There's so much I could tell you.

But instead I'm going to tell you only this:

You are extremely sad that you don't live here and therefor can't eat this ice cream.

It's like summer in your mouth. Or a shandy. Seriously. Come visit, you will not be sorry.

Called out.

I keep getting called out by Jenny, and it's starting to be embarrassing. How long since I posted anything? Ummmm..... What can I say? I have nothing to write about! Okay, not exactly true, but most things get shared on Facebook or by email or in hours-long phone calls or via Twitter (gasp!) or the couch for Fancy Lady Writing Group (whenever any pieces actually get finished, which for me, I am loathe to admit, is rare). I feel as though I have nothing to report. Apparently, nobody from the old bloggin' crowd has much of anything to report. We have ceased amusing each other in the interworlds. Updates about children and angst and developments and whatnots have slowed to a crawl. I suppose everyone is busy living their lives instead of chronicling them. It's fine. I mean, it is what it is, right?

Except, of course there is a lot going on! People are building businesses and moving to Hawaii and starting school and putting themselves out there and traveling and producing sweet babies and raising adorable and brilliant children and buying houses and having 50th wedding anniversaries, recovering from trauma, mourning their fathers and trying to figure out what they want to do when they grow up (or turn 60, whichever comes first), seeing estranged family members, ignoring estranged family members and I don't know, all kinds of stuff, good and bad. All that blessed good and terrible messiness of life. It's a weird time we live in and so much hopeful positive delicate weird change is swirling around mixed up with the terrifying and the fear and threats of destruction across the planet and the cosmos. "May you live in interesting times" says the proverb, and boy howdy do we ever. Arab spring, climate change, Palestine, space program, elections, economies, China, food systems, ocean of plastic, peak oil... I have to stop the list, it's making me palpitate.

With a nod to the dangers of ignoring the bad to our own detriment, I must say that these days I try to focus on the goodness, the possibility, the promise, rather than the worrisome fearful terrifying and uncontrollable things. Do your best. Work with what you have. Make good choices. Don't stress to the infinitesimal details of each decision. So much is outside our reaches anyway. What am I trying to say, here? I really don't know anymore, but I feel like a beer might help me figure it out.

What takes up brain space now, in pie chart formation.

And on that note...

Girl.

Etsy Makes Me Seethe With Envy.

Not material envy as much as creative envy, but seethe with it I do. Have you perused the site? It's the creative girls' wet dream, er, I meant to say a creative girl's Ebay, heh, yeah. It is also a bridal jackpot of crazy goodness, by the way (but that's a post for another time - and possibly another blog? I don't know, I'm still debating on that point, will keep you posted).

It, Etsy, is totally amazing. But it also makes me squirm with discomfort, as I spend far too many hours clicking next-next-next on the infinite returns to my search queries. I squirm because a) I have no money to spend on such non-essential things just now and b) it's not really the time, GlobalFinancialMeltdown-fully speaking, to be on the consumer kick (except it is, because that might help solve the whole insane crisis just a tiny bit, but then again see point a). On the other hand: it is supporting individuals in the economy; it is almost all art; it is helping to foster a more regional and/or alternative economy (in some cases more than others, I suppose, but especially here in Portland where a lot of the Saturday Market vendors have etsy pages) beyond the reach of the Walmart/Big Box/Trendoid culture that chewed us up and spit out in Roaring 90's/Insane Aughts. Still, I personally should not be augmenting my wardrobe (have fallen in total love with that crazy 18-in-one dress, oy! Am I nuts? I'm a little nutso, right?) at the moment, or fantasizing about all the lovely hand painted dishware I want to possess. Nor should I be spending all these hours imagining MAKING all the lovely handmade items I'm lusting after in the etsy coffers.

Because c) that is really what it comes down to. Not only to I want to own these things, but really I want to MAKE them. But with too many things on the old To Do list as well as the hey-that-would-be-fun project list (and far too many items uncrossed off of both, I might add) as well as the continually pushed back things-I-keep-meaning-to-get-to-like-buying-a-house-and-having-kids-and-stuff stuff, it would be insane to start yet another is-she-really-going-to-finish-it? project or fifty-three. However, since that's never stopped me before (and since I think we're pretty solid on the first-comes-love-then-comes-marriage-then-comes-baby-in-the-baby-carriage - who knew I'd wind up being so traditional? ha ha) please keep your eyes out for cheap plain white dishware for me, won't you? It's all part of the new kitchen in the new house that we will totally get around to buying one of these days soon.



On a semi-related note, I'm reading this vaguely self-helpish book by Barbara Sher called "Refuse to Choose" (yeah, yeah, don't judge, it's an awful name I know, and sadly the subtitle is even worse) that posits that some people (she calls them "Scanners" - I suspect someone could really use a verbiage coach to help polish her brilliant ideas, I'm just sayin') are naturally disinclined to choose a single focus, direction or profession. They are, instead, predisposed to fits and spurts of creative energy, ideation and inspiration, but are inhibited by an increasingly specializing and speciality focused society that requires a single focus or direction at one time and doesn't allow for much jumping around, and, well, blah blah blah and so forth (it's actually a good and useful book, I really am not intending to mock it - though I may just be saying that because it totally justifies my entire existence, but anyway...).

So there's an exercise in there that has the reader draw a floor plan/map of their home and then walk through it and write down every project (conceptual, finished, barely started, never past the supply-purchasing phase, all of it) and mark them down in each room where they sit/live/were conceived of/etc. And I must say: As an exercise? Totally. Effing. Fascinating. As a reality check? Honestly a little depressing, because man is that floor plan jam freaking packed. You would think by looking at it that the only things furnishing this place were unfinished craft projects, stacks of scribbled on paper under strange art materials, undulled tools, and dusty instruments.

Of course any and all creative/crafty/planning energy these days is all being siphoned off into the tubular world of Wedding Planning (duh dun duuuuuuuum!). And work stuff, client web sites and marketing writing and project planning, of course. Of course? Um, yeah, not really. It's all about the wedding "art and vision" right now, I'm sad to admit - seriously, I'm *that* girl all of a sudden. Example: Mark and Jess brought the kids over in their costumes tonight and caught me watching videoed photo montages from random weddings. Complete with heartstring-tugging background music. In the dark. Oy. At least it's all internet these days, no trees were harmed in the making of this bridal porn!

And that leads me back to the oh-so-many wedding related things to discuss. Venues. Kilts. Girls, I have some ideas about your ensembles. So, probably going to create a moment-in-time blog for the discussions of all that biz. Not sure I can stomach it living here. We'll see.

It's all good, nothing need be decided now. The only thing I need to worry about now is my addiction to all things Etsy, DIY and bridalscape smut-y.

I Blame Facebook.

When you've started blogging purely to keep up with bloggity-blah and distant friends, and then all of those up-keepers end up on Facebook, chatting and photo-sharing and thumbs-upping away, why would you bother to continue with the keep-ups-ing in the blogosphere?

That's right. You wouldn't.

Unless you had a kid or two, and lots of non-MyFace addicted or non-tech savvy family and friends needing to be kept informed of the goings on in the non-electronical areas of your life.

Unless you maintain a semi-anonymous persblogonality while in the throes of law school, as a place to comment on culture and happenings and random thoughts and all the unspeakable gossips of the intense campus/community/field into which you have begun to dip first your toes and then all the various appendages into, and about which you would not dare risk snarkifying in the SpaceBook realm due to the long, long, loooong memory of the oh-so-mature folks and future colleagues therein (but which really must be shared with friends, family, and the world at large because OH COME ON, PEOPLE, SERIOUSLY?!!).

Unless you simply want to write it all down and remember because your brain, well, your poor rusty brain is beginning to forget the day-to-dayness of it all and it would be nice to have a record of just what the eff all the time has been spent upon...

But if you started tap tap tapping away in a blogger window not just as a connection to the far-scattered friends and loved ones, but as a connection to the words that tended to escape, to the page and to the pages, and to the Giant Bubble Machine of a world out there, with so much going on every minute - spit out at you via RSS feed or Headline News or Alerts in the inbox - well, Facebook doesn't do a very swell job with all of that, I'm afraid. In fact, I'd say it manages to almost instantly (within a few replies, anyway) trivialise or diminish most everything posted or discussed within its pages (and I say that despite the experience of having the very choicest news of MJ's death being broken to me via Twitter/FB feed from a cousin in Italy, a full 30 minutes before CNN changed their headline from "grave condition" to "DEAD" - - - of course that's a moral of the story for another time). You may disagree. That's fine, I'll allow it. Let's chat about it over on my wall, shall we?

But really, I should never have stepped away, because Facebook (though I do love you, you sweet, innocently addictive crackpipe you) is no place for the in-depth, for the thoughtful, for the lengthy.* It is a place for photos, photo-essays even, edged with storytelling captions, but lacking any graciousness for the story itself. It is the land of the virtual connection, the shorthand, the easy way to reach out and click "Like!" and let someone know you are thinking of them, that you know they are out there, that you give a shit about what they are doing and saying and snapping and sharing. And for this I maintain many, daily, truly heartfelt appreciations and admirations. However, it is hardly the venue for the longer, harder, dare I say fancier braindumps and certainly not for the writings and the by-products of the (now rare) ass-in-chair, brain-to-hand scribblings, tappety-tappings or snip-snap cut-n-pastes. It's no place for the actual, I fear.

So I blame Facebook. And the sweet flood of relief of post-inauguration America-the-Beautiful that made it okay not to think but. at. all. for a few months in the blissful thereafter. And I blame therapy, of which I've certainly had too much by now.** And laziness. And indecision. And travel to California. And not getting into graduate school, AGAIN. And ambivalence. And efforts elsewhere, in strange small piles of intention and (in)action. And oh oh, gardening, the garden! I totally, lovingly, longingly blame the garden! And about a million fluid ounces of love and contentment from the constant stream of houseguests that fluttered through our giant drafty house from May to October (love love love).

But now there is no excuse. And barring babies and grad school or any tangible plans at taking over the world with my verve, vim and vigor, I'll just have to stick with what pours out of the pockets between the cranium and the sacrum and see what takes shape back here in this blackness.

So - Hi. How've you been keeping yourself these days, months and years?



*I claim none of those but the third. Ahem.

**Though I can justify the time in years (if not the money in dollars) by the simple math of twice-a-month = double the length of the process versus the standard once-a-week analysis. Right? Right.

Auf Wiedersehen.

Don't stumble on the way out, deary.

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.

The Great Schlep.

The Great Schlep from The Great Schlep on Vimeo.

Makes me yearn for some retired grandparents in FLA. Oh well. I'll have to be content with the wary California voting pair that I do have. I don't think they really want to vote or Obama, but they will. So you don't have to worry about Cali. Phew!

What Kind Of Special Bus Rider Are You? Vote!

Thanks to Bex for this one. I am essentially too lazy to email five friends, so instead I'll post here, for my five friends to see for themselves.

Of course my five friends are truly the chorus to which I am preaching as I know y'all are already registered and ready to go, chomping at the bit to cast your ballot. Let's hope it counts.

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.

V. Important.

Thanks to Bex for this one. I think it's important enough to repeat here. Why aren't we seeing these clips, these images of Iraq in mainstream media? I have no doubt it would make a difference in the polls.

F.

Best Of Intentions.

I had every intention of posting a photo of a mid-summer Farmers Market haul, a sort of "this is what $20 bux'll get ya in Stumptown" sort of thing, prompted by a convo I had with KDog last week in Ventura... But alas, in spite of the blogg-o-guilting, I just can't find the photos.

I know they are around here somewhere, but as I'm drowning in technology and everything looks and sounds the same to me half the time ("Oh this is the 1Gig micro sd card in an adapter, huh, have you seen the 80meg sd card anywhere, cause it's got my summer photos on it") and Joosh has no discernable system of organizing all the little bits, I'm totally lost. I'm nearly certain I backed up all the photos before he left on his roadtrip (dispatches from which I am clearly extremely late in updating, heavysighwhatever). However, I can't find the USB stick onto which I think they were copied, nor can I remember on which of the three laptops (in various states of disrepair, lest you get the wrong idea) we have floating around right now did I make extra-super-duper-secure-thirdly-backed-up back ups? So. Um. Moving on until tomorrow when I can bug my tech guy to please please pretty please find my photos please and thanks!

So instead, I want to tell you about two exciting things.

1) My brother Z is in day one of a five-week stint as a sort of local organizingCaptain for the Obama campaign, organizing throngs of out-of-state and local volunteers in Nevada. He's staying in some lady's Vegas house, along with his old roommate and basically working 7 days a week supporting teams of canvassers, phone bank callers, etc. He's staying in said lady's guest house, actually, with a pool, jacuzzi, tennis courts, the whole shebang... but likely he'll not have time to enjoy these much, it would seem from his schedule so far. It sounds like they have a shit-ton of work to do, all day, every day. I saw him online at midnight, and he was still at the headquarters after a long day. Mmmm, Politics. It's going to be intense. But all this work is so important, and really seems like it stands to make a difference. As he put it on the MyFace: Gonna turn it blue for Obama! This is so exciting.

2) Which brings me to: Opportunities to make a difference without giving up 5 weeks of your life...

I'm really impressed with the Obama campaign for all of its innovative strategies toward volunteers, outreach, connecting with the masses of voters who are out there, who may not be engaged, who may not have access to accurate representations of the campaigns, folks who may get all of their information from the absurd sound bites into which much of the issues and policy nuances have been reduced. The simple act of phone banking, including the request to bring your own cell phone (free weekend minutes!), and the fact that you can sign up to make calls from home in your own time (whaaaa?) is amazing.

Check the website: there is probably a phone banking timeslot open in your area this weekend.

Another goodie that I just found out about is detailed here: http://my.barackobama.com/page/event/detail/organizing/gpl9km

It's essentially filling out postcards with a few words about why you support Obama, putting .27 cent stamps on them, and mailing them en masse (bulk envelope) to campaign headquarters in swing states, where volunteers will address and mail them locally to undecided voters (I think). Maybe this is totally simple, but I think it's totally brilliant. The fact that we can all spend 15 minutes and $5 bux, in our own time and do something positive for the campaign is terrific.

Here in Portland there is a gal organizing a group Postcard-ing event at a local coffee shop. As the cards should be state or locally focused (the personal touch?), she is going to have some sort of handmade card printing situation - Gocco? - plus some cards already dry and ready to be filled out in case you're short on time. Rad. I am truly impressed.

I hope you might have a few minutes to purchase and fill out a few postcards, in this case prior to September 30, but also keep checking the MyBarackObama site for updates.

Here's why:

If you care to know about some of the crap going on behind the scenes, or just in case you are at work or school or the kids are napping and you're reading this with some time on your hands, I will leave you with two articles that totally made my blood run cold. One of which I am especially trying to take with appropriate grains of salt, but both of which leave me terrified all the same. There is a significant internal battle being waged in me this minute and pretty much all the time, between the forces of good hopeful optimism (all my Peace Studies/all you need is love/namaste understanding of the universe) and the rotten fungal spores of FUD (Fear Uncertainty and Doubt) that multiply like infectious bacteria in my heart.

As with so many things that have happened in the last 8 years, I keep thinking: this can't possibly be. How is it that we find ourselves here? On every level - civil rights, privacy, torture (TORTURE!!!), environment (acceptable amounts of toxics in our food and in our bodies and melting icecaps, rising waters, shifting weather, dead oceans, lone-star-state sized plastic-filled gyres in the Pacific... the tips of the icebergs), healthcare, economy, energy, integrity of the election system, foreign policy, the war, veteran treatment, infrastructure, secrecy, blatant horrible croneyism, disaster capitalism, the bankrupting of the future... This. Cannot. Be.

So let's try to make sure that it will no longer be... that would be great. And I hope it's not too late. Because according to these two, we're in even bigger trouble than you might think:

Per RFK, Jr. ("Is your vote safe?") we are sliding down the slope here, Sisyphuses, all of us. And we all responsible for making sure our fundamental system of demanding change - the act of voting - is intact. We've already been sold electronic voting machines, which are a total effing unverifiable crock bought sold and managed by Republican interests, and now hundreds of thousands of mostly democratic voters are being scrubbed from the registration rolls. WTF, America?

Per Naomi Wolf (my grain of salt taker-with-er), Sarah Palin (don't EVEN get me started on this lady, jesus christ) is the Trojan Horse of the Police State Apocolypse. It's a tad bit conspiracy theoryish, but on the other hand, so many things that I would have chalked up to tin-foil hat-wearing kooks have turned out to be horrifyingly true so maybe she's a Cassandra and not a harpy.

Oh, and also (this is totally why I shouldn't blog late at night - I cannot be trusted to maintain coherence or frame of reference or keep it under a million words of rambledom), I suggest listening to some Naomi Klein interviews about all of the Wall Street bail out shenanigans going on right now.

So I had the best of intentions for a nice easy short and sweet entry of fruit and veg from our kick ass local market, and instead you get this half-hopeful & yay-we-can-do-it/half-dismal we're-in-for-more-puke-worthy-rides-on-the-shit-coaster post and all I can say is something about the road to hell being paved with all my bests and leave you to go about your business.

Happy Friday (?).

Double check your registration status. Then go buy some postcards, write a few nice things on 'em and mail them to Ohio. Do it for the children.

Dear Small World of Mine - A Treat for You.

Hurry up and go to this website and watch this video before the woman responsible for it yanks it and puts up something else.

Bite My Cookie.
http://bite-my-cookie.blogspot.com/

BMC, whose web site you'll visit by clicking above, is one of my favorite ladies in Portland. She is fierce, a firecracker, a connector, a scrape-the-lining-of-her-insides-out-for-you-if-you-need-it, a ball of energy and chaos and giant-hearted snark. She's funnier than sin. She has the most adorable family (this is heresay, or blogsay, I guess, as I've not actually met them yet) and a neverendingstory of stories to tell that will make you cry with hysteria. Also, she makes the best cookies in all the land. Hopefully she's going to have a rad website selling these cookies in the next week or two (if someone you know and love can get her ess-aytch-eye-tea together ay-ess- ay-pee).

In the meantime, she's just had the ultimate crapperfull of a hellish experience in business wherein all of her talent and energy and huge vats of effort got swallowed up by The Man (in the collective patriarchal sense, as well as in the penis-bearing-personage pissing absurdities on a years worth of bloodsweatmoneytears sort of way). I think she's trying to sit still for a moment, water the roots at the base of the pruned bush, so to speak, gather her strength for the next thing. But in the meantime, she offers periodic treats on her site, but just like the incredible cookies she bakes, you've gotta run and get em while they're hot. I can't guarantee that what you'll see when you click above will be the video to which I am directing you, but hey, don't shoot the messenger.

So go, run, click, do it. BMC recently took down her archives, which were time-suckingly entertaining (and which I used to read long before I met her at work by happenstance one day, long before I realized that she was BFFs with an LA blogger, Rebecca Wolf, long linked on this site that I'd been reading for months and months.) Anyway, you unfortunately will not have the honor of experiencing those BMC, days-gone-by, belly-laughing posts, but please, please please go watch her darling 4 year old give a life lesson about what it means to be four. It is beyond precious, absolutely sums up four years old - and the important bits of life in a nutshell, really - in under a minute and a half.

Ps - I got two hours of sleep last night, due to an early morning airport run for Le Mama and some damn inconvenient insomnia involving a terribly unnecessary late night fixation on h'ors d'oeuvres (because I am retarded) for this weekend's shower-to-end-all-showers for our darling Joj, so please forgive if this entire post makes no sense, which I suspect it may not, but am too wiggy to double check. Bottom line, go watch the vid - I can't imagine you'll be sorry.

So Pretty Much The Same Methods Apply For Governing As For Grooming...

Further Dispatchings From The Roadtrip On Which I Am Not: Day 3.

Day 3: Reno to BFE. Er, Eureka, Nevada. 243 Miles.

Hwy 50 and 722 Junction. Made a wrong turn.. and then a wrong turn again. Then had to back track.. Ah well.. This is on our way to Austin NV.

[The terrific and talented Todd. Teaches Tai Chi. Does some wicked energy movement with acupuncture. Tells scads of disgusting dirty jokes. Thinks farts are a riot and a half (KDog, I hear you giggling over there). Ladies, he is indeed single. Line forms to the right. Don't push.]

International Cafe in Austin Nevada. And the city.... er town... um.. village? Hamlet? Our waitress was charming enough.. in that classic rural way. what was especially endearing is when she brought us out our veggie burger I asked which one was the no tomato. She dug around in the stack of plant matter and said that well they both had tomato but she said could take them out. I said it was ok and just had the [finger prodded] veggie patty. [All I have to say is: "Kiss my Grits" because what else is there to say?]

This is a poster that was in a door of the local hardware store. Not sure what the storm is that it warns to be prepared for.. or why 2008 is so important. Maybe somebody can explain? [Come on all you GOP-loving, gun-toting, evil-smiting, storm-weathering readers of my blog - Bexy, Mark, Mama - give the rest of us liberal shaloobs some sugar, don't let us be caught out in the storm without shining the light of illumination and salvation upon our heathen breasts. Please?]


This is some where between Eureka and Ely (pronounced E-Lee) in Nevada.







Oh and the last picture is of some locals that came out to check us out. [You can almost sense a slackened jaw, and I don't mean that rudely - honest.]







Nothingness. But so nice.

It is hard to convey with these pictures how truly empty it is out here. At first it is kinda boring, riding for miles after miles and it is so empty. Then when you stop and take your helmet off, it is so quiet. And that is so weird, how quiet and how empty nothingness is.. then it so... well awesome and nice and well very cool. I don't think I would like live here, but for some reason, it refreshes my soul a bit.
NEXT UP: Day 4 - photographic proof we need a better digital camera.

Dispatch From A Roadtrip I'm Not On: Day 2 [Now With Brackets]

Joosh's words as they streamed in on the intertubes. [My comments in brackets].

Day 2: Klamath Falls to Reno, to meet up with OMT. 271 Miles.

Hitting the road. 10:31am. [Looks like he's pulling out of a gas station. Nice that gas prices have dipped, but I hope it doesn't put America back in their SUVs.]


42 miles south of klamath falls on Hwy 39. I think that is the back side of mount shasta. [At first I thought he was retarded - I mean joking - but if you enlarge the pic, the tip of a glacial-topped mountain does indeed rise above the rest smack in the center of the photo, just to the left of the tree in the middle of the frame]. 215 miles to go. Cold, windy but beautiful.

This [gravel] will slow you down when you ride on two wheels.
Eagle lake 25 miles NW of susanville.

There are a lot of sea birds here. A bunch of pelicans just flew over head. [254 miles from the coast, mind you.]


Hopefully there is some good food in the next town cuz I'm starving. [You can imagine, I'm sure, how hard it must be for a vegetarian to find decent food on the road? Especially the more inland he gets? I wonder if this will be the thing that breaks him...]

From Nevada looking back at California. [So standing in Sodom, looking back at Gomorrah? Commence with the hookers.]

[Joosh and OMT met up in Reno and stayed with a friend of OMT, an interesting sounding fellow basically manages his wealth for a living. (Why wasn't that an option on my career aptitude test in High School, hmmm?). He is modest, drives normal cars, no flash, but does own a hill in Reno on top of which is a house with exceptional views. That is the only thing I know about him, other than that his wife is a teacher and that they were kind enough to put up the stinky sweaty roadsters for a night. Gracias, nice humble rich stranger man.]

So vicarious road tripping: Are we having fun yet? Oh just wait. Just you wait and see.

Next up: Further traverses into the interior, into the more misunderestimated sections of this great nation. Places you and I might not want to live forever, but people do. People do.

Dispatch From A Roadtrip I'm Not On: Days 1 & 2

"There she is... Miss America." Honda ST1100. Don't remember the year.

Joosh is off. I am abandoned for a two-week venture with OMT* that will see them travel Easy Rider-style through several states, ending up in South Dakota (Wounded Knee, and no, he won't be burying any hearts, I already asked and he rolled his eyes mightily in my direction). About 200 - 250 miles a day. Sore bottoms will abound.

So that we may all enjoy the sights and sounds of this, our great nation, as they roll through, I offered something of a vicarious blogging situation wherein Joosh can send photos and some brief information, and I will in turn share it with you. I had hoped to speak with him at length in the evenings in order to fill out the narrative a bit, but since this is day two and that has not yet happened, I think that maybe I'll just go ahead and make up the stuff to fill in the gaps. Kidding. (Mostly).

Day 1 - Portland to Klamath Falls. 296 miles.
Joosh kept calling Klamath Falls "Clackamas" for some reason, which is only like 12 miles away. It was confusing. Also? I always thought there were two M's in "Klamath" but I guess I was terribly wrong. Huh.

He hit the road after a morning of dawdling and packing, around 1:30pm. Off to Clackamas Falls. I'd had a super hearty laugh when at one point he sat down and I noticed a seam looking a little precarious in the crotchal region of his jeans and said, "You want me to fix the hole in your dick... jeans?" He looked at me quizzically and said "Nooooooooo. Thanksssss." In my weakened state from all these days and days of being sick in bed, I have clearly lost my ability to communicate. But man I could not stop saying the word "dickjeans" (because oh yeah, that's a word now, people) and cracking up. Which was excellent for phlegm loosening, let me tell you.

There was some sort of big Washington/Oregon game in Eugene and rolling through was apparently quite trafficky and unfun. This photo was taken just south of there (if I'm not mistaken). I suppose we're to admire the bike and notice the long road ahead.










Salt Creek Falls.
You stay? You pay!
The Ranger would only let him stop for a minute to put on warmer gear (it was about 54 at this point). Otherwise he'd need to pony up the $5-a-day day use fee.





Odell Lake.
Just came over the pass.
It was cold.
Got down to 47.





This is my favorite dispatch from the road so far. Here, let me quote: "Sketchy rest stop 68 miles from klamath falls. Put on the rest of my warm gear. There was a really scuzzy looking old guy that kept asking me if I needed anything. He said he could make me a really good deal. He didn't say what he was selling and I wasn't gonna ask. Unfortunately he got really irritated when I tried to take his pic. He didn't seem to have a car so I don't know how he got there. He took off when some state troopers stopped to use the facilities."



Shall we wager whether this guy was selling drugs or a BJ? Hmmmm? If Joosh was wearing full leathers, I wouldn't even have to ask the question because Helloooooo, Papa Bear.

God, he's going to kill me if/when he reads this post.

Moving on.


Upper Klamath Lake.








About 7pm.








15 miles to the lovely hotel I had found on Hotels.com and booked for him. The Maverick Hotel. (Very timely, yes? What with the old coot choosing his unexpected running mate, proving he's just a jolly old independent spirit like always? Ugh.)






The hotel got some good reviews for being way cheap and shockingly clean and tidy for the degree of cheapness. I reserved a non-smoking room for the boy at $45 per night. Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me? I rock.





Then came the food finding:
What passes for Pra Ram in Klamath Falls (left).








And Mango with Sticky Rice. Hold the mango. So, um, sticky rice. With cream white goo sauce on it. And no mango. Even though he ordered mango. It happens. I guess. Right?







So listen. Vicarious blogging Day One while G-chatting with my brother about this ridiculous election and Tom & Jerry cartoons and other highly important matters (is Sarah Palin's Down Syndrome baby her daughter or her - gasp - GRANDDAUGHTER?!?!) has completely worn me out. We're gonna have to pick up this party again tomorrow.

Love you, babe. Be safe out there on the wide open road. Watch out for hookers in Nevada and Mormons in Utah. And vice versa (I know they can sometimes be hard to tell apart - Katherine Heigl, I'm looking at you).

Day Two. Klamath Falls, OR to Reno, NV. To be continued.

*OMT is "Old Man Todd" - not to be confused with the much younger BabyDaddy Todd or BDT, who also lives in Ventura. BDT is a good long story for another time.

Shout Out To Scout (And Other Random Pet News).

A shout out to Scout. Scout Bakken, that is.

After being sick in bed for five days, I finally went out for a brief spell this morning, to have breakfast with Joosh at an establishment we've taken lots of visitors to, mostly because it's cheap and has giant plates of goodness, but also because their motto (printed right on the menu) is "You Eat Here Because We LET You" and I like a little sass with my fast-breaking.

As we left our neighborhood, I thought how nice it would be to take a walk again, recalling that my last walk was a super one with a darling darling dog named Scout, a Norwegian Elk Hound (who knew?) with a terrific personality.

If you know me, you know I'm not a dog person, but I am partial to this sweet one and did indeed find myself wishing that Scout was available for some walkies (as Joosh and I call it when we take a stroll around the 'hood - and yes, we say it in sort of a sing-song pre-school voice: "Walk-eeeees" because that is how we behave when not in mixed company, I am both proud and mortified to admit to you here). If I can get Scout's parentals to pass over a photo, I will post it here, because she's truly a darling and unusual creature, often getting stopped and admired by strangers everywhere she trots. I was glad to have the chance to hang out with her while Moms and Pops were at a Wilco concert in Bend last weekend.

* * *

In other animal news, my stepsister friended me on Facebook yesterday. We've not spoken nor had any real words since her brief reply to my "Happy Birthday" email of last December, where she basically said thanks, and told me that I should write to my father as he'd probably like to know that I was all right. Ugh. Since when does she care about my dad? She despises the man (though she says he's good for her mom - which I have no opinion on either way). So she and I have never talked about last summer, she's never asked to hear my side of the whole fiasco, and she's still fairly dependent on the folks for support while she's finishing school in England, so I don't expect she'll ever broach it. Plus she pretty well freaked out last time I revealed a story that didn't match up to the official version she was given, and couldn't handle that her mother had conceivably lied to her, and started to short circuit in a very unpretty way. Subject was quickly dropped before new meds had to be ordered.

ANYWAY, my point here: She told me, in our Facebook chat, that my folks in Mexico have adopted two little sister kittens and named them "Fanny" and "Mae."

Which at first I thought was completely adorable and Jew-y and sweet. Then my sister typed: "Get it?" Oooh. Reallllllly. Huh.

I imagined them in their brand new 3000 sq foot slave-labor-built, staff-serviced fiefdom looking down over the ex-pat dominated and newly yuppified old town of San Miguel while people all over the US are losing their homes from the shitty decisions that resulted in things like the Fanny Mae and Freddie Mac meltdown and how the worst is likely still to come and how they moved South to exploit the cheaper services and healthcare available on the backs of the indigenous in Mexico rather than fight for something better here (and they had it just fine, here, by the way) and man, I just wanted to voo-doo dollhouse their new crib down the side of a mountain.

Saving the kittens, of course, because excepting the insensitive reference, little sister kitties named Mae and Fanny would be nothing short of idiot-smiles and awwwwww-worthy adorable.

Oliver William is Heading This Way!

Sorry, please to forgive the ridiculous pun. But my brother just recently turned me on to the absurd farewell that goes something like "Time to make like a fetus and head out" and it somehow seems appropriate to use in this crazy moment when I've been told that a certain mom-to-be is fully dilated and ready to birth her babe any minute! So very exciting.

Wishing you all the best in the universe, Doc and Mister Doc. We're all so excited to welcome Oliver.