The last two days of the long holiday week were a vast improvement over the prior three, although it required both a cunning plan worthy of a WWII POW camp escape, plus fortuitous circumstance in the form of a $20 bill tucked into a Christmas card by Someone Who Should Have Known Better. The result being that TBSofA (see below) finally staggered in at around 1:00 a.m. Saturday morning, thus facilitating my silent, surreptitious departure at 6:00 a.m.
Although I spent a large portion of my childhood in and around Portland, and still have many relatives living there, I seldom get down to visit, so when the opportunity arises it's always a treat. At Christmas it's particularly significant, with all the emphasis on family and renewal. For me, driving across the bridge between Washington and Oregon is like traveling down a tunnel to the past.
The weather was it's normal chilly, wet self, but off in the distance the West Hills were capped with a whipped cream topping of snow clouds. The weather light on top of the old PG&E Building was a steady red, indicating inclement conditions. The White Stag sign at the west end of the Burnside Bridge lit up like a giant neon welcome mat. Regardless of where else I've lived, or for how long, there's a physical sensation I get whenever I see these things that resonates through every atom of my being with the sound that things make when they've come home.
I wasn't scheduled to meet up with my grandmother until around noon, so I had a good five hours to kill beforehand. Plenty of time to trek a bit south to Lake Oswego, where I lived for about four years, or nearly half my life by the time I left to live with my mom in February, 1971. Whenever I can, if I have the time, I make a point of going back, just to have a look around. I don't know anyone there anymore, but there's a certain comfort and satisfaction in being able to retread old familiar paths, if only to keep the memory of the steps fresh in one's mind.
Take SW Macadam from downtown until it turns into Riverside Dr, then follow it along the Willamette River, twisting and winding past Riverview Cemetary, Elk Rock, through Briarwood until you hit the north end of State St. Keep driving past the old Lake Theatre, where I spent innumerable Sunday afternoons watching double-features and Three Stooges shorts, past storefronts that I stare at through the rain spattered windshield while visualizing names that haven't existed on their marquees for more than 30 years: that bank used to be the Burger Chef, which TBSofA in the innocence of his infancy used to mispronounce as, "Bugger Chef"; that dry-cleaners used to be the A&W drive-in; Lakewood Elementary, where in third grade Kip Carson would crack us up during "heads down" by arranging his Cub Scout kerchief and glasses Janus-like on the back of his head, where in fourth grade my dad coached us in the finer points of rebounding off the backboard during YMCA basketball league, and where at the age of nine I fell in "like" with a girl -- Amy Bright -- for the first time. Only the movie theatre and the school still exist more-or-less in their incarnations of three decades ago, and by a happy twist of fate, the school now serves as the town's performing arts center.
Take the right leg at George Rogers Park, where I played pee-wee soccer in a similarly drenching summer rain, and sat in my dad's VW beetle after practice listening to The Archies sing "Sugar, Sugar" on the am radio (KISN, "Home Of The Good Guys!"), and where I spent seemingly unending summer days running through the woods playing "Land Of The Giants" or army or any of a dozen other childhood games with kids whose faces have blurred into indistinct shapes with the passing of time, and most of whose names have become similarly unrecognizeable. Cross the bridge next to the dam where the lake outlets into Oswego Creek, and there on the left is the old house, 755 Maple St., barely recognizeable with it's new two story solarium. I don't feel a need to stop, just the need to know the place where I used to live is still there.
I keep driving for another quarter mile, then turn around and head back for the park and get out for a bit of a leg stretch in the freezing drizzle. As I walk, I'm drawn further back in time by each familiar signpost: the old concrete play sculpture, looking like the calcified skull of some prehistoric dinosaur; the old stone foundry further down the trail; the rotted pilings along the riverbank where we used to pull up rocks during the low tide summers to look for crawdads underneath.
Just the thought of some of those times is enough to take a bit of the chill off, but not quite enough. As the rain desperately tries to transform itself from a liquid to a solid state, I head back up the trail to the relative comfort of the bus and drive back to the city, back to the present.
They say, "You can't go home again". But, the truth is you can -- up to a point -- so long as you accept the fact that sometimes "home" is just a handful of trinkets stored away in a little wooden cigarbox your grandmother gave you for your seventh or eighth birthday. Or that "home" may simply be a pulsing of electro-chemical energy stimulating a few hundred million neurons in a part of your brain that serves the same purpose. The place itself may change, become unrecognizeable, even disappear completely, but so long as you still have the cigarbox and whatever treasures are kept safe within it, you can make do just as well as if it were the real thing.
True to form, the Christmas Holiday has turned into yet another of my annual trips to "Dysfunction Junction", wherein the interaction with certain elements within the great, extended family that is my birthright and patrimony results in emotional responses ranging from near passsive-aggressive levels of guilt, frustration and resentment, all the way off the scale to actual Fear For The Life And Well-Being Of Others.
Not to burden you, dear reader with the grisley details, but suffice it to say, I write this from a small coffee house in Northeast Portland, where I have escaped to after three days of babysitting an alcoholic younger brother who, despite all his well-meaning intentions, has pretty much single-handedly turned this Festive Season into -- well, if not exactly a living nightmare, then at the very least several days of anxious, sleep-depriving wariness, while some or other relative sits up until the wee hours either waiting for said brother to stumble home from his nightly depravations, or else waiting for the almost equally odds-on phone call from the local constabulatory informing us of little brother's incarceration for public inebriation, aggressive pan-handling, petty theft or assaulting a police officer.
Needless to say, it's not a pleasant way to spend time with the family.
Fortunately, The Rose City shall provide some brief respite, where I can hopefully make some small, necessary withdrawls from the Karmic ATM of my soul, instead of having the loose change sucked out of my psychic pockets by the Black Sheep of Arizona.
I'm just greatful ONE side of my family exhibits a tendency towards something resembling sanity...
And by the way, to those of you I haven't said this to in person -- I hope you've had a Merry Christmas, Happy Chanukah, Festive Kwanzaa or whatever you choose to celebrate this time of year, and that you remember to save a little of that merriment and joy you've felt these past few days for those (not just myself), who could sure use a bit of cheer right now to balance the scales back to equilibrium.
Scaled Composites, the company founded by aviation pioneer Burt Rutan picked an auspitious day -- today being the 100th Anniversary Of The Wright Brothers Flight -- to take his latest venture Space ShipOne(Seen above in an earlier glide-only test) on a little test flight -- at Mach 1.9, thus becoming the first non-commercial, privately built-and-financed aircraft to break the Sound Barrier.
Why is this newsworthy? Well, by most accounts SpaceShip One is currently the odds-on favorite to win the $10 mmX Prize, a competition intended to encourage development of the first privately-financed reusable suborbital spacecraft. Of the 25 teams entered to-date Rutan's has progressed the furthest from design concept to actual test flights of the suborbital vehicle, and given his reputation in the industry as an innovator (he being the designer of the Ultra-Light mini airplane, as well as holding the record for the first -- and so far only non-stop around-the-world flight). there are few who can match his level of technical expertise to pull off what may very well be the first great aeronautical achievement of the 21st Century, opening up the threshhold of outer space to the private sector.
Who know? Maybe someday I'll actually get to fulfill that childhood dream of being an astronaut. Chances are a trip on SpaceShip One will be more within reach of my pocketbook than these guys.
With several trips to the local Churches Of Our Lady Of The Disposable Income (read: shopping malls) under my belt, and the annual shopping agony nearing completion, I still have a nagging question: why in the world is it necessary for some stores to have multiple outlets IN THE SAME MALL??? Are people considered too lazy to be able to walk ALL THE WAY to the other end just to get to The Gap or Helly Hanson, that TPTB in their wisdom decided that TWO stores within 500 feet of each other would be better?
It's almost as bad as having a Starbucks on every other block. For example, Bellevue Square, site of last evenings excursion has THREE, along with TWO SBC's, one Tully's, one Peet's, and at least three other lesser branded java joints as well. Oddly enough, with all those coffee stops the one thing you'd think WOULD require multiple redundancy -- namely restrooms -- seem to be in rather short supply there.
All of which begs another question: Does the Eastside REALLY have so many wealthy people with SO MUCH money burning holes in the pockets of their Dockers that Bellevue Square can support no less than NINE different jewelry stores? Geez, you can't swing a dead Lhaso Apso in there without hitting a diamond merchant.
And yet you can walk across the street, and stand in the shadow of a big empty building where The Bellevue Art Museum used to be, before they ran out of money and had to close their doors a couple of months ago.
Nine jewelry stores, no problem. One Art Museum, no can do.
Normally, I've tried to avoid blatant reposting of other people's blog content, but the following little speculation from "graphic novel" writer Warren Ellis ("Transmetropolitan", "Planetary" & "Global Frequency" among many others) is such an insightful explanation for the behavior of "those crazy kids today" that it bears repeating.
Just forget for a moment that he's writing this as if it's a room full of superpowered mutant teenagers he's talking to, and the main argument actually does make a lot of sense.
____________
You're not different.
The world has spent forty years telling you you're different. Some of your own teachers have doubtless told you that you're different, with the best of intentions. But you are not different.
You are new.
Yes, you are mutants. But so are the Basque people of Spain. Did you know that? They have a gene that protects them against heart disease. It is a gene that no other people have. That, by definition, makes them mutants.
Do people without that gene go to the Basque region with pitchforks and torches? Do people seek to outlaw them? Have people, in fact, designed and constructed giant robots to hunt and kill the Basque populace? No. They are simply part of the human genestream.
The genestream is the human torpedo, fired out of Africa at the dawn of intelligent life. Think of it as a contrail, shooting out of the past and roaring into the future. It curls around the world, thickening as it gathers pace. The African human is part of the genestream. The Ainu, the Inuit, the Caucasian, the Sumerian. The Basque. All of these are part of the human genestream, powering forward into future time. And at the front of the genestream is us. The human warhead of the evolutionary missile.
Some people have called us Homo Superior, which is supposed to mean superior human, superhuman.
That's crap.
Our genus is in fact Homo Novus. We are, quite simply,
New Humans.
You are not different. You are simply new.
The people who don't like you have a name, too. Neophobes. Those who fear and hate the new. And I bring good news. Neophobes die early. It's true. A recent scientific study shows that neophobes experience such stress when in the presence of the new that it signficantly shortens their lifespans. By hating you, they're killing themselves.
By now, I'm sure most of you have spotted the fatal flaw in my Basque analogy. The Basques look like every other standard-issue human on the face of the planet, and you don't. Many of you, I'm glad to say, do not look like standard-issue Homo Sapiens. And that, you believe, is why the outside world does not accept you.
I have good news on that score, too. I'm just a little ray of sunshine today, aren't I?
All you have to do is look out the window. Look at your human peers, the teens and twentysomethings. They're twisting themselves into something other than standard-issue human. They're changing themselves, with piercings and brandings, and implantations and surgeries. There's a surging body modification movement full of people sinking feathers into their backs with hooks to make wings, and splitting their tongues in two, and connecting extra arms to their nervous systems.
Do you know why they're doing that? Because they want to be you. They want to be new humans. They are testing the absolute boundaries of their own bodies because they want to become what you are naturally.
There's a word for them, too. Neophiles. People who embrace the new. And they live longer.
You think you're never going to be accepted? Look out the window. The current generation of the previous model of human is cutting itself to bits to try and be mutants. They want to be you because you break all the rules they hate just by existing.
Every last one of you is a subversive icon. Every last one of you is a genetic superstar. You are the genestream A-list, blasting the world into the future.
And everywhere you go, you make the world new again.
Last night I kicked off my annual "Holiday Party High-Carb Binge & Blowout", with the first annual "Seattle Performers Unions Holiday Extravaganza" featuring "The Wonderful World of Baklava" -- or so it seemed. There was SOOOO much baklava. Piles and piles of it, strewn around the lobby of The Intiman Theatre like pieces of driftwood littering a beach after a winter storm.
There is still baklava, seductively sitting within arm's length of my desk, staring at me with those exotic eyes of almond. Tantalizing me with its flimsy gauze of chocolate barely covering its lusciousness. It whispers to me with a Siren's call, a sugary Salome seducing me in honeyed dulcet tones to, "Pleassssse, jussssst a nibble! One tiiiiiiiiny tid-bit of filo won't huuuuurt! You knooooooow you waaaaaant it. You muuuuuuuust haaaaaaaaave it! Eat it! Eat it NOW!"
And so, it begins again.
This is what my life will be reduced to for the next three weeks, as I stagger drunkenly from one sweet tart to the next like some sugar-starved fiend, seeking always to ascend to the dizzying heights of sucrose-infused euphoria, only to be unceremoniously body-slammed back down into the depths of carbohydrate catatonia a few minutes later. I shall wander, like a pariah or leper from one red-green-and-white decorated dish to another, shunned by the patrician vegetables, unable even to make eye contact with the pius fruits, clinging to the shadows beneath the generic holiday decorations like something unholy, emerging only to make brief, furtive reptilian clawed snatches at the innocent roaming herds of cookies, fudge, divinity, nut logs, quickbreads, candies and chocolates, mowing them down like buffalo on the Great Plains, a one-man plague of locusts descending to wreak biblical havoc on the verdant fields of innumerable plastic party platters.
And you shall know me by these signs: The the little flecks of sticky saliva clinging to my chin like morning dew on a leaf of grass, the tell-tale brown chocolate stains beneath my fingernails, the dilated eyes and twitchy fingers constantly grabbing the open air at phantom plates of sugary goodness, the waistline that softens and sags like a half deflated hot-air balloon, the throbbing of arteries as they vibrate like violin strings to the gentle rhythm of the Glucose Symphony.
If you see me in this abject state, do not shun me, for I am flesh, and flesh is weak.
And I PROMISE, I'll cut down -- right around December 29th or so.
Housesitting again in Bellevue for the next two weeks. Actually, it's a pretty good gig for a guy whose normal living arrangements would make an Apollo Command Module feel spacious by comparison, but it does have some odd effects on my system.
For example, sleeping is a bit of a challenge. Over the past two and a-half years, I've become accustomed to a variety of environmental patterns; lapping waves, (sometimes not so) gentle rocking, the clanking of halyards against masts, the white-noise drone of I-5 traffic from across the lake, the faintly organic smell of the water, cats jumping on me at odd hours, that sort of thing.
In Bellevue, I've got none of this. The room is pitch dark, soundless to the point that I can easily hear the faint gear-meshing of the little alarm clock next to the bed, and there's not even the smallest hint of any rhythmic pitch-and-yaw that usually rocks me into slumber-land. So, it usually takes me several days to adjust to the new conditions, meanwhile I toss and turn as my body expresses a vague dissatisfaction with the current sleeping arrangments.
But, when I do finally fall asleep, I've noticed that my dream states are highly vivid and detailed, and that I can often remember particular dreams for hours or even days; last night two in particular stuck with me, one in which I and several of my friends were going over reams and reams of financial data, influenced no doubt by the forum I attended earlier in the evening dealing with the financial trouble at The Seattle Fringe Festival. The other involved purchasing huge slabs of bloody steaks at a supermarket. Instead of being neatly packaged in stryofoam and shrink wrap, they were just laying on the counter, and the checker would slide the whole thing across the bar-code scanner and throw it in a plastic bag. Then, as I was walking home with the bag of meat dripping blood on my shoes, I encountered the world's biggest outdoor fruit tray. Mountains of quartered oranges, bunches of grapes covering the ground like a carpet, piles of berries strewn across the landscape, all neatly separated by item, but without a pathway between, so that the only way to negotiate the tons of fruit was to simply wade into and over it.
The last thing I can remember thinking before I woke up is that I wish I'd asked the checker to double-bag my side of beef, so I would have had an extra one to scoop up some of the pulpy goodness I was stomping into Spodie beneath my feet.
Gertrude Ederle (1906 - 2003) was one of those remarkable women who in the early decades of the last century proved that females were as physically capable of taking on extreme challenges as any male. On 6 August 1926, at the age of 20, she became the first woman to successfully swim the English Channel, a feat accomplished by only five men before her. A world-class athlete by any standard, during her career she not only won three Olympic medals (Gold, Silver and Bronze in Paris, 1924), but shattered a number of long-distance swimming records formerly held by men, some of which stood for more than two decades.
I first encountered the Late Ms. Ederle in a book given to me by my father when I was about 8 or 9 years old, "100 Greatest Sports Heroes", a biographical compilation of the most noteworthy athletes of the first half of the 20th Century. Along with Ederle, this was where I first learned about such legendary sports figures as Jim Thorpe, Roy Campenella, George Gipp, Babe Didrikson, Bob Cousy, George Mikan, Bronco Nagurski, Gar Wood, and a host of others, many of whom are probably now only footnotes in the annals of professional sports. I still have the book, one of the few relics to have survived from my childhood.
Although I'm not exactly big on sports in general, it's still interesting to go back to it ever once in a while. The entries, penned by notable sports writers of the day (including the late Seattle Post-Intelligencer Sports Editor, Royal Broughm -- the one that little street between our two mega-stadiums is named for), paint a portrait of an earlier, decidedly more innocent period in our nation's adolescence, when victory against adversity or overwhelming odds was considered its own reward.
One of the great things about this book is that it includes luminaries from a wide array of sporting activities, far beyond "the big three" of football/baseball/basketball; jockeys, wrestlers, rowers, boat racers, even a bowler. The other thing that always struck me about it was its obvious color-blindedness. Jackie Robinson, the first black to play in professional baseball shares space with Ty Cobb, one of the most notorious racists the game ever knew. John L. Sullivan, the great irish brawler is recognized alongside Sugar Ray Robinson, possibly the most intelligent boxer ever to step into a ring. Thorpe, a Native American and perhaps the greatest all-round athlete this nation has ever produced has his legendary achievements held far above the relatively minor scandal that stripped him of his Olympic gold medals in both the 1912 pentathlon and decathlon (restored in 1982). And then there are the notable women such as Ederle, whose accomplishments rivaled those of their male counterparts.
Most of the athletes included in the book never made huge piles of money; no shoe endorsement contracts, no multi-million dollar annual salaries, in fact, many weren't even what we would consider "professional" by contemporary standards. They were for the most part, simply people who thrived on physical challenge, and who accepted victory and defeat with equanimity, poise and dignity. In this modern era of the pampered, spoiled, overpaid, media annointed sports superstar, these now mostly forgotten athletes represent what is perhaps today a nearly unobtainable ideal -- that victory is as much about exceeding ones own physical and mental limitations, as it is about beating ones opponent.
Have been housesitting for some friends for the past several days, which among other things means I have had access to cable television. I'm not much of a TV watcher in general, and not having had regular access to cable programming for many, many years re-immersing myself in this world always presents a bit of cultureshock. Frankly, even with 70+ channels to choose from, there's still not much out there that I find of interest -- I mean, do we really need four video shopping channels, six sports channels, three channels dedicated almost exclusively to cartoons, five local/state/federal government channels, not to mention entire channels devoted to rerunning old TV sitcoms (or the one aparently used exclusively for advertising DVD collections of said old TV shows), bad music videos, bad sci-fi movies, home/personal/pet/motorcycle makeovers, neo-revivalist religious broadcasting, or weepy "women's programming"? And this doesn't even include the pay channels like Showtime & HBO, which (fortunately) my friends don't subscribe to? Really, who has time to watch all this drivel?
But, the one thing that really surprised me was the incredible emphasis on many, many channels with women's breasts. Comedy Central, E!, ESPN2, VH-1, Spike, and at least a half dozen others all seem to have programs that extole the "virtues" of silocone-enhanced female mammary glands. I can only conclude that either the target demographic of most of these programs is males 14 - 30, who evidentally just cannot get too much viewing of women's cleavage. As Terry Thomas opined 40 years ago in It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, "What is it with this unhealthy obsession American males have with women's bosums?"
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm as admiring of the female form as the next reasonably well-adjusted 40-something middle-class heterosexual American male, and I certainly don't consider myself prudish or holier-than-thou by any stretch, but it just seems to me a bit disturbing that there's so much of this blatant objectification going on. With programs like "The Man Show", which seems to have little justification for its existence other than showing scantily clad, silicone-enhanced women jumping up-and-down on trampolines for minutes on end, music videos where women seem to be little more than sex slaves to gold chain-wearing "gangsta rappers", women's pro wrestling, women's beach volleyball tournaments, salacious dating competitions, and the lowest of the low, the late-night commercials for the umpteenth edition of "Girls Gone Wild", all of which cumulatively seem to comprise a fairly large percentage of total programming on cable TV, there seems to be this sense of nonchalance and matter-of-factness designed to convey the idea that young women have this insatiable compulsion to lift their tops whenever someone with a video camera appears within 50 feet of them.
Maybe I'm just getting old. Maybe I'm becoming more conservative. Maybe I'm just bothered by a mass culture that seems to treat female sexuality so casually -- who knows? All I can say is that if this is what cable is like all the time, I'm glad I don't have to view this on a daily basis. Frankly, it's enough of a struggle to try to remain optimistic about any possible future relations with women, when everything around me is already screaming that I'm too old, too bald, too pudgy and too poor to ever attain any semblance of attraction to the opposite sex without being further innundated with images of young, slim, overly-endowed females jiggling away with abandon, as if every day is a perpetual Spring Break, and I'm the only one still trying to cram for mid-terms.
I can't help but wonder if the purpose of all this is to, on the one hand make American males of a certain demographic type feel "cool" and "hip", knowing this is presented for their benefit, while at the same time making other males not included in this desireable subset feel inadequate and vaguely disconsolate, so that they'll feel obligated to buy the hair-restoratives, exercise machines, flashy sportscars, erectile dysfunction medications, etc., etc., in the mistaken hope this will somehow restore their lost virility, making them once again attractive to the kind of women that wouldn't give them a second glance otherwise. Is that too much of a cynical attitude to cop? Or is all of this just supposed to be post-milleneum pop culture's idea of good, clean dirty fun?
Or is it that I'm secretly jealous no lycra-wearing bikini babes are ever going to invite me into their televised roving hottub party?
- Bartending with Jaye at Ghosty - Eating Poisoned Cake at Midnight
- DUDE: "Is that guy really Irish, or does he just do a good accent?"
Saturday -
- Birthday cards! With Starbucks Gift Certificates!
- "Does this go in the purple room or the teal room?"
- Ezell's Chicken for Birthday lunch
- Buying a Birthday Suit
- Wearing it to the "Babylon Birthday Bash - LISA V:"Hey Lela, feel how firm Comte's ass is!"
- "Can you make the announcement? If I leave, Boling
will outbid me."
- Telling the "Jackie Stewart" story for DJ.
- Setting up dinner dates with TWO attractive women
Sunday --
- Three different birthday songs!
- SGNP:"Oh, it's your birthday? Okay. Here." (Rummages through pockets of voluminous Military Surplus parka and hands me a copy of "The Tau de Ching")
- "Ozma Of Oz"
Ah, Halloween. All-Hallow's Eve. Feralia. Samhain. Call it what you will, but whatever you call it, you have to admit it's the beginning of a most magical time of year.
To the Pagan Druids of Ireland and Scotland, this was the beginning of the New Year; the end of Summer and of the harvest season, when the world prepared to sleep until the spring. As such, it was a time when the laws of nature and physics (such as they were known at the time) faltered, allowing the veil between the physical and spirit worlds to part. A time when hearth fires were extinguished to make homes unwelcome to the lingering spirits of the dead, then later rekindled in preparation for the long winter nigthts ahead.
What today in our calendar is October 31st/November 1st lies midway between the Autumnal Equinox and the Winter Solstice, the one day of the year when the ancients believed the border between the lands of the living and of the dead could be transversed. As the beginning of the Celtic New Year, this was also the time when people focused on their plans and aspirations for the coming year; it was a time for telling fortunes, for predicting the future, and for cleansing away of the mistakes of the past.
The Catholics of course completely altered the concept of Samhain (pronounced sow-en) in their efforts to sublimate Pagan traditions to those of the Church, with the result that the Druidic rituals were transmuted into the more familiar "All Hallow's Eve" and "All Saints Day" (the 31st & 1st respectively), wherein the honoring of spirits of the departed ancestral dead was replaced by veneration of the no-less-dead Saints, both known and unknown.
Regardless of the origin, history or actual purpose of these rituals, this particular holiday holds an extra-special place in my oh-so-NOT-religious little heart because tomorrow, November 1st also happens to be my birthday. Ironic isn't it, being born on the one day out of the year devoted to Death. But, perhaps that in itself grants me a special license by virtue of being able to honor both life and death simultaneously, in celebration of the eternal cycle by way of which each is simply one side of the same coin.
As a culture, we tend to fear death; we are obsessed with the idea, not only of not dying, but of retaining some semblence of our youth and outward beauty for as long as possible. But, when you look at some 50 year-old botox/collagen/silicone enhanced banshee who looks like she's had enough skin removed from under her eyes or chin or wherever to cover an entire other human being, just to maintain her state of denial for a few more years -- doesn't it make you wonder? And let's not forget those guys out there with their plugs and inplants and liposuction, and penile enhancements -- do they REALLY think that's what beauty is? It's really not even about trying to preserve ones physical appearance, it's really all about a futile attempt to stave off the symptoms of ageing, which are a constant reminder of our own mortality.
So, this time of the year always strikes me in kind of a funny way. While I get to add another digit to my age and contemplate what that means in the bigger scheme of things, everyone around me is running around in silly costumes, pretending for one evening out of the year that death is a cool thing, so that they can blithely ignore it for the remaining 364. Or is that really how it works? Maybe they don't even give it that much thought, considering how Halloween, like every other holiday of consequence in the good ole' US of A has been co-opted and marginalized into just another glorified shopping spree. Halloween is now one of the biggest days of the year in terms of retail sales, what with all the Fun-Pak candy bars, costumes, masks, party supplies, alcohol and you-name-it that people will be snatching up today. I went into a local costume supply store yesterday afternoon to pick up a couple of make up supplies, and there were roughly 150 people standing in line waiting to make purchases. Hands down, it'll be the busiest day of the year for this establishment, and presumably there are a lot of other similar stories out there as well. Good for them, but that's not really what this or any other holiday for that matter is supposed to be about -- is it?
Okay, enough with the ranting. Maybe I'm just jealous that Madison Avenue has finally gotten its insidious clutches into Halloween, and I'm just whining because it steals some of the thunder from what I've (unreasonably) considered MY day (well, except for the one person I know whose birthday actually IS today -- Happy B-D Ms. Kipp!).
See you at Ghosty tonight. You can buy me a drink after Midnight -- oh, wait. I'll be the bartender!
During the past several weeks, while The Big Red Rocket has been undergoing cosmetic surgury, I've been relegated to a daily regimen of combined walking and busing to get to my day job. Normally, this time of year the skies would have been bursting forth with torrents of rain (as indeed they are today -- with a vengeance), making even brief attempts at sojurning into the great outdoors a process that would rival the ministrations of a NASA clean room crew outfitting an Apollo astronaut. In addition to the standard work uniform undergarment, this usually involves a layer of persperation-wicking material covered by a water-repellent laywer of gortex or similar space-age fabric, hat, some sort of waterproof boots or overshoes, and when things get really cold and nasty, gloves and scarves. The end result of all this layering is that one is drastically encumbered and somewhat restricted in movement, not to mention the fact that the least amount of physical exersion produces moderate to copious amounts of sweat, which despite the wicking layer, tends to get trapped by the outer water resistent layer, and is recirculated throughout the inner layers, leaving everying damp and musty. Plus, once you actually get to work, you normally don't have enough places to hang everything in the vain hope that it will all somehow dry out by 5:00 p.m., when you have to put everything back on again in a repeat of the earlier process.
The alternative of course is to simply forget walking altogether and opt for the easier, albeit less healthful bus ride, in which case the opportunity for exercise is tossed completely by the wayside in favor of comfort.
But, now of course the entire "walk or bus" paradigm is complicated by the fact that The BRR is once again road-worthy, meaning that the real issue becomes one of time; do I spend 30 minutes waiting for and riding the bus to get to work, or do I cut that down to 7 minutes by driving? For the moment, either choice involves the additional complication of having to get onto another bus regardless, since we still have picket lines established in front of our office, and so we can't simply drive into the parking lot like normal employees (and after being forced to do exactly this once last week when by an unfortunate coincidence about 100 very angry, very abusive union protesters converged on me and The BRR, I can say it's something I would rather not repeat).
I always feel a bit guilty about driving to work. Under normal conditions it usually takes me less than 40 minutes to walk the two plus miles from boat to office, but that means getting up 30 minutes earlier, and even after more than five years at an 8-to-5 job, I still have not developed a circadian rhythm that comes anywhere close to being the equivalent of that of a "morning person". I like to sleep in; I do my best work between 11:00 a.m. and 3:00 p.m., and the temptation to lounge in bed for even a few additional minutes is something I have just never managed to build up the discipline to resist. Besides, who really enjoys walking in the wet and wind when it's dark as Hades outside? Or sitting on a crowded, smelly, exhale-fogging-up-the-windows rattletrap Metro bus for the equivalent of what would be two round trips in nice, warm (!) snuggly BRR, with NPR on the FM and a double-short, skinny from the drivethrough in the cup holder? Is that too much to ask?
Besides, I NEED to drive, so I can start getting used to these dang-nabbed new bifocals...
Yesterday evening at 6:00 p.m. Pacific Time, The People's Republic of China launched their first manned space mission, sending a Chinese "Taikonaut" on a 21 hour orbital flight
.
Launched from the Jiuquan Space Center on one of China's 2F "Long March" boosters, the Shenzhou 5 capsule is now about to re-enter the earth's atmosphere, and will parachute to a touchdown about 500 miles west of Beijing.
Obviously, the space shuttle program has launched dozens of astronauts from scores of foreign nations, but China now becomes only the third nation with independent manned space launch capability.
38 year-old Air Force Colonel Yang Liwei was selected from a dozen finalists to take the historic flight, joining Yuri Gagarin and John Glenn as the first representatives from their respective nations to orbit the earth in one-person vehicles.
The Shenzhou ("heavenly vessel") is an upgraded version of Russia's workhorse Soyuz capsule design with some interesting modifications:
The most intriguing of which is that the instrument package (the forward end of the stack) has its own set of solar panels providing the module with a separate power supply, which allows it to operate as an independent satellight once it is jettisoned from the crew/re-entry module. Basically, this gives the Chinese the ability to simultaneously launch manned missions with small payload packages that can remain in orbit after the mission is completed, something not even the Russians can do at this point.
Many experts have criticized this program, due to its obvious military implications, as well as for using essentially "old school" hardware. However, as anyone who knows even the smallest inkling about the Chinese mentality recognizes that if ever there was a nation that adhered to the adage that, "slow and steady wins the race", they're the ones to do it. And if their announced long-range goals for lunar landings and a possible manned lunar mission by 2010 are any indication, it's entirely possible today's launch could herald the beginning of a new "space race", whether either the U.S. or Russia chooses to participate or not.
Considering the 40 mph gusts threatening to tear my rain tarp to shreds, and getting bounced around like a Mexican jumping bean on a trampoline, it was a very productive day.
Things accomplished:
-- Two loads laundry
-- Grocery Shopping
-- Trip to storage locker to swap work clothes & check mail
-- Cooked enough food for the next five days (Lamb Tika Masala, Vegetable Pilli Pilli, Rice Biryani, and Chicken Marsala)
-- Vacuumed and dusted
-- Repaired rain tarp - in the middle of Windstorm 2003!
-- Called BOTH parents
-- Watched two sporting events -- this is so NOT me!
-- blogged
Thing Not accomplished:
-- Didn't win lottery
-- Neglected to take a shower
-- Failed to bail out dinghy or kayak
Such a rarity we're enjoying right now -- an actual autumn, rather than our usual Northwestern "today it's 75 and sunny, tomorrow 55 and drizzly, and it will remain like that for the next six months" pattern of weather.
After our surprisingly temperate summer, I suppose it's to be expected; after all, it seems that for us lucky folks in the upper left-hand corner at least, "global warming" may have some (temporary no doubt) benefits.
The shift has been gradual, but not imperceptible. The air is cooling at night, leaves are turning brown. The sidewalks in some neighborhoods are littered with the spent husks of fallen chestnuts. It's damp and dark and the sky is full of fluffy gray clouds that hug the terrain like a big feather blanket. It's still a little disconcerting getting up before daylight, and once we shift back to Standard Time, we'll have to confront the inevitability of darkness for all but a fleeting few hours during the day. But for now, it's just pleasant to feel the changes: savoring the fading warmth of the sun as it peeks through the overcast, like a window shopper momentarily distracted by the latest fashion display; watching exhallations congeal around your face like smoke; feeling the tropical chill of rosy cheeks burned by the wind as you walk to work; taking in deep draughts of air that smells like the world has been run through the "delicates" cycle.
It's an in-between time, not yet the miserable, seemingly ceaselessly chilling torrents of November and December, but just enough of a taste of what's in store to make you want to prepare. Pull the sweaters out of storage, make sure the gloves still match, spritz an extra shot of "Camp Dry" on the hats, and reproof the oilskin duster.
Time to get out the crockpot and make soups and stews. Time for hot toddies, herbal teas and cocoa with marshmallows. Time for walks through quiet, wet places where even the birds are hunkered down in sheltered spaces. Time to think about weighty things. Time to slumber, to hibernate, to enfold yourself in the warm wraps of a quilted cocoon until spring returns and it's time to emerge from the chrysalis, refreshed and full of hope and color.
1. Several million people in the State of California have suddenly and collectively gone clinically insane at the exact same time;
2. H.L. Menken was right, and most people are indeed idiots;
3. Al-Quada, working with the legendary Augustus Owsley, III has managed to lace the entire water supply of the state with several million doses of LSD.
Noting else makes any sense.
And somewhere the next round of recall petitions are already being signed...
Well, a brand new Starbucks just opened this morning in the building adjacent to my marina, which means I'm now confronted with a dilemma: on the one hand, I don't really like Starbucks -- their roast is too bitter IMO -- and furthermore, I can't stand the McDonaldification they've brought to the whole coffee-drinking culture. But, it's so damned convenient! They even have a drive-through! AND they're going to be putting in a Wi-Fi hub in the next month or so!
So, now I'm torn. While I don't want to support their predatory ways, bad roasts and stupid made-up nomenclature, how do I resist the obvious convenience of having a place to hang out with my laptop a mere 150 feet away from my boat? Why couldn't it have been a Tully's or better yet an Uptown or Cafe Ladro instead? Why, oh why in the name of all that's just did it have to be the 800-pound gorilla of the coffee industry?
*Sigh!*
I suppose I could just order the double-short Caramel Macchiatto...
The 13th Annual Seattle Fringe Theatre Festival is in full swing, and I've seen and written reviews (they're here at TheatreSeattle.com) for ten productions in the past two and a-half days, with four more to go in the next three. By the time it's over next weekend there will have been over 500 performances from 90 different local, national and international companies.
This is the second year the Festival has gone up in its new mid-September slot, which places it in a better sequence for acts traveling the North American Fringe Festival Circuit, and frankly I've been pleasantly impressed with the overall quality of what I've seen to-date. Because of the itinerant nature of these shows, production values tend toward the sparse-to-almost-non-existent, so the emphasis is put squarely on writing and acting (where it rightfully belongs), and I've seen some darned good examples of both:
Local playwright John Longenbaugh's work doesn't always impress me, but his most recent effort How To Be Cool is the best I've ever seen from him. Intelligent, funny and with a great sense of playing with as well as to the audience.
Joe Boling is a living institution amongst the local theatre cognoscenti, and his fascinating one-man lecture What Is It Like To Be Joe Boling? gives us a fascinating glimpse into his complex, obsessive, but consistently humane personality.
Likewise, Maria Glanz is a consumate performer who's garnered a whole bunch of awards for her work, both locally and on the fringe circuit, and her latest outing And The Cowgirl Jumped Over The Moon promises this enchanting writer/actress even more well-deserved accolades.
And those are just the things I've seen personally. We've got five other reviewers out there scouring all the little performance spaces on Capitol Hill, digging through the rough for the gems that lie beneath. Fortunately for us, this year at least there seems to be a strong vein of really good theatre ore to mine, and that can only bode well for future prospects.
If you can, go see some shows. If you can't go read about all the great (and yes, not-so-great) stuff you're missing.
Ahoy, mateys! In case ye didn't know, today be National Talk Like A Pirate Day. So, shiver yer timbers, limber up yer rum-hole, and make with the Yo-ho-ho'ing, already, or count yerself a lilly-livered, landlubbering son-of-a-narwhal!
For those of you who haven't heard, the company where I work during the day locked out 140 teamsters while I was on vacation two weeks ago as part of a contract dispute, and for the past four days we've been in a virtual lock-down situation at my office. Because we have union employees who work in our testing labs here, the local has the right to picket our premeses, and so we've been forced to park at an off-site location, then get bussed in; it's a pretty surreal situation, what with the butcher paper over the windows, the security guards riding along, the shouts from the picketers as we pass, the intermittent car honks of support. Not to mention the fact that we're virtually locked in here, sort of like the old closed campus high school I went to 25 years ago. Some wag even facetiously christened our bus, "The Shawshank Express".
I'm in a bit of a quandry over the situation. Normally, I'm a strong pro-labor supporter (seeing as I belong to an AFL-CIO affiliated union myself), although I don't personally have a problem crossing this particular picket line, since it's MY job I'm going to, and I'm not scabbing one of their's. But, at the same time I feel a bit of torn loyalty. Early on, when the company started putting together a contingency plan to deal with any possible work action on the part of the union, I made it clear to my boss that I would not feel comfortable crossing a union picket as a replacement worker at one of the struck plants, if it came down to that. Fortunately, my services were considered vital to holding down the fort here at HQ, so it turned out not to be an issue. And hearing things from management's perspective, I have to admit that I think overall they've been very fair and upfront with the union during the contract negotiations, with the result being that the employees at three other plants ratified our contract proposal by overwhelming majorities. IBT Local 66, the union in question, however, seems to feel they can leverage a better wage/benefit package than what we offered, and now it looks like both sides are going to get into a pissing match to see who can get the other to flinch first. Regardless of the outcome, it's a lose-lose for everybody; for our producer/owners who are suffering from oversupply in the market and the lowest raw milk prices in 25 years; the union members who now probably won't get as good a deal as we originally offered them; management, which is pushing staff to the limit to try to keep the plants operating; and the rest of the employees who are having to deal with the negative publicity, emotional and psychological stress of being virtual captives in our own office. And there doesn't seem to be any imminent end to the situation.
So, it was a little nerve-wracking sitting in at the King County Labor Council meeting last night (I'm a delegate), and listening to the whooping and shouting when they announced that local 66 has joined the Council as an affiliate member. It gave me a very strong appreciation for the old adage, "there are always two sides to the story", as I'm sure most of the people in the room only know the union's side, and I couldn't help but wonder if they would have been quite so knee-jerkingly enthusiastic had they heard the other point-of-view. They see it as just another of the many recent anti-labor moves made by Big Business, which is a pretty simplistic way of looking at this particular situation, and are pretty much accepting the union's version of events at face-value, without probing any deeper into why the lockout occured in the first place.
And I just had to sit there and try not to let on that essentially, they had one of "the bad guys" in their midst, even though I don't consider myself one of the enemy, although they probably would.
Well, it's not exactly like All Hell Has Broken Loose, but considering that a week ago I was enjoying the sweltering heat of of the sunny Southwest, coming into the office this morning was a bit of a challenge for a number of reasons.
First of all, I've never been a "morning person", one of those disgustingly cheerful types who springs out of bed at the break of dawn with all the drive and energy of an amphetamine-fueled super-Samaratin, ready to battle the forces of gloom with a mouthful of perfect white teeth, and that annoying twinkle in the eye that just screams, "C'mon! Things could be worse! It could be raining!" Especially when it IS raining. No, I'm more of a "late morning, early afternoon" person, or more accurately a "night" person; I'd much rather stay up until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. and arise at a civilized 10:00 or 11:00. But of course, one can only do that if one is either independently wealthy, on vacation or working the swing shift. Well, the vacation was quite nice in terms of sleeping in, but that's over and done with now, and it's back to crawling out of the berth at 6:45.
And to make things just a bit more interesting, the company where I work my "day job" decided to lock out 130 union production and lab personnel last week, after they rejected the company's latest contract offer. Fortunately, the union hasn't set up any pickets, but for the time being we have to park at an off-site location to be bussed in to the office -- it's sort of like being in high school again (hence, another example of "life in Hell"), including company-catered box lunches and closed-campus policy. Expressing the mood of many, some anonymous wag put up a makeshift sign next to one of the busses in the parking lot, "The Shawshank Express" it declares.
And of course, it looks like summer is now officially over, thanks to the impending seasonal west-to-east shift of the Jet Stream as it moves off the cooling north Pacific and onto the comparatively warmer North American landmass, dragging a procession of low-pressure ridges behind it like a long stream of soggy parade floats. It's tough going from Phoenix/Las Vegas where the daytime highs hover well above 100, to overnight lows in Seattle that are roughly 50 degrees cooler. It was inevitable of course, nothing this good can last forever, and there's still always the possibility of seeing the last-gasp, Indian Summer conditions of mid-October that are one of this regions best-kept secrets. But, you know in your bones, your stiff, cold, achey bones that winter is just around the corner. Your bones are telling you to by-Gawd get your lazy, vacation dulled butt in gear, put the shorts and tank tops into storage, pull out the sweaters, and give the outer wear a good spray with the Camp Dry, because the Alaska Express is on its way, and now its just a matter of time.
So, the air is getting cooler, the storm clouds are gathering, night is falling earlier, green is turning to gold and azure, the geese are flocking, the tourists flying south, the snowbirds are heading for the desert, and the sun is saying "sayonara Seattle, it's been fun. See you next year. We'll do coffee."
Meanwhile, in a room in a mansion overlooking the City of The Angels, a man on the low side of 60 thinks his final thoughts, the lyrics to a song he once wrote:
From the President of the United States
To the lowliest rock and roll star
The doctor is in and he'll see you now
He don't care who you are
Some get the awful, awful diseases
Some get the knife, some get the gun
Some get to die in their sleep
At the age of a hundred and one
Maybe you'll go to heaven
See Uncle Al and Uncle Lou
Maybe you'll be reincarnated
Maybe that stuff's true
If you were good
Maybe you'll come back as someone nice
And if you were bad
Maybe you'll have to pay the price
Life'll kill ya
That's what I said
Life'll kill ya
Then you'll be dead
Life'll find ya
Wherever you go
Requiescat in pace
That's all she wrote
And then he closed his eyes and went to sleep. He won't be hearing the alarm clock in the morning or the train whistle in the night. He won't see the sun looking angry through the trees. And although I'm not a God-fearing man, I still hope Heaven helps him, because that's what Heaven is supposed to do for those who leave.
Hey, Warren you're ride's here. You're on your way.
Everything I Need To Know About Life I Learned In Las Vegas
1. Walking is terrific exercise -- but not in 105 degree heat.
2. If you don't want to have to carry around 300 advert cards for strip joints, don't make eye contact with the people handing them out.
3. Playing single-deck $5 hands of blackjack CAN be profitable.
3A Except when it's not.
4. All-you-can-eat buffets are a lot like college dining halls -- and the quality is about the same.
5. Topless shows aren't nearly as entertaining as you'd expect.
6. When in Vegas, your sole purpose in life is to: A. leave as much of your own money behind as possible, and B. to circulate as much money as possible between casinos.
7. Nothing really interesting happens before 2:00 a.m.
8. Tip everyone.
9. If a strange woman says "hello" to you on the sidewalk at 12:30 in the morning, she's probably not just being friendly for the fun of it.
10. Any activity worth doing alone is probably even more worth doing with people you know.
Phoenix is pretty much as I remember it from my last visit about 10 years ago: very blue sky, very brown ground, very hot. My cousins keep telling me how humid it is here, but at about 30% it still seems extremely dry compared to the average 70% we're used to in Seattle. The heat of course is what you notice first; even in the relatively cool atmosphere of Sky Harbor airport, it still overwhelms the massive air conditioning system, but that's only a hint, a taste, a frisson of what's to come. Stepping into the parking garage was like pushing through some membrane of temperature differencial; a cool 76 or so inside, and about 110 outside.
There's been a huge amount of new development since my last visit. A new freeway system that rings the entire Valley Of The Sun, which makes getting around pretty easy compared to the awful meandering through surface streets I recall from before. Fortunately, the gas pipeline shutdown we all heard about has been resolved, and prices are pretty much back in line with national averages; which is a good thing, because "public transit" down here is ridicuous to the point of being an oxymoron. There's also been a huge explosion of new housing all around the edges of the valley. The area where my cousins used to live northeast of Scottsdale was at that litterally on the edge of the desert below the northern foothills; today it's in the middle of a sprawl that goes on for miles, and even has started to advance up the sides of the slopes themselves, pushing right up to the edge of what's supposed to be a protected nature reserve. There are easily 3,000 new homes filling the flats and even creeping into the arroyos, and from what I've been told, this has happened all around the outer edges of the Phoenix/Scottdale/Mesa/Tempe metro area. And in keeping with local sensibilities it's all build low to the ground, and thus covers the landscape like an adobe stucco carpet.
It's a weird color pallet here too, one that takes a bit of getting used to for this mossback. The sky is the same, but that's about the only similarity. Everything else is a variation on a pinkish-orange hue that gives the whole region a sort of mono-chromatic look. While there's a surprising amount of greenery, most of it natural desert vegetation, it only shows up significantly in the close perspective. Because there are very few tall building, intervening hills (like Camelback), and no tall trees, you can see pretty far into the distance from just about anywhere, and mostly what you see is khaki, beige, adobe orange, a bit of grey, and Italian tile red.
And of course, since it's so bloody hot here during the day (and the evenings -- I always think of deserts as getting fairly cool at night, but the Valley seems to just trap the heat and so the overnight lows tend to only drop maybe 10 - 15 degrees below the daytime highs), that nobody wants to be outside, and so while Seattlites are flocking to outdoor events like Bumbershoot by the hundreds of thousands this weekend, most of the locals here will be hunkering inside their air-conditioned concrete & stucco bunkers like lizards under rocks. At the most, a few will venture out to their ubiquitous swimming pools to lounge for a few minutes, bronzed water lillies floating in an a pond of robins egg blue, and the aroma of sizzling human flesh will mix with the slightly pungeant tang of SPF 40 sunblock, and just the barest hint of desert pine and sage. Later in the evening, when it cools down into the low 90's a few hardy souls may venture to the outdoor patios at a local watering hole, where they'll be further cooled by 22 ounce beers served in frozen mugs and by the jet sprays from the overhead misters that seem to be a standard architectural feature.
On the plus side, the barristas at the local Starbucks don't freak out when you order a "short" latte instead of one of those stupid made-up-and-focus-grouped-to-death fake drink sizes some corporate marketing numbskull at the SODO HQ came up with. Plus, they actually consider it a welcome challenge when you ask them for a "ristretto"...
(The above image was composited from 10 separate images taken by the Hubble Wide Field and Planetary 2 camera's during a 52-minute exposure early this morning.)
At 2:51 a.m. PDT this morning the planet Mars made its closest approach to the Earth in nearly 60,000 years, at a distance of 34.6 million miles. This occurs due to several factors dictated by simple Newtonian physics. First, the orbital differences between Mars and the Earth means that about once every 26 months, we "lap" Mars, due its greater distance from the sun and hence its much slower orbit -- roughly twice that of ours. Also, at certain points in the two orbits, both planets are on the same side of the Sun, an occurance known as "opposition". Finally, since the orbits of the two planets are not perfect circles, but are more eliptical about once every 15 years Mars comes into perihelion, meaning that it makes its closest approach to the Sun, while at the same time the Earth is at apehelion, meaning we're at our furthest distance from Sol. When all these factors come together simultaneously, we get a situation where the two planets are as close to each other as they can get, which is what we're seeing now. It'll be roughly another two hundred years before they line up this closely again, so enjoy the view while you can.
BTW, astronomers have not reported any eruptions of incandescent gas-jets on the surface of Mars during this period of close approach...
If you're into Barbeque -- the REAL thing, not what most of us do each weekend on the Webber (that's grilling - completely different beast) -- today in Seattle you were in heaven. The Pacific Northwest Barbeque Association's "Low & Slow 'Light' Barbeque Cookoff" is taking place, even as I write this up in The University District. Aside from the usual competition in all the meat categories: Beef (tri-tip), Chicken (thighs), Pork (baby ribs,) and sausage, there were demonstrations, cookbooks to buy, and of course lots and lots of free samples. What makes this more than just your average barbeque fest, however, was the presence of some of the acknowledged giants of the field. Steve "Barbeque U" Raichlen, Rick Browne, host of the PBS series "Barbeque America", and Bruce Aidells, of Aidells Sausages. These are people who know their way around a smoker, and it was great to watch them in action.
Bruce Aidells Talks With A Fan
Steve Raichlen (on R) Preps Before His Cooking Demo
The title above says it all: the secret to great barbeque is all in the low temp, slow cooking methodology, as opposed to the typical backyard "grilling", which is generally a high-heat, quick cooking method. Aside from those two basic cardinal rules, the permutations are virtually endless. Some people use a water cooking method, which helps to retain moisture, others prefer a more smokey process using hardwoods such as hickory, apple or cherry woods. Some go strictly with the hardwoods, while others use the standard store-bought charcoal briquettes. The cookers can range from something as simple as a mini-Webber (for tender cuts of meat like the tri-tip, which doesn't require a lengthy cooking time) all the way up to contraptions looking like something that would have pulled freight cars back in the 1800's and that are capable of slow cooking the equivalent of an entire cow's worth of meat. But, that's one of the other great things about barbeque, anyone can learn the technique, and you don't need a lot of fancy equipment to become good at it. And of course, EVERYONE has their own secret sauce (either a "mop" that is brushed on during cooking, or else a dry "rub" or a marinade, both of which are applied pre-cooking) that can be either tomato, mustard, fruit or even pepper based. Notably, most of the entrants here didn't go for a high degree of chili "heat", preferring a milder, and generally sweeter flavoring, although one contestant I spoke with admitted that, "I miss the endorphins from the chilis. They make me very happy when I eat them!" But, when you're putting your Q up against some of the Northwest's best, AND you're being judged by some of the greatest BBQ grillers in the country, you gotta do what the judges like, and today it was mild.
A Typical "Mop" Style Sauce -- With Real Mop!
And you know what? It STILL tasted great!
(PS All these photos were taken with my Zire 71 PDA -- Gawd, I LOVE that little gadget!)
According to my friend Lisa (for whose Birthday Celebration this past weekend I created this amazing "Party Patio"), I have a future renting my vehicle out as a portable outdoor lounge. Among the many features: 100 Watt CD four-speaker stereo system, tiki torches, chili and flamingo lights, a fully-stocked wet bar, tables, chairs carpet and cushions. Had it been necessary, a double hibachi grill and propane stove was also on-hand.
ACT Theatre was nice enough to use a "Pull Quote" from my recent review of their productin, which now officially makes me a recognized theatre critic in Seattle.
If you want to read the full review, go here and look under the "Reviews" section.
Haven't spent much time lately talking about the Iraq situation, as I figure by now everybody either is already bored by it (despite the fact that U.S. troops are suffering one fatality per day on average, dealing with 120 degree heat, short-rations, a disgruntled and highly suspitious civilian population, ongoing harrassment from guerilla insurgents, not to mention constant extensions of their already overly extended tours of duty). Regardless of how you may personally feel about whether or not we should even be there at all, or about the disingenuous methods BushCo. used to make their so-called "case for war", even the most die-hard peacenik understands that the poor grunts on the line are doing what they enlisted and trained for, and that they deserve our support and respect.
It's a bloody difficult job, under some of the worst circumstances imagineable, and yes mistakes have been made, and we should be investigating these, and if necessary punishing those responsible for conduct unbecoming. On the other hand, when I read something like this, I'm amazed those GI Joes and Janes are exhibiting enough discipline not to point their M-16's on their own commanding officers. Now, the good news is that The Pentagon has seen the light -- or more likely heard the rumbling groundswell of public opinion (not to mention the sounds of tens of thousands of already impoverished military families standing outside the gates with torches and pitchforks) and decided not to push for rescinding the combat pay increases. But, what does it say about the Administration's committment to our troops that it takes this kind of outpouring of anger to get them to back down on something that by all rights should have been a no-brainer in the first place?
Current estimates from the Congressional Budget Office indicate we are pouring roughly $1 BILLION per month into the Iraqi incursion, but the Pentagon (and presumably the White House, which has their fingers in every other pie, so why NOT this one?) says they "couldn't afford" to cough up a measely $300 mm per YEAR (BTW this works out to an average of about $225 a month additional per enlisted person in the Theatre of Operations, which includes Afghanistan as well as Iraq) for Imminent Danger Pay and Family Separation Allowances for those most at risk? Are they freaking kidding us??? So the military has to make due with six fewer F-18 Hornets next fiscal year, big deal. Just means less opportunity for AWOL to jump into his custom-tailored flight suit for another photo op, so far as I'm concerned. For crying out loud, when the Army's own official newspaper, The Army Times comes out with an editorial against the proposal (which is an almost unheard of occurance), you know somebody's FUBAR'ed this one big time.
Last night I was the big winner at "Match Game 75", a hilarious rehashing of the classic Goodsen-Todman gameshow of the '70's & '80's, done as a fundraiser for Bald Faced Lie and Open Circle Theatre, at what is quickly becoming the de-rigeur locale for theatre-related benefit events, Re-Bar.
As a teenager, I remember watching this show with the sort of devotion others have for daytime soap opera, Star Trek, or professional wrestling. It came on at 4:00 in the afternoon, before the folks got home from work and was one of the first network TV programs in my memory at least that dealt with adult subject matter -- like drinking and sex, as if these were things that adults actually did. Plus, it was the first place I heard the mysterious and exotic name Regis Philbin ("Match Game" was shot at the CBS studios in New York, and of course nobody outside the northeast seaboard probably even knew who he was at the time).
Of course, this version of the game was even more "adult" than what in hindsight today looks like pretty tame shenanigans. The "celebrities" were all portrayed by local performers of note, including BFL regs Ian Bell as MG75 Host Gene Rayburn, and the always lovely Karen Gruber as Betty White, plus such local luminaries as Imogen Love, Cory Nealy, and of course the nearly ubiquitous Brandon Whitehead doing a disturbingly dead-on Charles Nelson Reilly.
I was matched up against an old "Mys(t)ery Cafe" friend Lisa Gayton, as a fellow contestant, but I have to say I did kind of blow her out of the water competition-wise, then scored all three prize levels on the "Super Match" finale, for which I was awarded a gift certificate to a local restaurant, a charming photo of Rayburn, Reilly and an aparently inebriated Brett Somers, a home edition of "Password", and an 8-track tape of "Glenn Campbell's Greatest Hits", all obviously in keeping with the mid '70's theme.
To top things off, it was also my friend Roy Stanton's 40th birthday, so as a present I gave him all of my remaining raffle tickets (which were used to select contestants) -- and he got picked for the second round of "taping", then went on to score two out of three prizes in his own "Super Match" round! So, yay to him! And welcome to the "Over The Hill Club"!
Tonight, I finally had my “date” with The Stranger’s outgoing Managing Editor/Food Critic Min Liao, hosted at the home of Annex Theatre’s esteemed Artistic Director, Bret Fetzer. This was the date I won at the recent Annex Fundraiser, which astute readers will recall resulted in my having only a vague recollection of the later portions of the evening. But, given the quite enjoyable aftermath I must say I’m very happy with my alcohol-fuel perseverance.
While by no means a date in the traditional sense -- blind or otherwise -- it nevertheless turned out to be a most pleasant evening. Mr. Fetzer is of course an engaging host, and since both he and Min have a prior working relationship from his days as The Stranger’s Theatre Editor, he was the perfect person to “chaperone”.
In actuality, the deal was that Min would prepare a gourmet luncheon, however, due to logistical snafus it turned into a dinner instead, and that was fine by me. The menu was simple, yet elegant: mixed greens wilted in an olive oil balsamic vinaigrette, pan seared pork chops, with sautéed eggplant and a tomato salad with endive and marjoram, and lemon sorbet with fresh raspberries and shortbread for dessert. The wine was a 2000 Chateau Comte (how could I resist?) Canon-Fronsac. Bret’s sister Isolde (and please forgive me if I got that wrong) joined us for a portion of our repast, and the conversation was light, centering around Min’s impending move to NYC for graduate school, Isolde’s recent trip to Florence, some Annex shop-talk and of course boating.
Needless to say, the food was marvelous, the conversation equally so, and although I do feel just a tad guilty about standing around Bret’s kitchen while Min washed all the dishes, as they explained – it’s what I paid for after all, so what choice did I have but to accept my station gracefully.
Now, I’m very full – AND I have an extra pork chop to gnaw on later.
The 53rd annual Seafair Festival has come and gone, and except for some lingering Monday morning hangovers being dealt with by a significant percentage of the local population, we’ve survived the yearly paean to waterborne excess relatively well.
Seafair, for you non-natives, is a sort of odd amalgam of civic boosterism, retro nostalgia, military homecoming, noise, drunkenness and revelry – a controlled bacchanalia for a city that normally prides itself on its reputation for being staid, stoic and well, a bit boring. Part Mardi-Gras, part neighborhood festival, part near-religious adoration of all things fast, loud and smelly, it is probably unique in the sense that it’s neither fish-nor-fowl, a completely made-up event that connects the city, however tenuously to it’s blue-collar, industrial and seaport roots, while conversely giving the newbies one more thing to look down their overly long noses at, all the while tut-tutting to themselves that, “the (Insert name of local civic festival) is much better than this!”. It’s Seattle’s old-school way of celebrating the impending demise of summer, and if it seems a tad corny or hokey to the more sophisticated tastes of Californians or a bit excessive to the even more conservative tastes of Midwesterners, well so be it. It’s our festival dammit, and we’ll celebrate it as we please.
Now, with all this you might get the impression I’m a big Seafair fan – far be it. I haven’t been to a Torchlight Parade since Annex Theatre closed shop on 4th Avenue along the parade route about three years ago, and haven’t been to the hydro races (the crowning event for the Festival) since I was an undergrad in college. But, there’s still something sort of infective about the whole atmosphere that surrounds Seafair. Even if you never set foot on one of the flotilla of naval vessels that arrives the week prior, even if you cringe a bit whenever one of the U.S. Navy “Blue Angels” F-18 Hornets flies by your office window at eye-level, even if you couldn’t tell a log boom from a sonic boom, or have no idea who Stan Sayres was, or why old folks around here still mention the name of Tex Johnston with hushed reverence, if you let yourself be caught up in the giddy mid-summer hoopla that is Seafair, you can’t help but bust out in a goofy, lopsided grin.
Because that’s what Seafair is really all about: a chance for us reputedly provincial, uptight, superficially-friendly-but-secretly-resentful, gortex-encumbered Seattleites to let down our hair a bit, expose our pale bodies to the warmth of the sun and inhale deeply of the aroma of burning flesh (both human and animal), sunblock and jet aircraft fuel.
This past weekend was my 25th high school graduating class reunion (Kelso High School, Class of 1978) down in Longview. I haven't kept all that close contact with anyone whith whom I went to school, with the exception of a couple of people via sporadic email correspondence, and frankly was one of those kids who couldn't wait to get out of town at the earliest possible opportunity. I didn't move to Longview until I was 10, while most of these kids grew up together. Even though I managed to make some inroads into their long-established social circles by the time of graduation, I never really fit into the insular, provincial small town culture on which they had been nurtured. So, it wasn't exactly like I felt an overwhelming desire to relive past glories or try to play catch up, but I do admit to a sense of curiosity about what had happened to some of these people, and how had my life turned out in comparison.
I suppose the result should have been pretty much as expected. A lot of my class still lives in the Longview/Kelso area, most having never left, while a few others seem to have be inexorably drawn back to the place. I have a lot of relatives who still live in the area, including my mom, maternal grandmother, two brothers, and assorted aunts, uncles, cousins, etc., but I only get down a few times a year for visits. And during those infrequent and brief sojourns I probably haven't run into anyone from my high school class in well over a decade. So, there's that contingent, along with a relatively equal number of people who, like myself either deliberately or through happenstance scattered themselves across the map.
Considering that 25 years is sort of a milestone, it was surprising and a little disappointing how light the turnout was. We had a fairly large graduating class (about 330) for our location, and yet between the two days of the reunion, there were perhaps roughly 100 or so attendees. And of those, I would have been hard pressed to identify half of them as people I actually went to school with. With that large a group of kids, it's inevitable that some of them would never cross paths, but it was a bit of a shock to realize just how many that entailed for me personally. So, basically you end up chatting with people with whom the only thing you have in common is the fact that you went to the same school for the same three years, and that's pretty much it. Otherwise, you have no context on which to relate, short of resorting to reliving common experiences from a quarter century in the past: the football stadium burning down, the school flooding, things like that. While this may be helpful in terms of dusting the cobwebs off old, nearly forgotten memories, it felt a bit discomfiting to have to go that far back just in order to have a topic for light conversation.
Fortunately, there were a fair number of people with whom I had had closer, more sustained relationships (for the time at least), and they were the ones I most enjoyed seeing. Some amazingly still look very much like their graduation photos (which the organizers either thoughtfully or maliciously -- depending on your viewpoint -- provided for identification purposes), with only a change of hairstyle to show the passage of the intervening years. These are the people who were just lucky enough to have extremely resilient genes, and one can't help but feel a tiny bit of niggling jealousy at their good fortune in that regard. Then there are the others (like me for example) who don't look anything like our younger selves; we've lost hair and gained weight, we went from svelt to paunchy, whippet-thin to jowly, parts of our bodies that once were taut and firm now sag and droop and show obvious effects of gravity. In short, we look 25 years older, which is sort of what you'd expect.
I was particularly pleased to run into one of my best friends from high school, Arni May, part of a small cabal of artists-cum-intellectual-rabble-rousers who were about as close as our class ever came to having some sort of avant-garde movement. We were the ones who were into music and drama, punk rock (sans the piercings, mohawks and fashions) and philosophy, a band of pranksters who created our own religious cult, tried to write subversive articles for the school paper, and shocked the librarians by actually checking out Ayn Rand novels -- and then reading them. As an aesthetic movement it was shamefully naive and timid, but for a small town that was known more for turning out millworkers and loggers than pedants and artists, it was the best we could manage on our own. And I was pleased to see that, like myself he's continued to pursue his artistic interests, now running a major recording studio in Portland and doing occasional session gigs. Our shared interest in art and music was the foundation of our relationship, and it was nice to know both of us still hold those things in high regard.
As for the rest of the people who showed up, my responses ran the gamut from being mildly pleased to see them to "Uh, did we have any classes together?" I did manage to exchange a few phone numbers and emails, particularly with a couple of folks who it turns out live in Seattle and are avid sailors themselves. But for most of the rest, while it was certainly nice to see them again however briefly, I realized after a few hours of chit-chatting, that there is simply no way to reconnect with their lives, if such a thing is even ultimately desireable. Everyone has moved away from that common center of experience that is High School; some have moved further away than others, and unlike the complex interconnections of say a spiderweb, what you really have is something more akin to the radial arms of an old-fashioned wagon wheel. Trying to send out some thin connector from your spoke to theirs just seems so hard. There are too many obsticals, too much time, so many unshared experiences that get in the way. You aren't the same person you were 25 years ago, and neither are they, nor would you wish to be.
So, you share a drink, and a funny story, and maybe even a brief turn on the dancefloor late in the evening, and then it's all over and the flimsy, gossamer soap-bubble of another time bursts with the harsh light of the apres-party clean up. And maybe you try to reinflate it briefly over an early morning sojourn to an all-night diner, where you manage to keep the illusion of comradarie and undying friendship alive for another hour or so over coffee and Monte Cristo sandwiches. But eventually you have to leave, you have to just let it go and understand that like a dream, it may be pleasant while it's happening, but when you wake up too early the next morning, groggy from a weekend of too much partying and too little sleep, that the simple and unavoidable reality is that as Thomas Wolfe said, "You can't go home again," at least not permanently, although sometimes it's nice to return for a brief visit.
After breakfast I went downtown, cruised through the Market just for fun, then caught a movie at Park Place. "The Italian Job", based on one of my favorite Michael Caine films from the '60's. It's not a remake in the strictest sense of the word, which is fine by me, as they used just enough elements from the original to pay it the proper respect (even going so far as to show a clip from its predecessor with almost subliminal quickness), but still coming up with something original and quirky on its own merits.
After the movie let out, I raced up the hill to the bus, and had just enough time to stop by my storage locker to pick up my tuxedo in preparation for the evening's Duck Dodge theme, "Prom Night". For the first time since I've been helping out on the Committee Boat, I actually got invited to crew on a participating boat, courtesy of my friend Mary, who's boss owns a sailboat and races occasionally. I picked up her boyfriend DJ, and we headed down the back side of Capital Hill to The Queen City Yacht Club in Portage Bay (See Entry Below, "Black Duck" for more on that.)
(Historical Footnote: for much of it's civic history Seattle was known as "The Queen City", an epithet given to it ironically by a Portland-based real-estate firm around 1869 when they described their northern neighbor as, "The Future Queen City Of The Pacific". In 1982 the local Convention Bureau changed it to, "The Emerald City", although the more contemporary epithet never really caught on with the locals.)
Wednesday morning was up early again, shoving off for another try at getting the boat into a yard. The trip was somewhat less eventful than the day before, as I'd made a point of actually checking out the location of CSR on my way back to the marina, thus correcting my neglecting of what must be at least the third or fourth most important rule of seamanship: Always Check The Map. Tied up at the dock, went inside to talk to the manager (a very nice woman by the name of Cindy), got an estimate on the work (significantly more than the other place, but not unreasonable given the circumstances), and made arrangements for an overnight stay. Hopped into my dinghy and made a pleasant, albeit somewhat bumpy return passage to AGC, where I transferred from water to land vehicle.
Had another leisurely breakfast, then some shopping, a bit of laundry and finished up the afternoon with a second movie ("Pirates Of The Carribean" not bad at all, although after viewing the trailers for coming attractions it seems pretty clear Disney has completely run out of new ideas and for the next couple of years will only make films based on their theme-park rides. I predict when "It's A Small World: The Motion Picture" opens sometime in 2009, the day will officially herald the "End Of Western Civilization As We Know It".)
The evening was rounded out by a quick visit to the boatyard to see the results of the cleaning and bottom painting, and resulted in a nice chat with Kathy, one of the yard owners, and a fellow Duck Dodger. This is one of the things I'm really beginning to like about boaters; they're a very tight community, similar in many ways to the local theatre crowd. They help each other out, make new folks feel at home, and generally enjoy each other's company. They're all-around nice folks.
Then it was off to a birthday party, then finally to bed. A bit weird climbing a ladder to get into a boat that's propped up on spindly little jackstands eight feet up in the air. Didn't sleep too well either, as I'm not used to having a bed that doesn't move; usually there's at least a tiny bit of sway from the motion of the water, even on a quiet night, and being on unmoving dry land takes a bit of getting used to.
Spent the past two days working to get the bottom of "Tigers Eye" painted, which resulted in a couple of unexpected adventures. First off, I'd made arrangements to take her to a local boatyard first thing Tuesday morning. So, up at my usual work time of around 6:30 a.m., and after a bit of last-minute off loading of some neccessaries in case I had to overnight in the Bus, I cast off and headed up the lake, cats whining and moaning the whole way. Unfortunately, I missed the boatyard dock and ended up backtracking for a bit before I located them, finally docking about a half hour behind schedule. It was such a pleasant morning that I didn't really mind the delay.
After consulting with the manager for a few minutes, we came to a somewhat disturbing conclusion; their boat lift (basically a sort of forklift-on-steroids contraption) wouldn't be able to deal with my boat. Essentially, my keel design (the heavy, wing-like structure on the bottom of the boat) was such that they didn't think they could properly block up the boat on the lift, and they were concerned that the second it came out of the water it would tip forward, causing moderate-to-severe damage to the hull. Naturally, this put me in a bit of a pickle; I'd already scheduled to take two vacation days from work to deal with this, and since I was already into Day 1, it would be next to impossible to reschedule them. Plus, I'd have to find another boatyard, get another estimate, schedule an appointment, and start the whole process all over again. Fortunately, the manager was willing to make a few phone calls on my behalf, and got lucky on the first try. CSR boatyard, straight across the cut from where I was had a crane lift that could easily accomodate me and would try to squeeze me onto their schedule, but not until Wednesday morning. The down side was that because they were already working on a number of other projects, they couldn't guarantee getting me back in the water until possibly as late as Monday. On the other hand, they would let me stay aboard if I needed to until then. So, I had an appointment at least, which made the situation somewhat more salvageable.
Back to AGC (my marina) I go, stopping first for a bit of gas on the way. At which point it was only about 10:00 a.m. and me with the rest of the day free and no plans.
First order of business of course was breakfast, as I hadn't even had so much as a cup of coffee at this point, which means I was barely functional -- it's amazing I was able to maneuver a 28 foot-long boat around under the circumstances. My first choice, The Mecca was closed for repairs, so I headed across the street to Sorry Charlies as a Plan B.
Sorry Charlies, for those of you who haven't been around Seattle much is one of the last of those divey restaurants that harken back to the '50's or '60's, when diner food was simple, unpretentious and loaded with all the things your doctor keeps telling you to avoid. It also has the distinction of being at times one of the most surreal nightspots in the city, a place where you walk in and either feel like you've suddenly been transported to the set of a David Lynch film, or at least get the impression that he walked in once and gathered inspiration from it. Sadly, it's also destined for closure in the very near future, due to the bad economy and the gradual dying off of its core patrons, those elderly retired folks of modest means who seem to be slowly disappearing from our urban landscape like some sort of endangered species.
In the rather bright light of mid-morning, however, it looked much more prosaic, and there was a palpable atmosphere of lingering dread in the air. The handful of customers were pretty much avoiding contact with anyone but the lone waitress, who made a point of repeating the sad tale of impending closure to every new person who walked in the door. But then again, it may very well be the last time I actually set foot in the place, so the funereal mood seemed appropriate.
It's too bad really. Sorry Charlie's is one of those places that reminds people of what Seattle used to be like not so many years ago, before the rise of Microsoft, Amazon and Starbucks, before the dotcom boom-and-bust cycle those multi-national behemoths helped in large part to spawn, when it was just a small-sized city of modest means and amibtion, peopled by blue-collar working types, unpretentious, pragmatic, stoic, with grit under their fingernails and nicotine stains on their teeth. A place where coffee was black sludge poured from a big stainless steel urn, and where you were as likely to hear Norwegan spoken as English. A city of airplane builders, fishermen, lumberjacks and longshoremen. A city that left you alone to be as quirky or eccentric as you pleased, so long as you didn't disturb your neighbors. A city that rolled up the sidewalks at 9:00 p.m., was fast asleep by 10:00 and up at 6:00. A city that in the not-too-distant future will only be a vague memory, doomed to be almost entirely forgotten except for a few old souls who will carry the memories of those times and that place around inside them like a tattered remnant of a newspaper photograph inside a fat, battered leather wallet permanently warped to the shape of the owner's hip. A ghost walking unnoticed among the living masses who don't have time to remember.
(And The Clock Has Started)
