Read This Because I Probably Won't Call

An Apology To Annie

2011-12-05T15:30:00.000-08:00

Shelby 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

END OF PET EULOGIES HERE.

She was just a cat.

2011-12-04T16:00:00.000-08:00

Coco was supposed to be my Christmas present, but she was bad at being wrapped.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

$3 Book Report: The Sea Wolf by Jack London. Less Wolf, More Poof.

2011-11-26T12:03:00.000-08:00

Jack London is a famous dead writer. However, he is not famous for having written The Sea Wolf 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.

The Sea Wolf is a salty, homo-erotic adventure aboard a seal-hunting schooner with a chaste, yearning nineteenth-century romance grafted onto the back.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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?

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.

Consider this your warning. Read Call of the Wild.

$12 Book Report: Damned If You Do.

2011-11-19T13:24:00.000-08:00

(I know. My book and movie reviews are usually of the $3 variety, but I didn’t want to wait for the paperback of Damned by Chuck Palahniuk.)

I’ve followed Chuck Palahniuk since his unknown days. I am one of the few who can honestly say I read Fight Club before it became Brad Pitt’s Fight Club. 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.

His newest book, Damned, 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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

I am the 99%

2011-10-15T17:02:00.000-07:00

Mark this day: the first day I marched in the streets for anything.

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?

Look at all these law-abiding, God-fearing Vancouverators. Not a hippy in the bunch. Okay, I saw one hippy.

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).

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!

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.

This was not the only octogenarian in attendance.

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.

This speaker was quoting from Matthew 31 - 46. Look it up.

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.

That’s what I was marching for.

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.

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.
http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/news/my-advice-to-the-occupy-wall-street-protesters-20111012

P.S.: Here is some more reading material about the scary income inequality and middle class income stagnancy in the country:

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

P.P.S.: Oh, and all the signs were spelled correctly.

Watching Football By Myself

2011-09-03T18:08:00.000-07:00

Watching football by myself is less fun, mainly because I feel less superior.

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.

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.

Tasty and my Son

2011-06-24T21:15:00.000-07:00

Dean 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!

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.

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.

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.

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).

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?

I'm Calling it an Homage.

2011-04-13T14:04:00.000-07:00

My niece has a new blog: http://readthisbecausewecantcall.blogspot.com/

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.

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.

Go ahead and see for yourself. There are elephants.

One Weird Trick to Self Denial and Pain

2011-04-13T11:52:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about my weight. I’m not happy about how many pants I have that don’t fit.

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.

Holy crap. If you put it THAT way, then forget it.

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.

Hey, waaaait a minute. That doesn’t sound better at all.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

Canine Butt Sniffing Unit

2011-03-19T14:32:00.000-07:00

I was wondering today, while vacuuming up enough hair to cover a standard bison, why we feed, board, and serve two dogs when they don’t DO anything, like herd sheep or sniff bombs.

I can only hope that after the apocalypse, dog hair will become a form of currency. Dog hair and a slobbery optimism without any basis in reality. I’m not sure how they might set up a standard for that last one, but I suppose that would be up to the post-apocalyptic fed.

Damn Kids Sneaking Around to Win at the Line when I Had the Lane

2011-03-19T14:20:00.000-07:00

So I thought I was going to give Dean something to feed his fury which would feed his speed at Worlds by beating him soundly and effortlessly in Words with Friends. Now I can only hope I have fed his taste for winning by losing on the last play of the game.

Damn kids.

Playing a game of Inter-Continental Scrabble has made me feel horse-and-buggy old, as I remember sending Drew air mail letters from Germany in 1982 because a phone call was prohibitively expensive and difficult to schedule.

Next step: Intergalactic Scrabble!

Wino With Limits

2011-03-19T12:06:00.000-07:00

If you want to play Words with Friends with me at 2:30 a.m., just give me three glasses of wine before bed. I am guaranteed to be awake between 2:30 and 4:00. Just two glasses? You’ll have to wait until morning. Guess that’s my liver giving me a gentle nudge. Or a cry of desperation. I prefer nudge.

I like Lincoln, but Maybe Not That Much

2011-03-14T18:37:00.000-07:00

I bought a biography of Lincoln by David Herbert Donald. It won awards and stuff, and it is a thorough and readable biography. I read the Gore Vidal biography years ago, and enjoyed it so much that I thought I would enjoy a “real” Lincoln biography. But I’m afraid in the years since, my attention span has collapsed in upon itself to leave a tiny hole through which information must travel at steam-whistle speed. I can’t tell you how many times I checked Twitter in the two hours I devoted to reading this afternoon. I can’t tell you because it would be embarrassing. Suffice it to say that I am on page 73.

My mind wandered. I really should have given up and committed to spending the afternoon painting, or given my restless state of mind, sanding a frame or cleaning my studio.

I wish I had better control over my state of mind. I hear you say “learn to meditate.” That is good advice, imaginary person, but since my mind’s restlessness is based on my compulsion to learn and do everything before its too late (miming the international fake knife across throat motion), I have trouble sitting still and commanding my mind to do the same when it feels that every moment spent sitting still is a moment lost.

Well. It didn’t long for me to make the link between a Lincoln biography and the race towards death. Wait. That’s pretty much what any Lincoln biography is.

For Dean and Jenny

2011-03-12T12:58:00.000-08:00

The Actual World Championships

2011-03-09T12:03:00.000-08:00

Dean goes to LA tomorrow to prepare for World Track Cycling Championships.

We always joke about the weekly race series down at Portland International Raceway being the “PIR Championships of the World” because beginners and Master level racers on $5,000 bikes take it so seriously, but THIS is the ACTUAL WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS.

He’s had a lot of help, and yet, and also, he’s done it all by himself. Godspeed to him. I hope he has a blast.

Helloooo, Academy

2011-02-27T22:09:00.000-08:00

Getting Dressed: More Difficult Than You Might Think

2011-02-08T17:36:00.000-08:00

In our last Goodwill clothes drop, I included an expensive jacket that I bought at a chi-chi 23rd Street boutique no more than four years ago. It was artfully frayed and patched in spots, with extra bohemian touches like charming artisan buttons. Yet when I recently put it on and looked in the mirror, the age of my face didn't match the age of the jacket.

It occurred to me that I am at the age where I could actually embarrass hipsters by wearing clothes too similar to their own.

I'm not sure when I stopped looking in the Juniors department for clothing. I'm not sure when I stopped feeling self-conscious about shopping at Coldwater Creek (well, actually, I still feel self-conscious about shopping at Coldwater Creek). It may have come on slowly but at this point, my taste in clothes have skewed so much toward the soft and elastic-waisted that even though I have long since thrown away my 90s-era velour tracksuits, if you offered me one today I might not turn it down (as long as there was nothing written fetchingly across the ass).

I know I'm not taking this aging thing well, but I think I'm beginning to dress the part.

P.S.: HOWEVER. You'll pry my Maximum Fun hoodie out of my COLD DEAD HANDS.

Comedy Nerd Adventures.

2011-02-05T16:26:00.000-08:00

Now that we're living IN THE FUTURE, we can spend most of our free time in a pursuit that our friends and relations have only the vaguest idea even existed.

Me: I'm a comedy nerd. I know the best comedy podcasts to listen to. I know the best places for live comedy in LA, New York, Philadelphia, and Austin (even though I've been to none of them). I know which household names have no respect in the business and which ones do. I know that Rooster T. Feathers is an actual comedy club.

And why is it important to me? I don't know. Why was it important to me to collect all the Peanuts comic strip collections as a kid? Or all the Tumbleweeds comic strip collections? Or Bloom County after that? Or Calvin and Hobbes? Why did I quote Steve Martin throughout high school? Why are nine of my top ten movies of all time comedies? Laughing is important. It may be the thing keeping me afloat.

Speaking of floating, Helium Comedy Club opened in Portland this last summer. I was excited because although Portland had a comedy club, it was (is) a dump and doesn't draw top names. This new one was an offshoot of a popular club in Philadelphia and the word among the comics I admired was that they would try it out. And advance notice from the first few comics was good.

We saw Jimmy Pardo last August. We drank in the bar before we went into the showroom - rookie mistake, as those drinks don't count toward the two-drink minimum required in the showroom.

The comedy club two-drink minimum custom is an annoyance, and seems like a rip-off after you've paid good money for your tickets, but the sad truth is that ticket sales do not cover expenses. It's like the airlines with their goddam luggage fees. They could charge you a fair price for the whole service up front, but they are afraid you might not buy the ticket at that price. Same holds true for comedy clubs. It works, too. I remember recently deciding not to go see comic Mike Birbiglia because the theater tickets were like $100 for the two of us. Last night at the comedy club, we spent $50 for the tickets, and another $40 for food, drinks and tips. Comedy club win. Honest theater ticket price fail.

Back to Jimmy Pardo. Luckily for us, food orders count towards that two-thing minimum, so I still remember the evening. If you ever get a chance to see Pardo in person, I highly recommend it. He does very little touring as he serves as Conan O'Brien's warm-up act on the Conan show (as he did for Conan's short run as Tonight Show host), but we were lucky to catch him between gigs, so to speak (after the Tonight Show ended and before Conan began production). Pardo should have his own television talk show. He hosts an excellent one via podcast - one of the few pay-per-view podcasts that is a going concern, and the only podcast I pay to download (see Never Not Funny at Parcast.com).

We saw Greg Proops in September. He made a tactical error by starting off the set by mocking Portland's large bicycle riding community. Especially all those bike riders wearing helmets. Huh? This was met with a few laughs and A LOT of icy stares. After that, he seemed to retreat into tried-and-true material and did better, but never really won back the crowd. Pleasingly multi-syllabic? Certainly. Comfortably left-of-center? Sure, but never hilariously so. In the meantime, all I can think about is how hungry I am. Our waitress forgot to take our food order, and as we were in the front row (which in this room is practically on the stage), there was no way we could have tackled a waitperson without causing a scene. So hungry.

Another digression about comedy clubs: why do they have to deliver the check for your table JUST as the comic is ramping up to his big finish? We're all following the comic, happy to be in his or her head instead of our own, and then, just as it's getting good, we all have to stop and do math! That's bullshit. And it cools down the room for the comic - that rapt attention is lost just when it is needed most. There must be a better way - like a McMenamins movie theater system, where you order and pay for your food up front and then go in and sit down, and the waitress brings it out. Do I have to think of everything?

Back to Proops. So he's working hard, trying to get us to commit, and here comes the waitress with our bill. FOR TWO DRINKS EACH. What? We might have ordered two drinks if we had had the chance! Drew throws his credit card on the bill without putting his glasses on to read it, and I say nope, not paying. This catches Proops' eye, which gives him a focus for all the frustration he has amassed up to this point. He spits something like, "look at these out-of-towners trying to figure out what to tip. They must be from Gresham!" A cheap, old, easy laugh that he paid for with our icy stares for the remainder of the set, which ended with another elderly bit about how when we were growing up, we didn't need any of those dumb seat belts, and we grew up just fine. No, seriously, that's what he closed his set with. Ouch. HIS new podcast is called The Smartest Man in the Room. It has received a lukewarm reception from critics of such things.

Oh, and we convinced the management not to charge us for drinks or food that we weren't able to order.

After the Proops Incident it took some arm twisting to get Drew back to Helium, but when I heard Patton Oswalt was coming, I said "please" and he gave in because he likes to make me happy. This time I didn't pay extra to get reserved seats, which means we would have to line up like cattle to get our seats and share a table with two strangers, but it also meant that we wouldn't be sitting up front in danger of stand-up push-back. Luckily, it's a small enough room that even if we were seated at the back, it wouldn't have lessened the experience.

We got fairly good seats, and our waitress took our order! Yay! The feature act was good for a beginner. He was 26. My son is 26. If you had lined them up side-by-side, you would have thought that (a) they couldn't possibly be the same age, and (b) they may not even be the same species. But I think that's due to the fact that they were both outliers - in opposite directions. One a full-time athlete and one a full-time gamer.

Patton Oswalt is one of the great stand-ups working today. If you only know him from King of Queens or Big Fan, do yourself a favor and Netflix one of his recent stand-up specials. Or just go see him live. Or watch this You Tube animation. As much as I enjoyed Jimmy Pardo, I laughed more at Oswalt. Just a flawless set - whether from prepared material, or riffs on Portland, or crowd work, or marveling at the (pretty bad, but very colorful) backdrop mural, it was funny.

And therapeutic. Better than a spa day. I think. I've never actually had a spa day. But if you want to get to the bottom of this, you can always arrange one for me.

Last Night in Twisted River: The $3 Book Review

2011-01-16T16:31:00.000-08:00

I'm a slow reader. I can speed up for something really exciting, but for the most part, it's a slog. What's worse, I'm fussy about the words that go into my eyes when it comes to books (as opposed to, say, the words I encounter on Facebook). I can't abide preternaturally beautiful heroines, premises that could not survive outside New York City, teenage vampires, or science fiction that takes itself seriously. But one thing I can always count on enjoying is a John Irving novel. Yet this last one was a slow go.

I managed to finish Last Night in Twisted River, even though I didn't feel that it picked up steam until page 371 of its 554 pages. It was a lot of Irving - so much so that it would have benefited from more rigorous editing.

It is the story of a father and son, beginning when the father is a logging camp cook and following their travels and travails through New Hampshire, Boston, Iowa and Toronto. As I grew up in a logging community, albeit on the other side of the country, the technical aspects of the logging activities rang true. The wacky accidents that propel the story are signature Irving, and elicit an occasional what-the-hell smile.

However, even with all 554 pages of words, I didn't feel like the characters were fleshed out enough to make me feel fond of them. It seemed like I was watching them move about a vast board game - not living their lives alongside of them. Throughout the coincidental mayhem that is a hallmark of Irving fiction, the only time I felt a tug at my heart was at the climax of the story, and even then, the sentiment was quickly diluted by a series of clumsy call-back references (as if he was afraid we hadn't been paying attention and had to be reminded how neatly he is pulling this all together).

By powering through this one, I'm pretty sure I've earned a master class certificate in the John Irving Writing Style.

The John Irving Writing Style requires the following literary features:

Start with sentence structure: combine every other sentence with a semicolon, then polish the corners until they fit together.
Add a bear. Even better, two bears. And maybe a case of mistaken identity involving a bear.
Include references to a lost hand - the grizzlier the hand lopping, the better (grizzly!).
All protagonists must go through trials, but YOUR protagonist's trials must be by comedically random and fluky accident.
Somebody has to go to Exeter Academy.
Now throw in some large women.

I liked Last Night, but I wouldn't reread it. If you haven't read any, here are my top five John Irving books as of today:

A Prayer for Owen Meany
The World According to Garp
Setting Free the Bears
Trying to Save Piggy Sneed
A Son of the Circus

If you're curious about John Irving, and don't mind a few bears in your fiction, try one of these. You won't be sorry. Irving at his best can be life changing.

Dean's 26th Birthday Dinner.

2011-01-15T19:39:00.000-08:00

Squid jerky is surprisingly delicious.

I ask Dean, "how was your servant?"

He looks at me uncomprehendingly.

"Your runner?"

"Oh," he says, realizing he's Talking To Mom. "He was fine. His name was David."

He offers nothing more.

Runners are the riders' drivers, minders, and General Dogsbodies. Think Baldrick. Think Mark Linn-Baker in My Favorite Year. I read this story about a reporter-slash-runner, and it made the job sound much more Upstairs, Downstairs than I had been led to believe by Dean's previous Six-Day appearances. I'll never get to the bottom of this. He's not telling me the whole story. I guess what I really want is my own servant.

We are at Tanuki in Portland. Dean, Jenny and I trade knowing looks about the name of the bar. Having inhaled every Tom Robbins book in existence, we recognize the Tanuki as a Japanese trickster of legend, looking like a cross between a raccoon and a panda, like the coyote of Native American lore, only with more booze.

Drew agrees to pick up the check for a prix fixe plate evening. The agreeable waitress agrees to keep bringing the goods.

We eat quail eggs. They are small eggs. Adorable, but, you know, eggs. High cuteness factor.

"So did the crowd eventually expect you guys (Dean and Netherlander Yondi Schmidt) to put on a show?" As the video and photo evidence attests, Dean and Yondi often bumped and wrestled, trading helmet paint during the nightly Kierins, usually during the prelude to the sprint while everyone was going a governed speed behind the pace motor.

"The announcer played it up a little bit," he said. "But Yondi played it up more on Twitter, tweeting before the races how he was going to "take it to Dean Tracy tonight."

Dean and Yondi enjoy the old-school contact-sport style of sprinting. Not everyone is into it, or good at it, and the UCI increasingly frowns on it; but it is spectator candy, and at the Six-Days, the refs look the other way. It's mostly for fun and/or show. Note that most of the argy-bargy is done during the slower laps before things turn serious.

Netarts Bay oysters on the half-shell with kim chi shave-ice. They were gone fast. I think I liked them.

We talk about the multiple-personality music that blasts from the speakers at a Six-Day nonstop for hours-upon-hours each night: oompah music, electronica, disco, hip-hop, more Dutch oompah music, a baffling European hit in which "Barbra Streisand" is the only lyric, and for every win, "Stand UP, Stand UP, for the Champions, for the Champions." It makes for long nights for the riders, as it takes time for the brain to calm itself after hours of pumped-up music and laser lights. Special after-race riders' bars help to ease the pain.

The whole grilled pike eel is a puzzle to, um, open, but an experienced Dean uses his soup spoon to open the top layer of flesh, so that we can attack it with our chop sticks. Salty and satisfyingly fishy.

We talk about the benefits of having an agent, something that Dean has not had much access to or need of so far, but something, with his slow-building popularity and fast-developing speed, may be the wise next step.

Seaweed wraps with tomatoes and something-or-other (I wasn't paying attention) is delivered. The seaweed is so thin and crispy, and the tomato whatever is good. The sake, sipped from a tiny, adorable cup, is beginning to have an effect.

The bar television is showing Japanese cartoons. A hamster complaining about his owners' (explicitly depicted) sex techniques, and a family of American style mannequins say shockingly explicit things. Now the boy mannequin is on fire. Fascinating. The Japanese will eventually implode in a ball of self indulgence, or they will rule the world.

Kim chi fried rice with shrimp. We dig in. This is good.

"So, when you win, are the people in the winner's photo with the flowers and the Lovely Ladies the people from the company on your jersey?"

"Yes. Companies pay something like $5,000 Euros to have a table in the infield, and like $40,000 Euros to get their name on your jersey. It's usually the president of the company and his wife."

Korean marinated rib-eye with mushrooms. It just keeps getting better, and I keep getting fuller.

"So, do you have to go shmooze with the infield tables?"

"Oh, yeah. That's part of the show. They can pay even more money and have a guided tour of the riders' cabins, then they get to talk with the big stars one on one."

I mentioned that he's probably pretty good at this part with his sales background. He confesses that his sales-smooth schmoozing technique has not gone unnoticed. We dish a little about the very successful love lives of the single sprinters.

A final miso soup with fresh tofu. A little salty, but we are so full that we don't complain.

Dean gives me one of his sponsor jerseys. It smells like sweat. I love it.

Sim Me

2011-01-05T11:23:00.000-08:00

Rain over ice. Add dogs on leashes. It's a recipe for coccyx disaster. Although I'm sure the ERs are full of cracked cocci this morning, my personal coccyx is intact, as is Drew's, but only because he turned back half a block into the walk, after his first foot-flinging flirt with the concrete.

I took both the wet dog leashes and slid along the rest of the way to the park. Drew seems completely out of sync with both gravity and the ground and braced for the pain when ice is introduced, either by nature or by skates. I, with my lower center of gravity, lower emotional age, and innate boogie-woogie muscle memory, find it exhilarating. It made me wish I lived closer to an ice rink. Which made me spend much of the rest of the walk planning my dream neighborhood.

There would be an ice rink within walking distance, but not right across the street or anything. A) they're ugly and b) I would like to walk there with my skates over my shoulder.

There would be a Trader Joe's within walking distance.

There would be a coffee shop on the block. A nice one. Not too snooty and not too mermaid-y.

Powell's Books would be within biking distance.

There must be NO CUPCAKE SHOPS within walking distance. I'm not mature enough to handle that sort of temptation.

There would be a back yard for two dogs and a goat to be named later.

Personal Coccyx would be a good name for an indie band.

What?

2010-12-29T15:39:00.000-08:00

No amount of rereading can make this sentence better. Or even make it make sense.

"One day, the writer would recognize the near simultaneity of connected but dissimilar momentous events - these are what move a story forward - but at the moment Danny lost consciousness in Carmella's sweet-smelling arms, the exhausted boy had merely been thinking: How coincidental is this? (He was too young to know that, in any novel with a reasonable amount of forethought, there were no coincidences.)" - from Last Night in Twisted River

John Irving wrote that, a writer who once wrote my favorite book (A Prayer for Owen Meany). A writer who has said something to the effect of, I don't write well, but I rewrite well. Makes me wonder what the first draft looked like.

Other flinch-worthy moments include writing Italian accents like they were written for 60's pizza commercials: "Say-a no more, Dominic - we don't-a need to know why, or who you're running from!" and awkward race distinctions like this (contrasting an Italian with a Native American): "Her olive-brown skin was not unlike Jane's reddish-brown coloring; her slightly flattened nose and broad cheekbones were the same, as were her dark-brown eyes - like Jane's, Carmella's eyes were almost as black as her hair." Reddish-brown coloring? Really? 'Cause she's an injun?

Really? Really, John Irving? I'm still going to finish it. It's still John Irving.

Confessions of a Leftist Elitist, Part MCVIII

2010-10-24T14:18:00.000-07:00

Next time I get my hair cut, I'm going to ask my stylist, "Do they teach you how to cut hair for developmentally challenged girls who can, at best, comb their hair in various directions after they wash it? Because if they did, give me that."

I have had, like, thirty years to learn how to work a hair dryer and I still cannot seem to wield one in a way that makes my hair look better after I use it than before. Part of the problem is my hair, which is full of cowlicks and half-full of curls. It won't do curly well, and it won't for the life of me do straight. However, most of the problem may be my impatience. Even though my hair is so fine it can dry before I get the hair dryer plugged in, I often lose interest before I get halfway done.

Last week, I scrunched some mousse in my hair, got sidetracked by something shiny, didn't even so much as comb it before I picked out my outfit, slathered on my half-bottle of lotion, got dressed, and picked up my towel and dog-walking clothes before remembering my hair was as I left it, crumpled like a bad essay on the Peloponnesian War. I tried to save it, but it was too late. I went through the rest of the day like that. The sad part was, it was so close to my usual hair disaster that nobody said, "What the hell is that on your head?"

This morning, I was tippy-toeing around in the bathroom, trying not to wake up The Captain, asleep after a long night at the fire station, wondering whether to attempt hair dryer success today after the 10,950th failures that came before. Then I laughed and walked out.

The Best Worst Movie You Missed In 1988

2010-10-23T18:55:00.000-07:00

So Jason Schwartzman was on Fresh Air this week and he mentioned sitting at home as a kid watching his cousin, Nicholas Cage, in Vampire's Kiss. He was so blown away that he watched it over and over again until he could do all Cage's scenes.

I was intrigued. Drew and I don't have a "Song" like other couples do, but we have a Movie. Well, a couple of movies. Neither of them are what you would call, you know, good, but they are, for reasons shrouded in history, ours.

One is Valley Girl. Nick Cage's performance in what could have been a forgettable confection based on an even more confectionary pop song is a tour de force of scenery chewing above and beyond the call of duty or logic. It's thrilling to watch the budding crazy.

Since Valley Girl, he has shown some signs of the old wild-eyed hammery (Moonstruck, Wild at Heart, Con Air), but after that 1983 break-out performance, he seemed to reel in the crazy and just give the audience enough goofiness to remind them how much they enjoyed a glazed ham.

But all this time, there was this...THING that he did after Moonstruck and before Wild at Heart, where he let his freak flag fly at the tippy top of the mast.

If you are at all interested in seeing Nicholas Cage shrieking the entire alphabet at his psychologist, this is the film for you. If you are at all curious at how Cage could get the most out of the line, "Am I getting THROUGH TO YOU, ALVA?" and if you just want to hear Cage speak in the silliest foppily psuedo-English put-on delivery (except when the character "forgets" to put it on), then Dude. You need to experience Vampire's Kiss. It's all there.

What's it all about? In spite of the title, there are no real vampires in the movie. Cage's character, with the help of a few coincidences and a lot of crazy, convinces himself he's a vampire and the illest of illnesses ensues.

It's on Netflix instant view. I highly recommend it if you have a couple of hours and maybe a bottle of wine to kill. If not, try the ten-minute YouTube greatest hits version.

You're welcome and I'm sorry.

Backsliding

2010-10-22T18:30:00.000-07:00

I was doing great on my secret diet. Hunger didn't bother me. Salads were my friend. I was losing two pounds a week for three weeks straight.

Then hormones struck and I gained three pounds overnight.

My diet mojo was lost.

That was a week ago.

All I have to say is that Monday better watch its back. Because Monday, the Double Secret Fat Killer Diet is back on.

You might remark that it is Friday, and I could get quite a leg up on Monday if I just started back on the DSFKD right now.

You might want to shut the fuck up.

In Which I Wish I Were There

2010-10-01T18:54:00.000-07:00

Dean is in LA, competing at the USA Cycling Elite Track National Championships.

Every year, Dean goes down, freaks mostly out, pulls out a win in the team sprint on the last day, and everyone moves on to training for next year.

Every year that I travel down to watch, I freak totally out, try to tamp down my Gordian-knotted stomach with whatever Valium or Xanax I can scrounge, feel worse for it, and vow to stay home next year for the sake of us all.

The last two years, I have taken my own advice and have stayed away. It helps me cope and it allows Dean to relax and concentrate on his job.

Somehow, my stomach did not get the memo and is acting up regardless of the 962 miles between it and LA.

Despite my stomach's whining, I am still missing seeing Dean with his inscrutable game face wheel his bike onto the track, get in position, give a last minute tug to his toe clips, and then play some genetically modified hybrid of pro wrestling and drag racing.

Tonight, he has escaped disaster again by making it into the match sprint finals, but he was matched with one of the fastest in the business for the next round.

Damn. Wish I were there. I'm sure my stomach wouldn't sustain permanent damage.

Next year for sure. Maybe.

You Need Cute Pet Pictures

2010-09-14T18:31:00.000-07:00

And I need a new, easy blog post. Everybody wins.

This is Scotty in drag. His first groomer put a bow in his hair. I didn't go back. Not because of the bow, but because the bow seemed to be the only clean thing in the place.

This is Scotty after a walk in the rain. He doesn't care about the rain. Annie cares A LOT.

This is what Scotty looks like at his most relaxed.

This is how Annie makes sure she has control over the ball during rest periods.

This is Coco wishing this stupid roasted chicken carrier was more like a box.

This is Coco watching Jaws with me. She likes fish.

Check back later for more lazy blogging.

Batten Down the Hatches

2010-09-02T19:21:00.000-07:00

You've heard the joke that getting old is not for wimps. If you're in your twenties, that might sound like an excuse for saggy arms and spare tires. But believe me, with age comes not just wisdom, but some surprising rounds of pain and mind games you never see coming.

Unless you listen to me.

You know about wrinkles. You know about gray hair. You may even know that women around menopause age need two hundred to three hundred calories less per day, which means eating the same way you have all your life will now make you fat. But do you know that menopause can make you crazy?

Most of the literature written by doctors lists "mood swings" along with hot flashes and increased abdominal fat (I know!) as symptom of menopause, but later in their narrative dismiss the same mood swings as those darn ladies worrying about their fat gut, thinning hair and wrinkles.

Being a woman and all, I have come to recognize a monthly hormone storm and distinguish it from emotions that have an origin outside my own neurotransmitters. However, recognizing a hormone storm does not give me much power over the emotional havoc it wreaks. Now with the added bonus of the Creeping Menopause, the storms are getting stronger.

Yesterday morning, I had a category 5 hurricane in my head, and nothing I tried could calm the storm. This one came in the form of a black-hole size depression, and made me (as usual) feel empathetic towards those of us with more chronic forms.

As I walked the dogs, my own evil black cloud hovering over my head and a lump in my throat, I tried to force myself to be happy by reminding myself that I have a nice house, funny dogs, a wonderful husband and family. The painful sadness remained unfazed. I tried to shake myself out of it by telling myself that I should just be damn thankful that I am not one of the 1.2 billion humans on the planet without access to a flush toilet. The throat lump was only getting bigger. I tried to run it out, but I stepped off the treadmill feeling worse than before. It all ended soggily in a crying jag in the tub that continued unabated through drying and dressing and finally in a puddle on The Captain's shoulder.

Within a half-hour of the shoulder-puddle, it was over (luckily, since my next task was balancing the checking account, nothing you want to attempt while in a vulnerable state).

Why am I oversharing? Because somebody needs to. I would like to know that somebody else is crying while shaving their armpits because there's nothing to do but get on with the day, even if it requires duct taping a box of Kleenex to their face. So if you get any comfort in knowing this, then you're welcome.

And if you don't, start running before I have one of those anger hormone storms.

AGITATED OTTERS

2010-09-02T17:06:00.000-07:00

Nixonland, Page 341 and Counting

2010-08-22T18:15:00.000-07:00

I'm a slow reader, which is embarrassing for a member of the Leftist Elite, but I do great on reading comprehension tests.

After a summer of struggle (and a few sidetracks, such as reading Little Women and Werewolves, listening to several Audible books and a half of a Kindle-for-iPhone book - hey, it's a weighty subject) I am up to page 341 in the 748-page (not counting footnotes) opus Nixonland by Rick Perlstein. I probably would have not made it to the cash register with it, but once Patton Oswalt quoted from it on a podcast, I was determined to not let a very busy comedian trump me in the Leftist Elite department.

The reason I bring it up now and not 406 pages from now is that every page seems to resonate with the current political climate - you know, the crazy Vietnam war, the dumbass Iraq war, the massaging of the media, the left against the right, etc.

The page in question recounts how the public's reaction to the severe beating meted out by cops and National Guardsmen on teenagers and journalists alike at the 1968 Chicago Convention was not anger at the cops, but overwhelming anger at the hippies and blacks in general (by then, there had been a rash of inner-city riots with a myriad of causes, lack of fair housing opportunities being only one). The Average American saw cops pummeling kids, and assumed, no, imagined scenarios in which, the kids had driven them to it, and got what they deserved.

Perlstein points out that at that time, there had been more damage done by terrorism (in the form of bombing and arson) on the right, by groups such as the Cuban right and conservative militia groups, then by the hippy-dippy left. However, the images of the leaders of the Black Panthers making threats against the police were so powerful that the majority of the country were convinced that the hippies and the blacks were the sole architects of the lawless state of the cities. And they certainly did their part. Both sides resorted to random acts of violence (i.e. terrorism) to promote their cause.

I saw a tweet today with a quote from a right-wing wingnut conflating some of the more fear-mongering names from the sixties with the mosque contemplated to be completed some two large blocks from the north side of the gaping hole that is still ground zero.

First, if I had not been in the middle of reading this book, I, a forty-eight-year-old, would not have recognized any of those names, as I was six in 1968, so who is the audience for this sort of scare? (Answer: your grandma and grandpa. They still vote.)

Second, who were the terrorists in the 60s? That's right. Us. Us meaning We Christians and We Hippy Hindus. Islamic terrorism was not a thing. Yet, we were just as scared. More, if you realize that our fear elected Nixon.

It doesn't matter what you're scared of. Somebody is going to find a way to push your buttons with your own fear. Don't let them. The founding fathers didn't.

Please Don't Tap On The Glass

2010-08-21T12:14:00.000-07:00

Joking while texting is very unsatisfying - especially now, in the post-LOL days (and the pre-HHHH days*).

A text message conversation I had with Dean while he and Jenny were touring the Newport Aquarium last Wednesday. I'll be here all week. Enjoy the veal.

Dean sent me a text message consisting of this photo.

Me: The 2nd part of the sentence doesn't make me not want to do the 1st part.

Dean: Turns out it's somewhat difficult to agitate an otter.

Me: Try calling them weasels.

*I'm starting a new LOL. It stands for ha-ha-ha-ha!

Rest In Peace (Eventually), Charles Lee Tracy

2010-08-18T17:49:00.000-07:00

The Captain's dad died. He was a Good Man: honorable, loyal, slow to anger, and quick to laugh. It was pretty sudden - after fighting cancer for something like six months and surviving in remission for six years, the damn cancer swooped back, and within a week of feeling poorly, he was gone. It was a hard blow for The Captain and his family.

The Captain's mom and dad, Marlene and Chuck, in 2007 at Dean and Jenny's wedding

But there is no better cure for grief than a big family funeral. And no, not because it's cleansing and closuring, but because there is no time to think about the sad passing of a beloved when you are negotiating your way around twenty of your closest and craziest relatives.

Oh, come on. I can talk about The Captain's relatives, because they are no crazier than mine or yours. Every family just has a slightly different brand of crazy.

Chuck and Marlene, putting up with some of Dean and Jenny's crazy.

The craziest thing about The Captain's family is that they live in Ridgecrest, California. Ridgecrest is in the uninhabitable expanse of the Mojave desert, within spitting distance of Death Valley (unfortunately, after twenty minutes exposed to the super-heated air, it is impossible to produce spit, so this cliche is unhelpful).

They live there, and the town exists, not on some dare gone horribly wrong, but because it is the home of the China Lake Naval Weapons Center. The China Lake Naval Weapons Center is in Ridgecrest because China Lake is actually a large dry lake bed, so far from anything important that the Navy can practice blowing things up there and no one will be inconvenienced. You know, because of the uninhabitable desert thing.

Chuck Tracy worked at the China Lake Naval Weapons Center for twenty years, so it makes sense that they lived there. However, it must be noted that they did not move away after Chuck's retirement, so it has to be deduced that they enjoy living there. Indeed, The Captain's sisters choose to live there, as do other family members, even though they have experienced life elsewhere. There's something powerful about familiarity. That's all I can figure. Well, that, and steady employment.

We drove down, because in addition to baggage fees, legroom fees, blanket rentals, and food fees, the airlines have quietly done away with the emergency bereavement fare that once reduced the price of a last-minute ticket by up to fifty percent. Now, if it exists, it's a wopping five percent discount. So we made arrangements for the dogs and hopped into the Prius for the two-day trip down.

Travel tip #1: do not stay at the Motel 6 in Carson City. Just trust me on this.

Something about driving into Ridgecrest, which we have done many times over the past twenty-eight years, always makes me want to eat York Peppermint Patties.

After some (understandably) distressingly tense voices on the phone over the last week, we didn't know what to expect at The Captain's mom's house, but everyone was on their best behavior. Plans were made for the funeral the next day. The pallbearers, in honor of Chuck's favorite piece of haberdashery, were to all wear Hawaiian shirts. Flowery shirts were distributed to those who were undershirted, and The Captain's mom warned those known to be promptness-challenged to be there on time.

Travel tip #2: No matter what Motel you stay in, get yourself a white noise machine. I don't know if they work, but they couldn't hurt. Air conditioners cycle on and off. Dumbasses talk outside your room. Cars gun their engines and honk their horns. Neighbors play their TVs too loud. Motels are just not designed for sleep.

The funeral was lovely, although I couldn't help but notice that the front wall of the church held a strong resemblance to the Laugh In set, if it were decorated by a 70-year-old Victorian Bed and Breakfast proprietor.

The next stop was Bakersfield National Cemetery, an hour's drive away. If you've never seen a hearse lead a funeral procession at somewhere over 80 miles an hour, then I win, because I have.

Bakersfield National Cemetery is brand spanking new, with a temporary headquarters in a mobile unit, and bulldozers going nonstop. It makes for less than a restful place of rest, but I'm confident that eventually, it will be nice. Right now, it's a dusty, loud construction site.

The highlight of the interment ceremony (if there can be a highlight) was the military rites performed by the Blue Eagles Honor Guard from Edwards Air Force Base (Chuck retired from the Air Force before he moved his family to Vernonia, allowed his son, Captain America, to get involved with a local hussy, then hightailed it out of there to save the rest of his family and take a job at China Lake.) They were beyond sharp, in ninety-plus-degree heat, in dark blue dress uniforms. I've never seen a flag folded with that kind of aggressive perfection. It was beauty in blue.

Stock photo of the Air Force Honor Guard. You get the idea.

We ate at Del Taco on the way home from the funeral. I don't know. It just seemed right.

We stayed a couple of days after the funeral to visit with The Captain's mom. The temperature topped out at around 105 most days, so there were no pickup games of touch football on the lawn. We mostly stayed inside and watched the kids take short forays into the back yard and back in for needed rehydration. Luckily, Mom will continue to have plenty of kids and grandkids around to keep her busy.

Travel tip #3: Do NOT stay at the Mt. Shasta City Inn & Suites. Beds past their dump date. Bathrooms that smell like an old mop. "Continental breakfast" that consists of Cheerios and an empty coffee pot. Broken air conditioner. All for twice the price of the awful Carson City Motel 6.

Now we are glad to be home but still sad about losing Chuck. Chuck was a wonderful man who touched a lot of lives in nothing but a positive way. But maybe, with the help of crazy relatives in a crazy place, we're a little less sad than before.

Born To Run For A Little While Then Stop

2010-07-28T20:24:00.000-07:00

So I read Born to Run. Well, I put it into my brain through my ears via audiobook.

If you aren't hip to the trend, in Born to Run, Christopher MacDougall advocates for barefoot and minimally-shod running while telling the story of the sandal-wearing Tarahumara Indians and their running exploits, both in the U.S. and in their own Copper Canyon. It's a hell of a tale, ending in a corker of a foot race through the hot, treacherous canyon with a Seven Samurai-worthy cast of characters.

MacDougall has a persuasive argument for (a) the anthropological evidence that our bodies were molded into running machines by a high-mileage lifestyle in the hundred thousand years we spent growing big, meat-eating brains and yet were not quite smart enough to make spears, and (b) the fact that our intricately arched feet are more damaged by the heel-strike running style that the modern running shoe enforces than by running in nothing at all.

MacDougall and several other like-minded barefoot-running or minimal-running enthusiasts and advocates urge that to go barefoot means to relearn to run, focusing on landing on either the lateral side of the midfoot or the ball of the foot, shortening your stride, and straightening your posture. He believes with these changes, runners (like himself) will be able to run longer with fewer injuries.

I bought it. It's worth a try. I've never been able to run longer distances over a long term without injury, pain or whining, and running shoe stores always outfit me with the "beast" style shoes for the problem pronators, something that MacDougall says only makes you more prone to injuries. What the hell? I have nothing to lose, since I wore out my last pair of running shoes by doing nothing but walking. I will give barefoot running a try, but with a skeptical eye, and a slow-and-steady approach.

I started, as many suggest, by slipping my shoes off once I got to the park, and running around the perimeter of the grass soccer fields for a mile or so. It felt SPECTACULAR. And Scotty liked it too. I kinda felt like a kid, and not a little silly, but I kept it up for a week, and at the end of the week, I was ready to take the next step.

Although Nike has a bad rep in the barefoot running community by singlehandedly inventing the running shoe industry, I know a nice person who works at Nike, and I was able to get a screaming deal on a pair of Nike Frees, their entry into the barefoot running trend - a light slipper with a flexy sole - just enough to protect the foot, seemingly without messing with one's natural barefoot stylings.

I have worn them twice since I bought them, and I have to say, I am cautiously optimistic. My runs felt, if a little self-conscious about my new mid-foot strike style, quite easy and less tiring than usual, and my feet and legs feel no scary consequences other than a little (expected) tightness in the Achilles area (minimal shoes have minimal heels, unlike my usual stability runners).

I will report back if this fad sticks to me. I do tend to go whole hog on things. For a little while. Then I stop.

However, whether you buy the barefoot running thing or no, I do recommend the book. The story woven throughout is a page turner, and there is a lot of knowledge worth knowing in there.

Annie Keeps Staring At Me

2010-07-22T19:23:00.000-07:00

Annie is having one of her Alzheimer moments. If you know Annie, you would expect her to have the quiet kind of Alzheimer's, where she just lies around and thinks she's on a cruise ship. But no, she is developing a more combative strain, where the last scene will be Annie in her housecoat in a standoff with the cops, getting gunned down on the front porch for threatening them with a blunderbuss.

This evening, she ran out the door in a panic when I opened it for some political door-to-doorers. I had to catch her by the butt and pull her back in. She continued to try to get out the door even when I was shutting it on her face. She wouldn't come when I called. She ran away when I told her to sit down for a moment and chill so she could eat dinner without hurling.

So I put her outside to "reset." Sometimes her brain gets fried on overdoses of sleep and she gets paranoid. Now she is outside, alternately pacing and trying to lie quietly on the grass. She keeps looking over at me, either hoping that I will decide she has calmed down enough for dinner, or possibly because she is wondering whether her stay of execution has arrived from the governor.

Oops, now she's barking at the kids next door. (Annie doesn't bark.)

It's going to be a long, crazy night.

Update: Annie seems back to "normal" this morning. She was able to eat and hobble around the block on her wrecked shoulders. (What are "shoulders" in dog anatomy? Withers? Dubloons? Loonies? Wait, that's Canadian money. "Shoulders" will do.) I swear, she will outlive us all.

Sweet Dreams

2010-07-19T07:29:00.000-07:00

I wrote a screenplay in my sleep last night.

I had this dream where The Captain and I had to move to Texas or something. The Captain had bought a house, sight unseen, online. You know, amazing deal, couldn't pass it up.

The house looks just like the stuff we like: Frank Lloyd Wright meets The Anchorman's Pad. Heavy dark doors, low light, atrium-like back yard. And goes for miles on one floor. The catch? It's a duplex! And there is no partition between the two halves! It's like a yuppy hippy commune house! And the lady of the other house is a queen beyotch!

And hijinks ensue, including great big stuffed hams in OUR refrigerator, and a party on OUR side of the house. Oh, the money trains starts HERE.

In Which The MaxFunCan Summer Gets Under Way

2010-07-16T19:23:00.000-07:00

As we still have to work for a living (I know! Right?), the MaxFunCan has been limited to long weekends this summer. We have taken it, along with the two collies, on short jaunts to Central Oregon and the Oregon Coast.

The Can seemed so much more spacious without the two land sharks milling about and bumping into things. At night (well, all the time), most of the floor space is taken up by large mounds of dog. But man, does Scotty love camping! He gets so excited, he forgets all the Dog Whisperer manners I drilled into him, and cannot stop pulling on the leash.

I wonder if he can smell bears and cougars. At the campground on the coast where we stayed July 9th through 11th, there was a sign that said, "Last bear sighting: _____________" and the blank was filled in in wax marker with 7/8/10. Dammit! Missed it by THAT MUCH! I kept my head on a swivel, but failed to catch sight of any bears. Cougars had been sighted there too, but not since May.

Annie seems to enjoy the sniffing part of camping, but has been limping quite theatrically lately, so we had to take short, slow walks with her, and then take her back to the trailer before letting Scotty pull us like a sleigh for a mile or two. And she wasn't able to pull herself up the two metal steps into the camper, so I got a lot of Collie Lifting in. She was mostly happy to lie still, as she does at home. We call her our Little Wet Blanket.

Tumalo State Park outside of Bend was a big hit with families. So much so that there seemed to be bicycle gangs forming amongst the camp urchins. The noise level was of an overcrowded-playground nature throughout our stay. Next time we head to Bend, we will be heading for more remote Forest Service campgrounds.

Annie, looking like she is enduring this little walk along Tumalo Creek.

Drew took me for a mountain bike ride that skirted along the edges of my abilities.

This is how I look on a mountain bike. The captain kept taking pictures of me while I rode. I must have looked funny.

This is what The Captain looks like on a mountain bike. Like Sven, your mountain biking guide and masseur.

Washburne State Park on the Oregon Coast, north of Florence, was much quieter, and the campers' ages trended much higher, like 60 years higher. And the trail to the beach did not involve any rock climbing, which can be a reality on the "ruggedly beautiful" Oregon coast.

I took Drew for a hike that skirted along the edges of his abilities.

Here is The Captain looking like he's running short on patience and knee cartilage in the mile-square temperate rain forest that is Heceta Head. It was in the high 70s with blue sky everywhere else and we were being rained on. We're almost there. (Then we hiked back.)

Yes, we hiked UP onto Heceta Head and then DOWN off of it to get to the lighthouse.

Now Scotty's an itchy mess and needs another trip to the groomer. I've gained all my New Year's Resolution weight back, in no small part due to s'mores. The yard has been neglected. And the same half-completed canvas has sat on my easel for a month.

This is the Lighthouse Keeper's house at Heceta Head. It's rumored to be haunted, so I was disappointed not to find any ghostly images in the windows.

I would buckle down, but this weekend is the Alpenrose Velodrome Challenge weekend, so we'll be planted out at the track, watching Dean race and eating booth food.

Everything gets put off but the fun. I guess those are okay priorities.

The Summer My Skin Tried To Kill Me

2010-06-16T19:33:00.000-07:00

My skin and I have never seen eye to, um, eye on how best to behave. I like wearing it and all; in fact, I wouldn't go out without it, but I've always wished it wouldn't get so mad when I stayed out in the sun for more than twenty minutes without protection, or put on trendy cosmetics that may have been tested on animals, but not on humans of the Celtic persuasion.

I grew up in the 70s when suntans were compulsory, and came, not from a spray or lamp, but from hours spent slathered in baby oil, sizzling under the sun. And since (a) the sun was the only source of aesthetic acceptance, and (b) we lived in the Pacific Northwest, we dove out under it every chance we got, and at the first opportunity in the spring. This made for days that looked like some sort of bikini mass suicide, where on every spot of sunny grass, there were wads of inert white flesh, lying like beached belugas, turning to face the sun every ten minutes like shiny, flaccid sundials. Whoa. Simile overload. Sorry.

But years before that, when I was too young to care about suntans, I was also too young to care about sunburns. I would stay outdoors and play all day in the sun, and come back inside at night and peel dead, third-degree-sunburn skin off my shoulders. No big whoop.

The summer I graduated from high school, my skin had already had more than it could take and lashed back hard. My doctor (bless his soul) decided that the ugly mole on my left forearm looked a little, well, evil, so he convinced me to let him take it off. Whatever. It didn't bother me any. It was like a beauty mark. If a beauty mark was supposed to be brown, lumpy, black, waxy, maybe a little purple, and ambitious.

Okay, so we went to a lousy school with a lousy prom photographer. It was 1980. In Vernonia, Oregon. Look it up. It's a real place. Or watch that logger show on the Discovery Channel. I digress. But it's the only picture of the Death Mole. You can see it my left arm. Yes, that's The Captain. Yes, I could write another entire post about this picture alone.

Turns out my sweet little doctor saved my life. It was melanoma. The super killy kind.

I was scheduled, like the next day, to go in and have as much of my arm flesh as I could spare taken out from around the mole area. They took a skin graft from my ass to cover the strip mine that was left of my arm.

So I had two wounds. The arm one and the ass one. As you can tell from the picture, I didn't have a lot of ass flesh to spare at the time, and they had a hard time getting the skin harvester machine (yes, there apparently is such a thing) to follow the bony curves of my hip, so the ass wound was bigger, area-wise, than the arm. I remember, ever too vividly, the nurses positioning me with my ass up in the air and some sort of ultraviolet light trained on the wound as a healing aid, and some nincompoop coming into my semi-private room, opening MY curtain, and staring a while before realizing he was looking for my roommate. If it happened today, I might have laughed. Or yelled. At eighteen, a seriously traumatic event.

The ass wound healed, although the accidental flashing episode still smarts a little. The arm took some time, and a lot of dressing changes. At first, the dressing changes made me woozy and sick. Well, I guess they always made me woozy and sick. Touching it still feels like I'm touching my spleen or something - unnatural.

Since then, I've visited the dermatologist on a somewhat annual basis, and they usually find something they don't like the looks of. I've had so many moles removed, I cannot tell you how many, but if, as a conservative estimate, I have had one mole taken out every two years since I was eighteen, that would be fifteen moles. That sounds low. It's probably more. I have learned to take out my own stitches to save myself a trip back to the office. But they have always come back clean.

I got three moles taken off this last time, and one came back iffy. Not necessarily cancery, but not NOT cancery either, so my dermatologist, with my dire history in front of her, decided to cut wide and deep. There was no cancer in the wider cut, but it's been two weeks of pain with this one, and a 2 and 1/2 inch long scar on the back of my arm to add to the others.

I'm wondering whether, in the Shakespearean tradition, once my dermatologists have taken a cumulative pound of flesh from me whether my debts shall be then forgiven. I hope so, because I'm racking up quite a lot of dermatologist bills.

$3 Music Review: Minus the Bear - Omni

2010-06-01T19:25:00.000-07:00

The most important thing I learned about Minus the Bear while poking about the internet was that their name stems from an inside joke regarding a date review of a friend of the band that was something like, "You know that 70s show, BJ and the Bear? It was like that minus the bear."

The next important thing I learned was that they are a PNW band - specifically from Seattle. That earns them some (unearned) points.

The least important thing was what the music critics thought of this album. I started researching how I was supposed to feel about this band and their latest album a while ago after enjoying it during a treadmill session, and got a bit too much snark in the face to listen objectively to the music for a while. So I set it aside for a week and came back to it.

For the record, the critics are singing, in tune, that this album is like the sonic version of Lieutenant Dangle putting the moves on you - a completely limp, over-blowdried attempt to be supersexy.

What I hear are very listenable tunes that work well as workout tunes and work tunes, as long as you don't listen too closely to the lyrics, which are, at times Dangle-worthy.

For instance (real lyrics):

Summer Angel

And when her kisses came they rain down

And when by body moved she made sound

(chorus) My summer angel keeps me on the run

My Time (a great summer song in spite of lyrics like these:)

And you're holding on to me like an old love

That you know every inch of

When I feel you start to go

Take it slow, 'til your body's saying more....baby!

Hold Me Down (another pretty song, in spite of:)

And I'm in the wind.

I am going to let it take me where it may.

Maybe it lifts me to New Orleans,

Or the dark streets of L.A.

The dark streets of L.A.! I love that! And if you order now, you get gems like, "Running out of excuses/When we know what the truth is," and "I will surely chase you down/Lure you in with a lonely sound!"

No, seriously, this is a keeper for both me and The Captain, despite (and maybe, just a little bit because of) the incredibly awkwardly corny lyrics. If nothing else, check out a summer stand-out song in this video for My Time, with Extra Sparkle Motion!. (YouTube, you better work for me this time.)

On the cold/lukewarm/hot scale, I'm giving it an enthusiastic lukewarm.

$3 Music Review: The National - High Violet

2010-05-31T17:19:00.000-07:00

I had this review completely written, pasted something into it, went to delete the last pasted thing, got a little handsy with the touch pad on my Macbook and mistakenly deleted the whole thing, and Blogger helpfully auto-saved it at that moment.

Gone.

And it was so important!

If not important, than at least an hour of my life.

Bereft.

Should I start over?

Here's a shortened version, because I've thrown the earbuds out of my ears in frustration and made a pouty noise, so I'm not in the same place, musically.

I've been cueing up The National's new release, High Violet, in the car, listening for a few songs, and then itchily switching the iPhone to Passion Pit or Two Door Cinema Club for a happiness break. My mood has been hormonally blackened over the past few days, and The National is not safe under severely stormy conditions. However, like Volcano Choir, the sound, the layers of sound, and even the mood of the sound, were heightened exponentially once played through my earbuds.

And what is the mood of the music? Um, brooding without being whiny. Deep without being dark. Thoughtful without being navel-gazing. It's best when the drums are anchored firmly to the bass to match that deep voice. It's the stuff on your iPod that gives your walk around the city that extra gravitas.

Critics aren't sure whether this album stands up to the (what was that word they used? divinity? excellenceness? superlove?) esteem in which they hold their earlier release, Boxer, but they mostly like it. And after a chat with my music therapist, Dean, and some YouTube time, I found that Boxer (which had gone unnoticed by me on account of my nerdism) does hold some divine songs, including "All the Wine," which is a cocktail hour playlist MUST. However, this one has some outstanding cuts as well, such as "Bloodbuzz Ohio," "Terrible Love," "Sorrow," "England," you know, I'm starting to like the whole thing.

Now a word about The Voice. The National's lead, Matt Berninger, has a distinctive buttery sleepy baritone that, once you see the box that the voice comes wrapped in, gives you one of those Rick Astley moments (THAT voice comes out of THAT face?). However, absorbing the two helps give the songs more of a whimsical vibe then if the words and that voice had come out of the large, bearlike fellow you might have originally imagined. You can experience the voice+quirkiness best in this video.

My Final Opinion re The National's High Violet on the cold/lukewarm/hot scale: Hot.

$3 Music Review: The Hold Steady

2010-05-26T12:11:00.000-07:00

Okay, the last time we met, I was griping about aging while new young bands keep popping up with newer, better versions of the music I used to listen to. Now we are going to talk about a band that has been around for a while, aging along with me (although on a parallel track started somewhat later).

Craig Finn, the front man for the Hold Steady will turn 40 next year, and his lyrics, if not his music, is showing signs of someone starting to look behind him at the damn kids and their destructive behavior, which he realizes is not unlike his own at their age. Now he's writing lyrics like, "You ask me not to do it, but you can't control the kids...We used to want it all, now we just want a little bit." If the lyrics have become more wistful, the volume knob is still at eleven.

The Hold Steady's latest album, Heaven is Whenever, is more of the same Springsteen-heavy club rock, even more so without the more playfully inventive stylings of their former keyboardist, Franz Nicolay (for instance, there are no harpsichord solos, such as in "One for the Cutters" from the Stay Positive album).

Reasons to avoid The Hold Steady's Heaven is Whenever:

Through three full listens, I have yet to find a "sing-a-long" song (Call back! from the song "Constructive Summer"! Get it?), such as "Sequestered in Memphis," from Stay Positive.
These songs have very few hooks or memorable melodies - they have all been wrapped around Finn's lyrics almost as a second thought, so that the music seems to have been forced to fit. Not that that is not the case with all Hold Steady songs to a degree. There are a lot of words there. But here it seems like these lyrics were fitted a little uncomfortably to these club rock anthems.
The lack of hooky songs puts Craig Finn's voice front and center. The Village Voice's Rob Harvilla euphemistically notes that Finn's vocal efforts convey a "melodic disregard." At other times Harvilla likens his style to a carnival barker. Both are accurate.

Reasons to listen to The Hold Steady's Heaven is Whenever multiple times:

Those words. Craig Finn's lyrics are always a highlight. What a gift of poetry. Here are some snippets from Heaven is Whenever:

There were a couple pretty crass propositions

There were some bugs in the bars, there was a kid camped out by the coat check

She said the theme of this party's the industrial age

And you came in dressed like a train wreck

I know, right? Or how about this:

There was that whole weird thing with the horses

I think they know exactly what happened, I don't think it needs any explaining

I'm pretty sure I wasn't your first choice

I think I was the last one remaining

or this:

Don't it suck about the succubi, the bloodsuckers and the parasites?

They're never funny and they're all so scared to die

All the small talk seems like suicide, the spiderwebs with the legs and eggs and eyes

They creep up from behind

or, finally, this:

That one girl got me cornered in the kitchen, I said I'll do anything but clean

She wants to know what I like being better, a trash bin or an ice machine

Some writer's by the fridge, said he didn't make the gig, wants to know if I was drunk

He said some kids that he knows from the net said the sound kinda sucks

Yes. They play bar band music around these lyrics. That's the beauty and the sadness of it. Sometimes I feel like I should just bind the lyrics in a book, and then read them while listening to Philip Glass.

I'll listen some more, and I suspect that The Captain (although he is out rescuing citizens from themselves today as I am playing these songs on repeat) will enjoy it as well. It is welcome in the Driving With The Captain Playlist. But I don't think it will attain the playlist status of my other Mother's Day Music, or even of their former album, Stay Positive.

Of my new rating system of hot/lukewarm/cold, I'm giving this a Lukewarm.

$3 Music Review: Two Door Cinema Club

2010-05-25T18:53:00.000-07:00

To the basement, people! To the basement!

Oh, I really like this. Witty. Crisp. Fast moving. Pretty tunes and harmonies.

This is Two Door Cinema Club's debut album, "Tourist History," released in March of 2010. According to Wiki, they are from Northern Ireland and their band name was born when one of the band members mispronounced the local cinema, Tudor Cinema.

These fellows sound young. So many members of my favorite bands are so not of my generation. I know I should still be listening to Elton John, or occasionally singing along to a Shakira song in the car (well, my hips don't lie), but I refuse to be age-appropriate when it comes to music.

The music that is being produced (although not played on the radio) today is so superior to what I listened to as a kid, I have no problem in moving on. I know I am not alone (hi, Chauncey), but I realize I may be in the minority among forty-somethings. (forty-something - not baby boomer. You may refer to this earlier post that proves I am NOT a baby boomer.

Those of the Sound Opinions ilk, I give this an enthusiastic "buy it."

$3 Music Review: Volcano Choir

2010-05-24T17:15:00.000-07:00

I'm listening to Volcano Choir. The Captain is enduring Volcano Choir.

Volcano Choir is everything The Captain cannot abide: repetition, unfamiliar chords, dissonance, unintelligible lyrics, and no catchy hooks.

None of those things disqualifies it for goodness in my opinion. However, it still has to be good.

Volcano Choir is a collaboration between Bon Iver's Justin Vernon and the Milwaukee-based instrumental band Collections of Colonies of Bees (which is not a bad attempt at Best Band Name Ever, and positively affects my opinion of their music).

Most of the music on their 2009 album "Unmap" is an interesting juxtaposition of soothing drones, harmonies, choppy bits of words and phrases, as well as dissonances, unconventional percussion, and experimental instrumentation - at times ethereal, divine and chantlike, at others, clanky and demanding. I would give four stars (out of the five-star iTunes system) to at least four out of the nine cuts on the album, but I'm not sure what I would DO with them. For instance, the opening cut, "Husks and Shells," is a beautiful blend of voices, save for the fact that I swear that's my Polar heart rate monitor beeping in the background throughout, as if I had exceeded my target heart rate during my workout. It is not, for the most part, relaxing music, nor would it fit in a party or workout mix. So when do you pull out the experimental, drone-intensive, attention-sustaining prog-alt?

What's great about it, however, is that it does not get in the way of my words as I write this, as there are very few full sentences to vie for my attention. In fact, it may be a nice change of pace at work, when I have the office to myself (The Captain and my boss share many of the same musical tastes). And now that I've moved it from the stereo to my earphones (The Captain was getting tense), I'm enjoying it more, especially "Still." And now that I am re-listening to "Seeplymouth" (not a misspelling), I may put some of these on a few playlists after all.

Just not the ones that I play for The Captain.

HODGMAN!

2010-05-24T09:23:00.000-07:00

(Awkward sentence alert:) Although I blame him for the worst pub quiz defeat of my life, he WAS the only thing I would stop fast forwarding through commercials for.

Welcome To Your Animal Rating Service. Today: The Five Cutest Deadliest Animals

2010-05-20T19:34:00.000-07:00

I know you know which is number one in terms of cutest/deadliest. But can you name Numbers 2 through 5? I can! Let's!

Number 5: The Hippopotamus.

These guys are probably deadlier than some of the higher-placed animals, but their lack of furriness affects their score. No, really. These pink blobbies, for all their Disney-friendly tubby tummies and wiggly ears, are cranky and surprisingly fast and ferocious. And it doesn't take much to set them off. But man, in a zoo, they are aahh-dorable. Blink-blink. Wiggle-wiggle.

Number 4: The Chimpanzee.

Cute in a little hat. Darling when they are small, maybe sporting a little diaper. But just like humans, when they hit adolescence, they turn into reckless, unthinking sex and rage machines. DO NOT adopt a cute little chimp baby. It will tear your friend's face off.

Number 3: Cheetahs.

For the purposes of my very important list, the cheetah is representing all big cats. They are all cute when they are lolling about the savanna, yawning and licking their babies, but cheetahs are the most cutest of all the big cat faces. Look at the puss on that puss! Makes you just want to smoosh it, which would be unwise if you want to keep your blood inside your skin.

Number 2: Elephants.

Here's another animal that can kill us (however, unlike the others on this list, not by eating, or even biting, but by stomping us with their enormous, adorable feet - 'cause they are vegetarians - they probably think we taste terrible), but yet we insist on making them dress in tutus and dance for us. It's hard to resist their cuteness, even though it comes in such a jumbo size. (Fun fact: did you know the word "jumbo" came from the name of an elephant captured in the Sudan and brought to Europe in the 1860s and later sold to P.T. Barnum? Sadly, Jumbo was killed by a locomotive. Okay, that fact was not that fun.) The more I learn about elephants, the more I don't want to see them in circuses, or even small zoos. These wonderful, intelligent animals are not meant to be squished into trucks and other small spaces and made to do tricks. I wouldn't want to either.

Number 1: BEARS!

This is not a surprise to anyone with eyes and a brain. In fact, this whole list would be just a list of different types of bears (polar, grizzly, black, Kodiak, sunbear, panda, Fozzy) if I hadn't given the other animals a break by consolidating all of them here under one heading. Bears have it all: fluffy fur, big forehead with little round ears, expressive eyes, kind of pigeon-toed feet, round tummy, a little black nose, deadly teeth, and long, slashing claws. Bears have it.

Oh, and you're welcome.

Jordan, Jesse, GO! at MaxFunCon

2010-05-18T16:37:00.000-07:00

JJGo! At MaxFunCon from Jesse Thorn on Vimeo.

Get Me a Goddam Goat.

2010-05-15T14:42:00.000-07:00

I'm crying from laughing. This is my personal tickle button. Play it and I will laugh. Oh, and don't tickle me. I hate it.

Report from MaxFunCon 2010

2010-05-12T19:25:00.000-07:00

We were told to park the trailer at the tennis courts, but we weren’t sure, so we kept driving up into the complex (the complex being the UCLA Lake Arrowhead Conference Center).

We were sure that there would be a place to turn our truck-and-trailer train around at the check-in parking lot. There isn’t. And it’s a busy day. Cars, delivery trucks, garbage trucks. And in the middle, a pick-up and trailer straddling the road with not enough room to turn around. And sweat. Quite a bit of sweat. How stuck were we? Stuck enough to require unhitching the truck, turning it around, and rehitching it, facing out. And sweat. More sweat.

And so MaxFunCon begins.

The first meet-and-greet is awkward. Loud and crowded with returning campers from last year meeting old friends. We sat at a corner table and were glad when someone took pity on us and sat down at our table, or just got tired of standing and sat down.

The room became more crowded and hot until I had to escape outside, where I, oddly and uncharacteristically, took a seat by Maria Bamford, told Marc Maron I was a big fan since Morning Sedition, and told Neal Pollack that I was looking forward to taking a yoga class from him in the morning. (Huh? A minute ago I wasn’t able to talk to my fellow Maxfunsters. Who am I?)

John Hodgman’s benediction was perfectly Hodgmanesque, although blurry because (a) we were sitting in the very back row, and (b) I had temporarily misplaced my glasses. A swig from a bottle of Jeppson's Malort Liqueur is required of all campers. Malort is everything the label says it is. ("Jeppson's Malort Liquoer has the aroma and full-bodied flavor of an unusual botanical. Its bitter taste is favored by two-fisted drinkers." Really.) I shared a swig with Al Madrigal. He seemed nice.

Dinner was slightly less awkward with just a few strangers to deal with. Neal Pollack noticed our plates piled with beef and jokingly (we hoped) banned us from yoga in the morning if we ate all that meat.

After dinner there was sketch comedy by Elephant Larry. Silly, fun, and cookie intensive. And bat. There was some bat eating.

Then San Francisco-based sketch group Kasper Hauser kicked the crap out of us with their seminar on awesomeness. If you get a chance to see them, don’t even fuck around. Just go.

Pretty Amazing Photo of Kasper Hauser by Noe Montes

The awkwardness melted away for a moment as we, as a group of nerds, sang “Skullcrusher Mountain” with Jonathan Coulton. I didn't know that I knew the words. (You Tube it, people.) Then we sat back as a newly love-bonded group and allowed Coulton’s “Fancy Pants” song to knock the shoes right off our collective feet.

Jonathon Coulton. Photo by Noe Montes

The evening ended at the pretend frontierland at the top of the hill with s’mores, beer, and sitting cross legged in a fake prairie schooner, chatting with people whom I hoped would wear their name tags again tomorrow.

Photo by Noe Montes

Day 2 - Saturday

The problem with a breakfast buffet is that there is a pile of bacon. When bacon comes in a pile, there is nothing that you can do but try to eat your way down to the bottom of the steam tray.

Right?

We met nice people at breakfast. I would tell you all about them, but I spent all of my attention on failing to keep the conversation going. They were nice, though, because everybody is nice here. It’s what MaxFunCon is known for.

Full of even more meat, we headed up the hill to the “Zen Deck.” On our yoga mats, we listened to Neal Pollack read parts of his new book (August 2010) about his journey to yogihood and then we did some basic yoga poses. The weather was warm and sunny. The view was spectacular, down the wooded hill to Lake Arrowhead and beyond. Neal Pollack was both sincere and funny about his practice, still curious and eager to learn more, as all good yogis should be. There were no meat-related digestive mishaps. As far as Pollack knows.

Neal Pollack and me. Yoga nerds on the Zen Deck.

Back down the hill for Andrew W.K. Perfectly rambling, twitchy and sincere.

From You Look Nice Today, we learned what “doing a number three” is. Um, and a new meaning for the nickname "Lonely Sandwich." From Jordan, Jesse, Go! we learned that Spiderman costumes can be quite comfy, and we got a look at Chompers 2. A fine pig.

After lunch, Jad Abumrad from WNYC's Radiolab gave a presentation on his use of music and sounds to help make the stories on the show more accessible and fun to listen to. As so many humans are, he is the perfect person to be doing what he is doing.

After Jad’s presentation, we moseyed over to get our asses kicked in pub trivia. The trivia game was lead by John Hodgman and the questions (and subject matter) were picked by the members of the sketch group Elephant Larry. The subjects could not have been further from our areas of expertise, to borrow a Hodgmanian phrase: Disneyland, comic books, the New York Yankees, and apples. Really, Elephant Larry? Those are the things that turn you on? Really? I’m afraid none of them can be my friends. We lost so hard, we won dirt. No, really. Dirt.

THE John Hodgman. I don't think he liked us. We were losers.

At dinner (taco night!) we met more awesome people, including Dr. Cocktail, who worked as hard or harder this weekend than anyone. This may be a fun and positive group, but they are a hard drinking crew. Hard. Drinking.

After dinner, it was time for shit to get real. I’m talking Jimmy Pardo. Killed. I’m talking Al Madrigal. Charmed us all. I’m talking Maria Bamford. So good. And Then. Marc Maron brought it. And then he dropped it on us. Saturday’s entertainment was worth the entire price of the weekend.

I would have happily climbed our little hill to our condolet and crawled into bed, but for many, that’s when the real partying started. It was time for the Country Estate party.

Maxfunsters had been alternately buzzing and harrumphing about dressing up in their best (or most recently scavenged) tweeds and tattersals to wear to the Country Estate party for weeks, but in the end, most seemed to enjoy the challenge. And it would have been an awesome idea in a room twice as big with twice as many bartenders. As it was, it was too much for my ADD/social anxiety-addled brain, even with a heavy dose of Xanax on board. I sat outside in my consignment-shop tweed riding cape and drank my drink, then Drew’s, then we got cold and went back to our condolet. This was not a failure of MaxFunCon, but my own intense inability to mingle in loud, crowded, party-like settings. I am aware of this and try not to beat myself up about failing to act like a more social human.

My tweed riding cape. And my name tag.

We were in bed by 11:30 or midnight maybe. Others partied past 3:00 a.m. We are too old for that. Or we know that it’s not worth whatever fun you think you are having in the wee hours. Because whatever fun it is will reveal itself to be less fun in the morning.

Day 3 - Sunday

Sunday morning. Due to our relatively early night last night (but no thanks to a nose that has just HAD it with the juniper pollen and went on strike for the duration of the night), we made it down to breakfast in time. And who sat down with us but the wonder that is Maria Bamford. We talked about Drew being a firefighter and Captain America, and my bear paintings, which we all agreed I should put on Etsy. I’m going to have to get on that. I swear.

Jimmy Pardo, Matt Bellknap and Pat Francis of Never Not Funny introduced us to a new way to terrorize our spouses (“SMELL THE GARBAGE!”), and Pat Francis helped us to understand E-Bay correspondence.

And then we ate lunch, met even more people at the very final meal, packed up and left.

Jesse Thorn, founder of MaxFunCon and Benevolent Colonel of the Nerd Plantation (as dubbed by Marc Maron).

Photo by Noe Montes

Did I say that we had breakfast with Maria Bamford?

Life Is Beautiful, California Needs to Get Their Shit Together, and Cancer Sucks

2010-05-03T18:04:00.001-07:00

What?! There's no wi-fi at this glorious campground overlooking Monterey Bay with the smell of eucalyptus in the air? Not cool, California! Not cool!

I'm ready to blame the color of John Boehner on California right now, after experiencing what the "highways" have been reduced to thanks to the "leadership" of this once great state. Guard rails left dangling. Crash bumpers, once filled with sand, limp with use and neglect. Highways with holes so big, even with a sports bra on, I was in pain. The MaxFunCan took a beating. The microwave platter was chipped (yes, there's a microwave, duh) and the dishes went flying. It looked and felt like Mad Max California Apocalypse Edition. I was left with an urge to hoard gas and pack heat. Schwarzenegger, CA legislature, pull your over-inflated head out!

Where was I?

Capitola. New Brighton State Park. I'll add pictures later. We've been to the beach. We've been to the pier. We've had fish tacos in Capitola. We are currently sitting in the shade of eucalyptus and pine trees, drinking cold beverages. We are happy.

Meanwhile in Clovis, our dear, dear sister-in-law is in the hospital, newly diagnosed over the weekend with acute myeloid leukemia. "Sister-in-law" does not capture the pure light that radiates from this mother of two darling girls. Brandy should have pulled the highest draft card number in the worldwide cancer draft. Why she pulled such a low number is a logic game mere mortals have no business playing. I'm just confident that her inner light will laser-vaporize whatever malevolent cancer demon is working inside her bones. Godspeed, Brandy. We are all on your side.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Operation MaxFunCon: Mobilize!

2010-05-01T20:25:00.000-07:00

Dropped Scotty and Annie off at Suzie's Country Inn and Doggy Bed and Breakfast at eight this morning. Scotty was happy to see the other doggies. Annie tried to escape. I was all "whatever."

Filled Coco's Vacation Food Delivery Device and told her I was sorry. She didn't look up. Dean is supposed to check up on her every few days. I hope she notices.

Trailer docking successful. Trailer backing-up-out-of-the-cul-de-sac affirmative. Go! Go! Go!

We roll through Portland. We roll through Salem. When am I going to remember that one crucial item that we forgot to pack?........thinking.....pillows. Pillows! Dammit.

The Captain expertly pilots the MaxFunCan through I-5 traffic. By Cottage Grove, the traffic finally begins to relax, and we relax. The tunes play on. I think Courtney Taylor-Taylor would appreciate the fact that, somewhere in the universe, there is a playlist that includes both the Dandy Warhols and Glen Campbell (okay, just one Glen Campbell song, but it's the only important one, "Wichita Lineman," and I was not particularly sober when I purchased it on iTunes).

Since he knew how much ease it gives me when we have a confirmed reservation, The Captain has made us reservations at a place he found via the World Wide Web called Jackson WellSprings RV Park. It looked very spa-like on the website, with things like natural spring water, whirpool spas and ladies' night on Mondays featuring hot stone massages.

Now that we pull up, the sign looks a little shop-worn. And it seems like there are a lot of hand-painted signs pronouncing things like, "yard sale" and "breathe" at the Community Center where we checked in.

There seems to be a lot of long grey hair, sometimes tamed in ponytails, most of the time not. And flowy cotton clothing. And skin.

The Captain comes back with a smile on his face. "The hot tub is clothing optional."

Ah.

So if you were wondering where all the hippies went after the sixties were over, we found them.

They live here. On our way into our camp space, it was evident that most of the "campers" here were full-timers. Rock gardens. Patios. Weeds growing out of vehicles. These guys are home. We are the oddballs here.

Not an uncommon feeling for me. A little off-putting for The Captain. He still had his fight-or-flight face on as we backed into our space, next to a four-year long cribbage game played by a grey-pony-tailed neighbor and one of our new neighbors, sporting one tooth, well past the canine dental zone.

We were welcomed by our park host, Mountain, who directed us to an alternate spot, as the first one had been bogarted by a resident's car. Later we were to follow Mountain's example to come up with WellSprings names of our own. The Captain would like heretofor to be known as Victory Moon Dance. I chose Beautyrest Seafoam Dance. We would appreciate you abiding by our wishes in referring to us by our WellSprings names.

I won't sully our earth-hippy vibe here by describing our trip to WalMart (Hey! Don't judge! It's where our uni-toothed neighbor sent us, and it turned out to be the only place that sold housewares anywhere near Ashland!). Just suffice it to say that what you see on the blog "People of Walmart" is not an exaggeration. We purchased pillows.

Once we returned, we made hamburgers in the MaxFunCan and went for a walk. We took these pictures.

Oh, yes, the adventure has effing BEGUN, mofos.

Her Maiden Voyage Pt. 3: Lessons Learned

2010-04-06T19:38:00.000-07:00

In the (thankfully) final installment of the MaxFunCan's shakedown cruise, The Captain and I sit down to make a list of Things We Learned to make the next thirty trips smooth like butter.

Bring sugar for The Captain's coffee.
No matter what diet you are on, not having s'mores is not an option.
No matter how rustic the surroundings, high-def TV seems to fit right in.
No matter how high-def the TV, you need a cable to hook up to the cable service.
Bring a tool kit. You can't always count on a ranch hand for tool-borrowing.
Don't feed the wild life. Unless they are bunnies.

Um, it was wet.

If the furnace doesn't run, don't turn on the stove burners right by the furnace thermostat.
Get a little electric space heater, (a) in case the furnace continues to be finicky, and (b) to have quiet heat at night. (The furnace is really loud!)
If you want hot water from the electric water heater, you have to push the secret button.
Before you open the cap on the black (poopy) water tank, make sure the valve is in the closed position (hard won wisdom from The Captain).

Hey! The Sea Ranch RV Park is a ranch! Look! Horsies!

When camping in the Pacific Northwest in the spring, get one of those dehumidifiers. Or two.
When camping in the Pacific Northwest in the spring, bring more towels.
And hooks for wet rain coats.

Hey! The Sea Ranch RV Park is Not Sea Worthy!

Bring a Christopher Moore book for The Captain (he likes them! he really likes them!).
Snuggling in a small dinette-turned-couch, watching the director's commentary of Young Frankenstein while the rain and wind pelt the can around you is illogically and uncannily...fun.

Her Maiden Voyage Pt. 2: In Hot Water

2010-04-05T08:53:00.000-07:00

I wake up to a calm Easter Morning at the Sea Ranch RV Park. I see a white rabbit without blemish outside my kitchen window.

The Ranch is known for its flock of wild, moochy rabbits, but I still feel oddly blessed.

Later I see this marmalade one. It wants a treat. I promise it a graham cracker at our next meeting.

We left the electric water heater on last night, hoping to wake up to hot water. Yesterday, we thought we were just being impatient when no hot water had run through the tap. This morning we learn that we have more to learn.

The French press coffee is good this morning. For me. Drew tries to drink his coffee without sugar (which I forgot to bring), but doesn't make much headway. Twenty-seven years of marriage, and I still don’t think of sugar as a coffee ingredient.

We try a few more tweaks to the holding tanks to see if the water heater might look kindly upon us, and leave for the beach.

We choose the sole window of opportunity, weather-wise, to enjoy a mostly-dry beach walk. We stop at the Cannon Beach Bakery on the way back because you have to.

When we get back, ready for our showers, the hot water is not.

I give up and head for the communal showers. I undress, hanging each article of clothing carefully on the hooks, as the floor is wet and there is no stool or other dry space. After finding that the shower stall I chose has only scalding hot water, I wrap my towel around me and carefully move each article of clothing to a new shower stall hook, then my shampoo and soap, and try again. The shower nozzles are all mounted at my eye level, which means I have to assume the “chair” yoga position to wash my hair. Good for the glutes, I guess. The floor is wet, and I have no shower shoes (assuming I would be taking a shower in my comfy trailer), so I balance on one foot as I dry and dress one foot and then the other. I come back in a less-than-Christlike mood.

After a call to a friend who is a veteran trailersman, we have some hope. Drew borrows a Phillips screwdriver from a Ranch hand, opens up a secret panel, and opens a bypass valve that had been closed in winterization mode. That shouldn’t have been like that. There will be hell to pay. I say on Easter.

Drew, not wanting to tax the grey water tanks any more than they have been by all the futile water-running in the hopes of hot water-finding, goes to take a communal shower. He comes back to tell me that if I had gone to the OTHER side of the building, I would have found new, individual shower rooms with all the amenities that the other ones lacked. I open a bottle of wine.

We turn on the hot water. And behold the burning water floweth from the tap.

Her Maiden Voyage

2010-04-03T19:05:00.000-07:00

It was snowing in the coast range. If The Captain had known it would be snowing in the coast range, he probably would have bailed on this shakedown cruise, but the weather people said the worst of the storm was over. Not that The Captain is afraid of snow. Don't start putting THAT idea in your noggin. But he was a little nervous about how the barely-capable Ford F-150 would do pulling the trailer. The MaxFunCan.

It was raining at the RV Park. Pelting down rain. The kind of rain that is fixing to become snow just 30 miles east of here. We set up the MaxFunCan on a strip of asphalt surrounded by what is, after the storms of last night, a grassy pond. This is the first time for everything Can-related, so there was a lot of unwrapping new hoses, reading directions, and trial-and-error.

However, trial-and-error did not work on the furnace. We followed the directions, and the supplemental directions given by our trailer salesperson, which included turning on a gas stove burner to make sure the gas was reaching the furnace (helpful, since the burner was at least emitting some heat). After a few hours of futile technical assistance by the kind RV people, we took a break, turned off the burner and watched some Buffy the Vampire Slayer via Netflix (well duh, the RV park has wi-fi). After not more than ten minutes of undead-booty-kicking, the furnace kicked on by itself. We are thinking that turning off the stove burner, which was directly under the thermostat, might have had something to do with the furnace's rise from the dead. Or it could have been Buffy.

Success! The rain is pelting, we are hungry, having missed lunch in the excitement of the action, so we hit the town (Cannon Beach), Mo's in particular, as it has beach-front windows, and we can experience the anger of the Pacific without any weather-related pain. I recommend the bouillabaisse.

So why isn't the Northern Oregon Coast a tourist bonanza?

We ate dinner to the dulcet tones of the profoundly Tourrette's-inflicted birthday boy sitting behind me. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck-fuck! Fuck!" Ah, the Children of Tourrette's. What sweet music they make.

We came "home" to a warm can. And the voyage continues...

Panda Says Don't F#*k With Me, Stick!

2010-03-29T10:26:00.001-07:00

Pandas: Most Cute. Most Vicious.

Thank God for YouTube

2010-03-25T18:27:00.001-07:00

Is it 1969? 1980? 1985? 2010? This is ageless. At least post-war ageless. Oh, hipsters. We never change.

PS: It's 1980. The year I graduated from Vernonia High School and was the Second Most Cool the I have ever attained. (Most Cool: the year I spent at the Hayward House for Wayward Women - sophomore year at the University of Oregon.)

No You Can't (Featuring John Boehner)

2010-03-24T11:18:00.001-07:00

People are funny.

In Which We Learn About the Captain's Early Years

2010-03-13T13:29:00.000-08:00

So we were heading home from the store with hamburger fixins, and Drew says, "Remember that cartoon we saw the other day? The one with the stand-up comedian talking about the mentally challenged couple crossing the street?" (fair warning - the cartoon is adorable but the language is NSFW)

I said yes.

"Well I saw them the other day."

"You SAW THEM?"

"Yes. There was a little round lady and a skinny guy walking along, and they were looking at each other, all romantic, and he lifted her little hand up and kissed it."

"Ahh. So then nothing bad could happen that day after you saw that."

And that made me think: "What a joy it must be, after being made fun of all your life, and after so many people treating you like a retard, to finally find somebody who thinks you are awesome."

Drew: "That's how I was in high school when I met you."

Me: "No, really. What would it be like if everybody around you was like a nuclear physicist and you couldn't understand what people were talking about unless they went 'SIGH' and talked slowly and pretend-patiently at you?"

Drew: "That's how I am now."

Handsome Men's Club

2010-03-08T11:10:00.001-08:00

Jimmy Kimmel, taking it up a notch. Well played, Kimmel.

Real bears playing Hockey

2010-03-06T19:04:00.001-08:00

I think my position is pretty clear about bears being the cutest vicious deadly animal.

This bear hockey seems to be a thing they used to (I'm hoping used to) do in Russia. I don't think bears should be treated like slave-clowns. But this video is fascinating nevertheless.

Just look at those bears playing hockey.

Cocktail Hour

2010-03-06T15:35:00.000-08:00

There are some people who, when they like something, like it too much. These people, when not lumped together under Asbergers, are called nerds.

I have a long history of nerdism, although the subjects of my nerdism may not be science fiction, super power or gaming related. Some of my passions over the years have included volcanology (I was young; I got over this when I started having dreams about being overtaken by a lava flow), Peanuts (I have all of them), Calvin & Hobbes (I have all of them), Monty Python (I have a lot of them), Bloom County (I have all of them), Edgar Allan Poe (I have the Complete Works), John Irving (I have read all of them), Blackadder (I have all of them in VHS plus a book with the complete scripts), and dogs (I would have all of them if I weren't married). Those close to me may be able to name more.

I am well aware of my nerdist tendencies. That is why I steer clear of cocktails. I love cocktails. Cocktails (with the exception of gin and tonics, which are some sort of dare) are sweet, punchy treats. I love cupcakes, too. But it is wise for me not to make them, because I feel more pain having to quit at two cupcakes than I would if I had never tasted one.

Wine I can sip and be comfortable stopping at two or three. But two or three cocktails seems like an appetizer for more cocktails. If I weren't such a lightweight, this wouldn't be such a bad night out every so often. Unfortunately, I am fun after two, sleepy after three, and comatose after three and a half.

And cocktail making is such an art form these days that I'm afraid I would get sucked in to the excitement of trying the next best one. I would have to try them all, which is a recipe for a trip to Serenity Lane. If you're asking yourself if that is a name for an alcohol rehab center or a funeral home, it really doesn't matter.

So I'll stick with my cheap wine. Unless you insist.

By Individual Demand: My Awesome Vinyl Collection

2010-03-01T17:14:00.000-08:00

Dean, being in his 20s and living in Portland, has no choice at this point but to get himself a turntable and start a vinyl collection. We, being in our 40s and living in the suburbs, have a garage full of stuff we don't need anymore, including an old turntable.

So when Dean and Jenny came over last weekend to claim their birthright garage award, I took out the box of vinyl that we have been heaving around with us on every move since the last time we bought any, some time in the 80s. I thought maybe there would be a few nuggets of vinyl in there that Dean would like to hear.

Opening that box was like taking the lid off an enormous can of springy prank worms of memory. Most of the albums in the box were purchased during my high school days, since I was too poor in college to afford vinyl and opted, if I opted at all, for cheap cassettes, now long gone.

As my high school career spanned the height and the heat of the disco era (and as my music choices gravitate toward the danceable in any era), I, of course, have the full set of Village People masterpieces, as well as the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, some Black Michael Jackson, and even more some level two or three disco, like Yvonne Elliman. More importantly, you will notice Amii Stewart's Knock on Wood. In fact, you may want to step over here for a moment to get a better look at the album cover. No, you can't buy it.

Amii Stewart's awesomeness aside, my most prized vinyl possessions: a full set of Queen. A full set of Elton John. A full set of Alan Parsons Project. And a good-enough set of Earth, Wind and Fire and Ohio Players.

Also notable: a smidgen of Hall and Oates, Bob Welch, Steely Dan, Bruce Cockburn, Linda Ronstadt in roller skates, the original Blues Brothers album, Peaches and Herb, and some Redbone.

The whole collection is not here. Many good pieces ended up sold back to record stores in Eugene during college when I needed food money: - some early Michael Jackson albums including Thriller, some Teddy Pendergrass, Marvin Gaye, Pablo Cruise, Dire Straits, Pink Floyd and pretty much all of The Who. Oh, and a copy of Peter Frampton's Frampton Comes Alive, because, as both The Captain and I were in high school in the 70s, we were required by law to each buy a copy. One, of course, remains in the collection. As required.

I don't anticipate setting up a turntable any time soon, nor selling the contents of the box. I would feel a little like I hear hoarders feel when they consider getting rid of some of their most prized back issues of the Nickel Ads - like some part of me would be ripped out along with them. I suppose I will keep heaving them around with me until the end. I guess they are good for a jack-in-the-box thrill every few years.

Pop goes the weasel.

What I'm Listening To

2010-02-25T18:42:00.000-08:00

I love podcasts. They are like the choicest bits of radio, just when you want them. And by choicest bits, I mainly mean stuff that should be on the radio, if radio people knew what the hell they were doing.

(It was explained to me once this way: Once upon a time, there were lots of radio station owners with radio station people who knew radio up and down, backwards and forwards. Then all those radio stations were purchased by three great big companies, who let their VPs of Value Driven Parameters run the radio stations. And since radio stations have nothing to do with Value Driven Parameters and all the old radio guys were released like butterflies into early retirement, the radio stations all ended up playing Lady Gaga. The end.)

Where was I? Right. Podcasts. I like podcasts.

Here are my favorites today. (This is fluid. I hear Paul F. Tompkins is working on a podcast and if that comes to pass, that will be my instant new favorite.)

1. The Nerdist. This is Chris Hardwick's new funtime hour. If you don't know who Chris Hardwick is, you will. His career is on a major upswing after years of floundering in MTV reality-host-land. He has a killer stand-up routine, and a LOL-based show on G4 called Web Soup. The name stems from his popular web site, nerdist.com, which is also his Twitter handle. You don't have to be a nerd to listen, but it helps. And as with many of the comic-based podcasts, it also helps to know a little about the alt-comedy scene. (Oooh. "Scene." Okay, "goings-on." Oh, that's ever so much better, Grandma.)

2. Jordan, Jesse GO! This one is hard to describe. It is the chatty, improv-based comedy-chat show by Jesse Thorn of PRI's The Sound of Young America and Jordan Morris, his college buddy and current comic relief clown from Fuel TV. They usually include a guest from the world of comedy and improv. It's silly, silly fun. And profane. NSFW.

3. I Love Movies. This is Doug Benson's 45-minute chat with comedy and film-based guests built around goofing on movies and playing a game Benson invented called The Leonard Maltin Game, which is like Name That Tune using the cast lists from Leonard Maltin's Movie Guide book. Benson is naturally funny and quick-witted. And mellow. He's very mellow. If you know what I mean.

4. Slate Political Gabfest. This is Slate's political editorial staff (John Dickerson, David Plotz, and Emily Bazelon) sitting around a table and jabbing each other with wit and knowledge. And they have lots of both. The Political Gabfest is a Friday morning tradition. Highly recommended. If you are not that into silly, skip my first three recommendations and go straight to this one. The other Slate Gabfests and podcast offerings are good, but this one, the first, is just full of that Alonguin Round Table vibe.

5. Radiolab. If I were able to force The Captain to listen to one podcast, it would be this one. Every week, Jad Abumrad and Robert Krulwich (neither are misspelled!) make their listeners care about something they didn't know they could care about, and their listeners leave with a gleaming nugget of knowledge that they can take out at cocktail parties or at dinner with their spouses and dazzle them. This is just top notch radio.

6. This American Life. Haven't I gushed about This American Life before? I must have. It has been a staple of my radio listening and then podcast listening habits since its inception in, I don't know, 1996? The veritable Mists of Long Ago. And yet it still keeps its hipster sheen. Ira Glass introduces stories, usually revolving around a theme. The stories are well produced and an hour will fly by. I can't believe you haven't subscribed to this yet. Get cracking.

7. The Bugle. I can't believe I'm at Number 7, and I'm just getting around to the Bugle. A travesty. The Bugle can make me look like an idiot while walking my dog alone in the park, cackling out loud to myself. John Oliver and Andy Zaltzman (again, spelled correctly) cover the world news. Sort of. Do not listen if you are allergic to puns. Andy Zaltzman is the worst pun inflicter in the business. Do not listen if you hate laughing. Do not listen if you have recently mistakenly shot yourself in the thigh by going to a nightclub with a handgun nestled in your sweat pants, because they will NOT stop bringing it up.

8. WTF with Marc Maron. I like to listen to Marc Maron when I am at my most neurotic - when I can't bear to look at myself in the mirror, or when I skip church because I'm feeling all can't-look-people-in-the-eye, then feel all can't-believe-I-can't-look-people-in-the-eye. Marc Maron makes me feel less like a freak for being such a freak. It's a great sanctuary for neurotics, as he is one of us. And he airs his own anxieties in such a light-hearted way (most of the time) that it's good for me. And he interviews interesting guests, 50% of whom he needs to apologize first for past sins, which makes it fun to tune in to find out who he's apologizing to next.

9. Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me. Okay, is this in any order? Hey, if you know me and don't know about this show, then you haven't been paying attention. These guys are like old friends. This is another radio show that I have been listening to since it was in its no-audience infancy. I learned of Adam Felber's blog through Wait Wait, and through those blog posts, found a lot of new friends, some of which I have actually met in person. This is a Sunday morning tradition and a staple of conversation.

10. Popcorn Mafia. I could use this last spot for Studio 360 with Kurt Anderson, but that's what you would expect me to do. Here's something new. Grae Drake and Gariana Abeyta (Spelled right! I looked it up!) get sassy about movies and I end up laughing a lot. The only caveat: they don't mind letting loose with the spoilers. They expect you to do your movie-watching homework before you come to the podcast, so you can laugh along with them.

There's my Top Ten for Today. So go to iTunes and get busy.

This Is Sewious II: Die Harder

2010-02-25T16:43:00.001-08:00

The new Thug Life U of O Duck Football Team has found a new mascot.

Colorado Springs Phase: Complete

2010-02-16T16:13:00.000-08:00

I made about a dollar sweeping the apartment as Drew and the kids carried the last bits and boxes to the truck. It turned out to be a handfull of bike racer money - coins from five countries on three continents - not enough of any one kind to buy a pack of gum.

We finished loading the little moving van in a windy 15 degrees. We leave Colorado Springs with the van packed to the roof. Dean and Jenny follow in their red Ford pickup truck. It is snowing lightly. The road is wet and dirty with sand, and the windshield, at a nearly perpendicular angle to the road, is catching a lot of the schmutz. This is when we discover that the wiper fluid in this rental is plain water, and the spray freezes instantly on the glass.

We have our tiny new portable speakers hooked up to my iPhone and Eagles of Death Metal are on. Drew is peering out the less opaque spots in the smeared windshield.

Through Denver the snow is deeper and the traffic heavier. We try the slow lane, but the snow here is piling up too fast. We switch to the fast lane, where the wheels have made a clear trail. Once we get past Denver, both the traffic and the snow eases.

We stop in Cheyenne for gas, a sandwich and some real windshield washer fluid, conveniently located in one stop. Go America. I have career advice for the Subway sandwich maker who made my lunch today: learn the fine distinction between vinegar (what I ordered) and oil. Yes, I eat it anyway.

Sorry, Sad Lincoln. We will not forget you.

I feel a liitle guilty as we pass Entombed Lincoln's Head that we didn't stop and sympathize with him a moment, but our bellies were full and our bladders were empty. No time for Sad Lincoln.

Later, at the Fort Steele rest area, we learn that Bella the kitty, stuffed most unwillingly into a cat carrier for the duration, has lost control of her bowels and her dignity.

Every hundred miles or so along this stretch of Southern Wyoming there is a natural gas processing plant. My memory had truncated the distance between them to being within sight of each other. Now I remember how cursedly wide this state is.

Big Sky Country means there is plenty of sky for smokestacks.

Eating out of boredom and fidgeting in my seat. The seats in this van sit ninety-degree-angle straight against the wall of the cargo compartment. I try to slump down, but the seat pushes my head forward so that I'm looking at my lap. I straighten up. And sigh. Yes, I'm sure I sigh.

Animals with other animals painted on them.

Ogden marks the more-or-less halfway point, and we stop for the night at a Best Western. The hoard of children inexplicably roaming the motel had formed itself into a hallway soccer league outside our room. After a few cross words from The Captain, we sleep.

If you are in the market for sparkly birds wearing sweaters, I know where to get some.

When a motel offers free continental breakfast, I feel obligated to get my money's worth no matter how lousy the offering. So I really eat a warmed sausage patty on brownish toast.

The weather this morning is snowy and foggy. I feel like it requires accompaniment by piano jazz courtesy of Vince Guaraldi, but The Captain vetoes that (one vote is always enough to veto jazz, that is ironclad), and we go back to my Compromise Playlist.

Definitely a "black hat" sort.

I entertain myself with finding fleeting signals to update Twitter and Facebook on my iPhone while The Captain navigates past small Utah and Idaho towns. We make cell-phone-negotiated rest and gas stops, some with tourist lures like sparkly unicorns on sticks and western-themed "art," such as animals with other animals painted on them, which pleases me. Thank you, highway entrepreneurs.

This, I swear to God, is a pig wearing cow shaped fuzzy slippers.

We celebrate our re-entry into Oregon with a late lunch at Baker's Geiser Grand Hotel which has been recently restored and is quite grand, however, their buffalo patty melt could use some mustard or something.

We pass a few hours with the "Jordan Jesse Go!" podcast and Doug Benson's "I Love Movies." We try an audiobook, but it was a group of humorous essays from various artists (containing widely varying amounts of humor), and Drew has little patience with mediocrity, so we switch back to Compromise Music for the final leg from Hood River.

And then we are home. And that's not the royal "we." That's all four of us.

The Captain Chronicles: The Saga Begins

2010-02-08T11:24:00.000-08:00

The Captain is meticulously ethical and would not allow any hint of the identities or embarrassing peccadillos of the citizens of the fine city in which he works, let's call it Fort Chinook, which oftentimes spill out during spousal confessions of fatigue over his burden as Personal Clean-Up Crew to thousands of taxpayers, to leak out.

I, however, am not so ethically bound.

These are the occasional chronicles of some of the more ridiculous of those taxpayer stories.

Relative to, say, Thanksgiving (flaming turkeys) or Independence Day (flaming city), the Super Bowl is a pretty low-key day at the fire station (Let's call it Fire Station Cobra). A station can expect a lull in the call volume during the game itself, and then a pick-up in activity once the beery spectators attempt to drive home.

Last Sunday was no exception with one exception. There is always a chance, on any holiday (and let's face it: Super Bowl Sunday is an American holiday), for simmering family feuds to boil over.

The call came in during the third quarter of the game for a woman with severe leg pain. Ouch, right?

So they pull up at the domicile. The husband of said woman is, as loving and supportive husbands naturally would, standing outside, smoking a cigarette. The woman with the ambulance-worthy leg pain is inside, waiting to tell her story. It seems as if her biggest complaint isn't that her leg hurt. In fact, it has been hurting for five days. What was really throbbing was her frustration with her husband for ignoring her complaints for five days (and, I suspect, her inability call a doctor or drive to a clinic on her own without whatever boost her husband's sympathy might have given her). So when the torture of their own passive-aggressive relationship hit its peak - in the third quarter of the biggest football game of the year - she chooses to call 911, and tell her story to three firefighters and an ambulance crew.

Touche, lady. Touche.

Don't forget, friends: firefighters are people, too.

Do You Believe in Love After Love, Green Couch Edition

2010-02-07T21:20:00.000-08:00

This weekend we said goodbye to a couple of old friends. Green ones - a couch and love seat combo. Twenty years we had been together, through lots of fun stuff.

Here's the couch, making a background for Dean's birthday present - his first racing bike.

Here it is again, a few years later, assisting in the viewing experience of the Great Snowpocalypse of 2004.

Here's the love seat even more recently, looking on as Scotty wins another doggy race. He always wins the doggy race (but while he's winning the race, Annie is typically stealing his toys or treats).

Here's a young couch looking on as a young Dean tries on his new cowboy boots (his only wish that Christmas). The fact that we lived in Bend at the time might explain this a little. But not much.

There they go. We might have loved them a little longer, but they took the brunt of the stink from my little burnt-chicken-stock fiasco this week.

Yeah, that. Um, I put a chicken carcass in water on the stove after dinner, as per usual so I can have chicken stock by bedtime, but I forgot to take it off the stove. I finally smelled the smoke at about 4:00 a.m. By then, there was just a black, smoking lump in the bottom of the pot. The ex-pot.

I have finally managed to clear the rest of the house of the smell after a lot of kitchen cleaning and carpet shampooing, but the couches were not so simple. After a Febreze treatment, they smelled like chicken smoke and Febreze. They were goners.

So thanks, couches. Hope there's a couch heaven. Pretty sure there's a love seat heaven. I mean, it's got "love" right there in the name.

WANT

2010-01-31T14:41:00.001-08:00

I told the Captain I wanted one of these for Valentine's Day. He knows better.

In Which I Use The Reader As My Therapist

2010-01-27T15:33:00.000-08:00

To get the full ridiculousness of this post, don't skip the comments. There's a surprise ending!

I'd like to start by stating that my Body Mass Index is in the normal range.

That said, I am on that diet that I have been obsessing about all month to get my BMI to a number that is not quite so close to the Big Mac Enthusiast side.

That said, I am 47 years old.

That said, this just happened.

I have this shirt on. This shirt is a mash-up of internet memes that I bought as a joke at an after-Christmas sale. For background, see the 1,673 comments for this popular Amazon item here and the most popular piano-playing cat of all time here. At the time of this event, I did not have the sweatshirt on.

Dean liked it, so he snapped a picture with his iPhone (sans sweatshirt) and sent it to a friend (I'm not sure who). The friend texted back, "That is the shit. Where's it from?" or something to that effect. I told Dean the t-shirt company that sells it (Threadless), which he texted back.

I minute later, another text. I leaned over because I'm naturally curious. It wasn't meant for my eyes, and Dean tried to hide it from me. But it was too late. It said something like, "and where did those flabby arms come from?"

Ouch. Sucker punch. Awkward laughter. Change of subject.

Lasting bruise.

I'll be under the covers for the rest of the day if you need me.

Fat Credit

2010-01-26T17:27:00.000-08:00

Do you know why it is so hard to lose weight? Because we have credit cards.

Losing weight is like saving money. The first month that you start your new savings account, it's a pretty sorry looking balance. It's almost not worth the paperwork. And the next month when you put a little more in, it's not any more impressive, and yet it's been a whole two months! And you want new shoes! But once you get used to the habit of putting money into the account every month and going about your business, it starts to grow into something substantial.

On a diet, you feel at first that you are sacrificing so much food and food-based fun that you really expect to see big results right away. When you don't it's hard not to give up, take the metaphorical money out of the bank and buy a pizza with it.

When you want something you don't have the money for, you now have a credit card. You buy the big-screen TV, and pay back the bank in monthly installments - kind of like saving the money, but backwards. While watching a big-screen TV.

What if you could get a fat credit card? Lose all the weight tomorrow, and then pay it back, little by little, by dieting after the fact? Would we pay the diet-debt? Or would we just rack up more debt, until we are forced to starve?

That would be some ultimate foreclosure. Foreclosure of the Mouth. Maybe let's stick with the savings account plan.

Living Your Best Life - Anvil Style

2010-01-23T17:07:00.000-08:00

Last class, we discussed the movie Big Fan, in which a little round parking attendant lived a life of, not quiet desperation at all, but one of happy football fanhood.

Today, we will be discussing the Little Canadian Band that Couldn't Quite, chronicled in the documentary, Anvil! The Story of Anvil. The heart of Anvil is the duo of Steve "Lips" Kudlow and Robb Reiner, two nice Jewish boys from Canada who once got a taste of glory in Japan while playing to a packed crowd along with bands like Anthrax, Metallica and Slayer.

That was in the 80s. Since then, they have gone, kicking and screaming, into obscurity, now working menial jobs to support their families. The documentary follows them as they mount their umpteenth comeback attempt.

Reviewers luuuurrved this doc, calling it "touching, uplifting and inspirational." I respectfully disagree. I found it touching, sure, but in a sad way. These guys are now in their 50s, and they look every hard-living year. They do not exactly have heads for business. We hear the music they are recording for their big comeback, and it is unlistenable. Where is the hope in this scenario? It was more like watching the first few episodes of a season of American Idol, where the audience revels in watching hopefuls who have invested all their ego in a career that all logic tells them they have no business pursuing. I found it more voyeuristic than inspirational.

How would you rather live your life? As a parking attendant who lives with his mom and feels lucky that he gets to watch football and call in to a sports talk radio station? Or a school lunchroom worker who feels like Providence made a big mistake in denying him a life of rock stardom?

Living Your Best Life - Big Fan Style

2010-01-20T18:03:00.000-08:00

I'm just going to be nattering on about Netflix movies. If you want action, read this first entry on Dean's latest adventure.

Last night we watched Big Fan with Patton Oswalt, directed by Robert Siegel. I put this on my Netflix queue solely because Patton Oswalt is my second favorite comedian (behind only Paul F. Tompkins, see last post). A really smart, intuitive little cherub of a man. Maybe not solely. His interview with Siegel on Fresh Air with Terry Gross probably played a role too (and worth a listen if you missed it).

Big Fan is about a guy who's sister-in-law has GIGANTIC BOOBS. I'm a conventionally married female and I could NOT look away. If you want to make a point that they were not gratuitous, you could say that her "look" said something about Oswalt's character's family. His brother was a Staten Island personal injury lawyer who married his secretary, which left me with the question: were the gigantic boobs a marriage selling point, or a wedding present? Questions left unanswered, my friends.

Actually Big Fan is about a little, round guy whose only love and only interest in life is the New York Giants. The rest of his life is only filler for the moments when he is either watching a game or calling in to sports talk shows and talking about a game. He could get a better job than his current gig as a parking attendant. He could move out of his mom's house. But that would detract from his only passion: making sweet love to the New York Giants.

This comfortable life is threatened when his favorite Giants player beats him up. Will he tell the police what really happened, or will he pretend he doesn't remember in the hopes that the charges will be dropped so that the player may be reinstated to the team in time to save their playoff hopes?

No, it's not a comedy, like Netflix seems to think. No, it's not a dark think-piece on the human condition. It's more of a light think-piece on this human's condition. And his condition is fine, as far as he is concerned. Should he want more for himself? Depends. Would that make him feel better?

Next in our Compare and Contrast Netflix Special: Anvil: The Story of Anvil - a portrait of another couple of fellows who are living their Best Life, which may not necessarily by your idea of a best life.

Stay tuned.

Paul F. Tompkins: Great or Unbelievably Great?

2010-01-17T14:09:00.001-08:00

That this man does not already have his own TV show, dedicated paparazzi, and Sudanese orphans is an American Tragedy.

Eating My Own Flesh

2010-01-08T17:07:00.000-08:00

It's January. That means diet time. My 2008 and 2009 diets were failures, so I've got two years of overindulgence to pay for. (No, I will NOT say "for which to pay." I am not THAT grammatically pompous.)

And it's been two GREAT years. As still-new empty nesters, we have been celebrating pretty much non-stop since the 2007 wedding. Too much restaurant eating. Too much wine drinking. Too many cookies and not enough cookie eaters. When Dean moved out, we lost the best leftover eater in the business, and we still haven't adjusted our cooking habits.

I'm trying to face this diet as medicine. I try to think of my extra weight as a condition (lipomania?), which I must overcome with this prescription of salad, vegetables and chicken, and this proscription of bread, rice, potatoes, crackers and cookies.

I'm okay with that prescription for a while. The period of time following "a while" is going to be tough. I'm having a hard time psyching myself up for another salad tonight and it's only been about a week and a half.

Luckily, the scale shows that I'm off to a pretty good start. Every day I can feel my body grumbling a little as it grudgingly turns to that extra fat for fuel.

Still. A big heap of tortilla chips sure sounds good right now.

Computer Monster

2010-01-08T16:36:00.001-08:00

Jim Henson was so funny and brilliant. Check out this little nugget, starring a proto-cookie monster from, I'm guessing the 70s? I love the names of the components of this majorly awesome supercomputing machine.

What Would Jesus Eat

2010-01-05T17:41:00.000-08:00

If this blog only serves to make you feel better about yourself, well, that's something.

Last Sunday in church, as I took my little square of what looked like maybe semi-whole-wheat sourdough bread which served as our communion loaf, I seriously considered pinching off a teeny-tiny piece to eat and pocketing the rest, as my New Year diet bans all bread for the first two weeks, no matter how whole wheat, fairly traded or organic.

This small bit of bread was not meant to be used as part of any diet, trademarked or otherwise. This bread is a symbol of a symbol (although in this particular church, it is not meant to have any magical powers - just a way of remembering why Jesus, you know, died and stuff), one that is reiterated every time it is offered, so that you won't forget between the time that the ritual starts and the time, mere moments later, that you look at it as South Beach Poison. Yet, I managed to lose the point within those moments.

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS RELIGIOUS HERESY. YOU'RE PROBABLY BETTER OFF NOT READING FURTHER.

These days, Communion seems a little silly to me. I've begun to look at it as a typical human religious overreaction to Jesus' idea of a forget-me-not. To me the Last Supper story reads like this: one night when things were looking most bleak for our hero, Jesus had dinner with his friends and asked them that maybe, after he was gone, that when they had dinner they might look at the bread and wine on the table and remember him. That's all. No impressive-looking men in fancy robes lifting ornate goblets up to heaven. No special ritualistic words intoned in a godly voice. Just a thought: Have some bread. Remember Jesus. Drink some wine. Remember Jesus.

Does this mean that I live by my new heretical religious thoughts? No. I don't even say grace. I don't even know if I really believe what I'm left with to believe at this point in the life-long deconstruction and reconstruction that is my religious education.

So maybe it's best that I go ahead and try to think holy thoughts during this duded-up ritual that is Christian Communion. And that I try to take it seriously. If nothing else, it's a chance for silence. Quiet the flow from the brain. Shut off the pipe from the snark lobe. Well, maybe turn it down to a trickle.

See you in church.

Photographic Memories

2010-01-02T19:02:00.000-08:00

I pulled maybe forty photographs out of five or six photo albums, scanned them for a family project, and then realized I did not note out of which album I had pulled them.

If I had proper, chronologically ordered photo albums this would not have been a problem. I could have popped them back in in their proper chronological order. However, my photo albums have grown wild and weedy over the years, with some starting before I was born and then skipping to the early Dean years, and some focusing mainly on bad pictures I took as a teenager and college student. Others have been limited to pictures that can fit certain sizes, which mean they are a bit of a grab bag.

The old "magnetic" (where "magnetic" meant "sticky") photo albums had an advantage in that you could put any size photos in them side-by-side. Now that the photos we placed so artfully in those either fell out into a pile when the "magnetism" failed, or have been eaten by toxic glue, we now have the "sleeve" style photo albums, which are either made for 4 x 6 sizes or 3 x 5. But not both if you happen to have both types of photos in the same general time period.

Whoops, that got sleep-inducing.

So I had a pile of photos. I filled all the obviously empty spots and still had a dozen or so photos. And in the process, two "magnetic" photo albums had fallen apart in my hands, and I had to "rescue" the photos and toss the old albums. I ended up slipping all of them into either a 4 x 6 sleeve album or a 3 x 5 sleeve album (that means more old photos in the back of the newest ones in our collection).

So I guess what I'm saying is, if you look through my photo albums, it will be a bit of a 52-card pick-up, which I'm just going to say makes it a more exciting experience. Because there is no way I'm spending a week of my life re-ordering and re-album-ing them. My posterity isn't worth it. And my posterior would object.

Maybe the Last Post Before My Kickass 2010 Posts Begin

2009-12-27T20:21:00.000-08:00

As I may have warned you, I am turning over a new leaf in 2010. No more Lazy Piglet. Hello, Get Some Shit Done Piglet, and the accompanying Amazing Shit Piglet Has Accomplished.

First New Year's Resolution: Take the impending Rose Bowl Loss In Stride. Gonna start out with an easy one. This one comes standard with all University of Oregon degrees.

Second New Year's Resolution: Go Back To South Beach. The South Beach Diet, that is. It worked in 2007, it has to doubly work in 2010, as I have gained back the 10 pounds I lost in 2007 and added another another 8 for ballast. Leafy green vegetables, here I come (a single tear drops as she finishes off the Christmas candy).

Third New Year's Resolution: Put Down Those Crutches And Walk! Those crutches being the two glasses of wine I have been drinking every night. I'm not sure that yoga and an evening knitting project will patch the personality hole that is my natural twitchiness, which wine serves such a valiant job in soothing, but I need to cure this without (much) chemical medication. The South Beach diet requires that I knock this off anyway, so here goes.

Fourth New Year's Resolution: Shut Off the Noise. Less input, more output. This means a media brown-out. There's just too much - radio, podcasts, TV, and all so easy to vegetate to. I will not go cold turkey - that wouldn't be being a good citizen or a good life scholar - but it does mean that I will have to do a better job of choosing what I spend my time on, and budgeting output time - both writing time and painting time. Remind me of this in March. My instincts are to cuddle up and be entertained. And that's not evil. Input just needs to be balanced with output.

Fifth New Year's Resolution: Be Awesome.

By September, if you remind me how close my accomplishments have come to meeting my own expectations, I will personally stab you.

This is sewius.

2009-12-15T19:16:00.001-08:00

I think this is about the Rose Bowl. Not sure.

The Muppets: Ringing of the Bells

2009-12-11T08:06:00.001-08:00

Dog Lessons Part II

2009-12-07T18:34:00.000-08:00

You know when someone says, "Living with [name here] has taught me patience," you know that [name here] is a pain in the ass.

Annie has taught me patience.

She won't relieve herself in the backyard when it rains, no matter how much it must hurt to hold it in (and she doesn't always succeed at holding it in). I might remind you here that we get 155 days of measurable precipitation a year.

She will pee on other people's lawns when it rains - no problem! - so I try to take her for a walk, but it hurts her to walk (arthritis), and one of our neighbors is a self-satisfied, velour-track-suit-wearing dog hater. We end up walking very slowly in odd dotted lines, kind of like a Family Circle cartoon read in slow motion.

She uses the furniture as her personal napkin and back scratcher, and has taught Scotty to do the same.

She spends all day in bed, getting up only for meals and treats and an occasional romp with Scotty.

In grooming jargon, she "blows" her coat twice a year, completely shedding and rebuilding her coat, top layer, undercoat, everything. To pet her during one of her shedding seasons is to get a handful of dog hair. Not her fault, but still.

Before her arthritis got bad, she would bolt at the first sign of an open door or open fence gate. To what purpose? Even if she could speak English, she would not be able to tell you, because I am pretty sure this is only one of the signs that she was dropped on her head as a puppy. For a dog who likes nothing more than spending the entire day in her fluffy bed, this behavior just does not compute. Yet, I have had to pick her up from the pound once, from the local water treatment plant once, and had to chase her down too often to remember.

But. Scotty likes her. It's fun to watch her outwit Scotty over toys and treats. And who else would put up with her? Besides, she's cute.

I'M SORRY I CAN'T HELP IT

2009-11-29T20:43:00.001-08:00

Grammar Rant No. MCXXVI

2009-11-28T09:01:00.000-08:00

Oh, Facebook, I hate you so.

Before you, I never knew how many of my friends and relatives were grammatically retarded. No, that's not fair. Let's call them Grammatically Apathetic.

A story:

There are some really annoying people who seem to have come from the womb knowing grammar, who could diagram sentences under heavy fire, and who may or may not have been kicked out of classes for correcting their teacher too many times. I am one of those people. It's like being able to hear at a frequency that only dogs and English majors can hear. Bad grammar can be absolutely earsplitting when others are unaware of any sound whatsoever. You can imagine that Facebook can cause such insufferable prigs (such as myself) some degree of discomfort.

So just for fun, let's review one of my pet peeves quickly, shall we?

TO is a preposition, identifying the object or expressing motion. For instance: Erma is married to Percy, or He left his bike chained to a post.

TOO is an adverb (modifier) or an adjective. For instance: I ate too much. Too can also be used as "also." For instance: Eunice is coming too.

Sorry about that. You may go now.

Thanks

2009-11-26T11:24:00.000-08:00

Thanks, everybody, for reading this lame blog.

I appreciate you sticking through the right-brain periods, where I can't think in words, and the times where I'm obviously just dumping stuff I find on other websites because I have been too busy consuming to produce (which is a bit of an American epidemic). I think my New Year Resolution will include fewer hours plugged into podcasts, and more hours stirring up my own brain matter and moulding it into interesting shapes.

Hope you stay tuned.

Hit the Full Screen Button and Turn It Up to Eleven

2009-11-24T10:22:00.001-08:00

This has all the best monsters. It's new and awesome. Watch it twice.

Reason No. MCXXI to Move to New Zealand

2009-11-23T12:31:00.001-08:00

Even their Book Council is cool.

Easier Than Writing My Own Blog Post

2009-11-22T14:07:00.001-08:00

I'll just swipe The Awl's "How to Cook a Fucking Steak."

Meet Dave Hill

2009-11-16T10:46:00.000-08:00

Do you know this renaissance dude? Because you will. This much talent can't stay a secret for long. Does he do stand-up? Yes. Does he have a one-man show? Yes. Does he host comedy nights with guests the likes of Dick Cavett? Yes. Does he play in a rock band? Duh. How does he do it all? I'm not sure. I'm guessing bipolar disorder with lengthy manic phase.

Valley Lodge "All of My Loving" from Valley Lodge on Vimeo.

You can find out more above Dave Hill at his website. You can also follow him on Twitter, if you don't mind copious joke makings, some of which are LOL funny.

Just thought I'd pass on my pretty gestaltic knowledge of what makes me laugh.

My Past Lives

2009-11-15T18:07:00.000-08:00

Now that I'm slipping into the regrets age I'm starting to understand certain mystical obsessions such as the Shirley MacLaine-style fascination with past life regression, where someone with more money than they need finds someone with an enterprising way to help relieve them of some of that money by helping them "remember" a past life - always a romantic one involving royalty or beauty - in which she relives the time when she was a prince, a knight of the round table, or a sultan's favorite concubine.

I'm guessing that "remembering" past lives is a way to enjoy more life than you have been allotted. More and different. Once you feel the slightest tingle of the body's long downhill slide, once you realize you are too old, with too many obligations, to move to Scotland to learn to play the drum and develop a passable brogue, once you are past the age of admittance into the Peace Corps, once you realize the window of opportunity to become an Olympic ski jumper or a travel writer has closed, and you hear this idea that you may have lived lives much more exciting and glamorous, it must be very tempting to believe.

The trouble with past lives is that most have been lived before indoor plumbing, central heating, modern feminine hygiene products, and the perfection of chocolate.

However, if I had lived past lives these are the ones I would have liked to live:

European royalty before that ugly head-lopping-off period. Aside from the funk created by the twice-yearly bath (which seems to dog most romantically historical times), this seems to be good living. Nice clothes, decent meals, sitting for portraits, dancing courtly dances, wearing silly wigs...not bad. Maybe the Austrian court during the Mozart period, but only if he really giggled like Tom Hulce.

Scottish castle dweller some time between one horde or the other showing up to claim it for themselves. Everybody wanted Scotland because everybody talked so adorably. I would just want to make sure I was rich enough to afford plenty of warm clothes and firewood. And I would want my own sheep.

Yes, royalty. I'm afraid royalty was where it was at, pre-industrial revolution. Everybody else had it pretty crap. Everybody else was lucky to be less hungry, filthy and disease-ridden than their dead neighbor.

Maybe Lincoln's secretary. He doesn't get killed or stabbed or anything does he? I've never thought of what it would be like to be a dude, but to sit in on Lincoln's administration, I would consider it. Mary Todd Lincoln is definitely out. I'm not keen on either shopping or mourning.

I would kind of (kind of) like to be a pioneer, if only to have acres and acres of primeval Oregon wilderness to myself. It must have been awesome. And really, really difficult. But imagine, after crossing the mountains and deserts, finally getting to stick your flag (okay, your walking stick with your last remaining scrap of calico drooping from it) into an enormous piece of gorgeous land overlooking the Pacific, and saying "MINE!" Sorry, Chinook Indians. Dammit, I just ruined my past life.

Oh, wait. I've got it. A pre-Captain Cook Hawaiian Wahini. Tropical breezes. Dancing the hula (I can still do a passable hula from lessons I took as a kid in Vernonia - don't ask, long story), eating tropical food, swimming in tropical seas and trying to get fat, cause that's what all the fellas were into. Oh, bingo.

Those are the memories I'd like to have. What about you?

Funniest Thing I've Seen All Day.

2009-11-10T17:43:00.000-08:00

From Cute Overload.

That is all.

Thomas Lennon in a Purple Unitard. Say No More.

2009-11-10T16:58:00.000-08:00

Thomas Lennon. Bringing The Funny. Laugh, meine kleine nachtbaby. Laugh.

Guntram Müller's MüllerCize It! (part 1) from Thomas Lennon

I Raise A Finger In Your General Direction

2009-11-07T10:52:00.000-08:00

After hearing a joke about a joke, I had to look it up myself: who did flip the first bird? And did he then have to explain what it meant (which would certainly have cut the sting somewhat)?

Here is some of an article by Glenn Church, that I found at Associated Content:

The Romans referred to the middle finger as digitus infamis or digitus impudicus (dirty finger). It had much the same meaning as today. The Emperor Caligula insulted people by making them kiss his middle finger instead of his hand. Another Emperor, Augustus Caesar, expelled an entertainer from his presence by an obscene wave of his middle finger.

The Romans did not invent this gesture, however. The earliest recorded mention is a play "The Clouds", written by the Greek Aristophanes in 423 B.C. Even then, the middle finger has a clear, obscene and sexual use. It is unlikely that the ancient Greeks were the founders for flipping the birdie. More likely, flipping someone off goes back into prehistory.

The middle finger, extended outward from the rest of the fingers, is an unmistakable phallic symbol. Some have even suggested that the middle finger's use as a sexual instrument, in place of the male organ, is its true origin as a phallic symbol.

Fascinating. They can't find an origin, it's such an old habit. Think of it: even the Latin language has died out, yet we still make daily use of this even more ancient relic. I guess when something so perfectly serves its purpose, there's no reason to put it aside.

I like the word digitus impudicus. I think I'll keep it.

It Was Just a Sneeze!

2009-11-02T15:22:00.001-08:00

I swear, I got my swine flu shot! source

Vaginas Are Gross. Thanks, Lysol!

2009-10-31T18:49:00.000-07:00

The Oregonian sent me to this post on Oddee today. Thanks, Oregonian! I learned that if I don't look lovely in the morning, my husband will find another honey by the end of his work day, and that I better, by Odin's hammer, bring home the right coffee, and if I like a man's slacks, he has a license to kill me, and, well, men are better than women.

Thanks, Mad Men!

Our Long National Nightmare Is Over

2009-10-28T12:33:00.001-07:00

No, we're still bogged down in Iraq. And Afghanistan. And forty-seven million Americans still are hanging on without health insurance. And unemployment is still hovering around 10%. And the Kardashians are still allowed on television.

But Dean and Jenny are moving back to Portland!

They are going to hang on in Colorado past some of the drearier months ahead, wait out their lease until February-March, but here is something for us all to look forward to.

There is little left to keep them in Colorado Springs. The US Olympic Committee has long since pulled all its funding from the track cycling program (thanks, USOC!), and there is actually less racing action in Colorado Springs, even with a much superior outdoor track, than there is here on the moist, mossy track at Alpenrose Dairy. So he's moving back here where his team is. Jenny is doing well at her job, but there is only so far you can take your career while working at a small (tiny) business. She is ready to fly from that nest.

So get ready, Portland fan base, fam base, and friend base. Dean and Jenny are coming back.

Killer Mom

2009-10-24T16:42:00.000-07:00

Do NOT look at this photo if you don't want to smile.

Warned you. From the ever-deadly Zooborns.

And Now for Something Completely Different

2009-10-22T17:00:00.000-07:00

Monty Python geezers on Jimmy Fallon. Good choice of hosts. Fallon is really good here. Doesn't get in the way, and even gets in a few good gags himself. (Hmmm...that's three "good"s in three sentences. Not championship writing.)

There's more somewhere at nbc.com or here.

Avast, Ye Scurvy HTMLs!

2009-10-21T10:44:00.000-07:00

I think I pirated these photos, but I can't read Dutch, so I think that covers me, legally. I had to convert them several times by methods that I don't really understand to get them to save as jpegs, but once I did, they were MINE.

There's Dean accepting flowers and smooches alongside the Thighs of Pain that belong to Gregory Bauge, the world sprinting champion. This is for their 2-man team sprint on Monday night.

Lining up for the Keirin on Day 2. If Bauge's are Thighs of Pain, then these are at least Thighs of Discomfort.

Aaand, they're off. Dean ended up third on this day, which is damn respectable with this group.

More to come, I'm guessing. There are four more days of racing to go.

Continental Sucks, but Dean Survives

2009-10-18T10:57:00.000-07:00

When it's 12:30 am here, it's 9:30 am in Amsterdam, so I have been leaving my iPhone on the bedside table for late-night texting breaks when Dean finds, each day, that Continental still has no clue where his clothes and bike are.

Here is our conversation from last night (includes surprise ending):

12:34 a.m.:

Dean: Still no bag. Tracking number shows it as "missing."

Me: WTF

Dean: Yeah. Beyond frustrated. Racing starts tomorrow. Only one more flight coming from Houston tomorrow morning. Hopefully it's on that flight.

Dean: On the bright side, Amsterdam is the greatest city on the planet. I want to move here.

Me: Glad there's a bright side - besides Scooby Doo (Dean earlier tweeted that Scooby Doo is better in Dutch.)

Dean: Yeah. Couldn't pick a better place to be stranded, really. Plenty to do/see.

Me: Are you in touch with race promoters?

Dean: Yeah. They are great. Yelling at the airline people in Dutch for me. Looking into options for borrowing equipment, and trying to get airlines to give me money.

Me: Awesome.

2:53 am:

Dean: Last bag arrived out of the blue. Rejoice! Clean clothes! Bike parts!

Me: Yay! This trip is going to make such a great story and you haven't even started to race.

Question: If the only flight that they thought might have the bag wasn't due until the next day, where did they find the bag? Neglected in a corner somewhere? Were they sitting on it on their lunch breaks? I call major incompetence. Off with their heads!

Continental Airlines will Steal Your Luggage and Ruin Your Career

2009-10-17T11:24:00.000-07:00

More on this as the story unfolds. I was kind of hoping this saga would be over by now, but no. This is Day 3 of Dean stuck in Amsterdam with no luggage, no bike (for which he paid a surprise $150 fee when bikes are supposed to ship free on international flights unless they don't like the way you look), and no way to compete in the 6-day racing event in which he was contracted to appear.

Continental doesn't even know where his luggage is. "Luggage" meaning a custom-built track bike, uniforms, bike shoes, and peripherals valued at - I don't know - lots.

I've never wished for a large blog audience, until now, when I want to shame Continental into getting off their collective asses and fulfilling their obligations.

Nothing Much

2009-10-16T18:16:00.000-07:00

I just want to go watch TV and decompress after a dense couple of days drafting documents. Over the past week, as I was busy living or just breathing, I had multiple cases of "I should write about that" followed by the inevitable slate-wiping effect of age and input overload. So I'm trying the old "just start writing" technique. Nothing yet.

We went to see Doug Benson and Graham "Palm Strike" Elwood at the Mission Theater in Portland last Friday. I enjoy the comedy. Drew, um, thinks its okay. I don't understand why there is always a heckler. Although at this particular show it seemed to be a happy, drunky, horny girl heckler, with only lust in her heart for Benson. Hello, who gets a girl hard-on for Doug Benson? No offense, but he's a teddy bear of a fellow. Oh. Never mind. I understand teddy bears are "a thing." I prefer dangerous, growly bears with long sharp talons. Yes, eagle talons. On a bear.

We painted the shed all last weekend. "After" pictures to follow shortly. If it's not too awfully wet, we will clean out the garage this weekend, and fill that baby up. Drew will have such an awesome Guy Garage.

The rest of the week, the two of us have been battling some sort of fatigue thing that just plastered me to the couch on Wednesday, but has slowly been wearing off since.

Okay, this has been going downhill ever since the eagle talons bit. I'm going to go watch the Daily Show from last night. Enjoy not having to read any further.

Another Summer-End Flurry of Activity Chez Tracy

2009-10-07T18:14:00.000-07:00

The great question...which I have not been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is 'What does a woman want?' - Sigmund Freud

After some quality horn-locking and soul searching this summer, Drew took a long look at this question and answered, "a shed."

Actually, this is not a bad answer. I believe a garage is for garden tools, garden implements, and yard waste containers. Drew believes it is for road bikes, mountain bikes, cross bikes, dirt bikes, motorcycles, and tools to keep said two-wheeled vehicles in tip-top shape. Garden stuff just creates clutter, which he cannot abide.

In the heat of this friction, the "shed" answer doesn't look so crazy.

So, during his late September-early October vacation block, which he had originally planned to use for some (more) dirt bike riding, he and his friends, who swore that, with their help, we could have a better shed, built in a day, from scratch, for less money than it took to buy a ready-made or kit-made shed, fell upon the side yard with lumber, saws, earth-moving equipment, muscle, and some (some) brains.

When the day was over, we had a ten-by-twelve dance floor. Guess it takes longer than a day after all.

Day Two: walls!

Yes, it rained. Almost every day.

When the week was over, we had most of a shed, but much less money in the bank than we would have if we would have gone with the ready-made job. However, these are fire fighters, and they know what it takes to build something sturdy. We could use this baby as a storm shelter. Make that a fallout shelter. This thing has more studs than the house does.

...and a couple studs on top.

No, it's not quite done yet. It needs a coat of paint and a door latch. But it's a shed that wasn't there a week ago. So it's beautiful.