Monument

The Man in the Brown Suit

2010-12-30T19:15:00.000-08:00

I liked this one, actually. And quite a bit.

First off, you have your standard-issue feisty heroine, Anne Beddington. Then you have stolen diamonds, murder attempts, a trip from England to South Africa, mistaken identity, bizarre military dudes and a wealthy lady of leisure.

Anne, our protagonist, gets involved in the intrigue when she is hanging out in a train station and thinks a man is looking at her in horror. He collapses, is checked on by another man, and pronounced dead. Anne realizes this other man was probably the one being looked at by the dead man, so she follows him and picks up a piece of paper he drops with a curious inscription. Being recently orphaned, nearly penniless and with an appetite for adventure, Anne decides she'll follow the clues (which lead her to the ship, which is on its way to South Africa, after a long digression into some other real estate matters of the dead man) and see just what is going on.

On the ship, Anne finagles her way into a particular cabin and, at a seemingly appointed time, a man knocks on her door. He's stabbed, and he's not particularly nice to her. Of course, this means they must eventually fall in love. He's not badly hurt, but reader, his head, his head is not right.

Anne also hooks up with Mrs. Suzanne Blair, who takes long vacations without Mr. Blair and, seemingly, with Colonel Race, who is a recurring Christie character. Blair is kind of hilarious, like the Samantha of South Africa, but without the affairs.

At any rate, there are a lot of twists and turns, my favorite being the one where Anne falls off a cliff and is knocked unconscious for "about a month" during which time the comely man and a "hideous" native woman attend her. Yes, this is Christie, yes, she's not one for the natives, yes yes and yes, it's racist. Somehow Anne doesn't die of starvation or feel embarrassed about having had bodily functions in a hut for this man to see (well, let's be honest, it's probably the local woman's job to deal with that).

The two naturally fall madly in love, find the diamonds, turn down a huge inheritance to live in the jungle forevermore, and end scene.

The most interesting thing about this book is that it reads kind of like a video game. There are set puzzles that must be solved (by the reader and characters) before the next puzzle, and then there's sort of a reveal of a puzzle you didn't expect at the end. Linear? Yes. But kind of fun and things click into place instead of being all confusing until the end.

The Secret Adversary

2010-10-15T07:13:00.000-07:00

Agatha Christie gets a lot of flack for the creation of Tommy and Tuppence, two young stand-ins for herself and her husband Archie (get it, Archie and Agatha? Alliteration?). Tommy was a wounded warrior in WWI, Tuppence was a nurse, which is basically the Christie life story. I suppose critics think T&T to be indulgent, or just silly, and no doubt they are. But they are a relief from dealing with Hercule Poirot and especially Hastings. Tommy is the "dumb one," but he's just dumb enough to solve the mystery. Tuppence is the intuitive one, but she's not so intuitive we can't follow her train of thought.

The story kicks off with the two meeting after the war, broke and a little depressed, deciding to form a "Young Adventurers" agency, no "unreasonable offer refused." Detecting! It's a lark! They get caught up in international intrigue when Tuppence is declined their first case because she falsely gives herself the name "Jane Finn," a name Tommy overheard at a restaurant and considers supremely ridiculous (really? THIS is a ridiculous name? Compared to, I dunno, Tuppence?). I suppose the ridiculousness of "Jane Finn" doesn't translate to today.

Curious, T&T advertise for more information about "Jane Finn" in "the papers." They are then contacted by a man from a British intelligence agency and an American millionaire (a jewish guy whose dad made a killing in the steel industry, and of whom Tommy ignorantly remarks on his "unfortunate ancestry." Apparently Christie was kind of a bigtime anti-semite, according to a recollection from a book in a letter to the New Yorker that I can't link to) who is Finn's cousin. Finn was on the Lusitania, and was apparently asked to take a packet from an American that contained some sort of treaty that now, five years later, will have major negative impacts on the British government. Which is why they suspect that a certain "Mr. Brown," head of some kind of Commie group, wants it. So he can bring down the government with an overly-kind-to-Germany treaty that was never enacted. How touchy were people back then? "You tried to avoid war with Germany? That's it! I'm going communist!"

And yes, Christie hates commies.

I suppose what is so interesting about this book, besides the fact that T&T get a millionaire to give them money to do detective work that they've never done in their life, is that in spite of the fact that the government is on the precipice of failure, the parlor aspect of this thriller keeps it claustrophobic. It's like Christie has this sense of space that is collapsed. Very little happens outdoors, and when the treaty is apparently hidden outside it is in a tiny crevice that is easily identified along an easily-found path. T&T are always meeting the millionaire at the Ritz, eating in a deli called the Picadilly, and going to Marguerite Vandemeyer's apartment. Even a co-conspirator of T&T's, a little lift boy named Albert, works in an elevator. Even when Tuppence is shepherding Jane Finn to safety along a street, when Christie is finally dealing with a kind of open space, it is supposed to be menacing because they are surrounded by bolshevists.

When Mr. Brown is finally revealed, yeah, it's a surprise. I got fooled, I'll admit it.

But I can't really read a 300-page book waiting for the surprise ending. I need a little more than that, and the scope is both claustrophobic and yet not much psychologically is going on. Christie has been given a lot of benefit of the doubt for knowing "how people work" with their murderous impulses in a quiet setting. But she's a racist, an anti-semite, her writing depends on caricatures and her "good" people are kind of boring. Maybe pessimists like what they see, but I'm wondering if I'll make it through another few books without giving up.

The Big Four

2010-09-12T10:28:00.000-07:00

A Chinese dude, a French lady, an American multi-millionaire and an English actor walk into a bar ....

No no no no no. This is not a joke. This is an Agatha Christie novel. Specifically, "The Big Four."

"The Big Four" kicks off in an odd way. Poirot announces to Hastings that through his amazing brainpower, he is certain that the whole world is controlled by four people (referenced above.) These people kill a bunch of little people who know their secret. Rather than having a long, novelized mystery, we get a kind of ... thriller? ... here. It's a fairly hilarious one, with a French lady scientist who allegedly dwarfs Marie Curie, a big-talking American with money to burn (literally), an inscrutable Chinaman (Christie's choice of words) who may be Number One in the Big Four, but doesn't seem to be too active, and the enforcer, who is an English actor so skilled he becomes whoever he acts as, except for retaining a murderous impulse. Other than that, I'm not quite sure what he's good for.

If the whole thing sounds a bit James Bond-y, at the end there is a fortress built into a mountainside with a labyrinth to its entrance.

I am going to have to give it up to Christie for the fact that this thriller is not only a piece of work of its time, what with its stereotypes and such, but it is ahead of its time with its sheer corn-pone thrills, chills and setups. Never before has Hastings knowingly walked into dangers, and never before has Hercule Poirot faked his own death (then pretended to be Achille Poirot, his "brother"). This is some stretching for her, and it shows her to be a master campiste before camp was a thing.

The only thing that is missing is sex. But hey, she's English. Breaks must be given.

Murder of Roger Ackroyd

2010-08-12T13:16:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I've gotten this far! Four books in!

Okay, so this is so far the best of the books I've read, and no doubt it is in part because Hastings is taking a break from Hercule Poirot's confusing methods of solving mysteries. Instead, we get a mild-mannered country doctor telling the tale. This was also the only time I've called the murderer early on in the book (is it because Dr. Sheppard is a better narrator? Mmmmmaaayyyyybbeee).

The characters are still total cliches, but act less cliched than in previous books. We've got a tart-tongued gossip, Dr. Sheppard's sister. We've also got a strange undercurrent of English upperclass interbreeding, in that the nephew and ward? Stepsomething? of the murdered man are expected to announce their engagement any day as the book opens. These are way more interesting than a "girl with nervous eyes" to my mind.

At any rate, the good doctor describes his last night seeing his great friend, Roger Ackroyd, as the book kicks off. Roger's wife has killed herself, and revealed in a letter who it is that has been blackmailing her over an old secret she's been carrying, but Roger, darn it, just won't finish the letter in front of the doctor. In fact, he puts the letter in his desk before he even sees the name. The next morning, he is found dead, stabbed with a piece of unnecessarily dagger-like cutlery from the silver chest.

Who killed him? Could it be his prodigal nephew who could use a few quid? His efficient and handsome secretary who has debts to pay off? His sister, who is generally intolerable? Her gorgeous daughter, who hates her dependency on her uncle? One of the creepy, secretive servants who haunt the house?

Or someone else entirely?

But I want to get across that this was so far the most readable, the most enjoyable and most subtle of the books of Agatha's I've read so far. Hercule Poirot's frenchisms are kept to a minimum (sort of), and while Agatha uses characteristically broad strokes to create her characters, she's wielding her paint brush a little more carefully than in past books. It was almost a pleasure! And it reminded me of the good time I had reading her books at my grandmommy's house on summer vacations.

In memory of my grandmommy Ruth, I just leaned back in my chair, put my arms on the arm rests, clasped my hands and rocked a little using my feet on the ottoman. That's just how she rolled. I think she and I shared the attitude that, while we were reading, we'd develop theories about whodunnit, but ultimately, the story was going where it was going to go and we just enjoyed the ride. And with "Ackroyd," I was able to do that instead of get caught up in the clunkerishness of Christie.

This, I have to say, was the first mystery where all the clues ultimately made sense at the end, at least for me. And it was nice having a non-Hastings narrator, even if he (spoiler alert!) dies at the end.

Up next: The Big Four.

short bits

2010-08-01T19:07:00.000-07:00

So a while back Slate ran a story about how Agatha Christie used multiple (and I mean a lot) notebooks through which she scattered notes about various plots and characters and wrote multiple variations of each mystery (so there might be different endings). The article acts totally shocked that she might not have known who the murderer is when she started writing each book. I think it's an intricate writer who can set out multiple possibilities and, as they are weaving their plots, pick the ending they believe fits best.

However, we are talking about novels here. Apparently Christie had such a bounty of ideas that even before she wrote novel #3 she published a book of short stories, "Poirot Investigates." Many of these stories don't involve murder and, let's face it, jewel thievery is just not as compelling as cold blooded murder. So I'll give her credit for dumping them into a book of short stories. And I would imagine she used a method of just scratching out her stories based on her ideas that she couldn't stretch out into a novel, with characters who don't stretch out much, either.

And there's the key, right there. The things that make Christie's books problematic are all in each of the stories -- the thin characters, the elaborate set-up, this actual quote: " 'Well isn't that most queer,' I ejaculated" -- without the things that redeem her novels in such great measure -- the twisted psychology and the meditation on place.

I have to admit that I couldn't finish "Poirot Investigates." Too much Hastings (which book #4, "The Murder of Roger Ackroyd" keeps in London while Poirot heads to the country. A kindly elderly doctor plays the Hastings role, and it is his sister, who is very into the town gossip, who provides any sense of depth of place that the narrator, well, lacks. But more on that later), too much surface flash.

I feel a little dejected in not finishing it, but it was putting me to sleep. I am really hoping I will get a break with some Miss Marple. I remember her as being awesome. I hope Christie comes up with her relatively soon in my journey.

Golf, the deadliest game

2010-06-05T20:53:00.000-07:00

Not.

"The Murder on the Links" is Agatha Christie's second published book. Now, a million years ago in the 90s when I was a college student I spent a summer working in a bookstore. An enormous one in a former Wal-Mart in Little Rock. I thought it would be rough because there would be so many amazing, awesome books inside that I'd want to read them. HA! Guess again! We had about a million copies of "Who Moved My Cheese," and they were displayed in these elaborate pinwheels that rose from the floor. We did this with basically all the bestsellers. The genre sections were also quite large. And as I was an uptight, snooty college student, I did not then care too much to read completely brain-dead books, so I was basically out of luck when it came to inspiring reading material there.

What I'm getting around to saying is this: There was a whole corner of the store dedicated to golfing junk. "A Good Walk Spoiled" was another floor-based pinwheel of a book, but there were clearly a lot of golf-based titles that had been rushed to press and tons of golfy knick-knacks in this area, which was almost as big as the Bible and flanker Bible section, which in Arkansas is saying something. There are entire mystery series dedicated to golf (tired of those links yet?).

And Agatha Christie seems to have figured this out as early as 1923, which is when "TMOTL" was first published. Christie also seems to realize how deadly golf actually is, in the sense that it will kill you of boredom, so besides the dead man being found on a golf course that is going up next door to his house, golf does not figure into this mystery. Indeed, of the construction of a golf course in smalltown France, one would think would make a kind of development-based mystery, because those things are expensive and often their cost is offset by building expensive, tacky homes (of the sort the French would revile) around the course. And what rich guy (like M. Renauld, the dead man) wants to live next to a bunch of nouveau riches! Incitement to murder, yes, I can see the motive now! But Christie was probably not used to that sort of development, the second half of the 20th Century not having happened at that time.

So Christie sets us up with a meet-cute on a train to Calais between Hastings and "Cinderella," a cute girl who is a tad too tart for Hastings. And by that I mean she's basically not going to faint into a dead swoon when he looks at her. Also, she's a stage performer -- the kind who sings and dances and (horrors!) does acrobatics in performances with her twin sister (raunchy!). And I believe this is still an age where copping to being a woman who performs onstage also basically means copping to taking money for sex.

Because if a woman enjoys attention that much, she must be a prostitute, right? Yeah, I don't follow the logic either.

But don't worry -- Hastings follows this "logic" completely because he is not about questioning the dominant paradigm. So when he gets back to the London apartment he is sharing with Hercule Poirot (like THAT doesn't sound suggestive, even though Hastings is very quick to mention he has a whole separate room, he's probably only doing it so he sounds rich, not like he's in love with Poirot), he believes a note that Poirot has received, begging the help of this famous detective by a rich man saying he needs help, is totally legit. But Poirot assures him that no, the handwritten, "For God's sake, come!" at the bottom is a calculated ploy. And calculation always gets Poirot's juices flowing.

So it is back to France for Hastings. On a rich man's dime. Lucky, silly Hastings.

Well, immediately on arrival Poirot and Hastings learn that the Renauld son (as they say in France, Renauld fils) has been cut out of the will because it looks like he wants to marry the penniless girl next door, whose mother might be Renauld's lover. Already, I can think of some "Lone Star"-y, "Chinatown"-y reasons this union might not be so eagerly desired, but to her credit (or something) Christie is not going to go there.

Dang it.

Okay, again, she gets in some nice twists, and even has Hastings kind of figuring out stuff a little (but not all the way, that is for Hercule to do), and underestimating women like mad. As I recall from childhood, Hastings' constant undervaluation of women's capacity to be smart, conniving and athletic leads him to not solving mysteries.

Before the book ends, marriages will be saved, others will be thwarted, identities will be revealed, the French police will look like fools and, of course, the golf is completely irrelevant.

But if Hercule Poirot is supposed to be so smart, why did he spend the 500 francs he wagered with the French policeman on a statue of a dog for his mantlepiece?

The mystery never ends. Ever.

More Teeth, more mystery

2010-05-12T19:32:00.001-07:00

Got a temporary crown, and I can't even chew on the right side of my mouth. It's been over a week, and I am pretty sure that I should say something to the dentist before I get the permacrown. But there is a part of me that thinks, "Gosh, maybe he'll want to do a root canal, and wouldn't it just be best to chew on the left side of your mouth forever instead?" Logic fail, I know.

Okay, so I have taken on a new project. I'm reading Agatha Christie. Because I need the escapism, and because her books are basically the very first parlor mysteries and are the first to incorporate the reader knowing all the clues the detective knows. Allegedly. And also because I'm a prospective genre author (two chapters and ... not counting at the moment) and why not take a page from one of the greats? Two billion books in print, she must know something, right?

And so, the first Agatha Christie mystery, "The Mysterious Affair at Styles." Which sounds less like a mystery than a creaky noise from the attic that only can be heard when one is alone at the full moon ... yeah. No, it's a mystery.

Here's how Agatha gets right down to business: In Chapter One you not only get a full exposition of how the woman who is about to lose her life has gone and married some much younger weirdo and alienated her stepchildren, you get her "factotem" storming off in a huff warning that the husband will be the death of the dead woman, a somewhat dependent and annoying child of a family friend who works in a medical dispensary and the full-on bearded poison expert from Germany. I know, a likelier crowd of killers could not be assembled if you tried.

You also get Hastings for the first time. Hastings! He's so dumb! Even you, on the ride of detection with him, are like, "Dude, you are so dumb!" Possibly for his time ("Styles" was written in 1916 and published in 1920) he was not so dumb, because Hastings makes a lot of assumptions based on gender, ethnicity, social class and it's not like he's alone in old-timey land there. The n-word makes an appearance in this book, which I presume was anachronistically preserved, as though in amber, for readers who will be like, "Wow, times sure have changed." Readers will say the same thing when learning Christie used the word "ejaculate" as something men do verbally. Tee hee hee and all that, right?

So, Hastings is dumb. But enter Hercule Poirot! The brilliant Belgian! He's so deviously clever you'll never guess what he's thinking, and frankly, he rather likes to lay down misdirection and I don't see why because honestly, Hastings may be too dumb to understand his direction. Okay, so Hastings might give away the game inadvertently, I see. This is, in all probability, to be a pattern in future Poirot novels (at least as I recall from childhood readings of Christie).

I suppose that a true critique of the novel would be to say that it doesn't really have much of say about the greater say. It really is all about the parlor, and not even Hastings' military service, which was apparently somewhat traumatic, can change that. The drama of a cougar marrying a younger man is only important in its relation to the property that is at stake, for example. Heck, the suspects' (and Hastings') relationships don't extend out beyond the folds of the lawn. Hastings makes eyes both at Mary Cavendish, the stepdaughter-in-law to the victim, and Cynthia Murdoch, the "sister" (a term British hospitals stopped using recently) at the hospital who is attractive enough to get the other Cavendish brother (who has some cash coming his way and won't give her a semi-pity-proposal like Hastings does. Oh, dumb, dumb Hastings!)

In all, the structure is pretty complicated but solid. Nice twist at the end. And the only clue we readers do not see is the one where the murderer basically confesses the entire plan in a written attempt to make sure an accomplice knows where everything stands. No code words, even. Come on, murderers. Step it up a notch, will you? That was possibly the clunkiest part of the whole book. Who is that dumb?

Not even Hastings. Not even Hastings.

Up next: "Murder on the Links."

Blog post with teeth

2009-10-20T21:18:00.000-07:00

So I got my teefies cleaned today. My hygienist, Terri, told me they are great, barely scraped me with her poky metal wand of unbearable screech-making and sent me on my way. AFTER the dentist told me I need a crown to replace a big old filling. I am putting it off till May. Then I will have to make the AWFUL choice about whether I want to get the sweet, sweet embrace of Morpheus' gas OR watch a movie during the 1.5 hours of "shaving down" my tooth.

I want every distraction I can get, frankly.

So in May I'll have to come up with the perfect movie for getting a crown to. It will need to be involving (obvs) without being too scary (duh) or too emotionally fraught/talky. I am up for suggestions.

In the meantime, I have posted some preliminary France pics from the honeymoon on my Flickr page with commentary.

I learned to like pink wine in France, BTW.

I also learned that the French like it when buskers play music like I play in the banjo band:

(You can't see all the people clapping from this pic, but believe me, there was a crowd!)

I also learned about 3/4 through the trip that Ray understands and speaks French a lot better than he was letting on. When I asked him why he'd been letting me take the lead, he explained that he thought I was "cute" and liked the way I gesticulated with my hands while talking.

Another cute thing about Ray: At the Louvre, when we saw the Venus De Milo, he told me he thought her body looked exactly like mine. He appended, "not like skinny, but strong." He gets a lot of brownie points for those observations. What woman wouldn't want to be compared to Venus???

Yeah, this marriage just may last out the year. ;)

Newlywed bliss

2009-08-01T21:16:00.000-07:00

"Hey baby ...

You having fun yet? We've been married less than a week and so far we have had an exciting visit from our families ...

A night's stay at a Pacific Beach motel, where we ate yummy food and partook of the hot tub...

... and you finally got the sleep that would take that haunted look (above) out of your eyes.

"We frolicked in the cold ocean (well, I did, as you can see in this picture):

... saw clam shows that blew your mind ...

and even took time to pet the wildlife (in this case, anemones)

and do a little rockhounding for providential and precipitous rocks

But this is our first weekend as a married couple, and we can't waste it with frivolities anymore.

Time to seal the asphalt! The weather is perfect and it really takes two people to do a good job.

You really have to work the stuff in with the broom, babe. Oh, what is it? I dunno. It says a blend of water, silica sand and asphalt. I'm sure it's totally safe.

Could you mix this bucket up for me?

Love that get-up. If only you could do this in rollerskates."

"Now that we're done with that, let's head out to the hinterlands for U-Pick blueberries and follow up on that tip your boss gave you.

Keep pickin', babe. What, we have nine pounds of berries? Right on."

"Hopefully the rest of our married life will be as fruitful as this weekend."

-- Ray (as imagined by his wife)

Happiest Day Of My Life.

2009-07-29T21:15:00.000-07:00

Seriously. I thought I was too jaded and ironic for this sort of thing. About a week before the wedding I read through the vows. They didn't move me. I was sure I was too cold, too detached, or something.

Little did I know the weekend would have me all crazy before it was over.

(Side note: I didn't take a lot of pics, and haven't heard yet from Sara. I will post pics when I have some good ones. Promise.)

The drama started Wednesday, when mom, dad and Doug came up. I got them at the airport and took them to Indochine, which was delicious (I didn't get anything, just picked off their plates). Thursday we hit Westport for crab. Ray took the day off. I heard him socializing downstairs while I was Facebooking upstairs. It was cute, since he's so reserved and my family is so outgoing. We played the banjo and clarinet for Doug and Dad. Although Doug is Joe Cool, he actually smiled while we were getting down on tunes like, "Sleepy Time Gal" and "Five Foot Two."

Friday the drama had a bit or foreboding culmination when we were getting ready to leave and Ray took my banjo out to the car. It made it through three rooms and a flight of stairs before falling out on the pavement and breaking at the neck. Ray showed me and I cried. Oh my Lord how I cried. This banjo survived the Depression, people. I taught myself to play on it. There is a lot of sentimental value there. When my car was stolen I didn't shed a tear for it, it was strictly transportation. But this was different, even though my parents kept telling me it could be replaced.

I knew Ray felt terrible, but I couldn't stop crying. I called Andy, who sold me the banjo and restores them, but the line was busy. We headed out to his house, and I left the banjo with his wife, who assured me the banjo would be fine and so would I. Apparently it is now getting back to normal. I kept crying almost until we left Central Park, then I perked up. Janet really soothed me. She also gave me a loaner banjo, so we could play for the family.

And that was sort of the end of any trauma. I was worried this was foreshadowing Something Bad happening. It didn't help when Ray sliced two fingers open on different occasions the next day, one of those times being by breaking Jonathan's shower head (Ray put in a replacement. We are conscientious house guests). But that was the end of the bad juju.

We made it to the chapel for the rehearsal almost on time, but Dave, our minister, wasn't there. He got there in plenty of time to walk us through our rehearsal, though. The chapel was lovely. But I worried it would get too hot in the impending 90-degree weather that was forecast. (It didn't)

So my whole family practically showed up. We got pizza and alcohol Friday night and the first arrivals started hanging out. Ray learned some of the depth of the nerdiness of his family when Meegan criticized Charles' World of Warcraft mount as "too slow." Later, he would tell me, "It's amazing how your cousins are all familiar with D&D." Yeah, babe, you will fit right in, I told him.

Saturday I took it fairly easy. Beth took me for a mani-pedi, my first ever, and it was not half bad. "I think you like!" said the pedicurist who attended to my feet. I had another Asian lady working my hands. It felt a little awkward, but I may have to do it again in the next five years or so. We also got my dress steamed and picked up Beth's, which had been altered. It was the night of the rehearsal dinner, which (and this will be a theme here) did not go off quite as planned because my million relatives got to put in mixed drink orders instead of having to go to the bar and pay for them themselves, thanks to a kind of mess up on the part of the restaurant, which was otherwise delightful. And as I learned over Friday and Saturday nights, my peeps can drink. Like a lot.

Luckily, everyone seemed to get along fine. The Wilmoths and Whites didn't all know each other, and everyone seemed to make time to talk to Ray Elgin. Bonnie commented that I had a happy, social family. Yessiree, Bob. That I do. Although my mom and aunts had concerns about my 87-y-o Pa coming, he seemed thoroughly delighted to be there, surrounded by his family. He talked everyone's ear off and had three beers, which he doesn't do that much anymore. "I love Pa because he's so sentimental," Andrew (now Andy) said. Yes, he is.

Kris showed a slideshow of pics of me and Ray from birth to about now. It was a hit. She found a lot of pics of me with guns, though. I've only been shooting the once. I guess it was very well documented.

The afterparty was mostly my cousins talking about the dorkiest things they do. Bryan watches "So You Think You Can Dance." Andy said something in Math language that I don't follow. Stephen's girlfriend Nicky, who lives in a notoriously hipster section of NYC, kept trying to prove her dorkiness but we weren't having any of it. She posts on message boards about music groups, she said. Erin, Bryan's gf, is a tax nerd, which comes of her job at a bigtime CPA firm, even though she is not an accountant.

Then Ray and I did the dorkiest thing we do — duets of old-timey music. We played "The Codfish Ball" and "I'm Looking Over a Four Leafed Clover," for starters. I hadn't tuned the banjo, so it sounded pretty bad, and Ray had to transpose, so he had issues too. But in all, we shocked people with our competence and extreme dorkitude.

So with all this partying it might be becoming apparent that I did not get a lot of sleep? Yeah, like four hours max. I was one strung-out little puppy. It was hard to eat a regular sized meal.

So Sunday everything gets insane. Kris comes over to make the CAKE. Actually, just to frost it. She brought over the flowers from her garden to decorate it at the Varsity, which I feel I must at this point distinguish from the catering company The Vault, which was the company catering our wedding. Because we are finding it quite hard to say nice things about this catering company at this point. There were some issues with setting up the room. And we had some conflict over drinks. Some disingenuous stuff was pulled on us, partly due to sheer disorganization but also what could only have been flat-out untruths on their part. We are dealing with it. But the catering was the major portion of our budget, so that's a disheartening thing. Luckily we're never marrying again, and we're able to separate our dealings with the caterer from the intense joy we felt from our ceremony and party.

Beth comes over to get me into my dress. After I put on makeup, I prepare to put on this hot, heavy thing for a day forecast to be 90 degrees. Bleah. I have to wear Spanx and a bustier, both of which kind of press into me in funny ways. As she's zipping me up, I say in my best Vivien Leigh impression, "I have to have a 16 1/2 inch waist! Ashley Wilkes is going to be at Twelve Oaks today!"

Sara comes over to start taking pics, and as we're preparing to go outside to do location shots, Ray gets a call from the caterer. It was more drama, but it was handily resolved by a) my decision to throw my mom and aunt Sandy a bone and have them craft the centerpieces so they were on their way to the reception venue, b) Beth offering to stay at said venue until the caterer returned to give her back the one key. I told Ray later that if she was late we'd delay the wedding as long as it took. Beth was the trouper who helped save the day there.

We head out to the Museum of Glass and Sara managed to get nice pics even though I'm feeling ragged and Ray's a bit agitated.

Then it's off to the Murano to see where Sara's staying and get some shots in front of its cool green glass sculpture.

Then we got cokes at the Mickey D's drive through. Ray said, "Mmmm. I can see this being an anniversary tradition, going to McDonald's." Hardy Har Har. I basically associate their food with poison, so I don't think that'll happen. But the symbolism is what it is.

At the chapel, I lay down on some seats in the back and Kris takes photos. Thanks for preserving my dignity, sister in law. Eventually we go downstairs to wait because people are about to show up and we have entrances to make. The organist starts playing the piano. He plays the "Star Hustler" theme song, which makes this former Astronomy TA's heart warm. His name is Jeff Orr, and he's very good, BTW.

Then Ray gets a call on his cell from Mickey. She is shocked it is on! We all are! She said the 7th Street peeps are late! They are in traffic! So we naturally decide to delay until they get there. Plus, they are not the only Harborites who might be stuck. The last people to make it in seem to be the Jacksons. We just chill in the basement while dad goes to check who might be in the house.

So finally it is go time.

You know how I was saying I was all jaded? Well, apparently not. As the prelude is winding down I feel a crack in my dam of fortitude. As the doors to the chapel open, and "Thaxted"/"Jupiter" (from Gustav Holst's "The Planets" suite) plays, I lose it. People later told me they couldn't tell if I was laughing or crying. Mostly the latter. Out of happiness. The dam burst and I got my face red and my eyes puffy, just as Sara is taking pics of me. She said, "Liquid joy," that's what tears are. I still feel kind of weenie about it all. But damn, people, I was SO OVERCOME.

I mean, there I was, about to proclaim in front of virtually everyone I hold dear my love for my absolute and most amazing best friend. I was about to be joined in holy matrimony to the one person I care for most in this world. And how much I love him never stops astounding me, as does the fact that we went through a lot of coincidences in our lives on the path to meeting each other. What ifs? abound. But, as Ray's friend Jim said, it seems God preserved us for one another.

Seriously, you get married for the first time at 35 and up, and it isn't just another ceremony. I seriously think our ages have an impact on how you take a wedding. We had waited a long time to get to that point. We have had a lot of life experiences.

So the vows go by fairly quickly. Ray was sweating like crazy and his lower lip was trembling. He was clearly working to hold it together. We chose some fairly awesome readings, including one from one of the books of John that says, in part, "be slow to anger," which I liked because it reminded me of Ray, and also speaks of how one's "righteousness" is baloney, which reminds me of my attitude towards self-important people.

Finally, we kiss and work our way down and out, before Dave can say he would like to introduce us as husband and wife. We went to the basement again and I lose it all over again. We had a moment.

So the family took some pics afterwards. I, with my makeup totally gone below my nose and in a streak across my cheeks. Well, so what. Zach was cute, yelling, "WEDDING!" instead of cheese. It works, people!

We made our way to the reception, and we started off the buffet. We were a little surprised to discover so many people at the bar when we had so much wine for them to drink, but it had not yet been set out on the table. For some reason, habit, I guess, I got broccoli at the buffet even though it was technically my day and if all I wanted was to eat cake and prime rib that was my right.

I hardly ended up eating anyway, I was so busy talking to people.

So Dave kicked off the open mic wedding slam with Betsy and, yes, her raffle for our license witnesses. Ray's cousin Brian and 7th Street hardcore volunteer Lane won. Also, Lane is a deputy coroner, so the symbolism, I told the crowd, was appropriate. The raffle raised over $400 for the theater.

We had toasts, Hugh started, and pointed out that we both disliked a past boss as I waved my hands in the classic, "STOP!" gesture. "I'm being inappropriate," he said. "When you're 83, you get to be inappropriate!" Applause ensued. Jeff told everyone how Ray liked the WWF back in the day and about their wrestling nicknames, "True Cod," (Jeff) and "Parakeet" (Ray). Beth said she was glad I finally found someone smart, with my values, and gave me what she said, which she had written down, which was awesome. Jim said he was so glad Ray was not alone anymore and that he is a great guy, which is the gospel truth, and that he liked Def Leppard and Metallica, which surprised me. Ray later said he had them confused with Iron Maiden, which he had told me about. Weird Al, Tom T. Hall and Iron Maiden. Some taste he's got there. Doug warned Ray that I would steal his GI Joes and take away the remote while he's watching cartoons so I can watch General Hospital, but also that I will stick up for him. He made me cry. Dad told a story about how I told him I'd smoked my first cigarette (I just wanted him and mom to know that I was developmentally appropriate, which is kind of weird), then talked about my tracheotomy. I'm not sure how that fit in, but I do know it traumatized him and mom for a while. Finally, Paul got up and testified to Ray's good character, excellent taste and brilliant mind. (Later, when Jim asked if I had ever played "Facts in Five" with Ray, he was surprised to learn that I almost always win. Ray can beat me at air hockey more consistently than any board game.)

My mom and dad worked the room. I think it helped them understand Ray more, since he's so reserved, to talk to people who love him so much, to understand what I was getting into and why I was doing it so willingly. (When I told my mom I was dating Ray, she said, "What does he do?" I said, "He's a lawyer," and she replied, "Is he DIVORCED???")

Then the DJ started and we danced to U2's "One," which is a little sad but also has the social justice themes we were going for. We DO have to all carry each other, carry each other. We served the cake, none of it ended up smeared on the other's face because we are classy and besides, that was homemade stuff! No wasting it allowed! Riley Jackson, so totally cute, played photog. He asked if I had his dad's email (LOL, yes, he's my boss) and I could get some pics that way. I said I'd like the first cut, and when Riley seemed confused, told him his dad would know what I meant.

Finally the DJ cranked up the jams and my entire family came out to boogie. Enduring images include my uncle Phil getting busy, even doing the "make a splits and pull self up by collar" maneuver, Klaus just shaking it like he's braking it, mom dancing with her pink reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and (while this isn't a visual) my hair being soaked through with sweat, same with my legs under that superhot taffeta skirt. Also the family doing the Cha Cha Slide. Which is about as explicit in directions as my family needs. We are desperately honkified here. "Two hops! Left stomp! Slide to the left!" Seriously, we needed that help.

My cousin Maddie, who will be going to college after next year, told me she loved that I picked "Poker Face." You know, the one that futzes the "po" sound to be more like "fuh." I also danced with Joey, who married my cousin Melanie. The next day I saw them at the hotel and Melanie was rubbing her strangely pokey-out and taut belly while Joey asked if she felt okay. I was all, "What is this thing you're doing with the rubbing? Either you have an impacted colon or you're pregnant." She was pregnant. With TWINS!!! They didn't tell me earlier b/c it was "my day," but holy cats, I was so freaking happy for them. Also, Meegan and Nathan sold their house, which they had just put on the market days earlier. Lots of good news.

I couldn't believe how many people danced for a seriously long time. I danced with, I think, everybody. Some of them made me gasp for breath since I was squashed in my foundation garments. My legs were killing me for two days after. Not Pa, though. Even though he was afraid of falling and breaking his hip he came out to dance with me a little. "All it took was saying, 'Please,' " aunt Carol said.

I took a break to hitch up my skirt and ventilate. Sara sat down next to me. She said it was the best wedding she'd been to in a long while (her own, probably). She pointed to the dance floor, where almost everyone was slowdancing to some old song. "Look at that. That is love. You made that happen. That is really something," she said. What an encouraging thing to hear.

I did make Ray dance the last dance with me, "Over the Rainbow" by Bruddah Iz. Cute song, and I have such positive associations with Hawaii that it made me very happy, and I was already over the moon.

Anyway, we got out of there at about 10:30 or so, and we were so keyed up from adrenaline we couldn't sleep. We just kept talking about how awesome our wedding was, how lucky we both were, and how promising our future is.

We are really, really lucky people. I feel an immense sense of gratitude every day for having Ray in my life. He is the best, and I am so, so happy he feels the same way about me.

Engagement photos

2009-06-26T12:25:00.000-07:00

Got these taken like a MONTH ago and it has taken forever for me to get them up. Sheesh.

Anyway, we met with the lovely and talented Sara Gray last month in Seaside, Ore. She is our photographer and did her darndest to get me to smile with teeth showing. We wandered around in the quite-chilly town along the boardwalk and downtown while she took pics with her assistant, her husband Eric Hensley.

Here are the results:

That's the shot we used in the local papers. Love amongst the condos.

More of the same spot.

Laughing! Loving! That's us! On the boardwalk!

Sand dunes.

Sara Gray is very good at making people who are pasty, pudgy and not photogenic (like me) look like acceptable members of society. See more of her work at saragrayphotography.com.

Well, we got the marriage license today, so we're on top of the game. And with one month to go, that's a good thing.

I am officially an old fart

2009-06-21T18:10:00.000-07:00

Sent to the NYT today when it was noticed that the acrostic is only availble online from, I presume, here on out.

Dear Editor,

I'm WAY too young to be writing a letter complaining about a redesign in the magazine, and especially in regards to a much-beloved feature moving online, but the acrostic. Seriously. This is my main motivator for buying the Sunday NYT. Everything else I can get online that I want (minus the crossword, which I like to do, but my real affection is reserved for the acrostic) on Sunday. But I spend the money (even the new extra dollar), and sometimes I have to drive way out of town to get the paper (I live in a small town). I hate what it does to my carbon footprint, but I also hate the Acrostic DTs.

Seriously. The Acrostic. I know the redesign has messed it up; I know you're straining at the news hole. I know T Magazine has had some issues and now its elements are being crunched into your newly-teensified space. I know all this. I knew I would eventually pay for the fact that Craigslist has decimated classifieds and free online content does not pay like the paper version, with its expensive display ads. I just didn't expect it would be the acrostic. I thought it would be my job as a reporter. THAT I was prepared to accept.

I suppose my only recourse is to get the games subscription and forgo the physical paper altogether. Heck, it may prevent me from feeling that little dopamine drop that comes with abstaining from reading the magazine preview articles as they become available online.

Well, I'm sure the Acrostic has become to you, poor clerk who has to sift through the letters, was to me when my old paper decided to change the TV listings from vertical to horizontal channels. Except maybe NYT readers are less likely to threaten physical violence (true story, and at least I hope they don't). I feel your pain, too.

Henry Rathvon, Emily Cox, I remain devotedly yours,

Callie White

(What I did not say is that I am sure HR and EC are real people who look like they belong in an early Agatha Christie mystery. If you know the truth about Rathvon and Cox, who I would like to think solve murder mysteries in their spare time, like a much cooler Tommy and Tuppence, don't let me know. Or do. I've already suffered so much disillusionment.)

More Banjo Madness

2009-06-06T20:03:00.001-07:00

Today was the big Second Annual Fretted Instrument Guild of Western Washington Four String Banjo Convention. A mouthful, no?

The GH Banjo Band rocked the house, needless to say, during the Round Robin when every band takes turns playing a song. A guy in the Orphan Banjo Band (so called because it was made up of people who were either not part of a regular band or their band was not represented in the Round Robin) turned to me and said, "You guys have got pizzazz!" Why thank you, sir!

We also have video, courtesy of Ray and a little Flip we got as part of a wedding registry that only had the Flip and a tripod on it. I am going to figure out how to use it momentarily and post video. We got Linda doing the Charleston and she is so precious! Oh, and Linda has apparently found my blog while googling her dad's name or maybe Grays Harbor Banjo Band. Hi Linda!

We had Dick Lewis with us. He performs under the monniker "Montana Red" and he is terrific. Ray said he overheard Montana Red asking Hank, the unofficial leader of the Orphan Band (aka "no-name band," but that's just all complicated) for a squirt of something from a can with a guitar on the front. Ray posited that it was for easier finger sliding on the strings. But since a little oil/anything can mess a string up I am curious about this substance.

Before we hit the convention, we went to the Olympia Farmers Market and got some Washington cherries of a variety I can't remember. Ray was impressed because they were so early, I was impressed because they were so sweet and flavorful, even though they were kind of soft. We also go a loaf of Wagner's cinnamon bread, and I don't care how much cinnamon bread you've had in your life you haven't truly had cinnamon bread until you have had the very thinly-rolled and generously-becinnamoned European style cinnamon bread Wagner's sells.

Then the convention was mostly organized by the Tacoma Banjo Club, and was held at the Little Creek Resort (it's really a casino, too, though). I noticed that the readerboard was advertising MMA fighting for tonight (6/6). Well, it was advertising, "Extreme Cage Fighting! Meets No Mercy! Carnage at the Creek! June 6 2009!" where an exclamation = screen switch. Too bad we couldn't stay.

There were us, the orphan and Tacoma bands, as well as the Seattle Banjo Club, the Kitsap Banjo Club and the 101 Band, which appeared to maybe be three people, one on banjo.

There's a lot of overlap in banjo band repetoire. I heard "Side By Side," a kind of Depression-era "we're poor but who cares if we have each other" song, and we all were expected to play "Bye Bye Blues," which I kind of vaguely remembered playing before and especially that tricky Aflat7 chord, and "God Bless America." God Bless Ernie for having the sheet music with him so I could read it!

After the Round Robin, I returned my self-busting busted sunglasses to Target (Ray had taken to calling them "Collette Reardons") and got new kicks for working out that I hope won't hurt my legs like my other sneaks did.

We had dinner at Lemongrass and it was delicious. Also we did more French CD learning. I find French a disheartening language full of words that all sound exactly alike and not nearly close to how they are written. I suppose this is how English learners must feel, only more often, so I should suck it up and continue.

Upon returning home I got a Friends of the Library newsletter and some devastating news: The Timberland Library will have to reduce the number of holds available to each person from 100 to 25, I assume in fall when the other Timberland changes as a result of the failed levy are going into effect (like charging for printing and overdue fines. Yeah, we're totally spoiled). I have a perpetual 80-odd items on hold, people! This will ruin me! This is my summer of (ahemming) or getting off the pot with some of those books! I will have to read like the wind! Why was this NOT IN THE PRESS RELEASE when I wrote about this a few weeks ago! I could have read harder and cleared some items off my plate!

In the meantime, I am freaking out. This is very new news to me. I will have to push my finishing of "The Egg and I" to the back burner, apologies to Kris.

(I recently read Big Box Reuse and Rethinking Thin (I recommend that review, for it has the same reaction I did to the book — i.e. yeah, but, Wha?) and am on P.D. James' The Private Patient. My God that woman is, in the first few chapters anyway, such an amazingly skilled and literary writer for her genre, and she keeps it up even though after 14 Dalgliesh novels alone she could rest on her laurels. Brava!)

Notes on a nearly-feral child

2009-06-04T22:36:00.000-07:00

The Tulip Terrorist is beginning to leave his toys on our property. He left a dumptruck up by the rear door in the little enclosed space and a scooter back by the yard. Ray said I should go all Rita DelVecchio on his tuchus: "You leave it on my lawn, this is my dumptruck now!" I also worry it heralds an escalation of his invasion of the house area and specifically he's going to mess up my herb garden. So help him I will throttle his little neck if I catch him ...

Oh who am I kidding. Ray and I totally are disempowered talking to him. We're do-gooder non-confrontational types and the kid is basically without conscience. I can try having a conversation with him, but I know he won't take it seriously.

According to a neighbor his mother was "on meth when she had him." This, combined with his mullet, will just stigmatize him for life. Comfortingly, I guess, the little terror apparently knows right from wrong but doesn't care. I say comfortingly because at least he is aware there is a difference! When I told him those flowers weren't his to pick he may not have cared what I was saying, but he understood. He is not completely feral, then.

Oh, Sara Gray posted some engagement pics on her website so check out how matronly and old I look and how youthful and photogenic Ray is.

In other news: We finally tried razor clam sausage. We were told you had to like razor clams (we do) to eat it, but it tasted a lot like regular sausage. We ate it with sauerkraut.

Big banjo band playout on Saturday — the Four String Banjo convention. It's the Round Robin. Drama will ensue, I am sure!

Bless their hearts.

2009-06-03T22:16:00.000-07:00

Tuesday night, after a sweltering and long board meeting, I gave a moment's thought to just not showing up at banjo practice. But then I remembered Leona was keen on my attending and besides, I needed some practice for the upcoming Four String Banjo convention (though no dice, they'd played the six songs they were going to do already so I am kind of hosed). But I am glad I went after all. The ladies of the Grays Harbor Banjo Band had a special surprise for me: A mini-bridal shower.

The banjo band ladies are the unsung heroes of the band. They generally sit in the back with their knitting and crocheting, just going to town, but they also bring most of the food when there is a party.

It turned out they had been putting things together for me for the past few weeks — Leona made me a doily and some lovely potholders, Clydene made slippers and potholders, Blanche made a soft white shawl and some potholders, Betty gave me a lovely bouquet of roses from her garden and a recipe book with some recipes in it and Penney had some dishrags and scrubbers for me. All of the things were handmade. It was really overwhelming. Those women are so sweet to think of me, I am really blessed to know them.

By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea

2009-05-31T14:49:00.000-07:00

Okay, so Google ads is churning out such losers as "Aberdeen mom cures wrinkle problem" and "Aberdeen mom whitens yellow teeth." In Aberdeen, the obvious solution to these problems is not to remove the wrinkles and yellowness as it appears but to take preventative measures by not smoking (meth). Since the Aberdonian solver is a mother, I can only assume she is inculcating anti-drug messages into her children. And since I don't smoke anything, I think I am ahead of the curve there, too. So Google ads, you can stop that.

So Ray and I headed out to Seaside for a weekend of relaxation and adventure and engagement pics, which I will post when Sara sends some my way but it was just last night people. We biked at Fort Stevens, did a hike there, walked the promenade and it was chilly and because it has been so nice here, I hadn't packed long sleeved anything. Still, there were plenty of people out in shorts/tanks/flip flops.

To get there, we headed through Astoria, where we ate at the Silver Salmon Grill, a really nice restaurant with the added bonus of having a magician performing at tables. His name was, no kidding, Dale Dvorak. A carpenter "up at the college," Dvorak's passion is magic, and although he has performed for 8,000 ppl at the Tacoma Dome (he says) he likes to keep the close-in stuff as part of his repetoire. That's the tough stuff, really. He did a mentalist trick with me, where he set out five cards with different symbols and he produced a card with the same symbol from a little wallet in his pocket. I have a pretty good idea how this trick is done, and the same with the card tricks he did.

Ray mentioned to DD that I am a former member of my high school magic club, so DD realized he had to step up his game. I apologized for being a tough audience, but knowing some of what to look for has spoiled me for magic. DD understood that, and said as a magician, he was onto other magicians all the time. So when he saw a magician do a trick that he couldn't draw a bead on, he would have his mind blown. And possibly because I mentioned I was bad at prestidigitation, he did such a trick for us, with an English penny and a half dollar that involved alternately dropping them into his pocket and making them reappear in his hand or vice versa. Very smooth. It was very impressive, especially when, apparently without moving his outstretched hand with a half-dollar in it, he made it disappear. Excellent misdirection and prestidigitation skills, Dale Dvorak. He is at the very least a 9th level mage with a dexterity score of 16.

We made it to Seaside in time for a walk on the chilly promenade.

The next morning at Fort Stevens we avoided making eye contact with some reenactors, who were waiting until 11 to set off a small cannon and were dressed in Civil War regalia. What, you ask, was Oregon's role in the Civil War? Small. Incredibly, incredibly small. A man filled with "sessecionist feeling" (i.e. booze and redneckery) walked down the street in Eugene, Ore. in 1865 saying "Praise Jefferson Davis, and damn the man who won't," and was arrested so as to quell pro-sessecionist feelings. It apparently worked.

While the Union worried about sessecionist feelings breaking out in Oregon territory, it must have been apparent from the start that it would not make a great slave state, so although there was Fort Stevens, the Civil War aspect is so small, that you can read this in the Oregon Blue Book: "For many of the soldiers the Civil War in Oregon was a monotonous, numbing assignment. In their monthly post returns, officers recorded desertions, suicides, and bouts in the brig because of drunkenness and misbehavior. The Indians were quiet on the Siletz and Grand Ronde Reservations. The rain was predictable and depressing. 'Nothing transpired of importance,' recorded Royal A. Bensell, a soldier at Fort Yamhill. Too many days brought that refrain in his Civil War diary."

Mostly the forts were used to quell Indians and do the Manifest Destiny thing. Fort Stevens was also set up in WWII to fight the Japanese.

At any rate, Fort Stevens is now a pretty big state park with a lot of bike trails, hiking spots and a beach with a shipwreck on it, which seemed more sunken into the sand than the last time we were there. It's a nice place. I highly recommend it. I saw a vole, too.

Back at Seaside, we did more promenade walking. While doing that, we saw three teens on skateboards, two of whom were having an argument while balancing. It went like this:

Girl: You don't ever contact me.

Boy: THAT'S NOT TRUE I text you like every second day!

Girl: THAT'S NOT TRUE I check my Yahoo every day!

Etc. while balancing. Jeez, what is with the texting? I wanted to applaud the young man for refraining from texting every hour on the hour, as some kids apparently do. Now that they've finally managed to hang out, why is this even an issue?

We also saw a guy who may have been busking or possibly hired by the ginormous condo complex to sing on the street backed up by CD. He was a very suave-looking older black guy in breezy cruisewear and his songs were jazz standards sung in the swing style. I heard him tell some dude he'd "love to sing at Branson." I don't think Jazz is a thing there, bro. A grungy emo kid with a guitar and a neck tattoo was set up far too close to the dude and he was playing his own crappy songs until he realized nobody cared, I guess, because when we came back he was playing along with Suavitay's CD. I appreciated his musicality in that he figured out the key and the chords he'd need. Cheers, emo kid.

Another guy who sounded neither suave nor emo was playing "Leaving on a Jet Plane" further down the promenade. Ray and I seriously need to consider busking next time we hit the shore.

Possibly the worst thing we overheard was a non-stop real estate conversation while eating lunch at the Pacific Way Cafe in Gearhart. It's a great place to eat, but these two phony-looking people were talking about waterfront property, investment properties, yard redos, inside redos, "Have you been in Jerome's place?" how much stuff costed ad nauseum. Because Ray and I were hungry, we basically were kind of forced to listen in. Ironically, the woman, who started off at the cafe ON HER CELLPHONE got all antsy with the waitress, telling her she wanted to move because she felt "confined" in that spot. Oh, please. WE were the ones who were confined. Like animals.

Gearhart is a precious little place. So precious, it must be on a hellmouth or something. Honestly, I defy you to travel through Gearhart and not feel that there must be something vile under all those pleasant shake facades and well-manicured yards and precious commercial corner (no center in Gearhart, it's that small). There simply must be a zombie problem there. I refuse to believe there is a place that idyllic without a dark underbelly on this earth. That said, I bet their city council meetings are fraught with tension and self-righteous entitlement. Which is as good as a dark side to me.

Some Random Thoughts

2009-05-28T20:14:00.001-07:00

1) Why trust makeup counter ladies with their knowledge of what foundation is the least cakey and most like your actual skin when they look like they've put their own foundation on with a trowel?

2) Does Weird Al know how much deep wisdom there is in "Whatever You Like?" It's about having an array of terrible, and terribly limited, choices. It describes the situation of millions of Americans who, like the character in "WYL," are working jobs with terrible pay. The narrator does not appear to have kids or really any responsibilities, but still, his fancy options are large fries. We laugh because we assume he has no taste, or that he is ignorant of what is out there, but in reality, there are millions of American children who have never eaten at a restaurant with tablecloths before.

3) I believe carbonated drinks are best from a fountain and not a plastic bottle for reasons that have to do with carbon footprints, portion control and also flavor (but they can taste bad when the syrup is low). Ray is surprised I have thought this deeply about sodas.

4) The nice day blues. Some days, when it is beautiful out, I have no desire to be outdoors after working. Because there are so few nice days to take advantage of, I wonder what is wrong with me. No one should feel like a punk because they want to do what they want to do.

5) Kelly and friends are providing garden protection. Ever since Ray got the Dumpster back for Kelly's family (their slumlord landlord forgot to pay for it) via phone call (he didn't do it alone, the real estate company that manages the building also called the guy), Kelly and her friends have been watching the Tulip Terrorist so he doesn't bang up the flowers or even ride on our macadam (which he does anyway in spite of their "Stay out of their yard!" screams, the kid is kind of sociopathic that way). Thanks, Kelly! Come and get a can of tuna for your cats any time!

6) Why did "Wanted" have to have a Loom of Destiny? That would have been my first clue, as an assassin in their employ, that the company's model was very, very stupid. And how did Morgan Freeman ever do that scene where he introduces said Loom without a) cracking up or b) crying that he was having to sell this dog's breakfast?

Remembering the dead through sales

2009-05-27T21:05:00.000-07:00

So Beth and I went to the Supermall for Memorial Day because I looked like a hobo in my threadbare and dated clothes, and Beth needed some enabling in her life. We learned a special lesson in how old we are, too.

First we got our dresses from the dress shop. Surprisingly (or not), and in complete contrast to how well we were treated when we were buying, while picking up said dresses, the staff was kind of curt and "whatevs." Beth thought it was chintzy that they had a steamer but did not offer to steam our dresses, and especially my wedding dress. I kind of agree. Consistency may be the hobgoblin of little minds, but it's really a fundamental value for retail.

Then we headed to the Supermall, a place designed to make minds go loose. We first hit Nordstrom Rack, where I bought a pair of $100 (discounted from $275) Cole Haan booties. And seriously, I kind of had to because they were Cole Haans, a detail in an old John Hughes column that made such a deep impression on Ray he once mentioned it and we managed to turn it into an inside joke. Obviously the hottest shoes are Cole Haan shoes, or something.

Anyway, those boots, though not necessary this time of year, replace the utterly useless stiletto-heeled black suede boots made by a white devil. The bottoms were made of cardboard, which in this weather soaks straight through. So although they were cute as hell (and did not have the name of that evil man emblazoned all over them) I had to give them up. The Cole Haans appear to be much better made.

Nordstrom Rack is a seriously disorganized mess of a store. I know it's by design, or buy design. But they could try a little harder because I got wore out the minute I left the shoe section. Also, their cashiers aren't uniformly bright. I pointed out three $7 eyeshadows I was getting to the chick checking me out and she still didn't ring them up. Oh well, they were getting shed of them anyway. I made a good faith effort, anyway.

Now, I can't talk about every item I got because we'd be here all day and even I can't do that. But suffice to say, Beth and I discovered how old we were when we went into the Liz Claiborne outlet. Beth was all, "We're too young," and I was like, "But that red polka-dot dress is cute," and she was all, "well, then let's see what we can find," and I was all, "This dress is $40? Maybe I should try it on?" and I found Beth and was like, "Is this totally boring for you?" and she was like, "I started a changing room already. The shirts are cute and $7.50."

Needless to say, I got the dress and we both got some cute shirts.

Beth tried to justify liking Liz Claiborne because Isaac Mizrahi designs for them now, and I'm pretty sure Tim Gunn was recently brought on to freshen up their look. But I've seen Isaac's stuff in Target and it's either for ironic skinny young women or non-ironic old women with no in betweens, so I'm not cutting him any breaks for being "youth oriented." No, I will give it all up to Tim Gunn.

Funny, I did not get the things I was looking for — cute shoes I can walk around in a lot while on the honeymoon and semi-technical capri-style pants for biking on said honeymoon. Because biking will happen, I swear.

I had a bubble tea and she had a pretzel. Auntie Anne's now puts calorie counts by all their pretzels and it scared Beth into only eating one. Me, I'm pretty sure the bubble tea was a nightmare of faux fats, sugar and tapioca starch. But it's all good because I am working out like a maniac. On Tuesday I did Levels 1 and a bit of 2 on the Jillian Michaels 30 day shred DVD after the Yoga mat I got off-gassed significantly (it reeked). I will give her props, she is motivating and the exercise is pretty good, even for a first level. Only problem is, I am straining something in my legs every time I work out, something between my ankle and mid-calf, and all the jumping jacks don't help. I was about to die in Zumba from the pain tonight. What, see a doctor, you say? Pfft. I don't trust doctors. They just want to take your money for your two-minute visit and can't solve your problem.

Besides, I probably just need new kicks, like I was going to get while shopping on Monday but didn't find.

Unfortunately, I may yet need to go shopping again within not just the year, but the next few months.

Survival of the Fittest

2009-05-26T10:21:00.000-07:00

So the other weekend while visiting Ray's dad, we couldn't make it to see Ray's mom (the nursing home was on quarantine lockdown because someone had the flu — not swine, not like it really matters, all flu is bad for the compromised), so we went mountain biking. I had a hard time keeping up, in part because we were shooting straight uphill and in part because I had worked out for about two hours the previous day.

I would say I was in recovery mode, but Ray saw it differently. He thought I was getting my butt kicked because I don't work out hard enough with Zumba and whatever else it is I am doing at the Y. "I don't think you're keeping your heart rate elevated for a long enough time," he said, as my eyesight went purple and red with rage and disbelief.

True, Zumba does not have a consistent across-the-board high heartrate inducing situation happening. There is a warm-up and a cool-down and fast songs interspersed with slightly slower ones for about 35 minutes before the floor work starts, which lasts about 25 minutes and rounds out the hour. The amount your body works is pretty much dependent on A) knowing and following the steps and B) Pushing yourself on the faster workouts to kick your knees higher, bounce a little more and generally be as inefficient as possible. Why do you think aerobics instructors scream out, "SQUEEZE THOSE TUMMY MUSCLES!!!" all the time? They want you to think you're shrinking your abs, sure, but they also want people to push themselves a little harder. A tough workout — it is possible to get.

What Ray does is, however, incredibly consistent. It is so completely consistent that sometimes I wonder that he isn't overtrained in some muscles. To wit: Ray has the most jacked-up treadmill, set at an incline that could train an Everest climber. He gets on it about three or four times a week and walks for 30 mins at top speed (about 3 mph) and then takes 2.5 mins to "cool down," which does not seem significantly slower to me, then does some pushups and sit ups, always the same sort. Now, Ray is the best hiller on bike or foot that you have ever seen. He marched up Mt. Elinor like it was flat pavement. He bikes up hills that I'm walking up. He is like the Terminator or something on grueling hikes.

So I challenged Ray to come to Zumba with me. Now, Ray knew that Zumba is the kind of environment that may drain a man of all his masculinity for 30 minutes or so, but he bravely tagged along to a Saturday morning lesson, which was only sparsely attended. He had a hard time keeping up. I'm not saying he was floundering like a bottom feeder or anything, but Zumba is not as obvious as walking, after all. But he was very game and I was very proud of him. Also, one of the creepy hillbilly-type people that stare in the Zumba classroom from the house out back was out on the porch staring in. Ray got the full experience.

At the end, he thought his legs might be kind of sore from the floorwork — "Just the hamstrings though" — which was his concession to me that Zumba may have benefits. He has not changed his assessment of the inconsistency of the heartrate, however. Of course, Ray is all about the consistency.

In spite of his refusal to truly accept Zumba as a legitimate form of exercise, he did make me a really nice dinner Saturday night.

Say what?

2009-05-17T20:11:00.000-07:00

So Ray and I are trying to teach ourselves some foreign language before we go on our honeymoon later this year, and that means CDs from the library. So far we listened to some on the way to Oly for the big banjo band playout at the First United Methodist Church (where we drew a record crowd for the Saturday afternoon "Potluck and a Program") from the Living Language series. They weren't that great. Maybe for review, since they're all in my iPod? So we moved on to the Instant Immersion series, which is an improvement.

Now, the Living Language series scores some points from me for its "cultural facts" portion. Because the cultural facts are so ridiculous it's hard to believe they aren't trying to get one over on us but then again, the French love Mickey Rourke and Jerry Lewis and only one of those cats has had a comeback. According to Living Language All-Audio French, the French are obsessed with graphology and if you apply for a job there they may send your handwriting off to a grafologiste who will divine your personality traits. When we heard that, Ray and I looked at each other and went, "Wha?" On the other hand, in Latin America they are really into astrology there, in a way people aren't up here.

Other news: Went to Longview, where Kris was assembling a mock 7th-street cake. She was going for a whole-building effect; I thought she would try to recreate the facade (un mot francais (perdonnez-moi, je escoute les CDs, non escrives pas). It was kind of a wash though as it looked funny, so she was on the verge of chucking it, but Ray and I took it home and had Mickey over to share the manifold delights of the 7th Street cake, which was from scratch yellow cake with an entire bottle of red food coloring in it and buttercream frosting tinted the fleshy tone of the theatre.

It looked like a fake-limb cake. Not sure which limb. It tasted good, though. Anyone ever read the Armistead Maupin books about San Francisco? Remember the guy who couldn't remember anything but hated roses? And it turned out he was part of a Catholic cult with the crazy ideas about transubstantiation? Well, this cake could stand in for that guy's cult — and much more deliciously and less repulsively.

The mountain biking was meh in Eufala Heights, which this weekend could be called "You Fail-a" heights. Trees were down, we got lost, my legs got all scratched to heck, Ray didn't feel he got a good enough workout (gee, we only pushed our bikes up a hill for a couple of miles). We had a forced march around Broadway hill and up 6th Street and then back down through the post office. Ray impugned the aerobic benefits of the Zumba, too, because I was dawdling and sweaty. Not everyone wants to pretend they're hauling it up Mt. Everest for 32.5 minutes (no warm-up, the extra 2.5 mins are the "cool down") on a treadmill set to "almost vertical" while watching Lil Kim and Derek the dancer jive to "Jailhouse Rock." Some of us like and need the sociality of Zumba.

OH! MAJOR NEWS! I BUSTED THE TULIP TERRORIST RED-HANDED!!!

Little boy was holding a tulip I'd had my eye on for a week in his hot little grimy hand while riding bike circles around me as I asked him, "Do I go into your yard and pick your tulips?" (shoulda used the word "flower," in retrospect). He was all cagey about where he got it — "I got it somewhere." But eventually he fessed up — "I got it there" (pointing to garden). Other tulips were missing. I was annoyed. I don't think TeeTee learned much, but one can hope.

TeeTee also played what appeared to be chicken with us when we were about to leave the driveway for the grocery store. With his bike. He came right at us on his bike, swerving almost at the last moment at our (stopped) car. What preschooler has thanatos? Does he feel some sort of existential angst — la nausee (is nausea masculin ou feminin? Je ne sais pas)? What is up with this kid?

I told Ray if we were to spawn our kid would probably get beat up by TeeTee while simultaneously worshipping him.

The temps this weekend was gloriouse. Notre premiere weekend de la ete. More, please!

We saw the Driftwood show, "Crimes of the Heart." Nice set! And it was really good. Debbie's daughter was in it and she was as precious as she could be, and so was Ray's distant cousin Julayne. Anyway, it was a really well-done show. Apparently, because I went in and sat down while Ray hit the bathroom, he couldn't find me and it took half of Livin' Harmony (the local barbershop quartet) to point me out to him. I was reading the program so I missed out.

This is such a small town. Sometimes it is hard for me to get over. Although there are a lot more social problems here than in Stars Hollow, there are a lot of similarities to that fictional community, too. Like when Hoquiam thought about banning chickens, pigeons, ducks and geese the other week. Small town governmental decision-making at its finest (it was voted down — let people have their poullets).

Banjo madness continues

2009-05-10T09:14:00.000-07:00

Saturday night the Banjo Band took Olympia's First United Methodist Curch by storm. They have a "dinner and a program" every other week, and this Saturday, we were that program.

The benefiit of the dinner part was we all got to take part in the potluck. Let me tell you, there is no finer eating than a church potluck. Not only are you exposed to the culinary heights of mac-n-cheese with summer sausage mixed in, devilled eggs and QFC Fried chicken, you are risking food poisoning because non-professional cookery is the number one way people get that stuff, which makes eating kind of like an extreme sport. It is fascinating what people cook, too. The best thing I ate was what appeared to be a rhubarb bar. Like a lemon bar, but with a different, rhubarby top. It was spectacular.

Obviously my eyes were bigger than my stomach, which was pretty big (I'm not sure why I was so hungry, since the extent of my day had been sleeping in, returning my books to the library and powernapping). But I needed to sugar up before hitting the banjo.

The organizer told us this was the biggest crowd he'd seen at one of these potlucks, and man, they ate up every song, from "Carolina in the Morning" to "Bicycle Built for Two." They even screamed for Linda to do the Charleston. If there had been a venue where banjo-smashing was appropriate, this might have been it. Except we all love our banjos. Best of all, they actually knew the protocol for the service songs. And although this was a United Methodist Church, they hollared with appreciation for Frank Andy's "God Bless you and God Bless America." Frozen Chosen? I don't think so.

Ray and I listened to French tapes (well, mp3s on the iPod) on the way up. Maybe something sunk in, but the instructions are a little confusing. Although he took French back in the day, Ray said he is expecting me to be the primary linguist on the honeymoon. The tenses are giving me a sad, however, because I thought (why?) they'd be like Spanish and Portuguese, which have virtually identical verb conjugations, tenses and moods. Le sigh. Anyway, I can now say "bouteille de champagne," which I already could, except I can say, "Je achete une bouteille de champagne," which only sounds more moronic with the verb in place.

Finished "A Fraction of the Whole." Tres, tres bon. I recommend it wholly. Also demolished "The White Tiger" which won the Booker. I was not as impressed with it, but it's not bad. The symbolism is more obvious, the plot less ambitious than FOTW, but it's got a lot of description. I'm in agreement with the Guardian writer who was like, "The White Tiger got the Booker? Say what?"

Who's up for "Put On Your Old Gray Bonnet"?

2009-05-03T15:09:00.000-07:00

So Friday night was the Young Artists Showcase, which I hosted, at the 7th Street and it was really good. Ray thinks it was the best ever. I started off totally nervous and freaking out and tweakery like always but soon warmed up a bit and even made some ad libs. Like when Shaylyn's shoe came off while she was dancing, she left the stage and I was like, "She danced her shoe off for you and that's the best you can do?"

The dance acts are always fun to watch, this year there was a 14-y-o named Spencer who did a hip-hop number to a medley called "Get Your Swag On," which I would like to link to some lyrics for but Ray told me he YouTube'd to see if it had any swears and heard the phrase "hos on my (you know what) like a health dept. condom," and since I already know all the words to "Get Low," I don't want a potentially dirtier song to replace its stature as "Song I know with the iffiest of morally redemptive quantities." It also brought up a fundamental question for me: Shouldn't those hos and the health department condom be simultaneously on the rapper's, uh, you know? Does he think rubbers are for fashion? Has the health dept. in his neck of the woods not been doing its job?

Fundamentally, however, I think it's just flabby lyrics that are the fault of the writer. And I'm worried I'm bringing down the town of my already not-high-toned blog with this information.

Anyway, Spencer was the big hit among the 13-15 y-o girls backstage. "I LOVE SPENCER," one breathlessly proclaimed to me while running down to see him. The feminazi in me wishes that boys would show the same amount of approval and validation to girls that is shown in the other direction, but instead they usually just lap up the attention.

The other backstage drama was the nonstop chatter. It was like Erika Wishnoff, who I went to elementary school with, was there with Sara Hutchinson or Greta Galuszka. Erika was seriously the Chatty Cathy of that triumvirate, the other two couldn't help but get sucked in even though Greta was a goody two shoes and Sara was introverted. Erika got told to be quiet more than anyone else I ever went to school with.

Let's see. There was also singing, which was all very good. If I were to pick out particularly poignant moments of singing, I would say there was Jordon, who Ray said was just good his first time at the showcase several years ago but has developed into a real artist since. I would also add Cora, who asked if I would tell the audience that she has a cold, but I said, I don't think they'll notice much. Well, she blew the roof off. There were also instrument-players, and I have to say, I was really impressed with Laurel's interpretation of a Chopin nocturne, even though Jonathan, who was also playing Chopin (and excellently), is the local pianist one thinks of when one thinks of Chopin. He did amazingly well, as he always does.

Anyway, Ray said he thought this year was as good as the showcase has ever been and he's worried it won't be as good next year. Well, maybe if you can actually line up Miss Grays Harbor it will suffer from not having my incisive intros, I told him.

So Saturday we headed to Tacoma to get my wedding dress! It fits great and looks really pretty and although for a minute I thought maybe I should have gone white or ivory so other women won't feel silly wearing blue, it suits me. The woman who helped me try it on wasn't the same cool chick who helped last time, but she managed to make it sound like she thought it was okay that I was getting married in a blue bridesmaid's dress anyway.

We went to Woody's on the Water for lunch, and because we're holding our rehearsal dinner there and thought we should at least eat at it once before committing to it body and soul (and because we hadn't had a contract faxed to us and thought we ought to just show up in person). It was yummy. You lucky bastards eating rehearsal dinner will love it.

We then headed to Nordstrom's to look for a tie to match the dress, but failed. The thing that was most surprising about the mall was that it was jam-packed with people. This is a scene from the recession? Where we're all supposed to be saving money? Ray theorized it was a pre-mother's day crowd.

Since we almost never go to a mall, and the one in Aberdeen is basically dead (I should do a podcast tour of it. Lots of "here is a closed storefront that now is a holding space for Sears riding lawnmowers" kinds of stuff in it), we decided to cruise the Tacoma mall. A quick jaunt up and back. Also that way I could get to drink my mocha from the Nordie's cafe (where they have Aphrodite-flavored Greek Gods yogurts! I ate one! It was vanilla with a hint of cinnamon and vanilla, it was delicious! Hermes is still my favorite, though at 250 calories or more per teensy cup I don't eat a whole lot of it.

So not a lot is different at the mall, but there is a new store we saw called "DA RELM." I feel like I should add a huge "SIC" next to it. That kind of combination of ghetto-styled spelling with its cheap, gothic-fonted sign, plus its customers, of whom there were more than 10 and all of whom seemed to know waaaay more than necessary about the kind of sword Aragon used in Lord of the Rings PLUS the two-bladed battle axes with spiked handguards PLUS the knives with built-in brass knuckles PLUS the plastic sculptures of dragons and wizards for sale at the other end of the store leads me to quote this Twitter Tweet from Drew Curry, who I did not know up until I Googled "Da Rel" Tacoma: "Next time your at the mall go to DA RELM hahahaha u will laugh your butt off."

Or maybe we should have registered there (sarcasm alert!).

Then we went to REI, which was packed. Apparently they are having a sale or something? Anyway, I was looking for travel shoes and a good travel purse for the honeymoon when I had a mini-decompensation attack and had to sit down. I overheard a sales person tell a customer that when REI built the Tacoma store they only anticipated 6,000 new members to join from it. Well, it was 30,000 in one year and now they realize they were thinking too small in the store. Well no kidding, I could have told you that with my first visit there six years ago, ding dongs. The Tacoma Ys are packed to the gills, we are not a lazy city! We are Seattle's suburbs! All our public trails and parks are VERY WELL USED and REI is like the unofficial religion of the unchurched nature lover that makes up 80 percent of the population of western Washington state. And of course they built in a lot they can't easily expand in or from.

Anyway, I did end up getting a purse identical to Beth's, with stainless steel mesh in the straps and bottom and a clipping zipper. She got it for her trip to Italy this December because of all the pickpocket warnings in the guidebooks. Do people still pickpocket? Seriously is it that much of a problem? The purse is so theft-proof I'm sure I'll end up forgetting it at some cafe or something. It's even the same color as Beth's. I was hoping for a less brown or black option, but in retrospect if I get tired of carrying it Ray won't feel too feminized if he has to tote the thing.

We then returned to the Harbor in a downpour that got so crazy near Ft. Lewis that we had to slow down to about 30 on I-5 and still couldn't see that well. Mom said Arkansas had some real bad rain and called it a "frog strangler," which I'm pretty sure is what my old boss John Hughes would have called the conditions on I-5.

When we got back we were starving, so we picked up a pizza from Casa Mia and cracked open a bottle of wine. Ray let his hair down and we polished the bottle off (anyone who knows Ray will know that his drinking three glasses of wine is !-worthy) then played banjo and clarinet duets while buzzed. No, that's not a euphamism for anything. We played "Spanish Eyes," "Banjo Polka" and a medley of "Red Wing" and "Put on Your Old Gray Bonnet." Then Ray, who has to transpose everything in his mind when he plays his B-flat instrument in C notation, busted out his clarinet book and, to prove that he doesn't stumble over accidentals, whipped like a pro through the most difficult song in the book, a Klezmer ditty (called "the Klezmer's Hora") that had all kinds of symbols in it I'd never even seen before. He did this while actually moving his head up and down and side to side, unleashing his inner gypsy. Three glasses of wine and in thirty minutes he's doing what his clarinet teacher had been after him to do for more than a year.

We think we should play a few banjo/clarinet duets at the rehearsal dinner, or outside before or after along the waterfront (I can prop my banjo case open like we're looking for donations), for our peeps, to show them how we're totally meant to be. Who's up for a little "Put On Your Old Gray Bonnet"?

Making my move to be Grays Harbor's Billy Crystal

2009-04-30T20:57:00.000-07:00

You know, how he hosts the Oscars all the time? Or is that Whoopi now? I dunno, not like I watch awards shows.

Anyway, I get to host the Young Artists Showcase again and it's been two nights of talking to kids and reading their little bios and stuff and, hey, what can I say, I dig the gig. It's my little way of supporting the arts and the people who are working their tails off to create a vibrant arts community in a Harbor that hasn't always been a real receptive audience. Anyway, the kids are always so excited to do this event. It's precious.

Oh, a YAS first this year: A married, pregnant performer. She's 23 so although she's young, she's not THAT young.

I'm thinking of debuting a dress I bought like two years ago at this thing. There are not a lot of opportunities to wear a sleeveless anything in Grays Harbor. Even though it is almost May it gets up to the high 60s with lots of wind. There is a reason the Pacific NW/grunge look was flannel and jeans, and it is the weather here. Seriously. One chance to wear (this) nice dress in two years.

Still reading "A Fraction of the Whole." It is amazing.

Made a huge batch of rice pudding with leftover rice. It was ploughed through in about four or five nights. Man, I love sugar. I balanced it with salads and stuff in my lunches and dinners.

There are still many, many block party baked beans in the fridge. Perhaps because the kind of party they throw keeps the neighbors up with the noise and the garbage left all over the street. Metaphorically speaking.

The Depression

2009-04-28T20:40:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm not saying it has come to Aberdeen, even though Weyerhaeuser basically pulled out the other day, taking with it the reamaining 54 in-town jobs it had, because we haven't had any bank runs, even though WaMu got dissolved and is now Chase. Things like the FDIC are very good.

So things here are kind of on the bleak tip, not too different from normal, actually. But I think, like our neighbors in Europe and to the south, when the US gets a cold the rest of the world gets pneumonia, that kind of applies to the Harbor, too. The rest of the country or state suffers a setback, the Harbor gets kneecapped by it.

I'm not really sure how "The NOW Habit" fits into this, with its anti-procrastination advice that includes an anecdote about the author's jumping out a plane in airborne training that he manages to sound like he talked himself into taking control in a bad situation fits in when the discussion is about a community, but it seems it might be one way of going about. Embracing the bleakness, taking charge, surging forward as if it comes from volition. They're rambly ideas, but maybe not such bad ones.

The perpetual bland sitcom comedy of my life with Ray had a pretty iffy episode this weekend. Ray decided to make a recipe for "Block Party Baked Beans" from the new Cooks Country and I was like, "as a main dish?" and he was like, "that's what it is." And I was like, "I think it's a side," and he was like, "it has meat in it," so I had to concede that point.

Among beans you get in a can it has lima beans and green beans in it, even though it's more of a smoky-tangy-sweetish dish. So I was all, "let's swap out the lima beans for peas," but you cannot get Ray to freestyle with a Cooks Country recipe. So I have been eating some lima beans, people. Lima beans. Disgusting. They get worse as they age, and the final of these lima beans that I eat will be really bad because that Cooks Country apparently intended the recipe to feed a block party of hungry people. We've got frozen beans. And the green beans in the red sauce are not exactly floating my boat either. They're kind of crunchy so it ruins my ability to tell myself I'm eating chili or maybe sloppy joe stuff without a bun.

Other than that, and the intense bloating from the gas, I'm enjoying the beans. Cooks Country is fun.

We went to the Shorebirds Festival this weekend with Beth and Chris. The alleged shuttle bus ran maybe every half hour, which I think means it should not be called a shuttle bus. And the weather was iffy. But we saw some birds. No peacocks or ostriches, but the excitement among the bird people seemed to indicate we'd just missed the bandersnatches. No, seriously, Winged Migration (note the sourpuss who wrote THAT entry!) is an amazing thing, but once you've seen the movie you can't just experience the cold, wet, very distant reality of the boring brown birds the same way.

If I sound unenthusiastic it's probably because the Scotch Broom and some sort of tree pollen are sucking away my ability to feel joy. They are making me anhedonic, as well as unable to breathe through my nose. Life as a mouthbreather is not for me. I feel acutely unproductive and I'm embarrassed to talk to people face to face as I'm also a sneezing mess.

Instead, I prefer to curl up with a good book. So far, I've been finding that good book in A Fraction of the Whole. Also see this site for a brief synopsis of the ideas in it. It is just profoundly interestingly written. I am digging it deeply. Every page is dynamic. (And here comes the forced anhedonia part) I'm only a couple chapters in so... (okay back to rave) I'm sure it will be great all the way throughout. Oh please let it be this good throughout.

Next up is "The White Tiger," which actually won the Booker prize. If it isn't as mind-blowingly AWESOME as "A Fraction of the Whole" or "Sea of Poppies" I'll be annoyed. But it sounds pretty awesome too, no?

Oh, speaking of putting "no" at the end of a sentence, I have managed to create my own sentence in French: Ne touchez pas ma poulet, cest sensetif. (Don't touch my chicken, it is sensitive) Apologies for spelling errors and also maybe ma should be mon. But see, French is like English in that when it comes to pronunciation of spellings you can kind of fake some of it with nonchalance and a low voice. At least, that's what it seems like. I'll probably be gutted by any actual french people.

MA POULET EST SENSITIF.

Updating is hard

2009-04-20T21:08:00.000-07:00

So much has been going on that it's hard to keep up.

First things first: There is documented video of the Grays Harbor Banjo Band. If you're a FB friend, check out my videos IF YOU DARE. We were playing th Bluegrass by the Bog festival at the Cranberry Hall in Grayland. We do not play bluegrass, although a couple of 5-stringers who have infiltrated the ranks can pick out "Blackberry Blossom" and "I'll Fly Away," so we have some filler for the peeps there. According to Ray, the reaction from the watchers was more excited than you'd think. The president (our benevolent dictator) of the Banjo Band announced the songs and people were like, "Oooh! 'Take Me Out to the Ballgame!'"

Next things next: My birthday gift. I RODE IN BETSY's IZETTA! She picked me up in her itty bitty car and, so inside, there's one little pipe that brings in warmed air from the teensy engine. For fresh air, there's a little sliding vent in the door, which is the front of the car. The gearshift is on the left and is about the size of a car's dipstick. We went to the 7th Street and ate lunch, then Betsy ran me back home to get my gym bag and we went via Scammell hill. Now, on the way to try to cross the street Betsy almost got us T-boned (on my side) but not really. That car is so tiny that even if it had gone out into the street an approaching car can easily dodge it.

So you noticed I said Scammell Hill. Now, this is a famously steep hill. It is seriously steep. And we were going to go up it. In a tiny car that was already kind of underpowered. I was halfway expecting to have to get out and either push it up or just try to keep it from careening downhill by grabbing it from the side window. Oh well. Lemondrop, as the little yellow car is called, totally made it and didn't have to be put in second gear. Betsy, as usual, was laughing the whole way up.

Other news: The sun came out this weekend! It was great! But I was working so I didn't get to enjoy it until Sunday, when Ray and I went biking, first out to Junction City and then back around to Hoquiam. Then, at four, we saw the Olympia Choral Society perform some stuff. The program was kind of Americana with one piece called lambscapes that was Mary Had A Little Lamb in the style of Handel, Schubert, Verdi, "Carmina Burana" and sons of the pioneers, which I'd never heard of.

God help me, when I hear "We Shall Overcome" I get all choked up. I'm supposed to be too cynical for that.

Today I took advantage of the sunshine by walking my errands (I thought I'd bike but I changed my mind at the last minute: Too much locking the bike up over and over in too little a space of time to make it worthwhile. This meant I was in my dipes (i.e. padded bike pants) the whole time). I stopped at Rosevear's but they were closed. Like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story," I pressed up against the window and saw that there was a five-string banjo. Drool. One of the five-stringers showed me how the five-string has a chord already tuned so all you have to do is put your finger across all four strings. Making a minor chord is another situation entirely, as is a 7th or a diminished. Still, I'm game.

I also pulled out an old crummy media shelf of Ray's from the basement (it did not survive the transition of going from being his room to our room) and put it on the porch. I dug out some old pots I'd once had dreams for and got some herb seeds and starts and potting soil and I'm going to try and make those fresh herb dreams come true: Cilantro, sage, mint, basil, thyme and tarragon. Do you know how tiny mint seeds are? Almost all the seeds, really; they're all part of the mint family. Yeah, I'll drop some Linnaeus.

Well, I'm hosting the Young Artist's showcase again. Wish me luck! No accidental cussing! No whammies!

My very first playout

2009-04-07T22:04:00.000-07:00

This Saturday I had my very first playout with the Grays Harbor Banjo Band! This has been months in the making since I started going to Banjo Band meetings this winter, practicing the dickens out of the Program 6 book (naturally we played from books 1,2 and 9, which I only recently received and haven't been able to get fully under control).

I got in my new pair of black pants (can you believe I didn't have any?) a button down white shirt and, of course, my Banjo Band maroon vest. If only I'd had the sparkly black bowtie (have it now) and a straw boater I would have been a hot little organ grinder — or organ grinder monkey, whatever.

So Ray and I head out to Elma, where the Banjo Band is playing at the Music Factory. Now, from the name you might think this is a big place and be kind of confused because Elma is not so big. It's kind of an old-timey multipurpose hall that its owner, an older guy named Dave (I think?), has been patching up the past decade. It has a booth above the floor that is accessible by a staircase, painted seafoam green, that you can hoist up along the wall. The stage, about a foot above the floor, was staggered so everyone could be seen. There was a very large picture of Jesus — you know the one, the iconic one where he has the light hitting him from the front and behind, only the shoulders up kind of pic, this in tones of brown instead of the usual blue — behind us.

I had to cram in between Jim Redding and the piano, and I saw Eloise (Frank Andy said she was the oldest member of the band at 86 and she hollered, "I'M 87 GOIN ON 88!!!" so there you go) and asked how she was doing and she said not so good, she'd had a terrible fall but the Lord gave her the strength to get up and call her daughter, so praise the Lord for that. Eloise is fiercely independent.

Then we got rolling and I really had no idea what all was going on half the time. But it was fun! Linda Hall did the Charleston to 5-foot 2, and she is actually that tall and has eyes of blue. She and Marilyn Redding both wore their fringed blue dresses with red, white and blue feathers in their hair.

We played "Alabamy Bound," a train song that meant putting on conductors hats. Luckily Linda had an extra for me. I am starting to think being a member of the Banjo Band = slight chance of clutter. Ray, who was sitting in the back, tried to take pictures but it was too dark and they came out blurry. He also said whenever the band played a song, people would sing along, even if no one was singing. They did this with "Bicycle Built for Two" and "Wild Irish Rose," which Andy Hall sang and dang if he didn't sound just like an Irish tenor. The guy is so musical it's ridiculous.

We also played "Spanish Eyes," during which Eloise got out from behind the piano to play maracas. She used to get up and dance but she said she just can't do that anymore. Still, she played the dickens out of those maracas. Shake it, don't break it Eloise!

So the last number -- aside from the encore, "Banjo Polka" -- was the service songs. Now, I may be a former Quaker school student with limited experience in all things military, but I do know that you're supposed to stand when you hear the service song played for the branch of the armed forces that you were once a part of. The Music Factory crowd, though all of the so-called "Greatest Generation," did not seem to know this or had a collective senior moment. The first song was "Anchors Aweigh," and a guy in the band was a Navy guy and he stood up for the song and like the whole audience stood up! And Ray said he tried to wave them down like, "Hey, that's not what you're supposed to do! You're messing it up!" but nobody paid attention or understood. Then they stayed standing throughout the rest of the songs. Maybe I got it wrong and they were all members of the Navy, Army, Marine Corps, Coast Guard and Air Force. It could happen!

So I had another practice tonight before our playout at Bluegrass by the Bog in Grayland on Saturday. For the third month in a row we had the election of officers. How does the election of officers get continued as old business for three months? And although it has always seemed like we have reelected our benevolent dictators/only people willing to take a leadership role each month has it yet been definitively done? Only time will tell. This was supposed to be the annual meeting so maybe so.

Because it was the annual meeting everyone brought food. About five people brought in devilled eggs. I'm going to have to learn how to make them because my generation is not a devilled egg making generation, and if there aren't devilled eggs at a potluck something is dreadfully wrong. At least, that's my take on things. And not because I'm such a devilled egg fan, either.

Also there was some jamming, and Ernie Walls jammed with me — he played "Summertime" and I sang. It was fun. He's just a sweet guy.

Ray has been helping me practice some of the unfamiliar songs. I can't follow the music too well and I'm too excitable to stay on beat (I know, I'm a real asset to the band, huh?) so I kind of have to know the tune so I can, you know, feel the music or whatever.

Ray said at the "rehearsal dinner," we should pick out a few songs for entertainment of the guests and play them together. My family is very tech-savvy, and I told him we might be plastered all over the internet if so. Two people, playing old-fashioned music together, a little sloppily (he has to transpose on the fly), letting their freak flags fly.

The only other wedding update is Betsy wants us to have a raffle for the 7th Street as part of the ceremony. We're considering it since we need to give people SOMETHING to talk about.

Boring wedding stuff

2009-03-29T21:06:00.000-07:00

This is not my wedding dress

But I do look pretty cute in a Barbie wonderland bomb, no? This was me playing dress-up after getting the dress I'm really going to wear, and which was more than $1,000 less than this. I just asked the nice clerk at The Wedding Bell if she had something big, white, sparkly and poufy to try on just because how many more times am I going to be wedding shopping? Like, never.

So that mission accomplished.

Then, a week or so later it was on to Longview, where Kris has been gung ho about producing the ultimate delicious wedding cake. Apparently she's been busting out the algebra calculating the precise ratio of baking powder to batter weight for a 12" cake round (an uncommonly large size) and buying a thingy you soak in cold water then wrap around the cake pan to prevent the sides from cooking too fast compared to the middle. Actually, she bought two and McGyver'd them together. Then she did a test bake (judged by all to be a smashing success) with three kinds of icing options. This cake has been a challenge both mental and gustatorial!

The cake (which you can see here, and do check out the photostream, where it shows the steps to fill it and her hummingbird infestation) was coconut. The icing options were all coconut, rum-flavored filling inside, and lemon in and out. Ray and I absolutely adore all-coconut. We took that and the rum-filled leftovers home and I swear I ate a decent sized piece of cake twice a day for a week, and Ray had his cake, too. And ate it (goes without saying). Kris used the Alton Brown coconut cake recipe, modified for the cake size. It was also doubling as my pre-birthday birthday cake.

This is going to be the best-tasting wedding cake I've ever had. And all my lovely guests too. Kris is also making a red velvet cake for the "groom's cake." We're pretty sure there will be multiple servings per most people necessary because they're great cakes and the buffet will probably be serviceable buffet food.

So I had a dream last night that I had superpowers and there were these people who were also superpowered were out to kill me and they killed everyone I know and I found my old Philly house smeared with blood everywhere and I barely got out of there alive. That's where my dream kind of ended. Lots of my anxiety dreams have me running down this little path that cut through the block. Don't know why. That was a lovely little place when I was a kid, one I think back on very fondly.

But anyway, although my dream was technically a nightmare, I never really felt the kind of overwhelmed freaked-out feeling that I got at Macy's today setting up a wedding registry. I felt a little dizzy at one point.

I kind of picked myself up a bit and realized I was not spending this money, someone else might be. And I felt a little better and a lot guiltier. But then the bridal consultant showed us that almost all our items were under $50 (everything is basically on sale because there's a depression on), and even the sheets I said, "We're spending $200 on sheets?" about, are on sale so they aren't nearly that expensive.

Funniest registry moment was at the towel display.

Me: "I like these. Which colors you like?"

Ray: "These" (points to cranberry-colored towels)

Me: "No. And not the brown ones either. No more brown and white. I like these."

Ray: "Uh, okay, those are fine."

Me: "How many towels should we get? Four?"

Ray: (consternation in voice) "Four??!! That's a lot of towels. Just get one."

Me: "Who gets one towel? That's just weird."

Ray: "We don't need four new towels. We have a lot of towels."

Me: "Well, yeah, but getting one towel? One? Isn't the point to have multiple towels that match?"

Ray: (shrugs) "Yeah. Get two."

Me: "Okay."

Later in the car:

Ray: "I've been thinking about the towels. I have some towels that are kind of old. Maybe it's time to get rid of some of them."

The cheapest item is a lemon reamer (on sale, $3.99). On the website it just calls it a reamer, which, paired with its pic, makes it look totally naughty.

Oh, and it goes without saying that there is a non-profit that will be even more grateful for donations than we are, the 7th Street.

So there is your boring wedding stuff update.

Goings on around the Harbor

2009-03-08T12:33:00.000-07:00

So Ray and I went to see "The Women" at Driftwood Friday night and poor little Cora Foss, in the middle of her little emotional scene while pounding the floor and screaming "MOTHER DEAREST! FATHER DARLING!" was interrupted by the craziest senior moment I've yet witnessed. An older lady in the third row appeared to wake up when Cora started her speech and yelped, "WHAT'S GOING ON!" Although it sent a ripple of annoyance through the audience, Cora kept going. Go Cora!!

Saturday night we went to the Hoquiam Shows Its Best auction where for my birthday Ray got me a ride with Besty Seidel in her Lemondrop, a BMW Isetta. The ride also entails a sundae at the Sweet Shoppe.

What I have been hinting for is a way to get a bedside table and lamp by my side of the bed for more convenient reading.

Speaking of reading, I finished three books this weekend!!! (one exclamation point per book). The first was "Authentic Happiness," about positive psychology. Basically it states that we all have a baseline of happiness and there's not much we can do about that permanently except volunteer more and do more fun stuff and work on our capacity to love and be loved. For people who do not have so many of Maslow's Hierarcy of Needs met that they can pursue these ways to be happy, well, tough luck. Actually, people in poor countries tend to be happier than people in rich countries. Seligmann, the author, posits something that comes close to why Mildred Kalish, who wrote the last book I read about growing up in the Depression on a farm and all the chores and stuff she had to do, loved her childhood. It had a lot of purpose, a lot of work that was challenging but accomplishable and although her folks were "hearty handshake Methodists" (i.e. they did not hug and kiss on meeting) there was a lot of security in the family.

Basically, we'll all have to be sustainable agriculturalists before we get back to being happy.

I also learned from the online assessments that I am in the top tier of happy people. I scored in the 80th percentile compared to my gender, age, occupation (probably even higher in these times) and zip code. Ironically, I am also among your more vengeful and avoidant types. If you've wronged me, chances are, I'm p.o.'d about it still. This is made even more ironic by my "core strengths," which include broad-mindedness and fairness/justice.

Perhaps this explains why I think I can write mystery novels. I KNOW why people want to murder. I don't DO it, of course (my style is avoidant, so if I'm not looking at you while you talk to me, well, if you have half an inclination to social skills, figure it out). But I understand. ;-)

Sign up and test yourself at www.authentichappiness.org.

In "Guyland," Michael Kimmel really does us a service by doing an anthropological and psychological study of a bunch of "guys." Male entitlement and frustration abound, and the misogyny he uncovers will freak you out. If you are a guy, you should probably read this, especially if you feel like your disgust with your situation hasn't found a voice, or that the ones that are popular, like Howard Stern and Rush Limbaugh, are selling you a bill of goods that are too foul.

But absolutely the best read and the most enlightening was "The Last Flight of the Scarlet Macaw" by Bruce Barcott. Although he is perhaps too sympathetic to the protagonists of this real-life fight against ecological destruction, developing world corruption and the arrogance of multinational corporations that fly beneath the radar, well, the protagonists ARE fighting ecological destruction, corruption and arrogance, not to mention the undermining of a young democracy and the people's rights to know and to health. Read this book. If you like the writing of Michael Pollan, John McPhee or you just like the style of the New Yorker, this is a non-fiction book that you'll totally like and it will take you a little further than Pollan will on the meaning of sustainability.

So, ah, there you are. After my feminist screed on the dumbness of weddings I hope this is remarkably more positive and enlightening. Oh yeah, I am back to my happy baseline. The prospect of a ride in Lemondrop with Betsy has totally picked me up.

Weddings are STUPID

2009-03-07T16:44:00.000-08:00

Part One. (Because I haven't read a single wedding mag or visited "The Knot," I am sure there is a world of crazy out there that I have yet to encounter.)

So weddings = supposed to register. Apparently the whole world will be waiting with bated breath to find out where Ray and I are registering. We are too, as we have no idea what an inventory of stuff we need would look like (indeed, we both seem to feel awash in stuff right now and willing to not own more stuff, or, if we do, to get it our own selves).

HOWEVER, should we register, the people who are interested are supposed to find out how? By seeing that we're registered on our invites or enclosures in the invites?

Oh Lord God Almighty NOOOOO!!! HERESY!

They have to learn by Word of Mouth.

Maybe that worked back in the day, when going from Aurora to St. Paul was a big deal (circa 1925 or so actual distance: about 17 miles. In people's imaginations: GOING TO EUROPE, info from GMR). Today, when I have family and friends all over who don't really all know each other, that doesn't work so well.

If you are a bride who ignores this etiquette rule, you are a BAD PERSON. Check out the comments here. And God forbid you ask for money! I dare you to type some query along the lines of "I'm a bride and want cash" in Google (there is some pro-asking for cash advice, but it's all "this isn't classy and it takes tact," and the comments are all bile). Even Chinese people get mad about it even though we've all seen that scene in The Wedding Banquet where the red envelopes come streaming in. (Note that if you are a groom you are presumed to have limited, if any, agency.)

So this means that people have to come up to you or your family to ask where you are registered. They are forced into a conversation about someone's wedding. Maybe they want to talk about it, maybe they don't feel like getting sucked into the mountain of crazy that is wedding talk from someone invested in a wedding.

Frankly, I come down on the side of, just tell me on the invite so while it is on my mind, so when it occurs to me, I can go straight to the Internet and buy you something. I cannot be trusted to remember to ask someone or even know whom to ask. I appreciate the bluntness and ease and do not need to do some sort of pearl-clutching over breached etiquette. I do not feel I have been assaulted by someone's greed. People who feel like they are being assaulted by a line of ink that reads, "we are registered at the Sharper Image" need to take some Prozac, grab a ladder and climb over themselves.

Also frankly, it seems to me that there is a lot of free-floating bride hate out there. This culture absolultely hates when women decide to remove their (purely theoretical) sexual availability from the public pool. They hate women having a "day." They do everything they can to denigrate and hate on brides in particular — like the groom has no agency in having a celebration that is "too lavish," "too weird," "too selfish" or too whatever, or worse, that he's being suckered by a succubus so his masculinity is diminished. Even if all the trappings of a wedding are patriarchal and so are its roots, I think it bothers some people that women are taking control over their weddings, as much as they are their marriages, their careers and their fertility.

It bothers folks that women are able to spend their own money on weddings, that we're able to obtain credit to pay for it, too (although, hello, not really the best use of credit). They don't like that we're able to pick who we want to marry. They don't like that we feel we should have control over our own weddings and get mad when we find relatives doing things like inviting people we don't know, imposing their own feelings that they had a mediocre wedding and if only we do what THEY want it will be perfect because sad experience has taught them, or just generally making brides mad. It's always the bride's fault, in their narratives.

I'm not saying there aren't immature brides, but I'm saying they are the vast minority and the stereotype that is used to make all us other brides cower in fear of being compared to them. I'm also saying that they are playing into the culture's expectations for them. You think the magazines and the bridal-industrial complex are playing NO ROLE AT ALL in the creation of the stressed-out, bitchy, entitled Bridezilla? You think they're innocent bystanders? NO WAY JOSE. It's another sexist method of control and they are playing right into it.

It's time to liberate Bridezilla. It's time to unhook her from the culture of consumption, to unhook her from her frightful associations. It's time to recast her. It's time that all that energy be harnessed for some better project.

Hawaii

2009-02-22T16:38:00.000-08:00

Aloha.

We are back from bliss city, aka Hawaii, the most utterly relaxing and endearing place I've ever been to. To think I thought it would be cheesy.

The picture you see above is from Sunday, day #1 of the Maui Experience. Saturday was all travel (ran into the special services director of the Aberdeen School District on Saturday. We had the same flight. Both of us probably felt a little work-y due to that coincidence) and then a FABULOUS dinner at Sansei, where we had the two-person tasting menu of Chef Omakase's specialities, which blew my mind and taste buds away. The lobster and blue crab ravioli in truffle cream sauce knocked me out.

But Sunday was the first real day of vacay, and perhaps I was still chilling on the good vibes of Sansei, and maybe the awesome condo with Lanai (Hawaiian for "patio") view of the water (and whales, which were in Maui's waters by the thousands on their annual pilgrimage to mate and calve before heading back to Alaska to feed) put me in a good mood, but I think all the peak experiences of Sunday were a contributing factor.

First, there was the snorkeling. Big ups to Snorkel Bob's. The woman at the counter there was a snorkeling maven. She could tell my and Ray's feet sizes by glancing down, figured out his glasses prescription with a glance through his glasses and basically hooked us up. She also asked if I was from Kent or Gig Harbor when she saw my area code (253! Holla atcha gurl!). What? Ironically, two nights before we had gone to see Sarah Vowell she not only said she was now researching Hawaii, she thought one of the best pieces of advice she got in high school was to find people who do their jobs well — no matter what those jobs are — and watch them. It was a SV doubleshot. Sarah, when you hit Maui, go to the Snorkel Bob's by the Maui Tacos in Kihei and sit back for a show.

The snorkeling cannot be over-praised. And we didn't do the Molokini or anything. We just went out and about on the southerly beaches. The water was crystal clear, and we saw all kinds of crazy fish — parrotfish type fishes, bright blue ones with sloopy faces, little black and white ones with cool patterns, and even the humuhumublahblahblueblahblah fish. On day one, I realized when I was quiet that I was hearing something odd. Could it be? Holy cats it was. I was hearing the song of the Humpback whale. I alerted Ray, who thought I was crazy, but realized, yes, those are either the oo-ooos? and eeeee!s of the humpback whales or the screams of the damned. Because they do sound kind of like they aren't wholly, uh, positive. Or maybe I have negative associations with whalesong music by new agers.

The second day we saw sea turtles. Bigguns. And one floated up to say howdy. I was very intimidated, because s/he (how can you tell?) was big pictures don't do these beasts justice. Unfortunately, the ones I took were on film, so I'll have to figure out how to scan them to post them. I was left with some questions that will have to be unanswered due to Ray's internet not accessing some sites (like all the WaPo family, Wikipedia, etc.): Do sea turtles breathe air and water or just hold their breath a lot? And, especially when that one particular one came up, Do they snap?

Then Sunday night we went to a luau, The Feast at Lele, which is supposed to be the classiest luau on the islands. Yelp loves it, too. The first thing to happen, we get greeted with real orchid leis. Class achieved!

What'd I say? Classy! I kind of couldn't stop myself from saying that all night. We had front row seats because we booked a few months ago, and the view, outdoors, looking at the sunset and Lana'i (another island) and the beach, was just spectacular.

Then the dance commenced!

So graceful! The dancers were all so pretty and smiley!

This is a Samoan-style dance. There were all kinds of crazy moments, like when this one chick got out of a canoe that was pushed into shore and got up on an old stump and hula'd. From a canoe.

I think that was this girl. After a couple of glasses of Sauv blanc, half a Blue Hawaii and half a pina colada, I told our waiter, Shane, that if I could shake it like that I would never ever stop shaking it. Even now, less sodden with rum and bliss, I stand by that statement.

There were guys, too.

This guy is doing a Maori warrior style dance.

When the New Zealand stuff was about to start (it takes about 3 hours to get through the show, and the menu spills out bit by bit, and there is a ton of food that comes at you), the hostess announced that the Maori had to determine the intentions of the guests were good or bad, and that one man in the front row would be selected as our spokesperson (or something) and if he would please come up and take the peace offering then the warrior/dancer, then we would not be attacked (or something, the audio people were not very good about turning down the incidental music while the hostess did her spiel). Guess who that spokesperson was?

That's right. He was basically the middle-most dude in a row full of mostly ladies.

I can't even begin to tell you all the food that came at us. Fern salad, kahlua pork, broiled scallops, beef medallions, yes ... much of it was meat-based. It was insane. Luckily they were small plates and it was over the course of three hours, so while it was quite a bit of tasting, it was pretty reasonable in all.

Some Yelpers gripe and moan that the Feast at Lele isn't authentic. Forget authentic. Because authentic means standing at a buffet line for mac salad and, apparently, none of this:

That's my National Geographic shot right there. Notice how close the flame gets to his dried-grass "socks."

So obviously the night ended on a high note.

On Tuesday we went to Haleakala, a volcanic crater high up in the mountains.

How high was it?

That high up. Obviously we could only do about a mile of the Shifting Sands hike because although it starts off nice and easy downhill, it's out and back so back was uphill. Meh. I got as much sun this day as any of the other days were were out.

Also we didn't have much time before I did this:

Obviously that's not me. I do have a video on my camera, but my mac doesn't know how to get it out so I can show you all the massive funs I had swinging like ... well, not Tarzan, but someone who zips through the jungle. Here's an idea of me on the last zipline, even though it is someone else. We also walked across a swinging bridge.

Jim, who is hooking a tourist in, said that the zipline tours had inspired a lot of divorces over the years. Newlyweds come to Maui to marry, take the zipline tour, and boom, they are pissed at each other because they have never encountered what the other person is like when they are pushed to their limits. Although I think a lot of times the pushing to the limits may not be the fault of the zipline as one of the partners. To wit, Jim said one time he took a couple on the tour and while crossing that very bridge, which freaked the woman out, the man started bouncing the bridge. Not only did it freak her out more, it caused her front tooth to hit the pulley system and break in half.

I think maybe someone who gets their kicks freaking you out is not the ideal marriage partner. And I am absolutely 100 percent positive that this guy's knucleheaded tendencies had been on display before but she had not been the victim of them. Or they hadn't caused a chipped tooth. Whatever. All I know is Ray would never, ever intentionally flip me out and make me worry about my safety. He might get my goat in other ways, like by talking about how awesome Pat Buchanan is, or by tweaking me about liking Safeway over Top Food, which he deems "The People's Grocery Store." This is far and away more fun to put up with than redneck dumbassery.

Jim later told Ray that he has never read a book in his life ... "scratch that, I read 'James and the Giant Peach' in fifth grade." He made a lot of mentions of having "a girlfriend" in various industries on the island. He also told Ray he listens to satellite radio through his cell phone. He is a character for sure. Joe, the other, apparently more grown-up of the guides, has a background in production and told me he and his wife are going to do documentaries where they film old Hawaiians doing their "talk story," or tell oral tradition tales. I had mentioned my speciality at the paper is profiles of seniors.

The next day we did a whale watching tour out of Ma'alena with the Pacific Whale Foundation. The breeze was insane. We had to hold on to our hats. But we saw some crazy whale action.

There were seven (7!!!) breaches, where the whales leapt out of the water and thumped back in, five of them happening in a row. Why wasn't I able to catch that on compact flash? Gah, I dunno, but this is about as good as my photos get even though my eyes saw WAY better:

This is part of a "competition pod" of about eight or nine males competing for the, uh, whatever, of a female whale (who was with her calf). They were all bonking on each other to muscle their way into being her "escort" and there were tail flukes and aggressive dives galore. We could see the light turquoise water where their bellies were and where they were blowing bubbles (like throwing sand in an opponent's eyes, according to the first mate). The lady whale must have been a "hottie," the first mate said. I thought the idea of being aggressively pursued by eight males while with a child in tow would be kind of scary and hoped she'd make it out okay, even though Nature's Way is not, you know, people's way.

The ship dropped a mic and we heard the singing of a single male whale (the girls don't sing, apparently). One on one, it was less screams of the damned and more comical. Fun fact: The Humpback whale males all sing the same song, which is 16 to 18 minutes long, on a loop, though not all in sync. At the end of the season in May or so, the song that the whales sing has changed a bit. Version 2.0, if you will, though I'm sure we're probably at version 300000.0 or so by now.

I love whales. I want to save the whales. In spite of their somewhat rapey courtship methods, they are probably better than most people.

Then Thursday we did a hike up Waihe'e ridge.

Those skies, do they look foreboding?

How about these?

Yeah, scream, Callie. The reason there aren't any later pics than this on the camera is because it started to drizzle at mile 1.something. By mile 2.0 it was coming down buckets. But there wasn't much longer to go so we pressed on and got totally soaked to the bone. Luckily, hypothermia was not a danger in the warm weather. But the trail was — that Hawaiian clay is slippery! We almost pasted our butts on it a couple of times coming down the eroded path. There was a little stream in the middle, and I found the ground there was as stable and flat as anywhere, so I just trod there and let my feet swim for a good stretch.

We had passed one couple on the way up, and as we came down we passed them again. She was, ah, decompensating a bit, and he was, ah, not very compassionate about it, wanting to push on. Ray heard her say, "I don't wanna do it!" followed by him saying, "If they can get through that mud we can." Well, you'll have to or you're stuck. And I don't want to overstate things, but I was quite the little mountain goat that day if you don't count the one near-fall where I pitched my water bottle a good eight feet into the bushes (recovered! No litter here!).

Our last day we spent going on the road to Hana.

Famously twisty, it is also famous for its banana bread vendors and waterfalls.

Who cares about waterfalls (don't go chasing them, people!) when you have this car?

Who'da thunk it?

And then there's Waipa something state park.

Beautiful. The water was so much more turquoise than is obvious in this picture.

A little more like that.

We did a little hike there. It was so pretty.

Then we made it to Oheo Gulch, aka Seven Sacred Pools, a marketing tool by a would-be east Maui hotelier. It was quite pretty, and although I was ready to throw in the towel after a mile in on the Pipiwai trail (scroll for good pics) for the sake of time to get back to town (the road is quite bad in both directions), Ray, whose worrywort tendencies were outdone by his desire to accomplish the mission of the hike (he had been going back and forth on the Pipiwai all day), insisted we press on.

And thank goodness he did. Or we would have missed this:

I, of course, immediately started quoting from the beginning of "Bring da Ruckus" ("Shaolin shadowboxing and the Wu-Tang sword style. If what you say is true, the Shaolin and the Wu Tang could be dangerous. Do you think your Wu Tang sword can defeat me? En garde! I'll let you try my Wu Tang style!") But when I got quiet, I heard the clunking of the bamboo all around as the wind rattled. Nice.

The falls were good, too, but my pictures of them are replete with false attachment. To wit, they look like they are pouring on Ray's head.

That was our last night at the condo. I loved the lanai.

See how sad he is to leave it? (In this shot, the camera is pointed mauka, to the mountain, while Ray is looking makai, to the water. Those are authentic Hawaiian directionals, people.)

We went to the Maui Beach Hotel, which is no Sea-Crest Motel (described for the den of iniquity it is on this blog back in March), but did appear to have blood on the curtains, a very hard mattress and not-so-good beach access. Also, it's in Kahalui, not Kihei, which, although it is clearly some amok development, I have developed a soft spot for because Maui would not be open to the middle class without it.

Oh, and check what I found that night at a cheesy tourist shop:

My name is getting more common, obviously. And no, I didn't buy it. I just took a picture. I'm cheap like that.

The next day we left. Sunday we came back to the Harbor. Are we recharged and ready to go back to work? Or will we just be that much more depressed for having seen what life can be like in a tropical island paradise? Only Monday will bring the answer for sure.

Until then, Shaka, brah. Drive Aloha. And a most sincere Mahalo to Hawaii and Maui. Truly, Maui na ka oi. (Maui is tops)

Clam excitement

2009-02-09T19:56:00.001-08:00

After a headache that ran from Wednesday through Friday with little abatement and encroaching stress from work (mostly from the perilous position newspapers hold in our society and the means through which the industry, including what appears to be my somewhat protected cove in said ocean, is retrenching. Holy cats, people. It is bad out there. If you've ever thought it would serve your local paper right to go down in flames, well, be prepared to rue that statement, because way more people are going to see that happen in the next few years is my prediction. And if you think your paper's coverage sucks now, well, wait until staffs are truly cut to the bone. It is coming, people. Get used to it. Or buy a paper), and Ray's annual stress-out festival, we really needed a clam dig. And the WDFW provided, like a bolt from the sky!

The clamming was fantastic. Ray's brow actually lost its peaked-ness for a few minutes there, going after the wily bivalves in the sunny, warmish weather. I actually broke a major sweat under my neoprene waders. We picked up wine at the Westport Winery, and it was rocking. There was music, fresh-popped popcorn and a ton of people, proving that come the Depression, imbibables are probably a good bet. Craigslist can't infringe on that sort of profit.

Oh, Callie, you're such a downer, you say. Well! Is your food distribution center, which serves something like 11 counties, being forced to think about laying off its director, making her a client, most likely? No? Consider yourself lucky. (The interesting thing about the director is that she was once a client, and worked her way out of it and is on the Hoquiam city council and everything. Social services being stressed in a time of great stress. Agh. I can't take it. I'm Linusing out.)

We ground up the clams in the maiden usage of our Kitchen Aid and its meat grinder attachment, which I messed up a little in installing, causing clams to squeeze against the grind plate and excrete translucent pinky-gray water, but not to break up into chunks. So I fixed it. And the ground clams turned into fritters. And all was good.

And Ray and I watched "Get Smart," which was funny but had the unforgivable scene of Steve Carell and Anne Hathaway kissing. In the plot, she had recently had her face changed, so she requested she be deoldified and was really closer to his age, which was, I suppose, a fictional way to try to make us viewers not all feel kind of gross about the romantic subplot. Did he not feel like a sex offender kissing her? Did this not prompt a sudden and deep reevaluation of how women's looks, ageism and men's sexual entitlement are given gross leeway in our mass media images? Did nobody THINK OF THE CHILDREN????

I guess not.

We also played duets with banjo and clarinet. We are officially the dorkiest couple in the world. And all we need is someone to document it in video and I'll put it on the blog for the world to see us share our sick sad love in the key of B flat.

I recently finished "The Essential Dykes To Watch Out For," and I heartily recommend it, with the reservations that there are graphic depictions of dyketude in cartoon format, and if that freaks you out don't read it. If it turns you on, well, that's kind of funny. It is a lot healthier depiction of sexuality than most Manga, from what I've read. (If you click any of those links you are on your own buddy, I have not vetted them at all.) Alison Bechdel also wrote "Fun Home," and it is just fabulous.

So I can't access DTWOF from Techline, which Ray has taken to calling "Teakline," in which "teak" is Kris and Ray speak for spaz, or tweak, if you will. Someone can be "teaking out," and this was a slang word Kris made up back in the 80s, before there were tweakers who sometimes were tweaking out. I can't download my NPR most emailed podcasts. I'm almost salivatory in anger. I can't get the WaPo, either. Teakline, what is the matter with you?

Praying for an internet intervention.

Banjo Madness

2009-01-24T21:10:00.000-08:00

So Tuesday I had a banjo band practice and I now am learning songs from two books.

After practice, I helped a frail and very elderly lady to her car, carrying her stuff for her. She tried to unlock her door but it was stuck, I tried to unlock it for her but it remained stuck. After 5 minutes of futzing with the door we decided to throw her stuff on the passenger seat from the driver's side. She was saying stuff like, "I'm going pretty good now, but my knees are on fire!" I felt so bad for her.

Another woman who had come to help her, and seemed mere minutes away from that same level of frailty, took advantage of the first lady's hearing loss to yell this to me over the top of the first lady's car as she got in:

"One time we went to a playout, and (name redacted) lost her teeth and glasses! She was like this (sucks in lips and squints)!"

I wondered what would happen to her once she got home, but since that's where she's most adapted and comfortable, I suppose she was better off.

Getting old is not for the faint of heart.

On feeling moderately better

2009-01-24T20:36:00.000-08:00

Wedding scouting takes a lot of footwork. Even in the days of the Internet, there are some places you just need to see to believe, and since we have decided to shackle ourselves in T-town (for convenience's sake for my family) we needed to go check it out.

We started at this place called the Varsity, now the home base of The Vault, which used to be on Pac Ave. and had a really great venue. This one, eh, not so much. It's pretty, don't get me wrong, but the old one had a view of Puget Sound. But it has big windows to let in whatever natural light will avail itself to us. The food at the open house was pretty tasty, I could see us going with some variation on it. The owner, who looked like she'd been smothered by Claire's Accessories and only just fought her way out (I mean this in a good way), was a little hyper. I like that in a food service manager. Ray gets put on edge by people with manic energy. Yet he's marrying me.

Then we went to my good buddy Blackberry's house for enchiladas and more talk about colonoscopies and hysterectomies than you could imagine. Mrs. Blackberry showed me how she got her tummy tuck with her de-organization, and you know what? I'm not a plastic surgery person, but it was tight. No pooch on the hooch. Her naval looked real. I am adding tummy tuck to the short list of plastic surgeries I would consider if I get out of control sagged out bagged out as I gracefully age. Tummy tuck joins eyelid lift and structural hitching up of the girls. Let it be noted that I'm probably too lazy and afraid of surgery for any of the above.

Blackberry is a musician in a band that has played more weddings than you can shake a stick at, and he had some alternative suggestions for venues to hold a reception at. One of which I find oddly compelling though I have not seen its inside.

Luckily, Alicia is on the case and hopes to send inside pics soon. That's what I'm talking about. I got resources, and I work them like a good little reporter.

We also had our first meeting with Dave, the nice minister who will hitch us together. He asked us if we had a "vision" for our wedding, and we looked at each other in horror. I kind of went on a rant about how stupid most weddings are (I didn't mean yours, reader), and somehow all that verbal diarrhea (on the order of, "I hate how it's all about THE COUPLE, well, we're all together in this, and the whole world is sharing love, it's like we're in a river of love, but we're peeing in the river, and we're peeing love, and we're all swimming in each other's love-pee," but not quite so vulgar) transfigured itself into a vision of something that will be probably maybe not too awful. I'm not going to spoil the surprise, but when your honey gives you a, "dang! Nailed it!" look and the minister says, "You don't need to do all this homework after all," I think it's possible to say, oh yeah, we've got the makings of a real barnburner of a wedding. Prepare for shock and awe, y'all.

The chapel is also really pretty. The bridal-prep room doubles as the Muslim room because it is the only one with a washbasin. Take from that what you will, but the University of Puget Sound does not have any muslim students.

Alicia's kids are so freaking big now it's insane. How fast they grow up, yet I remain superfoxy and mentally 13 years old.

We did a chore at the Tacoma Costco and it was horrific there. The traffic, the parking, the people. Inside, it was like piranha feasting on the corpses of a lot of dead cows. The mall parking lot was crammed. What recession? At the REI, site of another chore, I was looking at a bottle and this random dude who was spending WAY TOO MUCH TIME going through water bottle selections completely denigrated the bottle I had in my hand (one of the few with a sippy top) to his lady, then said, "Oh, but you're going to buy that." I said, "Well, I'm not taking it packing, I'm using it indoors." Then, very quietly, I called him a name. I was quite stressed by the traffic and the crush of humanity that had descended on the commercial district of Tacoma, in my defense.

Either that shows I'm becoming an intolerant bumpkin, or that I'm the same old high-strung Northeastern chick I've been trying not to be. I need to remember that that dumb guy? As well as the old dingleberries who went left around Ray's car while we were about to turn left into a parking space and signaling we were going to do so (parking lots don't have passing lanes!)? They are all swimming in the river of love in my love pee and vice versa. Or something. We all seemed to be feeling pretty pissy, that much I can tell you.

But we're back in the safety of the low-traffic, uncrowded Harbor. And we're more confident about planning Hitchin' Shindig '09.

Mystery of FB

2009-01-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

Who is this Shawn Rivera and why does he want to be my FB friend? We had a really big graduating class, and if he remembers me and I don't remember him I'll feel really bad. But considering his job and maybe mine he is into networking. And by networking I mean attention-getting.

What, me cynical? I have to be. The only other option is that my memory is shot and I knew this kid back in the day.

Ways to keep me up at night

2009-01-14T23:35:00.000-08:00

Scene: late weekday night as my eyes are fluttering closed.

Ray: "What kind of music do you want to play at the wedding?"

Callie: "You mean you *want* to have a DJ now? We can dance?"

Ray: "No, I mean at the *wedding.*"

Callie: "Oh. I hadn't thought about it. Maybe we can get the organist to play 'Light My Fire.' "

Ray: (makes a comment that demonstrates his complete lack of knowledge of The Doors)

Callie: (Educates Ray about The Doors, decides not to bring up other organ-heavy song of the flower child age, "Whiter Shade of Pale.")

Ray: "Oh." (discussion of classic wedding song thingies ensues, as well as fact that we don't need to make any decisions right away)

Callie: "And then there's 'Ave Maria.' Remember on 'Reno 911' when Jim Dangle plays it on the banjo for someone's wedding? I would take that. Or if Here Comes Treble sang a cappella. Actually, that's non-negotiable for me."

Ray: "That's right, he played the banjo at that wedding. Whose?" (We couldn't figure it out. Thanks, Internet, for responding, "Clemmie.") (Ray rolls right over and falls asleep, while I ponder who got married on Reno 911 and really, what kind of song do I want to experience the extreme mortification of being propped up in front of everyone to? Banjo Ave Maria seems about the best option right now. In fact, the more I think about it the more I want it. If Thomas Lennon wanted to show up and play it that would be icing on the cake, but unfortunately, I think something that exciting might tip the wedding into "mandatory best day" territory, and I don't want it going there.)

Am I sick for wanting banjo wedding aisle music?

Left Behind

2009-01-14T22:43:00.000-08:00

So today I went to the Day of Action, where a bunch of educators from eight local school districts got the day off to tell lawmakers that they don't want school funding cut. They did this in Olympia, which is known as a place that's kind of a pill to get around in and especially park, especially while the lege is in session and moreso when there are so many inaugurations going on. So my editor and I decide I'll drive down and park at the former Mervyn's at Capital Mall, where there will be shuttle buses waiting to take us to the event.

Mission accomplished. Total success. I got on no problem and signed in at the sign-in sheet. Which was heartening, as was the ditzy-looking bus monitor's announcements that we were on bus 153 and needed to remember that, it was very important, and we'd be loading the bus at 12:45 p.m. and returning to the lot at 1 p.m.

Well, the rally went a little faster than expected, because it was really cold and everyone was stamping their feet and it was windy and my face turned about three shades of red from windburn (my hands got even colder). So on the way back there was a ton of time for the 12:45 departure. I stopped in at Wagner's for a latte and a few minutes of warm air. Well, all of Grays Harbor ended up in there for lunch or lattes as well, so I chatted a little with the teachers. But I was soon a little overwhelmed by all the educators and felt surrounded by sources in a non-sourcy place so I had to beat it and I was on my little jaunt back to the buses. It was maybe 12:20/12:25ish (earlier than I had initially planned to leave), so I knew I had tons of time yet the pace I set was pretty brisk because so was the weather.

I could see the buses across the way on Deschutes. I was heartened by the fact that these people do field trips all the time and need to corral little kids — how hard could it be with self-regulating and mature adults? I wondered. Well, as I was a few clicks from the buses one of them took off. So I started booking it, startled as heck. As I just get to the buses another three take off.

There are monitors there, so I ask, "Where are those buses going? I need to get to the mall." And they say they don't know, what, like it's their job to make sure people are on the buses they need to be on?

"Where's this bus going to?" I ask. Montesano, it turns out. (I know this because the driver is right there and can answer) "Where are the other two buses going?" (no one knows.) Then suddenly THOSE two buses take off.

In a burst of common sense, I say, "Oh, well, those buses to the mall must be coming back, right?" I mean, you don't just leave that early and then not expect some people to show up a little late, I mean, that's just life, right? I mean, I wasn't even late!

"No. They're not." The finality and utter confidence with which this phrase was said was in total contrast to everything else I had heard to that point.

"That's crazy," I say. "The scheduled departure time was 1." I get looked at like I have autism or something. Why is this chick so obsessed with bus schedules? There must be some kind of perceptual problem in her head.

Holy crap, it's me and one bus to Monte. My car is stuck at the mall. My face is obviously the face of the freaked-out, so one of the monitors says, "Don't worry honey, we'll get you where you need to go. You just go back over where the U-Haul is" way down at the park, I'm not so sure anyone will be there when I get there "and there'll be someone who can drive you."

The hell I'm going to leave this bus and embark on a journey that could burn me. I also realize at this exact moment that my cell phone is charging on the table upstairs and NOT in my purse and if I need to call someone to find out which exact bus it is that runs to the Capital Mall and where the stops are I am totally hosed. I kind of just want to go all Keenan whateverhisname is on SNL and scream "FISSIT!" at the bus monitor. It is totally their fault that I am standing there at 12:30, a full half hour before the announced departure time, and there are no buses there.

The Monte bus driver tells me the mall is on his way and he can drop me off. God bless you, bus driver. So I get on the Monte bus and am taken to the mall. Ironically, even though my bus left at least five minutes after the other buses, we get there before the other buses — MY bus included. I'm walking across the parking lot as I see them come in.

Well, I'm relieved, but I'm also totally pissed off, and I really feel the need to tell these dummies that they had given fairly explicit instructions and there was a reasonable expectation that some teachers would linger in a warm coffeeshop before heading to the bus drop. So I found one bus monitor and said, "Is the bus monitor on 153? Because I got left behind." This other lady totally could not process that because I was here now, wasn't I? I may not have explained that the GOODNESS of ONE MAN'S HEART gave me a lift to a place not totally out of his way, but I was angry and confused and a little worried that other people may have taken these other people at, oh, I don't know, THEIR WORD. (side note: the teachers on the bus say sometimes on field trips they're so aware of having to get all the kids they forget the chaperones. No good deed, people. No good deed.)

So this bus monitor #1 is with me when I see the glassy-eyed bus monitor of bus 153. And I do mean that when you look into her eyes, you don't see in. They are as reflective as those of a fish, a drowned man, a zombie. Kind of like the way Roald Dahl describes the eyes of the witches in "The Witches." I am a little freaked out by them, but angry enough to say, "Hey, I was supposed to be on that bus. I got left behind."

And of course since I don't say I had to catch a lift, this chick totally cannot process how I've been left behind because after all I am right there. Here is a reconstruction of the incident, I speak first.

"Why did you leave so early? You said the bus would load at 12:45 and leave at 1. It's not even 12:45."

"That's right."

"Right, it's not even loading time. I wasn't late and you guys had taken off."

"Oh, well, if you check the time (looks at watch) see, it's 12:45." (this is not perfect, the real conversation was SO much stupider and head-banging than that it is literally too stupid for me to recall)

"Right. NOW it is 12:45, the loading time. I thought I had extra time to get to the buses. But you took off, you totally abandoned me."

"Oh I SEE what the problem is. I did a headcount. We had 30 people."

"You took my name down. Did you call the roll?"

"What? No. We did a headcount. I counted 30 people. And some people said they weren't coming back with us." (This is a rally of about 500 people. I would think the sheer number of people shifting whether or not they are going to get to the bus and maybe not getting on the same frigging bus would encourage a little bit of sensitivity to making sure we all get out of Oly)

"But you didn't wait. That didn't occur ..." I am so mad now I am literally shaking with anger.

"We had thirty people! (Laughs) That's what happened!"

"Well, are you going to send some buses back in case..." "No." Yet another incredibly final and confident phrase after so much stupid twitterpating.

I can't tell you how mad I was at these stupid bus monitors. The ONLY thing they have to do is make sure they get people back where they belong and they screw it up on what I think could be an epic level (how many other coffee-drinking teachers were there waiting until not the last minute, but something near that? Or even last minute). They are all the worst stereotypes of the kind of people certain public education hating types point to as problems in the system, people who can't do, so they teach. They can't even say, "Oh, crap, we left you behind? I'm sorry." They don't care how it happened, it was just clearly my fault for listening to their stupid instructions. Like every other dang encounter I had with authority in my K-12 education, there was no rhyme, no reason and no apology. But plenty of hypocrisy to go around!

The only thing I find less comprehensible than the stupid bus monitors are the teachers who all got back on time and none of whom had the common sense to say, "Well, wait a minute, we said we'd take off at 1, shouldn't a bus stick around and wait for any possible latecomers? This has been a big rally with a lot of people going in and out and we should take every precaution." But it's possible that they all just really wanted to get back to their cars so they could go to the mall or Target. Because they had the day off and I can't really blame them. I had to go to Target, which was next door to the mall, to walk off my frustration and look for shelf organizers (they don't really have them).

Note to parents: Don't ever be a chaperone on your kids' field trip. If you are left behind the teachers will think it's funny and possibly, from what I observed today, not go back to pick you up.

Again, THANK YOU MONTE BUS PEOPLE. Your kindness shown brightly among the dimbulbs and greatly relieved my mind.

Just whoa

2009-01-13T19:22:00.000-08:00

Today I got to do a ridealong with some community corrections officers, you may better know them as parole officers. And just whoa. What looks like success in corrections is, well, kind of depressing. For example a filthy home is not necessarily a sign of failure. Even if it reeks of pee. Heck, the people don't need to be that clean to be successful, in the very broad terms of corrections, which basically means no drugs and no crime-doing.

So you can only imagine what it was like in the place where the one guy we saw who was *not* successful was living. Oh em gee to the max.

So we pull up into one of the skankier motels in town — which is DEFINITELY SAYING SOMETHING — and one officer warns me the guy we're about to see (if he's there) "has mental issues, and you'll pick up on that right away." Also, he's a level three (highest risk) sex offender. Now, he's not going to rape me while there are parole officers there, and honestly, he's not really the sort who's together enough to rape anyone. What he did, I sussed out from his nickname ("the Coffeestand Man"), was go through the Koffee Kat with his pants down (he likes to drive around with his pants down, as you will see in this story).

The officers (who are both huge dudes) knocked on the door and the dude comes out, leaning into the crack of the door so officers can't see behind (dude, you are under supervision, you don't get that sort of privacy and you know they like to do checks). His hair is greasy and long. His shirt is stained. He is a little belligerent, but has no problem with officers coming in. And the first thing they see is a couple of syringes on the table in front of the door, with some McKesson alcohol wipes, which I take as a personal shout-out to Ray's sister. Also, in the bathroom, there is a ridiculously skinny young woman with teeth that are black around the edges (ironically, she is lining her eyes with black eyeliner, so there's a weird aesthetic thing happening there, a mirror effect, if you will) who talks far too quickly and doesn't seem at all perturbed that parole officers are in there.

The room is filthy. There is cheese sitting out on a counter. There is filth everywhere. There is a supermarket-tupperwareish container full of cigarette butts. The bedsheets are greenish-brown from the filth. The whole place is just repulsive. One officer takes the dude out to the car to "talk to him," basically give his partner a chance to search without the dude getting aggressive. The other partner searches the room while asking questions to the woman, like who is she and what is her deal here? She doesn't have much of an answer for that, but she tells him, "I didn't even know that guy was a sex offender until one time we were driving around and he had his thing out and the cops pulled us over and told me."

If that doesn't make your head smart from the sheer cluelessness, the officer asked what she was doing with him and she said he gives her rides and he tells everyone she's his girlfriend. The officer also asked about the needles and she said they were her brother's, and he has diabetes (so naturally he scatters his needles all over, even in some dude's creepy motel room). He also asked how old she was and she said, "You think I'm underage? I'm 20." Given that crazy mental thing-out-driver is 60 if he's a day, I later asked the officers what they thought she was doing with him. They didn't even want to know. I guess they have enough to worry about.

One thing to worry about are needles. They are everywhere and they rightfully freak out the officers. There's even one under the bed, uncapped. Along with a big pile of porn, which is a no-no for a sex offender, so dude is going back to prison today.

The porn, I'll add, was generally of the "barely legal" type. One magazine advertised "100% real boobs" inside. The dead eyes of the girls on the covers was tragic. Did they realize when they posed for this stuff that mentally ill sex offenders who drive around with their dingalings out were going to be buying this? You don't suppose they felt empowered by knowing something along these lines? I felt awful for those girls.

There wasn't really anything to get on the girl, even though the officers found little tiny cotton balls and a spoon in the bathroom with a little tiny burned cottonball in it (apparently heroin users "filter" the cooked heroin through the cotton. I wonder how it is that they can heat that stuff up and then inject it into their veins at, presumably, a high temperature). Somebody has been using.

It was very depressing. And because the officers had to take him to Shelton right away, me and the photog ended up getting rides back to my car with Aberdeen's finest, who came to assist. The guy who gave me a ride turned out to be the Officer In Charge the weekend I worked who did not get back to me about the PUD truck theft, so he apologized. No biggie. I had my hands way too full that day, anyway. I drove like 90 miles to get a single story, going all over the county.

In all, pretty exciting day. If you have your mental health and a modicum of life skills, you should take a moment to count your blessings.

Is moving stressful for me? I report, you decide.

2009-01-12T15:22:00.000-08:00

An actual conversation from Sunday, after Ray and I schlepped all my furniture over to his — our — place and were getting things oriented in "my room," which I am taking to calling "the lounge," "the reading room" and "closet overflow central."

Ray: It'd be easier to move this bookcase if the shoes weren't in the way.

Callie: What is this with you and my shoes? Because you have been after me about my shoes for, like, days now.

Ray: They're just all over the place. I just think it would be better if we got your shoe tree and put your shoes on them ...

Callie: Don't even blame the shoes. They are in discrete bags that can easily be moved into the closet and out of the way. Look (moves bag). Now, what is this thing with you and my shoes?

Ray: Well, you do have a lot of shoes ...

Callie: You don't get to judge!

Ray: Some of them look pretty crazy ...

Callie: You do not get to hate on my shoes. No. Stop right now. You do not get to go there. Now that they're moved do we get to move the bookcase?

And scene ...

Big news

2009-01-07T21:33:00.000-08:00

Ray and I are making it official.

We want our relationship on paper, in a county courthouse, recognized by officialdom, ritualized and formalized. We want to be responsible to each other. If I'm in a car accident, his is the face I want to see when I come out of the fog of shock and narcotics. When I pay taxes I want our socials to be right next to each other. If I have to be put in an institution, his is the signature I want involuntarily committing me. When I come home after work, he's the one I want to tell all the stupid stuff that happened to me, except I've probably been emailing him as it all happens, but that doesn't matter, he wants to hear it again. He's the one I want to have private jokes with for the rest of my life. He's the one I want to bring orange-banana-strawberry smoothies when he has a cold and is miserable. He's the one I want to change headlights and windshield wipers and electrical switches for because Lord knows he can't figure/reach that stuff out for himself. He's the one I want to hike with, even though he sets a diabolical pace.

He's the one I want. That's basically what it comes down to. And he, in turn, wants me.

So it took a while to post all this because before I could have my Flickr contact here find out and maybe say, "Hey, didja know ..." so that word filtered back, we wanted to tell the person responsible for introducing us, Grays Harbor's yenta par excellence Betsy Seidel. So we did that after the 7th Street movie committee meeting tonight at, of course, Stiffy's Bar and Grill. Of course Betsy was super-excited, because that is how she lives. She is a high voltage wire, one that you cannot say no to. And thank goodness for that!

So anyway, although we've been "secretly engaged" for the better part of a year now, Ray didn't think we'd be truly honest-to-God engaged without a ring. Funny, I was fine without it. And funny, it took him until late fall to say anything about this. He just moves a lot more deliberately than I do. But I told him, whatever, buddy, I'll put up with an uncomfortable piece of jewelry on my finger if it makes you happy. Just make sure it's cruelty-free, and you don't even need to get a diamond or any kind of gem that has been ripped from the bosom of Mother Earth under uncertain humanitarian instances or toxic environmental ones.

Obviously I am the buzzkill in this relationship. But Ray went the Canada route, and he got me a beautiful, ridiculously nice rock that sparkles like Polaris reflected in the eye of a Canadian polar bear. Except this polar bear has beautiful compound eyes. Seriously, I thought I was one of them crunchy feminazi types and I put this bad boy on and I am completely hypnotized and I'm in my car impersonating Elizabeth Taylor. "WHITE DIAMONDS!" ::and moue::.

To give you a sense of how glinty this ring is, I was sitting a full three rows behind Andy Johnson of the Grays Harbor Banjo Band Tuesday, getting down to "Am I Blue" and "The Blues My Naughty Sweetie Gives To Me," and he gets up to do the Band Business meeting. Well, one of the pieces of business is this, and as Andy's holding it up he says, "I noticed Callie has a nice new ring on her finger, when did that happen?" Way to put me on the spot. At my first ever meeting where I play with you guys. But seriously, I'm proud as heck to be engaged to Ray, so no lasting damage.

And of course the way he "proposed" (not like it had not been on the table, debated, discussed and even subject to the interrogation of this book, a process that took hours and days) was pretty cute. He used his knowledge of my undying love of Frosted Mini-Wheats, wrapping the ring in an old FMW box he did this to:

It was too cute. I could not say no, nor would I want to. Ray is the top, the bomb, the tonic to my gin, the milk to my cookies. And lest you wonder if he returns the sentiments, sometimes I think perhaps more strongly. Fact: Ray thinks it is cute when I forget I have Kleenex in my lap and I get up to do something and it falls on the floor. Whether this feeling will last forever is surely something I will be testing just because my PJs don't have so many pockets as his.

Anyway, it's been kind of hard to keep quiet, even though it has been out of necessity.

A nice side story: Apparently the ring came in before Christmas, in a relatively unmarked package, to Ray's office. The receptionist, wondering what the heck it was, opened it and quickly and abashedly gave it to Ray when she realized it was one of those kinds of rings. She promised not to say anything to anyone (ahem, she may have told one person, it came out later.) But dang, Ray left her to sweat it out for like a week and a half! That's cruelty!

When Ray finally told folks at work, it was at a much-belated holiday party (the weather here has been terrible) after they'd been talking about this story. "Well, I got engaged this weekend," he announced blithely. And thus began the commotion.

But if Ray thought this announcement would bring attention away from the holidays and back where it belongs, ahem, *us*, he was perhaps a little bit thwarted somebody else had a similar announcement. And I'm being circumspect about who it is because who knows if he's gotten around to telling anyone. But suffice to say, Ray and I are definitely the cuter couple.

Ray also heard stories about his coworkers' weddings. His boss had a wedding so elaborate there was supposed to be a petal dump from an overhead plane. But the wind is awful strong in Hoquiam, and the pilot misjudged and all of West Hoquiam got slapped with the petals of 1,000 roses.

Ironically, when I announced my impending nuptials at work, Kathy brought up the same wedding, and recalled being kind of embarrassed when a beefeater announced her arrival, as he did for everyone. I'm telling you, this was one for the books and should really be fictionalized. And so should my friend's dad's remarriage, where people were told to dress "as the spirit of love" and he and the bride came out in bright, primary-colored silk robes and did an interminable dance symbolizing their relationship while the non-dancing guests sat on the floor. Oh, yes, the ideas I have to work with!

Because, see, no matter how much I whine and beg, Ray wants a traditional ceremony in front of our friends, family and a bunch of people we feel obligated to invite just because. No matter how much I beg and whine for us to elope, he refuses to do anything but the sort of wedding where people have to show up.

I kind of tweaked my mom about it. She thinks I should wear my (much shorter and probably when she got married thinner) grandmother's dress (which is black so I'm down), but I told her I was wearing white sweats with "BRIDE" bedazzled across the butt. I also told her I wanted to get gay married. At least that way my marriage can be a threat to everyone else's instead of a marshmallowy non-ninja of a marriage. My mother, who I thought was also something of a feminazi, replied, "What on earth does that even mean?" Living in Arkansas, which recently passed a law banning gay couples from adopting which includes heterosexuals cohabiting, has really done a number on her.

Luckily for everyone I don't really care to have a "perfect" day. And luckily for everyone who will be invited (probably all of you reading this blog, even the people I don't know who stumbled across here accidentally), we actually kind of already have a day. I know! Four days in and we're that far ahead of the game (maybe)! It seems like July 26, so clear the decks.

Anyway, just wanted to share the good news.

Overheard (and tragically seen) at the Y

2009-01-05T19:10:00.000-08:00

A naked woman, standing there nude, talking to someone else. And not making a move to cover or clothe herself. And standing awfully close to the other person. I was not the other person.

I wish I were that body confident.

Not that I am particularly, oh, concerned, but I jokingly have started calling my workouts "countdown to Maui beach body." I have, what, six weeks or so?

You know what will make you lose weight? Eating the stuff you have in your cabinet that you don't really like but bought somehow. Today I ate a few bites of Progresso's Chicken and Sausage Jambalaya and it was flat gross. So I saw a container of cottage cheese in the fridge — sellby date was 12/24 — and took a sniff and it seemed okay. So I ate that instead. It needed to be eaten, right?

I had a can of sparkling juice that has been in the fridge the better part of a year, too. At least that part was delicious.

Installing seats

2009-01-04T19:19:00.000-08:00

Well, I had a fun weekend.

First: Ray and I helped install seatbacks at the 7th Street. We took some wrenches and screwdrivers and, as a team, attacked the six bolts per seat for about five rows' worth. I shimmied the bolts in the holes to connect the seatbacks with the infrastructure or whatever, and Ray slipped the nuts on then held the wrench while I tightened the bolts. My hand was swollen and achy from turning the screwdriver so we switched jobs and I tried to put the nuts over the bolts, but it was so incredibly annoying and tough with the seats not always exactly aligning and the screws only sticking a little bit out that after two seats I decompensated. Ray took me to the Sweet Shoppe for Chinese Chicken Salad, which calmed me down immensely.

Second: I did something else that leads me to nearly decompensate: I go shopping. I go to Ross Dress For Less, the discount place for namebrand clothes, so I can pick up some new ... oh, I had to get some sports bras. My old ones were starting to go and that does not make for comfortable exercise. I have had the old ones for years, for the most part, and wear them all the time so it was not unexpected that the Lycra was dying. But going to Ross was a nightmare. It was packed, and there were both activewear and clearance racks to look through. So when I'm ready to check out I see the lines are superlong, so I try to distract myself. I only see like five people I know, while holding a stack of workout underthings. Grrrrrreat. Love this small town living.

Third: I try to come back from the edge. Ray and I put a bunch of my books in his bookcases, which we have moved down from his room. With our books in them, no one can look at us askew as uneducated or bad readers. I still have books to go and bookcases to move in. Ray also goes through the books for some he may want to give away, one of which is the absolutely priceless Searchlight Recipe Book, compiled by Ida Migliaro, B.S. Home Ec, Zorada Z. Titus, B.S., M.S. Home Ec (take that Ida!), Harriet W. Allard, B.S. Home Ec and Irene Nunemaker, A.B. Journalism (putting it to the only use she could in 1955). (Ray assures me that at Harvard, they have Ars Bacheloris (or something) degrees, so she may not be with a 2-year degree, which only makes this sadder. She went to effing HARVARD (well, not necessarily, could have been Yale) and this is what she's doing and if you are thinking, this isn't so bad, you haven't heard the recipes yet!) In 1955. Most of the recipes come from "The Household Searchlight," whatever that is (apparently there was a Household magazine?). But I don't know why that institution would want to take credit nor why the homemakers whose recipes were nasty and/or treacly enough to get in would want their name there. No matter.

The frontspiece gives you an indication just how things are going to be inside. Why, is that a huge HAM with red-dyed baked apples? Is that a single head of cauliflower, totally unbroken up, perched on a plate surrounded by ... watercress and yellow snow peas? Yes, although I can't vouch for the snow peas. Is that a tomato on iceberg lettuce with bits of random meats and crackers in an apparent salad with an orange carved into a basket shape with pimentos on it? Yes, indeed!

And is that a ring of clear jello with sliced olives, pimentos, maybe some peppers, cabbage and ... I dunno, cat food, in it? With radish-flower and french fry bowtie garnish? Why, disgustingly, yes.

But what you want are the goods: "Callie, how nasty ARE the recipes?" Well, since you asked:

Carbonated Beverage Jelly: 3/4 cup Carbonated beverage
3/4 cup water
3 cups sugar (!!!)
1/2 bottle fruit pectin

Combine sugar, beverage and water. Mix. Heat rapidly to boiling. Add fruit pectin at once. Stir constantly before and while boiling. Heat to a full rolling boil. Boil hard 1/2 minute. Remove from fire. Skim. — The Household Searchlight.

Now, granted, that's not nasty, it's just weird. The sour milk cottage cheese, which calls for 2 quarts sour milk and an unspecified amount of cream, sounds nasty. Oh, yeah, the searchlight isn't exactly really good with amounts or directions all the time. Or howabout a Grapenut omelet, from the files of Rosalee Hollis of Hardin, Ill. (not married, because the married ladies all go by "Mrs." in the HS).

How about some creamed cucumbers? Pare 4 medium cukes, boil til tender, drain and coat with 2 cups medium white sauce. (The HS has three or four white sauces, only different in firmness.)

No? Why not fry them? Just pare and slice an unknown quantity of cukes in thin slices, soak in slightly salted water for 1 hour, drain and dry on a towel, roll in bread crumbs, dip in seasoned slightly beaten egg and fry until browned.

Maybe a squirrel stew? Rabbit pie? (only rabbits and biscuit dough, when it comes down to it) No? Would you like a glass of warm Beef Juice? A kidney bean hamburger? Or "city chickens"? (Two pounds pork, two of veal) Casserole of tongue? Liver Fricassee? Creamed dried beef? Pigs' feet? Maybe some sour cream prune pie for dessert? Or straight prune pie? Grape juice custard?

Where the searchlight's 50s sensibility really shines is the salads section. Boy do they like their mayonnaise dressing! On all manner of fruit salads, even! Lima Bean Salad, however, gets "boiled salad dressing." It also has a cup of shredded fish in it. Cabbage Pineapple Salad has those two ingredients PLUS marshmallows and mayo dressing! Consomme salad uses broth and water for the gelatin, then adds cabbage, pimiento, pickles and mayonnaise dressing to the mix, surely an abuse of every single ingredient in it. Lamb, string beans, grapefruit, pineapple and peppers (together) all get the floating in jello treatment. The prize-winning Cardinal Salad, with lemon jello, beet juice, vinegar, horseradish, celery beets and "onion juice," calls for mayo dressing. Thanks, Mrs. Ruth Shore, for concocting that culinary nightmare. Or howabout spinach in jello with hard boiled eggs? Wait — make that LEMON jello it's in. Whoa. Did the nuclear tests affect people's tastebuds for a couple decades or what? Or was it the Depression, and now that people had ingredients, they thought whatever crap they threw together was AWESOME.

The sandwiches. Oh man, here is a brief tour of the foulest things ever spread on bread (that is inevitably called for to be spread with mayo or buter): Baked beans mashed with pickles; ground peanuts and diced carrots held together with salad dressing (courtesy Eulalie Weber, Marysville, Kansas); prunes mixed with peanut butter and either lemon, honey or mayo; deviled peanuts (add in equal amount to deviled ham and some mayo); Beef, peanuts and raisins mixed together with mayo; Grapenuts (their spelling, and what IS it with the HS and Grape-nuts?) mixed with ketchup, dry mustard, cheese and tobasco; candied fruit, maraschino cherries and roquefort; cottage cheese and peanuts; raisins, coconut, shredded carrots, green pepper and mayo; cream cheese thinned with catsup; raisins, carrots, cottage cheese and mayo dressing with hot sauce. And for the finale, a truly horrific-sounding "Dutch Lunch," which must reference not only the famed cheapness, but also the incredibly bad breath of the Dutch. It consists of thinly sliced onion soaked in cold water for an hour, dried then soaked in French dressing then placed on buttered rye bread with sauerkraut. Just, whoa man. That isn't right.

No WONDER people were so much thinner then. Their food was appalling. I bet if you went on a diet of Dutch Lunches and creamed cukes you'd lose a lot of weight, especially if you're drinking beef juice with meals.

Personal Best

2009-01-02T21:34:00.000-08:00

I broke the 800-calorie barrier on the elliptical at the Y. Yee Haw! I saw I was headed for my usual plateau of 792 and I cranked out the last five minutes, which are really supposed to be cool-down time. Mission accomplished at, I think, 802. I was so relieved to be over 800 I didn't really pay too much attention.

And instead of saying, "That's good enough," I hit the weights and did some serious upper body work.

What can I say, I'm going to Maui in 6 weeks. A girl has got to look good. Probably I should have avoided the red velvet cake Ray brought home and the buttermilk fudge that so badly needs to be eaten. But they needed to be eaten, people. And I broke the 800-calorie barrier. (Yes, I know what you are thinking, Internets, that I am deluded by the machine's false promises and seductive lies. BUT! I inputted my weight low to compensate. Quite low, too. And my heart rate was consistently way above what it really should have been. I not only flirt with the 85 percent of maximum, I crank it out way above that. My average heartrate was 176 (85 percent is about 165) and I topped out at 197, which is better than the 202 I can top out at on a hard sprint interval. And yes, I know the machine's heart rate monitor can be seductive, but it felt about right to me!)

Right now I am listening to "The Banjo Artistry of Myron Hinkle." He was a local guy who played the tenor banjo very well and started the Grays Harbor Banjo Band. A few recordings exist of his work with the famed Blue Banjo nightclub in Seattle and his combo, "The Banjo Multiples." And that compilation is now going to be in my iTunes. There are a disturbing number of train whistles used in the music. Hinkle died in 2001, but his music is now on CD, though only available through his daughter, Linda Hall. You can tell he was a disciple of Harry Reser, and yes, you should Google that name in quote marks with "Tiger Rag" to see some bad-ass tenor banjo playing.

At any rate, the music would be the perfect mood setter for, say, a screwball comedy set in the early 20s. Or something. It's pretty peppy Dixieland Jazz stuff. There is a song, "12th Street Bumble," a combination of 12th Street Rag and Flight of the Bumblebee, that his daughter told me was worth hearing. And dang, it will melt your face off, or whatever it is that banjos do. Remember, this isn't the five-string banjo, which is the traditional bluegrass banjo, it is the tenor banjo, which is usually used for rags and Irish folk music and more of a rhythym instrument, except not in the hands of Myron Hinkle.

Tuesday I am to play with the Banjo Band. Whoopee! I'm very excited about that. Soon I, too, will be cranking out the old timey tunes. Little do the Banjo Band, which is mainly seniors, know that I can play "Like a Prayer" (the chords, anyway) on the banjo.

Not Rockin'

2009-01-01T16:41:00.000-08:00

So I have finally slogged my way through "Bridge of Sighs," a wonderful but insanely long book by Richard Russo, and I did it before the new year, as I had hoped to. So you can tell how exciting the new year was in Chez Kahler. It was so exciting Ray fell asleep at nine, apologizing as he drifted in and out of the Land of Nod.

Once I finished the book, however, I felt the need to do something more traditional than start reading another book ("The Wrecking Crew," by Thomas Frank, and it is sort of an angry/smart recounting of things I already pretty much know/figured out (i.e. marketing has helped destroy the American way of life being one)). So I said, "Sorry Bub," to Ray and flipped on the TV. Besides, I needed something to drown out the sound of explosions coming from redneck neighbors who are on our every flank. It was, at the risk of sounding completely insensitive, like a mini-Gaza Strip. As Ray and I moved stuff out of my apartment, the streets were littered with debris from M80s and screamers and whatnot. Also, we heard not a single siren last night. Way to keep on top of illegal fireworks usage, law enforcement.

So, pinned down in the house, with very very little worth watching on (nothing, really), I flipped channels. I caught some South Park. Boy was I surprised the other day when I found out one of the creators of that show got married. I had it on good authority (a former coworker's aunt who lives on their block in L.A.) that the two guys lived together and were gay together. And I suppose it made sense, in a small way, with their wearing dresses to whatever red carpet event that that was, and the whole "big gay Al" episode call for tolerance. I kind of looked on their work as a PoMo-homo kind of thing, where the very shrill libertarianism was the cry of today's liberated gay male, just liberated enough to be exactly the same kind of selfish and caustic comedian as all the other (straight) guys, but with more subversive messages. I mean, they apparently were living together and you never heard about them making out with starlets at the Viper Room.

Well, I guess Lori's aunt was wrong. Maybe working in showbusiness resets your Gaydar to a lower default point, just as attending a hardline church can cast a Christian sheen on a boy's interest in musicals and the performance arts as just a basic desire to use one's talents for spreading the Good News. How a Christian is supposed to use fame and wealth as a tool of evangelism for a religion whose central figure spurned both is something I wonder about. So I think people like Jessica Simpson are pharisees, so what?

Speaking of people who are deeply deluded, I happened to catch Dick Clarke's Rockin' New Year's Eve Party on TV. It has been handed over to Ryan Seacrest, who is super annoying. "OMG you guys, this party is so awesome!" Seacrest says. "It is just amazing!" OMG, Seacrest, why don't you tell us another 100 times while standing there with the Jonas Brothers, some Demi who is not Demi Moore, and what appeared to be a 13-year-old girl who was almost 7 feet tall. She's probably 5'6", since all TV types are pocket-sized, but I swear. Oh, she is Taylor Swift and she is 5'11", the same height as my mom, a little taller than me. I could totally take Ryan Seacrest and the eensy little brothers, though my knees might get chewed.

So there wasn't much to look at on Seacrest's platform of annoying young people standing there in the cold. !BUT! back in the studio was Dick Clarke, who had a stroke or something a couple of years ago and boldly or deludedly decided to get back in front of the camera. Holy cow.

This guy, Dick Clarke, was once the punchline for jokes about how he never aged, how he seemed preternaturally preserved as the years went by, looking the same in the 1950s as the 1990s. Well, those jokes are officially suspended for awkwardness. Clarke had a real speaking disability, which maybe he acknowledged in the beginning of the show, but his can-do attitude prevailed. He couldn't stop talking about how much he loved the annual party at Times Square, blah blah blah, all I saw was that his face looked ... different. I'm not necessarily talking surgery, but there was something about the combination of frozen muscles and pancake makeup that just gave him a very grim cast. His mouth was different, and the way it moved was kind of mesmerizing. It's not like anyone is able to move the top part of their mouth when they talk, but most people look like it is a little bit in motion when they are jawboning. Not Dick Clarke.

It was either the ballsiest thing this guy has ever done or he is flat out deluded. Because the contrast with his old self was so pronounced. Although early on I had the ungenerous thought that this was creepy, now I'm like, that's right, Dick Clarke, you go on with your stroked-out self! People need to see this stuff, this is reality, this is how it is. So Hollywood tried to apply some varnish, this was unshellackable at a very primal level (and the lacquer itself was disturbing). Pussycat Dolls, you intolerable stereotypes, take a good look, that is where you're headed. We're all going there. Hollywood can't hide it all. It was like the most unintentional disability-rights statement ever.

Also, Dick Clarke made out with a woman who must have been his wife. She was totally cute, in an old lady way, with a yellow bun of hair on her head like I Dream of Jeannie. Not only is it rare to see a televised image of old people macking, old and disabled people were macking! Hold the phone! I could feel America shudder, and I loved it! Nothing I can say would ever be as subversive as that.

Rock on, DC. I'm not sure what the intention was there, but hey, if you didn't know you had to be brave then I'd have to say you're a better person than I. Dumber, to a significant extent, but better nonetheless.

La Vida Hobo

2009-01-01T15:12:00.000-08:00

Ever since about a week before Christmas I have been living at Ray's place, and for months and months before then I've spent all my weekends at his place. So while our living together was inevitable and we've been warming up to it for quite a while, the reality is my apartment has suffered.

In times past, when I didn't have a steady to do things with all weekend, I would get up Saturday morning, eat breakfast, read and then do chores until my apartment was not disgusting. Or if I was gone Saturday, I'd do them Sunday. Or perhaps I'd split them between all the dishes, cooking and straightening on Saturday and the mopping and scrubbing on Sunday with laundry at night, so I could fold clothes while watching Sunday night TV. What I'm saying is I had a routine, and there was only so awful a week's worth of mess could be. (Why isn't Ray's house a shambles considering we are spending weekends together? you ask — Ray has cleaners come in, a practice he considered suspending for our shacking, but which we have decided is probably worth the money for the sake of our relationship. Ray is also a neatnik who would never let a pot sit in the sink for more than a few hours. He just can't do it. It is against his constitution, which is highly teutonic.)

Well, that routine has been shot for a long time now, and my apartment is completely embarrassing to look at. It is like I've been camping there, but without the "leave no trace" ethos. It is a wreck, to speak plainly.

But since I'm moving, that wreck will have to come piece by piece to Ray's house. And hopefully be reconstructed here in such a way that it is clean and neat.

I've already been lugging my stuff over by bits and pieces. But today, Ray wanted to use his wagon to load stuff up more fully, and that means his coming over to start loading my stuff. Which he did, and although it looks like a hobo encampment sans hobos because they had to scramble in the middle of the night because the cops were going to raid them, he was fine.

I also turned in my official letter of resignation from the apartment. I will miss the water pressure there, but I'm sure the company, the central air and the dishwasher here will more than make up for it. Living with Ray may not be to everyone's taste, but living with a dishwasher is heaven, people. And according to multiple sources dishwashers are greener than handwashing.

Soon the hobo times will be over, and I'll become a Harbor yuppie once again.

An indie movie Christmas

2008-12-27T15:25:00.001-08:00

Every year is a White Christmas for me no matter what the weather, since my name is White. But this Christmas was also what Doug Barker deemed an "indie movie Christmas" when I told him how it all went down.

It all started with bad weather.

This is the Saturday before Christmas. Ray and I decided the weather was too bad to drive around town, so we walked. It had already been snowy, but it was getting ridiculous. Sunday it would continue to be ridiculous, piling snow all over the place. The National Weather Service, by the eve of Christmas eve, was saying that the weather would be back to normal (rainy) come Friday everywhere, but that the Harbor and Seattle area would probably be decent by Christmas eve.

But we were going to Longview, which is closer to Portland and the beneficiary of a cold stream of air flowing from East Oregon down the Columbia River Gorge. So it was going to be a little snowier out there. But we didn't care, we didn't want to be trapped on the Harbor for Christmas so we headed out. We listened to a CD of Christmas songs, one of which was the Carol Bells by Trans-Siberian Orchestra. One of the few things I appreciate about TSO is that they make Christmas songs absolutely terrifying. Seriously, I cannot imagine why they did not spike this version with a little "Night on Bald Mountain." I think that's the piece I'm thinking of.

It looked like the Christmas angels were having a pillowfight by the time we got to I-5, so we pulled over and asked Ray's dad what it was like on his end on a hill in Longview. "Oh, it's really bad. It's like a blizzard. It's snowing so bad it's dark out here. I'd just turn around if I was you. Just go home." Kris' husband George, however, said he didn't think it was too bad, even though it was kind of snowing where he was. And the snow had tailed off by then so we pressed on.

Well, going down Kris' road it was obvious that we weren't going to be able to go up the hillside and we'd have to stay at her house, which is undergoing some pretty extensive renovating of the walls and was covered in drywall dust and smelled like primer. She and George were basically living out of suitcases in the three or four habitable rooms they had. Somehow, in her fairly small kitchen, she had managed to make a bajillion cookies. I'm not even kidding. They weren't the regular drop kind, either, they were all really elaborate sorts. Because a little home renovation will not stop Kris' compulsive Martha-Stewarting. It would take a much larger force, perhaps nature's own fury, to do that.

Speaking of nature's fury:

look at all that snow. Their house is at sea level.

So we go up to the house for crab louie that night and the roads are just so bad, but Kris, driving with chains, is a champ going up and coming down. So this bodes well for Christmas.

Except that on the way over for Christmas, Kris and George have a, ah, little argument about her driving early on and they pull a Chinese firedrill. And when it comes to who is the better driver in the snow, I'm going to have to give Kris the points on that.

We get up the hill and pull in and Kris starts making the tofurkey alternadinner she and George will eat. So Ray and his dad and I watch some of the Battle of Myrtle Street, a documentary about Aberdeen/Hoquiam football rivalry. It, ah, overreaches in some bits, especially when it intersperses clips from WWII soldiers storming stuff with assistant football coaches narrating how Myrtle Street (the boundary between the two towns, a completely anonymous-looking spot) is where the line is drawn, how you'd better be ready to do battle when you get to Myrtle Street. Because Myrtle Street is where champions are born. George takes this opportunity to call his son, who is in the Navy, to tell him about how the Germans have caught some Somali pirates. His conversation intermingles with the BOMS tape. There is a lot of war talk on this day of Jesus' birth, the promise to all mankind that we will be saved.

Dinner was lovely, early, though, so there would be daylight for driving back. There was pork loin, potato-leek gallette, stuffing, canned cranberry sauce and for dessert, a Yule log and a million cookies and the buttermilk fudge I'd made.

Then there are the Christmas presents. I got the water bottle I asked Ray for, yay! And then I got a lovely recipe book from my aunt Patti. But I looked through it and there was a picture of my recently-lost cousin Aaron with my now-gone grandparents and for a moment, I was like, oh, I'm okay, wow, that's good. Then suddenly I wasn't okay — I was bawling like a baby. Ray's dad, bless his Teutonic heart, continued to make awkward conversation about wrenches with George while I decompensated into tears. Oh, Aaron. I hope you had Christmas with GMR and BDW.

After the presents we headed back down the hill and George only nearly got us in an embankment once and the rear only slid out of control the one time, so it was all good. Luckily, he had Kris giving him helpful pointers about putting the SUV in low gear and going slower. It may have made my top 5 harrowing rides of all time, but I've lived in temperate climates my whole life.

Kris and George were out to Portland that same night, off to Vegas for a week, hopefully their snow will melt while they're gone so they can come back to normalcy. And Ray and I didn't want to take the risk that we'd be stuck driving back in worse weather the next day, so we headed back to Aberdeen, stopping for a brief check on his mom. I managed to soak my foot in melted slush getting across the street. The drive back took a lot of concentration, so no podcasts or anything. Just me occasionally singing a Christmas song.

We got back to the house and ate a salad for dinner then piled into bed and watched a couple of episodes of "Rumpole of the Bailey." I didn't get out of bed until absolutely necessary the next day.

The Gingerbread House

2008-12-27T15:18:00.000-08:00

This is the gingerbread house that Ray got fed up with moments into icing the roof. He swore he just "didn't have a vision" and that he's "not creative." But I would beg to differ. If I really had a gingerbread house vision I wouldn't have gone for the Safeway kit. In fact, this year's kit you had to mix the icing yourself, one of the reasons I buy the kit in the first place. Who wants to mess with making the cementy stuff anyway?

I like that the snowman is slouched over, like he's too lazy to even try to be a snowman. Some day I'll go bananas and pull a Frank Lloyd Wright of gingerbread houses. But I'd have to be willing to come up with a vision and purchase bad-tasting-but-pretty candies to fulfill that vision. And buying yucky candies goes against my nature.

Fudging off

2008-12-23T22:23:00.000-08:00

So this weekend I tried to make Ed's 15-step/recommendation buttermilk fudge recipe and it was a bust. Sticky and thick it was a filling-ripper. Other people have suggested I just mix up a "no fail" recipe that calls for processed ingredients, but I wanted to go another round with candy making, which has been described as the most complicated part of pastrymaking. And I can't even make a pie crust!

So I went back to the drawing board, Alton Brown style, and did the scientific research and asked Ed for some troubleshooting. We agreed I probably had too large a pot and too shallow a pool of candy for an accurate temp reading. But what the Internet said, which I did not know, was that you should not stir the sugar mixture to keep the sugar granules from sticking up together and forming long crystals. The reason fudge is so fudgey — chewy but easily detached from a larger chunk with teeth — is because the sugar does not all stick to each other.

The other thing I did was get a bowl of cold water for the "soft ball" test. I only had a vague idea what this was supposed to feel and look like — so I thought I would get some experience. Has Alton Brown done an episode where he goes through the stages of sugar? Signs point to maybe.

I started dropping hot syrup into water well before the thermometer had hit the "soft ball" stage and about three more syrup drops later, at the thermometer's "soft ball" stage, I got what I thought I was looking for — a ball that holds together but is still quite smushy. Dang if I didn't feel like I should be in a white coat with safety goggles. I wasn't dropping sugar. I was dropping science.

My question is who determined that there were "stages" of sugar, what exactly each stage was good for candy-making wise and how they learned that dropping in water was the trick to delineate said stages. It must be relatively recent because sugar was not an ingredient to experiment with until the past century or so. At least, that's the story I'm making up.

In order for fudge to get a good set, you have to beat ("aggressively stir," in Ed's words) the fudge. Because after turning into the perfect crystals the fudge needs those crystals stirred up or something. It makes the fudge set up, I guess. So I aggressively stirred the fudge and after a while put in some pecans and then, as I was thinking, is this going the way I need it to go? it got thick and matte and perfect.

Triumph in the kitchen. Next up, homemade puff pastry. Sike.

I have a new drug

2008-12-22T19:06:00.000-08:00

It is Facebook. Find me. Friend me. Sadly or luckily, I cannot decide which, my crummy old computer is nigh incapable of keeping up with the tech, so there are some features that I can't really access which I think will either serve to drive me to FB at work or take Ray's computer. Seriously.

So this weekend was the weekend of the big snow; still no photos because I don't have the cable for my camera, that would require going to my apartment and I am very happily ensconced in Chez Kahler. But it was so wild and wooly that the NYT did NOT MAKE IT TO TOWN (and I had a minor panic fit because this was ACROSTIC week and you know I love me some Emily Cox and Henry Rathvon) and Ray's church cancelled service! So we had a whole weekend without either of our liturgies. Even though we were totes prepared for them — I woke up and there was Ray, all sweaty, saying he had just shoveled out the driveway. Man, the dude is motivated.

So we had the day to make buttermilk fudge following Uncle Ed's recipe, which came with something on the order of 14 bulleted points. And we STILL managed to mess it up. Possibly it got too hot, according to Ed's genius diagnosis when I emailed him today. We will have to make another batch with a smaller pot so the thermometer does not get dropped in it because someone has to hold it, hovering, above the boiling sugar. It came out super sticky and with an oily sheen, like the butter separated a bit. It didn't stir so much as it clung together and resisted all attempts to get the pecans in.

So the fudge was not fudgey, it was still pliable-ish and incredibly sticky but we portioned it out with great difficulty (it got less tacky overnight somehow, but still not fudgey). I took it to the least-picky group of eaters I knew — the office. Sure enough, the tin had a mere three pieces left in it at quitting time. Thank you journalists.

The facebook thing is like a drug. I'm friending people I haven't seen in 15 years. I have to get Ray hooked up on it.

Ray just asked: "What do you want for dinner?"

Me: "Do you want me to be honest or tell you what you want to hear?"

Ray: (chuckling) "I want you to be honest."

Me: (small voice) "I want Frosted Mini-Wheats."

Ray: (silence punctuated by an eye roll)

The news from a one-stoplight county

2008-12-20T15:23:00.000-08:00

Maybe there's a stoplight I don't know about in Madison County, Ark., and maybe I'm overestimating the stoplight count (I'm pretty sure there's one because I've heard Madison County inhabitants mock Newton County ceaselessly for thier lack thereof). But one thing is for sure, there is no paper more amusing and disturbing than the Madison County Record.

My aunt Patti was kind enough not only to send me a gift this Xmas, but one that had been packed safely with the Record. I must blog it.

The very first thing that caught my eye was what we in the business call a "house ad," which tells the good people of Madison County that they can fax any document "anywhere there is another fax machine" for under $4. Which is still a rip-off price, for one thing, and so quaint in that most people nowadays just send email documents to each other.

Other ads are equally as hilarious, like the ad for Huntsville on the Square, which is one of those multi-sponsored ads by local stores. "SHOP NANA'S Blings n' Things," is a hilarious name. Another store is called "Faux Ever Yours." One place doesn't seem to have a name; its ad is this text: "Huntsville's 'Hippest' Little Boutique ... 'Hip' styles at 'Hipper' prices," superimposed over a gray peace sign. Scare quotes are in a lot of ads, so they are in good company. A to Z Pawn also has an ad.

Then there are the small-town dispatches. Debra Harmon of Forum/Alabam notes that her Thanksgiving was planned around her daughter-in-law's knee surgery, so they went to her folks' place in Russellville.

"We thought it would be best if we traveled to them in our travel trailer," Harmon writes. "While there during our five-day stay, we found the travel trailer of our dreams at the [business name redacted]. We now have much more room and convenience. Our family, [sic] Travis, Tolina, Trent, Butch and I [sic] enjoyed doing some holiday shopping as well."

Janet Little Musteen of Kingston writes, "The first responders and fire department had no calls this week. That must mean that everyone had a safe Thanksgiving."

Well, hold the phone Janet Little Musteen. This was a TG of death, violence and apparently a standoff with a sniper squad at the trailer park. You can read this story here. But the short version is she asked him to "heat up" TG dinner because she had been running around all day (he apparently didn't have anything else to do) and when she sat down to eat it, it was cold. So they had a bad fight, mixed with alcohol, and then he shot her in the face with a shotgun loaded with birdshot. (An aside: Who heats up TG dinner on TG? Did they have a pre-TG TG and that is why their daughter was at her grandmother's? Why weren't they with her there? Or was this like a Hungryman turkey dinner? And if so, how sad is that? It really makes one's mind work.)

Of course, no one heard the shot, so he called the cops to tell them, then threatened to shoot anyone who tried to take him in. This is where things get nuts. To directly quote:

"Hissom called the Madison County Sheriff's Office at 6:41 p.m. on Thanksgiving evening, telling dispatcher Lola Hampel that he had shot his wife in the face (with birdshot from the shotgun) and that he was armed and he would "take out the first officer that comes in the door" of their mobile home on 845 Edgewood Place, Lot 1. The residence is located just south of Countryside Retirement Center and west of Brashears Funeral Home.

"Huntsville Police Lt. Mike Livermore made contact with Hissom from the communications center at the Madison County Sheriff's Office.

"Meanwhile members of the Huntsville Police Department, Madison County Sheriff's Department, Washington County Sheriff's Department K-9 unit, Arkansas Highway Patrol, Arkansas State Police and Arkansas Game & Fish arrived at the scene. A sniper team was also established.

Also, members of Madison County EMS and Air Evac Lifeteam of Springfield, Mo., were awaiting retrieval of the victim at the parking lot of Economy Drug."

If it were my story, I would have made all this stuff about the snipers and whatnot go in the lede. But I can tell by all his bylines, the fact that he is the editor and the fact that he probably is doing all the pagination that Kyle Mooty is one busy guy. The weekly paper grind is hard to explain to the daily journalist, who also rightly feels put-upon, but trust me, weeklies are way harder for less money.

Obviously, this is a disturbing story. Here's another disturbing story. And I am calling shenanigans on the assertion made in the lede by the motel owners. Kyle Mooty reported, I decided.

I've noticed that there is kind of a theme going on with stories that lead off the MCR. A man kills his wife when she complains about a dinner he hasn't exactly been slaving over, a local guy with the middle name of "Caption" is extradited from California after being charged with rape (see the picture, it's priceless) and a woman's body is sent to the state crime lab because there are questions about her death. Also, her live-in bf is taken in on outstanding warrants. Lots of violence toward women of late, no?

It's too bad I don't have the impetus to input the letters to the editor. They are wackadoodle. If you are ever in Madison County, say, writing about its covered bridges for National Geographic or putting your high-end Italian auto through its paces on the pig trail, I highly recommend you pick up a copy. For me, it was like Christmas came even before I opened my present.

Weather outside is ... you can guess

2008-12-20T14:43:00.000-08:00

Something I wanted to do today was upload a picture of the gingerbread house Ray and I made. Mostly me, because while Ray helped raise the walls and mix the icing (it was a kit, no baking involved), he did one side of the roof with icing and just gave up. He said he got frustrated with his lack of creativity and told me that he could not have had the "vision" for the outcome. Which is funny, because I just kind of go nuts and don't really have a vision.

But I don't have a cord for my camera. It is at my apartment, I can see it on the bookshelf. I could walk the three blocks, but you know what? The weather is snowy and windy and crazy. It is really kind of inhospitable for walking. And I especially know this because Ray and I went walking right before the snow really picked up.

We hit the town, walking down to the post office, to the library, to Waugh's, where Ray could get a new shirt, and to Kitchen Links, where we looked for a candy thermometer. But they had had a run on the things and the best we could do was a little clip for the top of the pot that would hold the cord of a digital plug-in above the metal rim of a pot.

Yes, we want to attempt Uncle Ed's melt-in-yer-mouth buttermilk fudge. If only we had the recipe.

Ain't no party like a banjo party

2008-12-14T09:06:00.000-08:00

It is snowing outside, people. And it is kind of sticking. To roofs, trees, grass and cars if not sidewalks and streets. It may stick around in crusty, frozen form as cold Arctic air from Canada drops in to say howdy, but this is kind of a pleasant surprise. We don't get much in the way of snow in these parts.

Perhaps clamming in the snow is called for tonight?

If we do go clamming, we can use those clams to make clam fritters because Ray got a mixer yesterday. Not that he didn't have a hand mixer, but he didn't have a grinder, and he realized his mixer was a little on the inadequate-for-a-foodie side so we had to go to a mall for one of those Kitchen Aid jobbies. Not just any mall, though, one in Olympia. We had another mission — get out of the Harbor.

We first hit downtown Oly for Xmas shopping. Got my brother his gifties, finally. I can't say what they were because he might read this. Ray got toys for his cousin's kids at this amazing toys store, possibly the best one I have ever been in. I sat at the "game table" doing little logic puzzles from this game which was way more fun than you would have expected from a game that takes the shape of a chocolate box.

After bumming around downtown Oly, especially checking out the galleries (we saw one painting, of a young, attractive Native American woman in a deerskin-type non-covering dress-blanket of some sort reclining against a young, attractive Native American man with no shirt on. Tribe was uncertain, and there was no background. But the title of the painting, "The Lovers," totally cracked me up. I hope that as soon as the mascot wars are over and there are no Washington Redskins and Cleveland Indians and the Atlanta fans stop the tomahawk chop, that all that attention and effort will be focused on the new-agey sexualization and fetishization of Native Americans. If you can explain to me why these or these or this aren't something more than plain tacky I will listen. Maybe.) Oh, hai there bluecorn comics, wow, that was some good information, thank you!)

The same gallery also had very expensive watercolors of cats and some pictures of wilderness that looked like they were done by sixth graders with colored pencils. But a grown-up had done them. A grown-up who clearly didn't even know the rules of perspective, composition and drawing from life before breaking them. And here I am thinking my robot art looks bad because I can't get the weight of the lines right and I want to draw curved where robots are rectangular. Why must *I* feel shame in this world? How come some people come with so much shame and self-criticism while others clearly have none?

This was a "classy" gallery, too.

So we ate at Lemon Grass in Olympia and it was so, so much better than anything we ever could have gotten in Aberdeen. The green curry was divine. Ray got the apple curry.

Thus fortified, we hit the mall. I nearly decompensated just doing the parking lot. We drove for a good ten minutes before finding a spot and of course there were jerks in the parking lot. I was glad to put it all behind us.

We were in and out of the mall relatively quickly. By some stroke of fortune, we were parked near the entrance where the Santaland was, and we saw the Victorian carolers and the loooooong line of kids waiting to see Santa. One little girl with red ribbons in her hair and a black velvet dress and white tights was doing an excited dance wherein she kind of punched the babydoll she was carrying. It sounds scary, but it was totes cute. As we walked away from the Santaland, I heard a kid go, "no, No, NO!" Ah, Christmas at the mall.

We were pretty much in and out with the light chrome-colored mixer (we both had different opinions about ideal colors — I liked the "green apple" and the Martha Stewart blue (not on website, it's a Macy's special. It's kind of Tiffany blue.) because I'm a funtime girl and Ray liked the white and black ones because he's mister "let's not get crazy, now." The chrome was a third for both of us. Compromise, that's what it's all about people.) We got the grinder so we can grind up clams for fritters.

So we left Olympia and headed back to the Harbor and got ready for the Festival of Lights in Montesano. An earlier post will show that the Banjo band has been pressuring me to become one of them, and to come out to the FOL and go to a post-FOL party at Bob Carter's house and museum.

The FOL was pretty crazy. I thought it was a little ole parade, but there were something like 70+ floats and parking was insane. The Retired Senior Volunteer Police were out in force, making sure the rowdies didn't go out of control. We drove over and it was snow-showering, emphasis on the showering, and we feared the worst — two plus hours of standing out in the cold rain — but Montesano was really lucky to have missed that precipitation. There were a few minutes of snow, but that was it, thank heavens.

So we stood in the cold, our fingers and toes gradually losing feeling, bouncing up and down to generate heat, while some crazy floats passed us by. There were a lot of ATVs with Christmas lights. There was a "Mambo Schoolbus," a bus pimped out with so many lights all over, even the rims, yo. I could totally imagine my school bus drivers of yore driving it — Jackie, Zebra Lady ... Joe could have totally picked up more women driving that thing (he had a penchant for calling out, "you need a ride?" to fine ladies walking down the street. This worked ONCE and I don't think he got a phone number out of it).

Pictures are worth 1,000 words, but dang it I left the camera at home. Stormy Glick brought his reindeer out of his exotic animal farm and Santa led it down the street. There was a motorcycle pulling a functioning carousel (small scale, obvs, with lit up deer as the horses and stuffed animals riding them) that was all lit up and pretty. There was a guy on a ... I couldn't find a picture of this, but I kind of want one ... it's a toy horse made for even a big old dude to ride and your feet are off the ground. There are wheels on the bottom. You pull on the head or something and it kind of propels it forward. You can steer with the head. There do not appear to be brakes on it. Whatever this adult hobbyhorse is called, it is a fascinating creation that made the kids freak out.

There was also a Santa on a toilet in the plumbing company's float. A live man, dressed as Santa, on the pot. Pants up, but still, on a toilet. When the kids saw that they went bananas.

The Banjo band came by, playing Christmas songs. I can't imagine how their fingers didn't fall off from the cold, and neither did they, really. Apparently the tuba player had it worst, what with all that brass and silver conducting the cold straight to his hands and mouth. A flag-pole situation might have been near developing.

Finally, around two hours after we got there, there were fireworks to symbolize the end of the parade. That was enough, we were back to the car and to Bob and Cathy's place, where we went straight for the hot cider.

Ray and I and some of the folks from the banjo band, including a fellow named John who plays first chair violin with the Seattle Symphony (not too shabby!) got a tour of the museum, and Bob got the player piano going with a rag. It was from a roll recorded by George Gershwin, it was basically Gershwin playing. John got teary-eyed at that, he was so overcome.

The food was great. There was delicious clam chowder, chili, some kind of round sourdough bread that had been split into lots of sections that had been loaded with butter and cheese and then baked until it all ran together and a whole table full of desserts. Seriously, there were about ten dessert servings per person. These people love their desserts.

Some chatting was done, petting of the Carters' many many dogs was done, and then it was banjo playing time. Andy and Linda, who is the most bestest banjo player I've ever heard live, put me right in between them and we all rocked out with "I'm Looking Over A Four-Leafed Clover," "Ma," "Down Yonder," "Chinatown," "Just Because" and maybe a Christmas song. A fellow with a six-string banjo tuned like a guitar sang a funny song about how it's a sin to tell a lie. He wants the band to learn it, but he was playing it in the key of A, which made everyone shake their heads. They will do it in C, thank you very much.

I'll catch up now that I can start going to the banjo band sessions late. Apparently they're having another party Tuesday night before, during and after playing, and I'll be getting some of the banjo band's program books.

Ain't no party like a banjo party 'cause a banjo party don't stop. Seriously. We didn't make it home till after 11 p.m., which is kind of late for our old selves. We saw it was snowing when we got into town, but we didn't expect it to continue until, well, it's still going strong. Almost puts me in a mind not to go out and get my NYT. Oh, what am I saying! I know I have to have that crossword.

Elk Stroganoff

2008-12-07T18:54:00.000-08:00

There were still plenty of NYTs at the grocery store. Yay.

Today I don't know what we would have done regularly, but Ray got $20 to see High School Musical at the High School from his accompaniast, also the grandmother of the male lead not-so-coincidentally. So obviously, we had to see the matinee. This was particularly special because it had a cast of non-Aberdeen school guys, because the need to have guys overwhelmed the population of drama-lovers at the school.

The kids were terrific, but there are a couple of structural problems with "High School Musical." First, the character of Sharpay is a snooty drama club president who never wears black and wants to play the lead against her brother's lead. In a romantic musical which presumably will require some level of macking. Ew. Also, who ever heard of a snooty drama clubber? The leads also met during a kids' karaoke night, which female lead Gabriela Montez describes as "romantic." She's a brain, allegedly.

Also, Disney obviously did not spend a lot on the lyricists. "I'm soaring, I'm flying," "reach for the stars," there are a few cliches that were not covered but I'm sure that was just for lack of trying. Well, I'm probably just crabby and old. Yeah, I'm definitely a no-fun old crab. Young people, you will be like me some day, a wet blanket.

The kids, however, were really good singers and dancers who can put on a show. Ellen's grandson was a surprisingly good dancer for such a lanky kid. We saw him in the "receiving line" after the show giving his great-grandmother an autograph. Awww.

We saw little Kallie Distler at the show. She, very surprisingly, remembered who I was and said hello. So cute and sweet.

So okay, the big thing tonight was the elk stroganoff for dinner, with a side of canned peas (yum) and acorn squash mashed with brown sugar and cinnamon and butter. There are a lot more recipes for elk stroganoff on the Internet than you could imagine. Ray was excited to have a recipe, but I said we had something better — a method.

What we did was take the elk steaks, sliver them and toss them with flour, salt and pepper, fry an onion and sliced mushrooms, add the elk, let it brown up, then add a can of beef broth and about 1/2 a can of tomato paste, a bunch of nutmeg and a big pinch of thyme. I let the broth bubble out a lot, added a bunch of sour cream and some good glugs of sherry and then, when it was all incorporated and hot, served it over egg noodles. It was really good. Maybe next time I would change the broth situation so there isn't so much sodium, but I like elk. I'm going to have to learn to hunt, I guess. It seems like it's more of a lifestyle than clamming, and the equipment is a lot more involved, too. But there you go. Besides, the world needs more liberal arts graduates who hunt.

The Dump

2008-12-07T11:52:00.000-08:00

I'm really pushing it -- it's nearly noon and I have not yet acquired my Sunday NYT. There are 2 places in town to get it and I'm basically looking at missing out not only on a crossword but the acrostic. I am living dangerously.

So the dump was awesome. Along with the regular household hazardous waste, Ray loaded a 55-gallon drum that still had a little diesel sloshing around the bottom. He inherited a lot of old boat thingies when he bought his grandparents' house, and since neither of us are boat people, nor do either of us drive diesel, he decided to load one of the two drums up for disposal. He was a little nervous that the waste people would not want it.

But they did. The guys at the dump were superexcited, even moreso when they learned there was a quart of 20-year-old diesel in the bottom (even though gas isn't $4/gal anymore)

Last night we also hit the Harbor Art Guild gallery (yes, the HAG) for its grand opening. Really nice. We ate dinner at Stiffy's and I had one Manhattan that basically got me a little drunk. There was a precious little Yorkie there that was not at all yippie, and a group of regulars having conversation bawdy enough to make Ray uncomfortable. (Sample conversation: Man on cell with wife: "Where are you? ... Having fun dancing? What? ... Well, I don't care when you come home but you'd better be home when you (get it?)!")

We also saw Driftwood's "Nunsensations: The Nuns hit Vegas" or something. Buzzkill accomplished. It turned out that the show was also maybe a little too raunchy for Ray's taste, especially because his favorite grocery bagger was in the audience (she's youngish and a little bit, uh, delayed). I think it's patronizing to withhold raunchy jokes from any portion of the populace except kids whom you'd have to explain it to. Let them learn about it from their peers, on the streets, in completely unhelpful, scary and fact-free ways, just like I did. But Nunsense is not really that raunchy (there was a near-reference to something that starts with the word "blow" and a loudly proclaimed "BULLS--T!" from a puppet). What was actually offensive was a joke about "Mexifornia" and one about an outsourced (to Pakistan) catholic help line: "I said I was suicidal and he asked if I knew how to drive a truck." Bah dum-DUMB. The show has been selling out -- to the point that people are sitting in the aisles! I guess it is for the cast, who danced and sang their little hearts out and had better material in last year's "Mashuggah-nuns." Seriously, that is what it is called. And yes, it was completely meshuga.

In other news, there is elk steak defrosting on the counter for dinner. Is it tender enough for stroganoff? I really need to google up on cooking game meat. Now that the depression is a-coming, I may be forced to hunt to survive. And between myself and Ray, I believe that the Nunsense/Stiffy's (yes, that's the name of the bar, what to expect, huh?) incident, I think Ray is altogether too innocent to kill an animal like a deer or elk. But me? I'd blow its brains out and rub blood on my face while blathering crude words of Anglo-Saxon origin, apparently. I'm just that feral.

Banjo mafia

2008-12-05T22:04:00.000-08:00

They make you offers you can't resist. Like free lessons and party invitations. All I gotta do is make sure I remember them in kind, right?

So it looks like Ray and I will be jamming with the banjo band next Saturday instead of clamming (we can do that some other day that weekend anyway, and Ray pointed out that we have plenty of clams in the freezer, even though I pointed out that clamming is not really about keeping inventory).

So I have finished "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" by Junot Diaz and it was spectacular. Highly recommended. It mentioned Arawn on page 2, and I was a nut for the Prydain Chronicles in fourth grade, so I was sucked in immediately. It is about a Dominican ubernerd and his family, and to say more would be to say too much. Read it.

I also read "The Abstinence Teacher" by Tom Perotta, and it was pretty good. I didn't get the main story of opposites attracting, but the rest of it rang pretty true. Perotta also shares my skepticism of the way the word "choices" is deployed in education, if you read through the lines. There is a "mean girl" aspect to "you made your choice," a very narrow black-and-white deal, that while necessary with some kids for boundary-setting purposes, does not exactly make anyone, kids or adults, feel like nuance or even fair dealing is coming into play. All I know is when people start saying something about a choice you made, it is a lecture, not a conversation. It is a fact-finding mission, not a discussion to achieve understanding. And you're in the role of toddler, which is exactly how adults, or children who may often have to act as the adults in their family, want to be talked to, let me tell you.

Also, in prison, "choice" is a big, big word. I've been in prison a lot (for work, silly!), and I am consistently impressed with how much it has in common with school. Budding sociologists might want to pursue this line of inquiry, comparing choice in educational pedagogy with correctional rehabilitation methods. It might be a rich, rich vein to mine. Especially if you compare high school graduation rates (WA is 67 percent in 2001 is the first googleable abstract I can find, but it is in comparison to a reported 82 percent) and recidivism rates (60 percent of dudes, 50 percent of dudettes according to here but anecdotal evidence suggests these 5-year rates are in actuality higher).

Anyway, I choose my choice. When I'm not wandering blindly in the thicket of life, being distracted by stuff.

There were slash fires on the top of the hills that were clearcut by the highway tonight. That the wood could burn makes me a little relieved that maybe the hill is dry enough that we have a few more months before the soils loosen enough for the inevitable landslide. We were on our way to a party that had Swedish meatballs. And Pelligrino sodas in little bitty bottles. I love Arranciata. It was a hoot, and I may have come up with a depression-proof business idea that is, in a word, "Bartertown," with the help of an ex-journalist. His wife told Ray, "journalists are crazy." Yes, like foxes. Luckily we are short on follow-through. We'd rather write 15 inches then move on to something new. That's just who we are.

In other news: I get to go to the dump tomorrow. I may not even try to get out of it.

Turkey day

2008-11-30T20:52:00.000-08:00

Well, this was a Thanksgiving with a shadow. My family experienced a very sad loss, one that I am having trouble accepting. It just doesn't seem right.

So it was a little surreal this Thanksgiving, when one of the things I always feel thankful for, that I come from a family blessed with bright, vivacious people who are generally safe and happy, ended up not being the case.

Life was chugging on persistently, however. Ray and I faced perhaps our greatest relationship test ever: assembling an Ikea wardrobe so that I'll have a closet upstairs in his house for when I eventually trickle all my stuff over. The first day we put it together (TG) was pretty smooth sailing. The next day, when the back of the shelf did not go in the slots in the sides, well, there was some frustration. However, the application of a hammer to the particleboard fixed everything, even though I got a little overzealous and started kind of randomly banging on the wood, causing Ray to shout, "What are you doing?" Just feeling the Thor inside, buddy, that's all.

We went to the McMillans' for dinner on TG. Sheri and Lance were put in charge and holy guacamole did they outdo themselves with the turkey. I am no fan of the big bird, it's cottony and tasteless and generally worthless unless in a sandwich, but this was a smoked and roasted triumph of flavor and juiciness. Also, it was one of those farm-raised organic specialty turkeys. Janice made some fantastic brussels sprouts (I know, shocker to me, too, but I ate two servings). The sweet potatoes, the stuffing, the roasted asparagus, the handmade rolls, all were delicious. The only dishes I passed up were the Splendaed cranberry relish and the creamed pearl onions. Peas, mashed potatoes, cranberry log all found a spot on my plate or sitting a little on top of some other food. Of course there was pumpkin pie for dessert. Janice used a very complicated crust recipe that called for freezing, baking with weights, baking without, ad infinitum, and the crust came out burned looking (but not tasting, it was really very good). She was irked, because she is the pie crust queen. As her grandson says, "Why mess with perfection?"

For work I had to write a story recapping last year's dreadful storm. I swear I have some low-lying PTSD from the thing, I was getting chills just talking about windspeeds with some weather guys. They were saying that the wind was not as fast as people recall it being, which kind of put my back up a bit, because it was more than fast enough. It put my window out, for pete's sake, and there were a couple of points where I wondered if the building was strong enough to not tip over. I mean, this was a really scary storm, and it lasted for 36 hours, during part of which I was driving around covering the blamed thing seeing all the destruction that was in process of being wreaked. As a reporter, I struggled to find a balanced, objective voice that managed to capture the "OMG the sky is falling!" feeling I had. I think eventually sheer exhaustion (I hadn't slept, you can refer to that post to recapture the dramz) managed to sedate my language.

I am still working on that Banjo song for all my loved ones. I hear homemade gifts are really in this year. Just call me a cheap recessionista if you don't like my song stylings. I've been hampered by carpal tunnel/nerve damage in my right index finger and thumb, the "pickholders," if you will.

Also, because I have not been terribly motivated to work out, I have finished "The Dirt On Clean," about bathing habits of the Western World through the ages. When the author says we've really gotten away from our own scents as human beings I think she may need to spend a little time amongst the stinky to realize this is not a bad thing. Trip to the library will cure that longing for a less-bathed America. I also read, oh man this is embarrassing, "The Host," Stephenie Meyers' follow up to her Twilight vampire teen abstinence books. Although I read a lot less into the abstinence thing than the "will her demon lover love her or kill her?" as a kind of DV metaphor. The girl protagonist really feels inferior in every way to her vampire boyfriend (who is booooorrrring), and he makes odd comments about how he could do violence to her, and acts all controlling at points. He has no sense of humor, either. The other thing that bugged me about those books was the crass consumerism — the vampires are ridiculously wealthy so they only wear (designer) clothes once — oh, they're so intent on preventing human misery they don't kill people but sweatshops are fine in vampire political economic theory (and they don't sleep and live forever and do everything very fast so they could be reading up on all this), they kill top predators like bears and lions because it's more "sporting" for their dinner, even though there are plenty of deer, they drive a lot of expensive cars very fast, they just seem like very uncaring characters for a cast of vampires who are supposed to be so humane. I guess the lesson is that vampires are vampires no matter how you slice them.

So with all that in mind, plus the fact that I was compelled to read those Twilight books, I checked out "The Host" and although it was much better, there was the acceptance of casual violence to a woman (because she's taken over by an alien, so it's acceptable when her not-ex slaps her or some other guy trys to kill her). And at the end there was a bunch of disturbing stuff about like three girls in a row who were in their late 20s but looked a lot younger (one who was actually a lot younger) or something and their pairing up with significantly older guys. Weird. Hey, they were in a desert compound, trying to escape notice by civilization, this is what happens out there, young gals marry/pair up with much, much older guys. Or something. There was more to the book, obviously, but all that has been said in other, more comprehensive reviews. I don't bother with the comprehensivity any more, just the bits I think about that other people haven't.

Up next: The wondrous life of Oscar Wao. I think this is a book I need at this point, it's being literary and all.

I'd Twitter the reviews, but really I have to use a little more than 140 characters.

Not good enough for crackheads

2008-11-21T10:32:00.000-08:00

So my car got prowled the other night. It was disconcerting to get in to go to work and find my console and ashtray/change drawer open, my visors down and stuff from my glovebox on the floor. My car was messy enough that I didn't really notice right away, and once I started going through my stuff I realized nothing was taken. My old New Yorkers, my atlas, my sunglasses were all still there. The crackheads didn't want any of it.

The only thing missing was a grocery sack from the night before with two 24-oz boxes of FMWs. Apparently even THEY weren't good enough for Harbor crackheads, because they left them out on the street where I didn't see them. Steve found them and brought them in. He and Apt. mgr Mike still apparently think I "forgot" the FMWs (they clearly don't know me) when going inside after a grueling workout and an armload of heavy (think gallon of milk and big things of cottage cheese, because I love my dairy), and that I wasn't prowled. But I was.

The cop I talked to said it was more "cost effective" to do what I do — leave a door unlocked and nothing valuable inside — because no window will get busted. And I guess it was, but sheesh, it's a little disconcerting that my car really, truly had nothing of value to local crackheads.

Healing clams

2008-11-15T22:12:00.000-08:00

Well, I had a very big week at work. As you can tell from the comments, there is maybe some big time controversy.

So naturally I turned to the beach to work off some of the stuff that had been building over the week. Thursday night Ray and I loaded up his car with the clam guns, waders, stick and some lights and went straight to Ocean Shores Friday after work. It was a first for us, since we usually head to Grayland, and I worry that we got massively spoiled on our outing.

Although it was pitch black, we had headlamps on and a lantern. Not that they would have been helpful without the tell-tale clam shows (blurps of sand/holes in the beach). And there were clam shows all over the place. We got our limits (15) in almost as many minutes, less than half the time it takes to just get out there. It was crazy. I just threw myself on the beach in a frenzy of clam-gunning over little shows. I was so frenzied I ended up busting about a quarter of the clams I went after. I hate that crunching sound their shells make when you dig wrong.

The clamming was so superb that we went again tonight, even though we spent an hour cleaning the things last night and you'd have thought that would have prompted us to take a break.

We left shortly after coming back from a field trip. Yeah, that's right. The 7th Street crew took a van of peeps down to Astoria, where the Liberty Theater is. The 660-seat theater manages to be the anchor of a thriving downtown (THREE bookstores! Three!!!) in a town of 10,000 souls. People show up and regularly sell out the place (note — it would be a little harder to achieve that in the 1,100-seat 7th Street Theatre), and the thing makes money and draws enough donations to do a $9-million repair and restoration job. Seriously, the 7th Street wants in on that sort of action. And you can tell in the parts that have been done just how gorgeous the place is, and in the tour we got, we can see just how much work went into it, because we saw the part that is in the final phase of phixing, and it's kind of a wreck (of course, it's a construction site so YMMV).

After that tour we looked at the nearby Hotel Elliott, which is also gorgeous. This is what could have sort of have been the way a group of developers were thinking when they bought and began renovations at the Morck Hotel in Aberdeen, now an eyesore and decaying structure in a downtown full of the same.

Then we had lunch, then we drove back and it was clam time again.

The clamming was possibly even more spectacular than last night's. Our clamming was facilitated by a nice guy from Elma who had gotten his limit but was savoring his clam experience as he rarely gets to do it too much these days due to taking care of a sick relative. I'd pull one out and he'd say, "Here's four more. Get yer limit right here." He also said all the good clams were coming out, but mostly Ray was the one catching those. He got some big old beauts.

We let them soak in a bucket while we fixed up some from yesterday for dinner tonight. Betsy told us on the trip that the recipe we liked — dip cleaned clams in flour, egg and bashed-up Ritz crackers, lay on cookie sheet, cook five mins at 500 in preheated oven, turn and bake another five minutes — was Rich D of KDUX's recipe. He allegedly has a "world famous clam recipe," but the link from Fishgraysharbor.com was dead. So I couldn't vouch anything.

We had clams, plain steamed broccoli (Ray never has/seems to need lemon. I will have to do something about that), beets from the other night and Ray's amazing oatmeal rolls. Those rolls were so delicious it almost assuaged from the pang I felt upon eating beets — I have learned that President-elect Obama is not such a fan of the purple awesomeness. Just give the real things, not the canned things, a try, dude. Or maybe it is to my advantage that he rails on beets because then there will be more left for me when all the followers decide to hate beets because Obama does. Or maybe the American beet industry could go off the rails, I don't know.

In other news, I bought the banjo. It is mine.

This means nobody's getting Christmas presents. Well, maybe I'll write a song. How would you like that?

On the spectrum?

2008-11-09T15:28:00.001-08:00

So last week we saw my Aunt Patti and her main squeeze Klaus. They were in Seattle for a conference, and even went down to the Westport winery but didn't know I was in Aberdeen. We ate at an amazing place Jason had told them about -- the Sunflour bakery. Wow-ee, it was insane. I had a smoked salmon scramble that blew my mind. Patti had french toast with caramel peach sauce. Klaus had eggs benedict with avocado. Ray had a Denver omelet. It was all delish.

During the dinner Patti said something that makes a lot of sense: My dad is ADHD. At least a little on the spectrum. When he gets locked into the computer and can't look up, that's "hyperattention," something ADHD people can get, or something, I couldn't really be bothered to learn all that much because holy Ritalin, I am on the ADHD spectrum too! It explained a lot, like why I'm so easily distracted by passing animals and classic cars and stuff. But dad is really on the ADHD tip, you can tell because he joined Twitter a month ago and only put in one tweet as you can see here. I joined to read (what I didn't know) what was his one tweet. So now I have a twitter feed here.

It also explains why I write about thirteen topics into one blog post, I guess. (this was once a part of my previous blog post but I thought Patti deserves a little more of a pole position than the bottom of a post, if you know what I mean. She's more important than crummy sushi). Not that I have an actual diagnosis or anything, that would require going to the doctor. But Patti said it's incredibly easy to "have" ADHD anyway. She managed to get a doctor to almost prescribe her pills for it after she decided to experiment and see how easy it would be to get the diagnosis. I think that's playing with fire, myself, what with all the weird stuff that could end up in your medical file. I mean, forget the foreign service or running for president after that (yes, Patti should keep all her options open).

Patti said that if I find something interesting, it should be able to grip my attention, even if I have ADD tendencies. That's interesting because I swear I have about a decade's worth of learning about land use and AYP and "concrete is not cement" etc. in my head and I paid more attention to it than times tables because I guess, to keep my job I didn't have much of a choice. Yet my own stuff doesn't flow out of me or grab me the way passive entertainment (i.e. "The Office") or interactive experience (i.e. "Logger's Playday") does. I find this somewhat, oh, boat-rocking since I like to think of myself as creative and independent minded. Really, though, I'm just a hack and my ADD tendencies probably confirm this. I like to work for the money, honey, is what I mean. And not hustlin', but through honest, corporate labor. With health insurance.

Ray is such a sweetie pie, he has cleared out a space in his garage for my car to go. I helped him, choosing to throw away stuff he was waffling on (like a broken buoy, for serious. He does not seem to be a packrat, but all his grandfather's boating stuff is just stuff Ray will never, ever use. He has no boat to repair and, just going by his personality, he never will.) I also have a garage door opener. I am worried he will use this as an excuse to hassle me to wash my car (perish the thought!). But I will accept the hassle and maybe wash the old girl since I should accommodate him in the way that he's accommodating me.

I'm also doing my part, making pot roast for dinner and having whipped up a batch of banana pudding for dinner. Ray is obsessed with banana pudding. I believe he was seriously deprived of Jell-o-based and Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup-based recipes when he was a kid. I need to find my recipe for Coulibiac (includes canned salmon, something of an anathema to any Northwesterner) from grandmommy to convert him fully to Southern style cooking.

The worst sushi in the world

2008-11-09T14:33:00.000-08:00

For Ray's birthday, I took him to the one place in the Harbor that has sushi (well, maybe there is sushi out in Seabrook or at the Ocean Crest on occasion, but I'm talking a place that bills itself as a sushi place). I used to think sushi was like pizza, there was no bad of it, that is, except for the kind that might take your life or just be off, but I think the sushi we ate was among the most appalling foodstuffs we could have eaten because it wasn't the kids that could kill you, or even give you heinous food poisoning. That I would have accepted. No, this was just the laziest, most pathetic, most irrationally bad sushi we could have ever encountered. Gordon Ramsay would have torched this alleged sushi-chef's tuches, that's for sure. I'm trying to be semi-anonymous but it's hard when there's only one joint in town that matches the description. I'm sure the teriyaki and yakisoba is better. I mean, the place is open, right?

How bad was it? You ask. Well, I say, have you ever eaten Hamachi (yellowfin) that tasted like cod liver oil that has been sitting in the back of grandma's cabinet for a couple of years, what with no one actually buying cod liver oil anymore now that fish oil comes in capsules? No, you say. Well, that is how bad the Hamachi was. If you aren't aware, the flavor of the fish should be smooth and clean and in no way repulsive. The wasabi, I think, left me with sores inside my mouth. The rice was probably a day old and completely unseasoned. The fish was, Hamachi aside, reasonable tasting. But, this dreadful yellowfin madness aside, sushi and sashimi are about achieving the sublime. The Aberdeen sushi place was an abject failure on this front.

One of the ways sushi and sashimi are supposed to get all sublime all in your grill is the presentation. I found the presentation lacking, but then, it's hard for any food to look good under ancient fluorescent lights that are only intermittently on. I'm not going to knock the sushi place for having a Soviet/developing world atmosphere, because that's kind of common on the Harbor. Usually I like it because it means the place is authentic and cheap, just like me.

The mistake was corrected by a DQ Pumpkin Pie Blizzard. Holy diabetes, Batman, they are awesome.

The reason I rail against the sushi place is that last night I had a sublime sushi dinner in Tacoma at Fujiya. It's a restaurant I didn't know even existed when I was down there. Ray and I were in town for the Martin Short show (more on that in a minute), and he was quite insistent we go to Fujiyama even though he is not the biggest Japanese food fan (so why take him for a sushi dinner? His choice out of the two I gave him and also I get to take him out of his "comfort zone" for his birthday. It's just something we've established over the two birthdays of his we've been together). He wanted me to get my sushi swerve back on. He really pulled me back from the brink.

I had an awesome sushi dinner, and the waitress (who was totally gorgeous and VERY professional) even pointed out all the sushis I had for dinner. "That's Hamachi, or yellowfin," she said, pointing to a yellowy-white sliver of fish that was nothing like the gray underbelly cut I ate the week before. "It's my favorite."

That yellowfin saved yellowfin for me. I even gave Ray a bite. "That's what it's supposed to taste like," I said. He couldn't disagree that it was delightful. The maguro was buttery and umami-riffic. And the service was insane. The chefs at Fujiya have a neat trick for staying entertained and keeping you happy — they make little dishes that get passed to your table "just because." It's nothing you've ordered, but it's really cool to have these little plates come to the table. We got two little pieces of spicy tuna wrapped in nori and tempura-fried and a little warm "salad" of octopus bits and taro in a sweetish sauce. The octopus was just melt-in-your-mouth. We got a scoop of green tea ice cream and a scoop of coconut ice cream before we left, and let me just say, these were WAY bigger scoops than you normally get at Japanese restaurants and the coconut ice cream in particular was to die for.

So then we went to the Pantages for the Martin Short show. He called it his "I should have saved" tour. Bwa ha ha ha. Saw former boss George in the foyer. He seemed happy. Said there were seven people in the newsroom at the Gateway. That's more than when I left, and considering that the economy has been brutal to papers and McClatchy has all kinds of layoffs makes me wonder how the paper is managing it. Maybe he's counting Hugh?

But anyway, there were a couple of drunk lady hecklers. What did they think this was, a Ren Faire bawdy juggler show? The opening act was a folk singer who sang some depressing songs, including one about a wedding called something like, "Let's get on with the illusion." Geez, we're not living in the fifties anymore, you can aim a little higher in life nowadays. It kind of inspired me to use my banjo skills to write songs, but about stuff I'd want to hear about: Robot overlords, Ultimate Frisbee, why aerobics instructors have to have perfect hair while they lead class at the GH YMCA and, uh, you know, anything that happens underwater. Like a seamonkey celebration parade, or a bottom-feeder get together at the local underwater bar. I guess if I wanted to write a love song it would be abou two little emo kids finding love, but their bangs get in the way if they make out.

So Martin Short is pretty much exactly the same person he's always been except he's a little older and his picture looks like he's had some work done (which he denied, saying "No one says, 'ooh, who's the 35-year-old,' they say, 'Who's the 58-year-old whose face caught on fire?' " so maybe he just had some photoshopping? Or his eyes are just really that big and twinkly?) and maybe his weird dance with the knees stuck together is one tenth of a second slower. But his mind is still fast, and he's just so hilarious. I love his mixture of kitschy old-timey Hollywood bombast and the kooky creative stuff. Some stuff, like the video of him being Hillary Clinton, didn't work so good (even though, dang, when made up he looks a LOT like her). But the Jiminy Glick stuff (with Drew Carey cast dude Ryan Stiles, also of the Whose Line is it Anyway series of shows I find pretty unfunny) was awesome. And he was Ed Grimley for a minute, even though Ray has no idea who that is. Best joke of the night, when a theater lady came out to give him a champagne — "Asti Spumante with three Sweet N Lows, just how I like it! (sip) I like my women like I like my champagne — compliments of the theater!"

On the ride home I kept Ray awake by playing "This American Life"'s podcast of part two of their look into the financial crisis of '08. Sadly, I did not make more than 30 minutes into it before I just nodded out. This is in spite of heroic amounts of green tea we had consumed earlier.

Halloween Rorschach test

2008-10-31T21:22:00.000-07:00

Seriously, if this was the number one costume in America (especially for lantern-jawed brunettes like myself) you wouldn't have guessed it for Aberdeen where, for the second year in a row that I have been here to notice, the most popular costume is the Scream mask. In fact, I may have heard one or two chortles at the obvious Palin costume all night, and I certainly got no comments on it. The Harbor people may think I intend to dress like a Realtor every day.

I know what you're thinking — why is an actual journalist going in a costume that could be considered partisan? Well, number one as I said, I have the lantern jaw, I had the hairspray and the jacket, this was inexpensive and easy, and number two, I was so hyped up, thinking, ooh, this will be like a Rorschach test, with people either thinking I was terrifying or, uh, you know, sexy since some folks now call Halloween, well, something else you can click to on your own, and part Palin's appeal is, apparently, her looks. But it didn't seem to matter because not many people seemed to realize the costume, as I said. Maybe my hair isn't high enough.

A quick note on high hair. It is said that in the South, they say "the higher the hair the closer to God." Well, I now know why. It is because to get your hair even this little bit poufed up you need to empty a lot of hairspray on it. I went to town. My bathroom filled with the reek of Suave hairspray, which is partly made up of alcohol, which evaporates, and which you breathe in. I am not one to equate a headrush with a religious experience, but some are, so more power to them. I also was overcome by the urge to have bigger hair. Bigger! BIGGER! Tall as the Eiffel Tower, tall as those big Malaysian towers, tall as Mt. Everest. Man has always had the urge to slip the surly bonds of earth, and if you can't get your license may as well let your hair do the soaring. So there I was in the bathroom, hotboxed by hairspray, and it seemed like a good idea. Go upward, my follicles! Achieve the dream of mankind!

So Halloween. I got three bags of candy, but Ray deduced those would not be sufficient and picked up another three bags. I'm not sure who had the more accurate estimate of candy consumption, because towards the end, I was pushing it on the kids. Have some diabetes on me, y'all.

You know the trick-or-treaters that I tolerate but think, "really, people, get it together" about? The adults with the babies who take candy for "them." I tolerate these people because if they have a baby then, well, why not allow them a simple indulgence of chocolatey goodness? They have merited it even if they're trying to disguise their intentions.

You know who I find confounding, though? The people who came to Ray's door wanting a treat for their baby. I was all, "Ha ha, yeah, 'the baby,' I know what that means, it's cool. Nobody gives itty bitty babies with pacifiers and bottles candy." And these folks were like, "No, he really loves candy. It's for him." So I take a look in the stroller — yeah, too young for a bag of candy. I believe in LOLspeak my expression would have been titled, "Parenting. UR doin it wrong."

I answered the door with the banjo in my hand for a couple of little princesses who demanded a tune, so I played a really bad rendition of "Pollywollydoodle." It is hard to play on the spot like that.

I was also a total goof in the gender department once this year, too (last year there was a gender-inobvious teenage guy, about which I felt kinda guilty. Puberty is so cruel). This year at least I totally insulted the mother of a kid too young to be made completely insecure by my total inability to tell that the tot with longish curly hair was not a girl. I said "she," or "her," like three times, and the mom was like, uh, "him." And after the last time, when I continued to doubt this kid's alleged gender, "HE'S A HE!!!" I was possibly the most obtuse Realtor on the block.

So my main duty was being nice to kids and making sure they didn't take more than their fair share. Which does not guarantee that I'll address those greedy kids in a necessarily developmentally-appropriate way. I didn't realize what a total meanie I was when I asked the Batman of the first grade trying to palm the whole bowl, "Uh, no, only one. Can you count?" (to my credit I had said, "Take one, no, just one," about three times. And am I seriously supposed to coddle other people's kids?) Until Ray imitated me.

Best accessory of the night went to a little girl dressed as a princess who had a dachsund puppy (!!!!) dressed up almost identically with a rhinestone collar and pink cape thingy. It made it hard for her to maneuver her stash bag and grab candy, but heck, I wouldn't want to put the puppeh down either.

Most dramatic entrance goes to the little toddler who fell down as I opened the door. She looked like Cindy Lou Who with her little mini pig ears. And she was completely frozen in shock and fear and overstimulation from the fall. I put her upright and she just gawped. So did the little pink leopard girl. I know, you go up to strangers and they give you candy. It IS insane and mind-blowing. (But, hey, word on the street is that the family at 8th and Broadway, with the faux graveyard, give out regular-sized candy bars, so prepare to have your mind blown more!)

Maybe next year I won't screw up any kids' gender identity. Maybe I won't be kind of a hard case to kids who are obviously kind of young and possibly dazzled by candy. No matter how old I get there is always room for improvement.

Oh, Canada!

2008-10-26T18:00:00.000-07:00

So way back in August, during the beginning of the Olympics, even, Ray and I went to Vancouver in lovely British Columbia for a convention for lawyers. He did the continuing education, I did nothing but have no responsibilities. For almost an entire weekend. Lovely.

Unlike the soggy Harbor, which only recently has begun to favor us with dry weather, Vancouver was sunny, dry and warm. In other words, it was perfect for rollerblading (or "inline skating," as the trademark people would have it) every single day. And also walking, and we were near just about everything, so as you can tell, there was kind of a perfect storm brewing to mess my feet up. I'd start the day with a five-mile rollerblade around Stanley Park (we were right there, you can see from this picture how close we were:

That's from our awesome room. The trees behind the boats = Stanley Park.

There are a lot of things about the Westin that I found interesting besides the view. For example, they pump in scent at the lobby, so you enter and bam, in your face, their signature smell, which mostly smelled really clean but also it could be overpowering.

The other thing interesting about the Westin is they let child abusers stay there. Well, let me come back to that interpretation, Beth the former social worker who is now a nurse, I told her about how for the weekend this kid upstairs from us just screamed his lungs out the whole time we were there. It was either like this family had figured out our schedule and didn't leave unless we left or, more likely, they never left the room once because this kid was embarrassing. Or they were abusers. Back to Beth, who I asked if abused kids were more likely to be screaming their heads off or quivering with fear quietly, she said quiet. I asked if indulged brats screech their heads off all the time, she said yeah. Maybe we just hate spoiled brats, I dunno.

So this kid was flipping out one evening and I couldn't take it any more. So I whipped out the banjo and played a very loud rendition (and the banjo is already a very loud instrument) of "Wild Irish Rose," which is a really obnoxious song about a guy wanting to deflower his WIR. Ray was totally snickering. He was encouraging me. Then I heard some knocks from an adult above us (well excuuuuse me!) but the kid. Didn't. Scream. The rest of the trip. Maybe the banjo put the fear of God in him, maybe mommie dearest flipped out and drowned him in the Heavenly Bath.

But other things happened on this trip, like the bike ride to Granville Island:

It was pretty darn long riding to get there on our rented comfort hybrids. I actually got the appeal of the CH for the first time, though, because my shoulders and neck felt very awesome, even as my legs were thinking the upright position was not great for getting power into the bike pedals.

There at Granville Island, the coolest thing there was a studio with what appeared to be a sexy lady robot in the window. There was a sign saying please do not photograph, so like a good girl (and bad journalist) I did not. But here's the artist's website. And here's a look at some of his works. Obviously, if you Google "Cory Fuhr" you can see some better, and better-resolutioned, pics.

I did take pics of food stuffs, though.

I know! Marzipan ladybugs! Those Canadians are so precious! And follow me for the visual evidence that Canadians are truly really, really nice people who just don't wish ill on others.

If you can't read it, it says, Voodoo Dolls, 1 for $6, 2 for $10 (crossed out), 1 for $5 (crossed out), 1 for $3 — special! They can't even sell voodoo dolls there for a profit, people are just so flippin' nice, even in the big city.

The voodoo doll pic was taken in Chinatown. There was some sort of street market going on there. We watched some two-man street dance teams battle to see whose moves were the illest. The "Soul Felons" took on the "Felons of Soul." My favorite team, however, was named "Rice Noodle." I took video, but my OSX version Panther does not want to recognize my videos coming out my camera. I think I may need to download from a stick or get an upgrade on my system (bleah!).

The one thing that struck me about Vancouver the first time I visited in, oh, 1999, and still holds true is the tremendously anonymous vibe the city sends out. There are areas that are quite interesting, to be sure, but this is a city of more than an adequate amount of shiny blue-green glass and concrete buildings with brushed metal accents. Is this some sort of hard core city code?

Naturally although Ray and I did plenty together I pretty much had my days to myself and hence the sushi binge.

That day I also went to the Vancouver Art Museum for an exhibit of grown-up comix, manga and anime. There were Chris Ware panels next to Alison Bechdel's. There were some really disturbing panels from Manga that make me wonder if Japan is the place where feminism goes to die. It seems like even the ones created by women draw on appalling stereotypes and objectification and whatnot. It's not like American comics don't have their issues, but I want to see the Japanese Chris Ware or Alison Bechdel, I want to know if that's possible in the land of Hello Kitty and Pepsi White Yogurt soda and those cafes with the waitresses who wait hand and foot on otaku (and otherwise) guys.

At some point we went to a Greek restaurant for dinner and were treated to this:

Get down! The cropping obviously does not do the Pink Power Ranger much good, but check out the original on my Flickr page.

So I realize I've been dropping a lot of food pics on you. It reminds me of my friend Sara Gray. She moved to Argentina a few months ago and her blog seriously makes it seem like she and Eric are eating their way across the country.

But seriously, with all the exercise I was getting, the food was necessary. I wore my feet out so bad the last day Ray had to rub them while we watched the Olympics. We watched a lot of Olympics, like everyone at the time, I suppose. They were particularly compelling on the flat screen TV that pulled out of the wall and adjusted to wherever you were sitting.

That was Vancouver, obviously a little late. I will have more updates of all the things I have been doing or thinking (well, not all, most of that is pretty mundane).

Oh, and I'll leave you with a shout-out:

Even the graffiti is sweet and cute and funny in Canada! And so are the doughnuts!

Mamma Mia

2008-08-04T09:33:00.000-07:00

When I saw that a movie had been made of the ABBA-song-filled musical "Mamma Mia," I knew that it was only a matter of time before I saw it. There was just that air of inevitability about the whole project. And not that I wanted to see it or anything, but it was a task that fate would put in my way, so to speak, whether via going or via Netflix.

Forces conspired against me to see it. Ray loves musicals anyway, and once he heard me say I figured it was inevitable, he decided to make it inevitable. It helped that a couple of coworkers really liked it, one calling it "the feel-good movie of the year." But I think it was the hand of fate working itself through Ray that made the Mamma Mia movie trip happen more expeditiously than inexoriably, not Ray's own agency, though he definitely seemed to use agency as he scanned for movietimes.

So we settled into our seats at the cineplex, both of us shivering like crazy in the air-conditioned darkness. Clearly the air conditioning was cranked up for the key demographic of this movie, menopausal women, who indeed flanked us at every turn and did not seem to be cold at all. They also laughed at EVERYTHING except the sheer ridiculousness of Mamma Mia, which is what I laughed at.

Is there an actor in this movie who has not seen better times? Maybe Stellan Skarsgaard (or however you spell it), an actor I'd never heard of before, who is barely memorable as potential dad #3 and got to hang out in Greece for six weeks and get paid. Also, the blond scandinavian Skarsgaard was supposed to have had a Greek great-aunt. Shure. The other actor who made out like a bandit was the guy who plays the afroed bartender who comes on to Christine Baranski. He had the dazzled, "I'm finally in a movie!" look, with a hint of "This is only the beginning, and next movie maybe I won't have to be towel-diapered!"

The towel diapering was in a scene that made me wonder if the island of Kalikairi was actually a stand-in for Mykonos, so robustly dancing were the scantily-clad men.

This movie was not very post-colonial in that the main characters were all Northern European or American or anything but Greek. The greeks were all basically background color and if they were anything to the main characters they were the help. It takes Meryl Streep and her ladyfriends singing "Dancing Queen" to liberate the Greek island gals from their drab lives of hanging laundry and plucking chickens and holding ladders for handimen. The Greek women all follow their leaders, the white women of exuberant menopausality, the second-wave feminists of the '70s who have embraced Spice Girl-style "Girl Power" of the '90s in their late 50s, to the island's dock, where they do a little dance and prove how wackily independent they are by jumping in the ocean. Nothing says "good times" like jumping fully clothed into a body of water.

I also leaned over to Ray to let him know something all men should know: When women who haven't seen each other in a while and hung out in a tight group back in the day get together, they rarely have a chant or whatever that they have to start screaming out when they see each other. Yet that happened twice with two different groups of women in the movie. Egregious!

Look, it's a downer to say that grown ups should act like grown ups, but this was "High School Musical: The Pregnancy, the later years, etc."

It's also a downer to say that musicals should have to restrain themselves, especially ones that are as big a mess at this one. I mean, the single mom who doesn't need a man sings "Money Money Money"? The last song of the bachelorette party is the one-night-stand-barnstormer "Voullez Vous?" and the bride to be tells her man to dance with her mom? And she starts dancing with all the guys who could be her dad? Weird. It was like these messages slipped in amongst the "Middle aged women can be hyper" randomness.

Nothing wrong with hyper middle aged ladies. I'll probably be one someday. But it leaves me scratching my head, wondering why my mom, who is a serious cultural snob, liked Mamma Mia. She'll say that she can have fun, too, but she tends to over-intellectualize stuff, and I don't see her joining the Red Hat people anytime soon.

Something about this movie really hit the m-woman demo. I was completely unsurprised to see Rita Wilson and Tom Hanks had produced this thing, as they also did "My Big Fat Greek Wedding," another menopausal-people smash of cornball jokes and feel-good vibes and an over-the-hill (not by my standards, by society's) bride. Maybe there are subliminal messages? Maybe the future-meno-me heard and responded to them through the ads? I don't know.

Not that there is nothing to be gotten from Mamma Mia; Colin Firth's character is revealed as gay (a British prig with only dogs for companions — could they have telegraphed it any clearer?) and he picks up a much younger hot Greek guy for a little Socratic method/Spartan training/Colonial opression/pick your euphamism. When they dance shirtless together in a waterfall, you could hear the audience filing the visuals away for future reference. I don't care how homophobic you are, you WILL be turned on by shirtless Colin Firth and background character of sexual propness!

I warn you, the Mamma Mia hand of fate will have its way with you. We are all fate's playthings. She has chosen to mock us with cornball Swedes since they spawned the only hit ever to come out of the Eurovision song contest. Surrender.

Steamboat Springs

2008-07-30T23:30:00.000-07:00

So it's been a couple weeks since I went to Colorado. I'm still getting back into the swing of things, really.

From the last post, the only really significant thing I remember about the timber show is that the numbers one and two logrolling positions were duked out by a dude and a dude who lost an arm in Iraq. Guess who the crowd got behind? And unlike climbing or choke-setting, the logrolling is a one-on-one deal where the two dudes stand on opposite ends of the same log, and they run against each other and try to knock the other off. So I secretly rooted for the dude with two arms because I felt sorry for him. I think he took the number one slot, but obviously, I had other things to think about. Legendary coach Gordy somebody was there. Kris said he was missing fingers from logging accidents, but they could have been curled under from where I sat. Still, that's pretty awesome, I guess.

So we left for Portland early in the morning and made it to Denver on time where we met up with Doug and then to the Hertz guy, who confused the heck out of us. Seriously, the kinds of options they give you for your ride are convoluted, impossible to understand and probably designed to make you the loser no matter what you choose. At any rate, we got a Subaru Outback, which was a pleasant car to drive, and we took it out to Steamboat Springs, passing a sign in Silverthorne for "Master Bait and Tackle" on the almost-200 mile drive. No kidding, but no pic.

Mom and Dad had already arrived a few days before, and we arrived in time for beer and chips on the porch. Ray and I went downstairs, Doug got "the Marrakesh Room," which was the front door entryway (which no one uses), which had an air mattress and Carol's art all over. She is going through a glow in the dark phase, which sounds completely nuts and tacky, but her stuff is really cute and works with interesting and funky ideas. Like she has flowers in the light, paisleys in the blacklight and butterflies in the dark, and all in one painting. Yet she made the comment that she cannot call herself an artist (I believe it was, "Callie can call herself a banjo player, but I can't call myself an artist." I mean, I may not play well, but I do identify as a banjo player).

The next morning was Sunday, so I had to get my NYT X-word. On the way back from Safeway, Ray and I saw a bunch of people lined up on the street. Turned out they were waiting for a cattle drive down the center of Lincoln Street. The Pilot said there were about 100 head, which is far better than cattle drives past that Rob recalled, where there were more wranglers (apparently you can pay for the privilege) than cows. Like a 40 to 9 ratio. Anyway, Ray had his camera but I don't have any shots so here is some on the scene reportage and photos. They don't have any awesome pics of Ray and me in front of the herd, or this one bovine jumping on the back of another, it was so, uh, impatient.

We ended up going back out to downtown because dad wanted a cowboy hat. He looked all over for the cowboy hat that met his price point (i.e. supacheap) at F.M. Light. He was floundering through the 35-45 dollar ones when I brought him one from the $4.98 area. He had, shockingly, not seen any of these hats and was thrilled. He said he liked the look of them the most of all the hats, but let's be honest, my dad's favorite shirt for years was a green lumberjack plaid flannel he picked up off the street while in a moving car that was missing a button. The freeness of that shirt definitely made it more attractive to him. Anyway, here's the hat:

Also at the F.M. Light, and something I sorta regret not buying (it was almost $8, though) was Bear Soap. It smelled really good, not gamey or musky at all, and was allegedly made from the melted fat of local bears that had been killed in some fashion — not the bear ranch, I'm sure. As you can see, my shots all ended up blurry. My camera stopped opening its lenscap all the way when turned on, too. I am miffed. This thing needs to last.

Doug found a friend:

We also saw a Ranch Rodeo.

That's Kool and the Gang.

That's what they call a "cowpuncher." I think. Anyway, the Ranch Rodeo does not include buckin' broncos or bulls nor barrel riding nor nothing like that. Instead, there are four bovines representing four tasks the teams must accomplish in less than 5 minutes, all of which are typical of those tasks found on a ranch. This is the calf "branding," where a calf must be roped, felled and "branded" with tempera paint. There also is a steer that needs to be penned in a little pen, a steer that needs to be roped and have three legs tied together for at least 20 seconds and a "wild cow" that needs to be milked. Obviously, that's not a cowboy task, that last one, but it's darn entertaining to watch these cowpunchers try to milk a cow that clearly does not want to be milked.

There were some fraught moments, more than a couple cowboys got stepped on by animals (ouch) and the cowboy above had to get the calf ready to "brand" by flipping it over on to himself. As a sidenote, I saw a PETA photo not too long after of a split-second of a calf getting roped, when the rope was at its chokiest. It was pretty awful. But upon reflection, I had to conclude that this was a task of ranching, and part of the agreement the cows entered into when they decided to give up their wildness to be granted sure-fire reproductive success. This is part of the great genetic bargain, and I am sure the cows would much prefer a little roping to surefire extinction, which is what would occur if beef were never to be sold or et again anywhere.

Later, Ray began to feel a funny feeling in his nose and throat, a premonition of the sickness to come, and it would eventually hit him hard.

On the second day, we got bikes from the Bike and Ski Kare place. Dad and Doug hit the Yampa River trail, while Ray and I headed to the Spring Creek Trail. Huh. The bike trail map we consulted said it was only 4 miles. Obviously it was longer. Also, it climbed. A lot. I was sucking wind pretty bad, totally unadjusted to the altitude (almost 7,000 feet to start with a 1,200-foot climb). I had to stop quite a bit and got lapped by some geezers. Way to make me feel not hardcore at all. And although Ray had a sore throat, he was super perky and just blazed through the woods.

See, he's gloating.

Luckily the ride down was downhill, and we cut back a different way to hit downtown. We ate at the Old Town Pub, where in spite of the old-West/party time atmosphere the BLT had aioli. It was delicious, by the way. We met up with Dad and Doug, who were eating at the Cantina. Doug had checked his bike back in by then — biking is not his thing. Exercise is not really his thing. Dad was using Rob's bike so he put it in his trunk, and Ray and I biked back to Rob and Carol's. Not so easy now that they live way out in "Heretic Park," as they call it, instead of downtown.

Mom tried to get me and Doug into the photo-organizing spirit (she brought, like, three huge tubs) but the only thing I ended up bringing back home was the results of an IQ test I took when I was 15 that got me into the mentally gifted program at Central High School. There are numbers on it, like "Similarities, 18 , Arithmetic, 16, Vocabulary, 18, Object Assembly, 17," etc., and it struck me they were a lot like D&D attribute scores. I got 12s on "P. Arrangement" and Coding, but everything else, in the D&D universe, would have given me some sort of advantageous points on saving throws. I don't really know what it all means, and Google isn't helping. My final score was 139; a mark I'm sure I surpassed in later years but have since long left behind with creeping adult inflexibility.

Oh well, I'm less of a jerk now that I know I don't know nothing.

Then on Tuesday, Ray and I rode the bikes back to return them and somehow ended up getting our car and going to Fish Creek Falls with my family for a brief hike.

It was devilishly hot. We Northwesterners were pretty uncomfortable. After the hike, Doug and Ray and I kicked around a bit in an attempt to wait out the hot day with "WALL*E." Ray said he was feeling icky, so he backed out of the movie. I thought he was just decompensating from all the family time. But no, he was really sick. And boy did I feel bad when I realized he had not been able to enjoy being by himself downtown because he felt so bad he tried to sleep under a tree, then in the car. I took him back to Rob and Carol's, in complete agony, I'm sure, and got him fruit and a glass of orange juice.

"Wall*E" wasn't bad. The whole meanness to fat people thing wasn't cool, though, nor the "plain dude gets hot chick" vibe that you see all the time in sitcoms that was replicated robotically. I wish there was a TV show in which everyone was plain. I'm so tired of hot people. Also, I couldn't understand how people could live on a ship forever. Don't they have limited energy resources in space?

Ray's illness was greatly tempered by some magic Puffs with Vicks in them. Look for them come winter. They are brilliant. My allergic nose was soothed greatly by huffing them.

Ray slept like crazy and seemed a little better the next day. So we did something mellow. Because we had to prepare for the Great Horseback Caper. Which mom backed out of because she felt sick! Ay caramba!

We started with the Trantham place in Yampa, which Rob has been working on. (Well, I'm getting the days all mixed up, but go with me here)

I took a picture of the Antlers, though.

It's just a neat-looking little place.

Then, on to the horsies!

This is at the Elk River Guest Ranch, north of Clark. We all got on horses.

This is sensitive cowboy Tim, our guide. He was totally precious, and because dad was all the way in the back, I, the only extrovert in the front three, had to keep the conversation up. Don't think Tim is sensitive? Well, he said every horse has its own personality, and then he gave brief but very telling psychological sketches of the horses we were riding. His horse, whose name escapes me, likes to mess with people, and will get kind of sassy if not kept in line. My horse, Black Jack, was "the grumpy old man, who wakes up and is like, 'Gotta get to work.'" Ray's horse, whose name escapes me, is the "injured athlete," Dad's horse Al is Doug's horse's sidekick, and Doug's horse, Nacho, is a "lady's man."

Still don't think Tim's sensitive? His favorite wildflower is called "Fairy Trumpet," or "Faerie Trumpet," depending on how you care to spell it. No Mules Ears or Lupine for him. No, but seriously, we loved him.

It was so pretty. If a lot of these pictures ended up washed out and blurry, it's because someone didn't check to make sure the camera's settings hadn't slipped from auto to "P," whatever that does. Le sigh.

Thursday Ray said he felt better (translation: he felt stoic). So we went to Rocky Mountain National Park, which was great because the deal with national parks is always that although you're outside you're really not putting in THAT much hiking effort in a go. This is not Colonel Bob. Though it is higher.

12,000 feet, baby. Although you start at 11K so no biggie, except for all the panting. There was a herd of elk nearby enough to practically touch. The views were astounding. The wind was whipping. The sun was like a UV bomb. There was an interpretive sign that called the pica the "farmer of the tundra." I saw a pica up close. I saw a marmot up close. Then, just as we were getting to Estes Park, Ray practically hit a marmot. I saw some Russian or Estonian or something kids feeding chipmunks by hand, and managed to coax some near to me by pretending I had food. No, I'm sure this water-vomiting will go away soon.

We did a couple of hikes and stopped for a few views, then hit Estes Park for ice cream.

Who knew the Ren Faire squad had penetrated this cozy mountain town?

On the way back through the park, we saw an elk by the side of the road. There were two other elk on the other side of the road, and all three had huge racks. They kind of all panicked after a certain level of crowd built and got together and swam across this little lake. On the way through Granby Lake, Carol had told us to take pictures because it was predicted that in 15 years there wouldn't be a tree left standing due to pine beetle infestation. The damage was just way too depressing to photograph, though. I was really shocked at how hard the pine beetle had hit NW Colorado. The ski mountain even had streaks of red that should have been green. And as dry and hot as it is in Colorado, it wouldn't take much for it to all light up and be awful. Drought has been stressing the trees for years, and they're just not able to fight off the bugs (which are always there) any more. The links to global warming are obvious to the intuitive mind (like my own). Let's stop recreating the atmosphere of the Carboniferous era, plz?

Friday, after mom and dad left, we canoed on Steamboat Lake.

Then we went tubing. Dun dun DUN!

That's the mighty Yampa River, swollen with water from a record snowfall. I didn't take my camera into the water, obviously.

It all started out smoothly and calmly. But for Doug and Ray, there would be trials ahead. Doug foolishly listened to some kids and leaned back on a fall. Kerplunk! He was in the rushing water, struggling to get up to his tube, which was trapped in a "hole." He yelled at the kids to get it out, which, at some risk to their persons, they did. "God, don't let this kid be killed getting Doug's tube unstuck from the hole," I said.

Then Ray took a fall and his glasses started coming off and his hat came off and ... oh, he was going down on the slippery rocks. I saw the whole thing and it was pretty awful. By the time I floated up to him he was back on track, though, and the rest of the way was mellow. Seriously, it took some guts after his dumping to get back in the tube again.

Saturday in Denver we had lunch with Doug at Red Lobster (easy to access from freeway, they have coconut shrimp. Doug got a Food Network award winning recipe of some kind of fish in a macadamia/white chocolate sauce. It was gross) then dropped him off at the airport and then we saw urban stuff:

This is at the 16th Street Mall. We had been to the Botanic Gardens earlier. They're lovely. The cloud forest room was particularly pleasant, drenched with water and moisture and cool.

At the end of the mall, of which very few shops appealed to me (Walgreens, for example), was Tattered Cover. It was the most beautiful surprise. It was like Powell's, which I haven't been to in forever. But it was unexpected and much more intimate than Powell's.

We beat it from there to the airport and made it back to Longview late at night.

I'm still recovering.

Go Fourth

2008-07-05T08:02:00.000-07:00

So last week I was totally going to blog about this really long bike ride and other assorted and varied interesting things that happened but my gnat-like memory is failing me. Besides, I worked, and the result of that is here (in short, Roosevelt reenactors (yes, both Teddy and FDR) visited the park, gave a speech to a handful of mildly surprised and interested people then I drove all over looking for the new sign they were supposed to dedicate. As a bonus, I got to eat a really good BLT).

Anyhow, Fourth of July Longview-style. It started with a parade, as all decent Fourth celebrations do, although actually the city started celebrating Wednesday with a strip of fair booths and a stage with live music (covered live by KLTV, local access for Kelso and Longview). This is a patriotic city, no doubt.

The parade had Pro-Rodeo Thunder Queen whoever riding on her horsey with a lot of fancy gear. There were old-timey cars, a brigade of Red Hat women, who all freak me out deeply. There's just something very Mao about the uniform of the enlightened, empowered ladies. There were lots of people throwing candy at passers-by (mostly tootsie rolls, some non-chocolate flavored, like lime and fruit punch), and there was even an R.A. Long reenactor (!). He was a founding father of the city, apparently. There were some baton twirlers, a "smartsign" band (high school students, it looked like) playing Sousa and "Land of 1000 Dances," and even a bagpipe player. There was also a huge Democrat contingent, making a great showing in heavily-conservative small-town Washington state. What's more, the Obama people appeared to be getting cheers and the Dino Rossi 2-truck-hayride-and-walking-people float just got silence. He's the guy the Republicans are running against Christine Gregoire, for non-Washers.

Then it was onto the main stage, where the Northwest Wind Ensemble (actually a big group with a xylophone and percussion) was playing Sousa. Ray saw his friend's dad and granddad playing there, along with a phalanx of people he knew. During the parade, there was a sign by the driving school float that said, "Remember when Jim Kaber taught you to drive?" and I laughingly asked him and he said, "Yes, I did take lessons from Jim Kaber." Small. Town.

The timber show was next, and it was a doozy. I almost decompensated from sitting in the cool, but Kris had showed up by then with a beach towel (it had been raining and she figured we were soaked). I will have to save the tale of the timber show for another day, hopefully with links to K's pics, because frankly, I don't have time before the plane to Denver boards. Yay for the quickness! Yay for free PDX wi-fi! Yay Oregon! Yay no sales tax! I hate to leave you, Oregon, but Steamboat calls.

No Internet for a bit. Sorry, faithful reader (or me).

Prepping for epicnicity again

2008-06-23T22:36:00.000-07:00

So this isn't technically biking below.

Yeah, we rode the ponies in Ocean Shores. It's in preparation for an upcoming trail ride on the Colorado visit, wherein we will, with my family, all ride up into some Mt. Zirkel-adjacent gorgeousness on some horses for two hours, to return to a dinner of "healthy hotdogs (!!!)," "s'mores" and a cash bar. How many drinks will it take to soothe the aching tushies of the non-horseriding city mice? I look forward to telling you.

Now, riding horseback on the beach probably sounds ridiculously romantic and exciting. If not for the mandatory preparation, this would have been a trip I think we'd have been happy to skip. First, Ray had never ridden a horse below and he's not even crazy about dogs because when they are unpredictable, they can bite. And now he's on a horse's back (Her name is Kim. I rode Freckles). This and the extreme positivity at my banjo playing and the public dancing at the ball last year prove that he has gone over the deep end for me, as far as I'm concerned.

But the problem is that Ocean Shores is not a very romantic area to ride on. The beaches, such as they are, are lined with cheesy condos and hotels filled with cheesy people who perpetrate all kinds of redneckery, from doing donuts on the beach to holding bonfires and barbecues right next to their cars to flying those kites you can steer and buzzing everyone around. There are also hearty souls who get in the water to bathe. I was appalled by that, especially watching the kids go out. I mean, their parents must want them to be taken away by hypothermia to let them splash around when it's 53, overcast and gale-stormy out. The one-hour ride took us most of the way to the Quinault Beach Resort and Casino before turning around. And then there's the weather. It has been chilly and wet out here anyway, and the shore is far windier than is desirable. Ray's short shirtsleeves were not enough, and my bulky sweater did not manage to stop the wind from ripping into me. Not exactly a gentle, tress-tussling breeze. By the end of the hour, Ray and I were frozen solid and his hands were bright red and practically numb.

Did I mention horses don't like to get their feet wet? Every time a wave came up, we had to walk the horses around them. And only walk (and occasionally trot) them. No racing through the tide, sending up a magical sparkly spray. Oh well, we were too Donner-Party miserable to think about it.

Ray did great, and I managed to keep Freckles under control. The only damper is that our old nags had been making the shore-side run all day and were probably whipped. The horses at the ranch will likely be fresh. Well, we're ready now. I think.

To warm up we went to the Arcade and played air hockey. I beat Ray for the first time and then he beat me and took back bragging rights.

Yesterday we hit Lake Sylvia State Park, which has an extensive trail system for mountain biking (really for logging, but it's open to the public for non-motorized use). We hit a trail that went pretty steeply up about 5 miles, then turned around and zoomed down. There's no map available online, but the park kiosk has a lot of them. If I were a graphics person I'd try to turn it into a prettier and more elaborate version of the dittoed copy you get at the kiosk. It was a terrific ride, and since there was plenty of time left when we completed it, we took a brisk 5 mile or so hike. We were quite weary after that but we still had to hit the supermarket for dinner.

Luckily, when I headed to Starbucks to get my Sunday NY Times, I saw the Spooner Farms stand was open. I went to the Starbucks to get my paper (they didn't have any, the delivery didn't make it to Grays Harbor that day, and we ended up having to send Ray's dad Ray on a mission to get a copy in his neck of the woods) by bike and I booked it back to my car to get proper flat transportability. The Spooner berries are very tender and sweet, and red all the way down. They are not California abominations of sour crunchiness, and they only last 30 sublime days. Needless to say, I came back for the flat and plowed through about two pints through the course of the day, and there are still plenty left for my FMWs.

I also learned that I can play almost all Johnny Cash and Hank Williams Sr. songs on the banjo. With ease, chord-wise, so my finger picking is going to have to pick up some steam. I can also play that "Umbrella" song and the opening riff to "Stairway." Thanks to the Internet for putting chords and tabs up for almost any song you can think of. If only more than 75 percent of those chords were correctly noted.

Banjo pickin'

2008-06-17T17:30:00.000-07:00

So I got a banjo last week. A tenor banjo, to be precise, which is necessary because there are three kinds of banjos. I have chosen one of the two non-five string banjos to play. People don't get the variety of banjos out there. They seem to think all you can play on a banjo — which they envision as a five-string banjo — are bluegrass tunes. My God, people, there is a world of music out there that can be played with a banjo. Heard of Bela Fleck?

Well, not like I'm going to be playing abstruse banjo jazz. Honestly, I'm a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of chords in the world. I'm just trying to pick some songs out that I want to be able to play, and get to a point where I don't sound awful. And banjo music makes people happy.

In contrast to my parents' telling me I ought to play cello (mom — and I tried it and didn't like it) and dulcimer (dad — there is one around the house in Arkansas and it's supposed to be easy), Ray has embraced the banjo playing with an enthusiasm that almost scares me. He has actually gotten his saxaphone from his sister's house, an instrument he has not played in a decade, and some music that has chords in it so we can "jam." And though the jazz classics he has the music for is good stuff, I'm looking at chords with what appear to be fractions next to them. I thought there were a few kinds of chords, but there's apparently a whole world out there of ways to structure notes that people actually use and that sound pleasantly consonant. Go figure.

I am using a beautiful 1930s-era banjo on loan from a banjo band leader who has loaner banjos for would-be banjo players. It has inlaid mother of pearl and is heavy as all get out. So far I can play "Clementine," "London Bridge," and a few other songs that rely on C, F, G, G7, C7 and A chords. There are quite a few. I can just barely get out the D chords. I'm getting somewhere.

I've got a mess of books to read. I finished a Chandler Burr book about the making of Un Jardin Sur le Nil and Lovely (they are scents) and you know, he is one lucky duck. His book is okay, there are some draggy passages and some exceptionally self-concious writing about talking to a celebrity (Sarah Jessica Parker). It really works when he actually talks about molecules and scent, and really, that was the book I wanted to have more of. I think the book was called "The Perfect Scent."

I have plenty of books to dig into — I put them on hold a year ago and that hold expired at once and, boom, eight books drop in my lap. I have a couple that don't look that interesting to me anymore (one about the Christian Right in the U.S., another about the black market of nuclear weapons. I must have been feeling paranoid or something for that one) and others that are more appealing (Atul Gawande's notes on being a surgeon, "The Book of Air and Shadows," "Coal Black Horse," which sounds so full of rural poverty, desperation and child-in-peril plus historic setting that I am thinking of getting it for mom for Christmas. The more grinding the poverty, the more she likes it).

I had a fun surprise this weekend. I thought "Battlestar Galactica" was having its season finale, but it was just the mid-season finale. I suppose "fun surprise" is the wrong way to put it since there was kind of a depressing cliffhanger. And now I have to wait for the return of the sexy killer robots and psychologically disturbed on-the-run humanity. But if I can wait for summer weather, I can wait for BSG.

The Olden Times

2008-06-08T21:31:00.000-07:00

This weekend was a weekend of simple pleasures, of experiencing the joys of the past. And by that I mean banjos. Lots of banjos.

The weather was not promising (I wore my winter coat this morning, how ya like that?) so on Saturday I dragged Ray up to Kamilche to the Little Creek Casino, where there was a convention of 4-string banjo players. I wanted to see the set of the Grays Harbor Banjo Band (which I wrote about not too long ago, and which was noticed not too long after, and yes, I can do more than seems, people, I can be obsessed with banjos myself). They were playing with Montana Red, aka Dick Lewis aka someone whose picking and grinning does not seem to be caught up on the internets like so much other cultural detritus with far less redeeming value. Montana Red was nominated for the national 4-string Banjo Hall of Fame in Guthrie, Okla., but his name does not appear to be in their online repository of banjo heros. Still, the guy must be able to play to call himself Montana Red, no?

For the record, Montana Red was in a cowboy hat and a bright red shirt with a southwestern pattern across the middle and a belt buckle with a ginormous red stone in the middle of it. The other GHBB members wore white shirts and blue satin vests.

We were a little late getting there because after we ate lunch we stopped at the home of a former client of Ray's who regaled us with his tribulations getting his garage built. It will be massive, with a slab of concrete he said is on the order of 72 cubic yards and way above street level. He's convinced it is ridiculous and he has locked horns with so many officials about it he said he has been told not to come back to city council meetings. He also told us about shooting at a nearby meth-maker's shed with flaming arrows. Ted Nugent can't touch this guy.

As it turns out, the banjo festival, held in a small event center/conference room style thing. It wasn't in the main event center, because that's where the Capitol Jubilee or something like that was being held. There were all these people milling around with badges on, welcoming us in and everything. They were so friendly and all seemed to know each other so well I was half expecting to see some sort of cult figure come by to lead them. I Googled, but nothing. Maybe it was a multi-level marketing thing? So we find the kind of distant room with the banjo band.

Well, instead of having one banjo band play at a time, all five bands are seated in a semi-circle and they are gone through in rotation, one song at a time. I have to say, the local band was the best. The GH band not only has banjo skillz, they have a guy who plays what appeared to be a straight soprano sax, which didn't sound like Kenny G but like those old timey territorial band recordings, a washboard, a bass and more non-banjo instruments than the other bands, which contributed sonic interest.

The songs that were played were so old the copyrights had expired when Bugs Bunny was singing them in cartoons. "Red Roses for a Blue Lady," "Dinah," "By The Sea," you name it, the tunes were familiar and old timey. There was an older couple, a woman in pink and a man in green, and they danced as much as their mutual inflexibility and possibly arthritis allowed them to. The man's moves were pretty limited, but then the pink lady got a new partner and they totally were getting down. There was almost an emergency when they tried to do the two-person turn, where they lifted their arms up and turned back-to-back, because their shoulders weren't flexible enough. It explained the ambulance sitting out in front of the casino.

There was also a woman from the "Orphan Band" who did a hula to "Tiny Bubbles," which I totally intend to do next time I go to a winery. And there was another woman from the Tacoma Banjo Band who got up in a cowboy hat with fake braids and a washboard around her neck and thimbles on every finger and did a kind of dance while banging out a rhythm while the band played. For some reason she reminded me of my mom.

Hugely entertaining. Then we went to the town's history museum to take in an improving lecture on women's history and getting the vote. Very Depression-style entertainment, and we had a dinner Sunday of porcupine meatballs, which is meat mixed with uncooked rice, browned and then cooked in a sauce where the rice absorbs liquid. Mom said that was very Depression-esque, and I guess we're about being prepared. I will have to learn to love beans, she told me. So be it. I can love beans, but I hope everyone around me has sufficient love for me to put up with my bean-digesting!

Maybe it was all the old timey stuff, but I was on a real trip about the upcoming Depression (reasons I think it's coming: Energy prices going out of control, food prices getting insane, generalized global instability, global warming thwarting traditional seasons and water patterns, I'm basically one of those people who swings between wild optimism and pessimism and I'm on a downward spiral without lots of great outdoor days) tonight. I was even trying to think of ways to thwart local cats from using a garden I'm likely never going to plant as a litterbox, short of killing them dead.

I was all on about how I have to hit Safeway before Tuesday, they've got the 24 oz boxes of FMWs 2/$5; I have to stock up. Like a crazy person with Great Depression issues. And at the improving lecture, in one of the "living history vignettes," I learned that in 1935, when a man could expect to make a dollar a day, a box of Bisquick cost $.30. Way to make me feel guilty about that totally unopened, unused box of Bisquick I've got in my cupboard that cost me about $1.29.

But I was also all on about ways we could entertain ourselves without electricity or anything: I could take up the four-string banjo (plectrum or tenor, however, eludes me) and Ray could play his clarinet and we could just have all-night Dixieland jam sessions. Who said the Depression has to always be completely awful?

Pain at the pump?

2008-06-03T17:50:00.000-07:00

Well, I set myself up for about $.85 more pain the past couple days by putting off refilling my tank. Why wait? Not because the prices were so high, but the lines to the pump were so long. I'm talking insane long. I don't remember gas lines being so long when gas was at $2.25. And I'm not talking long every once in a while, I'm talking consistently long. This is just anecdotal blather, but seriously? the best cure for pain at the pump is not driving all over the place then acting like the gas station is the new 1929 bank.

I think they're like that with gas like I am with the FMW. I have said before I have a pretty ridiculous collection of the stuff, and it's only gotten bigger since dad told me wheat prices were going to go way up. Like gas, though, I will pay whatever the cost is for my Frosted Mini-Wheats.

Unfortunately, it is still impossible to bike everywhere as it is blustery blowing mist and chill out here. If I didn't mind rust, I'd ride, but seriously. I'm reading "Bicycling America's National Parks" and "Bike! Southwest Washington" and visiting sites like this one.

In the meantime, dad is doing the Tour de Rock, raising money for cancer research at CARTI. He's able to put 20+ miles out in the dry (but hot!) Arkansas weather.

Also, I was about to give up on Natalie Angier's "The Canon," but it finally started getting kinda good. Not like I don't already know this stuff about electrons and the strong and weak forces and whatnot, but it never hurts to keep rereading it and remembering it so one's brain doesn't get too vulnerable to pseudo-science.

Crazy dream

2008-06-01T21:45:00.000-07:00

So last night I dreamed I was in Target, and Jim Bakker (of the PTL Club) was following me around regaling me with tales of all the D-list celebrity bimbos his son was dating, and how it was so exciting, and how this was proof positive his son was really on his way up. And I had had dealings with his son, who (in the dream, anyway) was really annoying and obnoxious and just the kind of person so obsessed with himself and externalia that after a few minutes of pretending to be polite, I told Jim Bakker that actually, his son was a total douche, and was likely not "dating" the bimbos he claimed but rather was calling them all the time and annoying them and showing up where they were hanging out and pretending they were all the greatest of friends when they just wanted to get away from him. Then I told Jim Bakker, "But then, you're kind of a rapist so I guess you don't really understand the whole communication thing, so why don't you go away and let me buy my shampoo." That was pretty fast, even for me, and certainly for a dream.

The other new thing for me was elk. One of Ray's clients gave him elk sausage, elk steaks and ground up elk. One elk is apparently more than enough for that "Cheaper By The Dozen" family. I can only imagine how tiring it is to drag out of the woods. A friend of mine who hunts said he goes to the bike-in places and, when he kills a deer, he "vents it" (I have no idea what that means and I'm not sure I want to know), gets his bike, takes off the seat and props the deer up on the pole (via the vent, I'm sure), lashes the front paws to the handles and pushes it out of the woods. How ya like them apples?

So we busted out the ground elk and made burgers (I made the patties, Ray was grossed out by the whole touching meat thing) with a little salt and pepper and a splash of water and worcestershire sauce (water was a tip from Jeffery Steingarten, whose opinion on eating for pleasure I trust completely, the guy loves to chow down on frozen Mars bars) to keep it moist. Well, the meat tasted a whole lot like beef. It wasn't as tender, but I kind of overcooked it (safety first) and there was hardly any fat. It was really lean stuff. But it was quite yummy, and maybe next time I'd throw a little oil in instead of water.

In other bits of information that may interest the reader, we watched "The Savages," which is billed as a dark comedy, but it wasn't very funny unless you think a whole lot of bourgeois griping about nursing homes, trite stereotypes and people with MFAs are inherently funny (there is not an MFAer in the world who is remotely funny in my experience). It seriously should go on Stuff White People Like. Although its ilk of film has probably been scrutinized there before.

Bizzy Holiday Weekend

2008-05-27T20:08:00.000-07:00

Friday kicked off Memorial Day Weekend with a bang, with a mad rush to bake a strawberry rhubarb pie in the space between work and "Iron Man." Lemme tell you, you don't need one hour and forty five minutes to bake that bad boy. I had to stop after an hour or so because of "Iron Man." I mean, you can't just leave a pie to bake and let the oven timer decide what the appropriate on-off time is. Like it would know. And I shiver to think of leaving a fresh pie in a hot oven as it cools, drying out. As it was, the pie came out perfect. (Well, I substituted cardamom for the cinnamon, which is pungent in a bergamot-citrus way, and the berries and rhubarb are pretty pungent to start with, and I used brown sugar only, which was fine. I told Ray I was freestylin' it, and my spontenaity both thrilled him and made him nervous. SOP, really.)

Perhaps some of that had to do with using Ray's grandmother's pie crust recipe, which calls for some sugar, some vinegar and some egg in it, which is totally not the Mark Bittman/Jeffrey Steingarten way (nor, more critically, the Janice McMillan way, creator of the most intensely delicious and tender pie crusts), but it leads to a crust that browns well and is very flaky (tender, not so much, but tender vs flaky is the ultimate pie crust tension battle situation). I was happy not to make the crust, and Ray is quite good at rolling it out. I even latticed that thing. The recipe called for 7x7 latticing, I went for 5x5 because it took a ruler to get the even spacing and that was a little wide for the pie and appropriate latticing.

So then, "Iron Man." I was something of a wreck because we left five minutes before it started, hit all (like, three) red lights on the way and there was a line at the ticket booth. We didn't miss previews, even.

"Iron Man" was pretty awesome. Robert Downey Jr. can act, and Gwyneth Paltrow wasn't totally annoying. I was the only person in the theater who guffawed at the obligatory Stan Lee cameo. I'm a dork. Also I liked the 'splosions.

The tight schedule was not finished, no. See, we had to see the 6:40 showing of "Iron Man" so we'd be able to get up early enough to go clamming. We had to be out the door at eight. Shockingly, we were in a position to eat breakfast and book to Grayland. The clamming was ... meh. The clams were tiny, for the most part, and kind of hard to find. I pulled up a clam that I thought was the biggest clam I'd ever caught, but to be honest, I was looking at a lot of clams in my bag that didn't stretch across my palm so much. Also, it got warm, and Ray and I were swimming in our waders, we were so hot. Our limits didn't get nearly met.

But the tight schedule mandated we get home around 10 a.m., which we did, because that Saturday Beth and Chris came out for the day. Clams were dinner, and we had to catch something! We all got to the house at about the same time, so we pitched the clams in a bucket with water and cornstarch. We chatted then went back to Westport where we walked around enjoying the weather. Then we went to the Westport Winery, which on its surface sounds crazy -- we're on the wrong side of the Cascades, and Grays Harbor is not known for its oenophilia, but I'll be darned if the wines aren't pretty good. The Elk River Riesling is about the best Riesling I've tried (I find their reds kind of harsh, and the Compass Rose White Merlot to be, as Chris put it, "the weirdest tasting wine ever," which means it has an appeal, too), and the raspberry chocolate wine tastes like candy in a glass, but also it's wine. Seriously.

So we had a wine tasting and got happy on 5 oz of wine. We are kind of lightweights. The place was packed; there were even cyclists there. Good luck making it the next 15 miles to Westport while slightly tipsy! (Yes, the winery is not exactly in Westport, it is in Markham, which does not have its own post office so it's technically also in Aberdeen, and South Aberdeen at that.)

We made it back and Ray and Beth gutted, ahem, dissected, the clams. She was totally fascinated. Chris and I cut up vegetables. Carrie and John came over and we all had more wine. I did a fast dredge-n-drop clam bake. I fried some of our frozen clams that were pre-prepped. Everything went over great except the pie, which everyone except Beth liked. She also does not like cake. I also found out Carrie only recently has taught herself to like pie, and she did like the strawberry rhubarb pie. Who does not like dessert? I have yet to find one that I can turn down! I even ate the chocolate pyramids with odd bolus at the lair of the Numcat!!

Beth and Chris left the next morning, and Ray's dad came down with Bonnie. We had lunch and took a hike at Johns River, where we discovered what would be a really nice mountain biking trail should it get cleared. There are also trails that are overgrown by grass. Ray's dad Ray waded out there in the damp grass, we saw elk (we'd looked there the day before with Beth and Chris but did not see elk), and generally got our pant legs soaked. It was nice. We also saw the bend in the river where Ray's dad's Ray's parents had a tiny home and garden, and where a bear, startled by some men, ran up while Ray's dad Ray was playing along the riverbank. Ray's dad Ray's mother was so alarmed and angry she ran after the bear, which she did not know was fleeing but rather thought was about to attack her son, with a "rake or hoe or some such," Ray's dad Ray said. She beat that bear with her gardening tool as it ran off.

It turns out Ray's dad Ray is something of a bad omen for bears. On the Johns River trail, we came to a point where he had come across a bear after he'd been hunting. It was absorbed in scratching the bark off a trunk, and the tree was still there and barkless. There wasn't enough room to pass, Ray's dad Ray said, so he fired his gun above the bear's head, causing it to spontaneously crap before it ran off into the woods.

After Ray's dad Ray and Bonnie left, we watched "Charlie Wilson's War." Well, Ray did. I fell asleep.

On Monday, we packed out to Ocean Shores, to look at an art show in various local galleries. There was an exhibit of fanciful "portraits" of great hookers of the west (like Klondike Kate, who lost a bunch of money to the guy who started the Pantages Theater in Tacoma, and the wife of Billy Gohl, a serial killer in Aberdeen, and other sundry hookers), a woman billed as the "top feather painter in the world," which means she paints on feathers, not finds feathers to be her favorite subject, and saw a bunch of books by locals in the galleries, including one that was an epic poem about the death of a boston terrier. No kidding. Sample verse "You used to sleep with the stuffed rabbit. Now I sleep with the stuffed rabbit." and "Oh, God! The pain hurts me. The pain comforts me." I may not be blessed with perfect recall here, but you get the sentiment. We rode our bikes, hiked the Weatherwax property, finally I get to understand what it is that makes the 4,000 seniors who live there year-round so ... volatile and apt to overthrow their government in democratic revolution. Well, it definitely looks nothing like anything else in Ocean Shores.

We got back in time for "Indiana Jones and the X Files Plot," and I have to say, when I take into consideration that it is supposed to be fifties-riffic, it works better. It's sad to see Harrison Ford mail it in, though I wonder if he doesn't just lack the energy to smirk at the crazy lines he's forced to read anymore. Maybe Callista Flockhart has worn him down? Or he found Shia LaBoeuf (sp?) as soul-killing as I did? Whatever, there were 'splosions. I was pretty sure the whole South America crystal skull thing was just in order to have more Nazis to fight -- I mean, after WWII, isn't that about where they went? -- but no, it was the Ruskies. It was good to see it in a theater, in any case.

Speaking of Nazis, I just finished the purportedly YA book "The Book Thief." It is super long, narrated by Death and takes place in Nazi Germany and is unrelentingly sad. It is also quite beautiful. I highly recommend it.

What you'd call a bloggable day

2008-05-18T11:44:00.000-07:00

Instead of "a story to tell the grandkids," I suppose "bloggable day" is a decent substitute for a day of mishap and misadventure. Although Saturday ended up okay, there were plenty of things that went bonkers.

First there was the plan to get out and bike at Capitol Forest. We missed the turn we thought we were going to make and instead ended up at the opposite side of the forest, which might have been okay had we been prepared for the possibility but we weren't bringing the bike guides because, well, the place we were going to bike wasn't where we going. On the way in we passed a guy apparently loading a handgun. I was like, "keep going, keep going!"

So I looked at the map and said, "Here's a trailhead." It was a teensy weensy repro of the Capitol Forest map (you can't buy it from DNR, you have to download a PDF — what good is that if you don't want to bring your laptop to the woods, or unless you have an iPhone or a professional-quality printer? I just don't get it) so I couldn't see very well. So we pulled in to the trailhead and it was packed full of ATV people.

ATV people are paradoxical. They claim to love the outdoors but scrape up the trails with their quads. They also say they love the exercise, but nine out of 10 of them are over thier maximum healthy BMI, and a good portion of those are morbidly obese. Mostly I think they just love burning gas, making loud noises and sitting around on folding chairs cramming potato salad down their yap as the wind blows the party end of their mullets into the huge forkfuls they are lifting over their multiple chins. Why they don't just own up to that, I don't know. I guess many of them are so used to cognitive dissonance that it has become their reality. I will admit to liking the psycho-superhero-animesque ATV protective clothing, however. (if you click the link, it comes from a site that has pics of sexy ladies in bikinis on quads, which strikes me as even more ridiculous than SLIBs on hot rods or motorcycles. I mean, these are quads, people. They are the outdoor machine of the people, and SLIBs are not really outdoorsy types. Maybe beach volleyball, frisbee is pushing it. SLIBs are antithetically opposed to doing something that may cause a nail to break or where they might see an animal. Look, if you don't believe me, watch the living exemplars of bikini ladies on "Flavor of Love" or "Rock of Love." Those ROL girls may think they're metal rednecks, but if they saw a snake they'd flip the heck out.)

So we had half of our sandwiches in this dystopian parking lot in 90-degree heat surrounded by the large ATV people, one of whom had staked out the only picnic table and marked it with a cooler but was not actually using it. ATV people would come in on their quads and tool around the parking lot. Thanks for riding with no helmets! You are helping evolution! (Flaw in plan, most seemed to have abundantly reproduced.)

I am being quite the hater today, aren't I?

So we backtracked to a trailhead for non-motorized uses and rode up the Mima Porter trail. The trail was very uphill for about a mile and there was some hike-and-bike. There were also some god-awful mud puddles that I had to walk my bike through and grunt through. My hiking shoes were like new at the beginning of the day. No longer. So we take this one trail and it's just muddier than heck. So we turn around and I'm in front and Ray says, "Your tire is really flat." No wonder I'm huffing like the Big Bad Wolf. So our epicnicity training was cut short. At the trailhead, I was quite grumpy. I mean really grumpy. Luckily there was a horse there I was able to pet, though she was supersweaty. So I felt a little better. (Another upside: Ray saw the Mima mounds, which he's been curious about. Downside: They aren't spectacular to look at.)

To make up for the lack of bike ride I found a trail that looked modest and flat (I didn't mention my achilles was screaming, did I? I think I wore too-flat flats the day before). But when we go there and started poking around for it all through everyone's camp sites, we learned it was gone. Not before disrupting everyone's day, but...

So Ray and I went to LaVogue's bike shop, where I got a new tube (the thick kind) installed. We rode from Ray's office to the airport and back. Not super far or anything, but it was riding. Then we had to get cleaned up for the Mosaic Brass concert. Looking at the website, I now understand why Ray said he swore the tuba player was Asian. Also, the French Horn guy we saw was younger. I guess Hoquiam scored the B-team. (They were very good). Towards the end of the first half, emo music from the emo place next door started to pour in, and Ray's face just went from composed and pleased to X-treem displeasure. At intermission, he went to ask them to pipe down (shut their door, really). They totally did. The girl who did had a very distracting pierce at the bridge of her nose.

It was a little surprising for Ray, I think, because he has a great discomfort and distrust for all things emo-kid since he saw one air-hump an unaware senior citizen a few days ago, a performance for the benefit of his emo girlfriend. "They were probably drunk," Ray said in a tone of disapproval. "They were probably high on drugs," I replied. The air-humping occured in the vicinity of the 7th Street Theatre, so chances are they were going to the new emo-kid hang out around the corner.

Then, as we were leaving (it took longer for us to get out than everyone else because we had to pack up some chairs Ray borrowed from his church) the guy from LaVogue's came in and was disappointed he'd missed the concert. "Hey," he said. "Have I seen you two before?" Oh, yeah.

The guy from LaVogue's clearly knows his bicycles. But you have to hear him talk to understand why he's such a treasure to the community. There's some surfer in there, but the laid-back kind.

Not much else to say. Epicnicity is taking longer than I expected. I wonder if there are any really good beginner trails anywhere in the state. Preferably dry trails with no mud.

Discoveries of late

2008-05-13T20:36:00.000-07:00

Spotted at the GH YMCA: A girl, of indeterminate, but young, age, in a gray T-shirt with the armpits/sleeves cut out muscle shirt style, the back emblazoned (by hand, with marker) "GET SOME." Luckily, because she had nothing on the sides of her shirt, there was a tank underneath. Also, she had a pair of shorty-shorts made of pyjama material with the Superman S all over them. Under those shorty shorts were a pair of leggings. This is a weird workout outfit, and it seems a little too constricty/hipster wannabe.

Over the weekend I tried a new recipe for a type of pudding I had yet to experience. I know! Me being a huge fan of pudding and all! It was panna cotta. I think of PC as the kind of thing classy Italian whitetrash whip up for a church potluck, because it relies on gelatin for its structure. They apparently use cream (sour sometimes) to achieve a super creamy consistency. I, however, can out-whitetrash them. So I used whole milk. For something that is basically milk, sugar, vanilla and gelatin, it tastes pretty darn good. It's like tapioca, but like the whole of the tapioca, the essence of the custard and the texture of the tapioca beads, have been combined into one sublime substance. It's okay with rhubarb sauce or chocolate sauce, but I actually like it plain best.

It's so easy -- a packet of Knox, sprinkled on a half-cup of milk, left to sit while you get a saucepan with a half cup of sugar and 2 1/2 cups of milk (or cream) up to a simmer. Pull the simmering milk off the heat, dump in two tsps vanilla and stir in the bloomed milk-gelatin mix, whisk like a mugwump, pour into ramekins and put in fridge for a couple hours or so (there is no need to strain the stuff through cheesecloth like some recipes would have you believe, just stir like crazy). Voila, white trash food with a name fancy enough for social-cutthroat Real Housewives. (No, I don't watch that show. I see commercials during "Project Runway," though.)

What else is new ... Dad remembered Mother's Day and got mom a Nano. That's kind of major. It's hard to get her stuff she not only likes but actively wants. However, the fun has just begun because she will have to figure out iTunes. GUIs and intuitive program design have nothing on my mom.

Still no clue as to what trails in the Olympic National Park have been scouted slash closed slash opened. The park's website is singularly un-user friendly. There are old newsletters which hint at the damage from the December storm, and newletters that say certain accesses are reopened, but there is no comprehensive map or page where the closures and conditions are laid bare. This is not the only park or trail or anything that does not do this service. Basically there is no governmental rec body that has a budget to do this service, which may only require wiki, really, let the users do it for popular trails, let the rangers do it for trails they have to investigate blowdown on. Because users are really the best sources, but the websites that deal with trails don't have a monopoly on them and it shows in the coverage of trail condition reportage. (I mean not updated between 10-15-07 and "spring?" the power of the blogosphere can only do so much original reporting, which I say because it's true and because my job still has meaning! Yay!)

Notes from pop culture: I have had bum DVD after bum DVD from Netflix. I actually rented "Tell Me You Love Me," which was just so mind-numbingly boring I couldn't even watch the final disc (and mostly watched the other episodes while cruising the internet or doing chores). I can't even remember the crummy movies I picked out. I hope, with the addition of "King of Kong," about a guy who loses his job and starts playing Donkey Kong competions. This is a documentary.

Books: Who has time for books? I finally finished Sally Vickers' "Instances of the Number Three." Bleah. I kept reading, believing that there would be a shocking revelation about the dead man's existence, like the cover promised. The cover lied. It killed my enthusiasm for reading other books I had lying around. However, I have great hope that I will rediscover my passion for the written word with some non-fiction I've taken off hold on my library list.

Music: A bright spot in my entertainment vortex. I discovered a band I like, The Fitness, which has this awesome song called "Chauffer." I discovered another song I'm obsessed with, She & Him's "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here." I mean, that's like six minutes of fun right there, hardly making up for all the blah stuff I've poured hours into.

New Harbor Euphemism

2008-05-07T18:23:00.000-07:00

"I'm experiencing a clam tide."

Get it? Get it?

Emceeing

2008-05-05T19:14:00.000-07:00

So Friday I got to emcee the 7th Street's Young Artist Showcase. I was kind of nervous, which was not assuaged much by Ray's introducing me as a "local media celebrity." Okay, it totally cracked me up. The guy is hilarious and completely unappreciated by the masses who need Jim Carrey mugging to understand a funny line. I was considered successful in spite of a few slips because I did not curse (yay me!) and I kept the show moving along at breakneck clip. I also ad libbed some stuff when the piano bench appeared to break in the middle of the concert. Not break so bad it fell apart but got wobbly in one of the legs. Luckily Ray had told me how expensive the bench was the night before (when it was just wobbly in the seat, not the legs) and I told the audience to save that particular seat would be $500.

The show was as good as it gets. I mean, I've only seen one other one (last year) and apparently the first year's attempt was marred by excessive length. The kids just poured their little hearts out. There were numerous singers in rehearsals that bonked on their lines, but that did not happen. I even got a hug from little Jordan Bridges, who seemed preciously theater-y, if that makes any sense. You know, lots of extroverted, positive but somewhat untamed enthusiasm. The one act I did not see in rehearsals was the one that stood out for me. It was a little blonde 10-year-old in a dress with a red pleather vesty top connected by black mesh across the midriff to a flouncy skirt, getting tap dance insane to Crazy Frog's rendition of "Axel F." If you do not know this song, you are really missing out. She apparently dances during Seattle Storm games twice a week, which is a real haul. I don't think there's another 10-y-o out there who can body pump like this kid; it's called attitude, and she should give classes in it.

After the show Ray and I had some raspberry wine from the Westport winery with friends John and Carrie. I am not a dessert wine person, but this was so totally awesome that Sunday Ray and I hit the winery and tried a bunch of their wines and ended up getting some for guest situations, which are sure to occur once his floors are finished.

On Saturday we met up with my friend Lindley and her husband Phill for dinner before going to the Tacoma Concert Band's Sousa Extravaganza. The band was dressed up in these black smocks with gold piping that made them look like Haley Bopp Comet cultists, and the director, who was Ray's band director at the University of Puget Sound, had on a military-esque uniform with medals and cap and even a fake moustache and glasses to perfect the impersonation of Sousa for the stage. Or, as Ray pointed out, the thing wasn't so much an impersonation as it was an experiential tribute to the man (there are some tribute artists who do not like being called impersonators, lest it make a caricature of the impersonated). The music was totally entertaining (except for the "Songs of Grace, Songs of Glory" Sunday snorer, which Lindley totally warned me about), and the band was really good. They also have a huge American flag that covered the back wall of the stage completely. I figured it cost, minimum, as a special deal to a non-profit, $5,000. Phill said $15,000 to $20,000. But no, the director said it wasn't even $1,000.

We did all this after another pre-epic bike ride prep. We went down to the national wildlife refuge to check out the local shorebirds festival on our bikes and then did the 2 mile or so trot around the plank walkway then biked back, which was so much easier on account of the wind being behind us and we stopped in at LaVogue's bike shop and I got my tires pumped. It turns out we could not figure out how to set the pump for schrader tires, only presston tires. Or however you spell those. We got it squared away and the LaV guy used the air compressor on my tires anyhow. It was also nice that the weather went from kind of gray and a bit misty to sunny on the ride out there. By the ride back it was beautiful, sunny skies all the way.

I was hoping that next weekend I'd get a rest. Not so much: I'm working. And I've got to take part in a Young Author's conference as a presenter with two bosses. I think they think I can connect with kids.

Sunday was gorgeous and so was today. Perhaps things are starting to take a turn for the better.

Thanks to NPR

2008-04-28T18:56:00.000-07:00

Where I learned about the latest French dance craze: Le Tecktonik. Of course, since radio can't give you much beyond a word picture of "moving like a rubber band," I decided to hit Le YooToob et, je descouvrir (that is a stab at le Francais. Je ne pas par peu, je par espagnole) that the dance looks like Michael Jackson on E, or like me in aerobics class. Maybe with a little more rubber in the joints than I've got, obviously.

Forget aerobics. I'm just going to download a bunch of crappy Eurotrash techno and get spazzy with it.

Old people: they can be hardcore

2008-04-27T14:37:00.000-07:00

Today on the way to Starbucks to get the NYT, I saw George at Mac's Card Room, a place that I have been informed is "less sketchy than you'd think." I can't really figure what his age is — he could be anywhere from 80 to a hard-lived 60. He's retired-ish, and I have it on good authority that he spends his days in a, well, "relaxed" state. Obviously, if he's at a bar at 10 in the morning. He was standing outside, but his van is hard to miss.

So George is hardcore.

But old people can be hardcore in other ways, too. Yesterday, as part of my preparation for Epic Summer 2008, I did what I would call an epic ride. The weather was stunning. 70 degrees, sunny. I got my bike at about 11 and headed out for Junction City, a good three-and-a-half miles away. When I got back towards home, I thought, I'm a fresh as a spring daisy, I should keep going to my usual ride, down to the airport and around the bay.

That's about a six mile ride in and of itself. So about four miles in I felt less-than-fresh. It was past noon, when I had received a call from Ray and I was about halfway there. But I was at the bridge, and all the good stuff was coming up. So I pressed on.

An unusual weather feature was that the wind was out of the east. Usually, it's out of the West and coming back from Hoquiam is a breeze. So it was not a good sign that I was already pooping out, with no money in my bag for a recharging lunch at the Sweet Shoppe.

I ended up going down to the airport, the bird watchers were already there, and started coming back. At the intersection on 7th Street, where the tempting but oh-so-unlikely-to-give-me-free-food Sweet Shoppe is, there was a stooped over old lady carrying a couple of bags dressed in a white pantsuit, green shirt and one of those old-lady hair covering scarfy-thingys. We nodded hello, I went on down the street, on my bike, rode around the Emerson and up back across the bridge and then down behind the pilings of the big bridge to cross over to the less-traveled east-west roads, and who do I see crossing the street ahead of me with her bags, but the old lady. Somehow she had streaked there while all bent over.

Now, I was winded, but this lady somehow made it about a mile in a few minutes. Stooped over and everything. I felt like such a hoser. But I also felt something a little more noble — I was impressed and hopeful and proud of her.

Rock on, lady. It's cool if you can move like that, and it's cool if you know how to teleport. And if you know how to teleport, will you teach me?

Girding for Epicnicity

2008-04-22T19:04:00.000-07:00

So the planned trip to Frontier-cum-Rich-People's-Haven, and all the outdoorsy stuff I want to do then, has given me some impetus in going to the Zumba class at the Y today. I think I am the biggest spaz of all time in the class. I'm a little gawky for all the booty shaking, so I geek out, with jumping and big arm motions and whatever. I kind of can't help but make fun of myself in the name of getting a better workout. But Denise, Regina, Mark and all the gang from Tacoma aren't there to appreciate it. Two years later and I can't let go of my old Y.

Which reminds me, I spent a girls' weekend a few weeks ago with some of the gals from my old Y. We all drank a bunch of wine, "enjoyed" the blustery weather and ate at the Ocean Crest, which was really, really good. I shared an appetizer of lobster fingerlings on crostini and had a seafood alfredo-type pasta, which I totally couldn't finish. When Lindley tried to help me by taking a bite, I saw her go for noodles, and I said, "No! Take the lobster!" I mean, I'm value-minded. It about kills me to not be able to eat all the lobster. I eat that about once a decade.

But all that creamy pasta with underwater creatures composed almost wholly of cholesterol does terrible, awful things to the body. Especially when washed down with ungodly amounts of Pinot Noir. Not the sort of things that get one in shape to do what the mountain biking community call epic rides.

Not that I'm planning on an epic ride in Steamboat. Maybe half of one. But there are trails to be ridden, by horse, by bike, by foot. It's a shame not to hit as absolutely many as possible, especially if the reason is because they are kicking my tuchus.

So of course, the only option is shaping up. Forgoing my annoyance at the Hoquiam Y for not being what my old Y was — a community full of cool people with their arms open and, although the parking lot was often crowded, never quite as bad as the Hoquiam Y in terms of crowding in and out of the Y. I think it helped that the Morgan Family Y isn't afraid to use the gym for classes, so they weren't limited to 30 people. I also liked the fact that Denise, Mark and Regina taught classes that weren't trademarked. But there you are. Zumba was okay, I guess.

I am also getting healthy by eating well. For dinner the other night, Ray and I roasted a heap of veggies. We did beets with a little olive oil, salt and pepper — six of them — and yams, with orange juice, a little vegetable oil and some nutmeg, ginger, cinnamon and something else. I didn't put cardamom in but that would have been awesome. I sprinkled a little brown sugar on it at the end. It was like a sweet potato pie but not as unhealthy. We also had asparagus and salmon. Talk about healthy. The beets had an interesting side effect. I now know what happens when Barbie goes to the bathroom. Anthocyanins. A miracle of nature. You're welcome. Eat about two whole beets and enjoy the show.

I expect once the (dreadful, awful, wretched, miserable, galling) weather stops being rainy, hail-y and bitterly chilly I'll get Ray to hit the Capitol Forest and do some trails. Prepare our quads and sensitive little heinies for what lies ahead. Which is epic, or near-epic, stuff.

So the road to epicnicity, it begins with pink pee and Zumba.

Dad comes for a visit

2008-04-14T13:49:00.000-07:00

So dad had a work thing to do in Los Angeles and he managed to detour North for the weekend. Friday Ray and I picked him up and took him to Shanghai Garden with Beth and Chris. Then we took a tour through Uwajimaya to look at the geoducks and assorted odd produce.

We brought dad back to Grays Harbor, and the next day went to Quinault for lunch, a hike and a lovely drive.

The weather was sick. It was the first truly beautiful, warm spring day of the year, and it did not really come early enough but I was glad to get it. But not all was awesome in Quinault. The damage from December's storm is still pretty bad. There were enough trees knocked down that Ray got some sun. There were bald spots on the Quinault Loop trail and a lot of places where debris littered the woods. A whole big portion of the loop was closed by Gatton Creek. There are areas off to the east where no one is quite sure how the trails are. A waiter at the Lodge said there are 100 ruined acres over the ridge that are not being cleaned up in spite of the fact that the timber would be a boon in terms of income for the area. People aren't happy about it.

Dad tended to hog the camera — my camera — but I did manage to snap this of him at the Lodge. This is where FDR ate in 1937. I interviewed one of the people who sat next to him, Alice Esses, who at the time was a young teacher who had left her home in Oklahoma. FDR couldn't tell her enough how much he was doing to conserve soil in the Dust Bowl. The then-owner of the lodge would occasionally stop by to argue with FDR, who was voluble about wanting to make the area into a national park. Apparently the lodge owner thought it would kill business. 80 years later, the lodge wouldn't have much to offer visitors without the park nearby.

At night, we went to the Myrtle Street Jazz concert at the 7th Street because driving to the awesomest bar ever was just kind of a drive after going to Quinault. This way we got to see Ray in action as theatre board prez, introducing the two schools' musicians with a line he stole from me and which flopped. Sorry 'bout that, baby. Dad loved the Hoquiam Jazz Band and even called out their lead trombonist, Casey, to shake his hand and tell him he did a great job. Dad is a former trombonist for his high school band. Also performing were the Aberdeen Goldenaires and the all-girls "All That Jazz." One of the singers, a sophomore, was preggers and I thought she was pretty brave, but shaking someone's hand for not being afraid to go out in public is kind of silly. I particularly loved how, after Hoquiam band director Roger White said some of his kids did sports and they had to come to band practice at 7 a.m., Pat Wilhelms trumped it by saying her kids had to start practice at 6:50 a.m. And they didn't get the high school rivalry joke of mine Ray told. Is irony dead?

On Sunday we went to Seattle after running into my boss at Starbucks. We hit Olympia first, where dad got a snootfull of the hippie-redneck nexus that is the farmers market. Ray got Wagner's cinnamon bread and I got purple collards. We took a walk at Tumwater Falls. Very pretty place.

We then went to the Ballard Locks, pictured above. A bunch of little boats (well, the merrymakin' was a pretty dang big yacht, as was the M.Y. Happy Place) went through, and tied in as the water level raised them 20 feet. The Happy Place had some serious issues. I got the vibe that the guys in it didn't really know what they were doing. You could see the big Schnapps bottle inside the back end. They got yelled at by the locks guy. The Drifter was the coolest boat — wood trim, typical fishing vessel styling, a crew of young hipsters couldn't detract from the pretty blue boat. We got kind of wet, but it was fun, and the botanical gardens were pretty and smelled nice.

We ate at Ray's Boathouse. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

We got caffeine at Pike Place in an art cafe. I should start painting bright, abstracted-but-not-completely graphic flowers and sell them for like $150 a pop. People seem to like them, judging from the red "sold" stickers on the tags at the place. We also saw a guy at the newsstand with a knotted, dread-locked beard (two locks) that hung past his waist. It must be kind of heavy.

Ray and I dropped dad off at the Sea-Tac Crest. Here are some reviews that make me feel like a bad person for putting my parents up there. This is Hugh and Janice's favorite place to stay if they'll be gone a week. It was definitely cheap, but my oh my, it is certainly a Roach Motel. It did not help that dad's neighbor got a 4 a.m. "wakeup call" from the staff about an underage girl in the lobby. Yikes.

We made it back home by about nine.

Weird restaurant

2008-04-01T13:42:00.000-07:00

I just had to say, briefly, that Ray and I tried out a restaurant so eccentric it deserves its own post. I will call it "Numcat's Lair" to preserve its anonymity, since I may be tempted to cross into territory that will offend someone and I don't want any trouble here.

We'd been curious about this place, as once before we'd tried to just walk in (at about 6:45ish) and were turned away, even though there were customers and the restaurant was quite empty. First thing about the Numcat's Lair, you have to have a reservation.

The reasons for the mandatory reservation was soon apparent. There is only one server and maybe two cooks (chef/sous chef or chef/prep cook, it's hard to say) in the place. That means they need airtight table times. But it means the Lair will never be more than half full. It has two, whole, massively decorated rooms with booths and tables. The booths had a Soviet kind of comfort to them.

So we got there at 5:30 and there was only one special left. What kind of restaurant only has a single special left that early on? We were curious. Also, how could the menu (expensive) support such a variety of meats and foodstuffs if a maximum of about 10 tables — mostly two-tops — could be filled each night? The mystery deepened.

Then the food arrived. I had ahi, which was cooked down to canned tuna quality. I was, frankly, shocked. Well done ahi is a culinary sin that is, in religious terms, mortal in nature. This isn't the sort of thing that bothers Ray, who had salmon that didn't seem to be too overdone. The ahi was sort of dry, as a result, and had been drenched in a lemon basil sauce that was composed with a great deal of garlic and olive oil to compensate. The vegetables served with were good, though the rice was old people's rice like you get in a lesser eating place — no grain sticks to other grains, and there's an overcooked orzo quality to it.

We had dessert. There were three options, two of which involved chocolate mousse. We got the mousse in a chocolate pyramid. Ray said, "This is so good," but I really wonder at his ability to taste. I just found out he's kind of colorblind, and the grainy, greasy texture of the mousse was pretty bad. Ray clarified: "It's sweet, you know, it has sugar in it." Well, true enough. Inside the pyramid (interesting, 80sish presentation) was not only the mousse, but some sort of bolus of ... cheesecake? Another poorly-constructed mousse? I wasn't sure. It was sour-ish. Tart is a word I'd use had it tasted good. It was just sour. I did something ridiculous, I have to say. Both of us had had bites of this bolus, but I wanted to spare Ray from eating any more of this awful stuff, so I ate it. I was like Tinkerbell taking Peter Pan's poison. It put a foul taste in my mouth water could not get out.

Oh, Numcat's Lair, that was one of the strangest meals I've eaten. It would just be mediocre-to-disappointing food that flauted good culinary sense if it hadn't been for the insane atmosphere.

I can't wait to go back.

Mom comes for a visit

2008-04-01T13:11:00.000-07:00

So mom came for a visit for about the space of a weekend. We ate Estrella creamery cheese, took a drive on 105, prettiest road in the state that I've yet to be on, and mom got to eat fried razor clams Ray and I caught. We visited mostly because there wasn't a whole lot of time and because the weather was absolutely the pits. When mom left, she said the crummy hail/rain/cold was a "revelation" to her and helped her appreciate what I go through. Ha! We've passed the equinox! She still doesn't know the full extent of the mind-numbing tragedy that is a Northwest coastal winter.

We went to Westport, and we ate at this one place that has crazy bloody marys, obviously. I believe there is a bit of Slim Jim on it. In spite of the presentation, the consensus was that it was not the best bloody mary in the world. It's hard to find really good mixed drinks out there, I've found. Most places don't bother to use good ingredients, or they get too watery off the bat. It's just another factor that keeps me from going out and getting a drink.

As you can tell, the weather wasn't completely awful the whole time, thank goodness. This cranberry farm was really picturesque.

Also, on my latest Flickr downloading excursion, I learned there are three other people who put frosted mini-wheats in their hobbies. The mini-wheat revolution will come; you will be assimilated. In other mini-wheat news, I recently bought seven boxes of FMWs and stacked them with about another seven or eight boxes sitting on my kitchen floor. I have to buy them in bulk when they're on sale — I eat a lot of them, and I need to save the $$$ when I can — and in this particular case, they were on sale, I had a coupon for 70 cents off one box and another coupon for $10 off my "shopping order" if I bought seven or more boxes. Reader, I bought a bunch of them. I was worried that mom would take this abundance of FMWs as a possible sign of mental illness (she said she was a little concerned). I mean, one day it's a bunch of boxes of FMWs that won't fit on the fridge, the next it's stacks of junk you have to go sideways to get through, Collier brothers-style. Or cats everywhere. As if.

Up next: Dad's visit.

Recent art stuff of note

2008-03-29T12:06:00.000-07:00

So last night Ray and I went to the Capitol Playhouse in Olympia to see "Sideshow," a musical that immediately captivated me with its catchy slogan: "Come look at the freaks." Oh, yeah.

Well, the quality of the productions at the Playhouse have been kind of scattershot. Although I enjoyed "Six Women on the Verge of Braindeath" as a Bloom-Countyesque time machine trip (it was written 20 years ago and it shows, referencing Jim and Tammy Faye quite a bit), Ray was disappointed in it. He also didn't really like "1940s Radio Hour," and who under the age of 70 would, with a title like that? I'm not one for revues, myself. Anyway, we both liked "Sweeney Todd," but who doesn't? And although the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold thing is hard for me to appreciate in this time of globalized slavery and sexual exploitation, the "Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" was quite cute, if completely unrealistic.

Anyway, we liked the freaks. I thought the music was particularly good, with some of that Sondheimish rejection of verse chorus verse and a little heavy duty recitative-type sung dialogue, but catchy nonetheless. The actresses who play the lead freaks, the Siamese twins, had voices that sounded really good together, and there was a really good Egyptian-style set piece that was worth the price of admission. The costumer outdid himself with some of the outfits, especially some huge feathered headdresses. It's good to see quality local theater. It also reminded me of those head-conjoined twins, Dori and Reba (formerly Lori, but she changed her name to separate herself more from her sister and in deference to her favorite country singer, Reba McIntire), and that's always a good thing. They're some spunky ladies, Dori and Reba.

Let's see. What have I read lately. Oh, yes, "In Defense of Food," Michael Pollan's latest on how we should be organic locavores. I'm not saying he's wrong, I'm just saying he's not saying what he needs to, which is that although our western diet is killing us, the reason for we are able to produce so much is part of why this planet manages to, well, sustain isn't exactly the right word, unless you look at it like a life-support machine, 6 billion people. Farming in a sustainable fashion will not, adamantly not, support that many people. And for us to ramp down our production as a globe will be meaningful for the environment and us all eventually, it will mean there will be a lot of suffering in the meantime, and almost certainly not by the big agro-industrial companies, even if they have to give up making what Pollan thinks is the apotheosis of food product — "Go-gurt." Myself, I'm inclined to hate those fruit snacks that are basically gummi bears in fruit shapes that say they contain a serving of fruit in every package. They offend my soul.

In arts and religion news, the Methodist church across the street will hold a humorous service about the "greatest practical joke ever played on the devil" — Jesus' resurrection (drawing out Easter maybe?) and attendees are encouraged to wear "funny clothes" and last year the choir wore bathrobes, they have something else up their sleeve this time. This is not the sort of thing that would normally entice me to go to church (I have yet to find what would, although the gay, lesbian, trans etc. appreciation day at the Hoquiam Methodist church came close, except it started at like 9 or some ridiculously early hour) but the part of me that appreciates what this could be is feeling an internal sway.

The other night I went with Ray to a dinner where his friend and vice-pres of the 7th Street board, Mickey, was getting an award. She is such a cool person and totally deserved it. I have personally witnessed Ray deciding to dump work on her. Anyway, he had to give a speech and it was the best of the four, IMHO. The dinner was at the senior center and I guess we got what the seniors get. There was asparagus, roasted taters and meat and the wait staff was very good about keeping the coffee carafe refilled. I mean, they were on the coffee like white on rice. I can only imagine that the usual senior crowd chugs the stuff down as if the Yuban were the elixer of life. Not so much my table. I think I had the only cup of joe of everyone at my table. I used the creamer they provided and felt, because I had been reading Pollan, bad about all the corn syrup solids entering my body.

Next time I write I'll have to tell the tale of my mom's really brief visit to the Deen. Suffice to say everyone had a good time, she ate razor clams and the weather was (and remains) out of control. Rain, snow, hail, ice, fog ... in like a lion, still have a couple more days to turn lamb-like but I'm doubting it.

Good Books

2008-01-26T11:39:00.000-08:00

Here are two AWESOME books I recently read:

"The Worst Hard Times," Timothy Egan. Dust Bowl poverty, depression, dust storms that kill people and stir up so much static electricity they kill all Melt White's watermelons. I can't say enough about the gruesomeness of this book.

"Restless" William Boyd. Woman gets involved in WWII spying for Brits. Her daughter has a lame parallel narrative in the 70s. In the end, it's a good book and a real gripping read.

reading now: "An Oral History of World War Z," Max Brooks. It's kind of an interesting take on global crisis management, as told through a fictional war on zombies. Awfully geeky, but that's me. Seriously, delete the word "zombie" and you have a very interesting, very entertaining book.