I am always afraid no one will show up. I'm in the green room at the House of Blues in Boston. The "throngs" are filing in. But, I know it is for the opening act. And, I hope I sing okay tonight. I have had a bit of a cold, and had pizza for dinner, so I am drinking a lot of water to help clean out any virus or mucus from the double cheese topping. And then with all this water in me, I am worried about having to leave in the middle of my set to pee. I had a dream once where I was at Radio City and had to disappear in the middle of "kissed a girl," plus I forgot to put on my trousers. I just realized that I forgot a set of extra strings, so I'm up a creek if I break one. I would have to go into an acapella, "Oh Lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz…" Twenty minutes until show time. I think I will have a wee bit of port to calm my nerves. On my rider, for a goof, I have a demand for aged tawny port (at least 20 years old). It has never arrived. So, let's raise a glass of cooking sherry and give a damn good show.

2 hours later: I had a great time, folks were there to see me, my Aunt Mickey showed up, and I held my water.

It was a beautiful spring Brooklyn day. Everyone was out. The young couples were out with strollers containing creatively dressed babies (I wished they had those outfits in my size). The hipster boys were out looking like either members of the Strokes or neo-red neck Skynard fans in meshed backed baseball caps. The skateboard kids, the Polish men with great mustaches, the Hasidic women in wigs, the Puerto Rican families were all out. I saw my favorite dogs: the overweight English Bull, the old white faced St. Bernard, and the one I swear is a dingo. Every dog and animal looked renewed and grateful that the long miserable winter was over. The blossoms are out, the mitts are out, and I am coming out of my sunless semi-funk. Spring has sprung!

The only slightly wrong element of this picture was the approaching ice cream truck. It was playing Sondheim's “Send in the Clowns”. Isn’t that a sad song?

My first acting role was as the curious but knowledgeable Miss Hanukah in the fifth grade Carson Elementary School holiday play. I told the "amazing" story of how oil burned for eight days. It paled before Mary (Miss Christmas) Sun's explanation of the birth of Our Lord and Savior. Plus, I had to lead the school in a round of that awful "Draidel, Draidel, Draidel." Again, how can that compare to say "Silent Night," or even Burl Ive's "Frosty the Snowman?" Anyway, I was told I was flawless, but I knew Mary was more compelling. She did have the more interesting lines.

This was my last thespian experience until this week (unless we count my West Wing cameo where I sang in a bar while Allison Janney talked all over "Rock Me to Sleep." I said "thank you" after the song, but they edited out my one and only line).

Last month, I was approached by an indie (meaning no money) filmmaker for the use of my songs for the soundtrack to his new movie. He also had the idea that I should play "Jody." Jody is a semi-pathetic, struggling (but kinda talented) singer/songwriter with... a pacemaker. He said he had me in mind all along when he wrote the part. Hmmmm ... pacemaker? I told him that I had no acting experience and really had no desire, but I liked him and his movies, plus I knew I could really use that $250 a day.

However, for the last month I have been terrified that I will suck, embarrass myself and family name, and be incapable of memorizing my lines (I can't remember my own lyrics half the time - You've all seen me play). Last week, I saw on VH1 classic the Billy Squire video where he dances and wears Flashdance clothing. It was jaw-dropping (I have been obsessed by it ever since). They say it ruined his career as a respectable guitar hero. Would Jody and her pacemaker be my Billy Squire Flashdance moment?

Well last night, I did it. I had my first scene. It was set at the Bottom Line, I sang "Underdog Victorious," and after the smattering of applause, I graciously and with confidence said... "thank you."

I thought that by now that I would have had my very own bus in full Herculon and airbrushed glory crammed with devoted well-paid band mates and mean looking but sweet overweight roadies. I thought that after one semi-hit in 1996 and appearances on several variety shows (including Rupaul's), I would be staying at, say, the Four Seasons with 24-hour room service, a terrycloth robe and a mini bar with fancy Jordan Almonds.

Instead, I find myself again in my friend's '95 Probe driving to another Comfort Inn. I have budgeted $15 a day for food. This morning, I already spent $9.95 at Starbucks.

Tonight, I am the first opening act. Glenn Tilbrook (of Squeeze) headlines and John Doe (of X fame) precedes him. I have yet to have an actual conversation with Glenn, but he seems very friendly and British at the same time (whatever that means, but I think it is a compliment). John Doe I have known for years, and in fact my first "rock bus" tour was supporting (acoustic) X. They were so kind to me, especially knowing how green I was.

I say you can always tell a person by how they treat waitresses and opening acts. I have been one or the other for most of my life. Once, I served a cocktail to Madonna and did not receive a tip. I just thought I would mention it. I have opened up for Warren Zevon, Paul Weller, Joe Jackson, and Don Henley, all rumored to be at times… assholes. I only have great things to say about them, especially Warren, who let me eat his food and watch soft porn in the back lounge of the bus with him. During my set, he would come up and sing " I Kissed a Girrrl" in his pirate-like voice.

On the other hand, I once opened up for one selfish bitter Grammy-winning diva, whose name will go unmentioned. The first time we met, I said, "Gee, thanks for having me open up for you, I really am a fan." She responded with, "I've heard your music too," and then walked off. Her sound check would take hours, and she never would even give me five minutes to do mine. A couple of days later backstage, I tried to make conversation and told her how beautiful she looked in her purple dress (I actually meant it). She said, "Thanks, I am trying to get in touch with my femininity. I used to dress sorta butch and have short hair like you." Wow, and I thought I looked kind of pixyish and cute. Anyway, I befriended her band and they told me all sorts of great stories about her, which I wish I could reveal, but that would not be right.

The thing about the Comfort Inn is that they have a coffee machine in the room (with a decaf bag), a free continental breakfast, HBO, and laundry services with a variety of detergents in the dispenser machine. Plus, it is a nice break from my 19th century like tenement one room apartment in NYC.

By the way, I grew my hair out.

I am not ready for sweaters, caps, and scarves. I am not ready for the forced dry heat blowing in my one room apartment that I have no control over. I am not ready for the one sad-ass tree on my block to lose its dusty leaves. Fall, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing!

Maybe it’s because I spent all summer touring in a rented car, going from town to town, rarely setting foot outdoors. Maybe it’s that back to school dread -- Last night, I actually did have a dream about losing the three-ringed binder containing my class schedule. Also, that Charlie Brown Halloween special made me suicidal as a kid.

However, it is a time for change, resolutions and, well… a new look. Like in 4th grade, I went from mary janes and cute little jumpers, to white turtlenecks, a blue down vest and heavy Bass hiking boots (this was my Vail look). This year, I am at a loss, plus broke, and too old to have my mom buy me a new fall wardrobe. So, I will focus on change in more meaningful and lasting ways. I will learn to play the piano. I will stop eating like an 8 year old. I will get involved in someone’s political campaign (Dean? Clark? Coleman?). Now that I am off the road, I can work on my personal life. It has been on hold, and I’m ready to answer its faint but pleading call. I can fall from view, fall from grace, fall in love.

Fall, what is it good for?

So, I was asked at the last moment to write an article (800 word) concerning music and politics. I was given 2 days. The problem (other than being a bit of slacker) is that I am just starting a tour. Usually, I am solo, so I have plenty of time in hotel rooms to write or watch pay-per-view movies. However, this time I am on a big ass rock bus with about 15 other bodies. I could hide in my bunk with earplugs on and start on this 800-word task,

but I want to get to know and socialize (possibly drink and eat pizza after the show) with the other musicians and would feel very left out. Plus, they could maybe help me with my article on music and politics, since this is the very reason for our existence this month. We are on the Tell Us The Truth Tour.

“Tell us the truth tour is a multi-city music and education trek that will put issues of media reform, economic and environmental justice and democracy at the top of the American political agenda this fall. With support from unions, environmental, religious and media reform groups-including AFLCIO, Common Cause, Free Press and the Future of Music Coalition-this tour will be the loudest, angriest, funniest and most effective challenge to corporate domination of the public discourse in recent history.” (This quote helped me with 83 words including, “this quote helped me”)

Among such musician/activist are Billy Bragg, Steve Earle, Tom Morello (from Rage against the Machine fame), Mike Mills (REM), and someone who I have always wanted to know and possibly be her best friend, Janeane Garofalo.

I was so glad to be chosen, as I feel it is more and more necessary to become a lefty leaning pinko activist these days, especially with the coming elections next year. I guess I have always had a political tinge and bent to my lyrics. As a 2nd grader, I wrote my very first song, Nixon is a Bad Man. Even Kissed a Girl, as innocuous as it seemed, had a not so subliminal recruiter from the gay agenda thing to it. Remember this was back in 1995 and there was nothing like that on the radio. Several stations in the South banned it, which made me feel cool like Ice-T and his Cop Killer. Back then it was like saying, “I strapped it on and had her on the pool table.” Since then, I have done stints on NPRish radio stations as a political troubadour, dealing with issues from the death penalty, George W. and yes more dire, that troubled teacher from Seattle, Mary Kay Letourneau.

Hmmm, maybe I should ask one of the backers of this tour, Joe Uehlein from the AFL-CIO to explain his vision for Tell Us The Truth (he can tell it way more succinct than me, has clout, and will make my own work on this that much easier).

"The Tell Us The Truth tour is truly historic -- musically, culturally, and politically. First, art is a critical compliment to activism -- no matter how brilliant our attempts to inform, it is our ability to inspire that makes the difference and builds a movement. Intellectual arguments are vulnerable to other intellectual arguments. Art reaches people in the Soul and inspires us to action. In decades past Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger and the Weavers toured around the county much like the "Truth" brigade did over the past three weeks. Woody, Pete and Weavers played in concert halls and union halls. the Truth tour played in concert halls and marched with labor and progressive organizations in Miami protesting corporate globalization. The Truth tour is important because it is picking up that torch -- Woody's torch -- and making it burn bright again."

I interviewed Janeane, and asked two questions: Why are you proud to be on this tour, and did she think that someday sometime in the future we might be best friends?

“I want to lead an examined life, and as some Greek said, an unexamined life is not worth living. I believe there is a need for Americans to demand that they be told the truth. They should demand the same things from their government and family as they demand from their family-honesty, respect, equity, information, etc. We should not have such a dysfunctional relationship. As far as Jill Sobule and me being best friends… I thought we already were. How dare you.”

Damn, ah, well, I could tell you stories, like what movies we watched on the bus, who was the pot head, and who hooked up with who, but..

8 things I would do if I were president (as asked by RAZOR magazine):

1. I would do my darnedest to get the "road map to peace" back on track. I would try to make friends with the world.
2. I would be able to have someone do my laundry and separate the whites and colors.
3. I would have universal healthcare.
4. I would have a really great "first pet" (maybe an English Bulldog named Eleanor -- after Mrs. Roosevelt).
5. I would legalize pot and put a hefty sin tax on it (to pay for some of those "children left behind.") Oh, and get rid of mandatory minimum sentencing.
6. I would give my blessings to gay marriage, and would make gay Republicans write on the chalkboard a 1000 times, "why?"
7. I would be tough on terrorism and crime. I would put Sean Hannity, Bill Frist, and Toby Keith -- among others -- in Guantanamo (with Lyndie English as guard on duty) for Christmas break.
8. I might give some of my slacker, but chalk full of potential, friends a job.

(as asked by Harp magazine).

I told my parents that Judy Finesilver and I were partners in a weekend homework assignment -- The Wild Frontier. We bought 2 bags of 500 popsicle sticks to make a fort. I spent the night at Judy’s house, since her mom taught crafts to special needs children, and she had a lot of glue and stuff. But more importantly, her parents went to bed really early, so we could sneak out and go see…ALICE COOPER!

Judy’s older brother sold pot and acid. I had never partaken (I was just in 7th grade), but thought I should have the total concert experience.

We got a C- on our fort.

Webmaster's Note: Starting today, Jill is going to try to post a daily journal entry here each and every day. It'll be kind of a like a blog, except without the trendy name. Keep checking back to see what's going on in Jill's life!

Just got back from the 92nd St. Y, doing a tribute to Simon and Garfunkle with Lisa Loeb. Which of us was Art?

Anyway, we had never sung together and we sorta pulled it off. The harmonies to America are complicated but stunning.

Tomorrow morning I go on WPLJ (a big ass Top 40 radio station). I hope Davey is there again. Davey? Yes, three years ago DAVEY JONES was on the air before I arrived. He stuck around to sing Kissed a Girl with me. I sang with a Monkee.

What a day. I woke up to the rain pouring into my apartment. When I called the landlord for help, he said, "well, you should see what happened to the place on Berry." They said they would have Ziggy (the old Polish handyman) come by to look at it. That’s all Ziggy did. Then, I did a morning radio show and played Freshman (with added lyrics about the flood). After that, I worked on the music for episode 3 of Unfabulous. I had no idea how much work it would be. When they asked me if I had ever scored before, I lied and said yes. Well, I did score pot back in Jr. High.

This evening, I played at the "Happy Ending Reading Series." Among the writers were A. M. Holmes, Stephen Holmes, and the guy (forget his name) who wrote Jarhead. Oh, and Moby was there (name dropper).

Tomorrow, I’m doing the video for Cinnamon Park. I have nothing to wear.

The Video Shoot

If I hear Cinnamon Park one more time, I’ll poke my eyes out. I was in front of a green screen for five hours imagining weird stoner puppets and Betty Boop cartoon birds flying around me. I have no idea how it will turn out, but I have hopeful curiosity.

I heard Ted Kennedy likes the CD.

Ted Kennedy called and left a message on my cell phone.

And, he sounds just like Ted Kennedy.

I have to figure out how to save it for life (my phone erases saved messages after, I think, 30 days). I was told the day before that he was going to call, so it was no surprise. I was waiting all morning, and then, it must have been, as soon as I got in the shower, he called. Damn, I wanted to say “hi”, or “thanks” or something. However, on the plus side, I got him on my phone to play for all my friends and Republican relatives. He said he was a fan (but he really called to thank me for playing a fund raiser for him next month).

If I can get it off my phone, I am going to sample his voice, "Jill, it’s Senator Ted Kennedy…" and write a dance track called ... Ted Kennedy.

I lost my voice. But it was worth it. I performed last night in DC with Boots Riley (from the rap group The Coup) and Lester Chambers from the Chamber Brothers (remember that cowbell on "Time Has Come Today ... TIME?" -- that was him). Anyway, it was for an awards show (given by the AFL-CIO), where we were among the recipients (the others being Billy Bragg, Steve Earl and Mike Mills). It was for the tour and documentary film of the Tell Us The Truth Tour. Most of the film was shot before I joined the tour, so I felt like a minor character, but they did play Underdog Victorious during the end credits. There were some very scary and unbelievable scenes in Miami where the riot police ran amok. They looked liked Robocops shooting teargas and rubber bullets at peaceful protesters. How come no one saw this on Fox or CNN?

Highlights:

1. Getting the award from AFL-CIO President John Sweeny
2. Playing "Time" with Lester
3. Hearing his stories about hanging with Sly and Jimi
4. Playing guitar on Boots' 5 Million Ways to Kill a CEO
5. Playing guitar on any hip hop
6. Driving with them in a stretch limo searching for rolling papers.

Last night, I played a party for WFUV (the non Clear Channel, old school NYC NPR station). If there were more stations like that (with programmers like Rita Houston), I might be famous and be able to afford the Telecaster that I saw and coveted on eBay. Plus, the party was at a swank house with nice owners with really good catering. And, I made it back just in time for the last 6 Feet Under.

I’m on a plane right now on my way to my reluctant second home -- LA. I am melancholy. Maybe cause I’m exhausted -- had to get up at 4:30, after staying up late to watch the Broncos/Chiefs game (after 6 Feet Under). Yes, I am originally from Denver, and it’s time I came out the closet and admitted to watching football. It’s not cool, it’s not artful (all those horrible beer ads), but I’m from Denver and it was shoved down our Rocky Mountain high throats. When my parents divorced, I would sit with my Mom’s family the first half, and then walk halftime to the North stands to watch with my dad. Sick.

But back to being sad: I think it’s a reaction to the record coming out. You spend so much time preparing for its release (trying to get signed, writing, recording, deciding which songs, etc....) that when it does come out, it is out of your hands, and received (like the baton in the U.S woman’s Olympic relay team) by "professional" record company people, critics, and fans that you don’t want to disappoint.

Maybe I feel this existential void because 6 Feet Under is over, and I have to wait a whole year to find out what happens to Claire.

About Jill's CD Release Party show at Largo (Los Angeles), 9/14/04

Opener: Underdog Victorious, accompanied by the rhythmic waving of the candles on everyone's table.

An audience member joined Jill onstage for the final verse of Resistance Song, kicking off the audience participation portion of the show.

The first "celebrity" singer was Tom Brousseau, a Largo regular, who performed Tender Love. Before the song, he haltingly, bashfully, said he hoped that, after hearing him sing this song, maybe Jill would come home with him. (A bemused heckler wished him good luck with that.)

Something went kerflooey with the sound, so while that was being fixed before the next guests could be brought onstage, Jill launched into an unamplified Love Is Never Equal, with the audience joining in on the chorus. Jon Brion (Largo's Friday-night mainstay, producer, composer and all-around-wizard) rushed to the stage with a megaphone for Jill to sing through. Largo's the kind of place where you're not surprised that there's a megaphone lying around. Or maybe Jon Brion just always carries one with him for emergencies.

The sound problems remedied, Jill welcomed to the stage master satirist/Simpsons voice/Le Show host/Spinal Tap bass player Harry Shearer and his wife, singer/songwriter/pianist Judith Owen, who were both pleased to be in attendance to pay tribute to Jill So-byoo-lay. They delivered an amazing version of Heroes. Keep your fingers crossed that a soundboard recording was made and can be shared via Jill's website someday, because it was simply superb, with Harry and Judith trading vocals (one naming the hero, the other citing the reasons for their imperfection).

Jill's frequent collaborator and co-producer, Robin Eaton, was next, picking up the little guitar for a rendition of Nothing Natural. He was followed by a woman whose name, sadly, I didn't catch but who performed a stunning a capella Now That I Don't Have You. (I believe she also hoped Jill would go home with her after the show.) Webmaster's note: We have it on good authority that the unidentified a capella performer was none other than singer/songwriter Leah Andreone.

The final performance during the guest-vocalist section was a club-dance version of The Last Line, sung by Jill's hairdresser, accompanied by two male dancers enacting the drama of the story behind him. I'm blanking on the moniker used by this act -- which is surprising because it was tattooed prominently on the singer's left forearm. (Jill said they would also be transforming her Ted Kennedy answering machine message into a dance song.) Jill reclaimed the stage and performed her own, more subdued version of Last Line.

Ironically, I'm tempted to "yada yada yada" through the bulk of Jill's set, which was great as usual, simply because there were so many unique highlights which made this particular show special. Jon Brion officially came to the stage, sans megaphone, to accompany Jill on piano for three songs (Mexican Wrestler, Bitter and...anybody?).

Houdini's Box was dedicated to Harry Shearer, who had vowed from the stage not to leave until Jill performed it.

Lisa Loeb joined Jill to reprise their female Simon and Garfunkel act from the recent show in New York, performing America and Cecilia. They seemed to have a natural bantering chemistry onstage -- I felt like I was watching the Smothers Sisters.

Jon Brion was summoned to the stage again and asked if he knew Saturday In The Park. Anyone who's attended one of Brion's Friday shows at Largo knows that Brion's knowledge of pop music is encyclopedic, so he quickly picked out the riff on the piano and Cinnamon Park began, with a couple audience members brought onstage to join Jill on vocals. As Brion vamped at the end, Jill plunged into the audience and formed a conga line of roughly a dozen audience members, including Robin Eaton, eventually leading them onstage to finish singing the song. Before they could be dismissed, Jill then led a quick, semi-remembered version of Sunrise, Sunset and the show proper was over.

For the encore, Dave, the upright bass player from previous Largo shows, was brought onstage (I'm blanking on what they played). And Jon Brion was hauled onstage yet again for the finale, All The Young Dudes, which Brion began on piano and concluded on drums. Can't get much more symmetrical than starting a show with Underdog Victorious and closing with All The Young Dudes.

Also somewhere in the set: Jetpack, Margaret, Soldiers Of Christ, (Theme From) The Girl In The Affair, Strawberry Gloss, an attempt at Saw A Cop (with extemporaneous third verse)...and a few seconds of Sister Christian.

One for the ages.

From Jill: Thanks to Eric for the review. And letting me slack off on my journal duties.

Dear sweet Aunt Mickey passed away. For those of you at my Boston shows, she was the eloquent older woman (I always thought she looked like Anne Bancroft) with the warm and approving grin as I stumbled about the stage.

She was much beloved and always had hanging around her, well ...Mickey groupies. She was an honorary mom and aunt for many who wished maybe that their parents were as soft, open, and caring.

I will be in Denver tomorrow.

Last night saw myself on the silver screen. It was so strange. It was like when you go to an old tourist town in the west and you can put your name on a Wanted poster. Or you go in a booth, dress all Western or Victorian, and take a sepia toned picture. But this time, the photo was not just for Grandma's shelf, but for a whole bunch of strangers.

I play a struggling singer songwriter (a stretch?) who busks on the street, and ... has a pacemaker! For some reason, I like to do wind sprints to test my limits. So there are a lot of scenes of me running. Not to give away the plot... but I do pass out and get mouth to mouth from the most handsome person I have ever met. And, we had to do the scene a bunch of times.

More later... The movie opens at the Angelika tomorrow.

On a plane to Chicago writing with my thumbs on my new fancy phone. There are things that don't seem to fit my image of myself: love of gadgetry and lunch box string cheese. It's been a few days since my last entry, so I will give you a quick rundown. Oh, remember I don't have spell check on this phone, so please forgive me just in case.

So let's see... Last Saturday I went to the movie I was in, just to buy a symbolic ticket. My idea was to see the first few minutes and then sneak into the Ramones movie. However, I stayed (going between being embarrassed and semi-proud) through the whole film. I mean, when will I ever be in a movie or on a poster for it again? Before the end credits rolled, I walked out to avoid being noticed (like anyone cares). Is is bad form, uncool or "conceited" to watch yourself? Anyway, I was mobbed by a group of elder Jewish women who gushed and told me what a natural I was. Later I found out they were friends and relatives of one of the producers.

Tuesday, I played the Knitting Factory during one of the more gloomy rainy days. I was meloncholy in the old fashion sense of the word -- more romantic than depressed. The highlight of the evening was when the enire audience sang the chorus to Mexican Wrestler. I was so touched. I hope someone bootlegged that evening.

I had a debate night party. Everyone walked in so defeated and glum, like they were entering a dentist chair. But within thirteen minutes in, everyone lit up and finally went for the food on my new lazy susan snack tray. My fave George Bush line was when he referred to Al Queda as "a group of folk." Afterwards, we had a jam on the various odd instruments laying around. A few left early as jamming is only fun for those playing and/or stoned.

I lose things.

I had to call American Express once more to cancel my card. I think this is the 3rd time this year. I’m sure it hasn’t been stolen. I mean why would they (you know, "they") get in my wallet, steal my AMEX, but leave the $125 and the precious Screen Actors Guild card? No, it’s in some pants pocket, at the laundry, or in some drawer underneath a cash register at some store.

I lose things. Every Comfort Inn in America must have a pair of undies, one sock, or some article of clothing of mine. I have been through many cell phones and numerous phone adaptors. I bought a palm pilot to get organized, but left it in a cab in Portugal.

I lose pens, picks, and guitar capos. However, I also steal them unwittingly. Last month, in my purse, I found a fancy fat Mt. Blanc pen. I had no idea who I borrowed it from, so it was...mine. Since then, it has changed hands -- maybe with the same store clerk who has my AMEX.

(Originally written for Performing Songwriter magazine)

I could slip, I could fall
In that mean and awful hall
With the other jealous bitches
And the bitter grumbling men
I could sneer, I could glare
Say that life is so unfair
And the one who made it
Made it cuz her breasts were really big.

-- Bitter (Sobule/Barone)

Everyone thought that I wrote that first verse about Jewel. I honestly didn’t. I really have no beef with her. She’s talented, has a nice voice, and can yodel. But I do have a story.

I was at SXSW (a music industry showcase in Austin). I had just been signed to Atlantic Records and was about to play one of those horrible shows for chatty catty record company posers -- I did not have this attitude fully developed back then. Anyway, it was a double bill with an unknown female singer/songwriter also debuting on Atlantic named… Jewel.

Jewel, at that time, was this cute, slightly chubby hippie girl who sang folk songs and lived in a van (that was the story). She performed before me, as I had put out a CD on another label earlier and had more of a name (which was not saying much). As she got on stage, the jaded audience maybe looked up once, and then talked through her entire set. After her 5th song, she left in tears.

I felt so bad for her, and knew exactly how she felt. I went backstage, gave her a hug, and gave her some big sisterly advice: "It wasn’t you. You were great, and they are just big assholes." I thought to myself, this poor girl is going to be so eaten up by this world of broken promises and heartache (something like that).

As bad as I felt for her, I was determined to kick some ass. I opened up with my "when it’s a hostile crowd" opening number, Don’t Fuck With Me. It has worked opening up Paul Weller’s lager-swilling fans, Don Henley’s ex hippie now Republican crowd, and even did magic with the semi-goth frat boy Godsmack show. And yes, this cheap trick worked in Austin. They shut up. I knew right then and there that I was going to be Atlantic Record’s new diva. "I was gonna be a star" (said in a kind of 1930’s NY Broadway manager way).

Zoom… 7 months later: I was playing the Lillith Fair. This was big, this was huge. Except for the fact that I was on the second stage scheduled at 4:00. And the tickets said the show started at 4:30. My audience consisted mostly of volunteers putting out the folding chairs. On the main stage at 8:00 was... yes, Jewel.

Things had not turned out the way I had imagined.

I just want to say again, and I know I am being redundant, that I am not bitter and am happy for Jewel’s success. This is not a zero sum game. I was so grateful to be at Lillith. But dang, what about me? Jewel was in a cool rock van with two lounges and a satellite dish. I was in a rented Ford Probe with my friend David. Jewel was probably at the Ritz. I was in the junkie/whore motel. Most whores do not look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

Zoom... 2 days later: Sorta bummed. I woke up with a terrible sore throat. I called the promoter, and she said there was a doctor set up in a trailer behind Stage three. As I walked in, the doctor said, "when I heard you were coming, I was so excited. I have to tell you that my two daughters adore you. They know every lyric you sing."

I was starting to already feel better. I just needed a little love. I needed to know that there were smart girls out there that appreciate good music and are not sucked in by all the crap. I needed to know that someone looked beyond I Kissed a Girl and was moved by my melodic sense and lyrical prowess. I needed someone to buy my CD. This was a sign. I could start hoping again.

As I skipped out the door, the doctor rushed out and asked if I wouldn’t mind signing an autograph for his daughters. I eagerly did, while making an extra flourish on the J. As I walked out for the second time, he said, "thank you so much, Jewel."

I don’t want to get bitter.
I don’t want to turn cruel.
I don’t want to get old before I have to.
I don’t want to get jaded
Petrified and weighted.
I don’t want to get bitter like you

Like you with the darts in your eyes
You with disdain for mankind
I was charmed, now I wonder

So, I’ll smile with the rest
Wishing everyone the best
And know the one who made it,
Made it cause she
Was actually pretty good

Oh, I have another little story relating to my song Bitter. Bitter was going to be the big single off my 3rd CD, Happy Town, but the label was worried that it had the word "bitch" in it (and this was way before the FCC got out of hand). They wanted me to replace "bitch" with something that Wal-Mart would be okay with. I went back in the studio and replaced the offending word with... "cunt."

I thought it was funny. They didn’t.

I am so manic-depressive these days. Sometimes, I feel for sure that the minority vote and "kids of voting age without land lines" are not being fully represented in the polls, thus Kerry will prevail. Other times I think, "we are so fucked."

But then I think, okay, so what? It will galvanize the left and/or wake up the rest of the country. Maybe I’ll become even more radical and start to dress like Che or vintage Patty Hearst. No, that is a tired look, and we can’t have another 4 years. But then again, it has made rock stars become protest artists again, and has found an easy target for our sometimes misplaced anger. It also has made the world an easier place to figure out -- more black and white. For instance, would you, could you fall in love with someone who voted for Bush 1? Maybe. But, Bush 2 (this year)? Don’t think so.

This hour, I feel good, confident. Maybe 'cause I read a piece on conservative pro-war bloggers like Andrew Sullivan and Christopher Hitchens, who have recently endorsed Kerry. But earlier, I listened to AM talk radio in the car (why do I do this to myself?). And what about the anti-gay marriage laws? They look like they are going to pass easily in several states. Like in Ohio, where it’s not just marriage they want to ban, but all civil unions. Urrrrrrrr.

Maybe I will start trying on those battle fatigues after all.

Bummer.

All day yesterday, I felt as though I was going to a funeral. I had this odd desire to bake something (and I don’t bake) to take over to the grieving family’s house.

I guess what shocked me the most was that it wasn't about Iraq, the swift vets, the fear of another terrorist attack, the ignorance of only listening to Fox News or bad talk radio. No it was about... the gays. "Moral Values?" Could this be true? Have I just been too isolated in my all too hipster Brooklyn neighborhood? Was going out on tour with the likes of (a coalition of the willing limey) Billy Bragg and Steve Earl just a wee liberal elitist blip on the radar screen of Americana? I did get booed in Clearwater, Florida, but thought that was an aberration. Did they not like my "my Bush would make a better president" T-shirt for political reasons, or because I said "my Bush?"

Moral values? I thought everyone watched Will & Grace (I have never seen it). I thought everyone sorta liked Ellen. I thought I was mainstream. Help!

Last night I played in a red state (I have to stop ruing and obsessing on politics).

Yes, I was in West Virginia (however, they do have Byrd, a democratic Senator who did vote against the war) to play Mountain Stage. What an amazing evening with Robyn Hitchcock, Peter Case, Gary US Bonds, and (I am not worthy) Mavis Staples.

I felt really good about my set, and thought maybe I got the best audience response (sorta a little smug like those fuckin’ Republicans now). However, when Mavis hit the stage, the jig was up. She sang, testified, and lifted the entire building to the heavens. How can my song Jetpack compete with God is Not Sleeping? Not that I tried to compete, or cared that she just wiped my sorry secular ass off the floor. No, I was inspired. I wanted right then and there to give my life up to the lord, turn into a 200 pound black women, and stop watching reruns of Six Feet Under (I really don’t know what that means). I mean, she was singing, not just for herself (as a shoe gazing alt-rocker) or just to please an audience, no, she was playing to a higher power. And we all felt it.

So the last song was coming, where everyone gets on stage (in a kind of "We are the World" way). I guess to compliment Mavis, they chose This Train is Bound For Glory. The first verse was sung by Gary US Bonds, and yes, you could tell he was a church trained rocker, then Mavis (again killing), and then the mike was passed to me. I froze thinking, "I can’t do this. I am the whitest cartoon voiced girl ever." But then the spirit rose inside of me. All of a sudden, I could feel my lungs and vocal chords get bigger. My breast got huge, and out of my mouth came... well, this big mama voice. I was singing the blues. I was singing to the Lord up above. Everyone looked at me in shock. Mavis yelled out, "you go girl." The spirit had taken me.

So, now I am on the plane back to LA, flying over the red states. My voice is back to its normal, squeaky self. And I am still depressed and pissed off that we lost.

On my way back from LA (in coach class), I overheard the whispering. “Hey, did you see Fabio? He’s on the plane.” We were still boarding, so I got up and walked to first class to look for him. I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to talk to him (we go way back), or just wanted to see how he has aged, how long is hair was, or if he still wore those tight package-revealing jeans. Now, I liked Fabio. He was kind to everyone on the set of the Kissed a Girl video, and he understood the joke.

Anyway, I didn’t see him, and the nasty steward told me to get on back to the common folk area. I thought the rumor mill in row 26 must have been wrong, but then I saw him. IN COACH!!! Why was I shocked? Well, I was there, and I once saw Lucinda Williams there. And, I guess romance novels are called chick lit now and don't require his image anymore. But still, this 90’s icon looked out of place two rows back from me. It was a bit confusing, but somehow it made him seem more approachable, endearing, and he did look good -- in that Fabio way.

I thought during the flight, after the meal (soggy pasta, small sourdough roll, salad with the creamy Italian), I would come up and say hi. I almost did, but noticed he was engrossed in The Bourne Supremacy. So, I thought I would catch him at baggage.

He was nowhere to be found. I lost my chance. Doesn’t he have luggage? Oh well, next time.

I am not having a good time. I feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. I have 2 weeks to write an album worth of material for Emma Roberts (the star of Unfabulous) and nothing is coming. And now I am procrastinating. Instead of digging in deep, I just spent an hour googling old friends from high school.

By the way, I have more search results than any of them. I couldn’t even find Shelly Springer, the meanest, most popular girl. Actually, I am only the second most googled person from St. Mary’s Academy, the first being the new and improved (more pliable) Colin Powell... Condoleezza Rice. Fuck her.

I looked for my College boyfriend, Wendell Lee -- nothing!

Then I did an advance search for "Sobule" without "Jill", always trying to find unknown relatives. This is what I found:

Now back to the grindstone. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

21:14 I am on hold with Delta. It has been 21 minutes. This is so Soviet breadline. The music is making it worse -- it’s some kind of island smoove jazz/Titanic soundtrack hybrid. I know, I know, I have nothing to complain about, but is this the efficiency of capitalism working? How did I get so impatient? Getting older? Just really stressed today? TiVo? When do I get my "personal assistant?" Do they do laundry ... change the filter of the humidifier? For some reason this last thought has made me think of my dream mate: a massage therapist, who also might be a professional organizer (the kind that makes your closets look good), a doctor (easy prescriptions), a tailor (can sew buttons), and maybe a nice person.

This holding on the phone is akin to waiting at the doctor’s office with only Good Housekeeping magazines available.

25:17 I turn on Law and Order. It seems to be on twenty-four hours a day on most stations. When did Dennis Farina join the team? I read that Law and Order and its hundred of offshoots are the favorite of those over 45. I turn it off.

32:02 I finally get the operator. She was really sweet and helpful -- you don’t expect that these days. She swung it somehow that I didn’t have to pay the $150 change fee... Patience is virtue.

"I am upset because I have not found the right shoes." This is not a normal thought in my working day. I like to think of myself as above the pressures of the latest fascistic fashion trends. I am an artist, and have and will create my own image. I have an aversion to woman’s magazines, to the dos and don’ts section, and makeover shows (although at times, I do flip through the Enquirer at the checkout line for the before and after plastic surgery celebrity shots). Anyway, so why am I now so panicked?

I was asked to accompany a friend to a fancy Hollywood Golden Globes party. This is the kind of event where you are supposed to hire a clothes stylist (and hair and makeup person). I have done that only once before, and that was for the MTV awards back in ’96. It was a disaster. First of all, I told the stylist ($500 fee and you don’t even get to keep the clothes), that I was larger than I am. I think I might have been premenstrual, so I exaggerated any water weight gain. So she comes over my house with Lane Bryant (big lady’s store) sized slutty euro trash looking outfits. I was freaked, but had to pick something out, as the event was the very next day. I chose the least offensive dress, and one that she could alter.

Then came the shoes. They were all at least 2 inch "fuck me" pumps. Now, I don’t mind that, but I am a Converse gal and had not had many reasons to strap on the heels. I was reluctant, but as soon as I saw them in the mirror, I thought, "hey, I kind of look hot"… So, off I went hobbling to the awards.

2 hours later: "Fuck, my feet hurt!" I was so miserable. I couldn’t even enjoy seeing Bowie, watching Courtney Love all drunk. And I couldn’t enjoy a drink myself, as I was too afraid I would trip and fall on those (to me) dominatrix sized skinny ass heels.

So, here I am with a big decision: Fashion or comfort? I will let you know.

I used to love the Super Bowl. As a kid, I would count it, like my birthday, Xmas, and Passover (I'm from a more secular, inclusive Jewish family) as a special day. I am old enough to remember the AFL-NFL rivalry. The old Raiders vs. ...well, I don't remember the Cowboys... the Packers? I just know we hated the Raiders, 'cause we were from Denver, and they always kicked our sad asses. But when it came to the Super Bowl, we had to go AFL. And then when the Broncos finally, after many suffering years, made it and won, it was like, well, one of the greatest days ever.

Today, I am listless. I just don't care. I am not betting, and not rooting for any team. I don't care about the ads (newly sanitized) nor the halftime show (unless Paul sings Helter Skelter and has a malfunction with his trousers). This disinterest has been slowly building up since the Broncos lost Elway and (earlier) got those new aerodynamic uniforms. I hated that Coors ad and the twins. And, as I get older, I have less patience sitting down to watch a full game -- are there more ads, penalties, or is it me? And somehow, football has become, I don't know, more mook-like, more Rush Limbaugh. The Broncos coach's daughter, by the way, is big pals with Jenna Bush (why do I know that?). The NFL, I'm sure, is not for gay marriage.

What really messed me up personally was last year's Janet incident. By the way, no one talks about how bad the song and performance was -- no wonder MTV planned some breast action. Since then, I have had to watch my mouth whenever I am on the radio. I had to take off the word "Asshole" off the back of my CD cover and replace it with a "?". It's just not cussing. If I wanted to be on PBS (which they have not asked for), I could probably not sing I Kissed a Girl -- censored like Buster the Bunny.

I could go on and on, but I have a Super Bowl party to go to.

I was invited by my lawyer (who is also my friend, and who has not made a cent off of me, and whose house I am staying at until I find a place) to be his date at the Grammys.

4:00: The limo picks us up. Thank God it is not a stretch. Would you ever be friends with someone who would voluntarily rent a white hummer limo?

4:40: Somehow, from getting out of the limo to the line at the Staples Center, I have lost my ticket. I dump out my purse - no ticket. I call the limo driver - no ticket. The security guards will not let me in - they think I am a psychotic fan: "Sir, really, I had a ticket and it fell out on the street somewhere." "Lady, we are going to ask you one more time to leave the premises."

4:53: I can’t hold back the tears any longer. My mascara is running. I am looking more and more like a crazed homeless person. I am not sure what to do. My date, already inside, sends a text asking why things like this always happen to me.

5:10: I have missed the opening number. I am standing with a gaggle of Russian limo drivers. They tell me I am fucked.

5:38: Kenny (my lawyer friend and hero) comes out to get me. Somehow he got credentials and whisks me in. I leer at the mean security guard.

5:45: Just in time for J-Lo in the hotel room number.

Cops fear a new war has broken out in the trigger-happy world of hip-hop after gunmen sprayed 50 Cent’s offices with gunfire and shot a rival rapper’s sidekick outside a radio station

-- New York Post (3/2/05)

Yes, it’s terrible, but not unfamiliar. Little does the public know of the turf wars of '95 between ... the female singer/songwriters.

Oh, the jealousy and competition were epic. It was unreported, but I will never forget the day my offices were violated -- not sprayed with bullets, but worse. The trees were teepeed with, must have been, 60 rolls of Charmin. There were the airbrushed messages on the door -- "Jill sucks" & "'Kissed a Girl' isn’t really all that." There was no signature, but we all new it was the work of Warner Brothers recording artist ... Paula Cole.

Being not the evolved mature person I am today, I responded in kind. Later that day, me and my posse drove in our black tinted window Saab to Paula's condo. Bob, who is still serving time for selling bootleg Ambien, climbed on her roof and disconnected the satellite dish. Erin painted -- "Paula thinks she can dance good, but she can't" & "Paula is conceited, a bitch, and more."

Boy, was the music industry in a tizzy. The Lilith Fair was coming up and what was going to happen? Plus, the Indigo Girls had just dissed Jewel in their new single, "She's a Really Bad Poet."

More later...

I have stopped biting my fingernails. I’m not sure why I have stopped biting my fingernails -- I didn't try. But now I am looking down at my hands, which look totally alien to me, and strangely admiring the white slivers (what do you call them?) that have grown. For years my mom has nagged and begged me to stop biting my nails, although she had pretty much given up as of late.

At first, I was embarrassed by my habit: ugly scrappy unfeminine hands -- what boy (or girl, for that matter) would want me? But by the way, do men really care about women's nails? I don’t think they give a crap. I think Barbra's longish slightly ghoulish ones are for her and not for Brolin. I was more worried people would think I was mentally unbalanced. My hands did look like I had been a speed eating self-mutilating worrywart. Plus, the fact that I should have been over it 30 or more years ago. And what are the other implications? Is nail biting a sign of sexual frustration (like chewing on ice -- which I have also been known to kinda like)? Well if that's the case, wouldn't everyone have bloodied digits?

Ah, to tell you the truth, after years of shame (hiding them in long sweater sleeves and hoping people thought it was fashion, or lying and saying it was from the guitar), I had started to carry my hands with pride. I saw my biting as a badge of honor -- an artist who is surviving and thriving no matter the price. You don't like my nails? Well, bully you, and... you are, well... uncool.

So, I don't know why I stopped biting my nails. And, I don't know if it will last. They say it takes 21 days to break a habit (I don't know if that is true or who "they" are), but I am two days away from that magic number.

I am finally getting over the flu/bronchitis/also imagined illnesses (the plague, flesh eating virus, monkey pox). I have done nothing productive except rent movies and play scrabble on my palm pilot. The palm beats me 3 out of four games (although I do have it on the "expert" setting). However, now I am doing better as I am letting myself use words not allowed on the palm scrabble dictionary -- like poo, fuck, and bling.

I am in the car with Tony (road manager, web master, rock therapist) on our way to Cincinnati. Last night, I played a Christian college. I was all, "how far do I go?" Do I cuss, play Soldiers of Christ, or Jesus Was a Dreidel Spinner? Do I put out and sell the Kissed a Girl T-shirts (the one with the two “love is” silhouette girls kissing on the front with the sad crying boy in the back)? I wanted to be respectful, yet be myself. I was going to wear my peace sign dress but at the last moment remembered, "don’t some Christians think that represents a broken cross and is a sign of ... Satan?" Are these kids the spawn of Jerry Falwell and Cotton Mather, or are they just nice students whose parents made them go to this school? Or maybe they are true believers, but also really cool. Maybe I had to look at my own prejudices.

As I walked in, it seemed like any other small campus. The students' look was from hippy jam band, to alt rock, to smart bookish. I saw a few pretty great haircuts (in Grand Rapids!). What was I expecting, Salem, 1692?

So, from the first song, the crowd was with me. They got all the nuances, dark humor, and layers in the lyrics. They were very enthusiastic. Then came the time to do ... a "homo" song. I introduced Under The Disco Ball as a song about the "evils" of the gay agenda. They laughed and seemed, at least at that moment, to be on the right side (my side) of the cultural divide. Damn, on one hand, I wish I could have been a minor Buster the Bunny.

I am 3 weeks late for my biannual dental cleaning. Just a reminder.

I had this daydream that I was watching the throngs waiting for the white smoke to appear outside of St. Peter's. A miracle had happened! The cardinals had chosen a complete surprise. God, or baby Jesus had intervened the very last moment and had told them (in a kind of booming pro wrestler announcer voice) that an outsider must lead the flock. All were in awe, except for the mean old German who was sure he would be pope. The voice commanded, "And she will be a woman from Denver, Colorado, called by the name of Elaine Dillon." WHAT?!!!!!!!!!!!!!! That’s my mom! I immediately called her and asked her if she had heard the news. She answered, "Honey, I’m at mah jong with the girls, let me call you later." ...click.

More later.

I have been so scattered lately. I have forgotten my wallet, left keys in the door, and last night, I left my friend Dave’s guitar in the trunk of a taxi. I immediately called 311 -- the number on the back of the cab receipt. They said there was nothing I could do but call in the morning. The office opens at 9:00 AM.

9:00 AM: I called and a surprisingly a nice woman (usually they are so scary, curt, and mean) named Tamika said she would look into it.

9:13 AM: It has been too long. I am calling Tamika back.

9:17 AM: I can’t get a hold of Tamika.

10:00 AM: Tamika is ignoring me. She is probably enjoying seeing my number light up every 30 seconds on the switchboard, having a good laugh with her co-workers.

11:00 AM: I am so upset. It’s one thing to lose your own stuff, but another to lose someone else’s. When should I call Dave and tell him I have misplaced his 1956 Martin?

11:35 AM: I fucking hate Tamika.

12:30 PM: I am reminded of the story where a woman was being raped or killed on the streets (or was it on the subway?) of New York, and no one bothered to help or call the police.

2:00 PM: There is no God.

4:36 PM: There is an unknown Brooklyn number popping up on my cell phone. “Jill, hi, it’s Tamika. WE HAVE YOUR GUITAR!!!!

4:39 PM: God is good. And so are NYC city workers.

I always bought my New York Times Sunday edition on Saturday night. My roommate thought somehow that was cheating. But I couldn’t wait to see what Maureen Dowd had to say (now, it’s Frank Rich). I would next read the A & E section, and plan out what movies, music and plays (Plays? I never go to plays) I would have to see. Okay (confession), after the editorial section, I would go to Sunday Styles and look at the wedding couples. I have no idea why I was so drawn to the page. I loved reading their pedigrees, the age differences, and if she was going to keep her last name. I was so glad when they included gay couples, and prayed that the picture of the lesbian newlyweds was cute.

But the big prize would be attempting the crossword before falling asleep. I cannot tell you how many times that I would wake up with pen stains on the (good) sheets and on my person.

Now, in LA, one must drive to a newsstand or a Starbucks. I guess I could subscribe and have it delivered, but still, you can’t get it ‘til ...Sunday!

The "hipsters" here in LA are different than the ones in my old neighborhood. Here they use hair product. They have more muscles. They don’t seem like they read much or care about the filibuster. They do look good (right out of central casting). I think I way prefer the more fey, neo-folk listening ones of Brooklyn.

When I would buy the Times in the morning, along with a cup of coffee and a muffin the size of my head, I would shamefully buy the New York Post. Okay, I know the editorials are far right wing, but how can you resist the gossip of Page Six and the scintillating front-page headlines. My favorite this year was when Cynthia Nixon was spotted for the first time with her new girlfriend: "SAME SEX IN THE CITY!!"

San Francisco

As you know, I have not made my fortunes being a celebrity-recording artist. Thus, when I travel for my work, I usually stay with friends/acquaintances, or at one of those colorful Vietnam vet hobo hotels, where, if you wanted to, you could still smoke in every room. However last night, I threw caution to the wind, reserved a night at the Clift (one ofthem slightly trendy Ian Schrager hotels), and got a key to... the mini-bar!

I love the fancy cheesy crackers and the refrigerated Kit Kat bars. I know the Diet Coke is $6.00, but somehow it tastes so much better than the ones at home.

The mini-bar is crack. I eat maybe one fancy cheesy cracker, feel guilty, and then think about or try to fold the plastic wrapper back up so it looks unmolested. However, an hour later, I always come back for more and entirely destroy the packaging. Oh, I forgot to pack my toothbrush, so I reach for the mini-bar hygiene kit -- including shaving cream -- $12.00.

The Rock Star Lifestyle:

Crystal poppin'
In the stretch Navigata
We got food everywhere
As if the party was catered
We've got
Fellas to my left (left)
Hunnies on my right (right)
We bring 'em both togetha
We got drinkin' all night
Then afta the show
It's the afta party
And afta the party
It's the hotel lobby
Yeah, around about four
You gotta clear the lobby
Then take it to ya room and
Freak somebody
-- R Kelly (Ignition remix lyrics)

Hmmm, my life on the road:

Hybrid driving, coach class, folk star
Poptop Pringles in the mini bar.
After the show is the hotel lobby
And after the lobby is:
HBO, a $12 toothbrush, and an Ambien.

Chicago

There is no mini-bar at the Doubletree.

St. Louis

I am with my brother and nephews at a Cardinals game. I have had peanuts, fries, and a bucket of cotton candy. I am not feeling so good.

I bought a new car. Well, actually I leased (an almost commitment). I have car payments. Everyone (well, mainly relatives) said this would make me feel both good and responsible. "Good and responsible" are highly overrated. The only notable difference is that I am careful not to spill coffee on the cloth seats (should I have splurged for leather?)

Actually, the navigational system is the best. However, I don't like to read manuals, and I don't know yet how to shut up the bossy voice when I don't need her. It gave me a thought to have celebrity voice commands. Can you imagine Mr. T ("left, fool"), William F. Buckley, the cast of Deadwood, Tom Cruise (as on Oprah)?

Interest in living wills -- the documents that let people specify what medical measures they want or do not want at the end of life -- has surged in the aftermath of the fierce nationwide battle over the fate of Terri Schiavo, lawyers and other experts on all sides of the issue say. While interest peaked around the time of Ms. Schiavo's death on March 31, it is still strong, these experts say.
-- New York Times, June 17, 2005

I cannot really afford the lawyer. So I wrote a song. It’s in the key of G (the happiest key):

My Living Will
(by Jill Sobule, dated June 20, 2005)

If I pass out and forget to wake up
My heart still is pumping, but the brain’s out of luck
Well, do me a favor and give me break
Take out the tube for goodness sake
Don’t call the pastor and don’t call the priest
Even if I smile and my eyes sometimes blink
Be a good friend, I’d do the same
Throw me a party
Then send me to my grave

But if I pass out
And it’s just cause I’m drunk
please revive me and let me wake up
My last name is Sobule
My first name is Jill
This I declare is my living will

This is not my best song, I know, but it serves a purpose. In fact, I was thinking of starting a new business. You give me your info and I will write you a living will for say, hmmm... $39.79. I am cheaper than any lawyer, and just think of the fun you will have around the campfire.

My day: blow-by-blow.

I am in Denver visiting my mom.

I had biscuits, with "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" and blackberry jam. The coffee is a bit weak. I am a bit reticent to say this, cause my mom reads my journal. But, mom, the biscuits were real yummy.

After breakfast, we played Scrabble. Coming from a family of vice, we played a nickel a point. I spelled "Jo" twice with the J on a triple letter square (50 points)! She owes me $2.50.

We went to the Rite-Aid. I bought a straw hat and... a "very very light" pair of reading glasses. These are my first glasses ever. I am reminded of an episode of Deadwood where Al Swearengen disgustedly (but with acceptance) picks up a magnifying glass to read a letter. "It's come to this."

I went through one of the many boxes (my mom is the Jill Sobule archivist) of old photos and newspaper articles of me. Wow! I had a perm in 1984. Plus, it was bleached, so... it was not a good look. Here was an interview, probably my first (in some Denver paper called The Singles Forum), from 1983: "If I don't make it in the next three or four years, and there is a very, very good chance that I won't, then I'll probably go on to something else, because I don't want to be playing in clubs the rest of my life." Hmmm.

Another article describes me: "Her cutesy, Olivia Newton-John style was enough to make you pucker your lips in adoration." What? I hope he meant the Grease Olivia as opposed to the Let's Get Physical Olivia, at least. Actually, I think I might have had a secret crush on her as a kid (along with Elizabeth Montgomery and the son on Sanford and Son).

Ironically, I turned on Live 8 in the same room as I did the former one, some 20 years ago. Can I tell you how much I love Pete Townsend? It was so great to see the dinosaurs kick ass. And Elton John was so much better than he was the last time when he was so coked out and sweaty. I kinda liked Madonna, although I still prefer the less worked-on, less worked-out, less worked-on, rubber bracelet wearing Madonna of the Borderline years. I was thinking how much better of a role model she was, as opposed to the Britneys and Lohans of the world.

Okay, I may do more rock reviewing later, but I am now consumed with 2 letter words with an X, and the resignation of Sandra Day. Why couldn't it have been Sandra Dee instead? This is not good. Here is an interesting website: www.draftprado.org.

So, back to my family and the lazy-Susan Scrabble board.

Oh, speaking of old time Rockers, my new hero and role model is... Kitty Carlisle:

A few weeks ago, the Getty Playhouse showcased a memorable special event: "Here's to Life," Kitty Carlisle Hart's cabaret-style one-woman show, accompanied by her musical director, David Lewis.

Hart, 94, performed for a little over an hour, reminiscing and singing songs from some of her late friends such as Jerome Kern, George Gershwin, Richard Rogers, Oscar Hammerstein II and Cole Porter, presenting in one evening a short history of the American musical theater...

To see Kitty Carlisle Hart perform their canon is to be beguiled by her charm -- and her vitality. After her performance at the Geffen, Hart played an engagement aboard a cruise ship for two weeks. She is booked to play at Feinstein's at the Regency Hotel in New York in September for her 95th Birthday.

(from tommywood.com)

She is still playing clubs.

I can't stop. I need help. It's taking over. At first, it was just an innocent small diversion -- sort of like the "just one social drink a day" thing. I would say to myself, "oh, I have 20 minutes to kill so... why not indulge?" It was a slippery, slippery slope. And why aren't my friends and family calling for an intervention? Haven't they noticed the glaze in my eyes, the pasty skin (If I was a guy, I would be unshaven) and my chronic lateness? It was only just two weeks ago that I had my first taste. And now I am falling -- falling deep and hard.

I had this strange and awful dream last night that l woke up and found myself in the Hell portion of Hieronymus Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights. I was naked and hanging out with all the other writhing fornicators and gamblers. I think I was sitting next to the guy making love to the pig with the nun hat, staring at my 12 inch Powerbook, trying once more to change my letters... but all I could get was... E-E-I-I-I-I-U.

Yes, I am an online Scrabble addict. And, I am not that good. With my rating in the lower 400's (I think it goes up to maybe 4000), I am sure I am playing Jr. High schoolers. Last night I lost to Jellygrrl3, who always types :) after a good score. And, there is something kinda sordid, a bit Looking For Mr. Goodbar about the whole anonymous thing. Maybe Jellygrrl3 is really a 41 year old Republican lobbyist from Denver. You don't know, but you don't care.

Cold turkey. I have unplugged the computer tonight. Well, actually I left my power cord at a hotel, so I can't play. Maybe one night is all I need to break the devil's hold.

If somehow I become weak again, register at Online Scrabble Club... and look for jillsusan :)

I have been really stressed and jetlagged. To keep from spiraling and thinking bad and anxious thoughts, I give myself pop quizzes (instead of yoga or meditating, for instance).

This morning, I asked myself, "What are the 7 deadly sins?"

Let’s see: greed, lust, gluttony, envy, sloth, anger, and ... dang, what’s the 7th one? Blasphemy? No, that’s a commandment. Avarice? Wait, avarice is the same as greed. Damn, it’s driving me crazy. See how this works? See how this gets my mind off of such things as what a shitty label my last CD was on, or like, what am I going to do with the rest of my life?

Okay, what about those commandments? There is the "I am the lord God and you shall have no other god but me." There is the no graven images thing, then there is the "don’t take the Lord's name in vain." I did skim though a bit of the Bible recently (Exodus and Leviticus) -- I was in a hotel and forgot to bring reading material and the cable was out of order. I tell you what, that Old Testament God has issues. You think if he was all that all-powerful, that he wouldn’t care what others think about him so much.

Okay, then there is "honor thy mother and father" -- I know this is not in order, but that’s a bit too much for my brain right now. I think next there is the one about remembering the sabbath. How come Christians (like that judge in Alabama who is so into the tablets) do not take that day off?

I am halfway there. Then there is the: "thou shalt not kill," no lying, stealing, and cheating. Hmmm, what is the last one? Do unto others? No, that is the golden rule.

Someone pointed out to me yesterday that Sobule is an anagram for blouse.

Oh, it’s Coveting! No coveting your neighbor’s wife, manservant, or ass. I did it -- all ten! I should not be so proud. Aren’t we supposed to know them, like the multiplication tables and our state bird?

Aah... pride! That is the missing deadly sin!

Next, I will work on the Presidents of the United States going backwards.

Bush, Clinton, Bush, Reagan, Carter...

Yesterday, I had a strange LA experience.

I was on the onramp getting on the 101 when a taco truck (what do you call those big coaches that sell food on the side of the road?) lost its brakes and backed into me. We both got out of our vehicles to look for damage. Amazingly, my car was basically spared, but his rear bumper was hanging. Still, I wanted to get his information. So, I asked him if I could follow him to the next exit.

He seemed to reluctantly agree, but must have panicked last second (I’m guessing he might not have been legal) and sped off. That would have been fine, since my car was basically okay, and not worth someone getting in major trouble, except... he left his poor wife on the onramp!

I didn’t even see her! What was I to do? So, I told her to get in my car and we would try to follow. She was petrified, sitting shotgun in her housedress with my backpack and mandolin on her lap. I asked her where we were going, and she kept saying something about how the brakes were bad. After about 20 minutes, he finally stopped. He got out the coach, started yelling at his wife (in Spanish), yelled at me (that there was no damage to my car) and pleaded that I should leave him alone. I did merrily... and drove home wondering if it was all a dream or residue from a 10th grade acid trip.

Maybe I should have taken his wife home with me. She seemed so sweet, I could have saved her from her asshole husband, and I bet she would have made a great personal assistant or something.

I got my first hate mail (well, in a long time):

You and your politics can go fuck yourself with a giant auger.

- from bettermannow83@aol.com

Well, I was a bit taken, as I thought I was opening up another nice email telling me how much they enjoyed my performance on Air America the night before. And, I assumed with the name "bettermannow" that it was in reference to that Pearl Jam song, or he might be an older gay Barry Manilow fan.

I was with a friend at the time who warned me not to write back, and that it was better (bettermannow) to just ignore these creeps. "Don’t egg them on." But I couldn’t help it and wrote back,

I would fuck myself but my auger is low on batteries.

Now, I had no idea what an auger was, but I thought I would guess -- either a power tool or a type of beer (only later did I look it up in the dictionary on my dashboard of the new Mac operating system -- phew -- and found it is "a tool with a helical bit for boring holes in wood").

For the next two days, every time I would log on, I would look for bettermannow. Why did I care? Why did I give him any thought or energy? Did his hate mail somehow validate me; make me feel that my work mattered? Do I want to understand, converse with (and possibly enlighten) my enemy? Or, am I a freak, like those women who fall for serial killers and write them love letters in jail? No, maybe I just wanted to know if my line about the auger low on batteries either pissed him off more or made him laugh.

And who is this guy? So let’s say he did hear me on Air America singing some political songs. Well then, he probably is an extreme right-wing Bush lover (well, maybe not a Bush lover anymore since they are all turning on him). He’s not a Christian, I guess, using the f word and all. And, he certainly isn’t a Jew, as no Jew would possibly know what an Auger is. I imagine him middle aged, divorced (his wife left him for someone better looking, wealthier and smarter). His home page is The Drudge Report or WorldNetDaily. He is still plagued by the shame and guilt of a homosexual experience with his shop teacher (auger?) and cannot even bring it up to his shrink (the only reason he is seeing a psychiatrist is that it was either that and anger management classes, or getting fired).

Finally, I got a response:

Subject: Prior email

I accidentally deleted your response. Would you kindly resend it Asshole?

More later.

"Meditation is Boring."   -John S. Hall

I have been so distracted lately. There is so much going on at the same time. I’ve got the kids' show to do, the play, get ready for a tour, write for the next album, and find a new dentist. It’s overwhelming. But instead of figuring out how to organize my week and where to put my focus, I just... blow it off.

And then what I do is spend hours on my computer going from one web site to the next, seeing what everyone with a blog thinks of Harriet Miers or Judith Miller.

Today, it all became a blur. I realized that, with all the time spent perusing knowledge and opinions, I have not retained anything. I thought maybe I should try... meditating.

Now, I have not meditated in, say, 2 years, and then did it infrequently. However, when I was in 7th grade, my brother, my dad and I joined Transcendental Meditation. I went to 3 classes and got my own Mantra. I thought it was cool when I told my friends, "I would tell you my Mantra, so you could meditate too, but if I did, I might die." Later, I learned that almost everyone that joined TM had the same Mantra (and I am still alive).

I do have to say that it helped me. I was a hyper kid and am sure that I would have been a candidate for Ritalin. The ritual of 15 minutes of meditation twice a day probably kept me in my school seat. So, why did I stop doing it? And why don’t I start it up again?

Okay, so I closed the door, lit a candle, sat on the bed and closed my eyes. I slowly brought the Mantra into my head. I tried to focus on it, and push out all other thoughts "effortlessly". After a few Mantras, I started thinking about how the founder of TM, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, was criticized by John Lennon in Sexy Sadie (off the White Album), but then George still liked him. Who was right? I then remembered hearing somewhere that Dylan was the first to turn the Beatles onto pot. Oh, back to the Mantra!

Mantra, Mantra, Mantra. I wonder why you hear about all these gurus having sex with their disciples. So, does that mean that you can be a master at meditation (can have, say, 3,000 mantras in a row without an invading drifting thought) and still be a sleaze? Mantra, Mantra... I wonder if I could find a dentist who still gives gas.

After 15 minutes, I began to open my eyes. I think I felt a bit calmer. Yes, I think it did something. Not a hundred percent sure, but maybe.

Didn’t Mia Farrow go to India the same time the Beatles did?

Nashville: I went there to work with another writer, who also happens to be one of my best friends. As I was about to board the plane, I got a call from him saying that he wasn't feeling great, had a bad cold and... had to cancel. And that was it! There was no, "Jill, I am so sorry; I should have called you last night. What can I do to help?" I was supposed to stay with him, so I had no hotel reservations or anything. I was bummed, but tried to remember that when someone is under the weather, you just have to give him a break.

Well, I decided since my ticket was nonrefundable, my bags were already on the plane, and I have other friends there, that I would just go ahead and go. No big deal. But when I found out (the next day!) that he went to New York to work on something else, I friggin' lost it! I was so, so mad. And hurt. I mean, we had been close friends for 15 years. It was baffling, uncool and not like him at all.

Embarrassing side story: I walked into the bathroom on the plane, was about to sit down, when my stupidly expensive ($420) cell phone fell out of my pocket into the toilet. I didn't even see it go down. I just heard a thump and suction.

What's been interesting is my reaction. I was like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof when he finds out his daughter is marrying a non-Jew: "She is dead to me." I wrote an email starting with, " I never knew you were such a fucking stupid dickhead, asshole..." I didn't send it. It was not very eloquent, plus you shouldn't write a letter to someone who is "dead" to you. I didn't want him to think I cared. I didn't want him to know that he had alternately turned me into a weepy pathetic loser and a bile spitting velociraptor. Didn't want to give him the power -- no way.

I can't remember a time when I have been this affected. Sure, I have had break ups (relationships -- yuck). People can be nasty, jealous and petty, that is a given. But, with a close friend? No, they are the ones that have your back, that help you through break ups, that will always be there. They are sorta like... family.

There was this girl named Carol Faingold who was my best friend in 6th grade. When we became junior high schoolers, she dropped me for a girl in the more popular clique. I was so hurt, and I think it kind of messed me up for a long time. Well, some 20 or more years later, I used her full name in a song. The song, called Super 8 (on my Happy Town CD), was a somber nostalgic trip about watching old family movies. In one verse, I mention a birthday party where all my friends are celebrating with me, including Carol: "And there is Carol Faingold before she sliced her wrists." Now, Carol never slit her wrists; in fact, I lost all contact with her and had no idea what she was doing or had become. And, I thought that I wasn't really hung up on her anymore, it was just that her name sounded good in the song.

Anyway, I was in Denver (the home town) on tour with the new CD, when a woman came up to me before the show and said, "Jill, it's Carol, Carol Faingold! We are so proud of you. My family [she had her daughter with her] loved your last album so much. We can't wait to buy the new one." Well, all those years of Carol fear and loathing vanished in that moment. I realized that it wasn't Carol herself that made my 7th grade miserable and consequently haunted me forever. No, she was just a symbol. Or something like that. Now, I had to worry about her hearing that song and having her daughter think that her mom was a cutter. I told Carol that the CD was a bit spotty and that I would burn and send her a special personalized copy.

I never heard from Carol. And, I have yet to talk to my new "ex best friend." I have a feeling he might profusely apologize and make it up to me. But if he doesn't, if I write a song about him, I will not use his full name.

5 days later: We are pals again. He had a lame excuse, but felt really bad and did give a good apology. All is forgiven. But he does owe me $420 for the cell phone.

I am backstage watching Cyndi Lauper soundcheck. It is the first day of the tour, and I am nervous. I don’t get nervous or stage fright often, but for some reason, I am about to throw up. I have had the obvious and typical nightmares for two weeks: I can't remember the lyrics or chords, I can’t find the stage (a la Spinal Tap), and I forget to put on pants as I am about to enter the stage. I have yet to see Cyndi, her band, or bus driver, so I feel like the new awkward kid, from some strange eastern European country, who wears all the wrong clothing.

Boy, she can sing. I forgot how good she is. I think when there were the "who do you like better, Cyndi or Madonna?" wars, I chose Cyndi. I still cry whenever I hear Time After Time -- it almost makes me want to buy the Time-Life 80s box set. I wonder if I am going to be on the ‘90s one. Is it out yet? Wouldn’t that be great, to be in one of those infomercials, like Davy Jones or Barry Williams (a Brady)? I could be in it with, say, Hootie (whatever his real name is) from Hootie and the Blowfish. I could announce, "Hootie, where can you get all those great 90s hits, from Hole to the Backstreet boys?"

Of course, now I am worrying about my voice. I have not practiced or done vocal exercises since... 1991.

20 minutes later:

Cyndi saw me, waved, and told everyone to treat me nice -- "She’s a good friend." I met her once a couple years back at a benefit concert in NYC. I was impressed with how warm and unaffected she was. That night I performed Bowie’s (or Mott the Hoople’s) All The Young Dudes and she came out and sang the last chorus with me. For some reason, I would not have expected her to remember that. So, guess what? She just asked me if I wanted to do it with her on her encore.

She so does win over Madonna.

Blew a tire and fell into a ditch outside of Ocala. We (my road manager Tony and I) walked up to the 7-11ish convenience store that was just down the road (in the pouring rain) and called AAA. The woman working the register at the store said, "Well honey, I bet there was a good reason that y'all had a flat. Maybe there was something worse out there ahead that God wanted to protect you from." The headless hitchhiker? Well, she was so sweet and sincere that I think I might have bought it.

I asked Cyndi if she wanted to go with us to my favorite good/bad Florida theme park, The Holy Land Experience. Holy Land is a recreation of Jerusalem during Jesus’ time. So instead of Mickey and Goofy, you have the Roman Soldier and the Pharisee. Instead of Cindarella's Castle, you have the hill with the crosses -- you can actually see it from the highway. Cyndi was game, so we picked her up at the Four Seasons (Tony and I are more of the Red Roof Inn Types). We bought tambourines in the shape of the Star of David.

I am on Myspace.com, but had totally forgotten about it, and had not logged on for over a year. Just yesterday, I overheard a conversation between two music industry types (in hipster jeans and shoes, but just calculated enough to know that they were not true artists, but "scared they might be fired any moment now" record label people), in a Starbucks. They talked about how important Myspace had become for young bands. I ran home, accepted 600 friend requests, and added a blog.

I just got back from a conference called eg 2006. It was a gathering of entertainers, brainiacs, and rich folk. Among the attendees were Yo Yo Ma, Matt Groening, Quincy Jones, the guy who invented Sim City, the guy from Yahoo, etc. Of the presenters (I think maybe 40 in all), I bet I was the least famous and the poorest (unlike Jeffrey Katzenberg and the guy from Yahoo).

My first blog is such a piece of shameless name-dropping - so sorry. But I have to tell you the big one, at least for me. I have been a big fan of Herbie Hancock since I was a wee girl. And a strange girl indeed - I would have a Miles Davis album right next to The Monkees. Anyway, I as was about to play a song on the last night, for some reason, I got up the courage to ask Herbie if he would sit in with me. So, there I was showing Herbie Hancock the changes to my song, Mexican Wrestler: G-C- and the difficult chord of D. It was so absurd and great. He was so so amazing. This had to be one of the best and most unbelievable moments of my life.

After the conference and at the after party, he came up to me twice and sort of apologized. He said, "Jill, I was listening to the lyrics and forgot about my part. Now, I am thinking of all the things I could have done. Next time, it will be better, I promise." What?!

Well, I learned two things: One is, that you never know what someone will do if you don't ask them. I remember questioning Joe Jackson (name drop no. 6) once, on why he didn’t play piano on other people’s CDs. He said that he would love to, but no one ever asks. He thought that everyone thinks that he would just tell them to fuck off - he did have that rep. Maybe, I will email Joni and ask her if she wants to come over to watch Law & Order SVU with me, and then afterwards we could jam.

The other thing I learned is that even those that are the best in the world at what they do can also feel insecure or something akin to what we, the average joe, experience.

If you visit my Myspace, I just might invite you to be my friend. You never know. I have a lot less than the average 7th grader.

I was thinking about old flames and where they are now. Let’s see, I have had maybe 7 or 8 (serious to semi-serious) break ups in my life. I am thinking that means you went out with them for, say, more than 3 months. So, that doesn't count Robbie Naiman, who in 6th grade, asked me to go steady in the morning, then broke up with me after second recess. It seemed an eternity. That does not include my terrible crush (a year later) on my best friend Mary Gardner, who accidentally (or was it?) touched my breasts.

So I thought I would google my college boyfriend, Wendell Lee. I met Wendell on the first day of freshman year (he was on my dorm floor). I had not gone all the way yet with a boy, and thought... enough was enough. So, that night, after a party, I took him to an all night Denny’s for an English muffin, and the rest was history.

We lasted the rest of the year, but it was always pretty iffy. I was in my depressive anorectic phase, and he was the popular campus drug dealer. One of our more "romantic" moments was when I came home from class -- it was my birthday --and he had the number 19 written in cocaine on the glass coffee table.

So there are tons of Wendell Lees: a photographer, a wine dealer, a lawyer, but none seem to match.

Next stop: Mary Gardner

I am on a plane right now about to leave for Nashville. The girl next to me -- in a baby pink Addidas running suit -- is on the phone making a deal. She looks like she is maybe 18, but talks like she is a Vegas pit boss (from an episode of, say, Kojak). From here, it sounds like it has something to do with a girl band, a record deal, poker, and an adult video. But, "it's gonna be huge," "it’s already generating a buzz," and "we are so cutting him out of the deal." By the way, her carry on bag is also the color, cuddle-pink. I do like how her highlighted hair has that wavy, just out of the ocean look -- I think Bumble & Bumble makes that product, must look into it. We have to turn our electronics off soon, but maybe I will find out more upon landing.

...

Just landed: She is dialing the phone, listening to her messages, I think. Then, she calls someone. She sounds different: "I’ll be there really soon." "Yes, I dressed warm." It was mom. Nothing more to report.

There is so much in the news that leaves one feeling glum and glummer. But why does the story about Cheney's hunting incident give me so much pleasure?

Your song is disgusting and you're a loser who will never see Grammy status in your low life career. Sing real songs/music and maybe, just maybe you will make it one day. Until then enjoy your swimming in the cess pool of lowlife music.

Gary

And I thought I could play with the big boys. But, I'm a wimp, a fragile bird, a sensitive singer/songwriter. I can dish it out, but...

I am a reader of The Huffington Post and a fan of Arianna (I got a thing for her -- in a cool way). So you can imagine how excited I was when she responded to my letter last week. I sent her a song about Bush, and she said she would post it on the website -- wow! But then she asked if I had anything concerning Cheney and, of course, the hunting incident.

Well, I certainly was not going to miss that opportunity, so I asked my friend Robin Eaton (who I happened to be writing with at the time) if he wanted to help me come up with something. We had to do it quick. And, we had to come up with an interesting angle. We went Brokeback. I know it’s been overly parodied, but a gay Dick Cheney makes me laugh every time. That’s just me.

Within a few hours after writing, recording, and pushing the send button, it was on the front page of The Huffington Post -- ah, the wonder of the Internet. I was so beside myself and proud (deadly sin) that I instantly put out a news flash to my fans, and asked them to post a comment on it if they wanted.

That might of backfired, as it became sort of obvious. One commenter (not a fan) wrote that it must be my mom writing all the gushing praise. Another said that it was pointless and silly to write the Cheney song, as there were so many more important issues. Am I really going to sing a catchy number about campaign reform? The one that bugged me was the one that felt I was somehow anti-gay. Hey, I am the "kissed a girl girl" -- and took a lot of shit for it, too.

Well, that was nothing. Somehow it made breaking news on my favorite extreme right-wing Christian oriented site, WorldNetDaily. Please excuse the picture of me.

Within minutes, I got sack full of the nastiest, most unchristian like mail. The vitriol was epic. And, it made me feel bad. I don't want anyone thinking I was mean spirited, Satan's spawn, or "had low self-esteem." I never liked making enemies. As a kid, I kept to myself, so I wouldn’t piss anyone off. Guess I’m a phony provocateur.

Well, today, as I am writing this, I feel a bit better and am still glad I did the song. I do have to get a thicker skin if I want to continue as political troubadour.

Let’s see... next song... the Prophet Mohammed.

I'm back from TED 2006, a 4 day gathering of scientists, futurists, activists, artists, philanthropists, etc. A lot of smart people. It is, as someone said, "a chance to take the undergraduate class of your dreams."

I arrived one day late and walked in as Peter Gabriel was talking about a group he is funding called Witness It gives cameras to activists around the world to help them tell their stories. He said what a marvelous and cheap tool the camera phone is to record abuse. I thought how great it would have been if, as a child, I had a secret video camera to witness my mom flushing the goldfish I won at the Purim carnival down the toilet.

Later that day was Michael Shermer, who edits Skeptic magazine. He played Stairway To Heaven backwards, and we did (as he prepped us) hear the word “Satan.” Then came Stew (Mark Stewart from The Negro Problem). He sang a hilarious song about his recent trip to Aspen, Black Men Ski.

Then came Rick Warren -- the mega-church guy who sold over 30 million copies of The Purpose-driven Life (I think the 2nd biggest non-fiction ever). I was all ready to dismiss him, but he was likable (in his Hawaiian shirt), didn’t mention Jesus much (I would say it was a rather secular crowd), and was, I have to admit, sort of inspiring (he does give 90 percent of his income to Charity). But then the next speaker, Daniel Dennett (Philosopher, Intelligent Design debunker), started dissing some of the passages in Rick Warren’s book. It was a rare (but sort of fun) fighting moment at TED.

Well, you are probably asking yourself, why am I here? I asked the same thing when I saw Meg Ryan in the convention center. Well, I am lucky. The wonderful folks who put it on have taken a liking to me. They allow me to sing a couple, and I get in free.

So, I could continue the blow by blow, but my head is too tired. I could talk about Larry Brilliant, who helped eradicate smallpox, or the warfare expert who talked about robot ants. I could talk about how amazing Jehane (Control Room) Noujaim’s idea of bringing the world together for one day a year through the power of film was, or about hearing Thomas Dolby (the music director of the whole thing) goof on She Blinded Me With Science. I could go on and on, but I will just tell y