Looking Back at the 4-H Fair

I traveled to Indiana last weekend to spend some time laughing - I mean, seriously laughing - with friends from college. Girls - I love you more than my luggage. Can't wait to laugh our way through New Mexico in the near future!

We spent our Friday night at the local 4-H county fair. Hot dog - such opportunity to expand my portfolio of animal butt shots!

Here's a sampling. And - you're welcome.



Apologies for the slight blur. This lovely cow wouldn't stop swish-swishing her tail, not even for the sake of art. Sheesh.



Tomorrow's pork - up close and probably way too personal.



Awww, that's a nice one. Don't you agree?



Hello, Mr. Sheep! Don't mind me. Just violating your personal space and dignity. If I wasn't so committed to my art, I might indeed feel a tad sheepish about it.

Hee hee. Sheepish. Sorry, readers! But puns are art, too.

And now I ask you - what's your art?

Everything Old is New Again

Looking up at the AMNH

A friend and I journeyed uptown after church on Sunday to check out the American Museum of Natural History.

Though I live (practically) around the corner, I had never been to this museum before. The suggested admission fee is $24, which sounds like crazy-talk to this girl who grew up in the land of Washington, D.C.. Yup, Mr. Smithsonian ruined me pretty good with his free museums.

Nevertheless, we decided to give it a go and get educated on all things natural. In addition to an interesting climate change exhibit, we also wandered down the Hall of the Primitive Mammals (Yes, Honkey Chateau, your picture is still on display there) and the Hall of Dinosaurs.

This one I call "Roger."

It was pretty trippy, walking through the shadows of skeletons that once belonged to beasts I can hardly imagine. I suppose I could have been thinking about the transitory nature of life on earth, my own immortality, the incomprehensible quantity of a billion years.

But mostly what I was thinking of was an episode of Friends. Particularly this conversation between Ross & Phoebe:

ROSS: How can you not believe in evolution?
PHOEBE: Just don't. Look at this funky shirt!
ROSS: Pheebs, I have studied evolution my entire adult life. I can tell you, we have collected fossils from all over the world that actually show the evolution of different species, ok? You can literally see them evolving through time.
PHOEBE: Really? You can actually see it?
ROSS: You bet. In the U.S., China, Africa, all over.
PHOEBE: See, I didn't know that.
ROSS: Well, there you go.
PHOEBE: Huh. So now, the real question is, who put those fossils there, and why?

(Friends, Season 2, Episode 3)

Now, this is not to say that I don’t believe in evolution. My point here, rather, is to admit to the fact that I have 10 seasons worth of a TV sitcom near-memorized. And when wandering around impressive environs, instead of thinking impressive thoughts, often I replay an episode of Friends in my mind.

I worry that's perhaps a little sad.

Like, dead-dinosaur sad.

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 8: Boo(t) Radley

The Gimp Chronicles

Episode 7: Boot Sisters

Friendly Feets:

Bananas, Jolene & I pedi-posed on Martha's Vineyard last month

Today is the two-week anniversary of my reluctant alliance with Tootsie, the Surgical Boot. Two weeks down, and (hopefully) only two weeks more to go before my left foot can once again find freedom in flip-flops. There will be dancing on that happy day. Oh yes, there will be dancing.

Since I took up with my Tootsie, I've been seeing plenty of gals limping around the city with Tootsies of their very own. When Dr. Z initially handed down my diagnosis, he revealed that I was his 3rd stress-fracture case that day. And it was only noon! So I knew I would not be alone: there were others out there, step-clomping through the city alongside me.

As I slowly made my way to the subway that evening, I saw two women with boots. One of them had a cane. This made me feel better. "See?" I pep-talked myself, "You're not alone. And at least you don't have a cane."

Later that night, boarding a Manhattan-bound 1-train leaving the Bronx, I sat down across from another booted girl. "Aha!" I thought, "We are everywhere."

Friends have joined in encouraging me this way, as well. "Just saw a girl with a boot," my friend Tiff texted me over the weekend, "You are not alone!"

This afternoon, on my way to the library and lunch, I rode the elevator with a co-worker who - noticing Tootsie - commented, "I've seen so many people with those boots lately!" Yup, I told her, we're out there.

Out in force, it seems. A stress-fractured limpy-gimpy force to be reckoned with.

Still, I really want out of this club. Eyes on the prize - two more weeks!

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 6: Cowboy Boot

84 Charing Cross Road

(source)

I just watched 84 Charing Cross Road. Have you seen it? I really think you should see it.

The premise of the movie is familiar - Helene (played with exuberance by the late Anne Bancroft) and Frank (an oh-so-deliciously Britishly reserved Sir Anthony Hopkins) develop a fond & lasting friendship through their letter-writing, having never met in person.

I went in expecting something akin to The Shop Around the Corner, In the Good Old Summertime, or their modern-day iteration - You've Got Mail. These are great movies, right? I watch "In the Good Old Summertime" every Christmas (despite the movie's name, most of the action takes place during the winter). And I watch "You've Got Mail" every time I fall out of love with NYC and need to be talked back into the relationship. Works like a charm.

Yup, I do adore these movies. They're safety blankets, and I like to get wrapped up in their cozy, sweet goodness. But I gotta tell you - "84 Charing Cross Road" has something even more to offer.

This is a tale of a trans-Atlantic friendship played out on stationary. It was beautiful to hear excerpts of their letters throughout the movie - how they moved from discussing matters of business (he was a London bookseller; she, starved by the paucity of English literature to be found in New York) to sharing familial updates and vignettes from their daily lives.

I wonder if letter-writing like that exists anymore? I know I certainly don't practice it. How simply, how charmingly they shared quotidian experiences and allowed each other to sneak a glimpse into life across the pond.

Their letters brought joy into each other's lives. But more than that, their correspondence drew in a whole community. Helene corresponded with the other employees of Frank's book shop as well, and she sent them food items that were otherwise near-impossible to come by in rationed, post-war England. They were cheered by this mysterious, benevolent woman from America and responded in-kind with thank-you notes and Christmas gifts and friendship. Helene's New Yorker friends were charmed by her interactions with the London set, helping her translate dollars to pounds and bake Yorkshire puddings, and sharing in her excitement to hear their first-hand accounts of Queen Elizabeth's coronation.

So maybe I cried a little during this here movie, watching worlds be bridged by letters - connections made and friendships forged and true kindness practiced. I just found it so beautiful and human.

The movie was made in 1986, based on events that began in 1949. And here we are - in the year 2009 - with so many more, faster, better means of communication available to us. Yet do we use them as effectively, or for such good purpose, as the characters in "84 Charing Cross Road" used their snail-mail international post? I won't speak for you, but I know that I often feel too busy, too rushed to give correspondence much time or thought. It's a back-burner enterprise for me, definitely.

But oh - I was so inspired by the story of Helene and Frank. I want to slow down and be open to knowing the people who God brings across my path. Truly knowing them - not as a means to an end, but as a world unto themselves that is worth my time to explore. I want to make that time - to be so human - to reach out, to correspond, and to make a connection. What else is there, really?

Joe-Diggity

Still diggin' Joe Purdy on this rainy, rainy Thursday. Did you know that Joe sings a song referencing both whiskey and the banjo? No wonder I heart him.

You can feast your ears on the aforementioned song, "Ode to a Sad Clown" right here.

And you can feast your eyes on another one of Joe's albums (my favorite) plus my guitar right here:

PS - Speaking of my guitar, I'm finally building up calluses on my fingers. I think that means I'm legit, right?! Even if I only know 4 or 5 chords, and only 3 songs?

PPS - Apologies to my neighbors for the endless repetition of 4 or 5 chords and 3 songs. I hope to expand my repertoire soon. Let's hope as much can be said for the opera singer in Apartment 3 - am I right guys? Guys?

Listen To This...


The Paul Simon phase is over, folks. I’m head-over-heels this week for Joe Purdy. Oh, I heart him big time. I'd forgotten how much I heart him. I vow to never let that happen again.

Would it be going too far to say that his voice makes me feel beautiful and calm and deep and hopeful? I don’t care – I’m going there.

And I don’t know anyone else who can rock a Depression-era bearded hobo look like Joe can. Seriously, it works for him.

So Joe – thanks for the music, buddy! If you ever need someone to ride the rails with you, watching sunrises while drinking chicory coffee out of tin cups and devising some mean harmonica / tambourine duets, please think of me.

(source)

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 5: The Boot, in Perspective

Tootsie considered taking to the bottle, but I talked
her out of it with a healthy dose of perspective.

You may have heard me mention (if only in brief passing) about a little stress fracture incident. Perhaps you're thinking, "Gee, Kristy, I sure wish you'd say more about that!" Really? Well, ok!

If it's medical melodrama you're lookin' for, then it's medical melodrama I'll deliver...

You see, I dabble in hypochondria. During my second year of college, I requested a Merck Manual for Christmas. My mom was not thrilled with this gift choice, but my dad seemingly couldn't say 'no' to his only daughter. And so, on Christmas morning, I found a medical reference manual of my very own, wrapped in pretty paper under the tree.

Wouldn't you know it? Just a few days later, I contracted a staph infection!

My mom, a former nurse, tried to debunk my self-diagnosis but the Merck and I would not be dissuaded. I curled up under a blanket on the couch and took to moaning pitifully. From the other room I heard my mom mutter, "Sam, I told you not to get her that book!"

I won't bore you with a list of the other diseases & afflictions that the Merck subsequently helped me to identify. Needless to say, the list was lengthy and the diagnoses were mainly unsubstantiated by medical professionals and by my mother, who probably got quite tired of repeating the phrase, "You don't have [diabetes/encephalitis/black lung]."

Despite my paranoid convictions otherwise, I have actually always been fairly healthy.* Never had stitches, never broke a bone, never required a hospital stay. My only forays into the E.R. were when I escorted friends and inebriated college roommates there to play out their own medical dramas.

All things considered, this body has held up pretty well for thirty-one years. I'm trying to keep that perspective in mind. Makes it difficult to bemoan my current stress fracture incident too too much, eh?

*There was that short-lived brain tumor scare of '07, but that turned out to be (in the words of my zany neurologist, Dr. S) merely "unresolved internal conflict." Oh, ok. Phew.

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 4: The Art of Bootraction

Here's a Monday afternoon question for you: What if - rather than receiving it as a sign of bad luck - we instead viewed my boot as a good luck charm?

(Also, what if - for the sake of this blog post - we pretend that I believe in luck. Which I don't. Not really.)

This weekend I tried to remain mindful of the good things that came my way as a result of being strapped to Tootsie. It's easy to maintain a laundry list of all the ways that the boot is annoying. It's also doable to keep reminding myself that the boot is not so so terribly bad - well, it's not the end of the world, anyhow.

But could it actually be a bearer of good things in my life? Let's see...


Cyn stopped by on Saturday to bring me these lovely "Sorry You Have A Stress Fracture" flowers... Good thing #1.

Then we ventured over to Cafe Frida for dinner, drinks, and this yummy dessert. (Kiddos, you gotta trust me that Flaming Plantano Macho tastes much much much better than it looks!) While we were finishing our meal, two people left the restaurant and paused on the sidewalk outside the window opposite us. One of those people was Anne Hathaway, presumably grabbing a quick bite before heading to work. Celeb sighting! Totally a case of bootraction. Good thing #2.

Since neither of us were heading to work, Cyn and I accepted our waiter's offer of a little after-dinner cognac on the house.

Yum. Free cognac. Good thing #3.

Later I hobbled down a few blocks to CJL's birthday party, where I ended up sitting next to a girl whose story I needed to hear, right then and there. Totally a shot of hope for my heart.

Call it Bootraction, call it karma, call it kismet, call it coincidence, call it what you will. I kinda wanna believe that it's maybe God's way of pulling me up by my bootstraps so that I can start to see the light again.

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 3: Pirate Booty

The boot does its job by immobilizing my left foot. Because I can no longer roll that foot, my gait becomes awkward and slow. I get very little forward propulsion from my left leg now; my right leg is doing most of the work and the left leg comes clomping behind it.

As I get used to walking this way, I'm still trying to determine the most efficient way to move. Does it help to try to open my stride? Or is it better to take shorter steps? Should I be bending my knees more or less? Can I employ any of my figure skating skillz to help me here? (The answer to that last question is - of course - "no," but I always like to ask that in whatever situation I happen to be in.)

In addition to the ease-of-movement dilemma, I am also concerned with how my new walk looks. Vain, I know, but I can't help but be a little concernced that stilted clomping is just not how a girl goes about bringing sexy back. So I'm thinking about throwing in a little wiggle-waggle, toe-point, hip-sashay to class up the clomp, step, clomp, step routine.

Further, I've become aware that my new walk looks not entirely unlike how you might imagine a peg-legged person moving. Step, clomp, step, clomp, repeat. And I'm reminded of all the times I've callously told people that I was pretty sure my ex's new girlfriend had a peg-leg. (Just this week, in fact, I told a friend that I was certain her ex's new girlfriend had a peg-leg, too!) Not cool, Kristy. Having a peg-leg is a serious hindrance. I can see that now. I repent of my peg-leg insinuating ways.


See how this booty experience is already making me all sensitive and compassionate 'n stuff? I think it's a step-clomp in the right direction.

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 2: Boot-ros Boot-ros, Golly!

After Dr. Z gave me the boot, I hobbled out of his office and limped east. My gait was awkward and halting. At this pace it seemed like it would take me forever and a day to get back to my office, so I reckoned I had time to make a few phone calls.

First I called MadDawg, because that girl knows a thing or two about getting the boot, having worn one herself fairly recently. Next up, I dialed my mother and told her my stress-fracture news. Still focused on my extreme self-consciousness about wearing the bulky boot, I was whiny and looking for sympathy.

“Are you getting enough calcium?” my mother asked.
“I eat a lot of yogurt,” I offered.
“Ok, what else?”
“Um…turkey sandwiches?”
“You really need to make sure you’re getting enough calcium.”

Right-o. Don’t correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure I heard her say that it’s medically necessary for me to start consuming a lot of ice cream. Finally – some science I can get behind.

“Sorry to tell you, kid, but you’ve got my feet.”

Well, I figured as much. Each passing year brings greater awareness that I am my mother’s daughter – I’ve inherited her green eyes, her tendency to cry during sappy movies/dog food commercials, her dislike of Neil Young, and now – her fracture-prone feet.

“Maaaahhhmm!” I whined, “What am I going to do? This boot slows me down! I walk everywhere – it’s going to take me forEVER to get places!”

“You can milk this thing,” she advised, “Get help. Get people to give you rides.”

“This is New York City, Mom. No one has cars. The only people who are going to give me rides are cab drivers, and I’ll have to pay them.”

“Well, aren’t there services for the disabled?”

“I’m not disabled!” I shrieked into the phone.

The conversation was deteriorating rapidly. I took some deep breaths and let my mom try to pep-talk me back to an even keel. After we hung up, I continued the pep-talk with myself. I reminded myself of all the ways that the boot did not represent the end of the world. I reminded myself of the blessings I could identify in this situation. I thought of bigger things & grand schemes, which made this seem like a minor little stumbling block. And I reminded myself that awkwardness and embarrassing situations make great writing material, and I resolved to spill out the details here on the ol’ bloggy-blog.

And whaddya know? Me and the boot (who I’m thinking of naming “Tootsie”) went on to scale great heights that day…

The boot and I conquered 120 steps in the Bronx. How do ya like that, Dr. Z?!

The Gimp Chronicles
Episode 1: Getting the Boot

Two weeks ago, my foot started to hurt. This was not terribly unusual. My feet often hurt - I walk a lot, and the cutest shoes are (alas) not always the most supportive shoes, so sometimes I end up walking a lot in less-than-comfortable footwear. C'est la NYC vie.

I waited a week to see if the pain would go away on its own. It didn't. In fact, it got worse. In fact, at one point last Wednesday, I thought I might maybe pass out from said pain. I didn't (luckily). Instead, I made a doctors appointment.

It took a full week before I could get in to see anyone. Who knew podiatrists were so popular? Finally the day of my appointment rolled around, and after a quick examination and several x-rays, Dr. Z delivered some unhappy news:

I had a stress fracture.

Well, that didn't sound good. Although at least the diagnosis gave my pain some legitimacy. I wasn't whining about nothing - my foot was near broke! I asked the good doctor how one gets a stress fracture.

"Good question," he said. (Why, thank you, Doctor.)

Apparently most stress fractures occur in people who frequently run long distances (ex./ marathon runners) and those who engage in strenuous marches (ex./soldiers). I assured him I did not fit either category. He indicated that the bone structure of my foot was probably to blame because yadda yadda yadda blah blah blah.

As you can see, I kinda missed the rest of that explanation. I was a bit too caught up in what followed, as Dr. Z went on to explain that the treatment for stress fractures involves wearing a surgical boot for one month. Immediately I regressed to adolescence.

Get your own here!

"I don't wanna wear a boot! I'll be different! Everyone will laugh at me! I'll die of embarrassment! I'll die alone!" I thought, with every bit of overwrought anguish and melodrama that one might expect from a teenager who has been told that she has to wear braces for five years, a sentence she is sure will spell out certain social pariah-dom and a prom-date-less existence from which she will never, ever, no not ever recover.

Sigh.

Big sigh.

Double sigh.

But there was no arguing with - nor appealing to the sympathies of - the x-ray displayed before me. The diagnosis was black & white (bone = black, fracture = white). And so, resigned to my fate, I let Dr. Z outfit me with the dreaded boot.

To be continued...

God Bless a Man with a Banjo

I kind of have a thing for the banjo. It ranks right up there on my musical instrument crush list with the tamborine, harmonica, and Spanish guitar.

So I'm here to tell you today that you need to stop limiting the banjo to your Mark Twain memories of those days of yore. And I beg you to stop connecting it to the movie "Deliverance." Open your eyes to reality, my friends: The banjo is happening. It's hip, it's hep, it's now. It's beautiful.

My banjo'nesing began back when I was living in Boston. There was an older man who used to play at the Park Street T-station: a kindly Santa Claus figure sitting on an overturned milk crate on the Red Line platform. His banjo music sweetened my wait for the train ride home.

When I moved to Brooklyn last year, I took an early morning walk on my first Sunday in the new neighborhood. The streets were mostly quiet and empty - the stroller patrols weren't up and about yet. As I strolled down a few blocks to get some coffee, I passed The Gate and noticed a hipster guy in a hat, smiling and holding a banjo. (Bonus crush points for a fella possessing both a hat AND a banjo!) He settled onto the bench outside of the bar and started strumming the 5-string, and I thought "Hey, maybe me and Brooklyn are going to get along just fine."¹

But lest you think the banjo's popularity is limited only to public transportation and the early morning street corner scene, let me set you straight - the banjo is fast becoming a modern-day media darling as well.

Case in point: You may not know this about my boyfriend², but Mr. Ed Helms plays a mean banjo. For realsies. And this banjo player is now starring in a hit movie! The Hangover topped the box-office this weekend and it's playing in a theater near you. While I can't exactly endorse a movie that I have not yet seen myself (don't tell Ed!), I can certainly endorse a banjo player (God love 'em).

While we're speaking of banjos and theaters near you, a movie I can endorse is the latest from my mentor³, the irreverent and ribald Will Ferrell. Without giving too much away, let me just toss out this teaser: there is a scene in "Land of the Lost" (just go in with low expectations, you'll be fine) where Will sings a campfire song while accompanying himself on a banjo. Delightful. Unfortunately, this big-screen banjo moment is followed immediately by one of the grossest scenes in the movie. (Just close your eyes, you'll be fine.)

If I have not quite convinced you of the banjo's "it" factor thus far, let me name-drop a little further. Steve Martin. Yeah, that's right, you heard me - this wild and crazy guy, respected comedian and published author has just released a banjo cd. If Steve is on board with the banjo, who can be against it?

The banjo is here, it has arrived. So let's all pause and drink in a little banjo'y, care of Steve, Bela Fleck, et al:




¹Postscript: Brooklyn and I did not, in fact, get along just fine, hence our hasty break-up eight months later. But early Sunday morning forays for coffee did remain my favorite times in the 'hood, banjo encounter or no.

²In the same way that he may not definitely does not know that he is my boyfriend.

³You betcha he doesn't know that he's my mentor. Yet.

Slip Slidin'

I often wonder if I wasn’t born fifty years too late. I think I missed my era – those Big Band days when Sinatra ruled, and men wore hats, and everyone knew how to fox trot. It was the age of the MGM musical and those American standards I love so well – the music which comprises a large percentage of my iPod library.

Nevertheless, I seem to be stuck in a 1970’s music groove lately. It started with that Jackson Browne phase a few months back, which was followed by a several-week span of devotion to Pandora’s Fleetwood Mac station. Now I’m in the midst of a Paul Simon infatuation.


Much of his music is evocative of my younger days: Simon & Garfunkel’s “The Boxer” and “Sounds of Silence” remind me of my sophomore year of high school, when seniors Elayne and Zach (my paragons of alternative hipness, at that time) would lounge around the band hall listening to these songs, and I discovered that it could be cool to listen to your parents’ music.

I can’t hear “Kodachrome” without thinking about the road trip that Carms and I took to North Carolina during the fall of my senior year. Driving home from Chapel Hill, heading over hills towards the John H. Kerr Dam, we blasted our mix tape with this song and gave special emphasis to the lyrics “When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school…”

“Late in the Evening” and “You Can Call Me Al” always remind me of college - Virginia football in Scott Stadium, the faint smell of bourbon, and the pep band blasting these songs in between plays.

This past week, in addition to those nostalgic tracks, I had “American Tune” burned on my brain. Seriously stuck in my head. I couldn’t shake it, so I decided to just give in to it – I listened to it constantly in the hopes that my brain would get tired of it and allow me move on to other songs. No such luck.

I tried another tactic – maybe if I learned to play it myself, my brain would let it go and move on? The guitar was out – C & F are still outside my chord repertoire and "American Tune" calls for both– so I got the piano sheet music. I plunked through the song a dozen times or more. I sang it while washing dishes. I hummed it while walking to the grocery store. My poor roommate and neighbors probably wished I could pick a new song as much as I wished it for myself.

Finally, I’m happy to report, the obsession has abated. Think I got it out of my system. I’m humming “Graceland” now and dreaming of taking another road trip down south. “For reasons I cannot explain - There's some part of me wants to see Graceland…”

Who’s with me?

Hanging Tough for The Right Stuff

Ernest Hemingway once instructed writers (and himself), when faced with a blank page, to “write one true sentence.”

I believe what Mr. Hemingway undoubtedly had in mind was this - this very one true sentence:

I used to be a New Kids on the Block fan.

There you have it. The truth in all its delicious ugliness. Now, I could qualify this revelation by reminding you that my fan-dom occurred nearly 20 years ago, that I was a different person back then, that I’ve reformed my musical tastes since. But that doesn’t change the fact that I used to own all their albums (on cassette tape). That I was convinced me and Joey McIntyre were M.T.B. (after all, we had the same birthday, almost). That I hung pictures of the band, torn from the pages of Teen Magazine, on my bedroom walls, always taking care not to undress & change my clothes in front of them, lest…well… I don’t know what my rationale was for that one. Sometimes there is just no explanation for pre-teen behavior.

Anyways, I am choosing to reveal this secret former obsession today, to shout it from the virtual rooftop, because today, on my way to work, I saw Danny, Donny, Jordan, Jonathan and Joey. The fab five. NKOTB. Reunited. Singing their middle-aged hearts out.

Problem was, I didn't know that I had seen them until much later. I was in the presence of boy band greatness, fulfilling 11-year-old-Kristy's most cherished dream, and I was completely unaware.

Here's how it went down: walking my normal route to work, cross-town from the subway to my office on the east side of Manhattan, I passed by the plaza of Rockefeller Center. I heard screaming (of the enthusiastic variety) and saw a band performing on the Today Show's stage. I was running late, so I didn't pay them much attention - figuring they were one of those new pop-y bands that I remain in ignorant bliss about – The Jonas Brothers or the shiny kids from “High School Musical” or something.

As I hurried by, dodging tourists, my ear caught a snippet of lyrics (invoking the name 'Patrick Swayze') and I resolved to check the Today Show website when I reached my office to see just what band was responsible for bringing this Swayzified song into the world.

So imagine my surprise when I learned that the band I had rushed by was none other than The Kids, singing their new single “Dirty Dancing.” (The bridge of the song goes a little something like this: “Ooo, It's so crazy, she's like Baby, I'm like Swayze.” I guess my boyz aren't even trying to be relevant to today's generation; they're sticking with the same fan base that loved both them and Dirty Dancing so well back in the early -90's.)

"Oh, 11-year-old-Kristy," I tell my younger self, "hang up the phone!" There was no need for me to have so desperately & repeatedly called 105.1 WAVA to try to win tickets to see my teen idols in concert. Patience would pay off and our day would come, a day when we - Danny, Donny, Jordan, Jonathan, Joey and I - would breathe the same air under the same sky, sheltered by the same midtown sky-scrapers.

"It's funny, though, 11-year-old-Kristy," I muse to myself, "how a dream can come true without you even noticing, if you let yourself rush by, unchanged."