"Craft 'til it hurts!" It hurts.

It's final - there are too many channels, all of which have to try way too hard to get you to watch. Today I stumbled on evidence of the above thesis: Craft Corner Deathmatch. This is real - as real as anything found on the Style Channel.

The premise of Craft Corner Deathmatch is to match two amateur "crafters" against each other in a contest to make something crafty out of a pile of craft resources. If you insist on a "meets" analogy, it's Martha Stewart Meets Iron Chef. With a touch of the wacky "anything goes" goofiness that has been seeping over from Japanese game shows like Most Extreme Elimination Challenge.

In the show that I watched today (yes, I watched the whole half-hour show, get off me. I just got back from the gynecologist. I deserve some veg time...), the contestants were challenged to build a wind chime with a pile of kitchen utensils, silverware, and some string. They had 10 minutes to work while the host nattered on distractingly. The time was mercifully edited for television. The resultant chunks of barely hanging metal were then rated by a panel of judges.

In the second round, the contestants were invited to embellish jeans with fusible webbing and assorted material. The big surprise thrown in half-way through the 10-minute round? They had to use material from the host's pants, which he gleefully ripped off to expose clowny boxers in a flag motif. Are you laughing uproariously, as I was? I didn't think so. Oh, well.

It's hard to tell why some game shows work and some don't. Iron Chef is pompously ridiculous, but it's slightly riveting television, at least enough that you find yourself rooting for a favorite and imitating the giggling actress/judge. Craft Corner Deathmatch, I'm afraid, does not reach such a height, as less-than-dazzling as that is.

Reasons?

Host: Although the host is loudly wacky, he is not funny. If you're going for wacky, it's important to pull it off. Otherwise, you end up being loud and obnoxious instead. Ouch. Hard to watch bad funny.

Contestants: The contestants for this show were rather personality free. For such a loopy-ass concept show, they have managed to track down some of the most stone-faced and humorless crafters imaginable. They begin by saying that they are the zany type, but then forget to pull it off. To make up for the seriousness of the craft-letes (you like my new word? thanks!), the host tries to dial up the goofiness single-handedly, with predictable results.

Lovely assistant: They have tried to infuse the show with a little boho irony with a "lovely assistant" whose character motivation could best be described as Pouty Goth Girl. On another show, it would have been clever and lent the glue-gun-and-pine-cone atmosphere a little cool, but here she just seems to have wandered into the wrong studio and is really pissed off about it.

Iron Chef Wanna-Be: The winner of the first two rounds gets to go head-to-head with the Craft Lady of Steel, an homage (I guess) to the Iron Chef, of which the show cribs more than just the Unsmiling and Formidable Super Chef. For the Craft Lady of Steel, they have kept the Unsmiling part, but seem to have jettisoned the Formidable part and replaced it with Scary, which the Lady so casted doesn't seem to be able to pull off. She seems a nice enough lady, who has been instructed not to smile so as to seem Scary.

Judges: Three judges - I suspect they have more wit in their collective pinkies then all the rest of the studio occupants. Collectively, they got to speak about a dozen words.

One of the wacky witticisms heard from the Host: "Craft 'til it hurts!" Well, it hurts.

Will I watch it again? Probably. I have no will power.

Bonus question: So, Janice, what is your favorite game show? The original Match Game, of course. Duh.

Cover That Up! Except Now.

I feel like I cheated on my family doctor today.

He always encouraged me to schedule an annual exam (gyno-euphemism for sticking a spatula up your vagina and poking around). He knew it had been several years since my last "annual," but I kept putting it off. Reason? Well, I suppose my three top reasons would be that, (1) see blog title. It's hard enough for me to pick up the phone, let alone for an uncomfortable medical procedure, (2) there is virtually no chance of my having contracted the Human Papilloma Virus, the main precursor to cervical cancer (the main reason for the spatula), and, (3) ick. I like my family doctor and all, and I know that I need to get checked and that there are more reasons to have an annual exam then just the pap smear. But I've managed to put it off for years nonetheless.

I finally decided that if I was going to be a responsible grown-up and not run the risk of dying of a treatable disease, I was going to have to find a way to make myself an appointment. I determined that if I couldn't do it through will power alone (I can't do much of anything through will power alone), I will have to find a way to remove a few road blocks to the goal.

Turns out, one big road block was all I needed to remove. Any guesses? Yep. Gender. Removing the male from the equation was immediately freeing. I made a call to a new gynecology office staffed by two experienced female doctors and made an appointment for today.

The office was new - barely out of the box - but it was warm. Literally, it was warm. I noticed the thermostat was set on 75 degrees. A tough temperature to deal with walking in from the street in sweat suit and rain coat, but extremely thoughtful once sitting around in a paper shirt and a paper towel lap robe. It was also very female. Not a male in sight unless you count the visibly uncomfortable husband in the waiting room.

This was unexplainably soothing - maybe not so unexplainable if you consider the portion of the anatomy being studied in this office.

We spend all our lives trying to protect our girl parts from the boy tribe. Then later on, you are told to open up and let a man look inside you - right through your most protected girl hole. Well, ick. Thank God for female gynecologists.

Today's experience wasn't fun, but it was as comfortable as can be expected and quicker - and with less organ squashing then I remember - from previous experiences, and I learned a few things.

The bad news: I've been made to set a mammogram appointment for next week. Oh, Lord.

I'm the one

A little confession, because I'm so tired after a long day at work and the gym that I've lost my ability to edit myself: I'm the one at the gym that bobs her head to the music, pumps her feet to the beat, and dances with her ipod on the elliptical machine while all the other, more self-controlled, gym regulars look on with either bemusement or undisguised pity.

Well, let me just tell you: I know what I am doing. I have control over my limbs (mostly). It's just that, well, without the music it's hard to get my feet moving at all and the couch at home starts to call to me. With the music, it's hard to stand still. And, I figure, if I am going to have to do this stupid workout at this germy gym with all these people I don't even know just to keep the fat at bay, well, let's just give them something to talk to their wives about when they get home. Why hold my head still and not sway back and forth violently, and not skip? I'll feel better, I will get a better workout, and everyone else will feel superior. It's a win-win situation, I say.

So if you would rather dance on the treadmill, or skip on the elliptical while listening to, let's say, Walk Idiot Walk by The Hives, you just go ahead. I'll bet it's better than the stuff they play in the step aerobics class, and you don't have to follow the leader. And you, and your gym mates, will all feel better as a result. Although my knees kinda hurt.

Random Road Thoughts

Although our week-long road trip produced some serious back-ache and a little digestive irregularity (as they say), it did not produce any blog-worthy breakthroughs. It did, however, leave me with some random thoughts.

• On the way down to Mojave-land, we stayed the night in a Reno casino, in a room that is best described as a small cell in a people warehouse.
• In the morning, we spent more money in the casino coffee shop (two coffees, one muffin, an order of french toast and a three-dollar glass of orange juice) than we would have if we would have moo'd our way into the buffet with all the cow-shaped people. Although we didn't save any money, I suppose we saved ourselves a few thousand calories.
• It's a good thing, too, because I happen to know of a great bakery in Carson City (just south of Reno) and used all the calories I saved on cookies for the road.
• Why does sitting around in a moving car make me crave snacks? It's not right and it's not fair.
• Okay, living makes me crave snacks.
• I learned that there's a place worse than Ridgecrest, California, which sits on the edge of a dry lake bed in the middle of the Mojave desert. It's called Trona. Trona would be a spectacularly bad place to choose to live, especially if you were not required to live there to work in the only (legitimate) industry in town - a mining venture that scrapes the adjacent dry lake bed floor for the borax and other minerals it gleans. This mineral sorting activity produces, along with a constant dry,white dust that coats the town and all its inhabitants, an odor that is sulphur-foul and chemical-sour. Turns out it's a great smell to camouflage the cranking out of a lot of crank, the other industry in town. This town is so soul-achingly ugly and smelly, it's almost endearing. Almost. I feel sorry for the inmates of Trona High School.
• Yes, on account of all the rain in Southern California this year, it is an outstanding time to visit Death Valley. Since I've never been to Death Valley before, it was a little difficult to gauge the amazingness of the vegetation and wildflowers blanketing the valley floor. Since I'm not sure how death-y it is normally, I don't think I can fully appreciate the undeath going on right now. But I can assure you, it is as unnatural as the warm, dry winter we continue to experience back here in Portland/Vancouver. On the valley floor, 282 feet below sea level, where there should be dry beds of salt baking in the concentrated heat of a sun bouncing off the steep sides of the big basin, there are actual lakes. There was even some dude paddling around in a canoe. Freaky.
• I can now say that I have seen the dreaded pupfish of Death Valley. Cute as a guppie, but I understand it's much more interesting to fish people. Lives in a pretty hellish bit of hot, trickly water most of the time, I guess. This year the pupfish is living large.
• At the Scotty's Castle gift shop, we played our usual game of looking for the tackiest souvenir possible. Rules: no rules, but you get extra points for: (1) use of plastic, (2) sparkliness, (3) use of the name of the attraction, and (4) pointlessness. Oh, and there is no real counting of points, and often, no consensus on a winner. However, my choice for winner this day (although the competition was abundant and varied) was a fake railroad spike with a tiny miniature choo-choo glued to the top, sprinkled with some sparkly mica (I guess to look like Gold Rush gold) and the name Death Valley stamped on the side.
• There's no accounting for taste.
• Drew told his little niece that there are fairies and Ewoks living amongst the trees in Vancouver. He's gonna have some 'splaineen to do.
• On the drive home, we upgraded our room. We felt much less warehoused and I found a new thing to aspire to: a jetted tub.
• Every time I go for a long drive, I remember why I hate long drives. I shall redouble my efforts to avoid them in the future.

This is about my cat, but read it anyway.

My son just popped his head into the office to deliver these reassuring words: "I just thought you'd like to know that I just attacked the cat."

My response: "Thank you."

This winter I was feeling sorry for the cat because my son was spending the winter in the New Zealand summer, and there was no one around to treat her harshly and give her the occasional sound thrashing, just like she likes it.

My cat (legal name: Coco, although never addressed as such. Known as "Kitty" or "the cat") will occasionally sit on your lap, but she makes it clear that she is there only because you have either (a) the only soft afghan in the room, or (b) her favorite fuzzy sweats on. She is not there to share affection or unnecessary touching. She may purr, but it will be a sort of quiet, involuntary sort of sound that fades away once she becomes aware of it. If you really want to make her purr, you must cause her some pain. Yes. She's a masochistic kitty. Masokitty.

Her favorite game in the morning is to get up on the table and flop down on the newspaper so that I am forced to throw her off. The rougher the throw the better. It makes her grin from ear to ear. Repeat twenty times and you get the morning coffee routine at my house. She is not allowed on the table if we are eating, so once breakfast is on the table, the game is over. She works hard at getting as many annoying newspaper flops in as possible before the toaster pops up. I believe she plays a game with herself, where she gets more points for landing on the very paragraph I am reading. She loves it and can't wait for morning to come, so she can (a) get breakfast and (b) destroy my morning news.

None of this newspaper fun escalates into the kind of trouble that she's looking for. I am no good in a fight. And no matter how much she purrs, I can't be mean to a cat. Drew will rough-house with the cat, which she enjoys blandly, but he doesn't have the sadistic imagination, or frankly, the time to spend to make her truly happy.

Dean, however, is different.

Dean will spin her in circles on slick surfaces. She purrs. He will pin her on her back with his hands in the strangle position, exerting just enough force to keep her claws from swiping at him (even if she is free to swipe, it's a pretty half-hearted effort - just enough to keep him in the game). She purrs. He will ambush her and flatten her to the chair, leaving her looking like an animal pelt. She purrs so loudly it's sometimes not clear whether it's her or a passing truck.

Her favorite mode of transportation is jumping up onto Dean's shoulders and riding through the house like a haughty, yet fluffy, black parrot. She loves Dean. She loves all men (and feels equally indifferent towards women - even the one that feeds her every day and keeps her litter box clean - lousy tramp), but she has a special place in her heart for her sparring partner.

That's why his three-month trip to New Zealand was so hard on her - no beatings for three months. I'm sure it was a long winter for the cat. Upon Dean's return (after a momentary shock, and then an obvious "is it really him?" second look), she was right back to her old ways, looking for trouble, inciting violence, and riding in true pirate style.

See You Next Week

I'll be traveling starting tomorrow and ending up back here a week from now (3/11 or 3/12) and will not be posting from the road. But when I get back, I will have gone places and seen things so will have plenty to talk about. See you then.

That's Tillamook Cows: One, The Man: Zip.

It just makes me feel like hugging myself with a goofy, satisfied grin on my face when the little guy takes it to The Man.

In this case, The Man was played (in a great casting choice) by mega-chem money mill Monsanto, already well-known for their anything-for-a-buck ways of selling designer seeds and agro-chems to farmers worldwide like thuggy drug dealers hooking farmers on the high-yield habit (ouch! so hate-y! and kind of early-Dennis-Miller-y! sorry. If you want more information, you can try a couple of these links: http://www.ethicalinvesting.com/monsanto/ or http://www.organicconsumers.org/monlink.html or http://www.mcspotlight.org/beyond/companies/monsanto.html or http://www.corporatewatch.org.uk/genetics/commercialisation/monsanto.htm ) Anyhoo, the folks at the Tillamook County Creamery Association (the folks who provide the Tillamook Cheese people with their main ingredient, cow juice) recently voted down the interests of Monsanto Co. by confirming their decision to ban the use of Monsanto's milk-boosting hormone cocktail by Association members.

Yay! Monsanto had trotted out their lawyers, who tried to pit the few farmers who had been hooked on the stuff against the majority of the farmers who came to realize that the price of the hormone shots, together with the cost of the higher incidence of sick Bessies, and the increasing skepticism of the public of Monsanto's claims that hormone juice is probably not harmful, was not worth it in the end.

The Oregonian ran a gorgeous close-up picture last Sunday of a group of girly cows obviously hamming it up for the camera (or flirting with the camera man). They were all wearing their little plastic ear tags with their number on them. That's how they keep track of who produces how much milk and who is slacking off - their numbers.

If I were a dairy farmer, I would also have cows with pierced ears. However, I would not use plastic tags with numbers on them. I would give them all names (why not? why would names be any more difficult to keep track of than numbers? I ask you). Then I would make them nice silver ear rings with their names elegantly but legibly engraved on them. Imagine how they would glint in the sun while they are out munching in the pasture...

I'm all for efficiency and expediency and all that, but one also needs beauty. The cows might like it better too. Maybe a cow with better self-esteem gives more milk - or just better milk. If any of you dairy farmers want to give my ideas a try, feel free. I consider this as a kind of public service.

You're welcome.

Perspective and How to Know When You Need Some

One use of the word perspective is of the artist's tool - to help you create a picture with some believability, so that, as opposed to the picture you drew with crayons as a munchkin, the people in your latest work do not look as if they could destroy their house with a well-placed karate chop. It helps you to gauge the world, to place objects into your world so that they relate to each other in a natural and believable way. Houses are bigger than people. Things look smaller if they are farther away. Chances are, you can't see the front and both sides of a building at once.

Perspective is also a useful life tool. I like to use perspective when I start to feel whiny or just a little peckish for something, not sweet, but maybe salty. I like to remind myself that there are many, many people in the world right now who would have fought off their neighbor for the leftover spaghetti that I threw away last night. I don't know hunger, really, so why am I whining to myself about wishing I had a bag of those barbeque flavor Baked Lays in the kitchen? Does it work all the time? No. Otherwise, I would not be carrying around 5 extra pounds in Baked Lays and tortilla chips alone. But it's worth a try. I believe strongly in the power of guilt.

We could all use a good dose of perspective on occasion. Here are a few examples: do you have a flush toilet in your house? Congratulations! You are in the minority worldwide. Do you have a house? Congratulations again! There are many here in this country who do not. Are you a little pudgy around the middle? Congratulations again! You live in a country where it is far more common to be overweight than to starve to death! Can you believe the price of tomatoes? Well, can you believe we can drive to the store in our cars and buy tomatoes from Chile without selling any children? Boy, don't you feel lucky now?

Here are a few common phrases that, should you hear yourself uttering, might prompt you to take a Perspective Moment:

• I couldn't live without my cell phone/notebook computer/blackberry/huckleberry.
• I would never buy another car without heated seats.
• I don't think I can sit through another middle school combined band/chorus/drama club recital night (guilty).
• I have too many books to read and not enough time (guilty again).
• The arugula in this produce department always leaves something to be desired.
• Give me an extra-large tub of popcorn with extra buttery goo, and a Diet Coke.
• I need a new crank for my bike - the one made out of space age carbon-fiber-titanium-nitrate compound alloy. It's lighter than cotton candy and stronger than Bruce here's farts. My old one is making a funny noise when I go 92 revolutions per minute.
• I need a new manicurist. My last one kept talking about her Bishon Frise until I thought I was going to scream.
• If I can't get five more tanning sessions in before we have to leave for our cruise, the whole thing will be ruined and I'll have to stay in my cabin the whole time. I am so under the gun here.

Heard a good one recently? Add your own. It's fun!

I'm All About the Oscars

Okay, I'm not all about the Oscars. My cinematic choices usually stray closer to Will Ferrell and the Farrelly Brothers, rather than the Oscar nominated types. I think Sideways and Ray were the only two majorly nominated films that I have seen. I usually get around to watching them on DVD (unless they are big downers. There's no call for watching a movie that makes you feel awful.) But the Oscars is like a circus with really pretty clowns. Always something to see, and always good for a laugh. Here are a few observations from this year's Oscar hype-athon.

• Cheers to Chris Rock for being himself.
• What's it like to cheer with your arms outstretched because your new bazongas (is that what they call them? or are they gazongas?) are so enormous that you have to reach around them to clap?
• Why doesn't Robin Williams just free-associate into a camera for a half-hour each week and sell it to a network? Wouldn't that be 200 times better than 2 1/2 Men?
• If you wear a dress that hobbles you about the knees so that you are required to walk as though you are wearing prison shackles around your ankles, you should be required to wear a Miss America-type sash that says, "I forgot to try walking before choosing this dress." Or maybe, "Help! I'm being held captive in this dress by fashion terrorists!"
• The best acceptance speech was from Andrea Arnold, the maker of the short live action film Wasp, who likened the award, fondly enough, as they say in the old country, to "the dog's bollocks."
• I try not to do much "best-dressed/worst-dressed" business, but what was with Laura Linney's hair? It seemed very sharp, and not the snazzy sort of sharp, but the paper-cut danger sort of sharp.
• My role model for aging gracefully is Annette Bening (how many "n"s in that?).
• The Aviator garnered quite a few awards tonight. A bunch of firefighters I know screened this movie recently. They didn't like it, which is probably as reliable an endorsement as the awards it won.
• It's nice (well, expeditious) that this year they assembled the nominees for the less glamorous awards on stage, or at a mike set up in the audience, to save us the time consuming walking-to-the-stage business of the less gorgeous winners, but isn't it kind of dismissive to pick only these types of awards to treat like this? Although I'm sure they know who they are, and we know who they are, shouldn't we at least try to treat them as if they were as important as the cute ones?
• I hate to agree with People Magazine on anything, but Johnny Dep is, as Derrick Zoolander would say, really, really, incredibly good looking. He acts good too.
• Beyonce can make a really lame song sound good. (Of course, she's had a lot of experience at it.) I suppose that's why they needed to bring her out so many times tonight.
• It's a good thing Prince keeps that moustache. Otherwise he would be continually mistaken for a pretty woman.
• Why did Jorge Drexler have to re-sing his Oscar-winning song as an acceptance speech? Did he think that Antonio Banderas butchered it so badly that it needed a quick fix? Or was it just a good idea when you have to accept an award in a foreign language?
• Charlie Kaufman's acceptance speech (for co-screenwriting Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) was satisfyingly Kaufmanesque.
• If I could switch bodies with anyone, it would be Salma Hayak. Unfortunately, I doubt if she would want mine in return.
• Speaking of bodies past their prime, it seems that Barbra Streisand has grown such a large decolletage, she must wear a necklace with enough metal in it to make a set of chain mail. Ooh, I feel bad about being so shallow and snarky. But I'm not deleting it.
• Jamie Foxx was, as well as the sentimental favorite, the right choice.

On that note, I must get out of this uncomfortable chair, curl up with a good book, de-hype, and try to remember what's important. Happy Oscar Night. See you tomorow in the real world.

Our American Stonehenge & The Possible End of the World

I just came back from a walk at the edge of the Mighty Columbia, which is presently calm as a cat in the sun - no wind, no choppy water, no rain, no clouds, just sun reflecting up into my eyes. In July I might be able to take such a situation with some pleasure, and a smug "as it should be" sort of smile. On February 24, it's just plain freaky, and makes all of us Oregonians and Washingtonians feel like we are getting somebody else's good fortune. This is literally true, as the winter jet stream usually aimed at us is currently aimed at Southern California with disastrous results, if you've been watching the news video of beachside properties sliding down onto one another.

It feels somewhat like getting free cable from the previous tenant's pirated cable split, or maybe like your mortgage company making a mistake and not billing you all winter. It feels great, but you know fortune's wheel is going to turn, and you are going to be required to pay back, big time. And yes, the Northwest will suffer some pay-back-type consequences, such as summer water shortages and a sizzling wildfire season.

However, the itchy, undeserving feeling is even more personal than that. Northwesterners spend a lot of time in the fall mentally preparing for the months of cold, dark, grey wetness that can penetrate the soul, let alone the layers of wool and Gortex we wear in hopes of at least some semblance of physical comfort. This year, God has seen fit to lift the burden of cold grey wetness from our lives for nearly the entire winter. We are happy, yet wary of the karmic consequences. We don't feel like we really deserve this, and deep down, we feel that it's just wrong. How can we truly enjoy our summer without experiencing its opposite? It's like good without evil, beauty without ugliness. How can we truly appreciate the good without deserving it by conquering the bad? If we wanted angst-free living, we would have moved to LA. Oops, except they are now experiencing our winter.

It's enough to compel us to keep making comments to each other like, "Is this the end of the world? Ha-ha..." spoken with a quick glance to the side, as if expecting our prophecy to come rolling through the clouds. Well, if this is the end of the world, we Northwesterners are certainly being treated to a nice last chapter.

Drew and I both had yesterday off, and the weather report was, monotonously enough, for beautiful weather, so we took off in an easterly direction for a change.

I had heard tell of a re-created Stonehenge in a small, once completely privately owned town of Maryhill, Washington, about 100 miles east of Vancouver, so off we went to investigate.

Turns out that on a bluff overlooking the Mighty Columbia River and neighboring Oregon, Samuel Hill, a railroad and land baron of the late 1800s to early 1900s, built a full scale replica of England's Stonehenge as a memorial for the soldiers who died in the First World War. The names of the 13 Klickitat County soldiers who lost their lives in the war are inscribed on brass plates embedded in the stones.

My first question was "why Stonehenge, of all things, to pick as your war memorial?" Turns out that Mr. Hill, a Quaker pacifist, was in England during the war and visited the original Stonehenge. He was told that (as some mistakenly believed at the time) the monument was originally used as a site of human sacrifice. This led him to make the connection between such ancient human sacrifice and the continuing sacrifice of human beings in the name of war. So there you go. Makes sense in that light.

Yes, it's rather surreal driving past some bored-looking cows, grazing on adjacent land, to find a full-scale Stonehenge around the next ridge. However, it's obvious from the start that this is an all-American endeavor for the following reasons.

1. It is complete. As in, it is how Stonehenge would have looked had time not taken its toll. All lintels are in place, as opposed to the authentic Stonehenge, where time has worn away the rock so much that the great stones once resting on and across the upright stones have tumbled down eaons ago. This Stonehenge not only looks practically roofed with the lintels spanning all the outside stones, but from inside, it seems practically crowded with all the huge inner arch stones, smaller secondary stones, and the big flat altar stone. (We started to think of all the cool end-of-movie chase scenes you could shoot while our hero hides from sight around the next stone, running from hidey-stone to hidey-stone...how American are we?...) anyway, Mr. Hill "improved" on the original by replacing all the stones that have never actually been seen by modern man. How American is that?
2. It is made of concrete. Really. Firstly, stones as big as those at Stonehenge are not easily found, quarried and carried with early 20th-century technology, let alone with stone-age technology, which makes the original so mind-blowing. Secondly, I guess old Sam Hill just loved, loved, loved this newfangled material called concrete. He used it to build an enormous chateau for himself as well as his Stonehenge. So I supposed it's actually a ConcreteHenge. Is there anything more American than the overuse of concrete? Hardly. So it only stands to reason that the American Stonehenge is made of smaller stones encased in tons of concrete.
3. It's got graffiti on it. I'm sure the Maryhill Museum (which the aforementioned chateau now houses) tries to keep on top of the idiots with spray paint, but the idiots often have them outnumbered. Lots of idiots with spray paint. Also very American.

For more information, you can go to http://maryhillmuseum.org/about.htm

Anyway, it was a beautiful day. Hope the world doesn't end or anything.

Band Name Update

This week's leading rock band name: Weasel Delivery System.

Your Thought for the Day: I was intrigued by a phrase that sort of hangs in the air after a particular groove by BT: Seven Thunders Uttered. It sounded to me like a good name for a rock band, so I googled it. Turns out it comes from the Book of Revelation (Rv 10 for you curious readers). Which makes it even more intriguing...I tend to stay away from Revelation, thinking that it is not really translatable by us mere mortals. Except maybe after the fact...

See, we can even learn from our dance music.

Learning About Life from Hunter S. Thompson (including a short ode to Johnny)

My son is mourning today, as he should. His encounters with Hunter S. Thompson's work are so fresh and raw. I suppose I should take a moment and think back so, so many years to when I learned a few things from the Doctor of Gonzo.

I grew up in Vernonia. What, doesn't ring a bell? Not surprising. It's a micro-town (then population 1,850, give or take) in the foothills of the coast range of Oregon, between Portland and the coast. The main reason for its existence was the forest surrounding it on all sides, ripe for the cutting by generations of loggers. I grew up there because my father was the corporate representative of the company that owned a lot of the surrounding timber, and had the job of managing the planting, growth, harvesting and replanting of the timber "crop."

Vernonia was surrounded by trees. On hills. Miles of trees on miles of hills. It was a wonderful, safe, friendly, small-town-y way to grow up, and of course, as a teen, I resented every minute of it. But through television, books and magazines, I tried to learn about the world beyond the trees and plot my escape.

Maybe I would write a great book, as hip as Studio 54, as funny as Saturday Night Live, and then I would be invited to appear on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, and I would sit on that couch and shoot the breeze with Johnny and the other guests...any less of a life would be too boring, too drab, too average. That's the mind of a teen for you - thinking that what they see on television is the only important thing to possess. But I was right about one thing - man, it would have been cool to sit on Johnny's couch and shoot the breeze.

I went to college at the University of Oregon. Granola U. The University of Birkenstock. Berkeley North. There's where my education really started. And that's where I discovered, among other things, Hunter S. Thompson, and really started to learn about the world - and writing - from one of the masters.

Reading Hunter S. Thompson for me is like riding in a convertible with the top down, when the driver is going way too fast. I can feel my hair being blown back, and the nervous smile start to form, the pupils dilate, the laugh lurking in the throat. Writing that, I couldn't help but picture that car on the highway to (Fear and Loathing in) Las Vegas with no chance, knowing the state of the driver and passenger inside, of ever reaching their destination intact, but knowing full well they will - by the grace of - what? The patron saint of recreational drugs? The god of talented fools with a way with words? We will never know.

But man, for a kid from Vernonia, this was a new way to live. Holding on by the fingernails - to life, to reality even - doing whatever seemed the most outrageous thing at any given moment. Of course, I never (rarely ever) lived that way. Maybe I did take a few chances that I might not have. But the very thought that you can if you want is both freeing and slightly, but pleasingly, frightening for a piglet-y type like myself.

But Hunter S. Thompson was about more than fun with drugs and guns. By writing about his own reactions to the stories he reported (or occasionally made), he was able to burrow underneath the surface of the facts. Whether he was writing about a murderer, a porn star or a president, his ability to weave his way into the story often illuminated facets about people that they would have rather left in shadow.

Mark Twain used to say of his short-lived journalism career, "I never let the facts get in the way of a good story." Although you couldn't necessarily count on Doctor Thompson sticking to the facts, in fact you could rarely believe a word he wrote, by the end of the article, you knew the truth.

And in the end, that's what we're all after, isn't it?

Dogs: Good, Good! Owners: Bad! Bad! Bzzzt!

One short note before I move on to what will probably be an unreadably foaming rant:

The directions on my frozen pizza say, "Do not eat pizza without cooking." Thank God for directions. Who knows what I might have done.

Now on to my rant, lucky readers.

My back still hurts, so I am a little more crabby than usual. Just like my usual approach to fitness, I try to do too much and then pay for it. Like today after work, I decided to take the dog to a nature trail a couple of miles from the house. When I'm not lazy or when the sun isn't setting, we walk down. If either of the former conditions apply, like tonight, I toss her into the back of my snazzy new SUV (yes, toss her - she's too prissy to jump) and drive down.

If you are smarter than me, you are thinking, "you toss her? I just read your last blog about your back injury. Isn't that bad for your back?" Unfortunately, I am not smarter than me and it didn't even cross my mind until I had 50 pounds of dog in the air. Then it did cross my mind.

No matter. She's in the car, I'm still in the Homo Sapiens upright position, it's all good. I drive down to the park trying to find a spot in the car seat that isn't trying to impress me with its superior lumbar support, because that's exactly where the big painful lump is. This makes it look to the casual observer like I have a case of hemorrhoids, compounded by an unmedicated case of Tourette's. No matter. It's a short drive.

We arrive in the bumpy parking lot (ow), and I reverse the dog-tossing-in exercise (because she's too prissy to jump out too), and now I'm starting to feel the effects of the dog tossing.

Well, the best thing for that is a little walk, so we take off down the path, while I try not to breath too deep or pull too hard on the leash to avoid back pain. Here comes the rant.

What is it about dog owners that makes them think that they are above the leash law? Is it because their dog is so much better than other dogs, and will obey their every command, even when confronted by yummy girl-dog smells, ducks on the pond, and squirrelly squirrels? Well, I've seen him, and he's not.

Is it because your dog feels more deeply than other dogs the heartbreak of the leash, as if the leash is the only thing keeping him from really experiencing life? Well, you're wrong. Dogs are quite happy on the leash, as long as their owners aren't having weird little guilt trips and conveying their anxiety to their dogs.

Is it that your dog needs more exercise than you can give him by walking, so you are forced to pedal your bike while your dog runs (sort 0f) beside you? Than get your fat ass off your fat-tired bike and learn to run. Or get a basset hound. Come on - if you can't take proper care of your dog's energy expenditure needs, why did you get him? Don't you think you should have thought of how much exercise he might need before you brought home that cute border collie/lab/retriever?

There are off-leash areas for dogs. Find one. They are the perfect place to let your dog experience "freedom." My park is for leashed dogs only. Says so on the sign. Do not ruin my fun just so you can have yours.

Why are you ruining my fun, you might ask? Because your "well-behaved" dogs keep mauling my law-abiding dog. One tried to hump her. Luckily, she's spayed. Most just go for "drive-by" tauntings. One big sloppy puppy tried to climb on top of her. That one almost got a neck full of teeth. My dog may be prissy, but she doesn't put up with uppity puppies. And what if she did bite another dog for invading her bodily territory? Would my dog be punished for biting an unleashed dog? Would I be sued? I don't want to find out. I want you numbskulls to keep your unruly dogs off my dog. I'm the one obeying the law. I shouldn't have to be chased out of my own park because of you clods.

Leash your dogs, or stay out of my park! Or face the wrath of my crabby comments. That's all I got. I think the park officials would probably frown on my stun-gun idea.

Pain Hurts

Cautionary note: I am under the influence of pain killers that come with lots of advisories about operating heavy machinery, so if the following posting is a little less lucid than usual, please accept my apologies.

I missed my usual B-shift posting on Saturday due a major gravity storm. It was a real-life case of "I've fallen and I can't get up." It would have been extremely humiliating if it hadn't been so extremely painful.

And a note here: if you like watching bad movies, Road House starring Patrick Swayze is a must-see. My favorite line from that movie is often heard at our house because it's so ridiculously macho that it fits a lot of situations involving manly studliness. I can't even remember the context anymore. I'm guessing that he has been beat-up again, and some babe says "Doesn't that hurt?" or something. Swayze looks at her meaningfully and says, "Pain don't hurt." Despite my natural inclination to believe everything I hear in Patrick Swayze B movies, I would like to set the record straight on this matter once and for all: Pain hurts.

Here's something else I learned: the wooden steps out our back door to the patio (the patio itself consists of basalt rocks cemented together into a mosaic of pointy pain) get really slippery in the rain. I learned this at the moment that my feet were no longer underneath me. As I did not have the ability to hover in the air until I could re-orient my feet, my body returned to the steps, back first. Or, as Douglas Adams would say, I flew like a brick.

Luckily for me, Drew had the day off, because I think I was hollering for him before I even hit the ground. He helped me back inside where I lay on my bed, hoping the pain would go away so I wouldn't have to go to the emergency room. It didn't, so I did.

Once at the hospital, I was again pronounced lucky, because I landed about kidney height, which means I missed breaking any bones - missed the hipbones below, the ribs above, and the spine to the side. Which leaves me with a beaut of a bruise on my back and muscle spasms that send me screaming for mercy when I move. But those are treatable with the wonders of modern chemistry. A little Vicodin, a little Flexiril, and although it still hurts, I don't care as much.

Now it's Monday morning, and I am definitely making progress. Saturday, I was pretty much immobilized by pain. Sunday, I could make it to the bathroom by taking baby steps all hunched over, holding on to the walls for support, and going "ow, ow, ow." Today I've moved from Sunday's Australopithicus-style hunched-over gait, to a more Homo Erectus sort of posture. Tomorrow, with the help of modern medicine, I totally expect to be at Homo sapiens level once again.

Man, am I glad Drew had these days off. Without him, I would still be out on the patio in a crumpled-up ball of pain. He has fixed me ice packs, helped me to the bathroom when standing on my feet was nearly impossible, driven me to the emergency room, piloted my wheelchair all over the ER, filled my prescriptions, fixed me drinks, and cooked meals for me. I couldn't ask for a better Valentine. I know that as a fire fighter and fire captain, he has had the opportunity to be a much more glamorous hero, but he is my hero first and foremost for taking such gentle care of me this weekend. Thanks, Drew. You are my Valentine, just like every year. But especially this year.

A Church Lady Gone Bad

I love blogging - you (sort 0f) meet the most fascinating people. Today I've found an excellent blog by an Episcopal priest (http://thinkbenzen.blogspot.com/), who has a way with words and an unexpected reading list that goes from theological philosophy to sci-fi. My kind of Guy of God.

Side-note: My last two books aren't exactly in the same suit either: Bump and Run by Mike Lupica, and No Mercy: A Journey to the Heart of the Congo by Redmond O'Hanlon.

It made me consider my own theological life, which has been pretty quiet lately. I usually like to hook up with a church when I move to a new town. I like to talk about God, drink bad coffee, eat potluck food made with hashbrowns and cheese, sing in the choir and avoid babysitting duty, so I usually fit right in. But past events have really dampened my enthusiasm for trying new churches, so since I moved from Tualatin, a suburb south of Portland, Oregon, to downtown Vancouver, on the other side of the Columbia in Washington (Washington state for you geography drop-outs), I haven't really bothered looking for a suitable church.

When I was just a little bug, one of the babysat, my parents went to a great church (and by great church, I mean the community, not the baby-blue building with the faulty locks - fodder for another posting) with a great minister. Great as in having all the requisite qualities of a true man of God: 1) a grasp of the Bible received through extensive education and not just from one-on-one conversations with the Big Guy, 2) a questioning, open mind, and 3) an aura of, I don't know, not holiness, but love - maybe just a genuine fondness for people.

An early memory will help illustrate my theological upbringing: I remember asking my dad once, when I was snuggled up in bed, about why the Bible says we came from Adam and Eve, and the books I was reading (okay, I was a little precocious) said we evolved over millions of years. My dad, bless him, said that the stories in the Old Testament of the Bible were told over the years to explain things to people in terms that they would understand. And just maybe the story in Genesis wasn't so much a news story describing the true events leading up to the forming of man as much as God's way of explaining true things about the nature of man. This is the sort of theology I was exposed to as a young'n, and one that has stuck with me ever since.

I, as I was a midget at the time, have only a murky vision of what went wrong at the church. What I know is that our great minister resigned so that the church would not fight over him anymore.

It seems to me that it is usually number 2 in the list of prerequisites for great pastors (a questioning, open mind) that usually kills the buzz that you can sometimes experience for a short time in a great church. There are always those in a congregation that equate a questioning mind with doubt. And doubt with a faulty faith.

Anyway, that sort of hippy theology has understandably narrowed my choices of churches over the years. When we settled in a town in Central Oregon, I found another great minister. He had all the prerequisites with a bonus of a wonderful way with a story. I'm telling you, that first sermon, when he both quoted parts of the New Testament from the original Greek, and then wove in an analogy using The Velveteen Rabbit, I was sold.

I joined the church, even though my liberal-tinged views did not always mesh with the views of the majority of the other church members. I learned a lot from the parson, and was happy singing in the choir and taking notes during sermons.

As with most of the protestant churches during this period, the congregation got older and started worrying about the death of the church. And instead of, oh, relaxing the rule about women's role in church services (the joke was "sure, a gal can be behind the lectern, as long as her voice is going up and down"), or maybe not singing "Onward Christian Soldiers" (scary and evocative of Crusaders galloping towards another successful slaughter) so much, they started talking about a youth minister to bring in a younger crowd. Knowing full well that our church could not afford both an "old" minister and a "new" minister, our parson took an early retirement. So much for learning at the feet of the master.

The new youth minister did not have the same educational background, or storytelling skills, or fondness for people. Church became a rather schizophrenic mix of groovy worship songs (use Cartman's recipe: take a love song and replace the word "babe" with "Jesus"), old organ music, old men, and sermons, energetically given, but thudding to the carpet like dead birds. I checked out.

The next church in Tualatin? A promising minister, but with a church community so clubby, clique-y and cemented in place, Drew and I could stand around for the full coffee fellowship hour without so much as making eye contact with any of them. It was excruciating.

So here I am, two years later and no church. It's just too risky. And church hunting has never been a team effort. Drew is one of those people who, maybe because of an early near-death experience, or maybe because he chats with God under his fire helmet, or maybe because he just doesn't think so much, feels so confident in his faith that he feels no need to sit in church and prop it up for another week. I do not have that sort of faith. Without a little weekly strengthening, my faith tends to slide, which usually leads to sleepless nights, thinking dark, ugly thoughts. But am I ready to try again? No. Maybe not for a long time. I don't know why going to the wrong church is so icky. It just is. So instead of dressing up and trying again, I will annoy you. Sorry. I'll stop.

In the meantime, though, I've found a killer sermon on a blog. Thanks, Ben. See you in heaven. I'll save you some brownies.

Super Bowls and Cellulite

I'm not much of a Philadelphia Eagles fan. I've never been to Philadelphia. I don't know anybody on the team. I do admire Donovan McNabb and love to see him kick ass, ever since Rush Limbaugh pulled up his pointy sheet long enough to slip his lily-white foot in his mouth to say that McNabb was over-rated due to his dark complexion.

However, that in itself is probably not enough of a pull to make me cheer so hard for them during today's Super Bowl festivities. The truth is that the New England Patriots were the heavy favorites to win, and had recent experience at winning. This is the key to my sudden Eagles fandom. I like to see the underdog win, and probably even more, I like to see the top dog pulled down.

This is not a unique trait. I call as evidence the cover of whatever National Ink-Liar or Weekly World Pooh that caught my eye in the supermarket yesterday. The cover story, splashed in big ink, was (and I'm so not making this up) Cellulite of the Stars - yes - with big, blown-up pictures of dimply thighs and sorry, saggy asses that I could have lived a long, happy life without being exposed to. But I bet it sells like hot cakes.

Once we crown somebody, we can't wait to dethrone them, and the bloodier the coup, the better. This goes for our celebrities (they're really ugly! and mean! and we're so much smarter! and happier! aren't we?), our sports heros (they're big dopers! well, okay, they are), and our politicians (okay, they usually deserve it).

I was reading a book review today about Lincoln - about the high regard in which we hold him, and especially his eloquence, in contrast with the poisonous ranquor spewed at him and about him and even about his finest speeches such as the Gettysburg Address when he was in power. Poor fellow never knew in his lifetime how his words effected the tide of the nation, and every American political orator since.

Okay, way too heavy. Back to celebrity cellulite. I would have liked to see the Eagles win. The last thing we need is an NFL version of the Yankees. But I guess it will just be that much sweeter next year (or God forbid the year after that) when the giant is taken down by the next little guy to try to whack him with a rock in a sling. Hope his name is David. Donovan would work too.

Inside the Actor's Studio - How Scrumtrillescent.

Don't you love Inside the Actor's Studio? I do. It's most fun after viewing Will Ferrel's SNL parody of it. Mostly I love the questionnaire given so achingly lovingly at the end of the interview by host James Lipton: "...perfected by the great (spoken verrry Frrrenchily:) Berrrnarrrrd Pivot." Lipton loooooves speaking French. One of my favorite moments on The Actor's Studio was when Johnny Dep good-naturedly tries to out-French him by re-pronouncing Pivot's name in an even more Frenchily phlegmy accent.

Anyhoo, since I won't soon be called on to appear on Inside the Actor's Studio, I thought it would be fun to rip off his questionnaire for my own use (At least, as I remember it). Play along! It's fun!

What turns you on?

I'm going to assume you mean "What interests you?" The unexpected. And good dance music.

What turns you off:

The stupid. And country music.

What is your favorite word?

I generally like onomatopoeias (which isn't a bad word in itself), but also adore "weasel." Who doesn't?

What word do you hate?

I love words, but if I was forced to pick a word to hate, it would be "can't" without the apostrophe and with a "u" instead of an "a."

What is your favorite curse word?

I don't curse a lot, but when I hear it done well, I sometimes pilfer it for my own use. My two favorites are "g*ddammit"! a la Cartman in South Park and "asshole!" (accent on "hole" and about a fifth higher in pitch) a la Kevin Kline's Otto in A Fish Called Wanda. Which only really works as an epithet to passing motorists, but is delicious when done properly. I still use Cartman's "bad kitty!" a lot, but that's not really a curse word.

What is your favorite sound?

The ocean. A cat purring. Baby Dean saying "yion" instead of "lion" and "yight" instead of "light." Sadly for me and luckily for him, that cute little speech impediment didn't last past his second birthday.

What is your least favorite sound?

Leafblowers. Somebody else's car stereo turned up too loud, thus invading my earspace.

What is an occupation that you would have liked to try?

Travel writer. Veterinarian. Serious Artist. Ballet Dancer. Sheep Farmer. Chihuahua Breeder.

What occupation would you least like to try?

Cop. DMV employee. IRS employee.

And here's my addition to the perfect questionnaire: If you had a rock band, what would you name it?

Great new rock band names occur to me almost weekly, but my current favorite is still Asteroid Pie. Also, The Mighty Chihuahuas could rock.

If heaven exists, what would you want God to say to you when you meet him?

Well played. Want some brownies?

Some Art I Saw

Lucky for you, I am posting this post-weekend (meaning I went somewhere and did something) and pre workout (meaning I am unencumbered by post-workout endorphins, thus more lucid and less prone to expound on my achievements in treadmill dancing).

Yesterday, Drew and I went to the Portland Art Museum to view some Art. This was, surprisingly for someone who spends a lot of time creating what could, in some circles, be considered "art" and lives 10 minutes from downtown Portland, the first time I've been to this particular art museum. I'm been to many art galleries, but have avoided the museum until now, for reasons not interesting enough to waste your time on.

Of course, not all of the Art on display provoked enough synaptic activity to produce a memory of it 24 hours later, but here are some comments on a few pieces that did:

• I have read a lot of art books. I understand the processes behind contemporary art. Yet so much contemporary art makes me want to make snide, or maybe rube-like comments to those studying it with pretentiously thoughtful looks on their faces.
• One of my favorite contemporary Art pieces was a really big canvas painted black, with a title that went something like, "The Flag Should Not Be A Religious Symbol." No, it wasn't a flag painted black. That, it seems to me, might have been a political statement worthy of some thought, if not a prominent place in a major city museum. This just seemed to be a lot of black paint.
• How do the Art Poobahs decide that, say, a canvas painted yellow with a vertical orange stripe through it is Art, but the canvas painted avocado green with a blue stripe going diagonally is unworthy dreck?
• Enough about contemporary art. I'm sure I'm just exposing my ignorance.
• The PAM currently has on exhibit a great collection of art from Native Indians who lived along the Columbia River.
• I was surprised that Columbia River native art had so little in common with the much more well-known art of the Native Indian tribes from the Northern Washington and British Columbia areas, who were well known for their stylized and colorful symbols denoting animals such as the thunderbird, killer whale, coyote and bear that show up on totem poles, houses, boats and such. The Columbia River artists used stylized designs, but the abstractions are much different, and I saw many more symbols of people, compared to those of animals.
• If we Euro-centric people think we invented the use of abstraction and symbolism in art, we are so mistaken. The Native Indians were doing it way before we were.
• The Native Indians along the Columbia River had a funky, stylized way of depicting people in stone carvings that included a Y-shaped brow-nose ridge, ribs, and vertebrae in back. They must not have had much of a problem with fat concealing their ribs.
• The Native Indian art took a sharp turn once they were contacted by white civilization. Yes, it got more colorful with the use of better tools, lots of shiny beads, and more dyes. But it soon lost much of its symbolism and decayed into more realistic depictions of buffaloes (buffaloes? here?), Native Indian chiefs wearing headresses, horses, and other marketable subjects.
• Enough about the Native Indian exhibit. Last word: I liked it, and want to sketch some of the early, pre-contact stuff.
• The Asian exhibits: another group of civilizations that had us beat way before we were aware they existed. And one awesome wood horse with a funny expression. And one even awesomer ceramic dog that, I'll bet you anything, was done by some Chinese dude's 9-year-old son in pottery class, and is now in a museum, mislabeled as a great example of Bling-Dynasty (or whatever) pottery.
• The European exhibits: There was a period in European history in which there was, in essence, one subject: The Bible. My question: if all you have to paint is the Virgin Mary and her baby Jesus, wouldn't you pay a little closer attention to what a baby really looks like? Those are some of the goofiest looking babies. Some of them look like tiny grown-ups. Some look like that slightly warped-looking talking baby from that Quizno's commercial. Some of them, although strolling around naked, thus apparently over eight days old, are obviously not Jewish babies, if you know what I mean. Where did they keep the babies in those days, and why didn't artists have any access to them?

I'll have to stop myself out of mercy for you. Sorry, that probably wasn't much fun to read, but I feel a little better. See you at the Art Museum. Drew won't be coming.

Discussion Topic: What would you say to someone thoughtfully studying a piece of art consisting of a yellow canvas with a red line running vertically and slightly off center, entitled "Polemics of Ennui II"?

Adam Felber Rocks

Today (1/28/05), Adam Felber used the phrase "freedom-hating terrorducks" in a sentence. Check it out... http://felbers.net/mt/

A Thought While Sweating

You really haven't used your ears to their fullest capabilities until you've heard me sing along with my ipod to the wo-o, wo-o, wo-o-o-o, wo-o-o-o, wo-o-o back-up scat on What Is Love by Haddaway while power-walking on my treadmill while my cat and dog look on, clearly puzzled and understandably concerned.

I can also do an awesome treadmill dance routine to Fake by Simply Red. Treadmill dancing is new. I just made it up. It just might be the next Pilates.