People keep asking me, "What's different about the West coast?" in relation to the East coast, that is. I say things like, "People are so much friendlier here! And it's beautiful; more various terrains. And NO HUMIDITY! But also no lightening bugs." I go on about the physical differences forever. There are more breathtaking sights here. The air is fresher. Country untouched by smoke and oil or grease is not out of reach. Land raped by steam and metal and brick is within. Whichever's more your thing.

But I only say that one line about the people. Because I can't figure out what the difference is. But I think I just did.

People from the Northeast coast of the United States (from Washington DC up to Boston, I think) are like a puzzle that wants to be solved. They want you to slowly fit the pieces together, going over each one carefully before finding where it belongs in the picture. They think it's important that you do this to see how everything is connected, and that it all has its place. They live by the fact that the human being, at very least the brain and therefor life, is a very complex thing, and that is a positive to them. They want to be complex, so that if one thing fails, there is something else to occupy them and hold them together until time heals the wound; something else to keep them sane and happy. And if anyone can actually put the whole puzzle together, which is both a challenge and an honor, and see it for what it is, what it wants to be and what it stands for the way they want you to see it; and you find that you love it through this clear and extremely vulnerable view - you will then find happy and permanent admittance to their lives.

It's been almost 6 months since I last updated. I suppose you'd like to know what's kept me so busy that I couldn't post even one entry over such a long period of time. Fortunately, I have a good reason.

Starting in January, I was being considered for two full-time gigs - one at an alternative station in San Diego, California and the other at a Hot AC in Spokane, Washington. I'll let you guess which one I was pulling for. However, I very happily ended up getting hired at 92.9 KZZU-FM in the good old inland Northwest. That was March. Yes, that's how long I was in talks with both stations. Yes, it took up a lot of my time and energy.

As did driving across the country. And settling in. Moving, essentially.

And having to go home three weeks after my start date for two weeks when my Dad was admitted to a hospice due to suffering two strokes in less than twenty-four hours as a roundabout side effect of the lung cancer and later passed away the day after my 23rd birthday.

So, yeah. It's been ... a very eventful half a year. And I thought 2008 was going to be better than 2007.

To be honest, I don't really know what I'm trying to say here. I guess I wanted to start writing again but wanted to explain my absence first. I think it was a valid excuse.

Today is Martin Luther King Day. Most people have off work today. I have to work both my jobs. On three hours of sleep, no less (and no more!), because I am retarded and decided to go see Cloverfield last night at 10:15 when I knew I had to get up at 4 am to come do the morning show. Which I am still doing. Simultaneously while blogging. Because I was simultaneously poking around the 'net earlier and came across this little gem via digg.com.

His name is Greg Erskine. So far as I can tell, he grew up in New Hampshire, went to college in Philadelphia and now resides in New York City. He also at one point in his life worked as a host at Olive Garden and made a pretty hilarious comic strip about it. It was good enough to make me want to read absolutely everything else posted on his site, which is http://www.gregnog.com, by the way. You should check him out. And I should write a review of Cloverfield. Perhaps we will do that. Perhaps.

I'm pretty sure this one is my favorite. I've also added a couple more underneath it for you to sample his comedic genius. Enjoy.

PS - np.dave, this one's for you.

Ever wonder why the current state of relationships between men and women seems so much more messed up than it did when our parents were our age?

I give you ... Dream Phone.

For the unfortunate ladies and straight gentlemen who have not played it, let me explain the rules as best I can remember them.

The object of the game is to figure out which of the boys on the board has a crush on which of the players. Everyone shares a big, pink, plastic phone and you each get your own phone book with boys' numbers on it.

(My favorite part of the phone book is that all the numbers start with 555. I think phone numbers in LA should start with 555. I could explain why, but it would take us away from this fascinating subject.) I believe players take turns calling these boys, who then give you a clue, such as: (in a loud voice, over the speaker phone) "Oh, hi! I can definitely help you. Here's a hint!" (softer so only the player with their ear pressed up against the receiver can hear it) "He doesn't like pizza!"

With your clue, you then look at the board and eliminate anyone who is eating pizza, since they are obviously not the person who could potentially have a crush on you, and so on and so on, until you think you know who it is because you've crossed out mostly everyone in your phone book who is wearing a tie or who doesn't have glasses or whatever. THEN you put the phone on SPEAKER and press the GUESS Button:

If you win, the boy will come on and say, "You're right! I REALLY like you!" Generally, you really hope this boy is Steve, because he was definitely the cutest one on the board.

I think this explains a lot. Kind of like how Mall Madness explains how so many people are in credit card debt. If the cute one likes you and you know he doesn't hang out at the movies, it should mean a successful relationship, right? Right?? RIGHT?!

Anyone who knows me at all knows a few basic things about me. For instance, I am a music freak. Or the fact that I am from Philly and root passionately for the Flyers, as hockey is really the only sport I care about at all. Or, you know, my strange obsession with Gwen Stefani and all things associated with her.

However, there are things about myself that I try to keep under the radar. I like to think of myself as kind of a guy's girl, and therefore keep my secret love for hair care products and make up, well, a secret. But I just can't control my love for Gwen's L.A.M.B. or Harajuku Lovers clothing lines.

Seriously. It's a problem. I'm working right now so I can't be sure, but if I take a second and think about it, I know I have two purses (both of which are needing repair at the moment), one tote, one blazer, one pair of jeans, three pairs of pants (two of the same because I got one hemmed too high), and at least four t-shirts off of the L.A.M.B. line; at least four Harajuku Lovers shirts and a pair of sneakers off of each line. The sad thing? My collection pales in comparison to some other Gwennabes'. Yes, that is a real term that means Gwen-wannabe. More importantly, I want more.

Let me get to the reason I started this post. My friend Dave and I were walking down Newbury Street in Boston about a month ago on our way to the Life is Good store when I saw a gorgeous dress I kinda sorta fell in love with. I didn't bother to look at the price tag, though, because it was Newbury Street, where the most expensive shops in the city are located.

Fast forward a bit to me sitting here at work perusing eBay (which has already switched to a Christmas theme - is that bothersome to anyone else?) when I FIND THE EFFING DRESS. And it is L.A.M.B! How sick am I?! Pretty sick, let me tell you. In more ways than one.

I think I might need help. And a bigger wallet.

The one I saw on display was white; this one is black and two sizes too big, but grandmother is a seamstress, so that might not be a problem. Here it is.

*sigh*

If I was a really good friend, I would buy you tickets to the Led Zeppelin reunion concert in London. Wait, let me revise that sentence ... If I was a really rich friend, I would buy you tickets to the Led Zeppelin reunion concert in London. But alas, I am not. A rich friend. I am a good friend. The proof is that it's the thought that counts and that would have been a slammin' present. Yes, I did just write "slammin';" yes, I have been accidentally using it in my vocabulary lately, and yes, I am rambling now. Anyway, happy 23rd.

In no particular order:

1) Pumpkin ale - especially Shipyard - and other pumpkin flavored foods. Lattes, pies, etc. Seasonal food is so good because it's available such a short amount of time that you eat as much as you can while it's out but it's gone before you get sick of it.

2) I know a ton of great people who have their birthdays this month - two of my best friends and my sister, to name a few. w00t for celebrating the fact that great people are alive!

3) Baseball season is ending - the exciting part - and hockey season is starting - before the Flyers have dashed my dreams by choking in the playoffs.

4) Fall fashion is the best. I get to wear my favorite black corduroy blazer with a hoodie under it every day and not have to worry about blinding anyone with my uber pale legs.

5) Halloween. And my kick ass costume, which is Blaze from Streets of Rage. Oh, yes. It does rock, thank you. And yes, you can probably expect pictures. I know you want them.

Let's keep up the theme here on the Popsicle, shall we? So far I've managed not to get too intimiately personal here, but I think it's time.

It's around 1:45am. I'm working at the station, surfing the 'net; mixing up doing my prep work with checking out some addictions - namely Facebook. I notice a URL in my friend's status update, and decide to plug it into my browser and check it out.

This was a horrible idea. I should have known this was a horrible idea from the start of it, considering this particular friend is my most recent ex-boyfriend's best friend, and since I cut him out of my life, checking out anything that any of his (not our) friends have to say should probably be off limits as well. Regardless, I made the mistake of hitting "Enter."

The link was to an on-line article from Harp Magazine, which mostly focuses on folk and acoustic indie music, which is what my ex does. And there, staring at me from my work computer's screen, was a big dumb picture of him.

For a moment, I was pretty sure that I couldn't breathe and/or that I was going to throw up. After that sensation passed, I managed to read the article, which was about his latest endeavor - a group of solo musicians who work together, for lack of a better, more drawn-out explanation - and their tour. Which included a date in Boston. Which was a bit of a surprise.

This coalition of songwriters isn't really news, to me anyway ... he's been talking about doing it for over a year now - it just sucked having to read about it being official, rather than hearing about it directly from him. Same goes for the tour date in my city ... and the article in Harp, for that matter, which is a pretty big deal.

By the same token, he should have no idea that I've just been promoted to Assistant Promotions Coordinator here at the station or that I was approached by a station in the city we will both always call home to apply for open positions. Despite having not heard anything back from them yet and being doubtful about hearing anything, my point is that we are both moving on. And up.

Stop. I'm having a hard time explaining this to you. Point blank? There is no way I can go to that show.

Without going into too much depth here, everything about my relationship with Jim felt final and blessed by fate. Even np.jack joked that he, np.sous and our friend Justin would have to start planning their wedding present now so it would blow everyone else's away. As it turned out, Jim is a passionate person who lives in the moment who didn't necessarily LIE to me ... he just said things because he felt them at the time, and then would go three thousand miles away and realize the brevity of those words and retract them. After far too long, I caught on, and decided to end it after almost three straight years of heart ache over an anticipated ending that I'd come to realize was never going to happen.

Anyway. As I'm sure you can imagine, since he is a musician, he's written several songs about me. Some that never saw the light of day or made it to anyone's ears besides mine, and maybe some I don't even know about right now. The song he chose to put on the Birds on a Wire CD is an interesting choice because it's mostly about me, and the it's the one I always told him was his strongest piece of work.

I can't go to that show because he's going to perform "Backyard Waltz" and probably other songs I can't handle hearing right now to a bunch of people that I don't know who are going to show up because of that article, and to a bunch more who I do know who congratulated us for trying again to make things work the last time we saw them. I can't go because we haven't talked for a month and a half and it would be hypocritical of me to break that silence after telling him not to contact me anymore.

And yet I wonder if this is the right decision.

I know our paths are going to cross again someday. The way I imagine it happening is that a radio station I'm working for in the future starts playing him ... because he really is talented. Like, really. Really talented. Despite everything that happened between us, I have the ability to admit that, and anticipate us meeting again because of it.

Which is probably why I'm posting these links for you now.

His website: jimhanft.com
His MySpace: myspace.com/jimhanft
The Harp Magazine Article
Birds on a Wire: birdsonawiremusic.com

I haven't even checked out that last link yet, and I'm not going to, but you should. Because it's probably good.

I used to want to be a musician. Only briefly did I realize, a long time ago, exactly what kind of a lifestyle that would entail under the surface level of fame. Endless self-promotion, writing under pressure, touring but never really getting to experience cities you're in ... and never having the time to dedicate to anything - or anyone - else. I get it now, and I want none of it. It takes a very specific type of personality to be able to deal with that kind of life ... and I'm becoming less secretly glad that I don't have one. Best of luck to those who do.

A big fat HAPPY BIRTHDAY to np.dave! I'm drinking a beer for you here in Boston, buddy, at 3am.

Not really. What would that say about me, if that were true? Some pretty depressing ish, that's what.

Anyway. Happy 22nd birthday, dude. The first of many that won't matter 'til you hit the big ones (40!) and you're considered "over the hill." Live it up.

The woman in the seat next to me has her thumbs shoved in her ears, her index fingers pressed into her temples and the rest securing her eyelids shut. She is muttering what I assume are prayers in French. I assume they're prayers because the red leather-bound book in her lap is the Bible. I assume it's French because, well, it's not Spanish. Process of elimination.

We couldn't be more extreme opposites right now. Me, trying to read On the Road but falling asleep instead as my mind drifts through the pipe dream of writing some fantastic novel. I am calm, pretending I'm in another decade - the 60s, by choice, listening to the 6th channel on the complimentary XM radio through expensive rubber earbuds - and while I can't be sure, she is probably just pretending she is not on the plane.

I know how she feels. I allow myself to imagine it - that sense of foreboding ... the unsettling feeling that settles itself in your stomach; the way your brain feels like it's floating in murky water - you're just waiting for something dreadful to happen.

The worst part is that she and I both know how alone she is in this moment. Her irrational fear must feel like it's an expanding energy ring rippling out from her gut. How frustrating it must be to open your eyes and realize people are not sharing your anxiety! How simple it is to understand now why large crowds of frightened people wield such power. To look left and see the connection with a neighbor; to succumb to the uncontrollable desire to band together for your own welfare ... the phrase "strength in numbers" would never be more true.

She doesn't stop fidgeting when she does break out of her default personal facelock. Her leg pushes her purse closer to mine, she drops papers out of the Holy Book and reaches over the armrest into my seat to get them, she keeps straining to look over the seats in front of us to see w here the flight attendants are. I picture myself asking one of them to please do something about her - drug her, take her away; who cared, as long as it got her to stop invading my square inch of space - though of course I would never actually ask one of them to do any of this. Imagining it is what keeps me sane.

Usually, I meet interesting people on planes. There was the flight attendant sitting next to me on his way "home" for an unexpected bit of time off who told me all about how clouds are formed and about landing fees that airports charge airlines and gave me the advice not to sacrifice anything about a life I wanted for a boyfriend. Little did he know (Mr. Hoffman's favorite phrase!) that at that point in my life I was considering moving to a city I had no interest in for a relationship I honestly thought would result in marriage. You can probably guess what happened there, but anyway; upon hearing his advice, I wrote him off as a lonely gay man with no one to go home to who justified his lack of a base in his life by claiming his grand adventures to airports all over the nation were worth more than a night in a different bar with the same drinks in a different city.

Then there was Brady. Brady, who I met on a flight to that God forsaken city Los Angeles th at I accidentally had with my friend Ryan where I not so accidentally took the empty seat between them to avoid the freak couple I was supposed to be sitting next to. I'm not even sure how the conversation started ... perhaps it was when he politely interjected how jealous he was that I'd managed to snag tickets to the Police reunion concert in Philly for my family ... but before I knew it we were exchanging career plans, talking about The Secret and going threesies on our second snacks from the airline.

And then, somewhere over the Milano cookies and the cheddar cheese crackers and the French onion Sunchips, it was as though a phoenix was growing inside of him and burst in a sentence-contained fireball.

"I'm leaving my wife when I get back to San Diego."

It was only awkward for a moment. "Does she know?" Was the first question I thought to ask.

She didn't. He didn't divulge too much detailed information, and he didn't need to. Ryan and I were strangers in which he imparted a small piece of his soul; a truth that needed to live somewhere outside of his in the event that he could not carry out his intended actions. I wanted to screw LA, that wretched city, and forget the last two months of my college education in Boston and move up to Portland with this genuine man and be part of a blooming genuine life.

Sounds crazy, I know. Instead np.Jack met me at the baggage carousel, I promised Ryan I'd save a poolside afternoon for him, and Brady gave me a handshake that wanted to be a hug. And that was Brady, who wished me luck - real, true luck - and I wished it for him, more than I'd ever wished it for anyone. Brady, who I think I fell in love with a little bit somewhere over America.

These people give me some sense of life that isn't mine, of non-newsworthy events that take place outside of my city every moment of every day. But this woman sitting next to me now, squelched in her own fear, is just making me feel uncomfortable, and guilty for feeling calm. What a waste of a flight.