Hotlanta is my Mecca.

I am going to the ATL for Labor Day Weekend. I am beyond excited. This marks my second visit to the city of peaches, soul food, Margaret Mitchell, and T.I. My mother and I did a Georgia Ladies Only trip last August and it was fantastic. Hot as a pig wallerin' in the mud. But fantastic. And of course, I must return in late August again. A mistake, but a wonderful mistake at that. This time I'll be going (well, let's be honest, I invited myself) with a friend who is an Atlanta native. I predict this weekend will not be as innocent as Mother and I's.

I want rockabilly, I want Dirty South, I want pimped-out Cadillac Eldorados with spinning rims. But most importantly, I want food. And not just any food. Last year I went with the intention of getting a Luther Burger. This intention was not met. A Luther Burger (named after Luther Vandross, who died of a heart attack) is a bacon cheeseburger with a KRISPY KREME BUN. This is not repulsive, as some people may argue. This is a God-given work of art. It is pure poetry. If the burger could talk, it would softly whisper, "Doest thou love me, dearest? Then pluck me from this scalding griddle and allow to embrace your northernmost orifice of desire." Actually, that is kind of creepy talk for a burger. No matter. I will meet this burger, we will fall in love, and I will quite possibly never return to the land of chard and fresh fruits and soy milk again.

Workin' in a coal mine/goin' down down down...

There is something to be said about a physically demanding, laborious day. Especially when you are working and getting paid for it. For the first time in my sheltered, bookworm life, I worked at a farmer's market. Maybe that doesn't sound too physically demanding. But let me take you through my past twelve hours.

4 am: Woke up. Had gone to sleep at midnight, so am operating at a low level.
5:15 am: Was picked up by crunchy granola girl who was also heading to farmer's market.
5:30 am: Arrive at Beaverton Farmer's Market. It is dark, cold, and slightly scary.
5:35 am: Immediately climb into huge truck to begin unloading a shitload of heavy Tupperware tubs full of produce, tarps, tents, baskets, tables, table tops, and other heavy awkward things.
6:00 am: Produce tubs are covered with water, which is repeatedly spilled on shoes and personage.
It takes altogether 2.75 hours to set up the Sugar Hill Farm tent, which is 3x larger than any other stand there. It is held together in a variety of idiosyncratic and possibly unsafe ways.
8:30 am: Market opens. Bell rings. Fear strikes into my heart. I am beyond exhausted, want to sit down, have to pee, and am covered with dirt. And the day hasn't even started.
9:05 am: Apparently the coffee and pastry tent next to us deals in trade! Once I am handed a (free) hot coffee and flaky peachy croissant, I revive.
9:15 am: Then I am shoved in front of the cash register with 3 seconds of training that consisted of "Use this calculator. Here is the scale. Memorize all 35 varieties of produce prices."
10:00 am: Begin to enjoy smiling cheesily at senior citizens and weighing their red bell peppers. Feel like I am bonding with my fellow humanity and doing good in the world.
11:20 am: Want to sit down. Want to sit down. Feet throbbing. Back throbbing. Flashbacks of tenth grade choir class and why I quit. Because I hate standing more than five minutes. Start to drool as people walk by cramming kettle corn and strawberry shortbread into their mouths.
12:05 pm: Thirty minute break. Don't know what to do with myself. Buy a bratwurst, then regret it, as the sun is barreling down and burning through my retinas. Hot, spicy meat. Mustard most likely smeared on face. Could possibly look like immigrant worker right now, as am sitting in grass and bleary-eyed and smelling of carrots and dirt.
1:14 pm: This shit needs to end. I want gelato. Why is no one in that stand watching me watch them and giving me free Nutella gelato?!
1:39 pm: Last-minute buyers. No, we're all out of heirloom tomatoes you stupid sun-baked bourgeoisie!
1:43 pm: Begin packing up. As arduous as unpacking, but with freedom in sight.
2:00 pm: Euphoria sets in as am given free rein to take home as much produce as my fat little hands can carry. I will be eating roasted beets and fresh basil for the next two months.
3:15 pm: Am paid cold, hard cash. Get in crunchy granola girl's car. Pass out.

So I feel like a farmer. I feel proud of myself. I earned every cent of that $10/hr. I have dirt under my nails. My body aches. My fridge is stuffed with rainbow chard. I don't even like chard. So there is something to be said for good, honest, hard labor. For a self-described Indoor person, I think I did okay. There should be a national Do Hard Manual Labor Day in America. It would solve a lot of aggression problems.

His business is pleasure!

First off, that is a great tagline. Secondly, someone needs to make a musical of American Gigolo. And for some reason, I see Mark Wahlberg as the lead this time around. Maybe Mark is a little old. Maybe James Franco. Or Patrick Wilson? Or Mario Lopez? (That would be a little too campy. But you know he would have no problem with the nude scenes.) It has the potential to be amazing.

Him Her Him Again The End of Him

Him Her Him Again The End of Him by Patricia Marx is aMAYzing. I only checked it out from the library because it had a houndstooth bind and I love me a good houndstooth bind! But yes, I would now like Patricia to be my new godmother/Life Mentor/book club friend/Sunday Brunch partner. She's funny and smart and apparently was the first woman elected to the Harvard Lampoon. And she's friends with Steve Martin. At least he recommended her book on the front cover. But I could see them being friends. So for anyone who has ever quit Cambridge grad school and didn't finish their thesis and mooned over a married blowhard nimcompoop for ten years and is secretly flattered when the author talks to the reader...this book is for you.

"I love to watch you dance, Tony."

I'd really like someone to explain the "Disco Sucks" movement in the late 70s. What happened? Why did people become so jaded, so cynical, so eager to kill something so fun and flashy and polyester? It makes me sad. There are many time periods I wished I lived in instead of the one now, but New York (really like Staten Island or Brooklyn to be precise) in the mid 70s would be great. Just a good two years of disco at its heyday is all I need. I can live without the drugs or the sleaziness (well, a little is okay) but I need the feathered hair and the stacked shoes and the off-the-shoulder gauzy gowns. I think the hustle is just amazing. One day I'm going to learn it. Either through YouTube or forcing my mom to recall her glory disco days in Lubbock, Texas.

You know how everyone who was a dork in high school secretly wants to have that scene in a movie where the stage floor empties out (or you're performing in a Neil Simon play or singing an operetta or kicking the winning goal) and you just knock their socks off? My secret fantasy is to perform John Travolta's solo dance in Saturday Night Fever. I'd probably want to wear the same white suit, too. And lots of gold chains. But no hairy chest. Now, I'm not sure if I'd want to perform it at a high school reunion, because I'd like to have people besides my fellow Class of 2003'ers there. I mean, if I'm gonna dance to impress, let's do everyone I've ever met. And I want it to be totally casual and off-the-cuff. Like, oh, there's a light-up floor? Everyone is in a circle? My favorite Bee Gees song just came on? Looks like it's time for me to do a little shoe shufflin'. And then BAM! I blow everyone's minds with my amazing moves. I'll even do the splits. And then at the end I'll just casually dance off and everyone will be rendered speechless. And then cheer and clap and scream my name and carry me on their shoulders and I'll have tears of happiness streaming down my face and then FREEZE FRAME. The End.

the bottomless pit of hell.

There is no worse feeling than waking up with a vodka soda-induced hangover at 8 am to the sound of garbage trucks, to the realization you slept in your clothes, to the fan blowing hot air on you, to smeared makeup all over your pillowcase, to a table full of dirty dishes from food you don't remember eating (yogurt with honey and jam and Chex Mix?), to cursing the fact that your city is currently in the midst of a heat wave and you have no AC and live on the top floor. And it's only 8 am. And it's just going to get hotter. And you're just going to feel worse. And there is no escape.

fat actress.

You know, if I'd been on a hit 80s sitcom, starred in a semi-successful 90s sitcom, had a couple failed marriages, two assistants, was once considered a sex symbol, and lived in a ginormous Los Angeles mansion...I could see myself being like Kirstie Alley. Lying in bed and eating Little Debbie snacks. Owning lots of dogs. Willing to try a parasite in my stomach over a diet. Ballooning up to two hundred pounds. Wearing lingerie as an all-day outfit. Hiding food in nooks and crannies throughout my house. Watching this Showtime series makes me uncomfortable, because I relate to Kirstie Alley a little too well.

books, books, books!

I love going to the library. I love smelling books. I love book cover design. Here is what I recently checked out:

Anchored in Love: an intimate portrait of June Carter Cash by John Carter Cash (It can get a little too Jesus-y, but she was a remarkable woman. Now I'm ready for my Appalachian road trip.)

Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell (looooved this book. Like going back to my AP U.S. History class with the fantastic Mr. Thomas, except now I am not an impatient, bratty high schooler and am actually eager to learn.)

Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting by in America by Barbara Ehrenreich. (Really difficult to read when you are currently unemployed in the Bush economy.)

The Girls of Huntington House by Blossom Elfman. (No idea what this is about, but I hope it's about boarding schools. I love boarding school memoirs, especially New England ones with ivy-wrapped brick buildings and poet societies.)

The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon. (Love the Chabon. Wonder Boys was amazing. I'm sure this will be, too.)

Run with the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader, edited by John Martin. (I like Bukowski's simple and direct and oftentimes raw language.)

Dermot Mulroney in long johns.

There are many reasons to watch the 2004 film Undertow, but Dermot Mulroney in slightly dirty long johns is the main reason. He is a hottie with a body. He also has a Southern accent in this. Two points! Other reasons? It is directed by David Gordon Green, a director I am simultaneously fascinated/annoyed by. I liked All the Real Girls but not George Washington. I like that his films are about the South, but I bet you he lives in Brooklyn. He's the guy that likes to talk about the South in his brownstone apartment and then goes to his local used bookstore and buys first editions of John Fante. Maybe this was his version of Deliverance meets Stand by Me. I'm allowed to stereotype because I know nothing about him.

But I liked this film. It reminded me of The King. You have no idea where it's going, and there's three really attractive, dirty, soiled men in it. (Even though one of them gets killed early on.) Josh Lucas...daaaamn. He looks good in cowboy boots. Jamie Bell, even though you are British, you have an acceptable Southern accent. And look good in tighty-whities. All of this is completely irrelevant.

I want to be a casting director.

I watched a documentary on Charles Bukowski last night. It made me never want to drink again. I wonder what his liver looked like at the end. Probably like a charbroiled steak with A-1 steak sauce. The point is, at some point someone will try to make a movie about his life (Barfly not included. Mickey Rourke sucks.) And I thought it could be really amazing if they did it like Todd Haynes did Bob Dylan in I'm Not There. Yeah, that movie confused the shit out of me and I had no idea what was going on and Richard Gere sucked nuts, but I thoroughly enjoyed Cate Blanchett and Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams in it.

So far the people I think should play Bukowski are Willem Dafoe, Tom Waits, Crispin Glover, and for some reason...Gabriel Byrne. And maybe Kathy Bates. Just throwing that out there. So Mr. Haynes, let me know when you're ready to start pre-production.

lookin' for love in all the wrong places.

One should not watch Urban Cowboy when one is homesick for Texas. Sounds silly, but it's true. I loved how this film looked. It's that late 70s feel--people's skin, their sweat, the sky, the dirty trucks--it all looks so fantastic.

I go back and forth about John Travolta. Today, I think he's a joke what with his Scientology and private jet and bloated-ness. But he is in Saturday Night Fever and Grease...two movies I hold very dear to my heart. I actually thought he looked a lot like Thoreau in the beginning when he was rocking that fabulous thick dark beard. It was a good look for him.

Of course, I think Debra Winger can do wrong. I love her voice: it's kind of hoarse, like she's been crying/laughing all night. And I love that Robert Evans wanted Michelle Pfeiffer to play Sissy instead of her; he didn't think Debra was attractive enough. Robert Evans was such a slimeball--although he did produce a lot of my favorite movies. Him and his hairy chest and gold chains. Only Debra can pull off no bra and high-waisted jeans and cowboy boots and mechanical bull-riding. And don't get me started on Terms of Endearment!

Of course the soundtrack is amazing. I can't stop humming those Charlie Daniels' tunes. I feel like such a bad Texan. I need to go back home and learn the two step and go to the new Gilley's in Dallas (the original one in Pasadena burned down) and just get my Lone Star drank on. Sigh. I'll never be able to leave that damn state. It has a hold on me. And you don't realize how much you'll miss it until you leave.

peeing in the woods.

I have lived in Portland for only two months, and yet I have peed in the woods three times here. How is that possible? I have peed outside more in this city than at any other time in my life. Does this mean my bladder is shrinking? Am I in a higher-density of wilderness more often? Do I secretly enjoy getting in touch with nature? Perhaps all of the above are true. But it's not exactly pleasant, and I've only had toilet paper with me once. Let's go over the three situations that have caused me to pop a squat in the clover.

1. Driving to the Oregon coast in a Zipcar MiniCoop convertible. It was one of the most beautiful drives I've ever done, also enhanced by the fact that I was in a convertible (for the first time!) and blasting R. Kelly loudly, and without mercy. There are little to few gas stations on this somewhat treacherous climb through the forest, and when I came to a "scenic overlook", I put it in park and scampered away to a heavily wooded area. Almost fell into the ravine, but a successful attempt nonetheless. Also helped that I was wearing a dress.

2. Hiking in Multnomah Falls. This was a given. I knew it would be a two-hour hike, knew I would be hydrating frequently from my Nalgene bottle, and knew looking at waterfalls in the gorge would only enhance my need to pee. People did seem to pop up on the hiking trail without warning, so this was a little scarier, but I got through it with nary a poison oak rash!

3. Washington Park in kinda sorta downtown Portland. It's an oasis of woods that houses the Rose Garden, the Japanese Garden, and a Holocaust Museum of sorts. This was a low point for me, as it was not in the wilderness, and I had drunk half a bottle of white wine with a friend in a clearing. As we somewhat clumsily made our way back to the city, I had a panic attack to pee that only alcoholic beverages can bring on. I clambered up a steep hill and tried to hide between a big fir tree. At any moment a homeless man (most likely) or happy couple (also likely) could have seen me. But apparently, this was a good hiding area, as I spotted several condom wrappers and blankets as I peed. Well done, me!

I hope to not urinate in the woods for the next six months. Seeing how fall is coming, I predict lowering one's pants in the woods in a chilly climate will be that much more unpleasant. And breezy!

51 Birch Street

What I wouldn't give right now to go to a bar mitzvah in upstate New York. I'd get really tipsy and dance with 13-year-old boys and eat lots of sheet cake. I love that area of the U.S.--well, in the summer at least. I picked cherries there when I was fifteen. It's so classically American country; I picture boys on horse-drawn sleds gliding through the snow and Christmas carolers and summer carnivals with caramel apples.

So I've always felt that I am an inner Jew. Meaning, though I have a Protestant Scottish/German background, I relate more to Judaism. I love the culture, the deli foods, the acceptance, the attitude, the challah bread...I just want to meet a nice Jewish doctor, is that too much to ask? I'll gladly convert. I went to a Saturday Shabbat service by myself last weekend and it was lovely.

Where am I going with this? Well, I watched the documentary 51 Birch Street. A guy's mother dies and he tapes his family's reaction and going through their mother's stuff and finding thirty years of her diaries. It made me sad. We never really know our parents as people. And there's probably some stuff we would rather not know. But I think I would read my mother's diaries if I found them after she passed. I'd want to know her thoughts. I don't like this hypothetical situation, but there it is. What hurt the most watching this was when the son asked his dad if he missed Mom. And Dad said, "Not really." Not really? Fifty years of marriage? Oh yeah, Dad got married to his former secretary three months after the mom's death. I understand it was not a happy marriage, but spending that much time with someone has to count for something, doesn't it? And his poor mother...extremely bright and articulate and passionate and frustrated with her suburban housewife existence.

As much as I love the 1950s, I'm thankful that that repressive period for women and marriage is over. As much as divorce sucks, at least they are socially acceptable now and people get them if necessary. Now if we could just stop teenagers from having babies and people getting married too young...

I wonder if anyone will ever read my journals when I die. It's horribly embarrassing for me myself to read them. Some of the stuff I've written is so eye-rollingly corny and self-pitying. And don't get me started on my ninth grade poetry! I'd obviously read too much Sylvia Plath. Anyways. Shabbat Shalom.

stand by your man.

I frickin' love Tammy Wynette.

It's poetry in motion.

It Happens Like This
by James Tate

I was outside St. Cecelia's Rectory
smoking a cigarette when a goat appeared beside me.
It was mostly black and white, with a little reddish
brown here and there. When I started to walk away,
it followed. I was amused and delighted, but wondered
what the laws were on this kind of thing. There's
a leash law for dogs, but what about goats? People
smiled at me and admired the goat. "It's not my goat,"
I explained. "It's the town's goat. I'm just taking
my turn caring for it." "I didn't know we had a goat,"
one of them said. "I wonder when my turn is." "Soon,"
I said. "Be patient. Your time is coming." The goat
stayed by my side. It stopped when I stopped. It looked
up at me and I stared into its eyes. I felt he knew
everything essential about me. We walked on. A police-
man on his beat looked us over. "That's a mighty
fine goat you got there," he said, stopping to admire.
"It's the town's goat," I said. "His family goes back
three-hundred years with us," I said, "from the beginning."
The officer leaned forward to touch him, then stopped
and looked up at me. "Mind if I pat him?" he asked.
"Touching this goat will change your life," I said.
"It's your decision." He thought real hard for a minute,
and then stood up and said, "What's his name?" "He's
called the Prince of Peace," I said. "God! This town
is like a fairy tale. Everywhere you turn there's mystery
and wonder. And I'm just a child playing cops and robbers
forever. Please forgive me if I cry." "We forgive you,
Officer," I said. "And we understand why you, more than
anybody, should never touch the Prince." The goat and
I walked on. It was getting dark and we were beginning
to wonder where we would spend the night.

From Lost River by James Tate, published by Sarabande Books, Inc. Copyright © 2003 by James Tate.

When I was in ninth grade I got really into poetry. I wrote something like five poems a day, bought Sylvia Plath anthologies, and was generally a dark and gloomy adolescent. Then I guess I joined theater and started goofing around with fellow thespians and making inappropriate jokes and didn't have time for poetry anymore. The point is, I miss my poetry days. But I'm trying to bring them back. A friend of mine introduced me to James Tate and I think he's just fanatstic. His writing is so surreal and sad and funny and winsome and makes me feel all introspective and melancholy and alone when I read them. Good rainy day/by yourself/time to stare out the window and ponder kind of reading. I couldn't pick a favorite, but I like this one a lot. Is there a better feeling than walking out of the public library with your arm full of smelly old books and knowing that you get to read them all?