It's fun to start the day with little self-questions like "which blue toothbrush is mine, again?" or "what about coffee makes it so delish and addicting?" or even "could I reach bermuda on a pedal boat?"

One question I was ill-prepared, yet forced, to ask myself this morning in the lavatory:
Wow, hold up. Is this because I ate a beet salad yesterday for lunch, or is this internal bleeding from being hit by a cab last week?

Both are valid realities in my recent past.

Yesterday was a really big deal for anyone who learned about social norms, issues facing teens in the 90's and how to hook-up with everyone in your circle of friends: because it was 9-02-10 day. Why I was not in Beverly Hills to celebrate with the people, I do not know.

My sister and I kept a very intense, up-to-date record of every "relation" to ever take place in the 10-season soap opera. Every Wednesday night (and eventually weekdays when it'd be on re-runs), we'd get our piece of tattered notebook paper out and add whatever hook-up happened on the show to our Beverly Hills 90210 STD Traction Chart. As young, impressionable ladies, we were fascinated that these hot people could just hook up with each other all the time and not encounter as many venereal diseases as they  should. So, we decided to track it, proving that if one person got it, they'd all have it. Yes, there was even a Parents Box, that included the whole Mel-and-Jackie fiasco when David and Kelly became step-siblings (making it even more awkward when he walked in on her in the shower).  

My sister and I began collecting every piece of 90210 merch we could get: books, CDs, frisbee, locker pack, sweater with dylan's face on it, and magazine cutouts of every cast member and guest were shellacked onto the wall of our basement, with packaging tape.  We'd sit in beanbag chairs and watch every single episode, sympathizing with Kelly and how all the bad stuff happened to her (lesbian stalker, burned in fire, assault, drug addict mom, coke habit, failed engagements, the list goes on...) while Donna, the producer's daughter, was a wholesome virgin and object of every man's desire.

We all bawled our eyes out when Toni was shot by that henchman who worked for her dad.
We all made picket signs and watched in heated anticipation if Donna Martin would be allowed to graduate.
We all knew Ahhndrea didn't really fit in with the rest of the cast, and that the one time she made out with Steve when she was tutoring him for the SATs that it was way too forced, and that the real Steve Sanders was way too shallow to ever go for the editor of the Blaze.

But the most important question I can ask you ladies (and some fellas) is: Brandon or Dylan?

If you encountered the wall in real life, you will know that these photos do not do it justice, but in the center you will see the large posterboard STD Traction Chart, that connects slash represents every single sexual relation in all 10 seasons of the show.

In the theme of my bravery and being in new york city, I decided to start auditioning for roles that I am not qualified for. Off-broadway, hand modeling, and shows that call for rythmic dancing and loud singing are not ever my jam, so I want to take some weird risks and see what happens. This "free love and fun" mindset brought me to a well-known comedy club on a hot August Saturday last weekend, when I responded to an ad looking for comedic monologues about coming to New York City. So as I prepared to tell my magician story (anyone who has heard it, you know), surrounded by a cross-section of fellow improvisers from all age brackets and levels of weapon knowledge, the vibe turned to "man, september 11th was crazy."

I haven't been on a thousand auditions, but this was strange. I was then handed notebook paper, for the "freewrite about your experiences on the morning of september 11th" that we were all embarking on, instead of performing our prepared monologues.
A free write!? Yesssss. Let's do this.

Through the dim lights in this freezing cold club, I made eye contact with a crude painting of Rodney Dangerfield holidng out a bouquet of flowers on the back wall behind the stage. Why thank you, Rodney. I accept. I looked to my left and saw the only other decorative part of the room: a very lifelike painting of Ace Ventura Pet Detective, to scale, wielding his pet detective badge. I have this movie on VHS an am in love with it, but had no clue that Ace had such a big standup career. Nice.

After roughly 30 minutes of silent writing, we went around and discussed our pieces. They were all very different, and one sweet older man did his instead on the JFK assasination, because he was younger when it happened and was less jaded by life. I love you, sir.

So here it is, the un-edited freewrite I did about my experiences on September 11th, as I remember it. 

I'm 17 years old, and I've never been to New York City. I always thought I'd end up there, but had no concept of the 5 borough layout, Manhattan being an island or large-scale subway transit.
I woke up at 6am, an hour after my mom naturally wakes up. She called down the stairs for me to come up. I forgot to tell her about the Fall Sports Assembly today, I have to get to school early to set up and get the props ready.
"Jenna! Joey! Something's going on in New York!"
Wearing my usual tennis sweats, I climb the brown carpeted stairs to the living room, and an see that Nance is watching an action movie on the news.
What is the World Trade Center?
I remember the World Trade Organization riots in the 90s that happened just north in downtown Seattle, but I've never seen these two buildings before. Is this a riot again? These people must be insane.
How is there a plane inside there?
We sit and stare, and my dad comes in tightening his necktie. One of the blue striped Father's Day presents.
"Oh Jesus." My dad works for Boeing, designing planes.
Who are our enemies? Who hates us right now?
Should we go to school? What's going on?
"I have to go mom, there's an assembly this morn and I have to run it." But there's an airplane in a skyscraper on the news.
I was president of my school, and bush was president of the country. Big days ahead. We both had assemblies to run, but his did not involve green and gold facepaint, a pompom tutu, and parading a horse around a gymnasium.
I get to the student lot when it's just starting to get light out, and make my way to the teacher's lounge.
My secret ritual in these early mornings was to cruise by the teacher's lounge, in case there was a box of donuts or a rogue poppyseed muffin. No luck today.
I make my way through a connecting door to read over the announcements, and find Mr. Anderson - the human form of Mr. Clean.
"Bubby, shit's getting real. Assembly is off."
He and all the other football coaches called me Bubby, because I'm distantly related to Bubby Brister, the NFL quarterback who spent most of his pro career as a Bronco in John Elway's shadow.
"Is it really terrorists? Who did this?"
I need to call my dad.
he's in his office at Boeing, in a building with no windows. At least that's what I think.. I could never go to "take your child to work day." Because Russia was watching.
Mrs. H. comes in wheeling one of the giant TVs that teachers checkout from the library, and it's all confused silence as she scans the news channels (4, 5 and 7) that are showing footage of what's going on 3 hours in the future on the opposite coast.
I had a 5 page paper on Annie Liebovitz to turn in.
Mrs. H was funny and quick, and understood that I was crazy. She kept a straight face when I'd come in late from doing announcments, wearing the large white horse mascot head and swaying side to side, taking my seat in class only to notice that the superintendant was seated in the back, observing the class that day. She kept it cool, and I love her for that.
She sat up on the front desk in a way she never had before, with her legs dangling up front. Her short brown hair was being pressed down by her fingers, as she fumbled with the gold earrings she always wore.
"We are going to watch this today. If you have your papers, leave them on my desk. If not, don't worry. You can stay here all day and watch this with me, if you can't go home."

Who in new york city was going home today?
Who was not going home today?

 

Since I started scootering around New York City, there are new social norms that I live by. They have replaced the old "don't lick the subway pole" and "if the platform is crowded that must mean a train will be arriving soon."

My new norms:
1. Gypsy cabs have no rearview or sideview mirrors
2. Adult asian men admire my scooter like a sculptor admires strong forearms.
3. Don't let some whacked out vet in jersey pump the 1.8 gallons of premium gas for you, no matter what that law says.
4. Homeless people will ask you for a ride. Every single one. Always.
5. You live your life on the front lines of the universe now, at up to 65 miles per hour. That means birds, land gypsies, garbage, fumes, reggaetone blaring from a minivan, all of it. And I love it.

You know things are rough in life when you wake up gorgeous Saturday morning in August and the first thing you do is straighten up your pajamas in the mirror and walk a block and a half to the Pavillion movie theatre for the 10:30am debut matinee of Eat Pray Love. (see previous entries about my strong feelings and devotion to this memoir).

But that's where I'm at right now, emotionally. I didn't realize it at the time, but I hadn't fully laughed in days. Real, best-friend-is-impersonating-the-plaintiff-on-People's-Court laughing. Only realizing it was gone after it returns (like a dead grandparent).

What made me laugh, was this: I was scootering toward the Manhattan Bridge to cross over the east river and have one of those "I heart New York moments" that I get, routinely, when I cross the bridge ON A SCOOTER, when up from the stagnant water in the construction zone flew a pigeon. A dirty, sad, one-of-a-million pigeon, had taken flight. And it was flying alongside me, at the same speed and eye level, and next to my scooter. I wailed with laughter, and couldn't believe my eyes, I was flying with the birds! This is what it felt like! He aimed his beak skyward and tapered off to go pick at some Popeye's chicken remains, and that was it.

Lesson learned.

Even the shittiest birds can fly.

We are having August weather in June, and this accelerated climate change brings about the very worst and absolute best aspects of summer: lower back sweat and fireflies, respectively.

Fireflies are one of my earliest memories, in grandpa moll's backyard in Illinois. And on these hot brooklyn nights, they come out of NOWHERE, lighting up right in front of me and swerving in front of my face, looking so magical. How are fireflies not more popular?

just look at this face:

I've been lucky enough to own some of these animal kingdom gems.

My albino hamster, Zittle, used to escape at night and scurry up entire staircases, freak out our two cats, and would be routinely rescued from behind the fridge by my dad.

I had an enormous bowl of pet tadpoles for about an hour, when I got to take them home from preschool. Knowing they were actually frogs from the day's lesson about baby animals, I poured the bowl out into the backyard, and a pile of tadpoles passed away before they got to develop.

I raised ducks in my college dorm room, Zanzabar and the Little Lady, and they started off as tiny little yellow ducks and grew into majestic white feathered life companions that lived on for years in my parent's backyard. That is, until the Raccoon Incident. And the Coyote Incident.

I once drove a seagull to the ocean, in my car. He had a broken wing and was covered in crude oil, so my brother and I put it up in shotgun and drove it to the waterfront in Anacortes, and set it free. We watched it sink into the water, about 20 feet off shore.

So I just started this new gang called Scooter Nation. I got a scooter, which has changed my life in a lot of ways, but kept it the same in others. I'll explain.

My views on new york city transit, B.S. (Before Scooter)

One:  I hate cabs! But I use them because here in the city they are a necessary evil, just like my desire to go to SATC2 alone with a mini merlot. Cabbies are insano, and are by far the scariest people on the road because they 1. probably don't have a license 2. don't operate the vehicle under any sort of "lane position laws" and 3. are rude and don't check their blind spots.

Two:  The subway breaks down at random, and is frequently stalled because of train traffic ahead.

Three: I love when the subway goes above ground, because it feels like a ride at Disneyland. They had that futuristic ride back in the day, called the "people mover" (my mom calls the NYC subway the People Mover also, so funny, but it's true, and a much friendlier and more vivid term for what it is), and I would often take the long route by riding the bus instead, so I would not have to go underground. There's gotta be something psychological about going underground so much, that's maybe why people here go crazy. The human body is not designed to go underground until WE DIE.

Four: I like riding my cruiser around, and only through divine intervention I have not been injured while coasting down broadway in times square traffic, with nothing but flip flops and a tube dress. The bike is a sweet way to get around.


My views on new york city transit, A.S. (After Scooter)

One: I am now afraid of slash hating cabs from the outside! Before, I was locked in the backseat, going along on the crazy ride as an accomplice, but now I am having to punch (yes, punch) hoods, pound my fist on windows, honk and scream just to avoid being sideswiped. I thought it was scary being in one before. Now I'm surrounded by them. But luck be the lady, I have the reflexes of a jungle cat, and a full face helmet.

Two: My scooter is faithful, and has only stopped working once. But it was not her fault, I neglected to fill her with 2.3 gallons of life-giving gasoline yesterday on Broadway and Prince Street in SoHo.

Three: I am always above ground! And the view of the city and the Brooklyn Bridge as I'm cruising over the Manhattan Bridge during the twilight hour each night, is an absolutely beautiful sight. The only times I'm underground now is when I'm underwater, in the holland tunnel or the midtown tunnel. And that is TRIPPY.

Four: Because my mom reads this blog, I will not explain in full how I managed to survive being hit by a cab (Hi, Nance. Yes, it's true) but it was straight up awesome, and I was wearing all my safety gear so I was perfectly fine after shouldering into the hood and rolling safely off the cab.



All this to say, my new Scooter Nation gang will involve all of you out there in the two-wheeled community, because we have to stick together. You can park 33 scooters in the same amount of space you can parallel park 3 cars, and in my short scooter experience in the city, I've learned that these streets are riddled with pot holes, hidden dangers like blind intersections and bus lanes. Check back shortly for the SCOOTER NATION tab on here, where I'll be updating you on my scooter trips, places to avoid while on your two-wheels (pot holes, grand-canyon-ish hazards in the middle of the road, scenic drives, etc.)

Wonderful! I'll post a pic up soon of me on the scooter. Gotta go hop on it and cruise now. Love you all!

Live from the Under St. Marks theatre in the East Village, I got to live the ROCK STAR fantasy life with the epic BTK BAND for their Resurrection-themed show. It was glorious. This is for you, Zanzabar.

Finally, a window display for people who eat! Looks like House of Dereon has got some display options now.

I've never read Lord of the Flies.

It feels good to say it. I've never read Of Mice and Men or got my jollies off of the metric system, because I must have been sick and had stayed home from school when this was assigned and/or discussed, and will now be forever left to my own inch-counting devices.

It's weird to think about all of the precious life and grammar lessons that are covered in just one day of elementary school learning. If you miss one day of school, or even several, your ability to share with others and design a character web based on Charlotte's Web will be forever neglected.

If you miss a whole week of school, you may never learn how to write vowels in cursive!

I think about this a lot, because people say things like "Oh yeah, we learned all about how to raise sea monkeys in 5th grade," and I know I must have missed that unit, because all of mine died after 4 days in the plastic tank.

Maybe it was when I got food poisoning from a KFC chicken pot pie.  Or that one time I got a nose bleed from playing tetherball at recess, and had to stay home while my head bled for two days. Maybe. Just maybe.

I have problems counting which WrestleMania or Superbowl we are up to now, and I blame the Brister family vacation to Florida to visit our blonde relatives who live on the beach (no joke) for my inability to read and/or write in Roman Numerals.
I'm pretty sure Mrs. Day (who had a gray parrot named Long John Silver at home and would talk about it all the time) used that week to explain to all my peers what V and I mean, and that MXXVIII means something to a lot of people.

More things I don't remember from elementary school:
-The rules on how many syllables and lines are in a haiku
-How to boil and egg
-the history and theory behind the Recorder, the great "gateway instrument"
-how to play Hot Cross Buns on the Recorder
-operating a yo-yo
-"Slamming" techniques for Pog play
-ever watching Fraggle Rock.
-F.L.A.S.H. (the sex-ed program. Family Life And Sexual Health. Nice one.)


But staying home for a "sick day" when my siblings and I were in elementary school was anything but bed rest and re-runs of Hangin' With Mr. Cooper.

Whenever one of us kids got sick and stayed home from school (due to pink eye, relentless vomiting, or a high fever confirmation on her old timey glass thermometer) and it was either a Tuesday or Thursday, our mom would take us on a little field trip to Cascade Lanes.

Nance was the best bowler in the entire league, and had records up on the wall for my entire childhood. I remember laying down on the plastic benches overlooking the lanes and all the townspeople chain smoking, and in between bouts of nausea and vomiting - being so proud of my mom.  

Her bowling team needed her, and the alley had a day care room. Yes, a child monitoring room right there in the bowling alley slash casino. It was basically an all-inclusive resort for negligent parents. I'm kidding.

Cascade Lanes also had vending machines, with those Peter Pan neon orange crackers with peanut butter inside. Those were my absolute favorite.

But the day care room was a plainly decorated room near the bathrooms, that an old, batty woman named Grandma Nelly would watch over, and anytime we came along with my mom, we had to check in with this Grandma Nelly. She yelled a lot. And had this translucent wrinkly skin and a smoker's cough. But if I watched people's kids at the bowling alley, I'd yell a lot too probably.

Besides being fixtures on the hip hop scene, lil wayne and I have more in common that you (and I, before today) may realize. No, I'm not going to jail on Feb. 7th (for a whole year) on a weapons possession charge from 2007 after his concert at The Beacon Theatre, but I did see Pearl Jam perform at the Beacon that same summer.
Looks like we'd have a lot to talk about:

1.  We both have tattoos.
Lil Wayne has "more than a hundred" of them that cover his entire body, including neck and face, and has stopped counting. 
I have two. A tiny fish on my ankle, and the Hebrew symbol for Bravery on my ribcage.

2. We both had something stab through our chests and miss puncturing our hearts by a centimeter.
When nine year old Dwayne Carter was playing around with his mom's boyfriends 9mm handgun, he accidentally shot himself in the chest, and the bullet missed his heart by a mere centimeter.
When I was just 2 years old, I was playing with my mom's sewing scissors, and took off running through my childhood home, fell on them, and they stabbed into my chest, missing my heart by a centimeter.
I got one stitch, and lost a lot of goo from my cardiac sack (the sack of liquid that surrounds/insulates the heart).
Lil wayne, did you lose a lot of goo also?

3. We are both 3 inches shorter than the average height of our respective gender.
Lil Wayne is 5'6" with shoes on, which is 3 inches shorter than the average man-height of 5'9".
And I am 5'1" (and have been since peaking at age 13), and stand 3 inches shorter than the average 5'4" woman.

4. We are both fans of SNL, and have been on the stage at 8H in 30 Rock.
He was the musical guest for last season's opening show, and sang this sweet remix of Lollipop and Got Money, that I instantly purchased legally on itunes (you're welcome, Wayne) and still run to.
I am going to be on SNL, and will meet at 30 Rock when I'm in the cast and he's doing a reunion musical guest spot after he's released from jail.
How 'bout it, Lorne?