tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-96021812024-03-12T21:32:55.936-07:00Read This Because I Probably Won't CallWelcome to the Thousand Anxiety Wood.
Harshing Mellows since 2004.
Current Anxiety Level: Orange (yam colored)piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.comBlogger857125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-22354241589779796802012-08-19T11:15:00.001-07:002012-08-19T11:15:32.330-07:00Leaving It On The FieldDay 14 (Thursday): Our last full day we reserved for doing nothing, which is super wise, as we are wiped out from playing. We have left it all on the field, coach. <br /><br />I set my own goal for today: not to remove my swim suit all day. I make it to happy hour before I consent to put on a skirt and my formal flip-flops for a trip to our favorite BBQ joint for dinner.<br /><br />We agree that a full two weeks is the best amount of vacation. Ten days is just enough to make you cry when it is time to come home. Three weeks just messes up your real life. Two weeks is just right. We have booked our exit row seats for tomorrow. See you in Vancouver. <br /><br />- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad<br />piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-47345654868862513912012-08-19T11:13:00.001-07:002012-08-19T16:29:06.156-07:00Na Pali PaparazziDay 13 (Wednesday): Today was our boat tour day. We spent the afternoon on a double hulled power boat tooling down the Na Pali Coast, taking photos like a pack of paparazzi, ducking into caves in the cliffs and attempting to snorkel in 30-knot winds. Coming back against the wind was almost as fun, as it was like an hour-long log flume ride with lots of sea spray soakings. The waves were whipped up so high by the wind that the trip back was like riding a bucking bronco, if the bronco could buck ten feet in the air.<br />
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Tired from riding the bucking bronco now and going to bed. Tomorrow is our last full day on the island. <br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadpiglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-60164894860010248322012-08-19T11:11:00.001-07:002012-08-19T16:21:41.680-07:00Recovery Through Food And Forced Slow MarchesDay 12 (Tuesday): Today is a designated recovery day. We started recovering by eating too much at the Kountry Kitchen, a local favorite breakfast place. And when in Rome, eat the Loco Moco. Loco Moco is a Hawaiian standard: a hamburger patty on a bed of rice, topped with two eggs, topped with gravy. I ate that. Deal with it.<br />
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Our recovery afternoon consisted of an expensive tour through a fancy garden. The fancy garden in question is the Allerton Garden, run by The National Tropical Botanical Gardens, a nonprofit tropical plant research group. However, there is no life saving research being done at the Allerton Gardens. It was gifted to them, so they use it mainly as a source of income because if you take the tour, you can see and photograph the cool dinosaur-egg-discovery trees used in Jurassic Park.<br />
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The remainder of the gardens were designed and planted by Robert Allerton and his partner who had a less distinctive name and a less rich father, who were into leafy beauty big time.<br />
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We should have been more fascinated, but tours with a bunch of random people make both of us concentrate on the unusual family dynamics and weird peccadillos of the other tourists so much, it's hard to concentrate. We end up spending all our time whispering to each other.<br />
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However, it did slow us down more than anything else so far. Tours are great at making you move only as fast as the slowest tourist.<br />
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We completed our recovery day at Duke's Canoe Club at the Marriott in downtown Lihu'e. Lovely setting. Pretty good food. Sorry. That's two food reports in one day. You have to admit that I have been pretty careful since that whole crepe episode.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Recovery beverages</td></tr>
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadpiglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-62828376033883013262012-08-19T11:00:00.001-07:002012-08-19T16:11:23.189-07:00Waimea Canyon FTW (Spoiler Alert: Waimea Canyon Wins)Day 11 (Monday): We get a later start on Waimea Canyon because we had to wait for 9:00 to take the rental bikes back. Vacation hassles are the worst kind, as you so want every expensive moment to count.<br />
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Traffic around Kapa'a and Lihu'e is a problem. They try to help by borrowing a lane into Lihu'e during the morning commute and taking it back going the other way in the evening, but I'm not sure that it does anything more than employ orange cone movers and confuse the tourists. Nevertheless, we make it through the rough spots in the late morning with little delay and head toward the east side of the island.<br />
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Waimea Canyon is very similar to the Grand Canyon in depth (if not length or size) and general eroded-away look, but with a much larger palette of colors in use.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the many views of Waimea Canyon.</td></tr>
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With our little blue island guide book to, um, guide us, we have chosen the Canyon Trail, which takes us out to Waipo'o Falls and back.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the way down on our hike. Yes, we have to hike DOWN from here.</td></tr>
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We have not consulted with anyone who had hiked it recently, who might have told us that it is a four mile round trip hike, mostly straight up or straight down, which ends at the top of the falls of a VERY small stream which is VERY anticlimactic.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "waterfall"</td></tr>
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There were great viewpoints, though, and the satisfaction of a hike well and bravely done.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the top of the "waterfall" at the completion of our hike.</td></tr>
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It was probably more strenuous than my doctor would have liked me to take on, but hey, it was more strenuous than I would have liked to take on. I just didn't know it until I was at the end, dreading the climb back up.<br />
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I know I am barely, not quite, four weeks from major abdominal surgery, which was award winning in its amount of tumor removal, but it is still frustrating to realize so graphically how much stamina I have lost, either through the surgery or through the preceding (and very slowly improving) anemia. This hike would not have been such an ordeal before. I am impatient to regain what I've lost. <br />
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After making it back to the car (thank you Jesus), we complete the drive, first to the Koke'e Lodge for lunch (thank you Jesus for conveniently located mediocre food), then to the end of the road for some jaw-dropping views of the green Na Pali coast valleys.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the Pu'u o Kila Lookout</td></tr>
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Now it is happy hour on the lanai. Aloha.<br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadpiglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-67154470897557419352012-08-19T10:53:00.001-07:002012-08-19T15:57:05.408-07:00Good Beach HuntingDay 10 (Sunday): We want to get in the water, but we want to get in the RIGHT water. With so many beaches to decide on (tough problem), we wind up at Lydgate Beach just south of the resort. It's got a great little swimming area protected by boulders from the surf. It's perfect. We swim out to the boulder jetty and feel the surf crash up on the other side and sea foam plops on our heads. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lydgate Beach Park swimming area</td></tr>
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In the afternoon, we take a drive up north to Princeville, exploring Secret Beach (remember as you play in the surf to leave enough energy for the strenuous hike back up to the car), 'Anini Beach (very snorkely, calm, and shallow with easy access and a lot of room to spread out), and Hanalei Bay.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Secret Beach</td></tr>
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Hanalei Beach Park at the pier is jumping this Sunday with locals backing their pickups and makeshift sunshades up to the sand and tourists with their striped hotel towels. The bay is unusually calm and glassy.<br />
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Tomorrow: Waimea Canyon hike.<br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadpiglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-9174146898036311842012-08-18T22:29:00.001-07:002012-08-19T15:53:12.778-07:00Wearing a Lei and Riding a Bike: Super HawaiianDay 9 (Saturday): The only breakfast restaurant within walking distance of our resort is as good as you would expect from a restaurant with a captive clientele. In fact, they are so secure in their place that they employ tiny adorable 7 or 8 year old hula dancing girls to cadge an extra five bucks out of their customers for leis that I'm pretty sure they make from flowers from the resort plants. It's all okay with me. I have a lei, And I'm feeling Super Hawaiian.<br />
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We start downtown on foot and make it as far as the cycling shop where we rent bikes and spend the rest of the day on two wheels (each, that is). There is a bike/walking path that runs five miles along the beach here in Kapa'a. Beautiful views and excellent beaches along the way. Compared to the Big Island, the sand here is soft. It reminds me of the difference between skiing on snow and skiing on powder. This is powder sand. We stop at Scotty's and have a late lunch (+Mai Tais).<br />
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Back to the room for happy hour and treats. The view from our room is blue waves and the sound, roaring surf. My favorite kind of hotel room.<br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadpiglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-73627756152774767092012-08-18T01:41:00.001-07:002012-08-18T01:41:51.641-07:00Kaua'i: The Screamening<br />Day 8 (Friday): Double screaming baby flight from the Honolulu hub to Kauai but I have waved my hands around my head and magically wiped it from my memory, so I won't burden you with it here. The rental car place didn't have a "standard" car ready for us, so we (Drew) chose to upgrade us to a Mustang. We returned it four hours later due to the fact that I couldn't see out of the windows because it is built for enormous Americans and I am only one of those two things. Did our laundry, did some shopping, and tomorrow we start the final leg of our super vacation. There's a bar at the swimming pool here, so there's that.<br /><br />- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad<br />piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-52402085972477903602012-08-17T13:31:00.001-07:002012-08-19T15:49:13.388-07:00Strange FishesDay 7 (Thursday): We have declared this a rest day. We begin our resting at poolside, watching kids splash while parents look on (sort of).<br />
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Resting by the pool for a day lasted about two hours. <br />
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We took off for some snorkeling in the bay by our hotel. Drew snorkeled, I used a boogie board with a window in it for fish ogling. Drew might have seen more fishies but I got to keep my prescription sunglasses on and kick around without actually working at swimming. I also got a hot pink sunburn on my ass. No matter how much sunblock I apply, the sun always finds that spot I missed, and it's usually in a weird pattern on an out-of-way spot. This time, in a nice crescent, from where I <i>thought</i> my swimsuit would cover to where it <i>actually</i> stopped covering.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking toward the snorkeling bay from our lanai</td></tr>
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By the time we had ogled a proper number of fishes and showered the salt water off, it was happy hour. Drinky-snorkeling ensued. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Turtles out our window, getting a little sun</td></tr>
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadpiglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-49972030615608702012-08-16T23:52:00.001-07:002012-08-20T14:28:04.010-07:00Kaloko-Honokohau, Kohala, and Kings ViewDay 6 (Wednesday): We explore the road north of Kona to the northiest tip of the island. We stop at Kaloko-Honokohau National Historical Park to check out ancient fish traps and fish ponds and discover a gem of a beach with even more sea turtles as close as a yard or two away. They also boast petroglyphs but they are pretty bush league after those we saw under the volcano.<br />
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Most of the land between Kona and Hawi seems to be covered in sharp, craggy a'a lava. There are a few beaches, but it takes time and effort to get to them. <br />
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The resort area at Kohala seems to have been forcibly bulldozed and sodded out of the surrounding lava - a strange man-made oasis of golf courses hemmed in on three sides by lava and on the remaining side by the sea. It manages to feel claustrophobic and segregated at the same time. Although the area contained a few of the hotels that we were considering while booking our trip, I am thrilled not to have chosen any of them. <br />
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We also visited the most massive of heiaus: Pu'ukohola Heiau - the one Kamehameha I built in order to get the war god Ku on his side so he could kick everyone's ass on Maui and take over. It was properly massive (and worked like a charm, war-wise), but we were not allowed to climb all over it - a trait all of these heiaus have that I just cannot get behind. What's a great big pile of lava rocks if you can't crawl all over it?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Pu'ukohola Heiau - Kamehameha's favorite great big pile of lava rocks</span></td></tr>
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FYI: the best pizza, pretty much of all time, is at Kings View Cafe (named after the statue of King Kamehameha across the street) at pretty much the northiest point in Hawaii.<br />
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Happy hour shall be spent in the room tonight. Too tired and dirty to go downstairs. Wine, Olympics, sunset, and snoozing. <br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadpiglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-76348398797575244032012-08-16T23:45:00.001-07:002012-08-19T15:33:25.150-07:00Kona, Kamehameha, and Some TurtlesDay 5 (Tuesday): We explore Kona. Kona is a typical beach town with t-shirt shops and seafood restaurants with the exception of a temple built by King Kamehameha I and a royal residence now made into a museum. Touring and shopping ensued. We met the wife of one of the captains of a double-hulled traditional Hawaiian style sailboat-slash-oarboat who, along with his crew of maybe eight, set off to circumnavigate all of the islands as we watched from the beach. Good luck.<br />
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We came home to do some of that resting I promised myself I would do. After an hour of that, we headed down for happy hour and more drinky-snorkeling.<br />
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A little Olympics and off to bed.<br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadpiglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-25023724021236057642012-08-13T23:21:00.001-07:002012-08-19T15:25:30.347-07:00Black Sand, Turtles and Happy HourDay 4 (Monday): After a long night of plopping rain on the metal roof of our jungle garden room, we packed up the car and headed off the mountain. First stop: Punalu'u black sand beach. The sand was black. There was a sea turtle. The ocean was pounding against the lava. It was warm and muggy. It was great.<br />
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Next stop: Pu'uhonua o Honaunau, the place of refuge where Hawaiians who had broken kapu (taboos with deadly penalties) or warriors on the losing side of a battle could run and hide until the priests gave them tasks to perform (probably lava rock stacking - there's a lot of neatly stacked lava) and call it even.<br />
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More cute turtles in this bay, and awesome thick, thick lava walls. As interesting as all this was, the heat and humidity really pooped me out here. So tired, hot and weak. Maybe my overdoing it at Kilauea-Iki cost me today. Time to head for the hotel.<br />
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The hotel is as advertised. Our room juts out over the shallow lava-protected bay where sea turtles swim about. The sea sounds awesome. The sun sets outside our window.<br />
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The bar staff is friendly and helpful. I don't know if we can beat this place. I take a nap. I'm feeling the effects of the volcano hiking I've been doing. I resolve to act more like a post-surgery patient tomorrow. For now, it's happy hour downstairs. The bar is directly below our room, which means the little protected bay is yards away, and we can identify tropical fish as if we were snorkeling. Except we are drinking. I dub this drinky-snorkeling. The best of all possible worlds. <br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadpiglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-36266666315685317922012-08-12T22:01:00.001-07:002012-08-19T15:16:07.207-07:00Craters, Crepes, and Canyons<br />
Day 3 (Sunday): We hit the Kilauea-Iki trail first thing this morning because it was really popular yesterday, especially in the afternoon. Drew was a little wary of it, as it descends to the crater floor, crosses the crater, then ascends back up at a crazy-steep angle. About four miles in all. But now, back in the room, sweaty and hot, he has declared it his favorite hike ever.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trail goes to the bottom of this crater and back out and up the other side.</td></tr>
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We walked across a volcano crater! A steaming volcano crater! It was awesome and due to our incredibly wise early-morning start, we practically had the place to ourselves.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the best lava! Wait! THIS is the best lava!</td></tr>
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I have to refrain myself from photographing every interesting piece of lava I come across. I'm starting to imagine trying to show them to friends. "Hey, where are you going? This one is different! It's all wiggly the way it flowed! Wait, look at this one! It's got a fern growing out of it! Life finds a way! Wait for the one with a tree hole in the middle!"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Life finds a way!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crater is still steaming in spots. Like this one.</td></tr>
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We finished in good time, and we are back on the road, this time to Hilo and points north.<br />
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According to our guidebook, the best bets for lunch in Hilo were Ken's, a local favorite pancake joint, a pizza spot on a street we couldn't identify, or, of all things, a creperie. We tried Ken's first but the parking lot was jammed, so we decided that crepes sounded better than whatever a harried overworked wait staff at a pancake joint could offer, and we were super right. HUGE crepes full of chicken or shrimp and cheese and veggies. Crepes in Hawaii. Who knew? I'll try to keep food reports to a minimum, but terrific crepes in Hilo? Worth reporting.<br />
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We spent the afternoon chasing sights on the east coast north of Hilo. After finding and viewing Rainbow Falls, our zeal to chase other east coast waterfalls was dampened as we realized that as Pacific Northwesterners, you can't really impress us with waterfalls. With those off the must-see menu, it simplified the sight-seeing list to coastal jungle roads and beaches. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rainbow Falls outside of Hilo</td></tr>
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We turned around at Waipi'o Valley, the wild, deep, nearly vertical-walled canyon that once hosted chiefs and taro plantations until a tsunami scoured it all out and left it for decades until the survivalist hippies moved in. Now it's not a good idea to enter without an invitation. It's still pretty from above. We took pictures and headed for Hilo.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waipi'o Valley from a safe distance</td></tr>
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At Hilo, we bought cake and wine for dinner and headed for our jungle home. (Kids, don't try this diet at home.)<br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadpiglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-13915484922046842242012-08-11T21:29:00.001-07:002012-08-20T16:47:14.940-07:00I Love the Smell of Sulfur in the Morning<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; line-height: 24px;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; line-height: 24px;">Day 2 (Saturday): I couldn't sleep past five. I WAS SLEEPING ON A VOLCANO. I finally sneaked out of bed at five thirty and hoped Drew could sleep through my fumbling coffee-making-in-an-armoire (not an exaggeration- the coffee pot was in the armoire). Luckily, Drew is pretty good at sleeping through stuff. We pungled together a breakfast of poppyseed bread, apple bananas (which are small bananas), and mangoes and set out for our Volcano Adventure 2012. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: '.Helvetica NeueUI'; line-height: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0898438); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">At the visitor center, we learn for sure what we've been gathering through visits to the website: no current lava flowing. DAMMIT. I WAS HERE FOR LAVA.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0898438); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Momentary disappointment. Onward. Next must-do was to drive the rim road of Kilauea. Turns out it is closed due to highs levels of sulfurous fumes. DAMMIT. Wait- no lava but tons of sulfurous fumes? What the hell, volcanologists?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0898438); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Turns out that the Halema'uma'u crater inside Kilauea's crater (Pele's house) is acting up again and spewing steam and gas like nobody's business. This is more like it. I will not leave this mountain until I see something orange coming from the dirt.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0898438); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Turns out you can sure see the steam rolling out, but you can't see the heat until nighttime. That gives us all day to look at less orange things, then we can come back to the Jaggar Museum on the rim road and see the orange heat of the Halema'uma'u Crater after 7:30 or so. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0898438); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">We see steam vents and Japanese camera tourists, we see sulphur vents and oddly dressed American tourists, we beat the hordes of tour buses to the lava tube, we see the entirety of Kilauea and lots of park rangers trying to keep tourists from doing stupid shit, we hike on lots of small side trails to more or less interesting things, we stop and have a surprisingly good wood-fired oven pizza for lunch, then plunge down the side of the mountain toward the sea to see the most recent lava flows. </span></div>
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We hike out to an area of older lava where there are some ancient petroglyphs preserved for viewing by walking over wooden walkways. Turtles, people, untranslatable squiggles, holes made to hold the umbilical cords of babies dead a thousand years. Awe inspiring, but this particular one and a half miles over lava with the warmest, moistest wind I've ever felt blowing on us was a bit of a cheek-pinkener.<br />
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At the black lava beach, the cameras click like an army of bugs. The surf pounding on the lava is beautiful and stark, but it's hard to take a picture without people in it. Why did we book this vacation so that my volcano adventure time was on a weekend? Dumb. The most Japanese moment was when we took our last bit of energy that we could muster (me because of anemia and recent surgery and Drew because walking must be done without the aid of bicycles) and walked the half-mile out to the end of the road to see where the lava had rolled over the road and ended the road there its own self, and found six people: two children posing on the lava and four adults snapping pictures. All with cameras that cost more than my car. We take our own dumb pictures and head up the mountain for dinner. (Thai. Thumbs up.)</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">BACK TO KILAUEA. It is time to see some murtherfurking LAVA. Now that it is dark, we should be able to see the current eruption in all its glory. With a couple hundred other people who had the same idea! Ugh. This is not ideal, but I am not leaving without a clear shot of orange. I couldn't muscle myself into a space by the ledge (no muscle) so I stood behind a couple by the ledge and waited for them to get bored. It didn't take long. Luckily, I am unable to be bored by a VOLCANO. I was able to use an interpretive sign to steady my camera and took a long, flash-less exposure. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span">LAVA ACCOMPLISHED. We can now continue our vacation with this bucket list task CHECKED OFF.</span></div>
</span>piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-76109809958674765692012-08-11T01:08:00.001-07:002012-08-19T14:43:20.083-07:00Hawaii Day One: We Don't CrashDay 1 (Friday): The flight was cramped, long and uncomfortable. The seats felt like they were made out of aluminum after an hour of the five-hour flight. Drew paid extra for the exit row so it could have been much worse. As I was two and a half weeks out of hysterectomy surgery, my doctor was worried about blood clots developing on the flight and wanted me to walk around as much as possible. "As much as possible" on a full flight with tiny aisles full of flight attendants' carts is twice to the bathroom, but I squirmed enough in my seat to make up for it.<br />
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The flight from Honolulu to Hawaii was late and last-straw-like in its cramped-ness and its smelliness, but mercifully short. As we headed out of Hilo in our rental car aimed for Volcano Village, the exhaustion of the weird system humans have created for flying in metal tubes set in.<br />
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It took a few tries down dark, jungly one-way streets to find the bed-and-breakfast tucked away in a subdivision whose only condition of residency seemed to be German Shepherd ownership. <br />
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Luckily, once inside the gates of the At The Crater's Edge Bed and Breakfast (don't ask for breakfast) the dogs magically stopped barking, the birds started singing, and we were led to our jungle hideaway - a room rimmed with windows looking out into a perfectly-kept Hawaiian garden with ten-foot ferns, wild ginger, and all manner of dinosaur greenery.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Our lovely room, as long as you are not into eggs, pancakes, waffles, bacon, sausage, or juice.</span></div>
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Drew asked about breakfast and learned that breakfast had been stashed in the room in an Easter Egg sort of way. There was poppyseed bread on the chest of drawers, a bowl of tropical fruit on the little table, a coffee maker, juice in a little fridge and a very random set of packaged snacks in the armoire. Okay. Mahalo.<br />
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Sleep and dream of volcanos. <br />
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- Posted using BlogPress from my iPadpiglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-69502247274079702762012-06-11T12:50:00.000-07:002012-06-11T13:05:05.077-07:00Naming a CatA text conversation on the way home from the Humane Society with a new (used) cat:<br />
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Me: We might name him Joe Biden.<br />
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Dean: Pretty good, but not as good as Chairman Meow.<br />
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Me: Having trouble selling Chairman Meow to Drew.<br />
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Dean: Toki Wartooth<br />
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Dean: Nathan Explosion<br />
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Me: Paul F. Tomcat<br />
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Dean: Kenneth Noisewater<br />
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Me: HAHAHAHAHA<br />
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Dean: Kashadahr Miasma<br />
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Dean: Edwin Darkstorm<br />
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Dean: WILLIAM MURDERFACE<br />
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Dean: Snizzy “Snazz” Bullets<br />
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Me: Chris Angel Street Magic<br />
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Me: Catton Oswalt<br />
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Dean: Antonio “Tony” DiMarco Thunderbottom<br />
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Me: Mister Sparkletoes<br />
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Me: Thor Hushovd<br />
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Dean: His Royal Circumference<br />
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Me: HAHAHAHAHA<br />
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Dean: Bokonon! Name your cat a literary joke!<br />
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Dean: Or, on the same note, Tanuki<br />
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Me: Hmmmm... I like it.<br />
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Dean: Cat pictures!<br />
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Winning name: Dr. Kenneth Noisewater, M.F.A.piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-42564790501863596772012-04-11T17:54:00.000-07:002012-04-21T16:22:59.975-07:00First World ProblemsHoly crackers. Ten minutes ago, if provoked, I would have delivered to you the hottest, most condescending rant about the use of a word that I was SURE did not exist other than on Twitter. <br /><br />But then I Googled it.<br /><br />I had been fuming for months about Twitter Tweeters’ use of the phrase “First World Problems” to mean “white privileged peoples’ problems.” I was sure that was a lazy-brained, made-up term. I had always labored under the presumption that the proper group of phrases were “Old World,” “New World,” and “Third World.” I figured if there was ever a first world, it was Pangea, the globular, dinosaur-infested super-continent that existed a few eons ago before it broke up in slow motion into the puzzle-piece continents we know and pollute today.<br /><br />The Old World, of course, is the world known to classical antiquity, and that we know from our Euro-centric history books. Namely, Europe, Eurasia, a taste of Northern African and some more Europe. The New World is the western hemisphere made famous by Christopher Columbus. Related factoid: the term “New World” was coined by Amerigo Vespucci in a letter to his boss (the rich guy who bankrolled his adventure lust), as he mused that they weren’t actually bumping into the edge of Asia when they went poking about across the Atlantic, but actually a “New World” yet unexplored.<br /><br />THEN, as I was casting my “first world” diatribe in ink, I thought to be thorough I should Google “third world” so that I could define it in similarly erudite terms, and found this:<br /><br /><em>“The term <strong>Third World</strong> arose during the Cold War to define countries that remained non-aligned with either capitalism and NATO (which along with its allies represented the First World), or communism and the Soviet Union (which along with its allies represented the Second World).”<br /><br /></em>MY RANT! MY BEAUTIFUL RANT! Ruined by Cold War terminology. I double-checked this Cold War world break-down by Googling “first world” and came up with similar tirade-killing information:<br /><br /><em>“The concept of the <strong>First World</strong> first originated during the Cold War, where it was used to describe countries that were aligned with the United States. These countries were democratic and capitalistic. After the fall of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War, the term "First World" took on a new meaning that was more applicable to the times. Since its original definition, the term First World has come to be largely synonymous with developed countries or highly developed countries (depending on which definition is being used).”<br /><br /></em>Thanks, Cold War. First I spend my childhood waiting to be nuked by the Russkies, then I have a perfectly good curmudgeon bluster stolen from me. What’s next, Second World? Are you going to tell me that Catherine the Great didn’t really like horses?<br /><br />I’m going to go lie down.piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-10687480430646780012011-12-05T15:30:00.000-08:002011-12-05T15:59:46.740-08:00An Apology To AnnieShelby died in August of 2000 at the age of 13 or so. Our family will always gauge dogs by Shelby’s example. He and Dean grew up together and were best friends. He was a beautiful, well-behaved collie with a remarkable skill at understanding human speech and intentions. We knew that he was not the sort of dog you could replace, so we didn’t. For a while.<br />
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After that while, I missed having a dog around. Not long after we moved across the river to Vancouver, I started volunteering at the Humane Society here, feeding and walking the castoffs. I didn’t want any doggie leftovers until Annie came in. I thought Shelby was the only collie to ever find itself at a dog pound, but here was not only a collie, but a rare smooth collie, with a delicate, feminine look and one floppy ear, maybe four years old (it’s hard to tell for sure with strays). And she was so quiet and sad. I couldn’t just leave her there. So she came home with us.<br />
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It turned out that it was not just the loud, desperate atmosphere of the dog kennel that made Annie quiet and sad. She was just quiet. And sad. And chronically exhausted. And embarrassed at having to go to the toilet while there were people watching. And unable to go to the toilet at all if it was raining. Or the grass was wet. And liable to run away in a panic if the door was left open. And a little leaky. We had to give her medicine in an attempt to shore up her weak bladder. It was never really 100% effective. And after a first, growly encounter, terrified of Coco the Basement Cat. If ever Coco felt that Annie’s fear level was waning, she would jump out from behind a corner and hiss-and-bat enough to send Annie back to bed for the day.<br />
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I took her for a walk every day. At first, I would have to take the leash to her bed, put it on, and lead her outside. It wasn’t long before she would wait at the door for her daily walk. She seemed to enjoy it (although she never smiled), until I took up running. Halfway through a (very moderate) run, she would lay down. I took her to the vet because I thought there must be something drastic wrong with her, but it turns out that lying down was just her way of refraining from running.<br />
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A couple years later when we brought a young Scotty (our third and FINAL collie) home from the Humane Society, Annie spent the first three days in bed in a pout, but Scotty’s bouncy attitude eventually won her over. Annie learned so much about how to be a dog from Scotty it made me wonder from what sort of puppy-mill situation she had escaped in her former life. OR she could have just been dropped on her tiny head. Whichever it was, Scotty’s normal-dog behavior brought home to us how odd Annie was and how we had just accepted her bed-ridden lethargy and blank looks as normal.<br />
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Annie has always acted like an old dog, and now she was a genuinely old dog. She had several illness scares over the years - barfing attacks, bloody diarrhea, spells of arthritis that left her even more immobilized than usual - but we always knew that her bladder would go first. It had been getting increasingly difficult to control. We kept upping her dosage of her medicine with no improvement. This summer, we couldn’t take her with us anywhere. If she didn’t barf, she left puddles behind everywhere she went. Our house was increasingly smelling like a kennel. By September, I was mopping up little wet spots and washing her bed cover every morning. <br />
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Drew had been threatening for the last couple of years, when she got particularly ill or drippy, to put us all out of our misery, but there is a big difference between saying and doing, when doing means stopping a heart. Even if that heart was inside a mopey, arthritic, senior dog who left a trail of urine like a foul-smelling dotted line everywhere she slowly went. One morning in September, after I filled the washer again with urine-soaked towels and her bed cover before leaving for work, Drew said “I’m making an appointment to take her in.” And instead of “not yet,” I said “okay.”<br />
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It was not okay, and it was not the right thing to do, but it is what we did. I couldn’t fix Annie. She was broken long before we were introduced, and I couldn’t stop her further deterioration. But I could have allowed her to deteriorate at her own pace. Washed more beds. Stood in the rain with her while she fought the urge to pee in the wet grass. But I didn’t. And for that I am sad and sorry.<br />
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Annie’s Final Appointment turned out to be the day I spoke about below - the day Coco died. That’s right. Two pets. One vet. One day of awful and icky. That was in September, and I am just now able to talk about it without Kleenexes handy. And as I write this, Scotty is curled up in the dining room, in Coco’s old favorite spot.<br />
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END OF PET EULOGIES HERE.piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-3535548778467217152011-12-04T16:00:00.000-08:002011-12-03T19:54:18.488-08:00She was just a cat.Coco was supposed to be my Christmas present, but she was bad at being wrapped. <br />
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Eleven years ago, Drew and Dean went to the Oregon Humane Society a week or so before Christmas to pick out a cat. Drew figured we could use a ball of fluff to keep our minds off the loss of our long-time best-friend collie, Shelby, who had passed away in August. <br />
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They picked Coco out because she had the most spunk. I guess they shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when she did not go along with the “hide the kitten until Christmas” idea. She was little, and skinny, and black with just a little bit of white on her chest, and her face held a look that said “don’t even TRY it.” She kept us entertained by playing with the Christmas decorations, but not by curling up in our laps. She was all action, no snuggling. And that was okay. Dean, in high school at the time, would wage mock battles with her, pinning her on her back and throttling her little neck, or twirling her on a table like a pinwheel. She would always come back for more. She would play fetch, and chase a string, say ack-ack-ack at the birds outside. But she did not care for laps, as much as I tried to change her mind.<br />
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She was unhappy when Annie came to live with us, and she took it out on Annie. Meek and damaged Annie did not have the tools, mentally or physically, to oppose the onslaught of kitty rage, so she would scurry back to bed when Coco would hiss and bat at her, which, I’m sure, made Coco feel like a badass. And she was a badass. At the time the black Basement Cat was becoming a meme on the web, Coco WAS the Basement Cat. If she hadn’t been so black, I would have better pictures of her. Her blackness seemed to absorb all the light in a camera and I would be left with a photo of a cat-shaped blob. <br />
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Unfortunately, she was unable to intimidate our second dog, Scotty. Now SHE was the chasee, and the balance of power fell out of her tiny little paws. I felt sorry for her, being relegated to the margins of her own house, so she and I developed a routine. When the dogs were outside, in the morning during breakfast and right before bed, it was time to Pay Attention To Coco. If I did not Pay Attention To Coco, I would pay. The warning sign was a set of whiny cry-meows. If that didn’t change my behavior, then she would jump up and bat at one of my paintings on the wall, and then race around the house like a trapped badger, bouncing off the walls. At night, when the dogs went outside for their last chance at bathroom time, she would run to me to start our evening Pay Attention to Coco time. I would sit down and she would rub against me and do a somersault or two, and I was hers completely for a minute or two. She only needed a minute or two, and then I was dismissed to finish brushing my teeth.<br />
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Coco eventually acquired a taste for lap naps, especially in the winter when laps were warm, and after vacations, when we didn’t seem so annoying for a while. In the last few years, she would even run to meet me when I came home from work.<br />
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In August, we had to make an unplanned trip to California, so we cobbled together dog-and-cat sitting help, and left for about a week. When we came back, we noticed that Coco had not eaten much. And then she didn’t eat the next morning. Or at dinner. Was she mad at us for leaving? Had she grown tired of her favorite food? I got her some new food. Nothing. I gave her table scraps. She would try, as if she felt bad for me, but she wouldn’t eat much, if any. And now, we started to get worried, because it’s been like two weeks.<br />
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I thought maybe she has a bum tooth, so I took her to the vet. The vet could find nothing wrong with her mouth or throat, and couldn’t feel anything funny in her innards, but he suggested that I take her to get an ultrasound of her liver, because when cats stop eating, something is often up with their liver or pancreas. By this time, she was showing signs of muscle wasting.<br />
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So I took her to get an ultrasound and a biopsy because the specialist was pretty sure she had cancer. The ultrasound was inconclusive, and the biopsy was negative. <br />
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The problem had gone beyond expensive, but the thought never occurred to me that Coco might not pull through. Even though I went through with the specialists and the ultrasound and the medicine, I was sure that all Coco needed was time to pull herself through this, and that my job was to make sure she didn’t die of something dumb like a toothache or an impacted bowel.<br />
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The vet gave her anti-nausea pills, liver-calming pills (in case it would help - they weren’t sure), and antibiotic pills (in case it was an infection - they couldn’t tell), but they must not have ever attempted to give a pill to a cat - a cat who couldn’t even bring herself to eat fresh salmon. I tried hiding them in treats, I held her by the scruff with one hand and held her little jaw down with the middle finger of my other hand while attempting to slide the pill in with my thumb and forefinger, just like they tell you, I tried syringes. By the end of a week, by hands were torn and bloody, and Coco had maybe won half the battles. Coco, who had never scratched or bit us in anger, fought like a tiger to keep the pills away. And she would drool so much at my attempts, we would both be covered in goo by the time one of us won. She now looked like a fluffy, gooey skeleton, was still not eating, and was getting weak. <br />
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When the pain and the fear of losing her overwhelmed me, I would cry “SHE’S JUST A CAT!” Like that would somehow reset my love to an appropriate level.<br />
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One day I went to work, and when I got home she was gone. She had lost control of her bowels and begun to moan in pain, so Drew took her to the vet to end her suffering. <br />
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I just never thought it would happen to Coco. For someone as obsessed with her own death as I am, I just thought Coco was stronger than death. After all, she was the Basement Cat. The Basement Cat is the Bringer of Death, not the Receiver of Death. <br />
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And now the house is haunted with the memory of her. I can read the paper unassisted now, but I would rather not. If I don’t get up on time, nobody meows at me, but I didn’t mind it that much. I don’t have to stop every night in the dining room for a rub and a somersault, but I would if I could.<br />
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We got Coco to keep our minds off the death of our dog, and now she has gone and died. The joy of dogs and cats is so muted by their stupid life spans, it seems like a dumb idea all around. Just a cat. Just a cat. Just a cat.piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-85167236041253217192011-11-26T12:03:00.000-08:002011-11-26T21:33:17.146-08:00$3 Book Report: The Sea Wolf by Jack London. Less Wolf, More Poof.Jack London is a famous dead writer. However, he is not famous for having written <em>The Sea Wolf</em> because it is a poorly written book. I took someone’ recommendation and read this recently, even though I should have known better, considering the source.<br />
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<em>The Sea Wolf</em> is a salty, homo-erotic adventure aboard a seal-hunting schooner with a chaste, yearning nineteenth-century romance grafted onto the back.<br />
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The first chapter promises a rollicking love-hate war between the first-person protagonist, a literary prancer shanghaied off a sinking ferry in the San Francisco Bay, and the captain, a veritable perfection of Man, embodying a veritable parfait of Predatory Animal, although one with an intellectual streak. In noting that this is written in first-person, I stress that the paragraphs and paragraphs devoted to capturing the wild-animal bodily incredibleness of our Captain, Wolf Larsen, is all told to us by our prancing protagonist, Humphrey. Every creamy word. <br />
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Captain Wolfy’s aforementioned and self-taught intellectual streak allows the author to pit the two men in constant brain-battle, discussing the nature of man, the existence of the soul, and, well, the value of values. Captain Wolfy interprets all he reads to bolster his theory that life is a big Hill, and the only purpose of it is to play a life-long, full-contact, no pads, knives-and-power-saws-allowed, game of King of the Hill. Humphrey simperingly disagrees.<br />
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If you like that, along with some bounding main thrown in, then bully for you, you will have a half of a book of it. <br />
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Then, when you are ready for a final throw-down, the ship takes in a shipwrecked lifeboat full of sailors and one tiny, ever-so-womanly woman, and COINCIDENCE of COINCIDENCES, she is known to Humphrey as a fellow writer. And BACK OF DAINTY HAND TO DEWY FOREHEAD! Wolfy attempts to force his perfect self upon her. And does Humphrey save his damsel from a fate worse than death? Well, he tries but in the end, Wolfy gets a headache. REALLY!<br />
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So, instead of a throwdown, Humphrey and his chaste, chaste lady escape in a lifeboat, get blown to an uninhabited island and spend the rest of the book plotting and effecting their escape and salvation. Do they get it on? Hell No. Is there a lot of talk about windlasses and halyards, riggings and hoisting tackles? Oh, yes.<br />
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Wait, no more Wolfy? Why, yes. COINCIDENCE of COINCIDENCE of COINCIDENCES, the ship wrecks upon the very (up to now) uninhabited cove in which the two lovebirds landed, as the ONLY SURVIVOR. So THEN, do they throw down? No, because Wolfy has a TUMOR. WHAT? <br />
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I know. Ridiculous. I think Mr. London gave up half way and finished it because he owed his publisher another book. I’m re-mad just writing this.<br />
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Consider this your warning. Read <em>Call of the Wild</em>.piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-5258024291668793132011-11-19T13:24:00.000-08:002011-11-19T15:38:52.812-08:00$12 Book Report: Damned If You Do.(I know. My book and movie reviews are usually of the $3 variety, but I didn’t want to wait for the paperback of <em>Damned</em> by Chuck Palahniuk.)<br />
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I’ve followed Chuck Palahniuk since his unknown days. I am one of the few who can honestly say I read <em>Fight Club</em> before it became <em>Brad Pitt’s Fight Club</em>. I still follow his work, although, when he takes artistic chances (which artists should), I may not always choose to take those chances with him. And some of his later works, such as Rant, I found stuffed with great ideas and characters, but too full of plot holes to be taken seriously. Let’s just say I’m an affectionate critic. Or a skeptical fan.<br />
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His newest book, <em>Damned</em>, has an interesting premise and a 13-year-old girl as a protagonist. His last try at a feminine protagonist, Diary, was uneven at best. I was curious to see if he could pull this off (although by choosing a pre-pubescent girl, he at least made it a little easier on himself, difference-from-males-wise).<br />
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So here’s what I think, in short, because I hate long book and movie reviews that could serve as a miniature version of the book or movie. None of that here. <br />
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Even though the book opens with our 13-year-old hero, Madison, in a filthy cage in Hell, and the wordsmithery is fun and, well, Diablo Cody-esque, I didn’t feel compelled to keep reading until about halfway through, where the one important bit of plot intrigue is revealed. From page 1 to page 124, our author relies on Madison’s snappy banter with her Hell-mates, her memories of her jet-setting parents and her tours through Palahniuk’s concept of Hell, which, if not exactly biblically based, is very Palahniuk-y, being equal parts jolly and gross. It’s a long set-up to the payoff. A slow burn. I understand. But it made the first half of the book less than a page turner.<br />
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By the end I was thoroughly on board. However, Palahniuk’s use of dropping the reader into a scene with few linear time-line cues gave the book a dream-like hue, and I became more than a little worried that I was heading toward one of those “and then she woke up smelling eggs and bacon” endings. Luckily, he did not disappoint me with one of those, but he disappointed in a larger way with the last sentence, as he certainly had not hinted that this would be a BOOK ONE in a SERIES. <br />
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My final thought was to wonder why he had not collaborated with an artist and made Madison’s story into a series of illustrated novels. His imaginative imagery of Hell and the super-hero qualities Madison eventually develops are ideally suited for illustration. Okay, Chuck, I’LL do it if you can’t find anybody else. But think about it. Pictures of Hell’s ever-growing lake of semen? The dunes of discarded nail clippings? A conquering 13-year-old heroine with a belt of spoils, including Hitler’s scalped mustache? That’s comic book stuff right there.piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-29107803546539309012011-10-15T17:02:00.000-07:002011-10-15T22:15:36.065-07:00I am the 99%<br />
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Mark this day: the first day I marched in the streets for anything. </div>
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I should have done more to get Al Gore elected but I didn’t. I should have marched in the streets when Bush picked a fight with Iraq but I didn’t. I should have joined the fight to throw Bush out of office in 2004 but I didn’t. I don’t know if my one voice would have made a difference, but if I’m thinking this now, how many others are thinking the same thing? <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Look at all these law-abiding, God-fearing Vancouverators. Not a hippy in the bunch. Okay, I saw one hippy.</span></div>
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It turns out that I got my answer today, because the Occupy Vancouver protest was filled with people who looked a lot like me. I’m guessing the average age was 40. Maybe 45. Lots of union signs, shirts, and jackets. Many vets. Some young people, but more seniors. The surprising thing was, in this red pocket of a blue state, Protest organizers’ hopes of getting 200 attendees were satisfied three or four times over, as the crowd was estimated at 600 to 700 people (although those of us spread out for blocks and blocks through the downtown area were wondering whether it was closer to 1,000).<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">You might be able to tell in this photo how the line of marchers snakes around the traffic circle up ahead and winds back around. Lots of Vancouverators!</span></div>
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One thing I learned was that protesting takes a lot of patience. In an ultra-democratic group like this one, it is important (apparently) to hear from everybody who wants to speak. So put your spongiest insoles in your shoes and prepare for some standing around while clapping and wooting. That is an hour and a half of clapping and wooting before the march and another hour after. I wandered off to the farmer’s market during the final hour, but I felt my body was counted in that attendance number by then, so my mission had been accomplished.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">This was not the only octogenarian in attendance.</span></div>
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During the march, since I didn’t have a sign to hold or a drum to drum, I took it upon myself to be the Designated Cop Thanker. Vancouver Police had our backs at all the crosswalks, stopping (sometimes grumpy) drivers to let us pass. After the march we were told that the all the VPD members volunteered their time to patrol the march. Double thanks, then.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">This speaker was quoting from Matthew 31 - 46. Look it up.</span></div>
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What was I marching for? I was marching because we have all but given up on thinking that our votes mean anything anymore. We don’t own the government. The lobbyists do. And Wall Street and the multibillion-dollar, multinational corporations own the lobbyists. We don’t have a real voice any more. We are being sold our next representative, senator and president by whoever has the most money to make the most ads. And we as humans seem powerless to resist doing whatever the majority of the ads on TV tell us to. Hell, Murdoch’s machine bought a cable station that he can run political ads on 24 hours a day and call it news! So many humans seem unable to question the veracity of what they are seeing on TV. <br />
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That’s what I was marching for. <br />
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What should we do? There’s a lot to do, like pushing for meaningful wall street reform. However, the thing that would make the most difference in our nation’s convalescence from its current corrupt state is the banning of campaign donations of any kind. It would pay us back a hundred-fold if campaigns were solely state financed. Not only would every candidate have an even playing field, but no candidate could be purchased with campaign money.<br />
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That’s a start, although an unfeasible one. Matt Taibbi has some ideas. They can be found here. I’ll stop taking up your time so you can go there now.<br />
<a href="http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/my-advice-to-the-occupy-wall-street-protesters-20111012">http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/my-advice-to-the-occupy-wall-street-protesters-20111012</a> <br />
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P.S.: Here is some more reading material about the scary income inequality and middle class income stagnancy in the country:<br />
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http://www.businessinsider.com/here-are-the-four-charts-that-explain-what-the-protesters-are-angry-about-2011-10?utm_source=twbutton&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=bi<br />
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P.P.S.: Oh, and all the signs were spelled correctly.piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-31098674672981259902011-09-03T18:08:00.000-07:002011-09-03T18:17:32.152-07:00Watching Football By MyselfWatching football by myself is less fun, mainly because I feel less superior.<br /><br />When Drew is here, we will watch a kickoff return, and Drew will say “clip,” then the ref will throw the flag a second after and announce the penalty a few seconds after that (“clipping’), and we will go, “pfff, duh,” and I get to own the knowledge too.<br /><br />Without Drew, I watch the play (keeping my eye on the ball because that’s the best I can do), am surprised by the flag, hear the ref announce the penalty (“clipping”), then wish they would replay the clip. They don’t. Then I wonder whether I should just pick up my book.piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-20627121087188855772011-06-24T21:15:00.000-07:002011-06-24T22:14:05.107-07:00Tasty and my SonDean and I have the best new tradition ever. He chooses a new hipster Portland restaurant to take me to for my birthday, Jenny and I eat and drink, and The Captain pays. Best!<br /><br />Off topic: Dean’s latest hipster jeans are straining at their job. His coach has him spending more time in the gym and it makes his jeans look like the sidewalk next to a fast-growing maple tree. We may have to take up a collection for another pair of pants.<br /><br />This year it was Tasty and Sons - a restaurant wedded to a butcher shop. BEST: pork chop with spaetzle BESTER: spaghettini carbonara. BESTEST: bouillabaisse. Or maybe the other way around. Coming in a distant fourth, but still better food than I’ve had for weeks: the grilled asparagus.<br /><br />BUT WAIT - THERE’S MORE. After dinner we walked up the street to Pix, a Frenchy dessert place with Sallie Ford and the Sound Outside on the turntable and a gooey chocolatey thing called the Queen of Sheba in my tummy. <br /><br />The weather is perfect. The garage-door-style south wall is rolled up and there is no barrier between us and the sidewalk. Cyclists cycling by. Walkers walking. A van dragging its exhaust (ah, sad van family).<br /><br />Portland is a fun city. I like hanging out there. Dean and Jenny are fun people. I like hanging out with them. Aren’t we lucky?<br /><br />piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-11937103808186104392011-04-13T14:04:00.000-07:002011-04-13T14:19:05.648-07:00I'm Calling it an Homage.My niece has a new blog: <a href="http://readthisbecausewecantcall.blogspot.com/">http://readthisbecausewecantcall.blogspot.com/ </a><br />
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If it were anybody else I would be very huffy at the lack of originality in the name. However, Katie is the sweetest, jolliest, smartest, cutest little niece ever and an excellent oncology nurse to boot, so she's welcome to share half of my blog name.<br />
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Besides, their (Katie and Amy's) blog is much better than mine because they go places and do things. They are currently on a three-month globe-trotting adventure, hence their bona fide inability to call.<br />
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Go ahead and see for yourself. There are elephants.piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9602181.post-30347114672271308292011-04-13T11:52:00.000-07:002011-04-13T12:32:08.637-07:00One Weird Trick to Self Denial and PainI’ve been thinking a lot about my weight. I’m not happy about how many pants I have that don’t fit.<br /><br />There’s a huge divide between thinking about what I should do and doing it. Eating feels so much better than not eating at any given time. Dieting is denying myself what would make me feel better at all times during the day. Food is available to me all day. It’s not like I just have to push myself away from the dinner table at the proper moment. It’s an all-day every-day denial of pleasure.<br /><br />Holy crap. If you put it THAT way, then forget it. <br /><br />I’ll just keep eating and spend all day, every day wishing my pants weren’t so tight and that my tummy didn’t pooch out a little, even when I’m lying on my back in bed, obsessing over it.<br /><br />Hey, waaaait a minute. That doesn’t sound better at all. <br /><br />I wish there was an actual “one weird old trick” that would make your tummy pooch go away, like those internet site ads always promise. I’ve never clicked on one because I’m not a dummy, but I’m still curious. Or want to believe. Kind of like religion.<br /><br />Drew and I are thinking of trying a weird trick: cut out sugar. You’re right - that’s not weird, and it’s not a trick. It’s just wise eating. Sugar is full of empty calories, sends my blood sugar on a flight and then a steep dive, and increases LDL cholesterol and triglycerides.<br /><br />If you don’t count chocolate, I’m not a big fan of sweets. But that’s like saying, “if you don’t count my driving my car every day, I’m not much of a gasoline consumer.”<br /><br />Well, yes, I’m baking cookies right now, but it’s leftover dough from the other day that was sitting in the fridge. You wouldn’t expect me to toss that out, would you? Be real. It’s oatmeal chocolate chip.piglethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14544714000574510171noreply@blogger.com0