Experiencing Hate Overload. Must Shut Down Television.

Oh, the gnashing of teeth. The spitting of invective. The belittling of common cause. The sarcastic personal attacks.


The hate, hate, hate, hate!



Just turn the other cheek, man. No, the other cheek. Yeah, those cheeks.


I have had it up to here, and I'm going back over to Cute Overload for a time out. Join me, won't you?

Annie will be in bed if you need her.

And a Note to the Captain...

...thought you'd like to know that our neighbor, whom I shall call Larry, spent the day with his new life-partner, the power washer, again.

Why? What?

I was asked yesterday why I blogged, and what it was I blogged about.

Although I was pretty clear about the why (see title), I wasn't sure how to answer the what. At the end of the conversation, it seemed like the consensus was that I was wasting my time.

To avoid such self confidence-destroying conversations in the future, my current goal is to think of an answer for the what without resorting to my new standby answer, "you do not have the proper clearance."

Here are some ideas.

• I write about life from the perspective of a hermit.

• I post reminiscences of my life as a hobo.

• I am the proprietor of a dog hair management website.

• I write about everything but the stories my husband brings home from the fire department, which would make a better blog, but which might not be so ethically hygienic.

• I fill my blog with random words and pictures of cute animals.

• My blog is a long, rambling substitute for a "My Child Is An Honor Student" bumper sticker.

• My blog is a pathetic and failed attempt at attention.

• My blog is a trusted source for collie photos, self-flagellation, shared gripes, eco-rants, and biased cycling news.

• My blog is a Fair and Balanced look at time wasting strategies.

Let me know if you come up with something.

What I Think

I like to stay away from political punditry, because God knows, neither the boob tube nor the web tubes need another.

But I want to make sure that I've done my tiny part to Wise UP America.

So with an apology for the few friends and family who can stand my politics enough to keep reading, here are some quick 'n speedy bullet points for your face.

My Bush Top Five Eff-Ups (Does not include failing to eff up Social Security)

1. Let's all say it one more time: Osama bin Laden had nothing to do with Iraq. Saddam Hussein didn't even like his brand of Islam. Not that it wasn't crazy enough. It just wasn't his brand. Neither did Saddam Hussein have WMDs. But Bush/Cheney kept trying to get us to believe it, 'cause they wanted into Iraq. Reeeal bad.
   
2. Once Bush got into Iraq, he and Dick Cheney (1) immediately allowed chaos to reign, (2) dismantled the army and government and forgot to put it back together, (3) sent young conservative idealists to run the reconstruction effort even though they had no experience at anything, and (4) turned what was left of the country into a money machine for Haliburton to the detriment of our troops and our country. (Yes, I get to count all those as one because it's my list.) Hey, remember when Paul Wolfowitz said, pre-invasion, that Iraqi oil would pay for reconstruction? Wasn't that hilarious?
   
3. Bush ignored and then spectacularly effed up each facet of Katrina relief: evacuation; emergency food and water distribution; emergency housing; reconstruction; and dike rebuilding.
4. Bush's Iraq policies are now bogging us down and dooming us to a long-term war in Afghanistan, due to the fact that we have been trying to do too much with a very thin film of troops who are not currently deployed to Iraq. But probably will be next week.
   
5. Bullied government departments such as the EPA, NASA, and national weather service employees to keep any mention or evidence of global warming out of their reports and their recommendations for action, so that such warnings would not affect their buddies in Big Oil.

My Top Five McCain Warnings

1. His published medical insurance plan would tax the medical insurance you now earn as an employee of a responsible employer.
2. He wants to use this new revenue from your newly taxed benefits to give to the uninsured as a tax credit to buy private insurance with. These credits (estimated at $2,500) will be given at about half the current cost of private health insurance (estimated at $5,000 and up), and will grow yearly at the cost of living, not the much, much higher rising cost of health care.
3. He wants to extend the Bush tax cuts to the extremely wealthy. (Reality check: this money does not trickle down. Wealthy people aren't known for their generosity. That's why they are Republicans. Then again, maybe that's why they're wealthy.)
4. He wants to privatize Social Security. Sound Bushy enough for you?
   
5. McCain's energy plan calls for 45 new nuclear power plants by 2030 (when he will be celebrating his 94th birthday). Meanwhile, we still have nowhere to put the nuclear waste we have right now.

Five Reasons to Vote for Obama

1. He makes us all want to join together and work, hand in hand, at building a barn, while whistling Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue in unison. No, really. This is what we need right now: a president who can LEAD.
2. He has a reasonable, do-able, revenue-able medical insurance plan. Look it up. And you won't even have to pay taxes on your current health insurance benefits.
3. A responsible, phased removal of our troops from Iraq.
4. A multi-faceted plan to attain energy independence within 10 years and create 5 million new jobs in the new green and alternative-fuel economy.
5. He gives us great street cred with the rest of the world. We can show the world that we're not all drugstore cowboys with a chip on our shoulder and a nervous snicker. Some of us can talk words. There's more, but I'm boring myself.
   

Tomorrow I promise to go back to posting cute pictures of my dogs.

Doing My Part to Save You from Your Own Ignorance.

Have you ever wondered how Canada got its cool name?

Surprise! It's just another instance of some European dude misunderstanding the natives.

Canada is Huron-Iroquois for "village."

Fascinating, huh?

You're welcome.

Bravery of the Piglet: A Whole 'Nother Level

This morning in the bath I was castigating myself (ooh, sounds painful) for not having anything useful to say, and compounding the problem by filling my ears with a constant stream of podcasts from Garrison Keillor intoning poetry to Russell Brand giggling about having faces drawn on his naughty bits.

I toyed with the idea of taking 20 minutes out of my day to sit in a lotus position and say "ohm," but considering my past attempts at clearing my mind of all thoughts, I dropped that like a hot Buddha.

Baby steps. Just leave some space for thought between Fresh Air and the Scottish comedy bits. But where to start?

By this time, I was backing out of the driveway with KNRK blasting out of the speakers. (Drew must have driven last. He always turns it up too loud. Old man hearing issues, I think.) A perfect moment to live the dream.

I turned the car radio off.

No, really. No radio. No iPod. No CD. Just the hum of the little Prius.

I have to say, I didn't miss it, but my commute is barely twenty minutes long. Unfortunately and despite my courageous pilgrimage, I still have no powerful deep thoughts to share either. And, And, AND, I had no radio dial to fiddle with while the cardboard beggers were staring at me at the I-5/Mill Plain traffic light. So I was forced to pretend a fascination with passing vehicles that seemed not a little feeble-minded.

But I'm not afraid to try it again. Just not on the way home.

Stay tuned for updates just as fascinating as this one.

BEARS!

A bear that redistributes the country's hubcap wealth.

And in the Land of Robin Hood. Now that's a bear I want to get to know.

One of the Many Reasons I Love the Daily Show

This billboard, which is currently greeting Republican conventioneers in the twin cities.

Anything For Baby

You know that thing that parents always say, "it's better that our [insert son, daughter] have this experience than we. It is what we have striven for our whole lives."

[Insert picture of grey-haired woman wearing a pilly cardigan sweater and mended stone-washed denims purchased in 1989, who has to look up and squint to see your face, what with the bad posture resulting from all those nights working that janitor's job at the abattoir, and the huge glasses last in style when disco was cool.]

I spent last week clearing out old papers that were taking up space in the garage. I shredded so many checks. For coaching, bikes, wheels, more wheels to replace the wheels, airline tickets, medical bills. I told Drew it was like we had sent Dean to college twice - once for his Fire Fighting degree and once for his Cycling degree.

My son is going to Barcelona next month with the US Cycling team.


No, I've never been to Barcelona. But the month after, I'm taking a week off from my abattoir position to see him race - in South Central LA. I may even buy myself a new cardigan for the trip.

Oh, you know I'm full of crap. Congratulations, Dean! I couldn't be prouder.

The Zucchini Patrol

I was trying to take an artistic, early morning picture of a stunningly yellow zucchini blossom, but the Zucchini Guard was on patrol, and I was denied.

Collies can be quite stern when you try to take prohibited zucchini photos.

Drew's Angel

At Black Crater earlier this summer. What's that? The setting sun? Or an ANGEL!

Summer Clearance 2008 - Tour de France Version

Okay, so I got distracted in July and never posted my annual Tour de France issue, wherein I make a completely inane and misguided prediction, and/or reminisce about hilarious moments of sportscasting gobbledy-gook.

Not that I blame the guys for occasionally spewing something unintentionally kooky after 21 straight days of 8-hour-a-day blabber making. They gots to keep talking. Dead air is bad for the career.

But this year was an especially good one. Behold:

Phil Ligett on the 3-peak Alpe D'uez day: "Quite an unrelentless pace today..." Okay, we'll let that slide, because it's Phil Ligett.

Bob Roll: "...sometimes you have to pick your entrails up off the road and keep going..." Well, to be fair, that's just Bob Roll being Bob Roll.

Paul Sherwin: "Last year his Tour de France did not go quite as expected, but this year he's come back younger & stronger." Now that's more like it.

And my favorite stupid thing came from my least favorite stupid announcer:

Frankie Andreu: "If Euskatel doesn't win, then I would say Euskatel lost."

I'm putting my money on George Hincapie to win. I think it's his year.

Olympics, Schmolympics, We Went to the Fair

Look at the ears on this thing. I could lose twenty blood-pressure points just by petting those ears. And he could mow my lawn in no time.

I need a goat, no, make that two goats, some floppy-eared rabbits, and a pig-steering cane.

This sheep was the most interested sheep in the whole place. Most of them made a point of ignoring me. She was fascinated by my picture-taking contraption. And a little alarmed.

This is not total chaos. Only 90% chaos, tops.

If you have never seen a 4-H pig-judging event, get the hell over to your county fair and get a load of this. Take eight to ten kids, give them canes (no, not special magic canes, or ones with tasers on the end, just canes) and a two-hundred-pound pig with some definite goals in mind, and tell them to parade their pigs in front of a judge, while attempting to steer them away from their main ambitions of taking out the competition in a more physical way.

Kids and their pigs. And their Canes of Swine Control. Heartwarming.

It's the best entertainment purchase of the summer.

Don't let them out, dude. They're just looking for trouble. Whatever you do, don't let them on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

Here's a Thought For You. Now Go Ice Yourself Down.

It's too hot to sit here and write crap, so I will make it short:


I saved this wee quip from a BBC Radio broadcast last week, because I thought Drew would appreciate it: "tofu is proof that nature abhors a vegan." (Personally, I have no problem with either, but be warned that vegans would have a tough time finding something to eat at the fire station. I'm not sure if that's a diversity issue or not. Or just an old, old wooden ship.)


I'm going to go out on an ice floe, and guess that nature abhors a Hummer too.

I Kicked Ass on my New Computer Game Today

So I bought this software for my Raspberry that allows me to track my nutrition and exercise. I guess the theory is if you have to write everything down, you may think twice about downing that third brownie, or you might take one more lap around the park.

Yes, I'm calling this a computer game. It's as close as I'm going to get, and it allows me hours of fun trying to fudge the numbers in my favor. Mmmm, fudge.

But today I discovered a new weapon in my fight for domination over this game: gardening. I have been bumming because my "very brisk" walks in the morning are only good for 257 calories per hour. Today I put in about three hours in the back yard, between picking the blueberries, cutting back the grape vines and wisteria, and mowing, so I thought I should get to count that for something.

Imagine my surprise when my game tells me that gardening is worth 320 calories per hour - 63 calories more per hour than very brisk walking! I feel like I found a "cheat."

Between the walking and the gardening I did today, I feel like I am entitled to eat a stick of butter. But I'm going to stick with some leftover pizza and some M&Ms.

I know. The glamour of my life takes my breath away sometimes.

Made in U.S.A.? Hell, It's Made Right Over There

It's a Bike!

Drew has been like an expectant father ever since he ordered himself a custom racing bike from Signal Cycles, the newest bike builders in Portland (add "Capital of Custom Bike Shops" to Portland's other titles, next to "Capital of Microbrews", "Capital of West Coast Bohemians", and "Land of Powell's City of Books").

Matt and Nate with their creation, Number 10 of the Signal Cycles custom line, a steel racing bike built to handle firefighter-sized racers.

And now it has arrived. Number ten off the non-assembly line, with a stamp to prove it. It really is nice. For a bike. And it seems to make him happy. No. Delirious.

So he took it out to PIR last night and won. It must work.

Drew Will Need to See This

The rest of you can talk amongst yourselves. A 100-year-old pair of Levis were found in Randsburg recently.

That is all.

In Which a Night of Fat-Cattery Goes to My Head

So the Oregon Zoo in Portland, of which I am a loyal member (being that they have all the penguins) has summer concerts on their rather shallow and grassy amphitheater.

Since I am a member, they invite me to pay a lot of extra money for tickets in order that I may be treated like a VIP - they reserve a blanket for us in the best seating area, they reserve a primo parking spot, they serve us dinner and dessert, and then give us keepsake wine and beer glasses.

Both Drew and I have a problem with the line-up-early-and-dash festival seating at grassy amphitheater concerts. You try to get there early only to find out that the truly committed have been there since breakfast, then wait in line to get in, then hurry to the seating area, lay your blanket down on a spot of ground halfway to the concession stands, surrounded by fellow blanket squatters, and then, halfway through the opening act, somebody claims the inch of space between your blanket and the one directly in front of you and sits on your feet.

We thought that this VIP thing sounded like the way to attend an amphitheater concert without the thought of blunt force violence overwhelming the enjoyment of the music, so we splurged for the extra VIP treatment with our Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings tickets.

The VIP seating area is roped off, and the VIP blankets are neatly laid out so that every VIP has a nice bit of real estate to call their own. All very orderly and Republican. A nice fellow took our order and brought us typically awful zoo food. But still, we didn't have to lift a finger to purchase the awful zoo food. The couple next to us were seasoned VIPs and griped about the time it took for them to be served. I'll have to work on that.

This is the walkway in front of our blanket, and the stage not too far away.

Our blankets were situated right in front of a paved walkway that was (a) annoying, as it was a heavily used walkway, and (b) good, because the old security fellow kept it clear of would-be loiterers and squatters.

Keen makes a stylish wine glass holder that doubles as a shoe.

Once the concert got going, our seats were way too close to be able to see the stage over the dancing crowd, so we were (if you are Drew) forced (or, if you are me) liberated to (Drew again) stand (or, me again) dance all night. Luckily the dance floor was about a foot and a half below us, which allowed the shorter of us to dance AND see the stage. Brilliant.

And may I note here that if you have heard Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings' latest CD, you have heard about 50% of the goodness that is in store for the live audience. She is a pistol. What a voice. What a stage personality. I am pretty sure that when she left the stage, she was spent. She left it all out there. Heartily recommended.

After a while, as at all concerts, the dancers and forward-pushers got the upper hand of the elderly security squad, and our roped-off VIP section was occasionally breached. However, as I had paid so much for these tickets, I (yes, I) either turned around and stared at them, as if memorizing their faces for a later line-up of suspected trespassers, until they picked up their bags and daughter and left (you're welcome, guys in the second VIP row), or yelled at the ones in front of me until they moved on. No, really. I did.

Wow. A little privilege turns me right into a law-and-order Repub...Right wi...no... I can't say it. Meany.

I have since deflated back into my regular skin, and have left whatever servitude-induced assholery I adopted for the night behind in the roped-off VIP section.

It just goes to show you. A little privilege can change your outlook. If you are thoughtful and moral, it will open it wider. If you have a small, stingy heart, or just have a little too much Chardonnay, it may make it smaller, darker, and meaner.

I swear, next time I'll be a nicer VIP.

Shaken to the Core

Click to view in a size big enough for Drew to read without his glasses.

To the core, I tell you, by a scurrilous bit of claptrap on another otherwise righteous blog, by a commenter denying Berkeley Breathed the proper status of National Treasure, up there with Garry Trudeau, William Shatner, and The Mall of America.

Bloom County saw me through college, the Desperately Poor Years, the Reagan Administration Years (which coincidentally were the same years), and each bump in the psyche since then. For the past 25 or so years, if I was hitting a low patch, serotonin-wise, then you would find me with my nose in one of my Bloom County anthologies. I credit them with saving me thousands in mood-stabilizing medication.

The above-referenced slur sent me back to my Bloom County stash this week to find and scan my favorite strip of all time.

It's an eerily accurate portrait of me and my chauffeur, life partner and protector, Captain Drew. In our household, the phrase "a woman of rare beauty and delicate constitution" is praise reserved for only the most deserving.

Pictures from the AVC - Clearance Priced

Ooh, pretty shadows.

The legendary 43 degree banking of Alpenrose Velodrome.

The legendary coach Des Dickie setting Dean on the right trajectory.

Keeping an eye on the competition's thigh size.

Hugging the whole world.

Notes from the Velodrome

Alpenrose Velodrome Challenge 2008

Saturday

I have learned not to approach the keirin unmedicated. Case In Point.

The above link is to a crash in the heat directly before Dean's heat.

Thus properly diazepated, I was able to endure the qualifying rounds, which Dean easily controlled, and even the crushing irony of the final in which he cruised to victory except for that bastard Steven Beardsley taking advantage of his final let-up in the home stretch to sneak around for the win.

Dean leading Keyln Akuna to the final lap of the Olympic Sprint.

Later in the day, Dean and his Colorado Springs posse joined forces for a sloppy but effective enough win in the Olympic Sprint (a sort of relay on wheels).

I'm sure Aaron Kacala understands by now that being on the podium with Dean often means being used as his ride down off the steps.

Sunday

Sunday is sprint day. I committed to facing the day without pharmacological assistance, which lasted until the third round when I accepted a tall glass of banned sauvingon blanc with shaky hands.

As I write this, it is lunch break. After lunch, Dean competes in the final heats of the sprints. The least he can do now is fourth, which he would accept as a crushing defeat.

On Sunday after two days of announcing tongue twisting names from half a dozen countries and trying to keep the dullest 100-lap slog sounding entertaining, odd things can come out of the announcers' booth, like, "that's a big ask..." and, "something like thighs burning..."

The last event before the break was a ten-mile race, in which the bastard Steven Beardsley came in second. We happened to be sitting right behind the bastard Steven Beardsley's mom, who was so happy. Just goes to show. Even Steven Beardsley has a mom. (Actually Steven is a lovely young fellow, about the same age as Dean, with apple cheeks and tousled hair, not cut in a Serbo-hawk like some, less emotionally mature, twenty-three year-olds.)

Later Sunday

Another ugly, crunching crash in the semi-final sprint heat directly before Dean's heat. Unfortunately, the victim of said crash was unable to continue due to the fact that the crash had aggravated a newly repaired hip that had been broken in a keirin some time ago. A pity, since he was the one Dean wanted to race the most - a highly decorated bit of legend in track circles.

I have a moment of panic, but I compose myself for the final sprint, which Dean seems to win without having to pull out any wacky voodoo moves.

Dean staying ahead of Giovanni Rey in the final sprint.

The announcers are ecstatic to see Dean finally step on the top step of the sprint podium after so many years of being the pipsqueak upstart, eclipsed from his perch on the lower step by the winner's massive man-thighs.

Dean and his thighs atop the sprinter's podium at last, alongside Giovanni Rey and training partner (and winner of Most Awesome Uniform Design) Keyln Akuna

I am happy for him, and consider him the most excellent individual person yet assembled with earthly DNA.

My Son Has Found a Way to Age Me From Afar

No hawk would be caught dead looking like this.

Camping! Dirty!

Nature, wilderness, quietude, we'll get to all of that in a moment, but first, this:

Yesterday I peed standing up.

Now back to the camping report:

BLACK CRATER OF DEATH.

Drew's favorite place to camp and hunt when we lived in Bend was Black Crater, where there was a little lake so secluded that you had to drive really lousy excuses for "roads" in your least favorite junker and then hike another mile to reach. This, Drew's Happy Place, was our destination this weekend.

Drew in his Happy Place. Such as it is.

Of course, we knew that there had been a forest fire two years ago, foreshadowingly called The Black Crater Fire, but in Drew's rosy-tinged world, he saw the map of fire destruction as seeming to have miraculously saved Black Crater itself and its tiny, pristine, and lonely lake.

As you may have guessed, the lake is still tiny and lonely, and pristine in a way, that is, pristine of all animal life save bugs, a few confused frogs, and some trout possibly dropped by air tanker during the fire.

At least the lake is still pretty...

And it's so quiet. In the morning, there was no sound at all. No sound. Imagine.

Life is showing signs of revival, but it's early still. The green trees are small, but getting lots of sunshine through the dead branches looming above. The fish are jumping. The frogs are chirping. And there is one pair of woodpeckers (I think they're dating) having a field day in the dead wood.

This is your bark. This is your bark under intense heat.

The actual camping experience went mostly well. We were (understandably) the only people there - probably the only people within a five-mile radius. We could have walked around completely nude (but that would have required much too much bug spray). The quiet was shocking and soothing and habit forming. I could have used some grass to lounge on. There was mostly just dust and dirt, so we stood and balanced on logs a lot.

The moral of the equipment story: the expensive stuff performed well, the cheap stuff performed (with one exception) on a par with their price. The winners:

• My super-technical backpack with secret compartments I'm still discovering;
• Our new space-shuttle Jetboil cooking equipment (faster than a microwave at boiling water, we swear);
• My sleeping pad (which is pink, because it's totally girls-only);
  
• Our two-person tent with stash shelves and vent action (the one cheap thing that made the winner list);
  
• The French press; and
• The beef stroganoff-in-a-bag from Mountain House (it's like real food!).

The losers:

• Drew's cheap sleeping pad;
• Drew's new air pillow; and
  
• the Kung Pao chicken-in-a-bag from Backpacker's Pantry (not sure what it is, but we doubt if it's made out of food).

On the List of Things to Bring Next Time:

• More beef stroganoff;
• A hammock;
• Wet wipes;
• Garbage bags; and
• More underwear.

We decided that despite the road sitch and the dead tree issue, we should come back every year to watch how the place comes back from charcoal to life again.

And, finally, the latest entry into our collection of butt-shaped objects: the butt-shaped tree.

I'm looking forward to it.

Camping! Yay!

Okay, okay, okay, okay, so I got my new fluffy mummy bag that weighs about as much as a Skittle, a pillow that squishes down to the size of a used Kleenex, an overpriced stove system that I believe features parts from a space shuttle, a tiny lamp called a Glorb which shoots laser beams, geek-wear head lamps, something called a Sani-Fem F.U.D. (I know!), and freeze-dried kung pao chicken in a bag.

I think we're ready to venture out-of-doors.

Since I haven't camped sans vehicles since I was a Girl Scout, we are starting with a short hike and an overnight stay to test out all our hiking-camping equipment.

I've soured on camping over the past 20 years, not because I disliked marshmallows or campfires, but that I frown on staying in campgrounds that end up feeling more like large apartment complexes without walls, with all the other project dwellers feeling just as comfortable to let their kids hang out in your no-walled apartment as in their own, to play loud, lousy music, yell at the top of their lungs, and find a short-cut to the one smelly bathroom through your living room.

The idea of hiking in to a much more out-of-the-way campground, inaccessible to vehicles, is so brilliant, I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner.

Except maybe the whole Sani-Fem F.U.D. thing. But if that thing works out and my squatting days are truly over, this may be a the best thing since hotels.

Stay tuned for important updates.

For the Only Person in America Who Has Not Yet Viewed This

BTW, he dances better than you.

No Oprah for Me Today

It could have been a terrorist attack, but I think it was just a blown transformer thingy out on 36th Ave.

It was all OMG for a moment there this morning - the lights went out followed by a big crunky-sounding bang, and then another. Louder and less glassy and tire-screechy than a car accident would be, but not as clearly explosive as an explosion would be - like an explosion in a metal box. Times two.

The dogs, outside sniffing after breakfast, were trying to fend off the inevitable giant robot bear attack by barking in their freaked-out voices, which, I hate to tell them, would never scare off a giant robot bear.

I went out to investigate, and could see nothing but our neighbor doing the same thing.

She went in to call 911 (whatever), and I went in to round up the dogs and take a stroll over towards 36th Avenue.

We found a fire engine, a cherry picker, a flopping-down power line, and one dude trying to direct traffic.

Case closed. Luckily, Oprah was not in my plans today, but neither was rotting freezer food, so here's hoping for a quick fix.

I'll quit using up my Raspberry power now, or I'll have to go drive it around.

Hey, wouldn't it be great to have a cell phone you could power like those wind-up flashlights? Get on it, geniuses!

Update: The power outage lasted about three hours, so my ice cream sandwiches should be safe, if I had any. Which I don't. I'll be at the store. In the frozen foods aisle.

Yes, I Realize I've Been Back from the Beach for Awhile Now

But I have had nothing to say, and I can guess that you don't need me posting more drivelly drivel than usual.

Today I made a $374 bet.

I bet AT&T that my Raspberry device will no longer take a picture because of the device's bad quality. They are betting that I must have dropped it from a great height, causing unseen outward damage, but some subtle user-based trauma that they can blame on me.

Here's how the bet works:

1. They send me a new phone.
2. I send mine back to them.
3. They inspect my old phone for people-caused damage. If they find any, they charge me $374 for the phone ($275 more then I paid for it).
4. No, they will not send my old one back to me and forget the whole thing.
5. I wait for their honest judgment.
6. If I'm cleared of wrongdoing, they let me have the new phone and don't charge me for being bad.
   

Man, I hope the few bumpy little wacks it has taken have not done anything disastrous to its innards. Because I took their bet.

I'm At The Beach. Hold All My Calls.

So Drew worked yesterday. Long night with a carload of teens who managed to get themselves killed and/or maimed by rolling their car on a straight stretch.

Normally, after a night spent scraping people off the pavement or putting their candles out through the roof, he would come home in the morning and nap a couple hours so he didn't have to spend the remainder of the day in a dream state.

But today was the start of my birthday beach weekend. So he had to come home, shower up and drive me and the dogs the two hours to the beach through heavy traffic until we hit Lincoln City where the heavy traffic met with Kite Festival traffic, creating a Perfect Storm of Impatient Through-Traffic Meets Frustrated Kite-Festival Traffic Looking For Street Parking. But then, once he got here, he went to the store to pick up wine and breakfast (and a little something in a bakery box), then went to the pizza place up the road to pick up dinner so we could eat dinner on our deck overlooking the beach.

Soon after dinner he fell onto the bed unconscious without lifting his feet up off the floor.

That's the kind of selfless servitude I have to put up with on my birthday weekend. I'm going to tough it out here for another couple of days.

The Killin Season

It was a long winter, but a relatively mild one, which means my freckles are now fighting for space with mosquito bites. And its June; the mosquitoes haven't even had that much time to have skeeter-breeding orgies in Drew's old tires yet.

The county's mosquito control team (which has apparently purchased a second-hand meter-maid scooter to use as a patrol vehicle) has been out driving around the area, wondering what to do.

The grass in the park was treated this morning with something poisony smelling. I guess its for the best, with the soccer kids and all the flea-bitten mutts piddling about (with any luck, it's just the mutts doing the piddling).

I hope its not too earth-killing.

But as the dogs and I walked and piddled this morning (again, the parties of the first part are the only ones indulging in the party of the second part), we saw a dragonfly lying in the smelly grass, its nearly-there wings wrongly still.

There must be a better way.

Coming Soon: On the Road with Large-Legged Men

How's this for a reality show: four bike racers and two bike wizards take a road trip in a borrowed RV from Colorado Springs to Portland for a weekend of track racing and debauchery. Will they make it in time? Will they win any races? Will the owner of the RV recognize it upon its return?

Stay tuned in July for further episodes. AVC is July 18 - 20. Write it down.

Pictures that are More Interesting than the Gardening Action that has been Swallowing My Days

I'll be down here if you need me to eat anything for you. Just so you know.

Synchronized sleeping.

Sloppy sleeping.

Summing Up

I sent some hand-me-down books to Dean and Jenny last week. I felt funny just popping them in the mail without some sort of reason why I was handing over such an eclectic grouping, but there was really no reason for that, other than my own desperate and futile attempts at reading everything NPR tells me to read.

So instead I ripped off another idea I heard somewhere on NPR. The guest was Larry Smith who had compiled a book entitled Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure.

I was intrigued by the idea and spent some quality dog-walking time contemplating my own six-word memoir:

Not sure I got that right.

or

Not looking forward to the epilogue.

or

Always thought I was someone else.

I co-opted the idea to create six-word book reports for the package, in an attempt to make sense of the selection:


Gilead by Marilyn Robinson:

Seniors having children;
Not so wise

A Woman Trapped in a Woman's Body by Lauren Weedman (in the same package? I know!)

Lauren has issues for your enjoyment.

Smile When You're Lying by Chuck Thompson

Travel magazines are phony. Who knew?

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon (my favorite in this group):

Autistic kid;
Dumb parents;
Dead dog

What is the What by Dave Eggers

Starving children in Darfur;
Peckish now?

What are you reading? Sum it up!

Should a Wild Thing Be Tamed?

Here are some Grooming Day before and after pictures. I've always brushed out Scotty's hair myself, which kept him from matting, but didn't win him any beauty awards.

This isn't a really fair "before" picture, because it was taken on a really wet day, but it's too awesome not to use.

My back hurt for three days after the last bathing and brushing marathon, so I decided to hire it done, just like the city dogs do. He hated it, felt completely violated, and needed some "me time" before he was back to his wacky self. But isn't he pretty?

Yes, the bow is off by now.

And his coat is silkier than I know how to make it. We'll see how long it lasts...

Upside: It's Not Flooding Here

So my afternoon went like this:

1. Drain and clean last year's mystery poison from yard sprayer thingy.
2. Realize the sprayer thingy is missing a nozzle thingy.
3. Against all odds, find nozzle thingy in the garage.
4. Mix new batch of bug killer juice.
5. Realize that the nozzle was removed from the sprayer thingy because it doesn't work.
6. Try to clean the nozzle out with a needle.
7. Scream when a bug comes out of the nozzle when I least expect it.
8. Put the nozzle back on and retry.
9. Say f**k it, take the nonworking nozzle off, and spray the grape vines full force with the hose end of the sprayer.
10. Make a godawful mess, including milky bug death juice dripping down 150 square feet of sunroom glass.
11. Realize that the yard sprayer has been leaking all over my pants.
12. Throw yard sprayer away.
    
13. Find bucket, rags and squeegee.
14. Prepare a bucket full of glass cleaner formula.
15. Clean 150 square feet of sunroom glass.
16. Open a sunroom window to get to a screened area that needs cleaning.
17. Break the window mechanism so that (a) the window can't stay open and (b) can't close.
18. Scare dogs with loud cursing.
    
19. Try to fix window mechanism that defies the laws of physics.
20. Confirm physics law by breaking window mechanism.
21. Concede.
    

This Just In

They say her name is Cinders, but I bet she would answer to Janice.

Oh, and One More Thing

You know those white outline stickers you can get for the back window of your minivan, shaped like a soccer ball or a rip-off of a copyrighted cartoon figure doing something rude?

You can get one shaped like bagpipes.

And you didn't think bagpipes had a shape. Well, like octopi, they do if you place them in one, I guess.

I know because Tyge has one on his truck.

Three Dollar Movie Review: 3:10 to Yuma

My problem with movies like this is I forget not to think.

This story revolves around a hair-brained scheme to escort Russell Crowe, obviously the West's Most Dangerous and Slippery Prisoner, via horse-back, very slowly, including nights of camping against picturesque rocks, through Indian- and Gang-infested territory. In spite of the fact that they had two dozen very lawful and self-defensible reasons to kill him along the way.

Our comments during the movie went something like this:

"Kill him!"

"Kill him now!"

"How about now?"

"Did I miss the part in the movie where they explained how their bullets have a defect that makes them shoot backwards when used against stagecoach robbers?"

On the plus side, the director managed to fit in several unlikely explosions, which help to soothe masculine souls and allow them to forgive ridiculous plots. Two I especially liked for their fishiness: a stagecoach-based man shoots a riding man's saddle-mounted gunpowder pouch, causing both him and his horsey to kaboom; and later a man, whilst fleeing on horseback, tosses a bundle of dynamite into the air and his horseback-fleeing buddy shoots the dynamite, thus causing it to kaboom.

There are so few plausible reasons to fit explosions into westerns. I'm glad these guys went the extra mile to find perfectly reasonable explosion opportunities.

Well done, lads.

My judgment: three Junior Mints boxes out of five.

You Need to Know

About elephant shrews.

In Which No One Falls Over the Railing to their Death at the Crystal Ballroom

...but one lady came close, which was the highlight of my evening (barring Thomas Lauderdale's Brenda Vaccaro moment, but more on that later).

Becca and Brian, our favorite World Traveling Sellwood Nesters, invited us to check out Pink Martini at a (typically) fundraising appearance at the Crystal Ballroom. Although I would have been happy standing on the dance floor/moshing space (until I realized I had not grown since breakfast and was stuck staring at everyone's back again), Drew is a sitting kind of person, so we headed for the balcony like meerkats after scorpions. Unfortunately, Drew was not alone in his concert sitting idea, and we were summarily trampled by approximately 200 gray-headed, Coldwater Creek-wearing baby she-boomers on a mission to the 100 or so balcony seats.

Drew is constantly surprised at the rudeness of people - those who push past him to get the good seats, or monopolize the only salesperson, or (gaa!) block grocery aisles with their cart all akimbo while staring at the mayonnaise. I agree that they are obnoxious doofs and individual harbingers of our civilization's doom, but I am no longer surprised.

Luckily, Brian, being skinny and wiry, was able to shoot between the gaps in the crowd and snag us some primo seats in the second balcony row.

One little roundish gray-haired lady was not so fast up the stairs, but went trolling for leftover seats with a verve normally only seen at wrestling matches. Once she spotted one in the front row, she vaulted over a row of seats, nearly overshooting the railing in her enthusiasm and plunging to her death (although she might have been able to grab onto the nearby pink-and-blue curlicued chandelier at the last minute and hang from it like a circus performer, only more colorfully dressed). These are the times when my cell phone is safely tucked away, instead of in my hands in the picture-taking position.

Where was I?

Pink Martini. They sang songs in Spanish, Portuguese, whatever Peruvians speak, Chinese, Arabic, Italian and pidgin Russian. Thomas Lauderdale is so adorable that you can almost forgive him for being smarter than you. He is part Giant Music Brian, part Just Jack, part Liberace, and part elf.
And China Forbes is a talent to match - a plushy, technically accomplished voice and the ability to fit it around any kind of music the band picks up (like shiny objects).

And you just don't see percussion sections like this any more. And never with percussionists with names like Martin Zarzar. Yes, Zarzar. And he's not even a martial arts expert. As far as I know.

Since we couldn't understand most of the words, I kept Drew entertained by playing the "which one" game:

Which would you rather play: tambourine or that drum you wear like a messenger bag?

Which would you rather play: tambourine or the tin cans filled with beans that you shake?

Which would you rather play: Shaky thing or the gourd with the chain mail on it?

This is sort of like the chain-mail gourd, but obviously with cheaper chain mail. I understand it's called a shekere.

We wanted the gourd with the chain mail. Or the bongos. But everybody wants to be the bongo player. Why don't I have a set of bongos? This is a glaring oversight on my part.

The other highlight of the evening was Thomas Lauderdale and China Forbes switching parts on an audience favorite, Hang on Little Tomato. It probably seemed like a better idea at dinner before the performance, but it was worth it to watch Lauderdale suddenly realize that he had forgotten the words and struggle to get back in the game, a performance he termed his "Brenda Vaccaro" moment. No, I don't know why, except that Vaccaro was famous for her smoky voice, and of course, her appearances on Battle of the Network Stars.

Bottom Line: I need bongos and Thomas Lauderdale is my new favorite munchkin. And that includes Dunkin Donuts products.

In Which I Consign Myself to Hell

A texting conversation between Dean and me last week after the exile from the Olympic Training Center (due to a group of misguided protesters) was lifted:

Dean: Got back to the gym today and did personal bests in every lift! 790 lb leg press! Woo!

Piglet: Wha? Release pent up energy much?

Dean: Maybe a day off was in order. Strength coach wants to see 1000 by September.

Dean: Did it 4 times in front of a packed tour too.

Piglet: Nice. I hear Pat Robertson has an energy drink that you might want to look into for that 1000 goal.

Dean: Ha, forgot about that. Fueled by Jesus!

Piglet: Maybe it has actual bits of Jesus in it...wait that sounds too much like Catholic communion...have I gone too far with this?

Dean: Its got bits of real panther in it... so you know its good.

It's Not Just for Breakfast Anymore

All the PBR at the Rubicon Headquarters? Turns out that they were just in on the ground floor of a hipster trend. As per usual. This from a Salon article by Laura Miller (pointed out to me by MeMo).

"Buying In" is an often startling tour of this new cultural terrain, taking
in such iconic products as Hello Kitty, Timberland, Pabst Blue Ribbon and Red
Bull, as well as Scion, a line of Toyotas that I, apparently, am too uncool to
have known about before. Some of these brands, like Timberland and Pabst (or
PBR, as the hipsters call it), were established, if small-time, entities before
certain consumer subcultures adopted them. The hip-hop world took a liking to a
line of boots that had been created for construction workers by a New England
family company. Bike messengers in the Pacific Northwest made a Milwaukee beer
the brew of choice in the indie-rock scene. In both cases, the manufacturers of
those products were disconcerted by their new customers. What they understood to
be the cultural meaning of their products -- footwear for working men, and cheap
suds for the 45-to-65-year-old Midwestern set -- had been redefined by complete
strangers.

This, Walker observes dryly, is what marketing managers mean when they
talk of the need to "collaborate" with consumers. The CEO of Timberland became
briefly notorious in hip-hop circles for seeming not to welcome the change in
his customer base. (They've since patched things up and you can now buy pink
versions of the classic work boots.) PBR was more sure-footed: The brewer
carefully cultivated its image among the indie crowd by taking great care not to
cultivate its image: no ads on local radio, no celebrity endorsements (despite
nibbles from Kid Rock) and certainly no TV. PBR's divisional marketing manager,
cribbing tactics from Naomi Klein's anti-corporate manifesto, "No Logo" (full of
"many good marketing ideas," he told Walker!), worked to make PBR "always look
and act the underdog." He was so successful at retaining the brand's cachet (or
anti-cachet) that one 28-year-old Oregonian whom Walker interviewed had a
foot-square Pabst logo tattooed onto his back. "Pabst is part of my subculture,"
the kid told the writer, pointing to the absence of Pabst advertising as
evidence that "they're not insulting you."

It's not only cheap and nearly drinkable, it's trendy too! Who (over 40) knew?

FAIL

Feeling down? Commiserate with other failures. Or make yourself feel better in comparison. Hours of fun.