Unspeakable cruelty for your amusement

Pop on a pig in Pike Place Market.



Mom enjoying the ride on the Walla Walla.

And the cruelest picture:



Mom and Dad eating at Salumi. So gnarly to post eating pictures of your parents. I am a bad daughter.

Mom and Dad come for a visit

Well, the stupidest thing that happened is I didn't get a picture of them with Hugh and Janice. I suppose we were having such a nice time at dinner that it never came up.

But anyway. Mom and dad were good enough to sleep on an air mattress in my teensy apartment, and Friday morning we piled out to Bremerton to catch a ferry to Seattle.



Here's dad waiting. He and mom were so nervous about getting tickets. Silly parents! You just walk on as a passenger going east! It was a lovely day for a ferry ride, and mom decided when she gets old she'd just like to ride a ferry all the time. They are nice boats.

We ate at Salumi, which was just as good as everyone says. Mom hit up all the bookstores in Pioneer Square minus Elliott Bay Books, which is so big and so full of good books I was nervous we'd lose her for good if she went there. We missed out on the Underground Tour because mom was overheated and had to stand too long for her sandwich. I thought this would mean she was completely out of shape but a few days later I took her to the Supermall and she wore me totally out in the commercial hiking endurance test.



We also went to Ocean Shores, part of the figuring out where Callie is going to live come her move thing. It was cold, windy and there was a lot of trash on the beach. Plus you can park there. When I tell folks I'm moving to Aberdeen, they get all excited about being near the beach. They tell me, on occassion, that I can now learn to surf. Well, I have done a Polar Bear jump and I'm pretty sure the water isn't any warmer in the Pacific than Puget Sound. Growing up on the east coast and having grandparents from Florida has spoiled me completely for any other beach. I am not sure I can even mentally handle the idea of surfing in the Pacific Northwest. I feel so cold ... so ... cold.

I will put up more pics as I find them. I have a humdinger of dad on the pig at Pike Place Market somewhere.

The gift of a motto, courtesy "Miami Vice"

I have begun the Ultimate Purge of my apartment, which will culminate tonight in an orgy of clip-reducing. I have, seriously, about three bags and boxes full of clips I need to cut out, sort through and organize. Also some award plaques and stuff. Funnily, about two years ago I bought an organization system for them, which lies empty in the closet as well. Better late than never, and maybe this time I can keep it updated weekly (yeah, right). Already I have gotten shed of a bunch of junk that's been needing to be gotten shed of.

One of the pieces of paper I need to purge is a press invite to Miami Vice (if anyone wants to go tomorrow I've got a pass!) which is so hilariously written I feel the need to share key elements of it.

First, we start off with the sentence, "Ricardo Tubbs (Academy Award [and here they use the circled r but I think that's bogus] winner Jamie Foxx) is urbane and dead smart." Not that urbane and smart are synonyms or anything. "He lives with Bronx-born intel analyst Trudy, played by British actress Naomie Harris, as they work undercover transporting drug loads into South Florida to identify a group responsible for three murders." Okay, Bronx-born intel analyst played by a Briton (but I'll buy that she's in Fla., although I think that's a lot of unnecessary backstory for "Trudy"). That is hilarious. And they're doing this dangerous work to ... identify a group responsible for THREE LOUSY MURDERS??? Maybe they should use their analysis skills and taste for danger to, I don't know, find Al-freaking-Qaeda? When is the last time the cops cared enough about drug killings that they invested like that in a case? Since when is a drug-related killing really that difficult to solve, come to think of it?

Anyway, Michael Mann's people continue thusly: "Sonny Crockett (Colin Farrell) is charismatic and flirtatious [which are not synonyms or anything] until — while undercover working with the supplier of the South Florida group [wait, isn't that who Tubbs and Trudy are working with? They are shipping drug loads, right? So they're working together already? What?] — he gets romantically entangled with Isabella, the Chinese-Cuban [ROTFLMAO] wife of an arms and drug trafficker. Isabella is played by Gong Li." What? Gong Li? "Raise the Red Lantern," "Shanghai Triad," "Ju Dou" Gong Li? Playing a Chinese-Cuban? She is the most classically Chinese beauty in the world which, I have to say, has a great deal to do with her popularity.

I also love how the whole of the backstory is laid out in ridiculous, willing suspension of disbelief-killing prose. But then we come to the film's philosophy. To wit:

"The best undercover identity is oneself with the volume turned up and restraint unplugged."

This may become my new motto.

"The intensity of this case pushes Crockett and Tubbs out onto the edge where identity and fabrication become blurred, where cop and player become one [this sounds suspiciously like the interpretation of a Gender Studies 101 student] — especially for Crockett in his romance with Isabella and for Tubbs in the provocation of an assault on those he loves." First of all, thanks for getting super literal, I needed that. And second of all, thanks for introducing the idea that Tubbs has more than one person who he either attacks or provokes to get attacked. Were these people his mixed-race lesbian couple of aged aunts who raised him with seven other babies of assorted other races and accent provinences when his parents died in a car crash during a freak snowstorm in Tampa? I don't think there was enough goofy-ass backstory provided.

At any rate, remember: The best undercover identity is oneself with the volume turned up and restraint unplugged. Especially if you are an undercover cop, because Lord knows people attracted to cop work are never the slightest bit upstanding or legalistic or pragmatic or any other personality trait that might not be appropriate while doing undercover work to turn up the volume on.

Seriously, how can this movie not rock.

Last day at the Gateway rockin' the spot

Well, wouldn't you knw that my last day at the paper the biggest story in my two years of working the city hall beat came down. The city administrator got the announcement of his sacking sent out over the email. And I had a 9:30 a.m. meeting with a guy from Aberdeen who seems oddly amenable to the idea of me crashing in his (as yet unlived-in) house. So Kalyn and I were forced to collaborate. Poor kid has to take over the city beat with the Lifestyles and the education beats for at least the next couple of weeks. And isn't this the best time for stuff to be hitting the ceiling. She already had an emotional moment after talking to above-mentioned administrator; I told her (and I ended up telling him) my first day doing the city beat, and talking to that administrator, I just wept my little eyes out, but everything got a lot better quickly. That's right, people. I pulled a Mary Tyler Moore in the newsroom before. And he's not so bad. In fact, he told me I failed to meet his exceedingly low expectations to become one of his favorite reporters, and, yes, he's got us all ordinally ranked and I'm not number one (or two) but I'd rather not be any source's favorite reporter they dealt with ever. Except maybe some of my feature-y sources.

At any rate, my last day went down with some spot news. And, as I rushed to get comments and interviews, I realized, "hell yeah, I love this adrenaline deadline shiznit!" Which bodes well for the Daily World. Spot news, baby. I rock ALL the spots, call all the shots.

It's official

I'm leaving the Gateway for the Aberdeen Daily World.

I don't know what the hell I'm thinking either. Oh, wait. Daily paper, more money, I'll still be independent, managers who get my writing ... it'll be hard leaving my Tacoma community, but it's about time to move onward and upward.

In the meantime, I've kind of given myself an extremely rigid deadline for finding a place to live and move into. Oops. And I'm stressing to get all my work stuff done. Oops.

In better news, I get to judge a chocolate baking contest at the Key Peninsula Fair tomorrow.

Also, I made a delicious bread pudding. Here's what went into it:

Almost a whole loaf of banana bread (largish loaf) that had dried up a bit.
three egg yolks
one egg
two cups milk
one cup heavy cream
1/2 cup sugar
vanilla
nutmeg

cut the bread up and put it in a glass casserole. Buttering the casserole is optional.

mix all the other ingredients, minus the vanilla and nutmeg, until blended. Then mix in the vanilla and nutmeg. Pour the custard over the bread. Let sit 30 minutes, then bake at 350 for 45 minutes covered, 15 mins uncovered.

The recipes called for bananas to be sliced up and layered with the bread, but that just seemed unnecessary to me. Also for a rum sauce to be made (rum, water, brown sugar and butter cooked together). If I could have changed anything I might have added an extra 1/2 cup of cream and milk mixed to extend the custard a bit.

But dang, it was good. Also I had two pieces of cake today (it was for my going away and said "Good Luck Lois At The Daily Planet," which is funny because I keep calling the DW the DP, and because I've always been a little obsessed with superheroes as journalists) and a pack of Reese's cups and a margarita and chips, so after tomorrow it's all salad and whole grains for a while. I'm a little strung-out on the sugar.

I want to get a place to live with a functioning oven so I can make banana bread and banana bread pudding. Yum.

Tacoma celebrates freedom with fights

So I went down to the Freedom Fair on Ruston on the Fourth of July during the day. What a crowd. I was simultaneously sorry I didn't bring a camera and glad I wouldn't have to worry about losing it in the crush of people.

As a Philly girl and civics nerd, I am perpetually disappointed by Freedom Fairs that do not feature a Benjamin Franklin reenactor or, in any case, pay tribute to our forefathers and their incredible wisdom and bravery in creating both the Declaration of Independence, the best breakup letter ever written, and the Constitution. Most celebrations are not unlike the Freedom Fair, gauche fair food for miles and stupid trinkets for sale like rip-off beanie babies and Ren Faire-style clothes. Freedom to stuff our faces and bloat out and buy clutter and shake our fat bellies like we're seductive, that's what the FF was all about.

And there were fat bellies. To the FF's credit, there was markedly less camel toe than at the Gig Harbor Maritime Gig. At least on this side of the bridge women are more inclined to wear clothes that fit. Not that they are necessarily good clothes. I saw one enormous woman in an unfortunate skin-tight tank top with an very very skinny T-back that showed an expansive tattoo of birds and flowers and skulls across her upper haunches, for example, and a man with a shirt that said, "If I agreed with you we'd both be wrong," which I just found unnecessarily arrogant and abrasive.

Perhaps the oddest shirt I saw was not being worn but was for sale, printed with an old tinotype of a Native American with a shotgun that said "The Original Homeland Security: Fighting Terrorism since 1492." I just wondered if the vendor had any idea how that sentiment went along with 7/4.

Tacoma gets some pretty crappy vendors. The air show was pretty cool, though it got loud when the fighter planes came out from McChord and I turned around for home. The most interesting set up was a drum circle with additional drums so anyone can join in. Tacoma is not exactly Seattle when it comes to drum circle enthusiasm. Which is kind of cute when you see a couple of hippie types playing while little kids who are not theirs join in. But it seemed that the drum circle instigators were aware that Tacoma is not, indeed, a Seattle-esque city because they had a sign on some nice posterboard with multi-colored shiny paste-on letters that said, "TACOMA IS A PRAYING CITY." That cracked me up. Another sign, in marker this time, said, "STAY in SCHOOL," a message I found to be at odds with the typical drum circler lifestyle.

The plan was to go to the McMillans for their annual Fourth blowout. I was a little sweaty from walking about six miles, but I figured I was okay, I whipped up a Mrs. Cole's Congealed Salad (aka white trash salad: mix one container cottage cheese with one container Cool Whip, a drained can of crushed pineapple, a big handful of walnuts or pecans and a package of red Jell-o and keep cool) and headed out for the Key Peninsula in remarkably light traffic.

Well, that insured that I missed the riots that broke out later. And CNN, the Discovery Channel and USA Today have all called Freedom Fair one of the best tourist draws for family activity in the U.S. What. Ever. Seriously, scroll down on that first link.

"Police got reports about 9 p.m. of fights involving 150 to 200 people near Jack Hyde Park. Surrounding the fights were a couple of thousand people," reported the TNT. I figure they had had enough Andean music. How many times can a person listen to "El Condor Pasa" and "Llorando Se Fue," anyhow? Criminy that stuff was playing when I got there and when I left more than an hour later at Hyde Park. And I say this as a fan of Andean tunes.

Hugh's was calm until Cameron started setting off fireworks and one of the festival balls blew up in the container after failing to pop into the air. Good times.

So today I went to the library to return some books and as I was walking back heard a commotion from Wright Park. Apparently it was Out at the Park day, which I never would have known was going on if I relied on the entertainment section of my local daily.

Again, missing my camera. All the local drag queens were there, most of them looking hott. There's this one older DQ who wears a trashy take off on a poodle skirt and lace collared shirt ensemble, I have seen him before. But not the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, who give away condoms and popsicles. They were awesome, with their habits and fake eyelashes tipped with beads. I also liked the Dockyard Dames booth, a roller derby team I briefly considered joining but didn't want to drive to Lakewood for. But there were more social service booths than anything and they're kind of boring.

No fights, though.

I swear as I left I heard a guy say, "The best thing is people can't tell when I'm drunk because I have Cerebral Palsy," but I could have been wrong because, well, he had Cerebral Palsy.

I've about had it with NPR low talkers

I listen to the NPR podcasts while doing my morning Sudoku and I've about had it with:

MEE-shell Norris
Sarah Fishko
Joanne Silberner
Scott Simon (except when he laughs and then he's loud)
That chick with the thick, plummy Irish-y accent on "On The Media." Blow your nose, you horrible woman. (I don't think she works there any more, but man I hate her voice)
Melissa Block
Lakshmi Singh
Bob Boilen

The worst thing about low-talking is not just that these horrible people let their voices trail off into nothing at the end of a sentence, but that their mumblemouth ways get grafted onto the people they are interviewing! Especially when they are interviewing the naturally quiet, such as museum curators, artists, musicians and librarians, who get a lot more NPR time than most professions. More horrifying, Scott Simon and MEE-shell Norris are about the worst of all, and they're hosts! The only thing Simon does with any volume or distinction is laugh at dumb jokes, often his own. And when I hear Michelle Norris mumble her way through and interview, her voice sliding down as if it were slipping away underwater, I feel like she's playing hide and seek with the listener. I can only crank up the volume so much on my Mac. It is the opposite of soothing. Melissa Block is her voice clone. Joanne Silberner sounds like she needs to blow her nose, too.

I guess they can't all be Liane Hansen. I don't know why she's religated to the Puzzle Patrol with Will Shortz, who has a fine voice himself for announcing.

Other good voices:

Brooke Gladstone
Bob Garfield
Sylvia Poggioli
Jim Zarroli
Don Gonyea
Ann Taylor
Steve Inskeep
Daniel Schorr, even if he has old-man-screamy voice on occasion and is kind of nuts

I just couldn't hold it in any longer. Norris and Simon are horrible talkers who drag their interviewees down into the sonic netherworld with them — their questions trail off into nothingness and their interviewees kind of tend to talk way the hell down at the unintelligible range with them. This is a shame. I demand they be dosed with caffeine. Otherwise people should quit emailing their stories so they don't make the podcast. They sound like they're jockeying for positions on the Ketchup Advisory Board. Maybe I'm just saying this because of my auditory processing disability.

In other inadequately functioning sense organ news, I finished reading my first large print book. It was unintentional; I put a hold on Robert Baer's "See No Evil" (after watching "Syriana," which was good, but not satisfying or particularly coherent) and apparently the library only carries this book oldie-style. You really feel like you're zipping right through since there aren't more than 200 words per page. Also, large print books are refreshingly free of a dust jacket, making them easy to handle. However, I have to hold the book about as far as my arms will stretch to approximate a text size approaching normal. Someone should work on developing a readable large print font. That sounds silly but I'm serious — at a certain size all the round bits look alike. You know those fifth grade girls with the bubble writing? It's like that. Or maybe that's just because I can see.

R.I.P. Shelby

Shelby was a good dog. He was kind of hyper as a young dog and eccentric as an old dog, but he was good. He wasn't patient unless you count how he'd beg for scraps — or how he'd lie down and rest all day next to you when you were feeling puny. He wasn't smart unless you count that time he dug a whole big bar of dark chocolate out of a bag on the floor and hid it behind dad's computer to snack on when he felt like it (thank goodness I busted him before he managed to eat more than a sliver of it). He was loyal except that if he ever got loose he'd really make a break for it and you had to catch him fast. He always cleaned up if you dropped food you were cooking on the floor unless it was onion or celery or some other vegetable. He was a good dog.

Shelby had a stroke yesterday, and that was pretty much it for him. The vet put him down and Doug and mom were there. He'd been having fits, and apparently he'd had some weird, sad behaviors the weeks and months before he died, so this was something of a blessing, especially with Mom and Dad planning to go out of town today (postponed a little). He didn't die alone, it wasn't painful, he lived a very long life (over 100 in dog years). And now he has gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds.

I'll miss that little booger.