Frampton!

More than 35 years after the first time I saw him in concert, I went to see Peter Frampton again at long last - in March. We’ve both changed! We’re both old!

It was a terrific show, in support of his Acoustic Classics album. It was Peter Frampton unplugged, just him and, for much of the show, Gordon Kennedy. That's it. I know I’ve heard other people playing Frampton's songs acoustically, but never Frampton himself. And he seemed to enjoy playing his songs that way as much as we enjoyed hearing them. He played for two solid hours, his own stuff and some excellent covers, and it was a delight. It felt like he was in a living room, and not just because of the carpets and the lamps. He joked, he laughed, he even teared up at least once. Very sincere show - it's been a while since I saw someone performing who seemed to really want to be there.

The show wasn't quite sold out, but the audience was super-enthusiastic - at times, a wee bit too much. I love an excited audience, and I mostly loved the people around me, but people trying to talk back to performers, to put themselves into a show, get tiresome. But I admit that it was fun when Frampton's son, who opened, introduced his keyboardist, and said he had met him at Starbuck's - he was the barista - and the crowd started chanting the keyboardist's name. Between him and his father's performance, there was a short intermission, and Stefan went out for a smoke - and met a fellow smoker that turned out to be the keyboardist's father. Very nice man.

Frampton talked as much as he sang, and it was wonderful to hear his stories. Like about going to school with David Bowie, how Bowie and Frampton’s father remained especially close all their lives, and how Bowie invited Frampton to tour with him in the late 1980s, helping him to be seen as a musician again, after seeing his career get turned into teenie-bopper fodder - and then seeing it crash. He talked about the first instrument he learned to play: it was not the guitar, but a four-string instrument, the size of a guitar but more like a ukulele. Or how, whilst in Portland, he'd had the best fish and chips he'd ever had outside of England, from "a Scottish guy" he quite enjoyed imitating (after some digging after the show, I found out he was talking about The Frying Scotsman).

He also talked about his association with the Buddy Holly Foundation - Frampton is one of the Buddy Holly Foundation Lifetime Legacy Ambassadors - along with Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Brian May, Graham Nash, Peter Asher, James Burton, Dave Stewart and Pete Townshend. Each received, or will receive, a “lifetime loan” of a replica of the acoustic guitar Holly wrote so many of his hits on, and each replica includes a fret from Holly’s original guitar. Frampton was given the “Peggy Sue” guitar, and he told a hysterical story of how he has it instead of Paul McCartney, who also wanted it. He followed this story with playing “Peggy Sue,” of course, on said guitar.

Kennedy also told stories, including that he’d received one of Jerry Reed’s guitars from his widow upon his dear friend’s death, and after it sat in his closet for a long while, he decided the person that should have it, that would appreciate it, that deserved it, was Peter Frampton - and Frampton brought out that guitar and played. Why do I love the idea of Peter Frampton playing a Jerry Reed guitar so much?

The show was in Revolution Hall, in the former Washington High School building in Southeast Portland (Oregon). What a fantastic space - just 850 seats, including the balcony, and it feels even smaller. It was built in 1924, and after the building ended its life as a high school, plans were to convert it into housing, and its central auditorium would likely have become a light well. Somehow, people realized that wasn’t the right direction so, instead, a $20 million renovation transformed the building into a mix of office and retail space, and preserved the auditorium as a performance space. The campus used to have even more buildings - it’s such a shame they are gone, because that was a great time for American architecture. But thank goodness the historic high school building has been preserved. The former classrooms are now offices of various small companies, and the hallways are still lined with lockers. There are two pubs in the building, one on the ground floor next to a vast field that’s an unofficial dog park - you have fun with your dog then all walk over and sit outside and have a beer. How awesome is that?!

Big kudos to Stefan for being so sweet and patient as I squee'd and bopped and even teared up a few times - though I was vastly better behaved than I'd been in Evansville in 1979. I was 13 then. To say a lot has changed would be the understatement of the century.

We drove to the Sunset Transit station from Forest Grove, then took the red line into town, then a bus to near the venue. But for the trip home, the timing was right to take the #20 bus a few blocks from the venue that took us right back to Sunset - no transfers needed. If there was a quick way to get to Sunset from Forest Grove, I could totally work in Portland, sans car....

A pox on the two drunk women trying, from the balcony, to recapture their 80s wild child days and get Frampton to notice them - being loud and drunk wasn't as cool as you think it was, "ladies."

But ultimately, the night was all about fabulous Frampton. And the next day, I sent a tweet... and look who responded!

What Hillary should say regarding her Reagan & HIV/AIDS misstep

For fun, I like to think about how I would handle various PR disasters. Yes, for fun, I do that. I love to write the response that some political or corporate executive or offending celebrity SHOULD give to try to recover from a major screw up, rather than saying “I apologize if anyone was offended” or “I apologize for misspeaking,” two statements that just make the disaster worse.

At the funeral of Nancy Reagan - not sure if it was before or after the ceremony - in an interview with MSNBC, Hillary Clinton said:

“It may be hard for your viewers to remember how difficult it was for people to talk about HIV/AIDS back in the 1980s,” Clinton said. “And because of both President and Mrs. Reagan, in particular Mrs. Reagan, we started a national conversation, when before nobody would talk about it. Nobody wanted to do anything about it. And, you know, that too is something that I really appreciate with her very effective low-key advocacy, but it penetrated the public conscience and people began to say, hey, we have to do something about this too.”

This is not a misstatement. Hillary Clinton did not misspeak. These were very thoughtful statements. And these statements are either a profound misunderstanding of history, or a deliberate attempt to rewrite it in order to woo Reagan Democrats. There is absolutely no other reason for these statements. She has to own one of those reasons if she’s going to survive the fiasco. So here’s what Hillary Clinton needs to say, ASAP. You can thank me later, HC:

It’s hard to put into words the devastation that HIV and AIDS has caused, and continues to cause, worldwide. Science has made incredible strides regarding treatment for those with HIV and AIDS, and humanity has made incredible strides regarding how it treats people with HIV and AIDS, but there is still so much to do. 

In an interview regarding Former First Lady Nancy Reagan, someone for whom I have the deepest respect and admiration, I did not accurately state how she and President Reagan publicly responded to the AIDS crisis that began in the 1980s. In the moment of that interview, I believed those statements to be true. The outcry that has followed has me not only revisiting my statements, but revisiting my understanding of the history of HIV and AIDS and how our country has, and has not, responded. 

There are so many issues, many of them controversial, that I have been proud to be a strong advocate for, like children’s rights, women’s reproductive freedom, and affordable, accessible healthcare for all Americans. But even a very passionate advocate for human rights can have areas where he or she needs to improve her understanding. And, obviously, I am not as up-to-speed on the complete history regarding the government’s response to HIV and AIDS as I should be. I remember well when the crisis began in the 1980s. Like so many Americans, the first people I knew that died from AIDS were celebrities, like Rock Hudson and Freddie Mercury. I mourned those deaths, but, like so many other Americans, AIDS still felt somewhat remote from me and my life. When the disease began to affect people I knew, personally, as well as family members of friends, it was at about the same time when the Reagan’s began talking about the disease. That is how I remembered their response to the disease. But the reality is far different. The silence of the government in the 1980s regarding HIV and AIDS, despite thousands of people dying, inspired the “Silence = Death” campaign and the organization Act UP. I should have known that, and I didn’t. And I apologize for that. 

I own my mistakes. This was a mistake. But let me be clear: I am fully aware that HIV and AIDS continues to affect millions of people worldwide. It’s something I have been regularly reminded of as First Lady, as a US Senator, as a Secretary of State, and especially, as a friend. There are things we need to be doing globally and there are things we need to be doing right here in the USA both to prevent its spread and to get people affected by the disease the treatment, care and respect they absolutely deserve. I will consider it a priority in my administration to continue to address the realities of HIV and AIDS. 


You're welcome, Hillary.

Thanks, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

Yes, in fact, I did enjoy Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.

I just read a scathing review of the movie on Buzzfeed. The review is full of all the proper fashionable chastisement and outrage about the inappropriate portrayal of Afghans and war and career women and blah blah blah. I'm sure there are lots of other, similar reviews, attacking the film for various cultural oversights and its insensitivity to this or that.

Well, here's my perspective:

Spoiler alert: it's not a documentary. It's a fictionalized account of a memoir of one American woman's perspective. It comes with all of the limitations of that one woman's perspective. Just like what I write.

I lived in Kabul, Afghanistan for six months, in 2007, which would have been a year after Tina Fey's character leaves the country. My experience there was, very often, just as absurd as what you see in the movie. I was just as absurd in my reactions to what happened around me, at least at times. I watched the movie and gasped at how many scenes and experiences portrayed in Whiskey Tango Foxtrot were things I witnessed or experienced in Kabul - right down to egg boy and one of my co-workers watching donkey porn.

No, the movie doesn't explore the consequences of war on the people of Afghanistan. But, did anyone else realize it's not meant to? The movie provides only glimpses into the life of people in Afghanistan and the consequences of war, and this is probably because that's not the story the filmmakers wanted to tell, probably because they in no way felt they had the background or knowledge to produce such a story. I certainly don't have the background or knowledge to produce such a story. The movie doesn't fully illustrate the beauty and nuance of the Afghan people, and has no Afghan female characters? Correct! And it's not meant to! Because that's a movie for someone else to make - preferably, someone who is actually from Afghanistan.

That "over-the-top" performance of the Afghan government minister, as the BuzzFeed reviewer described it? Wow - what a shame when I faced something VERY similar, from a Pakistani co-worker, I didn't say, "Oh, silly man, you're being over-the-top, you're acting like a caricature, you can't possibly really feel this way, it's so disappointing, so please stop with the romantic/inappropriate advances and be your not-outrageous, respectful self that you really are." I'm sure that would have changed everything.

So many things in the movie were exactly my experiences as well: the freak out on the first night, finding out my first week that Friday was my only day off, looking over and seeing a blood-soaked sidewalk outside a butcher shop, having to pee so badly I was in tears - but couldn't go because there was no where to do so, at least not for a Western woman, a translator purposely mistranslating conversations in order to keep everyone in the room, hearing "dog washer" as one of the worst insults that could be said to someone...

Yes, the ex pat parties really could be that crazy in some guest houses as the movie shows. Aid workers, like journalists, often drown their stress and anxiety in post-conflict zones using lots and lots of alcohol. In case you're wondering, no, I wasn't a party girl. I went to university in the 80s, that was enough for me, thanks. I went to a few not-so-crazy parties, even L' Atmo, but on Thursday nights, the start of my one-day weekend, I preferred watching pirated movies in my room with Kabul kitty and some Afghan Fried Chicken (AFC) or having a quiet dinner with friends.

In praising the book by Kim Barker on which the movie is based, the BuzzFeed reviewer notes "Every page, every description, is another opportunity for Barker to come off as clueless, privileged, or quietly prejudiced." She's praising the book for that. But then claiming the movie doesn't do that, or maybe criticizing the movie for the same thing - it's hard to tell. I thought Fey brought to life a character every bit as clueless, privileged, prejudiced as I was when I was in Afghanistan, and that's why I found her, and the movie, so endearing.

The BuzzFeed reviewer even criticizes the movie for "brownface", because the Afghan minister isn't portrayed by an Afghan. Oh how I cringed at that statement, as the Afghans and Pakistanis I have known do NOT consider themselves "brown." In fact, I am calling them Afghans and Pakistanis, but they call themselves Pashtun, Tajik, Hazara, Uzbek, Aimak, Turkmen, Baloch, Pashai, Nuristani, Gujjar, and other tribal names. They consider those tribes their ethnicities. When they check their ethnicity on a Western form demanding they identify with a racial group, they choose "white" - at least the Afghans I know and talked with about it. Want to truly outrage an Afghan? Have a Pashtun character played by a Tajik, or vice versa.

The movie provides only a fleeting, absurd look at Afghanistan - and that fleeting, absurd look is all I got when I was there in 2007. I got much, much more time with Afghan women than the character in the movie, and it was time that I relished and I cherish. It was my absolutely favorite part of being in the country. One of my favorite moments was when I got to go on a field visit in Panjshir, and got to sit in a room and share a meal with a group of local women, women who had been covered in burkas up to that point. That's something my male co-workers never got to experience.

I guess I'm going to be accused of cultural appropriation for wearing clothes I bought in India sometimes while working in Kabul. It was, in fact, culturally appropriate - finding things that were appropriate for the Afghan workplace was a struggle for me when I first got there. THAT is my only criticism of the movie - that Fey's character didn't have a butt cover.

The reviewer has a particular problem with the protaganist having an affair in the movie, saying that that story line suggests "in a not-so-vaguely insulting way, that the only way to make people interested in a serious subject is if there’s a love story mapped on top of it." Bollocks. I found the movie's acknowledgement, without apology, of a woman's longing for sex refreshing. The words love or romance are never mentioned in the movie. And I loved that the protaganist wasn't even sure how she felt about the guy she kept sleeping with - because that's often the reality, not love and marriage, but, "Is this going somewhere? And do I want it to?"

Um... this is probably the point I should note that I'm happily married, and I was a nun in Kabul. Sometimes a drunken nun on Thursday night, but a nun none-the-less.

It's not a great film, but I found it a very enjoyable one. And I want to thank my husband for comforting as I bawled afterward, thinking of all my brave Afghan fixers and drivers and co-workers, like the fixer portrayed in the movie, who faced unbelievable dangers and provided amazing care for me while I lived there. The fixer in the movie got me - I knew half a dozen of him. I'd love to see just his movie.

If you didn't enjoy the movie, that's fine too. If you worked in Afghanistan, and didn't find the movie at all relatable, that's fine too. But to imply that your perspective is the ONLY one about a place or an experience - yeah, that's privilege.

I hope other films come along, out of Afghanistan itself, that explore the violence between tribes, the violence against children, the plight of women, the beauty of Afghan music, the tragic power and fear of gossip among Afghans, the bravery of so many Afghans, the grace and courage of so many fixers (which the film does touch on), and on and on. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot was never meant to do that, and has nothing to apologize for.

One week in February in Cuba

Cuba, sí!  For my 50th birthday (well, a month later), I went to Cuba! Why? I list all of the many reasons in my travelogue! I also write in such a way that I hope it will be helpful to anyone planning a similar trip.

Also, since it's become oh-so-fashionable to condemn Westerners for writing about their travel abroad experiences, play "gotcha!", etc. I offer this disclaimer: This is my experience in Cuba, in February 2016. I'm a 50-year-old white women, originally from Kentucky, now living in Oregon, and that's my filter. I've been to more than 35 countries - and I still don't at all consider myself worldly, wise or even mostly appropriate. I wrote this travelogue from a place of honesty and sincerity and my personal perspective, never from a place of unkindness, and it is, no doubt, rife with my prejudices, misunderstandings and ignorance about oh-so-many things - because I'm human, not a machine. I made no attempt to be comprehensive about Cuban life or culture or history - I wrote about what I saw, experienced and felt in one week there. This is account full of opinions, and I make no claims to being impartial. This is Cuba through my lenses, and when you go, or if you live there, or if you lived there, please, by all means, write about it through your lenses.

If you want to skip the travelogue and go straight to the photos, feel free, but the photos have no descriptions on them, at least at the time of this blog's publication - just too busy!

majority of our photos are here. Of course, we took way, way more photos. This is a compilation of the best, from both Stefan's and my photos, except for photos that were put into these other albums (below)

I put all the classic car photos here. I know there are some folks only want to see those. And some are bored by them. 

Here are all the photos from Hemingway's estate. 

Photos from the massive Havana historic cemetery, Necrópolis Cristobal Colon. 

And then there was a day when we went across the river to two historic forts - but at the same time, a massive festival was happening. The narrative will probably be more interesting than the photos... not exactly a pleasant day, but a very insightful one.

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Business trip to South Carolina

I usually don’t blog about my business trips. But I’m doing this one, regarding going to South Carolina in January, because it's a state worth blogging about, and because when I travel for business, I try to still be a traveler, not just a worker, and I'd like to show that.

I was up at 3:30 a.m. for my drive, then flight, to South Carolina, via Houston. That’s my usual time to get up for a business trip back East, because most flights leave the Portland Airport (PDX) at sixish a.m. Lucinda the dog and Gray Max the cat were terribly confused by my leaving in the night, and stood in the dining room with puzzled looks on their faces. The confused looks of pets is both charming and sad. I had everything packed and ready to go before I went to bed the night before. All I needed to do was get up, get dressed (clothes already laid out), brush my teeth, and go - takes me 20 minutes, tops. I took the ancient laptop, the black Macbook I bought in 2008, (2.16 GH Intel Core 2 Duo), still running Mac OS X 10.6.8, because that's as much as it can handle. I have been looking for an affordable computer with Ubuntu loaded on it already, to serve as my travel computer - without success. But since most of my clients, including this one, are still using older tech themselves, I figured the old MacBook might be a better choice than my bigger, newer silver MacBook.

It was a fun hour-long shuttle ride to PDX, driven by a guy from Iraq who was thrilled that I knew where Iraq is and that Northern Iraq is reportedly gorgeous (he assured me it is). I use a shuttle company that’s run by a Kurdish guy, so the drivers are always foreign and always interesting. I just wish they'd drive a little bit faster - that early in the morning, you aren't going to get a ticket for going 65 mph (or more!), on those wide open empty roads from here to Portland, but they just won't do it.

The PDX airport gets rave reviews from travelers, and it would be a great airport to have a layover in, with its free, fast wi-fi and terrific restaurants. But it’s not a layover airport - you start there or you end there. And nothing's open at that time of morning... so, yeah, I don't quite get the rave reviews.

I flew United Airlines for the first time in years - and, wow, United was awful. The check in staff were grumpy and uncommunicative - if they were there at all. They didn't look approachable at all. Also, they have a different way of enforcing the two carry-on rule than any airline I've flown - and ya'll know I fly a LOT. I pride myself on packing light - I have one suitcase which will always fit in the overhead compartment except on those tiny tiny planes, and a computer bag that will always fit in the seat in front of me. That's it. I can take that for any trip that's up to 10 days long, without accessing to what's needed to wash and iron clothes. But United has decided that a pouch around your neck to hold your travel documents is a purse - in other words, one carry-on bag. They will happily take on a traveler, usually a man, taking on two big carry-ons, neither of which are small enough to fit under the seat in front, as well as a large coat, which also won't fit there, but heaven forbid you carry on a pouch of travel documents and a bag, ALL OF which will fit under the seat in front of you, along with a carry-on for the overhead compartment. They demanded I put the pouch in my bag. So I would - and then take it right back out at the plane entrance. I hate when people and companies don't THINK about the reasons behind a rule, like the two-bag rule. I'm taking up FAR less space than guy with two carry-ons and the coat - but I'm the bad guy? Part of the reason this misapplication of the carryon rule irks me so much is that, since my time in 2007, in Afghanistan, I have left that pouch around my neck pretty much the entire time I'm on a trip. The entire time. I started doing it in Afghanistan because I wanted to always be ready to evacuate, leaving everything behind except my passport, money and other key documents in case of emergency. If I ever had to leave a plane in a hurry, I would leave the computer, leave the bags, and pity to anyone between me and an exit who decides, in an emergency, to try to take those things - all that matters is in a pouch on a strap around my neck. I wear it at breakfast. I've done presentations with my little pouch on, even in the USA. I do not leave my hotel room without it. I realized even when I was in Kentucky, with my family, that I had it on.

And I observed that the carryon rule is different for United when it comes to men: I watched men in Houston and in Charleston get on planes with three carryons, and the attendants say nothing at all. Nothing.

Rant over.

With just 45 minutes between flights in Houston, I was sprinting through the airport for my connecting flight. I hate doing that. I hate having to say "excuse me" to people standing in the middle of airport hallways, talking on their phone, or just strolling along, I hate the stress, I hate the rush... I did manage to nab some lunch to carry on - lunch isn't considered a carry-on by United, despite it being far, far bigger than a pouch around my neck.

I thought the hour of sleep I caught on flight #1, and the 30 minutes I caught on flight 2, would be enough, combined with the previous night's five hours of sleep, to get me through to my hotel, no problem. I was wrong. I was already a mess when I got to the Hertz counter for my car - disheveled, dark circles under my eyes... THANK YOU to the wonderful woman at the Hertz counter for checking me in, wishing me a Happy Birthday (had happened a few days before), asking me why I was visiting South Carolina and then what my talk would be about… Oh, the letter I wrote to Hertz… I was in the SOUTH, and the friendliness felt so good.

I left Charleston airport in a Nissan Versa and drove through a gantlet of political signs, and remembered that this is a PRIME primary state! I didn't see any more for one candidate than any other, but I was stunned that I saw no Hillary signs. None, at the airport or on the trip. Isn’t she supposed to win this state? I was so tempted to steal a "Jeb!" sign. Because the campaign slogan of "Jeb!" is so ridiculous. Jeb!

I got lost trying to find State Highway 17 from the airport, but thanks to Google Maps, I found my way. The drive to Myrtle Beach was a delight for most of the trip, through the low country, far out of sight of the beach. I love the trees and moss and swampy lands and the names of the churches and hole-in-the-wall restaurants and bars I passed. And the endless little stands for when it's Sweetgrass Baskets sellin' time. Sadly, it is NOT Sweetgrass Baskets sellin' time. But then nightfall came, and Northern Myrtle Beach turned out to be much farther than I had thought, and I started to stress out. It felt so much later than it was - it wasn't late at all, not by South Carolina standards, not by Oregon time. But I hate driving in darkness. I honestly thought I was going to have to pull over and stay at a motel instead of getting to the one for the conference. And all the ugly big chain restaurants and massive neon signs for beach stuff mega stores… So ugly. So much like Florida. Finally found my hotel, and then my keycard wouldn't work in the parking garage, so I had to come back in. The staff was nice But the hotel looks like a massive birthday cake on the beach, and, of course removes any beach access for locals. And the lobby stinks in that hotel-on-a-beach kind of way. Everything looked cheap. Did I mention I'm not a beach person? It was only 9:30 p.m. when my head finally hit the pillow, with a migraine headache pounding away… amazing that I got to sleep.

And oh how I slept. I woke at what I thought was an hour later, looked at the clock, and it was 6 a.m. I went right back to sleep until 8, and felt fantastic. It was an overcast, cool day, and the beach was empty - and THAT'S my kind of beach day. It was a day off, and I needed it. After a hearty breakfast of grits, biscuits with gravy, scrambled eggs and fruit, I was back in my room to put some finishing touches on my key note and my presentation and to check email. I had the door open to the balcony and the ocean, had the Myrtle Beach Public Information Channel - MBTV - on while I worked. The channel plays oldies while it shows an endless slide of local announcements: rules about the beaches (no glass! pick up after your dog!), local events (community health and recreation fair, story times at the local library), employment opportunities with government offices (the local public library is hiring!), local history notes, and more. The music was fantastic and PERFECT with the roar of the surf in the background.

Every town should have such a public info channel, BTW.

I was so taken aback at the lack of South Carolina accents I was hearing. No one I talked to that first day, other than the woman at the Hertz counter, seemed to have a South Carolina accent. Not even people on the local public radio station, which I listened to on the drive to Myrtle Beach, not even the South Carolina poet laureate I heard on said station, and not the front desk staff at my hotel. I also have to note that the hotel's web site, has NO black people in photos of people enjoying their establishment - yet I saw that it was mostly black Americans staffing it (no photos of that, of course). Anyway, I think I'm going to reboot my Kentucky accent, which I worked so hard to lose. I'm going to start using it again. Everyone was charmed when my sister visited me in Oregon, loving how she talked. I should reclaim my accent....

It wasn't until a group of hotel staff showed up around lunch time that I FINALLY heard Southern accents. Hurrah! They were there to spray the room for bugs. I asked if I should remove my coffee from the room, and the spray guy said "Naw, not if you want a little kick in it." Southern accent AND Southern humor!

You either love Southern friendliness or hate it. I love it. And don't tell me it's a put on, that it's insincere. It's not insincere when I do it, and it feels real to me when I encounter it. I miss it.

I've been to South Carolina before. I just drove through back in 1996, but as a child, when I was, like, 3, my family came here to visit friends of my parents. I don't remember much, but I do remember little things here and there. Like this photo of "real" Indians, which my Dad paid for us to have in the parking lot of a gas station somewhere between Kentucky and Florida and SC.

The second night, I went looking for a bottle of wine, and had a nice chat with a wine shop owner about liquor laws in South Carolina, which are almost as weird as Kentucky's. Later, in the hotel, whilst tweaking a presentation and enjoying said wine, a giant cockroach came dancing up the wall. Don't you fucking tell me it was a Palmetto bug - that's just a pretty name for a COCKROACH. I called the front desk and told them to either come get it or bring a saddle and ride it out. The facilities guy that came up to get it was obviously Latino, so I said, "No met gusta la la cucaracha," and it made him laugh.

I presented twice the first day of the conference. I had thought about going to walk out on the beach later, but it was overcast, cool, and the beach was just a beach - no interesting rocks to look at, no cliffs, just endless hotels and gray skies and gray, muddy-looking water. I just wasn't in the mood.

My last night of the conference where I was presenting, I was invited by a group to join them for supper at Dick's, an infamous tourist trap where the waiters insult the customers. You yell over to the bar "When is happy hour?" And the bartender yells back, "I'm not telling you!" Our waitress at one point said, "Hey, you two, quit yackin' and tell me what you want to eat!" I would find it cathartic to work there. It was a surprising choice, given how nice and sweet and sugary reputation is of the professionals that attend these conferences, but I suspect it was chosen as an opportunity by my hosts to show me they could let loose. My two margaritas went down well, but the fried shrimp and red neck fondue (tater tots with a bowl of cheese dip) gave me horrible heartburn. I'm not really complaining… it was comfort food, and I love comfort.

My opinion of Myrtle Beach, North or otherwise - just not my cup of tea. All those chain restaurants and theme restaurants and massive, ugly beach stuff stores and tourists traps and ugly hotels - yuck.

After all my presenting and schmoozing on the final day of the conference, I gave away my half a bottle of merlot and headed back down Highway 17. It was a gorgeous day - of course, now that I was leaving. Saw a guy on what I think was a KLR, obviously an ADVRider. He was one of only two motorcyclists I saw on the entire trip - Oregon almost ALWAYS has motorcyclists out on the streets, year-round, all weather! Since I was on the road much earlier than I expected, and I'd had such a light breakfast, I decided to stop at the first non-touristy food place I saw. I stopped at some barbecue place where they had a lunch buffet, with a drink, for less than $10. It was full of working class guys of all races except Asian, plus the added bonus of a guy that looked like Santa Claus, driving a red truck with Christmas decorations all over it. Hey, wait… the buffet had collard greens to DIE for, plus baked mac and cheese and even banana puddin'! I sat listening to the accents, the glorious, glorious accents. I had noticed yet again that the people on local radio did not have accents, for the most part, and it made me sad.

I didn't have time to stop to see any of the many state parks along the way - I wish I had. I should have stopped in Georgetown - I had plenty of time to drive around it. It's got a historic downtown and is the site of one of the oldest European settlements in North America. I probably had time to stop at the Center for Birds of Prey. There was plenty to see, and I could have chosen just one thing and seen it. But instead, I went straight to the airport. Which was dumb. And with this ancient computer, social networking is painfully slow - stupid slow. Sitting in an airport for three hours is stupid.

At last, it was time to board my flight to Chicago and, once again, I had just 45 minutes to get to my next plane - and this time, I had NO time to get food. I rarely buy food on a plane - it's ridiculously expensive and rarely good. But I bought the tapas box and, I have to say, it was DELICIOUS: red pepper bruschetta, rosemary crackers, hummus, spreadable peppercorn parmesan cheese,  seasoned pitted olives, almonds, and blueberry flavored dark chocolate acai. A glass of that merlot I bought in Myrtle Beach would have been perfect... I also bought a can of Pringles, and I chomped on them loudly just to annoy the manspreaders on either side of me. Being in the middle seat is never, ever fun, but I hate having to spend much of that time fighting for my own leg space! And the guy on the aisle even had the audacity to leave his tray table down, with all his crap on it, while he went to the bathroom, thereby preventing us from being able to leave our seats!

As we deplaned in Portland, I thought, for the 20th time, I really need to write a blog about the proper way to deplane... I had to scrounge for enough change for my Max ticket, and took so much time that, by the time I got outside, I was watching the train pull away. And at that time of night, the next train doesn't leave for 30 minutes. Sad trombone sound in my head... But, at last, the train left, I texted Stefan so he'd pick me up at the Sunset Transit Center, and I just sat looking at the lights of Portland...

And that was my trip to South Carolina. And a great example of what it's like to be a business traveler. So glamorous. Seriously, it's not glamorous, but I enjoyed it, and wish I could do this once a month. But work has dried up... 

Black Lives Matter - specifically

In response to the phrase, and movement, Black Lives Matter, sometimes phrased as #blacklivesmatter, I often see or hear "All lives matter!" And I didn't get why that was an inappropriate, even hurtful, response until I heard, yet again, in response to "Are you a feminist," some celebrity say something like, "No, I'm not a feminist. I'm a humanist. I fight for all humans." And I cringed all over - and then, bing, I got it.

When you say you are a feminist, you are NOT saying that women are better than men, that you hate men, that women should receive assistance but men shouldn't, etc. When, in response to being a feminist, you say you are not a feminist but, instead, you support all humans, what you are saying is: "Women have not been especially, particularly oppressed more than men. People have not been especially, particularly targeted for violence because they are women. Women don't need distinctive, purpose-built help to correct the history of violence, oppression and discrimination. Just give general help to all people and that general help is all women need to eventually be treated equally in the eyes of the law and society, to be paid the same for the same work as men, to get the same opportunities to life choices, etc." You are, in fact, dismissing feminism and all that it stands for.

I now cringe when, in reply to "Black Lives Matter", people say "All Lives Matter." I get it. Of course all lives matter - Black Lives Matter activists aren't saying otherwise. The Black Lives Matter movement is meant to focus on black Americans, specifically, because black Americans are being especially, deliberately targeted with violence and oppression, they are being singled out specifically for this mistreatment and discrimination not only because they aren't "white", but because they are BLACK. To respond with "all lives matter" is to say that you deny that reality, that you dismiss the specific, unique concerns and issues of Black Americans.

Tamar Rice was 12 and shot and killed on site by police, no questions asked by those police, doing what white kids do every day and are NOT shot for: playing with a toy gun - and in an open carry state, so even if we take the police at their word that they thought he was an adult with a gun, then he was, in fact, doing nothing illegal. John Crawford, also black, was shopping in that same open carry state - Ohio - at Walmart, and picked up a BB gun that wasn't packaged and had been sitting on the store shelf for two days, and continued to shop, and was shot and killed by police, no questions asked - while white people that do the same, or worse, aren't shot. The way black protesters in St. Louis were treated versus how the white and armed protesters in Eastern Oregon that are menacing people that live in and around Burns are being treated is stunning - and undeniable. These are but three examples of why Black Lives Matter.

It seems only right, given my enormous respect not only for Alan Rickman's art but also his political passion, to take a very public stand on this. And so, I am: Black Lives Matter.

Alan Rickman

I knew who Alan Rickman was before I had ever seen his face or heard his voice.

It was Spring 1987, I was a junior at Western Kentucky University, and the theater and dance students were all abuzz about the shows on far away Broadway - productions we would very likely never see, because we had no money for the trip, let alone for the tickets. We had no Internet, yet we knew about so many of the shows - who was in them, who directed them, why they were successful or why they wouldn't last long, and on and on. We knew people who had seen the shows. Or knew people that knew people.

And the non-musical play I heard about most of all was Les Liaisons Dangereuses, starring Alan Rickman. Yes, even in Bowling Green, Kentucky, people were abuzz about Alan Rickman on Broadway, someone none of us had ever seen or heard - but, oh, the stories we'd heard about his performance. He was the primary reason I watched the Tony Awards that year - to see and hear him, at last, even for just a few seconds. When I got the opportunity to go to London in the Fall of 1988 for two weeks with the WKU theater and dance department, getting to see nine theatre productions, including Les Liaisons Dangereuses, I was beside myself - I knew Alan Rickman was long gone from the production but, hey, he had been on THAT stage, speaking THOSE lines. Good enough for me. Jonathan Hyde was excellent in the role of Valmont - no disrespect. But when I re-read the play - and I do, every other year or so - its Rickman I hear and see in my head.

In the summers, I'd go to the Henderson Public Library and look through a book that had photos and summaries of Broadway productions for the previous season. It was the closest I could get to Broadway. I would stare at the photos and try to imagine the live performances. I did it with Les Liaisons Dangereuses, and there was Alan Rickman. In Henderson. At least on paper.

I may never have said I was a fan of David Bowie, even though I was, but anyone who really knows me knows that I am a HUGE fan of Alan Rickman. Massive. That his brilliance could translate to film was what all us oh-so-deprived Kentucky theater fans were dying for. He was so obviously, overwhelmingly awesome in the first shot scenes of Die Hard that an extra scene with his character and Bruce Willis' meeting face-to-face was written in while shooting was still happening. Watching him steal Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves was hysterical. Years after they were released in theaters in the USA, I finally tracked down Truly Madly Deeply, which is the role he's known most for among his most diehard fans, and Bob Roberts, which gave me a hint of his political leanings. Sense and Sensibility, Dogma and Galaxy Quest are my favorites of his films - I own all of them. In fact, I have more movies in my own library featuring Alan Rickman than any other actor - even Harrison Ford. By far.

I'll never forget watching Sense and Sensibility yet again, this time with my dear Spanish / Catalan / Swedish / global tribal friend, Alexandra. She was tired through most of the movie, and almost dozed a few times. But when Colonel Brandon came out at the end of the movie in his British uniform after his wedding, she almost flew off the couch. "Stop it, stop it now, rewind the movie, look at him, oh, so handsome, why didn't you tell me he would wear this?!?" We rewatched that scene three times, and the next day, she found a photo from that scene and made it the background of her computer screen at work.

Part of the reason I became so endeared to Benedict Cumberbatch was because his imitations of Alan Rickman are absolutely hysterical. I loved that Stephen Colbert took a few moments out of one of his show to acknowledge Rickman's death and contributions to film - it's not like Rickman was a household name, but Colbert is so obviously a fan. How could anyone not be?!? I'm so sorry I didn't hear what Jimmy Fallon said during his show - I'm sure he said something, because he was absolutely giddy whenever he was around him and about him.

Oh, the missed opportunities to see him live... when I moved to Germany in February 2001, I didn't know he was in the London West End in a revival of Private Lives, and didn't hear about the production until it had moved to Broadway. When I would go to London, I would always be on the lookout - is that him over there? Or there? Or there?!? And when he did Seminar on Broadway in 2012, I didn't fly to New York City - Stefan and I were hoping to buy a house (and we did!), and I was trying to be a grownup. BTW, my biggest regrets in life are over what I didn't do, when I chose being a grown up over doing something crazy and wonderful and expensive... I thought my time would come, another, better opportunity would happen, and I would somehow see Alan Rickman live, in-person, on stage. Somehow. It would happen.

It didn't happen. And now, it never will.

Alan Rickman died the day before my 50th birthday. My sister was with me when it was announced, and she knew before she turned and saw the look of horror on my face what the news would do to me. She's probably never seen an Alan Rickman movie in her life, but she knows me. And oh how I cried. I had a wonderful time celebrating my birthday, but, honestly - every now and again, amid all the joy, I would remember: Alan Rickman is gone. And it would hold me back just a little, just a bit.

The Voice is silent. Too soon.

NPR remembers.