Soooo this happened:

But also awesome things!

(guess who had a wide angle lens for the weekend? holler.)

I’m sorting out pictures and highlights, but I will be sure to regale you with my NYC virgin voyage tales.

Amazing, amazing.

It’s sort of like this, isn’t it?

www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFDJ9rhYNXU

It’s probably like that.

I’ll be out of town from Thursday through Sunday, but it’s NABLOPOMO and I made a commitment, right? Does anyone still care that I’m doing that? No?

As such, I’ll be using Posterous to transmit meanderings/photos from my Blackberry back here to TYK. However, I won’t be “advertising” my posts on Facebook/Twitter, so you’re just going to have to mosey on by here from time to time. You know, if you are so inclined.

MEANWHILE -

WHAT IN NEW YORK SHOULD I SEE/EAT/DO?

Leave your favorites in the comments.

Thanks!

JENN’S TOP TEN: TRAVERSE CITY EDITION

1. Visit a winery. Check.
2. Read. Ehh. Didn’t do this. Sorry, Bourdain.
3. Squeeze in a workout around the Bay, total McConaughey style. This gets a half-check because there was no safe place nearby to work out outside. I nearly killed myself scampering across the four-lane road to the beach, which was private. I power-walked up this unmarked road and couldn’t enjoy it, for fear of getting run over/raped.
4. Take pictures. (Bonus points for holding Dad’s Nikon D200 hostage and shooting with that.) Check.
5. Eat cherries until my lips get stained. I FORGOT TO PICK UP CHERRIES. CHERRY FESTIVAL FAIL. Tried to convince my parents to stop at a little roadside stand going out of town, to no avail. We have cherries in the fridge right now, which were probably from Traverse City anyway, but..you know, not the same.
6. SLEEP. (Have you been reading my tweets? Insomnia central.) Check.
7. Blog at least once per day. Check.
8. Get tipsy with my cousins. Check.
9. Buy a tacky souvenir to bring home to my roommate. Check.
10. SALT. WATER. TAFFY. Check.

7.5/10. Not bad, Jenny.

KINDA-RELATED-CUZ-HE’S-FROM-MICHIGAN SEGUE:

I don’t know if you noticed? But it’s the time of year again — the time of year when Bob Seger’s “Night Moves” gets played in heavier rotation.  I know “Night Moves” is musical wallpaper to you by now, a soundtrack to your drunken bonfires and boring 9-5 commutes. I know YOU don’t care. But I do.

It came on the radio during our sojourn Up North; I sulked in the backseat because my parents were talking through it. How am I supposed to enjoy Bob’s raspy tones, Mom, when you’re babbling about a roasted asparagus frittata in your  latest Cooking Light? Or you, Dad, talking about traffic, look at that traffic, I can’t believe this traffic.

Therefore, I am instating the following:

NIGHT MOVES RULES

1) No talking. (Singing along perfectly acceptable and most encouraged.)

2) Windows down.

3) Song must be turned up a considerable level louder during the post-bridge, unplugged acoustic portion.

4) You must, must fist pump after aforementioned post-bridge, when the gospel choir chimes in with “NIGHT! MOVES!”

Good. Glad that’s settled. [ONLY CHILD CARD!]

Last night I went out to the Downtown Traverse City bars with cousins Allory and Katie, along with Allory’s husband Steve and my cousin Erin’s fiance, Ben. (Side note: Thus far? The Cousins Kriscunas have picked out awesome dudes to marry. Bar has been set so high. It’s ridiculous.) My cousins were raving about this nearby restaurant called Trattoria Stella, which boasted fresh, local ingredients and an impressive wine list. Despite being set in a renovated portion of a former state insane asylum, the trattoria was bright and contemporary. However, it was not without it’s oddities: Katie spoke of a “secret door” in the ladies restroom, and Allory talked about strange writing on the walls if you wandered off the beaten path. There were small pockets of modernity, but most of the surrounding grounds were eerily abandoned.

“I WANT TO GO TO THERE,” I declared. “And I must bring my camera.”

So this morning my pops and I (and his Nikon D200, which makes my D50 feel like a Vivitar from the 90s) headed to the the “Traverse City State Hospital.” My mom, a former social worker who had visited the asylum WHEN IT WAS ACTUALLY FUNCTIONING, stayed home. “I can’t believe you find this fascinating,” she said. “I saw some really crazy stuff in there.” Which, of course, made want to go there all the more.

Here’s a preview of my shoot:

Abandoned weird things = Photographer’s dream. The place does emanate a strange, sad energy - which didn’t actually hit me until I came back to the hotel to quickly shop these shots. See, behind the camera?  I am brave. I’ll walk up the steps, I’ll stand on the fence, I’ll lay on the concrete.  I am thinking about light, and shapes, and rhythm. I’m not thinking about what sorts of crazy this hospital has seen.

Oh, and sadly, Trattoria Stella’s was closed for the holiday. Going to try to get in there tomorrow, because the exterior just whet my appetite.

where at least I know there’s fudge.

(Or, cross it, uncross it, and cross it again. Rinse. Repeat.)

I’m writing you from the TYK North Campus in Rockford, Michigan. (Never once have I called my blog “TYK,” but it rolls off the tongue and should serve me nicely when I become the Dooce for the Quarterlife-Crisis set.)

Ma, Pa, and I are headed further north tomorrow to Traverse City, which is…well…

I actually don’t even know if that’s geographically accurate.

Anyway, ALLS I know is, there will be a Festival celebrating The Cherry, which, according to the website, is sure to be

AWESOMELY AWESOME!

Spending the Independence Day holiday in Traverse City is becoming something of a tradition within my extended family, who travel from all over the country for togetherness and cherries and fireworks.

Meanwhile, tonight, at Chez Jenn:

My mom had dinner ready upon my return home, which was fantastic —  though it contained beef, which is something she refuses to believe I am giving up. (There’s a special brand of denial Midwestern mothers display when you tell them you’re mainly pescetarian. “That’s nice, Jenny. Here, I packed you a bologna sandwich.”) As we sat out on the porch to enjoy the cool of the evening, I was suddenly reminded what it was like to live in the woods. All is quiet except for the gentle rustle of leaves. Birds chirping. Chipmunks barking at the squirrels. The buzzzzzz of hummingbirds divebombing over your head. (YES. MY CHILDHOOD HOME. A PLACE A MAGIC AND WONDER.)

Jenn: So what’s the itinerary for this weekend?

Mom: Well, what do you want to do?

Jenn: I -

Dad: She wants to go look at the water and be drunk all day.

What can I say, the man knows me. However, I feel like I should have some clear-cut goals before delving into my Holiday. I give you:

JENN’S TOP TEN: TRAVERSE CITY EDITION

1. Visit a winery.
2. Read.
3. Squeeze in a workout around the Bay, total McConaughey style.
4. Take pictures. (Bonus points for holding Dad’s Nikon D200 hostage and shooting with that.)
5. Eat cherries until my lips get stained.
6. SLEEP. (Have you been reading my tweets? Insomnia central.)
7. Blog at least once per day.
8. Get tipsy with my cousins. At least once per day.
9. Buy a tacky souvenir to bring home to my roommate.
10. SALT. WATER. TAFFY.

Wow. That is a really tame list. I feel like there should be something more challenging on there.

Ideas? Throw ‘em in the comments.

In the meantime, I’m going to go yell at my mom again for converting my childhood bedroom into her Scrapbooking Sanctuary.

How exciting, I thought.

I was jealous of this man, this criminal — for the thrill of the chase, the run FOR HIS LIFE.  Terrifying, exhilarating.  Clearly, he had wronged someone. He had broken laws. He was in deep, deep shit. But for those few minutes, he must have felt so alive.

How exciting.

That’s how restless I am.

Sometimes I look around and wonder how everybody does it. Are you all happy, or are you just better at faking it?  The majority of people live their entire lives without following their dreams, and yet, everyone seems completely fine by it.  I was asking this of my father yesterday at dinner.  My hands interlaced around my pint of beer, asking, why am I like this? Where did I learn this? Most people seem okay by staying put, working their somewhat fulfilling jobs.  I have entire months where the desire to leave everything and go somewhere adventurous is so intense I can barely stand it. And I WEAR IT.  I wear the feeling.  It shows on my face, and in my missed work deadlines, and my increased alcohol consumption. I feel like this desire, this thing that people keep locked in their pockets, I have tattooed all over myself.  The spans of time in between those months have moved closer and closer, fusing together to a point of near constant agitation.  It starts to become more real. I start to think of the logistics. It sounds romantic and passionate, but it ends up being very stressful, like an itch I’m not allowing myself to scratch just yet.

My father, left-brained and logical, responded in the only way he knew how. I needed to be realistic, I needed to have a steady income, and I needed health insurance. I wasn’t expecting anything else from him. My mother would have said the same exact thing.  Somewhere in the family tree there must have been some sort of flighty wanderer, because I didn’t inherit this from either of them.

Like, I these neurotic notions, like: “What if I never see China?”

I worry about these things. Does anyone else worry about these things?

It’s not: “I’d really like to see China someday.”

It’s: “If I don’t see China someday, I feel like I might die.”

And I’m not sure what this means. There is so much world out there that I haven’t seen, and the idea that I’m not out there in it, RIGHT NOW, causes me physical pain.

It’s elementary. Simplistic. The truth almost always is.

Um, can we talk about AMOEBA for a moment?

It’s like when you’re four and your parents take you to Disneyworld and as you step foot into the park your excitement gets too much and you run ahead of your parents in your pink Stride-rites and you whip around all wide-eyed as if to say, “Mama, is this real?” and your Mom replies, “Yes, Jenny. It’s real.”

If I had my druthers, I would set up a little camp in the LP aisles and sleep under the sweet, sweet canopy of vinyl.

I took more photos, but they were crap, because I refused to use flash and thus mark myself as an uncool tourist, DESPITE THE FACT THAT I WAS AN UNCOOL TOURIST.

But here. Here I am out of focus. Just so you know I was there and just so I know it wasn’t all a dream.

[Yeesh. My front bangs are very John Lennon circa 1965.]

I’m not going to lie - Grauman’s Chinese Theatre kind of stressed me out.  A bustling herd of tourists not watching where they are going is kind of a personal nightmare. However, it wasn’t a bust.  Camera in hand (I broke my neck strap. Buy me one?), I thought to myself, what around here is interesting? What am I going to do with pictures of movie star handprints in cement? There are a million pictures just like them.

[I mean, I had to get Judy. I am OBSESSED.]

I kept bumping into people and accidentally walking through their pictures and felt suddenly claustrophobic, until I realized that the best thing about Grauman’s Theatre is not necessarily what’s underneath your feet, but the reactions of the people around you.  Because people are constantly looking down, they’re not paying attention to anything else, allowing you the perfect opportunity to capture their awe at John Wayne’s perfectly preserved fist-punch into cement.

Oh, how pretty is SHE? This should be her facebook pic. If I knew who she was.

I was very careful to shoot the above picture from a good distance. I learned from the amazing documentary Confessions of a Superhero that the “characters” make a living by earning tips from photos, and they get miffed when people expect freebies.  I was VERY excited when I passed Christopher Dennis, aka “Superman,” that was in the film.Sure, he’s not a celebrity, PER SE, but he was a celebrity to me, because that doc is BRILLIANT (seriously. watch it here. brillz.) If I had cash, I would have stopped him to snap a picture with me.  Instead, we caught eachother’s eye and smiled, and I nodded, as if to say, “Hi. Yes. I know about your whole life, pretty much.”

This is the closest I got to any celebrities in LA. We did see Wilfred Brimley in the Denver airport. We think. It may have just been an older gentlemen with awesome facial hair.

From The Counter - Turkey Burger to the Nth Degree.

• 1/3 lb Turkey Patty
• Sharp provolone cheese
• Mixed baby greens
• Roasted red peppers
• Scallions
• Avocado
• Roasted garlic aioli
• Awesomeness

And you’re thinking to yourself, Jesus, Jenn. What a disgusting phrase juxtaposed with a disgusting photograph. Well, dear readers reader, IT’S ABOUT TO GET MAD DISGUSTING UP IN THIS PIECE.

My logic surrounding last Friday night was this:

Drinks in LA are expensive. I am poor. I should drink some vodka/redbulls before I go out, so as to save money by arriving at the bar tipsy and requiring only one or two drinks for optimal buzziness.

This seems smart and economical, right? Yeah, no.

Glug-glug.glug. Dinner time! Let’s go to In-N-Out Burger! This is the point I should have stopped at. Pictures still in focus. Chatty. Happy.

Delicious, by the way.

So that happened. I got to the bar after consuming half a fifth of vodka, which, hi, maybe you should stop there? Yeah, no.

Awesome Things That Happened:

1) Because I am an awesome wingman, I befriended a girl our friend Sean thought was hot.

2) He got her number.

Non-Awesome Things That Happened:

1) She had a tattooed collarbone that read “Love is a battlefield.”

2) I puked in his bed.

3) And his bathroom.

4) And some random restaurant bathroom.

5) And in a plastic bag, en route to Mission Viejo.

Yeah. Not really sure what happened there.  I’m just happy to have survived.

VIVA LA DOUBLE-DOUBLE!

Here are a few things that made it hard to leave. IN PICTURES!

But lately, the second I take my seat, I become more like Woody Allen and less like Jackie O.

I love the act of traveling. Love. I have no doubts that I could take a career exploring the far corners of the world, discovering and eating and writing. [And eating!]  At this point in my life, I do love Indianapolis — but not enough to stay behind should someone hand me free plane tickets and some petty cash. (HINT HINT, people who are inclined to do such things.)

But while I have taken airplane trips at least once a year since I was four, somewhere along the line, air travel has become the most neurotic experience of my life. (And you know that must be bad because my entire life is pretty damn neurotic.) I’m assuming this is a result of three things:

1. I dream about plane malfunctions on the regular.
2. I experienced two severe turbulence issues on a couple recent flights.  I’m not talking “bumpy.” I’m talking people shrieking at roller-coaster decibels and holy f*ckballs we are going to fall out of the sky.
3. I don’t like it when I’m in a situation I can’t immediately flee from when I feel uncomfortable. [Paging Dr. Freud?]

I know all the statistics about the safety of air travel. I’m not afraid of the takeoff, or the landing. I’m not afraid of crashing, even.  I hate the ascent, and especially despise the descent: when things feel unstable. When, if it’s really bad - you feel like you’re being tossed around in a tin can.

This happened with the tailwinds from those damned Rockies while flying into Denver leaving LA. (I’m not even sure that’s accurate. That sounds right, though, doesn’t it? Tailwinds? Rockies? Go with it.)  Once the light bumps turn into shakes and dips, I become nervous and nauseaous and hyper-chatty.  I’m no longer the seemingly seasoned traveler nonchalantly flipping through Rolling Stone. I’m the disheveled redhead in 6A whose boyfriend attempts consolation by urging her to “Just look at the mountains, focus on the mountains,” but THE MOUNTAINS ARE BOUNCING and I AM IN A SHAKING, HUGE STEEL CAGE OF FEAR.

AND? AND? THAT RACOON IS TAUNTING ME.

My last pre-flight anti-anxiety cocktail consisted of copius amounts of wine and Tylenol PM, which was not safe, according to, well, everyone. So this time around I just took some Benedryl, hoping to knock myself out. But my system was all, Ha, remember when you were an insomniac and had the good shit? This is amateur. Oh, and here is a megaphone for your inner monologue of insecurities.

What did work was a combo of all-natural remedies: In-flight TV, closed eyes, and deep breaths. I discovered that it was the visual of seeing the wings rock,  people’s heads move, that was making me freak out. It was the sound of creaking seats, passengers’ comments, nervous laughter.  I’m okay. I just need find that happy place I go to, like when I feel like the dentist is drilling a whole into my jaw. Just turn up Bravo really loud. Inhale. Exhale.

[Yeah so next time I'll probably just take some Xanax.]