evany's extended cake mix
(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)
get the latest
get into my head from twitter:
Saturday, Sept. 30, 2006 | link
Just so you know, if you go to the entry for "unappealing" in the internet thesaurus, the first suggestion is "Mickey Mouse." Now that I think about it, I can see how "Mickey Mouse" means sort of "rinky dink," which in turn is sort of "unappealing." But then why is it listed first, when everything else is alphabetical? Because it's a proper name, maybe? There really is a lot to think about on this one.
Driving down 280, shoulder dancing along to S.O.S (Rescue Me), it occurs to me (and please don't steal this invention because I think it's going to be huge): I need to open a nightclub with seatbelts built into the walls, so people can snap in and get that special small resistance that's so much a part of car dancing. And I shall call it "Buckle Up (and Dance)." Or "Just Belts." Or, as Heidi suggests: Just Belts, and Dancing TOO....
I don't get the Bob Dylan, Neil Young, or Bruce Springsteen thing at all. They're essentially the same person, right? And that person is some dented, ass-cracked guy who wandered in off the street and whined rhythmically into a mic for seven thousand hours. And then somehow convinced every musician in the world that what they were hearing was genius. And then instructed these musicians to get hold of Evany Thomas and tell her all about how wrong she is about the Bob, the Bruce, and the Neil. These things happen!
(Perhaps I should also mention that my favorite song, the ideal to which I hold all music, is Cruisin' by Lewis and Paltrow.)
I have fallen in love with a book. It's called No One Cares What You Had for Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog, and the author is my great friend, Margaret Mason (yes, that Margaret Mason).
First of all, I am so impressed by the wealth of fine Ideas that she managed to pack into this book. And the titles she crafted for each Idea, they're all so smart, each one neatly side-stepping the urge to dip into base punniness. And the writing itself! Maggie's wording is so winning and elegant and strong and funny, so very yar.
For instance, take this passage from Idea 16 ("Mine Consumer Culture"):
All of us are picky about something. Say you've become a little obsessed in your quest for the perfect oven mitt, or you lie awake at night wondering whether it's even possible for lip gloss to be shiny enough without feeling sticky. Once in awhile we stumble on something that's just right, and we want to tell everyone we know."
What an excellent suggestion. In fact, have you heard about this new book called No One Cares What You Had for Lunch: 100 Ideas for Your Blog? (You see how I did that?)
What I most love about this book -- aside from the writing, and the breadth and creativity of the suggestions -- is that it's also a tender love letter to blogs themselves. Many of the Ideas featured in this book offer examples from actual bloggers, well-known cewebrities to people I have never clicked on before. And these bloggers that Maggie has currated together, they're doing such wonderful things. Their writing, photos, films, drawings, childhood mementos ... it's all so inspired and inventively assembled.
I have been known to think bad thoughts about blogs in the past. Just the word "blog," it's so depressing. Bloooooggg. It's like the sound you make when you want the nurse to come change your bed linens because something important just exploded. Then there's the part how "blog" is not just a noun, but a verb. And a shirt. (I'm still waiting for the "Stick it in your blog hole" tee. Tee HEE.) Working on the web for as long as I have (ten years now), and "blogging" for as long as I have (eleven years...with many, many hiatuses of course, but still ... eleven years!), I can sometimes slip into a jaded kind of grumpiness about this world. Have you ever been in a room where everyone unapologetically introduces themselves as an URL? Then maybe you know this grumpiness. It's just that...okay, no, here's what I mean: there are people out there whose identities are far too invested in their blogs, people who look at everything -- auto accidents, friendships, love, chocolate -- through a calculating "but how would this play in my blog?" filter. I know because I do it too: I see a war protester in a panda suit, and the first thing I think is "I need a photo of this for my blog!" So this peeve probably stems from some hidden self-hatred, Jungian-shadow style. But at least I feel sheepish when I catch myself mining key moments for blog fodder! At least when I say, "this would be perfect for my blog," I have the decency to put sarcastic quotes around it!
So that's my beef? Bloggers who aren't sufficiently modest about their blogs. Huh, somehow that lacks the manifesto-inspiring vim I was hoping for here. And suddenly it occurs to me, rather unpleasantly, that on the scale of one to cool, I've always thought that people who are passionate about what they do (excluding, of course, Burning Man) are 8,000 times cooler than the crabby people who scoff them. And in this situation, I'm totally the scoffer! And I don't want to be the scoffer. I am officially an elderly internetster ranting inarticulately about blogs. Oh blogosphere, look what you've gone and made me do.
But this book, it reminds me of the things that attracted me to the internet back in the beginning. People can share their small ideas and odd hobbies and unexpected discoveries with the entire world? And it hardly costs a thing? Hurray for the tripple-dub! Three cheers for the wackity-wack-wack! Just like in Ice Castles, or The Cutting Edge, where the competitive ice skater (goes blind)/(falls for a hockey player) and learns to love the ice once more, Maggie has has found a way to get me back on the blog.
It really is such a lovely, comforting thing, this book. It makes me want to bite Maggie's cheeks off! And then hug her tightly. And then buy the whole bar a round of drinks. And then go home and write and write.
Today was a super duper ultra day of public transportation: I rode BART, I rode a shuttle bus, I rode the VTA light rail, and CalTrain, and boy are my charms tired.
It's not even nine o'clock yet, and I'm already seriously thinking about bed. I just have to last ten more minutes, then it's officially "past nine," and that's a somewhat dignified time to go to sleep, right? Wow, remember when you were little and all you wanted out of life was to be allowed to stay up after nine o'clock? "Just let me watch the first five minutes of Love Boat! PLEASE!"
As a kid I was also a huge fan of playing games like "grocery store" and "bank," chores that are not nearly as exciting to me now that I'm old. And shaving my legs! I used to get in the bathtub and lather up my legs and use the "sharp" edge of a worn-down bar of soap to simulate the act of shaving. Just for the thrill of it! And now I get to shave my legs all the time. My life, it's like a gift.
My friend Levon (co-owner of the great St. Francis Fountain) once told me about this golden realization he'd had, that if his teen-aged self had been able to see his life now -- with his hundreds of records and his motorcycle and the going to see bands all the time and his very own apartment and the no curfew whatsoever -- he would have been so supremely stoked.
Me: "Wow. That is GOOD. I'm totally going to do that, start looking at my life through teen-aged-colored glasses!"
Levon: "You like that? Enjoy it now, because it lasts maybe ten minutes."
It's true. Once you think below the surface of that one, you realize that having the kind of life that would provoke a stoked sensation in a teenager is perhaps a somewhat dubious distinction. Perhaps. But still...it would be nice if there were some way to resurrect childhood's love-affair with the mundane. Banking, for instance. What if paying my credit card bill or visiting the ATM filled me a great, satisfied happiness? Actually, that would make me insufferable, and crazy. "I know, you guys. Let's go to the BANK! AGAIN!!"
Have you noticed that? How the things young children think and say sound a lot like the kind of things crazy people say? Like if an adult came up to you and told you about how all cat angels are born on the sun (expect for the one that was born in China), you would think that person was totally insane. But kids, they totally get away with it.
Oh look, it's 9:18!
Are you aware that Jackass: Number Two is getting good reviews? According to Nathan Lee of the New York Times: "this compendium of body bravado and malfunction makes for some of the most fearless, liberated and cathartic comedy in modern movies." Meanwhile a review from J.R. Jones of the Chicago Reader celebrates the film's "inspired dadaist moments." What? How can this be?
On one hand: totally terrifying. And yet ... it's also sort of inspiring to discover that this is a world where a movie featuring a (as another reviewer describes it) "guy who craps in a miniature toilet" is able to muster some mainstream love. It's almost as though anything could happen.
Walking through the parking lot at the mall, we see two security guys frantically busying themselves with something mysterious on the ground -- a crime scene? As we get a little closer, we spot two more mall cops, and they're hovering over the first two guys, illuminating their work with flashlights. A security vehicle is parked behind them at an urgently hasty angle, its lights flashing. Really curious now, we crane for a better look. And there, on the cement floor of the parking garage, is a scattering of ... paperclips.
What, we wonder, would they have done if it had been binder clips?
There is a store off highway one that's housed in a retired train car. First of all, the name of this store is "Successories," which, okay. And then there's the tagline: "A train of thoughtful gifts." A train of thoughtful gifts? A train of thought...ful gifts. Ohhhh! Oh.
I made the mistake of buying an entire angelfood cake from the Safeway bakery earlier this week, and I have been eating it by the fistful. Angelfood cake defies being cut with a knife like a normal, civilized cake; try to saw off a slice with a blade and the angelfood just squishes defiantly. So I've been reduced to ripping off pieces of cake with my hand, like an animal, or King Henry the Eighth.
What a beautiful, weird, startling, funny, and convincingly dreamy movie that was. But also, wow, so much sadder than I thought it would be. I'm not at all sure, because deciphering that movie feels very much like muddling through an actual dream, but was that movie about...schizophrenia??? Broken (as in grossly dysfunctional) hearts? Was it just a nightmare?
All I know is that when it ended, I felt as though I'd just woken up from one of those dreadful, chloroform knock-out dreams in which you do something terrible, irreversible. Behind your eyelids, you cry and cry, and then when you wake up, for the first slender moments before you regain true consciousness, you're sure you've really gone and mucked up your life this time. Tragedy! Awfulness! Horror! A few cobwebby moments later, though, you piece together that it was just a dream, just a dream. It takes some effort though, you have to stop and think about it like a scientist. Did I flush my baby down the toilet? No because...that's right, I've never actually been pregnant! Also babies don't fit down toilets. And then, once you finally convince yourself that none of it happened, you feel so relieved, like you just out-maneuvered a real, life-destroying mistake.
So I don't know, is that good? I can't quite figure it out. But I do hope you go see it, if only so we can sit down and decode it together. (Oh and go check out some of filmmaker Gondry's other videos and things, so great.)
A few weekends ago, Marco and I went to the mall (Marco really, really loves the mall; he was raised in El Paso), and while we were promenading level two, I spied this pair of green-on-green sneakers at Payless Shoe Source. For years I have been looking for exactly this kind of sneaker. These shoes have it all. They're two kinds of green, and they're both really good greens, and the visible advertising is super low-key, which I like, and then the shape is really good, too, nice and low-tech. Also the official name of the shoe is "Rebel," which is pleasantly insane. And all for just $25!
The only problem: the Payless at the mall didn't have my size. So Marco drove me over to the Payless by our house, and they didn't have my size, either! So the next morning, we looked up the addresses of all the drive-able Paylesses, and we hit the road. Luckily this modern-day Cinderella story ended at the second Payless we visited: the Payless on East 14th, it had my shoes! And they're perfect. I wore them all over Seattle and they we comfortable and looked cute with many outfits, and I am just so happy with them.
But, more to the point, how awesome is Marco? To go so willingly on a Payless treasure hunt all over the East Bay? I've been thinking about this a lot recently. He and I just celebrated the two-year anniversary of the day we met (it was September 11th, 2004, at Adam and Julia's beautiful wedding), and we've been living together now for...wow, five months! And it all just seems so natural and comfortable, like we've never been not living together. It's weird, after struggling so long trying to make things work with other people, to finally experience something that is just...easy. It's almost eerie. (I'm trying not to let my jinx-o-phobia freak me out here...though, based on the complicated logic of my superstitions, the very fact that I've just acknowledged that I'm putting myself in jinx jeopardy acts as a kind of safeguard against something terrible happening, because in my world, self-awareness dilutes the potential for ironic comeupance. Of course now it occurs to me that nothing courts ironically twisted endings like posting something gushy in your online diary. Oh no!)
One of the very best things, though, about dating Marco is that I think he's actually transformed me into a better person. For one thing, I just like the version of myself that comes out when I'm around him. There have, of course, been times when my bitchy side comes out for a visit. Like for instance last week, I was trying to tell him a story about a party which happened to transpire in "Marin County," and he interrupted to ask, "You mean the hospital?" What? I rolled my eyes and huffed, instantly and completely exasperated at him for derailing my story, and then I launched into a long detour of bickery. (Apparently people who grew up in Marin County, as I did, have a habit of adding on that "County" whenever they refer to the area, while people from other counties don't actually do that. Like if you're from Alameda County, you just say, "I'm from Alameda." This is why Marco was confused, why he thought I was actually talking about a hospital. A fictional hospital called "Marin County" that was the site of a big...party. Of course Alameda is also a town; it's a town and a county. As is San Francisco. And Sonoma. Whereas Marin is geographical area, filled with entitled hippies trying to manipulate you into sharing their exact ideas on nonconformity. ANYWAY!) Generally speaking, though, I like the person I am when I'm around Marco. This Evany is excited to try new things and curious about my surroundings and I enjoy doing whatever it is that needs doing, even if it's an unfavorable task, like the dishes or laundry.
Marco's also a lot more industrious than I am, and his energy has this great momentum that carries me through projects that I'm not sure I would have been able to complete on my own. The over-the-bed photos for the Sleep book, for instance, which Amelia (the illustrator) used as a basis for all the illustrations. Marco was the one who figured out how to set up the camera, which wasn't at all easy as it sounds. We spent a LOT of time fiddling around with duct tape (which we used to attached the camera to mic-stand, which we balanced on a ladder using luggage as counterbalance...an unfortunate setup that never quite stopped bobbing and weaving) before Marco hit on the solution: he made a mount for the camera out of wire and brackets and then drilled that directly into the ceiling, then used the camera's remote shutter clicker to take the photos from down on the ground, or the bed, or wherever. That simple ingenuity paved the way for hundreds of pictures, and those many photos gave me what I needed to start writing, which led ultimately to this sweet little blue book that I love so very much. All because of that ceiling mount, created by Marco.
I also don't feel crazy when I'm around him. Early on he made it clear that he wasn't really phased by my desire to "talk about the feelings," something that (with few exceptions) has universally bummed out every boy I've ever dated. And even the boys who were okay with the endless talk-talk-talking, they somehow never had the right things to say when I finally ran out of words, and then I always ended up feeling crazier than when I started. Which isn't to knock all the boys I've ever dated -- much of what didn't work in the past was me, me being anxious, me not knowing my mind, not being sure about what it was I even wanted. But Marco just kind of goes along with it, smiles and says, "That sounds hard," or whatever, and I feel better. And something about the very fact that it's permissable for me to talk about my crazy thoughts and concerns, and that the act of talking about it doesn't end up breaking everything, has caused my desire to talk about all that stuff to almost disappear. Weird...it's like he's some kind of EMOTIONAL SCIENTIST!
(I also love how he just called to say that he came up with another band mashup: "I can't believe I never thought of the Kajagoogoo Dolls!" Other mashups he's invented: The Beagles (which would play only Beatles and Eagles covers). And the English Beat Farmers. The Thirty-eight Specials. REM Speedwagon. And so on and on.)
But okay right, what I started out to say was how, ever since I started dating Marco, I've become a better person. Marco's one of those people who gives little old ladies whom he's never met a ride home. Or like...okay, this is a good Marco story. Sometime last year, he was waiting for his tires to get changed, and these two guys rolled by, and they were trying to push-start their car. So Marco ran out into the street and started helping them push. They tried once, and it didn't catch, so they pushed it up to speed again, and it finally caught. And that's when a guy came running out of an apartment building yelling, "Hey! That's my car!" The two guys, the guys who Marco had just helped out, were stealing the car! The car thieves peeled out, and actually Marco took off running, too, so maybe that's not the best story about helping out people in need. Here's a better one: for awhile, a senile old man used to come knocking on Marco's door and insist that he owned the building, and then he'd say stuff about...a flag? Or something? He didn't really speak English, so it was all very confusing. But Marco would stand there and try to talk to the man as long as it took for the man's daughter to come get him. Or another time! We were walking home from the coffee store when we came across an old man (different from the old man with the flag issues) who was standing on the corner, by himself, clearly confused. He was asking everyone that walked by if they knew the name of some street, and no one seemed to know what he was talking about. My instinct -- and I'm not at all proud of this -- was to sort of shrug and keep walking, because it seemed like this guy had a LOT going on, and I was just trying to enjoy my Sunday, enjoy my coffee. But Marco, who had seen the guy walking around the neighborhood before, stopped and figured out where he had to go, and then Marco offered to walk the guy to his house (it turned out to be a group home for the mentally ill). So slowwwwly, very slowwwwly, we walked this man, his name was John, home. It took us maybe fifteen minutes out of our way, no big deal. And it made me feel good!
So when an elderly woman came up to me when I was walking around NY on my own, and politely asked me if I could do her a favor, I actually stopped and asked her what I could do to help. This isn't something I would have done in the past. And it turns out that this nice lady just wanted me to steady her as we crossed the street, she was a shaky walker and she didn't trust herself to make it. She put her hand on my arm, I walked her across the street, and she was very appreciative and told me what a lovely girl I was. See? I'm a lovely girl! A very, very lucky lovely girl.
I just finished up the fourth phonecall in a round-robin of interviews for a part-time job that I'm really excited about. The very nice woman who was interviewing me this time was just coming to the end of her questions when a dog walked by on the street out in front of the house, and Piggy the dog, sitting beside me on the couch, audibly groaned in territorial outrage. The woman hastily said something about how she realized that the interview was running longer than planned, and for a second, I was confused. Then total mortification washed over me. Oh my god, does she think *I* made that sound, like I was yawning? Out of boredom? So I rushed in and explained about how I was actually sitting at home, on the couch, and then the part about how a dog just walked by, on the street, out front, and ...the...Pig, she groans when dogs...walk...by. So I pretty much nailed that interview.
OMD! Julia Sweeney emailed me last night! Or at least a robot that sounds an awful lot like Julia Sweeney emailed me last night. And how awesome would that be, a Julia Sweeney robot with built-in emailing capabilities? I'd buy two: one for work and one for staying home and and sending me "best friends forever!!!!" emails twice an hour. I know, I'm going totally bananas here, it was one tiny, short email. But ... Julia Sweeney!
I've had a huge celebrity crush on Julia Sweeney ever since I saw And God Said, "Ha!", which really, really swole up my heart, and which still, years later, re-bubbles into my brain with startling regularity. And then I found my way to her amazingly disarmed online diary, and she sounds so adorably normal, like ONE OF US, and the petals on my c-crush bloomed and blinked and blushed all the harder. (Private to the person who reportedly approached Julia Sweeney at an event and told her that her blog needs an editor: lay off the juice, stinker, you don't know what's good for you.)
So when her nice email Sidekicked its way into my heart and inbox as Marco and I were waiting in line for a movie last night, I was just floored with yay, hopping and smiling and girl-squealing. If I'd been wearing white Keds, I'd have written Julia Sweeney's name all over them with a silver pen. (Suckass Marco, who wasn't nearly excited enough, got a sock in the arm.)
Though I guess I should say that Julia Sweeney only emailed me because I emailed her first: I sent her a short, gushy note about how very badly I wanted on the list of 500 test customers for her new CD, Letting Go of God, excerpts of which all you rabid American Lifers have probably heard already. The two-CD set will go for $19.95, and it comes with a little book that includes a transcript. Julia Sweeney produced the whole thing herself, and she's marketing it all on her own ... and thus this test-group of 500 pre-primed customers, who are going to be sort of a trial run to gauge interest and also to make sure all the money-taking technology on Julia Sweeney's site is up to snuff. And, wow, don't you think that this all sounds like an awesome project? Huh? Like maybe you should email Julia Sweeney, too, and tell her how much you want to be a part of the very pretty and helpy advance 500? (I'm giving you the hard sell because I got the feeling -- in the email Julia Sweeney, or Julia Sweeney's robot, sent to me -- that there's still plenty of room on that list, and wouldn't it be nice if you showed Julia Sweeney some hot buttressing? Julia Sweeney, Julia Sweeney, Julia Sweeney!)
And while I'm peer-pressuring you, have you tried listening to Seattle's KEXP on your computer radio? It's really, really sweet. Dude, it's sweeney.
Those of you who have been reading my online diary since the early days of 1995 are, A) very old, and B) well aware that my updating style has always been somewhat "sporadic." You know: there'll be four days of steady, frantic updates, followed by an unsettling month of nothing but shhhh. Well no more! (At least not from now until December!)
My plan: in an attempt to invite a sense of regularity into my life, and some discipline, and maybe a little juice-flow, I here declare that I'll be adhering to a DAILY POSTING SCHEDULE. It may not be pretty, or interesting in any way, but there will at least be something new to be found here each day for the next ninety days.
I know, big wow. And yet, considering that the longest stretch of consecutive posts I've ever managed produce is, I think, ten days, for me this represents an uncomfortable, "good for me" kind of challenge. But still doable (three months?), especially with the fear of public shaming that I'm hoping this pronouncement will provoke in me, so hopefully this operation still falls within my "Set Attainable Goals" credo, which is kind of my religion right now.
And if I make it to December 18th without skipping a day, then I am going to give myself a crazy-good prize, like maybe an otter, or a leather jacket.
By the way: Pam's reading was awesome. She is such a pleasure to watch! My fear of public speaking is so acute that I can even get tense watching someone else get up on a podium, but that is not at all the case with Pam. She banters with the crowd, and it's all natural and relaxed, like she's over at your house, having a scone or whatever. And then the actual reading part of it is so good, with the timing and warmth and the different voices...remember when your mom would read to you, just one chapter before bed? The story would spring to life, you'd sigh and cuddle up into it, until all too soon it was over, and then you would pout and wheedle for more. Like that, only Pam's not at all mommy. Three-and-a-half-inch pumps, peeking out from beneath dream-fitted nightclub jeans? The leg kicking and swinging flirtily from Pam's sexy side-saddle perch on the corner of that desk? Bedtime mommy never wore shoes like that.
Even Pam's Q & A was fun/ny, and the Q & A is usually my least favorite part of any reading -- that ten heavy seconds of uncomfortable silence followed by a too-too-long session of IDRHAQBLHPMBI & A (where IDRHAQBLHPMBI = I Don't Really Have a Question, But Look How Pretty My Brain Is). I also was a huge fan of the Borders' event coordinater: while we were lingering in the bookstore, waiting for Pam to finish up signing books so we could go across the street and drink just a shade too much champagne at the Starlight Lounge, the woman told me that she'd recently attended her twentieth high school reunion, and she'd brought along her old yearbook and actually confronted individuals on the broken promises of their signatures -- "You said we'd be 'friends forever' ... well?" So good. And then she gave me a spirited reenactment of the growling, palsied salute of her high school Grizzlies (like a Hitler heil but with the hand deformed into a menacing claw). Yes it was a fine, fine night, and I was so incredibly happy to be there!
Later, riding home on BART (and feeling maybe half a drink beyond "rosy"), I started reading Pam's book. It's hard to read when you're drunk, on a train, but I fought the good fight and made it all the way to page five. When we got home I immediately tipsied into bed, but the very first thing I did the next morning: I got up, poured myself a gigantic coffee, and then got right back into bed and started in with the reading. And I didn't get out of bed all day, just lay there and gorged myself on words. It's that kind of book! The kind where you're reading fast because you want to find out what happens, even though you dread actually finishing the book because you're enjoying the feeling of living inside it so much. You know? Maybe this excerpt of a gush I sent to Pam explains me better:
"At one point, after I'd been in bed reading for three hours, Marco came in and asked me how it was going, and I said, "this book is GOOD and I'm jealous, of both the writing and of the characters themselves." And that's REALLY all I'm trying to say here, far more than all the little things you got so right along the way, you also somehow managed to create a story that gave me that feeling, whatever it is, that "nostalgia for the now" thing, which is so hard to describe, and yet: I get it when I read some of madeleine l'engle's young adult stuff, the ones with the awesome, sprawling, complicated family, did you read those? Also, in a different way, when I watch the Royal Tenenbaums. You don't want it to end because it's a good movie, but also because you actually, on some loamy level, want to BE in that crazy loving, hating family as long as humanly possible? So there's that, too, that small taste of envy mixed in there. Even though it's hard and sad and scary -- that new love that you're writing about is -- you still feel nostalgia for it, that ache-ness of love, and that nostalgia actually begins to feel like a small echo of that ache, in a small, grey, rainy day, sigh-y sort of way? Anyway. It's a complicated thing, and it leaves you feeling kind of stoned and sad but also satisfied and wishing someone would just bring you a plate of cookies."
Don't you think you should buy Pam's book, too?
Hey! I'm about to get on the plane to head home from my long weekend in Seattle (home of cigarette butts, unexplained shoes, brown-painted telephone poles, and so many doughnuts), but before I fly, I wanted to quickly let you know that The Morning News just posted a piece I wrote! Drumroll Please it's called, and it's all about the amazzling drum and bugle corps experience (including a detailed description of the insane five-hour telecast that Jill and I went to go see a few weeks back). I worked really hard, typing up this piece, and I'm so happy that it's up and running!
On a related NOTE: tonight ESPN2 airs the Drum Corps finals. So if you find your interest in drum corps has ripened, tune in from 5 to 7pm, PST! If you don't get home from work in time, there'll also be airing highlights on September 11 at 11am and on September 18 at 11am, PST.