I was called “ye of little faith” for initially refusing to see Blondie in concert on Feb 22nd. From my perspective, Blondie’d had their heyday almost 30 years ago (I mean, this show was officially part of the “Parallel Lines 30th Anniversary Tour”) and even though something inside of me said “c’mon, they’re a living legend” I didn’t want to wreck the pristine-yet-dirty image I had in my mind. You know, of bleached hair and black eyeliner, spiky mullets and acid-washed stretch pants, sloppily laced tennis shoes and “I don’t give a shit what you think about me” glances. Blondie was my picture of cool 80′s style, with good music and a talented siren of a front woman to boot.

You’re probably saying “So what? It’s just a concert. Go for the spectacle and the ability to say ‘Yeah, I saw Blondie in concert’” and I hear you. You must know, though, that I’ve done it before and was sorely disappointed.

In 2001 Pat Benatar played the House of Blues in Myrtle Beach. I jumped. Pat was my IDOL. She was all I listened to. All I sang along to. Even though I was a naturally low alto I strained and trained myself to match her almost impossible register. So as I stood in the HoB, waiting almost an hour between the opening band’s end and the start of Pat’s set, the anticipation grew. They were making us wait so long in the impossible heat because they were going to knock our socks off. I just knew it! …Then she appeared. Almost every song she performed in a gravelly, strained mezzo alto–at times two octaves lower than the original recording. Halfway through the set Pat took a break and let her daughter’s “girl group” entertain the crowd for 15 minutes. The kicker was her performance of my favorite song of all time: “We Live For Love” She turned what used to be a showcase of her agile, piercing voice into an excuse to let her husband rock out on his guitar, and her background singers sang the high notes while she caught her breath. I. Was. Devastated. Even though I was too proud to admit it, Pat changed for me.

And people, Debbie Harry is 64 years old now. YES. Pat Benatar was only 48 when I saw her eight years ago. As women age, their singing voices wear out. They get saggy and baggy. Edges get smoothed out and fires smolder. There’s nothing wrong with that, unless you’re trying to behave like you’re still in your 20′s. It takes a pretty talented actress to recapture and project the energy and intensity she had so many years ago. I had doubts. I’d already lost Pat and I wasn’t interested in letting my second-most admired 80′s rock icon fall off her pedestal.

Then the ever-attentive Jed presented me with Blondie tickets as a V-Day gift. He knew I secretly wanted to go but was unable to bring myself to make the purchase on my own. Okay. Deep breath. I was going to the Blondie show. But this time I wouldn’t make the mistake of winding myself up so tightly over it. No expectations. None.

I avoided the temptation to wear my Halloween costume to the show. Instead, Jed and I had a leisurely dinner and hopped in line at the Roseland Theater about 45 minutes before Dahlia was scheduled to open the evening. We took our place in the crowd, center stage with only two bodies between me and the monitors. And those bodies belonged to some interesting characters. One of them was a tall skinny boy who gave me a fist pound after negotiating a “you’re going to bump into me and I’m going to bump into you and we’re both cool with it” agreement. We’ll call him Skinny. Another was a spitting image of Larry the Cable Guy, attire and all, with black shades and hairy arms. We’ll call him Larry. Both men were there with other men, and Larry’s partner was easily seven feet tall. Remember that, as it will be important later on.

So Dahlia took the stage at 8 o’clock sharp and got us all warmed up. Unfortunately Dahlia is defunct and only reunited for this one occasion, or else I’d recommend checking them out if you feel like a good, sweaty, dance-fest. Two DJs provided the electronica while the singer, a petite Bjork look-alike, writhed and wailed from one end of the stage to the other. She was overly theatrical and hypersexual at times, but otherwise a great entertainer. Honestly, I was just happy that Blondie enlisted local talent to open their show. As 8:30 tolled the end of Dahlia’s set, I was thusfar pleased.

Over the next half of an hour the room became noticeably more packed. The balcony filled up, and the temperature rose rapidly. People started chanting “Blondie! Blondie! Blondie!” as the roadies egged the crowd on. Skinny started jumping up and down. Larry, who had been cool as a cucumber up to this point, began wiping his brow with his wrist guards and roaring with excitement in all directions. Then at exactly 9pm the lights dimmed and out walked the band, with Debbie Harry last to take the stage.

Flash point.

Larry Lost. His. Mind.

Meanwhile, I was caught up in a moment of Whoa. Debbie Harry, old enough to be my grandmother, was beautiful. She still had that same cool, dismissive look on her face and that petite silhouette. Her skin was alabaster without so much as a freckle. I had no illusions, as Madame Harry has been very open about having plastic surgery, but science can only do so much…

I didn’t let myself think about it for too long, as I had to be proactive about not falling victim to Larry’s flailing. Remember what I said about that huge partner of his? It all made sense in that moment.

Song after song, the crowd sang along with hands waving in the air and feet leaving the floor in keeping with the beat. Skinny, Jed and I became part of a hot wet conglomerate of rockin’ and stompin’. The lights were scorching, and Debbie Harry did not disappoint with her performance. After so many years, she’s still got the notes, folks. The only time she opted for a lower octave was my personal RockBand favorite, “Call Me”. But she was just saving up for the finale, as soon thereafter she ripped into an extended version of “Rapture” that sounded just as haunting as it did back in the 80′s. And the rap was so well executed that the crowd almost turned themselves inside out with applause.

You get the point. Blondie was awesome. But why? When you take off the heart-shaped glasses and LOOK at them, they’re a buncha old people playing music that they wrote decades ago. Pat tried it on me and I was sorely disappointed. What’s Blondie got that Pat doesn’t have? Here’s the thing… After so many years, Blondie hasn’t taken their fans for granted. They feed us. They present exactly what we want to see. From the “Parallel Lines” stage decor to the cleavage and drum solos, Blondie identified what made them so successful and is now milking that cow for all it’s worth. Hell, at one point Debbie Harry jokingly dabbed her armpits with a towel and then threw it at Larry, and he was so elated that he again had to be wrestled into submission by his titanic handler. Blondie works because they’ve got a mix of history, good material, and attitude. Pat Benatar failed because she’d all but used up her voice, fell out of touch with her fanbase, and didn’t take good care of us when we came to see her in concert.

In short, Blondie found the magic formula for aging gracefully. And profitably, I’m sure.

New Year’s Resolution #1 is in full effect, with the help of a web community called Gyminee. Cute name, right? Aside from having a catchy moniker, Gyminee provides some great, simple tools for tracking your progress toward self defined health/fitness goals. It’s a fairly new service and, though not unique in its concept, is a little less intimidating than more established fitness communities like Peer Trainer. I joined up for the January Twitter Lose Off, and quickly found that the simple interface, charted progress, and customizable goal setting are just what I need. Jed and I have accounts and could use a few more GymBuddies! Join up and find me: My username is NycoHerzog.

Also, you can join the official Look, Something Shiny! Shiny New You challenge if you want to make the fun last longer than a month. I started the challenge because I realized my weight loss goal will take me longer than January to achieve. If you’re like me, you don’t want the fun to end on 02/01/09. So sign up and let’s get healthy awhile…

Jed was giving me the daily political rundown last night, one highlight of which was Bush’s refusal to stop his vacation to address the flame-up in Gaza, and all I could say was “Dude, it seems like this entire year has been nothing but a farce.” Seriously. From my enrolling in and subsequently dropping out of beauty school, to Sarah Palin giving a Thanksgiving interview in front of turkeys being slaughtered, this year has been pretty ridiculous on so many levels. Farces have their place, though–They’re entertaining, at the very least. At the most, they’re an opportunity for players to showcase a broad spectrum of talent.

With that in mind, I look forward to 2009 and look back on 2008 with a smirk. Thanks for the laughs. I just about killed you, though, so don’t push it next year, alright?

Now, I don’t have any creative control over the script for politics and celebrity behavior (now that Britney’s made her comeback, there really aren’t any blonde twenty-somethings to worry about besides, well, ME) so I’ll have to resort to hoping for the best for everyone else and making resolutions for myself. Here they are:

Nyco’s Not-So-New New Year’s Resolutions

1. Dust off the Calorie Journal and start keeping track of my nutrition again.
2. Be on time.
3. Quit biting my lip.
4. Stick with the chopsticks.

What’re yours?

Happy New Year, everybody! I hope you are safe and warm this evening as you participate in 2008′s finale. See you in 2009 for the next episode of this strange comedy of life.

When you step into freshly fallen snow. That soft crunch–that is my favorite. Everything about snow, from the brisk air that accompanies it to its ability to completely transform a landscape, is awesome. Snow inspires me to play, to laugh, to dig, to make memories. I’m willing to say that snow is essential to the holidays. Without it, they’re just not as merry as they could be.

As a little person growing up in the mountains of New Mexico, I came to expect blustery sub-zero conditions just after Halloween. Before the first snowfall, my family would go woodcutting in a nearby forest to secure fuel for our iron stove (the only source of heat in our house). To stockpile enough to last the entire season, we made three consecutive day-long trips. Our mission? Search out an old felled tree, saw it into round pieces, stack them in the bed of an old brown pick-up, and use them to assemble a wall of wood next to our driveway. Sometimes we needed only one big tree to do the job; other times we used up more daylight searching than we did cutting.

Once the temperatures dropped, Dad went outside every morning and brought in an icicle each for my sister and me. Everyone got up before dawn in my house, mostly because the Bozo Show came on at 6am and Dad liked to get a head start on his day at the particleboard plant. Did I mention that we lived on a reservation? That’s kind of an important detail, and hopefully helps to explain the close proximity of our home to the mill and a dense mountain forest. Anyway, while we were licking icicles Dad built a fire in the iron stove, which was located in a corner of our living room. Conveniently, the television was nearby. He stood with his heavy coat spread out in front of our home’s only heat source for awhile, and then off he went. When no one was looking, Latice and I put the remainder of our icicles on top of the stove and watched them sputter and slide all over.

Snowy days were spent in our back yard, for the most part. Latice and I dug labyrinths with kid-sized shovels and garden hoes, rolled gigantic snow balls, attempted to dig out the swing set so we could play on it, and other insane kids-in-winter activities. I don’t ever remember getting frost-bitten, or at least I don’t remember caring. We were too busy. When my cousins lived down the road from us, we all made a ruckus together around the neighborhood. Then someone usually fell on their nose and everyone retreated home to have soup.

Fast-forward to Sunday morning. I dragged out of bed after an insane travel day and found myself surrounded by white powdery awesomeness. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: This is the best holiday season I’ve had since moving to Portland. And you know I’m stomping, digging, rolling, and laughing my way all over this town. Of course, there are lots of photos for your enjoyment. Happy Snow Day, everyone!

I may not be the best at GIMP, but that doesn’t mean I love you any less.

I’m actually writing this entry mid flight to Houston. There’s nothing better for reminiscing than being stuck in a seat for three and a half hours. All is calm, all is bright, save a blonde hair-flipping college athlete sitting one row in front of me, with all of her “like” and “drama” and “totally” chatter to her seat mate. On a different day or trip I’d be irritated that she can’t keep her voice below bar level. Today? I’m flying high in all senses, so she’s off the hook. Then again, I’ve only been on the plane for about 30 minutes.

And now a baby just started screaming.

Ah, the holidays!

And these have been eventful and momentous and all of those grand words that people use to describe big deals. Back in July my parents purchased an airplane ticket for me; the purpose for my journey was to help them make some repairs to the house they lived in at the time. Well, they moved away from South Carolina and I found myself with a two week excuse to cram in some serious sister time, along with quality Herzog hangin’ out. And it was worth every moment, let me tell you.

Latice had a birthday, graduated with her MS from Clemson University, and I got to watch her open a Christmas present for the first time in three years. Heck, Jed and I got to watch his parents open gifts, too (I know! We really made this trip count). All of these things I used to take for granted when I lived, schooled, and worked in South Carolina. Having a retail job in Oregon for three years, during which the holidays were off limits for vacations, made me appreciate such milestones more. I call them the “Life Things”. Life is too short to miss out on the “Life Things”.

So we “Life”-d it up.

I learned a few “Things”, too. Or, more accurately, I remembered. For one, Jed and I are more than blessed with amazing friends. The few that we were able to visit with made us feel like we’d only been gone for a day or two. Also, we had it pretty good while living in Clemson. Jed and I worked in the same office, with the added bonus of fun and caring coworkers. We knew someone everywhere we went in downtown Clemson, and a friendly game of pool was only a block away. And the food! Super Taco, China Wok, Mellow Mushroom… Finally, it was great to live so close to family. Sure, being an airplane ride away has its advantages, but there is something to be said for a short jaunt up or over to the ‘rents. Or the ability to cook dinner with little sister.

But I had my time, so now it’s back to Portland and all of the “Life Things” Jed and I share there. To our friends, our little apartment, our favorite coffee house, our walks into downtown—To our lives that are separate and different from the lives of our families. They will intertwine little in the coming years. But when they can, I’ll be there.

Late in my freshman year of high school, my best girl friend came out to me on the telephone. It was mind blowing. Best. Girl. Friend. Was a lesbian–The first one I’d ever known or even met (forgive the naivete… I was fourteen and hadn’t even had my first kiss yet). Clutching the receiver, I grilled her about the nature of our friendship and whether it was based on false assumptions or hopes. At the end of the long phone call I was happy to know her truth and relieved to finally understand the reason behind the tension between her and another girl in our circle. So we went on as before for a little while, until she clued in a loud mouth mutual friend with a penchant for juicy gossip.

Then things changed. They shouldn’t have, but they did. My best friend got scared, felt betrayed and paranoid. And who could blame her? We lived in a tiny town in South Carolina, right in the back yard of an active KKK chapter, so full of Southern Baptists and fundamentalist conservatives that even the Mormons were ostracized at school. So, she naturally came to me, her best friend, for help and support. Know what I did? I cracked. After thoroughly scolding her for telling the town crier her “secret” I informed her that the camel’s back had been broken. In truth, I too was scared, felt betrayed and paranoid. I wasn’t equipped to be the straight best friend of the only lesbian in, for all we knew, the entire shit town we called home at the time. What she did (come out) was very brave, what she did was right, but it was terrifying and potentially dangerous in such a closed-minded place.

I know a lot of you might say “Screw ‘em! Be yourself! It’s your right!” and I’m there with ya, people. But you probably never had a neighbor walk into your house with a poundcake in one hand, a Bible in the other, and a mouthful of words proclaiming that you and your children (“Hello!”) will all go to Hell if you don’t get “saved”. You’ve probably never walked into a parking lot and found your car covered in spit, scrawled with epithets, and the air let out of all of the tires because you color your hair with Manic Panic. And I bet nobody ever brandished a knife at you for wearing a Marilyn Manson t-shirt to school. That’s the kind of crap that happened to people who dared to be different in that small, South Carolina town I called home for over a decade.

Oh, it’s horrible. But it’s real. And my best friend opened that door on both of us. See why we were scared?

I knew that she had hopes of her admission making our friendship all the stronger. At first I had those hopes, too. In retrospect, I was a dumb, scared teenager who didn’t have any clue who I was or what I stood for. The circumstances in which I chose to sever ties were awful. And I grieved for years, not only for the death of our friendship, but for the fact that I failed my best friend when she needed me most.

Know what I want now? For people to find acceptance no matter where they are. For girls like my teenage best friend to not fear when their “secret” gets out. And for her to enjoy the same rights I, the person who couldn’t finish that journey with her, enjoy now. She deserves them.

I am still in a food coma after an amazing Thanksgiving at the Friedle’s house. Since none of us had family in town, Jed and I, Jacqui and John, Brittany and Jacob went to Christina and Ben’s house to celebrate the occasion together. Add in the bonus of a birthday celebration (Happy Birthday, Darra!) with cake furnished by Darek and it was a Thanksgiving unlike any other I’ve had.

When Christina and I sat down with our plates, we shared a thought on what we’re thankful for this year. It got me thinking: How lucky am I that there are SO many things for me to choose from!

• I have a fantastic new job waiting for me in 2009.
• Obama got elected, thus my faith in America! has been restored.
• This past summer I had a unique opportunity: For three weeks, I was simply Nyco Fuentes Herzog the daughter and sister. Never in my life will that happen again.
• I got to hang out with Pawly for almost the entire month before her death.
• I’ve overcome a lot of adversity in 2008. For that I’m stronger.
• Jed and I have never been happier.
• My two remaining baby teeth are still firmly in their sockets.
• We’ve made some great memories. Check the Photos page to see what I mean.
• My friends are amazing people who make me laugh. Really hard.

Here’s an example:

Yeah, that’s me laughing. I laugh all the time now. That, I think, is the greatest reason for me to give thanks this year: 2008 will go down in history as the year I found myself. Thank you, everyone, for indulging me as I muddled through.

Now, care to share what you’re thankful for?

The best idea for a party favor:

Christina and Jed, at her rockin’ party. See more.

A birthday raffle. Ten custom, hand-made t-shirts.

There’s a little bit of Christina in on all of us.

Well, a lucky few of us.

Happy 31, Christina!

Pawly is back with my parents now, in her new metal urn. To celebrate the occasion, I wrote a few little poems in haiku form. I hope you like them:

in light, shadow fades
in death, shadow remains true
her love transcends all

sunshine holds shadow
in transparent slumber now
love part of earth’s light

a body to ash
a soul to eternity
here stands love’s symbol

symbolic of love
shadow, soul separated
now entombed, enthroned

she casts no shadow
for in life, that was her name
and in death remains

of life every hour
your shadow, dark companion
duty beyond death

I encourage everyone to add your own haiku’s to celebrate Pawly. If you didn’t know Pawly, then share with us your experience with a favorite pet. And if you would like to learn more about haiku, here is a great resource. Have fun with your poems!