Chocolate Bunny

We had the pleasure of this little man's company the last couple weeks. He's so gnawing yummy I want to call him Chocolate Bunny. But you can call him Abe.

Here he is, very interested in Honey. Lori told me Honey allowed Abe to pet her. Later he became interested in specific tufts of her hair, and she was just not into that.

You can read all about Ted and Lori's amazing adoption journey on their blog, Our Own Rooney.


I'm returning from a New York but he won't be at the house. And I'm sad. Lori, bring Abe back soon!

Awww yummy chocolate bunny I miss you already...

Almost Autumn in New York

It's not quite autumn; not for another three days. But Larry and I spent a lovely end of summer vacation in New York last week with our good friends, Dave and Heather. If there were such thing as four peas in a pod, I guess it would be the four of us. Dave and Larry are both writer-editors. Heather and I are both writers. The guys are introverts, the girls are extroverts. And it goes on. Plus we can get together and talk about art and books and story and faith, and we can laugh together. They were the perfect couple to enjoy New York together. It was Larry's first trip to New York City, so I was very excited for him to see it.

The first day we walked everywhere, from 76th and Columbus down to the Central Library. We stopped in at the new offices of IAM, where my old roommate Christy works. IAM is a great organization that fosters bridges between the worlds of fine art and faith. I love Christy, I've watched her grow as an artist and a person, and she is so excited about the work they do. It was really great to see her. And she had on this killer scarf, I forgot to ask her where she bought it.

We hopped the subway downtown and took a much-needed break on the Staten Island Ferry. Gorgeous views, mild temperatures, and a stunning view of the city. Did I mention this was Larry's first time in New York?

That night we were knackered, so we got back to the apartment and popped in one of the movies that was there. "You've Got Mail." I pretty much hate that film. Way over directed. Poor Meg was told to "act cute," and "make a face like you're reading an email as you walk down the street. Now pout." Blecch. Tom Hanks is good in everything he does, and he was spared the "act cute" direction. We groaned and sighed through it. But oh it was fun! Because it was filmed almost entirely in the area we were staying. "See Larry, that's Zabars, the store we were just in. That's the subway stop we just came out of. That's Riverside Park where we walked down to watch the boats. It was like watching a video you'd just taken. And well it's new York, it's glorious, and a glorious time of year to be there.

I also stopped in to see my agents, and they'd love to have me back in the city long-term. Which got us thinking and scheming about that. If Larry could work from home that is. Ah what fun it would be to spend a few months in Manhattan. Just to say you did.

We saw some great art at the Met, as always. Go to the rooftop sculpture garden for a great view of the park! Then we saw a fantastic exhibit at the Whitney: The Summer of Love: the Art of Psychedelia of the 1960s. One of the best shows I've seen in years, because they had this great soundtrack that went with the show.

It got really trippy when I approached a furniture installation. A sort of yellow Submarine funhouse you'd expect to see at a Timothy Leary be-in. Patrons had to remove their shoes and socks to enter, and formed a queue around the side. There was a large entrance hole guarded by a midget Ghandi. I carefully edged around the far perimeter so no one thought I was cutting in line, I just wanted to catch the view. Well Ghandi, in a very bad-karma manner, started yelling.
"YOU MUST BE REMOVING YOUR SHOES AND STANDING IN LINE!"
"Sir I just wanted to look."
"THEN LOOK, and GO!" and he shoved his finger at the back of the line."
The people in the queue startled quiet.
I looked at him: "Sir, there is no reason for you to speak to me like that."
He shouted at me again, but his tone changed: "No problem! No Problem! LOOK... and GO!" as if his Go meant "Step Right Up!" I breathed calmly and walked away. I'd watched a kid shove his way into a shoeless installation with his roller sneakers on, so I imagined these guards had been stressed out all weekend. It was the final two days, after all.

Later on, Larry walked past a guard who barked, "NO PICTURES!" Larry had worn his camera all weekend. He assured the guard he had no intention of taking pictures. "Well I'm just telling you, NO PICTURES!"
"Does it look like I'm getting ready to take a picture?"
"Th...this is my job, man. Okay? No pictures!!'
Peace out, man.
Well, we asked for a happening and we got it. That's New York.

We spent an evening walking around the East Village, checking out the places where Andy Warhol had his crew, places that now sold sunglasses, belly button rings and bongs. There's no CBGB's any more but there is a GBGB shop where you can buy T-shirts and coffee mugs and toe socks. Like most organic social movements, The East Village has gone Consumer. Is there any organic social movement going on right now? Or is everything a redux? Even the organic movement has gone Whole Foods on us.

Dave and Heather met up with the daughter of some old friends. A lovely, young, talented woman who's working in publishing and living in the East Village. She graciously showed us her apartment complex, a sprawling building populated with 20 somethings, Men in finance and women in modeling. She took us up to the tenth floor rooftop and we admired the view. She pointed out the three-story penthouse on top of a nearby building. "That's my dream someday," She cooed. "The guy who owns that is only 35. He comes into my bar. He's very lonely." I wondered if she thought the loneliness would come with the penthouse.

Memories flooded back to me, of my first days in New York, when I thought my trajectory was upward. Yet I never wanted a three-story penthouse above a bong shop. And I never felt at home among the young, beautiful, carousing New Yorkers. Not then and not now. I started to feel lonely and that creeping nausea of envy and regret and disgust seeped into my breath. She invited us out to a wine bar, but Larry and I politely declined. We walked back to the subway; through St. Marks Place, past the toe socks and toe rings, and headed back to the comfort of the upper west side. If I had been going back alone and unmarried, I'd have been really depressed. But I was with Larry. He's never wanted a three-story penthouse over a bong shop. It's so good to be with someone who wants the things you want.

Sunday the weather turned crisp and cool. We went to church, where they sang old hymns, and the pastor spoke about real things. Not some lame self-help message with stupid anecdotes, like the place we had endured last week. He spoke about God; and in his message we found more than help, we found adoration and peace. We walked home through a street fair, ran into a celebrity couple. I smiled, they smiled back and disappeared into the crowd where no one bothered them. I love New York.

So the weekend was gone. Dave and Heather had to go back. This was hard for Larry. He and Dave have been friends for over 25 years. They're family, really. And Larry feels his most alive, as a creative man of faith with family who really know him. We both cried when they got into the cab.

But we didn't let the melancholy sit for too long. My friend Chris invited us over to his eastside apartment for barbecued steak on his back patio, which he's turned into a garden. Yes, this is the upper east side, not some garden in New Jersey.

I've known Chris a good 18 years now. Wow. That's almost as long as Larry and Dave have been friends. My friend Chris. I can probably say that over half of my accents and characters sprang from silly conversations between Chris and myself. Chris is creative, talented, a man of great faith and horribly incorrect humor. Which is why I love him.

We left Monday. Larry had one last wish to get a piece of real NY pizza. So we grabbed a last slice and headed to the airport to fly standby since our 8pm flight wasn't going to leave until 11pm. We got on the 4pm plane and watched New York disappear under our wings.

I'm already missing it.

I only had time to see two of my New York friends on this trip. It was frustrating. I didn't even get to have a cup of Dunkin Donuts Coffee! Man, it burned. It made me long to come back. the way Larry longed to see Dave again soon. SO I said, "Let's remember this longing, this burn. because it means we should do something about it."

We're back home, imagining a life in New York. Maybe just a few months: Larry freelancing or working from home in some apartment near Zabars; me doing voice overs and writing and doing my solo show. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. Larry's dreaming about it too.

More Sgt. Pepper Party Pics

A couple more photos from our Sgt Pepper party.
Here's Sonny Liston with all his girls. From left to right: Mae West, President of the Beatle Fan Club, Shirley Temple, Mae West II, and Marilyn Monroe. I love how Myrna got creative and came as "President of The Beatle Fan Club." Hey whatever works!

As for this picture of me, I think I was trying to do a Lennon Look, or else I was a bitknackered from posing for pics.

Sergeant Pepper Party

"It was twenty years ago today
Sgt Pepper taught the band to play..."

Forty years ago last Friday, the world first put on the LP and heard the Beatles sing that song. And music was never the same.
I wasn't more than five years old when the album came out, but I remember when my older brothers bought it. I fell in love with the music. "Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite" and "Fixing A Hole" were my favorite songs. And of course, "A Day In the Life." The album became a staple in my family. I poured the album many times. I remember opening up to the center picture, and studying the faces of the Fab Four. George looked a bit sinister with his mustache. Ringo wasn't my type. Paul looked conceited. But John's smile was so open. He seemed like the nicest, realest Beatle. So my love of John Lennon began.


Our friend Doug Perkins got the idea a few months ago, to have a Sergeant Pepper party to commemorate the date. Everyone had to come as one of the characters on the album cover. Being the John Lennon fan that I am, I could only come as John. Doug was going to pay a woman to make George's red band uniform, and we considered paying her to make John's chartreuse band uniform. But she wanted a ton of money from Doug, and didn't even have time to make two. So, I got out the old sewing machine and went to work!

If I could only go as John, Larry could only go as Dylan! His wardobe was a bit easier. Everything black, a harmonica holder, and ... hair. We slathered it with mouse, root boost, hair spray and a comb. Walking up to the door, Larry said, "I hope no one thinks I'm Phil Spector."
"Yeah, neither do I or they'll worry about me going home with you."

Jim Martin's daughter Shannon thought he was Einstein because of his hair. Einstein played the harmonica? I loved Larry's hair like this!

We had people coming as Marilyn Monroe, Mae West, WC Fields. Two Tom Mixes, two Sonny Listons, dueling Brandos, one Charlie Chaplin, a maherishi ... Others who got creative. Myrna came as president of the Beatles fan club. A friend did up her hair Ronnie Spektor like, the false eyelashes and hair band and earrings.

It was a blast! And there's no other band I'd rather celebrate.

Anyway here are pics. Enjoy.

Our "Community" House

When our home owners Ted and Lori read my last blog: the details about cleaning, scouring, de-gunking the washing machine, digging bug carcasses out of the windows, it definitely sent them the wrong message. Did we think the house was a dump?

Not at all, we love this place, it's gorgeous! My intention in the blog was to skewer myself for my anal reaction to moving. But I failed to mention all that Ted and Lori had done to get this place ready for us. Giving us the use of their desks, file cabinets, the master bedroom complete with Tempurpedic bed. Ted spent hours installing an automatic watering system. And countless other things, which I failed to mention in the blog. Granted, I'd fired off the blog at midnight and didn't go back to edit.

But there’s a reason I avoided talking about Ted and Lori. You see, we’re sharing this house with them, and that invites all sorts of questions. They live out of state most of the time, but Ted comes to LA occasionally for work, and Lori sometimes comes with him. Ted said he might be here a few days a month, or only a single day in six months. It would be like living with absentee roommates. Were we OK with that?

Larry had been commuting from Culver City to Glendale five days a week. We’d been actively looking for a place to live for over three months, scouring Westside Rentals and craigslist. Printing out possibilities and then driving by, only to discover one real estate bait and switch after another. “Old world charm” meant pre-war plumbing and no closets. Mediterranean Oasis meant a dilapidated Spanish duplex behind a strip mall. Items from my “this I Will Never Do” list moved to the Contender list. Condos with molting stucco, prefab Orwellian beehives, a house with a chicken coop and a second floor door with no landing. After one last exhausting day coming up with nothing, we slumped off to a wedding of a couple who just closed escrow on a house. We felt like the biggest losers. “Please God,’ we prayed. "Open our eyes to see what we're failing to see so far.”

The next morning, Ted emailed me about his place. Yes, Ted and Lori still had furniture here, and occasionally lived here. Were we OK with it?

We decided that yes, we were OK with it. But lots of our friends were not. Wait, you have roommates? And they’re a couple? They still have their stuff there? They better let you move in your dishes, you’re paying them rent! Do you have any privacy? Is that healthy to share a house, in your first year of marriage?” One friend said, I could never live like that. I need clear boundaries. Apparently she needs no clear boundaries on her mouth.

I realize our friends just wanted the best for us, but their but their comments put me on the defensive.

At first I wanted to get on my high horse about how other people talk about community, but Larry and I were going to live it. Yet, Larry and I here, not because we chose it. We're here out out of necessity. We can’t afford to buy our own home. We can’t even afford to rent a house like this on our own. So while friends are closing escrow and asking how we could share space with other people, I feel embarrassed. Ashamed actually, because I'm not more successful.

And why does the idea of us living in community freak my friends out? It's not THAT weird. My friend Bonnie has lived in Berkeley for the past 15 years. Up until last fall, she lived in a four-story Victorian community house. Five years ago she became a foster parent to one of her teenage students. So her foster-daughter moved into the house with her: a house with couples, families with young kids, single guys with tattoos and Harleys. People who looked out for Bonnie and her daughter. People who wanted to live in community. Not a big deal. Not in Berkeley.

Even in LA, you’ll find packs of 20something women living together. The entire time I lived in New York, I shared a three-bedroom house with a revolving door of single women. Living with others made it easier when I got married.

Even in LA, you'll find multi-generational families and multiple families living together. That is if you're a recent immigrant, or Latino or Asian or Armenian. But if you're living the middle class yuppie dream (like Larry and I should be by now), having to share space is a come-down.

Or is it?

Larry and I prayed for a place we could create community. Little did we know that would mean, we’d now be living it out. Maybe Larry and I, by necessity, are going to get a gift we never would have sought out by choice.

Yeah, sharing space is not going to be convenient in any kind of middle class yuppie way. But is the middle class yuppie way of doing things the best thing?

As Lori herself commented: “I got so sick of hearing the phrase "doing life together" and "authentic community" in the weird L.A. Christian culture," where few seemed to really understand what that means. Community is HARD. It takes more honesty than most people are able to handle. And it takes selflessness and preferring others and putting the needs of other people higher than your own, all those things Jesus talked about.”

Now it’s just Larry and me alone in the house, but I still remember that first week when we were all here. I’d never gotten to know Lori when they lived in LA. I discovered her to be an intelligent, funny creative soul. It made me sad I hadn’t known her before she moved, but grateful she would be my part-time roommate in the future. It was also nice to sit down to a table with four people instead of two. After Lori went back to Portland, there were several days when Ted was outside working in the back yard until after dark. Larry and I were putting dinner on the table and we invited him to join us. I didn’t know if he was the kind of guy who liked to be left alone, but he chimed in, “What can I add to the meal?” The three of us sat in the fading light and ate. And it was good.

Another night while I was painting the downstairs room, Ted and Larry wandered in, and we ended up talking about our experiences in church. Which churches had been the best experiences? When had we grown the most? It was never about the best teaching or music, even though most churches emphasize that. The things we remembered were the people, the tribe, the band of brothers. “This,” Ted said, pointing a triangle between us, “sometimes this is what the best church is.”

That’s community.

I’m so sick of “The Secret,” that odious best-selling book about “how to manifest more money, better health, and relationships. In short, happiness.” Or in our culture, that means things. Yet for all our acquisitions, we seem to be the loneliest people on the planet.

There’s nothing wrong with good things. Larry and I have prayed for good things. And we prayed for a cool, funky house, maybe even a fireplace. A home where we could build community. Well, I guess we manifested that, because that’s exactly what we got.

In “The Great Divorce,” CS Lewis described hell as a shadowy place where everyone kept building individual homes, further and further away from each other. I wonder what heaven is then? One big house? Better get ready.

105 Steps to Home

This is the thing about stuff. Stuff multiplies. No matter how much stuff you sell, give away or pitch, you end up with more stuff. Take two adults, and your stuff multiplies exponentially.

Fortunately I’ve gotten rid of a lot of stuff. I moved a lot from January 2003 to January 2005, going back and forth between LA and New York. Nevertheless I had useless stuff hanging around. In all these months we’ve been looking for a new place, I could have been sifting, sorting, winnowing and packing. But no. Did not do this.

We had from Wednesday night to Saturday morning to get ready to move. My Thrusday was already booked, though. I was babystting during the day, and I had a reading to perform at Thursday night. Then a friend called, needing help with a film treatment. So I babysat, helped with her treatment, and performed. I got home at 10pm. I know had about 36 hours to pack.

I must have been going from 8:30 am Friday morning to 1am Saturday morning. We had to get our truck at 7am. While I was packing upstairs, Larry went down to pack up the garage. Late in the evening I went down to see what things looked like. My heart sank. There was so, so much stuff. And me, I want everything in a neat box. You know, if people are going to come help us, all the boxes should be the same size. Or at least, everything is in a box. But it wasn’t like that. A speaker here, a space heater there.

Don’t look at it, Larry cautioned me. I know how you get. Just relax, it’s going to be OK.

I don’t know how marathon runners deal with a race, but I must have felt that same dread and anticipation, because I just wanted it to be OVER.

We got the truck without a hitch. But when backing it into the driveway, we miscalculated the house awning and backed into our landlord’s roof gutter. CRUNCH. Just what we needed. Thankfully it was just a small section. Hope we clicked the box for insurance.

Our friends came to help us. No, not freinds; amazing superhero friends. Mike Maguinez, Doug Perkins, Eric Waterhouse, and Michael Corwin.

“Wow,” Doug remarked when looking at our apartment. “You’re really packed up!” He expected the apartment to have odds and ends. But it was empty.

So our heroes packed up the truck. I was dreading the sound of another crunch or a yelp or a “call 911.” But they packed up without another hitch.

Larry and Mike drove the truck. They’d make a quick pit stop at the Salvation Army just eight houses away, leave off the things we were getting rid of, then meet us at the house.

After an hour, Larry and Mike had not arrived at the new place. I called Larry. Apparently Salvation Army wouldn’t take our stuff. They drove to another Salvation Army in Santa Monica, and the foreman didn’t even want our stuff before they opened the truck. So by the time the truck did arrive, it was nearly 2pm. And the back end of the truck was still filled with our giveaways.

The worst part was still to come. The unload. The new house is 75 stair steps up from the street. 105 steps if you count the flat walkway sections the architect designed to avert heart attacks.

We tried to do a relay setup, but after only 45 minutes with full staff, we had barely got the truck unpacked with the crap no one wanted. And w were about to lose three guys to previous commitments.

Go hire some day laborers, we decided. So Larry and Doug went to Home Depot to grab somr more men.

After some time I realized Larry had come back, only I didn't see much movement on the stairs. Larry had returned, without laborers. They'd come, taken one look at the stairs and wanted 80 bucks a piece. We didn't have the cash to give them, even if we wanted. Which we didn't.

"I’LL DO it for 80 bucks," Larry had said.

I was ready to despair. Last time I’d been down to street level, we must still have half of the stuff to haul up. I felt like Sisyphus. I went to my relay station and there were two boxes for every one I’d seen before.

So it was down to Larry, Eric and me. But we did it, Larry, Eric and I. Eric was our new hero. Not only did he keep going, he kept up his spirits, he even had the energy to crack jokes.

Finally at about 8pm, we had everything up off the street.

Larry celebrating by ordering pizza. He never eats carbs, not in the form of a pizza. While Eric and Larry were gone getting pizza I took a hot shower (never felt better) and then went upstairs to change. From our room I could see the lights of Eagle Rock, the San Gabriel mountains looming off to the northeast. Wow. This view was worth the effort. Almost.

I don’t remember when Eric left, but I know that we owed him every hour of sleep we slept that night. Without him, we would have been still hauling boxes after midnight.

When Larry and I fell into bed at around 11pm, I realized I’d been moving since Friday morning. I don’t know how my body found the energy to do it. But I realized how much of it I’d used by the next day. I couldn’t move.
But we had to return the truck at 7:30 Am. Not only that, we’d left two additional crappy couches at the old apartment. So we had to go get them, put them in the truck, and stealth-dump them. Which we did. I’m not saying where.

Want to get breakfast? Larry asked.
I mumbled something that sounded like ‘yes,’ because we ended up at a diner eating eggs. They were good but all I could think about was rest. We went back to our new house and slept.

Late that afternoon, Larry’s friend Dave and his wife Heather came to visit. They live in Colorado but were in town for a wedding. Dave was Larry’s best man in our wedding. And if we had anything like ‘soul mates’ in a couple, it would be Dave and Heather. I’ve only known them since I’ve known Larry, but they are such great people. Larry and Dave are very much alike, as are Heather and me. The four of us hung out on the deck, ate stinky cheese and admired the view. They were the perfect people to help us christen our new place. That’s what great houses are for: a place to bring friends to hang out. This is the first place Larry’s lived in that he felt proud to bring people over. I’ve had nice apartments and entertained, but this was our first place together. And it sure felt good

Pictures of Our Wedding Superstars

Here are some pics of the SUPERSTARS who helped at my wedding. Jane Anderson, Christopher Myers, and Rebecca Corwin. Jane Anderson helped with flowers and coffee. sted him, made fabulous coffee, and who has a special place in my heart as we share the same birthday.

Michael and Rebecca Corwin offered to help on the day. But from what I hear, they did everything from flowers to food to decorating tables, and Michael got to haul buckets of flowers back to my house.

Chris flew out from New York to do the flowers. You can't see how wonderful they are in the above picture, but they were glorious.

Chris took this picture of me right before the wedding.
The bridal bouquet was made of hydrangea, white roses, eucalyptus, and those rose-looking flowers I don't know the name of them.






Jeannie Noth-Gaffigan took charge and transformed the parish hall into a beautiful reception. And she did it with her 8 month old Jack in tow!

"Levels," she said. Putting the food on different levels, was the key to the look. She shoved a box and a towel under the tablecloth to put the bowl o' nuts on a pedestal. Which is lovely, and distracts from the mismatched putty and gray filing cabinet in the background.

Martin and Debbie Garcia. gave us their time and their ears for the last three months. Martin married us, and Debbie coordinated our wedding.

She walked us through every detail, talked us out of unrealistic ideas. And let me tell you, you want someone to keep you from going nuts. Like when the church's "Meals on Wheels" people locked our refrigerator the day before the wedding, and the church didn't want to come and unlock it because it was "their day off."

Doug Perkins hosted our planning sessions, and kept Larry filled with barbecue pork every week. He took one of his vacation weeks off the week before our wedding. He hosted our rehearsal dinner, played in our wedding, hauled an entire sound system from the church to the reception hall and back to the church. He dressed tables in the reception hall, he helped clean up after we left. And he didn't tag our car with "Just Married" cans.

He also never publicly embarrassed me for razzing on him in an earlier blog because of his infernal attention to detail.

Although in my defense, I was not the only one who went nuts with Doug's attention to detail.

Witnesseth Exhibit A: My beloved bridesmaid Catheryn Brockett, massaging her temples:



If you took any pictures and want to send them, please email me!
suz at susanisaacs dot net

A Dream of Trees

My friend Ted Rooney and his wife recently left for Portland, Oregon, where Ted is from. Ted said they'll be gone for the rest of the year, maybe for forever. But Ted is a successful actor. How's he gonna act from Portlant, I wondered? "We'll come back down for pilot season. Or not."
Wow, Is this it for Ted and his art? Over and done?

It made Larry and I think about moving to Portland, where Larry is also from. Maybe in a few years. Maybe as soon as we no longer have to live here. When we can live wherever and come down when needed.

Because really, why live in LA? When "living" means being forced to look for affordable housing in Los Feliz, where it's all non-airconditioned coffee houses next to Muffler Shops next to urban decay. Or in Atwater Village (Los Feliz adjacent) where the "up and coming" areas are industrial warehouses and gangs. The beaches have good air quality. And unaffordable rents and horrible traffic gridlock.

Where are the places that have a sense of PLACE? Community? I know, you to have to create community. Our friends are stretched out from Long Beach to Monrovia to Koreatown to Culver City to Woodland Hills. The circumference of that circle is about 250 miles. Or, a $40 tank of gas. If you're driving a Prius.

There are those of "us,” and I’m thinking of the artists, who are forced to live in big cities because that's where the work is … cities that seem to squeeze the art out of the landscape and the art out of your soul.

My friend Anna, a despairingly beautiful writer (read her beautiful writing and you'll despair of your own talent), sent this poem to me.
"For us," she wrote.

A Dream of Trees
By Mary Oliver

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day?

One reason I loved Redeemer Church in New York, Pastor Kim Keller has a vision of WHY they were in the city. Not just to help people get by, but to give them a sense of purpose. That's what it comes down to. Purpose. I never wanted to live somewhere just because it was pretty or calm or affordable. My life has always been driven by a sense of calling and purpose.

That's one of the most amazingly wonderful things about Larry. He's got the same sense of calling and purpose in his writing, in his art, and his faith.

There are all these new superstars of the post-modern (pomo) church. Young and hip writers like Rob Bell whose bleached blonde curl makes me not want to read him, (which would be bad for me, because he's a great writer and speaker) ... Rob Bell can who can talk about quantum physics and how Genesis I is really Hebrew poetry and 20 somethings who don't remember rotary phones, they get him.

But what about all of us who grew up writing with a pencil and hitting puberty when Saturday Night Fever hit the movie theaters? The Baby boomers and the post boomers, we grew up thinking "God has a wonderful plan for my life" and if I just follow it, and read the Bible literally, my life will fall into place?

Here we are in our forties or fiftes thinking, "What the F happened?" Was it all a lie? Is the Bible even true, on any level? Did I just fall prey to a Christian marketing scheme, the way a bride gets suckered into buying a $10k dress she'll only wear once?

That's me. That's Larry. We're both stuck on figuring it out. Figuring out our faith, throwing out the dirty over-processed christianese bathwater and keeping the Baby Jesus. Just the real baby jesus. And we both are set on figuring it out and talking about it, writing about it, getting up on stage and performing it, publishing it on blogs and books, and living out a different kind of life.

I'm excited to be marrying Larry.
For now we'll dream of trees.
And write in a city that needs more of them.