Order up!

Hot dog with the works! I have been getting better, but this intestinal healing is some sloooow going and you don't want to push it. It's kind of like going back to Baby Tummy. First, when you're in a flare, you literally get a big, air-filled, protruding baby belly. Super-sexy. Second, in the same way that it might be inadvisable to feed a baby one of those excellent Chicago kraut-'n'-pickle dogs with hot mustard and a side of chili fries, it is similarly better to feed baby belly things that are easily digestible on both the mechanical and heat indices.

Unfortunately, when you're on the Specific Carbohydrate Diet, your bland choices are even more limited. There are no breads, rice, potatoes, puddings, custards, muffins, English muffins, crackers, pasta, tofu, quinoa, milk, oatmeal, Cream-of-Wheat, Jell-O or pretzels. And, since the things that make those things illegal, sugar and starch, mainly, are present in minute amounts in most convenience food, there is also no soup, that mainstay of Baby Tummy cuisine, unless one makes it oneself. From scratch. Including the broth.

When you have baby tummy, the last thing in the world you want to do is make your own goddam chicken soup from scratch. Homemade "Jell-O" (juice and Knox gelatin), maybe. Chicken stock, no.

So life becomes very small and predictable. Omelette for breakfast. Hamburger and green beans for lunch. Banana in there somewhere. Maybe some (homemade) applesauce or (homemade) applesauce or (homemade) yogurt. Poached salmon, if I can find the wild-caught kind. (I'm not normally so fussy, but I get weird about genetically manipulated, pesticide-laden food when my immune system is being highjacked by 6MP.)

Which is why I freaked out when I went to my friend Kathy's house yesterday and saw her son's lunch. Or rather, smelled it. Broken up hamburger with peas and spinach, covered in ketchup, microwaved.

I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

Fortunately, I already had some (homemade) ketchup, so all I had to do was load up on peas, spinach and ground sirloin, hurry home and cook it all.

As I've mentioned before, it was not ever thus, and it will not always be. My baby tummy will repair itself eventually, and be able to tolerate not only the full range of the SCD (which is not only diverse, but delicious and far better for you than the standard American diet), but the occasional illegal that creeps in here and there.

Until then? Slow is the new fast.

xxx c

Photo by dyobmit via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

It was not ever thus

Tiny infant, bawling Here's the thing to remember when you have been sick or sad or otherwise sporting the cosmic "kick me, hard" sign on your back for a long, long time: this is not who you are.

You are not this collection of aches and pains that consume your body now. You are not this bundle of anger and fear and despair that you feel you are now. You are not these bills, these woes, these slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. These are things that are happening to you? That's just what they are: things that are happening to you.

Your essence lies deep within, possibly being tested to the limits of its endurance, probably pissed off, but there, at the heart of you, is the heart of you.

Have I been tested? Sure. Yeah. Have the tests been as arduous or lengthy as many of my brethren? Hell, no. For as lousy as my Crohn's has made me feel, I wouldn't trade places with anyone. A-n-y-o-n-e. The devil you know, and all that.

But I forget sometimes, and maybe sometimes you do, too. And sometimes when I forget, there's no one there to remind me: it was not ever thus.

So I will remind you and perhaps, the next time I fall down the well and can't see the light, you will lower down a basket with a snack and a comforting note to remind me: this is not who you are, this wet darkness, but something you're sitting in. Maybe you will even find the right length of rope or somesuch to throw down there so I can climb out.

But mainly, I hope you will be there for me, or whomever needs you in the moment, to make sure I do not forget:

It was not ever thus.

xxx c

Photo by Megro, via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Basic Instinct 2

basic2.jpg I have been told by my shrink to back away from the NY Times Best Selling Books o' Depression* list and to spend a lot more time with movies that will afford me the benefits of that best of medicines, Mr. Laughter.

So what was #1 on my to-do list after being shut in for two weeks? That's right: the new film about Sharon Stone's snatch!

If you've forgotten, it's been 14 years since Miss Stone's snatch first grabbed the spotlight in the original. The premise was ludicrous, the script was ridiculous, the acting was serviceable. And none of it mattered because Sharon and her snatch were magnificent. MAGNIFICENT, I tell you! She was feral and sexy and smart and every single minute she was onscreen, she and her snatch were on fire. You could not look anywhere else. She was the very definition of supahstah!

So 14 years later, L.A. Jan, the world's best sport, and I hauled our own middle-aged snatches to the twilight show at Century City (which is $10.50, now, btw) to see Sharon and her snatch rise again. My short review?

O cruel, cruel time.

Don't get me wrong, Sharon still looks hot. If she's had work done on her face, it's unnoticeable, and her body is smashing. But putting aside the egregious wardrobe and styling, she was like some horrible, tranny cartoon of herself. And in a completely different movie than all of the quiet, in-the-pocket British actors around her. That's the fault of the director in the same way that the LUDICROUS script is the fault of the writer, but the real problem is Miss Sharon Stone, who is too far up (or down) the digestive tract of the Hollywood star machine to be of much use to herself or anyone else.

Friction is good. Having to fight and sometimes even claw your way to things is good. While I hate conflict myself, there is no doubt in my mind that having to clear hurdles of money and time and commitment have made my acting and writing better/stronger/faster. This woman? Clearly, she has no one around her to tell her she looks ridiculous. La Stone and her La Snatch are the buck-naked empress and her royal pussy, borne on a litter of hangers on, wearing horrible clothes, jaw-droppingly awful extensions and acting like a bad Skinemax version of temptress. (Note: the pussy was not wearing extensions; in fact, the pussy was not even in view, as far as I could tell. But this was shot in London, where everything is quite dark, including the police station, the sky and the clothes of all its citizens.)

This is not to say I didn't enjoy Basic Instinct 2. I did. I laughed and winced and was agog at the increasingly implausible turns this movie took. But the overall acting was too good (Charlotte Rampling? HOT! David Thewlis? DOUBLE HOT!) for this movie to achieve high camp. So what you end up with is a good cringeworthy movie, but not the sort of praise-jesus-pass-the-lemonade trash of Valley of the Dolls, Mommie Dearest, or anything made by the Modess corporation introducing young women of the mid-century to the joys of menses.

Paul Verhoeven and Joe Eszterhas were the dream team of trash, producing both the original Basic Instinct and that sine qua non of camp, Showgirls. Whether trashy or campy, there was nothing sedate or correct about their films; they were unabashedly, whole-heartedly, gloriously exhuberant, shameless in the pursuit of the idea, cowtowing to no one's idea of correctness.

Today? Pfft. I laughed, I enjoyed, I'd even recommend it as a curiosity. But would I ever watch Miss Stone and her 46 (!) year old snatch again?

Not likely. And not because it's old, but because it's...

zzzzzzzzzzzz....

xxx c

*Thank you, Fred!

Image via IMDb.com

TAGS: , , ,

Take good care of yourself, you belong to you

cupcake.jpg An acting teacher of mine used to get very frustrated with our class from time to time. Since he'd studied under legendary sonofabitch Lee Strasberg, he was very comfortable expressing this frustration, especially in the form of yelling and screaming.

One day, having hit his limit with some slacker inanity or another, actors showing up without the props they needed for their scenes, actors not showing up at all, he launched into us about hard work and commitment. About how we didn't have any, and about how we were kidding ourselves if we thought we were going to slack our way to any kind of real acting talent or real acting career without Doing The Work. And then, lighting on my trembling face, he said: "Of course, those of you who need to hear this won't...and those of you who are already doing all this are beating yourselves up for not doing enough."

My shrink had to give me a refresher course in this yesterday. For some reason, my response to being unable to perform at my usual level of energy and competence (i.e., being sick) is to beat myself up for being unable to perform at my usual level of energy and competence. I was gently reminded that when I am not feeling my pretty best, calling myself "loser" is probably not the thing for getting me back on track. For some other, completely coincidental reason, I wound up with a stack of really depressing (but good!) books recently, and was told in no uncertain terms to put them aside for now, along with other buzzkills such as extensive surfing on peak oil, and take up cheering, coddling things.

The gang war taking place in my intestine pretty much precludes tasty treats, but happy books and magazines and video entertainment are A-OK. The boys and I spent an hour of quality time together today, and, after a soak in the tub with something medium-trashy, I've been capping off my evenings with an inspiring book called The Art of Possibility.

And then sleep. Lots and lots of sleep...perchance some dreaming. About the time when the coddling can again take the form of long trips up the coast and crazy turns on stilts.

xxx c Photo of DELICIOUS cupcake from Clementine by Caroscuro, via Flickr, used with Creative Commons license.

(Crohn's) disease of the week

rose.jpg After a half-hour fight with my gastroenterologist last night, he finally agreed to put me on short-term meds to try and control the too-earthly delights I'm currently housing in my 5'2", 106 lb. (and rapidly shrinking) frame.

While we argue a lot, a function of our positions on opposite ends of the Western Medicine Cures All spectrum, we really do love each other. He calls me stubborn, I call him Graham and, despite my refusal to march with him in pharmacological lockstep, we've always come to some kind of mutually satisfying compromise, usually involving my taking some incredibly toxic medication for less time than he'd like and more time than I'd like.

This time, however, we're running into some unusual problems. This flare I'm in now, which we both agree has its roots in an overly-long, overly-strong course of antibiotics I stupidly took after some minor skin surgery, is manifesting itself quite differently than previous Crohn's flares, so much so that I'm starting to question whether I have Crohn's colitis or ulcerative colitis.

There's a lot of overlap in the symptoms (blood and diarrhea and fever and weight loss and the scent-of-the-dead flatulence no one discusses), and the way my disease presented initially, there was some question as to which disease I had. Frankly, as far as end-user experience goes, pain, medications with dreadful side effects, an illness one will never actually be "cured" of, this rose is pretty stinky, no matter what name it goes by.

Several of the treatments are similar, too: steroids, immunosuppressants, anti-inflammatories. There are more medications approved for use in Crohn's disease, but finding the right one for either disease is hit or miss.

So now I'm on another, milder course of antibiotics, metronidazole, used to kill certain "bad" bacteria in the gut which are believed to be a contributing factor to Crohn's disease. And, oddly enough, I find myself hoping I have Crohn's disease (there's no known effectiveness for UC treatment), so this antibiotic will spare me the hair-shedding, liver-bashing nightmare of the big gun meds like 6MP.

Me. Hoping I have Crohn's disease.

The world changes by degree, except when it changes all at once...

xxx c

UPDATE: I realized after re-reading this with some sleep that the juxtaposition of paragraphs made it sound like a geyser of blood and poop is shooting out of my ass at regularly timed intervals. Alas, no. If it were, things would actually be easier because we'd know what to put me on. As it is, I'm having the regular bowel movements of a healthy, high school football player, with no blood whatsoever. Just fever, aches and endless fatigue. In fact, the only thing that makes me sure this isn't just fibromyalgia kicking in at a late date is the ungodly flatulence I'm still dealing with. Really. I could kill a puppy with one of my farts.

Photo by Ga Music Maker via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Colleen of the Future

honeymooners.jpgI found a cool site thanks to Stumble Upon, my new-favorite source of time suckage*. It's called FutureMe.org, and it's nothing more than an email form that collects words you write, to someone else, I suppose, but mainly to oneself, and sends them to that person in the future. (The default is set to one year.) This is pretty much what journals are all about, at least to me. I knew as I wrote them that even though they provided an excellent place for brain (and heart, and psyche) dump, they were mainly a map of me. From time to time, when I'm feeling particularly brave and strong, I'll pull out an old journal from college or my early 20's or, who am I kidding?, my late 30's and early 40's and cringe and cringe and cringe...and then I'll spot something that saves me: some glimmer of insight or truth that runs through from the pure me to the me-currently-enmired in crap to, hopefully, the future me who will finally be beyond all this petty nonsense. (Although I will not be wearing any motherfucking purple, straight up.)**

I don't write much in a journal anymore; after a year and a half of this, it'd feel like a busman's holiday.

Then again, I don't need to look too far to find Colleen of the Past anymore. Just an inch or so to the right.

xxx c *Thanks, Bon...for NOTHING!!! Sigh...

**UPDATE (8/27/12): Except for my purple sweater, my purple sweater I had before that, my purple shirt, and my purple scarf. And so it goes.

Photo of monkeyed-with scene from a great Honeymooners episode via Schrom.com

One pill makes you larger

bottle-of-pills.jpg Thanks to my family, I have an interesting relationship with medicine, both the kind with a small and a capital "m".

In one corner, we have my (dead, workaholic) father, whose response to any and all corporal malfunction was to (a) ignore it and soldier on or (b) have something prescribed or excised and then soldier on. In the other, we have my (dead, alcoholic) mother, who was basically the same, only she thought the "(b)" part of the equation needlessly complicated.

Dad died nominally of liver failure but really of systemic decline from years and years of refusing to deal with his Crohn's disease at anything deeper than a symptomatic level. (He did not drink alcohol.)

Mom died nominally of cervical cancer that had metastasized to her lungs, but really of her outrageous refusal to tend to even the basics of personal wellness (i.e., the annual pap). (She drank like a fish.)

Given my illustrious family history, it's kind of miraculous that I'm hobbling along as well as I am with my own disease. Like all chronic illness, Crohn's is an up and down proposition: unlike something discrete (a cold, say, or a broken arm), it flares up on its own schedule, brought on at times by something you didn't know could trigger it (hormonal birth control), at times by something you did, but neglected, forgot (antibiotics, stress, Aunt Flo'). Managing it takes a sometimes delicate combination of vigilant self-care and willingness to accept outside help.

I have gotten much better at accepting help in the form of other people stepping up when I'm too tired or sick to deal. I am still wicked stubborn, however, about help in the form of medicine, mainly because the medicines I have to choose from range from bad (mesalamine, or as I like to call it "the hair loss drug") to worse (purinethol, or as I like to call it, "the cancer drug that also causes hair loss"). In between is the pill I both love and dread the most: prednisone.

Yes, prednisone. King-daddy of the synthetic hormones, that magic steroidal elixir responsible for Jerry Lewis's good looks a ways back. It stops the immune response, makes you feel strong like bull and blows you up like a human balloon. When I was released from my 11-day vacation at Cedars Sinai, I was on 60mg of the stuff a day. I put on 10 pounds in a day and a half. My good friend, Lily, had to bring me granny panties three sizes larger to accommodate my mystical instant tubbiness.

Prednisone is also the one drug that can hoist me out of a flare. I have a reserve prescription I keep around the house just in case. I've been eyeing it more frequently recently, weighing the costs of not only ballooning but turning my bones to butter and leaving myself open to whatever opportunistic bacterium or virus wants to wander my way. It's a deal with the devil in many ways: it works amazingly well, but each time you use it, you lessen its potential effectiveness the next, until you're taking Jerry Lewis doses.

This flare? It's different than the others (I've had two since my initial onset in October of 2002). I'm not losing weight at the frightening rate I have in the past. There's no blood or diarrhea this time, either, although the room-clearing gas has commenced (hooray!). Mostly, I'm just dealing with some low-grade fever, aching joints and a level of fatigue that forces me down earlier and earlier. Hardly the stuff of hour-long prime-time medical drama.

The thing is, there's no way of knowing if I can pull myself out of this with diet and rest or if I need the big guns. The Specific Carbohydrate Diet, whose miracle Crohn's-curing powers I've written of before (here and here), is good, but even its major proponent always said to work with medicine when you need it.

That's what I'm trying to determine now: need. How well do I need to feel, and how soon? How wise would it be to wait, and for how long? If I go the meds route, should I go on the long-term meds, too, or trust the combination of fanatical adherence to the diet and the launching pad of prednisone to do the trick?

This is an unusually personal post for me, I know. I suppose it's the closest I'll come to a public admission of addictive behavior (at least, I hope so). But here it is: I'm addicted to whatever is the opposite of change. Like my parents before me, I'd rather ignore what's right under my nose, currently, a thermometer that reads 100.2ºF, than deal with it.

I know why they did what they did now. They were afraid. Afraid of addressing the root cause of their poor health. Afraid of being called out as human beings trying to avoid the emotions of all human beings by hiding behind work, or in a bottle. Afraid that if they went in for help, they'd be told the inevitable: what you are doing, the way you are treating yourself, will kill you.

The sad thing is, it did anyway.

Fortunately, I've got my own number. It connects me to my G.I. doctor over at Cedars, whom I'll speak to in the morning about going back on the prednisone, and perhaps something longer-term afterwards, until I'm sure I can fly on my own power.

My. Own. Power.

xxx c

TAGS: , , , , ,

How to have a great colonoscopy

cscope 0904

Via a sad letter* in Cary Tennis's "Since You Asked" advice column on Salon.com, I discovered that March is National Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month.

As the recipient of no less than four six search missions up my asshole, I feel that perhaps I have some valuable information to offer those on the fence about whether or not to submit to the amazing photographic biopsy machine, and how to proceed once one does.

NUMBER 1: Take care of your asshole, don't be one

Starting at 50, you need to be screened. (Earlier if you've a family history of colorectal cancer; I was told to be screened at 40, since I'd had an uncle DXd with cancerous polyps.)

Yes, a colonoscopy is nothing but a big, fat punchline (for some people, anyway). Yes, it's daunting, the thought of having a foreign object shoved up your butt (for some people, anyway). Don't worry: if you follow some pretty easy steps, it's really a no-big-deal operation. Talk to your doctor and get a referral to a specialist who can give the exam.

One note: if you have any kind of gastrointestinal problems or family history of inflammatory bowel disease (Crohn's or ulcerative colitis), I'd suggest having them screen for that at the same time, and having a gastroenterologist do the colonoscopy rather than a colorectal surgeon; they'll likely do a more thorough job of screening for GI disorders.
But mainly, don't avoid a screening out of fear of horrible pain. Trust me, prepping for the colonoscopy is usually worse than the thing itself.

NUMBER 2 (heh, heh): Name your poison

How well you prepare for your colonoscopy will pretty much determine how easy the procedure goes. As of my last colonoscopy, there were three types of colon blow to choose from to ready your pipes for the camera:

The worst of the three is FLEET'S PHOSPHO-SODA, an over-the-counter formula available at any drugstore that will violently blow every last bit of whatever out of your intestines, cause horrific pain and cramping and generally make you wish you were dead. Looks innocuous; will kick your fucking ass. Pun intended, and NOT recommended.

Marginally better is Kool-Aid from Hell, also known as "GO-LITELY". This is a saline All of the flavors suck and you have to drink gallons of this stuff. I'm serious: gallons. In a very short span of time. It is much, much milder than Fleet's, but that's about all it has to recommend it.

Finally, there VISICOL, the brand name for a prescription pill one takes in combination with various glasses of water and fizzy drinks. It's not a party, and you've got to swallow an awful lot of them, but I've found it to be the easiest on my GI tract of the three methods.

Remember, the world of meds changes fast and furiously. And with all these boomers headed into the colonoscopy years, you can bet there will be further refinement of technique. ASK! Make your doctor explain the differences to you. Do a little internet research (I guess I don't have to tell you that if you're reading this). You are your own best advocate.

NUMBER 3: A little extra prep pays off huge dividends

Your doctor (or his assistant) will give you a list of things you can and can't eat right before the procedure. If you know what's good for you, don't stop there. Give yourself at LEAST one additional day of extremely light eating before the day you're actually required to, especially if you are one of those people with a slow transit time (i.e., you don't poop a lot, or tend towards constipation). Despite my Crohn's, I've always been one of those people, and believe me, the evacuation process is a helluva lot more pleasant when the purgative isn't blasting its way through the intestinal equivalent of bedrock. I recommend salads and smoothies and broth, along with as much water as you can stand.

NUMBER 4: If possible, schedule first appointment

Due to the mild sedative you'll be given, you're not even allowed water for several hours before the procedure. Combine that with the purgative and lack of nourishment your body has dealt with over the last 24 hours and you want to make sure you spend the minimum amount of daylight feeling like you do. If your doctor offers an 8am appointment, take it; you'll do most of your hungry/icky time asleep, and won't have to worry about expending a lot of energy that you don't have.

NUMBER 5: Lay in a supply of eeeeeasy foods (and videos!) for afterward

You will probably be a little gassy and uncomfortable afterwards: all that colon-emptying creates a lot of residual gas; in addition, they sometimes blow air up your colon to get a better look. You will get hungry anyway, and believe me, you don't want to give your tummy anything challenging or heavy for a day or so afterwards. Again, the facility where you have your procedure done will probably give you a list, but non-heavy soups, smoothies and other "sick" food are a good bet.

You will probably also be not your shining best for the rest of the day. Try to take it off completely, or if you must, only really light work from home. I'm sure there are some hardy souls who spring right off the table and are ready to chop wood or bury the competition, but really, that gas can be ba-a-a-ad, and a day and a half without real food (by the time you're home from the procedure) can make you weak as a kitty.

NUMBER 6: Follow up!

Your specialist will probably go over the visual assessment briefly in the recovery room; you'll get the in-depth results later on. If you're not used to talking to doctors, consider bringing someone along with you to actually hear the news with you and ask questions. Barring that, do a little research, bring questions and make sure you understand what your doctor is telling you. Write it down, if you have to. I know it sounds weird, but we have an uncanny way of not hearing what we don't want to, or at the very least, minimizing it. I'm convinced that if I'd had someone with me the first time I'd gotten my c-scope results, I would never have suffered the violent onset of Crohn's that I did.

That's about it. Please remember, I'm not a doctor and none of this constitutes medical advice. It merely represents the sum total of my experience before, during and after having cameras shoved up my heinie (which is not inconsiderable).

Good luck, and don't forget to ask for a picture!

xxx
c

*You may have to watch an ad to read the link if you're not a subscriber.

UPDATE 7/21/08: After two less-than-great preps with Visicol and a similar prep drug, I'm back to endorsing the Phospho-Soda. Basically, there's no fun prep, but I think this is the cheapest and least awful of them.

UPDATE 5/30/09: Phospho-Soda has been taken off the market.

PHOTO of my beautiful colon by Dr. Graham Woolf, G.I.

LINK: National Colorectal Cancer Awareness Month

SXSW: All your Interactive are belong to us

SXSW baggie I know what you're thinking: she went to all of those movies; no way could she have hit up a bunch of geek panels, too.

Way.

Overall, the interactive panels/presentations portion of SXSW was a mixed bag. There was far less actionable information than I'd hoped for, but since I was mainly interested in how you turn something hopelessly unmarketable (i.e., this blog) into something that might bring you a comfortable living, a national forum and self-actualization, I was pretty prepared for finding my hopes unaligned with reality.

Unfortunately, after the first panel we attended, Podcasting 2.0, at my insistence, both The BF and I were ready to forego the interactive part of the proposition and slum at the film fest, where we at least stood a chance at being entertained. The entire proceedings felt thin, weak and hastily thrown together, which, it turned out, was the truth: the panel was a last-minute addition to the schedule, most likely because someone at SXSW realized (or had pointed out to them) that in the age of the podcast explosion, there was zero podcasting presence at this supposedly forward-thinking conference itself.

In stark contrast to the podcasting panel was the Daniel Gilbert Presentation: How to Do Precisely the Right Thing at All Possible Times. Desperate for the schwag, an advance copy of Gilbert's forthcoming book, Stumbling On Happiness, to the first 100 attendees, I dragged the insanely tolerant BF to the next conference room. Like a scene from a movie starring ME, I made a beeline to the schwag girl, watching her hand off book after book from her dwindling supply, a sea of smug recipients peeling off to either side of me. When she handed me the 100th copy, I was certain that this presentation would be a winner; I was not disappointed. Gilbert, a Harvard professor and grampa when he is not giving presentations and writing books, is a smart, funny, engaging speaker who has honed his presentation to a fine edge. But in addition to the interest factor Gilbert for me, pundit-in-training, his material, an exploration of the evolutionary roots of decision making and its effect on the happiness of modern decisionmakers, was fascinating and compelling. I suspect this talk will not show up on the SXSW podcast page, but if you get the chance to hear Gilbert speak, I highly recommend it.

So I'm figuring that the dealio (for me, anyway) is to hit the solo presentations and skip the panels. With that in mind, I trucked on over to the James Surowiecki Presentation: The Wisdom of Crowds, the New Yorker writer's live presentation of his book's content, which was...disappointing. Curses! And so much for my ingenious ferreting out system. Granted, some of the difficulty stemmed from the presentation being held in a large, high-ceilinged ballroom with dreadful acoustics, which itself was adjacent to another ballroom serving as a band's daystage, but Surowiecki himself was clearly at a stage where he's more comfortable as a writer than a presenter, and having no slides or other media to distract from his slight awkwardness didn't help. This is one case where I'd rather have read the book, and to be fair, because the talk's content was pretty interesting, I just might.

I had no idea what to expect with Sunday's Keynote Conversation: Heather Armstrong / Jason Kottke, except for a very large crowd in attendance. Since I've a mild obsession with both dooce (a mommyblogger who went nationwide!) and kottke.org (I became a micropatron after only being a short-time reader), I made sure The BF and I got there early. We met a charming young localblogger who was a freak for dooce and fought over the 12" (PowerBook) until the show started. Again, no real actionable information, but I was there to hear about how they blogged and how blogging affected them and they didn't disappoint. Even The BF enjoyed this one. Podcast available for download here.

Immediately following in the same room was one of the liveliest panels I attended, DIY Now More Than Ever. I'm a huge fan of Gina Trapani from Lifehacker, and she's just as sunny and energetic in person as she comes across on her sites. And humble. Humility was sort of the watchword here: every one of the panelists seemed genuinely grateful that s/he had achieved whatever quantifiable measure of success s/he had. Again, not huge amounts of actionable information, but since I'm not really looking to start a web business or sell a piece of software, I doubt I would have found much more than inspiration and encouragement, which the panel provided in spades.

Personality was my main reason for attending Cluetrain: Seven Years Later, as well. I stepped on the internest bandwagon rather late (not counting my early obsession with epinions), so most of these rockstars don't register for me. I'd heard of Doc Searls, though, and was curious. He's a cool dude, is Doc, laid back and just into doing his own thing. Which, by the way, was my biggest takeaway from SXSWi: do your own thing and whatever will follow, but at least you'll be doing your own thing, which presumably should be reward enough.

DL Byron ran my favorite panel at the conference, Does Your Blog Have a Business? He took his role as moderater seriously and had excellent questions prepared. Not that I have any information to share, I was basically there to see CSS god Jeffrey Zeldman, and wasn't planning to take any notes. I am pretty shy and felt extra shy at my first SXSW, so I didn't actually meet any of these superstars. I did run into DL at the Austin airport, though, and was able to tell him how much I enjoyed his panel. He, in turn, gave me a sample of his new product, clip-n-seal. Damned thing is simple as hell and works like a charm (that's me in the photo above, holding up the new communicatrix cards I had printed up for SXSW, in a clip-n-seal). I hope he makes a bazillion dollars and can quit all his day jobs.

The last two panels I attended were about vlogging, although no one seems to call it that: How to Add Video to Your Blog and Video Blog Business Models. I was astounded at how many people crowded their way into the first panel...and how sparsely attended the second was, by comparison. Especially since, as Michael Verdi from FreeVlog put it, there's an online tutorial that explains the entire thing in detail...for free! There was some useful information, mainly along the lines of length (keep it under 3 minutes), choosing the right medium for the message (blogging vs. podcasting vs. vlogging) and what makes for good subject matter (your hilarious, quirky family members, from the looks of things), but really, the first panel was just fun to listen to. I mean, hell, they're good at presenting live, right?

My takeaway on videoblogging business models echoes my takeaway from SXSW, period: you will most likely get paid because of your presence on the internet rather than because of it. None of the people I saw speak at SXSW, not one of them, started blogging or podcasting or vlogging to make money. Well, I suspect one person who kept cropping up on panel after panel did, but he's the anomaly, and so fucking annoying and full of himself I cannot believe anyone listens to his podcasts, much less that he gets paid for them.

The other great takeaway info I got was this: if you want to do something on the web, see who's doing it now and figure out how you can 'kill' them. Time and time again, I saw that it wasn't necessarily the first person to get there, but the one who did it best. In that way, I suppose all this geeky internutty stuff is like writing (all the stories have been told, you're just telling them a new way) or acting (no one can do Hamlet like you do Hamlet) or anything else (build a better mousetrap, etc).

I guess I went to the oracle expecting something, and the oracle told me I should look first in my own back yard.

Actually, I told myself that...

xxx c

SXSW: Movies! Movies! Movies!

alamo drafthouse Outside of plain old good times, the chief feature of SXSW seems to be overwhelm. There are more great films crammed into a ten-square-block area than I could possibly hope to see in 30 days, much less four. (The 2006 SXSW Film Festival stretches from March 10 to the 17th, but The BF and I were only there for the part that overlapped with SXSW Interactive.)

Then there's the waiting time that eats into your movie consumption. Some of the theaters are tiny, and even with the magic badge that grants you first access, you need to queue up at least an hour in advance to gain entry. (Film passes, at $65 each, get you into a separate queue that gains admission after the Badge People enter; individual tickets put you at the very back of the bus.) The weather was lovely for the festival this year, unseasonably warm for the first three days, and we met some terrific people waiting in line, but still: every minute you're standing in line is a minute you're missing another panel or meetup or film.

Which brings me back to one of the Real Things I Learned at SXSW: a festival, much like money or alchohol, brings out the truth in people. My particular truth? I lack the easygoing gene. I'm not particularly good at going with the flow, and when faced with the possibility that one of my plans might fall through, I react with a mix of anxiety and crushing disappointment. I do not know why I didn't learn this particular truth about myself 10 years ago when I would break out in hives everytime I had to improvise at a Groundlings Sunday Show performance, oh, wait...yes, I do. I am an uptight control-freak asshole.

Anyway, what was fascinating to me about the film part of the SXSW equation was that it was my first experience with buzz, or the first time I was able to watch buzz play out in almost real time, because of the compacted time frame the festival provides.

Example: we were fairly interested in seeing Darkon, the feature documentary on a Baltimore-based live action role playing group, when we first looked at the schedule. (Well, The BF was, anyway. He's got better film-dar than I.) But after two days of hearing people talk up Darkon, we put it on our must-see list. It did not disappoint. The filmmakers, who spent a year filming the players on and off the battlefields of Darkon, winning their trust and gaining access to some pretty intimate details of the players' lives. As a result, the film offers a fascinating look both on the nature of the outsider (live action role playing is hardly a mainstream pursuit) and the basic human need for drama, connection and expression. There's a sideshow factor, too, of course, it's hard for most of us to relate to a group of grownups spending their weeks duct-taping their plywood and styrofoam shields for a weekend of ye olde combat and a chance at grabbing an imaginary slice of land in an imaginary realm. On the other hand, it's no weirder than scrapbooking, shopping or, let's face it, blogging as sport, so maybe I should lay off.

There was more fine, outsider action at The Last Western, a feature documentary about the rise and fall of a small "Western" town on the edge of the Mojave desert. Pioneertown was a fully-functioning Western movie set built by the Hollywood studios to facilitate filming. It was abandoned by the studios with the falling fortunes of the B-Western, but a number of inhabitants stayed on, creating a sort of Western Island of Misfit Toys. While a bit incohesive as a film, The Last Western does a fantastic job telling the stories of the individual dreamers, outcasts and iconoclasts who populate Pioneertown.

The residents of Small Town Gay Bar are outsiders for a different reason. Choosing to remain in their small, Bible Belt towns for whatever reason (this is never really explored or explained in the film), these gay men and women are (barely) tolerated at best, persecuted or killed at worst, and severely isolated at all times. Small Town Gay Bar is a fascinating look at the need for community and how it will out (no pun intended). The filmmakers do an incredibly thorough job interviewing the various denizens of small town Bible Best gay bars past and present, as well as showing the pressures they face from the community at large and a few especially vocal, intolerant entities in particular.

There are mainstream outsiders, too, of course. In the 2004 U.S. presidential elections, they were called "Democrats", and they struggled mightily to find their collective voice and make it heard. Al Franken: God Spoke documents the plight of American liberal Al Franken, as he worked to save the American people from four more years of tyranny, lies and land-grabbing by the administration in power. I won't lie to you: while often outright hilarious, Al Franken: God Spoke was the most depressing movie I saw at SXSW by a long shot, and I saw movies about gay men in the Bible Belt and transgender males in prison.

Oh, yes, what's more fun than being a liberal in new millenial America? Being an enroute, transgender male in the U.S. penal (!) system. Cruel and Unusual is a look at the special degradation and horror the pre-surgical transgender male undergoes in prison. Aside from the obvious nightmare of having to be some bad man's girlfriend, incarcerated transgenders are routinely denied treatment for their medically-recognized condition, suffering physical withdrawal and severe depression as a result of going off their hormone meds cold turkey. For its important message, I wish I could give Cruel and Unusual the unqualified thumbs up. Unfortunately, I came away feeling that while the subject matter is compelling, the film itself didn't have a point of view other than "this is really awful." I hope it finds life on public television as a special, where its mere reportage quality would serve the community, but I can't really recommend it as a film.

I can, on the other hand, heartily recommend The Life of Reilly, a filmed version of actor/teacher extraordinaire Charles Nelson Reilly's electrifying one-man stage show. Most of us of a certain age know Reilly as a mainstay of 70's crap TV. (Most of the rest of you don't know Reilly at all, which a funny montage in the movie takes pains to point out.) But Charles Nelson Reilly had a major career as an off-Broadway and Broadway actor before his TV years, and an active life during and after as one of America's preeminent acting teachers (he took over Uta Hagen's class when she died). Reilly is smart and funny and a consummate performer; while there are a few awkward "openings up" in The Life of Reilly, for the most part it is a hilarious, breathtaking telling of a fascinating life and a great insight into what makes performers tick.

kustom karMy chief issue with Tales of the Rat Fink, the story of kar kulture icon Ed "Big Daddy" Roth, has to do with the opening up of its story. Director Ron Mann is known for his iconoclastic takes on documentary subjects, but there were so many crazy elements in Tales, animation, talking cars, strange interstitial bits, the end result felt a little disjointed. According to Mann, there was virtually no archival footage of Roth; when Roth died shortly after Mann started the project (it was shelved for some time), the director had to come up with some alternate way of telling the story. To be fair, the cut we saw on opening night had been rushed through to make the premiere, but I think there are structural issues beyond tightening up a few odd editing gaps. To be even more fair, I am on my third Toyota Corolla, which is to say I am so not a kar person. If you like kars, or cool illustration, which Ed Roth is also known for, you'll probably love it.

The only narrative film we saw during our entire SXSW trip was The Notorious Bettie Page. We were mainly interested in seeing films that we weren't sure would get distribution, and Bettie is scheduled for release in April. But we thought it would be fun to see at least one biggie before the general public, since that's part of the thrill of the festival. For a thrill, and a fairly risque, fairly thrilling subject, The Notorious Bettie Page was pretty disappointing. The acting was solid and the cinematography was gorgeous (at least, I thought so, The BF was less impressed). But the script was pretty lame, lots of bad dialogue and a cringe-inducing first fifteen minutes, and the whole thing came off as more of a made-for-TV biopic than a great narrative film.

The BF saw another picture or two without me while I was geeking out at the SXSW Interactive panels, but no big recommendations, so we'll let them lie. I may post some mini-reviews from our new Austinite unicyling friend, Steve Wiswell, if he grants permission. And if you're into it, there are more great mini-reviews on some of the pictures I didn't see at SXSW by Andrew O'Hehir at Salon.com.

Of course, you can always just go to Technorati and hit the SXSW and film tags. SXSW is the nexus of all things arty and geeky.

I miss it already...

xxx c

PHOTOS of the exterior of the fabulous Alamo Draft House and a kustom kar outside the Rat Fink premiere taken by me and The BF with my spiffy new Razr.

A preliminary and rather alarmingly woo-woo perspective on SXSW

I'm still wiped out from my five-day sojourn at SXSW, and I seem to be in good weenie company. It was a notable experience in many ways: my first trip to Austin; my first trip to a real conference; my first trip when I've been on the precipice of a Crohn's flare. But the most notable thing about my trip was that I went without an agenda. Yes, I've long wanted to see Austin, and yes, I was interested in seeing what a big festival was like and sure, it's always nice to do those things in a tax-deductible fashion, but trust me, it's always hard to plunk down a serious amount of hard-earned cash with no guarantee of tangible benefits in return. I'd looked over the list of offerings beforehand, and didn't see that panel or presentation which was going to give me answers to the big questions that consume me nowadays: How do I find that thing that feeds me and the world at the same time? How do I keep body and soul together while I do it? Or maybe, after I find it?

I'm planning to post more about the panels and films I attended later, but my major takeaway I can get to right now:

I will probably not make money with any of my online ventures, present or planned. And I'm okay with that.

I'm okay because I no longer need stuff so much as I need happiness. (Recognition is still attractive to me, but I figure by the time I get any, I won't care much about that, either.)

I'm okay because I saw people up on those daises (which looks a lot like daisies, doesn't it?) who were making money and people who might never and the only thing that I found compelling in either was the passion that drove them.

I'm okay because I found out that for the most part, the people up there on those pretty daisies weren't receiving outrageous renumeration, but maybe a small perquisite in exchange for sharing their time and knowledge.

I'm okay because for five days, I saw passionate, well-crafted films that took years of people's lives to make about topics so obscure and unmarketable the filmmakers couldn't possibly expect to receive adequate renumeration.

And I'm okay because for five days, I was immersed in an atmosphere of nurturing and tolerance and possibility that I'd started to think couldn't exist in this scaredy-ass, me-first world anymore.

More later. Much, much more...

xxx c

Who's sexy now?

razr Dear Apple:

I love you. Seriously. I loooooooove you. I have drunk the Kool-Aid, forsaken all others, suffered through the application of an elaborate tribal tattoo on that little spot just above my crack. If you were an actual person, not only would I never forget your birthday and always bring you chicken soup in times of illness, I would probably also upon occasion drive around your house when you weren't there just to feel close to you.

So why you do me this way?

I know, I know, I used to run around on you with that bad, bad man. Not all the time, just for email and contacts. But I'm with you now. I abandoned my Palm for you. I started syncing to my eentsy-weentsy nano, even though I can barely make out those addresses in -4 font size. It wasn't a bad workaround, all things considered.

Still, a girl needs to feel connected. She needs to talk. And what do you do when I feel this need to express myself, to feel safe and connected? You proffer...the Rockr. The Rockr!!! 20+ years of bold, innovative thinking and the best you can muster is a half-assed music player cobbled onto a phone so ugly, it offends my ToastROven.

Good god, you're Apple! Apple, man! A design leader! A tech visionary! Creator of iTunes, the user-friendly UI and the hottest displays on the planet! And you're letting that behemoth Blackberry and that buggy-ass Treo horn in on your action? Get real, dude! No, I'm not seeing either of them...yet. I'm just dicking around with a Razr for now. He's not everything I want, but he can take care of my basic needs and, let's face it, I'm not ashamed to pull him out of my purse.

Look, I don't want to break up with you, but it's clear right now that we need some time apart. Who knows? Maybe this'll be kind of a wake-up call. Maybe once you see me juggling my Razr and nano and odd scraps of paper, trying to get by as best I can, you'll step up to the plate and be the brand leader I've come to know and love.

In the meantime, take care of yourself. I know the whole content upsell thing is fresh and new, but it can be a trap, too. You have one major asset over all your competitors, Mr. Hotty-Mc-Hot, and it ain't your price points.

Okay. I'm getting bitter now and I promised myself I wouldn't. I'll see you soon...white and silver and gleaming, vibrating with an iTunes ringtone, like a dream I dreamt but forgot.

Right?

Right?

xxx c

Photo by Brian Eric Ford via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license

The online dating, she has tipped

Tasked with the challenge of designing a fake online dating site for a TV show, I registered with a few dating sites to gain access to their page layout.

Now before any of you cranks jump down my throat, I signed up (a) as a man (the fake site was supposed to be a chick's profile) and (b) with full disclosure to The BF, who was the one who commissioned the work in the first place.

I'm sorry to report that things have changed, and not for the better. I've already reported about the decline of the deliciously quirky Spring Street Network, but it's far, far worse now. Now, there is Chemistry.com.

An offshoot of its ho-clearinghouse cousin, Match.com, Chemistry is clearly born of Tickle's heavy 'psychological' profiling and the eHarmony pestilence that Dr. Neil Clark Warren has rained down upon us. Sign up for Chemistry and you will be led through a half-hour battery of personality tests. Tests designed to unearth the true you, so deep and probing and mysterious, you will marvel at the truths they reveal. Deep, probing, tests like this:

dating_2_hands.jpg

In hindsight, it's a miracle The BF and I have lasted as long as we have, what with our reckless disregard for digit compatibility. Neither did we have the benefit of prescreened testing for real-life assessment skills:

dating_1.jpg

Again, it's a good thing I gave The BF some extra-strong non-verbal cues on our second date, like inviting him in for a drink and having sex with him on the floor. Because I just quizzed him on the above picture and he was dead sure they were a sleeper anarcho-communist cell plotting the overthrow of the Mall of America.

To be fair, the fine scientists at Chemistry aren't leaving all the chemistry up to their psychological profiling. After running the test gauntlet, I had to fill out the extensive questionnaire so that my prospective matches could feel me via my charm and wit, and vet me for height, weight and eye color deficiencies. As I do not look much like a man in any of my current photos and am understandably reluctant to use certain others (I want my prospective dates to love me for me, not my proximity to celebrity), I elected not to upload a photo. But the magical matching computers at Chemistry did their thing and provided me with upwards of 50 matches, any of whom I could email right now if I forked over a membership fee.

I pulled up the first profile, the cleverly named "Mary" (remember, for our purposes here, I'm a man, albeit a very short, very slight one). Based on the extensive tests we'd both taken, here was one of my soul mate matches:

dating-mary.jpg

Well, as anyone who is even a semi-habitual reader of communicatrix-dot-com knows, it was like reading a mirror! Or maybe, reading something I held up in a mirror, only like maybe in a dream, so everything wasn't backwards. I injoy cildern a lot! I'm more a fan of dinning in than out, but hey, for someone who can turn me on to wica (pagan) and midevil reinactments, I need to make a few compromises! The chemistry is profound!

Alas, my profile was ultimately rejected. Apparently, they didn't think "Colleen" was a suitable name for a gentleman on the rarified rolls of Chemistry. Ah, well.

I'm sorry, "Mary." Sorrier than I can say...

xxx
c

TAGS: ,

Behold! the fugliosity that was me in advertising!

Today I auditioned for a spot I'd really like to book. The part is funny, the casting director is smart (meaning, the spots he casts are low in cheese factor) and, imagine, I could use the money. Casting directors often give a group explanation prior to a string of individual auditions to save time and so we don't stink up their tapes with super-creative, actor-y input. Today, after reiterating his usual acting directive, "Very small, very real, very 'film'", a directive which I now hear in some form from nearly every casting director on nearly every call, leaving me to wonder why there is still so much bad, over-the-top acting in commercials, this casting director drove the point home by letting drop that the director of this particular spot also directed Junebug. The implication being, if you know Junebug, you know what we're looking for and if you don't, you're going to give a bad, over-the-top performance which we will waste no time in erasing from our tape.

Now, I have not, in fact, seen Junebug, but I am familiar with the vernacular the CD was tossing out. You see, I like to keep up with my worlds colliding, so I happen to know that Junebug was directed by one Phil Morrison, with whom I worked on a series of Wheaties commercials which I wrote in my previous incarnation as an advertising copywriter.

Normally, this ain't no big thang. That life was long, long ago, and most people's memories don't extend that far, especially when it comes to remembering the copywriter, who is slightly less important than an apple box on a commercial set. In fact, we're seen as so inconsequential, we're frequently not invited to the shoot at all: I wrote a Gatorade commercial shot by the notorious Joe Pytka, but was subsequently hired as an actor on a couple of his commercials. Of course, I was not in attendance at the former and saw no reason to bring up the connection at either of the latter, so it really didn't take much to fly under the radar.

The Wheaties commercials, however, were a slightly bigger deal. There were lots of verbal shenanigans in my tricky little scripts, so I was actually consulted on this or that more than once. Plus the spots starred Michael Jordan! Michael Effin'* Jordan!!! This was a huge break for the then-very-young Phil, whom we found via some groovy interstitials he'd done for MTV. Plus...Michael Effin' Jordan! Surely Phil would remember every minute detail of that week we spent together on a Chicago soundstage, I thought.

That is, I thought until I uncovered this commemorative photo of me**, MJ, and an assortment of client-side and agency dorks:

MJ_and_me.jpg

Now not only am I certain Phil Morrison will not know me from Adam, I am also sorely tempted to submit myself to that Oprah show where they're looking for people who look better today than they did 10 years ago.

Because (a) I am pretty sure I'm fugly enough in my high-waisted, reverse-fit jeans to win a free trip back to Chicago and (b) if they give me two round-trip tickets, maybe I can convince The BF not to break up with me for revealing my shame...

xxx c

*And if his middle name isn't "effin'", I'd like suggest right now that he change it; my god, could he have a more appropriate middle name?

**If you can't find me in the group, I would be the one on second from the left, doing my impersonation of a really unattractive lesbian. Good at it, aren't I?

UPDATE: Link to larger sizes of my fugliosity at Flickr, here.

My half-assed Oscar blusings*

108005993_6b16540c921.jpg Jon Stewart is God.

Whoever has Lauren Bacall in the death pool is going to cash in soon.

It is just plain cruel to schedule a nominee as a presenter if his nominated category comes before his presentation category.

Especially when there is no alcohol served at the event.

It is just plain stupid to shill for the film industry's output by saying "you just can't watch something like this on TV" and then proceed to do just that.

As much as I hated the big, vomity production numbers, I miss them even more.

Oh, wait, "It's Hard Out There for a Pimp" just came on.

M. Night Shamalamadingdong's AmEx commercial was more compelling than any of his last three movies. And it still had a shitty ending.

Whoever has Dolly Parton in the death pool might cash in pretty soon, too.

Clooney/Obama in 2008.

All the ladies look very chic and subdued.

Even, amazingly, Meryl Streep, who usually looks like she was styled by a gaggle of five-year-old girls playing dressup out of an old trunk in the attic.

Meryl Streep's birth name was Mary Louise.**

If I had any doubts that Philip Seymour Hoffman should win the Best Actor award, hearing that he shot the role in 36 days while producing has forever dispelled them.

If the Oscars moved to a points system whereby the most passionate and interesting nominees got to speak the longest, that director of Tsotsti would have been speaking for an hour and a half.

Having just heard (yawn) Reese Witherspoon give her acceptance speech, I don't think we're in danger of that happening anytime soon.

xxx c

*blusings = blog musings

**UPDATE: this is not technically a blusing, I know. My actual blusing after thinking about exciting, trashy days of Oscars past was 'I miss Cher', however I was so bowled over about Meryl Streep's birth name it knocked all real Oscar blusings out of my head. Also, I have had three scotches. At least.

Photo of setting up the 2006 Oscars by Donna Grayson via Flickr

On hummers, moral rectitude and paying the rent

hummerbird.jpg A couple of days ago, I read a brief article/interview with Tim Robbins in this month's issue of Los Angeles magazine. Mostly it just reinforced my impression of Robbins as a smart, talented guy whose impressions of himself are exactly the same, only more so, but there was one item which caught my eye.

Despite the popularity of his 1992 political mockumentary, Bob Roberts, Robbins elected not to release a CD of the original songs created for the film for fear that they might one day be used out of context by the very people he was satirizing. I think of this very real possibility for artists every time I listen to (gulp) the Dr. Laura show on my local yak-radio station, KFI*. Because while some of the musicians whose songs her engineer plays as bumpers might be alright with the implicit endorsement of a rather inflexible if well-meant credo, others would likely be aghast.

I suppose there's no way around it in radio land. I'm not familiar with fair use rules on commercial radio, but I'm guessing that if you or your station pays publishing clearinghouses ASCAP and BMI**, you're allowed to bumper away.

In advertising land, of course, it's a different story. When I started out as a copywriter in the early 1980s, the first uses of boomer pop as boomer bait were just turning up. Naive young pup that I was, I remember being surprised when some people actually took umbrage at the co-opting of "art" for commerce. Me? I figured if someone wanted to sell their shit, that was their own damned business.

I'm [of] divided opinion now. Obviously, for many years I've made my own livelihood has depended upon either shilling directly for The Man or, briefly, filing papers and designing PowerPointâ„¢ presentations for him. I've written and acted in commercials for plenty of superfluous consumer crap products, and in my last day job, I designed the company's greatest presentation ever for one of the most insidious marketing tacks it's been my distaste to come across. On the other hand, I had my limits: I've always refused to work on tobacco products and feminine deoderant products, finding them equally morally reprehensible.

The new limit, it seems, is the Hummer.

While it's unlikely that I'll ever be asked shill for Hummer, plenty of musicians have been approached about it. Poor, struggling, indie musicians, whose tuneage has the gloss of rebel cool Hummer would like to co-opt for its ads. And apparently, they're saying "no" in droves, even the starving ones. "We figured it was almost like giving music to the Army, or Exxon," said one member of a D.C. group, Trans Am.

I'd chalk it up, some of it anyway, to political correctness, only the amounts that were being thrown around were too huge to dismiss, especially for starving artists. They start at about $50K; one went up to $180K. That's a lot of scratch for anyone, but especially for people whose mode of transportation often doubles as their home.

My tolerance level for SUVs falls far short of the Hummer. After years of driving in steel canyons created by the piggy hugemobiles of the drivers surrounding me, I am over the high clearance vehicle, period. If you drive one, basically, you can go fuck yourself. (I make an exception for minivan drivers, who are actually choosing a responsible transportation option for hauling rugrats and for light truck drivers who actually use their truck beds to haul truck-appropriate items.) Tax 'em, make 'em park in the "c" lot ghetto, bar them from carpool lanes unless every seat in the motherfuckers are occupied.

On the other hand, I briefly dated someone who drove an SUV. I've never established a no-fly rule on SUVs with my agent. There are, fortunately, good men out there who still drive sedans (cf The BF) but as money gets harder and harder to make, will it get harder and harder for me to exercise my moral principles? It is one thing to be Tim Robbins and turn down the money; it's another to be an indie rocker or someone with three kids to support or me, in transition, and do it.

I have an audition today for Philip Morris. That's Philip Morris, not its parent company, Altria Group, which also manufactures various food brands. The client declined to give out specific information, a common practice with a new product. So when I got the call, I confirmed with the proviso that if it turned out to be a tobacco product, I was out. Unfortunately, I won't find out what this mysterious new Philip Morris product is until I drive out to Santa Monica and sign the NDA to audition for it. Which means that I might drive 25 miles out of my way today for nothing.

Oh, well. At least I'll be doing it in a Corolla.

xxx c

*More on my love/hate of the strident, inflexible Laura Schlessinger later...

**Bonus little-known fact: I am actually a member of BMI, owing to a filthy little ditty I wrote with Ana Gasteyer about our twats.

UPDATE: The audition was not for a tobacco product, but an anti-tobacco message. I took it, still conflicted, but secure in the knowledge that (a) my getting it is a million-to-one shot; and (b) I'm heading to SXSW the day of the callback, turning that million-to-one shot into a billion-to-one shot.

Photo, "Opinion," by Evan G. via Flickr.

Goal-free, as free as the wind blows

cornell_artsquad.jpg Along with not being much for Valentine's Day, I'm also not much for networking, self-promotion, school spirit or any type of change.

But 2006 is destined, it seems, to be the year of doing stuff I am not really much for. So a couple of weeks ago, I combined all of the things that repulse me (excluding Valentine's Day, which had already been addressed separately) by attending my very first meeting of the Cornell Entrepreneur Network.

I did have a nominal reason for attending: to see and hear Steven Shapiro (ENGR, '86) talk about his book and philosophy, Goal-Free Living. After all, with my twin pursuits of punditry and ultra-organization, it was only natural that I want to see, up close and personal, someone who is not only living his non-goals, but getting other people to sit up and take notice.

I arrived late by design, giving myself 45 minutes to get from Hancock Park to the Skirball Cultural Center during the height of rush hour. (For you non-locals, that is akin to giving yourself 16 hours to drive from Yakima to Key West. In a Geo Metro. Filled with cinderblocks.)

Unfortunately for me, or not, depending on how you look at it, things were still just ramping up when I arrived, 10 minutes before the talk was supposed to start. Worse, everyone, it seemed, had come in pairs, like this was some Ivy League Noah's Ark. Some had even come in clusters. I don't know about you, but I'm not going to elbow my way into a goddam cluster. I'm shy, dammit!

Clicking into survival mode, I managed to kill a little time at the sushi and meatball stations, and got thrown a pity chat-up from the friendly and outgoing CEN organizer, Shannon...but STILL no one was showing any signs of massing in the speaking area.

Then a funny thing happened in line at the bar: I met someone. Someone else who was also not there with anyone else and also in need of a drink. We got to talking, so much so that the meatball station was threatening to close. He excused himself...and someone else wandered over to say 'hi'. Then one of those Noah's Ark couples wandered over and started talking, too, and all of a sudden, we were all chumming it up on the way to our seats.

The talk was great. I'll go into greater detail once I've read and reviewed Steven's book; for now, suffice to say that Steven was a lively, engaging speaker with an interesting tack on accomplishment, and that I more than got my money's worth from the seminar. What was really extraordinary, though, was the way the evening started out as one thing (me coming to hear a speech) and ended up something else entirely, me leaping to the podium during open-mic time and giving a brief but impassioned speech about my presentation graphics* skills.

I left the evening with a handful of business cards and a whole new perspective on goals. Had I gone to the networking meeting with the goal of networking...well, I probably wouldn't have made it to the meeting, let alone collected any business cards. Throwing myself into something new and scary just because I had a feeling that I might benefit by seeing and hearing this speech, all kinds of things happened.

The not-so-good news? I'm still sitting on those business cards, two weeks later, and I still haven't sent my own card to the printers. Having backed way, way off my type-A goal-focussed lifestyle a few years ago, I'm now thinking it may be time to reintroduce a few of the old carrot-and-stick measures. Or at least time to climb into the cinderblock-laden Metro and point her East. With any luck, I can reach the other coast by sometime next year.

Unless, of course, I find something really cool along the way...

xxx c

Photo of Cornell University's Arts Quad by Hobbes vs. Boyle via Flickr, used under Creative Commons license.

*After my recent tussle with the Evil Empire, I'm still having a problem saying P***rP***t.

The inside poop on SCD

cooking of Takayoki

As I was grocery shopping for what seemed like the 14th time this week, it occurred to me that I haven't ever gone into much detail on what day-to-day life on the Specific Carbohydrate Diet is like for Crohnies (and UC patients), most likely because way back when I started this here blog, I was already down to about 95% SCD-compliant, which, as any true SCDer will tell you, means you are not actually doing SCD at all.

SCD, you see, requires what its major proponent (the late, lamented Elaine Gottschall) called "fanatical adherence". Since it's predicated on eliminating every rogue bacterium in the gut, and since rogue bacteria can have a company picnic on one potato chip, there has to be a zero-tolerance policy towards fucking around. After all your symptoms are cleared up for a year, there's cautious talk about introducing "illegals", but most people on the SCD choose to remain on a modified version of the diet indefinitely, since it's way healthier and they're way scared of a repeat on the room-clearing gas and projectile diarrhea that brought them to the SCD in the first place.

Initially, my few cheats were small, but big: a half-piece of particularly toothsome bread, something I hadn't tasted in 2 1/2 years, on an early date with The BF. A lavender cupcake at a friend's film opening two months later.

But then I hit on what I should really use my cheat allowance for: dealing with the rogue illegals that turn up in virtually all restaurant food, no matter how 'clean' you try to order. Restaurant dining becomes more enjoyable by an order of magnitude when you do not have to grill the server on every, no, seriously...EVERY ingredient. In the steak. Or the steamed spinach. Or the "absolutely plain" house vinaigrette. Because I can almost guarantee you, that "absolutely plain" vinaigrette will have a minimum of three to five non-SCD-compliant ingredients which, in the early stages of recovery, could send you running for the toilet.

Everything was going relatively well (no pun intended) until last December, when I decided to get jiggy with the starches for the holidays. Mind you, my recent transgressions, an entire piece of rye toast at breakfast AND a forkful of potatoes AND a salad with Thousand, all in the same 24-hour period, were nothing compared to my old, "thank-you-drive-thru" ways. But a little too much fast & loose, plus a heavy round of antibiotics after some incredibly minor skin surgery and I was done fer.

So now I am back to square one, at least as far as the diet is concerned. Everything cooked and peeled. Nothing "challenging" like, oh...say...peppers or mushrooms or, heaven forfend, onions. After almost knocking myself out with my noxious wind after ingesting a stray piece of onion in last Saturday's steak dinner, onions are off le menu for awhile. Along with steak.

It is not all bad, though. Tonight we are having baked acorn squash, sautéed baby spinach and bay scallops with shallots in a butter and wine sauce. (Smaller member of the onion family = smaller farts.) There's a vat of homemade applesauce in the fridge (because the commercial stuff might contain sugar), along with homemade yogurt (because the commercial kind definitely contains lactose) and leftover homemade chicken stock (because the commercial kind contains, among other things, starch, stabilizers, gums and the dreaded catch-all "spices").

Collectively, though, they represent dozens of man-hours of shopping, peeling and cooking. That is the hardest thing about following the SCD: finding the time in which to do it. With planning, you can really streamline operations, but the bottom line is it much, much harder to make everything from scratch than it is to 'cheat' with canned broth, pre-made yogurt and a thousand other modern convenience foods. When I'm on SCD, my convenience food is stuff I've made in bulk, portioned up, and frozen.

On the other hand, if you want a lesson in patience, humility and gratitude, you'd be hard-pressed to find one better than fanatical adherence to the SCD. Barring subjection to a major natural disaster or life-threatening illness. And with the worst of Crohn's behind me (there's that ass-punnery again, dammit), maybe it's good to have a little refresher course in the difficulty of day-to-day living for most of this planet's inhabitants. At least I have supermarkets, and a car to drive to them, and the relative security of knowing I won't be shot at while shopping for them (although that graffiti-tagged car in the Vons parking lot this afternoon shook me up a little).

My complaints are tedious and few, and I tire of the whiny voice in my own head as I head out for the store yet again to get what too many people would weep with gratitude over being blessed with.

And so to dinner. And, after we wail through the leftovers, to the grocery store again tomorrow, I'm sure. I've been craving muffins, you see, which can only mean one thing:

Muffin cup liners...

xxx
c

PHOTO: Ungodly, surely SCD-non-compliant deliciousness Cooking of Takoyaki by tab2_dawa via Flickr