was with real joy that I spotted the sun outside my window.

Walking home from belly dance class at midday, drenched with sweat and looking a mess, I was so pleased to be exactly where I was. There was such a rightness to it, such a simple pleasure in letting the breeze cool my skin and whip my hair into a tangle. I felt like a kid, and not even like the kid I used to be: I was unconcerned with my appearance, pleased to be sweaty, happy with the flip-flopping noise my shoes made on the sidewalk. I stepped on every crunchy-looking leaf I could find.

I was reluctant to go home and shower, since all I wanted to do was air-dry in the sun. But then the thought struck me that it was Tuesday, and I could get some lunch at the farmers market.

I love a good farmers market. And it was such a farmers market type of day! I purposefully put on baggy, wrinkled shorts and an old t-shirt. I wanted nothing but comfort, and though I'm fond of chastising other bikers for not wearing helmets, I left mine at home so I could feel the wind blowing through my hair. (Don't tell anyone.)

I had a taste for grilled corn with chili and lime, but before I bought my lunch I walked the long lane of market wares, searching for the Early Girl dry-farmed tomatoes that I love so much. When I found them I nearly clapped my hands with glee. How had I gone all summer without tasting them?

For someone who doesn't cook often, I choose my produce very seriously. Something about it soothes me, laying my hands on each piece of fruit, squeezing it ever so gently to test for firmness or give, bringing it to my nose to inhale its scent. The tomatoes were little vibrant globes, so brightly red that they fairly shone; they looked as full of promise as they did of flavor. Do you know what I mean? It seemed as though biting into one of those tomatoes would make me feel more alive, somehow.

Tenderly, I placed each chosen tomato into a paper sack. Although my impulse was to buy plenty - last season I used to buy them by the dozens - I thought carefully about what I would actually eat in the next few days and bought a few less than I thought I'd want. I understood that I would appreciate them more that way.

After paying an exorbitant price for my tomatoes (for all its earthy candor, the farmers market is not cheap) I bought two large ears of roasted corn, slicked with lime and sprinkled with sea salt and chili powder. Almost as soon as I'd passed over my money I realized that I didn't really have the appetite for two ears of corn; my eyes were bigger than my stomach. But I ate them anyway, sitting on the sidewalk with my bags spread around me, dropping burnt flecks of corn husk on my bare legs. I ate like a child: noisily, messily, wholeheartedly, and when a bug wandered up my leg I let it wander, rather than brushing it away. I didn't fuss over the grit that landed in my open water bottle, or the drip of sweat that was starting underneath my shirt. I just sat there and enjoyed the sun on my skin, the tingling of my lips from the chili powder, the repetitive song of the nearby guitar player. I just enjoyed eating grilled corn on the cob on a summer afternoon.

I'd brought a magazine, but I didn't bother to read it. Instead I watched the people around me: the young hippie mothers with coiled dreadlocks sharing bits of their surprisingly un-vegetarian lunches with their toddlers; the white-haired man trying to register voters; the woman who'd dressed incorrectly for the weather in winter leggings and an unforgiving long-sleeved turtleneck dress; the grandmother covered in tattoos. I listened to snatches of conversations about babies taking swimming lessons, what fruits were in season and President Obama. And when I'd polished off my corn and one of my precious tomatoes, I wandered down the aisle again, this time with an intent to shop.

I tasted new peaches and pluots, and bought two large nectarines. (The other night Monte and I ate nectarines baked with cinnamon and nutmeg, and I couldn't get enough.) I snapped pictures of sunflowers and bushels of apples, baskets of blueberries. I prodded several avocados before choosing two that were just shy of ripe. I bought a container of tiny, sweet strawberries. I considered a beautiful purple eggplant. I tossed a dollar into the guitar case of an old man playing Motown tunes.

And then I loaded up my bike and set off for home, the wind still playing with my hair.

Tonight

2009-08-01T14:03:00.000-07:00

I must apologize for neglecting my blog for a solid month. I was on vacation for half of that time, and the other half has been spent trying to get back into the swing of my life. I should always allot twice as much time for vacation as I actually need, because even though I've been home in body, my mind is still floating somewhere halfway between here and Wisconsin.

Yes, I was in Wisconsin, visiting family and working on my accent. I sang at my cousin's wedding, which was lovely, and I caught up with all sorts of relatives. I also spent some precious time with my grandmother in the hospital, which is another reason I've been absent here online...my mind is with her as she makes her way through these final stages of Alzheimer's.

There's much to catch up on and much to do, but first and foremost, and of primary importance, I must tell you about my gig tonight with Yung Mars. He's a talented hip-hop fellow that I had the good fortune of finding on Craigslist, and I did the background vocals on a few tracks off his upcoming sophomore album. Tonight we'll be performing at Grant & Green Saloon in North Beach at 9:30 PM. It's a free show, so come on out if it's not past your bedtime (and don't be embarrassed if it is - I'm usually in my jammies by 9:30).

More blog posts to come - I promise! - but for now, I've got some running around to do. Hope to see you tonight!

2 events you should check out

2009-07-02T16:27:00.000-07:00

You may have read about my friend Siobhan's nonprofit organization, OneMama. In addition to being a source of hope for Ugandan women and a source of inspiration for the rest of us, Siobhan throws a hell of a party. I highly encourage you to attend her July 11th OneMama Fundraiser & Fashion Show and find out for yourself.

OneMama Fundraiser & Fashion Show
Saturday, July 11, 2009 - 8:00 PM
Descend Salon - 2185A Union St., San Francisco, CA
Tickets: $35 pre-order, $40 at door

A Night of Fashion, Music, Fun and Giving

Join OneMama Inc. in our efforts to empower women and families of rural impoverished communities around the world to be healthy, educated, and financially successful. Our current goal is to raise $100,000 to build an on-site solar health clinic in Uganda, continue HIV and Malaria prevention programs, and provide midwives with critical medical supplies. Come celebrate our accomplishments and support our continued efforts to save lives and build healthy, sustainable environments worldwide. "We all want to feel like we are loved and matter in this world!"

Click here to watch Siobhan's "Aha Moment" OneMama commercial,
made by Mutual of Omaha

My friend Leah, who you may recognize from previous posts, is singing at Yoshi's San Francisco on July 21st. You do not want to miss this show.

Leah Tysse

Award-Winning Original Soul/R&B/Neo-/Blues Singer

Tuesday, July 21st, 2009 - 8 PM & 10 PM
Yoshi's San Francisco
1330 Fillmore Street, SF
Tickets: $10 advance/$14 day of show/all ages
www.yoshis.com / (415) 655-5600

A portion of show proceeds goes to Glide Memorial Church, which feeds the hungry, trains the jobless, treats those without medical insurance and houses the poor and homeless.

I've got some pretty remarkable friends, don't you think?

Go ahead, ladies! Go on with your bad selves!

Hurry up and wait

2009-06-30T22:29:00.000-07:00

It was 11:30 in the morning when about forty of us, dressed in black, converged on the entrance to the Moscone Center.

We were the Glide Ensemble, and we were there to perform for the First Lady.

"I can't tell you who you're singing for on Monday," said Cecil at our last choir rehearsal. "But we need your social security numbers for the Secret Service check."

About twelve seconds later it was confirmed via whispers that Michelle Obama was coming to town for the National Conference on Volunteering and Service, which was being held at the same venue and time that were were scheduled to perform. Ho ho!

Our sound check, which was originally scheduled for 7:15 AM, had been pushed back to 10:30, and then pushed back again to 11:30. These changes in plans were not unusual for Secret Service gigs. Last year when the Ensemble performed at a Hillary Clinton event, the Secret Service made us go through hell and high water just to get into the venue. They pawed through all our belongings, refused to permit our unopened case of bottled water and confiscated my umbrella. (Although I eventually got it back, after explaining patiently to three separate guards: "It's raining.")

So this time I'd emptied my bag of anything that might be impounded. The only thing I'd chanced to bring was my camera. I'd run the risk of getting it confiscated for the opportunity to take a picture of the First Lady.

We stood on the corner for a good long while, looking a bit like Secret Service ourselves in our all-black attire. About fifteen minutes into our wait, I had to use the restroom. I poked my head into the venue.

The Moscone Center is huge. The entryway alone is as large as a dance hall. I headed for the restroom sign and realized as I approached that it was behind security lines. "Can I use this bathroom?" I inquired of a security guard. He informed me that I'd have to go up two flights and use the restroom up there. I decided to wait; the last thing I wanted to do was get separated from my group and denied entrance if they went through security without me. I went back outside.

Thirty minutes later we were still standing on the corner. We'd been heckled by a driver-by who screamed insults at us through his car window. ("What does he have against volunteering?" somebody wondered aloud.) We'd witnessed a showdown between the driver and a street vendor, who shrieked at each other for a frightening moment before the driver pealed away. And I had been standing with my legs crossed for the last quarter of an hour. Just when I was thinking about darting to a nearby Starbucks to avail myself of their facilities, somebody shouted, "Line up! We're going in!"

"OK, change of plans!" announced Dave, one of our sound guys, as we filed into line. "I know we were told that after sound check we could leave the building and come back for our two o'clock performance call. But now they're saying that once we're inside, there is no re-entry. OK guys? Once you're in, you're in."

"But what about those folks who aren't coming until two o'clock?" somebody asked. Not everybody could make the sound check, so there was a second wave of choir members coming that afternoon.

"I'll be out here to escort them in," assured Dave. "They'll be all right."

We each received a Backstage badge with our name and group written on it. "The name on your badge must be your legal name!" said Dorian, one our choir leaders. "It has to match the information that we gave to the Secret Service." I rifled through my bag and pulled out my ID, ready to show it to security.

But security didn't ask for my ID. In fact, none of us had to prove that we were actually the people that our badges claimed us to be. But they did make a big deal out of our group arrival. "Stay with your group!" I was directed. Nobody was to be admitted on their own.

Once through security, my main order of business was to find a restroom. The arena was enormous:

and after canvassing the perimeter I couldn't find the bathroom. I approached a group of police officers and their (slightly scary) police dog. "Excuse me," I asked. "Where is the restroom?"

"Back outside," one of the officers said, pointing at the doors through which we'd just come.

"Oh, but isn't there one in here?" I asked with a hopeful smile. "You see, I've already been through security."

"No bathrooms in here," said the officer, turning away. The dog glared at me; I retreated.

I crossed the great space to the stage and approached a group of people in headsets. "Excuse me," I said, trying to sound authoritative. "Where is the restroom?"

"There are no restrooms in here," one of the women said to me. "You have to go back outside."

I bit back a frustrated sigh. "But they wouldn't let me use the bathroom outside," I explained. "And now that I've been through security, I can't get separated from my group." The woman turned her back on me, already involved in another conversation on her headset.

"This is ridiculous!" I exclaimed to nobody. "You've quarantined us all in here! We must have access to a bathroom!"

"Errin," somebody called, and I looked up to see Don K., our other choir leader, beckoning me. "There's a bathroom behind that curtain there," he said furtively. He pointed me to the backstage area.

"God bless you, man," I said to him, and sprinted toward the curtain.

It may have been my high-speed approach that alerted the guard. He held his hand out to stop me.

"I'm just going to use the restroom," I said casually.

"There are no restrooms back here," he said. He tried to stare me down.

I thought: This man is lying to me.

"Are you telling me," I said, trying to control my temper, "that there are absolutely no restrooms in this entire facility?"

"Restrooms are outside, ma'am."

"But that's beyond the security checkpoint!" I protested. "I can't get back in here once I'm separated from my group!"

He shrugged. "That's not my problem."

It suddenly occurred to me why the Secret Service had confiscated my umbrella at our last gig. It would have made a handy weapon indeed.

Left with no alternative, I made for the exit door. A pleasant looking security guard was standing beside it.

"Excuse me," I said. "I desperately need to use the restroom, and I've been told that the only one available is out here. Will I be allowed back inside if I exit?"

"Sure thing," he said cheerily. "You're still inside the security rope. It's not a problem."

"Really?" I cried, and he gave me a sunny smile. I wanted to kiss the man. But still I was uncertain. I couldn't quite trust him. I took a cautious step outside and approached a different security guard.

"Pardon me," I said, waving my backstage pass. "I was just in there." I pointed emphatically to the big room. "I was told that I could use the restroom and not have to go back through security. Is that true?" I stared at him intently, my eyes round with hope.

"Yeah," he said. "You're fine." My sigh of relief was so great it almost negated my need for the facilities.

Nothing could stop me now! I charged toward the restroom door with great purpose.

"Stop!" A new security guard held his hand out toward me. "You can't go back there."

"I'm going to the restroom!" I said with barely contained hysteria.

"No, no. Not back there," he said.

"But sir," I said, preparing to freak out, "this is the only one there is! Please."

He faltered. I could sense his weakness. I lapsed into a Dickensian dialect, imploring him with my orphan-like eyes. "Please sir," I begged him. "Oh, please."

He flagged. "All right," he said reluctantly, stepping aside to let me pass. I flew to the Ladies' on winged feet.

Here I must pause in my narrative to admit that I've had to use the bathroom three times while writing this. And I'll be impressed if you didn't have to go to the bathroom while reading it.

OK, back to the story. I sauntered casually back toward the great room, but nobody even attempted to stop me. Apparently all the security was tied up protecting the bathroom area.

The choir was congregating on the stage for a sound check. "Can I have your attention?" called a woman wearing a headset. Not, I noted, the same woman who'd been so unfeeling about my restroom situation. There was a whole flock of headsetted people.

"We're going to take you through your part in the program and then bring you to your holding area upstairs. Hey guys, could you please keep it down?" she said to the band, who were checking the levels on their instruments. The band looked a little bewildered, which was only fair, given that the purpose of a sound check is to check the sound.

I was on the end of the soprano section and a handler stood nearby. "Could she maybe use a microphone?" I asked him. Even without the band playing it was hard to hear the woman talking in the cavernous space. She was standing right beside the solo mic, but she wasn't using it. The handler darted forward and posed my inquiry to the woman. She shook her head sharply and he came back to me to report: "Uh, no."

OK.

So we all strained our ears to hear this woman issue her no-nonsense instructions. "You will be escorted from your holding area down to the backstage area. If you need to use the bathroom, you're SOL. Use the bathroom upstairs, cause once you're down here you'll just have to hold it."

Wait, was she the woman who wouldn't let me pee?

"You're going to sing three songs. Applause, applause, applause. Then the color guard will come out and do their thing. Tomiko will lead you in the National Anthem. When she is finished singing she'll leave the stage. Then the color guard will do their thing again and they'll leave the stage. When they are finished, and I mean not until the last foot has left the stage, John will start your final song and you'll march out. Do you hear that, John?" Our choir director nodded.

The woman continued. "We will escort you back upstairs to your holding area. You'll stay up there for the bulk of the conference, then we'll escort you back down here for your final song. Two ladies will join you on the stage. They'll thank the crowd, thus ending the conference and you'll march off again. Everybody got that? Good." She turned around to confer with another woman in a headset.

It was then that I noticed the TelePrompter:

I elbowed Claire, who was standing beside me. "Look! Jon Bon Jovi's going to be here!"

"Oh! That's so exciting!" she said. We wondered what other celebrities might be in attendance.

The band had seized the moment of relative quiet to launch into a tune. Leah stepped forward to try out the solo mic. Halfway through the song they were halted by the second headsetted woman.

"Guys? Hello? Can you stop? Thank you. OK, in the interest of time we're just going to cut straight to the National Anthem, all right? You don't need to rehearse the rest of your stuff anyway; I can tell you're pros." Her praise fell flat, as it was obviously less than sincere. "Where is Tomiko? Can we get Tomiko onstage please?"

The rest of us were wondering who Tomiko was. She wasn't part of the Glide Ensemble. I'm still not sure where she came from, but it seemed that she was going to be leading us in the National Anthem. Did she win some sort of contest? I wondered.

Tomiko seemed as surprised to see us as we were to see her. We had practiced the National Anthem at choir rehearsal, in response to the request that we sing it for this gig. We had not been told that we'd be backing up a soloist, and it seemed that the soloist had not been told that she'd be backed by a large choir. I realized that we were going to sing right over this poor girl. Particularly the sopranos, who had the melody.

Tomiko looked a little put out. I couldn't blame her. Here was her big chance to sing in front of the First Lady and she was going to be buried underneath the power of the choir. We started the song and immediately steamrolled her. You couldn't hear her voice at all.

After one run-through, it was suggested that the choir come in on Whose broad stripes and bright stars so that Tomiko could establish her voice. "Can you do that, John?" asked one of the headsetted women.

"Sure," said John. Tomiko still didn't look very happy.

"OK, great," said the headsetted lady. "Choir? Listen up, please. You're going to make your exit now. Please file backstage and wait for me there, and I will take you upstairs to the holding area."

We trooped backstage and a headsetted man met us behind the curtain. "Choir! This way please. I'm going to escort you upstairs." He gestured us to a side exit.

Just then we heard another voice. "Glide Ensemble! Follow me please! I'm going to take you upstairs." A brand new woman with a headset was beckoning us in the other direction. The choir was splitting in half, unsure of which way to go.

"Hold it!" shouted Dorian. She pointed out the headsetted woman to the headsetted man. "Who should we follow?"

"Very organized, aren't they?" quipped someone behind me.

There was a quick conference between headsets. It was determined that we should follow the woman, whose name was Lisa.

"I'm going to take you to your holding area," announced Lisa genially.

"They're really not making any effort to spruce up the phrase 'holding area', are they?" I muttered to Leah.

"She could have said 'cage'," she pointed out.

"True."

It took multiple trips in the service elevator to get us all upstairs. We were shown to our room, which was pleasantly spacious and stocked with water, although it lacked something in the way of food.

"We're working on getting some food delivered," announced Don K., before anyone could ask.

"Thank goodness," said Shirley, as we sunk into chairs around big round tables. "I was going to treat myself to a nice lunch, but I guess that's out the window now that we can't leave the building. I hope they feed us soon."

"Me too," I said. "I'm pretty hungry."

"How long are we here for?" asked Debbie.

Claire consulted her watch. "Well, it's one o'clock now. So...three hours?"

"Three hours?" exclaimed Debbie. "Well jeez, if I'd known that we'd be stuck here all afternoon I wouldn't have come until two o'clock."

We whiled away the time with chit-chat and fiddling. Linda Rose painted her nails. Cheryl fixed Sandra's broken shoe with a hair tie and a safety pin. I knitted absentmindedly, then realized that I'd messed up the pattern. Giving up, I shoved the knitting back in my bag.

"Where is that food?" Shirley asked after about an hour. "I am starving." There was a chorus of agreement around the table.

"You're starving? I'd pay $30 for a hamburger," complained Dan, one of our sound techs.

"They can't treat people like this," grumbled Shirley. "They can't lock us in a room all afternoon and not feed us. There's such a thing as common decency, you know."

"I'm not surprised," said Sandra. "It's the Secret Service. Remember that gig we did a year or so ago, that Hillary Clinton thing?"

"That's the one where they confiscated my umbrella," I said.

"Oh, they confiscated tons of stuff. Well, they shut us all up in this tiny room for hours, with no food, no water, nothing. People were getting sick from hunger, blood sugar dropping and all that. And finally they got us pizza, but it took hours."

"And the gig was over by then," I said, remembering.

"That's right," confirmed Sandra. "Half of us had already left."

I sighed. The more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that they were going to feed us today. I was starting to get a hunger headache.

"I always bring food with me," said Shirley. "But today I thought, I'm going to take myself out to a nice lunch. Treat myself, you know? So I didn't bring anything."

"Same here," I said, remembering my breakfast apple with sadness. I rummaged through my bag, scouting for any morsel I may have overlooked.

"Honest to God, I'm ready to gnaw off my own fist," said Dan.

I unearthed a shattered candy from the bottom of my purse. "A mint!" I cried. Mistake. Dan zeroed in on me.

"You got any more of those?" he asked. I didn't. We eyed each other warily.

"I'll sell it to you," I said finally.

Dan snorted. "That's cold, man." He got up and left the room.

"Wasn't there a vending machine downstairs?" wondered Cheryl.

"There was, but they shut down the elevator," said Sandra.

"They shut down the elevator?" exclaimed Cheryl.

"Secret Service." Sandra gave a little shrug.

A few minutes later Dan reappeared. He sat down at the table and unwrapped a napkin-covered parcel. Nonchalantly, he made to take a bite of what appeared to be some kind of food.

Shirley swooped. "What's that you're eating?" she demanded.

He paused, the food halfway to his mouth. "It's, uh, a sandwich."

"Where did you get it?" I interrogated him.

"Someone gave it to me. I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Shirley's stare could have burned holes in an iron door. Dan stammered:

"I think it was leftover from a conference next door."

"Are there any more?" I wanted to know.

"I don't think so. Sorry."

"Dammit!"

Dan raised an eyebrow. "I'll sell it to you," he said.

"Oh, shut up Dan," I said crankily. He laughed and I turned my back on him. Shirley, on the other hand, gave him a death stare until he cut the sandwich into pieces and offered them around. It turned out to be a turkey sandwich, and I reluctantly declined.

Moments later I had my head buried deep in my bag, searching in vain for a second mint when a shadow fell over me. I emerged to find Jennifer standing above me. She looked so furtive that my first response was to ask, "What's wrong?"

"Take this," she said under her breath, and shoved a napkin-wrapped package into my hands.

"What is it?" I whispered, and Jennifer looked sideways in each direction before answering:

"It's a sandwich."

"But where?" I breathed. "Where did it come from?"

She was backing away from me. "Conference room," she mouthed.

The legends were true.

I peeled back the napkin to reveal a glimpse of a chicken salad sandwich. My vegetarian heart sank.

"Jennifer!" I hissed. She halted her retreat. "Are there more?" She nodded, then shook her head. Then she shrugged. Then she fled.

"Oh Dan," I called out. He looked up from his empty napkin. His eyes sharpened.

"What've you got there?" he asked.

"What, this? Oh, this is just a chicken salad sandwich. Nothing you'd be interested in."

"Are you kidding? I barely even got a bite of that last sandwich. Shirley carved it up into about twenty pieces!"

"That's too bad," I said with feigned sympathy.

"What are you going to do with that sandwich?" he asked me.

"Well, I don't know," I said. "I'm a vegetarian, so I can't actually eat it. But I think I'll just put it in my bag, carry it around for awhile. I'm sure all that mayonnaise will keep."

He shook his head at me. "You're a hard woman," he said. "God help the man that marries you."

I tossed him the sandwich. "Oh, take the damn thing." He gave me a broad smile before tucking in.

And then there was a sudden cry from the table nearest the doors: "Food!"

The second table took up the call: "Food?"

"FOOD!"

In sauntered Stacy with a platter of sandwiches held aloft. Behind him was Ramon, bearing a second tray. Dan abandoned his chicken salad with the speed of Mighty Mouse, fleeing the room in search of more such treasures. One after another they came with platter after platter of sandwiches, and then–

"Cake!" I shouted. "They've got cake!"

And fruit, and chips, and more sandwiches, more sandwiches than we could have ever dreamed.

"Is this the food that they ordered for us?" wondered Debbie.

"No," said Dan, returning with a tray for our table. "We rescued it from a conference down the hall. These are leftovers!"

"Is it okay if we eat it?" asked Claire.

My mouth was already full of eggplant sandwich. Frankly, I did not care if it was okay. I also did not care that the caramel-frosted brownies were obviously not vegan; I ate two and they were fabulous.

But somebody did care. About ten minutes into our food orgy, an angry looking server appeared in the room. He stood by the door, taking stock of the situation with his hands on his hips.

"Uh oh," said Debbie. "That guy looks mad."

My response was to eat faster.

Don K. went to speak to the man, and after a brief conversation the server left, looking disgruntled.

"He's coming back in twenty minutes to take the dishes," reported Don K. "So eat up, and pack anything that you might want to eat later, because I don't know if we're going to get fed again."

"Again?" snorted Shirley. "We didn't get fed the first time."

"Right?" said Cheryl. "Good thing they ordered so much food for the group next door."

I leaned back in my chair, sated. Dan was working diligently on a new sandwich. "How many sandwiches have you had now, Dan?" I asked.

He looked at it. "Four, maybe?" He grinned.

Don K. appeared at my elbow. "Who's got their badge?" he asked. "I need to borrow some so we can get people upstairs." The rest of the choir was waiting outside.

"We don't have enough badges for them?" I wondered.

Don K. shook his head. "No. So thank goodness they didn't check our IDs on the way in. They're going to have to pretend to be you." We all forked over our badges, and shortly thereafter the next group arrived. They were met with sandwiches and brownies, and stories of the brave ones who had scavenged to feed us.

"Jon Bon Jovi's in the hall!" somebody hissed.

"What?"

"Jon Bon Jovi! He's in the hallway!"

A stampede of people rushed the door. But Bon Jovi was nowhere to be seen.

"He went behind that black curtain," pointed Jennifer, and I believed her. She knew where the sandwiches had been, after all.

"That must be the VIP area," said Claire. We sauntered past it a few times, but he didn't emerge. Claire went back to her seat. Undaunted, I hung around the doorway.

And then I was rewarded with a Matthew McConaughey sighting. I gasped.

John T., our choir director, turned up at my elbow. "Is that Bon Jovi?" he asked me.

"No. That's Matthew McConaughey," I breathed. He walked by us, down the hallway. His chiseled good looks were marred only by the pregnant Brazilian supermodel on his arm. I was too surprised to get a picture. I just stood there as he walked past, giggling stupidly.

John shook his head in disgust. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself?" he asked me.

"No," I said.

John took one last look. "He's shorter than I thought."

"Um," I said, distractedly.

"He's no six-foot-two," humphed John, and went back inside.

Concerned as I was with the bathroom situation downstairs, I went twice over the next twenty minutes. We were getting close to performance time.

John T. called us to attention. We lined up in formation at the back of the room.

"Now y'all listen up," he said. "We're going to sing four songs. We're only supposed to sing three, but we're going to do four. So we're only going to take one verse of each song. I hate to do this," he continued, shaking his head, "but so nobody gets confused, I'm going to tell you what we're singing."

John keeps his cards close to his chest. Almost never does he tell us what we'll be singing on any given Sunday, or even at special events. He plays the opening chords and we've just got to recognize the song. As a soloist, it's more than enough to keep you on your toes. Or give you an ulcer.

"We're going to start with Leah's song, 'Full Time God'. Then we'll do 'Golden'." He pointed at Cheryl. "Then I'm going to go straight into Dennis' tune: Ba-da-da-da da!"

"'I've Come A Long Way'," translated Dennis, nodding.

"Right," said John. "We're just going to do the chorus once. Then we'll go right into Emma Jean's song. Um..." he snapped his fingers, searching for the title.

"Battle's Over?" Emma Jean supplied.

"Yeah. So, you all got that? One verse of each. We've only got fifteen minutes, and I want to make sure that everybody has a chance to sing."

"What about the last number? At the end?" questioned Cheryl.

"Oh, right. That's going to be Gisele's song. 'I'm Blessed'." Gisele nodded.

Dorian stepped out to face the group. "We've got maybe twenty minutes," she said. "So get your robes on, get ready. We're singing for the First Lady, people!" There was a whoop! from the group as we disbanded.

I pulled my robe over my head. "Are you disappointed that you don't get to solo in front of the First Lady?" Claire asked me.

"A little," I admitted. I had briefly indulged in a fantasy where Michelle Obama invited me to come sing at the White House. "But at least I'm not regretting that second brownie any more." Truth be told, I'd eaten a bit too much to comfortably belt out a solo.

Emma Jean wandered over, looking for her robe. "Are you excited that you get to sing for the Michelle Obama?" I asked her.

She waved the idea away. "Oh, I'm not even getting excited. You know how these things work. I'm the last one to sing. My song might even get cut. I don't want to get too worked up about it."

She had a point, but I think I would have been bouncing around the room if I were her.

We were herded out into the hall, where we stood as an amorphous group, practicing the hurry-up-and-wait principle. I shot the breeze with Joshua and John D.

"I caught a glimpse of Matthew McConaughey," I bragged.

"Really?" said John D., before dropping his bomb: "I went to the bathroom with Jon Bon Jovi."

"You did?" Joshua and I said in unison.

"Oh yeah," said John, warming to his tale. "I went into the bathroom, right, and there he was, you know, using the urinal. And I was kind of excited, but it's a private moment, you know, and I didn't want to intrude. So I put two urinals between us, as a mark of respect.

"He washed his hands," he added.

Joshua and I were deeply impressed.

"Did you talk to him?" Joshua asked.

"Oh no. I didn't want to confront the poor guy in the men's room. That's private time." Joshua nodded in approval.

"That'll be a story to tell your kids one day," I said.

"Oh yeah," said John. "'Girls, let me tell you about the day that I peed with Jon Bon Jovi.' That's a story for the ages."

"'And he was just a normal guy, just like me,'" put in Joshua.

"'We were just two dudes named John, using the john together.' It's beautiful, really," I said. We laughed.

"Hey, there goes Matthew McConaughey again," observed Joshua.

"What? Shit!" I fumbled with my camera.

"Did you get him?" asked John.

"Argh! No, I got the guy next to him. Stupid camera!"

"Put it on video," suggested Joshua.

"Ooh, good thinking," I said. "Then it won't take so much time to process. Hey, who's that coming out from behind the curtain?" There was a fuss at the head of the crowd.

"It's Nancy Pelosi."

"What did she say?"

"I don't know. Something heartwarming, I think."

"Oh, they're moving us." We shuffled to the service elevator.

"Sopranos up here!" came the call, and I bid goodbye to the guys and headed up front.

"We're going to try to move you in your sections," said a brand new headsetted woman. Honestly, there were dozens of them. "Please line up the way you did onstage, if you can."

"Groups of twenty!" instructed another headset lady. "That's all we can fit on the elevator."

"MatthewMcConaugheyMatthewMcConaugheyMatthewMcConaughey," came the buzz through the crowd. I craned my neck and realized that he was walking toward us. The women breathed as one as he sauntered past.

This time I had my camera ready.

"All right, now I need ten from that second group to come and join us," said the headset lady, throwing out her arm and catching me in the chest. "You stay here," she said to me. "You'll be in the next group."

Dammit!

So I missed riding in the elevator with Matthew McConaughey by one person.

It took about fifteen minutes to get us all downstairs. We lined up backstage and waited for our entrance cue.

"Choir! You're on!" commanded a man in a headset. We filed quietly onto the stage. The giant room was packed. There must have been three thousand people in attendance, and as we entered they were laughing hysterically. There was a comedian warming up the crowd. I didn't catch what he was saying, but whatever it was, the crowd was in an uproar. The dude must have been hilarious.

On closer inspection, I realized that he was the guy that I'd spoken to that morning, the one to whom I'd posed the question about the microphone. I guess he wasn't a handler after all. I suppose the lack of a headset should have clued me in.

The choir marched on in perfect formation and stood silently as the comedian introduced us. Then John launched into our first number, and Leah stepped confidently toward the mic.

"I am a child of God and I have no fear / He says, 'I love you child and I'll always be near,'" she began, and instantly the crowd was rocking. She sang the hell out of that tune, and killed with her signature ending. The comedian stepped forward and took the mic from her. John T., about to plunge into the next song, froze, his hands poised over the keys.

"Wasn't she fantastic?" the comedian asked the crowd. They roared in appreciation. "What's your name again?" he questioned, turning to Leah. She told him.

"That's Leah Tysse everyone! Let's give it up for Leah Tysse!"

John's fingers twitched.

"We're so lucky to have the Glide Ensemble here with us today, aren't we folks? Let's give them another hand!" We stood, poised and professional, though every one of us was probably thinking about the precious seconds in our fifteen minutes that were ticking away.

Then a voice boomed over the loudspeaker: "Please rise for our National Anthem."

John's face fell. My shoulders sagged. Like a deflating balloon the choir wilted as we realized that our time had been cut short. Three numbers axed.

Tomiko walked onto the stage. I was surprised to see that she was wearing a yellow jacket, khaki pants and worker boots. I think the jacket was printed with the logo of whatever organization she was with, but I thought: Really Tomiko? You couldn't have put on a dress?

She shot a wary glance at John. "Oh say can you see..." she began. The choir came in dutifully on the second verse.

When the song was over we stood still and silent as the color guard snapped their rifles and flags. When they had departed the stage, John cranked up our exiting music and we marched off.

We milled around backstage, waiting for directions. But for once, nobody in a headset was forthcoming. "Are we going back upstairs?" someone asked. Dave went looking for somebody to give us instructions.

I touched Emma Jean on the arm. "You were right," I said to her. "I'm so sorry."

She shrugged. "You see? This kind of thing always happens. It's no big deal." But it would have been a big deal for me. I was suddenly glad that I hadn't gotten my hopes up to sing. I would have been so disappointed.

Eventually a stage hand shooed us away. "Could you please go wait over there?" he asked. We shuffled slowly to the other side of the floor, like wayward cows. Meanwhile, the show was progressing on the other side of the curtain. We could see it broadcasting in mirror image, from the back sides of the giant screens.

Dave and Dan, our two sound guys, were conferring. I approached them. "Are we going back upstairs?" I asked them.

"We were supposed to," said Dave in a clipped voice.

"Supposed to?"

"The Secret Service," he said bitterly, "has decided that it's too much effort to bring us upstairs again. So we'll be staying down here for the remainder of the conference."

Down here? As in down here with no bathrooms?

"You're kidding me," I said.

"How long is this show?" asked Dan.

"Somewhere between two and three hours," said Dave.

"You're kidding me," I said again.

"And you know what else?" continued Dave. "The reason all our songs got cut is because they said it took us too long to get downstairs. So they took it out of our performance time."

I gaped at him.

Dan snorted. "Not mathematicians, are they? Eighty people divided by an elevator capacity of twenty...Uh, let's see..."

Dave snapped. "This [CENSORED] gig! This is the worst [CENSORED] [CENSORED] gig that we've ever done! These [CENSORED] people..." He let loose with a blue streak of curse words. I stared at him, fascinated. I'd never heard Dave speak that way.

"Sorry," he said when he was finished. "But I just get so [CENSORED] mad."

Word got out that we were trapped for the duration and the choir settled in for a long wait. We draped ourselves on equipment cases, or sat cross-legged on the floor. As long as we stayed well clear of the center aisle, which was the celebrity pathway, nobody bothered with us.

Until Michelle Obama made her appearance. "Everybody get back!" we were instructed. "Do not approach! No photography!" We clustered a safe distance away, standing on tiptoe, all anxious for a glimpse of the First Lady.

I couldn't see her at first. It was dark backstage and she was surrounded by Secret Service. They ferried her up the aisle. On the other side of the vast screen a young woman was making an impassioned introduction. The crowd listened with rapt attention, waiting on tenterhooks for the appearance of the one they'd come to see.

And then the Secret Service retreated. And Mrs. Obama was silhouetted by the bright light of the oversize screen. She stood, alone, at the entrance to the stage, awaiting her cue. Her head was bowed, as if in prayer.

No words can aptly describe the profile she cut: the innate grace in the root of her stance, the humbleness in the bow of her head. She was a tiny figure backdropped by that giant screen, and in her solitude I saw how small she was against the rest of the world. I thought she might be praying that her words, already chosen so carefully, would have the impact she sought.

Any photograph that could have captured what we saw would have won the Pulitzer Prize for Photography. Reminiscent in her pose were the shadows of a hundred great leaders. I was reminded in particular of John F. Kennedy.

The introduction ended and Michelle Obama stepped onto the stage.

I noticed that my camera was running out of space, and I was forced to stop filming just as her speech was picking up steam. I scrolled through my photos, deleting what I could to make more room.

There was wild applause after her speech, and as she left the stage the choir clustered as close as we could to the invisible line we'd been told to stand behind. I pulled out my camera again.

"They said no pictures," whispered Debbie.

"It's video," I said. Like that made a difference.

And there she was again, in person. From larger than life to a small silhouette.

Then the Secret Service swallowed her up and spirited her away.

"Wow," said somebody nearby. "That was Michelle Obama."

"Yeah," I said.

We stared after her, sharing a moment of reverential silence.

Well, they should have saved the First Lady for last. Because after her appearance the conference became substantially less interesting. Although there were several more celebrity sightings.

Matthew McConaughey kept wandering around backstage, to the point where I actually lost interest in him. Jon Bon Jovi gave a speech, which surprised me, because I thought he was going to sing. But then the camera pulled out and revealed his band. We were definitely only catching half the show from our limited vantage point.

He sang an original tune, which didn't impress me too much. John T. wandered over.

"Is this the kind of music he always does?" he asked me.

"Um, not really. He's usually more rock n' roll."

"Mmm hmm," said John T., non-commitally. "I prefer a bit more soul in my song, if you know what I mean." He wandered away.

But the next song they did was 'Living on a Prayer', and I was surprised to find this acoustic version beautiful and touching. The third tune was nice too, but I don't remember it very well.

"Jon Bon Jovi took up all our stage time," observed John D, coming up behind me.

"Yeah," I said. "Too bad we couldn't sing backup for him."

"That would've been awesome."

"Right?"

Riz joined us. "I got a picture with him, you know," he said, pulling out his camera to show us.

"Really?" I asked. I peered at his camera, and sure enough!

"Oh yeah, you didn't hear this story yet? Okay, I had to go the bathroom, right? So I push open the door and there's Jon Bon Jovi. And I was like 'Whoa, you look familiar!'" John D.'s brow furrowed.

"So I waited until he washed his hands - cause I wanted to give him his space, you know? - and I asked, 'Can I get a picture with you?' And he was really cool. He was like, 'Can we wait until we get out of the bathroom?' And then we took a picture in the hallway."

John D. crossed his arms. You could tell he took issue with Riz's policy about how much space a celebrity deserved in the restroom.

There was applause from the other side of the screen. "He's coming out!" I said.

"Cool," said Riz.

"Hey, here comes somebody else," John pointed.

"Who is that?"

"I think...I think it's Maria Shriver."

It was Maria Shriver, and she actually came right over to us and said hello.

"That was very nice," I said. "She didn't have to come over here and talk to us. That was cool."

Unfortunately, Maria Shriver stepped onstage and proceeded to conduct a half-hour interview with a dude none of us knew or really cared about. I knew we were in trouble when they settled into plushy armchairs. Backstage, I sank into a sitting position myself. Tripp was sitting beside me.

"Errin, I'm over it," he said. "I am over this day. What about you?"

"Well, I don't think I'll ever volunteer again," I said, and he laughed.

"Right? This conference has not inspired me in the manner they intended." I thought back to the heckler who'd screamed at us that morning. "What does he have against volunteering?" somebody had asked. Now I knew.

Maria Shriver, bless her heart, went on and on and on.

"How much longer is this damn show?" Tripp asked. "We've gotta be next, right?"

"No, Matthew McConaughey hasn't gone on yet," I said dully. He was still wandering around backstage.

"Well, are we after him?"

"Man, I hope so." I was hoping that he would introduce us. I expected everyone to make an appearance in the final number; I pictured us sharing the stage with Maria Shriver, Jon Bon Jovi and Michelle Obama herself. That would make up for the rest of the day with interest, I thought.

Tripp stood and yawned. "I'm going to stretch my legs a little," he said, and walked off. I let my eyes close for a few minutes, not sure if I was tired or just bored.

And then: "Choir! Line up! You're on soon."

They rounded us up and separated us into sections, so we could enter the stage the same as before, women from the left and men from the right. Matthew McConaughey walked up the center aisle and prepared to go onstage.

"It cracks me up how you can tell it's him just from the silhouette that his hair casts," I whispered to Debbie, and we giggled. We watched him from behind the screens. He paced as he talked, but I couldn't hear his speech because we'd moved out of the range of the speakers.

A few moments later he came back through the curtain, picked up his Brazilian supermodel, and exited the room.

"I guess he's not introducing us," I said to Debbie.

"Guess not."

As I looked around, I noted the conspicuous absence of all the other celebrities. Was no one going to join us for the grand finale?

Maybe they would come out while we were singing.

"Choir! You're on!"

We filed onstage to the opening strains of Gisele's number. Gisele must have already been out there, because she started singing while most of us were still behind the screen. We hurried to take our places behind her.

When I reached the stage I was shocked to see that almost the entire audience had gone. We were singing to nearly three thousand empty seats. There was no sign of Maria Shriver, or Jon Bon Jovi, and definitely not Michelle Obama. I had to face the fact that the First Lady was probably already flying back across the country. Matthew McConaughey sure didn't stick around to watch us sing, and I wondered if the crowd had dispersed before or after he gave his speech.

Gisele, ever professional, sang as though her audience numbered in the thousands. Cecil and Jan stood defiantly in the front row, rocking out like it was Sunday morning. There were a few people who'd stayed, most likely fans from Glide. But we were mainly singing to an empty house.

John cut the song off after a single verse. We marched glumly offstage and pooled behind the screen, waiting for a headsetted person to bark instructions at us. But even they had gone. Nobody hung around to tell us good job, or to thank us for coming, or to lead us to the elevator in groups of twenty. We made our own way upstairs.

"That. Sucked."

That was the general consensus. Nobody said much as we walked through the halls. When we arrived back at the holding area, the room was stale with the smell of left-out food. Good as his word, that angry-looking waiter had retrieved all the serving dishes. But he'd left the remains of our meal: lukewarm sandwiches dripping dubious cold-cuts, wilting fruit salad drooping in paper cups.

"We need to clean this room before we go!" announced Don K. "If everybody throws away one thing we can all get out of here much faster."

I am not normally a person who balks at cleaning up after herself. But this, after everything else that had happened that day, felt like the final insult. I shook my head in utter disdain.

Then I found another brownie and pounced on it.

We had one last celebrity sighting on the way out of the building: Clifford the Big Red Dog was taking pictures with kids in the lobby. I'm not sure what event he was there for. But he, at least, looked happy to see us. He waved enthusiastically as we exited the building.

"What a day," said Gisele, as we walked to the BART.

"What a day," I echoed. "You were such a pro. You sang your heart out, just as though you had a million people watching you."

"Thanks," she said. "These gigs, eh? They're never what they're cracked up to be."

"They sure aren't."

"All that build up for such a letdown."

"Tell me about it."

"They starve you all day."

"And they lock you inside."

"Then they ignore you."

"And they don't let you pee."

We walked in silence for a few minutes.

Then Gisele said: "Still, I had fun though."

I smiled at her. "Yeah, me too. I always do."

No wonder I'm so tired!

2009-06-29T09:10:00.001-07:00

What a week! About a month's worth of events took place in the last 8 days. I'll catch you up briefly:

Last Sunday The Shirelles came to Glide and I got to solo in front of them! Then they came up onstage and sang a song, and when they turned around to thank us, one of them pointed at me and gave me a big thumbs up! After the service she gave me a big hug and told me I was wonderful!

So thank you to the Shirelle on the left! Despite all my internet research, I still don't know what her name is.

That afternoon I did a recording session for a surf band called The Del Mars. I sang background vocals for several tracks off their upcoming album.

And to top the day off, my good friend Becca gave birth to her second child, baby Mason. Welcome to the world, Mason!

On Monday the Glide Ensemble performed at the 2009 National Conference on Volunteering and Service. Michelle Obama was there! I will post a big blog post about that experience shortly, so stay tuned.

On Wednesday I went to the dentist.

On Thursday we lost Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson. Thursday was a very surreal day, as shock gave way to sadness.

On Friday we gained a new little light in this world!: baby Daisy, who couldn't be bothered with the hospital and made her entrance in the backseat of Mom and Dad's car.

On Saturday I had a recording session with Yung Mars, laying down background vocals for his upcoming second album.

And yesterday was the Gay Pride Parade! I had a blast marching down Market Street with the Glide contingent, singing and dancing and waving at the crowd. On our float was a giant wedding cake, topped with all different kinds of couples, and our real-life pastors who 'married' them as we traveled down the street. Our message:

But the message of the day, of the week, really, is summed up in this sign:

Ain't that the truth?

Happy Pride, Happy Birthday, Happy Monday!

Good thing they don't drive a Geo Metro

2009-06-26T10:05:00.001-07:00

Well, my friend Arin had her baby girl this morning. In her car. And her husband, Byrne, delivered her.

On the way home they stopped at the farmers market for some fresh parsley and a hunk of Parmesan cheese, and Arin whipped up a delightful quiche for lunch.

OK, I'm lying about that second part, but still - can you believe this woman?

Congratulations Arin, Byrne & Harper! And welcome to the world, Baby Girl!

Gone too soon

2009-06-25T23:49:00.000-07:00

I don't know how to write this.

His music was a thread through my entire life. He was the soundtrack to my childhood. My whole family would gather to watch him. Before we divorced, before we grew up. He is entwined in my earliest memories, woven into a time when I felt young and safe. Losing him feels like losing a little part of myself.

I'm shocked at the depth of my sadness.

Be at peace, Michael Jackson.

I wish I'd taken a picture to show you

2009-06-19T22:47:00.000-07:00

My friend Arin is elegantly domestic in a way I long to be. She has a garden. She cooks meals using food that she grows in her garden. Then she takes beautiful pictures of that food and posts them on her blog, along with recipes. She knits stuffed animals for her 3-year-old son. And any minute now she's going to have a baby daughter who will wear a hand-knitted, be-ribboned hat home from the hospital. A hat that Arin made. In short, I admire her home life.

I knit too. I make a lot of blankets, because they are square. I once made a poncho: it was 2 squares sewn together. I tend not to stray from my square formula.

Sometimes I cook. Not often. I lean heavily on spaghetti. If you're invited to my house for dinner, chances are good we'll have spaghetti. Chances are also good that we'll be sitting on the floor in my living room, eating off the coffee table.

But I love to watch the Food Network. I love to see people enjoying the preparation of meals. It is not a concept I'm familiar with. I want to dirty as few dishes as possible. I want to eat n-o-w, NOW.

Tonight I had one of those rare moments where I thought: I want to make a meal.

It was 7:30 when I walked to the grocery store. I was pulling a little wheelie cart, so you know I was serious.

The sun was low in the sky, lending a rosy glow to a beautiful summer evening. People were eating al fresco, spilling out of restaurants and onto the sidewalk, and I maneuvered my little cart around several outdoor tables. The air was fragrant with food.

I took my time at the store, picking out fruits and vegetables. I knew just what I wanted to make. When I rolled my cart home, it was well-stocked with fresh summer produce.

Monte had beaten me home. "Don't eat, I'm cooking," I said, as I trundled through the door with all my wares. "Dinner will be ready in half an hour."

"Kind of a late meal, huh?" he said. It was 8:30.

"Yeah," I agreed. "But it will be worth it."

And it was. I roasted 4 ears of corn in the oven, dousing the husks in water so they could cook in the steam. Then I sliced 2 firm peaches into quarters and set them in a baking pan with a little water at the bottom. I drizzled them with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and a little bit of lavender honey (from France!). Then I seasoned them with sea salt, fresh ground pepper and several sprigs of fresh rosemary, and popped them in the oven along with the corn.

Within minutes the kitchen was wonderfully fragrant with roasting rosemary and corn husk. I never knew roasted corn husk smelled so good!

While those were cooking I scooped the flesh out of an avocado and mashed it with the back of a spoon. I added the zest and juice of half a lime, a hearty shaking of chili powder and a good grinding of sea salt to make chili-lime guacamole. Then I prepared the salad: 2 bowls of mixed greens with sliced strawberries.

After half an hour I removed the corn and the peaches. The peaches were laid on the beds of greens and the salads were lightly dressed with a mixture of balsamic vinegar, olive oil, lime juice, salt and pepper. I stripped the husks to the cobs of the corn and twisted them into handles, then placed them on plates beside hearty dollops of guacamole.

It was a fantastic meal. "I can really taste the lime in this guacamole," said Monte, as he spread more on his corn.

"I can't believe the taste of these peaches!" I exclaimed, raving over my own food. "The rosemary is amazing! I think this is best salad I've ever had!"

"It's such summer food," agreed Monte. "So fresh. This is the kind of meal you want to eat outside."

"I know!" I said. "That's exactly what I was thinking during my walk home from the grocery store. I wanted to make a summer meal that was perfect for eating outside."

"You did it," he said. "It is the perfect outdoor summer meal."

I beamed.

Then he said, "It's too bad we're sitting on the floor of our living room, eating off the coffee table."

Ah, well.

One of these mornin's

2009-06-15T09:09:00.001-07:00

My friend Mindy emailed me a link to this YouTube video. "You would be great doing this song," she wrote. I clicked on the video with interest.

I am impressed, first of all, by the sheer length of this song. And if you can make it through to the 3rd or 4th verse, you too might be impressed by the variety of foods that this couple has eaten for breakfast. But you may be disappointed in the last verse, which repeats a few items.

Thank you Mindy. I'm going to work on shortening this piece for radio play.

Reflections

2009-06-01T17:45:00.000-07:00

I have a confession. Sometimes I squander time.

I did it today. I squandered time. I think I even killed some of it.

Now, I respect time. It wasn't long ago that I longed for more time. Stuck at my desk for 8 hours a day, I daydreamed about free time. I thought wistfully of all the things I could create with my spare hours.

And now that I have hours to spare, I do make use of them. Sometimes I write, churning out songs or ideas. Sometimes I brainstorm and plan. Sometimes I, ahem, run marathons.

And sometimes I sit in my jammies and watch movie trailers on the internet.

It depends on the day.

My life is a funny series of highs and lows right now. It is not uncommon for me to have an amazing day followed by a depressing one, or the other way around. I don't believe I'm a person who's generally prone to depression, but without the stability of a daily job, it's easy for me to lose my footing. Today, I'm a little bit wrong-footed.

It's okay though. Tomorrow will likely be better.

My mom once told me that the tough times in life are actually the growing times. It's when you're breathing easy that you're coasting. That made a lot of sense to me, and it helps now to remember it. Even on a low day, I can look back and be proud of my accomplishments this year.

I remember being on BART one evening, racing from my job to choir rehearsal, sweaty and rumpled and running late. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the darkened window: a young woman with her pants legs rolled up, pinned into a seat by her bicycle, knitting balanced on her knees. Scratches on her legs and helmet head, singing softly under the roar of the train.

I thought: She looks like an interesting person.

And then I felt pleased, pleased that she was me.

Sometimes looking ahead is daunting. Sometimes, just being in the moment is exhausting. I'm not sure where I'm headed or what I'm doing half the time.

But when I look in the mirror, there's an interesting person looking back at me.

She's still in her pajamas, but what the hell.

Off to the races!

2009-05-22T20:07:00.001-07:00

I was going to write another blog post today but I didn't get a chance. I'm leaving in the morning for LA, where I'll spend a day with my dad and then meet up with SRO. And then on Monday, it's the marathon!

I wanted to write all about my feelings in these days leading up to the race, about our final training run over the Golden Gate Bridge, and what it's been like to see the kids come so far. But I've got an early flight and I still haven't packed. So I'll have to fill you in when I get back.

Meanwhile, you can check my Twitter updates here in the left hand margin, or follow me at http://twitter.com/errinmarie. I'll be posting via cell phone. I don't expect I'll be able to post while I'm actually running, but I'll set the scene before and after.

Man, technology is cool, isn't it?

Have a great long weekend! I'm off to the races!

If I may use an example from gym class

2009-05-20T15:48:00.000-07:00

I was surprised to find that my last post generated an immediate response from some of my friends. The consensus seems to be that I should either move to Utah or Vermont, where I might stand a snowball's chance in hell of buying a home. And also, might I deduce, where I'd be closer to my pals?

I love my friends. (But seriously, it's time for you to come home now.)

It's rare that I get comments on here, so I never know exactly who's reading. Sometimes writing this blog feels like a game of ghost volleyball. Did you ever play that back in elementary school? They'd cover the net with a parachute so you couldn't see where the ball was coming from. I loved ghost volleyball. It really evened the playing field for those of us not-so-athletic types.

But writing here is like flinging a ball over a covered net, and you're unsure if anybody's even on the other side.

Who's out there? Leave a comment. I'd like to know who I'm playing with.

Grow up

2009-05-18T10:52:00.000-07:00

Several months ago I made a list of everyone I knew who was pregnant. It was actually a necessity, this list, because I couldn't keep track of all my knocked-up friends. Then, as the weeks passed, the list split into two parts: those who were still pregnant and those who had had their babies. Each side would ebb and flow as people gave birth, and new people became pregnant.

At the moment, there are 26 names on that combined list.

A couple of weeks ago I went back east to visit my college roommates, JoAnne and Becca. JoAnne had just given birth to her first child, and Becca was due in two months with her second child. Conveniently for me, they live about 20 minutes from one another, so I got to meet the baby and the bump at the same time.

It was a good visit, but when I came home I fell into a bad place. It was a short-lived, but surprisingly deep depression. The stay-in-your-pajamas-all-day kind of depression.

"Do you want a baby right now?" asked my friend Emily, as we dissected my mood over lunch one day.

"No," I said. "I really don't. But you know, I'd like to be able to afford a baby right now. Or a house. You know, what got to me even more than the babies was their homes. They're not gigantic or ornate or anything, but they're their homes, that they own, with wallpaper that they chose themselves and color-coordinated paint. They have guestrooms and playrooms for their kids. They have decks. Monte would kill for a deck."

I poked at the ice in the bottom of my glass with a straw. "I don't feel like a grown-up," I said.

"Eh," said Emily, giving a half-shrug. "I hear it's overrated."

But I wasn't sure.

Last night I lay on the couch, half-comatose, nodding in front of a nature documentary on PBS. "What are you watching?" asked Monte.

"Something about elephants," I mumbled, eyelids drooping.

"You're falling asleep," said Monte. "Come on, let's go to bed."

I pushed myself into a sitting position and immediately the change of elevation set me to sneezing. "Damn," said Monte, handing me the Kleenex box, "you're having a bad allergy day, aren't you?"

For I'd been sneezing all afternoon. Actually, I'd been sneezing for two days straight. "I think it's the dust," I said. "The fan is kicking it up." 90-degree temperatures this weekend led us to drag the rotary fan out of the closet. I sniffled miserably, shuffling to the bathroom.

"Or it could be the mold," I said, looking up at the bathroom ceiling. I sneezed again. "I think I'm allergic to our apartment," I said.

"Can we move?" I asked Monte a few minutes later as I climbed into bed.

"Where do you want to move?" he asked me.

"Somewhere clean," I said. "To a place that has circulating air in the bathroom. And windows with cool, steel frames, not old splintery wooden ones that catch dust. And no Venetian blinds. I hate those things.

"And there should be marble counter tops," I continued, rolling onto my stomach.

"Marble?" asked Monte.

"Well, not tile," I said. "Not moldy, grody tile that catches all the dirty dishwater and never comes clean. Tiled counter tops are stupid."

"They are," Monte agreed.

"And it should come with a housekeeper," I said into my pillow. "And a vacuum that actually works."

"And a place for your sewing machine," added Monte. "By the way, can we move that off the kitchen table?"

"No, I'm not done with it yet."

"But are you sewing anything right now?"

"No. But I might soon." I lifted my head to sneeze again. "And we could have kitchen chairs that match, and aren't broken."

"And a dishwasher," he said emphatically. "And a deck!"

"Yeah," I said. "And an office that's not in the living room. With our own desks."

"That sounds nice," said Monte.

"It would be nice," I said. "It would be a grown-up house. This is not a grown-up house. We couldn't have a baby in here. There's no room."

"We could put it in the walk-in closet," suggested Monte.

"No, my hula hoops are in there," I said.

Then we drifted off to sleep.

I've spent some time trying to decipher these pangs that I've been having, wondering if it's actually my biological clock that's beeping at me or something else, and I think it's this grown-up thing. It's this twenty-something feeling in my thirty-something life. This feeling of "I'm still here." (Not to be confused with that triumphant feeling of "I'm still here!", which is something altogether different.)

Yes, I'm still here. Still in this apartment with the too-thin walls and hand-me-down furniture. Still unemployed (or rather, unemployed again), uninsured, unmarried. I've done so much in my life in the last six years, run laps around my younger self, and yet I'm still here. Externally, nothing has changed. We haven't even rearranged the furniture in six years. Literally, I could probably go back in time, walk through my front door and not notice the difference.

And it's not like it's all bad. If it were, we wouldn't hesitate to make a change. But I like my furniture where it is. I don't really mind that my upstairs neighbor only knows two songs on the electric guitar. And I'm lucky enough to share this small space with such a likable guy. It is by no means a bad life we're living.

But I wouldn't say no to some forward momentum.

You hear that, Universe? I'm calling again.

I bet you think this post is about you

2009-05-08T14:42:00.001-07:00

I've had some wonderful feedback on the website and blog. I'd like to thank everybody who took the time to drop me a line and send me a little cheer. You are awesome.

But I just got my first unpleasant message. An anonymous email, sent through my website, arrived today. It said:

You're so vein.

I was torn between feeling stung by the insult and amused by the misspelling. And I wasn't going to dignify it with any sort of response, but dude, this was begging for a blog post.

Look, I'm aware that not everybody is going to like me. Does that bother me? Of course. I want to be universally liked. But nobody is universally liked, except maybe Mother Teresa, and I suspect even some of her contemporaries secretly thought she was a goody-goody.

In the week since my website went live, I've quickly grown tired of myself. I am over-saturated with my own content. I'm a sensitive person, and it's easy for me to fear that if I'm tired of me, than surely others are tired of me as well. To have my singing and my writing and my thoughts on display, inviting judgment, makes me want to cringe sometimes. I do worry about what people think of me, and I do fear the bad review.

But that's the nature of the business. It's the nature of life, really. And it's a good lesson for me to accept the fact that not everybody likes me. I'll learn to live with it.

I guess keeping a blog is sort of a vain endeavor. It makes the rather large assumption that somebody's interested in reading what I have to say - and it's pretty much all about me. But what I want to do for a living requires quite a bit of self-promotion. I'm not always comfortable with it, but that's the way it is. I have chosen to write this blog so that I can speak from my own perspective, so I can share stories on the path to my career from my own point of view. I recognize that it may not be interesting to everybody, but nobody has to read it.

Am I vain? I do read and re-read everything I write about a dozen times. Sometimes I make vampy faces at myself in the mirror. I do like the sound of my own voice. Perhaps I am a little vain.

But at least I can spell.

(Oh, snap! Didn't see that one coming, did you? Oh, I had to. I just had to.)

Ethel Rosenberg

2009-05-05T14:35:00.000-07:00

My Songwriting class last week left me frustrated.

Our assignment was to go someplace we'd never been before and write a song about it. We'd all brought in lyrics and our teacher was helping us put our words to music. But he was going about it in a heavily theoretical way, jumping from tangent to tangent.

My simple, four-line lullaby generated a half-hour discussion on modes. I looked over my hastily scribbled notes:

Dorian: 'Moondance', Van Morrison
Phrygian: Middle Eastern, new age
Lydian: Impressionistic

and realized I had no idea what I was writing about.

Now, I've taken Music Theory. I studied it in high school, in college, and again in a course last year. But this stuff was sailing right over my head. It's not that I don't understand theory. It's more like, I can understand it for a very short period of time, before my brain needs that real estate for something else. And I was frustrated because this Songwriting class was supposed to be open to everybody, but it seemed to be geared toward those with a thorough grounding in theoretical knowledge. It was much too broad a spectrum for me, and I only wanted to know how these vast ideas applied to my particular song.

I don't think I was the only one feeling frustrated. The girl next to me was taking frantic notes and kept asking the instructor to repeat things verbatim.

By 10 PM I was fried, and more than ready to go home. My lullaby was still tuneless and I had pages of notes that meant little to me. But first:

"Your homework," said our instructor. "This is an article from yesterday's New York Times. I want you to write a song about this." He read aloud:

Walter Schneir, Who Wrote About Rosenbergs, Dies at 81

Walter Schneir, whose fascination with the Rosenberg espionage case began with a hotly debated 1965 book arguing that the couple had been framed, and ended with his grim acceptance that Julius, if not Ethel, Rosenberg was indeed a Soviet spy, died April 11 at his home in Pleasantville, N.Y. He was 81.

I blinked, confused.

The arrest, trial and execution of the Rosenbergs mesmerized an America coming to grips with the early cold war and the anxiety aroused by the Soviet Union’s testing of an atomic bomb. When the two were convicted of conspiracy to commit espionage on March 29, 1951, few seemed to disagree with Judge Irving R. Kaufman that their crime was “worse than murder.”

But by the time of the Rosenbergs’ execution, at sundown on June 19, 1953, the number of people around the world who questioned the government’s handling of the case had grown. They ranged from death-penalty opponents to those who saw a Soviet-style show trial, from Communists to skeptics of the prosecution’s evidence. Picasso and the pope pleaded for mercy. With time, Americans’ views on the case demarcated a range of political identities, from left to right.

"This is a great story," said our instructor. "I want you to write a song about this, without using any of these words: Communism, trial, McCarthyism, or their names. It should be a metaphorical song; nothing should be literal. That's your homework."

I gaped at him. What the hell is he talking about? I wondered stupidly.

The girl next to me was asking, "Wait, can you repeat that? Communism...and what else?"

"Read the article," said the instructor. "You'll get everything you need from there." I waited for him to hand out copies, but he didn't. Shit. Yesterday's NY Times/Rosenbergs, I scrawled in my notebook.

I glanced furtively at my classmates to see if any of them looked as confused as I felt. "You know what's so interesting?" the guy behind me said earnestly. "I didn't realize they were executed before Sputnik."

"Oh, they were executed long before Sputnik," said the guy to my right. Great, I thought. Now I feel like an idiot in two subjects.

The girl next to me was asking the instructor to explain Ionian mode one more time. I packed my bag slowly and timed my exit to coincide with hers.

When we were safely in the hall I gave my ally a wry smile. "We couldn't write a metaphorical song about flowers or something?" I quipped, expecting laughter.

She smiled back at me, blandly. "I guess he wanted us to learn something." She exited the building and I stared after her in dismay. Who are these wholesome, smarty-pants people? I wondered as I trudged back to my car.

Twenty minutes later I plopped down in front of my computer to Google the Rosenbergs. Amid all the information on Communism, anti-Semitism and McCarthyism, here's what stuck with me:

The Rosenbergs were sentenced to die by electric chair on June 18th, 1953. But on June 17th they were granted a stay of execution. Their reprieve was only 24 hours long; the next day Court was called into special session to dispose of the stay, and the Rosenbergs were executed on June 19th.
In a last minute play for more time, the Rosenbergs' lawyer argued that the late evening time of the execution offended their Jewish heritage, as it was scheduled for after the start of the Sabbath. The tactic backfired; the execution was rescheduled for before sundown.
It took three rounds of electrocution to kill Ethel Rosenberg. Eyewitnesses reported smoke rising from her head at the conclusion.
Although it was eventually confirmed that Julius Rosenberg was a courier and recruiter for the Soviets, there is still doubt today as to whether Ethel Rosenberg was even involved.

Man, I thought. Sucks to be Ethel Rosenberg.

I went to sleep with all that information tumbling in my head and when I woke up the next day I kept thinking about that 24-hour stay of execution. It seemed like such a farce, such a token reprieve. Although I knew that there were many men involved in the conviction, the appeal and its overturn - some of whom were genuinely on her side - they began to meld together into this singular character, a villain who toyed with her final hours, granting her pardon and then snatching it back. She was convicted, sentenced, spared, re-sentenced, and then had the time of her execution pushed up. And after all that it took 3 rounds of juice to bring her down. What an undignified way to die.

I wanted to give Ethel Rosenberg her dignity back.

I imagined her saying to this composite man, "You know what? The hell with your 24 hours. I don't need them."

And slowly, this song began to emerge:

Verse:
I've heard it said that when your time is up
You would give anything for 24 hours
But here I stand to say I've had enough
If we're gonna do this thing then let's not be cowards

You call the shots, you end it all
Not my decision
You don't believe I'm not involved
That's your limited vision

Chorus:
I don't need your stay of execution
I don't need your courtesy reprieve
If you're going to end it all then I decide
The way I'm going to leave
I don't need your last minute kindness
One more day to think things through
You're not my friend, here at the end
I don't need anything from you

Verse:
And when I'm gone I hope you realize
That I never did those things of which you accused me
But you're so quick to make up your own mind
It never occurred to you I might not be guilty

Let's not pretend there's more to say
Why bother trying?
There's just no need for one more day
This spark is dying

Chorus:
I don't need your stay of execution
I don't need your parting gift to me
If you're not convinced by now then one more day
Will hardly make you see
You want to end it all between us
Have the guts to see things through
Try to accept there's nothing left
I don't want anything from you

(Repeat 1st chorus)

You're not my friend, here at the end
I don't need anything from you

"It's a break-up song," said my instructor last night, when I sang it to the class.

"Yeah," I said.

My classmates were nodding, smiling. "What do you call it?" one of them asked.

I said: "From You."

Click here to listen.

errinmarie dot com

2009-04-29T08:45:00.000-07:00

You'll notice that the blog format looks different. That's because my web designer is trying to match it to my website, only Blogger's templates are a little bit tricky to work with. She's battling with the header and the sidebar. So the blog will be in flux over the next couple of days as we struggle to make it progressively cooler.

However, the website is just about done! There will continue to be the odd change or two, and the media page is going to undergo a revamp, but for the most part www.errinmarie.com is complete! Check it out!

I've been excited about my website for so long, and now that it's actually live I feel strangely hesitant about making the announcement. I'm trying to figure out why that is.

It started as just a small idea. "You need a website," my web designer said to me awhile back. I shrugged.

"I don't really have any content," I said. "I'm not sure what I'd put on a website."

"Well, just a page, then," she persisted. "With your contact info at least. You need some kind of web presence so people can find you and then hire you and make you famous."

"That does sound good," I agreed.

And that's all it was supposed to be. But as time passed the web page grew into a website, and the website grew into an awesome website, and then the awesome website threatened to overshadow my meager message.

"I need content," implored my web designer and I wrung my hands in distress.

"Yeah, I told you, I don't have much of that," I said.

"Can you give me something?" she begged. "Anything."

So I wrote. I used text to fill up the holes where my music should be. I scripted a bio page the length of Moby Dick. I concocted wordy blog posts to divert your attention from the fact that I don't have any recordings, or upcoming performances, or, um, plans.

And as the website matured in its cocoon of ever-growing awesomeness, its reputation preceding it by miles ("Yes, my website is coming soon! Stay tuned!"), I've awaited its birth with unease. Because when that site goes live, I know I'm going to have to deal with a whole new level of expectation. You know what I'm talking about. The dreaded: "Now what?"

For it is not enough to simply announce yourself to the world. Oh, you can throw your arms wide and declare, "Hey world, here I am!" But the world will merely glance at you over its morning coffee and go back to surfing the internet for stupid pet tricks. No, you've got to have something more to grab the world's attention. You have to do something.

For the moment, I'm just going to do this:

Look at me! from Errin M on Vimeo.

I hope it's enough.

A Tribute to Rev

2009-04-27T14:51:00.000-07:00

Last night I attended a tribute concert for the late Ron Stallings, a much loved Bay Area musician, who died two weeks ago today.

I knew Ron through Glide. A year or more ago, he was a temporary regular with the Glide musicians, known as the Change Band. Ron sat in on the sax.

Ron was there the day I first sang Smile Again. Filled with nerves after a horrendous rehearsal, I was shocked and delighted to deliver a rousing performance. It was one of those moments that you dream about, where everything goes right and that thunderous applause lifts you right out of your shoes. Afterward, he came up and shook my hand. "You're very talented," he said.

I didn't know who he was, beyond the pinch-hitter sax player. I didn't know he'd played with the Temptations, the Dells, the Four Tops, Gladys Knight, Boz Scaggs, Louis Bellson and Huey Lewis and The News, just to name a few. I didn't know that he was a saxophonist, flutist, composer and singer, or that he'd played all around the world. I just thought he was very kind to say that to me.

My first inkling that he was ill came one day during Sunday service. The sopranos stand next to the band and I was on the end, closest to the horns. Ron kept sitting down on the edge of the risers, sometimes while the rest of the band was playing. I leaned over and asked if he was all right. Did he need a chair? Some water? He assured me that he was fine, but he spent more time sitting than standing that day. Shortly afterward Ron left the band.

I ran into him several months later at the local farmers market. He was surprised that I remembered him. "Of course I remember you," I said. "When are you coming back to Glide?"

"Oh, one of these days, I expect," he said, smiling. "You keep on singing."

That was the last time I saw him.

Last night's tribute concert was packed to bursting with folks who came out to pay their respects. The music was fantastic, but I was mostly touched by the standing-room-only crowd, the line of people who waited outside through intermission, still hoping to make it in.

"What a life," I said to Monte. "Look how many people he touched."

Certainly I didn't know him well, but I will always remember the kind words he spoke to me on an important day in my life. This is my small tribute to him.

A Tribute to Rev from Errin M on Vimeo.

Roman cavalry choirs are singing

2009-04-16T10:47:00.000-07:00

A friend posted this on Facebook yesterday and I've been captivated by it ever since. I must have watched this video a dozen times already.

Look at their faces! Watch their body language! My high school choir conductor would have given anything to have us emote like that, but I guess by high school we've got too many reservations for raw emotion.

This is the PS22 Chorus. I found their blog and learned that they've got dozens of videos and count several famous folks among their fans, including Tori Amos and Coldplay, whose songs they've performed. (And here I was, ready to hunt down Chris Martin and make him watch this video. Ha.)

What gets me the most is the beautiful simplicity. It's just a bunch of kids sitting in their school auditorium, a guy on guitar and a hand-held video camera. It doesn't need anything to jazz it up. Everything we need to see is right there in their faces. I am so moved by what this music teacher is doing; I almost feel like he's teaching us more than he's teaching the kids.

Kids need music. They need art. They need sports. They need the kinds of things that bring expressions like that to their faces. In fact, we ALL need the kinds of things that bring expressions like that to our faces. I wish that every superintendent of schools would watch that video before making budget cuts. These programs are lifelines for a lot of kids. Music was certainly a lifeline for me, and were it not for my high school choir conductor, I don't know who I'd be today.

This video reminds me that it doesn't take much to start a revolution. You can start a revolution with a guitar.

Easter

2009-04-13T23:10:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we were driving to church for the sunrise service. Which sounds lovely, until you factor in the 4:15 AM wake-up call.

So it was still dark, because it was essentially the middle of the night, and I pointed out the window toward the full moon. "Lookit the moon," I mumbled, sleepily.

"Uh huh," Monte replied, slightly less sleepily (I hope), because he was driving. "It's a Jesus moon."

"Huh?" I said, confused.

"A Jesus moon. The moon they used to find Jesus."

I paused. "The moon who used to find Jesus?"

"You know, those guys. They followed the moon to find him."

I took this in. "Are you talking about the wise men?" I finally asked.

"Yeah," he said, "those guys."

I whooped. "You mean the three wise men who followed the star to Bethlehem at Christmas?"

Now Monte was silent. Processing. A moment later he said decisively: "Yes."

I laughed myself wide awake. "You need to go to church more," I wheezed, wiping tears of mirth from my eyes.

That's mirth, not myrrh.

Here's a little taste of Easter morning at Glide. Have you ever seen a church so thoroughly rocking?

Easter Sunday at Glide from e marie on Vimeo.

I. Will. Let. You. Know.

2009-04-06T13:13:00.001-07:00

You know what question never gets old?

"When are you getting married?"

Seriously. I just never get tired of answering that one.

We visited Monte's family this weekend.

Thanks, Universe

2009-04-03T11:32:00.000-07:00

I think that call out to the Universe might be working, because I am suddenly very busy.

I'll give you a short account of my week.

Last Friday I recorded background vocals for a nice fellow named Jon, whom I found on Craigslist. Actually, he found me on Craigslist. I had posted an ad for free studio work in hopes of getting some recording experience and he took me up on my offer. Except he paid me, which was way better. Either he don't read too good or he's just really nice.

He promised me a low-pressure, home studio environment and he didn't lie - we were working in a spare bedroom. But he had good equipment and gave good direction, and we made good progress. We got through 2 songs that first day, and he asked if I could come back the following week.

On Sunday I gigged with Vernon at the Bazaar Cafe. We drew a nice little crowd for a Sunday night, and our Glide buddies sat right up front. Vernon and I had been talking about songwriting together, and we planned a session for later that week.

I spent Monday trying to pin down lyrics for this new song that's been floating in my head. I finally nailed down a bridge and a chorus, but the melody wouldn't come to me. I was hoping that Vernon could help me with that; we'd discussed how lyrics come easily to me, but I struggle with music, and he's the opposite. I was looking forward to putting our heads together on this tune.

I also spent some time emailing with my friend Pete about another song I had written the week before. Pete is putting scratch instrumentals behind my lyrics to create a demo track. It's a pretty high-tech method of creation, this back-and-forth emailing, but it's an interesting process. We send each other mp3's of the tune in various stages, and slowly it's coming together.

On Tuesday I went into the recording studio with Leah, to watch an overdub session. Leah is in the early finishing stages of her second album and she was gracious enough to allow me to sit in on a session. She'd already recorded the tracks, but in the overdubbing process she re-recorded certain phrases that didn't sound right. She had a long list of notes that indicated specific places where she wanted to make changes, and she'd dart in and out of the booth to re-sing a piece of a line here and there. It was pretty fascinating. I was surprised to learn that you could re-record just a snippet of a phrase and tuck it neatly into a song. There were some places where she just sang one or two words, but when the sound engineer pieced it together you couldn't tell at all.

It was a much different experience from my session with Jon the week before, but I marveled at the similarities. Session work quickly grows tedious, and there comes a point where you can give yourself too many choices and be overwhelmed by the possibilities. For instance, Jon had me record one line with 3 different rhythms and then 4 different melodies. After these 12 takes we realized that I'd been singing a wrong word - and so we had to do it all over again. We'd been working for 3 hours, we were getting hungry and tired, and suddenly we had to choose the best of 24 takes - except we kept getting them confused. It's like building a quilt in your head, I thought.

I saw the same thing happen with Leah. "Wait, which one we did we like before?" she asked, after re-recording the same snippet multiple times. It was a really valuable experience to be in the studio with her, especially combined with my recent experience with Jon, and I felt like I learned an awful lot this week. I realized that a half-day recording session is probably my max, and that I should record early in the day when I'm feeling fresh. That's the kind of lesson you like to learn before you shell out your own money for studio time.

On Tuesday night I had my final sewing class where I completed my first-ever skirt! It's delightfully cute and I may just wear it on Easter. Now I can't stop thinking about my next sewing project, and when I am done with this blog post I'm off to the sewing store.

Late on Tuesday night I checked my email to find that Vernon had sent me a track for our session the next day. I wrote back to him: Just got your email; probably won't have time to work on this before I see you tomorrow.

But then I stayed up till 3 AM, writing lyrics for the tune.

It was a great exercise, but I'm not sure how he felt about the lyrics. I'd taken the song in a much different direction than his original intention. "That's great though," he said. "I didn't give you instructions on purpose; I wanted to see where you went with it." I'm not entirely sure that he liked where I went with it, but I decided that I liked it, and that was good enough for the moment.

We also worked on my tune, the one with scant lyrics and no melody. I sang him the pieces of the song as I heard it, and he asked me questions about the format and the message. I could see his fingers flexing, as though he already knew the chords he wanted to play. I'm excited to hear what he comes up with when we meet again next week.

I never did get a nap on Wednesday and I rolled into choir rehearsal feeling tired but happy. I slept really well that night. The next morning I headed off for another recording session with Jon. This time we whipped through the material, and actually recorded an extra song. "These tunes are really coming together," I told him. "I can't wait to get my copy of your album."

And now it's Friday. I'm taking a quick breather before next week hits. Today I've got to work on song notes for Pete and edit some video footage. Tomorrow it's 10 miles around the lake, training for the upcoming marathon. On Monday my songwriting class begins, and on Tuesday I've got my first meeting with a Women's' Writers group. Then on Wednesday it's another session with Vernon, then choir rehearsal, 17 miles on Saturday and then 3 church services on Easter Sunday!

I saw my friend Simon a few days ago. He'd just returned from a 2 month silent retreat. He was a bit overwhelmed to be back in the urban world.

"You look so different," he told me. "What's going on with you?"

"You mean the tan?" I asked. People keep asking me where I've been on vacation, but it's just from running outside that I'm turning so brown.

"Well, yes, the tan, but mostly your aura is different. What's changed?"

I forget that Simon has a sixth sense. I think most of us are inclined to raise an eyebrow when someone begins talking about visible auras, but Simon is so understated, you realize quite quickly that he's not showing off. He is intuitive right up to the edge of psychic ability, and he has astonished me several times with the things that he knows without being told. The fact that he was able to sense a new purpose about me made me feel like I was on the right track.

You know, you just can't go wrong by asking the Universe for help. I highly recommend it.

Monday, Monday, Monday

2009-03-30T23:49:00.000-07:00

Thanks to all those who turned out on Sunday night for our performance at the Bazaar Cafe! For those of you who couldn't make it, here's a little snippet of the set:

Bazaar Cafe from Errin M on Vimeo.

And big thanks to William for being our on-the-spot videographer!

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!

2009-03-27T10:12:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be singing with Vernon Bush on Sunday night at the Bazaar Cafe!

THE BAZAAR CAFE
5927 CALIFORNIA ST. (Bet 21st & 22nd sts.)
SAN FRANCISCO, CA
415 / 831-5620

Sunday, March 29th
6:30 - 9 PM
No cover

Vernon performs AGAIN in this wonderful intimate cafe setting, singing some of his new inspiring material in addition to his signature sing along sets. You're sure to be inspired!! Please stop on by!!

Here's a little snippet of our rehearsal the other day. The quality is poor because I had my camera on the wrong setting by accident, and, as you can see, I managed to cut off most of my head. Oh well.

Rehearsal from Errin M on Vimeo.

Hope to see you on Sunday!

Speak Out!

2009-03-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

Last week I went to Speak Out! at Glide.

Speak Out! happens every Wednesday. It's an open mic forum that gives the people of the neighborhood a chance to step up and speak their mind. People use it as an opportunity to check in, make community announcements, read poetry, or simply tell their story. Given Glide's location in the Tenderloin, a lot of the folks who come to Speak Out! are from the streets or the shelters. Many are addicts or recovering addicts, victims or former perpetrators of abuse. Some are on their way up. Some are still going down. Most are just looking for a handhold, something secure to grip, to help them through their day. That's why I was there.

I used to go to Prayer Circle on Wednesday nights, but over the years the group dwindled and eventually disappeared. For awhile I reveled in the extra free time, but after a few months I began to feel a bit spiritually deficient. You'd think that 5 or 6 hours of church per week would be enough, what with choir rehearsals and services, but it wasn't. I found that I was missing that personal connection that I'd forged with the members of my Prayer Circle. I missed hearing people's stories; I didn't know how much they'd sustained me.

So when I started feeling adrift a few weeks ago, I decided to check out Speak Out! I thought a little spiritual grounding might be in order.

The room was full; they actually had to add several more rows of seating. I spotted an empty chair and made a grab for it. I was smack in the middle, between two men whose mingled scents were a bit of an assault on my olfactory system. I thought about moving but I desperately did not want to be rude. (Although come 45 minutes into the hour I was feeling a little nauseous and second-guessing my decision.)

I have to pause for a minute...Just writing that makes me feel snobby and privileged, but that's how it was. The room was ripe.

I soon realized that the man on my left was hearing voices in his head. "Stand up! No! Sit down!" he muttered, alternately nodding and shaking his head. He made as though to stand, then wrapped his arms around his body and pushed himself back in his seat. "Okay, okay," he said to himself reassuringly. "It's okay. It's okay."

I remembered that comedy sketch (although I forget the comedian) about the guy walking down the street talking to himself, whom everybody thinks is crazy, but it turns out he's really talking to God. I decided the man on my left was okay with me.

The man on my right was eating a donut. There were a few boxes of donuts to tide people over until dinner was served at the end of the hour. Every day Glide serves breakfast, lunch and dinner to anyone who's hungry, and Speak Out coincides with the dinner hour, so they serve those folks specially at the end of the session. The man on my right was hungry. He ate two donuts while he waited for dinner to be served.

I was reminded of what a blessing it is not to be hungry.

And as though to underline that thought, a man walked up to the microphone and began talking about food.

"I wanna say thank you for Glide, for the breakfast program," he said. "It's so important. We can't wait for Saint Anthony's to open at 11:30. I'm gonna commit a crime if I have to wait until 11:30 to eat. That's too late. People don't know how this food program is cutting down on crime. I have a friend who said to me, 'I missed dinner. Guess I'm gonna go do what I have to do.' People gonna do what they have to do to get fed."

A woman came up to the microphone and said she was graduating from her rehab program. The room erupted with applause.

"I'm going to miss San Francisco," she said. "I'm going to miss Glide church. I just want to thank everybody for accepting me and feeding me...It's good to have folks to talk to. It's good to not be scared no more. I did a lot of stuff I didn't want to do. I did prostitution. I been beat up, you know. I seen a lot of bad parts of this city. But this city's been good to me too; I learned a lot here. I made friends. Now I'm going to go and I'm sad to go, but I thank you all for being here for me."

The next person rolled up to the mic in a wheelchair.

"I just want to invite everyone to a community meeting at the police headquarters next week. The San Francisco Chief of Police is leaving, and this is our chance to speak up about the kind of person that we want to replace her. This is a chance for the community to be heard, so please come and speak out."

We applauded after each person spoke, no matter what they said. One woman gave a little sermon on the topic of forgiveness. A man read a poem about the strength of a black man. Another man announced that his daughter was the first person in their family to go to college. Several times people walked up to the mic, introduced themselves and simply said, "I want to say thank you." Then they sat back down.

The faces in that room were mostly different faces than the ones I know from upstairs. Although Sunday services are open to everybody, I realized that not everyone who comes to Glide comes for the Celebrations. It was a different community downstairs.

And what impressed me was that Janice, Glide's founding president, knew everybody's name.

"Where's Magnolia?" she asked, looking around. "We haven't heard from her in awhile. Oh, Curtis! Come up here, Curtis! Come say a few words."

Jan, in her impeccable outfit and high heels, was at home down in the basement with the folks from the food line. And they loved her. I've long admired Jan, but I felt my respect for her surge in that moment: How many women do you know who can straddle two worlds in a pencil skirt?

A young man walked up to the microphone. He was part of a group from the nearby American Conservatory Theater. They've been writing theatrical pieces based on their experiences at Glide and plan to put on a performance for Glide folks next month.

"I wrote a poem about the food line," he said seriously. "It's a metaphor." His gaze traveled around the room before he opened his mouth to speak.

I am in line to eat.

He paused, purposefully.

I am last in line to eat so I can step out of line and I won't lose my spot.
I can step over here.

He paused again and I stifled a giggle. I wasn't sure yet if the poem was meant to be funny.

Hey you, look at me, can you stand here?
I'm free.
You are only two people in front of me, and you are stuck.
Stuck in that line.

A final pause. Then:

I'm sitting on this car.

That did it - I howled. I laughed so hard tears came to my eyes. In just a few short lines this guy had managed to tell an entire story. I saw that scene unfold as though I'd been walking past it. Brilliant, I thought. Just brilliant.

Oh, the little jewels you can stumble across in the course of your day.

The hour was wrapping up, and we moved on to the raffle. Every week they raffle off a few bags of groceries, and this time one went to the man whose daughter had made it into college. Then Darius stood up to announce dinner.

Darius is a tall black man with a deep, rolling voice. He took up the microphone and smiled. He said:

"Speak Out! is good, isn't it?"

And I was touched by how true that was. Speak Out! is good. Aside from the food, the community and an hour inside away from the cold, Speak Out! is a forum. How often do you think people on the street get a chance to step up to a microphone and speak their piece? I know how important a forum has been for me. This blog allows me to speak my mind even when I've got nothing in particular to say. I have the opportunity to speak out every day. I've entitled this blog Finding My Voice because writing here is helping me to find my voice, as a writer and a singer, but most importantly as a person. And it's a privilege, this virtual soapbox. It's good.

Darius said, "Now, ya'll know how this works. It's handicapped first, women second, men last. And please throw your trash away cause I got to stay until this is all cleaned up. All right, your menu for the evening:

"Your meat is kielbasa.
"Your drink is juice.
"Your vegetables is vegetables." (That set me laughing all over again.)
"Your starch is potatoes."

Jan beckoned him and he bent his tall body in half so she could whisper in his ear. Upon straightening up he said,

"Oh yeah: kielbasa is a kind of fancy sausage.

"Now ya'll, let's eat."

I didn't stay for dinner. I climbed the steps upstairs, toward choir rehearsal. And as I left, I felt good. I felt lighter.

They call the basement Freedom Hall. There is something freeing about a room where you can speak your truth so baldly without fear of judgement. It is a clean feeling, even if you haven't had the opportunity to wash. It's a full feeling, because you're getting fed in more ways than one.

I am better for having been there. And I'll be going back.

(The poet in this post is Philip Martinson. The piece is reprinted with his permission.)

Now don't freak out...

2009-03-18T15:29:00.001-07:00

...but there are going to be some changes made to this blog format. My Web site is nearing completion (yay!) and my Web designer is going to style the blog to match the rest of the site. I just wanted to warn you, lest you land on my blog and think you're in the wrong place. These are authorized changes. Everything's going to be cool. Just don't, you know, freak out.

To Get a Girl a Drink - A St. Patrick's Day Super-Limerick

2009-03-17T10:56:00.000-07:00

This poem won me a contest a few years back. I thought I'd dust it off today in honor of St. Patrick's Day. I dedicate this piece to all those Erins (and Arins and Aarons and Errins) out there. To the Irish!

To Get a Girl A Drink
by Errin Marie

I tried to do Beckett's last year
(Heard tales of their wicked green beer)
Meself and me lasses
Would sit on our asses
And drink till the day disappeared

But by half past five there was no entry
'Twas a guard at the door standing sentry
'Twere too many packed in
And the terrible din
Was enough to send us round the bend(try)

The problem with St. Paddy's Day
Is there's too many folks in the way
You can't get a beer
'Less you scream in the ear
Of a barman who's walking away

It's too much to get their attention
Like last year; I thought I would mention
That 'Er(r)in's' with ID
Should all drink for free
It should be an Irish convention

But the barman could not hear a word!
I'm telling you, it was absurd
The place was a-teeming
With lads that were screaming
And pushing past me to be served

The sight of it! What a disgrace!
The eejits were running the place!
They'd not be so shady
To ignore a lady
Were not they all drunk off their face

With the end of the eve drawing near
I'd still only gotten one beer
Said 'Bollocks!' and left
And feeling bereft,
I vowed to do better next year

But next year has now come to pass
And I'm kicking meself for me sass
For how can I hope
To out-shout the blokes
When I'm nothing more than a lass?

There's got to be some way, methinks
For a gal to get herself some drinks
I mightn't have balls
But I've got the gall
To sex the thing up a few winks

So I've thought up a plan that is flawless!
To best all the lads acting lawless
For next year, you see
I plan to wear a tee
That proclaims me as "Errin Go Braugh-less"

On the balls of my feet

2009-03-13T12:50:00.000-07:00

I haven't been blogging much lately and I'm starting to feel kind of bad about that. I thought I'd explain to you why.

You see, a couple of weeks ago Monte unwittingly posed me a challenge. I think we were talking about how I should be kicking off my singing career. He said offhandedly, "You should release an album this year."

To which I responded, "That's ridiculous. You don't just release an album in a year. I'm ages away from that."

He shrugged, and that was the end of the conversation.

But you know, he got me thinking.

It doesn't have to be anything spectacular, I mused. I could just record something within the next year, just to get myself going. I mean, even if it's a crappy first effort, that wouldn't matter; at least it would be something. Surely I could manage that within a year, right?

So a few days later I announced to Monte that I would present him with a recording come Valentine's Day next year. It will be my gift to him.

I felt really good about that declaration! For about 24 hours. Then I realized I had no idea what to do next.

Meanwhile, my friend Jonah (the selfsame Jonah of blog entries past) emailed me: Hey, when are you going to send me some lyrics? For I had mentioned to Jonah that I know I can write lyrics, but I'm stumped about writing music. He plays guitar, and he graciously offered to help me pen a tune.

Oh, right! I responded. I've been meaning to get on that! I'll have them to you by next Friday.

And lo and behold, I did.

I sat down every day for a week and started churning out these lyrics that had been floating around in my head for ages. It was kind of frustrating because the song would only come out a little bit at a time. But after a solid week of work, I'd actually finished.

And I felt so good about that, I decided to complete a song every week! After all, I'd just proved to myself that it was only a matter of carving out the time! The songs are in there. I just have to draw them out.

The second piece was harder to come by than the first. Around Wednesday I got fed up and put it aside in favor of a third song. I finished neither that week, but resolved to wrap them both up by the end of Week 3.

Instead what happened was that Thursday of Week 3 found me stressed and depressed. I realized that I didn't really know what I was doing. I vaguely understood that I was working really hard in a manner that was not very productive, just spinning my wheels. And the unexpected side effect was that I had no interest in writing for my blog - in fact, I barely thought about it - because I was so wrapped up in these going-nowhere songs.

So I took a few days off. OK, more like a week. A week and half, tops. I got a pedicure.

And I started signing up for a lot of classes. Belly dancing. Zumba. Beginning Sewing. Swimming. Yoga. Songwriting. I pondered Ceramics but decided to hold off on that for awhile.

You're probably wondering why I would bother with anything other than the Songwriting class, but I was floundering. I know that I work better when I'm busy and I was trying to stimulate my brain creatively, even through an indirect approach. Plus, I want to make a wrap-around skirt to wear over my yoga and belly dance clothes. And when else am I going to have the time to do all this? I should be making the most of this time off!

Did that sound a little defensive? Maybe it was. Truthfully, in the back of my mind I wondered how Monte feels about supporting my creative whimsy. A few days later I found out.

"Honestly, sometimes I wonder if you've got enough drive for a singing career," he said to me the other night. "Do you want it bad enough? I want to see you succeed, but I can't support you indefinitely."

I waited for that to sting, but he'd only said what I'd been suspecting he felt.

"Let me ask you," I said, "Do you think I've got the talent for this?"

"There's no question of that," he replied. "Absolutely, I do."

"Okay," I said, nodding thoughtfully. "I don't know how to convince you that I have the desire and the drive to do this. Sometimes I fear that I don't have the necessary talent, but if you believe in me and my friends believe in me, then it's easier to believe in myself. I want to do this. I just don't know how. I am lost. I feel like I'm on the balls of my feet, ready to launch myself forward, but I don't know which direction to go. When those doors open up in my head, when I figure out just what to do, I am ready to work so hard. I just don't know how to get started. I don't know what I'm doing.

"But I hear you," I told him. "I can't even begin to thank you for the gift of this time. I know it won't last and I want to make the most of it."

We sat in silence for a few moments.

"There's more, isn't there?" I asked. We'd been talking about marriage earlier and I segued back to that topic. "It's not just financial, the reason why you don't want to get married right now? Are you feeling like you want to wait until I'm in a more stable place in my life?" After seven and a half years together I wasn't fearful that this signaled trouble in our relationship. But we've been talking about marriage for ages and still haven't done it; it seems there's always a reason to wait.

"I just want us to be coming from a place of equal partnership," he said finally. "And we've waited this long...why not wait until it's right?" He sighed. I sighed. I fully respected what he had said. But both of us are longing to get on with our lives.

"The trouble is, sometimes you can wait too long, and then it's too late." He looked at me seriously. I felt an odd mixture of sadness and determination. There's been a lot of give and take in our relationship over the years, times when one of us would stand so the other one could lean. He's standing for me now.

"It's late," he said. "Let's go to bed." He pushed himself up from the kitchen table and reached out his hand to pull me out of my seat. He switched off the light as we left the room.

I lay in bed thinking: It's on me.

So what do you do when you don't know what to do?

I guess you ask for help.

You ask the people who might know, you ask the people who might not know, you ask the Universe, you ask God. You ask, you listen, you plan, you act.

I write this as my declaration to ask, listen, plan, act. I'm asking the Universe, I'm asking God (who are probably one and the same, but you never know), I'm asking you for help.

I've got to figure out how to make things happen.

If for no other reason than because I want to marry that man.

3 friends, 10 drinks, 1 night on the town

2009-03-04T16:34:00.000-08:00

Last week I went to the Rrazz Room with my friends Danny and William to see a singer named Eve Marie.

"Now, who is this woman again?" I asked Danny, as we enjoyed a little dinner before the show.

"Eve? Oh, she's the daughter of my coworker Cliff's girlfriend. Gorgeous voice. Cliff says he can't even listen to her without crying. Cheers," he added, and we all clinked our wine glasses together.

"To a lovely evening," proposed William, and Danny and I murmured our assent, noses already buried in our glasses.

"But honestly? I want to check out the room," confessed Danny when he surfaced. "Have you ever been to the Rrazz Room?" I shook my head. "It's supposed to be this great space, right inside the Hotel Nikko. And now that I'm planning to do another show, I want to see if this might be the right room for me."

"Are you doing another show?" asked William.

"Oh yeah, I'm already gathering ideas for it. I've got all these stories floating around in my head that I can't wait to tell." I saw Danny's show last year. He does a cabaret-type act that's half singing, half story-telling. And unlike many singers who talk between their songs, you actually want to hear Dan's stories, he tells them with such panache.

"I'm so impressed by you," I said, taking another sip of wine. "You just decided, 'Hey, I'm going to put on a show!' and then you went out there and did it. That's incredible."

"You should be doing this, my dear," said Danny.

"Well, you've got me thinking about it," I admitted. "I guess I didn't realize that it was something I could actually do. You know, because I don't have any original tunes yet. But you just picked some songs, got a pianist and booked a room, huh?"

"Yes, but this time I'm thinking about having a bass player!" declared Danny, and William and I oohed appreciatively. We passed a pleasant dinner discussing our plans for super-stardom. When I finally pushed away my plate I let out a sigh of contentment.

"What time is it?" asked Dan.

"Six o'clock," replied William.

"We've got time for another round!" I joked, and everybody laughed.

"The show is at seven; we don't want to be late," fretted Danny.

"Dan, relax," said William. "The venue is literally across the street. Oh, excuse me -" he said to a passing waiter. "Can we get another round, please?"

"Oh William, I was joking," I protested, but the waiter was already off.

"We want to make sure we get good seats!" persisted Danny.

"I was going to stick to one glass of wine," I said to nobody in particular.

"We'll leave here at twenty to, walk across the street and be fifteen minutes early," William reassured Danny. The waiter reappeared with our second round.

"Cheers!" we chorused, and all took a sip.

"Well, it doesn't take me much," I warned the guys. "This is already going to my head."

"Well then," said Dan, "we'll have to switch to apple martinis for the two drink minimum."

"Oh Danny," I said in dismay. "There's a two drink minimum?" I looked at my full glass of wine, gave a little sigh and then threw back a slug.

Zing! "Hey!" I said, flushed with sudden urgency. "Did I show you guys my business cards?" I rooted around in my purse for my brand new, hot pink, plastic card holder. I slapped six cards onto the table and pushed them around, lining them up.

"They're little pictures of you singing!" cried Danny, scooping one up.

"I know!" I said jubilantly. "And they're all different! Well, I've got six different designs. And look! They've got my name on the back!"

"Errin Marie, Vocalist," read William.

"That's my singing name," I said proudly.

"Just like Eve Marie!" said Danny.

"Mm hmm," I conceded, taking another swig of wine. I wondered if I could get this other woman to change her name.

"These are really cool. Where did you get them printed?" asked William.

"Moo.com," I said. "They print all kinds of cool stuff, from business cards to stickers. These are actually mini business cards, but I liked the look of them better." We admired my cards for a moment.

"I want to take a couple," said Danny. "So I can keep one and give one to a friend." He and William both chose their favorite cards.

"Okay," I said. "But don't give them out for a couple of weeks. My website isn't quite done yet."

After another half an hour (during which Dan checked William's watch three times) we left the restaurant and headed across the street to the club. I was feeling pleasantly floaty and suddenly really looking forward to hearing some music. We entered the Hotel Nikko and got in line at the Rrazz Room entrance.

"Swanky," murmured Danny, looking around.

"I had no idea it was so nice in here," I said. "I think I might just come and hang out in this lobby sometime."

"Between Sunday services," suggested William, and we laughed. The hotel is right next door to Glide.

Danny grabbed a show bill and we examined it as the line crept forward.

"Petula Clark's coming here," he pointed out.

"Hey, Freda Payne," spotted William.

"Oh! Oh! Ben Vereen!" I cried.

"Oh, he's wonderful," enthused Dan.

"I love Ben Vereen - and I will tell you why," I said, although nobody asked. "When my mother was pregnant with me, she and my dad went to go to see Ben Vereen - "

"In Pippin?" broke in Danny.

"No, I think it must have been a one-man show, kind of like this one - "

"Have you seen him in Pippin?"

"No, I haven't - "

"Oh, you've got to see Pippin! It's wonderful!"

"Okay, okay!" I said. "Anyway, it must have been in Saint Louis, cause I was born in Michigan, but only by a hot minute; my parents lived in Saint Louis until my mom was nearly due. So anyway, they went to go see Ben Vereen at his show, and afterward they got to go back to his dressing room and talk to him! And Ben Vereen bent over and called into my mother's belly button, "Hello in there!"

"Hey, that's cool!" said William.

"Isn't it?" I gushed. "So whenever I meet Ben Vereen - and I know I will someday - I'm going to tell him that story." I paused, thoughtful. "Of course, I always said that when I met John Ritter I would tell him about the idea that I had for a TV series starring him..."

"You met John Ritter?" asked Danny.

"No. But I saw him once! He was walking the streets of Manhattan with his wife and they walked right by me. And I was gathering up my courage to talk to him...but then I chickened out. And then...he died." I shook my head sorrowfully and the room spun around me. Whoa, I'm a little bit drunk, I realized.

"Tickets?" asked the man at the door. We'd reached the front of the line. Danny gave him our tickets and we were escorted into the Rrazz Room - which was packed to the gills.

"You want to get here at least 45 minutes early for the show next time," said the host. "Seating is first come, first serve."

"You hear that, guys?" Danny said dryly as we took our seats in the back. William and I muttered our apologies and looked shiftily at one another. Then I let out a little snort of laughter. Danny was already making friends with guy next to him.

The waitress came around to take our order.

"I'll have a glass of Syrah," requested William.

"I'm thinking: apple martini!" declared Danny.

"Bad idea, Dan," warned William. "Stick with the wine or you'll be hurting tomorrow."

"OK," said Danny, happy enough. "Then I'll have a Pinot."

"And for you, miss?" asked the waitress.

Oh, the hell with it. "I'll have a Chardonnay," I said. Who cared that it was a Sunday night? I'm unemployed.

"Hey guys, this is Stefán," Danny introduced us to the stranger on his other side. "He's on vacation, here from - where are you from?"

Stefán, from France, I believe, shook hands with us all. When Danny introduced me he said, "And this is Errin - she's a fantastic singer, too - oh hey, take her card!" He rooted around in his pocket and produced one of my business cards. "Go to her website!" endorsed Danny.

"Um, not yet!" I said awkwardly. "I mean, it's not quite ready yet. But it will be in a few weeks!"

"Do you have any recordings?" asked Stefán politely. The waitress returned and handed round our drinks.

"No, nothing yet," I said, taking a sip of wine and smiling brightly. God, I've got to produce something, I thought.

"But you can hear her sing online," insisted Dan.

"In a couple of weeks," I reminded him.

"In a couple of weeks," amended Danny. "Hey, what's that you're drinking? Ooh, mojito!"

The lights dimmed and Eve Marie stepped onto the stage, launching right into her first song.

She had a lovely, strong voice, but I could tell she was nervous. I could see it in the way she moved, as though she hadn't quite practiced what to do with her body; she didn't appear relaxed. I was forcibly reminded of the way it feels to be on an unfamiliar stage. And that knowledge that I knew how she felt brought it home to me; suddenly I thought: I can do this.

A dart of warmth spread through me at the realization. (Although, thinking back, that may have been the wine.)

With barely any banter, Eve kicked off her second tune and I started paying very close attention. I found myself wondering why she'd chosen these songs, and I realized I missed that storytelling element that comes into play in most live performances. People want to know what these songs mean to you, I mused, making a mental note.

I began to view Eve's performance as a master class. I scrutinized the details: She had a 5 man band, including 1 guy who played at least 3 instruments. She did 7 songs in the first set, clocking in at 50 minutes. Her songs had a certain similarity about them; they all sounded great in her voice, but a bit more variety might have spiced things up. And she hadn't done a test run in her dress; the shoulder straps kept falling down.

The lights came up at intermission and I was digging in my purse for a pen and paper. William finally passed me a cocktail menu.

"Thanks," I said, turning it over and starting to jot down notes.

"So what do you think?" asked Danny, rounding on us.

"She's got a beautiful voice," I said honestly. "Although I wish she would talk to us a bit more between songs, you know, the way you do. You've really got a talent for that, Dan." I scribbled some more on my cocktail menu.

"You should be doing this," he said to me seriously. "Can't you see yourself in this room? You would own this place. Are you thinking about it?"

I looked around slowly. "Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I am."

The waitress came around to take our order again. William and I each requested a bottle of water. "Oh, come on!" said Danny. "Apple martini?" William shook his head.

"Mojito?"

"Dan, if you get a mojito, you're going to be sick as a dog," said William, leaning across the table toward him. "And I'm going to call you at 7 o'clock tomorrow morning just to wake you up and laugh at you."

"I'll have another Pinot, thanks," said Danny to the waitress. He turned to us. "God, I'm having fun! It's so nice to be able to let off some steam!" Danny works for a hotel and recently they changed his shift to the 4 AM. He's on short-term retirement from social life, as these days he goes to bed around 6 in the evening. "I'm so happy I have tomorrow off!" he continued. "I miss people! I miss doing things! Oh, thank you," he said as the waitress returned and handed him a fresh glass. "Cheers!" he saluted us. William and I tipped our water bottles at him.

That's when I learned that 4 glasses of wine is Danny's tipping point.

"Woo hoo!" he screamed when the lights went back down. Eve Marie returned to the stage and began her second set. In the darkness, I started writing out a list of songs for my own show.

Every time Eve finished a song Danny would let out a holler. Unfortunately, he would also look to his left to see if William and I had enjoyed the tune, and the result was that he kept yelling directly in my ear. After a few songs I got smart and started leaning back out of range whenever Eve wrapped up a number.

"Isn't she great! God, she's great!" shouted Dan over his own applause. He grabbed my arm. "I see you up there!" he hissed. "Do you see it?"

And so it went for the entire second set. Wild applause. "Woo hoo!" "Isn't she great?" "Do you see yourself up there?"

But the thing is, I was beginning to see myself up there. Buoyed by Danny's enthusiasm, by William's reassurance ("Don't you see her up there, Will?" "Yes, I do."), by three glasses of wine, I was starting to inflate with this sense of possibility. Scratching out a set list on the back of a cocktail menu took on a weighty significance; I resolved to keep it as a memento of the night I began to plan my first show.

The lights went up and Dan went wild. "WOO HOO! Oh, that was fantastic! Wasn't that fantastic? My God, she was great! Oh, there's Cliff! Look, he's crying! I gotta go talk to him. No, we've gotta meet Eve!" He scuttled away.

William started to chuckle. "That Dan is a trip," he said, shaking his head. "I think three glasses of wine is his limit."

"You think?" I laughed.

Danny reappeared, propelling Eve by the sheer force of his excitement. She held a large bouquet of flowers and looked a little overwhelmed. "This is Eve!" announced Danny, reverently. "And this is William and Errin. We sing together in the Glide Ensemble!"

"Hello," said Eve, shaking our hands.

"You were wonderful," I said. "Very inspiring."

She thanked us and moved on. Danny was overcome with delight. "Wasn't that just a marvelous show?" he asked us as we put on our coats and stepped out of the darkened club. "I just had the best time!"

"She was great," agreed William.

"Very inspiring," I said again. I pulled out my cocktail menu and gazed at it fondly.

Under the lights in the lobby I saw that my set list was a jumble of unintelligible scrawl. I squinted at it.

What the hell does that say? I wondered. DMB? What does that stand for? Dave Matthews Band?

"We should come back to see Ben Vereen!" Danny was saying.

"I'd be up for that," replied William.

This list doesn't make any sense, I realized with dismay. I peered at it stupidly. Damn, how drunk am I?

"Oh, bye Stefán!" called Danny. "Remember to check out Errin's website!"

I blinked and looked up. "In a couple of weeks!" I said anxiously, but Stefán was gone.

"Shall we walk Errin to the BART?" asked William.

"Oh, I thought we'd get another drink," said Danny.

"I've got to work tomorrow, Dan!" said William.

"Yeah, I'm done too," I said, stuffing the set list back in my pocket.

"Oh. Okay," Dan relented.

We walked to the BART station, chattering about the show. "Listen," Danny said in his final pitch, "You should be thinking about your show. I mean it Errin, you would rock that room."

William concurred: "Here, here."

I was filled with a rush of love for my two friends. How lucky am I to have such encouragement? I gave each of them a big hug.

"Thank you both for a wonderful evening," I said. "I had a great time."

"Me too," said William. "We'll see you on Wednesday."

"See ya, Sweets!" chorused Dan.

They waved at me as I skipped down the steps into the station. Then, as they turned and walked away I heard Danny say, "So what do you think about just one apple martini?"

This is important

2009-02-12T13:51:00.000-08:00

"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo.

Go to www.couragecampaign.org/Divorce to learn more and sign the petition for equality.

Well, I was proud of me

2009-02-12T12:49:00.000-08:00

I just rode my bike home from the grocery store, laden on all sides with packages. I had two carrier bags hanging from my bike rack, one bag strapped to the top and a heavy canvas tote slung over my shoulder. My balance was precarious and I rode on the sidewalk to avoid careening into traffic.

Directly in my path, and headed in my direction, was a couple walking their puppy. I realized that we were going to pass each other right at the trickiest part of the sidewalk: that place where a small tree would force me to navigate inward. I could only keep my momentum going by pedaling; if I stopped I was likely to tip over.

I narrowed my eyes and approached the couple with keen concentration. "Easy," cautioned the man as we drew abreast of one another. This was the moment: with deft maneuvers I steered around the tree and then veered around the couple. We slid past each other with absolute ease.

"Good girl!" praised the man, and I beamed.

Then I realized he was talking to his dog.

Shh!

2009-02-10T15:54:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here in the library, trying to get some work done, and there's a man beside me talking on his cell phone.

In the library.

Now, it's not like he's bothering me. He is talking rather softly. But this flagrant flouting of the rules has me up in arms.

I glance around, looking for a sign that says NO CELL PHONES. Okay, I don't actually see one. But isn't it common sense? This is a library, not a cafe. Even little kids know to be quiet in a library. Oh look, here's a little sign that says READING IN PROGRESS, PLEASE BE QUIET. For heaven's sake, the sign is right in front of him and he continues to talk!

And nobody is asking him to stop! None of us here at this workstation are even affecting annoyance. But inside, we are all desperately annoyed. I can tell. The couple with the stack of magazines, the man with his headphones and I, we are all desperately annoyed.

Again, it's not the talking itself that's bugging me. In fact, if he were to stop talking it might get a little too quiet, and then I would hear the whispered conversation of the couple with the magazines. And everyone knows that whispers are far more carrying than low voices. And far more distracting. That would probably drive me nuts, as a matter of fact, hearing their hushed chatter, the turning of their magazine pages. I'd probably just sit here, chewing my fingernails for another twenty minutes, trying desperately not to listen to them, then give it up as a bad job and go home. But the sheer fact that they're trying to keep quiet, that they're abiding by the rules, makes this young couple okay in my book. They have every right to bother me accidentally while trying not to disturb me.

But this guy on his cell phone, well, he's got some nerve, not actually disturbing me with his bothersome behavior.

Hey, here comes a librarian. Surely she will set this man straight. Will she just tell him to be quiet or will she ask him to leave? Let's find out!

I don't realize that I am holding my breath until the librarian walks past us without a word. Because the man is still, listening intently to the person on the other end of the line.

No! Librarian! This man is talking on the phone! Didn't you read it in his posture? Couldn't you tell what he was doing? He is upsetting us all with his brazen violation of library policy! He is distilling the dreary atmosphere into something pleasant, like that of a buzzing little coffee shop! He is --

Oh wait, he's leaving.

And now the couple with the magazines is leaving too. It's just me and the guy with the headphones.

God, it's quiet in here.

I can't work like this. I think maybe I'll go home.

It's not you, it's me

2009-02-06T16:16:00.000-08:00

It's over, baby.

I'm sorry to be so blunt, but I've been trying to break up with you for months. Every time I tried, the words would die in my throat. So I had to spit it out. This relationship has run its course, Cheese. I'm going back to being a vegan.

Please don't look at me like that. It's not you, it's me. Really. You're just as delicious as you ever were, but I've changed. My ass has gotten bigger. My skin is not as smooth. Your love is wreaking havoc on me baby, and I've got to put an end to it.

Come on now, you knew this wouldn't last. I was a vegan when you met me earlier this year at that wedding. You flounced by me on your little cheese plate and my resolve broke; I had to have you. What else was I going to do? There was no wedding reception, just a 7-course meal. Was I supposed to sit there for 3 hours and pretend I didn't see you? Jesus, I'm not made of stone! Life is for living, I told myself, and dammit, I was going to live.

And it was a beautiful affair, babe, it really was. I've enjoyed you so much these past several months. We had some good times, didn't we? Like the holidays? Ooh...Your mac n' cheese makes my mouth water just thinking about it. Remember when I mixed you in with some of Cousin Punky's sweet potatoes? Mmm! Sends a shiver through me! Damn, you were tasty. And you always reheated so well.

But baby, you made me weak. I couldn't stop with you; I had to have other dairy. I started eating bagels with cream cheese again. Milk chocolate candy bars. Come on, don't pretend you didn't know about it. Just last week I put sour cream on your nachos! And I hadn't had sour cream in years - you see what you've done to me?

I've started to feel the effects. I can't sing the way I want to; I'm all phlegmy. I wheeze a little bit when I walk up the stairs. And I must be the only marathon runner who's put on weight during training.

You see why this has got to stop?

You're no good for me, baby. And even though I love you, I can't let you bring me down.

Don't cry, please don't. You'll find somebody else in no time. A tasty little treat like you? Shoot, you've probably got 'em waiting in the wings. I noticed Monte had his eye on you the other night.

But this is where you and I say goodbye.

Give me one last Hershey's kiss for the road.

Running is hard

2009-02-02T10:21:00.000-08:00

So yesterday I ran the half-marathon with SRO. And you know what I discovered? 13.1 miles is FAR.

Due to 2 rounds with my wisdom teeth and a subsequent bout of the flu, I'd been out of training for 3 weeks, while the students kept pushing forward. My longest run before my various ailments had been 8 miles, but the kids had made it to 10.5. When we met last Saturday for our tapering run, the kids ran a gentle 6 and I ran an arduous 3. All the while I was thinking: How the hell am I going to run a half-marathon next weekend?

I ran every day last week, trying to get prepared. And it was difficult; each day felt like my very first run. I ran 3 miles on Monday, 4 on Tuesday. I only managed 2 miles on Wednesday, and 2.5 on Thursday. Things were looking grim. I could feel a cold trying to settle in my chest and I was fighting it. But then on Friday I stuck it out for 8 miles, and that gave me hope that I might be able to complete the race on Sunday.

The volunteers were asked to choose 1 or 2 students to run with, which is not our normal procedure, but there were going to be 10,000 people at this event and we had to make sure that none of our kids got lost. I chose Julie, a quiet 9th-grader who keeps a slow but steady pace and has a congenial attitude. I've run with Julie in the past and I figured I could keep up with her. I thought for a moment about choosing one of the really slow kids, concerned as I was about my own pace, but the slowest students are usually slow because they spend more time complaining than running. And honestly, I needed a good-natured kid to keep me going throughout this race, because it was likely going to kill me.

At 6:00 AM I boarded the bus with about 25 students and a handful of volunteers. Another bus would meet us at the race start with the 2nd half of our crew. It was still dark outside but I felt wide awake. I ate a peanut butter sandwich and an apple, then did some stretches in my seat as we drove across the bridge and toward Golden Gate Park. I figured that things would move fast once we exited the buses, and I wanted to make sure that I had ample time to get prepared.

I'm so glad I did, because sure enough, once we stepped out into the chilly morning it was total chaos. "SRO! SRO, over here!" screeched Alita, trying to herd us into formation. Meanwhile, thousands of people were sweeping past us on their way to the starting line. I was afraid we were going to lose a kid or two in the flow of eager runners.

"Water! Come get water!" boomed Heidi, while Christine wove through the group, hooking up volunteers with students. "Errin, you'll be with Julie," she confirmed, then darted away. I made my way over to Julie.

"Morning Julie!" I said, tapping her on the shoulder. She turned around. "We're going to be running together today."

She regarded me curiously. "We are? How come?"

"Well, there's so many people here that we want to make sure nobody gets lost. So they've paired up volunteers with students."

She didn't look too put out by this statement, so I figured we were off to a good start. Our group began walking towards the starting line.

And almost immediately, chaos reigned. "Sweat drop over here!" called Ralph, and half the group fell out of formation to drop off their extra layers in labeled plastic bags, which would be transported to the finish line for pickup after the race. I shoved my fleece, legwarmers and gloves into a bag, hoping that I'd see them later. Then I looked around. Our group had completely disintegrated; I saw a red SRO shirt here and there, but nobody was together anymore. "Where did we go?" I called to Ralph, and he pointed in the general vicinity of the starting line.

I checked my watch: 20 minutes till race start. I needed to go to the bathroom. Picking my way through the crowd, with an eye out for Julie, I headed towards the Porta-Potties and stopped cold - there were half a dozen of the longest lines I had ever seen. They trailed across an entire field and pushed up against the woods beyond. "Are those the lines for the bathrooms?" I asked a passerby, horrified. She nodded, and then I saw several tiny figures waving at me from the end of one of the lines. There were about a dozen students and volunteers waiting for their turn. Sighing, I got in the nearest line, still scanning the area for Julie. I didn't see her anywhere.

Ten minutes later, no closer to the bathrooms and with still no sign of Julie, I swore under my breath and abandoned the line. I was afraid that the race would start and Julie would take off running by herself. Knowing I'd need to stop at the first set of bathrooms along the route, I joined the crowd near the starting line and began weaving through people toward the cluster of red shirts I'd spotted. Here and there I ran into an SRO volunteer. Everyone seemed to have been separated from their student.

"Have you seen Jasmine?" Charles asked me.

"I think she's in line for the bathrooms," I said.

"John and Henry! Anybody seen John and Henry?" called Steven.

"Over here!" I waved my hand. They were standing beside me. And there, thankfully, was Julie.

I couldn't help marveling at how quickly our group's order had disintegrated. I know the kids were high-schoolers, not babies, but it still seemed like poor planning on our part, just to let everybody loose into the fray with no clear instructions as to how to proceed. I felt responsible for Julie; I didn't think we should be separated. I just hoped that she'd run slow enough for me to keep up with her.

The race began and we spent the first 10 minutes shuffling out of the gate. Jokes were flying back and forth among the jam-packed crowd. "This isn't so bad!" "Hey, Iverson, slow down, you'll burn yourself out!" And when the mass stopped dead for a moment: "Well, that was fun; good race, everybody!" Julie and I giggled.

After awhile the crowd spread out and we had enough room to jog. There were walkers mixed in with the runners and every once in awhile we got stuck behind a pair. I said to Julie, "You set the pace, okay? If you want to pass somebody, just go ahead. I'll keep up with you." Praying, as I said it, that I actually could keep up with her.

But I needn't have worried: Julie set a slow, steady pace, and we trotted along comfortably for the first mile. Knowing that she's not much of a talker, I didn't force conversation. We just ran for awhile in companionable silence.

When the first marker appeared I felt triumphant - 1 mile down! This wasn't so bad! In fact, I quite liked knowing how far I'd come; breaking the race into segments made it feel much more manageable. But Julie pulled a face. "That was only 1 mile?" she said.

"Easy, right?" I replied, keeping my voice light. But I was surprised to hear her complain. She is normally so stoic.

"I'm tired," Julie whined, and it was an actual whine.

"Oh, come on!" I said, upbeat. "That was nothing! I've seen you run 10 miles, easy, so I know this is no big deal for you." Julie shook her head.

At Mile 2 Julie said she had to use the bathroom. I would have protested, being that it was so early in the race, but I really had to go myself, so I agreed. "Okay," I said, "I see some restrooms coming up. Do you want to stop now or would you rather wait until we pass the next batch?"

"Let's stop now," Julie said.

So we veered off course and jogged across the Panhandle toward the bathrooms. These weren't Porta-Potties, they were actual park restrooms, and there were only 2 stalls. A line had formed outside, and though it wasn't long, it wasn't moving very fast either. Julie and I stood in line and watched the runners pass us by. I knew we'd be bringing up the rear when we rejoined the race.

After 6 or 7 minutes we made it to the front of the line. I ushered Julie toward the stall, but she shook her head. "I don't think I have to go anymore," she said.

"What?" I asked.

"I don't think I have to go anymore."

You don't think? I said to myself. "Try anyway," I told her, feeling like I was talking to a small child. I didn't want to talk down to her, but was she serious?

"No, I don't have to go."

The people in line behind us were looking aggravated. "Julie," I said, "You might as well try, since we're here. We're not going to be stopping every mile to use the bathroom, okay?"

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"Fine," I replied, waving away my concerns. She's 14 years old, I thought. She ought to know her own bladder. I went to the bathroom, washed my hands and flapped them through the air, drying them as I gestured to Julie to come on.

"We're last," she complained as we stepped back onto the pavement.

And she was right. There were almost no more runners, but there were still a lot of dedicated walkers, arms pumping furiously as they power-walked the course. "It's not about time," I said to Julie. "We're just in it to finish. We'll get there when we get there." But secretly, I was dismayed too. I didn't like being behind everybody else.

The next 2 miles were fairly easy, the course was beautiful, and I was enjoying myself. We'd caught up with a few SRO members, and it felt good to see some familiar faces in the crowd. And then at Mile 4 Julie said:

"I have to use the bathroom."

I turned to her. "You're kidding, right?" She shook her head, no.

I was frustrated, but determined to keep things light. The course had taken us in a circle and we were just reaching the place where the race had started. By now the bank of Porta-Potties was empty, so I slowed to a stop in front of them and told Julie that I'd wait for her there. She gave me a quizzical look, like: Aren't you coming too? I returned it with a shrug that said: No, I just went to the bathroom 2 miles ago, remember?

She wasn't speedy. As I waited, several SRO folks passed by and they all looked confused to see me standing around without a student. "Bathroom break!" I called, and they nodded and continued on. I took a few minutes to stretch. Finally Julie emerged and I said, "You ready?" She shrugged her reluctance.

But then I heard somebody call out my name. I turned around and there was Sara, an SRO student, who seemed to be running by herself. "I'm so glad to see you!" she said. "I started to think I was lost back there!"

"Are you running alone?" I asked her.

"Well, I was running with Molly and those guys, but I was faster than them, so she told me to just keep going. I think they're behind me." She gestured back up the course. "Besides, I'm not supposed to do the whole half-marathon. I'm supposed to stop before we get to the Great Highway. I guess there's a place where we'll pass the Finish Line, and Heidi told me stop there."

"How come you're not running the whole thing?" asked Julie.

"Cause of my foot," said Sara. "They didn't want me to run at all, but I really wanted to do it, so they said I could run part of it." Sara is super-dedicated. She was seriously disappointed that an injury would prevent her from running the entire race.

"Man, I wish I had an excuse not to run the whole thing," said Julie, and my annoyance level rose another half-notch.

"Why? I wish I could run the whole thing with you," said Sara passionately. Julie shrugged.

"Sara, why don't you run with us?" I said, hoping that some of her attitude might rub off on Julie. "We'll take you to your drop-off point."

"Okay," said Sara. "But I have to use the bathroom first."

"We'll wait for you," I said, somewhat wearily.

While Sara was occupied I said to Julie, "Let's make good use of our time and stretch." I bent double and groaned as the backs of my legs un-kinked; Julie stretched out one leg experimentally and then lost interest. I swear, I do not understand how these kids can run long distances without stretching at all. Their bodies must be like rubber bands. I, on the other hand, feel like I'm made out of splintery toothpicks.

When Sara reappeared I clapped my hands together and said brightly, "Okay! Back to it! Who needs water? Gatorade? Anybody, anybody? No? All right then, let's do it!" And we resumed our race.

It quickly became apparent that Sara was much faster than Julie. The distance between us grew immediately. At first I ran between them, but when I sensed Julie slowing to a walk behind me, I dropped back to keep pace with her. Sara was quickly becoming a speck in the distance.

"Keep running, I'll be right back," I said to Julie, then sped ahead to catch up with Sara.

"Sara!" I called. She turned around. "Listen, keep running, okay? But when you get to the Finish Line, stop and wait for us so that I know you've made it there all right." She nodded and kept on going. I fell back to Julie, who immediately ground to walk.

"I'm tired," she said.

I trotted in place beside her. "Are you hurting?" I asked.

"No," she confessed.

"Then we run," I said. And we ran.

I tried to think of something to talk about that would take our minds off the race, but the girl just wouldn't meet me halfway. "What are your sisters doing this morning?" I asked.

"Sleeping," she said.

Okay. "So, you're halfway through 9th grade, right? How are you liking it so far?"

"Boring."

Mmm hmm. "What do you like to do in your spare time?"

"Sleep. Sit."

Jesus. "How about when you're not sleeping or sitting?" I asked, in what I hoped was a teasing voice. But I was starting to want to throttle her.

"Play video games."

Okay! "What games do you play?"

"Mario."

"Wow, they're still making Mario? I played Mario when I was a kid. I thought he'd have run out of adventures by now." Much the way I was running out of conversation.

I tried again. "Have you played Wii?"

"Yeah."

"What games?" A shrug. "Tennis?" A nod. Silence.

And then: "Guitar Hero."

Palpable relief from me. "I love Guitar Hero! No, you know what I love? Rock Band! I played Rock Band once and I was so good on the drums; everybody was like, 'Are you a drummer in real life?' And I said, 'No, but I'm gonna be!' And I was really convinced I was so good; I asked for drumsticks for Christmas and everything, but I didn't get them. And then the next time I played Rock Band I played the drums and I was awful! No good at all. And that was such a bummer; here I thought I had a natural talent and it turned out it was just a fluke." I gabbled on, desperate for some conversation, even if it was all one-sided. Julie ran beside me, resigned.

At Mile 6 she said to me, "I'm hungry."

"Did you eat breakfast this morning?" I asked.

"Piece of toast."

I breathed rather heavily through my nose. "Do you think maybe a piece of toast is not enough to get you through 13 miles?" She shrugged. "Next time we run, you should make a peanut butter sandwich and eat it on the bus. Do you eat peanut butter?" She nodded. "Okay, that will get you through a run. That's what I had for breakfast this morning." I regarded her for a moment, then remembered: "Don't you have a Clif bar in your pocket?"

"Yeah," she said.

"Okay, eat that."

She made no move to pull it out. "I can't run and eat at the same time!" she protested.

I was getting weary. Weary of the complaints, weary of running. It dawned on me that I might have felt more energy had I been running with one of the faster kids. All of the stopping and starting and the slow pace we'd been keeping had combined to make me feel rusty and tired. I was losing energy and we weren't even halfway through.

We passed a water stop and I grabbed a cup, a handy excuse. "We'll walk for 2 minutes," I said, slowing down. "So if you're hungry, start eating."

"One hour, fifty-six minutes!" called one of the race time-keepers, and I wilted. We'd been running for nearly two hours and we'd only traveled 6 miles! My God, no wonder I was weary. It was harder to plod through the race than it would have been to simply run it. I had a brief moment of panic: How the hell was I going to make it through the full marathon?

Julie wasn't eating. "How come you're not eating?" I asked. Again, she shrugged. "Not hungry after all? Okay, then we run." I tossed my cup and we set off again.

Just before Mile 7 we passed the Finish Line, where Sara was supposed to be waiting for us. At this point, the course doubled over and now we were running alongside those who were finishing the race - just going in the opposite direction. The course was split down the middle with traffic cones and tape, and spectators were pressing in from either side, calling out to those runners who were nearly done. The crowd had grown dense, and I was worried about Sara wandering around on her own. But then I spotted her, swimming upstream, looking for us in the fray. "Sara!" I called, waving my hand. She ran up to us.

"This is where I'm supposed to stop," she said to me. "But where do I go?" I craned my neck, looking around for somewhere to deposit her. Julie, surprisingly, had kept running.

"Hang on," I said. "Julie!" I hollered. "Wait just a second, okay?" She paused, uncertain. "Stop," I clarified, "I'll be right there." Sara and I kept peering into the crowd.

I heard somebody shout, "Go SRO!" and turned my head toward the sound.

"Who said that?" I asked Sara, but she didn't know. Then I heard it again: "Yay, SRO!" I caught sight of Betty on the other end of the Finish Line. "There's Betty," I said to Sara. "Go with her, okay? Nice job today!" I shunted her across the Finish, called out to Betty, "Sara's coming with you!" and turned around to find Julie. A man was trying to shoo her off the path.

"You need to get moving," he told her, "You can't stand here," and confused, Julie was starting to run.

"No," I said firmly, "She needs to wait for me." The guy looked a little taken aback. "Thank you; we're leaving now," I said, and we set off for the Great Highway.

The Great Highway was not so great. I mean, it's probably great if you're in a car, but when you're running a 6-mile loop on concrete and the sun's come out in full force, it frankly sucks. Julie and I trudged past Mile 7. We were still running alongside those who were finishing the race, and after several minutes I thought I would quit if I had to hear one more person shout, "You're almost there! Just 1 mile to go!" Because there was nobody shouting, "Keep up the good work! Only 6 miles left!" And it felt awful to be so close to the Finish Line but so far from finishing.

We ran in silence for awhile, and Julie seemed downhearted. Or maybe I just guessed that she felt downhearted, because that was how I felt. I asked her, "How are you doing?"

She shrugged.

"It's kind of hard, huh, hearing people shout 'You're almost done!' when we're not almost done, isn't it? Kind of makes you feel frustrated?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, me too," I sighed. "But..." I cast around helplessly for a 'but'. "But...this is our run," I finally said. "It's our run, yours and mine; it's not about anybody else. We're doing this for ourselves, and we're going to finish." It was a tired little speech, but it was all I could muster. Julie didn't even bother to shrug.

I spied Mile 8 coming up. I desperately needed a break, needed to stretch. And I thought it might be good for our moral if we took a quick breather.

"Okay, here's what we'll do," I said. "See the Mile 8 marker up there? I'm going to stop for a second and stretch my knees. Do you want to stop and stretch too, or would you like to walk for a minute?"

She considered. "I'll walk," she said.

"Okay," I told her as we approached the mile marker. "You walk and I'll catch up with you in just a minute." I stopped and pulled one of my legs up behind me. Julie kept going.

Actually, Julie kept running. I waited for her to slow to a walk, assuming she'd be happy for the opportunity, but the girl didn't slow. She kept running, and you know, I think she actually sped up.

I lost my balance, standing there like a crane, and quickly pulled on my other leg, trying to work the kinks out. But Julie was getting farther away and I was worried that I was going to lose her. Sure enough, a few seconds later she was out of sight.

"Shit," I muttered, and ran after her. I was creaky and achey and could not muster a faster pace; it was simply too late for me to limber up in this race. I really needed a proper stretch break but it looked like I wasn't going to get one. Everything hurt from the waist down and I blanched as I tried to speed up. It came to me, suddenly, that I was going to faint if I pushed too hard, so I slowed down and resumed my usual trot.

Julie reappeared in the distance, seemingly trapped behind a pair of walkers. "Julie!" I called out, but she didn't hear me.

I sped up just a bit. "Julie! Hey Julie!" I shouted, my hands cupped around my mouth. The effort of shouting cost me, and I had to slow down again to compensate for my loss of breath.

But she heard me and she turned around. I waved my hand at her. "Wait up!" I shouted. I hated to make her slow down. It's got to be frustrating to get in a zone and then have somebody grab your tail. But if she didn't let me catch up I was seriously going to lose her, and the crowd was so dense that I might not find her again. I was not going to lose this kid on the Great Highway, no way.

Julie saw me waving, but turned around and continued to run. And I swear, the kid put on a burst of speed. What the hell? "Julie!" I screamed, and people between us turned around to stare at me. I didn't care. "Julie! Stop! Wait for me!"

And you know, that little shit kept running. I know she heard me. Everybody else heard me. But she just kept on running like running was her new favorite thing, like she hadn't been bitching about it for 8 miles.

"JULIE!" I bellowed. "STOP!"

She didn't stop. But she did slow down, and after another few laborious minutes, I managed to overtake her. I was pissed.

But I swallowed my anger. "Thank you," I said breathlessly. "Sorry to make you wait, but I was going to lose you there." She made as though to speed up again. "Hey!" I said sharply, and she braked. "You need to slow down for a minute and let me catch up, okay?"

So she jogged for a moment while I speed-walked, trying to catch my breath. When I finally got my wind, I resumed jogging beside her. "Okay," I said. "That's better. Thank you for waiting."

Not 3 minutes later, the kid stopped in her tracks. "I'm tired," she said.

And then I reconsidered leaving her on the Great Highway.

Miles 9 through 13 were hard. Julie was complaining of a stomachache. "Is it a hunger kind of stomachache?" I asked. She shrugged. "Do you want to eat your Clif bar?" She shook her head. So I assumed it wasn't a hunger thing. We ran for a few minutes, but then she slowed to walk. "Can you make it to those traffic lights?" I cajoled her, and she nodded.

Okay, I told myself. So it's going to be this kind of race from here on out. Whenever Julie would stop and walk I would set a marker. "We're going to walk until that lamp post, and then we're going to run until the stop sign, okay?" I relaxed a bit, because I knew I could get her across the finish line this way, even if it took us awhile. And frankly, I was ready to walk. I was exhausted.

We began to collect other SRO folks, those who were on the slower end of the race. First we found Reecy, who was walk-running with Walter, and then we spotted Daisy on her own. "Where's your partner?" I asked her, and she pointed behind us towards a small cluster from whom she'd broken free. Daisy ran with us for a minute or two but then passed us; it seemed clear she was ready for her race to be over.

Julie stopped again. "My stomach hurts," she repeated, and this time she confided that it was a feminine complaint. Aha, I thought, thinking back on our pit stops at Miles 2 and 4. But truly, there was nothing I could do for her at this point. We were 2.5 miles from the Finish Line. Even if we quit the race at that moment we'd still have to walk to the end. So I tried another pep talk.

"You should be proud of yourself for running anyway," I said. "Lots of girls use that as an excuse not to run, so you should feel extra good about yourself." Although it's not an excuse that I have any patience for, it's true that some of the girls did use it as a reason not to run. And it worked like a charm because all the males turned pink at the first mention of cramps.

"I'm not going to let you quit, Julie," I said suddenly, meaning it. "I've seen you run 10 miles and we both know you can run 13. I'm not going to let you quit because you'd be selling yourself short. And I know you don't want to do that. Am I right?" A pause. And then she nodded.

So we soldiered on. Run, walk. Run, walk. I felt like I'd been doing this for days. I checked my watch. It was 11:00 AM.

Spencer rode up to us on his bike. Spencer is the Executive Director of SRO. He never runs with us, but he'll sometimes ride alongside on his bicycle and intimidate the kids into picking up their pace. He always seems to catch us walking, and it drives me nuts because he's never around when my kids are running like champs.

He descended on Julie. "What the matter?" he said. "Why are we walking?"

"Stomachache," replied Julie.

"We're working through it," I told him with a smile. It was a bright smile with a dark undertone. It said: Don't come riding into our race at the 12-mile mark and try to motivate us now. Where the hell were you at Mile 7 when I needed you?

Spencer tried to coax Julie into a run by giving her the Pick-Yourself-Up-By-Your-Bootstraps speech. "How are you going finish the marathon if you're walking the half-marathon? Huh? You've got 1 mile to go. Now let's finish strong. Come on!"

I was annoyed. I was annoyed for myself and I was annoyed for Julie. This, for the moment, even overshadowed my annoyance at Julie. Because it was 11:00 AM and I was drenched in sweat, running in circles on the highway. Everything hurt. I was exhausted. I was crabby. I was desperate for the Finish Line. But I had learned that you can take a journey in 3 hours. In 3 short hours, while the rest of the world is asleep, or lounging over their breakfast, you can take a journey on a concrete road with your partner beside you, fighting to put one foot in front of the other. Under the relentless sun, sweat crystalizing in the corners of our eyes, bleary from 12 miles of pounding the pavement, we were making a journey through the realms of self-discovery. We were proving the dictum of mind over matter. Heartily, it sucked. But it was our journey. Mine and Julie's.

And now Spencer was trying to swoop in at the Last Mile and call the shots. I wasn't having it.

"We're walking until we get to that traffic light," I said firmly, pointing up ahead of us. "And then we're going to run it in to the Finish. Right, Julie?"

She blinked at me.

"Right, Julie?" I said again. This time she nodded.

Well, we wound up walking 3 more times during the course of that last mile. But we didn't give up. We could hear them announcing people's names as they finished the race just beyond the crest of that final hill. And with the Finish Line in sight, Julie put on another burst of speed and left me in the dust. I didn't even try to catch up with her. I just let my creaky body lumber its own way across the Finish. At 3 hours, 20 minutes and 26 seconds.

Julie was waiting for me on other side. "They pronounced my last name wrong," she complained. We were limping along toward the T-shirt tents.

"Oh yeah?" I said, past caring. "How do you pronounce it?"

"The 'g' is silent," she told me.

"Hey," I said. "Hey, Julie." She stopped and turned around.

"Great job today. I'm proud of you." She blinked at me. And almost - but not quite - smiled.

"High five," I said, and she held up her hand. I smacked it with my own, hard.

"You almost knocked me over!" she exclaimed.

Yup.

Lincoln Memorial Opening Prayer

2009-01-28T09:08:00.000-08:00

I got this email from my friend Don today, and I think it's important. I wanted to post it here because the words of both these men - the Rev. Gene Robinson and my friend Don - are moving and relevant, and we should hear them.

As many of you know, the Right Rev. Gene Robinson, the openly Gay Episcopal Bishop of New Hampshire , gave the opening prayer at the Lincoln Memorial event on the Sunday the 18th. It was the first event in the inaugural festivities. HBO, which had paid for exclusive rights to the event chose not to broadcast Bishop Robinson's prayer. So if you watched there you wouldn't have caught it or even known that it occurred. NPR didn't air it either. There's no record of it in images placed on the sites of Getty Images, New York Times and the Washington Post.

It's a complete erasure of his ever having delivered the prayer.

Such is the continuing policy of silence and erasure we have to live with from people who should know better. We are used to this. If you know your Gay history this has happened again and again. In fact this little list-serve is really about recovering the truth in our history and celebrating it.

This is the text of Bishop Robinson's prayer. I suggest you forward this around so that everyone has a chance to enjoy it.

Opening Inaugural Event
Lincoln Memorial, Washington , DC
January 18, 2009

Delivered by the Right Reverend V. Gene Robinson:

"Welcome to Washington ! The fun is about to begin, but first, please join me in pausing for a moment, to ask God's blessing upon our nation and our next president.

O God of our many understandings, we pray that you will…

Bless us with tears – for a world in which over a billion people exist on less than a dollar a day, where young women from many lands are beaten and raped for wanting an education, and thousands die daily from malnutrition, malaria, and AIDS.

Bless us with anger – at discrimination, at home and abroad, against refugees and immigrants, women, people of color, gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people.

Bless us with discomfort – at the easy, simplistic "answers" we've preferred to hear from our politicians, instead of the truth, about ourselves and the world, which we need to face if we are going to rise to the challenges of the future.

Bless us with patience – and the knowledge that none of what ails us will be "fixed" anytime soon, and the understanding that our new president is a human being, not a messiah.

Bless us with humility – open to understanding that our own needs must always be balanced with those of the world.

Bless us with freedom from mere tolerance – replacing it with a genuine respect and warm embrace of our differences, and an understanding that in our diversity, we are stronger.

Bless us with compassion and generosity – remembering that every religion's God judges us by the way we care for the most vulnerable in the human community, whether across town or across the world.

And God, we give you thanks for your child Barack, as he assumes the office of President of the United States.

Give him wisdom beyond his years, and inspire him with Lincoln 's reconciling leadership style, President Kennedy's ability to enlist our best efforts, and Dr. King's dream of a nation for ALL the people.

Give him a quiet heart, for our Ship of State needs a steady, calm captain in these times.

Give him stirring words, for we will need to be inspired and motivated to make the personal and common sacrifices necessary to facing the challenges ahead.

Make him color-blind, reminding him of his own words that under his leadership, there will be neither red nor blue states, but the United States.

Help him remember his own oppression as a minority, drawing on that experience of discrimination, that he might seek to change the lives of those who are still its victims.

Give him the strength to find family time and privacy, and help him remember that even though he is president, a father only gets one shot at his daughters' childhoods.

And please, God, keep him safe. We know we ask too much of our presidents, and we're asking FAR too much of this one. We know the risk he and his wife are taking for all of us, and we implore you, O good and great God, to keep him safe. Hold him in the palm of your hand – that he might do the work we have called him to do, that he might find joy in this impossible calling, and that in the end, he might lead us as a nation to a place of integrity, prosperity and peace.

AMEN."

President Dad

2009-01-27T08:48:00.001-08:00

Last night I had a dream that my dad was the new President of the United States. As the first family, we enjoyed a succession of balls and parties on Inauguration night, and when it was all over we rode the elevator up to the top floor of our hotel.

It was just the four of us in the elevator. "Are you nervous, Dad?" I asked, referring to all the responsibilities that now lay before him.

"Yeah, a little," he said. "They tell me it's going to hurt."

"Huh?" I said.

Just then the elevator doors opened to reveal a panel of doctors in crisp white coats. "Are you ready, Mr. President?" they asked. My father stepped forward.

"I'll see you all after the surgery," he told us.

Then they removed the top of his head and implanted his brain with the wisdom and experience of all the previous presidents.

They left out George W. Bush.

Sights and sounds of the last few days

2009-01-22T19:07:00.001-08:00

MLK & Inauguration from Errin M on Vimeo.

On race

2009-01-22T12:40:00.001-08:00

Monte broached the subject with me carefully. "I read your blog post," he said to me the other day.

"Yeah? What did you think of it?"

"It was...very interesting."

I tensed slightly.

"I was kind of wondering what you meant by it," he went on.

"What do you mean, what I meant by it?"

"Well, don't you think it could be interpreted as a little divisive?"

We turned to face one another on the couch. "Which part?" I asked.

"It's just, well, it kind of sounded like you were minimizing the feelings of black people."

"I wasn't trying to minimize anybody's feelings," I said.

"Well, you made such a point about the fact that Barack Obama is not a black man, he's a biracial man, and you kind of made it sound like he's more your president than anybody else's."

I exhaled slowly. I don't enjoy having my writing criticized and I absolutely hate to think that I may have offended anybody with something that I wrote. But I had to concede that he had a valid point. I wished he'd read it in the way that I wrote it, but the fact is, everybody has their own interpretation. And he was likely not the only person who saw it that way.

"It was a more a piece about self-definition than anything else," I said. "I was basically awakening to the fact that I'd never really seen myself as having my own race, and so I was unexpectedly shocked when the realization hit that the president is just like me."

"But that's just it," Monte said. "You're saying that the president is more like you than he's like the rest of black Americans. Don't you think that sort of downplays their victory?"

"No," I said. "I'm saying that everybody wants to see a bit of themselves in their leaders. We all want to identify. This is what I see when I look at the man. I'm not trying to take away from what anybody else sees."

Monte shook his head, thinking. "The stuff you wrote about how his ancestors weren't even slaves here..."

"They weren't!" I met his gaze levelly. "His dad was from Kenya."

"Yes, but that makes it sound like he's not even part of the black experience. You talk as though he's not an African-American."

"Oh, he's African-American. His dad was from Africa."

"Yes, but that's just semantics."

"Exactly."

We eyed each other for a moment. Despite my discomfort I couldn't help marveling at the stance that he took, a white man arguing for the black experience. And there I was, a biracial woman, seemingly arguing against it.

"It's more accurate to say that he is an African-American than it is to say that my father is an African-American," I tried to explain. "Because we haven't been able to trace our family's history back that far. We assume we're from Africa. But Barack Obama is only one generation removed, so yes, he's more of an African-American than my dad."

"So you're saying he's more black than your father?" Monte asked, eyebrows raised.

"Nooo," I said. "I can't speak to that. But don't you find it interesting how the public perceives him? Do you think we'd be calling him our first black president if his wife and children were white?"

"What does that have to do with it?"

"Well, I think it's got a lot to do with it. You don't often hear him talk about his own racial identity. But what do you think it must have been like, growing up with his white mother and grandparents, only to discover as he got older that the world was going to view him differently? I mean, he barely even knew his father - how much do you think he identified with him?

"In that documentary - " I pointed to the TV - "In that documentary we were just watching, one of his oldest friends says basically the same thing: He figured out as he grew up that the world sees him as a black man. But that's how the world sees him; it's not necessarily how he sees himself."

"And you think he sees himself like you see yourself?" Monte asked.

"I don't know. All I know is that I see some of myself in him. And that's powerful to me."

There was a long pause. Monte fiddled with the corner of a couch cushion. "Well, it's good that we can have these discussions on race," he said politely.

"Yes indeed," I responded politely. Then we shook hands and retreated to our separate sleeping quarters.

* * *

Yesterday I spoke to my mother on the phone. We talked about the inauguration and filled each other in on how we'd spent the day.

Then Mom said to me, "Sometimes it bugs me a little, how his other side gets ignored."

"What do you mean?" I asked, although I knew what she meant.

"Well, his mother was white, wasn't she? And nobody talks about that."

I laughed a little bit. "You should read my blog," I said. "Then let's talk."

It's easy to offend when you talk about matters of race. And although it galls me to think that I may have hurt somebody's feelings, I think it's important that we can voice our thoughts on this sensitive topic. A difference of opinion is okay. But it's the discussion that's going to lead to a greater understanding, and ultimately, a strengthening of the ties that bind us.

Even if you have to sit in frosty silence for awhile afterward.

Half black is the new black (bitch)

2009-01-20T14:54:00.000-08:00

Some months ago, Tina Fey, while commentating on then-Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton, made this declaration: "Bitch is the new black!" And I laughed.

A few weeks later Tracy Morgan responded with a declaration of his own: "Bitch may be the new black, but black is the new president, bitch." And I roared.

But then yesterday, while surfing the internet, I came across this statement: Half black is the new black. And I thought: Whoa.

It was a genuine C&C Music Factory moment, truly one of those things that made me go "Hmm".

Yesterday I attended the Martin Luther King festivities down at the Civic Center. The Glide Ensemble sang. After the program was over I hung around outside for a while, taking pictures and soaking in the atmosphere of the city one day before our new president took office.

Most people were wearing Obama t-shirts, but there was one small girl whose shirt caught my eye. It said: little mixed girl.

She was a beautiful child: biracial with light eyes and a cloud of dark hair. I bent down towards her and smiled. "I like your shirt!" I said, but she just stared at me, hiding behind her mother's legs.

When I got home I went online, looking for that t-shirt. To my surprise I found a range of clothing dedicated to multi-ethnic people. "Are we a market?" I wondered aloud, knowing even as I spoke the words that the answer was yes, that I was foolish not to have realized this. It was while I was searching for t-shirts that I stumbled on the words half black is the new black. Referring, of course, to the president.

Well, that made me think. Black people all over the nation are rejoicing that today, a man who looks like them took up the highest office in the land. We are calling him our first black president.

I feel that joy. I feel that relief, I feel that justice, I feel that hope. I feel it for my dad, a black man, for my grandmother, from whom Alzheimer's has likely robbed the meaning of this day. I feel it for those members of my family who never thought they'd live to see this, and for those who didn't live to see it. That's my responsibility, you know? That's my place in history: I am a witness to this day, to what it means.

But all along I've been looking at this through the lens of my black history. And you know what? I am not a black woman.

I am a biracial woman, both black and white. I have always looked at life from one side or the other, trying to see both sides of every issue. Interestingly, I am also a Libra, constantly striving for balance. I took turns seeing things from each point of view.

I don't think I ever fully realized, until this day, that as a multi-ethnic person, I am a race unto myself. I am more than half my father and half my mother. I suppose most people don't take so long to self-identify, but when your folks look so different and come from such different backgrounds, it's easy to spend your life quantifying which parts of you come from which parent. And I don't think it ever occurred to me that there is something about me that stands alone. I know something about what it means to be white, because my mom taught me that. And I know something about what it means to be black, because my dad taught me that. But they couldn't teach me what it means to be mixed, and I guess I'm still learning it for myself.

A couple of years ago Monte and I were browsing at a street market and I spotted a t-shirt that made me gasp. The design on the shirt was from a page of an old standardized test, the part where you had to fill in the bubble that described your racial identity. Choose one of the following, the shirt said: Black / White / Other. The Other bubble was filled in.

I grabbed Monte by the arm. "Look at this," I whispered.

"Cool," he said.

I shook my head. "That's me," I told him.

"Yeah, it's cool," he said.

And I couldn't explain why there were tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. I couldn't explain why I kept touching the shirt, why I was so reluctant to walk on. I still wish I'd bought it.

I used to fill in the Other bubble on standardized tests. When I took my SATs, I remember my dad asking which bubble I'd chosen. When I told him, he got upset.

"Next time, I want you to choose Black, OK?"

"I'm not going to do that!" I declared. "I'm not going to deny my white side!" My dad closed his eyes in a gesture of frustration. He and I were having trouble communicating in my 17th year.

"It's not about that," he said stiffly.

"But I'm not just black!" I insisted. I looked to my mother for help, hopeful that she would understand. She smiled a little.

"It's about tuition assistance, Errin," she said.

I crossed my arms in a huff. I could understand that, but I was still upset.

It's not as though I've spent my life stewing about this Other bubble. But last night I remembered it. And as I sat there thinking about it I realized that Barack Obama probably filled in that Other bubble too.

You see, we're calling him our nation's first black president. But Barack Obama is a biracial man, raised by a white mother and white grandparents. It's ironic, really: his ancestors weren't even slaves here, and yet we're looking at him as a symbol of racial freedom. How many grandmothers have proclaimed this year that they never thought they'd see this day? And yet President Obama's own grandmother, who died just a short while ago, likely never dwelled on dreams such as those.

When we look to the leaders, we all want to see someone who looks like us, don't we?

Yesterday my father wrote about how the optimism of his children renewed his own sense of hope. "They were well protected and provided for so why wouldn't they assume anything is possible?" And I probably have always believed that I would live to see a black person become president.

But it never occurred to me that one of my own would take the office.

Watching him take the oath today, I felt a new sense of definition. I have a race. It's not just the sum of others' parts, it's my own identity.

"For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness."

My president spoke those words today.

Of course, I am joking when I say that half black is the new black (bitch). I think we can all see a part of ourselves in our new president, and that's what makes it such a sweet victory. We no longer have to Choose (only) one of the following. We no longer have to fill in the Other bubble when nothing else fits. There's room for everybody on this page, in this age, and if you need reminding, just look at our president.

He looks a little like us, doesn't he?

A day of service

2009-01-19T09:47:00.000-08:00

In regard to the two great men we honor this week, my father wrote this email to me today:

Over the years my memories have faded. I was seventeen when he was killed. Like most people I've distilled his essence into a few phrases from memorable speeches, focusing on the ideals he stood for. I was impacted by the dignity in his voice, his bearing and his courage. Along with Thurgood Marshall he is one of my greatest heroes. He represented the heart of a movement we all supported.

Before his death events accelerated. Some did not believe his approach would work and they publicly criticized him. I remember my mother calling us into the living room when he appeared on television, and our fear for the lives of marchers when dogs and water hoses threatened in Birmingham.

I remember National Guardsmen on the streets of Milwaukee during the summer of '67.

When he was taken from us the following year, I remember white hot grief, speechlessness and profound sadness. The Dreamer was dead and I didn't know whether the world really had a place for me. How could I believe in possibility again? Like many young people I wrapped myself in a cloak of skepticism.

Fortunately there were others to inspire me: teachers, poets, musicians and political leaders who demanded fairness and a bigger stake in America. I discovered the importance of service to others and through service, rekindled my own dream of America. Four decades were filled with family, career and the renewing optimism of my children. They were well protected and provided for so why wouldn't they assume anything is possible?

Then came Obama: A cultural amalgam of high intelligence and unbridled eloquence.

Of him we expect amazing things; perhaps someday worthy of his own holiday.

Let's all enjoy this Day of Service!

I am off to sing at the MLK celebration in San Francisco - and I'm running late!

How will you serve today?

Silence the violence

2009-01-15T10:48:00.000-08:00

You know what folks? I don't think that Christmas post is going to happen. It's time to move on.

I am shocked and frustrated by the violence that has erupted in Oakland. I can barely watch the news. Like the rest of the community I was mortified by the shooting on the BART platform on New Year's Eve. Was it murder? I don't know. Was it a dreadful mistake? I don't know that either. Despite watching the footage at least a dozen times, straining my eyes to distinguish one fuzzy person from another, I honestly can't tell what's going on in that video. I can barely see the action, let alone deduce the intent.

Like the rest of the community I was angered by the seemingly slow response by the BART police and the city of Oakland. And I'll be honest, I didn't know what to think last Sunday in church when Pastor Guest was preaching the sermon.

"Don't you know that God forgave you, even before you did what you did?" he bellowed, bouncing with pent-up fury on the balls of his feet. He spoke about how God is in each and every one of us. How we need to allow one another the chance to repent and to change. And where would we be, he asked, if no one had extended to us the hand of forgiveness in our darkest hour, when we most needed that second chance?

He made me think.

I wasn't sure I was ready to forgive. But then Oakland helped me make up my mind.

What did we do? We wrecked our own community. We took the opportunity to create chaos. We smashed up shop windows, jumped on cars, set dumpsters on fire. We vented our feelings of anger and frustration on one another. We really showed our best side.

Not just once, but twice.

I didn't know - I really didn't know - just how precariously this city was perched on the rim of destruction. Just how great the divide was between those who want to do right and those who want to do 'right now'. I didn't know how deep the anger ran that so many people would feel justified in taking out their aggression on somebody else. That self-satisfied, backwards reasoning, that clarion call for violence disguised as action, did more to settle my feelings on the matter than the most poignant sermon. So thanks, Oakland.

You see, I was appalled by what that policeman did to an innocent man on New Year's Eve. But I am disgusted by my community's reaction. Not by those folks who planned to protest in peace, but by those who participated in and encouraged the riots. Did you not watch the news afterward? Did you not see the faces of the people you were hurting? The shop owners, already struggling to make ends meet in this tough economy, now having to replace shattered windows and stolen goods? The poor people who had the misfortune to park their cars in your path of destruction? These are your neighbors! These folks were on your side! They didn't do anything to you, they didn't do anything to that young man who lost his life. Your misplaced aggression didn't speed the city's action. It didn't comfort the family who lost their son, their brother. It just damaged the lives of other good people.

Way to go, Oakland. Well done.

A slow start to the New Year

2009-01-08T15:58:00.001-08:00

For weeks I've been trying to write a post about the holidays, but I'm not getting very far. I'm sorry. I'm still sluggish with party food, I got two of my wisdom teeth pulled (the next two come out next week) and I'm suffering from a mild case of the post-holiday blahs. I've got a sink full of dishes and a load of laundry to do, and my unemployment claim bounced back to me in the mail today because I accidentally inserted it in the envelope address-side down. I blame this on the wisdom that I apparently lost with my teeth. I asked if I could keep them, but my dentist insisted that they were biological waste and had to be be discarded.

However, she did take a picture of my teeth, and then I took a picture of myself with the picture of my teeth. Check it out:

Cool, huh?

Look, I'll get back to you when I'm feeling less stupid.

One wise man

2009-01-01T21:23:00.000-08:00

I need to give props to Jonah, who solved the mystery of the ice cube trays.

Here's the thing, he wrote, when they are stacked, the one on top makes great cubes and the one on bottom makes splintery cubes.

"If this works," I told Monte, "I'm going to dedicate a blog post to Jonah."

Thank you, man. May the general public benefit from your wisdom just as Monte and I have done.

Kismet

2008-12-29T11:29:00.000-08:00

Every now and then your partner says something that's so in tune with your own thoughts, it's like you're sharing one mind.

"Have you ever wondered," said Monte last night, standing beside the open freezer door, "why we have two identical ice cube trays but one works great and the other works like crap?"

I stared at him, amazed. "Yes," I breathed. "I wonder that every day."

These are the moments we fall in love all over again.

Very Merry Christmas

2008-12-23T14:58:00.000-08:00

Few people know of the time in the early seventies when Stevie Wonder and I collaborated on a Christmas song. He wrote the tune and I penned the lyrics.

The first few bars were so funky and my lyrics were so hip, there was no doubt in my mind that the song would become a tremendous hit.

I was half right.

Stevie decided that the tune was too good to be confined to seasonal airplay. He severed our partnership, rewrote the lyrics, and Superstition was born. My musical career never took off.

But in the spirit of the season, I've decided to forgive and forget. And I'd like to share with you the original version of the song, taken straight from its first recording in Stevie Wonder's basement (hence the imperfections in sound quality).

A Mixon/Wonder collaboration and near-classic hit, I give you...Very Merry Christmas.

Very Merry Christmas from Errin M on Vimeo.

Give

2008-12-20T16:56:00.000-08:00

I found this little piece of art* a few years ago at a flea market. I think I bought it for $5.

I used to display it on my bookcase, beside an empty bowl, as a joking request for donations. But when I took the bowl away, I found that that little block of wood made a powerful statement standing all by itself.

Give.

When I'm not giving enough, the universe lets me know. This year, the universe sent somebody to rob my apartment. It pissed me off initially, but then I got hip to what the universe was trying to tell me: You have so much. What are you giving back?

I attend Glide Memorial Church. Every time I go there I see people lined up around the block, waiting for food. Glide feeds people 3 times a day, 365 days a year, but during the Christmas season the giving really amps up. They provide new toys for the children of the Tenderloin and bags of groceries for families in need. This year they ran out of grocery bags. This year, more people are hungry.

I walk past the food line twice a week. I know that not much separates me from the folks who rely on Glide's meals. Every time I get an unemployment check, I remember that.

And yet, I still struggle with the act of giving. My savings account is in the low four figures. It's easy to tell myself that I don't have enough money to share.

But then someone like my friend Mark reminds me that my gift creates an opportunity for somebody else. My contribution, no matter how small, may help somebody rebuild their life. Mark lifted the offering at church a few weeks ago and he shared his story. I was moved to tears by all that he had, all that he lost, and all that he's gained.

Give from Errin M on Vimeo.

I give money to Glide because I see real people putting their lives back together with Glide's assistance. I smell the food wafting up from the kitchen during service; I see the line of people who come to eat. I've seen the new Teen Center and the computer lab; I know the Health Clinic will accept me if I need medical care. I found help at the prayer circle when I was last unemployed; I go to Speak Out to hear the voices of my community. There is help to be found there, but more people than ever are in need.

And you know what? I can afford to give.

Who will you give to this year?

*The artist is Albert Reyes.

Facebook

2008-12-17T15:09:00.000-08:00

I knew it. I knew it! After pledging that I wouldn't, I just joined Facebook and I am already regretting my decision.

A friend from high school tricked me into joining, promising photos of his adorable toddler, who's just starting to walk. "He can do 7 steps in a row before toppling over," he tempted me, and I was hooked - I had to see the baby pictures, I just had to.

So I created an account and started clicking on people I recognize. And blammo! I've got about a zillion friends. Only I didn't realize that they were all going to be notified that I'd just joined Facebook - and I certainly didn't realize that I was going to get an email every time someone accepted me as their friend.

What the hell? Suddenly my inbox was flooded with emails. I realize this makes me sound very popular, but I've been ignoring friend requests from Facebook for quite some time now, so I think all those people became my friends automatically - and I got an email notification for each and every one of them.

So I'm freaking out over all this email and then I notice The Wall. What is this thing? It's frighteningly up-to-date with inane bits of information about every person I've ever met in my life! Michele is making vegetable pot pie! Alvin is having hot chocolate! Heather had her bikes stolen! (I'm really sorry to hear about that, by the way.)

And then I noticed that Facebook was tracking my movements. Errin just edited her profile, it said. Errin and Leah are now friends. Errin just sneezed and rubbed her nose.

Okay, I made up that last one. But it freaked me out! I feel like I'm being watched.

More accurately, I feel like I'm under pressure to watch everyone else. Michele has 31 photos posted. Well damn, I've got to look at those. Never mind that I'm hungry, my laundry is waiting and I've had to pee for 20 minutes, I have to look at Michele's photos right now because they are there. And because there are several hundred other people that I've got to investigate next.

I am unemployed and I still don't have the time that Facebook requires me to invest.

I feel a tremendous pressure to absorb all the information that is now available to me online. This is the new media, folks. The media created by the people you know. I am drowning in it.

I figured out that I could adjust my preferences so that I'm not notified for every friend request. So that's a relief. But then I realized that this means I'll have keep logging in to see if people are trying to connect with me. And wait - hold on - I've had 6 new notifications in the last 15 minutes!

What happens if I don't respond in a timely fashion? What if I forget to log in? Will I be hurting peoples' feelings? I don't want to do that! This is a huge responsibility! I seriously feel my blood pressure starting to rise.

You know what this is like? This is like having a virtual pet. It's like one of those digi-fish that you have to log in to feed. My cousin used to have one of those. I couldn't understand why someone would want to take on the responsibility of keeping a virtual animal alive. I don't even have a real pet because for years I've had nightmares that I would forget to feed it and it would eat me. Honest to God. In my dream I'd suddenly say, "Oh! I just remembered that I have a bunny! Jeez, I wonder when was the last time that I fed that thing?" And then I'd go to the rabbit pen and the bunny would be staring at me with its scary red eyes, and then it would launch itself at my face and try to eat me.

Facebook is like having a virtual pet, and I'm going to forget to feed it and it's going to eat me.

I'm freaking out. I'm logging off.

Errin & Monte get a Christmas tree

2008-12-15T17:28:00.000-08:00

Monte gave me a new digital camera for my birthday. I am having great fun with it, especially the video function. Here's a little video of our trip to the Christmas tree lot this past weekend.

Errin & Monte get a Christmas tree from Errin M on Vimeo.

One of these things is not like the others

2008-12-11T12:02:00.001-08:00

A friend just emailed me this:

(Click photo to enlarge.)

Ah! I love it.