I would never kick this puppy

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Despite what might have been said, Gladys, I would only smother this puppy with love and kisses.

Next time I feel the need to punish my body and cry blood I will let you know

Spin was a bad choice. Punishing my body perched on a metal bike while attempting not to black-out is not my idea of a rewarding morning.

It is however sister's new past time. She wakes up at the crack of dawn to get in her exercise before work. She is kind enough to invite me every time.

This is a motivation that can not be aroused in my personal being. We have completely different exercise styles, which is not an issue for me. I go to yoga every week to lengthen, strengthen and be part of a community. She can hustle into the dark of morning and strap herself to a hard bike seat all she wants.

I decided spin at 10 a.m. was doable. Not sure why I thought a time change would make all the difference. Trying to push forward with "climb a hill" resistance still makes my heart want to explode just as much at 10 as it does at seven in the morning.

Dustin the spiky-haired spin teacher helped me adjust my bike as a first timer. He explained the general description of the work-out with a microphone already strapped to his face. I tried to look more informed and prepared than the other new girl next to me.

The bikes are cramped into a small concrete room facing a wall of mirrors. That way we can watch the pounds shed and the blood pour off our thick thighs. This adds the bonus of being able to watch the chunky girl in the corner sweat and feel immensely better about your own form.

Some skinny chick with Rambo arms glared at me from across the room. Not sure if she hated my sweatband or her life for coming to spin class.

Never thought I would ever be so motivated by a Ray J club mix. Dustin seemed extra pumped when the Mylie Cyrus remix and mouthed the words while he told us to "tap it up."

I started to hate him from deep within my burning core.

I tried to find the woman who kept woohooing upon every increase in resistance to give a death stare in the mirror. Instead I found the chunky girl again and we exchanged a mutual look of fear. It's the exerciser's friendly hello.

Tunnel vision brought the exits into focus. No way to sneak out and avoid a complete fail.

For all the times I complained as we moved from Warrior two into a twisted airplane, I repent. Yoga may cause my muscles to be weak and my knee to shake like a jackhammer, but it's nothing a bowl of great noodles can't solve.

By the time I could drown-out Dustin's voice and pedal to the rhythm of beat, the class was over.

I applauded myself for surviving and whispered threats to sister about taking her to see Bryan Kest at Wednesday night yoga. I almost fell asleep mid-step after his last class. I was on the stairs, so luckily that didn’t happen.

At home in the shower, I found a drinking glass I left full of a clear tea tree oil treatment. The glass had a lipstick mark on the rim. I almost slipped on my head from hysterical laughter. Sister does not want to know what I used that for.

Guess we can call it even.

I found the spot. I dreamt Carter was there and Sara and Bryan and Phillip, too.

A comfortable coffee/tea shop is to the writer what the perfect gym is to the health nut or the home bar to the chronic drinker. It’s the home where they don’t make you clean-up after yourself.

Still without an apartment to call my own, finding a spot that I can gather my ramblings and organize my thoughts is crucial.

In most cafes in the area the fight for an outlet or table space is a match to the death. I’m still seething about the owners painstakingly covering the outlets at the Intelligensia on Abbot Kinney. They really just don’t want people hanging around.

I do understand a bit after I almost punched a lady for hogging two outlets leaving me high and dry. Before the rage rose to scene causing levels, I left without saying a word. The heat waves coming off my head must have been visible to everyone in my path.

Named after the location, 212 Pier in Santa Monica however is just the place to sit and stay awhile.

The ample plugs and a free WIFI sign is a welcome view. The rows of bookshelves lining the walls do not detour visitors from grabbing a table bordering the literature. Although they are for sale, many look like they have and will be here for years to come.

Windows with peeling paint and broken hinges allow natural light to soak into the high ceilings. Precariously hung art covers the walls. Mismatched plush seats and tiled tables are scattered into a snug fit. Boys with disheveled hair and corduroy blazer discuss current topics with girls with tight jeans and flannels.

Dear Lord, The Shins just started to play. I might never leave.

I am almost transformed into my Kalamazoo workplace, The Strutt, where I was the counter girl listening to music of my choice, dolling judge on the decaf, non-fat, sugar-free lattes. There is a chunk in my heart missing without my trusted co-workers and favorite regulars.

There is even someone hammering near-by.

Right now at The Strutt I know my former boss is discussing the best way to remove the current stage and build one in the most challenging and impractical matter, tools scattered about in disregard.

In 212 Pier, I found a secluded locale on the deserted end of the loft. Not only do I have a bird’s eye view of the entrance and counter, but I found a leather office chair with a tall back. Everything in the space looks as though someone kicked it a few times.

My smoothie is fantastic made with soy, albeit not acai for they were out. The hip girl at the counter didn’t even tease me for saying it wrong. I couldn’t resist a delightful Christmas tree sugar cookie covered in sprinkles. Tis the season.

Now time for the real work. Let’s just hope the meter maid ignores the time limit for my ill-parked car. This might take a while.

Why must you mock me with your witty marketing and specifically designed font?

Stick a fork in me. I officially don't want to have to look at any more apartments to call me own. When the reports say this is a buyers/renters market this is no joke.

Trying to find an apartment to rent in Los Angeles right now is like trying to find a date in a sex-addicts support group. You score every time.

It's a free for all out here.

For now I will settle for a view.

For every listing that I find there are at least three or four signs posted along the way. I can afford to be picky even though I can't afford to pay the bloated housing prices of yore. The gravitational pull towards to ocean is a draw on the 'ol purse strings, if you know what I mean.

Refusing to settle is downright gluttonous. I can't even chose between detailed menu items or an extensive beer list, let alone a smorgasbord of housing units.

"More hardwood floors please and extra closet space if you have it. Oh, and definitely go easy on the security deposit, they never sit quite well with me."

This search is becoming an obsession. As a Scorpio, I need to be able to find security and comfort within my living quarters. This is an vendetta to find the perfect space for two, albiet tiring.

Two is the perfect number as it turns out. Listings are being thrown at us. Not only do I get to live with a rad chick who boasts a near complete wardrobe, but we get to save loads of money compared to the single chumps living in a closet.

Although I did almost sell my soul for a "two bedroom," or shall we say a glorified hotel room with a stow-away, for the closest I will get to an ocean-view for many years to come.

Somewhere my sanity is out there. Despite severe repulsion to haggling paired with an inability to commit, we will find a place to rest our weary heads. Persistence, my friends is key.

Thinking about what I will do once I strap myself into a lease without any furniture or plans for the future almost made me vomit in the middle of Anthropologie today.

Surrounded by a gaggle of stoneware mugs, clever wall hangings and decorative cutlery I realized that I couldn't afford to furnish the humble abode that I so dearly sought after. Curses.

Once I get the place, I can then agonize over each piece of furniture that enters the threshold. Since I don't anticipate any financial benefactors any time soon, the place will probably be complete by the time we move out. Eight months seems about right.

What's wrong with shacking-up with an air mattress for a while? I can create a nest in the corner with old newspaper and use cardboard for warm. I'll just wear an extra pair of socks to bed.

One thing at a time people, one thing at a time.

Trapped in a steal box of emotion

Trying to entertain my parents is like convincing a cat that bath time is a leisurely activity. I love those two, but if allowed they will sit inside a hotel room only to emerge for a short walk before bed.

Grandma Peach has a pacemaker and two bad knees and still has more chutzpah than these two.

Sister and I decide to plan activities for our parents' big California visit. If you organize a day then parents feel obligated to participate.

The Getty is a fine way to show the beauty of LA and cater to our parents' taste. Pops loves to look at static, yet historic monuments. Mama digs scenic walks and when pops is content. Perfect.

Thank you sister for swallowing your distaste for all things ancient and historical.

Poor thing got taken to the Getty Villa on some cruel joke. The place is chocked full of statues of men throwing discs with leaves covering their dainty junk. This person obviously had never met my sister.

This is also the perfect opportunity to play papa-paparazzi. I am in possession of a fantastic film SLR camera that has only been collecting dust.

So we pack ourselves into sister's car and Pops and I sing along to the Beatles while sister tries to ignore the vein pulsating in her forehead.

We wander around the grounds on the pristine day. The skyline was actually visible due to a surprising lack of smog. I shoot every inch of it pretending to know how to adjust the lens.

I haven't used a film camera since about 1995. Pops is a former professional photographer. Now he is just the most anal person to ever take a picture.

He helped me find the right aperture and didn't even make fun of me for loading my first spool of film wrong. So much for documenting my trip to the Japanese gardens.

The Getty is beautiful.

There are some solid impressionist pieces, my personal favorite. The traveling exhibit was phenomenal. Irving Penn is a rad dude. Anyone that can see a photographic opportunity with an overweight man selling chamois in the street is alright in my book.



Now that I set the scene for our lovely outing, let me say we tried to leave the Getty at 5:00 p.m. Sister wanted to jump on the 405 to get home.

For those of you who don't realize what this foolhardy attempt means, I would rather wait in line at the DMV all day than sit in bumper to bumper traffic with my darling family.

Driving with Pops as a passenger is like bringing a seven-year-old on a road trip.



This is where things go downhill.

I tell her to avoid the 405. Dad starts babbling about needing to find food as soon as possible. Sister yells that she doesn't know how else to get home and that we will be meeting her boyfriend in two hours for a nice meal. Dad informs her that he must eat something now. Mom backs him up talking about low-blood sugar and needing sustenance.

The pitch in sister's voice starts to escalate.

Jill the trusty BMW guide leads us to a closed entrance ramp for the 405. Sister has the navigation system, so she never bothered to learn the streets anywhere in the city.

Sister's voice starts to rise. I sense the tone.

sister: "I don't know where we are, so if you want to tell me side streets to get home, then tell me."

me: "Tell me where we are and I will tell you how to get home. I own a map."

sister: "I don't know where we are, Katee."

Dad (clicking away on his phone): "Hey, I found a Burger King nearby. We can get food there."

sister: "Dad, I need to figure out where we are going."

me: "Dad, not the time."

Mama tries to calmly explain that we will find food after we figure out how to get home.

We navigate through a quiet residential neighborhood. We maneuver through busy streets. Jill leads us into the thick of traffic. The flow of traffic gets denser. We pull onto the thick of traffic on Centinela. We are stopped.

Damn you, Jill.

Pops starts to complain about stopping anywhere, just any gas station for food. Mama warns sister to not make a turn around in this heavy of traffic, voice strained. I am looking at sister. Her voice is tense. I apologize for not telling sister to take Barrington as we sit in traffic. Sister tells me to fuck off. I hum to the Beatles. Dad gets antsy about his food choices. Mama goes on once again about low-blood sugar.

me: "I swear, if you two make her stroke out and we have to be in THAT car stopped in the middle of traffic, I am going to be more than pissed."

Sister stops at 7-eleven and we all evacuate the car. Sister dials boyfriend alone in the car.

me: "Hey dad, I want these chips okay?"

Pops (to the cashier): "How fresh is your hotdog?"

We made it home in about an hour and a half. Glad to say we made it home safely and in time for dinner.

sister: "Is that what you guys are wearing?"

Needless to say, there were no more excursions for this visit.

Dance little turkey, dance

The parents decided that this Thanksgiving they would grace us with their presence. Now that both of their lovely daughters are in the Golden State, the parents are willing to brave the airport and the pleasant SoCal weather.

While I have been calling sister’s couch home for only a few months, this would be the first time since sister moved here three years ago Papa Peach would make a trip out. Mama came to see her once. My parents rarely travel and opt for sending the prodigal daughter a plan ticket to the Midwest.

I of course, got very excited about the whole thing and started planning my first thanksgiving dinner. Sister broke out into a cold sweat.

Sister and I had very different approaches on how the Thanksgiving dinner would play out.

I wanted a traditional meal and the chance to see if I could produce an edible turkey without burning the house down. Sister wanted a fancy dining experience for a no muss, no fuss chance for her new man to meet our parents.

This conflict did not play-out nicely. We should have televised the brawl on pay-per-view as we shouted at each other over how to have the perfect, stress-free meal. Mike Tyson played a cleaner match.

In the end we both came to our senses, meaning years of training as the little sister made me apologize for yelling, but stubborn enough to get my way. Sister vowed to have nothing to do with the meal, except eat it and not be happy about the whole mess.

Victory is mine.

I turned into a regular Martha extraordinaire. Despite not having all the correct baking tools and no dining table to eat upon, we were going to have the best damn Thanksgiving meal I could muster and everyone better love it. Plus, mama said she would help me not fuck it up.

I fought through the crowds at Trader Joe’s to get the 14-lb. antibiotic free, vegetarian fed, free-range turkey of my dreams. They only had the kosher ones left, but I figured it could only be a bonus. To get out of the madness, I threw a few elbows and escaped with the turkey and my life.

I do want to say that even though I did the detox and claimed in the post previous to cut down on my meat consumption, in my book Thanksgiving doesn’t count. Especially, when I get to cook for my family that traveled so many miles just to see their daughters.

Plus, it’s kosher. That's got to count for something.

Warning: do not try to go out for one drink the night before Thanksgiving, even though it is the biggest bar night of the year, when there is a turkey brining-away in the fridge.

One drink turned into several and before I knew it I was jabbering away about my delicious dinner, while trying to beat some ass playing a video trivia game with fellow booze-hounds.

I did make it back to dump the brine after the allotted 6 to 8 hours. The turkey marinated in sea salt, molasses and cool water with crushed anise and cinnamon sticks for flavor.

This is after I let mama clean out the gizzards and I made its little body dance around for a while. Best. vegetarian. ever.

The best part about thanksgiving is not only preparing a delicious bird carcass for your family, but making after-thanksgiving sandwiches for weeks to come.

Each year I try to perfect the combination of white meat, cheddar cheese, cranberry sauce, toasted bread and mixed greens. This year I will incorporate cornbread stuffing as I recently became a fan.

I get weeks of turkey dinner leftovers to feast upon. Especially since, I spent all my grocery money on this free-range, loving life turkey. Lucky me.

The turkey turned out beautiful by the way. We did smoke-out the house and send the family running into the street for a bit of time. What’s a family gathering without a bit of excitement?

So what, if the rolls tasted a bit like smoke. Some people aim for that flame-kissed flavor.

I think it was gross negligence on the LAFD’s part who did nothing as smoke billowed out of the apartment. With a fire station just across the street, who are we to depend on for assistance in a real disaster?

Oh no, here come the meat sweats again.

Next year, I'll let someone else do the cooking. I'll bring the tofurkey.

Fraser, thank you for sneaking me a pumpkin treat when no one was looking. Sorry for causing that look of fear in your eyes.

After celebrating my birthday for two weeks, going to Vegas and eating more meat over the course of two days than this Veggie has eaten in months, I decided to go on a fast. This detox involves a regimen of lemons, cayenne pepper and molasses mixed in liter of water.

You drink this and only this for as long as you can survive it. I aimed for seven days.

Focusing on the positive aspects of removing toxins in my body, shedding any excess pounds, sleeping better and restarting a healthy eating plan at ground zero, kept me motivated for about three days. Then reality set in.

I work at the french bakery and cafe. My job entails making coffee and perfecting each drink to Intelligensia standards. Throughout the shift I must adjust the espresso grind and taste the shots pulled to get the optimal flavor. This is serious coffee.

This is not possible on a detox. A few sips of espresso make my hands shake and my heart beat against my ribcage like a trapped rabbit. Not to mention, the edge I already have from an addiction to caffeine that I am trying to kick.

Standing in a sea of pastel macaroons, hazelnut cream puffs and a variety of fruit muffins and croissants that melt in your mouth, I realized that I had made a grave mistake. Dear lord, it's like inviting a sex fiend into a brothel.


The jumbo cupcake people, this is what I'm dealing with. This is not the first time we have met cupcake, now you are now my foe.

It's not that I actually felt hungry in the sense of an empty stomach. I just wanted to consume every pastry in a five block radius. All I could think about was food while standing among temptation in every flavor.

We also get a free meal with every shift. I had to sit and pretend like I was making important memos with my phone for a half hour.

By day four, I had to resist the strong impulse to punch everyone near me in the face, especially children. My eye starting twitching uncontrollably and I was ready to burst into tears at any given moment. Don't worry this is a good sign that I'm making progress.

This detox would be no problem if I worked at an office where all I had to do was resist visiting food sites on the computer and empty the mini-fridge in my cubicle. Instead, my boss decided to break into the latest pastry creations for the holiday season to share with all of the employees. I tried to ignore the bead of sweat forming on the small of my back as my co-workers each grabbed for a slice of a pumpkin ganache tart.


"Oh my God, this is orgasmic." Commence the yummy noises.

Thoughts of grabbing the nearest pen and gouging out someone's eye out, made me realize that maybe this is not the right time in my life for this. Best excuse myself. I sucked down a cigarette in the back alley like a convict in a prison yard.

Five days seems like a legit time to flush out some of the deep friend animal carcass I enjoyed so damn much. Instead of food deprivation, I am sticking to a healthy eating plan to keep my skin clear and my thoughts less vicious. I even will allow a minimal amount of carbs to keep me sane.

"Oh! Glad to see you eating croissants again," said a co-worker yesterday. She was in the process of moving all the ballpoint pens from away my station.

Glad to be back.

I want to go out in blazing glory or in a freak carnival accident where I am flung into a large crowd injuring many

Drunk driving is an issue in L.A. I prefer to stay closer to home when possible and stumble my way back to the homestead. Not only do you work off some of the alcohol, but you can meet some really interesting bums on the way.

Keep in mind that over 1.4 million U.S. drivers were arrested for driving under the influence of alcohol or narcotics in 2007, according to the Centers for Disease Control. Yet, this is less than one percent of the 159 million self-reported episodes of alcohol-impaired driving each year.

There was about 197,000 DUI arrests in California, according to the state. This accounts for 14 percent of the entire barrage of arrests in the country for hitting the sauce a little too hard. That's a lot of drunk people in a concentrated area.

It’s just common fact in the city how to take the back roads and to avoid the cops at all cost. I mean racial profiling is also a major reason to avoid cops, but that’s another topic.

To even find that statistic I had to scroll through pages of defense attorney links promising release from the long arm of the law. That means a lot of people using their thumbs as sight checks to stay between the lines as they swerve down the road.

It’s like in Montana where everyone drives around sucking down drinks in hand. They speed down deserted highways trying to hit mountain goats with beer cans. I heard this boasted from a very reliable and drunken Montana resident.

It’s kind of like that in L.A., but the exact opposite. There are so many things to do in this sprawling city that one has to fight herds of traffic to get downtown to see the really cool shit. This means either an outrageous cab fee or attempting to be sober sally with the stern grimace planted on your face the entire night.

Of course, chicks really dig guys that arrive in B.M.Ws as well. It can’t hurt.

This tactic is about as well thought out as the time I bought rope shoes at a music festival. At the time, I just wanted more comfortable shoes than the plastic flops that I was wearing. Not really sure in what realm of reality I thought rope shoes would be the comfortable choice. Calluses formed almost instantly on my abused feet.

Never trust a hippie chick that tries to sell you shoes while on hallucinogens.

Sure, the $10,000 fine for driving under the influence does detour some of the wisest. Yet, I still have been subjected to white knuckles on the dashboard praying into my rosary. Just kidding, I don’t own a rosary.

I have experienced my fair share of road blocks that detour me on the way towards a happening Friday night. It delays my chance to get intoxicated, which is super annoying. Lucky for me I don’t drive drunk. Also I am a pleasant, little white girl driving a grandma Saturn with a damaged bumper.

If I can’t even fix my own car how am I going to pay their fines? I totally coast by under the radar.

I blame the celebrity tarts that make themselves infamous by getting D.U.Is and their names back into the news. This is not okay behavior. Lindsay Lohan has plenty of entourage to drive her drunk, fine ass wherever she pleases.

Most of the time, I just find another chump to drive. Which is why maybe I am having such issues with drunk driving, question mark?

In any case I am not judging, merely just speaking out of concern for the precious lives on the road. There are much cooler ways to die, anyway. Like saving a puppy from a burning building or turning into pink dust from an at home chemistry experiment gone horribly wrong.

Got to stay positive right?

While you're at it could you please solve hunger and give us all world peace?

My sister and I were born two years and three days apart. That means growing up we celebrated with joint parties, so my mother didn't have to deal with two days of screaming children hopped-up on sugar. Lucky for her.

Now living on the same side of this fine country, we get to repeat this tradition. I imagine it's the same treatment that people born around the holidays get. They cram their special day in with the rest of the hoopla and hope people don't try to make one gift stretch to cover two very separate occasions.

We planned to go to dinner with friends on my birthday. I was informed we would celebrate together since sister was going on a private dinner with her man on her actual birthday. Fabulous.

Being as I am new to LA and have no friends to speak of, I decided to buy myself a damn fine cake for my birthday. It's a lot less pathetic than it sounds. When it comes to birthdays, working at a delightful french patisserie has its perks.

Most of the eight mind-numbing hours I spend at work each day, I watch customers on the slick tile hoping for a sudden loss of traction ending in someone landing on their face for my entertainment. It's yet to happen, but one can dream.

Enter the jumbo red velvet cupcake, with delicate cream cheese frosting, covered in red sprinkles and large enough to feed ten. This is one serious cake and the perfect addition to my, excuse me our, dinner party.

Sister loves cupcakes. She loves them enough to ponder symmetrical cupcake tattoos on the nape of her neck. I can see the raining glory that I would receive once I arrived with said cake in tow. Plus, I get to devour delicious pastry for my birthday.

This is where I should mention sister's dream boyfriend. In reality, he is the perfect doormat that she has been waiting for. Boy did sister luck out on that one. Seriously though, he would go to the ends of the earth for her and I appreciate that. Plus, he has a gnarly mustache.

Through the grape vine I hear knight-in-shining-BMW may be preparing a cake for sister's big day. So I investigate. Meaning I text him asking politely if I should invest in a cake for our dinner.

He informs me that yes, he plans to bake for lovely sister. He wants to make something special for her, but don't worry there can never be too much cake.
I swoon a bit for her sake.

He goes on to say how he probably will make her a red velvet cake and maybe some cupcakes since she is such a big fan. Okay, hold the phone.

That's ironic, I tell him, that pretty much the same idea I had. I was going to buy a freaking jumbo red velvet cupcake for my birthday. Don't worry he says, he will make them for Monday and I can bring mine for Thursday.

Just great. After Martha Stewart here makes delicious homemade delights, I get to bring my store bought monstrosity to give everyone deja vu. Wow, I might be impressed, but boyfriend of the year got here first. Way to steal my thunder, bucko.

Where is Ashtin with his obnoxious trucker hat when you need him.

Then because he's such a nice guy, he offers to bake something extra for me since I am a loser who has no one to make such a gesture of baked goods. He even offers to scratch the idea and go with the jumbo. Dammit this guy is good.

Defeated, I admit that he must bake for sister since it's so cute I could vomit. I will come-up with something else. Why doesn't he just knit her a sweater while he's at it.

Turns out sister bought me a cake for the big dinner. I didn't see that coming.

She then brought home the most adorable little lovecakes that boyfriend created. The red velvet cupcakes were actually dyed purple, as it is her favorite color and sprinkled with gold pixie dust, since it's her golden birthday.

I tried to eat one, but I choked on all that they stand for.

Maybe tomorrow I will clean the dishes that are starting to support life

I was so productive today it was stupid. I managed to not only switch shifts to accommodate the much anticipated band I wanted to see tonight, I got out early so I could run some errands.

I work a fixed schedule of 2:30 pm to 10:30 p.m. every Monday through Thursday. This presents an awkward schedule for someone that work best at dusk. My best hours are spent pretending be productive.

Getting out at rush hour presented some strategic difficulties, but I think I managed to take the most inconvenient routes due to traffic congestion and pit-stop locations. Still learning the ropes of the road around Los Angeles.

To heighten the suffocation of the all consuming traffic, I drove for blocks stuck behind a truck with a rusty metal pole precariously thrown into the bed. It looked ready for launch and impalement upon the nearest sudden light stop.

I think I’ve seen too many of those “I narrowly cheated death and now it lurks behind every corner in the aim to kill me suddenly and seductively” movies. Those movies were a hit with the kids for a while.

Taking another crowded side street in the vain attempt to find my bank and avoid death, I realized I was without gas. I tend to wait until the last minute and hope I don’t run out of gas in the process.

So far it’s been an efficient system.

My vehicle has yet to see a carwash under my ownership. The layers of dirt and bird poo can attest to that. Living in Southern California does not offer much cleansing rain either.

Moving here from a swamp land it never occurred to me to wash my car before. In fact, it was a known fact that if you wash your car then it automatically rains. Thus rendering your wash useless, leaving you with dirt on your car and mud in your face.

Standing there bored waiting for my tank to fill with precious fossil fuels inspired me to squeegee off my windows and even some unsightly dried on shit stains off the hood.
Close enough to a bunch of guys running around cleaning off your car.

Sister called upon me to supply the household, meaning her, with Q-tips or more generically called cotton swabs. This calls for the 99 cents store. Not only is it one whole cent cheaper than the dollar store, well actually that’s the only difference.

I must proclaim how much I enjoy finding random junk and sometimes necessary items to buy at the 99 cents store.

I found hair ties, bobby pins, paper towel, chewing gum, wire clothes hangers, because they were the best deal compared to the plastic ones, and managed to resist a bag of chips that was much too small for 99 cents, despite my desire for it.

I got to laugh all the way down the isle saying, “NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!!!” in my best Joan Crawford impression. Other patrons avoided eye contact. My sister used to claim it was one of her favorite movies growing up.

This always slightly disturbed me.

As it turns out, today was Teach Your Children How to Silently Walk Behind Moving Cars Day. That sure raised anxiety back to nerve shattering levels.

I even managed to grab my clothes from the fluff and fold ensuring clean undergarments for tomorrow. Having someone else clean your clothes is not a cop-out. When you don’t have time to sit at the laundromat yourself, I need someone to make sure creepy men with their hands down their pants stay away from my panties. Plus, they will match your socks and fold your panties into little swans.

Turns out, I could have bought a kidney on the black market for about the same price. It’s based on weight and apparently my clothes are heavy enough to sink a ship. Maybe not an oil tanker, but a least a fine yacht.

Alas, even if I would have come across my correct bank branch it was well past five when I retrieved my underthings. All those bank slackers had closed shop.

This being said, I worked at a credit union and remember almost having a nervous break-down and heart palpitations by the time 5 o’clock rolled around. I really do pity the fools.

To top it all off, I even managed to get some writing done. Not on the news assignment that got returned to me for “necessary corrections” due to my broken spirit, but writing none-the-less.

Of course this is all after eight hours of work, but who’s really counting.

This is Bat Country: IV Edition

We climbed out of the tent in the cool of daybreak. The morning view did not disappoint.



First thing we jumped into the lake enjoying our first taste of shower the entire trip. Clay slid between my toes and I sank into the foreign muck. Adam floated on the surface to avoid the squish.

Following suit, I watched the clear blue sky fade behind the jagged surroundings. My toes sparked with anticipation for salt water.

Driving in Vegas, there was not one Nevada license plate to be seen. Instead California plates repeatedly enclosed us on the strip. With a sea of tourists, I ignored my usual anxiety for blocking traffic to make a turn or one again taking the wrong street.

No one knows where the fuck their going.

We arrive at the expansive Venetian. This is Vegas on Labor Day weekend. The line to check-in looked like the wait for Magic Mountain. The entire place was crawling with people.

Avoiding the throng of people near the fountain, I go to a check-in booth off to the side. The woman informs me that we are in a VIP suite, would I like to follow her into the designated VIP check-in.

Yes, please.

Try to remain calm. Did I mention this is my first time to Vegas?

Inside are families sipping on coffee and perusing the snack bar. I wait for our bags to arrive via Adam and sip on iced tea. He and I giggle all the way up the mirrored elevators.

Vegas hotels are mazes to keep their guests trapped and confused. They are designed to keep you boozed and spending money, while you have no concept of time or location. I would proceed to get lost in my own hotel on several occasions.

The decadent hallway is suggestive of The Shining with blood-red carpeting and a sense of lingering debauchery. We arrive at the presidential suite.

We push through the double doors and I stifle a scream.



My sister’s entire apartment could fit in the living room. Floor to ceiling windows light the living room complete with full-dining table and grand piano. A remote powers the hidden television, surround sound music and the drapes.

I run into the master bedroom to find an overstuffed bed and more couches for lounging. This gives way to a marble bathroom, walls covered in mirrors. I stop to admire myself from all angles at once.

Vegas exploits narcissism.

The shower can easily fit eight comfortably with a perfect view of the action from all the mirrors.

This connects to the sauna and another dressing room with plenty of closet space for my bags. There are of course TVs in every, single room.

I am still screaming.



Running through the living room to the other bedroom, yes the other bedroom, I find Adam in disbelief. There are two double beds and yet another full bath with another Jacuzzi tub. The shower is too small for me, so I claim the master bedroom.

The space screamed decadence and sex in every way you would want it to.

Adam and I enjoy our separate rooms and the luxury of having a real shower. I laugh the entire time. Naturally, I utilize both shower heads and the steam just because.

I jumped on all of the beds for about twenty minutes wearing the provided hotel robe.

We counted five toilets, two showers, two Jacuzzi tubs, three beds, six TVs and one grand piano. I could have never left the room and been completely content.

The afternoon was ours for the taking.I took multiple showers and a bath.



We head up to the pool deck that spans across the roof of the Venetian connecting to the adjoining hotel, the Palazzo. Chairs cover the entire place literally stacking people on top of one another with wading pools scattered about.

Despite the heat people are piled into hot tubs. A suggestive blow-up doll is thrown into a tub crowded with children. After no personal success, a pleasant pool attendant finds us chairs to lie in. We got drinks to celebrate our luck.

It pays to have a sister with connections.

Due to the holiday weekend, none of the provided VIP passes would get us into the secluded pools for free. At least not Adam.

Tempted by the famed Tao Beach, I leave Adam to fend for himself and guard our things. Walking-up to the line I bypass a collection of bare-chested men waiting for entry.

“I can just get in for free?” I ask as the doorman straps a bracelet on my wrist.

“Girls get in free. Welcome to Vegas.”

If Facebook were an actual place, it would be the pool deck at the Venetian. Half naked twenty-somethings filter around cabanas staked with booze and bikini-clad girls dancing on their lounge chairs. It’s all about status.

Finding myself without any purpose, I go to find Adam and continue to soak in the sun.



Adam snoozed while I went to pick-up sister from the airport. I got lost both ways with sister getting very frustrated on her iPhone’s lack of help on directions.

I almost hit multiple pedestrians wandering about and sipping on tall souvenir drinks.

My favorite part about Vegas is you can drink everywhere, including the streets. At the liquor store the cashier asks if I want to open my beer before I leave, pointing to the chained down metal bottle-opener. Of course.

Back at the suite, Sister and I run around the room laughing and screaming some more.

We were to go to XS nightclub and had to be promptly ready at nine to get in. Sister’s client not only hooked us up with the room, but put us on the list.

It turns out that meant we could get in, but we would pay 50 dollars for girls and 200 for guys. Oh, hell no. We scramble for plan b.

Kelley, a friend of sister’s, entered the room disgruntled and stressed. She was our fourth in the room and had an entourage of antsy ladies that would be meeting us for the evening.

Adam and I got ready much too early, so he was sent out to get pre-drinks. Left to my own devices while the girls finished their faces, I dance circles around the piano, the furniture and end-up shimmying in front of the windows with a view the Vegas strip before my eyes.

We are about to pronounce Adam dead and leave without him when he finally gets back with the liquor. He explains his wild goose chase to a “nearby” liquor store down the street. He ended up going so far, a nice group gave him a ride back to the hotel.

We haven’t even started the night yet.



The front desk put us on the list for Tao, a nightclub inside the hotel. We wait in an impossible line outside in the heat. Looking at the crowd was like watching an elaborate still life painting melt before your eyes.

We get up to the front and the doorman scrutinizes Adam’s shoes. His black suede sneakers just will not do. He won’t be getting in with those things.

No one warned me you don’t bring boys to Vegas.

He of course has no other shoes, despite my no so subtly telling him to bring nice clothes to go out in. I didn’t even think about shoes and apparently he didn’t either.

I hate to say it, but we left the man behind.

Our herd of ladies, pushed inside. Rented sectionals flowed over with paper thin girls and muscle men too wide for their arms to rest. We were not allowed to even sit near the furniture.



While we danced the night away, Adam created entertainment.

He explored the casino prowling blackjack tables posing as an international Scottish music sensation. I must admit his accent is damn good. He actually convinced some girls that he was legit.

Bringing them up to the nicest room in the hotel didn’t hurt. He serenaded them giving the piano the most attention it’s probably ever gotten.

Us ladies got separated. I got blisters from walking the entire length of the Palazzo/Venetian. The trip ended with a locked room and me without a key.
The repeated doorbell failed to gain any attention.

Devastated, I started to walk back to the front desk in hopes to gain entry. Exiting the elevator on the main floor, I found a triumphant sister and Adam came stumbling my way. They had valiantly gone looking for me.

Our troupe lumbered down the gilded hall and back to our Tara. Adam and I watched the sunrise over the Vegas strip sitting before the immense windows in our hotel robes.

Morning came and Adam I go to raid the VIP lounge for food before taking him to the airport. Women overstuffed with collagen wearing string bikinis and stilts for shoes, saunter by.

Guests shift their eyes at one another like competitors at the craft table. A concierge brings fresh sandwiches out and the guests attack. I approach an empty display in a matter of seconds.

A petite Asian woman hobbles past me, plate overflowing.

Once more to the airport. Again I got lost there and back.

The strip is a feat of its own. One must fight through bodies and vendors to get anywhere. Drunken crowds stagger through the streets grabbing pamphlets about the best hookers in town. I secretly felt dejected for never being offered a flyer.

Massive complexes are themed to be exotic locations from around the world. Distraction and perplexity are key. Light shows over man-made lagoons stopped crowds in their tracks making it that much harder to get to your destination.

The girls waited for me a restaurant sharing a hefty salad that I mustered-up the courage to partake.

A slight girl to the right of us dined alone. She breathed in a salad, bread and an impossible bowl of pasta to our disbelief. She shouted at the shocked waitress for the bill before half of ours was enjoyed. Exchanging a look with the waitress, we finished our joint meal.

Another night of indulgence food, drinks and dancing. Confetti fell from the skies and bodies moved together to primal beats. Strobe lights cut movement into still photos.

We all fell in love at one point that evening, even if only a fleeting moment.

You know what they say about Vegas.



I managed to get back to the pool the last day and enjoy as much of the desert sun I could stand. Kelley and sister flew back together, leaving me to end the last portion of my trip alone.

This is way it always ends.

Exhausted and besieged by the strip, I drove towards the city of angels. Another life of success and decadence. Of sun and sand and surf.

Images of water danced behind my eyes as drove home.

Naked on the Edge of the World: III Edition

No one could have prepared me for the awe that is the Grand Canyon. The sheer size and depth is incredible. Sitting on the edge of a cliff I can feel clean air circulate around me and drop down into the chasm.

This is the perspective I have been waiting for.



Just imagine what settlers thought when they first stumbled upon it. How the hell are we supposed to get around this thing?

Adam and I woke up way after dawn despite our plan to see the sunrise. Apparently dawn comes earlier here. We packed up and went to the camp office to straighten out our not so welcomed arrival.

The pleasant ranger explained to me that we were to be expected this evening not last. I found this odd for I remembered distinctly choosing Friday not Saturday for our reservations, but ignored the computer glitch.

Tourists were abundant. Families clustered around the designated viewing areas posing little ones and taking pictures. A plethora of languages sprinkled about charged tension in the air.



Upon first sight, all breath dropped to my toes.

Leaning over the bars I noticed one squirrel sitting on the edge below, staring off into the deep. Who knows what thoughts of wonder, fear or connection he felt. Maybe his wife left with the kids and with this economy he’s a suicidal squirrel.

Adam also noticed the squirrel to the delight of all the tourists. Flashbulbs go crazy.



We watch tourists meander about. It’s our own personal reality show with a hell of a backdrop.

An elderly gentleman strolls over to the edge with his thumbs linked in suspenders. He tilts his hat with a smile on his face, “That’s one big rabbit hole.”

Wandering off to more secluded areas, we find trails and unrestrained bluffs.
Smoking a celebratory joint, we sit and marvel, legs dangling into the abyss. Outstanding.

We climb and explore all morning. Adam’s 6 foot 4 inch frame finds each cliff a challenge. He begins to conquer each bluff and explore every cranny.

I find the perfect view through careful examination. I stand at the edge of a smooth rock and let the wind embrace my skin. My cotton dress falls loosely to my ankles, not ideal for rock climbing.

Yet this dress is as good as naked at the edge of the world.



Sitting from my perch, I watch Adam slide around on loose dirt below.
I hear a couple approach. “Honey, I can’t stay here. I don’t want to watch someone fall and die. C’mon let’s go, c’mon,” a woman says diverting her eyes as she drags her husband away.



After basking in the wonder, Adam I departed to meet my sister in Vegas. The culmination of the trip will end in a luxurious suite in the city of sin.

Pulling out of the park Adam checks the map to follow our route. A smile spreads on my face as I think of seeing my sister for the first time in almost a year. This is going to be trouble.

“I can not wait. She is flying in tonight and staying until Monday. My buddy is getting married today, but I think we missed the ceremony. He went out Friday for his bachelor’s party, which must have been insane with a bunch of military guys in Vegas. I’m so excited.”

“Wait, you do know it’s Friday,” Adam says looking up from the map.
“What? No it’s Saturday.”
“No really, today is Friday.”

I grab my phone to confirm. I hadn’t gotten service throughout the mountains or at the Canyon, so I turned it off to save power. Adam’s phone died in the first two days.

I start to laugh. It’s fucking Friday. We got to the Grand Canyon an entire day early.

“Dude, we don’t have anywhere to sleep in Vegas until tomorrow. No wonder the reservations were off. I don’t understand what happened. I seriously planned the entire trip out. I’m such an idiot.”

“We’ll find a site to camp on the way. We’ll just hang out tonight. I’m on no time schedule. No worries.”

This is why I brought Adam. I figured if he can work as a caretaker for mentally disabled adults, he can survive a car ride with me.

We stop at a market along the road to buy drinks and snacks. I am still laughing at my stupidity. No wonder my mom almost had a stroke before I left.

The five hour trip from the Canyon towards Vegas can only be described as hot. Every couple of miles I scoffed in disbelief at our predicament.

Adam drove until we came to a barricade in the road. Unfortunately, we realized it too late to switch drivers. Adam has a suspended license. I though I was going to vomit and ruin the upholstery.

He drove through without a hitch, but sweating like stuck pigs. I naturally took over driving.

The Hover Dam seemed weak in comparison to the Canyon. Of course, we stopped and appreciated the sheer power of the structure, the epic design.

Lake Mead seemed a likely spot to find a campground. We found a perfect place that had lots for 10 dollars. We would be right by the lake surrounded by mountains. The perfect view to wake-up to.

The desert is hot. A storm ignited in the sky and almost took away my adorable little tent. Despite the lightning and Adam’s insistence that we would get rained out, there was no such relief. It only stayed hot and gave us a light show.

After a few beers, some champagne and a broken stoneware cup, we climbed into the humble abode. I dreamt of a shower and dancing the night away.

Scene Scapes: II Edition

Rolling hills have turned into jagged mountain ranges as far as my eyes can see. Pines are scattered along the Rockies making thin, crisp air inviting my brain to enjoy the scenery. Cotton clouds sat like pillars on invisible shelves in the pale sky.

Now three red bulls deep and 6,000 feet above sea level, this is majesty at its finest.



My usually cautious driving skills are twisted around winding curves and impossible declines. Warning signs show trucks barreling down seven percent declines. Adam attempts to rest while peppered hill-tops show signs of snow in August.

The original attempts to make Denver in one fell swoop failed miserably. Not a grand surprise since we tried to make the twelve hour drive from St. Louis to Denver after little to no sleep. After driving nine hours previous.

This is where things get hazy.

Adam admited defeat well after dark and I took over. Driving through the Great Plains, we both downed caffeine and took turns napping to get us by. Around three a.m. my eyes began to fail. A rest area in the distance shined like a beacon.

Ignoring the nagging suspicion that only the best horror movies start just like so, we parked beside many other weary travelers. Gratefully curling into my seat, I set an alarm for four hours later.

I awoke to dense fog encasing the surrounding landscape. Only a scattering of vehicles still lingered in the parking lot. Ignoring Adam’s slumbering body, I started off into the obscure blanket of clouds.

As daylight grew, so did the hills. I swallowed my panic as vehicles whipped past me ignoring the towering giants.

I stopped for gas and bought a Kodak disposable camera. Adam became photographer extraordinaire. Epic scene scapes surrounded our peripherals. The stacked clouds dropped dark mist onto the mountaintops. Adam explained that’s what rain looks like at these heights.

A smile lingers on my face.



I will never underestimate the usefulness of a road atlas. Who needs Tom Tom when you have a visual page-by-page representation of the U.S. of A?

It allowed us a sense of direction, location and purpose.

Denver could only offer Carl’s Jr. and a one-way ticket out of the city.

I became the paparazzi. Taking photos while driving is not as easy as it may sound. It is also dangerous and I’m sure illegal, so it is not recommended. I could not pass a scenic view of a crystal clear lake surrounded by peaks. Epic.



We forged on towards Utah. The towering Rockies gave way to broken plateaus. The earth became serrated, dry clay. Broken boulders were discarded and staked on the barren red countryside.

I had no idea about Utah. We landed on Mars.

Eventually we will become sick of majesty, Adam prophesized.

I am not so jaded as you, I said, eyes still wide.



Darkness crept back upon us.

Crashes of heat lighting exposed burgundy towers. My steadfast Saturn wheezed up slopes with signs labeled, CAUTION for the next 15 miles. The warning showcased a cow.

The Doors carried us through the desert. Thunder vaguely echoed in the distance. Adam promised to take us to our resting place. The canyon. My most anticipated destination.

We are gaining ground though the night forbids a scenic view. A nervous buzz reaches my gut thinking of the vague directions Google gave once we reach the South Rim.

I had checked and rechecked that our campsite reservations would be held for Friday despite our late arrival.

Although I warned the information helpline lady that we would not be there until midnight, she ensured me that the ranger would be able to point us in the right direction. The South Rim of the Grand Canyon is open twenty-four hours, 365 days a year, she said.

Still traveling down back road highways, road signs became promising. South Rim, take a left arrow. We have arrived.

Now you know how to get to the campsite, Adam asked, his confidence in me weaning.

There will be signs. The park ranger will let us know.

After a couple of miles, we approach the deserted entrance vestibules. We roll by the dimly lit ranger station feeling like we beat the system. No rangers mean no $25 entrance fee for this vehicle.

Jokes on us, who comes to see the Grand Canyon in the dark.

We follow down the road traveling around dark curves lined with pines of some kind. Spirits still high for getting to the site earlier than planned we contemplated how the canyon was just to our right behind all those trees.

Still traveling without any more reassuring signs, Adam then comments on the numbered highway signs still lining the road. One SUV passes us forging on ahead. My stomach getting in knots I realize that something feels off.

I don’t know if this is the right way, Adam says. We have gone too far.

I don’t what else to do. This does seem pretty far, I say. I figured there would be signs.

A car passes us in the opposite direction.

That was the same car, Adam says. Maybe we should go back to the ranger station. They might have maps or something.

Are you sure? I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing any maps, do you?

Well not really, but maybe we should turn around, he says.

I falter. So we do.

Traveling back another car passes us on the road. This causes more doubt. I finally suggest I take over driving. There is no point going back to the deserted entrance, I say. I am following the road wherever it takes us. Even if it’s nowhere.

We drive and drive and drive. I start to speed up and gain confidence on the dark road. More travelers join our search. After almost twenty minutes, I see a sign.
Campgrounds that-a-way.

Adam surveys the printed Google directions, yet does not find any familiar roads nor advice from the search engine. New sign: Tent camping, turn right. I start to laugh at our panic.

This park is so vast, the canyon is so vast, that we started to think we couldn’t possibly be going the right way. It really is just that big. We happened to come in on the wrong side.

Exhausted I pull up to yet another abandoned ranger station this one for the designation of campgrounds. I walk up to the building leaving my brave companion in the car.

Moths the size of Bic lighters fly around the information window. I examine the list of late arrivals conveniently posted, only to fail to find my name. I look again. No name.

Ignoring the fluttering bugs, I scrutinize the campground map and locate where all the open sites that are listed for late arrivals, such as us can go. I pull off the tab for site eighty-six and jump in the car.

Despite all my best efforts, I say to my counterpart, the site has not been reserved. We decide to drive past the spot to see if it is indeed occupied with site eighty-six as back-up.

I will explain in the morning to the camp ranger to avoid any cancellation fees and give them a piece of my mind. It’s too late for me to care.

We quickly set-up camp on the area with the least amount of rocks. I wrested out tarps, blankets, sleeping pads, pillows and towels for cushion. My car is packed tight enough for any Tetris aficionado to be impressed.

I set an alarm for dawn before we settle in. Stretching out in the cozy tent feels like Christmas morning. Tomorrow’s agenda, the Grand Canyon.

Manifest Destiny: I Edition

Size twelve shoes hang out the window while my body aches with back spasms that started 200 miles ago. We float along the highway through serene plains that stretch toward the sun in adoration. Normally I welcome silence. My ability to write almost depends on it.

Yet, when trapped inside a plastic Saturn going across the United States, silence can mean the difference between an epic journey and a plunge off the edge of an overpass.

Adam merely nods his sleeping head in agreement.

I pry out Pet Sounds while attempting to keep my eyes on the road and the car in its designated lane. After bumper to bumper traffic in Chicago then getting lost on the north side only to reverse gears and travel back through bumper to bumper traffic, Bat for Lashes lulled me into submission. I believe this is where the yes man began to slumber.

This is not to mention, though I must, departing from Kalamazoo, MI by turning the opposite way on the express way. You can thank yours truly. I turned to Adam to inform my imprisoned travel companion, “I warn you, I am not very good with directions.” He merely looked at me with a Cheshire grin.

“I sure hope you’re not expecting any help from me.”

This from the man with the map.

We carried on with The White Album Disc One and Two, followed by Violent Femmes, a remastered Led Zepellin compellation and too many burned mixes with witty names. My car doesn’t even have power locks let alone access to an Ipod. Thriller echoed in my ears as I travelled ever faster towards St. Louis, the first stop on our wayward journey. Despite all the sun, my eyes began to fog.

I decided to travel by car for many reasons, mostly due to my lack of travel throughout the west. This is my exodus from bleak Michigan winters, my manifest destiny.

In order to travel from Kalamazoo, MI to Venice Beach, California, with multiple exotic detours along the way, one must drive 2,506 miles. According to Google, that is about 1 day and 16 hours depending on traffic.

The real danger of traveling so far is not lurid rest stops or a busted carburetor in what can only be described as chainsaw massacre country, no it’s the endurance race. The very real, if not discussed, mental competition to match the previous drive time by your travel companion. To not buckle under the pressure of droopy lids and numb appendages or even to beat your own record or imagined time schedule.

Yet as I dreamed of cerulean skies and cotton clouds, Joni Mitchell sang Blue into my psyche. A silver arch loomed in the distance. I shook Adam awake. We have arrived two hours later than planned, but we have arrived.

Cursing my lack of a camera we headed straight to the St. Louis Zoo, known as one of the largest free zoos in the country. Adam’s six-foot-five frame towered over an endless sea of small children and weary parents.

Zoos are a much different experience than what I experienced in childhood. It’s like taking your kids to view the local jail with much more interesting inmates. A two-hundred pound orangutan sits against the viewing glass to our delight. Families crowd around the animal to let the three-year-old bang on the glass. With what can be as morose expression, the orangutan humors his apt audience.

Hell, you can buy beer at the zoo.

One can no deny the argument that where else can a person see a trio of hyenas, except to travel into the heart of the Sahara and perhaps your death. What with humans destroying their resources faster than we can admit, these animals are caged in a haven. Though it is indeed a cage.

Ignoring the sharp pang in my heart, I merely mutter insults to the couple that has parked themselves and their eight children in front of my view of the beast. This is poor zoo manners.

We amble around the grounds spending adequate time watching the hippos glide through their watery tank and those damn cute penguins. The animals stalk the feeding area of the cage. Grizzly Bears pace as though on a track.

If I had any one animal I could be friends with and it wouldn't kill me, I'd hang with a polar bear. Of course, he could behead anyone that I asked him to.

Finally hunger is overwhelming, so we leave for the arch. Bellies full we walk through a wooded park towards the giant infrastructure.

As my first time in St. Louis, I must admit it is a pleasant city. The skyline is clean and not flagged with too many flashy towers or giant ads. Sitting under the pristine arch we watched three teenagers run amuck and fling goose poop at one another. Dried goose poo is left throughout the green to crunch under your feet.
Again, very pleasant.

I wonder who keeps the arch so clean.

We devised a heroic battle between two foes that started under the arch in the neat green, possibly a Viking and a Samurai. It naturally would end with a daring stab and the victor walking away towards the mighty Mississippi, while the loser bleeds to his death.

Going up to the top of the arch seemed like a waste of money, so we ambled away.

My limbs screamed in recognition as we climbed into the car. Adam agreed to drive towards Denver, which we hoped to reach without a layover.

We first started the drive at an ungodly hour, not long after Adam finished his shift at the bar. Both of us with sleep still in our eyes, Adam informed me that he sleep about fifty minutes total.

Then turning east instead of west on our first leg of the trip, I still try to ignore the ominous feeling creeping up from my toes. Denver is twelve hours from St. Louis.

“Well,” Adam said putting the car in gear, “Let’s see how this goes.”

Cue the music

Kalamazoo's Dynamic Night Scene

This is a photo story about The Strutt Cafe and Bar in Kalamazoo, MI. I wanted to capture the allure of a venue that unites a flair for coffee with a dynamic night scene. I used a Canon Rebel to take all of the pictures.


8 DEC 2008 The Strutt Cafe and Bar hosts an array of musical acts daily at the 773 W Michigan location in Kalamazoo. Formerly known as Dino's, The Strutt offers a coffee house atmosphere by day and a music venue for local and national acts by night.


NOV 2008 Lauren Smolen and Katie Carter take time between rushes to clean-up behind the barista counter. Baristas are trained to create latte art in drinks, which produces designs in the drink such as a heart or rosette.


DEC 2008 Jennifer Heberger attends to a long line drawn by a WMU Third Coast Writing Project Reading event. The readings are hosted by the graduate-student group, which publishes a bi-annual publication and supports English teachers as they develop their own writing-style.


strutt 6: 8 DEC 2008 James Miranda standing far right, Melina Moustakis, Kristian O'Hare, Laura Donnelly and Adam Pasen, WMU graduate students relax before a Third Coast reading. Moustakis organizes the literature readings for the group that exhibits work by fiction, poetry and playwrights from the university.


DEC 2008 Jazz night brings established musicians together for jam-session performances each Sunday at The Strutt Bar. Phillip Kudlo-guitar, Jarad Selner-saxophone, Leonard Duke-trumpet, Tod Klosterman-bass and Tommie Lochett-drums (not visible) played together as a group for the first time at the now weekly show.


DEC 2008 Owner Darren Bain entertains a crowded bar during the Sunday performance. The intimate venue crowds in visitors into an eclectic and detailed performance area that is separate from the coffee cafe.


DEC 2008 Jarad Selner, right, and Leonard Duke wail Sunday nights when not performing in other local projects.

On the Verge of Something Big

A five-piece jazz band wails under red stage lighting, while two men compete in varied dance competitions in the center of the room. This is just another Sunday night at The Strutt Café and Bar.

The venue located at 773 W. Michigan Ave in Kalamazoo, MI has locals taking notice of the hybrid coffee shop and bar. Any given night, live bands along with ardent scholars can be found united in the café or the adjacent bar.

The smoke-free business, a rarity in Michigan, boasts a study atmosphere during the day and live music by night. The historic building fits little more than 300 people, but the space allows for intimacy between artist and audience.

The building has held multiple businesses. In recent years, many failed in rapid succession. Locals remember the former Oakland Pharmacy and legendary Boogie Records with fervor.

A monthly tribute show to the former Boogie Records features established singer/songwriters both local and national. The shows feel like an intimate gathering between friends, each viewer immersed in the music.

This is The Strutt at its finest.

The immense success of such shows is still overshadowed by the issues of being a small business in a failing economy.

Restaurants have the highest failure rates of any small business with a 20 percent chance of lasting two years, according to a Dun & Bradstreet report. A packed crowd is still a surprise to everyone involved.

The continuously remodeled space is unrecognizable from its predecessors.

The Strutt offers specialty coffee drinks that are distinguished by latte art, which place designs in the milk for added flair. Customers ask for their favorite by name.

Weekend brunches host bluegrass bands and a specialized breakfast menu. Guests can enjoy ample breakfast burritos, while listening to an acoustic set by two graying men wearing insect hats. This is part of a monthly act for kids designed to attract families.

The Strutt is fraught with inconsistency while balancing on the verge of recognition.

Originally named Dinos and strictly a coffee shop, the name changed when the liquor license was finally obtained after grueling financial and legal set-backs.

“A liquor license is very difficult to get and difficult to hold on to,” said owner Darren Bain. “Kalamazoo is the perfect town to start a music venue. I wanted a dirty dive, but it was too pretty.”

Bain traveled all over the country for work and found Kalamazoo in the process. Adamant to get off the road, he said the brick building offered exactly the charm he was looking for.

After the previous business partner left, Kelly Schultz got involved. Schultz became a financial backer after the two began dating.

“It was a real gradual process,” Schultz said. “He’s always here and that’s how it started. I’ve always wanted to own a restaurant and my kids love it.”

Schultz works behind the scenes to keep the growing business running. She explained that the two want to keep the coffee lounge feel, but was very supportive from the start concerning Bain’s music vision.

An experienced musician from Seattle, Bain wants to expand the venue to hold a larger capacity. With a bigger stage and room for more people, he hopes to attract more national bands. A blur of energy, Bain fires out plans for the crucial expansion and renovation to anyone who can keep up.

“I would start it tomorrow if I could,” Bain said. “Some of it won’t be possible and some of it will be very possible.”

Bain hopes to expand with a microbrewery and recording studio in the basement.

Dealing with historic building commissions and boards, Bain is no stranger to the red-tape involved in such lofty plans. Yet, he is not one to dwell on obstacles. As he races through the building involved in daily pet projects, one may wonder how anyone can keep up.


This piece was printed in the City Life publication that is distributed by The Kalamazoo Gazette. The original article can be found at the link below.

Mlive.com