tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-211791582024-03-07T20:18:24.703-08:00SporksforallSporksforall writes about the both and. Fork? Spoon? Foon?
Spork.sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.comBlogger295125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-29201420182975454702013-10-27T18:27:00.001-07:002013-10-27T18:27:19.353-07:00A wilderness of internal combustion<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">
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<i>1982</i></div>
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The story starts, as it must, with a malaise era General Motors product. Called by some the <a href="http://www.thetruthaboutcars.com/2010/12/curbside-classic-1980-chevrolet-citation-gms-deadliest-sin-ever/" target="_blank">worst car produced in the last half of the twentieth century,</a> my first car was a 1980 Chevrolet Citation. Mine was silver with a burgundy interior and an AM/FM radio. Bench seats, column automatic shift. It had two keys, because GM couldn't be bothered to re-machine such that the door keys and the ignition keys were the same.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Purchased a new, it was from a Chevrolet dealer on West Ponce de Leon in Decatur, Georgia. ("Pawnse," please, not "Pohnsay.") Whitewall tires. I wrecked it not long after I got it. Badly. Then again a bit later. A terrible car made worse.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoG9vGJ7WJkUca0xHJK_nNR3OXR7O9GmqRjCKrS8mGjw9FxV-xeCRuNtrIxarYj-kVY6ooUF2dzgyyb6r9Qd8qXW3iHpQhjaVE4rggjrKiG5cnYjVGZo22ZKG7rkLsSUXaWjXr/s1600/chevrolet-citation-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoG9vGJ7WJkUca0xHJK_nNR3OXR7O9GmqRjCKrS8mGjw9FxV-xeCRuNtrIxarYj-kVY6ooUF2dzgyyb6r9Qd8qXW3iHpQhjaVE4rggjrKiG5cnYjVGZo22ZKG7rkLsSUXaWjXr/s320/chevrolet-citation-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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1980 Chevy Citation;</div>
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Or the beginning of the journey</div>
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(Not the actual car or color)</div>
<br />
<br />
<i>2013</i><br />
The floaty Enterprise rental Dodge Avenger pillows it's way down the
101. I switch from NPR to K-EARTH 101 "Los Anngeeless."
I've just picked the Avenger up from the BMW dealer. The new/used
BMW I bought a week ago sits in the shop for the second time in four days.
Its USB port doesn't work. I need podcasts. Desperately.
Without it, I can't bring myself to sort out anything but NPR and
K-EARTH. The greatest hits of the 60s, 70s, and 80s. "I miss
the earth so much. I miss my wife..."<o:p></o:p></div>
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I grip the Dodge's nylon wheel. It shifts slightly side to
side. I hardly feel it. I pilot it into a barely adequate space in
my work parking lot. I remember that Enterprise guy said that anything
smaller than a golf ball sized dent is fine. I don’t worry about it being
squeezed between a truck and a minivan on the far side of the parking lot where
the last of the earthquake trailers still hulk 19 years after the quake.
Not a good "MINI space" as my honey calls them. Those are
end spaces where her hot little coupe won't get dinged. The Avenger is
afforded no such love. I lock it and don't look back as I walk away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I hope in my deepest heart that the return of the Dodge to
Enterprise within the next seventy-two hours will end my wandering in the car
wilderness, at least for a while. It's been a long journey. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Later that morning, I'm sitting across from the dean of sciences in
a meeting. He does his own mechanic
work. When I torpedoed my Saturn Vue in 2006, he asked why in a way that
made me feel like I had been hasty and was being judged. I made some noise
about mechanical issues. There wasn't anything wrong with the Saturn
mechanically. It was just a big plastic mess with uncomfortable seats.
Its best feature was the ability to throw my bicycles in its gaping rear. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>2007</i><br />
I swapped the Vue for a Toyota FJ, which had the same bike benefit.
The FJ had two faults. Suicide doors made rear seat ingress
difficult. Like push up on your mother's butt difficult. Egress was
fine. Gravity helps you fall out of any SUV. The FJ also featured
the box of death. Open both front and rear doors and you were trapped by
the car next to you. On the upside it was a giant box that looked like a
Tonka truck.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It also got poor gas mileage. And I owned it when gas prices
jumped. So I bought a scooter for too much money. I
sold the scooter at a loss when I realized I had to talk myself into riding it.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFjW64xCQWUWjRbz1UjnbagXXlycj9d6kSpSXlrsFN9JLSKRsGzvInqBiPULjuRZUjD7Ha2nhL5pEzjg33hn1niztTIEbhv05TNcr2942j51V4D6A7wxpeQMjb6TeRTmeoQXOJ/s1600/fj1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFjW64xCQWUWjRbz1UjnbagXXlycj9d6kSpSXlrsFN9JLSKRsGzvInqBiPULjuRZUjD7Ha2nhL5pEzjg33hn1niztTIEbhv05TNcr2942j51V4D6A7wxpeQMjb6TeRTmeoQXOJ/s320/fj1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(Actual FJ in question)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_y9V4eG9m_4COehSf88kVZ-uJmvIDwIyGmqj898qskkJM2b28d4rrQ0qz6Lw1M70j7tpMKhtxLbljvUe2C6lL8su6oKuSgqXN3h_43mD2jUux3iLYshRfz5SZUGORXdkbdR4/s1600/wilderness1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_y9V4eG9m_4COehSf88kVZ-uJmvIDwIyGmqj898qskkJM2b28d4rrQ0qz6Lw1M70j7tpMKhtxLbljvUe2C6lL8su6oKuSgqXN3h_43mD2jUux3iLYshRfz5SZUGORXdkbdR4/s320/wilderness1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's a wilderness with machines of internal combustion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWk985tiEOpN7qKeQykuLlKIT_SIP-sYVrW4L-QGqVcf8H3QFcu6fXmxohmby_dp46-VZwxK0B_hxA5VCpYp-AqF_t-SsA4iSbDAEKDGTJbAoPqCtfeypmM3EBxIhtI5Sy0FOk/s1600/1984+Datsun-Nissan+Sentra+Sedan.+-+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWk985tiEOpN7qKeQykuLlKIT_SIP-sYVrW4L-QGqVcf8H3QFcu6fXmxohmby_dp46-VZwxK0B_hxA5VCpYp-AqF_t-SsA4iSbDAEKDGTJbAoPqCtfeypmM3EBxIhtI5Sy0FOk/s320/1984+Datsun-Nissan+Sentra+Sedan.+-+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(Not actual Sentra)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>1988</i><br />
One college 23rd of December, I was traveling south on I-85.
The car started putting. It finally died right outside Durham North
Carolina. Family friends, a nice tow driver, a Pep Boys open on Christmas
Eve, and a new alternator later, I was back on the road. Upon arrival
home, the now revived Datsun (Nissan) Sentra was no longer trusted by parents.
A new car was to be found. <br />
<br />
A teal Plymouth Colt E. The E is
awesome. It includes a light bar and a 5 speed manual. I loop it around
and around the childhood block. Stalling the manual on the hill.
And stalling it on the hill. Until I get it. I head back to
DC and then skiing. The Colt does well. It goes through the snow, I
refill the washer fluid. Don't stall it often, even up the mountains of
the east. (Then I did not know about the
mountains of the west. Bumps, really,
those eastern ones. Rounds bumps).
Skiing goes fine. I fall a lot, but I have on plastic pants.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Colt is admirable. It starts. It runs. It has that light bar.
Friends buy them because they like mine.
It's solid. A couple of friends buy non-E Colts. They don’t
have the light bar. Or the fifth
gear. I feel superior. The teal is
so awesomely 80s. It's ok, though. It is the 80s. We are all
forgiven for being of the 80s in the 80s.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgADm-pdN1YaVSZvLYRxqDAK0ruX_cqTm344OHu0QV4SXWI2Af0pzNliMXlhKDrjGGDcQUy0OrN_ovWFrWdkzgX4T-DNuJt_ehe-6KfUZOuvTTyZorep8aU1nb3WqyoFC7Leb_g/s1600/colt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgADm-pdN1YaVSZvLYRxqDAK0ruX_cqTm344OHu0QV4SXWI2Af0pzNliMXlhKDrjGGDcQUy0OrN_ovWFrWdkzgX4T-DNuJt_ehe-6KfUZOuvTTyZorep8aU1nb3WqyoFC7Leb_g/s320/colt.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(Not actual Colt, but teal one)</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put a pro-choice sticker on it and some dodo at the Chrysler
dealer writes a hostile note. Then I'm offered a parental Camry.
Not offered. Insisted. And so the Colt it sold. A nice woman
who totaled her Colt buys mine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>1992</i><br />
The Camry accompanies me across the country east to west stuffed
full of stuff and a dog. Somewhere in West Texas, I am so hot I try to
fill up its freon at a service station. There's no loss of freon.
It's just that hot in West Texas. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyrSc_9DHRMLCWHex8l3J9Q73m4b5DdOPAoksWX9OfcWMpi5P95UDyjR5Fe4Sm_1ClWBmwiSIQnEYh8Mre-MIVVFrXUZyijT8ysHoqM2piKZmXUq5-VMUeDD-AmG46fDejk2ph/s1600/1987-Toyota-Camry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyrSc_9DHRMLCWHex8l3J9Q73m4b5DdOPAoksWX9OfcWMpi5P95UDyjR5Fe4Sm_1ClWBmwiSIQnEYh8Mre-MIVVFrXUZyijT8ysHoqM2piKZmXUq5-VMUeDD-AmG46fDejk2ph/s320/1987-Toyota-Camry.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(Not actual Camry, not baby shit brown)</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>2009</i><br />
Diesel! My friend Bryan wants a diesel VW. I have
misleading thoughts about the Passat that I let go some years before. I
loved the Passat, I think. I forget about the fuel pump. And the
phantom sunroof that opened and closed of its own accord. And the power mirrors that needed to be pulled up by hand. And and and.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'll order a diesel Golf from a sales dude on VW Vortex in the OC.
Light blue. My concern is the transmission. It's a six speed.
It makes me nervous. I ask the sales guy if I can drive a different
six speed to make sure. I don't know why I'm nervous. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
+ 1 = 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. How hard it that? One more gear.
Ratios a little different. Hand moves down and away from me for the
last shift instead of up and away from me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sales dude wheels around a 2010 GTI. It's black with a plaid
interior. Has a sunroof and the up stereo. I drive off with sales
dude. The turbo kicks in. I rev. He actually gasps a
little. I decide I’m in love. With the car, not sales dude.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I cancel the diesel. Buy the GTI. That one. A
black one. With the plaid. Sales dude offers me a solid offer on
the FJ. Sight unseen. What I don't know is that the FJ holds its
value better than any current car. The thing sits and looks like a Tonka
truck with its box of death and mother butt pushing back seat and makes money
every day relative to every other car. I hand over the keys and forget to
remove my UCLA plate surround. I still miss it. The surround.
The FJ I regret only because I should have made more money. Imagine, a used car that doesn’t lose money. I had no idea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I point the GTI up the 57 toward home. Halfway there and I am in a panic. I don't like the car. It's too small.
I can't get comfortable. Shit. I stop at Baja Fresh to get a
burrito. Think about telling honey. California has no cooling off
period. I've cooled off. And it's my car. So I'll not say
anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every day I get in the car. I wiggle around. The car is
super fun to drive. I look like a boy racer. The stereo is good.
The plaid is cool. Oh and it has electronic gremlins.
Volkswagen of Van Nuys gets to know me. I drive it to San Francisco
and enjoy it. I drive it to Denver. It's pleasant enough. I
tweak the seats. A couple of times I find the perfect setting for seats.
Then it has to go back to the shop because the gremlins ate some wire and
the dealership dudes mess up the seats. I can't get it back. It's like the shadows on the wall. I know the ideal exists, but just the right twist of the
wrist eludes me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then it starts to backfire. VW fixes something in the exhaust.
36 hours after that, it backfires again and starts spewing smoke. A
cyclist waves his hand in front of his face as if I want the smoke to pour out
and choke him. VW has it multiple days. Doesn't offer a loaner.
Charges me the extended warranty deductible. Says the fuel
injectors aren't part of the powertrain. The car has no power when two of
them go out. But it's not powertrain. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ3UVCoM_oLwUgvg5Av9pQj-j8Dup4vVMQTXpzqoVGYv2DE3mKyyl4O5wKnT67-mlCBCK61MxsmFHfNlvwOKBOZRM156eiTkXrEqjbZBvMHtoQATrV6tsluj_DmcAK7vIymnEb/s1600/gti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ3UVCoM_oLwUgvg5Av9pQj-j8Dup4vVMQTXpzqoVGYv2DE3mKyyl4O5wKnT67-mlCBCK61MxsmFHfNlvwOKBOZRM156eiTkXrEqjbZBvMHtoQATrV6tsluj_DmcAK7vIymnEb/s320/gti.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(Actual GTI. Proof? Actual writer in picture)</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>2012</i><br />
I text my friend Irene. She works for Honda. We talk car
choices. Honey says I should lease. I'm a car swinger she says.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A lease! A lease. The GTI must go away. That I
know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don't trust it. The seat seems worse than ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>1993</i><br />
The baby shit colored Camry was hot in West Texas. One
Friday I was reading the paper and looking at the car ads. There's a
"special" Toyota Paseo at Santa Monica Toyota. I go look at it.
Commit to buy. It's teal. In the 90s that's much less defensible.
Much. But I still miss the Colt. The dog is a basenji.
I got her because my first basenji died while I was in college. I
am making up. My dad was the catalyst for the dog going; my mom for the
car. I'm driving down Wilshire. The dog's hair is getting in the
upholstery. I start yelling at her. Why am I yelling at the dog for
having hair? She's a dog. They have hair. I'm young and on
the wrong coast and pre-adult therapy. So, I say now to the universe: I'm
sorry I yelled at her. I'm sorry I exacerbated her neuroses. It's a
good thing I don't have kids. They have hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I keep the Paseo for a good long time. It gives me little
trouble. It stays teal the whole time.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIx03_h8G4IXK529aMutS_iG2hbFqjZzJEAODc1gHi7ZlaNItasZ9rTChKeL5zl8B3KxAmDqH2dfxoV5Q8B-N9tnCZi7LiFh5cEMw6hICmtZc2FLwROsFrcoul9Megih5l3lSB/s1600/f6457-toyota-paseo-1993-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIx03_h8G4IXK529aMutS_iG2hbFqjZzJEAODc1gHi7ZlaNItasZ9rTChKeL5zl8B3KxAmDqH2dfxoV5Q8B-N9tnCZi7LiFh5cEMw6hICmtZc2FLwROsFrcoul9Megih5l3lSB/s320/f6457-toyota-paseo-1993-4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(Not actual Paseo. Teal, though)</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>1998</i><br />
I trade the Paseo for the vaunted Passat. The undeservingly vaunted
Passat. Honey sees the Paseo shortly after I trade it. It has on a
car bra. The Paseo has a name. We starts calling out, "Patty
with a bra on" in plaintive ways. I never see Patty again, though.
Bra or no.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>2002</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Passat was the Colt redux. I loved it. And then a parental Audi was on offer. And so I sold it to a nice musician guy who got a
bunch of parking tickets after he got it. The Audi arrived on a truck
from Chicago. The truck driver parked in the Norm's parking lot where the
pumpkin patch and tree farm live during the fall and winter. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs0FH7OdZt3BvwIbaFRbLR5bMIpVR6N-iEJ-9aI-njZ4R8VO0HPGfgSj2gSPB3vZFTDnBWmbYxtIJaWPsd1NWhoetb-F1e6wGkb9YdTDM2KSFF6T0MeIq4XSR3COSZ1ro2gDwB/s1600/passat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs0FH7OdZt3BvwIbaFRbLR5bMIpVR6N-iEJ-9aI-njZ4R8VO0HPGfgSj2gSPB3vZFTDnBWmbYxtIJaWPsd1NWhoetb-F1e6wGkb9YdTDM2KSFF6T0MeIq4XSR3COSZ1ro2gDwB/s320/passat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(Not actual Passat. Correct color)</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fuel pumps. Timing belts. It was fabulously black and
leathery. A car that wasn't mine, but was mine. A truck with frozen
things (not cars) hits it in the McDonalds parking lot. I shouldn't have
been at McDonalds. I missed teaching class. I never got my
McMuffin. I've not had one since.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I had a fight with Audi about the fuel pump, arguing that I had
already replaced it. I hadn't. I had replaced the one in the
Passat. The Volkswagen/Audi group products all ran together in my mind.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vcj9s_nfSAT6i32996MRU4vpfhouob_rBxrtnFRTtN6XdDrjK7k3o378NLH6k2_GPgbIBvQSCBAlv8gGDQKSKqqUjtR_nbCAJ6Le4MlzUcFh1NgFE1ST3FdtC5wyBnx_2g-9/s1600/audi-a6-howell-nj_32117_3623_9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vcj9s_nfSAT6i32996MRU4vpfhouob_rBxrtnFRTtN6XdDrjK7k3o378NLH6k2_GPgbIBvQSCBAlv8gGDQKSKqqUjtR_nbCAJ6Le4MlzUcFh1NgFE1ST3FdtC5wyBnx_2g-9/s320/audi-a6-howell-nj_32117_3623_9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(Not actual Audi)</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>2003</i><br />
Honey bought a Saturn. A few months later, I did too. A
big blue plastic piece of shit. It won't be the last time I slink down
the car buying road after honey.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKxE0MvPxEWcgagnFgXJbHuO_3zVvyqUPF56S06QOJQta7eDF3-IImVdVZnmsOZ7IGqAxrv4S-ToJ2Vf-KDAhlEZfBtP0SiCYpSYbrFIIV9_xmPlt90cZzccUoDFNp0AOM2EQ/s1600/vue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKxE0MvPxEWcgagnFgXJbHuO_3zVvyqUPF56S06QOJQta7eDF3-IImVdVZnmsOZ7IGqAxrv4S-ToJ2Vf-KDAhlEZfBtP0SiCYpSYbrFIIV9_xmPlt90cZzccUoDFNp0AOM2EQ/s320/vue.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(Not actual Vue. Horrifying blue is accurate.)</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm a good public speaker. I'm persuasive. I can sort
out the reason to buy any car any time I want. There is no authenticity
to it. It's paper mâché King Tut's tomb at the Luxor in Las Vegas.
Chicken wire and paste painted gold. A big blue plastic car.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>2012</i><br />
I pull the GTI into the BMW/MINI dealer. They've got a lease
offer on a Countryman--the big MINI which honey calls a
"medium." I like the way it drives. The front seats are
comfortable. The "utility" of the vehicle is suspect.
It's got a rail running down the center. When you fold down the
seats, there's no utility. The one on offer is a weird pukey brown color.
I drag Honey next door after to look at an Acura.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The website said they had manual TSXs in red and white. The
white one is gone. Traded away. They bring up the red one.
It's dirty. Slicky smelly salesdude won't shut up about how much he
loves his TSX. I ask questions he can't answer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He answers by talking more about his car. I ask another
question. He can't answer it either.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We get back to the dealership and he gets out the <a href="http://www.edmunds.com/car-loan/four-square-basics.html" target="_blank">four-square shee</a>t.
Just a car tip from someone who has bought too many: if someone brings
out a four square sheet, leave. Quickly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We leave. Manager follows us and asks what's wrong. I
tell him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unbelievably, I lease the car anyway. Why? I don't know.
Honda friend maybe. The seats are comfortable. Car online
boards like this car.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's a Honda, I think. No black smoke will pour forth from it.
It will last forever. Except that it's a lease, so that doesn't
matter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Honey wants me to keep looking. I don't. I lease the red
one. I don't like red cars. It's got a great transmission.
The seats are comfortable. The stereo works well. Not as well
as the veedub's. I settle in for my 36 months.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6CrY6ZLj4Myrg2Z1YTfwTs4No_YcksScdd4LRjq6dCV1JoCB53eHxoNkrnj9VD8lfy13lJFB4KGF1BchKyesCe-yI8wYS3nEN4dsBkfQzTd_Ta1e6UxkvvdXSEww-7sxqaOE/s1600/acura.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6CrY6ZLj4Myrg2Z1YTfwTs4No_YcksScdd4LRjq6dCV1JoCB53eHxoNkrnj9VD8lfy13lJFB4KGF1BchKyesCe-yI8wYS3nEN4dsBkfQzTd_Ta1e6UxkvvdXSEww-7sxqaOE/s320/acura.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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(Actual TSX. So very red. At old house.)</div>
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<i>2011</i><br />
When Honey was unemployed, after the bad times and during the
emergence to better, her orange Saturn started whining. It was the
transmission. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Unbeknownst to us, GM knew about the problem. Settled.
Then declared bankruptcy. Now, post bankruptcy, we could pay
to get the diagnosis that the transmission didn't work. The not working
wasn't enough. We had to pay to prove it. Then we could buy a
Cruze. Honey drives one. The manual is terrible. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We almost buy a Kia. We go in to buy it. And there's no
one there. Literally. The Subaru dealer next door has a hostile
attitude about it. Lonely Kias sit
unbought.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We leave. Another day we might buy a Kia. Or not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then, while Honey is making salad, I find a brown MINI Cooper.
It has one feature--brownness. That's a $500 up charge. We
buy it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiptc-XUugBxqGl3Sai30rxDKePdJFoG-HxAWMKyOYJeoR5bWACIHYqdV0jJwWRmr6EMebRMd_Zq5tNcEPvV2zEmRAyQ8lEsMw69aWwH9eBgnsp5p1-G-V1RP0xrDcfQOHWEoBB/s1600/mini2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiptc-XUugBxqGl3Sai30rxDKePdJFoG-HxAWMKyOYJeoR5bWACIHYqdV0jJwWRmr6EMebRMd_Zq5tNcEPvV2zEmRAyQ8lEsMw69aWwH9eBgnsp5p1-G-V1RP0xrDcfQOHWEoBB/s320/mini2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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(Actual brown MINI)</div>
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It's a nice little car. Anemic--with great gas mileage--and
the stereo is terrible. <o:p></o:p></div>
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MINI comes out with the coupe. Honey loves the coupe.
I try to get her to buy it once she has a job. She
won't.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We move. Make money on the house. We tuck into buying. A
tv. A sound bar to go with it. A black box that does digital music.
Another black box that hold the music. Speakers. A new amp.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>2013</i><br />
The Cooper's battery dies. Honey test drives (at my very
strong urging) a demo coupe. They're going to stop making them. It
has everything. Up stereo. Auto fold mirrors. Heated seats.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She buys it.<o:p></o:p><br />
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(Actual MINI Coupe and actual TSX. Note that TSX is not less red at new house)</div>
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I start looking at whether I can get out of my lease. Why?
I don't know. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I find a BMW at Carmax. It ticks all my boxes. Good color.
Manual. Leather. Sportline. Low mileage. $17k
less than new.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I make charts. Cars I've owned. Stuff I've collected.
Money thrown into a hole. Darkness and self-doubt filled with
stupid stuff. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Honey calls me a car swinger. She's right. Less than
three years is my average. Even with the Paseo (5+ years) and the Audi (less
than one) thrown out. After I share it with Honey, she asks. What
does this mean? Do you want the BMW or not? I don't know. I
do know that for the first time ever, my excitement is there, but not out of
control. That rush of excitement. It's bad for my brain. I
don't feel that way now. I feel like I may have found the right car.
Great to drive. Carries four people. Not brand new, so
that if there's a little scratch, I'll be ok.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I've told my therapist that I wanted to buy a new car. Then I
told her that I won't. So now I'm worried about showing up with it.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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A switch in my brain flips. I unsubscribe from all my online
shoppings. All of them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I promise Honey to be more responsible. I put more money into
the joint account. Pay my therapist more. Feel bad about not paying
her more for a bit. We pay off my Amex. I cancel one Amex.
Get a Visa instead. It's still not activated. That's good, I
think.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm not 100%. I back two (three?) more Kickstarters. I return some stuff to The
Clymb. They don't do refunds. Just credit. So more shoes are coming. I want to sell another bag. I can't sort out which one.
Maybe I should sell a watch. Honey asks if I regret the watches.
I say no. I mostly mean it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I worry a little about the seat. It's comfortable but a little
hard to adjust. I find a couple of possibilities. I set the seat
memories to the two possibilities.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On the way to therapist's office, I drive fast. It's amazing.
I mean beyond amazing. A whole other level of car.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Three trips later to the dealership, the USB port is fixed. The $75 cable secured. I slip again. Buying shoes
at the BMW dealer. Shoes at the car dealer. Really? Yep.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There is a way in which one could argue that every Southern
Californian gets issued a BMW 3-series.
Preferably white, black, or silver.
Leased. Or bought by daddy. They epitomize ubiquity. 328, 335, 320, 330. If not a 3 series, what about an X1? A 528? Oh look a Z4. They are everywhere. A study has come out saying that <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2390373/BMW-drivers-really-aggressive-drivers-prone-road-rage-wheel.html" target="_blank">BMW drivers are jerks</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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No one will stop me (as they did with the FJ, as they do with Honey
and her MINI coupe) and ask about it.
It’s a silvery blue 328i. Like
every other 328i. Nothing special.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet every time I go out to get in it, I thrill. The balance.
The black kidneys. The thick
wheels. Every time I drive it, I feel
connected to driving. Not too fast. Traveling down Roscoe, I want the fuel
consumption gauge to swing up past 30.
Driving a back road, I don’t look at that gauge. Hit the apex, hold the line. Accelerate through. Trust the car.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one approved or disapproved.
They did, I’m sure, but I don’t care. What I want is this car. For me.
For a long time. Not for it to be
perfect. I throw the dogs in the back
seat. Throw the bike in the back seat.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Honey worries about the bike. I scratched the Acura with the bike right before I got rid of it. I scratched the VUE with the bike. I scratched the FJ with the bike. I don't scratch the BMW (yet).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMm5tRmMxTXLIo5DmwKdvhNorVhrA_mLu1lVi6wKRljfYpOxNsMYLzSgk2zHNKzBN8-d-bTwKKN6LnaFEjiG8xbodCIwYU3Y5fj39LFx49BB7M_0XO_Xi-TAQmTD5-H1HGM_Cq/s1600/image01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMm5tRmMxTXLIo5DmwKdvhNorVhrA_mLu1lVi6wKRljfYpOxNsMYLzSgk2zHNKzBN8-d-bTwKKN6LnaFEjiG8xbodCIwYU3Y5fj39LFx49BB7M_0XO_Xi-TAQmTD5-H1HGM_Cq/s320/image01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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(Actual 328i at actual CarMax)</div>
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<br /></div>
I want to feel differently about things and money, but brains don't have switches. <br />
<br />
So, here I am with a car driven by jerks. <br />
<br />
Yet, somehow it seems right. Where does happiness live? Not with the buying of things. Even big things. I haven't found it yet, but the silvery blue car will be what I want to try to get me there. </div>
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<!--EndFragment-->sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-27257689777624741082012-06-18T17:09:00.000-07:002012-06-18T17:46:20.052-07:00Dog thoughts upon a house painting<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We moved into our house some years ago. February of 2002.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Teresa has chronicled the run-up to today quite well in her recent post which is about <a href="http://www.neurotranscendence.com/?p=512">neither pea soup nor fuzzy unicorns</a>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I faced the weekend past with some trepidation. It began well enough with a Friday off for me wherein a ran several errands, including a lovely coffee with a friend who I wish I saw more often--this despite the fact that she and I work two buildings away from one another. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I also planned a visit to my favorite-est bike shop in all the world, <a href="http://www.topangacreekbicycles.com/">Topanga Creek Bicycles</a> where I dropped two of our four bikes off for work, had coffee with Chris the shop owner in my new handmade TBC mug. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It had been a nice day and I offered to pick up supper on the way home Friday. T and I discussed plans for the next day over said supper. The plans were overly ambitious. We were due at her parents' house at 12:30. I wanted to leave early, have breakfast, stop and buy coffee beans at <a href="http://www.klatchroasting.com/">Klatch</a> in Rancho Cucamonga, preview the antique auction in Redlands and still arrive by 12:30. I should have remembered the old joke about passengers departing at Rancho Cucamonga. That is that they should take care when getting off, as the train does not stop there.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, as we got ready for bed, I felt sick. Really sick. And then I gave back the supper I had picked up. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did not make it to breakfast. I passed on coffee. No antiques were previewed. And I was useless helping with the set-up for the party, as I was home on the couch, which is 75 miles away from anything needing set-up.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sunday was to commence the three to (perhaps) four day house painting fandango. Teresa's brother arrived to do the job.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday, I tried to help, but still felt pretty lousy, which didn't make scraping paint off the house very easy. We did learn that, however unfortunate the current green color is, the previous color was pink and decidedly worse.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We also learned that having four dogs in exponentially more complicated than two. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Everyone is getting along well, but I feel insufficient next to the force of canine will. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One very recent incident illustrates the complexity. I decided to go outside and play with the dogs because they looked very sad. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My dogs took the opportunity of my presence to try to dominate Teresa's brother's dogs. My dogs are of the 35-40 pound type (variants: black and cocker-ish, earth tone and shephard-ish). His dogs are of the great type (variant: dane) and pin type (variant: min). </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I then thought I should let them inside, but needed to check on the whereabouts of the cat (variant: small calico; afraid of dogs). As I was doing so, the dane lifted himself up and placed his paws on my shoulders from behind, while the minpin tried to squirt between my legs. After fending off the dual assault, I determined that the cat was in her cozy cup and as safe as she was going to get. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I let the dogs in. Mine both flopped on the ground as if shot. The other two set out to exploring. And did not stop. Well, the dane stopped to dunk his whole head in the water bowl and flood the west end of the kitchen while doing so, but that was the only pause. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I decided that the inside experiment wasn't working and invited everyone outside. Three of four thought going out the sliding glass door a splendid idea. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Minpin did not. She thought going out the side door was fine, but then refused to go into the backyard with the rest. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This set-up then allowed her prime barkpertunities at both passersby, and more vigorously at the UPS guy.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let's photoblog that a little shall we?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Halo stayed in her cup. Calico cats may be odd, but they're not stupid.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You can barely see it, but Biscuit has primer in her ear hair.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Scout is pretty sure he's got it going on, relative to the great dane.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Size comparo, black dog division.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Size comparo, visitor dog division:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The floodplain</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No pictures of my daned back are available.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The medium and large dogs in the back and small dog on the side remained the status quo until Teresa's brother arrived home from the depot of homes. Then the min pin squirted into the front yard to greet him and the dane rose over the fence to loom.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I said, it's all going well.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh, except for the broken windows. Not the theory of the broken windows (Wilson and Kelling) that argues:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><i>Consider a building with a few broken windows. If the windows are not repaired, the tendency is for vandals to break a few more windows. Eventually, they may even break into the building, and if it's unoccupied, perhaps become squatters or light fires inside. Or consider a sidewalk. Some litter accumulates. Soon, more litter accumulates. Eventually, people even start leaving bags of trash from take-out restaurants there or breaking into cars. </i><u>Atlantic Monthly</u>, 1982</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">We're not there yet. But we do have two broken windows, one of which due to dog (variant: earth tone shepherd). I'm not sure it signals the end of law and order at our house. Order maybe.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I just took a break to try to curtail the attempted tunneling under the back side fence by one of the prisoners (variant: black cocker-ish). Between prison escape and broken windows, I must say it feels like an intro to sociology class and I am not a social scientist. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So the medium sized dogs are now inside with me. Two more days to go.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can say with certainty that I am intensely glad to be going back to work tomorrow.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-29597480696444522652011-11-14T20:11:00.000-08:002011-11-14T20:11:04.574-08:00Letter to myselfIt seems more blogcationy around here than not. Yet, I think about it. Waiting like the most patient dog in the world. The most patient dog in the world, who would have long-ago starved to death from inactivity.<br />
<br />
Today I received a letter from myself in the mail. I wrote the letter in August at a two-week intensive professional development thing I did. The thing was amazing. The letter came at a good moment.<br />
<br />
It's been hard, the new job. Some days harder than others, but most hard. There was one where I came home and was able to say it had been a good day. That's one day out of lots.<br />
<br />
It's not all bad, of course, just hard. And lonely, as I knew it would be. So, I try to take the moments. <br />
<br />
The student who told me that she liked my pants today. <br />
<br />
The actual dogs, who do get fed.<br />
<br />
Honey, whose birthday is tomorrow.<br />
<br />
And, today, the letter. The last line of which I said (to myself, remember), "Take care of yourself and ride your bike more often, without guilt and with joy."<br />
<br />
I haven't done that, of course, but I like that I told myself to.sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-59699349441515010652011-06-04T18:10:00.000-07:002011-06-04T18:10:13.728-07:00What continuum am I on?Recently at work I had to start a social media ad hoc committee. People have behaved badly on social media this year. Blogging mostly, but faceplace, too. It was just at the end of the term and I asked a few folks to get together on the day of commencement (before the string of parties started) to talk. During the conversation, I admitted (not in a confessional way, but I'm sure it was taken that way) that I had a blog and that it was anonymous. Sort of. Earlier this week, someone else mentioned my anonymous blog to me. Clearly trying to get access. No quarter was given.<br />
<br />
People still blog. I read them every day. Every once in a while someone who doesn't blog much whose blog I read back when I played blogleague fantasy sports will blog. That makes my day. A little bit of sunshine, you know?<br />
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So I have this new job. Start in a month. I can't decide whether the "beyond this place there be dragons" is the right metaphor for the next phase in my professional life.<br />
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Or maybe I'm a little like Halo. Will the box be all I want it to be?<br />
<br />
Best case is that it's like the entrance to my favorite hotel. It's on a little street in a little town in the desert. You wonder if you've arrived at the right place. You ring the bell. Once you make it through the arch, though, you never want to leave.<br />
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I'm hoping the new job is somewhere between Halo's box and Desert Hot Springs. <br />
<br />
Recently, in my current job, I've been dealing with several unpleasant circumstances. People causing drama, insisting on controlling the drama narrative. Drama that requires after hours meetings. Ad hoc committees on social media. Me to steel myself against others' crying. It's karma, I think. For leaving. For feeling bad about leaving. <br />
<br />
For being a more than a little afraid that the continuum is between the dragon and Halo's box.<br />
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The only way out may be through. Halo figured that out. Maybe I will, too.<br />
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Wish me luck. sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-76891814587019281182011-04-03T12:55:00.000-07:002011-04-03T12:55:14.382-07:00Documenting the Collection, um... Passion, um... ObsessionMy mother is an avid shopper. Deeply avid. I know avid suggests that, but let's be clear that the woman shops. And buys.<br />
<br />
I have some of her tendencies in this area and own more shoes than I need. I also own many many products of Apple. Too many, probably. I don't buy clothes much, though, for complicated reasons I'm not going to get into. <br />
<br />
I am impulsive when it comes to car purchases. Of late, I've turned cars over every three years. That's too often, really. I like my current car a lot, though, so as I slide toward year three, I'm quite confident we'll make it to year five, at least.<br />
<br />
Then, there's bikes. Towit:<br />
<ul><li>Cannondale F400. <b>Sold </b>to get Gunnar (see below). </li>
<li>Want road bike. </li>
<li>Trek 1200. No, too harsh, too small. <b>Sold.</b></li>
<li>Lemond Zurich. Scared it would break. <b>Sold.</b></li>
<li>Ibex Classic. Bought for parents house. Too small, terrible riding. <b>Sold. </b></li>
<li>Surly Cross-Check. Too small. Cross bike brakes don't work. <b>Sold.</b></li>
<li><i>Gunnar Rockhound.</i> Yep, still in garage.</li>
<li><i>Gary Fisher Kaitai</i>. Lives at my parents house.</li>
<li>Soma Smoothie ES. <b>Sold.</b> Didn't ride.</li>
<li>Kona Dew Deluxe. Good, but harsh. Going to get <b>Sold.</b></li>
<li><i>Surly Karate Monkey</i>. Getting the Kona's parts as we speak. Anyone need a Kona frame? </li>
</ul>So, I've turned over (in the last seven years or so) ten bikes. I still have three, one of which lives 3000 miles away in may parents' basement. <br />
<br />
See what I mean? <br />
<br />
I used to collect, well, collectibles. But, I stopped. Seemed wasteful, really. You run out of storage. And then they're just plastic. Or ceramic. Or whatever. I still watch antique/collecting shows on tv. <br />
<br />
Of recent years, I must confess to a bit of a bag collection. Passion. Obsession.<br />
<br />
I built a little wire container system to hold them. I take some comfort in knowing I'm not the only one. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://bagcollector.tumblr.com/">There's the Bag Collector Blog.</a><br />
<br />
Yeppers. He's inspired me to document. Ready? (Since no one actually reads this anymore much, go with it.) <br />
<br />
Or not. <br />
<br />
Let me note, before I begin, that bags have come in and gone out without making the current collection/cut. I bought some, didn't like them, and let them go. They were mostly Timbuk2, some Chrome. One or two Crumpler. Some bought cheap, others full retail. I wish them well in their current lives. <br />
<br />
In college I used an LL Bean backpack. I then have a memory hole until I bought a Hartmann leather bag at their outlet mall in Camarillo.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXN0ek2Jha1rG92iO2WF9GBN7KoqYeITBbXlETISdmSjWBcjBnMscTu5OB3xIse6g09lwlR1QEP-yMkbjQM8CHo0YUQhUl7tg0C2RfLLK2vW6zuTgXIiTpIlCaVAWhL1h-gIy/s1600/hartmann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXN0ek2Jha1rG92iO2WF9GBN7KoqYeITBbXlETISdmSjWBcjBnMscTu5OB3xIse6g09lwlR1QEP-yMkbjQM8CHo0YUQhUl7tg0C2RfLLK2vW6zuTgXIiTpIlCaVAWhL1h-gIy/s320/hartmann.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I used the Hartmann for a number of years. It's a nice bag. Heavy, but good quality and I like it. My one criticism is that it doesn't have a top handle, which makes it hard to move around.<br />
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I wanted a lighter, sportier alternative. And thus did my fascination with Timbuk2 begin. <br />
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I ordered a custom messenger to "match" the Trek 1200 (see above). <br />
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This bag was made of a less shiny nylon than most of their bags are. I worried and worried over the color panels. Ultimately, they ended up sort of meh.<br />
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So, I tried again with Timbuk2. They were doing a spate of special fabrics. As documented <a href="http://whateveronfire.blogspot.com/2007/04/if-i-admit-i-have-sickness-can-i-have.html">here</a> I wanted the Eames fabric one. I bought (can't tell you why, really) this one instead.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO5Ehf0aY9SukY20EBTh68VLC6DPL-Jp1yhAjUHFwCE4_yFDc0oJawkcNxgRBkdJc_QWvDcDDW1NOHFef-Ph8x873Dz1CCAG8m91JA_IjoO-E_7xuRX_mS5klKD0gF-l_PTggs/s1600/timbuk2circles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO5Ehf0aY9SukY20EBTh68VLC6DPL-Jp1yhAjUHFwCE4_yFDc0oJawkcNxgRBkdJc_QWvDcDDW1NOHFef-Ph8x873Dz1CCAG8m91JA_IjoO-E_7xuRX_mS5klKD0gF-l_PTggs/s320/timbuk2circles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
(You can embiggen these pictures of course, should you want more detail).<br />
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It didn't hold up well, the special fabric. Tore a little, got dirty from regular use.<br />
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Then Timbuk2 went brushed canvas, in a line they call Single Speed. Happy sigh.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Rx0ohAeyaKlLeTEnFg3eq3gBce1VH-GQGkvF3uNWDAMKy2LaJMf0aiAKn5T2vpKLoUt5bdNoaxWj0PqT_OrhZM1g6wS9Ch9LI3Pinp4K0_ZR_IFxkgWu_NIwJkeF6wDtYUM-/s1600/timbuk2ssrelaysmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Rx0ohAeyaKlLeTEnFg3eq3gBce1VH-GQGkvF3uNWDAMKy2LaJMf0aiAKn5T2vpKLoUt5bdNoaxWj0PqT_OrhZM1g6wS9Ch9LI3Pinp4K0_ZR_IFxkgWu_NIwJkeF6wDtYUM-/s320/timbuk2ssrelaysmall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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That's the relay. Love that bag. Got it in bigger, too.<br />
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That one, Honey and I call the "PIF bag" as I used it to carry my very large, very unwieldy Personal Information File (or PIF) for my tenure and promotion decisions.<br />
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I still use the Relay (smaller one) sometimes. It's well worn, with some ink stains inside it. <br />
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I like the idea of Timbuk2 custom bags a lot, though I'm not sure I've ever gotten then color choices right. I bought and used a Eula for a while. It's their "girl" bag. Somewhat purse-like, and small.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh2UKg72lAXLkM8YbEwh5OZJXYRAX7aQabRu8iIbCaVI9CsfE-BqlELR8BuyYD31WN7zMd1r71_GxUAn3s2UqAFtontngwz-h08M2yYo0aSVEcE8wSsZhNtjrEU51LdN3a60Me/s1600/timbuk2eula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh2UKg72lAXLkM8YbEwh5OZJXYRAX7aQabRu8iIbCaVI9CsfE-BqlELR8BuyYD31WN7zMd1r71_GxUAn3s2UqAFtontngwz-h08M2yYo0aSVEcE8wSsZhNtjrEU51LdN3a60Me/s320/timbuk2eula.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Dark green and silver. What was I thinking?<br />
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Now, as I noted, I like me some products du Apple. And they need to be carried. So, I tried out some Timbuk2 products designed to carry computers and an tablets and other things Cupertino.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXekIhawB4G3cUSP5eNhheAoGlNRTCcl6EDTN7ZAOOn30e-QyM1rnOGqPhPHjie1fv9cr9Z8i0r0lFQTqL-5gazTNJslmUgJpmJfsW_rnIix1dUqmID9bfV2GuILLAOibNRlxB/s1600/timbuk2blogger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXekIhawB4G3cUSP5eNhheAoGlNRTCcl6EDTN7ZAOOn30e-QyM1rnOGqPhPHjie1fv9cr9Z8i0r0lFQTqL-5gazTNJslmUgJpmJfsW_rnIix1dUqmID9bfV2GuILLAOibNRlxB/s320/timbuk2blogger.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBN8OmeE108oLArsZOPmg0IScBI_PWuBGh3Lb-ldfMIse-W5tsuGN7UZ0JdNE7HzTbtwD9nmzZSCqm54UWTZJl9fpDqJm4hRxb8pNsmuJqf1Wbic2aFA1RI7WAC_n_QjWrJbg/s1600/timbuk2+333.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmBN8OmeE108oLArsZOPmg0IScBI_PWuBGh3Lb-ldfMIse-W5tsuGN7UZ0JdNE7HzTbtwD9nmzZSCqm54UWTZJl9fpDqJm4hRxb8pNsmuJqf1Wbic2aFA1RI7WAC_n_QjWrJbg/s320/timbuk2+333.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_2mtmei5WaDpvidwTrWstNSTetV0EIdRX8zDNwpPDQ3t_dMMlTB1R6VKAMiBufMU6mhOWZ707G5VwH3r8M1A6Y6GmDPoLg1FMZ24oSUOHHTVsjnvOARBt9XQfu3ThlAII0zc/s1600/timbuk2freestyle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_2mtmei5WaDpvidwTrWstNSTetV0EIdRX8zDNwpPDQ3t_dMMlTB1R6VKAMiBufMU6mhOWZ707G5VwH3r8M1A6Y6GmDPoLg1FMZ24oSUOHHTVsjnvOARBt9XQfu3ThlAII0zc/s320/timbuk2freestyle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Above you have The Blogger, a 333 line laptop bag, and the Freestyle. That last one kind of broke me from Timbuk2. They've moved a lot of their manufacturing overseas (the custom ones are still made in San Francisco). I still like them, but the straps have gotten shorter and shorter (I like a LONG strap). I used the Freestyle some, but, with the exception of the Relay, none of these bags do much for me anymore. I tried to sell the 333. My love affair with Timbuk2 is over. I appreciate them, but don't heart them any more. Basically, those last three bags are available to someone, if they'd promise to use them. <br />
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The intersection of bike stuff and these bags is pretty clear. They're all meant for carrying on your back while you ride a bike. I realized from reading online that Chrome seemed to have a lot of credibility with bike folks. So I tried a regular Chrome, with the seat belt buckle. Did not like. When they came out with their "lifestyle" bags, I haunted ebay and managed to get a Vega.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Hh03iCPLDggzfEjD9zqcdOh-3cgfiVoHWtQ542Yb7gIiGML55xf3lGAgFTBWn4hdYQnKvQPHjfk3qR2fwxnVKI24K9M3MpOOQZqnmA_rzlZM9zTv7VNjbD1FvL4pf1Ry01vv/s1600/chromevega.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Hh03iCPLDggzfEjD9zqcdOh-3cgfiVoHWtQ542Yb7gIiGML55xf3lGAgFTBWn4hdYQnKvQPHjfk3qR2fwxnVKI24K9M3MpOOQZqnmA_rzlZM9zTv7VNjbD1FvL4pf1Ry01vv/s320/chromevega.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>I've used it a fair amount and it's still in light circulation.<br />
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Honey bought me this Keen for Christmas in 09. It's a great bag. In medium circulation.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyY5q4yWbihYCPn4q4SLoTT4Kp_k289fo9II3T6nZA657YQ2pILX_29yM8IFHF0icodZk0j5ZV8inU8cBXfF3E9mYDYrt2BPHH3VFrW0SlLXzd7t8oAzsud7cKKadQaGZSl4QJ/s1600/keenoswego.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyY5q4yWbihYCPn4q4SLoTT4Kp_k289fo9II3T6nZA657YQ2pILX_29yM8IFHF0icodZk0j5ZV8inU8cBXfF3E9mYDYrt2BPHH3VFrW0SlLXzd7t8oAzsud7cKKadQaGZSl4QJ/s320/keenoswego.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
My disillusionment with Timbuk2 laptop bags led me on a search for an alternative. <a href="http://steepandcheap.com/">Steepandcheap </a>to the rescue! (Don't know about steepandcheap? It's like <a href="http://woot.com/">woot</a> for outdoor gear, except for one item a day, it's one item after another.)<br />
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This is an Osprey Astro. It's my go-to when I want good padding for the laptop or the iPad.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8zWm-5-XjH74oyJMvkFDHsad6HVOXLTgn6OBQhXssnvcZ4gnLwihxvc3WpiY10NUmn8835DUZkra40-lf__HBMyv3CPqYxhzGXYa60b-pUn2s8-uUNVv4k_8iAgnIg_YTQ2z5/s1600/ospreyastro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8zWm-5-XjH74oyJMvkFDHsad6HVOXLTgn6OBQhXssnvcZ4gnLwihxvc3WpiY10NUmn8835DUZkra40-lf__HBMyv3CPqYxhzGXYa60b-pUn2s8-uUNVv4k_8iAgnIg_YTQ2z5/s320/ospreyastro.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Bonus points for the Osprey: it's made of recycled plastic. Nice long strap, too. It's a little voluminous for non-electronic everyday use. Plus, I'm much more likely to have the iPad than the laptop. <br />
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Enter...<br />
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My current favorite bag company. <br />
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By a lot. <br />
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<a href="http://www.rickshawbags.com/">Rickshaw</a>. <br />
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They're (to me) what Timbuk2 was once. San Francisco made. Committed to sustainability. When I was up in San Francisco in January, I stopped by their "store," which is the front part of their factory. They gave me a tour. Told me about what they do. They have bike parking, a sofa to relax on, and seem a great company. Their core bag is called the Zero messenger. No fabric is wasted making it (thus the "zero" part, zero waste). It's mailed to you (all their products do) in a "round trip shipper" (a canvas envelope) which you send back to them to use again. Their prices are really reasonable. I have an iPad sleeve and have managed (in a very short time) to acquire four Zero messengers.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQoKsI6f4E73QH3LoGHD2xVMbI4IadvXigJjp-mJzLxg433B6NwHln5ch-2074Kyfd6v9Jd-O04-6YSMG8lfEqXGnn9oQZ_3QE6OOcUNdJ_j42DQZz1hBMKxokXT69Lm3mFsx/s1600/rickshawzerosmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQoKsI6f4E73QH3LoGHD2xVMbI4IadvXigJjp-mJzLxg433B6NwHln5ch-2074Kyfd6v9Jd-O04-6YSMG8lfEqXGnn9oQZ_3QE6OOcUNdJ_j42DQZz1hBMKxokXT69Lm3mFsx/s320/rickshawzerosmall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>My first one was a small. Orange and brown. Not a bad color selection (given that it was me doing the selecting).<br />
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When I went up there, I ordered a medium zero, made from a fabric made of old soda bottles. They rushed the order and I picked it up on the way out of town. (They made it for me with a longer strap!)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHl87q3lhhWc_Dr9FQ0r42AKPMWAC_mqCdiKQ8xYyaDdD2gK6snPAw33ez5v8jljjFfn9vRMreO027cG1B7IxelRAOUWY1zmlqah8C9IHxoH7O3zEfT_KfsqwPbdgB40xW9Jzd/s1600/rickshawzeromedbottle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHl87q3lhhWc_Dr9FQ0r42AKPMWAC_mqCdiKQ8xYyaDdD2gK6snPAw33ez5v8jljjFfn9vRMreO027cG1B7IxelRAOUWY1zmlqah8C9IHxoH7O3zEfT_KfsqwPbdgB40xW9Jzd/s320/rickshawzeromedbottle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I love this bag so much that I have trouble keeping others in circulation. <br />
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It's brother (bought on ebay) hasn't even been out for a spin yet. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiozyAE5f5O6QomwHJWJS4Tv82jmyw9FabgBO-pBfxqi8mPncd0H9yqR8ehkIMZRHAw0-cAIFkiOkrIgA2pZMgjQIORLPjBgiTMFjdSLUuC19Nk2QobWzec3gWhYDKOj8b1OMUV/s1600/rickshawzeromedworldchamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiozyAE5f5O6QomwHJWJS4Tv82jmyw9FabgBO-pBfxqi8mPncd0H9yqR8ehkIMZRHAw0-cAIFkiOkrIgA2pZMgjQIORLPjBgiTMFjdSLUuC19Nk2QobWzec3gWhYDKOj8b1OMUV/s320/rickshawzeromedworldchamp.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Not that I'm a champion anything. (Those stripes indicate that the wearer is a world champion in some bicycle endeavour).<br />
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My latest Rickshaw is a purse. The call it the Zero mini. It's a purse. I am actually occasionally using it as such.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhURXszraD_r7RWUwjAfZU6ohpB5sJ_JKrBUEiBJlgDxsDEBGdBPWqNgOyrtx3WAoJJXSih9qx0Hp-cedSxgXwbQselwiWsXHL1Or8j395hgPzqmdh1yj3uTdMotWITyGviUh6I/s1600/rickshawzeromini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhURXszraD_r7RWUwjAfZU6ohpB5sJ_JKrBUEiBJlgDxsDEBGdBPWqNgOyrtx3WAoJJXSih9qx0Hp-cedSxgXwbQselwiWsXHL1Or8j395hgPzqmdh1yj3uTdMotWITyGviUh6I/s320/rickshawzeromini.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>My latest bag (in violation, I must admit of my agreement with Honey to take a "one-in, one-out" approach to bags was acquired with a birthday gift card. It's already loaded to be next week's bag. Seems a good size and I like the design.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMiPZTaYsRQkNGC7m_OwasPFLV2CZcuxsrUcClIp3_zG4lRokpbSehdEHgftn4meS6Wg6mj1M8ZaNrflkevouO6kELoSXJyj_jl4iOnwq95zXOD8UQKO4CNg-KtjPpbksdkip/s1600/crumplersoupsalad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMiPZTaYsRQkNGC7m_OwasPFLV2CZcuxsrUcClIp3_zG4lRokpbSehdEHgftn4meS6Wg6mj1M8ZaNrflkevouO6kELoSXJyj_jl4iOnwq95zXOD8UQKO4CNg-KtjPpbksdkip/s320/crumplersoupsalad.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Crumpler soupandsalad. I like Crumplers, but they cost too much. This one was on sale at REI.<br />
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There are lots of other makers out there I'm interested in. Honey sighs as I write, though she doesn't know why. Some of the more respected companies don't do much for me design-wise. I know people really like <a href="http://www.reloadbags.com/">REload</a> and <a href="http://baileyworks.com/">Baileyworks</a>. Maybe someone could tell me why. The former seems too busy, the latter too plain. A lot of the American made bags seem really spendy, too. I'd say that was a function of what it costs to make stuff here, but then I remember how much Rickshaw charges.<br />
<br />
Oh, and just to be completest. My trusty Canon Rebel xsi, with which the above pictures were taken lives in a camera-specific bag, called the Crumpler 5 Million Dollar Home. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBqF2fmNIC2xg49HTo83xAO7ikC-As3nM-yRhZMJi0_YY76ZFVXkAjaGhiU40nAJA01YjPPmd5KW2EtvRU0oJF9EqQrymTrkCvNlYDEWp_KtXvN3KWQlkFnDaruwiGEA-1xPQs/s1600/crumpler5mhome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBqF2fmNIC2xg49HTo83xAO7ikC-As3nM-yRhZMJi0_YY76ZFVXkAjaGhiU40nAJA01YjPPmd5KW2EtvRU0oJF9EqQrymTrkCvNlYDEWp_KtXvN3KWQlkFnDaruwiGEA-1xPQs/s320/crumpler5mhome.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Anyway, Crumpler aside, I'll go back to one-in, one-out now. So, someone please please take one of the Timbuk2s so I can look for a new bag. I'm thinking <a href="http://www.seagullbags.com/">Seagull</a> or <a href="http://www.etsy.com/people/BlackRoseBags?ref=ls_profile">Black Rose</a>. sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-49402756320124315372011-01-30T19:14:00.000-08:002011-01-30T19:14:42.173-08:00Along the 101<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GzH2bZJmkEAzyGdijiq13deW9Ojp_x-wB9NUXdYEzvXWAMQb9qvND4KT4bElW8JD0bEv2idKZtuLp_y2uiGBYbe1PWQYWrH0CEugvPwnNZLfRReVLa08Y0WF4gG0MUfPxZro/s1600/equake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5GzH2bZJmkEAzyGdijiq13deW9Ojp_x-wB9NUXdYEzvXWAMQb9qvND4KT4bElW8JD0bEv2idKZtuLp_y2uiGBYbe1PWQYWrH0CEugvPwnNZLfRReVLa08Y0WF4gG0MUfPxZro/s320/equake.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br />
<br />
I'm just back from five days in San Francisco.<br />
<br />
Thanks for having me, Norcal. You were your usual self in all the good ways.<br />
<br />
I haven't spent a ton of time in San Francisco, truth be told. When I moved to Los Angeles almost twenty years ago, I talked myself into thinking that living in L.A. was almost as good as living in San Francisco would have been. I had read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tales-City-Novel-Armistead-Maupin/dp/0061358304?ie=UTF8&tag=admo88&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Tales of the City</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=admo88&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0061358304" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" /> rather breathlessly. The result was a certainty that if I could get to San Francisco, it would all be just as interesting as Maupin wrote it. It didn't matter, really, that I was to arrive 10+ years later. Or that it was--well--fiction.<br />
<br />
At the time I thought Los Angeles would just have to do. No one from Norcal was beating down my grad student door. And L.A. had called. Offered money. So loaded up my babyshitbrownyellow Camry and "hit the San Diego freeway doing 60 miles an hour" to quote Miss Nanci Griffith. (Who--oddly--is playing on itunes right now. It's another song, but still, eerie.)<br />
<br />
I told myself that I'd go to San Francisco a lot. I haven't, but I think sometimes about that promise I made to myself and what I thought my life was going to be like back then.<br />
<br />
I've come to love Los Angeles. I appreciate it, too. I went to a concert a couple of weeks ago and the artist said, "people in New York always ask why I love L.A. with all the traffic and the freeways, and I say, 'exactly.'" It's not about the freeways, of course. It's about the city itself.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I had been looking forward to this trip when I thought Honey could come. Then she couldn't. And it was the first week of the semester. And then it turned out I was staying at a hotel other than the conference hotel and not particularly nearby. All of which served to make me cross.<br />
<br />
I decided to drive up the 101. I couldn't take the 5 and feel ok, what with all the crossness. I'm not sure I'll ever take the 5 to get to the Bay area again. <br />
<br />
California has all sorts of problems, I know this. I'm not from here. I know this, too. <br />
<br />
I thought a fair about about where I was from because I listened to <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Help-Kathryn-Stockett/dp/0399155341?ie=UTF8&tag=admo88&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">The Help</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=admo88&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0399155341" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" /></i> on CD some of the way up and all the way back.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicrurtSwN0-tlncXf7Y3Co3dcMfa-Ht50F3HfFT2mUPLw0qildpw9_AB21-YieAUkLlS-vubp2TKMfsogDqibdqPKr02jOQsfge9YUGT3fIoI6IoVEw8lZgvPygPHY2oTj8mZ7/s1600/julep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicrurtSwN0-tlncXf7Y3Co3dcMfa-Ht50F3HfFT2mUPLw0qildpw9_AB21-YieAUkLlS-vubp2TKMfsogDqibdqPKr02jOQsfge9YUGT3fIoI6IoVEw8lZgvPygPHY2oTj8mZ7/s320/julep.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Ok, so it's New Orleans, not Mississippi (where the book is set) or Georgia (where I'm from). She mentions New Orleans and I'm taking a little poetic license based on the photos I just downloaded from my iPhone.<br />
<br />
Driving to this city where I thought I wanted to be from the city where I do want to be, listening to a novel about a city that resonates with my past (or at least with my mother's) all served to be a little disorienting, in both time and space.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZVNgoss2zwoAR0iFdBukGGPeZuYiuIDi120xYybRoC8Eiq-ZUav4P5hBam5cSohEAxtuXXoTz_zM1YK7qeBlynB6gYkgkYzrYN8-TakStKNjfVxayH8JeL_56y39ybkbzEP3x/s1600/pier39.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZVNgoss2zwoAR0iFdBukGGPeZuYiuIDi120xYybRoC8Eiq-ZUav4P5hBam5cSohEAxtuXXoTz_zM1YK7qeBlynB6gYkgkYzrYN8-TakStKNjfVxayH8JeL_56y39ybkbzEP3x/s320/pier39.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The sea lions weren't out in force to greet me. <br />
<br />
I always forget the damn hills, too.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1Ou9H9ND2oRM3L-syEhnbG3AyZ8I3JvKU10SothVzkAddWGUGszNXrZLiE3K5jEFGiG9KVELHrEyeXjgmsYocY-mhGKfI0_JBE6cmrGA9nMw8RDL92o-5SCkFZAD-IgIGDIQ/s1600/street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1Ou9H9ND2oRM3L-syEhnbG3AyZ8I3JvKU10SothVzkAddWGUGszNXrZLiE3K5jEFGiG9KVELHrEyeXjgmsYocY-mhGKfI0_JBE6cmrGA9nMw8RDL92o-5SCkFZAD-IgIGDIQ/s320/street.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Did I mention that I like <a href="http://hipstamaticapp.com/">Hipstamatic</a> a lot? I do. Made me not want to take my regular camera. <br />
<br />
The conference I went to was terrible. Not terrible in the way MLA or AAA can be. That terrible is epic. Shuttle buses, wide-eyed grad students, pretentious papers, really trendy girl glasses, drinking, people having sex with people they don't know, kind of terrible. <br />
<br />
This conference was just bad. Boring, tedious, and talking about important stuff from 1000 miles away without acknowledging the distortion.<br />
<br />
<br />
I stole the time I could. <br />
<br />
Went to the <a href="http://www.ferrybuildingmarketplace.com/">Ferry Building</a>. <br />
<br />
Had <a href="http://www.rickshawbags.com/">Rickshaw</a> make me an fabulously great new bag (which I deserved). Ok, bag aside. I promised Honey a "one-in, one-out" bag trip. I was determined, therefore, to be deliberate about bag choices. I started with Rickshaw. They couldn't have been nicer. Gave me a tour of the factory. It's a great space. They're committed to the right things. Timbuk2? Not so much. Want to support a good SF based company all about sustainability? Rickshaw, friends. Rickshaw. I got a <a href="http://www.rickshawbags.com/customize/custom-bag">Zero Messenger made of recycled coke bottles. </a><br />
<br />
I also explored the coffee of the place. Two words to simply your search for goodness of coffee. You ready? You sure?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1161539303">Blue</a><br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1161539303"><br />
</a><br />
<a href="http://www.bluebottlecoffee.net/">Bottle</a><br />
<br />
I had good coffee elsewhere in SF and just made it to <a href="http://www.intelligentsiacoffee.com/">Intelligensia</a> a week or so ago down here. It's a good time to like coffee here on the coast of west. Portland and Seattle are out here too, you know. They're not bad at coffee either.<br />
<br />
It's a great city, San Francisco. And I need to go back more often. The hills are not fun. The food is great. <br />
<br />
It's what I wanted it to be, especially early in the morning when the fog stays thick and I could ignore the conference and walk along the Embarcadero. <br />
<br />
And yet, all week I wanted to come back to L.A.<br />
<br />
I drove home on the 101 and stopped in Gilroy for lunch. The sullen waitress and cheesy singer seemed bearable with the garlic. As I walked back to my car after lunch, I noticed this cool old building, which had once housed the newspaper in the town.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv-T-dhSFvuKypzEXGq4pH1LA1Dcn1GqZ5acZkLvW2_0BKayQed_KGC3UA_w0BCFIVu-fs5Lvn6Qocs6my0ZLqvwHud1k7SsTb7CT4QheC_qVsU2yJdimCdY_XCkAGGlvD-3kC/s1600/gilroy2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv-T-dhSFvuKypzEXGq4pH1LA1Dcn1GqZ5acZkLvW2_0BKayQed_KGC3UA_w0BCFIVu-fs5Lvn6Qocs6my0ZLqvwHud1k7SsTb7CT4QheC_qVsU2yJdimCdY_XCkAGGlvD-3kC/s320/gilroy2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The earthquake warning was meant to keep me away. Instead I peered into the windows and stood and looked at it a long time.<br />
<br />
I moved to Los Angeles just after the riots. The earthquake happened not very long after I got here. I moved to the "wrong" city. <br />
<br />
When I pulled into my driveway, my car smelling of fresh bread and coffee, I was home. What's a little unsecured masonry among friends?<br />
<br />
As good as my car smelled, the house smelled better. Honey had baked me cupcakes. sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-32417698964469613392011-01-17T18:49:00.000-08:002011-01-17T18:49:03.271-08:00of iTaking some time off work this month and things are generally ok-ish.<br />
<br />
Today, though, I read a book I didn't like that I have to lead a discussion on tomorrow. I also didn't work out. (Or eat much, so I guess it's ok-ish).<br />
<br />
Feeling kind of down.<br />
<br />
So I cleaned all my Apple products. Pad of i, Pod of i, Phone of i. All with Klear of i and the wonderful blue cloth. <br />
<br />
At least one thing went well today.sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-889735524193270982010-12-11T13:31:00.000-08:002010-12-11T13:31:05.783-08:00Poe poetryWith thanks to Honey, who just did a huge project on Poe. Then she xtranormaled a Poe poem. I've always loathed this poem, so it seems perfect for xtranormal.<br />
<br />
<object width="480" height="390"><param name="movie" value="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/jwplayer.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="flashvars"value="height=390&width=480&file=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/e041d730-0567-11e0-9638-003048d69c21_7.mp4&image=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/iphone_final/e041d730-0567-11e0-9638-003048d69c21_7.jpg&link=http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/8034173&searchbar=false&autostart=false"/><embed src="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/jwplayer.swf" width="480" height="390" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="height=390&width=480&file=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/e041d730-0567-11e0-9638-003048d69c21_7.mp4&image=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/iphone_final/e041d730-0567-11e0-9638-003048d69c21_7.jpg&link=http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/8034173&searchbar=false&autostart=false"></embed></object><object width="480" height="390"><param name="movie" value="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/embedded-xnl-stats.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/embedded-xnl-stats.swf" width="1" height="1" allowscriptaccess="always"></embed></object>sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-78307821940619188002010-12-11T12:32:00.000-08:002010-12-11T12:32:30.118-08:00Laryngitis, thoughts on havingSo Honey doesn't want me to talk because I have no voice. She's right, of course, but it's hard.<br />
<br />
<object height="390" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/jwplayer.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="flashvars"value="height=390&width=480&file=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/3f63badc-0561-11e0-9db0-003048d6740d_4.mp4&image=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/3f63badc-0561-11e0-9db0-003048d6740d_4.jpg&link=http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/8033689&searchbar=false&autostart=false"/><embed src="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/jwplayer.swf" width="480" height="390" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="height=390&width=480&file=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/3f63badc-0561-11e0-9db0-003048d6740d_4.mp4&image=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/3f63badc-0561-11e0-9db0-003048d6740d_4.jpg&link=http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/8033689&searchbar=false&autostart=false"></embed></object><object height="390" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/embedded-xnl-stats.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/embedded-xnl-stats.swf" width="1" height="1" allowscriptaccess="always"></embed></object>sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-47888181322823828552010-11-20T13:36:00.000-08:002010-11-20T16:21:19.849-08:00Thanksgiving, vegetarianThe Honey/animated dogs are back. Now with more talk of food!<br />
<br />
<object height="390" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/jwplayer.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="flashvars"value="height=390&width=480&file=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/7b2d21ba-f4e6-11df-b8b4-003048d6740d_5.mp4&image=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/7b2d21ba-f4e6-11df-b8b4-003048d6740d_5.jpg&link=http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/7751251&searchbar=false&autostart=false"/><embed src="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/jwplayer.swf" width="480" height="390" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="height=390&width=480&file=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/7b2d21ba-f4e6-11df-b8b4-003048d6740d_5.mp4&image=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/7b2d21ba-f4e6-11df-b8b4-003048d6740d_5.jpg&link=http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/7751251&searchbar=false&autostart=false"></embed></object><br />
<br />
<object height="390" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/embedded-xnl-stats.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/embedded-xnl-stats.swf" width="1" height="1" allowscriptaccess="always"></embed></object><br />
<br />
Edited to add:<br />
<br />
Quorn secured!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmXNRWkVCXnft6mLahJX2f3N09t1PI_U5B2Mhr9AA_LPidmMr_ByxgOn_yEKUGY0kcIe4hQYj9RRTgdsuO0QnOvCUAKtmyqDNuhFE3kEH56a2XJRsa37LsOMRTyI_Wh1r1skBi/s1600/quorn1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmXNRWkVCXnft6mLahJX2f3N09t1PI_U5B2Mhr9AA_LPidmMr_ByxgOn_yEKUGY0kcIe4hQYj9RRTgdsuO0QnOvCUAKtmyqDNuhFE3kEH56a2XJRsa37LsOMRTyI_Wh1r1skBi/s320/quorn1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNA7z9oxXyhE5kwO5zTTpUKSc5oNAoMyb9QxnEqAww8G8I67UWQSkpbSMpiWBsKdVO5QzGTU9A1GIu7V4Q9u-m4Kob0hDkkZPNUaiZH2c32FjhKqWevlBfdSoW1C2X1O8FPu0P/s1600/quorn2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNA7z9oxXyhE5kwO5zTTpUKSc5oNAoMyb9QxnEqAww8G8I67UWQSkpbSMpiWBsKdVO5QzGTU9A1GIu7V4Q9u-m4Kob0hDkkZPNUaiZH2c32FjhKqWevlBfdSoW1C2X1O8FPu0P/s320/quorn2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcqPkwR5mnDjjhrzvlKXTwa3jbpOSQvHoz4IHvSLyBiRA2QVo7hcRwjFy8HWRPSlBoXJA2Wlq1I4wRdZ4yNRT4pHt0ncBsmk8pDvbysqz12BYElwdg_92SchjNQnoGX4y76Ck1/s1600/quorn3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcqPkwR5mnDjjhrzvlKXTwa3jbpOSQvHoz4IHvSLyBiRA2QVo7hcRwjFy8HWRPSlBoXJA2Wlq1I4wRdZ4yNRT4pHt0ncBsmk8pDvbysqz12BYElwdg_92SchjNQnoGX4y76Ck1/s320/quorn3.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>I must say I find the color a little disturbing.sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-58563805290794380182010-11-12T09:33:00.000-08:002010-11-12T09:33:00.788-08:00NoLaKing Tut brought me to New Orleans the first time. <br />
<br />
Kids in the gifted and talented program at my elementary school did not usually get to take out-of-town trips until the 5th grade. The exhibition of King Tut's treasures in New Orleans prompted a year roll-back and I came--petrified and overwhelmed--to New Orleans. I do remember the exhibit vaguely and the alarmingly gold t-shirt I bought at it.<br />
<br />
Some years later I saw plaster of paris replica of said exhibit at the Luxor in Las Vegas. The "best authenticity money can buy," or so I'm told. Standing in LV looking at the plaster did make a vision of my nine year old self come rushing back. I remembered the crowds and the gold.<br />
<br />
I didn't come back to New Orleans until my drive from Georgia to California as I departed for programs PhD. That time, I had a po boy, some beignets, and went to Preservation Hall. I came back later with the folklorists. <br />
<br />
Ten years or so ago, I came back again for an education conference. I was involved in creating a new kind of undergraduate education program at Commuter State and one of my colleagues suggested we present a paper about it at a big education conference here. The feeling of being at a big conference outside of your field is not unlike being a third grader in King Tut's Egypt. I remember wandering around the city (it was just before Mardi Gras) and watching parades and feeling out of place and out of sorts.<br />
<br />
At the end of my stay, I went to check out of the hotel and discovered that I had been charged $1000+ for some equipment. I protested that I had not rented any equipment and the fees were removed. I flew home. A few days later, I got a letter indicating that the charges had been placed on my account again. I called and was assured they would again be removed.<br />
<br />
Then I received my American Express card bill. Lo, the charges were once again there. <br />
<br />
I switched tactics and protested via American Express. They removed the charges and "investigated." Sure enough, I got a letter from them indicating that the hotel had satisfied them that the charges were legitimate and I was re-recharged. I asked for the "evidence" that the hotel had presented. I was sent a copy of an equipment charge signed by someone named Buffie who has my last name. Buffie. I am not Buffie.<br />
<br />
I then had my dad, an attorney who recently compared himself to a late-year Grover Cleveland. Apparently President Cleveland in has late life got rather large and started shooting people when he was cross with them. Anyway, dad wrote a sufficiently threatening letter, mostly referencing his ability to sue and disparaging Buffie and all named Buffie. The charges were reversed and stayed that way.<br />
<br />
Sometimes lawyers help when reason does not.<br />
<br />
I came back about a year later (and stayed in the hotel across the street). That trip was marked by a missed flight that kept me from driving out to Baton Rogue to see Patti and Tom. I never saw <a href="http://http://whateveronfire.blogspot.com/2006/01/tom.html">Tom</a> again.<br />
<br />
I've been back since that incident, but only briefly when Patti took my mother and I on a post-Katrina view a couple of years ago.<br />
<br />
So I'm back now. On the 35th floor of Buffie's hotel. Looking out over the river. It's not a great time for me to travel. The conference I'm attending is fine and interesting and has not reminded me of my King Tut self, for the most part, but I wish I were in the other LA.<br />
<br />
Last night, I went to dinner with a whole bunch of folks from my University system. One of the attendees has left the system and is now the vice-president of the college across the street from my high school. The college where Patti was the chaplain for a while. I listened to her tell another person about her experiences. After she talked for a while, I said something about what she was saying, and she said, "I keep forgetting you know all about the places I'm talking about."<br />
<br />
Yes. I do know about them. The memory of the past is strong here. It's written on the landscape.<br />
<br />
I guess I'd rather start over with New Orleans. Go all the way back to the kid in the gold t-shirt and give her different experiences of this place.<br />
<br />
But I'm here now, with all that I do know. So, I'll have a beignet, I guess. And drive to see Patti tomorrow. Then, I'll go home. <br />
<br />
Honey has never been here, so I can come one more time sometime. We'll make new memories. And none will involve Buffie.sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-37121004679605203992010-11-07T17:00:00.000-08:002010-11-07T20:07:08.651-08:00I know, everyone's all up in it......But I kinda love <a href="http://www.xtranormal.com/">Xtranormal</a>. So, here's my first try at it. Honey and I before Trader Joe's today.<br />
<br />
<object height="390" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/jwplayer.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="flashvars"value="height=390&width=480&file=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/68aa68bc-eace-11df-9980-003048d6740d_7.mp4&image=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/68aa68bc-eace-11df-9980-003048d6740d_7.jpg&link=http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/7596815&searchbar=false&autostart=false"/><embed src="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/jwplayer.swf" width="480" height="390" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="height=390&width=480&file=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/68aa68bc-eace-11df-9980-003048d6740d_7.mp4&image=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/68aa68bc-eace-11df-9980-003048d6740d_7.jpg&link=http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/7596815&searchbar=false&autostart=false"></embed></object><object height="390" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/embedded-xnl-stats.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/embedded-xnl-stats.swf" width="1" height="1" allowscriptaccess="always"></embed></object><br />
<br />
Oh, and I'm saying Vanana and she's saying Banilla. It's a Trader Joe's yogurt flavor that combines, well, banana and vanilla.<br />
<br />
I may have to do more of these. Fair warning. Just saying. It's my blog after all and don't nobody blog no more. Might as well animate the mundane.<br />
<br />
Edit to add:<br />
<br />
Ok, I did another one. :)<br />
<br />
<object width="480" height="390"><param name="movie" value="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/jwplayer.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><param name="flashvars"value="height=390&width=480&file=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/3e6e31cc-eaed-11df-8d3b-003048d6740d_2.mp4&image=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/3e6e31cc-eaed-11df-8d3b-003048d6740d_2.jpg&link=http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/7598777&searchbar=false&autostart=false"/><embed src="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/jwplayer.swf" width="480" height="390" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="height=390&width=480&file=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/3e6e31cc-eaed-11df-8d3b-003048d6740d_2.mp4&image=http://newvideos.xtranormal.com/web_final_lo/3e6e31cc-eaed-11df-8d3b-003048d6740d_2.jpg&link=http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/7598777&searchbar=false&autostart=false"></embed></object><object width="480" height="390"><param name="movie" value="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/embedded-xnl-stats.swf"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.xtranormal.com/site_media/players/embedded-xnl-stats.swf" width="1" height="1" allowscriptaccess="always"></embed></object>sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-37496648795763539722010-10-16T19:57:00.000-07:002010-10-16T19:59:25.455-07:00Freedom and loyaltyI'm a pretty loyal person, when you come right down to it. I'll stick with you, for the most part, if I've decided to be with you in the first place.<br />
<br />
As I've gotten older, I've become more willing to admit that I don't always benefit from just doing what I've always done. I don't use Scott toilet paper any more, because Honey convinced me some time ago that it was terribly uncomfortable. I'm happy with Trader Joe's tp, but don't feel some unending bond with it. If something better came along, I'd go with it. <br />
<br />
The same thing happened with orange juice. Tropicana didn't deserve the loyalty I gave it, and now I am happier with unpasteurized from Trader Joes, or, preferably, Fresh and Easy. See how flexible I've become?<br />
<br />
My loyalty to products is now more carefully given to those I perceive as truly worthy and exemplary. Whole Foods fudge bars, Noah's jalapeno cream cheese. The latter has become so difficult to obtain--Noah's having stopped producing it in to-go tubs--that I have to beg bagelistas (that's what bagel people are called, right?) to dispense it for me into soup containers. Having tried last week to be "brave" (as I referred to this trial) by having plain cream cheese on Trader Joe's bagels, rather than jalapeno cream cheese on Noah's bagels, I succumbed to "loyalty" and went to Noah's today. It was with a sense of real relief that I walked away with my jalapeno cream cheese soup cup well packed by the bagelista.<br />
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My loyalty extends, of course, beyond the bounds of products to people and more ineffable things. A recent crisis--which is best left off blogville--has led me to wonder about others' loyalty to me, but, fortunately, that is not a subject I wish to engage with today.<br />
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I remember many years ago driving a group of folks to the airport. I was working in my first adult job, as the manager of the circulation desk of alma mater library. My boss, a wonderful and kind woman whose death a few years ago from breast cancer grieves me to this day, had asked me to drive her and some other librarians to the airport. For those folks not familiar with library things, librarians are the professional folks who went to library school. They are faculty at most universities, including alma mater. Should I call alma mater 2nd tier liberal arts school? No, best not at least not in a post about loyalty. People like me, who checked out the books at the desk (and managed the checker outers and shelvers and such) were not librarians. We were staff.<br />
<br />
Anyway, there I was, in my early twenties, driving these folks to the airport and one of them starts asking me about music. He was cool and I liked him. (So did my boss, I think, but she didn't date him, since she was dating this even cooler librarian who drank single malt scotch and was kind to her son). I was then in a deep Indigo Girls fan zone and cool librarian was talking to me about them. He said something that stuck with me. "I bet you'll keep buying all their albums, even when you don't like them any more. Some bands are like that for people."<br />
<br />
He was right, for a while. I kept buying their albums. Seemed obligatory. I didn't buy the last one or two, though.<br />
<br />
Now, though, I mostly listen to podcasts and music I already know. I'm hopelessly out of date on music, though occasionally discover a band I like by listening to Terry Gross. Which, of course, makes me one of those middle aged liberal NPR listening types. Still, the Carolina Chocolate Drops are awesome and just because I "discovered" them on <i>Fresh Air</i>, doesn't mean anything negative about them. Or me. Plus, mostly I listen to podcasts and am more of a fan of <i>Planet Money</i> than I am of any band. Which still makes that whole bit about NPR true.<br />
<br />
Which brings me back to the ostensible subject of this post. I just finished Jonathan Franzen's <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Freedom-Novel-Oprahs-Book-Club/dp/0312600844?ie=UTF8&tag=admo88&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Freedom</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=admo88&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0312600844" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" /></i>. I know, I know. Oprah. The National Book Award snub. The <i>Time</i> magazine cover story. Blah Blah Blah.<br />
<br />
Thing is, though, he's one of those writers. Can't put the book down (even at 561 pages). Feel all the emotions that are there. Savor all the wonderful bits of writing. And the characters. And the story. And the structure.<br />
<br />
Feel genuinely sad and happy about the end. Put it on the shelf and look wistfully at it. Think about how much I remember (still, eight years on) of <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Corrections-Novel-Jonathan-Franzen/dp/0312421273?ie=UTF8&tag=admo88&link_code=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969" target="_blank">Corrections</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=admo88&l=btl&camp=213689&creative=392969&o=1&a=0312421273" style="border: medium none ! important; margin: 0px ! important; padding: 0px ! important;" width="1" /></i>. Still sort of regret having sold my true first edition of same with the erratum on ebay. (Pages 430 and 431 were reversed and FSG put a slip of paper into the first printing indicating the error).<br />
<br />
I think I got about $50 for it, but whatever. I want it back now. I suppose I could buy another, but it wouldn't be the same.<br />
<br />
My point, I guess, is that I fell for Franzen like very few other authors. He writes it. I read it. Then I wait for the next one. The waiting isn't active. I don't go to fan sites. But it's there, somewhere in my brain. It gets rekindled when I read an essay of his. Or someone brings him up. Or asks if the "great American novel" is possible. All of this for a guy who writes about families. And the Midwest. (The bird content of <i>Freedom</i> did make it even better). So, I'll wait until 2018. Or whenever the next one comes.<br />
<br />
I guess Patrick (the librarian) was right, but about the wrong thing. I let the Indigo Girls go. As yet, Franzen (and a few other writers) get the bucks every time the publish. No kindle on iPad for them either. The real book. On the shelf.<br />
<br />
If you like American literary fiction, ignore the noise over Oprah, <i>Time</i>, and the rest. Go buy <i>Corrections</i> and <i>Freedom</i>. Read them. Be prepared to give some of your time away to them. In the end, though, if you're even a little like me, you'll be glad you did.<br />
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I can't lend you my copy of <i>Freedom</i>, though. It's staying here. I learned my lesson letting the last book go. It never came back. But I'm still loyal and I still miss it.sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-83799058252909560352010-10-09T13:09:00.000-07:002010-10-09T13:11:26.847-07:00Disrupting "normal"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Living in a large city like Los Angeles and taking things for granted from the good (there's bahn mi available near my work) to the once-would-have-been-extraordinary to the now ordinary (there are also lots of Starbucks around) to the banal (how many very ordinary pharmacy chain store outlets do we need exactly?) makes it easy to be lulled into a kind of complacency. Things disappear (Chris and Pitts, for example) and things persist (Philippe's). Why am I hung up on restaurants today? <br />
<br />
A couple of weeks ago I was at a celebration of my university's (commuter state) founders day. It was very hot (in what passes for Fall in Southern California) and we had been in the celebration tent for far too long. The speaker, when he finally arrived, was decent. He's the author of a book about the sub-region in which commuter state is located. He talked at some length about the history of the place. Much of what he said I knew, but some of it was new to me. The following weekend, Honey and I happened to be near campus and I drove her around a little telling her about the new information I now had lodged into my brain from the talk. About the fair and the horse races and about the now disappeared football team.<br />
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I like thinking about the history of places, both recent and distant. I'm especially intrigued by that living in Los Angeles. Because I grew up in Atlanta, the places were all new and exurby. Post Sherman, Atlantans love nothing more than tearing down and redoing.<br />
<br />
Los Angeles, on the other hand, keeps some (but not, by any means, all) of its history around. You can see Victorian homes, mid-century ranches, Greene and Greenes, missions, and new mcmansions. There are even restaurants (see how the brain makes loops) that date back 100 years. Beef French dip, hot mustard, chili with, and a custard at Philippe's please.<br />
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I've always liked that about LA. I love our O'Keefe and Merritt brown stove with its NuTone copper hood.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNdeCH61czDLQVwbF8TphgFxhqmW4qwWyxvsOhVl_u99wEchP9a5Z10kMTqtO9XrHo1nodKQ8ncqqKpUiukZUHZaPQCyU7F9MjJ2i7iX_bhmp_0UoGaOSG-SPmcbd-8-YIG2H/s1600/okm1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNNdeCH61czDLQVwbF8TphgFxhqmW4qwWyxvsOhVl_u99wEchP9a5Z10kMTqtO9XrHo1nodKQ8ncqqKpUiukZUHZaPQCyU7F9MjJ2i7iX_bhmp_0UoGaOSG-SPmcbd-8-YIG2H/s320/okm1.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jmiSABhTtVfSxghJ8xFhaYI5pn4UQdXRCoRrWmbAVTTzn2-a8ilVV8cl_YkXI6PY-iWQxhwTmwXCVc-Ran8iToGbIoVxuuIcx84SXg2I-vF4UvtThn3HHGEcCkbDd24E2Pbz/s1600/hood1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2jmiSABhTtVfSxghJ8xFhaYI5pn4UQdXRCoRrWmbAVTTzn2-a8ilVV8cl_YkXI6PY-iWQxhwTmwXCVc-Ran8iToGbIoVxuuIcx84SXg2I-vF4UvtThn3HHGEcCkbDd24E2Pbz/s320/hood1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I loved learning last week that the area our laundry room and half bath are in is properly (in SoCal) called a "service porch." And so it shall be henceforth in my mind.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj0WmdlW9LfW68Ej38hW54fIYnhGVSPS09nzlu8bBKOkKNOH1YavggmXt1HEl6emyrhXz3DG1B1CSCl5Gwrm6O3XGmNnBtL226lh2x9s70SOQP37IN-8gDjLMiKqrGUYEfq3Pb/s1600/service+porch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj0WmdlW9LfW68Ej38hW54fIYnhGVSPS09nzlu8bBKOkKNOH1YavggmXt1HEl6emyrhXz3DG1B1CSCl5Gwrm6O3XGmNnBtL226lh2x9s70SOQP37IN-8gDjLMiKqrGUYEfq3Pb/s320/service+porch.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
Ok, so we don't live in a mid century architectural masterpiece. No one was selling a Lautner for the mid-200s when we bought our house. Still, it's got some fine mid century touches. And laminate flooring. You don't get laminate flooring in a Lautner. Nope.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I was thinking yesterday, while waiting in traffic about these things we don't pay attention to until it occurs to us to do so. I was not far from commuter state, where the preserved orange groves remain and I noticed a sign waver. Sign wavers are not an unusual sight in LA, so I looked, noted that he was holding a sign for a Halloween store and wearing a mask. He was dancing and waving the sign, as was to be expected. But he was also occasionally stopping his dancing and moved in a threatening manner at particular passing cars. I'm sure he was doing this because of the scary mask he had on. His intent was, no doubt, benign.<br />
<br />
The effect was chilling. Really. I felt relieved when he did it to the car in front of mine and accelerated quickly through the intersection when the stuck traffic allowed me to. I thought most of the way home about why he seemed so scary. It was, I suppose, the juxtaposition of his easy dancing, the sign, the normal street corner, and these quick, sudden violent movements that kept intruding on that scene. Normal. Then not.<br />
<br />
It happened that I had been at another campus in my University's system earlier that day. I had not been to that campus before, even though it's our closest sister campus. It, in fact, started as a satellite campus of ours. (I am aware, by the way, that this level of detail makes figuring out which campus is which pretty easy. Since I don't think I have many non-friend readers, I'm going to persist with the semi revelatory. Non-California friends are welcome to ask privately for details in case you don't want to figure out which campuses are which).<br />
<br />
Anyway, sister campus has a lovely setting. It's in a valley, near the ocean, surrounded by mountains and touched by sea breezes. Commuter state, on the other hand, has a hot tent. No, let me be fair, it's a beautiful campus, just in a hot part of SoCal.<br />
<br />
Sister campus was a long time coming and many many sites were considered. Several of them were met by strong community opposition. Finally they settled on the site of an about to be closed mental hospital. A rather notorious one.<br />
<br />
We met in sister campus' spectacular library, the only modern architecture building on campus. It looks out across this series of smaller Spanish colonial buildings. Some of them have been converted into office and classroom space. Many of them sit empty, waiting to be retrofitted with modern HVAC (rather than steam heating through asbestos laden walls) and ADA compliant entrances and bathrooms. As a colleague from sister campus said to me yesterday, "it costs a million dollars to walk into one of these buildings."<br />
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My boss and I walked around a little after the meeting and I bought Honey a t-shirt from the campus with their cheesy mascot on it. (Not that commuter state's mascot lacks cheese-factor, mind you).<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I realized that I had taken that the normal that was a quiet Friday at a small University for granted. But somewhere in my head and in that space there were other echos. Echos of people whose lives were trapped in that place. Of the past that is being written over with each of the million dollar entrances into each of those unrefurbished buildings.<br />
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It's the same kind of echo that I have always tried to make myself hear on the battlefields of the Civil War. It's easy enough to stand in Sharpsburg or Mannassas and think that Antietam and Bull Run are theoretical battles where theoretical people died. (Speaking of the Civil War and battlefields, I cannot recommend enough the recent <a href="http://www.slate.com/id/2269604/entry/2269605/">Slate series</a> on touring them. Go read it when you're done with me today).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicE-M-x2huD1XR7-IwBnMXx_deSsMa-ubf3zFVlNMFvtbQgPYaoyYMgHbZB5pNNf8gjKbuIWqP9xFOooKuowHFCzo11R-36TDvJWkODemhbLaBJv8D0xJcJ756DBMLqPEhY8Dm/s1600/camarillohspl_hl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicE-M-x2huD1XR7-IwBnMXx_deSsMa-ubf3zFVlNMFvtbQgPYaoyYMgHbZB5pNNf8gjKbuIWqP9xFOooKuowHFCzo11R-36TDvJWkODemhbLaBJv8D0xJcJ756DBMLqPEhY8Dm/s320/camarillohspl_hl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7qmyO3WP8qqchdcnjKvJsgZCiNLW4zQkFyCfxP48VffQGU1bkx9RV38uq1IqCLb37lRJc8unaF5p7GUJIgFTywAaBC0Hi-wgewLxEcA29kT3AvQZX4MpEI0TzzD7rfsl_EMiR/s1600/BEL_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7qmyO3WP8qqchdcnjKvJsgZCiNLW4zQkFyCfxP48VffQGU1bkx9RV38uq1IqCLb37lRJc8unaF5p7GUJIgFTywAaBC0Hi-wgewLxEcA29kT3AvQZX4MpEI0TzzD7rfsl_EMiR/s320/BEL_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Same building, different purpose, different era.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHP3qSiyk5-E89ofgE0EkJd7A3S4YmVq_WlzJSJeRsNm8D1ihpHhP6qjvM3spv6e6kT-hfYlB2jGLshzpOGcxEUZ8PVKN-zbk2nVFcrrJIRlTMjYV8eleBkMT9LLjDgFKuyYLe/s1600/camarillo_reception_g53b.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHP3qSiyk5-E89ofgE0EkJd7A3S4YmVq_WlzJSJeRsNm8D1ihpHhP6qjvM3spv6e6kT-hfYlB2jGLshzpOGcxEUZ8PVKN-zbk2nVFcrrJIRlTMjYV8eleBkMT9LLjDgFKuyYLe/s320/camarillo_reception_g53b.gif" width="320" /></a></div>A lot of these building were built with New Deal money. The Great Society indeed.<br />
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Seems innocuous enough on first glance, right?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqHggBCymbcG9bFkqQ0i6fUZPxrI9iF2xDKH344WA8aLKkmTHrhx-6h7yRe1w-bk3zG3rjxUjERZnugTwpslH6HhZJOCFz9kSIUzYdNVPfd1EQw3TilLPBGOEV7sQ1UjEGTCdp/s1600/camarillo_colonnade_g53a.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqHggBCymbcG9bFkqQ0i6fUZPxrI9iF2xDKH344WA8aLKkmTHrhx-6h7yRe1w-bk3zG3rjxUjERZnugTwpslH6HhZJOCFz9kSIUzYdNVPfd1EQw3TilLPBGOEV7sQ1UjEGTCdp/s320/camarillo_colonnade_g53a.gif" width="220" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As one commenter on a 2002 <i>Los Angeles Weekly</i> article said about this place, where he had been confined as a child:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Now and then, when I think about those days, I Google the names of the people I knew there. So far, only two staff members have shown up--and no patients. It makes me wonder whether I'm a rarity because I'm still alive. Another possibility I've considered is that they've changed their names and don't want to be found. It's hard to face the ghosts of such a twisted past without someone who shared it to reflect with.</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Since I don't share that past, I can't know what that person experienced, any more than I can know what Sullivan Ballou thought as he wrote his wife before the First Battle of Bull Run, where he was killed:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night—amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours—always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">What I do know is that when I stand in these places, rich with the sacrifices and mistakes of the past, I would do well to pay attention to that small voice echoing in my head or in the space. I should have stopped and looked more closely. The interactive map of sister campus has all the unrefurbished buildings in gray. They don't "do" anything when you click on them. But standing near them, they do speak to what was once there. I will go back to sister campus soon and look at them again, I think. And listen. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I am not nostalgic for the time of service porches, copper fixtures, and steam asbestos heating. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Things go away, sometimes, for good reasons. Sister campus is surely and better use for that space than its previous incarnation. Soon enough, Halloween will come and go and the guy with the mask will leave the corner. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And we will all remember. And all forget.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-89980136317090062622010-09-05T12:38:00.000-07:002010-09-05T12:39:34.711-07:00The Middle RoomWe moved into our house in 2002. February of 2002. We hired terrible movers (we didn't mean to) who put everything into the room we then and now call the "middle room." By everything, I mean every box and every bag. The furniture basically went where it was supposed to.<br />
<br />
The exception to the "everything in the middle room" request was supposed to be the bags and boxes (there were four or five) on which we had written "PERISHABLE! PLEASE PLACE IN KITCHEN." The requested exception was not made. An overfull two bedroom apartment's worth of stuff was, therefore, placed into a room that measures 10' by 10'. In the middle of this, um, pile, was rotting spoiling stuff.<br />
<br />
From that moment forward, the middle room was not treated with respect. For months, perhaps years, it remained the repository of all things placeless. Some of that, of course, is necessary. You've got to put the gift wrap and Christmas stuff somewhere. Some of it, though, was a function of fear. Perhaps ennui. Certainly a function of objects at rest tending to stay at rest.<br />
<br />
Some years ago, I tried to transform it into a "den." It had a love seat and a chair. It was functional enough, I suppose, but there was still a lot of stuff. Relaxing was hard in there. Once, while reading the paper, I noticed flora, specifically vines. In. The. Room. <a href="http://whateveronfire.blogspot.com/2008/04/vines.html">They had grown in through the window.</a><br />
<br />
It was a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grey_Gardens">Grey Gardens</a> moment if I've ever had one.<br />
<br />
I have had spates of organizing the house. (I was just going to post links to a previous post about it, but now realize that all my picture links from my wordpress days are broken since sporksforall.com has expired. Ah well, trust me on it, won't you? I've organized things. The middle bathroom. The utility closet.)<br />
<br />
So, flash forward to a couple of weeks ago when I purchased a new chair and a work friend came over to my house to help me move the old one. I showed her around the house and realized my horror at the state of the middle room. There was stuff in there that had literally been moved in with the rotting spoiled perishables and had not been touched or seen the light of day since. Eight plus years.<br />
<br />
(Does it need to be said that the perishables were disposed or properly? Perhaps. They were.) <br />
<br />
There's another factor at work that I should mention.<br />
<br />
Honey has started graduate school. She's in the super intense program wherein she takes seven classes a term.<br />
<br />
I have a D of Ph and I took two classes a term mostly. So, Seven. Whew.<br />
<br />
I want her to have as much freedom as she needs to move around the house. Living room, office, dining room. Most of the time, I am perfectly happy to be around when the graduate school peripateticity happens. Sometimes, though, I might want somewhere to go. Somewhere that isn't our bedroom where my choices are to lie on the bed, sit on the bed. Or take a shower, I suppose.<br />
<br />
Mostly, though, there was the whole business with showing someone that room and thinking, "um, time to get this sorted." Past time, really. Well past.<br />
<br />
Yesterday morning I announced my intention to tackle two projects. The first was a sock organizing project. The second was the middle room. It was a bit like saying, I think I'll read <i>Fox in Socks</i> and then see how I get on with <i>Remembrance of Things Past</i>.<br />
<br />
The socks went fine. Most are reunited with their mates. They're now all in the same drawer and much more accessible. I've got a bag of unwanted ones to leave for the folks that come around looking for recyclables on trash day.<br />
<br />
After the sock success, we ran some errands and got some lunch. At 4pm yesterday we got home and I got started on Proust.<br />
<br />
Honey says I sometimes push past my limits. I certainly did last night (and this morning).<br />
<br />
Here is most of what was taken out of the room:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvqH5A0BYbQi_WkvtfZGsjcaIrezxtWZSfxmS0KNf43o-yS3Kd5kF8sVK4ZX1HoXzgbftsNCMZ9lnFfo55R0sa-c20htH9zKH_TtW2Uao8eZartOi4acMon6QzpNwuMe_XjNd/s1600/junique.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUvqH5A0BYbQi_WkvtfZGsjcaIrezxtWZSfxmS0KNf43o-yS3Kd5kF8sVK4ZX1HoXzgbftsNCMZ9lnFfo55R0sa-c20htH9zKH_TtW2Uao8eZartOi4acMon6QzpNwuMe_XjNd/s320/junique.jpg" /></a></div>Let me take a side moment in praise of my car. I've had it almost a year and it replaced a succession of two SUV type vehicles. SUVs really.<br />
<br />
It has accepted every single containment task I've asked of it. The new living room chair? Check. A new office chair and our weekend luggage? Check.<br />
<br />
All the crap from the middle room? Check.<br />
<br />
America, listen up, you don't need SUVs. You need hatchbacks. They do what SUVs do. And, if you're smart like me, you get <a href="http://www.vw.com/gti/en/us/">one</a> with good gas mileage and it's superveryfun to drive. Thank you Wolfsburg. <br />
<br />
From another angle:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJuIJEJxaEKThMQrsMCufggU6HpVud-r25SjtNP8E5itbD3X4ONBVFOrYjD3ghtnd-0g9sV5Xi1a_RReSAsqCRoMxV3xZhPwyLh7snSdO2vQRlIhe7yydPNaf-VVzmnSqPG6as/s1600/junique2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJuIJEJxaEKThMQrsMCufggU6HpVud-r25SjtNP8E5itbD3X4ONBVFOrYjD3ghtnd-0g9sV5Xi1a_RReSAsqCRoMxV3xZhPwyLh7snSdO2vQRlIhe7yydPNaf-VVzmnSqPG6as/s320/junique2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
That, friends and neighbors, is a lot of crap.<br />
<br />
Three hours of clean out lot of crap.<br />
<br />
The result?<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHrZYtnhRkqb6pphvZaNPwQAH8NpisxLwmm1cMekXvpaxFa6qa2N1rTjFh5e3ynicy6ckYPbnGNTM7797c80mt90MxmoVtQgp3MkTx2Pj4v1Czxv4WRUR7nl81z_QR6ZuldmJ/s320/room1.jpg" /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjZi81EVZCy_cVSF4mgbZqvgDZ58WP063iMgIjK48AhOFaT8I4opHEvPEHXha84DP-XwgRyfDQuzkL3d1BXesSD_IlpJW8Wid1Wsm85PwQl0dT18smyJTI4orlHuQI83MyVT2/s1600/room2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjZi81EVZCy_cVSF4mgbZqvgDZ58WP063iMgIjK48AhOFaT8I4opHEvPEHXha84DP-XwgRyfDQuzkL3d1BXesSD_IlpJW8Wid1Wsm85PwQl0dT18smyJTI4orlHuQI83MyVT2/s320/room2.jpg" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinWjYBqczMQ4ZGDMtHs4vqWNoQ3TqZ7wKHfFFWyl4MZ05sLXj2IRBaQzpDyaRljcLmTo2pR0stoIfbMm0xHaX4MKY6zmWjO2tSIKjXcZlKKxz4wjuDrbFRp7BkvJjptRbzbKo2/s1600/room3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinWjYBqczMQ4ZGDMtHs4vqWNoQ3TqZ7wKHfFFWyl4MZ05sLXj2IRBaQzpDyaRljcLmTo2pR0stoIfbMm0xHaX4MKY6zmWjO2tSIKjXcZlKKxz4wjuDrbFRp7BkvJjptRbzbKo2/s320/room3.jpg" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Look, a usable, crap free room! Forgive the bright spider fleece throw. A gift, don't you know.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm really pleased. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There may be some tweaking</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4LjfNTjI1ULv6577e7gtST4f1pzQ2_Sc42PfgL_wK3Fu4qvcCNgbrbRjsHf3SXPMZMyiJ_h73cs9-Sq1jYt3UcqpNwwWfM8LwYMPP4WsJNR4mtsJz9RiMfqmLxwmOLChDlfj/s1600/closet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF4LjfNTjI1ULv6577e7gtST4f1pzQ2_Sc42PfgL_wK3Fu4qvcCNgbrbRjsHf3SXPMZMyiJ_h73cs9-Sq1jYt3UcqpNwwWfM8LwYMPP4WsJNR4mtsJz9RiMfqmLxwmOLChDlfj/s320/closet.jpg" /> </a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Imagine all that stuff in the car in the room and in this closet. It was so shudder worthy that I couldn't even take a picture of it before or in process.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">RIP old middle room. 2002-2010.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Welcome new middle room. 2010-</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Now, if you'll excuse me the Sunday paper awaits me in the new space. </div>sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-30920350705383295332010-08-15T18:16:00.000-07:002010-08-15T18:25:43.027-07:00A craigslist interlude in timeLate last week I came down with yet another cold. This makes about four (maybe five) this calendar year. I'm sick (ha!) of it if truth be told, but there's not much to be done about it other than suck on zinc tablets and stay home. I've given up on trying to power through it, especially during the summer. Things are quiet enough that I can stay home and watch the celebration of Norma Shearer on TCM and the world and university will not come to a screeching halt because I'm not there. Besides, if I stay home and actually watch old movies on tv, then I don't have to sit I my office mad at myself for not being productive and I can just try to get better. This strategy basically worked. Instead of being sick for ten days, I've managed to mostly feel better by the end of day five. I also haven't needed to take much OTC medicine, which I don't like doing in some weird throw back to puritanical ancestry. (That and my Dad has always resisted OTC medicine, so my reluctance could be linked to a more recent forebearer.)<br />
<br />
I did decide yesterday after having a bad taste in my mouth and coughing up little chunks, which turned out to be called tonsil stones, that I needed to have my tonsils out. I haven't backed up that conclusion with any member of the medical establishment other than mayoclinic.com.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to go anywhere yesterday and we were expecting a handyman to come fix our faulty drainage tube for the HVAC. (Should I take a potshot at Sears? I have not been happy with Sears vis a vis our HVAC installation. Not even a little bit. So there.)<br />
<br />
This conspiracy of forces (HVAC, sickness, Norma Shearer) coincided with a little craigslist focus in our house. Last weekend, I had a fit of pique wherein I decided my customary chair was no longer the least bit comfortable and that I wanted another one. After going to some unholy number of furniture stores, I had come to the conclusion that the only chair that might do as a replacement was an Ekornes Stressless recliner.<br />
<br />
The problem? They're a little spendy. The Ekornes recliners.<br />
<br />
Then I had a thought; why not check craigslist? Sure enough, there was one listed for 1/4 of retail in Bell. In case you're not wildly familiar with Southern California, Bell isn't exactly a vacation destination. Currently in the news for wildly inflated salaries of civic employees, it's down off the I-5 in an area near, well, Commerce. And Downey. Yep. That's the LA everyone knows and loves.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, down to Bell we go last Sunday night and I procure the chair. The ever versatile GTI accepted it willingly into the hatch and we headed home.<br />
<br />
(Not that there weren't any subsequent moments of concern. I did have a near panic attack the next day that it was a fake. Also my bank was pretty sure someone had stolen my ATM card because I kept going to the ATM to try to get money, not knowing what my daily limit was).<br />
<br />
The chair was duly installed in the place of its predecessor, which now lives on campus at the Women's Center. As my friend and co-worker who helped me get it over to the Women's Center noted, "they won't know it's not comfortable any more. For them, that's how comfortable it's always been."<br />
<br />
So, this weekend, what with the cold and the handyman, we decided to list some stuff for sale on craigslist ourselves.<br />
<br />
On offer:<br />
<br />
1) Two of our six bicycles. We don't need six. We probably don't need four. But we certainly don't need six.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7lkMkaPwSkaGHbtnDxYlX8SXu1PxaFRyPXSod29OpyIxAg3bw6y-hjAd4DkIXb6PebWXyucMqRF3ZyBPftEvwa3qsMHlO0J4hKYn3FWTLJMyzzS6M8Tb7NNTJvZV4Bl-Jr2Fp/s1600/soma1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7lkMkaPwSkaGHbtnDxYlX8SXu1PxaFRyPXSod29OpyIxAg3bw6y-hjAd4DkIXb6PebWXyucMqRF3ZyBPftEvwa3qsMHlO0J4hKYn3FWTLJMyzzS6M8Tb7NNTJvZV4Bl-Jr2Fp/s320/soma1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
(That's the one of mine we're selling). <br />
<br />
2) One of my Timbuk2 bags (I admit that the pile of them in the front closet seems to consitute a collection at miniumum and an obsession if honesty is in my heart).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvwxywzh_OxqREetA_7IxCAvKNJnJBKq87f_c12dYuci5KtxxhU0yKClJKiMH0nufYWnjtDmv3KxiGczOWrNeCL_4cjvJ9IYBD5mn8saXWnvW5LoUqZzKxvze0qv62-XtCQxw/s1600/timbuk21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvwxywzh_OxqREetA_7IxCAvKNJnJBKq87f_c12dYuci5KtxxhU0yKClJKiMH0nufYWnjtDmv3KxiGczOWrNeCL_4cjvJ9IYBD5mn8saXWnvW5LoUqZzKxvze0qv62-XtCQxw/s320/timbuk21.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I have two sort of like this, briefcasey with a laptop compartment and I like the other one better.<br />
<br />
3) My Tony Little Gazelle Elite.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45ExX4SiYbdqpNAHwZlXtTghVgeY9JEglbU3_jrfOQPGsVrLoCmLRb6vEvmuhY12ZhjOkikY5Y3dPfJKb7q1hKuCz1Pn0XJk1N4YFdtXfhfqYvIcVM8sh9alltHL8PuWnN3Sp/s1600/gazelle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh45ExX4SiYbdqpNAHwZlXtTghVgeY9JEglbU3_jrfOQPGsVrLoCmLRb6vEvmuhY12ZhjOkikY5Y3dPfJKb7q1hKuCz1Pn0XJk1N4YFdtXfhfqYvIcVM8sh9alltHL8PuWnN3Sp/s320/gazelle.jpg" /></a></div>You remember Tony Little right? Screaming guy on the informercials sliding his feet back and forth on this thing? Circa 2003 or so. I bought it off craigslist. Now, when I work out at home, I ride one of my bicycles (not that blue one above henceforth, to be sure). The gazelle has been folded up, next to the hutch in our already small dining room. It needed to go away.<br />
<br />
4) What Honey calls my barbie motorcycle helmet. That "calling" goes sort of like, "it's a barbie helmet, barbie, barbie helmet."<br />
<br />
I bought it online and didn't think it would be so, um, well, barbie.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdji5xp1WBdPMjDxFZ3cqQqbBhT2jsbdI1OnLFL9i42C4Ur8_M10WXmJPxl0h3wv2vlpvy0Hr2tDeH9mMZIpgSEEhlLSjgy8-jwjgLQFrKgpX2wSPI1Hsdh_I2RWdCeKPE4dAc/s1600/icon2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdji5xp1WBdPMjDxFZ3cqQqbBhT2jsbdI1OnLFL9i42C4Ur8_M10WXmJPxl0h3wv2vlpvy0Hr2tDeH9mMZIpgSEEhlLSjgy8-jwjgLQFrKgpX2wSPI1Hsdh_I2RWdCeKPE4dAc/s320/icon2.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmTUgeZXJksbR-IS6PCY5dyolhEOs_9oSRP_NbK7UtfyVTp8eBMuEEXXqrtjzWc-DBf3fL_t6gS-KqBNaU-maaa5s-vcqebAsBYn8gZt0E7RDERJWv6vi95KRb1b8Nc_wwK1qC/s1600/icon1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmTUgeZXJksbR-IS6PCY5dyolhEOs_9oSRP_NbK7UtfyVTp8eBMuEEXXqrtjzWc-DBf3fL_t6gS-KqBNaU-maaa5s-vcqebAsBYn8gZt0E7RDERJWv6vi95KRb1b8Nc_wwK1qC/s320/icon1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Nice, huh?<br />
<br />
<br />
So, we pop these things up on craigslist. (Or should I quote "Your Mama" <a href="http://realestalker.blogspot.com/">The Real Estalker</a> and say we "heaved" them up on craigslist)<br />
<br />
Honey starts getting e-mails about her bike right away. The ratio of annoying to not was about 2/1.<br />
<br />
I get an e-mail about the gazelle. Could he come tonight? He has lots of questions.<br />
<br />
Now, it's time to tell you how much I was asking for the gazelle. $25. Yep. And he was offering $20. Which I said was fine. But still, he had lots of questions. I answered and tried to be nice. He said he'd call and come get it in the morning.<br />
<br />
He did not.<br />
<br />
So, I listed it in the free section. Which prompted an hysterical e-mail from a woman asking that I hold it for her. She also called it an elliptical. Um, no, not an elliptical. Something you stand on and swing your legs in the air on.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I went out to check to see if it was still there, though I was not inclined to hold it for her. That mf was so hard to move that my shins got bruised just looking at it. It was gone. Probably for scrap metal.<br />
<br />
No e-mails whatever on my bike. It's now on ebay. We'll see.<br />
<br />
The Timbuk2 bag has gone back with its friends in the closet.<br />
<br />
The barbie helmet is bound for Goodwill next time Honey goes. (That will be this week, I'm sure).<br />
<br />
On the upside, she does have interest in her bike, and not just from the guy who didn't want to raid his daughter's "colleg" fund. I think she'll sell it soon.<br />
<br />
Here are some lesson I learned:<br />
<br />
1) My panic aside, people don't counterfeit Norwegian chairs and then try to sell them one at a time from their living room in Bell;<br />
<br />
2) No one feel responsible for following up on their e-mails. Civility and the social contract don't really exist on craigslist;<br />
<br />
3) No one much uses full sentences, proper grammar, or punctuation in e-mails. They don't even make a pretense at doing so;<br />
<br />
4) Modelling grammar, civility, etc. for people in your communication with them will not result in their reciprocating;<br />
<br />
5) People are way too willing to give out their cell phone numbers;<br />
<br />
6) Teresa has better "taste" in bicycles than I do;<br />
<br />
7) Gazelles are played;<br />
<br />
8) Everyone has better taste than I do/did in motorcycle helmets;<br />
<br />
9) Everyone wants a bargain. Perceptions of bargains are not shared across brains.<br />
<br />
I'm glad our time with craigslist is coming to a close. I won't miss it.<br />
<br />
I did like the generosity of the woman who offered the fat from cooking her cats' dinner to anyone who wanted it, but wasn't sure she'd have any takers. <br />
<br />
I suppose I can glance through that window into modern American Internet humanity now and again. There's certainly something to learn. Perhaps a bargain to be found.<br />
<br />
Still and all, why do I think it's safer over at Etsy?sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-30742629073348762022010-08-07T13:09:00.000-07:002010-08-07T13:09:24.999-07:00Water and grapefruitI've been thinking some lately about water and the desert.<br />
<br />
I grew up in the east, where the humidity made you wish for a little less water and a little more seersucker.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBQPZZHDR0BYjdhR3tO632x6Pw6tlOnfExrgdowK5VCqznQgn67W7602KC8sJ76zgD93YLVnPhPrWNn175p-CSkPUTe99VJOP7hXIinv5ZSpWcU_P0EB6KxAsC9QAKAwKaGWc/s1600/backroads2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBQPZZHDR0BYjdhR3tO632x6Pw6tlOnfExrgdowK5VCqznQgn67W7602KC8sJ76zgD93YLVnPhPrWNn175p-CSkPUTe99VJOP7hXIinv5ZSpWcU_P0EB6KxAsC9QAKAwKaGWc/s320/backroads2.jpg" /></a></div>That's what roads usually looked like as I stared out the window in the cars of my childhood.<br />
<br />
I've lived in Southern California a long time now and am still amazed at how adaptable I am to the dry. I say that in what, admittedly, has been a very mild summer with lots of "June gloom." That's the marine layer hanging around the morning and keeping the afternoon cool. Thanks so much Pacific.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKNn9wQTFSH3w_rJO74wgasc_dpum9S6OX2nais8jlHLPoSaYVCoFlmYhee-rmQt-cgQYccq92KE7rpaoJaFT7q6mJQ-R6fjU6FMJtXY3PRXHnyBEx-aR-4rvMqC8GQPhTCzi/s1600/gloom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKNn9wQTFSH3w_rJO74wgasc_dpum9S6OX2nais8jlHLPoSaYVCoFlmYhee-rmQt-cgQYccq92KE7rpaoJaFT7q6mJQ-R6fjU6FMJtXY3PRXHnyBEx-aR-4rvMqC8GQPhTCzi/s320/gloom.jpg" /></a></div>I've been doing a little writing (of the academic type) lately about the "real" desert here in SoCal.<br />
<br />
(That my paper proposal was rejected for my annual professional conference did give me pause. I've decided to interpret it as a failure on their part, not mine. My annual membership renewal for said society languishes in the mail basket, perhaps to go unpaid. Oh, yeah, deny them that $100 and THEN they'll see!)<br />
<br />
Honey and I have been frequenting an inn in Desert Hot Springs for a couple of years. And, yes, I do mean frequenting. Eight times in two years counts as frequent. :)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUmWzuVahgMXnR-ld4mqPBbKPMMSqFnJ6N0UqTMrJxZiqjP1Z1RPKIyGByndssjYgE5rLFpctszDu9Xwwf5Znp1QNZSejlV8MviWHyF2AleumjPKb8stV_v0tUQQAZqtxIxXLr/s1600/emi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUmWzuVahgMXnR-ld4mqPBbKPMMSqFnJ6N0UqTMrJxZiqjP1Z1RPKIyGByndssjYgE5rLFpctszDu9Xwwf5Znp1QNZSejlV8MviWHyF2AleumjPKb8stV_v0tUQQAZqtxIxXLr/s320/emi.jpg" /></a></div>Sigh. We've just been back a week and I'm ready to go back. I think the GTI has a homing beacon now.<br />
<br />
The innkeeper, a man of considerable charm, refers to his pool and hot tub as filled by water from a "fissure." He means, of course, that Desert Hot Springs is sitting on a big old fault in the earth. Those tricky faults that cause all the quaking also can cause the water of spring.<br />
<br />
Desert Hot Springs has all the water it needs and can use. It's good water, too. It's good to drink. Lovely to soak in.<br />
<br />
Elsewhere in the region, there's less water.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqERuG3vYZR4SHoY789YPbgpPigwV3cX66cek4uvyQCR_C_4MnKN8mzR5fdeeoThI0cgZgzu5ur5zqMtutcylVreRxEXyoGEOsMIEu3vcLbigBnSNhOwypi18eZEggOss9GTlt/s1600/pspringshills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqERuG3vYZR4SHoY789YPbgpPigwV3cX66cek4uvyQCR_C_4MnKN8mzR5fdeeoThI0cgZgzu5ur5zqMtutcylVreRxEXyoGEOsMIEu3vcLbigBnSNhOwypi18eZEggOss9GTlt/s320/pspringshills.jpg" /></a></div>Looks dry.<br />
<br />
One of my current fascinations is water of a decidedly undesirable sort in the desert.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjBhyphenhyphenX_uIVokg7r8wRtbKTy_3paeBaWp1CfMeWDbm-_JPlF1quGfE38hKvmyRVBo6b6YlM0cPjjusHG4ixmTSAeegbDlP8L9EOKwZuE-BFRMG0Lpn9OL02YBeOdcYmDyjrMieq/s1600/deadtilapia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjBhyphenhyphenX_uIVokg7r8wRtbKTy_3paeBaWp1CfMeWDbm-_JPlF1quGfE38hKvmyRVBo6b6YlM0cPjjusHG4ixmTSAeegbDlP8L9EOKwZuE-BFRMG0Lpn9OL02YBeOdcYmDyjrMieq/s320/deadtilapia.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzSFyFSxFeoiM6syhyphenhyphengNTKiDC68IvRlG_iUu6ooCY24U3Nkaak1SOyB9PAnc5nRrchEHPErrwhER1s4pUrzfthT_c44lRnz_cyOGSuHDVID1_UTvFIFcDqwi5wWE0xgiDqxZU/s1600/sandpipers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzSFyFSxFeoiM6syhyphenhyphengNTKiDC68IvRlG_iUu6ooCY24U3Nkaak1SOyB9PAnc5nRrchEHPErrwhER1s4pUrzfthT_c44lRnz_cyOGSuHDVID1_UTvFIFcDqwi5wWE0xgiDqxZU/s320/sandpipers.jpg" /></a></div>That's the Salton Sea. Formed by inadvertent flooding from irrigation canals in the early part of the 20th century, it was once hailed as the new playground to the stars. Now it's a salty mess, that kills fish, smells bad, attracts shorebirds, hosts some odd communities, and just generally sits ignored (as best as people can) in the middle of the Imperial Valley south of Indio.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8wLsbgz6xrEozQf0ZgwwfrktV7urE68vDqYewUEjkFa-VQK3gd4M85c-X7QiJt5NkUKH05lQszIok-S3p9W5guadEY2FqOvzXtc5ACJX_xYKva_mB6y8rKyFVveweDxrwc75/s1600/kingbird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8wLsbgz6xrEozQf0ZgwwfrktV7urE68vDqYewUEjkFa-VQK3gd4M85c-X7QiJt5NkUKH05lQszIok-S3p9W5guadEY2FqOvzXtc5ACJX_xYKva_mB6y8rKyFVveweDxrwc75/s320/kingbird.jpg" /></a></div>The kingbird probably has a better idea than the sandpipers. Don't get in the water.<br />
<br />
I got to thinking about water closer to home this morning. When we bought our house eight years ago, I planted a very small grapefruit tree. And small it stayed. Mostly because I didn't water it.<br />
<br />
When we did landscaping a few years ago, we had a bubbler put on it. I thought it rebounded quite well. Then Honey's mother pointed out that the "rebound" was what she called a "sucker plant" and not the "tree" at all. Today, I looked outside and commented to Honey that a sucker plant had once again attached itself to the little grapefruit that couldn't.<br />
<br />
We agreed to plant something else.<br />
<br />
A little later in the morning, I decided to feed the backyard birds, something I've gotten a bit out of the habit of recently (for monetary reasons, mostly). Nyjer costs. Don't let anyone tell you it doesn't.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_4RTW67pcryCHEW4vYrt61S2EmY1hjUs2_sBdv0xhhY9atWkSTuix3qgpacTVn4SC1DPwCafs_g1CcSXv9nSJ0qoKDB2f1gJyv5u503CSU8EgFtZVnuZYTdMHRyFObgGYeSx3/s1600/gfinches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_4RTW67pcryCHEW4vYrt61S2EmY1hjUs2_sBdv0xhhY9atWkSTuix3qgpacTVn4SC1DPwCafs_g1CcSXv9nSJ0qoKDB2f1gJyv5u503CSU8EgFtZVnuZYTdMHRyFObgGYeSx3/s320/gfinches.jpg" /></a></div>Everyone wants "wild canaries," but I'm here to testify that if you want goldfinches at your feeder, you got to pay for nyjer seed. (Current price about $2/lb.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, as I filled the feeders, I glanced at the grapefruit tree and thought, "what the hell, I'll go ahead and shovel it out today." I figured we could replace it in the fall sometime.<br />
<br />
So, after I put away the seed implements (bird feeding is complicated, don't you know). Visit a <a href="http://www.wbu.com/">Wild Birds Unlimited</a> near you to find out just how money you could be spending! Don't forget the nyjer is obligatory if you want the little gold ones.<br />
<br />
I walked over to the grapefruit "tree." Let me give you a sense of scale.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDRGLPRwwvITnRM5pnFO95T8ZM8ZElEUHa2sEKGT-BAIo89VbkmJcMfty9meNQSnQVzrV0KN3XA6qpMwvqYynG9qxdnDARKIUuaJJD-zBvA7NDXoCbjhHgb_dLKlQpHRKJCOU/s1600/gfruitvtang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDRGLPRwwvITnRM5pnFO95T8ZM8ZElEUHa2sEKGT-BAIo89VbkmJcMfty9meNQSnQVzrV0KN3XA6qpMwvqYynG9qxdnDARKIUuaJJD-zBvA7NDXoCbjhHgb_dLKlQpHRKJCOU/s320/gfruitvtang.jpg" /></a></div><br />
That's it on the left. The tree (no quotes) on the right is the tangerine. It has had many fruit every year, water or no. Bless its over productive heart.<br />
<br />
There's no doubt that water helps these trees. Here's the orange tree that didn't produce more than a dozen in the non-water years.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRT4SAtRNkyLr_8FiLNuS_Cr1HX7PVh3kK8_MMHqjH4-14r3CmVaWXIclvNXCY_TBjRhYTsayAfeV5zffOw3Yyf0dNaqFo4loE-zech-jGyKOlSttgBJYVdDpFMqs7XGgX2rdJ/s1600/oranges2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRT4SAtRNkyLr_8FiLNuS_Cr1HX7PVh3kK8_MMHqjH4-14r3CmVaWXIclvNXCY_TBjRhYTsayAfeV5zffOw3Yyf0dNaqFo4loE-zech-jGyKOlSttgBJYVdDpFMqs7XGgX2rdJ/s320/oranges2.jpg" /></a></div>See all those fruit? We'll be up to our elbows in oranges again this year.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUwIMlooVJPmcMhfr6_rr3U3M1NI9K04rDX4JMENRJrR5C7NgnOd8FolftxEDlmObEB7x5GeqYlhp0k-C8-P9Dn7G5LgOt5kLbsOI31a4lxJOl_TNqwbEdqQmhsZxFRIN07bL7/s1600/oranges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUwIMlooVJPmcMhfr6_rr3U3M1NI9K04rDX4JMENRJrR5C7NgnOd8FolftxEDlmObEB7x5GeqYlhp0k-C8-P9Dn7G5LgOt5kLbsOI31a4lxJOl_TNqwbEdqQmhsZxFRIN07bL7/s320/oranges.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Did I mention that they're navels? Yum.<br />
<br />
So I'm standing over the grapefruit and I glance down.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRVmG4yUc8SmUPcwPhJKmxD5i9f40oW29UQViNV6nPBTmHfqQGliHCf_wRxJkRvDQNpJ-v1cVJ9nZSzF9z9GSL6GX1A9E5-sQ3_fqGxgSuUwZsiSxXoZDBwEZDFstgEJJrBfB/s1600/gfruit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRVmG4yUc8SmUPcwPhJKmxD5i9f40oW29UQViNV6nPBTmHfqQGliHCf_wRxJkRvDQNpJ-v1cVJ9nZSzF9z9GSL6GX1A9E5-sQ3_fqGxgSuUwZsiSxXoZDBwEZDFstgEJJrBfB/s320/gfruit.jpg" /></a></div>Yeppers, those are actual grapefruits.<br />
<br />
Water. I tell you what. Eight years on and the little tree that couldn't has four grapefruit on it. And lots and lots of new growth. I'm giving it another chance. Redemption comes when it does, I suppose.<br />
<br />
Now, if only it would rain.sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-36019999395907821832010-07-24T11:46:00.000-07:002010-07-24T11:46:42.085-07:00On the eve of a trip awayBack when I started this blog, there were lots of blogs. I suppose there still are. My RSS feed certainly suggests that the blogs I track keep getting updated. I even find new ones to read occasionally.<br />
<br />
What is gone now (and I think for good) is the community of bloggers who I felt part of who read and commented on each other's posts. There may be tweeting now, for all I know. There's certainly facebooking. What we've lost, though, is medium to long form ideas and the exchange thereof. I suppose I'm not anti-tweet per se, but I come close. And every time I update my status on facebook, I am both careful and a little unsure if my "friends" need to know what I've just said.<br />
<br />
All of which is to say that I was thinking about vacation blogging this morning.<br />
<br />
My morning gave me time and space to think, in part because I do not need or want to run in errands. If Saturday is normally about going to the cleaners and getting bagels and getting the car washed, I have decided none of those things are necessary this particular Saturday. Honey and I leave for vacation Monday. I'm thinking this weekend should be:<br />
<br />
bike, riding;<br />
dogs, hanging out with;<br />
movie, seeing;<br />
meals, eating.<br />
<br />
Not necessarily in that order. And to be sure, some things need to be repeated.<br />
<br />
We were to have gone to <a href="http://www.nps.gov/lavo/index.htm">Lassen National Park</a> to go camping. (File under: recession, vacation)<br />
<br />
It's not really <a href="http://www.nps.gov/seki/">our National Park</a>, but sounded really wonderful. It's only accessible in the summer. I'm pretty sure it's summer, what with the heat rash and all.<br />
<br />
So I had turned camping into a bit of a research project.<br />
<br />
Tent: check, REI Hobitat 4, vestibule, and footprint<br />
Sleeping platforms: check, cot, zero gravity chair<br />
Coffee: check, titanium coffee pot and individual plunger mugs<br />
<br />
I could go on and on. Maps, GPS, hotels. I had it sorted.<br />
<br />
Then, we got a phone call. They'd be chainsawing at our campground from 7am until 4pm everyday.<br />
<br />
Noise sources expect, National Park camping: <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2X3pCG0m4j7WVGkC8yzGldb65PZ4JfE7KLGWYtk_vq-lnmLXKsyu_hLcTzlOl0ZPF7CI9DdVZ0kw6XRNd_WvnDfVbebzfRWs3LHD3sf1S5bHYc_KVB-C4iYxDzLKSlZcAlel6/s1600/owl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2X3pCG0m4j7WVGkC8yzGldb65PZ4JfE7KLGWYtk_vq-lnmLXKsyu_hLcTzlOl0ZPF7CI9DdVZ0kw6XRNd_WvnDfVbebzfRWs3LHD3sf1S5bHYc_KVB-C4iYxDzLKSlZcAlel6/s320/owl.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Noise sources unexpected, National Park camping:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhby7zuH8_2KxBDhbBaRPvxdQKzWPGzU9S5s077VAOde4z5XFXad863j8D1M4ZhWBB56yL0ZOBkkBvbS2FCDxLHaGW1OBzeIjadM9fcKhL-5wRJPBw3M6MUuSRWfgs0jAfFsslv/s1600/chainsaw_cutting_tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhby7zuH8_2KxBDhbBaRPvxdQKzWPGzU9S5s077VAOde4z5XFXad863j8D1M4ZhWBB56yL0ZOBkkBvbS2FCDxLHaGW1OBzeIjadM9fcKhL-5wRJPBw3M6MUuSRWfgs0jAfFsslv/s320/chainsaw_cutting_tree.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Serendipity intervened. I like to think of Serendipity as a person. She's out there somewhere. Sometimes she's hanging around with me. Other times, she's occupied with someone stuck in a tight spot who just happens to have the right tool to get out of it. This may be one of the reasons I buy so many stupid tools on <a href="http://steepandcheap.com/">steepandcheap.com</a>. Just trying to help Ms. Serendipity out.<br />
<br />
I had, the very morning of the chainsaw phone call, gotten a notice that our most favoritist place we have gone to (a lot) over the past couple of years, the fabulous (truly truly) <a href="http://www.elmoroccoinn.com/">El Morocco Inn and Spa</a> in (not so) fabulous Desert Hot Springs was running a special. More than half off high season rates. Half off low season rates. As cheap as camping.<br />
<br />
So instead of a very long drive, followed by very loud camping, we have a much shorter drive followed by a really nice bed and real mineral springs. And massages. All of which (despite the triple digits) will clear the heat rash right up. Also maybe some of the current ennui.<br />
<br />
So back to blogging trips. I like blogging trips. See, for eg:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://whateveronfire.blogspot.com/2007/11/bear-aware.html">Bear Aware</a><br />
<br />
or<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_1357968329"><br />
</a><br />
<a href="http://whateveronfire.blogspot.com/2008/02/geese-of-hawai.html">The Geese of Hawaii</a><br />
<br />
Hmm, maybe I like blogging trips that somehow involve animals.<br />
<br />
Anyway, trips happen whether I blog or not. I may or may not blog on this trip. <br />
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If I do blog about it, I will assuredly write medium to long form. Spa-tels cannot be tweeted.sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-34187438359912352202010-07-17T12:16:00.000-07:002010-07-24T11:47:15.275-07:00Heat rash: 2010 editionSome years ago I wrote a short story called "Heat Rash." It was "published" in a "Journal" that I helped produce while a graduate student at UCLA. Lots of quotes in the previous sentence. An acquaintance/sort-of-friend of mine decided she wanted to create a student journal of LGBT, (um, what's the word?), stuff. She asked me to help. She and her gay bff took credit as editors-in-chief. This other guy, Kirk, and I really did the whole thing. Kirk did the layout and the design. I did all the editing. In exchange we got credit as the "editorial board." The acquaintance/sort-of-friend didn't really want to publish my short story, but she had the good sense to know she wouldn't get all the free work from me if she didn't. So, we compromised (there was more give from me, truth told, than her). I was to write a scholarly introduction to my story. Um, ok.<br />
<br />
I just reread the introduction (I can't bring myself to do more than skim the story). I cite and discuss Walter Ong's <i>Orality and Literacy</i>. Go me. Remembered something from my oral narrative seminar. Of course, I don't remember the seminar very well now, other than the cute girl who always brought pop tarts to class, but that's another matter. <br />
<br />
Anyway, I will quote (with some chagrin) from the story:<br />
<br />
"It is April and it is Thursday and I have a heat rash under my left arm that has been bothering me all day. It is red and bumpy and will soon cover my entire body.... The best solution I can come up with is to keep my right hand in my armpit at all times. Left handed only, I am proceeding."<br />
<br />
The story is a somewhat autobiographical account of one spring and summer I spent in D.C. Re-skimming it now, many of the things I recall happening that summer seem to be in there. I'll spare the plot to all concerned (mostly myself).<br />
<br />
I should make a side note about the acquaintance/sort-of-friend: she moved to D.C. to attend my Alma mater for graduate school. When she did that, she broke up with her girlfriend and left her behind. That girlfriend is sitting behind me now at her own desk, some 16 years later. So something very good came out of the "journal" after all.<br />
<br />
Oh, and I do still have the short story on my c.v. I cited Walter Ong, after all.<br />
<br />
The acquaintance/sort-of-friend lives in--of all places--Albania now. She and her partner are undoubtedly having adventures of a very Balkan nature. I do not envy her the life she has. I expect the same is true of her in regards to me.<br />
<br />
I have what I think may be a heat rash now. It's not where the old one was. Regardless, it hurts and itches.<br />
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It does bring to mind the overwrought heartache of young summers. They seem very long ago indeed.<br />
<br />
I ran into a former student of mine last night, who immediately began asking if the things she knew about me from before were still true. She twice asked if we had gone to any Angel games recently. I said no both times and refrained from launching into my lament about the unused and guilt-inducing "Angel Bucks" we have sitting in a drawer. I said that sometimes we have to move on from the things we loved. I liked baseball a lot once. Now, less so.<br />
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Things change.<br />
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The heat rash made me think about the past, but did not make me want to return to it.<br />
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One more quote:<br />
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"The tendency, according to Ong, of a literate culture is to emphasize the individual, to have linear plot structure in a story, an to view fixed text as the norm."<br />
<br />
If heat rashes aren't fixed, then how can plots be linear?<br />
<br />
Somebody pass the cortizone.sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-64889445732293836132010-07-03T15:38:00.000-07:002010-07-03T22:27:42.563-07:00The iPad, the girl out the window, and my futureSo, for some time I've been wanting, but resisting, the latest piece of kit from M. Jobs and co. I even ordered the new iPhone to keep me from buying an iPad. I justified the iPhone purchase by telling myself that work would pay for it, so it was "needed." (I should note that though it has not yet arrived, I have secured one of the hard to find "bumpers" for it).<br />
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Now, I will take a slight detour. I currently have a job that I like and am good at. I also really like the people I work with. I don't want to do my current job forever--indeed it is one of those jobs that I should not do forever lest I be viewed as "stuck." At any rate a job has opened up that I don't think I want, but there are people who want me to apply for it. I am even led to believe that if I did apply, I would probably get it. It's more money, more responsibility, more pressure. It also takes me--I think--in the wrong direction. So, I decided not to apply. Then I got a call. My boss got a call. I was asked to rethink. I am supposed to be rethinking as I write.<br />
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So, being me, I cried a little and I processed a lot. And then I decide to buy an iPad after all. Do you follow that? I'm not sure I do either, but there was the compulsion. Being compelling. <br />
<br />
So I stop by Best Buy and ask. Nope. They only have 3G ones. Don't want 3G. One data plan with AT&T is enough, thanks. So, this morning, I commence to calling. <br />
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Apple Store #1: get on the waiting list<br />
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Best Buy #2: we don't carry ipads<br />
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Apple store #2: how about a 3G?<br />
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Best Buy #2: How about a 3G? <br />
<br />
...some time later...<br />
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Apple Store #5: we have a 64mb wifi<br />
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So, without much thinking (or any crying), I head out to points east and emerge with the biggest wifi iPad there is.<br />
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Honey goes off to the gym to let me play with it. I start to lose myself in app land. The worries of the moment recede.<br />
<br />
Then the dogs begin to bark. I look up from Honey's desk (where iTunes lives) and see two kids walking in front of the house heading to our front door. I say (through the window), "I'm sorry, but I don't want to buy anything from you."<br />
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The older one immediately responds, "you are a racist."<br />
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I said something in protest, but she was gone. It burst my iPad bubble to be sure. And it made me mad. I did refrain from walking outside and giving her a piece of my mind. I don't have to take the lies in. But they do deflate.<br />
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What will I do next, job-wise? I don't know, though I suspect I'll stay where I am.<br />
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In the meantime, in case you're wondering, the iPad works fine for first draft blogging. (Final edits requires the MacBook Pro. I did mention my official Apple fangirl status, right?)<br />
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The iPad may save me from something. I just don't know what yet.sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-62386453126304804752010-06-26T10:29:00.001-07:002010-07-24T11:48:21.403-07:00Moving back<i>Remember the 1340s? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.</i><br />
<i>You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,</i><br />
<i>and I was draped in those capes that were so popular,</i><br />
<i>the one with unicorns and pomegranates in the needlework.</i><br />
<i>Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,</i><br />
<i>and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow."</i><br />
<i>Everything was hand lettered then, not like today.</i><br />
<br />
So here I am, back at the old digs. They look a little different. Good for you, Blogger, for making things a little less the same. Still, the familiar is so familiar.<br />
<br />
<i>Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet</i><br />
<i>marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags</i><br />
<i>of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone.</i><br />
<i>Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle</i><br />
<i>while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.</i><br />
<i>We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.</i><br />
<i>These days language seems transparent, a badly broken code.</i><br />
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2006 I started this thing. Four plus years and lots of changes.<br />
<br />
Two jobs come and one gone for me. One gone for Honey. New trajectories for us both, to be sure.<br />
<br />
<i>The 1790s will never come again., Childhood was big.</i><br />
<i>People would take walks to the tops of hills</i><br />
<i>and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking</i><br />
<i>Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.</i><br />
<i>We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.</i><br />
<i>It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.</i><br />
<br />
I moved the blog to its own domain late summer of 2007. We were over at treecup's house. She and sly were together then and they helped us both buy domains, set up blogs on them. They both worked generously well into the night. By the end of it we had our own websites, our own virtual spaces.<br />
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Now, they're both gone from the place I call my own. The sprawl in which I have lived more of my life than any other.<br />
<br />
Sly doesn't need sporksforall.com on his server. I don't need it there either, I realized. Still, thinking about that night makes me sad. Best to let the website go. The past doesn't come back, or so I understand. Sometimes it also doesn't go away.<br />
<br />
<i>I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.</i><br />
<i>Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.</i><br />
<i>And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,</i><br />
<i>time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,</i><br />
<i>or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me</i><br />
<i>recapture the serenity of last month when we picked</i><br />
<i>berries and glided through the afternoons in a canoe.</i><br />
<br />
I don't reread this blog much. There was a period when the blog had community. Reading it reminds me of that, too.<br />
<br />
More recently, I write when I feel moved. Curling, it seems, was the last thing that moved me.<br />
<br />
<i>Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.</i><br />
<i>I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees</i><br />
<i>and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light</i><br />
<i>flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse</i><br />
<i>and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.</i><br />
<br />
So, I'm back. And determined to post more. We'll see what happens. Using the blog to move forward rather than look back seems an ambitious goal. I'll count it as one at which I might succeed.<br />
<br />
<i>As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past<br />
<i>letting my memory rush over them like water</i><br />
<i>rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.</i><br />
<i>I was even thinking a little about the future, that place</i><br />
<i>where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine</i><br />
<i>a dance whose names we can only guess.</i><br />
<br />
</i>I'll see how it goes. But moving back is not necessarily about moving backwards. It's just about moving.<br />
<br />
No <a href="http://whateveronfire.blogspot.com/2007/09/chix-pix.html">chickens</a> this time, which is fine. The next thing is always just a guess.<i><br />
<br />
<br />
</i>The poem is by Billy Collins and is called "Nostalgia."<br />
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If you don't know Collins (even if you think you hate poetry), check him out. You won't be sorry.<br />
<br />
Look, a link to buy the book:<i><br />
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<iframe align="left" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=admo88&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0822942119&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="height: 245px; padding-right: 10px; padding-top: 5px; width: 131px;"></iframe><br />
</i>Wow.<br />
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Oh, and welcome back to whatever (on fire).sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-68552968907091484292010-02-27T02:25:00.000-08:002010-06-26T09:00:40.006-07:00Canada curling, my brief fandom thereof<img class="alignnone size-full wp-image-631" title="stones" src="http://www.sporksforall.com/wp-content/uploads/stones.jpg" alt="stones" width="220" height="366" /><br/><br/>Recently I've been listening to Slate's really good sports podcast, "Hang Up and Listen." I came to it because I've liked Stefan Fatsis on NPR and in print (<em>Word Freak</em> and <em>A Few Seconds of Panic </em>are both terrific books.)<br/><br/>They've done a couple of nice segments on the Winter Olympics and one of them (I think it was Josh Levin) mentioned that lots of the sports shown by NBC on the Olympics just aren't shown very well. The sliding sports (luge, bobsled er, bobsleigh, skeleton) are simply a series of cameras at different parts of the track. You see pieces, but not the whole. They do a better job with the big ticket sports like figure skating and alpine skiing and even manage to turn biathlon into something of a story.<br/><br/>I have, as some of you probably (don't) remember, been an every-four-years fan of curling for a little bit now. I really like watching it. NBC did figure out, bless its corporate heart, that curling couldn't be highlighted and it couldn't be narrativized. What it could be was shown in its entirety with experienced curling commentators. On CNBC and USA. Ok, so I have to live with no primetime curling. But I've got dish and a dvr. Dish <em>always</em> gives you CNBC and USA. It's like a woman I know says about grits in South Carolina. You don't have to ask for them, they just come.<br/><br/>Anyway, there's a lot of curling on, actually. Several hours every day. Since I don't actually have several hours to turn over to the sliding granite stones every day, I had to figure out my own approach to watching. By the by, I love that I got to do that. That's what's wrong with NBC's coverage on primetime. I've got to take what they give me. That's all well and fine the night the show the women's long program, but less so during ski jump after ski jump or, heaven forfend, ice dancing. For curling though, I make my own rules. I set my own schedule. How to do that, though?<br/><br/>Don Duguid and Colleen Jones (the curling commentators) are enthusiastic about the sport to such a degree that it's hard to sort out what to be excited about and not, so, at first, they weren't much help.<br/><br/>I happen to be an American who finds the Olympic American hometown rah rah thing a little annoying. I also suspected that the American curling teams weren't very good. (Quelle Suprise! I was right).<br/><br/>I first came across curling during the Salt Lake City Olympics (sorry, Olympic Winter Games) where I watched the Great Britain women's team take gold. I toyed with rooting for them. I guess I should acknowledge the given that I'd be focusing my watching on women's curling.<br/><br/>Then, I hear (from Colleen--who was ready to guide me after all) about Cheryl Bernard and her Canadian team.<br/><br/><img class="alignnone size-full wp-image-628" title="bernard" src="http://www.sporksforall.com/wp-content/uploads/bernard.jpg" alt="bernard" width="486" height="379" /><br/><br/>It seems that Canada lets its best club teams compete against one another to represent the country in the Olympics.<br/><br/>Cheryl and company (Susan O'Connor, Carolyn Darbyshire, and Cori Bartel) were good enough to make the trials, but no one expected them to win. They were, by all accounts, the 4th best performing team in Canada.<br/><br/>They did win the "Roar of the Rings." Thus were they Team Canada.<br/><br/>Then there was all this drama about their not having enough international experience and should Canada change the system and blah blah blah.<br/><br/>Cheryl and her team came to Vancouver (their club is in Calgary) and beat pretty much everybody in the preliminary rounds (they lost once to China) and then won their semi final against Switzerland by which time everyone had stopped talking about whether they should have won and whether to change the rules.<br/><br/>I watched most of their games. I read up on curling and how to make the stones (a complicated process) and even looked to see if there were SoCal curling clubs (yes, but in Orange County, which isn't close enough). Still I'd like to touch a curling stone. And wear those cool slidy shoes.<br/><br/>Cheryl and her team were, in a fundamental way, my Olympics. Honey and I have watched lots of primetime. It was curling I looked forward to. I rooted for them. I imagined them singing "O Canada." (Side note: Canada has a MUCH better national anthem than we do. It's rousing, it's singable. I'd take "God Save the Queen," too. I can't hit that high note in ours and neither can you, so don't act like you can).<br/><br/>I followed the controversy over the supposed swimsuit photos she took. Worried about her cold.<br/><br/>I wasn't the only one. Canada went a little curling mad. They wore those <a href="http://www.curlinghats.com/">curling hats.</a> People stopped Cheryl on the street and asked for her autograph. Guys held up signs asking to marry her. Her husband borrowed one of them. They were in the gold medal game.<br/><br/>Then Friday afternoon they faced Sweden. The Prime Minister of Canada was there. So was the King of Sweden. I was too. It was a state mandated furlough day for me. Curling and furloughs go great together.<br/><br/>There, too, was the all the international and Olympic experience the people of Canada had worried about in the person of Anette Norberg, Sweden skip.<br/><br/>It was a tense match. Colleen even said so. Sweden looked like they would win and then Canada came back and stole two ends. (Basically they won points they shouldn't have). It looked set for my girls. Cheryl needed to make one shot in the 10th (and last end). She missed it and Norberg tied the game.<br/><br/>Then, in the (extra) 11th end, Norberg made a spectacular shot at the end and Cheryl couldn't match her.<br/><br/>I was heartbroken. Not as much, I'm sure, as Cheryl was.<br/><br/>You can look around the web and you will find lots about how she messed up and lost the gold. There are Canada fan sites and curling sites. Newspapers and blogs. There's a lot of talk about choking.<br/><br/>For me, it wasn't about any of that. She was an underdog who got everyone on her side. When she lost she walked (ok slid) over to her team and they embraced. Most of the pictures of them on the podium with the silver medals around their necks show their dissapointment more than anything else. She seemed to handle it all with class.<br/><br/>As I watched her Friday afternoon, I remembered why I still like sports sometimes. I remembered that sports should always be about winning and losing and heartbreak and triumph. (Not money or contracts or steroids or whatever.)<br/><br/>Cheryl Bernard broke my heart today. Two weeks ago I didn't know her name.<br/><br/>Cheryl did manage a smile over the silver medal at the end of a lovely two weeks of curling. Thanks for letting me follow along.<br/><br/><img class="alignnone size-full wp-image-629" title="bernardsilver" src="http://www.sporksforall.com/wp-content/uploads/bernardsilver.jpg" alt="bernardsilver" width="429" height="295" />sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-66337269048293035992010-02-21T03:06:00.000-08:002010-06-26T09:00:40.013-07:00Alone in a downtown<em>Pre-entry note: I've been thinking some lately about this blog and how much I was engaged with it during the last Winter Olympics. It was a different time in my life, to be sure. Four years seems both quickly gone and very recent. I'm not going to feel badly that the blog has lain fallow. But I found myself (with only my iphone at hand--no laptop) thinking about an entry while on a trip this week. So I wrote it down (pen and paper!) and submit it to the the blog maw for anyone's consideration.</em><br/><br/>What is it like to be alone in an unfamiliar downtown?<br/><br/>It depends on the city, really, doesn't it.<br/><br/>Some (most) have the obvious thing to do. To wit:<br/><br/>Denver--The Mint<br/><br/>Louisville--The Bats<br/><br/>Seattle--The Needle<br/><br/>Don't read this as pejorative in some way. I'm usually up for the obvious. The more factual and historical, the better. So picture me, then, bereft outside The Mint, unable to get a ticket and learn about all those coins.<br/><br/>Two Nevada coin asides:<br/><br/>1) Honey and I go to the site of the Carson City Mint after a breakfast of pancakes, after a truly hellish night in Virginia City. Unless it's the Irma in Cody, WY, give 19th century hotels--however quaint you think they'll be--a pass. They will be hot or cold or startlingly both. They will be loud. You will not sleep. All of what I have said is especially true of The Silver Queen in Virgina City, NV. Virginia City MAY be worth a drive-through look at the Bucket O'Blood casino and saloon, but not more. Not even a little bit more.<br/><br/>I wanted more from Carson City, mint wise, but I was tired and perhaps compensatingly over-carbed.<br/><br/>2) During the early days of the Mandalay Bay, Las Vegas was in a period where high-end properties were all about museums as part of the experience. Museums make thing high class, don't you know. The Bellagio had Steve Wynn's own art collection. Not to be outdone, Mandalay Bay opened with a featured museum to money. Appropriate? You bet. (Ha!).<br/><br/>So, Honey and I dutifully paid our admission and were given those hand held recorder sticks. Wands. Whatever. You push the number of the display and a deep voice intones from the stick about the coin in front of you. There was a coin set off by itself in a glass case. When we approached we discovered it was a nickel. The stick then began what seemed like 90 minutes of narration about the nickel.<br/><br/>We both gave up on the nickel before it was done. It was a rare and important nickel. It was also--there's just no getting around this--a nickel.<br/><br/>(Ok, I just looked it up--because being snotty about a nickel doesn't mean it's not important. It was a 1913 Liberty Head Nickel, one of only 5 known in the world. They were not supposed to be in circulation, but somehow 5 of them got into collector's hand. Liberty Head nickels were regular nickels from 1882 to 1912. In 1913 a rouge Mint employee stuck five 1913 Liberty Heads. One of the five most recently sold (2007) for $5 million. It's quite the nickel).<br/><br/>To rejoin me alone in downtowns...<br/><br/>A few years ago, I had a trip to Denver. The Mint Tour was full. I "replaced" it with a tour of Molly Brown's house (she of the unsinkable) which I left halfway through. My trip to the Louisville Slugger bat factory paled next to the massage at the spa Treecup found that trip.<br/><br/>I try, you see, to be a good conference attendee. I really do, but somehow I am compelled to wander away sometimes.<br/><br/>So, Thursday I wandered Seattle.<br/><br/>I had high hopes. No rain. A cool Pacific Northwest City.<br/><br/>And then, well, there's the <em><strong>Space Needle Dream</strong></em><strong>™</strong>. I've had it for years. Not every night. But once or twice a year.<br/><br/>Here's how it goes. I'm in Seattle. How do I know? I just do. It looks like my brain thinks Seattle should look.<br/><br/>When I touched down at SeaTac on Thursday, it was my first moment in Washington State. Why have I been dreaming of a place I'd never been? I'll leave that to the symbolgists and psychologists.<br/><br/>Anyway, in the <em><strong>Space Needle Dream</strong></em><strong>™</strong>, I need to get to the top of the Space Needle. I can't get there. I try and try and can't even get close. There's something important up there. A <em><strong>Space Needle Dream</strong></em><strong>™ <span style="color: #008000;">secret</span>.<br/></strong><br/><br/>So Thursday afternoon, I landed and took a cab with a colleague to the hotel. She left to meet her sister for dinner, so I feel ok about missing the opening talk and head off to the Needle. I take the <a href="http://www.seattlemonorail.com/">mid-60s monorail</a> to get there.<br/><br/>I paid my $17 and rode the elevator (41 seconds) to the top. The sun was setting behind the Puget Sound. I circumnavigated the outside deck, the inside deck and stared off into every direction I could.<br/><br/>I then called Honey.<br/><br/>"Will I know the <strong><span style="color: #008000;">secret</span></strong> message when I see it?"<br/><br/>"Maybe it's in the needle part"<br/><br/>"Well, that's problematic, because I'm in the round part and can't get there."<br/><br/>I do like modernist architecture. I enjoyed the monorail ride back, where I looked at the Needle from below.<br/><br/>I then walked several hundred vertical miles (ok, 12 blocks) up a mountain (ok, up Capitol Hill) to buy some good coffee. (<a href="http://www.victrolacoffee.com/">Victrola</a>, <a href="http://www.stumptowncoffee.com/">Stumptown</a> (a Portland import), and <a href="http://www.espressovivace.com/">Vivace</a>) for enjoyment back in the blessedly flat San Fernando Valley.<br/><br/>I enjoyed my beer and burger for dinner and wrote this blog in my <a href="http://www.moleskine.com/">moleskine</a> with a blue gel pen. (How quaint).<br/><br/>It was a tiring afternoon (no lunch didn't help), but the people seemed nice and everything was open. (Take that, Denver!)<br/><br/>The next day I went to Pike Place market and to REI mothership.<br/><br/>The <strong><span style="color: #008000;">secret</span></strong> is still out there somewhere. Problem is that now I don't even know where to look. But I'm sure I'll find myself in another downtown at some point and I'll wander.<br/><br/><img class="alignnone size-full wp-image-623" title="needle" src="http://www.sporksforall.com/wp-content/uploads/needle.jpg" alt="needle" width="400" height="600" /><br/><br/>As for the <em><strong>Space Needle Dream</strong></em><strong>™, </strong>maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn't Seattle after all. Could the <strong><span style="color: #008000;">secret</span></strong> be in Brussels at the Atomium? Do you think they have any conferences there?<br/><br/><img class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-624" title="ILA023" src="http://www.sporksforall.com/wp-content/uploads/antomium-200x300.jpg" alt="ILA023" width="326" height="489" />sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-62393176933399170672009-10-03T12:10:00.000-07:002010-06-26T09:00:40.016-07:00The time for trucks has passedMore on this soon, I guess.<br/><br/><img class="alignnone size-large wp-image-597" title="gti3" src="http://www.sporksforall.com/wp-content/uploads/gti3-1023x686.jpg" alt="gti3" width="500" height="333" /><br/><br/><img class="alignnone size-large wp-image-598" title="egti" src="http://www.sporksforall.com/wp-content/uploads/egti-1024x540.jpg" alt="egti" width="496" height="261" /><br/><br/>I might call him Wolf, with the German "v" sound.sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21179158.post-36473721056395058022009-09-19T05:11:00.000-07:002010-06-26T09:00:40.019-07:00Golf balls, National Parks, Memory, and the NewspaperI grew up in a newspaper reading family. Even as a child, I liked reading the newspaper. We got the afternoon paper most of my childhood and then switched to the morning paper when I was a teenager. Let's pause for a moment and think about that. Morning paper. Afternoon paper.<br/><br/>Yep.<br/><br/>I grew up in Atlanta and the two papers were co-owned in my lifetime. Of course, they had been separate newspapers once upon a time. Though co-owned, they maintained separate newsrooms through 1982 and maintained separate editorial boards through 2001. <em>The Journal </em>was liberal. <em>The Constitution</em> was not.<br/><br/><img class="alignnone size-full wp-image-586" title="ac" src="http://www.sporksforall.com/wp-content/uploads/ac.jpg" alt="ac" width="492" height="386" /><br/><br/>Now the combined <em>Atlanta Journal-Constitution</em>, according to my Dad, who reads it every day, is "terrible." It's delivered once a day (morning) and focuses on local news. My parents get the <em>New York Times</em> every day as well. They're newspaper readers and getting the <em>Times</em> means they still get a real newspaper.<br/><br/>I went through a period of not reading the paper much. I read Salon and Slate, checked the <em>Los Angeles Times</em> web site when there are wildfires, watched Rachel Maddow with Teresa sometimes, and listened to NPR most of the time. I figured I was getting my news. I never gave up the Sunday paper thing, though. I always read the Sunday paper, even as it got gutted. No more Book Review, no more Opinion, no more Magazine.<br/><br/>I've been lucky, in my adult life, to live in cities with decent papers. <em>The Washington Post</em> does pretty well. <em>The Los Angeles Times</em> has something to say most days. I moved away from Washington before the decline of the newspaper. I am certainly not qualified to speak on the newspapers' decline in any expert way. There are those far more in the know who I have asked about the situation (folks who teach or taught journalism at my University, for example) who just shake theirs heads when I ask about the future.<br/><br/>And, of course, the future looks bleak. <em>The LA Times</em> runs large number of corrections every day because they've fired their fact checkers and copy editors. One day last year, their Calendar briefs had stand-in headlines that read "sub head here" printed instead of the actual sub head.<br/><br/>For a while I was getting the Thursday-Saturday papers for free and paying $1.25 a week for the Sunday paper because every time I tried to cancel, they'd offer me a better deal to keep me as a single number on the subscriber list.<br/><br/>Lately, though, I'm glad to get the <em>LA Times</em>. It may not be the great paper it was even ten years ago, but they employ a number of writers and critics I really like. I would read anything Dan Neil writes about anything. Mr. Neil, here's a box of hair, please write about it and I will read it.<br/><br/>I even sent Neil an e-mail some years ago praising <a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2004/apr/21/autos/hy-neil21">his review of a car Chevrolet (the SSR)</a> put out that was supposed to look like it had been chopped and altered. Neil's take on the difference between mass-manufacture and art was one of the best things I've ever read about folklore. I told him so by e-mail and have used the piece in my class. He, in turn, worried in his e-mail response to me about what happens when a writer's writing makes it into a college class. Does he lose his edge? Even recounting the incident here now makes me happy.<br/><br/>I always read Susan Carpenter (who they should let review motorcycles again). I like Robert Lloyd and Ken Turan. Mary McNamara and Sandy Banks. Steve Lopez.<br/><br/>The paper may have had the great short-sightedness to fire its copy editors and fact checkers (surely a necessary group of folks). I am glad they kept some of the people they did. And so I read it Thursday through Sunday. I'm not looking to it for the latest news any more. I'm looking for in-depth reporting. Good writing. Stuff I didn't know.<br/><br/>I guess an aside is worth making about the other daily Los Angeles paper, <em>The Daily News</em>. I don't read it, but one of the reporters calls me a lot to be a quoted expert. I'm sure it says something about the self-absorption of the city and time in which I live when I say I always look those articles up online to see if I sound good in the quotes.<br/><br/>All this lead-up brings me to the piece they ran on page A3 in yesterday's (9/18/09) <em>Los Angeles Times</em> Valley edition by David Kelly. I won't hotlink, since at some point it won't be available any more, but here's the first paragraph:<br/><br/>"A man claiming he was paying tribute to dead golfers tossed up to 3,000 golf balls into the biggest sand trap he could find: Joshua National Park."<br/><br/><img class="alignnone size-full wp-image-589" title="golf" src="http://www.sporksforall.com/wp-content/uploads/golf.jpg" alt="golf" width="203" height="270" /><br/><br/><img class="alignnone size-full wp-image-590" title="jtree" src="http://www.sporksforall.com/wp-content/uploads/jtree.jpg" alt="jtree" width="470" height="352" /><br/><br/>Yes, indeed. That right there is why the paper is worth reading. This item didn't go viral on the internet (maybe because it didn't involved Kanye West). It didn't get picked up by NPR because it's a little too long for a quip and doesn't have the pathos needed for a feature. Rachel Maddow didn't mention it. Salon and Slate didn't cover it. I read about it in the newspaper. The same daily print newspaper that had a very interesting piece from Neil about Diesel/Electric hybrids (want!), an hilarious panning of the Matthew Modine play making its world premiere at the Taper, a good review of both <em>The Burning Plain</em> and <em>Bright Star,</em> as well as a bad one of <em>The Informant!</em> (Very helpful--I now will not go see it).<br/><br/>I also read an interesting piece about why the NFL is helping the Washington football team keep its racist name and an obituary of Frank Coghlan, Jr. who played Billy Batson in the Captain Marvel serial. (Shazam!) Just so you know, Southerners read the obits. Every day. There was also a well-done (and scary) feature by Richard Fausett on the Oath Keepers.<br/><br/>To get back to the golf balls, I read every word of the story. Twice. Thought I should tell Teresa about it. Thought I should say something on Facebook about it. Then, I decided to blog about it. Because, of course, my connection to and fascination with the story was about more than the golf balls in the National Park. It was about why newspapers should still matter. Do still matter. It's good to slow down, read the paper. Think about it. Talk about it. It's also good to listen to NPR, read the web, follow blogs, tweet (I suppose, though I'm not yet convinced). None of these things have to be either/or zero sum things.<br/><br/>Quoting again from Kelly's piece, wherein park rangers noted that the golf balls had some tennis balls mixed in, he writes: "Rangers also found cans of fruit and vegetables left in the desert along with park literature tossed around."<br/><br/>According to Ranger Joe Zarki, Jones [the accused] spread the golf balls around the park, "'to honor all the golfers who had died.'"<br/><br/>"Contrary to what rangers originally though, Jones wasn't chipping golf balls into the desert with a club. He was hurling them from his car." Mr. Kelly, you've got me hooked. Tell me more, please.<br/><br/>"Jones was unavailable for comment Thursday. He lives with his 84-year-old father, Douglas, who didn't know about the incident until a reporter called him. 'It certainly sounds strange,' said his father. 'He hikes out in Joshua Tree every three months or so, and he golfs maybe once a week. But I don't know where he got that many golf balls.' He did, however, say that his son works at a local golf course."<br/><br/>Well done Mr. Kelly. Well done <em>LA Times</em>.<br/><br/>Support your local newspaper. It may be dying, it's certainly flawed, but it's still worth having around.<br/><br/>Now, about afternoon delivery...sporksforallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15758692656233965298noreply@blogger.com5