Carly White for California

Lu Coll

I purchased Live at Luther College in March of 1999. I was killing time at Fred Meyers and wanted a cd for my drive home. I had just purchased the new Kenwood Excelon system for my old Toyota Celica. (Blue neon dolphins would swim across the face when a cd played). I had heard The Dave Matthews Band perform Ants Marching on a New Years Eve show. I thought they were cool: a violin (which I played) a guitar, bass, clear lyrics with deeper meaning plus a chill frontman. I liked how they jammed the song out and how their energy seemed completely organic. I had grown tired of listening to Legend and 40 ounces of Freedom with rest of the class of ’99.

I’ve been teased on occasion for my love of Dave and specifically, guitar playing guys. If your “first time” was listening to Dave open that album with One Sweet World, followed by#41, you too would be hooked.

The last song on the first disc is Dancing Nancies, which resonated with me greatly at that time of my life. I was graduating from a small town and going to a slightly larger town, and living in Oregon. I had spent my Junior and Senior years passing on debauchery and parties in the woods so that I could get straight A’s and fine tune the 30 different scholarship applications that I submitted. It was about this time that I was harvesting the fruits of my labor. There was a newfound confidence, a presence of stillness, and an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for being no one other than myself.

I began carrying the two-disc album with me wherever I went. In the car, back at the house, at the restaurant for closing or over at Dustin’s house – It became the soundtrack of my life. Dustin bought us concert tickets to see DMB.

I looked forward to the show for a good four months. I passed the time listening to their other albums (Under the Table, Crash and Red Rocks). The date of the show was July 15th, 1999. We drove to Portland Meadows, experienced the sun set, the haze over the crowd, and perched on the shoulders of Dustin Vandehey – I became addicted to Dave. Dave opened withTripping Billies (“eat drink and beee merry….”) followed by One Sweet World, followed by #41. I couldn’t sleep the night before, or the night after.

When asked what album I would take with me if stranded on an island, it’s an easy response “Lu Coll”. Don’t make me choose between the blue and yellow discs…

This Friday I will experience my 26th live show in Seattle. Cari will join me, and Tim Reynolds will join Dave. The Dalai Lama will also join on stage to talk about the Seeds of Compassion Conference. We’ll be in section 111, row 16… I am more excited about this than I ever was about those damn dolphins.

Cinderella Ride 2008

I haven’t been riding my bike “a whole lot”. When I lived in Santa Cruz, I averaged 25 miles a day. The most recent ride I embarked upon was 2 miles along Crissy Field last Sunday. I was hung over and Mary was helmet-less and it was ridiculously cold. I did not deserve the right to claim my Orbea all-carbon beauty my own that day. As a former coach for Team in Training, this would be classified as a “poor preparation plan”.

Yet, the idea of riding 65 miles with 2,500 women through vineyards was greatly appealing. I agreed to do the Cinderella ride a few weeks ago via text with my friend Gina. We’re tough girls, training shmaining. Let’s roll.

And roll we did. Right pass a whole lot of “nancies”. If they tried to pass us, they probably couldn’t. If they tried to school us, we had another lesson in mind. Together Gina, myself and Sophia sang many classics (Proud Mary aka “Big Wheels Keep on Turnin”, Still Not a Player aka “I’m not a player/I just crush a lot”, Billy Jean, Wanted Dead or Alive aka “On a Steel Horse I ride”). I probably crossed the double line about 180 times. We finished the ride quickly. Our sides hurt from laughing. We embraced the idea of being “biker bitches” rather than “princesses”. It was 65 miles of pure goodness.

My recipe for success was:

a Peet’s latte
one Aleve
two bananas
pink and white animal cookies
one turkey sandwich
a vicodin
m&m’s
GU
another vicodin
water, water, water
8oz of V8
a lemon drop (the candy people, not the drink!)
one packet of fruit snacks

Dream Weaver

I turned 26 Monday, and for the last two days I have been lying. Not about my age, just lying about everything else. I’ve been looking at apartments in LA. This of course, was for my job. (The lying/info gathering, not the actual apartment). Faux tales must be woven to obtain the coveted info regarding each apartment communities pricing, square footage, etc. I would ask “Do you have a washer and dryer inside the apartment? That’s really important to us…”

There of course, is no us.

Leasing consultants always ask certain things, when really they mean another:
“How quickly are you looking to move?” (When will I get my leasing bonus?)
“What size apartment are you looking for?” (How much will my bonus be?)
“How qualified are you to actually lease?” (Time is money!)

So, to make them sing and fall over backwards for me, I lie. I put on an Oscar winning performance:
I carry a large designer purse. In LA, this means much more than it should.
I rock large, rock-star caliber sunglasses. Sell me on the crown molding and the granite.
I wear my 7-carat citrine suspiciously on my left hand. Society likes the engaged/married kind.
I take detailed notes of all the information “because there is just so much to remember”
I have no price range that I am looking to be within. Sometimes blind squirrels get nuts…
I don’t object to anything. Everything looks great to me!

I therefore, am the perfect prospective resident.

Ryan, a bright eyed leasing consultant in Playa Del Rey said “Can’t you see yourself lying by the pool? Can’t you see yourself living here?” I enthusiastically said, “YES!”

The truth is that the odds of me living there is about as close to the odds of my becoming engaged and moving to LA. And into an apartment community. I’ve never lived with someone whom I’ve dated. And oddly enough, despite my job, I’ve never considered living in an apartment community. All of my own apartments (Bloss, Crown, 2425 Greenwich, Sacto) have been rather unique and un-traditional/un-institutional.

The irony of my faux life has begun seeping into my real life. When in LA, I always stay at the Hilton Checkers downtown. I always grab a Brock & Co. at Seven & Grand, quite possibly my favorite bar in LA. Last night I was there, enjoying my Brock & Co. and hoping to meet a familiar tall, exceptionally attractive, blonde friend of mine. I ended up laughing the night away (not the whole night, people) with a “short, chubby, mexi” (his own self-classification). He was of course from SF, and randomly shared that he likes to drive to Stinson (in his Maserati, no less). And of course, the last time I drove to Stinson was with the aforementioned tall, exceptionally attractive,blonde friend of mine. It was at this point I ordered another Brock & Co, followed by a bottle of Vueve.

If irony took the form of a receipt, it would be the one in my purse from Costco earlier today. I stopped at the Costco in Marina Del Rey to tempt fate and check for a Christian Dior watch that Costco randomly carried two years ago. The band is a stainless steel bike chain, and I pine for that watch insistently. I check every Costco I encounter. No one knows the item number, and no one seems to know how I might find it. I’m the only person who keeps this hope alive. (theme?) I did encounter a polish dog, and then a heart monitor/calorie counting watch, and I purchased both. The checker even commented “wow, that’s ironic”. bitch.

Here, I should note that I wrote everything up until this point on the plane ride home from LA. Stumped at how I might conclude this post, I put my pen down and I began listening to the new Counting Crows album. The new album is very much their sound. Listening to the album for the first time is like meeting up with an old friend unexpectedly – you laugh, you smile, and you sink right back into your usual exchange. Nothing has really changed.

As I walked off my plane in SF, standing there waiting to board my old plane heading back to LA, was my tall, exceptionally attractive, blonde friend. This crossing was completely unplanned and unexpected. We got to chat for a full 5 minutes. I suppose, with this fabulous “coincidence”, the Universe has forgiven me for all of my apartment lies.

Happy 55 Papa!

Happy 55 Papa! Today, my Papa turns 55. This post, this roast, is for him. Here are a few of the many things I love about him.

• My Papa was born in SoCal in an era of free-loving, music jamming and good surf hunting.
• My Papa can build or fix anything. He is my handiest of men. The process for him usually involves a few choice exclamations, a bit of talking to himself and a pencil tucked behind his ear.
• A few of his nicknames are Big Al, Big Guy, Alvin-o and Alejandro.
• A few of the nicknames he calls me are Punky, Pumpkin and Sweetie-Pie. Mama is Mama-Baby, by the way.
• When I was eight, Papa had me lay Spanish tile for a week. I learned to soak the tiles, dry the tiles, and then position the tiles with the necessary spacers. For my hard labor, come Friday, Papa purchased me the desired $80 rollerblades that no one else had yet. Clearly, I wasn’t great at math or aware of child labor laws. Papa has always been fabulous at demonstrating and teaching a strong work ethic and the value of a hard earned dollar.
• Two years ago, after not riding a bike for 16 years, Papa hopped on a bike and rode 65 miles with me in Mexico. We drank what he calls “golden sodas” (Coronas) from our water bottles as we pedaled along. The ride took almost 7 hours. Not a single complaint was ever made by either of us.
• It’s not uncommon for Papa to cook up a small fiesta in the middle of the day for one of his work crews, just because.
• In the 70’s, Papa played professional football for the LA Rams, the San Antonio Gunslingers and a few other teams. He was the quarterback, the white boy with the big booty, and the ring-leader of shenanigans. What has always impressed me most about “the football days” was that football was simply his job at the time, not his life. The fun stories and the good times remain in Papa’s phenomenal memory.
• My Papa likes to rock out, speak spanglish and eat steaks medium rare. He is a collector of strange things (wood, metal scraps, large pieces of glass) and a creator of artistic construction. Papa is a Beaver, like me. Go Beavs!
• He’s a big guy (6’4!) with an even bigger heart.

Frequent Flyer

I’ve been traveling, each week, for the last four weeks. I have been to Dallas, Scottsdale and LA twice. I awake on Saturday mornings concerned about check-out times and flight departures – and then I realize that I am already home. Jo, at the dry cleaners around the corner, knows me and my travel schedule. I see her each Saturday around 10am, and then I return around 5pm to collect my items. We joke about my travel and she calls me “the flight attendant”.

I am tired.

On top of that, this last week, I came down with a cold. A stuffy head, runny nose, scratchy throat, plugged ears sort of doozie. But, the show had to go on and I worked through it. I am taking four different prescriptions to combat the ridiculous bug that has clung to my lungs and ear drums. Taking all these drugs is a part time job. I’ve even found myself reading US magazine and eating Haggen-Dazs – it’s been that bad.

Some good has come from all the travel. Some recognition at work through increased numbers and therefore happy managers. A couple fun dinners with Mom and Dad in SoCal. And a new collective of friends in LA who extend invitations to rollerskate, attend gallery openings and play pool in Manhattan Beach in the evenings. All this running around however, is making me tired.

I am about to turn 26 and I am tired of many, many, things – a whole other story. I watched Quarterlife a few weeks ago from my hotel room in Dallas. I threw four of my eight pillows at the tv out of frustration. That is not “my life”. Those are not “my peers”. That is no where near what I have experienced. I am certain that Quarterlife’s 15 minutes is up. (If only my next 5 years were!) The following day (on my flight home, ironically) I sat next to an Ad Exec from LA. He confirmed with me that the show “is over” and we ate our peanuts to that.

In the next month I will be back in LA, all around the Bay Area, and then up to Seattle to see Cari Stieg, my boyfriend Dave Matthews, and his buddy the Dalai Lama. I’m already planning to remove my electronic items from their stowed position and turn them on, in order to fill you in on the places I’ve been.

Holding onto my college years, 4, dies

Holding onto my college years, 4, died Sunday in an OCD-induced fit. The fit started in the closet and worked its way though the locations of all other personal items. The exact cause of the fit may be attributed to a combination of earlier shopping at Ted Baker, and the “physical affects” of “growing up”.

The college years began in 1999 at Oregon State University. It was in that first year, much slimmer, that many of the Victoria’s Secret cotton bikinis, Abercrombie hoodies and screened t’s (“Portrait of a Lady” being the favorite) were acquired. Beginning in the winter of 2000, Greek letters (Alpha Kappa Psi, in leopard print) was proudly worn, much too frequently. The camoflage cargos, purchased for Shasta Weekend, were also part of the ill-fitting, inappropriate, out-dated items lost in the slaughter on Sunday.

Since graduation in 2004, the nostalgia of the glittery GAP nail polish has commingled with the Chanel Blanc Ceramic. The Clinique and Mac cosmetics have been neglected since the new relationship with Bobbi Brown. Present at the scene, and later asked to leave, was one Tommy Hilfiger and his Tommy Girl.

Holding onto my college years is survived by Armani, J. Crew, and friends from the Republic of Banana. It is also survived by real pearls, editions of the Harvard Business review, Good Magazine, nylons, and multiple tax filings.

Shot through the heart

Among my many talents, I have the acute ability to fire off priceless parting words. The words are not pre-meditated, the intention is not to wreak havoc; just simply deliver wit with impeccable timing.

It was brought to my attention back in August, this highly effective tactic is known as “the Parthian shot”. The Parathions were supreme equestrians back in the days of ancient Rome (and before). In battle, they would charge at full gallop towards lines of enemy foot soldiers, execute a sharp u-turn, and loose a volley of arrows as they re-directed away from the battle.

The colloquial translation of the term, however, was adapted to English as a “parting shot”, or a verbal jab or insult directed at a departing individual – which somewhat begs the question: did the verb “to part” evolve (in part) as a result of the aforementioned military tactic? Or, was the term simply a natural fit for a pre-existing phrase form ancient times?

In any event, there have been a few parting shots that come to mind as being particularly havoc evoking:

K We should get a drink some time
CW I don’t date guys who wear Rolex’s*

A Okay, Ciao Bella, I’ll call you later
CW Oh, I thought I’d just wish you well at school this weekend**… (cue the flash of blonde hair, I kept walking)

CW You make me very nervous*** (followed by a quickdeparture).

*I had just sold the guy a Rolex.
**It was a Tuesday.
***This was meant as a warning, not a flirtatious invitation. Of course my phone was ringing 14 hours later. I think my aim was off and the intention missed the mark.

Happy Valentines Day, my ass*

I’m wearing pink underwear, that’s the extent of my enthusiasm for this day.*I did have a great day. It was filled with a call from france, a few text messages, a red balloon to whack Mary with, wine, wine, and plenty of love. These are the things I get on a fairly daily basis, and for no occasion at all. (Red balloon excluded).