800 words on Priscilla Queen of the Desert

It's a rainy Southern California weekend. I watched WANTED this afternoon, and one of the small players in the film is "Bernadette" from Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. It reminded me of this post I wrote almost 3 years ago.

"Why don't you light your tampon on fire and blow your box apart, because that's the only bang you're ever gonna get."

I think it was my junior year of high school. I had a tight group of friends, mostly from the swim team. Suzanne, Steve, Jill (the three I still see regularly), Troy, Katrina, Shawn... there were others. I don't want to spend time remembering names. We would hang out most Friday nights together. Usually pretty innocent, up until senior year when occasionally we'd have a cocktail or two. Interestingly enough, I can't think of one time any of us drove after drinking during that time. At least I know I never did. We seemed to be pretty responsible, irresponsbile kids.

One night, again, I think during junior year, we were hanging out at Steve's house. Or maybe, Steve just brought the movie. His parents had rented it and loved it. We might as well watch it: The Adventure of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert!

A little indy flick from Australia. Amy knew about because she liked fashion, and it won an Oscar for costume design. Others may have had a passing familiarity with it. We watching the film.

"Me no like you anyway, you have little ding-a-ling."

You should know about it now. It was about three Australian drag queens crossing the outback. They're bringing along a ton of frocks, enough make-up for a Tammy Faye convention, and a beautiful lesson in love, tolerance, and human dignity. Apparently the actors were relatively big names in Australia, including Guy Pearce (LA Confidential, Memento) and Huge Weaving (The Matrix, Lord of the Rings, V for Vendetta) who ended up big names in the States, too.

We watched that movie that night and loved it. We watched it a lot more. For Christmas senior year, Jill bought me a copy and we watched it more. It broke down barriers to enjoy other drag films, like To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar and Victor Victoria.

The whole group embraced it. They embraced me -- maybe not knowing it. I was still "closeted". I don't really know when they knew. I did a crappy job coming out. I never really officially told my best friend, a decision I regret to this day. Hell, I didn't come out to Steve and Jill until this past October when I brought a boy to my High School reunion. They still embraced me!

When we watched that movie, and everyone laughed, and sang, and even cried a little, I felt like they were telling me it was okay. No one cringed when the trannie kissed the burly mechanic. No one looked away as Guy Pearce pranced around in skimpy underwear or a revealing dress.

"Just what this country needs, a cock in a frock on a rock."

I didn't grow up in the most progressive part of Southern California, but I had it easy. I think I was only called a "fag" once or twice, and it was always an isolated situation. No one ever jumped on the bandwagon and encouraged the abuser -- both times I recall he was left to wallow in his bigotry alone. (One offender later apologized and laughed about it. The other never said anything to me after he graduated and today he's involved in Christian ministry. Surprised?)

But I had progressive friends.

I had used the conservative area to build up my closet around me. I put on the appearance of the most conservative of the group, even starting a Young Republican club on campus. (I started it but only went to one meeting. It was LAME!) I think that these friends helped me become who I am today. Their celebrating the differences of that movie was an endorsement of how very different we would all become in the future.

Adolescence is time of conformity. We do everything we can to fit in. We form life-long relationships while acting as someone we aren't. Eventually, we'll spread our wings and change. And hopefully the love and belonging we experienced when we "were just like everyone else" will shelter and protect us when we no longer fit in. I don't always fit in. But I remember when we watched that movie -- when only I knew I was different -- that those three drag queens, Bernadette, Mitzi, and Felicia, were part of our group. If they could belong, so could I.

The movie was on television the other night. I laughed as hard as ever, having seen it nearly 100 times by now. And I went into my room, thanked God for the people in my life, and cried a little.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: "No more fucking ABBA!"

Oh, and did I mention for my 17th birthday my friends chipped in, sent me on scavenger hunt, and bought me ABBA's boxed set, Thank You for the Music? Yeah, I'm sure they had no idea!

500 words on Gilda Radner

What to think of a Candadian production of Godspell starring Eugene Levy, Martin Short, and Victor Garber? Now I understand how to visualize what an acid trip must be like. I just saved my self $15 and thirty years of flashbacks. In reality, you’d be watching the professional acting debut of Gilda Radner.

Because Gilda Radner left Saturday Night Live before I was watching television, probably still unaware what a television was, I was only introduced to her through re-runs on cable. Her parody of Barbara Walters (as Baba Wawa) confused my 10 year-old self. Why was this newswoman talking like Gussie Mausheimer from An American Tail? (Perhaps Gilda and Barbara Walters were Madeline Kahn’s inspiration.) In high school, sneaking television late at night, I was really introduced to the brilliance and subtlety that was Gilda Radner.

I know it’s cool at about just any given time to think Saturday Night Live is not cool. I don’t really buy into it. I think the show only loses when the players become stars and are as big as the hosts. These quirky characters are best when you really don’t understand the person who is delivering them. Gilda Radner is perhaps one of the best of that age.

However, as funny as Gilda was, I think her love affair with Gene Wilder and her brutal confrontation with ovarian cancer are as strong of a legacy. My grandmother died of ovarian cancer less than a year before Gilda. While I didn’t understand what killed my grandmother at the time, and I certainly wasn’t following the career, disease and passing of a comedienne at 10 years old, I’ve later connected the relationship and have strong feelings about the work done by Gilda to raise awareness and comfort families facing ovarian cancer.

Twenty years after her death, most people have probably forgotten about the ovarian cancer, bulimia, or her refusal to do cocaine in late 70s New York. How strong of a woman she was. People do remember her marriage to Gene Wilder, especially as he still claims her as the love of his life. In an interview I saw a few years back, his eyes instantly welled up when the interviewer just mentioned Gilda.

I’ve never felt that kind of love, the kind that lingers for 20 years like a slight breeze slipping through a cracked window, always present and slowly filling a room reaching everything and touching everything. I aspire for that and see the contentment in Gene Wilder’s eyes having had his life enveloped in it. Her influence is strong.

Gilda died twenty years ago, and in the year of Farah Fawcett and Michael Jackson personalities’ like hers fade from our memories. Her last days were traumatic, as she fought doctors giving her a sedative before a CT-scan. She feared she’d never wake from it, and she didn’t. Her legacy, the humor and the rich love of her husband, keeps me awake, aware, and alive whenever she slips into my thoughts today.

500 words on LA Traffic

It will rain tonight. It is supposed to rain for most of the weekend. Since Los Angeles averages about 11 inches of rain annually – with as little as 3 ½ in 2007 – you can bet that the impending “storm” will make a big splash. It will affect nothing more that traffic.

Living in Los Angeles, I bore quickly of the “Angelenos Can’t Drive In the Rain” stories. We don’t drive as well as Seattleites but we don’t need, too. Last year, we got 10% of the rain of Seattle. We don’t get much weather here, so it makes sense that we don’t drive as well in the little we get.

But the phenomenon isn’t limited to rainy days. The media and culture have us convinced that Los Angeles is the worst place to drive in the world. Clearly they’ve never been to Medford, Oregon. (At least we get to pump our own gas!)

Living in Los Angeles means we talk about traffic a lot. We discuss different routes and reveal secret streets to our friends. (My commute to work has me cutting through residential neighborhoods and weaving among minivans and full-length skirted Jewish women outside of four Orthodox temples and schools, but it saves ten minutes from the big streets.) Hybrid car technology has us bragging about our MPG-maximization. We love, no, live to talk about our driving. And with all the talking we do, did you know that less than a quarter of all Angelenos have a commute of more than 35 minutes? According to the 2000 Census, 71% have commutes under 35 minutes and another 5% work from home. A full third of us commute less than 20 minutes. We might spend more time in our cars than the denizens of any other American metropolis, but not much longer.

Our average commute time, according to a 2006 study, is 28 minutes, but according to the Texas Transportation Institute, we spend about half of the time -- 16 minutes a day -- sitting in congestion. Those 16 minutes can be aggravating. If only we lived in a transit option-rich environment like New York. Imagine all the time we could save? Not much, apparently. The average New York spends 6 more minutes a day commuting. But the money, we can save the money? Driving about 12,000 miles a year (some people drive more) in a 20 mpg vehicle (most cars today get more) and your daily commute drive in Los Angeles costs around $3.00. In New York, you’ll spend about $3.00 a day on your unlimited MetroCard.

Is Los Angeles traffic great? Absolutely not. My argument is that Los Angeles traffic is about what you can expect in comparable metropolitan areas. Yes, you could live in Grand Forks, North Dakota or Asheville, North Carolina and get hundreds of hours of your life back. But you’d be living in Grand Forks. I’m pretty sure that there isn’t a vibrant food truck community, active theatre scene, or Getty Center in Grand Forks.


This interchange downtown is guarenteed to be congested just about any time of day. On LA freeways, usually Saturday or Sundays mornings bring a little reprieve, but not here.

500 words on Miller's Field in San Diego

Today's post violates my rules. It's a topic I submitted after an experience this weekend. I need to write this post because I feel there are few other things I can do. I hope this is cathartic. I hope you find it insightful.

I became a football fan a few years back, but it wasn’t until I freed up my Sundays this season that I really got to start following my team. It been a treat that we’ve had an undefeated season, and I wasn’t about to miss the game against the Redskins this past Sunday. Despite being in San Diego for a dive trip, I’d make it work. Fortunately my Saints often play early games and, as we were on the way to a 12-0 record, the game was being broadcast on Fox allowing me to watch most of the game before leaving the hotel.

As luck would have it, our diving on Sunday was cancelled. After a detour to pick up our dive gear, my dive buddies and I were able to grab the end of the game at a San Diego sports bar. We drove through Pacific Beach, surrounded by sports bar options and chose the first one to stand out: Miller’s Field. I ran from the car with 2 minutes left in a tied game and my friends parked the car.

There aren’t a lot of gay football fans, compared to say gay fans of oral sex, but there are plenty of us in just about any major metropolitan area. This season, I’ve caught most of the Saints games in your typical, straight male-dominated sports bars and always had a crazy fun time with straight strangers and friends enjoying the game. The one time I tried to check out LA’s new gay sports bar, GYM in West Hollywood, I learned quickly that it’s just a fetish bar that doesn’t take sports seriously. (It opens 2 hours after Sunday football starts.)

The manager at Miller’s Field in Pacific Beach, Ray Corallino, managed to do something that a divey Mo’s in Playa del Rey or the trendy Big Wangs in North Hollywood never came close to: he made me feel horribly unwelcomed, cheap, and threatened.

Corallino is apparently a Giants fan and as the Cowboys ran a play against the Giants, he stood behind the bar screaming, “Get him faggot. Get the faggot. Get the faggot. Faggot.” Please that the Cowboys fell to the Giants defense on that play, he followed his last screed with, “Yeah, Tony Homo. Take that Tony Homo. Stupid homo.”

My two (straight) friends immediately wanted to leave. I couldn’t because the Saints were in overtime, but I couldn’t believe what just happened. They were repulsed that a display like that could go down in crowded bar. I could believe it but never expected it.

I consider myself lucky. There’s really no point in pursuing this with Miller’s Field. After all, owner Glenn Miller hired this man as his lead manager and I’m not a local who would ever consider going back. I consider myself lucky because I’m surrounded every day by people that respect and love me, and I get to stand up an cheer loudly, proudly, and pretty friggin’ gaily for Saints of New Orleans.

500 words on Die Hard

Yippee kay-ay, Mother F*cker!

My favorite discovery of my freshman year of college, after moving to West LA, was hitting a shopping mall in the shadow of Nakatomi Plaza. Of course, on the first trip I feared the corpses of German terrorist thieves falling from the sky. But I soon realized that the mall had an indoor parking garage and no roof, so I could shop beneath and glimpse up at Nakatomi but my car’s hood wouldn’t meet the fate of late-80s LAPD cruisers.

I love Die Hard. John McClane is one of the greatest flawed heroes of all time and I love how throughout the series his personal failures make him a stronger hero. Alan Rickman as Hans Gruber is one of the best non-singing, non-cartoon villains of all time, challenged probably by Jeremy Irons’ portrayal as his brother Simon Gruber in Die Hard with a vengeance.

It’s the little things I love most in this film; from the sassy and irreverent limo driver to the juxtaposition of a beat-down New York City cop getting in a limo in the first place. You’ll cheer out loud when the mousy but innocent Harry Ellis is shot while trying to negotiate on behalf of the hostages and tear up when the relatively unknown Joseph Takagi is assassinated by Gruber.

The entire series is great because its villains aren’t just thieves, but terrorist thieves with grudges to settle. The motivation of the bad guys is never quite clear but never too confusing to get lost in an action flick or their interesting accents. Those accents – the German ones of con-brothers Hans and Simon Gruber – are a story in their own. In the German dubbed version of Die Hard, the heritage of the terrorist mastermind and his flunkies is swapped from German to English.

If anything, you know that Die Hard will take you farther than most action films. In the non-CGI age of 1989, when Die Hard was released, the film was still rich with explosions, elevator shafts, and tv-dinner-esque journeys through ventilation systems. The excitement and feats only continues through the series, climaxing with a little fighter jet surfing along California freeways.

But really, as you can already tell, the single best reason I love Die Hard is because it launched the only movie franchise in which I like all of the films. Die Harder, Die Hard with a Vengeance, and even Live Free or Die Hard, all are worthy successors to the formula created in the first Die Hard film.

I love when something I grew up with is only made better with each new vision. Hollywood so rarely treats its history with respect, let along artistry. The Die Hard films demonstrate this excellently. While there may be weak points across the four films, the series holds up and I look forward to sitting down with my kids – okay, my nieces and nephews – and helping them appreciate John McClane and company as they blow some stuff up and kill Germans!

500 words on Erosion

With the first winter rain, come the fears about mudslides, high surf, and erosion. Property owners feel imperiled by the slipping slopes above their homes, but what about the wildlife who have their nests and burrows wiped clean from the earth by rushing waters, or the fish that have their homes turned into salvage pits? This week, as strong (by California standards) winter storms sweep into Southern California, erosion will nudge Tiger Woods from the headlines for at least a couple of days.

The first evacuation orders have been ordered in the “burn zone” of the Station Fire. The landscape is left desolate and unprotected in the wake of a brush fire. Without roots of chaparral clinging to hillsides to keep them in place, the slopes will flow down with the rushing water. These hillsides on the crawl will threaten the homes and structures that get in the way, leading to flooding, mud damage, and hazards created as heavy objects get pushed down the mountain.

Water has to flow somewhere, and while a few inches of mud in the living room might be devastating to homeowners, the thousands of gallons of now-toxic sludge flowing “downstream” is devastating to us all. Rain water picks up a lot: oil drippings from cars and trucks which have rested as black spots on the pavement; excess fertilizer, chemicals and poisons we dump into our gardens, lawns, and parks. Rough surf slams into the retaining walls we build to prop up and protect our multi-million dollar beach homes, stripping the beaches that give these glass palaces their value.

The mudslides in the hills get all the attention, but the flow of pollution which picks up steam in the flats can have much longer term damage. The harm of oil and chemicals is obvious to most with an elementary education, but did you know that over-fertilized farmlands and lawns in the middle of the country can lead to dangerous and devastating algae blooms hundreds of miles away killing millions of fish and permanently threatening marine life? The nutrient rich flow fuels the growth of algae and can have a long-term impact on our own fishing and diving industries.

But what danger can a retaining wall along the beach do to the ocean? As the surf hits the coast, it rolls up onto the beach. And as the surf retracts, it takes with it a top layer of sand, incrementally placing it back along the slope of the beach. The next wave comes in and picks up some sand from deeper water and puts it back along the beach. Those walls, and really almost any building close to shore, interferes in the process and causes the beach to disappear as the crashing surf hitting the wall strips the beach of its valuable real estate.

I recommend spending the extra time you will spend in traffic this week thinking about erosion, the role this rain will play, and what you can do to mitigate some of the devastation.

500 words on Tattoos

Is there supposed to be a crucifix hanging on the wall? Is carpeting a good idea in this kind of place? The table that I was laying prone on appeared to be from a doctor’s office, before I was born, and well used. The building appeared to be a roadside house, but it came highly recommended. I am sure this is a good idea. Gary learned and mastered the trade in the gritty but artistic San Francisco tattoo scene.

For millennia, man has been altering his flesh with ink. The tattoos of the Polynesian and Pacific people encountered by Western explorers in the 1700s may have engrained the art into our modern culture, but tribes and cultures bearing tattoos span the globe and the centuries. From the Germanic and Celtic cultures of Europe before Christianity spread across the continent to the Paleolithic era of Japan 10,000 years back.

After years of wanting, and months deciding where to place it, I was finally getting a tattoo. On a Christmas trip to Portland, to visit my brother and his family, was when the final decisions were made. My brother and I were getting matching tattoos. More permanent than last names and resemblance, we sought a simple, affordable design that spoke to our family, heritage, and faith. For us this was one of our greater and richer moments and every day I am reminded, with warmth in heart, of what lead to the Celtic cross on my leg.

But tattoos have a dark history. They have not always adorned the flesh as tributes and honors, or been picked from a board during an alcohol-lathered trip to South Padre Island. They been used to label property and shame military deserters. Without regard to the Jewish prohibition on tattoos, the Nazis used tattoos to identify and track prisoners of the concentration camps, perhaps the most tragic victims of subdermal ink.

On my back, with the needle pressing into my skin and the art taking shape with each minute, the pain shifted. I’d read of the euphoria that take over when the human body is pushed, in pain or sport or ecstasy. The high that came with the tattoo made the colors richer, the sounds deeper, and the stories more sane. Like the strangest tattoo, when Gary “scaled” a man’s balls before his religious conversion. Under the spell of the tattoo needle, the crucifix and funky carpeting in the lobby seem perfect.

Recent surveys demonstrate the revival and prevalence of tattoos. A 2008 survey by Harris Interactive estimates that about 15% of all Americans have at least on tattoos. Recent surveys by the Pew Research Center and the Journal of the American Academy of Dermatology found that more than 30% of young people, men and women under 35, have tattoos.

Regardless of the wishes of those drunken teenagers in South Padre Island – and likely their parents – tattoos aren’t going anywhere. Few trends among mankind have the permanence of tattoo, despite the best efforts of Dr. Tattoff.

500 words on Superfans

I’ve been a football fan for fewer years than I’ve been SCUBA diving but I know the chants and songs of three NFL teams. Football came late for me. It wasn’t until my nephew took an interest in the sport at four or five years-old that I, his twenty-something uncle, started paying attention.

I went to my first few games in the Superdome when my brothers lived in Louisiana prior to Hurricane Katrina. These games really were my first professional football experiences, despite an adolescent foray into a Raider’s game in junior high school. Following the storm, I shared some season tickets to the San Diego Chargers when the nephew (and his family) moved out west. When SCUBA diving and football would compete for my attention, diving would typically win.

Today, I’d rather watch a New Orleans Saints game then do just about anything else on a Sunday. It’s in these last few years that I realized: I’m a novice Superfan.
While watching an early game with experienced-Superfan Amy, we sat next to two scraggly young men. Since clearly American Eagle Outfitters has yet to secure an NFL expansion team, their loyalties’ were harder to decipher. (Any Philadelphia Eagles fan would be decked from cap to socks, so they clearly weren’t being coy.) It wasn’t until the final moments of the Redskins-Lions game, in the mix of a number of games being broadcast in the bar, that we realized that these two young men were heartbroken Detroit Lions fans. It takes a superfan to hang in with the Lions, especially after their winless season last year (the only NFL team to ever spend an entire season losing) and 19-game losing streak. That Sunday, the greatest Sunday in 19 games and 18 months, these boys could hold their heads high and cheer for their winning team. Finally.

What makes a sportsfan a superfan? Is it when he books work trips around a team’s road schedule? Will postponing your wedding until February qualify? Does a family need to pass season tickets down for generations, or can you have never stepped foot in the home stadium?

We spend our lives looking for a tribe. When it’s easy, we find our tribe in the home. Some folks cling to religion, or their jobs. At church or at work they found their tribe. For millions of us, our tribe is easy to spot because we are wearing the same colors.

Sport is a tribute to our simplest origins. Football mimics the battlefield, basketball the hunt. Speed, agility, form, and strategy rarely fit into our modern, convenient lives. In sport, we find a place for our mind and our bodies. While not every individual can excel in sport, anyone with some poster board and an air horn can be a Superfan.

I find that there are very few things that make me scream out loud with joy in my thirties. Watching the Saints with friends and strangers; drinking beer and eating fried food: these things do.

500 words on Glenn Beck

Glenn Beck is an idiot!

Glenn Beck is not an idiot because he’s conservative. There are a lot of very intelligent conservatives in the media, and plenty more in government, academia, and business. Glenn Beck is an idiot because he says he’s a libertarian despite his positions on abortion, gay rights and marriage equality, and the role of the family which belie libertarianism. It’s cool to be a libertarian; Glenn Beck is not cool. Your grandpa is a conservative, and so is Glenn Beck.

Glenn Beck is not an idiot because he’s struggled with addiction. It is interesting the number of law-and-order conservatives who have a hankering for booze and pills. Addiction is a disease and I believe that a person should not be judged or mistreated because of it. However, a person who has overcome addiction and moved on to recovery should be able to recognize how difficult it can be for others. Glenn Beck is an idiot because he’s a law-and-order hypocrite who has no sympathy for others who have been beaten down. He follows a well-tread path laid out by many conservative activists before him.

Glenn Beck is not an idiot because he doesn’t have a college education. I think the biggest mistake the American education system has made over the last thirty years is to push everyone to college and cheapen the hard work of non-college educated men and women. You don’t need to have a college degree to be smart or have an opinion. Glenn Beck is an idiot because he buys into and promotes the idea that Hollywood celebrities and other liberals have no right to espouse their beliefs because their acting credentials and other primary careers hardly speak to their political qualifications. Famous liberals like John Stewart, Sheryl Crow, Denzell Washington, and Natalie Portman all did more than on class at Yale’s alternative-students program: they graduated. Idiots like Beck love to bemoan liberal celebrities, convinced that they have no right to mouth their opinions when they are singers or actors or artists. Well, what makes the Glenn Beck-Rush Limbaugh-Sean Hannity types any more qualified? None of held elected office, worked in government, or graduated from college.

Glenn Beck is not an idiot because he’s patriotic. In the wake of September 11th, a lot of Americans shifted priorities and learned to be patriotic. We took our American flags out of the garage and proudly displayed them outside our homes. Liberals and conservatives can all be patriots. Glenn Beck is an idiot because he co-opted the “September 12th” message, from when Americans were more united than ever before, to create an “us-vesus-them” state where liberals hate America and don’t deserve the freedom and protection of the US Constitution. Glenn Beck is particularly craven because he’s made millions of dollars with this effort, dividing our country and serving only his interests.

Glenn Beck is really an idiot because he is so politically deaf that his brand of conservatism will only hurt America and the Republican Party.

Sick.

Apologies for the missed post. I was sick over the weekend.

500 words on Pseudo-Environmentalism

Are you the perfect environmentalist? Do you eat beef, drive a car, or use your home air conditioning? Do you wear sneakers, shop in big box stores, or watch a large screen plasma television? Do you fly in airplanes? You are not the perfect environmentalist, but I don’t think many people are so you are in good company.

I’ve long held that the biggest problem in the environmental movement is the quest for perfection. Making sound, environmentally responsible decisions is hard and often means choosing higher prices or significant inconvenience. Few families can always make the right decision and even fewer will. However, if environmental consciousness could come easy, or incrementally, than I think millions of us could have a profound impact on the health of our planet.

During this holiday season, we are going to be bombarded with commercial messages to spend, buy, and consume. Most of us will, and to expect anything less is unreasonable. While watching Thanksgiving Day television – flipping between the Macy’s Parade which is nothing more than a three hour-long commercial and Packers vs. Lion which seems to have three hours of commercials – I’m looking for the subtle messages of marketers and picked up the smallest environmental message in Wal-Mart commercials, of all places.

Wal-Mart has a long history of anti-environmentalism and the type of consumerism it pushes is inherently bad for the environment. In recent years, the company (America’s largest employer) is making attempts to appear and be more environmentally responsible. This is no easy task for 90,000 square foot super stores trying to sell the cheapest merchandise in the world. In fact, some of their measures have been labeled “greenwashing”, which is the name given to superficial efforts to appear eco-friendly while ignoring my more serious and potentially catastrophic threats to the planet. But the writing, in whatever color, on the wall is clear and Wal-Mart must make changes to appeal to the modern, eco-friendly consumer.

In its holiday commercials this year, Wal-Mart is the first store I’ve seen to put reusable bags in the hands of its actor-shoppers. Disposable, single-use bags are my cause. As an avid diver and ocean-enthusiast, I’ve seen what these bags do when they end up on our shores or in our waters. I take this issue seriously because it is also one of the easiest environmental steps any consumer can take. You don’t need to chart the carbon emissions of the store’s distribution network or analyze the packaging for potential landfill volume. You just need to keep a few bags in your car and take them into the store with you.

Where the environmental movement misses it is that few of us want to or can be crusaders. I think almost everyone cares about the earth, but with the other pressures in our lives it is hard to ignore the reality of expense and inconvenience. When we find eco-friendly routines that we can adopt in our everyday lives, the movement should be happy along with the earth.

500 words on Thanksgiving Day

I am thankful for the oceans and will do what I can to protect them so many more people can see why underwater is my favorite place in the world.

I am thankful for LOST and will watch every episode this spring as I finally have to say good-bye knowing that nothing so wonderful can last forever.

I am thankful for my education and recognize that not every child is as fortunate and I was and I will never take for granted the gift I received.

I am thankful for Country music, despite how it’s derided it reminds me that the simple things in life are often the most important in a powerful way that brings a diverse group of different white people together from all over a few parts of the country.

I am thankful for traveling and the opportunities I’ve had to see different parts of the world knowing that just a few generations ago my trips would’ve been impossible and will make travel an important part of my life.

I am thankful for the New Orleans Saints who have given me an amazing season that has brought together family and friends and I am looking forward to a historic year shared with my loved ones.

I am thankful for first time experiences that remind me that there is a lot more to do and live for, from this year’s first trip to the firing range to my first lobster dive.

I am thankful for remote controls so I can change the channel when the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade gets ridiculous and Al Roker makes unforgivable puns, but I will spend less time with the remote and instead with those friends and experiences that can’t be paused, recorded, and played-back.

I am thankful for my nieces and nephews who always surprise me with their wit and energy and look forward to being the kind of uncle who always has a role in their lives.

I am thankful for books and words. The impact of the written word on my life is profound and I am hoping to give words a more important place in my life.

I am thankful for Los Angeles. This is a city that is much maligned, but rich with culture and experiences. It is 80 degrees as I write this so I could be spending my Thanksgiving Day at the beach, or I could log on to Twitter and find the closest gourmet food truck and pick-up Thanksgiving dinner for under $10.

I am thankful for my family –extended and natural. While I appreciate the sacrifices, love, and support of my parents, this year I am particularly thankful for my brothers. These amazing men are my heroes, balancing the role of father, husband, and provider while giving their children memories that will last them forever. That I am fortunate to be included in their families in the greatest gift I could ever hope for and I will strive to do the same for them.

500 words on fishing

I have a fishing license; it’s the second one of my life. Two fishing licenses in 31 years and not a single fish. That might be because I spent the first 10 years of life fishing with a screw instead of a fish hook. I don’t know why we used a screw but I’m sure it was a safety measure of some sort. I imagine it was far safer for the fishes than for me and my brothers. After all, you can still shove a rusty screw into someone’s eye or up their nose. The worst a screw would ever do to a fish is giving it a nice bump on its head. “Who left this screw just hanging here? C’mon other fish, someone is likely to get hurt. When you are finished with your screws, put them away.”

We used to go crabbing with an old chicken bone tied to a string. This was actually a more common practice but probably as effective as the screw. I remember my brother once falling off a pier and getting yelled at for it. I am sure there are details to that story I’m ignoring, but I’ve romanticized it because, in my head, we caught Ted. Ted is the only thing I’ve ever caught fishing.

This summer, I went with Ted’s family to the mountains of Oregon. Our cabin was on the shore of one of the clearest lakes in Oregon. There were fish in that lake. We saw them. After buying an Oregon fishing license and ignoring the health and safety of the kids by stringing real hooks on their fishing poles, we went fishing. The hooks didn’t make a difference. From the dock, from the muddy banks, from the rocks near the reservoir outlet: there were no fish biting. Another fish genocide averted.

A few months later, I succumbed to the pressure of friends and went on my first lobster dive. Six months a year in California, SCUBA divers can “hunt” for spiny lobster. In almost 10 years, I’ve never gone on a hunt because I don’t care that much for lobster. I really don’t care for the fees and equipment required to hunt lobsters. After a $100 investment and a $100 boat trip, I might have been lucky enough to score some lobster for $80 per pound. At $80 per pound, I can stay dry and warm and have someone buy, clean, cook, and serve me my lobster… and do all the dishes after! (Two dives later, I never even saw a lobster.)

Fishing and I have a tortured past. I want to like fishing but it’s just one of those more traditional pastimes I never warmed to. In fairness, I was 27 before I ever understood what “First Down” meant in football. (In high school, I just thought it was a good time for the marching band to rip out a few exciting notes.) But I’ll keep trying and probably no fish will get hurt. Just a screw.

500 words on mobile food

My first job out of college was at a Hollywood studio at the height of the Internet-boom. We typically spent just a couple of hours a day doing the work of the studio and the rest of the time cavorting around the office looking for ways to pass the time until 6:00 PM and freedom. It’s amazing what you can do with hours to spend and a high-speed Internet connection. Corporate servers would become filled with Napster downloads. We’d order the newest Madonna album for free delivery from Kozmo.com.

Oh Kozmo, how I miss you. Los Angeles has long featured shopping on demand. In college, it was Pink Dot who could deliver Twinkies, ice cream, toilet paper, beer, and cigarettes in the middle of the night. Despite our “car culture”, people in Los Angeles apparently like having their shopping come to them.

My senior year of college, I lived in a lower-income, predominantly Latino neighborhood where the neighbors were years ahead of the curve. At various times during the day, large white trucks would pull up and play tunes through their horns and folks would scamper out of their houses to buy produce, tacos, meats, juices, burritos, and more. Ten years later, I imagine it’s harder to get your hands on one of those catering or delivery trucks with the recent rise in gourmet, or at least kitschy and divine, “taco trucks.”

I think it started with the Kogi BBQ taco truck. I’m not a 100% sure because there is a bar near me that serves Kogi tacos so I haven’t been a big stalker of the trend. Not until the debut of the Grilled Cheese Truck last month. Like most of these trucks, the Grilled Cheese Truck had its coming out party at the Brig in Venice, the natural stomping ground for trend-setting mobile-food-eating hipsters. Diverging from spectacular fusion of one nation’s food with tacos (Koji Tacos = Korean seasoned meats), the Grilled Cheese Truck features heavenly-inspired concoctions but strays from the mobile-dining pack by allowing a lot of personalization. The Grilled Cheese Truck is my idea of the perfect companion: comforting, indulgent, and only around once a week.

The competition among the trucks is tough. This phenomenon, where Twitter is used to announce the daily locations, clogs up my personal account daily. I’m following Koji BBQ, Flying Pig, India Jones, Buttermilk Truck, Grilled Cheese Truck, Get Shaved, Baby’s, The Gastro Bus, Dosa Truck, South Philly Express, Cool Haus, LA FuXion, Let’s Be Frank, and the newest addition, Frysmith. Once we check the twittervese to find them, we scramble through the city to get our fix from the truck.

And then we stand in line. Usually a very long line. It’s said that nobody walks in LA, but we’ll stand in line for two hours for a grilled cheese sandwich. It’s not quite the same as La Cucaracha bellowing from a beat-up catering truck’s horn and the whole neighborhood running out to be fed, but it sure is close.

500 words on Alcoholics Anonymous

“Hello, my name is Brian…”

In our zeitgeist, you might just instinctively follow this with 4 more words: “and I’m an alcoholic”. It’s ironic that an organization founded on anonymity could have such familiarity within our culture, but the existence of Alcoholics Anonymous is as powerful and influential as the disease the program confronts.

In the 1980s, AA came out of the closet with an ad campaign that permanently took possession of Canon in D for me. A diverse collection of men and women, holding a single candle in front of them, passing the flame and introducing themselves as alcoholics. About fifty years after founder Dr. Bob Smith’s last drink on June 10, 1935 – the “birthday” of AA – a giant step was made to erase the stigma of alcoholism. While all AA meetings have maintained the promise of anonymity, the campaign to humanize the disease and reach out to those who need help can be profound. The stigma of alcoholism is probably the most dangerous part of the disease.

If I have cancer, I seek out the finest oncologists in the country and embark on an aggressive course of treatment rallying my friends and family to my side. If I have HIV, depression, psoriasis, or shingles, I’ll walk into my local pharmacy and trust that the professionals behind the counter will give the medicine I need and save me the dirty looks or judgment. Before Alcoholics Anonymous and in many communities still today, alcoholics live in shame fearful of losing their jobs, their families, and the very little stability they are clinging to.

In the early years, the men who started AA were among the few who recognized it as a disease, but the philosophy that started with just 40 people in the first 2 years transcending medicine and mixed spirituality, emotions, and science. Within a couple of years, Bill Wilson wrote his first book, a roadmap for alcoholics wanting to stop drinking and change their behavior, and he called it Alcoholics Anonymous. The name, the program, the twelve steps, and the lives forever altered lives around the world.

Confronting alcoholism head-on is bold. Confronting any problem head-on is rarely a popular choice. Since 1935 millions of people have turned to AA and for many of them they found a new opportunity. Bill Willson and Dr. Bob Smith found the fountain of youth, giving people a chance for re-birth. It’s appropriate that many people in recovery consider the day of their last drink as their birthday. Life begins when you aren’t being held captive.

AA created the framework of the twelve-step system which is used to help conquer almost any addiction and has been adapted by other successful programs. While AA might have critics it also has fans; fans in the form of the families that got their fathers and mothers, or children back. Even for those of us not saddled with addiction, AA demonstrates that we really can control our own lives and that is a gift.

500 words on Hocking Hills State Park

State parklands created an unexpected firestorm in California this year – and not in the form of another wildfire – when Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger threatened to close the parks and deny us access to our greatest natural resources. Many saw this move as pointless exercise in a contentious budget debate and in the end the governor never pulled the trigger. With our parks safe for now, Californians don’t have to head out of state to enjoy the great outdoors, but with a reported $21 billion deficit looming for next year we might want to start exploring our options. I’m looking at you, Ohio.

The state of Ohio has 74 parks running from the shores of Lake Erie to the Appalachian Plateau. With 174,000 acres of park land, Ohio’s park system is dwarfed by the 278 parks and 1.5 million acres of California’s but 55 million Ohioans and other Americans will visit their parks this year. In the middle of the state, we’ll visit a 2,400 acre park called Hocking Hills.

Hocking Hills is a park in the middle of the state forest with mind-blowing rock formations, a dense canopy of trees towering over streams, waterfalls, and rising from the impressive gorges of the region. Hocking Hills State Park is a popular destination in the more remote part of the state; Hocking County only has 24,000 residents in coal country. Though Hocking Hills State Park isn’t just a regional playground, but a time capsule of the area’s rich history and dynamic geology.

In Hocking Hills State Park you can venture through one of nine hiking trails, or stop and picnic alongside the geological structures that define the park. Just on the outside of the park on state forest land, you can scale similar rock features or take a swim in the streams or public pool within the park. If you don’t want to stay indoors during the cold, difficult winter months, you can even go ice-fishing in the park.

Features naturally carved into the Blackhand sandstone of Hocking Hills make the six different areas of the park bold and unique. Visitors to the Hocking Hills can visit the Devil’s Bathtub, a pool of water that looks like it was built for something supernatural, or hide in the cool shade of the massive Ash Cave. The deep gorges carved into hill and cliff sides remind us of Hocking County’s ancient heritage and give home to plant life and trees, transporting us through the area’s 10,000 year history.

While we can find evidence of the ancient Adena culture in the region as far back as 7,000 years ago, Hocking County has been a hotspot of both indigenous people and white settlers for the past few hundred years. Since the last 19th century, folks have seen the Hocking Hills as a prime recreational area. In 1924, the first state park designation was made with a 124-acre piece of land and the park continued to expand and attract contemporary Ohioans and visitors from all over the region.


Visitors explore the Ash Cave in Hocking Hills State Park.

500 words on Ken Ober

Remember when MTV played music videos? Do you remember when all MTV did was played music videos? I do, but just barely. I was not even three years-old when MTV premiered, and we didn’t have cable so even if I could remember it I wouldn’t have seen the Buggles kill the radio star.

We didn’t get cable until we moved into the second house I lived in, and so the earliest the chance I’d have to see television changed forever would be around 1983. While I was always pretty mature, I was most likely watching Pinwheel and I only met Martha Quinn and her pals later in their tenure. I was, however, following MTV by 1987 when the music got turned down for 30 minutes and “Remote Control” took over the television.

It’s interesting to me that the first series not built around music videos would be a game show. In hindsight, it seems easy to understand. It wasn’t “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.” If memory serves, winners would walk home with maybe a couple thousand dollars of prizes. I imagine a six year-old cable network, even if it would grow into a television empire, probably wasn’t busting at the seams with money for talent and production. “Remote Control,” with its zany cast of characters might have just been the perfect answer.

Ken Ober was the ringmaster of a circus that would include such soon-to-be famous names like Colin Quinn, Dennis Leary, and Adam Sandler. Ken was the leader of Generation Slacker and embodied the paradoxical reality of the do-nothing-loser/television personality. His dry wit and seemingly savant knowledge was the perfect blend for the MTV audience and its 2 minute-45 second attention span.

Ken Ober died this week. (Not Keith Olberman, so stop it with the party hats and streamer, okay Bill O’Reilly?) It doesn’t seem like he died of an overdose, and it wasn’t a bloody car crash. Ken Ober, who was only 52, died of natural causes, and he was only the host of a poor-quality cable game show that was cancelled before junior high.

I miss Ken Ober.

In fairness, if “Remote Control” had been a miserable failure and MTV didn’t venture out of the music video business we would’ve been saved from “My Super Sweet 16,” “Pimp my Ride,” Trischelle, and “this is where the magic happens” may never have become part of our cultural lexicon. If Ken Ober had been more of a failure, we might never have met Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt. How long will we have to hold that against Ken?

When someone dies, I think we often spend time thinking about how it impacts us. When the host of a television game show – one cancelled almost 20 years ago – we think about our lives 20 years ago. Ken Ober shouldn’t have much impact on my life, but I can’t stop thinking of my favorite part of the show:

Na, na, na. Na, na, na. Hey, hey, hey. Good-bye!

500 words on Joe Jackson

What’s in a name? If you are Joe Jackson, at least $20,000 a month. The biggest tragedy of the death of Michael Jackson might just be the return of Joe Jackson to the public stage.

We’ve been treated to delightful gems like his inability to remember the names of his grandchildren, his creepy denials of abuse, the pimping of the Jackson brand while the corpse was still warm, and the complete disregard for his family’s well-being. Most recently, Joe Jackson has delivered his request for a monthly allowance of $20,000 a month from the estate of his recently, and unexpectedly, deceased son. . . . But it’s okay because it’s less money than he was mooching off his Michael when he was alive.

Some, including Michael Jackson, have said that the nontraditional upbringing and likely abusive household of Joe Jackson shaped the artists his children became. Without Joe Jackson, his weird facial hair, his love of fedoras, and his quick temper, then maybe Michael never would’ve been Michael, Janet never would’ve been Janet, and LaToya never would’ve been from outer space.

The role of the parents in shaping the people we become is irrefutable, but should we be grateful for the hard times if the adversity teaches us how to triumph?
I’d rather have grown up without “Billie Jean” and “Bad”, if Michael could’ve grown up without belts, switches, and calling his father “Joseph”. Everyone needs a daddy, sometimes.

When can we start to form our own identities? At thirty-one years-old, I still find my parents often have the greatest influence over decisions I make in life. Despite disagreeing with them often and charting a course far stranger than they would have designed, they still play a role in nearly every decision.

I drink skim milk because when we moved to California, for some reason, mom switched from 2% and it stuck. The opening beats of “CBS Sunday Morning” is the most soothing song I know and those strange sun graphics always bring a smile to my eyes. I’ll always choose the fold-out sofa bed when offered as an option because of the five years of my life when one was always out in our family room. These are the profound, although small, influences my folks have had on me over three decades, mostly good, occasionally not, and frequently more important. College majors (Business Administration), cars (Hondas), holidays (almost always with them), haircuts (shorter preferred), piercings and tattoos (never and one), music (The Mamas and the Papas).

That last name, that’s important, too. I have a theory about disaster coming down on families that mix up last names. I’ll write about that some time. The Jacksons kept it the same. It follows them everywhere.

I don’t have a Joe Jackson in my life, but I also don’t have a “Thriller” begging to come out and change music forever. And I don’t have $20,000 a month to share. I do have two parents; at least two people I know love me.

500 words on the djembe

The sun sets over the sand with the birds returning from their early evening hunt. The air smells damp, with a blend of dust, patchouli, and sweat. A pack of men and women gather in the distance, their shadows dancing before the setting sun. And then the rhythm begins to form, the constant patter and mixed thuds of man’s palm on taut animal hide. The men and women, of different backgrounds, careers, regions, begin to move together bringing the thumping, tapping, pounding of the circle to crescendo. I stand in the distance, a silent observer, smiling and knowing that I will be back.

Many sunsets of my college years were spent as a quiet witness to the Venice Beach drum circle. I discovered my first one just weeks into my freshman year, while on my bike rushing to get home before dark. The beat of the djembe would distract me, calling out to me. For the next four years, I’d hop the bus or park my car in a nearly impossible-to-find space and sneak to the shore to witness the drum circle.

Many of the drummers, the manipulators of sound, appeared the part perfectly: tight fitting but raggy jeans beneath a shirtless chest with dreads and dirt as a crown – regardless of race – or a flowing and shapeless pattern-printed dress covering a tattoo-speckled body. But some would surprise you: Men with ties lose around their neck coming straight from the office or women slipping off a pair of heels before crossing the sandy beach. They all had one thing in common and that was a desire, perhaps a need, to be part of a group and surrender to music.

In the 2008 award-winning film, “The Visitor”, Richard Jenkins plays the role of the outsider, a middle-aged white man mesmerized by the djembe. The instrument builds a bridge between two men from across the globe and demonstrates the impossible power of human connection and the adhesive of music.

I’ve never held a djembe, but I know that my hands would naturally wrap around its curves with my fingertips gracefully bouncing with each beat. I think many people feel this way about the djembe. After all it has attracted civilizations across the globe. It was not invented nor discovered in the gritty and artistic community of Venice Beach.

And for that moment, when my eyes close and I feel like I am alone despite the line of people on each side of me and meeting across from me, I will transport across the planet and through time to be part of a people for whom life is hard but with its rewards.

That is what brings these people together on the beach. It’s the music and the beat. The sound as it rises from its acoustic base in the sand calling out to others. We yearn to belong to something, with a voiceless mob and the djembe calling out to us individually and as a whole, feeding our ears, minds, and souls.


Source: www.drumsontheweb.com

500 words on Catholic Charities and Marriage Equality

My unique approach to my faith and relationship with the Catholic Church is confusing. What aren’t confusing are the dangerous measures the Church and its organizations will employ to dominate public policy. Most recently, the stage has been set in Washington, DC for a stand-off between the District’s city council and its chapter of Catholic Charities. Next month, the council will vote on whether to recognize same-sex marriage in the District and whether organizations and vendors receiving city contracts must honor the law and extend benefits to same-sex couples married in the District.

Conservatives have a problem in Washington, DC. Unlike in many of the states, there is no mechanism for referendum on the law or public prohibition on the move. Even if there was, there is a good chance that the District would finally give the forces against marriage equality their first defeat. The only tool available is Congressional oversight impacting the city council’s decision, which isn’t likely in Nancy Pelosi’s House of Representatives.

Staring equality in the face, opponents are resorting to blackmail and Catholic Charities, which serves more than 60,000 poor men, women, and children in the District, is threatening to abandon all of its city contracts and programs if forced to comply with the new marriage law. Terrified of having to treat poor gay people the same as poor straight people, preferring children to remain parentless rather than find a loving gay-headed home, the Church is willing to say f-you to millions of dollars supporting important programs to demonstrate its power over municipal authorities.

"Render therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's." It might be a controversial quote, but in this case, the Church should respect the authority and sovereignty of its host government, and back down. In 2006, Catholic Charities of Boston made similar threats after same-sex marriage was legalized throughout the commonwealth. Rather than continue a 100-year legacy of adoption services while respecting the laws of Massachusetts, Catholic Charities just stopped providing adoption services. Meanwhile, many other organizations stepped up to help Boston families and families-to-be and the glut of family-less children never materialized.

If the Church insists on taking this position, then the people of the District might end up being better served. I’ve worked in community-based services for a while, and the biggest is rarely the best. From a business approach alone, the Church’s position to remain same-sex couples free would put them at a competitive disadvantage losing some of the best talent in the sector. Denying health benefits to the partners of its employees means the best queer employees will go elsewhere. Ostracizing queer employees and providing inferior compensation compared to straight employees means they will go elsewhere. The city council, which has given Church charities more than $8 million in the last 3 years, has an obligation to make sure that money is going to the best, most effective organizations. Catholic Charities of the District would be behind from the start.

500 words on my Catholicism

How I can be a Catholic and gay? I imagine it depends on who you ask, because many Catholics insist I can’t. I am Catholic because I was baptized in the church as an infant and confirmed later. I have attended Mass and received Sacraments. This is why I am Catholic.

And like many American Roman Catholics, I disagree on the politics of the Church and the behavior of its leaders. During this decade, I ceased any donations through the church collection plate because much of that money has gone to defend the Church from its sinful behavior protecting itself and criminal priests. Just like I don’t expect the Church to pick up my bar tab from Saturday night at Micky’s, I’m not willing to pony up for the sexual indiscretions and moral failures of the Church. . . until it ponies up for mine!

According to Catholics for a Free Choice, 96% of Catholic women have used a prohibited form of contraception at some point and 71% of Roman Catholics believe that you can be a “good Catholic” while disobeying the Church’s official position on birth control. In fact, a September 2005 poll by Harris Interactive found that 90% of American Roman Catholics supported the use of contraceptives. So, do we ask 96% of Catholic women why they continue to live in opposition to the Church? Perhaps, but I think we are more forgiving despite the seriousness of these sexual “transgressions” exactly because they seem to be more common. Gay Catholics don’t take up half the pew space (at least in most parishes) even if they take up that much room on the Altar. So, as we are rarer it is easier to place a critical eye on us.

Catholicism is, to many Catholics, bigger than Mass, a few Sacraments and a man in a dress and a silly hat living in his of fiefdom with hundreds of other men. We grew up in the Church and many of our fondest or strongest or strongest fond memories have organ music in the background or feature free coffee and donuts after. The holidays were always punctuated with colorfully decorated sanctuaries and seemingly endless waiting in a cold church. Most of our families’ milestones typically included a pit-stop at church on the way. Catholicism is as much cultural as it is spiritual, perhaps another thing we share with (or stole from) our Jewish brothers and sisters.

That doesn’t mean the Church doesn’t often act to harm queer men and women. They funnel money to anti-marriage initiatives and fuel legislative fires against gay people. But, if I was hungry – without regard to my sexuality – I could find a meal in many churches. If I was sick, I could find health care in one of the many Catholic hospitals. And if I sought to learn, I could be educated in a Catholic school – which I did!

I disagree with the Church on many things, but it will always be part of my life.



A far wiser, more faithful, and braver man than I, Father Mychal Judge is carried out of the rumble of the World Trade Center. He was a Franciscan priest, a fire department chaplain, a recovering alcoholic, and an openly gay (and celibate) man.

What's This About? What's This About. This Is What It's About.

I like to write. I like to read blogs. I’ve even blogged in the past (http://originofmorons.blogspot.com). I want to write more, but I need some kind of direction or guide.

My friend Jen is a pretty amazing person. Her writing is funny and engaging, and she’s one of the few woman to have seen my penis. It wasn’t on purpose or some life changing event – although it might have been for her – but more of the product of ill fitting boxer shorts and college dorm-living. But I digress. The year before we/she turned 30, she decided to engage a year-long writing project. Folks would suggest things she’d never done before and she’d try out those suggestions and write about it. Her blog was the highlight of most mornings. Did she do my suggestion? What crazy adventures still exist?

Eight years ago, in my despair from the election of 2000 and disappointment with an unstimulating job, I decided I was going to be a writer: a great writer. Except I can’t write fiction, I have a short attention span, and my own strong opinions interfere in anything I might write that’s newsy. I spent the weekend with a successful writer and columnist in Palm Springs. I bought all sorts of books about the field, and I wrote a monthly column in the Mighty Signal of the Santa Clarita Valley… and then I got a more interesting job, got over the election, and started teaching SCUBA diving.

Now that there are fewer elections to be pissed about and I’ve run out of enthusiasm for teaching SCUBA, it’s time to revert back to… my writing.

To develop my skills, try new things out, play with vocabulary, and keep my fingers nimble I’ve decided to return to regular blogging and this project: 500 WORDS ON…

Here’s how this works: You come back every day and get to read a brief 500 word essay on something. On what? If you want to be more involved you can help. You see, each essay will be suggested by someone else. You submit an idea and I write 500 words about it. I’ll write about anything and try to have a lot of fun with it. I promise if you suggest something, I’ll write about it.

What will I write about? I have no idea. You give me the topic, question, theme and I’ll write 500 words. I might answer your question, research the history of it, or might just write about how it makes me feel. You might get a poem featuring your suggestion, or a 2-sided debate of it. Who knows how the post will take shape, it could be a year from now. But it will take shape and it will be 500 words.

You can make suggestions – and lots of them – by sending an email to 500wordson@gmail.com. And then I’ll get started. I’ll research, write, and re-write. And then, just like this post and every one after it, I’ll write 500 words about it.