A Few Installments of A New Feature

I've decided to start a new feature called "If I Loved . . . , My Life Would Be Awesome" where I would tell you about things which, if I loved, would contribute to a more awesome life on my part. It goes like this:

If I liked walking on Legos, my life would be awesome.

If I liked sleeping on stacks of Bob books, my life would be awesome.

If I liked hearing the Fantastic Fox theme song whistled flatly, my life would be awesome.

If I like decorating with sleeping bags, my life would be awesome.

I acknowledge that some kinder-hearted among you might see these conditions are sweet blessings, and I'm not discounting that possibility. That's why I am trying to imagine a more awesome life out of the awesome life I already have.

Completely Random

Now that I've tried to start blogging again, I've really noticed how little people blog these days, unless they are professional bloggers. And maybe they don't blog either, since I don't think I actually read any professional bloggers. Anyway, its too bad. I like reading my friends' blogs. For example, I was really happy today to find that T&A Lady had posted. Its a pretty funny post. Notwithstanding the fact that she accurately calls out her ex-boyfriend's non-wisdom, I do have to say that the sentiment against sweat pants outside the house was a strong one in my family. So strong, in fact, that I think I may have rebelled for some years by clinging desperately to a really ugly maroon pair from high school. So deep was my affection, I cut them up and put them in my fabric bin; I intend to use them some day in a quilt, or pillow, or some other novelty gift for my husband, who hates them.

Which is a bummer, isn't it? That men (at least good ones) don't find women attractive in old sweatpants? And its a bummer for men that women don't think that SportsCenter is lady porn. So I guess we're even.

I ran another race on Sunday. And oh mother, was it punishing. It was only a 10k ("only", ha!) but it was in Redwood Park, which is very hilly and it was raining and muddy. So I am half-happy with my time. The reason I am even mentioning this is that I noticed that the race organizers posted on their Facebook page today that several people intentionally cheated in the related 30k. What is the point? If you are punishing yourself by running this insane race, why would you then cheat? I don't think I've ever cheated just to cheat. Strike that. Yes, I have. Sometimes I check for a hint at the back of the Sudoku book. Is that the same thing? It doesn't seem like the same thing.

Finally, I strongly encourage you to kill an hour or two watching Nowmov. Especially you, Seamus. This is my friend's new venture, and it is completely addictive. It's like Pandora mixed with Chatroulette mixed with basic cable. With Brazilians. And lots of Justin Bieber. But you can skip those videos. Anyway, enjoy and spread the word.

Deep Thoughts

Still on the music thing, but in a different genre altogether (assuming George Michael and X-Ray Spex are not in the same genre). I was thinking about the following lyrics: "Though its easy to pretend, I know you're not a fool."

How obnoxious and condescending is that? If any "friend" of mine told me that it would have been easy to pretend that I was a fool, I would be so pissed off.

Although now that everyone knows that most of my waking thoughts are song lyrics from the '80s, they would not be mistaken for thinking that I'm half-witted, I guess.

Musical Influences

On Saturday, Liam asked me if people ever have pet rats, which caused me to sing*, "Freddy tried to strangle me with my plastic popper beads, but I hit him back with my pet rat. Yes, I hit him back with my pet rat!" Li thought this was hilarious, so I spun Germ-Free Adolescents by X-Ray Spex for him in the car the next day. It only took one chorus for him to sing along to Plastic Bag. "My my-nd is like a plas-tic bag (do do do do do do doo)."

I was so proud. I mean, even prouder than the fact that both my kids love Ozzy (well, Crazy Train). But here's the trick. X-Ray Spex released that album in 1977. The year my sister was born. I was three, the same age as my younger son. It was old when I discovered it in 1991. So how can it be cool for me to be playing it for my kids? It just isn't, right? It's the equivalent of my mom playing Phil Ochs and The Band and Simon and Garfunkel**, which was still mildly contemporaneous with my early childhood. So in essence, I am even more of a throwback than my mom was when I was a kid. ~~~ Does not compute ~~~

This marked lack of coolness is something I've never adjusted to. Time to just own up to it and bust out the Doobie Brothers, I guess.

* I have this genetic condition that I inherited from my mother, and passed to my son, whereby I sing non-relevant song lyrics in response to friendly questions. This would drive Mr. Scobie "insane" if he weren't already in that condition due to our children's horrible table manners and their shambled, broken-toy-strewn bedroom.

** I still love The Band and Simon and Garfunkel. Here is my friend Dave's answer to the question "Beatles or Rolling Stones?": "Simon and Garfunkel", and he's right.

Two Steps Forward, One Tiny Step Back

This post is about Oakland. Back in September, I wrote about how impressed I was by O-Town's burgeoning night life, and last month, I was thrilled to run the half marathon in the Oakland Running Festival. This weekend, we stopped by the re-opened Oakland Museum of California, which was packed with people, and I felt particularly proud to watch the immigration rally/protest circling Lake Merritt from the roof of the OMCA. OAKLAND! REPRESENT! Even the NYT caught wind of Oakland's resurgence this weekend.

But amidst the fun and the Diebenkorns, there was one small thing at the OMCA that made me shake my head. It was the Holistic Hooping demonstration. Oakland is not going to make it to the next level of cool with this hula hoop-based fairy costume sex therapy dance nonsense. And I know that one of them will find this blog post and disagree, so I just want to let that hooper know that when my old dentist's wife started anonymously commenting on this blog, it ended with me giving detailed testimony to another dentist's lawyer in a related litigation matter. So think again, hula hooper.

I've decided to chalk the wood nymph hula squad up to Berkeley and continue to give O its due. But if I see a diaphonous cape or felt upper-arm bands in the vicinity of a hula hoop in Oakland again, I WILL downgrade Oakland to a B+.

And Again

I was reluctant to tackle the subject of our trip to New Jersey, but then I found this website, for the Westmount Country Club, and I realized it was selfish to keep it all to myself. My grandmother's repast (post-funeral lunch) was held at The Westmount, and she would have been in her glory at this place. And I don't mean because she was some old school guidette. Far from it;my grandmother was amazed at tackiness, and would have been thrilled to spend an afternoon soaking up the Westmount and tossing off one-liners at its expense.

Let me back up a bit. My grandmother died April 6, 2010, after a very long and full life. Now that's she deceased, I know that I'm at liberty to tell her age, but when she was alive, her age was not commonly known or shared.

Here's my grandmother's obituary. There was no doubt that her progeny would travel to NJ for the services. Due to the fact that there are no hotels in Clifton, NJ, my uncle reserved a block of rooms at the Holiday in Totowa, just up Route 46 from the church. As an aside, I need to note that my husband and non-NJ cousin mis-pronounced Totowa in various ways, and I had to fight the feeling that their mispronunciation was intentional. It's Toe-toe-WAH, not tot-uh-wah or tuh-TOE-uh. I decided that I don't answer for NJ anymore, and didn't bother to correct them. Plus, I'm probably wrong anyway. The hotel was attached to a night club that doubled as the breakfast buffet. I didn't have the good fortune to visit Ruby's Lounge, but some phrases my family who did visit used in reference to it were, "milling about", "sexy dancing", "old" and "jarring".

Stepping aside from the hilarity of the Ho Inn and the Westmount, I must say that my Gram's mass was very moving and appropriate. I hadn't felt deeply miserable about her passing because it wasn't unexpected, but the mass felt just right for acknowledging who she was and creating a safe space for feeling that sadness. I was lucky that my mom took me up on my offer to speak a few "Words of Remembrance." I share them below, because I figure, I already shared them in public once, and I've already eulogized an old neighbor on this blog, it's only right to honor my grandmother.

When I first heard that Gram had died, I had a flash of self-pity where I thought, "I didn't get to say good-bye to her." Then I realized I had talked with her just a few days earlier. In fact, most of her children and grandchildren spoke to her in the weeks before she died. I talked to Gram almost every week in the past few years, and I can tell you, she was ready for this. In some ways, she was curious about death, almost impatient. I know that she was ready to pass.

Our familiarity makes it hard to remember anecdotes about my grandmother. But I do remember that in the last year they owned the house in Lavallette, Gram learned that a serious winter storm was headed towards the house, and the house hadn't been closed for the winter. She literally tossed me in the car and drove down there. (I think Jack was there.) She worked quickly to lock windows, turn off the water, whatever needed to be done. I am sure that I was no help at all. Before we left though, we walked down to the beach. It was the only time I remember seeing dolphins at Lavallette. Gram turned to me and said, "We should go swimming!" It was pretty classic. She had a way of making the routine seem spontaneous, and by extension, I felt so *included* in everything she did.

When I was very young, Gram taught me how to answer the phone, make a pot of coffee. She let me watch the Today show with her at the kitchen counter , and she'd send me to buy donuts at Cozy Joe's. I felt so important! So grown-up! It seems silly to remember such little things about a woman who accomplished so much. She graduated from Fordham and got her Master's degree in the 1940s. She had a professional career when Irish Catholic women were not professionals. Then she had a family when most women at that time would be considered an old maid. Gram was one for the history books and yet my whole life, I just took it for granted. Of course she did all that. NO big deal; I'll do that too! Sometimes she used her maiden name, sometimes she used her married name. No big deal; I'll do that too!

In fact, Marie Winberry Costello has many names. To the older grandchildren, she is Gram. To the younger, and to her great grandchildren, she is Memaw.

Regardless of what we called her, she was crazy about all of us. The younger kids were beautiful, hilarious and, wonderful. I never heard her use baby talk until I had kids. Rachael got Gram to shoot a music video a couple of years ago. She thought you were all hilarious. Every time she was with you, she was 70 years younger.

And making Gram laugh was one of her favorite things in the world.. When I got married, I asked her how I could have a long and happy marriage like hers. The first thing she said was, "Keep laughing with one another." She and Pop definitely did that. The other advice she gave me: "Never speak ill of his family, no matter how long you are married." And, "Feel free to go to bed angry - you'll know in the morning what you were really mad about." But keep laughing was the main advice I try to use every day.

I wanted you to know how much she appreciated that you could make her laugh.

What about us older kids? What did we mean to her?

There are enough people she loved in this world that I cannot say that we meant "everything". But the five oldest grandchildren were all the products of divorces by the time we were in our early teams. Each of us struggled in ways and through issues that Gram and her children never envisioned that we would.

And for that, Gram, above all, admired us. She was so proud of us. Every time I talked to her, she bragged to me about my sister, my cousins, my husband, my sister's husband, my cousin's husbands, my cousin's wife. She bragged to me about my own kids. She bragged to me about ME. She didn't understand everything that we did, but she thought we were all just amazing. And she respected us. Not just once were coping adults, but throughout our lives. She trusted us to answer her phone, make the coffee, hear some adult news - because she respected us, and our intelligence.

When I talked to Gram that last time, we didn't have any deep conversation. She had questions about being a criminal defense attorney - she was watching Law and Order - and wanted to know more about a half marathon I had run a few weeks ago. But she also let me know again, in simple ways, that she was really impressed by me, and more important, she was at peace with her own future.

The level of love and respect that I got from Gram, I got to reciprocate almost weekly. While I don't feel like there's anything I didn't say to her, I want to say this to you: If you want to remember my Gram, then take excellence for granted, respect eachother, and above all, keep laughing together. Thank you.

Another Blog Post, Finally

I've really been struggling to think of something to blog about lately. Obviously, the non-blogger side of me has been winning. I'll try to rectify that tonight, if I can. But coming up with a blog post was really challenging, especially since I DVRed the final episode of Project Runway, and I really should watch it tonight. It aired 5 days ago and the whole Western world knows who won, and I have been intentionally ignoring any source of information that might reveal the winner. So I really need to see it before the news blackout breaks down.

But okay, here I am.

Went to Jersey this weekend. Can't even begin to tackle this topic, I've reverted to such a neophyte weakling-blogger state. I just don't have the physical and emotional constitution to tackle New Jersey right now. It's like I've had blogger pneumonia, and I need to ease back into it.

Here's a topic I can handle: I finished reading Union Atlantic by Adam Haslett yesterday. I can't really recommend it. It got great reviews I think. Actually, maybe only my mother-in-law liked it. I don't know. It was on the cover of the NY Times Book Review, and I therefore assume they gave it a good review. Only Saul Bellows or Don DeLillo would get the cover and also a bad review, right?

Why did I dislike it? A few reasons:

(1) It was Gatsby-esque but not in a subtle enough way to be anything other than derivative.

(2) Speaking of derivatives (buh-dum-bum), the story involves a stock market crisis that takes place at the beginning of the war in Iraq, thus causing the reader to be forced to reckon with two monumental national disasters simultaneously. But the crisis feels anachronistic or something. Or maybe you are supposed to shake your head and lament that we never learn from our (snore).

(3) The main character is boring as shit and totally unlikeable. And not unlikeable in a Saul Bellow character way, where you can't wait to read what ludicrous prejudice is going to be next attributed to this character. It's more like, "Okay Doug is a power tripper, and now he's taking his shirt off again." (flip, flip, flip)

(4) In fact, all the characters are unlikeable, really. At least in small ways. And the things that are supposed to make them complex and interesting, aren't. Nate is gay? OMG! I just thought he was goth!

Had enough snark? I can't say I hate the book. It has enough interesting elements to be worth finishing.

UPDATE: I just checked the NYT review. It's pretty close to glowing, so heck ,maybe I'm wrong. But it reminded me of the talking dog bit, and that made me decide that, yup, I might hate this book.

Update on the Twitter situation, and Day 2 of SD

After I invited everyone to follow me on Twitter, my spouse let me know that I require new followers to be verified by me before they can read my posts. None of you asked to follow me, so I assume no one else tried to follow me there. Probably because you are mainly Luddites who are ambivalent about even reading this so-called blog. Anyway, I added my Twitter feed over there in the right hand column, so you'll have a reason to check back in even if I am not updating the blog.

As for Day 2 of San Diego, all I can say is, Legoland is nirvana for a 6 year old boy. Mine literally ran from place to place, overwhelmed and thrilled by the whole thing. It's probably the best theme park for kids that I've ever been to. My kids are anxious to return this weekend (not happening).

I've Found Something New to Be Annoyed About

In case you thought I'd gotten mellow and maybe more accepting of the world around me, I wanted to let you know that I have a new pet peeve. It is the use of quotation: "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting the same results."

I'll admit that the first time you hear this quote, you might think "HA! Isn't that clever? And so true...." but in reality, it is rarely true or even descriptive of the event under consideration. This particular iteration of this nonsense is attributable to Meg Whitman, criticizing Jerry Brown's decision to run for Governor. Say what you will about Jerry Brown and crazy, but this isn't actually him repeating himself, expecting the same results.

Another context in which I heard this quote was a meeting at work where someone was bemoaning the failure of program to reduce workplace injuries. The program was never actually fully implemented. I practically bit the woman's head off, and had to restrain myself from giving a lecture about the failure of LBJ's Great Society or War on Poverty or whatever and even now I don't know what that means. In other words, if you don't do something, you can't turn around and say that you did the same thing over and over again.

On reflection, this is just one quote that people use to sound smart and pithy and right without actually having to be thoughtful and articulate and creative. Which describes the use of quotes generally. So I am going to amend my pet peeve to include the use of all quotations in verbal communication.

It Didn't Seem Like Such A Bad Idea At the Time

Mr. Scobie decided to go to CO for a ski weekend with his brother and friend around the same time that I realized that I had a Southwest voucher that will expire in June. So I got the bright idea to take the kids to San Diego for the same weekend, so we could hit Legoland and the Zoo. Now, I've been informed by both Mr. Scobie and his brother that they would also like to visit Legoland and the Zoo, and while I understand that, I also know that I cannot plan a non-skiing trip during the winter for the whole family without some serious backlash, so I went ahead and booked it. Way later than I should have, but the money is spent. This blog post is not to cry over that spilt milk. Instead, I will compose this post as though it were Twitter status updates I had made throughout the day. In fact, I didn't have time to tweet, what with all the yelling and driving rain, but I know a lot of my readers don't follow me on Twitter so I thought I would give you a taste of what it's like to read.

6:22: Up, fed, dressed out the door!

6:22: F! Forgot my coffee and the NYT. Not going back now, already at the end of the block.

6:38: Nasty odor wafting over OAK causing kid to fake-retch is IDed as landfill fumes by security guard. Mystery solved.

6:43: Practically no one at the airport.

6:46: Kids ecstatic to see Southwest airplanes; out of proportion to their abundance.

9:01: Safe flight, safe landing in SAN.

9:33: Car reservation for Mary Dooley found for Tuesday not helpful to me.

9:47 On the road to Legoland.

10:25: Legoland closed. Would be a total disaster if not for killer earthquake/tsunami

10: 25: For perspective, i mean.

(Those were actual posts)

11:30: After more than an hour of tears and recrimination, we are resigned to make the best of it: San Diego Zoo, give us all you've got.

3:49: Hippos are amorous, time to head out.

4:35: Did not get $91 worth of San Diego Zoo.

5:35: Hilton Club Lounge cheese selection not up to unacknowledged expectations. Milk containers don't open with adult assistance.

5:36: more tears and recrimination. Back to the room.

9:41: listening to the yapping of the participants of the San Diego Dog Show who are also guests here tonight.

That covers Day 1.

Literary Detective Work

Today, someone commented on one of my first posts Who is Scobie?

What is one to make of "Scobie" being the name of the saintly main character of THE HEAR OF THE MATTER?

It's a good question, right? The first book of the Alexandria Quartet, from which I took the name Scobie, was published in 1957. The Heart of the Matter was published in 1948. It's possible that Lawrence Durrell was inspired by Graham Greene. I was wondering if both characters were both inspired by the same person. Both Joshua Scobie and Henry Scobie are police officers, posted in Alexandria, Egypt and Freetown, Sierra Leona, respectively. Beyond that, I have no idea what the similarities are, since I haven't read Heart of the Matter yet.*

Based solely on a Wikipedia search, I've got these candidates:

Ronald Scobie, a British army officer

Scobie Breasley, an Australian jockey

Jonathan Scobie, alleged rickshaw inventor

James Scobie. He's a dead gold miner. Definitely read the story on the link.

It would not surprise me if both Greene and Durrell were familiar with all four. Just guessing, but I bet Greene was inspired by Ronald, and Durrell was inspired by the other three all rolled together.

* I may read it this weekend. Or I may not. I love Graham Greene so much that I find it hard to read him. I mean, he's easy to read, but his books are very intense. To me, qua lapsed Catholic.

Mind Reader

Are there any topics about which you know that you and your partner disagree to such an extent that you avoid raising the topic, even if you've never discussed it before? The personal example that comes to mind is sweater pills. I don't really care; I assume Mr. Scobie thinks they are unacceptable.

What the? vol. 2 clarification

Just a brief follow-up to the post below:

1. By kneeless women, I didn't mean heroic wonder athletes like Sarah Reinertsen, who can probably pee anywhere she wants. In my mind, I envisioned a person who had complete legs which just did not have a joint midway to the floor, making lap creation a complete impossibility. I now hope that this physiognomy doesn't exist so I don't have to write something else hilarious.

2. It turns out that this product may be targeted towards transexuals who are transitioning from female to male. While this explains better which women might be interested in standing to urinate, it doesn't explain how this product solves their problem. I imagine a new female-to-male on an outdoorsy date with a woman, overcome with a need to relieve himself. How exactly does he employ the P-MATE in a way that doesn't kill his chances with his date?

So much in this world is just beyond my grasp.

What the? vol. 2

In the department of "problems I didn't know I have, solutions I don't want", my friend Jen shared a link to this website. That's right, P-Mate USA has finally brought a product to market that helps a woman (I assume; I guess men could use it too) pee standing up. Peeing standing up has never been an aspiration of mine, so I guess I was never really looking for this product. But I want to keep an open mind, so I've created my own FAQ about this product:

1. Why? Some women want to pee standing up. Also, some women find it hard to squat down to pee. Others don't like to hover over dirty toilets in the Port Authority. Fair enough. The pictures on the website show adventurous women, setting off on hikes, bike riding, looking at the Jersey City skyline - you know, adventure stuff.

2. But if they feel awkward squatting down in the tall grass to pee, how much easier will it be to stand upright with a little origami penis sticking out of their pants? It won't be. In fact, adventure women are unlikely to need this product. Adventure women love to do the wild wee. UNLESS THEY DON'T HAVE KNEES. That's right. It's hard to squat if you don't have knees, so this product is for you, adventurous kneeless women. God bless ya! Get out there!

3. Does it really constitute an endorsement if

Ellen DeGeneres Emmy-winning host of The Ellen DeGeneres Show was gifted a pack of P-Mates backstage at the 2009 GLAAD AWARDS on Saturday, April 18th at the Nokia Theater in Los Angeles.

I'm gonna say, no, it doesn't.

4. How do I dispose of this product? Apparently you can recycle this item, but I am sobered by the thought of the Waste Management employee considering which pile a damp, smelly triangle of badness should be thrown into. Which strongly suggests that this should be composted instead.

5. No seriously, who uses it? From a close reading of the website, and in particular the testimonials and photos pages, the answer is: Europeans and people at Burning Man, which means the same thing. No one has ever accused me of being either, so I will get back to work on my patent for a compostable upright urination device.

Best Line of the Night

A line shouted in anger by my 6 year old: "You are NOT a genius, and you are NOT a millionaire!"

Second best line in re: our house, by Mr. Scobie: "It's tiny, but at least it's expensive."

My Family

While I have been a complete slug this month, other members of my family have been doing dazzling and brilliant things. First of all, read my sister's blog post on Haiti. She's so smart.

Meanwhile, my father Joe, who is running against Deb Mell (sister in law of Rod Blagoyevich) for state assembly, grabbed a huge endorsement from the IEA this week. Check out his campaign website here. Please support him as a volunteer or contributor!! The primary is coming up and he can use all your support.

What's Up With Me, vol 3

First of all, check out my newest endeavor.

The rest of this post will just read like a Jackie Harvey column because mostly I just continue to play cultural catch-up with the rest of America. For example, we saw Julie and Julia - or is it Julia and Julie? - this weekend. Didn't like it. Didn't even finish it. Meryl Streep was of course blah blah blah awesome blah blah overacting blah blah blah, but the parts with Amy Adams were excruciating. Unless you are paying her by the minute, if you have Meryl Streep on contract, why would you spend even one second of your movie on mousy-squeaking boring ass Julie Powell typing on her computer? I hereby call a moratorium on movies showing blogging. Its barely passable as a hobby; why does anyone think I want to watch someone blog?

I realize that writers and screenwriters are facing this Modern Dilemma whereby technology nows solves all kinds of problems which previously permitted all kinds of dramatic tension in a story. For example, cell phones and Google probably eliminate 68% of all detective stories and 83% of all romantic comedies. So be it. Adapt or die. But showing a woman blogging is not an acceptable adaptation. Its boring. I invite any of you to come over and watch me blog. Except for you, if you are a creepy person who has developed a fetish for watching women blog. You can't come over.

Where was I going with this? Ah, yes. Other cultural fare I have tasted. I read Asterios Polyp. It's good. It's not the greatest graphic novel of all time or anything, but its very beautiful. I don't like when a graphic novel needs to end with a ludicrously cruel twist of fate. Comic artists are the most diehard cynics I've ever known. Rule: If you permit a character in a graphic novel to fall in love, they must die a truly bizarre death or be profoundly unhappy in spite of this gift of a human they can share their lives with. Crumb and Pekar come easily to mind in that last category. I won't say what happens in this book, but I do wish the second to last page had been left out.

Okay, back to my nascent art career.

Bad Feminist?

We watched The Hangover* last night and I about died laughing. This is the kind of movie my kids will know every line of in 10 years. Okay, maybe hopefully more like 15 if I am a good mother. I recall that at the time this movie was released, I heard that it was misogynist and had no strong female characters. Seeing the movie confirmed for me that I am apparently incapable of thinking like a good feminist anymore, because my reaction after watching it was: Of course there were no strong female characters! It was a bachelor party movie! And somehow its misogynistic to show strippers IN VEGAS!?

No one should expect to see strong female characters in bachelor movies, old war movies where women didn't see combat, football movies (but see Any Given Sunday. Or don't.). It would make very little sense for a narrative realism perspective, and they aren't necessary to make a decent movie.

Also kudos to the filmmakers for building a movie around a city's tourism board slogan.

* Actual dialogue in my life:

Mr. Scobie: What are you blogging about?

Me: The Hangover.

Mr. Scobie: You mean the one you had Christmas morning?

Me: No, the movie we watched last night.

Mr. Scobie: You should also blog about the one from Christmas.

This Is A Test

I got a Flip for Christmas, so bear with me while I test whether I can post a video.

Let me know if you can view this. Thanks.

10 Years Ago

The conventional wisdom is good riddance to this decade. In general and historical terms, I am in agreement with that. But this decade has been way more eventful than the one before that, and for that I am glad, largely for the corny and obvious reasons that I am now happily married with two beautiful children.

On the eve of Y2K, Mr. Scobie and his girlfriend, me and my boyfriend, another couple (who were on the verge of breaking up because of his imminent enrollment in treatment for pot addiction - which addiction was not in evidence that weekend, as no drugs that I know of were consumed) and a friend of ours rented a house at Brigantine, New Jersey. Brigantine is just north of Atlantic City, and I have no idea why we decided to go there. It had to do with the coming Rapture. I think we figured that if the shit went down, we probably wouldn't notice in a place like Brigantine. Which would have been true, if the shit had gone down. As you know, it didn't. I wish I could say that Mr. Scobie and I realized at that point that we were with the wrong people, but that didn't happen for another year. The whole weekend was, at the request of another attendee, a "PG weekend", so I don't have much else to report.

My mom, for her part, spent New Year's Eve that year hosting friends from the commune where she'd lived from 1971 until 1973. That "community" was millenarian, and among the numerous reasons my parents left was my mother's fatigue of waiting for the End of The World. Anyway, to finally have The End upon them, my mother and her friends mostly found hilarity in the whole situation. The visiting couple's daughter, who had renamed herself Rainbow, was now herself a part of a apocalyptic community. She and her husband had stockpiled food and made their own mattress out of hay (to absorb nuclear radiation). Her mother memorably said, "I've lived through that. Now, when the end comes, I want to be one of the looters."

That doesn't exactly exhaust my memory of this night 10 years ago, but it comes close. Me and the D posse gotta roll to our NYE party. Have a great New Year!