TO MY FRIENDS WITH NO DISCERNIBLE BENEFITS: THANK YOU!

Last Saturday I had one of those sappy, emotional moments that make me cringe when they're depicted in films. (They're often accompanied by some over-played Peter Gabriel song.) I went to a "Meet the New Baby" gathering. Some friends were in town from DC, and they held it at a relative's beautiful Upper West Side apartment.

So, a bunch of us pals were gathered together, goofing off. I looked around the room at everyone laughing, telling stories, dancing, mocking The End of The World, eating salami and cheese, passing the baby around, Googling The Mandrell Sisters and playing with the dog. I suddenly realized that I'd known most of these kick ass mischief makers for 10 years or more.

And I felt overwhelmed by gratitude. Not just for the people at that party, but for all of my long-time friends.

Because here's the thing: I'm not a diligent friend. I'm not the glue that keeps us together. I never pick up the phone (mostly because I hate the damn thing.) I have forgotten birthdays. I have put off visits for longer than I should...and yet you fine people still keep me in the mix. Because of your generosity and willingness to look past my shortcomings, I have so many unbelievably wonderful, smart, cool and kind friends. You've invited me to your weddings, your son's Brit milah, your birthday parties and you've sent me artwork from your kids. You've supported Mama D's Arts Bordello and all sorts of wacky bullshit I've thrown in your direction.

I honestly don't know how I got so lucky and I sure as hell don't deserve all of you. So thanks for sticking with me. I love you more than I let on...even if you know damn well this post is about the only proof you'll get.

HOLIDAY INTROSPECTION

I woke up a little melancholy this morning.
I always wonder how that happens. How can we wake up sad? Is it the remnants of depressing dreams? After all, nothing has happened yet today. I haven't been rejected by a publisher or been yelled at by some loon on the subway. I did not wake up to a fresh new pimple on my nose.

So I poured myself a cup of coffee, put on the Christmas lights and some music.
Vince Guaraldi's "A Charlie Brown Christmas" soundtrack came on, and I smiled. A tiny smile. But it still counts.

One of the reasons I love "A Charlie Brown Christmas" is because of the way the music and tone perfectly capture the strange melancholy of the holiday season.
Most people talk about the joy of Christmas; the festive parties, shiny presents, and loud family gatherings.
And that's part of it.
But it's also the end of the year; the most introspective time of the year. During the long, dark nights, you reflect upon who you are, what you've accomplished. It's oddly lonely, in that you realize no matter how many people you have in your life, whether you have a wife, husband, partner, kids, friends, dogs, cats...everyone still travels through this life alone. Even if you have people along for the ride, there are secret detours that only you can take.

In some ways, that's why I love to write. It's fascinating to see how an idea that belonged to me alone when it was floating around in my head changes once it's translated for you to read. An idea that was so beautiful when it only belonged to me often becomes misshapen and odd once I've offered it up to you. I don't know why that is. (It probably means I'm a shitty writer, now that I think about it.)

But that's also why even if I feel lonely sometimes, I'm glad there are certain parts of our inner selves that we don't share with anyone. And during this season of giving, I'm more aware than ever that there are some things I'll always keep to myself...

FATHER'S DAY ANNOYANCE

So-
Every year around this time I start the hunt for a Father's Day card suitable for my father. Yes, I have to start this early because it is such a pain in the ass. They're all illustrated with pictures of tools, golf, barbecues or fishing poles (none of which applies to my father.) Worse, they all have sappy inscriptions like,

Dad, you've taught me how to live, share and love. You're the best dad I could ever ask for.

Dad, you're wise and caring. My love for you grows every year. Thanks for always being there for me.

Dad, you're my hero.

Yuck.

And listen, I love my dad. I love him for the person he is, not for who I wanted him to be. It took me a while to figure that out.

So all I want is a card that says, "Well, dad...you tried."

Yeah, I could just write it myself. But it would be oddly reassuring to know that someone at Hallmark felt the same way.

THE FAMILY DOCTOR: IT'S TIME FOR A REVIVAL

As the health care debate rages on and TV pundits froth at the mouth, one thing remains clear to me:

It's time to wake up and realize what an incredibly vital resource General Practitioners are. These Family Doctors not the bad guys. They don’t make a ton of money. They work hard. They live modestly. And they’ve been screwed over by insurance companies for years. It’s no wonder most med students have chosen to specialize rather than become GPs.

I'm not a medical professional, but take this issue personally. The doctor in the photo above, calling his patients back with their results? That's my dad. The funny looking girl in velour pants standing in front of the sign for his clinic? That's me.

Whenever I had a cold as a little kid, my neighbors on Whidbey Island would say to me,
“But your dad’s a doctor!” as though this connection alone would keep the sniffles away. People trusted my father to do everything, since he was a General Practitioner. And he did. He treated Strep throat and head lice, stitched up construction men, lanced moles, and served as a friendly person to talk to for old ladies with no real complaints except loneliness.

His patients loved him like a relative, and our house would always be filled with homemade cookies, fresh vegetables from gardens, and hand knit sweaters from people who wanted to express their gratitude. I think they felt closer to him than I did. Even now when people ask if he’s a good dad, I always say, “he’s a great doctor.” I have never had the privilege of seeing a doctor with as much genuine concern as my father had for his patients. Nor have I met one so willing to explain medications, side effects or just listen as you ramble on about disturbing nightmares that rob you of sleep.

My dad didn’t practice on Whidbey Island for his entire career. His first solo practice was in the rural town of LaMoure in North Dakota. It was here that a teenaged boy was rushed into his clinic with severe head injuries from motorcycle accident. The closest hospital with proper facilities was two hours away, and he would have died. With no other options, my father performed brain surgery with a drill from the local hardware store. The boy survived, experienced no subsequent mental problems and after a few months got back on a motorcycle.

From LaMoure, North Dakota he moved to Honolulu, Hawaii. These were the heady days of the late 1970’s, and he practiced in a clinic ensconced in a Waikiki hotel that looked like a cross between a bordello and a disco. It was here that he diagnosed his first AIDS patient, back when it was called GRID.

But I was far too young to understand what it meant to be a doctor until he started his practice on Whidbey Island. It was a real mom and pop business. I worked there after school sometimes, filing charts and moodily answering the phone in the front as my mother took x-rays and did lab work in the back.

I’m not going to lie. I hated being there. I hated most things when I was a teenager. But I loved his office, lined with hardback books ranging from Tropical Medicine to Somerset Maugham. On the right wall was a chalkboard where he would draw diagrams for his patients to fully explain their medical issues. The wall behind his desk showcased his degrees. There was also a hockey stick, a Lucite plaque with a hemorrhoid encased in it (a joke from the doctor who removed it from his butt a day before my Dad ran the Honolulu marathon) and pictures of me.

Doctors like my father are nearly as extinct as carhops or paying for groceries with a check. For the majority of his career, he went on house calls with a beat up leather medical bag, traveling down winding, Douglass fir-lined roads in a Chevy Blazer. As he drove, he’d blast Willie Nelson or Puccini’s La Boheme, whichever suited his mood at the time. He’d knock on the doors of cabins, trailers and mansions overlooking Puget Sound. In these diverse homes, he’d soothe allergic reactions and calm colicky babies.

Every year he gave free physicals to all the kids doing high school sports. He was also the high school football team doctor, running up and down the length of the field in a ratty trench coat, cheering the loudest of anybody for the South Whidbey Falcons, and cringing when a kid would get hurt.

He worked on the barter system when people couldn’t afford to pay. So in exchange for medical treatment he’d accept window washing, lawn mowing, fresh salmon and sock eye fish, and (since we lived in Washington State) chainsaw carved totem poles.

He was on call 24 hours a day, and many nights was awakened at 2am, 3am, or 4am to stitch someone up at his office. He’d grumble a little, pull on a sweat suit and a University of Washington Huskies cap over his balding head and head out.

He was entrenched in the community; invited to graduations, weddings and family potlucks. He truly loved his patients, and they loved him back.

All these years later, I wish I had that beat up old doctor's bag of his. It amazes me that the contents of that bag and the man who carried it used to save lives. Me, I'm not that noble. I'd use it as a fashion accessory. But no matter what side of the health care debate you're on, that bag is a symbol of a medical era that really should return to style.

NEW ORLEANS RETROSPECTIVE

I was pretty excited about last night's Super Bowl win, because I went to school in New Orleans.

Correction: I finally completed my undergraduate degree in New Orleans. I started off at Richmond College in London, transferred to NYU and finished up my B.A. in Political Science at University of New Orleans.
(Don't ask about the logic behind any of this because it takes too long to explain. Besides which, those of you who know me know that logic rarely factors into any of my decisions.)

The point is, I spent an extraordinary year and a half in a city I knew nothing about before moving there. It was a totally different cultural experience than what I was used to. This shocked me, since at the time I didn't realize how different the various regions of our country can be. But I've never had a single regret. New Orleans is magical, beautiful and sometimes scary. It's the birthplace of some of this country's finest music, food and literature. I feel honored that I had the pleasure of living there for a while, and will always have a special love for New Orleans.

So today, since I am over-flowing with New Orleans nostalgia, I'm sharing some photos I took while living there. None of them are particularly well shot. I had a shitty camera. And I'm a lousy photographer. But you can click on all the photos to enlarge them (if you're reading this on the actual blog spot and not Facebook.) Plus I'll try to make up for the lack of photographic skills by explaining the pictures in detail...

This above photo is my cool Bachelorette Pad on Royal Street in the French Quarter. It was a converted stable. As you can see, this is the mid-90s, because there is a framed poster of Gustav Klimt's The Kiss on the wall. There must have been some law passed that everyone needed to display some Klimt in that era; whether it be a journal, a poster or a coffee mug. But the apartment was great. Upstairs was my loft area. The only issue was that at one point, I was up there watching some TV when I noticed some weird insects flying around. I didn't pay too much attention until I noticed that they appeared to be coming from my closet. I finally worked up the courage to open the closet and was swarmed by flying termites. It was downright Biblical. I ran screaming to my landlady. She rescued me and told me I could stay in the owner's multi-million dollar apartment, since they were living in France at the time.
I wound up staying there for the rest of my stint in New Orleans. This apartment was incredible:

I interned at WDSU, the local NBC affiliate, which at the time had their headquarters in the French Quarter. They'd send me out to cover music festivals, sporting events and block parties. But once I had to interview a woman who had just lost 4 members of her family in a fire. I was so worried walking into her house, fearing she'd be huddled in a corner, crying. But no. She was wearing her finest clothes, her hair and nails were done, and she asked if the lighting in her home was good enough. That was the biggest lesson I learned in my internship: the excitement of being on TV trumps all other emotions. This was the WDSU courtyard:

Of course, I didn't always go to my internship after school. Sometimes, my pals and I would head straight for the bars. It was usually The Napoleon House. I'd belly up to the bar, take my seat, throw my bookbag on the floor and order a Sazerac at 3:30 in the afternoon:

New Orleans is a Catholic city, which gives it a different flavor than other Southern cities. It was the first place I'd seen where people actually have altars in their homes; rows and rows of candles set up on TV trays or small side tables, flickering in the hot afternoon sun. While I was there, I went to Catholic services at St. Louis Cathedral almost every Sunday. I didn't do this to repent for my boozy ways. I went because they had the most incredible singer there. Plus, I'm a Lutheran, and I have to say, I loved all the Pomp and Circumstance. We don't have all that incense and the pageantry. It was like getting a great show for a couple bucks. Amazing:

One thing I never did while I was there was eat a famous Lucky Dog. I think this is a good enough reason to head back for a visit soon...

FREELANCE GURUS

I found a copy of Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat, Pray, Love " in the laundry room of my building. It was resting next to a stray tube sock and a stack of Chinese restaurant menus. I needed something to read on the plane ride to Florida, so I picked it up.
What an insufferable book. I should have just read the Chinese restaurant menus instead.
This smug, annoying woman is privileged enough to travel to exotic locales to find Universal Truth. Then she yammers on and on about what she's learned in the most self-indulgent way.

She may have mastered esoteric chants in Sanskrit, but she sure never figured out when to shut up and let truth reveal itself without editorializing it.

Maybe I'm just lucky, but I've never needed one particular guru. And while I've both visited and lived in many places, I've never thought getting one's passport stamped is the key to Universal Truth. I found both gurus and truth this past weekend, and I wasn't even looking for them.

Then again, my gurus have always been freelance. A freelance guru will fulfill their duties and move on, never knowing they've been a guru at all. New Years Eve in the funky, beautiful little beachfront district of Gulfport, Florida was filled with them:

A Blue Moon peers through the clouds and the trees are lit with little blue lights as people walk their dogs, smoke cigars and hug their neighbors. We're staying at the Peninsula Inn, where the bartender also runs to the front desk when someone rings the bell and the waiter also vacuums your room. Somehow the waiter even knows which room we're in, despite never having met us before. Fat house cats lounge in the lobby.

Outside, tunes from the piano bar mingle with the techno thump of dance music from the gay bar down the street. A drunken Cuban woman at Peg's Brewery tells me how much she loves her 9-year-old daughter and gives me a kiss. We meet my parents at La Cote Basque, a crazy little family-run restaurant decorated with a mix of 70's wood paneling, Rococo and Victorian decor and a music box in the bathroom perpetually playing Beethoven's 9th. My parents are smiling. They've been married, divorced, and married again. They've been through treatment centers, rough times and illness. And here they are, laughing at jokes they've both told 100 times over, wearing the Christmas clothes I've given them.

After dinner, we go watch couples ballroom dance at the Gulfport Casino. Grandmothers and grandfathers, newly married couples, gay and lesbian couples. They glide along, fluidly executing moves that have always eluded me. There's something so reassuring about people wearing sequins and drinking cheap champagne on December 31st. I laugh as some woman in a sparkly pantsuit picks at the vat of free ziti with her fingers, spits a piece out and puts it back before heading out into the night.

Well past midnight, we spill out onto the beach and greet the New Year by putting our feet in the chilly Boca Ciega Bay...

THE FRAUDULENT DECADE

As we reach the bitter embers of this tumultuous decade, no two figures embody it better than White House gatecrashers Tareq and Michaele Salahi. They mirror everything we became in this decade: greedy, fame-hungry frauds. It’s the “fake it till you make it” adage personified. Even in an era where the internet makes it easier than ever to double check backgrounds, facts and figures, this attractive couple looked the part and that was enough. Whether it was a White House party, or in Michaele’s case, performing routines with the Washington Redskins cheerleaders.
 
These two are fitting symbols of this decade’s deceitful behavior; reflected in inflated real estate values, fraudulent Enron projections, fictional memoirs and the desert mirage that is Dubai,with its indoor skiing rinks, man made lakes and 60 billion dollar debt that won’t be repaid anytime soon. Not only was fabrication rampant during this decade, it was profitable. Just ask Bernie Madoff.

We went to war in Iraq over phantom weapons of mass destruction and went to concerts by singers who don’t actually sing. We tuned into scripted “reality” shows and breathlessly watched manufactured news about the Balloon Boy.

We willfully ignored the truth when it didn’t suit our needs. We lied to ourselves as well as others. We spent more money than we had and we knew it. We demanded destination weddings we couldn’t afford and tried to keep up with the fake celebrity lifestyle we saw in glossy magazines. Then when it all collapsed, we pulled ourselves away from our flat screen TVs in utter surprise. The truth quite literally hurt.

So as we raise a toast on New Year’s Eve, let’s try to make resolutions we can actually keep. No reason to start the next decade with unrealistic expectations. 
We’ve had plenty of that already.

PAUL BURKE TRIBUTE

An actor I knew named Paul Burke died today. Not only did he star in one of my favorite movies of all time, "Valley Of The Dolls" but he was an incredibly kind man.
I actually performed a scene from Macbeth for him, asking for his honest opinion if I should pursue acting. He'd confided to my father beforehand that he planned to deter me, because acting is such a cruel  profession.

But after I performed, he just looked at me and said, "Go for it kid. You got raw, natural talent."

The above photo is us in Palm Springs, just after that performance. And yes, I'm wearing a costume. For some reason, I thought my mom's sparkly scarf made me look like Lady Macbeth.

I miss you,  Paul Burke.

LOS ANGELES: FAKE GRASS, TRUE FREEDOM

I'm a West Coast girl by birth.
I grew up on two islands, with the Pacific Ocean at my doorstep: Oahu, Hawaii and Whidbey Island, Washington.
As a toddler, I ran around naked on Kailua beach, our dog beside me. As a teen, I danced at parties on Double Bluff beach, with bonfires, cheap beer, and a sky full of stars overhead.

But I've lived on the East Coast for several years, and seen plenty of claustrophobic New Yorkers who head west, searching for answers that can only be found by reaching the edge of the continent. And even if textbooks tell us that American freedom is about the right to vote and peaceful demonstration, that's not what comes to mind first...

American freedom is driving up the Pacific Coast Highway, the music cranked up, the sun shining, the ocean sparkling like an obscenely gorgeous sapphire necklace on woman far too young to wear it.

This freedom is a religion. It permeates LA. It's the freedom to re-write history, with no one to scold you for forgetting about the past. It's the freedom of unabashed ambition, unhindered by ghosts. You can recreate yourself. Whether you're an actor shaving years off your age or if you're Born Again, like the people I saw being baptized in the Pacific Ocean.

This is why I think there is something very earnest about this city, even if that defies the cliche. People really do believe in what they're selling. I love that. And to those who see the fake grass in front of homes and apartments and sneer about how phony LA is--that's your perception. Just because the grass is plastic doesn't mean it isn't real. It's just real plastic instead of grass.

See that? I'm an LA disciple already. One great weekend and I'm already enjoying the freedom to create my own reality.

AWAITING CONNECTION

So-
I have returned from L.A., where I spent an incredible weekend with a beloved CNNer.
Now I'm looking through my photos.
I know there's a literary/personal/spiritual connection.
Just waiting for it to materialize.
In the meantime...here are the pieces to my puzzle:

Paparazzi shot, fake grass, Tom Selleck's Star on the Walk of Fame, the entrance to The Beverly Hills Hotel, and a baptism in the Pacific Ocean.

SARAH PALIN CAN KISS MY FAT MEDIA ELITE ASS

I don't normally get political on this blog, mostly because it was created in the spirit of fun and CNN nostalgia. I started it as a way for us "peon" CNNers (past or present) to connect and goof off together. But just bear with me today. Because we're 7 days away from the most important election in years, and I'm pissed off.
And I know this post isn't going to matter, because only 4 of you read this blog. So consider this a personal catharsis.

Bottom line:
Sarah Palin is an asshole.

But I'm so fucking sick of idiotic shit like this:

WHY SOME WOMEN HATE SARAH PALIN

This is not why she provokes such a visceral reaction. This is not why she inspires an intense desire to hock a loogie on her smug face, and watch it slide down her cheek, smearing her orange makeup. I am so annoyed with the notion that women hate this ruthless, ignorant, phony, manipulative moose killer because we love a Dynasty style cat fight (with or without the swimming pool) or we can't stand to see another woman succeed...especially if she's pretty. Or because she's a "mean girl" who gets all the male attention.
That's not the point.
Neither is this:

WHY THEY HATE HER

No, that's not why "they" hate her. As in me. As in most of my colleagues. As in my relatives. As in my friends. As in smart, savvy bitches across the country. Her private decisions should have no bearing on her political career. These decisions don't affect me, or the economy or geopolitical events. Those are family issues. What she does in that realm is a personal choice, and I firmly believe in the right of choice for all women. Even if Sarah Palin would never give me the same respect in return.

So why is Sarah Palin an asshole?
Glad you asked...

Top 10 Reasons Why I Hate Sarah Palin And Cannot Wait For Her To Face The Harsh Morning Light Of November 5th:

1. She is totally, unequivocally, unqualified. This isn't sexism, this isn't partisanship. This is obvious.
And any women who want Sarah Palin to be VP just because she has a pussy should have their right to vote revoked.
I didn't believe these types of moron voters existed until I heard it with my own ears.
That's not progressive.
That's an embarrassment.

2. She is vain, self-centered and proudly provincial.

3. That awful voice.

4. She's a hypocrite. She seems just as corrupt as the "Boys Network" and " Washington Insiders" she rails against (plus she rails against them with that awful voice.)

5. All that GOP money on clothes and she still looks like a cheap insurance saleswoman who fucks the boss to get ahead on their business trip to Topeka.

6. A woman in a position of power does not automatically benefit women. Look at Margaret Thatcher. Look at Imelda Marcos. If Stalin had been a woman (Stalina, perhaps) would women have reason to sing? As much as Palin claims to love Democracy and freedom, she has some seriously despotic tendencies.

7. Her fake folksy ways. So damn transparent. As evidenced by...

8. ...when Joe Biden started tearing up about his family at the VP debate, and she didn't even acknowledge him. She seems incapable of understanding other people's perspectives. Which relates to...

9. Zero empathy, zero ability to connect with Americans she deems "not real" (i.e. people who live in big, Blue State cities.)

BUT MOST OF ALL:

10. The whole "Media Elite" thing. I guess I just don't get it, mostly because I've been in news for over a decade, and most of the media professionals I've known are in no way "elite." They bust their asses (and no, those asses aren't as hot as Sarah Palin's tight buns because they spend less time jogging and more time logging soundbites at the computer.) They're the lowly folks who scramble to meet deadlines or get the news on the air, who beg for overtime to pay the rent, who carry their lunch to work in Tupperware. They hand off their kids to their spouses in between shifts. They wear crappy clothes.

There's a reason this blog is called "Peon Confidential". Most of us, the ones who do the grunt work, we're just trying to get by. It is absurd for Sarah Palin to blame this murky "Media Elite" for her inability to present a coherent political platform during an interview. Who exactly is she talking about? Yes, celebrity reporters and anchors are wealthy, well-connected and well dressed. But they aren't even half of the media equation. The traditional image of the journalist has always been the rumpled schlub in a dirty raincoat; the same outfit of choice as the crazy homeless guy or the flasher pervert down the street. We're often broke, tired and have bad breath from consuming nasty coffee at odd hours.

Most of us ARE Joe the Plumber, just transplanted to a hectic newsroom. Instead of unclogging toilets we push buttons in a control room.

So Sarah Palin, fuck you.
Seriously.
Fuck you and the moose you rode in on.

CANDY CORN AND MARXISM

I was just thinking back to my chock-full-of hippies formative years on Whidbey Island. For the most part, it was great. You really felt connected to the whole community, there was a creative spirit, and if you ever ran out of pot, you could usually find some in your friend's kitchen, right next to the organic oats.
But it wasn't always fun to have socially conscious, anti-capitalist neighbors:

It was Halloween. I was nine, trick-or-treating with some pals. I was dressed as Groucho Marx, wearing my Dad's huge, red wine stained white tux jacket. It was from his third wedding, when he said "I do" to a coked up Pan Am flight attendant as "Send In The Clowns" swelled on the quadrophonic sound system. Why my mom didn't throw that ugly tux out when they remarried seven years later I'll never know. Maybe she knew it would make a valuable costume. Now that I think about it--I got a lot of use out of that thing. The following year I wore it for my gender-bending role as Abe Lincoln in the school play.

Anyway, we went up to a house with lights on and the TV blaring. Clearly, they were fair game. Everyone knows if you display any signs of life in your house on Halloween, you're ripe for the begging. Admittedly, this house had no decorations, and there was concern they'd be the types to offer up stale fruit roll ups or some such shit.
Still, we knocked. We knocked some more. We continued pounding away with our nine-year-old fists until some angry, bearded man ripped open the door and bellowed:

"WE DON'T BELIEVE IN THIS CAPITALIST HALLOWEEN CRAP! YOU WON'T GET ANY CANDY FROM US! WE DON'T BUY INTO SOME STUPID HOLIDAY THAT BENEFITS CORPORATE CANDY MAKERS AT THE EXPENSE OF CHILDREN'S TEETH. WE REFUSE TO BE PAWNS OF THE SYSTEM! NOW GET OUT OF HERE!"

So despite being dressed as Marx, I didn't curry any favor with these Halloween revolutionaries.

EDITOR'S CORRECTIONS IN MY LIFE STORY

I'm sure many of you have noticed that newspapers and magazines usually have a "corrections" section to rectify journalistic mistakes such as spelling a person's name wrong or referencing the wrong country. In broadcast news, the anchor has this honor.
It occurred to me that I would like one of these corrections sections for my life. So I present to you a list of corrections in my life, if I had the chance to go back and edit it:

-CORRECTION #1:

VJDutton was not a weird looking little kid with a Republican Side Part whose thighs chafed in her velour sweat pants and bra-less fat man titties bulged out of her unicorn sweaters. She did not spend her days making up songs about stinky underwear and creating dog food birthday cakes for her stinky dog Charlie. She was in fact a svelte, adorable little girl who smelled of strawberries and wore shiny patent leather Mary Janes.

-CORRECTION #2:

VJDutton was not a weird looking teenager who thought it would be funny to attend the high school dance wearing plaid polyester Herb Tarlick trousers. Repeatedly. She did not escape pep rallies by climbing onto the roof of the school and smoking pot. She did not represent her school in a state wide debate competition by reciting Mark Twain and wearing thigh high gold lame boots. She was in fact, the most popular girl in school, college minded, worshipped by boys and girls alike, and wore only the most stylish attire.

CORRECTION #3:

VjDutton did not attend three different universities and wind up graduating from University of New Orleans. While in New Orleans, she did not pick her nose while walking past a drunk clown lying in a ditch. He did not wake up at just the precise moment to say "Good mornin' there nose picker!" She did in fact, graduate from Harvard. While living in Cambridge, she became the toast of academia, charming everyone at Harvard functions with her understated style, wit and decorum.

CORRECTION #4:

VJDutton's first job after college was not as an activities lackey at a resort on St. Pete Beach. She did not begin her foray into professional life by wearing a pith helmet and unflattering khaki shorts, calling out bingo numbers, passing out towels in a tiki hut on the beach, alerting housekeeping when there was poop in the pool and organizing scavenger hunts. She did in fact, accept an entry level position at The New Yorker. The person who hired her immediately sensed her drive, ambition and skill, and knew she would make her mark on the literary world.

CORRECTION #5:

VJDutton's second job out of college was not as a VJ at CNN. She did not get paid to wipe ear wax off of IFB's. Nor did she live in fear of forgetting the script color code or eat corn and rice at two o'clock in the morning as her main meal of the day. She in fact got a promotion at The New Yorker, where everyone who came into contact with her found her brilliant and she enjoyed delightful lobster dinners with New York's literary elite every single night.

CORRECTION #6

VJDutton does not currently write an idiotic blog called Peon Confidential. She in fact is currently hard at work on her third best seller. Lines for her book signings regularly require several very attractive policemen for crowd control, as people scratch and claw each other just to get close to their favorite author on the planet.

THE GUAYABERA SHIRT: FIRST STEP TO CATALOGUE GLORY

I just received the strangest catalogue.
It's called "Catalogue Favorites" (with a heart in the middle of the last "O".)
Now, as I do not recall ordering anything from a catalogue since I was 17, I don't see why they chose me, or factored my favorites into the equation. (In case you were wondering: ordered myself a maroon Guayabera shirt. The weather was hitting a balmy 65 Pacific Northwestern degrees and the idea of heading to school wearing attire more suited for a 65-year-old Cuban cigar roller struck me as humorous. No, I didn't have a boyfriend in highschool...ever.

Anyway, this catalogue is a work of art. I could not take my eyes off it for a good 20 minutes. It's even better than Sky Mall, and that's saying something. I fucking love this catalogue. Please check it out on line:

THE BEST DAMN CATALOGUE ON THE PLANET

The greatest thing about this catalogue is that it is irony-free. I'm convinced that those who order from it; high school guidance counselors from Wichita, human resources professionals from Boise, cat lovers from Tacoma, these folks love these items without a nudge, without a wink. The heartfelt "message" jewelry is cherished at face value, the garden ornaments are treasured for their whimsy, the funny t-shirts and gag gifts are truly appreciated for their sass.
This is respectable in these irony-overloaded days.

TOP 5 ITEMS IN CATALOGUE FAVORITES

1. "Prancing With The Stars" Nightshirt. DESCRIPTION: "Kick up your heels on your way to sweet dreams when you wear this comfy t-shirt screenprinted with a prancing horse."

People get laid in this ugly nightshirt. Then they wake up and make Eggo waffles. I really can't explain why this bothers me, but it does.

2. The FARTMASTER keychain.
DESCRIPTION: "Six realistic flatulent sounds from 'standard' to 'ripper' to 'wet' are digitally remastered at the push of a button!"

You just know there are thousands of jokesters out there who can't wait to give this to a zany relative as a "stocking stuffer". Oh, what fun they'll have on Christmas morn'!

3. The Super Kegel (TM) Exerciser
DESCRIPTION: "Strengthens pelvic muscles for improved bladder control."

Two things about this item: For one thing, I find it funny that it is just randomly thrown in there for sale, right next to the "Frog With Umbrella Box". Secondly, why only mention bladder control benefits of a tighter pussy?

4. The incredible collection of "hilarious" T-shirts:

A. My Indian Name is Runs With Beer
B. Put On Your BIG GIRL PANTIES and deal with it
C. I live at the corner of Kiss My Ass Avenue and No Friggin Way
D. WARNING: I HAVE GAS and I know how to use it!

5. Elf door and footprints. Apparently, you attach this miniature door to a tree, and leave the footprints on the ground leading up to it. Visitors from near and far will delight in your fanciful backyard. No, I'm not making this shit up.

BONUS: The Fabulous Fukuoku
DESCRIPTION: "Gently pulsating at 9000 vibrations a minute the Fukuoku offers a fingertip massage at the touch of a button."

Again, two things about this item. For one thing, I find it funny that it is just randomly thrown in there for sale, right next to the purple "Jackpot" bedroom slippers. Secondly, they mention the convenient "carrying pouch" yet neglect to say, "Enjoy masturbating while stuck in traffic."

PLASTIC TWEETY: THE REAL ME

I've been working on a few short stories about my bizarre early childhood in Hawaii. This means I've been sorting through family photos to jog my memory. Most of them are ripped, like the one above. Why? Because my parents split up and my dad pursued a new life of haunting Honolulu discos with a bleach blonde Pan Am stewardess. In a coked up state, this disco queen decided it would be an excellent idea to rip up the majority of our family photos.
Not sure where my father was when she was doing this. In my more cynical moments, I imagine he joined in.

The weird part is--sure we had some negatives, but for some reason, we never developed them.
My mother felt our family history was more authentic this way--ripped, yellowing, scotch taped together.

When I came across this photo, I smiled because although this one was taken on Halloween, I used to wear this costume all year round. I don't know why but I loved that plastic smell and the idea that I was wearing a costume when everyone else was stuck wearing boring clothes.
And then it struck me:
This is EXACTLY the image I have in my head when people say: "How do you see yourself?"

Whenever I try to look sexy on the dance floor...
Whenever I try to be sophisticated in a restaurant...
Whenever I try to be professional at a business meeting...

It is ALWAYS this image that comes to mind:
My chubby belly pressing up against this stupid Tweety Bird costume in the middle of June.
I am always ridiculous, juvenile and slightly absurd.

I often wonder if any political despots, sex symbols, and Wall Street titans have similar images in their heads.

LEADERSHIP SHOES

So-
I'm not a huge fan of polls. I once had to help conduct a poll for Political Science class. I was so uncomfortable with bothering strangers at home that after my third cold call I just started making up names like "Eunice Smiley" and gave them all intriguing answers such as,
"I hate all them thievin' politicians. I think we should cut their balls off and feed 'em to the wolves."

I can only hope that whomever was helping to conduct the following poll did something similar. Because if these results are true, I'm screwed:

NEW YORK (Reuters) - Got a passion for buying sneakers? It could be a good sign, with a poll finding that people who buy three pairs of sneakers or more a year are far more likely to be a leadership type than other people.
Mindset Media, a media company that examines personality traits of different consumers, found that people who buy more than three pairs of sneakers a year are 61 percent more likely to have the qualities of a modern leader. These qualities were defined as having ideas and vision, and a style with others that is both inclusive and decisive.

What does it mean if you've bought one pair of sneakers in the last three years? And I didn't even buy them. My boyfriend was horrified by the previous pair I'd purchased from K-Mart in about 1998. So he inflicted new sneakers on me.

And what does it mean that I am 100 percent more likely to buy three pairs of shoes per year like those in the above picture?

I'm doomed...
Doomed to work the window at Wendy's while wearing ridiculous shoes.

MALL MECCA

So-
I just got back from Florida last night, courtesy of a plane teeming with every type of asshole imaginable:

1. The Rude Businessman who is just so damn important and in such a hurry to go off and do important things that he winds up sodomizing other passengers with his carry on bag in an effort to flee the plane first. (Psst! Hey buddy-you're in coach. I think you've overestimated your Captain of Industry status.)

2. The Fart Factory seated in front of me.

3. The "people person" Flight Attendant who thinks that just because he has a voice like Isaac Hayes he can commandeer the fucking PL system for the entire flight. Nobody wants to hear your tired jokes about The Big Apple, pal.

However, the first couple of days we were in Florida, the weather wasn't so hot.
So I took this opportunity to go to Tyrone Square Mall.
I love Tyrone Square Mall.
Really.
I'm obsessed with it.
It has all these stores that you normally only find in crumbling ghetto malls that are set for demolition. Yet Tyrone is thriving.
After all, the Floridian goth kids need some place to go to wear their heavy boots and black velvet cloaks without melting. They mill around the food court in gloomy splendor, eating Auntie Anne's pretzels, confident that the airconditioning will preserve their eyeliner.
It's beautiful.
And when was the last time you went to a lovely clean mall and found:

-PANTS TOWNE
That "E" is what gets me. Did they think it would convey a bit of "class"? Or are they trying to get shoppers to believe they're entering a mythical wonderland of Victorian pants vendors?

-ORANGE JULIUS
Every time I go I almost buy one, just because it's funny. Then I remember what they taste like.

-SPENCER GIFTS
They still have plenty of fake dog shit for sale to delight friends and family

-J.C. PENNY as an "anchor store"

-CLAIRE'S BOUTIQUE
Still full of cheap, nasty jewelry that will hang around 15-year-old necks for a total of 15 minutes. They still offer the same ear piercing deals too.

Honestly, it's all so...reassuring.

SHEDDING SOME LIGHT ON THE ISSUE

The picture above is not some kitschy trinket from Urban Outfitters or Spencer gifts.
It is an actual light switch ornament that was popular in Sunday school classrooms and the bedrooms of many good Catholic girls in the 1970s...
HOW COULD PEOPLE NOT HAVE SEEN THE OBVIOUS...UH...ISSUE WITH THIS ITEM?
How?
And why is this issue the ONLY thing I see when I look at it?
Are we that cynical now? Have years worth of opening a paper to find stories about creepy priests and Michael Jackson's Jesus Juice warped us beyond recognition?
Or were people just selectively blind back then?
And while we're pointing out the blindness of yesteryear:

WAKE ME UP BEFORE YOU GO-GO

How could George Michael's gayness have come as a surprise? Look at this man, sporting a PTA haircut with Sun In highlights and a salmon colored shirt, gleefully clapping like a bridesmaid hopped up on white zinfandel.
What more did he have to do?
Rhythmically slurp some cock while bouncing about in those painfully short shorts?
How did we not know?
How?

I BELIEVE IN BELIEVING

I was the kid who never thought Linus from “Peanuts” was an idiot for waiting for “The Great Pumpkin” to come every year. I would have forgone my candy corn and sat with him in that pumpkin patch too. Not necessarily because I believed, but because he did.

I have taken a pet to the Church of the Holy Family’s “Annual Blessing of the Animals”. I have danced during Shul at B'nai Jeshurun. I have paid my respects at the Buddhist Byodo-In Temple. I have skinny dipped with Wiccans.

Having traveled a lot and lived in many places, I’ve seen belief manifest itself in many forms. So I believe in pretty Southern Baptist girls in floral Easter dresses giggling on a sunny Atlanta morning. I believe in my Muslim classmates at college in London, who prayed together and fasted at Ramadan. I believe in Harlem choirs, gorgeous voices raising the rafters of their churches. I believe in the makeshift altars set up in even the grimiest of New Orleans apartments, often on TV trays, with glass-encased candles flickering in the warm afternoon air. And I believe in the hippie Reverend who officiated a wedding I attended on St. John Island, a woman who wore butterflies instead of crosses on her vestment, and told the couple to swim together in Trunk Bay, souls uniting in the water.

Any belief that attempts to connect people in a positive way, to focus on something greater than the polluted commute to work and boring TV line-up is worth listening to. As long as there is belief, there is concern for what happens beyond the next company progress report or condo association meeting. True belief requires commitment, struggle and devotion. It demands attention. Apathy is too easy. Apathy lets you off the hook. Apathy belies a lack of imagination.

In my home, I have a mezuzah on my doorframe, three Bibles, a copy of the I Ching, The Tibetan Book of The Dead, a jade Buddha, and a statue of Ganesha right by my computer. After all, he is the Lord of New Beginnings, Destroyer of Obstacles. As a writer who is no stranger to rejection letters, I need his blessings quite frequently.

But when people ask what this buffet of spirituality all means, I tell them I believe in believing.

PHOTOSHOPPED ADULTHOOD: Sanitized for Your Convenience

A friend of mine had a little girl recently, so I’ve been perusing the children’s section of the bookstore. Naturally, I gravitated toward the books I knew from my childhood: “Where the Wild Things Are”, “Green Eggs and Ham”, and of course, “Goodnight Moon”. I loved that book not because of the story (which I thought was boring) but for the black and white photo of the illustrator, Clement Hurd. Unlike grandfatherly Dr. Seuss, he didn’t look like he’d give me a hug. No, he belonged at our house during cocktail hour, sitting in a floral chair on the patio, telling stories by the light of the tiki torches.

But when I turned “Goodnight Moon” over to look at this photo after all these years, I saw that it had been photoshopped. The cigarette in his hand had been removed, altered to suit modern parenting sensibilities. I stared at it for a while. The picture looked so strange, his hand clearly posed for holding a cigarette, but nothing was there.

It occurred to me that certain child-protective measures are entrenched today in ways they weren’t when I was a kid. Maybe it’s because people demand a greater level of control now, with the rise of “helicopter parenting”. But it seems like we are cocooning kids too much, and denying ourselves some of the fun of adulthood in the process.

When I was a child in Honolulu back in the late 1970s, my parents and their friends didn’t surrender their adult interests and make everything so “family friendly”. The adult stuff coexisted with kids’ stuff. But there was a distinct divide between us and them, and we knew it. Parents and kids both liked it that way. Of course the term “family values” hadn’t been coined yet.

In the fridge there was Mr. and Mrs. T’s Bloody Mary Mix next to the milk. Moms had vinyl cigarette purses with golden snaps and a separate little pouch for their Bic lighters. If we asked, they’d take out their Virginia Slims and lighters and let us use the purses for our dolls. Dads often kept copies of Playboy (just out of our reach) in the bathroom. Under the sink, you might find a box of Today Sponges. If you asked about it, you were just told, “That’s for adults.” Believe it or not, that answer was good enough for us.

People in our neighborhood all had cocktail hours out on their patios, with fully stocked wet bars, olives and colorful swizzle sticks. We kids would color in our books as adults smoked and drank outside. They didn’t try to include us. They told dirty jokes or talked about politics or neighborhood gossip. This wasn’t some type of family fun. Friday night was theirs, distinctly for the adults. When told to go to bed, I’d leave my bedroom door open, loving the sound of all that laughter, the clinking of ice in a vodka tonic. And as they nursed hangovers, Saturday morning was all ours. We’d get up alone, make a bowl of Honeycomb, Lucky Charms or any other cereal that would tear up the roof of your mouth and watch Scooby Doo, Laff Olympics and Superfriends.

If parents took their kids to an upscale restaurant, there was zero tolerance for misbehaving in that adult realm. Mothers didn’t lecture fellow diners by saying, “You were a kid once too.” When I hear this, I often think, “You’re right, I was. And I had to sit there, sip my Shirley Temple and behave. Otherwise I’d get the evil eye from my mom, and that look alone was enough to keep me in check.”

Adulthood used to be this amazing mystery. I’d watch my mother put on her disco clothes; sexy sparkly outfits and platform heels as I sat there in my cords and juice-stained t-shirt, dreaming of all the fun I could have when I grew up. Now it seems like some parents are so worried about teaching their kids the wrong message, that “family friendly” activities have overtaken their lives.

These parents don’t appear to want a separate world for themselves. They are willing to completely morph into “Mom” and “Dad”, leaving nothing left for an outside identity. But I think constantly catering to kids deprives them of the wonder of adulthood. They don’t have the understanding that certain activities are just for adults, and that this unknown world can be something to look forward to.

When I was a kid, the adult world was visible but not accessible. It seemed fascinating. But I knew that adults had problems, they weren’t always right, and life wasn’t perfect. My parents didn’t try to hide this from me, and neither did their friends. So I don’t think we give kids enough credit these days. We shield them a little too much, not realizing how smart they are. And all the while, toy companies keep scaling back on “traditional” toys, because kids are so advanced now and want cell phones instead.

So I say put that cigarette back in Clement Hurd’s slender fingers. Call it a cautionary tale. Kids will understand. The photo is creepier now without it, because it’s obvious something is missing. The vice is photoshopped, but the stance remains.