Girl.

Hi, I love you.

Okay, hi. Hi there. How're ya? Ya good?

See, I know it's been a very long time. And I actually have a lot to say to you, my sweet Interwebs, but things have been so so so so so busy lately, that I haven't been able to sit and organize any thoughts (let alone the photos, oy the photos!) to send your direction. I will try, I will. Very soon.

When? After I'm done packing for our move to the giant house this weekend, and have finished the 2500 word article I have to write for one class, and written and practiced the 10 minute story I will be presenting orally (snicker) for another class, and have trained the new girl at the Wellness center, and read three loooooong books for school, and workshopped 7 articles for the first class and read some Flannery O'Connor for the second, and previewed tons of good/bad/heinous submissions for the Portland literary magazine I've committed my eyeballs and exceptional discernment (ha) services to each week, and organized the next meeting for my writing group (that I've COMPLETELY dropped the ball on, you guys, I'm sorry - I'll make it up to you with fancy drinks and an extra large deck on which to smoke your wicked writerly cigarettes), and cleaned my old small pretty apartment, and cleaned my new giant weird house, and phone banked at least once more and hosted my awesome Obamania brother for a post-election decompression, and hopefully having thrown the celebration of the century after the Election in a few weeks. THEN I will sit and put it all down here for posterity. For myself. Because I'm old and I have started to forget things. And for the five of you who might be curious as to what's been happening all up in these here Northwest parts.

So I will tell you about the new house, and my Facebook addiction, and Josh's birthday, and the weird coincidences that have been happening lately, and the dream I had about Jojo giving birth to twins (actually a very fun dream, all things and strange subject matter considered), and perhaps I will have more interesting stories to tell you. For the moment, all my words have been reserved for the classes I impetuously signed up for a few weeks ago.

In the meantime, lacking anything of substance, please watch the following, compliments of Z The Wonder Volunteer, who keeps me well liquored in the lubricating grease of campaign and peripheral greatness:



I know you won't judge me when I confess to thinking these two too skinny Ruskies are hot. Especially not after you hear the "I love you" at the end. I love Al Gore, or whoever invented the internet. I don't know how I lived a life before it came to be.

Weirdest And Probably Least Significant Synchronicity Ever.

I just had the weirdest experience sitting here at my lovely computer perusing the latest news in the global financial titanic sinking mess of an election season (my favorite quote so far in my 7 minutes of surfing: "“If money isn’t loosened up, this sucker could go down,” President Bush declared Thursday as he watched the $700 billion bailout package fall apart before his eyes, according to one person in the room." Very confidence inspiring, so eloquent).

Anyway, in my internet wanderings, I happened across this disgusting bit of indigestible information, in photo form:

This is a photo of a McD's hamburger. From 1996. No no, not the photo. The photo was taken recently. But the hamburger was purchased in 1996. No joke.

How totally disgusting is that? It reminds me of the Snoballs (yellow, by the way - is that not somehow very very wrong to color those suckers yellow? maybe not, cause who hasn't pissed in snow, right? but this, this can probably be considered wrong) that Sara from N&T gave me as a housewarming present in 2002, that still sit on my shelf today. They are dusty and the packing is getting a little swollen (outgassing?) but are nonetheless intact. I'm saving them for the apocolypse.

So I'm reading the accompanying article (tirade, really) about nutrition and how gross and chemical fast food is, particularly burgers like this self-preserving one, when I suddenly became aware of a song on the radio that I thought was just ambient vocalizing is instead starting to sound a lot like the word "hamburger" being chanted slowly and repeatedly. Funny, I thought. I must be thinking about the word 'hamburger' and thus imprinting that on these weirdo didgeridoo-like sounds being emitted from KCRW.com.

Um, no. Suddenly the slow mild string of low consonants and vowels changes and very distinctly prounounces a long guttural "Cheeseburger" several times in a row, followed by a line of "Big Mac Big Mac Big Mac" and I have a momentary out-of-body experience where I wonder if maybe I'm still asleep and dreaming? What's going on here. I'm looking at a hamburger and being serenaded by a supremely not-normal, not radio-worthy ditty: an ode to meat patties. What the hell? What is going on? Am I manifesting some kind of weird trip? Am I creating my universe? Where am I? I must be sleeping. This is too weird.

It only took a minute to snap back to reality and run off to the playlist feature at KCRW.com and discover that no no, they really were playing a song about the humble (lowly?) hamburger. It was just one of those odd coincidences in life, where two random pieces of your day line up perfectly and practically talk at you with a hammer-bang of consciousness. Usually these sorts of synchronicities have more meaning, however, and I feel like I glean something interesting from the awareness of whatever intersection is laying out before me. Hamburgers, however, I don't know. I am having a hard time figuring out what I am supposed to walk away with from this one-step-off-moment.

Any insight you can provide would be most appreciated. Here, go listen, then stare at the above photo while doing so. Let me know what you come up with.

But... it's BRUCE.

Hey. Hey you. You like Bruce? Bruce Springsteen?

Really? Cause I thought everyone loved The Boss. C'mon, baby: He's. THE. BOSS.

Well, whatever. You should like him. If you don't, for whatever crazy anti-80's, I-hate-people-from-Jersey-and-guys-named-Bruce-and-men-shorter-than-five-feet-nine thing you got goin on, I have to suggest you check out his album called "The Seeger Sessions." It's been on constant rotation - er, stream - over here for a week or two now. (That and Modest Mouse "The Moon and Antarctica" but not in the same breath of time because that would, of course, be weird).

But "The Seeger Sessions" people, it's a gift. It's a little treasure, I'm telling you. Yes, it's the Seeger sessions, as in Pete Seeger, and yes it's a wee bit folksy (um, okay, it's almost all folk songs) but it's all done up Bruce-like and man does it just totally capture something. I don't know if it's his gravel voice, like he's been chewing rocks (but in a good way), or if it's the enthusiasm of the instrumentation, or if it's just the joyous energy of the singing, even in the saddest lyrics... I can't put my finger on it exactly, but if you have any love for Bruce baby, and any tolerance for songs like "Pay Me My Money Down" and "Jesse James" (two of my faves), then check it out.

Be forwarned, however, about the second to last track, which I'm sure you probably heard back in aught Six: "Bring 'Em Home." Yesterday this song prompted a long, drawn out fantasy involving my joining the military, somehow surviving boot camp, then shipping out to go (with a very sketchily detailed plan of action, mind you) and save all our brave but forgotten, unseen and unheard-from soldiers in Iraq. Sure, it's an obvious song for the poor heartstrings, but it's totally not a cheap shot. The way his voice implores the listener to bring em home, man... it makes me burn, trachea to tailbone, all through my core.

I wish all music was like that.