Hellfire.

Bex wrote about it earlier today. I've been following the updates online since talking to the Goldstein clan while they were being evacuated from Encinitas, texting them updated road closures on the route to Palm Springs, where they were headed to Grandma's. Southern California is burning all up.

This map scares the shit out of me. Right now there are TWENTY fires listed from Santa Maria to San Diego. The satellite photo posted by Bex reminds me of this one from a few months back of the Greek islands. Is it really a coincidence that all of these fires are burning all at once?

Living in the cool wet climate here, it is easy for me to forget about how the hot dry Santa Ana winds make you feel like you will spontaneously combust at the next spark on your skin or static charge through your hair. Yes, gale force winds (hurricane wind speeds, according to NPR) and the dry parched chaparral that practically wills itself to burn - part of the landscape life cycle - are completely conducive to these types of fires, of course living in California there are out of control fires almost every year. But look at the map, look at this sat photo:



Is that how it happens, really? Do 15 or 20 fires spontaneously erupt in a two day span up and down the lower left of a state?

I don't know how many people have died so far, nor how many homes have burned. I know the fire crews are worn out and that people are scared and that there are no answers that satisfy anyone at this time. One fire commissioner said today that several of the SD fires will probably just have to burn down to the water's edge, that there are simply not enough resources to win the battle on every flaming front at this point. Which reminds me - where's the National Guard, and don't they usually come out and assist in local disasters like this?

Oh yeah.

I bore me. Care to join?

It poured today (shocking for Portland, I know, alert the media).

I wore Birkenstocks, a skirt and a beer sweatshirt (the one with Rasputin's image, that gets me lots of guys staring at my chest and saying "That is an AWESOME beer" and lots of girls staring at same, trying to figure out what the hell they are seeing, as The Unkillable's head sort of gets crammed in the bra-fashioned concave between the twins - the girl-staring is usually followed by a sneer, by the way, and yeah, I totally get it). So after walking around for a few hours like this, I was both proud of, and disgusted by myself. And not a little bit uncold.

Sun came out for a bit. Second rainbow in as many days. Nawwwww.

There was some sort of weirdo streetside snowboarding-in-October event today in what I did not previously know is known as "one of Portland's most famous alleys" (due to its location off the backdoor of a well-known strip-club), at the top of the North Park Blocks. I couldn't get a super good look at the action due to the throng of parka-ed and knit-capped young people standing around drinking the Redbull, Rockstar and other energy drinks being thrown at them by the "savvy" flash marketing teams crowded around the busy block in their slick marketing vehicles, but from what I could gather, there was essentially a fake-snow covered skate ramp and lots of daredevil youngins jumpin around and hollering and cheering for apparently amazing feats of snowboardery. I thought about trying to get a closer look, and perhaps a camera phone snap or two, but the weed smoke started to make my eyes burn (were that it were not true, but yes, I am obviously settling into utter old ladyness without even the hope of trying to fight the inevitability) and I was crankypants hungry (see above), so we kept moving on to the always-reliable if not funnily named Thai Peacock for late lunch/early dinner.

While enjoying veggie Pad See You and Pra Ram (listed on the menu with the words "It so good" after the description, and truly it is so), and watching the Red Bull Mini parked outside get mobbed by Trustafarians in dirty ripped pants and super expensive looking, Ready-for-Aspen-Mimsy? snow gear, I suddenly understood the context for something that I'd witnessed earlier while standing in Peet's, waiting impatiently for the condiment station to clear:

Four early-teen boys in what appeared to be coordinated down snow jackets (not rain jackets, mind you, but the fluffy puffy and totally unwaterproof fancy jackets that always make me think of Coco Chanel because of the cross-stitching) and ski hats (one boy in yellow jacket/yellow cap, another in purple jacket/purple cap, etc) crowded around the condiment cart trying to docter their beverages. Their ensembles troubled me, but as I had not yet had a drop of coffee, I didn't possess the powers of concentration needed to focus on the troublesome bits, nor the brain power needed to try to resolve it by coming up with plausible explanations for who they were or why they were there. Rich kids staying in the Marriot above, fully unclear on the concept of Portland as wet but not freezing, is the best I could come up with before forgetting the question altogther in my utter annoyance at how long the little pishers were taking to pour milk and sugar into their drinks. How hard is it to put some shit your cup and move along, hmmm?

I heard one of them say "No no, she said she likes it 'Light and Sweet' so put more cream in it" as he tossed three more sugar packets to the one pouring the milk (Whole milk, by the way, not cream or half and half). Purple Cap said "What does that even mean, anyway?" and Orange Cap repeated it "Light and sweet, you know, Light. And. Sweet." as if Purple Cap would get it if repeated to him several times in rapid succession. I involuntarily snickered, but I swear it was not about teen boy stupidity, but rather the fact that I so badly had to fight the urge to say something to the effect of "She likes it light and sweet, like her men!" At the slight snicker, Yellow Cap realized I'd been standing there waiting and seemed to get a bit desperate to move on. He poured more milk in, then more sugar, then more milk (and again with the Whole milk, which if you know Peet's coffee, you know is about as likely to lighten the cup as my pointing to it and saying "light and sweet, light and sweet" over and over again). Finally I couldn't take it anymore and stepped up with some elbows between the boys and grabbed the half and half jug to tip into my cup so I could get the hell out of the strange universe into which I had inadvertently stumbled. Orange took notice of my choice and totally punched Yellow in the arm and said "That's not even cream, you idiot, gawd" and rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner in my (or maybe Rasputin's) general direction as he grabbed the cup and poured a bunch of coffee into the trashbin next to the counter. "Yeah, but why is it called 'Light and Sweet?" said Purple again.

Let's hope it was the gange, yo, because otherwise I continue to live in fear for the future of this once great nation.

What must Google think of me?

Have you noticed much about the Google ads on the side of your Gmail account, when you are reading your harmless, innocent, email messages? I happened to take a closer look at mine the other day...

While viewing a message from the Hyatt Regency RFP for event services in Tampa, Gmail gives me the following off to the right:

Kits, Buggles, Gear
www.coastalwindsports.com
"Life is better when it blows"

Followed by:
Find Married Swingers
"Married but Feeling Unfullfilled? Find local like-minded partners".
(I'm NOT linking to that one here, sorry Mr. Burton).

And finally:
Special Event Favors
"Say it with favors: Unigue and Elegant Favors and much much more..."
(Again, not linking, because some of those favors are way NSFW).

Wow, what must Google think of me??? Obviously that I'm a wh0re, for one thing. Wow, whatever I did to lead you on or piss you off, Google, I'm sorry.

In other news, I can't believe I wrote 18 paragraphs about fermented juice last night. Apologies to my myriad fans.

You would, wouldn't you.

I have periodically been mistaken for a hippie. No, no dreadlocks to speak of, I abhor patchouli, and it's been over a decade since I was anything close to a practicing vegetarian - but still somehow the misconception tends to crop up. Is it my flower child middle name (something to do with songs made by the wind, ahem), the fact that I majored first in Women's Studies and then in Peace and Conflict Studies (at Cal, for gods sake!) or perhaps my penchant for Birkenstock sandles and not much make-up? I don't know, but somehow it's an assignation that I can't seem to shake.

If you know me, though, you tend to realize pretty quick that I'm generally not so much in the realm of the typical hippie spectrum. (I think I am too mean, frankly, to ever be accepted in the group hug, plus I'm really big on daily showers and I find overzealous commitment to anything extremely annoying - not that I am generalizing, or anything).

So if you know me, you might think that I would not subscribe to weird food concoctions, health supplements, vitamin regiments, etc. You would think that I would not participate in things like Raw Food and Veganism and wheat grass juice and tonics (unless it's the tonic that goes into my Sapphire GT, ow!). And for the most part you would be right. Therefor, you would think that I would roll my eyes in disgust at the apparent nastiness that is Kombucha, the so-called latest and greatest in rejuvenating, restorative, revitalizing, replenishing, regenerating health tea.



Jojo once asked me if I knew of and/or liked this Kombucha stuff (pronounced kom-BOO-cha). I replied with a vehement "Blech, God, NO!" having recently had the disgusting experience of purchasing what I thought was a light, sweet, refreshing juice beverage, and taking a swig of what appeared to be a rotten and expired version of the anticipated light, sweet, refreshing juice beverage. I was SO pissed. I thought for sure it was another case of my once beloved New Seasons (like Andronico's bred with Whole Foods but cheaper and with fewer evil hillside bitches making clucking noises at you in the checkout line for wearing your pajamas to the market) selling something a bit too close to it's expiration date. Only later did I read about the whole fermentation process, the enzymes, the live cultures, and other details that served to further gross me out. All I knew was that it tasted like the bottle of grapefruit juice you bought to make your friend her stupid Madras drink for your cocktail party that she didn't show up to and which you thought didn't get opened, but really it did, so a few days later after you've finally gotten all the party mess cleaned up and you are too poor to go buy a better mixer for your remaining vodka, you think "Hmmm, maybe a Greyhound" and you open it and take a swig of the now-rotted, pruney, near-carbonated juice and then gag in the sink before cursing the jackass party attendee who opened the bottle for no reason, didn't use a drop and then didn't put it in the fridge. My kombucha "juice" was vile. A small swig put me in a foul mood for several hours.

So I vehemently, adamantly, cursedly claimed my utter disgust for the stuff, never even asking if Joj liked it (obviously she'd brought it up for a reason, right?). Even if she had sung it's praises on high, it never would have occurred to me to ever pick up another bottle again, even though I continued to be mildly attracted to all the pretty colored bottles and new delightful sounding flavors that appeared on the shelves (I mean how can you resist something called Passionberry Bliss or Cosmic Cranberry? I managed.).

Well, I'm over thirty now. And I can't even begin to describe what that magic number seems to be responsible for creating in my rapidly aging body (good times, real fun, let me tell you). So I read about Kombucha in a women's health book and was convinced by the nurse practitioner author to give the swill another shot.

It is a miracle from the depths of all things disgustingly fermented for food, beverage and health purposes. Knowing that I was going to be swallowing something that had the effervescence of expired fruit matter, I was prepared to give it an honest evaluation, and my god, it's amazing. The first Cosmic Cranberry, I'm certain, got me mildly drunk, which was a nice bonus (it does say .05% alcohol by volume is a possibility, right on the side of the bottle, so look out you lightweights). But it also seems to have fulfilled all the promises also on the side of the bottle: aids in digestion, metabolism, immune system, appetite control, liver function (this one is hard to assess, but I feel less toxic, so I'm going with it in the yes column), body alkalinity (man this is a big deal these days - more on that later), anti-aging (jury is still out here, though my skin feels better, but my crows feet have not flown away or anything), cell integrity (hm, sure, why not) and healthy skin and hair (totally!).

I don't mean to shill for a company that might just be peddling promo material instead of a nutrient-rich elixir as advertised, but it is the fabulousness of my life right now. If you can avoid the slimy, egg-whitey strands of live cultures floating around like loogies in the bottle (cause you WILL gag when you start to suck a string down, I assure you), these crisp, tangy, sparkling, fruity beverages are awesome for, oh hell, I'll just steal from the label already: restoring balance and vitality.

Namaste, kids, may the 'boocha be with you.

Mama Said.

I don't know about you, but my mom always said that all horizontal stripes (and most plaids) were to be avoided. Here's why:




Jesus, H. I know Charlotte has always had herself a wee bit of junk in her trunk (in the Baby-Got-Badonkadonk, not the Martin-Lawrence-in-Big-Momma sort of way) but this dress makes her look like someone took Dakota Fanning's waist and shoulders and stuck it on Beyonce's hips and thighs.

Not sure what you did to piss off the SATC stylist, Ms. Davis, but you might wanna consider apologizing A. S. A. P (and by apologizing, I mean sending something from Tiffany's, not a florist shop). In the past, if you looked crappy, it was 25 minutes of screen time, maximum. With the feature-length film in production, and with this as the first evidence of how you will be dressed therein, it could conceivably be over an hour - possibly more, depending on the pithiness of this particular resurrection- of you looking like fat-thighed death. You are cute as a button, really, there is no reason for this. Go make nice. Like now .