r.i.p. heath

If I am at my computer, I know the instant I get an email courtesy of the gmail notifier on my task bar. I audibly gasped when I opened and read the CNN alert that said, "Actor Heath Ledger, 28, has died." I glanced over at the gchat column ("AIM for grownups") and a friend of mine already had "HEATH LEDGER DEAD" as her status. And then the messages popped up on the bottom my screen: "Did you hear?" "OMG!" Within minutes it seemed the whole world became aware of this untimely death.
Ordinarily, I wouldn't really think twice about a celebrity's death (although I did almost cry when I heard Chris Farley died several years ago), but for some reason the passing of Heath, who is named for Heathcliff in one of my favorite novels, Wuthering Heights, is haunting me.
He wasn't fellow Aussie, Russel Crowe, who is consistently portrayed as a Hollywood "bad boy," throwing phones at desk clerks and such, nor was he the typical young Hollywood coke addict...he was the young father of two-year-old Matilda, and you never heard about him unless it was praising his work.
He was excellent in Brokeback Mountain ("During the [S.A.G.] awards show [this week], religious protesters gathered across the street from the Shrine Auditorium, carrying signs that read “Heath’s in Hell”, a reference to his sensitive portrayal of a repressed gay cowboy in Brokeback Mountain."--GET A LIFE MORONS! How insensitive could you possibly be at this time of mourning?!), and I most recently saw him in I'm Not There, a wonderfully imaginative film "about" Bob Dylan, in which Ledger has a comparatively lengthy amount of screen time. Again, wonderful performance.
When I first saw him on the big screen as Patrick Verona in 10 Things I Hate About You ('99), I remember thinking, now that's the kind of guy I want to marry. He had the most beautifully contagious smile I'd ever seen and that ingenious mix of sincerity and don't-give-a-shit attitude.

I played Kate in the original version of 10 things, Shakespeare's Taming Of The Shrew, in 8th grade English class. During a scene where "Petruchio" (played by childhood friend/former crush, P.J.) was supposed to kiss me, Aaron, the tattooed, Nine-Inch-Nails t-shirt-wearing, slacker of our class yelled out, "Slip him the tongue!" Turning some shade of mortified, I glared at Aaron, relieved when our teacher excused us from kissing in front of the class and pissed because secretly I wanted Aaron to be Petruchio.

As a sophomore in high school we studied TOTS once again, which coincided with the release of 10 Things, so Mr. Anderson offered extra credit to anyone who saw the modern-day remake.
In the movie Heath's character falls for Kat (Julia Stiles), who reads Sylvia Plath, pines for acceptance to Sarah Lawrence, drives the coolest car (by my old-school standards), attempts to boycott the prom and gets drunk at her first ever high school party and dances atop a table, while her trendier, cooler, boy-attracting little sister looks on, half revolted and half relieved to have a sister who's partially "normal."
At the time I drove a beat-up '89 Sentra with the following bumper sticker: "If dance were any easier, it would be called football" (which did not sit well with our beloved sports team), planned on going as far away from suburban Illinois as possible when college came around, bought my first book of poetry--incidentally "Ariel" by Sylvia Plath, and seemed to be ever-mystified by the Dennis Rodmans of the world.

Tonight, in memory of Heath, I rented Candy a relatively new release about two lovers who happen to also be heroin addicts. It was so disturbing, I had to follow it up with 10 Things before going to sleep. Interestingly enough, there's a similar scene in both movies where there's a close-up of Heath's character trying to wake up a girl from a drug (Candy) or alcohol (10 Things)-induced "coma." One disturbing, one relatively light-hearted. Both made sad, as I couldn't help picturing the poor housekeeper who probably did the same thing to him--in real life.

But this is how I want to remember him:

Thanks, Heath, for all your work. I wish there could have been more to see. Looking forward to Batman...
Rest in peace.

i hereby banish hummers for all eternity

Being a driver as my stated occupation for the past year and a half I've become much more of a "city driver." I used to get made fun of for driving "like a grandma" and being overly cautious and slow. (I never told anyone that this partly had to do with one of my friends gruesomely dying in a car crash two weeks after I got my license...and a week following her death I was a passenger in a car when my best friend who was driving got in an accident...luckily we were all ok. But that was enough car trauma for December of '98.)
But now I'm swift behind the wheel. My job is exhausting because not only do I worry about obeying all the traffic laws, but I am responsible for a 13-year-old kid most of the time I'm behind the wheel and therefore have to keep an extra careful eye out for the enormous amounts of idiots on the road.
I'm happy to say that up until my stint as a "personal driver" the only thing I've ever gotten pulled over for was tinted windows (twice. once of which i had to go to court) and for "drunk driving" when I was 20 and had never had alcohol in my life, when clearly the cop had nothing better to do than follow me around town. And accident free no less.

Here's the problem, especially in urban settings: People do not respond to horns. Max's mom speculates that this is due to so many people using their horns at unnecessary junctures, so peoples' ears are just immune to recognizing a legit horn when they hear one.
I.E. You're about to reverse your utility van into my car while I'm stopped at a stop light! (which is what happened to me last year)...or I.E. Your ginormous HUMMER is about to MERGE into my drivers seat!

This is what happened. I noticed the driver suddenly decide she needed to be in my lane as I merged onto the Dan Ryan from I55 on the way home from picking Max up from school--headed right towards the driver's seat of our small Volvo. Thanks to my acquired driving skills, I was quick to react, pressing the pedal to the metal and my hand to the horn and speeding up enough so she only managed to hit the back corner instead of flattening my sorry ass. She then proceeded to drive around me, wherein I assumed she was leaving the scene of the accident, as I had already pulled over. I immediately began following her, verbally expressing my disbelief. I noticed as she switched lanes, that she was in fact motioning for me to follow her down the Canalport exit. I couldn't see before because she was seated about five feet above my vantage point. Once off the expressway she pulled into an alley and I'm thinking, oh shit she's gonna shoot us.

Instead she took a lap around her huge-ass vehicle, where she obviously found no damage because she's driving a machine, then walked around mine.
"Well. What do you want to do?" she asks me. No "I'm so sorry" or even a "My bad" thrown in my direction. Just impatient eyes batting purple eyeliner in my direction.
"Call the cops," I replied, even-toned.
"They're not going to come because our cars can drive and we're not injured."
You don't deserve to call that thing a car, I thought."Hm, yeah I guess you're right. That's what happened when some guy hit me last year."
"So we should just exchange information then."
"Fine," I said.
As I shuffled through the glove compartment for the insurance information, I saw her already waiting for me. "This is unbelievable," I said to Max.
"She's a dumbass," he said.
"Well she hasn't even apologized, so I agree with you."
With my driver's license, insurance card, and car registration info in hand, I approached her next to the chunk of gold on wheels.
"What are you writing down?" she asked me.
I saw she already had already written her name, phone number and driver's license number on a torn piece of a yellow envelope flap. "My name, address, phone number, driver's license number and insurance info..."
"Oh you're putting your license too? Fine."
I started copying everything down on the back of a piece of paper which already had directions written on the other side (I hope not to anywhere important...).
"Could you write a little faster?" she asked two seconds later. "I have somewhere to be."
"You just hit my car!" I half-shrieked, bewildered by this woman's nonchalance.
"I understand that, but this doesn't have to take all day."
What nerve! I thought and rolled my eyes. Here I am not even freaking out or screaming at her like a lot of people probably would were they in my shoes, and she has the audacity to tell me to write faster?!
I handed her the piece of paper, and then she told me that the "car" actually isn't hers and she's on her way to work, so she'll call me later tonight or tomorrow morning.
Sensing that there was something fishy going on, seeing as she never actually showed me her drivers license nor had any insurance info on her, regardless of whether it was her vehicle or not, I said, "I don't mean to be a total bitch, but would you mind if I called this number you wrote down to make sure it's correct?"
"Sure, go ahead. That's a good idea," she insisted.
She climbed up into her driver's seat and answered after a ring. I saw her holding the phone in her side mirror and her "hello" in my ear. Before I backed out of the alley, Max suddenly started yelling, "Write down her license plate number! Quick!"
"Oh good call!" I wrote down the seven numbers and then reversed onto the road, allowing the Hummer to back out behind me.

I called Max's mom and left her a message about the accident, my heart pounding in my chest. Even though the collision was not my fault, it's still not the easiest thing to relay to a mom who is paying me to safely and responsibly transport her child. I drove with Max straight to the police station on Larabee and Division because that's where I had to go last year when I got hit. As soon as I started the relaying the accident and said, "I was driving west on 90..." the Chicago cop interrupted and said, "If it happened on the highway, we can't help you. You have to contact the state police." He wrote down their phone number at the top of the Hummer info.
Max and I had both complained about headaches before the accident occurred, and now we had to leave the station both rejected and dejected. Before leaving the parking lot I called the state patrol, who informed me that the state police only go to certain stations and the one closest to our home in Wicker Park would be 5151 N. Milwaukee. "But don't go now," he said. "It's rush hour, so it'll be hard to find someone available."

After dinner I headed to the recommended police station, which ended up being all the way in Jefferson Park. And the woman there told me the same goddamn thing. As soon as I mentioned "I90/94" she said, "Oh we can't help you here."
"Well that's funny because I was specifically told to come to this location." Apparently I misunderstood the patrolman earlier and thought he meant the addresses he gave me were "state police stations" but really they're just Chicago police stations where state patrol will actually stop by.
She picked up a phone and called the state trooper line, then hung up and said, "If you want to wait here, a state patrol can be here in at least an hour."
"No. No I don't. I want to go to bed."
"Well since there were no injuries, you can report the accident over the phone at this number between 7 and 9 tomorrow morning."
"I wish someone would have told me that FIVE hours ago!" I said.
She apologized and said she didn't want to come across as the bad guy, to which I apologized and said, "I know it's not your fault...it's just been a long day. Thanks for your help."

The following morning I called the provided number and after going through a bunch of automated menus, spoke with a human who took down my name and number and gruffly informed me that someone would contact me after 9 a.m.
Around 10:30 I got a phone call from State Trooper W., (I'll stick with initials here) who I liked right from the start because she sounded like Wanda from Curb Your Enthusiasm. I gave her the full report. She then proceeded to call me back at least four more times. First to tell me both the driver's license number and license plate number I provided her were registered to an Anna W., not a Leslie W. (same last name). Then she called to inform me that L.W.'s voicemail says it's Deanna, which is neither name we thought we were dealing with, so Trooper W. left her a message threatening possible arrest. Then she called back just to inquire whether I had three-way calling on my phone so we could potentially call her together and she would "take over." I didn't, so we hung up and a few minutes later she called back to inform me that instead she "went ahead and blocked the number."
"She answered and I said, 'Leslie!' and she said, 'Yeah!' So I said, 'Oh good it's you. This is State Trooper W.' So anyway, I think I scared her, but that's a good thing, and since you've totally overextended yourself in trying to get this resolved even though it's not your responsibility to do so, I want to make sure I help you get to the bottom of this."
"Well, thank you. I really appreciate everything you're doing," I said. And I meant it.
Trooper W.'s best call, though, was the following:
"Miss Liebovich. I'm sorry to be bothering you again, but I just wanted to double check something with you."
"No problem at all. What can I do for you?"
"Well I just ran Leslie through the system, and it says here she also has a Hummer registered to her name. You didn't say the license plate you saw was 'BOOBS 82,' correct?"
I almost spit out my hot tea. This is turning out to be possible inspiration for a horrible rap music video, I thought.
"No," I said, trying to restrain from laughing. "I think I would have remembered that. It was..." and I listed off the 7 numbers.
"Ok cause incidentally the name you gave me also owns a Hummer with the license plate 'BOOBS 82.'"
My friend Zach asked if she was born in '82, but she's almost 50, so no. My friend Giana e-mailed me and said, "I wonder if the 82 has significance or it was just that 1-81 were already taken." And my cousin, Barb, said, "I bet that's when she got 'em [boobs] done!" Perfect.

I've spoken to Leslie twice. Once in between Trooper W.'s updates, when she (Leslie) said she'd call be by 3:00. And again at 7:45 when I called her and said, "I thought I was going to hear from you by three." She said she'd been stuck in traffic and would call me in 20 minutes. Forty-five minutes later she called and [finally!] transcribed her insurance info, stating that all the previous info she'd given me was her sister's. And still no "sorry."
So now I'm just waiting for All-State to call me for my dissertation about the accident, so I can consequently get the deductible I need to get the massive dent out of the Volvo. Until then, I guess it's like people--for every scar, there is a story.

I maintain what I said in my posting about the dog insemination, when a Hummer almost demolished myself, Max and the two dogs, one recently impregnated--If you want to show-off that you're that disgustingly wealthy, why don't you just sew some hundreds together and wear a money suit--not drive a war machine like a fucking maniac!
All I can say is if one's going to get hit by Hummer, this at least resulted in the best possible scenario.

waiting out the storm

Ok, so I still watch Desperate Housewives. Sue me. Lynette's whole family survived the relentless tornado (tornadoes typically touch down for mere seconds in a single space, but this one continued like a godforsaken hurricane for about 43 minutes), which was a relief. Victor died by getting a stabbed in the back by white picket fence (oh the irony), and Carlos is now blind. Also, a lot of the housewives are sans homes right now.
Although it's not yet tornado season here in the Midwest, I sure thought there might be one today. The past four days have been unseasonably warm--I'm talking 65 degrees when it should be -65 degrees. Accompanying the warm weather, pouring rain and lightning storms. On my drive home from Max's school this morning I saw the Chicago skyline like I've never seen it before. Invisible...all except for a middle portion of the Sears Tower. The skyscraper, both above and below this circle of breaking fog, was hidden behind the thick clouds, so as rendering the visible chunk of tower a levitating wonder. (I about kicked myself for, once again, failing to have my camera on me at ALL times!)
By 3:00 returning from school once again, the skyline had returned but with a background of strange-looking clouds, ranging from the darkest gray to a faint greenish tinge. I pointed out the green to Max and had flashbacks of all those tornado warnings growing up, which all began with a similar coloring.

So here is an anecdote I wrote a few years ago about one such day...
(originally published in issue 2 of Make This Magazine)

I was eight or nine years old. That Saturday my mom had to work, so my dad, to keep us occupied, decided it was time to teach my younger sister, Sheri, how to ride a two-wheeler. I stayed home. I was proving—to who, I’m not sure—that I was old enough to be alone. The two of them departed from our suburban cul-de-sac and headed for the deserted church parking lot at the edge of our neighborhood. The same parking lot where he let go of the back of my banana seat two-wheeler and sent me squealing as a six-year-old into weaving patterns among the faded and cracked white lines of spaces. And ten years later where he took me on the first snowfall to teach me how to do “donuts” in his car, somehow trying to instruct safety to a new-driver-to-Chicago-winters.

It was nice out that day, although July could be vicious, and I was unsure as to what the capricious weather might bring our way. Everything was still. As pathetic looking as the single tree by our mailbox looked, I knew it was capable of making some noise with the few leaves it housed. Nothing. I rode my bike around the circle a few times, a few of the revolutions one-handed. Even if Sheri succeeded in losing her training wheels, she would never attempt such a daring feat.

Round and round and round she goes…where she stops…nobody knows!

A low droning noise sounded in the distance. Its volume increased instantly. Could there really be a tornado touching down in Hoffman Estates, Illinois? Up until then I thought all those tornado-drills we participated in every spring at school were just useless precautions. I don’t have a math book to hold over my head out here, I thought. In fact, the entire sky (which had morphed into a sickly green ominous ceiling) could come falling down on me and my bike any second, or a whirling cloud could whisk me away to the land of Oz or an untimely death. And if that happened, a textbook--math or meteorology--was not going to be of any help.

Auntie Em! Auntie Em! Dad! Sheri!

I pictured them finding my lifeless body atop our roof in someone else’s backyard, which of course would have been ripped off the house the exact time gravity reversed and I got pulled into a spinning cloud of household objects and ordinary air gone mad.
Why weren’t they back yet? The rain started. A hesitant drizzle at first and then the green monster began spitting water out like it was choking on all four oceans. Terrified of being alone I ran to the edge of the circle hoping to see the familiar Honda headlights coming around the corner. Again, nothing. I pivoted and as I headed for the shelter of our car-less garage, I made it halfway when our next door neighbor, Paula, appeared at her front screen door. Her voice penetrated through the rain. “Alyse, honey, why don’t you come inside here and wait with us.” I had never been in their house prior to this. Only knew that the two boys, Mike, a year older, and Chris, a year younger used to threaten to beat me up or smash my pumpkins on Halloween and that I was best friends with their enormous dog, Morgan.

Their kitchen was nicer than mine. They had an island counter--the kind without overhead cabinets to bump my head on--which they let me sit atop like a princess. And they had a bay window; the kind you could sit in and read a book, although I doubted any of them took advantage of it in that way.

“Who wants some whip cream?” Paula asked. Was she kidding? I brushed a piece of wet hair out of my face. She was closing the refrigerator door, a squirt can of RediWhip in her hand. The two boys opened their mouths instinctively like two baby birds waiting for worms. I watched in awe as she pushed the red plastic tip with her finger and filled their mouths with the chilled delicacy. Never had I seen an adult so eager to spoil a child’s appetite before dinner. And without utensils!

Chris put one hand to each side of his face like he was going to deflate his expanded cheeks by aiming the edible ammunition at me. “Don’t you dare!” I squealed and lifted one of my dangling legs straight out in front me, threatening to kick him in the face. After all, I did have the height advantage. Mike giggled. I shot him a look that said he was next should he try anything. This counter sure gave me power.
“Your turn,” their mom said to me. “Just a little please,” I said, fearing that I would choke if I had as much as the boys and that my mom would be upset if I didn’t want any dinner. Everyone was all smiles, and I had forgotten about my mission to get in a basement. I didn’t stay much longer after someone announced that there was a car in my garage. I hopped off my throne and walked home through our adjoining yards with a new appreciation for nature’s wrath, eager to share with Sheri how big kids cope during a storm.

i couldn't have worded it better myself

Alyse --

[noun]: A person who laughs at anything (even this entry)

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

what some people remember, others don't

(The following is a transcription of a phone conversation I had in early 2002 with my dad.)

“Hey Lyse, did you hear there was another Amtrak crash? That’s twice in two weeks.”
[sidenote: strangely enough, there was just an Amtrak crash right outside of Chicago yesterday.]
“That’s terrific Dad,” I say this sarcastically as I’m supposed to be taking a 20-hour train ride from Penn Station to Union Station—school to home—next week.
It’s Thursday night and I’m completing the role of a good daughter making my weekly call to Hoffman Estates, Illinois to inform my parents and younger sister of what’s been going on in my second semester at New York University.
“Well, Lyse, you know I wouldn’t be worried about it if I were you. This was just a fluke. Trains only crash every twenty years or so.”
“Yeah except we almost got killed by one last year.”
He sounds astonished—“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you remember after the Elton John and Billy Joel concert when we came within inches of being smashed by an oncoming train?” I ask in disbelief that he could possibly have forgotten this near-death experience.
“Oh no that never really happened—I imagined the train.”
“Um…what? No you didn’t”
“Yeah I did.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Yeah I did.”
“Are you kidding me with this? Dad, how could I have just made that up?”
“Well what do you remember happening?”
I relayed my memory to him, careful to include as many details that I could see vividly as I watched the event replay in my head. It was a school night a few days before my senior prom. The concert was great, but I was exhausted, so when we got to the van afterwards I immediately laid across the back row of seats. My last conscious thought was that Mom always told me not to lay like that in case we got in an accident because “it’s a dangerous position to be in” and “the seat belt is working improperly.” But at the time I also made a conscious decision for the first time to ignore her warnings since sleeping was my ultimate priority. The next things I remember are really bright lights and a loud horn-like noise. I’m always disoriented when I first arrive back at an awake state of mind. Maybe it was the bright lights or what I thought was possibly a siren, but when my eyelashes first opened I thought an ambulance was driving perpendicular to the road. But then the train plowed past us, just as the van had crossed the tracks--tracks that we didn’t even know were there.
"It was like a scene out of Ghost, Dad! I swear it looked like that train literally passed through the back end of the van!"
I wanted to scream but I felt paralyzed and, not to sound dramatic, prepared to die. But there was no impact—no compressed vehicle, no flying body parts, nothing.
"You pulled over to the side of the road for a few minutes because you had a temporary emotional breakdown, choking on your words, saying 'I ALMOST JUST KILLED MY WHOLE FAMILY OH MY GOD!' And I think you kept saying how sorry you were, sorry that you almost killed us (even though it wasn’t your fault) because there were no barricades and no railroad crossing signs."
And then we all rode in silence the rest of the way home.
“Hmm.” He tries to take it all in. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“Well I remember seeing the train after we crossed in front of it but I felt ok once I looked in the rearview mirror and realized that train was stopped there.”
“It was not stopped! If it was stopped, why’d they have the light on and why would someone lay on the horn? And most of all—why would you have freaked out about ‘almost killing your whole family?’”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“Well you did. Why don’t you ask the other two because at least one of us is wrong.”
“As a matter of fact the little one just walked in the door.”
“Where was she?”
“Ballet! Where else would she be on a Thursday night from 8:30-9:30?”

For a few minutes I listen to the conversation between my dad and sister. I picture her in her dance attire, her hair messily rubber-banded to the top of her head, gracing my dad with the look of utter bewilderment and defensiveness she always uses whenever he greets her with a question before she even gets a chance to kick off her shoes, before she can even drop her armload onto the foyer doormat, before she’s instructed, ‘Hey! Shut the door! What’d you grow up in a barn?’ My dad stands shirtless with thirty-year-old gym shorts on, sweating, drinking a tall glass of previously refrigerated water. He has just finished his bi-weekly, twenty-four minute hardcore Lifecycle exercise. He holds the kitchen phone between his left ear and his shoulder so he has one hand free to gesture with. The phone cord is almost pulled straight, stretched to its maximum distance. The plastic coating silently rips somewhere and a few wires show their colors.

“Oh Sher,..” He draws out the “er” (pronounced “air”) so it almost sounds like two syllables.
“Oh Da-ad…” Sheri mimics him, a habit she adopted from watching her older sister all those years she lived at home.
In the most casual voice he asks her, “I was wondering…Do you happen to remember anything out of the ordinary that occurred that night of the John/Joel concert last year?”
“You mean when we like almost got hit by a train?”
“See?” I say into the mouthpiece.
“So you remember that too, huh?” he asks her.
“How could I forget that?” she responds. “I remember seeing a bright light and thinking it was God because there could be no possible way I wasn’t dead.”
I start laughing.
“Don’t you remember pulling off the road cause you were too scared to keep driving?” she continues.
“If you say so. That’s what Lysie said too.”
“That’s cause that’s what happened,” she says to his confused face from her place standing on the rug and I say into the phone at the same time. We have a knack for doing that.
“Yo!” Synchronized sentences always cause this exclamation from him. “Well I guess I’ll have to ask Mommy now—here talk to your sister.” I see him stick his fully extended arm out to her in one sudden, strong motion. He sees the open door. The air-conditioning isn’t running yet since it’s almost a month till Memorial Day, but for other unknown reasons this is wrong. “Hey! Shut the door! What’d you grow up in a barn?” Then he’s in the background.
“Oh Bon…” He draws out the “on.”
“Hello?” Sheri says to me in a somewhat ‘this talking long distance thing is an inconvenience’ tone of voice.
“How was dance?” I ask cheerfully just to piss her off cause we both know the answer—it’s the same answer we both give to everything.
She sighs. “Good.”

My dad locates my mom not too far away, probably in the family room on the couch crocheting a baby blanket for a co-worker’s daughter’s new arrival while the ten o’clock news anchor on NBC 5 nightly news looks at the camera straight on, looks straight into our family room and questions if maybe the upcoming month of May will bring an end to the “war on terrorism.”

I don’t say anything else to my sister, as I want to hear our parents go over the sequence a third time.
In the same nonchalant voice, but with an almost unnoticeable twinge of desperation, he asks my mom, “Do you happen to remember anything out of the ordinary that occurred the night of the Elton/Billy concert last year?”
“You mean when we almost got hit by a train?” She recalls the same sequence he’s just heard twice.
“Huh.” My dad surrenders. “Well if all three of you say it happened it must have happened…huh…unbelievable…”
Sheri and I chat for a few minutes (after laughing when our mom said almost the same sentences we said to him), reminiscing about that infamous night, verifying that we didn’t imagine the whole thing.
“I can’t believe he doesn’t remember that,” I say.
“I know,” she says. “It was like the scariest night of my life!”
“He probably has selective memory,” I add. “He doesn’t want to remember ‘almost killing his family’ so his brain has chosen to block the memory of what happened and create a new, safer one.”

I know at least I, at this present moment, am reliving the word, “Danger.” It sends a shiver through my body that I can’t quite compute as a specific feeling—energy, paranoia, adrenaline, horror—some kind of psychotic mix. Living dangerously is quite exhilarating when you can live to tell about it. After all, we escaped death; we took a rain check on God’s light; we weren’t brave, just lucky, just squeezing through the danger zone with power-locked doors and eight eyes staring.

Suddenly there is piano music.

My sister moves closer to the culprit—my dad—sitting on the bench, his back straight as a railroad track beside the window in the living room, facing the player piano. But I can tell by the sound that he is producing the music with his own fingers, not with a machine-propelled scroll. I have instant flashbacks of my grandparents’ old house when they owned the same piano and my eyes were the same height as the keys and I’d watch my grandma dance around to the same song, before gleefully joining in the fun by shrieking and spinning around in my own corner of the room.

“I don’t know what the heck possessed him to play that song all the sudden,” Sheri says to me.
I had forgotten she was there for a few moments.
“Yeah…well it’s 'The Entertainer,' one of the only six or so songs he’s had memorized since age eight.” I pause. “He’s probably just trying to prove to himself that he can still remember something.”

it's still rock 'n' roll to me!

When my mom asked if I wanted see Billy Joel, my response was something along the lines of, "Hell yes!" Billy's been a favorite of mine for as long as I can remember. In fifth grade English class, Mrs. Frankel had us create our own version of The Jolly Postman, an interactive book of correspondence between fairy tale characters. Already heavily influenced by the music world at age 11, I centered my theme around musicians, one of the recipients being Mr. Joel.





When I found out he was playing the Sears Center in my hometown of Hoffman Estates, IL, I was less than thrilled. I swore I would never go back there after my experience at the Dylan concert last year (read account here: dylan) But I put my differences aside, braved an ice storm (i.e. a normally 25-minute drive turned into a 2+ hour drive) out to the suburbs and accompanied my mom in row H on the floor of the arena.

The show was scheduled to begin at 8:00. Around 8:15 or so the lights went dark and suddenly Billy appeared at the piano surrounded by his fellow band members. He went right into "Angry Young Man." There was a screen hanging on either side of the stage, so everyone could see the musician in action. I have never seen anyone's fingers move like that! I felt like I was suddenly privy to a magician's secret. From the first few notes, I was hooked. I had seen him live one other time my senior of high school during his Dueling Pianos tour with Sir Elton John--still to date one of the best concerts I've ever attended. But we saw them at Allstate (then, Rosemont Horizon) where we sat in the worst seats possible and there were no screens to aide our view of the iconic men and their magic. Oh, and my whole family almost died on the drive home (you can read about that here)

For his second song, he faded into "My Life" by playing a few measures of "Jingle Bells." I thought, "Oh come on, Billy! Hanukkah starts in three days!" I immediately forgot, though, as soon as "My Life" began and jumped to my feet singing along at the top of my lungs--"Go ahead with your own life, leave me alooooone". My mom joined me and I told her, "This is what happens when you get floor seats--they turn into standing seats," as everyone rose to their feet and the only way to see anything was to rise ourselves and stand our tippy toes.

"Hey Chicago!" Billy said, with an exaggerated Shi-cah-go accent. "I'm Billy's dad. Billy couldn't make it tonight...he's probably out drinking somewhere. Thanks for coming out on a night like this. I know you in "Shi-cah-go" are used to this weather. People over here," he motioned behind himself, "are only getting the back of me. Just remember--it's not how bald you get, it's how much head you get." "Hi to those in Milwaukee," he directed towards the only people paying less than $97 for tickets all the way in back on the highest balcony. "Thanks for buying those seats. I need all the money I can get--for my car insurance."
"If you can get this job, I highly recommend it," he shared and then sprayed both his throat and armpits with some concoction he said Madonna made famous, before a rousing rendition of "The Entertainer." Afterwards he introduced his keyboardist, Dave Rosenthal, from New Jersey. Dave played two keyboards at once, one hand on each. Pret-ty impressive if you ask me.
Billy left the 5th song up to the applause of the audience.
1) Summer Highland Falls
2) She's Right On Time ("a Christmas song," he added)
or
3) Vienna

I hadn't heard of any of the choices, but I've always wanted to go to Vienna, so I cheered along with the majority. Number three won. I ended up really liking the song; it's beautiful and the lyrics reminded me of one of my favorite movies: Before Sunrise. "When will you realize...Vienna waits for you..."

"Choo choo" the train whistle sounded, prefacing "Allentown."
He introduced guitarist, Tommy Burns, from Long Island, then said, "That's all for the special effects--this isn't a Justin Timberlake concert." And thank goodness for that. (Ok, fine, I like JT, but nowhere near as much as this guy)
Next up: "Zanzibar"featuring Carl Fisher (also from L.I.) on the trumpet and frugal horn. Then slowing it down a bit with "New York State of Mind," I sat down and got nostalgic about the good times I spent living in NYC, Brooklyn-based sax player, Mark Rivera, bringing me back to those carefree college years wandering the streets NY, inspired and in love.

"Chicago's a good town," Billy said, everyone cheered, and I snapped out of the past and thought--yeah, you're right. "If you're somewhere like Alcatuna, the band looks at me like 'Alcatuna sucks.' But Chicago's a good town."
Nice intro to "My Kind of Town," which ended up being a tease, as he claimed he didn't know any of Sinatra's lyrics past the first verse. My mom thinks he was fibbing. He introduced "Root Beer Rag" by saying that it's difficult to get all the notes right but, "What you'll hear is an authentic rock'n'roll screw up." Again I became transfixed with the wild but calculated moves of his fingers. My mom leaned over and shared similar sentiments, "I just can't get over his fingers!"I will also mention here that, despite my mom having an injured leg, she was up dancing the entire two hours. And I wonder where I get it from...
He introduced his drummer from NYC, Chuck Burgi, after "Movin' Out."

I have mixed feelings about what happened next. I'll let Billy introduce the new song himself (turn up the volume, the recording's not very loud).

He then introduced his "younger voice," Cass Dillon to sing his not-yet-released song, "Christmas In Fallujah."
Watch and cringe. Or sing along if you prefer because the lyrics were close-captioned on the big screen.

Ok, Billy, obviously I appreciated the anti-war message and that the proceeds from itunes sales are going to an organization called Homes For Our Troops, which builds homes for severely wounded veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan. In fact, I think "They say Osama's in the mountains/deep in a cave near Pakistan/But there's a sea of blood in Baghdad/a sea of oil in the sand" points out the stupidity behind this drawn-out war. And I think the presence of the the uniformed military personnel chanting "Hu Ha" (or is it "Oo Ra"?) interspersed with the singers singing "Hallelujah" was pretty powerful.
I understand the pride you must feel hearing someone else perform your lyrics and I appreciate that you decided to debut them in my hometown, but do you really, really need someone who looks and sounds like the lead singer of Creed, one of the worst bands on the planet, to butcher what you've created?

There may have been a collective sigh of relief when Dillon left the stage and Billy reclaimed the spotlight with the lighthearted "Keeping the Faith."
He then left the piano and stood center-stage behind a microphone stand and belted out the beginning of "Stand By Me," one of my favorite songs by good ol' Ben E. King. Cameras flashed from all directions, which reminded me of my grudge against this place. I hate when I don't have my camera.
"I didn't write that one," Billy admitted after the first verse. "But I wish I had."
He then returned to the piano and sang "An Innocent Man," interpretive dancing and intermittently snapping his fingers while seated on the piano bench when his hands were free. I snapped along with him and learned that my mom can't snap her fingers. (Later, in the parking lot I also learned she can't whistle.) I didn't catch the bassist's name, but I did hear that he's Australian, which is pretty cool.
"Uno.Dos.Unodostresquatro," a Spanish countdown to "Don't Ask Me Why." Good one.
At its completion, I noticed we were already at song #15, so I turned to my mom and said, "He better sing 'It's Still Rock'n'Roll To me'." Then he played the opposite--"She's Always a Woman To Me." I laughed out loud as I watched the swaying, swooning middle-aged women on the big screen, mouthing the words along with the man of the hour.
The next song-"River of Dreams"-used to play through my mind before I fell asleep at night when I was younger. Made me think of "Where The Wild Things Are." I had forgotten that this number belonged to his repertoire, so it was a nice, upbeat surprise.
He introduced the final member of the band, Crystal, from good ol' Gary, Indiana. "On percussion, vocals, harmonica, sax and everything else on stage..."
I'm not sure if this would be considered a trait of a trained ear or a music addict, but I frequently have the ability to detect a song by the first note or two. "We didn't start the fire!" I cheered. My mom looked at me and said, "You're way better at that than I am." I sang along to the few lyrics I knew. My mom questioned how Joel remembered all the words to that song, and I said, "Well if I can memorize the lyrics to any song I've ever heard, don't you think he'd be able remember his own?"

Based on the sound quality, I kept expecting to see the young rocker from the cover of Glass Houses up on stage and then there's a gray-haired 58-year-old wearing a backwards Chicago Cubs red baseball cap singing "Big Shot," strumming his guitar at a mic stand.

(John Records Landecker, checking out my "oldies jeans" at "bring-your-dog-and-get-free-ice-cream" day at the local DQ, summer '01)

There are some older musicians who still try and act like it's their Glory Days, but not Billy. He's the real thing. There's the badass I came to see! I thought, as he played a teasing intro to my favorite, "It's Still Rock'n'Roll To Me" and used the mic stand both as a baton and to air-guitar.
That song has been an ongoing anthem in my life. First of all, they're the first song lyrics I remember deliberately memorizing. Second of all, it's the song that made me want to be a drummer at age 10. And thirdly, I felt like Billy and I were on the same unapologetic wavelength.

What's the matter with the clothes I'm wearing? I had an eclectic wardrobe in my teenager years (including "a bright orange pair of pants", which has toned down over the years, but I still have crazy-clothes tendencies.

What's the matter with the car I'm driving? In high school I drove a 1989 two-door Nissan Sentra (affectionately named Red Ninja) with slashed seats and a radio/tape deck that would only play if you banged the side of it with your fist. A good majority of the school drove fancy sports cars or luxury mobiles. I got a kick out of blasting this song in the parking lot, pissing off the glorified Vikings with my proudly displayed bumper sticker that read, "If dance were any easier, it would be called football."

What's the matter with the crowd I'm seeing? Don't you know that they're out of touch/Should I try to be a straight-A student? If you are than you think too much. Growing up I was always a part of guinea pig programs and classrooms full of the "smart kids." In later years when math and science didn't come so naturally to me anymore, I found solace in Billy's lyrics and probably rebelled by quoting him to my parents.

And, of course: "Everybody's talkin' 'bout the new sound, funny, but it's still rock'n'roll to me." Self-explanatory.

(me and the oldies van at "bring-your-dog-and-get-free-ice-cream" day at the local DQ, summer '01)

He finished out the set with my other favorite, "You May Be Right." In college I made callers sit through the chorus if they reached my cellular voicemail soapbox--I'm gonna do what I wanna do and love who I wanna love (don't worry, I didn't actually say that...I let Billy speak for me).

You may be right
I may be crazy
But it just might be a lunatic you're looking for
"Thank you, Chicago!" Billy said with a wave before the stage went dark. The concept of the encore has always been humorous to me. Obviously the artist is going to return, yet we all stand around cheering our brains out like he might actually leave if we don't strain our vocal chords. Nevertheless, I joined in because it's hard not to get caught up in such a brilliant performance. People started waving their glowing cell phones in the air. I heard the guy behind me say to his friend, "Yeah, cause that's the new lighter." Gross.

Billy played a quick Christmas song intro before transitioning into "Scenes From an Italian Restaurant," a song that made me laugh, reminding me of my friend Cooper singing karaoke at Piece [a pizza, bar, live music joint in my Wicker Park neighborhood].
"Thank you, Chicago!" he said again.
Then a quick "Joy to the World" (not 3 Dog Night, Christmas) intro before "Only the Good Die Young." My mom and I danced next to each other, I wearing my grandmother's shoes, I noted. Three generations (in theory) dancing to a song about defying the confines of church and religion..."They say there's a heaven for those who will wait/Some say it's better but I say it ain't/I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints/the sinners are much more fun..."

As he was playing "Silent Night," I saw him pick up his harmonica. That's right, Billy. You can't leave without playing "Piano Man" or it'll make front-page news: "Piano Man strays from 'Piano Man.'"
"It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday..." Ow! Ow! Crazy cheering for Saturday reference--we can relate to that because it is, in fact, Saturday!
This song reminds me of two things, aside from singing along to it in the car with my parents.
1) I remember bringing my harmonica to my art class senior year of high school and figuring out how to play those parts of the song.
and
2) Dancing, and I mean full-out ballet moves at three weddings, leaping around and weaving in and out of slow-moving couples, not letting my single-status keep me from enjoying the dance floor, where I am truly in my element.

For the final chorus, he let the audience sing without him. And we actually didn't sound half-bad.
"Thank you, Chicago! Goodnight. Happy holidays. Don't take any shit from anybody."

As we were filing out of our row, my mom said, "Oh! We should invite him over for a drink, we live so close!"
"A drink??" My mom does not drink. Although, when I questioned her, she informed me that she had two bloody marys at my dad's office party last night.
"Well--Diet Coke," she said with a laugh.

Outside in the frigid parking lot, I danced my way to the car, ignoring the black ice beneath my feet. It took us over 20 minutes just to get out and onto Route 59, so I turned on the ipod and played Billy Joel songs, which he did not sing. And for good measure, an encore of my favorite: "It's Still Rock 'n' Roll To Me" and drummed the steering wheel in time with the beats. I commented that Billy is one of those musicians who actually sounds better live than he does recorded, which is rare and much appreciated.
We went through the drive-thru of McDonald's and each got a small Coke. Myself, regular and hers, Diet. Cheers to you, Mr. Joel--we love you just the way you are.

25 on 25 (i made it a quarter century)

Numbers have always been quite present in the Liebovich household, mostly thanks to my dad. He sends me e-mails with odometer updates about his car and he also informs me of how close I am to the next age on the 25th of every month.
While sitting in Rosh Hashanah services back in September, he turned to me when the little kids came in for the sounding of the Shofar, shook his head back and forth and muttered, "Twenty-five," already in anticipation of my 25th birthday which was still two months away. "I can't believe it--you used to be that big," motioning to the children.
Just after the stroke of midnight on November 25, I received the following text message:

Dear Lyse,
happy golden, silver, quarter century birthday.
and many, many more!
love, dad

Amidst Belly's Bar, at a 7-way birthday celebration, and slightly intoxicated I paused to smile at my phone, knowing my dad most likely waited up that late just so he could acknowledge the exact moment when I finally turned the big 2-5.

The party was fun, I'm glad I went. I was two weeks into a horrible, relentless cold/cough and was on the verge of not attending my own party, but my dutiful friends

insisted I go.
Lots of laughs,

lots of drinks,

and lots of ridiculous dance moves later,


I was glad I didn't waste the night away sleeping. I took Goldschlagger shots, symbolic of my golden birthday, and became mystified with the floating flakes of gold.

I even thought it was a good idea to put one of the flakes on my face.

(i don't recommend this. it burns.)
A few times I hid in the corner and watched everyone, satisfied, thinking, "Good. Everyone's having fun." At midnight, people sang "Happy Birthday"

My sister took a picture of me taking that picture, which pretty much sums me up in a photograph.


We stayed at the bar till about 2:30 in the morning. Even though it was the first year my sister was old enough to celebrate with me, she remained sober (thank you, Sheri!) and let about seven of us pile into the faithful minivan. Before dropping most of us off at Amy's to sleep, we made a pizza pit stop at the famous Bacci's next to Wrigley Field. While my sister and I were in line to get our slices, two guys got in a physical fight right next to us, knocking into us as one guy held the other up against the counter. My wallet fell out of my hand and its contents dispersed all over the floor. As my sister and I bent down to collect it all, one guy said to the other--
"Say it--say one more bad joke about Jewish people and I'll punch you in the face!"
I yelled up from the floor, "Hey! It's my birthday AND I'm Jewish AND you're stepping on me and my sister! So you better shut the hell up or I'M going to punch you in the face!"
I stood up and stuck my long, skinny arm in between their angry faces...like that was going to do anything...I don't think they even noticed.
Finally they left and we got to eat our pizza in peace. They were the biggest slices I've ever seen and they had a bucket of red pepper.


As soon as we got to Amy's, Jenny and Ryan crashed on Amy's pull-out couch and Carrie built a bed on the floor. I brushed my teeth with my finger (I remembered everything but my toothbrush), put a Band-Aid on my bleeding (from unknown causes) finger and passed out in Amy's bed.
At 7:00 I woke up to Amy mumbling, "I don't feel good."
"I don't either," I mumbled back.
But I succeeded in not puking, which I was hugely grateful for. Jenny, Ryan and Carrie left around 9:30. I drove Amy in my sweats and heels (also forgot normal shoes) to the airport and continued on to my parent's house.

My actual day of birth was pretty uneventful, that is until my sister gave me my birthday present. But in order for her to finish making my birthday present (I found out later), my dad spent over an hour driving me around town, obviously stalling. First he offered to take me to lunch, which was suspicious because he hardly ever eats that meal and we were having an early dinner just a few hours later. So off we went to Portillo's...or so I thought. Instead of turning left on Golf, he continued going straight on Roselle.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"It's a surprise," my dad smiled.
"Well I'm not really dressed for a surprise. I haven't even showered."
"I don't think it's going to care."
So the surprise is an "it," I thought. Visions of puppies and drumsets played out in my mind. (I wouldn't tell anyone what I wanted for my birthday, but finally said those two things, both of which I knew I wouldn't get.) He turned down Wise Road, and I said aloud, "I think I know where you're going but I'm not sure why." I knew the Great Frame Up was on Wise and thought maybe they did something creative like frame the page in the issue of JPG Magazine I was recently published in.
Then he turned into a neighborhood. And I realized he was going to our old house.
Sure enough.
"Well here we are--surprise!" my dad said, gleefully as he pulled up in front of 922 East Point Drive. The surprise was that the current owners made our old split-level into a full two-story house. "Cool," I said. We then drove past the hill I used to sled down, which barely constitutes as a hill, then past the playground, where my dad narrated, "...and this is the park where you used to play...25 years ago." We then drove to the Osco where my mom works and went inside to visit her at the pharmacy and waste more time until I complained that all I wanted to do was shower. So we left. But once again did not go straight to our destination. This time we had to drive past Walter Payton's house and sit and stare at it like his ghost was going to appear in the yard. Even though we both knew he was stalling, he made up for it by saying he "just wanted to have some bonding time with his daughter." Thanks, Dad.

This brings us to the Cheesecake Factory. Shawna stopped by to give me a "small gift" as she called it. The bag was huge and thought behind what was inside was anything but small. She instructed me to read the quote inside the shadow box first:
A journey of thousand miles must begin with a single step
"Now read the tag on the slippers," she said.
"Rainbow sandals..." I read aloud and realized immediately what she had done, while my family donned the same confused look. I almost started crying. At some point in the last year I expressed wanting to frame my Rainbow-brand sandals because although they're destroyed, I can't bring myself to throw them out because they've taken me so many places. Most people would have rolled their eyes or ignored me or would have "you would" or "you're a freak." But no, not Shawna. She's one of the most thoughtful, supportive people I know.

She had to leave and unfortunately couldn't join us for dinner. While we waited for the delightful avocado eggrolls appetizer my mom handed me a small gift bag. I opened the card first which started loudly singing "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun." Inside the bag were the CD soundtracks to "Across The Universe" and "I'm Not There" as well as my annual symbolic turkey gift--this year a beanie baby named "Leftovers."

Then my sister handed me a giant unwrapped Carson Pirie Scott box with a wide gold ribbon holding it together. Inside was an oversized blue scrapbook. Now before I get into the details, I have to admit, I knew she had some kind of surprise collaborative gift in the works. What happened was the night she asked me for my contact list, she accidentally sent me the email that said "DO NOT TELL ALYSE ABOUT THIS E-MAIL!" We were talking on gchat and I said, "so am i not supposed to look at the email you just sent me that says don't tell alyse about this email?" I didn't realize why she wanted my contact list, and my address was embedded in the "Shorashim" listerv (from my Israel trip this summer).
I wanted to be surprised, so I immediately deleted the e-mail and tried to forget about it, assuring Sheri that I would not venture in my "trash" folder to dig it out. So in the back of my mind I've known she's had something up her sleeve...but I never ever imagined the project would be so meaningful (I pictured her asking everyone to send a quarter...don't ask).

Because I was already overwhelmed with Shawna's thoughtfulness, it didn't take long for the tears to start spilling over. Midway through reading the first page of the book, which was the e-mail Sheri sent out to everyone, I lost it. The only other time I cried out of happiness was on December 12, 2000 when I got my acceptance letter to NYU.
I was shocked at not only how many people people contributed but also at the variety of people who did! Not just my best friends, but my best friend's fiancée, my sister's friends, a college professor, high school teachers, a former employer, my current employer, and both people I haven't talked to in years as well as a bunch from people I just met THIS year--whether from being in art shows or from my Birthright trip to Israel. I barely ended up eating anything because I amidst all the excitement, I lost my appetite.

I don't have the time now to scan each page for public viewing, so I'll share a few funny/interesting pieces of the puzzle.
My dad (who said he requested being placed first in the book--"I told her, 'She wouldn't have made it to 25 without me, so i think i deserve it.'") wrote about our first Indian Princess campout in the Fall of '88. This particular excerpt made me laugh so hard, I started crying again, rolling around on my sister's floor, trying to breathe. I so remember this happening and it just proves that some people never change:
"I still remember vividly the first campout, about a month after we joined. We arrived about an hour early at Camp Duncan, a Y camp about an hour away. I wasn't quite sure how Alyse would do, being the first thing like this she ever did in her little life, and with most of the other girls in the tribe and nation being as much as five years older. Sure enough, the first thing she did was wander into the forest, where she spent the next half hour or so collecting acorns. I tried to get her to join the other members of the tribe as they arrived, but all she wanted to do was collect more acorns. So I'm thinking, hmm, this is going to be fun. She might just want to stay out here forever."

My mom reprinted her graphic Lamaze labor and delivery questionnaire. I didn't have to get much past "mucous plug" in the first sentence to make me never want to be pregnant. On the opposing page, though, she put a picture of me in the infamous turkey outfit that the nurses dressed me in after putting my mom through 27 hours of labor and finally making an appearance at 7:13 a.m. on Thanksgiving of '82 (I still do things at my own pace, she'll tell people today). Every Thanksgiving her relatives say, "I remember when I first saw you dressed as a turkey." I guess they weren't lying.

Dana, my former SNL boss, who I became good friends with, recounted some funny memories together. This was my favorite--so typical:
"Me telling you to 'take it down a notch' about 25 times at the Kate Hudson shoot...only you found it physically impossible to not dance and sing and were therefore sent to Starbucks."
What can I say? I loved my job!

My friend Alex painted me a portrait of Bob Dylan!

Stephanie created her own monopoly board based on where the four of us (me and my sister, she and her sister) went to college and vacations our families have been on together. This is also significant because I taught her how to play the game when she was four or five.

Abbi wrote this absolutely hilarious play based on my clothes using quotes from my 8th grade poetry book (which I mistakingly let her keep a few years ago) and her own inner monologue, entitled: "Best Friend and Secret (girl) Crush: A Legacy and (jealousy) of Clothes."

Zach turned me into a freaking ipod ad! About a week ago he asked me if I had any pictures of myself "dancing crazy" to make a "spec ad." Thinking nothing of it, I sent him about a dozen pictures of myself tearing up the dance floor at various weddings and events. This is also fitting because my mom used to say the people on the ipod commercials reminded her of me.

(you can see the tears)

One of my college roommates, Tina, wrote:
"Alyse and I both had a love for sign language and an unabashed penchant for activities which others might deem 'corny' or just plain 'uncool.' I was ecstatice to find a willing participant for my sing-alongs, and Alyse knew exactly whose door to knock on at one in the morning during a snowstorm.
*Tap tap tap.* 'Tina?...Are you up?' Alyse whispered. I opened my door. 'Do you want to go out and play in the snow?' she asked. Hell yeah I did! Of course I contained my enthusiasm to a whisper until we got outside. There we played with the abandon of six-year-olds in foot-high drifts and winds that whipped around the piers of the South Street Seaport. We made fun of the Abercrombie models in the store windows. Tragic figures, really. Those cool, jaded faces had no idea how much FUN they were missing!"

One of my roommates from Madrid, wrote:
"Alyse, you impacted my life more than I think you understand. You, ironically, are responsible for my current career choice and direction. Because of that one fateful lunch at Isla del Tesoro in Madrid and the subsequent hospital experience that followed it, I became a Spanish medical interpreter and am now in nursing school. Without that experience, I don't think that I would have realized the need for professional interpreters and would never have pursued it further."
Who knew that walking nose-first into a glass door would lead to such life-altering changes!

My friend Christopher Rawson from my final photo class at NYU included a black&white photograph he took of me at a jukebox, a moment I remember, a photo I never knew existed.

Even my 13-year-old buddy, Max, participated with inside jokes galore, intertwined with some really heartfelt sentiments, which really validated what I've been doing with my life the past year and a half.

All in all, it was the most beautiful, touching, meaningful, inspiring gift I've ever received from the best sister I could ever ask for!
I will end this with the short anecdote I sent as a thank-you to the book's contributors.
After a belated birthday sushi lunch with Shelley, I got caught in a whirlwind of Chicago's first seasonal snowfall. I walked through a deserted park, gloveless and holding the Carson's box--the one containing my sister's gift to me--in both hands.
I paused a moment, twirling around myself, my head thrown back letting the snowflakes gather on my glasses. And I thought of one of my favorite (although brief) poems (by Taneda Santoka)--Here in the stillness of snow falling on snow.
I completed his thought and said..."all I need in the world is inside this box."

Thank you to everyone who made this momentous birthday the best and most memorable one thus far.
If you wish to view the birthday album in its entirety, click here: more birthday photos

i support H.R. 676

I finally rented Michael Moore's latest documentary, Sicko, something I've been wanting to see since it first hit theaters earlier this year.

In the remaining five minutes of the movie my phone rang. 8 pm on a Tuesday from an 847-number I didn't recognize. Usually I'd just let it go to voicemail, but I paused the movie and answered. The voice on the other end belonged to my overly-exuberant gynecologist informing me that she's "sick of scanning" me (I've had about 10 ultrasounds in the past year) and wants to just go ahead and perform laparoscopic surgery to remove the cysts on my right ovary (which have been there since I was 19) and plans to "spare the ovary."

"I can't even believe you're calling me right now," I said. Here I am watching a documentary about these poor people who either don't have health insurance or whose health insurance has screwed them over by denying them benefits, and she wants me to just jump into the O.R. like I'm a millionaire.

Upon graduating college or maybe it was extended a few more months to when I turned 23, I was dropped from my mom's insurance. Despite her incessant warnings to me that I "need to get a job with benefits," I opted to not care. Of course that was the year my cysts decided to start attacking me once a month again. Now a few days away from turning 25, I am embarrassed to say that my parents have had to pay for virtually all of my medical bills. I admit, my mom was right; she usually is. But here's the problem. It's not my fault that what I want to do in life will probably never involve working for a large or rich enough company that provides insurance for their employees. So what am I supposed to do? Get a job doing something I hate so I have insurance in case I need surgery one day? Or just continue doing what I love to do and hope I never need to see a doctor?

When I lived in Madrid, Spain for almost five months, I had an embarrassing accident where I walked face-first into the solid glass door of a restaurant. (You can read the full story here: isla del tesoro) and subsequently had to take a painfully bumpy cab ride to the E.R....where I was seen in less than an hour, had my face x-rayed (and got to keep the x-ray), my nose bandaged, had one-on-one time with a doctor, and got a prescription for extra-strength Ibuprofin.

And I did not pay a single cent.

Here's the thing. I know Michael Moore's repertoire doesn't exactly have the best reputation. And I realize the international medical personnel who he interviews in this movie aren't going to say anything unappealing about their health care system vs. ours when the main audience is Americans and the U.S. government.
But, you can't really argue with the basic point of this documentary. Our health care system sucks. Insurance companies exist only to make money (and lots of it!) and don't give a shit about helping their clientele. This is exactly why Dr. Linda Peeno quit her job as a medical reviewer for Humana.
This is her statement when she testified before Congress in 1996:

DR. LINDA PEENO: I am here primarily today to make a public confession. In the spring of 1987, as a physician, I denied a man a necessary operation that would have saved his life and thus caused his death. No person and no group has held me accountable for this, because, in fact, what I did was I saved a company a half a million dollars for this.

Interestingly enough, Humana One is my current health care "provider," except all they've provided me with is an outrageously high ($5,000?!) deductible and months of panic that they were going to drop me altogether when they sent me a memo stating they were "investigating" my medical history for "pre-existing" conditions that I may have failed to mention.

With the primary elections right around the corner, I think this is an important issue to take into consideration. We are spending billions of dollars to kill both our own soldiers and innocent Iraqi civilians overseas, yet we can't seem to find the funds or decency to provide health care here at home.
As Tony Benn, the British, socialist diplomat says in the movie, "If we can find money to kill people, you can find money to help people."

Watching Moore take 9/11 rescue workers on a boat to Guantanamo Bay was one of the most depressing scenes I've ever witnessed in a movie. And this isn't just a movie, this is about real people, real people who volunteered their time to save others at Ground Zero and are now debilitated from their respiratory ailments.
I remember my dad calling me on September 12 when I was holed up in my dorm room on 5th Ave. and 10th St.
"Lyse, don't go outside. And if you do go outside, be sure to not breathe. But if you do have to breathe, please cover your nose and mouth! You wouldn't believe what they're saying is in the air there."

"Permission to enter," Michael Moore yells from a fishing boat across the Cuban water border as they approach Guantanamo Bay. "I have three 9/11 rescue workers. They need some medical attention."
Then he picks up a megaphone.
"These are 9/11 rescue workers," Moore repeats, amplified. "They just want some medical attention--the same kind that Al Queda is getting [i involuntarily shiver]. They don't want any more than they're giving the evil-doers. Just the same."

Now I'm all for treating human beings equally, but how is it that these terrorists, who helped plot and/or participated in the worst terrorist attack on U.S. soil, are the only people now on U.S. soil receiving "universal health care." I bet you won't see them complaining about waiting rooms or insufficient medical supplies.

Furthermore, watch this. Then be embarrassed to be an American. This clip was only in the "special features" portion of the DVD because supposedly Moore didn't think people would believe it.

At the end of the movie, this website appeared on the screen:
http://www.michaelmoore.com/sicko/what-can-i-do/

I know people would argue that Moore paints an idealistic picture of universal health care, but I'll tell you one thing....I'm thinking about looking up laparoscopy in Canada.

where the deer and the antelope play

[self-portrait with scrunchy, our 14-year-old pug, 2006]

My first word was not the anticipated "mama" or "dada." So the story goes, my mom was wheeling me down the pet care aisle in a grocery store, I pointed to a bag of dog food and subsequently announced, "daaaaw-gie" ("doggie").
I've always been an animal-lover, so much so that I'm pretty sure I was an animal in a past life--probably a dog. Violence or cruelty towards our furry (or not-so-furry) friends has always had a huge effect on me. The first time I saw Bambi, I was traumatized for life after the hunter shot and killed his dad. Same with Dumbo (when the circus takes his mom) and The Lion King (when Simba watches his dad fall to his death among a stampede). All these poor baby animals losing their parents, 2 out of 3 due to idiotic human beings.

[i just found this t-shirt design (by: Chalermphol Harnchakkham) on threadless.com after originally publishing this post. how beautifully appropriate.]

These haunting animated scenes were manifested in real life when I was home one summer from college. I was driving my friend Abbi home, who lived in the neighboring subdivision. While we were turning left onto Algonquin Road, the main 4-lane road connecting our two neighborhoods, my headlights shone on what looked like a bloody massacre. "What the..." I had barely expressed my thought, when large pieces of deer carcass scattered about the road and the median came into view. There was a large piece in my way and I came close to hyperventilating. I thought if I aimed the car correctly so that the remains went in between the wheels, we'd be fine. But I underestimated how close we were to the pavement and the sounds of bones crushing was enough to almost make me throw up on the spot. It was like straight out of a horror film. I knew I wasn't the one who originally caused the wreckage, but I still felt so guilty for even witnessing the result and couldn't even begin to imagine what the driver (assuming this was caused by a car/truck) had felt like...although maybe he/she never even knew what happened?

[i love this picture, taken by one of my parents. i probably thought the bear and i were telepathically connected.]

Recently I went to coffee with someone, and somehow Africa came up in conversation...
boy: Africa's pretty much at the bottom of my list of places to go.
me: Really? That's at the top of my list. I would LOVE to go there.
boy: Why would you ever want to go there?
me: Well partly because I'm a huge animal-lover and I think it'd be incredible to see those particular animals in their natural habitats.
boy: I may be skating on thin ice here, but would you shoot the animals?
me: Shoot them?? Are you kidding me??
boy: Yeah--you know--like the people who hang the heads on their walls.
me: Um, NO. I would not shoot them!
boy: Well if I went on a safari, that's what I would do.
me: That's not even what a safari is!
boy: Well what would you do, just look at them??
me: YES! That's the point of a safari!
boy: Well I'm just saying, Ernest Hemingway did it...
(in my head: Yeah, well he also shot himself, so...)


[my first trip to the zoo? screw the camera, i want the giraffe!]

Tonight I was driving back to the city from Amy's parent's house and as I was about to merge onto I90E from the Roselle on-ramp, Amy pointed at something off to the right side of the road. Suddenly a large deer began bounding across the four lanes. "Woah!" I exclaimed and held my breath as the animal approached the daunting concrete median. Flashes of the bloody, mangled deer flashed through my mind, but with a majestic leap, she sailed right over the roadblock. What a magical moment! "I can't believe she made it!" I sighed with relief. "That was incredible. I have never seen a deer on the highway. Where the heck did it even come from?" "BMW dealership," Amy pointed out, jokingly. "Poor thing has nowhere to go," I added, sadly, knowing that just beyond the trees she was headed for the giant monstrosity that is Medieval Times. But I was glad that she timed her journey advantageously and silently wished her safe travels.

When I arrived home I dug up a poem I wrote the summer after graduating high school:

Deer Park

A new outlet mall
had its Grand Opening
Today

They named it
Deer Park

The entrance sign had a sketch
of two deer leaping

All around there was
Mauled Dirt
that used to be
Forest Soil

Now,
just
soil

Deer leap loose
around town

And people complain
about the overpopulation

But it wasn’t so overpopulated
when the animals had a home

And then they bother with
the needless sign
sort of as a consolation gift

for the Deer to look at
and feel special
Right before they jump

Into headlights on
Dundee Road

And rot
Into
a bone sketch