Dateline New Orleans: Coco and Bigote Discover America, Part Two


Picacho Peak, AZ - Ry looking manly
Originally uploaded by Julia_h_j

Today we leave the beautiful, bizarre and steamy city that is New Orleans. In the last 48 hours, we've ran through rainstorms in Jackson Square, visited the New Orleans Jazz National Historic Park, wandered through Louis Armstrong Park, which is still under construction from Hurricane Katrina, stuck our fingers in the Mississippi River, ridden the trolleys down St. Charles Place and watched the U.S. come back to tie Slovenia in the 84th minute of the World Cup Soccer game.

Our stay in New Orleans was a welcome treat after sweating through the night at Village Creek State Park in Lumberton, Texas--a fascinating and lively park near the border of Texas and Louisiana, in the aptly-named Big Thicket. Many, many thanks to Shirlee and Rick, who have given us the opportunity to stay in an amazing condo here in New Orleans. There really is no comparison between sweating through the night in your underwear, surrounded by frogs and crickets and birds and snakes and swamp rabbits (yes, there is such a species!), and staying in an air-conditioned room with a kitchen and a bathroom and access to ESPN during the World Cup. Muchisimas gracias!

Once we crossed the Texas border into Louisiana, it struck us both that we are finally, ultimately and definitely in the American South. There are times when Julia has to listen two or three times to understand the accent, and there are times when both of us can't help bragging to the person sitting next to us that "yes, we're from California, and actually, we drove here."

Perhaps the best moment last night was when we wandered down to Frenchmen Street, past the insanity of Bourbon Street and the raucousness of the French Quarter. We slipped into a lively little dive bar called Checkpoint Charlie's, where we had seen an advertisement for a burlesque show the day before. We both have taken to carrying little notebooks with us, and before the show started, a young musician with long, black curly hair got on stage and started playing a mean slide guitar. Julia took out her notebook and began doodling -- a rough sketch, really, of the musician with his bushy beard and tight pants and snappy boots. When the bartender came by to refill our drinks, she saw the drawing and squealed with delight, then asked to show the picture to all of her friends. By the end of the evening, we had gotten the singer to autograph it himself -- Domenic was his name -- and Julia was then inspired to draw both the stuffed deer on the wall (with beads hanging from its antlers) and the stuffed raccoon on the top of the stage, framed by a small placard that read "Je t'accuse."

Drawings to come, once we have access to a scanner.

Our next step from here is to visit the lovely Pat and Dale Bibee in Slidell, Louisiana, before turning northward in our continuing search for America.

Yesterday, Julia asked Ryan, "Do you think the humidity will get better as we move north?"

To which he responded, "Definitely not."

In other news, neither of us have had to unpack a sweater yet.

Dateline: Motel 6. I-35, Austin, TX

We made it to Austin. It's been five days since we left San Jose, four since we left California, three since we climbed halfway up Arizona's Picacho Peak (although we alternated between calling it "pinochle" and "pistachio"), two since we swam the Rio Grande at Leasburg Dam State Park in New Mexico, and it was just yesterday that we descended 750 feet into Carlsbad Caverns before settling down at Guadalupe Mountain National Park on the border of New Mexico and Texas. And then, just this morning, after hiking Devil's Hall trail and spotting 10 lizards and 3 deer, we headed due east for Austin.

Today has been the hottest so far. Also, most mileage logged. Most This American Life podcasts listened to.

We're making a tally of the best signs seen along the road (starting with "STATE PRISON: DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS", "GET OFF FACEBOOK AND INTO MY BOOK -- GOD" from a church in Santa Monica, "DIABETICS: ASSESS YOUR CONDITION" from the entrance to the caverns, and ending with "MARGARITA BREAKFAST TACOS" in the lively Texan town of Fredericksburg, which wins for cutest green town we've passed through yet).

Souvenirs bought thus far include a 25-cent placemat of a spaceman contemplating a crater (doubles as our cutting board while camping), a Nevada Barr murder mystery set in Guadalupe Mountain (a bad idea to read a murder mystery set in the very campground where we're sleeping, as I learned after swearing I saw a mountain lion in the parking lot at 2am, and lay awake breathing heavily for half an hour afterward), a button that reads "Bats need friends too," and some barbeque sauce from Rudy's here in Austin.

Our plan from here is to make our way across Texas to Louisiana, where we'll stay two nights before heading to visit family friends in Slidell and then turning northward. There is still so much to see.

Our first night in Arizona I was struck with a sense of awesome peace that I realized I'd been waiting for a long time to feel. It was like I had finally exhaled. I forgot how, when you travel, you focus so much on the minutia of getting where you're going and appreciating it when you're there, that all the major day-to-day worries seem so fleeting somehow.

With that, Coco & Bigote sign out...

P.S. photos soon!

...And We're Off!



It occurred to me recently that I embarked on my first big international adventure ten years ago this month. Newly 16, I was lucky enough to spend six weeks in Israel with my youth group--a voyage with its spiritual and political roots, but inevitably what made it magical was not its original aim but all the little surprises that came along the way.

I'm feeling a similar excitement tonight as Ryan and I get ready for an ambitious drive across the United States. We're not crossing any oceans, or learning any new languages, and yet I can't help feeling that this trip has the same level of possibility--if not more--because we're going to be seeing an entirely new side to our country. Who knows what we might find...?

Sayonara, San Francisco!

Pippic for Thought


Moishe's Pippic
Originally uploaded by Julia_h_j

I spotted this when walking down Hayes Street in San Francisco. It was Bay to Breakers and I was dressed (rather half-heartedly) as a zebra and had to cut across lanes of foot traffic to snap this shot.

Incidentally, my great-uncle's name is Moishe, and my first word was pippic. I later printed out this photo and mailed it to my 87-year-old Amah, who laughed herself silly when I called to ask if she got it.

This picture gives me hope, that maybe, during normal business hours, somewhere in San Francisco a family is making their ends meet by selling bellybuttons. Belts? Salami? Or maybe just good old-fashioned belly laughs.

Jobs: Can't Live With 'Em, Can't Live Without 'Em

This New York Times opinion forum on whether or not recent graduates should be choosy in their initial job offers struck a familiar chord. It seems like the old cliche about the pressure to find an ideal first job is now so ubiquitous that experts from all fields are now questioning whether, in this economy, it's a smart idea to wait out the job search for the best offer, or to simply accept any job in the interim.

I understand the first job out of college to be an anticlimactic precedent; as if, upon graduating with a bachelor's degree, one has an obligation to find the kind of job that aligns perfectly with their degree requirements. That might be all well and good for an engineer or computer scientist, but what does that mean for those of us who devoted most of our college days to deconstructing literary theory or writing plays? I've always understood that the pursuit of a creative lifestyle meant accepting the financial and societal uncertainties that sometimes accompany it. With that in mind, I've often been placed in the odd social moment of talking myself into a corner when someone asks me how I put my degree in creative writing to good use. By being creative. By writing. By being a creative writer in basically everything I do. And one can write creatively about anything: other writers, current events, scientific studies, socks, commercial products...the weather.

One thing I'm trying to do less is justify my interests and passions as an extension of my academic plans. I've applied the skills I learned in college in various jobs around the world, and to date, they've served me fine. I started working as a junior in college, and have worked either half or full time ever since. Secretly I'm glad that I already had a degree when the housing market crashed in 2008.



Edwin Hoc, the director of strategic and foundation research at the National Association of Colleges and Employers, describes a situation that hits close to home: that of recent grads who gain experience in a non-profit field in hopes that it will make them a more attractive candidate for jobs in the long run. Hoc says that for these students, "turning down a job offer with a minimal starting salary and few prospects for advancement can be preferable to accepting the job, especially from a 'long-run' career perspective. However, not everyone, not every new graduate, can afford to make this kind of choice. Those that can, count on a safety net of support (generally parents) that allows them to survive and thrive while avoiding initiating a career path with a minimal early return."

As someone who has worked as everything from barista to international student advisor, in radio, web and in print, I wonder, too, about that "minimal early return," and at what point it's smart to start prioritizing that over my delicate and sometimes bleeding creative heart.

Does health insurance affect your heart?

Health insurance isn't for the weak of heart.

Well, technically, it is, but in our country, I get the feeling the entire industry weakens the heart.

I'm a middle-class Caucasian woman with an entire network of family, friends and medical professionals who have proven, time and time again, that they can help support me. I'm in good health for someone of my size and age, with one major flaw. I deign to have a pre-existing condition.

I've been over this before, and I have a feeling I'll be going over it every day until type 1 diabetes has a hard and fast cure. But lately I have been particularly flummoxed by privatized health care. I was reminded again this week when my family and I were contemplating options for me as I transfer grad schools and have exhausted three years of COBRA coverage. That's the word these companies use: exhaust. I don't think I've exhausted COBRA as much as it's exhausted me. And for the past four months I've been navigating this world of conversion policies and HIPAA plans, trying to find a creative way to continue coverage without draining my parents of their retirement or forcing me back to Starbucks while I get a Masters degree.

And then I came across this article, written a mere three days after I was diagnosed as diabetic back in 2001. Miguel Aguayo is an artist who lives in Canada, which has socialized health care--something he appreciates as a deaf man. Apparently the American privatized health care system was looking attractive to some Canadians, who grew tired of waiting in long lines, and thought that perhaps our system offered the same services more quickly. But then came the unforeseen sacrifices: Aguayo speaks of how, when he and his family lived in the U.S., they often had to postpone medical treatment until legitimate emergencies, and even then, the hospital bills were as paralyzing as the illnesses themselves.

It seems silly to have perfectly good medical facilities that are only available to those who can pay for them, and even then, to ask them to wait until they are truly risking their lives. This is not health insurance. This is disaster relief. And it's expensive.

I don't know what I hope to aim by writing this. I'm preparing to spend another week on the phone, getting transferred from department to department of a huge, profit-seeking health insurance company whose employees see me as a subscriber ID number, one with a pesky little condition that ultimately will cost them more if I keep myself healthy than if I don't have access to the tools I need to stay well.

I wonder what undocumented immigrants do? I wonder what Canadians do? I wonder what these so-called proponents of privatized health care do, when they lose their jobs, get diabetes themselves, or have an unplanned pregnancy?

I might take a cue from Aguayo and head north. As soon as I get off the phone.

Sign of a Good Day


big sur. julia fords river
Originally uploaded by Julia_h_j

The water was a bit deeper than I originally anticipated, but it was worth it to get to the other side of the sand dunes at Andrew Molero State Park in Big Sur. My housemates, boyfriend and I drove down the coast this morning, stopped at the Henry Miller Memorial Library, ate tacos near the river, and tromped around because tromping is the singular best activity for a birthday. The older the better.





Adventure is in the air. Ryan and I have planned an ambitious road trip with stops in Phoenix, Austin, New Orleans, Atlanta, Durham, Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York City, Pittsburgh, Chicago, Denver and St. George in mind. We might very well be underestimating the size of the United States. But you know, I'm okay with that. Underestimation. Size. Time. Not knowing. I think, as I reach the cusp of my 26th year on the planet, I'm getting more and more comfortable with the idea of just letting the things I can't control dictate the things I can. So be it.

We hope to blog, take pictures and draw comics of the trip as we go. And then make up all the money we spend in gas by printing the comics into handy little zines that eventually we sell for gobs of money, in which case we celebrate by driving to who knows where.

Seriously though, I hope to be fording more rivers this summer. Bigger ones, greener ones, faster ones. Stay tuned and I just might.

Another Reason to Watch News in Spanish

I turned on TeleMundo today after I got home from a run and saw a young journalist reporting live from Phoenix, flanked by a phalanx of supporters, Latino and anglo. Al Rojo Vivo has been broadcasting from Arizona since the law SB 1070 on April 24. You know, the law that says all those not born in the United States must carry their papers with them everywhere they go.

Amidst interviews with prominent Latino and Mexican politicians, Al Rojo Vivo shared two things that blew me away completely:

The first was a new ad campaign developed in Sonora, Mexico, which was recently printed in the Arizona Republic newspaper. It's a close-up on a man in camouflage with binoculars held against his eyes, with the words "IN SONORA WE ARE LOOKING FOR PEOPLE FROM ARIZONA." It is, in a word, awesome. Awesome in the original sense of the word: it strikes awe in its beholders, because at last, a mirror has been lifted to the Arizona border. Heck, to the American border.

The Arizonan response? Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio has asked his constituents to avoid traveling to Mexico. Because that's the way mature, forward-thinking, global citizens of the world do things, I guess.

The second amazing thing I saw on TeleMundo was this short film by EKG Films.

If I learned anything today, it was to get my international news from other countries. And that if Arpaio wants to boycott Mexico, I'm fine with boycotting Arizona.

Where You Should Be Tonight



Fourteen Hills, SF State's graduate literary magazine, is sending its latest issue out into the world tonight at the San Francisco Motorcycle Club. We're talking awesome contributor readings, amazing raffle prizes, really yummy food, fun people. And, um, an interview I did with SF State lecturer, published writer and the author of a forthcoming novel, Alice LaPlante.

Here's what you need to know:
come to the
San Francisco Motorcycle Club
2194 Folsom St. (@18th St.)
at 7 pm tonight

If you can't make it, buy your copy through Fiction On Demand or pre-order from Small Press Distribution. Also see D.W. Lichtenberg's breakdown on designing the cover art at We Who Are About to Die.

Things that Repeat



I saw this in a bike tunnel in Isla Vista in 2003. The war in Iraq had just been officially declared and it was just a matter of months before the truly embarrassing and horrifying destruction abroad would occur.

I was reminded of this yesterday, when I read in the New York Times that the American death toll in Afghanistan has reached 1000. I wonder, whose morbid job is it to count the dead? Does a mortician do it? A military officer? Some inverse incarnation of the stork who brings babies into the world?

I wonder, too, about the real question that this number hides: If 1000 Americans are dead in Afghanistan, who else is lost? Death and its dark honor is not a privilege that only Americans endure.

In 2007, I was working at an elementary school outside of Malaga, Spain, when we celebrated el Dia de la Paz. Peace Day. We took about a week of class time and instructed kids of all grades to design their own posters and learn peace songs. This was right around the time that the American death toll in Iraq had reached 3000, and my aunt April was hosting candlelight vigils in Los Angeles.



I'm thinking it's high time we had our own Dia de la Paz as well. If we're going to be repeating ourselves, it might as well be with something good.

Who doesn't want more machines?



This is called a continuous blood glucose monitor.

Actually, this is called a comic, one that happens to involve a woman who happens to wear both an insulin pump and a continuous blood glucose monitor (CGMS). These two little machines, when they work in tandem, effectively tell her what her blood sugar is doing at five-minute intervals throughout the day, and then help her make decisions on how much insulin to take.

Sometimes being a savvy type 1 diabetic means remembering words from high school chemistry. I knew "interstitial" would come in handy someday. Gotta love those "hypers" and "hypos," and "glucose"--my life would be so much more boring without that C6H12O6. But the opportunity to live with not one but two
little machines plugged directly into me all day long--this was something I could not turn down. How often do you get to tap into the superhighway of your own bloodstream every day, all day long, and have it help your health? Not only that, but it graphs out glucose patterns and beeps before you get high or low, just to check in. It's like living with a doctor slash mother attached to your hip, with some of the implied advantages and disadvantages.

I'm not squeamish about needles and finger pricks, and have worn an insulin pump for more than 8 years, so I learned long that the diabetic aesthetic doesn't -- and won't ever -- cramp my style. One of my favorite Eddie Izzard sketches is his identification as an "executive transvestite" -- I like to think of myself as an "executive diabetic."



Pretty soon everyone will want one.

Introducing the Stall Series



We live gracelessly.

I don't know who wrote this, but I'm pretty sure I know what she was doing when she wrote it. I should mention that many of the bathroom stalls at my university come equipped with handy little chalkboards, perhaps in an effort to cut down on bathroom graffiti. Instead, people write with indelible pens on the chalkboard. And then others write over it again.

I've long been an admirer of bathroom poetry--you know, the little afterthoughts written on paper dispensers and stall walls all over the world. I often wonder if the people who write these little aphorisms carry pens with them when they go to the bathroom, or if maybe they are struck by sudden inspiration, and their first instinct is to make a beeline for the potty to jot it down.

It's safe and anonymous, and yet intimate.

I've decided to start documenting my favorite moments of bathroom poetry. Some of them are poignant, some of them are sad, some of them have girly curly-cue handwriting, some of them are written in WhiteOut, some etch their emotions in with the precision of a straight edge.

I went hunting today for my absolute favorite moment of bathroom bizareness, but it looks like it might have been washed clean from the chalkboard in the stall. It said: "IF YOU RUB YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FAST, THEY SMELL LIKE PEANUT BUTTER."

But what made it even better was the little note right underneath it, in clearly different handwriting, different color pen even:

"...Wow you're right."

Oh, the wonders of fleeting, spontaneous and seemingly heartfelt bathroom poetry.

The True Nature of Surfing the Web



This was at Quiet Lighting V at Mina Dresden Gallery here in San Francisco. Fun.

I was a little startled, however, to see it pop up on some random Julia Roberts blog this week. I'm wondering what this group is, who Frances Kelley in Grand Rapids, Michigan might be, and what possible relevance it has for a group of Julia Roberts fans. Maybe this is a meme for anyone with the first name Julia?

The internet does funny things to our lives.

This morning, while trolling internet news sites for possible Forum show ideas, I came across a photo of a performer at the SF Weird Street Faire that looked oddly familiar. There was something about that pink hair...And she was identified as the one and only Trixxie Carr, a performer, playwright, musician and faux drag queen here in San Francisco, who also happens to be my cousin.

Trixxie was the girl at my family reunions who was always completely unafraid to be herself, and as the only granddaughter on both sides of my family, I always wished I could be so unabashedly my own person. She is, as I've soon learned, an accomplished performer who has toured as far as China. I hadn't seen her in some time, and suddenly we had exchanged contact information and I realized that maybe creativity is a force as powerful as family, one that makes us circle the same overlapping Venn diagrams time and time again, until we hit all the matrices that seem interesting.

Small, lovely, funny world, thanks to the internet. And perhaps the people out there doing the things they love, and then putting them on the internet.