Halloween Rorschach test

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!

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!