Shets N Geggles

Urban Race Rebels, et al.

2011-11-14T10:30:00.000-08:00

Last night I went to a book talk at Powell's. I "discovered" their book talks earlier this year and have made it a point to attend as often as I can, which is not often.

I was somewhat interested when I saw there was a talk about poor and working-class white people who participated in the Civil Rights movement. I was like, 'Really? I need to hear about this!'

James Tracy and Amy Sonnie are two community organizers who spent 10 years researching and interviewing to write "Hillbilly Nationalists, Urban Race Rebels, and Black Power." (Amy Sonnie is also a librarian, in Oakland.) They were funny, well-spoken, transparent and unassuming and talked about stuff that was hard to imagine but the 70 people they interviewed are proof that it did happen. There was talk of white men with confederate symbols on their uniforms walking into a Black Panthers meeting (and no fights erupting), and of a third generation Klan member (Peggy Terry) who was moved by the Montgomery bus boycott, and the treatment of poor Southerners who'd settled in Chicago, and ended up becoming active in CORE and SNCC. Don't know what those are? Neither did I. So, I will be reading...
http://www.randomhouse.com/book/212046/hillbilly-nationalists-urban-race-rebels-and-black-power-by-amy-sonnie-and-james-tracy/

(apologies that that is not a hyperlink; Blogger is not cooperating)

Spring & Summer on-the-go highlights

2011-08-24T18:46:00.000-07:00

"Are you too drunk to text?"--uttered totally nonaccusingly by young lady on MAX, at 5:58 pm on a Tuesday, mid-conversation, to whomever she was talking to on her cell phone. 4.19.2011

Am on MAX with a lady who is on her way to do a UA. Sunday May 30, at 7:00 in the evening...
(same MAX ride:)
 "Yeah, she is kinda stuck up, for a street kid."--personable young lady drug addict on MAX, to boyfriend, re: some girl she saw, and seemed to know, at Skidmore Fountain through window of MAX

I have never smelled more pot in my life than in Portland, OR. I smell of lot of b.o., too. I think I am smelling both right now. 7.16.11

Overheard at F&F

2011-07-11T22:04:00.000-07:00

This morning I was in a room with pre-schoolers who were having a dinner party in the Dramatic Play area. I heard the following...

4 1/2-year-old, in a fake British accent: "Mother...Sweetie...Put them right here...We don't have enough."

Then, later, from a 5-year-old, answering a (defunct but actual) cell phone: " Hello? We're at a party. Too late. Bye." With which she hung up and then said to the group: "Sorry; that was my boyfriend."

In Honor of an Honorable Woman

2011-06-13T20:46:00.000-07:00

Yvette B. Eldridge
b. June 14, 1944

From the Falls Church Commission for Women’s Mattie Gundry Award nomination form, 2001:

“Yvette Eldridge was a fifteen year resident of the City of Falls Church who, like Mattie Gundry, was a community leader, educator, and civic activist. Yvette had a history of service and activism at the time of her move to the City and she continued her involvement with community, education, and civic service as a City resident. She had been a member of the League of Women Voters and was Co-President at the time of her death. As a member and co-president of the League, Yvette was active in community studies, testimony to the City Council, and promotion of voter registration. Mattie Gundry was a champion for the disabled and opened a training school for the disabled in the City. Yvette worked with the City Registrar on a voter registration meeting specifically for retarded adults. Additionally, the Registrar reports that Yvette personally brought over a League Voting Guide to a citizen unable to find one in the racks at the Library or City Hall. Yvette was also a representative to the Youth Commission and utilized these experiences to develop the idea of consensus and understand the process of government and the role of being a spokesperson. Yvette was later appointed to the School Board by the City Council and following the referendum for an elected school board became a successful candidate serving for seven years. In addition, Yvette worked as a social worker at T.C. Williams High School in Alexandria.

Yvette brought a thoughtful and thorough perspective to her involvement and participation. She utilized her experiences to observe tensions between groups and evolve the idea of consensus. She achieved an understanding of the process of government and developed approaches that were both inclusive and representative of the constituent groups. Yvette used her social work training and background to gauge how people interrelated and interacted and incorporated that knowledge into effectively working with individuals and groups. She was considerate of others and sought out opinions with the goal of incorporating the ideas and participation of all persons. Yvette was both well liked and well respected by a broad cross section of the community as was witnessed by the overflow attendance at her memorial service last November.

The City of Falls Church has benefited greatly from the actions and efforts of Yvette, particularly the families and children of the City. She actively promoted the interests of all children and youth through her participation on the Youth Commission and the School Board and sought a balance of interests. Her efforts at voter registration were aimed at inclusion of all persons and special efforts were made to address persons with disabilities and minority populations. As a League member, Yvette stayed in touch with all issues of importance to the City and was unfailing in her willingness to address issues and provide testimony. Yvette continued a lifetime of community service up until the time of her death. The families of the City of Falls Church lost both a friend and advocate. Yvette’s life exemplified a commitment to the values and mission lived by Mattie Gundry.”
– Marge Witting (President of the League of Women Voters)

RLS history lesson

2011-05-13T18:54:00.000-07:00

So, apparently, it was a thing in Scotland in the mid-1700s for criminals (or kidnapping victims) to get sent to the American colonies. In “Kidnapped,” on the Scottish ship bound for the Carolinas, David Balfour shares that “in the days of my youth, white men were still sold into slavery on the plantations.”

"Kidnapped" is a novel, obviously, but... is this true*? If so, it is (big) news to me. He also refers to possibly ending up ‘working in the fields with Negroes.’ My mother once told me that she was part Scottish; her maiden name was Burns and, as she pointed out, “Where do you think that comes from?” Good question. I don't believe she, or anyone else in my family, ever knew specifically, but I think we all assumed our last names came from slave owners... and that, to me (and maybe all of us), has always been an unhappy, but inevitable, thought.

I come from Burnses and Lewises and, if I do more cross-referencing with the names I’m coming across in “Kidnapped” (which I will), probably more Scottish-last-named people. If what this Balfour kid asserted is true, then my Scottish ancestors on the Alabama side might not have been slave owners but unfortunate, miscreant Scottish rejects. I like that version of things much better; I will take miscreants over slave owners any day.

* history buffs, feel free to roll your eyes, and please excuse my ignorance, as this was not part of the curriculum in any level of my schooling…

Take my blood -- please!

2011-05-06T16:31:00.000-07:00

I have a bruised vein for nothing.

I love the idea of giving blood. I see its importance because of the need for blood, and I can only imagine all the people who are helped by donations. In concept, awesome; in practice, a giant pain.

I gave blood semi-regularly years ago, even though needles and blood made me woozy, because it felt like the right thing to do. Difficult, but worth it. I have healthy, highly-donatable blood, and I felt I should donate it. Then, a few too many times in a row, I was told my iron was too low, so I stopped going to donate.

Fast-forward five or six years, to last month, and one day at work I’m told about a blood drive going on, right downstairs from our office. I think, ‘Maybe this is the time to try again.’ So, I go down to donate. Everything is fine; I am excited to learn that my hematocrit (what I have been calling iron) was at an acceptable level. The old curse was over, I thought! Now I can donate blood again and be the citizen I want to be! Not so fast.

I get on the table and the phlebotomist(?) looks at my arm; I have a little spot of acne on the inside of my right elbow. This makes my right arm ineligible to donate. They check the left arm, home of a scrawny vein that has never been up to the task of hosting a needle, and today is no different. So, I am dismissed with a temporary deferral letter.

Today, a month later, I thought I’d try again. I call Red Cross and make an appointment. I have a hearty breakfast, I have two glasses of water, lunch and more water. I arrive for my 1:45 appointment and things, once again, go fine. Hematocrit is on the level and--I was sure to check yesterday, and today—there’s no acne on my blood-giving arm. Once again, I get to a table. This time I get so far as the iodine slather and the little tube thing taped on my arm. It’s really happening. I am both relieved and (per usual) secretly terrified. I want to do this, though. This is difficult for me, but the pay-off, which goes way beyond me, is so worth it.

“Look away if you don’t want to see this,” the phlebotomist says. I am way ahead of her, as I averted my eyes, like, two minutes ago. There is repeated stinging, and some pressure. She asks if I’m doing okay; my breathing is taking more concentration to manage, but I say yes, I am doing okay. I had been squeezing my hand shut on a sponge-y thing and now she tells me to relax my grip. I think, ‘Great; the blood draw is beginning.’ Then she says, "Okay. I punctured your vein and you have a hematoma."

Just these words — "puncture," "vein," "you," "hematoma" — make my breathing uncontrollable. I am panicking. “A hematoma is a bruise,” she says. I nod; yes, I know. “The blood has nowhere to go but up,” she says. What does that mean?? She then removes the needle and asks me to hold my gauze, which I do, mechanically. I figure then that this means the donation is over; she’s not going to try to re-puncture the vein, and, frankly, even if she’d suggested that, I don’t think I’d have been up for it.

“I punctured the vein but the needle didn’t actually go in,” she tells me, and my stomach quakes a little. I nod. I’m holding my punctured arm aloft, as instructed, and my face is starting to tingle all over and tears are falling down my cheeks. “Are you okay?” she asks. “I’m fine,” I say. I explain that this has happened before; I have this irrational, almost-passing-out reaction to giving blood, just, usually, I manage not to let it get to this point. If something goes awry with the donating procedure, I usually fall apart. (I hyperventilated once while donating in LA; at least then I had a pint of blood to show for it in the end.) She and the other phlebotomists around are very kind and reassuring; two of them say that it’s not irrational and that they get the same way when they give blood. I’m also told that my vein is a side vein (news to me) and has no muscle to hold it in place, so it’s hard to navigate.

I am just so disappointed. This is my second try, and second fail, in a month. I tell them I will try again: “Third time’s the charm.” They tell me to have some snacks, but I am both too proud and too ashamed: I won’t take pity snacks as a reward for something I didn’t actually accomplish.

Meanwhile, I have the gauze and that elasticy tape on my arm still. No one ever told me when to take it off. It’s on so tight it hurts to bend my arm, and, when I do, I can feel that bruise (which I am not looking forward to seeing) and I shudder. They said my fear wasn’t irrational, but I’d say that being afraid to take off a gauze pad for fear that I’ll bleed out is irrational. On the donating table, I guess I was afraid of the same thing, or something like it. Doesn’t seem rational to me, but it’s oh so real.

I have psychological issues with donating blood, but, I swear, I could handle those if only I knew that when I went to give blood, I’d have some guarantee that the physical part would go okay. I read patents all day long and don’t know why there hasn’t been one for an improved needle or some apparatus that makes this whole rigmarole easier. For starters, why must we only donate from the inside of the elbow? If you don’t have decent veins in that combined, what, 10 square inches of area, you’re out. Why does it have to be like that? Seems dumb to me, but I’m not a medical professional. All I know is I want to do a good deed and I keep failing, and I can't be the only one.

What is it about Quizno's?

2011-04-09T14:01:00.000-07:00

I find that now when I see fishy stuff, I start to narrate it in my head like I'm a police officer giving grand jury testimony. Like the instance below.

March 31, 2011 8:45 pm
I just saw the craziest thing: A young, skinny, jumpy guy was knocking on the door of a closing Quizno’s, offering the worker inside $5 for a soda. There was a little red beater car a few feet from the jumpy guy; there was someone in the driver’s seat, and I assumed this was jumpy guy’s friend. I imagined that they were into shady biz of some sort, because of jumpy guy’s jumpiness and because of his willingness to pay $5 for a soda (not at a movie theater or sports arena) and the needless choice of a closed shop when there are Plaid Pantries everywhere. The worker, seeing this guy gesturing outside, and hearing him maybe some, kinda laughed it off and seemed to be waiting for the guy to give up, but the guy wasn’t going anywhere. Finally, jumpy guy actually took out a bill and held it up to the glass door; the worker gave in, grabbed a soda, brought it to the door and they made the exchange. Once he had his desperately needed soda, jumpy guy bopped to his car: his car was not the red beater but a nice silver boxy car, the passenger side of which was open, though there was no one inside. Jumpy guy shut the passenger side door, then went around to the driver’s side and got in. He proceeded to crank the stereo and flail around, kinda headbanging. I did not see him drink any soda. After about two minutes, he sped off.

(By the way, this was the same Quizno's that a suspect from one of our grand jury cases went into when he realized he had been detected by a cop. And he had been filling heroin balloons...)

Grand Jury: entry 3

2011-03-30T18:39:00.000-07:00

My jury duty ended last Tuesday, which already seems like ages ago. It was not always fun, but, overall, I enjoyed it. It was enriching and enlightening. I'm proud to have been a "chosen one" (as a courthouse security guard called me one morning when she saw my badge).

On our last day, I put together some declassified notes to take home and share. Some of this will be old news to you, especially if you have watched "The Wire." Also, some of this may only apply to Portland/Oregon. (I invite my dozen lawyer friends to chime in if they deem any of this inaccurate.:))

DRUGS:

a middle-man drug dealer might call his supplier "my dude"
if said middle-man calls his dealer, the dealer answers the phone but has a runner come meet the middle-man to do the exchange

bunk = imitation crack cocaine

zip = meth (or a quantity of meth or other drug...)

"cut," "hot" and "CI" and "burner [phone]": all terms I heard in testimony that I learned on "The Wire"

methodone - (described to us as) legal heroin, given to recovering heroin addicts to keep them functioning

benzodiazepine + methodone = euphoria (so we were informed)

tooters = tubes for snorting/inhaling heroin

aspirin is sometimes used as a cutting agent

DRUG LAW:

it is not a crime to possess less than an ounce of marijuana (a violation--like traffic ticket-level--but not a crime). It becomes a felony if you deliver it. "Deliver" meaning transferring it to another person, for money or goods; delivering for money or goods is called "for consideration" or "f/c." (this came up a lot/all the time)

it is unlawful to possess a prescription pill if you don't have a prescription for it

SQ = substantial quantity
SSQ = super substantial quantity
SSSQ = super super substantial quantity (500g or more. In this case, cocaine(?)--it varies from drug to drug, I think)
CDO = commercial drug offense
UA = urinary analysis

laundering charge usually only used when 1000s of dollars (as opposed to $60 for a few bindles of crack)

[Oregon] state law doesn't distinguish between crack and powder cocaine; it's all referred to as "cocaine" in charges. (Feds are concerned with purity, though.)

[the DA's office has] up to three years to charge someone on a drug case

Unlawful Activity Involving Controlled Substance in Park -- this is a city statute violation; a person could have less than an ounce of marijuana in their home but once they bring it to a park, it's a violation. (I believe this also applies to alcohol...?)

OTHER LAW:
(thank you to the assorted, insanely patient Multnomah County DDAs for this crash course)

Theft I (aka Theft in the First Degree or First Degree Theft) - over $1000. The multi-faceted charge of Theft I also includes selling any items you know are stolen. Theft I is a misdemeanor (?) (EK?)

Harassment = subjecting person to offensive contact, (but) not causing physical pain. It is a Class B misdemeanor.

FTA I = Failure to Appear [in court], in the First Degree

Burg. II (Burglary in the Second Degree) - entering premises with the intent to commit a crime. Applies to a non-residence, like a storage unit or store or garage. Also covers the event of stolen goods equaling $1000.

Att. Theft I (Attempted Theft in the First Degree) - knowingly stolen property

Assault IV - recklessly causing physical injury (substantial pain)

UUV = Unauthorized Use of a Vehicle

FRSO = Failure to Report as a Sex Offender (Class C felony)

Criminal Mischief in the Second Degree - breaking the glass of a store window (for example)
(might go hand-in-hand with)
Theft in the Second Degree (Theft II) - taking merchandise from store whose window you broke

Aggravated Theft in the First Degree (Agg. Theft I) - more than $1000
(might go with)
Aggravated Identity Theft (more than 10 transactions and/or $10,000 or more)

Criminal Mistreatment in the First Degree - opening a bank account for someone for whom you are a caregiver (which you then drain of funds of which only you are the beneficiary), for example. And/or neglecting and/or abandoning a person who depends on you for their care.

Burg. I (Burglary in the First Degree) - applies to unlawfully entering residences BUT can also be, basically, Burg. II but entering the premises with intent to injure people.

COP TALK:

welfare check = executed in DV (domestic violence) cases or in the case of a suicidal person (for two examples, both of which we heard). Means you go to the car/apartment/house and verify the physical/mental welfare of a person.

POLICE ACRONYMS:

SIU = Special Investigations Unit
DVD = Drugs and Vice [Division? Department?]
NIK = Narcotics Identification Kit. (It is used to field test drugs found on apprehended suspects. "A white crystalline substance" NIK tests positive for meth A LOT.)

QUOTES:

"Yeah. It was stupid," and "Yeah, that was dumb." -- guy, to police officer, after getting caught committing prescription fraud

"You have no right to privacy in your smell." - a DDA, re: drug dogs sniffing people out

"Oh, the drunk guy." - bus driver, to cop looking for knife-wielding guy who fled a scene and hopped on bus

"I don't smoke it, but I eat it." - drug case defendant, re: his meth use

"I'm tired of the life." - drug case defendant, finding himself somewhat relieved to get caught

"The only people who use Brillo anymore are crack smokers." - Portland Police officer

"It's peppermint oil... okay, fine; it's G." - drug case defendant to police officer who was inspecting a brown bottle in defendant's purse

soon-to-be defendant, to police officer in park: "What are you doing in the park?"
police officer: "Looking for illegal drug activity." (he found it)

(how could I forget this one!)
a DDA, breaking stuff down for us after presenting his case, re: a defendant making particular threats: "Those aren't crimes; those are him being an asshole."

A day on the farm

2011-03-26T23:06:00.001-07:00

(well, about three hours, actually, but that can be like a day to a city person)

Raked out a large chicken coop, using wood-and-metal rake and pitchfork (I had never used a pitchfork and I was kinda psyched). Made significant eye contact – and some conversation – with chickens. One chicken was roosting in a hutch and just stared at me. I explained to her that I couldn’t replace her hay unless she moved; she was clearly not moving. I contemplated – for a microsecond – moving her myself and remembered that I was dealing with a live chicken and that I have hardly ever touched, much less picked up, a live chicken before. I felt like a chambermaid and her staring out at me was a “do not disturb” sign. As you wish, chicken.

While my three fellow volunteers and I cleaned out chicken coops, we were being watched--and loomed--over by a black and white turkey. (I, by default, called this turkey “Tom” or just “turkey,” but I was told later that his name was Taj.) This turkey was ENORmous… though that may have been in part because he was roosting/walking on some chainlink well above our heads. No matter what, I’m pretty sure he was what one would consider “really big.” I don’t know from turkeys, but I had never seen a turkey colored or patterned like this one. His markings were well-, and really quite fashionably, distributed. He had long claws--as long and broad as adult human pinkie fingernails—-and we mused about painting them pink. (It would have looked great.) (He could have been a New York fashionista turkey.) Every so often he would utter a loud and startling “gobble!” I’m not sure if he thought we were friends or foes, but during the many times he turned his rear end to us, he never pooped on us, so I took that as a good sign.

The turkey’s vocalizing was nothing compared to the geese: when two or more of them would get going, they were louder (and as monotonous) as a car alarm. And there were, like, 10 of them. At first, when they weren't honking, a few of the geese hissed at us; they made a pretty big show of it. We were assured that they did this to everyone and that we shouldn’t take it personally. As we set about emptying, rinsing and refilling their kiddie pools, their attitudes toward us changed: there was no more hissing but, rather, standing around expectantly, and sporadic excited honking.

When the emptied pools were lifted, earthworms beneath were exposed, and this was a point of interest for the birds. An experienced volunteer said, usually, the geese would excitedly gather around her when she cleaned out the pools, just to get at the worms. None of them were doing that now, though, as I cleaned out the first pool. I picked up a worm and held it out to one of the hissing geese, as a peace offering; s/he did not go for it. Upon starting to clean out the second pool, I got a taker: a duck started pecking at the worms under the pool. There were just a couple ducks and they were sweet and laid-back. They gave the first cleaned kiddie pool a quick test run. Then they made themselves scarce, perhaps knowing the geese were going to take over, which they did.

It was like a party: not all pool all the time, but kinda like a house party where the pool is a focal point? They'd usually take a sip or two from the pool, while standing outside of it, and then hop in. There was spraying, splashing, grooming, honking and roughhousing (and/or attempted intercourse – hard to tell). Sometimes geese would wait till we were done filling a pool to come in; sometimes they came in while the hose was going, seeming to like the misty spray.

It took a really long time to refill all seven pools around the yard, as we only had one hose, which gained and lost water pressure throughout the day (ok, hours). The old water had been opaque with mud, and I took pride in how clean the new water was, yet I didn’t mind when it would get dirty again in the space of five minutes: we were there to serve the birds. Yardbirds, it turns out, are very entertaining to serve.

Grand Jury: entry 2

2011-03-17T21:43:00.000-07:00

As mentioned before, we have reviewed a lot of drug cases in Grand Jury 2. Grand Jury 1 primarily hears serious person crimes, like assaults, robberies and child abuse cases, and we have gotten some of their stragglers: yesterday it was robbery/kidnapping, and today it was criminal mistreatment.

"Ready for an uplifting one?!" asked our presenting DDA. "Yes!" I said. He was being facetious; I was totally fooled. I didn't know there COULD be an uplifting case on our slate and I leapt at the idea of one. The case he presented, via two witnesses, was heartbreaking and disgusting and a shame. The witnesses were great, and had taken action to remedy the neglect and mistreatment they discovered (which disgusted them, too)--and the victim is in better hands now--but that case bothers me. It was a true story and I wish it had been fiction. We've had maybe 60 drug cases, and they're so quick and open-and-shut, I don't remember the names of the defendants, and I don't remember details of the individual cases. They just fly by. Not so with person crime. Our drug stuff seems so light compared to the harsh reality and tragedy of person crimes. I don't so much remember the name of the defendant in the criminal mistreatment case, but the name of the victim I think will haunt me.

Michael Schrunk, the head DA, came in today to talk to us and thank us for our service. He acknowledged that part of our service is having to share the burden of knowledge of the cases. I feel fortunate to be on Grand Jury 2 and I feel for the jurors on Grand Jury 1; they meet for twice as long as we do, but I think their burden is more than twice as heavy.

Amy’s and My Lil' Smokey Cheese Balls

2011-03-12T17:18:00.000-08:00

I met Amy Sedaris briefly at a book signing last November. I had recently made one of her Lil’ Smokey Cheese Balls from the recipe provided in her book “I Like You.” Her inscription encouraged me to keep crafting my cheese balls. I’m trying, Amy.

With the help of Z100, I started making one yesterday. The butter had been left out for seven hours, but it had still not softened. While waiting for the cream cheese to get room temp, I chopped a cup of nuts with a butterknife. Then, with a wooden spoon and a couple plus-size silver utensils, I beat the butter, the two cups of gouda, and the pound of cream cheese together. (I later required two Chinese herbal patches for my right shoulder.) I don’t think Amy has to work this hard when she makes her cheese balls. She cooks regularly, and she makes bank, so she surely has myriad cooking and food prep gear. (I know she has a nut grinder because she told me so.)

This morning, having chilled the cheese mixture overnight (as Amy’s recipe instructs), I took it out of the fridge. I had decided to make one ball into two balls (for two friends). Based on the size of last year's cheese ball, I had estimated that each ball would be the size of a tennis ball. I divided the cheese mass onto two plates to start shaping each ball and could only think that Lil’ Smokey Cheese Balls do not conform to the law of preservation of matter: the ball I made last November was bigger than either of these two, but it was not the size of the two of them combined… Was it? I ended up with two balls that were nearly the size of softballs. There is a physics and/or calculus lesson here; I’m just not sure what it is… The lesson I HAVE drawn is that Lil' Smokey Cheese Balls are hard (for me) to make but also magical. I will keep crafting, Amy.

Overheard in Portland: March 1, 2011

2011-03-11T19:51:00.000-08:00

"A worse faux pas than drinkin' on the train is littering OFF the train."
--a teacher on the MAX train with her friends, heading to a Blazers game, discussing disposal of their tall boys.

Grand Jury: entry 1

2011-03-11T19:08:00.000-08:00

I am a grand juror. I have freakish "luck" when it comes to jury selection, getting selected all but one of the five times I've been summoned. I've been on trials before; this is my first grand jury.

We are the designated drug cases grand jury. I am learning lots and lots about drugs. And how they're packaged and dealt, and how they affect human behavior. A few things I've learned:

-Many people are abusing Oregon's medical marijuana growers' program. They get a medical marijuana grower card and then never renew it. And they consistently grow three or more times the allotted limit of plants (for, usually, two people; not the allotted seven "patients").

-Oregon marijuana is worth twice as much in New York as it is in Portland.

-Chili flakes, coffee grounds and car grease are used in storing stashes of meth and heroin in order to throw off drug-sniffing dogs. Saran wrap and duct tape are used to package the drugs. (Just like on TV.)

-People keep their drugs in innocuous receptacles like Tupperware, beef jerky packages, oatmeal canisters, and Lysol Wipes containers.

-A "Mexican ounce" is 25 grams (rather than 28) because Mexicans are used to the metric system.

-Heroin is cheaper than painkillers. Some people switch to it when they can no longer afford their prescribed painkillers.

-According to one police officer, no one uses Brillo pads anymore except for crack smokers. They use it as a kind of filter in their pipes.

-According to another police officer, drug dealers are never on time; they're on what's called "tweaker time." If a drug dealer says they'll meet you between 4:00 and 6:00, that'll mean 5:30.

-Even if your pocket knife has a clip attached, it's probably not a good idea to keep your money in that clip, especially if you are prone to getting drunk and/or high.

-All phone calls made from jail phones are monitored and/or recorded. Some criminals forget this.

-Drug deals often go down in a car; sometimes a moving car.

-If you see a guy on the MAX stuffing tiny party balloons, it's probably heroin.

Overheard in Portland: Spring 2009 - Feb. 9, 2011

2011-02-18T18:24:00.000-08:00

Spring 2009. Five-year-old at a day care, going cot to cot, collecting post-nap stuffed animals from her classmates, in a kinda zombie/monster voice:
“Gim-me your stu-ffies. Gim-me your stu-ffies.”

May 2009. Lady from Eugene, hanging in the 8th floor lobby of The Nines hotel in downtown Portland:
“I have a sickness. I’m a broke person who likes expensive things.”

Spring 2010. (black) lady on MAX (missing some teeth), in answer to an acquaintance wishing her luck:
“I don’t believe in luck; luck come from witches.”

Summer 2010. Bored ballot guy on MAX, who was actually, turns out, collecting signatures for an initiative to have retired judges oversee something or other:
“Chinese unicorns at the zoo? Fire-breathing Chinese unicorns? They come over from China, only on rainbows?”

Summer 2010. (black) Guy outside Plaid Pantry on Burnside and MLK (?) at 2 a.m. on a Friday/Saturday, echoing the baiting he’d been doing of a chick in the parking lot who had to be restrained from kicking his ass:
“What your momma got?! What your KIDS got?! What do YOU have?! … What do I got?... BIIG CHIPS!”

August 20, 2010, 9:00 pm. Young Caucasian girl walking by Pioneer Square, behind Flicks on the Bricks audience, aiming this at I don’t know whom in the audience (she was looking in that direction):
“We’re gonna beat ALL ‘a you! You SUCK! In the name ‘a the Lord!”

September 12, 2010, 12:25 pm. Blonde mom walking along NE Broadway, just east of 15th, with her equally blond, round-faced little boy, who was occupied with a white paper bag. I guess the mom was offering her hand to hold and the son must’ve refused it quietly because I didn’t hear what he said, but she said, without a trace of angst or real complaint, just kinda matter-of-factly:
“Oh, you don’t? Now that you’re three you don’t wanna hold my hand?”

October 22, 2010, 10:00 pm. Tall, dreaded teenaged dude on MAX, considering, and deadpan joking to, his female friend with a thick head of highlighted extensions:
“That’s expensive hair. I could sell that.”

December 23, 2010, 4:30 pm. Middle-aged guy to (maybe four-year-old) daughter, walking down sidewalk in front of Borders on SW 3rd, in response to her wanting him to carry her, after, I’m sure, a long day of Christmas shopping:
“You’re too heavy and I’m too old.”

December 31, 2010, 7:00 pm. NE Going & 13th. Pissed-off (young, white) guy, walking down street, talking to his friends:
“I’m gonna stab this motherfucker, dawg. I’m tired of this shit!”

January 21, 2011, 11:45 pm. NW Glisan & 9th. ~20-year-old, kinda greasy looking, bearded, kinda ethnic hipster kid, walking and talking with a female friend:
“Flannel equals Portland camouflage.”

February 4, 2011, 2:37 pm. Westbound #77 bus, Union Station stop. 3- or 4-year-old girl in purple glasses and a Hello Kitty hat, just after getting on bus, with mom:
“It smells like dog treats. …It smells like dog treats in here.” [It did not smell anything like dog treats, to me.]

February 9, 2011, 8:55 am. Westbound MAX. Middle-aged, whiskey-voiced (maybe drunk, maybe homeless) guy, who had boarded at Skidmore Fountain and had not, up to that point, made a sound, out of NOWHERE:
“Ding ding ding the trolley goes... Where we’ll end up, no one knows…”

DH

2011-01-23T12:26:00.000-08:00

You know you've watched too much "Desperate Housewives" on DVD when you have the screen menu music stuck in your head.

Siblinghood of the traveling sneakers II

2011-01-15T11:41:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday, I took matters into my own hands: I took my shoes down from the fence, put them in a garbage bag (which I labeled with the bag’s contents and specifics) and took them with me downtown, toward my office. I left them by a trash can by a MAX stop where I have often seen homeless people. By the end of the day, they were gone. I looked IN the garbage can that they were next to, and they were not in there, so I am hoping/assuming that the bag got taken and the shoes are being used. The next day, as I was walking home, I saw some sneakers hanging from a telephone wire, a block from my apartment building. If that still means what I think it means (drug deal signal), then I’m extra glad that I reinserted myself and relocated my shoes. ... I feel sort of naive not having thought of that, that my worn out shoes could be used as a device, when, if I'd thought about it, what better shoes to use for a telephone wire signal than worn out shoes? Sheesh. Barely dodged that one. I would have felt guilty and kinda dirty if it had been MY shoes I'd seen up there. I don't see many telephone wires, and few if any shoes strung up on them, downtown...

Siblinghood of the traveling sneakers

2011-01-09T20:17:00.001-08:00

Last May, when I was clearing out a bunch of stuff in preparation for a possible move (that hasn't happened yet), I needed to get rid of my TiVo. I had checked a few avenues, including resale, and had struck out. I didn't want to throw the TiVo away because a) that's e-waste and very uncool and b) there was nothing structurally wrong with the TiVo and I figured some techie person could use it for parts. So, hoping for the best, I left the TiVo (with instruction manual, power cord and remote) on the little, shrub-shrouded stone wall between my apartment complex parking lot and the sidewalk. Within hours, the TiVo was gone. I next put a pair of shoes on the wall; they, too, were gone within hours. I was delighted with this "magic" wall. (Adjacent my apartment building are also a "magic" dumpster handle and a "magic" bus stop shelter, where I have successfully passed on an old messenger bag and a pair of nice but uncomfortable sandals, respectively.)

On Friday, I put a pair of old sneakers on the "magic" wall. Hours went by and the sneakers were still there. The next day the sneakers were lying on the sidewalk below the wall. These were worn but still useful sneakers and I was oddly (irrationally) hurt that they were being rejected and/or knocked around. I placed them back on the wall but wondered if I should take them back and be a little more proactive about finding them a home. I decided to give it another day.

Today when I left home they were gone. I was glad. The "magic" wall worked again.

Then, when I returned a few hours later, I saw the sneakers wrapped around a chain-link fence post outside an apartment building a block away from my apartment building. Curious. Had someone, sharing my intentions, taken them from the wall, deciding that his/her fence post would provide a better, more prominent display? I didn't know how I felt about this. I still saw them as my sneakers, even though, obviously, technically, I had abandoned them when I put them on the wall. I didn't expect to see them again so soon, though, except maybe on the feet of someone who needed them. I wonder/dread where I will see these sneakers next...

Volunteering

2011-01-09T19:57:00.000-08:00

Does anyone else have the same relationship with volunteering that I do?
I read about, say, a volunteer opportunity that asks for 1-3 hours of my time and I think, "Yes! I'll do that! That resonates with me and sounds doable! I can spare 1-3 hours for a good cause! That's nothing!"
Then, as the time to actually volunteer approaches, I start to dread it. "Why did I sign up for that?! Can I get out of it? No; I'd feel like a s**theel if I did that. ... but I don't wanna do it anymore. ...No; I have to do it."
Then, propelled purely by my sense of duty, I get to the site of the volunteering. I meet people, I talk to people, I help out in whatever way I signed up to help out--like putting together cots at a shelter or standing at an info booth after a documentary screening--and I feel good. At the end of the 1, 2 or 3 hours, I leave, smiling. "How hard was that? Not hard. It was even sort of fun, and I'm glad I did it."
So, what was that blip where I wanted to get out of it? What is that about? Does that happen to anyone else? It must be some sort of psychological dysfunction that someone out there -- maybe a psychologist? -- has written about... ?

Do you know who I am?!

2011-01-07T18:01:00.000-08:00

I don’t consider myself that important. You’ll never hear me say, “Do you know who I am?!” Cuz I’m nobody. But the college I went to is not nobody; it is Yale. Recognizable name, good reputation, one of the top universities in the United States. When people apply there, usually (not all the time), they want to get in and, consequently, want to make the best impression they can on the school and, by extension, any representatives of the school whom they encounter. Family members of those applicants may or may not care about that impression.

When, as an alumni representative, I call Yale applicants to ask if they would like to schedule an interview, I expect a certain amount of respect and enthusiasm, and even reverence. It’s not for me; it’s for Yale. And, usually, I get all three. This afternoon I called one girl and her very friendly and polite mother answered the phone; the girl was not home. When I told the mother who I was and why I was calling, she was quite excited. “Oh, yes, she would LOVE an interview!” she gushed. “I expect her back in an hour. Can I have her call you back? Is that okay?” Of course. Mom knew what was up and how to be, and even better, I think it was all natural and genuine, and I smiled inwardly.

Moments later, I called another girl, who, likewise wasn’t home. A girl, I assume her sister, who was probably about 14, answered and offered to take a message but then, when I told her who I was and why I was calling, said, “She’ll be back in an hour, so, would you mind calling back then?” She wasn’t rude, per se, but her tone and her request both showed that she didn’t care who I was or why I was calling. Offended but hiding it, I said okay, I’d call back. Then, after I’d hung up, I looked at the phone in my hand and said, “REALLY?!," thinking, 'Do you know who I am?!'

And then I had to laugh at myself… though I would be pissed if I were this second girl and I got home and my careless little sister told me a Yale interviewer had called and she'd told the interviewer to call back. But I will not, of course, hold that against girl #2. Nor will I give girl #1 credit for her mother’s enthusiasm. Candidates will stand on their own merit, and their own attitudes toward me, the nobody, and the big important school that I represent.

David Sedaris

2011-01-07T14:35:00.000-08:00

I’m reading "Holidays On Ice" and thinking, ‘This is what I wanna do. I wanna be David Sedaris.’ I'm workin' on it. I'm not--and can't be--David Sedaris, of course, but David Sedaris is doing what I want to do (way more successfully than I can ever imagine myself doing it).

I wish I could collaborate with David and Amy Sedaris (or "Amy and David," as I like to call them). I think it would be a regular quirkfest. We'd come up with good story ideas and we'd act out dialogue for our new play (I mean, I don't know if that's how they work, but that would be fun). We'd get along, I think, and learn from each other (like sharing pearls of wisdom and bad habits), but there would also be enough awkward dysfunction between them and me to provide each of us with story fodder that we could use for our own separate projects afterwards. It would be a win-win. So, that's officially my new dream: collaborate with the Sedarises. Aim big or don't aim at all, I say...

Horrifying Ignorance

2010-12-29T21:08:00.000-08:00

I'm talking about my own. Of Africa. Oh my lord.
I went to a new pub quiz last night and one of the sections of the quiz was identifying all the provinces and territories of Canada. There were only 13, and I know Canada fairly well, so it seemed doable. My teammate and I got all but two right.
In order to prepare for future geography questions and map IDs--because much of the other questions in this particular quiz were fairly difficult--I decided to take some online geography quizzes tonight. I started with Africa and was instantly ashamed and embarrassed by my lack of knowledge of that continent. I comfort myself with the knowledge that I DID, at one time (18 years ago?), know where the vast majority of those countries were. But, playing this quiz, I was just guessing, pretty much the whole time. Constantly. There was a map to the left and questions on the right. It would say, "Where is ________?" and I was supposed to click on where that country was on the map. I'd click, grasping at straws, and the quiz's reply would be, "No, that's Burkina Faso," or wherever; "try again." I more or less remembered the big and/or irregularly shaped countries on the edges, like Libya, Egypt, Algeria and South Africa. I know the general area of Nigeria, Cameroon, and Ivory Coast but that did not help me here. This quiz required exactitude, and I didn't have anything approaching exactitude. I was reminded that Africa has a million countries and their shapes are not very distinct or remarkable. Not knowing Mauritania or Mali is one thing, but I didn't even know where Kenya was. Pathetic. I had flashes of watching Jay Walking on the Tonight Show and realizing, to my horror, that I'm no better than those people. It was a good ego check, really. After that, I took an "Oceans and Continents" quiz in hopes of making myself feel better; I did: it was only 12 questions and I got them all right. (That may or may not be better than any Jay Walk All-Star could do.) And now, to redeem myself, to myself (and to have a leg up on future quizzes), I vow to memorize that whole continent... or at least half. (My brain is not 15 anymore; gotta be realistic.)

Kids are still saying the darndest things

2010-12-29T19:48:00.000-08:00

I sometimes work at a daycare center. This week I have been working there every day. It is challenging on a scale I cannot quite describe but also very rewarding. I hear and see wonderful things, usually little things, that make me smile and/or laugh. These are a couple:

Yesterday, some 2- to 3-year-olds were playing coffee shop (with unused Starbucks cups, and old business cards as money). One little boy said to his friend, "Non-fat, no-whip mocha, please." He repeated it over and over again, in his sing-songy little boy voice, to the "barista." I had to stifle a laugh. (We verified later that, of course, that is exactly what his mother always orders at Starbucks.)

Today, there were several meltdowns on the preschool playground. Two 4-year-old boys, in particular, threw themselves pathetic pity parties, crying and whimpering on the steps when they were denied the opportunity to go inside to help set up lunch (even though they have refused to help every other time they've been invited to). A mutual (future motivational coach) friend would periodically take a break from his extremely active playing to bound up the steps and talk to them. I heard one of these exchanges. It went like this:
Future Motivational Coach says, real upbeat yet tough love, "Guys: you can either come and play or you can sit here and cry. So, what's the deal?"
Crying Friend #1, crying, makes a downward stabby, pointing gesture to the stair step he's on; Crying Friend #2 just keeps crying. FMC sort of sighs and runs off, only to return again to cajole them every two minutes or so. Persistent though he was, they continued to feel sorry for themselves and never left the stairs, further, I suspect, ensuring their mutual friend's eventual career choice...

We are hardly alone

2010-12-21T13:35:00.000-08:00

I was truckin’ along pretty okay yesterday. I thought I lost my Canadian reusable grocery bag (which I treasure), but then, twenty minutes into retracing my steps, there it was at Tillamook and 18th, waiting for me, right where I had no recollection of dropping it. Then, later, I had to cut out some cardboard (using a razor blade(!))--a task I approached with some trepidation. I had some close calls, but I cut out a large circle and a large square (for gift backing) with no shedding of blood. A triumphant day.

Some time last night I started to feel really irritable. I can identify maybe a couple things that might have brought it on, including the full moon and/or the eclipse (maybe?). Went to bed feeling more or less neutral.

Then this morning I got a disheartening text from a friend that brought out all my bottled up holiday emotions, including disappointment, abandonment, loneliness, impatience and disgust. No sooner had I gotten in touch with those than I considered that I’m not alone. The Dixie Chicks had a song a while back called “Am I The Only One (Who’s Ever Felt This Way).” The answer to that question, no matter what you’re talking about, is always “nope.” And that is a comfort. Especially around the holidays, when you can sense that those previously mentioned shitty feelings (alongside the joyous ones) are being felt en masse. I feel better already.

Some short ones

2010-12-14T17:25:00.000-08:00

I should have written down when this was, but I think it was November:
Met a Chihuahua named Heffner. He was wearing a rainsuit and doggles.

a dubious acronym to watch out for:
"FONSI: finding of no significant impact"
(December 6th, Oregonian article on oil sands)

Oregon license plate on a little red Honda on SW 1st:
"THPBBT"
(December 8th, 9:30 pm)

Another pang

2010-11-21T19:39:00.000-08:00

of regret that I'm not in LA; I used to volunteer with Project Angel Food:

"Join us for
a Preview Screening of
Burlesque
introduced by Writer/Director Steven Antin

Sunday, November 21
Wine Reception: 6:00 pm
Screening: 7:00 pm
Seating begins at 6:50pm and locations are on a first-come, first-served basis.

R.S.V.P HEREor
visit projectangelfood.org

Tickets: $35 each
(All tickets held at Will Call)

Your ticket price will fund a full week of nutritious meals delivered to
someone in L.A. County who is struggling with a life-threatening illness."

Doctors' offices should be like Midas

2010-11-18T10:21:00.000-08:00

Heath care in the United States is a service, not a right; that's how we've treated it for years and will probably continue to treat it for years to come, the way things are going. As a service, it should have accompanying itemized prices. When you take your car to the repair shop, you get an estimate. You don't just say, "Ah, do whatever needs being done." If, after getting under the hood, the mechanic finds more things wrong, he then calls you to let you know and get your authorization for any further procedures that would add to the final cost. You also don't get a bill for the mechanic's services a month after they were performed.

Doctors' offices need to run more like a mechanic's shop. Doctors want to act like health care is removed from money. They are focused on treatment and detection and prevention, heedless (and possibly clueless) of the dollar amounts that their tests and procedures are going to cost. I don't think I want or need my doctor to know, item by item, how much each procedure or test will cost me, but someone in the room should (an insurance adjustor or other knowledgeable number-cruncher) before I give my consent to said procedures. Something is wrong with a system where you are expected to get tests but are never told that they'll cost you anything.

Yesterday, I got a bill for lab work I had done a month ago. Lab work I did not ask for but that my doctor implied was routine. I thought, at the time, that my office visit co-pay would cover it. According to the itemized bill, it took more than two weeks for my doctor to even bill my insurance, and then another two weeks for them to make their payment. Then three days after that, I got my bill. Meanwhile, in the intervening month, I got my test results back and everything was normal, which I knew it would be, which is why my appointment in the first place was not to get a physical or have my blood and urine tested(!). I went in a month and five days ago for a pap smear and my preventive care-minded doctor wanted to do a physical as well. I was foolish enough to think that this would be at no extra cost to me, and my doctor did not imply otherwise. Did you know a lipid profile is $43.20? A complete blood count is $20.80. Next time I go to the doctor's office, I wanna see those things up on a board, like Midas lists brake checks and radiator flushes. But I know I won't.

Doctors also expect you to see them regularly, even when there's nothing wrong with you. The total charges, including what my insurance kicked in, for my two October doctor's visits (where all I wanted was a pap smear) was $496.10. At those rates, WHY would I ever go in regularly? These doctors are incredibly disconnected from the reality of the cost of health care. Getting sampled and tested just to find out there's nothing wrong costs almost $500. At least at a mechanic, for that price, you get some new parts.

Street of Dreams 2007: Week 3

2010-11-14T20:59:00.000-08:00

8/13/07
"There's a warmth about it I like." - youngish redheaded lady upon entering and heading to study

"Cool staircase." - another lady, heading downstairs

8/14/07
"It makes you feel welcome." - lady in foyer

"I like the music. Gets you goin'." - lady in foyer, re: the Bob Seger playing

8/15/07
"I like the tone of this wall." - 10-year-old boy, re: wall in formal dining room

Street of Dreams 2007: Week 2

2010-11-14T20:52:00.001-08:00

8/6/07
slip and fall - guy. ~3:15

"I like it already." - lady, upon entering foyer
"I do, too." - her 3-year-old daughter

no, no solar tubes here

"This is the homiest kitchen." - teenaged girl (who looks like ethnic Celine Dion)

red building: pump house. Supplies water to a wetland down below (behind(?) house)

lower level duty: go through bedroom once an hour and fluff pillows (on couch + chairs, too)

8/7/07
"I LOVE these FLOORS." - older lady, in foyer

11:50 AM - little (~2 inch long) frog on left planter!

"Bathroom, bathroom! Look at this bathroom, it's so nice!" - little 6-/7-year-old girl in lower level 1/2 bath

8/8/07
"Ah. Outstanding." - older lady, stopping and looking straight ahead in foyer

Pat Morita! :) (w/ a toothpick)

tally so far: 1 obnoxious person (tan lady in pink); 1 unsupervised kid; 1 snooty person ("we've got a time frame here")

"I love the doorstops." - young lady, on upper deck outside of great room

In Salem, they make people take their shoes off

lady w/ George Burns glasses

8/9/07
"I wanna live here...!," then, "I would sell my mom for this." - late-teenaged girl upon getting to lower level, looking, esp., @ TV screen

12:37 - a slip (on stairs to lower level)

"This is really nice, and warm. It's not too dark like the other ones." - guy in foyer

This job is like being a servant.

"This is my favorite house." - 6-/7-year-old blonde girl, going past me, heading to lower level. (I said, "You have good taste." Her mom laughed.)

"Is the elevator working?" - a lady asked in all seriousness (had a broken ankle) [there was no elevator]

guy who looks like (younger) Neil Young, re: Doobie Bros.: "Longhairs."

8/10/07
1:30 pm: "Is this Zamphyr or Yanni?" - 30-something guy, re: music

LiveWire!-inspired haikus

2010-11-14T13:22:00.000-08:00

LiveWire! is a local radio talk/variety program that, at each show, gives the audience the opportunity to submit haikus, based on themes provided by LiveWire! I went to two LiveWire! shows last spring, and it ignited my inner haiku poet. I journaled in haiku for a while. I found the conciseness of haiku very satisfying. Here's some I wrote last spring.

April 1, 2010

entitled: "Yesterday"
Room 4 with Kathy
“There’s something in my booty,”
stated Cole at nap

March 28, 2010

entitled: "David"
I am shocked and sad
I thought I’d know him longer
My Maryland homey

entitled: "New Facebook Friends’ Pics"
Facebook allows you
To look at others’ pictures
Not healthy; should stop(!)

Street of Dreams 2007: Week 1

2010-11-12T14:25:00.000-08:00

One of my first jobs in Oregon was a temp job, working as a greeter at the Street of Dreams. I worked at the last house on the tour, which was, in my opinion, the best house, for many reasons.

I took a clipboard with me to work every day to jot down info, questions for the builder, or to note what vendor pamphlets we were running low on in the garage. I also jotted down my observations and things I overheard. This is some of that:

----
floors – birch
5300 sq. ft.; $2.2 million
“ee-pay” (Indonesian) wood in patio (very hard, and hard to install; hardware attached to put it together, instead of straight nails). aka ironwood.

7/28/07
“I like this one the best.” – female tourer
“The WOOD… is AWEsome.” – another lady tourer in foyer

refrigerator under granite kitchen island slab

7 bottles of beer outside on deck

“Nice tile.” – 7-year-old boy, re: granite slab countertop (kitchen island)

“A lotta counter space.” – 7-year-old girl tourer in kitchen

“They’re really rockin’ up there.” – 8-year-old girl in kitchen, re: Doobies on TV
“I can just imagine living in this house.” – 9-year-old girl in kitchen

7/30/07
“I feel like I’m going into a lodge.” (Hm… true.)
“Let’s go this way.” “…Cuz the ropes make us?” (kinda bratty teen/college-aged daughter and dad)

lots of (~8-10 ) pregnant ladies

7/31/07
“Uh-oh… we’re in the man-cave.” – guy, upon descending to lower level/basement
“I love the floor.” – lady, upon entering foyer

everyone always taps the smaller copper sink

8/1/07 –
“Do you know what the floors are?” – amazed-looking lady, coming from dining room, past foyer
“It’s peaceful.” – lady, immediately upon entering foyer, looking at great room
“Very warm place.” – guy going down basement stairs

8/2/07
Smooth Jazz – yay!
Q: What is color of walls in foyer? (one lady asked) A: paprika, muslin? [what?]
2 ladies came back a second time to walk through house!
“This is much more feminine than the other houses.” – one older lady, going downstairs
Q: What is red building out there? [in front and to the left of house] A: pumphouse

8/3/07
Report any and every slip and fall (even if the person gets up and appears to be fine). If need be, get their name and say it’s Home Builder Ass’n policy.
Some gasps as people enter. Also, one lady said she liked our choice of music (Ray Charles on Smooth Jazz).

“It’s warm and inviting.” – 13-year-old girl after entering foyer, looking at great room
One lady complimented us on how well-directed it is (unlike some other houses), w/ the signs and ropes.

5 TVs: master suite, master bath, great room, outdoor kitchen, media room [aka basement]

Knotty alder/Donnie Wahlberg

Outdoor kitchen – 3 bottles of wine (were there always?)

8/4/07
cockroach(!)
Q: what are locked doors in laundry/mud room and where do they go/why are they locked? A: 1) rack system controls; 2) 9-ft tall crawl space entrance
“Wood stairs versus carpeting is much better.” – lady coming down to basement.
“I like these floors. A nice, warm color but not too dark.” – lady, upon getting downstairs, walking past poker table.

Deathgrass plays Bay City Centennial Sat. Sept. 4

2010-11-11T21:13:00.000-08:00

I'm suddenly in a rueful mood. Another e-mail. Another missed event, but in the past. This one I missed because I don't have a car anymore. The details and visuals in this message stuck with me and filled me with regret at not being able to attend:

"SATURDAY, SEPT. 4—the Saturday of Labor Day weekend—DEATHGRASS will be
performing at the Bay City (OR) Centennial Celebration. We’re on at 2
p.m. on Averill’s portable outdoor stage, which will be set up at 4th
& A. Streets in downtown Bay City, across from the Bay City Arts
Center. The usual poster is attached.

Chris Miller on drums, John O’Leary on bass, Mike Simpson on lead
guitar, and myself. We’ll be playing the usual eclectic mix of blues,
bluegrass, country, and rock—some Failed Economy songs, and (of
course) anthems to dead animals. In honor of the town’s 100th
anniversary, we’ve unearthed, and will be covering, one of the Big
Hits of 1910.

There will be activities and events all day, including a parade, food
and craft vendors, and other entertainment; the Oyster Shooters (the
classic-rock band with whom Mike also plays lead) are on stage at 4
p.m. It’s all free.

DIRECTIONS: Bay City is 5 miles north of Tillamook on US 101 (a
little over 60 miles south of Astoria); there are a couple of turnoffs
that take you into town, which is on the “land” side of the highway.
Look for the Arts Center, that big white antebellum mansion structure
that looks like it dropped out of Gone with the Wind (it’s a former
Masonic lodge); the stage is across the street. Hope you can come.
It should be fun.

Joe"

The Fonz

2010-11-11T21:09:00.000-08:00

Rarely, I wish I were still in L.A. One of those rare times is now, knowing I will miss a rare treat like this:

"Henry Winkler Book Reading and Tea Party
When: Saturday, December 11th | 3 - 5PM
Where: Address in Brentwood will be provided upon RSVP

Yale Family LA is excited to announce a very special family event with actor, author, and Yale Drama graduate Henry Winkler!
Some of you may remember that several years ago the Yale Club celebrated the birth of the first Hank Zipzer book with a cocktail party and reading by author Henry Winkler.
Well, now we have come full circle and are gathering to say goodbye to Hank, who is making his last appearance in the final book of the series, "A Brand New Me".
Please join us as Henry Winkler reads from the book, answers questions and shares cookies and hot chocolate with us.
We guarantee it will be a hoot for children of all ages -- but it will be especially entertaining for anyone over 6 years old!
Price: Members: $10 | Children (12 and under): $5"

Sigh.

"Sex bar"?

2010-11-11T11:39:00.000-08:00

Seriously, karaoke lyric programmers! Please let me help you. "This is How We Do It," by Montell Jordan, does not talk about a "sex bar"; it's "six four." You almost made me say, "You can get yours in a sex bar" in front of all my friends. That is not cool.

I know you guys cannot possibly be native English speakers and/or you've never heard many of the songs whose lyrics you've programmed in. Let me be your consultant! I know SO many songs! I have the time and I need the money! I work cheap! I could telecommute! ... What's that? You don't have internet? That's why you can't google lyrics, like I just did? Oh. Right. Bummer. "Sex bar," it is!

Beginnings of children's stories I never finished, Pt. 3

2010-11-09T16:06:00.000-08:00

This one is longer but, still, like the others, not finished. (Sigh) I seemed on a bent to write stories with morals for kids. And, judging by some of the language, was inspired by Beverly Cleary. (Nothing wrong with that.)
----
"I won't go!" said Amanda Bell.

"Please, dear," begged her mother.

"No!" Amanda shouted. Mrs. Bell threw up her hands and left the room.

Amanda's brother, Max, had a band concert that night and the whole family was going. Max played the trombone. Amanda covered her ears whenever he played.

"He's terrible!" she would shout to her father over Max's practicing.
"That's not nice, Amanda," her father would reply... but Amanda could tell that her father thought Max was a terrible trombone player, too.

"Amanda, if you don't change your clothes and come downstairs this instant, you will be grounded for the rest of the week!" shouted Mrs. Bell.

"I'm not going!" was Amanda's final reply.

"I'll stay here with her," said Mr. Bell to Mrs. Bell.

Mrs. Bell eyed her husband. She knew this was not a huge sacrifice on his part. But she said, "All right," and she, and a pouting Max and his trombone, left.

"It's just you and me, kid," called Mr. Bell up the stairs. It was quiet for a moment.

"Really?" called Amanda.

"Yep. So, you wanna make ice cream sundaes or have a water balloon fight?" asked Mr. Bell. His answer came running down the stairs.

"Sundaes!!" yelled Amanda, gleefully.

Two hours later, Amanda and her father sat, stuffed sick with ice cream, on the sofa.

"I can't move," said Mr. Bell.

"Me either," said Amanda. She groaned.

"We better get cleaned up before your mom and Max get back."

"Okay," said Amanda, and she tried to stand up. She couldn't. Her dad got up and helped Amanda get to her feet. Then he turned towards the stairs. Amanda followed.

"Where are you going, kid?" her father asked.

"Upstairs, to get cleaned up. Same as you," said Amanda.

"Well, you should probably start in the kitchen," said her father, mounting the stairs. "There's hot fudge all over the floor."

"Aren't you gonna help me?" said Amanda.

"I better take a nap before I do that, but you go ahead and get started," said Mr. Bell, over his shoulder. Amanda was left at the bottom of the stairs.

'Great!' she thought to herself. 'Now I have to clean up all by myself!'

When Mrs. Bell and Max returned, they found Amanda mopping the kitchen floor.

"Looks like you had fun instead of going to my concert," said Max with a smirk.

"I did, smartypants," said Amanda. "Dad and I made sundaes. Just for us."

"Where is your father?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"Sleeping," said Amanda. "He didn't even help me clean up."

"Is this what you wanted to do instead of going to my concert?" asked Max.

"No, of course not," said Amanda. "Dad and I made sundaes and it got a little messy."

"Oh," said Max. Then he took his trombone and went upstairs.

"Is something wrong with him?" Amanda asked her mother.

"He really wanted you to be there, Amanda. He's hurt that you didn't want to go."

"But he's terrible, Mom! I can't stand to listen to him!"

"He's still learning. He can only get better," her mother replied. Then she and Amanda looked at each other and laughed.

Later that night, Amanda knocked on Max's door.

"Who is it?" said Max through the door.

"It's me," said Amanda.

"Go away!" shouted Max.

"I've got ice cream," said Amanda. There was silence. Then:

"Okay." Max opened the door. Amanda had brought him a hot fudge sundae, piled with whipped cream, nuts and strawberries. Amanda handed it to him.

"Thanks," said Max.

"I'm sorry I didn't go to your concert, Max," said Amanda.

"That's okay," said Max. "I stink."

Amanda smiled. "Yeah, you do. But you won't always."

"Thanks," said Max again. He smiled too.

Just then, Mr. Bell came out of his room. Amanda saw him. "Dad, have you been asleep this whole time? I had to clean the kitchen all by myself!"

"Oh. I'm sorry," said Mr. Bell. "It must have slipped my mind." As he passed them, Mr. Bell winked at Max.

Beginnings of children's stories I never finished, Pt. 2

2010-11-09T15:53:00.000-08:00

In this one, I have shamelessly borrowed the doll name from The Simpsons. (Just want you to know that I know.)
----
Mary wanted a Malibu Stacy doll. She wanted it more than anything.
Mary's friend Barbara was turning seven on Saturday, and Mary and her mother went shopping to buy Barbara a birthday present. While Mary's mother went to look at play sets, Mary went to the doll aisle and stared at the Malibu Stacy dolls. She loved Malibu Stacy's shimmery hair and all the little clothes she could wear.
"Mary?" Her mother was calling her.
"Coming," Mary called back, and reluctantly left Malibu Stacy behind.

Beginnings of children's stories I never finished, Pt. 1

2010-11-09T15:39:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I have ideas and only get a few steps in executing them. (Don't most people?) This happened to me most frequently of all in the early to mid-2000s, I think.

I found these when I was cleaning out old papers last month. Before I recycle these pages, I thought I'd put them down here, to celebrate partial completion (which rarely gets celebrated)!

This one, I believe, was inspired by real (composited) events from my childhood and, in name at least, by my friend Marybeth.

---
girl runs away from/defies mom, gets scared, mom finds her, girl is relieved, decides to listen next time [--note at the top of page]

Marybeth and her mother stood in line at the grocery store.
"Why can't I have a Wickie bar, Mom?" whined Marybeth.
"Because I said so," replied her mother. "Besides, you've already gotten two cavities from too much sweets."
Marybeth sulked. Her mother paid for the groceries and they headed out. Marybeth tried to push the cart, but her mother shooed her away. Marybeth became even sulkier.
When they got home, Marybeth's father greeted them warmly.
"How are my ladies doing?" he asked.
Marybeth's mother kissed Marybeth's father on the cheek. "One of us is doing fine," she said, raising an eyebrow towards Marybeth.
"I see," said Marybeth's father.

a doll - shopping for present for friend - Marybeth wants a toy for herself. [--note at bottom of page, for taking the story in another direction, I guess]

The last four days

2010-11-08T15:40:00.000-08:00

Had an amazing time with Erin this weekend. Don’t know where to start. Actually, the recent fun times started Thursday, with Beth, so I’ll start there:

Thursday, November 4, 2010
2:00 pm. Met Beth at Burgerville. Had delicious pumpkin shakes and good conversation. She’s fun.:)
4:30 pm. Headed toward courthouse, planning to read a little in the park before meeting Erin H. Struck by horrible smell. Looked around, hoping it would pass. Stopped to look at monument plaque. Before I got past the first line, a big friendly man in a black suit interrupted me, talking about the ginko berries. The what? They were what was making the smell. Oh. He pointed out on the ground the leaves of the ginko tree but we didn’t see any berries. We started walking up across the park, scanning for berries, me and this tall stranger (whom I suspect was an attorney, from his dress, his aura, and the direction from which he was coming). We asked a lady and her young daughters, who were raking up leaves to jump in, if they had seen any ginko berries; they had not. The man said that elderly Chinese ladies collected the berries at the park and made ginko biloba out of them. I thought the man was going to continue on his way (that the direction we had walked was the direction he was going anyway), but he kept looking, and so did I. We kept going and finally found some berries. Some that were totally smushed looked like stepped-on dried apricots. He held one between his large fingers and I smelled it; it smelled super-foul. I found a whole one; it looked like a dusty yellow cherry. I put it aside, on one of the monument pillars, for the Chinese ladies. And our ginko berry experience was complete. He said, smiling, “Thanks for playing.” I smiled back. “You, too.” And then I went to meet Erin; this encounter had taken the perfect amount of time. Magical randomness like this is one reason I love Portland.

Friday, November 5, 2010
11:00 a.m. Picked up car at airport. Impala did not work out. After testing out the driver’s seat in a couple others, I ended up with a black Nissan Versa. It was a small car. A little boxy, a little stubby. It drove and handled well. It was comfortable. It smelled good. I was falling in love. I used it to run some errands, as planned (NEEFP and Trader Joe’s), and was beside myself with joy. On top of that, they had Christmas cookies in at Trader Joe’s (including JoeJoes) and the cashier was really nice, and I had a car to tote my heavy load back home. It was wondrous.

Saturday, November 6
Could/did not sleep well. Mind would not shut off. BUT, woke up before dawn, and remembered everything for trip.
Picked up Erin. We headed out. Way we goooo! Fun with music and singing in car.
Remembering my mom just before Peace Arch Park.
Border crossing. Erin’s keychain pepper spray is not welcome in Canada. Once at counter in Line B, while customs officer (who reminds us both of Kim Upham) is preparing the paperwork, Erin asks her, “Can I bring a firearm into Canada?” I pale a little bit, but I’m SURE Erin will tell the customs officer, at some point soon, that she is an attorney and is asking purely out of professional curiosity. But, without blinking, the customs officer tells her the firearm rules: basically, licensed and registered shotguns and rifles are allowed – with proof and documentation – but handguns are not. She shoots me a look; I tell her I do not have a handgun.
Once that excitement is over, we head into Canada.
We eat at Olympia’s, a Greek restaurant in the West End, which, we are later informed, is Vancouver’s gay neighborhood. (The next day, driving out of town, we notice the blatant and plentiful rainbow flags we had not noticed the day before (perhaps b/c of the rain).) We then walk the ‘hood, check out the waterfront (I chat with a duck), get some hot chocolate (me) and coffee (EK) at Blenz, drive around Stanley Park, stop and check in at the hostel (and meet our roommate), then head out to Gastown (which has been recommended to us by the helpful, friendly, bearded, espresso-pushing employee at that neat store whose name I never caught). We head to Gastown. We find no street parking, so we park in an impressively brightly lit garage with a million empty spaces. Gastown is cool. It feels like Europe – or a movie set – with the historic-looking (and not tall) buildings, and the rainslicked cobblestone and brick streets. After slipping into one place (that reminded me, setup-wise, of Valentine’s) and finding it too full, we keep going. We overhear a homeless guy talking to a couple, looking for Irish Heather (a place recommended by espresso man), where it is. He mentions it’s moved. He points up the street. We go that way and run into it almost immediately. Interestingly, Irish Heather is, apparently, aka Shebeen Whiskey House,* aka The Salty Tongue Urban Deli**. We get, like, the last two seats at the bar. It feels like an Irish pub to me, though I’ve never been to Ireland. The bartender (Bucky), it takes me a while to realize, is Irish, and that helps the impression. (He is also very agile, using both sides of the bar and his co-worker's body to, very smoothly, reach a bottle of scotch on their imposing wall of liquor.) The place gets more and more packed, but no less friendly. Men in Vancouver# seem, on the whole, handsome and friendly and nice. I’m impressed.
Walking back to the parking garage, I get, from a probably drunk 20-something guy, talking over the heads of his crowd of probably drunk friends:
“I like your chapeau, mademoiselle.” (Is that not CLASSIC? He’s Canadian, so he has to use both French and English.;)) I smile and say, “Merci.”
*the name on the glass wall next to the door, facing the street. It said Irish Heather under that (in parentheses, maybe, even).
**the name on my card receipt
#the West End/Beach and Gastown, anyway
We get back to the hostel, get ready for bed, and go to sleep. We have bunk beds. It's kinda neat and nostalgic.

Sunday, November 7
Without having planned it, Erin and I are both up and ready to start the day just after 7:00. (Daylight savings time helps!)
After a little free oatmeal, we headed to the waterfront, which, according to a huge posted sign, has a coyote issue (like the Lions Gate bridge Viewpoint at Stanley Park has a rabies issue, I guess). Beach Ave. I find a shell. I note the friendly tone of the ‘no skateboarding from 10 pm – 10 am’ sign. It is politely beseeching. It includes, in point 1 of its case, that “Police may attend.” I can’t remember point two, but point three says that the noise it creates for the apartments across the way is quite disturbing. It's a good case, really. (Canadians seem so reasonable.)
We stop at a place on the way out of town that said something about “Proudly made in Canada,” but it turns out not to be a souvenir shop. (We saw many souvenir shops in Gastown the night before but they were all closed.:() We stop in Surrey to use the bathroom and get a bite/coffee at Tim Horton’s and to check for souvenirs at a grocery store. I almost get some syrup there but change my mind. I am glad for this later, when
We stop at Duty Free at the border crossing. (Driving toward it, we see a woman in kinda jogging clothes walking along the shoulder of the freeway entrance ramp; we see her later, as we’re waiting to cross the border. The backup is so long, she beats us across.) Erin finds perfect, maple leaf shaped maple syrup bottle for me, for other Erin. I find maple caramels for me and Stephanie. I also get a $40 Canada zip hooded sweatshirt. I have been needing/wanting another hooded sweatshirt (I am down to 1!) and I wanted to advertise my love for Canada in the cold weather, so it was perfect.
More border drama. A beotch from WA in a BMW refuses to cooperate with the turn-taking of merging, instead keeping the distance closed constantly between her and the car in front of her. Erin gets out of the car to speak to her. (All the cars surrounding us and the WA lady, by the way, are from Canada and they are all cooperating in the merging.) The woman is heedless. The customs officer (loosely) directing the merging traffic asks Erin what happened. Erin says the woman was not playing nice nor by the rules. Thank goodness, this explanation suits the customs officer well enough not to pursue the matter any further. (Erin already avoided getting arrested once, with the pepper spray.;))
I find myself distinctly unenthused about re-entering the U.S., but I decide it’s partly because the welcoming sign is so cheesy and dumb.
Driving through Washington the sky is cloudy, then rainy, then sunny, and repeat. At one point, I require sunglasses, while the windshield wipers are going steady. This makes the lane markings really hard to see. I manage not to kill us, and we make time as best we can back to Portland, singing and chatting and being quiet sometimes, too.

Waving to Cats in Windows

2010-11-03T20:22:00.000-07:00

Even though I get house envy when I do, I love walking through my neighborhood. It has a diverse array of beautiful homes, of varying ages and architectures. Some of the homes have cats. This evening I walked through the northwestern reaches of my neighborhood and saw no fewer than three cats posted, like sentries, in living room windows. I waved at all of them. Some took their jobs very seriously, so I had to wave particularly enthusiastically to get their attention; they then stared back at me with professional interest until I continued on my way, which I did after a moment at each stop. (One doesn't want to overstay.) I'm sure I looked like an idiot to these cats, but there was something oddly gratifying about these silent mutual acknowledgments.

Yahoo News outdoes itself!

2010-10-03T19:38:00.000-07:00

I am rarely interested in what my Yahoo home page deems interesting. But tonight, three out of four of their little news thumbnails sparked my interest. (Usually it's one out of four, at best.) Starting with this one:

(http://travel.yahoo.com/p-interests-35991769) (--cuz blogger is not showing my hyperlinks:()
Whaaat? The headline -- "World's Strangest Vending Machines"--drew me in and the preposterousness kept me going. What crazy/fantastic vending machines! Thanks for telling me about that, Yahoo!
"Gold Bars: Abu Dhabi, Frankfurt, Bergamo, and Moscow airports
In case the dollar or euro fails during your flight home, you can always shore up your assets by picking up a few gold bars at a Gold to Go vending machine, debuting in the above airports in May 2010 after a successful 2009 test run at Frankfurt. You can also buy South African Krugerrands, Canadian maple-leaf coins, or even a $100, one-ounce Australian Kangaroo coin."
I want the Canadian maple-leaf and the Kangaroo coin! OMG! :)

And then this:
thumbnail: "Ridiculous ways to fall into debt"
Oh, do tell!
(http://finance.yahoo.com/banking-budgeting/article/110871/examples-of-bad-charging?mod=bb-creditcards)
I will read just to (hopefully) reassure myself that I don't fall under any of the examples. (I will not use my credit card at any of these vending machines. Promise.)

And then this:
thumbnail: "Is both fat and fit possible?"
headline: "Obese But Healthy? Gray Area Confounds Science"
(http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20101003/sc_livescience/obesebuthealthygrayareaconfoundsscience)
I have wondered that, myself! I don't know about obese, but I have often thought that you can have a strong core (and/or arms and legs), sheltered under a protective layer of fat, and be healthy. Ahem.

You know what does pay?

2010-09-27T16:59:00.000-07:00

Being randomly kind and generous. (Common knowledge, right?) I'm just saying maybe the karma train is more on-time in this case.

Yesterday I went to the Portland Polish Festival. I had bought tokens and had one left that I couldn't use before I had to leave, so I offered it to the couple sitting next to me at my table. I had never met them before, but they seemed sweet and kind of introverted, and I instantly developed a soft spot for them. The wife said I could get my money back at the admittance booth and when I declined, she offered to give me $1 for the token (its monetary value), but I insisted she accept it, "on me," I bid them to enjoy the rest of the fest, and I left, smiling.

Minutes later, while waiting at the MAX station, I noticed several members of one of the bands that had played at the festival. They were from British Columbia, Canada. (I love Canada.) I was totally star struck. One of them asked me about where the MAX went and I ended up advising the whole group on all-day passes and where to go downtown, and learning a thing or two about the Polish flag.

I don't KNOW whether my giving that couple my last token was what brought on this total day-making encounter, but I sorta believe in the ebb and flow of energy in the universe, so I kinda think it was. And my faith in the karma train is restored.;)

German Bike Tour: July 29, 1995

2010-09-27T16:36:00.000-07:00

loading bus, feeding the horse, looonngg bus ride (2 stops, plus "delivery" of Karl-Heinz!) to Bingen.

Barbeque, taking photos, talking around the outside table, writing in this journal (w/ one shorts' leg on and one off!-not to mention one naked foot and one w/ sock & shoe!), and... sleeping.

[The End]

German Bike Tour: July 28, 1995

2010-09-27T16:32:00.001-07:00

Breakfast, staying in and reading (while others went to Cheese Market), - reading On the Road for 1 1/2 hour out on deck mit Conny. DeBackers arrive (snuck up on me, 45 minutes early!) snack of pannekoeken (Cathy ignores her diet and orders fries!), in Alkmaar, walking, shopping, talking, walking more (too much!), dinner at Italian restaurant in Alkmaar.

several photos & group photo w/ fellow bikers.

evening swim in North Sea

German Bike Tour: July 27, 1995

2010-09-27T14:35:00.000-07:00

leave Amsterdam (morning shit) for Egmond. Varied terrain: farm, street, sand(!)
lunch stop at the beach (waded up to waist), collected shells (Horst's joke w/ me und Ute pissing in the sea to warm it up:)), sand everywhere! ("I wanna go home!")

Last leg of trip: getting lost after the beach; (for me) getting pricked/stung by plant while "communing w/ nature" (aka: peeing outside); riding through nature preserve (after getting "found") which looked like Arizona; getting rained on, whistling "Joseph..."

Bob, Heinz, Renate, Frank und ich were the first ones to the Youth Hostel. Bob, Carol, Dad and I were assigned our cell (down the hall from the praying monks!). I changed into warmer clothes. Took ride (on liberated bikes!) mit fuddy und Gerd to the boardwalk.

Dinner. Sleeping.

German Bike Tour: July 26, 1995

2010-09-27T14:32:00.001-07:00

Anne Frank House
Van Gogh Museum
Coffee & Yogurt outing (adventures on the tram)
seeing Gerlynda Farmer twice
bought the purple key ("'Could I have a blank, purple key?" "No, you cannot HAVE anything; you must buy it" - (Hardee, har, har)) + MK's and Y's gifts

German Bike Tour: July 25, 1995

2010-09-27T14:07:00.000-07:00

I have to write this in the dark of the room, facing the light of the bathroom. I'm in a room with 12 people again (Roland, Rita, Conny, Renate, Heinz, Karl-Heinz, Dad, Bob, Ute, Carol und Horst). We're been having to make compromises! [That's Renate on the left and Horst on the right in photo.]

I'm really tired, so I'll just try to get out the important stuff.

This morning we left Boonik (the place w/ the great dining room, clay tennis courts, codes instead of keys). We biked through more farmland but this time there were more pittoresque paths, along canals bordered by houses (rich, spoiled people, I assumed). For me the ride was smoother because there were more periods of calm and there were nice things to look at.

We took a break at a swimming pool/laundramat/pet farm. The kids - including ich - fed grass to the miniature horse and the goats in the pen. Then most people went swimming (I just used my go-to-the-pool-free-card to use the bathroom - which was awful!). Then, I couldn't figure out how to exit and this little, tan, half-naked blond Dutch girl easily and casually showed me how to get out. She could only have been about 5 or 6 but she struck me as sort of a loner (independent) and maybe even wise.

So, CE, BW and CW and I ate lunch together, tho' Carol and I were bothered by a persistent bee. Then I just walked around, sat on a bench and read "Popsy," a weird short story from Steve-O's _Ns & Ds_ [Nightmares & Dreamscapes].

Then we left and rode on some more, and before I knew... no, wait; a big thing happened before we got to Amsterdam. We were nearing the city (or maybe we were in it - I don't know!) and were riding along the sidewalk/bike trail when Johanna got her bags caught going between those 3 ft. poles. She fell and somehow bloodied the inside of her knee and the bottom of her foot. As (or maybe after) they were bandaging her up, she fainted and lay unconscious on the sidewalk for several minutes. Sabine (the dentist) was the one who provided the most care.

Johanna finally came around, Anna looked like she'd been crying and held an ice pack to her mother's forehead.

The 2 of them left in a taxi w/ some of their stuff. We haven't seen them since, but they should be back soon.

The rest of us went on into "downtown" Amsterdam where the traffic comes straight out of hell. One or two of us almost got hit by an impatient automobilist.

Dinner was pretty good (asparagus soup, stew, a kiwi(!)). Daddy and I talked with a girl-woman (I think she said she was 21) from Australia who is a teacher in London. We talked about many things, among them "Evil Angels"/"A Cry in the Dark" (re: Meryl Streep's accent), bicycles, accents, teaching. Her name is Gerlynda; I hope we run into her again.

After dinner there was the shower parade (1 after the other people went to the shower). I went down to room 20 to play w/ the "children" (we played that name game again). Then everyone took a boat tour of the Amsterdam Canals. Our guide was beautiful, personable, friendly and (according to Carol) wore huge platform shoes! She might have been Middle Eastern or Indian or a blend...I can't be sure. She was also quasi-lingual (Dutch, English, German, French.. and those are just the ones we know about (Ha, ha!)) and very professional - she hardly made an error.

After the tour we walked around and ultimately returned to the YH.

There are some strange-looking characters in Amst., but I guess it's okay.

TTFN! :)

When it (literally) doesn't pay to be honest

2010-09-22T11:23:00.000-07:00

I believe in honesty. I believe in it for its own sake, and I believe that it really is, in the long-run, the best policy. It allows you to look yourself in the mirror every day. It makes it easier on you, mentally, because you don't have to keep your stories straight. It lets you live, relatively, without fear. It lets you have integrity and it respect others. One thing it may not let you have is money.

Last month, due to an accounting glitch, I was given a check for $324.82 at my job. It was identified as a replacement check for a check that had been issued me in January, that I allegedly never cashed. I told the accountant that I was positive that I was neither owed this money nor had I failed to cash any checks in January. (Believe me, I would have noticed.) The accountant held onto the check and I went home and looked in my checkbook register (where I reconcile all transactions as I go) to verify I'd cashed a check from them in that amount in January, and, sure enough, I had. This was the second accounting glitch at this place that I did not take advantage of: another time I was overpaid (about 12 times what I should have earned in a period) and alerted them to that, too. I think often of that $324.82 I could have easily pocketed, what I could have done with it, and what it could have meant for my present dire financial straits.

Last week, I was e-mailed about participating in a consumer taste test. I had signed up for their e-mails months ago and hadn't heard anything, so was excited that there was finally a chance to participate. The product was energy bars. Between the half-hour taste testing and the optional focus group after, if chosen, I stood to make $100. I took the survey that was required and immediately disqualified myself by answering "No" to the first question: "Have you eaten four or more energy bars in the last three months?" (I've eaten zero energy bars in the last three months.) It said, explicitly, that if your answer to that question was "No" then your participation was no longer needed.

I could have lied in either of these two cases SO easily. In the case of the check, I wouldn't have even needed to lie; I could have just taken the envelope and gone home. With the taste test, though, had I lied, I might have been found out.

I recently lost hours at my job and have to either find a room share and/or find additional, part-time work (that I can stand) in a crap economy. Either way, I have to use my savings to pay my rent and bills next month. Where is the karma train? I believe in being honest, and I'm not gonna stop now just because there is currently no pay-off, but, gosh, it just makes me wonder... and really think about that $424.82.

German Bike Tour: July 24, 1995

2010-09-16T15:18:00.000-07:00

July 24, 1995

I am in the top bunk of a bunk bed in a 12-bed room. There are Horst, Dad, Rita, Roland, Karl-Heinz, Carol, Bob, Conny, Ute, und Heinz.

I started reading "The End of the Whole Mess" after dinner (which was again very good). I (of course) fell asleep and then Anna woke me to ask if I wanted to play games with the other kids. First we -- Anna, I, Anne, Lilo (not a kid), Jens, Maren, Insa, Justus, Friederike und Conny -- played some game like "Duck, Duck, Goose" where we used keys and "it" ran around the circle and put them behind another person and it was up to that other person to notice and to run after the other. That game was too fast for me, but I had fun. Then we played a game where we formed 2 teams: the Browns and the Blonds. The object of the Brown team was to get 4 (of 5) members of the team onto the bench. Everyone was handed a scrap of paper with a name on it (the name of any one of the people playing) and he/she became that person. When "their" name was called they had to move to an empty seat on the bench. So, names and people got shuffled around, the Blonds won twice and the Browns won once (in the end, though, so it counted more!). I had to think - and memorize - very hard and quick in that game!

Oh-after that game we played soccer - I was goalie. [we played till 10 or 10:30 p.m. and it was still light outside!]

The ride: all started out okay - more farmland, more of the same path, more cows, more sheep, more smell, a few insect friends (found a lady bug on bag this morning), a little less hanging on in the back, another flat (Uli), another accident (me and Justus - nothing very damaged, both his mom and he apologized). Dad had bet Johanna "ein tasse (de) Kaffee" that we would go more than 80 KM today (or 100...something like that) and he lost. But even he admitted that it was a good bet to lose!

Today was pretty good & it's all downhill from here! :) [I think I meant this literally? we'll see...]

German Bike Tour: July 23, 1995

2010-09-16T15:04:00.001-07:00

July 23

Right now my left eye is swollen and I look like a mutant. My eyes have been sooo irritated lately, and I guess the left one has just about had it.

I'm sharing a room with Jürgen, Leislotte, the twins, Insa, Anna, and my dad and it was revealed that they (many people on the tour, I guess) thought that my dad and I were married!:P I am so grossed out. I can't believe they thought that. I can only hope that now things have been cleared up for everybody.

Today's ride was rather hard for me b/c my right knee/quad bothered me a lot. I stayed at the end almost the whole time.

Some time in the morning we reached Holland there was a blue sign with yellow stars and white lettering:

|*************|
|*Nederlands*|
|*************|

From then on there were lots of bicycles. We spent much of the day dodging bicycles, motor-bikes and -cycles, and (of course) cars. We took breaks here and there, Ute sang "This Land Is Your Land," the loser crowd rode again, the bugs returned, people went swimming (in the morning), there were 2 "friendly" ducks, the youth hostel was preceded by a long winding wooded path, the food and service were wonderful, English at last!, and there were a dog (a big poodle) and a cat (black w/ some white) at the YH. Altogether an okay day.

German Bike Tour: July 22, 1995

2010-09-16T14:58:00.000-07:00

July 22 (written 7/23)

Bad stuff happened today: I started off mit a flat tire, later in the morning I fell off my bike and scraped the side of my right leg pretty badly, and the bugs returned. The ride was made hard by strong winds. There was some riding in cornfields and, all together, we rode for 10 3/4 hours (102 KM) and arrived late at our destination. Carol, Bob, Fulgar/Volker, Michael, Renate and I went to a "nearby" pub to get drinks. When we came back there was a big fuss made about Katrin needing to go to the hospital and Renate's not being there. So now K is in a JH in Egmond and Renate is/is going to Amsterdam. This tour is kinda screwy.

German Bike Tour: July 21, 1995

2010-09-16T14:46:00.000-07:00

July 21

Breakfast was good; I had a hard-boiled (or was it soft-boiled?) egg, plus the usual. The riding went well. We took a break at some sort of garden with a little, winding waterfall, with which I conducted physics experiments w/ leaves. It also had large fish and ducks (like the Japanese garden of yesterday) and also a sprinkler, with which many people played and cooled themselves.

We stopped for lunch at a park by the Rhine. There were some sort of ruins there + a biergarten with chairs and tables cut from trees. Daddy and I walked around the cobblestoned town and bought bananas and insect repellent. We saw what looked to be a paralyzed pigeon. (It clung helplessly to the ground and, when frightened, flew away only a short distance, tried to land, and fell to the ground. Its legs dangled below it.:( ) We were the last ones to return; the others had already left -- except Ute, that is. She was kind enough to wait for us :).

The rest of the day passed okay. We found the youth hostel (6 beds, 4 people (me, CE, CW and BW)), had a good dinner and then I slept.

Oh! I forgot! We also stopped at a lake (well, 2 lakes) today. I had a wonderful time and swam and played with Insa, Friederike und Anne. We even swam to the little island. After swimming, many people commented on my "beautiful" hair. I quizzed Insa on English vocab, reading her (w/ much difficulty) the German word. I sat next to Uli on the bench for a while and he admired my shoes (oh, my beating heart!) and I collected a strand of his hair.

As for being tired, I was tired the whole evening and didn't go out.

-there was a bicycle accident during the outing (Maren und Connie; Katrin in shock) and people were taken to the hospital. They and the bikes are okay now, I hear. Renate hopes they learned a lesson. So do I.

German Bike Tour: July 20, 1995

2010-09-16T14:39:00.001-07:00

(written July 21)

leaving Cologne (going to bathroom at last minute)
morning...?
through the farm fields (black demon insects)
lunch, exploring, beer inside cafe (fan, no bugs)
beautiful Düsseldorf (carnival, long bridge)
dinner (all fruits and veggies!)
early shower (long, cool, heavenly)
rude girl outside ("Ich spreche kein Deutsche!")
walking around Old Town (-before: Daddy having insulin reaction; Johanna, Rita, Sabine und Margaret helped). Walking forever (expensive shops, tallest skyscraper of 1922), talking with Insa (French and English), triple scoop waffle cone, walking more, sitting with all Germans at Häagen Das shop (ice cream on plates, Mango sorbet), walking back (thunder and lightning, fair dinkum, queue vs. line, accents águ and gràve, chemist and scientist, Michael of East Germany (DDR?)). THE ENDE

German Bike Tour: July 19, 1995

2010-09-16T11:55:00.000-07:00

7/19/95

Today was a free day. Breakfast was pretty good, then they kicked us out from 9-12. Daddy and I (both experiencing low energy levels) took bikes to the square. We looked briefly in a book store, then sat around for a while in front of a cathedral, then sat around for a while by the waterfront. We tried going to that Roman museum, but 8 marks seemed too much. We also went to MacDonald's and, all in all, somehow killed three hours. Then we had lunch (Maren and Jens were doing weird things with their Jello!). Then I had somewhat of a rest, then I went into the shopping quartier with Renate and Carol. We went to the cat store where the lady was grumpy and I felt like she didn't trust me (she removed a display I was standing in front of (didn't say (in German) "Excuse me, I have to move this" or even "Let me take this out of your way") and then, after I had been looking at a poster of "Kitten Children" at school, she asked me, rather hostilely - and in German - if she could help me; when I looked clueless she said it in English and I said "Oh, no, I was just looking at this poster"). I had my dignity stepped on and, even though I told myself it shouldn't matter to me, I started crying. It took meeting one bad (evil, NAZI!) German to reaffirm for me that they are not all like that.

I finally had my ice cream! I had a Krokart Becher (I think that's what it was called) and it was good! Then Renate and I went briefly over to the Town Hall (which had a beautiful interior, but was closed) and then we met at "_that_" tree and then we met up w/ Bob and then we (they, rather) had drinks and then Carol, Renate und ich climbed to the lookout (almost at the top) of the Cathedral. We spent 5 minutes trying to spot Bob (by the red car) and to attract his attention. We finally succeeded and he waved and we waved back. (Tangent) Waving can be such a beautiful thing. It brings out the best in people and it can be so comforting and reassuring...

Very tired, Carol und Renate und ich and Bob went to eat dinner. At about 8:30 or 8:45, Daddy, Carol, Renate und ich went bar-scaping and also to look for (the now famous) "#11" (on the map). All that were there were an extended family of ducks - or maybe just a small duck community. In any case, there were some adorable baby ducks (I counted 3 and, later, 5) whom/that I couldn't take my eyes off of. Then we ate at the "Terrace Café of the Grumpy Waitress." We talked about "Roseanne," "the Simpsons" and other stuff. Then Carol and dad hatched a plot to irritate the waitress and get rid of some very unwanted pfillings (no. ... what _is_ that word?!? Oh, well) at the same time. We were all laughing hysterically before and after.

On the walk back we talked about (and saw some) dogs. ("He wants to taste your hand!")

Then the two Korean girls came (Park and Kyung or Kim(?)). They are very nice but timid. I think I am becoming used to slowing down and to simplifying my words and to just talking to people who do not understand me. This trip has been filled with new experiences!

Bon Nuit!

German Bike Tour: July 18, 1995

2010-09-16T11:27:00.000-07:00

July 18 (written on the 19th)

“Today” the bike riding was not far but it was concentrated. We rode to a government building (I have brochures somewhere) and walked around a bit (I was with CE, Carol, Renate, Johanna und Anna). The entry doors were roundish, 8x6(?) plates with eagle designs engraved on them. We biked further, in a bit of rain, to a park, where we had lunch. Then 8 of us (me, CE, Mr. and Mrs. and Inma(?) Drasse, Anna, Johanna, und that other guy (“John Tyler, Jr.”)) left earlier (1 hr.) to go to Cologne/Köln. We lost direction at least 2 or 3 times. We didn’t take any breaks and we must have gone for an hour or more. We rode through woodsy park areas and (at first) along the highway. We finally got there and it was great! Daddy finally got some more marks and he paid Renate back. We shared a room (still are) w/ Bob und Carol. There are 3 sets of bunk beds, so we have plenty of extra space.

After dinner, which was a pretty good buffet, a group of us went to the Cathedral for an organ/trombone/trumpet(?) concert (1 ½ hours). It was good, beautiful, strong music, but for a good hour I could not fight off sleep enough to enjoy it. Then we walked around some more, had some drinks and then my dad and I left on our own. We got kind of freaked out going across the bridge because it was so dark out and there was this creepy hobo dude walking near us. So, we hightailed it to the hostel! Our room is near the front of the hostel, across from a bunch of tables where the youth/jungen/jeunes like to hang out and play and smoke. Quiet time is at 12:30, so we 4 had to go to sleep amidst a good deal of racket! That’s all (, folks).

German Bike Tour: July 17, 1995

2010-09-15T10:29:00.001-07:00

[this was written on July 18th and my memory had faded already(!)]

Yesterday was good: The ride was pretty long (I can't even remember it that well...). I do remember the big, stupid hill we had to ride/walk our bikes up (we were 3 for 3! - this hostel, by the way, is not on a hill!). Oh (Carol helped remind me) "today" we went on what felt like a bicycle safari (1/4 or 1/2 mile (or something like that) through a pure mud path (complete with huge puddles and mud of various depths and cohesion), surrounded by shoulder-height weeds of all sorts). We also encountered a bridge (earlier in the day, I think) in order for which to cross we had to walk our bikes up two or three flights of steps - and then, very carefully, down two or three flights of steps! Luckily, there was a flat strip next to the steps themselves, so the bikes could roll along.

The room at the hostel was very nice. There were a heart-shaped chocolate, a little bar of soap and a face towel on the bed when we got there. And there was a big pillow and a quilt, both already covered with yellow and white plaid cases. Michael, Jürgen and his wife and older daughter, Frank and Sabine, Carol and Bob, Renate, my dad, and I walked and took the subway (20:36) to the... I guess centre ville of Bonn. We walked around the shops and restaurants and decided on a place. The drinks were good (other people's looked better than mine) and so was the company and the conversation (much of which I could not understand!) but then it started to rain. We were happy to finally get back to the hostel. Oh, 2 other things about that hostel was that 1) the food was really good (we had appetizers à la expensive French restaurants and they made us good lunches to take along) and 2) the showers/WCs were unisex! I walked in on some guy, but thank goodness he had shorts on!

One other thing about yesterday's ride was that we got completely drenched for, I guess, about 1/2 hour. There were gusts of wind and very heavy rain. Also (before that) we visited some place where there was a grocery store (a department store was on the 1st floor) where I shopped w/ Carol, Renate and Katrin. That's it for 17 - I'll do 18th later.

German Bike Tour: July 16, 1995

2010-09-14T13:11:00.000-07:00

Last night I found an old notebook in which I'd kept a journal from my biking trip to Germany and the Netherlands in 1995. I am thrilled; I thought I'd lost this journal years ago. I do not remember the details of this trip -- it was a wonderful blur -- so this journal is kind of like the external hard drive of my memory that I thought was gone for good. Reading it is like reading the journal of another person, though some memory bells are getting rung.

I had just graduated from high school. After some training rides on the bike trails in Northern Virginia, my dad and I set out for Frankfurt. We were two of four Americans in a group of 30; the other 26 were German. Of the four Americans, only my dad spoke German. I speak some German now; this trip is part of the reason I wanted to learn it, so many years later.

I'm typing it exactly how it appeared in the notebook; [sic]s will be implied.;)

We started in Bingen and rode 30 or so miles a day (I think). This was the first day, I suspect:
----

July 16, 1995

breakfast
loading bikes
riding (Bob & Goethe get left behind but manage to get to the ferry (in Boppard) before we did!)
LUNCH (St. Goar) took no pictures
riding on side of road, causing traffic jams
riding ferry across the Rhine (broke kick stand!)
Marksburg Castle (long, tiring hill, castle cat, (after) ice cream ("Nuki"); display of mannequins in knightwear (300-1500 A.D.; Greek, Roman, German, etc.), tables, torture chamber, wall murals)

mechanical bull, bungee jumping, hotdogs, band ("Dancing Queen")

hard roll sandwiches, golden apples, tea
very clean port-a-potty (had to pay, tho)
lots of ferrys in Rhine

Jugenherberge in (near) Koblenz: hill from hell!; double room (cell), nice shower (PUSH); MALZ beer in caf. w/ CE, Ren., Car. and Bob.
walking around castle(?) relics

I could handle hills (except that last one! Sheesh!) much better than most (except Conni, for one); my bottom got very sore; I rarely got to ride near the front; my calves were sore at the end.

Some people seem friendly, but all I can do is smile. I really wish I could find someone who spoke French so I could speak fluently in a "neutral" language. I sometimes feel kind of helpless b/c I don't understand most of the signs and I can't comprehend any of the dialogue around me. At this point, I am looking forward to going home (I am not looking forward to the meeting in Amsterdam, by the way). I also worry about my bike [a 3-speed rental with pedal brakes and a bell; THAT I remember clearly!].

Observation of the day: eating rituals/trends are very different: not much generous passing, no napkins, no cold (or hot) cereal - just hard rolls-, peaches and chocolate milk(!)

Integration Now

2010-08-22T13:55:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a small town that called itself a city. I suspect it only became a city because it chose to incorporate. It chose to incorporate to avoid desegregating its schools. I did not know of this history until after I’d graduated from high school, having attended two of the city's three public schools. I don't know what I would have done with that knowledge had I made the discovery while I was in school. I think it would have kinda sickened me. And I would have looked with more suspicion at the lack of diversity at my school, especially as numbers of black people went; there was one black boy in my graduating class and three black girls--and this is friggin' Virginia we're talking about, where there are plenty of black people elsewhere in the state.

In my high school’s latest alumni magazine I ran across an ode that put the city schools' segregation history in perspective and reminded me that the powers that be don’t always speak for the citizens (maybe especially not the children and teenagers). It was “kind of an ode” to the class of 1963, by a class rep named Judy Strup. It talked about being part of the baby-boom; about Sputnik and how then the teachers told them to study harder and faster; sports, and girls playing by different rules; about John F. Kennedy saying their country needed them. Then it said:

“In 12th grade
For Marian Costner
We thumbed our noses at the country club.
We held our prom at a motel
That was not segregated
In a room that was not swank
The prom queen and her court
Proceeded anyway
Marched down the kitchen hallway
Toward fairness and right

I think we succeeded.”

What a beautiful gesture that, like so many others like it made around the country in those days, mattered. The lack of diversity at my high school 30 years later seems less important in the face of this new piece of the history I've learned. Disappointing, still, but less important since it seems it wasn't for lack of trying, on the students' part.:P

Elton demystification! (pt. 1)

2010-08-20T16:22:00.000-07:00

Special thanks to my uncle for having an Elton album and clearing up the following lyrics:

"Crocodile Rock": "Had an old gold Chevy and a place of my own" (I was right!)

"Daniel": "Daniel, you're a star in the face of the sky"

Elton John: the '70s, the lyrics, the mystification

2010-08-04T14:28:00.000-07:00

I am the proud owner of “Elton John Greatest Hits 1970-2002.” I grew up on songs from CD2 (‘80s hits like “I’m Still Standing”). My band did a cover of “Rocket Man” for a 4th of July block party. “Rocket Man” is on CD1 (‘70s hits), and I listened to it a lot to practice. I hadn’t listened much to CD1 up to that point but then started to, more and more. On the 4th of July, in honor of Independence Day, I listened to “Philadelphia Freedom” a few times. I’ve been listening to that one, plus “The Bitch is Back,” “Levon,” and “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” and a few others, a lot lately. I love these pop songs (a lot of people do); they are awesome. But one thing I notice about them – almost all of them – is that no matter how clear the song is otherwise, there is always at least one part of the song where I go, “What?”

The 2-CD Greatest Hits has plenty of liner notes and zany picture but no lyrics. I am left, as I have been all these years, to fill in the gaps myself. I know I can look online, but the interwebs do not always have the right answer. For now, I want to explore some enigmatic lyrical highlights from CD1, and then, later, I will track down the “answers.” (And will, of course, blog the correct lyrics for everyone’s edification.:))

#4) “Rocket Man” is a nice, slow, clear song. “She packed my bags last night, pre-flight.”
Of course she did. The whole first verse: roger that.
The chorus starts out very clear: “And I think it’s gonna be a long long time…”
Then, in the second half of the chorus: “Rocket man, ___________________________.”
“Burnin’ down the streets he’s ever known”?
I was enlightened, thanks to my friend Eve’s “Super Hits of the Superstars” ‘70s songbook, which includes “Rocket Man”: it’s “Burnin’ out his fuse up here alone.” And now, honestly, if I listen closely, I can hear just that. Other Elton songs: not so much.

#2) “Levon”: like “Rocket Man,” also nice and slow and clear. Elton does twang it up a lot on this one, though, which makes you have to rely a lot on context. This is one of my favorite Elton songs and still I’m not sure of the last line of the first part of the chorus:
“He was born a pauper to a pawn* [*not positive about this part either, actually]
On a Christmas Day
When The New York Times said God is dead
And the war’s begun”
The next line I have never understood. I have many guesses:
“Have you talked to your heaven son today [?]”
“Haven’t talked to your heaven son today [?]”
“Have you talked to your heavy son today [?]”
“Havin’ tossed to your hazy sun today [?]” (←it really sounds like this one)

#6) “Crocodile Rock” is a fun ol’ song about the good ol’ days. It’s mostly intelligible. Except:
“Had an uncle’s Chevy and a place of my own [?]”
“Had an old gold Chevy and a place of my own [?]” (←I think it’s this one)
“Had an opal Chevy and a place of my own [?]”

“Crocodile Rockin’ is on the shop [?]
When your feet just can’t keep still”
Can't wait to find out what that one is. Sounds like "on the shop", but that would make no sense.

#7) “Daniel”: another slow, pretty smooth one, mostly intelligible, but then:

“Daniel, you’re a star in the fair focaled sky [?]”
What?

#13 & #14 – “The Bitch is Back” and “Philadelphia Freedom”—are the stars of the album, as far as I’m concerned. They are pretty new to me, and I can’t get enough of them. If the whole CD consisted of just these two songs, I would have zero issue with that. They are an awesome rockin’ duo. Still, they both have their “what?” moments.

“The Bitch is Back” I thought I followed but then it fell apart:
“I was justified when I was five
Raisin’ Cain, I spit in your eye
But times have changed
And now the pork is fat [?]
But the thief is gonna catch you when the bitch gets back. [?]”
Or “But the fever’s gonna catch you when the bitch gets back. [?]”

Verse 1 goes on and I get even more lost, but what I think I hear is,
“Indeed on a Friday, that’s alright
Evil lights, they gonna sack the night
The bitch the better to social cues
I get high in the evening when the pots are blue.”

Not sure about, like, any of that.

Verse 2 I think I get, mostly. “Pickin’ brains,” “droppin’ names”: got it.
When it comes down to it, all you really need to know is that the bitch is back, and he is better than you.

“Philadelphia Freedom”: Elton is workin’ his rock-folksy accent, to good effect, and thus not enunciating, but there is a context so the words can be made out easily enough. If I’m correct, the first verse goes:
“I used to be a rollin’ stone, you know
If the cause was right
I’d leave
To find an answer on the road
I used to be a heart beatin’ for someone
But the times have changed
The less I say, the more my work gets done.”

I dig it. I also dig the awesome strings and bass, & co., throughout; this song is a big production. Anyway, then, the chorus, pt I:

“Cuz I live and breathe this Philadelphia Freedom
From the day that I was born I waved the flag
Philadelphia Freedom took me knee-high to a man
Yeah
Gave me peace of mind my daddy never had”
“Took me knee-high to a man"? That’s what it sounds like. As much sense as the first verse makes, the chorus begins the head-scratching. … Does he mean he was taken with Philadelphia Freedom when he was knee-high to a man? Is there an implied slight pause or comma there? Cuz that would make sense, I guess. Next, chorus, pt II:

“Oh, Philadelphia Freedom, shine on me
I love ya
Shine a light
Through the eyes of the ones left behind [?]
Shine the light, shine the light
Shine the light, won’t you shine the light
Philadelphia Freedom
I lo-o-ove ya
Yes I do”

Beautiful. Makes me feel like a patriot and kinda love Philadelphia Freedom, too. (Even though you're British, Elton and Bernie, but whatever.) “Through the eyes of the ones left behind” is what I think I’m hearing and I’ve decided it makes its own kind of sense. Yeah? I don’t know.

Verse 2 is awesome, with a falsetto call-and-response thing happenin’:

“If you choose to, you can live your life alone
Some people choose the city (Some people choose the city)
Some others choose the good ol’ family home (Some others choose the good ol’ family home)
I like livin’ easy without family ties (livin’ easy)”
Dig it. Then:
“Till the whip-poor-will of freedom zapped me, right between the eyes”
The what of what? “The whip-poor-will of freedom”? Is that a thing? And if it’s a metaphor, what does it mean??

Another new favorite is #15, “Someone Saved My Life Tonight.” It is ripe with lyrics, telling a story I can’t really follow. There’s some flowy language about butterflies and whatnot that I understand. And some surly language about it being four o’clock in the morning that I also understand. Some other stuff I’m real unclear on.

“When I think of those east end blights
Muggy nights
Curtains drawn in the little room downstairs
Primadonna, lawd, you really should’ve been there
Sittin’ like a princess, perched in her electric chair
And just one more beer and I don’t hear you anymore
We’ve all gone crazy lately
My friends out there,
Rollin’ round the basement floor”
I think all of that is mostly correct, except for lines 4 and 6 – the “lawd” and the “beer.” I just feel, yet again, that I’m filling in gaps in a bizarre context. That’s part of the fun of listening to Elton, I guess.

And the chorus:

“And someone saved my life tonight
Sugar bear”
I was at a karaoke bar a few weeks ago and the KJ did this song and the lyrics are actually “sugar bear,” according to the karaoke scroll. It sure sounds like “sugar bear,” but I would have guessed “should’ve been.” That’s what I get for depending on context I can barely follow.

“You almost had your hooks in me, didn’t you, dear?
You nearly had me roped and tied
Autobound, hypnotized”
The karaoke scroll said “altar-bound” but I swear it sounds like “auto” (there is no “r”).

Verse 2
“Never realized, the passing hours
Of evening showers
Sinews hangin’ in my darkest dreams
And strangled by a haunted social scene
Just a pornout played
By a dominating queen”

What? I listened to this closely, over and over, and that's what I got.

Later on:

“And I would’ve walked head on
Into the deep end of the river
Clingin’ to your stocks and bonds
Payin’ your HB-in’ manse forever
Comin’ in the mornin’ with a truck to take me home”

A nonsense sandwich: the river bit and the truck make commonplace (if metaphorical) sense and (maybe because of that) the words are discernable, but the middle is mystifying and its words hard to distinguish. But again, that's what I think I hear, even after close inspection.

“So save your strength and round the field you play alone”
Hm? Okay...

p.s. by the last time he says it, it actually sounds like “altar-bound.”

I’m gonna be really curious to find out what “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” is actually saying.

CD1 wraps up with “Island Girl” (#16) and “Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word” (#17).

I’m pretty sure “Island Girl” involves prostitution—
“Turnin’ tricks for the dudes in the bay, say L.A.”—
even though I’m not sure about the last half of that line.

I’m pretty sure the whole song offends me and I can only understand parts of it. A nice sentiment in the refrain, though, if I understand it correctly (which I probably don’t):
“He wants to take you from the wrecking ball
He wants to save you but the cause is lost”

“Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word”: I was not previously familiar with this one but gave it a listen and immediately liked it. A couple friends my age sang along when I played it around them recently, so it’s not as obscure as I thought. It’s also a slower one, and Elton is being emotive, which makes him more enunciative. A good thing for this one.
So ends disc 1 of Elton’s Greatest Hits, with gratifying clarity; disc 2 is another story.

Maybe sometimes foreign is better?

2010-07-25T23:15:00.001-07:00

A lot of call centers for U.S. companies are in India. (We know this.) I had not experienced electronic customer service from (I suspect*) India until today. I had an issue with a late fee and sent AmEx customer service an e-mail. It read:

"Customer (s_____@yahoo.com) 07/24/2010 07:55 PM
Hello. I just got my July 2010 statement via e-mail; I am signed up for electronic delivery only. I saw that there was a $39 late fee assessed on July 16th. I looked and my banking activity showed that I had not made any payments to you since June 9 (which was for the May 2010 billing statement). I am always very much on top of paying my American Express bill, and I flag the statement e-mails when they come in and make a note of the due date, so I am not sure what happened. I know there was an online charge I made June 9th (for about $60) that I don't remember ever seeing on a statement, so that tells me that I never saw the June 2010 billing statement. If you sent it, I never got it. Could you please confirm that you sent it?
Thank you,
S_____ E______"

When I saw tonight that they had replied, I steeled myself, thinking that it could go either way: either they'd be apologetic or they'd say it wasn't their problem (and I was beginning to anticipate the latter). Or they'd offer me some sort of deal/compromise, acknowledging a mutual fault. Here's what I got:

"Response (Rahul Mishra) 07/24/2010 08:27 PM
Dear S____ E______,

Thank you for writing in.

I have checked your account and see that we did send you June 2010 statement notification on 06/21/10.

Since you did not receive this notification, I personally contacted our Online Services Team to check the issue. My colleague there told me that you may not receive our emails due to a number of technical problems, such as your mailbox being full or a server problem that occurred while interfacing with your Internet Service Provider.

I would request you to add following email addresses in your contacts or personal address book to ensure you receive all of your important notifications from American Express:

americanexpress@axp.americanexpress.com
americanexpress@email.americanexpress.com
americanexpress@email2.americanexpress.com

Also, it's true that you have maintained an excellent account history with us.

I realize that you could not make your payments in time due to non receipt of this notifications, therefore, I have processed following maintenance on your account:

1- Issued a credit for the late fee ($39.00) levied on your account.

2- Removed lateness remark on your account.

3- Changed your account status from 30 days past due to current.

4- Issued a credit of $7.04 for the finance charge levied on your account.

You'll see these changes on an upcoming statement.

It is my sincere hope that I have been able to address your inquiry to your satisfaction.

We here in American Express value your long association with us and will always consider it a privilege to be of service. If there is any other way we may be of assistance, please contact us.
Sincerely, Rahul Mishra Email Servicing Team American Express Interactive Services"

This was more than I could've (or would've) asked for. I was mentally preparing for how I'd take a "too bad" e-mail from them, thinking of a huffy, 'I'll-take-my-business-elsewhere' final word, and instead I wanna write Rahul Mishra a note of my thanks and esteem. Maybe an American rep would have done the same thing but not (remotely--no pun intended!) in such an elegant way. My opinion is subjective because of the outcome in my favor, of course, but I can't imagine this situation being handled more beautifully.

*because of the representative's name, the general trend of outsourcing, and the (distinctly not-American) politeness, formality and deference.

Free Mustard!

2010-07-23T08:44:00.000-07:00

Spotted:
Wednesday, July 21, ~ 9:00 pm
NE Hancock & 15th #8 bus bench

Four sheets of notebook paper with "FREE!" [underlined, like, six times] written on the top sheet, upon which was sitting a majestic, 30-oz plastic bottle of French's Classic Yellow mustard with a Stay Clean cap. A young 20-something guy walking with his girlfriend passed by and she commented on it. Then they turned back and he took a picture of it with his phone. (Exactly what I would've done if I had the technology, in lieu of writing about it!) I liked knowing that I wasn't the only one who thought this was a noteworthy sight.

As I reached my apartment, I looked back and could still see the mustard, sitting there, looking almost lonely. I wonder where that mustard is now...

I think Jimi would laugh

2010-07-14T22:51:00.000-07:00

Jimi Hendrix was from Seattle, right? Is Seattle as white as Portland? (Not quite, right? Anyway)

There was some misunderstanding tonight at Name That Tune about the title of a Jimi Hendrix song. To some young, Caucasian Portlanders, "Chile" means a South American country or a vegetable used in a lot of Mexican cooking. It never occurred to me until tonight that they would not even consider that "chile" would be a way to spell the (Southern, black) dialectical pronunciation of "child." The MC kept saying "Voodoo Chile," pronouncing it like "chili." We went back and forth with her a few times and, due to the fact that we were in a noisy bar, had a failure to communicate; she kept thinking we were saying "child," and she was like, "no, but it's spelled 'c-h-i-l-E.'" We finally got through and she had an "Ahh" moment and, I think, truly learned something. I know I did: Portland is even whiter than I thought, and that's pretty white.:)

Colonel Clay Mosby

2010-07-08T22:01:00.000-07:00

I have recently "discovered" "Lonesome Dove: the Series." (Due to a misunderstanding when I was trying to reserve the miniseries, which I have yet to see but will.) I have also "discovered" a 31-year-old, long-haired, bearded Eric McCormack ("Will," from the popular "Will & Grace.") In "Lonesome Dove," he plays a former Confederate colonel -- a Mr. Clay Mosby -- who is both a Southern gentleman and not racist. (I was all prepared to feel conflicted about drooling over him but then didn't have to.) Mr. Mosby is from Virginia, presumably from the Tidewater region, based on his accent (a valiant if imperfect effort on the Canadian's part, not that I care a lick). Mosby is a complicated man: he wears black, rides a black horse, and has a steely gaze like a villain, yet he has a code and a conscience. Also, he's smokin' hot. (Did I say that already?) If you like Eric McCormack and/or hot, intense guys with beards and/or western period shows, check into "Lonesome Dove," the series. I had no idea it had ever existed and now am finding myself hopelessly addicted.

For just a taste of the beauty of EMack as Mosby:
http://www.marksobel.com/lonesome.htm

Noble Ant

2010-06-09T14:01:00.000-07:00

June 2, 2010

I just saw a live ant carrying a dead ant. The very first thing I saw was a tiny seething clump that I soon realized was the living ant trying to grab onto and lift the dead ant. He finally got a firm grip on the head of the dead ant and carried him in front of his face at about a 45-degree angle. I watched him struggle and meander, looking in vain for an escape route. I knew he wouldn’t be able to climb the hallway carpet, to which he was heading, while carrying his compatriot, but I watched him continue to try. There was formidable carpeting in the other possible direction, too. Moved by its valiant gesture and noble effort, I decided to try to help the ant. I got a piece of paper and coaxed him on, but no sooner had he climbed aboard than his friend fell out of his grasp. I felt terrible! I let him back down onto the bathroom floor where I’d found him, and put his friend back down, too, right near him, but he ran around, not seeming to see him. I decided the best move then was to move both of them, separately, outdoors. I had recently ceased the practice of transferring these bathroom ants outside (long story), but I had to make an exception for this admirable creature, trying to take his brother… wherever ants take their dead. So I got them separate pieces of paper and transported the live one, and then the dead one, outside, putting them in the same spot, or as close to it as I could manage. When I came out with the dead one, the live one was already out of sight, but I hoped that he, or one of his colony, would find the dead one and do whatever ant society dictated needed to be done. I was hoping, in the end, to be a facilitator and not have messed everything up by interfering. I meant well.:P

Karaoke research job?

2010-05-31T12:21:00.000-07:00

Do you karaoke? At a bar, perhaps? I had not thought much about the companies that produce the karaoke software, or even thought of it as software, until I sang some karaoke at a friend's house last night. He has a professional system at home, based from his laptop; thus (finally), I made the software connection. The heavily animated title card that came up at the end of each song bore the name "Sweet Georgia Brown," and it occurred to me that that's the same title card I see in the bar where I usually do karaoke, and probably other places, too. From the very cursory search I did, it seems like Sweet Georgia Brown is really popular software. And I noticed the same issue at my friend's house as at the bars: blatantly incorrect lyrics.

I don't know where they're based, but I wonder if it's North America. And/or a place where they don't have the internet. I sang "Tears of a Clown" last night and there was the lyric, "Just like Polly Archer did, I have to keep my sadness hid." Okay: I am a directions-follower, usually, when it comes to karaoke, but even I had to say 'hold up' when I saw "Polly Archer." It's Pagliacci, people. The clown from the opera. So, very relevant to a song called "Tears of a Clown." Later, I was singing "Super Freak," and there was the lyric, "She's not a crowd to her, she says." I was tipsy enough at that point that I was clinging a little more to what the screen said, so I sang the wrong lyric anyway, even though it's "Three's not a crowd."

Sweet Georgia Brown gets a lot right, and I know they have a TON of songs, and quality suffers for quantity sometimes, but they clearly do not even question the logic of the lyrics they clearly misheard and then put onto their software. I would like to help them with this. Between all the songs I already know and the many songs I could easily look up for them, I could be their lyrics-checker. I would love to be their lyrics-checker. I would love to help not confuse thousands of unsuspecting karaoke singers in bars and homes everywhere. It might be the perfect job for me. Hmmm...

"Dec88:Debate"

2010-05-25T23:12:00.000-07:00

So was labeled the cassette tape I have kept all these years and finally listened to yesterday. It's an assignment my best friend and I did for Social Studies in sixth grade. It falls under the category of "priceless."

Harvard men grow beards, then bounce back

2010-05-02T20:17:00.000-07:00

I have a theory, based on cursory looks at Conan O'Brien in the news recently, and Al Gore, circa 2001:
After facing huge, public, controversial devastation/disappointment, men who went to Harvard get depressed, grow beards, and then launch comebacks. It's just a theory, but, I mean, that's two for two on my radar...

Read. Seriously.

2010-04-26T23:14:00.001-07:00

I'm reading Tom Wolfe's "The Right Stuff." At least I will be until tomorrow, when I have to return it. Three weeks goes by too fast... And/or I'm not as serious a reader as I once was.

Who am I kidding?: I'm definitely not as serious a reader as I once was. But I'm not used to that catching up with me(!). I'm used to reading more obscure books that no one else seems to want to read, that I can renew over and over (for six months). I have become an incredibly intermittent reader. I'm not slow while reading but I read infrequently. At least, too infrequently for the library system. And this particular library system has only one copy of "The Right Stuff" (what?!) and other people are waiting for it, so I must return it. I hate that I have to return a book I'm only halfway done reading. I tried to think of one, but there's no way around it. (Can't/won't pay overdue fines and they won't let me renew it.)

It is not easy for me to find books that agree with me and this one does. Parting with it prematurely sucks and is a learning lesson to me: read more. More often, more seriously, with intention.

Return of Party Pail

2010-04-26T22:59:00.000-07:00

It's back.

There was a complete fridge and freezer clean-out last Friday, and this morning there was a brand new, CF Party Pail in the freezer, sitting there like a bad dream...

Done with "Twilight"

2010-04-18T11:52:00.000-07:00

I finished reading it yesterday. The writing fluxuated and got semi-good at times but then always quickly resolved back into obsessive compulsive detail and over-written dialogue. The big plot twist came out of nowhere and the plot fell apart when Meyer attempted to up the stakes. The denouement was unnecessarily drawn out and almost unbearable to read. The last twenty pages were torture.

I had hoped, up until the end, that things would get good when the action kicked in. I thought there might be some battle of werewolves v. vampires, which was foreshadowed and then went nowhere (saved for later in the series, I guess). No groundwork whatsoever was laid for the conflict that did arise, making it seem implausible and unearned and confusing. The saddest thing to me was that Stephenie Meyer thanked her editor in the acknowledgments for "her help in making 'Twilight' better than it started out." This supports my theory that the original manuscript was too long and too big a wreck for a less-than-brilliant editor to do much more than make cosmetic changes, lest the whole thing unravel and have to be rewritten. So sad that it wasn't completely rewritten. Much as I have criticized the book, there's a decent story in there; it's just that Stephenie Meyer doesn't know how to properly tell it. She has managed to make a story about vampires dull, irritating and wholly unscary. I'd say that's quite a feat, but it's not: anyone could do it. But not everyone would get it published.

'80s homoeroticism

2010-04-11T20:57:00.000-07:00

Is it weird that I find this kinda hot (despite the ridiculous dance moves)?

I heard a rumor once that these two got together. Whether it was (allegedly) before or after this video, I don't know. But now I wonder...

Weekend Firsts and Almosts

2010-04-11T19:07:00.000-07:00

Weekend Firsts! (well, "First," cuz there's just one that I can think of):
1) Roller skating backwards! Had tried a few times as a kid and never managed it. Got a helpful hint from one of the skating refs at Oaks Park, who saw me trying, and not succeeding, during the Beginners Backward Skate: angle the front of your skates toward each other and then take baby steps. Totally worked. Too well, maybe, which leads me to Weekend Almost #1:

Weekend Almosts:
1) Almost falling while roller skating backwards. You can get up more momentum than you might think, taking baby steps on wheels. I started to fall both forwards and backwards, seemingly at the same time.

2) Getting hit by a car. Crossing Sandy Blvd, about an hour ago. Totally had the right of way, and I did not step off the curb till I saw that walk signal. I took one step into the crosswalk and the next moment, a car is coming right at me from the left. The startled driver slammed on the brakes, audibly. I looked at her briefly, then just kept walking, thanking my lucky stars. And feeing glad that I had put on clean underwear this morning.

Selling the Car

2010-04-07T22:29:00.000-07:00

Giving up my car is like a divorce yet also like giving someone up for adoption. A double heartbreak, basically. Although I love it, and we were thick as thieves those first seven years, my lifestyle has changed in the last three, and I avoid driving it. We get along, but we're more distant. We want different things. At the same time, if I had the money, I'd keep it till it died and there was no reviving it; if I had the resources, I'd pour them all into this car, doing whatever I could for it, I love it so much. But I don't have the resources and can't take care of it like it deserves.

So, my car is moving back to Southern California, where we spent our first seven years together, and where, deep down, I think the car would rather be. And the person who is adopting it will use it much more than I have these last three years and, once she lands a job, will be able to get it all the regular servicing it needs. And even if she doesn't have the resources herself, she has lots of family around who could help close any gaps.

Even though I do feel like I'm doing the right thing, it is tearing my heart out. I love this car. I've had it my entire adult life. It's accompanied me through some really interesting times. It's always been so steadily _there_. As it's aged, I've grown accustomed to its idiosyncracies; I now find them downright endearing. I've treated it well and it has treated me well; there's no fault on either side, just circumstance. It's very hard to let it go, no matter how much sense it makes.

'If You Have to Ask, You Can't Afford It' Coffee

2010-04-07T21:52:00.000-07:00

Today I encountered the Louis Vuitton of coffee: Barista on Alberta. Whereas LV has the bags on their own little shelves, sans price, Barista has stacks of plates and mugs, and bags of coffee and coffee receptacles, but no menu and no prices. There is zero signage, telling you nothing.

I was there for a meeting; I was only a little hungry/thirsty and wanted to fit in. I went up to the counter, already feeling awkward. I don't drink coffee or espresso and have no go-to beverages that would have made things easier in a place with no menu, so how would this conversation go? I asked the somewhat friendly, yet serious, barista something like, "So... what do you have?" She informatively and patiently broke it down for me and I thought, "Why isn't this written down?!" (Note: the place is new, but get a dry erase board or something in the meantime, people.) We landed on a mocha (the only hot coffee drink I do) and I found out they have two types, both of which sounded lovely. One involved a morsel of chocolate melted into the espresso. I had to come out and ask, feeling like a cheapskate coffee phoney, "And what are the prices...?" $4.00 for one and $4.50 for the other; both of them 8 oz. My budget for this outing was $3, so I forgot about the mocha and went for two Two Tarts chocolate chip cookies, which were $0.75 each and about an inch and a half in diameter. I was starting to really not like this place.

I sat down and saw there was a newspaper on a long wooden scroll at my table. I might've thought this was delightfully ancient-fashioned (beyond old-fashioned) and novel if I hadn't been so put-off already.

At the end of my meeting, I looked around for a bin to bus my plate. I saw none. Nor, from looking around, was I able to pick up any clue as to what to do with my plate. For a full 15 seconds, I tried to meet the eye of any of the four or five 20-something baristas and not one of them looked my way. So, I used my paper napkin to wipe off the crumbs from my plate and put the plate right back on the table where I'd been sitting. I didn't feel good about this, but I was left little choice. My annoyance increased.

Then I used the facilities. There was no mirror on the wall (pretty standard but no biggie), nor were there any toilet seat covers (whatever), but there was also no toilet paper holder, and the roll of toilet paper was sitting in a rectangular wooden box atop the toilet tank. Under it, in said box, were folded paper towels. So, after you've washed up, you have to use your wet hands to move the toilet paper to get to the paper towels. Lame. Design fail.

On my way out, I noticed some upscale hipsters (the target demo for this b*llsh*t place) having an obnoxious conversation in line, putting the icing on my annoyance cake. This was a clear case of a place being perfectly suited for some people and not for others. And I'm okay with that. Sometimes clarity like that is nice. Like, I know that I will not be visiting this place again, ever, meeting or no.

Smash Putt!

2010-03-30T12:20:00.000-07:00

This was originally written as a prospective article for Neighborhood Notes and I will cop right now to any unevenness of tone or other weak points, but I want to post it sooner rather than later since Smash Putt ends this weekend!;P

I went to Smash Putt (http://www.smashputt.com) last Saturday night, last-minute, putt-putting into the night in what seemed to be an abandoned early 20th century department store. (I still don’t know what that is/was at 1719 W. Burnside. Not knowing kinda adds to the dreamlike quality of the experience, so I’m cool with that.)

I believe there were 12 holes(?), and at each was placed an unfinished wood, podium-like stand, on which were found informative and humorous sheets that identified and described the hole, including what was special about it and any particular safety issues. There was a shelf built onto each stand, handy for placing tiny pencils, score cards, and cocktail or beer cups.

It was an easy-going crowd. People were drinking but things stayed friendly. And no one got too sloppy, which was good considering the spring-loaded obstacles and power tools involved in some of the holes.

“You need boy strength for this,” commented one of my fellow putters. He was kidding, as he, hilariously, followed up his statement with, “…Sexist commeent.” What was needed in these holes, actually, was finesse, timing and luck.

We played the holes out of order because, frankly, there were some mixed signals and no guidance, plus the place was pretty dark and it would have been hard to find and read all the postings to figure out the correct order. This did not seem like a priority for anyone else, either.

#5 Roulette Française – Par 3
Arc de Triomph with plastic croissant in front; Arc not much larger than croissant. While one person putts, another person climbs aboard a moped, complete with rear basket containing a plastic baguette. The moped, when you sit on it just right, makes the disk on which the Arc sits rotate. The putter tries to get his or her ball through or around the Arc. Just to be fun, or annoying, the person aboard the moped can make use of the horn, which also makes the headlight flash. Not in the direction of the putter, at least.

#7 Wrong Hole – Par 5
Looks deceptively easy. Two L shapes facing each other, one upside down. The holes are at the top ends of the Ls. Or are they? There’s a button that another player presses during play to cause the holes to open or close, at will, to make it easier or harder for the putter.

#4 Foosball – Par 4
Though it’s #4, this is the first hole as you enter Smash Putt. A wall of used shooting range targets greets you. I don’t think this has anything to do with Foosball, which is, basically, foosball, only not on a level table but an uphill ramp. And you don’t control the plastic guys: they move back and forth automatically on their familiar metal bar, thwarting you (that part is familiar, too). There’s a top “goal” box, but you can also score by ending up in various other holes in the astro turf.

#10 Log Jammin’ – Par 5
Judging by the large sign at the end of the hole, this is an arcade game I missed in the ‘80s. In any case, this one features stationary lotuses and stuffed aquatic animals atop logs that glide, adorably, back and forth across the turf. You have to putt past them, and not pet them (though it’s tempting).

#8 Infinity – Par ?
You decide when this one is over. It includes a “shortcut” but that really does nothing to hasten anything, since you could go around and around that figure 8 forever.

#3 K-Hole – Par 3
The only upstairs hole, this one was in the DJ’s loft, into which only nine people could be permitted at once. This hole includes a cordless mic rotating on a turf-covered turn table. And, for ambiance, a disco ball in the corner. Awesome.

#1 Moving Terrain – Par 3
A photo of a guy sporting horn-rimmed glasses and a crewcut informs you, “One Stroke Penalty!” The podium post warns you not once but twice to “Watch yer shins!” Also, “Do not walk on dynamic elements.” The “dynamic elements” are turf-covered, spring-loaded ramps and plateaus that pop up unexpectedly (and make a loud noise).

#11 Deconstruction Zone – Par 2
The backdrop of this hole is a window display (actually part of the building) set up like a living room, complete with a vacuum cleaner, a TV, chairs, houseplants, and framed paintings on the wall. And, Portland-style, four or five tiny plastic horses. And, while your friend putts, the rest of the group can play Simon (the electronic Milton Bradley game) on the floor. As for the hole itself, it’s basically sending the ball to its death. There’s a steep incline to a hole in a little house. Once inside the house, your ball drops into a coop and falls into the clutches of a drill, which lowers slowly onto your ball (like in a horror movie) and defaces it, gouging out a hole about a quarter inch deep and a quarter inch wide. The drill is plastic and it and the ball create a kind of sickening smell around Deconstruction Zone and its environs. After the drill finishes its dirty work, your ball is kicked out of the coop and into a basket of similarly-fated balls. (This made me kinda sad.) The description of #11 says,

“SPECIAL RULES
• Here is where the description of a rule of play on this hole will go.
• There is no way out of it – we’re going to SMASH YOUR BALL!”

This would seem to be the end of the line, which is why people must leave their balls in the basket, but there is a hole #12. Curious.

#12 Ball Maze – Par 1
No putting required for the first part, in which you insert your ball into the top of a large, circular, wooden maze with plexiglass (or similar) on either side, but with circular openings in key places. I read too late that you can guide the wheel as it goes, to coax your ball through the maze; I thought you just had to put it in and spin and let what happened happen. All this gets you is watching your ball fall into a vicious cycle in the same little corner of the maze. Anyway, once your ball makes its way out of one of the maze holes, you putt it somewhere. I think. I honestly don’t remember if I did; it was 1 a.m. and I’d had a drink or two. Par 1 tells me that you just put the ball in and catch it when it comes out, taking note of whatever scorage point hole it came out of. And if you’re playing the holes in proper numerical order, you’d have a ball with a hole in it, and I’d think putting would be harder and/or not recommended. Anyway.

#9 Tool Run – Par 2
“SPECIAL RULES
• Putt your ball into the mayhem and pray it makes it to the other side.”

Not one but three saws (a table saw, a router and another one that neither I nor my friend could identify) threaten to tear up your ball. You will hear their chilling buzz, whether your ball makes it or not.

I believe there were one or two more holes in the basement, where a delightful bartender named Gabriel gave my friend a “baby bottle”: a wine bottle stuffed into a headless cloth doll body.

Also, delightful: the fog machine. It gave the building the ambiance of a warehouse party (not that I’ve ever been to one). And the loudspeaker used by guy at front desk, to communicate more effectively (amid the music and other noise) with those coming and going, including me and my friend: “I remember you, with the jacket, and you with the basket.” (I’d found a free basket on a curb earlier that night and it became my evening accessory.) Just after I’d left, from across the street, I saw one of the other guys in charge (whom I had earlier seen operating the fog machine -- “Nice basket,” he had said) addressing people on the sidewalk through the loudspeaker.

The oddball wit and charm of Smash Putt extended into the two onsite bathrooms, where the wooden walls were adorned with blue chalk graffiti, only one of which was:

“You love Smash Putt
(so do I)”

Smash Putt runs for just one more weekend in Portland: April 2nd, 3rd and 4th. I recommend it highly.

Cookie Fast

2010-03-21T11:11:00.000-07:00

Who would have thought that giving up cookies for Lent would make me GAIN weight?

With cookies off the table, I've found myself turning to candy bars and cake and donuts. I cut out the candy bars because they were disappearing way too quickly (and negatively influencing the rest of my eating habits). Cake is kind of expensive, and I've been avoiding cheapo packaged, processed stuff. I turned to donuts. The other week I bought three donuts from the Safeway bakery. They were on sale. They were not bad. And I felt okay about it because it took me two days to eat all of them (though I did eat most of each of them the first night).

Last Wednesday was St. Patrick's Day and someone at work brought in a Costco flat of jumbo cupcakes, frosted white and green. People coyly cut them into quarters. I ate many quarters, especially when it became clear, by Thursday afternoon, that no one else was going to do it. Friday there was a birthday at work and more cupcakes.

Yesterday, since I had no baked goods at home, I bought more donuts. Franz donuts that come six to a box (this is already not a good thing). But they're locally made, and that pushed my 'buy local' button, and they were on sale. I was only going to buy one but could not make the call between plain glazed and chocolate, so I bought both. I knew deep down that this was not wise, but I did it anyway, thinking naively that I'd eat them in moderation. I didn't: I ate six of them--three of each--in four hours. I was horrified and immediately froze the rest.

I feel like I'm spinning out of control and realizing that cookies, apparently, were the only things keeping me on an even keel. I feel like a substance abuser. It's like I was on a mild drug and ended up on the hard stuff. I can't wait till Easter.

Getting more specific about what is wrong with "Twilight"

2010-03-14T20:39:00.000-07:00

I have read through chapter 6 now. Curiosity is propelling me. I find it less offensive but still largely boring. The near car accident scene was entertaining, as it was the first bit of actual -- and overdue -- action.

Speaking of overdue, the word "vampire" does not appear until page 124. That indicates to me, instantly, that this book could have been 100 pages shorter. Twenty-four pages: girl moves to a new town, falls for pale guy; pale guy turns out to be a vampire; the rest of the book contains the ensuing drama and action. The details of Bella's days at school and thoughts about the weather are unnecessary. There is never any payoff and they are boring.

The vast majority of the novel is written like a journal, plodding through useless detail after useless detail of Bella's existence. When something big happens, like the reveal that Edward is a vampire, Meyers doesn't seem to know how to jump out of journal mode and effect the appropriate tone to capture how new and impactful this information is to Bella, or, more importantly, to the reader. It is the second interesting thing that has occurred so far but it gets the journal-entry treatment. Immediately following the revelation is a new chapter, entitled "Nightmare." Instead of continuing the previous chapter's tone of mild shock or establishing a new tone of, like, fear or unease (to go with "Nightmare" maybe?), this chapter starts with three establishing paragraphs that talk about Bella's dad's interest in basketball and, essentially, how a CD player works. Then Bella falls asleep, has a nightmare that lasts one page, wakes up, takes a shower, and looks up "vampire" on her "favorite search engine."

Meyers either doesn't know or doesn't care that her toneless description is tedious and desperately needs variation. Her writing shows an amazing lack of sophistication. As my friend Sydney said, "It's like a high school junior got really enthusiastic, and wrote a whole book." And America ate it up.

As I was writing this I saw a trailer for the "New Moon" DVD. Was that a lion I saw? Please tell me it eats everyone.

Spittastic

2010-03-06T16:46:00.000-08:00

Los Angeles has a litter problem that I found very troubling when I lived there. I moved to Portland and immediately appreciated the comparatively clean streets. Then I started noticing something else about the streets, and the sidewalks, and the MAX stops: spit.

There is a lot of spit underfoot in Portland. Why? Who is doing all this spitting? I swear this is the spitting-est city I’ve ever lived in, or even visited.

Yesterday afternoon I started taking note of where and when I saw spittle on the streets. Here is my log:

March 5, 2010
3:15 pm: SW 10th and Yamhill. Sidewalk, on 10th, near parking garage entrance/exit. A little brown lugie with bubbles. (My stomach turns whenever I write “bubbles” in reference to spit; sorry if yours does, too, but I’m trying to be accurate.)

3:40 pm: Holladay Park, east side, northbound walkway. A wide, watery spittle spot.

3:43 pm: sidewalk by Lloyd Center mall/movie theater parking lot, on Multnomah. Little (1 ½ inches) but white, with bubbles. (I’m dry heaving.)

various spit (it was dark so I couldn’t always see much detail, and, frankly, I’ll let you use your imagination, but I'll just say that the size and makeup of the spittle spots varied):

5:55 pm: NE Broadway and 15th.

9:20 pm: SW 6th and Broadway overpass.

9:30 pm: crosswalk of SW 6th and Jefferson.

9:33 pm: Saw not spit but an act of spitting. SW 6th. Teenaged, skater-looking, boy spitting on sidewalk upon exiting McDonald’s.

9:33 pm: 30 feet past McDonald’s, more spit on sidewalk in between Superdog and Subway. There would seem to be a correlation between fast food and spitting…

9:36 pm: SW 6th and Taylor crosswalk, by curb.

9:37 pm: SW 6th, in front of Cellini Fine Gifts.

9:38 pm: SW 6th and Yamhill. Big, gross spittle spot at NW corner, by lamppost and newspaper kiosks.

9:38 pm: Pioneer Square eastbound MAX stop. One to three, here and there.

9:43 pm: ON the MAX, a teenaged freestyle biker, leaning forward from a sitting position, spit out the door when it opened. He was on the opposite side of the train from the open door, and his salival projectile made an arc as it traveled nine feet or so, safely off the train. Gross but kind of impressive.

March 6, 2010
1:20 am: Yamhill MAX stop. 10 or more. The Yamhill and the Lloyd Center MAX stops always have a lot of spit.

1:55 am: Burnside Bridge. Several.

2:00 am: NE MLK Blvd. and Wasco/Multnomah/Clackamas. Many.

From this 11-hour study, I found crosswalks and MAX stops, especially, seem to attract spit. I saw two casual spitters last night, but yesterday morning I saw a bicyclist on the sidewalk spit in the general direction of some bushes. All three people I witnessed spitting yesterday where young men. Most anyone I can remember seeing spitting in Portland has been male. There are girl spitters, too, though.

“When I ride my bike over the Hawthorne Bridge, my eyes water; I have to spit; I feel like my face is exploding. My nose runs. It’s like a waterfall, out of my face. I only spit out of necessity, especially when doing any sort of physical activity,” says Betty B. Right. I have, on occasion, spit while bicycle riding, too, always straight down, onto the street. That’s what yesterday morning’s kinda hipster-looking bicyclist dude was doing, into the bushes. What about McDonald’s spitter and 9-foot-off-the-MAX spitter?

“If I’m just walking down the street, I never spit. For men, I think it’s different. It’s to show their manliness, maybe? Or a weird way of marking their territory. I’ve seen street kids do it, as a way of showing disrespect or a challenge. I’ve seen cyclists do that, too, spitting on cars.” There is some communication in some of this spit, then; some of it aggressive.

When I first noticed all the spitting, my first thought was that it was some kind of holdover from the pioneer and/or cowboy culture of the west. Betty is from the Midwest. “In the west, I feel it’s laidback and it’s more acceptable [to spit]. I would never spit in Chicago. It’s more about appearances there.”

Los Angeles is about appearances, too -- famously so. So they don’t spit much out on the street, even in the not-so-nice neighborhoods. They’re part of the west, too, though, so why the difference?

“Is it boredom?” wondered Betty. The spit at the MAX stops could support that. “People kinda just let it all hang out here; it’s kinda weird,” says Betty. I think that’s it. It could explain all the spit I saw last night. That is Portland: hung loose and weird. And speckled with spit.

Spring cleaning finds, Part 4: credit union love

2010-02-17T20:33:00.001-08:00

On the back of my credit union receipt, back in the summer, when I was a new member:

"I am enchanted by all things OnPoint.
(check depositing, in-office experience -- friendliness of tellers and feeling of community - people just chatting away about life."

(I did not close my own parenthesis. Shame.)

Spring cleaning finds, Part 3: Patent Excerpt

2010-02-17T20:26:00.000-08:00

I proofread science patents. They are classified, so I can't discuss them, but I can never remember what I've read after I've read it, so that's never an issue. I wish I could remember a sentence or two, though, and not just buzz words (like "PCR" and "bovine serum albumin"), just to give people a sense of the kind of stuff I read so many hours a week. There is some general, non-confidential language that comes up a lot, in those patents that have a section where they define terms. I jotted this down a while back and found it today:

"Antibody. Serum protein formed in response to immunization. An immunoglobin molecule that has an amino acid sequence by virtue of which it interacts with the antigen that induced its synthesis or with related antigens."

That's one of the better-written, easier sentences I've gotten.

Spring cleaning finds, Part 2: Temping

2010-02-17T20:03:00.000-08:00

A scrap of brown packing paper from my temp job in the Nordstrom mail room two+ years ago:

"12/10
didn't check bar code on vest to Jackie Aguado

COGs
popcorn
hazmats
DTC"

I wish I remembered what COGs were; I think they came up a lot at that job. ...Customer's own something, I think. Goods? Popcorn was the starchy, foamy pellets we used to fill some, non-clothing, boxes. Hazmats were perfumes and colognes and some skin care products. DTC... I have no idea.

On the back of the same scrap:

"10:45
Stacy Stacey (McLean, VA)
Patricia Hurst (Portland, OR)
Cheryle Orefice (Battleground, WA)
Ellen Dickson (Glenview, IL)"

The first three I know I thought were funny (sorry), but the last one I guess I only noted because I had a friend with that last name and it seems so rarely spelled that way.

And, lastly, brown paper scrap number 2:

"reg. #
6858
beauty hotline"

I think I just liked the idea of a beauty hotline (and it was talked about a lot).

This is an insert from one of my temp agency paychecks:

"APPLEONE ASSOCIATE LOTTERY

Starting March 3, 2008, we are introducing a Lottery to show our appreciation for putting your best foot forward. We look forward to hearing from you weekly to secure your chance to win. A name will be drawn each Friday for the previous workweek and that associate will be awarded a $10 gift card to Starbucks!

Thank you for the outstanding work and keep it up!

Guidelines:
-You must be on time everyday and complete all your scheduled hours
-Your timecard must be submitted by 10am on Monday
-E-mail your AppleOne Account Executive to let them know you qualify"

There's some graphic art on the insert, of a walking stack of money with a top hat and a little wand that emits stars. Under the last typed line, someone wrote, clearly with a Sharpie, "*You must work 40 HOURS PER WEEK!!"

They were really big on motivating a sort of indifferent, irresponsible, oddball workforce and it just really showed here. I won that lottery, just before I stopped temping.

Spring cleaning finds, Part 1: State Fair Eats

2010-02-17T18:53:00.000-08:00

I have been doing some spring cleaning today and realizing what an unrepentant pack rat I am. I keep little bits of paper, programs, all sorts of cards and letters, printed-out e-mails and IMs, old bills and insurance statements, ticket stubs, and directions to people's homes (those do come in handy). Today I stumbled across a scrap of paper with a note I took at the LA County Fair, in September 2006.

"2:00 pm - Millie's Restaurant & Bakery Pie Eating Contest -- Clock Tower Plaza"

I had discovered "Prairie Home Companion" earlier that year and Garrison Keillor had gotten me psyched up for a fair, with his show broadcast from the Minnesota State Fair. I had gone to the LA County Fair, in part, to witness a pie eating contest. I had never seen a real, live one and, for some reason, very much wanted to.

My memory is fuzzy, but I remember at least two heats: one for adults and one for kids. On the back of my fair admission stub I had written a quote I overheard from the 2nd place winner of the kids' heat: "That was the funniest contest I ever did."
It made me smile, then and now.

I also found, written on the back of a Lutheran church service program, a list of Minnesota State Fair foods mentioned by Garrison in 2008, some of which I wanted to try:
"Minnesota State Fair food ('08) [<--underlined]
chocolate covered bacon (in a Dixie cup)
peanut butter hotdog
wall-eye fries (deep-fried wall-eye)
macaroni & cheese on a stick
pineapple spam burger
deep-fried Twinkies
fried cheese curds"

I also noted - maybe noticing for the first time - Garrison's phonetic pronunciation of "cold" and "old":
"cold --> cowuld
old-->owuld"

The church program is dated August 31, 2008. I am pretty sure I jotted the list on the back, listening to "PHC" on my way back from church. I had gone to the Oregon State Fair the previous Wednesday, to see Mr. Keillor and co., and I remember being disappointed by the lack of envelope-pushing foods. No Twinkies, no macaroni & cheese, and certainly no cheese curds. There was funnel cake, frozen cheesecake on a stick (what's special about that?) and the Fry Brick (a french-fried brick o' grease). This confirms that I need to one day go to the MN State Fair. The deep-fried Twinkies still call to me...

Facebook friends

2010-02-17T12:20:00.000-08:00

Recent facebook exchange between two people in my general network:

'Omg you’re awesome!'
'No, YOU’re awesome! I can’t believe we never hung out before!'

Gag me. Person #1 is a facebook “friend” of mine. She friended me last year. We went to elementary through high school together and haven’t had a conversation since middle school. Person #2 was my arch enemy in middle school and did not go to my high school. I noticed that my “friend” has 455 friends, prompting me to offer this analysis of what your facebook friend count says about you. (These are all subject to change, of course, and, yes, they are value judgments.)

50-60 – for someone not new to facebook, this number is so low as to suggest that you have a life outside of the internet and just don’t invest that much of yourself or your time on facebook. Not too long ago I might have felt sorry for a facebook person with this few friends but now I think it indicates an enviable wisdom and carefreeness.

120 – modest but very decent. You have just enough fun on facebook.

200 – you have a kid and you feel pretty good about this number, considering you have a life and real responsibilities and whatnot.

200 - for someone brand new to facebook, in one week. I don’t even know what to say about this. I don’t know how one does this. The person I'm thinking of was a long-time hold-out, so she speculates she had friends just waiting to fb friend her.

255 - you’re popular enough. Really, 200-275 is very respectable and still can imply that you’re really friends with all your “friends.” Also, maybe (as in my case), you’re not seeking friends but you accept friend requests from others as they trickle in.*

400-500 - you were really popular in high school, and college. And, now, probably at your job. Or perhaps you have lived, worked, and/or gone to school in several different states or countries.

500-700 - see above, plus maybe you're friends not just with people but with entities.

1,000 – you’re a college student or recent grad. Or you’re a promoter of some kind.

2,442 – you’re a networker. You friend friends’ friends without knowing them. You’re an artist with a presumptuous title. You want a ton of friends to tell about your shows and about how you and your art are so great and profound. (Also, you have three names and your fb pic makes you look like a douche.) Your friending me was basically spam, but I’m supposed to think it’s legit because we have seven friends in common. Guess what? Not foolin’ me. I’m not gonna be your friend #2,443, though I’m sure you don’t care.

*one notable exception being the extremely annoying guy who had a crush on me 7-8 years ago. He has friended me three times and I have ignored the request every time. I thank him for confirming that I don’t want him as a facebook friend: he is as clueless and doggedly persistent now as he was then.

Work E-mails

2010-02-10T19:09:00.000-08:00

Some of my recent favorite intranet messages, to the whole office. (All typos are conserved and names are shortened to protect privacy.)

Friday, February 05, 2010, 12:14 PM
Subject line: "Purse left in coffe room on 16 - brown and white with car keys hanging out"
no message text

Monday, February 01, 2010, 12:24 PM
Subject line: "Did you eat a salad that wasn't yours?"
message text:
"Greetings,

Did you by any chance eat a salad that wasn’t yours? Or possibly grabbed what you thought was your bag of salad (but really wasn’t) out of the fridge when you got hungry at lunch time?

I put a large bag of salad in one of the vegetable drawers in the fridge on 16 this morning, and it is now mysteriously gone. Please let me know if you grabbed it by mistake.

Thanks,
MB"

A Serious Man

2010-02-09T19:33:00.001-08:00

was nominated for an Academy Award? Are you sure? The movie I saw by that title was like a half-baked college theater production.

My friend with whom I saw "A Serious Man" referred to its humor as "insider baseball." This is a new one to me, but the "insider" part is enough for me to get the gist. My friend happens to be Jewish, so I guess he's saying you have to be Jewish to get it? It's not like they're speaking Yiddish the whole movie. (I even know some Yiddish.) What was there to get that I didn't get? As a person who is about the biggest non-Jewish fan of Jewish people you could find, and is familiar with a lot of Jewish culture and humor, I find this "insider baseball" idea hard to buy as the reason for why I was not laughing. Or enjoying. My friend said he laughed often, but maybe most of it was to himself because what I observed him doing most was not laughing but stirring irritatedly, and sighing wearily, in his seat.

"A Serious Man" starts strong, with a well-acted, compelling period scene (Eastern Europe, I believe, during the '30s or '40s?), but then that goes on too long and it's downhill from there. I failed to see how that first scene related to anything -- any hint is way too subtle, or I was too distracted by other things (that bothered me) to notice the connection. Post- the period scene there's some cool parallel action with ears and two people whom we find out are father and son. The father is an interesting looking actor who is, unfortunately, very much an actor. His acting feels like acting, about 99% of the time. (He must be from the theater. Not a knock on the theater, but film requires bringing it down a notch, or 10, and some theater-trained actors can't/don't do that and you can usually spot them instantly.) The woman who plays his wife is also palpably acting.

The main character (Larry) repeats himself stupidly too many times, acting (and I do mean acting) disbelieving. Some of his choices are unbelievable, even as a character who is supposed to be a bit of a coward. Case in point: he moves out of his own house and into a motel, at the suggestion of his unfaithful wife and the man she's leaving him for. It's a ludicrous suggestion, allegedly for the sake of the children, and even Larry grasps this. He, in turn, suggests that his wife move in with her lover, which, for some reason, is out of the question. (By the way, Larry is irritating but the wife and her lover are horrible, insensitive people.) They make no offer to pay for Larry's motel and we're not sure at the end of the scene (a meeting at a coffee shop) if Larry's going to go along with it, but next thing we know, he has, even though we know he can ill afford it and it makes no sense.

What is this movie about? Is it about an ineffectual man whose luck just keeps getting worse and worse, his life spinning out of control in a way that's not quite comic or convincing enough to be funny? Is it about being cursed (as the intro scene would imply)? If it's the latter, again, there's not enough of a connection made and if it was made it needed to be reinforced. I'm a savvy enough filmgoer to not need to be hit over the head with stuff (I was a film studies major, for crying out loud--it's the one thing I'm trained to understand), but I ask for some hint and a little clarity. Just a little. Many of the other performances are enjoyable (all but the main guy and his wife, really), and the film is often amusing and somewhat interesting, taken scene by scene, but even some of the scenes left me thinking, 'What was that?'

It feels like a film that doesn't know where it's going. Story points are introduced and then dropped or resolved in bizarre, unsatisfying and/or blunt ways. It's meandery and not very compelling. Little connects. An editing or a script issue, I don't know. Sometimes, as your own -- or your brother's -- writer, producer and editor, you hold the work too close and overindulge yourself. This can be edifying for you, in the process of making the film, but with no one to tap you on the shoulder and say "This isn't working," you end up mystifying and annoying your audience. This sort of effort is not Oscar-worthy.

Office Ice Cream, Revisited

2010-02-09T19:20:00.000-08:00

On January 18th, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, Betty and I were working, while the rest of the staff had the day off. (We didn't know the firm observed the holiday. Kudos, I say.) We worked in one of the conference rooms, since we knew it would be unoccupied. Also, it provided us a lot more space and a much better view. It's also next to the kitchen.

There were a few attorneys working that day, but we decided our odds were the best they'd ever be to sneak some of CF's ice cream. And we did. We got some bowls and spoons from the kitchen and put them down in the conference room, ready to go. Then I went back into the kitchen, grabbed the Party Pail and whisked it into the conference room, all while Betty stood watch. Someone almost saw us. We each served ourselves a modest amount of ice cream. Then I snuck the Pail back to the kitchen, Betty standing guard again. Then we enjoyed our ice cream. The "danger" and the spite, I think, made the ice cream all the more delicious.

As of yesterday (February 8th) the same Party Pail is still in there. I can barely hide my irritation anymore when I have to pull it out to get to my lunch, every day.

Is this a ship or a dance floor?

2010-01-31T22:48:00.000-08:00

Some friends and I ventured out to the ’80s Video Dance Attack at the Crystal Ballroom Friday night. Things went from good to bad, and then back to good throughout the night. It got hard to keep track. The good was finding sweet parking, then finding no line to get into the place (we’d heard there would be one). The entrance/exit stamp they gave was a huge inky lipstick kiss, about an inch and a half in diameter. Mine was very complete and very wet. I thought it was cute. I ceased to think it was cute when I discovered later that it had stained the inside of my white sweater at the wrist: good-to-bad example 1.

We got upstairs and found free coatcheck with lots of space and empty hangers and four big coolers, clearly labeled WATER, and plenty of cups. Very well-appointed. What there wasn’t a lot of upstairs was dancing. The ballroom was sparsely populated, with five girls (probably not even conscious in the ‘80s), wearing off-the-shoulder shirts, chunky jewelry and side ponytails, dancing up a storm in front of the two central video screens. It’s a little daunting when there’s almost no one else dancing, but looking at so much free space made me feel instantly relaxed and good about this whole experience. “I Can’t Wait” by Nu Shooz was playing. My friend and I headed towards the video screens down front and got our dance on.

Sometime in the next hour, the place became packed. I enjoyed the Madonna and Prince and Janet and Devo and A-ha and all, but then we got to the B-52s’ “Rock Lobster” and I encountered a problem. (Good-to-bad example 2.) The dance floor had so much give that, during a song with such a frantic beat, it felt like I was standing on a trampoline. I started to get seasick. I tried looking away from the screen, thinking its busyness was part of the problem. That didn’t help. I tried tensing my stomach muscles, to somehow make my stomach not move. That didn’t work. I wanted to sit down but I refused to be bested by a dance floor. I willed the song to end. It finally did and the ‘waves’ subsided. “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough” came on and the floor resumed its ocean-like motion, but, with a less rapid groove, it felt much more manageable. And this music moved me (literally and figuratively) more than the B-52s, so I danced more and felt the floor less.

The music was consistently fun and deliciously ‘80s. Wham!, David Bowie, Tears for Fears, Duran Duran, Billy Idol, The Clash, Nena, Joan Jett, Blondie, Salt 'n Pepa, AC/DC, Young MC, etc., etc. The videos were fun and sweet - and/or ridiculous -nostalgia. From down in front, I’d look behind me from time to time and see faces of all ages and genders smiling, illuminated by the video screens, many people singing along (I know I was). The dance floor remained packed, and my friends and I remained at the front, having staked our claim to our dance floor space. We weren’t drinking but others were and it showed. I noticed more and more wet spots on the floor, and even an empty plastic cup. The people around me started to be less and less aware of their space. I felt crowded. I did my best to conserve space – dancing in a tiny, invisible circle* and, when the moments in the music called for it, being sure to throw my arms straight up and not out – but was not met with the same courtesy and this deeply annoyed me. I got bumped several times by people moving through the crowd and finally had to move off to the side of the dance floor (the proactive penalty box) to avoid getting too heated. I work a lot with toddlers and to defuse conflicts between them, we always tell them, “Walk away.” Ageless advice, turns out. (Bad-to-good example 1.)

Eventually it all became too much. There were more cups, and lemon and lime wedges and straws, littering the floor. There were many elbows flying near me. I felt several times that the broad, tall guy next to me, with very solid arms, was close to knocking me in the face with his unrestrained elbows. It occurred to me to add this to the list of drawbacks to being short: face being at elbow height for tall dancing people. A girl, more my height but no less dangerous, got me in the ribs with her pointy elbow. Another girl’s flying elbow I managed to block with an instinctive, vaguely martial arts maneuver of my forearm. This was very preoccupying, having to dance defensively, and I did not appreciate it. (Good-to-bad #3.) I found myself seething each time I got knocked or nearly knocked. I was experiencing dance rage. I knew that if I were drunk, I’d care a lot less because, like the elbow-flinging drunks around me, I wouldn’t be aware of what was happening. And if I did get hit, it wouldn’t hurt as much and I might even giggle at it. As it was, being stone cold sober, I was annoyed and enraged and getting more and more so. A guy stepped on my foot and I glared at him, waiting for him to realize it and say something. He was lost in his dancing reverie and when he finally looked back, he sort of smiled, seemingly having no idea what could be the matter.
I called it quits before anyone got hurt, making my way very carefully to the rear exit, the floor bouncing me at every step. The dance floor didn’t beat me but the drunks finally did. And, much as I could’ve punched someone, I have never actually been in a fight and I did not wanna be startin’ somethin’.

*inspired, in part, by “Tiny Moves”

"Twilight," Chapter 2

2010-01-25T21:30:00.001-08:00

I'm holding onto the book, waiting for my friend to pick up her copy. She said if she was gonna go to the trouble of getting the book, she was gonna read the whole thing. I'm not gonna read the whole thing unless I know she's reading it. I have ventured into chapter 2, though, in the meantime. My expectations of the use of language, grammar, storytelling and the word "literally" now reset, I'm not as bothered by the bad writing. My biggest objection to the book now is that it's boring. I made it 20 pages into chapter 2, having picked up the book when I was slightly bored during a lull in my day, and I quickly became more bored.

My other complaint is that it's unrealistic. It hasn't even gotten into anything supernatural yet, so I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about portraying the way real people behave or speak. The dialogue and the descriptions of body language do not ring true. There's a lot of description of Edward (the vampire) in biology class with Bella, making fists or gripping the desk, upset for unknown (and so far uninteresting) reasons by having to sit next to her. Where Meyer might better employ extensive description of body language is in this overly expository, on-the-nose (and unrealistic) dialogue, between Bella and her dad (Charlie), who's the town's police chief:

'"Do you know the Cullen family?" I asked hesitantly.
"Dr. Cullen's family? Sure. Dr. Cullen's a great man."
"They... the kids... are a little different. They don't seem to fit in very well at school."
Charlie surprised me by looking angry.
"People in this town," he muttered. "Dr. Cullen is a brilliant surgeon who could probably work in any hospital in the world, make ten times the salary he gets here," he continued, getting louder. "We're lucky to have him -- lucky his wife wanted to live in a small town. He's an asset to the community, and all of those kids are well-behaved and polite. I had my doubts, when they first moved in, with all those adopted teenagers. I thought we might have some problems with them. But they're all very mature -- I haven't had one speck of trouble from any of them. That's more than I can say for the children of some folks who have lived in this town for generations. And they stick together the way a family should -- camping trips every other weekend. . . . Just because they're newcomers, people have to talk."
It was the longest speech I'd ever heard Charlie make. He must feel strong about whatever people were saying.'

There's been about zero character development with Charlie thus far, so I guess we're just supposed to take Bella's word. What might have helped this overlong speech is some interjection of narration: Bella noting the look in his eyes or his posture or what he is doing while he's talking, or, at minimum, saying to us/herself, before he's done, that it's already becoming the longest speech she's ever heard him make. And is she reacting? What is she doing while he's talking? Is she fidgeting? Is she playing with her food? This scene is set at the dinner table. We are told what Bella made for dinner (salad and steaks) but it's never referred to during the rest of the scene. "As he cut forcefully into his steak" could have been a good way to liven up and put emphasis on some part of Charlie's speech. An even better idea would have been for the two of them to have this conversation while doing something more active, like hiking or cleaning or moving furniture. Something where the way they're doing something, not just what they're saying, describes how they're thinking and feeling. Is that too much to ask?

I know it's for teenagers; I know that. But there's Judy Blume and countless other writers who write for teens and are such better writers than this. This is unsophisticated writing with no subtext. It's all on the surface. You hope, when you're reading a novel, that details are provided for a purpose, with intent, to reveal in the moment or to have some kind of pay-off later. Stephenie Meyer does not seem hip to this.

As of page 50, my verdict is "unforgivably boring," but I will read on if and when I hear from Sydney...

p.s. At page 48, she finally explains why her main character has moved back to this town she doesn't like (too late, Meyer: story fail).

"Twilight"

2010-01-14T21:22:00.000-08:00

"Twilight" was recommended to me by a friend two years ago. I was skeptical: wasn't that a book for teens? She assured me it was kinda sorta trash but delicious; she read it and couldn't put it down. I heard her out but did not go out and read it.

In the intervening two years, I have read a passage from the fourth book (at another friend's behest) and seen the magazine covers with the stars of the movies at the grocery store checkout. I am unimpressed by the whole thing. Yet I can't ignore the light in my friends' eyes nor the passion in their voices when they talk about it. (These are grown women, by the way.) A friend of mine in Eugene (Sydney) had recently discovered that some of her friends were fans of the series, too. We were bewildered. "Is it just us?" we asked.

I know it's not just us. I am positive that for every one of my grown friends who likes "Twilight" there's another who wouldn't touch one of those books if you paid her. Sydney said, maybe half-joking, that we should both read the first book and compare notes and see what all the fuss is about. I found myself oddly receptive to this. One of the reasons I did not even bother to try to read the first book two years ago was because it wouldn't have been available at the library and I was not about to buy it. Now that the fourth book was out, the first book might be available. I told Sydney okay and, feeling a little dirty already, put "Twilight" on hold at my local library. Ultimately, if I was going to not like this book, I wanted to have specific, legitimate reasons. Once I started reading, I found those reasons, quickly and easily.

The library notified me earlier in the week that the book was available and today I went to pick it up. I pulled it from the hold shelf. It was an inch-thick hardback. "You had that much to say? Really?" I scoffed. But then I checked myself: I was gonna keep an open mind. Open mind or not, I was embarrassed to be seen holding this book. I dreaded looking the checkout person in the eye, but luckily I didn't have to: the library was busy, and closing, so I used the new self check-out. I did happen to run into a friend at the self check-out -- she was behind me -- and I explained I was just reading "Twilight" to see what the fuss was about and was sure I wouldn't like it. She believed me: my reputation felt safe.

The first thing I read, after I'd walked a few blocks from the library, was the back cover. It read, "About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire. Second, there was a part of him -- and I didn't know how dominant that part might be -- that thirsted for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him." I almost headed back to the library, my assessment of this book clearly correct -- that it was not good writing. If it was gonna be this bad, why bother reading page one? But Sydney and I had an agreement, so I held on to the book. I even peeked at the first sentence of chapter one: "My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down." A fine enough opening sentence, I thought, and my opinion started to change... temporarily.

I read the first chapter and that may be all I can bear to read. William Zinsser would have had a field day with this lady. Her writing is inelegant. She overwrites, dropping big, out-of-place adjectives for an exaggerated effect I don't think she's even going for. She has a loose grasp of proper grammar and punctuation. (I can hardly claim MY writing to be error-free, but it's closer than hers, and _I_ don't have an editor.) Examples:

She uses "who" where she should use "whom," and not just in places in the narration where "whom" might sound awkward or in dialogue where it'd be more realistic (I could understand that), but in a way that says she does not know any better:
"We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she introduced to me."

She perpetuates the misuse of "literally" (THAT I cannot forgive):
"The Gym teacher, Coach Clapp, found me a uniform but didn't make me dress down for today's class. At home, only two years of P.E. were required. Here, P.E. was mandatory all four years. Forks was literally my personal hell on Earth."
(As a bonus there is, I'm pretty sure, improper initial capitalization of "Gym.")

And there's a typo (and a punctuation misuse) as early as page 9:
"The room was familiar; it had been belonged to me since I was born."

She dwells in uninteresting detail that leads nowhere and does not advance the story. (The examples of this are too numerous to choose just one.)

Beyond mechanics, she violates a basic rule of storytelling: raising questions yet neglecting to provide backstory in the first chapter. Bella is moving back to the town she was born in, a town she can't stand, and the reason for this move is not even hinted at in the first chapter. Did I miss that the whole novel is in journal form? That's the only excuse I can think of for this cursory, weak writing style. (For the purposes of this tirade, for the most part, "you" = Stephenie Meyer.) I don't even care if it's still coming: that's something you need to do in the first chapter (which is 25 pages long so there's plenty of room), and if you don't, that tells me you don't know what you're doing. In the (also inelegant) first sentence of your back flap bio you say you graduated with a degree in English literature. If I were you, I would not be so eager to point this out. It's funny yet sad. How did reading all that narrative fiction not rub off on you? I am not a confident writer of fiction, but even I know that you need backstory, up front. I know that, without even thinking about it (until you made me), just from reading novels over the course of my lifetime. The use of backstory is logical, conventional and it keeps your reader reading. (But you obviously don't have that problem; you should, though, by all rights.) Is it possible to get a degree in English literature without reading a novel? You have made me wonder.

I really don't want to give Stephenie Meyer any more attention than she's already gotten from us all except to say, in conclusion, that I am truly amazed by "Twilight." It's far worse than I ever thought it was until I opened it. I feel sort of sorry for Stephenie Meyer, yet I know she is having the last laugh, all the way to the bank...

Can Mercy Corps See Out Their Windows?

2010-01-14T21:09:00.001-08:00

A guy on the MAX Monday morning, as we passed Skidmore Fountain, commented on the fact of the new Mercy Corps building being right next to an open-air community of homeless people. "Why don't they help them?" he wondered. Didn't they see them there? I piped up that Mercy Corps was more, if not exclusively, about international aid. "Oh, really?" the guy asked. "Well, it's still ironic." "Oh, I agree," I said.

This guy was missing some teeth, and, besides that, looked a little like an aged punk version of Mark McKinney (from The Kids In the Hall), yet he was approachable and easy to talk to. He was personable and plain-speaking. "Some of them are employable," he went on. "Not all, but a good number. Give 'em a job. That's the first thing." I don't know if this guy was or had been homeless himself but he seemed to know about homeless people and he knew a lot about food stamps. All I know is he had me at "ironic." I liked this guy. I wished I could have kept talking to him but my stop came up quickly, so I told him, "Take it easy," and he bid me adieu. I'm hoping I'll run into him again. Maybe we can make some inquiries of Mercy Corps.

Just Makin' Change

2010-01-14T21:00:00.000-08:00

I have discovered that if you want to brighten a credit union teller's day, just ask them to change a $1 or a $5 bill. I have done this twice in the last month or so and both times the tellers' expressions went from polite to relieved yet incredulous. "That's it?" they'd ask, like it was the simplest thing they'd been asked to do all day, and it probably was. My needs are often simple, generally. It makes me feel kinda warm inside to know that my simple needs can be a welcome switch in someone else's day. And, good news, credit union tellers: I will always need quarters, so, you're welcome. ;)

Office Ice Cream

2010-01-13T13:18:00.001-08:00

The politics of work food are weird. Labeling paper bags, plastic bags, leftover containers, yogurt, salad dressing, sodas... Ice cream was something new. And not a pint of Ben & Jerry's but a gallon of generic, vanilla (artificially flavored) ice cream.

It began months ago when my co-worker, Erin, and I happened upon a "Party Pail" of ice cream in the freezer at work. It was a clear plastic tub with a festive lid. It had a white handle, ala a pail a kid would use at the beach. At the time, we worked in the evenings and on weekends, like little elves whose presence went largely unnoticed. We would forage nightly in the kitchen; there would sometimes be leftover chips or cookies from office parties of the day. This huge tub of ice cream had already been opened (we could see through the lid), and it was unlabeled, thus fair game. We were pretty excited.

We continued to enjoy the Party Pail for the next week or so until suddenly we saw that someone had labeled it: "CF." We work at a law firm and Erin informed me that, commonly, if something is marked "FF" that means "firm function," indicating, if it's in the freezer or fridge and opened, it's already been used for whatever firm function and is now up for grabs. "CF," we had to assume, was a person. But who would claim, just for their own use, a tub of ice cream? Especially at this late stage? (There was a little less than half a gallon left.) We looked in the firm phone directory and found only one CF (I feel I should protect her anonymity but, yes, it's a she): the assistant to one of the attorneys. Erin and I concluded that CF bought the ice cream with her own money for some party her boss wanted to throw so it was her right to reclaim "her" ice cream, even though we thought this was uncouth. CF had even put a date on the pail: "10/14."

Cut to three months later. I have a new co-worker (Betty) and now work days. And Ol' "10/14" is still in the freezer. But now, a new Party Pail has been added. For a day, the new Party Pail was unlabeled and unopened. I did not know if it was CF at it again, but I suspected. The next day, the new Party Pail had clearly been eaten out of and was labeled: CF. Indeed. The two Party Pails, by the way, were taking up a third of the freezer, forcing people to take them out to get to their Lean Cuisines and whatnot. Not cool. By the end of that second day, "10/14" was gone, at least. I wondered now, was there another function coming up or had CF decided to keep A GALLON of ice cream on hand, for herself, at work, on an ongoing basis? There was no e-mail about a function, and I don't recall seeing a bunch of bowls in the kitchen trash or otherwise seeing or hearing any evidence of ice cream being enjoyed on the premises the previous day. Did CF eat all that ice cream herself the day before or does she have some sort of exclusive ice cream club? An ice cream club that flaunts its ice cream, front and center in the freezer, taunting the uninvited. Either way, there is an ice cream ANTI-social going on here. Not. Cool.

Theme song as signifier

2010-01-09T19:23:00.000-08:00

Apropos of theme songs, I like how the main thread of "Sanford and Son" has come to signify junkiness. A friend of mine used that once, saying she was trying to keep her house, full of odds and ends and tchotchkes, from getting too "ba-bum-bum-BA-dum." I love that "Sanford and Son" is so renowned that it can stand in like that, linguistically. Brings conversation to a whole new, creative level.:)

TV theme songs = peace and happiness

2010-01-09T18:50:00.001-08:00

I was listening to an OPB interlude this evening that featured an organ voice on a keyboard. It made me think of some Carpenters songs that feature the same thing. (I've been listening to a lot of Carpenters lately.) Further, I was reminded of the theme song from "Taxi," which I thought had a similar keyboard organ voice, so I put on my "Television's Greatest Hits 70s & 80s" CD and listened to the "Taxi" theme song. Whimsical but a little sad, and very keyboard-y, it is, indeed. I let the CD continue to play and realized that this CD may be the key to my well-being. After "Taxi" came "Barney Miller," "Three's Company," "Laverne and Shirley," "Facts of Life," "Good Times," "One Day at a Time," "Gimme a Break," "The Jeffersons," "Sanford and Son, "Dallas," "Dynasty," "LA Law," "St. Elsewhere," "Hart to Hart," "Charlie's Angels," "Wonder Woman"... One after the other an instant mood brightener, filling me with nostalgia and a powerful joy. I found myself dancing around my apartment, immune to any dark thoughts about finances or career or love life or weather. Transportive and familiar, both, this CD renders me incapable of worrying. Hence, my deeming it my doorway to happiness. Who'd have thought that'd be so cheap?
p.s. And am I able to sing along to all of these songs? Better believe it.

Gone Sour

2010-01-09T17:31:00.000-08:00

Last night was an example of one of those times in life when a good thing goes bad. We've all had those but it's the good things you least expect to go bad that bring on the most disappointment when they do.

Soul Stew at Goodfoot is the best dance club experience I have ever had. I love to dance but have largely avoided going out dancing because it's usually too loud and the people are too obnoxious. And I don't like synthed-up, technified music. The music at Soul Stew is classic, funky, and alternatively popular and obscure. It's soul, it's pop, it's disco, it's R&B, and even some hip-hop. The crowd, which fills the place, gradually, on a given night (but not too full), is jubilant and groovy. Some people get a little tipsy and forget the rules of personal space, but mostly people are respectful of each other. There is never a line for the bar or the ladies' room. I've come to think of it as kind of a magical place, its charm extending throughout the rest of the night, like going to Voodoo Doughnut afterwards and being given two-for-one doughnuts by a cheerful cashier (which has happened twice).

Last night that all changed. On an evening that was supposed to be particularly special (a friend of mine was celebrating her birthday there), everything was off. There were maybe three times more people there than there had ever been before. There were a ton of young 20s girls, in heels and little dresses (the usual crowd does not dress to impress), getting rapidly drunk. There were bunches of young 20s guys not dancing but hanging out near the bar, taking up all the passing-lane space, also getting rapidly drunk. There were bodies as far as the eye could see, from the dance floor in the back to the doorway in the front. As this huge crowd built, I was on the dance floor, near the DJ, needing to go to the bathroom and fearing I might not be able to reach it. I finally made a break for it, my friends helping me by forming a human chain.

After the bathroom (for which there was a line), I retreated back to our table and just sat in horror, looking at the mob scene before me, ruining all the magic. There was a constant line for the bar as well as a line just to get in. The dance floor remained full the entire night; the rest of the room was full of sloppy drunks, some dancing, some not, but all making it so difficult to get to the other side of the room (where the water station and bathrooms are) that I took pains to stay in my tiny area. I felt trapped, invaded and very unhappy. And bitterly resentful. I did make it to the bathroom one more time, where a girl in line with me asked for the time. I told her it was 12:35. She said, "Oh, good. Cuz I just got here." Oh, God.

Perhaps the saddest change was the fate of the ritual break-dancing circle. Around 11:00 every Friday during Soul Stew, a circle of break dancers forms on the carpeted area next to the dance floor. The poor break dancers struggled (and, I assume, negotiated) for floor space from these new people who did not understand the culture of Soul Stew and how things go. The break dancing circle finally formed at about 11:30 and was going good for about 15 minutes until some drunken so-and-so from the dance floor dropped their drink and the glass broke on the carpet. The break dancing had to be stopped so one of the staff -- armed with broom, dust pan and flashlight -- could clean it up. The break dancing resumed only to stop again when a drunken girl, who was invading the break dancers' area, punched one of the break dancers in the face. People started rushing each other but order was quickly restored and the girl left. The break dancing was over, though. And the crowd in the club was still as thick as ever.

I wanted to wait it out, hoping that these interlopers would get bored and would head to some other club. But they never did. At 1:30 (half an hour before close) the crowd was the size it normally is at the height of the evening on a normal night. By 1:45, my friends and I, who had been dancing on the carpet, abandoning hope of ever getting back on the crazy crowded dance floor, called it a night.

During the course of the night, as I willed the stupid throng of new people to leave, my heart sank to think that this might not be a fluke. Maybe word of this amazing venue has spread, irrevocably, to young jackasses like these. Maybe every week would see this sweet basement packed at 10:30, everyone like sardines on a now beer-sticky carpet that would no longer have room for break dancers. My dark-colored glasses firmly on now, I thought about the night's music and how it hadn't been as good as other nights. DJ Aquaman usually played unaltered stuff towards the end (Michael Jackson, Rufus, Dusty Springfield, etc.), but tonight it was more remix-heavy. Not like him at all. I couldn't help but think that DJ Aquaman, too, was thrown by the enormous outsider crowd. And I saw him walk by on his way to the bar and I know he had to wait a good 15 minutes in line to get a beer; he couldn't have appreciated that.

DJ Aquaman seemingly thrown and the break dancers thwarted by these (terrible) new people, I felt an only somewhat comforting sense of solidarity. They, too, must be hoping this new, enormous crowd does not return. As for me, I have my hopes, but, for now, my mojo is gone: I got no free doughnuts that night.

Open Positions at AppleOne

2010-01-08T12:49:00.000-08:00

Got an e-mail from the temp agency I worked for when I first moved here. Haven't worked for them in almost two years. At the end of the list of openings, after things like Accounting Manager and Scale Operator, was this:

"Company in North Portland is in need of temps to work a 2 day assigment towards the end of January. The position is simply counting bolts and logging the data. It will pay $9 an hour."

So, bolt-counter? You can't _make_ this stuff up... I'm half-tempted to go for it, but... no, not really.

Record Player

2010-01-03T12:17:00.000-08:00

Two years ago I brought my childhood record player home to Oregon with me from Virginia. My dad had bought this wood-framed, smokey-fake-glass domed record player in about 1975, before I was born, and I loved it, even though I had stopped using it, myself, by the mid-80s when my dad bought a fancy new silver one. I didn't even know my dad had kept the old wooden one till I visited that Christmas two years ago and spotted it on a shelf, long unused. Its story was a saga, about which I wrote a children's story. I'm sad to report the following, written in my car, after a visit to the record shop:

And the saga of the record player ends with me selling it for parts. The thought of doing so had occurred to me but only in a flash and then I banished it: I was confident the record player could be repaired.

I prayed I wouldn't drop it getting it to the car but, turned out, it wouldn't have mattered. The motor was weak and irreplaceable, Eric, the gentleman at the record shop, told me. "They haven't made a motor of this type for 40 years." And that was it. "I wish I had better news for you," said Eric, kindly. The counter was so high it came up almost to my chin, and I couldn't help but look like a little kid. An expectant, concerned little kid. I had watched as he'd gone through the troubleshooting process, feeling like a kid, too, especially in my long blue knit cap. There were little things wrong with the record player, but everything seemed surmountable until he got to the motor.

I thought I'd be dropping the thing off, awaiting repair (like with my clarinet in the past), but he started right away and before I knew it, my beloved childhood friend was pronounced dead. I knew if I simply took it back home it would continue to sit, useless (now, completely). It had already sat there for two years and it didn't seem right - it seemed a waste - to do that any longer. I asked if there were a record player graveyard of some sort and Eric said he could take it for parts. He both repairs and refurbishes record players. I said okay, without thinking too much. For once, I didn't let sentimentality reign. He said he'd give me $5 for the parts and I said okay again. Signing my name on the legal pad to receive the cash made me feel guilty. It made the exchange and my taking the money, and thus my betrayal of that old record player, official. Eric put the money on the counter and I turned to the record player, still on the counter but a few feet away, and said "Bye, old friend." Eric chuckled a little but not unkindly. I almost forgot to take the money. I always need money but this $5 held no appeal. I took it because it was business and to affirm that my old record player, broken though it was, was worth something.

It breaks my heart to have abandoned it there on that counter, but it's not the end. Its big, smokey, fake glass cover may live on on a new player, as may its turntable, its needle, its center thing (whatever you call that), its levers, etc. It will be recycled and pieced out and that was the best option for it. And I like Eric and think that the record player is better off with him. It was rotting away at my dad's house and it ended up rotting away at mine. This was for the best. My old record player is in a better home (with someone who understands its workings and limitations) and now it can live on. But when I set out this afternoon, this is not how I thought it would go. I even thought Elie's gift of the Carpenters album was a sign.

Refurbished record players at Eric's shop go for $75-120, he said. Maybe if I wait a little while, I can go back and find one with some of my old one's parts. I can hope.

Watching Lior

2010-01-03T11:43:00.000-08:00

When Pamela and I watched “Praying with Lior” (http://www.prayingwithlior.com/) and got to the part where Mordechai takes Lior to his mother’s grave, we both cried. It opened me up because I saw myself and my mother in Lior and his mother. There was such beauty and pain and purity in that scene that I cried freely before I even knew what was happening. My crying got more pronounced as the scene went on, getting increasingly beautiful and poignant(!). I thought my crying was going undetected, and wasn’t sure if Pamela was crying, but then I sniffed or took a trembling breath and Pamela looked over and reached out her hand and touched my knee reassuringly. I only realized a bit later that she was crying, too. We didn’t talk about it, then or later, but I felt like we each knew why the other was crying. We’ve both lost mothers, mothers that we were close to, and, like Lior’s mother, very good women, who were good friends and mothers and generally outstanding human beings. Lior’s mother was loved by her friends and community, who still remember her and think of her, and, of course, by her family, and I could tell that even just in the short clips they showed of her throughout the movie. And what was beautiful and heartbreaking about the scene at the gravesite was that Lior knew he’d had a wonderful mother. Even with his mental deficit, that did not escape him, nor did his memories of his mother, which he talks about in the film. ‘He knew he had a good one,’ I thought to myself. And when his dad held him and started crying, too, it got even more beautiful, and more heartbreaking. Mordechai had been remarried for seven years and he still loves his first wife and misses her, too. Devora is the kind of person you miss, no matter how much time goes by. So is Yvette Eldridge. Mordechai asks if there’s anything Lior wants to say to Mommy and Lior says, “I miss you.” Me too, Lior.

Sharon Eldridge!

2010-01-03T11:25:00.000-08:00

Another Sharon Eldridge and I have finally collided! A British lady named Dawn South messaged me on facebook. I don't know her. She said, "hi sharon how u keeping." I wrote back, "Hi, Dawn. I think I am a different Sharon Eldridge than the one you're thinking? In any case, cheers! :)" Cuz I sort of want to keep this tenuous connection, while still letting her know (for her sake) that she's got the wrong person. I would love it if she added me as a friend. I don't have any British friends. Maybe I'll even become friends with another (her) Sharon Eldridge!!:)

Googling myself

2009-12-10T11:14:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I like to google myself. Not often; just a couple times a year. After googling one of the names of the Hamburg choir folks (I told you I loved them) and not finding anything conclusive, I googled myself to see what "I" have been up to. I actually found some new "me"s.

I already knew I was a South African runner, a jazz musician and instructor, and the director of a retirement home. There is also a "me" who plays bass (I play bass, as well). I found today that one of me is British and married, with Merlies and Border Collies. I see I also have a large presence in the south that I had not seen before -- Tennessee, Kentucky, Florida, Mississippi and Texas. Also New Hampshire and Seattle (where I'm a bookkeeper). I own an apparently nameless business in Albuquerque. I am a school cook in Tennessee. I am a Florida real estate broker. Most intriguing is the me who is a member of Lunar Ritual Gatherings in Vancouver, B.C.; I'd like to meet that one, especially.

My dad told me about a Helium article he'd found when HE googled me back in August, trying to find my cell phone number (my cell phone number would never be googlable). He knew from the article that it was written by me "me." _I_ know the other "me"s from the actual me and am glad others might, too, though it might be fun to get confused with one of them someday. (It won't ever be the runner, I know that much.) There seem to be more pages of "me" today than I've ever seen before -- and full matches, too, not just partial name matches. By page 6 I had to stop: there were just too many "me"s to 'meet' and process right now. The "me"s are getting out into the virtual world! Go, "me"! :)

Complaint Choirs

2009-12-10T10:21:00.000-08:00

I believe, perhaps, the Philadelphia Complaint Choir is the sister choir of the Hamburg Complaint Choir. Both choirs seem about equal in age distribution. They seem equal in their number of crunchy intellectuals; bike riders; people who look like they'd be fun, nice neighbors; and, generally, interesting, intriguing people you (or I, at least) would love to meet at a party. And their complaints are not dissimilar (specifically, complaints about roommates, dog poop, politicians and bureaucracy). Judge for yourself:

There have been eight "official" complaint choirs, worldwide, and I've seen many of the videos, but these two just seemed like kindred spirits. (And I must confess that, though I enjoyed a few of the other choirs, I fell in love with the Hamburg Choir and its singers, so to see a rough equivalent from America makes me happy.:))

p.s. "New Jersey drivers can't drive or park." 'What a pain,' I thought. 'We don't have that problem he-- oh, wait. Of course we do.' Whenever I encounter a rude, aggressive or just plain sloppy driver, I check to see if they have a Washington license plate; half the time they do. Sorry: just tellin' it like it is.:)