Back from the Happy Family Holiday Extravaganza, which this year turned into more of a "sitting around with my youngest brother and my mom's - ? - (I never know quite how to describe Dale - he's not a "boyfriend" in the traditional sense, more of a "companion", but while the latter term implies more than their actual relationship, the former seems somehow less adequate), drinking cheap Canadian whiskey, eating fatty, high-cholesterol smoked beef products, and watching John Wayne movies all day long" sort of holiday. I'm not even certain the term "holiday" is appropriate here, since that would imply some quality of specialness, and so far as I could tell this was pretty much a typical weekend for these guys.
Actually, it could have been worse. No fights ensued, there were no disruptive surprise visits from terminally alcoholic siblings, and I only got into one brief argument with another brother who insisted I accept his gift of $20, while at the same time he adamantly refused to take a proffered Target Gift Card in exchange (unbeknownst to either of us, we both ended sneaking the other's gift back before the visit ended).
The return trip on Sunday turned out to be far more challenging than I desired, as the train failed to appear at the scheduled time (nothing new there), and despite repeated calls - by numerous waiting passengers - to Amtrak Customer Service, we were only informed after a three hour delay that in fact the train would not be coming at all. A mudslide between Olympia and Tacoma had effectively shut down the tracks, and we were to be bused between Kelso and Seattle. But, of course, nobody seemed to know when exactly that would occur. Finally, a charter bus appeared at around 9:15 p.m., more than four hours after the initial scheduled departure time. On the plus side, the driver was a complete maniac who, except for having to drop off a single passenger in Tacoma, otherwise would have completed the one-way trip in under two hours.
In other vehicle-related news: today is Tuesday the 27th, which means my car has been effectively out-of-commission for 8 days now. I called the mechanic yesterday morning, to see what progress had been made, and whether I would be able to come by in the afternoon to pick it up. "Well, we're still trying to figure out why it keeps dying," he said, "but, you should be able to get it later today."
So, I bussed downtown, did a bit of shopping, grabbed a quick lunch, and made my way uptown, arriving at the shop around 2:30 p.m. The bus was still sitting in one of the bays.
"We tried to start it, but now it looks like the starter brushes have worn a bare spot in the coil from all the turn-overs," announced the Head Mech, with a non-chalance just this side of condescending, "We'll need to replace it."
"And, um how long do you think that will take?"
"Depends on how long it takes us to track one down."
"Have you tried Bow-Wow in Lynnwood?" I asked, helpfully, "they carry a full-line of VW parts."
"Never heard of them." That should have tipped the scales right then-and-there. Bow-Wow is legendary; anybody in the Pacific Northwest who's ever worked on a vintage VW knows Bow-Wow, and the fact that this guy didn't even recognize the name only confirmed my worst suspitions: I was clearly in the thrall of complete incompetents.
"Okay, so maybe tomorrow, right?" "Tomorrow" was quickly turning into my least favorite word of the week.
"Yeah, we'll let you know."
I was stuck. My options at that point would have been either to cut my losses and have the bus towed elsewhere, or let them continue to tinker. Utilizing the theory that, "the enemy you know is better than the enemy you don't know", I - unwisely perhaps - decided on the latter course of action.
So, it was back on the bus for me.
As I walked in the door of my apartment at 4:45, my cellphone rang.
Guess who was calling.
"She's all ready to go," declared Head Mech, "you can pick it up, if you can get here before 6:00 p.m."
Back on the bus - again.
Made it with about 15 minutes to spare, and sure enough, there she is sitting outside the garage.
"Where'd you find a starter that quick?" I asked.
"Up in Lynnwood, at __ (some place I'd never heard of before)."
"So, you didn't call Bow-Wow after all."
"Uh, no. These guys had one."
Okay, fine. Whatever. I pay the bill - $650! - take the receipt and key, and hop in.
RRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrr!
The other mechanic comes out to see what all the noise is about.
RRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrr!
"Oh, yeah. We never could get it to run."
Now, please keep in mind, the MAIN reason I had brought the car in was because it kept dying when I took my foot off the gas. So, basically what this guy has just imparted to me is that, despite having the vehicle in the shop for seven days, and having just spent over $600 of my hard-earned credit, they still had no clue as to what the original problem was, and furthermore, hadn't done a thing in the way of solving it.
At that point, all I wanted to do is get the Hell away from there.
Finally, after about five minutes of nearly constant cranking-over, I managed to get out of the driveway, and limp up the hill to within about 12 blocks of home before the battery gave out ("Oh, we had to start it quite a few times, so the battery is going to need to be charged up!" the mechanic had mentioned, right before I managed to escape their clutches - pun intended. Evidentally, it never occured to them to hook it up to one of their shop chargers in the meantime). I just barely got it into a parking stall right across the street from a garage specializing in European cars, and one which a friend and fellow VW owner had recommended to me in the past. I dropped the ignition key, along with a note and copy of the previous garage's invoice into the mail slot, crossed my fingers, and got on yet another bus for home.
Got a call from the garage this morning. "We're just pulling it into the shop now," said the owner, "from your description, and from what I can see, your battery negative cable is from the Pleistocene era, and that's most likely what's been causing the problems."
"Okay, and how much would it cost to replace that?" I replied.
"Not much, we should have it ready to go in an hour or two."
"!"
He went on, "What I can't figure out is why they didn't replace that before replacing your starter. That would have been the most obvious thing to check first."
"Uh-huh."
He went on, "And why in the world did you take it to those guys in the first place?"
"Good question," I answered, "but, believe me, it won't go back there again."
So, the "unsolveable problem" that took a full week and more than $600 for the morons at Elliott Automotive (yes, I'll name them now) to misdiagnose turns out to be something that by rights should have cost maybe $50 in parts and perhaps a couple of hours of shop time - at the most - to correct.
I'm of a mind to stop payment on the credit card charge, and write nasty letters to the Better Business Bureau, State Attorneys General, and anyone else I can think of, warning them about Elliot's unparalleled level of incompetency.
As if the news wasn't bad enough. With my bus still sitting in the shop (Day #4) word comes from Sao Paolo, Brazil that Volkswagen AG, the South American arm of the venerable "people's car" manufacturer will roll the last air-cooled bus off the assembly line sometime tomorrow. Although the bus itself will still be built (it's size-to-carrying capacity ratio makes it a very popular vehicle in the dense urban environments of Brazil), starting next year it will be outfitted with a dual-fuel, water-cooled engine.
Yes, even us VW devotees acknowledge the old air-cooled engines are smelly, loud, leaky, underpowered and achieve gas mileage ratings that make even a Hummer owner wince in sympathy, but they do have the advantage of being easy to work on (which, based on my own personal experience is a GOOD thing, considering how many times mine has gone into the shop in the 6 1/2 years I've owned it), and until now, parts were still fairly easy to obtain.
Now, that's all going to change, as the availability of Brazilian OEM inventories dwindle, and used or remanufactured parts become increasingly scarce. As with the discontinuation of the classic "bug" a few years back, when the last manufacturing plant in Mexico shut down, it will become increasingly difficult for us bus owners to score engine parts, thus hastening the eventual demise of our beloved "splitties" and "breadloaves" (presumably, the later model water-cooled "wedgies" and contemporary-but-far-blander Eurovans won't be affected). So, it's entirely possible that within a decade or two the only people who will be able to continue maintaining their buses are rich folk, and die-hard collectors, effectively relegating the VW's historical egalitarian cache to some dusty historical footnote.
Few other vehicles have exacted a similar level of rabid devotion and loyaly from their drivers; you just don't see people in Nissan Sentras or Dodge Caravans or Ford Explorers or even Cadillacs acknowledge each other the way bus drivers do. There's just something very old-fashioned and even romantic about sitting high up in that forward designed cab, peering out through the wide bay window, and spying another bus approaching from a distance, like two ancient square-rigged schooners on the high seas. Then, just as they pass, their respective captains hail each other with the traditional raised "V" sign, a gesture of greeting and recognition lost on the schools of lesser vehicles swarming in their wake.
The sense of connection one feels to complete strangers, holding in common perhaps nothing else but their mutual affection for these bulbous, ungainly, beloved vehicles is something rare indeed. Owning a VW bus affords one entry to a rather unique fraternity, one not predicated on educational background, professional or political affiliation, or any other quality related to class or income status. You could be liberal or conservative, rich or poor, black, white, yellow or brown, but as the owner of a "Type II", you're all members of the same extended family.
It'll be a sad day indeed when the last VW bus sighs it's final sooty breath on the sides of the Great American Road. And I just hope (as does my mechanic no doubt) that I won't be around to see that day come to pass.
*Sigh!* It always seems to happen to me right around this time of the year.
The car, she breaks down, just when I need it most.
I'm supposed to be house/cat-sitting for some friends in Bellevue, who left on a two-week vacation on Monday. Now, the bus has been acting up a bit the past couple of weeks; stalling at intersections, running a little rough, generally telling me it's time to take it in for a tune-up. So, Monday I drop it off at the mechanics, thinking I'll get it back at the end of the day, just in time to start making the back-and-forth commute to the Eastside.
How wrong that turned out to be.
First off, around 2:00 p.m. I get a call from the garage, telling me: a.) they couldn't get it to stall, as I had indicated and b.) that the points and rotor showed a bit of carbonization, and would I like to have them replaced? Also, they noticed that the tail lights weren't working properly, and should they look into this as well? Well, sure, not a problem. I knew about the lighting issue (it's 30 year-old wiring, after all), and even though it was going to add a bit more to the bill, it's worth it to get all the little bits-and-pieces working in tip-top shape.
By 4:30 p.m. I hadn't heard back from them, and so I called them up, and was informed they were having some trouble isolating the wiring problem, and can they keep it overnight? Okay, not terribly convenient, but I figure Mr. Big (the NOTORIOUS cat) can go ONE day without human companionship, which as far as he's concerned means roughly, "I want to go out NOW! Open the door, furless minion!"
Now, it's Tuesday. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.
3:00 p.m. Still no word from the garage. I call them again. "Um, now it keeps stalling, we don't know why. Oh, and by-the-way, your throttle cable is shot, and there's a fuel leak inside the engine compartment."
At this point my eyes start rolling around in their sockets like the tumblers on a slot machine, naturally coming up double dollar signs - and that's bad, 'cause it doesn't mean "big money for me!", but rather, that somebody at the garage is going to get a little extra-special bonus in their stocking this year, courtesy, moi.
So, here it is, Tuesday night, and me all grumbley and mumbley, because I'm now looking at spending roughly four hours taking public transit across the water to downtown Bellevue, walking about a mile to the house in what the Meteorologists in these parts laughingly refer to as "light showers" (translation: "it'll keep this up all day-and-night, but the good news is, nobody's house is going to float away"), banging on the neighbor's door to get the key, administering to The Bigster, then turning around and going through the whole process in reverse so as to get home at something resembling a decent hour, just so I can walk in the door and listen to MY cats complain about, "where have YOU been? We're starvin' here!", AND probably get yet another in what seems to be an unbroken string of lousy nights of sleep to boot.
I tells ya', it's just enough to make me go all "Bah Humbug!" at the most innocuous sign of Holiday cheerfulness.
But, I hadn't quite counted on the precocious three year-old traveling with her father on the crowded #556 route from the U-District. Based on overheard snippets of conversation, daddy & moppet had evidentally spent the afternoon engaged in a variety of quality time activities, one of which included the purchase of a gellato flavor appropriately entitled, "Caribou Crunch". Smallish person, not yet of an age to understand the subtleties of Consumer Marketing, was under the impression that a.) she had eaten actual frozen caribou, and b.) that all caribou tastes like crunchy chocolate. Okay, gotta hand it to her, it was rather cute, an adjective I'm not especially prone to use, but for once the occasion seemed to fit. And clearly, given the spontaneous, barely concealed smirks of my fellow passengers, I wasn't the only one thinking this.
But, what really sent the whole episode over the line into full-blown, break-out-into-ear-to-ear grinning, was when our Little Entertainer started into an a capella (and surprising on-key) rendition of "You Are My Sunshine", which she kept up for about five minutes, singing like the Dickens, seranading the tiny stuffed kitten (whom one apparently addresses as, "little kitty") jammed into Pop's coat pocket.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, You make me happy, when skies are gray, You'll never know dear, how much I love you, Please don't take my sunshine away."
I mean, when you're exposed to that level of Cosmic-Ray blast Holiday Cheer - coming from a small, curley-headed, all pink assessorized right-down-to-the-mittens child, I defy even the most cold-hearted, grinchy SOB to not feel their heart grow at least three sizes too big.
Afterwards, one of the commuters sitting across the aisle from me was heard to whisper, "I wish she would have sung that yesterday. Maybe today would have turned out better."
I'm sure she was just referring to the weather, but considering my own situation, I couldn't help adding a silent, "Amen, sister!" of my own. Because, you know, no matter how inconvenient all this is, it could be a LOT worse.
My local cinematheque held their annual holiday party last night, and naturally, amid the celebratory food & beverage, rampaging rug-rats, and speechifying, they showed kitschy, retro baby-boomer holiday programs. You know the type: Sonny & Cher sing-along with Captain Kangaroo; Gumby & Pokey accidentally kidnap Charles Dickens - that sort of thing.
But, the pace day resistance of the evening was the airing of a grainy, 12th generation bootleg copy of a long-lost gem from the late '70's, the much whispered about, but seldom seen "Star Wars Holiday Special".
Yes, friends, a "Star Wars" holiday special.
I vaguely remember having seen this during my freshman year of college, but recall not making it all the way through its two-hour length. After watching it again nearly 30 years later, it was easy to see why: friends, it's bad. I mean BAD. Not "good" bad, but, embarrassingly, painfully, mind-scorchingly bad. So bad you can understand why George Lucas once stated he wished he could track down and destroy every copy in existence by smashing them repeatedly with a baseball bat.
I'm not going to torture you with the details, but suffice to say, any holiday program that includes not only musical numbers by Bea Arthur and Carrie Fisher, a cheesy power-pop anthem by Jefferson Starship (sans Grace Slick, who for once was probably thankful the drugs kicked in before that recording session), but which requires the audience to be fluent in Wookieese in order to follow the plot (something about Chewbacca trying to get home to his family in time to celebrate some non-denominational holiday called "Life Day") was just doomed from the start - even if every kid on the planet with access to a television was probably watching the thing.
Needless to say, I rapidly lost interest after the first of Harvey Korman's three unfunny Peter Sellers-ish cameos, although I did occasionally flit back in for a few minutes at a time (because some genius decided the screening room where it was showing would be the ideal location for the snack tables) and managed to subject myself to additional excrutiating moments such as: Diahann Caroll singing a sultry love song to a geriatric, snaggle-toothed "grandpa Wookiee" saddled with the unfortunate (albeit probably accurate) nickname of "Itchy"; Art Carney as an intergalactic home-delivery porn peddler; and poor Mark Hamill, whose recently broken nose was so heavily made up it seemed to float about six inches in front of the rest of his face.
But, the Bea Arthur number was what finally did me in. That, and the fact that the food had run out. Thankfully, this spared me from watching Carrie Fisher open her mouth, or from suffering through Harrison Ford's Han Solo suddenly being reduced to the most dismal, touchie-feelie, I-just-gotta-give-every-wookiee-I-see-a-great-big-HUG! wimp you could possibly imagine.
Although, really it's better if you don't.
One thing the experience reiterated for me, however, was that, like the contents of sacred arks and about half the entries on Warren Ellis' website, some things are just not meant to be seen by human eyes.
Mr. Lucas, if you're out there, I've found another copy for you to destroy.
When I came in to the office this morning, the normally bracing environment was downright unbearably chilly. We're talking, so-cold-I-warmed-my-hands-inside-the-refrigerator chilly. Turns out our normally cranky thermostat completely gave up the ghost sometime during the night.
So, the guy from McKinstry came in today, and after spending most of the afternoon trying to remap the HVAC system from the basement, he finally traced down the problem and proceeded to remove the now ex-thermostat. However, he didn't have a replacement with him, and so he'd have to go back to his shop and return tomorrow to finish the job.
In the meantime, there are two wires sticking out of the wall where the box used to be. When I want heat, I attach a double-ended alligator clip to the wires to complete the circuit and - viola! - heat comes out of my office vent!
No joke. That's what one local TV station has already dubbed it:
Well, it actually is snowing outside my office window right now; moderate precip, but on the wet side, so currently nothing is sticking. Temp appears to be in the mid '30's, although it's probably a bit lower than that due to wind-chill. Needless to say, one of the people in my office is already making with the "I have to leave - now!" noises.
Now, I've got the little TV in my office turned on for the inevitable media over-reaction and --
Hey! I didn't know Ellen Degeneres had a talk show!
Apologies for the light posting the past couple of weeks, but I've been engaged in fending off a quagmirish, viral hit-and-run insurgency (thanks SOOOOO much Yellow Dog, whom I totally blame, since he's the only other sick person I was around before I came down with it) that has been attacking my nasal passages and upper respiratory system for the past two and a-half weeks. It hasn't been pretty, let me assure you.
Otherwise, things here in the Upper Left Hand Corner are pretty much same-old, same-old. As you probably heard, the Good Citizens of This (mostly) Fair Burgh took a fifth vote on our much beleaguered monorail, this time finally giving in to the downtown developers, the Mayor's office, and the "but we've already got a monorail!" naysayers to pound the final nails in its financial coffin. A sad story, with an ironic coda: last week our 43 year-old "monorail to nowhere", the quaint tourist ride leftover from the 1962 World's Fair may have collisioned itself out of existence when the two cars sideswiped each other on a particularly narrow curve just north of the downtown terminus. NOW, the anti-monorail bunch is beginning to infer that we should get rid of this as well, since clearly it's a "Menace to Society", and frankly the pillars and tracks are such a civic eyesore, because they block some yuppie's view of the sixteen Starbuck's across Fifth Avenue from their overpriced clapboard condo.
*Sigh!*
Oh yes, and if one is to believe the incessant reportage from the news media (AKA, The People Who Pay My Salary) Seattle is braced for the impending onslaught - AT ANY MOMENT! - of "Snowstorm 2005!" a deluge of "unprecedented proportions", which in the local dialect translates as roughly, "we might get one or two inches, and most of that will be gone before the morning commute". Still, intrepid mobile camera crews are poised at strategic locations throughout the city's higher elevations, just waiting to scoop each other with those memorable images of the first fleeting dribbles of frozen water falling from the sky like some Biblical Sign Of The Apocalypse, which will in appropriate fashion result in multiple vehicle skid-outs on the freeway, reduced-to-nonexistent public transportation services, and many, many office workers playing the "but, I just can't get out of my driveway!" card, even though pretty much everybody knows it's just a lame excuse to squeeze an extra day off out of their employers.
Yep, that's how you can tell it's almost Winter around here.
Well, it's now official: Annex has a new home in the labyrinthian Capitol Hill Arts Center, a former 1920's era auto dealership just off the south CapHill business district at 12th & Pine (and conveniently only about 12 blocks from my humble abode). We've crossed the "t"'s, dotted the "i"'s, ran the lease past the lawyers, and signed on the line.
It's been a long process, especially considering the eight-plus months spent in our previous attempt to join up with the Babylonians in the now-defunct Union Garage space just a few blocks away. But, after more than four years as a homeless, itinerant troupe, we've got a permanent roof over our heads again: an intimate, 40+ seat venue, access to the larger CHAC "Showroom" mainstage and the equally intimate Lower Level cabaret, office, dressing room & storage space, a convenient restaurant and lounge in the same building, plus a partnership arrangement with another swell group of theatre people.
There's lots of work left to do to turn the place into a viable performance venue, but that goes without saying. In the meantime, we'll be wielding mops, brooms & paint brushes to spiff the place up a bit for our official opening next month. It's all very exciting, and hopefully presages a renewal for our happy band of crazy kids who have insisted on making the impossible practical for nearly 19 years now.
The People Who Are Here - Are The People Who Are Here
The Theatre held its annual retreat last weekend, once again at the lovely, remote & picturesque Anderson Lodge. Although a somewhat smaller turnout than previous years, on the plus side, we actually accomplished a lot in the way of talking about our art, and how we want to do it.
In addition, much knitting was perled, many waffles and vegie weiner wraps baked, many, many hands of Wizard won-and-lost, crowns were made and worn, some nekkid female hot tubbing occured, and I slept on a pool table.
So, not only is my cell phone STILL missing, but on Wednesday my hard drive crashed. Turns out my laptop fan went *kablooie!*, causing my CPU & drive to overheat, which in turn caused a catastrophic system failure.
Fortunately, I have all my files backed up on my external drive, but it's been a total PITA getting the hardware issues repaired, and then restoring all the OS and files.
Still, better than losing the whole shebang forever.
I Don't Think That I Can Take It, Because It Took So Long To Bake It, And I'll Never Have That Recipe Again
Well, I've survived (barely) the birthday celebration of last evening. Although it wasn't a large turnout, it was definitely the creme d' la creme: John Galt, Stan The Man, Verotica 143, Si I., Johnny Starball, Ira at Lower Level, all the CHACsters, those of you who couldn't attend but sent greetings of the day, and especially to the Three Greatest Gals In The Entire Universe: Molly Sue, for the mostest delicious chocolate cake EVER!; Lisa V, for dinner and cruise directing, and D-Braz for making sure my sleepy, stumbley self got home safe, and tucked in snug.
You All Are The Best!
P.S. Chocolate cake for breakfast seems to work wonders for the old soggy brain-pan.
If I don't see you when the bonfires are burning, burning
I guess I was a little keyed up last night after reading spooky stories (either that or I was suffering a mild anxiety attack after misplacing my cell phone), OR it had something to do with turning 45 today, but in any event, it was an evening fraught with a rather large number of extremely vivid dreams:
1. Running - not from or to anything particular -- in one of those old-fashioned driving outfits: leather duster, snap brim cap, goggles & oversized gloves.
2. At a party with a bunch of my friends. Telling them how much I appreciated their friendship.
3. Escaping from pirates on a jury-rigged catamaran, as arrows & bullets whizzed past my head.
4. Drowning on my own boat right next to the pier, due to a faulty D-ring that kept me secured to one of the jack lines in the cockpit (normally a very sensible safety precaution).
5. Saying a tearfull goodbye to my grandfather (who didn't look a bit like either of my late grandfathers) in some sort of departure lounge.
6. Rescuing a bunch of people from a burning building.
Now, remembering one or two dreams a night may be the norm, but six? That's got to be some sort of personal record. Perhaps my recollections were enhanced by the fact that I woke up immediately after each dream, thus enabling the conscious side of my brain to make note of some of the details for later reference.
I'm sure a Freudian analyst would have a field day interpreting all this, but I'll just chalk it up to the fact that it is also a New Moon, as well as Feile na Marbh, the second day of the Feast of Samhuinn, the celebration of the Celtic New Year, when, according to Druidic mythology the great shield of Scathach, the legendary warrior-princess, was lowered from the sky, causing a rift between the natural and supernatural worlds to open, and thus allowing the living and the dead to come together to welcome the end of impending darkness and the gradual return of light and warmth.
Of course, I also can't discount the possibility that the stir fried tofu and the meatball soup I had for dinner last night just didn't agree with me.
But regardless, if you're of a mind, give a sprig from the mistletoe to some deserving soul. Leave the unharvested fruit for the fairie folk to eat. Douse the hearth fire, and set out the food and drink. We'll be by shortly with a burning ember from the bone-fire to rekindle the flame for another year.
So, I'm sitting in a neighborhood establishment last week, enjoying a quiet bite before heading off to run box office for the show, when a 20-something CapHillster, replete with soul patch, earholes, lip piercing, and numerous tattoos approaches me and says, "Excuse me sir, could we use one of your chairs?"
I nodded vaguely in the direction of the unoccupied seats across the table and replied, "sure, no problem," then went back to my meal. He hoisted the chair and walked back over to his group.
And then it hit me --
Aw, crap! He just called me "sir"!
As if I required any additional, irrefutable evidence that I am no longer young...
I'm not sure what it means, but there must be some significance to the fact that I'm looking forward to Friday for the sole reason that it's the only night this week I don't have some sort of extra-curricular activity on my schedule, and I can actually spend the evening at home.
Okay, racoons, and opossums, and squirrels I get -- but CHICKENS???
Obviously, this lil' hen is of an urban variety, some citified cousin of a Rhode Island Red, but really, it's not the sort of wildlife you expect to see running down your neighborhood street at 8:00 in the morning.
The original cast may be a bit long in the teeth (and sadly, Andre The Giant is no longer with us), but I think most of them might still be able to pull off their roles - even with the singing.
When It Rains In The Middle Of The Ocean It's Not Raining At All
My friends in "Awesome" just released their new CD, based on their hit "subtle spectacular", Delaware, which is enjoying a remount this month at local watering hole/performance space Re-bar.
When Yellow Dog handed me my pristine, shrink-wrapped copy of the CD last night at the wedding reception, I became, for a few brief seconds at least, the second or third most popular person in the room.
So, my envious friends, if you can't get a member of "Awesome" to hand deliver your copy in-person, you can probably find someplace on their website where you can order it, or better yet, just go see Delaware and pick up one there.
The Pratt & Gude Wedding was tonight. It should be noted that no rubber chickens, cats, gorillas, rats, or tiny ninjas were harmed in the making of this cake. Although I must sadly report that two ninjas, trapped up to their waist sashes on a cupcake, did in fact commit ritual suicide by dragging themselves and their butter creamed quicksand trap to the edge of my plate, whereupon they leapt to a spectacular demise late in the evening.
Photos have been uploaded to Kodak.com. Get 'em quick, before they decide to cut off my free account. Or I can burn them to a CD for anyone who's interested.
Post Script:
Left-over wedding cake for breakfast is a fine thing indeed, I must say.
Over The Mountain & Down In the Valley Lives The Former Talk Show Host
(Sent via moblog)
Seattle's own lil' ole' homegrown, live, late-night talkshow The Stay Up Late Show, hosted by the delicious Rebecca M. Davis (in the right-hand seat above) returned from Summer hiatus last night with a rousing line-up including Seattle City Councilmember Peter Steinbrueck, local fringe theatre rockstar Brandon Whitehead (starring in that theatre thing I mentioned last week), and also pictured above, a real rockstar -- KEXP DJ, sometime theatre dabbler, and Harvey Danger front man, Sean Nelson.
Mr. Paul Gude's 5 Minute Bachelor Party (tm) held at Annex Theatre's Spin The Bottle Friday night. The picture is rather blurry, but that is indeed someone in a gorilla suit doing rude things to the groom-to-be.
The wedding is Sunday. I don't know if gorillas will be involved, but with Gude & Pratt (Pratt & Gude? How will this dynamic duo be known to future generations?) anything is possible.
The park, named after life-long Capitol Hill resident and Washington State Legislator, the late Cal Anderson, sits atop the site of the former Lincoln Reservoir, which it now completely covers. There's a surprising number of amenities included in the three square block parcel. The centerpiece is a tryptic of waterways including the fountain (top photo), a cascading waterflow (middle photo), with a somewhat larger holding pool to the south (none of which, BTW is apparently in any way connected to the reservoire system itself, so not to worry about toddlers or drunks peeing in our drinking water). There's a sizeable grassy promenade running to the east of the waterways, with a children's play area on its southern edge. The old pumphouse, seen in the background of the first photo, still occupies the center of the park, while the playfield that anchors the southern end has been completely upgraded with a spongey astroturf-like surface, a second ball field, and new restrooms and consessions areas.
All-in-all, it's a pretty spiffy spot, and one that, given the response of the residents enjoying it today (encouraged no doubt by the return of our famous Indian Summer - I should have known) is going to become a very welcome addition to the neighborhood.
Oh, and did I mention Annex Theatre's new clubhouse (yah, well it's almost official) is located only a block away?
Sweat It Out In The Streets Of A Runaway American Dream
For the past several days downtown Seattle bus commuters have been treated to the rather amusing sight of a dozen or so SPD motorcycles and patrol cars racing up-and-down Third Avenue, leaning hard on the lights and sirens, pulling over hapless drivers and (presumably) politely informing them of the impending closure of the street to vehicular traffic during the morning & evening rush-hours.
Starting Monday, our local downtown bus tunnel, Seattle's anemic imitation of a subway system, will close for approximately two years, while the tunnel is expanded and retrofitted to accomodate a light rail line. As a consequence, the 70+ bus routes that normally use the tunnel will be shunted up to surface streets, and in order to accomodate the extra transit traffic, somebody decided to turn 3rd Ave into a temporary transit mall.
Having seen similar transit-only thoroughfares in other cities (our neighbor to the south, Portland sports a fine one), it sort of begs the question of whether, after all the underground work is completed sometime in 2007 and the light rail line starts up in 2009, the current temporary arrangement shouldn't become permanent. Sure, a few business owners will bitch-and-moan about access, but frankly considering there'll be a roughly 200% increase in foot traffic past their doors every weekday, it seems like catering to an exclusively public transit using clientele would be a win-win opportunity for them.
In the meantime, those of us at the bus stops will continue to watch as the clueless drivers get pulled over, only starting next week we'll have the added entertainment value of seeing them try to talk their way out of the inevitable tickets.
Autumn has arrived here in the Upper Left Hand Corner with unambiguous intent, something of a rarity in these parts where traditionally the transition from Summer to Winter can be marked on the calendar within the span of a few weeks. This year, however, the prospect for a not untypical Indian Summer seems to diminish with each passing day. Around my place the trees are shedding at a ferocious rate, not even bothering to scratch off the chlorophyl from the leaves before letting them litter the sidewalks like losing Lotto tickets outside a 7-Eleven on payday.
When I leave for work these mornings, my street is filled with the urban-warfare sounds of Nature's Insurgency: the paint chipping reports of hazelnuts, acorns, and chestnuts riccocheting off the roofs and hoods of parked cars echo down the street, while platoons of squirrels patrol the sidewalks and gutters gathering up the spent shells with the forensic thoroughness of a CSI team. My breath, not quite yet visible in the early morning air is scented with the acrid chill of biting into a cold, ripe apple. The sky is gradually shifting from a uniform Light Ultramarine Blue to a mottled patchwork of Neutral Grays, the kind of sky Northwest writer Tom Robbins likened to "a brain. Moist, gray, convoluted". If so, it's a brain thinking dark, ominous thoughts, devising cruel strategems for its seven month campaign against the forces of light and warmth.
Meanwhile, the cowardly sun is snowbirding south along with the RV's and the summer tourists, leaving the rest of us to face the increasing darkness, damp and dropping temperatures with our customary Norse stoicism. For those newcomers of six or seven years who still have yet to acclimatize, increasing incidents of suicide, binge drinking, and Xanax abuse will surely follow, like phosphorescent plankton in the wake of an oil tanker. Sweaters are being pulled from bottom drawers and shaken out, reluctantly trading places with shorts and tank-tops. Umbrellas are calling "All in free!" from their hiding places in the backs of closets and forgotten corners of mudrooms; gloves, scarves and knit caps are sleepily asking for "just five more minutes!", while rubber boots and GoreTex jackets hit the snooze button with futile abandon, in hopes of delaying the inevitable.
Winter is waiting in the wings, ready for its entrance, mentally going over its lines for the next scene. Summer has begrudgingly roused itself from the settee, and gone out through the French doors, exiting Stage Left. Autmn is nervously shifting from one foot to the other, waiting for the Stage Manager to feed it a cue line. The play continues, but the Act has almost come to a close, and the lights are already starting to dim on the fake backdrops and painted scenery.
(I'm at a wedding this weekend. Guess what I'm doing right now?)
I think I'm developing a reputation.
I had just dropped off Mr. Awesome to play at the wedding rehearsal at Brian's folks' place on Orcas Island, then headed over to the Community Center (which also doubles as the Volunteer Fire Dept.) for the day-before-wedding bar-b-que. As soon as I got there, my friend Jaye litterally grabbed me by the jacket lapels and asked - well, begged is really a more accurate description - me to grill about 40 pounds of beef ribs. I mulled it over for roughly two-tenths of a second before saying, "Sure. You know me; if there's fire and meat involved, I'm all over it like mop on brisket." Or words to that effect. Being the chivalrous type I am, how could I refuse to come to the rescue of a damsel so clearly in distress, particularly when open-flame grilling is involved?
I don't think I've ever seen another human being look so greatful. Turns out Jaye and a couple other friends had stayed up all night smoking 50 lbs. of actual brisket, then put up the decorations, then set out all the other food, and who knows all what else, at which point Jaye, who is without question one of the most level-headed, organized, and just plain all-round competent young women I've ever known had just reached the end of her rope, party planning-wise, and the prospect of now having to cook another huge batch of cow parts was simply more than she could handle. So, I guess you could say I arrived just in time to save the day - or at least one person's.
And you know what? I probably would have done it anyway.
Perkins was a Black Russian long hair of approximately 19 years age, which -- well, I don't know how old that would have been in Cat Years, but he was old. He'd lost most, if not all of his vision in the past year, and in the last several months he'd suffered from a slew of undignified, if not exactly painful maladies, all of which, despite a voracious appetite, reduced both his physical presence, and the effective size of his world to a corridor, a bathroom, and a familiar lap, where he apparently decided to call it quits at about 7:30 p.m. last night.
Needless to say, Dawn hasn't been taking it well, which is understandable. People have funny attachments to their pets, and not funny in a strange sort of way, but funny in the sense that we invest so much of our own nurturing feelings into the small, furry animals we bond to as surrogates for children, family, lovers, traveling companions, you name it. Anybody who says a pet is only an animal and doesn't deserve the same emotional consideration as a human being just doesn't get the point, and probably has no business owning one in the first place.
I've known Dawn since 1991, and so I've known Perk for the same length of time. I'll always remember him fondly for two particular eccentricities: for one, in his younger days he delighted in being suspended over his food dish by his tail, with his head buried just deeply enough into his food dish to reach the kibble; the second was for his love of cantalope. One of the funniest, wish-I'd-had-a-video-camera-I-would-have-made-a-fortune moments I've ever experienced was the time I walked into the kitchen of the house Dawn and I shared in Greenwood, to find Perkins with his head shoved all the way to the shoulders into a ripe cantalope, pushing it blindly across the linoleum in a determined effort to eat his way through to daylight and freedom.
He had a good life, and he left it in about as peaceful a way as any being conscious of the limitations of mortal existence could ever desire. And I truly believe he knew it was his time, and he simply let go, because well, in the end what else can you really do?
So long, Perkins. Thanks for being such a pal.
"When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name."
- ts eliot, "Old Possum's Book Of Practical Cats" (1939)
I've switched to good, old, reliable RateYourMusic.com's commenting system, and it seems to be working just fine. I'll gussy up the window formatting as I get the opportunity.
Don't Touch That Dial
I've activated the Blogger.com comments html, since I have no idea why jsoft/Reblogger has been offline for the past three days. If it/they comes back, I'll probably restore their code, but for now - comment away.
I hope you've sent some money to one of the many charitable orgs (this is FEMA's list, but there are lots more out there - if you haven't already, take a minute to find one you trust) providing relief to the people of New Orleans and environs. It's about all you can do from half a continent away and still feel good about yourself.
Anyway.
All this looking at and reading about the devastation and its aftermath makes me realize how lucky I've been since moving to Seattle; despite a few relatively minor setbacks, things are pretty good all-in-all. I've got a decent job that I actually like, good, true and trusted friends, a comfortable - if not exactly large or upscale - place to live, food, water, working sewers, etc. Things could be a lot worse. A lot. And I'm glad they're not.
I don't think I could have imagined when on September 3rd, 1985 I maneuvered my humongous 1972 Chevy Impala four-door sedan up to the curb outside an old college friend's apartment building on lower Queen Anne, that I was beginning what's been a twenty year adventure. In fact, I'm almost certain I didn't. Fresh out of grad school, with two diplomas and a $15,000 student loan debt-load as my letter of introduction to "the real world", I'm pretty sure I was ready to take on the Metropolis of the Pacific Northwest, and once conquered, extend my ambitions to ever larger cities, rising higher, ever higher to the pinnacles of success.
Yep, I was going to be a superstar.
But of course, I wasn't going to become just any Hollywood A Lister. I fully intended to be of the "legit" variety, paying my dues in the theatrical realm, which would of course give me that frisson of authenticity lacking from most "flavor of the month" celebrities that grace the covers of the supermarket check-out stand tabloids. I had it all planned out: after a few years honing my craft on Seattle's major stages, I'd pick up stakes for New York, make my Broadway debut, get noticed by film studios, become bi-coastal, and by now have at least one or two Oscars lining the mantel of my tastefully appointed Central Park West apartment (making every effort to avoid such crass symbolism at the Montana ranch). I'd be famous, rich, admired, and respected, yet still maintain that small-town American "aw shucks!" demeanor, which like Jimmy Stewart or Tom Hanks, would become my stock-in-trade, and the essence of my popularity.
Well, yeah things didn't exactly turn out quite like that, did they? Twenty years later, I'm still in Seattle, by choice if not by circumstance, and having suddenly and inexplicably found myself smack-dab in what the older generation terms "middle age", I find myself at a crossroads where, while the world of the theatre itself is always going to fill a large part of my life, I'm not certain at this point whether performing ever will again to the same extent it once did.
It turns out my ambitions were slightly unrealistic, even for a naive, relatively unsophisticated 24 year-old who'd up until then had never lived in a town larger than Portland. It didn't take all that long to discover that whatever innate or cultivated talent I possessed was only going to carry me so far. In addition to talent, dauntless perveverence, unbridled sucking up, and plain good luck are just as essential in terms of who does or doesn't make the top. It's like having a high IQ: sure, scoring 145 puts you in the 98th percentile, but when you break it down into actual numbers that means there are roughly 130,000,000 people on the planet who are just as smart, if not smarter than you are. And most of them are a LOT smarter than you. It's the same with talent. You can be waaaaaaay up there on the Talent Quotient Index, but unless you're right at the very tippity-top, you need something more than that to give you that extra edge that marks the difference between minorly and the spectacularly successful. And after 20 years, I think I can say with a certain sense of humility that whatever those extra qualities may be, I don't have enough of them to turn that dream into reality.
And that's okay. In the meantime I've come to realize that success, or at least that particular kind of success isn't all that important or worthy of a goal. Sure, rich-and-famous people have the opportunity to do good, important things as a result of their success, things that most of the rest of us could never dream of achieving. I mean, only the richest man in the world could even consider single-handedly tackling the problems of eradicating childhood commmunicable diseases in Africa, or providing every school-aged kid in the United States with access to the Internet. And more power to him for trying.
But, then you see at what ordinary people are capable of achieving under the most daunting of circumstances, like what the citizens of New Orleans, and Gulfport, and Biloxi and any one of a hundred other smaller, but no less devastated towns strewn across the Mississippi delta are doing right now to ensure, by whatever means necessary, the health and safety of their families, their neighbors and their communities. And that's a quality that neither talent, money nor fame can ever guarantee.
Sometimes success is measured simply by the fact of sheer survival.
Those of you ascribing to a Vegetarian/Vegan lifestyle choice should probably cover your eyes right now or just move along, move along, nothing to see here, nosirreebob.
Are they gone? Good. Because today, we're gonna talk about meat, specifically beef. A friend of mine (let's call her Lisa, since that's her name) and I have a regular ritual wherein we search out delectible bovine-based dining experiences. Traditionally, these have tended toward the steak or burger variety, albeit burgers of superlative quality (i.e. Union Square Grill's recently departed Happy Hour Kobe Beef Burger). We've tried dozens of burger concoctions over the past several years, everything from hometown stalwarts Kidd Valley and Red Mill, to my personal fave, the bacon wrapped stuffed blue cheese burger at Bing's Bodacious Burgers on E. Madison (although we've yet to make an official pilgrimage to CC's Burgers, for Our Fair City's awesome, cholesterol-hardening champ, "the everything burger").
Lisa is a reformed vegetarian, and like most people who have "gone on the (chuck) wagon", her personal choices pendulum has swung wildly away from her former lifestyle, until she has learned to embrace her inner carnivore with an enthusiasm bordering on the fanatical. I'll usually describe myself as a PC "Conscientious Carnivore", but in reality I'm an Unrepentent Meat Murderer. I've butchered or helped to butcher cattle, sheep, deer, elk, rabbits, turkeys, chickens, all manner of fish -- and I can think of a couple of pheasants, and one nasty hog in particular that I wouldn't have expressed any qualms about killing, dressing and serving under glass or with an apple in its vicious little snout.
Fortunately for both of us, Seattle's dining culture, despite it's well deserved reputation for finny cuisine does a thriving beef biz. In addition to the ubiquitous corporate-chain steakhouses: McCormick & Schmick's, Daniel's Broiler, Outback, and Ruth's Chris, not to mention local Cowboy-makes-good Stuart Anderson's Black Angus restaurants, which don't even rate on our list (that's how snobby we are about our meat), Seattle is blessed with a fine assortment of quite acceptible meateries. Sadly, one notable local establishment, Sam's Steakhouse on Eastlake Ave. is no longer with us - and considering their low, low prices, it's probably no wonder.
But, aside from these obvious choices, we also have a couple of truly World Class steakhouses in our midst, namely the recently resurrected El Gaucho, and the Godfather of Seattle carnivories, The Metropolitan Grill. I've only been to "The Met" on a couple of occasions, it being one of those places where having an expense account - preferably someone else's - is a big plus, but when Lisa's birthday came around a couple of weeks ago, I decided to splurge on the rationale that a.) birthdays are worth the extra expense, and b.) so was celebrating my new job.
The Metropolitan Grill is one of those old-school restaurants where service is everything, and style is just a natural by-product. You know it's going to be one of those experiences before you even get through the front door. One clue is the curbside valet parking, a rare luxury in a town where the Do-It-Yourself attitude prevails, although it proved useless to me, since my bus won't fit into 90% of our downtown parking garages. (My Parking Karma was working at full strength, however, and I got a street spot two stalls up from the front door). It's also where the city's business, finance and political power suits tend to congregate, albeit in an atmosphere of gracious hospitality that makes even the inimitible "Seattle-Casual" t-shirt and jeans crowd feel welcome.
Then there's the meat itself, the entire reason for The Metropolitan's existence and source of its reputation. You see it first: walking in you're confronted with a large glass display case containing huge, thick, pink cuts of corn-fed, 29 day dry-aged Angus beef dramatically draped across marble pedestals like a Tiffany's jewelry display. And considering their cost, it's not an inappropriate simile. But as they say, "If you have to ask, 'how much?' you can't afford it". Still, I defy anyone who's ever had a slice of meat in their mouth to resist a Pavlovian drool response at the merest sight of these beauties.
As I said, service is the name of the game here, and you get it in spades. From the tuxedo-clad Maitre d' who escorts you to your cozy mahogany-and-brass accented booth to the expert, efficient and thoroughly entertaining servers (Charles, our waiter that evening being a prime example) whisking through the busy dining room with the effortless grace of ballet dancers, right down to the bus boys who always seem to be topping off your water glass at just the right moment, every effort is made to ensure your money (or your company's as is frequently the case) is well spent.
Needless to say, the food itself is exceptional. Although The Metropolitan does make a few obligatory nods to our local penchant for seafood, you hardly ever see anyone actually ordering it. Lisa opted for one of the specials, a 16-ounce Porterhouse with an accompanying stack of short-ribs (or "meat with a side of meat" as we coined it), while I ordered the Tenderloin Medallions "Oscar style" (wherein the steak is topped with blanched asparagus, crab meat, and covered in Bernaise sauce - I'll bet you can feel your arteries hardening at just the thought), both cooked to melt-in-your-mouth perfection over a high-heat mesquite grill, and accompanied by a generous portion of the most heavenly garlic mashed potatoes on the planet. Sides are extra, but the aforementioned asparagus & bernaise or the creamed spinach are must-haves. Dessert, if you can handle it (we couldn't) tends heavy toward the chocolate side, and of course they have one of the widest selections of single-malt scotches & small-batch bourbons in the city. Cigars are to be had for those who wish to complete their repast in the style of the little banker character from "Monopoly", serenely puffing away whilst sitting atop a King Sized bed pile of money - most of which will have changed hands from you to the owners by the time you reach this point in your evening
Is it worth it? You betcha. But, you might want to fill up on the leafy greens for a few days afterward, just to get your G-I system back in balance.
Being a dedicated meat-eater doesn't always mean spending like one, however. Our latest excursion this past Sunday took us down to the edge of the International District where we discovered a surprisingly charming little Vietnamese restaurant, The Tamarind Tree, which despite being tucked into the back of a nondescript strip mall has quickly become one of Seattle's worst-kept culinary secrets if the preceding review, which seems fairly typical, is any indication. What drew us here, like dogs to a bone, was an item that goes by the enticing monnicker, "Seven Courses Of Beef", which for a mere $18.95 total included everything from beef salad (mostly cabbage, but with savory strips of meat mixed in), to beef cooked in a vinegar fondue, to the traditional beef-and-rice "congee" as a finisher.
Afterwards, feeling sufficiently sated, but not uncomfortably stuffed, we waddled around the corner to the Viet Wah Market to assuage our meat feast with copious quantities of fresh green beans, Japanese eggplant, mushrooms and okra, all intended for later consumption, of course. Hey, I don't hate vegetables -- I just think they should be accompanied by lots and lots of juicy dead animal flesh. Because, as they say, "Man Does Not Live By Beef Alone", not even us dedicated carnivores.
Suddenly realized today that I'd replaced my damaged phone, but hadn't re-input the address to my moblog address, so consider this a test...
And In case you were wondering about my little obsession: The large "2001" is from the lower part of a French 1-sheet poster repro I bought at the Paris Expo; the album on the lower left is the first stereo pressing (for you audiophiles: MGM, 1968 SIE-13-ST S1 MGS 1460 - plus I've got an SIE-13-ST-X, a slightly later pressing done in the fall of 1968 for trade); the book at lower center is a First Edition Clarke/Kubrick, but it was a library copy, so it's not in great shape; and the book lower right is a First Edition Bizony. I also have a lead on an 1967 Cinerama program - the owner is only asking $30, and nobody else has jumped on it in the past couple of weeks, so I just have to hope it's still there when I get my mid-month paycheck.
Oh, the Pan Am flight bag lower center I bought off a vendor at the Fremont Sunday Market this past weekend for $5. She thought it was a little weird that I wanted to pay money for the bag in which she kept all her other plastic baggies. I didn't even bother to try to explain the significance. Hopefully, I don't need to explain it to any of you either.
Spent the afternoon giving the site a little makeover. Besides the obvious changes, I also managed to clean up a few little glitchy things most of you probably never noticed, but which have been bothering me for some time. Hopefully, it will still be readable, but if you have any suggestions, comments, kudos or I suppose complaints, send me an email.
You want a piece of my heart You better start from start
Well, first week is in the bag -- in this case a bank deposit bag dropped off at a local WaMu at around 4:50 this evening, after first tossing the evening's mail run into a bin at the Wallingford Post Office.
I survived the week - not that there was any real doubt, but what with it being the first week and all, and my boss gone for two out of the five days, and immediately finding myself at the vortextual center of a clash of personalities between the Person Who Used To Do My Job (PWUTDMY) and Person Who Does The Other Job In My Office (PWDTOJIMO), AND learning all about QuickBooks and an arcane database called AICE (an acronym the meaning of which is still unknown to me) that contains all our member records, AND trying to organize -- make that re-organize my office, AND all the wonderful emails from well-wishers to which I've tried to respond, ANNNNNNNND the several calls relating to my OTHER union representation, AAAAAAAAANNNNNDDDDD signing up my first new member (thanks Kady!) -- well, needless to say, I'm glad to have made it to Friday.
On the plus side, I got a really nice paycheck for all that. Most of which I probably won't even have to spend on bills and car registration and such.
Now, I just have to again get used to only having two days to accomplish all the other things in my life that need to get done...
So, I get up at the crack o' 7:30 this a.m. to head down to the temp gig, and manage to get there about 15 minutes early. The very nice receptionist lady gives me a key card, and then points me in the direction of the coffee station while I'm waiting for the H.R. person who's supposed to meet me and escort me to where I'm going to be working.
After about 20 minutes he finally shows up.
"Um, because you can only be here a couple of weeks, we've decided that we really need someone who can commit to the full term of the assignment. So, I'm afraid we really won't be needing you after all."
No problem, thinks I, I'll just head back home.
"But, since you had to come all the way down here, we'll pay you for the day."
Go figure. One of my temp agencies just called with an assignment. I gave them the news about the job (see below), but they're desperate and threw in a $1 an hour raise just to get me to commit for a week until they can plug someone else into the slot.
Had a great first interview with the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation yesterday afternoon. Ironically, two of the three temp agencies I'm signed up with wanted to send me to interview for the same position, but even if I don't get this one (a three to six month assignment), there are two more similar positions available that I might get a shot at.
Last night my bus was broken into - again - while attending a charity event; this time they smashed out the right front wing window, stole some CD's (which for whatever good it's worth I had already backed up to MP3 files in light of previous break-ins), tore the CD player out of the dashboard, and generally made a big ole' mess of the interior. This morning I drove it to an auto glass shop, but due to the age of the vehicle, they can't just replace the glass, but need to R&R the entire wing window assembly, which unfortunately is no longer available after-market. Managed to track down a used unit, which I'll pick up tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm having a car alarm system installed; after two breakins and a significant amount of body damage inflicted on my vehicle in less than six months, I figure it's time to bite the bullet and make the investment. This IS why we own credit cards, right?
Finally, just got a call for a second interview on the AFTRA job, scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
So, maybe I'll soon be able to afford all these darned car repairs...
Is He Strong? Listen Bud, He's Got Radioactive Blood
(Sent via Moblog)
This little guy (or gal, hard to tell) hitched a ride on the spare tire attached to the front of my bus. (S)he's about 1/3 of an inch across, so this is a pretty phenomenal accomplishment considering I just now got back from driving around town running some errands.
Discovery had a flawless liftoff from Pad 39B at Kennedy Space Center, clearing the launch tower at 10:39 EDT this morning. The seven members of the STS 114 crew will spend the next two days checking out shuttle systems and practicing experimental repair techniques that are intended to prevent an accident similar to the one that doomed the crew of Columbia two and a-half years ago. On Thursday they'll dock with the International Space Station, bringing much needed supplies and spare parts, then return to earth on August 7th.
Normally, I don't get all gushy about music and such, but for the past several weeks I've had one CD basically on "continuous play mode" in every musical playback device I own (which, surprisingly, is actually quite a few):
Don't let the title of this solo debut album by Chicagoan-by-way-of-Florida musical nerd Devin Davis fool you into a false sense of expectation for some maudlin, cryin' in the basement sort of musical downer; quite the contrary. From the jaunty, surreal juxtoposition of Social Realism meets "The Music Man" pop references on the cover to the exquisitely crafted paeans to '70's power pop anthems contained beneath it, Davis nails the concept of the One Man Band for the 21st Century.
After spending more than two years literally single-handedly laying down all but a mere three instruments on the eleven tracks of this album, sleeping on sofas at the recording studio where he worked in order to be able to snatch the odd few minutes of unused session time, and honing each number down to a glittering diamond of musical and lyrical precision, Davis has crafted music that is so infectiously upbeat and optimistic as to make even the most hardened, jaded cynic jerk in surprise at the sheer exhuberant toe-tappingness of it all. Simply put, it's an entire album's worth of Summer Hits, all rolled into one meticuluously assembled, lovingly nurtured, ruthlessly edited, and irressistibly joyful package.
For all his single-minded sense of purpose, Davis' accomplishment could easily be pointing to both the future of independent music and the future of independent artists in general. Today, anyone can record their own CD, shoot their own film, stage their own play. Individual artists, compelled not by fame or fortune, but by the unsuppressible urge to create are out there utilizing every erg of energy, skill and technology at their disposal and pouring it into their vision. And with the confluence of a ready-made communication and distribution system, now anyone with a will has the ability to share their work with literally billions of potential purchasers. It's the Free Market without the middleman; producers selling directly to consumers, and Davis could become one of the first true breakout artists to owe their success directly to the New Medium.
Apparently, this CD has been slowly garnering both popular and critical praise all over the InterWeb, but even if Davis turns out to be a one-hit wonder (and one hopes for all our sake's that's not the case), then he - and we - can still be cheered by the thought that for the Summer of '05 at least, all the lonely people of the world knew where they all belonged.
And that's a very good thing to know.
(MP3 samples from the album can be downloaded from here)
Another reason to commemorate today: 36 years ago, two American astronauts, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin first set foot on the surface of another world. Their feat opened a new door of discovery, the first small steps away from our tiny little world, and into the vast frontier of the cosmos.
I just hope get to see us take the second step, and perhaps even the third. It would be good to live long enough to know we've really learned to walk.
Veteran character actor James Doohan died early this morning at his home in Redmond, WA, where he'd resided for the past dozen years. He'd been suffering from Parkinson's and Alzheimer's for several years, and except for a few brief appearances had been pretty much out of the public limelight for most of that time.
Doohan was always a sort of inspiration and role-model for me as a performer; the consumate character actor, he had a long and distinguished career in television and film dating back to the early 1950's. You could be watching some old rerun of "Gunsmoke" or "The Man From UNCLE" or "The Outer Limits" on late-night TV, and suddenly there he'd pop up, usually in some thickly-accented supporting role (he was a master dialectician, something for which I have a personal affinity), pulling yoeman's duty backing up the series lead.
Even in his most famous role, the irrascible Chief Engineer Montgomery (his actual middle name) Scott on the original "Star Trek" series from the 1960's, he always played second or third fiddle to the show's leading-man trio, but as is typical for the seasoned character actor, he rarely called attention to himself at the expense of his fellow actors, which ironically granted him the freedom to deliver quirky performances that in their own way were as memorable as the stars he supported. After all, Bill Shatner's Captain Kirk, for all his bluster and bravado would have been literally "up shit creek" countless times if it hadn't been for the exertions of his in-house "miracle worker" constantly pulling his ass out of the fire at the very last second, and furthermore, letting his boss take most, if not all of the credit when it came time to hand out the medals or get the kiss from the busty alien babe.
That's the lot of the character actor, and it was Doohan's great good fortune to be one of the best, eternally underrated, yet always adding that little touch of color, the slight twist of humor, the subtle period to the exclamation point of a scene that made his work stand out, even when he was relegated to the background.
So, if you happen to have occasion, drink a toast to the passing of Jimmy Doohan, actor, and to his eternal alter-ego Montgomery Scott, miracle worker:
"Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive- To make three guineas do the work of five: Laugh in Misfortune's face-the beldam witch! Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich."
Everybody Talks About The Weather, But Only Those Mind-Controlling CIA Satellites Do Anything About It
Overheard on the #2 bus to downtown this morning (and only slightly paraphrased):
A man and woman sitting across from me: she of the three-inch long neon green fingernails and highlighter-yellow-with-color-coordinated-green-stripes jogging suit ensemble; he of the scruffy, but otherwise clean not-quite-sure-if-he's-a-homeless-guy variety.
HE: Sure is humid!
SHE: We've had horrible weather this summer!
HE: Yeah, usually it starts getting real nice after 4th of July, but this year --
SHE: I heard those space guys crashed a satellite into a meteor or something, that's what's causing it.
HE: The weather always goes haywire when they shoot one of those things up.
SHE: They shouldn't be messing around like that - they don't know what they're doing!
HE: I heard they've got machines up there to change the weather. That's what's causing all this global warming.
SHE: All those satellites crashing into things - who knows what they're doing to us!
HE: Yeah, you'd think they could at least tell us about it.
Waking up to the radio headlines yesterday morning brought that sickening sense of deja vu -- we've all been through this before, as unfortunately, have the people of London. As terrible and tragic and senseless and cowardly as these actions were, as many lives have been cut short, ruined or traumatized, at least there's some small solace in the knowledge that Londoners are a hardy, resilient people; they've survived the Bubonic Plague, The Blitz, The IRA, and the Thatcher Regime, just to name a few, and they'll survive this too.
Just received notice a few moments ago that my temp assignment will be ending the middle of next week. Things evidentally get pretty slow around here in the summer, and although the person I've been supporting is going on a month's vacation, the owner also just hired a new research assistant who will be picking up the slack. So, it's back on the hustings again, with resultant severely reduced income for the short-term, which is problematic as my cash reserves are dwindling - the $300 worth of auto body work I had to pay for last month not helping matters. Guess that means boat repairs are going to be put off -- again, and if things don't turn around within the next month, putting her up for sale may become a necessity.
In slightly better news, I do have at least one promising interview on the 18th with the local office of the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists (AFTRA), the broadcast and commercial performers union, for a position as their business affairs manager & assistant to their executive director. I think I've got a good shot at it, and it would pay something close to my former position. Keep your fingers crossed.
We got The Show up on its feet last night, and so the extra-curricular portion of my life will be winding down, along with the workaday side; still things to do, but the constant deadline pressure is gone, as is my ongoing struggle to get people to turn things in to me in a timely fashion. The show could use a teensy bit of settling, but otherwise its quite enjoyable, although if you're planning to see it, I highly recommend bringing an extra seat cushion, along with bottled water.
You can go to these links to see some of the results of my efforts:
From here on out, it's a matter of selling the show with the (presumably) positive reviews that will be out next week, promoting the Gala event, dealing with a possible extension, and generally trying to get paying customers in the seats.
It's been a rewarding experience, a real stretch for me, and one wherein by all accounts, based on the incredibly generous feedback I've received, my efforts have been been greatly appreciated. Who knows? Maybe it's a completely different direction to pursue.
And Now For Something Completely Different -
Playing (With A) Possum
Finally, this amusing little anecdote: I got to bed way past my bedtime last night, due to post-opening performance celebrations, and was quite rudely awakened at about 4:30 this morning by both of my cats engaging in (for them) an uncharacteristic pre-dawn hissy fit. Keep in mind, my cats have never gotten along; 15 years together and they still act like that old, bickering couple from down the block, the ones whom you can't ever quite figure out why they got together in the first place, only in the case of these two they really didn't have any choice in the matter.
So, they've started in with the hissing and the whining -- you know the sound, that low, sustained growl that communicates in no uncertain terms, "BACK OFF!". Usually, I just thrust out with a foot beneath the covers in hopes of startling one of them into jumping off the bed and thus quelling the argument. For once, this didn't have the intended effect. In fact, one was still on the bed, but now I could clearly discern the other was under the bed, yowling unabated, ergo they aren't yowling at each other.
Then I remembered I'd left the kitchen door open before going to bed. It had been cool outside, and when I had gotten home, both cats had immediately leapt through the door for some nocturnal adventures practically before I could get it open, and I hadn't felt like waiting up for their return, just to close it.
So, the first thought that burbled into my sleep-addled brain was, there's another cat in the apartment. On rare occasions one of my upstairs neighbors' cats have ventured inside my abode, willfully ignoring the old saw about curiosity and what it does to cats, and so my assumption was this was probably causing the ruckus. Reluctantly I got up, switched on the lights, and performed a cursory inspection, but no intruder was to be found. Still, the agitated caterwauling continued, and it took me a minute to realize their ire was being directed at something still underneath the bed. I grabbed a flashlight, moved a couple of boxes aside, and sure enough I could finally see the culprit: a fair sized native North American marsupial, cowering in the far corner, grinning its rictus-like "Nightmare Before Christmas" grin, its pink rat-tail stretched out like a wire, grey fur puffed out so that it looked like one of those fuzzy things you use to dust behind furniture.
Okaaaaay - there's an opposum under my bed. No big deal. It didn't appear rabid, just frightened, and not inclined to make a run for it with two angry felines at the ready and a large hominid blinding it to boot. Still, I couldn't just leave the thing there, so I needed a plan to extricate it. I grabbed a broom, moved a few more boxes, tried to corral the cats out of the way on top of the bed, and began a systematic sweeping to pursuade the critter to vacate its current sanctuary, which after several well-placed swats it did, having decided that taking its chances out in the open was probably better than continuing to get whacked with the broom bristles.
Out it scooted, blindly careening across the kitchen floor, bouncing off furniture and mop boards and recycling bins like a furry pink pinball, until it finally managed to escape to the relative safety of the great out-of-doors.
Problem solved. Back to sleep. But not before making a mental note to self:
Next time the cats are out when it's time for bed, they takes their chances on Mr. Opposum's home turf.
I know, I know. Blogging of late has been slight-to-nonexistent, and those of you (all three) out there in cyberland who have been severely deprived of your "what's Chris up to now?" fix just want to know what the heck that's all about.
Truth be told, there hasn't been all that much of interest to report, and I hate to be one of those sad, sad bloggers who feels compelled to write about each and every single mundane, banal or otherwise important-only-to-me episode merely as an exercise in wasting someone else's valuable bandwidth.
Besides, now that it's officially Summer, which means that anybody in this neck of the woods with any real sense is outside trying to accumulate 12 months worth of Vitamin D production in the next eight weeks or so.
But, in case you were wondering, here's what I've been up to:
Publicity for The Show is coming along rather well; I've managed to nail down four preview articles, including three of the four major dailies/weeklies, which I'm being told is the best response they've had to-date for pre-opening publicity. We managed to secure a commitment from our local Congressional Representative to be the guest speaker for the closing Gala event, which should be a good draw. Programs are nearly done; PR packets in the offing, and cast hospitality still to go. I have to keep reminding myself that just because the show opens in a week, doesn't mean my job is necessarily done -- have to get those butts in the seats for all four weeks after all.
Domestically, my teensy garden plot is growing like mad. The cillantro, basil & oregano are already big enough to allow for minimal harvesting and the peppers are beginning to sprout flowers, so if my friends come through again with their usual annual massive tomato harvest, much salsa-making shall ensue.
Still no full-time job, but I haven't stopped looking. There are prospects "in the pipeline" as they say, but none of them seem to be in any sort of hurry to get through the initial weeding-out process and into the first-round interviews.
This being summer in Seattle, it's a time of nearly non-stop festivals: the Fremont Solstice Festival was a couple of weekends ago, last weekend was the annual Utilikilts bar-b-que, plus my friends in "Awesome" did a private gig in the converted garage space of another set of mutual friends, and then to top off Saturday, my upstairs neighbors held a little soiree in honor of local filmmaker Jill Freidberg ("This Is What Democracy Looks Like"), who's just completed a new documentary on the decades-long teacher's strike in Mexico. The film showed at our own little neighborhood movie theatre, the Central Cinema where they had to add an extra late-night showing to accomodate the crowds wanting to get in. And that wall all just in one day!
This weekend, being our Nation's Birthday, there are of course many other fests in the works: the annual Festival of Wooden Boats over in my aquatic stomping grounds of South Lake Union, plus the Tall Ships regatta down in Tacoma (which was held on SLU in 2003), and our annual competing fireworks displays on Lake Union and the Seattle waterfront. And this doesn't even include the kickoff to our month-long SeaFair Celebration, the annual Milk Carton Derby at Greenlake (this year conspicuously NOT sponsored by my former employer).
And in two weeks I'll trek down south to PDX for my Grandmother's 90th birthday and a mini family reunion, then the following weekend it's the second weekend of 14/48: The World's Quickest Theatre Festival, at our new location on Capitol Hill (coincidentally, still conveniently located within walking distance of my current abode), where I'll be manning the grills again among other duties.
That all ought to keep me busy and out of trouble for the next several weeks, so now that you're up-to-date, you'll know why you probably won't hear much from me in the meantime.
(Sent via moblog)
(Sent via moblog)
Buzz Aldrin On The Moon, July 20, 1969 (Image Credit: 
James Doohan (1920 - 2005)
