Au Revoir, Yellow Pages!

GOOD has done it again, ladies and gents. Impressive with its infinite wisdom on how to make the world a better place, they've uncovered the simple process for opting out of receiving, in my opinion, an obsolete resource - Yellow Pages. I understand those lemony pages are helpful for those without internet and smart phones. I'm sure the Silent Generation and some Baby Boomers love this service. But for those of you who use these as door props, recycle or, environment forbid, trash them, opt out!


It's effortless. Click here and follow the quick instructions to register. You'll be directed to your email, and once signed in, you can check off all paper monsters you never want to see at your front door again! Sitting at the bottom of the opt out page is a button to remove them all, so use it! I did, and all of the below were removed, most of which I never knew existed.


- No copies of Los Angeles Spanish - Seccion Amarilla USA, LLC
- No copies of Japanese TD&G-So CA - Japan Publicity, Inc.,/Telephone Guide
- No copies of Marina DelRey-Venice - SuperMedia
- No copies of Los Angeles Westside - Yellow Book
- No copies of Los Angeles Co(B) - AT&T Advertising Solutions
- No copies of Santa Monica C - SuperMedia
- No copies of Los Ang Co-Iran - Ketab Corporation
- No copies of Santa Monica Comp(Y) - SuperMedia
- No copies of Culver City C - AT&T Advertising Solutions


Be sure to read GOOD's story.


Thanks again, GOOD. You are my hero.

One Month In!

Remember a month ago when you made that list of things you would do this year to make you a better person? You replayed 2010 in your mind, flagging failures, highlighting triumphs. You vowed to be nicer, healthier, smarter, more caring, more giving, less judgmental, less and more of everything of which you have too much or too little. Remember that list? Your RESOLUTIONS?!?!?!?! *your world shakes and a hanging wall ornament smashes to the floor.

How's it going? Are you becoming a superior human? Is 2011 YOUR YEAR? Hopefully you won't have to, but here's my friendly reminder to dust off that list and dig back in. It's not too late. It's only February 1st. You still have eleven more months to divide and conquer. There's still time to lose those pounds, stop talking smack, volunteer, take your vitamins, stop beating your wife, stop cheating on your boyfriend, recycle, etc., etc. Haven't picked up a book yet? No sweat. You know there are several lurking on your shelves, under your bed and possibly on the top of your toilet. Just turn to page one and do not stop until you're thirty pages in. If the book is worth your time and brain, you'll be hooked.

Me, I'm doing pretty well. I followed my dream and am working tirelessly to write every day. I'm blogging. I've lost 14 lbs. I plucked The Yiddish Policemen's Union from between other unread paperbacks and am 1/3 of the way through. I've stopped screening my calls. I'm drinking at least 8 glasses of water each day. And besides the broken foot from day one, I'm feeling pretty good about 27 and in a few, 28.

I just need that golden retriever and that yard for him to run around in... Oh, and to be published in the New York or Los Angeles Times...

Here's to goodness. Don't give up.

New Published Work!

As I hung up the phone last week after interviewing artist, Taka Sudo, I experienced a tinge of regret that I'd never moved to Canada. Taka resides in Vancouver and is a genuinely nice guy, full of energy and giggles. Most Canadians I know are similar - amicable, intelligent and inspiring.

Checkout my latest LAist article on Taka's current show in Venice, CA. Click here.

And checkout the show, too!

Things We Do Big

Obama's State of the Union address earlier this week failed to inspire me. Honestly, the words of politicians have little effect on me. It's their actions that ignite my interest. Though Mr. President's speech was teeming with strong quotes, the phrase/theme, "We do big things," has unfortunately stuck. Are we finally giving into the "dumb American" stereotype and abandoning any motivation to prove educated?


Appearing in my inbox shortly thereafter was a pitifully titled email from Mr. President - "We do big things." After noting a few key points from his discourse, he reiterated, "Yet the story of America is this: We do big things." I know we do. While a bit shaken, we're still a superpower. Don't get me wrong, I strongly support Obama. But team, couldn't we have dreamed up something a little better? Something with more gusto, more hope and more brain? 


In another email I was offered a free t-shirt if I donated just $25 to the Obama campaign. What does this shirt say? You guessed it! WE DO BIG THINGS. Topped with a tiny picture of our country like a dainty maraschino cherry. Le sigh. It claims to be a limited edition, and I really hope this holds true.


This gutless slogan brings to my mind elementary phrases like:


See Spot run! (& just about any line from a Dick and Jane book.)
I ate a big red candle.
I am job.
Hooked on Phonics worked for me.
I like crayons.
I want to go to there.
Stuff is cool.
I like things.
Are we there yet?
Have you seen my baseball?
Dude, what's mine say?
Sweet, what's mine say?
The horse goes "neigh."
Never go full retard.

Sarah Silverman Similarity

Sarah Silverman and I have something in common. We both lie to our calorie counters. She revealed her treat deceit this evening via Twitter. Funny thing is, I lied to mine pretty badly last night, "forgetting" to enter the bread, cheese, beer AND chocolate I consumed during late hours of the night thanks to my dear friend Erin. It's ok though. I paid for it today, stomach growling at the crap I dumped into it, head angry at those three beers. Now that amount may not sound like a lot, but for someone who's consumed booze once in the last four weeks, it hit me pretty hard. I wonder what else she and I have in common... Obviously millions of dollars and Jimmy Kimmel. Cheers, my cheating amie. I'll probably lie a little tomorrow night, too, in your honor.

Laptop Talk

We've all see it in movies. The happy (or unhappy) couple lies next to one another in bed, both reading books, enjoying the other's presence and warmth (or not). Last night Hudson and I were happily doing the same, only instead of books, we were busy clicking and clacking on our laptops. We'd been doing so for a good hour before I even noticed the scene. I looked up from my dancing fingers at the two of us and giggled. Such a funny world in which we now live. We're so attached to our devices. Sure, there are books next to our bed. But why would I pick one up when I have my sexy MacBook Pro feeding me Gmail, Facebook, Twitter and the countless other sites and distractions that devour embarrassingly large portions of my days? Why would I bother flipping paper pages when I can simply click icons? Why would I embrace traditional learning and relaxation? I really should. And I will. Just as soon as I finish this blog, check my email, Facebook and Twitter and watch Kick-Ass.

State of the Union Address

Here's yet another reason why I love GOOD: They've scoured the web in search of the best place to watch tonight's State of the Union address. And they've landed on the Sunlight Foundation's live blog. Click here.


According to GOOD, "Not only will Sunlight be streaming video of the address, reporters from CQ Roll Call, the National Journal, the Center for Public Integrity, and the Huffington Post will be on hand to fact-check and offer context as the president speaks. We can almost guarantee that the information provided will be more objective and less dry than what the White House is offering. Happy viewing."


Merci beaucoup for making this so simple, GOOD. Provided my internet behaves appropriately, happy viewing, indeed.

New Published Work!

LAist published my article on Ted Yeager's current photography exhibit at The G2 Gallery. Read it here.

Heal the Bay Presents: Jack Johnson Beach Cleanup

This is a review I wrote last year simply for myself, simply to remember the event...

Set against a breathtaking backdrop of the winding SoCal coast, the iconic Ferris wheel turns atop the Santa Monica pier. It’s an incredible site every time I see it. Although I live just a few miles away, it never gets old. Santa Monica boasts a beautiful beach, and that’s one of the reasons why I’m here today, Saturday, May 22, 2010. I’m here to preserve its beauty, to pluck the traces of human ignorance from the grains of sand. I’m also here because I deeply respect Jack Johnson. It’s my first beach cleanup with Heal the Bay, and it’s a special one. All registered volunteers who complete today’s beach cleanup will receive a ticket to the free Jack Johnson concert the following Monday on the Santa Monica pier.  Sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it? That’s what I thought, too. Turns out Heal the Bay organizes beach cleanups every third Saturday of the month. To kickoff his summer tour for his new album, To the Sea, Jack Johnson teamed up with Heal the Bay for this exculsive combo event.

The registration line is long and impressive.  It’s refreshing to see so many locals volunteering two hours of their sacred Saturday mornings. Flying solo, I team up with another solo lady, and we begin our mission. Our ammunition: two latex gloves, one plastic trash bag, one checklist and one pencil. A Heal the Bay marine biologist explains that while we may not recover giant pieces of trash from the sand, we will most likely find small shards of plastic, Styrofoam and other non-biodegradable particles. We reach for anything our eyes register as not sand. After the first hour the bag is still weightless and blowing in the wind. Our checklist, however, is teeming with tally marks. Cigarette butts and plastic pieces compete head-to-head for most common trace of human destruction. We spot 4 triple-A batteries scattered along the shoreline. Shocked, we grab them, cursing the human race while shoving them into our bag. Finally, some weight. Both hours fly by, and the feeling of accomplishment as I tie and set our bag on top of the massive pile energizes me. Burning in my back pocket is my concert ticket. As I walk away, I’m grateful for nature and apologetic that my people are responsible for its demise. 

That Monday I race out of work like I was escaping high school at the sound of the afternoon bell. Coasting along the beach path towards the pier, I pedal my bicycle towards the best concert I’ve attended to date. The masses are flocking by bicycle, car and on foot. A sizable crowd of concert crashers has formed beside the pier and enjoys a decent view of the stage. The setting is intimate; the crowd is grateful. Besides the loud man a few bodies back smoking a cigarette on the wooden pier, I believe we are not only happy to witness such an amazing artist perform live, but we hold fast a sense of fulfillment and purpose. I love you California, Heal the Bay and Jack Johnson for all that you do to help the environment. We can change the future if we acknowledge the past and present.  See you at the next beach cleanup.

Pre-Existing Condition

Rejection. Oh how it hurts. Well, in my case, not really. Any communication I've ever had with a health insurance representative leaves me scratching my head, wondering why such a powerful country is incapable of caring for its people. Why doctors in London make house calls for the sick (at least they did in 2003), yet here in the states health care depletes your savings, joining you with a doctor who, not always, often does not appear to have time for you. I know reform is happening. And I know other countries are struggling with their systems. I'm not going to traipse around my choices. I shall sleuth.

When people are sick, they are in a vulnerable state, one of the most vulnerable states in which a person can be. You feel trapped within your body, and you just want, you just need help. As luck would have it, I broke my foot on 1/1/11 and lost my health insurance on 1/14/11. COBRA is offering me an affordable package that matches the plan offered to me at my previous employer. It's just $533.89 per month for medical, dental and vision. Just in case sarcasm does not carry well on my blog, I'll let you know it's currently oozing out of my finger tips. Since I'll surely be visiting my orthopedist a couple more times to ensure proper healing, I spent the majority of today flipping through pages of benefits jargon, underlining dates, noting terms I did not understand, chatting with health insurance reps. Quite the thrilling Friday afternoon. Vicki from Anthem Blue Cross and I really hit it off. After firing a few questions at me, she recommended a "popular plan for young people," which was accompanied by a whopping $5,000 deductible. Now, maybe they assume most young people don't understand deductibles, but I do. I may be in my twenties and still require a few rereads to soak it all in, but I'll never hit that deductible should my health remain as-is. Vicki and I understood each other, a far more reasonable plan was presented and we were friends. Scrutinizing the online brochure, I turned over all stones, ensuring no hidden costs, percentages or waiting periods. And there was just one thing that I'd forgotten to share with Vicki. A four letter word in the health insurance industry, if you will. PRE-EXISTING CONDITION. The ground shook. Immediately after I broached my lame foot, Vicki replied, "Oh..." while pausing for a few moments. I helped her out. "So this means I'm denied?" "Well, yes," she replied. Adding, "But we'll take you once your doctor clears you of your condition." My condition? I broke my fucking foot. I'm not dying. I'm not going to require (hopefully) extensive surgery or countless bottles of medication. I just need to see my orthopedist to ensure my foot heals properly. I need proper medical attention to avoid more health issues in the future. My future. My life. My body.

DENIED.

Sadly, c'est la vie. I called my orthopedist, inquiring about the fees for visits and x-rays sans insurance. Turns out, the rates are affordable. Plus, dear Josie offered to cut my x-ray costs in half. Noting my shock, she informed me that sometimes she does things like this to assist the uninsured.

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but curiosity is saving me a few hundred dollars each month.

VIE

Upon looking up the definition of the word "vie" today, I found the following very interesting. The French word for life is vie. In English, vie is defined as "to strive in competition or rivalry with another; contend for superiority." 


C'est tres similaire, non?

Discouraging Flowchart

I don't know much about Jessica Hische, but I do know that she created a hilariously brutal flowchart advising people to stop working for free. In one gray square she advises, "Don't be a dick," while in another she informs, "This is the most toxic line of bullshit anyone will ever feed you." Currently contemplating an unpaid writing gig for a well-known LA blog, Jessica's blunt chart took me through a short series of questions via circles, squares and lines. Where did I end up? At a big, bold, blue NO. My musing continues, though she definitely made me think thrice about this "opportunity." See! Right there! I quoted opportunity, as I'm hardly seeing it as one now. But the truth is, writing is my passion, and if I can share my thoughts with the public through a successful website, why not contribute sans pay for a little while. I'll just go easy on my cravings, like soy lattes from Espresso Cielo (I fucking miss you, you frothy cup of heaven) and freshly squeezed juice from One Life. Decisions, decisions. Restrictions, restrictions.

First Entry for "Quote du Jour"

As of this past Friday, I am a full-time writer. Every time I write, read, say or think about my new role, my heart and cheeks grow warm, a smile stretches across my visage, my hands anxious with excitement. This has been my dream for years, and I'm using every second to engage myself in everything I have not made time to do over the last few years.

An obvious admirer of words and quotes, I'm constantly scribbling them into notebooks or struggling to type them into my iPhone. In an effort to contribute to my blog on a daily basis, I've decided to share my recorded quotes if a full entry does not present itself. Donc, voila, le quote du jour...

"But I just can’t stand the waste of throwing out a tea bag after one use. It’s like a knife in the gut for me."

-Elizabeth Warren, Assistant to the President and Special Advisor to the Secretary of the Treasury on the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau.

I love that this woman has entered politics. We need more humans on stage, someone who is this aware of waste reduction.

Apartment Bull

Today I and the universe were not in-sync. Everything I touched either broke or seemed to leap from my hands. Hobbling around on crutches was most likely the main culprit of my misfortunes, but something else lurked in the air. Usually quite stable while I shower, my crutches fell as soon as I awkwardly stood up in the tub, my ceramic trinket bowl crashing to the ground with them. The soap dove to the drain numerous times. I cursed at the shrinking white oval. Upon entering my bedroom, the small trash can by my bedside, placed there for convenience during my recovery, landed on its side, popcorn kernels dissipating on the carpet. Time to sit down. The next 10 minutes were spent clipping and filing my long fingernails to a gentler length. Thank you, Trader Darwin, for your Women's Formula supplement. I simply cannot keep up with my nails these days. My stomach growled at me for only feeding it a banana that morning, so back on my right foot and crutches I went, straight to the kitchen. It was here where I unwittingly knocked over or dropped just about everything I reached for, struggling to grasp the strainer on the top shelf, struggling to do just about anything. It's been two weeks since I broke my foot; never have I experienced such a high level of helplessness and frustration. After a well-deserved Italian brunch, I retreated to my couch, hoping for some sort of synchronization to occur. Perhaps it was the universe's way of forcing me to sit down and focus on the day's goals. Perhaps it's all just coincidence, and I should think nothing more of it. Perhaps we all need a little imbalance some days, just to keep us in check.

Une Chanson Magnifique

Today is magnificent. It is so for two reasons - it's my first day as a solely self-employed writer plus the first day, thanks to my dear friend, Feaver, I discovered Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros. This band. Is amazing. Included in a weekly dose of enjoyable tunes from Feaver is their track "Home." Full of folk and love and life and optimism and whistling and horns. Nostalgia flooded my thoughts. I've had no choice but to listen to it on repeat all day. Finding a new band that you instantly love, that makes you sit up and say, "Holy shit! This is brilliant!" is a blessing. If my left foot wasn't broken, I would've been up and dancing in seconds. The female responsible for the comforting, alto voice in the duet is Jade Castrinos. I adore her. Move over, Karen O. I have a new lady crush. (Just kidding, Karen, you'll always be my number one.) But seriously, if you have yet to experience this band, do it. Drop everything and do it. You deserve it. During those 5 minutes and 3 seconds, all of my and the world's problems disappeared. Daydreams of running barefoot through a grassy field consumed me, remembering how I adored dancing among damp, sweet-smelling sheets on my mother's clothesline in the backyard. It all came rushing back, warming my heart, calming my spirit. Music is powerful and beautiful. And so are good people.

Midnight Facial Mask & An Empty Sink

Hudson and I are two very different people, yet we're so similar at times. We both destroy the kitchen while cooking. He's an early bird; I'm a night owl. It's not that I don't like worms, I do, I'm just not programmed to awaken easily. Ask anyone who knows me, especially Hudson, my brother, my mom, Mark Hall and Bubba. They'll confirm. Needing to look my best tomorrow for NYE 2010, I've slathered a potent white cream all over my face, covering every pore possible, hoping for magic. Beauty sleep is also very important. But there's just something about an empty sink. I need an empty sink. We chopped up our entire CSA bag today, plopping the fresh, organic, local produce into a steaming pot of vegetable and tomato broth. Our soup. Was awesome. Is awesome. There's surprisingly still some left. The counters are covered with unwanted segments of vegetables - the bruised, dehydrated, undesirable ends and stems. A heap of dirty dishes awaits me in the sink. I could go to bed. I should. Yet the wonderfully rewarding feeling of productively scrubbing all of those dishes, of finishing today today, beckons me. I don't want to wake up tomorrow and be burdened with yesterday's destruction. Let's get on with our lives. And I actually enjoy washing dishes. I haven't had the luxury of living avec dishwasher for the last five years. Someday it will be a requirement. But until I have bigger things to worry about, like children or ailments, I think I'll manage just fine. Strapping on my yellow gloves, I conquer the sink. I even scrub it down, then move to the counters, then to those few chunks of runaway veggies on the floor. Tomorrow I can focus on my nagging to-do list, whether it be the one in my phone or the one parading around in my mind.

There's just something about washing dishes and an empty sink...

Point Mugu - Post Valentine's Day 2010

The sinking sun was still lighting our way back on the trail at Point Mugu yesterday. We'd conquered the trail. We were sore. Well, I was. When we reached the supposed end, no trail beckoning us, we turned and ran. We ran the whole way, only stopping when the decline grew dangerously steep, the incline grew impossible or we were crossing yet another stream. We ran and ran, Hudson chasing me, shouting quotes from my most current workout craze. And it worked. We ran together through the wilderness, and I laughed almost the entire way. I realized during our trot that we were meant to be together. And I suddenly felt halved, and then fulfilled by him. And then I saw her. A sad, frumpy woman, startled by humans. Nature probably does not startle her. Perhaps this is why she chose to hike that day. To escape from her dark, stale apartment, the dust dancing along with the swinging door. We made eye contract for a brief moment, and my heart, once inflated by our hike, sank. It sank at the thought of her. Because in that moment, I saw her life flash before me. It flashed in between us. She has no one. The previous day was one of love, probably reinforcing how singular she is. She probably spent the day indoors, curtains drawn, eating and weeping, surfing the channels, surfing waves of depression. But today something picked her up and shoved her outdoors. Something inside of her recommended a venture with nature. Something inside of her would not allow her melancholy to grow. I felt so bad for this woman. Yet I quickly looked away, perhaps shamed by my rapid judgment. Who knows. Maybe she's perfectly happy and just wanted to take a stroll. But her eyes did not say that. They screamed nothing, and that's what struck me.

Ideal Interaction

I had one of those awkward shared laundry facility experiences the other night. The kind where you look at the clock and leap up in a slight panic because you fear you're really burning up a fellow laundry doer right at this very moment. And sure enough, I entered the room and saw both of my dry loads, neatly placed on top of both dryers. Then I saw a male neighbor, one who I've never seen before, standing there, pressing the ON switch to his load. It's awkward. It's awkward because you both feel like jerks. I'm the jerk because I let my dry clothes sit in the dryers, unfetched, leaving him with no other choice but to reach in and pull out a stranger's clothing, a stranger's intimates. His heart was probably racing, hoping to avoid the confrontation. And he feels like a jerk because he knows I know he touched my underwear and now knows what size jeans I wear. I apologized. He apologized. He said something about that's just the way it is, no big deal. He hesitated, seemingly wanting to fold my laundry for a second, or at least arrange it better. It was the most human and perfect interaction. This is how people should treat each other. With a smile and a shrug. He left. One of his socks peaked out from the dryer door. Glancing back to make sure I was alone, I quickly opened the door and shooed him back inside.

The Poopsmith

I ride my bicycle along the narrow neighborhood streets of Venice, CA to work every morning. Last Tuesday while en route I witnessed a man, tasked with scooping up poop from a recreational field, smiling and singing. It was a stellar reminder that you are ultimately responsible for your happiness.

The Expulsion of Cranberry Mullens

Since I have so much more free time now without a commute, my brain has returned to normalcy. Inspiration and creativity have returned. They returned as I was brushing my teeth last night. The the name "Cranberry Mullens" popped into my head. I liked it, so I went with it. I went with it for about thirty minutes...

"The Expulsion of Cranberry Mullens"

This is the story of Cranberry Mullens. Just an ordinary kid in an ordinary town seeing the extraordinary. Kids of all ages, even adults poked fun at his first name.

Rodney Burns, a tall, haggard bully twice his age, yells down to Cranberry at the local diner, "Cranberry!? What kind of name is that!?"

Cranberry, sucking down his strawberry milkshake, backs his head away from the straw, swallows slowly, then looks up at his crimson-faced attacker.

"Why, I'd say it's a fruit, Rodney."

"Yeah, yeah, you hear that everyone! He's named after a fruit!" Snickers from all around the diner zing into Cranberry's ears. Cranberry takes another long, delightful sip of his shake, finishing with that disheartening empty sucking sound that means only one thing: end of shake, end of indulgence. "What're you, gay?!"

Cranberry looks up again.

"No Rodney, I don't think so. But so what if I am?"

"What's your purpose, Cranberry?"

"My purpose?"

"Yeah, what's your purpose? To sit around drinking pink stuff, being all gay?"

"No, I don't think that's quite it. I'd say it's more like repelling."

"What the heck does that mean? Like insect repelling? You're into insects and stuff?" Cranberry moves closer to Rodney. So close that the tips of their toes touch, repulsing Rodney. "Ew get away you fag!"

"I want to tell you my purpose." Rodney eyes him, then looks around at the eager bystanders. He looks at the chubby waitress, stuffed into her white outfit. She's too busy picking up straw wrappers and balls of bubble gum wrapped in napkin to notice the scene. Theresa Saunders, cute, an early developer, nods in excitement. Rodney steps closer to Cranberry.

"Alright, what is it?"

"My purpose, is to repel humans."

"What!?" Gasps sing into Cranberry's ears. "What does that mean? Are you some kind of freak, some kind of warlock or witch or something?"

And that's when it all started. The expulsion of Cranberry Mullens.

The news of his human repellent spread fast throughout the town, fast like a disease, like a severe epidemic. You were the minority if you didn't know. The school was forced to remove Cranberry from its premises. Kids told their parents who told the teachers who told Cranberry to stop who told them he couldn't who told the principal who told the super intendant who called a faculty meeting who decided that this was it. He had to go. Because that's what schools do, you know. That's how they solve problems. They find the problem and they remove it. Just like that. It's simple really, and it takes very minimal effort.

Normally a kid would face an expulsion of just a couple weeks, be turned to his parents for quick rectifying. But not Cranberry Mullens. He was far too threatening. So here he stands on his front doorstep, face framed by his mother's arm, which rests firmly on her hip.

"She only stands like that when she's really mad," thinks Cranberry, staring at her then at his toes.

"Cranberry, what do we do with you now?" Silence. Birds chirping.

Cranberry looks to the sun, who shines down onto his round face, burning into his eyes a bit. He looks back to his mother but sees only a dark silhouette and bright blotches of light.

"I'm not even sure that I want you to come in the house. I think I might want you to stand out here on this porch all day." Silence. A dog barks. She comes back into focus. Cranberry smiles. "Will you do that for me, Cranberry?"

"Sure, Mom." She wipes her hands on her apron, sighs and turns. The door shuts. Cranberry turns around and watches a large truck drive by. His eyes widen. He mouths "circus." The side of the truck reads, "Tottem Brothers Seven Man Circus. And a lil lady, too." The truck slows. A twenty-something man sticks his head out the driver's side window.

"Hey! Kid! You know where we can find Route 74?"

Cranberry thinks for a moment, then yells, "Turn around and go about 3 miles. It'll be on your left!" The man disappears. He reappears.

"You sure, kid?" Cranberry nods. The man disappears again. He reappears, this time with a map in hands.

"Can you come look at this map real quick?" Cranberry shakes his head. The man disappears again. A young woman pops her head out of the window, cleavage overwhelming the frame.

"Heya sweetie. Can you help me look at this map please?" Cranberry shakes his head again. She pushes her way out of the door, fumbling with the map in her hand. Leaping from the truck, she lands, breasts in tact. Grounded, she stares at him before advancing. She marches across the lawn. Cranberry has never seen anything like her. Her dress. The skin. The hair. The makeup. The breasts. She nears him, when Mrs. Mullens catches a flash of red through the window. She yanks open the door. Monkey in the middle, Cranberry looks to both women.

"Who are you?" sternly inquires Mrs. Mullen.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, we're a bit lost."

"Get away from my boy, gypsy!" Mrs. Mullen grabs Cranberry's chubby hand and drags him towards the house. Cranberry struggles to keep his mystery lady in sight. He catches glimpses of her amidst his mother's apron blowing into his vision. Mystery lady winks at him and smiles, then sticks out her tongue and turns. The door slams. "See Cranberry! I can't even leave you on the front porch like a dog without you getting into trouble!" She stomps away from him. He stands in the hallway. The window is open. The table isn't too high. Hop, squeeze, fall, land, run. Mrs. Mullen sees another flash. Only this time it's her son, sprinting across the lawn to the circus truck. No boy has ever smiled this big or ran this fast in the history of childhood.