Around noon today while sitting at the coffee shop, Matt says, “Alex died yesterday at four o’clock. That’s all I know.”

Whoa, Alex died?! Alex, the jackass in Nashville who really kind of rubbed me the wrong way? I didn’t really like him too much, but my disdain for him seems so petty now and my sorrow for his pain and suffering in this life is all that’s left. And peace toward his spirit. He sometimes did and said things that made me question, made me go out of my comfort zone and often made me angry.

He also made me laugh sometimes. He’d say just about anything, no matter how off color or inappropriate, and although this sometimes infuriated me, it also was inspiring, because this guy was truly living. It was after midnight at Foobar in Nashville the first night Matt and Hardy introduced me to Alex.

At one point in the evening, I told the group, “I have to go to the drug store.”

Alex gruffly said, “Wh-a-a-t? Are you on your period or something?” I was a little annoyed by his comment because it was true and because he was so damned loud and crass about it, but he returned less than 45 seconds later and flung an assortment of feminine products down on the bar next to my beer.

This guy has a fantastical story for everything and a penchant for grabbing your unsuspecting hand and shoving your fingertips relentlessly into his left eye socket so you can feel the titanium plate in his head. He’s been stabbed and shot. He’s a well-tatted punk-rockabilly dude; you can spot him as a bruiser upon first sight. He’ll be your amicable guide to the underbelly of East Nashville.  He’ll encourage you to drink another. And another. And another. And he’ll help you get into slightly mindful-mindless trouble. He talks loud and doesn’t care who hears it. He just lets it fly. Ultimately, I’ve got respect for that - because it’s truthful.

But during the times of negative emotionality on my part towards him, I never imagined the guy dying only three months after our introduction and our episodes of partying with mutual close friends. I imagined walking into Foobar next summer and slinging back a few beers with him and his wife. I imagined saying, “Hey, remember last summer when . . . ?”

Thank you, Alex, for teaching me in a rather somber way to appreciate someone no matter how much they push my buttons. So right now, in spirit, I’m cranking up the punk rock and throwing half-empty PBR bottles at your gravestone, biker style, and screaming obscenities at you, you MF. Smashed glass is scattered everywhere and beer is flowing into the ground. I know you’d want it that way because we all talked about it this past summer one night. Drink up, man . . . you will be missed.

What a great day!

A day where we all go into the street and actually look one another in the eye and smile and breathe deeply and ripple out “Happy Thanksgiving!” to complete strangers in a glorious peal of laughter and we mean it. A moment of opportunity to reach out to others and realize that we’re all made of the same stuff. A time that the blood pressure is down because everyone moves slower, reaches out and the cities and towns just seem a bit quieter.

This year, I got all sappy.

It’s not always been this way.  Sure, I’ve had a majority of sappy and glowing Thanksgiving holidays. But, I’ve also had tearful Thanksgivings and Thanksgivings full of dread and awkward feelings. I’ve thrown up several times at late night Thanksgiving after parties from trying to wash the absurdities of the day away with strong liquor.

The craziest year was the time when my grandpa’s new wife insisted that both sides of the entire family watch a video called “All About Dialysis” while we ate a take-out turkey dinner with them. Yeah, I’m fairly certain I puked that year.

But generally, I’m thankful for the stories my elders tell. I’m thankful of those little moments when Grandma is making the gravy and she’s got flour stuck to her fingers and while her back is turned, someone feeds the dog a little scrap of turkey. I’m thankful that my Mom and Dad are the sort of folks who take serious mid-afternoon Thanksgiving nap-marathons if that’s what they feel like doing. I’m thankful for family and friends and the wacky wonder of life and all the characters I meet along the way.

Happy Thanksgiving! May you have reasons to be sappy and happy and thankful and full of love and bounty - today and every day!

Where are my contact lenses? Headlamp? Voter registration? ID? And where did my lucky spoon run off to?

These sorts of questions have plagued my existence the past eight months. About two months into my wacky cross-country journey this year, I began using the blender analogy. Take all of my possessions, put them in a giant blender and then spread them randomly across five non-contiguous states in the US and that’s pretty much been my mixed-up world for most of this year.

The moment I learned to laugh at the folly of it all was Memorial Day weekend in the Atlanta airport parking labyrinth.  I carried a soccer-ball-sized jumble of keys and couldn’t remember which car of the three in my rather loose custody that I’d parked in the lot. My own car was in storage in New Mexico and I had rental cars from both Texas and South Carolina. As we approached the lot number printed on my ticket, the bus driver said, “What kind of car?”

“I’m . . . um . . . , ” I consulted the mess of keys with a furrowed brow. “Not sure.”

“Huh, look at that,” the driver guffawed to the entire bus. “She don’t know which car she drove here! Wish I had that problem!” And we all laughed.

From then on, I stopped freaking out about misplaced items.  When I lost my contacts, I just wore my glasses, provided I could locate them, and if not, well, I just walked around blind and laughing. Then I decided that I didn’t really need my headlamp to be my woobie/security blanket any more, and I still haven’t found the darned thing. The voter registration is still in the ether somewhere too, but I was able to find my ID in time to vote, so no harm done. And my lucky spoon that’s traveled at least 10,000 miles? Seems I left it at home this last time, where I discovered it nestled in the silverware drawer upon my return. Lucky for the spoon, ’cause I’m sure I would have lost it somewhere between Tenn-Tucky and Holly Springs, Mississippi.

Although I made light of it, the blender of my life took a toll on me that I didn’t really notice until I got back to LA this past month. I’ve been wound up and overwhelmed because although all the stuff was suddenly in one place again, the blender had pureed everything into a smoothie of confusion. The power drill was found, but where was the charger? My one lonely Smart Wool sock was crying out for it’s long lost mate. I stopped wearing any sort of jewelry about two months ago, for fear that I’d lose some irreplaceable accessory.

The result was that I’ve been on edge and really didn’t even realize why until yesterday. I took a deep breath and came to my storage space/art studio in disguise. My goal? To deconstruct the blender. Two days of climbing ladders, sorting through dirt (yes, dirt) and dumping out about 10 banker’s boxes onto the floor and now I’ve gotten my flotsam of stuff whipped into recognizable and findable shape. Several trips to the Tabernacle Thrift Store and I’ve suddenly got less to worry about. The charger is found, the socks are reunited and tomorrow I plan to don some shiny things - at least one ring and a necklace.

I’ve regained that underlying sense of calm and ease that I lost somewhere on the road earlier in the year. Just in time too, because I’m leaving again very soon, destination to be announced in the coming weeks. And this time, I’m leaving with just my Italian army backpack.

Finally.

I’m tired. Can’t think of words. But, suffice to say, I’ve emptied the bottle of the two buck Chuck and now my wonderful boyfriend Matt is here to pick me up. I’m going home, going to bed.

When I left for Albuquerque in February, I’d just taken a studio space and was offered a distant location job one day later, so the space became a high priced storage unit. Now, fast forward to November and two full days of work and wine and I’ve turned this space around from mere storage space to fully functioning art studio.  Two days ago, I was literally crying - with real live tears, buckets of them - just ask Matt, he’s the one who kissed them away - because I needed a space to shut out the world and get to work.

And now it’s done. And now I’m tired (and kinda drunk). And can’t find words. But that’s ok, because I’m excited about tomorrow, and those words that I live my life for will be there, waiting for me to set them free.

Election Day - Morning. It’s a gorgeous sun-shiney day.

So, I just got out of the acupuncturist’s office and I’m all zen and shit, ’cause I just got poked with needles in my feet, neck and third eye chakra in an attempt to de-stress-ify myself and I’m walking to the polls to vote for CHANGE. I did my research. Not only was I ecstatic about voting for the new president, but I also knew how I wanted to vote on every single California Proposition on the ballot. I had a cheat sheet with me just so I would get it right.

As I said before, this year I chose not to work the polls. When I do not work the polls, I am a bit of a polling-place watchdog because I know that most people are not familiar with polls, having never worked them and have no idea what to expect. And since I do know a bit about polling place law, I keep an eye out in an effort to keep the process as pure as possible - because when dealing with the public, you get all kinds of folks with all kinds of passions - especially during this election.

As I walked up to my polling place, a lady with an anti-Prop 8 t-shirt tried to give me a flyer endorsing a “no” vote on Proposition 8. For those living outside of California (or under a rock), Proposition 8 was a church sponsored measure to overturn the same-sex marriage law and to legally define a marriage as a union between one man and one woman. Of course, I’m not a bigoted asshole, so I already had plans on voting “no” on Prop 8. But I was afraid that the activist was within 100′ of a polling place, so I stopped to tell her that she needed to be outside of the 100′ range of the front door. She informed me that the yellow signs on the hill above where she stood marked the required 100′. I smiled, gave her a thumbs up and went on my merry-zen way.

Then some crotchety, bitter, older woman on the verge of being elderly stomped up in line behind me. She was withered, her mouth set in a perpetual sneer,  with bleach-blond hair and a nose so crooked that she could have drowned had it been raining too hard. The only reason I noticed her was because after she got in line behind me, she began yelling toward the anti-Prop 8 woman on the street. I felt, and still feel, like I may have jumped the gun a lil’ bit and maybe have been too over-zealous about my self-appointed polling watchdog duties. But did I hear the tone in the older woman’s voice coupled with the angry sneer and then the words came out of her mouth.

“No, you have to listen to me,” she shouted at the anti-Prop 8 activist who was standing where she legally had to be, on the sidewalk, over 100′ away. I was NOT going to listen to this angry woman have any sort of screaming match over this issue, not while I was in line and not within that god-damned 100′ of pure voter safe haven. No, not on my watch,  I didn’t care if this insidious woman was my neighbor or not. Besides, hey, isn’t this Venice, California, the sanctuary of freak-dom?

“You know what?” I said to the sneering, screaming, finger-pointing woman. “If you want to have a conversation with her,” I pointed toward the anti-Prop 8 lady on the street, “then by law you have to do it on the other side of these yellow signs.”

The screaming lady turned to me and said, “You have a real attitude, you know that?” My zen began to melt. I guess I pointed my finger in her face when I repeated the mandate, “You have to go speak to her from over there,” I said. “Because right now you are within 100′ of a polling place and I don’t want to hear it.”

“You need to get your finger out of my face.” The old biddy shouted at me. She got within inches of my face, definitely violating my personal space and repeated her plan of attack on me. “You have to listen to me . . .”

I cut her off, because yeah, I have an Annatude all right and I don’t have to do anything, least of all listen to her nonsense. “Actually, I refuse to listen to you.” I said.

She countered with a furied stutter. “C-c-an I just . . . ask you one-one question. God, you have real attitude, you know that?” She looked like she wanted to spit, she was so angry.

“I do not wish to have a conversation with you.” I said, and turned my back. And thankfully, those zen-melted words were enough to keep her quiet or else it could have gotten real ugly, real quick because I was for-real angry. And people in line all around the two of us were dead silent. No one dared speak to or look at either one of us the entire time. The line wasn’t very long, but the 15 minute wait seemed like hours to me. The crazy lady left the line more than once, mumbling to herself, each time asking the lady behind her if she’d hold her place in line.

Each time she returned, much to my dismay, she claimed her rightful place in line, right behind me. I couldn’t believe how different this line was than the other precinct down the street. I went to the incorrect polling place earlier in the morning and was met by hordes of cheerful people with wide grins who were as ecstatic about voting as I. We all merrily chirped about the fact that together, we were all about to make history.

This polling place experience was turning out so much differently. Much to my chagrin, she would be right there in line behind me, potentially listening as I gave my name and address to the roster clerk. And because we live in the same precinct, she was more than likely a neighbor of mine. As soon as I gave the clerk my name and address, I kept an open ear in order to hear hers. (And you know what? I found out where that bitch lives. And I caught her last name too. She’s a couple of streets over.)

So, I voted. Right as I started my monthly cramps. Right as some guy who was next in line for an open booth answered his cell phone and said in a booming authoritative kind of voice, “Oh, I can’t talk. I’m in line next to vote,”  and proceeded to negotiate some sort of business deal over the phone for what seemed like a fucking eternity. I glared at him as I stabbed the ballot with my inky stylus, re-read the questions so I would make no mistakes, and felt another cramp in my lower belly. Ahhh, it made so much more sense now as to my state of mind!

When I exited my precinct polling place, the bitchy ole blonde was nowhere to be found, thankfully. But I did approach the anti-Prop 8 lady for a little bit of gossip. “Hey,” I said, “I’m sorry I started any shit with that crazy old woman. I just didn’t want to hear her heckle you.” I should mention that at this point I still wasn’t sure if I was just an off-the-wall, crazed PMS-ing troublemaker or if I had any reason to be justified in my poll line actions.

“It’s OK,” the anti-Prop 8 lady smiled. She knew exactly who I was talking about. “Someone told me that while she voted, she mumbled, ‘Jesus is watching me vote right now.”

It pains me to say that all of those Christian people are at home smiling right now, patting themselves on the back, because although as a country we all have a victory in the White House, Prop 8 did in fact pass in California with a razor-thin margin.

I still can’t believe that crazy old woman is my neighbor and I still can’t believe that she thinks that Jesus was watching her vote, sitting on his cloud, halo on his head and smiling down at her. And most of all, I honestly can’t believe I got so bent out of shape by the entire incident.

Are you all as nervous as I am?

I remember how it felt four years ago when Bush got re-elected. My boyfriend and I buried ourselves underneath the bed covers and cried. Like so many others we knew, we swore (but kinda didn’t really mean it) that we were moving to Canada. Then we actually called Canada. We got a recorded message from the government of Canada explaining that they were too swamped with requests. Then I remember just being thoroughly depressed and uncomfortable and angry.

I remember eight years ago when Bush first got elected. I volunteered helping to set up all the event barricades in Nashville for what we all just knew was going to be Al Gore’s victory party. I just remember how dejected and defeated we all felt as the horror unfolded - like a balloon that has a slow leak. The UN-reality of the situation hit so hard that everyone was stone silent. I remember one of my friends crying and wringing her hands and saying, “This is soooo bad. Do you all know how bad this is? We’re fucked! We’re really, really fucked.”

And at the time, I really had no idea what she was talking about. But, as I came to realize, she was oh so right.

So, now, I’m nervous. I usually volunteer to work at my local polling place on election day, but I just couldn’t bring myself to sign up this time. I’d rather be out and about in the public arena when I wake up in the morning, watching the media outlets tell the sensational tale in their biased manner. I want to be ready for anything instead of feeling like I just got sucker-punched. Again. This time I at least want to be able to brace myself.

Honestly, like many of you, I’m sitting here thinking, “Will Virginia be the new Ohio or Florida?” I hope not. I fear the ground work for that kind of debacle has already been laid.

Most of all, just get out there and vote. Please. I really do care who you vote for in the end, but I’m not going to get preachy about it. Just vote. Please. I also encourage you to ask to see the roster at your polling place late in the afternoon or early evening. This way, you can see who has not come out to vote yet and you can go knock on the doors of your neighbors who haven’t voted yet, and urge them to do so or help them if they need a ride or other assistance.

And for goodness sake, please be nice to those poll workers. They essentially are volunteers who work a 14-hour day and might get some coffee and donuts for their trouble, but they are too busy to eat anyway. Be compassionate, please.

 I think I found my true calling in life - A Day Of The Dead dancing banana!

Backstage before the Day of The Dead Bootie LA Mashup performance of “Hollaback Thriller.”

That shit was bananas! B-A-N-A-N-A-N-A-N-A-S! Why? ‘Cause this is Thriller-night! Then, the break-dancing gorilla came out on stage and tried to eat me . . . .

I’ve been home exactly two weeks and one day now.

Every time I return from a long journey, I find that while I’m happy to be home, it takes a couple of weeks to get settled back into the life I temporarily left behind. And often the result is, unfortunately, that I get overwhelmed and completely freaked out about getting back to my old routine quickly. So much so,  that of course, I put writing off while I run around like a chicken with my head cut off, trying to get things done, dammit.

Get the old Schwinn beach cruiser fixed - there’s always something wrong with it when I come home and if I don’t get it fixed, then I resort to walking everywhere instead, which is fine, but it takes a lot longer to get from place to place.  And don’t forget, I’m trying to get things done. Get doctor and dentist and acupuncture and vet appointments in - make that insurance work for me, ’cause I never know how much longer I’ll have it.

And deal with the broken furniture, there’s always some broken furniture that needs to be fixed when I get home. This time it’s my armoire. So, I’m not using it right now. The result is a giant pile of clothing on the floor in my cramped bedroom. When I can’t find clothes to wear, it’s difficult to get motivated in the morning.

This time when I got back home from being gone for so long, the need to purge a lot of possessions has been one of the highest priorities on my list. I’ve been stacking up books, gadgets, art supplies, clothes and anything I can find that I haven’t used or won’t use anytime soon and carting everything out the front door. The curb is my friend - along with the thrift store. And I had a giant yard sale. That helped.

And don’t you know it, the second I return home from a long journey, my body says, “Nope, sorry, I’m the one who’s taking a vacation now.”   So, I spent all last week lying in bed barely able to breathe from a nasty head cold, but I did manage to finish reading an entire novel and that was nice. I don’t think I’ve ever gone through an entire box of kleenexes like that before. I’m back to the land of the living now and just have no idea where to start . . . “can’t find clothes. Can’t put clothes into broken armoire, oh fuck it, I should just go on a bike ride, but oh yeah, I’m naked” . . . that’s kind of my thought process.

So here I stew in a swamp of clothing, papers, errands and doctor visits. I want to get it all done now. I can’t. I accept it. But there is a sense of urgency, because although I have not formally announced the destination - I’m heading off in about six weeks on another very long journey. I’m excited about it, but need to get a lot of things done before jetting off again, so I’m also kind of stressed. I’m trying to enjoy Venice as much as I can while I prepare to leave again. It’s a strange dichotomy and I find I’m not really able to enjoy sliding into the chill Venice groove while at the same time feeling the hustle and go-go-go of impending departure.

I just try to smile as much as I can and be thankful instead of bitchy, grateful instead of impatient and happy instead of overwhelmed. Gosh, these palm trees and blue skies certainly don’t suck. I have wonderful friends, opportunities and resources in my life. And as my acupuncturist made me realize today - I do know exactly what I want and I’m damn lucky for that because there are a whole lot of people who wander through their entire lives and never know exactly what it is they want.

Yeah, and I’m trying to breathe more too. I’ll keep ya’ll posted on that.

It’s a new movement habit with myself and a few of my other thirty-something girlfriends. We sit together, drink tea and bitch about how much money our IRA’s have dumped in the last quarter. There is always a napkin, usually cloth because paper is so less environmentally friendly you know, to daub crumpet-crumbed mouths. And you’d better believe there is a stack of coasters on hand to protect the expensive mahogany Edwardian secretary desk with the satinwood inlay from accidental water marks.

We know the best Feng Shui masters in all of Los Angeles. We exchange both plant cuttings and hair color advice. We sup wine and eat exotic Thai from down the street on china plates that we’ve inherited from our grandmothers. The hiring and firing of plumbers, fine chocolates, adrenal fatigue and the best way to gracefully quit a job are topics of late. To meet with my friends over tea after being gone so long is comforting, but there is, at least with me, a pervasive air of unsettledness and restlessness.

I really try to suppress the desire throw rocks at the annoying kids down the street or howl at the yuppie assholes to walk away from the Pink Berry, back slowly away from the hundred-dollar t-shirt store and get the fuck off my unfortunately-ever-more-gentrified Venice sidewalks. I try not to focus on Wal-Mart, the economy, the election - all of it encapsulated within an unending media circus that just gets me more and more distracted and annoyed and cranky and feeling all helpless and well . . . part of the manipulated, depressed sheeple (part sheep, part people) faction of society.

It’s my goal to put that angst into some other more responsible, creative and gratifying outlets. So forgive me that I’ve been gone from blogging for a few weeks. I’ve just really not been too much fun to be around. I’ve been giving myself an AnnaTude adjustment.

Then I realize I’ve been on the road for a solid year. One entire year! And I take a big sigh and get all overwhelmed with catching up on all the dumb life stuff awaiting me now that I’ve returned home. Boring shit like doctors, the vet and taxes.

Yesterday I was at my favorite thrift store in Venice, The Bible Tabernacle Thrift Store, donating stuff back to them that I’ve carted out of there over the years. I was so happy to see that they were still in business and still had the same funky style even though the grungy ole beer store next to them has been remodeled into Lincoln Ave Fine Wines and a Whole Foods megaplex has taken over the defunct Big Lots space in the stripmall down the street.

John, the unassuming guy who runs the Tabernacle, perked up when he saw me walk in the store. “I haven’t seen you in wow, how long has it been . . . ? Did you have a good time on your journey?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied, “It’s been wonderful and tough sometimes, too . . . but in the end it was everything a good journey is supposed to be.” Then a smile crept across my face again. And it hasn’t left yet.

Then I realize I’ve been on the road for a solid year. One entire year! And I’m smiling still and grateful, because it has been an exciting year and I am living a dream.

We drove 20 and a half hours straight from Texas back to LA. We hit LA just in time for the glory of morning rush hour. We could have stopped somewhere for the night, but between worrying about the safety of the stuff in my car and dealing with pulling out the cat and kitty litter . . . (sigh) we just decided it’d be best to wreck our minds and bodies and push forward. I’m not able to get back into my bungalow til mid-October. We’re staying in a friend’s awesome little guest house in Highland Park. I am thankful for place to land and even more thankful that it’s with a friend.

Yesterday I was cranky upon arrival. And hot! It was HOT here - 100 degrees plus. I tried to go to sleep, but the caffeine in my system made me toss and turn. Plus, the bed radiated heat. I could feel it coming up in waves. And the fan blew hot air. There was just no escape from the yuck of the searing, mother-fucking oppressive heat!!!

I was numb yesterday - having just returned from an exciting and surprising 8 month adventure with lots of twists and turns, starts and stops not to mention changes and amendments in plan, I just didn’t know anything but blank numbness. And crankiness. Raaarg! Did I mention cr-r-anky? I sat inside a corner restaurant in a foreign-to-me Los Angeles neighborhood drinking water with ice cubes melting faster than the polar ice caps and really wondered what the hell I was I thinking, coming back to Los Angeles.

Then I went back home and took a nap, awoke at sunset in a puddle of sweat and cat hair, drank a couple of glasses of wine, listened to an Ella Fitzgerald record, listened to the closeness of the neighbors as I was tucked away inside my comfortable space and read a book as I sprawled out in the middle of the hardwood floor. I was beginning to feel better.

Then my friends came home. We all sat on the patio and Matt and I re-told hours of our summertime adventure stories. We laughed and joked and drank cold water that we’d put in the freezer hours before. I heard that the hot day was just a fluke. I still am looking forward to getting back to Venice, though, where I can roller skate to my heart’s content with cool ocean breezes tumbling through my hair.

I woke up this morning with a slight lingering crankiness, but now that I’ve had some tea and an English muffin and plans to jet over to Venice to empty my cram-packed worrisome car, I seem to be all sun-shiney once again.