An Unexpected Message

            Oftentimes, messages come with animals, either live or in spirit vision.  If this happens to you, you should study the meaning of this animal, as it may well become your personal totem or power animal.  Bear in mind, too, that your animal totem might be a real surprise.  You may be a 300-pund linebacker, and your totem might be a mouse.  Remember, the totem picks you; you don’t pick the totem.

            I was surprised when my animal totem first came to me.  For whatever reason, I thought I was not a nature girl.  I did a personal vision quest, and while a trip to an exotic place such as the Amazon jungle was not in my immediate plans, I felt I could definitely journey to the shore and make it a spiritual trek.  Between Santa Cruz and San Francisco, there is a wonderful national park by the Pacific Ocean called Big Basin.  Big Basin features a waterfall with a very large creek that flows down a mountain directly into the ocean.  For sheer physical beauty and drama, Big Basin is nearly unmatched.  The waterfall is a “word of mouth” phenomenon that only occurs after the rainy season.  If you go at any other time, the waterfall is dry and, for all intents and purposes, simply does not exist.  I decided that, for my purposes, I could experience a little of the magic my fried Terrance McKenna wrote about in his mind-blowing book, True Hallucinations.

            So I set off on the seven-mile journey up the mountain to find Berry Creek Falls. Because I was hit by a drunk driver some years back, hiking is hard for me, sometimes. But I was extremely motivated to discover this hidden watery jewel, and the beauty of the spring day was sheer joy to behold.  Through flowering spring trees, a singing brook, and a lush green landscape, I felt like I had rediscovered Eden all by myself.  After about five miles, my ankle, which had been smashed in the accident, was begging me for a respite.   I moved down the bank of the big creek and dipped my throbbing leg into the cool water.  It felt so good, and I was so hot and hungry, that it seemed absolutely essential that I plunge into the creek.  I think I lay in the water for at least two hours, and I felt an enormous sense of release there.  I wept, letting go of deep emotions and past pain as the water flowed around me.  Lichen, moss, leaves, and some small sticks caught in my waist length hair, but these added to my sense that I was getting closer to nature.  I was in my element and very glad of it.

            Eventually, I became aware of the world outside my mossy mermaid creek bed.  It was getting late, and lacking flashlight or fire, I could either wash out to sea or return to the world and my life.  Refreshed, a little more lucid, a lot hungrier, but with no distinct vision, it seemed that it was going to take another trip for me to get any real enlightenment.

            I started the journey of several miles down the incline, deep in thought.  After a few minutes I noticed that I was not the only one walking in the woods.  I stopped, and the other footsteps stopped, too. I started and the other footsteps started again.  The steps were very close.  It seemed that someone or something was walking just off to my left, practically beside me.  I started to get frightened; being followed was not in my vision quest plans!

            Carefully and quietly, I turned to look in the dimming light.  To my utter amazement, there was a young female deer walking beside me.  We looked at each other, and I am not sure who was more frightened.  We walked together and soon grew fairly comfortable with each other’s presence.  I touched her and she didn’t flinch or run away.  This was miraculous.  I marveled that she remained at my side.  I grew up in West Virginia, where deer simply don’t “hang out” with humans. I came to realize that this doe was my animal totem.  She picked me, and definitely let me know that she was there for me, escorting me down the mountain from my vision quest.  At the end of the grassy hill, before it became sand and beach, she turned, and with a long gaze, gave me her goodbye.  I was practically shaking with excitement and an indescribable bursting feeling inside.

            All those Native American teachings I had heard were completely real and true.  Never again did I doubt the veracity of vision and spirit from the elders. 

            The realm of the spirit is there.  It’s just waiting for you to walk in.

Absinthe Epiphanies -Brenda Knight's Adventures in Prague

Risks Worth Taking -Drinking Absinthe in Prague

A Tale of Two Pragues -A "Trip" to Middle Earth

I had the fortune of going to Prague for a literary festival a few years ago. As if that weren’t wonderful enough, I was accompanied by Laurence Ferlingetti and ruth weiss, two of the legendary poets who were also coming to Prague for the first time. We were enthralled with the city, and its undisturbed medieval beauty, despite some unfortunate Communist era architectural monstrosities in the suburbs. Also., we got to stay near the city gate on Templova Street in an apartment building that had been a Knights Templar stronghold a mere 800 years ago. Walking along the banks of the Charles River, it was like a dream. Get thee to Prague as soon as you can, it is a place of deep magic and will doubtless inspire you.

There seemed to be two Pragues, from what I could tell. One is the day-to-day Prague with citizens going about their business as they always have, intermixing with tourists and the many expats who (like I very nearly did) came to Prague to visit and simply never left. Then, there is the Prague by night, which has many discos and a glittery blend of Europeans and North American clubbers. Lit by candlelight and neon, this Prague takes on an otherworldly glow where pretty much anything is possible. For me, the most memorable public house of all is a bar whose name translates to “The Man With the Shot Out Eye,” a reference to Jan Hus. Our Beat contingent decided to visit on our last night in Prague and on this night the pivo (Czech for beer) and the absinthe was flowing. I was an “absinthe virgin” and everybody was guessing I would not be able to handle it. Perhaps it was the romance of this trip but I WAS able to handle the absinthe. I think.

That night, the bar was filled with mostly men, odds I was definitely appreciative of – Russians, Moravians, Slovenians, Slovakians, Czechs, Germans, Hungarians, Poles, Estonians. And, I’m sure it was NOT the absinthe, but they were the most interesting looking men, mostly with long hair and dark clothes, in short – pretty darn Goth. At one point, after my third glass of absinthe, all the colors in the room got just a little bit brighter and suffused with a sort of electric glow. I was talking to a particularly amiable young man with long blonde hair and he was explaining the wonders of the Eastern Bloc to me and I had a perceptual shift. It was right after that I had what I call my absinthe epiphany, in which I realized that J.R.R. Tolkien’s Riders of Rohan were the Slovakians, and that all of the peoples of his middle earth (minus the Hobbits) were right here in the bar with me. I was thunderstruck and so overcome with excitements at my sudden understanding of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, which I tried to explain it to all of my new friends. They heartily agreed; my new Slovakian friend insisted I was correct and he was a Rohirrin warrior and we swept out into the streets to take Prague by storm. The next day, a bit headachy and sad to be leaving my new second home, I realized that I had a minor absinthe-induced hallucination. When the first of the Lord of the Rings movies came out in 2002, I was pleased to see that the casting director apparently saw Middle Earth the way I do.

Risk Assessment: Even though I enjoy an excellent glass of wine more than most, I was scared to drink absinthe, associating it with madness and murder, the reasons it was outlawed. It took lots of cajoling by my Czech mates to get me to drink it. I am convinced they wanted to see a blonde American girl be repulsed by the harshness. I think they were just as surprised as I was to see that I not only enjoyed the "green fairy" drink but had a truly memorable experience. I'll never forget that night in the ancient city and taking the risk of daring to drink absinthe in the company of strangers as a favorite traveling memory!

A Best Mind of the Beat Generation: Fred McDarrah by Brenda Knight

I was taken aback when I read Fred's obit in The New York Times. He always seemed more alive then anyone else. Back when I was researching for my Beat book, I didn't really know what I was doing and I would just call people. (this was 94, 95, and 96, PreGoogle, if you can imagine researching in the way back machine) So, one of the people I called was Fred McDarrah as I knew his work and loved his photographs. He seemed to be always at the right place at the right time and has photos of Jack Kerouac, Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, and his rent-a-Beatnik pal Ted Joans to name just a few. I really enjoyed talking to him, now THAT was a New Yorker -his accent, I dearly loved. He had amazing stories and was a real guiding light and kept me on the right track in many ways. He had the killer instincts of an investigative reporter and ace journalist and that is how he should be remembered. Fred, you made your mark and it was big one, to be sure.Below is his obit and tribute from Tom RobbinsFred W. McDarrah, 1926-2007by Tom RobbinsNovember 6th, 2007 10:57 AMFred W. McDarrah, April 1978photo: Janie EisenbergRemembering Fred W. McDarrah (1926-2007) The Voice work of the photographer, from Bob Dylan to Andy Warhol to Rudy GiulianiVeteran Village Voice photographer Fred W. McDarrah died in his sleep at home in Greenwich Village early Tuesday morning. He was 81.Over a 50-year span, McDarrah documented the rise of the Beat Generation, the city’s postmodern art movement, its off-off-Broadway actors, troubadours, politicians, agitators and social protests.Fred captured Jack Kerouac frolicking with women at a New Year’s bash in 1958, Andy Warhol adjusting a movie-camera lens in his silver-covered factory, and Bob Dylan offering a salute of recognition outside Sheridan Square near the Voice’s old office.Not just a social chronicler, McDarrah was a great photo-journalist. He photographed the still-smoldering ruins of the Weather Underground bomb factory on W. 12th Street. His unerring eye for gesture and detail caught lawyer Roy Cohn whispering what appeared to be tough orders in the ear of a young Donald Trump.For years, McDarrah was the Voice's only photographer and, for decades, he ran the Voice’s photo department, where he helped train dozens of young photographers, including James Hamilton, Sylvia Plachy, Robin Holland and Marc Asnin. His mailbox was simply marked "McPhoto."An exhibit of McDarrah’s photos of artists presented last year by the Steven Kasher Gallery in Chelsea was hailed by The New York Times as “a visual encyclopedia of the era’s cultural scene.” It included candid shots of Janis Joplin, artist Jasper Johns, and avant-garde artist Charlotte Moorman.Wayne Barrett Remembers McDarrahIn the days when politicians routinely let reporters and photographers inside their fundraising extravaganzas, Fred McDarrah never missed a fat cat with a fork or a knife in his hand. He got his camera right under their double chins. If they waved him away in anger, he took an extra shot. He circled the world of New York politics with me for two decades, responding to every brusque rejection with an irresistible charm and a grin wider than his lens. It wasn't just that Fred loved to photo the New York predator class and their political prey, he understood who they were and what they wanted. He collected names and public price tags as well as pictures. I remember standing with him in the rain outside Studio 54 for the birthday party of that infamous fixer Roy Cohn as we rushed toward every opening limo door, squeezing the story out of the street. I remember stakeouts that dragged on for hours and his edgy exuberance, a kid-like quality he carried with his camera into his 70s. Fred loved his town and his craft and his era and his family, and he has left a legacy of prints unparalleled in our time.J. Hoberman Remembers McDarrahLike anyone who ever looked at the Village Voice during the ‘60s, I was familiar with Fred McDarrah's world—long before I met him. Fred spent that decade (and three more) documenting the city’s be-ins, demonstrations, peace marches, happenings, free concerts, coffee-house readings, loft performances, jazz bars, and underground movie emporia, not to mention the flotsam and jetsam of Sheridan Square, Bleecker Street, Avenue C, St Marks Place, and the Bowery. He was a real newspaper guy and a genuine historian of his times. His street and studio portraits of downtown artists, avant-garde luminaries, local pols and boho celebs were often definitive.Fred was a feisty, wiry Son of Brooklyn who knew how to get to the front of a crowd, hold onto his light, and make the most of any given situation. In 1960, he invented a sort of human catering service called Rent-a-Beatnik. Did I say he was feisty? Fred wrote irate letters to the Voice editor both before and after he became the paper’s staff photographer. (A proud populist, he always took regular issue with film critic Andrew Sarris’s annual ten best lists.) Fred was free with friendly counsel and fiercely protective of his work, as I learned when I, as Village Voice greenhorn, I asked him on behalf of an avant-garde filmmaker friend, if she could use one of his best known photographs in her movie. Fred lost his smile and gave me an earful. (I considered it career advice.) And he was right, the work he furnished the Voice for pennies was only going to grow more valuable. Fred may have been a terrific journalist but, as he’d have been the first to tell you, he wasn’t a hippie.

One of the Best Minds of the Beat Generation: Fred McDarrah

I was taken aback when I read Fred's obit in The New York Times. He always seemed more alive then anyone else. Back when I was researching for my Beat book, I didn't really know what I was doing and I would just call people. (this was 94, 95, and 96, PreGoogle, if you can imagine researching in the way back machine) So, one of the people I called was Fred McDarrah as I knew his work and loved his photographs. He seemed to be always at the right place at the right time and has photos of Jack Kerouac, Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, and his rent-a-Beatnik pal Ted Joans to name just a few. I really enjoyed talking to him, now THAT was a New Yorker -his accent, I dearly loved. He had amazing stories and was a real guiding light and kept me on the right track in many ways. He had the killer instincts of an investigative reporter and ace journalist and that is how he should be remembered. Fred, you made your mark and it was big one, to be sure.

Below is his obit and tribute from Tom Robbins



Fred W. McDarrah, 1926-2007
by Tom Robbins
November 6th, 2007 10:57 AM
Fred W. McDarrah, April 1978photo: Janie Eisenberg
Remembering Fred W. McDarrah (1926-2007) The Voice work of the photographer, from Bob Dylan to Andy Warhol to Rudy Giuliani

Veteran Village Voice photographer Fred W. McDarrah died in his sleep at home in Greenwich Village early Tuesday morning. He was 81.
Over a 50-year span, McDarrah documented the rise of the Beat Generation, the city’s postmodern art movement, its off-off-Broadway actors, troubadours, politicians, agitators and social protests.
Fred captured Jack Kerouac frolicking with women at a New Year’s bash in 1958, Andy Warhol adjusting a movie-camera lens in his silver-covered factory, and Bob Dylan offering a salute of recognition outside Sheridan Square near the Voice’s old office.
Not just a social chronicler, McDarrah was a great photo-journalist. He photographed the still-smoldering ruins of the Weather Underground bomb factory on W. 12th Street. His unerring eye for gesture and detail caught lawyer Roy Cohn whispering what appeared to be tough orders in the ear of a young Donald Trump.
For years, McDarrah was the Voice's only photographer and, for decades, he ran the Voice’s photo department, where he helped train dozens of young photographers, including James Hamilton, Sylvia Plachy, Robin Holland and Marc Asnin. His mailbox was simply marked "McPhoto."
An exhibit of McDarrah’s photos of artists presented last year by the Steven Kasher Gallery in Chelsea was hailed by The New York Times as “a visual encyclopedia of the era’s cultural scene.” It included candid shots of Janis Joplin, artist Jasper Johns, and avant-garde artist Charlotte Moorman.
Wayne Barrett Remembers McDarrah
In the days when politicians routinely let reporters and photographers inside their fundraising extravaganzas, Fred McDarrah never missed a fat cat with a fork or a knife in his hand. He got his camera right under their double chins. If they waved him away in anger, he took an extra shot. He circled the world of New York politics with me for two decades, responding to every brusque rejection with an irresistible charm and a grin wider than his lens. It wasn't just that Fred loved to photo the New York predator class and their political prey, he understood who they were and what they wanted. He collected names and public price tags as well as pictures. I remember standing with him in the rain outside Studio 54 for the birthday party of that infamous fixer Roy Cohn as we rushed toward every opening limo door, squeezing the story out of the street. I remember stakeouts that dragged on for hours and his edgy exuberance, a kid-like quality he carried with his camera into his 70s. Fred loved his town and his craft and his era and his family, and he has left a legacy of prints unparalleled in our time.
J. Hoberman Remembers McDarrah
Like anyone who ever looked at the Village Voice during the ‘60s, I was familiar with Fred McDarrah's world—long before I met him. Fred spent that decade (and three more) documenting the city’s be-ins, demonstrations, peace marches, happenings, free concerts, coffee-house readings, loft performances, jazz bars, and underground movie emporia, not to mention the flotsam and jetsam of Sheridan Square, Bleecker Street, Avenue C, St Marks Place, and the Bowery. He was a real newspaper guy and a genuine historian of his times. His street and studio portraits of downtown artists, avant-garde luminaries, local pols and boho celebs were often definitive.
Fred was a feisty, wiry Son of Brooklyn who knew how to get to the front of a crowd, hold onto his light, and make the most of any given situation. In 1960, he invented a sort of human catering service called Rent-a-Beatnik. Did I say he was feisty? Fred wrote irate letters to the Voice editor both before and after he became the paper’s staff photographer. (A proud populist, he always took regular issue with film critic Andrew Sarris’s annual ten best lists.) Fred was free with friendly counsel and fiercely protective of his work, as I learned when I, as Village Voice greenhorn, I asked him on behalf of an avant-garde filmmaker friend, if she could use one of his best known photographs in her movie. Fred lost his smile and gave me an earful. (I considered it career advice.) And he was right, the work he furnished the Voice for pennies was only going to grow more valuable. Fred may have been a terrific journalist but, as he’d have been the first to tell you, he wasn’t a hippie.


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Get Lit!

Hey everybody -when you are not attending Nick 2.0's Flash Fiction course, you need to be at this embarrassment of writerly riches. LitQuake is a veritable literary orgy! My dear friend Nina Lesowitz has been stellar in helping organize this. Check it:

Mere days remain before the opening of Litquake, San Francisco’s Literary Festival, As always, we aim to please a wide variety of the populace—not an easy feat in San Francisco. This year's festival is exceptionally rich, starting with a stellar opening night that boasts a lineup of actors, the literati, and musicians honoring Tales of the City author Armistead Maupin. And, as always, the week will conclude when the masses take to Valencia Street for the Lit Crawl.Below are a few of the many and varied highlights. Listen to the literate Jane Smiley converse with the bifurcated Daniel Handler; toast a young generation of poets and spoken-word artists with Youth Speaks; and marvel at the convolutions (verbal and tattooed) when the San Francisco Chronicle's Mark Morford talks dharma with Tattooed Buddha Noah Levine.We can't wait to see you there!Wednesday, October 10, 7 pm Jane Smiley in Conversation with Daniel HandlerDelancey Street Foundation, 600 Embarcadero. $15Doors open at 6:30 pm, event begins at 7 pm.Tickets on sale through City Box Office
We can’t promise he’ll wear a fez or play the accordion, as he’s been known to do at his public appearances, but Daniel Handler (best known as the lyrically strange Lemony Snicket) will do his best to spice up the author Q&A format as he interviews Pulitzer Prize winner Jane Smiley (Ten Days in the Hills), no slouch in the wit department herself.
Tuesday, October 11, 6:30 pmYouth Speaks All StarsTheater Building, School of the Arts, 555 Portola Drive at O’Shaughnessy. FREE
Litquake is honored to partner with Youth Speaks to present an entire new generation of poets and spoken-word artists as part of this year’s festival. Featuring an all-star cast of young poets, and a few special guests, the lineup includes poets seen on HBO’s Def Poetry, National Poetry Slam Champions, newly published authors, and the current Youth Speaks Teen Poetry Slam Champions.Thursday, October 11, 7:30 pm Tattooed Buddha:An Evening with Dharma Punk Noah LevineRoxie Theater. 3117 16th Street. FREE
Punk rocker turned Buddhist teacher/bestselling author Noah Levine talks dharma with San Francisco Chronicle columnist Mark Morford. Audience Q&A follows. In addition, selected clips will be screened from Meditate and Destroy, a new documentary about Noah’s life and work. Book sales and author signing after the event. Presented in conjunction with HarperOne, publisher of Levine’s books Dharma Punx and Against the Stream.

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Song for Andrew Meyer

Song for Andrew Meyer

Lillian and I lament
we were not there
in Florida with you.

And I say, anyone who uses the words impeach, Secret society, and blow-job in one sentence is my kinda guy.

Andrew Meyer, you are America's conscience
and you took a taser for it
while the sheepish crowd sat silent
only you kept telling the truth
and you took a taser for it

but you give us hope
that somebody out there is thinking
and maybe the next generation
is not so dead
not so anesthetized by 900 channels of satellite tv
not so mesmerized by Hollywood social x-rays

Lillian and I lament
we can't go back in time
and take back our Cuyahoga County votes
for Senator Skull and Bones.

John Kerry, you pretended to be America's conscience
but now we know you are part of the machine
and your concession was doubtless a backroom deal
sealed with a secret society handshake

John Kerry, you are not the man who went to Viet Nam, came back and decried it.
John Kerry, the Infant of Prague lost a hand for you and you didn't deserve it

Andrew Meyer, you're the best hope of a nation

the truth and beauty of truth and beauty aren't lost on you.

And Lillian and I, we sing this song for you.

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Andrew Meyer--Tasered by Police
Florida forcibly removed twenty-one year old student Andrew Meyer from a forum with Democratic Senator John Kerry. Meyer reportedly asked Kerry why he did not contest the The University of Florida taser incident is an event on September 17, 2007 in which police from the University of Florida forcibly removed twenty-one year old student Andrew Meyer from a forum with Democratic Senator John Kerry. Meyer reportedly asked Kerry why he did not contest the 2004 presidential election and why Kerry has not advocated for President Bush's impeachment. Meyer mentioned... (more) (less)
From: ChilderickViews: 198,000Added: 1 week ago
Tags: Andrew Meyer Taser Tasered Police John Kerry Brutality Force Abuse University Of Florida Student Childerick Free SpeechTime: 03:52

That First Cup of Coffee

It is no surprise to me that Jeannette Wall's memoir, The Glass Castle, is a big deal nowadays. Her tale of growing up in the coal-mined hills of West Virginia seems like the most surreal of fictions unless you grew up there, too. It's about time somebody cashed in on this enseamed world of lard sandwiches, dank root cellars, and relatives who were "dropped on their soft spots." Uncles who were dropped on their heads were to be avoided at all costs, let me tell you. I used to be embarrassed to tell people I was from West Virginia until I figured out it gave me some kind of "freak cred," and made me as exotic as an eland, the African deer of which only five in the world remain. So, we fellow West Virginians clung to each other, formed tiny little clans in the strange urban streets of San Francisco and marveled at our escapes.

Jeff Westbrook had started an underground railroad at 808 Haight Street and I opened the second station when I got my first apartment all my very own in The Lower Haight. In order to save up the money for first and last, I had to walk everywhere to save bus fare and subsisted on a bag of apples, some potatoes, and Lipton tea. Every dime I earned had to go to the deposit. I had chiseled my way in to the apartment with Southern sincerity but I had to make good on my promise. Once, I was so hungry, I broke down and went to the corner store to call my mom and beg for money enough to buy groceries. She was very quiet on the other end of the phone and replied, "I'd rather see you starve than live in that sinful city. The only money I'll give you is a plane ticket home." I hung up, her words an evisceration. The Lebanese guy that ran the corner store followed me out the door, "you come everyday, and I feed you. You so nice, we be friends." I accepted the bag of groceries he handed me but I never walked on that block again; I knew I would have had to pay for the groceries in the strange-smelling back room of the corner store. I decided that every time I felt the raw, grinding ache of hunger, that it was me getting stronger, not weaker. I ceased to care about food because I had a plan -my best friend was moving out to San Francisco and needed a place to stay. And that was all that mattered.

I discovered you can get used to being hungry; it changes things. My stomach even stopped growling and gurgling. I developed hollows and angles I had forgotten about. I drank so much water and Lipton tea that I drowned my hunger for hours at a time. The only trick was to keep all this hidden. The clothes I had brought with me from West Virginia started to hang on me but I got clever with knotting and belting and HIDING.

My co-workers at the very fancy investment brokerage thought I was a bit stuck up because I never went out to lunch but worked straight through the mile-long days. My boss was proud of my fierce dedication to my work and bragged about it to another manager, "Brenda is going places in this company; she is HUNGRY." Even the social x-ray girls that strode in each day in a constant stream of new garments seemed to approve, inquiring as to my dietary secrets. This not-eating-thing was great for my career! Plus, it gave more time to poke around in the computer system, a maze of back-door access to Fortune 500 companies. I could get lost in there for hours and discovered many things I had no business knowing about

We had to be there at 4:30 in the morning to be up with stock market in New York City but that was ok, I wasn't really sleeping anyway. I found an in-between state; I called it my theta-beta slip stream. And, I had the most interesting dreams where I wandered through TransAmerican cityscapes made of marzipan, sugared butter icing, peppermint street lamps and roads lined not with yellow brick but disco flashing jolly ranchers. I learned that, while in the theta beta, I could achieve a synesthesia state of altered consciousness wherein I could travel in the astral plane, lifting out of the corroded carcass of my body, all the while experiencing an untrammeled joy. Finally rid of the flesh bag that pinned me to the planet, weighed down by chemicals sloshing around inside me and creating emotions, like fear, hate, shame, love. I grew expert at measuring the pre-dawn light levels when I would have to descend, crashing down into the supine corpus that carted my consciousness to work and back. I was quickly becoming a savant of shame, my pride preventing me from telling anyone, even the WV clan about my rental starvation mode. I refused all invitations out, preferring instead to curl up on my futon-on-the-floor nest and jack into this addictive new visionary state.

One deadly dull day at work, I took the elevator up to the roof to sip some Lipton's and get away from the overly-cheery Mordred-Stanley-ites. They were jacking into Moloch on a daily basis and I mostly couldn't stand them. I had seen the best minds of my generation, starving hysterical naked and we didn't care about the latest trendy fucking shoe! Plus, they were pressuring me to get am MBA after work, which meant I would have less time to dream and my days would stretch from 4:30 am to 11:30 pm. Soon, I was going to have to let them in on the fact that I was crazed on something, just not ambition. As I pressed the R button, a woman shot inside the elevator at the last possible second, parting the sheet-metal doors with immaculately-manicured hands. I had long ago eschewed eye-contact with the world but she was friendly in a way I found non-threatening. Even in my peripheral vision, I could see she was beautiful in a way that was not of this earth, perhaps she was a Nephilim? She gazed down at me and said, "I've been seeing you around for a few weeks now, right?"

"Ummmm, yeah, almost six weeks now."

"Where are you from? Texas? I can't quite place the accent. My boyfriend says the most beautiful women are from Texas."

I dreaded explaining that I had moved from what the early French settlers of my home place called, "hell on earth," but I could also tell she wouldn't be mean about it. More often than not, people said, "oh, you wear shoes; I thought hillbillies didn't!" That kind of tired shit made me wary of providing strangers with too much information that was inevitably used against me.

"I'm from West Virginia, along the Ohio River. It's really pretty there but I moved here so I wouldn't have to be a truck stop waitress."

"Ohhhhhhhhh," she cooed with her pink, pillowy lips. It seemed to excite her. "My name is Barbara Jean, nice to meet you."

"My name is Brenda; where do you work in this building?" I asked. We shook hands, my nail-bitten ones rough against her satiny skin.

"Oh, I don't work here this is where my agency is and I have to come here to book jobs" She was traveling to the roof to smoke and proffered a pack of cigarettes with her picture on the back. "Oh, you're the More Cigarette Girl!" I suddenly recognized her from billboards and ads in glossy magazines where the women all looked just like her. I was not a smoker but suddenly sharing a cigarette with Barbara Jean seemed like the best idea in years. Plus, it made me kindaqueasy high and I liked it. Shockingly, she said, "I noticed you because you have great tits." I thanked her, bemused that a supermodel would notice any part of my anatomy and felt like today was my lucky day. Today, I could have MORE.

Towards the end of the cigarette, we had discovered we were the both Pisces, lived near each other, and were currently dating older men. My beau, The Vise, was on the road with his band and was not around to feed and take care of me. He seemed to think I needed shielding and protection and I resented that he sometimes treated me like I was a little girl. I suddenly realized I had not been taking advantage of my freedom to act like a big girl. Barbara Jean said, "Let's go out tonight!" and all memory of the fact that I was flat broke flew out of my head. We set our plans and I went home and spent two hours until I found just the right dress, a low-cut number that had never failed me. She picked me up in a slouchy Citroen and we lurched up Fillmore Street to a very expensive restaurant. "Uh, Barbara Jean, I should probably tell you that I don't have much money."

"I know, but we don't need money. We sit at the bar and everything we need will be provided. Men will buy it for us," she grinned leeringly, her pillowy lips now a searing red. We parked her crazy car and went into the poshest place I had even seen, me following like a duckling. I was starting to feel ill; picturing having to wash dishes to pay for food or, worse, being kicked out into the street. I slithered off to the ladies room and reapplied lipstick and steadied myself for perching on a stool, awaiting drinks and food to rain down from the heavens. Sure enough, within moments, we were set up with champagne and oysters. "Hmmm," I thought, "this does work." I envisioned my future of free food and buckets of champagne, all in return for a smile and some kind words. In truth, it was not that easy and I started feeling like I was back at the corner store. The truth was I was getting a little tipsy and a lot uncomfortable. Barbara Jean was a pro at this men-buying-you-things business and I just wanted to get out of there. At some point, Barbara Jean went out to smoke one of her More Cigarettes with the man who had bought us steaks and she never came back.

The bartender came over to me, leaned forward and said, "If you can wait until my shift is over, I can take you home." Strangely, he only lived three blocks away from me and I was more than ready to accept a ride back to my nest. I felt safe again and he provided me with my own booth; I of course, had a book in my purse and happily began reading, my stomach full for the first time in weeks. A kind of bliss took over my body and I felt stupidly sleepy. When I awoke, I had no idea where I was and felt terrified. A hangover rasped at my temples and I stumbled around, looking for shoes and purse. I looked out the window and recognized the corner of Oak and Steiner. "Fuck!" It was a little before 4 am and I had to be at work in a half hour. Grimacing, I started the long march to Market and Second Street to the octagonal building that housed the global financiers for whom I worked. I felt like a fraud, slunking along in my slutty dress, wondering if people could smell the stink of strangers and alcohol off me. It was fear alone that propelled me there and I drank coffee for the first time that morning. It tasted awful but I needed something to pull me into the world of numbers that dominated my days. I could tell from a few sideways glances that some of my co-workers did not approve of my night-into-day garb but mostly they were too preoccupied with the tickertape world of money markets. Japan was getting its ass kicked that day. "Fuckers deserve it," I thought, adrenaline-surging on coffee.

The memory of Barbara Jean and the cave-cocoon of the bartender's bedroom stored itself in the dinosaur part of my brain. I did not exactly know what had taken place but I knew I didn't like it. I focused on pulling together the reports on international shipments due into the Port of Los Angeles. Fucking tons of frozen orange juice and frozen French fries were off loading into America by a Japanese-owned conglomerate and it was a BIG FUCKING deal. I logged onto a secret server that showed every cargo loader in the Pacific Ocean, the exact destination and what was being hauled across the surface of the earth. Suddenly, I felt like I understood how the world worked and it seemed to me, it was irrevocably broken. I felt pity for Americans blindly consuming fetid foods marketed as "fresh" that came from god-knows-where. The caffeine inside me raged. I stood up and looked at the 360 degree view my company so prized in this luxurious downtown building. "I've got to do something!" I thought feverishly.

Right then, Diane, the snotty receptionist, buzzed to tell me I had a call. It was Vise, calling from Philly, where he and his band were holed up in a flea-bitten motel. I had a toll-free number at work and we took full advantage, even figuring out how to conference our friends so nobody ever had to pay for a phone call, ever. Nobody had showed up for their punkabilly swing band's gig and he needed some verbal crack. Usually, I was up for it. Tea-drinking Brenda would talk baby-talk with Vise and give unbelievably good phone on cue. Coffee drinking Brenda was a stone-cold bitch who would just as soon cut you as say hello. "How you doin,' baby?" Vise asked in his New-York-Jew-turned Cali punk accent. "I'm really busy today," I replied in a voice that could've caused another ice age. He whined nasally for what seemed like an eternity about how few people had come to the club and how people had spit on him. I refrained from explaining to him in no uncertain terms exactly why nobody would ever want to see his band and begged off. "Are you ok? You just don't sound like yourself..." I took another swig of acid-y cold coffee and promised to call later. Relieved, I hung up with a thunk.

He was causing me to lose focus and I had to get back to that server! If I could just get in that back door to the container ships, I could stop them from coming into port. This was to be used only in extreme emergencies such as typhoon warnings, or to manipulate the stock market but I had to stop all this fucked up food from flooding in and sickening the masses. And, only I could do it.

Stay tuned for Part Two: Barbara Jean Reappears and Lillian Arrives